#every single episode I’m blown away by how pathetic she is

[helpimstuckposting]

Gwen: Everyone here is incompetent except for me

Also Gwen: fucks up every single assignment she’s given and implicates the entire OIAR in two murders

Gwen: honestly if you give me one more shot, I can do it

[heartbreakgrill]

Love Song; Corbyn Besson

description: yeah just some good ol’ friends to lovers 😋

Your face clenched up as the nurse swabbed your nose. The urge to sneeze came over when she tugged it out, and you quickly pulled up your mask. After a round of watery eyes and the oddest facial expression, the sneeze subsided.

“Thank you,” you told her, a laugh dancing at the edge of you tone.

Her eyes crinkled, showing the smile beneath her mask. “You’re welcome. It’ll just be a minute.”

You stood from the chair, plopping down beside Zach on the couch. He was playing on his phone, but looked up when he noticed your presence.

“Hurts, doesn’t it?” He watched your hand rub at your nose over the mask.

“Uh, yeah,” you chuckled.

Zach went back to his phone and you unlocked your own, crossing a leg over the other. Soon, his name was called and he snapped off his mask. Negative.

Daniel replaced Zach in the seat beside you. You bid him hello and he said, “Hey. How are you today?”

“Was doing fine before I had to have a stick in my nose,” you giggled.

Daniel laughed as well. “Yeah, but whatever we have to do to get to celebrate.”

“New normal,” you nodded.

“Y/N!” The other nurse called out from her clipboard.

You flashed your eyebrows at Daniel and stood from the couch. Slipping your phone into your butt pocket, you walked over to the table.

“You are negative, my dear. We’re having everyone who has already been tested to stay in the kitchen.”

You took the packet of your information from the nurse, thanked them again, and joined Zach, Corbyn, and Christian in the kitchen. You slipped the pink mask in your jean jacket pocket as you took the empty bar stool next to Christian.

“Hey, guys,” you greeted.

Corbyn perked up at the sound of your voice, peaking up from his phone. He was directly across from you, leaning his chin against the ball of his palm. You glanced around at the boys, meeting his eyes over the top of his phone.

“Hey, Y/N, when did you get here?” Christian spoke, drawing your eyes away from Corbyn.

You cleared your throat and folded your hands in your lap. They were clammy now, budding heat throughout your face. His eyes.

“Like ten minutes ago. I said I was here in the group chat,” you reminded Christian.

He shrugged, “I don’t really pay attention.”

“Rip,” you laughed.

Zach and Christian went back to their conversation about the album, the only valid topic of interest for the night ahead.

You glanced back over at Corbyn, who had shifted so he could pretend like he hadn’t blushed at your presence. You sat there for a moment, contemplating saying anything at all. Ultimately you settled on tugging out your phone again.

You leaned on the counter, scrolling through people’s Instagram stories. You swiped past Why Don’t We’s shared page and fell on Corbyn’s. It was a selfie, one he took mere moments before you sat down. You flushed red, eyes gently lifting to take in how he looked right now.

His eyes.

You forced an awkward smile at the awkward eye contact, feeling...awkward.

You looked back down at your phone. It seems everyone of the boy’s friends and family members had posted about the album. Except you. You felt slightly guilty, voicing your concerns to the boys before you. Jonah and Daniel had since joined you guys in the kitchen, talking with Christian and Zach.

“No worries, Y/N. I mean, you’re here,” Jonah shrugged it off.

Zach added, “Yeah, but if you wanna post something go ahead.

“Why don’t we just take a selfie or something?” Daniel suggested, tipping his water bottle towards the phone in your hand.

“Oh, yeah. That’s good. I know it doesn’t matter, but I really want you guys to get number 1 on the charts,” you grinned sheepishly.

Jack appeared beside you, slinging on arm around your shoulder. You noticed Corbyn shift again, gulping and eyeing Jack’s arm.

“Oh, we will, Y/N, we will,” he winked at you.

You laughed loudly at his expression. “I believe in you, Jack Avery.”

He squeezed your shoulder. Everybody moved to stand around you, Corbyn ending up too far away. You tried to see where it was he was standing, just because you felt comfortable being able to see him, seeing you. But you couldn’t.

You were attempting to hold the phone out far enough to get everyone in frame, but your arm wasn’t long enough. Everybody laughed at your struggle. Jonah took the phone from you and angled it at the group. He snapped the photo and everyone dispersed.

Jonah ended up in the seat across from you, Zach next to him where he had been. Daniel, Jack, and Christian decided to start pouring drinks, since it was nearing 11 pm. Corbyn stood there for a minute, contemplating running off the edge of the world.

He settled in the seat beside you which drew your attention from your phone. You had been captioning the Instagram post, struggling to come up with something interesting.

“Hey, Corbyn,” you weakly smiled.

He smiled. “Hey.” His voice made your knees weak.

You flashed the screen at him, pushing down the red blush willing itself to paint your face. “What do you think I should caption it?”

“I don’t know,” he let out a breathy laugh, “uh, maybe a joke. Like, track 4 was written about me.”

You shared a laugh with him, happy nothing felt stuffed of weird energy for even a mere few minutes of conversation.

“That would be really funny, but probably cause some drama. How about, like, ‘dibs on Love Song?’ Because I genuinely feel like that ones gonna be so good.”

Corbyn gulped, “I wrote that one with Daniel.”

“Oh,” you breathed. “Then, I call it.”

Red cheeks all around.

You quickly posted it. Soon, the room was engulfed with music, the 3 singles the boys had released filling the air. There was a single camera on the band, standing around the kitchen island you had once been sitting at.

You stood to the side with Anna and Kay, a glass of champagne in your hand. You had since abandoned your Jean jacket, revealing the flowery, thin strapped corset that left your midrif out in the open. You felt really hot, be it because of the outfit, your sparse interactions with Corbyn, or the alcohol beginning to take hold of your bones.

See, there was something there with Corbyn, something nobody really even knew about. In fact, you didn’t even know if Corbyn himself remembered.

You had been good friends with the entire band since they moved to LA, attending concerts when you weren’t in school and hanging out constantly. Of course, as any pathetic pining story went, you’d been in love with Corbyn since you’d met him, but his heart had always belonged to Christina.

When you discovered they broke up, you felt elated for half a second. Then, he called you in tears.

“I know we’re not expectionally close, but I need somebody. The guys, they just don’t understand.l

Since that moment, you guys had been attached at the hip. Quarantine had been boring at first, terrifying, even. But, then you’d begun to spend every waking moment with Corbyn. You were the one who suggested he dye his hair black, had helped him do it. you’d gone with him when the tattoo shops opened again and helped him pick which one looked best. You’d helped them move into their new house, helped Corbyn decorate his new space. Hell, you’d even suggested a song lyric or two when laying on Corbyn’s bed, listening to him across the room on his guitar.

And then, on your birthday a few months ago, you had gotten exceptionally drunk to drown the sorrows of lusting after your best friend. When the clock struck midnight, Corbyn had already hauled down a taxi from the bar, slung your arm around his neck, cradling your waist as he tried to get you inside.

Out of nowhere, the sky began pouring buckets of rain. You fell against his chest, laughing hysterically at the ironically cliche moment. Corbyn somehow nuzzled his nose into your neck, giggling along with your drunken haze.

You pulled back gently, the closeness emitting a fierce confidence in your gut which enabled you to lean up and kiss him. He kissed you back, but when he remembered how drunk you were, he tugged away.

“I can’t do this,” he urged, but you mistook his respect for consent as rejection.

You mumbled, “But I’m in love with you.”

You didn’t remember for a few days after, what had happened that night. All you knew was you had woken up in Corbyn’s bed, his clothes on you, a headache in your head, and your dress soaking wet over the bathtub.

Then, a few days later, when you were perched on Corbyn’s bed, watching an episode of Big Mouth, he made a joke about how, “in love you are with,” him. Your eyes widened, breath hitched, and a memory pulled itself from your brain. You suddenly stood up, his arm dropping to the comforter since it had been around your shoulders.

You made some excuse about homework, though you both knew you had finished your finals the night prior. Since then, neither of you had really spoken at all.

You clenched the champagne glass between your fingers, turning them white from frustration. You felt a hand on your shoulder, turning towards Anna.

“Everything okay?” She glanced between your eyes, noticing the tears welled up there.

You sniffled and blinked the tears away. One dribbled down your cheek. You quickly wiped it away. Anna’s bottom lip jutted out in a pitiful expression and she pulled you into a hug. You wanted to collapse into her, sobbing your way through the album’s release. But, you squeezed your face shut and grabbed the composure that was running away from you.

“I’m gonna go to the bathroom,” you tugged back and set your glass on the table beside you. You quickly strode to the bathroom, shutting it behind you.

You wiped under your eyes with a wet cloth, salvaging your eye makeup. Your eyes were still red, though, red and pupils blown up in a sad countenance.

There was a knock on the door and you tensed up. Daniel’s voice came from the other side of the door, soft and sweet.

“Y/N? Can I come in?”

You already knew he had seen you crying on Anna, and probably watched you storm away as quietly as one could when they were this upset. You were taking him away from his night and that made you feel just horrible.

“Yeah,” your voice was weak.

Daniel gently opened the door. He didn’t try to hug you or tell it was going to be okay. Instead, he cradled your face in his head, pushing the hair back from your cheeks.

“I know. You don’t have to explain or try to push me away. I just know. All I can give is the fact that we wrote these songs about our lives. These songs are personal.”

You met his eyes, swimming in the undemanding answers he was laying in front of you. “What do you mean?”

He gave a warm smile, “Corbyn got really good at songwriting. Just listen.”

You hugged Daniel quickly before shutting off the light. He slung his arm around your shoulders, guiding you back to the kitchen. Everyone counted down for midnight and soon enough, the new songs were blasting through the kitchen.

You anticipated Love Song through the entirety of Be Myself, barely paying any attention to the song that you knew Daniel wrote exclusively by himself. Soon, Daniel’s voice was dancing through the speakers in an upbeat rhythm, singing the literal love song.

Right after, Corbyn’s voice came again.

“You came out of nowhere like a hurricane.”

You perked up, holding yourself together with your arms. Daniel caught your eyes and nodded firmly. Your eyes flickered across the room and met Corbyn‘s. He’d been watching you for a while, you settled. Though his band mates and friends were dancing around the kitchen, he was solemnly drinking his own champagne. His hair was damp from the bottle Jonah had cracked open at midnight.

“Pulled me in and kissed me in the rain. And I fell for you.”

Your breath caught in your throat. You found his eyes again, your face bright red. An overwhelming grin came over you. Corbyn smiled in response, a dry chuckle shaking his shoulders. He shook his head, finally relieved.

You set down your glass again, tapping Anna on the shoulder. “I’ll be back, k?”

She squeezed your shoulder again, still feeling sympathetic. You looked to Corbyn and nodded towards the back door.

You slipped outside, taking a seat on one of the pool chairs. It was dark outside, only the light from the kitchen washing through the glass sliding doors.

You heard the doors open and close again, looking up from your shoes. You stood up, breathing in deeply. Corbyn stopped in front of you, fingers squeezing each other.

You nervously smiled up at him. “So...” you ached, “so, um, I guess I really did call track 4.”

Corbyn laughed, his hands coming around to your back. He pushed you into his chest, yours going up around his neck.

“Yeah,” his face drew back, “and it was about you.”

You grinned, pursing your lips to try and push it down. But, you were tired of pushing it all down, so you let your lips widen before landing themselves on Corbyn’s.

“You could be the one, girl you’re driving me crazy.”

[honeymoonjin]

part of the Roll Deep project.

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genre: pornstar!au, pro dom!jin || word count: 7.4k || warnings for sexually explicit context: bdsm, sex work/porn, use of safe word, oral (m receiving), fingering, anal play (f receiving), unprotected sex, sex toys, bondage, humiliation/degradation, pet play, multiple orgasms, forced orgasm, jin is a filthy bitch, please heed the tags, dom!jin, sub!reader, voyeurism/exhibitionism.

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The longer you stand outside the door to the dungeon, the more nervous you get, but you imagine that's rather the point. It's cold in the waiting room, especially when you'd been already instructed to remove your robe, leaving you in the plain white lingerie all subs on the show wore.

Although you had seen every single episode of Play Hard at least twice (once out of curiosity when you were applying for the show and a second time to try and prepare yourself) the actual behind-the-scenes information was kept under lock and key. You had even signed a non-disclosure, stating that you couldn't publicly or privately reveal any of the goings-on that weren't released in the official episode.

It means that you now feel unbelievably off-guard and underprepared, shivering in the waiting room. It's silent apart from the metallic whirr of the air-con. There's not even anyone in here now that the director had slipped inside to check on the proceedings.

You can't help but scoff a little. Director. One of the few things you had managed to glean from a past costar was that the director was there to arrange the setting up of equipment and then sit and watch. The middle-aged American guy had introduced himself to you in the waiting room, given you instructions and taken your robe, then left promptly, but that short time was enough for you to realise that what you had heard was probably true. He was so spineless and jittery you could've mistaken him for a trainee PA.

Two solid thuds ring out against the heavy metal door, making you jump slightly, a fresh wave of goosebumps breaking out on your upper arms. That was the signal to go inside. Suddenly you want to turn tail and run away. Instead, you push open the door and step inside.

He is the first thing you see upon entering. His back faces you when you walk in, and you swallow hard. His shoulders are so broad that it blocks you from seeing anything on the table he's standing at, so you simply hover awkwardly, wringing your hands together as you hear the doors shut behind you, and the director scamper back off to his seat.

He ignores you, fiddling with something metallic on the table, and although it builds that anxious feeling in your gut, you take the opportunity to look him over properly. His hair is a natural inky black, so glossy the backlight reflects off it. His clothes are intimidating, even from behind, even though you've seen them a hundred times before. Stretched tightly across his shoulders, a black button-down shirt is bracketed by a leather harness that cinches around his waist, and again halfway up his torso. There are two thick silver loops attached to that upper band on either side of his spine, and you know from watching his show there are more on his front. A spike of electricity jumps through you when you remember one of his more recent episodes where he had locked a sub's wrist cuffs to the back loops. She was a tiny girl with short arms, and by the time she was locked in she was completely pressed up against him, speared on his cock; helpless and unable to get off it. Fuck, what was a girl like you doing here?

"Eyes on the floor."

Your head shoots down immediately before you even consciously process his words. His voice is low and resonant, a richer timbre in real life than the mic clipped to his shirt could ever hope to pick up. You hear his feet, clad in heavy black shoes, shuffle against the hardwood floor as he turns to face you. You curl your bare toes against the cold, varnished planks. You'd never look up, never dream of disobeying his orders before you've even really begun, but you couldn't have predicted just how blazing his gaze feels on you, even, especially, when you can't see it.

"Babybaby223?"

You nod your head at the sound of your username. Even though it's obvious he would know it (he personally cherry-picks subs he wants to work with, after a rigorous audition period), it brings to mind the thought of him watching your videos. You bite down on your lip to fight a wicked smile. The image of the famed professional dom jerking off to one of your livestreams is delicious. You feel your nerves melt into raw excitement.

"You've only been in this business for two months, is that right?" You nod again, more enthusiastically. "Yet you think you can handle me. Ambitious little whore, aren't you?" He's on the move again, each step echoing dully, growing louder. You can see the tips of his perfectly-shined shoes right in the top of your vision when he stops. Eyes straining, your head tips up just slightly so you can see a little more of him. "You were a very good girl in your audition. I liked that little schtick about denying yourself so that you can come for Master. Very cute. Are you going to be a good girl for me again today?"

You nod again, taking the opportunity to raise your gaze a little more once your head stills again. You can see most of his pants now, barely able to make out where the black fabric strains over his thighs. Just a little more...

He stomps his foot suddenly, bringing it down hard and fast on the floor to create a sharp thud. Instinctively your eyes shoot up to meet his but he's storming towards you, and you get only a blurred glimpse of the glare on his face before a hand is coming out and pressing down hard on the crown of your head, forcing your chin to press uncomfortably on your sternum. You wiggle, trying to bend your spine and ease the tension, but he keeps you there, fingers tightening around the top half of your scalp, nails scratching slightly in your hair.

"Apparently not," he growls, and you squeeze your eyes shut in regret, "I guess you were just faking it in that audition tape, then? Because so far I've only given you one command and you've already disobeyed me."

"Sorry, Master," you rush out, but the sound is squashed and guttural with the tight bend in your throat.

His fingers curl into your hair, tugging at a handful of it in one sharp yank. You wince, but stay otherwise silent, drinking in the sensation of his hand on you. Suddenly there's a pressure against your cheek, and a whisper in your ear. "Did we agree that you could speak?"

You tremble, the warm air brushing down your neck lighting up your nerves. You shake your head, bowing your head even further.

Suddenly, his grip eases off, and the hand begins to smooth out your hair. "It's okay," he says lightly, though there's a sharpness to it, "I'm sure you know the two strikes rule."

You nod, his cheek warm against yours as the muscles in your neck ache. His two strikes rule was famous, even featuring in his logo as two slashes across the web-series' name. Taken from the well-known 'three strikes and you're out', this version meant dictated that if Master gave you two strikes, the rest of your session was punishment in any way he saw fit, no matter how much time was left. Pathetic sluts don't deserve three chances, he'd often say.

You mentally berate yourself on getting a strike so soon. One time last year a bratty sub had gotten on the show and blown both strikes within ten minutes. The video was a brutal documentation of her almost four-hour long disciplining. You didn't think you could handle that.

You bite down hard on your lip to stop yourself from apologising verbally, instead focusing on staying as still as possible.

With one last demeaning pat on the top of your head, he removes his hand and stands back up to his full height. You keep your eyes focussed firmly on your own two feet as he walks away, calling out to you in a firm tone. "You may look up. Join me at the table."

You scamper over, but with his back to you again, you take the chance to glance over at the production team.

They're, for the most part, all bunched up along one wall doing nothing but twiddling thumbs and watching. You've never had a problem with being watched during sex (it would make shooting porn very difficult if you were) but going from self-filmed cams to a web-series was a lot to take in.

The director watches you as you cross the room, meeting your gaze for a moment, simply shrugging in response to your concerned look. He wasn't going to help you here. Unless you used the safe word or something went seriously wrong, your only shot at leaving here without a bright-red ass, or worse, was to be the best-behaved sub Master had ever had.

He doesn't even look at you. "Wrists."

You hold them out to him hastily, watching in wonder at the effortless grace he has in looping a raven-black rope around one, then the other, before tightening it so they draw together, pressed tightly against one another. The feeling of danger spliced with security is always addictive; even at home you'd sometimes practice self-ties for your livestreams, though it was always different knowing someone else was in control of your mobility. You shift your hips slightly, clenching around nothing.

Once he's finished, he steps back from you. "Try to get out."

You jiggle your wrists, only to have no give, and look back up at him. His mouth flattens and his jaw tenses. You swallow hard, taking a deep breath before tugging more vigorously, expelling all your energy into slipping them off or pulling them apart. Once again, they don't give.

"Good. The EMT shears are with the director; if either you or me needs to use them, use the safe word plus "rope". If for any other reason you or I feel like we need to use the safe word, say it verbally, or if you can't, use the hand motion." You nod obediently, feeling yourself calm down again with this brief respite. This was never included in the episodes, but you appreciate the reinforcement of a safety net around the scene. "Say the safe word and do the gesture so I know you remember it."

You close both of your hands into fists, leaving the pointer fingers out and wiggling them. "Purple."

He nods once. His face is still taut and his mouth hard, but there's something lighting up his eyes. He's excited about this. "Finally, if you say the safe word once, it stops that particular activity, if you say it twice in a row or on more than one occasion, it stops the scene. Understood?"

You nod again, a smile playing at the corner of your lips. This was great; you didn't know what you were so frightened about. You think back to the list of kinks you had to submit with your application; a comprehensive check-mark list of all the things you could possibly be into. Ropes and bondage was definitely one you checked off, and you're suddenly feeling euphoric, filled with anticipation of all the kinks you loved. You couldn't wait for him to try them out on you. It had been a while since anyone other than yourself had given you pleasure.

"On the table, facing me."

You step up to it, turning in anticipation, only to freeze. It's higher than you were expecting. The edge of the table rests on top of the swell of your ass, and you futilely try lifting a leg up one at a time to shuffle on, but it's no use. You could jump, but with your hands tied you'd risk falling and injuring yourself.

A dark chuckle breaks your attention away from the table. You stare up at Master with wide eyes. His lips are full and rosy, even when they're stretched across his face in an amused sneer. "Need some help?"

Your bottom lip sticks out slightly as you nod. He could've let you get up and then tied your wrists together. But his smug grin as he wraps his hands around your waist tells you that getting you off-guard and reliant on him was exactly the point.

You squeak as he lifts you up with ease and dumps you down ungracefully on the table.  You suck in a hiss through your teeth. The table is wood, too - the same dark grain as the floor - and it's freezing against your ass, the thin fabric of your underwear doing nothing to provide any insulation.

Your eyes are on his. You feel electric, liquid excitement running through your veins and  gathering between your legs. He quirks his eyebrows in thought, letting his eyes run over you. Automatically, you find yourself straightening your spine and sucking in your tummy, conscious of the way it would look on camera. Your eyes dart nervously over to the cameraman who paces in closer to you in a crouch.

Goosebumps raise up on the tops of your thighs. God, why was it so fucking cold in here?

You jump slightly when a hand comes down on your thigh. It's not hard, nothing more than a warning swat, but you swallow hard at the fire burning in his eyes.

"Who's your master here?"

"You are," you reply immediately, with a dutiful head-bow, only to jump again when a harder slap hits the sensitive skin of your thigh.

He's looking at you in disappointment now, a pensive frown on his face as he reaches around behind you, and somehow that's much worse than anger. His face is leaning over your shoulder as he reaches for something, pulling back a slip of black fabric.

You bite your lip, toes curling. A blindfold. One of your favorite accessories in the bedroom. Everything always felt more intense when your vision was restricted, and it would help you forget the intimidating presence of an entire production team.

"Now," he states brusquely, running a veined hand over the fabric to smooth it out, "I noticed you checked off sensory deprivation on your list of kinks, so I thought I'd be a generous master and give you a blindfold. But it seems you can't keep your fucking mouth shut, so I'm gonna have to use this to shut you up. Open wide, princess."

The corners of your mouth quirk down with the sarcastic pet name, but you open your mouth for him nonetheless, biting down on the thick twist of black cotton that he slips between your teeth, tying it tightly at the back.

With that done, he resumes his inspection of you, completely ignoring you as he runs his fingers lightly and impersonally over you, like you were a doll he was inspecting.

Over time you can feel the cotton wicking away all the moisture in your mouth, and your glands start to work overtime to produce more saliva. With a growing dread, you can feel lines of drool slipping down your chin. Every societal instinct in you screams to wipe it away, but he currently is holding your wrists up, a single finger looped in the rope, pulling it away from you like an afterthought as he inspects your breasts, head cocked to the side.

Here was another procedure you had never seen on his show, and you were feeling as off-guard as ever. With no clocks in here, you had no way of knowing how long it had been, but it felt like hours before he finally reached your head, tipping your jaw up and to each side, moving you like an object.

Once he lets your jaw go and looks at your face, he spots the spit on your chin and laughs. "We've barely even started yet and look how messy you are. Don't think I didn't notice how you've ruined your panties already."

You make a little whine and widen your legs, arching your back as best you can.

"Baby, baby," he coos condescendingly, referencing your username. "Are you feeling needy, hm?" You nod. "Tell me what you want."

You blink at him for a moment. How were you supposed to-? Though your grin isn't visible behind the gag, you know he can see the way your cheeks lift and your eyes light up as you get an idea.

Lifting a leg up, you use the tips of your toes to poke his crotch teasingly. To your delight, he's rock hard.

He runs a hand through his hair, disrupting it slightly as it parts to reveal his thick brows. With one palm on your knee and the other on the table beside you, Master steps forward, your foot pressed flatly against him, bending at the knee. His voice is deceptively smooth, a sharp edge dripping with honey. "My sub wants me to fuck her?"

You nod quickly, though your eyebrows crease at the way he talks about you in third person, instead of directly.

"Well, I'm afraid I can't do that just yet." His pink tongue slips out to wet his lips. "What kind of dom would I be if I let my sub tell me what to do?"

The back of his hand strikes across the bone of your ankle, batting your foot away. He steps right up, pressing his hips against the edge of the table between your legs, crotch right on top of yours. Any levity or humour has disappeared as he reaches out and latches onto your chin with an iron grip. He turns your head harshly towards the cameras and leans in, nipping at your earlobe once in warning. "Don't think for a second that this is about you. I'm sure you've heard many times that the one with the most power in a scene is a sub, because they can call off the scene at any moment. Perhaps you can call off the scene if you need to, but that does not mean you have any power here. The scene ends, your contract ends, you hear me?"

With wide eyes you attempt to nod, though his grip is too tight. He uses his hand to make you, guiding your jaw up and down. His grip is so tight, his fingers press through the meat of your cheek and squeezes on your teeth. You wince, but he doesn't let up.

"We all know that subs come here for one reason, and that's to get publicity. Cams aren't enough for a greedy whore like you, are they? Well, let me tell you a secret, princess: every single one of those twelve million viewers on my series don't want me to let you have your way. They don't even want me to fuck you." You tremble as he bites down on your ear again, tugging at the lobe before growling in your ear again. "They want me to ruin you."

All of a sudden he's letting go of you completely, and you hastily prop yourself up with your bound hands to prevent yourself from slumping over. You run your tongue over the inside of your sore cheeks as best you can with the gag in, panting.

"Turn around. Ass up, tits down."

It's surprisingly easy to navigate onto your stomach once you get your knees up on the table, and it's actually kind of comfortable letting your chest rest on your tied wrists, knees tucked between your tummy to prop your ass up.

Of course, comfortable was not in your contract. You suck in a shocked breath when his hand comes between your legs, lifting you up by your crotch until your knees no longer touch the table. You squeeze your eyes shut as you put your focus into staying stable with your front half securely pressed against the table.

"Are you a fucking amateur? Spread your legs."

You do as he says, hovering them open in the air, your shins bumping against the table edge, and finally he lowers you back down. Once he removes his hand, you whimper at the loss of pressure against your clit, feeling unbelievably vulnerable, but still it's not enough for him.

"Wider," he commands impatiently as he presses down on the middle of your back so that you have no choice but to arch further, knees splayed out wide. It's only once you reach this position, tensing your thighs slightly, that you realise that you can't get up anymore. Your legs are so far apart that you couldn't get your knees under you if you tried, and his palm rests heavy on your bare back, a reminder of the dominance he has over you. If you had ever doubted it before, here was the first-hand confirmation that he was a profession, and the thought of what he might do next makes you keen, whining again.

He hums to himself in consideration, and you hear him shifting around behind you. Another pair of footprints patters up, something metallic clinks, and hand rubs your back almost soothingly. "Now," he begins, moving around to your side, "you've shown me that you're incapable of following instructions, so I think I'm going to have to take some precautions."

You drop your head onto your hands, the rope on your wrists rubbing the tops of your breasts. The urge not to swivel around and see what he's doing only increases tenfold when the hand on your back disappears, but you force yourself to stay still. Two strikes, you remind yourself, and only one left.

To your left, you hear a swipe, some clanking, and then a tug. You almost jump right off the table when a solid strap of leather is thrown across your back, just below your shoulder blades. It lays there loosely for only a moment as he walks around to the other side, but soon enough you feel it growing taut over you. He pulls it tighter and tighter until your top half is completely flush against the table, your arms squished in between, and your back arching up to present your ass.

Your breathing picks up again, constricted slightly by the tight angle, and your eyes fall shut again, head to the side on the table. You can feel yourself truly slipping into subspace; it's liquid, like falling asleep or relaxing in a hot bath. The realization that you no longer have control, and that resisting it is futile, settles into your bones, and you feel your muscles ease.

"There," he drawls from somewhere above you, "that's sure taken the fight out of you, hasn't it? Now you're mine to play with." You shudder when he pairs his comment with a finger trailing up your spine, and he chuckles low in his throat.

His voice echoes, moving behind you. "In fact, if I wanted to, I could scrap all the other plans I had for you and just use you as my little cocksleeve. Fuck; if I got tired I could sit back and let the others come and have a go. If that's what I wanted, there'd be nothing you could do about it. You'd just have to sit there and take it."

He's not telling the truth; the safe word is firmly etched into the contract, as well as the fact that no persons were allowed to engage without also signing the contract, and no one had. Still, as a fingernail drags ever-so-lightly across your behind, along the seam of your panties, the thought causes you to whimper.

The teasingly featherish tough changes to a surge of heat as both his palms flatten over the globes of your ass, long fingers slipping under the fabric as he massages the flesh. "...but as good as that sounds, I have something much better in store for you, something I'm quite looking forward to seeing."

His hands move against you, shifting around to either side, gripping at the fabric. The white lingerie every sub on the show wore were purpose-made to be extremely easy to remove. As such, the seams on the panties were practically perforated, easy to rip off in the situation that you couldn't simply slide them down. It only takes two purposeful tugs before they tear, and the fabric falls away, clinging to your folds momentarily.

You sigh out at the feeling of the cold air on your center, the slick that's made its way all over your folds quickly cooling. A finger or thumb running down your middle has you biting down on the fabric between your teeth.

"I'm a big believer in lube," Master divulges, "but I prefer mine all-natural. So before we get to the main event, I'm going to have to replenish my stocks."

In your sex-hazed mind, you don't understand what he means until a single finger is sinking into you, enough of an intrusion to send your nerves alight, but not enough to give you any real relief.

It leaves you, and you hear the obscene sound of him sucking on his finger with a wet pop. He groans. "God, if you hadn't been so poorly behaved, perhaps I'd have given you a reward and eaten that pretty pussy of yours." You make out a disappointed sob, attempting to shift your hips back for more friction although the tight band across your middle keeps you infuriatingly stuck.

"Mm, you're soaked as it is but better to be safe than sorry, no?"

Your heart is pounding in your chest as he leaves quickly to grab something else from the props manager, and you swear it stops for a minute as you hear him plug something into a wall socket. You make a questioning whine from behind your gag.

"Well, we don't have all the time in the world," Master explains as he presses something silicon-like and firm against you, slicking it up. "The quickest way to get you dripping for me is an orgasm, and I'm not going to waste my time making it special for you." He flicks a switch and an audible buzzing vibrates powerfully between your legs, causing the muscles in your thighs to jump. "Now hurry the fuck up and cum for me."

You recognise this raw power immediately. A plug-in-Hitachi. Famous in porn videos everywhere, you had been inspired to splurge and buy one yourself once, only to realize just how powerful it was. You had used it once, too much sensation to even orgasm, and given it away.

It's infuriating, unbearable, having the wand pressed up to your clit as he runs it back and forth impatiently. It's too much to take, but you physically have no choice but to take it. Your teeth are clenching tightly around the fabric, drooling onto the table, and your hands are squeezed into fists, the muscles of your abs, butt and thighs flexing even though they can't move you away from the torrent of pleasure.

"Pweathe," you gargle, "koo ngucks!"

"Too much?" he questions, though his voice is tinted with bemusement rather than any genuine concern. "I don't care."

You let out a frustrated scream from the back of your throat, feeling tears squeezing out the corners of your eyes. You crack them open to see the director in the edge of your vision, staring intensely at your hands, waiting for any sign of the safe word signal.

Although you're so sensitive you can't help but cry, and your nerves feel like they're being electrocuted, something runs deeper, a viscous current of pleasure building up inside you. Oh, god. You're actually going to cum.

The moment you entertain the thought that you were getting close, the orgasm hits you like a tidal wave, crashing over every inch of your body. You feel yourself convulsing on the table as much as your bondage allows, spit pooling around your cheek as you hopelessly drool around the gag. As soon as you cum, you're already being thrust into oversensitivity, and your master cruelly keeps the vibrator held against you as you sob hopelessly.

Then you feel something, a strange object swiping between your legs against your folds, dipping in slightly. The wand falls away, and you go silent, feeling that weird sensation as you lie bonelessly on the table, knees parting even wider as they fail to hold you up at all.

A soft chuckle is pushed out of his nose. "Mm, that shut you up. Bet you're wondering what this is, huh?" You pant, managing to summon enough energy to nod, twitching every time that hard yet thin thing gets too close to your abused clit. "Let me show you."

You knit your eyebrows and open your eyes, blinking against the bright backlights, as a waist comes into your line of vision.

You crane your neck to look up him, hyper-aware of the wet patch on the table, but he doesn't comment on it, instead cheerily showing you a small clear squeezy-bottle and a spoon. Tears of humiliation spring to you eyes as you see him discard the spoon and produce the bottle's top from his pocket, twisting it on and testing it, squeezing out a small amount of what could only be your slick onto his finger.

He rolls it absentmindedly between his thumb and pointer finger, staring down at you with a smile you haven't seen before. "Good girl. Now we can move on to the fun stuff, hm?"

You shudder as he moves away. If this was just a preamble, what the fuck did he consider the fun stuff? Your muscles ache when he loosens the belt across your back and removes it, though a slap to your ass and a barked command leave you spread open on all fours for him.

"Now, my sources tell me you like being called baby and babygirl, is that right?"

You make a noise of confirmation, too weak to nod.

He places a hand on your behind, spreading your cheeks. You jump when a warm liquid drizzles down your crack, and a finger presses against your rim. "Well, I'm not going to call you that today. In fact, you look so pretty on all fours that I think I might call you..." he trails off as he pushes past your tight ring of muscles, pressing a single digit deep inside you. "...my puppy."

You shake your head resolutely. "Ngo."

"No?" He laughs, slowly fucking you with the one finger. "'No' isn't our safeword. It's sad," he muses, squeezing out some more of your juices to make the slide a little easier, picking up the pace. "Because if you're a good little puppy for me, I might just fuck you like a bitch in heat, just like you wanted. Does that sound good?"

You whimper when he slips his finger out and you clench around the empty space, but he's reaching forward to undo the knot around the back of your head and suddenly you're able to spit out the gag, sucking in lungfuls of cool, fresh air.

"Answer me this time. Do you want to get fucked, puppy?"

Your breath leaves you in a hopeless sigh as he moves back, upgrading to two fingers inside of you. "Yes, please," you whine.

"Oh? That's interesting, I didn't know puppies could talk. I don't want words. One bark for yes, two barks for no."

Your hips lift up off of the intrusion. "No, purple, I'm not- I-"

"Hey, hey," Master eases, rubbing your back soothingly, "it's okay, you don't need to explain. Do you want all of this to stop?" You shake your head reluctantly. Even though all you want to do if bury your head in your hands and disappear, you can't deny that his finger inside you felt unbelievably erotic. "Just that last bit?" A nod. "Are you gonna be good and let me stretch you out for me?"

You nod one last time, breathing unsteadily, shuffling a bit so that the ropes on your wrists no longer dig into your sternum, instead laying them out in front of you so that you can rest your head on the softness of your upper arm.

He puts his fingers back inside you, and you swear softly at the intrusion, the unusual pleasure that it was causing in the pit of your stomach. Although you'd been careful to muffle it against your arm, you hear him give off a warning growl, crooking his fingers inside you. You squeak and your hips waver, but he leaves it at that, and goes back to scissoring you open patiently.

You have the realization in the back of your mind that he's easing you back into things, instead of going full Master immediately, but soon your gratitude melts away with the addition of a third finger. Every breath comes in a snapped huff; you feel unable to hold your breath for longer than a second, as every movement inside you makes your toes curl. You feel your brain turn to mush when they slip out of you, and you groan lowly in protest.

Your disappointment is short-lived, however, as soon after a cool glass object is being pressed firmly into you. Your mouth falls open as you widen around it. Above you, Master rubs your ass, keeping your cheeks spread. "Silly puppy forgot her tail. Luckily I have one for her."

Your top half goes slack with resignation. Even as your cheeks light up with embarrassment at the thought of wearing a fucking tail, the widest part of the plug slips inside you and you feel so addictively full. You clench around it a couple times, shivering.

"Alright, let's get you off the table. Puppies belong on the floor."

You let him wrap his arms securely around your middle, lifting you up off the table and lowering you down onto the ground. Your knees knock painfully against the wood, but you get your bound hands down in front of you soon enough to hold yourself up.

You look up at him, at the glimmer in his eye. He grins back down at you, holding a palm out. "Stay," he commands softly, in the same tone one would use for dog training.

You wait obediently as he turns and walks down towards the filming crew in front of you, reaching into a large black box filled with equipment. On your hands and knees, you fight the urge to swivel around and look at the plug. You know you could easily see if you wanted to, and as it is you can feel something soft brushing against your cheeks, but you worry that if you saw it with your own eyes, you'd be too humiliated to continue on. You bite your lip and glance at the main camera. You can't afford to use the safe word again and end the scene, not after you've already done so much. You need this episode to go public so that you're not stuck in the camgirl scene forever.

"Good girl," Master cooes when he returns, ruffling at your hair affectionately. He crouches down in front of you and shows you a collar, a dark red, glossy leather one with a silver buckle. After the plug, this is nothing, and you simply tilt your chin to give him more room. His eyes light up with something akin to pride, and you feel your chest warm as he fastens the collar around your neck.

Once he finishes, he sits back on his heels to look you over, tucking two fingers under the leather to make sure it's not too tight. You swallow hard. You have to admit, there's something deeply satisfying about the way it feels around your neck, the way it digs in when you duck your chin. The reminder that you're his.

"Stay," he commands once more, before standing up and moving over to the other side of the room, pulling up a chair and sitting down in it. He pats his thigh. "Come."

You glance down at your bound wrists, then back up at him in question. He simply cocks his head to the side and waits, legs wide open and pants tented.

With a reluctant sigh, you begin to awkwardly hobble over to him. It's slow going, and you feel yourself blushing all the way down to your neck as the softness between your legs tickles the backs of your knees, but you force yourself forward, crawling forward as if you have three limbs, moving them one at a time, feeling the plug shift teasingly inside you the whole way.

After an age, and some seriously sore knees, you stop in between his legs, and glance up at him question.

"Good puppy," he praises, "now sit."

You do as he says promptly, hissing when the plug is pressed up into you suddenly. He laughs as you try and make yourself comfortable, sitting back on your heels.

You watch with a salivating mouth as a veined hand comes down to play at the button of his pants. He pops the button, pulls the zip down next, and silently lets you watch him with wide eyes as he pulls out his cock, knitting his dark eyebrows when he grips it loosely.

After a few self-indulgent strokes, Master looks down at you with lidded eyes, and scoots his crotch even closer to your face, his thighs on either side of your head. "I'll give you what you want, puppy, just let me fuck that pretty mouth of yours first."

You whimper. Whoever had said that the camera removes a few inches was right. Watching his series, you always knew he was big, but now that it was right in front of your face? There was no way that was fitting inside you, no matter where he tried to put that thing. Still, you open your mouth and stick your tongue slightly out, and the swear he lets out from the back of his throat makes it all worth it.

This was what you had been waiting for. The chance to make him lose himself, become just as fucked out as you were.

Master reaches down with one hand and hooks his finger underneath the collar, making it completely taut against your throat, and uses his other hand to guide his cock to rest on your tongue.

It's heavy, and the slight tang of precum has you wanting more. Risking punishment, you bat your eyelids and take initiative, lapping at his head like a dog. He lets out a guttural noise again and tips his head back. You watch with satisfaction as he swallows hard, his throat bobbing. "Oh, that's a good puppy," he praises.

With the hand tucked partly into your collar, he pushes your head down on him suddenly, and you gag around him as he forces himself to the back of your throat, but instead of letting up, he holds you there, moving his hips to increase that friction.

You force yourself to widen your mouth and breath through your nose, knowing that the more you think about it, the more your gag reflex will kick in. Gradually, Master grows more aggressive with his thrusts, until he's practically face-fucking you, and your eyes pool over with tears. Desperate to feel something to tide you over, you begin subconsciously grinding your ass against the floor, feeling the plug move inside of you, and you begin to moan on his cock, rutting yourself more to chase the feeling.

Above you, your master is moaning through clenched teeth, some of them coming out more like a growl, and his eyes are fixed on you, lidded with desire.

Finally, just when you splutter, unable to stop from choking on his cock, he tugs roughly on your collar and pulls you off of him. You gasp for air, eyes streaming and lips swollen, as he grips himself tightly to keep his orgasm at bay.

"Good girl," he praises gruffly, "good girl." Once the two of you take a few deep breaths and he comes back down from that edge, he runs a hand through his hair and grins down at you. "Puppy loves her tail, doesn't she? I saw you rubbing yourself against the floor like a horny bitch." You flush, but he just reaches down and hooks the ropes around your wrists, deftly untying them. "As promised, since you were a good little puppy for me, you can have your reward. Does puppy want the plug out first?"

You bite your lip, eyes glazing over as you consider it. You probably should. It was embarrassing having to act like a dog, and he's so big that you can't imagine they'd both fit. But then....

You shake your head. Master nods proudly. The ropes send warm lines of friction across your skin as he undoes each tie, and soon enough your arms are falling loosely apart.

"Up you get," he instructs, and you push yourself up, stressed that the plug is going to fall out even though you know realistically it's definitely snugly stuck in there. It shifts slightly as he grabs onto the tail, and uses the other hand to wrap around your waist and pull you closer, your legs on either side of him. With a twinkle in his eye, he looks up at you. "Puppy, sit."

You bite your lip and take a steadying breath, grabbing his slick length and placing it at your entrance. Painstakingly slowly, you lower yourself down onto him, feeling him open you up inch by glorious inch. You stop halfway, panting, before a quick tug on your tail gives you the motivation to lower yourself further, until your ass cheeks rest on his thighs. The zipper will probably cause you a few rashes on the insides of your thighs by tomorrow, but for now you're so drunk on pleasure that the pain feels good too.

You rest your head in the crook of his neck, legs gone weak. You feel so unbelievably connected and close, and so full, that you can't even move. Luckily, all it takes is one strong hand cupping your ass, holding you up, for Master to begin thrusting into you.

Immediately on the first snap of his hips you cry out loudly in his ear, fingers curling around the thick metal loops on his harness like they're handles.

"Feel good?" he asks, grunting with effort as he fucks up into your pussy.

You make out half of a 'yes' before you're moaning hopelessly again, rendered incoherent by the slide of him inside you, of the wall that divides him from the plug.

"Fuck," he groans, "I've been hard as a- a fucking rock this whole time, I- I'm gonna cum soon."

You whine, secretly grateful, as each time he impales you on his cock, you feel yourself punted closer and closer to that edge. "Mmme too," you manage to make out, "s- oh, so full!"

"Yeah?" Master begins to pant lowly, using up the very last of his energy to bring the two of you to your ends. "Puppy, come."

You let out a scream and do as he says, the orgasm ripping through you violently, leaving you like dead weight on his chest as he pushes down on your ass cheeks, holding himself bottomed out in you as he releases with his own cry.

You shudder helplessly, every slight movement triggering aftershocks, your body completely lax on top of his. He rubs your ass lazily as he comes down from his high, his cum slowly leaking out of you.

"Cut!"

[takaraphoenix]

I believe you didn't talk about your opinion of Riverdale's season 2 yet. (You know, in it's entirety and not just of some scenes.) But now I'm left curious. What do you think of the rest of the season? And since you wanted to find out on your own: Did you manage to correctly identify the Black Hood before it was confirmed in the show?

Oooh. Oh, sorry. I just always post the excitement when something, ya know, exciting happens. Still unsure about lengthy ramblings that seem too off-topic from the blog. (Yes, I am still pretending this blog has a theme. Let me. xD)

Oh dear, how do I put all the things into words and in order?

To sum it up briefly as an intro: I’m disappointed.

Now, more in detail.

Starting with the things I liked. Which are significantly less than the things I disliked, hence the overall verdict.

Toni is an amazing character and I love her addition to the show. I just hope she will get her own plotline next season, because this season she was only there to either further Jughead’s plot or Cheryl’s. I’m also very eager to see Toni’s and Cheryl’s relationship unfold, because boy do I ship it hard.

I really enjoyed FP and Alice Cooper’s development this season, much to my own surprise. Alice came out being one of my most hated characters first season, but I actually liked her semi-redemption arc and... I... somehow now ship her and FP? I am very disturbed by that, to be honest.

And... with that, we kind of reached the end of the things I enjoyed this season? Which, yeah, sad.

I didn’t like a single one of the main characters’ plotlines this season.

Archie and how his relationship with his father slowly came apart over the course of the season - despite it being semi-mended in the end, this whole arch seemed unnecessarily forced and in contrast to their portrayal in the first season.

Archie and starting his own fucking gang. TWICE.

Seriously. He gives Jughead shit for being a serpent, but then he goes ahead and starts his own gang. And the fucking names. Red Circle. Dark Circle. Wow. Such creativity, much awe.

Archie running after Hiram Lodge all season long was just... intensely disturbing to watch. He just allowed himself to be sucked in deeper and deeper.

So did Veronica and with her it annoyed me even more. First season Veronica seemed so much like the girl who was against her criminal father. And now she just... doubled down on the crime hard. And I genuinely don’t know what she was expecting? Because the girl acted like what happened was somehow a surprise or something in the end, when she turned against him again. Like. What... What did she think would happen...?

Then there was Betty’s plot.

I liked that she confided in Archie and her friends about the Black Hood and didn’t just do a solo gig. But her trying to get her brother and them just immediately accepting the creep into the family without so much as a fucking background check first.

And Jughead literally went from the sweet nerd with a blog to the fucking king of the gang. Like. Good lords, slow it down some. It seemed so incredibly rushed just how fast he came to accept the serpents as his family and the school as his home. I think that his “becoming a serpent and becoming king of the serpents” plot should have been stretched out over two seasons.

Cheryl’s plot was... so over the top too. Conversion camp? Her mom trying to murder grandma? And... her characterization was all over the place too. One second she is the Queen with the power-moves cutting her mom’s oxygen, the next she is the crying girl in the corner, weak and helpless. I mean, I get that with everything that happened last and this season to her, she wouldn’t be fully stable, but it really felt more like convenient writing. “Mh, we need more tension, so how about Cheryl is utterly helpless and defenseless in the next scene?” turning into “Oh but we could use a badass move, how about she just attacks the serial killer with her bow and arrows and without being the least bit intimidated?”.

Also Cheryl and Rose now living alone in the mansion... Honestly, instead of making her sick grandma her guardian, I think auntie Alice should have stepped up.

The relationship between Cheryl and Betty is really fascinating and I would genuinely enjoy seeing more of it. Like, having Cheryl move in with them, she can have Polly’s room. She would be forced to live a more down-to-Earth life.

The whole evil twin of her dad thing was really unnecessary. I mean. Seriously. It added absolutely nothing to the plot.

Just, overall, there was way too much going on this season for my taste.

And not just too much as in too many plotlines, also just... too dark, too deep, too heavy.

This show is indeed taking the Desperate Housewives route, but it hits it harder than I expected.

That is to say, the first season offers a genuinely intriguing, vaguely over-dramatic mystery that happens and that brings an unlikely band of protagonists together to solve it. Following seasons will so desperately try to top it that the dramatic event is completely blown out of proportions and loses absolutely all grasp on reality.

And that’s what happened this season.

We get a serial killer. And the mafia. And a psycho imposter brother. And an evil twin. And a conversion camp. And a gang war. And a serial rapist. And a drug problem.

That’s just too many “and”s.

First season worked perfectly. It had that one mystery that they had to solve and then some sub-plots around it. That mystery was one murder.

Now, to your other question regarding the Black Hood: HONESTLY HALF THE TIME I FORGET THAT HE IS A CHARACTER ON THIS SHOW.

Hal is so bland and so unimportant. When he made his first appearance this season, I legit went “OH right Alice has a husband! Ooops!”.

I figured it out at one point, but then they went misdirection with that second, or third, I lost count, Black Hood and I grew doubtful because why the fuck.

Last season, with daddy Blossom, it took me really long to figure it out. But when it was revealed, it was a thing that made sense. They set the mystery up so you had to work to figure it out, but it made sense plotwise.

This one? They purposefully wrote it so it doesn’t make sense.

There is no legit motive. They retconned some “Oh by the way his dad was a murderer but he pinned it on someone else and momma brainwashed him and Betty’s words in the last season finale were a trigger to turn him into a serial killer” so hard that it’s just pathetic.

And how he conveniently managed to stop killing when he got it pinned on someone else. That was literally only plot-convenience to make the viewer believe they got the right guy, because Hal had no logical motivation to stop killing. It was never about hiding his crimes? He literally wrote letters and made phone-calls and flaunted it in everybody’s face, why would he find a scapegoat and then stop killing? That’s just... bullshit. He should have, logically speaking, gone after like Hiram Lodge or some other scumbag criminal.

Nothing about that shit could have been guessed.

I mean, I did guess that Hal would be the son of the murderer. Or the one surviving child from the murder. But then they put the janitor in and killed that.

Last season’s mystery came natural. This one was forced in every way of the word.

That just completely took the fun out of it for me.

Well, that and the sheer amount of cruelty and brutality this season. There was no fun this season. Last season still had its lighthearted moments. This one didn’t.

It’s not just taking a bad Desperate Housewives route, that route is crossing streets with the bad Teen Wolf route of going grittier and darker and removing all color and fun from something that used to have color and fun and then somehow expecting that to be good. It is not. It never will be.

Either make something gritty and dark from the get-go so it attracts the right crowd of people, or make something that has jokes and lightheartedness in it and embrace that. But don’t attempt a genre-change like that. It’s a failure.

The musical episode was really out of place for me too. It didn’t fit to the tone of this season at all. Fun musical stuff could have gone with last season. Not to mention the musical could have been Kevin’s plotline. But... Kevin kind of didn’t get a plotline at all. He got one episode of musical thrown his way and that vague shit about him fucking in the woods and that was, essentially, it.

I am also not a hundred percent sure; did Betty and Jughead actually fuck or just make out...? I usually look away when they start undressing on screen and only look up again when the scene is over. I fail to see any reason for sex scenes at all, period, in literally any show, but especially so in a show about supposed teenagers? It’s just... weird for me. But if they did, fuck you show. I want asexual Jughead. Also, this ship has zero chemistry.

And can someone maybe get Betty a therapist now? Last season with her turning into psycho Betty with the fucking wig was already Really Disturbing, but she doubled down on that hard this season? And? Is she supposed to have some form of... personality disorder? Is that intentional? Either way, she helped cover up a murder this season and got psychologically tortured by her father who is a serial killer, so yeah please get her professional help.

So, yeah. That’s it.

I found this season too forced, too dark and too brutal and if the show doubles down on those elements with the same rate that it did from season 1 to season 2, then season 3 is going to be DCEU levels of dark and gritty.

I really hope they will slow down and that they will start remembering that you don’t have to rush from one traumatic, brutal event to the next murder to the next attempted rape and so on, but that you can... pause in between and put something more light in, to even things out. How do writers keep forgetting that...?

[nyxysabyss]

LEVEL HORIZON; YEAR THREE.80 1/4; Pivotal Calamity

Chapter 27!

It’s difficult, when faced with a situation you cannot control, to admit you can do nothing. ~Lemony Snicket

~ Ten Months Later; Early Spring ~

Kenma Kozume follows Shouyou, Noya, and Yachi through the small village that sits within striking distance of one of the Karasuno rookery’s main checkpoints on their sentry scouting routes, but the outpost is silent today.

The avian city will lie empty a few more weeks yet before the murder returns from their yearly migration, and spring has offered them promising weather the last week. The thaw had spurred an impulse decision on Kuroo’s part to come to this small hamlet nestled in the mountains for their spring herald festival and Kenma has to smile.

This village’s festival some centuries back had marked the first time he and the black cat had come out of hiding and simply relaxed into the joyous atmosphere following Kuroo losing his eye and their subsequent flight. The small cat remembers their food and fireworks well amid his leveler’s quiet smiles at the decorations along the stalls. If he could go back in time, he’d tell his younger self not to worry, everything works out and he gets to keep the large black cat.

There is still some snow on the ground, but rivers are running high and the first hints of life are stirring along the edges of the drifts, but they are all distracted by the wonderful food and company. They’ve just gone through the main market and Kenma is sure they tried every stand; he’s beyond uncomfortably full. Kuroo steers them toward the local temple to give thanks for surviving another winter with a pointed glance at the ibis who stares back at him with complete disinterest. Kenma mentally smirks.

The pale winged avian had done as he’d asked and laid off Shouyou and Kuroo, opting instead to spend days in Sheru Bay running the ledger for Suga’s relatives, but he and Yamaguchi had gone for a sabbatical in the mountains the first month of winter at the whim of the freckled crow. Never mind that the ibis wasn’t adapted for winter weather, the tall blond had stalwartly decreed that he was overdue for an escape from the rest of their company so he and the freckled crow were going alone.

They’d been gone nearly two weeks and were supposed to be gone for two more when they showed back up with a half-panicking Yamaguchi shoving the taller nonplussed, yet sick avian at Kiyoko, begging her to save him. Tsukishima had been most unimpressed and had told them he just had a cold… except it had rapidly degenerated into full blown pneumonia within the week.

He’d been little more than slightly flushed when they’d stumbled back home, but he’d quickly come down with a monstrous fever that he completely denied existed because ‘if he was so warm, then why the hell did he feel like he was shivering so damn badly?’ The ibis had spent the next two months huddled in blankets and ten times as sour as normal, and the majority of winter found him inside either sulking or sleeping for his misadventure.

So it had been a surprise that he’d readily requested to join when Kuroo had mentioned the festival; even Yamaguchi had asked if he was sure. The ibis hadn’t even had to scold the freckled crow before he was apologizing. Yamaguchi had been belatedly stoked to go for an adventure, and Kenma hadn’t missed the way the ibis had quietly watched his excitement with reserved fondness.

Yachi and Kiyoko had opted to join then in the event the tall blond became ill once more. It would be good for the girls to get out as they rarely ever managed to escape the beach house— not that they minded overmuch. Nishinoya and Shouyou had been only too happy to come, their traveling itch nearly burning their feet already. But Kageyama had hesitated slightly, because with the last season turn, Shouyou had started waking in the morning, his back stiff enough that it would take him a couple hours to really get moving.

Those mornings aren’t that common but… today is a bad day, and Kenma can tell that he’s dragging. He’d risen while the sun was still grey with everyone else, but he hadn’t been as unfailingly bright or chatty; Kenma personally felt his stiff movements were probably the result of having spent the night on the hard ground which had tweaked his back. But he wasn’t sure others much noticed it, because Shouyou himself never voiced his pain; rather, the most obvious indicator that something was off was the way Kageyama hovered.

He was rarely far from his leveler, but on days like this, he didn’t leave the redhead’s side. One could argue that his clinginess was more the product of being in an unfamiliar area, but Kenma’d been on enough of these trips to know that today’s episode probably isn’t that. The crow setter is never more than two steps away and at the moment, he too, is watching the redhead chatter merrily with Noya and Yachi as they climb the steps to the village’s temple.

A few paces ahead of them, the ibis and freckled crow lead the way, oblivious to the fact that they are, in fact, heading in the wrong direction. Kenma is on the verge of saying something when Kuroo speaks for him just over his shoulder.

“Oi. Hang a right, you guys.”

The two pause and turn to look at them, the reaction like a catalyst that makes the others all do the same.

“What?” Yamaguchi asks with confusion.

“That won’t get you to the temple. You need to go right.”

The ibis glances back toward the lights and outline of the building up the hill that is just visible through the trees, it’s large entrance gate the most prominent feature on the edge of the incline. He turns back to Kuroo with a bored look.

“We can see it and there’s nothing that goes right.” He says, unimpressed.

“Yeah, but you’ve never been here before, and your sense of direction sucks.” Nishinoya points out. Kenma’s mouth twitches… because technically, Noya isn’t wrong on either count.

“Tsukki has excellent sense of direction—”

“Shut up Yamaguchi.” The ibis mutters, an eyebrow ticking slightly as he fixes on the short crow. “Why would the cobbles go left— you know, the way all the people going— if they don’t go to the temple?” He asks. Kenma smiles slightly.

“The zen garden is that way. Most of them are bringing their lunch to eat there.” He says quietly.

“The climb has only begun, Blondy. The path is to the right just around that bend. Most people make that mistake the first time they come here.” Kuroo says and Kenma can hear the smirk in his voice and mentally huffs in amusement.

“You were one of them.” He murmurs flatly and starts for the small hidden path that winds up the hill with its inlaid stone steps. Kuroo scoffs.

“Brat.” He mutters and Kenma barely keeps the smile off his face.

The others all make to follow him when he catches sharp movement as the freckled crow flinches sharply. He isn’t the only one who saw his recoil and the ibis turns to look at him critically.

“Eh, sorry Tsukki.” He says, a hand coming up behind his head as a sheepish grin creases his mouth, but the skin around his eyes is creased with tension and his pupils are dilated.

“Yamaguchi?” The ibis asks and he brings his hands up in front of himself.

“I’m fine! Really! I just thought… I don’t know what I thought.” He says, his eyes dropping to the ground before he almost visually hardens in resolve and looks back up at Tsukishima.

“We should go! If everyone is eating in the zen garden, that means it’s a great time to visit the temple because there won’t be many people there. And not many kids!” He says brightly. The ibis watches him for a long moment before letting it go, and Kenma turns to lead them toward the stairs once more.

But the crow’s sudden startle has him thinking.

There is little that can shake Yamaguchi aside from a callous word from his constant companion, Tsukishima, but it’s become apparent in the last few months that there is something that will— something that will nearly paralyze the crow with fear every time it happens. Kenma isn’t sure… he didn’t notice anything just now, but he keeps an ear cocked in the freckled crow’s direction as they start up the hill.

Yachi and Hinata start up a bubbly conversation about Natsu about how sullen the girl had been when she’d been told she had to stay home for this trip. The bald crow, Asahi and Daichi had all been recruited to assist with renovating Sheru Bay’s single multi-storied inn. As strange as it was to know that Natsu and Tanaka were levelers, no one was willing to split them up for any length of time.

Like Shouyou, she glows at night when she curls up with Tanaka, a fact that had, in no uncertain terms, freaked the bald crow out the first time he’d noticed. It had literally taken a week, and only then because Noya had taken pity on him and prodded him awake after the girl had fallen asleep in his arms once again, her head and arm flopped over his shoulder.

He’d nearly dropped her as if she’d scalded him, a pathetic strangled squeak escaping him. Even in the middle of his shock, though, he’d been loath to disturb her, and while he hadn’t found any more sleep that night, he’d made sure he hadn’t disturbed her.

Although, he’d promptly handed her off to Asahi still half asleep the next morning with a fond pat and headed into Sheru Bay seeking manual labor. He’d been recruited to help put up a barn a little ways out of town that had taken him away from the beach house for three days, during which time the rest of them had had to deal with an inconsolable Natsu.

She’d quietly remained with Asahi all of three hours before seeking out Shouyou. She’d followed him around for the next day, half whimpering and asking after Tanaka until Shouyou had volunteered to join Kageyama on a hunt in a not so subtle bid for a break. She’d cycled through each of Yamaguchi, Kiyoko and Yachi, the still injured Sugawara, Bokuto in a strangely unsurprising turn given the way Shouyou had taken to him, Lev, back to Asahi and Noya, himself, and even Kuroo over the next day.

The child had been all but lost without Tanaka around to tag along after like the older brother he totally was around her. When the bald crow had finally returned, she had barrelled out of the house at the sound of his voice and frozen at the top step, her hands behind her back and her gaze solemn. Tanaka had seen her, and apparently having come to terms with the state of the universe, had made a beeline for her.

“Hey, Munchkin! Long time, no see!” He’d said and reached for her only to jump when she’d flinched slightly, her gaze dropping.

“M’ regrèt.” She’d whispered and he’d recoiled as much at the apology as the tears that had started sliding down her cheeks as she’d whimpered out a fractured question.

“Kisa mwen fè mal?”

He’d glanced around for Shouyou, but the redhead hadn’t been in earshot.

“Hey, kiddo, what’s the matter?” He’d said, climbing the steps and crouching down beside her.

“I do bad?” She’d tried and Tanaka’s jaw had dropped.

He’d reached out, completely disregarding her shy at the motion, and collected her up on his hip in a hug despite her probably being too old for the action. She really was nearly an adolescent, but it had seemed to quell the oncoming fit of tears even if only marginally.

“You did nothing wrong, Munchkin. I had to go work for a couple days, that’s all.” She’d clung to him as the little sobs slowly subsided, her hand fisting into his shirt and head on his shoulder as he rubbed her back.

“I come with?” She’d whimpered.

“What, to work? I’d have to ask. The boss has a kid your age, I think.” He’d said with a small smile.

And that had been it. Things had returned to normal, the bald crow her de facto best friend once more. Honestly, Kenma couldn’t believe they still had a house what with some of the stunts those two had pulled along with Noya and Shouyou. They’d attempted to flatten Kageyama on more than one occasion beneath a pile of avians, had managed to tie up Bokuto with his own ropes which Akaashi found hysterical, had drizzled sand into a sleeping Kuroo’s ear until he’d woken up swinging, had cracked another egg over Daichi much to the thrush’s infinite amusement, and even doused Tsukishima with a bucket of icy water from the creek.

Even Kenma himself wasn’t immune to the pranks. Late last fall, he’d woken up surrounded by apples. She was as observant as her brother and had picked up on Kuroo’s habit of bringing him the sweet fruit… but the kid was nowhere even close to the quiet end of the sound scale, so how she’d managed to go out in the early morning to collect them and then return and place them all around him without either him or Kuroo waking, he has no clue.

There was a particularly volatile one they’d come up with just recently involving a reed packed with pine resin and black powder, no doubt procured from Bokuto off one of the ships in the bay. They’d touched it off in the grey hours of the morning just outside on the porch while most of them were still asleep; the concussive force of it had rocked the house and cracked the glass in the large front window. Everyone had had fuzzy hearing for the next day and more than one person had singed feathers or fur. Kuroo and Daichi had been most unimpressed. The black cat had been looking for a way to alleviate the apparently growing restlessness ever since.

Kenma imagines everyone might have joined this little trip if the early spring thaw hadn’t spurred the locals to restart their construction projects. Tanaka’s services had once again come into demand, but he’d offered up the assistance of anyone else interested. Natsu had been allowed to join him, and Asahi and Daichi had both taken him up on that. Koushi would, of course, always opt to stay with his leveler, and the owls still had their dock jobs. Lev and Yaku had begged out at the last moment on account of the short cat feeling guilty just leaving the others to fend for themselves after working all day.

As they crest the last few steps and cross under the temple gate, it’s beams decorated with the spring festival theme, Kenma smiles slightly. They’d spent the day in this little town some three hundred years ago and had watched their firework display from atop that gate that evening.

The temple is just how he remembers, the exterior brickwork walls and tiled roof still intact and functional. He supposes normal wear and tear is to be expected; the mortar between the blocks is perhaps crumbling slightly, the wood of its front steps has warped, and the arch across its top line eve sags a little more lending it more of an ‘ancient’ look.

Still, it’s the same as the first time he and Kuroo had seen it over three centuries before, and it had been old back then. Already having stood for four or five hundred years when they’d stumbled upon it the first time, it is probably pushing close to a thousand, and to see it still taken care of makes Kenma smile.

The open interior smells of pine and cedar overlaid with incense despite the open shoji doors that welcome in the spring air and he’s nearly overwhelmed by a sense of deja vu. Kuroo had asked him to stay beside him here three hundred years ago, as if there had ever been a question of whether he’d leave. Kenma really does like this little town.

A sharp gasp behind him comes a half second before he feels it, and he’s turning to focus on the freckled crow in an instant. The tremor he’d felt through the soles of his feet just now… it was barely noticeable at best and the only reason he probably did was because it had vibrated through the wood floor of the temple, the building breathing a light sigh as if it were merely settling.

But Yamaguchi’s eyes are wide, his mouth open slightly as he watches the rafters with a paling face. His shoulders have drawn up, his hands twist into fists, and his wings are raised in agitation but also pulled tightly against his shoulders.

“Yamaguchi?” Tsukishima is quick to ask, his voice quiet and even. The freckled crow jerks and looks at him, clearly unaware of how terrified he appears.

“Tsukki. S… Sorry.” He says looking down.

“Are you alright?” Kiyoko asks softly and Yamaguchi glances at her with surprise.

“Yeah… I’m fine.” Kenma hangs back beside the ibis and freckled crow as Yachi, Noya, and the younger level pair drift further into the temple, Kuroo just off his shoulder.

“It might have been anything, Yamaguchi.” Kenma offers, but he doubts it helps. The crow is on the verge of stressing himself into a panic attack. A temblor like the one that just occurred isn’t that uncommon and pretty much harmless, but the brunette is nearly shaking.

“I’ll be alright. Really.” He says with a weak smile and Kuroo’s eyebrow creeps up his forehead skeptically.

“There was a tea stand back in the market. Would you like me to bring you some?” Tsukishima asks calmly and Yamaguchi blinks at him uncomprehendingly for a couple moments before he smiles slightly— a real one.

“You don’t have to, Tsukki.”

“What kind would you like?” The ibis asks, completely ignoring the crow’s protest.

“Eh… jasmine?” He says and Kenma understands what’s going on.

Tsukishima knows how to redirect Yamaguchi’s impending anxiety by feeding him information completely jarring to what is going through his head. By asking him to make a decision, he’s forcing him out of his own mind and into a thought line both pointless yet meaningful. Kenma marvels silently at Tsukishima’s swift capability at combatting an incoming breakdown, quietly awed at how the blond knows exactly what to do to keep the crow calm.

Not for the first time, he wonders at how the seemingly self-centered arrogant ibis is so attuned to the shy insecure crow. But he’s grateful for his knowledge and so is Kiyoko who has a better grasp on what to do with it. The female crow fluidly picks up the threads of their conversation and immediately keeps him distracted.

“You like tea, Yamaguchi? Which is your favorite?” She asks lightly as Tsukishima departs, quick strides taking him outside in no time. The crow struggles to focus on her question, but answers nonetheless.

“Um… kukicha.” He says in a shaky voice.

“Really? I didn’t know that or I would have seen if they had some in Sheru Bay’s market.” Kiyoko says with a soft smile.

“They don’t carry it… I already tried.” Yamaguchi says with a weak attempt at a smile.

“Well, where did you last get some? Maybe we can stop on the way back.” She says.

As the crow seems to relax just enough to at least be able to hold the conversation with the black-haired girl, Kenma turns toward where his other ear is trained on the other three delinquents and Yachi.

And they are being idiots, crowding into the corner around a drum with excitement, the bunting wearing a puzzled expression. While Tsukishima was combatting Yamaguchi’s sudden terror, Kageyama thankfully managed to keep Shouyou from picking up the brushes and splattering ink beside a calligraphy table where Yachi had paused.

The bunting had shyly purchased a blank wood plaque to write on as they’d crested the hill and the others had crowded around to see what she would wish for. Kenma can’t blame them; Yachi’s handwriting is petite, measured, and graceful, her calligraphy worthy of a library scribe.

Watching her write her wishes for the year, the redhead apparently saw nothing wrong with adding his own notes to her small board, and the avian heir had whacked him across the back of the head, snatched the brush from his hand before it could mar her delicate work, and turned them away as Yachi hung the piece with a small happy smile. But that had quickly spiraled as Noya had spotted a large daiko in the corner.

“Wow, guys, look over there!” He’d said and Kageyama and Shouyou had immediately brightened with vocal agreement and an odd anticipation, Yachi trailing after them a bit bewilderedly.

Which brings them to where they are now, the three former sentries drawn to the drum like Lev is to catmint— Kenma admits that the plant is intoxicatingly alluring, but at least he has some self-control. The two crows and grounded redhead approach it with a sort of reverence, Yachi with simple interest.

“Man, Tanaka should have come!” Noya says with a grin.

“I wonder if it sounds like the ones back home. Remember Saeko at the festivals?” Shouyou says brightly and Kageyama is already grabbing the stick beside it. Kenma’s hand reaches out, his eyes widening.

“Kageyama—” He starts to say, but thanks the stars that Yachi is beside them and has the presence of mind to latch onto the crow setter’s wrist and stop his swing.

“Won’t that be noisy?” She squeaks.

Kenma lets out a half-breath in relief; they are already obnoxiously loud in the mostly empty temple without banging the drum. The monks who run the temple might kick them out if they make too much of a fuss.

“You birdbrain stooges,” Kuroo mutters, heading in their direction, “we can’t take you anywhere. Leave it be.”

Kageyama scowls darkly and releases the bachi stick back to Yachi who carefully returns it to its place. They move forward toward the altar and shrine areas with their candles that flicker in the soft breeze that drifts through the shoji doors, Kuroo within easy striking distance now in case he needs to pull rank. Kenma smirks slightly.

It’s like taking the local pack of children to the park, he thinks.

I mean, we have the kid who’s usually level but randomly has bouts where all inhibition conveniently vacates his head on the heels of a moronic impulse, the two who are always impulsive and feed off each other’s idiocy, the kid who is their only voice of reason but terrified to speak up, the kid who is scared to be outside, the kid who hates everyone in the schoolyard, and one reasonably responsible child.

It really was like packing along a daycare for a ridiculous day trip. Kenma starts at the gasp that escapes Yamaguchi behind him again, a half second before the floor legitimately lurches.

Kenma throws out his arms to keep his balance, his feet automatically shuffling under him. He straightens a little, but keeps his wider stance, because the movement doesn’t stop. The building shivers, the lanterns near the ceiling jarring enough to sway, the candles and shrine pillars rocking on their pedestals. In the flash of a glance he gets before he’s looking back at the freckled crow with concern, he sees his leveler and the other four also staggering, the avians’ wings jerking out to steady themselves while Kuroo grabs at a support beam.

And then he’s staring at Yamaguchi with anxious tension, because the freckled crow has frozen. Kiyoko shakes his arm, attempting to get him to move toward the temple exit, but Yamaguchi doesn’t budge, his dilated eyes flicking between the lanterns, to the swinging plank Yachi hung only a few minutes ago, to the swaying shrubs visible from the open shoji doors.

Kenma’s limbs leap into action as the floor surges even more, his feet stumbling him forward toward the crow who somehow keeps his balance and his feet pegged to the floor even as it continues to shift and Kiyoko tugs on him.

“Yamaguchi, let’s go outside!” She says urgently as Kenma grabs his other arm and tugs, but the crow resists it entirely, his gaze flying to the calligraphy table as the box with brushes tips with a resounding clatter, back to the altar where a shrine pillar rocks off its base and crashes to the floor with a thud. Kenma’s mind trips and he’s instantly turning back toward the others.

“Kuroo!” He barks and because it doesn’t seem like enough when his eyes land on the avians beside him, he’s yelping again. “Feathers! Noya!”

The black cat jerks and the others spin. Kageyama starts toward them immediately, tugging Shouyou along haphazardly, but the one that reaches them first is Noya. He collides with Yamaguchi who stumbles at the impact, but is for the most part, still stock still even as the ground pitches again and Kenma hears a creak.

As he and Kiyoko and Noya try shoving the crow toward the door, their own balance faltering as the rattling around them gets even worse, he sees the floorboards warp by their feet and his hair stands on end as he catches the ticking sound of splintering wood. He digs his feet in and shoves that much harder.

And then Kuroo is beside him, an arm swinging despite his wobbly footing. The black cat’s fist connects with Yamaguchi’s jaw, knocking him off his feet as the temple shakes violently. Kiyoko squeaks in surprise and both she and Noya topple to the floor as well, but Kuroo doesn’t pause. He reaches for Yamaguchi in time for Kageyama to pull beside him and grab the crow’s other arm. Noya scrambles up, Yachi pulling Kiyoko back to her feet and Shouyou stuttering beside them as they haul the crow backward out of the temple.

Yamaguchi is still rigid, but he’s still in their hands as they careen wildly through the exit and down the steps, Kenma losing his feet as the ground that meets him jars sideways. He tries to catch his fall, but his knees hit still hit the ground, and then Shouyou’s strong hand wraps around his wrist and the redhead is yanking him forward again.

They don’t stop until they are outside the temple completely, Kuroo and Kageyama setting Yamaguchi down beneath a swaying palm and Kenma glances back at the building. Dust kicks out beneath the roof tiles, the molding between the bricks crumbling across the walls as the world continues to groan.

“Where’s Tsukishima?” Kageyama asks and Yamaguchi flinches, but it’s Kuroo that answers with a hand raised and pointing down the hill.

“He was down in the market.”

“Not anymore.” Shouyou says, his wide eyes fixed over the trees just by the gate and Kenma catches a flash of cream feathers. The ibis’ pale wings vault him over the gate, his eyes wide and face set with intent as he barrels toward the shuddering temple.

“Oi, Blondy!” Noya yells, but the ibis doesn’t even glance their way, his umber eyes fixed on the entrance as he hurtles by them.

“Tsukki! Dammit!” Kuroo swears and launches after him, up the steps and into the temple on shaky legs. The golden cat’s breath catches in his lungs.

“Kuroo!” His leveler’s name flies after him, and Kenma takes one step forward, his golden eyes going wide.

He stumbles as the earth grates against itself, the vibrations coming through his feet even more violent. He hears the creak and groan of wood, knows the support beams inside the temple are being pushed to their limits.

Kuroo is in there.

“Tsukki?” Yamaguchi asks softly, almost inaudibly above the rattling din that resounds around and through them, and Kenma turns to look at him, his breath stuttering.

“He thought you were still inside.” Kenma says weakly, because Tsukishima isn’t the only one in there. Kuroo is his world—his future and life—and right now, he doesn’t have a clear view of it.

The crow is instantly back on his feet, heading for the temple with panic.

“Tsukki!”

Kagayama is quick on the draw and snags his arm, Noya not far behind. Shouyou and even Kiyoko grab hold to restrain him and still he pushes toward the moaning building, his voice carrying with heartbreaking terror the blond’s name over and over.

Kenma offers up a silent prayer to any celestial power above as the structure distorts, the trusses in the vaulted ceiling stretching, and the wood screeches against itself as it strains to hold out under the force of a furious mother earth. The cobbles, the trees, the gate, everything whimpers in the face of nature’s wrath as her anger peaks… and then Kenma’s heart stutters as he sees a pair of black ears and pale wings through the dusty entrance of the temple.

It gives one painful spasm as the front eve sags, the awning and rafters slipping as the temple’s front bearing wall gives way.  And it stops as he sees Kuroo bring an arm up around Tsukishima’s head as the building’s face collapses, the roof sliding to the ground while the ibis and black cat disappear behind it.

  Level Pair ; Chapter 1; Chapter 26; Chapter 28

A/N:  There was one little hint of foreshadowing in the last chapter for this one... kudos if you caught it!

Also the pranks... some of those aren't just dreamt up. I've tweaked them to fit the story, but I had five brothers and a sister. I have an ARSENAL of memories that are both hilarious and horrible. I kid you not, there was a venture with a pipe bomb that did crack one of the windows of the house I grew up in. I couldn't hear for two days.

Anyway... have another cliffhanger. I seem to be good at those.

Have to go play volleyball, have an stellar evening guys!

[movietvtechgeeks]

Latest story from https://movietvtechgeeks.com/emotional-home-run-supernatural-1211-regarding-dean/

An Emotional Home Run for 'Supernatural' 1211 Regarding Dean

This week’s Supernatural made me emotional before we even knew what was happening, simply because I knew that this was it – the Dean loses his memory episode. The tiny preview clip shook me weeks ago, and then I asked Jensen about it at a recent con. Would it break my heart? He said that it at first would make me laugh, but then… His silence spoke volumes. He knows how much I adore the fictional character he plays, and I’m quite certain he knew the scene with Dean in the mirror was indeed going to destroy me. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s just say I was looking for signs of the impending amnesia even before they came, which made the opening ten minutes full of trepidation. That doesn’t mean I didn’t also laugh. A LOT. One of the reasons I’m certain that Supernatural is the best show ever is its brilliance in combining humor and angst in a single episode – sometimes in a single minute! This episode accomplished that repeatedly. Dean chases the witch, gets hexed by the witch, kills the witch, wakes up with a bunny. (Why did he wake up with a bunny? Who knows. Does writer Meredith Glynn love bunnies? Was somebody’s pet bunny on the soundstage that day and wanted to get in on the action? Does Jensen Ackles have a secret fondness for rabbits? No clue. I assume it refers to Dean’s rabbit comment in the previews. At any rate, it was adorable.) Ackles got ample room to exercise his comedy elbows…. I mean skills….in this episode. The face he made when the woman walking with her baby in the stroller looks aghast at him and gives him a dollar made me giggle even as I was dreading what was going to happen. Was that Kevin Park’s beautiful dog Kuma making a cameo appearance with the dog walking guy? Padalecki also got to show off his considerable comedy skills as Sam initially believes that Dean was on a bender and thus can be both bemused and annoyed at his lapses. Dean eats waffles, gets slapped by a woman he doesn’t remember, almost pukes over a murder victim with bags of bloody money pulled from his stomach…just another day for the Winchesters. And then things get not at all funny. Dean can’t remember which key to use to start the Impala. Oh god. This is the writing of someone who understands exactly what makes Dean DEAN and also knows how to rip my heart out. I half expected Robbie Thompson to peek out from behind an office door. (And yes, this is my highest compliment). To destroy me further, he then puts the car into reverse and crashes her into a newspaper stand. The icing on the cake? Sam: Dean! Dean: Who’s Dean? OMG. Let me pay Meredith Glynn another compliment. Many of the best stories I’ve ever heard about the Winchesters haven’t been on the show – they’ve been in fanfiction. I told Jensen the day I asked him about this episode that the amnesia Dean or amnesia Sam trope is one of my favorite flavors, but that it also kills me every time. That’s what I was hoping for from this episode – that it would live up to the amazing stories I’ve read that tackled this trope. And guess what? That’s what I got. Dean is in denial at first, insisting he’s fine – because who wouldn’t do that? Who wants to believe something as truly horrifying as the thought of losing your mind? Losing yourself. I’ve worked with people struggling with memory loss, and it’s profoundly terrifying. Lose your memory completely, and you’ve literally lost yourself, your identity, your ability to love or be loved. I can think of few things more terrifying. This episode, and Ackles and Padalecki’s brilliant acting played on that terror perfectly. Dean forgets the word for lamp, which in itself could be funny….almost. Sam puts a post-it note on it to remind him. Soon the room is covered in them. Sam alternates between being frustrated with his brother and starting to feel desperate and helpless, which Padalecki evoked perfectly. Finally, Sam calls Rowena. Rowena: Is he all smooth from the neck down, like a candle… Sam: I don’t know! And I’m not checking. Me: Darn. It’s getting less and less funny, as Sam turns around to find that Dean has disappeared. He just went out for ice, but even that simple thing is no longer simple – Sam is frantic, searching and calling out ‘Dean!’ until he finally finds him, trying to get into the wrong room. I think that was the point that the parallels to real life memory loss started to hit me. If you’ve ever witnessed someone going through something like that, it’s heartbreaking – and terrifying. And this episode got it so very right. They retrace Dean’s steps from the night before hoping to kill the witch and break the spell. With dizzying speed, the show veers back and forth from humorous (Dean, looking heartbreakingly innocent and about five years old, exclaiming “That’s awesome” when Sam tells him that witches and vampires and monsters are real and that they kill them), to heartbreaking, as Dean loses memories again and again. They eventually find the woman who slapped Dean in the bar and get a description of what he was up to and can’t remember the night before, which involves four shots of tequila and Dean riding Larry the mechanical bull. Dean: (hopefully) Was I good? Waitress: You were amazing. Sam: (eyeroll) The waitress apologizes for possibly taking advantage of a roofied Dean, which was a nice inclusion. Then the brothers review the video camera tapes from the night before and see Dean chase the bad guy out the back door. Dean: (attempting to read his own lips): No salsa real mittens… Sam: (exasperated) You can’t read lips. It’s funny, but it’s so not! Sam and Dean continue to retrace Dean’s steps into the woods, while Sam tells Dean who they are and what they do. That in itself was heartbreaking, Sam sounding like the big brother for a change. Dean, in his place of innocence, listens and then exclaims “Best job ever!” Sam doesn’t agree, citing all the grim realities. Dean: I don’t know, we kinda sound like heroes. Me: Damn right. Meanwhile, the dead witch’s siblings find his body and Rowena appears at the motel to help. Or to get her hands on the powerful spell book that the witch family have in their possession. Or maybe a little of both, if you love Rowena like I do. Dean: Your hair’s so bouncy! Rowena to Sam: Do we have to fix him? Sam entices Dean to sit down on the bed (actually he just grabs him by the shoulders and puts him there) with a promise of Cinemax. Dean’s selective memory interprets that as Skinemax, which he’s apparently quite comfortable with while Sam and Rowena are there too. It turns out to be a cartoon, but Dean has already forgotten what he was promised, so he smiles with pure joy and OMG I don’t know whether to laugh or start crying. Supernatural is often an emotional roller coaster, which I both love and hate, but this episode really delivered on that wild ride. Rowena makes it clear – to Sam and to us  – that Dean won’t just lose his memory of his past. He’ll lose everything. He’ll forget who he is, how to do everything – even how to swallow. Dean Winchester will die. From the bed, Dean: Sucks for that guy. Oh god. My heart. Sam’s heart is clearly breaking too. Sam: I’ve watched my brother die. But watching him become…not him. This might actually be worse. Seeing the person you love most in the world slipping away, unable to do anything to stop it? I’ll say. This episode hit hard for anyone who has had to lose a loved one little by little, as many of us have. Almost too hard at some points. Sam takes Dean into the bathroom for some privacy and tells him their life story. Their shared history. Who Dean is, what he’s done. Dean: I can feel it, slipping out of my head. Sam: We’ll figure it out, okay? We will. How many times has Dean said that to Sam? *clutches chest* Then Sam leaves to go out and try to save his brother’s life. And that? Is what I live for. Dean faces himself in the mirror after Sam leaves, in the scene teased in that preview that made me so full of fear. “My name is Dean Winchester. My brother is Sam. My mother is Mary Winchester. My best friend is Cas.” He repeats it, each time more haltingly, each time struggling more to hang onto the awareness. And as we watch, we can see in heartbreaking detail that Dean is losing the battle. I’ve been blown away by Jensen’s acting many times during the course of twelve years of Supernatural, but this was one of those scenes that blew me away all over again. No wonder he wouldn’t reassure me that it wouldn’t kill me. It did. According to Ruth Connell, in one take we even got the One.Perfect.Tear ™ Rowena is left to babysit Dean, which she doesn’t seem to mind at all. Rowena never has a confidante who she can tell the truth to; she’s always too careful, too busy manipulating other people and trying to protect herself to just be real with anyone. That takes a toll after hundreds of years, I’m sure, so having someone who won’t remember it to confide in is a rare opportunity for Rowena. She tells him a story of the witch family who rejected her, back when she was lonely and desperate and – as she would put it – pathetic. Another glimpse of who Rowena is and how she got to be that way, which only makes me appreciate the character more. There’s a vulnerability to her that Connell has shown us glimpses of from the start, and that makes her so much more interesting. Oh and apparently Rowena has her own history with the British Men of Letters. Hmm. Sam, meanwhile, is being a big damn hero. When Rowena warns him that the witches would sooner use his skin as an outfit, he cocks his gun and replies, “They can try.” Damn. Is it hot in here? He breaks into the witches’ house but unfortunately gets taken down. And tied up. It’s like old school Supernatural! When the witches incapacitate him and Sam starts screaming, Dean and Rowena are on the other end of the phone. And Dean, who at that point does not even remember his own name, hears his brother scream in pain and yells into the phone: SAMMMM! That was it. If I’d been standing, I would have collapsed. Dean has forgotten everything, even who he is, even his own name. Everything but that one word, that one person. Sam.  He yells it as Dean Winchester has done a billion times since Supernatural premiered, and it carries so much meaning that it nearly destroyed me. All the kudos, Meredith. All the kudos. Dean wakes up in the Impala, a post it note telling him his brother has been captured by a witch, and to STAY, while Rowena goes inside to try to save Sam. Dean still, on some level, being Dean, does not stay. He opens the trunk and is treated to Sam’s post it notes all over it, and at this point, I could not NOT laugh. On the trunk? OPEN ME. On the gun? THIS GUN. Next to it? WITCH KILLING BULLETS. On the grenade launcher? A big NO! Oh god, Show. I love you so. Dean bursts into the house just in time to save Rowena from the wicked witch, and then Sam and the other witch come downstairs. Dean, unfortunately, has no clue who to shoot. But Sam knows what to do. Sam: (pointing to himself) No no no, brother! (pointing to other guy) Witch! Boom! Dean shoots him (instinctively knowing to trust Sam’s voice, I wager) Rowena works her magic from the spell book, and Dean and Rowena descend the stairs a little while later. Sam: (still looking heartbreakingly anxious and so very hopeful): Is it done? Dean: (deadpan) Who’s this hippie? You can literally see Sam beginning to despair, in an amazing piece of acting by Jared. I started to tear up as I watched, just from the emotion on Sam’s face. And then Dean bursts into laughter, along with Rowena, proving to Sam that he does remember by recounting a silly childhood memory to break the tension. If I were Sam, I would have clocked him one (and then hugged the shit out of him), but I’m not Sam and Show has been really good to me tonight but not quite THAT good. So no brother hug, but we do get a classic Sam and Dean talk over the hood of the Impala moment, so I’m still pretty damn happy. Sam: Not funny. As they chat over the Impala, Sam says it was nice to see Dean looking happy, with all the burdens lifted from his shoulders that knowing what they’ve been through puts there. Dean disagrees. Dean: Was it nice to drop our baggage? Yeah, maybe. Hell, probably. But it wasn’t just the crap that got lost. I mean, it was everything. It was us, what we do, all of it. So if that’s what being happy looks like, I think I’ll pass. That conversation reminded me of the end of one of my all time favorite episodes, The French Mistake. Sure, they could have stayed there, where there were no monsters. But they wouldn’t have been Sam and Dean. Sam: We’re not even brothers here, man. And that pretty much says it all. So the Winchesters drive away. All this time, I’m wondering where the scene is of Dean riding Larry. Cue the music of ‘Broomstick Cowboy’ and there it is, a video montage of Dean looking happy and innocent and riding a mechanical bull. I didn’t know the song, so at first it struck me as purely happy, but then again, it’s a country song, and that means heartache can’t be far behind…. Sure enough, the ending is a twist. “Soon you’ll be a dreadful thing – my son, you’ll be a man.” Woah. Chew on that one for a while, fandom. A paean to Dean’s childhood, lost too soon to hunting and his father’s quest for revenge? Or just a reminder that Dean does still hang onto the ability to find some joy in life, and he refuses to regret the life he’s chosen? I was left an emotional mess after that roller coaster of an episode, but you know what? I didn’t mind one bit. That’s the sort of episode that made me fall in love with this Show and these characters. I felt profoundly grateful to be gifted with an episode and actors’ performances that can still make me feel so much. Thank you, Show.

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