#got straight up GIDDY when Death showed up

[sillylildude]

I’ll be honest, when I started reading Night Watch I wasn’t sure how much I would like it. I have not finished it yet — I’m in the last hundred-page stretch — but hot DAMN here I am positively hootin’ and hollerin’ at how absolutely insane this book is. The amount of times I’ve said “holy shit” to myself out loud in the last thirty minutes could set a world record.

[rookiesbookies]

The boys catch their ladies reading smut, originally this had the books I was basing this on in them but I hadn't got the time to read the books so I remove the book titles and authors. I hope you enjoy <3

Price: Yeah, she’s younger than him. This book is like 100% just breeding kinks. So she was reading this book about a man breeding his young woman and being super obsessive and clinging… while sitting in their living room… with her fuzzy, super obsessive, newlywed husband. “What are ya readin love?” He said, swiftly snatching the book from her grasp as he sat down on the couch next to her. He kicked his feet up on the couch and laid so his back was against her shins under the blanket she was bundled in. “Nothing important! But you really should give it back!” She panicked, reaching for it. “Holy bloody Jesus, love. This is a casual read for you?” “... yeah.” He wiggled his eyebrows while looking up to see her. She put a hand in his face and took her book back. “You almost made me lose my page.”

Soap: Being bent over and defiled by a hot Scotsman in a kilt? Oh hell yeah. How could you refuse?

“Jesus, Bonnie, why are ye readin about this shit when ya could get the real thing with me?” He chuckled, flipping through the book she had poorly hidden in her nightstand. “My kilt is in the closet, give me less than 10 minutes to get me socks and straps on and I’ll rock yer world harder than some words on a page ever could. You’ll see, donnae worry.”

He did indeed rock your world harder than pages ever good.

You claim and cry that you want to finish it for the plot, he says you can only read “that filth” when he’s away on deployment.

Says its a waste if you have a real heavy, hairy, and thick Scotsman at your disposal on the daily.

Ghost: Reading a story about a man whose face was painted like death and has charm that causes hormonal riots? Sounds exactly like her Simon. She lay on their shared bed as he packed up for their walk to the park. Her legs kicked up in the air as she read. 

He raised an eyebrow at what could have her so giddy so he effortlessly snatched the book and was met with a nasty surprise when he looked over the words. “Take it you’d rather stay home than go to the park,” he mumbled with a smirk before bending down to kneel in front of her now with a red face. 

“No- no I think a walk in the park will be fine.” She nervously chuckled.

Konig: Hot giant caveman dragging a woman away to have his way with her? Basic Konig when he comes back from missions.

Grabbing his sweet girl and pulling her into the dark cave that is their bedroom, only letting either out once he’s had his way with her and showing her just how much he’s missed her.

His face was red flushed as he read over her shoulder though.

“Oh meine gut, Schatz."

The scream she let out even made him fall back.

“Don’t scare me like that!”

He pressed a kiss to her temple in apology. 

“This book made me horny, can we fuck?” She asked straight up, knowing Konig preferred her blunt. She didn’t need to ask him twice.

Gaz Hot british guy? Her standards were so low for her choices in literature as long as it was someone she could imagine her Kyle as. Hmmm easy.

So when she was leading her walk with her audio book in her headphones she was more than busy. When he got a hold of one of her airpods while at the gym and she forgot he had the other one, he looked over at her with wide eyes. He texted her, “I didn’t realize you were interested in being folded like that.”

[gretavanfleetposts]

Make Her Happy

Author's Note: I took way too much melatonin last night and, as I laid there on my death bed this morning, I finally wrote it, Josh unable to make your date so he sends Jake instead, because I love silly little unrealistic situations. This is also unedited because I still can hardly see straight lol like it was A LOT of melatonin. I took it and 20 minutes later realized what I had done and said…fuck. Anyways, idk, enjoy

Content Warnings: fingering, oral sex (f. receiving), dirty talk, overstimulation, penetrative sex (18+ minors do not interact), swearing

Word Count: 6k

You'd spent over an hour preparing Josh's favorite pasta for date night, setting up plates meticulously with pretty napkins folded beside them, drinks already poured as the night grew later and you grew even more antsy for his arrival. You'd hardly had a moment to yourselves with the new album coming out. Josh had been busy and when he wasn't busy, he was exhausted. But he'd promised you a date night and you were going to make the most of it while you still had him under your fingers, frilly blue lingerie tucked away under your clothing and all.

You were giddy with excitement when you heard the doorbell, though Josh didn't usually use the bell. You didn't care though, and as you plated the last of the pasta on his end of the table, nice and hot and ready to be enjoyed, you skipped over to the door to greet your boyfriend.

And, given all of the work you had put into the evening, given all of the excitement you'd felt, even given the way you'd held off on touching yourself last night in favor of letting Josh be the one to get you off, it was entirely understandable that when you flung the door open, your reaction was what is was.

"Oh, you're not Josh."

Jake's face immediately fell from a wide grin to that of a displeased grimace.

"Good to see you, too," he said sarcastically as he pushed past you into your house to shirk off his coat and chelsea boots. "Josh got caught up with his voice coach," he explained as he moved.

You sighed, your disappointment easily showing through your demeanor. You weren't surprised, really. He'd been canceling a lot lately. You understood, of course. Well, you tried anyway. You tried to be the loving, supportive girlfriend no matter what.

Still, it sucked to miss another night with him.

"Guess I'll just put this in Tupperware then," you murmured as you moved to collect the dishes from the dining table.

But Jake stopped you with a quick grab of your wrist as he pried a plate from your hand and set it back down on the table.

"Well hey, now, I haven't eaten," he protested, his look turning into that of a wounded puppy the longer you gave him the glare you'd been sending him.

"It's for Josh," you explained, picking the plate back up again. "He's been talking about it all week, I'll just save it."

But Jake took the plate from your hands once again.

"Well he sent me to…fill in. So by that rule, you have to share."

"What do you mean 'fill in'?" you asked cautiously, your hesitation growing as that look in his eyes did, a look that somehow suggested he was up to something. The twins were up to something. That was never good.

"He knows he's been very hit or miss lately," he shrugged. "He didn't want to stand you up again. 'Make her happy,' he said."

You scoffed at him despite the way he almost looked like he genuinely wanted to eat dinner with you.

"That's ridiculous, I am happy."

"Yeah?"

"Yes, thank you," you said a bit more sternly before adding, for good measure, "I don't need a filler."

You'd eat alone, like you did every other night he'd had to cancel. You'd put on the TV and knit or read a book alone, too. And then you'd go to bed alone and let your vibrator do the work you really wanted Josh to do. It was fine. You understood.

"So you're going to let all of this work go to waste yet again? How many times has he done this this month?"

You didn't answer, mostly because Jake didn't need to hear it, didn't need the satisfaction that no, you really didn't want to spend another night alone. But God, you didn't. You wanted someone to eat with you, someone to curl up on the couch with you, someone to touch you. No, not someone. You wanted Josh.

You sighed as you dropped your gaze to your feet. "I know he's busy. It'll be better once the album is out."

"Such an understanding girlfriend," he answered in a mocking tone, earning an eye roll from you.

"Okay well if he really sent you, why didn't he text me first to at least ask?"

For all you knew, Josh had let Jake know he'd be late and Jake had decided to swoop in and save the day. Not that you really thought he'd do that but still.

"Have you checked your phone?"

"Of course I've-" you started before realizing your phone had been charging in another room while dinner had been cooked. You hadn't in fact checked it in a while though you weren't entirely sure it had made any noise either in that time.

Holding up a finger to Jake silently, you retreated from the room to find your phone, sitting there on its charger with 100% battery and a single text from Josh that you had clearly missed.

"Can't make it tonight. I'm sorry, love. Let Jake keep you company tonight. And then I'll make it up to you. I promise."

Surely that didn't mean…

No, why would it? It was ridiculous to think Josh meant anything other than let Jake have dinner with you. Were you really that desperate that you hoped there was another meaning?

You met Jake in the other room where he still stood, only now with a wide, smug grin plastered across his face as you gave him a conceding look without ever admitting you had in fact gotten a text from Josh.

"Fine. But dinner only," you relented. "Then you can go home and I can go to bed."

With my vibrator, you finished the sentence silently.

You were pent up, to say the least. But you could fake a date with Jake for an hour or two. Surely you could.

"Dinner only," he agreed with a smile that suggested it would not just be dinner only.

Okay, maybe you couldn't.

—

Admittedly, you'd hoped that by the time dinner was finished, he would excuse himself for the night. But he didn't, and after helping you stack dishes into the sink to be washed some other time, he took your hands in his and pulled you into him with a hum, a makeshift song for you to dance to in the kitchen. And any other night, you might have twirled with your boyfriend's brother in your kitchen, might have even giggled when he accidentally stepped on your toes, but you were aching for a moment alone to relieve yourself of the tension that had been building in your body when you had thought you'd be spending the night with Josh. And his hands.

"Jake, I don't want to dance," you groaned as you resisted his attempts like a spoiled child not getting what she wanted.

"Oh come on, this cannot be all you do on date night with him," Jake pushed back, refusing to let your wrists drop from his hands.

"It's not, I just-" you started but he cut you off with a shake of his head.

"Okay well, if it's not then you have to do with me whatever you'd do with him. I'm the substitute tonight. His orders were don't let the date fall through."

You ignored the feeling that sprang up deep inside your stomach at the implication that Jake would do whatever it is you usually did with Josh.

"Since when do you listen to him anyway?" you groaned again, still tugging helplessly at your wrists.

Was Jake strong? Oh god, stop thinking.

"Since I was sent to make his girlfriend's night not shit," he corrected you in a stern voice that almost sounded frustrated but more than anything, sounded adamant.

And you couldn't help but sigh and stop the struggle you were putting up as your shoulders fell.

So you weren't getting a moment alone. Not for a while, at least. That's okay. You'd waited a few days to get off with Josh already, what was a few more hours?

God. Hours.

"Okay, okay, fine," you relented, not doing much to hide your disappointment although Jake seemed satisfied as he gave you a soft, "Good," and let your hands fall.

"Now what do you usually do after dinner?"

Well, that was a bit tricky.

We usually do what I've been wanting to do all night.

You couldn't say that though.

"Well, usually we…" you started, trailing off and hoping he'd find the rest of the sentence in the silence. But clearly, he didn't. Or maybe he just wanted to hear you say it out loud. That was probably it, the smug bastard.

"I'm listening," he said as he cocked an eyebrow.

"Usually we…ya know…" you started and trailed off yet again, lifting your shoulders to mimic the way your eyebrows moved in insinuation.

He made a face back, covering the amused look he had in his eyes. "God, on a full stomach?"

"I don't need your judgment," you snapped back, your mood declining the longer you were denied an orgasm.

"Alright, alright," he backtracked, "and then what after?"

You shrugged. "And then sometimes we watch a movie, sometimes we just talk, sometimes we play a game. Just depends on…stuff."

You knew what you meant by stuff and it seemed he knew what you meant by stuff too because he nodded and suddenly the stark amusement was back, flooding his stupid, beautiful face just like it did his twin, though on much rarer occasion.

"Okay well, I'm more of a sex before dinner type of guy but I guess we can switch the order. Movie first though, you don't eat pasta before running a marathon."

Surely he was kidding. Although, it didn't really seem like he was kidding. Still, the stunned silence on your face earned a laugh from him, utterly pleased with himself as it were, and he dragged you into the living room, choosing to ignore your silence to keep the night going as best he could.

Silence was probably better than the disgustingly horny thoughts that suddenly filled your mind at the thought of Jake filling his brother's role in that way. His hands holding your hips, his mouth against your skin, his cock-

No, silence was definitely better.

"What movie?" Jake's voice shook you from your string of filthy thoughts as he flipped through Netflix titles carelessly, remote in hand.

"Um, it was Josh's night to pick so I guess that means you get to pick," you answered meekly as you found the corner of the couch and snuggled up with the pillow, trying to be discrete as you squeezed your thighs together in an attempt to put yourself out of your misery, even just a little bit.

"Fair enough," he answered in a low voice, navigating to one of his favorite movies, a documentary about pirates that thankfully was only an hour long.

You could suffer for another hour.

But as the opening credits came rolling across the screen, he pulled a blanket from his corner of the couch and gestured you over to him with a wave of his hand.

"Come on, I won't bite."

You couldn't help but chuckle at his choice of words.

"I'm not entirely sure I believe that."

He gave you a laugh back as he lifted the blanket for your approaching body and let it settle over top of you, pulling you into his side easily with one arm.

"Well, I guess if date night usually includes biting," he mused, turning his eyes back to the screen.

"Sometimes it does," you shrugged against him as you got cozy.

Maybe it wouldn't be an hour of suffering. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad at all. Although, the heat from his skin left you almost dizzy as you curled up next to him.

Pirates. Just focus on the pirates.

"I am sorry he's not here," Jake's voice caught your attention again. "And I know he is too."

You already knew Josh was likely beside himself over the fact that he had missed yet another date. And you weren't angry. Sexually frustrated? Sure. But not angry.

"It's okay," you sighed. "Thank you for coming. I do appreciate it."

"Yeah, of course."

When the movie ended an hour later, Jake shut the TV off, leaving you both alone in silence and now, in the dark, leaving to think back to Josh's text about Jake keeping you company and then Jake's more forward comments about pasta and marathons.

"I'm gonna go clean up from dinner," you said as you cleared your throat and pried yourself away from Jake's body heat to stand and head toward the kitchen. But Jake stood after you.

"I can do that," he offered in a soft tone, adding after a much huskier, "Later."

You were almost afraid to ask.

"Later?"

He nodded with a thin smile on his lips and eyes that drooped a little more toward the bedroom-y end of the spectrum. Not that he didn't almost always have 'fuck me' eyes. That was a trait the three brothers shared.

"Yes, after you're asleep."

After I'm asleep. Are you planning on soothing me to sleep, Jake?

"Didn't realize you were planning on staying that long," was all you said back, trying desperately to shove the thought of your aching center from your mind and act like you were perfectly fine, nothing was wrong, you weren't hoping Josh was letting you do what Jake looked like he was planning on doing regardless.

"Well, I think we've missed one crucial part of the night," he gave you a shrug back. So nonchalant. But then his eyes turned a little bit darker and you saw every intention behind them. "And I don't plan to miss out on any part of date night."

You weren't sure if the scoff you meant to give him had happened out loud or in your head.

"You're not serious."

"I am very serious," he nodded. "Josh said-"

"There's no way he meant-"

"You want to read that text again?"

You were silent for a pause, knowing his text was inconspicuous and you were likely just looking for any green light to act on your more horny of feelings, before you gave him a shake of your head.

"Okay but surely that's not what he meant. I mean, I'm not going to have sex with you, Jake. I can't have sex with you."

You weren't entirely sure you were saying it for him though surely that didn't hurt.

"Why not?" was all he asked back.

You were incredulous at the question. "Why not? Why not? Do you hear yourself right now?"

"You wanna call him and ask?"

"No, I'm not going to call him and ask!"

Finally Jake rolled his eyes and pulled his phone from his pocket, clicking around a few moments before handing it to you, outstretched with a text exchange between him and his twin open on the screen.

"Here."

"Missing our date again. Can't make it out of the studio. I hate the idea of her there alone, eating the pasta I asked for by herself yet again."

"Want me to go eat it for you?"

"Will you? I just don't want to disappoint her again. I don't want her to be alone."

"Yeah, I'll fill in"

"I'm giving you permission to give her the whole date experience, just this once. Just please make her happy."

"Are you saying what I think you're saying?"

"I've seen the way you look at her. I'm not an idiot. Just this once."

As you finished reading through the text messages, you couldn't deny the feeling of anticipation building again the way it had when you'd heard the knock on the door earlier in the night, thinking it was Josh.

You and Josh hadn't touched each other in a while, hadn't really found a moment between the busy schedule of being in a band and the exhaustion that seemed to follow him those days. And you really were desperate for the touch of another person, although it was hardly desperation that would lead you into Jake's arms.

You watched as he put his phone back in his pocket and stood with a waiting look, waiting for either a quiet yes or a very loud no, probably.

He could take care of you. Maybe not as well as Josh can but, guitar fingers, and all…

"I can't believe I'm agreeing to this," you sighed as you shook your head, really stunned that it was happening at all, feeling even more riled up now that you knew it wouldn't just be you and your vibrator yet again.

But Jake wasn't stunned though, rather, he was pleased, and you eyed him carefully as a wide smile spread across his lips.

"Is that a yes? Are you gonna let me make you happy?"

You took a deep breath, a very deep breath, before you finally nodded, moisture already pooling between your legs quite shamelessly.

"That's…that's a yes."

It seemed impossible that his smile could grow even wider, but grow it did at your consent.

"Well shit now I'm nervous," he mused as he stepped toward you and took your waist in his hands to pull you into him without so much as letting you warm up to the idea.

But you gave him an eye roll knowing he was full of shit and hoping it hid your own nerves.

"No you're not," you answered back in a voice much closer to a whisper despite your best efforts not to let the nerves show in your voice.

"No, I'm not," he repeated with a devilish grin, and suddenly your heart was practically leaping out of your chest. "This isn't going to be very Josh-like," he said again, lifting one hand to your neck to let his thumb push your jaw up and angle your face toward him.

"I wouldn't expect it to be," you said in a whisper back, your voice already failing you, it seemed.

"I just need you to do one thing for me."

"What's that?"

"Let yourself relax," he smiled, probably smug due to the way you were practically melting in his hands already. "It'll be easier for me to make you feel good if you do."

You felt a knot form in your throat at his words, 'make you feel good', and you gulped it down.

"I don't know if I can," you admitted, your eyes locked to his as your breathing came faster in the background.

"Just breathe. I'm just here to make you happy," he smiled again as he dipped his face low to press his lips to your collarbone, earning a sharp gasp and the opposite of his order to breathe as he did so.

The feeling was immediate, the need, the pure ache. You wanted him to touch you, you wanted more, you wanted his hands and his lips all over your body. You needed him to help you come.

"I'll go slow, I promise," he assured you as he pulled you by the waist harder into his body, his lips growing feverish as they kissed along your skin up the side of your neck and along your jaw. "Ease you into it," he mumbled.

God, I don't want to go slow. Please don't make me go slow.

Your body practically cried out for him, for his touch. It was entirely different than Josh's. He felt entirely different than Josh. But it was breathtaking nonetheless, made all the better by the feeling that it was something you weren't supposed to have, like a deep sin that made your mouth water.

"What if I don't want you to go slow?" you breathed out in between the movements of his lips scrambling every coherent thought in your brain and he pulled back with a smile on his lips and a chuckle on his tongue.

"Then I'll go as fast as you want me, baby."

With that, he delved his hands into your hair and brought your face to his, kissing you hard and practically short-circuiting your brain in the process.

Oh god, he was good at that.

Never breaking the kiss, his hands searched blindly along the path to your bedroom, saving you from bumping into a few things along the way, before his hands finally got busy stripping you of your clothes when you reached the destination.

You might have been embarrassed, too, being seen by your boyfriend's twin naked for the first time, if it hadn't been for the desperation you'd been feeling for days now drawing you to him and his touch without shame. And once your clothes were happily scattered along your bedroom floor, he connected your lips yet again and backed you up against the nearest wall where your head hit with a thud, the pain absolutely nothing compared to the electric pleasure it sent jolting through your body.

There, with you against the wall, he silently sank to his knees, lifting your leg gently up over his shoulder as he came eye-level with your heat.

Fuck, yes, put your mouth on me. A tongue is so much better than a toy.

You were afraid to look down at him, afraid you'd remember it was Jake there instead of Josh and suddenly freak out before you got what it was you wanted. So instead, you fixed your eyes to the wall opposite you and didn't dare stop him as he dove between your legs, flicking his tongue across your aching, throbbing clit.

"Oh fuck," you gasped, your hands immediately moving to grab at his hair.

It was harder to grab than Josh's but just as easy to pull.

Your hips sought friction along his face as he ate you with fervency, his tongue taking turns flicking your clit and rolling it on the tip of his tongue and delving into you to taste you better.

And Jake's tongue was good but Josh's tongue was better. But when it came to fingers though, it was the exact opposite, evident in the almost pornographic moan that slurred from your lips as Jake prodded a finger into you and began to pump while his lips wrapped around your clit to suck.

"Holy shit, that feels good, don't stop," you breathed out like it was A singular word as your leg still up around his shoulder clamped down tighter, drawing him closer to you and keeping him there.

He only hummed against you, lapping at your clit like he was starved as he continued to curl his finger to brush against your g-spot like he'd had no trouble finding it, soon adding another finger to the mix as he worked to relieve you of the tension that had wound so tightly over the course of, well, the last month really.

You shamelessly ground against his face, writhing against the wall, making sounds louder than you would have thought in his hands. You'd be embarrassed when he came up for air but for now, your focus was tunneling in on one thing and one thing only, the thing you'd been needing since before he'd set foot in your home: the orgasm about to tear through your body and release itself on his tongue.

The wet sound of his tongue lapping at your center was obscene but it only spurred forward your pleasure as the first waves of your orgasm began to roll through you and an ungodly noise escaped your lips like a cry.

God, it felt good to come undone at someone else's hands other than your own, especially Jake's very skilled ones.

He worked you through it diligently, lapping it up until you were so sensitive, your hands pushed his face away and you squirmed against the wall. But Jake didn't stop his movements, didn't even slow them.

"Oh god, Jake, please, too much," you pleaded with him as he continued to pump his fingers in and out of you.

He seemed almost to press his lips harder against you, seemed to suck your clit harder as you writhe and struggled to see straight, struggled to stand straight.

"Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck," you whispered as your vision began to go blurry, and suddenly overstimulation threatened to turn into another orgasm, a little more dull but still breathtakingly pleasurable as it approached out of almost nowhere.

He kept going to push you through it despite your body trying to retreat from the feeling. And with your fingers unable to find any purchase against the smooth wall, you held onto his head for dear life to keep your legs from buckling.

And then the second one hit you, taking every bit of air from your lungs as it did. You were pretty sure you were hurting him, too, with the way you grabbed at his hair and pulled, but you didn't really care and he didn't seem to care because he worked you through it with his fingers, licking around the sensitive bundle of nerves instead of directly over it as his fingers curled and grazed that spot with a slower rhythm until he stopped altogether and stood to his feet, catching you against him before your legs had the opportunity to give out.

"Those fucking noises," he whispered into you hair as he gave you a minute to breathe and regain your strength.

Only a minute though.

With his hands in your hair again, he pulled your head back to look at him, taking in the way your face flushed and the drained look you were already wearing with a pleased smile.

"I need you to stand for me, okay? Just a little longer," he asked in a soft voice that could have killed you, really. Like he was pleading with you to be good for him just a little longer.

And God, did you want to be good for him just a little bit longer.

With a nod of agreement, he walked you back toward the bed.

"Good, turn around and put your hands on the bed."

You did as you were told even though your legs were absolutely shaking and you weren't entirely sure how long you'd be able to maintain the position.

But then you felt the heat of his skin behind you, the rock hard feeling of his erection pressed against the back of your leg, and you no longer cared about the burn. It didn't even register in your mind.

"Tell me if I'm too rough, okay?" he asked in a whisper against your ear as he leaned over you one last time.

Please be too rough.

"Yes, sir," you whispered back, something you'd never said in bed before since Josh wasn't really the type but something Jake seemed to utterly enjoy judging by the way his cock twitched against your thigh.

"Ooh, I like that," he answered, a smile palpable in his voice as he straightened.

From behind you, you heard the work of him pulling a condom out of somewhere, probably his wallet in his discarded jeans, and you waited as patiently as you were capable of for him to wrap it around himself and line himself up with your entrance. Not that patient, truthfully, as you stood there practically presenting yourself to him, pushing back against nothing until finally it was him there.

"Such a good girl, falling in line for me so easily," he dropped his sweeter demeanor in favor of one a little bit cocky for your taste.

Not that you weren't falling in line very easily for him.

But every thought in your head flooded out the window as he pushed into you, one long, languid thrust to the hilt that had you moaning at the feeling, the strength of your arms being tested under the weight of dizzying pleasure.

"I think you secretly wanted this the moment I showed up. I think you like being a little slut," he grunted as he withdrew and gave you another sharp thrust.

"Yes, fuck, I wanted it," you admitted. Really anything just to spur him on.

"What was that?" he asked in a growl, his hands grabbing your hips and holding you down on his cock as you clenched around him.

"I wanted it, sir," you corrected yourself in the sweetest voice you could manage.

It seemed to please.

"There it is," he muttered as he rewarded you instantly with a threatening pace.

It was wholly different than being with Josh, the way he spoke, the way his teeth clenched as he fucked you like he was trying not to spill inside of you already. He was a lot rougher although there was still something gentle in the way his hands wrapped around your hips and guided you back to meet his thrusts, even if his words were far from gentle.

"Fuck, you are tight," he mumbled to himself before raising his voice to speak to you again. "I wanna hear you. I wanna hear you beg for my cock. Beg me for more."

He really didn't have to ask twice.

"Please, Jake, more, keep going. Your cock feels so fucking good inside of me but I need more. I need it harder," you begged, practically sobbed, totally unaware that you had called him Jake and not sir.

But he had caught it.

"Fuck, that was almost perfect, baby," he said with a frustrated tone as he halted his movements suddenly, begrudgingly.

"Fuck! No, I meant sir, please, sir, don't stop," you begged as you realized your mistake, your hips wiggling to try and do the work yourself, to try and coax him back into fucking you.

"You're gonna have to do better than that," he answered, breathing already labored despite the fact that he was still very much in control of the situation.

You were doing the work yourself, pushing your hips back onto his, but there wasn't much power behind it and it left you wanting more, desperate to come again even though you had twice before.

"Please, sir, fuck me harder, please," you tried again, saying anything you could think of that might have ignited some mercy in him. "I need to feel your cock filling me up, I need to come all over it, sir."

And finally, he lifted you into a stand by your hair, just to whisper into your ear, "See? That's how you get what you fucking want," before dropping you back down onto the mattress and thrusting into you so hard that you had no time to regain your stance as he fucked you face first into the mattress, using it as an opportunity to get better leverage to push into you.

You were fairly certain you were leaving the planet, fairly certain you were ascending to something higher, practically drunk on his cock and his words, his fucking words. And the flow of obscenities and unholy noises on your tongue came freely, uninhibited as he fucked you into an almost mindless state.

"Is this what you want, you little slut? You want me to fuck you into the mattress like this?"

"Yes, sir, just like that, just like that." It was broken sobs more than words as your eyes began to water.

Josh didn't fuck you like this and while you didn't need it to be a regular thing, it felt good to be had like this after the frustration of not seeing your boyfriend yet again. It felt good to be taken care of.

It felt good to just be railed, really.

His hand splayed flat on your back between your shoulder blades, keeping you pressed into the mattress, which was probably a good thing as it muffled your cries, and with your legs shaking and your ass still presented to him, he angled up to hit your g-spot better, harder, doing most of the work now to keep you standing.

You were going to come, it wasn't really a choice. It was going to tear through you without any mercy if he kept doing what he was doing and saying what he was saying.

"You gonna remember the way this feels? You gonna remember how it felt being drunk on my cock when you're alone with your fingers inside of you and a toy pressed to your needy little clit?"

I'm going to think about it almost every day.

You couldn't even form words as your eyes began to roll and pleasure began to take over.

"Yeah, I think you are," he grunted in smug satisfaction.

"Sir, I'm gonna come," you sobbed suddenly, not entirely sure if you'd need permission but not wanting to risk it just in case.

You desperately needed to come around him, you needed it more than you needed air in your lungs.

"Not unless you ask fucking nicely, you're not," he growled, hips still snapping hard up into yours, even as his rhythm began to falter.

It was hard to form words but you did your best to find something that would satisfy him. The truth, as it turned out.

"Please, sir, can I come? Can I please come on your cock, sir? I want it so badly, so fucking badly," you begged as you cried through the pleasure.

"Well shit," was all he said for a second as he pounded into you like he was going to come himself.

But then finally, he seemed to regain himself and he tangled his hand in your hair to pull you back onto his cock with even more force.

"Come for me, baby, come all over my cock. Make a mess of it."

It was all you needed to come screaming his name into the mattress as he released inside of you with an unholy sound that you'd remember until the day you died.

His movements were choppy that time as he worked you through it, milking himself at the same time before he finally pulled out and left you standing there, legs like jello as he took a step back to admire his work.

"Now that's a fucking sight," he whispered to himself.

And then he was there helping you stand and carrying you to the bathroom to clean you up.

"I didn't break you, did I?" he asked as he set you down in the bathroom and began wiping you off with warm water.

"No, no, I'm-I'm good," you answered, voice still just as shaky as your legs.

It made him laugh.

"Little bit rougher-"

"Little bit rougher than-yeah," you nodded, absolutely out of breath.

A lot rougher than Josh.

Interesting.

"Let me get you to bed," he said finally as he finished with you and himself, helping you back to the bed you'd come from.

"There's no part of date night that I missed, is there?" he asked as he tucked you snugly beneath the covers, into the warmth of relief from the tension, finally.

"Well, Josh usually stays with me," you gave a light smile and he laughed again before nodding.

"Of course," he whispered as he climbed into bed next to you, keeping a bit of distance between you but not arguing when you practically burrowed into his side.

Just for the night.

"I know this is never happening again," he started after a beat of silence, "but for what it's worth, I'll be thinking about it for a very long time."

It was your turn to laugh and though you agreed, you didn't admit it.

"Thank you, Jake," was all you said. "Thank you for a good date night."

When you woke, it was Josh next to you instead of his twin. And in the sleepy haze of early morning, you stared up at him, the beautiful boy sleeping peacefully, and you couldn't help but smile to yourself as you drifted back to sleep.

[vroomian]

for the alastor and hana meet when alive au, is lucifer even more pissed that alastor is able to have a significant other who cares so much about him, like enough to give up heaven for him? also i'm just imagining the vox alastor scene "You sure took your time lol I was starting to think you got into Heaven!" and vox's reaction if hana just goes "i did in fact go to heaven! and ofc you weren't there!"

Oh no Lucifer and Lilith aren’t divorced-divorced here, not yet anyway. This is set before canon. Lilith is still doing queen of hell things. Charlie is still a teenager. Lucifer has no idea who alastor is at this point. He finds it romantic and touching that Hana would give up heaven for her husband. Brings back memories that make him wistful.

(Lilith on the other hand: barely concealed contempt. To give up a just reward for a worthless man, and a sinner at that? Unthinkable. At least Lucifer was the best and brightest of gods creatures when Lilith married him.

Hana: wow. are you a movie theater with all that projecting you’re doing Ms queen of hell?

Hana: leave me and my lame sinner husband alone damn)

Oh yes alastor was absolutely giddy to see hana. After 50 years without finding her in hell, he’d actually resigned to the thought that hana was in heaven. Somehow. But then hana shows up! But on second glance she’s got — a halo??? Wings? Golden blood? (Of course alastor bites her first thing lol)

And hana is like heaven sucks the vibes were rancid and also your mom says hi and I love you. Or she would if she could remember you.

Alastor: what.

(Vox, having a mental breakdown: a WIFE?? HE HAS A HOT WIFE??? A HOT WIFE WHOM HE ENJOYS BITING?? (naturally) HES STRAIGHT????!!!? (No) IS THAT WHY HES NOT PICK UP WHAT IM PUTTING DOWN?? (It is not)

VOX: a hot wife who left heaven to be with him. How do I compete with that. this is the worst day of my life. including my own death and waking up in hell)

[eating-plastic]

Turn That Frown Upside Down: Jester!Maison Talo x Fem!Reader

Warning: Fluff, comfort, angst, swearing, reader has a shitty (ex) boyfriend and (ex) friend, unhealthy relationship, cheating, they get their comeuppance in the end, so that means brief mentions of blood, injuries, death at the end, Maison becomes obsessed with reader which leads to blossoming yandere-esque tendencies basically, I wanted to imply that reader kinda matches his freak tho, reader is fem because I kinda got bored with keeping it gender neutral, jester AU (you'll see what I mean), probably some grammatical errors

Word Count: 7874 words

A/N: Happy Halloween everyone (early, late, or on the dot. Depends on when you read this)! So I know this seems really random and out of nowhere but let me explain. Basically I reblogged fanart of Maison dressed up as a jester by @voqalber. I wrote in the tags that I had an idea for a Jester!Maison x reader fic, and they encouraged me to actually write that fic out so here it is! A big thank you to them for giving me the inspiration to write this and also being super sweet! Enjoy everyone 🎃!

--------------------

"Come one, come all, for the show of a lifetime! Witness thrills, chills, and laughs unlike ever before! Hurry hurry to the big top now! The show will begin in ten minutes!"

Your head shoots up to the speaker that was hung up near you. You can feel your hand slipping out of the grasp that was holding it as you listen to the announcement. Giddiness fills you as you turn your attention to the two other individuals you were attending the Uncanny Valley Halloween Carnival with.

"Hey guys, maybe we should go!" you chirp and motion towards the large tent in the center of the whole carnival.

"Why? it's probably just gonna be some lame magic act or clown show," scoffed your friend. You could practically hear her rolling her eyes at your childish joy for the main event of the night, though her face didn't convey it.

"Yeah, it sounds like a waste of time. I'd rather go on one of the rides. Seems like those are the only things worth doing around here," said your boyfriend, who didn't try to hide his dislike for your delight.

"Well, I-I don't know. I think it sounds fun...," your face drops and you can feel your cheeks heat up in embarrassment. "I mean...maybe it's a little childish, but what's wrong with that? It might still be fun."

"Well then why don't you go by yourself?" your friend shoots back, sounding rather pushy. "We don't want to go, so why don't you? We'll catch up with you when you're done."

"Oh...um, okay," you mumble and watch as both your friend and boyfriend don't waste any more time abandoning you where you stand.

You let out a disheartened sigh and swallow a thick lump that was forming in your throat. You hate how much you feel like crying right now.

You don't know why you even bothered bringing them or even why you still had them in your life, honestly. Your relationship with your boyfriend felt like it was beyond salvaging at this point, it felt like he merely tolerated you now. Scratch that, it was more like barely tolerated you because of how often he would snap at you when you'd go on about your interests and say straight to your face if they were stupid and immature. Not even you directly tearing up from this would stop him as he would then just yell at you to "grow up." Sure he'd attempt to make it up to you afterward, but that still didn't stop it from hurting like hell though.

You knew you should just leave him, but there was still this foolish little voice in your head that said it would get better. You didn't know why; fear of loneliness perhaps? Like at least being in a relationship was better than being in none at all? Either way, that was why you wanted to invite him to come to the carnival with you, even though you knew he would hate it. It wasn't until you mentioned that you would just go with your friend that he seemed to oddly give in.

Speaking of your friend, you noticed how she seemed to be acting a bit colder towards you as well, or at least she was being less secretive about it. At least she tried to seem polite towards you and your likes despite it becoming more and more obvious that she truly couldn't care less. What good are someone's manners if they aren't genuine, you'd sometimes wonder. And yet, just like your boyfriend, you kept her around. At least she gave you the excuse that she's just been very stressed lately. Whether that was true or not, you didn't know, but hey at least it was something.

All you wanted was to just make them both feel better. To try and have fun with them. To see them laugh and smile after who knows how long. And what better place to do that than at a place that was known for smiles and laughter?

'Whatever,' you thought. 'They'll find something they enjoy. And I already found mine.'

You make your way to the large tent that was beckoning to you, following the small crowd that was also heading to see the show. As you pass through the opening flaps of the entrance, you can feel your breath being taken away as you stare in awe at how spacious the inside is; it honestly felt like it was bigger on the inside. You gaze up at the lights that decorate the roof of the tent, bathing everything in a bright, vibrant glow. You find a seat, making sure you are sitting somewhere that will help you see everything the show has to offer.

After some waiting, the lights dim, and a disembodied voice begins to speak.

"Ladies. Gentlemen. You have all made an excellent choice tonight. Under this big top, you will witness sights unlike ever before. Sights meant to amaze, sights meant to scare, but above all, you will witness sights meant to amuse. It is my greatest honor and privilege to welcome you all...to the greatest. Show. On Earth!"

The lights begin to flash bright colors, almost giving the illusion of orange, green, and purple fireworks, making the crowd roar with wonder and excitement. You yourself can feel your eyes widening as you stare at the beautiful display. At the center of the tent, a spotlight shines on the source of the voice. A tall man stands clad in a red and black jester uniform and a white mask with a little red diamond on the left cheek covers his face, almost making him look like a mannequin from afar. You're honestly impressed that his voice can even come out so loud and clear despite him wearing it.

It's an odd uniform for what you assume to be the ringmaster to wear. Then again, you can see that the other performers in the shadows were also adorned in similar jester costumes. Even some of the booth workers you had seen previously wore the same jovial outfits, albeit without the masks.

'Must just be a part of the attire,' you figure. No matter, you already knew you were going to enjoy the show.

--------------------

Every performance was phenomenal to you. The suspenseful acts had you on the edge of your seat, the scary acts would make your heart jolt in the best way, and the funny acts would have you bursting out in laughter unlike anything you had ever experienced before. You were so enthralled by the show that you didn't even notice the pair of eyes that would always drift to you at every chance.

The jesters always scanned the crowds, looking for the right person to lure to their private tents to consume. It could get quite competitive amongst them, often fighting over one person, before one would have to step down and find someone else. No matter what though, the ringmaster always had first pick.

Maison always got a better look of the crowd first. There in the center of the tent, arms spread and gazing out at everyone who had decided to see the show.

Tonight was no different as he panned his eyes from left to right, scanning every person in the audience. Just then, his eyes caught on to someone, but...not on someone he wanted to eat.

The first thing that he thought when he gazed at you from his place on the show floor was one word.

'Beautiful.'

He stared at you in your seat on the top row. Sitting so high up so that you could see everything. It made you look more angelic to him. But what really won the ringmaster over though, was your smile. It shined so bright that even in the dim lights of the crowd, it looked like the spotlight was on you. At least to Maison it was.

As the show continued, his eyes would constantly drift to you, taking in every one of your reactions like a sweet breath of fresh air. After each act, you would always clap with such enthusiasm, indicating your enjoyment. What he loved the most though, was how you would laugh at the funny acts. You wouldn't hide your mouth or try to stifle your laughter like most people. No, you let it out proudly, even grasping your stomach and rocking a bit at something really outrageous. Oh how he wished he could hear it clearly.

You didn't hide your joy, you flaunted it without a care in the world.

And Maison loved it.

After the show wrapped up and he gave his "end of the show" speech, he was antsy to find you again. He knew he'd have to meet with the other jesters to discuss who was going to be their potential meals, and he knew he'd have to say you just so he would ensure none of his fellow performers would lay a hand on you. After that, he didn't care about what the others decided or fought over. He excused himself quickly to look for you.

He needed to see you again. He needed to know your name, he needed to know what else brought you so much joy in your life, he needed to actually hear your laughter, and above all, he needed to know if he would ever see you here at the carnival again.

--------------------

When you exit the tent, you don't see your boyfriend or friend waiting for you like you thought. You honestly figured that those two grumps wouldn't find anything they found fun, so they would be stuck just waiting for you and being bored.

You wander around, looking from booth after booth, ride after ride trying to find them. You try not to get too distracted from how fun a game looks or how thrilling an attraction looks. At the time, you would've thought that it would've been better if you had gotten side tracked. Now though, you're happy you discovered what you did. If you didn't, you wouldn't have ended up having such a wonderful night.

As you round a corner to look down a dim alleyway, you spot the two figures you were looking for. Just as you are about to approach them and call their names, you almost trip over your own two feet and let out a soft choke at the sight.

Everything looks like it's happening in slow motion as if your brain still doesn't want to process what's going on right in front of your eyes. Your "friend" practically throwing herself onto your "boyfriend" as they begin to make out like two shameless teenagers at a drive in. Their hands roaming everywhere over and underneath clothes.

Tears sting your eyes as your cheeks heat up in rage and humiliation. Your feet feel like they are glued to the ground despite you wanting so desperately to just turn and run away. To just jump in your car and speed off to your apartment, where you would just hide away for the rest of your life. There is also a tiny voice in your head though, that wants you to run up and kill the both of them with anything you could find in that dingy alley.

Eventually, you finally feel your legs moving, but they choose to go with the former thought you had over the latter. You dart around, looking for the entrance of the carnival so you can get in your car and cry properly, but there are so many people and your tears feel like they're coming down hard now. You ultimately decide to just hide away in a dark corner devoid of all people. You curl up into a ball, hiding your head in your knees as you begin to sob.

Your brain is a melting pot of sorrow and complete hatred. Hatred at both your now ex friend and ex boyfriend for betraying you, hatred at them for never even really liking you in the first place, hatred at them for fucking around behind your back and hurting you. But above all, you feel hatred towards yourself. You hate yourself for being so trusting, and naive, and childish and pathetic, and stupid.

"Stupid stupid stupid," you cry, shaking your head. "Worthless, no good, w-waste of space."

You mutter out every single cruel thing you could think of calling yourself because you really do feel like those things were what you were.

"...Unlovable," you finally choke out as a last nail in the coffin to your self esteem and happiness. If even your own boyfriend and friend didn't love or care about you, then you truly must be unlovable.

"Oh dear, what's this?" a male voice questions.

Your head rockets up and quickly turns to the sound. Through your blurry vision, you can see a tall man standing before you with his face obscured by a white mask. You completely forget that what this man is wearing is simply the attire of the performers at the show you had seen earlier, and instead assume it to be a masked psycho ready to kill you. A dark voice in your head tells you that you would honestly be okay with that after everything that has happened to you.

Seeing the look of fear in your red eyes, the man raises his hands to absentmindedly run his fingers along the porcelain lips of the mask. He then perks up in realization.

"I suppose you would feel more comfortable if I removed this, wouldn't you," he says while motioning to the mask.

You feel yourself being weirdly drawn towards this man's voice; it sounds so smooth and comforting, familiar even, but where did you hear it? Either way, you nod slowly.

"I figured. One moment, please," he says, before raising one hand to hold the front of the mask, while the other moves to the back of his head to undo the straps.

Once his mask is undone, he carefully removes it from his face and attaches it to his belt so it would dangle off of his hip. He then smooths over and adjusts his gray hair.

"There. That's better, right?" he asks, his voice sounding more clear and soft. He kneels down to look at you with warm eyes that hold a hint of empathy in them. Now seeing him better, you realize why his voice sounded so familiar, even without it being loud and grandiose. How could you forget the ringmaster of the show that gave you a moment of happiness before it was destroyed?

You don't know why, but you didn't expect him to look like an older gentleman despite seeing his gray hair, not that you were complaining. He was very handsome, and here he was feeling concerned for you. You even notice the little red diamond painted on his cheek corresponding with the mark on his mask; you find that to be oddly cute. When your brain finally registers that he asked you another question, you once again nod.

He then reaches into one of his sleeves to pull out a red handkerchief and holds it out to you. Tentatively, you take the cloth and wipe your eyes with it, sniffling all the while.

"Tell me, my dear, what has made you so miserable?" he tilts his head to rest his cheek on the palm of his hand. When Maison wanted to find you after the show, he absolutely did not want to find you like this.

'Oh you poor thing,' he thinks. Mere minutes ago you were all smiles and laughter. Now here you sit, sobbing and saying the most horrible things about yourself. It was awful, sounding akin to nails on a chalkboard to the ringmaster. He has to know what upset you, and he has to know how he can fix it.

"W-well mister...um," you begin, waiting for him to give you his name. You feel like you honestly have nothing left to lose, making yourself even more pathetic to a complete stranger.

"Talo. Maison Talo," he answers.

"Well Mr. Talo, I was a complete idiot," you restart, bluntly.

"Idiot? Come now, dear, you're being too hard on yourself," his face drops at the harsh word you are using to describe yourself.

"But it's true. I'm a complete fucking idiot!" you cry. "I came here with two people that I thought loved me, but no! I should've known they never cared about me! I should've known they'd do this to me, I should've left him, and I should've stopped having her as a friend, I-I should've...I sh-should...."

Your voice dissolves into another round of sobbing, causing Maison to carefully pull you into his arms to hold you while you cry. He gently pets your hair while softly cooing to you like a mother would to comfort her child; though he only got bits and pieces of the whole story through your rant, he could understand just what happened. You don't know why you're allowing a stranger to hold you, but you figure that you just don't have anything to lose anymore; you just don't care anymore. Besides, his embrace was warm, his voice was nice, and it felt like everything about him was wrapping around you like a blanket.

Even when your second round of tears ceases, you don't want him to let you go. Luckily, he doesn't. Despite not hearing your sobs anymore, he still holds you close to his chest. Your eyes drift around to look at anything to keep your mind off of the people who hurt you. They eventually settle on a weird pin that you hadn't noticed on Maison's jester costume before: a blue house with a yellow roof.

'How odd,' you think, though you guess jesters are supposed to be a bit strange and random. 'I saw those on the booth workers too. Must just be another part of the weird attire.'

You sigh and finally pull away to slump onto the ground, hand smoothing over some patches of dried grass and orange leaves.

Just then, a pleasant smell catches your attention, making you look around due to how strong it is. Maison seems to smell it too and gets an idea.

"You know, maybe a little treat would cheer you up, hm? Something sweet," he throws out, before standing and holding his hands out for you. "Come on, I know good food tends to cheer me up."

You look from his hands to his face. Staring into those soft eyes of his, this time with a jovial spark mixed in. The combination of his gaze with a small grumble in your stomach tells you that maybe a bit of food is what you need. You give him a weak smile before taking his hands into your own, allowing yourself to be pulled up.

Now that you both are standing, Maison holds his arm out for you to loop it with your own. You look at him oddly for a moment before you decide to do just that.

'Why not?' you think.

You are then led back to the main part of the carnival, though your eyes do dart around to try and spot your ex friend and ex boyfriend in the crowd. What would you do if you saw them? Ignore them? Try to hide again? Actually go up and confront them? No, if you tried to confront them, then you knew you would try to kill them, even if it was in front of everyone.

"Anything piquing your interest, Miss um...oh dear, how rude of me. I never asked you your name," Maison realizes, turning to look down at you.

"Hm? Oh! It's Y/N. Y/N LN," you squeak out, getting too lost in your thoughts for your own good.

"Such a pretty name, it's quite fitting for you," he smiles. His comment and look made your cheeks heat up. "Tell me, Miss. Y/N, what sounds good to you right now?"

"Hm," you think, looking from booth to booth before you just shrug. "I don't know. What do you like?"

The question causes Maison to freeze, but only for a brief moment. His eyes begin to dart around a bit, before settling on the first food booth they landed on.

"Apple pie," he says. Despite how quick he said it, it still sounds genuine, and you don't think anything odd about it. To really sell it though, he adds on. "I've always been fond of that dessert, over others."

"That does sound good," you nod. "I think I want that."

"An excellent choice, my dear, a very excellent choice," he grins and leads you to the titular booth.

Both Maison and the booth worker share a brief interaction of recognition before ordering a nice slice of warm apple pie for you. Before you can even get the chance to pay for your dessert, the tall jester at your side takes the plate and leads you to a picnic table off to the side.

"Huh? Hey, wait! Don't you want me to pay for that?" you stutter out, confused.

"Please, it's my treat. You've had such a rough night, allow me to make it better," Maison says with a dismissive wave of his hand.

"Why?" you ask, while you both take a seat at the table. "I mean...why do you care?"

"A carnival is no place for sorrow. It is a place where you leave all sadness at the door. If you cry at a place like this, then it truly must've been hurt by something awful. Something that just a simple joke can't fix," he explains, resting his elbows on the table and interlocking his fingers.

"Ah," you begin to think while breaking off a piece of apple pie with a plastic fork. "I see that joy is a big deal to you. Your costume makes sense now."

Maison let out a short, endearing chuckle at that, making a small smile break out on your face.

"Happiness is a very beautiful thing," he begins, a fond grin on his face. "A smile is worth more than the finest of art, and laughter is more melodic than the finest of symphonies. When I gaze up into that crowd during a show, it is the greatest pleasure of mine to see the looks of delight on the audience's faces. And when I saw you in the crowd tonight, it was perfect. Your smile was so bright, and when I watched you laugh it felt like I was admiring a flawless painting. "

If your face wasn't warm before, then it was on fire now. You think back to how you must've looked while watching the show, and a wave of self consciousness washes over you.

"Wow, uh...hehe. Well...I've never heard anyone tell me that before," you laugh nervously. You aren't used to this kind of attention, being doted on like this and getting complimented in such a way. Despite the fluttery sensation it formed in your heart, you can't help but feel suspicious of Maison's intentions thanks to your damaged self esteem after seeing you-know-what. Surely there was no way that this handsome, older gentleman sitting in front of you could actually see you as akin to a work of perfection.

"Really?' he asks, confusion and even a hint of sadness embedded in his voice.

"Ah...well, no," you admit. You just shake your head and wave your hands dismissively. "Oh well, whatever. It really doesn't matter. I really don't wanna think about it, this is all about having fun right?"

Maison opens his mouth to speak, but closes it and changes the direction of the conversation.

"You're right. But just know that what I said is true," he flashes you a reassuring smile before motioning to your pie. "Now, why don't you finish that before it gets cold."

He didn't have to tell you twice. You go back to eating your dessert, savoring the tastes of apples, cinnamon, and brown sugar. It's a pleasant silence until you suddenly perk up when you realize something.

"Hey, I just remembered. I made you laugh. I made a jester laugh. That gives me extra points, right?"

Maison laughs once more, just as endearing as it was previously. He was wrong when he saw you in the crowds previously that night. You weren't just a little delight. No, now that he has had the chance to properly sit down with you, he could see that you were the embodiment of complete sunshine.

--------------------

"Really? Huh, I didn't know that was how that trick was done. That's so cool," you say in awe.

"Isn't it? It is amazing the kind of illusions you can create using something so simple," Maison replies.

The two of you had been walking around the carnival, talking about different acts and tricks done during shows, your conversations being broken up by the occasional game.

"Oh! Maison! Can we try that one!" you suddenly pipe up, pointing to another game booth.

"Of course we can," he grins and ushers you up to the booth.

Like with getting your slice of pie, the ringmaster gives a greeting of familiarity to his fellow jester when you two get close enough. The game you had pointed to was a simple game where you would try to knock down stacked milk bottles.

The booth worker sets three baseballs on the counter, but before you could grab one, Maison stops you.

"Wait a moment," he says while taking the balls from you. You cock your head to the side in confusion until you watch in awe as the older gentleman juggles the three baseballs. You almost think he's trying to show off until he successfully stops without having any of the balls hit the ground, and hands them back to you. "A bit of good luck for you."

You take them from him with a cheerful "thank you" before turning your attention to the bottles.

First baseball, two bottles down.

Second baseball, three bottles down.

Only one baseball and one bottle left.

You take a deep breath through your nose as you carefully line up your shot. You squint one of your eyes and your tongue creeps past your lips in concentration. Maison had seen this look of focus on your face during some of the previous games; he found it to be absolutely adorable. You move your arm back and....

The last bottle clatters loudly to the floor!

You stare in shock for a brief moment, before a noise of triumph escapes you.

"Wahoo! I did it! I did it!" you cheer.

"All thanks to my little bit of good luck," Maison jokes, but still proudly applauds your work.

With a polite "here ya go," the booth worker hands you your prize: a cute ghost plushie with a red and black ribbon tied around its neck as a bow. You notice how it reminds you of Maison's jester uniform, and it makes you love it even more.

"Thank you!" you grin at the other jester before turning to walk with Maison some more until you suddenly stop.

A soft gasp leaves your lips as you stare at two familiar faces in the crowd ahead. Both your ex friend and ex boyfriend were looking around and calling your name as if they didn't just get done fucking in a dingy alley. The sight shatters the perfect bubble of fun Maison had constructed for you that night, and you squeeze the plushie in your arms for comfort like a child would after having a bad dream.

Maison quickly follows your line of sight and can feel the rage boiling within him at the sight of the two individuals who had broken your spirits. He quickly motions his fellow jester closer to him and mutters something in the booth worker's ear. They pull away and share a nod of understanding before the ringmaster wraps his hands around your shoulders and turns you both around so that you are standing in front of him and out of sight from the two most loathed people in both of your worlds.

"It's okay. Just keep walking," Maison whispers comfortingly into your ear.

After maneuvering deeper into the crowds for a bit, you both come out on the other side of the carnival by a ferris wheel.

"Thank you," you mumble, still holding your ghost plush close to your chest. You let out a disheartened sigh though, when you realize how late it is and that the fun would have to come to an end. "I should start thinking about heading home though. As much as I don't want to...I know I have to go back and gather them to head on out. I am their ride after all. Augh and then I'm gonna have to confront them about what I saw."

You can feel tears welling up in your eyes at the thought. Even though you hated them and would give anything to call them the most abhorrent shit you could come up with, hell you literally had the brief thought about killing them, you are filled to the brim with anxiety about the whole thing and knew you wouldn't be able to do any of those things despite how much you wanted to.

"Hey, it'll be okay, shhh," Maison coos and pulls you into his arms once more, although this time you notice how he seems to be holding you tighter than he did previously.

"Why can't they just go away? W-Why can't they just disappear?" you sob and bury your face into his chest.

"Shh shhh, I know I know," he says while petting your hair like before. He replays your questions in his head though, and has to keep from having a sinister smile spread across his lips at the thought.

''Why can't they just go away? Why can't they just disappear?' Oh, my darling, they will disappear before the night is done,' Maison thinks as he continues to console you.

"Why do you need them to ride back with you?" he asks. You pull away confused, and give him a look that says 'isn't it obvious?'"They betrayed you, hurt you, you want to cut them out of your life entirely, so why give them kindness and courtesy that they don't deserve?"

"I...I can't just do that," you say, but your stutter gives it away that you are considering it.

"Yes, you can. You can, and you will. If you do this, the fun will last just a little while longer. Besides, taking the bus won't kill them," Maison pushes. You mull it over in your head for a bit, before looking back up to him.

"Okay...I'll do it," you decide, nodding your head to confirm it to both him and yourself.

He carefully moves his hand to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, before resting his palm against your cheek. He takes in just how beautiful you look under the bright, colorful lights of the ferris wheel, cementing your face in his mind.

Slowly, Maison's eyes travel from your face and then upwards and he looks at the large attraction you both were standing by. A small smile forms and he looks back to you.

"How about one last bit of fun for the night, hm?" he asks. You look behind you at the bright, spinning wheel and feel a smile form on your own lips as well.

"I'd like that very much," you beam, looking up at him.

With that, you both turn to go on the ride. Once your car comes to a halt and it's safe to board, Maison opens the door for you and motions for you to enter. You smile at that and take a seat on the bench inside. The older man enters after you and sits at your side.

There is a pause before the ride starts up and the car slowly begins to rise upwards. Without noticing, your hand grasps Maison's instinctually from the sudden movement.

"You're okay, look," he reassures and squeezes your hand. He then points out the large window in front of you. You look ahead and your eyes widen as you slowly begin to see more and more of the Uncanny Valley from above. Though it is dark, all of the lights from the street lamps, windows of buildings, and signs for different establishments illuminate the island perfectly.

"Woah," you breathe, completely mesmerized by the view. "You can see everything from up here."

"Indeed," Maison agrees, taking in his own beautiful sight of your wowed face. "Everyone seems to prefer seeing the view during the day. I suppose you can see everything clearer then. But I have always been fond of seeing lights when it's dark. And then there are the stars and the moon that make it all seem so right."

You stop your task of trying to spot your apartment complex from the ferris wheel as his words begin to sink in. You quickly noticed how he talks about the things he finds beautiful. He talks about them like they are fine art, mentioning every detail he loves about them. Happiness, the view.

You.

The gentle feeling of Maison's fingertips against your chin makes you turn to face him. If the view of the Uncanny Valley at night didn't take your breath away, then the realization of how close you two are does. All thoughts in your head seem to cease as you stare into his eyes and notice him carefully easing your face closer to his.

Would you have done the same thing under different circumstances, or even under the same circumstances? You have no idea. And yet you can't stop yourself from saying "yes" every time. As long as it was with Maison, then yes, you would've done what you did at the end of the night. He turned your night from horrible to perfect, resurrected your happiness after you thought your cheating ex boyfriend and ex friend killed it, made you actually feel cared for and loved for the first time in forever.

It felt right. You and him felt right.

It was gentle, his lips softly brushing over yours for a moment, savoring it before kissing you properly. It feels like he's treating you like you're made of porcelain like his mask, as if the most sudden movement would make you crack.

No, Maison will make sure you never shatter on his watch. As long as you are his, you will never feel neglected or unloved. This carnival would become your new home, his tent would become your new home. The whole fairgrounds would be your shelter from the cruelties that come with life. A place for him to construct a perfect bubble for you to forget your worries and grief, just like tonight.

Maybe he'd even make you a performer as well, if that was what you wanted. He has seen your interest in different acts during the show. With some practice, you could become a star, though you already are in his heart. Just imagine you in your jester costume and mask, captivating the audience, wowing them, scaring them, or making them laugh. Of course some of the others would probably protest that decision, hell they'd probably protest him loving you, but he was the ringmaster and he had the last say. If he said you're staying, then you're staying. And if he says you would perform, then you'd perform.

Slowly, Maison pulls away, getting a brief view of the look of content on your face. Your eyes flutter open and you raise a hand to touch your lips.

"You kissed me..." your voice comes out a little bit louder than a whisper as you utter the only thing your reeling mind can come up with.

"I did," the ringmaster says with a warm smile.

You can't think of anything else to say, so you just beam back at him and rest your head on his shoulder. He wraps an arm around you and holds you closer as you both feel yourselves starting to descend back down to the ground.

Once the car stops, Maison steps out and holds the door open for you just like before. With his arm held out for you, he leads you through the carnival and towards the entrance. You expect to say your goodbyes there but to your surprise, he continues walking into the parking lot, slowing his pace and moving you in front of him so you can find your car.

Now standing by your vehicle, you turn back to look up at the jester that made your night so wonderful.

"I guess this is goodbye, huh?" you mumble while rubbing your arm.

"Goodbye for now," he corrects, holding your face in his hands and giving you one last smile for the night, which you return. "If you ever need a bit of cheering up again, you know where to find me. Until then however...how about a little something to remember me by?"

Suddenly, he pulls out a deck of playing cards from out of nowhere and fans them out to you.

"Pick a card, but do not tell me what it is," he says, speaking like he's performed this trick a thousand times.

You look at the cards carefully, eyes panning over each one, until you finally take the one that speaks to you. The card is the ace of diamonds.

"Good, now set it back in the deck," he continues, waiting for you to do as he says. With that, he reshuffles the cards, even closing his eyes to really show off to you. Once he's done, he stacks the deck nicely in his hands and takes the first card on the top. "Is this your card?"

Staring back at you is the same red diamond you had seen previously.

"Yes sir," you chirp, taking the card again." But I know the trick to this one."

"Oh? And what's that?" Maison questions, intrigued.

"The whole deck is the same card; they're all the ace of diamonds," you nod confidently.

"Really?" he turns the deck up so that the front of the cards is facing you. To your surprise, you can see that it really is a normal deck with the different suits and all.

"Woah," you breathe, amazement in your voice. "Must be great being so lucky."

"Of course it is. I wouldn't have been able to meet you if I wasn't," Maison then moves his hands around the deck of cards until they vanish into thin air.

"Wait, don't you want this card back?" you ask, all while you are trying to figure out where a whole deck of cards went.

"I said I was going to give you something to remember me by," he retorts. "Think of it as a good luck charm. Besides, I'm sure I have another one lying around somewhere."

You look from the card then back to the ringmaster, smiling.

"Thank you, Maison. Thank you for everything. You really made the night perfect."

"It is my pleasure, always," he gives you a little bow, before taking one of your hands into his own and raising it to his lip to plant a soft kiss to your knuckles. "Please be safe my dear and sleep well."

"Y-Yeah, of course, "you let out a shy chuckle, still not used to this level of affection, but you can certainly get there. "Goodnight to you too."

With that, Maison takes a step back, giving you the space to climb into your car. Once you start it up, you look out your window and give him a small wave, which he returns.

The tall jester stands there watching as your car gets farther and farther away until it disappears from view entirely.

--------------------

You can practically feel yourself dance walking down the hallway to your apartment, as the sounds of carnival music still play in your ears. After letting yourself in and locking the front door behind you, you set your ghost plushie down on a counter in your kitchen along with the card. You fidget with the little stubby arms of your soft specter, humming a tune you hear sometime tonight, your eyes drifting to the familiar colored ribbon around its neck.

You then turn your attention to the card, just flipping it between your fingers until you stop when you notice something that definitely was not there before. The front of the card is the same, it still shows the ace of diamonds, but on the back there is writing; a little message addressed to you.

To my dearest little diamond, Y/N,

Your beauty shall remain in my mind always. Your smile, your laugh, and you, sweet little you. Please don't be a stranger, my heart would never be able to take it.

With love,

Maison.

Underneath the sweet message, was a phone number.

You place your hand over your heart and grin widely from ear to ear. How could you possibly stay away from the ringmaster after tonight? The affection he gave you was addicting. He was addicting. And you were obsessed. You fell right into his trap, right where you wanted to be.

His plan was to win you over and he got it and so much more.

No, you definitely won't be a stranger at all.

--------------------

It was very late at night, and all light had been extinguished from the carnival, making you think that no one was around. However, if you went just a little bit deeper into the fairgrounds, you would notice the lights still on in the large tent at the center, and speaking could be heard from within.

"Ladies. Gentlemen. What a very special performance I have for you tonight," the loud voice came from none other than the ringmaster, wearing his signature mask as always, but the audience was not his usual audience. No, the audience was of his fellow jesters.

The voice caused two figures that were tied to the spinning wheels used for knife throwing to stir. Their heads pounded hard and they could both taste a hint of blood in their mouths.

"These two 'delightful' individuals decided to so graciously volunteer for this act. Isn't that just so 'polite' of them?" Maison continued on, bitter sarcasm heavy in his voice. The whole crowd began to jeer at the two partially conscious people.

Once they fully awaken, both your ex friend and ex boyfriend try to speak, to ask what the hell's going on, but are prohibited by the large clumps of cloth in their mouths.

"I must admit, I have never performed a live dissection act, but do you all, my lovely performers, not deserve something new? Something fresh?" he carried on, voice becoming even more grandiose. The crowd responded with a noise of uncertainty until their ringmaster continued. "I know what you are all thinking: isn't this all a waste of two perfectly good meals? Oh, I can assure you all, these two are much too rotten for consumption. No no no, these...things are only good for an act now."

The crowd only got more rowdy at that, but Maison raised his hands to calm them.

"Ah, I knew you all wouldn't want to take my word for it, so why don't we all get a little taste?" he moved to stand in front of a table that was covered with a black and white checkered cloth, making sure his fellow jester and the "performers" would be able to see what was underneath the sheet.

With one swift motion, the cloth was ripped from the table, revealing a row of sharp knives varying in size. If the two hostages weren't panicking already, then they definitely were now. Muffled cries of fear fill the show floor, and your ex friend even had tears streaming down her cheeks.

Maison picked up a steak knife and slowly crept towards your ex boyfriend, like a predator stalking its prey. Once he got close enough, he speaks quietly, so only the two unwilling volunteers could hear.

"It's funny," he began, dragging his red nails along the edge of the blade. "I think I would've done this, even if you hadn't hurt Y/N."

His eyes went wide at the sound of your name and at the jester in front of him bringing the blade closer to his face.

"No matter what, you never deserved her," Maison purrs, sinisterly. "She was mine the moment I laid eyes on her tonight. No matter what, you were never worthy of her, you stupid boy."

He let out a sickeningly playful click of his tongue before quickly turning to your ex friend.

"And you," he sneered. "What kind of friend are you?" Had you been nice, you wouldn't have been here. You would've been at home, sleeping in bed like an infant....Yet here you are."

He then looked between the two of them. Though they couldn't see his face, they could see his eyes through the holes in his mask, and oh, how they were seething with rage.

"I don't know which one of you is more rotten," Maison said, though his voice was much louder so his audience would hear him. Slowly he turned to look back at the male hostage, and a cruel grin formed under his mask. "But I think I'll try you, just because I hate you more."

Like a flash, he swiped the knife across your ex boyfriend's cheek, carving it so it looked like half of a bloody smile was on his face. The crowd roared with excitement at that, antsy to get their hands on some of the knives as well.

With one hand, Maison raised his mask up enough so that his mouth was exposed. Carefully, he dragged the bloodied knife across his tongue, getting the taste of the crimson that stained the blade. In an instant, his face contorted in disgust and he pulls his mask down.

"Bitter, not to my liking...but I'm sure some of you may enjoy it," he announced, watching as his consensus seemed to intrigue some of his fellow performers. He then motioned his knife to the female hostage before continuing. "As for her...well...I think I'll let you all find that out for yourselves. Ladies and gentlemen, I now invite you all to come. On. Down!"

With that, a number of jesters got up from their seats to line up and take a blade while others sat back to watch the carnage just as their ringmaster was doing.

Such a gruesome display was before him. Something that would've made him sick had the "volunteers" been different. But for you, he got nothing but a sick sense of catharsis watching it.

Maison smiled as he thought about you. He thought about what you had whimpered when you both found refuge at the ferris wheel.

"Why can't they go away? Why can't they just disappear?"

'Well, my little diamond,' he thought. 'They're gone now. They'll never hurt you again. No one will ever hurt you. I will make sure of that.'

[princessbellecerise]

HOTD SEASON TWO THOUGHTS

SPOILERS

JACE AND CREGAN JACE AND CREGAN OMG IM SO GLAD THEY MADE CREGAN YOUNG AND NOT HAVE HIM ACT LIKE HES OLD ASF. He is supposed to be like 20 and I was worried they were gonna try and make him like Ned but NOPE. I liked how they tried to kind of tie in the GOT Stark’s with him but I wish we saw a bit more

WHERE IS VERMAX?? I REALLY WANTED TO SEE HIM THIS SEASON BY BOY GETS NO SCREEN TIME

Lucerys Velaryon my sweet baby boy, I will always remember you. When Corlys said he had that dagger commissioned for Luke I SOBBED. He loved those kids sm don’t you EVER try to tell me he didn’t want Luke to have Driftmark

Ugh, Alyn. Iykyk I was waiting his better half (his brother) to show up

Aemond Targaryen when I FUCKING catch you I swear to GOD. Rhaenyra searching for Luke had me in tears. The way she JUMPED off of Syrax to see if it was true oh god

Speaking of which, her scene with Jace destroyed me. The way he tried to be a good son and heir and tell her about his accomplishments but broke down. Oh my god and the way he reached for her I can’t

The greens had too much fucking screen time. All I heard was them yapping about a war THEY started. Also alicent trying to control her sons is laughable. You raised them to be misogynists and now you’re shocked they don’t value women? Hmmm I wonder why

Speaking of Miss Dowager Hypocrite herself…what happened to honor and decency hmmm? No where to be found I guess. Also Crsipy Cole, for a man that’s been sworn of celibacy you sure do get down alot

Larys Strong is the biggest instigator that’s ever lived and I think we’re about to see him changing loyalties like he does in the books. Hmmm

Luke’s funeral. My god. Jace lifting up Joffery to throw in Luke’s seahorse. Rhaena absolutely sobbing bc that was her betrothed :( . Somebody fucking sedate me

Rhaenys…my girl…what have they DONE to you? They made it seem like she didn’t give a single fuck about Luke’s death. CORLYS GRIEVED MORE THAN SHE DID ARE YOU KIDDING ME. This is not the Rhaenys I know. The Rhaenys that wanted to go to King’s Landing and kill the Greens so bad that DAEMON had to reel her in. Smh STOP WITH THE WISHY-WASHY SHIT. MY GIRL WAS FULLY TEAM BLACK

The writers are cowards and you can tell. B&C was Daemons idea. It was HIS idea for HIS son. Although, much as Team Green talks shit about Daemon, I’m also kinda glad they changed B&C to him ordering Aemond’s death.

And speaking of…sigh. So sigh. B&C was so…underwhelming. If they were trying to spark sympathy for Team Green then they did a horrible job at it because WHAT WAS THAT?? Helaena not even putting up a fight? Just straight selling Jahaerys out like damn girl it’s like that?? AND WHERE was Maelor?

Aegon and Aemond of course can go fuck themselves as usual. Them trying to make it seem like Aegon would’ve been a good king is laughable like be SO fucking for real

Otto Hightower your days are numbered. Just you wait, you’ve given your two psycho grandchildren a taste a power and I’m gonna laugh when it backfires

Overall, I did feel a little bit bad for Helaena but it’s still team black. I hated how they cut out the feast Aegon threw to celebrate Luke’s death. It adds a whole new layer as to why the Greens will never be in the right, if it wasn’t obvious already. ALSO, I cannot wait to see those fuckers realize that most of the realm wants Rhaenyra and not *what did Daemon say?* oh yeah, a drunken usurper cunt of a king

Jason (or was it Tyland) being made a fool had me dying. Like yeah your dumbass wanted him on the throne now what? Now you’re a damn pony. Giddy up fool

Them trying to make it seem like Aegon cares about his son when they haven’t even mentioned he has a son until the plot calls for it…sigh. I love TGC but you can definitely tell it’s HIM smiling and acting all cute towards Jahaerys, not Aegon if that makes sense.

Lastly, Lady Misery has always been Team Black and I wish they’d stop making it seem like nobody was on Rhaenyra’s side. Majority of the fucking realm fought for her it and they’re making it seem like she’s so alone. I also feel like they’re trying to use her grief as a reason she shouldn’t rule while trying to make Aegon seem “good” and I don’t like that

Let’s see what next week’s episode brings but hopefully the rest of the season is more…exciting

[depressed-sock]

By the Flickering Moon We Dance (8223 words) Gift for revanchxst (BadWolfGirl01)! Fandom: Star Wars - All Media Types Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Relationships: Shmi Skywalker/Mace Windu Characters: Shmi Skywalker, Anakin Skywalker, Mace Windu, Sheev Palpatine | Darth Sidious, Darth Maul, Feral (Star Wars: The Clone Wars), Savage Opress, Aurra Sing Additional Tags: Fake Marriage, Hurt/Comfort, Force-Sensitive Shmi Skywalker, Sith Apprentice Shmi Skywalker, Sith Empire (Star Wars), Alternative Universe- Hidden Jedi Order, It gets a little bit dark but I tried mostly to focus on Shmi and Mace, mentioned child death, anakin does not die, Mutual Pining, Jedi Training (Star Wars), Sheev Palpatine Being An Asshole, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Hopeful Ending, That feeling when you're commiting treason with two differnt parties who don't know each other, or has any idea what you're planning with the other, Awkward Sith Family Dinners Preview:

Shmi looks out the window and sighs heavily at the dreary sight of Coruscant. Clouds billow over the city, threatening the promised rain that’s finally been allowed to set upon this part of the planet. It’s been months since the last and it’s expected to be just as heavy as the last.

She already mourns for the people caught in the lower levels who didn’t have time or the chance to evacuate. Can feel the darkness that feeds into the very air from their fear.

It’s supposed to strengthen her like it does all of her fellow apprentices but… It doesn’t. Not in the way it should anyway. It drowns her. Buries her alive. Sinking into sands she’s long left behind.

Drops fall, splattering against the window and she inhales slowly, closing her eyes as she quietly shuts off her connection to the force. Nothing that will leave her weak but make it muffled. This has been her home for years and she has done what she needs to, to survive here.

She’d never expected to ever leave Tatooine. Never would have guessed that the Emperor himself would find her heavily pregnant with Anakin at the time and free her with a promise. He’d make her strong, help her become what she was always meant to be.

She’d accepted and he’d made her his student.

He tells her that her chains are broken now but… nothing about this life has felt like freedom. It feels like she’s been wrapped up and dragged further into something she’d never wanted to be a part of.

Shmi takes a sip of her tea and opens her eyes when she feels the bright light of her son entering the building. So bright, no matter how much she cuts herself off he’ll always be that bright glow of hope. She fixes a smile to her face. Tired but relieved that he’s been returned to her after his… lessons with her Lord Emperor’s tutors.

She doesn’t have the privilege to know what he’s learning but she does know it has nothing to do with the force. Shmi’s not sure how she accomplished hiding his force-sensitivity the first few years of his life but she’d done it. And when he got old enough to be taught she’d showed him how to make himself quiet.

To everyone else’s eyes he’s like any other null, but to Shmi? He’s a star. A sun so bright, so strong. Her fear grows everyday that one day Anakin won’t be able to quiet the force around him. That the Emperor will see what she’s been hiding under his nose this entire time.

She knows that their time is running out.

Anakin runs through the door and slams straight into her. Hard enough to knock a laugh out of her and to make her drop her cup that she easily catches with just a thought. Floating it to the safety of her nearby table that also has a set of datapads on it and a disposable comn unit.

“Mom!” Anakin complains in cheerful giddiness as she hugs him close and blows a raspberry into his hair. He giggles trying to escape but she’s got a hold on him and yanks him up into her lap, kissing his forehead.

“How were your lessons today?” She asks softly, brushing his hair back, her fingers gently grazing the forming bruise along his temple. She feels her smile falter only for a moment before she focuses her thoughts on love and safety and home. Sending them along the frail bond between them.

It had been made as a mistake on her part. She’d never wanted to tie him to her or the darkness she carries with her. The darkness that is strength. But not the kind of strength she ever wants her son to need.

It’s why she’s been so afraid to make the bond any stronger than it already is.

Anakin frowns, going quiet as he tries to control his sudden bout of fidgeting. Then he replies with a little shrug, “It was fine…” He trails off, not looking her in the eyes.

“Anakin?” She encourages him quietly, letting him tuck his head under her chin as she wraps him in a tighter hug. “Nothing will hurt you here. Not while I’m here.” She reminds him with a soft hum.

“I don’t like it… They keep saying I’m going to guard the Emperor one day.” He fidgets again and whines in the familiar tone of a child being upset with being told what to do. “He’s so old! He's going to be dead by the time I’m old enough to be his guard!”

Shmi doesn’t laugh. Biting her lip as she tilts her head and muffles any sound that might come out into her son’s hair.

“Mom!” he complains, “I’m serious!”

She lifts her head and huffs, brushing his hair back again. “I know Anakin.”

He goes quiet again, looking down at his hands as he adds, “Also… he hurts you and makes you sad. I don’t want to protect him…”

She closes her eyes and presses a kiss into his hair.

“Everything will be alright.” She murmurs more to herself than her son.

[privilege-rpg]

REAGAN MORRIS-CORCORAN

☆ FULL NAME: Reagan Elliot Morris-Corcoran ☆ GENDER: Ciswoman ☆ PRONOUNS: She/Her ☆ AGE: 37 (December 25th, 1986) ☆ TYPE: Adopted sibling; solo ☆ HOMETOWN: New York City, New York ☆ JOB: Head Of Security @ PSU; part time security @ The Rupture ☆ SCHOOL: PSU Alumni ☆ SEXUALITY: Bisexual ☆ FACECLAIM: Cobie Smulders

ABOUT REAGAN

(tw death of a parent, car accident resulting in death, reference to sexual assault, death of a spouse)

Reagan’s life up until the age of twelve was actually pretty mundane. Born Reagan Morris, she adored her mom Kelsey and spent a lot of her childhood hanging out backstage as her mother performed on Broadway. That’s also where she met “Aunty Shelby”, her mom’s best friend and frequent co-star, and when Shelby had her own children, Reagan considered them her cousins without skipping a beat. She loved her mom, was always in awe of her talent and had been giddy with excitement when she discovered that she had inherited her vocal talents too, Kelsey happily encouraging her precocious daughter to pursue whatever passion her heart desired, which included the electric guitar and the drums too.

However, not long after Reagan’s twelfth birthday, disaster struck. Kelsey and Reagan were driving home late one night after the latter’s first singing competition, Reagan on cloud nine after winning first place, when out of nowhere they were rammed hard off the road. She doesn’t remember a lot after that, it’s all just pieces of a memory that she’s not in a hurry to relive. Blood, broken glass, a lot of pain, flashing blue lights… all of it in bits of pieces as Reagan tried to figure out what was going on and where her mom was. The next thing she remembers clearly is Shelby Corcoran cupping her face gently in her hands as she sat by herself in the ER, arm in a cast and sling, a few stiches in her forehead, most of the blood on her skin and in her hair not her own. It was a tearful Shelby that broke the news to her that her mom had died despite the best efforts of the paramedics and the surgeons at the hospital. Reagan broke down in her arms, her entire world turned upside down by the freak accident, as it turned out the other driver had hit a bad patch of ice and been unable to stop as they barrelled into mother and daughter, sending all three of them into a barrier at the side of the road.

Shelby took Reagan home with her that night, and that was where Reagan remained. She had no other family, she’d never known her father or even who he was, her maternal grandparents had disowned Kelsey years ago and when informed of her passing didn’t even care enough to show up for the funeral nevermind take custody of their granddaughter. So, instead of letting Reagan end up in foster care and lose everyone she knew in one fell swoop, Shelby became her emergency foster parent instead. Once a happy go lucky kid, Reagan became sullen and withdrawn, the first to admit now in hindsight that she was a terrible kid to take care of in those first few years. Shelby has said since that she never regretted taking Reagan in, even during those initial years when she would frequently find herself in arguments with her and becoming increasingly more concerned over Reagan’s high risk behaviours.

It was said high risk behaviours that often got Reagan into trouble at school, going from being a straight A, honours student to having a D- average and on the verge of being expelled for ditching classes to smoke weed and drink under the bleachers. But Reagan didn’t care, she didn’t care about anything anymore, she’d stopped singing and playing her instruments, stopped trying at school, stopped giving a single fuck about anything, because what did it matter? Everything you know and love can be ripped away from you in an instant, so what was the point? Reagan reached fourteen, still acting out and rebelling in every way she could, pushing away everyone that could possibly try and get close to her because it was easier and safer than letting her walls down. One night, at a high school party she had lied about her age to get into, her date for the evening had given her something a little stronger to try, but Reagan had no idea he’d done so, slipping it into her drink. When she was feeling dizzy and lethargic, he had all but carried her up the stairs and into a bedroom where his friends were waiting for them.

Reagan mercifully remembers very little of what happened when the bedroom door shut behind her, but what she does recall is waking up alone on the bed, bruised and aching and full of fear, knowing there was only one person she could call right now that would help her without question: Shelby. It was as Shelby gently redressed her, wiped her tears from her bruised cheek as carefully as she could and kissed her forehead that Reagan realised just how much she had done for her, and how much she had put up with over the last few years. Reagan broke down in her arms again that night, pleading her to just take her home, to not send her away for being such an awful person, and Shelby had simply held her tighter in response, telling her that she couldn’t get rid of her that easily and that no matter what Reagan thought of herself, Shelby loved her like she was biologically her own.

Reagan started to pull herself together after that, vowing to make Shelby’s life easier from now on, to get her grades back on track and prove that she wasn’t just a mess. Shelby let her transfer schools, and watched with pride as Reagan dragged herself back up to an A- average instead. It was on her sixteenth birthday (and Christmas day) that she approached Shelby and asked her if she would consider formally adopting her, as long as it was okay that she hyphenated her surname to be Morris-Corcoran. Shelby had been ecstatic and readily agreed, and Reagan finally seemed to be settling down, on an even keel as she went on to graduate from high school and headed to PSU. She didn’t necessarily want to go to college, but after learning that the FBI required her to get at least a bachelors degree, Reagan decided to get a communications degree and call it a day. Once she arrived at Quantico, Reagan was quick to impress and prove her place, assigned to several elite task forces during her career. It was after she moved back to New York again, missing the familiar comforts of home and her family, that Reagan also met Nicole. They had hit it off in a bar, Nik working for the DOJ as a District Attorney, and an easy friendship soon blossomed into a relationship. Reagan found herself married to this beautiful and strong woman at the age of twenty six with zero regrets, hopelessly in love and blissfully happy, starting to play her guitar again, to sing again for the first time since the night her mom died, finally feeling strong enough to hear her own singing voice after spending over a decade blaming herself and it for causing their accident.

But it seemed that Reagan had become a lightning rod for tragedy, and Nik became the victim of a targeted attack after the gang of a very notorious gang leader she had put away acted in retaliation. It was outside their New York home, Reagan by her side as the spray of bullets caught them both off guard, and while Reagan took a face full of broken glass from a bullet shattering the window right next to her she still managed to fire back, putting herself between Nik and the hail of bullets firing their way, even as her vision on her right side was compromised. It was ultimately too little, too late in the end, as while the shooters peeled off as quickly as they appeared, Reagan cradled a dying Nik in her arms, desperately trying to stop the bleeding, screaming for help as Nik clung to her for as long as she could.

At the hospital, Reagan was told that while her eye could be salvaged, she was facing about a sixty to seventy percent vision loss on her right as a result of the shrapnel, effectively ending her career with the FBI too. In that moment, Reagan didn’t care though, all she wanted was Nik back and no-one could give that to her. It was too painful to return home to the house that she once shared with Nik, even after it was released by the police and no longer a crime scene, so Reagan moved back in with Shelby, grateful for her more than she could explain then or since as she cried in her arms like she was a kid again.

She hasn’t really been okay since quite frankly, lost and adrift without her career and the love of her life, cramming all of it down and adopting a devil may care attitude and several thick walls of defense made of sarcasm and eye rolls, unable to commit to anyone for longer than a couple of months. Reagan stayed in New York for a little while, but the city that she had once loved became synonymous with every awful thing that had ever happened to her and after travelling across the States for a while, picking up security jobs here and there, eventually she landed in her old stomping grounds of PSU as their Head of Security a little over two years ago. Reagan now lives in a studio apartment with her German Shepard Loki, alleging that she’s very happy with her little bachelorette bad and her single life, that she’s done grieving for her wife, that she doesn’t miss singing or playing her guitar or her drums, that she’s fine.

Reagan isn’t fine, she’s far from it in fact, but right now she isn’t ready to accept that.

FAMILY BACKGROUND

The Corcoran family consists of Shelby Corcoran, a renowned and legendary Broadway star, most famous in theatre for her portrayal of Donna in the 20th Anniversary production of Mamma Mia, Diana Goodman in Next to Normal, but she achieved huge success when she was cast as Fantine in the movie adaptation of Les Miserables, and her children. Shelby has been a Broadway legend for most of her life, starting when she landed the standby for Elphaba in Wicked. She has three Tony awards and an Emmy, and she’s looking forward to being the first mom of five to achieve an EGOT.

Although Shelby has entered into a few seemingly solid relationships, each one producing a child, she has never been able to keep a tight enough grasp for them to move on further than short-lived engagements. For Shelby, who is an excellent mother, her work and her children are her life, and a man has just never slotted perfectly enough into that. While some of the fathers are still in the picture, Shelby has always had a higher percentage of custody, and holds the title “Mom” in higher regard than any of her many awards and work-based achievements.

[jxstadaydreamer]

first impressions

from this gifset by @celestyeol

Pairing: Park Chanyeol x afab reader Genre: Strangers to Lovers, Romance, Fluff Word count: 5235

Summary: Getting back into the dating scene is tough and no one you've come across on these God-forsaken apps have caught your attention. But when one finally does, despite the fact there's an undeniable spark between the two of you and the amount of not-a-date coffee runs you've been on together, you're still too afraid to go on an official first date with him.

Author's note: Happy birthday to my one & only! 🎉 Thank you to my beloved for always proof reading my work and making sure my tenses match up! This story is an idea I’ve had for a long time after being inspired by a comment from a Reddit thread. I started it a while ago and gave up on it multiple times but I’m proud that I managed to pull through and finish it. I hope you can enjoy 💞 Feedback is always very appreciated! And if you do like it, please consider sharing it too 💞

It’s been quite a while since you were last in a relationship, your previous one had you sworn off the entire male species so you could heal your wounds and work on yourself. Of course you were a grown woman with needs and had the occasional short-lived fling here and there but now your desires had grown to something deeper and beyond bedroom activities. You began to miss having that intimate bond with a special someone. Just having another person to run silly errands with, have late night conversations about deep topics or nothing in particular, someone to marathon a tv show or try a new recipe with.

Loneliness gets to everyone, sooner or later.

You don’t want to actively, desperately seek out a partner but you have to start somewhere. And with some slightly aggressive persuasion from your friends, and your own deep dive internet research where you had found a convincing number of success stories, you decide to sign up for some dating apps. Because apparently ‘that’s how everyone meets these days!’

Now, you expected to come across some weirdos and creeps, of course, men who send one liners ranging from awfully cheesy to downright disrespectful or those who ask for your snapchat straight away because that’s where they prefer to chat, the latter being an immediate red flag to you. It wasn’t all bad however, some managed to hold some decent conversation and banter, but none that gave you that spark of interest, merely candidates for a nice chat. Proving just as much when you had agreed to a first date with some that would either be embarrassingly awkward or just lacking any chemistry whatsoever. With some even feeling entitled to some sort of exchange just because ‘they had done the gentlemanly thing of paying for your meal.’ Ugh. Over time, the hope you had to find your special someone through dating apps had waned significantly.

Enough that you almost gave up. Almost.

It’s near the end of an entirely too long work day when you receive the notification, the vibration making your eyes avert their gaze from the computer screen to the now lit screen of your phone. You notice the dating app icon, alerting you to a new match. Not feeling too giddy, you return to your work when another buzz of your phone steals your attention once again. Seeing that this time it's a message, you pick up your phone curious to see what this new match has opened with. Another pickup line? Would it be ridiculously corny or something icky? Maybe it would be the standard ‘hello beautiful, how are you?’ which was pleasant, yes, but also boring.

Instead, your eyes widen a smidgen and you sit up a little straighter. The outer corners of your lips quirk up just the slightest.

[Chanyeol]: i need to know - how do you feel about ace’s death?

You’re thinking of your reply when another message pops up.

[Chanyeol]: i’m sorry if that was random ^^” i just noticed the one piece flag and figurines in the background of one of your photos and got excited!

Wait. What? You quickly navigate back to one of your profile and notice on the 3rd image that the little nerd corner in your room had indeed been caught in one of your chosen selfies. How did you miss that? Ugh. Oh well. You also take the opportunity to tap through to his profile and refresh your memory. Damn. He’s hot. You think to yourself. Not wanting to make him wait too long, you shake your head of the thought and return to the chat screen.

[You]: hi chanyeol! it’s alright lol tbh i didn’t even notice they were in the pic. but to answer your question - i bawled like a baby.

It doesn’t take long for him to reply, and that fact alone widens the small smile that had crept onto your features.

A few dozen messages are exchanged back and forth before you look up and notice that everyone in the office has already left except for the usual suspects that liked to linger and try to earn some overtime. You look at the time and realise you could have left 35 minutes ago. Where the hell did the time go? Moving past the initial confusion, you quickly collect your belongings, heading out the building and towards the subway station.

You’re a little embarrassed to admit but you almost missed your stop. Cause? Being way too engrossed in a conversation with a man you didn’t even know 2 hours ago, discussing other events from what you now know is both of your favourite anime. You manage to walk home in record time, mindlessly throwing your things on one end of the sofa, plopping yourself down on the other and pulling your phone out to read his recent reply.

It’s only when you hear the rumble of your own stomach that you peel your eyes away from your phone screen and realise the sun has long set and you still haven't eaten a thing. Deciding it's too late to cook, and definitely not because you’re too lazy, you settle on ordering a pizza. You note the arrival time and think it’s just enough for you to hop into the shower and wash away the exhaustion the work week has given you. Turning on the water and tapping out yet another reply before you place your phone on the vanity and step inside the glass cubicle.

If you didn’t realise how much trouble you were in when you missed dinner (which was a first for you) or when you found yourself constantly glancing over at your phone screen to see if he had replied yet with ears hyper aware of the app notification alert tone any time you had to close your eyes or turn away, you definitely realise it now as you stare at the dark screen of your phone and your flustered reflection stares back at you.

Upon exiting the shower and drying your hands just enough to use your phone without dragging water droplets across the screen, you realise why there was no lighting up of the screen or notification melody sounding from your phone speaker – your phone battery was flat. What did you expect though? With the countless hours you had spent messaging back and forth, screen basically constantly lit. You quickly wrap a towel around yourself and rush to your bedside, plugging in the charger and waiting for the dark screen to light up with the logo and come back to life.

It’s in this moment that you think maybe you need to chill, afraid that you could be coming on too strong. Although, he’s reciprocating your energy too, right? Maybe, just maybe, he is just as into you as you are to him? The thought causes a fuzzy, warm, fluttering feeling in your stomach but is interrupted by the ringing of the doorbell, signalling your saviour and grace, the food delivery driver, has arrived.

As you settle down in front of the tv and turn on your comfort Netflix show that serves no purpose other than background noise to make you feel less alone, you absentmindedly shove the food into your mouth in between tapping out reply after reply. Eventually, you wash up and move to a comfier location. Snuggling into your plush sheets and chatting like lovesick teenagers until your eyes struggle to stay open and you wish eachother goodnights and sweet dreams.

-

You and Chanyeol continue texting each other about anything and everything throughout the day for the two weeks, exchanging social media accounts somewhere in between. You quickly find out that Chanyeol is an avid Snapchat user but in the cutest way. He would snap you things he encounters during his day – pretty flowers, the sky, cute animals, etc. – because “it makes me smile so I hope it makes you smile too.”

There was a particular snap that made your stomach hurt so much from laughing the first time you had seen it, a cheesy grin on your face anytime you recall it. Chanyeol was filming a snap of some cute goslings he’d spotted by a lake, only to be running away frantically screaming moments later because the daddy goose was chasing him away from its babies.

Every now and then you send him a gif of a goose when he gets a little smart with you.

One night, he asks if he can call you because his hands are a little tired from playing the guitar all day (Yeah, guitar. He’s a musician. That writes his own songs. These facts combined with his looks make you wonder if he’s real and if you’re being catfished), and you hesitantly agree. You hate the sound of your own voice and you’re afraid he might find it off-putting but the desire to listen to his voice trumps your insecurities in the end. It’s a decision you don’t regret. He’s such a great conversationalist that you completely forget how nervous you are in no time and the first phone call lasts til some hours of the AM.

You’re not sure when you fall asleep but you blame the comfiness of your bed and the velvet-like sound of his voice – smooth, deep and comforting. You think he may have been in the middle of telling you a childhood memory, his voice soft because of how late it was and the fondness of the story.

As you wait in line the next morning for the much needed coffee, you unlock your phone and type out a good morning text to Chanyeol, apologising for falling asleep and promising to make it up to him somehow. You also open Snapchat to snap him your current view of the coffee shop, caption wishing you could buy him a cup of coffee too to atone for your sins. You faintly hear the Snapchat notification sounding from somewhere behind you but you don’t think much of it until you hear it coming from your own phone some moments later, swiping it open to see what it could be.

You stare at your screen wondering why the floor looks so familiar and what he’s playing at when another snap comes through.

And now you definitely know why you could recognise the flooring. Because it’s the exact same view in front of you. Only his point of view was from a little further back and included you in the frane. Caption stating: someone who owes me coffee! And a sticker of an arrow pointing at your figure.

You spin around abruptly and it’s definitely hard to miss his tall stature, let alone the brightest grin you’ve ever seen on a human being currently being flashed at you. You give him a shy wave and he makes his way across the coffee shop to stand beside you. You quickly glance down at your outfit, mentally kicking yourself for choosing convenience over style and subtly try to brush the knots out of your hair with your fingers.

“Fancy meeting you here.” you can practically hear the smile in his voice and this fact is only confirmed when you literally have to look up to see him, if it was even possible for him to be smiling any bigger than he was before.

“It is..considering I’m here everyday and I’m sure I’d remember seeing you here.” you said, raising an eyebrow.

“I just moved here recently so I’m trying to find a new coffee spot… and I think I just found it.”

The way he’s looking at you brings the heat to your cheeks and you’re praying to the heavens that it’s not too obvious. You chance a peek at him and luckily he’s no longer looking at you, instead his gaze facing forward as it reads over the menu above the counter. You also notice that the huge grin is gone and is replaced with a tight lipped smile and a deep dimple. Taking advantage of the opportunity that he is seemingly, momentarily distracted by the menu options, you take in his handsome visuals. And the fact that he is actually here with you in person, quickly erasing all thoughts of you possibly being catfished because you thought he was just too good to be true.

Eventually, he makes up his mind and heads up to the counter to order an iced americano. You both sit down to enjoy your beverages and some conversation about what the day ahead entails for you before you have to head off to work. Chanyeol offers to drive you but you kindly refuse him, letting him know you actually enjoy the short walk that’s only a few blocks down. He juts his bottom lip out in a pout but nods. You can’t help but laugh at him as you wave goodbye.

As the weeks go by, you fall into a routine with Chanyeol. Meeting him for coffee in the mornings, where sometimes he would drive you if you were carrying some heavy items or he’d walk with you if he wasn’t in a rush that day, texting on and off throughout the day and talking on the phone before bedtime had advanced to video calls instead.

You had grown so comfortable with him that it was easy to share your thoughts without worrying he would judge you, whether it would be a random idea you had or just something you had come across during your day. He would either laugh about it with you or indulge in the thought with you. The comfort only made you become more smitten with him, especially since he seems to be reciprocating your every move. It never felt like you were doing too much or too little and that things were heading in a nice direction.

-

[Chanyeol :)]: hypothetically, how would you feel if i asked you on a date?

Usually, Chanyeol’s texts make your stomach flutter in a good way but this question, albeit hypothetical, has you feeling a little unwell. Your previous encounters with other matches on the very same app you met Chanyeol on had left you with a bad taste whenever it came to first dates. And you know you could be honest with Chanyeol and tell him exactly that but you just have to come up with a way to do so without making him think that you think he would be another one of those guys.

Typing and backspacing over and over again, you decide it’s too easy to misunderstand over text and if you video call him then you’ll end up giving into his pout. Paired with the kicked puppy look he pulls off so well? You stand no chance. So you opt for a phone call, it’s the safest option, middle ground of the other two.

He picks up the phone almost immediately.

“Hey! Is everything alright?”

“Everything is great. I, uh, just thought it’d be better to tell you this over the phone instead of texting you…”

“Oh,” he replied, coming to a realisation, “oh. Did I- Crap. Did I misunderstand something? I mean, I just thought that we- I thought you felt the same way so I- Fuck. Shit, sorry.”

“No, no no!” – you interject to bring a stop to his flustered rambling – “I do. I thought it was quite obvious but I do feel the same way.” You can feel the rosey hue blooming on the apples of your cheeks. Thank God this wasn’t a video call. Good choice Y/N. “It’s just that I had some bad experiences with first dates before I met you. Some of the guys just…weren’t that nice during or even after the date. And don’t get me wrong! I know you’re nothing like them but the fact that it’s a first date just makes me extra nervous is all. I mean, I’d like to, eventually, with you. I’m just a little scared that I might screw something up, kinda, I guess.”

You take a deep breath and slap your forehead when you realise the mess of words you had just spewed out in the span of 10 seconds.

“Wow, so articulate Y/N. Dammit I knew I should’ve just stuck with texting.” you mutter to yourself.

You hear a deep, throaty chuckle from him that distracts you from your self depricating thoughts.

“Phew!” – he exclaims dramatically – “Had me worried for a sec there. But thank you for explaining it to me. And phone call was definitely the right choice so don’t worry.” – laughing at you again – “I get it! Really! No pressure whatsoever.”

“Thank you for being so understanding.”

“Of course. But you shouldn’t have to thank me for it, isn’t it the bare minimum? Anyways, have you eaten yet?”

Damn, this guy is just so smooth with the way he steers the conversation in another direction and just ever so charming with his words and understanding nature.

-

It’s Saturday afternoon and after a productive day of cleaning your apartment from the mess you’ve created and neglected during the week, you sit down to enjoy some moments of peace in your now tidy space and contemplate your options for the rest of the evening. Closing your eyes and leaning your head back against the comfy cushions on your sofa.

A buzz and ding of your phone from its place on your coffee table has a smile etching its way onto your face and you sit up, reaching for it to see the name of exactly who you thought it would be on your screen.

[Chanyeol<3]: are you busy rn?

[You]: hm not rn no. what’s up?

[Chanyeol<3]: i was just about to run some errands but don’t feel like going solo. care to bless me with your company?

[You]: i mean, i don’t see how that would be blessing you but sure, i’d love to join you :)

[Chanyeol<3]: cool! i’ll pick you up soon?

[You]: sure. see you in a bit!

Shoot! You race to the bathroom, looking into the mirror and assess your mess of a situation right now. There’s no time for a shower so you opt to put your hair up into a bun for now and reach for some makeup to attempt a no-makeup makeup look, just enough to tidy yourself up and look clean and fresh.

It’s just errands right? You’d look silly if you dress up too much. You need something comfortable. Something functional but cute still. You end up in a loose tshirt tucked into a nice pair of jeans that just so happen to make your butt look good.

Your timing is perfect, slipping your sneakers on just as Chanyeol texts you that he’s outside, grabbing your bag and heading downstairs to meet him.

As you’re walking out the lobby, you can already see him across the street. He’s leaning against this huge silver SUV. He’s dressed in jeans and a hoodie but the scene looks like something out of a magazine with his tall physique, handsome face and styled hair. It’s probably a thought you have too often but it’s something you don’t think you could ever move past.

He looks up when he hears the doors of the building close as you exit and he stands up straighter, greeting you with a warm smile and a frantic wave of his hand.

“Hi!” he says as soon as you’ve crossed the street and close enough that he doesn’t need to raise his voice to be heard.

“Hey!” you return his smile, “Oh my gosh your car is HUGE! But I guess it needs to be for you to fit inside comfortably.”

He chuckles at your comment and it eases your nerves a little. He opens the door for you like a true gentleman and you climb inside, buckling yourself in as he rounds the front of the car to the drivers side.

“Ready?” he asks, turning to you with an award winning grin.

You nod happily and he turns the engine on, pulling away from the curb and towards his destination. You try to ask him where but he says you’ll see when you get there. Chanyeol turns on the radio but keeps the volume at a minimum so you can still speak comfortably to eachother.

Soon enough, he turns into the underground parking lot of a shopping mall complex and parks his car.

“What do you need to do here?” you ask him once you’re both inside the elevator taking you up to the chosen level.

“Just wait a little longer, little miss impatient. You’ll see.”

He laughs when you huff and pout your lips.

Chanyeol leads the way but you notice his long legs allow him longer strides that force you to quicken your step a little just to keep up with him. He seems to notice this though and slows himself down to a pace that's good for you both.

“So, you remember that candy you were telling me about last time? The one you said your grandma used to buy for you when you little and you can’t find anymore?”

You nod slowly, quirking a brow and tilting your head, wondering where he’s going with this.

“I found out this place here sells them!”

He stops as he says this and points to a small candy shop. Inside, you can see that there are walls and shelves lined with various types of candies and snacks. It seems he’s scoped out this place prior to taking you here because he takes you to the exact place they’re kept in the store.

Your eyes grow wide when you spot the familiar packaging of your childhood favourite and you can’t help the tears forming at your waterline.

Grabbing yourself a few packs of that specific candy, you and Chanyeol browse through the rest of the store, selecting a few more before you both make your way to the counter to pay for your chosen goods.

Chanyeol reaches for his wallet but you stop him, firmly insisting that he allow you to pay for his and your things to thank him for bringing you here and finding something that is so important to you. He sees the look of determination in your eyes and decides not to challenge you. He needs to pick his battles wisely if he wants the rest of the evening to pan out the way he intends it to.

Leaving the store and following Chanyeol to his next errand location, you can’t help but feel touched by the fact that he remembered something you had told him in passing over the phone and also managed to find you the exact thing you talked about too.

You’re pulled out of your thoughts by the sound of Chanyeol’s laughter and you look up to realise he’s stopped walking, now watching you and chuckling as his shoulders bounce up and down.

“What?”

“I should be asking you that. What’s got you so deep in thought?”

“Nothing!” you quickly say, sounding way too defensive for your own good.

He hums, letting you know he didn’t really believe you but isn’t going to question you any further.

“Well, while you were too busy thinking about ‘nothing,’ I was trying to ask if you wanted to see this movie with me?” – he points over to a poster on the wall and you realise you’ve stopped in front of the cinema – “I didn’t realise it was out already! I’ve been looking forward to it.”

It’s been a while since you’ve seen a movie in an actual cinema, considering everything is just so accessible online these days. The movie he’s asking you to watch with him is an action comedy, it can’t be too bad right? You seem to have the same taste with most things so far.

“I mean, if you don’t want to. It’s okay, I just thought we could watch it together since we’re both here right now.”

He sees the gears in your head cranking and he’s hoping he didn’t overstep by asking you, the last thing he wants is for you to feel uncomfortable around him. His nervousness shows by the way he’s unable to stand still, shifting from one foot to another and scratching the back of his neck.

“No, no, I’d love to watch it with you! It’s been so long since I’ve been to an actual cinema too. I think it’ll be fun!”

A toothy grin immediately appears on his features, eyes bright and sparkly with excitement.

“Awesome! I’ll go get the tickets and something from the candy bar too. Any requests?”

“Maybe just a drink? I think we have plenty of things to snack on.” you laugh, pointing to the bag he’s holding.

He nods in agreement and quickly scurries off to buy some tickets.

-

You both emerge from the dark movie theatre just under 2 hours later feeling a little closer than you did when you went in.

It was a great movie, it had a balance of suspenseful moments, scenes that made you laugh and a not-so-heavy-romance-but-just-enough plot thrown in. Truly something for everyone.

It was also the first time you had sat so closely with Chanyeol. Close enough that you could smell his cologne wafting to your nose and holy shit did he smell absolutely delicious. He would nudge you during the funny scenes as he laughed. Although the two of you had started off leaving a respectable distance, somewhere during the movie you had both managed to scoot closer to each other. Your thigh resting comfortably against his, upper arms touching too.

You both opened some of the snacks you had bought earlier to try and looked to each other for reactions, most of them were so good and the others not so much, making you both scrunch your face at eachother and quickly wrap the packet up and placing it back into the bag to reach for another instead.

Walking back to the car together, you discuss the happenings of the movie you’ve both just watched and end up quoting the same lines to eachother. His eyes are now in a semi permanent crescent moon position from all the laughing, a vast difference to his usual rounded full-moon-esque eyes that look like they contain galaxies within them. You wonder if his cheeks hurt from smiling as much as yours do.

You have learnt that Chanyeol laughs with his entire body, whether it be the not so subtle shaking of his shoulders, loud echoing claps from his huge hands, slapping his own body (usually thighs) or whatever furniture is within range or just folding over and holding himself. You wouldn’t put it behind him to regularly end up on the floor dying from a laughing fit too. The thought is endearing, the fact that he’s just so happy it vibrates through his entire being this way.

All that laughing must have depleted his body of energy because the moment you settle into the car and buckle up your seatbelts, you hear a huge extended rumbling sound coming from, what you can safely assume by the way he quickly clutches his abdomen, is his stomach.

Chanyeols ears grow bright red and he smiles at you sheepishly.

“Um, would you like to go get some food?” he says, scratching the back of his neck. A nervous habit of his that you’ve manage to pick up on. “Since we’re already together right now and it’s basically dinner time..” he trails off.

“Sure, why not. Since we’re conveniently together right now and I don’t think your stomach can wait any longer.” you tease.

“Hey!” he puts on a pretend offended look. “Is there anything in particular you want to eat? Anything you’re craving?”

“Hmm,” you purse your bottom lip and roll your eyes around in thought, “not really. I don’t mind what we eat.”

“Do you like ramen? There’s this spot I really like and it’s close by.”

“I love it! Let’s go there.”

Feeling pleased with himself that you so happily accept his suggestion for dinner and invite to join him for yet another thing, Chanyeol knows he definitely can’t wipe the grin off his face even if his cheeks are definitely feeling sore from smiling so much. He just hopes you’re enjoying yourself when spending time with him as much as he was with you.

Just like he said, the ramen restaurant was indeed close by and you arrive there in less than 10 minutes and a few turns along the way.

It’s a cosy little, hole in the wall type place that you wouldn’t have noticed in passing. Chanyeol swears this place has the best ramen he’s tasted outside of Japan, telling you to trust his judgement because he apparently travels there pretty often and has had his fair share of authentic Japanese cuisine.

You enter the small restaurant and are immediately greeted by the chef behind the counter, bowing and welcoming you inside and showing you to some seats. After perusing the menu and putting your order in, its not long before your steaming hot bowl of ramen arrives and you thank the chef for the food.

Picking up your spoon, you dip it inside the broth to scoop up some of the deliciousness to taste. The rich flavour immediately hits your senses and it tastes even better than it smells and looks.

“So?” Chanyeol asks, excited to hear your verdict.

“It really is so good!”

“Yay! I’m glad you like it.”

Chanyeol’s own bowl of ramen arrives immediately after and he follows your actions of thanking the chef before digging into the food, slurping up the broth and noodles.

Having ordered a smaller serving and receiving your food before Chanyeol, you end up finishing before he does and you allow yourself some silent moments to reflect on the past few hours you’ve spent with him.

You don’t think you’ve been this happy in a long time. And you can’t remember the last time you’ve felt this comfortable around someone new either. Could you really call him someone new though? After the amount of time you’ve spent texting together and on calls, coffee meetups in the mornings…you’ve definitely entered some sort of situationship with him. Any doubts you had about whether he felt the same way you did about him had dissipated. Any inklings of wonder you had whether he felt it to the intensity you did had gone too. Because just as much as you love spending time with him, he seems to want your company the same also.

Maybe you are ready. More than you had previously thought. Just scared, maybe.

“A penny for your thoughts?” Chanyeol asks, derailing your train of thought.

“I was just thinking…hypothetically, maybe I am ready to go on that date.”

The smile he gives you is impish. It’s not the bright, happy kind of smile you were expecting. It’s the mischievous kind, like when a little kid knows a silly secret or something. It makes you squint your eyes at him, questioning his motives.

“What?”

“Well, actually, we kinda did already go on that hypothetical date.”

You’re wondering what in the hell he’s on about when it clicks. What dat- Oh. Oh. A movie and dinner. The classic, run of the mill date.

You can’t even be mad. It’s too smart. He tricked you into going on a first date with him.

“Clever bastard.”

[ambelle]

Okay finally watched the newest titans and Anna and Brenton are chief’s kiss of acting. I am going to miss them together on screen. I like that we as the DK fandom knew that Dick was in love with Kory this whole time I mean come on this man defended her at all times [ “she’s not a killer, she kills people sometimes”] bro you got it bad. But what surprised me was how recent Kory realized that she was in with Dick I figured it was sometime in season 2; but overall I like this development for her. It does make me chuckled and giddy that his halfass reunion with Babs last season was him doing the absolute minimum and it was showing. I mean he was straight up flirting with Kory while he was getting ready to go on a date with Babs. He was never interested in rekindling that relationship until Kory planted the idea in his head. And Dawn… bitch never has a chance with Dick even without Kory being in the picture.

In the upcoming episodes, I have a feeling that Kory is going to pull a Dick and sacrifice herself without letting Dick know because he’s not going to take it well as he’s already not handling it well. But with Kory doing that, does this mean we might get supernova Kory that flies???

Honestly Dickdawn was one sided on her part. In s1 when Rachel said Dawn was into him his immediate response was that it’s in the past. He never pursued her in present day and even in the Trigon dream he knew for her it was Hank at the end of the day. And for him he’s rather be with Kory.

Both Babs and Dawn wanted him to be someone else. Dawn wanted him to be obsessed with her to the point he’d quit being a hero just to follow her around. And Babs was comparing him to Batman even after she herself acknowledged Bruce traumatized him.

Kory is the one who saw Dick at his worse and offered comfort instead of making him feel worse. It makes sense to me that he fell for her that fast.

I actually feel like Kory had feelings in s1 but she just pulled back after they broke up. Just like dying reminded Dick (through Mar’i) that he loved Kory. Dick’s death reminded Kory how strongly she feels for him.

I think Kory is going try to sacrifice himself and Dick will finally get how she felt all the times he did it. He won’t handle it well at all LOL.

I think she’ll end up going supernova and sorta be reborn or something. Roberta said she’ll as she is now which seems like really particular wording.

[dustedmagazine]

Dust Volume 9, Number 4

Photo of Angel Olsen by Luke Rogers

Dust is everywhere these days, but that’s a good thing.  April may be the cruelest month, but it’s also when the release calendar swings into full gear and local concert announcements proliferate.  We’ve made it through the long dark void.  It’s time for beers outside and portable speakers.  What are we blasting?  Oh, lots of things.  Australian punks and Michigan rappers, German death metalists and French composers, piano deconstructers and freaking Arto Lindsay.  This month’s contributors include Jennifer Kelly, Ray Garraty, Jonathan Shaw, Bill Meyer, Tim Clarke, Ian Mathers, Patrick Masterson and Jim Marks.

Blowers — Blown Again (Chaputa!/Spooky)

Blown Again LP by BLOWERS

“Wipe My Ass” materialized in my inbox on a slow day. It came all the way from Australia with blunt force scatological humor, and yeah, I clicked on the link. Why not? It’s dead brute simple, this song, starting with a girl (also the drummer) yelling out the title phrase, and picking up first a buzzsaw guitar lick and later, the somewhat wistful, surprisingly hooky chorus of “I just want somebody…to wipe my ass.”  These songs are all raging ID and very little super-ego. “Shut the Fuck Up” is catchy as hell, in the vein of Jay Reatard’s late-career, alternative-universe hits, and “Let’s Age Disgracefully” aims a firehose of guitar nose straight at the speakers, so that you have to step back a little bit. Leonard Cohen, it’s not, but if you like giddy, joke-y, irrepressible garage punk from people who can barely play their instruments, well, prepare to get blown.

Jennifer Kelly

Cellow — Ghetto Takeover (Jugg$treet)

There is literally no information on who this guy Cellow is, and this EP won’t change the situation. In a dozen of years we will be just saying “Oh, remember that dude that did a little tape with Rio Da Yung Og?” It looks like Cellow took a deal Rio was offering before he got locked up — to record an EP with an artist for $50k — but Ghetto Takeover didn’t surface until now. After 20 listens, hardly a line written by Cellow stays in your memory, possibly due to his total lack of charisma. Rio Da Yung Og completely steals the show here, on all the tracks he’s featured, and he’s in a full ignorance mode: “Fuck Obama and I ain't vote for Trump neither \ Stupid-ass white boys, Butthead and Beavis.” It’s the Flint MC who’s taking over Ghetto Takeover, not Cellow.

Ray Garraty

Ch’Ahom — Camazotz Cult (Sentient Ruin Laboratories)

Camazotz Cult by CH'AHOM

Ahead of a new LP from German black/death band Ch’Ahom, the sharp-eared freaks at Sentient Ruin Laboratories are releasing this compilation LP, and they’ve done us a solid. Camazotz Cult is as confounding and queasy as it is unpleasantly intense, precisely the sort of thing some of us look for in underground metal. What might possess a bunch of young German dudes to disappear into the mythos of a Pre-Columbian bat god, to the extent that they are compelled to form a band to write and record songs about it? This reviewer can’t shed any light on that—and likely the reasons should remain shrouded in dank, noisome darkness. If the denizens of TikTok and Telegram are alerted to the existence of the band, the ethno-purity police will show up to lodge their complaints: some will wring hands over cultural appropriation, others in black metal circles will bum out over the idea of Northern European kids digging on gods from the Global South. So goes our contemporary conjuncture. Meanwhile, songs like “Raid of the Tzitzimime” and “Noh Ek” churn and burn. To add to the cultural confusion, Ch’Ahom have covered a few tunes by Danish wackos Sadogoat, who went on to release more music under the even more inspired name Sadomator; Ch’Ahom’s rendition of “Female Goat Perversion” is as awful as you might expect, and it’s also pretty great. For sure, it’s the right soundtrack for 2023’s latest iteration of our global shitshow. Release the bat god, please.

Jonathan Shaw

Dippers — Looking for a Sphere (Goner/Tenth Court)

Looking for a Sphere by Dippers

The Melbourne garage punk rippers known as Thigh Master made two taut and scrappy full-lengths before ending their run. Now, a couple of years later, the two principals Matthew Ford and Innez Tulloch are back under a new name, Dippers, and a greatly altered sound. Looking for a Sphere, along with the single “Tightening the Tangles” make a case for fractious jangle but also psychedelic dreaming. Dippers do both. The single, out about a month ago, hews closer to the Thigh Master template with scratchy tunefulness, jabbing guitars and a noodle-y meander of keyboards. On the Sphere EP, however, even the relative bangers are slower, sweeter and edging into a gritty variety of twee. “Mazing,” the lead-off cut, is arch and witty like the Monochrome Set, jaggedly surreal like certain Pollard songs. It cuts and slashes and tootles in a sleepy-eyed way, in line with what Terry has been up to over the last several albums. “Drift Space” is even more stretched and blissed out, with its widely space guitar chords, its long shudders of tambourine and its languid psychedelic choruses (“Inwardly imploding, the pressure inside will not worry me, turned off the air, I floated out there, then turned off the screen.”) The two instrumental tracks are the surprise however, built of long expanding synthesizer tones and harpsichord like natterings; they extend in every limpid direction from a still center. But if Mikey Young can dabble in ambient electronics—and he can—then why not Dippers? Garage punk is so much more interesting when it brings in ideas from outside.

Jennifer Kelly

Bruno Duplant — Insondables Humeurs (Granny)

Insondables Humeurs by Bruno Duplant

Bruno Duplant made nine albums in 2022, so pardon me for not getting around to writing about this one until now. Mind you, my tardiness does not mean that you should not listen. This album is part of a recent series of longform pieces on which the French composer and occasional instrumentalist has taken on the full-time task of performance. Insondables Humeurs earns its title, which translates as Unfathomable Moods. Its two tracks loom and stretch, with long harmonium drones taking plenty of time to lure the listener into a state that feels at once enveloping and uneasy. Electronic treatments, piano notes, and arhythmic percussion intrude periodically, amping up the apprehension. This is the final installment of a trilogy of sonically disparate but similarly disposed efforts; one gets the feeling that Duplant is deeply concerned about the ongoing state of things. The resulting sounds cannot be denied.

Bill Meyer

Exploding Corpse Action — Interdimensional Annihilation: Complete Transmissions 1995-1997 (Armageddon)

Inter-Dimensional Annihilation: Complete Transmissions 1995-1997 by Exploding Corpse Action

The redistribution of heavy music’s extensive back-catalog of hyper-obscure, underground releases continues apace, and sometimes one wonders about the intent. Filling in untold histories, or filling hipster collectors’ record bins? Creating archival records, or “deluxe edition” records as pricey commodities? Interdimensional Annihilation: Complete Transmissions 1995-1997 is a newly marketed collection of the relatively slim output of Albany-based death metal band Exploding Corpse Action, and the record provides a good occasion for thinking on those questions. We’ll stipulate to the excellence of the band’s name, and there’s some fun to be had; tunes like “Light Speed Impact Crater” and “Robotic Surgery Malfunction” are endearingly demented. But do we really need two marginally different takes of “Decompression: Anal Prolapse” in the interest of a “complete” set of recordings? Do we really need this record in the first place, when a quick inspection of the latest sounds on Bandcamp yields any number of death-metal-related experiences imbued with the same sort of goofball depravity? History seems to have been indifferent to the band’s existence, and none of the participants in Exploding Corpse Action went on to make more subculturally significant music. Maybe if you live in Albany, you feel differently about the band’s relative importance, and in that case, I’m sorry — not about the band, but about Albany.

Jonathan Shaw

Grandbrothers — Late Reflections (City Slang)

Late Reflections by Grandbrothers

The concept behind the fourth album by Erol Sarp and Lukas Vogel — the follow-up to 2021’s All the Unknown — is an interesting one: these ten pieces all feature grand piano as their sole sound source, recorded at night in Cologne Cathedral when the building was closed to the public. As expected, there are plenty of moments of quiet, gently reverberating reflection, building into exultant crescendos. However, what’s most surprising — and perhaps most disappointing — is that the piano is often so heavily processed as to render it indistinguishable. When crunchy beats kick in on a track like “Infinite,” one can’t help but wonder why a live kit couldn’t have been substituted instead; it certainly would have sounded more natural and more in-keeping with the album’s sound palette. Nevertheless, it’s often engrossing to follow how the duo’s multi-part compositions unfold.

Tim Clarke

Arto Lindsay — Charivari (Corbett Vs. Dempsey)

Charivari (Black Cross Solo Sessions 7) by Arto Lindsay

Three years is not so long ago. That’s how long ago that locked-down improv fans discovered, during the first Quarantine Concerts on-line festival, that Arto Lindsay had a few things to learn about adjusting the rotation of his cell phone’s video camera. The experience of watching him with a 90 degrees tilt may have obscured what a swell thing he had going, but this album will set you straight. If, like this writer, you have sometimes felt that larger settings dilute Lindsay’s singular integration of guitar noise, samba sway, and social anxiety-stirring provocation, this unaccompanied setting is the neat shot you’ve been waiting for. While occasional loops trick you into thinking that the earth’s rhythms can be trusted, marvelously jagged chunks of guitar noise topple while Lindsay croons and gasps fragments that let you know that you just don’t know. The numerologically inclined should be aware that this album is volume seven of Corbett Vs. Dempsey’s Black Cross Solo Sessions, a series of solo statements that the label commissioned from locked down artists. There are eight in all, each encased in a glossy reproduction of Christopher Wool’s titular cross. Collect ‘em, trade ‘em, but keep your bubble gum sticks away from ‘em. Inspirational lyric: “Resistance yoga.”

Bill Meyer 

Mute Duo — Migrant Flocks (American Dreams)

Migrant Flocks by Mute Duo

Chicago’s Mute Duo refer to their setup (Sam Wagster on pedal steel, Skyler Rowe on drums) as a “sandbox” and their play on Migrant Flocks bears that out. Whether on the flute-assisted (courtesy of Emma Hospelhorn), expansive centerpiece “The Ocean Door,” the harder-charging “Trust Lanes” and “Landmusik” (the latter featuring Doug McCombs and Andrew Scott Young), or the more ethereal ranges of “Moon in the Flood” and the closing “Bisrāma,” the duo refuses to be pigeonholed into what you might guess a pedal-steel-and-drums record might sound like. Some of this is technique (Wagster plays more conventionally guitar-like registers at times, Rowe mostly sticks with brushes), but it’s more the varied emotional and sonic palette they wield so astutely. At times the sound touches on anyone from later-period Earth to “Mogwai Fear Satan” to the Dirty Three, but always with a quality that marks Mute Duo as their own thing, and worth watching.

Ian Mathers

Paal Nilssen-Love Circus — Pairs of Three (PNL)

Pairs of Three by Paal Nilssen-Love Circus

The Norwegian drummer and bandleader Paal Nilssen-Love has lived a pretty international life. That has influenced his choice of associates — he’s played with musicians from the USA, Japan, Ethiopia, Brazil and all around Europe — and the distances he has traveled in order to play with them. This all changed when COVID came around, and he found himself confined within his home country’s borders, but improvisation is just another way of saying you’re good at solving problems. The members of Nilsen-Love’s Circus, who convened to record this album in the summer of 2021, all live in Scandinavia, but between them they can dial up any corner of the world in a second. The music changes by the second, jumping from accordion-led chanson to agit-prop punk to timbral improv, while singer Juliana Venter similarly leaps from tongue to tongue, with digressions into back of the throat, hackle-raising extended techniques. This music is a world unto itself, full of possibility.

Bill Meyer

Nondi_ — Flood City Trax (Planet Mu)

Flood City Trax by Nondi_

Best I can find, Tatiana Triplin has been releasing music since 2014, but Flood City Trax is her first away from the netlabel she runs, HRR, as well as her first for Planet Mu (not a bad place to greet a broader audience). The years of juke, footwork and techno intake make themselves felt across this album, which trips all over itself rhythms-wise but, more than anything to me, recalls the dreamily rough, lower-fidelity beats of Actress. Triplin says this album is inspired by the moods of her hometown of Johnstown, Penn., a place (in)famous for its flooding, and suggesting the music doesn’t carry with it some of that water weight, conscious or otherwise, would be misleading. More tangible than vaporwave but less fully submerged than Drexciya, Nondi_’s most prominent, cohesive album statement is also one of the year’s most excitingly pleasant surprises in the realm of electronic music.

Patrick Masterson 

Angel Olsen — Forever Means EP (Jagjaguwar)

Forever Means by Angel Olsen

For all of the ambition and willingness to push further stylistically that Angel Olsen has exhibited in the last half a decade, it’s clear she’s never lost sight of her greatest strengths: deftly sensitive songwriting and that otherworldly voice. Dipping her toes into the swollen decadence of All Mirrors or the ‘80s synthpop cosplay of Aisles remain diversions from her more traveled roads beaten with a guitar and a mic that can handle her pipes. The Olsen I fell in love with was Burn Your Fire for No Witness, and she seems to have come back around on that more restrained swagger lately with the All Mirrors reworkings Whole New Mess, last year’s excellent, settling Big Time and, now, leftovers from those sessions in the form of Forever Means. The sax and organ solos that run out of gas on “Nothing’s Free” and the afterthought of a trumpet on “Time Bandits” feel like failed flourishes, so you can see why she dropped them, but the title track is as good as she gets and none of these four tracks is obviously lacking for quality. No matter how much change she goes through — and heaven knows she’s had plenty of that recently — her gifts shine brightest when there’s less to hide them behind. The center continues to hold.

Patrick Masterson

ShaunMusiq, Ftears & Xduppy — “Bhebha (Feat. Myztro, Mellow & Sleazy, QuayR Musiq & Matuteboy)” (Kgaday)

The reigning sound of South Africa has been amapiano for several years now, and understandably so: Its relaxed rhythmic pace, airy melodies and “the pianos” from which the genre derives its name allow for plenty of creative space. One name taking recent advantage of the style is ShaunMusiq, who’s had a small but solid stream of singles since 2021’s SkrrThang II and here heads up a crew remixing a song that’s been blowing out cheap car subs and irritating parents around Pretoria since 2005. It won’t surprise you to learn this blew up via TikTok and that’s probably the impetus for this official video, which belatedly arrives a month out from the single’s release, but what might surprise you is how heavy that bass rolls as the three protagonists pass sleepy bars off to one another in the Bantu Tsonga language. Heavier still is just how committed this video is: From the dancers to the decked out Toyota Hiace, nothing’s left on the table. Get in, loser: We’re going to whatever party puts this on loudest.

Patrick Masterson

Silver Moth — Black Bay (Bella Union)

Black Bay by Silver Moth

The band Silver Moth is a pandemic-era coming together of Stuart Braithwaite (Mogwai) and his wife, singer-songwriter Elisabeth Elektra; singer-songwriter Evi Vine, plus her guitarist Steven Hill and multi-instrumentalist Ben Roberts; Abrasive Trees guitarist Andrew Rochford; and Ash Babb, drummer in Burning House and Academy of the Sun. The seven musicians convened at Black Bay studio on the Isle of Lewis in Scotland for a short stint of writing and recording, and these six songs are the result. Given it was all pulled together in the studio, the coherence is impressive, especially on opener “Henry,” which sounds like Mogwai fronted by Beth Gibbons, and “Mother Tongue,” which has the airy, exploratory feel of Meg Baird. The second half of the record is dominated by the 15-minute “Hello Doom” (a very Mogwai song title), which sounds exactly as you might imagine, searing fuzz guitar and all. Though occasionally lacking in its own distinct personality, there’s definitely sufficient chemistry on Black Bay for further Silver Moth music if the band has the time and inclination.

Tim Clarke 

Skooly — “08 Wayne” (The Real U)

Lil Wayne recently passed through Chicago on tour, and reports from the evening have it that he was rapping songs here he hadn’t touched in years (if ever). For hip-hop fans who’ve struggled with the genre’s post-Drake decentralization, it was a nice reminder of simpler times when it was easy to tell who was on top — and who knows, maybe Weezy’s “I’m Me” tour was the impetus for Kazarion Fowler’s latest single, too. The former Rich Kidz member would’ve turned 14 in 2008, so while more wizened heads might have it that Wayne’s peak was a year or two earlier, Skooly’s of the age to speak with authority that in high school hallways, there was no doubting Wayne’s imperial phase was in full effect by the year in question. Skooly doesn’t look to ape that level of language-busting dexterity, instead opting for a confident sing-song lilt with an irresistible chorus that wraps on “Cold propane / This shit is dope cocaine / I feel like ‘08 Wayne” while Buddah Bless tinkles his way across the ivories and adds just a touch of funked up synthesizer for color. In every respect, this is one to feel good about.

Patrick Masterson

Sounding Society — Homecoming Medley or Society Into Sound (Gotta Let It Out)

HOMECOMING MEDLEY or SOCIETY INTO SOUND by SOUNDING SOCIETY

Man, will somebody please burp the matrix? There’s a glitch in the circuits. How else might one explain this anomaly? The cover, which is proudly proclaimed to be AI-generated, looks like the glossy cover of a 1980s-vintage sci-fi paperback. And the sounds? At first, the music sounds like a gear-inclusive (i.e., digital and analog) retro take on New Age-tinged keyboard soundtrackery. But as the music progresses, some non-ironic improvisational chops steer the music on a less predictable, if still essentially groovy, course. Several explorational interludes and one video game parlor breakdown later, you’re left wondering just what went down. Explanation — drummer-bandleader Tomo Jacobson spends much of his time in more straight-faced, jazz-oriented settings. It would seem that you can take the jazz man out of the club, but you can’t take the creative restlessness out of his heart.

Bill Meyer

Erik Sowa — Cedar Lake Recordings Vol. 1 (Sliptoh)

Cedar Lake Recordings Vol .1 by Erik Sowa

Chicagoans will recognize Eric Sowa as a drummer who pops up in both roots and improv contexts, to make these recordings, he headed to an off-the-grid location in northern Minnesota. No electricity? No problem, he just humped a car battery to power the recording gear, along with his drums, stringed instruments and bellows-driven organ. All that trouble would be for naught if it didn’t help capture the vibe, but Sowa has gotten it right. One supposes that it took considerable concentration to self-record a virtual ensemble that feels so naturally loose. Each tune represents a modest amount of rustic headspace, and then makes way for the next.

Bill Meyer 

Dick Stusso — S.P. (Hardly Art)

S.P. by Dick Stusso

Dick Stusso distorts 1970s guitar rock through a prism, twisting blues-rock riffs into haunted litanies. His big hollowed out baritone floats elegantly through post-Waits-ian junk shop arrangements, posing, preening, italicizing every line. You can hear faint sirens through the piano bar chords of “Self Reflection (Deep).” The title screams sarcasm, but Stusso plays it relatively straight. It’s a AOR ballad turning slightly green at the edges, blown out with ghostly “woo-woo” counterparts and ending with a curdled R&B solo vocal that sounds like Merry Clayton but broken and harsh. I should mention that that’s Grace Cooper of the Sandwitches, one of the reigning queens of West Coast lofi and a long-time collaborator with Stusso. His father, the jazz saxophonist Marc Russo (Stusso’s real name is Nic Russo), makes an appearance in “Garbagedump #1,” a sloppy-drunk cakewalk treading unsteadily on second-hand-shop boogie. These 18 songs are brief but vividly imagined, throwing up film noir sound-stage vistas that are convincing unless you look at them from the side.

Jennifer Kelly

Harry Taussig — 80 (Tompkins Square)

80 by Harry Taussig

Harry Taussig is Takoma school royalty. His first recordings appeared on John Fahey’s celebrated Takoma Park record label, and his most recent have been for Tompkins Square, beginning with tracks on the seminal Imaginational Anthem series. His small catalog includes three releases over the past 10 years, the name of this one commemorating his 80th birthday. The compositions, played unaccompanied and without overdubbing on six- and 12-string acoustic guitar and five-string banjo, tend to bear titles suggestive of classical music (which Taussig cites as a primary influence in the liner notes), such as “Etude for in G Major #7.” Most have an improvisational feel, though comparison of alternate takes indicates that they are constructed with care. All three instruments sound open-tuned, as the five-string banjo usually is and as is common in the Takoma school style. Taussig has never been flashy, and his deliberate and at times hesitant approach has helped him to age somewhat more gracefully as a player than Fahey did. There is a craggy beauty to 80 well represented by the brooding photograph on the cover. Here’s hoping an 85 and a 90 will be forthcoming.

Jim Marks 

Unlearn and MP Shaw—Secret Listener (Farallon)

Secret Listener by Unlearn & MP Shaw

Bright rounded bloops of synthetic sound bob in gentle syncopation, in the uncanny valley’s muted version of funk. Two Seattle-born, SF-based electronic artists—Matthew Shaw and James Key—made this disc during the lockdown casting dystopic dread into billow-y, unearthly shadows on the wall. Thus, their “Dusting the Astral Plane” grooves in a well-cushioned, unconfrontational way; picture an actual robot doing the robot, but slowly and bathed in magic hour twilight. Two “TLR” cuts serve as whooshing, enveloping meditation breaks, the soft clarity of keyboards surging then subsuming into ambient hiss. “Article One” lists woozily on blotty smudges of synth sound, the sharp click of rhythm clattering through. All of these cuts drift and loom, the dance beats wrapped in gauzy, indeterminant tone-washes. It’s more of a pencil drumming, space-staring, transcendental vibe than anything hedonistic or physical, but very nice all the same.

Jennifer Kelly

Youniss — White Space (Viernulvier)

So what exactly distinguishes a very short album from an EP? Formal considerations like number of tracks don’t really work, and ultimately it’s just going to come down to the feel of the thing. In White Space’s case, the second album from Antwerp-based Youniss holds together strongly enough as a significant statement that neither the 20-minute runtime nor the almost beat tape-esque patchwork of these ten tracks are drawbacks. Whether going full aggro (particularly on the redlined, snapped-off “Arms Bent Back”), more atmospheric on the instrumentals “Negative Space” and “Walad,” or fully embracing a melancholy of dislocation on “SO SLOW” and “Sinking,” White Space packs a lot of sonic texture and grappling with serious issues (race, perspective, artistry, context) in a brief space. All that and it’ll consistently get your head nodding? That’s an album.

Ian Mathers

[nightmaretist]

TIMING: Pre-goo PARTIES: Emilio @mortemoppetere & Inge @nightmaretist LOCATION: A bar that isn't the Wormhole SUMMARY: A drunk Emilio confronts Inge at a bar, asking if his mother really tried to kill her. A tense conversation follows that exposes both their weaknesses. CONTENT WARNINGS: Parental and child death, abuse, suicide ideation, terminal illness, alcoholism

Everything felt heavy. Everything had felt heavy since the van, since he found Ariadne stuffed in the back and let her out, since he waited for Rhett afterwards. The way his brother had looked at him was still fresh in Emilio’s mind, the anger and the disappointment. The way he’d called him soft, the way the word still made his heart pound and his palms sweat decades after it got him locked in the shed for twelve hours straight with whatever undead things his mother could find and nothing more than a wooden stake in his arsenal. 

He wasn’t afraid of Rhett. He wasn’t afraid of Rhett because he wasn’t afraid of his mother, either, because he loved them and they loved him and it wasn’t their fault that he was like this, whatever like this meant. He wasn’t afraid of Rhett, but he couldn’t agree with him here. He wouldn’t stand back and let his brother hurt people who didn’t need hurting, even if that did earn him that look. Even if it did make him soft, even if soft was the worst thing he could possibly be. 

But everything still felt heavy.

So he did what he always did when things felt wrong and bad, when he felt wrong and bad. He went to a goddamn bar. 

The bartender was already eyeing him warily, and while Emilio didn’t remember any past experiences with the guy, he figured he must have had some. Too drunk to remember it, probably. It was a little funny. He was on his third glass of whiskey now, and still not numb enough. Maybe the fourth would fill the pit in his stomach, or the fifth. Maybe something would.

A familiar shiver crawled up his spine, and he glanced around. Something undead was… there. A familiar face. She’d recognized him, last time. Knew his mother, had a scar to prove it. He hadn’t known what she was until he’d seen her talking about dogs biting her online, but at that point, it wasn’t hard to guess. Undead, chased by dogs… Mare was a safe bet. Like Ariadne.

With less whiskey in his system, he probably would have just left. But he’d had just enough to be bold, so he picked up his glass and he crossed the bar on unsteady legs. He slid into the seat across from her, he propped his chin on his elbow. “Did my mom really try to kill you?”

—

Inge deeply enjoyed being undead for the most part. Downsides were hard to find, if you asked her, and the upsides were everywhere — from the way her body was frozen in time as others grew hunched and gray and wrinkled to her ability to cross the astral plane to wherever she wanted. But this, this inability to get properly intoxicated without spending copious amounts, was grating.

But she could manage, when she wanted to. So many of the glasses of wine consumed were sipped because of the taste, but there were times where she drank more. Where she wanted to feel like her mind was swimming, floating. Body lighter.

Sometimes when she drank, she’d cry. It wasn’t something Inge did often, but there were times where getting herself to a place of intoxication would open the floodgates and make the waterworks work overtime. Most of the time, she didn’t even know why she was crying — she just did. Dramatically weeping as she painted, sometimes faces from her past and sometimes the monsters Sanne had once conjured for her and sometimes just complete abstraction.

Tonight, she was in a sour mood. She wished for giddiness, excitement over the next semester and her upcoming art show — but something in her was swirling darkly. Inge had half a mind to return to the astral, where she had been spending a fair amount of her nights just moving around, removed from her earthly body that had gained yet another wound.

So here she was, glowering as she sipped from a vodka cranberry, the bandages around her arm bothering her. She wanted to be alone, and if not alone, to at least meet someone she could fuck without thinking about it.

In stead, there he was. The Cortez hunter. Hardly sober, from the way he stumbled towards her. Well, neither was she, mind slightly swimming in warm tipsiness. Inge’s muscles tensed, then her face turned into a wince because many things hurt when it came to the arm the zombie had taken a bite out of.

She hoped he didn’t think the wince was at his question, though it might as well have been with the way it made unease spread through her. “Tried to, yes.” Her good arm moved, pulling at the collar of her shirt, showing off the healed, fading scar. “Right there. She should’ve sharpened her fucking axe.” She drained her glass, gave him a look that could be one of annoyance. A defense mechanism to combat her feelings of worry. “So what, you want to try it as well?”

—

There was a scar at her throat. As she pulled her collar down, his eyes were drawn to it. He tried to imagine that he could tell what kind of blade was used, tried to pretend he could see it in his mind’s eye somewhere in his mother’s arsenal of weapons, but a scar was only a scar. He felt no more connection to his mother’s ghost through the scar on the mare’s throat than he did through the ones she’d put onto his own body. 

Still, he stared. He traced it carefully with his eyes, the length of it. Did it look more like the one on his stomach, where Elena had slashed him when he was eight and too slow to avoid her blade in a training session? Or was it closer to the one on his chest she’d given him at thirteen, when he asked the wrong question at the wrong time in the wrong way? 

Emilio had earned those scars, he knew. He wouldn’t have gotten them if he had been faster, or smarter, or better. But had this mare earned hers? Had Ariadne earned the mental torment Rhett had put her through? It was Emilio’s actions that had littered his body with scars from blades held by both strangers and people he’d loved, but neither Ariadne nor this mare could be blamed for their own deaths, for the way they’d died incorrectly. As a child, he’d believed the unnaturalness was something to be punished. But now? He hadn’t been sure of it in years. The uncertainty would damn him, he thought. The uncertainty and everything else that came with it.

She spoke, and his eyes darted up from her throat to her face, meeting hers carefully. She answered a question he hadn’t asked; it was an ax his mother had used when she’d tried to kill her. (She’d thrown one at him once, too. He still remembered the way it spun in the air, the way he’d ducked just in time. He’d felt the breeze of it as it passed, but she’d known he’d be quick enough, hadn’t she? She must have known.) 

His eyes continued to study hers, the question she asked bouncing around in his chest. You want to try it as well? Did he? Was this his mother’s legacy, then? A scar on a stranger’s throat that looked so much like the ones Emilio sported given to him by the same hands? She drained her glass, and he followed suit. He pretended the burn of the whiskey in his throat still made him feel something, pretended it helped the way he’d always tried to convince himself it would. The numbness it provided wasn’t quite enough to fight off the tightness he felt. Nothing ever was. 

“I don’t know,” he admitted after a too-long pause, more honest than he usually was. “I don’t think so.” Was she hurting anyone? It was hard to say. Mares had always seemed less harmful to him than other undead. They caused damage, sure, but not usually the physical kind. For a man who had nightmares any time he closed his eyes, it was difficult to condemn a thing for causing them. The nightmares were there anyway. It wasn’t like a vampire, who drained you of blood that wouldn’t have spilled without their fangs breaking the skin. It wasn’t like a zombie, either, who would tear flesh off your body and swallow it whole. Mental anguish, to Emilio, was so much less tangible. He didn’t quite understand it.

Javier was bartending tonight. He came over, refilled Emilio’s glass with a dubious look. Don’t cause any trouble, the look warned. I can’t keep bailing you out of this shit. Emilio only grit his teeth in response. He didn’t know if he wanted to be bailed out. He didn’t know if he ever had. “When did it happen?” Why did it matter? What did the timing matter? What did anything? He didn’t know anymore. There was so much he didn’t know anymore.

—

The last time she had seen the other, it had been her who approached him. She had asked pressing questions, and even though she had hardly won that social interaction (as far was winning them went), she had at least felt a semblance of control. Now, however, Inge felt almost backed into a corner. Staring at those eyes that looked so familiar to the ones who’d looked at her with intention to kill as he admitted to not being sure whether he’d kill her or not.

That response elicited a laugh. It was a ridiculous answer, one that didn’t fit with her idea of what hunters were and what hunters did. Especially slayers. Either they moved to kill without any thought, or they just moved on, more pressed to kill other undead and thinking her not quite as harmless as those who consumed literal parts of others. Inge disagreed with the notion that somehow mares were less dangerous and harmless. What did bodily harm matter, in the long run? Wasn’t it terror, anxiety and trauma that undid people most? It was the memory of that zombie clenching her jaw around her arm that bothered her most, not the pain or the bandages.

The same went for the memory of Elena Cortez. The scar bothered her some days, but most days it was proof of survival, worn proudly like a pearl necklace. But the memory of it, that ice cold feeling of terror that came with thinking death was coming for you, finally and definitively, that had stuck with her. That was the mark on her soul, more than whatever damage her axe swinging (and missing) had done. That was why she was wary now, keeping herself at a distance from the other so he couldn’t move to grab her wrist to ground her. She wondered if he carried a bright light with him. Wondered if his admission of not knowing was just a game.

Everything was a game to her, until it wasn’t. This didn’t feel like it would be fun.

Never mind the fact that this man knew that Rhett, well enough to post a playful poll between himself and the other. His bright lights had caused a head ache to simmer for days, making her feel more weak and mortal than she had in years. Inge was tired of this place and its hunters. Was tired of feeling an emotion she had banished from herself. Even now she continued to tell herself she wasn’t afraid. She was uncomfortable. Healthily wary. Suspicious. Attempting to sound amused, demeaning, volatile. Trying to seem as if she wasn’t thinking about running away, disappearing into the astral with everyone around them there to witness a woman popping into nothingness.

“You don’t know,” she repeated, still sounding amused. But she wasn’t. She wanted a no or even a yes. Not a Cortez sitting across from her who seemed to still be making up his mind about her. “Grandiose. Do let me know when you’ve made up your mind, won’t you?” Her voice was bitter, biting. She wished she was a vampire or zombie, with the jaw-strength or teeth-sharpness to do damage with her mouth not just through words. All she had was imagination and stories, though. And she wasn’t keen on giving this man nightmares.

She gestured to the bartender to refill her own glass as well, saying that he could, “Add it to his tab,” as if she wanted to make him repay for something. Last time she’d bought his drink while accosting him, anyway. Seemed only fair. “Somewhere in the late nineties. You must’ve been a wee, annoying little teen, hm?” Inge took another sip from her drink. “Still young, mummy off to try and kill some big monsters. What a life.”

—

She was laughing, but there was something distinctly hollow to it, and Emilio couldn’t help but wonder if she was afraid of him. Years ago, he would have relished in the thought. Even months ago, he’d liked it more than he did lately. Being able to make other people afraid used to make him feel stronger than he was, like he was still good for something. And it was still the case, for some people. He couldn’t save his daughter, couldn’t bring her back, but he could terrify the monsters that had taken her from him. He could become the monster in someone else’s closet, and it would make him feel better for a little while. It would make him feel like he had some kind of power, even when he knew that he was only ever built to fall.

But lately, he couldn’t stop thinking about Ariadne. About the way she’d looked at him when he’d pulled open that van, about the fear in her eyes. It hadn’t made him feel powerful then, hadn’t made him feel strong. If anything, it made him nauseous. It sent him back to the street outside his apartment in Worm Row, to the vampire Zane had let him kill and to the words it had said before it died. I heard she was terrified. I heard she died screaming. 

Being scary didn’t make him feel quite so proud anymore.

He’d long since stopped trying to use his past to excuse his present. Some of what he did was necessary, to be sure. Vampires and zombies and other undead things couldn’t exactly be punished within the laws of a system built by humans who didn’t know they existed at all. If you put a zombie in a jail cell, you’d have a hoard by the time the week was over. If you stuck a vampire in solitary confinement, it’d revert to a spawn and make a meal of the first guard who came too close. If you tried to lock up a mare in a prison built for beating hearts, it’d escape before morning. There were things that needed killing, and Emilio did that.

But there were things that didn’t need killing, and he killed those, too. 

He didn’t have it in him to forgive anyone who’d been involved with that massacre in Mexico. He couldn’t let it go, even if some of the people involved regretted it, even if they turned over new leaves. Everyone there had to die. He didn’t even exclude himself from that number. But he knew that this mare had done nothing to earn his mother’s wrath. He knew that Elena hadn’t tried to kill her for some greater good, or even for vengeance. And he didn’t know how he felt about that, even now. Years after his mother was gone, Emilio still didn’t know how to think that she might have been wrong about something without the guilt crawling up the back of his throat and threatening to suffocate him. She was a good person. She had to have been a good person. He couldn’t conceptualize anything else.

The mare was talking, but she was using words Emilio didn’t understand and it was easy to tune her out for a moment. He didn’t know if he wanted to kill her or not, and there was something heavy about the not knowing that he didn’t want to share. Part of him wished she’d attack him and make the decision for him. Come at him with a knife, find him in his dreams, do something to make things black and white the way he liked for them to be. But she just sat there at the bar, just told Javi to put her drink on his tab. The bartender glanced to Emilio in question, and the detective shrugged. Do whatever, he thought, as if Javi might be able to read his mind. Just do whatever. 

The bartender hesitated a moment longer before shooting Emilio one last look and leaving to tend to other customers, and Emilio stared at his glass. He wished he hadn’t come over here now, but he was too stubborn to leave. “Wasn’t a teenager,” he said, as if the clarification mattered. “In the nineties. Was born in 1989.” But that wasn’t all, was it? He wasn’t a teenager in the nineties, because to call him a teenager was to imply that he was something human and he wasn’t. He was a tool to be used, a knife in the holster of the same woman who’d left that scar on the mare’s throat. His own scars itched, as if recognizing one put on a stranger by the same hand that had birthed so many of them. Emilio swallowed more whiskey. “I was killing monsters, too. Wasn’t like she left me at home doing nothing.”

—

She wondered what kind of game this was. If he was trying to do what she had failed to last time, show up to try and unnerve and gain the upperhand. If he wanted to just impose his presence onto her, to let her know that he remembered her, that he could find her, that he could speak to her like this but that, perhaps, he could do something worse as well. Inge tried to figure out what motive lied underneath the way he sat here now, looked at her and spoke of the monsters he’d apparently been killing before he even was a teenager. 

She also wondered if perhaps there was no game at all, which somehow was all the more disturbing. Here was a man who had been raised to kill what he called monsters, sitting across her from a bar and asking about his mommy while inebriated. It was human, to do such a thing — human in all its awkwardness. Maybe he was the way she tended to be when she’d drank too much, reflective and nostalgic upon a life marred with things like regret and shame. Maybe he wasn’t just here to flex his hunter muscles and make her wary of every movement he made, but just because there wasn’t really anyone else to talk to.

She’d prefer it if he’d whip out some kind of weapon almost, or if he’d inch closer, push her into a physical corner and let her smell the alcohol on his breath. Inge didn’t much care about expressions of the human condition, after all, not in herself and especially not in people she thought should be enemies. She wanted him to fuck off, to drown in his whiskey elsewhere. 

Alas. He was there. She was putting her scars on display while she waited for another drink to be brought around. She continued eyeing him, waiting still for some kind of move of action. Maybe he is faking being inebriated, maybe he just wants you to let down your guard before striking, maybe he is playing you, lulling you into a sense of safety by annoying you only to take advantage of it. Inge felt her skin itch, covered her scar up again as she told her mind to behave, to stop circling around itself again and again and again, bringing up maybes and hypotheticals as if it was its hobby. 

At last her drink came, and she was quick to take a sip before even bothering to respond. Inge wanted to quell those voices in her mind, who were no clamoring that she shouldn’t be drinking this much with a hunter across from you. Whatever. If he wanted to kill her, he surely wouldn’t do it at a bar where he seemed to know the staff. (Or maybe he knew the staff because he helped them with their undead problems.) (She was growing agitated now, with the way her mind kept tacking on maybes.)

“Oh, you look way older than that.” Spewing an insult was easy enough. “Like you were born in at least the mid-seventies.” This man wasn’t even forty yet? That seemed not entirely realistic. If she was feeling more playful, she’d ask him for ID to proof his supposed youth. She didn’t want to, though. It was ironic, though, that he was around the same age she’d been when she was immortalized in this body.

If anything, she thought she looked better. A mildly soothing thought.

She huffed. “Great. So mommy went off to kill ‘monsters’,” she said this using air quotes, “And you stayed back to kill other, smaller ones? Born with a knife in your hand, huh? Yikes.” Inge didn’t pity hunters, especially those that clung to their ideologies. “Why’d you wanna know, anyway? She’s dead. I’m not. You’re not. So … what now? You’re gonna just sit here, or?” Why are you provoking him. She took another sip from her drink. “I know you know that Rhett guy. Is he here, somewhere?” 

—

The silence was suffocating, but maybe it was supposed to be. The whole conversation, after all, was an unnatural thing. The two of them were designed to kill one another, built to rip each other to shreds until one or both of them were dead. They had scars given to them by the same long dead woman, but Emilio swore there was a difference between the thin white line on her throat and the ones crisscrossing every inch of his body. Couldn’t you tell just by looking that the scars his mother had left him with had been carved into him with love? Wasn’t there something about them that made it obvious that the intent behind them had never been to hurt, but to teach? They were lessons. They were supposed to be lessons. Didn’t that make them look different, somehow, than the one on the mare’s throat that had been just a stroke short of finishing the job?

She spoke, but somehow her words felt just as heavy as the silence they filled, like there was always going to be a weight here. Maybe neither of them could exist without it. Maybe things meant to kill one another could never exist in the same space without some kind of consequence. He thought of Ariadne, of Metzli, of Zane. Did it feel this way with all of them, too? Was it her still heart that made the silence heavy, or was it the fact that she’d known his mother? What was weighing them down, exactly — the silence, or the ghost that lurked beneath it? 

He huffed a dry laugh at her comment. You look way older than that. He felt older than that, felt weary and world-worn. By human standards, 34 was young. A man at the start of his life, more than half of it stretching out in front of him. But for a hunter? He was already years past the expiration date, already older than he ever should have been. He was 34, but he felt 80. He felt old. He felt dead already.

“Wasn’t,” he said needlessly, the single word hanging from his tongue just as heavily as her statement had been. Maybe he seemed older than he was because he’d skipped childhood, been born half-grown. Hunters didn’t get to be children; he knew that better than anyone. He’d never been a child, and neither had Flora. Neither had Jaime or Victor or Rosa or Edgar or any of them. Had his mother, he wondered? It was almost laughable to ask. He knew the answer. He always had.

“Not smaller,” he replied, and he wasn’t sure why he was indulging her. Maybe it was the alcohol loosening his lips, or maybe he just wanted to say it, somehow. He was still trying to make sense of it himself, most days, and it was so much easier to unpack things by saying them aloud. “Not always. There aren’t… a lot of small undead things. Everything is big.” He smiled wryly. “Everything wants to kill you.” Plenty of his scars hadn’t come from Elena, after all. There were ones he’d earned during the time period they were discussing now, ones that had been carved into him in Wicked’s Rest. His leg was a mess of scar tissue, so much of it that there was barely any unmarred skin to speak of at all. Everything wanted to kill him but, so far, nothing had.

He still wasn’t sure if that was a good thing.

The comment about being born with a knife in his hand ached in a way he couldn’t put his finger on, so he didn’t acknowledge it. His grip tightened on his glass as she mentioned his mother being dead, the cup creaking threateningly until he forced himself to loosen it a little. “Not true,” he replied, voice a quiet mumble. “She’s dead, and so are you. So are we.” The mare’s heart wasn’t beating, and Emilio felt more like a ghost than a man. 

And then, she mentioned Rhett, and he tensed. His heart was in his throat, and he tried to separate his brother from the man outside the van who’d looked so angry. “You’re the other mare,” he murmured, the realization settling in. “The one he… In the bunker.” He’d mentioned it, when he’d told Emilio about Ariadne. Emilio had forgotten it, almost, in all the stress of what came after. It was hard to forget it now, with the truth sitting so tangibly beside him. He felt a little sick. “He isn’t here. Not sure he wants to be around me.” Not sure I want to be around him, he added silently, though it felt too wrong to say aloud.

—

Indoctrination was an ugly thing, Inge understood that. She understood too, that plenty of hunters were pushed into their positions out of some twisted ideology that went back generations, that they were born into a role and grew into it — but that didn’t mean she had any patience for it. The way he spoke, sitting across from her as she felt that undeniable feeling of paranoia spread through her undead body, it made her feel not only sick in a way, but angry.

Everything wants to kill you, he said. Her eyes rolled, her body grew a little slack as a feeling of righteousness spread through her. Inge wasn’t innocent, had claimed some lives, though not more than five and never out of maliciousness or a desire to kill. She had little interest in death, after all! It was finite and dull, didn’t offer the opportunities that life did. There had been an accidental killing, in her earlier years as a mare, where she’d gone too far — but luckily her sleeper had remained dead, and not risen again. There had been defensive moves, where it had been her to deliver the final blow rather than the inexperienced hunter on her trail. But never out of maliciousness, never out of some ideology her parents had fed her, never just because.

And the Cortezes? Well, there was a reason they were a notorious slayer family. In the years she’s spent in Mexico, she’d heard that name aplenty and then, eventually, had come across one of the members of that family. How many people had Elena killed, before she had tried to kill Inge? How many more had followed? And more importantly right now, how many people had this Emilio killed? How much undead blood had he shed in Wicked’s Rest?

She wondered if she was next, still. He had not produced a weapon, just spoke the way a sad, old man might — which was probably why she had presumed him to be much older than he was. Inge felt no pity. She had been raised with prejudice, grown up in a time where it was all justified and normalized in the name of God and community. But she had let it go, had she not? She had grown past the beliefs her parents had held until they had died. And maybe it was different, because the ideals she was raised with were more widely challenged, but Inge didn’t care to see any kind of nuance when it came to hunters.

“Is that what she told you? That they’re always out to kill you?” Her eyebrows raised, her tone a little more certain as she continued on. “Because I’m not out there murdering people. Sure, I give some nightmares. Scare people. People get scared anyway, nightmares happen anyway.” At least the nightmares she gave were worthwhile, something of a different and higher level. “Some of them, sure. They kill. Plenty of them just consume what they need to remain alive, the same way every other soul on this planet does.” She gestured to his drink, took a sip of her own. She didn’t say that she found it hard to care, at this point, if her fellow undead did kill. Just because it wasn’t of her personal interest, didn’t mean she deeply disapproved, after all. To say that, was to step off the moral high horse she was enjoying. 

She gave him a look, unimpressed. “You’re alive. I’m alive. Maybe not by the standards of … what, modern medicine? Or your mother’s opinions. Just because I don’t have a heartbeat, or don’t age, I’m not alive? I laugh and love and fuck and create, just as others do. I live, even as someone who’s undead. If you were to chop my head off, you’d be killing me. So.” Was that how they justified it? Did they not think it murder because the victim wasn’t alive by their standards. “Drop the edgy bullshit. You’re alive. “

Inge narrowed her eyes at the hunter. So they had talked about her. What had the other hunter told him? How she’d faded in and out of consciousness, for the first time in decades experiencing what it was like to not be awake? The way she’d spat up blood? The look on her face darkened, her anger not just that righteous kind, that could feel so good. 

“Ah. You talk to him about it? Real nice.” Had he played any role in what had happened with Ariadne? Her gaze grew darker, somewhat venomous. She wanted to throttle him. “That’s really nice. What, did you have a nice catch-up about the murders and tortures you both did? So nice.” She let out a sound of amusement, but it sounded bitter. “Ah. Trouble in paradise?”

—

The thing was, Emilio knew that not every supernatural being was out to kill. It was why he’d shifted his morality after the massacre, why he’d become this person his own brother no longer recognized. Take out the guilty, and leave the ones who aren’t hurting anyone alone. You made more of a difference that way, saved more people. And wasn’t that what they were supposed to be doing? Wasn’t that the point of hunters?

(His mother would say no. He knew that. She’d talked a lot about their duty as hunters, but the reality of her views had always been clear. The point of hunters was to die. That was what his father had done, what Victor had done, what he was supposed to do. The fact that he hadn’t was probably just another thing she’d add to the list of ways he’d disappointed her if she were still alive.)

Still, even with the knowing, the paranoia still crept up his throat and stole the breath from his lungs. There were days where he swore everyone he passed on the street was planning on sticking a knife in his gut, days where even his neighbors seemed like people who were probably plotting against him. There were mornings where he sat in his apartment with a knife gripped so tightly in his hand that his knuckles ached, just waiting for some unknown force to come through the door and take him out. It consumed him, sometimes. Made his heart beat fast and his eyes dart to every empty corner in anticipation.

It was a stupid fear. Not just because it was irrational, but because Emilio didn’t really care if he died. Most days, he wanted it. But his heart beat too fast, anyway. His hand gripped that knife, anyway. He was angry anyway. He didn’t know how to stop, didn’t know how to swallow it or turn it into anything useful. All he could do was sit with it, wait for the wave to recede so he could try to get a gasp of air before the next one came crashing down on his head.

“I know you’re not,” he snapped, letting the anger warm him again. “Why do you think I haven’t finished the goddamn job?” It was saying too much, maybe. It was dangerously close to a confession, to laying the morality he tended to keep well-hidden among strangers on the table in front of someone who certainly wouldn’t mind if someone took his head off for it. A hunter with a heart was a dangerous thing to be. It put you on the wrong end of a lot of people. Supernatural beings who were all too happy to kill someone for the blood in their veins, regardless of their actions. Other hunters who saw anything less than indiscriminate killing as a betrayal of the code. Remnants of families who’d been close to the Cortezes who might want to protect the legacy of a family who’d once been a giant in the world of hunters. 

Saying too much was like pouring blood into a shark tank and taking a swim, but Emilio was tired. Tired of her, of Rhett, of Teagan, of everyone who seemed to think they had a better idea of who Emilio ought to be than Emilio himself. 

She pointed to the drink in his hand, and he hated the comparison. It wasn’t the same; she had to know that. Even if the nightmares she created to survive didn’t physically hurt anyone, they still had a negative effect on people. The only person Emilio hurt with his drinking was Emilio, and he thought he probably deserved it. He thought that might be the only thing he and the mare would ever agree about.

“You died,” he pointed out flatly. “In your sleep, fuck knows how long ago. Your heart doesn’t beat, you don’t have a pulse. You’re dead.” Even if he wasn’t sure of much else anymore, he was still certain of that. What was dead was dead, and what was alive was alive. There was no way around it, no way to deny it. She could say that drinking and laughing and fucking made her alive, but it didn’t. Emilio knew, because he did all of those things, too. He drank too much, he told jokes no one else thought were funny, he fucked anyone who’d give him a distraction from the shit in his head, and he still wasn’t alive in any kind of way that mattered. The best parts of both of them died somewhere else, some time ago. 

She spoke about Rhett, and Emilio was torn between the old instinct to defend his brother and the harsh knowledge that he couldn’t. He didn’t agree with anything Rhett was doing anymore, couldn’t even bring himself to find his brother in the right for going after this mare. She’d given him nightmares, he told Emilio, and Emilio might have been able to excuse him killing her for that. He remembered the experiences he’d had with mares — too many now, if he was being honest. He knew the way it settled in your skull, left you strangled even if it wasn’t in a way that was physical. He didn’t know what Rhett had seen, but if it was comparable to Emilio’s experiences — Flora’s bloody corpse, Juliana’s sharp disappointment — he could understand wanting to kill someone for causing it.

But he couldn’t justify the methods. Emilio had partaken in torture, had done it plenty, but it seemed different here. He’d tortured vampires who had information he wanted, tortured ones who’d bragged to their undead friends about the bodies they’d left on a street in Mexico, and he didn’t regret that. But he wasn’t sure this was on the same level. If Rhett had just chopped the mare’s head off and called it a day, Emilio would have felt differently. But he hadn’t. The whole fucking problem was that he hadn’t. 

“Something like that,” he said tightly, not sure which part he was responding to. He didn’t want to admit that she was right about the ‘trouble’ between Emilio and his brother, didn’t want to give her an inch lest she take a mile. He shouldn’t have come over here at all. He knew that now. It wasn’t doing anything for him, wasn’t even the kind of self destruction that might make him feel better for a moment. It only ached.

—

Why hadn’t he killed her yet? That question circled around her head on a loop, growing louder as he posed it himself. Since their initial meeting, that disastrous event in the Wormhole, she’d been tense with a kind of anticipation to see him again, looking even more like his mother while brandishing some kind of weapon. But he had not shown up, not until now, and all he brandished was the alcohol that he clung to like a lifeline. He hadn’t killed her, but what was stopping him from doing it, still? Was this not just a threat? Inge tilted up her head, a rejection of the worry in her body.

But she felt it still. She was exposed here, in this town. A woman who didn’t just walk into the traps laid for her, but was found in the quiet of the evening. It could not be coincidence, that he was here when she was. Even if he was too inebriated, perhaps, for a fight. He had found her and was speaking of not-killing her as if it was something graceful. A kindness. As if it wasn’t the bare minimum! As if they wouldn’t both be better off with him away from her. No, this was purposeful, driving her into a corner, reminding her that she could and would be found. That though he hadn’t killed her, he still might.

It was no comfort. It was manipulation. A slayer with a conscience was beyond her understanding, a slayer unwilling to kill someone like her was not something that could exist. Especially when his existence was so offensive, his face so familiar to one of those who had nearly ended her. Her scar itched, if it even could, and if it couldn’t, it was just a trick of the mind that she blamed him for, too. He was imposing on her, she thought, waving his presence in this town, in this bar, at this table in her face. Inge downed her drink, to drown the worry, but it lurched. You shouldn’t be drinking.

“I don’t know, you tell me. Why haven’t you? Are you waiting for the right moment? Will you follow me home after this, do it in some alley? In the bathroom, here? Will you wait for it to be day, so you have the upper hand, and I cannot evade you as easily? Why haven’t you? Because you trust me when I say that I don’t kill?” She let out another laugh, still not amused. This wasn’t funny — it was simply ludicrous. It was transparent. He was planning something, had to be. “And I should trust you when you say that you won’t kill me? I’m not so foolish and I don’t think you are, either. Or what, am I just supposed to believe you’re some kind of pacifist? Practicing a personal philosophy of live and let live? Don’t — don’t make me laugh.” 

That was how she’d prefer to see it, though. Inge approached life in that way, most of the time, not invading people’s personal business and expecting them to do the same to her. She did what she had to to stay alive and so did others. Hunters, of course, they went against that — built their livelihood on attempting to chase down certain species, as if there wasn’t more to life. As if they didn’t have a choice in the matter, even. She and her fellow undead needed to consume to live, but hunters? Well, they could just walk away, could they not?

She threw her hands in the air, animated in her speech and movements as she tended to do when emotional. Because she was, her worry and paranoia bringing out anything that lived within her. “I died and came back. I died and yet I live. I have seen people die, and that is not what happened to me — we can argue about semantics forever, but the point remains! I am not dead, not the way the actual dead are.” Her mind returned to where it always did, at some point: Vera. Vera was dead. Vera had died, life seeping out of her as disease took over her entire body. Vera was still and stiff and not much more besides bones now, most likely. “To equate my state of being to the corpses in a morgue, to the people you and I have both presumably lost — that’s bullshit. Screw that.” It was offensive.

Inge felt herself grow more and more agitated, the image of Emilio and Rhett huddling together and smirking filling her mind. He refused to let up, just confirmed her words to be true even if he didn’t say which part, which to her meant it was all of it. And though he had said that the other hunter wasn’t here, her eyes still flicked around the bar, wide and white before landing back on the slayer. “Well, I hope you enjoyed his little stories, ‘cause that’s all he’s gonna get, yeah?” 

She didn’t want to leave Wicked’s Rest, it was something she had realized and subsequently admitted to herself, but she felt cornered again, overrun by that instinct that she should go. Inge didn’t want to die, not the proper and definitive way. She didn’t want to die at the hands of this man or Rhett, or any other fucker that ran around this town making things more complicated for her kind. But if this entire interaction proved anything, it was that she wasn’t in any shape to fight a hunter — even verbally seemed to be losing the thread. “No follow-up, no second visits to his bunker, none of that shit, he just got lucky that one time.” She was convincing herself now, that she was not afraid. Not of continuation, of repercussion, of the man in front of her. She created fear, didn’t experience it. “I figure you’re better off without him anyway, what a sadist and boring prick. Jesus, like, get a life. Yeah? You and him both.”

—

There was something familiar about the way she spoke, though it was difficult to put his finger on it at first. Blame it on the alcohol thrumming through him, or on the grief that never left him, or on the confusing swirl of feelings that had been building stormclouds in his chest since the day he’d let that kid out of Rhett’s van. Blame it on whatever you like, but it still took him a moment to understand why her words and her tone all felt like some funhouse mirror version of things he’d heard before. When it clicked, he wanted to laugh, just a little. He wanted to point it out to her, even knowing she’d probably kill him for it. Maybe because he knew that. But it was a funny realization to come to, a painfully honest thing to think.

She reminded him of his mother.

Not what she was saying, but how she was saying it. The black and white way of it, the idea that people — hunters for her, undead for his mother — could only ever be one thing, that them being anything outside of it was preposterous and entirely unheard of. The paranoia, the certainty that he was going to kill her and was only biding his time as he waited for the perfect moment to do so… Wasn’t this how his mother had spoken of the undead in all the years she’d spent training him to fight them? It isn’t if, it’s when. Some of them are smart, you know. They’ll wait and kill you later. They’ll tell you pretty words first. But they will kill you. This family has no room for anyone who won’t kill them first. Do you understand? You kill them first, or you let them kill you and we’ll be better off. 

He wondered, absently, if this meant that he needed to be worried about her killing him. It was a faint thought, one he viewed with more mild interest than legitimate fear. He’d stared down the barrel of many a gun with the same expression — not fear, but something else. Quiet anticipation, maybe. Faint desire, if he was being more honest. She might kill him. He might want her to. And that was kind of funny, too, wasn’t it? 

Yeah, all right. He was drunk.

He waited until she was done speaking, half-listening to the unfamiliar familiarity in her words as he stared down into his glass of whiskey. When she finished, he shrugged. “Don’t trust anyone,” he admitted. “Watch the papers. No mare deaths in town lately. Doesn’t mean you’re not going out with a knife and cutting throats, I guess, but can always… go across that bridge later.” This was how he hunted, these days; he studied people. He found the ones who needed killing, and he killed them. And he left the rest alone, even if his mother’s voice in his head still made him feel like shit about it, sometimes. He knew he’d feel like shit if he listened to that voice, too, so what was the point of it? 

“Not a pacifist.” That wasn’t a lie he’d even pretend he wanted to tell. He understood violence better than he understood anything, and she knew that. His mother had, too. That was why she’d done the things she’d done, hadn’t she? Not out of cruelty, but because it was the only thing Emilio understood. How else would she have taught him anything? “Just… Do what needs doing. And don’t do what doesn’t.” She wouldn’t believe it, he knew; had something undead said the same thing to his mother, Elena wouldn’t have believed it, either. But it was still a thing worth saying. For himself, maybe, if no one else.

He considered what she said, shrugging a shoulder. Dead was dead, Emilio thought. A corpse was a corpse, even when it had a voice to insist it was something more. A ghost was a ghost, even with a heartbeat. She’d died in her sleep. He’d died in Mexico. No amount of arguing would change any of that. “Think what you want to think, then. It doesn’t matter.” A dead thing that didn’t know it was dead was a thing that couldn’t be reasoned with. She was someone who couldn’t be reasoned with. Another way she was like Elena. He wondered if she knew.

She insisted Rhett would get nothing more from her and, privately, Emilio hoped she was right. He hoped his brother would… change the way he had changed, hoped they could rebuild this thing between them, but he didn’t think it was a realistic thing to hope for. Maybe the most realistic hope he could carry for Rhett was that he’d leave town and go someplace else, still be a problem, but be a problem far enough away that Emilio no longer had to be afraid of where his blade might land next. There was another option, he knew, a more realistic one, but the thought of burying his brother, even after everything, made his stomach tie itself into knots. Rhett was still the only family he had left. He still had to shoulder the burden of that.

But he found he didn’t have it in him to make excuses for him anymore. Not after the shit in the van, not after Ariadne. He loved Rhett. He did. But you could love someone with everything you had, and still recognize that they weren’t a good person. Emilio knew that. “Won’t tell him that,” he replied. “Figure everyone’s better off if he’s not thinking about you anymore.” Rhett never really moved on, but he got distracted. If he got distracted long enough, this mare would be in the clear even without Emilio begging his brother to make promises the way he had for Ariadne. He shifted as she continued, a sour taste in his mouth. I had a life, he wanted to say. I had one. And it was undead like you who took it from me. But it wasn’t fair to say, and it was more than he wanted to reveal, anyway. He shouldn’t have approached her. He should have just stayed away.

Throwing back the rest of his drink, he stood. “Alright. Hope I never see you again,” he said, and he meant it. For both their sakes, he meant it.

[elviriel]

So I rewatched BTVS and watched Angel the Series recently, and I want to talk about my feelings, so I'm making posts for each. First up, BTVS, with my feelings and opinionsTM sorted by season, because for this particular show, the season seems to dictate the enjoyment tbh.

warnings: i am not a fan of sp*ffy or later seasons spike, and sexual assault is briefly mentioned re: season 6

Funnily enough, the more I dislike a season, the longer the paragraph seems to get. ah, the joys of being a hater at heart xD Season 1. I will admit, when i started my rewatch, I didn't know it would be a rewatch. Usually, I watch up to season 3 and stop, but this time, idk i thought i'd try the rest of the show to see if my feelings had changed, and finally watch season 7, which i had not seen. all this to say I did what I usually do which is: start at season 2 xD However, I have watched season 1 several times in the past, and I'm very fond of it. It's cheesy, and the image quality isn't as nice as it is later on, but I have so much love for certain episodes such as Angel and Prophecy Girl. Season 1 has good stuff, y'all! Season 2. I've said it before, but the Angelus arc is one of my favorite things to happen in the history of television, so season 2 is a favorite of mine. I just love it. The Angelus arc, from the Bangel love to the gutpunch of Innocence, to Jenny's death in Passion to the climax in Becoming... Still cannot hear Full of Grace by Sarah McLachlan without picturing Buffy on a bus and crying tbh.

And the Angelus arc isn't the only thing to love about season 2 either! I get giddy as a schoolgirl when Spike shows up - he's such a fun villain in season 2, from his antics with Drusilla to his bitterness re: Angelus to his team-up with Buffy in the finale. I also enjoy many other things, such as Willow x Oz (Oz is adorable, and his little crush on Willow was very satisfying for me when I was younger, given how much wee audrey identified with the local nerd gal) and Cordelia x Xander is by far the most tolerable Xander pairing, not that there are many choices xD There are so many episodes in this season I love, I can't even begin to list them, but the two part finale is definitely a highlight. Gosh, Buffy running in slow-mo in that little blue coat? Life-changing. Also, shout-out to Buffy punching Giles then hugging him while crying in Passion. Gosh, that episode. Episode of all time.

Season 3. The main draw in season 2 for me, as I said, is the Angelus stuff, and while nothing in season 3 reaches that level of emotional investment for me, it's got SO MUCH TO LOVE that I can never pick a favorite between those two seasons. Season 3 has Angel's return, Faith - whom I love, love, love, love, esp. on rewatch. It has the Giles x Buffy relationship in Helpless, fun episodes such as Band Candy, The Mayor being a delight, Mr. Trick (rip) - and, of course, the heartstring tugger that is The Prom - the class protector award ;_; - and the Buffy x Angel break-up. I even kinda like the Willow x Xander hook-up, because hey, it leads to Cordelia leaving Xander, and the Willow x Oz reunion is very sweet. They melt my heart. It might be the best season of BTVS, 'objectively' (if there is such a thing) speaking. It progresses nicely, and I think the only episode I straight-up dislike is the Xander one, which I'm comfortable skipping. Season 3, my beloved.

I also love how the season ends, with the very literal blowing up of the school - ending high school with a bang xD. Usually, my rewatch ends here and very satisfyingly so - I think BTVS worked really well as a metaphor for high school, and like several shows of the same type, it can't quite get back to that linear clarity once it transitions to college. Which leads me to.... Season 4. I don't hate season 4, but it's also very lackluster for me. The highlights are Willow's storylines (Oz's departure, magic, Tara, Oz's return, etc - it really got me this time around) and Chipped Spike, which is a great iteration of Spike IMO. What a fun addition to the group (for now.) But the rest... meh. I miss the high school sets, for one - and the Initiative may be a vaguely intriguing concept on paper, but it did nothing for me, narratively OR aesthetically. All those white walls and military uniforms.... meh. Adam himself is SUCH an eyesore that does nothing for me, and then you have Riley, which. Eh...? XD That's not a hot take by any means. And I think in terms of Buffy's love life, Riley was a logical step - nothing was going to match Bangel in terms of intensity - but that doesn't mean I, you know. enjoy it. Riley is cute enough at first, but he is quite pushy with her even early on - which I didn't remember tbh. To me, Riley's worst season 4 crime was being boring, and I was surprised to find that actually? he kind of sucks the moment he and Buffy become romantically intertwined. (Hush is a great episode tho. I'll give it that.) Season 4 also has Xander x Anya, which, ughhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. I had this impression that I didn't like Anya, but the rewatch made me realize that actually, it's Xanya I don't like, and Anya has the misfortune of being stuck with Xander for most of her scenes. The way he's so Neutral about her drives me insane - it's just an unpleasant ship IMO. Season 5. This is where the trouble truly begins So, the thing about season 5 is that I think it's a good season. I think it's far more compelling than season 4: it's got great stuff! Dawn is a fun addition, Joyce's illness is a devastating detour to reality in a world of magical threats, and I love the "Death is your gift" theme with Buffy, I really do. I also enjoy Glory a lot xD I think she's fun. I also really love Buffy telling the Council to go fuck themselves, that was very satisfying

Oh, also, Riley leaves. Bye Riley! (though oh boy, does Xander's little speech to Buffy about Riley angers me. shut up xander! nobody asked you!)

But season 5 also has the beginning of Romantic Spuffy, which I hate for reasons I can only partly unpack tbh xD it's visceral to a point that is beyond logic The thing about Spuffy is that I can't untangle it from my feelings about Spike, a character I loved until that point. And look, there were already flaws in Spike's inclusion in the main cast. Season 4 works fine, but given the damage he's shown he can do despite the chip, it stretches disbelief that he didn't get himself staked already xD and sure, him being in love with Buffy is a narratively sound way to get him 'on the good side' without losing his edge. I also think JM is great, and as I understand, he was great to work with, and I understand why they'd want to keep him around. But man..... do I hate Spuffy. notp of all time, and i'm not exaggerating. And you know, up until I watched ATS, I thought maybe my anti Spuffiness was because I'm such a die-hard Bangel - but I ended up liking Angel x Cordelia just fine, so while shipping preference does play a role for sure, maybe spuffy just. sucks. I do enjoy some of their dynamic though. The episode where Spike walks Buffy through his slayer kills is oddly enough one of my favorites, and Spuffy is tolerable enough to me when Buffy is horrified/disgusted by it - but even then, the narrative framing of it BOTHERS ME. There's too much 'look how cute, look how funny!' framing around Spike's stalkerish ways, and it all comes to a head for me in the Buffybot episode, which I wish I could set on fire. It's not that I think any of this is ooc for Spike btw - but the Buffybot is all kinds of gross, so the fact that the episode ends with the real Buffy 'rewarding' Spike with a kiss for how he behaved under torture is just- it's so irksome. One of my main issues with Spuffy is that IMO, the writers tried to have their cake and eat it too. Many quotes indicate that the writers never intended the audience to really Ship It, and while I do believe that's true to an extent, there's also moments like these that frame Spike as sympathetic, and his love for Buffy as something endearing, and like, idk. I don't expect my media to be prescriptive in any way (given my personal taste in ships, that would be quite the opinion xD) but, ugh. Spuffy irks me. I also think Spike/Spuffy is highly Parasitic re: the show, and I would resent it less if it didn't take up so much narrative space. From season 5 on, there is no escape from Spuffy, and the dislike I have for it borders on show-ruining I do love how season 5 ends, though, I really do. I find it very moving, and I still cry like I'm watching it for the first time Season 6. For a season that was reviled in my memory, I enjoyed it quite a bit on rewatch. Buffy's coming back from the dead arc is good. I like the darkness of it, the depth of it - especially as an adult who's been through the Mental Health ringer - tho I do think the resolution of the arc in the finale is a little lacking. But in general, I really love it.

I also love Dark Willow, and I would love it even more without the addiction parallels, which I don't believe were necessary, and kind of muddled the whole arc. They had a perfect set-up with Willow's tendency to magic away problems. They didn't need the whole 'magic = drug' aspect. It makes the storyline worse, which is a shame, because I LOVE this version of Willow. The hubris of necromancy! The lack of self-awareness or willful deceit! It's good stuff, what can I say

I also enjoy the 'Xander leaves Anya at the altar' thing, if only because it means the end of Xanya for a bit xD and it's the first time I actually believed Xander didn't just settle for Anya. His regret over that decision was actually pretty well done, so, props for that. (Tho ofc, the show had to ruin it by making Anya 'in the wrong' by sleeping with Spike, which she had every fucking right to do, and shut up Xander.) Season 6 also has Spuffy. Now, when I saw season 6 for the first time, I was younger, and very uncomfortable with sexual content. So back then, the Spuffy sex, believe it or not, felt like Highly Explicit Porn to me xD which is funny to look back on today. I'll say on rewatch, season 6 Spuffy is probably the version of Shippy Spuffy I enjoy the most...? One problem in season 5 is that Spuffy was driven by Spike's feelings. Buffy was just along for the ride, and I feel like the narrative dragged her into caring for Spike because his obsession with her led him to do things for her and her family. But in season 6, Spuffy is a manifestation of Buffy's trauma, and I enjoy that, narratively speaking. I do still get that feeling of 'the writers tried to have their cake and eat it too' re: the shippability of Spuffy, but I do believe season 6 Spuffy was written with purpose. Seeing Red is very unpopular, for reasons I get, and it does drastically 'alter' the Spuffy dynamic for me, but it's not like... ooc for Spike, and likely a more honest outcome to that kind of relationship than usually portrayed in media (I say as someone who, in general, is a dark relationship enjoyer btw.)

Lastly: the trio annoys the fuck out of me for many reasons, but Warren was a chilling villain. Hateful, but well-suited to the role he played in the season. man, i wanted that guy dead so bad

Season 7. My least favorite season, which I know isn't a hot take either. I found it sometimes boring, and mostly hard to get into. I think the main reason is that season 7 made me lose sight of Buffy. Through all of BTVS, Buffy is an amazing protagonist IMO - I love her, tend to be firmly on her side in most situations, and her thought process/feelings have always been easy to track. I feel Buffy. On rewatch, she's definitely my favorite character on the show, period. But season 7 Buffy, I just don't feel her. I do like some things relating to her here - her role as a counselor at the school, and the leader role she has to take with the Potentials, but otherwise, Buffy in season 7 leaves me cold, and I truly wish that wasn't the case. Granted, season 7 is the only season I've seen only once, so maybe I missed something, but I found the evolution from season 6 to 7 hard to track - season 6 ends with Buffy wanting to live again, and season 7 has a Buffy that's very detached again, and narratively, it's a little awkward IMO. I also do not buy, for a second, the whole "Spike is the only one who has my back" thing, but that's my anti Spike bias, which is at its peak in season 7, but we'll get to that xD Willow in season 7 does nothing for me either - I wish her relationship with magic hadn't been solved so easily. Xander is, err, also there - I do remember enjoying the Dawn episode where she thinks she's a Potential and turns out to be. The Potentials are... fine? I know Kennedy is fandom-reviled, but I think she's fine tbh. Oh, I Barely talked about Giles, but Giles from season 6 onward... I do not Like This Man very much, and I miss Librarian Giles sm xD Season 7 also has Andrew - and god, GOD I hate Andrew. I can tell I'm supposed to be charmed by his whole thing, but I just hate his whole archetype, I hate his presence, I cannot stand him, and he's around too much, and just, make him go away. And then there is Spike, which, ah. I understand that mythos-wise, if we can't 'blame' Angel for Angelus's deeds, Souled Spike cannot be held fully accountable for the actions of No Soul Spike, so the events of Seeing Red aren't his 'fault' (using the term loosely.) But whatever the fault, he still did this to Buffy - Buffy, who has to defend him to her friends, who has to help him through his shit, and i just, nope! I won't lie, season 7 Spike is the version of Spike I hate the most. The episode where Robin (whom I really like, btw! My guy!) confronts him about the death of his mother filled me with a rage I didn't think possible. What do you MEAN you're not sorry you killed his mom? You say that to his face? And I'm supposed to take Spike's side and not want Robin to flay him alive, Willow-style? And now Buffy is telling Robin to bury his resentment or she'll let Spike kill him?

DUDE. This is where I need to breathe and remind myself this isn't real xD Season 7 has Faith's return, which I like a lot, but otherwise..... eh. Season 7 is not a season I'd ever watch again tbh. It just doesn't do it for me. The final shot is nice, though.

OVERALL. BTVS evokes in me emotions that no show could hope to match. Season 2 & 3 are immaculate to me, but the highs from those seasons mean that the lows of other seasons make for a steeply inconsistent experience. I don't think the show is ever that bad, though some episodes are definitely questionable, an inevitability when you run for 7 seasons, but in terms of my personal enjoyment? I feel pretty confident in my usual decision to watch season 2 & 3 alone. Though I'm sad to miss the good stuff from latter seasons, it's not worth the Stuff I hate, which there is plenty of

if you read all this, um, thank you? at the risk of sounding like a youtuber, lmk your BTVS thoughts in the replies or reblogs (though, if you're going to tell me you love spuffy and that i'm wrong, maybe keep that to yourself xD)

[agentplutonium]

I'll take Milo/SH Shade Fight and Imp!Milo for 400 /lh (I'm ready to accept whatever crumbs you got)

*deep breath* OKAY /pos

Milo/SH Shade fight:

kinda self explanatory, but imma explain it anyway. a few months back, i stumbled across a tiktok sound that like inspired a very vivid scene in my head of Sweetheart fleeing from the shade cause they’re (rightfully) terrified, and it’s really like introspective and like “why am i doing this, what’s my life come to” kinda thoughts but mostly it’s them finally making a stand against the shade. of course i’d still go existential as they get pinned and that’s when milo would come in and save them (which is canon). BUT as we know Milo gets very hurt after they won. SO clearly i wanna have a scene where Sweetheart goes from “omg we did it!” and super giddy to realizing what state milo was in. it would show their thought process about how they feel about that and- yeah. i think that’s the basics of it. i genuinely don’t think i have anything written in the doc but the concept is there.

Imp!Milo:

hm. imma let this quote explain, actually. yeah.

Milo never understood why Asher was so self-sacrificing after David’s death.

It seemed dumb to him, the way that Asher shut completely down, started acting differently, and started being mean. Not just strict, straight-up mean with people. He would still do anything for the pack, but seeing him throw himself into danger with reckless abandon hurt him. Asher was his friend. He cared for Asher. But he couldn’t just stand by and watch him put himself in danger because he lost his mate.

He’s tried to bring this up before. It never ended well. Asher would snap at him, telling him to shut up, or it would even turn into screaming matches on occasion. Asher wasn’t listening to him, and it was hard to listen to Asher’s reasons when he was in his face.

Somehow, Milo had stayed by his side this long. Somehow, they haven’t broken each other.

So, yeah, he never understood Asher’s behaviour.

Until he lost Sweetheart, that is.

but yeh :D it’d outline how Sweetheart died, and a bit of exploration of the “i have nothing to live for anymore, what’s the point” kinda mindset.

[whomeidontknowthem]

Content warning: slavery, implied sexual slavery, implied torture, implied non-con

From the author: THIS STORY IS GOING TO BE REWRITTEN. The details will change. Once I have a new version, I will take this one down and repost it as it's own thing. It's necessary so I can get the story progression and worldbuilding straight, as now I have plans for a series based on these characters, but initially I didn't put much forethought into it.

When six years ago Kris promised she'd never give up until she found Ayzan, she didn't know how it'd be. She thought it'd be simple: she had a trail to follow and people to interrogate, and she'd not give up until she got to the bottom of it all. She did, get to the bottom of the whole slave trade organization. Ayzan was not there.

She followed more trails, then, went through the names in encrypted documents, through sellers and buyers and all the people in between, got into fights that almost killed her and conflicts with higher ups that nearly ended in worse disasters.

Ayzan wasn't there. They weren't anywhere. No matter how she tried, what lead she followed, how many times she rode across the country and visited places where only a quick smile and smart words separated her from being found at the bottom of the nearest lake, they were not there.

Ayzan had simply disappeared. Kris was told that they had probably died and that she should give up. Should accept it. Move on and live her life, not haunted by the echoes of her past.

Deep in the dark of the night, these words rang in her head and she gritted her teeth against the desperation and grief.

She dreamed of them often.

She saw them:

As the teen barely older than her, when Ayzan cheated her in a game for all the money she had left, and then bought her a dinner and showed how to move someone's attention away until their pouch found a new home in her hands.

As a friend that held her during the long nights after her mother's death and made her laugh through tears until she felt alive again.

As a lover with a tongue made of silver, who teased and teased and teased until she learned how to answer and then it was Ayzan's turn to hide their red face behind their hands.

As a figure larger than life and the closest family she ever had.

At the end of every dream, they smiled, their eyes turning into half-moon slits of pure giddiness. And then they turned and walked away, and no matter how she tried to run and reach out, she could never stop them.

So, it was easy to hold on to the hope the first few weeks. It was easy to cling to the determination as the weeks turned into months that threatened to turn into years. When years passed by and the features of their face in her dreams grew more and more blurry, she wondered if the others had been right. If she was supposed to move on.

Which was why Kris wasn’t searching for them that day. Walking through the underbelly of a city as if it was her second home, among the dangerous and the poor, the unlucky and the cruel, she didn’t think about Ayzan, focused on the mission at hand. She was far from the lands she called home, on the southern peninsular with different customs, traditions and laws. Slavery wasn’t frowned upon here. She felt her skin crawl and kept her mouth shut because she was alone. In places like this, it was all too easy to disappear and never be found if you’re not careful.

Kris meant to walk past a makeshift slave trading ground. She did it more and more often lately, sparing a glance or two to the poor dirty things huddled together in front of a small scene, because stopping and truly looking felt like flaying herself row only to be met with unavoidable disappointment. Hope hurt, these days. And there didn’t seem to be much reason to hold on to it anymore, — Kris started to accept.

Nearly accepted, before her eyes locked with the familiar pale blue. Before their eyes blinked, widened, suddenly focusing, as she stopped dead in her tracks. Before she looked at the dirty face with unfamiliar scars and greasy short hair that once fell on the shoulders in radiant curls, and her whole being froze, overwhelmed with the sense of recognition.

Someone bumped into her and she muttered a quick apology and ignored the obscene yelling, and with a long look sweeping across the market, noting the other slaves and the seller and the few people walking by, ducked into the nearest side street to wait for her hands to stop shaking.

Ayzan was right there.

Thoughts ran through Kris’ mind in a hurricane, leaving a few facts in their wake:

She could not confront the slave seller. Back in her kingdom, sure, she could afford to deal with whatever mess it would cause, but not here. She couldn’t get into a fight directly, nor did she know enough to go through the indirect means.

Besides. Kris could not tolerate the idea of leaving the market when Ayzan was right there, so close. Closer than ever in these six years. She couldn’t leave and hope she’d find them again. She needed to get them now, and leave with them.

It meant playing by the disgusting rules of this place.

She opened her purse, counted the money. Cursed. Took a deep breath. She’d accomplished more with less. Failure was not an option.

Kris returned to the market from another street and strolled by, her gaze lazily moving from one face to the other and never stopping at Ayzan for longer than a second. Her clothes made her look like a wealthy foreigner, she knew and made sure her face reflected the bored expression she often saw on an experienced buyer. It didn’t take long for the merchant to come to her.

“Have something caught your eyes, lady…” he drifted off.

She inclined her head. “Teyol,” a fake surname naturally rolled off her tongue, made more realistic with the skilled northern accent. The merchant immediately answered with a wide smile.

“Come, lady Teyol,” he invited. “I have many remarkable items here. Something for anyone’s taste! Has any of them caught your eyes?”

Kris let him lead her closer to the slaves, all sitting right in the dirt, all tied to a long railing by short leashes connected to rough leather collars. Hardly the astounding selection the merchant was trying to sell it as. Ayzan was among them, sitting to the side, and Kris felt their stare on her face as she refused to look in their direction more than necessary. She inspected other slaves instead, letting the merchant pitch his property and feigning interest. Out of the corner of her eyes she saw Ayzan sink back in line as the merchant pushed them back in passing. They didn’t do much of anything to make her turn attention to them, and Kris was infinitely grateful. It would go so much easier if the merchant didn’t suspect any connection between the two of them.

After looking at two slaves and nodding along to the merchant’s tales, Kris finally decided it was enough. “What about that one?” she asked and pointed at Ayzan, who flinched from the sudden attention of the both of them. “They seem pretty.”

“Ah, you have a great taste, lady! They’re one of the better ones,” the merchant hurried to assure her. “Years of training. Very obedient, and can do many things, too, outside and inside the bedroom, if you know what I mean.”

He flashed a grin, untied the leash and tugged at it, making Ayzan follow on their knees. They didn’t try to use arms to help them. Ayzan stopped before her, kneeling and keeping their head low, the looks they’d been giving her this whole time disappearing in an instant. She could see their hands, one curled on their lap, shaking slightly.

It took all her willpower to not reach out to hug them then and there.

Instead Kris let her gaze slip from their form, rising to meet the merchant’s eyes with a pleasant smile. “Where were they trained, then?”

“In Ashtar,” he answered instantly and proudly. Kris nodded in understanding and approval as her stomach sunk. Ashtar. She met enough people who’d been through that place to know it was nothing short of awful. She knew also that a slave from Ashtar wouldn’t end up in a place like this for no reason. There was something else there, something that’d lowered Ayzan’s price so much they ended up covered in dirt and rags, sold on the street among other cheap slaves. And these were cheap, Kris could see, no matter what the merchant was trying to tell her. She’d been to enough auctions to know.

“Ashtar,” Kris felt her lips move when the silence went on for two long. She was distantly impressed that her voice sounded calm as it did, tinted with curiosity and doubt. “They have an awful lot of scars for someone from there.”

Slowly, she reached out and put a hand in their hair — so, so short, when she knew they always preferred to let it grow out, — coaxing them to look up. There was a moment of resistance as they tried to flinch away, sink even more onto themself. The merchant noticed immediately and tugged their hair with no hesitation.

There was a quiet, sharp exhale, and then Kris could finally see their face. Her blood turned cold from just one look.

There were scars there, those she’d noticed even from afar: a wide one crossing their cheek, an old one through their brow, leaving pale skin where once was hair. This close, she could see more: a thin line starting from under their ear and going down to their neck. Many small but uneven, angry red dots around their lips, in an uneven pattern Kris took long seconds to recognize as what it was: the marks left behind from the thread that once held their mouth shut.

Never, in all her years, had Kris wanted to kill so much as at that moment.

And then, there were their eyes. She looked into them, finally, and had to fight to keep her features relaxed. There was so much in those blue eyes, so much she never wanted to see there: hurt and barely contained fear, and confusion, and, more than anything else, desperate, painful kind of hope. They didn’t say anything, didn’t even try to, only looked, until a smack came from the merchant, forcing their gaze down.

Kris silently let out the breath she didn’t know she was holding, before tuning in the merchant’s words.

“…long time. They were a feisty one once, you see, with a spirit. All the better when they’re finally broken, isn’t it?” he smiled as if it was a joke. She laughed and nodded in agreement. “I can lower the price for the scars, but believe me, they’re worth every coin you pay for them.”

“And how much is the price?” Kris asked. The merchant smiled widely.

And said, “two thousands.”

It took her a moment to convert the sum to the currency she was more familiar with. She didn’t need to fake the indignant snort. “That much?”

Kris knew the prices, that was the thing. She saw so many of such places, so many of such people putting a tag on a person’s worth, and she learned the numbers. Slaves from Ashtar meant to be pets, toys, pretty playthings for their owners, trained to be obedient and appealing in every way the owner wanted. They were meant to be kept healthy and beautiful, and any permanent mark immediately dropped their price.

Two thousands was too much. She’d give it barely seven hundred, maybe eleven if she was generous.

She felt bile rise up in her throat as she realized she was thinking about Ayzan in these terms. She felt the shudder go through their body as her hand stayed in their hair. Kris hoped the gentle touch felt reassuring.

“They’re the best you can find around these parts,” the merchant answered quickly.

“A pleasure slave, scarred like that?” she replied coldly. “Hardly.”

“A highly trained slave with just a few unfortunate but faded marks. You said it yourself, lady Teyol, they’re pretty. You won’t have to work hard to forget the scars are there at all.”

“Well, I don’t think I can just ignore them, they’re quite unsightly, in my opinion,” Kris argued. “You said you’d lower the price for them.”

“And I already have,” the merchant assured her. “You see, ordinarily I’d ask two and a half, even three thousands for them!..”

“Don’t try to cheat me,” Kris cut him off. She crossed her arms, letting go of Ayzan’s hair with the last gentle stroke, and added, softening her voice. “You are a smart man, lord…”

“Just Relo, lady Teyol.”

“Relo. You must know when what you’re asking for is beyond any limit.”

“Forgive me, but I don’t think it is,” the merchant continued stubbornly. “They’re the best you can find around these parts. Try finding other shops or even going to the auctions, see for yourself. Ashtar slaves are hard to come by.”

“Perhaps they’re hard to come by because there’s no need for them here. Who else would you sell them to? The mines? Even with all their… training, you’d be happy to receive even a few hundred.”

“I’m sure there’ll be those who understand the value of what I’m offering,” Relo countered.

Kris saw as his pose changed, closed off. She spoke quieter, friendlier once again. “I must say I am one of those people. An Ashtar slave is something I’d gladly buy, but not with this price; like this, I’d be better off making the trip myself. It wouldn’t be much more costly, and I’d surely find one there that isn’t so… defective.”

Ayzan was quiet before the two of them, hunched onto themself now that nothing held their head up. Kris sneaked a glance at them and saw the white of their knuckles as their fingers dug into their thighs. Ayzan made themself so easy to ignore with how quiet and motionless they were, and Kris hated herself for talking over them like this.

“Perhaps, I could go a bit lower without it being a loss,” after a few seconds of consideration, the merchant relented. “Eighteen hundred, how does that sound?”

Kris laughed, “I was thinking more in terms of five or maybe eight hundred,” and quickly raised her hand when Relo opened his mouth to protest. “But I apologize, I understand, it’s not an adequate compensation for your efforts. The transportation itself must have cost quite a bit. Perhaps, we could settle on a thousand?” she flashed a persuasive smile.

The merchant answered to her smile with his, but then shook his head. “I’m afraid it is so low I’d have to try my luck somewhere else. Seventeen hundred is the lowest I can go.”

It was better, closer to the real price. She only had fourteen hundred in her purse. She needed to go lower.

She turned her attention to Ayzan once more, looking them up and down in search of something to use as a leverage. They were skinny, pale, but this was normal for a slave, even desirable in the eyes of some. Easier to control, when they’re weak from hunger. Ayzan didn’t look like they’d starve at any moment, and that meant she couldn’t use it as an argument. Kris needed something else, and fast.

“It is a serious investment, you understand,” she said to the merchant who nodded. “I don’t want to disrespect you in any way, Relo, but, you understand, a slave bought for… the reasons… that I’m considering, needs to be in an appealing form everywhere. With such scars on their face, who knows what can be hidden underneath their clothes? Please don’t take it as a sign of distrust…”

“No-no, lady, I understand,” Relo reassured her. “It’s only natural to want to make sure.” He tugged the leash and then once again when Ayzan hesitated, frozen in place. Relo frowned and shot an apologetic look to Kris, which she waved off with a smile. “Get up and strip for the lady,” the merchant spat, “you know what’s going to happen otherwise.”

Finally, Ayzan moved, slowly rising to their feet but never looking up. They tugged the coarse, badly cut in shape fabric they had for a shirt up with their left hand, Relo helping them get it off the leash. Silently, Kris begged for forgiveness as they pulled their pants down with one hand. When she caught a sight of their face, it was uncomfortably, eerily empty.

Finished, they stood before her and the merchant, not making a single move to cover their body. They trembled slightly, and Kris wasn’t sure if it was from cold.

There were scars on their body, but not as many as she feared. The one starting below their ear continued on to their chest. On the opposite side, there were lines starting from under their armpit and going down, where Kris knew very well the skin was more sensitive than in most other parts of the body. Even the shallow cuts must’ve hurt as hell. A few were on the legs, but they looked more accidental and less like deliberate torture. Their right hand was half covered in pink scar tissue, their little finger missing in its entirety. When Relo told Ayzan to turn around and they obeyed, Kris could see the long, numerous lines left by lashes, layered on top of each other so that there was barely any healthy skin left.

She stepped forward, raising a hand, and barely kept her face neutral when Ayzan tried to flinch from her touch. “Stand still,” the merchant grumbled and tugged the leash. He looked apologetic once more, “You know how some of them are, when with new people.”

“I understand,” she brushed it off once again. It was a good excuse to use with something else, but it wouldn’t get her much of an advantage by itself. Instead, she ran her fingers down Ayzan’s body as they kept horribly still except for rapid, panicked breaths. She prayed for forgiveness once more, taking their left hand and rotating it around.

Then, she moved to the right hand. The moment she raised it, slightly rotating the wrist, a shudder when through Ayzan’s whole body and a quiet, pained whimper escaped their tightly pressed lips.

Kris immediately let go of their hand and turned to Relo, who looked incredibly upset. “You must be kidding me,” she said, letting some of her fury reflect in her tone. The merchant frowned and stepped closer.

“Must’ve pulled something,” he found an excuse and shot a glance to Ayzan before grabbing their hand and forcefully rotating the whole way. Ayzan tried hard to stay silent. Kris saw how their breath hitched, their eyes fluttering shut, and stopped the merchant’s attempts to pretend it was nothing.

“Do you want to hurt them more,” she snapped. “Because if you do, I won’t be buying them for sure.”

That made Relo hesitate and ultimately let go of Ayzan’s hand. It fell limply down their side and they took in a deep, rough breath, their eyes still tightly closed.

“I apologize, lady Teyol, there wasn’t anything like this yesterday,” the merchant explained, and Kris felt too tired to guess if he was lying or somehow managed to genuinely overlook such a problem. “I’m sure it’ll heal in no time, but, because of the circumstances, I will cut down some more. Sixteen hundred.”

“Thirteen,” Kris replied. “I can’t know if the injury is permanent or will heal, but it’ll require attention and money. I’ll have to find a healer to look at them! Not only at the arm, too, who knows what else is wrong!” she made sure it didn’t sound like a threat, but was sure the merchant did hear it as such. She didn’t know what else she’d find if she continued on with the inspection. Whatever it was, it was in Relo’s interest to stop from trying.

“Fifteen,” Relo returned an offer with a wince. “You must understand, going any lower would put me at a loss…”

“Fourteen. They aren’t even as obedient as you promised, hesitating like this. Can I even trust you that they’re from Ashtar? Or is it something you’ve lied about just like you neglected to mention that they can’t move their right arm?”

The merchant winced again. He must know, Kris thought, that with such an injury he had no luck of selling them to anyone. Even the mines would refuse a slave that couldn’t use one hand. Now that it was noticed, he couldn’t afford to cling to the bigger price. What she was offering was already generous. He must know that. He must accept.

Relo chews his lips, deep in thought.

Then sighed.

“Fourteen hundred it is, then. Deal.” She shook his hand and gave nearly all the money she had to him. After being paid, Relo smiled with much more sincerity. Kris found it hard to much his enthusiasm.

She helped Ayzan dress up, mindful of their arm, and took the leash from the joyful merchant. Just a few minutes, until they got to the room in the closest inn, she promised herself.

Ayzan didn’t make a single attempt to look up at her, following her steps as a second shadow, quiet and gloomy as one.

In the inn, she cut the small talk with the innkeeper short, getting a key for a room with one bed (it would be suspicious if a slave was given their own bed; she’d sleep on the floor if needed) and swiftly making her way upstairs. She let them inside the room first and shut the door after herself, immediately slumping before it.

“Holy fuck,” she breathed and then muttered a whole string of curses as the adrenaline wore off, leaving her fingers shaking. She did it. She’d got them. She’d got them.

She took half a minute to herself, staring at her hands and willing her emotions back under control. Then she looked up.

Ayzan stood where she left them, in the middle of the room, their head hanging low and left fist tightly clenched. They were so still she couldn’t even notice if they were breathing. They didn’t move to look at her, not even once.

“Hey,” she whispered and stepped closer. They tensed but didn’t back away. She worked on removing the collar, letting it fall down once she was done. “Ayzan, will you look at me? Dear?” gently, oh so gently she touched their chin and guided it up. They used to be higher than her. Slouched as they were now, she had to look down to meet their eyes.

Back in the market, there was fear there, and she’d thought it was the worst. Now, she searched and searched and could only find — something like defeat. Like resignation. They looked at her with pale blue eyes that always used to crinkle in a smile, and this time there was nothing.

Kris was the one who let out a shaking breath and had to fight to hold back tears. “I’m sorry,” she said, softly as she could, when her voice was back under her control. When she let her hand fall, Ayzan’s head immediately hang low, too. “I didn’t mean any of what I said to that bastard. I just— you're worth so much, but if I didn’t make him think I didn’t care, I— I couldn’t let let him take you away! I’m so so sorry you had to hear it. You had to— I’m so sorry. None, none of that is true.”

Ayzan’s chest slowly rose in a deeper breath than they’d taken before. If Kris wasn’t staring at their features so intently, she’d miss the way their lips twitched, just a bit.

“Love,” she begged. “Ayzan. Say something, please?”

Their lips twitched again, opened just a bit. They didn’t look Kris in the eyes, but their gaze moved just a bit closer. Slowly, quietly, they breathed out in a raspy voice, “Kris?” and then fell silent again.

“Yes. Yes, Ayzan, it’s me. I’m here, I’ve— I’ve got you. I won’t let anyone hurt you anymore, okay? I’ve got you. I’ve got you,” she repeated and reached out to clench their good hand in hers. Ayzan didn’t move, staring at their hands as if unable to see it. “I’ve got you,” she repeated again as her heart bled from the distant, uncomprehending look on their face.

After a long stretch of silence, Ayzan’s lips moved again. “What do you want me for?”

It felt like a punch. Like somebody made a hole through her chest and squeezed her heart until it turned into burning mash, coating her insides with pain. She took a breath that sounded like a sob.

“Nothing. I— nothing like that. I needed him to believe that I did, but I wouldn’t— I didn’t—“ she tried to find words to explain and failed. Ayzan stood before her, terribly still, terribly distant, terribly tense. As if they weren’t safe. As if they expected her to hurt them.

She tried again, “You’re not here as my property. I am very, very happy to see you alive. I’ve been searching for you,” she paused as her breath hitched. She hadn’t been searching for them this time, had she? She would walk right past them, not pausing to even find out that they were so close. She’d nearly given up. She forced the thoughts down, focusing on here and now and the fact that she’d found them. “I want you to be free, and safe, and happy. This is all.” She repeated, helplessly, when they didn’t move, “this is all.”

Kris watched their face as they breathed. There was no reaction to see if they understood, if they even heard her. Ayzan’s face used to be so open, so emotive, all their feelings written loud and clear all over it, be it a bright smile or childish pouting. She rarely remembered them genuinely upset, but even that was better than the careful, nearly complete blankness. As if they weren’t here at all.

She fought to blink back tears. “May I hug you?”

Their brows twitched, barely perceptible. Their eyes moved to the side. They didn’t answer.

She didn’t reach out to touch them.

She took a deep breath instead, trying to ground herself. “It’s okay,” she whispered. “I know it’s sudden and hard. We have time now, okay? You have time. You’re safe, and here, and—“ another deep, deep breath. “You’re safe. I promise you. I won’t ever let you be hurt again. I promise.”

Ayzen didn’t answer, but Kris saw as their breaths grew deeper, slower, calmer. It was okay. They were here, and they had all the time in the world.

Whump prompt XVIII

Caretaker is trying to buy whumpee to free them.

Only they cannot afford the asking price, so they're left haggling down whumpee's value, picking out every conceivable flaw and arguing with the seller that whumpee really isn't worth that - all fully within earshot of whumpee.

[kindheart525]

https://www.deviantart.com/kindheart525/art/Giddy-Up-889718133

“Mommy, wait!”

Bojack Sugarman trotted as fast as he could after his mother, but his little legs couldn’t keep up with her long stride. Beatrice stared straight ahead as she walked, acting as if she didn’t hear or even know her own son.

“Walk faster. I don’t have all day.”

She stopped begrudgingly for a moment, taking a drag off her cigarette as she waited for him to catch up. 

“If Mother and Father are going to saddle me with you for the day, you better keep up because I am not letting you hold me back more than you already do.”

These words stung Bojack, reminding him once again that his mother saw him as nothing but a burden. He loved her so much and tried so hard to make her like him, but no matter what he did, she never saw him any differently. It was like she didn’t want him at all.

“I’m trying, Mommy!”

“You better.”

Beatrice gripped his shoulder and led him along at her pace.

“We will not be late for the race under my watch.”

“But didn’t Grandma and Grandpa say they didn’t want me going to car races?”

Bojack knew he was about to receive a tongue-lashing for this but he couldn’t help it, he looked up to his grandparents and wanted to follow their rules.

“I don’t give a damn what they say!”

His mother snapped at him, spinning around to glare him in the eye.

“You will NOT embarrass me in front of my friends and you will NOT tell Mother and Father about this. If you want Mommy to love you, you will stay out of my way and keep quiet.”

“Yes, Mommy.”

Bojack uttered dejectedly, knowing there was no way he could really make her love him. He was lucky if she even tolerated him.

So he followed her stride as best he could, following her orders but thinking to himself about how he’d rather be anywhere else.

~~~~~~~~~~

My all-time favorite storyline of Bojack Horseman is the Horseman/Sugarman family backstory, I just feel so bad for young Beatrice and for Honey. It’s truly horrifying and I’ve always wondered what Bea’s life would have been like if Crackerjack lived and Honey never had a lobotomy. Would it be better?

Not necessarily. 

As I watched and rewatched all the scenes with the Sugarman family, I couldn’t help but notice that Crackerjack is very obviously Honey’s favorite child. She sang songs with him and doted on him while brushing Bea off with comments about what was “healthy” for a girl. She became so consumed with her grief over his death that she couldn’t even care for her living child. Even when she was lobotomized, she could hardly recognize Bea’s face while recalling her love for Crackerjack as clearly as ever. We all know Joseph sucked, but Honey wasn’t as good a mother as she thought herself to be either.

So in this AU, Crackerjack returned from the war his jolly self and his parents continued treating him like their golden child. Beatrice felt neglected from feeling like the second favorite, so much that she decided negative attention was better than no attention. The bratty child grew into a reckless young woman, a gal who stayed out late and dressed in ways that were deemed improper in her time. Her parents wouldn’t care anyway, they already had their perfect child.

Beatrice caught on like a house on fire with Butterscotch Horseman, even more than in the show itself. His rebellious spirit was way more alluring to her than that boring Corbin Creamerman, plus her parents already had an heir anyway so what did they care? So they got hitched after a one night stand that left her pregnant, and Bojack was born.

Beatrice had long rejected all ideas of what a proper woman “should” do by the time she met Butterscotch, so when their marriage turned out to be a shitshow she did not hesitate to leave him. Divorce didn’t make her a ruined woman in her eyes, if anything marriage did. But a young woman with a baby had little opportunity without a husband in the 60s, so she shamefully moved back to her parents’ home with Bojack in tow.

Nowadays, Beatrice continues living like she did before she had Bojack, often acting as if she doesn’t have a child at all. The few times she is around she treats him like nothing more than an inconvenience, as shown here. Joseph and Honey are trying to raise Bojack to be the best Sugarman he can be despite the shame of him being a bastard child. They dote on him as much as they did his uncle (who he is close with), which leads his mother to resent him even more as they give him all the attention she didn’t get.

Even though he has people who love him and lives a comfortable life, Bojack still grapples with his mother’s resentment, his father’s absence, and his grandparents’ lofty expectations of him.