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ofmythsandmadness · 5 years ago

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laughing like there’s any good reason to smile.

SUMMARY: diego did not think he’d be spending his night driving home a drunk weirdo like he ran a taxi company. and he really should have just not answered the phone, or said he was busy....but he was already out, he might as well do one more good deed for a NOT-friend who will not stop laughing.

WARNINGS: some language (not much, but i do like the word pisspot), romantic ideations, mentions of being drunk/alcohol. a little bit of oblivious mutual pining, too.

WORD COUNT: 3737 Diego Hargreeves x female insert.

A/N: I...I don’t know how I just wrote this. I legit just sat down and wanted to write a small drabble, and so I started this...and an hour later, after writing without stop I have this. It’s not edited, I have barely read through it at all. But it’s cute and messy and honestly, I don’t know what it is but I really like it. Which is surprising because I rarely enjoy a single word that leaves my mind and sticks on a page but I like this. it’s cute.

There are no TUA S2 spoilers in this, it takes place in a vague pre-s1, au bullshit that I like to base most of my work in (mostly because I’m quite lazy).

“HEY...YOU’RE NOT LIKE...BUSY, ARE YOU?”

Of all the ways to start a phone call, that might be the worst.

Diego drove probably too quickly down the quiet streets, one hand off the wheel, fidgeting in his lap. It was too late to be out like this, out and about like any other schmuck with no life to care about, and yet there he was.

Like any other schmuck.

“I know you’re probably too-tally busy...you know...stopping crime - I whispered so nobody knows, don’t worry…”

The phone call might as well had been with the entire bar, for all Diego knew because of how loud the voice on the other end was. Loud, raspy and dipping in and out of strength. There was a slur to every other word, and long pauses that almost made him think she had hung up. Every single time, until he just got used to saying ‘you there’, waiting for the sentence to end.

“See...awwww, I fucked up. I did, I really….rea-aally did.”

He laughed at that. Couldn’t help it. Despite how hard he had tried to compose himself, be angry (because he really was, he had things to do, dammit!) he had to chuckle there. Imagining the scene on the other end; standing there, leaning up against the wall, too drunk to even stand but too wired to take a seat. He wasn’t sure how much had been drunk, but it would have had to be a lot. Of all the calls Diego got, so rarely was it of that sort.

And never from normally well-composed, generally serious people he mostly considered assholes that did everything in their power to piss him off every single day of his miserable existence.

“But I need a favour...dearest, darling Diego…”

He pulled the car up, hitting the brakes but leaving it running. Absent-mindedly, he contemplated the risk of that - money was tight, he had to be careful about everything - but shrugged it off and stepped out. He wouldn’t be that long, anyways.

The culprit stood, or slouched, outside of the shitty dive bar he had been called from. Diego took note of the disheveled clothes and especially, the state of appearance - he had become so used to one certain way, he had no clue that a person like Y/N could ever, ever, look so bad in their life.

In the back of his mind, he mused that even despite the messy clothes (and mismatched, really atrocious look if he had to call it anything) and hair, someone like Y/N could never look bad.

He tried not to acknowledge that thought.

“Hey, asshole.”

“Hey!” Y/N cried, as though she had not seen him pull up. Though, maybe she hadn’t - which would suck. Diego didn’t really want to deal with someone that drunk that night. “Hey-y, Diego!”

He rolled his eyes. “You look a mess.”

“And you look ab-so-lute-ly adorable,” she slurred. She leant off the wall and promptly fell on her face.

Or, she would have, had Diego not moved in and grabbed her waist, yanking her back up to him. Which turned out to be a stupid mistake on his end, because then she was just right there, in his arms, staring up at him and barely standing up. Her breath smelled like bad whiskey and her eyes rang red, less-so from the drinking and moreso, he assumed, from whatever drove her out here in the first place.

But all that hardly crossed his mind as they stood so entwined in front of the shitty bar in the middle of the open street.

“Well, well,” she cooed, allowing her grip to relax on his biceps. “This...is...this is ni-ice.”

“Nope. Nope, not doing this.”

He said that more to himself.

“C’mon,” he groaned, switching his grip so she stood beside him and not so close to his face. “Let’s get you out of here.”

She sighed but followed suit, though he felt more like he was dragging her than walking alongside her. Her head nestled against his arm, hair tickling against the skin as the wind wafted through the night air.

It was the closest the two had ever been. And more than closest then Diego had ever thought them getting.

He was not sure how to feel about that.

“My knight in black leather,” she sighed beside him, clinging tighter. “You’re a diamond in the dirt, you know?”

“Don’t think that’s the saying.”

“Mm...no. But you’re always...covered in dirt, you know?”

He grumbled something non-sequential under his breath. “C’mon. Sit down, si’down.”

Begrudgingly she obliged, though she struggled throughout the entire thing. It felt more like he was dealing with a criminal from way-back-when then a...well, a Y/N. Whoever she was.

“Does your car have seatbelts, dear knight?”

“Does my-” Diego cursed and slid the seatbelt into her fingers, practically guiding them down. “You’re a real asshole, you know that?”

She tried to gasp but laughed towards the end, so it was more of a huffy giggle than anything. “Why...Diego, is that how you treat a lady?”

“No,” he mumbled, “that’s how I deal with you.” He slammed the door.

Faintly, he made out her yell of ‘pisspot’, and smiled to himself.

He sank into his seat and sighed, pulling out and into the road. Twenty minutes, he mused to himself, just twenty minutes and she’d be gone. If Diego could do anything, he could easily handle a super drunk Y/N in his car, yammering for twenty minutes about nothing at all.

He just had to focus.

“You kno-ow, you’re a grumpy grump, you kno...w?”

Diego said nothing.

“Do you need help with your seatbelt?”

He ignored her.

“Do you want me to drive?”

He answered that without hesitation: “no.”

She laughed.

He realised, sitting there, that he had never heard her laugh before - not really, unless faked chuckles thrown bitterly his way in one of their many disagreements counted, but he didn’t count them. Surprisingly, she had a nice laugh. Not one of those faux ones that he couldn’t stand, it wasn’t pretty, but it was real and loud and rang through the car like a Whitney Houston note; echoing everywhere.

“So grumpy, grumpy.”

He swallowed back his thoughts and just grimaced. “Shut up.”

Diego wished she would stop laughing.

They drove off and out of the miserable nightlife, with her giggling her ass off and him just trying not to lose his mind. He dared not look at her, though he knew her eyes hadn’t left his face. He wasn’t sure why she looked, and he really didn’t know why he couldn’t even just spare a glance, but he just...something about how human she was, real and raw and laughing in the passenger seat of his car like this was more than just a -

-he growled a curse to himself and turned the corner angrily.

A few moments later she had stopped laughing so much and had stuck with only a few giggles here and there. Y/N had taken up staring out the window, watching the people and houses and cars pass as though they were the most fascinating things in the world.

He looked at her then. Watched as she traced her fingers down the glass, staring with her mouth agape, eyes lidded and sad despite however much booze ran through her right then. She was more than drunk - she was tired. More than that, vulnerable in a way the two of them had never been.

That scared him more than the jokes and the laughter.

“Diego?”

His eyes shot back to the road. “Hm?”

“Why don’t you like me?”

“Hu-what?”

“Why do you hate me so-o much?” she asked again, that time with her voice smaller and a little higher. “I...I’m curious, what about me boils your bones...so.”

“I don’t hate you.”

“Yes you do!”

“No I don’t!”

“Yes you do!” She wagged an accusatory finger towards his face, so close if he turned she’d surely jab his nose. “Yes...yes you do, you little...y’lil...muffin man. You hate my guts, and I think I have the right to know why!”

Diego rolled his eyes. “I’m not doing this.”

“Why? Are you afraid of hurting my feelings, grumpy grump? Cause,” she sang, rolling the syllables like this was a goddamn musical, “I’m afraid they’re already to-oo hurt, for you to do that. You’re in luck, muffin boy!”

“What does - stop calling me dumb shit,” he hissed.

She stuck her tongue out at him and poked his cheek with her hand.

He swatted it away angrily. “Shut up and let me take you home, okay?”

“No!”

“Well - yeah. Shut up.”

“Or what?”

“Or-” Diego didn’t know what to say to that. There was not much he could do, considering the circumstances - throwing her out of a moving car seemed much too cruel of a thought for anyone, especially a drunk Y/N who could barely figure out seatbelts for herself. Same with leaving her, or taking her anywhere else, or threatening a match or any other thing they’d normally do to one another. Not that he’d hurt her, anyways.

Not intentionally at least.

“You better tell me, or I’m….m...out!”

“You’re - out, what?”

Y/N’s hand found the car lock and with a grin, switched it off. “I’ll go right now!”

“You - you can’t do that!”

“Why not?”

“You’re - you’re strapped into the damn car, you’re just gonna get hurt.”

“Why would you care?”

“I don’t!”

“So you do hate me?”

“No! I - jeez, Y/N!” Diego slammed his hands down on the wheel, spitting out curses he didn’t bother to hide. “Do NOT open the car door, okay? Don’t do that! Just sit down, and let me take you home!”

Somehow his speech worked. Her eyes widened and her mouth opened to speak, but no words came out. Instead, she sank back into her seat. Her hands returned to her lap.

“Great. Thank you, so much. Amazing.”

She didn’t say a word.

He spared a glance her way, only to see her gaze had turned to the road. “Y/N? You good?”

Nothing.

“Y/N?”

Nothing.

“Oh, c’mon, I-” he sighed and slapped the steering wheel again. He hated how his heartstrings pulled at the silence, at how her words had stung - stupidly, irrevocably, no matter what he told himself, it hurt to think she truly thought he hated her. Cause stupid, irrevocably, somehow -

“-I don’t hate you, Y/N, at all. I just - don’t get mad at me, okay? I mean I’m taking you home, I would take you home if I hated your ass, right? I mean - what do you want from me here!?”

Diego took another glance, worried when she still said nothing, and promptly grew a thousand times more worried when he saw her shoulders heave and shake. Without even thinking, he swerved to the side of the road and braked hard before reaching out to her. “Y/N?”

And then she turned, and he saw instead of tears, it was laughter slipping from her lips, rolling out like great ripples of waves, silent and shaking through her body. Her eyes were tearing up, but not from sadness, instead the drunken giddiness she found herself lost within. But they were alight, and warm, and tipsy on the power that must have fuelled her fit of laughter in the first place.

With a scowl, Diego sat back. “You’re such an asshole.”

“Wait, no! I - I just-” she heaved, and let out another peal of laughter - that time loud and echoing through the tiny car again. “Don’t be ma-aad at me!”

“I wish I hadn’t come, you know that? I should’a left you there, you...you asshole.” Despite himself, Diego felt himself grow flushed and embarrassed, struggling to even play this all off as anger. “You are the worst.”

She kept laughing. “I know you don’t mean that now, though! Ha - ha - you like me, darling, admit it!”

“Screw off.”

“You li-i-i-ke me!”

“Nope.”

“C’mon, you can’t lie to lil’ ol’ me, muffin man!”

“Don’t call me - stop it!”

“Stop what?”

“Doing that!”

“Doing wha-at?”

“That! All’a that!”

Y/N’s lips pouted down, though he knew for a fact she wasn’t really upset. “So rude. One might even think you mean it.”

Diego started the car back up again, grumbling all the way through it. He shrugged off her touch. “I do mean that.”

“You know, I think I finally understand you.”

This car ride was beginning to feel like forever. It had only been maybe ten minutes of driving, and yet he felt like he had been trapped in some special sort of hell for a horrific eternity of embarrassment and...her.

“I get you, Diego...fuck! I don’t remember your last name, that’s really ruining this speech!” Her fist came down hard on the car door panel; he flinched. “Darling, what’s your last name again? I - I can’t do this power speech without it.”

He said nothing, indigent and grumpy.

“Whatever, I’ll make do. Um…” she was quiet for a second, then with a triumphant ‘a-ha!’, spoke again. “Okay. So I get you, Diego, I see you for who you are.”

Was his whole entire life leading up to this car ride straight to hell? Because if so, Diego could only wish time travel actually worked. Maybe then he could go back to 1989 and stop himself, somehow, maybe just-

“-you try so hard to make other people think you’re this grumpy lil’ pisspot of hatred and anger and ‘I work alone, move or be moved’ mantra. So, so hard, it makes everyone mad and hate you back, and you’re alone all over again.” She sucked in a heaving breath, sighed loudly and kept going. “But the real Diego, he doesn’t want that!”

He tightened his grip on the steering wheel. “You don’t know what you’re goin’ on about, I suggest you stop before this gets stupid.”

She laughed, even louder than before. How was that even possible. “It already is! It’s all so stupid, Diego, because people could like you! I mean, you’re a lovely, soft little man underneath the knives and spandex and,” she dropped her voice low and grisly, “‘I hate everything and everyone and also...I’m Batman...woo...Gotham City...I stop crime…”

“Stop it-”

“-but you don’t have to be lonely, darling muffin man,” she cried, throwing her hands up and out in a triumphant cry. “You don’t have to! People like you, or they can like you - I might have to give this speech again, but that’s okay, do you have a pen and paper I can use to write it down?”

He ignored her, trying to force down the pounding in his heart. Trying not to think about a thing she was saying and how badly he wanted to respond to it, no matter how much bullshit and how she slurred her words and spoke in stupid rambles that made not much sense at all. But trying to convince a brain to not think about the very thing they can’t stop thinking about almost all the time, is a very difficult task and an impossible one for Diego, at that moment.

But he really, really did not want to think about how much he wanted to respond to her words.

“I like you, you know that?”

His eyes widened; barely a sign of weakness, and one she didn’t catch. But still there.

“I think you’re rude, and annoying, and dumb sometimes because you almost always get yourself hurt, and I don’t like that,” she rambled, swinging her hands about, conducting an invisible orchestra only she could hear. “But underneath all that stupid shit, you’re quite adorable, you know? And likeable. I feel so bad you feel the need to be so, so hard all the time.”

A beat, and then she laughed again,

“Ah! That’s what she said - ha, I said ‘hard….all the time…’ - tha’s what she said!”

Diego swerved the car to the side street and carried down, slowing until they were in the front of her apartment building. For a moment, he struggled to say a thing, finding the words lost in the chasm of his thoughts. But finally, he managed to speak again, forcing the anxiety down again.

“We’re here.”

“Wh-oh! You’re right.” Her eyes moved from his face to the window, pressing her nose against the glass. “Wow. That was so, so fast.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Thank you, so much, dear...darling...dear...Diego.” With a happy sigh, she unbuckled her seatbelt - he was surprised she was able to do so so easily - and climbed out of his car. “Thank you, and have an -oof!”

In the spirit of dumb drunk decisions, Y/N had taken too big a step backwards and promptly fell, right down on her face. And then laid there groaning and mumbling to herself, while Diego stared at her from his side unsure what the hell to do.

“Dammit,” he muttered, and unbuckled his own seatbelt. He hurried out of the car and over to her side. “How much have you had to drink?!”

“Not that much! I mean, a little much, but not thaaaaat much!” Her lips pouted, staring up at him above her. “Why, how much have you had?”

“N-none. Nothing. Stop it.”

Y/N giggled and sat herself up in the grass. Her gaze moved from his to the sky, mapping the stars through a foggy gaze.

Diego just watched her, unsure what to do or say, as she smiled and watched and mumbled to herself something he could not even try to make out. He swallowed, hard, trying to free his mind or how strangely beautiful she looked, sitting with grass in her hair and tears of laughter staining her cheeks.

It was so strange to see someone who he had forced himself to avoid at all costs, someone who he had grown to see in only one specific light so open and free like that. Uncaring, smiling, drunk off her ass but clearly doing at least a bit better than he was.

His mind went back to what she had said in the car, the small comment about hurt. Why had she been drinking? What had led her, someone of such strict schedule, out alone to a shitty bar in the middle of the night, alone, then to call him? Surely she had more people she’d rather talk to - at least people who’d be nicer about helping her home. Why was it him she turned to?

“Diego?”

He looked back down. “Yeah?”

“Gonna help me up, or are you gonna just stand over me and wait for me to take you down? Cause, you know, I will-”

“-yeah, yeah.” Taking her outstretched hands, he tugged her up, that time more gentle in case of injury. As well, careful not to pull her too close. “You...you need help up?”

“Hm? Oh, no, I should be fine. I’ll call my roommate down, she’s great at helping people.” She smiled cheerily. “You’d hate her.”

Diego did not take the bait, though. He simply held her gently and guided her forward, to the apartment complex doors. He paused, ready to let her go, and then,

“Why wouldn’t you just call her to get you, then?”

Y/N gasped and covered her mouth with her hands, dropping them down immediately after. “And miss out on this terrific bonding experience between the two of us, dear-ling?”

“Well - I-I just mean-”

“-sorry, Diego,” she said, that time a little softer. “I just wanted to see you, is that so wrong?”

“W-w-”

“-don’t answer that, I’m too tired for more of your sharp wit tonight.” Her words bled sarcasm, but her eyes remained bright and happy despite. Y/N then moved close to him, stepping shakily forward so she stood just in front before lifting up to her tallest height. Awkwardly, her hands finding his biceps, she pressed a kiss to the area between his mouth and cheek, into day-old stubble he had almost forgotten about.

Diego shivered.

She pulled back, scrutinizing his skin with furrowed brows. “Hm...I think I mis...nevermind. You be safe, muffin….okay?”

Diego found he could not say a word to that all, struggling to even nod back a response. Luckily, Y/n didn’t seem to need one. She nodded happily and swayed away, into her apartment complex. He watched her lean against the wall and call her roommate, lips moving animatedly in what seemed a more interesting conversation that he thought such a thing would have been.

Then she pulled away, and their eyes met again. Hers alive and his frozen, struggling still to comprehend what the hell had happened in that twenty-minute drive.

She smiled at him.

He couldn’t bring himself to do a thing. Just waited, making sure someone came down to get her before turning back to his car.

Diego moved through the actions of getting in, forcing his body to keep going even when his mind was barely moving at all. Mechanically he fastened his seatbelt, long fingers slipping away without even a thought, moving to start the car up again.

But then fell from the wheel, and up to his face. A hand traced the skin her lips had just touched. The skin was dry, but he could still feel somehow the imprint of her mark, pressing into his skin and stubble and being.

And then the hand fell away. Went back to the car, peeling out of the lot and off back to his own place. It dared not touch the skin again, for fear of being burned.

Diego tried to forget about it. Tried to sleep, work out, push through the thoughts radiating through his mind as though it was frozen on just one screen and didn’t know how to exit unto another. He stayed up all night, trying to rid himself of the memory and the thoughts and feelings and the way her eyes looked so stupidly bright in the street lights.

When he finally was able to sleep, it was restless and filled with torments of memories he did his best not to think about. And yet every time, the dreams cycled back to her, the her crying out stupid monologues in the passenger seat of his car, animated and loud and laughing like he had never heard someone laugh before. Drunk and in pain and clearly holding back something and yet alive, in a way he had not seen another human be in a long time.

Her gaze on him, every single time, just before he would wake up, smiling from ear to ear.

“I just wanted to see you, is that so-”

-and then he woke up.

Every time, smiling like a stupid idiot.

PART TWO - here.

#diego hargreeves x reader #tua x reader #the umbrella academy x reader #this may be super messy i'm so sorry #but it's happy and i rarely write anything happy so!!!#i actually like this fic #my fics

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bigtstreaming · 4 years ago

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How to Build an Empire

ello loves, here is the writing i’ve been teasing. it’s not very plot oriented (more of like a summary of certain events if that makes sense. idk just... read it and you’ll see what i mean). it’s just loosely edited because if i stare at something i do too much i will scream <3 also it’s quite long. enjoy:3

Six months and twenty-two days they have been underground or at least that’s what the tallies carved into the wall read. Six months and twenty-two days since they lost everything; everything they built from the ground up. Wilbur could still remember how the cotton of his shirt stuck to him (before he had to cut it up for bandages), as the sun poured down on him while he watched his son tear down everything he created. A few iron picks and a few hours was all it took to destroy everything they had worked for. The fear in Tubbo’s eyes as he received a heavy pat on the back, his new rank already weighing heavy on his shoulders, haunted all of their dreams. Months later, and the ghost of that hand would still be with him.

Six months and twenty-two days since his feet bled and cried out in pain, running for miles and miles as they were chased with crossbows and swords, their heads wanted on a silver platter just in time for dinner. If he had gotten everything he wanted, he would’ve personally made sure both of their heads were stuck to each end of his horns, displaying his trophies.

Miles on top of miles they ran. Going from biome to biome to escape them, hiding behind logs and camouflaging with the leaves. The panic he felt when he thought he had lost Tommy while trudging through the Taiga was something he never wanted to experience again- how his heart completely dropped into his stomach like a boulder when his ears rang upon hearing his words.

“My first decree as the president of L’manberg, the emperor of this great country, is to revoke the citizenship of Wilbur Soot and TommyInnit.”

But that was six months and twenty-two days ago. Never again did Tommy have to worry about tripping over his laces as he ran through the tunnel of purple wood. He would never get to walk across the wooden path to his hole in the wall home. His rollercoaster would remain out of business, the tracks slowly rusting. Twigs and sticks wouldn’t scrape his legs as he ran to hide from the hunters, Techno breathing heavy as his side. The baby blue color of his eyes had fallen down, just like the country’s walls and the day’s light. The bright eyed kid he used to be was trapped under the impenetrable shell that the hardships of war had created. He banged and cried out underneath to come out, but still it remained with nothing but a scratch on it.

Six months and twenty-two days spent in their new home. Every day they spent doing all they could to survive. It had started as just a room in a hill, hidden away from the naked eye. A banner behind the door to avoid anyone seeing the light that would emit from the furnaces and torches.

The three of them remembered the first night very clearly. They were curled up in the corner of the square room, the only light coming from out the door- the moon was shining through. Huddled together underneath Techno’s robe they sat in silence, waiting for someone, anyone, to take the risk and speak. The cheeks of Wilbur were dried with tears and Techno’s scattered with dirt. Tommy silently cried and prayed the tears would stop, but they hadn’t. As soon as they ducked in the mountain and his heavy breathing had stopped, the tears had started. He had lost all he had ever known. Not only was the country he helped build being taken over by a dictator disguised as a president, he had lost his best friend to this creature, nay monster. What hurt the most was that it was all his fault- he had pushed to allow him back onto the lands. And here he was, exiled from all he had ever known and stuck in a cave with a depressed ex-president and someone who had just entered, solely to help them.

“We need to reestablish ourselves.” Wilbur finally spoke, his voice hoarse from dehydration and exhaustion.

“This is our home now. We have to accept that.” He says again, his dark eyes look over to Techno and Tommy, the only way they could see the pleading look was because of the moon above.

Tommy’s palms swipe away the tears from his cheeks and he gives a small sniffle before deciding to speak.

“How do we do that, Wilbur? I mean all we have is some iron armor and tools, Technoblade, and a skeleton horse that I stole. We lost everything, we even lost Tubbo.” His voice was drenched with despair and hopelessness and went down to a barely audible whisper at the mention of his best friend.

“You've seen me fucking build a nation, Tommy, I'll do it again.” His voice pierced them directly in the chest like the arrows they narrowly escaped from had tried to just hours before.

They quickly grew out of this room and had to move deeper underground, not only for expansion but for safety. It wasn’t hard to get a layout, for as soon as they started mining they almost immediately hit the ravine. Techno called out to be careful as the stone fell dozens of blocks down, only then did he realize it was safe when he heard the splash of the rock in water.

And so this is where they would be forced to stay, hundreds of blocks below ground. They stayed at the top of the ravine, gathering the easily accessible iron and coal, gathering around the furnace for warmth while they sat on the cold stone. For a while the biggest debate was whether or not to use their uniform jackets as pillows or blankets for the night. Empty stomachs were common and the taste of rotten flesh was something that was acquired.

The food status was what almost broke them. Days on end their stomachs whined and groaned at the lack of subsistence, and curling in disgust when their cries were listened to- only to be met with the rancid taste of rotten flesh. Occasionally they’d crack out one of the carrots they smuggled, but those were low and they had to preserve them as long as they could, especially if they had hoped to somehow regrow them.

Techno still recalls the way he fell to his knees in tears when he found a minecart. He tore open the chest with such force and what was in it made him yelp out in joy- melons. Three melons sat in the chest. Screw the saddle and diamond, three melons just sitting there, untouched and uneaten. Suddenly the fatigue he had felt for the last week had disappeared, and he swept everything from the chest in one foul swoop before sprinting back to his two partners in crime.

His always steady hands haven’t stopped shaking since he ran at Tommy’s side in the middle of the woods, away from a man in full netherite and an enchanted crossbow. His head, always held up straight and strong on his head, dangled down, its eyes always on the lookout. It was a new experience for him, to live in constant terror and to be taken off the throne he was so used to living on. Kicked down onto his knees with tears welled up in his eyes, the once fearless leader had to accept what he had become; he had become a man of fear, consumed by it’s slick, fingers, carrying his around like a puppet on strings

Three melons, enough for each of them to all have one. Techno thought that the sweet and juicy taste was only a dream that his tongue had handcrafted for him to escape the acerbic and sharp taste of the flesh. But as he held the slices in his hand, he had realized that his tongue had not mistaken him because his eyes were staring right at the pink flesh. His fingertips could feel how smooth the green rind was. So, they sat in silence and slowly ate the watermelon, the slight sweetness was enough to melt them. One by one they took methodical bites, trying their best to make it last as long as possible. Although there wasn’t a lot of flavor, compared to the previous meal of undead meat, this was five stars. Wilbur swatted Tommy as he saw the boy take quick small nibbles.

“If you eat it too fast you’ll get sick, that’s the last thing we need.” He looked at the boy and his sunken cheeks that the malnourishment has caused and his heart began to crack. His skin, already pale, had gotten even lighter from the lack of sun. The darkness that took over his eyes made him seem dead. He looked as if he was going to shed his skin and become one of the skeletons they had to avoid in the cave. As much as he wanted to flick Tommy and poke jabs at the boy, he was just a kid, just a kid who didn’t deserve to be living like this. None of them deserved it, but to watch his young spirit and commitment to L’Manberg slowly fade and betray him, it made him ache.

Techno was the one who proposed a farm. However, a farm meant going deeper into the ravine, something that was a scary unknown. They needed the water source for the watermelon seeds, and Techno calculated that with how many zombies they had killed, they should be getting a potato from them any time soon. The carrots they had smuggled when first exiled were close to becoming completely moldy and un-replantable.

It was a tedious and daunting task getting deeper into the ravine. As much as they knew that there was water below them, they couldn’t be sure how deep the water was or what could be lurking beneath the surface. Carefully Wilbur mined while Techno was behind him, sword in hand, ready to attack anything that might come out. Tommy carried the caboose, trying his damndest to not let his hands shake their only light source around too much.

And their system worked, Wilbur mined, Techno guarded, and Tommy reminded them that despite each other being all they had, punting the kid down into the water didn’t seem like such a bad idea. It was a long process to get down, it took them a couple nights. The sweet taste of the watermelon was only enough to keep them in high spirits for a couple days, until the small seeds in their pockets just began a constant taunt and tease of what they would only ever have once.

But as they had done once before, they had done again and Pogtopia was becoming a reality. Carrots and watermelon seeds were sowed into the ground, small green tips peeking out of the ground and instead of everything being in overflowing, disorganized chests, their supplies were relocated to a naturally occurring, carved out cover perfect for lots of organized chests. When a couple days had gone by with absolutely no food, because none of the fruit or vegetables were ready for harvest and no rotten flesh was to be found or gathered, Techno and Wilbur had decided to brave the outside world to gather seeds and prayed that there would be some fish in the nearby sea.

They snuck out in the pitch black night, the few stars above were the only light they had. Carefully they trudged through the terrain, quietly they broke random pieces of grass, cautious to avoid leaving a large dry spot to avoid detection. Armed with nothing but fishing poles and iron swords, they tip toed until their sore feet sunk into the grainy land and they could smell the saltwater. Tommy, alone in the cave, curled up in the pile of grass and closed his eyes. He was so hungry and sore and tired. Never in his life had he ever experienced these feelings at such an intensity, and it was getting to him. There wasn’t a day where he didn’t miss the banters with Tubbo or the nights spent sharing a steak while they planned for the future of L’manberg. How foolish he was to think that could last he thought. He tried not to beat himself up over it, for he was just a child, but he had taken this larger than life role, and he should've known.

Wilbur carefully swung the pole and it’s tip landed in the water with a slight plop. He sat there and waited for anything to take a bite, whether a minnow or a giant tuna, he was desperate. Techno’s eyes scanned all the terrain around him, keeping watch that no one was near while Tubbo’s eyes kept darting all around the wooden room. From Niki, to the windows, to the door, to the fabric, and back to Niki, they couldn’t stay in one place for long. The oak wood walls almost felt like they were closing in on him, but he knew they weren’t because every time he had come back here he had felt the same claustrophobic feeling and every time he left, still being able to breathe. His leg bounced and Niki noticed.

“If you keep acting so on edge, Schlatt’s going to notice.” Her hands moved delicately as she weaved a needle with thread in and out of the fabric before she finished the last of the stitches. She carefully folded the last creation and added it to the bag with the other two.

Three wool blankets, colored pink, blue, and red. As soon as she heard that they were underground, Niki knew she had to give them some sort of comfort item, knowing how cold it can get when you’re below the surface. When Tubbo had told her he was in cahoots with them, she was worried what would not only happen to them, but to Tubbo. If Schlatt finds out...she didn’t even want to think about what could happen, knowing what he was capable of.

So she worked in silence alongside Tubbo. He would go over and drop off supplies, such as bread or wood when they ran low. Niki would help provide these along with an alibi for Tubbo because if one were to ask he had taken a sudden interest in baking and working for her at the bakery.

“I can’t help it.” Tubbo takes the bag from Niki and is about to run out before he’s stopped.

“Here, give them this as well.” She hands him a tin box of bread and multiple chops of mutton wrapped in paper and tied with twine that was itself tied to be a bow.

“Thank you, Niki.” He shoved them into the bag and left the bakery, careful to sneak out the back exit.

He ran. He ran because his life depended on it. He ran because the livelihood of three people he cared about most in the world depended on it. He ignored the sweet berries that scratched his legs and the twig in his shoe that every time he moved painfully stabbed his foot. He ignored how his lungs burned, begging for a break and while he knew he didn’t have to run- Schlatt was out of town after all- but for an operation of nothing but risks, he didn’t want to jeopardize himself now.

He ran because he hoped his feet would spell out an apology and write a letter of forgiveness. Not only for his friends, but for himself- he never slept alone for the ghosts of guilt and depression lay by his side. They whispered to him all their disappointments and taunted him while he prayed for sleep to overcome him. Every day he got up and these ghosts put on the black suit and patent leather shoes. And every morning, they shined his shoes and adjusted the red tie, his eyes would be glued to the white shirt with yellow buttons in the back of his closet; the blue jacket with brown shoulder pads calling his name.

But he had no time to reflect on all that went wrong, he had to focus on where he was going and what he was going to tell the three exiles. He and Schlatt had been gone for a couple months away on business, and he had not been able to warn them of his leaving before he was whisked away. Right at his return he decided to tell Niki. She was glad that they were safe, but her heart yearned for their safety. Schlatt had another business trip and had wanted to take Tubbo with him again, but Tubbo was able to safely weasel his way out of it.

That’s how he ended up out of breath and knocking three times on a wooden door hidden in a mountain, pausing before knocking four times. He adjusted the cloth bag on his shoulder and his eyes darted around him once more. Nothing but trees surrounded the small home in a mountain, they were miles and miles away from any civilization. The river where they’d sneak out to fish at night was quiet, only the slight movement of the water traveling north could be heard alongside the rustle of the leaves in the trees around. The area was lifeless other than the shrubbery, not even a chicken ran by. If he didn’t face the possibility of death from standing where he was, he would’ve found it to be quite peaceful.

He almost jumped upon hearing the door open but was met with the eyes of the man he hadn’t seen him months. They had the same dullness to them that they had the first time Tubbo saw them after they ran. The fear they originally held upon hearing the exile announcement had vanished, for he had now done all he could to come to terms with it. Wilbur’s hair was already quite long and shaggy, but it was now tenfold that. The messy curls were past his ears and he had done his best to tie back what he could with string, but the unruly strands had other plans. He donned the same white cotton shirt with yellow buttons as he had before along with the blue jacket with brown shoulder pads, but Tubbo could see that the once pristine shirt had it’s sleeves torn off and the once pristine white color was now shades darker.

And he felt bad. Standing there with a freshly ironed suit and shoes so shiny you could see the helpless man’s reflection in it. They could’ve stood there for hours, staring at each other in silence, but Wilbur grabbed his arm and pulled him before closing the door and putting the banner back over it.

The small room was practically the same as it was the first time Tubbo had seen it. But now instead of furnaces covering one wall and disorganized chests, only one double chest and a crafting table were placed. The makeshift bed made from grass, tied together with string, was no longer there. A single torch sat on the crafting table, just barely lighting up the room. What stood out to the boy in the suit was the two by one doorway with a staircase leading down. He tried not to let his attention stay at the entrance, but it was hard when he wondered what they could possibly have down there.

Wilbur looked at the small boy and held back a giggle. He remembers laughing at how he looked in the revolutionary uniform, like a child wanting to dress up as his hero. While seeing him in the clearly custom tailored suit should’ve terrified the outlaw, it reminded him of that time, a time where . He was just a child who had gotten into his father’s wardrobe, he told himself. But deep down he knew the power he held and the danger he was in, suit and all. The menacing laugh the dictator would give out as he held his head up to the audience, instilling fear into any who ever doubted what lengths he’d go to make sure no one betrayed him.

Instead he pulled the boy into a hug, his head resting on top of him- he could smell the clean scent of the shampoo he used and the nose curling cologne he adopted from his leader. Tubbo’s face was planted directly into his chest and he held back a gag at the foul scent of him. They missed each other because as much as he was self declared at Tommy’s Tubbo and as much as Schlatt declared that Tubbo was now his, he was their Tubbo. The boy who wanted nothing more than to create something with his friends.

Wilbur didn’t want to think about how long he embraced the boy. He missed him with every fiber of his being and wanted to apologize for everything he ever said about him, but he just couldn’t find the words. Instead he let go and directed him down the stairs to the place where the three villains had poured their new hearts and souls into for the last few months. Carefully they navigated the spiral cobble steps before reaching the end.

Tubbo’s eyes widened upon seeing the ravine, stopped in his tracks at the end of the windy staircase. The ravine was thin but seemed as tall as a skyscraper. Vines grew down from the ceiling, some with glowberries, so that those on the ground floor who looked up felt like they were stargazing. The green of the vines were the only semblance of color other than the yellow glow from the torches haphazardly placed.

The bottom was just water with lily pads scattered on the surface and thin paths of cobble and stone were at the edges of the water. Stacks of cobble and other stones were piled in corners and against walls, pebbles occasionally rolling down into the stream, creating small ripples in the otherwise motionless water. Alongside these mounds were boxes filled with all kinds of monster loot, from gunpowder to bones, they had it all.

Up above him, empty, rickety bridges swung back and forth, the structures only being held together with wood slabs and string. Their brown color contrasting the murky green strings surrounding them. From where he was standing he could see multiple entrances to different sections of the cave.

Tubbo adjusted the bag on his shoulders, the bundles of wood were heavy on this shoulder. Wilbur was doing his best to be patient, but he drooled because he could still smell the freshly baked bread and his stomach grumbled, his nose knowing that the boy also held some mutton with him. For far too long they ate the tasteless carrots and potatoes; sometimes they’d have flavorless fish when two of the boys braved the open world at nighttime. The watermelons had just recently been ripe enough to harvest, and they savored the taste like they did that first night, but there wasn’t enough sustenance in the fruit to only eat that.

Wilbur led him to the kitchen and dining, making sure Tubbo was careful to trip and fall into the water. His eyes couldn’t focus on just one thing, they darted all around the base. He could see glimpses of chests and barrels, the reflection of shiny iron swords would catch his attention before dulling back down. Smoke from furnaces and torches twirled up to the roof and collected at the top. The same wall that had the windy staircase was also covered in scratched in tallies, hundreds of them lined the wall.

The kitchen and dining was a naturally carved out cove filled with the warm lighting that was in every ‘room’ of the cave. It was the warmest area in the whole place, other than the smelting room which truth be told just got uncomfortably and unbearably hot. Hand crafted, poorly made cupboards and countertops lined the opposing uneven stone walls. In the corner there was an uneven wooden table and matching uneven wood chairs to accompany it. Tubbo instantly plopped the heavy bag on the table and panicked when the table began to tip.

“You have to be careful.” Wilbur darts over to stop the tragedy, carefully maneuvering the bag so that it sat on the table in such a way to not disturb the warped sense of gravity it had.

Tubbo peaked behind Wilbur to see across from where they were, he could see a room with deep amber chests and chestnut barrels that held all the supplies they had accumulated. He watched as Tommy emerged from somewhere above the storage room and effortlessly scaled down a set of ladders to shove some cobble in a chest that he had to use all of his strength to get shut. Behind him he could hear the clink of the bread tin and the ruffling of the wrapped mutton as the older man moved the meat into the ice box. Wilbur was about to ask Tubbo just where he managed to find bedding, but Tommy’s booming voice interrupted.

“Tubbo!” He looks across from where he had just stuffed cobble to see the small boy in clothes meant for people three times his age.

“Tommy!”

Their eyes lock and big grins overtake their faces. Quickly he drops his pickaxe and hops across the lily pads before flopping onto the stone in front of his best friend.

Before they had time to blink, they were engulfed in a giant hug, and Tommy smelt worse than the man before had, but it was something Tubbo just chose to look over. His blond hair too had grown out of control, but unlike Wilbur he didn’t make an attempt to tie it back. His once long and beige trousers were now muddied shorts, the torn fabric could be seen fastened around his calf, a red spot peeking through. But what stuck out to him the most was that the dark eyes he so clearly remembers seeing in the days after the exile, were slowly regaining their once bright glow. Now flecks of the light blue were sprinkled around his irises.

Tommy led the newcomer around and Tubbo’s eyes widened upon every new thing he was shown. Never had he seen such innovation and never did he think Tommy or Wilbur could achieve such a thing. It wasn’t their first time building an empire, sure, but it was their first time truly creating something that went beyond what everyone had thought they were capable of.

He was shown most of the base, first being a room filled with an automatic smelting machine, minecarts clunking back and forth as they picked up what resources the furnaces dropped. Coal dust coated the ground and every other surface in the room, all the smoke making it difficult for Tubbo to breathe, coughing as soon as he took a breath in the room.

“I wish I could say you get used to all that, but you really don’t.” He grabbed his friend’s arm and kept going on the tour.

Tommy quickly skipped past the sleeping quarters, more embarrassed than anything to show him the small room with three grass and hay beds, all squeezed next to each other. While the torch in the room provided some heat, they had to sleep close because the stone walls held no warmth, especially in the winter times. Techno’s cloak lay across all the beds as a makeshift duvet.

What really took the boy’s breath away was the longest branch from the main ravine, where if you stuck to the path it led you to a small pond surrounded by lush underground greenery. A small spurt of water would trickle into the pond, adding to the ambiance. Two giant spore blossoms were there on opposing sides, the light yellow particles seemed like glitter falling to the sky, only complimenting the star appearance of the glow berries hanging from vines. String was woven above the pond, where miscellaneous clothing items hung to dry after an attempt was made to wash them. Azalea bushes lined the back wall of the pond where the water flowed out of, some of its petals falling into the light blue water. Tommy explains how this is where they do the washing, going on about how they want to designate certain water sources for certain things, or something of that nature.

“The dripleaf plant is a killer, we always forget that if you stand on it too long you begin to fall.” He pauses. “Okay, well I forget. Techno and Wilbur are good about remembering it.”

This wasn’t just a base or a home or a means of survival, it was an entire operation. Tubbo didn’t need to be shown the dozens of secret tunnels and rooms (not that he would be shown them anyway) to know that they existed. He knew that every plan had at least three more backups, and backups for the backups. This had gone beyond presidency and exile- everyone knew that. The second Jschlatt had taken the mic and spit out his rules, policies, and decrees, everything that everyone was fighting for had changed.

Life inside Manberg had shifted, the tensions so high a spoon would cut it too easily. Everywhere you went you felt like eyes were watching you. Eret would watch how Tubbo would jump at the drop of a pin or Fundy would notice how Niki made more bread than usual. HBomb would hear the pitter patter of feet run by and see the flash of brown hair run by, but chose to ignore it. Skeppy closed his blinds whenever he saw the young boy begin to climb a tree to get a jar of honey. But Schlatt was oblivious to these clues, while he kept an eye on Quackity and Tubbo, he wasn’t able to notice these subtle shifts. He knew Tubbo was an oddball, but didn’t realize that his leg bounced because he worried that he had brought too little bread last weekend. Or that he refused to wear shorts that one week when it was so hot it was insufferable to do anything because his legs were so cut up from falling into a bushel of sweet berries. And Quackity spent too much of his time glued to Schaltt that he wouldn’t have had the freetime to pay attention to these things.

But as Tubbo and Tommy arrived back to the dining, tin cups of water and plates of bread on the shaky table, he felt lighter. Techno braided his hair while Wilbur spoke of something they had not been caught up on yet, grabbing butter out of the ice box. Tommy ran past Tubbo and hopped onto a chair in the back of the table (almost knocking it over) to grab a slice of unbuttered bread, Techno abandoning his task for a second to hold down the table so that the boy didn’t ruin their meal.

The cleanly dressed man had just taken a seat at the table when he realized why he had felt lighter, and wondered how it couldn’t have caught it sooner. A sense of home, safety is what he felt when he entered past the staircase. Above ground, he was a criminal betraying his leader and country, all eyes on him as he snuck around. But below ground, all those things stayed above him, something above ground Tubbo would have to deal with; he figured the ghosts could help him carry that feeling back to the base for him. Right now all he wanted to do, was tell his friends how to survive and dethrone Schlatt.

#i am rlly scared to put this out lol #tubbo #tubbolive #tommyinnit #technoblade #wilbur soot #dream smp #mcyt #writing #pogotpia #l'manberg #mcyt writing #dream smp war #harlot writes #let me know if this should go on ao3? idk im not super familiar with the site so that's why it's going here first hehe

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caltropspress · 4 years ago

Text

FEEDBACK LOOP #6: Cargo Cults’ “Rammellzee”

Since these symbols and all symbols are drawn, infinity’s separation from all symbols must be shown through drawing. The only proof of such a separation of the infinity would be the understanding by the majority of the planetary peers. There is no other way.

—from IONIC TREATISE GOTHIC FUTURISM ASSASSIN KNOWLEDGES OF THE REMANIPULATED SQUARE POINT’S ONE TO 720° TO 1440° THE RAMM-ΣLL-ZΣΣ (1979, 2003)

The rabbit-hole went straight on like a tunnel for some way, and then dipped suddenly down, so suddenly that Alice had not a moment to think about stopping herself before she found herself falling down a very deep well.

—from Lewis Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland

Riding among an exhausted busful of Negroes going on to graveyard shifts all over the city, she saw scratched on the back of a seat, shining for her in the brilliant smoky interior, the post horn with the legend DEATH. But unlike WASTE, somebody had troubled to write in, in pencil: DON’T EVER ANTAGONIZE THE HORN.

—from Thomas Pynchon’s The Crying of Lot 49

1. I walk down the street and people look at me and say, “Who the hell are you?”

Cargo Cults (Alaska and Zilla Rocca) begin their track “Rammellzee” with the voice of the some-16 billion-years-old being himself. The song is an ode, an invocation. The organ sample provides a bizarre ride: a carousel of colors. We immediately plummet—into a well, a subway tunnel, a cosmos of linguistics. Not a nonchalant That’s deep, but a depth of knowledge where “cipher” means code, means Supreme Mathematics, means gathering with your rapfolk outside the Nuyorican Poets Cafe or in Washington Square Park: a deep connection. Mimicking Rammellzee, Alaska presents the listener with “swirling pages / forming mazes of [his] formulations” and subsequently “break[s] them down into a form that’s shapeless.”

2. Hip-hop is ageist….In blues, you ain’t official until you fifty. (Ka, Red Bull Music Academy interview with Jeff Mao, 2016)

The phrase …of a certain age has, historically, been used euphemistically to describe someone (typically a woman) who has existed for a “shameful” tally of years. Society is still undoing the stigma, but rappers have made strides.

In Adult Rappers, a 2015 documentary directed by Paul Iannacchino (Hangar 18’s DJ paWL), Alaska is [accidentally?] presented twice in the closing credits—like a double, a separate persona—which calls to mind the multiple personalities of Rammellzee: Crux the Monk, Chaser the Eraser, Gash/Olear, et cetera. Age allows for maturation, for building, for bettering. In Rammellzee’s case—and I’d argue Alaska’s—it allows for complexity to emerge organically through wisdom. It allows for reinvention, for many versions of one’s self. Age and development is how an aerosol can with a fat cap can graduate to customized deodorant roll-ons and shoe polish canisters.

It begins with jerry-rigging a nozzle and ends in diagramming a “harpoonic whip launcher/pulsating extendor” to illustrate the deconstruction of letter-formations in the English alphabet. The spirit of experience pervades the Nihilist Millennial album. As anyone who has ever sat on the couch knows, communication can also improve with age.

Artists and rappers like Rammellzee and Alaska rely on wild-styles, a self-made world that warps quantum physics and disregards notions of dimensionality. It’s dream-vision. It’s liberation. It simultaneously celebrates and critiques communication: like the image of a muted horn.

“Communication is the key,” cried Nefastis. “The Demon passes his data on to the sensitive, and the sensitive must reply in kind. There are untold billions of molecules in that box. The Demon collects data on each and every one. At some deep psychic level he must get through…”

“Help,” said Oedipa, “you’re not reaching me.”

“Entropy is a figure of speech, then,” sighed Nefastis, “a metaphor. It connects the world of thermodynamics to the world of information flow. The Machine uses both. The Demon makes the metaphor not only verbally graceful, but also objectively true.”

[…]

Nefastis smiled; impenetrable, calm, a believer.

The wordplay seems just that: play—that is, until you find the thread. Alaska cobbles together words like rubbish, W.A.S.T.E. Words appear daisy-chained together—flowery, ornate, and strung together by their stems: “fatalism, Fela Kuti, razor thin” / “smash the superstitions with acid tabs and some Sufi visions” / “deep dive Sonny Liston” / “Walt Whitman.”

The track reads like a codex. Something crafted in a scriptorium. His words are warfare—double-tracked/double-barreled—and he slips into braggadocio to prove it. It’s an authoritative posture of experience. Having started atomically small—from Breaking Atoms bedroom listening, to Atoms Family—Alaska’s flow presents nuclear now: maximum damage.

There’s a refinement to what this duo is doing: “Me and Zilla well-established with a lavish vision. / Both hands crusty with Ikonklastic Panzerism.” The boasts rely on royal diction: Camelot, palace doors, Prince Paul. Each man a king, a God, and each one should teach one. Mentor texts for the masses.

Rammellzee is an equation, And simply stated it’s the way of life I’m chasing. That’s why I praise the future-Gothic future-prophet. Gotta rock it, don’t stop it, Gotta rock it, don’t stop.

You find diversions on the song, exits into familiar chambers. GZA quotations (“I was the thrilla in the Ali-Frazier Manila”) and allusions to Main Source. Large Professor rapped “Dead is my antonym,” and if that’s to be proven true, money needs to be removed from the equation. The refrain of “Gotta rock it” not only calls to mind “Beat Bop,” Herbie Hancock, and Grand Mixer DS.T (or his later incarnation, DXT), but rockets—Afrofuturist angles, future shocks (Bill Laswell [Material], friend to Rammellzee, had a hand in all this). It’s not so much a “future-prophet” as a “future profit.” “Freedom in the process” means creativity without expectation, without the constraints of market value.

Alaska gives it to us straight: “I don’t care if you don’t like it, and I don’t care if you don’t buy it / ’Cause I find freedom in the process.” Despite becoming increasingly complex in his visual approach—like a heap of garbage that loses the definition of its component parts over the ages—Rammellzee understood time equals clarity of vision. A wasted world becomes a meaningful one. Of course, we got to pay rent, so money connects, but ownership of one’s art is about empowerment. “Selling out” is the opposite—an evisceration of one’s self and spirit. “We lost control from the second we sold the art,” Alaska raps. “We sold our future….We should be seeking enlightenment.”

The moment arrives, epiphanically: “I find freedom in the process so I’m grateful, / And that’s my main source: it’s my friendly game of baseball.” For Alaska and Zilla Rocca, it’s not a job—it’s a passion, a pastime.

5. Nascent imagination deep inside a battle station.

Post-9/11 meant luxury apartments displaced Rammellzee’s Battle Station loft, his living museum. But the art has been excavated and exists posthumously. His Gothic Futurism and Ikonoklast Panzerism seem at home archived on the internet—a network that appears more like a chaos cloud. Rammellzee deconstructed and transcended language—junk monk scripts and calligraphic cut-ups of consumerism. His art is the empowerment a recycling arrow-triangle could only hope to be. Recycle is also rebirth. Rammellzee’s career path is circuitous, deep-tunneled (subway-esque), eternal.

Similarly, Alaska’s multisyllabic patterns are an endless barrage, like weaponized letters tilted sideways, like bottle rockets angled into a bottle’s neck: “Armament / Now my names are built like a BattleBot / Locked inside an ad hoc Camelot, I rather not / Tangle with a rabid lot, hop inside a rabbit hole.”

Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank, and of having nothing to do: once or twice she had peeped into the book her sister was reading, but it had no pictures or conversations in it, “and what is the use of a book,” thought Alice “without pictures or conversations?”

Boredom can make trouble, but boredom can also breed creativity. Alaska rather not spar with trolls under ISP bridges—though he’s equipped to. Instead, he channels his energies into material.

6. Our culture is done. We lived it.

Near the end, Alaska paraphrases Rammellzee: “I’m not the first or the last to don the mask. / I see it as a title, I’m monastic with these raps.”

Living a life of art—making it regardless of accolade or monetary payment—is the highest form of creativity. Live the art and die by it, like Stan Brakhage, poisoning himself at a slow pace as he applied toxic dyes to celluloid film. Like Rammellzee executing graffiti pieces maskless, huffing the carcinogenic fumes.

MF DOOM (née Zev Love X)—a Rammellzee descendant—taught us how to revel in anonymity, the importance of not spotlighting yourself, but instead seeking out the shade, secret passageways, and the trapdoor in the stage floor. Not all of us heed the advice, but some do, and they feel the throb of real success, not the sort that shows up in bank statements and 401(k) plans.

Images:

“Beat Bop” test pressing, Rammellzee and K-Rob, art by Jean-Michel Basquiat, 1983 (detail) | Rammellzee black-and-white portrait photograph (unknown) | Ikonoklast Panzerism diagram from IONIC TREATISE GOTHIC FUTURISM ASSASSIN KNOWLEDGES OF THE REMANIPULATED SQUARE POINT’S ONE TO 720° TO 1440° THE RAMM-ΣLL-ZΣΣ (1979, 2003) | Page 34 (muted post horn) in Thomas Pynchon’s The Crying of Lot 49, Bantam Books edition (1966) | “A scribe at work,” from an illuminated manuscript from the Estoire del Saint Graal, France (Royal MS 14 E III c. 1315-1325 AD) | Herbie Hancock, Future Shock cassette cover (1983) | Grand Mixer D.ST comic book image (unknown) | Stan Brahage at chalkboard (unknown) | Stan Brakhage, Mothlight celluloid (1963) | “Beat Bop” test pressing, Rammellzee and K-Rob, art by Jean-Michel Basquiat, 1983 (detail)

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disappearinginq · 4 years ago

Note

for the writers ask thing: (3) What is that one scene that you’ve always wanted to write but can’t be arsed to write all of the set-up and context it would need? (consider this permission to write it and/or share it anyway) AND (6) What character do you have the most fun writing?

Hilariously, the first one is a Prodigal Son scene between the team (specifically JT) and I just wanted a...merger? scene between beginning season JT & Malcolm, where they just like to harass one another, to basically an embodiment of the Kink!Tomato explanation. I like that they’re not cozy with each other, but they go from purposefully hurtful banter to just off beat teasing, and I had a scene where that was spelled out. I wonder if I can find it...or possibly actually getting around to writing the fic that i wrote three lines of dialogue for when @rohanrider3 gave me a prompt for it. As for most fun -ooo. Hmm. Snarky ones. And family relations. I think one of my favorite things to write was between Bellamy and Kane for Left Behind, despite not watching the show for years now, and that fic sits languishing in writing purgatory.

And I really, really love to write unexpectedly smart/badass characters (or make canon characters into unexpectedly smart/badass characters, because no one can prove I’m wrong). Edit: FOUND THE PRODIGAL SON THING.

“No, JT, really, I want to know,” Malcolm snapped, holding his hand out – steadier than JT could remember ever seeing it – jabbing accusatorily at him. “What exactly was I supposed to do? Hmm? If you know, I’d love to hear it, because I haven’t got a fucking clue. I’m a bit of an outlier, you see – people aren’t good with things they can’t categorize. They want to stuff you in a box whether you fit or not, and I’m guessing as a Hispanic male combat veteran, there’s a couple boxes people like to tick off for you, right? Suicidal. PTSD. Temper problems. Into drugs and alcohol. Anyone ever tell you you’re a ticking time bomb, just waiting to go off?”

JT didn’t answer – it was rhetorical and both of them knew it. Veterans today had a rate of suicide comparable to WWII, and instead of trying to curb the trend by digging deeper to find out why, Washington just swept it under the rug – denied treatment, refused disability claims, shoved people out on the street like Monday morning garbage. The only time people cared enough to even Google the statistics were November 11th and the last Monday in May.

“Oh look,” Malcolm barreled on. “Finally, something we have in common. We don’t like it when people try to shove us in boxes to make us something we’re not. But you know what? You’re at least not alone. You can feel it, and it can seem it, but you’re not – one point three million people in our military, odds are at least one of them feels like you. Can understand what you’ve been through, why you are the way you are. Wanna know how many serial killers had kids? Huh?”

Malcolm’s pointed finger became a splay of five.

“Five. In the last half century, with their kids still alive today – five. Six kids total. Ted Bundy’s daughter has vanished so completely not even the FBI knows who or where she is. Dennis Rader’s kids? His daughter fucking wrote him a letter forgiving him for what he did and that she ‘hoped to see him in Heaven one day’ and that she still loved him, and her brother told the newspapers that despite killing ten people in utterly horrific ways, he was a good dad. And nobody comes close to the Surgeon’s body count – maybe the ones he was convicted for, but not what he’s suspected of.”

“Look, Bright, I – ” JT tried to cut in. Bright’s glare stopped him midsentence.

“No, no, no, no, you don’t get to derail this train now,” Malcolm snapped. “Not when you’re the one who keeps looking at me like I’m only one conviction away from being Martin Whitly’s sequel because I’m good at my job. And you know what, literally anyone else who is a profiler, or a criminal psychologist, or even a forensic psychologist is supposed to try and interpret the criminal mind, but I don’t see you avoiding Dr. Tanaka. My father was the monster, not me. I was fucking ten years old when I turned him in. All the other Serial Killer Kids were adults when the police found out their fathers were killers, but I don’t see the FBI keeping tabs on them, waiting for them to pick up where Dear Old Dad left off. So why me? Because I annoy you? Because it bothers you that because I can’t solve my own problems, I try to solve others? I have twenty three lives that were cut short because of the Surgeon that I have to make up for, and yeah, there’s only so many ways I can atone for my father’s sins.”

JT wasn’t the only one who noticed the change in Malcolm’s voice as he almost choked on the word father in relation to Martin, his already pale features turning slightly green at the mention of being related to the Surgeon.

“Since you seem to have all the answers, why don’t you clue the rest of us in? Hmm?” Malcolm threw his hands wide to encompass the whole room. “What should I be doing that would make you believe that I am not my father’s son?”

Dani shifted in her chair, looking like she’d rather be anywhere but here, but gave him a side-eyed glare that clearly stated she was actually on Bright’s side for this one. Gil hadn’t said a word the entire argument, but then, if he’d known Malcolm since the day he’d turned in Martin, then he’d probably heard it more than once.

Malcolm must’ve said it more than once, because that was a lot of statistics to rattle off that fast.

JT sighed, picking up a pen and tapping it against the notepad just to have something to do with his hands as he met Malcolm’s eyes.

“It’s not what you think,” JT said. “It…” he considered his next words, weighing the sound of them in his head before he said them aloud. “I think you’re so good at this, it’s killing you.”

Whatever response Malcolm had braced himself for – because that’s exactly what he was doing, keeping his hands firmly over his chest, hunching slightly like he was expecting a physical blow – that wasn’t it. The kid’s eyebrows almost shot into his hairline before they narrowed back in suspicion, and JT couldn’t really blame him.

“I knew these guys – combat guys, all of them. Saw some serious shit over in Syria. Afghanistan. Iraq. You name the shit storm, they were in it, boots on the ground. They didn’t fare much better than you. Nightmares. Depression. The twitchy hands. The mania. The insomnia. Insisting they were fine.” He absently let the pen in his hand doodle across the notepad, and he watched as Malcolm’s gaze couldn’t help but flicker towards the movement more than keep JT’s gaze. “Hyper vigilant. Some of them saw counselors, but you know how that goes…seeing them doesn’t mean they followed their advice. Sometimes it’s just a band aid on a bullet hole. A couple of them got jobs where they thought they could do some good – use those skills, those…habits, at work. Thought it gave them an edge. Kept them vigilant.”

JT clicked the pen, putting it down as he leaned forwards, his elbows on the table, interlocking his fingers as he caught Malcolm’s piercing gaze. “It burned them out. One put a gun in his mouth Christmas Eve in his basement while his kids were asleep upstairs. The other one stepped in front of train during the morning commute. The other one gave himself a heart attack – he’s the one that lived. And you may not believe me, Bright, but I don’t want that to be you on the evening news. You may be good at this job, but I think it’s bad for you. Trying to make up for things you had no control over, keeping some tally in that head of yours of if the life you saved is equal to the one he took. That’s not healthy, and if your stupid habit of haring off after murderers without backup doesn’t kill you, then this life will. I don’t think you’re anything like the Surgeon, because if you were, this wouldn’t bother you at all, instead of eating you alive from the inside out.”

The room was quiet enough you could hear a pin drop.

Dani shot him her half smile reserved for special occasions and people she particularly approved of. Gil’s expression was still hidden by his hand over his mouth, but JT realized he wasn’t looking at him – probably hadn’t been for most of the conversation.

He was watching Malcolm.

Malcolm who was completely silent.

He didn’t think Bright did silent. He pretty much non-stop jabbered on, even when he wasn’t supposed to. Perhaps even especially when he wasn’t supposed to.

And now that piercing blue stare was levelled straight at him, and JT fought the urge to fidget under the intensity of it.

Malcolm’s eyes widened slightly, a funny little gasp that would’ve made more sense coming from someone who’d just had ice water dumped down their back passing between suddenly parted lips as he pulled his head back as if physically slapped. “You’re…not lying.”

JT frowned, glancing over at Gil who was still zeroed in on Malcolm. The older man hadn’t decided if this was good or bad, which put JT even more on edge.

“No, I’m not lying. Why would I lie about something like that?” He tried to catch Gil’s attention without getting even more of Malcolm’s, but the older detective ignored him.

#asks answered #games we play #prodigal son #prodigal son fic #sort of #one day maybe #malcolm bright #jt tarmel

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plantveined · 5 years ago

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A study regarding the reception of published fanfiction by male and female authors

How is male- and female-written fanfiction received when it gets legitimately published? That is the question I wanted to tackle with my project. I was curious: much of the fanfiction I’ve come across in my life has been written by women and while most have been positively received within their respective communities and fandoms, fanfiction as a whole has always been rather shamed or ridiculed. My limited exposure to male-written fanfiction meant that I had no idea about the other side of the spectrum, so I wanted to find out if gender bias actually did play a role in how fanfiction is viewed. I thought this was an important inquiry to make as this could reveal or debunk any apprehension on behalf of young writers such as myself wanting to make that leap from fanfiction to published novel.

I learned that the reception of male- and female-written fanfiction is biased in more ways than I realized and in ways I didn’t expect. From looking at the language used to discuss them to how much they are discussed, I learned the different values assigned to these types of stories and authors.

My findings could change the literary world—it reveals the gendered hypocrisy behind newly published stories and their non-traditional starts. This could get readers to re-examine their personal biases before they actually read those kinds of books. It could raise awareness towards the treatment of upstart female authors and help widen the avenue of new fiction to include legitimized fanfiction, as my findings show that male fiction with roots in fandom can be well-received despite of that.

Before I could collect any data, I had to figure out my list of authors to examine. I wanted authors that had previous experience writing fanfiction, or that had a reputation for having published stories that began as fanfiction. I defined fanfiction as any piece of fiction with origins from a previously published other work. I counted alternate lives of real life people as fanfiction. I read through the lists of authors that fit this criteria and came up with 7 female authors and 7 male authors. I then searched for 5 reviews of each author on their books that had been associated with fanfiction beginnings. I edited my list a few times because I only wanted to focus on modern books.

Once I picked out all 70 reviews total, I organized them by author and read through each review once before going back to tally for any instance where the words “fanfiction,” “fanfic,” or “fic” was used and then classified their usage as either positive, negative, or neutral. After that, I read through the reviews again. This time I was codifying for any instances where the books were being discussed by pure literary elements. These included tone, pace, characters, setting, plot, theme, and writing style. I considered dialogue to fall under the same category as character. I added up all these instances for each author and then found the average amount of times these literary elements were assessed per review. Then I found the average length of each author’s review, measured by its amount of sentences, and divided the average amount of literary assessment by the average review length to find the average percentage of how much each author’s review discussed what I considered relevant opinions regarding the books themselves. All of these calculations were represented in tables and graphs so that I could better analyze general patterns. I also noted recurring words used within the reviews for female and male authors.

Upon conducting this project I discovered that while all those books could be classified as fanfiction or started as fanfiction, “fanfiction” was only used to describe the works of 6 out of 14 authors and most often with the female authors. I wasn’t surprised by that, but I was surprised that in the case of male authors, “pastiche” or “homage” were used instead. That coded as a double standard. Pastiche, homage, and fanfiction all center around roughly the same concept of further exploring a pre-existing work by applying your own ideas. The difference between these words are their individual connotations. A homage can be seen as an act of admiration for the original creator that classifies the fan’s work as acceptable to the public. A pastiche is generally associated with a style of art defined as a celebration of the original. Both pastiche and homage hold associations of respect. Fanfiction doesn’t hold that universal association. In fact, the reviews that did mention fanfiction tended to do so in mainly negative or neutral light. The only male mention of fanfiction was positive. This shows that fanfiction—especially when associated with women—tends to be mocked, whereas when associated with men is often celebrated.

This negative gendered connotation with “fanfiction” further extends to the reception of a book it spawns. Although the female reviews seemed to spend more time discussing the literary merits and pitfalls of these books, much of the reviews tended to focus on character and writing styles. Attacks on character design opened the playing field for comparisons with the source material, something relished by many of the Anna Todd and E.L. James critics. For example, in one of the reviews for E.L. James’ book 50 Shades of Grey, the critic writes:

“It is entirely obvious to me that this used to be Twilight fan fiction because James manages to capture the vibe of the original: the shoe-gazing, eye-gazing, pseudo-angst of Bella and Edward’s tumultuous love affair. Yes! It’s all there from the zero conflict to the zero chemistry! However, as it turns out—and believe me I’m as surprised to be saying this as you are to hear it—Twilight turns out to be the more sophisticated version.”

Character development is a valid criticism of any novel but what stood out to me was the phrasing of the first line: “It is entirely obvious to me that this used to be Twilight fan fiction.” The critic could have voiced their distaste of James’ protagonists without negatively reviewing 50 Shade of Grey’s past as Twilight fanfiction. Instead, the critic opened their opinion with that phrased as if you can automatically write off a book just because it has roots in fanfiction. Another negative instance where “fanfiction” was mentioned was in regards to Anna Todd. One critic writing for Medium stated that their issues with Todd’s book After was “not just that it’s basically Fifty/Twilight with a thin coat of peeling paint and carries with it the dangerous relationship dynamics (more on that later), but it’s also clearly written to exploit the 1D fandom.” Here, the idea of a fan writing fanfiction stories for other fans is seen as exploitative of the original material. None of those previous connotations of respect can be seen. Contrast that with the reception of male fanfiction: whenever “fanfiction” was mentioned in a review for a male author, it was never presented as a drawback of the piece. Rather, the fact that the book was published by a fan for fans was often cheekily praised. One review title for John Scalzi’s Redshirts referred to the book as a “love-letter to fans.” The same critic said again at the end of the review that Redshirts was:

“A dramatic remove, yes, but it's deeply fitting that a book so centered in the fan experience should contain fan fiction; the codas provide a further look into the lives of characters only glimpsed in the main narrative, a comforting meta-redshirt hat-tip that, like the novel itself, is a love letter to fans of the fannish.”

What a double-standard this revealed!

These results matter most to writers, publishers, readers that enjoy new fiction. Writers should take from these findings that fanfiction can be a productive way to transition into a published author. A review from The Atlantic even said about After, “Multiple literary agents reached out to [Anna Todd], but [Anna Todd] dismissed them as ‘crazy people,’ figuring no legitimate professional would seek out One Direction fan fiction.” Turns out, they did! Their publications may not always be severable from their fanfiction past, but that can be seen as a positive. Publishers should explore these fan-lead routes that give way to new books. These reviews show that people do pay attention and often have a lot to say about their literary elements; fanfiction is not merely frivolous and self-indulgent. Readers should see that new stories can sometimes come from offshoots of pre-existing stories (much like they always have in the history of story-telling). They should be more aware of gender bias that surrounds the fanfare of a new book, especially one that may not have been published if not for fanfiction. Fanfiction has genuine merits helpful for creators and consumers of the literary world, and they shouldn’t be overlooked before the story is told.

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aquaminwrites · 6 years ago

Text

Skin Deep: 09

Pairing: Yoongi x Tattoo Artist!Reader (M/F) Genre: Friends to lovers, slow burn. Smut. Rating: 18+ Warnings: Explicit sexual content, dirty talk, unprotected sex (stay safe!) Word Count: 9K

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 (links removed due to tumblr issue)

A/N: SMUT, FINALLY! The next chapter is the end. Thank you for your patience with this one, it took longer to write than I expected. Let me know what you think! Also, pardon any mistakes, I tried by best while editing. Enjoy!

“This can only end badly.”

“Yoongi, I trust you.”

“Are you sure? Because this seems like a not-so-great idea.”

“Yoongi. I trust you.”

“What if I fuck it up? And then it’s on you forever? How am I supposed to forgive myself if I—”

“Yoongi.”

His eyes finally fall on you, wide with panic. You slip your arms around your boyfriend’s waist, palms gently rubbing against the bare skin of his lower back under his shirt. You’re smiling that insolent grin as you look up at him, a slight shake to your head as you chuckle.

“Baby, I trust you. I wouldn’t ask you to do this if I didn’t. Besides, you told me the other day that you wanted to try tattooing.”

Yoongi huffs, arms circling you out of habit. “Yeah, but I meant like…on a grapefruit. Or synthetic skin. When you said I could try, I didn’t think you meant on you.”

You shake your head with a laugh, unlatching yourself from his body and dragging him towards your station. Tonight was supposed to be yours and Yoongi’s date night—the original plan was to go out to dinner, nothing too fancy, and maybe go see a movie. But your appointment today had gone late, and so the plans had to change.

Yoongi shakes his head, wondering how it is that you can be so flippant about marking up your skin, especially on a whim by someone who isn’t even a professional. But then again, that’s part of the reason he likes you so much. You’re his opposite, in a lot of ways. More outspoken, more outgoing, better looking—even though you vehemently disagree, if only to get him to blush.

He also finds, over dating you for the last month and a half, that he can’t say no to you. And so he doesn’t.

He has to admit that he’s been pretty excited about the idea of trying out tattooing, even if it’s just once. He knows he doesn’t have the skill set or the hand-eye coordination to be any good, but he can’t help but be fascinated by it, especially when you start to speak so passionately on the subject.

Yoongi remembers how he was all those months ago, how disgusted he had been when Jungkook told him that he’d made a tattoo appointment with an artist he’d never heard of before. And now he can’t picture himself without you beside him, especially now that the two of you have officially started dating.

Yoongi has been true to his word, allowing you the time and space you needed and trying not to rush you into anything you weren’t ready for. The two of you have kissed, and have come dangerously close on more than one occasion to stepping over that line and just getting lost in one another, but it hasn’t happened just yet.

Not that either of you don’t want to. Yoongi can see it in the way your gaze lingers just a touch too long—especially recently. The tension grows thicker and thicker every day, to the point where just being able to touch you or hold you has the blood stirring between Yoongi’s legs. He has to try extra hard to keep himself calm, which is no easy feat when he catches you staring at him and biting your lip.

Your station is already fully set up and ready to go, the small stencil of a music note—an eighth note, to be exact—prepped on the countertop. You take a seat in the client’s chair, placing your wrist on the flat armrest that is wrapped with plastic and a medical bib. You point at the box of black latex gloves and beam at him.

“Go on. You remember how to stencil, right?”

Yoongi lets out a whine, but sits down in the artist’s chair anyway. He snaps on the gloves and then makes sure to follow all the steps as you guide him through the process—wipe the skin with alcohol first to disinfect, apply a thin layer of the stencil gel, and then place the stencil very, very carefully.

You decide to get a music note at the base of your wrist because Yoongi is a musician and you find his passion for his art inspiring and definitely something to emulate. When you’d told Yoongi about the tattoo you wanted him to do for you, he’d sputtered in protest.

“Isn’t it bad luck to get a tattoo for your significant other? And isn’t that like…the one thing that everyone says not to do when getting tattooed?”

You shrug, obviously nonplussed. “I have a full sleeve, neck piece, and an unfinished back all done by my ex-fiancé. I clearly do not care.” Your smile turns coy, and you scoot closer to Yoongi on the couch, walking your fingers up his chest as you press light, teasing kisses to his jawline. “Besides…what if I want you to mark me up, baby?”

Yoongi wonders if he should keep a tally of how many cold showers he’s had to take in the last month.

Peeling away the now-damp stencil paper, thanks to the wetness of the gel, Yoongi puts it aside and looks up at you with apprehensive eyes as you examine the placement.

“Is it okay?”

You reward him with a kiss on the forehead. “It’s perfect.”

“Perfect,” Yoongi repeats, sounding somewhat sarcastic as he eyes your hot pink rotary as if it’s grown a set of horns and rows upon rows of sharp, blade-like teeth. You’ve set everything up for him, so all he needs to do is pick up the machine and give it the old college try.

Yoongi flexes his fingers slightly before he goes to pick the damn thing up, and he’s suddenly reminded of the first time he’d ever had sex.

“Why do I feel like a virgin all over again?” He grumbles, wetting a piece of paper towel with a mixture of soap and water.

You can’t help but laugh at that, reaching up to brush some of the fringe away from his eyes. “Because you’re doing something nerve-wracking for the first time. Don’t worry, you’re gonna do great.”

Yoongi huffs out a breath, and tries to get himself into the zone. He grips the machine and dips the tip of the needle into the ink cap, making sure to check if the stencil is dry before going in. He feels you watching him intently, making sure he does everything right and in the proper order as his foot hits the pedal to run the machine. The familiar buzzing fills his ears and he tries to control the way his hand shakes as he goes in for the first line.

The tattoo itself is tiny, barely larger than one square centimetre. But to Yoongi, it might as well be the size of an entire bodysuit with how nervous he is and with how much sweat is gathering at his brow. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees you scrunch up your nose in a wince, and he immediately moves the needle away.

“Oh my god, are you okay? Did I fuck up? Are you hurt? Jesus, I—”

“Yoongi!” You’re laughing now, and you use your free hand to pull him in for a quick kiss. “It’s a tattoo. It’s meant to hurt. And the wrist is never a fun spot to get tattooed anyway, all the muscles and tendons and stuff. I’m fine, I promise. Plus, you’re almost done, you just need to fill in that little part there, on the tail of the note. There you go, now give it a wipe and see if any spots need touching up…”

Yoongi diligently wipes the excess ink off your skin and you take your wrist back, holding it close to your face with a scrutinizing brow to check for any major fuck-ups. His face is still tense as you move it away, but finally relaxes when he sees you smiling from ear to ear. You reach out and cup his face, kissing both his cheeks, the tip of his nose, and then his mouth.

“It’s perfect,” you grin against his lips. “Thank you.”

He helps you bandage up the tattoo, his hands still shaking from the adrenaline. You show him this new product you got in the mail as a sample, a clear adhesive bandage called Second Skin that you place over top of the tattoo. Reading off the instructions on the back, you gather that it’s meant to maintain a wet heal rather than a regular dry heal like you normally do—the benefit being that you don’t have to worry about the traditional healing process. You figure that since the piece is small, it’ll be a good way to test out the product before selling it to your clients.

“It’s getting pretty late,” Yoongi notices, checking his phone once everything has been torn down and properly sanitized. You’re both standing in the lobby of the studio, leaning against the front desk. “Did you still want to grab dinner somewhere?”

You’re checking your phone as well, frowning slightly as you browse through the restaurants in the area. “Hmm. Why don’t you just come over to my place for dinner? I think I have some stuff in the fridge, I can cook something.”

Yoongi can’t help but raise an eyebrow. In the time that you two have officially been dating, he still hasn’t been over to your apartment. It seems almost monumental, like you’re taking the next step forward in your relationship. He tries to sound casual, though he probably fails, as he replies, “Yeah, sure. You know, uh, I can cook too, if you need any help with anything.”

“And you cook?” You tease, arms looping around his middle. “My boyfriend is such a catch.”

Yoongi chuckles, shaking his head. “You know, we would get a lot more done if you just stopped flirting with me all the time.”

You detach yourself from him, shooting him a wink from over your shoulder as you gather your things, knowing full well that Min Yoongi requires you to flirt with him at least once a day or he’ll die. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Yoongi runs a hand through his hair and sighs fondly, shrugging on his leather jacket over his oversized zip-up hoodie. “You’re going to be the death of me, babe.”

—

The bus ride to your apartment is thick with a tension that Yoongi doesn’t want to name. He looks over at you, staring contentedly out the window, your fingers interlaced with his. He can’t help but smile at the sight, and when you catch him staring, you simply give his hand a squeeze and adjust to lean your head against his shoulder.

When you unlock the main door and Yoongi steps over the threshold, he realizes that this is the first time he’s ever set foot into your building. You lead him silently to the elevator, and press the number for the 8th floor. By the time you actually reach your apartment, Yoongi is sure he’s scratched a bald spot behind his ear out of anxiety.

You lead him inside, and can’t help but giggle at the sight of him taking everything in.

“Wow,” he manages, eyes roaming everywhere as you flick on all the lights. “Your apartment is way nicer than mine.”

“Hey,” you protest. “I like your apartment.”

“But we could have spent so much time hanging out here,” Yoongi pretends to whine, spinning in a circle with his arms outstretched as you roll your eyes and wander into the kitchen.

Your apartment is much more modern, being in a newer building than Yoongi’s. The front door opens to an open concept living room and kitchen, with a marble-top island opposite the sink for more counter space. A modern looking couch faces a large television on the other end of the room, and also serves to further separate the two areas.

The living room itself is cozy and can only be described as an extension of your shop. The walls are painted a dark wine berry, and white Christmas lights have been hung all around the perimeter of the room. It brings out the warmth in the colour of the paint, and immediately has Yoongi feeling nostalgic. For what, he can’t quite place.

Framed art lines the walls—some odd vintage posters of palm readings and human anatomy, as well as art prints signed by names that Yoongi identifies as tattoo artists that you admire. He’s just dodging around the coffee table to look at your shelf of oddities when you call to him from the kitchen.

“Want some wine? I have a pinot noir. Not that I know what that means, but it’s red.”

Yoongi can’t help the huff of laughter that escapes. “Yeah. Sure.”

He hears you pouring two glasses as he goes back to examining your things. You appear behind him and offer him the wine, which he swirls around for a second before taking a long, drawn out sip. He pretends not to notice as your eyes trail down to his throat, watching his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows.

“I never asked you where you find these things,” Yoongi mentions, gesturing to the animal skull taxidermy. “Do you just buy them online, or…?”

You chuckle, sipping at your own glass. Your cheeks are already beginning to go red, something that Yoongi has discovered only happens when you drink wine. “At tattoo conventions, actually. One of the vendors is a good friend of mine, and all his stuff is ethically sourced. He’s reliable, and I wouldn’t buy from anyone else.”

Yoongi nods and returns to looking at all the little gadgets and odds and ends that you’ve collected over the years. There’s a vintage book on tattooing, a few very old looking Polaroid cameras, a pocket watch, quartz crystals, and a few framed photos.

One is of you with your parents, looking like it’s from a birthday a few years ago, judging by the fact that your tattoos are incomplete and your hair is a lot shorter. Another one is of you and Junghyun, dressed in your graduation robes, both of you smiling from ear to ear with your degrees in hand.

The last photo that you have framed on your shelf is one that Yoongi isn’t expecting to see. It’s of the two of you. The photo is black and white and a little grainy, and he can instantly tell from the style of the photograph that it was taken by Taehyung. It’s from your first date, that night the two of you ran into Jimin and Taehyung at the carnival. You’re sitting at the picnic bench, looking bashfully down at your lap as Yoongi leans into you, a smile reaching all the way up to his eyes as he regards you as if you created every galaxy in the universe.

You steal Yoongi’s empty wine glass and place it, along with your own, onto the coffee table. He feels you wrap your arms around his middle from behind, noticing when you place a kiss to the back of his shoulder.

His hands come to cover your own. “I didn’t know Tae had this film developed yet.”

You rise onto your tip toes and place your chin on his shoulder. “I asked him if he could show me before he shows you.”

Yoongi snorts. “Traitor.” After a pause, he adds, “Kind of surprised you don’t still have a photo of Namjoon up or something.”

You frown, dropping your arms from around his waist to hold his hand properly. You rub your free palm along his forearm in gentle, comforting circles. You and Namjoon had decided to rekindle your friendship, and things are going surprisingly well. He still gives you some distance, which you appreciate, but you can tell that Yoongi is still a little jealous when you meet up with him for coffee or to catch up. You reassure him every time that there’s nothing there between you and your ex, but you also know that he can’t help but worry.

“Why would I have photos of Joon up in my apartment?” You ask him with a quiet melancholy. You hate seeing Yoongi even a little bit upset, and you can tell right now that he’s got a whole mess of emotions swimming around in his head right now. “He doesn’t make me happy. You do. You’re the one that makes my heart race, and you’re the one that makes me smile every day. It’s you, Yoongi. And you’re all I need.”

Maybe it’s your words. Maybe it’s the wine. But when Yoongi turns to look at you, and it’s not like he’s seeing you for the first time—it’s like he can’t imagine his life before you. It’s just as you said all those months ago. His eyes roam over your face, taking everything in that has become so familiar to him, memorizing every detail that he already knows by heart: the slope of your nose, the way your eyelashes fan across your cheek every time you blink up at him full of wonder, the way your lips gently part as you inch closer and closer…

Yoongi loves you. He loves you.

He doesn’t remember exactly when he knew, but seeing you now, looking up at him like he’s the only truth you’ve ever known, it overwhelms him and grips his heart so strongly that he fears it might burst forth from his chest. He finds himself pulled into your orbit, every thought in his brain circling on you, you, you, until he grows dizzy with want.

His warm palm comes to caress the side of your face, his thumb gently running across the smoothness of your cheek bone. He has so much he wants to say, three little words dancing on the tip of his tongue. But instead, his other hand presses against your lower back and draws you to him, your tiny intake of breath causing him to quirk up his lips in the tiniest grin. And when his lips meet yours, the universe slots back into place.

This kiss is pure fire—nothing but heat and an overwhelming sensation that threatens to consume you both in your entirety. Yoongi’s tongue slips into your mouth and he moans as you open up for him, fingers tangling in his hair, your body staying flush against him.

“Yoongi,” you gasp as his lips trail down to your neck, biting and sucking a path as he goes. “I want you so bad. Please.”

“Oh?” He can’t help but tease, grinding his hips into yours as your eyes roll to the back of your head. “What do you want me to do to you, kitten?”

You suck in the tiniest breath at the mention of the pet name, your eyes searching his. After a beat, you rise up, bringing him back in for a kiss. You tug on his lower lip just a little with your teeth as you pull away, batting your eyelashes up at him.

“I want you inside of me. Please Yoongi, please…”

Yoongi stares down at you with hungry eyes, and then suddenly you’re yelping as he’s hoisting you up. Your legs are around his waist as he moves faster than you’ve ever seen him in the direction of your room. You swear you hear him mutter, “Well, twist my arm,” as he practically kicks down your bedroom door.

You giggle into his shoulder, nipping at the pale skin at the base of his neck. You feel him swallow against your lips, and then suddenly your back is bouncing against your mattress, and Yoongi’s body is covering yours.

His hands are everywhere, tugging your shirt overhead and attacking zipper on your jeans. You’re no better. You push his hoodie off his shoulders, sliding your palms under his shirt and along his back. You lift it off, bringing him back down for a kiss, and Yoongi groans as you part your thighs for him, clad only in your bra and panties. His mouth is on yours again in a second, and he takes in a sharp inhale as you arch your back to grind against his growing bulge from below.

“You still have your pants on,” you whine, your hands wandering down to his fly. The amount of wiggling has Yoongi’s pants growing even tighter and he lifts himself off of you, standing up so that he can shuck off his jeans as quickly as possible.

He swears he only looks away for a second as the denim bunches around his ankles, but when he looks up, you’re sitting up on your heels, gazing at him as he stands in only his tented boxers with heated cheeks and a look that he can only describe as wonder. He offers you a small smile, knowing that he’s got the exact same expression on his face.

It’s then that Yoongi notices the tattoo that decorates your sternum and part of your stomach, just below the line of your bra. It’s a mandala done in dot work, framing the curve of your breasts and coming down to a point a few inches above your navel. Yoongi can’t help but stare, never having seen you without a shirt on before, before returning to your eyes. He watches as you take in a deep, shaky breath, and then your hands move to your back to unhook your bra. You let it fall away, and Yoongi can’t help the curse that escapes.

“Fuck, you’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, crawling back over you and kissing you deeply.

He uses one arm to prop himself up at the elbow, his free hand running up along the side of your body until he’s cupping your breast. His thumb flicks over your hardened nipple, tongues dancing together as you moan into his mouth.

“Let me take care of you,” Yoongi pants as he moves his thumb to hook the lacy band of your panties. “Please, Y/N, let me taste you.”

He can’t help but think of how cute you are as your eyes widen slightly, biting at your lower lip. You can only give him a tiny nod, and he kisses you once, twice, three times before trailing south. Yoongi takes his time with you, pulling dark bruises with his lips and teeth along the sensitive skin of your neck and chest, stopping along the way to lavish attention onto your breasts and nipples.

Your fingers thread through his hair and he welcomes the way your nails drag along his scalp. He especially loves the tiny tugs when his mouth encloses on your nipple and he starts to suck—your back arches off the bed and he slides his hands underneath you so that he can press you more firmly against him. He moves to the other one, making sure to tease you with his teeth and you gasp, tugging at his roots desperately.

“Yoongi, please—”

“Patience, sweetheart,” he growls lightly, his tongue dipping in the valley between your breasts, the tip trailing down to trace along the patterns inked into your skin. The kisses he places along your sternum and your stomach are wet, messy, and loud, causing the tiny hairs on your arms to stand up straight. Your thighs are practically flat against the bed, that’s how open and ready you are for him.

It takes what feels like an eternity before Yoongi finally makes it to your clothed centre, and he can see plain as day how soaked you are.

Yoongi runs his tongue along your clothed slit, and you yelp, your thighs snapping halfway shut at the sensation. Your hands fly up to cover your face, and Yoongi can’t help but chuckle at the sight.

“You’re shy,” he goads, kissing along your inner thighs as he presses them back down against the bed. “I can’t believe that you, Y/N, someone who lives her life out loud and always has something to say, is getting shy in bed.”

Your hands don’t shift from your face as you mumble, “You make me nervous.”

Yoongi immediately rises and crawls back up to meet your eyes, softly grasping your wrists to get them to move. When he finally gets you to look at him with gentle prodding, he tells you, “We don’t have to do this if you’re not ready. It’s okay.”

“It’s not that,” you promise, cupping his face with your hands. “I just…can’t believe this is finally happening, that’s all. I haven’t been with anyone in over a year so I’m just…it’s been a while.”

Yoongi winks and begins to scoot back down between your thighs. “Guess I’ll just have to ease you back into it then, huh?”

You bite your lip in anticipation, and watch as he slides your panties down your legs and discards them on the floor. “Please do.”

Yoongi’s thumbs massage small circles against your inner thighs as he takes in the sight of you bare before him. Your pussy is glistening with wetness, and Yoongi can’t help himself.

“Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” he praises before dives in, tongue lapping at your folds as your fingers tangle themselves into his hair again. His large, warm palms flatten your thighs to the bed, pinning you down so you’re unable to move. You cry out as his tongue enters you, the wet, messy sounds coming from his sinful mouth spurring you closer to the edge already.

Yoongi can already feel you starting to clench, so he moves to circle your clit with the tip of his tongue, one of his fingers slowly pushing its way into you.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he growls. You learn very, very quickly that Yoongi has a filthy mouth. And you fucking love it—especially when it latches itself to your most sensitive areas. “I want you to come, baby. Want you to come all over my face and on my fingers,” he says as he adds a second finger, allowing them both to curl against the roof of your pussy.

His fingers massage along your walls in search of something, and you feel Yoongi smiling against your mons as he finds it; that rough patch of skin that brings you such deep pleasure. You let out a cry that somewhat resembles his name as he starts to pump his fingers in and out of you at a fast, rough pace. His mouth latches onto your clit as he switches between quick, light flicks of his tongue and harder sucks, whatever it takes to get you to writhe beneath him.

It doesn’t take long before you find yourself teetering close to the edge, your fingers gripping his hair, and his free arm thrown over your hips to keep you from bucking too hard. Yoongi can feel the fluttering sensation as it starts, and he grins up at you with insolent eyes.

“You gonna come, baby? You gonna be a good girl and come for me while I finger fuck you?”

“Y-yes,” you gasp, trying your best to keep your eyes on him. “Yoongi, I’m gonna come, ‘m gonna—”

“Come for me,” he breathes against your wetness, pumping his fingers even faster. “Come now.”

As soon as he finishes speaking, Yoongi sucks on your clit, hard. You scream and feel the flood gates burst open, your back arching clear off the bed. You swear you must have ripped a chunk of hair from Yoongi’s scalp, but he’s too preoccupied with prolonging your pleasure for as long as he possibly can. His fingers still work you through your orgasm, and Yoongi delightedly laps up all of your juices until the sensation of his mouth against your sex borders on overstimulation.

He rises from your dripping cunt and makes a show of licking his fingers clean, taking extra time to clean the web between his fingers with his long, agile tongue as he maintains eye contact with you the entire time. His lips and chin glisten with your come, and you can’t say that you mind when he draws you close and kisses you, the taste of your orgasm still tinting the flavour of his mouth.

“Baby,” you say between kisses, breathless and barely sated. “Take off your boxers. Please. I need you inside of me.”

“Okay, let me just go grab a condom from my wallet—”

Yoongi moves to lift himself off of you when you place your hands on his shoulders, his gaze returning to yours. “Are you clean?”

His mouth gapes at the question, at the implication of your words, and once he’s processed the question, he nods furiously. “I got tested when we started dating. I’m clean.”

You blush. “Yeah. I did too, clean as well. So…if it’s okay with you…are we good?”

He lets out an incredulous laugh. “Yeah, we’re good. We’re so fucking good.”

It takes Yoongi about 0.02 seconds after that to basically rip off his boxers, his cock standing hard and proud as he moves once more between your thighs.

You hum quietly as you reach down to take him in your hand, pumping his shaft steadily. “Not gonna let me return the favour?”

“Later,” he chokes out, eyes squeezing shut for a second at just the feeling of your hand stroking him. “I need to be inside you. Now.”

Yoongi positions himself on top of you, keeping his body completely flush against yours. The tips of your noses are touching and he can feel your heartbeat against his chest as the underside of his cock glides against your clit. It causes you to shiver, palms against his lower back. He reaches down and positions himself at your entrance, the head of his girth pushing just past the lips of your pussy.

“F-fuck,” he pants, adding more pressure. He watches your face intently, making sure to stop every time you wince, assuring you that you’re amazing and that you’re taking him so well. He continues to push until he’s fully sheathed inside. a low groan escaping his throat as he buries his face in the crook of your neck. The two of you fit together so perfectly, like you were made for each other. “Full disclosure,” he admits, sounding a little ashamed. “I’m definitely not going to last.”

“Me neither,” you agree, turning to press a kiss to the shell of his ear. “We have forever to beat tonight’s record, though.”

Yoongi huffs out a laugh against your skin before pulling nearly all the way out and then sensually rolling his hips until they smack against yours. He fucks you slow but hard, each thrust carrying the weight of an untold confessions that he’s barely keeping at bay. Your body is just too warm, too tight, too perfect, and the sounds you’re making are enough to drive him mad.

You raise your hips slightly to meet him for every thrust, his pace starting to quicken. The bed frame creaks, the headboard starting to smack against the wall as Yoongi pounds you into the mattress.

He can’t believe this is really happening. The way you squeak out his name as he makes love to you is the only thing truly keeping him grounded. Yoongi is convinced he’s dreaming, because there’s no way he’s inside of you right now, no way he’s in your room, in your bed, kissing your lips, drawing these lewd whimpers from your throat.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, you’re so tight and wet, how are you real?” Yoongi asks himself more than you, clinging to the last shreds of his sanity as you moan and keen beneath him.

“Yoongi,” you gasp after a particularly hard thrust. You cup his face with your hands so that he’s looking at you, his ministrations turning shallow as you demand all of his attention. You’re smiling up at him, face and chest flushed and coated in a thin sheen of sweat, hair mussed and tangled, but Yoongi can’t help but think you’ve never looked more beautiful. It’s as this thought loops in his head that your thumb brushes along the curve of his cheekbone and you say, “Yoongi, I love you.”

Yoongi freezes, eyes wide, heart pounding in his ears. How long had he been dreaming that you would say those words to him? How many times did he have those same words loaded up at the tip of his tongue?

He can’t tear his gaze from yours. “Say it again.”

You smile up at him, kissing the corner of his mouth. “I love you, Min Yoongi.”

His hips start to move again, and you suck in a shallow breath as the head of his cock drags along your g-spot. “Again.”

“I love you,” you repeat, voice light and dripping with need as he braces his knees against the mattress and starts fucking you with purpose.

Yoongi can feel himself getting close. Your cunt is just too good, too tight, and every time he’s buried deep inside of you, it feels like home. He wants nothing more than to lose himself in you, to stay joined with you like this until every star in the universe burns itself out. He feels your nails scratching along his back as your moans get louder and louder, your walls clenching around his cock like a vice.

“I’m close,” Yoongi warns, kissing and sucking the most sensitive spot on your neck. “Want you to come with me.” He reaches between the two of you and you almost jump when you feel the rough pads of his fingers rubbing against your clit.

“Yoongi, oh my god,” you cry as the combination of his cock stretching you to your limit and the insistent stimulation on your sensitive nub has you hurtling towards another orgasm. You’re right there, you’re so close, so close, as you feel your walls starting to flutter more intensely.

“‘M gonna come,” Yoongi grunts, his voice deep and hoarse with lust. He kisses you, nipping at your bottom lip. “Where do you want it?”

“Come in me,” you whisper against his lips. “I’m on the pill, it’s okay. Please, fill me, I need all of you.”

Yoongi lets out an audible groan and then he’s kissing you, his tongue taking control easily as he fucks you deep and hard while adding more speed and pressure to your clit. You come with a muffled scream, harder than you ever have before, whimpering and keening at the aftershocks. Yoongi chokes out your name before delivering three punishing thrusts, stapling you to the mattress as he comes with a roar, filling you to the brim.

The room is quiet except for the sound of the two of you panting, the room smelling of sweat and sex. It is perfection.

Yoongi collects you in his arms, his softening cock slipping out of you. His come dribbles out of your abused pussy and trickles down your inner thighs, but you can’t find it in you to care. He rolls over onto his side and tugs you flush against him, and you find that the two of you slot together perfectly—like two pieces of a puzzle.

He cradles your face in one of his hands, brushing the stray hairs out of your eyes. You’ve never looked more beautiful than in this moment, cheeks red from exertion, lips kiss-swollen and your eyes so full of love, love for him. Yoongi can’t wipe the smile off his face as he draws you in, and against your lips, finally says what he’s been keeping at bay since the two of you met up at that coffee shop months ago.

“I love you too.”

When he pulls away, he’s a little shocked to see tears welling up in your eyes. He starts to think that maybe he’s done something wrong when you lift your hand to cover his. “Really?”

Yoongi relaxes and kisses away the stray tear that rolls onto the bridge of your nose.

“Of course I do, Y/N. I love you. So fucking much.”

You sniffle loudly and throw your arms around him in a hug, and Yoongi just holds you as your breath hitches in your chest.

“I’m glad you got to experience it at last, Yoongi,” you murmur, and Yoongi is immediately reminded of the conversation the two of you had in the coffee shop. “And…selfishly, I’m glad that it’s with me.”

“There’s only you,” he promises, rubbing comforting circles against your spine as the two of you lie there together. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

He feels you press a soft, barely-there kiss to the underside of his jaw, the simple gesture making his heart race all over again. Without hesitation, you reply, “You too.”

—

The two of you remain like that for what seems like forever, the afterglow too precious to disrupt. It’s only when your stomach growls loudly that the two of you burst into a fit of giggles, breaking apart and sitting up. You can’t help but laugh at the damage your questing fingers did to Yoongi’s hair. It’s sticking up at odd angles, some parts completely erect while others stick out at the sides. You try your best to fix it as he pouts at you before you grab his hoodie off the floor and zip it up high enough to cover your breasts, keeping it low enough to tempt Yoongi just a little bit.

“We never got to make dinner,” you muse as you amble over to your dresser to find a new set of panties. You purposely choose a dark red lace number and make a show of putting it on. You stand at your full height and look at Yoongi over your shoulder. His mouth is wide open and his expression looks as if Nessie had emerged from Loch Ness, fist-bumped him, and then asked for a selfie.

You wander to the bathroom to get cleaned up while Yoongi manages to roll himself out of bed once his tongue is back inside his mouth, collecting his boxers and t-shirt off the floor. Yoongi can’t remember the last time he got laid, but he knows it’s never been that good before. He flops back down onto the bed and basks in the feeling of being worn out from a good fuck when he hears the bathroom door open again.

The hoodie you’re wearing—his hoodie—falls just below your ass, exposing the length of your bare legs as you make your way into the kitchen. You let out a squeal when you hear the sound of footsteps rushing after you, followed by a pair of strong, lanky arms tugging you backwards. Yoongi buries his face in the crook of your neck as he holds your back to his chest, rocking you gently from side to side.

“I just want you to know,” Yoongi begins, and you feel the movement of his lips against your skin. “I’m not very good at expressing myself, and emotional stuff can be difficult for me. But I really do love you, even if I’m not great at showing it sometimes.”

You turn in his grasp and gingerly place your hands on his chest, toying with the collar of his shirt. “In all the time we’ve been together, I’ve never doubted that you care about me, Yoongi. Give yourself a little more credit. Your love language isn’t through spoken words, and that’s okay.”

Yoongi’s grip on your waist tightens. “You don’t mind?”

“If it bothers you, it’s something we can work on,” you promise. “But I don’t always need verbal affirmation. You take time out of your day to come see me while I’m working, you always ask to make sure I’ve eaten and have been drinking water, and you’re not afraid to hold my hand in public. I would never want that part of you to change.”

Yoongi touches his forehead to yours and closes his eyes. “How did I get so lucky?”

You rise up to your tip toes to deliver a peck to his lips before lowering yourself back down. “I ask myself that question every day. Now, come on, let’s see what I’ve got in the fridge.”

You meander over to the fridge and Yoongi follows close behind, peeking over your shoulder to see what you’ve got in terms of groceries. You hum a tune that he immediately recognizes as one of his own songs, and drops a kiss to the back of your head. You don’t turn, but you lean your body against his as you survey your ingredients.

“We could do fried rice,” you offer. “Or noodles. I mostly have random vegetables and some chicken, and I’m not that creative of a cook. What do you feel like having?”

Yoongi shrugs, hands placed on your hips. “I’m not a picky eater, whatever you want, we can have.”

You grab the food from the fridge and Yoongi lets you go as you place the ingredients on the island counter. “Fried rice it is, then.”

You peter off to fetch your rice cooker from one of your cabinets as Yoongi gets to work on washing the vegetables and chopping them up into smaller pieces. The two of you move around so easily together in the kitchen, not really speaking, but just enjoying one another’s presence. It’s all so domestic, and you can’t help but feel as if Yoongi’s always just existed beside you, an extension of yourself. You love him so much that it’s overwhelming, and Yoongi places down his knife when he catches you staring.

“Do I have something on my face?” He asks with a laugh, his eyes crinkling at the outer corners as he flashes his gummy smile at you.

You pad over to him and kiss his cheek, giving his arm a light squeeze. “It’s nothing. Thank you for helping.”

Yoongi can’t help the blush that dusts his cheeks at your casual affection. “If I keep helping, do I get more kisses?”

You bite your lip and eye him up and down. You notice when Yoongi shivers under the heat of your gaze. “After dinner.”

Yoongi clears his throat. “Let’s get to cooking, then.”

It doesn’t take long, once the rice is done cooking, to get the rest of the meal prepared. Not without distractions, however—there are kisses stolen, lingering touches, and at one point Yoongi crowds you against the counter and almost convinces you to abandon cooking for other extracurriculars. You’re just about to give in when both of your stomachs growl in protest, and the two of you decide that maybe eating something is a good idea.

Yoongi ends up taking over for you, throwing seemingly random spices and seasonings into the wok as he combines all the ingredients. He’s unlike you in that when you cook, you need to measure out all your ingredients, refer to recipes, make lists. But Yoongi just seems to inherently know what spices go well together, what flavours complement the dish, and he just goes off of instinct.

You’d be lying to yourself if you said you didn’t find him cooking up a storm in your kitchen really, really fucking sexy.

The smell is absolutely delicious, exceedingly so for such a simple dish, and you usher Yoongi to put on a movie as you grab bowls and utensils for the food. Yoongi complies, fetching the bottle of wine you’d opened earlier and bringing it over to the couch with him.

You’re carrying two full bowls of homemade fried rice when you walk over to the couch to see Yoongi scrutinizing the abandoned wine glasses from earlier. When you shoot him a questioning look, he lifts them both up to show you.

“Do you remember which one is yours?”

You can’t help but snort at that, placing the bowls on the coffee table. “Yoongi, you came inside of me like, half an hour ago. I don’t think it matters which glass is whose.”

Yoongi shuts his eyes, exhales hard through his nostrils, and purses his lips as if he’s trying to hold in a laugh at your remark. Once he’s convinced he’s gained control of himself, he pours the wine, indiscriminately hands you a glass and remarks, “You’re really something else.”

The movie he chooses is Ocean’s 8, muttering something about Cate Blanchett in suits, as you both settle into the sofa. You lean your head against Yoongi’s shoulder as you chew absentmindedly, alternating between complimenting your boyfriend on his culinary skills and making silly quips at the television.

Once you’re both done eating, you stack the bowls and leave them on the other end of the coffee table to deal with later. Yoongi opens up his arms for you and you slide into his lap, his arms circling you as the two of you watch the movie in relative silence, just enjoying one another’s company. The wine is long gone by now, warming both of you from the inside, and offers Yoongi enough boldness to ask a question he’s had on his mind for a little while now.

“Would you ever tattoo me?”

You look up at your boyfriend, startled. “What?”

Yoongi’s arm stiffens around you slightly, almost like he’s embarrassed. “If I ever asked, would you tattoo me?”

“Yoongi,” you sigh, sitting up and brushing his fringe out of his eyes. “You don’t even like tattoos.”

His eyes wander to the lines of the peony adorning your neck, one of his hands coming to rest on your bare thigh. “I like yours.”

“You like me,” you tease. “We both know you’re not a tattoo person, Yoongi. And that’s okay. I would never want you to make such a permanent decision just because you’re dating me now, or because you think it’s what I would prefer. If you really want one, and you’re positive that you would have wanted it even if we weren’t together, then sure. But if you’re thinking about getting one to make me happy, then no.”

Yoongi is quiet for a second before exhaling softly through parted lips. “Yeah, you’re right.”

You tweak his nose with an insolent grin. “I’m always right.”

He growls and grabs your waist, moving you so that you’re straddling his lap. Your hands find his shoulders for balance and when he looks up at you with his catlike stare, you can seen that his pupils are blown wide. He raises his hips just a touch, enough for this hardening member to graze against your core. You gasp in a breath at the sudden shift and bite your lip as one of Yoongi’s hands comes to tug at the zipper of your hoodie.

“Guess I’ll just have to fuck the sass out of you, huh?”

You grin as Yoongi works the sweater open, allowing the material to fall down to your elbows. You palm his erection through his boxers and lean in to whisper into his ear.

“I’d like to see you try.”

Yoongi lets out a laugh that dies on his tongue as you pull him free and stroke him, his cock stiffening in your grasp.

“Mmm, babe,” he smirks, and you feel yourself getting even wetter at the sight. He leans back, hands resting on your thighs. “You’re gonna have to try.” He sits up suddenly, pulling you flush to his chest as his mouth latches onto one of your nipples. You mewl as he toys with it between his teeth, biting and pulling before switching to the other. Your breathing is coming in a staccato rhythm, and your heart nearly stops when Yoongi moves away from your breasts and just says, “Ride me.”

His eyes are twinkling with mirth as you feel your panties getting damper and damper. You move to stand, but Yoongi has other ideas. He grips your waist and keeps you on his lap, and you look at him questioningly.

Yoongi responds by running the pad of his thumb along the front of your mound, lightly grazing over your clit, causing you to shiver. He shifts his hand so that it’s cupping your pussy entirely, and you let out a tiny whimper as you feel to of his fingers pressing against your entrance through your soaked lace underwear.

“So wet,” he murmurs, hooking his fingers along the edge of your panties and slicking them to the side. You take his cock in your hand and decide not to waste any more time, positioning the swollen head between your legs. You sink down onto him slowly, your fingernails digging into his shoulders as he fills you inch by inch.

He feels even bigger like this, hitting every spot inside of you that makes you sing. When your cunt touches the base of his cock, you lean down to kiss him, hands cupping his face. Yoongi’s hands wander up your back, underneath your half-off sweater, holding you close, encouraging you to move.

“C’mon, baby,” he breathes against your mouth. “Work for it. Fuck me.”

You can’t help the moan that escapes at his words, and your hands grip the back of the couch with white knuckles as you begin to roll your hips. Yoongi lets his head loll back so that he can watch your face as you ride him, taking in the fluttering of your eyelids as your pussy takes him deep. He lets out a string of curses as you start to lift yourself off and slam yourself back down at a faster rhythm, both of you unable to mask your sounds of pleasure as you get lost in one another’s bodies.

You grasp at Yoongi’s t-shirt and wrench it off him, much to his amusement. But he’s not one to complain, especially when your breasts press against the naked planes of his chest, relishing in the feeling of you on him and around him.

“Tell me how I feel,” Yoongi grunts as he starts to meet you for every thrust, bucking up into you from below. “Tell me, baby. Wanna know how your pretty little pussy feels when it takes all of my cock.”

You bite back a cry. “Big,” you gasp. “And full.”

“Fucking love you so much,” he rasps as his hips start to pick up speed. His firm grip on your waist holds you in place as he fucks you hard, his balls slapping against your skin as he spears you with every thrust. “Fucking love your tight wet pussy, love how well you take me. Can’t believe you’re mine, can’t believe we waited so long to do this. Want to be inside of you forever.”

You feel the coil in your stomach start to tighten, especially with Yoongi’s deep, husky voice spouting simultaneously the filthiest and most romantic shit you have ever heard in your entire life. He can tell by the way you throw your head back in ecstasy that you’re almost there, rapidly approaching the edge and just waiting to teeter off the side.

“Yoongi, come with me,” you beg as your fingers move over your clit, rubbing furiously. Yoongi chokes out a moan as your walls immediately start to squeeze down on his shaft. “Please, baby, I need you, need you so bad.”

“You already have me,” he promises, pulling you in for a kiss just as the dam breaks for both of you. Your keens are muffled by his lips and tongue, and you roll your hips to ride out both of your orgasms for as long as possible. You feel it when he explodes inside of your dripping cunt, as his cock twitches and pulses through the remainder of his euphoria.

You stay there on his lap, forehead resting against his, as the two of you try to steady your breathing as well as your heart rates. Your forehead is dotted with sweat, and his bangs are damp and matted to his own. You lean back slightly and comb his hair away from his face with your fingers, wanting to see all of him.

Yoongi’s catlike eyes are searching yours, open and honest, like they always are when he’s with you. His lips are parted slightly, still taking in deep inhales of oxygen as his heart finally begins to calm. With the rosiness in his cheeks and the way he’s looking at you full of wonder, you think to yourself that he’s never looked more amazing or ethereal than in this moment.

“I’m so in love with you,” you can’t help but whisper, and it’s so quiet that you aren’t even sure if he heard you.

But by the way his hands soothe over your back and your waist, paired with the soft adoration that filters into his eyes, you know that he did.

“I’m so in love with you, too,” he promises, drawing you in for another kiss. When you part, he can’t stop the yawn that escapes his lips. “Shower, and then bed?”

You nod, also suddenly exhausted. You move to stand and nearly stumble. You would have fallen if Yoongi hadn’t immediately risen to catch you, his arms holding you tightly as the two of you make your way to the bathroom.

“It’s official. No shower sex. If we were to try, I think we would both get hurt.”

Yoongi pouts. “None? At all?”

“Yoongi,” you scold, though your voice lacks malice. “No.”

As it turns out, you have a really, really hard time saying no to Yoongi. So as a compromise, you go down on him under the steaming spray of the faucet, and he carries you back to your bed to return the favour one more time before bed.

And as you find yourself wrapped up in his arms, bare skin pressed against bare skin, you can’t help but smile. It’s been a long road to happiness. But lying here, with him, you can’t help but think of how lucky you are to know Min Yoongi, to love him, and to have him love you in return. So you drift off to sleep to the rhythm of his heartbeat and dream of him.

And from beside you, with his lips pressed to your crown, Yoongi does the same.

399 notes · View notes

fursasaida · 5 years ago

Text

in a wild twist, instead of just to-do listing i am retroactively to-do listing because for some reason i feel a desire to lay out everything i’ve done in the past few weeks as well as what i still have to do. i assume this is a processing thing. go about your business as usual

between 8/8 and 9/4:

go to maine

allow myself to be celebrated by extended family

change travel plans to drive to boston with parents

work out plans with boston friends

return to NYC

email new student buddy

buy plane tickets to CA

buy train tickets to DC

buy some decent new clothes for the first time in like 9 years so that i might hope for a shred of credibility as a teacher

buy something to wear to wedding #1

phone call with advisor about exam

follow-up call with advisor about exam

finish spreadsheet of every single thing published in [journal name redacted] between january 2009 and august 2019

tally frequency of topics in said spreadsheet over that period

choose two “major debates” from the spreadsheet

turn those debates + tally observations into a 3000 word essay

go to new student buddy lunch

finish political geography syllabus

(this included reading or rereading a LOT of stuff)

write annotated bibliography of everything on geography syllabus (idk how many things this was but the bib is like 16 single spaced pages? eta: i did a rough ~calculation and i think there are 60 or 70 texts on this list, all of which i had to summarize, explain relevance for, and position in relation to the other things i grouped with them on the syllabus)

do final edits on memory lit review

have followup mtg with the TLC people

figure out what the fuck is going on with the class i’m TAing

when does it meet again? where?

how do i get to QC?

lead first section

have meeting with professor

start the process of getting admin shit sorted out at QC

get blackboard access

find the fucking building where IT even is

get IT/email account set up

activate said account

inquire with judy about what to do about canceled class

spend like an hour figuring out how to add WIUs because our university’s website is a hellbegotten warren

get judy to process overrides for this

file for state residency

download and print every single electric bill since i moved in here

download and print 2018 tax return

fill out form

clarify with HR that my current registration situation is not going to cost me money or cause other problems

travel to DC

attend wedding

make it back to NYC

find and download all the books for soc class

create decent file trees for this semester’s classwork and teaching

do reading for soc class week 1

prep overnight for leading section mtg #2

read 5 chapters

summarize 3

make a sheet for small group work

print 14 copies

lead section mtg

do reading for GIS class week 1

write response/questions for GIS class week 1

get access to GIS class’s TWO blackboard sites AND its wiki

find out what the rules are for reference materials during the oral exam

do some extra side reading in prep for said oral exam

answer something like 10 student emails about absences and homework

msg TF about little syria

to do, 9/5-9/6:

PAY RENT

update blackboard site for my section because the prof keeps fucking changing shit

go to thursday lecture if i wake up and feel up to it bc frankly while i should go there is just. there’s a lot going on

on the other hand i should really do this so i can go back to the dreaded IT building at QC to get a campus ID so that i can let my own students into my classroom next week, god

do final prep for oral exam

reread submitted documents

print submitted documents

print metadata tab of spreadsheet in case

reread selections from syllabus and read others all the way through for the first time

maybe make some notes about this??

maybe make some notes about the things i know for sure i’ll be asked about

have oral exam

get fucking hammered with RJ

to do, 9/7-9/11:

start the equally insane ID acquisition process at HC again bc they only give you IDs that last for one year so you have to redo it every time

go to the office to get letter

inevitably email whatsername when she’s not there to set an appointment

therefore inevitably make second trip to office

take letter to ID office

get a new library sticker on GC ID

go to little syria tour with or without OA, who is not answering my texts

check in with him again to make sure he’s doing ok

go to It with MD

dry cleaning, maybe also laundry

decide whether to put my name in for a committee this year (why couldn’t this happen like ONE week later PLEASE)

reading for soc class

go to monday lecture

fucking prep for discussion section #3 further in advance this time

eat a damn vegetable (i ought to go grocery shopping but i’m going out of town again on the 14th so like what is the point)

identify, buy, and ship belated wedding gift for wedding #1

figure out gift for wedding #2

lead section mtg #3

figure out what the fuck is up with AAG

clean this absolute raccoon nest of an apartment oh my god??

#to do listing #I AM TIRED

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ibroughtthisonmyselfpixels · 6 years ago

Text

The Foreseeable Future

Discord folks will already know this, but I wanna bring the rest of you up to speed too.

So remember in June 2018 when I sat down and drafted like 300+ posts in one sitting so that I would have a long backlog of SoS and various other saves to release across July and August? Well, over the last week or so I’ve done That Again, except this time for April, May, and (if push comes to shove) June 2019.

Since I won’t be able to play at Dad’s for those guaranteed two months - one because he’s away and one because I technically am - I spent March completing not only SoS but as much of AR as I could, and I’ve got enough of both that I’ll be able to spread it all out across ten queues. They’ve all already been picture-drafted, like I said (it totals to about 550 posts at current tally... urk), I just need to write, edit, and then queue them. I don’t know yet if I’ll write them all in advance before queueing any of it, or if I’ll do the same as before where I complete one and release it when I get 75% into the other, or if I’ll just send out each part as it gets done. But either way, it should provide me a good solid backlog for the rest of spring.

Here’s what the rotation of saves and their time slots currently looks like:

UTAU 3-rest (this one first because it’s long past overdue and I want to start off with something different) - 2:30pm GMT (9:30am EST) to midnight / 7pm ✅ 7th April 2019

AR, in-game-days 31 through 35 (though not necessarily RL/RP days) - 12pm (7am) to 10pm (5pm) the next day ✅ 14th to 15th April

SoS 19-rest - 2pm (9am) to 11:30pm (6:30pm) ✅ 16th April

AR 35 through 41 - 11:30am (6:30am) to ?????? ✅ 23rd to 25th April

SoS 20 - 5pm (12pm) to 4:30pm (11:30pm) ✅ 29th to 30th April

AR 41 through 44 - 4pm (11am) to 6pm (1pm) the next day ✅ 4th to 5th May

SoS 21 - 7pm (2pm) to 5pm (12pm) ✅ 6th to 7th May

AR 45 through 51 - 12:30pm (7:30pm) to 6pm (1pm) the next day ✅ 13th to 14th May

SoS 22 - 7:30am (2:30am) on a Thursday to 2pm (9am) on a Saturday [23rd to 25th May]

AR 51 through 57 - 6:30pm (1:30pm) the same Saturday to half past Monday midnight (7:30pm on a Sunday). It’s especially vital that this and SoS 22 be released back to back and on those dates, for reasons that will become clear. [25th to 26th May]

SoS Coda - unknown at this time. This is the one thing I haven’t filmed or drafted yet (though I will), and I won’t be certain until much later how long it’ll go for, since some of its content depends on the reception SoS 22 gets.

Also, there is a minor issue in the two bolded queues - namely, since there are too many images/posts in both queues for them to run under forty eight hours without being compromised at bad spots by hitting image limit, a break will have to be manually inserted into both at more fitting spots so they can be spread across more days instead. For the second AR queue, the break will be from 5am (midnight) to 2pm (9am), so a pause of about nine hours; for SoS it’ll be from 5:30am (half past midnight) to 11:30am (6:30am), for a comparatively smaller six hours.

I understand this isn’t going to be a lot of variety, but I promise there is a reason for them all to be packed in deep like that. Nonetheless, if you guys think that I do need to fill in some gaps or show you something different inbetween all this, I also have two drafted Mimikyu episodes (yeah, I know...) and, if the really desperate need arises, enough Lush images that I can make a queue of that.

Please let me know if this is an okay system for y’all? If it’s confusing let me know; either way, as always I will keep you abreast of any changes. Thanks for reading.

#housekeeping #best laid plans

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theonyxpath · 6 years ago

Link

Pirates of Pugmire, from which you see the awesome beach duel by artist Pat McEvoy above, launched last week and is over half-way to its funding goal!

Thanks to everybody who has backed so far, and please check it out and spread the word! Pirates of Pugmire is a sourcebook that expands on the entirety of the Realms of Pugmire, and contains new rules and info on piracy on the Acid Sea and the port city of Waterdog Keep, new callings for dogs and cats, new player character types with the birds and lizards, gunpowder weapon rules (originally imported from other lands where the lizard-folk trade), and contains new and connected adventures.

It really has just a ton of new stuff for all of the Realms of Pugmire, but a lot of times folks will hold off on backing supplements – which we know from long experience – but this time it’s so much more than just that.

Plus, we’d really like to get this traditionally printed and in stores like Pugmire and Monarchies of Mau, but we can’t OK that unless we get over the funding goal (and into all the cool Stretch Goals). So, give it a looksee, me hearties! Don’t be scurvy dogs! https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/200664283/pirates-of-pugmire-a-realms-of-pugmire-tabletop-rpg

Trinity Continuum: Aeon art by Gregor Pedrycz

Most of our talk in today’s meeting was setting everything up for our trip out to UK Games Expo. Mighty Matt and I are headed out in order to get there Wednesday, and Eddy will meet up with us and Matthew on Thursday to set up the booth and welcome Steffie de Vaan, John Burke, Chris Allen, and Klara Herbol, as they all roll in throughout the day.

Then, it is demos and chatting to folks in the booth – and directing those interested in purchasing our stuff to our friends at the Leisure Games booth. Matthew and I were enthusing about recreating entire scenes from Miller’s Crossing, in character and voices, or maybe doing Dueling Walkens if we get left alone at the booth – so watch out.

Like I said a couple of weeks ago, we’re experimenting with different booth/demo/sales arrangements depending on the con, and we’re starting with this one.

If you missed it before, here’s the UKGE hall map:

We also finalized the prizes for the Contagion Chronicle “tournament” our creators are running that culminates in a final round for all the declared winners of the previous Chronicles of Darkness games. Really looking forward to seeing how this event plays out!

Also really looking forward to Curry Take-Away if we can get it, but that’s just my personal thing I’m fascinated by. We do not have it around these parts.

Shunned By The Moon art by Leo Albiero

Since I’ll be gone still next week, our own Dynamic Dixie Cochran will be guest-writing this blog! So please make her feel welcome. Other than the updates, I have no idea what she’ll choose to write about, but I’m sure you’re all in good hands.

I hope.

Speaking of Dixie – thanks to all of you who left questions for her interview with me for the Onyx Pathcast. Some guy named Eddy Webb was there too, and they posted it last Friday. The link’s below in the Onyx Path Media section of the MMN, and I had a great time chatting with the Trio (minus Matthew).

Both of them (but mostly Dixie) were great at keeping me on point as I do love to ramble on, and their questions tended to deal with the olden days – although we got into the future of our projects and the Pathcast itself, so it wasn’t all lookin’ back stuff.

The other big category of questions, and I get these all the time, were of the “What is your favorite X” kind. Where most of the Xs are Clan, or Book, or Game Line, sort of subjects. Which are so hard for me to honestly answer since I really do have a lot of favorites in those categories for different reasons. But it’s also really rough to say that I love X as your bashful publisher.

If I name one thing, the folks who love all the others may think I’m not necessarily going to push anything but the one I said was my favorite. Or the creators of the others now think I think they didn’t do a good job. That’s not really something it’s worth risking.

If only people asked non-work related questions like Favorite Color (purple), or Favorite Inker of Gene Colan’s Comic Book Pencils (Tom Palmer). Favorite Novel Set On A Desert Planet, even (Dune). Those I can answer!

One question I have received a fair bit these last couple of months that we didn’t cover, and that I now can answer, is when is Scion going on sale to non-KS backers? Well, we’ll be putting the PDF and PoD versions up for sale next Wednesday, June 5th on DTRPG to match when retailers should have the traditionally printed books to sell.

Trinity Continuum: Aeon art by Gunship Revolution

Finally, I’m told that the D&D sale at DTRPG is featuring our Scarred Lands books until the end of the month with super discounts. Which is cool, because our 5e Scarred Lands plans are really heating up! Here’s a link: https://www.drivethrurpg.com/featured.php?promotion_id=2019SlarecianMay

I’ll be finalizing plans for the new 5e Creature Collection with Jon Hodgson, who is handling the creation of the book and running the Kickstarter, at UKGE, and we’ll be announcing a new developer for the line and the projects they are overseeing once we get back. Plus, on the Scarred Lands Community Content site, the Slarecian Vault, the beginning of July marks the start of a phenomenal linked adventure series you will not want to miss!

Just to give you one more teaser before I leave the country, the beginning of July will also mean the start of something folks here also ask me about all the time, but before then – on June 13th even – we’ll be starting a little treat for everyone that leads into the July event. Keep your eyes peeled, and tally-ho, old chap, right into our

Many Worlds, One Path!

BLURBS!

KICKSTARTER:

Our Pirates of Pugmire Kickstarter is more than half-way funded, so swing over to our ship and check it out you sea-dogs!

Pirates of Pugmire is a chronicle sourcebook for both Pugmire and Monarchies of Mau. It’s usable in either game, or as part of a joint experience. Some highlights include: * Two new species for players to enjoy: lizards and birds * Six new callings, including two for dogs and two for cats * Rules for building, sailing, and sinking ships * A trove of new allies, enemies, and treasures * Information on Waterdog Port and Port Matthew * “Going on the Account,” a chronicle of three new adventures, taking characters from 1st through 6th level

You can also hear Eddy discuss the writing and design of Pirates of Pugmire on this week’s Onyx Pathcast podcast on your favorite podcast venues, or here on : https://onyxpathcast.podbean.com/)

ONYX PATH MEDIA

Illustration by Charles Bates

This Friday’s Onyx Pathcast is the first episode in Dixie, Eddy, and Matthew’s actual play of Scion!: https://onyxpathcast.podbean.com/

And Here’s More Media About Our Worlds:

The Onyx Path News will return later this week with more than one exciting release announcement!

In actual plays, as Matthew ran Scion: Origin for Eddy and Dixie live last week! The video is in two parts and will be edited for the Onyx Pathcast, but here’s part one of the Miami Hotel story for your enjoyment: https://youtu.be/uEzgr74CfOE Don’t steal from Poseidon!

It’s actual plays a-go-go, we have uploaded parts one and two of our Pirates of Pugmire playthrough, run by Travis Legge, to our Onyx Path YouTube account! Travis is a superb author and a fantastic Guide for the players, and we sincerely recommend you check these two videos out. Here’s part one: https://youtu.be/fU9y3tl77GM and here’s part two: https://youtu.be/rSzjLVW1rnQ

Fandible have uploaded the second part of their excellent They Came From Beneath the Sea! actual play, and it’s available for listening right here: http://www.fandible.com/they-came-from-beneath-the-sea-the-things-that-slither-2-of-2/ Please check this one out!

They Came from Beneath the Sea: The Things That Slither 2 of 2

We can’t get away from the superb talents of Travis Legge, as here is his Scarred Lands actual play on the Myths & Matchmakers series: https://youtu.be/zq4Uw1YaS9g

The Story Told Podcast have reached episode six of their Dragon-Blooded actual play. This episode closes out the dinner party at Kai’s villa and follows the Dragon-Blooded into the evening. https://thestorytold.libsyn.com/

Caffeinated Conquests are picking up a good number of viewers for their actual play of Scarred Lands‘ Gauntlet of Spiragos (they have gone totally off-piste by this point) and they’re incredibly entertaining to watch every time: https://youtu.be/lD7V7fm3cso

Twin Cities by Night continues with their Hunter’s Hunted II actual play, reaching an impressive episode 16! If you’re into long-form plays, give this one a go! https://www.podbean.com/media/share/pb-rg9ye-b19cb0

And of course, Red Moon Roleplaying, podcasters extraordinaire, have uploaded another episode of The Great Vilhaim Heist, a Scarred Lands game run by Matthew Dawkins: https://www.redmoonroleplaying.com/ Keep your eye on Red Moon Roleplaying, as soon they’ll be running The Sacrifice, from Chicago by Night!

Please check any of these out and let us know if you find or produce any actual plays of our games!

ELECTRONIC GAMING:

As we find ways to enable our community to more easily play our games, the Onyx Dice Rolling App is now live! Our dev team has been doing updates since we launched based on the excellent use-case comments by our community, and this thing is both rolling and rocking!

Here’s an update from the App devs:

We’ve been having trouble fixing the android bug that messes up the resolution for newer phones. I think we have a fix for that. It was also brought up that the store display is wrong on most tablet devices, so that is getting fixed too. That should all be soon!

ON AMAZON AND BARNES & NOBLE:

You can now read our fiction from the comfort and convenience of your Kindle (from Amazon) and Nook (from Barnes & Noble).

If you enjoy these or any other of our books, please help us by writing reviews on the site of the sales venue you bought it from. Reviews really, really help us with getting folks interested in our amazing fiction!

Our selection includes these fiction books:

OUR SALES PARTNERS:

We’re working with Studio2 to get Pugmire out into stores, as well as to individuals through their online store. You can pick up the traditionally printed main book, the Screen, and the official Pugmire dice through our friends there! https://studio2publishing.com/search?q=pugmire

We’ve added Prince’s Gambit to our Studio2 catalog: https://studio2publishing.com/products/prince-s-gambit-card-game

Now, we’ve added Changeling: The Lost 2nd Edition products to Studio2‘s store! See them here: https://studio2publishing.com/collections/all-products/changeling-the-lost

Scarred Lands (Pathfinder) books are also on sale at Studio 2: https://studio2publishing.com/collections/scarred-lands

Looking for our Deluxe or Prestige Edition books? Try this link! http://www.indiepressrevolution.com/xcart/Onyx-Path-Publishing/

And you can now order Pugmire, Monarchies of Mau, Cavaliers of Mars, and Changeling: The Lost 2e! http://www.indiepressrevolution.com/xcart/manufacturers.php?manufacturerid=296

DRIVETHRURPG.COM:

On Sale This Week!

This Wednesday, we have both our regular monthly Exalted 3rd PDF offerings AND the Advance PDF release of The Realm all on DTRPG!

CONVENTIONS

UK Games Expo: THIS WEEK! May 31st – June 2nd From the US comes Eddy Webb, Matt McElroy, and Rich Thomas to join with Matthew Dawkins, Steffie de Vaan, John Burke, Chris Allen, and Klara Herbol! Gen Con: August 1st – August 4th Save Against Fear: Oct 12-14 GameHoleCon: October 31st – November 3rd We’ll also be back at PAX Unplugged later this year.

And now, the new project status updates!

DEVELOPMENT STATUS FROM FAST EDDY WEBB (projects in bold have changed status since last week):

First Draft (The first phase of a project that is about the work being done by writers, not dev prep)

M20 Victorian Mage (Mage: the Ascension 20th Anniversary Edition)

Geist2e Fiction Anthology (Geist: The Sin-Eaters 2nd Edition)

Exalted Essay Collection (Exalted)

Scion: Demigod (Scion 2nd Edition)

Trinity Continuum Jumpstart (Trinity Continuum Core)

Wraith20 Fiction Anthology (Wraith: The Oblivion 20th Anniversary Edition)

One Foot in the Grave Jumpstart (Geist: The Sin-Eaters 2e)

Dragon-Blooded Novella #2 (Exalted 3rd Edition)

Exigents (Exalted 3rd Edition)

Terra Firma (Trinity Continuum: Aeon)

Titanomachy (Scion 2nd Edition)

Crucible of Legends (Exalted 3rd Edition)

Redlines

Monsters of the Deep (They Came From Beneath the Sea!)

Tales of Aquatic Terror (They Came From Beneath the Sea!)

Scion: Dragon (Scion 2nd Edition)

Kith and Kin (Changeling: The Lost 2e)

Masks of the Mythos (Scion 2nd Edition)

Second Draft

Tales of Good Dogs – Pugmire Fiction Anthology (Pugmire)

Dragon-Blooded Novella #1 (Exalted 3rd Edition)

Across the Eight Directions (Exalted 3rd Edition)

TC: Aeon Ready Made Characters (Trinity Continuum: Aeon)

Mummy: The Curse 2nd Edition core rulebook (Mummy: The Curse 2nd Edition)

City of the Towered Tombs (Cavaliers of Mars)

TC: Aeon Jumpstart (Trinity Continuum: Aeon)

Legendlore core book (Legendlore)

Development

WoD Ghost Hunters (World of Darkness)

Oak, Ash, and Thorn: Changeling: The Lost 2nd Companion (Changeling: The Lost 2nd)

M20 The Technocracy Reloaded (Mage: the Ascension 20th Anniversary Edition)

Creatures of the World Bestiary (Scion 2nd Edition)

Heirs to the Shogunate (Exalted 3rd Edition)

Scion Companion: Mysteries of the World (Scion 2nd Edition)

Deviant: The Renegades (Deviant: The Renegades)

Chicago Folio/Dossier (Vampire: The Masquerade 5th Edition)

Let The Streets Run Red (Vampire: The Masquerade 5th Edition)

Cults of the Blood Gods (Vampire: The Masquerade 5th Edition)

Heroic Land Dwellers (They Came From Beneath the Sea!)

DR:E Threat Guide (Dystopia Rising: Evolution)

DR:E Jumpstart (Dystopia Rising: Evolution)

Manuscript Approval:

Trinity Continuum: Aberrant core (Trinity Continuum: Aberrant)

Pirates of Pugmire (Realms of Pugmire)

Memento Mori: the GtSE 2e Companion (Geist: The Sin-Eaters 2nd Edition)

Night Horrors: Nameless and Accursed (Mage: the Awakening Second Edition)

Hunter: the Vigil 2e core (Hunter: the Vigil 2nd Edition)

Editing:

Spilled Blood (Vampire: The Requiem 2nd Edition)

CofD Dark Eras 2 (Chronicles of Darkness)

Lunars: Fangs at the Gate (Exalted 3rd Edition)

Blood Sea: Crimson Abyss for 5e (Scarred Lands)

Post-Editing Development:

M20 Book of the Fallen (Mage: the Ascension 20th Anniversary Edition)

V5 Chicago By Night (Vampire: The Masquerade)

V5 Chicago By Night Screen (Vampire: The Masquerade)

CofD Contagion Chronicle (Chronicles of Darkness)

Witch-Queen of the Shadowed Citadel (Cavaliers of Mars)

Distant Worlds (Trinity Continuum: Aeon)

Scion Ready Made Characters (Scion 2nd Edition)

Indexing:

Trinity Aeon

ART DIRECTION FROM MIRTHFUL MIKE:

In Art Direction

Ex3 Monthly Stuff

They Came From Beneath the Sea! – Art notes in.

EX3 Lunars

Hunter: The Vigil 2

Contagion Chronicle

VtR Spilled Blood – Contracted.

M20 Book of the Fallen – More sketches coming in.

Dark Eras 2 – More sketches coming in.

Pirates of Pugmire – KS art in, the rest has been contracted.

Trinity Continuum: Aberrant – KS art notes and contracts going out.

Scion Ready Made Characters

TC Aeon: Distant Worlds

Marketing Stuff

In Layout

Trinity Continuum Core

Cavs – Witch Queen of the Shadowed Citadel

V5 Chicago By Night

Proofing

Signs of Sorcery – Inputting final Dev note changes.

Aeon Aexpansion – In 2nd Proof.

C20 Cup of Dreams Novel

Scion Jumpstart

Dystopia Rising: Evolution

Shunned By The Moon

At Press

Scion Hero – Shipped to backers, PoD coupon out to backers.

Scion Origin – Shipped to backers, PoD coupon out to backers.

In Media Res – PDF out to backers, gathering errata with new sheet.

Geist 2e – PDF out to backers, gathering errata with new sheet.

Adventures for Curious Cats – PoD proof ordered.

Tales of Excellent Cats – PoD proof ordered.

Dragon-Blooded – Deluxe printing.

Dragon-Blooded Screen – At printer.

Trinity Core and Aeon Screens – Files at printer.

The Realm – Advance PDF on sale on DTRPG this Weds, Backer PDF already to backers, errata gathering from both.

TODAY’S REASON TO CELEBRATE:

Today is Memorial Day here in the US, where we honor our fallen members of the armed forces. It’s a national holiday, and it’s also important to reflect on the sacrifices many have made that ultimately allow us to have lives where we can make and play games.

#Onyx Path Publishing

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doomedandstoned · 6 years ago

Photo

Closer to the End

Depression is my nemesis. Eventually it will kill me.

...if I let it.

By Billy Goate

Art by RusoTsig (@rusotsig)

Life's falling away from me. The visual evidence is all about. Unopened mail builds up at random spots around the room like mini Towers of Babel. Even things that normally give me great delight -- a recently delivered set of vinyl records -- lie undisturbed in their brown cardboard packages. Meanwhile, my email continues to multiply exponentially: 200 unanswered today, 400 tomorrow, 800 on the day after that (for the curious, the tally stands at 2,359 today). The very thought of opening my inbox makes it equivalent to walking out into open traffic, so I avoid it like the plague.

Meals have become simplified these days -- if it can't be eaten out of a package, forget about it. And all those empty wrappers? They, too, join the general disorder, decorating the landscape of my solitary hovel. Eventually, messages from friends and family go unread. Bills go unpaid (even when there are sufficient funds). The yard turns into a veritable jungle of tall grass, weeds, and sprawling bushes. Clothes go unwashed and hygiene is neglected for days at a time. Weekends are spent pouring over regrets about what might have been, brooding about the end of days.

As any doctor will confirm, these are classic symptoms of depression. What they can't tell you is how hopeless hopelessness can feel.

Karl Briullov - The Last Days of Pompeii (detail)

Black Sabbath’s final show in the Pacific Northwest. Usnea's album release party. Saint Vitus reunited with their first singer, Scott Reagers. The return of Sasquatch. Once in a lifetime small venue appearances by international bands, such as Cult of Occult. A rare hometown gig by Yob. Visits from Goya, Primitive Man, and countless others. Ceremony of Sludge. Even events with the Doomed & Stoned's own name stamped on them. All of these are things I've missed out on in the past year or two because of depression.

It's not that I was too down to even consider going. On the contrary, I was actively planning to go. I RSVP'd, bought tickets, and even checked out the camera equipment to film the shows. In most cases, I'd gotten dressed and readied, even told people to expect me, but for one reason or another I fell under the unyielding grip of depression and came up with an excuse for why I couldn't go. Then one day I just got tired of making excuses and stopped going out altogether.

In one case, I was halfway down the road on a two-hour trip to see Saint Vitus and Witch Mountain perform at Star Theater, when suddenly a wave of grief washed over me from head to spine. As soon as I spotted the nearest overpass, I exited, turned around, and returned home. Even shows I knew would be cathartic (Bell Witch playing their titular Mirror Reaper at a local watering hole) just couldn't cause me to drive a couple miles down the road. The few times I managed to go out, it was because I absolutely forced myself. I practically fought with my inner man all the way there, too -- teeth clenched, hands tightly gripping the wheel, rehearsing in my mind a myriad of reasons why I should just turn back and stay home.

For me, Alice in Chains captures the frustration perfectly in "Excuses":

Everyday it's something Hits me all so cold

Find me sittin' by myself No excuses, then I know

Depression has robbed me of so much. I've missed opportunities to collaborate with musicians and artists because of it. I've pushed away friends and family, until contact between us has become more and more scarce. I've even stopped celebrating my birthday. I have become a shadow of a man.

What's worse, there's been a new development: anhedonia. I remember only casually looking up the meaning of that word when reviewing Undersmile's album by the same name. Anhedonia basically means that you stop finding pleasure in life. As I browse through my friend's timelines, I find it difficult to relate to their happiness. I think quite often of the emptiness of it all, of being alone and growing older, and the ultimate futility of human pursuits. I often feel more of an observer than an actor in the great drama of life.

As you read all of this, bear in mind that I've managed to hold down a steady, full-time job for decades, right up to the present day. You see, some cope by drinking, others by eating, and others still chase the fleeting high of romantic love, but I found my copacetic in work (as absurd as that might sound). I’ve damn near worked myself to death over the past couple years, too, taking precious few "mental health days" or vacation. At one point, I stopped accruing paid time off, because I'd reached my limit and my boss had no choice but to mandate that I take two days off per month. Can you imagine? I’d been known to come into work on the weekend, rather than spend it alone with my thoughts. At least at work, I can stay distracted with something I feel makes some kind of difference.

I can't feel my life Makes me want to cry How bad i feel inside Like I wanna die

Destination unknown Wreckage in tow Depression grows I have no home

Lately, all I've wanted to do on the weekends is sleep. When I'm at work, I'm fine. I'm in the zone. I have purpose. Things make sense. I'm needed. When I'm home, I always have a list of to-dos, but no matter how busy I try to make myself, I find myself suffering with a lonely, aching feeling. It hurts to be alive. That's the only way I can describe it. So I go to sleep early -- and sleep and sleep and sleep -- without so much as the aid of melatonin. All I want to do is go to sleep and forget and wake up the next day and start fresh, hoping all of the oppressive feelings of darkness have left me. I'll sleep 9 hours, 10 hours, 12 hours is not unheard of, then curse when the alarm wakes me up to face the day. I haven't slept so much since I was a teenager.

At least some of my depression seems linked with sunlight. While the sun is out, I'm mostly okay. When I'm taking my meds, I feel possessed with purpose and I'm busy chipping away at a dozen assorted projects, networking with bands, record labels, and PR reps around the globe, auditing new records, editing submissions from my team, and occasionally summoning enough nerve to write an album review of my own. But when the sun sets and darkness takes hold, bathing the landscape in its sinister shadows, everything changes.

In the heart of winter, there is an existential dread that overtakes me when the sun sets. It's almost primitive. There seems to be no rational basis for feeling this way, unless we factor in some kind of code passed along in the evolutionary programming of the reptilian brain over the millennia. You know, that thing responsible for our fight or flight response -- the urge to either take a swing or get the hell out of Dodge.

Loneliness is not a phase Field of pain is where I graze

Saw my reflection and cried So little hope that I died

That cryptic note of horror hints at what happens when our coping mechanisms stop working for us. For me, it was burnout. I worked and worked and worked, and then I came home and did Doomed & Stoned in the evenings and weekends until I inevitably reached a point of absolute and total system overload.

We've seen a spate of deaths in recent years in the heavy music world stemming from depression. It seems to be the creative person's curse. Chris Cornell of Soundgarden. Linda Nygren of the Wounded Kings. Dozens more artist deaths are listed as "N/A" in Metal Archives, but you always wonder. Even an accidental drug overdose can owe its underlying cause to depression. Often it's hard to untangle addiction from the need to escape acute emotional pain.

Though it is tempting to buy into conspiracy theories linking suicide to pharmaceuticals, chemtrails, fluoride in the water, gangstalking, and covert government ops, it's important to recognize that suicide is nothing unique to our life and times. Narrowing the focus more specifically to musicians and other artistic types, we've had many historic instances of depression. Think Beethoven, Franz Liszt, and Tchaikovsky -- three people who pioneered much of the musical language that doom metal utilizes for expression. Each experienced prolonged periods of melancholia for various reasons, from physical malady and loss-fueled grief to unrequited love and the utter rejection of society. Arguably, Peter Ilyich Tchaikovsky died at his own hand.

Perhaps it won't surprise you that many of us who have an affinity for doom metal (though certainly not all) are also at risk for suicide. A recently published study by the University of Manchester found a correlation, though not a causal link, between members of "alternative subcultures" and "the risk of self-harm and suicide." There was no definite conclusion drawn from the piece, other than to point out that a problem exists (no kidding) and that more long-term studies are needed.

I've got a notion as to why heavy music draws the heavy-laden: misery loves company. We're drawn to the mysteriously compelling ability that doom has to commiserate with our feelings, from lyrics that deal so honestly with sadness to the solace of sharing a joint with those who are on a similar path.

But sometimes depression is so severe that you don't want to go out on the weekends at all, not even for your favorite band. Before I get too deep into my own story and how I'm treating my depression, some of you may wonder why I am writing this piece and have decided to share it publicly. I can assure you, I have nothing to gain from this. I'm not crying out for help (I'm too stubborn to ask for it when needed, anyway) and I'm certainly not trying to sell you on anything.

To be truthful, I've been chipping away at this piece (currently standing at 53,726 characters) for two years. I revisit it when the depression hurts the most. It acts as a kind of release valve for me and since that's at least providing some relief, I'll keep scribbling words upon this page. So before you leave thinking this was all just a self-indulgent slab of depression porn, stay tuned. There really is more to the story, including some valuable insights I'm learning about dealing constructively with my depression and its underlying causes -- physical and psychological.

To be continued...

★ Read Part II

☆ Read Part III

Here I sit writing on the paper Trying to think of words you can't ignore

See the cycle I've waited for It ain't like that anymore

#Closer To The End #Depression #Suicide #Doom #Metal #Alice in Chains #Jerry Cantrell #Doomed & Stoned

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drnucleus · 6 years ago

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I don’t know what to expect from IX. I’m really hoping it is endgame and they don’t just drop the romance angle, but it’s also kind of what I’m expecting? Like I don’t expect follow-through from it, even though I would love it if it happened

Hi Nonnie,

I totally get it. I understand that completely. Do I think it’s endgame? Yes.

However am I going into IX with any expectations? NOPE. I’m a fandom granny. No seriously I have lived through so many fandoms that I simply go in with no expectations. That way if what I think might happen if even in some small way happens then I will be super happy and overjoyed and if it doesn’t I am usually able to divorce myself from my disappointment and respect the creator’s vision.

As a writer and someone who was professionally trained to do so, I know that creators have a vision. They have an endgame in mind. And they drop breadcrumbs about it from the beginning and if you’re clever enough to see them you usually can figure out any story.

This is why I ruin police procedurals for my mom. My dad and I made a game of it watching Law and Order as a kid growing up (and I mean OG Law and Order with Det. Lenny Briscoe). Whomever could figure out who committed the murder first won. We used to keep a running tally. My dad was really good at it, but when I got really into reading and started reading mystery novels and horror novels and other stories that rely heavily on mystery boxes I started getting better at it. We also watched Law and Order because my two actor 2nd cousins have been guest stars as defense lawyers idk how many times but that’s neither here nor there.

And tbh ESB’s twist of Vader as Luke’s father came as such a shock because IDK if even Lucas really knew he was going to do it until he did it. Luckily the story was vague enough in ANH that a throw away line about certain points of view was enough to close what could have been a crippling plot hole.

My mom is an OG Star wars fan. Mostly bc she loves the pew pew and the lightsaber battles, and secondly because Harrison Ford is a very handsome and talented man (tbh my first crush was Han Solo and second was Indy).

My mom was there when everyone was UP IN ARMS about Leia and Luke kissing. And how that was SOOOOOO going to be endgame. Which originally Lucas had intended that Leia would be a love interest for Luke and that the twin sister would be revealed in 7, 8 and 9 someday. However during writing ROTJ and filming ESB he decided to really hone in on Leia and Han’s chemistry (granted Irving was directing then) but he made the narrative choice to make Leia the sister and Han her love interest. It simultaneously elevated Leia’s narrative importance and made her the leading lady of her own story on equal footing to her equally powerful twin brother instead of just being Luke’s sidekick love interest.

Even when I was a KID and I saw ESB it always kind of made me laugh that Leia’s response to Han goading her about liking him was to smack lips with the only other humanoid male in the room just to prove how NOT smitten she was with Han. (AND if that doesn’t make her simultaneously Padme and Anakin’s child I don’t know what will convince you otherwise).

TPM came out when was was 13 and a half which will be 20 yrs ago next May - HOLY FUCK. And I’ve been an avid reader since I could read so I had gobbled up countless numbers of books by then. I was in the theater with my parents and legit held my hand up over Ian’s eyes and gasped and tugged on my mom’s sleeve.

“Mom that’s THE EMPEROR” and she was like “No honey he’s just a senator who’s now chancellor of the republic”

And this was still in the age of Dial-up internet and no IMDB. So I did my own digging and found our VHS copies of the OT and looked at the cast listing at the end of the movie. And saw the same name playing the Emperor as the man playing Senator-Chancellor Sheev Palpatine. Now the movies in the OT never actually say the Emperor’s real name. He’s just the shadowy, scary Emperor with lightning bolts shooting out of his hands. So like we knew in TPM that Palpy was going to become the emperor. Now say what you will about the Prequels but Lucas did do a fair bit of narrative arc planning with it than what he threw together with the OT.

He knew we had to meet Anakin as a boy, see him as a caring and compassionate individual who is uniquely gifted in the Force. And that had circumstances been different he would have probably been the paragon force sensitive and balanced the force. However due to realistic flaws of all characters, good and bad alike, including flaws within Anakin’s character himself he falls prey to the darkside and it’s temptations and then becomes the very thing he feared.

Tbh next to TLJ, ROTS is right up there with ESB as my favorite in the saga. Sure the dialogue is wooden and clunky. Lucas is not a dialogue director. He’s a vision director. He has a scene in his mind, and he wants it played like that. Which is fine. He also came from a school of thought in the 1970s where sci-fi was pure camp and overdramatic. His style never really changed. The OT is so lauded because he didn’t direct all of them. He had other people come in and he had script doctoring and his first wife in the editing room taking his vision and turning it into a cohesive narrative. We seem to forget that Lucas was a young dude right out of film school when he made ANH. He barely knew how to string a narrative together and the early cuts of ANH were terrible and nowhere near what people saw in the theater. Don’t believe me? Google “how star wars was saved in the editing room” it’s a remarkable story about how Lucas’s first wife and principal editor basically made ANH into an actual story instead of a mish mash of ideas that it was before. The prequels had Lucas at the helm for all three. Yes by then he had gotten a hold of narratively what he wanted to convey, but he still didn’t always convey it in the most efficient ways.

But there are moments in the prequels that I’m stunned by their perfection. “This is how liberty dies? With thunderous applause.” as Padme watches in horror as the Republic becomes an empire before her eyes. It’s perfect to convey the horror she feels and her disgust at what the thing she’s fought for so long to just crumble and slip away.

Or the entirety of the Anakin v. Obi Wan Mustafar battle. Visually STUNNING, and heartbreaking. You can feel how much neither of them want to fight the other but how they both are so entrenched in their now opposite ideologies that they know they have to fight.

I’ve also been a fan of JJ’s for a long time.

Sure he loves mystery boxes but he usually makes the answer SO obvious that most people ignore it.

Like on Lost which I never actually watched save for maybe a few episodes, it’s pretty clear that something metaphysical is going on in that island with the crash. And there are clues dating back to the pilot as to what happened in the finale.

In TFA we’re introduced to Rey. We’re given a mystery box of who is Rey and why is she important and who is her family. But we’re also given the answer. She’s no one. And that’s why she’s important. She is no one. She doesn’t need to have this huge galactic sized legacy on her shoulders to be important, to be special. SHE IS NO ONE. And that’s why the Force chose her as its vessel.

Reason why is that she’s narratively the perfect foil for her counterpart Ben Solo/Kylo Ren. He has all that legacy and weight on his shoulders. They’re equals in power in strength, in light and darkness. They are complete equals. And TFA was all about establishing that fact. Now TLJ was all about deepening that initial connection. To get them both to scratch beneath the surface of one another, and get under one another’s skin. In doing so Ben learned that Rey just wants to belong, to be loved and have a place in the galaxy. And Rey, she learned that Ben is just as lonely, but has rejected his birthright because he felt rejected and abandoned by those who should have unconditionally loved and protected him from Snoke (which granted OT Trio tried but they def didn’t have great parenting examples either sooooo).

Now as an adult Ben is bitter, full of resentment and rage because the people he should have been able to count on fucked up royally. And I love that. I resonate with it because of my own experiences as an abuse survivor too. But even more so because it makes Han, Leia and Luke less perfect legends and more human. It makes them real and relatable that they tried to do everything right by their kiddo but ended up fucking him up. Luke’s betrayal itself was the least shocking part of TLJ tbh. Like does no one remember him going ABSOLUTELY banana balls insane when Vader threatened Leia in ROTJ?

That kind of Skywalker level extra doesn’t just go away with age.

And yeah Ben needed someone in the fam to be like “so kid, um, lets talk about this.” No one in the OT Trio is good at talking about their feelings. Luke tries to control his by just not dealing with it - the kind of thing you’d expect from a “pray the depression away” type. Leia ignores it and bottles that shit until it comes out as thinly veiled anger. And Han is the most ridiculous of the three with his constant hot and cold routine throughout ESB.

The ST is yes about the failures of the OT trio, the failures of the Jedi and the Sith. But it’s also a story about the force and it’s two chosen vessels. A girl from nowhere and the last scion of the Skywalker line. The fact that their connections in TLJ are coded as sexual awakenings is very indicative of where I think this is all going to go. The Force is basically the Skywalker Patriarch if we’re going on the whole immaculate conception with Shmi. And Ben fell from his path for years now thanks to the other Skywalkers falling from the path and inadvertently pushing him down the rabbit hole with Snoke, manipulating everything like a master of puppets.

JJ himself even said he was upset that he didn’t get to direct TLJ because he loved Rian’s script so much.

I have faith we’re going to get a hell of a finish to the 9 film Skywalker saga. With Reylo as endgame or not I think we’re going to get something truly satisfying that links all 9 movies together in a way that will have meta writers writing for years to come about all the parallels and thematic Leitmotifs within the narrative as a whole that encompasses technically 4 generations of Skywalkers (Shmi, Anakin, Luke/Leia, and Ben).

When Ben killed Han in TFA and you get that focused in shot of Adam’s face as the weight of what he just did HITS him and his eyes widen and his lips part, you see the exact moment he shatters his soul realizing that he just seriously fucked up. I leaned over to my best friend that night in the midnight showing and said “do you smell redemption arc?” and I’ve been on that train from day one.

If he were truly irredeemable he wouldn’t have split his spirit to the bone by killing his father. He wouldn’t have cared to try to convince Rey to be her teacher in the middle of their battle. He wouldn’t care that Rey stares at him like she did that night and call him a monster. A real monster wouldn’t care at being called one. And is so very shook and pained by that moniker with his lower lip quiver and his eyes red rimmed. If he were truly irredeemable he wouldn’t have killed his master just to save the girl, he’d have just usurped power and shrugged her off instead of trying to convince her to stay with him. He wouldn’t have addressed her fear and insecurity of being nothing and no one while shaking his head and saying “but not to me”. If he were truly a monster he would have pulled the damn trigger when his had the bridge of the Raddus in his sights but couldn’t because he felt his mother’s love for him even after everything he’s done.

Has he done terrible things? YES. He definitely has. But he has the equal potential for amazing things as much as he has for the terrible things he’s done. And I for one will be happy to see him begin to even slightly embrace that potential by the end of ep 9. Reylo or no Reylo I’m sure I’m going to be happy with ep 9. There’s no way Adam and so many other brilliant actors would have signed on without at least knowing where this is all gonna go. Adam himself was hesitant to take on the burden of SW but was convinced to do so because of the complexity of Ben’s character. That to me says we’re getting something amazing in ep9. And I can’t wait.

#ask drnucleus #sw talk #drnucleus writes things #Anonymous

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