#it was even worse for country music stations

[tyrianluda]

I grew up hearing a lot of rock music and this one radio station always plays RHCP and oh mY GOSH I AM SO SICK OF THEM. Like there are so many other 90s/2000s bands to pick from yet every time I'm in the car and check that station, without fail they play RHCP. Doesn't matter if it's a ten minute drive or hour long trip. They always play their music. It sucks.

Yeah most radio stations choose like 5 maybe 7 bands and stick with them until the end of time.

[erwinsvow]

Heeeey, Shea. How are you?

I just wanted you to know I love your stories. Kook trio reader and shy reader are my favorite. 

I know that's not how it went, but I really think in another universe, Rafe would have trouble getting to date shy!reader because she just wouldn't realize he was flirting hard with her. Maybe a bit of self esteeming issues or because she's inexperiente. But, anyway, I see her being completely oblivious about all his efforts and being like "he's so nice, guys. No, he would never flirt with me. You guys are insane" and everyone else would be like "girl... what?".  

Thank you for your stories, they keep me smiling. <3

- T.

hi t!!! thank you so so much for your kind words, it means so much. i am so glad you love the different readers on this blog! i think your idea is so cute and funny, it suits them perfectly. here's a little bit based on what you sent and i hope you enjoy ♡

since the day you had met rafe—truly met him, not counting the multiple instances where you had passed him in tannyhill attached to sarah's hip when he hadn't even realized you'd been there—you had been a little confused about the newfound attention he was giving you.

you felt it was strange. sarah was always going on and on about how mean rafe was, how badly he treated others and how he never spared a minute to talk to anyone. but she must have been exaggerating. right?

the rafe that you were becoming more and more acquainted with was nothing of the sort. from the time he had driven you home a few weeks ago to now, he had been nothing but nice—offering you a ride everytime you were at tannyhill, asking if you wanted anything when he was on his way out. he even went out of his way to find you at the country club, stopping to say hi even if it was in the middle of one of his golf matches.

it was nice. it was really nice. everything sarah had told you about him seemed to be completely wrong, but then you realized it. rafe was probably trying to be a better brother, and starting with being nice to sarah's friends was likely a good jumping off place.

with this notion firmly stuck in your mind, you proceeded to go about your days, smiling sweetly at rafe when he was being so nice and reminding yourself to tell sarah—her brother was making a big effort, and it deserved to be recognized.

"did i see rafe walk away from the course to say hi to you?" sarah asks, and you look up at her, a little surprised. you hadn't brought it up yet, and in all honestly, didn't know when you would.

your other girl friends look a little closer at you—surprise evident on their faces too. you hate being the center of attention but somehow it feels even worse like this—they're all getting the wrong impression.

"yes.. he's being very nice. i think he's trying to make it up to you, y'know, for being mean like you say he is."

"by being nice to you?"

"by being nice to all of us," you add quickly, looking at the other girls, waiting for them to pitch in.

"he's never been nice to me."

"i don't think he's even ever said hi to me."

"so how exactly has he been nice to you?" sarah asks, and you feel your face burn. they still have the wrong impression and you have no idea how you'll correct them.

"well not much," you lie, clearing your throat. "he just gave me a ride home a few times. and he said hi a couple times here. and got me a soda from the gas station the other day."

"not much?" your friend questions.

"he never asks me what i want from the gas station-" you interrupt sarah, eager to make sure they stop speculating.

"he was just being nice. it was nothing, i-"

"what's next?" sarah asks, cocking her head at you. "don't tell me, he lets you pick the music in his car?" she laughs, and the others do too, but you stare back at her blankly.

"just once or twice," you mumble, suddenly finding your drink and the misty glass far too interesting.

"oh my god. he's totally flirting with you." you whip your head up so fast you think you got whiplash.

"you're insane. that is so not what this is. he was just being nice."

"if any other guy did this, you'd be picturing your future wedding-"

"it's not just any other guy, it's sarah's brother. do you see the kind of girls he goes out with? that's how i know he's being nice, i'm nothing like them-"

you feel incredibly flustered, face hot and playing with your hands like you do when you get nervous. your friends are laughing, and though you know it's not at you, you still hate the feeling, feeling like you might burst from the intensity of the emotions you're experiencing right now. first and foremost—the fact that maybe rafe wasn't just being nice to you.

"yeah?" you hear, though you don't look up. "then why's he walking over here right now?"

[jasmines-library]

Motion sickness

WHUMPTOBER DAY 3: prompt: ALT ‘motion sickness’

⛤⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽⛧☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⛤

Summary: on they way to a hunt you get travel sick and your brothers take care of you.

Warnings: nausea, mentions of vomit, pills

Word count: 700

MASTERLIST ⋅⛤ WHUMPTOBER 24

⛤⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽⛧☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⛤

Dean sped down the country roads a little faster that he probably should have. While Baby was in good condition, she was still a rather old car. And a luxurious one at that. She was built for roads, not winding country lanes where the car is fenced in my hedges. As Dean turned another corner, your head swam. You had been feeling ill for the last 20 minutes or so. Your head had begun to ache and you could feel yourself beginning to grow nauseous. You had tried rolling down the window hoping that the fresh air would help a little. It did not. And every twist and turn just served to make you feel sicker and sicker. You had even tried closing your eyes and resting your head against the cool glass of the window, but that didn’t help either.

While Sam and Dean talked, you were quiet in the back of the car. Any movement made your head spin and you were too focused on trying not to spill your guts to join in on the conversation. The worst part was you had at least two or three hours of the journey left. Lucky you.

Noticing your unusual silence, Sam poked his head around from the passenger seat. His forehead creased when he noticed that you were looking a little pale and a look of discomfort on your face.

“You alright kiddo?” He asked. At this Dean glanced up into the rear view mirror to look at you.

“You’re quiet.” Dean added.

“Headache.” You just answered rather bluntly. In truth it was more than that. But you didn’t want to go into specifics.

“Feeling car sick again?” Sam asked you.

You hummed in response. You had gotten car sick ever since you were little. Sam rummaged around in the glove box and pulled out a bottle of water, passing it to you. You unscrewed the cap and tooo a sip, savouring the feeling of it. “Thank you.”

“You good?”

“Yeah.”

“You need us to pull over?”

“No.”

Pulling over would just add to the time and the headache and nausea would just come back after you set off again anyway.

“You sure.”

“Yes.”

Dean made a noise as if he disapproved. But he carried on driving. He hated the fact that you were feeling ill and ignoring it. “We’ll stop at the next gas station and get you something for it, alright sweetheart?”

You nodded, regretting it immediately. “Thank you”

It felt like forever had passed before you saw the gas station. Lucky the roads his since smoothed out by then, but your head was still pounding and every movement increased the risk of you throwing up. You were so relieved when you stepped out of the car, stretching out the ache in your bones. The three of you stepped into the gas station, welcoming the cool air of the air con before grabbing some snacks.

Dean haphazardly chucked a packet of beef jerky on the counter along with some chips and a couple of bottles of water. He had also filled the car up with gas. He then picked up a packet of painkilllers and paid for the load, taking the bag before all of you bundled back into the car. Taking a sip of the fresh water, you knocked back a couple of pills, hoping that that would help a little. After a quick snack break and arguing over the music Dean pressed his foot down on the gas an sped off down the road again.

It took a little while but eventually your nausea did calm down. The pills and the water worked wonders on your head and the smoother roads with far less potholes that made your head rattle around helped to ease your stomach. Now you just had to sit through another few hours of Dean’s singing. You weren’t sure what was worse.

⛤⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽⛧☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⛤

<- DAY TWO ⛤ DAY FOUR ->

⛤⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽⛧☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⛤

TAGS:

@hearts4robs @kingshitonly @alicedawitchbish @hell-o-kittys @azure-drag0ness @harleycao @thewhispersofthewaves @batfamsstuff @xxrougefangxx @rosecentury @noisymutantherelol @killxz @rhiodes @inlovewhithafairytale @that-wannabe-vangoghgurl

⛤⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽⛧☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⛤

[misscammiedawn]

On a TV Glow kick so tried to read the episode 601 synopsis.

Here's the best I could get:

Page 1:

[…] Mr Melancholy has escaped his ancient prison trapped inside the dark side of the moon [..] Moon Men's lunar forces have finally […] weird teenagers. Now there's no moon. We see […]

[…] last the end of last season Mr. Melancholy finally tricked […] began back at their old sleepaway camp […] nightmarish hellscape the likes of which they aren't […] deep underground, hugged only by the […] place where they first laid eyes […]

Page 2:

[…] Mr. Melancholy's awful reign has officially begun. Someone get her a tissue.

Things have never been worse. A country-wide mandate passed by Senator Spr[..] never ending math class. A new dress code restricts any citizen in the entire country from […] music the college radio station now only plays […] Double Lunch has been transformed from the coolest club in town into Mr. Melancholy's […] where Marco and Polo are keeping all four members of the [Arcade Laser Brigade?] planning to kill them anytime soon. He's just planning to feed endlessly on their weirdness, […] everything beautiful about their souls into stinky star fuel.

So where is Isabel? Where is Tara? […] are our heroes […] somewhere very far away… in a town reminscient of the real world they need to […] but different in so many subtle, insidious […] ways. But the thing is for sure, this town is bled of magic and wonder.

It's all […] place our young heroes no longer even remember they are The Pink Opaque. Here they [..] like heroes anymore. Here every battle fought, every secret they ever shared […] heartstopping […] the pages of this very episode guide […] real, but instead in this world all this was just the weekly transmissions of a dumb TV show. Absurd, right? Who would fall for such a […] Isabel and Tara. At least at first…

Can Isabel and Tara find each other again on the hazy shores of the psychic plane? Can it […] destroy as it glows dimly? The Luna Juice and soil is caught […] I have much time. But then again, time might not exactly [?] think it does. […] right now, aren't I? But you're also reading it right now. Strange…

Tara is the first one to realize something is very wrong […] this "home" where she's been placed is little more than a prison […]

-

I love the authentic conversational tone of the era and would love to know what exactly the "you're reading it right now. Strange..." part elaborates as.

It seems to be inspired by the Season 6 episode of Buffy "Normal Again" (itself a reference to a Star Trek episode "Frame of Mind") and confirms that Double Lunch is a location in the fiction of the show as well as within the suburb that the movie takes place. It makes sense why Tara would want to take Isabel there.

Given the climax of The Pink Opaque is said to be a reaction to Twin Peaks' season 2 finale (Director Jane Schoenbrun referring to the ending as an act of violence towards anyone who had love for the show and its world/characters) I chose to take the Double Lunch sequence to harken to the Pink Room sequence from the Twin Peaks movie, an middle ground between extremes of reality and the metaphysical.

Anyway. TV Glow is amazing.

If anyone can get a better screenshot and make out better detail I'd love to read.

[autisticlancemcclain]

“Al-righty.” Shiro hums merrily to himself as he puts the car in park and holds the keys out to Keith. “Here we go.”

Keith stares at them. Shiro’s hand remains where it is, keys dangling from the key ring around his finger. His expectant look leaves Keith at a total loss.

“Did you drive me out here to murder me?” Keith asks eventually, finally breaking the building silence. He looks pointedly out the windshield, where all that is visible for miles and miles is the desert.

Shiro snorts. “Yep. You ate the last ramen pack one too many times. Time to meet your end.” He reaches over with his other hand and grabs one of Keith’s, gently prying his fist open and placing the keys into them. “No, I’m not here to murder you, doofus. That would be a horrible idea. I don’t have an alibi.”

Keith refuses to laugh at that. It’s not funny and also Keith has been warned about letting Shiro think he’s funny. It can only lead to more dad jokes, or worse. “These are your car keys,” he says, gingerly holding the objects in question.

“Yes,” Shiro says.

“Context clues imply that you are asking me to drive your car.”

“Mhm.”

“I am thirteen years of age.”

“Yep.”

“We met, famously, because I stole your car. This very car, in fact. And crashed it.”

“Correct.”

Keith blinks slowly at him. His amused expression does not shift. Keith’s not sure how else to spell things out for him, so he just shrugs. He’s not about to say no to getting a chance to drive. How many other thirteen year olds can say that a legal, licensed adult took them out to drive?

“Okay.”

He steps out of the car, Shiro quickly vacating his own seat as well. He stands outside the driver’s side as Keith settles back in behind the wheel, leaning his torso through the open window.

“Okay,” he starts, voice taking on the same instructional quality he uses to lecture. “First step: seatbelt. You know this.”

Keith dutifully buckles himself in.

“Excellent. Now you can adjust your seat — levers on the underside there, yeah. You want to be able to easily touch the pedals, but when you fully straighten your arms, they should only go to the steering wheel. You’re a little too close.” He reaches down and guides Keith’s hand along the lever, helping him push the seat back slightly. “There, perfect. See you you can reach everything, but you have lots of space to move? That’s perfect. Fix your posture, though.”

“Does that help with visibility?” Keith questions, figuring a straight back will make it easier to see over the wheel.

“Nah, I just don’t like it when you slouch. Moving on.”

Shiro quickly runs through the rest of the set up with him — adjusting his mirrors, making sure he knows where all levers and signals are, testing the brake lights. Once he’s satisfied that Keith has a general idea where everything is, he jogs over to the passenger seat and climbs in.

“Okee dokee,” he says as he flicks through radio stations so fast you can barely even hear the first couple notes. He pauses after a moment, eyes flicking to Keith, then clicks back a couple stations, finally settling on a country station playing an old Johnny Cash song. “Start the engine.”

Keith does. The old car sputters for a second, then roars to life.

“Good! Drive!”

Keith looks at him in alarm. “What? Just — go?”

Shiro grins, wide and cheeky. “Go!”

Keith doesn’t need anymore encouragement. He steps on the gas, and the car careens forward at top speeds, shooting a cloud of red dust behind them. Shiro whoops, turning the song up louder.

The wind blows loud and fast through the open windows, competing with the blasting music and whipping Keith’s hair all around his face. He gets sand in his eyes more times than he can count, but he doesn’t dare take his hands off the wheel, just blinks it away as fast as he can. He watches the speedometer climb past forty, fifty, sixty, and his belly swoops every time they ricochet up a hole and go careening back down. Every so often Shiro calls out instructions — “Look at your mirrors and your blind spot before you make turns! Foot off the gas for the first half of the turn, then accelerate through the end of it! Don’t cross your arms over the wheel! Listen to the car so you know when to shift gears!” — sometimes a little too late. Keith stalls the car more than once. He also, at one point, swerves to avoid a cactus that seems to appear out of nowhere.

But Shiro never asks him to stop. Never has him pull over, never screams at him for messing up, never chides him about his speed (which, he might add, is entirely reasonable). He only grips the ceiling handle and cheers Keith on, whooping every time they hit a bump. He only calls out words of encouragement, smiling big and proud, cheering Keith on til he’s smiling just as wide.

For the first time since he lost his Pa, Keith feels like someone wants to see him happy.

[yorshie]

Just a Two-Step

Bayverse TMNT x Fem Reader

Warnings/Summary: None of the Turtles know how to two-step, but thankfully Casey Jones comes to the rescue. Jealous Turtles, Clueless Casey Jones, Dancing. (Not a lot of the turtle boys in this one) (set in 2023 so turtles are 22 ish)

Some Songs at the bottom

Swing Dance For visual

“Where’s the guys?”

You looked up over your shoulder, giving a little wave in Casey’s direction before answering his question. “They’re out on patrol, left close to two hours ago.”

He made a face at that, cocking his head and exaggerating a frown. “So they went partyin’ without me? Huh.” He set his mask down on the kitchen table, dropped his hockey stick next to it. “Jerks.”

You hummed in amused agreement, turning back to the music station you were scrolling through. Donnie had set it up before they’d left, told you to pick out a genre for the night. 

You absently bit at your nail. You knew what genre you wanted to listen to, but there was no way they’d go for it.

“What we listenin’ to?” Casey had disappeared into the kitchen. You heard him open the refrigerator, heard the faint crack of a beer can being opened, before his footsteps started towards you.

“Don’t know yet.” You paused. “Well, I know what I’d like to listen to, but they hate it.”

“Ah. Country.” 

You were caught between a huff and a frown, amused that he had the matter pegged so readily and irritated that the other members of your friend group were aware of the lack of love the turtles had for the music type.

“It’s a shame.” Casey sat on the couch with a sigh, and you cocked your head towards in a signal to continue. “I’ve seen Mikey and Don dance with you. Thought they be interested in the ole’ two step n’ swing.”

Your cheeks warmed at his words, and the implication that he’d noticed the interactions, smacking the remote against your palm in an effort to distract yourself with the noise. You were certain Casey’d never pick up on all the connotations, but the last thing you needed was him saying something in passing and April catching the scent.

So you hummed when his head turned towards the noise, thinking quickly for a distraction. “I don’t think they really care about those types of dances.”

When you glanced at him, it was to see a slow smirk pull across his face, and you own slackened with shock at the familiar look, idly wondering if he’d picked up Raph’s signature look on purpose.

“But you like to dance.” He seemed to decide something, but you could only stare, confused as he placed his beer down on the coffee table and stood. “C’mon.”

“What?” You asked, freezing for half a beat before narrowing your eyes on his outstretched arms.

He gestured them in a sweep, wiggling his fingers at you. “Let’s dance.”

“What?” You asked again, wondering if his dumb was rubbing off. 

“I know how to two-step.” He revealed as if it was some sort of grand secret. “I’m sure I can even figure out how to swing, seen it done enough.” He took a step forward, reached for your hand, and you let him take the remote, staring up at his face as though you could peel back the layers and see his thought process.

He didn’t know. You let him take your other hand, watched him fiddle with the remote until the first song on your personal playlist started up. 

The absolute idiot. He had no idea what he was stepping into. You should step back, remove his hand from where he’d taken a high, polite grip on your hip, but your mind turned over like a stalling engine. 

What would you say? How could you tell him ‘hey, we really shouldn’t dance, because if any of the turtles see your hands on me we’re gonna be finding little bitty Casey pieces all over the City for weeks’. He’d never believe it, or worse he would believe it, and whatever it was you had for yourself would suddenly be out in the open, because if there was one thing Casey Jones did not know how to hold in, it was a secret.

Then he threw the remote on the couch, tucked your still elevated hand within his own strong grip, and twirled you around into the space in front of him.

He tilted his head back with that confident smile again when you stared up, flabbergasted at the move, and he shimmied before taking the first step to the side. “C’mon, short stuff, lets boogie.”

It succeeded in pulling a chuckle out of you, and you followed his lead, letting him turn you both whenever he started a new direction, your hand up on his bicep to keep some space in between you. Your worry slid away after the first song. The turtles knew Casey only had eyes for April, surely they wouldn’t hold a few dances against the hockey player.

Casey danced you through the first few songs, heels snapping even without boots, and you laughed more than once at his antics. After the fourth song, however, something with a softer beat started, and he let go of your hip, swung you out in an arc.

“Let’s try that swing, now.” His accent was thick on the words, and you snorted at the absurdness of it all as you let yourself slip under his arm. After the first snap back, you became just a little more confident, sure that he wasn’t going to let you spill onto the hard floor.

This song was a little more loose, gave you the leeway to let him improvise when he would tuck you under his shoulder or spin you out into the further reaches of his grip, the only touches other than his hand the brush of your hair against his arm.

“Dip?” Casey asked, other hand open, and you grabbed for it, let him dip you before spinning you up again with a snap at the end of the movement, your stomach up in your throat for half a second, a peal of laughter escaping as you twirled.

The sound of glass shattering brought you both up short, deer caught in headlights as you peered towards the sound.

Donnie was staring right at you, hand aloft where presumably his glass had been. Raph was right behind him, head tilted to the side, green and gold eyes trailing between the points where Casey’s hands held your own, the press of your temple against the forearm curved above your head. 

“Hey guys!” Casey said brightly, eyebrow arching for half a second as he took in Donnie’s still raised hand before he moved you into a twirl again. “Had a fun patrol?” He snapped you out again, hand just below your elbow, and you could make out the incredulous pop of Raph’s brow ridges even through the movement.

“Yea. Great Patrol.” Leo, and you weren’t sure how you missed him, but he was suddenly in your space, hands spanning your waist and lifting you up, out of Casey’s orbit.

He set you aside, and you swayed at the speed of the movement, somehow under the curve of Mikey’s shoulder between fast blinks, his hand low on your back searing through your shirt.

Casey, however, beamed when Leo stepped up into his space, and you winced at the tension you could see in the blue banded turtle’s arms. You went to step forward, to step between them, but Mikey tucked you in closer, effectively trapping you against him.

“I fucking knew it.” Casey said, triumphant, his hand coming out to slap against Leo’s shoulder, seemingly unaware of what exactly was happening. You winced again.

“Did you?” The question was almost lost in a growl.

Oh dear god. 

Leo was suppose to be the level headed one. The calm one. You somehow weaseled your way out from under Mikey’s arm, moving fast and low and dodging in between them, hands on Leo’s plastron, trying to push him back.

“Ok, Ok, there’s no need for-” He simply picked you up again, and you went with a quiet flare of irritation at being manhandled again. This time when he set you to the side Raph was there, and with a large hand he all but shoved you behind him, leaving you staring at the curve of their shells. You hit the middle scutes with the palms of your hands. “Hey!”

They ignored you, and you huffed, irritation crossing over into anger.

“I’ll just-go.” Casey, and you could almost sense his shit eating grin. You buried your head in your hands as you heard him walking away, knowing without looking he was more smug about riling them up than anything else.

A tap on your shoulder, and you looked up to see Donnie, Mikey, crowding over you. 

“Are you ok?” Donnie asked, his hand moving to cup your elbow, turn you more towards him.

“Am I ok?” You asked, offended. “Donnie, you broke a fucking glass.” You turned to address all of them, a finger moving between each as you backed up. “I am allowed to dance with who I want to.”

They followed, and you almost stumbled into the coffee table, quick to put it between you and the group. Even Mikey, your little beam of sunshine, was eyeing you in a way you’d never seen before. The image of a rabbit before a group of hounds floated through your mind.

“Course you can,” Raph added into the silence, his voice a croon of agreement, and you wondered if they realized it had stretched on too long. He took a side step, his head cocked and smiling that smile that turned you into putty. The sight had all your senses ricocheting into attention.

“How bout you show it to us?” Leo suggested in a calm rumble, right in front of you, leaning over to splay his hands against the surface of the coffee table, adding weight until the wood groaned ominously.

“I’m sure we can pick it up pretty fast.” Donnie chirped, the usually happy sound he made to get your attention seeming odd in the context until you flicked your eyes over to him and he smiled under your gaze.

The three of them stared at you, and you nervously flicked glances between them, trying to keep them in sight at all times. The hair on your neck stood up, your body trying vainly to tell you that you’d forgotten something.

Someone.

“Wait. Where’s-”

The music blared out again, that same looser song restarting, and large hands took your own, Mikey twirling you out with an energetic snap that had you hissing in surprise, before he had you tucked in under his shoulder once more.

“If you wanted to dance, babes, all you had to do was say so!” He crowed.

———————————

The next morning you shuffled into the Lair’s kitchen, legs cramping, back protesting, holding onto the counter for support. A sound came from the table, and you turned your head incrementally, until you could pin the two humans waiting there with a glare.

“Morning?” April asked, her brows drawing up in the middle at the sight of you.

Your eyes focused on the buffoon with a shit eating grin next to her. “You.”

Casey saluted you with his carryout coffee. “Sup. Have a good night?”

“They kept me dancing for fucking hours.” You hissed the words with venom at him. 

Casey shrugged, undisturbed. “Maybe next time you’ll think twice about keeping secrets from the fam, short stack.”

You fumed. Boiled. Went to take a menacing step towards him before your calf seized and you returned to gripping the counter for support.

April quickly looked up, away, sipping her own coffee and minding her own business, but Casey grinned at you over the lip of his own, eyebrows dancing.

You saw red. “Raph!” You yelled, and had the absolute delight of seeing Casey leap for you before he seemed to remember he couldn’t actually touch you. “Casey’s here!”

“Gotta go, see you later, April.” He snagged a donut, leaping over the railing and belting for the exit at the sound of doors opening violently deeper in the Lair.

[fearmaiden]

|| Five Year Plan || A Reader X Jonathan Crane, slow burn fic ||

Synopsis: Every so often, the city of Gotham will randomly select one person to have a really, really bad day. This time, that lucky person is you!

Aka: Your stupid ass accidentally signs up to be a goon at a “Goon Hiring” Agency after your landlord increases the rent. Oops!

Word Count: 11,059

TW: General violence, drug use, coercion, and swearing.

Note: So, uhh. Still working on this concept that has gripped me by the throat. There’s a lot of little references scattered in this chapter to Arkham!Verse, Reeves!Verse & other DCU works. The Gotham this x Reader takes place in is sort of an eclectic jumble with it’s own unique timeline. For previous chapter, click here. Enjoy the second installment of “Please don’t tell my psychiatrist!”. ♡ And let me know what you think in my asks if you want~

Banner art made by: @skxtchyghost

Song: “Are You Satisfied?” by Marina & The Diamonds

It wasn't a bad job. As far as employment went in Gotham, it was okay. Ish. The pay wasn't horrible and the location was a quick, 15 minute, monorail ride away from home. And sometimes, when the manager wasn't there, you got control over what songs the radio played. All this considering, you really couldn't complain. There were worse ways to get a paycheck... However, today's shift at the Cadmus Bar had you wondering if that was true or if it was another lie you were telling yourself to cope?

Your questions began with the first wave of early morning customers who'd exploded through the door, eager for their (keto) protein shake to start off the day. Several complained that their drinks were made wrong even though they'd gotten the exact things that they'd ordered. One of them, a woman sporting a bob cut, screamed at you for making her gluten-free veggie wrap gluten-free. Another demanded that they use the bathrooms before ordering anything. You were forced to tell them that it was against company policy to allow "non-paying individuals" access to the restrooms unless they bought something first. This ignited a vitriol-fueled tirade where you (eventually) had to ask the person to leave. On their way out, they kicked over the store sign and damaged it. You'd tried fixing the frame but to no avail. It remained slightly crooked.

Shit snowballed in the afternoon, just before the lunch rush, when the new trainee spilled a whole tray of smoothies on a customer, then managed to lock their cashier register out of the system. A mistake that spelled doom for everyone else who was working front of house. Specifically, you. It'd taken HOURS to figure out what they'd done and by that time, the trainee had already clocked out. To top it all off, your (least favorite) manager had decided to pop in unexpectedly which meant the radio was now honed onto 95.6 The Outlaw Star, a station that only played country music. Really bad country music. The kind that grated on your ears as it repeated the same insipid chorus lines again and again and again...

You're almost certain crap like this violated parts of The Geneva Conventions. But, what could you honestly expect from a restaurant chain that was owned by Lex Luthor?

Well...

At least you weren't unemployed.

"I'd fuck him."

Whatever worries you had about your job totally vanished in an instant when Zen, your co-worker, made this off-handed remark while cleaning the lobby with you in-between customer flows. She gave no additional context after that, leaving you baffled.

Glancing around first to see if your manager was lurking nearby and not finding him, you ask Zen-

"What?"

-with a deadpan tone that distinctly conveys just how excited you are about the subject matter of this conversation and where you believe it's most likely headed.

"I think he's hot," she reiterates, "I mean, the suit is weird but I'd still fuck him."

You stop wiping off the sticky, juice residue from a tabletop to stare at Zen. "Care to, uh, elaborate a bit more?" You question her, "Because I'm lost here."

Your co-worker waved over at the TV perched in the lobby corner. It was set to the Gotham News Network. Displayed on screen, lead anchorman, Jack Ryder, was interviewing several Gothamites at the scene of a burnt-down brewery. A chyron banner underneath stated: "Ten People Saved in Joker Attack by The Batman, Grand Re-opening Postponed Indefinitely."

"Batman!" Zen announced as if it were obvious, "I think he's sexy. I mean, he's got those incredible pecs and that delicious jawline! I'd absolutely be down to fuck. But, he's gotta lose the suit in bed. Or wait! No, scratch that. He should leave it on..."

A giggle escaped from her. You continue to stare at your co-worker like she's suddenly grown two heads. Eventually, though, you clear your throat and go back to scrubbing the table. Zen scowled at this.

"Oh, c'mon!" She exclaimed, "Tell me you haven't thought about it. Not even once?"

You roll your eyes.

"Literally, not even once," you reply, voice devoid of enthusiasm while you continue to do your job. A bit of orange gunk had crusted onto the table and was being difficult against the force of your washcloth.

Zen didn't believe you.

"Liar," she said.

"It's the truth," you shoot back at her, applying a bit more pressure into your scrubbing. Still, that infuriating splotch remained.

A wicked grin curved along your co-worker's lips. Zen hopped onto the table. She leaned in toward you, invading your personal space and stopping you from cleaning. You glare at her sourly. It only encourages her to scoot even closer near you.

"Let's play a game of Fuck, Bang, Kill," she said, not waiting for your response either way before launching into her proposal, "I'll pick the options and you say 'fuck', 'bang', or 'kill'. Simple enough, right?"

"No."

"Okay!"

"Ugh, you're really gonna make me do this, aren't you?"

"Yup! No mercy!"

One brief moment passed where your co-worker tapped her finger against her chin. She looked to be deep in thought while considering the choices for the game. Knowing Zen, however, you figure she had probably come up with it weeks ago...

"Clayface," she said first, squinting (narrowly) at you for signs of a hidden monsterfucking fetish. 

This one is a no-brainer.

"Kill," you automatically reply, wasting zero time to deliberate.

"Killer Croc," she says next.

Frowning, you answer: "Kill."

"Firefly," Zen states, "But, you gotta let him move into your apartment."

"He'd set too many things on fire. Kill."

"Two Face."

"Double Kill."

"Scarface."

"I'm not into puppets, kill."

She tossed her hands in the air, "Oh my god, you can't just keep choosing kill! That's not how this game works!"

"Well," you shrug, "You said it was my choice. So, I'm just playing according to your rules."

"Joker and Harley Quinn."

"Kill them."

“Catwoman.”

“Eh, kill.”

"Poison Ivy."

"Ask why my succulent is dying, then kill."

"Mad Hatter."

"Do I look like an Alice? Kill.”

With the slightest hint of satisfaction, you watch as Zen's face betrayed her own frustration. There was practically (black) smoke billowing from her ears while she tried to guess which Rogue you'd be most likely to marry. Or fuck. You wonder how long it would take until she called it quits?? After all, the two of you still had a lobby to clean. If the manager caught you both slacking off, you'd get written up for sure.

Suddenly, your co-worker's face brightened.

"THE RIDDLER!" She exclaimed like she'd solved a crime, jabbing her index finger up into the air. "I bet you'd break for the Riddler."

You blink.

Something flickered in the back of your mind. An old memory that you thought you'd forgotten.

"Uh, kill?" You answer, although you sound a hint uncertain, "I don't know, you can't really see him behind that mask and I'm not sure I could handle his followers. Plus, those riddles..."

Zen pouted. You could tell she was getting close to admitting defeat. It was only a matter of time now. You give the stubborn splotch another hard scrub with your rag, really putting your arm into it. The tiniest portion was beginning to come off. However, you pause when you hear Zen suggest a name that you'd never heard of before:

"Well, how about that new one? The one that the news is calling the Scarecrow?"

You open your mouth to speak but find yourself interrupted by a rush of customers. Moms with their kids in soccer uniforms and teenagers who were just getting out of school. Zen lets loose a sigh, knowing that you'd been spared from her torture by fate or chance. At least, for now. She quickly rushed over to the cash register, putting on her "customer service" smile while she began taking orders, leaving you to finish up the lobby alone. You caught Zen glance over at you once as if to warn you that this wasn't over. Not by a long shot. 

Unfortunately, she wasn't someone who gave up easily…

Minutes before you were scheduled to take your ten, the manager calls you into his office. With a lazy wave, he gestures for you to sit down in the chair across from his own while he riffles through a filing cabinet behind his desk. You happened to sneak a peak and see that what your manager is picking through are employee folders. An unease settles over you when he yanks out a file labeled "[your name]," then places it down between you both as he takes a seat. He looks at you for just a moment, eyebrow raised.

"Where you do see yourself in five years??" He asks you.

Your mind is racing in all possible avenues at this question.

"E-Excuse me?" You stammer out finally, though it sounded as if your voice was just a squeak, "I don't understand what you're-"

"Back in March, when you filled out your resume, you said you were planning to go back to college next semester. Is that still true?"

Your manager cuts you off. He cracks open your file, selecting the job application that you'd filled out a year ago when you decided that you needed an extra source of income. Despite this city being a trash fire, Gotham was still an expensive place to live. And college wasn't cheap! Buying textbooks for all the psychology courses that you were going to take in September would cost you. Even with the grants you were on! You watch nervously as your manager thumbs through your application idly, waiting for you to speak. He seems annoyed.

"Uhm," you mumble at first, but recover yourself enough to ground the uncertainty fluttering inside your stomach as you attempt a reply, "Yeah, that's the plan."

Your manager sighs.

"Look," he says, skepticism dripping from his tone like leaded water in an old pipe, "I didn't want to be the one who had to point it out to you but upper management has been cracking down on us lately. Our customer reviews have been too low for the past couple of months. You came up during our team meeting last Wednesday as a topic of interest. Several times, actually."

You blink, confused.

"Wait, what?"

You knew you weren't the best employee that the Cadmus Bar had. But, you knew that you weren't the worst either! Certainly, this had to be a huge misunderstanding. You ask for some clarification and your manager (with all the energy of a mildly disappointed father) begins to list off a series of ridiculous infractions, accusations, and "witness reports" that pegs you as the person who keeps breaking the smoothie blenders. Something that you, yourself, have been reporting (complaining) to management about since the very first day of your employment here.

"Annnd, we don't feel like you're smiling enough," your manager adds, placing the cherry on top of his corporate-talk cake, "You don't really portray the warm, friendly disposition that the Cadmus Bar is known for in its employees. Uh, one report we recently received about you seems to call you 'weird and off-putting'. Another one claims you're 'unhelpful' and 'have a rude attitude'. So, uh, you understand how none of this looks good, right?"

You scrambled for a reasonable explanation. Any explanation. However, what slipped out was half cooked mumblings that didn't sound convincing when spoken aloud: "I'll try harder. It's just been a rough couple of weeks and-"

Your manager holds up an authoritative hand.

"No, it's been a rough couple of months," he says, correcting you immediately with the slight bite of annoyance heard from every word that he spoke, "And look, we were willing to grant you a brief period after your accident so you could get reorientated again. But, this behavior has turned into a pattern."

He levels an accusatory stare at you.

"I..."

The world darkens for a moment as you process his words. Images flash before your eyes in quick succession: rain on the windshield, a blind corner of a lonely road, high beams and screeching tires that tore through the air alongside screams, fire, blood staining wet pavement... Your mouth goes dry. You feel numb inside. Somehow, it's like you are there, reliving that awful night all over again. Your manager brings you back to reality when he clears his throat, appearing uncomfortable with how you were handling this talk. He tries shifting your focus by telling you "the good news" about your predicament...

"The silver lining is we're not firing you yet. We've got that new trainee, though, so you might want to start seriously thinking about the future. All those college fees are going to be expensive. Maybe you can put some work into that smile in the meantime, yeah? Start wearing some pretty buttons on your vest to show our customers the real Cadmus Bar spirit."

You wished you had said anything other than the quiet, mumbled agreement that had slipped out of you. For some reason, the words you could've chosen just ran through your fingers like sand at a beach. With no refutes available, your manager sends you away, satisfaction on his bloated face that advertised (quite obviously) the pleasure he took in crushing your spirit and making you feel small in this moment. He tosses your file into the trash as you leave the office. The knowledge that your days working here were numbered became suddenly clear.

You decide to take your ten.

"They can't fire you!"

Inhaling a deep lung full of smoke from her joint, Zen medicated the rage she felt, then released it with a mighty exhale and a walloping cough. She passes the burning joint onto you, who partakes from it less aggressively, and continues her rant despite wheezing in between (her sharp-spoken) words.

"You and I keep this shit together!! If it wasn't for us, nothing would get done right. They think the evening prep gets done by Terry and his shift?! I can't count the times they've fucked the freezer up!"

You exhale a small stream of pungent marijuana into the air. Then, cough. Even though your chest seized, the relaxation you felt afterward was just enough to persuade you to take a second toke. It had been a stressful day for you already. And the day still wasn't over yet...

"I know," you agreed, grumbling at the hand your job was dealing you, "But, I don't "smile enough" for fucking Terry, apparently. I'm too 'weird and off-putting' and 'unhelpful with a rude attitude'."

"Well, that last one is true. You are pretty fucking rude sometimes," Zen replies, reaching out to take the joint you were offering back, "But, it's still bullshit! That trainee can't replace you. She's barely handling the dishwasher right now. A few weeks won't make a difference if she's that dumb and incompetent!"

"I know, right?"

"Like, who am I supposed to talk to about stupid shit all day?"

A sobering kind of silence fell upon Zen and you. Despite the city noise that pounded at your ears, the only thing you could hear was the emptiness that was forming in the slots of your daily routine and the dreadful monotony that would take your co-worker's place. While you knew Zen wouldn't totally disappear from your life, things would be different enough that you cringed just imagining it. You don't think you'd be able to stand working around anyone else. Sighing, you lean your head against the brick wall behind you and gaze up at the thin sliver of (overcast) sky above. This might be the last time you smoke with Zen in this shitty alleyway. You try to savor the moment but all you can do is frown as if you'd tasted something that had spoiled.

"You got me still, man."

Roach breaks the awkward silence. You turn your head to look at the homeless stoner that Zen and you had befriended (adopted) months ago when he'd first shown up in this alley, asking for a light, and rolling papers. With a frown, you realize that you'd miss him. Even if he did bum way, way too many cigarettes. Roach, in some weird way, was also a fixture of your daily life that you'd become attached to...

"Oh, sweetie. We love you but that's not the point being made here," Zen says, taking a quick hit of the joint before passing it along to Roach, "Point is-"

"The point is I'm screwed," you interject, "WE are screwed. Hell, I watched Terry throw my file into the trash! I'm getting fired."

Roach inhaled half the joint as he listened to you speak. Coughing, nearly choking on the cloud he made with his exhale, he summarizes today's ten minute break in three simple words-

"This sucks, man!"

-then, takes another generous toke. The cloud of smoke he made this time was (somehow) bigger than the last. Roach shook his head. Ran a hand through his matted, tangled hair and sighed. He looked genuinely upset. Your heart turned over a little seeing how much these people cared about you.

"Like, who am I gonna bum smokes from now?"

Nevermind.

A laugh rumbles deep from Roach's chest as Zen (and you) just squint at him. "Oh, c'mon! You had to know that was a joke. I'm kidding, I'm kidding! This is a huge bummer, though. I liked smoking with you guys. You aren't weird about how I look. You treat me like I'm normal..." He says this with a heavy frown that collapses very suddenly upon his face.

"Well, you're as normal as the rest of us!"

"Careful guys, they might send us to Arkham."

"Oh my god, I bet they'd put us in cells right next to each other! We could pass along little notes in between the bars or something, haha!"

You all laugh as a group...but it feels bittersweet. 

Zen and Roach give you the last hits off the joint, now merely a blackened nub. You were reminded of the time and realized that your ten was almost over. Zen must've been on the same wavelength as you because she groaned (loudly) when she'd checked her phone. She pouted for a second like a kid who'd just been told to go clean their room. You follow suit in your own subdued way, feeling the weight of each second that counted down to your inevitable unemployment.

Flicking the spent remainders of the joint into an ashtray, you take a breath, and mentally prepare yourself for the last hours of your shift.

"Ugh, time to clock back in."

"Same. I'll take care of the trash?"

"Thanks. I fucking hate doing the trash."

You spend about fifteen minutes lugging stuffed, Hefty bags out to the dumpsters. One split open in the middle of transport. Another was leaking a sticky, warm liquid that got all over your uniform, making your clothes smell like rancid candy and crap. On the last round of trash, Roach helps you toss an extra heavy one that you were struggling with throwing away. You try to thank him. He just shakes his head, though, insisting that no thanks were necessary among friends...

"You've been decent to a bum like me. This is the least I can do for you."

Still, you find yourself thanking him again. Then, turn to slouch back into the Cadmus Bar (where a new wave of customers were surely crowding at the cash register by now) but are stopped by Roach, who wants to give you something. From his stained jeans pocket, he pulled out an onyx black card. He hands it to you with a rare, serious look on his face as he explains:

"Look, I hate to see them fuck you over so here's the number to my cousin, Frankie C. He's a good guy when he's not drunk. He runs a temp agency in Otisburg. If you need some quick cash to get you by while you figure shit out, call him. He can set you up with a small gig just like that. It won't be enough to break even, usually. Sometimes, an opportunity comes in, though. Depending on the season and all that."

You shake your head while telling him that you'll be fine, that you already had a plan (even if you absolutely didn't and were panicking about the next few months of your life). Roach seemed to know you were lying because he refused to take the card back from you. He just kept redirecting the topic onto his cousin. Eventually, he shoved his hands deep into his pockets so he couldn't use them. You're forced to keep the card after that. Roach smiled when you finally slid the thin paper into your vest pocket.

"Just, uhhh, keep the Frankie stuff between you and me, okay? Don't wanna ruin a sweet deal like this on everyone!"

He winks, nudging your side with an elbow. You end up laughing despite your mood. It was hard to be sad around Roach. And you wish you could do more for him than just share your smokes on the days you were working here. You could keep his secret, however. Now, it was your secret, too. You pat your vest pocket and salute Roach as if he were the captain of a ship.

"My lips are sealed!" You exclaim, making a show of pursing your lips and sealing them shut.

Your shift flew by relatively fast. Before you knew it, you were riding the D-line back to Rosserie St. where the peace of your apartment awaited you. The trip was smooth, almost TOO smooth for an average Gotham evening. It had you gripping the canister of the pepper spray you kept hidden in your purse out of suspicion. But, the minute you made it to your neighborhood, you relaxed a little bit. With the GCPD so close to your home, crime here was more tame. The worst it usually had to offer came in the forms of muggings by average thugs. Or break-ins. It was partly the reason your parents had been willing to pay the deposit when you'd moved out. Through some miracle, you'd convinced them it was safe. It'd helped when you mentioned that the police station was just a few blocks away. You knew they regularly donated to the GCPD and their fundraising galas every year.

You spent the rest of your night filling out online applications and re-writing your resume, despite knowing that any place that would hire you likely wouldn't read it.

At 5 am, a loud banging on your apartment door startles you awake. An angry voice accompanies it. By the Pennsylvania Dutch accent, it was your landlord. Reluctantly, you peeled yourself off the couch and stumbled lifelessly through the living room to go figure out what he wanted. Because it wasn't the first of the month and you'd already taken care of the bills so there was nothing that sour old man could (possibly) want from you. A breath is taken before you open the door. A little prayer is said to whatever God was listening up there. You steel yourself, plaster a smile on your face, then open the door to greet your landlord. Your stomach drops when you see he's holding a bunch of envelopes that were addressed to each resident of the building.

"The rent's just increased," he says while handing you your envelope from his pile, "I'm gonna need the difference you owe by Monday, alright?"

Your landlord shoots this new information at you with such casualness that it makes you feel sick. He's staring at you as if you were an idiot for not knowing (or expecting) that this would probably happen. Fortunately, you recover from the shock  quick enough to form what you hope is a protest. It doesn't go well.

"I...already paid my rent, though."

"Yeah? Well, now the new payment is due."

"You can't raise the rent until next month!"

"Look, I don't know what to tell you. It's that "gentrification" stuff all those woke hipsters talk about on the social medias. Prices going up? The rent goes up. Pretty open shut case, alright? Not a lot of mumbo jumbo to it."

"This apartment is rent controlled. I made sure it was when I moved in!"

"Okay, then take it up with the housing authority and wait for them to call you back about it. In the meantime? I'm gonna need that money from you on Monday. 5 am sharp. Or you can move out of here and I'll rent this apartment to someone who would pay triple the new price!!" 

Your landlord's threat ripped the argument from your lips. He seems pleased when you fall silent and appear to crumple internally. You mask it by putting on a brave face...but your attempt isn't a convincing show of strength. Just as he's about to continue speaking, a (LOUD) meow interrupts him. Both you and your landlord stop what you're doing, pressing a momentary pause on your talk, to look towards the source of the noise that was growing more obnoxious by the second. You see that an orange cat was pacing back and forth on your balcony patio. Like it was waiting for you to let it in. Like this was a routine thing you did and not the very first time you'd ever seen it here. As you make the innocent mistake of giving it direct eye contact, it reacts by reaching up and eagerly paws at the sliding glass door.

Your landlord scowls.

"So, you got a pet?" He spits, raising an eyebrow at you, "That'll be an extra 200 for pet insurance. Cats piss and shit everywhere, ya know? Dirty lil' bastards. They'll fuck up my nice, clean carpets."

The carpets in your apartment were neither nice nor clean. Actually, they'd been stained and dirty since day one. The only reason they were decent now was all the steam cleaning you did to keep it tenable! Even then, your carpets were only a few more accidental messes away from being trash...

"That's not my cat," you state firmly, putting your foot down, "I don't have a pet. I don't owe you for a cat that isn't mine!"

Your landlord jabs his finger in the cat's direction and says, "If it's sitting on your fucking patio, it's your fucking cat! End of discussion. Don't need a brain to understand that, do ya?"

He smirks (again) when he sees frustration twist anew upon your face. It made the short-statured man happy whenever he could provoke this kind of conflict in someone. But, you were convinced it meant more to him when that person was you; which filled you with such impotent anger that it nearly blinded you. Dark thoughts about ripping the smirk off his lips and grinding it into the dirty carpets that he seemed so proud of swirled and spiraled around inside your head. You held back, however, because you also wanted to keep a roof over your head. Fall was just around the corner in Gotham. It was about to get cold. Really fast. It'd be iced-over mornings and winter storms before you knew it...

So, you bit your tongue and said nothing.

"You have to think about your future. No one is gonna do it for you," your landlord drives home the point he wanted to make even further, gently patting the frame of your apartment door with a faux concern, "Think about where you wanna be. You got until Monday to decide if it's here like an adult or out on the street in a cardboard box."

That was the second time your "future" had been mentioned. The sound of twisting steel hits your ears. Breaking glass shatters all around you as a tire, engulfed in fire, rolls past your mental vision. Someone is crying out for help. A scream crawls from your throat and takes the form of three tiny words that you speak in a defeated whisper:

"This isn't legal."

Your landlord laughs loudly and shrugs when he hears you, "This is Gotham, toots!"  

He walks away before you can say anything else. You're left holding the envelope he gave you with the cat you now, apparently, owned. Who hadn't stopped meowing, by the way. You could hear it practically yowling, clawing down the tempered glass of your patio door, trying its hardest to get your attention. Sighing, you shut the front door. Lock it tight. Then, turn to face the mess of your apartment. Was paying the rent increase worth it considering what a dump house this place was?? The question nagged you while you crossed your living room (stepping over piled books and dirty laundry that you'd forgotten about a week or two ago) to open the patio door. Immediately, the cat stopped crying once it'd been let in. You watch it make itself at home on your couch and begin to purr.

Nope, you were never getting rid of that cat. You could see 200 dollars literally flying away in this moment as you relented and sat down next to it on your couch. Your fingers ran through the cat's soft, pumpkin-colored fur. Maybe you'd buy it a collar the next time you got paid? Maybe one of those cute, themed ones that you'd (sometimes) see at Petco. If you still had a job by then...

Your head falls back against the couch as a slow and exasperated groan unfurls out of you. With a desperate eye, you search the cobweb cracks in the ceiling for clues on what you should do. Their answer is silence. You were screwed.

So, you decided that breakfast was the answer!

There was a greasy spoon diner down the street that served a (passable) eggs and hash. Despite knowing your wallet couldn't handle it, you found yourself sitting in your usual spot fifteen minutes after opening the envelope, hoping that a simple, hot meal would ease your turmoil. 1,500 dollars plus 200 extra for the cat that wasn't yours and an additional increase on utilities that you didn't use. Like parking. Or the community gym. That's what you owed your landlord by Monday. It was money you just didn't have! Even thinking about it made your eyes bigger than your stomach. You end up ordering way too much food, then regret it almost instantly. Today, the eggs are bland and unseasoned. The hashbrowns are burnt black at the edges. These flavors settled on your tongue, as disappointing as the debt you had to pay, and lingered there with the stress that hung over you like a storm cloud.

Technically, you had the money...but, it was your college fund.

You couldn't touch that.

When you had moved out of your parents' house, blessedly away from Metropolis, you'd promised yourself something; that one day, you'd get your bachelor's degree in psychology, start a practice of your own and finally prove to your family that you were a capable, independent adult. However, more than that bit, you felt a certain gravitational pull towards learning about how the mind works. Even at a young age, you were always absorbed in observations about the people (and the world) around you. You'd scribble them upon sheets of paper with crayons or colored marker or pen and pencil. Sticking them on your bedroom walls. It'd driven your parents absolutely insane. They had dreams (delusions) of you becoming a grammar school teacher. A "safe profession for a girl" that wasn't too ambitious and established your role in the family legacy. All Wrenns were educators. No deviations from the antiquated mold. Unsatisfied with this as you grew older, you tried arguing to your parents that psychology and teaching were similar fields. That they were (for all intents and purposes) practically the same thing! The result had been a disaster. And sometimes, they'd still laugh at the notion over holiday dinner, throwing salt on the wound by mentioning with a mocking scrutiny-

'Except you're not around crazy people!'

-to end the conversation. Not surprisingly, they'd been unsupportive of you the day you'd received your acceptance letter to GSU. They also weren't proud of the grants you'd earned to, in their own words, throw your future away on a crack career like head shrinking. And they didn't help you with anything other than the deposit on this shit hole you now hated renting in the city they hated you living in. Sometimes, your parents would call you to ask if you'd consider coming back home. They would suggest you enroll in the "nice community college" just a few blocks down from their house.  Or they'd sneak details into the dialogue about a new position at the elementary school your Mom worked in when they were feeling extra unhappy by your choices. You'd always say patiently: 'No, I can't. I'm staying in Gotham,' and they'd end the chat on a sour note. Lately, they seemed to really enjoy using how well your brother, Braydon, was doing in Metropolis.

Your college fund was the only thing standing in between you and returning back to your parents, crushed and defeated. You couldn't dip into it to solve your money problem. Doing so would only cement the quaint, milquetoast future that they determined for you. It would set you on a course of compromises until you became less an actual person and more a thing they felt entitled to "set right again." You knew, without any shadow of a doubt, that asking your parents for help in your current predicament would only result in a battle where they'd make you admit that you couldn't handle living on your own. They'd probably drive all the way to Gotham to come pick you up and take you back home. You'd wake up ten years in the future after that; a passionless, grade school teacher just like your mother. Probably married to a man you (barely) tolerated with a handful of kids you'd push into being an educator as you'd been pushed. Insisting they give up their dreams for your vision instead. For the only vision that a Wrenn was allowed. What a nightmare concept.

And yet, you found yourself texting your Dad. He had always been the more reasonable parent...

You: Hey, Dad. Can I ask you a favor?

You: Dad, I really need to borrow

You: So, something came up this month

You: Hey, how're you? How's Mom? [5:55 am]

The response came a half an hour later.

Dad: Isn't it a little too early for you? 😜 We're doing fine. Haven't heard from you in a while. How're things in Gotham? We heard there was a new madman running around the city on the news. [6:25 am]

By that time, you were already back home.

You: 🤷‍♀️ There's always a new madman running around Gotham. Dad, can I ask you Dad, I've run into troub I'm doing fine, tho. Just busy. [6:27 am]

Dad: That's good. Remember to put the GCPD on speed dial in case anything does happen, ok? [6:28 am]

You: I've got them on speed dial already. Don't worry. Hey, could we talk about something [6:30 am]

Dad: That's good, sweetie. Just want you to be safe. How's college been? Have you decided on when you'll be transferring over to St. Mary's? [6:35 am]

You stared at the message for a long time after it was sent and realized, with a sinking feeling, just how futile asking your parents for help was. They didn't want you to study at the GSU. They didn't want you to be a psychologist. Hell, they weren't even cool with you living in Gotham! Here they were, already pushing you to leave the city (and your dreams) behind. No, this had been a stupid mistake. If you had a problem, you were going to have to solve it yourself. Like an adult.

You: I'm staying at GSU, Dad. Classes are going really well. My teachers love me. [6:44 am]

The reply from your father came too quick to be anything good. It simply said-

Dad: Ok. [6:44 am]

-and nothing else. You don't text him back. You'd just be wasting time at this point. Instead, you fill out more online job applications. Even the listing you found for a janitor position at Arkham. Right now, you weren't being picky. When you'd milked all of Linked In, Craigslist, GothHires, and several local group forums, you funneled your anxiety in other ways; you began washing the dirty dishes that'd sat in your sink since...you forget, you pick up the books off the floor (putting them together on your shelf), and start sorting through the old laundry piles too.

When you grab your clothes from yesterday, you notice that something falls out of your work vest. It lands on the floor at your feet. You bend down to pick the thing up and peer at it (kinda baffled) and clueless before suddenly remembering what it was. This little black card was the contacts for the temp agency run by Roach's cousin. As you flip it over to see: "Frankie Cee, hiring agent. He'll see the potential in you!" printed on it with black ink and metallic foil, an idea strikes you. A genius idea...

What harm could a phone call do?

You begin dialing the number on the card.

"Hello, Frankie? Hi, uh. My friend Roach said that you hire people for temp jobs. Could I possibly set up an interview with you soon? My call back number is..."

Sandwiched between the glamour of the Bowrey and the government offices of the West End was a dump called Otisburg where all the dirt, sweat, and grime in Gotham collected itself. Comprised of crumbling brick and dark alleyways that were always littered with trash, it stood out against its wealthy neighbors, reminding everyone that just beneath the (gilded) surface was a festering sore left untreated within the city. And that year after year, Mayor Hill neglected it stubbornly despite his many "sincere" promises to do otherwise. It's inside this wound that you find yourself a couple of hours past noon, wondering (worrying) if you had gotten the address right?? Or if Frankie Cee had sent you the wrong pin on WayneMaps...

Because the place your pin had sent you to was a dive bar.

Brows furrowed in confusion, you quickly check  WayneMaps again. Nope! This was it. 4580 45th St (South). Right next to a bus stop and a row of condemned apartments that'd seen better days. Stashing your phone away, you peer at the neon sign that said "Stacked Deck" in mustard yellow and scarlet red with apprehension twisting your gut. Unless this (particular) hiring manager ran a bar or worked at an incredibly progressive, super chill, non-profit, having your interview here didn't make sense. Things like that were typically done in an office. You were starting to realize, albeit a touch late, that this whole situation was sketchy and your genius idea had been stupid! While you knew Roach was only trying to help, he'd set you upon a fool's errand, anyways. Should've stayed home and done job applications. You turn around to leave but surprise yourself when you walk into the bar instead as if a gravitational pull held your feet for ransom.

Suspicious stares fix themselves upon you when you enter the Stacked Deck. Some patrons even leer and throw lascivious comments out, hoping to rattle loose a reaction from you. One guy asks how much your hourly rates are? Another seems way too curious about why "a tiny little thing like you" has come to a place like this? Ignoring each prod and jab these bar-dwellers throw, you wade through the sea of cigarette smoke that hung in the air, focused solely on the long counter where drinks were being served. Unfortunately, you tug your hoodie strings while you do this, advertising the discomfort you felt to everyone regardless of the stiff upper lip you were trying (and failing) to portray. RIP you. After waiting a couple seconds, the next available bartender slides up to you and asks what you want to order with narrowed eyes full of skepticism. She's probably wondering the same thing everybody else is; what're you doing here?

In the back of your mind, you're questioning that too...

"Oh, uhh, no. No, I'm here for Frankie?" You reply, sounding uncertain, your statement forming into a question at the very end, "Frankie Cee? Do you know if he's around?"

Wordlessly, the bartender stares at you. When it was beginning to get super uncomfortable, you tried clarifying. Somehow, this makes you sound less confident than if you'd kept quiet: "I have an interview with him at 3."

The bartender continues staring. Her expression morphs from skepticism to abject disbelief. "You have an interview with Frankie Cee? You?? At this bar?"

"Yes," you say, a bit frustrated now.

She raises an eyebrow, "Are you positive?"

You absolutely weren't.

"Yeah," you repeat, firmer this time, "he gave me this address to meet up. I just didn't know it was gonna be at a bar. Uh, his text said to talk to the bartenders first." 

Judging off pure mood alone, you could tell that the bartender was done talking with you. Before she could show you the door, though, you reach into your pockets and pull out the onyx card that Roach had given you. You hold it up so the lady could see it, like it was an ID, hoping this would be enough to convince her to help you out or at least point you in the right direction. If you'd been thinking with your head on straight, if you'd only paid attention to the red flags, you might've realized how weird all this was. How wrong it felt in the pit of your stomach. But, the specter of lost college funds, homelessness, and your (almost certain) unemployment was blinding your sight to the bad omens surrounding you. You wanted money now more than anything else. Even the possibility of it seemed worth the potential risk.

The bartender sighed when she saw the card. It was obvious she was annoyed by the sight of it. "Well, fuck! Here I was thinking you were a lying bitch I could 86. No happy endings in Gotham. Yeah, Frankie's here. Give me a minute. I'll go snag him for ya. In the meantime, be a paying customer, buy yourself something, and go sit at those seats in the back. Or else I'll have to kick you out, anyway. Alright? So, what's your poison?"

You decide on beer. Something light, something without a high alcohol percentage. After all, you didn't want to get fucked up before the interview. The bartender sighs at your choice. With disgust in her tone, she grumbles 'of course' underneath her breath, then turns around to make your order after you'd handed her 15 crinkled dollars. Soon, with drink in hand, you hurry past the pool tables and the cue rack and the glowing neon sign that said: "Keep Gotham Weird". You slip into the end booth closest to the restrooms where a poster of Zephyrs of the Holy hung. Zen had once told you that the band was magical, so you'd thought it'd be a good place to wait. Maybe their luck would rub off on you?

You were half a beer in when Frankie Cee arrived. The man was not what you were expecting! Bald and beefy with black tattoos blazed up his arms, Frankie was the polar opposite of his cousin. He looked suspiciously like if Mr. Clean had joined a biker gang. The man glances at you (and your drink) once, chuckles to himself, then joins you in the booth. You swear you heard him whisper 'of course,' but you pretend not to hear it. Which was probably the best thing you could do in this scenario for more than one reason.

"So! My piece of shit, good for nothing, bum of a cousin sent you my way, huh?" Frankie asks you, grin on his face. Despite the twinkle in his eye, it was hard to tell if he was joking or being serious. That edge of uncertainty has you sweating bullets. You gape at him; frozen cold in the headlights by his question. You weren't sure how to answer him and Frankie seemed amused that you didn't quite know what to say. He continues speaking, taking a casual sip of the Tennessee Rye that was clutched in his hand while doing so, "You know, that fucker still owes me for the last favor I did. You wanna pay his tab for him?"

"Uhhh."

This interview was going great already! You were going to kill Roach when you saw him next. Your face twists up momentarily as you contemplate the logistics of murder...

The man must've sensed what you were thinking because he erupted with laughter. Wiping a stray tear from the corner of his eye, Frankie switches gears and decides to stop panicking you. "Nahh, I'm just playing' with ya! My cousin's decent when he's not on the drops. But he does owe me a pack of cigs the next time I see him."

"You and me both," you replied, a weaker chuckle than his escaping from your throat, still shaky on whether (or not) this was truly a joke. You try reminding yourself that if everything went wrong for some reason, you had pepper spray handy in your pockets. It was a weak reassurance but the only one you had at the moment.

"Right. Well, enough chit-chat. Let's get down to business." Frankie says, that merry twinkle in his eye becoming much sharper than before.

The man retrieves a folded paper from his pant's pocket, opens it up flat, then slides it over to you. It's a job application. Emblazoned on top was the logo for the temp agency (an eyeball wreathed in flames) with the company name orbiting around it. A small sentence follows underneath: "We can SEE the potential in you!". This agency definitely had their brand figured out, you thought, as the slogan hooked onto your brain like a Super Bowl commercial. Scanning through the rest of it, you find that everything seems pretty normal (about four sections dedicated to general info, medical history, driving record, and previous employers), but when you flipped the paper over...things got a little weird. 13 questions greet you, each more confusing than the last.

You squint at them.

Frankie senses your bewilderment and chuckles. "Just fill the questionnaire out to the best of your abilities, girly. Some of them are a little out there due to our clientele, but answering them all helps me figure out what gigs you'll best be suited for, you dig?? We wanna match our employees' skills to the needs of our clients."

You nod, then ask him a question. But he ignores this completely and asks you one instead. Which nags you in an insistent way. Something was off. Something wasn't right here. Something tugged on your gut for you to leave this place.

"Are you thirsty? I'm gonna snag something from the bar. I'll be back in a moment. Try getting that thing done, alright?? Just don't think about it too much."

Frankie drains the rest of his Tennessee Rye with a single gulp. An impressive feat considering his glass was practically full. He uses your stunned silence to make his getaway. You watch the man saunter towards the bar counter, greeting some new faces that'd just entered the Stacked Deck from the alleyside door. After a second, you turn your attention onto the paper. Blinking, still lost, you search for a pen inside your purse and begin to tackle the easiest parts on the front. That tug in your gut yanked harder. Finally, you arrived at the back page of the application. By that time, it felt like your whole, damn stomach was twisted into knots.

You poise your pen over the first question. Your hand is shaking slightly as you do...

1. How flexible are you willing to be with work hours?

Answer: All weekends and holidays.

That one was normal and simple to answer. You jot your response down without much hesitation.

2. Do you have any physical disabilities that would prevent you from finishing a task?

Answer: No.

This question was also pretty common. You have to have seen it printed on a hundred different job applications before.

3. Do you have any familial connections to law enforcement?

Answer: No.

Another inquiry that didn't appear abnormal. But you wondered, albeit briefly, why a temp agency would want to know that? You figure it was likely a conflict of interest deal for some of the clients. After all, you weren't a fan of the GCPD, either.

4. Do you own a firearm?

Answer: No.

Not an odd question to ask in Gotham. Everyone and their mothers kept some kind of weapon on them. The most efficient option being a gun. You had thought about owning one, back when you'd been planning to move to this city. Instead, your parents convinced you (wore you down) to buy a can of pepper spray. They were mortified by the idea of you shooting a pistol. Luckily, a year into GSU, your dormmate had shown you how to use one.

5. How do you feel about dressing in uniform?

Answer: I'm okay with it.

You supposed this one made sense? Every job in retail that you'd had made you wear a uniform or at least a company T-shirt. You hated the cheesy outfits of some places (like BatBurger), but right now, you weren't really in a position to turn down a paycheck. So, you lie on the application with a bold flourish of your pen.

The next question was where things got strange.

6. If you had a catchphrase, what would it be?

Answer: Ready for anything!

What?? You stare at the words until they seem to bleed off the paper. This HAD to be some sort of attempt at a psychology quiz! One of those lame passes a business would use to gauge your level of agreeability. You roll your eyes, jotting down a phrase that meant nothing to you...but sounded like something that a hiring manager would want to hear. You cringe at the dishonesty. Yet another wave of anxiety rolls over you. Perhaps this beer wasn't agreeing with your stomach?

7. Do you have any physical skills or talents?? Example: Could you scale a wall or jump over a fence? If you had to, could you run for longer than 20 minutes? Are you proficient in martial arts?

Answer: N/A

You blink. Again, the word "what" re-emerged as a question within your brain. You tap your pen on the side of your cheek, chewed it's cap anxiously for a moment while squinting at the query. What in the world kind of business would need martial arts skills?! Was this temp agency hiring people for a dojo? But then, your brain clicks into place, recalling a chat you'd had with Roach about the time he'd been a security guard. He'd quit the job after the first night when a league of black-clad ninjas stormed the vault he was supposed to be protecting. Looking at number seven again, you supposed that it made sense. This was Gotham and insane, crazy shit like that happened all the time.

8. If the police or any legal figures of authority were to ask you to give up the name/s of your fellow employees, would you?

Answer: _________.

How were you even supposed to answer that? Of course, you would have to comply with any legal authorities! What other choice was there? Unless this temp agency was working alongside villains or criminals, a question like this was just strange. You take a gulp of your beer to steady yourself in an almost instinctual reaction, feeling once more a tug at your soul that screamed: LEAVE NOW!!! Five minutes later, you'd drained the whole glass, but those twists in your gut had only grown into a briar patch of knots. You couldn't bail from this opportunity, you reason with the panic. A worse fate awaited you on Monday if you couldn't find another source of income. That fate freezes you to your booth. You decide to leave number eight blank and come back to it. There were five other inquiries to fill.

9. Do you have any medical conditions to your knowledge that may be triggered or worsened by unknown chemical gas?

Answer: I don't know, I've never been exposed before.

Chemical plants. This temp agency must hire for chemical plants and dojos. That had to be it! You mentally pat your own back, proud of your logic, and flawless sensibility. Gotham City retained a high demand for factory workers, chemists, and also...ninjas? Your hand darts out to take another gulp of your beer only to wrap around an empty glass. As you stare at it, the scream inside your head grows louder, evolving into a shriek. Leave now. Leave now! LEAVE NOW! Instead, through clenched teeth, you write the truth in the answer slot. A heavy weight, like you'd signed your death warrant, settled upon your shoulders. Your heart began to pound in your chest. You push on to the next question...

10. Theoretically, if you were thrown into a pit of acid, how would you react?

Answer: ____________.

LEAVE. LEAVE. LEAVE. LEAVE-

"Almost done with that?"

A gravelly voice interrupts your panic attack. You glance up to see Frankie has returned; two beers in his hands and looking a little drunker. He gives you a wink, then sets your glass down in front of you. It wasn't the brand you'd bought before. The beer was darker, almost orange, and foamed up so thickly at the rim that it threatened to spill out onto the table. Thanking the man, you move the application away from the glass just in case. You hear Frankie laugh. It sounds almost sinister. You weren't sure what was so funny, but you restrain yourself from asking. There were more pressing matters on your mind like these 13 questions on the page before you.

Frankie seems to sense your apprehension as he seats himself in your booth. "Ya know, if you have anything confusing you at all, just ask. That part on the back can really stump the newbies."

Running a hand through your hair, you decide to take the man up on his offer. Perhaps, maybe, it was only a misunderstanding and you were just being stupid.

"Uhm, okay. So, I am a bit, uh...unclear here about some of these questions. Cause they sound a bit-"

Weird.

Strange.

Fucking out there.

"-unconventional," you say cautiously, choosing the adjective with care, "I've honestly never seen anything like this asked on an application before and I've worked a lot of places in Gotham."

Frankie nods lightly, appearing receptive to your concerns. He stays silent. Allows you to continue rambling with an attentive focus stationed upon you.

"Like number 10. W-what am I even supposed to say to that?? Is this a legitimate concern I should be having on the job? What about number 11. Uh, heads or tails??? Why does your agency need to know that? Okay. And let's just take a moment to  appreciate number 13, because. I'm just...lost on that one! 'Thoughts on tea and scones? How do you brew a proper Earl Grey?? What are your full thoughts on cerebral manipulation via electrode and have you read Alice in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll?'. Just what kind of clients do you have?!"

Frankie answers without skipping a beat, "We're a grassroots cooperative business catering to a high class, criminal clientele and providing them with necessary services."

Silence settles over you. For a few moments, you simply stare at the man, robbed of words to say, and devoid of thoughts to think. Frankie doesn't react, carrying on as if waiting patiently for your next questions. That twinkle gleaming in his eye got just a touch brighter and sharper. It doesn't catch your notice.

"What?" You ask, your mind finally rebooting and turning back on.

The man replies in a similar way as before:

"We're a traditionally-run recruiting agency that connects the criminal element to those in need of quick gigs or temporary employment. Usually, that first one, though, since our clients can be a little hazardous. But only if you're an idiot."

Frankie laughs while you gawk at him.

Swallowing thickly and with a hushed voice, you rephrase your last question again. You just want to hear the man say it another time in case you'd misheard him. Everyone deserved the benefit of a doubt. Frankie's laugh died down, immediately, when you asked him to repeat his simple answer for a third round. Now he was staring at you. You see a frown pull at his beer-stained lips. Another shift in gears brought a more serious tone to the man as he says, "We're a "Goon Hiring" agency."

...

Frankie Cee sneered, "What, my cousin didn't tell ya?"

"No."

"Well, that's just classic Roach, isn't it?"

...

Instantly, you stand up (ramrod straight) and get out of the booth. Plastering your best "customer service" smile upon your face, you thank Frankie for his time, collect your purse, and turn to leave. As you do, the sound of a gun clicking into place hits your eardrums. It's followed by a growl that commands you to sit back down. Trembling, you obediently comply and return to your seat facing Frankie who now has a Glock trained on you. You peer down the barrel of the pistol, eyes watering, heart pounding fast, and internally screaming at yourself for how dumb you were, how you hadn't listened to the red flags. If you were this fucking stupid, maybe it was a good thing you'd never go back to GSU? You could just die (right now) with the knowledge that it would've never worked out.

Still, your dream of being a psychologist spurred you forward...

"P-please don't k-kill me," you whimper, lower lip trembling like an autumn leaf.

"I won't as long as we can finish up this interview, girly. Now stop crying and drink your beer, we're almost through the paperwork portion."

With a shaking hand, you lift the perspiring glass up to your lips. Frankie lowers his gun as you do. The orange-hued booze that he bought you isn't to your liking. It's too strong, too bitter. It had an astringent aftertaste that clung your tongue and lingered there. Stubbornly. But, you couldn't risk being picky at the moment. Frantic, you wonder if anyone would step in to save you? Was anyone aware of this? Were they calling the cops already or rolling up their sleeves to give teach this man a lesson? At least with this question, the answer was obvious; nope. Everyone inside the Stacked Deck was ignoring you as if somebody pulling a gun out on someone else was normal. A tad late, you remember that you were in Otisburg. To this place, it WAS normal.

And nobody was going to come save you...

Frankie rests the gun on the tabletop in between you but still clutches it close, a warning (for you) not misinterpret his relaxed mood with allowing you a chance to escape. He heaves a sigh, looks at you wearily, and shakes his head. "Look, girly, you either leave because you aced this interview or leave with Tommy and Benny in a rug. Totally your choice-"

Was it really, though?

You gulp.

"-but save me the rug, okay? Those cost money. I can't keep buying more rugs this week. Plus, let's be honest: if you didn't really need this job, didn't reeeally need the money, you wouldn't have even called me. I can tell you need the dough, girl. You got that hunger just like me when I was your age. I promise if you come work with me, I'll feed that good. My temp agency ain't fucking Underworld Talent. We don't use algorithms but we're damn fucking good at what we do. You can't do better than me."

You couldn't do better.

He's right.

You feel like the walls were closing in on you.

Frankie continues his pitch, oblivious to your fear or simply uncaring. "You stick with me? Now, you got something good. Something that'll pay good. I've been doing this shit for years and I can see a future henchmen from miles away. And you? You got henchmen written all over ya, girly. Embrace that. Now, what'll it be...? A damn good job-"

He taps the end of his Glock upon your half-filled application. The sound, impatient, and urging.

"-or Tommy and Benny? And before you choose, think HARD about where you want your future to go. Who do you see yourself being in five years?"

Dead.

There was that question again. You swear, it was haunting you. The instant you heard it said, your mind floods with unbidden images. Bloody flesh on slick pavement. Twisted metal feeding flames  and smoke. A cry into the night, soon becoming a wail for help that would go unheard, drowned out by the roll and crack of thunder as it rattled the earth. Lightning flashing across the sky as if God himself was angry. And you, in the middle of it all, crawling along the ground like a worm...

Did you even have a future to imagine after that?

Did you even have a future?

Despair opened its mouth wide to consume you. Yet, before it could, another vision snatches you away from it. Inside the empty hall of an old and dusty classroom, a friend smiles warmly at you. They're patting you on the back as you dab your eyes with a tissue. 'Don't stress out! It's just one bad score. You're gonna make a great therapist someday, trust me.' They say this with absolute confidence. Suddenly, you snap back to reality. A feeling far stronger than despair sparks within you.

Hope.

"I-I want the job!" You exclaim, stammering, but raising your chin to portray enough confidence nonetheless.

Frankie laughs in reaction. He seems pleased by your final decision. "Now that's what I like to hear from newbies! I knew you were a smart cookie-"

The man smiles coldly with a sharp gleam in his eye. Unlike the times prior, you knew that Frankie wasn't joking now. He was being dead serious.

"-so, let's fill out that application, yeah? I got shit to do later."

Steeling yourself, you reach for the ballpoint pen that you'd abandoned on the table and pick it up (determinedly) in your hand. With renewed spirit, you begin tackling the application. You answered every question as best you could. Even the ones that terrified you and made no sense. At the end of the back page, beneath number thirteen, you finally get to the point where your signature was needed. You poise the pen tip over the blank line, take a deep breath, then chew the inside of your lip. After this, there was no turning back. But, it wasn't as if you could turn the ship around now, either. Not if you wanted to keep your roof or go to college next semester...or live long enough to see tomorrow.

Upon the document line, you sign your name. It's a messy scribble of a signature. But, it'll do.

Frankie takes the application from you moments afterward. The ink hasn't even dried on the paper and he's already folding it into his pocket for safe keeping. The man assures you that this was the best choice you could've made; that you weren't going to regret it so long as you did exactly what you were told and followed the rules. Fear seized your heart again. You tried to ignore it. The deed had already been done. The future depended on you making some peace with it...

Because hell or high water, you were going to be a psychologist!

"Well, now that we got that squirt away, let's talk about your first job. A great one just came in an hour or two ago, perfect for a beginner goon like you," Frankie says, not giving you a second more to ruminate before throwing you into the fire, "It won't be dangerous. Just a simple D-List task. If you ask me, it might as well be free money! You'll be cleaning out a warehouse, you feel me? You're in, you're out. Badda-bing, badda-boom! Easy as mother's pie."

"But, I-"

He talks over you, waving away your words with an imperious flick of his hand, "Don't worry, girly, I won't be sending you in alone. This time. You'll be working with a team of my other employees. All experienced with this kind of job. Just listen to whatever they say and you should be golden. They're my go-to squad. So, you're in excellent hands. Trust me."

Frankie snaps his fingers, calling for Tommy and Benny with a voice that pierces through the bar's ambient noise. You're soon joined by two brolic, rough-looking men who tower over you. Frankie asks them to bring him the 'Halloween crap from last year'. A few minutes later, which feels like a lifetime to you, they return, carrying with them a cardboard box full of gimmick masks. Stuff you would buy at a Spirit Halloween store for twenty bucks. Frankie instructs you to pick out one that you liked. Without giving it thought, your hands plunge into the box and pull out a mask at pure random. You blink when you process what you've chosen.

It's a red axolotl mask.

"Take it. Wear it on the job tonight," Frankie says, explaining the purpose of his gift, "Consider it a part of your uniform from now on, alright?? And congratulations, you're officially hired! Welcome to the family-"

He grins at you. His smile has icy shivers racing down your spine.

"-I think you're gonna fit right in."

[nero-vanderwolf]

3 times Yosuke feels he doesn’t belong and 1 time he knows he does 

Yosuke is 12 and living in Tatsumi Port when he realises. It hits him like a punch to the gut, except he thinks a punch would be better in this scenario. 

He realises that he doesn’t belong in this group, all rich and snobbish and definitely shunning him. None of them spare even a second glance as he slinks away, resolving to find the nearest pay phone that’d be still operating at this time of night. 

Eventually he makes a collect call to his mom begging for her forgiveness and quickly explaining that he’d lost track of time before catching the last monorail to the station by his house. His “friends” don’t call. They don’t ask where he’d gone at school the next day. They don’t care, and Yosuke knows. So he stops caring about them.

2. Yosuke is 14 and tired. He’s stopped attending school, too busy preparing to move to a whole new place halfway across the country. Inaba, his mom told him. He’s too tired to put up a fuss about moving. 

His “friends” from school still don’t call. They don’t drop by to offer help with packing. They don’t talk to him when they see him around town. 

His “friends” aren’t really his friends. He knows this. But that doesn’t stop it from stinging any less. He can’t count how many things he told them, how many secrets he’d whispered in the darkness of sleepovers, unaware that he was the only one really saying anything. 

But they also held him when he cried, they listened when he ranted about his dad, they stopped him from punching things when he became angry. 

Silver lining, Yosuke supposes. 

3. Yosuke is 15, and still tired. If anything, it seems to have gotten worse. His bones ache when he moves, his eyes feel heavy with a lead weight he doesn’t remember attaching to them. But his heart has been encased in concrete. 

Chie and Yukiko are nice, absolutely. But he doesn’t mesh with them like they mesh with each other. Because having lived here in Inaba for about a year now, he’s still the school’s exotic attraction. A city boy in a backwaters high school, with slender, gangly limbs and a face that he’d heard other boys describe as “girlish.” 

It’s unfair, really, how some people can blend so well with everyone, while he can barely blend with himself. Music is his only comfort, as pathetic as that is. The blaring from his headphones helps him turn his attention away from what’s bad in his life, and focus on what’s good. Like Chie and Yukiko not constantly making fun of him for how he looks. 

There are good and bad aspects about everywhere, Yosuke has figured out. Chie and Yukiko are good aspects, definitely. 

Yosuke is 17 and living in Inaba when he realises. It hits him like a punch to the gut, except he thinks a punch would be better in this scenario. 

He walks in a field outside Inaba, shoes discarded behind a bush by the roadside. The sky above a deep, dark blue, with black clouds rolling by lazily. A cool breeze drifts by in the warm air, carrying the sweet scent of summer and ruffling his hair. 

Beside him walks Yu Narukami, his partner and best friend. It’s been a year since the Inaba murders were solved, by them no less, and now Yu is back, and Yosuke feels gobsmacked by how much his partner has changed. 

Yu is taller now, the baby fat in his cheeks burned away to make way for handsome features. He’s taller now- Yosuke has to look up to see that Yu’s grey eyes are darker now, more stormy than steely, and his hair has grown out a bit, though it remains the soft grey it was last year. Yosuke finds that the urge to card his fingers through it has only gotten stronger as time passed. 

“Yosuke. What would you say...” Yu begins, turning his head to look at Yosuke. They both stop walking. The sky turns even darker, and Yosuke breathes in the sweet air, listens to the cicadas in his ear. 

“If I told you that my parents are letting me stay in Inaba for this school year, too?” 

Yosuke feels like he’s been punched in the gut twice. Once because his best friend is staying here again, his best friend will be within arm’s reach once again. 

Twice because Yosuke realises he likes Yu as more than just a best friend. 

It’s a terrifying realisation. But it’s one he welcomes. He knows where his place in the world is. He’s known it ever since Yu placed himself in their lives, made himself comfortable in the spaces of their hearts and made residency in Yosuke’s head, whispering soft things that make way for yearning that makes his entire body ache. 

His place is at Yu’s side, so that’s where he places himself. Hugs his partner so tight he hears bones popping into place, slots himself comfortably in the space between Yu’s arm and side, resting his head on Yu’s shoulder. The fabric of his shirt is soft and comfortable, and Yosuke makes a mental note to steal it from his partner the next time he spends the night. 

“I’d welcome you home, partner.” 

god where do I even start with this. yosuke is my beloved creature and this is just so delicious. love the detail that yosuke migh be from tatsumi port island. yosuke feels like an outcast his whole life, no real friends, no one to care about him until he meets yu. yu just brings the group together, makes yosuke feel seen, like he's important. they're partners, not just friends. yu makes him feel seen for the first time in his life and that means so much to him. yu means everything to him and he just wants to be by his side forever. loving each other. yosuke finally getting the love he deserves.

[lovehypegirl]

ִֶָ ⊹ ִֶָ INFRUNAMI

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"GIRL, YOU'RE THE ONE I WANT" "YOU'RE THE ONE I NEED"

pairing: miyuki x f! reader synopsis: you're miyuki's girlfriend from new york city, a former baseball player, and a manager for seidou notes: kinda connects to REAL HOT GIRL SHIT. and yes, I'm from the city warnings: i would say none but y/n talks about nyc's crime so thats the warning. nyc. all the cute kissy stuff is toward the end wc: 0.6k

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infrunami reminds me of him. as well as blame by bryson tiller and family affair by mary j. blige but oh well

you began to date at the end of your first year

tbh he might have been a little intimidated by you since you're an American and the Japanese are known for their etiquette and decorum and the US is known for well...guns (and expensive health care)

his mental stereotypes kinda went away when he realized you weren't going to whip out a glock 19 whenever you got mad

he did admire how you always spoke your mind even if it meant you ending up saying the national anthem in English to prove your patriotism. you can take a man out of America but you can't take the America out of a man (i deadass do this like i've got that shit memorized down PAT)

"for the land of the freeeeeeeeee....and the home of the...braveeeeeeeeeee" you concluded your serenade of Star Spangled Banner as you two sat in his dorm

"kinda impressive that you know that by heart" Miyuki mused

"go to enough sports events and sit through enough graduations and you'll get the hang of it"

he's probably asked you a bunch of questions about what growing up in nyc was like

he was confused when you said your parents let you ride on the subway with friends at age 11 (you had said the subway was dangerous like 14 seconds ago)

he was mortified when you said you saw 2 girls get stabbed in Grand Central Station while you were eating your food in the Dining Concourse (real life events)

but he still doesn't really understand why people are so rowdy during baseball games and why you hate it that Japanese baseball games are quiet

"You're saying people get drunk at baseball games?" he asked you one night during an evening jog "Yeah, and it won't even be four pm yet and the guy next to you is fucking buzzed. Some get drunk even before they get to the stadium" "Why do people get drunk at games?" "Cause it's a sports game. people get drunk at all kinds of games. probably makes the experience better. Not that I've got experience" "Wouldn't that distract the players if the stadium was loud?" he asked as you rounded a bend in the track "Not really. when I was on the mound and everyone was cheering after I shut the opposing team out, three up three down, it's kinda uplifting. like an adrenaline rush almost. like you've got hundreds of people in the stadium and around the country watching you play so well and be proud of you. it's the American spirit" you huffed with a grin "What if a player gets booed at?" he asked, facing you slightly "hmm, well if hundreds are booing you, that's worse than your coach screaming at you in the parking lot" you shrugged and handed him his water bottle as you two took a break by the benches "I think I'd prefer getting booed at than Coach Kataoka screaming at me in the parking lot" he said, accepting the water bottle you handed to him "See? You do get it. Although I do prefer baseball games in the states tho, 'cause security won't come up to you and take the homer you caught" "You know there's a section you can sit at to catch homers and foul balls?" "Yeah but I ain't payin' an extra like, 20% to catch a goddamn ball" "Fair enough"

PLEASEEE PUT HIM ONTO WESTERN MUSICCCCC OH MY GODDDD

I think he'd like TYLER, THE CREATOR and KENDRICK LAMAR for runs/light workout (he's kinda invested in the kendrick vs drake saga)

Even the THE NEIGHBORHOOD he would like, along with STEVE LACY for anytime of the day

BOSSA NOVA, HOUSE MUSIC, and JAZZ while he reviews baseball scorebooks and you do your homework, your legs in his lap and you're trying with every cell in your body to not rip apart your homework 'cause trig makes no sense

And you guys watch MLB highlights together (cause he might join the MLB after college)

He really likes it when you are at his games (you go anyways ‘cause you’re the manager) but he just likes it when you watch him and when you smile at him when he walks into the dugout from your desk where you're scoring the games He gives your hand a little squeeze when he passes you, a quick kiss on your neck after you help him with his catchers gear, or a kiss to your cheek when you help him with his batter helmet

He always wants to know about what nyc was like for you and what baseball was like for you

Sometimes you both go out to the fields after practice in the evenings and you give him pointers on batting (not that he needs it) but you teach him what you've learned from the states

Or in the evenings when the sunset is pretty and the weather is perfect and there's a warm breeze you're on a field and he's practicing his swings and you've got your legs up on the fence with your back on the grass with this playlist playing in the background (pink & white ESPECIALLY GODDD)

He's probably more quality time based but add quality time and mix it with making something together to swap for a gift giving aspect and it's perfect

Take him to a make and paint your own pottery studio and I think he'll love it a lot

You're both sitting at a table together while you focus on a rectangular box (for him to keep the new MLB cards you'll be gifting him for his birthday) and he's sitting across from you, expertly shaping a bowl

He's oddly good at this (he watched videos on it after you brought it up)

In the end, he got a navy blue box with baseballs painted on it and you got a pink bowl with strawberries and little while flowers scattered around on it (I made a bowl like this today!!)

This one is kinda broad but let's say on off-season, students have their break and you take him to nyc (this happened in character ai last year erm...I HAVEN'T TOUCHED THE APP IN MONTHSSS)

I think he'd like the city though (probably SoHo)

And you guys go to central park and watch the little league games and he's got this super stupid grin on his face 'cause that used to be him

"What're you grinning about?" you ask him as you two leaned on the fence. Parents of the little kids stood around you, cheering their little baseball players on "I dunno, but feels like I'm watching myself when I was little" "AWWW I bet little Kazuya was so cute!" You grinned as you poked his cheek "Quiet" He playfully shoved your finger away "You know, I'll tell you what, that's gonna be a little Kazuya and y/n in the future" he pointed to the little girl playing as a catcher who turned to look at her parents with a sweet sweet grin after she had caught the ball "You bitchhhhh! Stop changin' the damn subject!!" You burst out at him in embarrassment and he cackled at your red cheeks "If there's gonna be a little us than it's gonna be a little girl" you said after you calmed down "A little girl sounds nice..." Miyuki mused

Take him to a Yankees game and he'll get shock from the sheer volume and you screaming in his ear as you and the other people in the stands dance to YMCA dance after the seventh inning during the field refresh

(Make sure you bring him to a Mets game so he knows the Yankees are better)

Your chest is practically puffing with pride as the stadium sings the Star Spangled Banner before the game beings with your Yankees cap over your chest. Nothing is better than patriotism. And Miyuki knows the lyrics cause you've sung it so many times (I have an issue where I'll randomly sing it. When I graduated eighth grade, my homeroom teacher practically drilled it into our heads so it's stuck there forever)

I think he'd appreciate Japan Village in Industry City. A little slice of home in a foreign land. So make sure to take him there

You hit up all the tourist spots with him starting with The Edge (he'd be kinda freaked out by the glass floor section in the center)

"C'mon you'll be fine" you beckoned him over to the small triangle glass section of the huge balcony rising 1,131 feet from the ground "Nuh uh that does NOT look safe" he refused, a few feet away from you "You'll be fine I'll hold your hand. Plus you can take a picture and send it to Kuramochi to boast or whatever. You seriously can't beat this one" "....Fine" he slowly walked over and held your hand as you took a picture of your feet standing on the glass with the view of the city streets 1,131 feet below you

You take him to One World Trade, Empire State, Rockefeller, The MET (he'd like this one), The High Line, Grand Central (which you end up going through anyways to see the Yanks)

Take him to Brooklyn Bridge park in the evening for a picnic or to Roosevelt Island for biking and food trucks

For Godssakes bring him to the Botanical Gardens in Brooklyn while you're hitting up Dumbo and heading up the borough

Anyways

On his side, I think he'd enjoy introducing you into Japanese culture. He'd bring you to festivals and teach you what to do at shrines

He cooks Japanese food for you so you're able to adjust your palate to it

HE COOKS FOR YOU

If there's a food from home that you're missing and can't get in Japan, he'd find the recipe and cook it for you. Now you can only eat his food cause nothing else tastes as good (he secretly enjoys that)

During break he'll take you around Japan and visit all kinda of places with you during the winter up to the northren parts of Japan or Okinawa during the summer

I think that he enjoys it when you watch him practice baseball LAWRDD

You do the tiktok trend with the lipstick kisses all over his face and he refuses to wash them off until baseball practice begins

AND AND he goes with you to makeup stores and let's you test lip products on his hand

STHAPPP when he hugs you he runs his hand up and down your back and since he wears like sweatshirts n shit, his hugs are probably really comfy too nd he kisses the top of your head

Either his kisses are short and quick or slow and soft and for someone who's never been in a relationship he sure knows how to kiss

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© 𝙇𝙊𝙑𝙀𝙃𝙔𝙋𝙀𝙂𝙄𝙍𝙇 𝟮𝟬𝟮𝟰 | modification and translation of my works on any platforms are strictly prohibited

[joshsindigostreak]

I See Hell in Your Eyes

Chapter Two

“Does the deer forgive the wolf?”

Josh Kiszka x Vampire!Reader

Warnings: None other than descriptions of blood.

Word Count: 3504

You hobbled through alleys and back streets for what seemed like hours, desperate to get to your destination without being seen, or worse, stumbling upon a human and doing something stupid. Your wrists were still burning, bleeding, and locked together because of those stupid fucking silver handcuffs that asshole shackled you with. As you twisted your way through the city, your mind was reeling with theories as to how that man was able to resist your Persuasion like that. It was unheard of! In the three centuries you had been alive you had never seen a human of all things resist that. Humans by nature were so gullible and easily persuaded to do anything that it was hardly even considered a “power” by other creatures. But he not only resisted it, he completely fooled you into thinking it was working. Arguably this was much worse, a fucking human getting the best of you? He needed to be dead. You needed to bleed him dry, watch the light slowly leave those pretty brown eyes of his, and leave him behind in some alley while you get on with your life. 

Turning a corner, you finally spot the heavy metal door you had been walking towards all night. It was very nondescript, blending into the alley wall it was stationed in. With the last bit of strength you had, you start kicking the metal hoping the occupant on the other side would hear you and let you in. Your hands were too sore to knock properly, your fingers curled into your palms in defeat from the sterling silver of the cuffs. 

You kept kicking the door, getting more and more forceful the longer you went without a response. Finally, you could hear slow footsteps on the other side, a familiar grumbling voice complaining on its way to the door, before dramatically sliding it open and flooding the alley with light. 

“Alright, alright, calm the fuck down-” a thick New York accent greets your ears and older, crinkly blue eyes took in your appearance and looked you up and down, immediately spotting the cuffs and blistering wrists, “Ah shit come inside, love.” He was probably one of your favorite faces, but you wouldn’t admit it. He went simply by “Les”, no last name, and never elaborated on what it was short for.  He was one of the most prolific arms dealers this side of the country. He was human…as far as you could tell, but you always suspected he was a lot older than he said. Les had bailed you out a few times after you pissed off the wrong creatures, and here you were again, needing his help. 

You gave him a half smile as he stood aside for you to come in and swiftly slammed the door shut behind you. Your ears were met with familiar Italian opera music playing on a record player in one of the other rooms. Various weapons he had collected over the decades lined the walls, with a few taken apart sitting on his work bench in the center of the room. You made your way over to the bench, sitting on a vacant stool and hauling your mangled wrists onto the surface of the workbench, wincing as the cuffs dug deeper into your skin and making the most unpleasant sizzling sounds. 

Les sat on a stool next to you, immediately dragging over a tool kit to start picking at the locks. “Now what have you done this time?” 

You start rattling off details of your night, how you just wanted to go out and have a nice meal in peace, running into…him, and how he blind sided you in the alley behind the bar. Les nodded along while working at the locks, you noticed he was being extra careful to not break them, which started to annoy you, “Can’t you just cut them off?” 

“And damage sterling silver cuffs like these? Hell no. That's more work for me to fix later, these have more value than you think.” Of course, business always came first. You slouched in a petulant matter, sighing in relief as one of the cuffs popped open, freeing one of your hands. Les started in on the second one immediately as you shook out your free hand, letting the skin heal and close up. 

Les looked up at you curiously, “now what do you mean he wasn’t affected by your Persuasion at all?”

“It didn’t even phase him! He just kept going on his little ‘I hate your kind you will pay for existing’ spiel and trying to say I was behind a bunch of bodies being left all over the city? I never leave bodies behind!” Les narrowed his eyes at you,  “I mean, not in a long time!” The second cuff popped off your wrist, and you were finally free from the blasted things. You shook out your hands as your wrists healed, relief flooding your body as the wounds closed. Your skin healed quickly, but it still left you in your original predicament of being hungry. 

Les scooped up his tools and slid the cuffs off to the side, “Now…don’t quote me on this but I’ve heard that some hunters have gotten their hands on some sort of magic to protect themselves from your kind.” 

“What kind of magic would do that?”

“Sigils mostly, witches are all about their sigils as you know,” he said with a slight eye roll.  “But those hunter families, you know the ones who are born into it? Where their whole family line consists of hunters blah blah blah, they typically have a few witches to help them out for their…line of work. It's honestly a little hypocritical to me, using witches to hunt other supernatural creatures, but you know how hunters are, they’re not exactly ethical, even if they think otherwise.”

You inwardly groaned at the idea you ran into one of those bloodline hunters. You didn’t cross paths with them often, the last time had been a few decades ago when one of them had ended up in actual Vampire territory, way too confident for their own good. They didn’t make it out alive. You recalled their skull was used as a trophy, and a warning, for quite some time.

“There aren’t very many of those families left anyway. The Turners were wiped out back in the 60s, the McGavins haven’t been in the country in years, last I heard they were hiding out in Canada. I remember some French family that stupidly thought they had cleaned out most of Paris but found out the hard way that they had not.” you counted on your fingers as you tried to remember the fates of the hunter families, your eyes trailing off lost in thought.

Les nodded as he crossed his arms, “...have you heard of the Kiszkas?” 

Oh no. Oh god no. Not them. You had heard stories, even lost some friends to those fuckers. They were a long line of hunters, from “the old country” as it were. You had kept your distance from them, they mainly kept to themselves on the western side of the country. There were rumors about how ruthless the newest generation was, and how there was an alleged set of twins that were particularly nasty. 

“They haven’t been this far east in a long time. No…it couldn’t have been one of them…” You tried to reason.

“For your sake I hope you’re right and it was just some random dickhead adrenaline junkie. But you have to consider the possibility given that he wasn’t even phased by any of your Persuasion tricks.” He stood up from the stool and walked over to a small fridge in the corner, “still hungry?” 

You looked up at the sight of the open fridge and saw a few blood bags sitting on the top shelf, and your mouth instantly watered, and your gums itched to let down your sharp teeth. Blood bags weren’t ideal, and no Vampire would say it was their favorite way to eat, but they worked when necessary. “Since when do you keep blood bags?” You tried to keep your voice steady and held onto the table so you didn’t launch yourself at the fridge. 

“Since I seem to have little Vampires show up at my door at all hours of the night needing my help,” he said warmly before plucking a bag off the shelf and carrying it over to you. You took it instantly, ripping off the end of the tube that was connected to the bag, using it as a straw. It was almost embarrassing how fast you slurped it down, but Les handed you a second one to make sure you were ok. The two of you had a quiet understanding. He always stayed neutral when it came to the politics of supernatural creatures, never taking any sides and helped out whomever paid him what he was owed. Strictly business, he always said. His neutrality was what earned him his respect, but he never helped out hunters. Even though he was an arms dealer, he had never once done any sort of work with them. Not for any virtuous reason, but they had fucked him over a few too many times and he just couldn’t be bothered with them after that. 

“The sun will be up soon…you need to get home before it does.” You glanced up at the clock on the wall, and saw you had about an hour before proper sunrise. Shit, you’d have to hurry to get back across the city to your apartment. 

Standing up, you place the second empty blood bag on the table, “thanks, Les,” 

“Any time, kid,” he always referred to you as ‘kid’, even if you were as far as you knew centuries older than him, “just promise to not be stupid out there, ok?” 

You nodded as you slipped out the door, and back into the night. 

~*~

However, across town, a particular hunter was not having a good night. Not only did you completely give him the slip, he lost his only lead on the case he had been given by his father. Typically, he worked cases with his twin, Jake, but this was one of his first solo missions, and he wanted to prove himself. He sat in his kitchen, pouring over the evidence folders he had been given, looking at the photos of dead bodies, all with familiar puncture wounds on their necks. It didn’t take a genius to know a Vampire did it, and this one was sloppy. One of the bodies was found in a shopping center parking lot, and was nearly discovered by other humans who still didn’t know Vampires existed. The hunter had wondered what ignorance felt like, and if it was as blissful as often described. He never had the chance to know if the world truly had monsters or not. His bedtime stories were always filled with creatures, his schoolwork always supplemented by “additional” education at home. He knew what weapons were best for whatever creature by the time he was in third grade. 

He knew Vampires couldn’t stand silver, and had even witnessed it first hand when a particularly stupid one tried to break into his family's house when he was roughly six years old. The vampire had gotten ahold of his twin and he had the wherewithal to grab one of the knives hidden under his bed and stabbed the creature in the leg, disarming him until his parents rushed in and…took care of it. That was the night he saw a Vampire die for the first time as well. A silver tipped stake, shot out of his fathers crossbow directly into its heart. It didn’t turn into dust, like he thought. The creature collapsed onto the ground, lifeless, but it was what happened to the body that startled him. The skin shrank back and turned this disgusting gray color, almost shriveled on the bones, especially in the face. The eyes glazed over in a yellow cast, stuck open in surprise from being shot, and the death rattle it emitted would haunt his nightmares for months.

The hunter sat back, running his hand over his face, trying to think of any other leads. His mind kept circling back to the alley, and how easily you got past him. He thanked his lucky stars his brothers hadn’t been present, or else he would’ve never heard the end of it, especially from the youngest of the four. It pissed him off how ill prepared he was, he had been so confident going into that bar that he’d capture you and take you back to his family’s estate for questioning. The idea of dragging you in front of his father had spurred him on for over a week as he tracked your whereabouts. He could have, and was usually instructed to just kill you and be done with it, but he had the thought that you might be useful in leaking any other information on the Vampire nests that infested the city. It took a lot to impress their father, especially when it came to hunting because of how important their work was. Ridding the world of that filth and keeping fellow humans safe was paramount. 

However, his brain would not stop flashing back to how you looked, and he hated himself for it. The stupid ponytail you had your hair in, the laughable get-up you had on to “blend in” with the other humans, the giggle you let out when he spoke to you, the way your eyes sparkled as you listened, but it was all a ruse. A sham, no different than a cheetah blending into the savannah grass in hopes to capture a gazelle. He closed his eyes as he remembered the kiss, still a little shocked that kissing a Vampire wasn’t much different than kissing another human. The warmth of your body surprised him the most. He hadn’t expected your hands to be so soft, let alone your lips. He hated himself even more for thinking about it like that. These were rookie thoughts about rookie mistakes and he had too much experience under his belt to get distracted by a single Vampire. He had to focus. 

But most importantly, he had to find you again to get the answers he was desperate for. 

~*~

Weeks went by and you hadn’t had any run-ins with that annoying human. You had been living your life in relative peace. Feeding where you could and being extra careful to not leave behind any “evidence”. Heeding Les’ advice, you kept yourself out of trouble. You were being good! 

The human in your possession had been very easy to lure into the back corner of the park, where the trees were thicker and people hardly walked by. You had him up against a tree, fangs clamped into his throat as you enjoyed the rush of blood into your mouth. You almost moaned at the taste, your left hand gripping his hair to hold his head still. As always you instructed the human to remain quiet, assuring him that he wouldn’t remember any of this when you were finished. 

You were so close to being fully sated, seconds away from being finished when you heard a familiar, and aggravating voice behind you, “let him go.” 

With a small gasp, you pulled your mouth away from the human's throat and looked over your shoulder at the source of the words, “... can I help you?”

“I want you to get the fuck away from that man, for starters,” the hunter said. 

Rolling your eyes, “Ok, fine.” You turned to the human, who was still in a daze from being fed on. Quickly, you bit into your finger to draw some of your own blood, rubbing it into the wounds of his throat to heal them as if they were never there. You took his chin between  your thumb and index finger, looking him directly into the eyes as you instructed, “I need you to go home, you were never here in the park, you don’t remember me, or the lughead behind me.” The hunter scoffed at that, “you’re going to go home, eat some food, take some iron, and go to bed. Now go on and get a cab.” You smiled, tapping his cheek as the human nodded, and walked off into the main area of the park and out of sight. 

“See? Catch and release!” You turned toward the hunter and threw your hand at the direction the human had walked off towards. 

The hunter rolled his eyes, “You know I could kill you for even doing that.” 

“And yet here I am. Alive.”

“‘Alive’ is debatable.” 

You fully turned towards him, leaning back against the tree. “Alright, Boy Scout, what do you actually want with me?” 

In a speed that you weren’t aware humans possessed, the hunter was on you once again like in the alley that first night, silver knife once again pressing into your throat, burning the skin. “I just have a few questions.” 

You threw your hands up near your face, you weren’t risking him cuffing you again. “Yeah? Same here.” He was so close, his face inches from yours. This time the moon was shining overhead, its nearly full face was reflected in those big brown eyes of his. They looked so determined as they glared at you, he wasn’t faking his disgust at all. 

He ignored your response, “well, since we last met,” he hissed, his mouth twisting into a snarl, “three more bodies showed up just outside the city.” 

“Once again, that wasn’t me,” you emphasized, rolling your eyes. 

“I know your kind are more in contact than you’d like for us to believe, do you know of anyone who would be sloppy enough to do that?”

Staring at him, “it's not like we go over that in the meetings,” you deadpanned. He pressed the knife even further into your skin, blood starting to trickle out of the wound, “Ok! No, I haven't heard anything. None of my friends are that stupid. Anyone who leaves bodies behind like that are normally really young and either don’t know any better, or don’t give a shit.”

“Do you know of any new Vampires around this town?”

“I haven’t heard of any newbies for awhile. We’re more selective than you think.”

“How did you get turned?” For a fraction of a second you saw his face soften, as if he hadn’t meant to ask that out loud. 

But the question itself made you pause. You never thought about the how, and why you were turned. It was so long ago that you firmly shut the door to your previous life in your mind. You weren’t one of those self-loathing Vampires who felt cursed by their existence. You loved your life. You loved the power you had, forever young, being able to do whatever you wanted and go wherever the wind took you. Longing for human life was only in the movies. Being turned freed you in so many ways, any reminder of before was unnecessary. You weren’t that kid anymore. You never would be again, and you were fine with that. 

Cutting your reverie short, you straightened your shoulders against the tree, and smirked at him, “personal questions like that require dinner.” 

“Yeah well I’m not a big fan of the kind of dinner you like,” the corners of his mouth twitched. Did he almost smile? Whatever expression it was, it was gone instantly. The snarl returned. 

The two of you stood there, staring at each other. The mutual resentment was palpable. 

“All these questions, Boy Scout, and I still don’t have your name.” 

He studied you for a second, weighing his options. He briefly thought about giving you a fake name, but his ego wanted you to know exactly who he was. His name had weight in their world, it meant something. Well, his last name did. His first name on its own hadn’t been given its own reputation yet. He had always been in a unit with his brothers that just their last name was all they needed to get anywhere. It struck fear into other creatures. Sometimes, fear is good. 

“Josh.” 

You were really being pinned to a tree by a man named Josh? Of fucking course. You were right by calling him Boy Scout, it fit almost too perfectly. 

“Josh what?” You narrowed your eyes, he was playing keepaway with the details on purpose. 

Pressing the knife even further into your throat, the dark blood trickling even more onto the knife, spilling onto his thumb that held it in place. Vampire blood was different from humans, not nearly as red, but a darker, sludgier color. The stain it left was unmistakable. 

He leaned even closer to your face, all but whispering, “...Kiszka” 

Well, fuck.

Tag List: @lightmylove-gvf , @dannyandthekiszkas , @gretasmokerising , @sinners-go-to-drink-the-wine , @wideminded-dreamer , @runwayblues , @wildbluesorbit , @llightmyllovee , @rhythm-of-space , @sacredthefran , @writingcold , @alwaysonthemend , @wetkleenex-gvf , @josh-iamyour-mama , @lightsofthe-living-gvf , @gvfcinema ,

[runewrights]

This morning I got to my job site and thought I left my headphones at home, and was a little sad about. Then some other construction guys came and started playing country music. The new stuff not the old stuff, yes there's a difference. But they were playing new country and I couldn't block it out, so I got frustrated on top of being sad. Then they turned it to a Classic rock station, which I like better than country, but it was one of the ones that plays Trump ads, so it was objectively worse than the country music. Mostly because there are songs they play that directly conflict with the Trump ads, and that makes me even more annoyed with it.

Now it's lunch and I found my work headphones in my bag. I'm so relieved I'm not even that upset I forgot I put them there.

[venus-haze]

Howl (Bo Sinclair x Reader)

Summary: It’s almost inevitable, going on a road trip and ending up with car trouble. The nearby town of Ambrose seems like the perfect place to get your friend’s car a new battery without going off schedule too much, except the handsome mechanic at the body shop decides a dead battery will be the least of your worries as the road trip abruptly ends far worse than you could have imagined.

Note: Please read the warnings before deciding to engage with this fic. Reader is a cis woman, but no other descriptors are used. Your age is ambiguous in this, but it was written with a reader in their 20s or older in mind. This is my first slasher fic, but I’d like to write more. I hope Bo isn’t OOC in this (especially the ending, I feel kinda eh about it). I rewatched the movie and read the script right before starting on this but who knows. Please let me know what you think! Do not interact if you are under 18 or post thinspo/ED content.

Word count: 7.2k

Warnings: Murder/death. Descriptions of violence involving weapons (guns and knives). Disturbing and sadistic behavior. Misogyny. Kidnapping and prolonged captivity which involves physical abuse, emotional and psychological manipulation, major Stockholm syndrome, distorted sense of time and self. Duct tape as a gag. Sexually explicit content which involves coercion (non/dubcon), knifeplay, bloodplay, and cigarette burns. Do not interact if you are under 18.

A sigh of relief escaped your lips when you and your small group of roadtripping friends arrived in Ambrose, a charming little town tucked in a forgotten corner of the Louisiana swamplands. You felt comfortable there, safe, even. Disarmed by a nostalgic main street lined with colorful family-owned shops, you thought nothing of it when you all made the trek to reach the town’s gas station and body shop in search of a new battery for Laura’s car. Sure, the detour put a damper on the road trip, but you figured it’d only cost an hour or two of driving time.

Just your luck, the gas station was there, as the strange man along the highway had promised. That didn’t necessarily mean the place was open, as the gas pumps were half-rusted and at the obvious mercy of the elements. You had let your friends argue amongst themselves about whether or not to go inside the shop. You were the only one who noticed a broad-shouldered, handsome man in a blue mechanic’s jumpsuit walk out of the garage that had just started blaring heavy metal from inside. Funny, you would’ve suspected a place like that to play some twangy country classics. The mechanic stood a few feet away from you all, watching the scene in amusement, and you gave him an apologetic smile.

When he gave you a smile in return, one that was more wolf than man, you thought that you’d offer your throat to him without hesitation, let him feast on you as he pleased. As much as you hoped looking a wolf in the mouth would somehow defang him, he seemed famished, in an almost controlled desperation the way one hears howling in the night. You were presented with a blood red flag from the start and willingly ignored it just because you were a bit too curious about the fire behind his eyes and the way he blatantly ogled you, not your friends. 

Trying to make polite conversation with him, you had asked him about the music that was playing in the body shop—Anthrax? Megadeth? Korn? You threw out names of metal bands, ones you’d seen on t-shirts or posters. He regarded you with amusement as he answered, though you’d retroactively acknowledge the predatory undertone of his words and actions toward you in the hour or so leading up to your life going to hell. He was always going to devour you.

Like everything in Ambrose, his good ol’ boy charm was nothing more than a facade to keep you in town as long as possible. Introducing himself as Bo, the exact man you all were told to look for, Michelle had cut to the chase and told him that Laura’s car was in need of a new battery. Your guard lowered even more as he threw compliments around like candy, asking all the right questions about the roadtrip you were 347 miles into. He searched for a brand new, more reliable car battery in the shop and the garage, only to muse as he charmingly adjusted his worn-out trucker cap that it might be back up at his house, one of the business deliveries he gets up there, he just hadn’t gotten a chance to unpack it yet.

In hindsight, you weren’t sure why you believed him, or why you let Renee walk up to the house with him by herself. What you couldn’t admit to yourself was that you almost didn’t, feeling jealous at the thought of her alone with Bo. A brief sense of satisfaction had swept over you when, for the second time, Bo’s attention was fixed on your body before he headed off to the house with Renee. You hadn’t seen her since.

The metal door of the basement hovel where you had found yourself trapped for god knows how long slammed open, and you jolted—at the harsh sound and at his unkempt appearance, sweat dripping from his brow, rage in his eyes, his chest heaving as he stalked over to the same spot you’d been in since he dragged you, screaming and crying but with no real fight, as you ashamedly reminded yourself, down there.

“Your friend is gettin’ on my last damn nerve,” he growled. 

A foolish hope bubbled warm in your chest at this. Someone was still alive, someone besides you at least. Which one though? You’d seen a looming tower of a man with long black hair stab Laura and drag away her limp form while Bo had wrangled you back into the body shop and down to whatever fucking dungeon you were probably going to die in. Renee was airheaded and shallow; you admittedly didn’t like her much, but damn, if she found a way out of Ambrose, you’d be her best friend. You’d bet anything it was Michelle, though. She was the one who had doubts about stopping in Ambrose in the first place, going so far as to call bullshit when Bo claimed the car battery was up at his house. 

It wasn’t like you could ask. He’d slapped duct tape over your mouth, as to his frustration he found he was out of superglue to seal your lips shut. The things that slip your mind. At least you still had your clothes on, though you doubted that would last. Blood, though you weren’t sure whose, stained your shirt beyond salvation anyway.

“Bitch won’t shut the fuck up,” he grumbled, double-checking that the restraints were secured. 

You resisted the urge to scoff, as if you hadn’t spent the past twenty minutes exhausting yourself trying to break out of them. The bastard was expertly thorough, to your despair. You had gotten a surge of adrenaline in his earlier absence, a newfound will to escape and survive as you tugged at the leather straps and duct tape holding you in place on the surgical bed, praying for some kind of give. As soon as he stepped foot through that door again, slamming it behind him, you had been no closer to freedom than when he left. The gravity of the situation came crashing down on you, a suffocating hopelessness.

His sleeves had rolled up a bit, and you noticed scarring around his wrists, raised and angry looking despite having healed for some time. You’d never seen scarring like that before, wondering what could have caused such intense trauma to his skin like that.

His eyes followed yours, and he curled his lip, backhanding you across the face. “Ain’t polite to stare.”

The stinging pain in your jaw and the weight of his intense gaze made breathing difficult—that and the duct tape. You began to hyperventilate, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. He cooed in mock sympathy, using the pads of his thumbs to wipe away the tears that threatened to fall down your face.

“Save those for later, darlin’,” he said. “I got somethin’ special in mind for you.”

He left your side to begin rifling through a duffel bag in a dark corner of the room. Emerging back into the light moments later, he had a hand-held video camera and a plastic tripod. Despite your lips being sealed, you hoped the noises of protest you made would somehow change his mind. Instead, he seemed amused by them as he set down the tripod and began adjusting the camera on top of it, giving you a wink as the green light near the lens flickered on.

You stared at the cracked cement ceiling while he set up the video camera a few feet away from where he had you restrained, unwilling to acknowledge what was about to happen. You’d rather be dead—though you figured by the end of the night, you would be. 

“Anyone ever tell you how fuckin’ pretty you are?” he asked, observing you through the small screen that flipped out from the side of the camera.

No, and you certainly didn’t want this to be the situation in which someone finally did. You wondered how many of your fallen comrades taped up on the dingy wall had heard the same line. It was almost impossible not to look at them, the dozens of polaroids of young women strapped to the same surgical bed as you, all in various states of brutalization, plainly spelling out your fate. None of the photos had captions scrawled beneath them, no dates or names—he probably didn’t know yours, either. 

Bo snapped his fingers three times in a row, your startled gaze immediately shooting over to him behind the camera where he was adjusting the settings. At least his tinkering delayed the inevitable. You stared intensely into the camera as if trying to will it to break, put up a fight on your behalf so he’d call the whole thing off.

He grinned at your obedience. “That’s it. Eyes on me, doll.”

You whimpered. Doll, how appropriate, how fucking fitting. The second he got his hands on you, your personhood was dissolved into objectification. You had welcomed the prelude to it, the desire in his eyes when he openly stared at you earlier as he fed your ego so you’d end up right where he wanted you—accessible, vulnerable, defenseless.

“Perfect,” Bo whispered, as the green light turned red, indicating he’d begun recording. He stepped aside and grabbed a nearby knife as he made his way over to you.

The video camera was no longer your ally; it couldn’t buy you any more time from the inevitable. In an instant, it became your voyeur, a guilty bystander in the terrorization that was about to be documented. You wondered where the footage would end up, part of his personal collection, or maybe someone as prolific as him was churning this shit out for sickos online who’d imagine themselves in his place.

He stood angled toward your side, giving the camera a clear view of your body. He took his time drinking in the state of you, bound and terrified as you looked between him and the knife. You relaxed a little when he set the knife to the side, but just as quickly, his hands were on your body.

His big, calloused hand drifted up your skirt—why the fuck did you put on a skirt this morning—to your panties, and you felt your face heat up at the self-satisfied grin that spread across his face as he felt the wet stain on the fabric, slipping his fingers past the elastic to feel your arousal. He toyed with your clit, rubbing and pinching it as you resisted the orgasm you felt creeping up on you. Then, just as you were about to give in and go over the edge, he pulled his hand away, smug at the noise of frustration you made.

Picking up the knife again, he dragged the tip of the blade across the soft skin of your thighs until it rested far too close to your cunt for comfort. Your breathing was ragged, but you tried not to make any sudden movements or do anything to inadvertently provoke him. The bulge in his pants seemed especially pronounced, he certainly wasn’t doing this to you to compensate for something, you could tell that much.

He smirked upon noticing your eyes on the outline of his cock through his clothes. 

“How bad d’you want it, darlin’?” he asked, his voice a low, almost velvety purr.

You shook your head furiously, screwing your eyes shut as he moved the blade, only for him to begin shredding through your clothing until they were nothing but rags on the floor. There was nothing to do but watch in horror as he sliced each of your bra straps, pushing down what was left of the undergarment to allow himself access to your tits. He held the knife to your throat while he leaned down, sucking on one of your nipples until it felt sore, like it was going to bruise. He finally pulled back, smacking your other tit for good measure. 

The knife in his hand was dull, you realized, to your dismay. It appeared clean enough, all things considered, but with a blade like that, any injury he inflicted on you would take more effort on his part and hurt far more on yours. A sharpened blade would hurt, but it’d be quick and precise. You felt bile rise in your throat with nowhere for it to go as you considered how cruelly deliberate he was about all of this. Asshole.

For a few glorious moments, your mind had drifted elsewhere as he used the knife to cut through your panties—until you heard a scream and a groan from outside, both you and Bo pausing to look up at the grate in the ceiling and listen. Another scream and what surely must have been a body hitting the pavement, perhaps it was your imagination running wild, but you could’ve sworn you heard bones crack upon impact. Michelle. You felt your chest tighten.

Bo grinned, his wild gaze back on you as he tauntingly dragged the blade across your collarbone, far too close to your throat for comfort, “Listen, if you’re good for me, I’ll keep ya. Won’t have to end up like your friends up there.”

Keep you. You hated keep you. Keep you was long-term, turning your current situation into a permanent arrangement. Keep you was a threat, a dark omen hanging over your head like a bolt of lightning about to crack down on you. You wondered if any of the girls on the wall were so lucky as to receive such an offer. 

“Whattaya say?” he asked, as if he needed permission.

Another vomit-inducing sound came from above, and you looked at him, nodding wildly. 

He pressed a sloppy kiss to your forehead, a praise of “good girl” coming from deep in his chest.

Without warning, he plunged the blade into your forearm, a jagged, brutal cut that split your tender flesh. You screamed through the tape as white hot pain seared through your body, mascara-stained tears streaking down your cheeks as you writhed against your restraints. As soon as he pulled the knife from your arm and leaned down to lick the blood from the wound he inflicted on you, you passed out cold.

Almost to your disappointment, you awoke a few hours later, your injured arm bandaged up, though you could see your fresh blood stains had become the latest addition to the already stained to hell mattress you were laying on. Your pussy felt sore and aching, and you could only hazard a guess as to what else he did to you after you’d passed out. At least you’d gotten an IUD a few months earlier.

Bo was disgustingly chipper when he checked on you about an hour after you woke up, a smile on his face as he walked down the stairs with a TV dinner and a dusty bottle of soda. The scent of over-microwaved corn made your stomach growl, and you didn’t even like corn that much.

When he removed the tape from your mouth, you knew better than to mouth off or try something, not when you were fully aware of what he was capable of, and enjoyed doing nonetheless. Your compliance pleased him, as he praised you for how well you did, that the video he got was the best one yet—like you were made for it. You immediately lost your appetite.

As days went by, he checked on you frequently, though there was no rhythm to his visits, keeping you on edge. He restocked on super glue, but through reasoning unfathomable to you, decided duct tape suited your mouth better. Sometimes he’d bring food for you that wasn’t even fully heated, and there was something especially hellish about having to eat half-frozen mac n’ cheese. You wished he would at least undo your restraints when you ate, but instead he fed you himself, like you were a child—only allowed microwave dinners that made you feel more nauseous than full and having to drink lukewarm tap water or flat soda from a straw. 

Your arm was healing to his satisfaction, though where he had stabbed you would undoubtedly scar over horrifically. Astoundingly, you didn’t need stitches, but he assured you that Vincent–you assumed the long-haired man who’d killed Laura–was great at stitching people up. You weren’t sure whether to be comforted by that or not. 

Then there was the bed across from the surgical one you were strapped to, its promise of comfort taunted you, but the only time you were in it was when you were restrained as usual, your face buried in the grimy pillows, ass up as he either fucked or belted you until you were crying or bleeding. He preferred both. The TV appeared broken, but you didn’t want to watch anything and be further reminded of the outside world you were missing anyway.

The basement didn’t have a bathroom, and so the only time you were freed from your restraints was when he’d bring you upstairs to the one in the gas station, a knife to your throat the whole ascent up to sunlight, a few taunting yards away from freedom. Though the scummy bathroom had no windows, he went as far to go in with you while you used the toilet, and you knew it was to humiliate you more than it was to make sure you didn’t escape. You couldn’t check what you were sure was your haggard appearance, as the mirror on the wall was covered by brown paper, shards of broken glass poking through the quick cover-up. Maybe it was one of the girls pictured downstairs, seeing an opportunity and taking it, smashing the mirror with an elbow and sheer force of will to put up one last fight. The rust-colored stains on the tile floor told you that while it was a valiant effort, she was not the victor.

You knew you smelled rancid from being down there, anxiously sweating every moment you were in his presence mixed with your own dried blood and his cum that you were sure he’d gotten on every inch of your body at that point. He had presented you with a pack of half-dried, lemon-scented wet wipes on one of your trips up to the bathroom, and you wasted no time in using every one of them to scrub yourself down as he watched intently, leaning against the wall and smoking a cigarette, the bulge in his pants reminding you that you wouldn’t stay clean for long.

The worst part was, you began looking forward to him checking on you. He was sadistic and deliberately cruel, but isolation did you no favors as your already fragile mental state caused you to crack. Time was absolutely not on your side, you’d lost track of it anyway.

One day, however, you heard another group of unsuspecting travelers speaking to Bo outside the body shop, their voices echoing down the grate that allowed the only natural light in. Your hope for rescue turned into a hope for something that shook you to your core when you acknowledged it—you hoped he wouldn’t replace you. 

While you didn’t want to spend the foreseeable future in a dungeon, strapped to a surgical bed for a psychopath’s amusement, you certainly didn’t want to meet the inevitable, brutal death that awaited you so soon. The women who came before you were nowhere to be found, and you could only imagine the worst had happened to them. You didn’t know what Bo did with the photos and videos he frequently took of you, but you sure as hell didn’t want to spend your final moments as the subject of a hardcore snuff film.

You nearly gagged as you heard Bo use the same lines and excuses that he’d given you and your friends. No one in the group even protested, two people volunteering to tag along with Bo up to the house to get the taillight they needed. It wasn’t long before the sound of an all too familiar struggle ensued above. Metal clattered, people cursed and screamed, tires squealed, and you could hear Bo cursing and struggling before a gun shot rang out, bringing the fight to an end. You weren’t sure who had won until you heard, echoed through the grate, Bo asking Vincent if he was okay. Your stomach turned at the sound of his voice and the fact that he was alive, though you didn’t want to think about whether it did so in disappointment or relief.

You were shaking when Bo stormed into the basement, blood splattered across his face and on his clothes. He punched the wall, shouting “Fuck!” upon impact. 

Your wide eyes were glued to him, and he turned to you, acknowledging your presence with a momentarily intense gaze that inexplicably softened as he closed the short distance between you.

“You were real good,” he said, sounding almost confused. “Stayed nice and quiet while Vincent and me took care of business up there.”

You awkwardly jerked your head toward his face. He’d gotten to know your quirks and tells, as he answered your unspoken question.

“‘S not mine,” he mumbled, sloppily wiping the blood away with his hand. 

The tone in the basement for the next hour or so was almost uncomfortably domestic, like he really cared about you. Perhaps you’d proven your loyalty in his eyes by not making attempts to warn the unsuspecting tourists of what awaited them in Ambrose or trying for some kind of escape amidst the chaos. 

Of the dozens of things you hated admitting to yourself about the situation you were in, you almost liked it better when he was mean to you. There was less guessing, less overthinking when he’d simply throw you around, fuck you, and then leave. 

Over the following days, your conflicting feelings over the slight intimacy he was displaying, a kiss on the forehead here, a meal that wasn’t microwaved there, only grew. If there was anything you could do to gain his favor in this way, you’d do it, you’d do anything for him to be nice to you more than he was cruel. After all, you’d gotten yourself this far with your mouth duct-taped and your arms and legs strapped to a surgical bed or immobilized by the host of restraints he had in his possession. He realized such when you leaned into his touch at one point, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion briefly before he grinned. Neither of you, it seemed, were particularly experienced with whatever relationship you’d found yourselves in.

“C’mon—“ his thick Louisiana drawl made it difficult for you to discern whether he was calling you doll or darl’. Regardless, he freed you of your restraints and presented you with the first article of clothing you’d seen since he brought you down there. It was yours, and you knew exactly where you had put it in your suitcase. A slinky little satin slip that you’d bought days before the trip as nightwear, hoping you’d get lucky in some city or town along the way. The sight of it made you want to scream.

“We’re goin’ on a little date,” he said jovially. 

You shook as you attempted to dress yourself, embarrassed when he had to come over and help you get the slip over your head. The fabric was just as soft and silky as when you’d bought it off the rack, though it was wrinkled and you noticed a white stain near the hem. You supposed you couldn’t have it all.

To make matters worse, your legs were weak from the limited use of them over time, buckling beneath you as you tried to slip your feet into the kitten heels that you didn’t recognize. While Bo made a fuss about having to help you with your shoes as well, easily a size too small anyway, you could tell he relished in how helpless you were.

Finally, he pulled the duct tape off of your mouth. He handed you a tube of chapstick—cherry, though most of the label was worn off, odd, it almost looked like the one Renee had. You could care less, though. It was the first time your mouth was untaped for something other than eating one of the disgusting microwave dinners he brought you or him fucking your throat until you cried. You applied the used chapstick liberally, rubbing your lips together in hopes it would soften them some. 

“Gimme a twirl.” He whistled as you did so with the grace of a newborn fawn. “Shit, oughta enter you in the Miss Ambrose pageant. Knock all them other girls outta the park.”

Miss Ambrose. The posters were plastered throughout town when you arrived. You could only imagine what the qualifications for the winner would have to be.

He brought you upstairs, no knife to your throat this time, but you knew better than to try something when he always had that or a gun on him. Besides, you were far too weak to even make an effective escape attempt. You trudged forward through the shop, almost at the door when you stopped suddenly, catching a glimpse of yourself in the small mirror on the wall.

The reflection wasn’t you. It couldn’t be. The woman who stared back at you was worn-out, beat up, pathetic—you couldn’t accept that he’d done that to you in, well, you really didn’t know how long he’d kept you down there. If Bo noticed your shock at your appearance, he didn’t care, as he pressed a kiss to your bruised, bare shoulder before throwing his arm over it and leading you outside, into the cool night air.

A cigarette was nestled between his fingers in his other hand, and you felt yourself start to sweat at the sight of it. Normally, the worst he would do was blow smoke in your face, amused by your evident discomfort. A not so distant memory of him putting one out on your thigh, cigarette in one hand and video camera in the other, nearly made you tense up. It was almost as if being out of the restraints, out in the open, made you feel more vulnerable to his cruelty.

He offered the smoke to you, and for half a moment you considered taking it so as to not upset him, but you allowed yourself to meekly shake your head. To your relief, it was the right move.

“Good, these things’ll kill ya. Hate to see somethin’ like that happen to my pretty girl,” he said, taking a long drag on the cigarette before flicking it aside.

You could barely keep up with his long strides, the prolonged weakness in your legs and impractical, ill-fitting heels doing you no favors as he led you down the deserted streets of Ambrose. 

The town lit up like it was taunting you, highlighting all of the things you would have noticed if you weren’t too busy making heart-eyes at the handsome mechanic to let them fade into the background. Flickering street lamps laughed at you as you walked up main street under Bo’s arm, making some grand walk of shame past every red flag you ignored, every chance of escape you fumbled. Then again, you were still alive, and Bo had made no mention of Laura, Renee, or Michelle since the night he brought you to the basement. You hated that you didn’t know how long it’d been since then. It could have been a day, it could have been forever. It felt like both.

You stumbled a bit when Bo stopped in front of a light blue, mid century-style house that had seen better days, but inside seemed to be bustling. 

“Little housewarming party for some new neighbors. Thought you might like to see ‘em,” he said.

You couldn’t conceal the shiver that ran through your body at his chipper tone, he only used it when he was going to do something to you. Most of the time, to your frustration, you couldn’t read him, but his tone of voice gave so much away. 

As you and Bo walked up the short path to the front door, you noticed vague silhouettes patterned the plain curtain in the window, though you could hear faint feminine laughter and upbeat music from inside. After school specials from the height of the Satanic Panic flashed briefly through your mind as you wondered if the torture you’d experienced at Bo’s hands was an initiation or ritual of sorts. The thought was oddly comforting, the possibility of your suffering being meaningful as opposed to simply for the amusement of a sadistic killer.

Bo knocked on the front door before finding it unlocked and letting the two of you in. He kept up the pretense of the housewarming party, making quips that fell on deaf ears as you tried to mentally prepare yourself for what you were going to walk into. You held out no hope that the women would help you, and upon entering the living room with Bo, found it wasn’t possible anyway.

No one reacted when you and Bo entered the room, his arm tight around your waist. The TV was blaring a Bewitched rerun, cacophonous with the Connie Francis cassette that was playing on the radio sitting atop a dusty bookshelf. You recognized the song as soon as it went into the chorus—Who’s Sorry Now. The unfortunate irony wasn’t lost on you, but it seemed to be lost on the three women in the room, who hadn’t moved an inch since you and Bo walked in.

Despite the chatter and laughter, it sounded like the noise wasn’t coming from the women, but rather echoed in from elsewhere. Bo’s grip on you loosened, and you took it as his unspoken permission to check out the party for yourself. Cautiously, you stepped forward, unsure of what to expect from them. Were they aware Ambrose was some fucked up murder town? Did they know what Bo had been doing to you?

A strangled scream tore from your aching throat as you saw the faces of your gracious party hosts. A woman leaned against a dingy, stained couch, forced laughter etched into her wax face. Laura. Your eyes drifted to the woman sitting on the couch with her hair curled between her fingers in one hand, the other gripped tightly around a retro dial-tone telephone. Renee. In a nearby armchair that looked like it’d been dragged out of your grandmother’s house sat a woman whose face was scrunched in clear annoyance, her arms folded across her chest. Michelle.

The resemblance to all of them was uncanny. It wasn’t until you leaned in to examine the wax figure of Laura’s face that you noticed it was far too real for your liking. In a panic, you scrambled backward, directly into Bo’s strong chest. You were sure if he had fed you before this, you would have thrown up all over the place. His sheer delight at your distress made you sure your suspicions were correct, your friends had been encased in wax, their dynamic preserved as part of Ambrose’s facade. The people in the shops, chattering you could hear coming from buildings, it was all pretend, all except you and Bo. You’d yet to meet Vincent, but you weren’t sure you wanted to, if this was what he did to his victims.

Bo pushed you onto the couch so that you were clumsily seated between Laura and Renee. You knew better than to move, remaining as still as the wax figures around you until he told you otherwise. Tears flowed freely and silently down your face.

Taking a step back, he tilted his head as he regarded you mockingly. “Ya know, Vincent might have a good point—you’d fit into the scene real well.” 

Out of the corner of your watery eyes, you could have sworn you saw Michelle’s eye twitch from her spot in the armchair. God, was she still alive in there?

“Well darlin’, I can’t blame ya for wantin’ in on this girls’ night here. Seems like you’re missin’ out on a lot of fun,” he said, grinning as he stood over you. “Me and you have a whole lotta fun too, ain’t that right, Y/N?”

Your breath caught in your throat, and you choked out a sob at the use of your name, him giving you some of your personhood back was almost too much to handle. He didn’t appreciate the significance of the gesture, or maybe he did and just wanted you to get the fuck over it. Regardless, he let out an impatient growl at your lack of response.

“I’m waitin’ on an answer, doll,” he demanded.

“I want—“ your voice was hoarse, the words clawing their way out of your throat. “I want to stay with you.”

“Yeah?” he whispered, eyes black as he leaned over you, using his body to cage you into your spot on the couch. 

All you could manage was a weak, “Yeah.”

“Guess it’s time to bring you home to meet the family, then.”

He kissed you on the lips, the first time he’d ever done so. He didn’t seem to care that your lips were woefully chapped and bruised, as he deepened the kiss as soon as you began to kiss him back–when did you start kissing him back? Your brain felt fuzzy. It was nice actually kissing him, even though he seemed like he was more concerned with claiming you. Still the situation was fucked up, making out with the man responsible for you and your friends’ misery right next to their wax-preserved corpses. If this constituted a party in Ambrose, you’d decline the invitation next time.

After a few minutes, he broke from the kiss and pulled you up from the couch. He made a show of announcing your departure to the girls, thanking them for putting on such a great party, adding to his own amusement and your crushing guilt. 

The walk back to the gas station was quiet, despair overwhelming you as you neared the building, unsure of how long you’d be stuck in the basement again. 

As you began shuffling over to the front door, he grabbed your arm, stopping you in your tracks. 

“Where d’you think you’re goin’? Didn’t I say I was bringin’ ya home?”

“Yeah,” you answered.

“Get your pretty ass in the truck, then,” he said, smacking your ass for emphasis.

He opened the passenger door, and you maneuvered to the middle of the bench seat, correctly assuming he’d want you right next to him as he drove. You weren’t sure where his house was or how long the ride would be as he cut on the engine and began driving up the street, past the fake shops and the blue house where your friends would remain, a twisted, parodic form of themselves preserved forever.

The radio was playing the same heavy metal you’d hear playing from above in the gas station, but you were no more familiar with the artists than you were when you first asked him about him, your sad attempt at flirting that the lonely and insecure part of you figured was harmless, not even considering the worst that could happen.

As he drove the truck up the road, toward a house on a hill, he glanced over at you every so often. The light from the dashboard illuminated his features, and you allowed yourself to take him in, frustratingly handsome and charming when he wanted to be. You wondered if it’d be easier not to feel so soft for him if he were some disgusting old man. 

Bo’s hand gripped your thigh. “Ya look like a damn dream in that.”

“Thank you,” you said, a small smile appearing on your face. 

You’d give him that much, for all the names he called you while putting you through your wildest nightmares, he never said anything negative about your appearance, and if the reflection in the mirror you saw earlier was any indication, you’d been looking rough for a while.

The truck finally stopped, and he helped you out of it, his hand on the small of your back as he led you up to the house. He unlocked the door, and when you walked into the foyer, you were almost surprised that, for the most part, it looked normal and lived-in, clothes strewn about and empty cans of beer on several surfaces. Undoubtedly a mess that smelled of must, cigarettes, and something you couldn’t quite identify. 

Still, at least it was a house and not a windowless torture dungeon. You knew to count your blessings and not comment on the state of the place. It wasn’t often women like you moved up in the world of unwilling captivity. Besides, if you played your cards right, maybe he’d let you clean a bit. Jesus Christ, who were you? Wanting to clean up after him, be this psychopath’s housewife? You sighed. You were whoever he wanted you to be.

“Tired?” he asked.

You shook your head. With the exception of your first night in Ambrose, wherein he went easy on you, as a rule, Bo liked you awake and somewhat alert when he was around, and you knew he wasn’t bringing you to his house for a candlelight dinner followed by a romantic slow dance in the kitchen.

There wasn’t an opportunity to inspect much else of the house, as he began leading you upstairs. All of the doors down the long hallway looked more or less the same, off-white as a result of time and tobacco smoke, streaks of what you assumed was blood on each of them. He stopped in front of a door on the far end of the hall and opened it for you, pulling you inside.

Bo’s room, like what you’d seen of the house, was an organizational disaster. You weren’t sure what to focus on first. It wasn’t until you did so that you realized you should have asked, but when you noticed the stack of Polaroids on top of a nearby dresser, you grabbed them. Each one was of you in various states of torture and pain, framed similarly to the other ones in the basement. He scrawled something beneath one of the photos, and you were able to make out the chicken scratch as your name and ‘pretty when she cries’. The gesture was romantic by Bo’s standards, and you set the photos back down, almost overwhelmed.

Bo walked up behind you, pressing his crotch into your ass so you could feel his erection. One of his hands wrapped around your throat, the other playing with the hem of your slip. He gave your throat a light squeeze, and you remained still, waiting to see what he’d do next in the unfamiliar territory.

He turned you around, giving you a rough kiss before shedding you of your slip, still intact as it pooled at your feet. You almost let a giggle escape from your lips, so he really did like how you looked in it. He wasted no time in pushing you back onto the bed, and you gasped, light and airy at how nice it felt. A real bed, messy and unmade nonetheless, but compared to what you’d been strapped to, it felt like you were floating on a cloud. 

Bo took off his clothes, fully nude before you for the first time. You noticed similar scars around his ankles as those around his wrists but knew better than to stare. Besides, there was so much more to look at when it came to Bo. He was a lot of things, but you’d never accuse him of not being hot. It was one of the first things you’d noticed when you first saw him, and finally getting to see him on full display made your core feel pleasantly warm.

There was no foreplay, none of the pain or cruelty you’d come to expect as he climbed over you. Instead, he pounded his long, hard cock into you, no more concerned with your pleasure than usual, yet your body betrayed you as you neared orgasm despite how roughly he handled you. It was the first time you weren’t restrained while he fucked you, and you had no idea what to do with your hands. 

Hesitantly, you reached up, caressing his cheek. Fazed by the intimacy you initiated, his thrusts became erratic, and he took your hand, kissing your palm before pushing your arm away. Then, as if to remind you who was in charge, not to get too comfortable around him, he, in turn, slapped you across the face, and you came around his cock with a moan that sounded almost foreign. His orgasm soon followed, and he cursed under his breath as his hot cum pumped inside you. 

To your disbelief, he didn’t drag the act out any longer, pulling out of you and allowing you to settle into the pillows. He reached over to the nightstand on his side of the bed—was this now your side of the bed? Would he let you sleep in it with him?—and shook a cigarette out from the pack, sticking it in his mouth and lighting it with a rusted Zippo lighter. 

“Gonna be tough findin’ another girl to keep down there who’ll do it for me like you,” he mused, taking a long drag from his cigarette. “Got real lucky with ya.”

Your heart lurched at the thought of another woman down there. You quickly convinced yourself it was out of empathy, after everything that Bo had put you through, to hell and back until you were a shell of yourself and somehow lucky to be alive, you wouldn’t wish that on any woman. 

The part of you that now belonged to him, broken and dependent, seethed with jealousy at the possibility of his attention being divided between you and someone else. He’d spent so much time with you while you were down there, would the other woman get the luxury as he fed and fucked her. Other woman, as if she’d be his mistress, his honey on the side, rather than a captive just like you. You hated yourself, feeling pathetic as ever for having such thoughts.

Despite yourself, you whispered, “No.”

“Whattya mean ‘no’?” he asked, his angered expression quickly dissolving into smugness upon noticing how bashful you were, avoiding his gaze. He couldn’t have that, now. 

Gently lifting your face, he forced you to make direct eye contact with him. “You jealous? Want me all to yourself?”

No. Maybe? Yes. You gave a weak nod at his question, hoping he wouldn’t make you confirm such out loud. You were never as lucky as he was.

“Say it to me, darlin’,” he ordered, his voice soft as he pulled the answer from you.

Humiliated, you gave him what he wanted, all the while mentally convincing yourself otherwise as you admitted tearfully, “I want you to myself, Bo.”

Snuffing the cigarette out in the bedside ashtray, he took your face in his hands and kissed you with an uncharacteristic sweetness, before slyly suggesting a shower together, your first one since you’d gotten to Ambrose. Thoughts of him fucking you mercilessly against the shower wall made you squirm, but it meant you could finally use real soap, maybe even wash your hair. You nodded in agreement, to his further delight. 

You noticed your bags in the corner of the room, mostly undisturbed except for your suitcase, which he had clearly rifled through to get the slip you had been wearing. At least they were still there, maybe he’d let you wear your clothes from now on, even if it was on his terms. You wasted no time in grabbing the bag that housed your makeup and toiletries before following him into the bathroom.

He woke you up the following morning with your choice of engagement rings in a plastic bin—you shuddered to think of what happened to their previous owners—all glittering boldly and promising eternity with a man who would return to you with blood on his hands and fire in his eyes late at night, the predator finally claiming his prey after the long, drawn out chase. Your head was always going to end up mounted on his wall.

[black-arcana]

HALESTORM's New Studio Album Is 'Half Done'

In a new interview with Liv Maddix of the 105.7 The Point radio station, HALESTORM frontwoman Lzzy Hale and guitarist Joe Hottinger spoke about the progress of the recording sessions for the band's follow-up to 2022's "Back From The Dead" album. Lzzy said (as transcribed by BLABBERMOUTH.NET): "Well, this has been an interesting process for us — very new." Joe added: "Yeah, the record, it's been fun. We're working with a new producer [Dave Cobb] we've never worked with. And he has a house in Savannah [Georgia] that it's just a studio house and a band house. So we go in and all four of us move in and wake up and we just start writing."

Lzzy continued: "Doing it with Dave Cobb, who is a closet metalhead, but he's gotten his due from Chris Stapleton and Brandi Carlile. But he's got such a great sense." Joe concurred, saying: "Oh, yeah. He's just a song guy. He loves songs and he knows all about rock and roll. He's done RIVAL SONS and GRETA VAN FLEET. He's a rocker, too. But it's fun. We have it half done right now. I think most of the basics and music is done. It's neat because we have this big break between here and we're gonna hopefully finish it by the end of the year. And you get to kind of think about it a little bit, let it live with you a bit. And then, like, 'All right, what are we saying? What do we wanna say?'"

Elaborating on the songwriting process for the new HALESTORM album, Lzzy said: "Well, the beautiful thing about [having a break in the recording], too, is that even just now on this tour, I am, for better or worse, kind of a sponge, and I am absorbing all of these experiences and seeing how they're actually fitting into the record. So I'm drafting and redrafting as we're going, just so I can get back in the studio and be, like, 'But wait. What about this?' Because that's actually what the experience called for. So, yeah, it's very interesting, but we've been taking our time with it because we've been having fun doing that. 'Cause, as is tradition with all of these other records, we're like, 'Okay, we have this amount of songs. All right. When can we get in? We're gonna go in for a month. We're gonna bang it out, do the touring thing all over again.' So it's kind of nice."

Last month, HALESTORM drummer Arejay Hale was asked by The VORTX Podcast with host Ethan Jackson, HALESTORM when fans can expect to hear new music from the band. Arejay responded: "I'm hoping next year… We always say the same thing. It's, like, it'll be out when we're done with it [laughs] and the whole process after it — getting it mixed, getting it mastered, getting the promotion campaign together and all that. There's a lot to it. But the experience has been great 'cause we're doing it in Savannah with Dave Cobb, and Dave Cobb is absolutely killing the game right now."

Regarding HALESTORM's decision to work with Cobb this time around, Arejay said: "It's always good for a band to, if you want your sound to evolve, bring in some fresh minds into it. And the cool thing about Dave is that he's a total hard rock and metalhead at heart. A lot of his most successful projects have been a lot of country, a lot of alternative — I mean, he's all over the spectrum — so when works with us, you can tell… There's a really great mutual respect between [us], 'cause we've been doing this long enough and he's been doing it for so long. We've been a huge fan of his as well, so there's a lot of mutual respect between the two of us, and you can feel it in the room."

Asked if he and his HALESTORM bandmates set a date for themselves for when they want to be done with a record, Arejay said: "It used to be a lot more stringent in the early days. 'Cause when you're trying to get the band off the ground, you really wanna kind of keep that momentum going. But our last couple of records have been a little bit more laid back, which is nice. It kind of gives it room to breathe. It gives us time to like really assess where we wanna go. And definitely COVID changed everything."

On the topic of whether the HALESTORM members do more work remotely now or if they still all get together in the studio and collaborate on ideas in one room, Arejay said: "Oh, it's so much more effective for us to be in the same room. I think it kind of forces you to just… I guess we work well under pressure, 'cause, going back to your last question… We definitely feel the pressure to get the album out at a certain time, but what really cranks up the pressure is the fact that we're leaving Nashville and going to Savannah for only a set period of time, 'cause Dave [only has certain] windows [of availability]. And it really forces us to just dig into your gut and just pull things out. And when we're all together in the room and Joe [Hottinger, HALESTORM guitarist] starts playing around with the riff and I start jamming with them, things just come out, things just happen. There's a magic there."

In June, Lzzy was asked by Decker of the rock station Razor 94.7/104.7 (WZOR) about the progress of the writing and recording sessions for the follow-up to "Back From The Dead". Lzzy said: "We've been in the studio with Dave Cobb for some time now, and it's been different this time. It's been very sporadic. It isn't like we mapped out, like, eight weeks of time and we're gonna get a record done. We started going to him — first it was three days to test him out and we wrote a song together from scratch. And everyone was, like, 'Wait. What is this?' And then we went back — we went out on tour, we came back, had another session with him for about two weeks, and then we had another one for three weeks. It keeps getting a little more. And so we have one more session fully booked for August after this tour to kind of finish up everything. But it's really exciting."

Elaborating on HALESTORM's working relationship with Cobb, Lzzy said: "The process has been very like A.D.D., which I really love, because all of us are a little touched by [it] [laughs], if anybody has noticed over the years. But it was a great challenge, because this is Dave Cobb. He's worked with RIVAL SONS and AIRBOURNE, but that's like the rock world that he's in. He's made most of his name from Brandi Carlile and Chris Stapleton and Jason Isbell, whom I love, all three of those artists, so much."

Lzzy went on to say that she and her HALESTORM bandmates initially "got a lot of pushback" from their team about the prospect of working with Cobb. She recalled: "We were saying, 'Oh, wouldn't it be cool to do a record with Dave Cobb? Because that would be something that nobody would really expect from us. And I bet you he would come up with some crazy ideas. Don't know the guy, but let's figure it out.' And everybody on our team was, like, 'No, no, he's too busy. That's not you. He's got this stuff going. He's got, like, nine Grammys with Chris Stapleton. That's not your scene.' And so we kept pushing back. We're, like, 'No, no, no. Just ask him. Just ask him. We can handle rejection, but just ask him.' And so finally, our A&R guy at our label is, like, 'Fine, I'll reach out. Whatever. Just stop bugging me.' And so he reached out, and then he called me, like, the next day. He's, like, 'Hey, I heard back from Dave Cobb. And guess what? Not only does he absolutely know who you are, but he's been wanting to make a record with you for, like, seven years. And he has a plan already of how he wants to do it.' And we're, like, 'What? This is sick.' So anyway, we went to go test the waters, and we go into the studio. And look, I write every day. When I die, there's gonna be so much that everyone has to sift through, just gibberish songs, all that. So I always have, like, a bank with me, like, 'Here's riffs, here's songs, here's subject titles, here's poetry.' And he was, like, 'No, no, no. We're not gonna do anything that you already have. Nothing.' I'm, like, 'Uh. What?' And he's, like, 'No, we're just gonna start.' Everyone's sitting in a circle and we're, like, gonna kumbaya. So everyone got an instrument, like, 'All right. So what are we feeling today?' I'm, like, 'Is this a therapy session?' And we ended up — it's crazy, 'cause then we'll like grab on to something 'cause of that pressure of, like, 'Well, I was thinking about this as this is happening.' 'Cool. Let's go there.' And so he has this amazing instincts that are very, like, you can't see it when you're in it. And then, as soon as we start like putting stuff together, we kind of zoom out and, like, 'Oh, wait a minute. This is so wild and awesome and exactly what we do.' So it's very strange. But we're all very free. And then the other thing is that while we're writing it, we're recording it at the same time. So these tracks are, like, us discovering the song for the first time as well as we're performing them. There are some things that we're performing them all at the same time. There's one track in particular that we completely forgot to put the click track on, and we did like three takes like that, and then we're, like, 'Oh, wait. We don't even have a click going.' Arejay [Hale, HALESTORM drummer and Lzzy's brother] said something, like, 'Were we supposed to have like a click track so we all are on time together?' And everyone's, like, 'We didn't even notice it was gone.' And so we did another take with the click. We're, like, 'No, we like that other one better.' So there's stuff like that. A lot of weird surprises. There's a lot of space. And we're really excited because we're not going country or anything like that, or Americana. This is such a new — it's got so much teeth, and it's so different than what we just did with 'Back From The Dead', but in this almost weightier, heavier way. And the lyrics are — I'm tackling subjects I've never tackled before because I'm having the freedom to do so. So I'm very excited."

HALESTORM and I PREVAIL recently embarked on summer 2024 co-headlining tour. Produced by Live Nation, the trek kicked off on July 9 in Raleigh and will run through August 17 in Las Vegas. HOLLYWOOD UNDEAD and FIT FOR A KING are serving as support. The tour is also the catalyst and the creative spark for HALESTORM and I PREVAIL's collaborative track "Can U See Me In The Dark?", which was released in June.

HALESTORM has partnered with mental health organization Sound Mind Live to engage fans to pledge support that will provide free-to-the-community mental health programming across the country for fans and the broader community.

"Back From The Dead" has tallied over 100 million streams worldwide. Rolling Stone called the title track "a biting but cathartic howler about overcoming all obstacles," and that song as well as "The Steeple" marked their fifth and sixth number ones at rock radio, respectively. Associated Press said the album "will definitely be in the running for best hard rock/metal album of the year." Their previous album, "Vicious", earned the band their second Grammy nomination, for "Best Hard Rock Performance" for the song "Uncomfortable", the band's fourth #1 at rock radio, and led Loudwire to name HALESTORM "Rock Artist Of The Decade" in 2019.

Fronted by Lzzy with Arejay, Joe and bass player Josh Smith, HALESTORM's music has earned multiple platinum and gold certifications from the RIAA, and the band has earned a reputation as a powerful live music force, headlining sold-out shows and topping festival bills around the world, and sharing the stage with icons including HEAVEN & HELL, Alice Cooper, Joan Jett and JUDAS PRIEST. Additionally, Lzzy was named the first female brand ambassador for Gibson and served as host of AXS TV's "A Year In Music".

[hammill-goes-fogwalking]

The issues & beauties of German music

(70s Kraut Rock )

Here, NOT ONE SINGLE SOUL talks about Krautrock 🌿 it seems like dead & forgotten (except CAN)

which is sad about this phenomenon :/ the only ones paying attention are prog magazines and music connoisseurs

Everyone talks about the Scorpions and Rammstein (in fact it's quality). Sometimes Boney M but... it's always the same: good music is too elite for the masses.

Even the band Eloy. Prog fans love them- the most listeners come from other places of the earth but not their origin country. Often a fault of the music industry, critics as well as the radio stations which really neglected these now in modern times.

//

The rhymes & language, pronunciation

Sure, worse languages exist. But to be honest, can you relax, with the German language? There's no flow at all, nothing like Italian or, you know, English. It's a popular opinion and what speaks against it?

Depends on the way someone sings and per region there is a difference but some harshness is always there.

//

Sung in English example: Eloy (again)

Some people are totally fine with the accent (their whole discography is in English sung by Frank Bornemann!!) others have problems getting into this band. Depends on the listener.

What often happened was that the groups had a British singer...

//

Old fashioned names

For example British rock: someone asks you, you say your idol is some random Jeff or Pete or whatever their names are. What about German musician's names? They're called Dieter or Jogi or Herbert or Udo

"Who's your favourite musician?" - Jürgen xy (sorry shouldn't sound mean)

People make jokes about old fashioned names, then why blaming yourself and getting sideeyed.

This is all a matter of coolness, let's move to the music...

//

A few information

Okay don't judge (seems extremely stereotype now) the people, musicians of the 60s and 70s were the first generation after WW2. You can imagine. The children of ex- patriots. They wanted to change something. BUT!! They were BOUND in the roots of their country.

There was a scene and later with many students and discotheques. There were artists from all over the world. The music is innovative and you can hear it even clearly. You can also hear their protest, spirit and the diversity of sounds.

There is nothing you can call THE Kraut. It's practically impossible to sum the sound up. Actually it's not a genre. That one word represents all the music made in Germany

//

An example.

You hear the instruments? The bass, drums, hard guitar, organs, saxophone EVERYTHING WORKS. SO FINE MUSIC.

Listen to it, create your own opinion.

Notes

1. So many songs by this one group called Lied des Teufels? Yeah. They're not known at all. That singer sounds like imitating Ian Gillan- Everyone can TRY to copy but they do it in their own style which is not copying, it's storytelling. (Kind of)

2. THE WHOLE THING SHOULD NOT MAKE ME SEEM PASSIONATE OR SOMETHING BECAUSE I DISCOVERED KRAUT LITERALLY YESTERDAY

3. Probably it's something that gets boring really fast

//

So...

Skillful musicians w/ ability to express themselves and the problems of their country. Wether the singing style is something for you or not- there are countless of other groups.

We HAVE TO speak about these forgotten acts again & give it a chance

[munson-blurbs]

21 and 22

21. A song that evokes a good memory? Have You Ever Seen the Rain by CCR. My mom and I heard it when we were walking back to Penn Station after seeing Gaten in Sweeney Todd, and my shy af mother started singing down 7th Avenue. She was just so happy to have met Gaten.

22. A song that evokes a bad memory? Drunk on a Plane by Dierks Bentley because it reminds me of the time I pretended to like country music to impress a guy with an awful personality and an even worse wiener.

Get to know me!

[spitinsideme]

Peach blossoms and wolfsbane

By writer anon

Chapter 2 part 1

Yellow Smooth Violets

Tw:Homophobia briefly mentioned

Author’s note:Hello! I’ll be using flower language in these chapters from now on due to the fact that this is a Victorian era fic and back then people used to use flowers to communicate in secret so I thought it was fitting I’ll put the flowers symbolism at the bottom of the page! Hope you enjoy! I’ll also be adding music to certain parts too to help elevate the ambiance the story has Without further ado lets get into the story!

Edit note: there isn’t any music in this chapter since I couldn’t think of anything for it sorry! I’m open to some suggestions thou!

The train gently moves along the track swaying the cars ever so slightly. The train whistle blows and the train pulls into it’s stop. Agatha looks up from her newspaper and folds it neatly before getting up and stretching. Then she turns to her very sleepy body guard and gently taps her wake. “Winona we’re here hun wake up.” She said in slight hush tone. “Waz that Waz happin.” Winona drowsily says. “Welcome back to earth cowpoke we are about to get off the train.” “Oh finally i’ll go get our bags from the over head. Winona groans and stretches up and out of her chair. She yawns showing off them sharp pearly whites once more. Agatha could not and would not miss an opportunity to tease her loyal guard.”You sure you ain’t part dog or something? With teeth like that you otta be tearing meat off a bone.” Winona may be tired but she isn’t a fool and whips her head around “For the last time I ain’t no damm house pet.” She said with a growl. Agatha snickered “ Ya know what you are right you are more like a stray instead of a house pet.” Winona huffs” Why do I work for you again.” Because I’m very nice and sweet.” Agatha said with smirk. And with this Winona finally laughs at something Agatha said howling with laugher Agatha now agitated asked”And what is so funny?” Winona barrels over and wipes a tear from her eyes “ Ya know that was the funniest joke you said all day.” She barked. Agatha fed up with Winona shenanigans” Just carry the damn bags to the carriage. Don’t forget you to have to dress up for the ball.” She said “Ugh don’t remind me.” Said Winona wincing at the idea. They finally exit the train and walk a few paces away from the station to find their carriage. The driver opens the door for Agatha while Winona helps load up the suitcases and bags. She eventually also climbs in the carriage. As they are being pulled along the road Winona takes in the scenery of the city noting that it’s smells like grime and smog. She sighs she has only been in England for a short while but she already misses the Country side. Some time has passed now and As the carriage pulls along wheels turning on the the now dirt road Winona sees that the city getting smaller and smaller in the distance. She feels as though she finally gets to breathe and takes a big whiff of the country air. “Ahhhh this is much better.” She said. Agatha looks up at her “ Heh you were never really a city slicker.” She said with a smile. With a big toothy grin Winona replied “Yes ma’am I ain’t much of a city folk.I prefer to be wild and free in the country side. City is much too stuffy and even dirtier than a hog’s pen.” Agatha nods in agreement. “ Indeed the city ain’t for folk like us we enjoy the simpler things in life. I just wish my damn husband felt the same materialistic bastard.” “Why marry the fella if ya don’t fancy him?” Winona asked Agatha sighs “ It’s cuz my daddy caught me kissin a woman so he tied me off the nearest man.I don’t like men in that way so being married to him is the absolute worse it’s like bein in a jail cell with no door or window.” She said with a sad tone in her voice. Winona recoils a bit from what she heard “ Damn forgot bout all that sorry. Men are fowl creatures in my opinion so never felt the need to have one in my bed.” Agatha with an empty laugh states “Yeah just be lucky then that you don’t have to lay next to one and be grateful you have freedom in that regard.” Winona head hangs a bit low and she now is clasping her hands and twiddles her thumbs. An awkward silence fills the carriage then after it seems like an eternity Agatha clears her throat “Anywhosit I hope you did actually pack something nice to wear. This is a formal event not a night at the saloon here.” She said. Winona scoffs “ Yeah I know I got somethin don’t you fret. You just worry about rubbin elbows with them other rich folk.” She said with a small smile. They let the carriage fall in silence for the rest of the ride…

To be continued in part 2 of chapter 2

(Tumblr wouldn’t let me fit the whole thing :(

From,

Writer anon

verg long story .. eoah .. vrrh good do far 👍👍