#reference: night garish

[lees-chaotic-brain]

careless whisper by george michael , gojo , angst

WC: 2k

CW: cheating, angst, hurt/no comfort, reader has female pronouns (referred to as madam and birthday girl), alcohol consumption (all characters are of age), swearing

Taglist (lmk if you want to be added to the event taglist): @chosolovers @ssetsuka @ichikanu

listen to this while reading

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For one night, one night alone you were going to put all of your suspicions and past hurt aside and enjoy the party. After all, it was your birthday so the night was supposed to be all about you.

Shooting a smile at your boyfriend across the room you can't help but feel your stomach flutter as he shoots you a wink and begins making his way through the crowd towards you. Stopping in front of you he sweeps forward in an exaggerated bow, extending his arm.

“Madam Birthday Girl, will you do me the honor of dancing with me?”

Laughing at his antics, you relax, reassured by his usual behavior. Of course everything was normal between the two of you. You were just being paranoid. Placing your hand in his, you allowed him to escort you onto the dance floor.

I take your hand and lead you to the dance floor

Wrapping your arms around his neck and swaying slowly to the music you rested your face against his chest and enjoyed the peace of the moment. Or, at least you tried to.

As soon as your nose brushed his blue button up your senses were invaded with some sort of expensive oriental perfume, meant to be subtle with rose and jasmine. But judging from the way your nose burned, whoever had been wearing it must have been wearing a whole bottle for the residual left on his clothes to be so strong. Nothing like the one or two spritzes of understated wildflower perfumes you preferred. 

Fighting the urge to gag at the overpowering scent, you looked up over his shoulder in an attempt to get some fresh air. Instead you were confronted by lipstick stains on the edge of his collar. Bright pink lipstick stains, which couldn’t possibly be yours, because you would never wear a color that garish. 

Suddenly you no longer felt like dancing, and as the song’s outro played you decided to give him one more chance to explain himself after the party. If he couldn’t do that, then the two of you were done. Looking up into his eyes you gave him a forced smile, a small part of you screaming that this was going to be the last time the two of you danced like this.

As the music dies, something in your eyes

Calls to mind a silver screen

And all its sad good-byes

After the song ended Gojo watched you walk away, unsettled by the finality in your eyes. Had you figured it out? Did you know where he had been before the party? Who was he kidding of course you had. As much as the two of you had danced around the obvious truth for months he knew that you knew. He had fallen in love with your quick wits and intelligence. There was no way you hadn’t put two and two together.

But despite forgotten dates, the nights he came home late or not at all, the perfume that wasn’t yours clinging to his skin, he dared to hope that you would just keep pretending not to know. That things could stay the way they were. If only you weren’t so smart.

Though it's easy to pretend

I know you're not a fool

Walking across the room you mingled with the guests, accepting birthday wishes and engaging in small talk. Heading over to the bar, you got a refill on your drink and leaned against the bar sipping it. You heaved a sigh, wishing the entire thing was over and that you could just go home. A large warm hand placed on your shoulder interrupted your stewing, causing you to turn around.

“Oh! Geto! Hi! I wasn’t expecting you to come. How are you?” You were surprised to see none other than your boyfriend’s best friend, Geto Suguru. The large man chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly at your surprise.

“Sorry, I was in the area and decided to drop by. I’m doing okay, but actually I’m here to ask you that. I’m really sorry about what Satoru did. It was fucked up. How are you doing with the breakup? I may be his best friend but just know that I’m always here for you-”

“Wait, what? The breakup?” You were confused. You hadn’t even told your best friends about your plans to confront Satoru, seeing as you had only made up your mind a few minutes ago.  “What are you talking about?”

“What do you mean ‘what do you mean?’ We had a conversation and Satoru promised me-” Realization lit up in his dark eyes. “He didn’t do it, did he? Oh that son of a-” He stops, looking at you guiltily.

“Listen, I’m really sorry. You should hear it from him. I gotta go now.” With that, he turned and walked away, leaving you with a sinking feeling in your gut.

From across the room, Gojo watched his friend leave, knowing that whatever had just happened between the two of you could not not have been good. Not wanting to obsess over what Suguru could have said, he turned away and jumped into a conversation. Whatever was said had been said already. There was nothing he could do about it at the moment.

Time can never mend

The careless whispers of a good friend

If he had watched a few seconds longer he would have seen you shake yourself then chase after his friend, looking for answers. Darting around guests and avoiding dancing couples you caught up to Geto just outside of the building.

“Wait!” You yelled, hurrying to catch up with him. “You can’t just leave like that! I need to know what you mean.”

Not turning, Geto shook his head. “Trust me on this one. You don’t want to know. Let him tell you. I’ll make sure he does, but you shouldn’t hear this from me.”

“I’m pretty sure I already know.” The words fly out of your mouth before you could stop them. “He’s cheating on me, right? Listen, I need to know. I’m probably going to break up with him tonight. So it doesn’t matter anyways. Just tell me.”

Rubbing his face with one hand he sighed and chuckled without humor. “Of course you know. Jesus this whole situation is so fucked up.” He turned around and looked at you properly.

“Let’s go find somewhere to sit. This might take a little while.”

To the heart and mind

Ignorance is kind

Geto had left a couple of minutes ago, leaving you sitting on a sidewalk bench organizing your thoughts. Fighting the urge to cry, you were unsure why the pain in your chest was so sharp. You had been almost positive, he was cheating on you, so why did it hurt so bad to have your suspicions confirmed? It wasn’t like the knowledge was anything new to you.

Maybe it was because you now knew that the woman was the daughter of a wealthy family close to the Gojos. Maybe it was because you knew that it had been going on for months, and when Geto found out he had made Satoru promise to either end things with the other girl or break up with you. Maybe it was knowing that after making that promise Geto had found him with the other woman again, leading him to assume Satoru had broken up with you. 

Whatever it was, it fucking hurt. Letting out a small sob, you clutched your chest feeling your heart break. Unable to stop the tears from spilling over your waterline you opened your phone and texted him that you knew before you could back out.

But as you wiped your face and headed back to the party because you would be damned if you let him ruin your night, a small part of you wished you hadn’t discovered the truth.

There's no comfort in the truth

Pain is all you'll find

After receiving your text, Satoru watched the entrance intensely, waiting for you to return. The second you step through the door he locks eyes with you, gesturing towards the outside, mouthing that he wanted to talk.

Instead of turning around and walking back outside so the two of you could talk like he had expected, you just strolled into the party and joined a group of your friends. Whipping out his phone, he tried to send you a text, only to discover that he had been blocked.

Then the panic set in as he started trying to make his way towards you. But at that moment a popular song came on over the speakers, and the crowd became rowdy, making it impossible for him to get to you. It was like the crowd was against him, pushing him back towards the edge of the dance floor instead of across it to where you were.

Didn’t they understand that he needed to get to you? That he need to explain himself? He wishes the crowd would just disappear. That it was just you and him, with nothing else in the way.

Tonight the music seems so loud

I wish that we could lose this crowd

As he continues to scan the crowd for you, he finally catches sight of you dancing with your friends, laughing and singing along to the song. Shouting your name, he waves frantically, but the venom in your eyes when they meet his make his voice die out. 

Maybe it was for the better that the two of you didn’t talk right then. You didn’t seem like you were in a place where you would be able to talk reasonably. Turning, he decided to head out for the night and give you the space you so clearly needed. He would just talk to you tomorrow.

Maybe it's better this way

We'd hurt each other with the things we'd want to say

The next day when he went to your place to talk, Satoru was greeted by a box of all of his things sitting outside of your apartment and a post-it note declaring that the two of you were over. And despite all of his screaming and pleading and banging on the door, you didn’t come out that day. Or the next. Or the one after that.

Now it’s been months, and he’s given up on winning you back. It’s clear you have no interest in hearing him out. And in those three months he had come to realize just how much you had meant to him. You were his better half, the one he truly loved. The other woman he had cheated on you with couldn’t hold a candle to you. 

If only he hadn’t been such an idiot. Maybe if he hadn’t been so conceited and cocky he would have seen the value in what the two of you shared and the two of you would still be together. Maybe the two of you would have spent the rest of your lives in happiness together. But that’s not what happened, and now he was all alone. 

We could have lived this dance forever

But now, who's gonna dance with me?

Years had passed, and he was still alone. At first he had tried dating to get over you, but after realizing that the first girl had a similar smile to you, the second had the same shade eyes as you, the third your hair color, he stopped. 

It didn’t matter how hard he subconsciously tried to find girls to replace you. None of them were ever going to be you. And the guilt he harbored over the way he treated you would follow him into the grave. He lost the best thing that ever happened to him. There was no recovering from that.

And I'm never gonna dance again

Guilty feet have got no rhythm

Note: to the people who asked to be tagged on the poll, i haven't added you to my event taglist yet, it was just for this fiic dw. however if you would like to be added, let me know!!

[capr1pengu1n]

if you've got to spend your time, oh won't you spend it with me?

Summary: After a long day, Edward finds a solace in your bed that he can only get from you

Warnings: gn reader (no use of y/n), just fluff, like one sex reference

Words: 1.1k

Notes: Just a small thing I wrote while I wasn't feeling too great.

Feeling sleep claw its way across your body, settling in your dreary mind, you trudge along to your empty bed with weighted shoulders. But something's missing, something's always missing as you climb under the covers, settling onto your mattress. The duvet is heavy and plush on your skin, but the empty space next to you, where the duvet settles upon the bed instead of enveloping the warm body of your lover, is starkly noticeable to you as your eyes adjust to the dark.

You don’t know where Edward is, you never really do. The worry used to drive you crazy, settling in the pit of your stomach as images would flash in your mind of him being captured and sent back to Arkham, or beaten bloody, or worse. But you knew you had to put your trust in him, in the intellect that he prides above all else, that he claims will always keep him out of too much trouble.

So alas, the worry dissipates but makes room for a different kind of feeling to wash over your conscious mind; longing. You missed the feeling of him beside you, holding you and pressing you tightly against his chest. While you’ve spent many nights pondering the morality of finding comfort in the arms of a criminal who’d caused so much pain and destruction, the selfish part of your personality had won out whenever you think about the heat of his body. The soft kisses reserved just for you, at night when nobody is around, when his walls crumble just enough to feel comfortable sharing the burden of his mind and aching joints.

The memories weren’t helping you get to sleep, so reluctantly you sit up and switch the lamp on. As light fills the room, you get an idea as your bleary eyes blink. You get up, heading to your wardrobe and finding what you were after, quickly grabbing it. His jacket, a shade of dark green, had been left by Edward when he’s last visited your apartment. You doubted he even noticed, with how many tailored suits he has, from muted shades of green to more garish and outlandish outfits that never fail to make you giggle. Bringing it to your nose, you can still smell the expensive cologne he wears, and it brings a slight flush to your cheeks as you press it close to your chest.

While he isn’t a particularly strong man, he nevertheless was broader than you in the shoulder department, coupled with his height meant that as you slipped your arms in the expensive fabric, it hung a little loose around your form. Either way, you’re more satisfied as your crawl back under the sheets, flicking your lamp off and getting comfortable. While it wasn’t the same as him really holding you, it was enough for now as the scent lulls your mind into a dazed and relaxed state.

Edward was tired. Exhausted even. He staggers out of the warehouse, cursing at the slight drops of blood that speckled his waistcoat. It’ll be the last time he utilises one of Penguin’s men for a while, the corpse of his informant now floating face down in the river. But hours of being hunched over laptops and city architectural plans had taken its toll, since heaving the larger man into the river meant his spine felt splintered and sore. He straightens up, cracking his back and groaning a little at the relief. As much as he hated to admit it, he knows how exhausted he is, how much his body is crying out for rest. He supposes the rest of his plan can be continued tomorrow, as he makes his way over to his car and turns on the ignition. Going home, that’s where he needs to go, that’s where he tells himself to go…but he knows he won’t.

He almost wishes this was the first time he’d driven on autopilot to your apartment, striding inside and unlocking your door. To admit otherwise would be reiterating the fact that he cares, that he’s come to crave your presence and your attention just as much as you do for him. That is a weakness he can’t bring himself to stomach, and he knows he should cut you out like an overgrown weed from his life. But Edward Nygma is a very selfish man. And the selfish aspects of his personality would never deprive himself of you. Everything about you, the warmth of your smile, the softness of your skin, the way your voice would sound as he brought you and himself to ecstasy over and over. He could never give that up, and as he walks into your room and starts to shrug his jacket and shirt from his shoulders, that idea cements.

Stripping to his underwear, he climbs in next to you, slinging an arm around you gently but pausing as he feels the fabric. In his haze he hadn’t actually observed your resting form, and as his eyes adjust to the dark, he sees you curled up, his suit jacket wrapped around you like a lover's caress, like his caress. He momentarily feels relief at the darkness that shrouds the room, so you can’t see the uncharacteristically soft smile that traces over his features. You’d sought comfort in his clothes, in something that reminded you of him when he wasn’t with you.

With a single finger, he traces some hair from your forehead and smirks. “If you’re attempting to pretend to be asleep, you’re doing an awful job.”

You laugh softly, going to turn to face him before he stops you by laying properly on his side, arms clutching you tight to his chest. The feeling makes your skin tingle, relaxing in his hold. “What time is it?”

“Late” he answers lowly, and you feel the tension in his muscles fade as his breathing slows.

“Good day?”

He pauses, and you expect to get the same nondescript or egotistical answer that of course it was, he’s the riddler. But instead he mutters, “No…not really.”

A little shocked at his answer, you debate whether to respond, but you figure he wouldn’t want to discuss it…not tonight at least. So you gently press a kiss to the part of his arm you can reach, before closing your eyes gently.

But Edward doesn’t close his eyes, now fully adjusted to the darkness. He presses his forehead against the back of your head gently, but not before taking a last lingering look at your form, so perfectly wrapped in his clothes. It’s hard for him to believe right now he has you in his arms, and how content he is at that fact. The old him would have scoffed, laughed even at how soft he’d become. The great Edward Nygma, reduced to such common feelings like affection and-

He stops himself from thinking of that last word. Not yet. But as he feels your chest rise and fall rhythmically, feeling you fall into blissful unconsciousness, he figures he won’t be able to push back the painful reality for long.

[senqv]

HOUSE OF KINGS.

“ turn him into the stars and form a constellation in his image

his face will make the heavens so beautiful

the world will fall in love with night and forget the garish sun . “

— shakespeare , romeo & juliet

blue lock ! royal / fantasy au series featuring : michael kaiser x fem! reader

warning(s): fluff at the start then it quickly turns to angst , some comfort , insanity everywhere , death , violence , i might get stoned to death after this , lmk if there are more !!

doomed romance , arranged marriage , childhood friends to enemies to lovers

fictional noble houses , VERY historically inaccurate for the territories i made everything up they r not in the same time period !! , mythological references , circe / illiad coded

ONE. CHILD OF PROPHECY

TWO. THE WRATH SING, O GODDESS

to be continued …

[izzyhandswhore]

ALRIGHT SO,SINCE REQUESTES ARE OPEN, I hope you'll write this. Izzy slowly falling in love with Stede's sister reader,and Stede's reaction to it

((Thank you so much for my first request!! Absolutely love this idea. I'm gonna split it into two parts since it got a bit long. So Izzy reacting to it, then Stede)) Izzy falling in love with a Bonnet. - Slowly is right. Izzy meets you at a very turbulent time in his life and he thinks the last thing he needs is more dead weight.. Though of course you prove yourself to be anything but that. - He'll never forget the first time he laid eyes on you. Just when he thought he'd seen every absurd thing The Revenge could throw at him.. There you were. The final and most complex puzzle. - Everything about you confounds him and winds him up because really, in theory, he should hate you the way he hates Bonnet, but somehow.. He just can't. When Stede wears finery it looks garish and stupid, but on you it's perfect. When Stede wears something more pirate-like he looks like a boy playing dress up, but you look different and daring. - Claims he won't go easy on you just 'cause you're a lady (and my GOD does he love teasing and making fun of you for being 'a lady') but the whole crew notices right away that he does. You're not sure if it's subconscious or not, but Izzy never really raises his voice at you, never demands to know what you're doing and putting you to work in your downtime, never threatens to take away rations and always makes sure you have time to eat.. The list goes on. - Basically at first he's a lot of bark and no bite. He refuses to call you by your name only ever sarcastically or venomously refers to you as "my lady" or "your highness" or, if you've really got on his nerves, "madam" or "princess". - The score stays even though. He is VERY easy to get flustered, especially since it's been a while since he's had female company. The smallest of things (the way your hair or skirt blows in in the breeze, your voice, your touch or even the way you look at him sometimes) often catch him off guard. - But then things start to shift. Izzy can be pretty observant and it doesn't escape his notice that you're not as useless as he first thought. The total opposite, in fact.. Slowly a mutual respect starts to form. He even starts calling you by your name and seeking out your company instead of only talking to you when necessary. - Instead of mocking you or discouraging you from taking part in things like sword fighting and the running of a ship, you find he actually becomes your greatest guide. The two of you take to sword training in the quieter moments and star gazing navigating under the stars at night, just the two of you. - In return you actually get him to open up and talk about his feelings (though he would deny instantly that that's what it was). He tells you about life on the Queen Anne and listens when you tell him about your own life before The Revenge. You slowly dismantle the idea that you and Stede had a picture-perfect childhood and the respect grows to admiration as he realizes how strong you actually are. - Stede and the crew have no idea what you did but they notice a change in Izzy after that. He's still, as Stede would say, a complete arsehole, but his edges seems slightly softer somehow. At the very least he doesn't seem as stressed out all the time. - It's hard, but eventually you can get him to start accepting some of your fancy gifts. He wouldn't be caught dead with any of them, but he has a ring on a chain around his neck, beneath his shirt close to his heart. - Secretly wishes to be married so you don't have to have the name "Bonnet" anymore. He's not convinced you are a Bonnet anyway. There's no way you could be related to that foppish twat.

[slightlyhopefulromantic]

a return to the monsters and mommies au designs, this time properly lined and in color! :D posted in the middle of the night just like last time though because i have problems <3 there are some small changes to these designs, but for the most part i was pretty happy with them so this was mostly just to give myself a color reference for them all lol

gonna ramble about small decisions i made below the cut, but its not necessary at all to understanding the designs! just wanna dump my thoughts somewhere :P

for the most part, the kids' designs are the same as i do them for normal canon, but there are some small differences. i've never really done a proper reference for their kid designs either though, so i guess no one would even notice LOL

freeman family: well, firstly - nick's last name is freeman in this au LOL but its easier to refer to him as nick close so people know who i mean as opposed to nicholas foster. usually, i draw nick close with blue hair (i think he goes through a range of colors, but blue is my default), but i do this because he does it to honor morgan. since she is alive here, instead, his default is pink because thats his favorite color to dye it! morgan and nick both have various bead jewelry because i like to have the headcanon that morgan is really into pony bead jewelry; this is also why all of my nick and nicholas designs have the same trans pride necklace, morgan made it for him :] both nick and morgan wear glenn's old clothes, both of them are wearing his shirts in this piece. aaand morgan has subtle heterochromia as a reference to the split timeline! she always has it, it doesnt just magically happen or anything, but its just a small nod to that.

wilson family: its real important to me that grant got his dad's exact coloration except for his gray eyes, which are all carol. why is this important? i dunno! its just interesting to me. also, carol doesnt usually leave her top buttons undone, but upon entering the forgotten realms, she unbuttons it because otherwise her shirt will pop open while she's doing things (to be honest, as a person with a larger chest myself, her shirt probably still pops open but it does help-!). usually i draw grant with a gay pride necklace, but since he doesnt come out pre-forgotten realms in this au, i tragically had to drop it. i miss my rainbow grant. please come home, baby.

oak-garcia family: i always forget to do mercedes's tattoos in my sketches because tbh i never know exactly what to give her. but! but. this time i just went for it. these tattoos arent necessarily set in stone, but i think theyre cute. the tattoo hidden by her skirt is an oak leaf for henry :] her gem necklace is also the same color as his eyes! her skirt is supposed to be, like, tie-dye or maybe more bleach washed, but i dunno how to draw that so whatever. the twins are, like, 100% the same as usual, i just gave sparrow a pink bead necklace instead of the multi-colored necklace i use for my default canon design lol. also, i think i drew the twins slightly too tall here, which is funny because theyre the only ones who are notably shorter than their mom HDFJKGHK

stampler family: i struggled a lot with what colors to give samantha, because i wanted her to have a bright color palette but not anything garish or patterned. originally she was gonna have a white shirt, but then i realized that would make it so all the moms had white shirts and i just couldn't have that LOL so i ended up landing on red for her! it matches with terry junior, so i thought that'd be cute :] terry's design is probably the most different from my default for him? which still isn't a lot but i swapped his dark blue flannel for a black undershirt instead. i cannot explain why i did this. it just felt right in the moment. i gave him a sweet revenge shirt instead of the usual black parade shirt i give him because... well. if you know, you know. and finally, terry gets a little concert admission bracelet!! i always do that, but i just wanted to point it out because i think continuing to wear an admission bracelet for ages after a concert is a very teen thing to do. i always felt so cool doing that in high school hehe

[7-wonders]

Kiss With a Fist

Morpheus/Dream of the Endless x Reader

Summary: Normally, Dream is above mortals and their petty quarrels, but when one decides that he wants to play with fire, Dream is more than prepared to burn him. That is, until you have something to say about it.

Word Count: 4.1k

Notes: I've wanted to write something about you pulling a Hob Gadling and fighting off someone wanting to attack Dream for a while now. Here it is. Basically you're a badass and you fight a drunk guy trying to pick a fight with Dream. Let me know your thoughts!

(Reader is referred to with she/her pronouns)

We begin…in the Waking World, which is not, in his opinion, an ideal place to be.

Though the Burgess lineage has been snuffed out and Dream of the Endless is far too powerful to ever find himself captured by a mortal again, he still feels a touch of trepidation upon his trips outside of his realm. How could he not, after one such visit went so spectacularly wrong and ended up with him trapped for over a century?

Having reminders of the good of humanity certainly helps ease his apprehension, which is why he typically finds himself with some sort of companion when he leaves the safety of the Dreaming. Most of the time, Matthew is a mere stone’s throw away at all times. If not Matthew, then Dream has increasingly found himself seeking the company of his friend, Hob Gadling.

You’re the most “human” of them all; though both Matthew and Hob were, at one point, completely and utterly mortal, that is no longer the case. You, however, are. He would argue that’s perhaps what makes you so fascinating, but he knows that’s not entirely true. There are a great many things that make you fascinating to him, and your mortality is probably the least of those.

It’s his predilection towards you that has landed him here in the first place, at what you called an “upscale bar” for a friend’s birthday party. To be fair to you, it’s not as if you hadn’t given Dream multiple opportunities to decline your invitation. You even bluntly told him, among other things, that it was almost certain he would not enjoy himself at a mortal event such as this and you were perfectly fine going by yourself.

But no, he had to insist that he would play the role of doting “boyfriend” (which he was, though he preferred terms to describe your relationship that sounded much less juvenile) and accompany you to this celebration. After two grueling hours, he can honestly say that he does not understand why anybody would torture themselves by willingly stepping foot into such an establishment. Between the bone-shaking bass of the music that is unnecessarily loud, the patrons whose wildly inappropriate, alcohol-steeped daydreams stick to Dream like molasses, and the harsh lighting that continues to change depending on the beat of whatever garish song is playing, he’s seen enough to last him five human lifetimes.

He tries to hide his disdain, knowing that you’re enjoying yourself and your night. ‘Tries’ being the key word here: after the fifth person who visibly jumps in fear when they see Dream’s piercing glower, it’s evident that this attempt is not working in the slightest. Whether you’ve finally noticed this or you just decide to take pity on him, he’s not sure.

Regardless, you lean into him and ask, “Are you doing okay?”

“I would like to get some air,” he says, being heard clearly by you despite not having to raise his voice above the music. He’s relieved when you nod; Dream was never a particularly social creature, but that desire for solace increased tenfold after he freed himself from his glass cage.

“We can head out, actually. I’ve socialized long enough.”

Dream could actually cheer at this. Since it would be entirely uncouth of him to do so, he continues to look nonchalant. “Do not feel that you need to end your night early on my account.”

“I’m not! I’m tired and I’d rather go home with you now. I’m gonna close my tab, if you wanna go wait outside for me!”

He very much wants to go wait outside for you, and with one last squeeze of your hand, he separates from you and leaves you to finish paying for your drinks.

There’s something inherently calming to Dream about the evening hours. It may be that the world seems to become more peaceful after the sun sets, or that the majority of dreamers enter his realm at this time. It could even be the fact that this is Mother Night’s domain, complicated as their relationship may be. Whatever the reason, Dream is particularly fond of this time of day, and he enjoys the sudden tranquility after such a hectic environment.

Unfortunately, said tranquility lasts only momentarily before a shadow crosses over towards Dream and he meets the bloodshot eyes of a mortal man. He’s average in every way, from the backwards cap to the scuffed shoes stained with unidentified liquids. A ‘frat boy,’ you would call him. Though the shadows warp behind him as he attempts to scare him off as he did to the others inside the bar, this man remains uncowed by his expression.

“Hey, I saw you earlier at the bar.” Dream scowls, for he did have an encounter with this particular human inside the establishment, and he did not enjoy one second of it. “Yeah, I offered to buy your girl a drink, didn’t I? Then you shoved your way in between us, which was rude. I was just trying to be friendly!”

“Silence, mortal.” He’s had enough of this conversation, if it can even be called that, and glances in the direction of the entrance to see if you’re making your exit. In the process, he sees the man’s expression morph into something ugly, something vengeful. He’s not sure why, considering he has not been insulted; after all, Dream simply called him what he is, which is a mortal. 

“The fuck did you just call me?”

Instead of actually bothering with a response, Dream attempts to move away from the wall in order to find you, having had enough of playing this game. The mortal man’s hand lands on his shoulder and stops him from achieving that goal. Dream simply glances at it, deciding that, actually, it has been a good while since he properly frightened a mortal in any realm.

“Why ya tryin’ to leave? I just wanted to have a friendly chat.” The man’s breath reeks of cheap alcohol, and Dream’s lip curls in disgust.

“No, I think not.”

“Hey!” Both heads snap towards the bar’s entrance, where you’re emerging from the door and marching closer towards them. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

The mortal man smirks, finding amusement in the fact that you’re now involved. “Get outta here, bitch. This doesn’t concern you.”

Dream has half a mind to incite his nightmares on this boor of a man just for the crude insult (how dare he even think to disrespect the future consort of the Dreaming in such a way), but you’re speaking before he can properly make a decision. “Yeah it does. Leave him alone.”

The man smirks and rolls his eyes, turning his attention back to Dream. “What, you need your girlfriend to fight your battles for you?”

“I’m trying to protect you here,” you say with a laugh, knowing that Dream doesn’t need anyone to do anything for him. “Take your hand off of him and go.” 

As you walk past him, you knock your shoulder against the man’s, who goes stumbling back with his arms pinwheeling at his sides as he attempts to keep his balance. Either you’re stronger than you look, or the man is drunker than he lets on; Dream is willing to bet that it’s a combination of both.

“I’m not gonna tell you again, dude.” 

Gently, you grab Dream’s hand and pull him away from the wall. He allows you to do so–though he can deny it all he wants, he certainly doesn’t mind when you fuss over him. Sure enough, he watches as you scan him up and down for any sign of injury, seeming to forget that he cannot exactly be injured by a mere mortal.

“Are you okay?” 

Were they in private, Dream would laugh (he’s found himself doing a lot more of that lately–laughing) and assure you that nothing so paltry as a mortal attempting to provoke him had caused him any harm or upset. As it is, he simply nods, taking your hand in his and kissing the back of it.

Unfortunately, mortal men seem to love violence. This should not be surprising, considering his brother is—was—Destruction, but it’s something that tends to slip his mind due to how little time he actually spends among them. When they are robbed of the opportunity to inflict said violence on their intended target, they become enraged. 

This is no different for this mortal man, whose face turns a surprising shade of red in anger. As Dream turns with you to leave, he allows his natural eyes to appear through the blue ones that he wears when in the Waking. Black pits appear in their place, the stars that are normally there completely snuffed out. Petty, but he cannot resist making the last move.

This works against his favor, however, when the mortal man takes a swing at Dream.

For an immortal, anthropomorphic personification, Dream has not found himself in many fights through his long life. He should rephrase that: he has not found himself in many street fights through his long life. Battles, he’s had his fair share. Glorious battles, either those like the Oldest Game where wit is the weapon or those where he was fighting for a purpose, be it love or honor or his realm. 

But battles are skilled; there’s an art to them, an understanding on each side of the formalities and the pomp and circumstance that goes into it all. Though they may be enemies, the foes carry with them a certain integrity that extends to the conflict. In fact, as far as Dream is aware, mortal military campaigns are fought a lot like this as well. Alleyway brawls most certainly do not carry any of this.

Humanity changed, as humanity is wont to do, in the century plus that Dream found himself a prisoner in an English countryside basement. However, the century of imprisonment had to align with one of the centuries that underwent the most societal change. Though Dream very much enjoys watching as humanity evolves, he enjoys watching it as it happens, not learning about it in retrospect. As a result, he has felt woefully behind when it comes to modern standards; a fact which the few mortals or former mortals he knows love to focus on. Not that he wants to sound every bit as old as he is, but before his imprisonment, ladies most certainly did not fight.

All of this is important knowledge to keep in mind for the coming events.

The man’s hit, meant for Dream, connects against your cheek as a result of you shoving Dream out of the way before he can truly process what’s about to happen. He wants to tell you to stop, wants to blow sand in the face of this man and follow through on his silent threat to give him his worst nightmares, but…something stops him. A not-unpleasant warmth in his stomach that begins to bloom as he watches you ball your hands into fists, obviously preparing to fight back against this man. 

A few bystanders audibly wince when you punch your adversary’s jaw, making his head snap back. Curses fall from his lips as he swings again, but you manage to grab a fistful of his shirt collar when you duck and his fist hits your forehead. This advantage means that this will be the last hit he gets on you. 

With a yank of the fabric, the shirt goes up over his head and serves both to blind him as well as to make it difficult for him to move away from you. He’s more focused on attempting to free himself from your hold than he is hitting you again, and when he finally does regain his sight, he sees your fist hurtling towards his face.

The last punch is a direct hit to the mortal’s nose, blood immediately beginning to drip down his face and onto the ground. Both the pain and the shock of it send him falling backwards onto the ground, where he groans pathetically and clutches at his wounded face. From above, you breathe heavily and shake out your dominant hand, a look of disgust on your face as you stare down at the enemy you’ve taken down with ease.

In all, the actual fight lasts less than half a minute. Dream, however, believes that he shall think of said fight for the rest of his eternal fight.

“Bitch,” the mortal spits out again, the insult the only weapon he has left in his arsenal.

“Don’t forget it, either.” You grab Dream’s hand again, this time pulling him away from the small crowd that’s beginning to form on the sidewalk. “C’mon, we gotta get outta here before someone calls the cops.”

Dream demeans himself and actually runs alongside you, but only until there are no more humans in sight. He pulls you to a stop then, taking his sand out of his coat and tossing a handful in the air. Between one blink and the next, he’s safely inside your Waking apartment with you. Shaking your head a couple of times to clear the double vision in your eyes, you finally look over at him.

“I’m so sorry, I really didn’t think you’d get stuck dealing with some drunk idiot who–oof!” 

Dream cuts off your rambling by shoving you against the wall of your bedroom and proceeding to kiss you as though it’s been years since he last laid his lips against yours. You stiffen under him for a moment before your body goes lax, hands curling around the lapels of his coat as you lean into him and attempt to eliminate any modicum of space between your bodies. It’s only when he can hear you beginning to try and take desperate little pants in an attempt to get air into your lungs that he pulls his lips from you, though this doesn’t last for long.

“Do you have any idea,” he pauses to press another series of heated kisses to you, “what seeing you fight that man did to me?”

“...I’m confused. Are you mad?”

“Mad?” Dream scoffs. “How could I be mad, when you defended my honor in such a way. Me, who could have sent the mortal to the Nightmare Realm with barely a glance. I am more powerful than the gods themselves, yet you fought for me without so much as a second thought. No, I am not mad at you. I find myself rather infatuated with you at this moment, in fact.”

“As if you’re not infatuated with me all the time?” He silences your snark with more kissing, which you gladly accept for another few moments.

“Dream,” you finally mumble against his lips. 

When he doesn’t answer, you try again. 

“Morpheus.”

He still doesn’t answer, nor does he make any movement to let you know he even heard you. Finally, you push at his chest to get his attention. 

“While I’d love to continue doing this, my lip is split and it really hurts to kiss you right now.”

Dream steps away from you sheepishly. It’s not often that his control falters in such a way, and it only ever does so when he’s in your presence.

“I apologize,” he says remorsefully. If there’s one thing that Dream hates, it’s causing pain to those dearest to him, of which you are the most dear.

“You don’t have to apologize for anything, you couldn’t have known it hurts. I should probably clean myself up, though.” He follows you into your bathroom, where you turn on the faucet and grab a clean cloth off of the towel rack.

“Allow me to help you with your wounds?” Dream asks.

Healing others is not one of his many powers, and you know that. Still, he wants to be of assistance, and so you point to the closet in the corner. “There’s a first aid kit on the bottom shelf of the closet, if you wouldn’t mind grabbing that?”

Dream hasn’t the faintest idea what a first aid kit actually is, but since he’s trying to be helpful, he simply goes off in the direction that you pointed him towards. When he comes back with the bright red bag (he knows enough from dreams to know that the white cross on the front means medical aid), you’re dabbing blood off of the back of your hand with a damp cloth.

“I did not realize that your hand was injured, as well,” Dream says.

“What can I say? Fucker had a hard head.”

He frowns. “I really wish that you would not use such crass language. It’s very unbecoming.”

“You love it and you know you do.”

Dream’s hands skim over the different medical supplies, unsure of what will help or hurt, or even what each item’s intended use is. This confusion must be rather obvious, for you simply have him hold the kit open as you grab whatever is needed and set it out on the counter next to you. He watches, silently and with utter fascination, while you grab a small cotton round and dab some sort of antibiotic on it before you begin to carefully apply it to your knuckles.

He takes this time to actually catalog the injuries you had sustained while fighting for him. In addition to the webbing of surface-level cuts on your knuckles, two wide bruises are already beginning to discolor your skin, one stretching along your cheekbone and the skin below your right eye and the other on your forehead up into your hairline. The ‘split lip’ as you called it, does look rather painful, and he feels bad to have exacerbated that pain. The skin is quite literally split down both your upper and lower lip, dark red blood pooling on the surface. It’s swollen, and another bruise forms on top of the swelling.

Again, Dream feels his heart, which does not work like that of a human’s, clench painfully. You’ve bled to protect him, injured yourself just to keep him safe. He does not know how he could ever repay you for such a kindness, though you’ll assuredly attempt to convince him that you don’t need any sort of repayment.

For Dream, this repayment starts by being the one to take care of you. Now that he’s watched you care for one wound, he can easily mimic your movements as he takes the washcloth you’re running under the tap water and gently presses it to your lip. You wince under his touch, but allow his hand to remain there.

“Where did you learn to fight in such a way?” Dream asks after you’ve nodded that enough time has passed for him to remove the cloth from your mouth.

You shrug. “I was bullied in middle school and it started to get kind of physical–nothing too bad, just mean girls shoving me around or stepping on my heels so that I’d trip and fall.” It sounds far worse than ‘nothing too bad,’ and Dream almost wants to ask you for the names of your childhood tormentors so that he may give them a taste of their own medicine. “Still, my dad wanted to teach me to defend myself, just in case it got any worse.”

“He taught a child to fight?” Dream scoffs in disbelief, one hand gently holding your chin in place while he uses the other to apply the antibiotic to your lips.

“I was twelve, first of all, and it’s not like he was encouraging me to go up to these girls and knock them out. It was a last-resort sort of thing,” you say when he’s finished tending to that cut.

His hand gently skims along the bruise on your cheek, and you can’t stop your reflexes as your hand darts out to grab at his wrist and stop him. He aborts what he was doing, instead grasping your own hand and pulling you to him as he just barely lays his lips on top of the bruise and lets them linger there. He can hear your breath catch in your lungs as he does so, and it makes him smirk just slightly.

When Dream finally pulls away, your body unconsciously tries to follow him as you mourn the loss of his closeness. He asks, “Might I continue to attend to you, my protector? My warrior?”

“Uh, um,” you stutter, trying desperately to remember how to speak. Dream finds it incredibly endearing. “The, uh, I have ice packs in the–in the freezer. For my face? They’re blue, and they should be stacked on top of each other.”

“Go lay down so that you may rest,” he commands. “I shall be back momentarily.”

You describe items well enough that finding whatever it is you request is an easy task, the ice packs being no different. Perhaps Hob Gadling was right to marvel over human inventions at most of the pair’s early meetings. There is something rather fascinating about the resourcefulness of creating something that can be kept cold specifically to help with injuries. 

When Dream returns to you, you’ve done as he asked as are laying against the pillows of your bed to rest. He’s unsure of how you apply said ice packs, and hands them to you instead and watches as you lay one on each bruise. Though you recoil from the cold at first, you soon sigh and relax under it. 

“Will you lay with me?” you ask. 

Dream is not one to turn you down for most things, and he especially will not deny you of this request. He wraps himself around you, black coat billowing out and covering both of you. He knows that it’s only your face that has sustained the brunt of your injuries, but he still tries to be cautious with you just in case.

It’s not exactly resting when you’re on your phone watching the videos that, while they make no sense to Dream, make you laugh, but you’re safe and in his arms, so he won’t say anything to you about the importance of proper rest. Instead, he allows himself to simply think. About you, about him, about this night.

“You need not have come to my defense,” he says suddenly upon remembering what it is he had wanted to say to you earlier, before he was overcome with the need to kiss you. Distantly, he’s reminded of the last time he said such a phrase, and his lips tilt up at the memory.

“Hmm?” You don’t quite know what he means, his statement coming from out of nowhere.

“I was in no danger, yet you so valiantly defended me from the mortal. Why?”

“Because he was going to hurt you.” You say it as if it’s the most obvious conclusion in the world. The sky is blue, water is wet, you fought the man because he was going to hurt Dream.

“He would not have gotten the chance.”

You sigh. “I know that you’re all-powerful and whatnot, but…when you love someone, sometimes that doesn’t matter. Someone was attempting to attack you, and so I decided that I wasn’t going to let them. You’d do the same for me, wouldn’t you?”

“I very much would. However, it’s a little different for me than it is for you.”

“Why? Because I’m a woman?”

He begins to uncharacteristically stammer in an attempt to explain himself. “No, that’s not–I would never–you–”

You cut him off with a laugh before he can make an even bigger fool of himself. “I’m just teasing you.”

“You are cruel to your monarch, my love.”

“Not my monarch, I’m afraid,” you say cheekily, a smile on your face. “Last I checked, I’m not one of your subjects.”

It will never cease to amaze Dream just how at peace he feels when in your presence. On the rare occasion that conversations start out serious, they devolve into something quaint and full of soft touches and teasing jokes at your hands. Even after he sees you into the Dreaming and has returned the now-melting ice packs to your freezer, he feels this way.

Suddenly, he’s struck with the ‘why’ of it all. He feels at home here. No, he feels at home with you. Being with you is like coming home after a long journey and getting to sleep in your bed again for the first time in months. You’re his comfort, his safe place.

Perhaps, in some cases, the Waking World is an ideal place to be.

[shes-some-other-where]

June of Doom Day 5

“It’s not as bad as it looks.” | Bite

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Contains: lady whump, magical restraints (cursed jewellery), suicide mention, magical forced contraception, forced labour, captivity, reference to dubcon/noncon sex as well as consensual sex

WC: 910

Docile as a lamb

As always, the maidservant tried to conceal the garish bites and bruises on her skin. “It’s not as bad as it looks,” she said, not for the first time. “They don’t hurt.”

As always, her friend—her only friend, a fellow servant with wispy yellow hair and kind golden-brown eyes—prodded her with a tone gently teasing, yet with an expression full of sorrow and concern. “I should hope not.” She carefully, tenderly positioned the maidservant’s hair so it partially masked the marks. “Otherwise, I’d fear that  . . .” She paused. “That whoever you’re using to make me jealous hasn’t the faintest idea what they’re doing.”

The prince, the maidservant thought bitterly, had known exactly what he was doing.

She sometimes wondered if he knew or cared that the girl who shared her bed was, many nights, more than a mere friend. If sometimes he took petty revenge by branding her the way he did. “We should be off,” she said, trying not to let too much gloom creep into her voice. “Shall we go?”

Her friend sighed, letting the topic drop, moving on to lament the dawn of another long, ordinary, mind-numbing day of work.

Or so the maidservant thought.

After supper, when work was done and she was ready to tumble into her cot, nestled against the warm, welcome body next to her, a knock sounded on the door of the servants’ quarters.

A guard, trimmed in smooth leather and glinting steel. “You’ve been summoned,” he said, jerking his head. “Come with me.”

Of course, the prince made her wait. Not in his bedchamber, but a counsel room—hollow stone, dark and windowless. Stomach twisting with nerves, she stood with her head bowed, wondering what he wanted.

Had she displeased him? It took very little, most days. Spoken out of turn? Left a stain on a priceless silk tunic? Did it have to do with his secretly harboured jealousy that he was not the only one she bedded? What if it had nothing to do with her at all, but her brother? Had he tried to kill another guard? Escaped his chains? Tried to flee?

The possibilities swirled relentlessly through her head, biting and snapping, until the prince finally appeared.

She dropped to her knees when she saw he was not alone.

“You see?” the usurper prince crowed to his mother. “Obedient as a little pup. Docile as a lamb.”

The maidservant bit her tongue.

“It certainly seems so,” said the queen, her voice harsh and suspicious. “Look at me, girl.”

Despising herself for proving him right, the maidservant obeyed.

It had been a long time since she’d laid eyes on the queen at such a close distance. There she stood: the woman who had ordered a whole family slaughtered and then stolen a crown still steeped in royal blood. Jealously, the maidservant observed that unearned power suited her well: her locks were glossy hazelnut-brown, streaked with elegant grey, and she was resplendent despite the late hour in a gown of silver and cream velvet, trimmed in dainty pearls and hand-stitched lace. Her cold moonlight eyes, matching her son’s so perfectly, swept over the maidservant, cruel and unimpressed.

The sharp, disapproving line of her mouth twisted ever so slightly. “How can you be sure she won’t run? Or squawk?”

In a few surefooted strides, the prince stood beside the maidservant, jerking her roughly to her feet with a hand on her elbow. “Get up.” To his mother, he said, “Please. Give me some credit. I’m good at what I do.”

As if she were a puppet, built of long-dead timber and manipulated by fine, invisible strings, he lifted one wrist, showing off the tiny charm hanging off her bracelet-shackle.

“This one keeps her inside the palace boundaries.” Fondling carelessly the one at her throat, making her wince as the chain cut into her skin, he added, “And this ensures she cannot reveal her true name.”

Despite the mistrust clear on her face, the queen smirked. “And the others?”

“Oh.” He snorted. “So she can’t kill herself.”

“Ah, yes. I forgot that was a necessity with this one.”

“Both of them,” said the prince, and the maidservant watched, numb, while the two of them laughed.

He didn’t explain, or perhaps didn’t need to, that the charm in question also prevented her from harming not just herself but anyone else, even in self-defence. Even if her life depended on it.

Nor did he bring up the last charm, the one she both loathed and was grateful for, which meant there would be no unwanted bastard heirs growing inside her as long as the cursed ornaments remained.

“Please, Your Highnesses,” she said, twisting her hands and staring at the floor. “Why . . .” She paused, thinking better of her phrasing. “How can I serve you tonight?”

There it was—that slow smile she hated more than anything in the world. It crawled over the prince’s face like an infestation of insects, dreadful and sinister.

“Not tonight, little lamb.” She blanched, fearful of whatever malevolent promise those four words held for her. “Tomorrow.”

Tomorrow—the festival. The ball. “I—But—?” She choked back a protest. “Your Highness?”

Surrounded by strangers—visitors and courtiers who would look right through her. Unable to plead for deliverance from this hell. Unable to even whisper her own name.

“That’s right, pretty thing. You’re going to make yourself useful, finally. Really earn your keep. I have a job for you.”

June of Doom Masterlist

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@juneofdoom

All my writing is original. Feel welcome to interact/comment/reblog. Pls don’t steal or repost.

[robthegoodfellow]

May I Find You One December RENAMED Here I Go Again

1: Don't Know Where I'm Going, Sure Know Where I've Been

for @fizzigigsimmer

(caligator, referenced past harringrove, age difference, referenced character death, references to neofascism/evangelicalism)

.

Billy’d been warned against stopping in Stark County, but when you had to go, you had to go—and anyway, he was running low on gas. And snacks. 

And, since he wasn’t a spring chicken anymore, it’d be wise to get out, work the rust from his joints a bit. 

Glancing around as he filled the tank, the town looked normal enough; your average main drag in Middle of Nowhere, North Dakota. Couple sleepy shops, general store, dinky diner—one of those blue lives matter flags hanging limp by the door, vivid polyester garish against all the beige. 

Basic shit. 

No obvious signs of a place under the iron thumb of a white nationalist evangelical militia, and he was just about to roll the dice on that diner, maybe snag a coffee and a slice of pie, when a police cruiser ambled into view, pulled into the fueling station opposite.

Just his fucking luck.

Billy studied the pump, face schooled a pleasant bland. Marveled at how, even after all these years, his days of tussling with fascist pigs long behind him, the same wolves were stirring in his head. One baring its teeth on a low growl, ready and willing to tear the fucker to shreds, the other poised, still as stone, itching to turn tail and run at the first sign of trouble.

At fifty years old—fifty plus, but who was counting—he preferred neither option. The meter clicked off, and he watched his hands replace the nozzle, screw on the gas cap.

Even his hands were fucking old. Thicker—blocky knuckles. Veins starting to bulge. Grandpa hands. 

Sense memory flashed, suppressed so quick and smooth it left barely a ripple. Wouldn’t do to indulge in fond longing for those gay glory days, for the hands he still missed like phantom limbs, some nights, this aching absence. Not within spitting distance of a patrol car. 

Because why test the thought police, right? He could reminisce on youthful love lost when he was back on the highway, heading west.

Good boy, he heard, like Billy had a tin can cupped to his ear, the string trailing off into the fog of time. 

So strange what stayed sharp, he mused, rounding the hood, gripping his keys. Behind him, the cruiser door swung open with a creak. Like—despite the photos, it was hard to really conjure the face, hold it steady in his mind. A face through a window in the rain, and more so as the years slid by. But that voice still whispered clear as day—sometimes a Jiminy Cricket, keeping Billy out of trouble, sometimes a little prankster demon, pure trickster. 

And the hands. The feel of those hands had never left him, touch embedded in the skin.

He sniffed, ducking his chin, scolding himself. So much for smothering his inner queer.

The door was open, sanctuary of the driver’s seat calling his name, when something drew his attention across the way—some movement, maybe, or shift in the air. Pulling his gaze, against his better judgment, to meet the bored stare of the emerging cop.

His chest—seized, breath caught in tight lungs by a tighter throat. Distantly wondered if this was what a heart attack felt like—crushed in a cold fist.

Because the eyes staring back at him were Steve’s. The furrowed brow above lips pinched in a frown. The lines of his jaw, his nose. Like the rain had stopped and he could see him clear through the pane. Then the lips twisted, a sudden sneer, straight out of senior year.

“Got a problem, pal?” 

Billy blinked rapid, took in the flak jacket and badge announcing him as the Sheriff’s stooge, the douchey camo hoodie layered underneath, dark hair slicked back, sides shaved like he’d stepped off the cover of Nazi Vogue.

What the fuck.

“Asked you a question, old man.”

Billy coughed, half a laugh, half choke, and shook his head. Same voice—his voice. Steve’s. Only the tone was all wrong—mean and self-important—more like… like Billy, once upon a time.

Like if his old bratty attitude and Steve’s voice had a baby. That’s what he was hearing right now. Like—

Wrenching his brain back on track, Billy rebooted. Cut him off before the brat could launch another volley.

“Sorry, officer,” he said, and couldn’t help it—the amusement thrumming beneath the words, or more accurately, the unhinged hysteria. “Must be going senile.”

The eyes narrowed—assuming that if he wasn’t in on the joke, he must be the butt of it.

“In fact,” Billy went on, blindly following some instinct, he knew not where. “Think I might be having some heart trouble.”

The cop did not spring to the aid of a needy citizen, but eyed him skeptically. “You smell burnt toast?”

“That’s for a stroke,” Billy corrected, and he’d gone and done it again—only this time a fondness threading the wry mockery. “Heart attack is pain in your arm and whatnot.”

The brat didn’t shoot him dead for perceived disrespect, which was something. Really he just seemed—confused. Baffled. And boy, Billy was right there with him.

This wasn’t Steve, he reminded himself. Wasn’t him. Just a random dead ringer in Middle of Nowhere, North Dakota, a likely foot soldier in the brutal local militia.

And Billy should just leave him to it, obviously. Because this wasn’t Steve.

So—bid the doppelganger adieu, get the hell out of dodge. Billy cleared his throat.

“Don’t suppose protect and serve extends to helping some geezer find a place to eat while he rests awhile?”

Now the perplexed indignation was out in force, head tilted so far to the side it was liable to roll off his neck.

Hand to God, Billy thought he’d kicked the death wish long ago—his Y2K resolution—and yet here he was. Still talking, coaxing the neofascist to come closer, chucking all caution to the wind for a pair of pretty, over-familiar eyes.

“C’mon,” he said, and made the smirk self-deprecating. “I make it across the street without keeling over, I’ll buy ya a coffee.”

The brat straightened, something like tolerant intrigue settled in the quirk of his brow. “All right, then, old timer.” As they stepped off the sidewalk: “Don’t expect me to hold your elbow or nothing.”

“Oh, nah,” Billy replied, waving him off. “Dignity won’t allow it.” And then—he winked. Winked at the boogaloo boy. He’d lost his mind. Farewell, sanity.  “Name’s Billy.”

No response from the boy in blue until they reached the diner steps. “I’m Gator,” he said, hauling the door open, gruffness at odds with the tinkling bell.

To his credit, Billy didn’t break down into gibbering laughter.

Gator. This asshat wearing Steve’s face, this Duck Dynasty heir apparent—was named Gator.

Way off in Indiana, Steve must’ve been rolling in his grave.

Next

[galacticgraffiti]

☾✧ Blacklit Night ✧☽

Rating: Mature (for heavy themes) Summary: Astarion meets Sebastian. You know how this ends. Wordcount: 5k TW: angst, vampiric compulsion/Cazador's compulsion on Astarion, references to past abuse and torture, memories of past NonCon, verbal abuse.

Author's Note: This contains spoilers for Act 3 of BG3, specifically Astarion's companion quest. As always - don't like don't read. Even though there are no explicit sexual themes, I would prefer minors did not interact with this post or my blog.

Masterlist ⋆ If you prefer AO3

• :•: • :•: • ☾ ☼ ☽ • :•: • :•: •

Blacklit Night

The night is dark, and the sparse light of the stars speaks of violence, not peace.

One would think that a city like Baldur’s Gate never sleeps, but it does. There is a moment, when all the fishermen have come back from sea, when the workers have returned to their homes and their children, where the lords and ladies of the upper crust stare silently at each other from across long dinner tables. That moment is the holding of breath before the first death of the night:

The sun still shines just barely, dark creatures lurking in the safety of the darkness, not yet able to step out of the shadows. Warm lights begin to glow from windows as the sun sets, as families have their hearty meals, as the nobles retreat to quietly behold each other, to joke about the peasants or hate their rich counterparts in peace. The world breathes one last breath of golden sun, the sea turns red, and the last of the light fades.

The nightlife begins: Taverns grow loud with song and fun, drinks are poured, first one, then two, then one too many. The hardship of the day is washed away, travellers finally arrive at their destinations - slipped in at last light, we got so lucky - and dutiful students of the Society sneak out of their bedroom windows to get high on mushrooms from the Underdark and kiss beneath the pale moonlight.

The life of daylight is one Astarion barely remembers. It has not been long, a few months, maybe a year or two. Who can tell these days? It’s always dark and there is always pain. When he is not allowed to leave the palace, time passes differently. Godey tells him weeks have passed, but Godey lies. Astarion does not dare ask his siblings. He makes notches on the wall behind a rotting coffin, but the only marker to go by is hunger, and the hunger is eternal. 

Yes, it has not been so long since the life of daylight - his life, a life that belonged to him - was taken from Astarion. Even if he can’t tell exactly how long, that much he can say. On the nights he is allowed to go out - to hunt for prey - he can see that the fashions haven’t changed much. He can tell that the bartenders have not aged (not visibly at least), nor been replaced with someone younger and better looking. There is still the same elven girl behind the bar, with the blue hair and the brown eyes who always smiles at him when he orders a drink he carries around all night to look like he belongs. He never smiles back, afraid to reveal his fangs on accident, afraid he would scare her much more than he ever could by being stand-offish and rude.

Astarion misses the daylight more than he misses anything else about his old life. He misses the sun burning his skin that was pale even before death took him. He misses the warmth of it- a kind of warmth that can not be imitated by anything else, a warmth that seeps into your bones and makes you feel like soothing embers glow inside your bones. Nowadays, he is always so cold. Cold in the way a forgotten graveyard is, devoid of life and devoid of comfort.

Astarion pulls his cloak tighter. It is finely embroidered with black and silver peacocks, complimenting his own silver hair and his pale complexion - or so Leon tells him. Mirrors do not show Astarion’s image anymore. The cloak is finely woven, just good enough to make it seem like he might have a little more money than he lets on, but not so garish as to catch the attention of heaps of thieves and robbers. Attracting prey is a delicate game, and Cazador has perfected it. Not that he ever needs to do the dirty work himself, of course. 

No, it’s Astarion’s hands that will be bloody, Astarion’s lips that will feel numb, Astarion’s skin that will burn at the memory of a loving touch unwanted, and Astarion’s mind that will be burdened with the knowledge of what their face looked like in the moment of betrayal. How their eyes begged for mercy that he does not have the power to grant.

Cazador loves it when they arrive scared to death. Cazador drains the pain and the fear and the suffering from the air to swallow it whole, to gorge himself on it until he bursts. He strokes Astarion’s silver hair, he tells him that he gets better at it every time, but this one still is not good enough.

“At least you are trying to make yourself useful the only way you can,” Cazador says, as if Astarion had any choice, any say in the matter. “At least I won’t have to tell Godey to have to punish you again. It really is a shame, bruises heal so slowly on your delicate skin. Although the screams make it nearly worth it, don’t you agree? Come now, boy. Won’t you dine with us?”

The memory of Cazador’s rotten voice seeps into Astarion’s bones when he turns around a corner and nearly trips. His tongue tastes the blood of putrid rats a hundred times over, and it’s all Astarion can do not to retch. He closes his eyes for a second to breathe, stumbling for just a second.

A warm hand wraps around his upper arm before he can catch himself.

“My gods, have you been walking long? You are freezing!”

“I’m fine, I just have-” Astarion’s words die on his tongue when he looks up at the man who caught him. 

Maybe man is not the right word - still nearly a boy, with long hair and a deep voice that won’t rightly fit his delicate features. His lips are full and his eyes are dark, and the fingers wrapped around Astarion’s wiry arm have a strength to them that one would not expect. He makes Astarion wish his heart could still race just to get high off that feeling once more.

Astarion stiffens and pulls back from the stranger’s grasp, cursing his mind for being so soft and so stupid even after everything that has happened.

You are just a silly boy. This behaviour must be corrected. You will learn to obey. Obey.

“I am fine. I can handle myself.” Astarion says again, straightening his collar, his voice cold. He rips his arm from the boy’s warm grasp impatiently. If he is too nice to him, the boy will follow, the boy will ask-

“Would you like to join me for a drink? I was just about to go in.”

No.

Panic rises like bile in Astarion’s throat.

You will learn. Never let it be you inviting them. Make them think it’s their idea - lull them in safety, spin a web around them while they bask in your beauty and attention. Make them think they have caught you, not the other way around. Find me the most beautiful of them, and bring them to me. Godey will have a wonderful time breaking your bones if you don’t. Find the ones that make your heart ache and betray them. Bring them to me. Obey.

Astarion opens his mouth to decline, tries to deny the seed the Cazador’s commands have planted inside his chest. He can’t do it- he never can.

“Of course. Tell me about yourself.” A pleasant smile settles in the corners of Astarion’s mouth, plastered on by Cazador’s words. Bring me the most beautiful of them. Never decline the offer of a drink.

The stranger holds the door of the tavern open for Astarion, his frame taller and broader than Astarion’s own. His face has not the shadow of a beard and his hair shimmers in the golden light. His eyes are kind. He does not look like he comes from a noble family. There is too much excitement, too much of a need to prove himself worthy. The only thing that could have saved him- gone.

No noblemen. Never noblemen, never their children. They will bring unwanted attention.

Astarion closes his eyes for a moment. There must be something that can save him- there must be something he can do-

The stranger leads him to an empty table in a low lit corner. With the darkness gone, he looks a little older now- his features less soft, his nose stronger. And still…

“I’m passing through town,” he explains with a gentle voice. His hands lay on the table, open and inviting. “I am a jeweller, and I heard there is good trade to be made in the city proper. I had some… complications on the road. I- my name is Sebastian.”

Sebastian.

Astarion hates it when they tell him their names. He can never forget them, they carve themselves into his dead heart and burn him with the acid of his betrayal each day like snake venom dripping down his throat.

Sebastian. Each letter a drop of poison.

Press your lips together, maybe the words won’t slip out. Maybe it’s not too late to save him, maybe-

“My name’s Astarion,” says his treacherous tongue. “I’m a magistrate in the city.”

Sebastian’s eyes light up.

“Astarion… my first acquaintance in the big city, and he is named after a star. I must immortalise our meeting in a piece of my work- a necklace maybe, or a ring…” His voice drifts off when he realises that Astarion’s hand is gripping the table so tightly his knuckles are white with pain. “Oh, I- I am sorry. I have been told I can come on a little strong. All I meant was- what a lucky coincidence to have stumbled upon someone who knows the city so well! How lucky for you to have accepted my invitation!”

Astarion’s unbeating heart aches at the excitement in Sebastian’s voice.

“How lucky indeed,” he says, Cazador’s eternal smile making his lips ache. Never stop smiling. Make them feel like they are wanted- like they are the only thing you have wanted all night. “I was already on my way back home- I had given up on the night somewhat, you see. To have stumbled into such a dashing stranger- it was me who got lucky.”

His words weep the false sweetness of a lie, but Sebastian seems not to notice that Astarion’s throat burns like acid.

“You flatter me,” he mumbles. “I know I- you don’t have to be nice to me if you would rather wish to go home. I would not blame you.”

Everything in Astarion’s body screams, every muscle fighting against the inevitable command, every nerve alight with panic and hatred: Hatred against Cazador, and against his own weakness. Astarion watches with wide eyes as his own pale hand moves across the table to cover Sebastian’s. He cannot stop it, just like he cannot unhear Cazador’s whisper in the dark. Find out what they like and give it to them. No matter what it is. Most of all - make sure it is you.

“Nonsense,” say Astarion’s numb lips. “There is nowhere I would rather be than here. Why, your company is much better than the silence of my bedchamber.”

Sebastian smiles a tentative smile, his eyes lighting up at the touch of Astarion’s hand on his.

“So you have nobody… waiting for you?” His voice shakes a little even as his fingers glide across Astarion’s smooth, pale skin. He has never done this before. Astarion can tell. “Nobody to get home to?”

The question makes Astarion’s head spin. The bond won’t allow him to talk about Cazador. When they ask you where you live, where you are going - lie. Lie convincingly.

“Some of my siblings live around here,” Astarion mumbles. “I stay with them when I am in the district.”

“Ah.” Sebastian’s voice is an odd mixture of relief and disappointment. “You know, I-”

They are interrupted by a barmaid asking for their order. Astarion breathes, digging his nails into his palm until he draws blood. He can’t do it, not with this one. He is too sweet, too innocent. All he wants is a taste of the excitement of the city.

Give him that taste.

No.

Yes. He wants it. You provide.

Conversation with Sebastian is so easy. As the wine flows, his hands wander, drumming on the table, tugging at his shirtsleeves, playing with a family ring. He is never still, and Astarion is enraptured by it. Sebastian’s whole life story could probably fit on two pages, but Astarion always finds new questions to ask him.

Show interest. Make them feel wanted.

No. Astarion asks for his own sake. He begs Cazador’s command to let him care about Sebastian, this sweet stranger. To drink the wine, to joke and show interest just because he wants to. Just this once.

Sebastian does not notice. Sebastian talks and smiles and laughs, his hands in the air, on Astarion’s shoulder; then on his thigh when Astarion places them there. And Astarion finds himself not minding to be touched. Not by him. Sebastian’s touches are not one of hunger or desire, they speak of interest and intimacy in ways Astarion had forgotten.

With some time, even the compulsion of Cazador’s voice fades into the background. Astarion’s attentions are fully focused on the delicate man with the strong hands across from him. Sebastian’s voice is gentle and deep as he tells of his journey from his village through the wilderness. He passed by Moonrise - so far away from the city, where Astarion has never been! He tells tales of his family and growing up in a small village, of his childhood helping out on a farm and of the smith that took him on as an apprentice years ago. He speaks of his work with a deep reverence, and Astarion’s pretend-interest soon turns into real fascination.

The way Sebastian describes his work is almost magical. How the metals come alive beneath his hands - it’s like Astarion can see it now, the heavy swing of a hammer, the delicate touch of fine tools and strong fingers to fit precious stones and bend any material to their will.

Enchanted by the other’s presence, soon their fingers intertwine, their heads so close together they can taste each other’s breath, smelling of honeyed wine as the other patrons fade away into the background. It’s only the two of them, in their own little corner of the world, lit by candlelight and sweet attention.

“I’ve never met anyone like you,” Sebastian whispers, his breath warm on Astarion’s face. Warm in the way the sun is. How much he has missed it.

“I could say the same.” They are the first genuine words Astarion has uttered in a long time. “I have met many travellers, but none of them have been like you.”

Sebastian’s eyes darken for a moment, his fingers playing with Astarion’s paler ones.

“None of them?”

Astarion grits his teeth, pressing out a truth that terrifies him.

“None of them have made me want to protect them the way you do. I’ve barely known you one night, and I cannot bear the thought of your suffering.”

Sebastian laughs the easy giggle of someone who has never known real pain.

“Why would I suffer? I am here. And… I’ve found you. A little star among mere mortals.”

No! You didn't find me. I found you, Astarion wants to scream. Run. Run while you still can.

Cazador’s frigid voice seeps back into his skull like the cold embrace of death, and Astarion’s happiness leaks out of his heart and drains away through the creaky floorboards of the tavern when his Master’s compulsion grips him tight once more.

Give them what they want. Then bring them to me.

He doesn’t want to. He tries to shut his mouth, tries to pull his hands away, but he can’t do any of it. Sebastian smiles at him, his eyes only speaking of newly found adoration and interest. Astarion wants to shove him away, but the closest he can get is pressing out a few words, as close to the truth as he can manage, though his body barely allows those.

“Oh darling, I think it’s me that found you.” Astarion’s smile burns on his lips. “You should lea-”

The words burn in his throat like bile, and as much as Astarion tries to get them out, there is nothing in all the hells and all of this world that could overcome Cazador’s command. Astarion chokes, then clears his throat and wipes away Sebastian’s concerned hand on his face, holding the sun-warmth of his hand gently. He is so full of life.

“I’m fine, my love. Just a bit of… wine stuck in my throat. Do forgive me.”

Sebastian smiles softly, his hand settling on Astarion’s pale arm, restlessly drawing intricate patterns.

“What is there to forgive? Do you need anything? Do you want me to get you something, a cup of water perhaps? Let me help you.”

“A drink would be lovely.” Astarion is desperate. Never has his heart seized like this in the face of his prey, never has he wanted to get away from a target as much as this one. Never has he hoped to forget a name as desperately.

Please, just this once.

He would beg on his knees, he would give up the last of his dignity if he had any left at all. Not this one. Not Sebastian, with his gentle eyes and his sweet smile and his delicate hands. Not Sebastian who has never done anything wrong in his life other than come to Baldur’s Gate and try to help a stranger. Not him. Anyone else, but not him.

Astarion stares after Sebastian when he gets up from his seat. A soft touch of the shoulder and Sebastian vanishes into the crowd filling the tavern, on his mission to help Astarion. If only he could be helped. If only a glass of water could fix what is broken inside him.

Astarion tries to get up, he really does. If he can leave, maybe Sebastian won’t find him, and Cazador will never have to know. Better to be bruised and beat up and hungry for an eternity, better to be degraded and burned and starved for months than to see the look on Sebastian’s face as he realises that Astarion has betrayed him. Better to let Godey break all of his bones a hundred times over than to know that Sebastian is dead because of him.

It does not help. Astarion’s fingers prickle with hatred when he digs them into the table, trying to will himself to get back up, to leave and never return. To hope that Sebastian is gone by the time Cazador lets Astarion leave the palace again. Even to be dead and buried would be better than betrayed and drained. It’s all Astarion’s fault. He should never have let it get this far, should have run the second he saw the kindness in Sebastian’s eyes.

It’s all for naught. Astarion’s skull is pounding with Cazador’s compulsion when Sebastian returns to the table, a cup of water in his hand.

Someone who makes your heart ache. Bring me them so I can make you watch, make you scream and cry and beg for their life. You know nothing you say could ever move me to let them go, but oh, how sweet it will be to hear you sing and pray to me for their release. And pray you will, boy.

Astarion smiles at Sebastian and hates himself for it.

“What are your plans for tomorrow?” he asks, even if the venom nearly clogs his throat - knowing that tomorrow will never come, not for Sebastian. He will die tonight with Cazador’s fangs in his neck, going limp like a doll as the sunlight of his life is drained from him. And Astarion will have one more name to carve into his heart.

“I’m going to the market!” Sebastian is vibrating with excitement. His hair shimmers in the low light when he bends closer. “I brought some pieces with me, and I want to see if I can get a licence to sell them, maybe down at the market by the docks. I heard there is a forge near here, I might try to find that as well. I just… I want to see as much of the city as I can before life catches up and I have to return to work.”

Astarion digs his nails into the roughed up wood of the table, but not even that pain can keep the next words from slipping over his traitorous lips.

“To the market, hm? That’s exciting, my darling. Quite the journey from here though if you want to get there early enough to ask for a trading licence. Do you know where you will stay tonight?”

His heart shatters into a million pieces at the look on Sebastian’s face: surprise that quickly changes into tentative excitement, like he can’t fully believe what Astarion is implying. He can see the flush that creeps into Sebastian’s cheeks, smell the treat that has been forbidden to him ever since he has craved it. Not even the hunger hurts as much as the inevitable pain of losing this beautiful stranger to Cazador’s greed and bloodlust.

“I was hoping I could rent a room here. But you are right, maybe it is a little far from the market,” Sebastian says, his eyes now lingering on Astarion’s lips, on his exposed neck. His heartbeat betrays him: fast and uneven, stumbling with desire Astarion was hoping would never bloom.

Take the room, he wants to say. Take it and don’t leave it until the sun is up and creatures like me have crawled back to where we came from and can’t hurt you anymore.

What he says instead makes the tips of Sebastian’s ears go flushed and rosy.

“This place is not exactly known for its trustworthy clientele either. I know… someone in the city. I’m staying at his place - if you come with me, I promise we won’t be disturbed.”

The smile on Sebastian’s face is tinted with tentative lust, his eyes wandering where he has not let himself look. Astarion curses himself as an alluring smile appears on his own lips. All he wants is to slip out of his skin and leave behind a beautiful shell, empty and void of any trace of him. Anything not to have to feel like this anymore. Dirty and used, an instrument to another’s thirst for power.

Sebastian leans in closer, his breath mingling with Astarion’s own. He smells sweet, like honeyed wine and thyme.

“What exactly are you planning to do with me if you have to make sure we won’t be disturbed?” He sounds genuinely curious in a way that makes Astarion’s breath stutter.

Another man would ask the same question, already knowing the answer, relishing the implications, the innuendo. Another man would already have his hands on Astarion’s thigh without being invited to, would already be kissing his neck without even paying attention to the telltale scars on his throat. Another man would never have taken the time to try and get to know him, would not have invited him for a drink in the tavern but shoved him up against a wall and had his way in the dark of the alley. Another man would have let his hands wander where they don’t belong, Cazador’s words stopping Astarion from doing anything about it as unwanted fingers cling to his thighs, and unwanted lips caress his chest. Another man would have deserved death. Sebastian is not another man. He deserves better, and Astarion cannot give it to him. The moment Sebastian laid eyes on him was the moment he died.

Astarion tries to find terrible solace in that as he leads Sebastian outside, their fingers interlaced as they wander through the quiet alleys of the lower city.

“Where does this friend of yours live?” Sebastian asks, his eyes full of wonder as he takes in the view of the city in the moonlight. “I- I need to paint all this tomorrow night, it’s beautiful.”

Astarion does not answer, but his fingers squeeze Sebastian’s for a second. It’s enough to make the other man turn to him. Sebastian’s face goes soft, a smile tugging at his lips.

“It’s not only the night that is beautiful. So are you,” he whispers, stepping closer, cupping Astarion’s jaw in one large hand. “If anyone could inspire me, it would be you. How did I get so lucky- my first night in the city, and I find the most beautiful man I have ever laid eyes on. I have never… no one has ever caught my attention the way you did. Not even at home- there was never anyone-”

He is rambling now, and yet all Astarion can hear is his heartbeat, so fast and excited, so nervous as he moves closer. Astarion wishes he had the strength to stop him, but even if there was any way to resist Cazador’s compulsion, his body is weak. It always has been. It has always betrayed him.

“What I mean to say is…” Sebastian hesitates. He cocks his head, unsure of how to proceed. His heartbeat is so fast Astarion thinks he can feel it in his own chest, and his hand on Astarion’s chest is warmer than the sun. “I… I have no experience in these things. Nobody has ever- well… taken me home with them. I don’t- what I mean is- will you kiss me?”

Astarion freezes, and his whole self shatters at the sweet question that nothing could have prepared him for. Sebastian’s words are extinguished by Cazador’s cold voice in the back of Astarion’s mind.

Make sure it is you they want.

Astarion is good at what he does. Better than he wants to be. They all want him. None of them ever ask if they are what he wants as well.

Sebastian’s lips are soft when Astarion’s own meet them. He is warm, so warm he seems to glow from the inside. His hands are careful, not greedy, and if Astarion could let himself, he would shatter beneath their touch. The kiss is not much more than a gentle touch of lips, not driven by hunger or desire. Sebastian’s only desire is to be known, to be tasted. It is the only wish Astarion can fulfil before he leads him to his death.

Sebastian’s breath is staggered when Astarion pulls away from him, his hands tangled in Astarion’s silvery hair. He closes his eyes and shudders, reaching out to pull Astarion against him as his back hits the wall.

“Again. Please.”

Astarion trembles. How could he say no?

He kisses Sebastian with all the desperation of someone with everything to lose.

Notice, he begs silently. Notice that something is off- wrap your hands around my neck and feel the scars- tell me how cold my skin is, see how my eyes glow in the dark- run, and I will try to let you get away.

Sebastian makes a noise in the back of his throat and parts his lips to let Astarion in, and he is lost. Astarion closes his eyes and lets it happen. There is nothing he can do, and he is so tired of fighting the inevitable.

They are both breathing hard when they break apart, Sebastian’s hands on Astarion’s waist, Astarion’s fingers digging into his shoulders as he pulls him in when all he wants to do is push him away.

“You’re incredible,” Sebastian whispers. “Astarion-”

“Sebastian,” he breathes, and that one word holds more reverence than all his prayers ever did. “Sebastian, you have to g-”

The night air changes, and all the warmth Sebastian’s presence has brought to Astarion’s bones vanishes in an instant. The cold creeps back in like iced water, and it is the coldness only death brings.

“Astarion, who have you brought me tonight?”

Astarion closes his eyes. Not here. Not now- they were supposed to have a moment more- never outside, Cazador never comes outside. He waits in his chambers like a cat waits for the mouse. Long fingers pull at his shoulders, and he can’t do anything but limply let go of Sebastian. Sebastian, whose voice is still gentle, but also scared and confused. Sebastian, who slips away as Cazador commands Astarion to leave.

When before, all Astarion wanted to do was tell him to run, he knows now that it is too late. And he wished for the impossible: To die by Sebastian’s side.

“I- what? Astarion, what is-” Sebastian’s voice is rough with terror, and Astarion can’t look at him. Cazador’s fingers dig into his skin.

“Did you think you had found the love of your life? Did you think he would save you?” The world sinks into darkness as Astarion is dragged away. Cazador hisses the words, and there is no telling whether he is speaking to him or Sebastian. “Oh, come now, boy. You should know better than that. He is not your saviour- he is your ruin.”

The sharp hand lets go of Astarion, and suddenly, cold lips are near his ear, whispering words addressed only to him.

“Keep your eyes open. I want you to watch.”

There is a fraction of a second where Astarion can scream, but it’s too late already. Sharp fangs sink into Sebastian’s neck, and Astarion watches, wide-eyed. His throat burns with words he wishes he could have spoken before, and his cheeks are suddenly wet with tears.

“Sebastian!” Astarion does not recognise his own voice, broken and bizarre in the face of this impossibility he knew was coming. “Sebastian, I’m so-”

The last thing Astarion sees is the hatred in Sebastian’s eyes that burns like a thousand dying suns. Then, Cazador’s staff comes down and the world goes dark.

The return of Angstarion. I hope this concept consumes you all as much as it has consumed me.

@purgetrooperfox @ashotofspotchka @dream-alittlebiggerdarling @ulchabhangorm @samspenandsword @rescuethewretched @pinkiemme @baba-fett @witchklng @ladykatakuri @certified-anakinfucker @fanfiction-i-llike @voidinfernal @foxferret02 @rosieofcorona @savagemickey03 @perseny @margoisthemoon2 @shiiunn @saucyhedgehog @tonysoffice @pupshr00m @supercalifragilisticprincess @palpipeen @silly-gooseastarion @mila-bee @shit-i-say-throughout-the-day @idkwhatsgoingonwithme @aeryntheofficial @jekasha @gub @nogitsune-the @solarrexplosion @hexqueensupreme @unofficialavenger90 @frankiesghost @curtaincaramba @kimiheartblade @niqhtfell @campfull-of-weirdos

Extra special mention to @babygirljoelmiller for being so brave and finishing Cazador's palace.

[thesinglesjukebox]

THE KILLERS - "BRIGHT LIGHTS"

It's up to us now to turn on the bright lights...

[5.50]

Jonathan Bradley: Las Vegas, a mish-mash of anachronism and garish mythology. Wandering the Mojave Desert, Oedipus strikes upon the Luxor Casino, outside which stands a 106-foot high Sphinx. The monster threatens to devour our hero unless he answers a riddle. What goes as Simon Le Bon in the morning, Bruce Springsteen at noon, and Meat Loaf at night? Why it's Brandon Flowers, says Oedipus, and the beast is defeated. [6]

Alfred Soto: The Killers released an album in 2021. I didn't know -- until I remembered my review. When Brandon Flowers's got his dick stuck in his pants and he yells about highways of rebel diamonds and imploding mirages he sounds ridiculous and totally himself; when he insists on the midtempo plod and his doggerel is crisply sung he's another Las Vegas entertainer cracking his voice through "Born to Run." [5]

Jeffrey Brister: Yes, I am also familiar with the works of one Bruce Springsteen, and his compatriots, The E Street Band. One of the things that makes his music so good is not just the explosive wall of sound he and his band can generate (“Bright Lights” demonstrates this aspect to a serviceable degree), but also in his lyrics, which convey vivid emotions and a sense of place, history, context. They are specific. They don’t feel like placeholders or shortcuts to emotional resonance or easy references that confuse knowledge with pathos. They blew up the Chicken Man in Philly last night! The screen door slams, Mary’s dress sways like a vision! Adam raised a Cain! This particular point is even more important if you are attempting to mimic his vocal mannerisms and tone. All that does is make people who are familiar with and have a deep love of The Boss want to hear the real thing, which is actually pretty easy, given that Springsteen is experiencing a late-career runner of two good albums in 2019 and 2020. This aping felt cute in 2006, but now it just feels like cover-band-calibre stuff. [4]

Harlan Talib Ockey: It feels almost unfair to fault the Killers for sounding too much like Springsteen, since they've released countless Springsteen pastiches over the years, but this one is unusually shallow. While it's a competent Springsteen impression, it's unclear what the Killers have added to make this song worth listening to rather than, say, actual Springsteen. The lyrics are a half-formed scenario that seems to be missing a narrative, a plot twist, or a point. Incidentally, though, they describe a rock star retreating to familiar territory. [4]

Nortey Dowuona: Sheree Brown got one hit around 1981 that apparently Brandon Flowers heard on his way back from the hospital, thus her turning up to turn out this very good Meat Loaf hit in the bridge. Worth it.  [8]

Ian Mathers: You just know Brandon Flowers did one of these when he realized just how many manly men would get faraway looks in their eyes at "there are things I would change but it ain't worth going through," and I say that with tremendous affection for him and this song. America's greatest Vegas band has only become more endearing as Flowers continues to animorph into a Springsteen/Elvis hybrid; ramping up the sonic bombast to match (those backing singers!) is a smart move. This is not at all what I thought the Killers would one day sound like when I was blasting the synth hook of "Smile Like You Mean It" at max volume back in the day. But damn it, for a minute there when Flowers insists that he thinks it's gonna be awright tonight, he makes me believe that he's right. [10]

Taylor Alatorre: A [6] if I close my eyes and imagine I'm hearing the Gaslight Anthem at their most fame-hungry and least Catholic-coded; [4] once I glance at the cover art and implode the mirage. [4]

Mark Sinker: The specifics, basically, of space opera: it didn’t have to real to be evocative and to connect, and outside a narrow span of New Jersey streets you likely had no idea what Springsteen meant, or if it even meant anything. “Fuelie heads and a hurst on the floor,” or whatever the hell it was: this fine and silly Tolkien street-gibberish that could lock you deep into what was very often — for you if not for Bruce — the purest pretend. Wrapped in goofy palatial grandeur, it was just fun and funny to say, and that was such a beginning. I don’t want to begrudge The Killers looking to centre their version of the same trick around Las Vegas — there’s entertainment in the idea and the trying, and even in making it more trashy and plastic and see-thru — but I honestly have no idea what it is I’m meant to be locking into here. It feels quarter-finished.  [4]

Katherine St. Asaph: The Killers, despite what the nostalgia-account-industrial complex reposts at you, are not universally seen as iconic (as my boyfriend pointed out, bemused, after hearing "Mr. Brightside" at a wedding and being moved to nothing). I will summon Killers icon-nostalgia in apropos situations (e.g., post-tweenage headbanging breaking out at a wedding), but it's borrowed and not strong. So maybe I'm not the most sympathetic listener when I put this on and hear a band that sounds completely washed. The sequins have fallen to the floor, smudged by shoes, glam only in past. [3]

Scott Mildenhall: You can't have your soul sucked by AI if you're already your own malfunctioning LLM. This is actually what now happens when you prompt Brandon Flowers to "play the Brightside song". And if you're asking the question, you may well still be happy with the answer, and the next answer, and the one after that. No wiring has ever been harder or more existentially attached. The Killers know that everything is the same, and everything is different -- and that that's where the joy is. [7]

[Read, comment and vote on The Singles Jukebox]

[ruiniel]

Remember

Fandom: Demon Slayer: Kimetsu no yaiba

Pairing: Kokushibō x fem!Reader

Count: 1.3k

Rating: 🔞

Tags & Warnings: Multichapter, Darkfic, Angst, Ambiguity, Past Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Reincarnation, Toxic relationship, Codependency, Blood kink, Flashbacks, Kokushibō's wife, her name is Hisami, References to childbirth but nothing graphic, POV Second Person, Tsugikuni Michikatsu POV, Emotional Sex, Mild Smut, is it gratuitous yes and no, Human!Kokushibō, Kokushibō | Tsugikuni Michikatsu-centric, Sengoku Period (1467-1590), if there's anything Upper Moon One fears it's his memories

On AO3

Part I - Part III - Part IV - Part V - Part VI - Part VII - Part VIII - Part IX

II.

The world used to be bloodier. As he ponders this, another thought emerges: it also used to be more beautiful. But… he’s ceased caring about such things, long ago.

This is a refuge as any other since he’s roamed this world: this too-bright place with its garish nighttime illuminations. Now it bears a different name, but much has changed in four centuries, after all.

And yet… as he kneels on the roof, the moat around what was once Fukashi Castle is still here, the surrounding verdant scenery and mountains are yet present. The still waters mouthing at the structure are a black void, offering an upside-down image of the building with its crow-like wings and the bright red bridge leading up to it—the image of an alternate dimension.

He tries to ease into the world beyond, and fails. His thoughts ripple and churn in an endless mill.

Why now?

Of all the times and all moments past, why did it have to be now that he remembered? A half-forgotten memory made flesh, one that forced a shameful retreat with nothing but words and questions and an achingly familiar face.

A shift. Upper Rank One opens his eyes.

“Why are you here?”

The newcomer nonchalantly sits on the roof close to him, crossing his legs. “Greetings, Kokushibo-dono, I hope you’re having a peaceful night?”

Kokushibo says nothing. He’s not once humored any of the others that man has brought into the fold, nor does he intend to begin. Things are fine as they stand.

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes’!” Doma chimes, his long, pointed nails twirling a lock of silver hair. “I must say, you certainly know how to choose your dwelling places, Kokushibo-dono, the scenery is marvelous!” the upbeat tone continues.

“Doma.”

Upper Rank Two looks his way with his bright, rainbow eyes, snapping his fingers. “Oh yes, to the point, right. Well, I wanted to report a strange, or, no!—a rather intriguing event! Quite recent.”

Kokushibo rises to his feet. He gazes up at the sky, gripping the handle of his sheathed blade.

“A very interesting person stumbled into my temple, you see,” Doma continues, speaking with that everlasting smile plastered on his face, a bit faster now for fear of losing his audience. “With a very interesting story besides! A pretty young lady, if I may say so. She’d heard of me and how so many people trust me with their woes and troubles, she said, which was rather sweet of her. She did tell me right off that she most certainly did not believe in ‘this sort of thing’, not until recently at least, but she had the most peculiar story and did not know where to go!”

“Why should this interest me?”

“Because—and here lies the most curious part—she thought she was being haunted! Either that, or she was going insane. And as you know, I do not believe ghosts exist.”

Because you are empty of feeling or memory.

“... but she was so distraught, and I’d fed recently, thus I decided to oblige her instead of eating her.”

A curious tremor runs up his spine. “I have no time for this.”

“Wait, wait! Now comes the intrigue: it did not take much to compel her to speak in the greatest of detail, after all human minds are so feeble. She described this… ‘ghost’ to me. She said…” He ponders, as though trying to remember. “She said it was a man, who looked like a samurai from ages past. He had long, dark hair, and not one but three pairs of burning eyes! She said he disappeared, and might not return, but did not know what to do in case he did. Isn’t that interesting, Kokushibo-dono? Where ever would a mortal get such a notion?”

“Say what you mean.”

“Far from me to meddle in my upper's business and I don't know if it’s someone who escaped, or why. But... I do know we are not to reveal ourselves to mortals and… well, I believe she will return to the temple, I made an exquisite impression, and promised to do some research.” Doma’s shining gaze melts to a dark, bloody crimson. “Would you like me to... handle this situation for you, Kokushibo-dono?”

His teeth are grinding. He’s never been so inept as to not gauge an enemy’s ways, and beneath those fake airs Upper Rank Two hides a ruthlessness and ambition that might have been admirable, were it not so honorless. “What I would like, Doma... is for you to get out of my sight.”

Doma appears stricken for a breath, but the smile returns like a beacon, and his eyes regain their multicolored luster. “Apologies if I’ve offended you, I only thought you’d like to be made aware of—”

“... leave.”

The demon claps his hands together and stands with an elegant flourish. “As you wish. Until next time.”

After Doma makes himself scarce, he kneels again. His gaze sweeps over the inky moat, the silent mountains in the far distance. He closes his eyes.

There is no thought to waste on this. None of it matters, none of it should. If anyone is foolish enough to step into Doma's territory... then that is their fate.

None of it matters.

He'd not expected it to be this way. The union of clans through marriage and strengthening of social ties he always saw as an upcoming duty to fulfill, but in him brims a new kind of contentment when you lean against his shoulder, the simple intimacy of your body warmth at his side: the comfort of having someone to hold.

The marriage ceremony has concluded days before, and he feels… relief. The sake you shared was on your lips that night, and his cheeks flush as he recalls what followed.

“I like the musicality of it.”

Michikatsu looks at you, an eyebrow raised, running slender fingers over the flute in his hand. He nuzzles your neck, smiling. “More than the koto?”

You twirl a dark lock of his hair between your fingers. “Is that strange to you?”

You’ve known each other since childhood. You’d always been a part of his life, and with fondness he remembers the many escapades through the hills, the passion in your eyes as you raced after him to the despair of your minders, your bruised knees when you fell after a dare.

“I thought you knew by now, that nothing about you is strange to me, Hisami.”

You hum, shifting your weight so he has no choice but to lie down on the futon, his arms around your waist. This closeness feels complete, irreplaceable. He knows this, perhaps he always did.

“So, will you?” you murmur, a teasing finger tracing his lips. “Will you teach me how to play?”

His body tenses at the slight touch, sweet fever melting his senses. Michikatsu buries his face against your neck, breathing in your scent. “Will you have the patience for it?” He knows you, he knows every expression on your face and what it means, the exact places your skin is marked by barely discernible scars from your covert adventures years past.

Your voice bears the slightest reproach, your fingers sifting through his hair, along his scalp, and shudder after shudder races through his nerves. “Do you think so little of me, my husband?”

Your words, though soft, cut him like a blade. It is the first time you refer to him as such, and the sudden, renewed urge to honor and protect and have you overwhelms him. It feels like waking from a shallow dream, the pale imitation of a former existence. The emptiness, the stubborn feeling of inadequacy gripping his mind like pinchers, the restlessness of not knowing a clear path or choosing a purpose are all forgotten, drowned in the murmur of your voice and the urgent beats of your heart against his chest. He tastes the word on your lips, relishing the soft gasps it yields.

“Well?” you ask, eyes closing as he grazes your lower lip with his teeth.

“How about… you let me show you what I think…” he says, a trembling hand grasping your hip.

The sheen of your smile agrees, and he will not—cannot—begrudge you this defeat.

Author note

The name 'Hisami' depending on how it's written can mean 久藤珠 - 'long lasting wisteria gem' or 久藤美 - 'long lasting wisteria beauty'.

Fukashi Castle was the original name of Matsumoto Castle, whose origins go back to the Sengoku period when the Tsugikuni brothers would have lived.

Part III

[st4rbe0m]

SUMMARY ▸ 20 years ago, a gruesome murder shook the town hard. A type of murder that should've never happen, much less in their quaint town. A lovely family killed in cold blood with an unforgiving axe wielding maniac - a mother, a father and a little girl. It's been 20 years down the road, hasn't it? Then why are these 11 teenagers stuck in a loop of the same day, being haunted by a little girl who died 20 years ago?

PAIRING ▸ Park Jongseong (Jay) x reader ; additional pairings between characters as well , multi chapter story

TAG LIST ▸ open!! send an ask to be added

WC ▸ 2.2K

WOULD YOU LIKE TO CONTINUE THE BODY SEARCH ?

▊ yes -> CHAPTER 3

▊ no -> CHAPTER 1

BODY SEARCH MASTERLIST

Kim Sunoo. Nishimura Riki. Park Jongseong. Uchinaga Aeri. Lee Heesung. Sim Jaeyun. Ning Yizhuo. Y/N Y/L/N. Park Sunghoon. Yang Jungwon. 10 teenagers. 10 minutes past midnight. 10 minutes since they’d found themselves mysteriously at the chapel of their school - none of them having memories of how they could have reached there. No, the only memory they had was of a set of jarring texts from an unknown number requesting that they find her. Who the ‘her’ in question was, was not revealed at all. 

“Guys, seriously, this is creeping me the hell out. Where are you guys going?” Giselle voiced her frustrations. Seriously, who the hell splits up like this? Haven’t they watched horror movies? “What’s your favorite scary movie?”, the teasing voice of Lee Heesung whispered into the shell of her ear, not only making goosebumps appear near her skin, but lurching her into a scare. Smacking him with a pout on her face, while the boy just laughed while clutching her hand, the couple that had been dating since the beginning of freshman year just walked behind trusted Park Jongseong, who was also trailed by Y/N and NingNing. NingNing’s nervous eyes kept flitting between Jay and the gloomy darkness around her, a contrast from her confident and approachable appearance at school. During the day, atleast. Who knew what night, this night, in particular could bring? 

“Sunghoon’s wandered off”, Jake mentioned. There was an edge in his voice as he said it, and it even made Jay’s eyes harden under the milky light of the moon. “We’ll find him guys. Let’s figure out what’s happening first maybe?”, NingNing chimed in. Biting her nails, she added, “Even the two underclassmen have wandered off somewhere, and so has Yang.” We’ll get them soon. 

“Look, there’s Sunghoon!”, Y/N said, her voice almost lost like a wisp in the wind. Luckily, Jay and Jake caught on to it, and turned their heads to where Sunghoon stood, in the middle of the soccer field. Motionless, yet slightly trembling. They jogged up to him, the boys yelling out his name. “Sunghoon, Park Sunghoon! Come here!”

Sunghoon turned around to the sound of their clamoring voice, pale skin having dewy drops of sweat beading his forehead. But perhaps, what was most characteristic about him, was the expanding patch of red on his crisp white school uniform. 

He opened his mouth slightly, yet no sound escaped him. He slumped forward while they looked at the garish scene before them. Because it was only the top half of Sunghoon’s body that had slumped forward, jaggedly dismembered torso falling forward onto the blackish grass. 

“What the fuck?!”. “Fuck!”. A scream. And just a gaping jaw. Those were all the reactions the 4 could muster up. With legs propelling them forward at insane speed, Jay and Jake ran to where their deceased friend lay, halting harshly when they saw that Sunghoon’s body wasn’t the only entity on that field.

“Who is that?”. It was Heesung who asked this time. He and Giselle ran over as soon as they’d heard the screams and shouts, and even Sunoo and Riki and Jungwon were running over to them. 

It was obvious who Heesung was referring to, but no way to answer. She looked about 9 years of age. A small silhouette of a girl. There were no discernible features on her face, and all they could make out was a mop of unkempt black hair, greasy and dragging till her ankles. 

None of them wanted to stick around for answers. Not when the little girl took a step forward, barefoot and crunching against the ground. That’s when they felt it, the extreme and spine-chilling bolt of terror. Each of them took off almost immediately, running into the school building, ready to hide in there then have to cross the girl who, despite her size, acted almost like a barricade against the school gate. 

Park Sunghoon was dead. Park Sunghoon was dead and she was probably next. That’s all Y/N could think of as she ran into the school, breathing heavily, trying her best to enter the art classroom, the room she was most familiar with. What Jungwon said while they were running is what plagues her mind.

“It’s happening. It’s the Body Search.”

What the hell even was a Body Search? And frankly she wasn’t planning to stick around here long enough to find out. If it was anything that required what just happened, she’d rather not know. There was a dead silence around the room where she crouched, keeping an eye out by the door. That’s when she heard it. 

Pit. Pat. The sound of two little feet approaching the room she hid in. Pit. Pat.

Pit.Pat.Pit.Pat.Pit.Pat. The feet were running. Running to where she was, ready to tear her apart. 

Her mouth opened, ready to scream, until a veiny, large hand covered her mouth. Wide eyed, she turned to where the hand emerged from. Jay. Crouched under the desk right next to her, he raised a slender finger up to his lips, to signal what she had to do. To be absolutely quiet. To survive. To think. Slowly nodding her head down, she turned back to where the door. In another time, in another situation, she would have blushed hard at what had just happened. But a near-death experience leaves very little room for crushes. 

The feet seemed to be distancing from them, making both Jay and Y/N feel a sense of relief. A relief, that was short lived. Not with Jake’s and Giselle’s simultaneous screams piercing the air. Abruptly getting up from their positions, survival be damned, the two made way down to the hallway where She saw a frozen Giselle, a Jake bleeding out at the landing of the staircase, neck bent at an angle and eyes slack. And Lee Heesung. A Lee Heesung who seemed almost suspended midair, until their eyes traveled down to where the jagged end of the wooden frame of a classroom door seemed to have been struck right through the middle of his chest, blood unceremoniously pooling down to the floor just below him. It’s when her eyes shifted to where Giselle was that Y/N let the scream bubbling inside her go. 

Because, standing with Giselle was a little girl, barely 9 or 10 years old. Matted black hair that reached her ankles, and a body covered in blood. A hand outstretched, that seemed to have passed right into Giselle’s mouth, and emerging from the back of her head - little fingers wiggling in her joy. It seemed that Y/N’s scream delighted her even more, because she gave a Cheshire-like grin on hearing it - pale, crooked teeth forming the most terrifying smile they’d ever seen. Grabbing Y/N’s hand and leaving no second to spare, Jay took off in the opposite direction. He wasn’t going to wait around to see what was to happen to them - in what creative ways this little demented creature could murder them in cold blood. His plan was to reach the chapel where it all began. 

Yang Jungwon was dead. Yang Jungwon was dead, and so were Jake, Giselle, Heesung and Sunghoon. NingNing and the juniors were missing. It was only him and Y/N he cared about right now. 

Sunoo’s panting hard, and his lungs prickle with the burn of exhaustion, as the adrenaline gives away. He’s running and he’s been running for a while now. He lost their senior NingNing a while back - the red smears at the bottom of the staircase led him to believe so. The low visibility isn’t really helping either. He can’t tell where the little girl is either, or where Riki or Jungwon disappeared off to. Run. Running. That’s all he can think of right now.

He reached the shoe rack, the little white cubicles creating a mosaic in front of him. The burn in his lungs has only intensified. “This is a good place to hide”, he thought to himself.

“Hyung!”

Sunoo jumps violently, organs violently lurching inside him. Still no sound of small feet, only Riki, glad to have found his friend in one piece still. Riki quickly sprints to where Sunoo has crouched, a little wooden cubby meant for storing the smaller sports equipment. Riki’s hands are desperate as they grab on to Sunoo - being alive meant something much more important right now. Riki was scared. The tsundere Riki, their class mood maker, a happy go lucky kid was scared right now, and a sense of despair and hopelessness hit Sunoo right in the heart.

But despair, or any emotion was cut short.

Pit, pat. Little red feet. Run. Hide.

Their eyes grow wide simultaneously. Pulling Riki closer by the arm, Sunoo prays with whatever finality he can muster. She must be getting closer, and it’s all he can do right now. Because no matter where they hid, she’d find them. Sniffing out their fear maybe - the thundering hearts and the tremors that shook in their bones.

It’s dead quiet now, and it makes Sunoo’s ears ring slightly. Everything held a bit of horror in it, including the quiet.

“Where did she go?” Sunoo barely mustered up a whisper.

“Do you think she left?”, answered Riki, in an equally low baritone sound, hoping for it to get concealed with the wind, lest they get discovered.

“We should head to the chapel-”

There’s a crash. That’s all that Sunoo registers. The speed and the totality of it was far too much for him to realize the rest. All he knows right now is that she’s here, there was a sound, and the space where Riki was is empty now.

There’s something dripping on his head. Where’s Riki? Where’s the Little Red Girl? Where’s Riki? Where’s the Little Red Girl?

He looks up to the source of the mysterious liquid dripping onto his head - only to lock eyes with Riki’s lifeless ones.

“Fuck, what the hell is that?”. Jay’s frustrated and scared. So fucking scared. His best friends are dead. “Do you think we might find answers in the chapel?”, the quiet voice of Y/N Y/L/N cut through in the frenzy in his mind. His childhood friend, whom he’d grown estranged from, had no idea what she was like now. But he knew who she was before - a daisy in a lawn. A force of nature that made the shy, new kid in the neighborhood Jay feel more welcome than he ever did when he moved to Korea from the States. She inspired him, in a way, to be the Jay of today. And she didn’t know that at all. Realising his silence, he cleared his throat and answered - “Well I hope. This is all madness.”

The medbay was silent as they sat there, trying to catch their breaths. The adrenaline was starting to wear off, and the exhaustion was catching on, considering their sweaty bodies and their panting breaths. 

“She’s here.”

Y/N says it with grim finality, while Jay still cranes his head to hear where the little girl could be? “How do you know?”, Jay turns to look at the teary-eyed Y/N. Sobs are sputtering out of her mouth now, faster as tears stream down her face. Alarmed by this new development in her emotion, he opens his mouth but Y/N cuts him right off. “Jay, I’m sorry. She’s behind you.” 

The alarm is harsh in its morning call. It’s blaring and blaring, and bleary eyed Y/N wakes up drenched in cold sweat. This isn’t right. 

“Your dad already left, so I’m planning to drop his lunch off at his office later. I made fried tempura prawns today, way too many I think. Share them with your friends, alright?

This isn't right. This isn't adding up. There’s something wrong. She saw all this happen, in a dream? No. That can’t be. Something’s wrong.

The bus pulls back and the cat yowls, and then students gather near its dead body. It’s wrong already, but she knows something is off when she makes eye contact with a certain Park Jay, who’s eyes mirror the same discomfort on her face. 

“What do you know then, Jungwon?”

They’re all huddled by the stairwell - All 10, seemingly alive considering the gruesome ways they all died last night. It was Jungwon asking the question, flanked by Giselle and NingNing on the other side. Jungwon is nervous too - glasses slipping on the bridge of his nose and wringing his hands around. Even the juniors joined them - staring hard. 

“Well. I’m not sure about this alright? But I’ve read some books about occult practices and hauntings before. Based on our situation, well.”

“Fucking spit it out.” Park Sunghoon harshly said, his body while seeming nonchalant against the railings, seemed to be shaking in some sort of feeling - fear, but also anger. Maybe the absolute bone-chilling realization that you’re repeating the same day.

“I think we’re participating in the Body Search!”. The words tumble out of Jungwon’s mouth in a nervous ball left for the rest to untangle. 

[caniwkaeup]

today i went to the creative writing club and the prompt was: write about a street. this one was a 10 minute exercise.

"there are three buildings on this street. the food shop, the clothing shop, and the third one is untouched. some residents refer to the street as "Two Stop," where there are technically three buildings but only two desirable ones.

as far as our history is concerned, no one willed this arrangement into being. it was a cosmic phenomenon, perhaps.

i have a schedule I follow every day, and i deem nothing worth enough value to deviate from it. i wake up, go to the food shop, then the clothing shop, then I go to the next block to come home. everyone is me, and i am everyone.

my spouse has a much different life; they are a contrarian of sorts. it goes like this:

1.) wake up

2.) clothing shop

3.) food shop

4.) go to the next block to come home.

i hope that one day, my love wakes up from this garish lifestyle. the third shop ha[d] caught their interest once. In a soft voice, one night, they turned to me and said, "the third shop is a shop that makes more shops."'

-

this speaks to my political as well as my philosophical interest. there are a vast number of schools of morality, each defining different objects with different values. in this case, i pursue the question of value on a micro-scale: is a simple but consistent and stable life worth more than an adventurous, tumultuous life with risk?

the mystery surrounding the third shop intends to capture the paradoxical nature of the above question. one who figures out the complicated and messy parts of life has already deemed the complexity worth it.

in the poem, everyone is disinterested in new things. the last sentence alludes to expansionist, growth mindsets and it is left to interpretation whether this is good or bad. in excess, it's greedy and self-serving. without it, there is no say whether life can get better.

[quartercirclejab]

the vapid perfection of david s pumpkins

the halloween season is upon us, and prompted by a conversation i recently had about holiday characters, i come to you now on this tuesday night to bestow one of my half-clever pearls of wisdom:

the SNL character David S. Pumpkins is the perfect mascot for Halloween in the 21st century

for those of us unfamiliar, David S. Pumpkins is a character from a 2016 episode of Saturday Night Live, appearing in a Halloween sketch called "Haunted Elevator" and played by episode guest star Tom Hanks

the joke, in a nutshell, is that nothing about the character of David S. Pumpkins makes sense. he's not scary in the way actors in a haunted house usually are, and everything about him- from the garish suit, to the bride-of-frankenstein streak of white in his hair, to the b-boying skeletons- is only related to Halloween by vague adherence to a general theme. the guests insists that they don't get it, they demand to know what his "deal" is, unable to grasp that he has no deal- he's just David Pumpkins, man. and the skeletons, by their own admission, are "part of it."

but i submit to you that this walking non-sequitur is the most perfect representation of modern Halloween to emerge so far this century

there was a time when Halloween had a deeper meaning to most Americans. even those that didn't consider themselves especially spiritual recognized that the holiday had ties to the traditional harvest festivals of old, and an air of persistent superstitiousness lingered into contemporary times, well past the time when many were beginning to dismiss such beliefs (a phenomenon famously put to film by the 1993 cult class "Hocus Pocus")

the turn of the century, however, marked a strict departure into powerful commercialism. Halloween shifted into a mostly secular occasion to dress up and party, a holiday that exists not out of observation of the Solstice or the Equinox, but rather for its own sake

David S. Pumpkins is the avatar of this way of thinking, this transformation of Halloween from Ceremony to Celebration

clad in a cheap polyester suit that wouldn't be out of place on Party City's clearance rack (perhaps labeled "Pumpkin Man" or "Spooky Suit") and accompanied by hastily (read: cheaply) assembled b-boying skeletons, the character reflects what Halloween has become. the holiday isn't about any kind of harvest festival, or even about being scary in particular. to the 21st century American, Halloween is about Halloween- references to universal symbols like pumpkins and bats and ghosts for the sake of the fact that the symbols themselves are known to be shorthand for Halloween, rather than anything they might actually represent. even the costumes themselves signify nothing except themselves, serving as a play opportunity for children, and a party admission stamp for adults

our modern Halloween is a xerox of a xerox, an endlessly reflecting funhouse mirror out of which David S. Pumpkins has stepped, fully formed and self-evident

he's the perfect Halloween mascot for the modern age. and that's why we love him.

[violivs]

NMTDaily: Preparing for Pedro’s Party

- There is SO much clever symbolism in this episode that I didn’t get before. Get ready!

- Aww I love this episode, it’s so sweet to see the girls just being sweet friends having fun.

- Justice for Ursula, they should’ve invited her over to raid the costume closet too!

- Do we know what the occasion is for Pedro’s party? Is it his birthday or something? Or is it just a classic teenage “my parents will be out so I’m throwing a party for no reason other than opportunity” situation?

- Oh my GOD Meg no. I forgot about “nude bodysuits are the worst” “I don’t have to wear the bodysuit!”

- Bea and Meg hugs are cute!

- “You can dress as whatever you want as long as I approve of it” classic overbearing Bea.

- I am CERTAIN that Beatrice’s devil horns are a Much Ado reference but I can’t remember the particulars. 😈 🧐 Isn’t it like, horns represent the cuckold so Benedick swears you’ll never see him with horns in his head like a married man? I feel like that’s talking about bull horns rather than devil horns- but Hero is also brandishing a red cape like a bullfighter in this moment so that works too! This is definitely a reference.

- “Making a point” love a good pun lol

- That is significantly more wigs than I ever had in my dress up box growing up. (Well- mine were Ariel wig, Rapunzel wig, and witch hat with grey hair attached, I guess that’s kinda three wigs, so we are at equal wig numbers. Wig tangent!)

- Bea holding up a leather and metal belt thing and Meg saying “oh that’s mine”. Margaret you are too young to be making that kind of joke. I am shocked!

- “I could be a lion” *roars while wearing a lace curtain as a mane* - see, something about this reminds me so much of the Mechanicals from A Midsummer Night’s Dream and their makeshift costumes. Love that.

- Beatrice’s horrible pink dress that looks like a sea monster also reminds me of a flamingo! 🦩🦩🦩

- I was gonna say imagine Ben’s reaction if Bea went to the party as a flamingo in that dress. But then I realized he might still be watching Bea’s videos at this point in the story, and even if not, he IS still gonna get to see her in this dress when they watch back all the videos together at the end, lol. “You’re a beautiful flamingo!” - Ben, reacting to the dress and making Bea blush, in my headcanon I just made up right now.

- Meg, kind of staring at Bea’s cleavage in the pink dress: “I love it!”

Hero: “I’m sure you do”

Look, maybe this was more slut shaming, but in MY head, this was just the first sign that made us all think Meg was bisexual- and Hero knew it.

- “Pink is scientifically the most painful color for the human eye to look at, so. Enjoy.”

- Punk Hero! Yeah girl, step out of your comfort zone for a night!

- They really are laying on Meg’s characterization as the sexual and outrageous one in this episode. The jokes she makes, trying to get Hero to unbutton an extra button. It makes me worry about her, how that can be used against her, and we know that worry is unfortunately well founded.

- “You’ve gotta hunt him down-“ “Like a PREDATOR” poor Bea is so uncomfortable with the dating/flirting talk and trying to diffuse it here, I almost feel bad for laughing

- “I just don’t think anyone’s that awkward around me. I think I just bring out the best in people.” Never lose that self-confidence, Meg! (Also, this line has def been juxtaposed with Freddie’s anxiety to show how Winterking could work in the lolilo era of the fandom- I think I made one of those edits myself.)

- Meg’s spiky hat after the next cut is giving Dalek tbh

- Oh man, I’m obsessed with Beatrice’s Benedick cosplay. Like, he does have a garish space cat shirt, but when have we ever seen him wear a hat apart from the Where’s Wally sketch, which Bea isn’t supposed to have watched? And he only wears sunglasses once, during a video that has not happened yet. But somehow she expects everyone to get who she’s making fun of right away? And they do?

- Also it’s a great example of how she clearly has Benedick on the brain. Why did you bring Ben up again, apropos of nothing, right after Hero was talking about the boy *she* likes? I see you, Beatrice.

- Love that not only can she not do his accent, she also can’t help making him sound like an annoying small child or an elf or something, lol.

- Wait oh my god! I just noticed that throughout this video, Beatrice is wearing a black watch! Just like the one Ben wears! Somehow I never noticed Bea’s watch before, even though I always notice Ben’s and think how quaint and old-fashioned it is of him to wear an analog wristwatch. I love that. Costuming parallels. Soulmates.

- Beatrice doing the Ben voice: “Yo!”

Meg: “No.”

Ben, in the video description of literally the next video: “yo yo yo!”

Lol amazing she nailed his brand of utter cringe

- “It’s beautiful!” “No, it’s heinous!” “I think that you should never take it off.”

- Can I be overly literal and point out that Hero just said Bea should never take off the shirt that represents Benedick, and then (spoilers) Bea is gonna actually literally proceed to be life partners with Ben forever after? I.e. never taking him off. Squee! It’s a very adorable (heinous?) metaphor!!!

- And it reminds me of “you are too fine to wear for everyday use”, Beatrice comparing another suitor to clothing in the play while shooting him down.

- “Oh, bucket hat? Always!”

- Hero with the boots: “I just want someone to dress up as a cowboy so they can wear these.” Remember this line for the party episodes and look out for cowboys 👀 There will be one!

- Beatrice the ironic/as-a-joke princess! A great moment, a great character choice.

- Also obsessed with her “that’s creeping me out” about wearing a bridal veil and holding a green wig bouquet. TCW found a way to make modern Beatrice say she’ll never marry without actually saying she’ll never marry. Adaptational choices!

- Meg puts the devil horns on Hero and says “I really love you in that” and Hero says “I don’t know about this.” Holy symbolism Batman! Literally visually foreshadowing her being villainized against her will. Wow.

- “Boys, Leo, we’re talking about boys! Come and join us!” Lol

- I always crack up at Leo’s terrible helmet-ass hat hair when they take off his cap. I’m sorry buddy, you need a brush.

- I also love them putting him in the cape and clown wig. He IS about to be clowning hard when the rest of the plot unfolds.

- Bea calling Leo an old man and I am suddenly very relieved to do the math and figure that Leo is still chronologically older than me, even though I’m older now than he was during NMTD. I was about to become the crypt keeper otherwise, my god.

- This is interesting too because now the girls already know Leo thought Pedro liked Hero, so they should be able to head off Claudio’s confusion ahead of time. Why don’t they?

- Also interesting that Leo assumes Bea would be jealous of Hero dating Pedro. That would probably piss Bea off, like “quit assuming I have a crush on every guy I’m nice to, that’s so reductive”. It’s another example of her feeling like the idea of dating is being forced on her.

- We definitely get a taste of Leo’s patriarchal view of Hero and need to pass judgement on her dating life here. Even otherwise good men are steeped in the patriarchy and take certain ideas from that that can quickly turn toxic. The themes of the play are being seeded here. Onward!

- Comment section boogaloo: lots of comments loving Leo and the setup of his character for what’s to come; discussion of how most of this episode was improvised by the actors; comparisons to Darcy Costume Theater from the LBD.

- Best comment award goes to DillyBlue from two months ago, saying “Hero, forget Claudio, Meg is clearly into you!”

- We all see the vision and the vision is that Meg Winter likes girls.

🦩🥭💖

[jamespotterthefirst]

Ugly Sweater (Ethan x MC)

Book: Open Heart, Year 2 Pairing: Dr. Ethan Ramsey x F!MC (Dr. Lilac Allende) Word count: 780 Rating/ Warning: T/ Reference to adult situations

Premise: He convinces her to abandon Bryce Lahela’s Christmas party

The faint but ecstatic mix of music, laughter, and cheering grew louder as Ethan approached Lahela's red brick building. With every step, he wondered why he had accepted the surgeon's invitation to his Christmas party. The mere fact that the prospective party had staff and patients talking about it all week was warning enough. The noise permeating the cold, night air reassured him the event was far from his style.

He was a few steps away from the stoop, a bottle of expensive wine safely tucked under his arm, when he caught sight of something colorful and bright. It was too dark to make out exactly what he was looking at but it was far too small to be Christmas décor. Garish, blinking lights of red and green turned his direction.

“You came.”

Someone was wearing said lights.

“I should be offended you accepted Bryce's party invite and not mine.”

Even without the reference from well over a year ago, Ethan would have recognized that voice anywhere.

“What the hell are you wearing?”

Ethan had reached the bottom step now. He could clearly see Lilac leaning casually against the railing, donning the ugliest sweater he had ever seen. The blinking lights weren't even the worst part. Tinsel, pom-poms, and even plastic ornaments exploded from every surface.

“It looks like Christmas vomited on you.”

Lilac rolled her eyes but laughed. She met him at the bottom of the stoop with an unabashed grin.

“I took the Ugly Christmas Sweater theme very seriously.”

“Clearly.”

Though Ethan enjoyed teasing her, the truth was that even in the revolting sweater, Lilac looked as stunning as ever. The golden light of the nearby streetlight cast her pretty features in a golden light. He was all but mesmerized by the pink glow the bitter cold left on her cheeks, lips, and nose.

She stopped at the second step and even with the added height, Ethan still towered over her. Her gloved hands landed on the lapels of his coat.

“You took it seriously, too.”

Ethan glanced down at his maroon sweater.

“This is just my regular sweater.”

“I know.”

Lilac laughed at her own joke, growing far more amused at Ethan's stony expression. He broke a smile soon enough, however, finding it impossible to remain unmoved when her beautiful laughter serenaded him. Now that their banter had reached a pause, she leaned in to kiss his cheek in greeting.

“I'm glad you're here,” she informed him. “Bryce’s surgeon friends keep trying to catch me under the mistletoe. I had to come out here to get away.”

Ethan raised his brows at that.

“Bryce will kill you for not staying on-theme.”

“I don't own any Christmas sweaters or pajamas.”

 He made a mental note to come back to these audacious surgeons.

“Neither did I,” she challenged. “I made this sweater last minute.”

“Pajamas were out of the question?”

A wicked glimmer lit her eyes, her smile turning coy. She moved impossible closer so that only a hairsbreadth separated them.

“I couldn’t wear my usual pajamas. You already know what I wear to bed.”

Every part of Ethan's body stiffened at the mental image. Lilac had spent many nights in his bed so he knew very well what she wore— or rather, what she didn't wear.

He cleared his throat.

“You can do that in my bedroom later,” he said huskily. It was a wonder his voice remained steady. Though, if he could go back in time, he'd choose words that were slightly less idiotic.

Lilac didn't mind, however, because she dropped all pretense and kissed him. Ethan matched her passionate movements, almost dropping the wine as his hands rushed to grip her every curve. When her tongue teased his bottom lip, he pulled back briefly.

“Come home with me.”

“Doctor Ramsey,” she said, impressed. “Are you always this forward at parties?”

“Only with you.”

“What about the party?”

He shrugged, eyes fixed on hers.

“I was only here hoping to see you.”

Lilac blushed, unable to contain a beaming smile.

“Skip the party, Allende,” he pressed with a lopsided smirk that visibly worked. For good measure, he lifted up the bottle that was intended for the party behind them. “I have wine.”

Without waiting for a reply, he leaned in to kiss her neck.

“I also have a hot tub,” he added in a whisper. “And an impressive floor where we can drop that dreadful sweater of yours.”

She shivered.

“Bryce will kill us.”

“He’d understand.”

His lips pressed another kiss to the column of her neck.

“He’d say something about a player playing the game.”

Lilac’s laughter reverberated against his lips.

“Okay,” she said with a giddy laugh. “Take me home, Doctor.”

Notes: Just a little something to get my creativity back to speed (hopefully). 

The funniest thing is that I picture this happening in book 2 when they still don’t know about Ethan and Lilac. They just know she left to get some bomb mystery d***. And they said “good for her”

Also, why do I want to write them in that hot tub now.

Shoutout to my Twin @takeharryandgo​. We both HC our MCs wearing the most obnoxious Christmas sweaters imaginable lol. Thank you anon for that ask! You inspired this one! 

Thank you so much for reading!