#I don’t think I sounded unhinged about it but man that was such a ‘phrase that awakens me like a sleeper agent’ moment

[artemisiatridentata]

today a couple of my coworkers mentioned they’re watching the x files and that they’re on season 3 and they “love the chemistry between mulder and scully” and “can’t wait to see where it goes” and it took everything in me not to let out a wilhelm scream

[porcalinecunt]

boothill punishing reader for calling him ‘just a fucktoy’ so he turns them into one :3

𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐀 𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊𝐓𝐎𝐘!

🪽 ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ friendly banter often devolved into mean spirited teasing, but there’s a fine line that you regretfully cross. Or did you?

·˚ ◌༘͙[featuring] ! ˊ 𝐁𝐎𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐗 𝐆𝐍!𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑

cw — mean dom! boothill. window sex. degradation. overstimulation. humiliation kink. biting. dumbification(?)

◛⑅·˚ ༘ ♡ author’s note! : ignore the fact that i forgot boothill cannot curse SHHHHH. but it’s finally done and im too tired to proofread this ;-;

friendly banter was a given in your relationship with boothill. you couldn’t help yourself to the free entertainment as the cyborg was forced to get creative with the troublesome filtering system that was installed in his mechanical body, much to his annoyance. 

every swear word he spat out, every nasty phrase that’d slip off his tongue would become the polor opposite. it’d make you chuckle a bit hearing him call you the sweetest names with reluctance in his voice. 

you on the other hand, often have a whole field day with it. spewing out sarcastic and maybe creative remarks just to rile him up even more, only to burst out laughing at his failed comebacks. it was a constant spit for spat that would last until one of you gave up and ended it with a soft make out session or cuddling in your shared bedroom. however, there’s an invisible line in the sand, one you wished you could’ve seen. 

another back and forth, like usual. as the more aggressive you got with boothill, so does your language. you teetered on the edge of your own teeth, slowing coming at his little fuck up’s like his heavily filtered system and his obnoxious munching of his own bullets. the ranger would shoot back with his own attempts, only passing off sarcastic and subtle remarks about that mouth of yours. the tension in the air only grew thicker and thicker before your words finally cut it in two. 

“I dunno why you should be talkin’ bootie, after all, you're just a fucktoy! ♡”

a cackle bursted from your lungs, as you tried to catch your breath. while you were stuck in a state of victory from having the last laugh, you didn’t quite catch the sudden silence that washed over the room until a chill shot at the back of your neck. turning your head, you were met with an unamused boothill, jaw clenched and eyes burning holes into your skull. your laugh diminished into tiny nervous sounds as the machine promptly marched his way to you, ignoring your babbles and apologies as your back pressed against the wall. you understood quickly that despite the unhinged nature of your verbal play fights, there’s a line that shouldn’t be crossed. 

a raspy chuckle tickled your eardrums. “me? a fucktoy? now look who’s talkin’ sweet thing..” 

boothill, now wearing a hungry grin on his lips, promptly threw you over his shoulder with a harsh smack! on your ass. before you could protest, you were chucked onto the nearest soft furniture he saw, in this case being the couch. 

the window in front of it showing off a dazzling view of Penacony, the perfect place to show you off. it didn’t take long for your clothes to be torn clean off by his metal fingers and discarded on the floor while you whined loudly. something that warranted a palm over your pouty lips. 

“shh, now now doll..i don’t think fucktoys can speak. Now can they?” 

he spoke with faux sympathy traced in his tone, as you could only lie there helplessly while his cold hands traced your delicate flesh. boothill was an unpredictable man, some nights he takes it easy while the others have his more cynical nature leak through, tonight being the latter. you screwed your eyes shut once pleasure crawled through your skin, the ranger prying and poking at every sensitive corner of your body. from his ice cold fingers pinching your hard nipples, to his shark-like teeth nipping at your neck. 

“a-sll this..over an insul–” 

“shut it.” 

you flinched, unable to prepare yourself for what the machine had in store for you. you nearly forgot how hard he can be, until you felt something poking at your thighs. 

seven rounds, and he had yet to stop.

your jaw went slack so long ago, nothing but incoherent words and pleading coming out of your fucked out mouth. the taste of his spit lingered on your tongue which rolled out and is now pressed against the glass with the rest of your naked body.

“Ah..! B-Boothill! T-They’ll see uh—us!”

you whimpered, unable to string two words together without a sharp thrust ripping another sound out of your throat. through blurred vision, you could see Golden Hour in all its glory, praying that nobody spots your ilicit act with the ranger. your knees buckled, already weak from how long you’ve been standing without a break as boothill snapped his hips against yours while his teeth sunk into your shoulder for what seemed like the upteenth time.

“you think i give a crap doll? now keep that pretty mouth shut like i asked.”

he hissed in your ear, squeezing the plush of your thighs that were littered with teeth marks. you mewled, feeling the knot in your stomach snapping once again and throwing you into another intense orgasm. your hand curled up into a tight fist, almost banging itself against the foggy glass as stars filled your vision. a raspy chuckle was all you could hear, courtesy of an insatiable and spiteful boothill. he watched as you lost balance and fell onto his metal chest, breathing heavily between sobs.

“awee..~ tired already, doll?”

he cooed, you just wanted to sock his stupid smirk off his face. instead, you pouted, letting out an annoyed whine as you squirmed from his cock simply sitting inside you without moving an inch.

“maybe watch that tongue next time, hon’. then i’ll go easy on ya.”

he laughs, before pressing your limp body against the messy glass again and snapping his hips against yours with his relentless pace. feeling your brain melting from the overwhelming amount of cock he’s stuffing into you, you could only hang on for dear life as boothill made you eat your own words.

quite literally too.

© porcalinecunt 🪽ᯓᡣ𐭩ྀི do not steal, translate, or use my work and claim as your own.

[bettsfic]

hi it’s me again! i finished the kennedy book half an hour ago and i am still reeling.

you weren’t kidding about the last chapters. like the farewell party is a bittersweet anecdote, but then the epilogue is just absolutely crushing. what a brutal note to end on. the true endpoint is the paragraph in the acknowledgements where he thanks his coauthor for freeing him from the emotional prison he was in. phrase practically verbatim. like oh my god.

that thing you said about what’s not said really did nail the sort of very careful sidestepping of….giving his opinions, maybe? there is just a very deliberate sort of distance with which he describes any events, and so you really notice the barest hints of something more. (more than anyone can ever know, mr. hill? care to elaborate??? it’s the implication that they kept many secrets together and also his enduring loyalty to her that keeps us from learning hardly any of them.) i was reminded of the perception of the kennedys as american royalty because he really talks about her like she was a queen. jackie kennedy through his lens is beautiful and gracious and willful and truly given the royal treatment.

speaking of the royalty metaphor, aristotle onassis is two steps from being a mustache-twirling villain hoping that our brave knight clint hill dies a watery death under a yacht??? unprompted??? like, man. come on. honestly there’s a fascinating emotional thread in here about how he can only fully express feelings of protectiveness when they’re expressed by the president first.

anyway. this is a long ask. sorry. i feel like i should have something profound to say about the assassination chapters because of how significant the event is in history but i don’t yet. i probably sound unhinged but man. this was real life and this is how he chose to tell this story. what even was that.

THANK YOU.

re: last chapters: i want to look into what happened between him and his coauthor (they're married now!) but i haven't yet. i'm still feeling my feelings about the whole thing. can you imagine not reading the acknowledgements?? the acknowledgements that provide the only ounce of comfort amid the hurt of the last third of the book??

re: "MORE THAN ANYONE CAN EVER KNOW": i purposefully haven't shared that quote because divorced from its context you don't get the impact. to me that says he either totally had a thing with her but won't talk about it because he's an honorable man, in the same way he won't offer any kind of "no yeah the warren report was bullshit and the shots came from two different directions" confirmation, or he wants us to *think* something happened even if it didn't. i mean it's not like it was a secret that JFK and Jackie had affairs with other people. a great many of those people have written memoirs specifically about boning one or more of the Kennedys. so many in fact that it's basically a subgenre.

also there's some irony in the way he depicts Jackie. she didn't like to be written about. at all. ever. and there's more than one instance where he's, you know, an 80 year old man being a bit patronizing (in an otherwise very sensitively and thoughtfully written book), with all the mentions of mischief and little-girlishness. and so i keep thinking about how Jackie would have felt about this particular depiction, which despite the glossy nostalgia over the whole thing and I Love Lucy-esque antics, is a pretty nuanced depiction, at least compared to others i've read. he manages to revere her, nearly worship her, but still portray her vices, not as faults but as even more reasons he loved her. i don't know, man. it just feels weird to stumble upon a true story of what i thought were fictional feelings.

re: "he can only fully express feelings of protectiveness when they’re expressed by the president first": HOLY SHIT YOU'RE RIGHT. i'm still thinking about that scene where he takes the film out of that photographer's camera and JFK is just like, "ummm we can't make it seem like we're denying the press access to us, so we're gonna have to blame you," which prompted Hill to question his professional loyalty to the president against his personal loyalty to Jackie, and also it made me think, what would happen if he had to shoot someone? would he get blamed for that too? was he really only there as a human shield, able to protect but not truly defend?

re: "what even was that": WHAT EVEN WAS THAT.

[paganwitchisis]

The Price of Freedom Chapter 4

Chapter 4: Intimacy and Confessions

Rated E for EXPLICIT!!

Word count: 3,752

Warnings for whole story: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT! Abuse, torture, smut, oral sex, rape, healing, beatings, dismemberment, breeding kink, act 3 spoilers, canon divergence, blood, violence, graphic depictions (It is Cazador after all)

Previous chapter - here

You're on chapter 4

Next chapter - here

AO3 link is here!

RATED 18 PLUS

“Well, you know the saying? Don’t look a gift mimic in the mouth!….Or… something like that…”

Astarion chuckled “Horse…mimic….what’s the difference? They both bite.”

Tav looked at him confused, but Astarion just dismissed his correction of her phrase. For a few more hours, Astarion and Tav spoke on things that were now necessary, as well as informing her what he told Karlach and Shadowheart in regards to the limiter that Cazador put into his spawn. This seemed to enrage the woman.

“When we get back, I know you have qualms about Gale for…other reasons, but can he see if he can remove this limiter? If we can make you stronger, it may help us to get the last Netherstone.” Tav purposely avoided mentioning the upcoming fight with Cazador. Her and Astarion had been fighting as of late over what to do with the Rite of Profane Ascension. Astarion was using fear to push him into thinking he needed to making a choice in seizing the power, but Tav, fearful for another reason, objected. She was afraid of what would happen to the sweet man sharing the bedroll with her right now. She never did like the idea of making deals with any devil or entity, and this would also irk her because that was what this rite was. It was a deal. Sacrifice souls just to gain power? Sounds like a recipe waiting to go wrong. What if Astarion lost his soul? She never spoke that fear out loud.

“Tch….fine” Astarion obviously disapproved of having Gale work magic on him and try to ‘fix’ him, but with a child on the way, he wasn’t going to squander any chance he got to gain an edge over anyone who would hurt his family. “Now, we really should talk about this baby. With the new addition, we’re going to have to watch it with the fighting. I know you’re our fighter, but if we have Karlach or Lae’zel with us, you won’t need to be in the crossfire so much. I’ll have your back, of course, and then you can throw a spell caster if you like, or…whomever in, but I would really appreciate my ma…um…lover and our child were safe. We’re near the end, I can’t…I won’t let anything happen to you.” Tav looped her arms around the pale elf’s neck and brought him closer. She kissed his jawline and asked something she was wondering before tackling the potential argument about her and fighting.

“You were going to call me mate, weren't you? Like what the other guy called me. Why? What does that mean, exactly?” Tav brought her hand up to Astarion’s face and rubbed the soft pad of her thumb over his cheek bone. Astarion shifted his eyes to look anywhere but her when he began to answer.

“It’s silly.”

Tav moved her arms so that she was hugging the pale elf and squeezed him lightly, urging him to continue. Astarion held her back, burying his face in the crook of her neck. He raised his head slightly to speak to her ear. “It was…suggested among the spawn that vampires only have one real mate. One real person out there who was meant just for you. Like a soulmate, I suppose. Of course, like most things, Cazador overheard or knew of our discussion. He was rarely as unhinged as that day. From what I could gather, something happened with his master regarding that subject back when he was a spawn, and because of that, all talk of mates or believing we would ever find love was stricken. Cazador tortured us for a good decade for that transgression. He would only force potions on us to lure back our victims. Sometimes I still feel like I have phantom pains of left over glass in my skin or…Well…You know what he is like.”

Tav held him tighter and drew her leg up and over his before she replied. “Do you think I’m your mate?”

Astarion pulled back to finally look her in the eyes and pushed his lips against hers hard. Their mouths moved in perfect sync as they deepened the kiss. Of course Astarion pulled away, aware of her fragile state before his kiss would deprive her of oxygen. Astarion spoke against her lips once he pulled away.

“You’re my everything, so how could you not be my mate? I…I never even acknowledged that term until the other vampire mentioned it. I…I wasn’t sure if it was something real…if the word and term were real until then. Does it bother you if I call you that? Or that I feel that way?”

Tav shook her head no immediately before bringing her body flush to his. Astarion held her tighter and kissed her neck, her cheek and finally her lips again.

“I’d love to be your mate, Astarion, but you can only call me it if I can reciprocate and call you it back. For so long we weren't exactly sure where we stood. With the baby…it will be nice to call you that. If you feel comfortable with me calling you my mate back, I mean. I’m not a vampire but…”  

Astarion took her lips again as he considered how bruised he would leave her lush mouth. Astarion whispered against her lips his reply since he cut her off.

“I am forever grateful your heart beats, my love, but to answer your question? Please. Please call me your mate.” Astarion barely got the words out before he set his lips back on his mate’s. Tav couldn’t help the low moan that slipped out which earned Shadowheart’s ire.

“Don’t make me create water over you both…cold water.” Shadowheart threatened.

Astarion smirked and brought his arms around his mate snugly. “Hear that, darling? We may have to conserve body heat if Shadowheart makes good on her threat.” Astarion taunted with a lewd grin, eliciting mirthful giggles from Tav. This made Astarion give off a genuine smile of his own. Astarion reached over to his bag and grabbed his waterskin as he held it out to his mate who greedily devoured the clear liquid. Astarion figured she would need some considering how often he shared her lips and her current injuries.

“You know, I have no qualms about fighting smarter, but I won’t remove myself from fighting, by the way. I also won’t pull back to the back line just because I’m pregnant now. This may be your child, but it is still my body and decision. I’m willing to compromise though. Maybe I’ll pull back to the middle instead of the front lines if we use Karlach as the meat-shield.” Tav whispered to a frowning vampire.

“I heard that! You better be behind me with my niece or nephew on board!” Karlach yelled from her bed roll on the other side of the room. How she heard was anyone’s guess. Astarion still chuckled nonetheless at Tav’s groan of frustration when it seemed others were against her being near the front lines again.

“As long as you’re safe…both of you. That is all I care about, darling.” Astarion muttered against her lips and held her close, his hands resting on her backside as he pressed her flush against his body. Tav stifled another moan or they would suffer Shadowheart’s irritation once more.

That night, the couple didn’t really talk much about the baby, or the threat that it posed to her health by existing.  Astarion worried about all of this, of course, but this was a conversation best left for the comforts of privacy.  Astarion and Tav merely cuddled and held each other that night, frequently Astarion held Tav to his chest. Her back to his his front and he held her snugly while whispering sweet nothings in her ear as she drifted to sleep. Astarion went into his trance shortly after as he clutched her to him tightly. His last thoughts before falling into his trance was how much she mattered to him and dare he say, possibly love her, but he wasn’t ready to have that conversation yet. He was getting closer day after day, especially after this revelation, but he still wasn’t sure what love was. One day he thought he would know and could tell her, as he was fairly certain she had claimed his undead heart, but not yet…soon.

About four hours later, Astarion awoke from his trance to see his mate sleeping peacefully in his arms. Astarion smiled and watched her turn and snuggle into him some more. He wrapped an arm around her, and for the next few hours, thought about being a father and what that meant to him. He thought about the future and what he could do after the fall of the Absolute to provide for his child. He knew that they were butting heads as of late about the Rite of Profane Ascension, but if he could steal Cazador’s work and walk in the sun…imagine the future he could gift his heir? On the flip side, if he was constrain to the shadows again, if he was just a spawn and powerless. What kind of example would that set, and how could he protect his family with meager strength? He knew she would disagree, but Astarion was afraid. He was afraid of a future where he couldn’t provide for his family, or a future where he couldn’t protect them.

“I love you, Astarion.” Tav whispered in her sleep and snuggled into Astarion’s chest all the more tightly. Astarion may have never known what a home felt like, but this felt like it to him and no matter what may come, he would do anything to protect it. The future still wasn’t set and he still respected his mate’s opinion but if Cazador ever got wind of her and what she carried, let alone her impact to him…No. He refused to think of a future without her. A future where his old master would sink his claws into all he cared for. Hells, he almost lost them today. He couldn’t get the memories and the feeling of her life essence hitting the palm of his hand as it struggled to escape her throat and out of his hands. Astarion was distressed, and in the early morning hours, merely half an hour or so before the rising of the sun, Astarion felt the intense need for privacy with his love. The need to seek comfort with her and remind himself of her life and her beating heart. Astarion knew she needed sleep, so instead he rested his head on her chest so her strong and consistent heartbeat could lull him to a better sense of calm than what he was currently experiencing.   

“What’s wrong, love?” Astarion heard in his head and realized Tav was speaking to him with the help of the tadpole. Her eyes were open and she gazed at him lovingly, a small smile on her lips as she drew close and kissed his cheek when he rose his head to look at her. Her kiss was too much and not enough all at once. His chest was tight and a sob almost escaped him as the dam almost broke through of his emotions. Astarion leaned forward and although gentle because of her injuries, he took her mouth quickly and caged himself over her. Thankfully, Shadowheart and Karlach had long been asleep, so he didn’t have to worry about disapproving glances.

Astarion couldn’t help the very low moan escape him as his tongue entered her mouth nor his hips slowly rocking against hers. He smiled into his kiss to find her pushing back into his hips and kissing back as hard if not harder, her leg then coming out to hook around his waist. Astarion pulled his lips back to kiss her jaw line while he communicated via the tadpole.

“We need to stop, my sweet. The others….although normally I wouldn’t care…I…your noises and body are mine. I don’t feel like sharing.”

Tav knew better, of course, she knew for a bit that something was bothering him, but she dared not call him out on it.

“Let’s go to the other room.” Tav suggested via the tadpole. No sooner had she suggested it did strong arms encircle her waist, and with his rogue-like skills, quietly left the room with her as she wrapped her legs around his waist. The door was closed behind them and Astarion put her down gently before he pushed a table against the doors for privacy. Thankfully the doors were near the table so he didn’t make much noise, so when they stilled for a moment after, there was no movement being heard on the other side of the door. Astarion closed the distance between the two and passionately took Tav’s lips again while his hands made quick work of her trousers before he pushed them down along with her undergarments. Tav moaned deeply but jumped when she felt dexterous fingers enter her and the man growl against her lips.

“You’re not wet enough, dear.” Astarion huskily said as he started to lay down.

“Well, I did just wake up…” Tav replied while Astarion gripped her hips and brought her closer to his face.

“Let’s fix this. Sit on my face. Let me taste you. You taste so damn good.” Astarion’s hard on was evident in his trousers as his hips gyrated occasionally. Tav was going to reply but whatever words she had died on her tongue when Astarion took a lap of his tongue using the flat side of it between her labia. He didn’t tease her like he usually did. Instead, he alternated between sucking and licking her clit, and after a few minutes, she found herself on her second orgasm. Astarion, thankful that he didn’t have to breathe, dove further and sunk into her cleft. He devoured her, using his nose to stimulate her clitoris while he drank her in.

Tav reached back and freed his cock from the tough confines of his leather trousers, earning a gasp of relief and pleasure from the elf between her legs, and a moan that vibrated against her flesh. Tav gripped his base and began to stroke him, but Astarion, eager for touch, began using the hand to jerk himself with his thrusting action. Although it was Tav’s hand stimulating him, he was the one jerking himself off, which of course didn’t take long to bring him close to his end. Astarion had to still his hips and pull his head away from his prize after her second orgasm or else he would threaten to spill his load before doing what he wished.

He wanted to still make love to her. Something he never did before. Something he felt he had to do. Something he needed to do to prove she still was alive and well below him…to show her everything he couldn’t say and to show how he felt about the gift she had given him that was nestled in her belly. Astarion quickly switched position and caged his mate below him before taking his cock in hand to line himself up with her wet and beautiful cunt.

“Are you sure you’re ready for this? You don’t have to do this if you aren't. I’m fine with waiting.“ Tav rationalized in case Astarion was pushing himself.

“I want this. I want you. Now, I will only say this once. It bothered me when I almost lost you both. It still does, so please let me feel how alive you are. Stop worrying and let me make love to you.”

Tav mouthed the word ‘love’ in shock before Astarion’s mouth was upon her and his cock has speared her in one quick motion. Tav’s eyes rolled back in her head and her vagina clenched around his cock. Astarion passionately kissed Tav deeply like he had been all night, his left hand held the small of her back and held her close as his hips rolled slowly. The slow roll of his hips ground himself deep into the soft spongy area Astarion was familiar with, the erogenous zone that he drove into when he would help her chase release, but in this case he wanted her to feel good rather than seek out another orgasm. Astarion pulled away from kissing the woman so she could breathe easier since she was still healing.

Tav moaned and Astarion brought his right hand up to her left breast through the clothing she still wore on her upper half. He played with the mass, his thumb over the nipple and massaged the breast with the entire hand. Tav looped her arms around Astarion’s neck and leaned forward to suck on his flesh, leaving an angry purple bruise of her own. This made Astarion chuckle.

”That’s right.” Astarion slammed his hips into her to accent this “I’m yours” This only made Tav moan louder and Astarion loved it. He loved feeling her alive and hearing her heartbeat speed up under him. He loved making her feel good but most of all, he loved that he was present. He did not disassociate during the act once. Astarion sped up a little so he wasn’t teasing his love.

Astarion stopped playing with both breasts at this point and instead he picked up both legs at the knee and began pounding into her at a faster and deeper speed. Astarion wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold out and he wanted her to come before he did. Astarion dropped the top of his hand to her clit and circled it with the pad of his thumb. He could see her throwing her head back and forth. She was close.

“Bite me!”

“I can’t. You almost died! You need time to get your blood back.” Astarion upped the speed once more so he was pistoning his cock inside her. Astarion was in complete bliss but it took everything in him not to spill himself before she crested first.

In a blissful stupor, Astarion spilled something from his mouth he still was deliberating. Something he was sure of but was scared of. Something that although he was sure, he told himself a myriad of excuses as to why it can’t be true and so he needed more time. Essentially it boiled down to him being so drunk on sex that Astarion said something he never would during sex that he could not take back.

“I love you, Tav.”

Tav crested with this and threw her head back. Her body convulsed and contracted as Astarion felt the tissue surrounding his cock get tight and throb. It was like her body was pulling and drinking him in, begging for his spend so Astarion let go and gave her it. After two more thrusts he stilled for a moment and then slowly rode out the orgasm as his come coated her insides. The entire time he was present, he was aware and he felt everything. This was new to him. This was exhilarating and felt like nothing he ever did before. It was by far the best sex he’d ever had, too. Considering this was the first person and only person who chosen him regardless of his past and loved him. The only person who made love to him rather than fucking him and forgetting him? Astarion could see why this was so different and why they mattered so much. It was in this moment as he was coming down from his high that he remembered what he said.

Did he love her though?

Just looking at the tussle haired goddess in front of him who would give and had almost given her life for him, he knew the answer. She had given him a child. She had helped him in much more that that and soon, they were going to gain his freedom. Astarion chuckled. He may be slow on the uptake he thought to himself because he really did love her. He thought he needed time. He thought he needed a comparison. He thought he needed a great many things but he needed only her.

He loved her.     

Withdrawing his length from her and trying to not let his spend coat the floor much, Astarion laid down next to her and held her close. He kissed her deeply and she moaned into the kiss, bringing her hand up to his cheek and tracing his cheek bone with the pad of her thumb. A moment later he pulled back to let her speak.

“Not that I’m complaining, that felt really good, but what got into you? I thought you weren’t ready yet.”

Astarion just smiled. “It’s simple. I’m ready now. Between you being pregnant and what happened yesterday. I needed to feel you alive…”

“But…”

“I was present through it darling. I can make love to you.”

“So…because I was hurt you wanted to have sex?” Tav was confused still. “And what does being pregnant have to do with this?”

Astarion sighed and kissed Tav on the nose before answering the questions.

“I needed to feel you alive and well, and with the pregnancy? Something about you being pregnant makes me want to take you again and again. It’s like I have a basic need to fill you now that I know you’re carrying life. It doesn’t make sense, I know it doesn’t make sense, but that doesn’t stop me from getting hard at the thought of your swollen belly in a few months. I can’t keep my hands off you, my sweet.”

“If you are okay with it and it doesn’t bother you…then it doesn’t bother me. I enjoy being intimate with you but I am just as happy with waiting if you would rather wait too. You are what matter to me, not sex. You.” Tav kissed Astarion’s forehead at this who smiled.

“That’s why I love you so much. Even with all the hormones flooding your body, making you want and changing you to carry our baby, and yet you still put my…complications first.” Astarion whispered against her flesh as he kissed her cheek and nibbled her earlobe.

“You said that during sex, too. Do you mean it?” Tav asked, now propped up on her elbows.

[riverdale-retread]

Riverdale S7 E5 Tales in a Jugular Vein

We open with the three unwise men of Riverdale who fancy themselves the key authorities of the “situation”  - Clifford Blossom, the high school principal, and Dupont from S4 that they keep giving more names to that won't stick in my memory:  His first name is apparently Friedrich.  It’s not even Freddy, it’s Friedrich like he’s some sort of kaiser. In any case, the Blossom patriarch as the source of all evil in this town asks if Ethel has been silenced. 

Yes, she has, quite literally - the nuns at the Sisters of Quiet Mercy have imposed a ‘vow of silence’ which seems like a euphemism for literal physical muzzle  (Poor Ethel).  The parents are all very concerned about the murder of the Muggs but the three wise men are not.  They are also confused about why it is that Sheriff Keller is continuing to chase down this ‘milkman’ that Ethel saw as well as the murder weapon.  The HS principal seems not to know that this is Sheriff Keller’s actual job, but Dupont (Werther? Whatever) says that the real problem is COMIC BOOKS.  

I don’t think these old farts understand how very incompetent Sheriff Keller is. He’s the man who forgot to check the time of death on the coroner’s report. Ain’t no way he’s finding the murder weapon. 

And he has a whole batch of them to toss on the table, the topmost of which is The Pit Of Tyranny.  Which is what these three men are, sitting together all close in dim lighting.  (Are they going to have a threesome after??)

Dupont/ Werther hates comic books, because they are the source of all violence and iniquity in the world, so he is going to make everyone in Riverdale focus on them.

Jughead meanwhile strolls into the offices at the publishing house looking for work. He is just so happy to be working as a writer, across all universes! So adorable.  His asshole publisher who always puts out the most terrible terms - a full issue, 21 pages worth of  stories, no errors, by tomorrow morning! - and Jug is just bright eyed and bushy tailed about it.  “Plenty More Where That Came From!!”  Super eager Jughead is so cute - “I wont let you down!” with the finger POINT.

The publisher hands him a stack of potential stories, advising Jughead to talk to Bernie about them.  The extremely paper wasting way of listing these little A03 tags, 3 at a time, in single index cards is very luxurious to me.

Boxer, Vigilante, Organ Harvesting

Man, Woman, Cult, Rocket

“Gosh Bernie, all these stories have been done to death!” Jughead says.  Aw Riverdale, you’re so silly when you get meta.  Is this actually the writers’ process at Riverdale, the Show?  Because this was actually a fan theory I saw go around - that they literally just throw darts at the wall and then weave the stories together from keywords.  Is Roberto trying to tell us something about his “process”? 

The idea that Jughead thinks is GENIUS is “stories about teenagers in high school.”  And his ideas grow to things like Witchy Lunch Lady, Creepy Janitor, “Homeroom of Horrors.”  Jughead is completely enamored by his own ideas. 

Just in time, his girlfriend (Because Veronica is his girlfriend now, right? She certainly enters the room like she’s the girlfriend) Veronica comes over, calling him her “Little Tortured Genius” as Jughead is typing away.  She wants to go see  Diabolique, but Jughead is being very intense about his deadline and says maybe they can go tomorrow. 

I really need to take on Jughead’s attitude about work, maybe.  The way he phrases it  - “Al has asked me to take on an entire issue!” makes it so sound like he is adored and beloved and trusted, rather than being exploited. 

On second thought, no.  

Jughead needs to be more like me.

In any case, Veronica takes what he says at face value.   She wants to help him, so Jughead tells her with enthusiasm about his first story, which is about gym class (“What’s scarier than gym class?”). The narrator in Jughead’s special edition is a very unhinged looking unkempt old man, a ‘creepy janitor’ with a bunch of keys.  Jughead even got one of the artists to draw a mockup for him.  He’s really good at this, worming his way into this publishing house!

The first story is called Keep Your Head in the Game. 

And this is when I got attacked for a second time by this, my favorite television show, because they came for my throat.  Poor bespectacled Asian Dilton is called “the runt, the klutz, the pipsqueak, half pint, short, near sighted and uncoordinated.”

STOP TALKING ABOUT ME!   

He is the last among a row of boys who are being forced to uselessly throw a projectile so it lands in a specific arbitrarily designated location. (I hate you, all sports. I hate you, all games that involve throwing things at me.)

Nobody can leave until everyone makes  a basket which Dilton can’t.  OMG.  My PE grade depended on making a certain minimum number of baskets in gym class in Germany, and I almost failed it, but I kept at it with such bloody minded Korean dweeb determination that even though I definitely failed it, my teacher wanted so to go home that she gave me a C. This is so personal. 

The Coach makes the other players run laps while Dilton desperately tries to make one lousy basket. Of course, the one most immediately pissed off about this is Julian.  He threatens Dilton as soon as the lap running starts, then slams him against the lockers at the first opportunity.   Actually though, I decided during the course of this confrontation that Dilton would deserve what he got, because Julian asks him a very important question: Why are you even here if you can’t make one stinking basket?  Dilton idiotically wants to be part of ‘the team.’  

Dude. 

Dilton.  

Dude.

Don’t be stupid.

Julian pushes Dilton into a locker, while all the other boys let it happen.  Including Archie.  Archie is like this in every universe - he doesn’t think this is correct, but other than voicing a sort of weak objection, he doesn’t actually do anything to solve the problem (Flashing back to the infamous birthday episode with Jughead.  Does Jughead the writer of this tale really not remember the OG universe?? HMM??).   Dilton is desperately screaming inside the locker after Julian threatens for a second time to kill him.

Dilton it turns out is morbidly claustrophobic, which somehow leads Dilton to suffering a psychotic break.  The day shift cleaner lets him out, but he steals the fire-rescue ax to hide in the same locker until he can pop out and get rid of them all.   Covered in blood, Dilton is next seen in the basketball space, easily making a basket.  The coach is all atta-boy until Julian’s head rolls to his feet.   The coach turns his head to see six decapitated bodies, all wearing Chuck Taylors, sitting impossibly upright in a row on the benches, their hands demurely in their laps.  

Hahaha! OK so this was funny. 

The heads are all neatly stacked in between basketballs in a roller container. The next head that he picks up is Archie. 

Veronica is all about murdering jocks.  She especially likes that Julian Blossom got his head chopped off.   Jughead wriggles a bit on his round butt which he does when he’s being excited and smug. He explains that Dupont/Werthers (et al) don’t understand that comics are actually very *moral* forms of entertainment.  Rule breakers get punished in these horror stories, as do people who are cruel to others, as well as people who have lustful sex.

Veronica calls him Juggiekins (SQUEE) when she asks him to elaborate on what he means by lustful sex. 

Jughead says that it starts on a ‘dark and stormy night’ exactly as the night outside in Riverdale starts to get stormy.   The next story is called “Love You to Pieces.”  The “young strapping man” Archie Andrews knocks on the Blossom mansion door to explain that he has a flat tire to Nana Rose.  He asks to stay the night, to which Nana Rose generously says he can keep himself warm by the fire.  

There’s a very wholesome looking portrait of Cheryl that Nana Rose and Archie share their tea front of.  Nana Rose gives Archie a warning - he must stay in his room with the door locked all night, because Cheryl is an aggressive compulsive boy-molester.  Archie is immensely excited about this.  He leaves his door not just unlocked  - he leaves it OPEN, then sluttily lies there with his shirt off.   What we have is a Rocky Horror Show type of sequence when Cheryl comes in to kiss him.  She won’t let him light a candle, then they flop down to the bed together. (This is apparently what Jughead thinks sex is).

What the heck is Jughead’s problem with  Cheryl?  The cruelty of this story about Cheryl (as the audience knows her) is a bit shocking.  She’s definitely trapped in the house.  Her family members definitely sexualize teenage Cheryl.  She is definitely cursed.   And he’s using all this against her?  JUGHEAD.

Next morning, Archie is very pleased with himself as he bounces out of the guest room.  He sees a very ominous looking veiled young woman looking out the window, but he doesn’t say anything to her.  As he scarfs down a generous looking breakfast with Nana Rose, he proves himself to be a real asshole.  Having been told not to fuck Cheryl and then having done it, he wants NOW to know what’s wrong with her.  Apparently it’s fine if he just took advantage of a crazy girl (“What exactly is wrong with her, a mental illness?” he says as he cheerfully chows down.)

It’s only when he is told that what Cheryl has is a physical illness which is contagious - LEPROSY - is when he is upset.  Nana Rose is immune because she was ‘exposed’ to it as a child but of course, Archie wasn’t!  Then Nana Rose gleefully tells him that it “was no accident that brought you here.”  The nail in the road was Nana Rose making sure that Cheryl would ‘relish’ her last days on earth (because she is soon to die).  “We’re going to be together forever and ever!” Cheryl says as she comes from behind to grasp the terrified Archie by the shoulder. 

Veronica does not like this story whatsoever.  Jughead says it might be a “curiosity killed the cat” story or maybe even a safe sex story (even though that phrase wouldn’t be coined for another three decades).  Ever the smartie, Veronica sniffs out the Jarchie angle to all this, directly pricking at Jughead with “I’m hearing that Archie and Cheryl broke up” and that they didn’t actually have sex.  Jughead pretends to not be shooketh by this news and the realization that his resentment of Cheryl getting to fuck Archie before him was what was motivating this story.   He says, “Well, who can keep up with all the horny teens at Riverdale High?”

Jughead Jones is pro-food and anti-sex but he’s also pro-making out with Veronica. 

Anyway Veronica tells him the point of high school is for straights to  chase each other.  Jughead is just too far up his own ass to catch the hint, so he moves directly to, “Girls will do anything to get boys’ attention” to which Veronica, now thoroughly bored because the lustful sex story turned out to be an anti-sex debacle, glumly retorts, “Including feigning an interest in comic books, apparently.”  Jughead is not listening to her, at all. 

Jughead the writer next turns his poison pen upon the blameless Betty Cooper.  Or is he?  Because honestly his descriptions of her are so  completely wrong as to be comical:  “Plain Jane with the ponytail mane.  Sweater set waiting for better yet.  Whom none of the boys seem to sic their sights on.”  I mean, in the real world of the 1950s AU, Betty was targeted by the lying asshole Kevin as the perfect unwitting beard because she’s the prettiest girl in school, and no guy who can ‘get’ and keep the prettiest girl in school can be gay, right?  

Anyway, in Jughead’s story, even though he calls her Betty, this girl is not Betty in the real world.  She goes to the hair salon in tears because nobody wants to take her out.  The drag queen (is it the same actor who is playing Janitor Key Keeper?) hairstylist suggests that Betty gets the beehive.  She suggests that ‘girls in Europe’ are doing it which is immensely enticing to Betty.  The thing is, according to the hairstylist you can’t ever wash your hair again once it’s in a beehive.  It can only ever be hairsprayed  (Aqua Set).  Betty objects on hygiene reasons - hair should be washed every other day or at least once a week!  - but decides to give all that up for the joy of being beautiful.

Jughead the writer has  a thing for Dad joke level puns - he describes the girls of Riverdale as being “gangrene with envy” at how fabulous Betty looks with her new hairdo.   Cheryl is upset, and so is Veronica, so when they run into her spraying the hell out of her beehive in the girls’ bathroom, Cheryl attacks first.  She calls Betty “ponytail princess” and the haircut “ridiculous” and Cheronica laugh meanly about it.   This turns out to be the very first time either girl had paid any attention to Betty, so Betty figures all attention is good attention.  She “started needing it, feeding off it.”   Veronica is in blue-white polka dots, Cheryl is in red check, but Betty is in the same blues-and-yellows of the bathroom!    

The hairspraying is out of control, but the heavier and more shellacked her hair becomes, the more boys are attracted to her. Julian wants to carry her books to class.  Archie wants to go out with her on Friday.  Two nameless extra boys just wanna stand close by and stare!  Betty doesn’t even accept Archie on his first pass either.

She does develop a bit of an obsession with the hairspray.  Sitting very Wes Anderson-like in her yellow-green living room, dead center frame, in her yellow-greenish outfit, she is spraying and spraying.   Betty never washes or undoes her hair, instead spraying it further before going to bed.  The narration says something VERY BAD HAPPENED as Betty’s window throws a huge spiderweb shaped shadow over her sleeping face.

A week later, she and Archie are finally on a date!  Pops says that Betty has always been a peach when Archie implies she’s suddenly become good enough with the hairdo change. Go Pop’s.   Can I just say I hate the word GINCHY. Is this an actual word from the 50s or did they make this up for Riverdale?  I refuse to look it up.  Archie insists on using it TWICE in one sentence - he calls Betty and her hair both Ginchy.  Ugh. 

The song called “I got Stung” comes on so they go out to the dance floor.  Archie is the dorkiest dancer of all time but Betty seems to be having a good time, until she suddenly isn’t.  She is coughing up foam! She’s having a fit!  Archie looks so horrified.  The narration comes in to say Betty is now DEAD.

Heyyy Doctor Curdle Jr. is the coroner!  He finds Betty very beautiful with a fascinating hairstyle.  He cuts the top of the hairdo off, which unleashes a torrent of spiders down Betty’s beautiful dead face.   Black widow spiders ate their way through Betty’s skull.  Well.. okay.  The Key Keeper bursts in to tell us that “beauty is only skin deep and  vanity kills.”

Veronica is super not amused by this conclusion, which I think Jughead put in there for her benefit because he just got done talking about how these stories in this horror comic are actually all morality tales.   She takes issue with it, in the beautifully spruced up space she created for Jughead to live in. “What’s wanting to look good?” asks Veronica, looking absolutely perfect beyond all reason.  She also says that men do the same thing, turning themselves into he-men.

The thing is, even though she doesn’t appear to like these stories, Veronica is still annoyed that she hasn’t had a starring role, unlike Dilton, Cheryl, Archie and Betty.  The fact that Dilton is included in this list is interesting, isn’t it, given the relationship, both shown and implied between the other universe Dilton and the Rivervale Dilton and Jughead?   She specifically asks a tale romantic in flavor, which is not at all the flavor of what Jughead has been writing all evening NOR who he writes for, but then because Veronica is actually gay her thoughts skip directly from romantic → focus on female friendship.   

Asking a man who has written about spiders eating into a girl’s brain because she got a fussy hairdo one time to write about “female friendship” is a recipe for disaster.  I will say, Jughead does sort of start off on the right foot - he suggests a story where the girls in a love triangle  do NOT go after each other’s throats. This brings Veronica’s hopes up too much though (“Now you’re singing my tune!”).

This last story is called, “My Better Half.”  

Jughead really dislikes Archie in this universe.  Like, a lot.  He sees Archie as a really dumb slut (both terms derogatory).  Are we absolutely sure that Tabitha did a complete mind wipe? Where does all this hostility come from?  The story starts out with the Key Keeper (who has a wicked case of sunburn or rosacea or whatever) coming in too close, way too close, to call Archie “a half wit when it comes to decision making.”

I object to this. This is unfair.  Highly suggestive is what Archie is and has always been.  When Julian tells him to ask Cheryl out, he does. When Cheryl tells him to write Betty a poem and start wooing her, he starts out to do exactly that.  And so on.  

The multiple choice question Archie is struggling with is the choice between A. the girl next door, or B. the rich starlet-socialite.  Betty in a pale blue headband and white neckerchief looks like Disney’s Cinderella, whereas Veronica looks like a Betty Page type seductress with her severe haircut and dark red lipstick.  Archie chooses C, both of the above.  

MWF are Betty, and TThrSat are Veronica days.

In a super modern innovation, Archie tells both girls that he’s dating the other one, and both girls allow this to happen.    Veronica thinks Betty is a smelly tomboy and Betty thinks Veronica is a vapid airhead.  This is exactly not at all what either of these girls are so this choice is interesting. (Is Jughead pulling his punches because Veronica is right there looking at him type?)   Archie just doesn’t have the brains to explain the concept of polyamory I suppose, so his way of coping with the objection from both ladies is to tell each that she is his favorite.

Julian wants to know how Archie gets away with it, and Archie calmly offers it up.  This is in matter of fact Archie’s actual philosophy of life a lot of the time:  You tell them what they wanna hear.

He even gives them  his best line - You’re my favorite. (Doiley gets yelled at because he tells Archie this is not three words, but four.)

The three girls at Riverdale are in the bathroom, fixing their make up. Veronica in black polka dots, close fitting, with a black handbag.  Cheryl in a flared skirt red-and-white dress.  Betty in pinkish dark check with a black belt.  Of course, Cheryl is the one to start shit, while standing between these two girls, by asking Veronica who will be her date for Valentine’s Day.  She calmly continues to do her make up while Veronica and Betty have at it. 

Veronica calls Betty “dumb for such a smart girl” and a “charity case.”  Betty calls Veronica “fragile,” “desperate” or “crazy.”   Veronica is furious at being called Fragile, so she fights back with “high strung” and then they're lobbing intimate things they’ve learned about the other from Archie.  Betty takes Alice’s sleeping pills because she can’t sleep.   Cheryl turns around to call both of them fools.  Betty carries a white handbag, by the way. 

Archie says that he ‘s taking his MOM to Valentine’s day because it’s her first Valentine’s day without her husband.  Both girls are completely moved, but also get their punches in.  Archie asks them what they’ll be up to, to which both say they will be at home.  They go on a girl’s night out on Valentine’s Day.  

And guess what?  Cheryl!!!  It’s Cheryl that’s Archie’s date for Valentine’s day!!   They see them in the Diner!   Veronica is immediately about to go do some confronting, but Betty stops her, saying she has a much better idea.  Immediately the next day, both girls approach him at once (I love Betty’s outfit with the contrast belt and the white hairpin) to offer a threesome.  This is something that Archie must have been working himself up to get them to do, because as soon as it’s offered he says he knows the perfect spot.  But they’re setting him up so they get to choose the location.   They invite him to the shop room because it’s soundproof. 

Because Jughead is the one writing this story, the girls set up the shop room with TONS of candles.  (Has there ever been a good fandom post about Jughead Jones’ candle fetish? Because it’s a really persistent theme. Please share).   They’ve even set up what looks like a bed on the floor of the shop room, as well as a record player.  Veronica and Betty are speaking in unison using identical dulcet tones. They give him a thermos of coffee which is apparently delicious, even though Archie says he doesn’t “need the boost.”  

I have been living a very sheltered life because I didn’t know that caffeine caused priapism but then Archie is an unusual bird.  Archie does feel strange immediately - there’s a funny Looney Toons type of doi-oi-oi-ing! sound effect as he tries to ‘shake off’ the effects of whatever they’ve drugged him with.    He collapses. 

When Archie regains consciousness he’s strapped to a table.  It turns out the sleeping pills were what knocked him out.  “A problem shared is a problem solved” the girl tell him, calling each other B and V.   They turn on a huge saw to “double their fun” as Archie screams and screams as they slice him in half.  The camera is completely doused with blood. 

Veronica wants Archie’s top half and Betty wants his bottom half.  I wonder why this choice?  Veronica is a breast girl, and Betty is a leg woman? 

Jughead wants to know what Veronica thought of the ‘tag team twist’ at the end.  Veronica is not pleased.  She says that the sexual politics of his stories are troubling.   She interrogates Jughead for demonizing women, to which Jughead says she is overthinking it. These stories are meant to be a gas etc.  She just doesn’t like these stories.

The thing is, I don’t think these stories are misogynist so much as anti-sex.  Jughead is very puritanical and judgmental at the same time - he finds all these people’s aspirations (retaining the desire to be part of a team even if that team isn’t nice to you and there’s no team that calls for your specific strengths, wanting to have easy sex that doesn’t mean anything, wanting threesomes, wanting approval and admiration for shallow things from others) all really dumb. He wants to punish people for being vulnerable.   He’s like a lot of solitary, self conscious overthinkers - he finds other people nakedly going after things they want painful to contemplate, and so he is mean spirited about them.

The main mistake Jughead made here though was that the story he wrote with Veronica as his lead wasn’t flattering to Veronica.  And Veronica’s mistake was hoping for something like that from a man writing in the horror genre.

I snorted when Jughead mentioned Arthur Miller and Marilyn Monroe as somehow aspirational because I know what happened with Miller after Monroe died (he wrote a whole play where he called his ex wife a great piece of ass, which, great. Super classy. Yup.)   Anyway they’re broken up now, over Veronica not liking Jughead’s writing.  He is sad about the break up between them.  Jughead is also worried about accusations about ‘corrupting the youth of America’ via comic books.

Friedrich Werther (Dupont!) has made good on what he said to the two other Unwise Men at the start of the episode.  He’s written a whole editorial on the front page of the Riverdale Register about the dangers of Comic Books: Slaughter of the Innocent!  It actually appears to be a fully written article that’s being used as a prop.  It ends with “I am asking for a call of arms.  We must attack our attackers. No one likes a fight, but the fate of our children hangs in the balance.”

Werther absolutely does not have children, so it’s the usual huge red flag when childless men go on about ‘our’ children.   The other major thing that has happened is that Four Horses Have Escaped From Farm (this is also a fully written article.  Apparently, nobody was injured, but the children did neigh at the horses , which confused the farm animals. What?)

We cut to the principal reading his boyfriend’s article out loud to their leader Clifford Blossom with great absorption.  “Our children are being seduced by sex, by violence, by depravity.”  Blah blah.  Clifford - who is mayor by the way - says this crusade against comic books is going to be a nice distraction from the still unsolved Muggs murders. 

Back at the comic book business, Jughead is told by the publisher that his work is “incredible stuff.”   When Jughead says he needed a win, Fieldstone guesses that it’s girl trouble.  Jughead tells him he had a “sweet thing going with this one gal” and she didn’t like what Jughead was saying.  The publisher does not care what that means, and instead offers a byline (not a bonus, not a cover) so Jughead’s name is going to be in print!   The publisher names him Jughead JUGULAR Jones.  Featherstone promises that girls come and go but one’s name in print makes people sit up and take notice.   Apparently this is going to set Jughead on a collision course with Dupont (Werther! Whatever!).

I am sad that Jeronica is over, though I do like the way it just sort of fizzled out because they ran into an incompatibility that they could not find a way to overcome rather than Archie or Betty causing them problems, which I appreciate. And you know what - the fact that Jughead just can not stop thinking about Archie fucking other people makes me think the Jarchies have it right after all.

[gwydionmisha]

Advice to the Able-Bodied Poet Entering the Disability Poetics Workshop -  Liv Mammone

For Jennifer Bartlett and Shira Erlichman

1. Let's just save time—Yes I have seen Rain Man, The Miracle Worker, My Left Foot, or, more recently, The Theory of Everything. I wanna fuck Daniel Day Lewis too but can we not? 2. If all the the Special Needs Kids everybody's mom/cousin/friend/friend's mom/cousin's friend's mom has ever worked with got together, they could overthrow the government and we'd see some real change. Those people aren't reference points for me. There are no reference points for me. 3. This isn't the Whose Life Sucks More game. You have seen moments I can never imagine. 4. When asking about my disability, please remember you have Siri. What you really need to know will come up in the poems. 5. Similarly, if you decide you need to ask my diagnosis, I can guarantee those ugly sounding words are all I have in common with whoever you know. If you don't know anyone, asking me what does that mean isn't ingratiating. I'm not a painting by Warhol. Asterisk: if you're just meeting me and that's your opening? That, or so what happened to you—you're suspect. I have a favorite band, a gaggle of furry children. Let's start there. 6. The words disability, disorder, and disease aren't synonymous. 7. And while we're at it, let's talk about language. You're here for that above all right? Me too. But I get to decide how it's done, not you. If I say cripple, it's because I like how the consonants break like bones. I'm not handing you a membership card. If I say call me "special needs" and I'll roll over your foot, it doesn't mean that softness won't comfort others. Political correctness is kind of like using correct pronouns. So many words have been made up and thrown onto my flesh. None were my name. 8. If you didn't get the above reference to pronouns, I'll write a separate piece for you. 9. Your ear will need to curve around the rhythm of speech. Your pace will hunger to leave me limping. You will want to catch me as I lurch forward; lead me by elbow or hand; not to repeat yourself; to talk as fast as you do out there. Slow down. Slow everything down. 10. The phrase but you don't look sick can go fuck itself with a moving train covered in chainsaws. 11. Don't use the word inspiration unless you're talking about Whitman, Langston Hughes, John Keats or Jesus. 12. Matter of fact, leave Jesus out of it altogether; he's busy enough. 13. It isn't a wheelchair; it's a fully automated battle station. It isn't a cane; it's a dowsing rod. It isn't a limp; it's a swagger. It isn't a stim—it's how my fabulous self is pulling magic out of the air. 14. I'm not your metaphor. Phantom limbs, deafness, or blindness as figurative language in your poems will result in my unhinging my fucking jaw. 15. If you find yourself saying something that begins with no offense, but I want you to stop. Take a breath. And say to yourself these three sentences: Does this need to be said? Does this need to be said right now? Does this need to be said right now by me? If the answer to any of those is no, return to start do not collect $200. 16. Laugh. 17. Be honest. 18. Your head had best be a microscope. Ask yourself why you're here. But question my motives, too. Slam your hand hard on my buttons. 19. Some kind of dragon needed slaying to get to this room, whether it be the nasty bus driver or the thoughts of suicide. So somebody's probably gonna show up in pajamas, crocks, mismatched socks, un showered, hair falling loose from ponytail—whatever. Either they're embarrassed or don't give a fuck. Either way, they don't need you mentioning it. 20. Speak for me, not over me. 21. Yes, I can have sex. I hope everybody in here writes a jam so graphic it makes your goosebumps mambo just so you never ask a disabled person that ever again, unless you're offering. 22. I don't think shy people become poets, but in case you are, you best chill if you fear the body. If I'm gonna write a colostomy bag free verse or a pantoum about how hard it is to negotiate my period on crutches, I wanna do it in peace. 23. You need Advil? Guaranteed, somebody got you. 24. If I have to leave the room while you're reading, sorry in advance. 25. Let me point out, Tiny Tim has been fucking me over since 1843. If I'm happy, it's taken for a miracle; if I'm not, I remind them of all they have and all the work they have to do. I could be a big smile, a raised fist, an eye glittered with tears. 26. This is the place I come to sharpen my teeth; to weep until I am the Danube. I don't care if you're frightened. 27. Trigger warnings. That is all. 28. Halle Berry, Harriet Tubman, Orlando Bloom, Clinton, Christie, Darwin. A lot of your faves are disabled. Just like a lot of your faves are actually bisexual. (More breaking news at 11.) 29. And while we're on that, being disabled doesn't mean you've checked off your minority box on the form. Just saying. 30. I don't want to talk about me; how's my stanza structure? 31. Intersectionality isn't a buzzword. 32. I will ask if I need your help. Repeat this a billion times. 33. Related note: you wouldn't grab someone on the subway. You'd let your face smash into the pole before steadying yourself on the person next to you. So why in the name of God's teeth would you touch me or whatever apparatus I may have without asking?! 34. Remember, you're one slip in the shower, doctor's visit, missed turn away from being me. 35. If I fall, the way you gasp hurts worse than impact. 36. I'm not blaming you. I'm saying pay attention. 37. Inevitably, someone will be forced to stop coming. Email them; that'd be cool. 38. Even if you pity me, don't mess around when it comes to editing. 39. Your body is so damn fucking beautiful. It's like nothing else. 40. Please remember that compliance with any or all of the aforementioned will not result in praise of any kind, cookies, medals, or otherwise. Thank you. 41. People are like poems. They don't get finished, they just stop.

[imakemywings]

I know Silm tells us essentially that Nerdanel was a moderating force on Feanor, but I refuse to believe she was the “holder of the brain cell” as the current fandom phrasing goes, or the Only Sane Man in the house. #1 because I don’t think someone like that would have married a person like Feanor in the first place; and #2 because it’s just boring as fuck imo

Silm also tells us that Nerdanel was basically the only one to ever change Feanor’s mind through counsel, and that they were “companions on many journeys” and that it was only his later deeds that “grieved her.” Which idk doesn’t sound to me like a description of someone who spent her whole time in this relationship demanding Feanor behave more responsibly and trying to reign in his passions. Feanor and Nerdanel’s relationship is, in my view, very much posited as a love story of equals. Other details we know are that a) Feanor married young (no comment on Nerdanel’s age iirc); and b) His choice in spouse was surprising to the rest of the Noldor. This has always suggested, to me, that Feanor fell very hard and very fast for Nerdanel, and that he was convinced she was The One, and that their relationship was formed on a deep understanding of each other as people. Feanor didn’t care that Nerdanel was “not the fairest of her people” or that as the crown prince of the Noldor, he could perhaps have cast a much wider net in a search for a spouse. Furthermore, because Elves don’t seem to marry for politics, Nerdanel had no serious motivation to agree unless she also wanted to get married.

Which brings me to my main point: Nerdanel saw Feanor’s slightly unhinged behavior and went “damn that’s pretty hot.” You will never convince me that Feanor’s burning passions aren’t exactly what attracted Nerdanel to him in the first place. Yes they make him hot-tempered and impulsive and occasionally (self-) destructive, but they also make him interesting. Feanor feels so much about everything and his deep need and desire to create and to understand and better the world around him was precisely what made Nerdanel take another look at him. She could get underneath the prickliness to the artist, the scholar, and she loved those things, and maybe she even loved how much he rejected anyone’s efforts to make him quiet down or behave differently, to make himself more likeable. They had seven kids together--which, iirc, is the most kids of any Elven couple in Arda--ever. Is that not supposed to be indicative of the passion these two held for each other?

And frankly, I would also buy she willingly took his side in most family feuds, even when she knew Feanor was being unreasonable, and furthermore, that she found a great deal of his disruptive behavior entertaining. Anaire and Earwen can try to convince her to push Feanor to apologize to Fingolfin for his latest Incident, but is she going to? Not unless Feanor’s done something really outrageous. Otherwise, she probably can’t even get through telling him “that was really unnecessary” without laughing. Nerdanel, apologize for Feanor’s behavior? Not likely!

Nerdanel acted as a moderating force on Feanor in that I think he was just calmer around her. He’s a very volatile person and we know that he never meshed well with his step-family and possibly felt out of place generally owing to Miriel’s fate, but I think with Nerdanel it felt like he had found a place. She understood him and they were partners and they were going to do this Life thing together. With Nerdanel, I think he began from a more relaxed, less reactive place, which had a corresponding impact on his behavior. And of course, because he felt Nerdanel understood him (and liked him), and he respected and loved her, he was willing to listen to her counsel (sometimes) when he would take no one else’s.

Lastly, the idea of Nerdanel spending hundreds or thousands of years as Feanor’s put-upon wife, trying to manage him and their seven children, essentially reduced to a Nagging Wife stereotype as she acts as the only restraint on him is just so boring and what an incredible, appalling waste of her character. Why don’t you just slap her down in a 1960s sitcom? I think Nerdanel deserves more than that. She had no reason to marry Feanor except that she wanted to, because she had spent a lot of time with him and she wanted him, she loved him, and she saw a future for them together, as partners.

[menace-behaviour]

Parent-trapping your Best Friend: Ethical Dilemma or Best Idea Eddie Diaz has ever had?

Eddie is having a pretty good day, actually. And he wasn’t even ignoring his Abuela’s words from yesterday! Frank is going to have a fucking field day at Eddie’s next appointment.

Eddie is well-aware that he is irrevocably in love with his best friend. It isn’t a secret that Eddie keeps from himself anymore; It is a truth that empowers him, a love that strengthens rather than drains.

All that Eddie has to do is open his damn mouth and tell him.  

Do you remember how I said that when it came to relationships, Buck was like a golden retriever going downhill on a skateboard? Yeah, so it turns out dogs close their eyes when they do that. If you can’t see what’s going to hurt you, it won’t hurt right? Right?

-

Anyway, Eddie was having a pretty good day, even if he was, technically, two minutes late to work. From the bay doors, he can hear a conversation that could fit right in at a high school debate competition: ‘Telling Your Crush That You Like Them: For or Against?’.

“Wait, people actually tell their crushes that they like them?” Eddie asks, the question dripping with sarcasm as he joins Chimney and Ravi in the station locker room. 

“Yes, Eddie, some of us actually know how to communicate effectively,” says Chimney, matching Eddie’s tone. “What the hell do you do about your crushes then, if you don’t tell them?” he asks, leaning against the wall of lockers.

“Well, I made him the legal guardian of my son, in the case of my death, and then I got shot in front of him. That seemed to work,” Eddie surmises, finishing the buttons on his uniform.

Ravi’s head whips up and joins the conversation. 

Eddie likes Ravi; he’s a good kid and a decent firefighter. Surely, he will add something of value to this conversation.

“So, you baby-trapped him?” Ravi accuses, grinning widely.

In the time it takes for his face to fall, Eddie has decided that he no longer likes Ravi.

The incident alarm sounds at that moment, saving Ravi from a t-shirt to the face, and A-shift moves for the truck and ambulance.

“From one man in love with a Buckley to another, I think you should start taking your own advice,” Chimney says, kindly.

“I don’t think there’s a therapist on this planet that could get me to do that,” Eddie huffs, closing his locker door. 

A therapist, definitely not. But Evan Buckley, maybe.

-

Buck knows he has more than just ‘best friend’-ly feelings for one (1) Eddie Diaz. And he also knows that making your best friend the legal guardian of your son, when your girlfriend was right there, is not exactly ‘bro’ behaviour. He’s not entirely oblivious, credit where credit is due, but also how the hell is Buck supposed to bring that up in regular conversation?

“Hey, do you need anything from the grocery store? Also, remember how you made me Christopher’s other parent and then we never talked about it again? Oh, and I am in love with you. Can you preheat the oven?”

Buck would be lying if he said he hadn’t considered it. 

And so, Buck has been enduring the sweet torture of micro-dosing domestic bliss for the last God-knows how long, but that is not going to stop him from leaning on the loft railing at the beginning of each shift so he can perfectly time a, totally, coincidental locker room entrance. 

At 2 minutes past 8:00am, Eddie walks into the garage, right on schedule.

After waiting the customary 37 seconds, Buck makes his way down the stairs, stopping just out of sight of the glass walls (seriously, who the hell thought that was a good idea?) when he hears a truly unhinged phrase from Ravi.

“So, you baby-trapped him?” 

Alas, the universe is a fickle deity, and the incident alarm sounds before the ‘DVD-Video’ logo can hit the corner of Buck’s brain and produce a viable thought.

Working on nothing other than muscle memory and ‘baby-trapped’ on loop in his mind, Buck follows Ravi to the engine, joined quickly by the rest of A-shift.

-

Hot tip: if you have immense romantic feelings for your best friend, do not become firefighters because when you sit next to them in a fire truck you will be pressed against their side for an absolutely torturous amount of time.

-

Their first call was uneventful, and the rest of the shift was quiet fine, mostly basic rescues and straight-forward medical calls. And so Buck finds himself standing in the slowly emptying locker-room with Eddie next to him, allowing the day’s adrenaline to seep out of him with every slow breath. He chances a look at Eddie, just as Eddie does the same. They both smile softly, and Eddie tilts his head toward the door, a silent but permanent invitation. 

-

Neither one of them are certain of when their relationship shifted. Perhaps, they were always destined to end up as a family, together and in love. Either way, it has led to the most profound relationship both have ever experienced. A relationship enriched with comfort and desire simultaneously, that both are terrified to damage. But, at the same time it is the kind of relationship that strengthens with every look, word, and action. So, maybe, it isn’t so scary after all when sitting on the perfect couch, Eddie takes Buck’s hand, opens his damn mouth, and tells him how bright the sun shines when Buck is by his side. 

Their family will call them ‘insufferable’ and ‘sickeningly in love’ because they are. But there is safety in love and a truth that strengthens rather than drains.

-

-

Companion Piece to The Husbandification of Evan Buckley - Set between Abuela and TK sections - 950 words

Also available on AO3 - Parent-Trapping Your Best Friend

The Husbandification of Evan Buckley Series - on AO3 (Continuously updating)

[markosmate]

lady

Pairing; Marko x Emerson!Reader

Summary; Moving to a different state with your younger brothers and mother just to live with your grandfather was hard enough, but falling in love with a vampire and then watching your brother do the same thing? Much different story.

Warnings; strong language

au://  Welp lovelies I had promised you a Marko series in February that I started writing while I was manic, then after writing a good five/six chapters I fell into a deep dark hole of depression and didn’t write anything but sad, worthless poetry about a boy I’m in love with who doesn’t love me back :) But now it’s May, a spark of inspiration and happiness has suddenly hit me and I’ve come back to this series to finally deliver it to you!! I hope y’all like it cause I literally stress cried over finishing it three different times :,)

I’d also like to point out that any kind of feedback at all is so so appreciated. Most of my inspiration comes from feeding off of people’s reactions to what I write. So if you enjoy it or have any recommendations or comments at all please please don’t be shy to send me an ask or DM or even comment to let me know :( Thank you and enjoy!!

Part 2

I wasn’t exactly mad about moving, there was nothing holding me in Phoenix that I would be particularly sad about leaving behind. The only thing that struck a nerve was that it was dumped out of nowhere on me. Suddenly Mom had divorced Dad, let him keep everything, and made plans with Grandpa for us to move into his place with him. A little prior warning would have been appreciated, but regardless when we were told it didn’t change the fact that everything we knew was changing. Sam wasn’t happy about it at all, leaving his friends, leaving Dad. Michael... well Michael didn’t really have an opinion. In my view, he was just indifferent. He didn’t really care where the hell we were as long as he had a motorcycle, a job, and some hot chicks to swoon over.

But here we were, packed into Mom’s truck and driving through a town that I’d most likely have memorized like the back of my hand in a good few days. As the three in the car argued over which station to keep on, I turned my head and leaned my forehead on the window of the car. I watched the beach as we drove along the road, and admired the waves hitting against the sand.

I was ready to drift off until we got to Grandpa’s house when a short, exited yell left Mom’s lips. “Oh!” She grinned happily as Sam landed on a station familiar to her. “Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait! Oh, that’s from my era! Grooving on a Sunday afternoon!” She sung along with the song as Sam threw his head back and groaned in protest. I laughed at her antics, enjoying seeing my Mom acting so carefree and happy. 

“Alright, keep going, keep going.” Mom and Sam agreed with each other at the same time, Mom leaning over to continue skipping through the stations. Finally, the next station was agreed on and my pounding head thanked the universe for the quiet that I hadn’t been able to achieve the entire drive here. “Hey we’re almost there!”

“Ugh,” Sam scrunched his nose up in disgust after taking a deep breath. I leaned forward to wrap my arms around his head-rest and pull my face closer to the open window. The pungent smell hit me, and I recognized it immediately, low tide, but it wasn’t bad - anything to do with the beach was calming to me regardless. “What’s that smell?”

“Ah!” Mom breathed in deeply and turned to share a knowing grin with me, “That’s the ocean air!”

I turned to look at the welcoming sign, taking in the colors and faded lettering. “Smells like someone died.” Sam muttered as Mom tutted at him softly. 

“That’s likely.” I muttered to Michael, nudging his head in the direction of the back of the sign, where in big red spray-painted letters sat the phrase “Murder Capitol of the World.”

“Aw guys, I know the last year hasn’t been easy. But I do think you’re really going to enjoy living in Santa Carla.” Mom tried to remain happy about the situation, but a shared glance with Michael after we both read over the sign revealed there wasn’t much he was excited for.

The rest of the drive only increased my excitement. Hippies galore filled the streets, a large amusement park covered most of the boardwalk, and the rest was filled with small shops and food stands. We stopped for awhile so Mom could give some teenagers rummaging through garbage some money to eat and so Michael could unhinge his bike and ask around for job openings, but before I could even think to step out of the car and get a look around we were already heading into the backroads to get to Grandpa’s house.

Grandpa’s house was farther into the plains than expected, but still only a good fifteen to twenty minute drive away from town. Before Mom could ever fully park the car, I had already jumped out and was looking around the property. Michael pulled his bike up next to Mom’s car, and they all took a good few seconds to look around at all the wood carvings and chimes before turning their vehicles off. I took note of the horses grazing in one of the back fields before walking around the front of the truck and seeing a man laying on his back across the front porch steps.

Sam lead the way towards him before Mom cut in front and marched up the steps to squat beside him. “Dad?” She questioned gently. “Dad?” The three of us leaned closer to get a better look.

“Looks like he’s dead.” Michael remarked.

“Like... really dead.” I quipped in, raising an eyebrow at Mom.

“No, no. He’s just a deep sleeper.” She brushed our comments off.

“If he’s dead can we go back to Phoenix?” Sam remarked, earning a snort from me and a sharp look from Mom. 

Suddenly Grandpa sat up, a cocky smirk apparent on his face. “Playing dead. And from what I hear, doing a damn good job of it.”

Sam rolled his eyes in exasperation before Mom laughed faintly. “Oh, Dad!”

-

That night, Mom decided that it would be good for the four of us to leave the house after a night of unpacking and explore the boardwalk when it’s at its liveliest. I could admit it looked much more enjoyable now that it was dark and a little chilly, the sweaty people that had been occupying it earlier were now less sweaty and more stoned.

Almost as soon as Mom’s car and Michael’s bike were parked, Mom sent us off on our own so she could spend some time staking out a job in one of the family-owned shops. “Do you think she’ll be able to find one?” Sam questioned as the three of us weaved through crowds, trying to find our way to the beach concert. We could certainly hear it, we were just having a bit of trouble actually getting to it.

“One what? A job?” Michael scoffed as if it was hard to believe, still bitter over the fact there was no legal jobs for him to get hired in.

I laughed, elbowing him softly in the side, knowing that this place was exactly his vibe and in time he would most likely come to love living here. Sam was the only one I was actually worried about. “She’ll probably be able to find one. What, with all these missing people, there’s bound to be tons of job openings.”

“You’re telling me. It’s like there’s hundreds of bullet-boards around every corner with dozens of people missing. This place really is the Murder Capital.” Michael remarked as the concert finally came into our line of sight.

“Don’t say that!” Sam pleaded, shoving Michael’s shoulder with his eyebrows knitted tightly.

Michael just held his hand up in surrender and with one last shrug of his shoulders he turned to me. “You checking out the shops? We’ll find you once we get bored.”

“Sounds like a plan.” I agreed, turning sharply on my heel and blindly making my way back into the crowd. The concert was loud, sweaty, and crowded, and it wasn’t even my style of music - the last thing I wanted to do was spend my first night there. I figured it would be much more productive if I were to check out all the shops and stands running up and down the entire area, maybe find some new pieces of jewelry, or even a possible summer job opportunity.

Many places caught my eye, and I made a mental note to check them out the next time I had free money to spend, as it wouldn’t be wise for me to make an impulse-buy when I’m so close to being completely broke. Instead a small stand in the middle of the walkway drew me to it. A piercing stand. One person working on someone already sitting on the chair. There was a large wall selection of different studs, and many different kinds of disinfectants lined along the counter.

I walked closer to the wall, admiring all the different designs they had. I’d absolutely love to get a helix or orbital piercing, but I knew it wasn’t the wisest to spend money doing something like that at a small stand on a boardwalk in Santa Carla of all places. I was suddenly broken out of my thoughts when a voice spoke up directly behind me.

“It’s a scam, you know.” I jumped, hand flying to my chest, and whipping around to look at the owner. A teenage boy, my age, maybe a little older, with long curly blond hair and a grin that could have probably wooed me into his bed by the end of the night had he not literally just scared the shit out of me.

I laughed breathlessly, shaking my head. “What is?”

“The piercings. If you need one done, I could do it for you. But they use the guns instead of a needle which will definitely infect if you’re planning on doing a cartilage one.” He explained with a tilt of his head as he turned and began making his way towards the restaurants. I took that as an invite to follow, jogging to catch up and walking next to him.

“You know a lot about piercings?” I tried to make small talk, not wanting him to get away just yet.

He nodded with a confident smirk. “I did my own, and my friends. Someone had to learn.” I laughed a little at his mock-annoyed tone and shoved my hands into my pockets to appear to be doing something. He suddenly stopped and turned to me, holding out his hand. “Marko, by the way.”

“Ivory.” I accepted his hand and we both shook, hard and firm.

“You’re new.” He nodded as if finally understanding something that had been going on inside his own head. “I would’ve noticed you before if you’d been here all along.”

We dropped each other’s hand and I gave him a quizzical look. “What do you mean by that?”

He barked out a laugh and shook his head. “Nothing rude, you’re just too gorgeous to go unnoticed around here.” Before I could reply, another voice cut in from a few yards away.

“Marko! Marko, man, we’re supposed to meet David in ten!” I looked over to see another punk-looking dude calling out to Marko with his hands cupped around his mouth.

I laughed and look back towards the curly blond. “See you around?”

He nodded in confirmation, sending me one last crooked smile before turning to jog over to his other friend. I turned as well, making my way back into the crowd and away from the middle lane stands. I didn’t make it very far before the body of my youngest brother crashed into my side. I glanced down at him in bewilderment as we used each other to steady ourselves.

“Sam? Aren’t you supposed to be with Michael?” I laughed as he looked as though he’d just had the weirdest conversation of his life.

“Well, I was. Then he saw some girl at the concert and wandered after her so I went to check out the comic store.” He explained, shrugging before letting his eyes wander around once more in search of Michael. I rolled my eyes, of course Michael left Sam behind to go chase after some girl. It didn’t take long to find him, he was only a little further down the stretch of restaurants. He was more towards the end, walking out of the crowd near where the last building - a bar - sat in place.

We walked up behind him, and as soon as I was at his side I followed his eyes to a girl who was walking behind a small child, hand on his shoulder, and steering him in a certain direction. She was pretty - with big, curly hair and a beautiful smile that curled her lips up as her eyes grazed over all the lights of the carousel one last time for the night. I followed her line of sight, trying to place why Michael was following her instead of just walking up and introducing himself, but I immediately realized what the problem was.

She hoisted herself up onto the back of a motorcycle, accepting the help of the blond driver. He had a spiked mullet, dressed in all black, and when he realized Michael was staring at his girl, a cocky kind of smirk crossed his face. His friends parked next him all revved their engines to a start, and I tore my eyes from the platinum blond to see the others. I didn’t manage to catch a good look at two of them, because my eyes immediately looked onto those of the punk from earlier who’d started a conversation with me over pierced ears.

He was already looking at me, and when he realized my attention immediately locked onto him, a predatory look filled the black circles of his eyes and his lips formed into a boyish smirk directed exactly at me. He lifted his hand in a short wave, laughing along with the friend who called him away from me earlier as he shoved Marko’s shoulder in a teasing way. I lifted my hand in a small acknowledging wave back, but was knocked out of my small trance by Sam, who began teasing Michael.

“Come on, she stiffed ya!” Sam laughed harmlessly, gently punching Michael’s shoulder and turning to probably go and find Mom. I broke my gaze away from Marko immediately, turning to follow after Sam and not bothering to look back at all as I heard the bikes pull out and speed off down the road.

“Too bad she left with Mr. Mullet, she was pretty.” I tried to break the tension with Michael, I really didn’t want him to be upset over the lose of the girl, he still had all of Santa Carla’s teenage population of girls to meet.

He cracked a smile and nudged his shoulder into mine. “She really was.”

Once we made it home for the night, I separated from both my brothers and made my way into my own room. It was the smallest of all of ours, but that’s the main reason why I had chose it. It was cozy, and cute. I liked the way it came out once I had finished decorating it.

I couldn’t help but let my mind wander to those boys on the motorcycles from earlier that night. Marko seemed nice enough, even if I didn’t know whether or not I was brave enough to try to pursue a friendship with his more than intimidating friends. Just as I came to the conclusion that I should just get over myself and approach them, a sharp sting of anxiety wedged itself into my gut and nauseous filled my stomach and rose up in my throat. No. I didn’t need to become friends with those boys, there was something off, something I didn’t need to meddle in.

If I saw them again, I’d avoid eye contact and conversation completely. I was never able to understand my anxiety, but I always listened to it when it struck me.

[sorcererinthestars]

You’ve Got a Fast Car...

I’m back, bitches~~ But seriously, felt great to write again for the @rtwritingcommunity​‘s secret sunshine event! I will tag my recipient if/when I get their a-ok!

Summary: (FAHC) Michael doesn't expect a man to throw himself in front of his car and beg him to stop. This is Los Santos. Picking up hitchhikers is generally frowned upon. But this man has a pretty face and hell - he's got a fast car. What's he got to lose?

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/32969470

-

Michael knew something was seriously wrong when a man throws himself out in front of his car.

Now, his car was nothing nice, but he still doesn't want to spend the next few hours getting some fucking asshole's blood off of his front bumper. So naturally he slams on the brakes as the man - a skinny, dirty thing with wild hair - does a legitimate fucking slide across the hood of his shit Honda Civic and nearly collapses on the other side. "Oi!"

"Get out of the damn road, idiot!" Michael yells out the window in a reply, flicking him off to boot. It was late, almost 2am at this point, and he really had anything better to do than scream at some (probably high) dickbag who decided to do calisthenics in the goddamn street. But the man doesn't run away ashamed, as Michael had expected. Instead, he frantically pokes at his phone - still in the middle of the street - and Michael sits there, a bit flabbergasted.

He doesn't move.

He still doesn't move when Michael lays his entire weight on the horn, sending a blast of sound into the Los Santos night. It's not as loud or annoying as he may have wanted - LS is always loud as fuck on a Saturday evening - but it does have the intended effect of nearly making the idiot in front of his car in the middle of the street jump half out of his skin.

"SHHH!" the man gasps, comically putting his finger over his lip like he was in a cartoon and making an over-exaggerated shushing motion. Michael has to blink. He's shushing him? While standing in front of his car? Before he can say anything or shake off the disbelief that this shit had to happen to him tonight - he had to get home and clean off before his next shift at the pizza place he had reluctantly taken a job at - the man (still crazy-eyed and wild-haired) runs up to his window. At this moment, Michael really wishes he had invested in a knife, or a Tazer, or something. People had warned him about LS, but he didn't listen. He should probably learn to do that, someday.

"Listen, man," the guy says (see?) and leans forward, a massive grin on his face. He has some pretty high cheekbones. Michael blinks. "Dude, can you please just move or I'm gonna run you the fuck down."

"No, no, no, listen," the man says again, waving his hands about. "Do me a favor, will ya? If you drive me to this address -" he holds his phone up and shows an address on the outskirts of the city - "I'll give you $1,000. Right here, right now, no questions." Michael blinks and then snorts. Yeah fucking right. "I'm not an Uber."

The man shifts on both his feet, looking agitated, and glances over his shoulder. There sounds like there's some sort of commotion coming down the street and he really has to move. So Michael leans on the horn again, blasting another honk into the LS skyline.

This has the unintended effect of making the man lean further over the hood of his car, as if he could hide. Remember. This was in the middle of the goddamn street.

"Dude!"

"I'm not kidding!" the wild-eyed man says frantically. "$1500. Deposited directly into your account. I'm serious, kill me and my crew if I lie."

That was no turn of phrase Michael had ever heard, but the money does make him pause. He's... short on funds right now. Well, he's always short on funds, but this time moreso than usual. $1,500 extra would be a huge boost to the amount he currently has in the bank. He'd pay rent. He wouldn't have to borrow any more from anyone else and avoid that loan shark fucker he found online.

Before he could really think about what he was saying, he finds himself tapping the passenger seat. "Fine. Get in. I swear to god, I better see that money."

And if he dies... well. Then he still wouldn't have to worry about rent, so win-win in his mind.

With a triumphant holler, the man leaps into the car and yanks up a GPS on his phone, pointing them to drive down the street. "Thanks man! I'm Gavin." -

They're not going more than five minutes when sirens start blaring behind them. The man tenses and looks backwards out the window with a frown. "Oh shit."

Michael immediately - immediately - realizes just how much he fucked up. "What do you mean, oh shit?"

"I - uh..." The unhinged man - Gavin - stutters. "Did... Did I mention that uh... the LSPD may want to arrest me?"

"May want to what?!" Michael's voice climbs so many octaves in that last word that it makes Gavin slump down in his seat, suitably chagrined. "I ... seriously, man, I - I needed a car, a way out, I promise I'll give you the money, just please for the love of god, drive the damn car."

"Pull Over," the cop car unhelpfully calls from behind them, making Michael's bowels turn to water. Gavin's even more frantically slamming keys on his phone as they approach a major intersection. Michael keeps looking behind him, unable to slow down as the cops continue to chase them. "Gavin, seriously..."

"You're with me now, man," he replies a bit frantically. "You're in it. So either we avoid them, or you're going to jail too. Sorry."

The words fall like bricks on Michael's shoulders as he realizes that what Gavin just said was true. No cop in their right mind would believe that he - a man with a few blotches on his permanent record already - would have just accepted to pick up a hitchhiker and drive him across town at 2am for $1,500 without assuming he was a criminal. No. Any sane cop would assume he was in on it.

Because the alternative was that he was a fucking lunatic, but here we are.

Gritting his teeth, a conscious shift happens somewhere in his gut. He's a survivor. He'd get the fuck out of this, one way or the other. So, without Gavin's input and in a split second decision, he takes a sharp left and rips around the corner, sending Gavin flying against the door with a shout of surprise. "HEY!"

"Gotta avoid the cops, don't we?" Michael says with a maniacal burst of laughter, the insanity that can only be best described as hysteria. "You're the navigator, idiot, get us to where we need to be!"

The nervousness - which had appeared on Gavin's face after Michael had blown up at him - evaporated as Gavin bursts into a big smile. "Hell yeah," he hums. "Let's do this."

-

After fifteen minutes, Michael had lost all his nerves. Instead, he felt like an overinflated balloon, filled with a giddy sort of lunacy that he had never felt before as they flew down abandoned Los Santos streets. He shrieked with laughter as they slipped down the runway illuminated by neon lights and flashing red and blues, which whipped around them like a rave of their own design.

The freedom was intoxicating. Michael had taken drugs before back in New Jersey, who hadn't(?), but this was a whole different sort of high. And as soon as Gavin realized that Michael was in it with him, he had turned into an erratic demon of death, urging Michael onward with the same fire that was reflected in Michael's soul.

They flew down the streets like hedonists, shrieking with laughter and happiness as Gavin shoves his head out the sunroof to flick off the cops and shout insults.

When the first gunshot cracks through the night, Michael is sobered only for a moment. In for a penny, in for a pound. He's already here, dodging the cops, so this shit may as well happen. It's like he's in a godforsaken video game but he's not. This is real life, this is his life, and maybe he's ruining it. Maybe. But what had he not ruined in his life already? For a few moments, he could feel like he was disconnected from reality, driving so fast he could swear he could fly, a - undeniably pretty - man urging him to new, foolish lengths from the seat next to them.

And so they flew. As they approached intersections and traffic lights, Michael could see - more like sense - Gavin's own particular talents. He admits he has no abilities behind the wheel, hence begging Michael to help him, but he's able to make every traffic light change from here to the safehouse, giggling like a school kid all the while, knowing he was being naughty but that just sends them into a more frenzied set of hysterics.

It tastes like the best drug, the most collective high, the freedom that comes from knowing you're one step away from death or worse but that dangle is intoxicating. Maybe ten minutes ago he hated what was happening, but all that was gone now.

It's just the car, him, and Gavin's frantic - musical - laugh.

-

Eventually - with Gavin's GPS and eventually warm hand over his - they lose the cops. Michael has no sense of time, no concept of how long they were on the roads causing havoc, fleeing and laughing and shrieking like demons.

All he knows is that he's out in the North now and the beginning shards of sun were peeking over the horizon. He's able to slow to a manageable speed and catch his breath.

Gavin's phone rings and the man answers it. Michael can't hear what he's saying past the ringing in his ears, the result of wind whipping past his face and hours of excitement. His face is red when he meets Gavin's eyes. He closes the phone and the excitement shines bright in his eyes.

For a moment, Michael's breath is taken away. Then Gavin just points. "Top of Chilliad. Get me there." His voice is hoarse from yelling, deeper than it was, and it stirs something that Michael can't explain.

"Yes, sir," he hums teasingly. In for a penny, in for a pound, like he had said before. They start the climb up the dirt road. Once or twice, Michael doesn't think his car can make it, but the tenacious Civic crawls forward as if it knows what it had done too and felt on top of the world.

They make it to the top as the sun finally breaks over the horizon completely, blanketing the world in orange and red. When Michael finally - finally- throws the car in park and looks over at him, Gavin's grinning the biggest grin Michael has ever seen.

Before he can do anything, fuelled by adrenaline and fire and the same pure joy on Gavin's face, Michael leans over and kisses him deeply, half dragging him over the stick shift.

They kiss feverishly for a few moments, the adrenaline fading, before breaking apart and chuckling sheepishly. "I - sorry, I ..."

Gavin just winks. It's knowing. "No problem, luv," he purrs. "Does it to you, doesn't it? The chase? Makes the fire in your blood run hot." He leans forward conspiratorially. "Men weren't made to walk on their knees," he hums. "Think about it." He digs in his pocket and drops a card on the passenger seat before climbing out of the door, even as Michael tries to grab his arm and yank him back. "Gav--"

"Later, beautiful," Gavin grins, seemingly more suave and sophisticated than the man he was when he first climbed into the car. Like he was grifting and Michael was his poor, unsuspecting mark. "I'll call you. You're a great driver. Check your account." He salutes and it's then when Michael can hear the thud-thud of roters. A helicopter?

Before he can say anything, climbing frantically out of the car to watch, Gavin grabs a rope ladder hanging off the bottom of a fucking cargobob and is lifted into the air, disappearing quickly out of sight like something out of a fairy tale.

And Michael is left in the remains of the sun-drenched LS morning, with a car almost empty of gas and mysteriously $1,500 richer.

Whatever had happened to him that night in Los Santos, he knows his life will never, ever be the same.

[stxphxn-strange]

playing pretend

a/n: hello hello hello! i have a prompt fill for this Dark!Stephen AU from @ironstrangeprompts and im just gonna post it before i can start second guessing my writing lmao

tw: mentions of torture, injury, implied past abuse

Prompt: Dark!Stephen AU. The avengers never really notice Stephen’s pacifist to-a-fault superheroing style until one day a magical incident corrupts him/magical entity possesses him. They’re treated to a completely unhinged and lethal Stephen, the avengers realize just how much Stephen was holding back, what with his quick work dispatching all of them, resulting in very heavy injuries. However, he takes special interest with Tony Stark, whom he has been dating for a few months now. He has Tony all strung up in the middle of the battlefield in front of the other broken and beaten avengers, he taunts and tortures him. “Being a doctor and a sorcerer is so very useful, I can break you in very precise manners, put you back together and then do it again.” When he gets bored of Tony’s screams and decides to end him permanently, Stephen suddenly snaps back to normal. The real Stephen has been battling internally to gain back control, knowing that he’s about to kill the love of his life gives him the final push to break free. He portals them all to safety and to receive medical help. Cue heavy angst and Stephen trying to make it up to them but especially Tony, who insists that everything is fine and that he knows it wasn’t the real Stephen. However they both know that Tony is just putting up a brave front and is undoubtedly traumatized by the incident. Up to the author on if they want to end it in a bleak or hopeful tone.

It took Tony a few minutes to register his surroundings when he woke up. He wasn’t lying in a makeshift coffin of bent metal, broken bones, and the ruins of the building. The familiar baritone, the melody of his waking world, wasn’t hollow and cruelly taunting him. Stephen sounded like himself, soothing and loving and reassuring but worried and tired all the same. Tony heard guilt in his partner’s voice, delineating his dream, his memory, from the present. He wanted to follow that voice, the real Stephen’s voice, and leave the past behind them. Guilt was eating away at Stephen as he tried to calm Tony down and wake him up. He defaulted to the standard promises and phrases when Tony had nightmares, but this time was different. This time Stephen was the cause of the nightmare, and he knew it. No matter how much Tony said it wasn’t his fault, that everything was okay, Stephen knew he had to repair the pieces of Tony’s trust he’d obliterated.

Tony thrashed again in his sleep, feebly kicking the air in front of him just like he did on the battlefield. “Stop!”

“Sweetheart,” Stephen began, unsure of what to say. “Tony, wake up. You’re safe, no one will hurt you.”

“Stephen!” Tony groaned and thrashed again, his eyes still shut as he fought to wake up. “This isn’t you… don’t do this.”

Stephen barely held back tears as he spoke again. “It’s over Tony, I’m back. I’m me again. I won’t hurt you, I promise I’ll never hurt you as long as I live.”

Tony was shaking when he finally woke up, unsure if he was even breathing. He opened his eyes hastily, studying the look on Stephen’s face. Stephen looked concerned, even worried, but unsure of himself as he murmured soothing nonsense to Tony.

“Breathe, Tones,” Stephen said. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. It’ll be okay, I promise. Just breathe, we’re alright. I’ll leave you be once I’m sure you’re okay, and—”

Tony wrapped his arms around Stephen and hugged him tightly. “Don’t you dare. Don’t go… please don’t go Stephen.”

“I can’t risk scaring you again Tony. I’ve already hurt you enough, it’s not fair to keep putting you through this,” Stephen argued, fighting his urge to hug Tony back.

Tony only held on tighter, determined not to let Stephen leave.

Stephen still wanted to disappear, but he quickly understood that Tony wouldn’t let him go that easily. The mechanic was still shivering and trembling, slowly starting to calm down as Stephen hesitantly hugged him back.

++++

They both woke up at the same time, almost four days later. Stephen woke up slowly, feeling like he was underwater or in a fog, while Tony started awake across town.

It was pitch dark in the room, the heavy curtains drawn shut to keep out any intrusive light. It was the middle of the day, judging by the clock Stephen kept on his nightstand, but he couldn’t feel the sun on his face, or see any light from his window. He was bathing in pitch black. At first, he thought he was dead, doomed to an eternity in darkness, when something red bloomed and came to life beside him. Even now, his Cloak was always dramatic, comforting as it covered him like a blanket.

As his eyes adjusted, Stephen registered Wong and Christine on the other side of the room, just studying him.

Christine was the first to meet his stare, rushing to his bedside. “How do you feel?”

Stephen grimaced in pain as he shrugged. “Not great, thanks.” There was something else on his mind, but he was too afraid to ask. He was almost too scared to hear the answer.

Luckily, Wong spoke up before Stephen could ask. “You slept for three and a half days, Strange. How much do you remember?”

“Something attacked the Compound… I think it was me,” he mumbled.

“Not exactly,” Wong began, gentler than Stephen had ever heard him.

“Possessed or not, I still attacked!” Stephen sat up, paying the price as he rose quicker than his body could handle. “It doesn’t matter if I saved everyone, not if I almost killed them first.”

Neither Wong nor Christine spoke, and the cloak simply wrapped tighter around Stephen’s shoulders.

“You did save everyone,” Wong said finally. “And you banished whatever entity possessed you. We still haven’t figured out what it is, but…”

Wong’s voice trailed off as Stephen stopped listening. His head started to hurt as he remembered, in searing detail, more of what happened and what caused him to snap out of the state he was in.

Tony was near silent, his voice failing him after hours of tortured screams. Somewhere, somehow, Stephen knew that he was the one hurting him, the one causing Tony so much pain even though he promised never to hurt the hero. He wanted to stop, to end all of the carnage he’d brought to the Compound, to his friends who were starting to feel like family, to Tony… but he couldn’t. The hand controlling his impulsive strings was strong and steady, and it wouldn’t rest until Stephen finished its bidding.

His movements were mechanical as he strode, like the marionette he’d become, to stand in front of Tony.

And Tony just looked at him with a defeated, almost calm look on his face.

Stephen’s voice sounded distorted when he spoke, preening with a twisted smile as he bent to look upon the man of iron. “Accepted your fate?”

“You won’t be the first person I’ve loved who’s hurt me,” Tony said, between pained breaths. “There’s nothing to say.”

Stephen tried to back up, to keep himself still, but he couldn’t fight the influence of his controller and struck Tony again. “Arrogance is unbecoming.”

Tony inhaled again, deeper and more pained this time but somehow even calmer. “Go ahead and finish the job. I won’t hold it against you, Stephen.”

Stephen was hyperventilating when he heard Wong’s voice again, pressed against the headboard of his bed like he was backed into a corner.

Christine approached him tentatively, resting her hand on one of his shoulders.

Stephen recoiled away from the touch and curled up on himself like a turtle retreating in its shell. He ducked his head under a pillow, shaking in fear and pain from moving too quickly. “Did I… did I kill him? I remember everything until I was about to… please tell me I—”

“You didn’t.” Christine cut him off, hoping to keep her friend from spiraling further. “Wong said you saved everyone, and that includes Tony.”

Stephen sobbed just hearing his partner’s name. Guilt wracked his entire body as he cried harder and harder, his magic running through his veins. Was he not this exhausted, he’d probably set fire to something from his high levels of stress and fear, but all he could do was cry until he fell into painful sleep.

++++

He didn’t finish it.

He didn’t listen.

Tony remembered the horrified look he saw on Stephen’s face, the remorse in his eyes as he sent a vaguely corporeal figure of dark energy through a portal.

Tony remembered the way Stephen apologized again and again as his eyes started closing, overwhelmed by the pain seizing his mind and body. A part of him hoped that Stephen had listened, that maybe the last thing he’d see in this life would be the face he’d come to absolutely adore…

… But he’d woken up sometime later in the MedBay, wanting to see Stephen more than anything. In spite of everything that’d just happened, or maybe because of everything that’d just happened, all Tony really wanted was to go back to sleep, preferably in his partner’s embrace. That really didn’t seem like too much to ask for.

“How are you feeling, Mr. Stark?”

Tony almost didn’t notice Peter pacing around on the ceiling, in fact he didn’t know his pseudo son was even in the room until he suddenly landed a few feet away. “I feel great, Kid. Definitely not like I took a ton of bricks to the face.” He didn’t remember the gory details of the fight, so Tony couldn’t say whether or not he was being literal.

“Welcome back, Boss,” FRIDAY said, a hint of worry in her voice. “And good morning. It’s currently half nine on Tuesday. I’ve been asked to inform you that Col. Rhodes has returned from Washington and has volunteered to lead all reconstruction projects for the Compound. He’s also asked me to keep you updated and will be coming to see you this afternoon.”

Tony sighed. “Thank you. Wait… that means Rhodey came back early?”

“He did,” FRIDAY replied simply. Her voice sounded like what a nod looked like as she continued. “Would you like me to tell him that you asked about him?”

“Sure, but don’t bother him. He doesn’t have to rush to see me,” Tony replied, knowing that Rhodey would probably come anyway. He was maybe the one exception to what Tony had told Stephen earlier, before…

“Col. Rhodes will be here within the hour,” FRIDAY announced.

“Thanks Fri.”

Peter, who had started pacing on the ceiling again, asked what Tony had been wondering since he woke up. “Where’s the Doc?”

“I dunno, Pete. I’ve been wondering that myself,” Tony admitted. “Fri, you wouldn’t happen to know… would you?”

“As far as I can tell, Doctor Strange returned to the Sanctum following the… altercation… on Thursday,” the AI reported.

“What? Altercation? What happened?” Peter landed on the floor again, looking more worried than Tony thought he deserved to.

“There was just a small wizarding mishap, don’t worry about it,” Tony said. He shrugged, trying to reassure Peter as much as he could. “Not even an emergency, Underoos. We would’ve called for you if it was.”

Tony also didn’t want Peter to see what happened. Maybe he was sheltering the kid, but he didn’t want Peter to ever find out about the attack on the Compound. It was bad enough that the team, even in their varied states of consciousness, saw what they did. They saw the fear in Tony’s eyes, saw him slowly surrender to Stephen’s ruthless attacks until he just stopped trying to fight the sorcerer. Tony knew he couldn’t parry these magical attacks, couldn’t break the spelled restraints… but he didn’t want Peter to see how easily he’d given up.

If Peter had more to say, he simply chose not to ask about it. Instead he just shrugged. “Glad you’re okay, Mr. Stark. May heard from Pepper that you got hurt, so I wanted to swing by… no pun intended.”

“How many times do I have to tell you that calling me ‘Tony’ is fine?” Tony asked, rolling his eyes warmly. “I’m fine, Pete. Not up for working in the lab today, I’m afraid, but—”

“That’s okay! My suit isn’t going anywhere, we can upgrade anytime,” Peter replied. “I promised May I’d be home for movie night, but I just wanted to come see you.”

Tony smiled softly. “You’re a good kid, Son. Get home safe, and I’ll give you a call when I’m back in working condition.”

“Thanks IronDad!” Peter was gone in a second, leaving Tony in the quiet with his thoughts.

“Fri?” He asked after a few minutes.

“Still here, Boss.”

“Will you… will you tell Stephen I want to see him?” Tony asked.

Maybe he was the spoiled brat everyone believed, or maybe he was exhausted and touch starved and showing signs of an addictive personality. Tony didn’t know, he didn’t care, and he just wanted his sorcerer back.

“I’ll let him know,” FRIDAY replied, softer than normal.

++++

“Stephen, it’s been days. Days since the attack, days since you holed yourself up in my library like you’re going into hibernation—”

“Good morning to you too, Wong.”

Wong may have laughed at Stephen’s attitude if he didn’t feel so bad for him. Stephen was completely out of it, so much so that he didn’t even realize how late in the day it was. “It’s almost eight, Strange.”

Stephen just sighed. “Did you need something from me?”

“Stark is asking for you again. I think you should see him.”

“You said that yesterday,” Stephen muttered.

“I’m saying it again now. I know you, Stephen, I can read you like any book in here.” Wong began. “You’re trying to outrun your guilt but you know it’s not that easy. Ignoring Tony isn’t going to make things go away, and it’s not going to make either of you feel better. He misses you, and I know you miss him too.”

“I don’t know how I can even look at him after what I did… he trusted me,” Stephen whispered, looking down at his lap. “I broke his trust.”

“Not willingly, and he knows that,” Wong reminded him. “It wasn’t you, Stephen.”

Stephen ignored him, beginning to tremble as he thought back to what Tony had said to him. “He told me he wouldn’t hold it against me… that I wasn’t the first of his loved ones to hurt him. I don’t know what I could do or say to prove to him, let alone to the team, that I’d never hurt them again.”

“Hiding away in here isn’t helping to prove that,” Wong said.

“You just want your chair by the window back,” Stephen accused him.

“Of course I do! But I also care about you and your happiness. If you need anyone to vouch for you, I’ll be here,” Wong replied.

“That sounds like you’ve made up my mind for me.”

“I have. Go now, before it gets too late.”

Stephen opened a portal to the tower, just outside of the lab. “I doubt Tony would be asleep, he’s always awake.”

His suspicions were confirmed as he closed the portal. Tony was in his lab where Stephen thought he’d be, a mug in one hand and a pen in the other.

Stephen’s entire body trembled with nerves as he opened the door, the cloak knocking loudly and dramatically to make his presence known.

“FRIDAY, Quiet Place Protocol please,” Tony said. He looked up and smiled sadly at Stephen as the lab’s usual blaring music shut off. “Hi.”

“Hey.” Stephen suddenly didn’t know what to do with himself. He was too scared to get any closer to Tony, afraid to hurt him, but at the same time all he wanted was to hug him.

The cloak made the first move, flying off of his shoulders and resting on Tony’s.

“Aww, hi Levy.” Of course Tony had a nickname for the relic, he had nicknames for everything and everyone.

Stephen found it annoying in the most heartwarming way, and he couldn’t help but smile as Tony sat down at his workbench.

“You can come over, you know?” Tony asked, half teasingly. “I told you I don’t bite, Steph.”

Stephen felt like a marionette again as he walked towards his boyfriend, but his heart was in control this time. He wanted to protect, to cherish, and to spoil the man in front of him with nothing but love and attention. He was just afraid, still unsure of himself as he studied Tony’s face. “I’m sorry.”

“Hey… I know.” Tony opened his palms on his lap, silently asking to hold Stephen’s hands.

Stephen let him, trembling harder as Tony held him gently. “I don’t know what happened, Tony. Something took over me, and I couldn’t stop it. I’ve never been overpowered like that before, and I didn’t know what to do. But please listen when I say that I promise it’ll never happen again, I mean that’s a given if you leave me, but—”

“I’m not leaving you,” Tony said firmly. “I know you weren’t voluntarily doing all of those things.”

“I never, ever wanted to hurt you. I still don’t want to hurt you.”

“You didn’t.”

“Tony…” Stephen took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. “Tony I could’ve killed you. The entire time I was trying to break the curse, to get that thing out of my system, I almost killed you. And you almost let me do it.”

“I did.”

Stephen didn’t know what to say. Tony had that calm, accepting look on his face mixed with a kind, trusting expression. It was the same look he’d given Stephen in the ruins of the Compound, and it hurt. It didn’t feel like an apology would be enough to make things right, but what else was there to do now? “I’m sorry, Tony.”

Tony slid his arms around Stephen’s waist and pulled him into the hug they’d both been needing. “I’m fine baby, it’s okay. It’s over.”

Stephen knew it wasn’t just over, and he knew Tony knew it too. But in the moment he was too fatigued to fight about it and let Tony hold him closer. “Have you been sleeping?”

“Trying to,” Tony replied. “Not to be cheesy or whatnot, but I do sleep better with you next to me.”

“May I take you to bed?” Stephen asked, sounding even shyer than when he normally asked that. “Please? I know it’s early, but I wouldn’t object to a nap.”

Tony nodded, shifting to press a chaste kiss to Stephen’s lips. “That sounds nice. FRIDAY, save and shut everything off please.”

“Engaging ‘You Shall Not Pass’ protocol, Boss,” FRIDAY reported dutifully.

Tony scoffed. “Remind me to never let you and Peter give Fri name suggestions again.”

“You could just change it if it bothers you that much.” Stephen chose to remind Tony of that instead, even though they both knew Tony was secretly fond of the movie references hidden in his protocols. “Besides, that serves you right for calling me Gandalf all the time.”

“If the shoe fits, babe,” Tony said. He stood up, keeping an arm wrapped around Stephen’s waist as they left the lab and headed for the elevators.

Despite feeling safe and loved in Tony’s arms, more than he could have ever hoped to be and probably more than he deserved, Stephen was still anxious. He felt out of place in the Tower, never mind the fact that he usually spent half of his time there, and he felt even more out of place amongst the team.

“How are the others?” He asked quietly, afraid to hear the answer.

“They’re getting better.” Tony saw no point in sugarcoating the truth. Stephen would see right through it, and that wouldn’t help him process everything. “Carol and Thor are both bored of training with each other, but no one else wants to spar with either of them yet. Or with Natasha, for that matter.”

“Does anyone ever want to spar with them on a good day?” Stephen asked, trying to keep the mood light.

“You’re all a bunch of sore losers who can’t rise to a friendly challenge” Natasha quipped, suddenly materializing in front of the couple. “Tony, what’s going on?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why is he here?”

“Natasha, I—”

Natasha pointedly ignored Stephen. She never disliked the sorcerer, she was actually indifferent and had no issues telling Tony that, but Tony’s trustful, rather soft nature was a concern of hers. It worked in her favor, sure, but she was really trying to be a better friend to Tony and look out for him more. It was this concern that motivated her to look at Stephen with disgust. Natasha wasn’t scared of him, she took heavy damage in the attacks but it was more minimal compared to some of the things she’d put his friends and family through.

Tony was acting as if none of that happened, and that couldn’t stand.

Natasha frowned and glared at Stephen as she addressed Tony. “Tony what the hell are you doing?”

“I’m not—”

“Don’t play dumb and tell me you’re not following. What are you still doing with him? You barely sleep more than an hour without waking everyone up screaming from phantom pain and nightmares! Do you think we can’t hear you yelling and begging for Stephen to stop torturing you and just kill you? Because we all do!” Natasha took a deep breath, pinching the bridge of her nose. “And after all that, you’re holding him like nothing is wrong? I don’t understand how you can be so forgiving sometimes.”

She stormed off before Stephen could defend himself or before Tony could respond. Her words echoed in Stephen’s head as Tony continued to lead him down the hallway, into the elevator, and into the penthouse.

Stephen sat dejectedly on the bed as Tony shuffled around the room, grabbing a few blankets from the closet. He didn’t say anything as Tony made a little nest of pillows and blankets, the cloak joining the haphazard pile the minute Tony curled up under a throw. Eventually Stephen allowed himself to lay down, offering no protests as Tony hugged him again.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized again, mumbling into the soft fabric of Tony’s shirt.

“I know,” Tony said simply. “Relax sweetheart, it’s okay.”

He was still tense, curling up smaller in Tony’s arms. “Are you okay?” The sorcerer asked.

“I’m fine,” Tony reassured him. That was half true. He was fine, to a point, but there were things bothering him that he had no idea how to tell Stephen about.

Eventually they would have to face the music and talk about everything, and they both knew it. For now, Tony was somewhat okay with ignoring it, clinging to the hope that having his Stephen back would keep the memories at bay.

Tags: @stark-strange-love2 @salty-ironstrange-shipper @funkylittlebidiot @richieleeparker @chocopiggy @hatakehikari @taruyison 

[cdyssey]

Need

Summary: After Nick arrives at the beach house, Frankie escapes to her studio to process her emotions. Post 7x04.

A/N: I've had such Grace and Frankie brain rot these past few days that I figured I should put it to good use and write another fic. It was really fascinating to try Frankie's POV. Lily Tomlin imbues her with a lot of subtle pathos that I totally wish the show would explicitly explore more.

AO3 Link

—

Frankie excuses herself to the studio for dinner, so she can process her very big, astonishingly inappropriate, and entirely overwhelming emotions without resorting to calling Nick a “wavy-haired, Pierce Brosnan wannabe douche canoe.” 

As delightful (and totally true) of a turn a phrase that it is, even she knows that saying it aloud would be trespassing a boundary that she’s sworn herself never to cross: Grace is married.

Unhappily married, maybe. 

Complicatedly married at the very least.

But until the day that they mutually say “I do” to divorce papers, there isn’t enough room for three people in the Skolka marriage, however much that Grace—bless her increasingly unthawing heart—tries to ensure otherwise. 

So Frankie lets the newly reunited couple have their dinner alone under the guise of a generosity that she doesn’t exactly feel, and she takes leftover pasta into her studio to moodily pick around the bowl until her fettuccine looks less like fettuccine and more like unevenly perforated confetti.

(Woo fucking hoo.)

After a few minutes of this aggressively unconstructive practice, she places her nearly full bowl on a nearby work table and stretches out across her paint-stained couch, staring at the ceiling and resisting the reactionary urge to light a joint. Mary J might help her feel better for the present moment, but tomorrow morning, she’d still wake up and feel invaded in her own home.

Paradoxically, she’d also feel alone, goddammit.

She pulls her shawl more tightly around her shoulders against an invisible and piercing chill.

Frankie hates feeling lonely.

She spiraled when Grace lived in the penthouse. She nearly self-destructed to fill the gaping void that her roommate, her friend, her practical and beloved soulmate left behind. There was a period where she didn’t wash her clothes and ate a lot of admittedly non-vegan takeout. There were nights when she’d lay awake in her awfully huge bed, staring at the empty space where Sol used to sleep, and have the familiar waking nightmare of spending her final years in forced solitude. She was happy with Jack, and then Jacob—sweet Jacob—came around too, and she did something she still feels fucking ashamed about: she hurt both of them, and she lied when she said that she had just wanted to have some fun.

She knows herself.

Intimately.

She‘d been scared of being alone again, so she tried to hold on to two people who were helping her to stave the awful feeling away. Those men wanted her, and Frankie used them. They wanted her, and she pathologically loves to feel wanted because she sometimes and irrationally fears that she might not be needed.

To be fair to her irrational fears, all the people she’s ever needed and felt needed by have hurt her before.

Sol cheated on her for twenty years.

Her own sons stuck her in a nursing home.

Grace just fucking left her.

She eloped in Vegas like a blushing twenty-one year old bride and just disappeared.

She says it was a mistake; she sat across Frankie in a sunlit restaurant and candidly told her that she didn’t like the person she had become when she married Nick.

And to be completely fair to her, Grace has been adamant about not wanting to leave again—so perhaps she never will—but if her husband is here to stay, it's also a distinct possibility that she’ll never have to make the choice to physically leave to… well… leave.

She can perpetually honeymoon with Nick and still call Frankie home. 

It could be a happy ending for Grace… and a fresh new hell for Frankie, who'd just started to feel secure again.

God knows she wants her best friend to be happy, but the big man in the sky must also surely understand that she had hoped that she alone could be enough for Grace, that this unconventional life spent together in the beach house—so crazy, so weird, and so inextricably entangled—would be their shared happily ever after.

But even as she thinks it, the vestiges of her clearly misplaced optimism begin to evade her, dregs now at the bottom of an already drained cup.

She and Grace aren't married.

It’s always been an objective fact.

Tonight, it feels more like an unpleasant reality.

When the door leading into her studio suddenly flies open, Frankie barely has enough time to swipe the back of her hand across her eyes before she sits up to find none other than the lady of the hour.

Her collared shirt popped up stiffly around her neck, a martini glass surgically glued to her right hand, Grace looks quintessentially herself as she walks in, even down to the minutiae of her trademark I'm-angry-at-the-world-and-everyone-in-it expression—brow furrowed and eyes Medusa cold. After all but slamming the door, she stalks over within a few clicks of her practical but unmistakably high heels.

“Well, hello to you, too, Sunshine,” Frankie greets wryly, hoping to hell and back that her face isn’t as red as it feels. 

It’s a tall order, though.

Alas, she was gifted (or equally cursed) with an exceptionally expressive face.

“Frankie, this is nonsense,” Grace says bluntly, using her martini glass like a pointer and leveling it straight at her head. “Come back to the house—your house—and have dinner with us.”

It’s the authoritarian nature of the demand that rifles Frankie.

Frankly, it pisses her off.

She’s always been a rebel contrarian.

“And by us, you mean you and your house arrested husband, right?” She returns evenly. She betrays herself by raising a single and devastatingly skeptical brow. “The man with whom you should be having a very emotionally honest conversation with right now about the parameters of your jacked up relationship?”

Grace shifts her weight from heel to heel and glances away a little too quickly for the gesture to be entirely natural. Frankie had blatantly stricken a pulsing nerve, and the guilt of doing so immediately swallows her. 

She shouldn’t be so hard on her friend.

(She doesn’t know why it’s permissible to be equally hard on herself.)

“Well, I tried to have that conversation, thank you very much, but then I ended up wanting to claw Nick’s eyes out.” The obvious follow up question must shine in Frankie’s face because sighing infinitesimally through her nostrils, Grace adds, “His attorney argued that my advanced age and apparent capability to croak at any moment were reasons enough to grant Nick leniency. They let him out so he could take care of me—whatever the hell that means.”

Her no-nonsense voice never falters as she delivers the brutal words, but her eyes undermine her, seething with emotion, simply roiling. They tell a story of horror and disgust and searing, absolute betrayal; they’re heavy all over with sadness and the indelicate trappings of all her raw and mercilessly exposed fears. 

Frankie understands immediately.

Nick used one of Grace’s deepest insecurities as a get-out-of-jail-free card.

Being eighty-two years old.

But perhaps more accurately, feeling like it.

“Oh, honey,” Frankie melts. She can do nothing else but melt, to be suddenly overcome with fierce, protective, and terrifying love for the woman in front of her. “That fucking bastard.”

Grace immediately laughs, the sound hoarse and watery and a little unhinged all at the exact same time.

“Tell me about it,” she half-smiles and takes the swearing as a rightful invitation to join Frankie on the couch. With a gentle clink, she sets her half-emptied martini glass on the table next to Frankie’s completely full pasta bowl. “I said the exact same thing.”

When she chooses to sit close enough that their shoulders are brushing, Frankie intuitively knows that this is petty defiance against Nick for daring to intrude upon them and the world they've so carefully created together.

She temples Grace’s nearest hand with her own in an attempt to silently communicate that this right here—whatever this is between them—is love.

“So, please”—Grace squeezes her hand back—“please don’t be angry with me… I… I didn’t want this. You know I didn’t want this. I don’t want him to even be here.”

Frankie stares openly at her best friend.

Wide-eyed and hopeful against her self-loathing, self-centered will, she searches her broken face like it's revelatory.

It's stunningly rare that Grace Hanson ever articulates her wants so clearly. Forty years of an emotionally repressive marriage did their number and toll on her. She pedestalized rigid decorum over every conscious desire. 

She played by the rules even if they hurt her.

And drank herself to oblivion on many a night to forget the very fact that she was hurt.

To deny herself the honesty she’d somehow convinced herself that she didn’t deserve.

“… you know this is your husband we’re talking about here, right?” It’s a rhetorical question. Frankie's pretty sure that they both fucking know that it’s insane that this conversation—that this entire situation as a whole—is happening. 

“I know,” Grace replies firmly. “Believe me, I'm well aware. But you’re… you’re my partner, Frankie, and if I can’t be upfront with you, then I don’t know who else I can turn to.”

The very word partner sends shivers down her spine, and the shivers collect like butterflies in her already churning belly.

It’s just a word, she tells herself. 

She scolds.

Grace doesn’t mean anything by it.

It's a label, and Grace doesn't do labels anymore.

“I... I wasn’t mad at you, Grace,” she finally admits. It's easier to do than questioning the extent to which her roommate would give up the world for her, but all the same, her voice is frighteningly weak, a pale imitation of everything Frankie usually projects herself to be: confident, cheerful, unshakeable, unshaken. Suddenly, it hits her that it’s been a very long time since she’s been so openly vulnerable, too. “I'm not even really all that mad at your jailbird husband either. I was just scared, and when I get scared, I skitter like a nervous little bug."

She shuts down.

She spirals.

She tries to put a smile on her face for the people who love her all the same.

And then she lies awake at night, drowning in the sheets of an empty bed.

Thinking about how she should probably tell someone that everything hurts.

But she’s Frankie, and she doesn’t do that.

Grace perpetually convinces herself that she doesn’t deserve honesty; Frankie has come to fear that no one wants her own.

“Were you scared of me?” Grace asks quietly, her grip so tight now that it almost stings.

“Frankie…” She presses when a few heartbeats of silence stagger by, limping painfully on all fours, pronouncing so many unspoken and profound hurts. 

“Of losing you, Grace,” she confesses, the words defeated and scraped raw. She forcefully tugs her hand away from Grace's just to temple her own hands together on her lap, to lick her sundry and shining wounds in a private corner. “I was scared of losing you, of being alone again in this big, empty house… and I don’t like being alone.”

She can’t bear to look at Grace as she says it, staring at the paint-flecked floor without ever really seeing it, her eyes burning.

She wishes they’d stop burning but feels the precise moment when they begin to leak anyway.

It’s all so embarrassing.

And childish.

Frankie is an eighty-year old woman, and she shouldn’t be upset over her best friend having a goddamn life.

She should be happy for her, fucking ecstatic.

And yet, she's—

But before she can complete the miserable thought, her body becomes aware of another sensation entirely—warm arms enveloping her from the side and inexorably pulling her in, turning the space that once existed between two bodies—between them—intangible, negligible.

Grace.

Shock turns into realization, and realization transforms into aching, sweeping relief.

It can only be Grace.

Grace’s soft lips pressed to her cheek.

Grace’s fingertips curling into the fabric of her dress.

Grace’s nose against her neck as she slides her sharp chin across her shoulder.

“I’m not leaving you, Frances Bergstein,” she declares. “Whatever happens between me and Nick, in the end, it’s going to be just you and me in this house that is our damn home. I swear that to you. I’d tell you every day just to prove it to you.”

Oh, these words.

These beautiful, tender, and long-needed-to-hear words.

They’re just words, she could tell herself again.

She could lie.

She could convince herself if she had to.

She could conveniently forget that Grace Hanson uses language carefully, that she employs every sentence with scalpel-like precision.

Or... more complicatedly still... Frankie could believe her.

Frankie could blindly accept these words for what they are, as manifest confirmation that she is loved by another—prioritized and cared for and needed.

She could be Grace’s partner and let that incredible word be electrically charged with so many complex and ridiculous and extraordinary ideas, none of which are traditional, and all of which feel true.

She could believe in her even if belief is not simple, even if belief is a product, first and foremost, of trust.

And Grace has certainly lost her trust before, but goddammit, she's earned it so many times, too.

“Oh, God,” Frankie laughs in such a way that it’s stupidly clear that she’s crying as Grace rubs slow circles into her back with her thumb. “This is all messed up. You’re the one with a house arrested, tax evading husband. I should be the one comforting you.”

“The house arrested, tax evading husband doesn’t particularly faze me,” Grace chuckles, her voice low. “Seeing you hurting and upset does. My priorities are remarkably straight.”

“I’m not sure you know the meaning of that word,” she smiles weakly as they slowly and clumsily begin to extricate themselves from their tangled embrace. 

It’s hard to find themselves again.

To be apart.

“But I do,” Grace protests, emphatic and indignant and maybe even a few shades righteously pissed. “You’re the person I wanna share this crazy life with at the end of the day and every day. Why is that so hard to believe?”

“Because every day is an incredibly long time to be with me,” Frankie offers meekly, giving her one more perfect and easily acceptable copout, a neatly packaged excuse. 

She can be too much.

She knows this.

“It’s just the right amount of time to be with you,” Grace murmurs, reaching up to brush an errant tear away from Frankie’s cheek, her thumb lingering, her quivering palm. “You’re kind enough to love me, and I’m lucky enough to be loved by you... so let me return the favor, Frankie. Let me be here for you."

And to Grace’s credit in this fleeting moment, she continues to hold Frankie.

It's a promise to never let her go.

[nelson-riddle-me-this]

Film soundtrack: Camelot

I have not seen this film or listened to the album before, so here are my live thoughts as I listen for the 1st time.

NEVER HEARD BEFORE | want to listen to | the worst | BAD | whatever | not my thing | GOOD | great | favorite | masterpiece

01. "Prelude and Overture"

Something about how this begins - it feels like they cut an intro, it just starts and I feel out of the loop. Also, as is usual with Broadway-film adaptations of this era, the orchestrations are larger and a little bite'ier. Pretty strings. Got that 20th Century Fox string sound - but wait, this is a Warners movie -OOOHO WAIT IT'S Alfred Newman conducting [longtime head of the Fox music dept.] heheh so I *am* right. Pretty ballads - "If Ever I Would Leave You". OOH these strings on "If Ever I Would Leave You" are GORGEOUS. And tail out. Beautiful!

02. "I Wonder What The King Is Doing Tonight?"

Richard Harris is a lot friendlier than Richard Burton was in the role of King Arthur on Broadway - and I'm into it. Also, I dig the brighter tempo here - makes it feel like we are indeed on the eve of a momentous occasion (wedding). Okay I wish they'd play with dyamics more - especially on lines like "he's wishing he were in Scottland fishing tonight" or "he's searching high and low for someplace to hide". Missed opportunities for text-painting.

03. "The Simple Joys of Maidenhood"

I can't help compare Vanessa Redgrave to Julie Andrews. Redgrave doesn't have an unpleasant sound, but she's lacking personality. I dig the 'Bolero'y millitaristic snare drum. Much of the joy in Julie's performance is how she mixes surface-level sweetness, and conniving seduction (think Betty White as 'Sue Ann Nivens' on THE MARY TYLER MOORE SHOW). But Redgrave's performance doesn't seem to be all that thoughtful. Also, not a fan of that ending, it doesn't feel like an ending, "Oh, it's over! That was it?", but perhaps it makes more sense with picture.

04. "Camelot and the Wedding Ceremony"

Nice bassoon. ?harpsichord?? So far this arrangement is the closest to the Broadway. I wish the strings were legato/slurred on "by order Summer lingers through September". Maybe I am too mickey-mouse'y with the text painting I want, but I prefer specificity. I like the pulling back the tempo a bit there. Love these woodwind lines! Oooh love it again, we're pulling the tempo down, dynamics, and slurring. Love it. Build. Build back up! YES! Lovely! OOoh this little Medievel winds passage! And the chorus! Oh those woodwinds are gorgeous. I need to learn more about them - recorders??? At first the singers didn't sound especially English, more American. As I listen more, their pronunciation is pretty English. But perhaps the harmonies are very American - like what you'd hear in a Disney movie or Mancini score of the era - so even sung with appropriate pronunciation they sound American?

05. "C'est Moi"

Frano Nero. Never heard of him. He's fine, but feels like a step-down from Robert Goulet. He lacks that clear strong edge that Goulet has. He's not as commanding. When Goulet praises himself, I buy it. Like he has the confidence and strength to really sell what he's singing. This man isn't selling me. Maybe that's a choice - maybe they want us to see him as a phony who's over-selling himself. But I feel like I still have that with Goulet and it's better because you feel like you're reading beetween the lines a little more - like resisting an extremely good/slick car salesman.

06. "The Lusty Month of May"

Nice opening. Pretty. I love the slower tempo for this - enhances the seductivness. Gorgeous strings. And we accel! Nice! Good ?harpsichord? Now I still don't like her as much as Julie, but Redgrave works better here than in "The Simple Joys of Maidenhood", staightforward lustiness is a little easier. This 3' section is nice, though I wish it were faster - a merry-go-round, but slightly unhinged.

07. "Follow Me and Children's Chorus"

Gorgeous, tinkly. Gorgeous chorus. They're stereo ping-ponging the choirs!!!! It's really effective. Oh and the childrens chorus is so sweet. This is a completely different approach than the OBC, but it works so well. Helps that this is an utterly divine song. Favorite track on the album so far, probably to remain so. HIGHLY RECOMMEND THIS TRACK.

08. "How To Handle A Woman"

Oooh he's upset and we're fast! This works! Even if he's generally warmer than Burton, Harris can still do angry! And pull it back, sweet and intimate. Oooh this whisper'y smolder bit O.o and now we're past the intro. I kind of like Harris better than Burton - his warmth is really an asset for this character. Oh yikes that Merlin line is very sexist :/.

09. "Take Me To The Fair"

The tempo is - not sure if it's even slower, but it's looser, and I don't like that. The precisely on-the-beat phrasing of the OBC (both vocally and instrumentally) communicates that Guenevere has this all planned out, it's an act, it's a trap, she's manipulating these silly men. Oh, the transition from "well, Sir Sagramore" to "you may sit BY me at the ball" is awful - either she just keeps going through it (but in a weird way) or they did a pickup and spliced her in there so she's slightly overlapping. Sorry Alfred Newman, but this is not IT. Who cast Redgrave? Who thought casting a non-singing actress in a role originally played by a remarkably strong actress-singer? I like the little harpsichord section. Worst Redgrave number so far. An insult to the OBC. I promise this is a good song, got listen to the cast album

10. "If Ever I Would Leave You"

Oh, so we're right into it! Nero's lack of boldness as compared to Goulet kind of works here - sweeter and softer for this intimate love song. Lots of this arrangement is just imitative of the vocal - which is nice but can get a little tiresome when it's not really in-the-pocket. Still this man doesn't have the presence that Goulet does. He just doesn't command your attention. Like this string interlude. Different. Flute :) adding ?oboe? under it. Violins. Now violas? I like it. Oh and I think the violins are doing finger tremolos. Great! The new interludes on this album are gorgeous, when the film people really get to go off and do their own thing, it's great. And are we back to the vocal? Yes, this works. Oh these strings are GORGEOUS. I miss the ?timpani? hits of the original, but actually given that Nero is not as powerful a vocalist, letting the strings lead those hits is a good choice.

11. "What Do the Simple Folk Do?"

Oigg Redgrave. Like the harpsichord and very 'royal' woodwinds. And tambourine. Very medieval. Yay, we DO get a whistling section! This is adorable :) I like this. BOOO Vanessa!!! Oh, I like the "their own folk - throne folk" rhyme, don't remember that from the OBC. Oh and Harris can get big and bold too!!! I really love Richard Harris in this. HE HAS THE RANGE. Oh, is that Marni Nixon? Sounds like her. Did you know the film composer Bronislau Kaper gave her her first break? He needed someone to dub ?Virginia O'Brien?'s singing voice for some picture, and looked in vain until some paige at the studio recommended her fellow-paige, Nixon, and the rest is history! I like this ending! Harris really carries this song on his back.

12. "I Loved You Once In Silence"

The guitar is neat, very different from the OBC - though I confess I don't remember this song as much as the others. See this is something Redgrave can do. Her soft kind of weak voice works for something intimate and straightforward like this. Still, I don't like her voice and every once in a while something in her tone feels so amaeturish that it bugs me. Oh dear, only Redgrave and Nero together. :( they just both seem like space-cases. They're not compelling. Perhaps they have screen presence, but they don't have audio presence.

13. "Guenevere"

Oooh love these ?string harmonics?! Eerie. Like this! The studio chorus is great. Some of the strings are too loud - I suspect that's just a mix issue. Oh I love the tambourine on 2 and 4! I love how large this sounds! That ?horn line? kinda steps on the male vocalists there. Oh I really love every spot the tambourine is here, huh! OH YES! BUILD! GLORIOUS!!!! Oh and the bell.... let the bell toll....... yesesssssssssssss........ fade..... Second-favorite track!

14. "Finale Ultimo" [Camelot (Reprise)]

Aww, Dicky Harris is sad :'( but I love the harp here playing the brass/w.w. figures we heard in "Camelot". Nice clarinets. And the guitar. Nice snare rolls. And here's the big finale! Big chorus! Oooh these harmonies have such body. Love hearing them linger. Get soft. BIG AGAIN! BIG DISNEY MOVIE ENDING!!!!!!!!

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

Ultimately it's not as tight or well-cast as the original Broadway cast album. Vanessa Redgrave is not a good Guenevere - she lacks the spark, sacharine underhandedness, deliberateness, and vocal chops that Julie Andrews brought to the role; and she doesn't supply anything meaningful in their place. Franco Nero is a watered-down Lancelot and lacks the commanding presence and powerful voice that made Robert Goulet so effective [I did some research and it seems Lancelot's singing voice was dubbed by Gene Merlino]. -2 for them, but +1 for Richard Harris, who brings a warmth to King Arthur that Richard Burton lacks, and yet he is powerful, commanding, even angry when he needs to be. The studio chorus is GORGEOUS and truly one of this album's great strenths. The arrangements/orchestrations are very pretty, though don't always feel as thought-out as the OBC. It's likely a larger orchestra, so I understand that things might not be as tight and you might want to take tempos down for that reason, but it really waters down a few numbers. Ultimately this is an uneven album, the OBC is far better. But at the very least I recommend this version of "Follow Me".

[justasparkwritings]

Peace: In Secret

Previous: Your Brothers As My Brothers

Pairing: Jungkook X Reader

Genre: Angst / Slice of Life

Rating: PG17

Word Count: 2.8k

Warnings: Swearing, Bar Fight, Defending Honor, Relationship Turmoil, Racism and Xenophobia, Everyone Cries 

Summary: A fateful night pushes insecurities to the forefront as you and Jungkook reckon with what your future will look like. 

Listening: peace by Taylor Swift 

Peace Master List

          The fight had escalated in a matter of minutes. A set of knuckles had collided, blood was spilled, security had rushed you out the back door and into the waiting van. As they tended to JK, you sat staring, fire stoking with every rotation of tires. He tried to speak to you, to ask if you were okay, to see if you were in shock or hurt in anyway. His free hand rested on your knee, drawing slow circles in an attempt to slowly exercise the adrenaline out of him.

         As you arrived back at their Los Angeles Airbnb, security gave Jungkook direct orders to put it in a bowl of cold water with plenty of ice cubes. They needed the swelling to be minimal so they could further assess the damage his punch had created.

         You shuffled in after him, absentmindedly finding your way to a stool in the kitchen. Your eyes were glossed over, the smoke in your body causing tears to form.

         The other members rushed in, huddling around you both, asking what had happened. Jungkook related the story in rushed Korean, and from what you could make out, it sounded more exaggerated than it was.

Here’s what you knew to be true:

JK had gone to the bathroom to fix his hair

In his absence, another man had flirted with you

You’d rejected him kindly, saying you were waiting for your boyfriend to return 

In typical fashion, he was persistent, saying some misogynistic line about leaving a girl like you alone at the bar

You laughed, bruising his ego

You turned to walk away when he tried to grab your wrist

JK must’ve caught this part of interaction

Through rage filled eyes he watched as another man made a pass on you

Jungkook could see your disgust and irritation

He could see the unwillingness the other man had to let you go

Jungkook had approached swiftly, telling the man to back off

The man had looked from Jungkook to you, a look of recognition passing over his face

The man laughed, then spit on the floor

There was name calling, and he looked back at you

He barked that he would never fuck a bitch with yellow fever

Jungkook punched him, knocking him on the ground instantly

You dropped your glass, shattering on impact

BTS security was on you in a matter of seconds, whisking you to the car

         Tae and Ho-Seok were on you instantly, they wrapped arms around you, holding you close, whispering comforting phrases into your hair. You didn’t hear any of it, you didn’t feel any of it. All you saw was the smattering of flashing lights.

         Jimin grabbed you a glass of water and turned you away from Taehyung and Ho-Seok. Squaring his shoulders with yours, he looked you in the eyes.

         “Babe, say something,” Jimin whispered. You hadn’t noticed him in front of you, your gaze lost as you recounted the events of the evening. As you blinked you realized you were eye to eye with Jimin, and you gasped.

         “Fuck! I didn’t realize you were so close,” You said.

         “Are you sure you’re okay?” Namjoon asked, moving to stand next to Jimin. Taehyung was still at your side, arm draped over your shoulder, holding you close to him.

         You looked at him, expression blank. It was confirmation enough for Namjoon, and he informed the other members that they needed to give you and Jungkook a minute alone.

         “Noona, are you okay? You haven’t said anything,” JK moved the bowl towards you, coming to sit on the stool next to you. His left hand reached for yours. You pulled it back, blinking the tears down your cheeks.

         “I’m not fucking okay,” you whispered.

         Jungkook hadn’t seen this wrath in you before. He didn’t recognize the shift in your tone. He couldn’t distinguish the look that swept across your face. He thought he knew every expression, every mood you had. He thought he’d seen every iteration of you, every hurt that he could imagine you experiencing. But as he stared at you, eyes searching for any sort of familiarity, he realized there was a side to you he’d never seen: blind rage.

         “I know, it’s bad, it was a bad situation that-

         “That you made worse.” You stood up, shoving the stool under the counter. It clattered against the cabinets below, the force you’d exerted unnecessary.

         “What?” Jungkook’s doe eyes swelled, made it worse?

         “You punched him,” You snapped.

         “He was going to attack you!” He countered.

         “I was walking away.” You placed your hands on the counter, fingers wrapping around the edges.

         “He didn’t care!” Jungkook stood too, trying to find the higher ground.

         “There were enough people around. The bodyguards were coming. You reacted recklessly!” You snapped, voice rising.

         “Did you hear what he said to me? What he called me? What he said about you?! I was trying to -

         “Were you? We’re you trying to protect me, or trying to defend yourself?” You yelled.

         “Yes! I was trying to defend-

         “Do you understand what you’ve done Jungkook?” Your voice broke, the yelling and tears taking its toll.

         “What? I protected-

         “You made a fucking scene. You irresponsibly, recklessly, made a scene and now you have put me and our relationship in jeopardy.” Your eyes were wild, your throat ached, venom dripped from your words, the threat of poison seeping into Jungkook’s eyes.

         “I was taking you away from danger!” He knocked the bowl of water into the sink. The glass against the metal of the sink clanged, alerting everyone in the house to how far your fight had escalated.

         “Everyone saw. Did you notice the phones out? The paparazzi waiting with bated breath outside the club? Did you see how they ogled me, the second we walked in? Did you fucking notice any of it?”

         “I- “

         “They all got it. I guarantee it’s already posted. K-pop idol Jeon Jungkook TKO. Defending some woman’s honor! It’s fucking everywhere,” Your voice was small, every syllable punctuated like the tattoo needles that adorned yours and your lovers’ skin.

         “I was trying to protect you! He was a monster!” Jungkook yelled, wincing as the sound reverberated in the foreign kitchen.

         “Monster or not, you kissed my cheek and sent me to the slaughter!” You blinked the tears down your cheeks, their warmth mixing with the heat that had arisen on your cheeks.

         Jungkook didn’t often understand your religious imagery, and often turned to RM to relay a story or parable that you’d mentioned. This one he got. He was Judas. Giving up the savior to the zealots and Pharisees. He looked at you, you, his brilliant, compassionate, feisty girlfriend. You held his future in your hands, and as he stared at you, he recognized what was guiding your fight. It wasn’t anger or rage, it was fear.

         “You put a fucking target on my back.” Your sob crashed through you, bringing your hands to your mouth as you tried to muffle the sound.

         “I didn’t,” His tone softened.

         “You didn’t think, Kook. I’ve already started popping up in articles and on Twitter. Strangers are tagging me in things. Now you’ve sealed my fate. They are the hunters, Jungkook. There’s nothing you or Management can do to stop it. They’ve got me. Game. Over.” You tried to steady your breathing, your cries coming out more as whimpers than the devastating sobs you’d let course through you.

         “It’s not game over! We will protect you; I will protect you!” He said, indignantly.

         “Why don’t you understand? They will kill me!” You yelled in return. Why was he so stubborn, so clueless?

         “No, they won’t. No, they won’t.” Jungkook shook his head, trying to rid his mind of the dark places your words were taking him to.

         “What can you do to stop it?” You asked, daring him to answer.

         “I’ll take the bullet for you!” His voice was exasperated.

         “Please, punching that guy was you cocking the gun.”

         It hangs in the air, an unrecognizable cloud of disdain and hurt. You were beginning to choke on it.

         “I would die for you,” he pleads, hand reaching out to try and grab yours again.

         “In secret,” you mumbled pulling it away.

         “What?” He asked, the anger returning to his voice.

         “That’s the catch with you, Jungkook. you’d die for me, in secret. You’ll hold my hand, in secret, tell me you love me, in secret. Go out with me as a friend. Never take photos in case your phone is hacked. Why, in two years, do I only have one printed photo of us? You’ll take a bullet for me? Sure. But you’ll bleed in secret.”

         “I, I’m trying to protect you.”

         “Look where that’s gotten us.”

         “What?”

         “You can’t save me from this. I am the fucking storm, Jungkook.”

         “No, you’re not,” Jungkook was trying to find something to hang on to, some way to make his way back to you, but he was coming up empty.

         “It lives in me, and it always will. This wouldn’t have happened if I wasn’t there. If we weren’t together. Don’t you get it? This is the beginning; your life will never be peaceful. Ever. I can’t give that to you.” You laid out the points, why couldn’t he understand?

         “My life hasn’t been peaceful in seven year,” Jungkook spoke with bitterness.

         “I’m making it worse,” You responded.

         “It’s not you! It’s ARMY! It’s fans! It’s everyone fucking else!” Jungkook hated to swear when he spoke to you, he hated becoming unraveled, unhinged as he stared at you.

         “They’re screaming at us not to be together. They will do whatever they can to ensure you and I don’t make it.”

         “Fuck them,” Jungkook said.

         “Why?” You asked, exasperated.

         “What do you mean why?” He snapped.

         “Why protect me? Why care at all Jungkook, why screw over your fans for me?”

         “I love you,” His heart was breaking, you could see it in his eyes. The love he had for you tried to tether you to each other, but it wasn’t the lifeline, it was the anchor.

         “All I do is sit and talk shit; I’m fucking wasting your honor. Jeon Jungkook, stoic, in touch with his emotions, loving, caring, always looking out for others. Perfectionist in his craft. Working himself to the bone day after day. Jungkook, the empath. The Golden Maknae. The most adored and admired. Wasting two years with me so what, the minute another guy tries something you punch him and it’s all over the news? So, I can be harassed and sought out? So BTS will be in jeopardy of ever being able to have a spouse or partner? Offering us, our love, up for slaughter because what, it’s for show? All so you can, fucking love me in secret?”

         Jungkook was knocked back by your words. The two years of your relationship, of your insecurities, of his, came tumbling out of you, shattering like your glass as they crashed around him. Hadn’t you worked through this? Hadn’t you made strides in your relationship? Weren’t his brothers yours, your lives dedicated to one another’s? Hadn’t you vowed to love each other through the cascading blue waves of stress, anxiety and depression that came with a long distance, Idol relationship?

         “I am doing what is right,” Jungkook was gritting just teeth. The tension causing a headache to build.

         “Sometimes what’s good for people isn’t what’s right.” You said turning your back to him.

         “Where are you going? We need to talk-

         “I don’t want to talk to you, Jungkook.” You said, your voice weary.

         “We have to figure this-

         “No, we don’t. You know why?” You questioned, turning to stare him down.

         He already knew why.

         “Because tomorrow we’ll be awoken with Management and it’ll be time to reassess our relationship, and the terms to which I have agreed to.”

         “The devils in the details,” He muttered.

         “Their verdict will be final. And the two years we’ve spent will go down the fucking drain as Big Hit decides to do everything in their power to keep us apart and to inhibit the rest of their K-Pop super team from ever falling in love.” The truth hurt; it was written across both of your faces as you stood staring. The damage of your fight echoed across the hall and into the kitchen.

         “We’ve fought this fight, they won’t-

         “You don’t know that, Jungkook. You don’t know that they aren’t meeting right now, pulling out papers and lists from years ago, weighing the options.”

         “Can’t we just, try to-

         “I don’t want to talk to you. I’m fucking exhausted. I’m devastated. And I can’t fucking look at you for another minute or I’ll never be able to recover.” The tears were pouring again, and you tried to stifle them until you were at least in a car home.

         “Please just, tell me where you’re going, please, Noona.” He pleaded.

         “I’m going home. Don’t call me.”

         You grabbed your bag from the counter and walked towards the door, BTS bodyguards close behind you. They’d take you home and if Jungkook was worried enough, they’d stay the night, perched in their car, eyes trained on your front door.

         You didn’t want to talk anymore. You wanted to shower and cry and sleep alone in your bed. There was nothing else to be said to Jungkook, nothing else to be done. Management had wanted your relationship to stay secret indefinitely, any breach of that could result in them terminating your security passes, removing every evidence of you from their systems. You’d become the blemish on their perfectly manicured boyband. You, the biracial American they had tried to dissuade Jungkook from dating. You, the woman who had stolen the hearts of every BTS member, becoming an integral part of their stories and lives. You, the woman Jungkook was going to marry… And he’d tossed it away.

         The team came through to check out JK’s hand. It was fine, superficial scrapes. Nothing that ice and rest wouldn’t heel. Make up would cover the rest, like they had done with his tattoos. They could always wipe away any signs of his rebellion.

         The bigger problem was the scene he’d made, and the team had been called and would spend the next week scouring the internet for evidence. Did the guy he hit know who he was? If he did, would he want money? Did the lawyers need to draft an NDA for him? Would they have to buy off website after website, fan sites and reddit threads from posting any evidence of what Jungkook did? Would the urban legend live on, that Jeon Jungkook, the Golden Maknae, was dating an American and had punched a man in her honor?

         After the team finished with his hand, Jungkook made his way to the living room, slumping onto the couch, tears stinging as he tried to blink them away. The members trickled into the living room, sitting around him.

         “Do you want to talk about it?” Taehyung asked.

         “We always talk when we fight,” Jin added.

         “I’m sorry if I’ve endangered you, or your futures,” Jungkook said, staring straight ahead. He couldn’t face them. He couldn’t let them know that pride had bested him. Pride, the most insidious of all emotions, had wormed its way into his being.

         “It was so stupid,” Yoongi replied.

         “You didn’t hear what he said.” Jungkook whispered.

         “What did he say?” Yoongi challenged.  

         “First, he spit at me, and called me a China man, said that they should’ve dropped an A-bomb over all of Asian, rid us all from the planet…”

         Yoongi regretted challenging him.

         “Then, he looked at her, he,” Jungkook took a deep breath, “He looked at her and he said that he would never fuck a bitch with yellow fever.” His tears fell freely, the weight of the racism breaking him down. His hyungs sat silently, staring at one another. They’d never been the subject of a violent, xenophobic tirade before. They’d heard comments, they weren’t idiots, they knew it existed. But to Jungkook? To you?

         Jungkook had punched the man because he insulted him, he used the most derogatory names he could think of, and he wasn’t sorry. Attacking Jungkook was par for the course, what the man had really been disgusted by was you. How could you, caramel skin and curvaceous figure be dating Jungkook? How could you, with that earth-shattering smile, be willingly dating a man who came from the Orient? Jungkook had defended himself, and he wasn’t sorry he had. He wasn’t sorry that he’d defended your honor. He wouldn’t apologize for it.

         Jin, Taehyung, Yoongi, Jimin, Namjoon and Ho-Seok sat with him until his tears had dried. They held him close, their silence wrapping around him, offering him the comfort he desperately wanted from you. When his breathing had settled, Namjoon suggested he shower and get to sleep, they’d make sure you got home safely.

         Jungkook let the water scaled his skin, turning the pale white to pink. He shortened his skin care routine and fell into bed, where the tears came again, and he clung to the space you should’ve been in. 

Next: Would It Be Enough? 

[allyvampirelass29]

Killing Time

A HEROES Fanfiction By: Allyssa J. Watkins

He loved that he could touch her, even from across the room, that as long as she was in his sight, she was never gone from the reach, the caresses of his mind. Sylar turned his head towards his shoulder, and felt the weight of hers, the silkiness of her wispy curls, as he grazed the air, yet felt the fluttery sensation of her hair. The soundproof glass between them, kept him from saying what he needed to say, kept him from possessing that flooding power in hearing her breath quicken, and knowing he was the cause. But he could watch his effect on her through the one way glass, her head turning towards his phantom projection, and as she clinged to the air around her, he just knew....... As smoothly as he could turn a phrase with his silken tongue, his talented fingers were far more eloquent.

He smiled as he watched her own delicate hand reach up, search the air, and he felt his whole body seized with chills, that irresistible feel of her thumb stroking his dark brow over and over, and the tension in his back slowly released with his exhale. "God, I love when you do that," he spoke to the glass, and felt her melt against his hand as he placed it gently on her shoulder. To anyone watching, it would look like he was touching his own shoulder, but it was definitely hers, he could feel the feminine curve of it, and he imagined the tiny freckles dotting it like stars.

His heart panged, as he watched her lips move, speaking to the air, and he imagined the music of her laugh, as he watched it soundlessly. He'd give anything to know what she was saying to him. "You're a doll, Ally," He whispered painfully to the glass, releasing his hold, to edge himself closer to it. He watched her eyes shift from happy enchantment, to sudden fear, when she couldn't feel him anymore. "Hey, no, don't be scared I'm right here...…" He whispered, tapping on the glass, like he'd done every day since they'd been captured. If he hadn't been dosed up with enough brain paralysis to kill a baby elephant, he'd have shattered that glass by now. But with his powers leashed, and his body considerably slowed, all he could manage was the tapping, the weak reach, the projected touch. He couldn't save her, but as long as he could feel her, there was hope.

"Don't cry, no, Baby. Stop, you're killing me." The tears stung Sylar's eyes, as he watched her hug her knees, and sob quietly, her hair catching the light and veiling her face. He felt the pain of his own tears stoke the fire, the anger inside him, and using all of his strength he pounded the glass with his fist, harder and harder, over and over, his sadness becoming pure rage. Again and again, he watched his knuckles bruise and then heal, melt back into perfect skin. So he hit harder, the glass shuddering beneath his relentless attacks, and still, Ally could not hear him, and didn't so much as look up from her desolate sorrow.

"You're only making it worse, on the both of you." The Senator's voice was the match thrown into the dangerously full gasoline barrel, and Sylar hurled his whole body against the glass with a seething, animalistic yell.

"That glass, just this one piece, cost 20 million dollars, Buddy. You'd better believe it's bulletproof, blast proof, and 100 percent SYLAR proof. If I'd had the funding, you'd be in a box of the stuff right now. Wasting good drugs on you, makes me sick."

Sylar's eyes smouldered, his dark brow slanted, screaming murder, and his mind burned black with threats, too many to pick just one. Torture beyond anything he'd perpetrated before, horrendously bloody acts that would give even himself, nightmares. But his lips could only utter three words after the energy syphoned off from his intense physical exertion, and he felt his body fading, with the single, desperate plea still on his lips.

"Let. Her. Go."

"Can't do that friend."

It was all Sylar could do to steady his breathing, his heart pounding relentless against his chest with wounded rage, that wild, almost primal hunger to kill, and for the first time in months, he actually felt relieved Ally couldn't see him, blinded from the monster he was about to become. His very soul burned with bloodlust, the sleeping danger awakening. The killer emerges.

"SAVE IT!!!!" He snarled, nostrils flaring as he fended off the invading drugs that chained up his powers, his anger yanking on the mental restraints with an unhinged force. His forehead still rested against the glass, as he turned it slowly, methodically, toward the door, his eyes flashing with obsidian fire.

"Save your damn campaign speech, Senator, I am so not your friend. You play the benevolent leader, Mr. All American with such shocking deception. You put on a tie and a fake smile, and you HIDE behind that door and enact the horrors that you speak out against. As much as I love cruel and unusual punishment, you've just lost my vote. You're a monster, Nathan, you're worse than me, because at least when I kill my own kind, I don't pretend to care. I don't pretend that I'm going to save them."

The silence that followed was deadly in of itself, a cold void spreading through the sparse, empty room but when Nathan finally gave the order, it was edged with a severity that even Sylar had never thought capable of him.

"Open the door."

"Sir, we'd strongly advise against engaging the hostile."

"Oh yes, be a good boy, Nathan, and listen to your pathetic excuses for bodyguards. You've never experienced HOSTILE, until I've got you alone, locked in a room with me. You're going to need more than fancy drugs, and a twenty million dollar piece of glass to save you. You can use all the confiscated narcotics you want, if it'll make you feel safe, but I don't need my powers to kill you."

"You really think I'm scared of you?"

"No, Senator, I KNOW you are. But by all means, open the door...…. Let's play."

"Please, you've been so heavily sedated, hell, you should have OD'd twenty times over by now. You couldn't kill time."

"Haha that's good, I like that...… Killing and Time are my two favourite things. Even high, I can still do more damage than you can ever do to me. Whatcha gonna do, Buddy? Send me to death row, can I request the chair, that might be fun.”

"Don't you get it, Sylar? You're on Death Row."

Sylar froze as a red dot appeared on Ally's bare shoulder, as she sat, hugging her knees, and a low growl escaped from deep within his chest, his fingers starting to tremble.

"Alright, easy, white flag!" He fumed, throwing up his hands. "Fine, I'll play nice, just call off your sniper."

"Back against the glass, hands on your head, you son of a bitch."

"You're making me miss Bennet with that kind of sweet talk. Good times......" He snickered, turning his cheek inward playfully, brow raised, his eyes intensifying.

"Shut up! I'll shoot her, I swear to God. It's amazing, really, how many ways you can shoot a person and still keep them alive, just long enough, so that they feel each agonizing moment."

Sylar wasn't laughing anymore. He tentatively backed into the glass, and interlaced his fingers, as he put them behind his head, taking one last glance over his shoulder, and he didn't start breathing again, until the red dot threatening her pale skin, disappeared.

There was a loud mechanical sound, and the door slowly opened, as Nathan strode in, surprisingly unaccompanied, and it took every bit of Sylar's resolve not to tear into him on sight.

The young, square-jawed Senator regarded the tall, dark, and dangerous man before him, as though he were approaching a rabid animal, looking at him sideways, with great disdain.

"What now, Nathan, come to pat me down? You gonna rough me up a little?" He looked over his shoulder at the brown haired girl, her hands searching the glass in front of her with stricken eyes. He almost reached out to put his hand where hers was, when he remembered she couldn't see him. "You even think of doing that to her, I'll kill you. Nobody touches her, got it? Nobody but me."

Nathan's eyes narrowed as he ventured closer. "I'll do whatever the hell I want with her. She's the property of the United States Government now, you both are."

Sylar smirked at him, flexing his bent arms behind his silken head, his dark eyes dancing. "So, I'm like an acquired weapon of mass destruction?"

"More like Enemy of the State, an apprehended terrorist. Congratulations Gabriel, with a little help from the FBI, you no longer exist. There is no Gabriel Gray, meaning I can do whatever I want to you, hold you without trial, kill you without cause."

"So do it." Sylar snarled, his eyes snapping back to cold and impenetrable. "Kill me, Nathan. End it. Be the hero, everyone thinks you are. What are you waiting for?"

Nathan laughed without feeling, the hatred between him and Sylar rising like a scorched heat. "You think I won't do it? I was an officer of the United States Navy, I know HUNDREDS of ways to kill a man, and I'm pretty sure, you only know, the one." Nathan swiped his finger mockingly in front of Sylar's face, and Sylar smirked back, his gaze deadly.

"Just because I have my favourite weapon, doesn't mean it's the only trick up my sleeve. If you were going to kill me, you would have done it already. No, I'm going to kill you, Nathan, for doing this to me, to HER. I'm going to kill little brother, and Ma, and only after you're out of your head, seeing their bloody mangled bodies, their heads viciously ripped into, I'm going to make you beg me to kill you, and only then, will your little Superman charade end."

"You dressed up in my brother's face and tried to kill me, you SICK bastard!!! Who does that!? Did you really think I wouldn't retaliate?  You tried, and you failed. You used someone I loved against me, and you still lost. Don't be surprised when I do the same, go dark, and I follow through for the win."

"Look, I get that you're pissed, I know, I ruined your little ball and tricked all your big, fancy Senator friends. You want blood? Take it. Take it all...…. Torture me, kill me, bring me back, just to kill me again, maybe I deserve it, maybe I don't, do whatever the HELL you want, even let Peter get his, but don't punish her for my sins. My blood for hers. You already have me, you don't need her anymore, so, please...… let her go. You do that, and I might just let you live."

"Look at me, Gabriel, look right into my eyes. Never gonna happen."

Sylar could feel his skin prickling with the chills coursing through his body, the coldness of a killer, creeping into his dark features, his voice like ice.

"I said...… Please."

"No deal. You see..... I'm not going to do any of that to you, Gabriel. Because I know that whatever punishment I inflict, government sanctioned or otherwise, nothing is going to hurt you worse, nothing is going to make you behave more than the constant threat of what could happen to her. Why do you think I designed the glass so that you could see her, but she can't see you? Because I want you to see it, what I do to her, every time you get out of line. You so much as look at me a way I don't like, I'll take action, and it won't be me, hurting her, it will be you, your hand. I don't want your worthless blood, hers is so much more valuable. I'm going to take as much as I need to replicate that power, increase it enough to protect entire armies. This is a whole new level for our military, and on behalf of the United States Government, I thank you for your generous contribution."

Sylar's rising anger chilled into paralyzing fear, and he shook his head incredulous. "You're insane. She doesn't have enough electricity for that kind of scale, or enough blood for such rigorous testing...…You'll kill her."

Nathan smiled, his teeth gleaming, looking every bit the congenial politician. "If that's what it takes. I guess, we'd better get started." Nathan made a motion with his hands, and Sylar dropped his arms, failing to hide the abject horror flooding his eyes, feeling sick.

"What did you just do? She's- She's an innocent girl!!!!!"

"Wrong. She WAS an innocent girl. You stole her innocence. YOU ruined her, and got her all mixed up in the MURDER plot of a US Senator!!! She'll PAY for your sins, because they're her sins too, she deserves what's coming."

Sylar shook his head, his brow pulled back, as he sank desperate to his knees. "Nathan, listen to me, she didn't know, I swear!"

"Ever hear of guilty by association?"

Sylar whirled his head around, just as two fully equipped S.W.A.T. members stormed into Ally's side of the room, one of them roughly tackling her to the ground, the other taking a long needle from a cylindrical container.

"NOOOOOOO!!! Nathan, GOD, Nathan, don't do this, I'll do ANYTHING you want, I'll kill whoever you want me to kill, I'll be a damn saint, just don't- Don't hurt my girl." Sylar's tears streamed freely now, his chest so tight, he couldn't get air to his lungs and they burned, as he watched with blurred vision, Ally screaming without a sound, fighting back and sobbing. He bristled as the one holding her down backhanded her across the face, and felt his own jaw sting with the assault.

"Not My Baby...…. Don't hit her, don't hit my baby!!!!" Sylar's voice was hysterical, failing to suppress his sobs, his emotions heightened because of the drugs. Nathan had never seen him like this, and he liked it. He liked it a lot.

"You want it to stop? Fall at my feet. Beg like the pathetic creature you are."

Sylar started to scowl, his lip quivering with both rage and pain, an emotion swathing him that was more dangerous than anything he'd ever felt before, Self Sacrifice. 

"Never."

"Hey Tom, I'm going to need you to bleed her." Nathan spoke calmly into his earpiece."

"Like HELL you are!!!!!" Sylar's rage burned through the pain, engulfing him and Nathan in the catching flame like wildfire, as he hurled himself at him with murderous intent. But the drugs had dulled his reflexes, and Nathan slammed him hard into the glass, grasping his jet black hair, and holding his forehead against the glass, as Sylar struggled against him, growling.

Ally was still fighting hard against her attackers too, but they overpowered her, one of them returning the needle to the container, retrieving, instead, a scalpel and silicone cup. Sylar released the full force of his scream into the glass, feeling the vibration against his lips, the sound reverberating through the room, echoing through the entire space, as the blade sank into Ally's pale skin, dark red blood trickling down her forearm, into the waiting cup.

His body couldn't take it anymore, between the drugs and the horror he broke...…. Sylar sobbed bitterly, and Nathan loosened his hold on the back of his head, letting him fall, helpless, to the ground, legs crossed, looking like a frightened little boy, instead of a cold blooded killer.

"You really do love her."

"Please," Sylar breathed the single word, his voice frail, his eyes sincere.

"Fall at my feet, and I make it stop."

Sylar gritted his teeth, his cheeks shiny, wet with tears, the image of Ally's silent scream haunting him, begging him. He couldn't take it. He'd been compromised, and it terrified him what he'd do if it meant keeping her alive. Sylar got all the way down on the floor, revolted by the utter degradation, hating Nathan, and even more, hating himself.

"Hey Guys, that's enough for tonight. Get the girl bandaged up, and get the sample to the lab."

Nathan looked down at Sylar like he was a loathsome thing, an insect on the floor, and Sylar held his breath, as Nathan stepped directly onto his fingers, digging his heel in. 

"Look at you, The Big Bad Wolf...…. Now, you're just a whimpering pup. I own you."

Sylar had to bite his tongue to keep his scathing response from escaping his lips, and he seized up, his back arching, as he felt the pin prick in the back of his neck, a new rush of drugs flooding his system, his eyes going blank.

"Sweet Dreams, you Psychopath."

Sylar passed out on the floor, unable to fight off the heaviness of the newly introduced drugs mingling with the lingering effects of the ones previously administered, his mind paralyzed, and his body exhausted. Nathan strode out of the room, and the mechanical sound echoed through the space, as the door locked itself behind him. The lights died, darkness washing over Sylar's still form, his arm outstretched.

Silence.

Then.... the intercom crackled, as someone turned it back on, a bit of feedback, and a voice filled the room.

"Sylar!? Sy? Baby, can you hear me?"

<3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3

[oneweekoneband]

I’m slightly nauseous already with knowing I’m going to say this, but what does “self-awareness”  even mean? In modern parlance, as a descriptive phrase, as a comment on art? I’m asking in earnest, like, I’ve been Googling lately, which for me is basically on par with doctoral study in terms of academic rigor. The self is king, anyway, tyrant, so where is the line of distinction between material that intentionally is nodding at some truth about the artist’s life and what’s just, like, all the rest of the regular navel-gazing bullshit. I mean, I’m all self, I am guilty here. I can’t get it out of my poems or even make it more quiet. This is the tenth time I’ve invoked “I” in the space of six sentences. Processing art has always necessitated a certain amount of grappling with the creator, but the busywork of it lately grows more and more tedious. Joy drains out of my body parsing marks left behind not just in stylistic tendencies and themes, but in literal, intentional tags like graffiti on a water tower. This feels an age old and moth-holed complaint, dull, and I am no historian, or really a serious thinker of any kind. I’ve now complained at some length about self-referential art, but didn’t I love how Martin Scorsese nodded to the famous Goodfellas Copacabana tracking shot with the opening frames of last year’s The Irishman? Didn’t I find that terribly fun and sort of sweet? So there’s distinctions. I’m only saying I don’t know with certainty what they even are. I’m unreliable, and someone smarter than me has likely already solved my quandary about why self-knowledge often transforms into overly precious self-reflexivity in such a way that the knowledge is diminished and obscured, leaving only cutesy Easter eggs behind. Postmodernism has birthed a moralizing culture where art exists to be termed either “self-aware Good” or “self-aware Bad”.  Self-referentiality in media is so commonplace, so much the standard, that what was once credited as metatextual inventiveness often feels lazy now. In 1996, Scream was revitalizing a genre. Today, two thirds of all horror movies spend half their running time making sure that you know that they know they’re a horror movie, which is fine, I guess, except sometimes you just wanna watch someone get butchered with an axe in peace. 

This is all to say that in 2020 Taylor Swift looked long and hard upon her image in the reflecting pool of her heart and has written yet another song about Gone Girl.

“mirrorball” is a very good piece of Gone Girl —feels insane to tell anyone reading a post on a blog what Gone Girl is but, you know, the extremely popular 2012 novel about a woman who pretends to have been murdered and frames her husband for it, and subsequently the 2014 film adaption where you kinda see Ben Affleck’s dick for a second—fanfiction. It would be a fine song, a good song, really, even if it weren’t that, if it were just something normal and not unhinged written by a chill person who behaves in a regular way, but we need to acknowledge the facts for what they are. When Taylor Swift watched Rosamund Pike toss her freshly self-bobbed hair out of her face and hiss, “You think you’d be happy with some nice Midwestern girl? No way, baby. I’m it!” her brain lit up like a Christmas tree, and she’s never been the same. If you Google “taylor swift gone girl” there waiting for you will be a medium sized lake’s worth of articles speculating about how Gone Girl influenced and is referenced in past Swift singles “Blank Space” and “Look What You Made Me Do”. This is not new behavior, and if anything it’s getting a bit troubling to think that it’s been this long since Taylor’s read another book. Still, while the prior offerings were a fair attempt at this particular feat of depravity, “mirrorball” has brought Taylor’s Amy Elliott Dunne deification to stunning new heights. And most importantly, Taylor has done a service to every person alive with more than six brain cells and a Internet connection by putting an end to the “Cool Girl” discourse once and for all. By the power invested in “mirrorball”, it is hereby decreed that the Cool Girl speech from Gone Girl is neither feminist or antifeminist, not ironic nor aspirational. No. It’s something much better than all that. It’s a threat. I ! Can ! Change ! Everything ! About ! Me ! To ! Fit ! In !

Gone Girl (2012) by Gillian Flynn

“mirrorball” (2020) by Taylor Swift

When the twinkly musical stylings of Jack Antonoff, a man I distinctly distrust, but for no one specific reason, whirl to life at the beginning of this song I feel instantly entranced, blurry-brained and pleasure-pickled like an infant beneath a light-up crib mobile or, I guess, myself in the old times, the outside times, three tequila sodas deep under the disco lights at The Short Stop. Under a mirrorball in my head. I know very little about music, as a craft, and I really don’t care to know more. I’m happy in a world of pure, dumb sensation. I’m not even sure what kind of instruments are making these jangly little sounds. I just like it. I am vibing. We may not ever be able to behave badly in a club again, but I can sway to my stupid Taylor Swift-and-the-brother-of-the-lady-who-makes-like-those-sweatshirts-with-little-sayings-or-like-vulvas-which-famous-white-women-wear-on-instagram-you-know-what-I-mean song, pressing up onto my tiptoes on the linoleum tile of our kitchen floor and can feel for a second or two something approaching bliss. “mirrorball” is a lush sound bath that I like a lot and then also it’s about being all things to all people, chameleoning at a second’s notice, doing Oscar worthy work on every Zoom call, performing the you who is good, performing the you who is funny, performing the you who draws a liter of your own blood and throws it around the kitchen then cleans it up badly all to get your husband sent to jail for sleeping with a college student... Too much talk about making and unmaking of the self is way too, like, 2012 Tumblr for me now, and I start hearing the word “praxis” ring threateningly in my head, but I’m not yet so evolved that I don’t feel a pull. Musings on the disorganized self—on how we are new all the time, and not just because of all the fresh skin coming up under the dead, personhood in the end so frighteningly flexible—are always going to compel me, I’m afraid, but that goes double for musings on the disorganized self which posit that Taylor Swift still thinks Amy Dunne made some points.

Because on “mirrorball” Taylor is for once not hamfistedly addressing some “hater”, in the quiet and the lack of embarrassing martyrdom it actually offers an interesting answer to the complaint that Taylor is insufficiently self-aware. This criticism emerges often in tandem with claiming to have discovered some crack in the chassis of Swift’s public self, revealing the sweetness to be insincere. My instinct is to dismiss this more or less out of hand as just a mutation of the school of thought that presumes all work by women must be autobiography. And, regardless, it is made altogether laughable by the fact that anyone actually paying attention has known since at least Speak Now, a delightful record populated by the most appalling, horrible characters imaginable, and all of them written by a twenty year old Taylor Swift, that this woman is a pure weirdo. To accuse Taylor Swift of lacking in self-awareness is a reductive misunderstanding, I think, of artifice. Being a fake bitch takes work. Which is to say, if we agree that her public self is a calculated performance—eliding the fact that all public selves are a performance to avoid getting too in the weeds yadda yadda— why, then, should it be presumed that performance is rooted in ignorance? Would it not make more sense that, in fact, someone able to contort themselves so ably into various shapes for public consumption would have a certain understanding of the basic materials they’re working with and concealing? Taylor Swift, in a decade and a half of fame, has presented herself from inside a number of distinct packages. The gangly teenager draped in long curls like climbing wisteria who wrote lyrics down her arms in glitter paint gave way to red lipstick, a Diet Coke campaign, and bad dancing at awards shows. There was the period where she was surrounded constantly by a gaggle of models, then suddenly wasn’t anymore, and that rough interlude with the bleached hair. The whole Polaroid thing. Last year she boldly revealed she’s a democrat. Now it’s the end of the world and she’s got frizzy bangs and flannels and muted little piano songs. Perhaps this endless shape-shifting contradicts or undermines, for some, the pose of tender authenticity which has remained static through each phase, but that doesn’t mean she hasn’t been doing it all on purpose the entire time. I’ve never been a natural, all I do is try, try, try...

In the Disney+ documentary—which, in order to watch, I had to grudgingly give the vile mouse seven dollars, because the login information that I’d begged off of my little sister didn’t work and I was too embarrassed to bring it up a second time—Taylor referred to “mirrorball” as the first time on the album where she explicitly addressed the pandemic, referring to the lyrics that start, “And they called off the circus, Burned the disco down,” and end with “I’m still on that tightrope, I’m still trying everything to get you laughing at me,” which actually did made me laugh, feeling sort of warmly foolish and a little fond, because it never would have occurred to me that she was trying to be literal there. I suppose we really do all contain multitudes. Hate that.