#If there ever was a song more disdainful of people being out dancing and having fun at a club/party than Floorshow I have not heard it

[mythopoeticreality]

Hey Young London! An 80's AU Fanmix for Emma Wintertowne

(LISTEN HERE)

[beneathashadytree]

LOVE YOU TO DEATH - SYLUS QIN X READER

Warnings : slightly suggestive, making out, alcohol consumption, allusions to “sinning”/religious imagery, reader is AFAB and uses she/her pronouns!

Genre : domestic fluff with lots of tension!

Word count : 4.5K words (oops…)

Additional notes : This has been a seriously long time coming🙏🏽 It was a commission made by a friend here on Tumblr, based off Type O-Negative’s song “Love You to Death”, and may or may not have gotten carried away with it (hence the delay and the absurd word count😭). Hope you like it!! And let me know what you think of this guys🫶🏽

Commissions are open!

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Masterlist

“Madame!”

The frantic call came from behind her, and with a practiced turn, she faced the red-faced man who’d been running up to her. Keeping her facial expression as placid as possible wasn’t as easy as she was trying to convince herself it was—and especially not after having spent 3 hours in a bedazzled ballroom, head splintering already from the wine and the rapid-fire conversations she’d had to entertain—but she somehow managed it. Coolly, she arched an eyebrow. “Yes?”

And though she eyed him with no disdain, her indifference was intimidating enough to force the man to swallow thickly and shift in his place. A flush had settled on his face, fueling her amusement as he took a hesitant step forward. “I… you said you were waiting for something. If… if you don’t mind, would you, well, care for a dance?”

Poor thing. He probably had no idea. She felt a little sympathetic, but her resolve was still hardened. After all, she was well aware that the only possible reason he’d deemed her fitting to approach in the first place was the fact that she was inarguably the most powerful person in the room. This was only mere exploitation, not actual admiration. His hesitation could be chalked up to intimidation. “Thank you, but I’ve got an escort.”

“But, please, you were talking about the firearms deal—!”

A rich chuckle resounded in her ear, followed by the soft smack of lips against her cheek in a kiss. Fond as that gesture was, the upwards flicker of crimson eyes was no less sharp as his gaze became directed at the overly-ambitious upstart. “I see you’re feeling rather bold tonight, Richter. Directly going for such business talks when asking for someone’s hand… a rookie mistake.” Punctuated by the hand settled on her waist, stroking over the silk, it was made more than apparent who her ‘escort’ was.

The young man’s face paled, and she couldn’t deny the twinge of enjoyment she felt as she played along with Sylus. “Indeed. Anyone else would be put off by such open exploitation.”

“But you’re not anyone, are you? I’d even say you like it when I bring up these things,” he quipped back, bringing her in closer by the waist and tucking her against him, before turning to the wide-eyed, speechless man whose trembling seemed to amuse him even more. “We’ll be off now. Be more careful next time.”

And though he said nothing more, it was clear that Sylus’ warning wasn’t just about being tactless. It was a reminder that the most poised, fanged woman in the room stood by his side, and no one else. The only secrets she’d divulge would be to him, in the confines of their own bedroom, and Richter would do well to remember it. Next time—if there ever were to be one—he’d make sure to remember it, or else he wouldn’t be as lenient.

Arm in arm, they left the stuffy ballroom together, and as soon as they were out in the open air, she heaved a sigh in relief. “Gods, I was about to suffocate. Everyone was going on and on about that deal.” Rolling her eyes, she stopped on the sidewalk to slip out of her heels, stretching her toes as they settled against the gravel. “Approached by ten different people, no less, all trying to butt in and include themselves to ensure some profit or the other.”

Within a second, Sylus had already kneeled down to take her heels, carefully twisting her ankle this way and that to try and soothe the ache of the long evening. She sighed again, and his gaze was hard as he looked up at hers. “You shouldn’t have let them bother you. You’ve got enough influence to prohibit them from ever mentioning it in front of you. And I wouldn’t mind exacting punishments in your stead.”

“A privilege I won’t be using any time soon, thank you very much.” With her heels in one hand, he began to steer her by her back with another. Frowning, she looked away from where she’d initially set her sights. “You didn’t let Luke and Kieran bring the bike around tonight for us to go on a joyride after?”

Sylus gave her a pointed look, slightly exasperated but still dyed in fondness. “Given the dress you’re wearing, I’d have to be particularly stupid to force you to hike it up to your hips to ride on. It would’ve been an entirely different thing if you’d worn one of your velvet suits, though.” Maybe he hadn’t noticed it, but his hand on her back was leaving fluttering touches and strokes over the small of her back, right where the fabric started. And maybe that was his little give-away that he enjoyed seeing every inch of exposed skin with that dangerously low-cut back.

It wasn’t long before they were sliding back into their respective seats in his sleek car. The fresh smell of new leather, cooled wine in the compartment, and something a little heady—a little him—made her grow dizzier with each second. Barely a few minutes had passed with her legs crossed when his own rough palm slipped through the slit of the dress and between her knees, gently prying them apart and gliding over the soft skin, before settling on her thigh right underneath the lace edge.

And though he’d done nothing else at all, save flicker his eyes back to her in the rear view mirror and quirk the corner of his lips upwards, squeezing her thigh before turning his attention back to the road, she felt like he’d bared a fraction of his mountain of carefully-hidden desires. And that was one mountain she knew only she had the ability to watch tremble and shake. Perhaps that was another privilege she had, standing by his side.

***

Sylus’ hands on her feet felt like a small piece of heaven made perfectly with her tired self in mind. After he’d carried her out of the car like she’d weighed nothing with her heels dangling from two of his fingers, he’d let her unlock the door with her fingerprint and quickly settled her into the couch without so much as a grunt. And soon his deft fingers were kneading at her soles, earning a hiss or two here and there that let him know he was definitely doing the right thing.

“I take it you failed to break into these new shoes,” he chuckled, shaking his head as he felt out another small knot that had been killing her the entire evening.

Groaning, she clutched at his wrist, the sudden pain sharp and unyielding. “Wasn’t exactly my priority, with so much going on. I was more preoccupied by the fact that Denise fucked up in the middle of the information chain. Had me cleaning up after her.” Despite her twitching, he went on massaging their tendons and muscles, until the frown on her face slowly morphed into a relaxed expression.

“Why do I have to keep telling you not to concern yourself with what’s beneath you?” Again, he sighed, as though it truly pained him to hear her putting herself through this, and then went on to reverently stroke at her calves, gently lifting her legs up for a second so he can take a seat in her place. “You shouldn’t have to do the dirty work. We’ve got lackeys for that.”

“You say that, but you’re really just pushing more work onto Luke and Kieran,” she scoffed, flicking his fingers away, instead pushing forward and draping herself across his lap, the slit on the side of the dress revealing more of her thigh as she did. A not-so-small part of her absolutely reveled in the way his eyes tracked her every movement, following the fabric as it slipped away and darkening with every inch of soft skin it exposed to his gaze. “And besides, I kind of like letting everyone know that I’m aware of everything going on, now and then.”

“An ego trip then?” Sylus teased, before bumping his nose with hers, hungrily taking in the catch in her breath. “Mm. Well, it’s a highly deserved one, sweetie.”

With her heart hammering in her chest, it was a wonder she could even come up with any sort of reply, let alone one with her whole heart and snark in it. “Flatterer,” she breathed out, eyes betraying her to glance at his lips, perfectly curled and awaiting her every beck and call. If she wanted to regain her senses any time soon and not completely surrender to the gaping maw of his desires, she had to pull back for a second.

And that she did, though her entire being protested to it. No disappointment marred his features; in fact, if she could call it that, she could detect a glimpse of deeper yearning burning behind his ruby eyes. “You know I don’t. Flatter, I mean. You’re just that good.” His words were double-edged. Her power in the position she held was undeniable, but neither was the fact that he never needed to win her favor to have her feelings in his palm.

It’s just that Sylus always did like the chase, more so than the ever-so-pleasant rewards he reaped afterwards. Part of him always urged her to let him earn her affection, and the wickedness within her wanted to see him grovel for it, just a little. And with how utterly infatuated he was—if those all-consuming eyes of his were anything to go by, in their blazing glory and darkened depths—he’d have no qualms with that. If he truly didn’t like going down on his knees for her, then why did he look so sinfully good doing it?

And why was that image of him imprinted in her mind, playing in an endless loop, tempting her to indulge more and more in his attentions?

Still at what she felt was a safe distance so as not to get devoured by him, she gently patted his cheek, her thumb stroking in rhythm with his own fingers wandering to caress her waist ever-so-tenderly. “Then, why not reward me for my proficient skills?” she coyly asked, nodding her head slightly to the rack so conveniently placed beside them.

“Isn’t it too late for that, sweetie?” he asked, though his arm was already reaching over to the assortment of wines he’d so carefully picked out and left to cool in their chilled compartments. Though Sylus had never said it outright, it was no secret to anyone around that he was a wine connoisseur of his own right. The fact that his darling only wished to indulge in the sweet, sweet aftertaste of ludicrously expensive alcohol with him only made him more eager to have it ready at hand—particularly for moments like these, when the sultry look in her eyes paired with her fluttering touch drove him half to insanity.

It wasn’t so absurd to say that he would do anything to keep her so pliantly perched on his lap, every bit as demanding of his attention as he was willing to give her all of him. And the saccharine smile that grew on her face as he reluctantly pulled away from her waist to uncork the bottle was proof that she knew just how desperate he was for her hands all over him and her eyes solely focused on him.

Expertly, he began to pull out the decanter, only to be stopped by her fingers snaking around his wrist, tugging it back. “Not feeling very patient. I’d rather not wait for it to be aerated.”

He chuckled—a deep, pleasant sound straight from the depths of his chest—clearly pleased by her brazenness. “Straight from the bottle and to the glasses it is. I like it when you demand what you want.” Maybe a few years ago, she would’ve flushed deeply at the manner in which she put herself on the line. But with him, she knew that there was no line, and there was no ‘out there.’ For he was a part of her, nestled between her breasts and buried deep inside her, dormant and yet so awake.

Hadn’t they both willed it to come this far? Hadn’t they both wished to be so entwined that all possible lines blurred and faded? And wasn’t this complete and utter surrender to one another only natural after such implicit involvement with each other? She didn’t mind it one bit, if it meant that he was as much as hers as she was his in every meaning of the word. Perhaps that’s why the prospect of being so bare in front of him wasn’t at all daunting. In fact, part of it even felt somewhat exhilarating.

“You make it a habit to bring out my most selfish traits,” she breathed out a semblance of a laugh, watching as he pulled out the two most luxurious crystal glasses he owned, reserved only for their late night wine-entrenched conversations. “I suppose you’ll have to do as I say then, to make up for ruining me like that.” Her voice dipped into a low purr, and she grinned at the flush that colored the tips of his ears, despite how focused he seemed on the task at hand. Like clockwork; like it was some sort of muscle memory he’d acquired over the years he’d spent enamored by her and the words spelled out by her tongue and coated in an almost-innocent tipsiness.

“I’m already bartending for you now. But you can have three more wishes before the night’s done,” Sylus lazily said, stoppering the bottle once again as the sweet scent of his favorite Merlot enveloped her senses; a scent dipped in promises and secret whispers of devotion.

Part of her wondered when she’d started finding drinking so enjoyable, particularly when with him. She couldn’t really think of a specific point in time when his lavish lifestyle had started imprinting itself on her, but somewhere down the line she’d begun to wait for quiet nights of winding down like this. Wrapped up in his embrace, her body heating up with every single one of his achingly tender caresses, both with his practiced fingers and his gaze full of intent… more often than not she ended up sprawled all over him, clothes in various states of disarray as he ravished her—heart, body, and soul.

Leaning further into him and hooking her leg around his waist, the fabric of her dress completely exposed her leg hip-down. She pretended not to notice how he faltered in his actions, momentarily distracted by her as he always was. After all this time, it still left a pleasantly bubbling feeling in her chest to see him react that way to her; like he was being bewitched by her silhouette for the very first time. Laughing, she asked, “And will that power over you vanish at midnight too?”

“It depends on whether or not you play your cards right,” Sylus simply said, after having topped off their wine almost right to the brim, splurging over her just like he always did.

He knew all too well that she could manage him just as expertly as she handled every extravagant ballroom, every meeting hidden in the shadows, and every viciously-worded deal. There were no wrong cards in her deck.

Remorse was something she should’ve been feeling at least a twinge of; engaging in Sylus’ hedonistic lifestyle wasn’t something she’d have been proud to admit a while back. But then again, everything was a whirlwind of passion and earnest intensity when it came to him. Getting caught up in the eye of the storm was no surprise. And when the storm had eyes that twinkled over twin glasses of red wine that matched it, and a smile so wicked and yet so unbeguiling as she was handed one to sip from, then there was nothing to stop her from hurtling towards the edge and accepting the devil’s hand.

Maybe she’d have to beg for heavenly forgiveness for indulging in all her vices, unabashedly. But Sylus had far too much to atone for, and if she knew anything about him, it was that he’d much rather get on his knees to please her than to plead for mercy from divine powers. And though he wasn’t below her at the moment, looking up with lascivious want, he made sure that his palm drawing shapes at the small of her back let her know just exactly how much he craved the closeness of her body.

She carefully sipped on the wine, savoring its tang and sharpness paired with its sweet warmth in the way she’d grown to enjoy, all without breaking eye contact with him. It was a calculated move; almost devious of her to do that when she knew that no matter how much he feigned being collected in front of her, it was no more than a front—one that quickly collapsed after she pulled the glass away and daring to lick drops of Merlot off her lip for a few more seconds.

She could practically feel him groan before she could hear it, and she wickedly flashed him her canines, intently pressing the inside of her thighs against his hip, soft flesh flush against his suit pants, the fabric between them not stopping him from feeling every inch of her. Still, her movements were languid and relaxed. It couldn’t have been the wine; she’d barely had a few sips, not even half the glass, and her drinking habits in public weren’t known for being excessive. But perhaps she was drunk on him and on this moment, and she could feel her body easing into that relaxed state that only he’d ever witness her in.

To the entirety of the N109 Zone, she was unmatched in power, with or without Sylus by her side. To be able to command a room with so much refined and perfected grace, she’d have to have already long demanded respect with her presence alone. But in his arms, playfully peering into his eyes and watching how they roved over every inch of her, and how his Adam's apple bobbed with his thick swallow, she was just a lover who’d stripped away all her inhibitions—and his. A lover he was clearly too entranced by to properly function, if the slight tremor that shook his hand and spilt a few drops of wine onto his throat was anything to go by.

And gods, just seeing the rouge staining his skin and slowly trickling down to his clavicles was enough temptation to drive her insane. Impulsively, she placed a hand on the broad planes of his chest, leaning in so close that she couldn’t escape the scent of his cologne and slight musk. Her tongue darted out, licking a stripe up his neck, and earning a sharp hiss of their name. “Spilled some wine,” she mumbled into his skin, as though that were enough of an explanation, lips sucking a deep red mark onto him. Tensing underneath her, his own hand instinctively dug deeper into her back, pressing them even closer together.

“Minx,” his deep voice rumbled, all out of sorts as though she’d sent him in a daze. Some pride swelled within her as she pulled back a bit to admire her own work of art, the soft skin marred by her stark claim on him. His silver hair had gotten mussed along the way, strands falling in front of his hooded, lust-addled eyes. Even if he hadn’t said it out loud, it was clear that she’d turned him to putty with just one kiss to his neck. With a smirk, she slowly took his half-empty glass of wine and set it on the coffee table beside the couch.

How many times had Sylus regarded her with this much unadulterated want, like if she disappeared for a moment he’d grow mad? She couldn’t count on one hand; couldn’t even begin to recall the first time he’d tied himself down to her. But there was something so dizzyingly satisfying about having such an intimidating man submit to her in every way. Something about the way his hand traced up a path to her shoulder blades, barely covered by the almost-backless fabric of the dress, and his eyes consumed her whole, wine-stained lips curled in a lovesick smile… something about him almost made her delirious.

“You’re the messy drinker,” she shrugged, feigning innocence as she hooked an arm around his neck and toyed with the silken hair at his nape, delighting in the way his eyes momentarily fluttered shut at the contact. “Can’t blame me for taking the chance.”

He inhaled sharply, then let out a breathy laugh as his now-free hand settled on her waist, perching her right on top of him and completely disregarding just how dangerously close he was to completely baring her with that open slit of the dress. “Though I disagree on that slight to my character, at least now you can’t blame me either when I take my chances.”

And then Sylus was kissing her, all softened lips and cherry-flavored lip balm showered in the headiness of well-warmed wine. His hands soothed her aching muscles and yet kindled fire to life underneath her dewy skin, while his tongue caressed hers like a lover’s touch after a long absence. He kissed her like he’d missed her; like he’d been wanting this for too long that he’d nearly forgotten how to breathe properly without her lips on his, and without her wet moans.

He swallowed her every sound like he possessed it—and her, with the greediness of a sun threatening to burn her world whole. But all he ever really was was the all-encompassing night, his shadows curled around hers and his reverent touch bathed in moonlight streaming through half-drawn curtains. Adoration seeped even through his sighs and soft-spoken mutters between stolen breaths, and she wondered if sin should taste as pure as it did from his mouth.

Her hand reached up and her fingers dug into his hair, seeking purchase to ground herself and try to regain an ounce of sanity. An impossible feat that was, especially when his hand had dipped to lightly finger her spine and elicit shivers from the depths of her, while his lips ravished her. Daringly, she nipped at his bottom lip, slightly raising herself off his lap for a moment as she relished in the shaky curse that left him. And with a swift tug, he pulled her back down flush against him, the carnal passion in his eyes completely drowning out his irises.

Not for long though, as the sudden jerk had caused a sloshing sound, and they were both made aware of the fact that it had slipped her mind to set aside her now-empty glass of wine. Whatever was left of it now stained Sylus’ shirt with rose splatters, the wet fabric sticking even more taut against his skin. The glass had already come precariously close to slipping from between her fingertips, with the way he’d distracted her from reality and all common sense with his wicked mouth—but now, he was positively drenched, and somehow, miraculously, without even an annoyed pinch between his eyebrows as he set her glass down.

Perhaps it was because he knew he was to blame for her spiraling in a haze.

Failing to hold back a chortle, she tried (to no avail, of course) to pat at his shirt with a tissue from the coffee table. “If it’s any consolation, pink suits you too,” she managed to make out between peals of laughter. “Though we could’ve bought a rose shirt instead. Less of a hassle, y’know. Infinitely easier to clean.”

Shaking his head as he snickered, Sylus extracted her hands off him, tissue and all, and she climbed off his lap so that he could move freely. “And make your life less interesting? Now, where’s the fun in that, sweetie?” He was quick to shuck off his clothes, throwing them off on the arm rest and running a hand through his hair.

Flushed and disheveled, with kiss-swollen lips and a dampened chest and neck, he looked like the epitome of godless and lawless beauty. No heaven would take him when he lived like he did, but he was a small piece of debauched heaven she stowed away for herself. And having him shirtless like this while she stood above him with shaky legs and warmth trickling through her blood like thick molasses was going to be the death of her.

“You’re getting drunk.” He didn’t ask it, merely stated it as an observation. It didn’t take her long to ponder it, and then she nodded, earning a huff of a laugh from him. He stood up, readjusting the waistband of his pants and gently picking her up in a clumsier carry than earlier. Her dress creased in his grip, but it seemed that neither of them had it in them to care at the moment, nor did it matter that her entire leg had slipped out of the slip. “Lightweight.” And that teasing jab was all he needed to say for her to know that their little fun had been put on hold—just for the night, of course, as he carried her off to bed.

“Like you’re usually any better. Spoilsport,” she bit back, though it held no malice and little force. If anything, fondness seeped into her voice, enamored by the realization that he’d pulled back for her. And how could she have it in her to complain, when he’d taken such good care of her the entire evening? Such tender-hearted care didn’t go unnoticed; not when her eyes only ever saw him, and her ears nestled against his chest could find solace in the rapid fluttering of his heartbeat.

“You’ll thank me in the morning, when you don’t have to nurse a hangover or a sore body.”

Climbing up the stairs shook her body in his embrace, and she tightened her hold around him. Unsurprisingly, as though he’d truly predicted it, she could feel herself growing more drowsy with each step he took, and it took her effort to keep her eyes half-open. Her words were little above a mumble when she replied, “Take my makeup off and I’ll double my thanks in advance.”

“Mm. I’ll ask to cash in, first thing when you wake up.” Even his voice sounded more distant now as she could vaguely sense him pushing their bedroom door open.

“Greedy.”

“And shameless,” came his soft agreement, before slowly setting her down on the plush mattress and nestling her head into her pillow. Her eyes focused on him for a second, taking in that lovelorn smile and affectionate gaze that always, always followed her, before non-verbally handing him her trust and letting go of him, leaving him to walk off.

And before Sylus had even come back with her makeup remover in tow, she’d already succumbed to the viselike grip of a blissful slumber, surrounded by the familiar scent of him all over their bed, and the soothing pressure of him on top of her, taking such achingly gentle care of her like he’d always promised to.

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[oklotea]

Hello EAH fandom, I present to you my newest crackship,

Daring Charming x Humphrey Dumpty.

After an entire lifetime of breaking his bones and multiple chronic illnesses, most people become completely unfazed of it. But he never does. He's sick and tired and sad. This is what started his disinterest and all around disdain towards most people who have it much much better than him. They don't care about him, they just know him as the tech kid who is always experiencing pain, so why should he care about them? He only tolerates a handful of people and, likes only 2 or 3. And he isn't that popular either. Who cares. He doesn't.

Daring Charming has everything. He's kind, handsome, chivalrous, VERY POPULAR, and rich. He knows exactly why he was born, he's a prince who helps and saves people, is beloved by everyone, and will end up marrying apple white. And he is very ok with that arrangement! He's very ok with most things! Because he's ok with most things, he doesn't really think further than that until it discomforts him. Besides people don't really look at him to have opinions or original ideas and thoughts, people don't think of him THAT deeply! And he's also cool with that. It's not what he's made for.

Humphrey keeps falling off of things and slipping and all around almost hurting himself horribly and Daring is always somehow there to save him. Always catching him and shit. It embarrasses Humphrey a lot but Daring is always cool about it, as he is with most things. This song and dance happens every so often and it always gets Humphrey feeling very very stupid about it. He isn't used to this.... What, commitment? From anyone? If he could say anything about Daring Charming is that he's VERY COMMITTED to keep up this ruse that he actually cares enough about Humphrey to always save him from feeling shittier than usual. At least that's what Humphrey tells himself every time Daring Charming makes his way into his mind. It's better to hold that strict belief, than believe... Anything else. He's too busy and tired for this shit. Besides, outside of that song and dance, and the stupid silly short conversations that surround them, they're at the end of the day not a part of each other's lives.

Until one day Humphrey had a great big fall and... For the first time in months he broke a bone, and now he feels a bit more sick and tired. Great. Daring for some reason wasn't there. It broke Humphrey for like, a minute over it, but then he just shoves those feelings away and decided that it doesn't matter. Daring never made ANY PROMISES he would always be there for Humphrey. And Humphrey is stupid. He's stupid.

Humphrey decides to do some work that he's been tasked to take care of for Blondie's mirror cast in bed, and everything is quiet. When suddenly he hears some very loud footsteps running up to his door, and someone barges in. And it's Daring Charming. Errrmmmmm what the fuck

Daring's jaw is agape, in disbelief... He quickly gets down on the floor next to Humphrey's bedside and expresses how sorry he is that he could even allow this to happen, almost sobbing as he explains. Humphrey is still processing him being here, completely baffled.

Humphrey sputters over his words and tells Daring that he shouldn't be sorry, it's not his responsibility any way. And then Daring cheerfully says that he had made it his responsibility for a while now. Wait. What.

Humphrey felt his face heat up, and once again he felt even more stupid. Just how easy is he to flatter?

Daring ends up telling Humphrey that he's going to make it up to Humphrey, by hanging out with him, and doing whatever Humphrey asks him too. He's going to be the most helpful friend Humphrey has ever had. For CHIVALRY!

Humphrey stares at him and says with a straightface, don't you have shit to do?

Daring smiles and answers, nope!

They do actually end up becoming real friends, and Humphrey pretends those old feelings aren't there anymore. Conversations with Daring are really really funny and intertaining, and this guy is actually like, really nice! And for once it was nice to have a friend you don't only interact with because of work or classroom projects. Like, if Humphrey could hang out with anyone... He would want to be with Daring. And that's weird. What the fuck.

Humphrey is always tired and pissed off about something, but the air seems to turn light and easy when Daring's around, and it's hard to not be effected by it.

It makes Humphrey very, very happy whenever Daring compliments and recognizes the hard work he puts into multiple school projects that have a technical division. And Humphrey found out that Daring is very good at giving compliments.

Errmmmmmmm nerd x popular guy moon x sunshine "I want to see more out of nowhere daring ships okay goodnight"

Omg why did I write so much this was supposed to be a dumb little post about this dumb little crackship but WHOOPS! hand slipped and this half baked mess is born. I honestly reallyyyyyyy like this dumb ship. I need more of these idiots. If anyone wants to feed into my delusions and see my vision feel free to add on. ALSO WE NEED A SHIP NAME.

[onyxbird]

Mr. Sandman, Ring Me a Dream

Summary: Death decides that a phone will help her little brother stay more connected to human friends. (Or “friend,” singular, for the moment.) Not to worry, she's taken care of all of the setup, right down to the ringtone. Just give this number to Hob and put it in your pocket. Please, little brother. For me.

Dream should have known to ask more questions…

Read on AO3

Ch. 1: “Turn on Your Magic Beam”

“Just try it for a bit,” said his sister. “You don't have to do anything but put it in your pocket and answer it if it rings.”

“I have no need for a telephone, mobile or otherwise,” said Dream. “Hob and I have remained in contact for centuries without any such thing.”

Death raised an eyebrow. “You see one another once a century by appointment, and you missed the last one. I'm just saying the humans have invented all sorts of communication devices, and you should try being a little more reachable. You might like it.”

Dream refrained from actually rolling his eyes, but Death seemed to get the point.

“Look, I've completely set it up for you. It's got Hob's number in it.” She punched the green phone handset button, “Contacts,” and the solitary entry labeled “Hob Gadling” with exaggerated slowness, the phone flourished in front of his withering gaze so that he couldn't avoid seeing the process. “I even set a ringtone for you! All you have to do is give him this string of numbers. He'll know what to do.”

Dream did not dignify that with a response.

“Come on, little brother. Give it a fair chance. For me.” She paused until his disdainful expression cracked, and she smirked in victory. “If you hate it, you can always go back to your once-a-century meeting and no harm done, right?”

Dream begrudgingly slid the glossy black rectangle into his pocket. Human innovations were often far from “no harm done” in his opinion, but fine, if his sister believed this one was harmless, he supposed he could humor her.

He dropped by to find Hob, crossly shoved the piece of paper with numbers at him, muttering that his sister had insisted on getting him a phone, and promptly forgot about it.

…

James' back hit the wall behind him, starting to question whether buying the tiny ziploc baggie of allegedly “magical” powder had been a mistake.

He'd mostly bought it as a joke, anyway. The seller had put on a surprisingly convincing song and dance to “prove” that the sand was magical rather than just gray sand, but really. Magic sand? Besides, if it were as special as he claimed, the price would surely have been higher.

Still, if the sand was fake, the salesman was an excellent illusionist, and the entertainment value alone had been worth the small price being charged.

…At least it had been until this goth beanstalk showed up, trailed by a raven, of all things. James had initially brushed that off, too. When you hung around in circles where someone was likely to sell you “magic dream sand,” you encountered a lot of odd people.

This one was persistent—James couldn't seem shake him—and his initial blunt pushiness had edged over into scary.

James tried to tune back into what he was saying. Maybe he should just—

An incongruously cheerful tune derailed his train of thought.

“Bom bom bom bom bom bom bom bom. “Bom bom bom bom bom.”

The apparition did not react or change expression as the a capella harmony continued.

“Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream! Make him the cutest that I've ever seen.”

The apparition's eyebrows knitted together. He glanced around, as if looking for the source of the sound. He pivoted slowly in a complete circle, peering in all directions, as the song continued to play.

The raven cocked its head quizzically. “That coming from you, boss?”

(Great. A talking bird, as if this wasn't weird enough.)

“What do you mean 'is it coming from me?' Why would it?”

Words spilled out of James' mouth before he could think better of it. “…Is it your phone?”

He regretted speaking as soon as the apparition's attention snapped back onto him.

“I do not have a phone.”

“Uhh… actually…” said the raven.

The pale brow furrowed. “Oh. That's right.” He started patting his sides as if trying to locate something in his pockets. He fished out a black rectangle just as the music abruptly cut off, midway through the “Mr. Sandman” leading into the second verse.

He stared blankly at the it.

“I think you missed the call?” offered James.

There was silence for a moment. “It says 'Missed Call,'” the apparition confirmed. “'Hob.' There's a little picture of his face.”

“Yeah, you missed it, then. Maybe they'll leave a voicemail?”

The apparition scrutinized him. “A… 'voicemail'?”

James floundered. “Yeah. You know, record a message for you?”

Based on the apparition's expression, he did not know.

“Or you could just call 'em back?”

The apparition frowned at the phone again. “I… do not know how to do that.”

“There's—There should be a button.” He reached towards the phone automatically, starting to feel like he was talking to his Gran rather than a seemingly supernatural entity trying to mug him for dubiously magical sand. “Can I see? Yeah, right there—if you click on that, it should call them back.”

A long pale finger carefully poked at the spot James had indicated, before raising the phone to his ear.

There was a pause.

“Ah, this one rings like a bell, not music. That's what I thought they were supposed to do.”

“Uh… Well, that's what it does on your end while it's waiting for the other person to pick up. Might be music on their end, though.”

“Oh.”

“Hob,” declared the apparition. He paused. “Yes. I retrieved my phone, but you were no longer there.” He frowned. “Yes, I was busy. I still am. …This human said that otherwise you might send me mail, and I do not receive letters in the Dreaming. …I am not certain I know how to do that. …Very well. Thirty minutes hence.”

He frowned at the phone for another long moment, before looking back at James. “Do I have to turn it off?”

“Uh… I think the other guy probably hung up on his end, so…” He craned for a glimpse at the screen. “No, you don't have to do anything. The call already disconnected.”

The apparition carefully slid the phone back into a pocket, and clasped his hands behind his back. “I thank you for your assistance,” he said solemnly. “Now, there is still the issue of the dream sand, which you may not keep.”

Ch. 2 on AO3

[90363462]

Search Opener

MUSIC

CULTURE

VIDEO

MAGAZINE

EVENTS

SHOP

SUBSCRIBE

"CLOSER": THE STRANGE STORY OF NINE INCH NAILS' ENDURING STRIP CLUB ANTHEM

photograph by Ellen Stagg

text SUSAN ELIZABETH SHEPARD

photography ELLEN STAGG

March 8, 2019 

One of the first songs I ever stripped to was Nine Inch Nails' "Closer." This was in 1994, soon after the song's release. At the time, I'd just come back from a road trip to an experimental-music festival featuring Faust, Tony Conrad, Jim O'Rourke and Keiji Haino. I was an 18-year-old with a generationally appropriate disdain for popular music and hair metal, so when the club DJ asked me what kind of music I wanted to dance to before my first stage set, I probably told him Pavement and Sonic Youth and Mudhoney in an effort to give him some accessible choices. What he decided to play for me was the Revolting Cocks' cover of "Do Ya Think I'm Sexy" followed by "Closer." I didn't think too much on it being a sexy song at the time, and soon enough, I'd heard it so many times that it blended into the rest of the work soundtrack. I do remember that the chorus really did stand out, but it seemed to be in the same vein as Soundgarden's "Big Dumb Sex" to me — proclaiming the desire to fuck, you know, ironically.

Strip clubs already had songs from Pretty Hate Machine in the rotation, but "Closer" is an unusual song, particularly for Trent Reznor and Nine Inch Nails. At the beginning of the "making of" mini-doc for its music video, director Mark Romanek says something about his initial reaction to the single that can only be understood in the context of the anti-major-label-and-MTV attitudes of the time. "It's a really actually unusual piece of music for Trent. It actually reminded me of a Prince song, which is not meant to be in any way a criticism. It's meant to be a compliment."

It's fair to characterize the world of alternative music in the 1990s as a place so white and unsexy that one would have to clarify that a Prince comparison wasn't a criticism. Reznor recognized that his audience might have reacted negatively in a 1997 Rolling Stoneinterview: "... 'Closer' is a song with a simple disco beat and a Prince kind of harmony vocal line. That, I thought, would open me up to a lot more criticism from the safe company of alternative people I'm supposed to be catering to."

He turned out to be catering to many more people, and one of "Closer"'s most enduring audiences of all are the people who work in and patronize strip clubs. He couldn't have hit the target more perfectly if he'd tried, and obviously Prince would be exactly who an artist looking to create a strip club classic would emulate, from his funky beats to his explicit sexual language. In the spring of 1994, that bizarre video and profane chorus made for a track decidedly hostile to — and yet destined for — massive commercial success and decades as an unkillable strip club staple just as beloved as "Girls, Girls, Girls" and "Make It Rain."

Over the years, "Closer" has gone from a brand new, shockingly explicit alt hit to a classic tune from an artist who's been around for 30 years, but aside from its age, its meaning and use in the club have remained stable. Because I heard it pretty much every time I worked, it never got around to feeling dated for me, in contrast to other massive Nineties hits. But I never asked to dance to it myself, maybe because I knew it would inevitably get played. (If you're curious, my personal favorite NIN songs to dance to onstage are "Sin" and the cover of "Dead Souls.") It took its showcase use in Magic Mike XXL for me to realize how much meaning it had taken on for me — all and only because of the strip club. When that beat abruptly kicked in as Joe Manganiello(who'd asked for the song) picked up a woman and threw her into a sex swing, I squealed out loud in the theater. All of a sudden I realized I did have an opinion about "Closer," and that opinion was that after two decades in the strip club, it was the one song that never got old, that always signified it was time to pay attention, and that was, anguished lyrics and all, actually incredibly sexy.

photograph by Ellen Stagg

The dancers not onstage while it's playing might be giving private dances to the song. I always found it an easy sell, because it's the rare customer who can resist an "oooh, this song is so sexy! I really want to dance for you!" pitch. That rare customer is probably a hardcore NIN fan who, having paid attention to the lyrics, finds it less sexy and more nihilistic, though even they can't deny it's a great beat. But strip club goers are, with few exceptions, not paying much attention to the lyrical and thematic subtleties of the music that's playing. With "Closer," they may not know the name of the song, but that doesn't stop them from asking for it. DJ Dick Hennessy, a Portland, Oregon-based DJ and the producer of the Vagina Beauty Pageant, says it's one of the top five songs most requested by customers. "And I'd say one out of every 30 times it's requested, it's requested as 'Closer.' Every single time it's like, 'Yeah, I want "Fuck You Like an Animal." Can you play the "Fuck You Like an Animal" song?'"

Hennessy confirms that it's a very attention-grabbing track. "That particular song, for some reason when it comes on, it forces everyone in the club to look at the stage," he says. "It's almost like a snake charmer in a way. Like a hypnotic thing."

Every stripper memoir worth its salt mentions Nine Inch Nails. Sheila McClear, in The Last of the Live Nude Girls, describes watching a dancer onstage at Sassy's in Portland, Oregon, slink around to "Closer." Lily Burana wrote in Strip City that she kept Pretty Hate Machine as one of her five work essentials (before MP3s and streaming were ubiquitous, dancers would bring actual CDs to work with them if they wanted to dance to something the club might not have in its collection).

Writer Alana Massey tells me that she was a Nine Inch Nails fan at a young age. "Like, too young," she says. In her essay collection All the Lives I Want, she describes her experience with hearing "Closer" in the club as pretty much the opposite of mine: She was a fan of the band and liked the song, but hated hearing it at work. That was partly because of its outsized impact on customers, she said.

"I felt like it was just too obvious," Massey says. "It kind of plants this seed for, like, the explicit desire to have sex in a way that other suggestive songs don't." Customers would start singing back the song's exceedingly obvious chorus. "Yeah, I've heard the song, I know what it's about, thanks," she says. "It's like working at Banana Republic and they have the soundtrack, it's like, I've heard this song 37 times today. It has lost any sexual meaning at this point for me."

Dancers Charie and Rio at Pumps Exotic Dancing, Brooklyn, New York, 2019

photograph by Ellen Stagg

"The thing that I think has sort of returned to being compelling and odd about that song are the contradictory ideas that are in it," she says. "'My whole existence is flawed/You get me closer to God' is not fucking like an animal. It's fucking on a higher plane of being a human connected to another human." Massey compares the song to George Michael's "I Want Your Sex," which, when it was released, was seen as just as shocking a statement as "I want to fuck you like an animal," yet which, according to its author, was supposed to be a statement of intimate feeling, not one of indiscriminate horniness.

photograph by Ellen Stagg

For what it's worth, Mötley Crüe's Tommy Lee (who has a credit on The Downward Spiral's "Big Man With a Gun") didn't think that "Closer"'s strip club popularity was any accident. He told Blender in 2002, "Come on, dude: 'I wanna fuck you like an animal'? That's the all-time fuck song. Those are pure fuck beats — Trent Reznor knew what he was doing. You can fuck to it, you can dance to it and you can break shit to it."

photograph by Ellen Stagg

The Rolling Stones' 1969 song "Honky Tonk Women" is still played in strip clubs 50 years later, a mark that "Closer" is halfway to matching. I most recently heard the song at a strip club in early January. The place was down the access road from a truck stop, resembling no strip club I'd been in elsewhere so much as the fictional venue the Bang Bang Bar where Nine Inch Nails performed in Twin Peaks: The Return. The dancer onstage was born several years after "Closer" was released. The song will still be played long after she's given her last dance.

Nine Inch NailsTrent ReznorThe Downward Spiral

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[hannahsmusings]

Renee

*I scoff as he says everything he makes tastes good, shaking my head in disbelief* Don’t start talking a big game like that. I don’t like getting my hopes up. Also, no one can make kale taste good. No one. *I shuddered at the thought of some of the vile green juices and smoothies I’ve had in the past, only ever drinking them when I was on a cleanse or a stricter diet closer to events and summer photoshoots* *I watch as he chops up the fruit, him making it look so simple and easy, him obviously being quite comfortable in the kitchen which made sense but usually when I sat and observed my other chefs, they messed up or nearly cut themselves since they were nervous under the watchful eye, but Anthony seemed cool as a cucumber, unable to figure out why he wasn’t more intimidated by me like everyone else was* I’m an influencer. I know, I hate that word too. *I immediately snap out the defense, used to people poking fun at me for being one of ‘those’ people, knowing most people looked down at influencers and how they made so much money doing essentially nothing* But I actually do things. I have a few brands… currently working on a designer workout brand at the moment, that’s why I was just traveling. Not just some girl standing in front of a camera doing a ridiculous dance to an idiotic song… *I say the last part with disdain, that never being what I wanted my career to be watered down to, even if making silly content back in the day was my thing*

_________________________________________

*chuckles a little as you mention Kale, grinning and shaking my head* Challenge accepted. *offers you a confident smirk as I go back to my chopping, humming a little tune to myself as I take the fruit over to the blender, turning to look at you over my shoulder as you say you were an influencer, cocking a brow and letting out a bark of a laugh as you immediately complain, shaking my head and already feeling so fond about the way you were, the tough outer shell that you projected that I was convinced was a defence* You’re a business woman then, a business owner in fact. Influencer diminishes all your hard work. *offers you a genuine smile as I go to the fridge and add some coconut water to the blender, turning to you* Hang on a sec. *murmurs, wanting to listen to you properly and be attentive to learn about you so the noise of the blender was going to disrupt that as I turn it on* *it blends for about 30 seconds before I add some ice and blend again, it being a nice smooth thick consistency before I turn it off and look back at you* Go ahead, work out wear you said? What are the other brands? *genuinely interested as you were clearly smart and brilliant and beautiful, wanting to know what your interests were as I pour the smoothie into a glass and bring it over to you* Let me know if it’s alright. *smiles, handing you a straw, already seeming so familiar with your kitchen as I’d taken the time to properly look around, just wanting you to see how prepared I was*

[whispereons]

Another Drink

I've been listening to Trickles cover of An Unaware Drunk (wonderful cover, highly reccomend!) and pairing that up with Callboy (another wonderful song). I've been inspired to write this!

Your words slurred as you sang the words to the song Venti was playing.

Leaning further into Kaeya you threw your head back in laughter as you forgot the words to the song.

The wine burned as it traveled down your throat. What a wonderful feeling.

The light bubbly feeling of the added alcohol left the room spinning as you got up to dance. You could only vaguely recall dragging Yun Jin to dance with you.

A part of you knew how this night would end but it was quickly brushed away as you chugged another cup. It wasn't long before you were pestering Diluc for another bottle.

He was uncomfortable with the thought of giving you more wine but how could he resist when you leaned in close with hands pressed against his chest.

"But Dil-*hic*uc I'm the Creator and an adult! How could you deny your god *hic* anything?"

Diluc stuttered at your drunken demands, seeing your chance you pulled him close enough to whisper in his ear.

"Let me have some more, my wounds still burn after all~"

You threw up the next morning with lungs burning more than your old wounds.

Zhongli only placed a remedy on your bedside table while you cleaned yourself up. He left quietly knowing that you would only yell at him if you caught sight of him near you.

It was cold you numbly noted as you lazily layed on the throne. Then again the Tsaritsa was kneeling right in front of you with enough gifts to cast a shadow over her.

Sighing you snapped your fingers and Scaramouche stepped out of the shadows.

"Check for any alcohol everything else can be thrown away."

Obediently Scaramouche went through the offerings ordering the servants to throw away anything he gave them. By the end it was clear that almost everything had some form of alcohol.

Vintage wine, liquor chocolate, vodka cryo cocktails and more. It was unsurprising really. When the nations first brought gifts Mondstadt was favored due to the wide selection of wine.

Nevertheless you snatched the wine bottle from Scaramouche and impatiently downed it.

It was only 4pm when you were shitfaced and sobbing into Zhongli's chest.

"I can't believe how many people think drinking wine is somehow a refined taste! I mean c'mon I drink wine and no one thinks I'm refined."

Your speech may have been steady but your balance was not as you tightly clutched Zhongli's suit to keep yourself upright.

"Please don't talk about yourself that way your Grace. No one thinks that way of you and anyone who dares will feel your holy wrath through us."

He couldn't deny his disdain for your drinking habits but what right does he have to stop you?

Not only were you his god, his creator, his motivation to keep going despite the war, Guizhong death, Azhdaha succumbing to erosion, and even his own struggle with erosion.

But you were hunted, humiliated, tortured in front of millions before they almost killed you.

Before he almost killed you.

"Yeah, yeah whatevs. Now hand over those Pina-colada popsicles, by the end of this day I don't wanna remember any of your names."

Besides it was the only way you'll ever let him them near you.

You didn't care about the pounding headache you woke up with every morning. Not when the phantom pain of spears still ached.

Every night you slept without being blacked out drunk was filled with the sounds of the crowd cheering at your pained screams.

The sharp pain of your ankle being crushed and electro seizing your body still haunted you.

The blood appearing in the vomit didn't matter. Even as your body grew colder as each blurry day passed, you refused to stop the vicious cycle of being hostile while sober and amiable when drunk.

Dandelion wine, rum, whiskey, death afternoon, tequila and cocktails are consumed the moment you lay eyes on it.

They don't help but you can't resist not that you want to. They keep the disgust, betrayal and fear away.

They help you believe that Rosaria never stabbed you with spears as your chatting about the best drink in Angel's Share.

That Beidou never broke your ribs lighting your veins on fire as you sing with her and her crew.

That your favorite character wasn't the one who captured you to be beaten for everyone to watch and laugh. The same person who you drunkenly dragged into a kiss that they eagerly returned.

You would rather die by alcohol poisoning than face the reality of being stuck in this heaven turned hell while your old life is left behind.

So just one more, it can't hurt more than the others.

Right?

[mouisorange]

Dona Lunae | Yandere Artemis x gn.reader

Warning | Religious themes (Greek Mythos); reader being very against worship; dead animals (not overly explicit); mentions of hunting; implied drugging; vague injury; yandere behavior.

Word Count | 2.5k

Being raised in a city ruled over by a major deity taught you many things; first and foremost being that gods are unbearably suffocating without even needing to be present. You’d learned this well as someone who’d grown tired of hearing the same undeserved praises sung over and over again; as someone who had seen the kind of horror that attracting their sweet attention cost anyone even vaguely involved. Against what you were brought up believing, you couldn’t bring yourself to worship such selfish, petty things, made out of who-knows-what, solely because they’re divine or because someone told you to.  

Though, it wasn’t as if you had any genuine disdain for them; but there was such a thing as living for yourself without the overwhelming dependence of worship and adoration, as well as protecting yourself from eternal punishment for so much as blinking offensively. Not that you’d ever be comfortable enough with someone to voice your opinions—especially not with delusional worshippers; people of the city often did not show just how deeply they love their darling patrons until it’s too late to change the topic of discussion. You’d been in tense situations where you practically had to drag yourself away from the conservation, lest you have to pretend to worship whatever deity they were waxing praises to. It was tiring. You wanted to be able to live without looking to the sky and seeing a golden statue of some ‘all-knowing and all-powerful’ being beyond your care; without having to force a smile and nod along as friends and strangers alike wistfully recall prayers and offerings to gods that likely wouldn’t bat an eye to them. 

So you left, with no warning to friends, if you could really still refer to any of them as ‘friend’ with how you’d allowed your annoyance to fully fester. The city was filled with overwhelming social expectations, surely the country would be less intense, calm—calmer than the bustle of stone forests, anyways. 

And it was, for a time. Sure, there was the occasional casual praises and wishes for good things from gods who weren’t listening, but it was easily ignored—you were easily ignored; you were considered a stranger to the countryside of Greece, but a familiar face to yourself and the path you walked daily. Just as it should be. You did find comfort in the fact that strangers were easy to talk to; easy, brief comments on the weather, or on something barely worth mentioning in any other situation. It was comfortable—more comfortable than you had ever hoped to be in the city. 

So, when you came across dancing nymphs worshipping the goddess of trees, you kept your head down and moved along. It wasn’t your business, and if you ignored them, they’d hopefully ignore you in kind. 

You ignored the blunted remains of fires, and the distant singing of beautiful voices; praying that their song was loud enough to cover your walk home.

You used the vegetables left at your door, ignoring the way they’d been neatly placed in a silver basket that looked too expensive to have been left for someone of your upbringing. The exact ones you usually cooked with, even a few that you loved but consistently struggled to find. You went out of your way to thank your distant neighbors for the gifts they couldn’t have possibly known you’d want to use, ignoring the way they respond with confusion and deny involvement—you assume that they were being humble, with the quality of what was left for you to find, after-all, this is the country. Perhaps lying about gift-giving was seen as being humble? Having been raised in the city all your life, it was hard to tell; and so easy to brush off strange customs. 

You used the meat left behind, skinning the old buck left to pool blood in the grass of your yard. Despite the voice whispering to let it rot in some ditch nearby, you pushed your nerves down, excusing the acceptance of the gift with not wanting to waste the poor thing’s life. The silver arrow nestled within it’s chest went ignored, and you threw it aside and did your best to pretend it had never been there to begin with. 

The songs of wooden women with petals blooming from their hair grew louder, nearer, as the gifts continued to show up, morning after morning. It was difficult to ignore the idea that you’d perhaps attracted the attention of something, but you still pushed it away—there was nothing worth noticing, and you tried to convince yourself that you were simply being arrogant. So arrogant, that you continued to try and ignore the way moonlight seemed to last a bit longer every morning, and spat out any paranoia that tried to dig its’ claws into you. It was just your mind playing tricks, your subconscious finding new ways to torment you in it’s apparent boredom from the lack of frenzied cultists. 

It wasn’t until you were awoken by reflective light, that you had the thought to confront the being that had decided to visit nightly. The bed groaned and the floorboards gently whined as you stood to leave your bedroom, the air cool against your bare feet. Careful to walk lightly, you reached for the door to your yard when a chill halted your movements, despite the warmth of the summer night. Instead, you shifted to reach behind your curtains—unlocking the window and carefully lifting it barely an inch—curiosity begging you to hear your mystery hunter’s voice. Rather than a deep voice, you were met with silence, aside from a nearly inaudible drip. Moonlight cooed and beckoned you to look; your nervousness was pushed aside in favor of peering just around the corner of the window.

Your lungs halted at the sight, surprise holding them tightly—

—she was utterly mesmerizing, silver glinting as if she had weapons made of the moon itself. The girl seemed young to have brought the various game that recolored your grass red every morning, the impressive bow settled by her side spoke otherwise. The point of the bow gently grazed the wet ground, and suddenly your chest felt as deep as the bloody ground was red—the blood from the animal she carried seeped into the short tunic she wore, the fabric thirsting for more to soak in. The girl moved and red followed, the darkness of it luminated by the glow she seemed to radiate. Your legs felt heavy on the cold flooring of your dark home. Though your mind urged you to leave the sight, to hide under the warm covers of your bed and hope for sunlight, your limbs refused to do more than lightly shake in place. 

Was this really the truth? Were you dreaming, perhaps already back in bed? A young girl was really responsible for the nightly, fresh kills on your lawn? 

The answer to your questions cut through your skull as another woman walked into view, a bow resting in her hand. She wore branches in her hair, and flowers seemed at home against her cheeks—a nymph, you realized, and too late did the realization of who had been leaving dead gifts for you come. You almost hissed at the thought, thinking yourself too prideful—despite knowing very well such an insult was a lie—a goddess? Leaving things for you? 

But the answer was the truth, and it was difficult to run from a truth standing right in front of you. One that had been right in front of you for weeks. Had hopeful dreaming allowed you to ignore the way worship of the tree goddess seemed to follow you around? How the songs seemed to grow longer, closer with every moon that came and went? 

You did what you could to begin to build the courage to run away, to turn your taut muscles from ice to hot anger. The heat simmered back into fear at every thought you tried to form against the goddess, and the weight of confusion did nothing but soothe any ember formed—smothering it before it could spark into even a candle light. 

You couldn’t hear what the nymph was saying, though you could see her lips move. The assumed goddess laid down the animal, and kneeled there, seemingly listening—or considering something? What, you couldn’t tell—and her lips moved in response, light gestures flowing from her words. The older woman made no such gesture, and turned to leave as she’d come in, and you just then noticed the other women—of whom you assumed were also nymphs—standing behind the tree-line. 

If seeing so many armed women in one place unsettled you, watching the goddess stand and match your gaze sent your soul straight to hades itself. 

Though exactly how you ended up sprinting through the wildest parts of the woods—bare feet surely collecting cuts, thorns, and dirt—still abandoned your thoughts. One moment you were watching a goddess smile at you, take steps towards you, and the next moment was greeted by the warm night air outside the back door of your home. Perhaps it was unwise to run from a hunter goddess, especially when you were wearing only your nightwear and the goddess chasing you was fully prepared to follow her prey until it gave in to exhaustion. But it hadn’t been a clear thought, and unfortunately for you, that also meant unclear actions—and your running turned into rolling, not feeling your legs turned into searing hot pain. You looked for an arrow only to see a damaged tree root, tugged further out of the ground by your frantic escape. The desire to stay low and hoping they overlooked your place in the ditch was near irresistible, even more-so as you wondered if you would even be able to walk on your aching foot. 

You covered your mouth to hide your breath and hoped for the best—that sunlight would come and you would wake up to birds singing. 

But birds often sing no matter the time, chirps decorating the wind just the same as fading moonlight decorated her weapon. The goddess waved off the women you hadn’t seen with bows drawn, and they disappeared back into the trees, the mix of greens in the dark too similar to tell if they had actually left. She smiled down at you, again, and crouched down to step into the ditch you had face-planted into.

“It seems I’ve frightened you, ελαφάκι(1).” speaking softly, she ran her hand down your bare leg, barely ghosted over your injury. If flinching away from her offended her in any way, she didn’t put in any effort to show it. She called out to someone, though your head was spinning a little too hard to know if she had called a command or a name. Before you could wiggled away from her, a pretty nymph with dripping wet hair appeared by your side and began to work on your lower leg. 

“There was no reason to flee from me, I have no intent to harm you.” The goddess distracted you from the cool water dripping from the woman to your wound—it helped that it soothed the pain. She leaned towards you, a warm hand cupped your jaw and turned your gaze fully towards her. “Though, it seems to have saved me an introduction, I’ve never seen you run from kind strangers before.”

She seemed to wait for you to speak, and though you knew very well that gods were not patient, you were not sure if you could speak at that moment. 

You tried to catch your breath, and think about how you could escape without inciting the wrath of a deity—”You’re the goddess of the hunt… ” Your words hung in the air, settling on your tongue like hot tar. 

“I am.” She confirmed, eyes lidded, seemingly with disappointment in your answer, “Do you not know me by name? I was sure you were from my brother’s city, do his people not speak of me?” 

“They do.” You were quick to reply, your throat hissing at every syllable. 

“Then will you not address me by such?” Although the way she held your head up was much softer than you’d ever been held before, the slight shift in grip was more than enough of a warning.

You swallowed the hot tar, and let confusion meld with it as it sank into your chest, “Lady Artemis, why…” The words did not want to leave the safety of your teeth, but you forced it out anyway, “Why have you chased me? Surely I am not worthy enough for the attention of a goddess, much less so a great olympian.”

You hoped the lie would be able to stand against her sharp senses, truth being you couldn’t care less how worthy you were or weren’t. You just want to be left alone, to wake up with the morning birds as your only company, to be able to forget the existence of anything else—

“Oh, γλυκό ελαφάκι(2), who has told you so?” Her hold on your chin tightened, nails threatening to leave marks, “Your worth is for me to decide, and I have decided that it is quite πολύτιμος(3). Do you need further convincing, or do you understand?” 

You doubted it was a genuine question, especially with your jaw feeling like it could snap at any moment between her fingers. Her face was still soft, lips curled as she inspected your face, and your attention shifted from sweet escape to simply surviving the encounter with the goddess. 

If you lived, you would do whatever it took to hide from every deity that could ever possibly exist— and so, with a scrambled plan, you whimpered, pain leaking into your words, ”I understand, Lady Artemis.”

The goddess’ grip loosened and returned to softly caressing your jaw, your throat, gestures too affectionate to bring you anything but dread. She smiled in a way that could almost be playful if she hadn’t just almost shattered your jawbone. “There’s no need to use titles with me, ελαφάκι. Do you think you can walk better than you ran from me?” 

You paused, and glanced towards your foot—which had droplets of water slowly running down it, the nymph who’d been tending to the injury was long forgotten in the conversation with her. If you ever saw the blue-eyed nymph again, you’d have to thank her, even if she was only helping because her patron asked her to.

The ache was completely gone, though the tension remained. She was good at whatever she’d done, “...I think I can.” 

Your own hesitation in speaking only caused your muscles to tense more, anxiety winding them tightly, hoping your response was what she wanted to hear. 

Artemis smiled, clearly amused, as if you’d missed some joke. “Πόσο χαριτωμένο(4). you needn’t worry, I wasn’t planning on allowing you to walk this time.” 

You weren’t given time to get confused, as you felt a small sting against your neck. Your hand flew to the spot, bringing it to your face only to be met with a small amount of purple-tinted blood smeared across your palm. Ringing slowly replaced the birds in the early morning light, and you realized she would have come regardless of which light illuminated the sky; a warm kiss was pressed against your brow, and your vision blurred the soft colors of the forest into a dark, dreamless sleep.

1. Means Fawn in Greek, via google translate.  2. Means Sweet Fawn in Greek, via google translate. 3. Means Precious in Greek, via google translate. 4. Means How cute in Greek, via google translate.

﹝☼﹞

[happytroopers]

Origin Day // platonic 501st! Reader

Tw: alcohol use

It’s my 21st birthday and I want to go clubbing with the 501st

“Wait, isn’t twenty-one like a big deal for civvies?” Fives asked, watching you wrench a bolt tighter on the sliding door of a gunship in the large hangar of the Coruscant GAR barracks. Most clone troopers genuinely didn’t understand the sensationalized idea of birthdays (or as most people in the galaxy called them: Origin Days). The closest they had was when they were let out of the growth chambers. You shrugged, giving the wrench one last pull before wiping the sweat off your forehead.

“On some planets.” You hummed, “For some species. Depends on when the government deems your species old enough to drink alcohol.”

“So you can enlist in the military, but can’t go for a drink.” Echo asked, eye brows furrowing while Fives muttered something about that being bullshit.

You gave the gunship one last appraisal before deciding you had done all you could do. If they wanted those dents out, high command would have to sanction heavy equipment. Finally, you looked back to the Arc trooper duo.

“Which is why you’ve never seen me in 79’s.”

“Civie laws make no sense.” Fives stated bluntly, kicking himself off the crate he’d be lounging on. “So are you doing anything?”

“Well, my childhood friends live on a different planet, and my academy friends are all deployed at the moment.” You voice was strained as you stretched your arms over your head, “Aside from getting those AT-RT’s back in working order? Not unless you two have any brilliant ideas.”

Over your head, the two Arc troopers shared a look. They did in fact have an idea-though ‘brilliant’ was a little bit generous.

_______

“Don’t you two have an early call time tomorrow?” You yelled over the thumping music, subconsciously tugging at your outfit (you had forgotten how exposing civvie clothes felt compared to your military uniforms).

79’s was busier than usual according to Echo who was walking in front of you to part the crowd. Fives was behind you, guiding you with a warm hand on the small of your back.

“Yeah, but you don’t.” Fives answered with a smile in his voice. In front of you Echo nodded.

“We’ll manage.” He paused, pulling you in front of him and pointing to a back corner, “Besides, I doubt it’ll be that much of a problem.”

You eyes followed his finger to find an unexpected sight. Half of the 501st was gathered around a corner booth, even Captain Rex who rarely ever ventured to the club scene.

Fives and Echo watched your expression carefully, relieved when you broke into a laugh and your hands flew to your mouth.

“It’s not much but-“ Echo started in with something cheesy, but you cut him off, taking both his and Fives hands as you pulled them towards the corner.

“It’s perfect.” You promised. And it was. For some the party had already started: Hardcase and Jesse were clutching long necked bottles while they teased Tup. Kix and Rex were chatting over swirling low ball glasses of whiskey. And to your surprise, Dogma even come, even if he was just clutching a glass of water like a life preserver.

When they finally caught sight of you, you could hear their whoops and hollers over the music.

“Hey!” “There she is!” “Wooooo, (Y/N)!”

Amongst other greetings were chorused as you were pulled into the fold. Echo passed you off to Jesse who through an arm around your shoulders, easily pulling you to his side while Hardcase clapped a hand onto your back. Tup simply offered you a kind smile. They were all laughing and it was contagious.

Rex didn’t get up, but he did raise his glass to you with a nod and a smile. Dogma, who looked like he didn’t truly want to be there, at least managed a smile, even if it was a bit forced. You appreciated his presence, nonetheless. Kix slid out of the booth, fingers dipping into a pocket on his belt and producing a medium sized, clear gel capped pill before planing it in your hand. You took it, a little hesitantly, but looked up at him in confusion.

“It’s a hydration supplement. You’re gonna wanna take that if you want to function tomorrow.” He promised with a wink, offering the untouched glass of water. You followed his instructions and then the party really started.

While Kix had been being the responsible one, Hardcase had snuck off and had returning with a tray of nine shots that glowed a not-so-subtle neon blue. Because that’s what you should do- drink things that glow.

After placing them on the table, everyone took one of the tiny glasses (or in Dogma’s case was bullied into taking one), and looked to Rex expectantly.

“Well, Captain, aren’t you going to give a toast?” Fives chided, holding his shot up. Rex rose an eye brow, but mirrored the action.

“Alright. We’re very lucky to celebrate together tonight and even luckier to call (Y/N) our friend. Let’s drink to the 501st, to the Republic, and to many more years for (Y/N).” He announced very seriously and sincerely, locking eyes with you. It was almost enough to make you misty eyed- had Hardcase not immediately yelled.

“Hell yeah, I’ll drink to that! To (Y/N)!!” He shouted, and before you could changed your mind to raised the glass to your friends and threw it back. Surprisingly, the glowing liquor was sweet, a flavor you couldn’t quite place, but it did leave a burning trail down your throat. You coughed, at first, before shivering when the alcohol settled into your belly. The boys laughed at your expression.

“Well, if you’re not gonna drink it,” Hardcase shrugged, plucking the tiny glass out of Dogma’s hand and putting it in yours, “the birthday girl should.”

It was going to be a night.

And it was.

There were a couple of shots thrust into your hands periodically through the night that sustained the bubbly warmth moving through you blood. Between the shots, Fives and Echo did a good job of convincing random soldiers to buy you drinks. There was dancing and laughter, enough to last a lifetime.

Rex was the first to leave, handing you a glass of water and reminding you to pace yourself before looking sternly at Fives and Echo, “You two makes sure she gets home safe, that’s an order.”

Dogma was next, slipping out shortly after Rex. But not before you convinced to dance with you. It was stiff and awkward, but you managed to get him to laugh before the song was up. After Hardcase loudly boo-ed him for ‘wussing’ out, he wished you a happy Origin Day and reminded you of the call time for the next day.

That was when Jesse delivered you a fruity little umbrella drink, and coincidentally that was when night became a little fuzzy.

Fives, Echo, Jesse, Hardcase, Tup, and Kix took turns dancing with you, trading you around. Jesse even scared some shiny off when they tried to ease into your dance, getting a little too handsy for his taste. At one point, Jesse and Hardcase had you hoisted onto their shoulders as Tup waited ready to catch you if they dropped you. Before you knew it, the bartender was calling last call.

Then there were flashes of the journey home. Stumbling out of 79’s with the rest of the late night crowd, not being able to flag a taxi big enough for seven, deciding to walk, getting distracted by greasy street food, tripping over your own feet bad enough that Kix had to patch up your scraped up knees, and winding up at the Clone barracks being carried on Echo’s back, fast asleep. The only thing you remembered from the barracks was passing a group of clones in black and red armor, and one of them muttering, ‘regs...’ in disdain. By the time they realized they forgot to take you home, they were too tired to remedy it.

And that’s how you woke up in Hardcase’s bunk, with the said solider crashing on top of Tup in the bunk below you. Fives and Echo were slumped against each other, sitting on the floor. Kix was the only one where he was supposed to be and he was sleeping very soundly. Jesse was nowhere to be found.

None of you made it to call on time.

[traitor-boyfriend]

traitor-boyfriend, i want to know ALL your thoughts on stan and kyle in the return of covid special!!! :3

so i just finished taking down my notes after a rewatch so i'm going to jot them all down here; sorry everyone because this is about to be a long, long post lol. 

i think the best way to break this down will be to first address the main character dynamics at play and then end off with my more minor thoughts on sporadic details. fair warning, this will probably be one of my longest write-ups ever so i’ll be leaving everything under a read-more. sorry it took several days but feel free to let me know what all of you think as well, super interested to discuss it! xx

so, going into this i really wasn’t sure what to expect with stan and kyle but i did enjoy the set-up of them needing to team up on their own in order to facilitate the time travel plot. it felt wacky-adventure-of-the-week and allowed them to ruminate in the more serious moments with some humor as well as gradually show stan and kyle coming to remember what it was like for them to have the other to depend on and just what they can accomplish by working as a team.

i found the scenes with stan and his alexa in the car a.) really funny and b.) a very interesting expansion on my previous hunch that she is meant to be a stand-in wife, and how stan seems to navigate a heterosexual relationship with a woman when conflict arises. the first instance, he is immediately embarrassed by the fact that kyle is there to see him be sized down by his alexa -- he mumbles and puts his head down, seemingly emasculated, before he starts to get a bit of a mouth and talk back. 

and like my previous post, stan definitely treats his alexa this way to fulfill the loneliness of having no real relationships (romantic, platonic, or familial) while also not having to treat her as a person, which he is not capable of doing now, despite the fact that so much of what she has to say was plucked straight from any dysfunctional relationship between an embittered, emotionally damaged man and his neglected wife. he is following a script of how to react that you could see as either stan needing even negative attention for any form of esteem but only in brief bursts before the shame becomes too difficult to overcome his disdain for confrontation (why he says all the right things with no intention of following through, only to end the argument). 

or, doing this as a means to maintain his alexa as a status symbol; purely for the show of having her in passing so that he can convince himself as well as strangers in his every day life that he is a normal, married man  -- that he is someone mature enough to maintain a marriage and average enough that he is, at least, decent enough to be married. it is a base line societal expectation that the vast majority of people will achieve at some point. without this he has nothing of substance to reject his self-consciousness with. 

that might explain in part why he seems embarrassed to admit she’s an alexa to kyle. but i also just love how confused by the entire song-and-dance kyle is. like, as if this is some completely foreign concept to him or if he just is aghast that stan lives this way. and the intensity of his fear when he argues against “gift” alexa by telling her he didn’t do anything wrong and the intense, blind, mechanical rage behind her is hilarious when combined with stan’s immediacy in dictating to kyle what to say to make it stop. 

and the way stan, like a submissive dog, tells her that he is also getting therapy to demonstrate his value as well as keep her from being angry at him for the same reason, just getting right out ahead of it. if i was a scholar i could write ten more pages on all the gender dynamics at play here but i do not possibly have the time to play cultural feminist with south park so let’s move on for now.

i also wanted to mention the scene with stan and kyle talking after the building has burned. that weird, almost throwaway gag of kyle telling stan to remain optimistic, that even he needs a reminder to stay positive -- and then kyle having his alexa set him a reminder to stay optimistic. what is being communicated here? is this kyle trying to humanize himself in a way to stan, showing him that he knows he isn’t infallible albeit in an almost more dehumanized, bizarre way? is it kyle trying to show appreciation for stan of some sort by utilizing his alexa so he doesn’t feel bad about the fact she’s there? is it a comment on the way technology has invaded even the maintenance of human emotion in mechanical detachment? you be the judge.

one criticism i do have is that while we spent a lot of time across both specials within the internal world of both stan and cartman, there was virtually none of that with kyle. in post covid the closest we got is when kyle is in the bathroom praying but it is a relatively short moment. there was not any real scene that showed kyle alone in contemplation or reflecting on his inner struggles with the pandemic and its fallout. though, the lack of dialogue, even internal monologue, could be seen as a comment in the ways kyle really, really struggles articulating his emotions (feels like straw grasping but i’m allowing it). which i think is a shame, considering kyle acts as the crux for the entire story of both stan and cartman.

next, this special really sort of consecrates just what an evil person randy is. for several seasons now, maybe from near 16-17 onward, there has been sort of a change of hands when it comes to randy and cartman as the two big characters of the series and that they seem to go back and forth between who is merely after get-rich-quick wish fulfillment goofy plots and who is the sociopath with no impulse control. but where cartman takes his out on everyone around him randy is mostly content to terrorizing his family, lol. 

i liked the direct blade runner parody with the “tears in rain” speech after several allusions to it (the geisha advertisement, the neon cityscape rain scene, etc.), and i think a serious scene between randy and stan was much needed even if it doesn’t amount to much in terms of mending their relationship. glad that tegridy didn’t actually have some kind of ethereal power after all. randy wins the world’s worst dad mug.

butters becoming a serial nft ponzi scheme salesman was great. also loved that butters was simply grounded for too long and it made him completely unhinged, i saw a lot of speculation this was the case on reddit and was a lot more rewarding than to simply making butters incapacitated by pure insanity. about half of the nft lingo flew over my head, i think i mostly understand what nfts are but i find the entire bandwagon of cryptocurrency not just a waste of time and energy but a signal of economic collapse to come, but that’s me. and do also love that butters became both predator and prey -- dangerous to everyone else except for cartman. 

and onto cartman. oh god.

there is no doubt a breadth of essays being written on how this demonstrates that cartman is a character capable of real change, real rehabilitation, what a tragedy his fate is in the corrected future etc. this is not going to be one of those. if you have followed me for an extended period of time i have made my thoughts on cartman as a character pretty clear and i am interpreting the events of both specials much differently than people of this mindset. in short, i find cartman to be an irredeemable character and that is what is so, so interesting to me about him. i have no interest in imagining what rehabilitation looks like for someone like cartman; his magnetism as a character, for me, is in how devious, conniving, immoral, and deeply disturbed he is. it is precisely what makes him fascinating. 

i don’t like or want most villains to have some wild overhaul and go from Was Bad to Now Good and doing this to cartman robs him of a particular skill set, charm, and complexity. but to answer the question everyone seems to be asking -- was cartman becoming a rabbi with a loving wife and three children all or ruse or a genuine change of heart? -- i firmly believe it’s the former. here’s why:

i appreciate that matt and trey did not go the straight route of making it a clear-cut con job at any point. they let the pot slowly come to a boil and kept it boiling the whole way through. more than likely this is what they want, to leave it ambiguous and a matter of personal interpretation as to whether or not you believe cartman. to be clear i am not here to criticize interpreting this as a genuine change in personality, i understand the case to made for thinking as such, but i disagree in a lot of fundamental ways. clear signals to me that formed my opinion that it is, in part, an act:

-- right off the bat when yentl is introduced in pt 1, she gives kyle a look and speaks of him with... apprehension? it’s clear that she has already formed some idea of who kyle is via cartman and it is not flattering, cartman’s tone in reply speaks to this as well. throughout both specials when the cartman family talks about kyle it is with almost an inherent, everpresent disain. yentl literally at the end laments how much cartman, in all his over-the-top aggression and deviance, is acting like her preconception of kyle -- implying kyle is the true monster and cartman is falling victim to his machinations. 

cartman’s daughter says that she does not want to even be *alive* if it means being like kyle which causes cartman to remark how much he loves her, just like when she informs him in the attic that she is keeping a diary, like anne frank, of all the things “uncle kyle” is doing to oppress them. cartman is so moved by the ways in which his daughter -- in all earnestness -- believes that kyle is so profoundly evil in a way that mythologizes him in near biblical fashion like it were any other fact of life.

never mind that all his children remark that they are driven crazy by kyle and can’t stand to be in his presence without becoming infuriated, almost in a manner to suggest cartman’s intense gratification from hating kyle is genetic. cartman is obviously responsible for this. and that they address him as “uncle kyle” when kyle has obviously not seen cartman at all since they were no longer friends? was not aware that he was a.) jewish b.) married and c.) a father? what exactly is to be gained from making his children believe kyle is an “uncle” to them even merely as an honorific? i wonder if it’s at all meant in reference to kyle being dubbed “uncle kyle” as well during the whole wieners out debacle.

-- the loud, obnoxious sex that is not only an incredibly rude thing to do in someone’s home as a guest, the religious dirty talk seems an easy manner to get under kyle’s skin both as an insult to his faith as well as taunting him with the fact he is unmarried and alone, living in his parent’s home. that it happens immediately after kyle tells him to stop and that he is unwelcome in the morning is plain inconsideration.

-- speaking of this scene, kyle also reveals to yentl the events of tonsil trouble, and she seems very troubled to be hearing this for the first time from kyle, someone she already is ambivalent if not harboring some negative feeling toward. cartman has become the master of DARVO, attacks kyle to present him as the person who is inhospitable and unreasonable and makes yentl and his children the real victims. cartman evidently has not disclosed significant portions, most likely most, of his worst past deeds to his wife. cartman lies by omission. 

-- what was on my mind for so long while formulating these connections was the episode fishsticks when cartman tries to take credit for jimmy’s joke -- and what kyle tells him in the bathroom when cartman tries to pitch him on the idea that he is, truly, being slighted for the joke’s credit:

“I believe that you believe you helped write that joke. That's how people like you work! Your ego is so out of whack that it will do whatever it can to protect itself.”

time and time again cartman has demonstrated himself to be a dangerous narcissist suffering delusions of grandeur -- he objectively does not live in reality. this aids cartman so well in his being a social chameleon; he has so little true personality that he is able to embody new personas and belief systems effortlessly by adopting his perception of them for himself. truly i think this is just another example of this.

-- cartman escalates with the ease of a seasoned cult leader. that he is able to rope in scott, butters, and clyde like dominos into f.a.t.t. while utilizing specific manipulation technics for them all; appealing to scott on the basis this is an organization with a legitimate reason to oppose the ethics of time travel with a flowery speech about morality, butters with physical violence, and clyde by tapping into his alienation within the token/wendy/craig team and connecting with him as “a fucking individual” to make him feel special. 

and to jump immediately to the solution of killing kyle? why does he need to travel back in time and kill kyle, why not simply kill him now? why not kill stan as well -- he also wants to perfect time travel. the idea to go back in time wasn’t even kyle’s idea. why not kill kenny in the past? after all, he’s the one who invents time travel. or to simply destroy the machine? no, immediately the only solution is to kill kyle.

-- ultimately, i was sold on this the second i saw the scene where kyle and cartman fight in the church. when cartman shouts: 

“what would a real jewish person do to save his family? oh you wouldn’t know, because you don’t fucking have one!”

this was not said just as a heat-of-the-moment insult; this was said with the explicit purpose to hurt kyle in the most profound way possible. kyle as a character is proud and very defensive of his faith, this is not the first time that he suspects cartman is doing an about-face regarding judaism to get a rise out of him. 

family is also, of the main four, the most important to kyle and it’s really not even close, and is also directly intertwined with kyle’s jewishness. so much of kyle’s in-series code of ethics are tied into his family’s faith and the teachings of his parents, and kyle has a lot of regard for his parents. he will come to his mother’s defense immediately when she is derided in public and has sided with her even when she is in the wrong at times for fear, loyalty, and i imagine often both. 

kyle in early seasons is shown to look up to his father -- he respects him and takes what he tells kyle at face value as the truth, he turns to his father for guidance and help. s20 saw that flipped entirely on its heel in a way that kyle has not really had to confront since BLU, and you see him struggle in the later episodes with reconciling the deterioration of his family by their own doing with the love and lessons he has taken from family. and we know how deeply kyle care for ike and the seriousness he takes his role as an older brother. 

with those two sentences cartman effectively pours salt on the most egregious wound kyle is bearing in this future, that wound being an evident lapse of faith and little connection to his family and no family of his own. and this is backed up by the fact kyle strikes him first; as far as i can recall when a spat between cartman and kyle comes to blows cartman is almost always the one to strike first (or, at least instigates the fight first) -- kyle typically strikes back in defense. but to be in kyle’s position, watching his enemy and tormentor not only doing well, but to be living what seems to be kyle’s idealized vision of his own future, almost as if cartman has stolen it from kyle personally, and to be insulted in that way pushes him to the edge and his rage is palpable.  

the real grift, in my opinion, is not that cartman is doing all this consciously with the express purpose of laughing at the end and saying “ha ha got you.” i think cartman’s fixation with kyle is more than strong enough that he would be extremely gratified to play this role if only for this to be a performance of his hatred of kyle -- even if no one knows it but him, and even if he only ‘knows’ it in a vague, subconscious sense. i’m still having trouble pinning my thoughts down on this aspect exactly so i may revisit this in the future.  

onward, i saw a lot of comments regarding disappointment re: what this special and its version of the future has to say about the main four and their friendship -- kenny as a mostly ancillary plot device and cartman's new future at the end, that the four of them are not Real True Friends, only stan and kyle. but like, yeah! to me, that has always been the essence of their group -- in that relationship with stan and kyle, and that neither of them are close to kenny or cartman in the way they are with each other, has always been the sort of unbroken wheel that keeps the group spinning. i believe one of the first posts i ever made on this blog said something to this effect. 

kenny's function in the group has always been extraneous due to his lack of speaking, constant dying in early seasons as a gag, and his "loner" status. there has been some pretty overt comments by kenny as a character that suggest that on some level he's not only aware of this but has no issue with it. and cartman is, well, cartman.

the new futures: love them. stan being visually thinner, in bright spirits, and presumably a cosmonaut of some sort, with spacex was it? liked it. there’s something about stan as a civil servant in some capacity that has always made a lot of sense to me. like that kenny’s still gets to play scientist but in a goofier way. butters finding purpose in service work also made sense to me, and glad to see he isn’t some extremely online narc nft dork anymore. darwin being gone and stan and wendy spending new year’s together was sweet regardless of whether you believe it romantic or platonic, though i prefer the latter. i love stan and wendy being close friends. 

also no i don’t feel bad cartman ends up a homeless drunk. i laughed. tssk and wag your finger at me if you must; i also did not feel it was out of character because cartman simply has an equal capacity for megalomania as he does self-destruction. what he ever would “truly” become is the world’s greatest coin toss. 

but whereas cartman in the future had a loving family and was well-respected, and stan was the opposite, it seems not terribly much changes for kyle in the ‘corrected’ future; no appearance changes, no apparent changes in his occupation, no knowing if he is still living in his parent's old home etc. the only tangible difference we can see in this new future is that he maintains a close relationship to stan, and he has children. which genuinely, like, touched my heart. 

whereas stan and cartman experience profound, dramatic changes to their lives, kyle’s wants are simple. that stan remaining his best friend all those years makes a world of difference in his happiness as an adult is so endearing, and i think is a subtle way of revealing just how much kyle cares for stan in a way we don’t get to see spelled out in as obvious a way as stan’s feelings for kyle in-series. it was such a nice moment to see kyle run to stan and embrace him. i’m getting the warm fuzzies just thinking about it.

and that he has kids! kyle having a strong inner desire to be a father also made a of sense to me, tying into what i’ve previously written about kyle’s attitude toward family. and that the kids run to stan and call him uncle, and he calls them ragamuffins and gives them a big hug like the dumb hero he is. ugh. i loved it. chicken soup for the soul.

found it interesting that they stop just short of implying either that kyle is married, or that his wife very well could be yentl. his children are dressed in somewhat similar blue clothing, cartman has an elder daughter and younger son while kyle has an elder son and younger daughter, and the baby cartman had that seems almost like a baser manifestation of cartman's 'true' self is absent in kyle's future (i.e. no id baby, if you subscribe to freudian analysis). the boys in both families wear yarmulkes despite the fact that kyle does not, unlike his own father -- though this could just be meant to serve as a visual signifier to the audience that kyle has rekindled some sense of religious dedication in the new future. 

but why not show yentl, or whomever, at least include a throwaway line of how kyle is married if this is the intended inference? would it not be a full circle comeuppance moment for us to see kyle married to cartman's wife after seeing what becomes of cartman, solidifying yentl's role as the closest tool that has ever facilitated rehabilitation for cartman? 

this strikes me as intentional but the practical purpose i’m not sure, but as fans we can speculate till the cows come home what this means regarding kyle and sexuality, women, and family. that kyle’s familial fulfilment is achieved through children, but not necessarily through marriage or a wife, there’s a looot of interesting speculation to be made as to how this relates to kyle’s spares romantic trysts in the show. but that is a can of worms for another day.

there are a lot of other thoughts i have on the special that i think i’ll save for another post, or answer if this sparks any questions -- i’ve rambled far too long for now on this given it’s been the better part of a week of me working on this on and off. anyways! that’s all i have to say about return of covid right now and unfortunately i will probably have more to say later lol.

[swampgallows]

like for how many people bitch about warcraft’s writing, im also left just absolutely stunned at how poor the reading and analytical comprehension is for its fanbase. don’t get me wrong, wow’s writing definitely has its faults and has been derivative from its very inception, but by the same token its fans seem unable to comprehend any story beat that isnt pointed out in neon letters and shoved in their faces with full black and white stark rigidity. certainly the retcons are partially to blame for this, but even in isolated, fully encapsulated questlines and scenarios i see the fanbase nitpicking and bellowing that it doesn’t make sense while the very obvious themes and theses sail right over their heads.

warcraft is most definitely convoluted, but it’s not complex. it is rare that there is ever a moment in warcraft where the hero and villain are not clearly labeled, even if their motivations are obscured. the very few parts of wow that are left open-ended are generally due to neglect (or lack of time) rather than as moral quandaries with no definitive answer; the closest i’ve seen to any kind of ongoing debate is thrall and garrosh’s final mak’gora (and im not trying to be biased as a garrosh fan; this is an argument that has been raging since WoD and crops up again and again). comparative to that is the culling of stratholme, which has incensed (no pun intended) warcraft fans since the early 00s. never again will warcraft have a character as tragic but humble as arthas menethil, so carefully defined by his descent to corruption yet so strongly established initially as “our hero” that we are sympathetic to the burden of his crown. beyond that, wow’s story is pretty pedestrian, yet so much of what ive seen of the fanbase seems to struggle with basic literary devices or even the general concept of conflict. they want to plumb the potential emotional depths of millennia-old civilizations of elves and trolls, yet somehow cannot understand how faction conflict marred by centuries of bloodshed isn’t solved in a decade. they want more discussions of nuanced, delicate topics like systemic oppression, abuse, and mental illness, yet pan any sort of inclusion as in bad faith (especially if they fail to reflect an individual fan’s particular expectations or desires, rather than focus on the perspective being presented, e.g. celebration of saurfang’s “hinted at” PTSD in WotLK, yet disdain toward saurfang’s textbook symptoms shared by many real life veterans being depicted in fully rendered cinematics). 

i dont know if it’s because people hit “accept quest” and expect anything of importance to be acted out with a song and dance, or if they genuinely just don’t pay attention. audiences complained about having to read quest text, so more in-game npc dialogue was added. they complained about having to “sit through RP”, so once the technology was available, in-game cutscenes were added. then there were complaints that the outdated technology broke the immersion, so the models were reworked and cutscenes became pre-rendered. then there were complaints that our characters didn’t feel like they were part of the story enough, so even more technology was developed to partially pre-render cutscenes while also live-incorporating our character. all of these things were pioneered by world of warcraft. but then people skip the cutscenes, or watch them out of context on youtube, or try to piece it together months ahead of time from datamining, and then complain about holes in the story, or shitty writing, or get preemptively upset over pure speculation or even alpha/scrapped content. 

i have always been of the opinion that this is akin to eating a candy wrapper full of crumbs and then complaining it was bland, tasteless, and lacked substance. they complain about the story but do not actually engage with the story as it was intended: within the game. there are legitimate complaints about how much of warcraft’s story has been relegated to ancillary materials like books and comics, but this issue in my opinion has been rectified as far back as warlords of draenor at the very least. all supplemental media became just that—supplemental—but then the audiences complain that these books, comics, animated shorts, radio dramas, etc. “don’t tell any of the main story”. well, which is it? either major plot points should be contained in these materials so that there is “a reason” to engage with them, or they should remain supplemental, only for world and character building. 

part of wow’s handicap is in being continually built upon what is now an artifact, that it does not have the technological capability to keep pace with games and demands of 2022. but graphic-light text-based games continue to be popular (and made!) in the current year, so i feel that the vehicle of the storytelling is only partially to blame. ultimately, i am just mystified by how such a large (or at least loud) portion of the “fandom” seems to be comprised of people who do not actually engage with (or at least comprehend) any of its source material, and on top of everything else, actively hate the franchise. i have no idea what these people are holding out for or why they are even here, but it is really exhausting to be around people who are committed to misinterpreting or otherwise incapable of interpreting a pulpy and fairly reductive fantasy game. 

[tech-knowing-hillbilly]

The hillbilly: Music and life in Appalachia

Day 1

When Tr’thl’ia first learned that the ship would be getting humans from a region on Earth that the humans called “Appalachia”, xe were confused. They had only ever met humans that came from cities near coasts, and had heard of what those humans referred to as “Hillbillies” in almost a derogatory tone. xe took it upon xemself to learn about what kind of humans would be joining xem. As xe read, xey started to understand why other humans had been critical of those from that area. Xe read about how that are hadn’t really been very populous due to the terrain, and also learned that because of the lack of infrastructure in that area, many humans that lived there did not get a lot of education due to many families being in poverty, mainly due to the only jobs in those areas being in the coal mines or other jobs that depended on coal. Xe read about events such as the Coal Wars, specifically about the Battle of Blair Mountain, which made xem shudder with sorrow for the lives that were lost. Xe also read about families such as the Hatfield's and McCoy's, which reinforced the stereotype of humans from there being violent and uneducated. Xe resigned xemself to dealing with constant fights and dealing with whomever started each one.

Day 2

When John McKannon walked onboard the G.U.R.V(Galactic Union Research Vessel) Frailing with the others from the mountains, he was surprised to see Security Officer Tr’thl’ia standing there, waiting with what looked like dread and disdain.

“Hello, my name is-” 

“I know who you are, Hillbilly.” Tr’thl’ia stated.” Just know this about my ship. I will not tolerate violence on this ship. If any of you or your friends cause trouble onboard, you will be shot out the airlock mid warp. do you understand?”

“Yes Xir,” John simply replied. What in the absolute fuck was xer problem?

Day 3

The day went, much to xis suprise, without physical incident. There was an incident around the second meal of the day that involved one of the hillbillies, Amos, and one of the other humans, Mike, from a place called “Florida”, in which Mike did some sort of odd whooping noise with their hand over their mouth and bounced around, which xe would later learn is a type of “racial” slur against those of First Nations descent. This caused Amos to start charging toward Mike before being stopped by John. Tr’thl’ia was confused by this, as the research that xe did before hand showed by all accounts that John shouldn’t have stopped Amos and instead should have even joined into the fight.

In the evening, or what could be considered evening on the ship, Tr’thl’ia was making xis rounds when xe heard a sound that xe had never heard before. It was rythmic, strumming sound along with beats that xe could not place, and it seemed to be coming from the rec area of the Hillbillies( they were given their own area as the captain was advised to by Tr’thl’ia). As xe drew closer xe could start to make out words:

My old mistress promised me                                                                                  When she died she’d set me free/                                                                           Lived so long her head went bald,                                                                           I don’t believe she gon’ die at all!                                      

more of the strumming and thudding sounds.

You take yours, and I’ll take mine,                                                                           We’ll go fishing in the summer time!/                                                                       You get a line, and I’ll get a pole,                                                                            and We’ll run down to the fishin’ hole!

Xe was at the threshold of the doorway to their rec room, and saw something that was suprising to xem. All of the hillbillies, save John and Amos were surrounding those two. John was strumming an object in their hands that looked like a disk with a stick on it, and Amos looked to be stomping. Xe let an audible gasp that drew the attention of everyone in the room.

“Are you alright?” John asked.

Yes, I w-was just investigating the source of the noise that I had heard. What were you doing with that object to get that sound?” Tr’thl’ia asked in amazement.

“This? this is a banjo, which is an instrument from Earth that was based on an instrument from Africa. And the noise that you heard is an old tune called ‘Hook and Line’. It’s a song that’s been played in our mountains for years.”John replied.

And those thuds that I heard?”

“That is a type of dance known as ‘Buck Dancing’. It is a dance that is similar to tap dancing , but where tap dancing is more involved with the front of the foot, buck dancing uses the whole of it to act almost as a set of drums for mountain bluegrass.” Amos answered.

“Ah, so is it a form of war chant, or ritual?” Asked tr’thl’ia.

“It is neither, it is a form of entertainment that is popular in the Appalachians due to it being very cheap, and it is good for social bonding.” 

“So that explains why you are all around. But why did Mike make that odd sound towards you, and why did that upset you?”

Amos turned red at that question, looking like he was about to cry , and John cut in for him, speaking in a soft, but firm tone. “He did it because he is a racist piece of shit, that’s why. Amos is Native American. His people where some of the first in the region, and were deeply persecuted back in the day for both their culture and skin color. Many were made to leave the area in an event known as the Trail of Tears. But some of those people did not wish to go on the Trail of Tears, and instead retreated deep into the mountains, for safety. Even still, many people nowadays hold deep prejudices against his people, and others like them. That’s why many of his people hid in those mountains, and joined communities of those that hid there as well for various reasons.”

“I understand now why you had a reaction like that, but why don’t other humans like people from your area? You seem like people that are very accepting from what you have told me.” Tr’thl’ia questioned.

“Because they are not as accepting as they seem. They came from privileged homes, homes with food on the table, parents who were home all the time to be able to answer questions, to help them learned. They are jealous that they do not have the drive to be able to get out of tough situations, like we do. Many of those you see here among us are from families that are broken and poor, with one or both parents gone at any given time. Many of us had days where we wouldn’t eat, because we wanted our younger siblings to be able to have a meal. Hell, many of us are working here TO support our families back home, to fight to keep food on the table. We fight a lot, as you probably have read, because we have to, because we have no other choice but to fight over resources as simple as food. That fighting, brings us together, the struggle brings people in our communities together, as we have all shared that struggle at least once.” John picks up his water glass and takes a sip. “We all here had to work to get out of those hills, for if we didn’t nobody would help us get out. We would all be dead within twenty years.”

Tr’thl’ia listened to the words that John was saying, and really thought them over and began to feel a bit of remorse for the way xe had greeted them earlier.

“I’m sorry,” Tr’thl’ia said softly, “ for the way I greeted you when you came aboard. I was biased by what the other humans had said about your people, and what they would be like, without giving me context as to why you may have to be that way. I didn’t realize that you would have to struggle that much to get out of that area, I thought that you would have all of the resources that you need to do what ever you wanted to do for a job, and that it was your own fault for not leaving.”

John cracked a warm smile at that. “You have no need to apologize for that. Many people have that same reaction to us. What matters is that you have the balls to accept that you were in the wrong and have tried to make some sort of amends. Now, where were we?”

You take hook, I’ll take line,                                                                                     We’ll go fishin’ in the summer time!

(If you made it this far down the story, Thank you! This is my first post, so it is probably a bit rough, but I hope you enjoyed it. Name of the tune mentioned in the story is ‘Hook and Line’ and if you want a good example of both the song and Buck Dancing, check out  Clifton Hicks - Hook and Line (dance accompaniment)! He is very talented and also has many videos on the history of the banjo and the afro-carribean roots of it. He also does lessons on older styles of playing such as Overhand(Frailing, clawhammer) and two finger picking. Thanks again for reading and I hope you enjoy!)

[thebigbadbatswife]

Dancing With Our Hands Tied

Summary -  Y/N has always felt out of place at these big events, and the comments from Gotham’s high society certainly don’t help. Overhearing these comments himself, Bruce decides to silence them for good.

Warnings - None. 

[A/N] - This was inspired by the song “Dancing With Our Hands Tied” by Taylor Swift

Word Count - 1.4k

After you had finished doing your hair and makeup, you stepped out of the en-suite and took a moment to look at yourself in the full length mirror in the bedroom. You wore a midnight blue evening gown, a diamond necklace hung from your neck and your hair was styled in an updo . The necklace matched the earrings and the bracelet you wore. The jewellery and the dress had all been gifts from Bruce.

You had told him near the start of your relationship that he didn’t need to spend ridiculous amounts of money on you. That wasn’t why you were going out with him. According to him that hadn’t even entered his head. He had known you for too many years before you two had started dating for it to ever be a thought. That the money he spent on you would be because he wanted to spend it on you. He wanted to spoil you with gifts and, honestly, you loved that he spoiled you.

But, of course, the gifts he bought you always seemed to somehow reach the ears of the rest of Gotham’s High Society. And you already knew exactly how they thought about you. They weren’t quiet about it after all. Every time your back was turned and they thought you couldn’t hear them, they voiced their opinions on you and you heard it all. Before you could dwell on it any longer, there was a knock at the bedroom door.

“Come in.”

“Just wanted to…” Bruce trailed off as you turned around and faced him. “Wow. You look absolutely beautiful,” he said with a smile as he walked over to you.

You blushed at his compliment and returned his smile. “Thank you. My boyfriend has great taste.”

Bruce chuckled. As his hands found their way to your waist, your arms wrapped around his neck. “Indeed I do.” He leaned down and kissed you. He kept the kiss light so he didn’t ruin your lipstick. “Thank you for coming with me tonight. I know you don’t want to,” he said after ending the kiss.

“As long as I get to spend the night with my man, I’m perfectly happy,” you replied before bringing him down for another kiss.

“We’re going to be late,” he mumbled against your lips.  

“When have we ever been on time?” you asked, earning another chuckle from him. If there was one thing you two were good at, it was showing up fashionably late.

The second you and Bruce entered the venue, the entire party started to revolve around the both of you. As always everyone wanted to be buddies with Bruce Wayne and they always wanted to know more about the woman who had managed to “tame” the wild playboy. Every time you heard that description of him you were tempted to roll your eyes. The people in these beautiful rooms had no idea just how far off the mark they were, and they never would.

Bruce did his best to stay by your side the entire time, but it wasn’t long before he was whisked away by a group of men who wished to discuss business, and you were left with the snakes they called their wives and girlfriends.

They started off by “complimenting” your dress and jewellery. Sure the words they said were nice, but you could hear the venom dripping in each one and see the poorly hidden disdain in their eyes. It was the usual “Oh my God, I love your dress!” and “Another gift from Bruce? He sure does spoil you!”. Then they quickly changed subject and began picking apart the outfits of the other women in the room. It took every ounce of willpower you had not to cause a scene and call them out on their bullshit.

Bruce would certainly understand if you did, but the press and the public would have a field day with it. He would be left to deal with the fallout and you simply couldn’t do that to him. He already had so much to deal with, especially with his nighttime “job”. So instead you quickly excused yourself and made a beeline for the bar. You had a feeling you were going to need a strong drink, or two, to get through the rest of the evening.

As you walked away, you knew they were already talking about you. Picking apart your outfit and your relationship with Bruce. Talking about how you were just another one of his “flings” and it wouldn’t be long before he got rid of you too.

The bartender had just served you your drink and you had barely taken a sip before you felt a familiar and comforting hand come to rest on your waist. You looked over your shoulder to see your boyfriend, there was concern in his blue eyes.

“Are you okay?” You didn’t need to be the World’s Greatest Detective to know why he was asking. Knowing Bruce the way you did, you were sure he’d either read your body language or the lips of the women you’d practically run from. Before you could answer though, he continued. “And please don’t lie to me. I overheard what they said.”

You sighed and took a sip from your glass before replying. “I’m just… I’m sick and tired of it, you know?”

“Which means this has been going on for a while. So either I should’ve noticed far sooner or you should’ve told me. Why didn’t you tell me?” Bruce asked, his voice gentle.

“You’ve already got so much on your plate, Bruce,” you replied, setting the glass down and turned around to face him properly. “I didn’t want to burden you further.”

“Y/N, baby, you could never burden me. Ever,” he said, his voice and expression serious. He then took your hand in his and began to lead you away from the bar. “Come with me.”

“Please tell me this is the part of the night where you whisk me away back to the manor.”

Bruce chuckled. “Not quite yet, but soon. I promise.”

Before you could think of a response, you quickly realised he was leading you toward the dance floor, where a few couples were already dancing to the slow song being played. What the fuck was he thinking? There you’d been concerned about causing a scene and ending up on the front page and here Bruce was, getting ready to do exactly that. Even with that in mind, you continued to let him lead you. You trusted him and, honestly, you were curious as to what exactly he had in mind.

Bruce swept you onto the dance floor, he readjusted your hands slightly and his other hand settled on your waist, and he pulled you close. As you two began to move you could feel the eyes of practically everyone on you, but you ignored them. You let them fade into the background as you kept your eyes focused on him. As the two of you moved across the dance floor, the way he held you and the look in his eyes took you back to the first time you’d danced.

As you danced, Bruce smiled that small genuine smile he always saved for you. A smile that you returned. Briefly your eyes moved away from him and to where the women were before quickly returning your attention to Bruce. ‘They don’t matter,’ you reminded yourself. ‘They’re not important.’

In that same moment Bruce captured your lips with his in a kiss. It wasn’t the usual light and quick kiss that you always shared while in public, but instead it was deep and passionate. Well if you weren’t going to end up on the front page before, you certainly were going to now. You kissed him back just as passionately. There was no tongue though. Yes, the two of you were bold, but you weren’t that bold.

As you kissed, you heard the smalls gasps that rippled through the people watching you and Bruce. You could easily imagine the looks of shock on their faces. Not once in the years since he had finally returned to Gotham had he been seen kissing any of his dates like this. His statement by doing it now, doing it here, in front of all of these people, especially after what he had just overheard what they thought of your relationship, was pretty fucking clear.

When you broke apart neither of you were able to keep the satisfied grins from your faces. You continued dancing for a little while after that and shared a couple more kisses as you did. Bruce then leaned in to whisper in your ear. “Now, how about we ditch this place?”

“Yes, please.”

[txemrn]

The Missionary's Daughter

Ch. 1: "Meant to Live"

Need to catch up? Prologue: "It's Over"

Chapter Song Inspo: "Meant to Live" by Switchfoot

Series Song Inspo: "Changed by You" by Between the Trees

Pairings: Drake Walker x OC (Margot Hughes); Liam Rys x Riley Brooks

Series Warning: 🛑 for mature audiences only (🔞); series contains angst, language, NSFW🍋 material; trigger warning: heavy discussion/depiction of drug and alcohol abuse, suicide, religion, mental health; please be advised and exercise discretion

A/N: When I say that this took a village, it would be the understatement of the century! Huuuuuuuuge thank you to all of my amazing sweet writing sisters that encouraged me and helped me pull this together, but especially to @charlotteg234 for brainstorming and mapping this out with me, @kat-tia801 for doing the same, but then having to deal with me incessantly asking, "Does this sound right?" and @chemist-ana FOR GIFITNG ME MY FREAKING AMAZING MOODBOARD! It's SO beautiful, and it literally puts me in the mood to write about my Druggy Drake and Margot! Thank you so, so much, friend! Most of the characters and some of the plot belong to our friends at Pixelberry.

A palpable crackle ignites the sterile air of the staff locker room. To say she was ‘nervous’ is a painfully severe understatement to the jitters that spark from her fingertips. But, rather than dance chaotically like cut wires on pavement, she is lightning, mesmerizing, lighting up the sky with excitement and power.

***

Dressing for another Monday morning at her weekly volunteer job at the prestigious Cordonia Family OB/GYN, Margot Hughes swiftly shimmies a monogrammed ceil blue scrub top down her curves. Pulling her brilliant strands of autumn harvest into a high bun, she slips on her work clogs while nudging her locker closed with her knee.

Before leaving the changing area, she catches her visage in the mirror, the unflattering fluorescent lights casting more shadows onto her worried features. She can feel the rumble of her rapid heartbeat echoing in her ears; her chest constricts tightly as her breathing becomes shallow. Her eyes begin to sting with fear as the whites burn red, threatening with a glaze of tears.

Today is the day her entire life will change; everything she has ever wanted, everything that she has ever worked for will suddenly determine the course of her future in a single moment. Seeing the all-too-familiar terror in her eyes, Margot flutters her eyelids shut. Her fingers nervously trace along a simple chain around her neck until they finally grasp tightly to a dainty sterling silver charm: a cross.

“Take my anxieties, Lord,” she whispers with prayerful conviction, her sparkling blue eyes gracefully opening to look at her necklace. She exhales deeply. “Your will be done.” Margot stares at her reflection for a few more moments, focusing on her breathing to calm her restless heart. “You are strong, Margot. You've got this,” she affirms herself in a hushed tone, a bright smile breaking across her face. “This is your day--" suddenly overwhelmed with peace, a joyous smile paints across her face. Chuckling to herself, she glances upwards: “I'm counting on You.” Taking a deep cleansing breath, she eagerly exits the stillness of her thoughts, and joins the bustle of the morning's clinic appointments. Today is her day.

***

Halos of blurred auras bleach his vision as Drake cautiously opens one blood-shot eye. His tongue sticks to the roof of his roughly parched mouth as he massages his pained forehead. Clueless of what day it is--much less what he did last night--he is greeted with a sudden glorious sensation: a supple wet mouth on his hardened morning length.

His body relaxes back onto the dampened, disheveled sheets of his bed; he releases a pleasurable exhale as he blindly reaches for the head behind the lips. He strains to focus his view, but can only make out a foggy shape of a nude woman with long, tousled brunette waves.

It’s her. His love.

Drake smiles; delicately tangling his grip in her strands, he admires how even the afternoon sun catches her beauty perfectly. He quietly smacks his lips. He can still smell her on his stubble; he can still taste her on his tongue.

Had she told Liam? Were they celebrating that they could finally be together?

As she takes in the head of his girth, he arches his back, relaxing his body into her hungry touch. Closing his eyes, he offers a guttural groan deep in his chest as she swirls her tongue around his firm thickness.

“God, you’re incredible, Riley--”

---

Pulling out a pen, Margot reaches across the counter to grab a patient’s clipboard--that is until Iris, the front desk manager grips her long, manicured nails to the other side of the particle wood. “Miss Mary-Margaret,” she leans in conspiratorially, lowering her voice, “do we know anything yet?” Margot chuckles, shaking her head. “Child, you better come find me the moment you know!”

“Only if you promise to start calling me ‘Margot’” the young blonde jests, opening her client’s chart.

“How about I start calling you what we’ll all be calling you in just a few short years: ‘doctor’?” Rosy pink swirls splash across Margot’s face, warming her cheeks to the touch. She bows her head coyly at the mention of her dream becoming a reality. The thought that she will soon find out if a medical career is in her future makes the twenty-one-year-old’s heart leap with unbridled excitement.

For as long as she can remember, Margot has had a strong desire to serve and help other people. Much of that selfless attitude was instilled into her heart by her own parents. They were called to be Christian missionaries when Margot was only eight years old. After much planning, church fund-raising, and prayer, Roy and Mary Hughes left their comfortable home of Lafayette, Louisiana, and settled in the small Mediterranean country of Cordonia.

Many of their friends and family were shocked that the church would send them to such a beautiful area of the world. Typically missionaries humble themselves to serve the needy, the homeless, the lonely and the sick. They sacrifice the luxuries of home for the sake of loving humanity. They help people in war-torn countries, third-world countries, countries that don’t have electricity or running water. But, this country?

Cordonia itself is a lavish nation, rich in heritage and traditions. And funds. Thanks to the ideal weather conditions, the fruitful soil produces bountiful harvests and exquisite supplies for fine textiles that remain in high demand throughout the world. The Cordonian government, a monarchy, discovered a new opportunity to expand their wealth in the late 19th century: costly tariffs to international investors. Within the first ten years of increasing the taxes on exports, the national treasury was not only in the black, but their funds had exponentially increased every year. Farms were flourishing as the working class became larger, stronger.

But, the treasury began to dwindle quickly due to the extravagant demands of the royals. For the first time in the country's history, commoners were wealthier than some of the nobility. Disdain from the upper class quickly ensued until finally, in the early 20th century under the rule of William I, a new tax law was implemented to all of Cordonia: anyone involved with international exchange would have to pay into the treasury to handle such business.

Unfortunately, there were no limitations to this new tax law, and many farms floundered, property ownership being seized by the government. Families were uprooted; jobs were lost, and worse, assets were sold for even more money, filling the pockets of the greedy leaders. The people that once had a plethora of goods at their fingertips were now starving and unsheltered. And vengeful. The Cordonians were outraged by the gouging, many of them forming violent riots, banding together with outside influencers in hopes of overthrowing the government.

On the cusp of a civil war, King William I decided to rezone the country, providing a place for the displaced working class to claim safety and sanctuary, a place that would offer shelter, education, and more affordable options for goods. To appease the people even more, he named the project ‘the Core,’ paying homage to their greatest export, the Cordonian Ruby. It was also a way for him to forever express his gratitude for such a fruitful nation: they were the core reason the nation was thriving so richly.

Like many government-assisted programs, it didn’t take long for the cracks to show in the infrastructure. And with funding cuts over the years, the Core began to crumble, striking a sharp contrast from the rest of Cordonia. The Core, now often referred to as ‘the slums’, have become a breeding ground for crime, drugs, and prostitution. It is the blemish of Cordonia, its existence often not acknowledged amongst the elite.

But, according to the Hughes, ‘God saw the need’. They were sent to serve in the slums of Cordonia, starting up several free programs, including a nightly soup kitchen, afterschool programs to keep children out of trouble, and trade classes to help adults out of poverty. The people accepted the help and adapted quickly to the missionaries; but even more importantly, they embraced these Americans as their own, many of them forming important and lasting relationships with the Hughes.

But, still there was something missing, something that burdened the missionary’s oldest daughter: healthcare. Having good health and access to a doctor is still treated as a privilege in Cordonia, and time and time again, the curable were disabled or buried. A change needed to take place. And Margot, although unsure of how, knew she would devote her life in making it happen for the Cordonian people.

As she makes a few notes on her clipboard, an olive-complected arm stealthily reaches around Margot, gracefully grazing her sun-kissed skin before gently placing a cup of piping hot black coffee in front of her. Staring at the hand, she instantly knows who it is. And she titters, playfully rolling her eyes. “Tadd! Another coffee?” She grabs the coffee, twirling on the ball of her foot to face the clinic’s young ultrasound technician. "My tab must be over a hundred euros by now!"

"Oh, don't you worry about that," he chuckles, rocking on his feet. “Plus, I figured with your new gig at Bríki--” he jovially shrugs his shoulders.

“You figured what?” Margot playfully punches his shoulder. “That I could sneak you free coffee?” She gives a mischievous smile, raising an eyebrow. “I don’t think Mr. Pavlis would appreciate me offering free drinks, especially since I haven’t even started yet--”

“That’s right!” Tadd eyes widen. “Today’s the day--!”

“As if I didn’t already have enough to be nervous about today,” Margot’s voice becomes shaky, as she clenches her teeth in a forced smile.

“Hey,” Tadd’s voice turns into an endearing whisper. He shifts his head until his piercing jade eyes meet Margot’s baby blues. “You have nothing to worry about. We both know you did well on that American doctor test--"

"The MCAT," Margot stifles a laugh, rolling her eyes into an appreciative grin.

"Whatever," a crooked smile grows across Tadd's handsome features. "And as far as the coffee shop, you're a fast learner. And a hard worker. Plus, if they see what we all see in you--" he sighs, his gaze never breaking free from hers, "-- they're going to love you."

Margot looks down at her feet, hugging her clipboard tightly to her chest. Feeling her palms begin to sweat, she coyly looks back up at her dear friend. "Thanks, Tadd."

After a few silent moments of staring at each other, Tadd clears his throat. "So, um--" he starts, "have you heard anything yet? About the test?" Tadd changes the subject. Margot shakes her head as she takes a pull from her coffee. "Well, when you do, um, maybe we could, I mean, I thought we could--"

Suddenly an intercom buzzes overhead. "Thaddeus to exam room four. Thaddeus to exam room four."

Tadd furrows his eyebrows, looking to the ceiling before resting a kind half-smile back on Margot. "Duty calls," he nervously sighs as he bounds down the hallway. Halfway down the corridor, he spins around to face Margot. "Hey, um, come find me! Before you leave at noon!" He finger-guns the air before returning to his pursuit.

Margot awkwardly finger-guns him back before smacking her forehead with the palm of her hand. "Seriously, Margot?" she mutters to herself, turning her attention back to the central desk of the clinic; however, she realizes quickly that the attention is all on her.

"When are you two going to make it official, Miss Mary-Margaret?" Iris chokes in the midst of her belly laughs, nodding with other scrub-adorned coworkers.

Biting her bottom lip feeling her heart flutter, Margot straightens out her demeanor, becoming stoic. "I--I don't know what you're talking about--"

"Margot, isn't it obvious?" Chimes in a jolly intake nurse. "That boy loves you--!"

"Who? Tadd?" Margot feigns innocence. She fixes her attention to the chart as she scribbles down more notes. "It's not like that--I mean, we're not, um--" she sighs. "We're just friends--" An instant roar of laughter abrupts from the reception desk, making it impossible for Margot to hide her toothy-smile paired with her scrunched up nose.

"You say that now, baby girl--"

"That's right," chimes in another giggling co-worker, "friends for now!"

An older plump nurse places a tender hand on Margot’s hand, a knowing smile spreading across her face. "Some of the best relationships come from friendships, moró. Give it time. Let the love grow," she winks at Margot.

Margot fidgets with her pen, delicately licking her bottom lip. She then tries to form words with her mouth, but no sound is heard. Her pink cheeks reveal she is flustered. She quickly closes up the chart, pushing loose hairs behind her ear. "Have a good day, ladies."

Hearing the squeals of her coworkers diminishing behind her, Margot quickly escapes into an empty exam room. Closing the door behind her, she leans against it, looking up at the textured ceiling tiles. She can feel the butterflies in her stomach bouncing through to her heart as her legs wiggle with weakness like gelatin.

The idea of 'falling in love' excites Margot, an idea she has dreamed about ever since she saw Baby meet Johnny. But, so far in her young life, she has never experienced it first hand, let alone a romantic hand- hold. Was this love? All she knew for sure was today was not the day to figure it out.

***

As soon as Riley’s name escapes his breathless moans of ecstasy, a searing sharp pain instantly ignites around his hardened girth. And Drake sees red.

"Fuck!" He lets out a guttural roar until no sound comes out of his mouth. He gnashes his teeth, trying to breathe through the agony, but only froths at the corners of his lips. The veins in his neck and his forehead protrude violently as streams of tears roll down his face. Petrified to move, his face turns a deep ruddy color. Before turning violet.

A sudden sensation of relief washes over him as the stabbing sensation fades to throbbing. Drake nervously looks down at his softening cock, relieved to see his member in one piece. "Goddamnit, Brooks," he pants furiously, "you fucking bit me--"

The brunette quickly tosses her curls out of her eyesight right before her fist meets Drake's jaw. "Oh, shit!" The cracking of the joints in his face echoes around the room. Drake starts to gently massage his chin. "You're not Riley--"

She climbs off of his body, standing her naked body in front of him. "No shit, Sherlock!" She slinks her short black spaghetti-strap dress over her dangerous curves before hastily grabbing her clear platform heels and racing out the door. "Fuck you, Drake Walker!"

***

A heartless, cocky laugh pours over the phone speaker. "Shit, Walker. Just--" the baritone voice trails back into a fit of laughter.

"It's not funny, Leo--" Drake warns, accidentally shifting his weight in bed, stirring a soreness to his recent injuries. "Ow!” he sucks air quickly between his gritted teeth, “fuck!" he whimpers to himself, adjusting the cold packs on his genitals.

"But you actually called her a different name, bro. A different name! With her mouth on your salami, your pocket rocket, on your--on your anaconda--" Leo's words fade back into cackles.

"As if you remember every goddamn hook-up’s name--"

"Dude," Leo interrupts, "if she's going to go all hungry, hungry hippo mid-blowie, I'm going to remember her name."

Drake scoffs. "Bullshit--"

"What? I'm serious, bro" Leo's voice becomes sincere. "All of these bitches we meet are looking for one thing--" he pauses dramatically for his wounded friend to finish his sentence; but the silence proves Drake is clueless as to where Leo was going with this. "A connection, Walker!" Leo's voice drips with conviction. "These women don't want to feel like they're disposable, even though--" he chuckles to himself, “let’s be honest: we’re doing them a favor--”

"--’A connection’, Leo" Drake interrupts, urging the conversation back on track.

"Right! ‘A connection," reaffirms Leo, circling back to his point. "Now, okay,” he knowingly titters, “I can’t remember all of these names--”

“Ha! See?” Drake barks.

“--Which is why--” Leo enunciates over Drake, “I use a single pet name. ‘Girl’.”

"'Girl'? That’s your trick? You call them 'girl'?" Drake raises an eyebrow in disbelief.

“Hear me out,” Leo continues. “If you call them something like ‘baby’ or ‘sweetie’, it can be seen as patronizing, that you’re clearly looking to smooth-talk your way into their pants--” Drake rolls his eyes, moving the phone to his other ear “--but now, calling them ‘girl’, I’m showing I want to be a friend, that I just simply want to connect. And then when you’re having your way with her, call her whatever the fuck you want as long as you finish the name with ‘girl’. Good girl. Dirty girl. Naughty girl. Sweet girl. Or in your case, hungry girl--”

Drake clears his throat, stifling a laugh. “--That is the dumbest shit I’ve ever heard--”

“Hey!” Leo interjects. “Who is wearing a bag of frozen peas on his one-eyed trouser snake?”

“Touché,” Drake sighs. “So, where are you right now?”

“With Jason up at his shop.”

“Who?” Drake lets out yawn, looking at his bedside alarm clock.

“Shit, Walker, you really were fucked up last night," Leo sighs. "Jason. You met him last night.” Leo’s voice lowers into a whisper. “He helped you get fucked up last night.”

“Oh! Right, right,” Drake rubs his head, “that was--wow, that shit was--”

“Good, right?” Leo finishes. “Hey, come join us at his shop. We’ve got coffee, and he’s got some new, um, product he’d love to show you--”

“Oh, Leo, I don’t know--” Drake removes the melting bag of vegetables from his lap. Gently lifting up on the waistband of his boxers, carefully inspecting his bruised parts.

“Does Liam have you working today?”

“No, no, it’s not that--” Drake hesitates.

“Oh!” Leo knowingly exclaims. “Does Riley have you working today?” He begins to chuckle. “You might need to let her know that you’re currently indisposed for --”

“Leo--” Drake warns.

“Then what's the hold up?"

Drake glances over at the mirror affixed to his antique dresser, but he doesn't recognize his own reflection. There's an emptiness in eyes, an inexplicable turmoil overcoming the man he once was. How did everything get so complicated? How did he get to such a place that it's better to be absent in life than to live it?

She was just a friend--at least that's what he convinced himself when Riley Brooks first caught his eye. Beautiful. Extremely witty with a fight he had never seen before. When they first kissed, he swore it was a mistake. Hormones. It had been so long since he had touched the delicate petals of a woman's lips.

But, this wasn't just any woman. It was her. And he soon would find himself wrapped up in her bedsheets, wrapped around her finger, wrapped in an awful web of lies.

And, all of his transgressions were against him, his very best friend, the man he regards as closer than a brother, his closest ally and confidant. Normally, Drake would turn to Liam in a heartbeat with any troubles, but this? How could he? How could he talk to Liam about his own devastation when the truth would devastate Liam?

It's been four days since that fateful night of Liam's coronation, four days since the love of Drake's life walked away from him, forcing his hand into harboring secrets from the crowned prince. It's been four days since Drake heard his own voice in his head, four days since he's been sober enough to even think. Even though he deemed the temporary escape necessary, the sudden twinge of discomfort in his groin makes him realize that taking another hit right now is the absolute last thing he needs.

"I think I better stay put," Drake answers, combing his fingers through his disheveled tresses.

"Suit yourself," Leo jovially retorts. "If you need any oxy for your boo-boo, hit me up--Oh, and Drake?"

“Hrmmm?”

"Her name is Whitney."

"What?"

"Jaws? You know, the bitch who chewed on your Moby Dick?" Drake sighs heavily, regretting that he ever told Leo what had happened. "Her name is Whitney."

Drake furrows his eyebrows. "Now, how do you remember her name--?"

"Oh, bro, you don't forget WAP Whitney--oh shit, you probably haven't gotten a good look at your sheets this morning, have you?"

With a grunt, Drake ends the call. “Fuck me,” he mutters under his breath. He carefully gets up, waddling to grab his clothes before heading to the bathroom to get ready for the day.

In the middle of splashing his face with cold, soapy water, Drake's phone rings. Grabbing a hand towel he carefully saunters back to his room, answering the call without hesitation. "Just let it go, Leo--”

"Drake?"

An icy chill shoots down Drake’s spine, freezing him in his steps. He knows that melodic voice anywhere, a voice that reminds him of early morning sunrises and late night silver moonlit paths. “H-hey, Riley,” he stutters, caught off guard. A brief awkward stillness falls over the conversation. “How are you--?”

“I miss you, Drake,” she interrupts.

Drake’s vision suddenly begins to spin as the air in the room becomes stagnant. Stiffening his bottom lip in anger, his breathing quickens as he reaches out carefully to brace himself against the wall.

“Drake?”

“I’m here,” he chokes out. “What do you want, Brooks?” He can hear the tears in her voice, but he wills himself not to care, he wills himself to not even ask.

“Drake, I think I made a mistake--”

“No,” Drake barks out, “no, you can’t do this to me--”

“Drake, please,” Riley sobs, “I’m on my way to the doctor--”

“The doctor?” Drake’s tone suddenly changes. “Are you okay? Is everything with--um, you know--” he slaps his forehead with the palm of his hand, “--okay?”

“Yes--” she sniffles, “--no. I just, I can’t do this alone, Drake. I can’t do this--”

“Riley--” he roughly says her name to grab her attention, “you made your decision: you chose Liam. You want to raise our baby--my baby with him--”

“Don’t you think I want to have this baby with you? That’s all I can even think about Drake,” she takes a moment to calm down her shaking voice. “I love you, Drake. I want a life with you. I want you to be there when this baby is born, when this baby needs his or her father--when this baby needs you--”

“Riley--” Drake exhales with frustration, pinching the bridge of his nose, “--but Liam--”

“I know, Drake. I know--” Riley takes a deep breath, “Can we just talk? In person? Just so we can figure this out? I can come over there--”

“Brooks, I--” Drake stumbles over his words as he runs his fingers over his coarse, overgrown stubble. Of course, he wants her to come over. And to stay. But, has anything changed? Liam just proposed, and she made it clear what her intentions were. But, still, it’s possible she had a change of heart, and this was a second chance he may never get again. He sighs heavily. “Sure. Okay."

After finishing his impromptu conversation with Riley, Drake realizes he needs to make another phone call. He scrolls through his call history, and clicks the green send button.

"Did you change your mind, Evander Holyfield?"

"Funny, Leo," Drake sarcastically responds. "So, yeah, um, what's the address to the shop?"

***

“Does that--does that say what I think it says?” Margot nervously stammers. "I think I saw my score--oh gosh!"

“Here. Let me look--”

Margot quickly covers the computer screen with her hands, "No, Mrs. Iris!” Margot squeals. “I’m not ready--I’m not ready for this!”

“Child, you have been ready for this for months. Now, if you don’t get your hands out of the way--"

"What's with all the commotion?" A few technicians and nurses pile into the room, each giving an endearing rub to Margot’s back. Everyone begins craning their necks to see the computer, covered by Margot's arms. "Is it time? Have they posted the scores?"

"They sure have!" answers Iris before turning to Margot. She tucks several blonde wisps behind Margot’s ear before putting her finger under her chin. "C'mon, baby," she smiles encouragingly, "it's more fun celebrating than worrying."

"I'm--" Margot takes a deep breath, biting back her tears, "--I'm so scared--"

"--and the Lord knew you would be, baby." Iris wrinkles her nose at Margot, her voice becoming stronger. "That's why He called you to be courageous. C'mon."

Margot bites her lip, slowly nodding her head. Feeling the storm brew in her eyes as the weight of the world sits on her chest, she carefully peels back her hands. Her eyes scale the black and white on the screen, but nothing seems to make sense. A burst of silence overwhelms her hearing, time standing perfectly still. Her only company is the beating of her heart.

Take my anxieties...

You have nothing to worry about…

Your will be done…

Be courageous...

Like suddenly breaking through the surface for air, an abrupt roar of cheers fill the room, shaking Margot from her trance. "Our baby girl got a 519!" screams a tearful Iris, pulling Margot from her seat and into a tight embrace. Other coworkers join in, creating a giant group hug.

Margot remains speechless, shocked by her score. She always knew she was an excellent student, studying hard all through school and excelling in her classes. When it came to the MCAT, she was confident she would score better than average, a score of 500. But, to even be noticed by top medical schools, she needed to score in the top 5%, a score 517 or greater.

News swept like wildfire through the clinic, and shortly thereafter, Tadd and some other technicians filed into the breakroom with a decorative chocolate cake and punch in tow. "I knew you could do it!" Tadd cheers victoriously, offering a chaste hug to Margot. "Dr. Hughes," he swipes his hand in the air as if to paint an imaginary portrait. "It has a nice ring to it."

"I still don't understand why you put yourself through all of that," mentions an older phlebotomist. "Cordonia has a medical school right down the road--"

"Because Margot wants to go to one of the best medical schools in the world," interrupts a deeply demanding, yet sincere voice. “To Harvard. Like me.”

"Dr. Ramirez," Margot smiles brightly, jumping up to greet her mentor with a hug.

"That is, you are still looking at my alma mater for medical school--"

"Yes ma'am!" Margot's eyes light up with the thought that her dream of going to Harvard Medical School is becoming her reality. "It would be such an honor to go there, let alone to follow in your footsteps."

Dr. Ramirez pulls Margot in for another tight hug. "My word, Mary-Margaret, 519?" she presses her cheek to Margot's, "I am so proud of you."

"Thank you, Dr. Ramirez," Margot warmly responds, "thank you for taking a chance on me and helping me so much with my studies and research--"

"You know I did that for selfish reasons, right?" The practitioner stifles a smile while Margot squints her eyes with suspicion. "Cordonia needs more female physicians, and more importantly, physicians that will make a difference in its healthcare," she grips tightly to Margot’s hand, "for everyone. I believe you will lead this country in a health care reformation."

"I don't know what to say," Margot clears her throat as she fights back the tears. "I hope I make you proud--"

"You already do." Dr. Ramirez gently touches Margot's cheek lovingly before turning to exit the room.

"Oh!" Margot quickly chases after the obstetrician, “can I talk to you? Privately?” With a nod, Dr. Ramirez leads Margot into a quiet corner. “I know my work-study ends in two weeks--”

“I know. Don’t remind me, Margot--”

“Well, I was wondering,” Margot chews on the side of her mouth, fidgeting with her fingers, “if by any chance I could possibly stay on?”

“Oh, Margot, I wish I could. Unfortunately with budget cuts--”

Margot shakes her head. “No, no, Dr. Ramirez, I meant if I could stay on, shadowing my usual Monday and Thursday mornings, I mean, if that’s alright. Learn more? Keep up my skills?”

“You want to continue volunteering with us?” The doctor gives an inquisitive look. “Don’t you want to get a job to earn money before you move to the states next year?”

“I already got that covered,” Margot assuredly answers. “I just got a job at Bríki, the coffee shop past the square--”

“Oh my gosh,” Dr. Ramirez’s eyes light up. “Does Aleksi still own that place?”

“Mr. Pavlis? Yes! Him and his son run it together, I believe--”

“They have the best coffee,” she energetically smiles, “now I have another reason to stop by.” She kindly places her hand on Margot’s shoulder. “Of course, you can stay on as a volunteer. Whenever you want, however much you want. It is a pleasure to have you around.” With a squeeze of her arm, Dr. Ramirez turns to go to her next appointment, but stops halfway down the hall. “Oh, Margot? My nurse stepped away to make an important phone call. Do you mind escorting my next patient to the exam room?”

Margot dutifully nods with a grin. She twirls around, bounding for the front desk to grab the chart of Dr. Ramirez’s next patient, a new patient. After making a few small notes, Margot opens the door to call her back.

“Brooks? Riley Brooks?”

*****

Tags: (this is my original tag list for this series; if you wanted to be added or removed, please let me know!) @alyssalauren @ao719 @bbrandy2002 @burnsoslow @charlotteg234 @chemist-ana @choiceskatie @forallthatitsworth @gkittylove99 @glaimtruelovealways @kat-tia801 @khoicesbyk @lovingchoices14 @lovelyladyk88 @lucy-268 @mainstreetreader @marshmallowsaremyfavorite @neotericthemis @nestledonthaveone @sfb123 @shannonwrote @shewillreadyou @sweatyrysconnoisseur @taniasethi @tessa-liam @texaskitten30 @thefrenchiemama @thegreentwin @twinkleallnight @yourmajesty09

[ronalddear]

Experiment.

hey! this is a little one-shot into some DH tent angst (really doesn't get better than that) this is my first time writing any fanfiction at all so bear in mind that this is very armature.

I've been thinking about this idea for a couple months now and it's officially my headcannon replacement for the Harry-Hermione dance scene in DH, which i'm not the biggest fan of. I've already rambled on a bit but please feel free to reblog and comment your opinions and possible improvements!

The ground was inexplicably hard where Ron stood, the canvas tent behind him violently thrashing through the harsh night wind. Perhaps his thin shoes were wearing out after years of being hand-me downs, or months of endless use while they aimlessly trudged around Britain.

Ron knew though, that he was just tired. He didn't know how his shoulders managed to sag with exhaustion while remaining tense in discomfort but that's how he's been since he woke up in that god-forsaken tent.

He checked and re-enforced the wards, something that he was insanely adamant about after returning, paranoia finally setting in. It was constant at this point, hunger had become somewhat familiar and his fingertips were always a faint purple.

Not that he was complaining, he had Harry and Hermione within arms and ears reach now and he could not possibly ask for anything more.

"Ron! Dinner!", Harry's voice rang through his ears, disrupting his thoughts.

Shit. He had done it. He wasn't aware how long he had been wallowing outside and he was sure the porridge he had taken his time making for the three of them had overcooked on the stove.

He could picture Hermione's look of disdain clearly and cursed himself, not wanting her to get more mad at him but also acknowledging how he had wasted their already near non-existent supply of food.

"Merlin, I'm sorry! I'll try and find something else to-" he began with pace and halted halfway through.

Harry stood expectantly in the tiny living room area in front of Hermione who was neatly sat on their tiny couch. Harry's hands were raised excitedly yet awkwardly in an 'L" shape gesturing towards the worn table where Hermione's books usually lived.

Except there was a small space cleared, and it was occupying a small plate which had about 4 stacks of bread, with jam doused in-between and on top, with the wand that he had given Harry stabbed in the middle, a tiny flame at its tip.

Bloody hell it was a birthday cake.

"My birthday already?" he mumbled, still in awe of the poorly presented but beautiful stack in front of him.

"Well-"

'It was yesterday, I checked the calendar this morning." Hermione cut Harry off shortly, her eyes shamefully anywhere but Ron.

"Oh" he said, wishing so desperately that she would just look at him.

"Come on then mate, make your wish, because I'm not bloody singing" Harry encouraged, his eyes shining fondly at Ron.

With a soft chuckle, he sat on the ground at the table, feeling Harry follow next to him. He blew out the 'candle' softly, not even thinking about his wish, there were simply too many.

Harry gave a low whoop and reached over Ron with a knife and fork and haphazardly cut the cake into thirds.

When Hermione's eyes finally reached his, because yes, he had not taken his eyes off her, his stomach gave a jolt and a small smile graced his lips. Her lips however were still set in the line that she had been giving him for the past couple weeks but her eyes were so gentle and loving, almost unwillingly so, as if she was trying so very hard to be mad. After Harry hurriedly plated their shares and they began eating, a small lump began forming in Ron's throat. He willed himself not to cry, it was just sodding jam soaked toast after all.

He looked up at his two best friends as they ate, observing as Harry scarfed down his portion and as Hermione ate slowly, taking sips of her weak tea in between, knowing it was far too sweet for her taste.

"Wish we could have given you a gift." she said so softly, that he had taken a few seconds to register that she said anything at all.

Her eyes were still on her plate.

"Don't need one", he murmured, hoping that he sounded earnest enough that it could translate how very thankful he was.

"Really?! You sure?", Harry said, and Ron swore for a second that it was eleven year old Harry speaking to him. It was evident that the boy was prone to sugar rushes, even if it was a tablespoon of old jam.

"I have all I need.", he said, voice steadier this time, flashing a grateful smile at him, which was returned.

"Really? Not even a special birthday snog Ron? Because if you want I'll do it again-"

"Harry I'm fine! Merlin's Beard!', Ron interrupted Harry's rushed teasing with loud laughter, Harry's roaring laugh following close behind.

"Wait what do you mean again?" Hermione chanced at Harry, her eyebrows furrowed inquisitively and mouth adorably agape.

Breaking their giggling fit, they both turned towards her , eyes widening at the exact same time. It was then Ron realized that there was soft music playing, presumably from the wireless that was on the table. Has it always been on?

'Nothing don't worry."

"Nothing!"

Harry had followed Ron with the most non-convincing 'nothing' he had ever heard. Sensing what was about to happen, he suddenly felt the strongest urge to slap Harry on the back of his head.

"No no, you said again" Hemione retaliated, her eyes wide as ever, it was the most lively Ron had seen her for months.

"It was once in fourth year!"

'Don't worry about it Hermione, it's fine."

Ron's head snapped toward Harry cursing the stupid sugar in the stupid jam that apparently made Harry, quite frankly, very stupid.

"Wait wait! what?!" Hermione was energetic now and had fully swiveled to face them both.

Realizing that he physically could not lie to Hermione straight to her face, he accepted his fate and both boys began rambling at the same time, Harry excitedly, Ron bracingly.

"Look after the Yule ball-"

"This is rather depressing actually-"

"Shut up Ron, you liked it."

"I don't recall saying I didn't-"

'Anyway, after the shit-show that was the ball, y'know, we wanted to see if-"

"Oh my god I can't believe we're actually- We said we wouldn't tell anyone!"

"Bit late now Ron, anyway, we wanted to-'

"To see if what?!" Hermione gaped at them both, she was clearly teasing now, after seeing Harry's frantic (and hand waving heavy) storytelling and Ron's hair to toe blush.

"Just experimenting-"

"Just for fun!" Harry interjected.

They turned towards each other, eyes wide and then proceeded to practically scream at Hermione.

"Just for fun!'

Just experimenting!"

Great. Now they've switched excuses.

Hermione burst into loud laughter, after much suppression. It was, by far, the most beautiful sound Ron had ever heard and he wished for it to never stop.

This unfortunately, did not halt his maroon blush or the clearly embarrassed look on his face, which made her laugh even more. The second he took a glance at Harry and their eyes met they erupted into an uncontrollable fit of giggles, Harry doubling over and Ron throwing his head back. Drunk on laughter perhaps, Harry leaned over to the wireless and increased the volume, a slow yet rhythmic song filled the small tent.

"Let's have a ball yeah? Like last time?' Harry said, eyebrows wiggling suggestively on the last part, causing Ron to start laughing again, completely red faced.

Hermione struggled to breathe giggling as she looked on at them clearly trying to ballroom dance and failing miserably. The form was so bad no one was sure who was leading at this point, Ron's shoulders much too stiff and Harry's hands much too loose around Ron's waist. They were jumping around madly in the tent laughing harder than ever. Hermione managed to tease once more through gasping breaths,

"Should I leave before you start snogging or-"

"Oh shut up you!", Harry exclaimed, accompanied by a rude hand gesture and Ron simply stared at her and grinned.

'Come join us then', Ron said, holding out his hand for her.

She pretended to think for a moment before getting up, the thin blanket around her laid forgotten on the couch. They rotated for a couple moments, Hermione taking turns in being spun by Harry and Ron, all three of them a giggling mess, their threadbare socks squeaking on the wood floors.

Ron and Harry began a much too rough slow dance once more and Hermione was lightly swaying on her own before standing behind Ron, wrapping her arms around his stomach and tiptoeing her furthest, her nose barely reaching his shoulder. Effectively sandwiched between the pair of them, Ron was thrashing widely in attempts to throw them all off balance, cheeks impossibly red. The lump that was in his throat earlier had developed into free flowing tears and sniffles and he didn't care to stop them.

It didn't bother him because he knew he saw Harry's watering eyes and wobbly smile and felt Hermione's soft sobs through her giggles.

It was definitely the sugar or perhaps the sheer sadness of it all but for a moment they were still children who didn't have any worries or wars to fight on their own. Hermione nuzzled into Ron's back, still giggling, and placed a shy but firm kiss on his jumper-clad shoulder. He reached behind him for her hand and gently pulled her to the front, now spinning both Harry and Hermione, his heart glowing with joy. He tugged her towards him and gave a soft, chaste kiss to her hairline. Now both giggling, they seized Harry and planted two very hard kisses on his cheeks from behind, startling him enough to let out a disgusted squeak and he roared with laughter as he wiped his face on his jacket.

It was insanely messy but it was perfect. So perfect that Ron didn't care that in the morning he would have to second guess if Hermione was even close to forgiving him or that Harry would brood all day about the Hallows and be distant from them both, a war on their shoulders. He was with the two people he loved the most and for that he was thankful.

[onceuponadisembo]

Chapters: 1/5 Fandom: 王室教師ハイネ | Oushitsu Kyoushi Haine | The Royal Tutor (Anime) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Viktor von Granzreich & Heine Wittgenstein, Viktor von Granzreich/Heine Wittgenstein Characters: Viktor von Granzreich, Heine Wittgenstein Additional Tags: Drinking, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Bad Humor, Happy Ending, Excessive Hand-Holding, anime movie canon, Staying Up Too Late, viktor just wants to spend more time teasing heine for his height, unamused heine, heine's anime past, a little bit shippy, Queerplatonic Relationships

Summary: 

Viktor invites Heine to his study for wine, makes as many bad jokes as he can, and then asks to dance with him. Set after the ball that happens at the end of the anime movie.

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

I'm only up to Volume 9 of the manga right now and I don't know Heine's past, so although the manga will have some influence on some parts of the story, this fic is set in the canon of the anime, and will include references to Heine's and Viktor's past based on what was shown in the anime.

I'm also putting together a (very short, somewhat shippy) playlist for this fic so if you're into that sort of thing, here it is.

FFN link.

Read the first part under the cut

In the king's study, the bottle of Niedergranzreich white wine glittered in the lamplight.

There had been drinks at the ball. The usual wine and beer, which Heine had politely declined, but there was also something from Romano – a honeyed concoction with sharp-smelling spices and an even sharper burn as it slipped down his throat. When Viktor proposed a toast with the king of Romano, Heine had found himself with a glass in hand. He was then handed another at more than a few points in the evening – and at least one of them by Viktor himself. Heine did not quite remember how many cries of Prost! to the two kingdoms there had been, and now he sat, still in his evening suit, at his usual spot by the desk, swirling yet another glass with Viktor and feeling the wine more than usual.

It was already getting late.

He was not worried; tomorrow was his rest day. But there are no breaks for a king – although this one did not seem to notice the time at all. Heine had been surprised when Viktor invited him here tonight, thinking that perhaps the king wanted a report so soon after the princes' assignment had been completed. He had been equally surprised when he saw the bottle.

"More wine?" he chided. "Are you sure?"

Viktor was already pouring the first glass. "You can always have something else if you won't join me," he had said, a mischievous gleam in his eye. "I'll send for it. Milk would be much more… age appropriate. Or what do you think?"

Heine harrumphed and took a glass.

It seemed that they were here for no reason at all. Tomorrow – or the day after – they would talk about how the princes had done, and what that could mean for the future of the Granzreich and Romano kingdoms. And although they were no longer young, nor as free with their time as they had been way back then, Heine did not mind indulging the king. Viktor may request the strangest things, but it was never without sound reason. There is always a first time for everything, though, because Heine was now starting to suspect that Viktor, too, had had more than a few at the ball.

-:-

"Eins dropped by, you know," said Viktor not long after they had clinked their glasses. "After the song."

"Oh?" said Heine, pausing as he lifted his glass. "I did not see him."

Chin in hand, Viktor hummed a sigh. "He didn't stay long. You know how children are when they grow up."

They sat in silence for a while. They had both grown up a long time ago, and far too quickly. There was still so much more to be done.

Viktor drained his glass and straightened up with a toss of his head, as if the silence were a blanket he was trying to shrug from his shoulders. "Well!" he chirped, refilling his glass. "I am glad that my sons are growing so well under your care. Shall I…?" He gestured the bottle towards Heine.

The tutor glanced into his glass. "Thank you, but I am barely halfway through."

"Take your time." Viktor settled back in his chair. "Speaking of my sons, I am already in talks with King Romano to arrange a visit to his kingdom. It is my hope that we can continue to strengthen our relationship as allies."

"And mine as well," murmured Heine. It could not be easy, as a young prince of Romano, to shoulder the high expectations of one's position while growing into one's own person. He thought of Prince Ivan, the eldest twin, who could never do enough in his father's eyes as well as his own; and of Prince Eugene, overlooked in favour of his brother and who, like his brother, expressed a disdain for "forever benchwarmer princes" at the start of their visit. The fact that the younger prince had done so even though, if all were to go according to plan, he himself would not be expected to ascend the throne, could explain why Prince Eugene had not seemed to see the point in trying for anything. The Granzreich princes could prove to be a good influence on the Romanos, if only they could spend some more time together.

A chuckle from Viktor interrupted Heine's thoughts. "What is funny?" he asked the king, his sombre musings quickly dissipating.

"I was just wondering if you also taught the princes to dance at the ball."

"Goodness, no."

"Ah. I thought so. Teaching them to sing would have been enough of a handful."

"Yes, but I cannot tell you how much I came to wish that I had blocked out a few hours, at least, to revise the basics together with them. I did not anticipate how insistent they would be." Heine took a fortifying drink from his glass. "Do you know how terrifying it is to be led around the floor by partners who do not quite know what they are doing? I was even lifted once. I was in the air."

Viktor chuckled even more. "Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. I did love seeing all of you getting along so well."

"You were watching us?"

"I was watching you."

What a strange way of putting it. Heine was not sure he had heard Viktor correctly. Perhaps he should ask him repeat that, to check that he had not misheard him.

He sipped some more wine and held out his glass. "Could you top me up, please?"

-:-

"There's something I want to show you," said Viktor as he led Heine over to the lounge area. On the low table sat a strange shape, which Heine thought he recognised when Viktor removed the sheet that lay over it.

"My word," murmured Heine, venturing closer to inspect the instrument and the brassy sheen of its parts. "Is this… a phonograph?"

"Do you like it?" smiled Viktor, barely containing his delight. "It was a gift. Go on, give it a try."

"What does it play?"

"Wind it up and see for yourself."

Soon the hazy melody of a waltz undulated about the room and Heine watched Viktor hum along, fingers dancing in time to the music.

"What a tremendous invention," said Heine when the song neared its end. "It seems as if I were right in front of the orchestra."

"Yes, and listen to this." Viktor stopped the machine and switched out the cylinder. When it started up again, it sang out in a long, yearning trill.

Heine put down his wine. "This song!"

"Yes?" said Viktor, a twinkle in his eye.

The melody was haunting and the libretto solemn – far too serious to have been fully-appreciated the first time Heine had heard it. Perched next to Viktor, in oversized borrowed clothes, Heine had been certain they would be spotted among the crowded back seats. Once the show was over and he could finally relax, they spent the evening falling over each other as they butchered the most dramatic of the songs, missing the high notes and substituting their own lyrics.

"Why Viktor, had I not known any better, I would have thought that you had impeccable taste."

Viktor laughed – the same laugh from the alleyway behind the Wienner state opera house nearly thirty years ago.

-:-

Back at the desk, they talked of important things.

The latest in the national opera:

"No, don't tell me. I haven't seen it yet."

The moral discrepancies in classic childhood fables:

"I can't explain that to you, Viktor, I did not write it."

Whether or not it was possible to brew wine from carrots and bell peppers:

"I find it highly worrisome that a child would know so much about winemaking."

The bottle of wine slowly emptied out.

-:-

"And another thing," said Viktor who, at some point in the night, had ended up sprawled out next to Heine. They were down to the last few glasses, and Heine was propping himself up against the cushioned arm of the settee, trying hard to maintain a slight semblance of propriety.

"Why are we always drinking this?" Viktor squinted at his glass of wine, holding it up to the light. "It's the same wine every time ever since God knows when, always wine white- I mean white wine- from Niedergrr- Niederglan-zish."

Heine nearly slipped off the arm. Goodness gracious. Where was this coming from?

"But isn't it… isn't this your favourite?" he faltered, his head foggy. "You don't like it?"

Viktor made a sound that resembled both a hiccough and a splutter. Or perhaps it was a laugh. Heine could not tell at this point. "I do like it, but people get tired of favourites, Herr Professor. Even Lich… Leonhard. Would hesitate at the idea of eating sacher torte for every meal.

"I wouldn't be so sure," muttered Heine. Then, struggling with the plush upholstery, he pulled himself into a slightly less crooked sitting position. "But Viktor, you are being unfair. You were the one who brought this wine. And it was supposed to be my turn."

"Oh, don't worry about that. It's a special occasion."

"You must let me bring the next one." Heine racked his brains for all the good wines he had ever tried or heard of, but the memories seemed to have left him for the moment. "We could try… red wine?"

"Hmm?" Viktor tilted his head.

"From… Obergranzreich?"

"Interesting proposal," said Viktor, "considering their viticulture is not what it used to be."

"Hintergranzreich, then."

Viktor snorted. "You are making things up."

"And you were making a fuss over something that could have been so easily resolved," retorted Heine. "Why didn't you tell me sooner? If I had known, I would have looked around town and found something new, or checked with the chefs for recommendations – anything, if only you had asked."

Viktor leaned back to look at the tutor and smiled fondly. "That's just like you. I know I can always rely on you. You're a good friend, Heine."

Heine took a sip from his glass. "Though you tend to ask for the most reckless things," he said.

That was when Viktor asked him to dance.

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It's been almost exactly one year since I first watched The Royal Tutor, and I'm super excited to get this out. I already have the rest of this written out, but because it’s such a pain to upload fics to Tumblr, I’ll be uploading the rest of the chapters to AO3, and I’ll be putting just the link on Tumblr. I really want to make sure I check each chapter thoroughly, so I might take a few days to upload the next one. In the meantime - comments are appreciated and I'll love you forever.