#Like Lark Notes From the Sky

[adreamingrevenant]

Chapters: 4/? Fandom: Twisted-Wonderland (Video Game) Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Yuu | Player (Twisted-Wonderland) & Everyone, Heartslabyul Dorm Students & Yuu | Player, Savanaclaw Dorm Students & Yuu | Player, Octavinelle Dorm Students & Yuu | Player, Scarabia Dorm Students & Yuu | Player, Pomefiore Dorm Students & Yuu | Player, Ignihyde Dorm Students & Yuu | Player, Diasomnia Dorm Students & Yuu | Player, Grim & Yuu | Player (Twisted-Wonderland), Grim & Ramshackle Dorm Ghosts & Yuu | Player (Twisted-Wonderland), Divus Crewel & Yuu | Player, Sam & Yuu | Player (Twisted-Wonderland), Yuu/Undisclosed, Yuu & The Knight of Dawn Characters: Yuu | Player (Twisted-Wonderland), Original Female Character(s), Original Male Character(s), Original Non-Binary Character, Knight of the Dawn (Twisted-Wonderland), Grim (Twisted-Wonderland), Ace Trappola, Deuce Spade, Cater Diamond, Trey Clover, Riddle Rosehearts, Leona Kingscholar, Ruggie Bucchi, Jack Howl, Floyd Leech, Jade Leech, Azul Ashengrotto, Jamil Viper, Kalim Al-Asim, Epel Felmier, Rook Hunt, Vil Schoenheit, Ortho Shroud, Idia Shroud, Sebek Zigvolt, Silver (Twisted-Wonderland), Lilia Vanrouge, Malleus Draconia, Divus Crewel, Mozus Trein, Sam (Twisted-Wonderland), Dire Crowley Additional Tags: I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, The Author Regrets Nothing, The Author Regrets Everything, Night Raven College (Twisted-Wonderland), Alternate Universe - Night Raven College is a University (Twisted-Wonderland), Gender-Neutral Pronouns for Yuu | Player (Twisted-Wonderland), Yuu | Player Has a Different Name (Twisted-Wonderland), Original Character is Not Yuu | Player (Twisted-Wonderland), Yuu | Player is So Done (Twisted-Wonderland), Tired Yuu | Player (Twisted-Wonderland), Yuu | Player Being a Little Shit (Twisted-Wonderland), Fae & Fairies, Changeling Yuu | Player (Twisted Wonderland), Question: How is that not a tag?, The Knight of the Dawn is the closest thing Yuu has to a reasonable adult in their life, and the guy is literally dead and an amnesiac, The Knight of The Dawn is So Done, Changeling Knight of the Dawn, Celtic mythology and folklore, other video game and midia references because the author can't help themselves, technically crack treated seriously, Unreliable Narrator, References to Ancient Celtic Religions & Lore, fairytale references, Yuu and Dawn share one braincell each, and both of those braincells lack critical information, Not Beta Read Summary:

"Hold your memories close to your heart.

No matter what, you must never let them go. Do you understand?"

Centuries ago in Twisted Wonderland, there was a war. Centuries ago there were fairy queens, human kings and the weapons who fought for them.

One of those weapons lived and rusted, able to see the future past the end of the journey, even if they were never the same for it.

The other shattered. It's pieces long since brittle from too many battles, shards and dust scattered in between the many realms.

It's a good thing the shrapnel filled up the cracks in another soul as they too start a new journey into that mad, twisted world.

(Aka: What if The Knight of the Dawn as a spirit lingered and latched onto Yuu, being there to aid them as the plot of the game started. And what if Yuu was just a tad peculiar themselves too.)

[daughter-of-melpomene]

𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐃𝐔𝐂𝐈𝐍𝐆… 𝐌𝐘 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐏𝐈𝐄𝐂𝐄 𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐋 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑, 𝐇𝐀𝐘𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐈 𝐋𝐀𝐑𝐊

❝ In what she considered to be the ultimate, terrible tribute to her name, Lark had been living most of her life like a bird in a cage. First, her cage had been the mansion in Albatross Town in which she had lived as a child, alongside her parents, the town’s governors, who upon realizing their daughter’s natural talent for singing had trotted her out to perform in front of their fellow government officials from the time she was as young as seven. Then, after her parents had passed away from illness when she was still young, her cage had transformed into the embrace of World Government officials, who, remembering her from those parties in her childhood home, had thrust a guitar into her hands and forced her to travel around all four Blues, singing hollow songs about how good and just the World Government and the Marines were for crowds of the Marines themselves.

And even more than she hated being trotted around the world like a show pony at the Government’s whim, Lark hated the music she was forced to perform - and how she was kept from even learning about the music that truly interested her. From the time she was very young, just starting out in her role as the World Government’s little songstress, Lark had been fascinated with the songs pirates sang, the odes to the horizon and life on the high Blues that they would sing on their ships and in taverns when the moon was high in the sky. She ached to hear all of the pirate songs that had ever existed, to fill the songwriting notebooks she kept in secret with their notes and lyrics and perhaps even write one of her own. But since her Government handlers had always kept such a close watch on her, steering her away from any music that was not her approved setlist for performances, she was forced to constantly escape for a few hours whenever she could and fill her notebooks with whatever scraps of songs she could overhear spilling from pubs or could persuade a sailor to sing for her and kept those scribbled words close to her heart, longing for the day when she could burst out of her cage and finally submerge herself in the music she truly wanted to sing.

Finally, after so many years of waiting and wanting and playing the part of the World Government’s little songbird no matter how much she hated it, Lark was given her opportunity for freedom in the form of Monkey D. Luffy and his newfound, ragtag little crew of pirate hopefuls. After seeing one of Lark’s shows and somehow seeing through her public persona to the desperate trapped bird she was underneath, Luffy had approached her with an offer to run away and join his little crew, an offer which Lark could not do anything but accept. Snatching her chance to escape and holding on tight, Lark had sailed away with the Straw Hat crew carrying nothing but her guitar, a few of her favorite dresses, and her beloved notebooks, more than ready to sail the open water and be exposed to the songs she had been longing to hear for so long.

But, of course, the World Government is not willing to let their prized bird fly free for too long, and in addition to evading angry fishmen, keeping their swordsman from dying after he picks a fight he has no chance of winning, and trying to keep a terrifying clown from sending them to their deaths, the Straw Hats must also deal with the threat of a determined Marine Admiral who wants to arrest their captain and has received orders to bring Lark back to his employers. But what everyone who has ever kept Lark captive has failed to realize is that she is much stronger and more determined than she seems - and if she, her newfound friends, and the charming chef who lost his heart to her the first time he heard her sing have anything to say about it, this songbird will be dead before she will be forced into a cage again. ❞

One Piece Taglist: @auxiliarydetective, @starcrossedjedis, @xoteajays, @oneirataxia-girl, @supermarine-silvally.

General Taglist: @hiddenqveendom, @foxesandmagic, @artemisocs, @reyofluke-ocs, @endless-oc-creations, @stanshollaand, @ginevrastilinski-ocs, @luucypevensie, @ginger-grimm, @arrthurpendragon, @fakedatings, @impales, @claryxjackson, @dancingsunflowers-ocs, @eddysocs, @lucys-chen, @ocappreciationtag.

[weneverlearn]

Kurt Bloch: An Awesome Guy Who Awesome People Like

Rocking with the Fastbacks and recording all your favorite bands since 1979

Fastbacks, 1988; Kurt Bloch far left, Gumby t-shirt

“There truly is something about inspiration and enthusiasm that really is inspiring and enthusiastic!” - Kurt Bloch

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By: Eric Davidson

I’ve been thinking a lot about joy of late. Like pure, eyes-to-the-sky, skipping down the street joy. There is a paucity of it around right now.

We could follow a zillion trails to and from how we got here, but this is ostensibly a music blog, so I’m going to make a quick stab at the roots of this unenviably joyless position we’re sitting in, rock-wise.

The Fastbacks were joyful. Starting out in 1979 in the dawning days of Seattle’s punk scene, they became a local fave on the basis of action-packed shows stuffed with careening pop hooks, irked energy, and a friendly, guffaw around onstage demeanor that didn’t exactly scream “pre-hardcore era.”

Fastbacks retreated for a few years, circa 1988, and when kicked back into gear a couple years later, found themselves being a preferred opener for a load of grumpy grunge bands who I’m guessing hoped to absorb some of the Fastbacks positive energy to counteract their mope – which the Fastbacks were more than ready to supply.

A mélange of metal volume, fleeting bouts of prog whimsy, Ramones tempos, and BubbleYum stickiness, the Fastbacks created a  singular sound. Like most great bands, they never fit into any particular zeitgeist – too raggedy for the pop punk contingent, too peppy for the grunge trend, they nonetheless retained a respected status among bands who appreciated their consistently grabby tunes and fun live show.

Despite any remaining expectations of what “success” was supposed to be, by the turn of the millennium the Fastbacks became that precious thing – one of those awesome bands that awesome bands like.

It should be noted that, while grunge soon gained a definition as a downer genre (that has taken root since), Bloch and company palled around with that Seattle scene from the get-go, and knew many of them as fun rocker kids just trying their best to get through seven months of rain by rocking. 

The Fastbacks kept careening forward right through the ‘Alternative Rock” era that ignored all the fun underground garage punk and instead painted rock as increasingly dreary and grievance-based. The early 2000s came, and the Fastbacks took their leave.

They’ve recently gotten back together for occasional reunion shows. Always holding them together throughout their stop/start whirlwind of a career was ace guitarist/producer and philosophical center of the band, Kurt Bloch.

Bloch, who began his career as a recording studio whizz with Fastbacks, never stopped twiddling the knobs for lots of your favorite bands and/or underrated acts. We checked in with him on his ongoing mission to bring fun to the fringes despite the mainstream consistently choosing incorrectly.   

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Kurt Bloch, rockin', 1990 (Fuck the NRA. I will assume Kurt's t-shirt here was de rigueur '90s irony.)

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What was the first album you loved; and what was the first album you loved because of its production?

Good question, hard to answer. I think it was 45s and AM radio that got me going on recording qualities, how loud some of the great hits of the early-’70s sounded. How some records sounded like they were a band playing inside your head. I think I was aware of EQ and compression sounds early on, how the drum fills would sort of obliterate everything behind it on some songs. How the guitar would be so loud in the breaks. How, if the record didn’t have enough treble, it would be unexciting; if there was too much then it’d sound wimpy.

Then getting into albums, and FM radio, you’d listen to Larks’ Tongues In Aspic or Dark Side Of The Moon, and they had this spacious quality that was rad; the Scorpions’ Fly To The Rainbow was right in your face, really up-front and close. Then, going to see bands live, we’d see the coliseum style shows – that was so cool, but then getting to see bands in smaller spaces where you could hear the amps on stage, and feel the sound pressure in the room –now that was a mind-opener. You could feel the Marshalls and the actual sound coming off of the stage.

Then when punk bands started playing, that’s when it started getting interesting. You know, like I just saw this killer band that sounded so great at the show, and their record sounds like a bowlful of shit. Why?! That leads to one-track, two-track, four-track tape recorders, and each time you record something, you have a whole book of revelations of what to do and what not to do. So many great recordings from that early punk era without a bunch of reverb. It was another revelation. A lot of those early digital reverbs that everyone had, I just hated that fake trebly, scritchy sound. Rather just not use any reverb than that icky sound.

How did the Fastbacks form?

Kim and Lulu were high school friends of ours, The Cheaters was our neighborhood band; only lasted a couple years but they were good ones! When that band disintegrated on-stage, there was still band gear in my parents’ basement. Kim (Warnick, bass/vocals) had been in a band, The Radios, and Lulu (Gargiulo) wanted to play guitar and sing. Somehow my parents didn’t put a stop to it all, so we started playing a couple times a week. Not saying we got good, but we got better.

How long before you felt you had locked into the Fastbacks’ sound?

I reckon whatever “sound” we had was pretty well established early on; it was just whatever we wanted to do. Of course we loved the punk bands of the era first and foremost, but also the ’60s and ’70s pop music we grew up with; and the hard rock bands of the ’70s too! And I always was a fan of the wonderful arrangements and sound of the ’70s prog bands, once I started writing most of the songs, these things would creep in.

Live, 1986

I have this romantic vision of Kim Warnick as a long-haired rocker teen crashing parties and such. Is that correct?

Ha ha ha!! We were all pretty good (bad?) at crashing parties, some of the shit we did makes me wince thinking of it all. But it was 1977, ‘78; things were different back then, a different kind of boredom ran rampant through kids’ minds back then. There was a real disdain for society, maybe not to the degree of the UK bands at the time, but still there nonetheless. Often there was nothing to do other than the proverbial let’s go fuck shit up. And the music was such a part of all that.

So you got a story about something back then that would make you wince now?

Back when we were teenagers in The Cheaters, we would go to pretty desperate lengths to create excitement. The Cheaters singer, Scott Dittman, was maybe the funniest person I’ve ever known, and often in our search for something to do, he would drive a car full of us down to the frats at the University Of Washington. We’d go crash frat parties, rarely did we fit in unnoticed. You’d grab some keg cups and try to hang out, usually immediately, “Would you please leave.” And that didn’t often sit well with Scott. If we were going to “please leave” then we would not leave without exacting some sort of a toll. I guess we could run pretty fast, or we would’ve got our asses kicked pretty well back then. Somehow a few weeks later we’d go back to the same frat house that had a bookcase upended or a row of bikes knocked over, and lo and behold, the same thing would happen again. Of course we were never hired to play any frat parties.

Scott also loved to fight. He took boxing lessons and was always trying to teach us how to fight too. You knew when the gloves came out it was time to find something else to do. “Come on, you just gotta keep your guard up.” (smash smash smash) “You said you weren’t gonna hit us in the face.” Yeah right.

The Cheaters and The Accident (another erstwhile punk outfit) set up a show at a non-punk bar, somewhere down by Olympia. This would’ve been 1979 maybe. There were no roadmaps for like-minded or “friendly” places to play, outside of the major cities. But we were trying to do something, anything, and our double bill got the booking. This bar had a dance floor that also was used for bar fighting. There must have been some sort of organization to the fights, but it was sanctioned bar fighting. No-one was on the dance floor or anywhere near it when we started, so Scott tried to solicit a fight or two during our set. This was unfriendly territory, we were all, “Stop this nonsense!” But once you told Scott not to do something, well he was going to double down of course. Fortunately no one took him up on his offers, and we got out unscathed, but the bar owner took me into his office at the end of the night and gave me a rundown on what we needed to do to become successful in the music business, and the first thing was to get rid of that singer.

1978

First Fastbacks show, February, 1980 – any memories of it?

Oh, totally! The first Fastbacks show, it was at a rec center in a quiet neighborhood, it was three bands: The Vains, Psychopop, and The Fastbacks. We were all friends, and it was all three bands’ first shows. Very ramshackle, but we cobbled together a sound system, someone had a few lights, everyone brought what they had, and the show went on. A little rough around the edges, but the power didn’t go out, no cops were called, nothing was ruined – an early triumph for sure.

Was the power pop zeitgeist of that time a thing for Fastbacks? Did you feel a part of it?

No! For sure the New Wave was hitting strong at that point, but we were certainly not embraced by the new wavers at all. I suppose for that first year, we were pretty terrible, but we had some friends and people who wanted to give us a chance. Getting Duff (McKagan – yes, that one from Guns ‘N Roses) to play drums was the first step into making the band more listenable, but we were still a long ways off of what the general public would consider valuable music. We got kicked off of a show after our first set (of two). “That’s okay, you guys don’t have to play another set.” And I was all, “What do you mean we don’t have to?!” Oh, I get it.

Then when the hardcore bands cropped up, we were pals with some of them, but we weren’t furious enough for them really. I recall some sort of fury at a DOA/The Fartz/Fastbacks show. It required some foresight, which many didn’t possess, to support any kind of music that wasn’t 100% punk. Conversely, the proper power pop bands, well, we were a little too power and not enough pop, I reckon. We wanted to be that, but it’d take a bit still to hone those chops.

Had Duff McKagen played in any band before that?

Duff was the bass player in The Vains, who played that Laurelhurst Rec Center show. That was his first show. He must’ve been 15, barely 16?

Did he exhibit behaviors that would later align with Guns ‘N Roses’ infamous lifestyle?

We were still pretty reeled-in at that point, no one really even got plastered, no one started doing drugs yet. Might’ve been some Budweisers around, but nothing stronger yet.

Guns 'N Roses 2nd show, 1985

Got any Vains stories, recollections of a show, or the general scene from whence they came/played? Was there a good raw, original punk scene in Seattle in late '70s? I'm aware of Soldier and some other bands, but I wanna get it from the horse’s mouth.

The Vains only played three, maybe four shows total. In the late ’70s into early ’80s it was pretty hard to keep something going if you were any sort of impatient. Most bands never got the chance to play enough to iron out any difficulties, or taste any sort of real success. Lots of arguing over what direction to take, stick to your punk rock guns, and play to a rental hall of your friends; or try to get “jobs” in the bars, which would mean being stricken with the “cover band” tag, which was NOT punk.

1978

The Enemy worked the hardest, yet still couldn’t crack the code in 1979. The Telepaths, The Blackouts, The Lewd – everyone broke up, or moved away and then broke up. The Fartz made a pretty good go of it, but even they sorta morphed into Ten Minute Warning, and then morphed into an art band… The Silly Killers stayed pretty punk. The Living ripped it up for their short lifespan. But they were all in that 1982 dilemma, you can almost see a line in the sand, drawn in the summer of 1982. Not a lot of bands made it across that line that summer.

The Enemy live, 1980

If I remember it was some sort of divine intervention that The Fastbacks reconvened in 1983 to fire it up again, it was nearly the end of the line. But it was also clearly a new beginning, a new lease on life, a new crop of kids started bands in those Metropolis years; the Metropolis was a new all-ages venue that I would consider the petri dish of the next bundle of bands.

As the ‘80s took hold and punk rock hall shows were sort of the only stage for many of our bands, after a couple years of not getting to any sort of next level, it was clear that there needed to be a re-grouping of some sort. We’d see our friends’ bands get actual paying gigs in bars – if they were non-punk sounding. Of course many of the punk bands went to the dark side of ’80s metal. Everyone was looking to do something that could “go somewhere.”

Somewhere right in that 1982 corridor, drugs started flourishing, stupidity set in. Duff came with us Fastbacks as a “roadie” in 1984 down to L.A., and when we came back I reckon he moved to L.A. to escape that whole rigamarole. No one was getting anywhere here anyway. A bold move at that time, at the advanced age of 20!

1987

Word is Fastbacks have had between 12 and 20 drummers. Short of naming every single drummer, are there a few you’d like to point to as having had a particularly interesting stint; or who went on to other bands?

Gosh, all the Fastbacks drummers had something great about them. There were a few who only did one show. I publicly apologize to those who didn’t last. Those were strange times. I don’t think there are any unsolved mysteries in the Fastbacks drummer world, Dan Peters, who recorded a couple songs with us but no shows, Tad Hutchison, and Tom Hendrikson, who each did one show…. Some convoluted moments for sure, and all killer drummers!

Do you think if you would have remained drummer for Fastbacks that you would have still gotten into production?

Yeah, I think the fascination with recording was parallel to the live playing side of things, it was always there in my constitution. Wanting to learn, wanting to figure out how to make records that captured how killer bands sounded. It was such a tall order back then. Seemed like the old guard [engineers] didn’t “get it,” or were prohibitively expensive; and so many of the others didn’t sound kickass like we wanted. Of course this comes from the actual band, first and foremost; that is learned the hard way! But if the band blazes at their show, it seemed that their records should sound blazing too, but that wasn’t often the case.

1988

1989

From what I remember, the Fastbacks rep was that of the favorite local band of all the Seattle bands, and hence got on as openers for bands who would soon get huge during that whole grunge thing…

Pretty hard to say from the inside view. We had the unfortunate hurdle of being broken up from late-1988 till mid-1990. A lot of opportunity probably squandered during those times. But, unlike anyone else I can think of, we did get a second chance via Sub Pop, and another decade of rock. I know we were quite lucky in that department. We never did gigs large or small with Nirvana, Soundgarden, sort of the class of ’89. We did share a slightly miserable practice space with Green River and later Mother Love Bone. Always pals with those cats, so we did do opening stints with Pearl Jam in 1996, all around the world.

What was miserableness about it?

Oh man, that place… It was in a basement in Pioneer Square, the old, original downtown Seattle. The Great Seattle Fire devastated downtown in like 1889, and they rebuilt the city on top of the old city, one floor higher. So our basement was on the level with the old, original city; some rooting around could be done. There was no bathroom or running water down there, so you had to go to the bar a block away to use the facilities, but often you just couldn’t be bothered. In the space next to ours, it was a smashed up, decrepit old room that we moved all the garbage from our side into. No lighting of any sort, so it was all flashlights if you had them, and filling up bottles of pee and putting them where ever we could find room.

But of course we raged supreme down there, some epic parties, bands playing, and whatnot; of course no water or facilities, but grand times in the ’80s. Somehow, I ended up being in charge of paying rent, not the best job for me to take on. It meant tracking down Andrew Wood once a month and trying to get him to pay his share of their rent. First it was Malfunkshun, and Green River was there too. We might’ve blown up before Mother Love Bone started? I think I remember Green River blowing up too, after their California trek; it would’ve been not too long after that that The Fastbacks unceremoniously imploded. But for a while it was definitely a rager.

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Nifty, random link I stumbled on with some cool early Fastbacks fliers, stories, and live stuff.

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1992

While you didn't play with the "biggies" of the scene as much as I thought, got any early Nirvana or Soundgarden tale of any sort you'd like to share?

Our fabled practice basement was just a couple blocks from The Central, a venue that was sort of home base for a lot of stuff. The Vogue as well, it was on the north end of downtown, we were on the south end. Many people had keys to the place, so it was not surprising to duck in between sets at The Central, to have cheap beers or whatnot. I first saw Soundgarden at The Central, and they were certainly mind-blowing. Would’ve been ’87? Quickly became a favorite Seattle band, and when their first 7” came out, my roommates hated me. I had a tendency to play those 45’s over and over and over again. But they played The Central a lot, and just got better and better, heavier and heavier. I remember the first time they played “Beyond The Wheel”, it was at the Vogue. I was standing next to Mark Arm and we looked at each other and just said FUUUUUUUUUHHHHHHHHH…

The first Nirvana show I saw was also at the Vogue, it was maybe not the greatest Nirvana show, but man I thought that singer was amazing. Shortly after, Jon Poneman (Sub Pop co-founder) was at the bar there and said, “If you buy me a coffee now, I’ll give you a 45 tomorrow that will change your life.” An easy proposition. Sub Pop HQ was half a block away, he gave me a “Love Buzz” 45, and once again, the roommates had a reason to hate. I must’ve played that record 100 times in a row. Might’ve taken them a bit to find their pummeling style, but man they sure did. Then after Bleach had been out a while, all the rumors of major label this and major label that… So exciting and weird.

Who is a favorite Seattle “grunge era” band you really dug and maybe didn’t get the recognition you think it deserved? Mine are the Derelicts and Zipgun.

Of course! Pure Joy, Flop, H-Hour, the Meices – wait they were actually from SF… Huge Spacebird, Once For Kicks…. Have you got an hour or so?!

I know you are no doubt tired of this question, but do you have a late ‘80s/early ‘90s story or show that happened where you thought, “Damn, this Seattle scene thing is getting some real attention? This is fucking weird.”

After the Fastbacks blew up in 1988, I started playing with the Young Fresh Fellows, and we were off and running pretty hard right away. Certainly a parallel path from the Seattle Grunge Explosion, but a decent path it was! I was pals with Jon and Bruce (Pavitt) at Sub Pop when they started, so I’d go hang out at their early HQ/distributor place downtown. It was amazing to see some of these bands blow up when they did.

Young Fresh Fellows, 1989; Kurt Bloch far right

I suppose the thing that sealed it for me was listening to the advance cassette of Nevermind on a Young Fresh Fellows trip. Scott McCaughey had been assigned to review it for local music rag, The Rocket, and I nabbed it from him on a trip out East. It totally blew my doors wide open. Already having been a superfan since that “Love Buzz” 45, and seeing a couple of the shows they did here before going out to record that album, then hearing it for the first time on headphones; then as our tour progressed, seeing the record just going ballistic at every record store, it was just crazy. It never stopped getting bigger and bigger. This is so fucking weird!

Strange feeling of seeing a local band you saw shlubbing around town or peeing next to them at a dive, to hearing them play in a grocery store in Nevada, or whatever....

Soundgarden was the first one I remember blowing up. They went from Sub Pop to SST to A&M – they sorta seemed to have their shit together pretty well. Alice In Chains were kinda off our radar, they were only on the Rock radio stations; it wasn’t until their second album that I noticed that they actually were killer. But Nirvana, they were crazy cool from the get-go, not in the FM Rock station sort of way, but the punk underground sort of way. Plus I didn’t really know them at the beginning, so there was way more mystery about them. A couple legendary Seattle club shows before they went off to start Nevermind; the OK Hotel first playing of “Smells Like Teen Spirit,” we were just transfixed – What the fuck is this?! Then the Off Ramp show, they went on really late, and got cut off right before 2am. Somehow the club picked up the empties and let the band play on into the night, and what a show it was. Then… nothing.

Didn’t really hear anything from Nirvana ‘til the advance cassette of Nevermind went out, and of course thinking, if I like this so much, it’s probably never gonna go anywhere. Wrong. It was like a slow ball of fire, radio then record stores, like every record store playing it, every magazine… It would’ve made you hate a lesser band, but it really was great so there was a sense of pride attached to it all. Finally something we loved is big. But then how big? There seemed to be no end to it. It was everywhere. And so weird to think that kids dug something that was blazing and amazing.

Were you defacto producer of Fastbacks from the get-go of recording?

Oh for sure. Not by strong-arming anyone, but just because there was no money, and no one else could be bothered! Our first 45 was with Neil Hubbard and Jack Weaver, as we were doing a song for a Seattle comp LP, and as per the usual, just recorded some extra songs in our allotted time. The first EP was Peter Barnes, drummer for The Enemy, killer Seattle band and very much an inspiration to all the bands in the late-’70s in Seattle. Then after that, it was trial by fire.

Can you tell me more about The Enemy, and their local import?

The Enemy pretty much initiated the punk “scene” in Seattle. There were a few bands, but they started a club, it was all ages, March, 1978. Otherwise it would’ve been hall shows, but The Bird brought everyone together. Originally only open for a few months, but there were shows there every Friday and Saturday, it really did give us something to do.

My first band, The Cheaters, might not have actually played anywhere if not for them. We could have languished in my parents’ basement forever if not for being stopped by The Enemy members at a Ramones show: “Hey! Are you guys in a band? Would you want to play at our club we’re opening up in a few months?” Of course we said yes, we didn’t tell them that we were just barely a band, we’d never actually played a show, nor would we maybe ever had if not for their offer. We were just teenagers, my brother Al was still in High School. But they took us in and let us play shows. The drummer, Peter Barnes, filled in for a night our real drummer couldn’t play.

Everyone knew each other, when it was time to record what was to be The Fastbacks’ first EP, Peter volunteered to be our producer. He figured out how to get cool, kickass sounds and make things happen. No one had any money or experience so it had to be on a budget, but he made it happen. The record turned out great. “In America” was on the commercial new wave station, we thought we had it made!

I thought I knew what to do, to various degrees of success. Conrad Uno at Egg Studio did much of our first album. He was wise beyond words and also a great teacher. After that LP was finished he was all, “You can do all this, I think, I’ll be back at the end of the night to close up!” Then it seemed like the right avenue. So many producers seemed like they just wanted to add stuff in order to have their presence be felt. I always felt, like – what is the least amount of stuff we can have on here to make it happen? Less stuff, but louder. Certainly not against adding things, but also happy to leave things out as much as possible. Always loved the one-guitar bands that didn’t double everything all the time. Makes you think a little harder about what you’re doing.

1994

Okay, I will name a band, and you give me the first thing that comes to mind when you think of your production gigs with them:

Presidents of the U.S.A.

We’d do several takes of any given song, as the band was learning them, Chris (Ballew, singer) would play his two-string bass flawlessly every take, and sing a scratch vocal that could’ve been used as the keeper. Never a mistake, never less than killer every time.

Robyn Hitchcock

Also just an amazing music machine. Put him in an iso booth with a mic for vocal and one for acoustic guitar. He’d show the band a new song and go into the booth, sometimes it would just be one take and they’d nail it, with the lead vocal included. Never a lyric sheet in sight. A brain that truly works overtime. Peter Buck playing his 12-string on a song that he had just heard, and plays flawlessly the first time. Great Peter quote: “I like to get things right.” Indeed!

Fastbacks

Ha!! Some of the recording we’ve done astounds me to this day. It’s like any idea we had, we’d just do it. I swear, no one ever said, “Are you sure this is a good idea?” Listening back to the early ’90s recordings, there truly is something about inspiration and enthusiasm that really is inspiring and enthusiastic! Some of that music is pretty weird, even some songs that I wrote, I can’t imagine where they came from. I know we did them and all, but what was the impetus, where did they come from?!

Nashville Pussy

Another tale of just trying not to ruin a band that sounded killer. Amazing to think that they all fit in the tiny live room at Egg for that first album. The sheer volume of air pressure in there was unbelievable. A perfect example of what we’d set out to do, just try to not let the recording process get in the way of the recording. And nominated for a Grammy! I went with them to the Awards show – limo, booze, and afterparties. We were scheming all the horrible things that we’d say when we won the award, who we were gonna thank, who we were gonna blame. Of course there’s no way we’d win, they barely could say the name of the band when reading off the nominees! But what an experience. So many laughs.

Mudhoney

Five Dollar Bob’s Mock Cooter Stew (Reprise, 1993) doesn’t get enough props. I think it’s a great record. I really tried to make each song sound different and killer in its own way. Dan Peters (drummer) is always dishing out the quality.

Young Fresh Fellows

It’s easy to work quickly with a band you’re in. You kind of already know what’s going to happen, you know how to set up since you’ve already seen what works and what doesn’t over the last decade or two. We had intended to record maybe four or five songs for Tiempo De Lujo. Somehow we’d crammed all four of us in the basement here; after the two days we’d recorded twelve band tracks – so an album it was! Toxic Youth as well. We’d gone over to Jim Sangster’s living room to learn a few songs before starting recording the next day, and once we got going, they just kept coming and coming. When inspiration strikes, keep the tape rolling!

Can you describe Conrad Uno's Egg Studios; the kind of size or situation you were dealing with? Was there like a famous recording board there you worked with?

Egg Studio, where I and others honed their chops, was a welcome alternative to the “normal” studios of the time. It was truly a basement studio, the performance room was smaller than an ordinary living room. Many bands’ rehearsal spaces were larger than this. But it really did have a relaxed feel to it, and loud bands could all set up in the room and play live and get a good sound. Mudhoney, Nashville Pussy, Supersnazz, Devil Dogs, Supersuckers, Zeke – it was home base for so many great albums.

Conrad Uno moved into the house in maybe 1987, I reckon we finished Fastbacks …And His Orchestra there; and by early 1988, we began Very Very Powerful Motor, then the Sub Pop 7” and Zücker sessions. It began as an 8-track studio. Conrad brought in the Spectrasonics console that was formerly at Stax/Volt studio – rumored to once be owned by Paul McCartney, under whose purview a varispeed knob was installed. The knob remains, it’s Paul’s Knob. The console is now at Crackle And Pop studio here in Seattle, and is working better than ever.

Before Mudhoney began their third album, Piece of Cake, their second at Egg, they bought a 16-track machine for the studio, and that was the classic setup for so many records there in the ‘90s.

1996

I personally would love to hear about making the classic Devil Dogs album, Saturday Night Fever (Crypt/Sympathy for the Record Industry, 1994). Whose idea was it to make it kind of like a party, with friends and fans whopping it up in the studio between songs?

It was their idea from the beginning to make it a party album, “You have been invited… to a party!” Another band that didn’t need any fancy fussing about, they already sounded like a house on fire. Just tried to record them and not get in the way, make sure that the playback sounded like it did in the room with them.

Definitely the last night of the session, they invited all their Seattle friends over for a party, and we played the songs from the album through twice, if I remember, and just had a mic in the room while they were going. All the bottles clinking and all the blabbering was totally what happened. There was so little time to get everything done while we were there. They had booked two gigs on recording days – one out of town in Bellingham! Basically it was like wrangling the Three Stooges to record and mix a full album and an EP in like five days. Let’s just say that the morning hours were not particularly productive. But fortunately, when they were on, they were unstoppable. And so fuckin’ funny! What a fucking great record!

Oh yeah, definitely the most hilarious band to tour with too! We did a month with them once in Europe, traveling in the same packed little van. And even the bad hungover mornings in the van drives would lead to so much cracking up. Singer Andy G. sometimes stood up and imitated Tom Jones live. Anyway, can you recall who all was in the “crowd” on that record?

Honestly, I don’t! The studio was in a neighborhood, so all sessions had to be finished by 10pm. I loved the idea of recording a loud listening party and then mixing that in with the album, but it was so precarious to cram a bunch of drunks in the tiny studio and try to not let any gear get ruined, while still egging on loud misbehavior. Then getting all the cats out of there by 10 and not annoying Conrad or his neighbors in the process.

You must have some fun Andy G. stories too.

All three of those guys had their moments! Andy, Steve, Mighty Joe. Someone should’ve given them their own TV series. It might not have lasted very long, but what a show it would’ve been. I’ve never seen a group rile each other up the way they did. Should’ve had a room mic going constantly while they tried to make a group decision. There was way more work than we had time for. Somehow we got it all done, but just barely.

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Crypt Records, 1993

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And here’s where I decided to check in with Devil Dogs drummer, Mighty Joe Vincent, to get some more details on their Bloch party: "So, in the friends crowd [on the Saturday Night Fever album] was Eddie and Dan Bolton from the Supersuckers, James Burdyshaw and the rest of the Sinister Six, and a bunch of really cool women whose names have escaped my memory banks.

We def recorded on the Stax board. I remember because we had hopes that there was some soul residue left in the cables that might coat our tracks.

We totally loved Kurt. What’s not to love? I do remember that it was a Crypt budget recording so we had to make every minute count, so we were mixing until we were all so tired we were delirious. I’m pretty sure we went ‘til 2a.m. or something like that, but that was mixing. We did that in the middle of a tour, so we did about two weeks of gigs from NYC across this great nation of ours as well as that other great nation to our north, then out to Seattle. While we were doing it , we had a gig up in Bellingham, so we took a day off to drive up there.

I remember Scott Mccaughy was working there at Egg. I was talking to him one day and he told me his days of playing out on the road were over as his wife just had a kid and he had to be a good dad and provide a steady paycheck. I really felt bad for him. And then of course, a short time after that, Pete Buck asked him to come on the road with R.E.M. and said he would pay him a million dollars. Like an actual million dollars. That always made me happy to hear."

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And now, back to Kurt Bloch!

Who were bands you liked to tour with? And/or, a classic Fastbacks tour story?

We had some great west coast tours with DOA in the early-to-mid ’80s, they were definitely an early inspiration to go head-on and charge through best you can. They certainly blazed a trail for the rest of us to follow, doing everything themselves, like Black Flag did from Southern California. The ’80s were a rocky road for the Fastbacks. We played a lot of shows in Vancouver, BC, as well as Seattle, but it was a lot of problems and fighting, ha, and it wasn’t until the ’90s that we actually went out for any length of time – certainly getting into occasional serious trouble with The Meices, Motocaster, Gaunt, and even the New Bomb Turks!

Pearl Jam asked you to do some stadium shows in 1995, arguably the peak grunge year. How did you relate to the whole fame/stadium situation surrounding those shows?

It was January ’95, Pearl Jam asked us to play a radio show from their rehearsal space. I kinda didn’t know what they were talking about, and maybe sort of blew it off. I was trying to finish a Sicko record that night, couldn’t be bothered. I did like their Vitalogy record, “Not For You,” “Spin The Black Circle.” The rest of the Fastbacks were all, “C’mon, we’re doing this!” And I grudgingly told Sicko I was going to have to leave early. I didn’t even bring a guitar, I knew that Stone had a cool ‘50s Gold Top, maybe I could use that.

Then of course we get there and it’s really fun, just a big party scene, tons of buddies and band cats. We played three songs on the Pearl Jam gear setup, maybe Kim talked on the radio, drank some beers, great time! That was cool enough, but then they asked us to open a few shows at the end of the year, Salt Lake City and San Jose I think, and we’re all like, “Hell yeah!” And everything went well, then, “Would you want to go do a U.S. tour, oh and maybe a Europe tour following that…?” And we were all, “Hellz yeah!” And that all went great, clearly we would be the next big thing, the world is gonna love us, nothing holding us back now! We had a great record out, New Mansions In Sound (Sub Pop, 1996). Man, that was it – lots and lots of fun, great shows. We invented an auxiliary opening band for some of the shows, The What. We played Who tunes with Eddie Vedder incognito with a wrestling mask. We drag Mike McCready out for jams, Stone Gossard to sing one of his PJ songs, Eddie did “Leaving Here” with us a couple times, just great rock times in the giant venues. Somehow it didn’t lead to us being the Next Big Thing, but it was fun to pretend for a few months.

1994

Any good backstage shenanigans stories?

There weren’t a whole lot of super shenanigans. They had an espresso machine onstage every night, so we’d all slug down coffees, blast through our tunes, and then get drunk and watch Pearl Jam. Sometimes we would annoy their wonderful crew by being loud and boisterous aside of the stage, spilling bottles of wine or whatnot, but not much more than that. Everyone got along really well, and it was well-protected against after show bullies or negativity. We’d just keep on our course, often ‘til the huge sports arena closed down and they’d kick us out after everything had been loaded out – and we’d still be back there cranking tunes and running around.

It was totally like an arena-sized version of a living room party most every night. Their crew moved all the gear, we barely had to do anything except play every night.

I know you knew some of their members from earlier in the scene, but did you know Eddie Vedder before he got asked to join Pearl Jam?

I might not have met Eddie until the live radio show we did? He came up from San Diego. Didn’t know him before then at all, but we were fast friends. We would spend hours talking about the Who and riding around on the catering carts and smashing into the walls of the arenas. Come to think of it, we were probably very annoying. But no one, like, smashed up their hotel rooms or anything. It was probably comparatively tame.

Might sound weird, but while playing in the Seattle scene -- which is generally described as kind of serious, or dark, or junkies, or you know, “grungy” – did you and the Fastbacks feel kind of out-of-place; or are those kind of definitions of grunge and that town/time not correct?

The Seattle “thing” certainly was a dark, serious sound. That isn’t to say that every musician was dark and serious, but that darkness prevailed. To say The Fastbacks felt a little out of place at that point would be correct; but I always thought we were here first. It’s not like we didn’t dig lots of the bands, but it also wasn’t like we would try to take them on at their own game. It just wouldn’t’ve happened. We did do a version of “Swallow My Pride” – Green River’s, not The Ramones – on Sub Pop 200 [compilation], after a Soundgarden version too; but it ended up being menacing only in a Blue Öyster Cult sort of way, rather than ala either previous version. Slow and heavy just wasn’t in our DNA.

Columbus, OH, 1993 (Courtesy of Bela Koe-Krompecher)

I remember when Fastbacks stayed with New Bomb Turks while on tour in 1993, you guys, well I think specifically Lulu, made an amazing Thai meal for us. Did you always cook for bands you crashed with, or just for us ‘cuz we’re so awesome and nice?

Ha. I think the wonderful cooking was a bit of a rarity. We weren’t much of a crash on people’s floor kind of band by the ’90s, but sometimes it was great to have a day off and some good ideas! Remember that Metallica VHS box set had just come out, and we watched it ‘til the end because Lulu and I both worked on the film crew for the shows they filmed in Seattle, and we wanted to see if we, several years after the actual shows, got any credits at the end… and sure enough we did. Reason to celebrate!

Columbus seemed to love you. What were some other fave towns you played?

Always a great time in Columbus. Not necessarily Cleveland though. We weren’t the hard-touring road warriors that a lot of the other (more successful) bands were. It was whatever city we had friends in that were the best. Vancouver BC, San Francisco, L.A., NYC, maybe Albany, Columbus, Istanbul…

Contract and ticket for 1993 Columbus, OH show. (Courtesy of Bela Koe-Krompecher)

Highly technical and professional stage diagram implorations, Columbus, OH, 1993 show (Courtesy of Bela Koe-Krompecher)

I could be wrong, but you didn’t go over to Europe a lot, did you? Were you able to procure any production work from Euro bands you met whilst on tour there?

Oddly, not a lot of Euro tours… Seems like we should’ve done more, but there was always something. Young Fresh Fellows did some great trips, especially in Spain. Fastbacks Spanish tour was a bit of a dog’s breakfast. Not because of the people in Spain, no sir. We certainly lit it up in Japan once, though!

I did a couple albums for Les Thugs, the French band. One of them in Seattle and one in Angers. May have been bookended with some music travel. It’s amazing to look back at the old calendars and see that between tours with the Fastbacks and Young Fresh Fellows, recording with those two bands and recording other bands. Man, there were times when there was nary a day off, those ‘90s months were packed! Gotta consider myself pretty lucky. And so many killer records I got to be part of.

As a producer, do you feel you are mainly bringing an “ear” to finding the sounds the band wants, or do you try to gently impose a certain style and sensibility over the whole production?

Always try to keep the kickass factor high. I would never try to impose anything other than to try to keep everyone happy so they could do their best work, and not do the same bit over and over and over. Work hard and play hard, but not to overanalyze every little thing. Not under-analyze either, but if it’s killer, it doesn’t matter if everything “lines up” perfectly, or if the choruses speed up a little bit. Try to capture what is great about a band live in concert, and not dilute that if you can help it. Don’t add a bunch of crap just to put your mark on a project.

It's interesting how you professed a love for prog, but you had an innate sense of not always overdubbing too much – note your comment about loving bands that only had one guitar, etc.

The true exciting prog bands started coming out around 1968 and ’69, Yes, Genesis, King Crimson, Van Der Graaf Generator; Pink Floyd and Moody Blues had already been around but maybe weren’t quite included. Recording technique at the time was still fairly straightforward for the most part, there was of course room for overdubbing on an eight-track machine, but most of the first-wave prog bands’ recordings were not overloaded with overdubs. The magic was what they did with their four or five musicians, the arrangements you hear on the record were the same instrumentation as they played live. Some of the songs would have been concocted in a studio, but it wasn’t until later that walls of overdubs became commonplace.

That’s where the greatness of the original bands lies – cool vocal arranging and melding several songs’ worth of ideas into one track. Not a lot of room for squirminess either, it wasn’t so easy punching in on a giant eight-track tape machine in 1968. You made one mistake on that verse? You do the whole thing again!

Okay, gotta ask, with as much exposition as you’d like – what was your favorite recording session(s); and worst recording session(s)?

Pretty much always subverted the disasters. A time or two I told a band, after seeing a live show, that they weren’t quite ready to record yet; play a few more shows and practice a lot, record your practices and actually listen to them constructively. Studio time is expensive, practice time is (or at least was) cheap. You don’t have to have every bit of every song nailed down exactly, but do have most everything pretty well figured out, and be ready for criticism during the recording. If the rhythm isn’t working, be prepared to fine-tune your part so it is; if your harmony vocal is a half-step off, go ahead and adjust!

Some of the great sessions are those where I feel that I learned things, a new piece of gear, a new way of looking at things. Overwhelming Colorfast, Supersuckers, Les Thugs in France, The Meices in Florida… Or the records that just slammed out of nowhere. Devil Dogs, Flop, Supersnazz, Nashville Pussy. So many first albums by bands where they have been playing the songs at shows for a year or two, the tempos are up, the blood is pumping, get rid of the headphones and make it like you’re playing a gig. Play the song three times without stopping. Play three different songs in a row without stopping.

1999 (Courtesy of your's truly)

You’re still actively producing. What have you worked on recently you’d like to highlight? And what’s coming up?

There’s always some great Seattle band records going on – Bürien, 38 Coffin, Once For Kicks, Insect Man, The Drolls, Zack Static. These days, some records take a while to finish, I suppose it’s the nature of the business now. Trying now to clean the slate and get these out the door before starting new ones!

And there’s maybe a new Fastbacks coming, no?

There was no plan of any sort. We were having lunch as we sometimes do, and started talking about a couple songs it would be fun to learn and maybe record. Our pal Joe “Meice” Reineke had recently finished an ambitious and fantastic recording building in his back yard; wouldn’t it be fun to check that out….? Well let’s call him and see what his schedule is. Oh! he’s got a day open, whaddayasay, let’s take it. Well there’s a few other songs we could learn, let’s make it two days… I guess we’d better practice… What if we did enough songs for an album? Maybe we did! Got some band tracks, everyone played their butts off! Now we gotta make more magic. No target completion date nor avenue to release, but everyone is excited to finish it!

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Post Script: This article sprung from an editor at a national mag asking if I wanted to do a story on Kurt Bloch, which of course I said yes to cuz Kurt's a great guy and I've been a Fastbacks fan for a goodly spell. But some months passed and plans changed, and so here it is! Also, I would've put more videos in this piece because the Fastbacks have a ton of great songs, but I guess I just learned there is a 10-video limit for a tumblr post. Who knew?

All images courtesy of Kurt Bloch, except where noted.

[creative-frequency]

Raphael x Reader: Act I: The Bargain

Summary: Bloody and bruised from the nautiloid ship crash, forging a contract with a devil becomes your best and only option for survival. This is the first flashback oneshot for the main story of the series. The poem is The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe. Word count: 2197 Notes: Dealing with a devil, canon-typical blood and injury.

My writing masterlist

Bottles of Ithbank and mugs of red ale rose up to meet the bright stars embroidered into the velvety midnight sky. Comforting and familiar voices of laughter and cheer bubbled around you. It was a night to remember, reminisce and celebrate. In destroying the Absolute you had faced the impossible and lived on to tell the tale. You had gained allies and most importantly, you had met people, who you proudly called your friends.

Deep in thought, you fiddled with the ring on your left hand’s ring finger. A vexing lark from the gift giver, as the ring would fit no other digit. You had bet your soul on never removing the stupid piece of jewellery, at the same time dooming yourself to the eternity of answering delighted queries about a presumed marriage.

Every time you took a sigh to explain you were, in fact, not married, you heard the devil over your shoulder laugh somewhere deep in the Hells. Out of sheer spite, you wished you could hate him. But he had given you this life and this victory, so you endured.

Wyll, the freshly appointed Grand Duke of Baldur’s Gate, sat next to you by the large table and noticed you twiddling with the ring.

“So. Do you know what became of Raphael?” he asked cautiously and nodded towards your hands.

You shrugged, not exactly keen on discussing the devil even though the wine had already spun your mind into a pleasant, relaxing buzz. You had been prepared to answer this particular question during the course of the evening and it was no shock Wyll was the one to voice it. You had met with Wyll from time to time after your travels together, but had always avoided the subject. Luckily the Grand Duke was a busy man. 

“I guess your pact still stands then. I’m sorry,” Wyll said and took a swig from his goblet.

“Don’t be,” you corrected him and opened your mouth to justify why, but Wyll just looked at you with compassion.

He was the only one of your companions who truly knew what you had been through since he had made the same choice – albeit your reasons were initially more selfish than his. The only difference was that he had found a way to outwit his devil patron to get out of his pact. The Duke Ravengard still had horns, but no longer even a tiny bit of the infernal power of a warlock was coursing through his veins.

Wyll changed the subject: “It feels like the whole thing happened in another life.” 

“It really does,” you sighed and raised the bottle to your lips again.

“I’m glad you decided to stay in Baldur’s Gate, though.”

“Don’t say anything about being a hero, please,” you exclaimed and Wyll grinned. You couldn’t help but grin right back at him.

“I wasn’t going to,” he assured you.

“I’m done playing the hero for now. I need time to put my feet up” – you lifted your boots and planted them on the table – “and enjoy just being alive.”

Wyll shot you a humorous look, but decided against noting how the heroics usually had happened when you had tried to avoid those situations the most.

Six months earlier

Hidden behind wreckage, you dared to inhale a shallow breath and barely held back a cough. Unknown parts of the nautiloid ship and horrifying, giant flesh pods laid scattered and broken around you. Their colourful liquids were mixed on the ground into sickening pools. There was a reek of burning something you didn’t want to think about and it made breathing even harder.

A couple of your ribs were likely broken from being thrown around by the impact from  exploding tubes. It had not been one of your finest moments or the best aimed fire bolt, but at least you had lost the pursuers, for now.

You prayed to every known god and goddess under your breath. You had survived the nautiloid crash and found yourself alone again amidst the debris – only to be attacked by a group of pathetic, random looters. It was five against one and you didn’t even have a weapon on you. It would’ve been a tough fight on a good day, but you were seriously injured, bleeding and delirious from the environmental hazards affecting your senses. So you had attempted to cause as much chaos as you could to hide.

If you had thought getting taken by mind flayers was bad enough, it had been pure downhill since then. The inevitability of this one becoming your last adventure started to settle in.

You sat on the broken floor, leaning into a crevice in the debris and listened to any voices. The looter group was not far, but unfortunately they were not foolish enough to make noise as they were tracking you down. You had maybe minutes to live and there was literally nothing you could have done about it.

So you prayed. Incoherent words tumbled from your mouth under your broken breaths.

You would give anything for the power to smite those pathetic thiefs.

Anything for the power and means to save yourself from the predicament.

You closed your eyes and focused on listening to the approaching final moments of your existence.

Anything to live and die on another day.

A soft step. Then another. Your pulse surged. Someone was coming, but nothing about him was what you had expected.

A man you would have eagerly described as mysterious and handsome walked towards you. His steps were leisurely, his pace unhurried and his expression tinged with curiosity.

Maybe some poison gas had finally addled your mind and you were seeing things.

“Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—” he recited carefully with graceful cadence, pacing closer.

A poem? So you were either dead or poisoned. Your head lolled to the side, trying to see his face clearly in the midst of the smoke and floating embers.

“While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, as of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.” His voice was smooth, almost drawling. It sent a warm shiver down your back. His hands motioned in rhythm with the words.

The stranger paused right in front of you and continued: “’Tis some visitor,’ I muttered, ‘tapping at my chamber door—”

He leaned down to have a closer look at you and his expression turned unreadable. His eyes were chestnut brown, cunning and framed by dark lashes. The high cheekbones were tinged with healthy red.

“Only this and nothing more,” he ended the verse with a contemplative note.

You blinked in confusion, openly staring and wondering could he have been one of the looters, because he certainly didn’t look like one. His clothes were fancy: a blue doublet, ornamented with gold trimmings and a frilly collar. His brown hair was combed back and waves of light curls gathered behind his ears.

Maybe you had gone mad or lost consciousness already.

“Are you really here?” you asked in a shaky voice.

“Is that not why you were rapping at my door?” he returned the question.

Delirious from the smoke and blood loss, you couldn’t understand what he meant.

“Please, you have to help me…” you pleaded, still unsure if the man really even existed.

“Wouldn’t you rather help yourself?” he remarked, tapping his chin in calculating thought. His gaze was evaluating you.

“What? I don’t…” you spluttered with desperation.

“Come.”

He took your hand and pulled you up from the floor. His touch was almost burning, or maybe your hands were just that cold from the loss of blood. A consuming inferno of bright flames swallowed you both and instantly you reappeared in an entirely different place.

The warm air and the general, faint smell of fire and sulphur ravaged your senses. Avernus.

“The House of Hope. Where the tired come to rest, and the famished come to feed,” the stranger presented dramatically with a flourish motion of his arms – an invitation for you to look around at all the lavish glamour. Paintings of devils hung on the walls and the large fireplace was lit with the most mesmerising, hungry fire you had ever seen. A massive table right next to you was loaded with mouth-watering delicacies and you were overwhelmingly reminded how hungry and weak you were.

Your legs were shaking and every muscle in your body ached, resisting the notion of staying up on your feet. Every breath now made your lungs sizzle, the air burning on its way inside.

“So you’re a devil?” you asked feebly.

The stranger crooked a smile at your quick wit and answered: “Raphael. Very much at your service.”

A devil – out of all the names of the gods you had taken in vain, this was the one to save you. The irony stung deep.

“Forgive me that I don’t drop a curtsy. I’m feeling so…” you fumbled to find the proper word and focused your energy on staying on your feet. You glanced down and realised that you had already smudged the floor with blood and dirt.

Raphael noticed the stains too and snapped his fingers.

Immediately, you felt better and stopped gripping the table edge, knuckles white. Air poured effortlessly into your lungs without any pain and although shaky, you felt that you could stand properly. Your posture eased.

“Oh, thank you,” you murmured in surprise, but at the same time your pulse started quickening. As little as you knew of devils, you knew for a fact that they didn’t give anything for free.

“You’re welcome.” Raphael bowed lightly and pulled a chair for you.

“Please, sit, partake. You and I have much to discuss,” he mused and when you were comfortably seated, he circled around to the other side of the table.

Now healed, you were positively ravenous. You hesitated only a second before starting to fill your plate with pork sausages and honey-sauteed vegetables. Raphael’s crooked smile deepened, but he only watched, evaluating.

“How did you find me?” you asked, when the silence began feeling too oppressive.

Raphael tilted his head to the side, gauging your refreshingly lame reaction to the revelation of his nature. He replied: “That delicious life or death predicament you were in did the knocking, but you, my dear, were the one to push the door open.”

You swallowed a mouthful of food. “I don’t understand. I didn’t do anything.”

Raphael hid his smile, which felt even worse than seeing it widen. He leaned over the table on his elbows, resting his chin on his intertwined fingers.

“Oh, but you did. You wanted to survive. You craved the power to burn those insignificant worms,” he explained with an intensive look in his eyes. Then he leaned back in his seat and continued: “Unless, you’re saying there has been a mistake? I can send you back with an apology.”

“No!” you interjected.

The devil’s eyes glinted. With a nonchalant wave of his hand, a piece of parchment manifested into the air. Red letters in the language of the Hells were seared on the surface. A quill hovered next to it.

Your pulse quickened again as comprehension snaked its tendrils around you: You had prayed to give anything to save yourself. Anything, including your very soul as if it were a mere trinket to be traded off. But, what else was it in this transaction between life and death? You would lose both your life and soul, if you didn’t take the deal. A soul didn’t do much good for you if you were dead already.

“Tell me, what is your name, mortal?” Raphael asked.

“Tav.”

“Well then, Tav. Let’s bargain,” said the devil in the most complacent tone you had ever heard. “I can grant you the ability to manifest my power. The power to tear through your enemies, to guile the unworthy and cull the weak – the power to survive.”

You set the utensils down and drew in a shaky breath. “You want my soul?”

Raphael cocked a brow, entertained, and leaned over the table, closer to you. He said: “Lest you have something else to offer for your salvation, but I promise you this: I take good care of my clients.”

You stared right into the chestnut brown eyes of the human facade of the devil, who was after your very soul.

And nodded slowly.

“I accept,” you said simply, forcing your tone even. “We can go over the details after I’ve killed the fuckers.”

The devil barked a laugh.

“Excellent.”

You signed off the contract for your soul. It would take a long time until the gravity of what you had just done would settle in. In the meanwhile, you would enjoy the patronage of Raphael and the benefits of the warlock pact.

In a swirl of flames, you were returned to the wreck of the nautiloid ship, right at the feet of the looting mob.

“She’s here!”

“Indeed I am,” you snarled as infernal energy crackled and surged on your palm.

There would be only cinders left when you were through with them.

[redheadspark]

Hello Darling! I saw your promp Fall and came here to send you a hug and to tell you that I have been seeing your stories and they are very good! Congrats!

I was wondering could you do it number 17 and 28 for Benedictine Bridgerton x female reader?

Thank you so much💗

A/N: Awww thank you! I'm so glad you like my work! I would love to write this request for you! Thank you for requesting it, anon!

Undercover

Summary: Benedict wants nothing more than to be in bed with you all morning long.

Warnings: Just some snuggles and fluff got Benedict on this one :)

17. Cuddling Close to Keep Warm

28. “Are you blushing?” / “I’m just cold.”

Benedict knew his wife would be sleeping soundly when he left to go get a drink in the early hours of the morning, his throat so parched that he had to get some water. He shivered as he got out of bed, throwing on the trousers that were left askew on the ground next to the shared bed and placing the blanket back over the bare shoulders of his sleeping beloved. You looked so calm in deep sleep, long eyelash across the cheeks that were tinted from being in the sun, the long braid that got messy over night from you constantly moving about, the particular freckle on you collarbone that Benedict always kissed.

You were a masterpiece, even in deep sleep.

Benedict rushed to drink two glass of water, feeling much better and ready to be back in bed with you. You both had noting to do that day that seemed to be coming within a few hours, no appointment to attend or meetings to be a party to. So Benedict was going to make sure you both had a lazy day, deep in bed and with only each other to hold and embrace.

He walked back to the bedroom, poking his head in and noticing that you were stirring a bit. With no hesitation, he moved across the room to take off his trousers, slipping back under the cool sheets and feeling your body cling to you within an instant.

"Where did you go?" You hummed, still having your eyes closed and sleep was evident in your tone of voice. Benedict wrapped his arms around you and simply touched your forehead with his lips.

"Only for a drink of water, my love. Go back to sleep," He replied back to you, "Hopefully I wasn't going for too long,"

"You took the warmth with you," You explained, "When you got out of bed I woke up to call for you....but you were looking rather dashing in only your trousers,"

Benedict grinned widely, looking down at your sleeping form and seeing a hint go redness along your cheeks and collarbone. You were always the shyer one in your relationship, more of a wallflower and an observer whereas Benedict was aloof and charismatic with his voice. Yet he never minded with you: the soothing nature you brought to him was enough for him to be won over by you.

He made it his mission to make you blush in anyway he could since he thought of your as stunning with blush dusted cheeks and a flushness on your skin. He would say the right words, or show more skin that he should when you two were alone. All to see you walls come down for him.

It worked every time.

"Are you blushing?" Benedict had to ask you with a smirk. You shook your head, though there was no evidence of your being embarrassed from how Benedict asked you.

"I'm just cold," you replied in a huff, "You took the warmth when you left the bed,"

"So sorry, darling. Let me warm you," Benedict replied in a chuckle, you rolling to have your face smothered into his neck and his arms around your back within an instant. HIs body heat was inviting, you sighing in relief as he got the sheet over the pair of your again and the comfortable silence was in the room.

Benedict could hear the first signs of the morning with the larks chirping high in the trees, the sky started to tint orange and red with the rising sun beyond the mountains, and the smell of the morning dew along the tall grass outside the window.

A new day was on the horizon, but you and Benedict can enjoy a few more hours in your bed

The End.

Fall Prompt Round Two

[luthienebonyx]

She’d been a diminutive woman before, but she’d shrunk to about four and a half feet tall, and her skin was now a light blue, like the sky on a clear day. Her white, haphazardly-cut hair was almost exactly the same as before, but it fit with her smaller frame, and it no longer looked so sickly. She floated about a foot off the ground, and I noted she still wore the anti-slip socks from Meadow Lark. The privacy bubble around her head was like a nimbus, making her look like one of those haloed figures in a renaissance painting. She was leaning over the bar, waving her hand furiously at the badger-headed bartender, who was serving someone else down the line. “Look at how beautiful she is,” Donut whispered. “She’s like a vision of pure elegance.” “Yo,” Elle cried at the bartender. “Whose dick do I gotta suck to get another drink? Christ.”

Matt Dinniman: The Dungeon Anarchist's Cookbook: Dungeon Crawler Carl Book 3

[imjusthereforironwood]

Team CRDL's Semblances

Here's a short little note about the Semblances of Team CRDL. Because the show never gave the four of them Semblances, I will be creating my own. Most of them will be original to me, except for Sky Lark's semblance. His was made by rainstorm4 in the great fanfic, Redemption. Give it a read if you have the chance.

Also, a side note. I like to give my semblances two things: visual cues and realistic drawbacks. I personally feel it gives the semblances more impact, and it avoids the problem of "well, why don't they keep their abilities active all the time?", respectively.

Second side note, I try to make semblances represent something about the character. Once upon a time, semblances used to be a representation of the soul. Although that idea has been totally scrapped, I'm going to kinda incorporate it.

Starting off with Cardin Winchester, his semblance is called "Dreadnought". It increases his speed, strength and durability fivefold. It is an active semblance, and while active it allows Cardin to pull off incredible feats of strength and fighting prowess. Downside, it takes a lot of aura out of him to activate, and when he shuts it down, either of his own accord or by being knocked out, he is left pretty exhausted. Visually, you can tell his semblance is active when his breath has the appearance of hot steam. This ability represents his stubborn determination, to win at all costs.

Next up, we have Russel Thrush, and the semblance I personally love the most, "Roulette". Tell me, do you like gambling with your life? Roulette can be an absolute boon or bane. In short, Roulette can cause a number of different effects when it is activated, some good, some bad. Sometimes, it will supercharge his Aura, sometimes it will give him a boost of adrenaline, sometimes it will damage his aura, cause immense pain, and everything inbetween. He doesn't use it unless he is completely desperate, or if he's just testing his own limits. Every day, he is still finding new effects. Visually, you can tell he has activated Roulette because his pupils will shift different colors from his usual deep blue. It represents the more risky side of Russel's personality, the daredevil in him, but it's also emblematic of his outlook on life. Sure, he's been dealt a pretty crummy hand in life (in this AU, he ran away from an abusive situation, shifted hands a lot in the foster system, lost his leg in the Fall of Beacon) but despite his bad luck, he still considers himself a pretty lucky person for meeting the friends he did, despite what his cynical and grumpy nature may tell you.

Dove Bronzewing, in this AU, will be the younger brother of the group, the more innocent one of the team, has probably the most benign ability, Angel's Touch. It gives healing, at the cost of his Aura. His abilities may not be on par with Jaune, but it is more versatile than Jaune's Aura Amp, being able to heal people regardless of whether or not he has a crush on them. (Oh snap, shots fired, Jaune could've totally saved Penny. Jokes aside, my problems with Jaune have least to do with his character, and more to do with his writers.) Angel's Touch can be used to heal external wounds, but he struggles to heal internal injuries. The deeper the wound, the more impossible it gets, and the larger the wound, the more aura it will take for Dove to heal. Visually, you can tell that he's using it by a crackling white energy around his hands. This ability represents Dove's desire to help people, to protect the ones he cares about. Also, here's a little tidbit, he unlocked it during the Fall of Beacon, and he couldn't use it on a lot of people because they had already died. I love angst.

Lastly, we have Sky Lark, the blunette axe wielder of CRDL. His Semblance is called Keensense. It is a passive Semblance that increases his sense of smell, sight, hearing, touch and taste to better than a human. While there is seemingly no downside, the problem comes that he is extra sensitive to everything. An explosion goes off beside your ear, it may ring for a bit. You smell something bad, he smells it even worse. An explosion goes off beside Lark's ear, and he'll go deaf for a few moments. That being said, Keensense can come in handy when it comes to tracking Grimm, listening for danger, and gives him a general quality of life ability. Because it is passive, there is no visual cue. I believe it represents his calmer, more logical and pragmatic way of thinking.

Anyway, there they are! Feel free to drop an ask if you have any questions!

[day0walker]

benji/xavier and the inevitable end of something :)

He collides into Sergeant Tillman with enough force it almost knocks both of them to the ground.

“Christ! Baby! Fuck!” The older mercenary has a hand around his bicep, gripping him hard. Keeping him upright, because his legs aren’t working properly. Burning, with pain from the way he’d been running. Like a coward. He’d been running. Away from—away from…

Don’t call me that, Xavier thinks, but can’t say. His tongue feels numb, his jaw unhinged and his bloody hands scrambling over Tillman’s tactical vest. He grips into it hard as his arms vibrate, as his shoulders shake—his whole fucking body’s doing it. Head to fucking steel toe and he can’t control it. Feels outside himself, distant and above and untethered ad scared.

“This your blood? You injured, operator?” He gets patted down, hands crawling over him and making Xavier nauseas. Not just—he throws up, Tillman immediately backing away from him with raised palms. Xavier’s entire stomach empties, one hand gripping into his old rib injury as he does. Shoulders heaving with the effort as water and MRE spills out of him. He stumbles toward a tree, bracing against it as he breathes. As he tries to breathe.

“N-Not mine,” he whispers out. “Not mine.”

“Where’s Wilson?”

“Blood,” he whispers again, “not mine.”

The woods come alive with birds, a flock of them lifting up into the air and calling out loudly as they slide through the dull sky. Xavier’s eyes lift up toward them, dizzy as spit runs down his chin. His bloody hand sticks to the tree bark as Tillman approaches once more. He still has his rifle. Slung across him, easy access and for some reason, he thinks about pointing it at his sergeants chest.

Thinks about pulling the trigger.

Instead, Xavier looks up at him and his face crumples. He cries boyishly, with pinched brows, open mouth as he gestures to the blood on himself. Help me, he wants to ask. Please.

“Not mine,” he repeats.

Tillman presses his comms on his shoulder and barks an order for retreat, “Baby’s not alright. Pulling back with Unit Two.”

—

Lark visits him in medical, even though he’s not really hurt at all.

They’d cleared him, but he doesn’t move from the gurney, even hours later. A medic had cut through the outer layer of his tactical gear and it had been so stiff with blood, it had crunched when it was removed. Had made Xavier laugh, so wildly and so loudly that the medic had slipped a hand over his mouth. Stared at him with big, sad, almost knowing eyes. Xavier had let himself be examined in silence after that.

No head wounds, no broken bones, no hidden cuts. All the blood had been from—been from—

He sits there, with his still red hands dangling between his knees. Lark stands in front of him. And Xavier wants to tell him, you and Benji are the same height. He feels a hand slip into his hair and it makes his bare shoulders hunch up hard. He tilts his head, back and forth, feeling Lark’s fingers move through his dirty hair. Blood build up, sweat, dirt and grime. You are the same height as Benji, he imagines himself saying.

Just to say his name out loud. Are the same height, are because still. Because Benji survived that—Benji survived that, he did.

A cavern opens in his chest. It cracks open inside him and yawns, large and unfilled and screaming.

Xavier’s hand loops around Lark’s wrist and slips to hold his palm. He brings his friends knuckles to his forehead, bows forward as he holds it. Cannot look at him. Cannot withstand seeing someone he loves, right now, when he is still covered in the blood of someone else he…His shoulders hunch harder and harder as he feels himself sucking in desperate, painful breaths. His ribcage expands painfully, reminds him of the broken ribs he’d gotten saving this man. Of the hole inside him now.

“I need your help, Lark,” he whispers.

** SEVERAL MONTHS LATER **

“How much of this do I have to give you so you don’t tell anyone you saw me?”

Xavier spreads the notes across his palm, holding it out to the cabbie from the backseat. You give him a tenner? Benji’s smile fills him for a moment, blinding and warm and making his heart shiver and he tells himself, soon. So fucking soon. He can’t think of Benji yet; hasn’t really let himself, even when all he wants to think about is the medic. He has a ten mile walk after this.

They’re stopped in the middle of a road and the cabbie stares at him with tired, lazy eyes. Big bellied man, with thinning hair and a picture of his family tacked to the dashboard. A little girl that looks just as tired and lazy and a wife who looks, if possible, even more so. Xavier would really like to not have to resort to violence. Sighs with relief when he reaches over and takes everything out of Xavier’s hand. For a moment, he thinks to argue, but he’s too tired himself.

The plane ride had made him so nervous (sweat, pouring over him, so bad he thought the black hair powder he’d used to conceal his red was going to run, jumping every time the stewardess stopped to ask if he wanted a soda) that he has no more energy to spend. And there’s still the ten mile walk.

Instead, he mumbles a thank you and steps out the car. Slugs the giant duffle bag over his shoulder as he does and watches the cab slowly rumble down the dirt path. It’s just about to be night time, so he slings the maglight out from the bag. Clicks it a few times, feels the heft of it. Good weight—nice for breaking cheekbones, or jaws if he—Xavier shivers and turns to the woods.

No more violence. No more—we’re done with violence.

He’d been here, not that long ago. Had met Benji’s sister—who looked so much like him, looking at her had made him momentarily light headed. Had also, scoped out the trail he was going to take to that old, historical home tucked into the woods. Xavier needed something by foot—didn’t trust the cab to take him all the way there like the last time. He needed near total anonymity.

Because, no more violence from him. They, however—the Shadows, if they found him. If they traced him here. Xavier shivers, tucks his jacket around himself tighter. Then hefts the bag a little more, tries to space the weight over his shoulders evenly because the walks going to be agonizing.

—

“These will work, yeah.”

Xavier takes the manila folder, immediately tucks it underneath his arm, tries to obscure it. Nomi looks at it and then up to him before her eyes skitter away. This could get her killed, he realizes. If they figure out, this could get her worse than killed—and she’d done it for him. Had done it because Lark had asked her to, but also, this is really for him.

Could get Lark killed too. Could get his girlfriend killed. All of them killed. This folder filled with a fake passport, fake birth certificate, fake records of an Xavier that had never actually existed before. Or maybe one that would have existed, if he’d never joined this fucking company. His eye twitches a little, his hand running back through his hair.

“You’ve lost weight, love,” Nomi says quietly. He glances at her, his hand still in his hair as he does. She’s pointedly staring at his torso, instead of him, because she never looked him in the eyes. He swallows and drops his hand.

“Thanks for this.”

“Well, m’bit of a romantic underneath it all. Hope he’s worth it, s’all.”

He is, Xavier doesn’t say. Cannot even entertain it out loud, he’s so scared.

—

It’s real night by the time he gets to the house. The lights are on in the downstairs, little yellow windows that make him feel like he’s walking up to a dream. His shoulders burn, from the weight of the duffle. And his feet are aching—an ankle is rubbed raw and bleeding, but he hadn’t stopped walking to check on it. Had felt compelled only to move forward. Months of only moving forward. He looks at the windows, and he feels…He feels like…

He feels like he’s—he’s home and—

—

“You goin’ somewhere, Baby?”

Tillman’s voice makes his body flinch on reflex, all his muscles spasming like he’s touched a live wire. His throat bobs, his eyes lifting up at the man in the hallway.

You’re not being fucking subtle, Lark had told him, seething it in a whisper. You’re so fucking bad at subtle, he’d said with a hand in Xavier’s shirt, twisting it and holding him close. And Xavier knows. He has never, ever been good at hiding anything in his life. His face has displayed every emotion he’s ever felt. He’s tried, so hard, to make sure every plan he’s made in the last few weeks have been done as quietly, as secretively as possible.

Yet.

“No, sir,” Xavier laughs, leaning against the wall, that folder tucked between his body and arm and the bricks. “Was headin’ in for the night. Long day tomorrow.” He hasn’t been sleeping well. Nightmares. A lot of them. All of them a coalescence of blood and Benji’s curly black hair, and the rifle in his face, and that SAS soldier who let him go. Wilson, killing people and Lark’s missing teeth. His broken ribs. Tillman, when he’d told Xavier, you’re not special, kid.

The sergeant steps closer. Lifts a hand to run the back of his knuckles down Xavier’s sternum. They press in hard at the base and he sucks in a little breath. Those pale eyes assess him, cold and clinical.

Xavier’s hand slips up to brush over his hard forearm, tilt his head and smile. Took him weeks to get all of Benji’s blood off his cuticles. His fingerprints feel ingrained with that blood.

“C’mon, Till. I’m a good dog, gotta go to bed.”

Their shoulders crash together as Tillman walks by him. The folder burns against his ribs, that old injury a heartbeat throb inside him.

—

Xavier stands on the door steps. The key is in his hand. That little, beautiful gold thing. It’s replicated on his rib now, in a small, black outline. The only treat he’d offered himself during those long months of trying to find his way out the snakes pit. This one, promised, soon.

He fumbles the key, because his hand is shaking. Manages to catch it before it drops. Leans one hand on the door frame. Sweat had built up from the hike, but it’s cooled now from the night air, making him tremble. His ankle burns with the pain of his boot rubbing layers off his skin. His heart slams inside his chest, the giant crack inside him feeling deep and serrated and it howls. He wants to shove his hand in there to quiet it, to stop it’s screaming, because he’s right there. He is right there.

The lights are on. Benji is home.

Xavier shoves the key in, has to work it, because the door is old and it sticks a little until he’s pushing it open and stepping inside.

There’s foot steps, a terrible Liverpool accent going, “What the fuck?”

Benji is home.

The bag slides off Xavier’s shoulder. It lands with a heavy sound. The sounds of his boots are heavier as he crosses the hardwood floor.

“Xavier?”

His name is only half out Benji’s mouth before Xavier is cupping those warm cheeks and crashing down to him. Their mouths come together instantly. He feels Benji sway, stumble back before he also feels hands shooting into the fabric of his jacket. Feels them yanking, pulling, desperately holding. Xavier kisses Benji, so hard, their tongues finding each other—and they kiss like they have kissed a thousand times. Like their bodies are instantly remembering this. Where to hold each other, how to stand. How to place their bodies.

Xavier’s arm slings around Benji’s shoulders, brings him closer. Closer, closer. He pants between each movement of their faces, as they kiss with painful hunger. I have missed you so much it’s made a part of me split open and bleed. He hears the sound Benji makes when he is devoured like this and shivers bone deep. Cradles his skull with his hand, feels the brushing softness of his curls. I walked away from that clearing with no fucking injury, Benji, but I have been bleeding for days. I have been hurting without you.

They part, but only their mouths, because Xavier is still holding him. In his hands, real, alive, there. His nose touches Benji’s. He’s smiling, so wide, so hard that his cheeks hurt.

“I thought—” Benji starts.

“S’pose I’m interruptin’ something?”

Xavier blinks at Benji, those giant brown eyes up at him. I dreamed these eyes. Dreamed them every night. His head turns to the side slowly. In the living room—where just weeks ago, he’d laid on the floor, soaking in the sun and imagining those rays were Benji’s hands—Lieutenant Simon Riley stands.

A tether snaps loose inside Xavier. His hands drop and he steps back from the warmth of Benji’s body.

Ghost looks casually dressed. A short sleeve black shirt, acid washed jeans. He looks comfortable. There’s wrinkles on that shirt. It makes Xavier feel a ticking inside himself. Still has that stupid mask on, though. Pale white skull bone—Xavier’s fingertips twitch. He’s a hulkish presence that fills up the room. He walks forward, heavy sounding as he approaches. Xavier doesn’t move as he passes by him and picks up a jacket that’s slung across a chair.

I sat there. When I visited, I sat in that chair. And you interrupted then too. Didn’t you?

Benji has backed up as well, one hand tucked around his ribs, the other hand brushing up behind his neck. He’s staring at the ground, at neither of them, thick brows pinched together on his beautiful face.

“Thought you were a red head, Corporal.” Xavier looks up, that one inch difference in their height. His hand brushes up into his hair. The hair powder he’d borrowed from Matilda to tamp down his wild, fire color comes up slightly from the sweat.

“Temporary,” he mumbles, staring at his hand. It’s shaking. Or, his vision is going fuzzy. He can’t tell which.

The door opens and closes, but the heaviness of Ghost lingers there still.

Xavier thinks he should have been scared. That Simon Riley is an SAS soldier who is fully aware of who he is; who was definitely armed, who could take him, in hand to hand, easy. But instead of fear, there is a hot, burning painful sensation named anger crawling over his entire body. His shoulders tighten with it, his breathing coming hard and fast from his nose, his teeth ground together so hard, his fucked up canine almost cuts his lip.

“I thought you were dead,” Benji finally finishes the sentence. Xavier cannot stop his foot from crashing against the chair, sending it clattering backward against the wall. The sound is so loud in the deafening silence. His hands shoot into his hair, his head rolling back on his shoulders as he barks out a laugh that is furious and wet. He’s holding himself together, with his hands there. Holding himself from splitting apart.

“Oh, I fucking knew it—I fucking knew it,” he’s speaking to the ceiling because he can’t look at Benji when all he wants is to look at him. He wants to notice those mismatched socks. He wants to look at that threadbare shirt he has on, wants to see him dressed down and comfortable. Soft, in his home. But he looks at the ceiling. “I knew it,” he seethes in vindicated, poisonous fury.

“Knew fuckin’ what?” Benji snaps and Xavier is so thankful he can hear anger there. He needs anger. He can’t do this without anger, it is his only comfort from the screaming inside his heart.

“You and him—Christ, I knew it—but I thought—”

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

Xavier snaps forward, a hand to his own chest as he bears over Benji. He uses every inch of his height then, staring him down with his lips curled back over his teeth. But Benji doesn’t move back—is not intimidated in the fucking slightest. Tucks his chin down, stares back at him, in icy anger of his own. That hand on his neck squeezes hard and Xavier is thinking of it, wrapped around his bicep. Holding him—how it feels sliding across his side. His fucked up ribs feeling healed by that palm.

“Callin’ me stupid?” Xavier sneers. “Think I’m some fucking idiot?”

“Don’t put words in my mouth,” Benji clips out, in such an even tone it makes all the hair on Xavier’s body stand. “I’d never fuckin’ say that—”

“So you thought I was dead and went on to just fuck your lieutenant?” He snarls it out so viciously, both his hands come up to flatten on the wall behind Benji. Trap him there, against the battering ram of his rage. And he regrets it, because for one moment the mans anger flares up from ice to pure acidic fury—he wants that, wants to see that anger pour out of Benji because he’s so angry it’s making every bone in his body hurt. It’s making him want to tear things to shreds. But that anger is replaced by something so desolate in Benji’s eyes that Xavier flinches back from it.

Something so pure in it’s pain flashes over Benji’s face, so wholly and utterly full of hurt that Xavier’s hands lift from the wall a few inches as they stare at each other. I’m sorry, Xavier thinks. I should take that back. I should stop. I’m so sorry.

But he’s remembering Tillman’s knuckles digging into the soft part underneath his sternum. Remembering Lark’s terrified face as he drops him off at the train station. Him saying, tell the medic I said hello in a funny, thick voice, like he might cry. Remembers thinking, I’ll come back and get you Lark, I’ll get you out too and I’ll tell Benji you said hello and tell him every single thing about you too.

And he can’t pause the train of his anger then, because he is so fucking hurt and he is also so fucking scared. And he has run off that fear for months trying to get to this little house in the woods, and it’s been ruined by Simon Riley.

“God, you smell like him.” It cracks out of Xavier, like it hurts and fuck it does. It hurts so deep, like a muscle bruise, like an old wound that didn’t heal right. Like it’s his rib all over again, cracking outward and he’s standing with it anyway, sitting up and walking around, a snapped in half wound. Irreparable fucking damage because Benji smells like him—and it doesn’t matter that Xavier doesn’t know what Simon fucking Riley smells like, it’s that Benji smells like someone else.

“You’re bein’ fuckin’ dramatic,” is how he replies, shoving himself out from under Xavier and into the living room.

I talked about you to Saha, for hours here. She told me funny stories about you, and I got to imagine what you looked like as a kid. Sullen. Melancholic and avoidant. Sweet. Before this all ruined both of us. I got to hug her and be held by her and think things would be okay.

“What are you being?” Xavier laughs, throwing a hand toward him as it comes out snarling and harsh. “Mature?”

“Not a jealous fuckin’ prick, that’s what I’m not bein’.”

“I’m not jealous!” He screams it, hands clawed and furious and gesturing with all the fucking anger of a city boy being threatened. Face red, spitting, bowing forward with his motions as he stomps into the living room. Closer. Feels the gravitational pull of Benji, even then. His body confused by all this fighting. His chest, wanting to be to Benji’s, even now. “I’m not jealous—I’m fucking angry! I’m fuckin’ angry, Benji!”

And he wants, so badly, to make him understand this. Because he isn’t—oh, fuck, he isn’t jealous. He wishes he was. It would be easier, wouldn’t it?

“You think I’m jealous—” He swallows down the word, passes over it, blinks rapidly to get his throat unstuck. “I can’t think of it—someone touching you. Knowing their hands are on you. They’d do it wrong.” His knuckles are white and covered in scars. They have minute fractures that have built up over the years. Breaking, and re-breaking your hands is one of the only ways MMA fighters get so good at throwing punches. They never stop hurting in the winter. It’s a reality for all fighters.

His hand fists into Benji’s shirt then, shivering. Trembling like a scared dog.

Benji’s chin is tilted up; his brown eyes all black from the dilation of his pupils. He breathes hard, like he’s been the one screaming, but he hasn’t. Benji’s anger meets Xavier’s in the middle—his fury is wintery. But he looks like there is something so wild behind that anger. Not pain again, but something else; like fear. Like what Xavier is saying is scary.

The living room smells wrong too. Like Ghost had been there for a while. Xavier’s hand tightens in the fabric of Benji’s shirt.

Do you wear this to bed? Do you sleep like how you slept in my apartment? On your side, tucked in tight? You’d sleep differently, if I slept with you. Because I wouldn’t let you sleep curled up. I’d make you sleep with your back to my chest, I’d make you let me hold you. I’d make you, Benji.

“Do you think about it?” he asks, his voice still shivering around the anger. “Do you think about why we haven’t yet? All the times we could have. Me here, or you at mine. All those fucking times, Benji.” Presses forward. Wants, so badly, to touch him without this slice of fabric. To feel him. “Do you think it means something?”

Benji’s head rolls back, so similar to how Xavier had looked away to avoid him. A mirroring of gestures. He’s sucking in air, hard. His hand slips up to his rib and Xavier remembers holding a hand there, while all his blood spilled out of him. Don’t hurt there forever, Benji. I know what that’s like and I can’t think of you, waking up to that pain. Not being able to run as hard, because of that pain.

“You come all the way out here to yell at me? Accuse me of fuckin’ someone and then ask me why—why we ‘aven’t—” He’s speaking to the ceiling. They are so close and yet neither look at each other. Xavier stares at that lingering hand on a wound he’d known as a hole in his side. Is it a scar? Did it heal badly? I wish I had been there, I should have been there. Benji stares at the ceiling, his chest heaving.

“I came here because I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

Benji’s hand rises, cups under Xavier’s elbow. He feels it, through his jacket, through the shirt underneath that. He feels like his body would recognize that hand with his eyes closed, with every sense of him stripped but touch.

“The fuck are you sayin’, Xavier?” His voice is tight, held in his throat, punched out of him like he’s forcing every word. His head still hasn’t bowed forward. Xavier is looking at his throat, watching as it bobs. He steps back, but Benji’s hand tightens on his elbow. His hand gestures behind them, at the duffle bag on the floor.

Inside is everything he has owned in the last six years. It is a sad collection of clothes and a picture of a dead man—and the drum stick that he’d found one day, tucked inside his tac vest that has lived with him ever since.

He pictures himself saying it differently. Pictures himself saying, I spent every day for the last few months getting myself here. I have abandoned everything I have been since I was eighteen, because I wanted to be here. Because I am in love with you—because I wake up and think about you, because I go to sleep wanting you to be there. Because I was going to die as a Shadow, as some lowlife mercenary, I was going to make it a few more years and die bloody and unimportant. And you made me not wanna die, Benji, you made me want to be here. Because I think you love me too.

“I left,” is what he says instead, in a wavering, unsteady voice. “Left the Shadows, Benj.”

He looks back at the duffle bag. Feels Benji’s hand tighten harder and harder on his elbow.

“Don’t,” Benji whispers. His voice sounds thick and wet. Xavier feels crestfallen for a moment, feels that cavern in him mourning, wailing, longing to feel a soothing touch. His eyes tremble on that duffle bag. The only thing he’d been able to smuggle out. The only thing he even had. All of him fits in a duffle bag. “Don’t—Don’t lie to me. ‘Cause if you are—Xavier, if you’re lyin’—”

He snaps his head back and finds Benji staring at him, no longer leaned back to look at the ceiling. His eyes are wet, tears sliding down his face. His face is openly vulnerable in a way that makes Xavier’s heart sluice open. His hands grasp that face, unable to stop himself.

“No, I’m not. Benji, I’m not—I left, I did. I’m not going back.” He cries, in that shuddering way, that holding it barely together way. His hands clench into Xavier’s jacket, shaking furiously. He’s breathing in hard, fast. “For you. I fucking left for you.” Benji draws in a hard breath and—and the fight ends because it has to.

Xavier’s hand tucks behind Benji’s head and pulls him, holds him, close as he shrouds over the shorter man. He tucks himself around him, long arms enveloping. Feels Benji cry with his entire body; this giant wellspring of painful, overwhelming relief. Xavier’s face buries into those black curls, his lips brushing across the crown of his head.

He means to say, I did it for you and instead he says, “I love you.”

[mrbexwrites]

Writblr Q& A

Tagged by @surroundedbypearls here. Thanks so much :D

1. What motivates you to write?

I don't know...I've always spent a lot of time in my own head, and I've always just written down the stories that my brain likes to make up for me ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

2. A line/short snippet of your writing that you are most proud/happy of. If not maybe share a line of someone else's work you love (just please credit them)

I absolutely adore this line by @sarahlizziewrites from her WIP Grey Sky Lark :

"I spent the better part of two decades looking for you. I would do it again."

It's just...it gives me actual chills and I think about this line at least once a week.

5. What part of writing do you think you are the best at? (Yes stroke your own ego it's okay)

I think the strongest aspect of my writing is my dialogue. I used to hate it when characters would speak, and I'd end up having them info dump and the speech would be so stilted and robotic. I worked hard to make my dialogue more realistic, and I (hope) my hard work has paid off, and it's now the best parts of my works!

6. What do you enjoy most about the Writeblr community?

I absolutely love seeing everyone else's creative process, and how generous people are with sharing their skills. So many of you just post massive chunks of knowledge about your own publishing/editing/writing experience to help us all get better at what we do, and I'm just in awe! I love the support that everyone has for one another.

7. A writing tool/device you use that helps you with writing? (It could be speech to text, a writing program etc)

I have a notebook to scribble ideas, names, plot lines etc. I've tried to use flash cards in the past, but I tend to lose them, so a note book it is. I treated myself to Scrivener but I haven't really transferred my WIPs across to it yet, as I've not properly had a chance to sit and familiarise myself with it. So still chipping away with Google Docs due to my own procrastination!

8. A piece of worldbuilding that you like in your own story? (It could be the magic system, a particular place in the story, a law etc)

So, Searching for Starlight, a WIP that doesn't get spoken about often has some excellent worldbuilding imo. I'm especially proud of the concept of 'solar sails' for how my spaceships were powered. Totally impractical and wouldn't be able to work with actual physics, but real-world stuff be damned!

9. What piece of advice would you say to encourage others to write if they are having a rough patch?

Just take it one day at a time. Don't force yourself, and be careful of burnout. Listen to music, walk, partake in media you life, and don't feel guilty for not working on your WIP 24/7. Your story deserves to be told, but not at the expense of your health (speaking as someone who hopitalised themselves a couple of years ago doing NaNo who definitely did not take my own advice- I am older and wiser now. Look after yourselves guys; be kind to yourself!)

Tagging @cee-grice @at-thezenith @sam-glade @scifimagpie @queen-tashie @cowboybrunch and leaving an open invite for anyone else who'd like to join in

[alternis]

I finished my Skylark costume design 🥳

this was meant to be for an AU, but with all the tentative post-Robin designs I figured I'd throw my hat in the ring by taking things a very different direction

more design notes under the cut

okay

i know blue is jacking the nightwing swag but Skylark having a sky blue theme just fits. there's more variation in the blues, and white accents to try and differentiate it

I didn't want to pull in too many elements directly from previous costumes. the two main references are: the contrasting soles/toes of his boots, as well as the above-knee accent, come from his current Robin costume; the chest accents and logo placement are from his red robin costumes.

the fingers of the gloves are highlighted white bc they can be used to access his tech and gadgets via gesture recognition/motion tracking. there's computer stuff in his gauntlets that work with them

the costume is a very dark navy rather than true black

the hood is because I was using an Arkham City video essay as background noise when I was drawing, and he has a hood in that game. I will not comment on any other aspect of his design in that game bc... choices were made.

anyway, a hood is useful for stealth and provides extra armour/insulation. realistically the hood lining would be black but I like contrast linings.

more broadly on the skylark persona: the name can invoke happier/more carefree vibes, with the bird symbolism (skylarks were used in music and poetry to represent joy, and escape from hardship)

the blue sky is often used to symbolise freedom whilst 'lark' is word used to mean joking around, which subconciously combines to give off the vibes of a more quippy, less broody persona

the logo is meant to be a stylised inverted sunrise/sunset but, also, looks like a single smiling eye

[sarahlizziewrites]

WIP Wednesday

This is an excerpt from my gothic-horror sympathetic monster vampire tale, provisionally titled 'Grey-Sky Lark'. This scene takes place in 1897, but our protagonist is well over a thousand years old, and has been apprehended by two thugs.

We ascend several steps, and they laugh when I stumble. I’m starting to rethink my policies on killing people who aren’t already destined for an early grave, and extending the invitation to these two ahead of their time. A doorbell, followed by an unlocking. 

“Good afternoon, sirs,” the voice says, then falters. “Is this -?”

“Is the lady of the house available, Harred? We’ve got him.”

“Of course, come in.”

I am poked in the small of the back as footsteps retreat from the doorway. We enter a tiled entryway, and we stand in silence for a few moments. 

“You’ll be good, won’t you? If you try any funny business with the lady we’ll take you down before you can say ‘Van Helsing’.”

“Good luck with that,” I mutter under my covering, though I’m unsure if they hear me, because Harred interrupts: “This way, please.”

We enter a room, footsteps dulled on carpet. It is warmed by a crackling fire, and the smell of black tea, lemon and sugar enters my senses. A tiny ‘tink’ of china cup on saucer confirms to me that its drinker is sitting near the fire. 

“Ma’am,” the leader of the two, or at least the one who talks the most, begins. “After many years of searching, we believe we have found your son.” He is standing on my right, and I am disappointed to note that he doesn’t smell nearly as much of excrement as I would have hoped.

I am going to be a tremendous let-down to this woman who isn’t my mother. The cup and saucer are set down, and the lady of the house rises from a chair.

“I would stay back if I were you, ma’am, he’s…he’s not himself.”

“I think I can handle my own son, inspector.”

She has a prim accent, the ‘r’ at the end of ‘inspector’ a little more rhotic than one would expect from someone rich and well-educated, belying a working class background from somewhere in the West Country. 

“You’re terribly skinny, Matthew, what have you been eating-” As she speaks, the cover is removed from my head. I blink as my eyes adjust to the sunny parlour, and before me stands a petite and elegant woman, dark hair greying at the temples. “You’re not Matthew.”

I realise too late that my fangs are visible, and I bashfully close my lips over them. She doesn’t look frightened, though, more baffled. “Inspectors, this isn’t my son,” she says, gesturing at me with a small, closed hand fan and shaking her head. “I gave you a photograph, yes?”

With a stuttered, “Yes, ma’am,” one of the inspectors - P.I. Shit-Betwixt-th’Ears to my right - pulls a photograph from the inside pocket of his frock coat. Seeing him properly now, he is jowly and damp, with a high hairline and small hands, which he now uses to mop his brow. The other inspector is more fine-boned and ratty, and in his hands he is wringing the brim of a felt bowler hat in need of repairs. I note that neither ‘inspector’ is in any kind of uniform. The lady of the household takes the photograph from him, and holds it up alongside my face, appraising both.

“Not even passing like,” she says, pursing her lips together. “Where did you get this ragamuffin, then? The fish market?” She wrinkles her nose and snaps open the fan to waft at her face. I would decry her assessment of me as unfair, but I have been living in a bin by the docks for the last few months, so she’s probably spot on. “And what on Earth possessed you to think he was my son?”

She holds the photograph against her, subject out. It depicts a young man, perhaps sixteen or seventeen, fair haired and dressed smartly in an Eton collar, his hand upon a stack of books. He looks nothing like me. Where I am skinny and bony, he is rounded and athletic, with a healthy flush to his cheeks that my own pallor will never rekindle.

[palialaina]

So, Jel's gonna be saying 'I told you so' a lot when he finds out how much I've burned myself...

But like...

worth it.

Everything in the Night Sky Temple now required glow worms, so I'm working on feeding my glow worm farm. Thank goodness for oysters, they really do make the trips to Bahari worthwhile. Things are a little more scarce on the beach, but I really do think we're dealing with a drought, and that's why we can't find as many things. (My house smells like fish again. Ugh. Maybe I'll try making a blueberry pie when I feel better...)

But yeah, Jell gets to say he told me so. I asked him what I should wear on a beach excursion, and hed advised me to cover up so I don't get sunburned.

So, guess who did not do that and got very sunburned?

This girl right here!

Ow.

I got a sympathy pie out of it from Auntie Dal when I went to talk to her about getting blueberries (I'm working on it! Ten high quality might be a little harder than I thought...), so that's nice. I feel like it's missing something... cold on top of it though.

On a bright note, ta-da!

I picked up more mod kits from Tish, and I have begun turning my furniture into something more me. I haven't shown Jel yet (admittedly, it's my turn to hide, he's probably going to be so fussed when I drop by...), and I know it's not his style, but I'm really happy with it. Maybe I should show Tish instead? She seems like someone who'd love the whole pink theme I'm trying for...

Reminder; go get more wallpaper. I really want the starry night one for the bedroom...

Also, finished the living room area. Mostly. Working on a tiny bathroom space, and I want to put in a snack table somewhere. Just so that we don't have to troop to the kitchen for treats while in the middle of a chezzu game.

Something about this game is familiar, but also... it's weird in how different it is. Also, I suck at it. And cards. I am not a good game player, I think. I lose too much and I get pouty.

I have been advised to never play against Hassian, but like... he's not as grumpy as I first thought he was. I don't necessarily appreciate him taking his mood out on me, but I can use it to pick on him later, I think.

He's not a complete jerk. He's just extremely awkward, and also painfully forthright. Just like Reth needs to learn how to bluff, Hassian needs to learn himself some damn tact.

Ngeh. I feel like there's something about sunburn treatment I should know but am forgetting. Something... stinky, but workable. Maybe Lark knows, I should ask them.

That or own up to being too stubborn for my own good and see if Jel has something that can help.

....nah.

I do regret it a little though. I probably won't be going far from home for the next few days while I heal. I just kind of want to go back here and sit though. Not cause it'll fix it, but because this spot just seems to call me back to it. Something about it is... important?

Maybe.

It's just incredibly soothing to be down there, I guess. Whatever it is, or was, I just... find comfort in that space.

Maybe next time I'll bring a whole picnic with me, and a book, and just be lost for a few hours. Days. Maybe days?

Hm. Jel might actually get too anxious to eat if I'm away for days. And I would miss talking to everyone. So, I guess hours to a day it is.

[readerbookclub]

A Year in Books - January Booklist

Hello everyone! For this book list, I thought it would be nice to look back at some of the books published this past year. A final goodbye to 2022! 

As always, there is a link to vote for our next read at the bottom of the post :) And now onto the books.

The Overnight Guest, by Heather Gudenkauf

She thought she was alone… True crime writer Wylie Lark doesn’t mind being snowed in at the isolated farmhouse where she’s retreated to write her new book. A cozy fire, complete silence. It would be perfect, if not for the fact that decades earlier, at this very house, two people were murdered in cold blood and a girl disappeared without a trace. As the storm worsens, Wylie finds herself trapped inside the house, haunted by the secrets contained within its walls—haunted by secrets of her own. Then she discovers a small child in the snow just outside. After bringing the child inside for warmth and safety, she begins to search for answers. But soon it becomes clear that the farmhouse isn’t as isolated as she thought, and someone is willing to do anything to find them.

Fairy Tale, by Stephen King

Charlie Reade looks like a regular high school kid, great at baseball and football, a decent student. But he carries a heavy load. His mom was killed in a hit-and-run accident when he was ten, and grief drove his dad to drink. Charlie learned how to take care of himself—and his dad. Then, when Charlie is seventeen, he meets Howard Bowditch, a recluse with a big dog in a big house at the top of a big hill. In the backyard is a locked shed from which strange sounds emerge, as if some creature is trying to escape. When Mr. Bowditch dies, he leaves Charlie the house, a massive amount of gold, a cassette tape telling a story that is impossible to believe, and a responsibility far too massive for a boy to shoulder. Because within the shed is a portal to another world—one whose denizens are in peril and whose monstrous leaders may destroy their own world, and ours. In this parallel universe, where two moons race across the sky, and the grand towers of a sprawling palace pierce the clouds, there are exiled princesses and princes who suffer horrific punishments; there are dungeons; there are games in which men and women must fight each other to the death for the amusement of the “Fair One.” And there is a magic sundial that can turn back time.

Sea of Tranquility, by Emily St. John Mandel

In 1912, 18-year-old Edwin St. Andrew crosses the Atlantic, exiled from English polite society. In British Columbia, he enters the forest, spellbound by the beauty of the Canadian wilderness, and for a split second all is darkness, the notes of a violin echoing unnaturally through the air. The experience shocks him to his core.

Two centuries later, Olive Llewelyn, a famous writer, is travelling all over Earth, far away from her home in the second moon colony. Within the text of Olive’s best-selling novel lies a strange passage: a man plays his violin for change in the echoing corridor of an airship terminal as the trees of a forest rise around him.

When Gaspery-Jacques Roberts, a detective in the black-skied Night City, is hired to investigate an anomaly in time, he uncovers a series of lives upended: the exiled son of an aristocrat driven to madness, a writer trapped far from home as a pandemic ravages Earth, and a childhood friend from the Night City who, like Gaspery himself, has glimpsed the chance to do something extraordinary that will disrupt the timeline of the universe.

Seven Empty Houses, by Samanta Schweblin and translated by Megan McDowell

The seven houses in these seven stories are strange. A person is missing, or a truth, or memory; some rooms are enticing, some unmoored, others empty. But in Samanta Schweblin’s tense, visionary tales, something always creeps back in: a ghost, a fight, trespassers, a list of things to do before you die, or the fallibility of parents. Seven Empty Houses offers an entry point into a fiercely original mind, and a slingshot into Schweblin’s destabilizing, exhilarating literary world. In each story, the twists and turns will unnerve and surprise: Schweblin never takes the expected path and instead digs under the skin and reveals uncomfortable truths about our sense of home, of belonging, and of the fragility of our connections with others. This is a masterwork from one of our most brilliant modern writers.

Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow; by Gabrielle Zevin

On a bitter-cold day, in the December of his junior year at Harvard, Sam Masur exits a subway car and sees, amid the hordes of people waiting on the platform, Sadie Green. He calls her name. For a moment, she pretends she hasn't heard him, but then, she turns, and a game begins: a legendary collaboration that will launch them to stardom. These friends, intimates since childhood, borrow money, beg favors, and, before even graduating college, they have created their first blockbuster, Ichigo. Overnight, the world is theirs. Not even twenty-five years old, Sam and Sadie are brilliant, successful, and rich, but these qualities won't protect them from their own creative ambitions or the betrayals of their hearts. Spanning thirty years, from Cambridge, Massachusetts, to Venice Beach, California, and lands in between and far beyond, Gabrielle Zevin's Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow is a dazzling and intricately imagined novel that examines the multifarious nature of identity, disability, failure, the redemptive possibilities in play, and above all, our need to connect: to be loved and to love. Yes, it is a love story, but it is not one you have read before.

Vote for our next book here.

[day0walkersdrafts]

“Would make a fat lot of coin, Baby.”

“You are not kidnapping my princess, Lark.”

As always, the thief is talking from up in the trees. Sits on a branch with one leg pulled up. His hood has been thrown back; such a sign of vulnerability, for a thief to tug down their hood, pull away their mask, look at Xavier with that sweet, open face. The moonlight cuts through the dry, dead branches. Make Lark sinister. Or just reveals that nature of his simmering at the surface.

“She ain’t no princess. Just some Lordlings get, big enough to wander off—play poverty. Look at me, on my perilous journey.” He mocks her then, in a high pitched tone, using a dagger to swing the notes back and forth in the air. Xavier glares, puffs up his shoulders, prepares to defend her honor, but Lark barrels on. “Noble enough to catch coin if you haul her back to whatever silly estate she has abandoned. Not worth the headache, Xavier.”

The knight glances back to the camp, just enough steps away that Lark won’t disturb the lady or her giant friend. He’s figuring out that relationship, because all the nobles he’d ever known spurn the low folk. Cooks, cleaners, maids, doesn’t matter. Underneath their boots. Sunshine doesn’t wear those boots, though. She’s softly slippered. Not suited for the weather that’s coming to cold harder and faster everyday.

“I am not deviating my journey—she travels with me to the Kings tourney.” He adjusts himself slightly, hand on the hilt of his sword. He looks properly knightly and brave and Lark snorts; can tell the thief doesn’t necessarily buy it as he slips out the tree. He lands, in that eerily soft and silent way that he can. “She is causing me no headache, or slowing me down.”

“Yet.” Lark says, pointing at him with the dagger. He steps closer and Xavier hunches slightly, rounds shoulders so he doesn’t feel nearly as hulking next to the slimmer, shorter man. “Have you been having nightmares lately?”

“Of course.”

“Try this,” Lark dips a hand under his cloak and pulls out a purse. Not stuffed with coin. Xavier can smell the medicine and recoils with a wrinkled nose.

“Absolutely not. Smells foul.”

“Prophetic dreams will scramble a young knights brain.” Dramatically, he lifts his hands to the moon drunk sky. “Oh humble knight of unforetold destiny, plagued by—” Xavier snatches purse from his hand, glancing behind him to where Sunshine and the Chef slept. She was tucked up against his side, his arm protectively close, but not inappropriate. They slept, soundly.

“Thank you, Lark,” Xavier says “Always nice to see a friend. Do not try and kidnap my princess for ransom.”

“Hm, would not dream of it.”

“I am very serious!”

“And so threatening, fate-bound, stinky knight.”

When Lark departs, in the night, like he was never there, Xavier subconsciously takes a sniff at his shoulder.

[goddeswan]

Adoration

The white whisper from the mountains. Tiptoed the surface of the riverbank. It was noble the motion of birches- Waving their branches, like open arms.

I wore the garment of the innocent and drowned my burdens, facing the sky; "The eerie notes within the wind Hushed the plumage of starlings and larks. In adoration, we welcomed the rain; Like tranced creatures, on delirious lands.

━ Claire Extever

I. Guidelines

Coraline Louetta was made by ROSALIE. for role-player purposes only, which this character has no connection with the face claim it used. Whatever is related with her are fictitious and purely from the writer's imagination.

... : In Character

&. ... : Out of Character

ROSALIE. ... : Writer's Note

II. Her

Full Name:

Coraline Louetta.

Nick Name:

Aline.

Place and Date of Birth:

Jakarta, July 9th 1997.

Height / Weight:

168cm / 44kg.

MBTI Type:

ENFJ.

Coraline Louetta or known as Aline was the only child of Anderson's Family. She currently live in Jakarta, while her family is in Melbourne. Aline has been graduated from London School of Public Relations on 2018. Nowadays, she is working as a beauty and fashion influencer because of her interest.

III. Visualization

Roseanne Park from Blackpink or Rosé, born on February 11th 1997. Blackpink's main vocalist and lead dancer. She is Korean, but she was born in Auckland, New Zealand and raised in Melbourne, Box Hill (Australia), where she attended Canterbury Girls Secondary College.

Instagram:

@roses_are_rosie

[calicostorms]

Wip Wednesday

Tagged by @merrybandofmurderers! This isn’t a fic wip but it is some OC dialogue I’ve been fine-tuning recently so it technically counts (and I really wanna share it). Some commentary on other companions from my beloved companion AU oc Mellita Trevelyan!

Note: bolded dialogue is on another companion au ocs of my partner, @just-call-me-angel!

Cullen: All those changed trappings, but he’s still a Templar, and still holds his distrust for mages like a shield against his own wrongdoings.

Josephine: She’s nice enough, for a noble. Kind and well meaning, if naive.

Leliana: Scary. I don’t wanna get on her bad side, thanks.

Blackwall: Weirdly righteous, but he’s alright. Nice guy, under all that “oh ho grey wardens” crap.

Cassandra: Ugh. Seeker of Truth my ass- it’s all Chantry puppetry to obscure the abuses templars heap on mages.

Solas: For a self-taught mage, he’s surprisingly knowledgeable on the Fade. Almost too knowledgeable, but I don’t give two shits how he learned it as long as it’s useful.

Lark: [Pre-relationship] I hear he started the rebellion at Hasmal Circle. Good for him, the weirdo.

[Post-relationship start] He cares more than he lets on- scolded me for days the last time he caught me not healing after casting blood magic. Something about it getting infected? Caught him socking Sammael over the head for not being careful enough, too. Guess that’s what we get for dating a healer.

Vivienne: She’s a stone cold bitch, using her mage fellows as stepping stones to keep herself safe. Preaching to me, as if she did anything to keep any of the rest of us safe.

Sera: Sera’s alright, kinda reminds me of an apprentice back in the Circle. The Red Jennies seem like it’d be a good time- maybe I’ll join when all this shit with the hole in the sky and demon armies is finished.

Cole: He’s…weird. Always telling me about my past like I didn’t live through it. Means well, I think, but not exactly the most fun to be around when he’s always dragging up bad memories thinking he can fix them.

Sammael: [Pre-relationship] Worst taste in fashion I’ve ever seen, but he makes it work. No damn clue how, though.

[Post-relationship start] He keeps picking the lock to my room. I gave him a key, I think he just likes doing it.

Varric: Don’t ever bet against him- you’ll lose. Don’t know how he does that. I’m down 50 coppers because of him.