#also god. you draw nonstop and its hard and you take a break for a few days and its still hard

[skunkes]

from memory

[consumedkings-archive]

THE LAND OF GODS AND DEVILS, a sequel.

—part i.

word count: 6k

rating: m for now, rating will change in later chapters as things develop, tags will be updated accordingly.

warnings: naughty language, massively canon-divergent, roman gets his own tag because he's a fucking nutso, canon-typical violence, established relationship that might not be the healthiest, age gap, domestic murder family. for this chapter in specific, roman likes to take things to the Extreme (i.e., "i'm going to fucking kms if you say this word one more time") but if you're here i imagine you know exactly what he's about.

notes: it's here! i know that most of my followers and friends on here are my friends through my far cry 5 content, but my return to the fic-writing world was inspired by my first longfic in a decade after watching birds of prey. you could say, perhaps, that i have a Type(TM), given that roman sionis lives rent free in my head forever and always. this is the sequel to my work carry your throne, though i like to think it's fairy user-friendly, especially once we really get into the thick of it.

special thank you goes to my beta and the loml, @starcrier; the first person to ever truly recognize varya for the wretched little beast that she is and love her anyway. thank you for being my beta and for loving my girl!

and, of course, another special thanks goes to @shallow-gravy, @vasiktomis, @faithchel, @tomexraider, and @belorage for being so supportive of my foray out of the far cry fandom and back into one that, in a way, brought me here in the first place!

summary: —by dread things, compelled.

roman sionis is the closest he has ever been to having everything that he wants; a perfect wife, a perfect family, a perfect international black-market arms dealing business signed over to him in its entirety. unfortunately for him, there are people in the world who would prefer to see him without, and that has never been a thing that roman has accepted for himself: being without.

(or: a fic wherein the devil spends his time rebuking sin.)

“If one more person says the word ‘chandelier’ in my presence,” Roman announced, drawing all eyes to him, “I'm going to blow my fucking brains out. Got it?”

There was a brief moment of silence that lapsed before the murmured acquiescence of the workers marked their return to their work. Blowing hot air from his mouth, Roman raked his fingers through his hair and turned back around to where Zsasz was watching him expectantly.

“What?” He demanded. “It’s my wife’s birthday.” Emphasis on the my, not the wife; it was not a favor Roman was doing for Varya, it was something he was doing for himself.

“V told them she wanted it.” Zsasz gestured to the offensive piece of lighting, which continued to haunt Roman’s waking and dreaming hours with its garish crystalline drippings and expensive bulbs. Ever since Varya had found out his fluctuating approval of the chandelier, it had been in and out of the Black Mask Club more times than he could count. Not that he needed to; he could very well put in or rip out a stupid fucking light fixture as many times as he wanted.

“Well.” Roman pulled a glass out from behind the bar, setting it on the top and dropping an ice cube into it. “She does so love to torture me.”

“It's just a—”

“Do you want my fucking guts on the floor, Zsasz? I mean it. Say the word and I’ll do it.”

The blonde regarded him drily. “No, boss.”

“Blood and guts everywhere.” Roman gestured widely with his free hand. “All over the floor. The bar top. You’ll have to clean it up. Maybe wipe down some of the bottles.”

“I won’t say it.”

“I don’t have to tell you how hard it is to get blood out of the carpet.”

Zsasz’s mouth quirked up in a smile. It said, without saying anything at all, no, you don’t. More agreeably, and with the flash of pearly whites and the capped tooth: “Sure.”

Roman poured well over what would have been considered the polite amount of expensive scotch into his glass, capping the bottle and setting it aside. It had been exactly twenty-four hours of making sure the club was perfectly polished and styled for Varya's birthday; though she was shrewd, she was so preoccupied with the twins and the lawyers and overseas business associates that she barely seemed to notice whatever was coming in and out of the Black Mask Club. He didn’t think she’d had a baby nor a phone out of her hands in over two days, and truthfully, it was starting to become tedious. Now that the twins were a little over a year old, they were supposed to be scheduling their honeymoon.

The delay of it hadn’t been a big deal, at the start. But everyday with you feels like my honeymoon, Varya had demurred months before the twins’ arrival, fluttering her lashes and gliding her fingers along the lapel of his jacket—and not even an hour after she’d curtly informed him that any more chatter, while she was nursing a headache, would be met with a swift and efficient extraction of his vocal cords by her own hands. Motherhood was supposed to have domesticated her, Roman thought, and had done the exact opposite; now, she was more assured of her status and power than ever.

So, yes; Varya had been busy, and he was almost certain she’d forgotten her own birthday. Never mind that everything had to be perfect. Never mind that it had to be immaculate. Never mind that Varya had deigned to order a brand new fucking chandelier from the same place they’d gotten one last time, knowing full well that he had made the executive decision to gut the fucking thing and get it out of his club.

“Tell you what, Zsasz,” Roman muttered, taking a swallow of the amber liquid in his glass, “don’t ever get fucking married. You want someone knowing all the shit that pushes your buttons all the time?”

“Maybe you just got a button pusher for a wife.”

Roman grimaced and took another swallow. It was true. “Fuck off.”

The blonde opened his mouth to say something else—and hadn’t he gotten confident in himself too, since Varya had become such a permanent fixture in their life, constantly goading and coercing him to voice his opinion on things, things that normally he would just defer to Roman on—when the doors to the stairwell and the elevator opened.

Eclipsing the doorway was Armazd, Varya’s hand-picked-from-the-batch-of-Russians-left-over-guard. Armazd had to be easily cresting six-foot-five, his dark beard neatly trimmed and peppered with silver, a scar breaking the color of his top lip. Roman had only ever seen the man swathed in dark clothes, like a fucking mourner on parade. His wife had been the one picked to be the twins' nanny, despite the fact that Roman felt like she barely did anything.

Also hand-picked. Thoroughly vetted. Interrogated for hours. No stone left unturned, when it came to Yuli and Ro.

“What are you doing down here?” Roman barked, coming around the side of the bar to make his way across the room. “You’re supposed to be going up and keeping—”

“She is coming down,” Armazd clarified. “In the elevator. Irina called to tell me.”

“Instead of stopping her?”

“She was—”

The elevator dinged in the hallway, and Roman quickly ducked around Armazd and closed the door into the club behind him. As soon as the doors slid open, he planted a smile on his face and closed the distance between himself and his wife.

Nobody would know, looking at Varya, that she not only barely utilized the nanny that they had furiously vetted and now paid handsomely, but that on top of juggling their twins she was actively in the process of getting a massive, international gun-running business signed over in his name. There was not a single hair out of place, not a single crease or rumple in the sapphire-blue silk of her blouse or skirt; the scent of her preferred jasmine perfume followed her like a cloud. She looked as put-together as the day he’d first seen her standing in his club.

And now, he desperately needed her to stay out of it.

“Kitten,” he greeted warmly, his hands—though gloved—immediately scratching the itch by reaching for her; they captured hers to carefully still her procession to the club’s main room. “What are you doing down here? I thought you’d be busy for hours.”

“Yuliana has been fussing nonstop,” Varya replied, her voice light despite what could only have been an expression of frustration quickly following, “all while I listen to grown men fussing nonstop at me on the phone.”

Roman feigned a sympathetic noise, bringing her hands up to his mouth to kiss them. “We have a nanny, V.”

“You know better than anyone else,” the brunette murmured, brushing her nose against his as their hands dropped, “that she is inconsolable without you.”

He tried not to look too pleased. “I’m sure that’s not true.”

“Don’t be modest, Romy.”

“Well, I’ll come up, of course.” He kissed the corner of her mouth. “And console our princess.” Another kiss, to the other corner. “So that you can continue letting grown men fuss at you.”

She beamed at him prettily, and finally they met in the middle for a real kiss—nothing coy, nothing demure, but lingering warm and just between the two of them.

“I love you,” she purred. “Go on, then.”

And then Varya pulled away, as though to go around him and into the club, and Roman blinked rapidly. He had only just caught her around the waist before she could walk in and pulled her in a full one-eighty until she was facing the elevator again.

“What are you doing?” she asked, a laugh bubbling out of her. “I was just going to make myself a drink.”

“Encouraging productivity,” Roman replied, hitting the button for the elevator doors to open again. “Ready for all this paperwork to be done, aren’t you? It’s been over a year.”

A year of wading through mafia-esque bureaucracy. A year of listening to Varya say, these things take time. A busy year, to be sure, jam-packed full of things—the biggest wedding in Gotham since its founding, the twins.

A funeral.

Roman tried more and more every day not to think about his (now) brother-in-law’s funeral, the double burial of the only man that might have stood a chance at being loved by Varya more than Roman himself and the only man who had ever been anything like a father figure to her. Family is tedious, he’d wanted to say, brothers and fathers and mothers, the whole lot of them, cut them loose why don’t you? Why should anyone matter to you outside of the twins and I?

Varya glanced at him over her shoulder. “These things take time.”

He rolled his eyes. “Mhm.”

“Not to mention, we were a little busy,” she added, eyes narrowing playfully as he nudged her into the elevator, “you know—having children.”

“And what beautiful children they are.” Roman hit the button without looking, the doors sliding shut behind him.

“Well, how am I supposed to suffer through those phone calls without a stiff drink?”

He quirked a brow upward. “I’ll make you a stiff drink, Mrs. Sionis.”

The brunette propped herself up against the back rail of the elevator as it whirred into motion. The corner of her mouth, painted ruby, curved and her head tilted inquisitively. “Oh?”

“Of course,” he demurred, sidling forward and boxing her in against the wall. “I’ll make you a stiff drink—”

He dropped his head to the slope of her jaw to plant a kiss there.

“—you’ll finish up with the lawyers, and put on the dress I bought you—”

Varya hummed and sighed sweetly.

“—we’ll go out to dinner for your birthday—”

He dropped his hands to her hips, planting a kiss on her temple so that he could rumble, “And we can get to work on baby number three, hm?”

A sweet laugh billowed out of her just as the elevator came to a stop and the doors slid open to bring to Roman the oh-so-sweet sounds of a caterwauling infant. Over the distressed crying was Irina’s voice, shushing and cooing dulcet words in Russian; he could see her swaying to and fro with a swathe of fabric bundled in her arms.

“I almost forgot about my birthday,” Varya said thoughtfully, completely unrattled by the sound of their daughter’s distress. She stepped out from between him and the elevator wall; Roman fell into step beside her easily, the sound of her heels clipping against the floor enough to draw Irina’s eyes to them.

Roman said, “I know you did,” and did not bother to hide his smugness as he held out his arms for the shrieking baby in Irina’s arms. The redhead regarded him with a sort of weary amusement before she acquiesced; with Yuliana safely in his arms, he watched Varya cross the room to turn the automatic rocker that held their son back on to a slow, lulling pace. The freckled infant babbled happily—ever the quieter of the twins—and as Varya said something to Irina in Russian that inspired the woman to depart to the kitchen, she absently picked up a baby blanket from the couch and wandered over to him.

“Yuli,” she murmured, waving her finger at the already-content infant, tucking the blanket around her “is that all you wanted, hm? Just for your papa to hold you?”

“What else could she want for?” he replied confidently. Soothing Yuliana’s fury had become old-hat for him at this point. And, certainly, it pleased him to know that sometimes, the only thing that would make his daughter stop screaming was being held by him. Not even Varya—who had taken to motherhood like a fish to water—bothered when she was in a fit.

Still, the brunette sighed dreamily, her finger captured by their daughter’s tiny hand before she said, “What a perfect little gem.”

Roman hummed his agreement. “Finishing that call with the lawyers?”

“Perhaps tomorrow,” Varya replied. “They’re in a mood today.”

“They’re in a mood every day.” Russians, he thought venomously.

“Yes.” She smiled, flashing pearly teeth at him. “But only today is my birthday.”

She had him there. Still, he was itching for the whole thing to be done—Ilarion had dragged his feet through the process of even drawing up the original contract, which had only been a spit in his face (“You are the only person who gets to fuck Varya Astakhova, that is as exclusive as it gets”) and by the time all of that nasty business had been wrapped up, Ilarion was dead.

Ilarion, and Nikita—leaving only a single living soul to be in charge of the Astakhov empire: Varya herself.

Which, she had expressed time and time again, she had no desire for; not in the public way that her father had done it, and Ilarion after them. She much preferred the clerical work of it all. Paperwork and public relations. Let the men do men’s work, she’d demurred one night, tangled up in their sheets, when he’d asked her what she was going to do with it. I don’t mind. They like me better as their madonna, anyway.

“You know,” she continued, breaking him out of his thoughts as she made her way to the bar cart, pouring herself a drink, “they will like you more if it’s you they’re talking to.”

“I don’t give a fuck if they like me or not,” Roman replied, lifting Yuliana with both of his hands so that he could look at her. “Isn’t that right, princess? Mommy gets to do all the paperwork so that your papa can spend all of his time with you, instead of listening to some dumbfucks bitch and moan on the phone.” He glanced at her. “Well, anyway, since it’s your birthday we can let it slide.”

“Very generous of you.”

“Get dressed, won’t you?” he prompted, depositing his now-content daughter in the mobile swing with her brother. “The table’s been ready for us since noon.”

Varya watched him, dark eyes glittering amusedly. “And why, my darling, did you make the reservation for noon? It’s nearly six now.”

“Because,” he replied, “I wanted to make sure they held it, regardless of how long it took us to get there.”

“Ah.” She lifted her chin a little, lashes fluttering with contentment when he reached up and brushed the hair from her face. “Or else?”

Roman flashed her a grin.

“Or else.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

They held the table.

“Good for them,” Roman said as they followed the server out onto the balcony. The table had clearly been refreshed—a new candle, a new vase, a new bucket of ice and bottle of champagne. He’d heard the waitstaff whispering furiously among themselves as they idled in the lobby to be taken to their table; now, settled across from the birthday girl, Roman was content with the way they had squirmed.

“Quicker than the two-hour wait last time,” Varya noted by way of agreement, smoothing her hand along the edge of the tablecloth.

He scoffed. The only reason they had waited in the lobby for two hours was because Varya had asked him to stay for the table she wanted. If it had been his way, they would have left with a bloody warning and gone somewhere else. “I can’t believe I finally convinced you to leave the twins home for a night and we got stuck sitting in that fucking lobby because they gave our table away.”

“In my defense, they are good babies, Romy. Hardly ever cry. Certainly not too much trouble.”

“But there’s two of them,” he replied, “and toting two babies around is a lot of work. All I’m saying is, what’s the point of paying her that much fucking money if we’re just going to—”

The waiter came by the table, clearly a little stressed; the lines of concern on his face were clear as he cleared his throat and said, “Should I come back?”

Varya, perusing the menu: “No, my darling, you may stay. You were saying, Romy?”

“I just don’t know why we’re shoveling money into her bank account for her to be a glorified accent chair in our house rather than a nanny.” Roman gestured to the champagne bottle expectantly. “Open it.”

The waiter did as he asked, having been standing there uncomfortably for a moment during their exchange. As he worked to carefully open the champagne bottle, Roman turned his attention back to Varya; her eyes remained on the menu, absently twisting the engagement and wedding band on her finger back and forth.

There was no way, he thought, that she was putting off getting the business signed over to him on purpose. Surely, there was no way; even when Ilarion was alive, even when she had anticipated no further problems, it had always been, if you’re going to be my romantic partner, it seems only right you’d be my partner in business too, don’t you think? And yet—

And yet, Roman could not push down the strange, hazy doubt that occasionally flickered through his mind. He had always wanted Varya, had always found himself wanting and wanting and wanting more and more often, and Varya had always seemed content to indulge him. There was, it seemed, nothing she enjoyed more than indulging him. One more kiss, one more minute in bed, one more lingering glance across the room. She was the absolute pinacle of his hedonism, in every sense of the word, and had proven time and time again that she would give him anything that he wanted.

The business had always been for her and Ilarion. He wanted it, and told her he did, and she said, you can have it, if you like, but like in all things, there was a slyness about his wife—a cruelty—that he found endearing and dangerous. Dangerous, because it wouldn’t have been the first time he’d been on the other end of her cruel nature, playfully poking and unwinding and tugging the thread loose until she had pushed him to the limit.

Something echoed in his head, and he realized that the waiter was asking him what he wanted to eat. Varya had handed the menu over and steepled her fingers, watching him with dark, curious eyes and red painted lips, sooty lashes fluttering. A pretty, painted little snake.

“I’ll take whatever she’s having,” Roman said after a moment, setting his menu aside and returning his attention to the brunette across from him. “Something interesting, kitten?”

“Can I not just appreciate my husband?” Varya demurred. “You’re wearing the suit I like best, after all.”

“It is your birthday. What greater gift is there than me?”

She laughed, delighted by him—as she always was—and took a sip of her champagne. “You were away from me, for a moment.”

He watched her, gauging her carefully. Even I know not to drop my pants when a viper opens its mouth, Bianchi had said, just before Varya had unloaded six rounds into his face and chest less than two feet away from him.

“Just thinking,” is what Roman said finally.

“Hm. A dangerous past time.”

His expression flattened, deadpan. “It’s taken a significant chunk of time to secure your father’s business in my name.”

Something flickered across Varya’s expression. at the word father. “To secure my business,” Varya replied, her voice abrupt and cutting, her eyes narrowed, “in your name.” Absently, she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. She looked to be composing herself, like she’d spoken on a knee-jerk reaction rather than with thinking.

Then, glossy and silken again: “You know your patience means the world to me, Romy.”

There was nothing that he loved more than watching her pull back her venom for him. Drumming his fingers against the top of the table, Roman bridled his own irritation to say, mildly, “I’d do anything for you. Even wait...” He made a thoughtful noise. “Over a year to finally take on the responsiblities you wanted handed over to me.”

“Of course.” Varya smiled prettily, absently straightening out her silverware. “And we will speak no more of my father on my birthday, or any day after this.”

He knew what that meant. She phrased it pretty, wrapped it up in silk and velvet and presented it to him as unassuming as a doe, but he knew what that meant. There is my button, she was saying, there is my trip wire. Don’t push it, Roman. The name Nikita had all but been banned in their household, even when funeral arrangements were being made; any time he’d heard one of the lawyers mention her father’s name, there had been a sharp rebuke. Not in my presence, she would tell him later, I do not want to hear that fucking name in my presence.

“At any rate, there is nothing that I want more than for this whole process to be done,” she continued lightly, reaching across the table to take his hand. “It was always what I wanted, you know. Ilya was better suited to be a functional piece of the business; he was the face because he had to be, not because he wanted to be, and I am better suited for the nitpicking and the details. Being the overseer is much more in your circle of talents, Romy.”

Her words assauged something unsettled and prickly in him, the sweep of the pad of her thumb across the back of his hand returning that doubtful monster in his mind back to its slumber. He sighed.

“You’re right,” he acquiesced after a moment, “it is more in my circle of talents.”

“Undoubtedly.”

“I always got the impression Ilarion wasn’t happy with it,” he added. “Though you two certainly enjoyed making work of me that first night, didn’t you?”

Varya smiled demurely. “It was never meant to make work of you, only to make a good impression.”

“Hm,” he replied, eyes narrowing playfully, “but you enjoy pushing me, V.”

She looked pleased. She always did, when he remarked on something that felt like he was really seeing her, beneath the glossy veneer. His girl did so love being seen.

“Only,” V demurred, “because you so enjoy reining me in.”

“Guilty as charged.”

Roman brought her hand to his mouth, kissing the back of it before relinquishing it and glancing around. He would just have to exercise patience, of which he had the most; patience, modesty, and humility, all excellent qualities that he could participate in at will, at any given time. Without any restraint.

“Did the men get the chandelier installed?” Varya idled, snapping his attention back to her. He narrowed his eyes.

“I told you I didn’t want a chandelier anymore.”

She looked at him across the table, dark doe eyes wide and innocent. “I thought you liked how polished they make the club.”

“No, you little viper,” Roman replied, clicking his tongue, “Paolo has a chandelier in his club, and there’s no fucking way I’m going to have people comparing it.”

“Ah,” she murmured, “the drama of the chandelier goes on.”

“And while we’re at it, might as well gut that one from the estate, too.”

“There’s more than one chandelier in there.”

“Then the men will be busy, won’t they?” He tsked his tongue. “I know you dream about watching me blow my top, V, but I’m making an executive decision on gaudy light fixtures.”

A smile flashed across her expression, pearly teeth and delighted eyes. She sighed, almost dreamily, like there was nothing more that she liked than to be doing this exact thing, and with him.

“Oh, Romy,” the brunette said sweetly, “you are the only thing I dream about.” And then, almost as an after thought: “Gaudy light fixture terrorism included.” She waved her hand to dismiss any protest or rebuttal he might have given her and said, “Now, since it’s my birthday, tell me all of the things you love the most about me.”

Roman sucked his teeth, eyeing her for a moment as he leaned back in the chair. Wicked little thing, waiting to preen and glow under his attention, a feline seeking him out. Her little bout of cruelty before was already forgiven. He said, “We’re going to be here for a while, if I do that.”

“They held the table for over six hours,” Varya demurred, “I’m sure they’ll hold it for as many more as you need.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

By the time they got to the club, Varya was acting as though nothing had happened.

Truthfully, Roman preferred it that way. It just also left a lot of room to wonder—his wife was a talented actress, adept at smoothing his ruffled feathers out and not divulging her own feelings on the matter. And he wouldn’t ask, of course. If Varya wanted to express herself, she would, and had, quite openly in the past.

“I am so happy to be home,” she announced, gliding past the door to the club once Roman had opened it for her. “Do you think the babies are asleep, yet? I always miss putting them...”

Her voice trailed off, pausing a little as she seemed to realize that the club was cloaked in inky darkness, freezing just a few steps past the threshold. Roman let the door swing shut behind him, nudging her forward with a hand at the small of her back. He was met with some resistance; she steeled, stiffening against his insistence, before taking a few steps forward.

He said, barely keeping the delight out of his voice, “You’re holding up the line, V.”

“Roman,” Varya said, her voice pitched oddly soft and tight, “why—?”

The lights flashed on to a loud, unified cheer of Happy Birthday!; the club had been packed with vases of flowers, the tables donned with food and drink, and everyone worth their salt within a fifty-mile radius had made their way there. Not a single thing was out of place—everything exactly where he had instructed it be placed, and not a fucking chandelier in sight.

Roman came around in front of the brunette, grinning. “Happy—”

He stopped. Varya’s expression was not happy, or even surprised; it was something else, something that he couldn’t read, the pupils of her hot-whiskey eyes blown wide and the normally Renaissance-soft lines of her face sharpened and hardened into an expression that was more vicious.

“V?” he asked. Her eyes snapped to him, and for a second she looked the same way she had that night in the loft, her hands drenched in blood and the kitchen knife clutched in her fist with bodies at her feet: like she didn’t recognize him.

It took a heartbeat, but her expression smoothed out and she smiled, almost sheepish—like she’d been caught doing something naughty, instead of being caught being somewhere else. Someone else, more the wolf than the girl.

“The lights,” she explained, hands resting on his chest, “they startled me, is all.”

A frown creased his expression. He brought his hands up to hold her wrists, thumb pressed against her pulse point. It fluttered unsteadily. Unconvinced, Roman pressed, “The lights?”

“Just the lights,” Varya assured him. She tilted her head up and kissed him, one hand departing his jacket to go to the back of his neck—and when she kissed him, he could feel that strange little flicker of energy, like she’d been stamping something out before it could catch, but it still vibrated under her skin.

He opened his mouth to say something else, but she disentangled from him and swept around to the crowd of people waiting, beaming prettily and playing at bashfulness, as though she did not enjoy their eyes on her and did not soak their attention up like a flower did sunlight. Whatever had been plaguing her in that moment was now gone, and she was awash with attention and love, thanking people profusely and accepting each hug and cheek-kiss directed her way.

Roman brushed off the odd feeling that she wasn’t being as forthcoming with him as he would have preferred—no secrets anymore, isn’t that what they’d agreed on?—and instead waded into the crowd. Music kicked on overhead; chatter picked up to a warm humming around them; there was nothing else to think about except letting his girl enjoy her birthday celebration.

By the time Varya had made a suitable number of rounds (which tended to verge much higher than one, much to Roman’s chagrin—what tedious work, to share her with everyone else), she had barely sipped the glass of champagne someone had planted in her hand. She circled back to him eventually; like always, there was that pinprick tugging in the cavity of his chest, like they were bound by a single thread that kept them from parting too much and too quickly, and when she drew closer to him again it oozed relief, warm and vibrant, through his ribs.

“Sufficiently loved on?” he asked as she neared, hand reaching up to slide around her waist.

“By them? Certainly.” The brunette’s hand smoothed along his shoulder, the pad of her thumb gliding across the velvet of his jacket. “By you, though, not hardly. Not ever.”

“You are insatiable,” Roman agreed in a rumble. He splayed his fingers against the small of her back, tugging her in closer and brushing their noses together.

“Just for you,” Varya murmured, and the words brushed their lips together just a little—but everything with Varya, like this, felt like almost-kissing, enough to push him to some kind of edge where his stomach twisted and wrenched with want when she added, “And only for you.”

“You know I can’t resist you when you talk like that.”

She laughed, leaning in to set her glass to the side and curl her fingers into his shirt for a kiss; everything for a second felt normal, and good, and right again, the strange way she’d gone-away back in the doorway having disappeared, the dark cloud over her having cleared, her wretchedness from dinner dissipated.

And Roman kissed her, with the sound of the party chatter ringing in his ears, and kissed her with the faint taste of champagne flooding his senses when she parted her lips against his, and kissed her while his hand fisted the fabric of her dress and he managed out in a voice rough with want, “So you’re trying to rile me up.”

“I always,” Varya murmured against his mouth silkily, “want you riled, Romy.”

“Varya?”

A stranger’s voice filtered through the haze—the rose-colored one that usually accompanied Varya saying anything like she wanted him riled up—and Roman felt the irritation spike straight through it. He turned to look at the interruption at the same time that Varya did, only to find a young, handsome blonde standing just a foot away.

Varya said, sounding faint, “Maxim?”

“It has been a while,” the blonde said, and he sounded sheepish. “I called Armazd, asking after you—”

“Sorry,” Roman interjected briskly, fingers still curled—now possessively—into the fabric of Varya’s dress against the dip of her spine, “but who are you?”

His wife started to say, “Romy, this is—” at the same time that the man began, “I am sorry, my name—” and they both stopped at the same time, a strange little silence stretching between them.

“Maxim,” Varya said after a second, turning to look at Roman now. “This is Maxim. He is Artyem’s son.”

Roman stared at her, more to buy himself time than anything; she said the name like he was supposed to know who that was. Artyem, but it didn’t sound familiar. Almost any Russian name sounded like gibberish to him, and if Varya had said it to him, it had been in passing, an afterthought, nothing but a whisper of information passed between them before it was gone again.

Until it did. Until he remembered that the person Varya had thought was her father had actually been Artyem, that she’d poisoned him, let him bleed to death on the carpet while she had mentally checked out of the moment. That she had watched him die, but she had been somewhere else—someplace else, the way Ilarion had described it, very far away where she couldn’t even enjoy what she’d done fully.

And Maxim—golden, and polished, and clean-shaven—looked awfully pleasant for someone whose farther had choked to death on his own blood because of Varya.

“I see,” Roman said, even though he didn’t. His gaze turned to Maxim. “And you’ve—shown up without calling ahead?”

“I have been in Turkey,” Maxim explained, “finishing up some business, and I did not know how to get in touch—”

“Well, you spoke with Armazd, didn’t you?” Roman’s head tilted. “The man practically sleeps in our bed, I imagine he would have been happy to get you in contact with us.”

“Admittedly,” Maxim said, “I wanted it to be a surprise—”

No, Roman thought absently, venomously, that won’t do at all.

“—Varya’s birthday—”

“So you slunk in,” Roman elaborated tartly, “like a little street dog, hm?”

“Maxi,” Varya interjected, fingers absently tracing the stitching on Roman’s jacket, “why don’t you go get a drink and acquaint yourself with our friends? Armazd is just there—you see?”

Maxim’s eyes darted between her and Roman for a minute. He shifted on his feet, tilting and giving a little smile that might have liked abashed if Roman didn’t think he saw a little squirm of self-satisfaction in his gaze. Fucker.

“Of course,” the blonde replied after a moment. “C dnyom razhdyenyem, Varushka.” He took a step forward, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

Varya’s thumbnail dug into the lapel of Roman’s jacket. “Thank you, Maxi.”

Once the blonde had departed, linking up with Armazd in the crowd to get introduced, Roman straightened up from the bar. It was impossible not to stare at this newcomer—he glowed with an easy charisma, flashed bright smiles that were all teeth. Roman hated him already.

“Maxi?” he asked her, eyes narrowed, and Varya sighed. He waited for her to elaborate. Perhaps she’d say they had dated once, perhaps they were literally nothing. That would be ideal, after all. Ships passing in the night.

She said, “We grew up together.”

Even worse. Roman twisted a loose, dark curl of hers around his finger. “And you killed his father.”

“Well—” She paused, mouth pressing into a thin line. “He does not know.”

“He doesn’t—” The notion that she was keeping secrets, and not from him, coiled high and happy in his throat. He tried not to sound too delighted when he said, “V, surely he knows.”

“Surely he does not, that I did it. Only that it happened. And I will keep it that way,” she added firmly, picking up her champagne glass from the bar top. “Maxim was incredibly loyal to my father because Artyem was, but more than that—he was mine and Ilya’s friend. I’m sure he is missing Ilya almost as much as I am.”

“As we all are,” Roman agreed sagely, planting a kiss on her temple in spite of the dry look she gave him. It was hard to tell, to get a read on this Maxim. What was it he’d dragged himself out of the trenches for? Just to fly halfway across the world to wish Varya a happy birthday? Above all things, Roman understood that his wife was a desirable thing, and knowing that he kept her out of the reach of others was part of her appeal—but that much? Could someone who was just a friend want that much?

He continued, “So what is it that Maxim offers to the business, hm?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Varya demurred, which didn’t sound at all like the truth. “Artyem was the one who sent him out on jobs. My father kept things tight around the top, you know. If anyone would know what it was Maxim was up to in Turkey who wasn’t my father or Artyem, it would have been Ilarion.”

“I find it hard to believe you have no idea what your father was using someone for.”

The sound of delighted commentary drew both of their eyes away; Irina had come down, both dark-haired infants in her arms, and was walking them toward Varya and Roman. Murmured remarks on what could only be their cuteness passed throughout the crowd of party-goers.

“I am putting them down for bed,” Irina announced as she approached, “and I know you like to say goodnight.”

“Oh, you are an angel,” Varya murmured, glass set aside once again. She leaned in, pressing a kiss to baby Ro’s cheek. Yuliana babbled, and she sighed dreamily, “Have you ever seen more perfect babies, Roman?”

Perfect babies, a perfect wife; soon, he would even have the perfect grip on Gotham’s neck, throttling it until it was nothing but dust and ash. Soon, but not soon enough; he’d be content when it was just done and settled, when there was nothing else standing between him and everything that he wanted. Varya, and the guns—what an odd thing, to know that a year ago he’d set out for this and it was just falling into his lap.

“Romy?”

“Never,” Roman replied, smiling and glancing back at his wife, reaching and cradling the back of Yuli’s head. “I’ve never seen more perfect babies, V.”

Across the room, Maxim watched them. There was something about it that Roman didn’t like—the way his eyes flickered, the way he looked between the children and Varya, the way their eyes met and he didn’t deflect away. Like he didn’t mind getting caught. Where had he come from? What little shithole had he crawled out of, over a year after Nikita’s death and Ilarion’s death—longer, still, since his father’s death? Hadn’t he wondered what had happened to his father?

What are you doing here, he thought venomously, that you think you can just come in here like nothing? Like I won’t root you out like the little rat you are?

Maxim smiled. It was a polite smile, unassuming kind of smile.

Roman picked up his drink from the counter, taking a heavy swallow. Suddenly, the evening seemed to stretch out endlessly in front of him, no finish line in sight.

Nothing else standing between me and everything I want.

And he was going to keep it that way.

[captainsassmanes]

Follow up to It’s the Little Things

Alex poked his fingers between the blinds and slowly lifted them, hoping not to draw attention to himself. 

It was 9am on a blazing hot Saturday and he’d been woken by the sound of a weedwacker whirring right outside his window. He didn’t have to look to know exactly who it was, but he was curious as to what the fuck Michael was doing.

He’d be lying if he said the image of Michael, shirtless and sweating, didn’t turn him right the hell on but this was getting out of hand.

After Alex had spilled his guts, throwing his insecurities into the wind before thinking about where they’d land, he couldn’t get up. He lived for helping Michael, for finding ways to give back, to make some kind of difference, however small, in the other man’s life. 

Michael had managed to call him on his bullshit, though. It was Alex’s way of staying involved, of being as close to Michael as he could be without physically being near him.

But he’d pushed too hard and it really was over. 

That first night was awful. He replayed their conversation, or the word vomit he’d spewed, nonstop. He drank, and then drank some more, until he woke up on the couch, stiff and barely able to move with a headache that made blinking agonizing.

After a puke, a coffee and some eggs, Alex had taken Buffy outside and sat in one of his patio chairs, taking in his house, his car, his stuff.

It meant little now.

The thought of Michael, of their potential relationship, possible future, had quietly been keeping him going all these years. To have that hope extinguished...he didn’t have the words to describe how empty he’d felt.

His chest ached as he went inside and opened his laptop, starting his search for the country’s top cities. He knew he’d want to live somewhere busy, populated, but safe. His job could easily be remote once his re-enlistment period was up, plus he had quite a bit of money saved so he could take his time getting readjusted.

New York City and LA definitely had his attention, the music scenes alone would be worth the trip, but the apartments were tiny, and he may end up having to sell a kidney to pay his rent. Miami wasn’t his scene and Seattle looked like the type of place to send his depression spiraling.

He grabbed his third cup of coffee and moved to the living room, getting comfortable on the couch and making room for Buffy to rest her head on his lap. He found another one of those top cities lists and was intrigued by Portland. LGBT friendly, relaxed people, music scene, not so far that he couldn’t visit if he wanted to.

That afternoon was spent clicking through photos, checking out postings for apartments, falling down a YouTube spiral of some artists who got their start in the city.

The next day, feeling a bit better with a plan under his belt, he’d ventured outside to Beam Me Up for a cup of coffee and a snack. On his way out, he literally bumped into Maria.

“God, sorry. Did any of that spill?”

Alex just blinked, an uncomfortable wave of jealousy moving over his skin and pinching him where it landed.

He shook his head and said, “no. It’s okay.”

She gave him a smile as they stood awkwardly in the doorway. He wanted to say something, even if it was small or unimportant, just something to break the ice, but his instincts telling him to get home were clouding his thoughts.

“Michael mentioned he saw you the other day.”

Alex’s eyes grew wide. They hadn’t spoken in weeks; nothing more than worthless pleasantries and she knew why; he’d been honest with her. He’d also felt he’d been fair, leaving them both alone to their relationship, not interfering or getting involved.

At least he’d thought that was what he’d been doing.

But now, as he stared at his oldest friend, watching as her face changed to apprehension, maybe realizing that playing the we can connect over Michael card was the wrong move, he felt angry.

“I’m moving.”

Maria stepped back, surprised. “What?”

Alex nodded, looking around the street, hoping he looked as relaxed and casual as he was aiming for. “Yep. When my enlistment period is over.”

Her mouth opened and shut a few times, small sounds trying to become words escaping. Eventually, she was able to croak out a, “where?”

Alex shrugged and took a sip of his coffee. “Portland looked interesting. I’m looking at a few apartments there.”

The silence took over again as the street became a bit busier with the weekend tourists coming out to enjoy the weather and the sights. Maria’s hair bounced, the ends of her head scarf wrapping loosely around her throat. “You’re leaving because of me, right? Because of me and Michael? You can’t just go because – “

“I have no reason to stay, Maria.” Their eyes met and both sets were filled with a sadness neither could describe. Alex’s heart felt too heavy in his chest, memories of late nights and shared shakes and tears and joints and hugs threatening to leak out of his eyes. Instead, he smiled. “My time here’s up. I did my part but it’s time to see something new.”

With that he turned and walked to his car, coffee cup shaking in one hand while his fingers curled painfully around the bag in the other. Fuck he missed Maria. But he didn’t know if he’d ever be able to look at her the way he used to again.

It was that night, his excitement dwindling and replaced by a quiet desperation, when the first text had come through.

Don’t leave.

Alex stared. Obviously, Maria had told Michael about their chat. Maybe he felt bad, a twinge of guilt. Alex hoped he did, then felt guilty for hoping Michael felt guilty. This was exactly why he had to leave.

He ignored the text and went back to his computer, sipping on a beer and occasionally giving Buffy some nice scratches behind the ears.

His phone pinged again. Alex stared at it, hoping his glare would make it blow up or something. In the end, curiosity got the best of him and he looked at the text.

Don’t leave me.

Alex’s heart raced as his fingers moved without thinking.

You wouldn’t come with me anyway.

He turned his phone off and tossed it across the room, not caring when it bounced along the wood floor a few times.

He didn’t sleep well after that. Thoughts of car rides and spaceships and apartments and soft blankets and bright sunshine and honey curls played behind his eyelids every time he tried to rest.

The further away from Michael he was, the better it’d be for everyone.

The next morning his doorbell rang at 8am. Alex had thought it was a part of his dream at first, cuddled up on a firm, warm chest, wiry hairs beneath his fingers while nails scraped his scalp, lulling him back to sleep. When the buzzing continued, he was thrown back into reality with a big, empty bed and a headache to boot.

Grabbing his crutches, he went to the door and threw it open, shocked to find Michael on the other side looking clean shaven with a cup of coffee.

Michael looked…different. Yes, the beard was trimmed, maybe his hair, too? His clothes were definitely clean. But there was an energy, an aura, around him that Alex hadn’t seen in years. One side of Michael’s mouth lifted, an almost bashful smile, and he held out the coffee cup. Even Michael’s fingernails were clean. Alex lost some time staring at those nails and remembering the comfort they’d brought him in his dream just moments before.

Michael cleared his throat, bringing Alex’s attention back to the moment. “Whole milk and one sugar.”

Alex raised an eyebrow. “What are you doing?”

Michael shrugged and pushed the cup gently into Alex’s chest. “Bringing you a coffee. Good morning, by the way.”

Alex would later blame the broken night’s sleep for the dreamy way he’d whispered out, “good morning,” while accepting the cup. He took a sip and was instantly in his glory. His favorite coffee from his favorite café made perfectly delivered by his favorite…

“Well, have a good day, Alex.”

While Alex stood in the doorway, mouth hanging open at a loss for words, Michael sauntered back to his truck and drove away.

It had fucked with Alex for the rest of the day.

After that morning, Michael made appearances most days. A delivery of a burger and fries one afternoon, randomly bent over the hood of Alex’s Jeep for a tune up a few evenings later, dropping off a case of Alex’s favorite beer. Each time Michael came around, the conversation was limited. Michael would smile, explain why he was there and, as soon as he was finished, he’d smile and say goodbye, driving off once again.

Alex hated it. It was so confusing and contradictory, it made him fucking furious.

Alex really loved it.

He was seeing more of Michael than he had in years and Michael was absolutely different but in a way that suited Michael, not as though he’d changed to fit someone else’s wishes. He looked great and seemed healthy. Happy.

Apparently, today was clean up the yard day. With a sigh, Alex turned from his window and looked at Buffy with her head raised and cocked to the side in concern.

“Yes, it’s Michael.” Buffy’s tail wagged furiously. “You little traitor.”

Alex watched him for a few quiet minutes, taking in every detail, from the way his curls looked almost blonde when the sun hit just right, to the pattern of body hair scattered across his torso, to the flex of his legs when he bent and stretched.

He’d realized the other night, as he sipped on one of the beers Michael had bought him, that he’d stopped looking at apartments, collecting more information on Portland. All it took was for Michael to notice him and his universe tilted, and its center of gravity became Michael once again. That was the first night since their fight he’d allowed himself to cry again.

With a sudden surge of resolve, Alex threw open his drawers and grabbed whatever clothes his hands touched. He took the time to get his leg on, wanting to feel stable and steady for whatever came next.

By the time he got outside, Michael was leaning against the bed of the truck looking like a tan god, bottle of water to his lips, head tossed back with his face covered in sunlight.

Taking a deep breath, Alex charged ahead.

“I want a reason.”

Michael startled a bit, lost in his own thoughts, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Alex couldn’t help but stare at the dampness his hand missed.

“What reason?”

“Don’t be coy, Michael. It’s not cute.”

Playfully, Michael pouted while batting his lashes. Alex wanted to laugh and scream and cry and hold Michael, confusion and caution warring within him.

Alex looked at the ground, noting a nasty scuff across the toe of one of his boots. He pushed his foot into the sand and whispered, “why are you doing this to me?”

Michael made a quiet noise that sounded hurt and stood straight, blocking out the sun from Alex’s face. “To you?”

Alex looked up and fell into hazel eyes. He nodded. “You’re not actually trying to talk to me. But you’re being- being really kind and generous. I don’t understand.” He shook his head this time and took a step back so he could think. “You told me to get out of your life, I say okay, and then you come flying back into mine.”

Michael shook his head and started digging around the bed of his truck, apparently looking for his t-shirt to throw on as well as his trademark hat. Turning back to Alex, he shrugged and pulled out his car keys.

“I have no idea what I’m doing, Alex.” The silence between them felt thick with opportunity; to be honest, straightforward. Just a chance. “But that night I…” Michael scoffed and broke eye contact, looking around at Alex’s house. “You’ve got a loose shingle up there – “

“That night you what, Michael?”

With a sigh, Michael continued, “I knew that might be it. I know I’ve pushed, and you’ve walked and recently I’ve been pushing a lot harder but I just, I dunno, never let myself imagine you not being in my life somehow.”

Alex crinkled his eyebrows, confused yet again. “If you didn’t want me to go then why say all that shit about – “

“I have been drowning for years, Alex. In booze, in sex, in work, in regret. Just fucking drowning. Then you came back, and your dad was the fucking devil and then my mom and Max. I couldn’t separate it all out. Everything felt like it went back to you.”

Alex nodded, feeling the familiar creep of guilt working its way into his gut. “And I said I understood all of that. I gave you as much space as I could.”

“Did you?”

Alex sighed and dug his hands into his pockets, wishing he had something in his hands to keep them better occupied. He could either choke Guerin at the moment or pull him into a suffocating kiss. He couldn’t decide.

“I guess I didn’t.” He blinked as the next thought smacked him across the face. “I’m not as strong as you, Michael. I can’t know you’re nearby and struggling and do nothing.”

Michael shook his head, taking a step closer to Alex.

“That’s why I’m moving. I can’t stop myself from being in your orbit and you made it clear that’s what you wanted. It’ll give me a fresh start, too, you know. No one’ll recognize the Manes name. No one will care. I can just be another face out there, have a little anonymity and figure out what I’m doing.”

“I don’t want you to go.”

Alex groaned. “C’mon, Michael! You just came here not that long ago bitching that I sent you some food! I’d think you’d be thrilled that I’d be gone.”

Michael laughed. Alex watched as his face changed with the humor and his heart broke a little to see how much younger Michael could look when he relaxed. Even if just for a second. “I told you stay away. You didn’t. I told you again stay away and then you did. Then I couldn’t stay away and now you’re gonna leave. Can we just say the fucking things we need to say and stop doing this?”

Alex took the challenge at face value and straightened up, nodding his head. “Fine.”

“Why did you do all those nice things for me even when I told you to stay away?”

“Because I love you.”

The ease with which those words slid from Alex’s mouth surprised both of them. There was something freeing about the honesty, of finally just saying the words out loud to Michael without fear of rejection or consequence.

He took a deep breath. “Because I love you and I was worried about you.”

Michael licked his lips and looked away, nodding in understanding.

“Your turn,” Alex whispered, pulling Michael’s attention back. “Why do you keep showing up here when you told me to stay away?”

“Because I regretted everything I said as soon as I said it.” Alex lifted an eyebrow, not fully understanding. “I thought I needed distance. Not seeing you all the damn time helped me focus on other things. And I did tell you the truth; I didn’t think we were good for each other and I really, really wanted to be good for Maria.”

Alex took a step back, feeling the burn in his throat start at the mention of his friend’s name when Michael’s callused fingers wrapped around his wrist. “The second I realized I probably pushed you completely out of my life, I regretted it. I don’t want you to leave. I don’t want you to stop caring. I want to be better. I just – “

Michael stopped and took a deep breath, clearly overwhelmed as his voice began to crack. Alex slowly shifted his wrist from Michael’s grip and gently held his fingers in his own.

Michael sighed, “can you ask me one more time?”

Alex nodded. “Why do you keep showing up here when you told me to stay away?”

“Because I love you.”

They stood together in the blazing sun, sweating and staring at one another as though the world had fallen away. The moment was broken when Alex’s eyes shifted to Michael’s turquoise belt buckle. “But you love Maria, too.”

Michael nodded and watched helplessly as Alex let go of his hand. “I do. But I love Maria the same way you love Maria.”

Alex rolled his eyes. “I don’t know what that means.”

“She’s my friend, Alex. That night we fought I had an epiphany.”

“An epiphany?”

“Yeah. You probably already know this but I’m an alcoholic.”

Alex’s head whipped up with concern in his eyes. His mouth moved but he couldn’t think of anything to say.

Michael took it as his cue to continue. “I’ve also been a shit brother to Isobel, so I’ve been working on that. But the morning after I left here, I talked to Maria. Told her how I was feeling, she talked about her feelings and, we both just told the truth.”

“Which was?”

A smile tugged on Michael’s lips. “That we both love you.”

Alex cleared his throat, doing his best not to start crying. “I’d like to get back to the alcoholic piece of this, and I’m glad you’ve stepped up to support Isobel but, uh, are you and Maria still together?”

Michael shook his head. “Not for about, what? Two weeks now?”

Alex nodded. “Okay.”

“Go out with me.”

Alex waited a beat, making sure he’d heard clearly before repeating, “okay.”

“The Crashdown? Lunch tomorrow? Around 12?”

Alex nodded. “Yeah. I’ll meet you there.”

Michael smiled and closed his truck. Slowly, he took off his hat and leaned in, kissing Alex on the cheek. They were both just piles of sweat and beet[TS1]  red, but Alex thought it might be one of the most romantic moments of his life.

“I wanna do this right, Alex. From the beginning.”

Alex smiled. “Me, too. I’ll see you tomorrow. For our first date.”

Michael laughed, his youth bursting through every pore. “For our first date.”

[demented-dukey]

Fic: Say No To This...

Trigger Warnings: RemRom, Selfcest (You can read it as incest or not, they don’t call themselves brothers so it’s open to interpretation) Lyrics are from “Hamilton” Rating: PG-13 AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19718389

💚 ❤️ 💚 ❤️ 💚 

I hadn’t slept in a week, I was weak, I was awake You’d never seen a bastard orphan more in need of a break

Roman had been running on empty for the past week. Usually there was a break after each video was posted, a time to rest and recharge, but this time it was different. Thomas had been so afraid of taking this risk, of pushing his channel’s boundaries with the “Intrusive Thoughts” video, that he’d been fretting nonstop about the consequences. Normally it would have been Virgil’s job to manage Thomas’s anxiety, but Thomas was freaking out so much about the reactions to this video that the stress was bleeding into Roman’s sphere of influence. He was doing his best to Creatively find a solution to each of Thomas’s fears, but it was taking its toll and Roman was exhausted.

And then there was Remus.

Before the video, before their host knew that Remus existed, Remus had mostly kept to the subconscious - causing havoc but mostly staying out of sight.

But now, that had changed.

There is nowhere I can go...

Remus was everywhere. Now that Thomas had acknowledged his existence, Remus was no longer confined to the shadows of Thomas’s mind. Remus could come and go anywhere in the mindscape, and there was no way to force him back into Pandora’s box. Remus was ecstatic with his newfound freedom, and he was constantly taunting all the the other sides, poking at their defenses and making a general nuisance of himself.

Roman wasn’t special in this aspect. Remus was messing with all of the sides in different ways: He snuck vulgar flashcards into Logan’s collection. He almost poisoned a batch of Patton’s cookies by messing with the ingredients when Patton was distracted. He was pushing Virgil’s buttons, spinning wild scenarios where fans turned on Thomas and tore him apart for his questionable content. Roman wasn’t sure if Remus was messing with Deceit too - the side was still so mysterious and kept mostly to himself despite also being able to freely roam the mindscape.

So, Roman wasn’t alone in his torment.

The trouble was, Remus wasn’t doing anything that Roman could pin down. Sure, there were the occasional butts drawn on his papers or rude suggestions interjected in the drafts of his scripts, but that wasn’t anything new.

No, it was much more complicated than that. Remus was always there, following Roman around every time he left his room. Roman had tried changing his schedule and leaving his room at random times, moving stealthily and sneakily around the mindscape, but Remus would always find him eventually.

Lord, show me how to say no to this I don’t know how to say no to this

The trouble with Remus was that he was so. Damn. Distracting. Everything he did was designed to draw attention to himself. It only took the flash of light catching on glitter, and suddenly Roman would realize he’d been staring at Remus for several minutes. Remus’s costume was intricate, and Roman’s gaze would drift from the teeth to the belt buckle, then up to the eyeball, before he would notice Remus had felt his attention and was leering right back at him. Roman would shake himself and look away, but his gaze would keep drifting back against his will.

Even the way Remus moved was designed to draw attention. And he was constantly moving. His shoulders would cock at an angle and his hips would shimmy even when he was standing “still”. He couldn’t simply “walk”, he had to strut or sashay his way from point A to B. 

And then there was the personal space issue. The issue was, Remus had no concept of a personal space bubble. If he wasn’t literally draping himself over Roman’s shoulder to look at what he was doing, he was standing too close or sprawling half-on-top of him on the couch when Roman was trying to watch cartoons. It was irritating and insidious, and it made Roman twitch and his skin break out in goosebumps every time Remus came near.

The euphemisms were the icing on the cake. Every word out of Remus’s mouth was either disgusting or a dirty double entendre, or both. He was obsessed with butts and could find a way to interject something sexual into any topic of conversation. It was impossible to ignore him - he would just take it as a challenge to be as obnoxious as possible, and then when a side finally looked at him, he would be making a rude gesture or stroking an object suggestively.

'Cause the situation’s helpless And her body’s screaming, “Hell, yes”

The other sides (minus Deceit) had started taking shifts keeping an eye on the common rooms of the mindscape - none of them wanted to wake up and find out what Remus had done when he was bored and unsupervised. Roman usually took the night shift - he was already awake and monitoring Thomas’s dreams, so he didn’t mind the late hours.

It was one of these nights, and Roman was pacing the living room. He’d been watching Disney movies when Remus had shown up, and the stress of Remus’s presence was filling Roman with so much nervous energy that he couldn’t sit still anymore. Remus had started pacing a few steps behind him, deliberately copying his movements, and it was driving Roman crazy.

Roman turned on his heel, grabbed Remus by his shirt, and slammed him back against a wall. “Dear God, will you stop?” he exclaimed.

A slow, wicked smirk spread across Remus’s face. “Why don’t you make me? That is, unless-” Roman slapped a hand across Remus’s mouth, willing to force Remus into silence if he had to. Remus started to struggle, but Roman had him firmly pinned against the wall, so Remus’s efforts were reduced to writhing between the hard surface and Roman’s body. The friction made Roman’s nerves catch fire, and he felt himself flush.

“I said, stop it.” Roman growled, shoving Remus even harder against the wall.

Remus must have noticed the blush in his cheeks, because something changed in his gaze. Remus’s struggles slowed into a sensuous undulation, and Roman could feel Remus’s tongue start tracing designs against his palm.

It was too much and not enough at the same time. Something inside Roman broke, and he pulled his hand away, replacing it with his mouth. The kiss was angry and forceful, slamming Remus’s head back into the wall with a loud crack, but Roman didn’t care. The dam was breaking inside him, all of the stress that had been building up over the past week finally finding an outlet, and he was being washed away in the torrent.

With his last shred of self-control, Roman wrenched his head away from Remus, breathing raggedly into his shoulder. “Tell me no,” Roman pleaded, eyes closed, his voice breaking, “Please, tell me to stop.”

Remus’s only response was to grab Roman by the back of the neck and pull him into another brutal kiss.

Nobody needs to know...

[systemadministratorclu]

Today would’ve been Leonard Nimoy’s 88th birthday. Let’s take a moment to remember him.

(this was originally posted here, but I wanted the entire description to be visible.)

What do I do with all I need to say So much I wanna tell you every day Oh, it breaks my heart I cry these tears in the dark I write these letters to you But they get lost in the blue 'Cause there's no address in the stars

Without you here with me I don't know what to do I'd give anything just to talk to you

Oh, it breaks my heart, oh, it breaks my heart

All I can do is write these letters to you But there's no address in the stars

- from "Address in the Stars" by Caitlin and Will Oh God. Where do I begin? This was so hard to get through. I cried every time I thought of Leonard and looked at his picture (and I'm crying now, even as I write this). I'm serious. I couldn't stop crying as I drew this, and at some points I had to pause because I couldn't see through the tears. At the same time, I enjoyed doing this. Despite my nonstop tears, I saw Leonard smiling at me from that picture the whole time. That's why I did this. For him. I love you, dear sweet Leonard Nimoy, and I always will. That song immediately came to mind when I looked at the reference pic, and the second half, which I've included here, seemed to be written about how I feel anymore with Leonard. I know it's been months, but it's the kind of pain that doesn't ever go away. The kind that comes from never realizing how much someone, even someone you've never met, means to you until they're gone. I never thought the death of someone I didn't know personally would have such an effect on me. I have never cried at art tributes to someone's death, nor have I mourned the passing of any person who was famous worldwide, but it feels like Leonard took a piece of my heart with him when he left. I still remember trying to get through the rest of the day feeling numb and distant. Up until then, I had thought he was just another actor that the media wouldn't leave alone. Then he left us and took that piece of me with him and I realized he was so much more than that, to me and millions of others. I truly believe he was the physical embodiment of love itself, sent here to show us what the word really means. The world now feels a bit colder without him. But now there's one more angel waiting for us to come home, the light of his extraordinary love guiding us there, where he'll welcome us all. One more lovely voice has been added to the chorus in the clouds. One more star, a bright, undying, eternal fire star, has taken its place in the sky. I included a really crappy looking Enterprise, as well as the planet Cybertron and its two moons as representations of my two favorite Nimoy characters, Mr. Spock and Sentinel Prime (Transformers 3: Dark of the Moon). I drew the fire star I mentioned earlier as the biggest one on the page and put it right over dear Leonard's heart, where it comes from. The dragoness I imagined as being me, and the letters she's carrying as everything I wish I could say to Leonard. However, you can also view her as the messenger from everyone whose heart was broken by his passing, hence her tear, and the letters being from everyone who wished they could say something to him but couldn't. She's flying the messages to him, but as the song lyrics in the drawing point out, there is no address in the stars. I did not mean to give him a halo of stars, that's just how it came out. But I'm glad it did. It brings out his warm smile and sparkling eyes that were always bright like miniature stars themselves. Even in his old age, he was beautiful in every way. I'm not going to ever get over him. And I don't ever want to. Good night, beloved Leonard Nimoy, who lived long and prospered, and unintentionally broke millions of hearts when you left. May flights of angels sing thee to thy rest…….til all are one Leonard Nimoy belongs to the heavens Star Trek belongs to Gene Roddenbury and Paramount Transformers belongs to Hasbro "Address In The Stars" belongs to Caitlin and Will The dragoness belongs to me

[fuchashok]

ACOUSTIC SIGNALS

FS: Can you tell me some of your influences?

VO: Oh gosh. I’m always bad at answering this question. I don’t even know where to start because I listen to such a broad range of music. Ani DiFranco and Bjork were big influences on me when I was growing up. Sylvan Esso may be my biggest influence right now. I just saw them in concert. They’re a duo, producer and singer, and she’s an incredible songwriter. It’s somewhat dance music but really quality songwriting. Also the rhythms of Tune-Yards. A lot of trip-hop like Portishead. I just got to see Hamilton, so I’m listening to the soundtrack nonstop and I listen to all the artists on the Hamilton mixtape, I definitely have some hip hop influences.

I don’t have a top 3 in terms of influences right now. Kimbra is big influence on me so it was cool to see her speak at Loop. My friends are very influential on me, especially when they’re pushing hard and putting music out, producing. I’m part of 2 groups -Women Beatmakers & Female Frequency- both challenging yet inspiring.

Female Frequency creates albums that are made entirely by women. All the songwriters, the instrumentalists, engineers and singers. Even the studio owners are women. I’m going to work on remixing one of Female Frequency’s recent releases. I’m trying to get involved more with actual releases that women are involved with. I’ll be on the next Female Frequency album, producing a track by myself - maybe my first official solo production?

When it comes to production, I usually co-produce. I’ve produced things for placements or to pitch but I haven’t released anything official under my name that I produced by myself, yet.

FS: At what point did you feel you wanted to become a singer?

VO: Well, I’ve been singing since I was like 4 so I don’t think there was any kind of light bulb that went on where I was like “Oh I should be a singer.” As a toddler, I distinctly remember singing to the painter who was painting my mom’s bathroom. I was on stage by 5, doing plays, then later musicals in high school and college. I did stop music for a while because I worked on grassroots campaigns for environmental and social justice. I missed music, so once I started learning songwriting and guitar I felt like I had come back into my own. I wrote about justice in my songs too in different ways and try to have an impact that way.

FS: What kind of singer do you consider yourself? Folk?

VO: Definitely not anymore. My style as I call it is Electro-alt-pop. That pretty much covers the range of things that I do. I don’t write “shiny” Pop, like Katy Perry. But it’s a pop structure: there’s verses, choruses, usually a bridge. To me that’s Pop. When I go to these electronic shows like in Berlin, it’s different. I wouldn’t call myself “electronic” exactly, even though I use electronic elements and I work in Ableton. When I heard some of the women from Female Pressure perform, I was like ok, I don’t do that kind of electronic music. That’s often way more experimental, too.

After Berlin was when I defined myself as a Pop writer. Took me a while to call myself that - for one, people have this thing about pop. But it’s really such a broad genre and I’m proud to be able to write a concise, catchy song.

I wouldn’t call my music folk, though some of it may be political, and some of my influences are folk, but I rarely play acoustic guitar live, for example. I sometimes write on acoustic guitar but I always go back to my electric guitar and I now always go back to some kind of electronic production.

FS: So you made a transition at some point?

VO: Yes, just within the last couple of years… With my old band, I was doing alternative rock but then I started exploring more electronic production. Sometimes I miss all live instruments for sure, but I think this is the genre that’ll I’ll stick to for a while. “Electro Alt-Pop” covers the Alternative side of me with electronic influences and the Pop song structures with catchy melodies.

FS: What about another musician would make you want to collab?

VO: Thinking about the musicians that I collaborate with now, I have to feel super comfortable around them. So I tend to work with close friends. But the last album I released I didn’t really know the co-producers well, initially. Working with them over the course of a year, I of course got to know them. Now, if I’m starting on a production myself I’ll probably give it to somebody else to work on back and fourth, I’m usually going to pick somebody I’m already comfortable with.

The most important thing for me is that I don’t feel stupid bringing up an idea or doing something that doesn’t sound good. When you’re working on music, its ok if it’s bad at first, so I have to feel comfortable brainstorming or working on stuff that won’t be perfect at first. So I collab with this producer Audible Doctor, who’s more established than I am but I feel comfortable working with him. I know that he’ll appreciate my ideas and where I’m coming from, even if he’s got more production experience.

So, that’s one thing: feeling comfortable. Then there’s their talent and skill. I have to like their beats. And they need to be hard workers because I work really hard and anyone who I work with is most likely going to be working really hard along-side me, so…

FS: How do you come up with most of your song titles?

VO: Most of the songwriters I know come up with their song titles first. That’s a very natural way of writing Pop and Folk. I think it’s a really strong way to write. Still, I tend to do it the other way around. The idea is to keep a journal with you all the time, where you write song titles whenever you think of them - and draw from that list when you have a chance to write a song. Sia, who top lines a lot, does that. It’s a really good way to do it. But right now for the most part I come up with the song titles from the choruses.

“Wake You,” my EP title, and most of my album titles, come from a lyric in the song. My last album was called “Fires and Overturned Cars,” which is a lyric from my song “Incite Riot.”

FS: What instrument do you feel compliments your voice the best?

VO: I would love to have a keyboard player in my band, again. In terms of songwriting, genre and style along with the sounds that I want, they come more from the synth world than the guitar. But, I love guitar and I’m never going to stop playing it. I’ve taken a break from it, though, to work more on my production, but I still play guitar at all my shows. I also really like writing to drum beats. And to other vocals, writing more layers than record over that.

It’s hard to say that any one instrument makes my voice sound better. I think it’s more of the sound or rhythm that I’m writing to. I write to tracks for film and tv, and learned I pretty much can write to anything.

FS: Lets get into performing. How has performing helped your songwriting?

VO: That’s a great question. I tend to be more inspired to write when I’m performing more. I practice more before the performance to get ready and get in the head space of a songwriter and artist. It keeps me in that space so I’m more excited about writing.

I’m in a bit of a transition now because of my new EP, “Wake You.” Translating that to a live performance has been really different than anything else I’ve done in the past. Now, when I’m writing I spend a lot of time trying to figure out how to perform those songs - probably too early in the process to be thinking about that- but I don’t like to use tracks live. So that’s holding me back from writing new material a little bit. It’s going to take time and experience producing more tracks.

The main thing about my music is that I want to keep the live instrumentation in there. I want to sure make my guitar is there. My songs often come from me sitting with my guitar and writing. But when I produce a beat and write over that, I take a really different angle to play it live. I don’t know how much I can translate my fully produced non-guitar based songs onto guitar. Sometimes it just doesn’t sound as good. My song “Call You My Own” was written on guitar and then we manipulated it so much you can’t really tell- but that one I still play the whole song on guitar live.

FS: How has New York influenced your music?

VO: Oh my god, it’s probably the number one influence on my music right now because of the people that I’ve met here. When I first moved here in November 2012, I went to shows every night to meet people. Compared to San Francisco where I lived before, it seemed that the music was edgier, harder-hitting which was what I was going for. Also I got involved in Women Beatmakers and Female Frequency. I met so many different producers and felt really empowered to be able to produce myself because I saw all these other women doing it. That’s a huge part of why I make the music that I do now.

And all my collaborators are here now. The reason I have a side gig now writing for T.V. and film is because of someone I met here who runs a music library. There’s just so much opportunity for musicians. It’s hard to live here, it’s really expensive but the quantity of the music here and the quality of musicians has pushed me to be a better musician. It’s a constant hustle here but that’s my personality anyways. It’s inspiring to see so many other people hustling so hard, too.

FS: What are some other places you want to perform at?

VO: I’m dying to perform in Tokyo, not for any good reason but wanting to go there, and play in a really different place than here. I have a friend there who says I should just come and play. But mostly, I want to have longer and bigger tours around the US. Of course, I would love to perform in Europe. I want to perform everywhere but I think the next steps are getting my show together - so I can put on the best show possible and represent my music in the best light, and so I can also play everything from a house concert to a large venue. That goes for gear, too - What’s the most minimal I can bring and what they can provide in order to put on a really good concert in someone’s house, for example.

I always want my show to be really great.

FS: How was it performing in Europe?

VO: Berlin was awesome. I was definitely still working out the kinks playing Ableton PUSH Live. But it was really cool. I pulled together a night with Female Pressure and Female Frequency. Female Pressure is an international group of female-identified producers. I met them through a friend that lived in Berlin for a while. I put on a showcase of about six producers. I performed with my bass player. I back her up for her songs and she backed me up for my songs. That was a really awesome night.

Then we played another show that was only for headphones. The entire audience only had headphones on. Have you ever heard of this? It’s like a silent disco. But everybody was sitting, watching and listening through headphones only, while we had headphones on too. It was really a great opportunity for sound designers and mix engineers that have a perfect mix. I don’t know its not as great for live instrumentation, but it was a cool experience and it was fun to take your headphones off and just watch. I definitely want to get back to Europe and play more of Berlin, too.

FS: You want to speak on Loop?

VO: Loop was amazing. Last year was the first year that I went. It was incredible to meet so many other producers. Its not really a scene that I’ve been in. So it was inspiring being with producers from all around the world. There was some really cool workshops, especially the one where we all got to work on each other’s beats. We would listen to someone’s beat and then work on it in Ableton. It was called “Production Carousel.” So we got to work on five different producer’s beats and five different people worked on my beats. Then at the end we could hear entirely different version of our own beat. Super cool. Also at Loop, I got to meet a bunch of people from Female Pressure. Obviously the shows and the big panels were really inspiring.

Of course it was really weird to be in Germany during the US presidential election, that kind of put a damper on the whole trip. But the Loop Summit was incredible I hope to go again this year.

FS: How has your work as an activist influenced and helped?

VO: Well, in terms of songwriting, especially at the beginning, it influenced my songs a lot. I wrote a lot of political folk songs. At this point I don’t write a lot of political stuff but there’s definitely a theme of empowerment that runs throughout all of my songs and I think that comes from doing social justice work. I was trained as a grassroots organizer. Every independent artist has to promote themselves now, and all my marketing skills come from being trained as an organizer and running political campaigns.

FS: What’s a personal song you wrote describing your life? It could be off the recent EP or the album before that?

VO: “Call You My Own,” the first track off the “Wake You” EP, I wrote when I was doing a couple shows in Cape Cod. I was single living in New York not feeling the dating scene there. I was alone in a room where I finally had some quiet then started thinking about somebody that I reconnected with from high school. Before I didn’t feel much, but after reconnecting, I thought maybe it’s my second chance accepting this person into my life. The line “Did I wait too long?” is wondering if he’ll give me that chance. The verses are rooted in me being on the road thinking about him. Then the second verse is about seeing him in high-school then seeing him recently. There’s this weird (musically) bridge at the end, running through some memories of him. So that’s the personal story behind that song.

FS: I noticed on one of your early albums you got to work with Mystic?

VO: I was a big fan of Mystic and living in San Francisco while she was in LA. I reached out to her about I song I had called “Black and White” which was about white privilege and racism. After she read the lyrics she wrote back “This is a really important song, I would love to be a part of it.” I was friends with Ice Cube’s engineer and ended meeting her at Ice Cube’s studio to record her rapping. It was a really cool experience to meet her and talk to her. It’s still one my favorite songs that I have because of her verse and just the vibe of the whole song, the back and fourth we have at the end. It’s all live instrumentation except for a couple of loops. The producer I was working with at the time was Jon Evans, an incredible bass player.

I don’t perform it much live anymore because it’s different from what I do now. I would love to collaborate with her again. She said at the time that most people ask her to sing and rap. But I always thought of her as a rapper.

FS: What are you listening to right now?

VO: Like I said, Sylvan Esso. Also Empress Of, who producers a lot of her own stuff. Alice Smith who’s R&B and Pop, some of Phantogram. Bishop Briggs is a great artist. Feist, who’s more on the folk side of things now but used to be in a punk band. FKA Twigs. Anna Wise. Frank Ocean. Laura Mvula. Francis and the Lights. Glass Animals…

Live Setup

VO: I’m on Electric guitar with live pedals, and controlling Ableton with the Push 2 and a Softstep. My bass player plays electric bass and she has a midi controller which I think is a MPK small keyboard. She runs Ableton into the synth bass. My drummer as an acoustic drum set then he has SPD FX, which is a drum pad that he has sounds stored in so he doesn’t need Ableton. And then I have 2 to 3 soul back-up singers.

FS: Do you have anything to say to your fans?

VO: Thanks for interviewing me. It helps to talk about my process because it makes me stop and think about it. To my fans: more music will be coming! And I always love to hear from new so I want to know what you think of the new songs. If you want me to come to your town, just let me know!

VALERIEORTH.COM

TWITTER: @VLOMUSIC

INSTAGRAM: VALERIEORTH

PURCHASE/STREAM  WAKE YOU EP | FIRES AND OVERTURNED CARS |

FARAWAY CITY

[closetofanxiety]

Pointless categorization of US wrestling promotions

This is really for my own benefit. I’m someone who loves to put things in categories. My God, the number of times I’ve reorganized my records and books. Anyway, this is partly to try and make some sense of the bewildering landscape of professional wrestling in the United States, circa 2017. Feel free to tamper, teach, impart.

The Major League

WWE: This is really it. No one else is even close. In the 1990s, there were two major leagues, the WWF and “the” WCW (people will argue that ECW was a third major, but this is not correct, really). In the 1980s, there were three: WWF, NWA, and AWA. Before that, it was a little confusing, since there were technically three big wrestling feds (NWA, WWF/WWWF, AWA), but for most of that time the WWF was secretly part of the NWA, and the NWA and AWA had a working arrangement not to compete with each other. Really, it was the NWA and no one else in those days. Today’s landscape is very different from those monopolistic days, though, because the NWA was a cartel consisting of many different promotions, while the WWE is a single company controlled by a 70-year-old bodybuilder with the aesthetic sensibilities of a 13-year-old boy. The lack of competition at the top is so glaring that the WWE has been forced to create the illusion of multiple companies, with the “competing” Raw and Smackdown Live shows, and even its own minor league, NXT. This is the top of the ladder for wrestling, not only in the United States, but also worldwide: no one is anywhere near as big as the WWE, and it’s where virtually all wrestlers think about working sooner or later, unless they’re the Young Bucks or Kota Ibushi.

The Distant Second Tier

If WWE is the equivalent of the majors, these companies are the equivalent of AAA ball: they’re not indies, they’re on TV, but they have a fraction of the WWE’s audience and resources, and most of their wrestlers have to work indies (or other jobs) to make a living.

Ring of Honor: A lot of people still categorize ROH as an indie (or “super indie”), but that hasn’t been true since 2011, when the company was purchased by the Sinclair Broadcast Group. Owned by a real company, on cable as well as syndicated TV, touring nationally and running PPVs, and able to offer at least some wrestlers exclusive contracts, Ring of Honor is arguably the second-largest pro wrestling company in the United States, now that TNA has spent the last two years getting kicked to lower rungs of the outer limits of cable TV. Still sort of an indie in spirit, ROH is in the midst of a prolonged identity crisis, not really sure of what it wants to be or how it wants to proceed. ROH shows are perfectly good and enjoyable to watch, but the days when the company was the creative leader of the entire wrestling industry in the United States now seem very distant.

Total Nonstop Action: Created to be the successor to WCW, a new rival to WWE in a planned “Big Two” of the 21st century, it’s hard to overstate how badly TNA has squandered any advantage it ever had. This is a company that managed to be bounced from Spike TV in 2014, despite producing that network’s highest-rated show. Today, in the netherworld of Pop TV - where they aren’t even paid by the network - they’re averaging about a third of their Spike viewership, pre-taping shows, and seeing most of their roster work indie dates. The recent acquisition of the company by a new owner, and the final departure of Dixie Carter after 14 disastrous years at the helm, have raised hopes that things might get better, but right now it’s hard to imagine any wrestler who thinks of TNA as a final destination in their career.

Lucha Underground: This gets a big ol’ asterisk because it’s a TV show rather than a promotion, and it’s not clear that they’ll have a fourth season, but it’s a TV show on a cable network that’s more high profile than either Pop TV or Comet, so there’s that. The show will be available on Netflix starting this month, which could give it the hipster audience it badly needs to keep going. 

The Top Indies

These, at last, are the “true” independent promotions - no national TV deals, no broadcast PPVs (iPPVs) only, no exclusive contracts, but a position in the vanguard of creativity in the industry and, now, the attention of WWE, which has been bringing up indie stars at a previously unheard-of rate. To an extent, these promotions start to blend in with each other, as they share lots of wrestlers, as well as what’s developed as the American indie house style of high spots, little traditional selling or psychology, and lengthy, what-will-it-take match lengths, while avoiding the bloodshed and hardcore style of the late 1990s and early 2000s (with the notable exception of CZW). Like minor league baseball, this is really the circuit where you can feel like you’re seeing tomorrow’s stars today.

EVOLVE: The WWE-approved indie, led by former Ring of Honor creative mastermind Gabe Sapolsky, EVOLVE has not only broken ground by semi-partnering with the big league, but also by abandoning the iPPV model for the monthly FloSlam streaming service, which gives you access to live shows as well as back catalog. With streaming services right now gaining ground in the indie world, FloSlam could be the industry leader, not only because it’s currently alone in offering access to live events, but because it brings together the EVOLVE family of promotions (Shine, Full Impact Pro, ACW) and a few other companies, which is vastly preferable to having to subscribe to each promotion’s own streaming channel. It’s still early days, so it’s not clear how the world of streaming services will shake out, but EVOLVE is in the best position to reap any benefits that come from the changing business model.

Pro Wrestling Guerrilla: Business-wise, PWG is kind of a throwback, in that they don’t offer iPPVs, they don’t stream events live (they have a deal with the Highspots streaming network, but events only appear there months after they happen), and they make most of their money from ticket sales at an overcrowded building, and DVDs. That said, they are the creative pacesetter for US indies, the current version of Gabe Sapolsky-era ROH: for better (match quality) and worse (lack of discernible storylines), PWG is the company most frequently imitated by other indies, and their biggest annual event, the Battle of Los Angeles, has become a kind of micro-Wrestlemania, drawing rabid fans from all over to watch the indie world’s most eagerly anticipated event.

Chikara: Along with Ring of Honor and CZW, Chikara was one of the major US indies to establish itself in the wake of ECW’s collapse. But whereas CZW carried the flag for bloody ultraviolence and ROH established itself as the promotion for technical excellence, Chikara has gone its own way, emphasizing a comic book-influenced, lucha libre-esque style that unfolds inside the confines of a self-contained, self-referential universe. In some ways, it’s the most ambitious of the indies: there’s a Chikara movie, Chikara comic books, and even a Chikara-created would-be national holiday, along with the more familiar elements of touring shows, DVD sales, and its own streaming network. It attracts top indie talent and, unlike most US indies, has established that it can travel internationally, but it’s so sui generis that it will probably never dominate the world of indie wrestling or break through to the non-wrestling audience it so ardently courts. 

Combat Zone Wrestling: In the late 1990s and early 2000s, every indie promotion wanted to be ECW. CZW, launched in 1999 but really coming into its own in 2001 after running its “Cage of Death” show in the old ECW Arena, emphasized the bloodshed and hardcore style exemplified in Paul Heyman’s promotion by wrestlers like New Jack, Balls Mahoney, and Axl Rotten. A Highspots network partner, iPPV purveyor, and owner of a women’s wrestling brand (Women Superstars Uncensored), CZW has never really shed its ultraviolent hardcore image, one that was crystallized by the company’s participation in the Mickey Rourke film “The Wrestler.” This has prevented CZW from establishing the national profile it probably deserves, given that it was an early venue for breakout talents like Kevin Owens, Sami Zayn, Dean Ambrose, the Briscoe Brothers, Adam Cole, and Mia Yim, among many others. In business longer than nearly any other major US indie, it’s quietly established a pattern of high-quality shows that don’t rely on hardcore matches, which are invariably overshadowed by the one or two lunatic hardcore stunts a year that still form an important part of the company’s lore.

The Indies as New Territories

Most independent wrestling companies can hardly manage to put on monthly shows in VFW halls, let alone imagine touring outside their hometowns. For a few, though, operating within a relatively limited region doesn’t detract from their ability to attract top national (and international) indie stars while developing local talents who often go on to become the next generation of boldfaced indie names. 

Beyond Wrestling: Based in Providence, R.I. but regularly running shows in eastern and now central Massachusetts, Beyond has been tagged as “the East Coast PWG,” and there are definite stylistic similarities between the two companies. But whereas PWG has become purely a showcase for top indie stars (and the Young Bucks, who aren’t really indie wrestlers at this point), Beyond still leaves plenty of room on the card for locals, whether the “Beyond Originals” who were there in the early days or recent graduates of Brian Fury’s New England Pro Wrestling Academy (whose most famous graduate, and a Beyond alum, is Sasha Banks). Business-wise, Beyond has been incredibly savvy with its use of social media, building a subscription-only streaming service on YouTube as well as working with Smart Mark Video for wider distribution of its shows on DVD and digital download. 

All-American Wrestling: Universally known as AAW, this Chicagoland promotion has established a reputation not only for bringing in top indie stars (Pentagon Jr., Sami Calihan, ACH, etc.) but also for developing local talent on its well-attended shows. Its Windy City Classic has become a major date on the indie wrestling calendar, and it’s partnered with Highspots as well as running its own streaming service. Best of all, AAW does what not many indie promotions do, in giving its shows a distinctive feel held together by recognizable storylines.

Absolute Intense Wrestling: The home promotion of current NXT star Johnny Gargano, the Cleveland-based AIW hasn’t dipped its toes into the streaming service world yet, but has drawn national attention for the quality of its shows, its ability to bring in top names who are otherwise scarce on the indie scene (Gail Kim, Shayna Bazsler), and its innovative booking (e.g., having all-intergender cards, or all-women shows). The company also partners with local businesses and touring rock festivals, and the podcast produced by its two owners, “The Card is Going to Change,” is an indispensable and often hilarious weekly dive into the nuts and bolts of running an independent wrestling promotion. 

Premiere Wrestling Xperience: Originally doing business as the Carolina Wrestling Association, PWX has evolved from its 2003 beginnings into one of the country’s most vibrant indies, mixing established indie stars and the occasional TNA wrestler with a cast of Southern-grown talent rapidly becoming top names around the country. The Charlotte-based company has also been in the so-far unique position of having shows on both the FloSlam and Highspots streaming services, significantly raising the company’s national profile.

Maryland Championship Wrestling: Generally known as MCW Pro, the Baltimore-based company has gone from a regional host of ex-ECW talents in the early 2000s to a thriving indie with its own school, $4.99 monthly streaming service, and a calendar of shows that feature everyone from national indie stars to former WWE wrestlers, along with a roster of locals, most notably breakout star Lio Rush. Its lack of association with a nationwide streaming network has probably kept it relatively obscure, but in a lot of ways MCW is the prototype of the well-run regional indie.

Northeast Wrestling: A regular stop for Ring of Honor wrestlers and well-known for its summertime super shows held in minor league baseball parks, this indie promotion based in southern Connecticut and eastern New York has taken the leap from regional mainstay to a greater national profile, thanks to its recent partnership with Highspots and a series of high-profile shows featuring names like Kurt Angle, Cody Rhodes (sorry, that’s just Cody), and even Jushin Thunder Liger. NEW has also taken the innovative step of selling season tickets to its shows at the “NEW Arena,” the town hall in rural Bethany, Conn., indicating a level of confidence in its viability that not many indie promotions can match.

Everyone Else

This is only the smallest tip of the iceberg, obviously. There are wrestling promotions in the US that range from weirdo hipster performance art to pure lucha libre to companies that might as well be operating in the mid-1980s. Every once in a while, I’ll dip into the indie wrestling channel on Roku and be amazed at some of the offerings (a favorite is Michigan’s Imperial Wrestling Entertainment, which tries to put on WWE-style programming with approximately .00000001 percent of WWE’s budget). There are also undoubtedly more companies that belong in the “New Territories” category - well-run local promotions that punch above their weight and can routinely book national talent - but I’m not familiar with enough of them. Use of social media, and appearing on one of the big streaming services, is a fast track to getting nationally noticed, and I expect more companies will go this route in 2017.