#also wanting to go to a music festival that night after work. which is near school + my partner so I want 2 spend the night w them

[binders-and-beanies]

There’s always some sorta fuckin scheduling complication lol

[wileys-russo]

NOOOO now we need a pt 2 of cough medicine with a grumpy reader because alexia has passed the cold to her and alexia dressing up in the nurse outfit to surprise her…

lil sequel to this ! suggestive content at the end cough medicine 2.0 II a.putellas

"mi princesa i said i was sorry!" your girlfriend groaned as you scoffed and reached to grab the bottle of water on the coffee table in front of you.

"sorry doesn't make me not sick alexia i warned you!" you grunted ou in annoyance, pushing away her hands which attempted to massage your shoulders.

"bebita in my defense-" your girlfriend started, accent thick as she spoke english but the withering glare you shot her had her wishing she'd mumbled it in spanish and out of your earshot as she fell silent and your attention returned to the television.

"can i get you something?" the catalonian asked sweetly as you ignored her, tucking your knees up to your chest and pulling the blanket to your chin. "mi amor do you need anything? tissue, cough medicine, tea, soup, a hug?" your girlfriend smiled hopefully as you shot her a blistering side eye.

"for you to leave me alone." you grumbled, sniffling and wiping your nose with the sleeve of your hoodie. you'd even refused to wear one of alexia's and thats when she knew you were perhaps just a touch beyond the normal level of grumpy you became when unwell.

though really alexia knew it was her fault. you'd at first been strong and held quite firm to the no kissing rule when she was sick last week, needing to still be viable and healthy to look after her as well as work from home while you did so.

now to the average bystander they'd not know the true nature of your girlfriends incredibly clingy tendencies, but when her walls were down and it was just the two of you she melted like a icey in the sun, crawling on top of you.

if you didn't react fast enough she'd grab your arms and wrap them around her, tucking them up the back of whatever was covering her torso, the blonde mumbling into your neck she wanted back scratches and you'd often tease that if she got any closer she'd be inside your skin.

then when alexia was sick it was even more dire that she have every possible ounce of your attention and touch. so as the hours ticked by and you'd still held firm that her lips weren't to touch yours and she not get too close, her attempts to break you down also doubled.

unfortunately to your own detriment you also found yourself feeling a little touch starved, and the more effort alexia made to getting you to crack the closer and closer you stepped toward the edge.

but over and over you warned her that not only did you have to work but you had a music festival with your friends on the weekend you needed to be in fit and fighting shape for.

spoiler alert, a night of consolation kisses to cheer up your incredibly pouty and miserable girlfriend who was informed she'd not be fit enough to make the squad this weekend meant it was needless to say you weren't going to the music festival now.

it had been frosty for the last two days since.

you'd even gone as far as to put up a pillow wall as a compromise for not kicking alexia out of the bed much to the constant whining and apologizing and groveling and begging and pleading you were far too tired and unwell to give into.

"mi vida. por favor i do not know what else to do, i have said over and over i am very sorry!" alexia groaned again, collapsing into the sofa beside you, thumping into the cushions and hazel eyes burning holes into the side of your head.

"i told you, leave me alone." you huffed, well aware you were now bordering on overreacting but your dampened state of well being and the fomo of watching your friends all have fun at the festival without you was making it near impossible to move on from that.

with one final sigh and pressing a quick kiss to your forehead before you could push her away alexia did as you asked and left you be. and with the warmth of the blanket and your inconsistent temperature it didn't take long before you drifted off.

when you woke up it was to an all too familiar smell, lifting your head groggily and peeking over the back of the lounge you could see your girlfriend with her back to you in the kitchen.

you hadn't made a single noise but alexia could feel your eyes on her as she glanced over her shoulder and threw you a smile which you didn't return, though you also didn't turn away, resting your chin on top of the sofa and watching her as she cooked.

"are you making your soup?" you rasped out after awhile, unable to ignore the overwhelmingly alluring smell wafting closer and closer. "maybe." alexia grinned coyly as you rolled your eyes and flopped back down onto the sofa.

"not in the mood for cute." you quipped with a huff, stretching your arms out behind your head and tuning back into the spanish soap opera your girlfriends sister had gotten you shamefully addicted to, though alba never ceased to tease that you needed the subtitles on.

you glanced up when you heard someone clear their throat, looking up at your girlfriend for a fleeting moment as she stood before you and placed down two bowls of soup on the coffee table before your gaze returned to the television

but then when you realized alexia had done an outfit change, your head snapped back so fast you near gave yourself whiplash.

"hola bebita." she purred with a suggestive smile as you sat upright and covered your mouth with your hand, taking in your incredibly athletically built girlfriend in all her glory.

her glory being the ill fighting barely covering nurses costume that was yours which was sitting taunt against her muscular body.

given the fact it was made in your size and not hers, and she easily stood two and a half heads taller, she looked like one wrong move would have her bursting out of it like the hulk.

and so you did the only thing your body could do in the moment taking her in and the way her thick quad muscles had the garters wrapped around them about a millisecond from snapping, you collapsed backwards into the sofa clutching at your stomach, body heaving with laughter which rang around your empty shared home.

the reaction was clearly not what the taller girl anticipated as her mouth formed a small o and she crossed her arms, the way the sleeves ripped as she did so only making you laugh harder.

"hey! this was supposed to be sexy, not funny!" alexia protested with a huff, your head shaking to and fro as you tried to stop laughing for a moment so you could get a word out.

"cariño its not funny!" alexia groaned, a slight blush coating her cheeks as she shuffled closer. "oh mi amor you're forgiven. you're so forgiven!" you pulled your phone out and wiped a stray tear, snapping a few photos as your girlfriend gasped and tried to cover up.

"well this was not what i wanted but i am glad to at least see you smile again." alexia gave in with a shake of her head, moving to sit down beside you so you could both eat, grateful to hear her favorite noise once more as your belly laughter subsided into giggles.

but right as she did a strange noise sounded and your hand once more flew to your mouth, alexia now near naked beside you as the entire back of the ensemble ripped clean in half, your eyes raking over the taunt tattooed and tanned skin of her back.

"don't." alexia warned seriously, a pleading look in her eyes as you lost it again, sagging into her and clutching at your stomach as the sounds of your laughter filled the air. "amor!" alexia whined, clearly embarrassed as her hands flew to cover her own face.

"are you comfortable?" you teased, sitting up on your knees beside her once your laughter had settled, wrenching alexia's hands away from her face with a raised eyebrow. "no." your girlfriend mumbled with a huff and a roll of her eyes.

"so now you understand how it feels when i dress up for you." you hinted, eyebrow raising even higher as alexia sighed but nodded. "i have more muscles! it hurts more." the girl huffed, bottom lip jutting out into a slight pout.

"thats what you're going to take from all of this? ale i just forgave you, don't piss me off again." you huffed smacking her chest lightly as the corners of her mouth curled upward slightly.

"why not? it is what you are taking from this, no?" the slight smile turned into a full on grin now as she settled back into the lounge a little more clearly making an effort to flex her biceps and upper arm muscles as they sat folded behind her head.

"still not in the mood for cute. and thanks to you i'm sick, so if it was sex you were angling for putellas...think again." your hand smacked gently against her cheek a few times with a wink.

though before you could reach for your food your back was flat against the sofa and your girlfriend hovered over you, settling herself on her knees between your legs.

"you know bebita, there is still a lot i can do for you while you are unwell. but only if you are feeling up to it!" a singular finger trailed down your bare leg, her smirk widening at the goosebumps which arose in response.

"well you are a nurse, and it would be wrong of me to assume i know what i need better than a nurse." you smiled, alexia raising an eyebrow as she sunk a little lower, a few kisses trailed up your leg as you hummed, already feeling better as they got higher and her large hands gripped your thighs pushing your legs even further apart.

you sighed in pleasure and tangled your hands in her hair as her chin rested on your abdomen, looking up at you with a smile as she played with the hem of your shorts, t-shirt pushed upward and a few kisses placed to your stomach as your eyes fluttered closed and your shorts suddenly dissapeared.

"let me make it all feel better princesa."

[nocandnc]

I wonder that in the wedding of Kafka and Mina, what would Okonogi and Hoshina do? Also who would try to catch the bouquet during the wedding reception? (I believe that would be Hoshina=))) And what was other's feeling after seeing that? Thank you for your time^^

Hi there~

It's funny you bring this up as I have a wedding-related OkoHoshi ficlette idea I've been tinkering with lately, though I don't know if I'll go ahead with it...

Anyways, KafMina wedding!!

They do strike me as the type to go with a modern western-style wedding, bouquet tossing and all! White is very much Mina's colour and she'd look gorgeous in a full bridal gown (Kafka is mildly scared to find a pistol strapped to her thigh later into the night, which she claims - somewhat unconvincingly, might he add - is a precaution against kaiju other than her new husband.)

Regarding Okonogi and Hoshina... I think they might be left out of the wedding party to be honest. Instead, Reno and Kikoru take up the position of Best Man and Maid of Honor respectively (+ Bakko as ring bearer). Not because Kafka and Mina wouldn't want them to take part, but if the Captain is busy celebrating her wedding day then the Vice Captain needs to be at the ready to take care of any urgent kaiju matters on her behalf, right? It just makes practical sense. As for Okonogi, well... she'd just feel too awkward being part of a fancy ceremony like that, even if the eyes weren't necessarily on her.

But Hoshina and Okonogi still attend as guests of course!

While Hoshina isn't a part of the wedding party proper, Kafka and Mina still pull him up on stage to give a speech early into the reception festivities. Okonogi makes no speeches but claps as others say their piece, eyes misty from joy and laughter.

The heartfelt anecdotes and silly jokes wrap up, after which there is cake and music and drinks of all kinds.

When it comes time to throw the bouquet, several ladies gather near the front in hopes of improving their chances of getting married catching the beautiful flower arrangement - but it turns out Mina's throwing arm is just as impressive as her firing one and she overshoots the crowd by a large margin.

It flies across the venue in a long arc, petals scattering along the unexpected trajectory.

Soshiro barely registers the object entering his peripheral but snatches it from the air flawlessly all the same - as expected, it takes the Vice Captain to catch the Captain's throws. He laughs a little at the bouquet that's now securely in hand, followed by further laughter as the attending women groan and cry out in disappointment.

"How could you, sir!"

"That's supposed to be for us girls!!"

"I caught it fair an' square!" He shoots back, waving the bouquet at them like a baton. "How about you try puttin' in a little more work for it next time!?"

It's all in good fun though, for the women laugh too and quickly return to drinking and dancing and the eating of cake.

Somewhat prior to this, a reticent Okonogi was dragged onto the dance floor by Akari and the rest for several fast-paced songs. Though she'd admit to having a bit of fun, that one bit was still more than enough for her. The Operations Leader sticks to lingering near the drink bar after this, quietly taking photos now and then - even snapping a shot of their Vice Captain catching Mina's bouquet when the cameraman wasn't ready - but otherwise content to watch the cheerful chaos from a distance.

A wallflower like her had no aspirations of catching flowers.

...Which is why Okonogi Konomi is all the more startled when the much-sought-after bouquet is suddenly shoved into her hands.

"Huh?"

"Hold these for me, would you dear?" Vice Captain Hoshina asks before she's even fully registered his presence.

"What??"

Amused by Konomi's bewildered state, Soshiro flashes his sharp canines at her along with his phone - a familiar Kaiju warning blinking violently across the narrow screen.

"Duty calls!"

[tellthemeerkatsitsfine]

New Edinburgh spreadsheet. I made a bunch of changes for a variety of reasons, including, I learned that I'll have other opportunities to get the Guy Williams, Greg Larsen, and Sara Pascoe shows, so I replaced them with people I won't. Harriet Kemsley and Chris Cantrill are streaming on NextUp so I replaced them too. The goal here is to maximize volume of shows seen so I can have the broadest possible picture of what they all are. That is definitely the best way to consume art, right? That's what you're supposed to do, with art?

(There are exceptions, I've heard the Nish Kumar and Mark Watson and Sarah Keyworth and Tom Ballard shows before because they've recorded early versions in various places, but I like them enough to be willing to pay to be in a room with those people and hear it again.)

I was also pleased to see NextUp are also filming Amy Gledhill, Catherine Bohart, and Milo Edwards, as they were on my list as well, but didn't get onto my schedule for whatever reason (in Gledhill's case, because she arrives after I leave). And some other people. NextUp isn't filming as much this year as they did last year, unless they end up announcing a lot more. I watched 21 NextUp streams from Edinburgh 2023, and there were a whole lot that I didn't watch. So far, they've only announced 18 from 2024. I might just watch all of them this year. Or most of them. I'll give Tony Law a miss. Not sure I could sit through a whole hour of Jessie Cave. Not a big fan of Daliso Chaponda either. But I'll probably watch the rest.

Before, I had two issues of booking no time between shows, because they were in the same building and I hadn't factored in the separate rooms, so I thought they were in the same venue and one couldn't run into the other. I've solved one of those problems by replacing Guy Williams with Mat Ewins, which I think was good, because Mat Ewins is one of those comedians I keep reading is very very good, but I watched his TV special and didn't get much out of it, I don't think he translates well to recordings. You have to be in the room for it, so I guess I'll take this rare opportunity to be in a room with him and see what that's like. I still have the issue of Kiri Pritchard-McLean running into Sophie Duker. They're both shows that I really want to see, and neither fits into the schedule anywhere else, so my current plan is to just sit at the back of both rooms and hope those rooms are near each other so I can get from one to the other. Worst comes to worst I guess I miss Sophie's show and it is likely to get filmed at some point, probably. But hopefully it's fine. Constantly checking the time as I get anxious that this show will run too long and I'll miss the next one - that's the best way to consume art, right?

I think the rest of it's okay, though. For every other situation where there's half an hour or less time than that between the end of one show and the start of the next, they're either in the same venue, or in venues that are a fairly short walk apart. That hopefully leaves room for even if one venue runs a bit behind or a show runs long, though I guess I'll see how well that actually works out. I'm aware of the possibility that I might miss some stuff. I am currently mentally preparing myself for the possibility that I might miss some stuff. It is possible that the fact that I have been creating this trip in my mind for four years, and actively planning this specific one for a year, is putting too much pressure on the situation. It is fine, I know it's not the end of the world if things go wrong. That probably actually is the best way to consume art. Which is a shame, because out of all things I've claimed in this post about my mentality toward Edinburgh, that's the only one where I'm lying.

I added some music things at the end of a couple of nights. The last time I was at a festival like this - a really big one that goes all over the place - was Celtic Colours, a Celtic folk festival (mainly music, but they also had cultural events and stuff, I think my mother learned to make a quilt, my dad and I were just there for the music) in Cape Breton, Nova Scotia. I've been there a couple of times, the last time I went was in 2019, it was fucking amazing, one of the best weeks of my life. We saw a bunch of incredible concerts for which we'd carefully planned and bought tickets, but my dad and I talked after the festival, and found that for both of us, if we were pressed to pick our top favourite memory from the week, it was a night spent at the Red Shoe Pub in Mabu, Cape Breton. It was a pub that has live Celtic music all the time, not just during the festival, we just showed up there on a couple of nights, and got to have some food while listening to local people who'd brought their own instruments and used the pub's piano, and it was like nothing we have at home, it was so much fun.

I saw that there's a pub in Edinburgh that advertises live Celtic music throughout the Fringe Festival but also just has live Celtic music all year-round, doesn't require booking tickets or anything, thought it might be fun, so I left a couple of nights open to just go to that pub, in case that also turns out to be a surprise highlight. There's every chance that it'll turn out to be so overcrowded I can't even get in and/or not enjoyable at all, but that's fine, if that turns out to be the case then going back to the Air B&B and getting some extra sleep probably won't be the worst thing I could do.

I put music in brown and comedy in yellow. I think that's about the balance I want. Couple of music things because I can't be a lifelong Celtic music fan who goes to Celticland for the first time and doesn't see music. Mainly comedy. Probably not enough time for, you know, the activities of daily living.

I think that might actually be the final version of the spreadsheet. It has a few more people I don't know well on it than the previous versions, all people I've looked up and think look good and had some reason for booking them, but figured I should take a few more chances as that's what you do at festivals. I might have overbooked. But I'd rather overbook than underbook. I have all that plus I got ridiculously lucky with what's playing in London while I'm there - Daniel Kitson, Brynley Stent, Desiree Burch, and a Nish Kumar WIP, obviously, because otherwise I wouldn't be booked to see Nish Kumar enough times. It's not like I've heard enough versions of Nish Kumar yet (I'll be honest: I've already heard a lot of versions of Nish Kumar's current material, and I'm nowhere near sick of it, he may have written a perfect stand-up show).

I've sorted out my itinerary for London, too. And the couple of Scottish Highland days in between London and Edinburgh. Got my British cash. I think I have everything. I'm leaving in nine days. Still doesn't feel like a real thing. I've spent so much time going all over Edinburgh and London and Fort William and Mallaig in Google Earth street view, but it feels like I'm playing the Sims. It's not a real place.

[astrangetorpedo]

Lucy Dacus Brings It All Back Home

by Hilary Saunders | 9/2/16

Back in March, when Lucy Dacus and her band passed through Boise, Idaho to play the opening night of Treefort Music Festival, every single member of the group—rolling four deep—wore shirts and caps that bore a variation on their home state’s motto: “Virginia Is For (Music) Lovers.” Before their set, they had stopped in Bleubird, locally considered Boise’s best sandwich shop, and while they waited in a line that stretched out the door, Dacus and the boys chatted eagerly and earnestly with those around them—especially if they asked about their shirts.

Four months later at the Harrison Street Café, one of her favorite sandwich shops in her hometown of Richmond, Virginia, Dacus remembers the festival fondly. Her debut album No Burden had only been out for about a month at the time, courtesy of Richmond indie EggHunt Records, and Boise was the farthest west the band had ever performed.

A lot has changed since then. Dacus has toured with indie-rock darlings like The Decemberists and Lord Huron, and impressed festival audiences at South by Southwest and Lollapalooza. On September 9, Matador Records will re-release No Burden, with the hopes that its eight songs will catapult the 21-year-old further into the scene’s fickle mainstream.

Comprised of Dacus’ first recorded works, No Burden showcases the singer/songwriter at her most revealing. Her contralto, which she manipulates from a whisper to a cry, conveys both self-awareness and self-deprecation. Meanwhile, the band, comprised of a traditional guitar-bass-drums set-up, stretches its volume and dynamics to parallel extremes, allowing Dacus to transform from demure chanteuse to rock band leader—sometimes even within the same song. Case in point: on lead single “I Don’t Want To Be Funny Anymore,” Dacus laments “being the odd man out” and “being the biggest fan,” right before the song erupts into a guttural roar. The album’s seven-and-a-half-minute centerpiece, “Map On A Wall” opens with Dacus acknowledging her physical flaws and begging, “Oh please, don’t make fun of me / of my crooked smile and my crowded teeth / of my pigeon feet, of my knobby knees,” but the song eventually builds to a tense crescendo, Dacus repeating similar lyrics with more force and tenacity.

Sitting in a corner booth upstairs in the café, Dacus explains, “I make an effort to voice what I’m most sensitive about, because I know everyone else feels that way, too. The biggest hold-up, when it comes to insecurity, is when you think you’re alone in it. When you realize that you’re not, it’s easier to deal with. It’s just that somebody has to be the first person to break the ice of internal anxiety.”

Dacus grew up in Richmond’s neighboring town of Mechanicsville (its most famous export is Jason Mraz). She didn’t necessarily suffer from “extreme internal anxiety,” but she did drift in and out of the precarious social structures of the popular crowd in elementary and middle school. By the time she got to high school—the prestigious Maggie L. Walker Governor’s School, which is coincidentally located just down the street from the Harrison Street Café—she had found like-minded creative friends, and Richmond started to feel more like a home.

Although Dacus initially enrolled at Virginia Commonwealth University—also located near the café—to study film, she left after her second semester sophomore year to travel in Europe. Before leaving the country, she recorded what would become No Burden to help out now-bandmate Jacob Blizard on one of his college recording finals at Oberlin. It never occurred to either of them to release the recordings. “We were just going to put it on Bandcamp for our friends and family to see,” she says. “It’s the only accessible place for start up musicians to put their work.”

When Dacus returned, EggHunt Records’ co-founder Adam Henceroth saw her opening for his label’s own signees, Manatree. As Henceroth remembers, he only intended to watch Dacus for a few minutes.

“I sat in the front row like, ‘Hey lemme catch a few seconds of this before I meet this other guy backstage.’ Well, I forgot about whatever I was doing. Forty minutes later after being glued to her set, I was speechless,” he says. “The thing about Lucy is that, literally within 60 seconds of listening to her, you’re immediately drawn into her world. You’re caught in a tractor beam of sorts. She hits you square in the head and speaks to your heart.”

Both in person and on No Burden, Dacus radiates that emotional authenticity that Henceroth describes. Part of that stems from her Richmond upbringing—specifically, the fact that Dacus was adopted. That fact is a bit oblique on the record; she never sings about her experience directly. But the lessons she learned reveal themselves in certain places—the album title itself is a reminder that we are not a duty to those who love us. They reflect Dacus’ desire to seek meaningful connections, especially when we are at our most vulnerable.

“[Adoption has] totally impacted what I write, because one of first things I learned as a philosophy was that life is worthwhile,” She says, “So much so that a bunch of people had to sacrifice a lot so that I would have one. As a four-year-old, that’s what I already knew.”

The most impressive element of Dacus’ debut is that while so much of No Burden resulted from growing up in Richmond, its messages transcend the city that raised her and embraced her. And everyone from EggHunt to Matador to the fans she’s gained in the meteoric past nine months seem to realize it. “It’s real cool how Lucy has seemed to stay true to her roots,” says Henceroth. “She talks about Virginia a lot, and she never had any obligation to include [EggHunt] in her story, but she did. She comes across as really honest. You can hear it in her music. There’s no pretense. She’s not trying to be something she’s not. It’s all coming from her. That’s the magical part of it.”

(x)

[tl2so4]

This is an awesome account of the events that happened that day. It is written by Jeffery - the guy in the fur hat in the front row. Enjoy!

June, 1967

Through SF State College, which I am going to a few years out of the Navy using my GI Bill benefits, I get a summer job through school that has a hundred dollar a month expenses. I go down to the Psychedelic Shop on Haight Street, where a lot of community activities come from and offer them the money. Ron Thelin, who runs the store with his brother Jay, says yes, they can use the money to rent a flatbed truck (for a stage) and a generator (for the guitars) as there is a free concert in the Panhandle of Golden Gate Park on that coming Sunday, June 25, 1967 and asks me to show up for the meeting around 10am Sunday morning.

I wake up that morning in my 75 dollar a month houseboat at Gate 5, Main dock, make a cup of coffee and toast, jump into my car, then leave and drive up the Waldo Grade, go through the tunnel and blast out into brilliant sunlight, wondering now and then, who is going to be performing at this free concert as Jay had never said who it might be.

I glide over that gorgeous Golden Gate bridge, then take the 19th Avenue exit and wend my way to Fulton and finally park in front of the shop on Haight and go in.

There are 4 or 5 guys who are really putting this show together and the work has mostly been taken care of. I just stand quietly st the back of the room. Finally, Jay asks if anyone has a car. I leave my hand down but finally tell him that I do.

"Go down to the Travelodge at Fishermen's Wharf", he tells me, matter-of-factly, "knock on door 157 and bring Jimi Hendrix back to the site, parking on Fell near Ashbury".

I nod to him like I do this stuff every day, jump in my beat-up '59 Studebaker ragtop, pull out and head over. On the way, I think back to last week's Monterey Pop Festival, where a simple twist of fate played out big for me.

The morning of Monterey, my wife ran off with my last roommate in college. About a half hour later, sitting on the edge of the bed dejectedly, there is a knock on the door and my neighbor, Dan Hicks, wants to know if I want to make 20 bucks as he needs help humping music amps and guitars to the Festival. Twenty minutes later, we cross the Golden Gate Bridge and make our way to the Monterey Fairgrounds.

While humping a large amp, Dan on one end and me on the other, I notice something shiny on the ground and squat quickly down and stuff it into my jeans and proceed. We get all the equipment in and I get my 20 bucks and am now outside the gate. Don't know exactly what to do, but after pulling out the shiny object, it turns out to be a simple pin-back with a card that says BACKSTAGE PASS on it.

Things are looking up. The only SLIGHTLY bad thing is it also has someone else's name written on it as well. But, hell, what can they do to me and I am never averse to taking risks, so I pin it on and walk up to the hefty guard at the gate, who sees I have THE PASS and I am in!

I saw a lot of music that weekend, but Otis Redding's scintillating set on Saturday night, even sharing a joint with David Crosby, was a real peak event I have never forgotten. What a professional set he laid down. The best.

Then, Sunday, when I hear Jimi is about to perform, I go out in the left side of the stage and stand behind a curtain that is all there is between me and him and he totally blows us all away, then picks up a can of Ronson lighter fluid while he is down on his knees making love to his guitar during Wild Thing and his guitar is now flaming and then he breaks up that guitar and lobs pieces of it to audience members and leaves the stage.

Wow; Monterey Pop. But that was last week and now I am in the parking lot and I go up to the door and knock and, like in a dream, there is Jimi, who just picks up his guitar and gets in the back seat of my garbage car and off we go. Just being around him a few minutes and you know he is basically a shy cat and the only thing he mentions is how much he digs my Russian fur hat which is only a woman's fur piece I got at the Digger's Free Store on Cole St. just off Haight a few weeks back and made into a hat. I try to give it to him but he declines saying it wouldn't fit over his hair and I am very happy as it looks so good on me.

We pull up, he gets out and wanders over to the stage while I roll up a quick joint and take five fast puffs, laughing as I can't see anything in my smoky car. I don't want to miss a beat, but decide that since I drove him there, I am going to get up close and observe. As you can see, I kind of got the best seat in the house even if I am standing, Notice I am holding his microphone cable. And smiling big. Why not? Ringside with the most amazing guitar player. Ever. I don't even notice Jim Marshall, SF's iconic rock photographer, snapping photos.

This was on Sunday, June 25, 1967 and I went on with my life which took me to Woodstock and driving a big Hog Farm hippie bus for a few years across America and then I got to Europe and hired on as a driver for a British hippie bus taking 25 paying passengers (75 dollars one-way) from Amsterdam to Afghanistan and spent five years doing that including the beaches of Goa, India and trekking in the Himalayas of Nepal and I was pretty busy and never once told that Jimi story to anyone at any time. It was just this serendipitous, precious moment in my life.

But then, I went over to my friend Wrinkle's one day in 1988 but he was out, so I was sitting with his then 18 year old son Austin and thinking of having a conversation and he was the drummer in a garage band, so out comes that story of Jimi and me. Of course, he didn't believe me but was too kind to say so. I went home afterwards and a few days later, I get a call from his dad and he says "Hey, I am looking at a picture of you and Jimi Hendrix. Now it's my turn to not believe him, but I go over and...

So Austin has this pal Jameson Grant and Jameson's parents went to live in Iowa for a couple of years, his junior and senior year in high school. One day, he is thumbing through a guitar magazine and there is a full page photo of Jimi Hendrix and me, but he doesn't know me then, but he really likes this picture and asks his pal if he can have it and his friend says buy me a hamburger and it's yours! But, when he goes back to California, he takes it with him and one day his friend Austin comes over and tells him the tall tail he thinks I told him and Jameson says Well, I have a picture of Jimi Hendrix in San Francisco in my suitcase and shows it to Austin who freaks out saying I thought Jeff was BSing me but THAT'S HIM. Jim Marshall took the photo and I now have seen it in a Rolling Stone and seen it many other places, showing Jimi Hendrix and me, smack dab in the middle of the Summer of Love and it doesn't get much better than that."

Jeffrey

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Last edited: Feb 14, 2021

[pbandjesse]

Today was great. I am so very very tired. And also my back is sun burnt!! Which makes me annoyed but it's fine. I had a really great day.

I slept okay last night. I woke up a little before my alarm and was in a good mood. I was nervous about the day. This was my first market of the season and it was a big one.

James had already packed everything in the car. So I didn't have to bring much. I got dressed and felt very pretty. James asked if I wanted to get McDonald's breakfast. And I thought that would be really nice. So we would leave home and headed there.

We got to the museum after stopping at McDonald's at 8. Which was early. I wasn't actually supposed to set up until 830 but I knew where I was supposed to be, I had the map with the assignments, so I started setting up.

I said hello to the volunteer coordinator and soon other vendors were showing up. James would come back outside to help me put my tent up. I was struggling a little to do it alone. I was a little frustrated with James. They didn't have to start work until 830 and I thought they were going to stay outside and help me. But they would come back to help and I would take my time getting set up. But it was great in the end. Even if there were some hiccups. Specifically with my card reader. I needed a verification code from James's phone and they weren't answering me and I was getting very mad and then I had to walk across the parking lot to get the code and was just not thrilled. But it was fine. We made up. And continued a really good day.

I would accidentally start being in charge as other vendors started showing up. Helping to direct where people could go or who to get help from. But finally Kathleen would take over and she's great. I'm really glad she likes me so much because I also really like her and she's so supportive of my art and products. Feels good.

And this was a very very good day. I would be making sales throughout the day but I also was doing live print making and giving away my prints. And this was drawing people in. Plus giving out my business cards to so many people. I was having great conversations. Getting other people's cards to invite to Puhtok's music festival next month. Just having a great time.

I would start making sales right away. And it was funny that there was almost no rhyme or reason. It was a little of everything getting sold. Stickers, prints, plushies, keychains. I even sold a totebag! People were so sweet and telling me how much they liked my stuff and the energy of the day was just beautiful.

And it was a beautiful day. The weather was perfect. But the wind was strong. It wasn't so bad at first. But a few hours in people's tents started flying. Things were getting broken. My neighbor would let me have her extra tent weights and it was the only reason I wasn't flying away. But even that would save me. My baskets were going everywhere. And towards the very end of the day I had to have someone help me take my tent down because it tried to go flying and was just to dangerous.

I would get to spend a little time with friends today. Meril was there. And Jordan. We would go and get bagels together before the market started. And Stanley would spend some time hanging out with me enjoying the music. Jesse would even come out and sit with me and we would talk about me possibly coming to work with him to do events. Which I think I would really enjoy. A change of pace and I think me and him would really really do well working together. We will see if it leads anywhere in the near future.

I had made $200 by noon. I was thrilled. I was way past my goal, and had covered my table costs within the first hour. I was a little tired and frustrated by the wind but only a little. In general I was just in a great mood. It was great weather. I felt pretty. My body wasn't aching. I was having fun printing my free cards. I was meeting nice people. The music was good too! And best of all my airline tickets was finally sorted and I didn't have to be stressed about that anymore.

Eventually my tent would have to come down. One of the vendor volunteers would come and help me. Kathleen came over too as I was not the only one who decided to take down their tents. I would also take one of my tables away. I was just getting to tried to chase my stuff and my sticker displays just wouldn't stay up. Annoying. But whatever.

A dad and son would come up to ask a sewing question. They wanted to know how to close the last part of the goldfish plushie they had just made. So I taught them how to do a ladder stitch and the dad though it was magical. He tipped me $5. Which was unnecessary but very appreciated.

I would do my last few prints. But I was almost totally out of ink. So I packed that away too. And would just have my stuffed animal table out and would be chilling for the last hour.

Which is when I got sun burn. I didn't even realize! I had put on sunscreen but I did not get my back. My fault. Boo.

At 4 I started packing the last of my stuff. And as I was putting things away I made two more sales! Which ended my day at $450! That is my best ever one day market! I was so proud. This felt so good. Like validating. I'm a real artist and I'm really doing this. And I know not every week will be this successful but this was a great tone to start the season.

As I was finishing packing James came out to help carry things to the car. And once that was done we would spend the next couple hours enjoying the rest of the festival!

I had a lot of fun seeing some music, enjoying the jam sessions, wandering around the musuem and overhearing people talk about how cool the museum was. It made me feel so proud. I love the museum and I want other people to love it too. And this was just so good. This was such a wonderful event.

I would do some museum education stuff. Talking to people. About print for a long time. And the cannery. James hates when I do that without my name tag on. But I always tell people I work there before I start touching stuff. And I had some really awesome conversations. I also saw someone who looked super familiar and it turned out I knew him from TikTok! He makes the videos for the Baltimore Banner and we have talked on there before! That was very cool!

Me and Jesse would go pilfer the machine shop for some bolts. And James was running around helping with things. Eventually we went to get food. James got a burger and I got a really really excellent Egyptian falafel. It even had the whipped garlic sauce I love. It was a really really good meal.

I would eat at the front desk. And would answer some questions and chat with people. But eventually James was tired and I was tired and there was nothing else we needed to do. So we would go and find Beth and Bri and Jesse and said goodbye. And I was just in such a a good mood. Very very happy, after a very very good day.

My skin was starting to hurt though. I decided that I would take a cool black tea bath when we got home. And I would do just that.

When we got back here our neighbors, Sean, Victoria, and baby, were going for a walk. And we stopped to chat. Got to meet baby. And I was like "you made that!! That's crazy!!!" And she said "it's true!!". We let them know we would be traveling and to not think Callie was a criminal. And they wished us safe travels.

After we got eveything inside and put out of the way I would go and run my bath. And James would go for a walk to decompress.

And the bath was nice. But it didn't take the pain away as much as I hoped. Ah well.

When James got back they put aloe on me. And we would go through the bags to double check stuff and move some things around. And I am very pleased. My backpack is not to heavy. And I have everything I want to be on hand. And things are charged. Including my two battery packs. James would go over their list and we would make a plan for tomorrow.

I would hang out in the floor on front of my mirror. Which I have been doing a lot since I moved the bed and it's my favorite thing. Its like when I was in grad school, sitting in my walk in closet. It's good for the soul. I plucked my eyebrows a little and cleaned up my cuticles and enjoyed the evening.

I had bought a T-shirt at the end of the day and I am wearing that now, chilling in bed, and we are waiting to check in, 24 hours before our flight! I'm nervous and excited. I am hoping to get a good amount of sleep on the plane. I will do my best to just be chill and enjoy the ride.

I plan on getting my post up before we get in the air. But after that I am not sure when my post will be because of time zones! But we did get world service on our phones so I am hopeful about being able to use my phone. Fingers crossed!

I hope you all have a beautiful day tomorrow. I love you all!! Goodnight!!

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

Rite: a Malevolent Fanfic

Spring: what better time to honor Shub-Niggurath, the Great Mother?

Arthur’s not thrilled with being tasked to start the "festivities" off with music. He’s even less thrilled that Hastur's efforts to call John to himself have exponentially increased.

Magic-drunk gods and difficult confessions lead to an impossible choice - one Arthur fears he is not strong enough to make.

(Takes place in the Surrogate series, after Misstep)

——-

“The spring rite is next week!”

The whispers are excited.

“Spring rite at home, at last! I was sick of traveling for it.”

The gossip is potent.

“You can’t wear that. Everybody’s already seen it.”

“This is the scent I’m planning—”

“Oh, fuck yeah, that’ll work.”

“Do you think he’ll provide mead?”

Mead. Scents. Clothing. It all adds up, but Arthur’s not sure to what.

He doesn’t think he wants to know to what.

I don’t fully remember, John says when asked. Something… I know it’s important? I remember good feelings; I remember the certainty of blessings from Shub-Niggurath after. Fertility, and all of that.

Oh, that doesn’t sound good. “Fertility?”

I’m sorry,  Arthur. I just don’t remember. You could ask someone.

Arthur considers the way people have been speaking, the way John has described their behavior (“leering” comes up an awful lot of late), and shudders. “I’m not sure I have the courage. Let’s just… keep our heads down. Stay out of the way. Maybe it’ll pass us by, like a storm.”

Hastur doesn’t give that option.

He’s coming by daily now, checking on music, insisting on listening to every note—which he usually trusts to Arthur’s discretion.

Arthur hadn’t realized he was being trusted until that trust disappeared.

“No, that still isn’t right,” says Hastur, thoughtful and ponderous, and rests one heavy tentacle on Arthur’s left shoulder.

Arthur tries to shrug it away to no effect.

John reaches up, grips it with his left hand, and shoves.

And that, Arthur is certain, is the whole reason Hastur keeps doing it.

“Perhaps I should find you an… example,” says Hastur, as though that didn’t happen.

Arthur can’t feel it, but Hastur’s tendril must have touched his left hand, because John reacts. Suddenly and with no warning, Arthur’s left arm yanks right, across his chest, like trying to get away from a fire.

“John?” says Arthur.

I’m fine, John snaps.

“Ah, I know,” says Hastur, again as though that didn’t happen. “Here is the piece I want you to base the music for that night on.” He waves his tentacles, and music just starts playing in the air.

Arthur knows it. His jaw drops. “Are you serious?”

The touch is on his left arm this time (and Arthur feels it, and leans away). “Of course, Arthur. I also expect you to do it better. This is a very restricted version of what I want, after all.”

Seducing John. That’s what he’s doing. Or maybe just trying to be near him? Arthur shifts on the bench so he can face Hastur directly. “It’s inappropriate.”

What? Inappropriate? What, do they slaughter goats in the middle of it, or something?

“No, John,” says Hastur, positively syrupy now. “Not at all. Perhaps Arthur can explain it to you? I would be happy to, naturally, but I know you two prefer to find things out for yourselves.”

Pretentious prick, John mutters.

“You’d rather I explain? I thought we weren’t talking over Arthur’s head anymore.”

John doesn’t even yell, but Arthur feels it. John’s anger hurts. You just have to push, don’t you? You have to keep pushing, and keep pushing, and—

“John. Stop.” Arthur rubs his face. “Hastur, just… go. I’ll answer him.”

He can feel Hastur lean in. “Are you sure?”

His left hand jumps to grip… well, some part of Hastur that came too close. Arthur doesn’t know what.

But it lingers.

Arthur knows why. “I’m sure,” he says.

“Good. I will have important guests. I expect your best work yet,” Hastur says, and leaves them to it.

What the fuck, Arthur? says John, subdued, as he always is these days when Hastur physically leaves them.

Arthur knows John is in pain.

He also thinks he knows what Hastur wants from this song, from this mysterious spring rite, from next week’s performance, and he has never felt more awkward in his life. “Fuck,” he mutters.

#

I am still not getting this, says John.

Arthur sighs. “It’s hard to explain. It’s the way the piece works, I suppose; also maybe because it’s French.”

French?

“They’re a bit… licentious over there compared to the States.”

They are? John sounds flummoxed.

Arthur sighs again. “The point is, the piece is not ostensibly about sex, except that it is, and everybody knows when they hear it.”

I don’t know when I hear it.

“Yes, well… look, it works, all right? The consistent marching rhythm with those snare drums, the repeated theme, growing, surging… it just keeps getting bigger and bigger until it ends in fireworks. It works. And I have no idea how to match it, and certainly not how to top it.”

Arthur doesn’t mention the newspaper articles, the cries for censure, the uproar in the musical world. This had made waves a few years ago.

It failed to make waves with John. Maybe it’s better live?

Arthur groans and tries again.

#

It isn’t working. He knows it’s not.

“No,” Hastur says that evening, gratingly patient as Arthur struggles through. “That is less. Not more.”

“I don’t know how to do what you’re asking,” Arthur snaps in a rare moment of defiance. “Why don’t you go kidnap Ravel, if you’re so desperate for his work?”

“Because I don’t want his work. I want yours,” says Hastur, magnanimous. “Now. Try again.”

Arthur rubs his face.

He keeps trying.

He keeps producing repetitive and dull.

I don’t know how to help you, John says, subdued again in Hastur’s absence.

“Need a working libido to figure this out,” Arthur mutters.

What?

“Nothing.” He keeps trying.

#

Arthur thanks all that is good and holy that Faroe will not be here for whatever happens in a few days.

She’s thrilled about her special trip. Camping with Dis is such a grown-up thing to do in the Dreamlands, under the stars.

“Alone?” Arthur blurts.

“Naturally not. There will be a contingent, out of sight, to ensure nothing happens,” says Hastur, because of course there would be.

Arthur dislikes many things that go on in this place, but the focus on Faroe’s safety is not one of them.

“I’m going to gather herbs,” she says, showing off her new gear. From what John describes, there is an inordinate amount of buckles.

“This sounds like you’re going to have a lot of fun,” he says.

“We’re going to catch fish. And we’re going to roast something.”

“Something?”

“Whatever we can catch,” Faroe answers, mimicking Dis’ cadence. “It’s girl’s pre… pree… prerog…rative.”

Arthur grins. “Prerogative. And well it should be. Leave all us nasty guys behind, eh?”

She beams. “That’s what Dis said!”

She’s very cute in her gear, John confesses. She even has a little knife with a wooden blade—I don’t recall her working with weapons like that yet.

“You have a knife?”

“It’s my early birthday present!” she says.

She’s holding it out for inspection. Just to the left—there.

A four-year-old with a knife. Fuck, life was different in the Dreamlands. “John, what does it look like?” he says, holding it carefully.

A rich, dark wood. Its burl is beautiful—whorling, a clearly intentional pattern. I see power all through it; it will never cut her, but anything she means to cut should part like butter.

“It’s very sharp, darling,” says Arthur seriously. “Be very careful with it, or you could hurt someone.” And he hands it back like offering a sword to a knight.

She is grim as she takes it and sheaths it, buckling the handle down. But now, her smile is bright, Arthur. “Dis says to bring you a cabbage.”

“A what?”

“You’ll see,” says Dis, approaching from the left.

The captain is similarly kitted out. She must be coming from the stables because she’s leading Vemmaerra.

“And is Nibbles prepared?” says Arthur, taking all this very seriously.

“Yes!” says Faroe. “I get to ride her when we are out in the wilds.”

Out in the wilds is clearly a phrase she’s heard and has no concept of, and she repeats it with precise and meaningless annunciation.

Arthur smiles. He gives her a quick hug, then finally stands.

“Come, my daughter,” says Hastur, who will, of course, get the final goodbye, and any final words, and anything of real importance.

But Arthur got to see her off, and that matters.

#

He slams the lid shut so hard it makes the piano ring, then gets up to pace. “I can’t do this.”

Sure you can. Maybe tomorrow.

“I did…” Arthur waves his hands. “Commercials for Burma shave, for crying out loud! I can’t make… sex music.”

John really is trying to help, even though he’s been distracted, even though Arthur still feels like he’s losing him, inch by inch. Maybe you’re trying to make it too human?

“What does that even mean? Sex is sex.”

I… uh. Not really.

Arthur sighs. Paces. Then he stops. “Wait. Maybe you’re right.”

How so?

“Too human. That’s the problem. The rhythm is too human. I remember the sound,” he says, sitting back down. “The pace is wrong. But I think I know what to do.”

#

John stares at Arthur’s hands on the keys. He can tell by the tension in them how ready Arthur is to play or compose—and the hands look good. Relaxed and strong. Sound? Pace? What?

“Let’s try this.” And Arthur begins.

It’s a simple bass, a merciless pulse that John immediately finds damn near mesmerizing.

And familiar.

Arthur keeps it low, repeated octaves like a slow-beating heart, but what he does with his right hand makes John forget Bolero even exists. It’s all off-beat. Like the jazz, but not sparkling; it reminds John of the long-forgotten sense of his fingers in the flesh of some pityable thing, parting veins like opening noodles, blood warm and then sticky in the aftermath of intimate death.

Arthur takes his right hand up the register, transitioning to a new key, and John suddenly recalls wrestling with his half-brother Cthulhu back in the eternity of forever, when there was no pecking order, when there was no law, only the joy of twisting tangling tortioning strength and the endless fight for power.

Arthur is breathing hard; this seems to be taking a lot of concentration (and John cannot remember how to feel through the mark to see just what the hell is going on in there), but Arthur transitions again. Another key change, and the pulse has picked up speed.

Then he begins a new rhythm in his right hand, a counterpoint beat, like the high notes have their own heart, their own ichor to circulate, and John has enough awareness to realize Arthur was right about the difference a concert grand piano makes to raw sound.

Arthur’s teeth are bared.

Then Arthur doesn’t transition keys again. He doesn’t change rhythm. He just makes it more.

Louder. Heavier. Stronger, until he’s striking the keys, putting the whole of his core and upper-body strength into the assault, until John feels like either the piano strings are going to snap, or he is.

It peaks, huge, crazy, a breathlessly rich conclusion—and then it doesn’t just stop. Arthur flutters the rhythms, quieting them, bringing them down in volume and up in register until the whole piece comes to rest in soft, sparkling tones, still a counterpoint rhythm, but slowing as if to sleep.

John has forgotten words exist.

“Ha!” Arthur says, absolutely cheerful, wearing a smile so huge that his eyes crinkle.

It takes John a moment.

“I got it!” Arthur says. “What do you think?”

It takes John another moment. How did you… do that?

“His hearts.” Arthur looks happy, and it’s an expression John would have given anything to see, and right now is so overwhelmed he doesn’t know how to handle. “I remembered his hearts.”

His…

“When he marked me. I heard them. Felt them. They’re not in sync, you know.”

S-sure. He knew that, but it never seemed this interesting before. It takes John another moment. Do you have any idea what you did?

“I gave him what he wanted, I’m pretty sure.”

John is pretty sure Arthur hacked eldritch biology, is what he did, but he doesn’t know what to say. Yeah. That’ll work.

“It better, because I’m too damn tired to do it again.” Arthur is pleased and exhausted; he sweated a lot, which probably means he will even more on the night of the performance.

So a sound like that, plus his own scent, plus whatever magic is making the rounds on the night in question. John is thinking practically. We are going to need an escape route.

“Sure, John.” Arthur is all too happy to shower and go to bed. He hums his new, weird melody until he’s finally in bed.

John stares at the inside of Arthur’s eyelids and worries whether Arthur maybe did too good a job.

#

The next day, Hastur comes in during practice, and, like John, he falls silent as Arthur plays.

Arthur barely notices he’s there. It’s enticing, this piece, though it’s not a rhythm he’s known before. It’s grown on him; he doesn’t just play it. He breathes it, feels it; his own heart cannot follow this beat, but he’s fairly sure that if it could, it would.

He’s proud of this crazy piece—and yes, he thinks it might be better than Ravel’s.

“John.”

Arthur jumps.

Hastur.

Hastur sounds… breathy, a little. Voice rough. “Well, Arthur. It seems you did not disappoint.”

This will be dangerous for him tonight.

“Before hearing this, I would have disagreed, but… you have a point.”

“What?” says Arthur.

“I had not planned on his participation beyond the music.”

When they hear this, they won’t give him a choice.

“What?” Arthur blurts. “Look, what is happening tonight, anyway? Did you seriously ask me to write… incidental music for an orgy?”

“If you wish to phrase it that way.” Hastur seems unconcerned. “It is an offering to the Mother Goddess. You remember, John, surely; we celebrate every year—an ode to spring, a chance at new life.”

John’s voice is rough now. I remember.

Arthur feels ill. “I really don’t want to be part of this.”

“You will not. Your life would be in danger, and while I personally wouldn’t at all mind seeing you fucked to death, we would all suffer, including Faroe. So, no—you will be safe.”

Now, he feels really sick. “Great,” he says, tasting bile.

You would want that, you piece of shit.

“John, I would do anything in my power to remove you from him,” says Hastur. “The only reason it has not happened is I have not yet found a way.”

Give it up. I’m never joining you.

“You will. You need it even more than I.”

John growls.

Arthur is so not in the mood for this repeated, endless, circular argument. “Stop. Both of you. Just stop. I don’t want to hear it right now. Hastur, I’ll play your bloody piece, and then I am going away, and nobody is going to bother us tonight. All right?”

“We are, for once, in agreement,” says Hastur. “I will personally ensure you are… escorted to safety.”

You’d better.

“I’d like to know what you would do, should I not.”

You already know. I told you. I will take one of the deals offered to me.

“John.” Arthur grips his head. “Stop.” He doesn’t know why John’s anger hurts, but it does.

Every damn time, it hurts.

Hastur makes a low, pleased sound. “By all means, John… don’t calm down on my account.” And he leaves.

And John seethes.

And Arthur’s head aches, and he wonders if tonight, he should find a way to go armed.

#

He doesn’t go armed. There’d be no point, and he has no weapons, anyway.

The evening comes.

John keeps description minimal. Arthur is glad, because the rest of his senses are going nuts. The scents are... indescribable. Sweet, sour, musky, floral. Natural pheromones? Weird perfume? He doesn’t know.

The sound of thick and swishing fabric everywhere is absurd, and he tries to amuse himself by picturing giant squid-people in fairy-tale ball gowns.

“Awful lot of clothing for an orgy, isn’t it?” he murmurs under his breath.

Just more for them to unwrap, is all. John sounds choked.

Arthur swallows. “It appeals to you, doesn’t it?”

Shut up.

“It’s all right, John. This is your scene. I get it.”

Arthur, it isn’t—

“And now, my honored guests!” Hastur booms, Hastur bellows, his voice making the piano strings vibrate. “We join to celebrate renewal… regrowth… the magnificence of beautiful and undefeatable life!”

The whole group cheers.

And Arthur thinks, for just a moment, that even this absurd proclamation doesn’t hurt his head as much as John’s anger.

“My… court composer,” says Hastur with a chuckle, as though the idea itself were absurd. “We are ready. Guide us into the path of creation. Guide us into her shadow, that we may partake of her essence and give her praise.”

You can do this, Arthur.

Might as well get it over with, he thinks, and begins to play.

He plays with focus, with the memory of Hastur’s hearts through all his being, and loses himself in their song.

Why it’s so moving, he doesn’t know. Maybe gods do it differently; maybe Hastur’s vascular systems pump some divine beat, and not just whatever he has instead of blood.

It doesn’t matter. Arthur plays, and Arthur breathes, and he blocks out all the world.

#

He’s panting when it’s done, and is surprised to find there is silence.

He’s drained. Sweaty. This was exhausting, even with the better shape he’s in; at least nobody’s doing anything, judging by the sound, though why they’re all so quiet—

They’re looking at you, John hisses in warning.

Arthur tenses.

Then Hastur suddenly grabs him, just plucks him off the bench like a flower from the grass. There is the ear-popping shock of a portal opening, and he is thrown through.

He lands hard.

The portal closes with a shoop.

Arthur! We’re in your room! We’re safe! He… he actually did it! You’re safe!

“Oh, thank fuck,” Arthur says on his hands and knees, hanging his head. Then the air begins to tremor, a weirdly metallic thrumming, and Arthur absolutely does not want to know more.

#

He wants to sleep.

That would be lovely, wouldn’t it? Just sleeping right through this, sliding right past whatever freakish coupling they’re all engaged in, but he can’t.

There’s too much… something. In the air.

It isn’t noise.

It isn’t any sense he understands, but it wires the room and leaves his every breath heated, and John is absolutely not being a damn bit of help.

John is acting drugged. He’s completely silent unless spoken to, and then only responds with nonsense.

It is frightening that John is so affected even though they’re in a different part of the palace. Arthur is very glad Hastur is not here to take advantage of it. “How much longer can they keep this up?” he mutters into his pillow.

Days. Maybe. I dunno! Could be fun for days!

Arthur sighs. John is positively blotto. “Fuck, I hope not.”

Why? Hey. Hey. We could go peek.

“No, thank you.”

But I bet it’s something in there!

Arthur snorts. “I’ll bet it is, my friend, but I want to sleep.”

That’s okay. It’s nice here, with you. In the dark.

It isn’t dark. Arthur’s face is in the pillow. “Sure.”

The tensing metal air thrums.

“John,” Arthur says. “Should I leave? Go outside, or something? Leave the palace, maybe?”

I… I wouldn’t. Think something would catch you. Might not go so good. I would have to bite them.

Arthur laughs weakly. “You can’t bite them. My mouth is my own.”

Oh. I could tell you to bite them!

“No, that… that’s all right.”

Hey. You really don’t know what you did. Do you? Know what you did do?

“I wrote some music.” Even to himself, he sounds absurd.

Noooo. You wrote fucking amazing music.

And Arthur can’t help himself. “Fucking amazing… fucking music?”

There’s a pause.

Then John is laughing, and Arthur is laughing, and the tension judders back, and Arthur rolls over so John isn’t stuck staring at a pillowcase any longer.

“Sorry, sorry,” says Arthur, who isn’t.

The lights came on! says John with delight. You did so good. Such a… such a good music. That’s all. Maybe if there’s a blessing, you’ll get some.

“Sure. So… this is how you people repopulate, or something?”

No, we don’t need anything like that.  Most of us don’t even need a partner! We just do it. Choom!

Arthur turns his laugh into a cough. “Choom?”

Yeah! Participation is just for fun. But assigning meaning to things gives them meaning.

“That’s profound, John.” It’s impossible to stay so grim with John like this. “Will there actually be a blessing?”

Think so? Maybe? They’re having fun!

“Yes, I know they’re having fun.”

Wish I could have fun.

Arthur swallows.

You could, too!

“No, I… I don’t want any, thank you.”

Aww. You don’t like fun, Arthur?

“I really don’t deserve fun, my friend,” Arthur says quietly.

Nooo, Arthur, no! You deserve it! You should have it! Fun is good, Arthur.

“John…”

Fun is good.

He’s so sincere.

Arthur smiles weakly. “After this whole affair, John, to be perfectly honest, I’d rather never even think about anything like this ever again for the rest of my—”

A portal opens.

Arthur sits up, tense.

Hi! John says, cheerful.

“Peace, both of you.” It’s Hastur, and he sounds absolutely fucking drunk.

Slurring. Warm. There is something like his growl rumbling under his words, only it’s far from an angry sound.

The sounds behind him aren’t angry, either, but Arthur is very glad when the portal closes and they are cut off.

Hi! John says again. Wait. Go away! You aren’t invited, John growls, or tries.

“Pfff,” says Hastur, and flops beside the bed like a pile of laundry dumped on the floor.

The whole bed jumps as if caught in a quake.

“Is he fucking purring?” Arthur blurts, and doesn’t get an answer.

Is Hastur here to… do something to him?

Faroe’s unanswered question about catamite comes back to mind, and Arthur feels a distinct urge to run for the window and leap out of it. “What are you doing here?” he says in a small voice.

“Mm,” says Hastur, and leans half of himself on the bed.

The bed groans and damn near bends in half under his bulk.

Arthur slides toward him a few inches, just gravity and satin sheets working against him, and he panics.

Easy, says John, slowly, still not sober, but definitely scared closer to it. Just… slide… back a little, maybe. Don’t rush.

Arthur is far beyond not rushing. He scrambles backwards, breathing too fast, high and whimpering, and he gains three whole inches before Hastur moves.

Just grabs him, just curls a tentacle around his waist and plucks him in the air without warning.

Arthur shouts, kicks at nothing. “No! Let me go!”

“Calm down,” says Hastur, and pulls Arthur down into the mass of his arms.

Like he does Faroe.

Arthur makes a choked sound. This is terrifying. They’re heavy, hot; they aren't doing anything, but he can’t push them off him or fight his way free. He feels like he’s been wrapped in heavy silk and dropped into deep water, and he can’t breathe.

He makes panicked sounds on every exhale; tears sting his eyes.

Hey. Hey! Arthur’s left hand can’t get any space to move, but it seems to be poking. Hey! You’re making Arthur cry!

Hastur seems to stir. “Why are you so afraid?” he says, slurring.

The absolute craziness of that sentence snaps Arthur out of it. “You’re joking.”

A beat. “I am not,” says Hastur with a gravity he completely misses by turning his consonants to mush.

“You… you hate me,” Arthur says, trembling with effort to push Hastur’s unmoving arms off him. “You’ve broken my leg, you… you’ve hurt me so many times. How can you even ask that?”

Hastur takes this seriously. “I am not breaking your legs now.”

He’s magic-drunk, John says. Hahaha!

This isn’t remotely funny. “Please!” his voice breaks. “I hate… I hate confined spaces. Please let me out.”

“Faroe likes this,” says Hastur, as if being completely reasonable.

“I’m not Faroe! Oh, gods, let me out!”

“What nonsense,” says Hastur, but his arms slither apart, opening, dropping Arthur to the floor.

Gasping wildly, he tries to scramble away.

Hastur picks him up again.

“Stop!”

Hey! Hey! John smacks the tentacle with his left hand.

“What?” Hastur settles against Arthur’s bed again (which creaks alarmingly, springs snapping), then tucks Arthur against his chest like a teddy bear with an arm around his waist. “Shhhh.”

It’s better than being engulfed. It’s still bad. “Hastur, please!”

“Shhh.”

At least he’s not being swayed. There is that. At least there is that. “John, what do I do?” he whispers.

I dunno! Uh. I dunno? Hey! What are you doing?”

“Presence,” says Hastur. There is an ominous crack in the bed somewhere, as of wood breaking. “It didn’t work.”

“Wh… what didn’t work?”

It takes Hastur a moment. “I hate you very much, you know,” he says, and those words should come with a crushing squeeze, with the breaking of bones and rending of flesh, but they do not.

Arthur stays pressed against his yellow cloak, breathing fast. “I know?”

“You took him away from me, you know,” says Hastur, raising one of his humanoid hands to brush Arthur’s hair back from his face.

Arthur tries to lean away. The tentacle around his waist is like steel. “Don’t hurt me.”

He won’t dare! Arthur’s left arm whacks Hastur’s repeatedly.

“He won’t come back to me, you know,” says Hastur, ignoring John. “And you won’t even… you don’t even break right. They’re mine when they break, you know? Any human I break and show myself to is mine. I break them, and then they love me. They’re all mine! Pop, like eating a ripe cherry. But you didn’t even do that right.”

Arthur is stunned. Kayne said something like that, hadn’t he? No, he’d said… he’d said that everyone else who took John from that book died, popped like a ripe cherry.

It’s too weird. It can’t be a coincidence. But is it? “I… I don’t know why that is.”

“I do,” says Hastur, and pokes Arthur’s chest right where he’d marked him.

That—

Ripples of something from that spot flash through Arthur’s whole being, and he briefly whites out.

“—a stubborn piece of shit,” Hastur finishes.

Arthur wipes his eyes. He’s sweating. “I… uh.”

Hey! Mine! John hits him again.

Hastur sighs. “Oh, Arthur… Arthur Lester. It hurts. It always hurts. It didn’t work tonight. I am supposed to feel better.” The purr has ceased. “I do not feel better. It did not work.”

Oh.

It hurts.

It is weirdly human that Hastur threw himself into physical intimacy in an attempt to get away from non-physical pain.

“John hurts, too,” Arthur says slowly.

What? Noooo, John says, and waves his left hand. Well, yeeees, but not so bad. I have life-support, remember? I have you!

Hastur sniffles.

“Are… are you crying?” says Arthur.

Hastur sniffles again.

Arthur rubs his face. “Really?”

Take that! John says for some reason.

Hastur is petting his head again.

Sad drunk, Arthur thinks, and that helps. He knows how to handle sad drunks. Tentative, he pats the arm around his waist, and somehow, gets the words out: “Um. It’s going to be okay.”

It is? says John in wonder.

Hastur sniffles again. “He won’t come back to me, and that is because of you.”

Could this be more pathetic? “It’s because of him, too—and because of you. We’ve all made choices. We’re all in this. We dug the pit together.”

It’s my fault! John declares. Don’t you dare blame him!

“He keeps choosing you,” says Hastur, ignoring John completely.

“I know,” says Arthur, soft. “I don’t deserve it.”

Arthur! Hey. Hey, Arthur.

“Why does he do that?” Hastur says.

“I don’t know.” Arthur swallows. “I really don’t. I don’t know why he keeps choosing me.”

Arthur… John sounds so sad. Don’t say that, Arthur. Arthur?

“Yes, John?” Arthur feels like his heart weighs a thousand pounds.

Can you sing me a song?

“Yes,” says Hastur. “A song.”

I want a funny song.

“I don’t want a funny song,” says Hastur.

Well, why not? It’s better than anything else he feared happening tonight. “All right. I’ve got… maybe one that’s both? Um, let me see.” He doesn’t actually have that, but they’re both drunk now, so they’ll hear what they want. Softly, he sings:

“The cuckoo is a fine bird. He sings as he flies, He brings us good tidings and tells us no lies. He sucks the sweet flowers to make his voice clear, And the more he cries ‘cuckoo,’ the summer is nigh.”

Yeah! John says. Suck those flowers!

Arthur laughs, surprised into it.

Hastur sniffles. “He sounds like a very good bird.”

“I’m sure he is,” Arthur mutters, clears his throat, and sings again.

“Come all you fair maidens, take warning of me, Don't place your affections on a sycamore tree, For the top it will wither, and the roots they will die, And if I'm forsaken, I know not for why.”

Fuck that guy! John proclaims.

“Roots,” Hastur rumbles, sounding angry.

“Maybe this was a bad idea,” says Arthur. “I’ll stop.”

“No!”

No!

“More, Arthur,” says Hastur, sitting up.

You should write me a funny song, says John, who sounds absolutely chipper now. You could make it dirty, too. I wouldn’t mind.

“Oh, that’s good to know,” says Arthur, feeling lightheaded.

“When roots die, so does the tree,” says Hastur, solemn.

“That… that’s true?”

I’ll give you roots, says John for some reason.

“It’s all… going to work out,” Arthur says, and wonders: if he keeps John to himself, will Hastur eventually die?

They are an opportunistic family. If Hastur dies, his kingdom will fall to another.

And that will absolutely fuck over Faroe.

She’s his heir. They’d never stop chasing her. Little Faroe, who is so strong, and so smart. Faroe, who is learning and experiencing things Arthur could never give her in a thousand lifetimes.

Faroe, who is, right now, incredibly safe.

He could never give her a life like this. He already threw away any right he had to try. His stomach churns.

Hey, says John, who must be watching in the mirrors. You’re not supposed to cry. You’re supposed to be funny!

“Well, John, I—”

And dirty, John says.

“I think I’ve had enough of dirty for tonight,” says Arthur. “Gentlemen, I’m tired. Please let me go. I need to sleep.”

“Humans do need sleep,” says Hastur, slowly rising. “Horrible activity. Don’t know how you stand it.”

“Well, we do,” says Arthur. “It’ll kill us if we don’t get enough.”

Hastur puts him back on the bed, but neither moves away, nor lets go. “I really do hate you, you know.”

“I know.” Arthur sighs.

“Fuck,” Hastur pronounces, lowering back down and covering Arthur’s bottom half in hot, heavy weight.

The bed creaks, shudders, and the frame finally breaks.

Arthur grunts as the mattress hits the floor.

Hastur does not move. His breathing is slow and steady.

Aww, says John. Look at us! All together, the way it should be.

And John does not seem to register Arthur’s gasp.

Or Arthur’s hard swallow.

John begins humming the tune Arthur just sang, fairly accurately. His left hand comes up, strokes Arthur’s hair, then settles on his chest over his heart.

Gods don’t sleep, but they both seem to be in some kind of daze.

Good, Arthur thinks, because he can’t talk right now.

Good, Arthur thinks, because his heart under John’s hand hurts, because his stomach under Hastur’s weight twists, because his throat—in no grip but his mind’s own—tightens.

He knows what needs to happen for John’s sake, in time.

He’s known since the beginning. He has.

He knew he was being selfish when Kayne gave him that choice in Addison, years ago.

He knows he’s self-centered. He knows.

He knows he needs to give John up, for John’s sake, for John.

He doesn’t know if he can.

Sing for me, Arthur? says John.

“Always, my friend,” Arthur whispers, and it’s a vow, because John is in pain, and Arthur knows he’s in pain, and he knows Hastur is right: Arthur is at fault.

“They told me last night there were ships in the offing, And I hurried down to the deep rolling sea. But my eye could not see it wherever might be it, The bark that is bringing my lover to me.

“Blow the wind southerly, southerly, southerly. Blow the wind south, where's the bonnie blue sea. Blow the wind southerly, southerly, southerly. Blow bonnie breeze my lover and bring her to me.”

Arthur’s voice trails off, and the two gods breathe—one in his head, the other draped across his stomach—and no one speaks any more at all.

[chrisshepherdfilms]

Carl Davis 

1936-2023

I am very sad to hear of the passing of Carl Davis. He was not only one of the greatest composes ever but also a friend of mine. Carl had worked in film and TV since the 70s composing classics such as the French Lieutenant's Woman, Scandal and the Naked Civil Servant.  Perhaps his most iconic piece of music has to be the theme from The World At War. But I feel that his masterpiece has to be his five hour score for Able Gance’s 1927 Napoleon He did everything in his time, compose TV scores, ballets.  

I first met Carl via his wife Jean Boht who I cast to play Auntie Glad in my 2010 film Bad Night for The Blues. From the moment that I met them I was embraced by Jean and Carl. The two of them are very special people. I've always been crazy for film soundtracks. Growing up in Liverpool I would always be buying second-hand soundtracks and being obsessed buy them. Carl’s works had big impact on me. For example, The Naked Civil Servants. Which in my mind is the best that TV has offered. It not only changed attitudes but was a beautiful piece of work. Carl’s scores draw out deep emotions. Sadness, nostalgia, love, joy. Carl had the magic touch that communicated emotions to the audience. He worked a lot with Jack Gold. Another of their films was the Bofors Guns - which I was all completely obsessed by as a teenager. And now it's quite an obscure film. The World War was the other piece of TV that blew my mind. Its title sequence still affects me now. With its power, surging music, and amazing graphics. It always gives a shiver down my spine. I remember Carl telling me it took ten years to research The World At War and it really shows on screen. Last time I saw him he said his favourite episode of The World At The War was episode 26: Remember. His music here is beautiful, haunting, playing the shows with different national motifs as soldiers reflect on what war was. It’s really moving. TV can’t get near a series like The World At War now.  But Carl’s credits were massive, Private Schultz, Oppenheimer, the French Lieutenant's Woman, Scandal, Champions, he had an incredible career.

After I directed Bad Night for the Blues, I put together an idea called Brexicuted. The short film for Arte France was a mockumentary laughing at the notion of the UK leaving Europe. The film itself was slapstick comedy. But Carl wanted to do the compose the soundtrack which he did with a five-piece ensemble. I was in awe of Carl sitting at his table handwriting the score for my film. Then to record was a magical experience. I was lucky enough to also go to the recording of Napoleon and see Carl in action. It was a privilege to see the maestro in action. 

Jean and Carl also used to invite me along to the silent screenings in the Royal Festival Hall where call would conduct a full orchestra. The films we saw were amazing, Chaplin’s Gold Rush, The Phantom of the Opera and of course Napoleon. It was a real privilege to see him in action. When I was a teenager, I would never have imagined meeting a composer like Carl. I was totally obsessed by TV but what I saw on the screen was a different world. But this was the magic of Carl he was so open and as a person so much so fun.

I will miss Carl and our conversations. But above all, why Carl was special for me was that he didn't judge me on where I came from. He was a legend but totally down to Earth. He was completely open and had so much energy.  He was always ready for the next idea. Myself and Carl had planned to do a screening and Q&A at the Garden Cinema in October about his Charlie Chaplin Mutual Films scores. He never stopped. I will miss him. My love goes to Jean, Jessie, Hannah, James and all the family. Carl has left an incredible legacy. The song may have stopped the melody rolls on. 

[machifuwa]

- Sunshine - Sunny Side Epilogue

[Sunnyside Festival] After the closing of the live, the night stall

Tsukasa: Funfun♪ Which dish shall I eat today~?

Anyway, why are there so many different kinds of food stalls? I can't eat them all in just three days!

Wish there was a place like this near ES. Right, Suo~?

Tsukasa: Yes, that's right.

Leo: You're not expressing your feelings enough. You're rebellious! Stop looking at your phone and look at your father! Or I'll tell your mother, Sena!

Tsukasa: You two are not my parents, and I told you I would have to contact all the newcomers, didn't I?

Why are you following me, anyway? Weren't you the guy who ignored me like I didn't exist that day?

Leo: Did I ever ignore you?

Tsukasa: You did. Don't tell me you've forgotten.

You were lamenting about this Slump of yours, and you were pestering me to find a job where we could play around and make money at the same time.

Leo: Aah, I remember now. Come to think of it, there was really a time when that happened~

Tsukasa: Leo-san.

Leo: Now, now, all's well that ends well, as the saying goes, right? Weren't you the guy who had a lot of fun earlier?♪

Tsukasa: ...Well, I won't deny that.

I've gained experience that I couldn't get in Japan, and all the newcomers are getting a good rest.

Leo: Yeah. Did you give them a vacation because it was unfair compared to those of us who came to the South Island?

Tsukasa: Yes. It would be unfair for us to be the only ones having fun, even though we are also working.

And, from the reports, it seems that more than half of them are practicing independently. It's really wonderful♪

At last, sprouts have emerged from the seeds we sowed. It won't take too long before a large flower blooms.

For the sake of our future, we need them to grow up well.

Leo: Hmm~ Okay, good luck with that.

Tsukasa: That's it?

Leo: Yeah, that's it. I'm not the "King" anymore, after all.

...Hm? Looks like Anzu's back. Suo, let's go.

Arashi: I've been waiting for you, Anzu-chan. It must have been hard for you to work from the first day you arrived.

...I see, Kunugi-sensei can't come huh. It's a little lonely but it can't be helped.

...Did you enjoy our performance? Fufu, thank you♪

It was fun for me, too. I was moved by the excitement of people who had never even heard of the word "idol," let alone speak Japanese.

Oh my, Izumi-chan and Ritsu-chan, you two brought a lot of strange looking dishes, no?

Izumi: It's all Kuma-kun's. I'm just holding it for him.

Ritsu: Fufu. My curiosity got the better of me and I ended up buying these. Anzu, a~n.

...So? "Seasoned and delicious"?

Good. Then I can eat this with no problem at all...♪

Arashi: Now, now, don't make a girl test for food poison.

Tsukasa: Onee-sama, thank you for your hardwork. Let me show you your seat.

...Oh? Someone is calling Sena-senpai.

Izumi: Hm? Aah, is it the guy from the food stall I talked to the day before yesterday?

Good evening. What do you need me for?

Eh? You went all the way to see us on stage? You became a fan, you say...

Hmm. I see, thank you...

You want to support us and listen to more of our songs? Well, you can find our music videos on our websiteー

...What is it, Anzu? You wanted to give this to me...?

I thought you were carrying around a big pair of shoes. Were you carrying these posters and CDs around?

I thought this might happen. You're a very careful and well-prepared producer, after all.

Do you have a pen? Yeah, I'll just have to sign my name on it, right?

......♪

Izumi: ...Alright, I've written it. I don't think anyone will see it now though.

Maybe one day we will be more famous that they can proudly say that "Izumi Sena stopped by here"...♪

Leo: Aaah! That's not fair, Sena! Why are you signing this poster all by yourself!

I want to write too! I mean, we'll all write, because it's a poster for "Knights"!

Izumi: Are you a kid? Hooow annoying.

...What did the owner say? He asked if we're also taking part in the next [SSF]?

I don't have the authority to make decisions. What do you think, Kasa-kun?

Tsukasa: That's right... It's hard to get involved in the immediate future, but I'd like to take part again one day.

I have learned first-hand that music has no borders, and this experience has helped me to understand how to properly do overseas tours.

When the time comes, we will make a triumphant return with all the newcomers present. In the style of "Knights", with elegance and gracefulness...♪

< EPILOGUE END >

Story: "Summer Breeze!" [Sunshine Shimmering in a Foreign Land]

Story by: ゆーます

Collaborator: 日日日

Season: Summer

Characters in this Episode: Leo, Tsukasa, Izumi, Ritsu, Arashi, Anzu

Just my thoughts while translating and reading this story at the same time:

This story is very well-written like all the enstars stories are but this one is really really good! (Maybe it's because I'm so in love with Knights). It's really great that everyone is getting along in this story! Thanks to Leo's "slump", they were all reunited again as one big family...♪ And now I'm speaking the idol way, send help. Please share your thoughts as well!

Reminder: I did not create this story, but I translated it, so please refrain from reposting my translation on other social media platforms.

I apologize if there are any mistakes as well.

(Prev - All) Thank you for reading Summer Breeze with me!

[ask-lock-shock-and-barrel]

((So I wanted to take a crack at drawing my takes on Trick-Or-Treat Trio when they are older, and while I do have older designs of them as teens and adults, I wanted to take another shot at drawing them as adults, like late 20s/early 30s, and have to pay taxes like everyone else. They're still big fans of pranks and mischief and causing drama, but they're definitely more meshed into everyday resident life than they were as kids, because they're older and mellowed out and going to therapy. A handful of residents still aren't big fans of them as they mentally associate them with Oogie, but the majority of town has accepted them. I put more in depth descriptors below

Lock grows up to be the M.C. for all Halloween Town events and be the presenter for events broadcast on television. He's also Jack's understudy as Pumpkin King, but Jack has never once needed him to sub in. He, Jack, and the Mayor work together to plan different ideas for Halloween celebrations, and he loves to be in charge of things. The only things stopping Lock from sabotaging Jack is he has respect for him, and he actually has developed a fear of flames, so getting to stand in front of a crowd and entertain them with his chatter is far more favorable. When he's on the job, he's got lifts in his shoes, a bunch of TV makeup on, and enough hairspray to suffocate an anthill, so off the clock he is a lot shorter and dressing more scruffy so nobody really recognizes him. Jack also gifted him his bowtie as a good luck present for his first MC gig. He's really good at charming the crowds, and handling pressure, but when he cracks, he cracks hard.

Shock has a auto repair garage and fix-it shop, having developed a fascination with taking things apart and putting them back together, and a great eye for fixing cars after countless times cutting brakelines as a kid for fun. She's got great business because she's the only repairperson in town who the mayor can take his car to who knows how to fix it, top-to-bottom. She sabotaged it so much as a kid, she knows it like the back of her hand. He knows there's a 79% risk she will booby trap his car every time he goes to her, but he's willing to take that chance, and cautiously endorse her to other residents. She actually spent a few years in the human world as a younger adult, and called it 'studying abroad', but shes now settled back in Halloween Town and happy to stay near her roots. She also has a track record of setting off elaborate rube goldberg traps in town on random citizens, and it has made her so many enemies, but oh great googly moogly is it fun.

I sort of designed Barrel to be kind of crunchy looking, and not set in any particular sense of fashion beyond 'Halloweeny accents'. And since I hardcore HC them as nonbinary, I wanted to try different levels of masculine and feminine outfits. I characterize them as still being very mellow and bubbly, but they're also a little bit smug and vindictive in some settings, and a bit sassy if they know they are right about something. They're heavily involved in the events planning scene and help coordinate music for different festivities, and Halloween night. They're the owner of a cafe in town and take great pride in showcasing local visual artists on the walls, and keeping up a bulletin board for local theater performances. They also make the best vegetarian Snk n Spdr stew in town. Every Friday, they host an open mic night, where Lock hosts, Shock helps bartend, and Barrel runs ragged to manage the place since it draws in more crowds than any other day. They also are in a band with Shock and a couple others which plays sometimes at the open mics or other small gigs for the fun of it.

Sometimes, the three of them do pull a prank in town together, but by this time they've recognized that more new impish children are in town now, and will carry on the legacy of mischief for them, so they've passed the torch on to new troublesome trick-or-treaters.

But you bet your ass they still go trick or treating every year.

Also you didn't hear this from me, but Jack and Sally adopted the three of them as teens/tweens, and I will make designs for them as teens later

[sparrow-in-boots]

Desmond headcanons that only make sense to me:

- He can play the guitar, something he learned by hitching rides with a band as a groupie (poser) and that skill helped him have at least enough loose change for a coffee and toast on his drier days;

- He had a rundown old guitar he always spun as a heirloom from an uncle, when in truth he snuck it from a yard sale one time, along with a blanket and a pack of faded 80s stickers;

- Some time after, he slipped the money on an envelope to the yard sale house, now that he could afford paying back for the items;

- He really likes bird watching, and he even befriended a flock of pigeons that lived near a Virgin megastore where he worked for a season;

- Early on his escape, he did a lot of hitchhiking which dragged him in a zigzag around the eastern half of the US before he finally headed to New York, and he sincerely regrets never going to Las Vegas or California before that;

- He did however take a diversion on his way to New York to go to a week-long music festival in Miami, and to this day he’s not sure how he managed to survive that for a number of reasons;

- Most of his early days in New York was with squatting groups, who supported him a lot and helped him get a bit of a grip on his trauma in the Farm, and once he was well-off enough to rent his own place, he always made sure to donate some of his tips back to them;

- He is in fact, very left-leaning when it comes to politics, but he's also impeccably chill about it. If he doesn’t vibe with a person because of their views, he just cuts ties and moves on;

- He’s taller than both his parents, a handful of inches compared to Bill but a whole foot compared to his mom;

- His mom is called Francisca Martinez (she didn’t change her last name) and she’s from spanish and indigenous descent. Her nickname is Cica (pronounced See-sah);

- Desmond has a fondness for radio pop, as it was the first type of music he heard once he was out of the Farm, and 20s and 30s jazz, because of his father’s inheritance vynil disks;

- On a related note, becoming a bartender was a bit of a bitter irony, since his father got those vynils from his own mother, who ran a speakeasy bureau during the Prohibition;

- He in fact has a very sweet tooth, but it only comes in bursts. One moment he’s eating chocolate and drinking Coke every two hours for a few weeks, then he can barely stand looking at a candy for too long;

- He has a habit of collecting recipes wherever he finds them, from magazines to the back of packages, or even asking people if they can share theirs. It started as things he wanted to try making once he had a place of his own and could afford to cook things, but afterwards it became a ritual of his; he can’t keep pictures or afford that many souvenirs, but recipes are easy to store and then remake to relive memories;

- That said, getting used to spicier or heavier foods was a learning curve to him, since most meals at the Farm were a far cry from what he could find most of the time. He did take it as a personal challenge though, which helped;

- He’s an incredibly fast reader, a skill he learned early as a kid devouring book after book in the Farm library, small as it was. He only got sharper as he sped through every pamphlet and billboard and sign and booklet he could get his hands on after he escaped, catching up on years of cultural knowledge he missed out on;

- He befriended a group of bikers at a diner one night, and three days later he came up with the design of his arm tattoo and one of his friends tatted him up for free and taught him how to ride;

- Desmond promised that once he got his own bike, he’d go find them and join them on a cross-country roadtrip;

[tellthemeerkatsitsfine]

Well, I’ve had a hell of a week. So far since last weekend, I have:

- Had a conversation with my roommate after which I became sure I would not be able to stay in my house. There’s been a whole thing for the last couple of months where my roommate is moving out and has tried to give our place to someone else, but I very much like this place (for reasons that range from good price and good location and it’s a good house, to I get too emotionally attached to places where I spend too much time) and want to stay here, and it’s long and complicated but basically I’ve had two months of being constantly stressed due to uncertainty about where I’ll be living in the fall. Then last weekend, I had a very confrontational call with my roommate – and I don’t do confrontation well – in which he informed that he was going to do something I had not previously thought of in order to give the house away, I was pretty sure it would work, got very upset due to the unexpected confrontation and due to the fact that I became sure I wouldn’t be able to stay here.

- Three days later, a couple of other people talked to my roommate, I talked to the landlord, a few things changed (including – I’m not saying my roommate will listen to men but not women, but when our male mutual friend made all the exact same points to him that I did, suddenly they made sense), and I’m now pretty sure I can keep the place. More sure than I’ve been for two months. The first time in two months that I’ve been able to lift almost all of that stress off my shoulders, and it’s an amazing feeling. I almost hesitate to write this for fear of inviting the worst, since nothing’s signed yet, it’s not for sure. Also I do still have to find a new roommate to cover the other half of the rent because his subletter’s moving out. But I can figure that out. It’s a huge relief to know it’ll very likely be okay.

- On Monday night, I accompanied my brother to one of his comedy shows, a decision I made partly to take my mind off worrying about whether I’d get to stay in my place (since I hadn’t yet heard the good news about that getting better). My brother convinced me to put my name in a draw, where whatever name they pick gets to perform in the one spot they keep open for that. My fucking name got picked. I performed stand-up comedy for the first time. I recited some shit that I wrote a while ago and have wanted to perform but haven’t had the guts to try before. It went much better than I’d expected, though that’s only because I’d expected it to be a catastrophic failure. In reality it went fine. People laughed more than one time, which wildly exceeded my expectations. Afterward, several comedians and several audience members came up to me to say I did well. Some were presumably just being nice (I’m sure “just being nice” also factored into the laughs, as I did immediately tell them this was my first time doing it), but they seemed to mean it, at least a bit. I think it actually was all right for a first time. Afterward I hung around the bar and drank with comedians and it was the first time in ages that I can remember having so much fucking fun without any part of it being difficult.

- On Wednesday, I went out to a live Celtic music night. This is because a couple of weeks before that, my parents went to a folk festival out East and saw a few of my favourite singers, and that made me sad, because I used to go see music all the time, and I stopped in 2020, and I’ve seen a couple of music things since then but not many, and I miss it. So, it occurred to me, there’s nothing stopping me from just starting it again. The day after the folk festival that I missed, I Googled folk music in my area, found a reasonably priced Celtic music night at a venue that’s relatively near me, that I’d never heard of because it just opened during the pandemic. I checked its schedule and it has a lot of stuff that I like, including monthly Celtic music nights. This sort of thing is part of why I care so much about staying in my place that’s downtown. Near my sport. Near my friend. Near comedy. Near live music. I’ve spent so much time staying in my house not doing stuff, I’m only just starting to do stuff again, I want to do everything, that is not a good time to lose my downtown housing.

So on Wednesday, I walked to this new music venue, and it’s so good. So good. The perfect size, big enough to fit enough of a crowd to bring in touring musicians, not big enough for the size of the room to impact enjoyment. Capacity of about 90 people, I think, and well spread out. Stage with enough room for a band with lots of instruments. A building that was clearly made with acoustics in mind, the sound quality was fantastic. And when I got there, I didn’t want to pay for the overpriced water bottles you get at venues, but I was so hot and thirsty from the walk that I decided it was worth it. So I asked at the counter for a bottle of water, and they told me I could just take a cup and fill it from their water cooler for free. I will be returning to that venue.

Then they played music! God, it’s been so long since I’ve seen that stuff live, I love it. It was a band I didn’t know, but was made of four people, two of whom I did know, from other projects they’ve done. Three were local and one from out East. They all knew their shit, played a bunch of classics and some of their own stuff. Stuck very closely to the “Celtic” remit (unlike some bands that will just define “Celtic music” as “anything with a fiddle”), explained the history of every song and tune, it was mainly Scottish and some Irish and a few Cornish songs. Was fucking beautiful. The show was just about to start when I got a text from my roommate telling me he’d spoken to the landlord and I’ll get more details later but I’m going to be able to stay in the house.

- On Thursday, I went out to a different comedy night. This is one I’ve been to before, a pub that runs comedy every Thursday just around the corner from my house. I went a bunch of weeks in a row this spring, and hadn’t been for a few weeks, but was pleased when the woman working at the bar still recognized me when I came in, asked me where I’d been. This was normal, she’d started recognizing me after I’d been going for a few weeks. What was less normal was that this time, the guy who runs the comedy night also went up to me, and asked if I planned to put my name in the lotto draw, the same type of thing that I did on Monday when my name got picked and I performed. The Monday and Thursday night things both have seven comedians who are booked ahead of time, and then leave open one “lotto spot” that goes to whoever’s name gets pulled from a pitcher.

I said no, because that hadn’t occurred to me, I hadn’t even started to think about how I wanted to try performing again, I’d only come to watch. Then I sat down, thought for five minutes, got back up, and put my name in. Because why not?

My name didn’t end up getting picked, but I enjoyed some of the comedy (not all of it, these nights can be hit and miss, but a few people were good). After it was over, while I was paying my bill, the guy who runs the comedy night came over to me again. He addressed me by my first name, which briefly surprised me because I’d not spoken to him before that night, and I hadn’t realized he knew my name. He said he was sorry I didn’t get picked for the lotto spot, but would I like to perform – as in be on the actual bill, not just in the lotto – on August 10th, in two weeks?

My first thought was genuinely that he’d made some sort of mistake, what with me not being a comedian. I asked him if he was sure, and he said, “Yeah, I saw you at [name of other pub, that runs the Monday night comedy], you were good. So do you want to perform here in two weeks?” I said yes, and thank you, and tried to seem relatively cool about it. Then I left the bar (after briefly apologizing to the guy who had compered the night for how quiet the audience was, including me because to be honest I’d been too distracted by wondering if I’d get picked for the lotto spot to laugh out loud much, but the compere was good and got visibly distressed about how little audience reaction he got, I told him he was funny and deserved a better response, and he told me that made him feel much better and my comment made his night, I’d been nervous to say that to him but then was glad I did, little life tip, if you have nice things to say to people you should say them), and walked home while trying not to shout out loud “I love this fucking city!” as though I was Jim Carry running across town at the end of a movie.

So... it wasn't just people wanting to be nice when they told me on Monday I'd done well. A guy who runs a comedy night thought I did well enough to put me on a bill.

- Last night, I went out for dinner with my best friend, hadn’t eaten in actual restaurant in ages, that was really nice. Hung out at my place afterward. Appreciated how convenient it is to live a fifteen-minute walk from a guy I’ve known for twenty years and still want to see all the time.

- Today, Saturday, I’m about to drive to Montreal to see Tom Ballard and Josie Long, two of my favourite comedians, in a fairly small room at the Just For Laughs Festival. I am so fucking excited. Beyond fucking excited. I am not even going to try to explain how excited I am, because I won’t do it justice. I’ve written a couple of posts about it already. I can barely even think about it. I still can hardly wrap my mind around the idea that Josie Long is a real person and will be in a room with me, even though I’ve been sent pictures she’s put on social media of herself since she arrived in Canada earlier this week.

- Tomorrow, I am being sent to the seaside for my health. I fly out to my grandparents’ home on Canada’s East Coast, my favourite place in the world (Canada’s East Coast in general is a place I love, but my grandparents’ house, out in rural Nova Scotia and right on the ocean, where they’ve been living since I was two years old and where I’ve spent a lot of time every year of my life, is my actual favourite place in the world). My parents have been there for a couple of months now (that’s how they went out to the folk festival that I had to miss due to not being in the area), and I’ll be joining them for a week, and then we’ll all drive home next weekend, and I start a new job on August 8th.

My grandparents won’t be there – they moved into a care home a while ago, and my parents love that house so much and have been trying to figure out a way to keep it in the family, but it doesn’t look like it’s going to work. So part of why they went down this summer was to look into the process of selling it. They did do that a bit, and nothing’s happening immediately, but there’s a good chance this week will be the last time I’ll ever go there. I hope it won’t be. Selling it might take a long time and I might get there again. Or it might sell immediately because it’s the best place in the world.

Either way, I’m going to enjoy this time there. I feel really lucky to have had all the time with it that I’ve had for thirty years, and I feel lucky to get to see it again next week.

So, that's my life update. Things have been rather rough for a while, but they're really looking up. Not everything's sorted out yet, but to paraphrase 30 Rock's Liz Lemon, I am hesitantly allowing myself to feel slightly hopeful.

[tiedyemillenialbullshit]

Nightmare

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female!Avenger Reader Word Count: 3,431 Summary: Your best friend finally comes to visit the compound after you join the Avengers. What starts out as a fun night out, quickly turns dire for you and Bucky. Warnings: Angst, Fluff, Feelings, Mentions of Alcohol and Drugs, PTSD/Nightmares, swearing

“AHHHH Y/N!!” You hear her before you see your best friend running towards you, not a care in the world that your entire team has also turned around to watch you two galavant towards each other like long lost sisters.

You catch Sarah in your arms and spin her around.

“Oh my god, I can’t believe you’re FINALLY HERE! And you’re early! Holy shit like I can’t believe you’re finally here in New York!! Let me introduce you to the team!” You grab her arm after she starts to show hesitance in meeting the Avengers all at once.

“Are you sure they have time? I don’t want to be a bother,” she says sheepishly.

“Oh my god Sarah, I talk about you all the time! They’re just as excited to meet you, come on.” You both walk towards the team still staring at you both near the entrance to the compound doing a quick debrief of a not-so-successful mission the day before.

“Guys, this is Sarah. Sarah this is-“ she cuts you off. “I know who you guys all are. It’s so nice to meet you! I’ll stay out of the way, I promise.” Everyone grins and introduces themselves to your best friend.

Nat smiles at you both, “On the contrary, you’re coming out with us tonight! No if’s, and’s or but’s”

Sarah seems to suddenly catch a second wind from her long flight and lets out a squeal of excitement.

You’re the newest to the “official” team, even though Steve and Fury had been trying to recruit you for years. You didn’t like the idea of the world knowing about your skill set and preferred to live a quiet life back in California. Ever since moving here, you’ve felt like maybe you weren’t home yet. Everyone was so nice and welcoming, but you missed your little house hidden in the outskirts of the National Parks in California. You missed the sun, the familiar smell of your patch of paradise and the general sense of room back home. Most importantly, you missed Sarah.

You were reluctant to invite her out to New York at first, but now that things seemed to be going smoothly, you sent for her via a car and private jet thanks to one Mr. Tony Stark. He was more than happy to help you out given your fresh and maybe sometimes bumpy arrival to the Avengers.

As everyone filed inside to break away before the evening festivities, Bucky caught your arm.

After holding you back for a second he said, “Hey, I can totally hang back tonight if you’d rather just be with Sarah and the team.”

You realize what he’s getting at. He also has some lack of feeling settled at the compound. It was something you bonded over when you first arrived. You both had similar pasts, even though they were at the same time lightyears apart.

“Buck, no. I think we’re all going out to Bleaker’s tonight! What’s a better way to get to know the team than bowling, beer, smoking inside, beer, old arcade games, more beer and maybe dancing?!”

Bucky gives you a quick glare out the corner of his eye before wrapping his metal arm around your shoulders to lead you inside after everyone.

“Fiiiiiiine, but I can’t promise I’ll behave.” You giggle, but suddenly feel a couple sets of eyes on you.

“And what do we have here?,” Tony asks with a smirk across his mouth. Sarah seems to be in the middle of an engaging conversation with Steve, so you don’t seem to have an easy out of this encounter. Bucky quickly drops his arm and steps a foot away from you.

“Uh, nothing. Y/N just seemed like maybe she wasn’t feeling well.”

“But I’m fine so here we are - have you seen Sam? Nat? Wanda? I told them we should be ready in a few hours and I jus-“

“Oh for Christ’s sake guys, your secret is safe with me,” Tony winks at you knowingly. You decide to take that as the end of the conversation and rush over to join Sarah.

“So! You have muscles.” Sarah says clearly at a loss of words looking at Steve in a tight shirt.

You and Bucky share a giggle, but pull Sarah away and save her from further embarrassment.

“What the fuck did I just say?” Sarah is about as red as a tomato as you drag her upstairs away from the awkward encounter. Steve looked a little flustered as well, which you file away in the back of your brain.

“Who cares! Let’s catch up and get ready for tonight.” Sarah is your best friend for a reason. Even though it had been 6 months since you last saw each other, it was like it was yesterday. You two spend the next few hours catching up, gossiping about each other’s families, friends, ex-boyfriends, etc.

“So! How are we doing in the boi department?” You turn around and face Sarah at the inquisitive tone in her question.

“What’s that supposed to mean? I’m good, I’m… I’m doing great, I mean yeah I’m good. WHY?” You’re stuttering and you don’t even care it’s obvious you’re blushing.

“Oh, you know. I mean, I’ve only recently met a few super soldiers, but I do think I can tell the there’s a spark between one and someone else.” Sarah so wants you to spill the tea but you promised Bucky you’d keep it quiet.

“Let’s just say things are developing and whatever you’d like to take from that you may.” You both launch into a giggle fit of her guessing and you denying certain aspects of Bucky Barnes.

When Wanda wanders into your room a few hours later, she starts laughing at what she sees. “You know you two are wearing like the same thing, right?” Exchanging confused looks at each other, you reply with a “AND?!”

Sam follows in with a smirk of his own. You’re bracing for his jokes but instead says “damn, OKAY! Everyone’s looking sharp tonight. Y/N, have you seen our bionic man around? Is he coming? He better come out tonight or I swear to…”

After Sam leaves to go find Bucky, the three of you wander down to find Nat and start the evening off with a shot or two. You aren’t much of a drinker, so one is enough for you. You much rather enjoy the company of your friend Mary Jane.

The team is getting silly with each other in the kitchen and quickly the room is filled with people yelling at each other to pregame harder, laughing when Nat’s little sister challenges Sam to a chugging contest and wins.

You feel a large hand at the small of your back. You can smell his cologne and know who it is immediately.

“Well don’t you look dashing tonight Sargent Barnes.” You lean in on impulse but stop yourself just as the girls turn around to see who you’re talking to.

“I was just going to say the same thing to you, sweets.” He mumbles in your ear before removing his hand and walking over to Sam.

The alcohol decides to hit you then, leaving you feeling empty that he’s not standing next to you anymore. Neither of you had wanted to have the “conversation” but you knew you were head over heels for him.

“CABS ARE HERE” screams Sam.

“Sam. For the love of God, stop watching Jersey Shore.” Natasha jokes to him.

At the same time Steve screams, “I understood that reference!” Eye rolls are exchanged as you all make your way outside.

The atmosphere is buzzing and you’re so excited to not just be out with your team, but to also have the only bit of family you had with you as well. You finally felt at home, at peace, and were ready for a fun night out.

Bleaker’s is one of those hole-in-the-wall dive bars that from the outside seems like a hard pass, but once you’re in, there’s no other place you’d rather spend a Saturday night. It’s true it started as a bowling alley in the 60’s. That still remains. What’s newer is the arcade in the back, where the old salon used to be. Jimmy bought the space next door, blew out the wall and filled it with arcade games that sometimes work and sometimes eat your money.

After years of being regular patrons, he knows your team well. The minute you walk in, he starts up all your favorite drinks.

“Ah! My best customers! I had a feeling I’d be seeing Earth’s mightiest heroes tonight.” You line up at the bar for whatever Jimmy decides you’re drinking tonight.

“Ah yes, two vodka on the rocks for my little Russian assassins. Sam here’s your vodka red bull which I don’t think you need, but here we are. Steve! Your drink of choice: an Old Style. Wanda, a cosmo for my favorite witch. And who do we have here, Y/N?”

You’re already both in hysterics at the old man behind the bar giving everybody a hard time. “Jimmy, this is my best friend Sarah. She’s visiting from California for a few days.”

“And whatever the lady wants can be put on my tab…” Steve butts in. Sarah immediately turns red but says “well in that case I’ll have vodka soda with lime please!”

Bucky has come up behind you and now you’re both laughing and watching the two of them stare at each other like no one else is in the room.

“Oh no, what did you do Y/N?”

“Let it play out, he’s not completely tripping over his words yet, maybe he’ll finally land a good girl.” You hush to Bucky.

Jimmy stares as well in amusement. “And you two? Your usual?”

“Yes’sir!” You shout over the growing music. Jimmy hands you each a jack and Diet Coke. You tell yourself it’s okay because it’s diet, but you know that’s a bunch of bullshit.

The other great thing about Bleaker’s? The dance floor downstairs. You always joke around that it seems like a nightclub that never closes in Amsterdam or something, but you’re serious. It could be 3 pm and sunny and you’d never know. It’s in the basement, it's always dark and the music is almost always too loud.

Usually that would gross you all out, but the energy tonight is pushing you all downstairs.

You reach back and grab Bucky’s hand not really caring who sees. It’s been months of sneaking around and either everyone knows and is playing it off like they don't or you’re really good at hiding it. Regardless, you’re over hiding. Maybe showing a little PDA tonight will get him out of his shell.

Sarah and Steve are no where in sight, assuming they’re ahead of you, you follow the team downstairs.

Minutes turn into hours. Everyone is dancing, laughing, sweating, screaming the lyrics to every song, and for a little while you can forget you’re a group of superheroes, and can just be normal 30-something year-olds.

You mostly dance with Bucky and quickly realize he’s a better dancer than you thought he would be. Those moves from the 1940’s must still be relevant in some way today, because the way he's grinding up on you and not caring if anyone sees just does something to you.

You work the room, finding Sarah, Wanda, Nat, even Steve for a song before you realize you don't see Bucky. You give it a few minutes thinking maybe he is in the bathroom. After 15 minutes though, you grab Steve’s attention and motion for him to check the bathroom while you check outside.

You race to the alley where you find Jimmy on a smoke break. “Hey Jimmy, have you seen Bucky? I can’t find him.”

“Oh yeah, doll, he took off in a cab about a half hour ago. Looked real flustered, but I didn’t want to press.”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. You thought you felt his mood shift about an hour ago, he was becoming stiff and quiet. You thought maybe he was just drinking a lot but now you’re realizing the loud music, strobe lights and base must have been triggering him.

“Ugh I’m such a bitch,” you huff as you send Steve a S.O.S text.

You: Hey, Jimmy said he just left. I'm sure he's heading home. I'm going to go find him.

Sire Captain Rogers: Go ahead. I think Sarah and I can find something to do while you find Buck. ;)

You: Yeah I’m sure you can.

You: BEHAVE. She’s my best friend.

Sire Captain Rogers: I know Y/N, don’t worry about us. Let me know when you find him.

You lock your phone and hop in a cab back to the compound.

No one is up or around when you enter through the front. The kitchen has been cleaned up, the dishes done. Probably thanks to THURSDAY, Tony’s beta bot for “cleaning up after you assholes trash the place.”

You smirk and head for the elevators. Heading straight to Bucky’s room, you can tell his light is on but something seems off. You don’t like to use your powers on friends or in the compound, but you close your eyes and reach out with your mind to find his aura. Your eyes snap open. You don’t sense him, you just see red.

Taking this as a good excuse to break into a friend’s room, you burst into the room to find it in disarray. Everything is toppled over, broken glass is on the floor, the bathroom light is on, but all you can see is his blood on the door and the floor. You’re panicked, trying to piece together what happened.

Again, you close your eyes and reach out for the familiar energy of Bucky. You find him in your room on the floor.

“What the fuck?,” you mumble and sprint up the stairs to your apartment. You shoot Steve a text on your way up.

You: Found him, looks like a bad one. I’ll let you know if I need you.

Sir Captain Rogers: Thanks Y/N. I’m just a call away, let me know if you need anything. Night.

Upon entering, you sense he’s in distress. His heart rate is elevated, he’s incredibly sweaty and is panting like a dog.

“Bucky? Buck, it’s me, it’s Y/N.”

Bucky stirs and jumps into a defensive standing position quicker than you can blink. You flip the lights on with a “BABE. Baaabe, it’s me. It’s okay, you’re safe. We’re in the compound. You had a nightmare.”

Bucky’s eyes are wide and alarmed, but you can tell the moment he recognizes you.

Rushing over to you, he takes you into a big hug. “Oh my god. What happened? Are you okay, did I hurt you?”

“No Bucky, no I just found you a minute ago. You had another bad one, what do you need me to do right now for you?”

Bucky stands back and rubs his swollen eyes. “I need to shower, can you help me?”

Typically, this is where it gets exciting, but you knew what he means. Water grounds him. He doesn’t feel like he’s falling in water. It helps him visualize the stress washing off of him.

You help him strip and get in the shower, but before you can even take his jeans off, he jumps in and pulls you in with him. You realize how desperate he is for whatever he’s feeling to pass and your heart sinks.

You’re both standing there, almost fully clothed holding each other. This is the worst you’ve seen him in a long time.

“I’m so sorry if I ruined your night, Y/N. The base sounded like the train, the lights looked like the machine they used on me, what the fuck.”

You aren’t sure what to do so you decide to sit on the ground and pull him down with you. You position yourself behind him so his back is in your chest. Even though he’s so much larger than you, he sinks down enough for you to reach over his shoulders and hold him.

“It’s okay Barnes, just breathe with me. You’re safe. You’re with me, and we’re home. Nobody is going to touch you. I’ve got you, you won’t fall.”

You take in deep breaths so he can match your breathing.

After about 45 minutes, the hot water is out in the tank. Bucky sits forward and turns towards you. You want him to lead right now, so you don’t say anything. Neither does he, but the look in his eyes are telling you something about tonight is different.

With a soft smile on your lips, you cup his cheek until he is really looking at you. “Hun, let’s go lay down, ya? Let me help get you dried off.” Bucky hates when you fuss over him, so when he doesn’t argue, you know to be extra gentle with him.

After getting him up and out of the shower, you think skin-to-skin contact doesn’t seem sexual right now, it feels intimate in a grounding sense, and you know that’s exactly what he needs right now. Bucky seems dazed, almost like he got hit too hard in the head. You yourself are of course a tad over-served, and are quickly realizing the adrenaline of this entire situation is rubbing off.

You get Bucky into bed and turn to make sure his phone is plugged in and that he has a glass of water, but he grabs your wrist before you can move away. “Just leave it, it’s fine.”

“Buck, just let me-“ he grabs your wrist harder.

“Y/N. Please just stay here. Please.”

The entire time you’ve been together, he’s done a lot of things but begging you for anything is not one of them. Suddenly the phone and whatever hell else you were doing doesn’t seem important anymore.

You climb into your usual spot next to him and decide maybe you’ll try to get him to open up. The moment the back of your head hits the pillow, Bucky is facing you. His pleading eyes seem like they want to tell you everything that’s going on in his head, but you know pushing him to talk will just make the nightmares come flooding back too soon.

Instead, you decide to lay on your back and pull him to lay on your chest.

“Just listen to my heart beat, Bucky.” You hear him take a deep breath and settle into your chest.

You start and stop yourself from trying to say something comforting. You’re terrified to say the wrong thing at such a crucial moment. Typically these bad episodes are reserved for a Steve house call. You realize as he’s settling into a comfortable position that he hasn’t asked you to call Steve yet. Bucky trusts you in a way you didn’t realize until now.

You don’t know when, but you start humming the first calming song that comes in your head.

I’ll be seeing you In all the old familiar places That this heart of mine embraces All day through

Bucky picks his head up to look at you. Oh fuck.

“Where did you hear that song?,” he says to you with shiny eyes.

“You sing it all the time when you’re concentrating. I looked it up and added it to my ‘bath time/relax’ playlist. I didn't know Billie Holliday was a favorite of yours."

Bucky was looking at you like maybe this was the first time he saw you, like really saw you. “My mom used to sing that around the house when she was missing my dad.”

“Oh I’m so sorry, I didn’t know. I can hum a diff-“ you’re cut off with the most searing kiss Bucky has ever given you. He’s crying when he pulls back to look at you again. “Will you keep singing it?”

In that small cafe The park across the way The children's carousel That chestnut tree, the wishing well

By the time you finish the second verse, he has physically relaxed in your arms. You continue rubbing your hand up and down his back and shoulder, stopping to play with his long hair every once in a while.

I'll be seeing you In every lovely summer's day In every thing that's light and gay I'll always think of you that way

“I forgot how much I love hearing this song sung around me.” Bucky whispers so quietly you almost miss it.

I'll find you in the morning sun And when the night is new I'll be looking at the moon But I'll be seeing you…

You stop your caressing when you feel him sit up on one arm.

He leans down to kiss you but stops short to whisper “I love you Y/N.” You kiss him back and wrap your arms around his shoulders, and when you say “I love you too, Bucky,” you’ve never been more sure of something in your life.

[wiypt-writes]

Murder, He Wrote

Part 6.

Summary: Ransom and you attend a wake for his great-nanna Wanetta, with the rest of his family. The knives are out, and they’re sharp…

Warnings: Bad language words. MATURE (NSFW 18+) NON-CON situation, kidnap, violence. DO NOT READ IF ANY OF THOSE TRIGGER… READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!!!!

Pairing: DARK! Ransom Drysdale x Reader

A/N:  So here it is, the penultimate chapter to this series! One more to go post this, plus an epilogue. I can’t believe it’s almost over…

Word Count: 9.5k (oops)

READ THE WARNINGS!!!! This is a DARK Series… don’t @ us if you can’t follow simple instructions and end up with butt-hurt. And if you’re under 18…get off my blog.

Disclaimer: This is a pure work of fiction and by writing it does NOT mean I agree with or condone the acts contained within. This fiction is classified as 18+. Please respect this and do not read if you are underage. I do not own any characters in this series bar reader and any other OCs that may or may not be mentioned. By reading beyond this point you understand and accept the terms of this disclaimer.

Murder, He Wrote Masterlist // Main Masterlist.

Part 5

 You'd managed to get through Christmas fairly well. The days leading up, Ransom had been a little suspiciously sneaky but you didn't give it a second thought, really. Things between you and your captor were more than amicable, they were pleasant. But, despite the cohabitation and this new found demeanour in him, Ransom wasn't above reminding you that you were still under his eye. And under his eye you were indeed, all day long. He watched you as you read, as you cooked, as you wrote in your journal. Oddly, not once showing interest in your musings but working away on his own. 

Christmas morning, the two of you had spent a few lazy hours in bed, Ransom waking you with kisses over your bare skin, stripped down and tired from the evening before where he worked you over until you couldn't move, crying out his name near midnight, his breathless, tired voice telling you 'Merry Christmas' before he slept. After an easy egg and toast breakfast, the two of you were sitting around the lounge, the fire burning, the tree lit, soft music played in the background, watching a fresh layer of snow falling outside. You were reading Dickens' holiday classic, aloud while Ransom sat next to you, idling running a long index finger over your neck in slow and soft, up and down strokes, listening to you. Suddenly he'd stopped and removed the book from your hands. 

"I have something for you," he said, a slight eagerness to his tone. He slipped away for a brief moment, pulling a box, intricately wrapped, clearly not by himself, from under the tree. You'd never noticed it there, not once and you wondered when he'd put it there or if he'd hidden it in the very spot this whole time. 

The red leather box sat heavy in your hand as you read the gold inscription on the top. With an unsteady breath, you lifted the hinged lid and hitched your breath at what sat inside. A white gold necklace, with two interlocking rings in a signature Cartier design glistened back at you. The screw motifs which were set in ideal oval shaped rings studded with diamonds that twinkled in the light sat snuggly inside against black velvet.

You were stunned. The gesture far too expensive and in your mind inappropriate. But you also thought it was absolutely gorgeous, and you wondered how he'd come up with such an expensive idea. You'd not mentioned anything of the sort in your time together, in fact, you hadn't had jewellery on bar your ball studs in your ears now.

You looked up from the delicate piece and your eyes met expectant ones. "It's beautiful," you spoke softly. "Thank you."

"Let me put it on you," he sat next you whilst taking the box from your hands. He gently pulled it away from the box and unclasped it, settling it around your neck as you moved your hair out of the way, thin tendrils framing your face. Your robe slipped off your shoulder and you felt his soft lips against your skin, down your neck and along your shoulder. "Let me see you," he spoke softly.

You turned in his direction and you saw the way he admired the way the piece sat across your chest, the silk robe you were wearing over your barely-there nightgown gaping open. As his eyes blatantly roved down between the valley of your breasts your own flicked across his casual, lazy-Christmas morning form, his broad chest and shoulders clad in a white thermal, sweats hung low on his hips.

"Perfect," he whispered, leaning towards you.

You were not a bought woman, no; you were his victim, his roommate, his co-habitant, his lover, his partner, his... Oh for Christ's sake you could go on with the labels that did or didn't make sense, were mutual or not, had or didn't carry the weight of a proper explanation. Right now, you were going through the motions and emotions.

"I like it, a lot, thank you again," you replied as his lips grew closer to yours. "I've never had such an expensive gift before."

His lips ghosted over yours, "There's plenty more where that came from, Sweetheart."

The implication of his words had hit you like a freight train as you realised just how many more ‘occasions’ he was planning on the pair of you spending together. New Year, Easter, Spring Break, your birthday, his birthday, summer, Memorial Day. It sparked so many conflicting opinions within you that you were glad of the distraction when he moved, his fingers delicate as he undid the ties of your robe and led you down on the rug before his lips had traced a path down your body and soon he’d had you crying his name, sheer bliss coursing through your veins.

Later that day, you'd made dinner for him, a reminder of how Christmas used to be when Wanetta and his Grandmother shared the festivities. After the quiet meal, he had expected you to join him for a shower, no doubt as pay back for him going down on you earlier. When you'd respectfully declined stating you needed to wash the dishes, he sneered and sulked off. You'd made sure that when he was gone long enough, you were able to get things set up for your gift. Now was the time to show Ransom how gifts of meaning and purpose were to be given and hopefully received. Not that it was going to make a blind bit of difference to your situation, not in the grand scheme of things anyway. You'd finished cleaning and putting everything away and headed into the lounge where you stoked the fire and then made your way back into the kitchen for your supplies. The hot cocoa burning hot, the slices of bread, tongs and a small serving of butter, complete with freshly blended cinnamon sugar. You knew he would come find you when you were not waiting in the bedroom for him. If Ransom Drysdale was anything, it was a creature of expectation and habit. You'd heard him coming down the stairs, that one spot with a creak carrying his footfall. You straightened up your things, setting up the tongs and tray of treats nicely before covering them with a cloth napkin, standing between the coffee table and the fireplace, and waited on baited breath for the tirade you thought was coming. He had turned the corner, his face stern with evident hard lines, his bare chest on display, hair still wet from the shower. You could smell him as he entered the doorway, that scent that you'd soon come to realize made you heady and needy. You waved him over, a hunt of excitement to your tone, "come on, come sit." “I don’t want to sit, Sweetheart, I want you like I had you before dinner. Crying my name with you under me.” He stood just inside the doorway, with his arms folded across his chest, sweats hung low on his hips. He wore no shirt just to entice you, but you weren't giving in so easily.  "I'll say your name as many times as you want, but first, I need to give you my gift." You chose then to look at him with big eyes, sincere yet seductive. 

It was a stare off between the two of you, he not budging and you popping your hip out to one side as you folded your arms over your chest. He had his fun, now you wanted to enjoy something and gift giving brought you joy. 

Like a child told to apologize for hitting another, he hung his head and sulked over. You could tell it pained him to obey your request. But you again saw through his facade. You knew this meant far more to him than anything he'd ever received.

But he'd never tell you that. Not that you thought anyway. “Oh stop being so you, Ransom, for just five minutes.” You snorted exasperatedly at his petulant nature. “It’s Christmas.” With a roll of his eyes that would make any toddler jealous, he took to his knees sitting on his heels. With a smirk, you joined him, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek, "Merry Christmas, Ransom." You pulled the napkin off the tray revealing the contents of your gift. His eyes moved over the tray, first seeing the mugs of cocoa, topped with whipped cream that was beginning to melt into the warm liquid. The tongs, the bread, the small pinch bowls of cinnamon sugar and the soft butter. With his mind occupied, you managed to grab a throw and wrap it around the two of you. He blinked, and you could see that he was fighting the smirk that was threatening to cross his handsome face. “Toast?” He finally asked and you nodded, smiling. "I couldn't go get you something, not that it mattered, so this was the next best thing." A flicker of something darkened his face, and for a moment you thought you saw regret flash in his eyes, just like the day he had marked your face but as soon as it had appeared it was gone. "Just enjoy it, even if you can't say anything about it, just...." you shrugged, "remember." That night, after the toast with cinnamon butter and cocoa from scratch were shared, he had his way with you, delightfully slow, once more by the fire, you again crying out his name and he yours, over and over again. By the time he finished, you were both boneless and breathless, his body covering yours until he rolled over and the two of you slept by the fire, wrapped up in each other's arms, the heavy throw around your naked bodies.

Christmas had been nice. Maybe, somewhat enjoyable, you'd admitted to yourself. Of course, the wrench of not seeing your family had weighed like a stone in your gut, compounded by the fact that thanks to the lie you’d been forced to tell Blanc, they thought this was your choice. That you were staying away from them because you wanted to, when nothing could be further from the truth. You missed your mom and dad goofing around over presents, still trying to tell your now well grown-up sister and you Santa had been. You ached for the usual family politics that manifested when your uncles and aunts descended for dinner. You longed for your sister to be complaining about how fat she was going to get…

"We have to go," Ransom’s deep baritone caught you completely off guard, making you jump as you stood staring out of the large French windows over the garden from the master suite.

“Oh, okay,” you nodded, taking a deep breath to centre yourself, your heart racing at the speed of light from your fright. You took a glance at yourself in the mirror above the fireplace and found yourself wishing you’d done a better job at covering up the ugly scab and green bruising on your face.

You followed Ransom in his tan coat, pin striped slacks and a black cashmere sweater as he strode from the room. You felt nervous, anxious, scared. This was the first time you were leaving the house in two months. He led you to the garage where you started walking to the SUV he'd taken you in but he stopped you short, calling out to you, "not this time, Sweetheart." He stood at the passenger door to his vintage BMW. You swallowed and walked towards the door he was holding open for you. Wordlessly, you sank into the passenger seat and reached for your belt. Pulling it across your lap, you adjusted the pencil skirt and blouse you'd tucked into so as not to wrinkle it, your soft black peacoat bluky in your seat. The car roared to life, throbbing beneath you, the hum of the engine might, in other circumstances, have excited you. But now, the only thing filling you was dread. The first time you’re out of your "castle", and it's to go to a wake, for Wanetta Thrombey.

Go figure. ***** The silence in the car was stifling. Every so often Ransom stole a glance at Y/N to find her simply staring out of the window, at one stage reaching up to wipe her eye. He didn’t say anything, but he wasn’t an idiot. Over Christmas he’d caught her numerous time completely zoned out, as if she was somewhere else, just like she had been moments before they had left. And whilst she’d done her best to keep her tears and attitude at bay, she’d been clipped with him a number of times which he’d simply let slide and instead of reminding her about her attitude, he’d pressed her to tell him what was wrong. She’d quietly admitted that she missed her family, something Ransom simply couldn’t understand, so in the spirit of their recent candid openness, he’d asked her bluntly why she needed them so much when he gave her everything she could possibly ever want. At that she had snorted, and taken great pains to explain to him that just because he failed to understand something didn’t make it any less valid of a feeling to someone else and then she’d deftly changed the subject, and he’d allowed the conversation to steer elsewhere.

And now, the first time she’d been anywhere but the inside of his house and strictly the garden for months, they were headed to spend time with his shit-head family. The irony was staggering when you considered it. He eased his beloved beemer onto the main road and pushed his foot down on the gas, weaving himself in and out of the light traffic obnoxiously fast. But he wasn’t known for his patience, he had somewhere to be and in his mind; the faster he got there the faster he could leave, keen to spend as little time with his family as possible. About halfway into the journey, Ransom felt that familiar cold feeling in his stomach as he pulled off the freeway and on to one of the smaller roads. He could drive this journey with his eyes closed but it was the first time he’d been back to the mansion since... well, since IT had all gone down. The more he thought about it, the more agitated he could feel himself getting, his hands gripping the steering wheel of the car with a force that made his knuckles white. He was jolted however, with the feeling of a hand on his arm and his head turned slightly to see Y/N looking at him. She didn’t say anything, and no sooner had he registered her touch she moved her hand dropping it back into her lap, eyes focussed downwards as his turned back to the road. He swallowed, that familiar and uncomfortable feeling of remorse once more washing over him. Despite everything he had done to her, she was still voluntarily lending him comfort. 

Ten minutes later, he swung up the tree-lined driveway, his heart pounding in his chest. His jaw set hard as the mansion came into view, and low and behold his mother, standing on the front steps, a cigarette between her fingers as she exasperatedly texted on her phone. A meek voice came from the seat beside him, "its going to be okay." But he couldn't decipher if she were talking to him or herself. He cut the engine, his hands still on the wheel as he sighed and hung his head, before he turned to her. “I don’t need to warn you about trying anything do I?” He asked, ignoring her effort to placate him. "No," she replied quietly. “Good.” He reached out and gently gripped her chin between his thumb and finger, pressing as soft kiss to her lips, the action as much for him as it was for the benefit of his mother who was watching the pair of them. “Come on, let’s get this over with.”  He gracefully unfolded himself from the driver’s side, shutting the door behind him and strode to the front of his car, waiting for Y/N to catch up. Her face was set, an expression he’d seen countless times before when she’d been fearful and acting under duress. He watched as she took a deep breath and drew back her shoulders whilst he reached for her hand. Obediently, she took it and together they strode towards the large wooden door, his mother watching them as they approached "You're late," Linda scoffed.

He paid her no mind and pulled Y/N along his side. “I’m sure Nanna won’t mind too much, you know, on account of her being dead.” He retorted sardonically.

You stood by his side, your eyes watching Linda and she turned her attention to you, her eyes narrowing a little, a strange expression on her features, almost as if she was sussing you out. But, as her eyes flicked to your injured cheek before they darted to Ransom who still had a possessive grip around your hand you realised with horror it wasn’t you she was suspicious of. It was the bruise on your face, more so how it had gotten there.

You cleared your throat. “Funny thing,” you gestured to it and her eyes snapped to yours, “too much Scotch and I tripped. Face first into the corner of my vanity."

Okay, so it wasn’t a complete lie…but you still felt sick to your stomach at how quickly you’d jumped to his defence.

“Sure.” Linda arched an eyebrow.

“What exactly are you getting at, Mother?” Ransom looked at her, his jaw set and Linda rolled her eyes, taking a drag of her cigarette.

“Nothing really, I just find it extremely odd that you get an interview with this girl to clear your name and she ends up in your bed, only after she’s done a complete hatchet job on all of us first.” She dropped her cigarette end to the floor before she looked at him shrewdly.

“For which she published an apology.” Ransom’s voice was flat and carried an undertone of annoyance to which Linda paid no attention.

“Because you’re really the type to forgive and forget so easily.” She scoffed as Ransom gave a dramatic sigh as his mother continued, her head now turning to you. “You know, I could hardly believe it when Blanc told us you were with him, and then I saw you with my own eyes and now here you are again…“

“What do you mean, when Blanc told you?” Ransom frowned as his hand contracted almost painfully around yours, a warning no doubt to remain silent. His mother had hit the nail on the head, proving that she knew her son a lot better than you, and no doubt he, had bothered to give her credit for.

“Her disappearance was all over the news, more so because they’d linked it to that god-awful cretin of an actor, Lucas Lee.” She turned back to look at him. “But, no sooner had they done that he was cleared thanks to a cast-iron alibi and low and behold, a few weeks later Blanc turns up.” Linda raised her brows, her gaze fixed on Ransom. “I told him where to find you-“

“Gee, thanks.” Ransom drawled and she glared at him, before he rolled his eyes and gestured with his hand for her to continue.

“And obviously he did as he came back a day or so later, saying that to his surprise you-“ her eyes flicked to yours then and you swallowed “-were seemingly there, of your own accord.”

“I erm,” you fumbled on your words and felt Ransom let go of your hand, his palm warm as it now rested between your shoulder blades. Taking a deep breath, you steeled yourself for another lie, one that this time you’d spun before and you shrugged, licking your lips. “I'll tell you the same thing I told him. I came to realize that despite my scathing feature, Ransom intrigued me. I wanted to get to know him more. One thing led to another and I figured if we kept our relationship quiet for a while, I'd save myself the spit on my face from my family and people like you.”

“People like me?” Linda arched a brow, her lips quirking up at one side. “

“I didn’t mean…” You shook your head, quickly taking a deep breath. “Sorry, that was rude.”

“A tad, but I’ve had worse.” Linda’s eyes twinkled with something that looked like amusement as she reached into her pocket for her packet of cigarettes. “But, what I don’t understand is, why let your family believe you were missing, dead even?”

“I, well, I was under a lot of pressure at work, and everything just got too much and needed to escape, from everything. Ransom told me to stay with him for a while to get some head space and I didn’t mean to cause anyone any hurt or upset and-“

You stopped dead as you felt Ransom curl his hand round the back of your neck, giving a squeeze in warning. You were rambling.

“You don’t have to explain yourself, Sweetheart,” his voice was softly spoken as he pressed a kiss to your temple. “it’s none of her business.”

Linda looked at you for a moment, before she turned to her son and shrugged, popping another cigarette into her mouth. “I’ve long since given up trying to understand anything you did.”

“Well, like the judge said,” Ransom moved, his hand now on the base of your spine as he turned and guided you to the large door of the house, “not of sound mind.”

In the spacious drawing room, the rest of the family was gathered around. There were no others at the wake, Wanetta having outlived everyone she knew.  You knew Ransom would offer no introductions, but that wasn’t an issue, you knew everyone anyway from your extensive research into this fucked up family. The fire burned in the background, and Ransom’s father, Richard, lounged in an arm-chair, a young woman who you presumed to be the au-pair Ransom talked about with disdain, perched on his lap. Walt was perched in another arm-chair, his wife Donna stood behind him, clutching a half drunk glass of wine, their son Jacob absent from the room. Marta and Meg were perched on the couch with Joni flitting about, a crunch from a carrot stick heard from across the room. You walked in and immediately felt the daggers in your skin as all eyes turned towards you. The knives were out and you swallowed, adjusting your sleeve, feeling Ransom's presence behind you.

“Here…” you felt Ransom’s hands gently pulling on the shoulders of your coat and he slipped it from your body, gently pressing another kiss to your cheek. You turned to look at him, offering him a small smile before he moved to hang the coat up on the stand at the far side of the room.

“Y/N, right?” Marta was the first one to speak as she stood up, and you nodded, not bothering to ask how she knew your name. It was a given she’d have read the article, and it was also a given thanks to the conversation moment’s ago with Linda, that the rest of the family had also been briefed on the fact you were ‘with’ Ransom. What clearly hadn’t’ been anticipated from the not-so-covert surprised glances that were being shared, was that he would have brought you today. “Can I get you a drink?” She continued and you smiled.

“Please, erm, a wine would be great.”

“Red or white?”

“She prefers white.” Ransom spoke and Marta’s eyes darted to his. You instantly felt his entire body language stiffen and you turned to him, the distaste evident on his face, his entire aura radiating utter disdain and bitterness.

Marta simply took a deep breath, her expression flat, but her eyes fierce as they remained in a silent stand-off.

“Can’t she speak for herself?” Meg scoffed and Ransom pulled his eyes away from Marta, turning his glare to his cousin.

“Is explaining what a lady prefers to drink considered sexist as well now or…”

“He’s right,” You jumped in quickly, smiling at Marta. “White is great, thanks.”

Marta nodded.

“Hugh?” She looked at Ransom and you blinked at the use of that name and then realised, of course, she’d once upon a time been the help. That said, you knew she was saying it simply because she wanted to, not that her status required it and there was an amused look on Ransom’s face as he turned to her.

“Beer.”

You rolled your eyes to yourself at his lack of manners, but from the expression on Marta’s face she’d been expecting it, and to be honest, you weren’t sure why you hadn’t been. Her lips curled into a sarcastic grin as she turned and headed out.

“You should try it, Donna. It’s got camomile and lavender in. I swear by it.” Your ears then picking up on a conversation between Walt, Donna and Joni and you turned your head towards them, Ransom’s arm curled round your waist, hand resting heavy on your hip. Joni bit down on the carrot stick she was holding with a flourish of her hands. “It’s my favourite thing FLAM have done.”

"You know, I'm surprised you didn't go under given you're no longer receiving Dad's money.” Walt interjected and Joni rolled her eyes.

“Shows how much attention you pay, Walt. When I released that new line of bath-bombs and candles, sales, like literally, went through the roof.”

“Bath-bombs?” Walt frowned.

“Yeah, they’re like little cakes if you will of dried soap and fragranced that you drop into a-“

“I know what they are.” Walt rolled his eyes as Marta appeared, handing you your drink which you took with a thanks. “I was commenting on the fact you said you’d launched a new line.”

“Oh, yeah.” Joni munched her carrot stick some more. “I got the idea from Gwyneth Paltrow when she released that candle scented like her vagina.” At that you choked on your drink and hastily avoided looking at anyone in the room as various groans and loud protests from the males hit your ears.

At that point Linda walked back into the room and sat down in a chair not far from where you were sat and she smoothed down her trousers before she peered up at Ransom.

“How’s the book coming along?” She asked, peering from over the top of her wine glass as she sipped from it.

“Fine.” Ransoms shrugged. “Few little blocks here and there but I’ll work through them. Granddad always told me sometimes it pays to take a step back and pause, ideas often come when you’re not expecting them.”

Linda smiled, and you were pleased to see that, for once, it appeared genuine, as if she was actually looking at her son with something more than ambivalence. And then, the moment was ruined as Meg burst out laughing.

“You’re writing a book? What’s it called? ‘Ransom’s Guide To Being An Asshole’?” She snorted and Ransom took a deep breath.

“Eat shit.”

“Original.” Meg replied drily rolling her eyes, “you know, I'm jealous of all the people that haven't met you.” She stated as her eyes turned to you. “Seriously, what the fuck do you see in him? Why on earth anyone would ever want to be in the same room with him, let alone share his bed is completely beyond me.”

“Tell me, Meg, when was the last time you got laid?” Ransom turned to her, a smirk on his face. “And your dildo doesn’t count.” “Fuck you, you fucking prick.” Meg seethed before she turned to look at you, her face angry. “You know, it must be serious if he’s bringing you here; he normally just keeps his fuck buddies on speed dial.”

“And throws the money on the mattress.” Walt mumbled.

At that, Ransom tensed and he turned his face towards his Uncle, his nostrils flaring. But before he had time to answer back, Richard let out a derisive snort and Ransom instead turned his head to his father.

“You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?” Ransom shot back, “Tell me, how much do you pay the barely legal whore sat on your lap?” 

“You little shit.” Richard spat as the poor woman in question shifted uncomfortably, her mouth falling open as the insult Ransom had shot at her registered.

You stood stock still, a warm and uncomfortable feeling washing over you as the family continued to bicker. You could feel a headache coming; this was becoming too much for you to cope with. 

“Oh for God’s sake.” Linda groaned, almost lazily from her spot on the chair. “Is it too much to ask that one of our family deaths goes by without starting another feud?”

"Oh that's rich, coming from you!” Richard, turned to her. Linda met her ex-husband’s glare with a completely blank expression on her face, before she scoffed.

“Why are you wearing those ridiculous glasses?” She demanded, referring to the spectacles that adorned Richard’s face, the style being something you would attribute to Harry Potter.

“So I can see.”

“You never needed glasses in the entire thirty-four years we were married.” She scoffed.

“I did.” Richard shrugged, a snarky grin curling at one side of his mouth and you instantly recognised that expression as being one Ransom sported a lot. “Just preferred it when I couldn’t see your face.”

Linda’s mouth dropped open and you felt yourself bristle as you took a breath.

“Are you actually gonna let your dad say that to your mom?” You glanced up at Ransom. His head turned slowly towards you and the expression of anger on his face at being called out made your blood run cold. You recoiled a little and your eyes immediately darted to the floor.

“Sorry.” You whispered.

"This is fun," Jacob snickered as he, from out of nowhere, waltzed into the room and took a seat in the corner of the bay window, never once looking up from his phone. “Ransom once more manages to spark an argument.”

“Y/N meet Jacob, the poster child for the pro-choice movement.” Ransom gestured to the teenager in front of you who merely rolled his eyes as both Walt and Donna began to yell and hurl insults back at Ransom.

“Says the guy whose birth certificate is an apology letter from the condom factory.” The teen mumbled back.

“Ooh, good one, which one of your alt-right, KKK loving buddies did you learn that from?” Ransom quipped, and in a quick change of decorum, the room erupted with slander and jabs being shouted and tossed about, most of the commotion being pointed at Ransom.

It was a cacophony of noise and sound, which infiltrated your head, making your brain buzz and crackle like the wick of a dynamite stick and it was too much. After months of quiet with no one to listen or talk to bar Ransom, it was overwhelming and you felt sick.

“If you’ll excuse me, I need some air.” You mumbled, seizing the chance, as he was distracted.

You made your way into the hallway where you stood, your back leaning against the dark wooden panelling, taking huge gasps of air. Your chest hurt, your head was spinning and your legs burned but those deep breaths didn’t help. Your hand slapped against your chest, hoping to ebb the sting. Soon, lightheaded, and with a slight spin to the space around you, you felt a cool hand on your shoulder through your blouse. Your head turned and you saw a sweet pair of eyes looking at you with worry.

“Let’s get you some real air, come on,” it was Marta, coming to your aide.

She took you outside, to a covered patio, with wicker furniture and heating lamps. The rush of cold air hit your flushed skin and a different sting erupted through your lungs as the bite of winter’s breath filled you.

“Here.” The young woman handed you a tartan blanket, which you took with a grateful look, still not quite able to form any words. She helped you sit down on one of the chairs and made sure the blanket was snug around your shoulders as she took a seat opposite you.

“They’re a little overwhelming, but you get used to it,” she rubbed a small hand up and down your back.

You just looked at her, your eyes watering as you came down from your panic. You had no desire to get used to it, to any of it, but as per anything in this fucked up situation, you were no doubt going to have to, like it or not. 

The breaths you took became longer, deeper, the peak of panic now steadying out leaving you feeling shaky and exposed.

“I’m sorry, that was…”

“You don’t have to apologise. With what’s happening inside, this is normal.” Marta softly smiled with a chuckle. “I’d be worried if they weren’t screaming at each other.”

“Can I ask you something?” You looked at her, speaking softly.

“Of course.” She replied, just as hushed.

“Why did you do it? Have everyone over? You don’t owe them anything.”

The former nurse rubbed her palms on her pants, “well, it’s what Wanetta wanted. She sorta came with the house and it was her last wish, for the family to come together. I think she thought after everything that happened something might have changed?” Marta shook her head at the audacity of the sound of it. “She didn’t say much more, but Allan had given me her will and that’s all it read. Things would remain the same but she wanted them here after she was cremated, for a final goodbye.”

“I admire her optimism.” You stated flatly and Marta laughed before she gave a heavy sigh, a sad smile on her face.

“Well, she loved them, not that any of them cared, not in years. The only one I ever noticed take mind of her out of want and not duty was Ransom.” She kept her eyes on yours as she spoke, genuine care coming from the sound of her. “But that was before…when he…with Harlan.”

You glanced away, not totally surprised but still a little shocked so to speak that someone else had noticed there was a little shred of humanity buried underneath all his asshole bravado. You leaned forward on your thighs, elbows resting there as your hands wrung together, a nervous habit you’d recently developed.

“Can I ask YOU something?” Marta wondered. You nodded, your stomach knotting, hoping I wasn’t what you suddenly thought it could be. “You’ve spent time with Ransom. I read your article and your apology. Do you believe all of this? The not of sound mind?” Her eyes were sorrowful but held a glare of contempt at the circumstance.

“Uh…” you started but the opening of the patio door caught both of your attentions and the man in question stepped outside, your coat in his hands.

“I was worried,” he stated, opening your coat for you as you automatically stood to receive the gesture. You had no doubt his worry was genuine, but whether it was for you or what you may or may not have revealed was another question.

“I needed some air,” you admitted, “Marta came to my rescue.”

“One man alone can be pretty dumb sometimes, but for real bona fide stupidity there ain't nothing can beat teamwork.” Ransom quipped in reference to the chaos of the family being together, chaos he narcissistically enjoyed partaking in.

You looked up at those daring blue eyes, “Mark Twain.”

He quirked a brow in agreement before his eyes flicked to Marta and then back to you. “Was I interrupting something, Sweetheart?”

There it was, that warning tone in his voice. You were on thin ice. You stuffed your hands into your peacoat pocket and shook your head.

“No.” You cleared your throat as you held his gaze. “Like I said, I just needed some air.”

As he stood there, his eyes searching hers he took a deep breath as she gazed back up at him, fear simmering within those deep globes. Ransom reached out, pulling her to him, dropping a kiss to the top of her head. “As long as that’s all it was.”

Recognising his comment for what it was, half concern and half warning, she nodded against his chest. Without so much as another glance at Marta, he turned, his arm looped possessively over her shoulders as he led her back inside. He walked slowly down the hallway, stooping slightly to speak into her ear. “From now on, you don’t leave my sight, you got that?”

“Yeah, okay.” She whispered and nodded.

“Good girl,” he smiled, tipping her face up with on finger under her chin, planting a soft kiss on her lips.

*****

The next hour or so passed reasonably uneventfully. Ransom was careful to keep as much distance between him, Y/N and the rest of the assholes in the room as possible. When the buffet was served, he watched as she picked at the plate of food she had selected, not eating a terrible amount. She’d gone in on herself again, and he found himself a little disappointed if truth be told.

“We’ll leave soon.” He turned to her and she looked at him, “you’ve behaved today, I’m impressed.”

At that she rolled her eyes. “Is going back to that fucking house supposed to be a reward or something?”

At that Ransom felt a surge of anger and he glared at her, the nerve in his jaw twitching. “Don’t push me, sweetheart.” His voice was low, and a growl but to his surprise, instead of recoiling at his outward hostility and warning she simply sat up straight, her shoulders squaring and met him with a filthy look of her own.

“Fuck you.” She spat.

“Oh we already played that game.” His lip curled back in a snarl. “Several times.”

“Trouble in paradise?” Walt leaned forward a little to pick up something off one of the plates on the table by Ransom and he took a breath, his eyes still trained on Y/N before he turned to his uncle.

“Are you not dead yet?”

“Do you have to talk to everyone like that?” Joni sighed. “God, Ransom.”

“Well I thought the guys who bust his leg might have caught up with him by now, no such luck.” Ransom shrugged.

“Listen here you little shit,” Walt leaned over the table, but no sooner had he done that he suddenly began coughing on whatever food he had in his mouth.

“I’m listening.” Ransom quipped as Walt continued to splutter, Donna hastily hitting him on the back.

Jacob, who wasn’t even looking at the table, too engrossed in his phone, then spoke. “What did you eat, Dad? Wasn’t anything he gave you was it? I mean he did kill Grandpa so I wouldn’t put it past him to poison you either.”

A deadly silence spread across the room as Ransom took a deep breath, his eyes fixed on his cousin, his hand clenching into fists. Besides him, Y/N let out a shaky breath and her head turned to look at him but he didn’t meet her eyes. Instead he leaned back in his chair and when he spoke next, his voice was icy.

“Not of sound mind.”

“Yeah, we heard. Loaf of bullshit if you ask me, but then again an expensive lawyer can get you off most things these days.” Walt snarled.

“Enough!” Linda yelled, her hand smacking on the table. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

Besides him, Y/N had begun to tremble, and Ransom glanced at her to see she was taking deep breaths, her chest heaving, face stony as she stared at the wall opposite, where a picture of his Nanna Wanetta was hung.

“Oh shut up Linda!” Walt turned to her. “Everyone here knows he’s guilty as sin, even you! Why the fuck he’s even here is beyond me. And as for you...” He turned to Y/N and she gave a start, her eyes flicking to him. “You might as well quit while you’re ahead as there ain’t no gold to be digging for. She got it all.” He pointed his fork at Marta and then that was it. Y/N let out a hell of frustration, standing up that quickly her chair tumbled to the ground behind her, the plate clattering to the floor by her feet.

“You think I’m with him for his money?” He glared at Walt, the entire room silent as all eyes focussed on her. “Jesus Christ, you have no idea. I’m with him because I have-“

At that Ransom’s hand shot out and curled round her wrist, his grip tight in warning and she jerked away from him, glaring down at him with a fire in her eyes he hadn’t seen in a long time.

“The whole lot of you are fucked in the head.” She tapped her temple with her forefinger. “I’ve never seen anything like this in my entire life. You’re nothing but a bunch of self-entitled, narcissistic assholes. After everything you've been through, you can’t even find it in your cold dead hearts to come together honour a member of your family that died without reducing the entire event to some kind of sick, twisted game of one-upmanship. Each and every one of you are all about yourselves, and what you can do to out accomplish the other. As far as I’m concerned each one of you can fuck off and die. You disgust me." 

She took a deep breath, running her hands over her face before she turned on her heel and stormed from the room.

Ransom blinked, watched her leave, a slam of the door behind her. He stood there for a brief moment, processing what had just happened. He looked back to his family with a smug shrug and at that he headed quickly after Y/N, his mother's obnoxious and loudly over dramatic gasp bouncing off his back as he too slammed the front door.

****

It was your turn to stand there and act like a petulant child as you leaned against the hood of the Beemer, cares and all fucks be damned. You were tired, you were angry and God damn down right fed up with this entire family and their bullshit. You didn't even make eye contact with him as Ransom as he approached the car. You simply moved to your door, slipped in as he did and waited for him to start the car. You felt his eyes in him, heard him open his mouth to say something but rather he just took in a breath and started the engine. You sat there, your arms crossed over your chest, knees at an angle, pointed towards your door, away from him.

A rumble of a chuckle escaped his chest, "Oh Sweetheart, that was really something."

"Just drive," you spat out, turning your head to him in annoyance. Now he didn't find you amusing, this new air of confidence about you. He cleared his throat and looked at you with a stern gaze.

"Careful, Y/N," he warned, pulling around the drive to the long road before the main. You didn't care. You raised your brows as if you were silently emphasizing your demand, it was not a request, even in the slightest.

The bare trees and snow covered ground began flying by your window, clearly Ransom laying the pedal to the floor as you shook your head.

"What the hell was even the point of going today? It was blatantly obvious that they didn’t want you there, and you didn’t want to be there. If you wanted to mourn Wanetta, we could have done it from the confines of the prison you like to keep me in. Or was this just another shitty way for you to torture me? Huh? Was that amusing to you, Hugh, making me spend an afternoon with your fucked up family, whom you hate, when you’re keeping me from mine? God, you really are a twisted son of a bitch.”

Your tirade set his skin on fire, you could see the tinge of red flushing his skin as he white knuckled the wheel, his hand on the gear shift squeezing the hell out of it as you spoke. Then very quickly you felt your body lurch forward as he slammed on the breaks. "What the fuck did you just say?"

“What, are you deaf?” You blazed. “I asked why we were there? I mean I thought we were going to pay respects to your Great-Nanna, because stupid me actually believed that you felt something, you know, some kind of sorrow that she was gone, and I actually felt sorry for you at first when we got in there, and they were unloading all their vile little opinions and digging in at you and-“

"Now you listen to me you little bitch," he spat, cutting you off. "I didn’t ask for, nor do I need your pity. I don’t care what my family say to me, or think about me. And I certainly don’t care what they think or say about you”

“Oh my god, you are…” You shook your head, looking out of the window, taking a deep breath. “This isn’t pity, Ransom.”

“No, because that’s what it sounds like.” He seethed, his hands curling round the steering wheel.

“Of course it does.” You scoffed. “Because that’s probably all you’ve ever felt towards anyone else isn’t it? Pity, because they’re never going to be as good as you, or have the things you have. Well you might be rich in money terms but fuck, in everything else you’re a pauper. Have you ever truly empathised with someone? Like have even once fully understood what someone else feels? Their sorrow, their happiness, their joy?”

“What the fuck are you getting at?”

You sighed, considering your options. You knew what you wanted to tell him-that the fact he wasn’t loved as a child left him incapable of the simple emotions normal people met, but he was calling you out. And now, it was play it soft or rip it off like a band-aid…

And despite the feeling of foreboding washing over you, you chose the latter. You were tired of playing his mind games, tired of this whole situation. And whatever fucked up punishment he was going to inflict on you, well, it couldn’t be worse than anything he’d already done, you’d take it.

“You don't know how to be happy, or how to love Ransom, because you've never seen it. You've never experienced it. You just breeze through life thinking you can take what you want when you want, and it doesn't work like that.”

 “You’re starting to really piss me off. If I wanted a therapy session, I’d pay for one.” He snarled, “Shut the fuck up.”

“See, this is what I mean!” You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose. “You just asked me to elaborate, so I did, and know because I’m saying something that you don’t like or don’t wanna hear, you’re resorting to being an asshole.  Every time I think I’m getting through to you, I…” You fell silent, swallowing as he glared at you, nostrils flaring and you took a deep sigh, knowing that this was pointless. “You know what, forget it. I shouldn’t-“

“No, you clearly got something to say, so go on. Say it.”

“What, so you can punish me when we get back for pissing you off some more?”

At that his face faltered and he took a deep breath, hanging his head. When he raised it again to look at you, his face was softer and he looked out of the windscreen, licking his lips. “I’m not…gonna punish you, okay.”

“How do I know?” You whispered, shaking your head. “How can I trust that you’re not just gonna lock me back in that damned basement and come down when you want to fuck me and-“ “Because I’m not!” His voice rose. “I don’t want you down there anymore. So I’ll ask again, you think you know so much about how to love,” he framed the word with his fingers, "then tell me what you think it means.”

“Fine, you wanna know…I’ll tell you. It's going on dates, it’s fun, its surprising, it’s feeling like you can’t breathe if the person you are in love with leaves you. It’s not about owning them or breaking them or how much you buy a person or throwing money at them, it’s showing them you know how they are, that you understand what they appreciate and what they need and what they want, a lot of times without being told.” You took a deep breath, watching his face, his expression never faltering. “Love is something that can't always be explained. It's that feeling of family, of having your person. Someone your heart and soul changes for, grows with. Love is a mother's hug or kiss goodnight, a father's ball landing in your mitt with a joyful laugh and smile. Love isn't forced or taken. It's given and received. It's...."

"Fresh hot cocoa on a rainy day when you have nothing left in a world that hates you,” he spoke softly, and when you realized what he'd said it stopped your thoughts cold. Did that mean what you thought it meant? That he loved you?

You were lost for words, but before you could protest and tell him he was wrong, he sighed and looked at you.

“You asked me before why I brought you today. That’s why. Because they hate me. And you make me feel fucking safe around those pieces of shit.” Your breath caught in your throat whilst your mind raced for how to respond. The tension and suspense filled the air about the two of you. You stared at him, his eyes soft, expectant, darting over your features with a bouncing worry. The reaction time between his words and your next move was merely a minute but you had quickly found a way to capitalize on this moment. You threw your belt off and kicked your heels off in the process, moving over the gear shift and the centre console into his lap, the center seam of your skirt tearing as you straddled him. "Wha...." his words were cut off by your lips on his, your palms over his softly shaven face, fingertips sliding into the hair behind his ears. Immediately, your tongue slipped deep inside his mouth, lolling around with his. His hands found your waist and gave you a squeeze. You came to your knees as best you could in the small space and continued to kiss him while trying to inch your skirt higher. He'd guessed what you were trying to do and you felt his hands move from your waist to the tops of your thighs, fingers trailing down quickly to the hem of your skirt, lifting it to above the curve of your ass where it bunched. He didn’t ask or question your sudden burst of confidence or seeming desire, just as you’d banked on, instead he was quite happy to go with it, as usual always ready to fuck you any which way he could. Your hands trailed over the soft material of his sweater and down to the end of it, where it met the top of his slacks. You lifted the clothing slightly to ghost over his skin causing him to flinch before your finger tips found the button and zip of his flies. That maddeningly smug smirk spread across his face and your lips crashed back to his, a furious clash of teeth and tongue, your hands still fumbling with his pants. He was half hard before you even got him free, no doubt from the heated exchange the two of you had to get to here. As you palmed his girth in your hand, your brain switched from playing him to wanton need, a basic primal instinct of desperation to release the toxic stress your body held. His big hand and thick fingers trailed over your hip, your ass, down your thigh and finally cupped your heat and a deep ferrral growl emitted from his chest as he'd realized you'd worn nothing under that skirt. He dipped two fingers inside you straight away and you cried out, "fuck" as your body bent back away from him, keening at the feeling. “Fuck, baby, you’ve had nothing on under here all day?” His fingers curled inside of you and you groaned, your head rolling back as your hips pushed forward, thrusting against his hand. You couldn't use your words, you looked down at him with your pupils blown and your bottom lip between your teeth. You gave him a squeeze instead and he quickly lurched you into the steering wheel with his chest, his fingers falling away and both hands tearing your blouse open, buttons flying that will never be found. His nose tucked between the valley of your breasts and he inhaled between your fleshy mounds, his tongue dipping against the underside of your thin bra. His hands each palming an ass cheek and squeezing so hard, it delightfully stung. With what little space the two of you had to move, Ransom pulled you down into his lap, the need to feel you wrapped around him dangerously feral. It took no time for that single motion to get his head then every inch of his shaft deep inside you. "Fuck, you feel so fucking good," he ground out. He didn't care the mess she would make or the way he'd cum so hard he'd leak out of her, no, he wanted to fuck her senseless and that's exactly what he'd do. His heels cemented themselves into the footwell of the car as his hips jutted upward, her body curling in on him. “Harder, please Ransom.” Her voice croaked as she begged him and with a growl that was animalistic his hips picked up their pace as he rutted up into her quickly and harshly.  His mouth devoured the tops of her breasts, nipping at her nipples through the material of the lace that covered them while her fingers scratched at the back of his neck, tugging at his hair. In contrast to the cold winter conditions outside, the air inside his beloved car was now hot, fast steaming up the windows, drops of condensation trickling down towards the door sill a perfect mirror image of the sweat that was now sliding down the hollow of her throat and beading on his brow. He could feel her walls begin to squeeze him tighter and tighter with each thrust. His hands curled round her hips, pulling her down onto him as he leaned back, raising his ass off the seat slightly, spearing up into her as deep as he could. "Ransom," you started to shake senselessly, you were crashing fast and hard and there was no slowing down. "Fuck, baby, just like that," you'd heard him say over the blood that rushed to your ears, deafening you, as you came, gripping him like a vice. Your body gave way as your hands sought purchase to ground yourself from entirely collapsing, finding the lapel of his camel coat, white knuckling it with one hand while the other slapped against the damp window which felt like melting ice against your heated palm. A noise burst from your mouth, a half scream, half choked wail, a sound you weren’t sure you’d ever made before and you opened your eyes to see Ransom’s icy blue’s locked onto yours, his bottom lip clamped between his teeth. His voracious pace continued until the end when he came with a primal growl,  his hips raising off the seat far enough to jolt your head against the roof of the car. You felt him fill you, the warmth of his seed settling deep inside, and then some. The air was heavy with the sound of panting as the pair of you came down from the intensity of the moment, The both of you desperately trying to breathe despite the humidity. Your hands curled over Ransom's shoulders as he sagged back in the seat, his hands smoothing up the outside of your thighs. You swallowed hard as his eyes focused on yours. You leaned forward and kissed him slowly, softly, his mouth and body languidly responding. Pulling back slightly, you kept your forehead pressed to his, and took a deep breath before you went straight in for the kill, the reason you’d instigated this entire fuck, to capitalise once more on a seeming chink in his armour. "You said you feel safe with me." He stilled underneath you, his hands gentle as they now rest on your hips and his eyes locked onto yours, widening as he realised his admission. "Do you want me to feel safe with you? To trust you?" You continued, not giving him a moment to deny it. He nodded slowly in reply. "Prove it," you stated. "How?" His voice was croaky as he cleared his throat, a slight frown furrowed his brow. "I want to see my family again." He looked at you, and you kept your eyes locked on his, a challenge to him to make good on his word, gambling on him actually wanting you to trust him as he had taken great pains to demonstrate through various means over the past few weeks. This was it, the moment where you would find out exactly what he truly wanted- someone to love and trust him, or someone to fear and obey him. He let out a slow breath through his nose and his eyes flicked over your shoulder before they returned to yours and he gave you an almost imperceptible nod.  But a nod nonetheless. “Okay.”

**** Part 7