#and i think feeling more disconnected with taylor had something to do with drifting from here

[colorsinautumn]

i miss being on tumblr a lot.

[appalachianwiine]

Swim - Chapter 8 - Only Twenty Minutes to Sleep

Only 20 minutes to sleep

But you dream of some epiphany

Just one single glimpse of relief

To make some sense of what you've seen

“Epiphany” by Taylor Swift

“It hurts daddy.” Lydia whimpers, snuggling closer to his chest. It’s four in the morning and he’s been here most of the night. Lydia laid on top of him, crying and sleeping and complaining. She’d thrown up most of her meager dinner and had refused all attempts to get her to eat anything else. Even the offer of waffles had been refused, all she wanted was to be held.

“I know kiddo.” Daryl whispers, kissing her sweaty hair. She’s got a strange smell to her now, one that makes Daryl think of a hot bedroom in the back of a trailer in northern Georgia and a hacking cough that wouldn’t go away. One that means she’s sick. 

“I want to go home now.” Lydia whimpers, she’s clung to him like a monkey, she’s got to be more exhausted then he is, but she hasn’t slept much, every time she drifts off they come in to do vitals and she starts crying again. He reaches up to rub his eyes, god he wants to go home. Have a hot shower, his own bed, some real sleep. But they can’t. 

Instead he presses another kiss to her hair and says; “want something’ t’ drink?” 

“No.” She mutters. “I might throw it up.” 

“Okay.” He whispers. “Want a story?” 

“No.” 

“A song?”

“I guess…” 

“Down in the willow garden,” he beings quietly. “Where me and my love did meet.” He feels her small hand go to his elbow and start rubbing it in circles. “There we lay a’ courtin’ my true love fell asleep. I had a bottle of the burglars wine but that my love did not know…” 

It was a macabre song really, but he hadn’t really thought of that when he started singing it to her years ago. He just remembered it from his own childhood. The heavy smell of red wine on his momma’s breath as she knelt next to his bed singing the same thing. Her stroking a few dark locks from his face as he did to Lydia now. . 

“There I murdered that poor lil’ girl down on the banks below.” He supposed it should’ve been kind of obvious, but it was this or Merle Haggard - who wasn’t known for his lovely lullabies to little girls. 

From on his chest he hears her tiny voice join in “I stabbed her with my dagger, which was a bloody knife. I throwed her into the river which was a terrible sight.” 

It was even creepier coming from her. Though, if he was honest most songs were. She had that quality about her, even on the best of days, when she would sing her eyes would glaze over, and she took on an almost hypnotized look. Even ‘Row row row your boat’ was a little unnerving when she sang it. 

“My daddy always told me.” He continued, rocking gently from side to side “That money would set me free. If I would murder that poor little girl who’s name was Rose Connolly.” 

His mothers face drifts before him, a little blurry from time, but as young and beautiful as he remembered. Dark curls framing blue eyes, the ghost of a bruise across one cheek. He hummed a little and rubbed her back before starting the last verse. 

“Now he sits by his cabin door, wiping his tear stained eyes, a thinkin’ about his own dear son, upon the scaffold high. My race is run beneath the sun an-“ 

Lydia pushes back suddenly, making him start and he has just enough time to push her hair back before she starts heaving. 

Shit. 

He doesn’t have time to get her to the bathroom, bile and spit she’s able to throw up lands on his chest and the sheets surrounding them. 

“I-I’m sorry.” Lydia sobs, coughing and sputtering tears pouring from her eyes, a little vomit dribbling down her chin. 

“It’s okay.” He whispers, leaning over to push the nurses call button. “It’s okay, I can change.” 

“You ain’ mad?” She sobs. 

“‘course I ain’t.” He whispers, lifting the edge of his shirt to wipe the vomit from her chin and reaching out to wipe her tears. “Yer sick baby girl it ain’ yer fault.” 

The night nurse comes in and flicks on the light, the bright light makes him blink and squint. Fuckin’ fluorescents. 

“Everything okay?” The nurse asked. 

“Nah, I think - we probably need a sheet change.” He muttered, looking around. Most of it was on him, but the sheets and. Bedding had a few dribbles too. 

“Oh sweetie, you get sick?” The nurse asks. 

“Y-yeah.” Lydia nods. “I need new pajamas.” 

“Okay, how about daddy gets you sorted and I’ll change the sheets.” The nurse says.

“Kay.” Lydia sniffles. 

“C’mere kiddo.” Daryl says, sliding out of the bed and picking her up. She wrapped her arms around her neck and wrinkled her nose. 

“You got sick on you.” She mutters. 

“Yeah, looks like I’ll need t’ change too.” He says, carrying her into the bathroom. “You wait here, I’ll bring ya yer pajamas.” 

“Okay.” She lets him set her down on the toilet lid. Daryl shuffles out of the bathroom and over to their suitcases. He pulls out Lydia’s Aladdin night gown and a clean t-shirt and pants for himself and returns to the bathroom. 

Changing Lydia around the PICC line is a bit of an ordeal even while she’s disconnected. The long tube hangs loose and every time it moves too much she whimpers and pulls away. He’ll have to get it bound up before they got back in bed. He reaches for the hairbrush on the back of the toilet and combs through her sweaty hair, no vomit in it, which is a good (he doubts she’d tolerate a bath right now), but he braids it back just in case it happens again. 

“You wanna go on out and wait?” Daryl asks. 

“No.” She sniffles. “Carry me.” 

“Baby girl.” He sighs. “Yer clean an’ I ain’. I don’ wanna get ya dirty again.” 

“You won’t.” She protests.

“Yeah,” he sighs. “I will.” 

“You’ll come lay with me after?” Lydia pouts. 

“Yeah.” Daryl nods. “I’ll lay with ya after.” 

“Okay…” Lydia sighs, shuffling out of the bathroom. 

He figures he may as well use this opportunity to grab a much needed shower. He hadn’t showered in far too long, and he peels off his sweaty clothes aware that the vomit isn’t the only reason they smell. He doesn’t wait for the water to warm up before stepping under it. Even cold it feels damn good running over him. He reaches for the hospital issue bar of soap. He lathered his hair first, feeling the grease underneath the lather. It could really use a second wash but he doesn’t want to push it with Lydia. After giving his skin a quick scrub and rinse he steps out, drying haphazardly with the towel and pulling his clean pajamas on. He puts the dirty ones in the hamper in the corner, he’ll have to find the hospital laundry later today. 

“I don’t wanna!” Lydia is protesting, clutching the end of her PICC line tightly and scowling at the nurse. 

“What’s up baby girl.” Daryl frowns, glancing at the night nurse. 

“She needs fluids.” The nurse sighs. “She’s not keeping anything down and she’s getting dehydrated.” 

“They make me pee.” Lydia scowls. 

“You need to pee.” Daryl mutters. 

“Do not.” 

“Lydia.” He sighs, he’s bone tired, he doesn’t want to fight with her over this. 

“If they give me those and I pee they give me the medicine again!” She protests. “And that tastes bad and made me feel sick!” 

“Shhh,” Daryl says, aware that she’s shouting. “Baby girl this isn’t for the medicine.” 

“They won’t give it to me again?” Lydia scowls, not bringing her volume down any. 

“They’re gonna give it to you again.” Daryl sighs, telling her otherwise won’t do any good. “But not right now. Right now they just have to get you hydrated.” 

“No medicine ever again!” Lydia snapped

“Lydia.” He can feel a headache starting behind his eyes. “You have to get the medicine again. You’re sick baby girl we - we talked about this. But right now the IV will help you feel better, I promise.” 

“I don’t want medicine.” She whimpers. 

“I know.” He says, sitting down on the edge of her bed. “I wish you didn’t have to have any medicine. But you do, just not right now okay?”

“O-Okay.” Lydia mutters. 

“Can they give you the fluids?” Daryl asks. 

“You have to hold me.” Lydia says. 

“Of course I will.” He promises, sitting back up against her pillows and letting her crawl on his lap and pull the covers over both of them. “They need your arm baby girl.” Lydia grumbles but sticks her arm with the PICC line out of the blanket. 

“Thank you Lydia.” The nurse says, pulling the end of the line up to connect the fluids. “There, all connected. Feel free to press the button if you need anything.” 

“Go away.” Lydia mutters, pulling the blanket up over her head and her arm back into the cocoon.

“Thanks.” Daryl says, rubbing Lydia’s back. He can hear her sniffling underneath the blanket. “‘S okay t’ cry.” 

“You smell funny.” She mutters, poking her head out at him.

“What?” Daryl frowns. 

“You smell funny.” She mutters, sniffing at his shirt. “You don’t smell like daddy. You smell like… soap.” 

“Oh.” Daryl says. “I had t’ take a shower’s all. Forgot my soap.” 

“I don’t like it.” She mutters. “I like daddy smell.” 

“Sorry kiddo. I’ll get my soap as soon as I can.” He promises. He’d never given much thought to how he smelled before, but he supposed he had used the same soap for years. Hell he couldn’t even remember the scent off the top of his head, he usually just grabbed it off the shelf in the grocery store and went on his way. 

“Good.” Lydia mumbles. 

“Try to sleep okay kiddo?” Daryl whispers. 

“Okay.” 

Daryl must’ve fallen asleep at some point too, because the next thing he knows the day shift nurse is in their room and light is flooding in from the windows. Lydia whimpers on his chest and curls herself into a smaller ball, just the PICC line drifting out from under the blankets she’s pulled tightly around her. 

“Wha’ time is it?” He mutters, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand.

“A little after seven.” The nurse smiled apologetically, it’s Sasha again. The shift change has already happened. “Sorry to wake you.” 

“‘S fine.” Daryl mutters, it’s not like it’s her fault anyway. “You uh - you need her vitals?” 

“Yeah.” Sasha nods. “Dr. Rhee is going to come talk to you in a bit, but I’ll get vitals out of the way first.” 

“Biopsy results?” Daryl’s awake now. Those were supposed to come in today.

“I think so.” The nurse nods. “But it could be about the next dose of chemo too. She’s due for that today at around one.” 

“Oh.” Daryl glanced down at the lump which is Lydia, she wouldn’t be thrilled about that. He pulls at the blankets. “Lyd.” 

“No.” She moans. “No pokes.” 

“No pokes.” Sasha says. I just need your temperature and your blood pressure and your oxygen levels okay?” 

“No.” Lydia mutters. 

“What hand do you want me to put the pulse oximeter on? Your left or your right?” Sasha asks, pulling the machine over. 

“Left.” Lydia mutters, offering her right hand. Daryl has to repress a smile, she’d never been good with left and right but he was pretty sure Sasha would tell her rainbows came out of her ass if it got her to cooperate.

“Left it is.” Sasha smiles. Clipping the monitor to her finger. “And how about blood pressure?” 

“Left.” Lydia mutters, exposing a little more of her right arm for Sasha to put the cuff on. 

“Alright.” Sasha says. And do you want forehead or tongue temperature?” 

“Tongue.” Lydia mutters, poking her little pale face out from underneath the blankets and opening her mouth. 

“Thank you.” Sasha smiles, poking the thermometer under her tongue and holding it there for a moment before pulling it out. “Fever free, good job kiddo.” 

“Thanks.” Lydia mutters, letting Sasha remove the pulse oximeter and the blood pressure cuff then retreating into the cocoon of blankets again. 

“You want something to eat?” Daryl asks quietly. 

“Waffle.” Lydia mumbles. “Plain.” 

“No butter or syrup.” He repeats. “Your tummy feeling better?” 

“Kind of.” She mutters. “Still feels like I’m on a tire swing.” 

“You gonna let me out of bed to go get it?” Daryl asks. 

“Fine.” She crawls off of him and curls up in the middle of the bed. “Hurry daddy.” 

“I will.” He promises, sliding into his boots and shuffling out of the room. Across the hall Henry’s door is open, the blinds are up, and the bed empty but unmade. He wasn’t sure if that was good or bad, but he tried not to linger on it.

He gets a waffle for Lydia and a cup of black coffee for himself. He knows he should eat something but he doesn’t really have the energy or appetite to get anything down. Especially not with Lydia’s biopsy results hanging over him like this. This would mean a treatment plan, a timeline, a discharge date, a real tangible plan that could get his daughter well again. 

When Daryl returns to the room he finds Dr. Rheesitting on the end of the bed, letting Lydia hold her stethoscope to her swollen belly. 

“Daddy guess what!” Lydia says eagerly. “There’s a baby in there and I can hear him!” 

“Really?” Daryl frowns. 

“Yeah I use the listening thingy and I can hear his heart.” Lydia grins.

“Alright Lydia.” Dr. Rhee smiles. “It looks like it's time for your breakfast. How about I take that and go talk to your daddy while you eat?” 

“Okay.” Lydia frowns, handing the stethoscope back to Dr. Rhee. “He’ll be back soon?” 

“Yeah.” Dr. Rhee says. “Mr. Dixon if you’ll come with me?” 

“Oh uh, yeah sure.” Daryl nods, handing Lydia her waffles and following Dr. Rhee out of the room and down the hall. “Are we uh - going to that - that same room.” 

“Yeah.” Dr. Rhee says. “It’s a little more private.” 

“Is this about her biopsy results?” Daryl swallows, remembering what Carol had told him about that room.

“Yes.” Dr. Rhee nods. “We got them back this morning and I wanted to discuss the new treatment plan with you, we’ll be starting it today.” 

“Today.” Daryl swallows. “Isn’t she still on - on that other chemo?”

  “She is.” Dr. Rhee nods. “But we’ll be adding some new ones.” 

Ones. Plural. Daryl's stomach sinks father. 

Dr. Rhee holds the door open for him and he steps into the room, there’s a stack of papers on the table. She’s prepared this in advance. He takes a seat in the same chair he sat in the other day and takes a drink of his coffee, ignoring the burning sensation it sends down his throat. 

“So,” Dr. Rhee says, pulling some of the papers towards her and shuffling through them. “We got the results back from Lydia’s bone marrow biopsy and we were initially correct. She does have Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia.” 

“Okay.” He says slowly. “Like… that’s it?” 

“No.” Dr. Rhee slides the paper over to him, the text is small, and even though she’s highlighted portions of it it sort of dances around in front of him. “Lydia has a rare mutation we don’t often see in acute leukemia. It’s called the philadelphia chromosome. Essentially what it means is that two of the genes in the Leukemia cells have switched places. It also means that Lydia’s Leukemia is very high risk and will need to be treated aggressively. We’re going to do this with three different kinds of chemotherapy and a geneblocker called Distautinab. Distautinab is a newer drug and when used in conjunction with it’s predecessor Imatinib we’ve seen cure rates go up dramatically.” 

“Dramatically what - what does that mean?” Daryl swallows. 

“Well currently we’re at about 80 percent for this particular subtype of leukemia.” Dr. Rhee says. 

“Eighty percent.” He breathes. “And this - um - this is what subtype?” 

“Ph+ ALL.” Dr. Rhee says. 

The name triggers something in the back of his brain, he’s so exhausted that it takes him a moment to come back around to it. Carol. That’s what her daughter had. Carol’s daughter was dead. 

“Um Carol -“ 

“Yes,” Dr. Rhee says. “This is the same type of leukemia that carol’s daughter Sophia had. However Distautinab was not available for use in children at the time Sophia was treated.” 

“And Lydia.” He mutters. “What am I - what does this entail?” 

“A treatment plan of about two and a half years.” Dr. Rhee says. 

“Two and a half years.” Eh breathes. 

“Yes, though a period of that will be what is called maintenance Chemotherapy. It’s about a year of active treatment all together and a year and a half of maintenance. During active treatment she’ll have periods of chemo infusions both inpatient and outpatient, but during maintenance barring complications she’ll be at home taking daily oral chemo therapies.” 

“I - okay.” He mutters. 

“Do you need a minute?” She asks. 

“Please.” He breathes. 

“Alright, I’ll give you sometime.” Dr. Rhee stands and exits the room, Daryl fumbles for his phone in his sweatpants pocket. It’s not yet eight o’clock, the school day shouldn’t have started. He finds Carol’s number in his phone and hits the call button. 

“Daryl?” She picks up almost immediately. “Is everything okay?” 

“I - Lydia’s biopsy results.” He manages. “They’re  they’re not good.” 

“Okay.” Carol’s voice is blessedly steady. “What happened?” 

“It’s um - that chromosome thing. Lydia’s got it.” He mutters, running a hand over his hair and leaning against the table. He feels like he’s going to throw up. 

“Oh.” Her voice is almost silent on the end of the line. 

God this had been stupid of him. He shouldn’t have called and told her that. Her daughter died from that. He opens his mouth to apologize. 

“School gets out at 330.” She says, unknowingly cutting off his attempt at apology. “I can leave right after and be there by 430 okay?” 

“You don’t have t’ do that.” He says. 

“I’m going to be there by 430.” She says. “You - this is a lot to process. It’s hard. Have you gotten your treatment plan yet?” 

“No.” Daryl admits. “We-we’re about to discuss that she’s got a - a folder.” 

“Okay.” Carol says. “Look, I won’t promise you everything is going to be okay, but things have changed, three years is a long time in the world of cancer. And even if they hadn’t, you’re not alone in this Daryl.” 

“Two and a half years.” He chokes out. “She’s - she’s gonna be going through this for two and a half years.” 

“Yeah.” Carol says. “And so are you. This is your fight to Daryl, and you and Lydia aren’t alone here. I have a half an hour until class starts, are you okay?” 

“I- no.” Daryl says “She had a really rough night and now, now I’m going to go in there and condemn her to more and - and I know it’s going to save her life but she doesn’t know that. She doesn’t understand that.” 

“She understands more than you think Daryl.” Carol whispers. “She’ll be okay, she’ll get through this.” 

“We don’t know that.” Daryl whispers. 

“She has a father who’s fighting like hell for her.” Carol says. “That’s gonna make her okay. Not every kid has that. I’ll be there at 430 okay? I’ll bring dinner.” 

“Yeah.” He nods. “I uh - I should go. I need t’ - i need t’ know what’s gonna happen.” 

“Okay.” Carol says. “You want me to call at lunch?” 

“No.” He says. “I - she’s due for chemo around then, she likes me t’ hold her.”

“See, you’re all she needs.” She says. “I’ll see you tonight.” 

“Yeah.” He hangs up the phone and rests his head in his hands. 

“Ready?” Dr. Rhee steps back into the room. 

“Not really.” He sighs. “But yeah, lets do this I guess.” 

“So we’re going to start with the induction phase. That will consist of daily oral chemotherapy and steroids and weekly chemo through her PICC line.” Dr. Rhee slides a calendar sheet in front of him. “It will look something like this, though the dates will change based on her discharge date. We’re aiming for sometime next week, we just need to give her one round of inpatient chemo, check her counts and keep her fever free for 48 hours.” 

“We could be home next week?” That didn’t feel real to him, the idea that they could be home in a week. Hadn’t she just said that Lydia’s chemo was aggressive? 

“If everything goes well.” Dr. Rhee nods, tucking some of her short hair behind her ear. “We’re going to finish this round today and on saturday and then if all goes well you could be home by Wednesday. Now you’ll come back weekly for labs and chemotherapy, and if she spikes a fever above 100.4 you have to come into the ER right away.” 

“Okay.” He nods. “And that’s - that’s it? For two years?” 

“Well, no.” Dr. Rhee says. “Because of the type of leukemia that Lydia has we need to be aggressive in our treatment. This cancer likes to hide, so we’re going to do the induction phase, then we’re going to pull back on the chemo, to give her body a break and a chance to recover and then she’ll start three rounds of very aggressive chemotherapy. She’ll be inpatient for those, expect up to 30 days.” 

“30 days.” He mutters. 

“Yes. And she’s going to be a very sick little girl. But as I said the chances of a good outcome are high with this new drug.” Dr. Rhee says. “So if you’ll sign the paperwork I can get her chemo together and we can get ahead of this thing.” 

“Yeah.” Daryl nods, reaching for the papers and pen. “Jus’ - I want her t’ be a kid again.” 

“Kids are resilient.” Dr. Rhee says. 

“Yeah.” Daryl mutters. 

Can she still be resilient? 

[har-rison-s]

inner problems

ben hardy!roger taylor x oc

a/n: sooo I'm one of those who has seen borhap and is crushing on ben hardy as roger taylor. GOD, I AM, I ADMIT TO MY SINS!!! so, I see there's not much writing of ben as roger, but the numbers are obviously growing (thankfully) and I choose to join the writers. yes. this is my own little idea and I'd love to finish it the day i started it (that isn't happening, i can tell you now). enjoy ;)

disclaimer: in no way do i condone and romanticise insomnia or anger issues/behavior problems. lord knows i suffer enough from them to know that i don’t wish them on anyone, nor to make them “cool”.

warnings: smut ;)

series masterlist

main masterlist

borhap masterlist

borhap!roger masterlist

Usually the winters here are cold, and this one is no different. But in the year 1974, winter in the South Wales countryside was sunny. And still cold, regrettably. 

My knitted socks, sleeping shorts, a shirt and colorful cardigan certainly wouldn't be enough. I long to stay in my warm - partly abandoned - bed, under my blanket and wait for the abandoner to rejoin me, but I know I am to get up and do things today. And my tired system requires caffeine, so I'm bound to get up from my bed in one or five minutes.

I slip a bra on under my shirt so that I'm more comfortable around others - if there will be any - and look at my hair in the mirror. Honestly, a mess it was in a ponytail, which was put up after late night shanenigans, and so I took the hairband out and let my hair down around my shoulders. Is it good enough? Eh, what the hell.

Suddenly there's shouting coming from downstairs and my head turns to the slightly open door in confusion. Are they having another argument? And in the morning? God damn if Roger is in the middle of it.

I open the door fully and close it again after entering and quickly trudge down the stairs. Maybe it was just a culmination of a conversation, but knowing Roger as a person, I doubt it and my stress starts to grow. My feet slip faster against the wood steps. 

“NOT THE COFFEE MACHINE!” Two voices shout at once, and I recognise their owners. And then I see Brian and John sitting on high chairs—“Morning, Junie”—, Freddie standing by them and Roger with his—

“Roger Meddows-Taylor, what on earth are you doing with a coffee machine in your hand?!” I exclaim. All eyes are on me, including Roger's, as I finish the stairs in a couple of seconds. “Put it down!”

Freddie exits, but I pay no mind to him because my eyes are only on Roger. His orbs were all around the place, anger clearly showing best in his eyes than all his other body features.

“Roger.” I say, his name barely audible. He slowly puts the machine down and his posture straightens a bit, showing not anger, but his usual slight arrogance.

“We'll be at the studio if you want to record a good song, Rog.” Brian says before he and John leave, the chairs creaking after them and the door banging against one another. Roger shoots an angry look their way even as they walk out and I glance at him carefully.

“Roger, love.” My hand reaches out to him and the tips of my fingers just graze the skin of his cheek. His gaze finds my hand and it lifts up to my fingers and then he hesitantly reaches my eyes with his. He's a little shy, I know, after realising I've seen another one of his anger bursts. 

I offer him a gentle smile and then glance at the paper Brian's left on the table and then I look back at Roger. “Why don't you take a break and we talk about this upstairs,” I say quietly and when he doesn't answer, I hum, “hm?” Still silence. To get something out of him, I kiss a line slowly up his jaw and without looking at him, I know his eyes are fluttering shut. For only I and my kisses have that effect on the one and only Roger Taylor.

“I'll make myself a coffee first.” I say and walk past him, patting his butt a few times. “Upstairs, now, Taylor.”

“On it, ma'am.” He says finally and giddily, sliding over the table without a care about the now broken plates of his bandmates' cold food. I chuckle, taking the coffee machine to make myself a cup. The handle is still warm and a little sweaty from Roger holding it, but it's alright. 

Roger's footsteps echo through the house while I pour milk into my cup of coffee. God, I want that liquid dripping down my vocal chords as soon as possible. 

Gripping the cup and Brian's paper in one hand, I climb back up the stairs and I see the door to our bedroom is wide open. I chuckle once again and take a sip of my coffee before entering.

Quite fittingly, I almost spit it out, seeing the sight that is our bed. Roger Taylor is laying on the bed, completely naked from head to toe, and grinning from ear to ear. But his face changes at my reaction.

As I cough on my coffee, he sits up quickly. “Talking? Strictly, right?” He asks, reaching for his shirt and pants, which have been thrown on the floor. 

“Yes, my love, and as much as I enjoy the sight,” I reply and close the door so nobody could walk in unexpectedly, “you know we have to talk and now is not the moment.”

I sit down on the bed and place my cup on the night stand, my back resting against the headboard and I wait for Roger to finish getting dressed. Although... “Don't button it up completely.” I speak hurriedly and Rog turns his head to me.

“What?”

“The shirt. Leave the buttons open.” I say, my cheeks tainting a bit pink as I cover my mouth so he wouldn't see my cheeky grin. Roger grins very openly and stops buttoning his shirt, and turns to me, sliding further up the bed. His eyes are dreamy as they come closer to mine, but his grin remains. 

“As you wish, my,” his hand strokes my cheek, “lovely, lovely girl.” Each 'lovely' meant for a soft stroke against my cheek. I lean into his touch. 

“I know your game, mister.” I say, starting softly and finishing with a stern tone. “Now tell me, was the fight about this?” I ask and lift the paper up. Roger's eyes slowly drift from me to what I'm holding up and he sighs. 

“Don't read that.” He says quietly, his head down, looking at his hands stroking my leg. 

“Why not?” I look down at him. 

“It's obviously stupid, you'll just laugh at me. And I don't want you to.” He admits. 

“I won't and... where has your confidence gone?” I let out a laugh and shake my head at Roger. “You know what you and your songs are worth, as well as your ideas, so why is your head down?”

“Eh, it's not, really.” He says. “The guys hate it and don't think it's strong enough to be on the album.”

“Wha-Wait, I'll read it.” I say and put the paper in front of my eyes. I start to read it, the lyrics barely audibly leaving my mouth. “'Told my girl I'd have to forget her, rather buy me a new carburetor.' Huh.” I let out a scoff and look at Roger, he looks back at me. I cross my arms over my chest. “So you're leaving me for a car?”

“Well, I, uh—you see, there’s this—“ I cut off his rambling with my own words.

“I'm only teasing ya. So, do you want my opinion?” I ask him, looking strongly into his beautiful eyes. He nods his head slowly, considering my request at first. “The song is a metaphor—“

“Finally someone who sees it!”

“—and a good one, and as much as teenagers would love it and it will be their hit, I feel it's a little inappropriate.” 

“Where?” His voice shows a bit of anger.

“Just the idea of being in love with an inanimate object, but it's just my opinion.” I say and hope his eyes don't show that horrible anger, before glancing at him for a second. He's looking down and staying silent, I can't see his eyes. “I do have one question, though.”

Roger's head rises immediately and his eyes show excitement and question. “Yes?” He quietly asks.

“In reality, is the song about me?” I wait for his gaze to connect with mine, watching him. He grins for just a split second. 

“What would you say if it was?” Roger whispers. I know he's about to lean in closer and now the thought of settling his anger problem slipped away. Well, we have quite the lifetime ahead of us.

“Firstly, I'd say that you writing and dedicating a song to me is just...” I hold his gaze with mine as dear as my life, “heart-warming, unbelievable, lovely and emotional!” He's as close to me as never before. Roger's arm is stretching over my stomach, his hand lightly touching my side. 

“Secondly, I'd think it's silly to compare me to a car.” I bump his nose with my finger and he hums, a flicker of a smile appearing for a short while. I exhale slowly. “And finally, I'd tell you how enticing that is and tell you to fuck me so good you want to write another song.” I whisper to him so quietly I thought he didn't hear it, but I find immediately that I'm wrong.

Roger attacks my neck fiercely and quickly, as if he had seconds to paint it with his lust and love. I can't help the many proofs of my ecstasty slipping out as his assault continues and he moves to be above me. The paper slips out of my fingers when my hands reach up to tug at his beautiful hair that has suffered the wrath of me one too many times.

“Oh, Roger,” I sigh as his hands start slipping all over me, and he's kissing me so lustfully I think I'll pass out. I can't breathe, he's not giving me air - or am I just declining access to it? I disconnect from him and suck in a deep breath to keep me going.

He smiles widely, knowing his effect on me is starting to show. I give him a grin in return and then reach down to his chest. My fingers slip past the edges of his shirt and slide against the smooth skin of his stomach. He's almost lost his balance and role when my hand slips further down to his pants. Then Roger's reminded of what his duties are in bed.

“God, I love you.” He mumbles, kissing me again and taking off my cardigan, followed by my shirt quickly after. They're tossed on the ground next to the bed, but they're forgotten as soon as they land. “You didn't have a bra when we went to sleep last night.”

I laugh at his naiveness, but I know its source - me and me only on his mind. It's clouding his common sense. 

Roger kisses my chest and leaves a mark right between my breasts before moving downwards. I feel his lips all over my belly and right above my sleeping shorts. Not so soon after, I'm left with no shorts, watching him slowly stretch the waistband wider so he can - torturingly slowly - slip them down my legs. I feel the slight breeze of the colder air hit my skin. I hadn't realised the air between us was that heated, now the air around me seems almost ice cold. 

“Angel, you're glistening right through your underwear.” (a/n: that just clouded my common sense and entire being) He said so lowly and I moaned out at his words. “I love your socks.” I chuckle then, breathlessly, but that soon fades.

Seconds after, I feel his lips leaving a line of light kisses along my inner right thigh. I'm writhing around, trying to release the tension of how crazy he's driving me with just kisses. “Roger..” his name barely leaves my lips, taking all my willpower to do so. 

“Yeah?” He's just reached my belly again and looks up at me with those eyes. Those undeniable, lustful eyes. He's waiting for me to plead, to beg, but I am unable as his hand is sliding over the neediest spot in me, clothed by my pink underwear. The most gutteral moan rips out of my throat when his thumb presses against me.

“Oh, God!” I exclaim, his thumb beginning to rub circles. Roger chuckles.

“No, darling, it's me.” He says and leans up so he can capture my lips in a sweet kiss that I'm barely able to register due to his actions on my lower half. I reach for his hair and kiss him back, trying to give back all the pleasure he's giving me. “You're such a naughty girl.” Roger mumbles against my lips, and I shudder. His fingers are already pushing my underwear aside, and the feeling makes my head fall back against the pillow.

“I need you, Rog,” I croak out. He places his hand under my jaw and tilts my head so that I meet his gaze. 

“Need me where, June?” Roger teases.

“You know...” I say and my eyes flutter shut as his assault on my clit continues. I hear him laugh - he's quite amused at me being unable to speak - and I groan, “God, you know where, just please... Get in me.”

“Your wish is my command.” 

;)

[oohlovergirl]

When Things Fall Apart PART 2 [ROGER TAYLOR x READER]

Pairing: Roger Taylor x Reader

Summary: You and Roger fall out of love, but is it possible for you guys to fall back into love? 

Word count: 1799

Contains: Angsty McAngstyton

A/N: I’m quite shocked at all the positive response to the first part of this series! THANK YOU! I hope you enjoy, and once again, if you want to be tagged in this series or be on my permanent taglist, don’t hesitate to let me know! Love you guys!

PART ONE

The weeks after you left were…rough. Brutal, you thought to yourself as you lied in your friend’s guest room bed with greasy hair and tubs of old ice cream pints on the bedside table. He tried calling you during those weeks after. Practically called everyday. But you never picked up the phone. Made your best friend answer and say some bullshit excuse as to why you couldn’t talk at the moment. 

But sometimes, when your friend wasn’t there, you would let the ringing go to voicemail, flinching every time you heard his voice through the receiver. 

Today was one of those days. 

You let the phone go to voicemail, and you (still) start when you hear that familiar voice. 

“Hey Y/N, I know you don’t want to hear from me, and I won’t call again after this, but I just wanted to let you know that I’m going to talk about the breakup at our next press conference. It’s just that––it’s just that I don’t want them to twist anything, you know?” His breath catches afterwards as if he wants to say something else. Instead, he lets out an exhale. “Okay, that’s it. That’s all I wanted to say. I promise I won’t call again…I…I hope everything’s alright,” he says, his voice a little hoarse before hanging up. 

And like he promised, that was the last time he called. 

––––––––

Several months have passed, and surprisingly, it got…easier. He kept his promise, and you haven’t seen nor spoke to him since that last call. You moved into your own apartment. Hell, you even got promoted at your job (you began working to the point of exhaustion so that you would fall asleep the moment your head hit the pillow instead of spending hours awake at night when the thoughts would hit you the hardest). It got easier. He’s about to go on tour for the next several months. Your eyes stopped watering when you heard his name (although you would still wince). 

But it was getting easier. 

––––––––

But then, while you’re searching for some pesto sauce, you pass the tabloids section at the store. You see him with his arms wrapped around another girl, walking out of a club. 

That night you go out with your friends and get absolutely, positively shit-faced, downing shots of you don’t even know what to numb out the pain. Taking shot after shot so that when you get back home, you won’t lie in bed and think of him. Gritting your teeth at the nauseating burn of the liquid slithering its way down your throat so that you can tumble into sleep’s comforting embrace. Would rather wake up with a nasty hangover than to wake up in a bed that doesn’t smell like him.

Your friend, Michael, has to practically carry you out of the club and into the taxi with your other girl friends.

––––––––

Roger moved out of the house. Couldn’t stand staying there afterwards––couldn’t bear the constant reminders of you––of your failed relationship. But the house is still in his name––he couldn’t stand to sell it. Couldn’t bear erasing all of the reminders of you––of your shared memories. So he’s staying with Brian now––has taken over one of his many guest rooms. 

Having just got out of the shower, he walks downstairs and goes to the kitchen to make some breakfast. As he pads over to the fridge, he spots a newspaper hastily shoved into the trash bin. On any other occasion, he wouldn’t have given it a second glance––wouldn’t have even noticed it. But he stops. Stops because he sees your name on the headline. Breakfast leaves his mind. He’s not hungry anymore. And with shaky hands, he fishes the paper out of the bin. 

And he sees you. You with the arms of another guy wrapped around your waist, walking out of a club. 

––––––––

Brian comes home to find Roger––sitting in the middle of the kitchen with a swollen, bloody fist and glass shards scattered around him. The window on the backdoor leading from the kitchen to the garden outside has a fist-sized hole punched through it. 

“Shit Rog, what happened?” Brian asks with wide eyes. But then he sees the crumpled newspaper on the counter. He internally berates himself––he was in a rush in the morning and didn’t have the time to properly hide it. A sniffle. His head whips back to his friend. Roger rests his head against the cupboards under the sink. He lazily––almost sluggishly––looks over at Brian. Brian notices his red-rimmed eyes, disheveled hair. Brian notices that he looks broken. 

––––––––

At first, Jim absolutely rages at Roger when they all pile into the tour bus the next day. Freddie, John, and Brian stay quiet in the back, pretending not to listen. 

“How could you do this? Your first show is tomorrow! How the fuck are you going to play?” he asks, hands making wild gestures around him. 

“Don’t get your panties in a twist, the doctor says I can still play,” Roger mumbles, his head hung low. He fiddles with a string that had come loose from his gauze wrap. Jim sighs, and his eyes soften. 

“Hey,” he begins, putting a warm hand on Roger’s shoulder, “I know the past couple of months have been hard for you. Just––just please take care of yourself, okay?” he says, so gently that Roger’s eyes begin to burn. 

––––––––

At the grocery store, you pass the stand with all the latest trashy tabloids. Not being able to help yourself, you drift over. Most of the headlines talk of Queen’s first show that they just performed on their European tour. On the front of one, there’s a nice picture of Roger playing the drums. You see that his hand is wrapped in a large white bandage.

––––––––

Roger chats up a girl at the afterparty that someone who he doesn’t know the name of threw for Queen’s second show. The girl––a pretty brunette with long legs and sultry eyes is practically in his lap. And to be honest with himself, he’s actually pretty excited to bring her home. 

“Wanna get out of here, Rog?” she whispers in his ear while running a manicured hand down his chest, and he jerks back. Jerks back because for just a split second, she sounded exactly like you. 

“Don’t call me that,” he snaps, thrown off guard. 

And suddenly, it’s all too much. The noise. The hundreds of people. The girl’s perfume is making his head ache. Her nails are digging into his skin. It’s too much. He stands up quickly––too quickly as he basically throws her off of him in the process, causing her to slosh her drink all over herself and fall onto the carpet. 

“What the fuck?” she yells. He doesn’t notice. Doesn’t care. She scoffs before throwing the rest of her drink in his face and stomping off. A flash of a camera goes off.

He finds Freddie, Brian, and John. “I need to go,” he quickly mumbles before stumbling out, ignoring his friends’ calls. 

He rushes home, and without thinking, he picks up the phone and automatically dials a number he’s had memorized for nearly his entire life. Your number. You pick up at the fourth ring. 

“Hello?” your voice is hoarse from sleep, and he hits himself, forgetting that it’s two o’clock in the morning. But your voice makes his heart stop. He doesn’t say anything, holding his breath. 

“Hello?” you repeat, confused. He can imagine that little crease in the middle of your furrowed brows––that little crease that he would always smooth over with his thumb. He doesn’t say anything. He knows he’s being absolutely selfish. But tonight, he can’t help himself.  

“Rog?” you whisper. You sound wide awake now. He shuts his eyes, almost whimpering at the sound of you saying his name. He doesn’t realize how hard he’s gripping the phone until he notices red spots bloom through his white bandages, but he doesn’t care. Doesn’t feel it. 

You know it’s Roger on the other line, but you don’t hang up. He starts talking.

“I wish––I wish that I did things differently. You were right. I gave up––I gave up on us, on our relationship, on our love––and I hate myself for it. And––and I’m sorry. God, I’m so fucking sorry. I should have tried harder. Should have tried harder for us. I should have fought harder, and letting go––giving up on what we had––” 

“Roger, please don’t do this.” you whisper. 

“I’ll always love you, Y/N. You know I’ll always love you, and I know you’ll always love me. And I’m––and I’m just––I’m sorry.” He’s slurring his words a bit, and the voice of reason in his head is desperately telling himself to stop this rambling. But he can’t. Doesn’t want to. And his heart breaks when he hears you crying on the other line. 

“I can’t––” your voice catches in your throat. “Bye, Roger,” you manage to get out before you hang up. He hears the click of the phone disconnecting followed by the hum of the receiver in his ear. 

He lets out an exhale that sounds more like a sob. Putting his face into his hands, he stays there on the couch, still in his rumpled white button up and jeans until the sun begins to make its way across the sky. 

You lie in your bed, still clutching the phone to your cheek. Hot tears streaming down your face. And at that moment, you hate him. You hate him for calling you. You hate him for saying that. Hate him for making you feel heartbroken all over again. Hate him because you thought you were over him, but this just proves that you aren’t. This just proves that he isn’t. You fall asleep to the hum of the receiver in your ear and with your hands in front of you, grasping at nothing. 

––––––––

When the sun comes up, he finally peels himself off the couch, takes a shower, calls a local florist to send a bouquet of flowers with an “I’m sorry” card to the girl he practically threw off his lap last night, and finally, vows to never call you again. Promises himself that he’s going to move on for the sake of his own wellbeing, but more importantly, for yours. 

And when you wake up, eyes crusty from sleep and tears, you make your way to your kitchen to cook your favorite breakfast (blueberry pancakes and a fried egg), and while you listen to the birds chirping and take a sip of your coffee, you also make the same promise to yourself. 

PART THREE

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[qqueenofhades]

Starlight & Strange Magic, Chapter 19: In Which a Daring Rescue Mission Is Launched

Rating: M Summary:  Lucy Preston, a young American woman, arrives in England in 1887 to teach history at Somerville College, Oxford. London is the capital of the steam and aether and automatonic world, and new innovations are appearing every day. When she meets a mysterious, dangerous mercenary and underworld kingpin, Garcia Flynn, her life takes a turn for the decidedly too interesting. But Lucy has plenty of secrets of her own – not least that she’s from nowhere or nowhen nearby – and she is more than up for the challenge. Available: AO3 Previous: In Which Everyone Would Like To Know How This Happened

Nobody sleeps much for the rest of the night. Gennady, Karl, and Robert Taylor have to be patched up, someone needs to keep watch in case the police find their way here, there is food to be found and tea to be brewed, and after five minutes of uncertainty over who is going to step into Flynn’s shoes and lead the gang in his (temporary) absence, it is somehow decided, word unspoken, that it is Lucy. She isn’t sure how they arrived at that conclusion, just that they have, and the sensible thing to do is not to waste time quibbling. If this hardened bunch of scabrous rogues are willing to take orders from a lady historian half their size, that is entirely to the good, and they had better not make the mistake of underestimating her. Somehow, she doesn’t think that will be a problem. They seem to have an inexplicable, inbuilt loyalty to her already.

If that is the case, Lucy thinks, their first order of business has to be to get out of this absolutely godawful warehouse. So, with Anton Sokolov stoutly at her back as interpreter, fixer, and bodyguard, she ventures out into the darkening streets, he guides her to a suitable establishment used by his Marxist smuggling friends, and Lucy manages to acquire the entire first floor of the house. It’s not much, but it’s a whole hell of a lot better than where they are currently, and when the suspender-wearing Bolshevik they are bartering it from gets a briefly confused look as to who exactly she is and what she is doing here, Anton swoops in with a few quick words of explanation. Whatever he’s said, it seems to do the trick, and the man nods respectfully to Lucy, hands them the keys, and bows himself out.

“What did you tell him?” Lucy asks, when they are back outside and on their way to inform the gang of the new lodging arrangements. “About who I was?”

Anton coughs. “Oh,” he says, rather too determinedly casual. “I just told him you were good friend.”

“Of yours? I’m flattered, but – ”

“Well, I may have not said myself. I may have also not quite said friend.”

“What did you – ” Lucy gives him a warning look. “Who exactly does that man think I am, Anton Sokolov?”

“Since you ask,” Anton says with great dignity, “I tell him you are wife of Flynn.”

“You told him I was Flynn’s w – ?” Lucy doesn’t know what’s more darkly amusing, the fact that the cover would almost make sense on the surface, or that the heat death of the universe will most likely occur prior to anything ever actually progressing on that front. Especially given that he’s presently a prisoner of Rittenhouse on his way to God knows where and may well be killed first, a thought that has not ceased to stab her like a hot brand. Karl said they would want to keep him alive in hopes of information, which may also be true, but does not portend any particularly enjoyable experience either. She just wants to find him, and she can’t stop until she does. Garcia Flynn is tall, obnoxious, dangerous, unpredictable, hot-tempered, and smart-mouthed, as well as having a temperament to which the word stubborn can only very inadequately be applied. He is far too fond of shooting things and/or blowing them up, possesses the interpersonal skills of a concussed warthog, and has poured kerosene on his own head and struck the match too many times to count. And yet, somewhere in the middle of all that drama and disaster, Lucy has discovered that the first thing she will do when she gets the idiot back is to finally, finally kiss him. No, slap him. No, kiss. No, definitely slap. He’ll have to earn his way up from there.

She and Anton make their way back to the warehouse, inform everyone of the change in arrangements, and organize them into groups of twos and threes, thus to drift casually in that direction and not attract attention by all going at once. It takes another substantial chunk of time to do this, but finally they are all more or less settled, there are men stampeding everywhere and putting their dirty boots on things and shouting and farting and jostling and taking up space, and Lucy feels an urgent need to withdraw herself from the situation. So she checks that Rufus has been given a proper spot on the sofa, then heads to the small bedroom at the back of the house that has been considerately reserved for her private use. She lies down on the narrow bed, stares at the ceiling, and feels a wave of exhaustion so profound that she briefly disconnects from her own body, floating somewhere just outside it. This has, to say the least, been one of the more eventful days in her entire stupidly eventful life.

Despite the muffled racket from the gang, Lucy eventually manages to fall asleep, wakes sometime in the wee hours when the noise has tapered down a bit, and wonders if it’s worth getting out of her clothes, or if she’ll just get up again in a few hours and have to put them on anyway. But if she is going to coordinate and lead a daring rescue mission, she is going to have to ditch the restrictive corsets and petticoats and long skirts, no matter who it scandalizes. Nineteenth-century fashion for well-to-do-women is not in the least practical for rushing into Siberia at the head of a bunch of criminals and plucking your not-husband from a dire and wintry predicament. She is going to need to improvise.

At that, Lucy wonders why she is so sure that Rittenhouse is taking Flynn to Siberia, given that they could have just as easily kept him in St. Petersburg for convenient pickup by Emma. She squints, trying to remember where the idea came from, until she has a blurry recollection of some dream that fades even as she tries to grasp it. She was watching a flock of ravens flying above a train, and she just knew where it was going, and that Flynn was on it. This is something less than a firm scientific basis, and she resolves to thoroughly canvass the city prisons first. Though that is also likely to be a waste of time. Rittenhouse won’t be throwing their bête noire into any ordinary lockup. They will have somewhere secret and dark and dreadful for him instead.

Lucy finally struggles out of her corset, since it’s deeply uncomfortable to sleep in, and thinks that if nothing else, she will not miss this every day. She catches another fitful few hours of shut-eye, wakes up from another weird raven dream, and thinks it must still be early until she makes out the clock on the wall and sees that it’s quarter to nine. The sun won’t be up for another hour.

Groggy and sore, Lucy stumbles out of bed and digs in the chest of clothes, until she comes up with trousers, shirt, jacket, and flannel underwear that will more or less fit her. The latter is a bit iffy without a thorough wash first, and smells like smoke that no soap is likely to dislodge, but it is a practical necessity for not freezing, and she keeps her own on underneath. After so long wearing skirts and tight-fitted bodices, men’s clothes are unfamiliar and delightfully free, and Lucy pulls a pair of suspenders over her shoulders, reminded of one of the women she dated in grad school. Once she has butched it up, she puts on three pairs of socks and heads out.

The gang is already up, making coffee in the small kitchen, though they all collectively choke on it when they see her. Lucy raises a skeptical eyebrow. “Really, guys?”

“You are… you are still looking very nice, Lucy,” Anton says gamely. “Though those clothes were once belonging to our comrade Sergei. He was short, like you.”

“And what happened to comrade Sergei?”

“Oh, uh. He was hanged for the smuggling and promotion of sedition.” Anton looks apologetic. “But he died very bravely.”

“Great,” Lucy mutters, wondering if it is a bad omen to be wearing the former wardrobe of the undersized and unfortunate late Comrade Sergei, but as ever, not having much of a choice. Rufus is feeling somewhat more peppy this morning, and she detours over to sit next to him. “So, do you want to go back to England?” she asks quietly. “If Jiya might be there, and I know you have no real reason to stick your neck out for Flynn – ”

“I’m not going to leave you here by yourself, Lucy.” Rufus looks at her strangely. “Especially when we need to know more about what’s going on before I do something dumb and make it worse. I still know pretty much jack about Westworld, and once we have some solid intelligence, I’ll do something. Until then, I’ll stay with you.”

“Oh.” Lucy supposes that sustained exposure to Garcia Flynn has made her forget what it’s like when people properly think things through and make informed decisions before jumping off a bridge with both feet. She looks at Rufus gratefully. “If you’re sure, but Jiya isn’t any less important. Say the word, and I’ll do everything to find her and tell you where she – ”

At that very moment, they are interrupted by a knock on the front door, and the gang immediately goes tense. Silence falls, instantly replacing the breakfast chatter, and everyone reaches warily for one of the multiple weapons that they keep upon their persons. If someone really meant them ill, it’s unlikely they’d bother to knock, and maybe it’s just Anton’s friend coming by like an Airbnb landlord to make sure his guests haven’t totally trashed the place. Lucy thinks it over, waves at the gang to stay where they are and that she will signal if she needs them, and then very carefully proceeds down the front hall. Maybe it’s a lost milkman needing directions, though she will need one of the Sokolovs to translate if so. Or – no, it’s definitely not Flynn, he did not miraculously spring free from his cage and come running back, and she is annoyed with herself for thinking it. She undoes the deadbolt and opens it a crack. “Da?”

“Lucy?” a familiar voice says. “Lucy, dear, it is extremely cold out here and I am remembering in force why nobody sensible ever goes to Russia in winter. As well, I have had a very long airship journey and deeply want some tea. If you would please let us in?”

“Ada?” Lucy pushes the door open in disbelief, thus to reveal none other than Augusta Ada Byron King, Lady Lovelace, in all her five-foot-nothing glory, wearing an ermine-trimmed pelisse with a stylish fur muff and looking as sprightly as ever. Behind her, Mr. Woolsey is loaded down with approximately twelve valises and portmanteaus, which must contain all of Ada’s creature comforts, and a hansom cab is waiting on the street. “Ada?! What are you doing here?”

“Well, dear, you sent me that interesting telegram, and rather than waste time trying to cable you back with everything, I thought it would be easier to show you. Besides, you sounded to be in a small spot of bother, and you will want to see this. Good heavens, why are you dressed like a workman? Tremendously unflattering. Oh, and where is that horrible man of yours? I would like to know exactly where he is before I venture a foot into this residence.”

“Flynn is… missing.” Lucy glances down. “It’s a long story. It happened right after I sent the message to you.”

“Doubtless obliging us to go to a great deal of fuss and bother retrieving him.” Ada sniffs disapprovingly. “Do at least tell me he’s made it worth your while? Gotten to know you? Carnally?”

“Wh – ” Lucy can feel herself turning the color of a tomato. “I – what. No. No, there’s been no… knowing. Especially not like that.” Unfortunately.

“Well, that’s a great pity. If Almighty God made the man that pretty, and then altogether neglected to add a drop of brains, he should at least get some use out of it.” Ada snaps her fingers autocratically, while Mr. Woolsey is still looking utterly pained. “Edward, do wipe that look off your face, not all of us feel obliged to live a tedious life, or be preposterously precious about talking about it. Take the bags inside, there’s a good man, then go back and help the ladies.”

“Ladies?” Lucy is still noting interestedly that Mr. Woolsey’s first name is apparently Edward, as the beleaguered butler shuffles inside with Ada’s things and sets them down with an expression as if hoping they will not be obliged to remain in contact with working-class floorboards for very long. “It’s not just you?”

“No, I brought your friend, just as you asked. Oh, and Miss Mackenzie, of course. I’ve become rather fond of her and she’s decided to stay in London for the season. Not to mention – ”

The rest of Ada’s sentence is cut off as Lucy practically shoves past her, runs down the slippery front walk, almost does all kinds of horrendously undignified pratfalls, and reaches the door of the carriage, pulling it open and alarming the coachman, who shouts at her in Russian. She likewise pays no attention, looking frantically into the dark velvet interior. “Jiya?!”

“Lucy?!” The voice echoes back to her, just as shocked. Then there’s a frantic rustle of skirts, and – somehow, impossibly – Jiya throws herself into Lucy’s arms, the two of them holding on for dear life, giggling and disbelieving and desperate. Jiya pulls back, stares at Lucy as if to make sure it’s really her, and shakes her head. “What are – what – ”

“How – ” Lucy interrupts, talking over her. “Rufus – Rufus is here, Rufus is inside, he – ”

“Rufus?” Jiya presses a hand to her mouth. “How is – ”

“Just go inside, go see him, we’ll explain everything in a bit – ”

Without further ado, Jiya leaps out of the carriage and runs up the walk. She is dressed as a Victorian lady in flounced velvet skirt and jacket, a black pillbox hat and a fur mantle for traveling, so apparently Ada took it upon herself to get the poor child properly fitted out. It’s only then that Lucy can take stock of the other two occupants of the carriage: Priscilla Mackenzie, looking much more sleek and fashionable with ginger hair stylishly upswept and pearl bobs in her ears, and Wyatt Logan, who looks to be not entirely sure what he’s doing here, but gives her an awkward wave. “Hey. Uh. Morning.”

“Hey,” Lucy says. “Wow, Ada really brought the whole team, huh?”

“I guess so.” Wyatt rubs a hand over his face. He’s unshaven, and there are glints of silver in his stubble that seem premature; he can’t be much older than her, mid-thirties. “Short version, I met your friend there, Jiya, in London. A – uh – ex-prostitute named Bella ran into her at something called the Church Penitentiary Association, apparently knew you and put the word out that she was looking, and I found her after that. We were going to go to Oxford looking for you, but then Woolsey turned up instead and said Russia. So we came along.”

“Thanks.” Lucy still has a thousand more questions about how he met Jiya, what might have happened to her before, and everything else, but she’s relieved to hear that her good deed in saving Bella paid off – not, of course, that that was the only reason she did it. It’s a huge weight off her mind to know that Jiya’s not being held captive and tortured by Rittenhouse, but it reminds her inexorably that Flynn is, and it’s a sobering counterpart to her joy. “How about you come in? It is pretty cold out here.”

Wyatt climbs out, offers Priscilla a hand down like a gentleman, and escorts her up the walk and into the house. Lucy leads the way to find the kitchen completely overstuffed, Jiya and Rufus still tearily clinging to each other, the gang regarding Ada with awe and a bit of terror, and Mr. Woolsey overloading on the spot as he tries to work out where he can possibly start managing this mess first. Everyone is talking at once, which makes it impossible for Lucy to hear herself think, and finally she gets up on the table and yells for them to shut up. She instructs Woolsey to make more tea, the gang to cork it, and for Ada to do the explaining first, since she seems to know the most parts of the story. They will then take turns from there.

Ada corroborates what Wyatt said, that Woolsey tracked Jiya down relatively easily at the Church Penitentiary Association, and had her brought to the Lovelace residence. After the receipt of the telegram, a trip to Russia was arranged in haste, and when Lucy asks how they landed, given as the St. Petersburg port is still closed, Ada blinks demurely. “Well, they did seem inclined to be bothersome about that. So I had Mr. Woolsey raise them on the telephone every three minutes until they changed their mind.”

Woolsey, who is looking around in vain for some decent china to pour his fresh-brewed tea into, is forced to settle for the mismatched crockery and tin tankards that the gang has heretofore been using. It seems pointless to ask how Ada and company were able to find where they were staying, as Woolsey is Butler Level Expert and thus does not view being suddenly dropped into the middle of a large foreign city as any reason for dereliction of duty. (Also, he really needs a job as an investigator for the Met.) It took a few hours, but it was achieved, and now here they all are. Rufus is trying to explain to Jiya the scientific principles that he used to get here, the gang’s ears are flapping like bats, and Lucy gives him a look as if to say that he can catch her up on that later. That particular cat, after all, is not yet out of the bag.

With that half of the story concluded, it is Lucy’s turn to explain how everything rapidly went sideways yesterday, the fact that Flynn has ended up in Rittenhouse’s custody as a result, and that they absolutely need to find him and get him back, or they have no shot at stopping anything. She manages to sound relatively clinical and detached about this, but when Wyatt asks if it would really be such a bad thing if Flynn was to remain out of commission, Lucy snaps at him and finds herself unaccountably, briefly choked up. “If you don’t want to help us get him back,” she says, “you can leave.”

“I didn’t say that.” Wyatt raises his hands, even though he did, kind of, say that. “I just want to know if it’s worth risking all of us, for one guy who – don’t jump down my throat, you know it’s true – has caused a lot of trouble for everyone. That’s all.”

Lucy opens her mouth, then shuts it. Wyatt’s not wrong that Flynn has been, to say the least, violent and unpredictable, and he obviously has ulterior motives for wanting him stopped. There has been a confused tangent about Wyatt’s wife Jessica, who was apparently with Jiya when she vanished, and that Jiya had promised to help him find her if Wyatt did the same with Lucy. Wyatt doesn’t know anything else about what Rittenhouse is doing, though he does say that he met briefly with Anthony and Emma when he got back from Oxford the first time. Rufus’s eyes go narrow. “You met Anthony? Anthony Bruhl?”

“Yeah.” Wyatt glances over, confused. “How do you know him?”

“Rufus and Jiya are from – home too,” Lucy says, by way of explanation. “So – ”

“She said she was back in London, but him too?” Wyatt blinks, as if he didn’t realize there was now an interdimensional freeway in operation (to be fair, neither did anyone else). “Wait, so do you know how to drive the Mothership, then?”

“Yeah,” Rufus says, still eyeing Wyatt shrewdly. “If we ever got hold of it, which I don’t think will happen.”

“What is Mothership?” Anton interrupts. “Is like Motherland?”

“Not right now.” Lucy isn’t going to explain the time-travel, alternate-universe part to a bunch of steampunk gangsters. Not that she thinks they’d suddenly start chanting to burn the witch, but because it is getting them off track. “Show of hands. If you’re going to stay and help me rescue Flynn, say so now. Otherwise, I need to figure out something else.”

There’s a pause. Then everyone, even Wyatt, raises their hands. Karl is the last to do so, but he sighs and puts his hand up anyway, as if he’d probably miss Flynn if the big dumb bastard was actually gone. Rufus and Jiya are going to stick to Lucy like glue, Ada already came this far, Woolsey is an extension of her, Priscilla is apparently up for the adventure, and the gang feels personally impugned by this turn of events and intends to damn well get their boss back, frustrating as he can be. For the first time since they returned with the news that Flynn had been captured, Lucy feels heartened, takes a long breath and lets it out. “Okay then,” she says. “I guess we have to get started.”

The first job is dividing them into groups according to skill set, and getting the ball rolling on everything they will need to do for this not to be a disastrous failure. Lucy thinks about it for a while before deciding that of all of them, Ada may actually have the best chance of finding out where Flynn has been taken. If she storms into the St. Petersburg constabulary and kicks up a fuss, informs them that Flynn broke into her house in London and she wants him transferred to the British authorities for trial, she might be able to turn over enough rocks for a lead. Besides, Ada is a famous and very wealthy old lady whose name, title, and connections all far outstrip a bunch of broke-ass nobodies, the majority of whom are actively criminal. Since Ada doesn’t speak Russian, Anton Sokolov is assigned to her as escort and interpreter, and Ada gives him an approving look. “And you are?”

“Name is Anton Vasilyevich Sokolov. Brother over there is Gennady. May call me Anton.” Anton, who is almost literally twice Ada’s size, has to bend in half to kiss her hand. “Is great honor to meet you, Lady Lovelace. You are very clever inventor.”

“Oh, I do like this one,” Ada remarks to Lucy. “Very polite. And there are two of them. Have you thought about them instead?”

“No, no,” Gennady puts in. “We are FRIENDS to Lucy, that is all. Besides, Flynn is GARBAGE GOBLIN, but he love her madly. Everyone with EYES IN HEAD see that.”

“Excuse – ?” Lucy turns to look at Gennady, who looks briefly confused that he has said something that somehow isn’t public knowledge. “I – I don’t think so.”

“Ah. Mmm. Hmm.” Gennady evidently wonders if he has once more put his foot in his mouth, but there’s also a look on his face as if he isn’t the one who is wrong here. Hastily changing the subject, he says, “What is it you want rest of us to do, Lucy?”

“I need you and Karl to check that we have enough guns, and that they’re well supplied.” This at least, Lucy doesn’t think will be a problem, but she does not want to arrive at a delicate moment without enough ammunition. “Rufus and Jiya, you might need to work out a way to get us back from wherever we end up. If we end up way off the ranch or in the middle of nowhere, we don’t want to be stranded. Wyatt and the rest of the gang will have to help us shoot our way in. And Priscilla, Flynn and I were wondering if you might be able to contact someone for us. Someone who is, uh, dead.”

“Aye?” Priscilla seems a lot different from the socially disastrous, tongue-tied wallflower that Lucy first met at Ada’s dinner party. There is clear confidence in her eyes, and she no longer tiptoes or stammers. “Who’s that?”

“Matthias Corvinus,” Lucy says, knowing it sounds a little crazy even as she does. “The Raven King. I don’t know if you’ve heard of him, but – ”

“Everyone’s heard of the Raven King.” Priscilla gives Lucy a funny look. “It’s him you’re wanting me to meddle with? Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“Well… now that you’re saying it like that, I’m wondering,” Lucy admits. “And maybe this isn’t a good moment for it. One problem at a time. I don’t know if you want to come along on the actual rescue part, it’ll be dangerous, and if you haven’t done anything like that before – ”

“I may stay here with Lady Lovelace,” Priscilla says, “but I grew up in the Highlands, I’ve learned how to handle a musket. You’re liable to need plenty of help.”

Lucy has to admit that this is true, even as she tries to imagine Priscilla shooting anyone and still can’t do it. She briefly contemplates asking the medium to try to contact Amy again, to see if it’s possible, if Amy is coherent, still remembers who she is, but the possibility of silence – or worse – makes her shrink. Sometimes a little knowledge is a dangerous thing, and she needs her focus on Flynn right now. The revenant can wait, and besides, doing that might encourage it to come back for round two, remind it that she exists and is a juicy piece of prey. No, not right now.

With that, everyone disperses on their various errands, and Lucy herself, after all the chaos and delegation, is abruptly left with not much to do but pace and wait for them to come back. She hopes the weather holds out, since any more snow will make it dicey, and as Ada said, there is that old saw about not going to Russia in winter. Lucy seems to have assumed effective command of one of London’s major organized crime outfits, and even the fact that they are not in London is only incidental to the trouble it will cause if she’s caught. Then again, she is already in far more trouble any way you slice it, and Ada seems perfectly blithe about strolling openly into this den of scum and villainy (though it’s true that no one can really do anything to her). It’s already been almost a day since Flynn was taken. That is a significant head start, and if they can’t make it up –

She manages to distract herself for a few hours, though she finds herself constantly imagining the worst-case scenario, until the rescue team starts to filter back in. Gennady and Karl are loaded down with a frankly ridiculous amount of ammunition, have brought the rest of the gang’s guns from the warehouse, and it looks as if this is the one arena in which they will not be overmatched. Rufus and Jiya have some sort of rudimentary signal beacon that is supposed to network into Lucy’s Refractory-Glass in Oxford, though they admit that they have no idea if it will actually work or be able to transport anyone in the same alarming way that they both arrived. Rufus is adamant that it’s a last-resort nuclear option anyway, since obviously, violently disassembling and reassembling the atoms of the human body and exposing them to high-intensity quantum energy is not good for it. He likens himself and Jiya to a jigsaw puzzle that was dropped on the floor and then mostly – but possibly not entirely – reassembled. In other words, if they find themselves trapped somewhere, it is by no means the case that they can just teleport home.

Lucy puts that one on the back burner for now, and waits for Ada and Anton’s reappearance, which comes after just long enough to make her actively worry. Apparently Ada has told off no fewer than three high-ranking city officials, threatened to phone the editor at the London Times, and used some very uncouth Russian words for an elderly lady (which Anton, with a guileless expression, steadfastly denies having taught her for the occasion). The end result is that they have learned that a train containing the criminal Garcia Flynn left last night, on a trunk branch of the railway that heads north to the city of Arkhangelsk, on the White Sea. It is the former chief seaport of the Russian Empire, and it was here that John Bellingham, the assassin of Prime Minister Spencer Perceval in 1812, first conceived his grudge against the British government while working as an export agent. If someone in Rittenhouse has a very sordid sense of humor, it is definitely a place that they might send Flynn. What they intend to do with him once there, who knows, but probably not to offer him a warm drink and a new job.

“Arkhangelsk?” Lucy looks at Anton and Gennady. “Can we get there in any kind of decent time? How far is it?”

Anton thinks. “It is long way. Close to thousand miles north. Legend of Arkhangelsk is that it stands on place St. Michael defeated the Devil, and he guards city to prevent Devil’s return. If there is strong protective magic there, your Rittenhouse may want to break it.”

“With what, a human sacrifice?” Lucy honestly does not put it past them, and if they can’t fling open the gates to this branch of the multiverse until they undo its magical shield wall, they might see the exquisite irony in using Flynn to do it. Either way, if they don’t want him offered up as invaluable political prisoner or black-magic sacrificial lamb alike, they really need to get moving. She looks at the Sokolovs. “There won’t be a train running now, will there?”

“No, not usually,” Anton admits. “But that is only minor inconvenience. Everyone who is coming, get guns. And warm coats. It will not be summer vacation to Sochi.”

The end result of a bustle of activity is that Lucy, Rufus, Jiya, Wyatt, the Sokolovs, and most of the gang get bundled up, slung with guns and then some, and step out cautiously into the late afternoon. The horizon has an unfriendly look to it, and the wind smells like more snow, which isn’t the most promising of omens. Ada, Woolsey, and Priscilla are staying behind to hold down the home front (such as it is, given that they just moved in this morning) and Lucy imagines that they will have managed to decorate it with lace doilies and matching teacups and whatever else by the time they get back. That is a comforting thought, just because it suggests the possibility that they do get back and don’t, you know, freeze ignominiously to death an alarmingly short distance away from the Arctic Circle. God, it already is cold. The thought of heading another thousand miles north is not at all appealing.

They trudge to the train station, where the Sokolovs, who have been absolutely indispensable this whole time, scout around until they find one of their friends. However, Alexei Petrovich is justifiably suspicious to hear that they want him to help them commandeer a locomotive, crew, coal, and other things required to make a train run, and it takes close to twenty minutes of low-voiced arguing, with both Anton and Gennady making emphatic gestures, before Alexei reluctantly agrees to help. The compromise appears to be that they won’t involve anyone else in it, will sneak down the track and “borrow” one of the railyard locomotives, and Lucy looks nervously at Anton. “Have either of you actually driven a train before?”

“No,” Anton admits, “but I have piloted airship, cannot be that different. I will get Alexei to give me – what is you call – crash course.”

“Great,” Lucy mutters. It’s not that she’s ungrateful, but the thought of taking a rusty bucket-of-bolts backup locomotive driven by a very amateur engineer into the teeth of an oncoming Siberian snowstorm, trying to rescue someone who may be intended as a human sacrifice and will be heavily guarded anyway, does not exactly inspire boundless confidence. But it appears to be that or sitting back and waving goodbye to Flynn permanently, and they have to move fast before any of Alexei’s superiors ask awkward questions. They uncouple a train car from its brethren train cars, and the Sokolovs vanish up the tracks. Five minutes later, there is a loud whistle blast, everyone jumps, and a locomotive zooms backward like a bullet, crashing into the car and locking with a jerk that nearly knocks everyone off their feet. A soot-faced Anton sticks his head out and gives Lucy a thumbs-up. Glad he figured that out, apparently.

Once the other members of the gang have been likewise given rudimentary instruction as stokers, i.e. standing by the engine boiler and shoveling coal in to make sure they keep going, they clamber into the carriage and take off at high speed, thus adding train-jacking to the list of crimes that the St. Petersburg authorities will want to question them extensively about if they make it back. Lucy hopes that their reduced weight, with just the locomotive and one car, will enable them to make up some time. They only have a finite amount of coal, and can’t necessarily count on being able to stop and refuel. If they run out or burn too much, they could end up stranded. And if a major snowstorm blocks the track, that means they could very well die.

It’s getting dark as they race past the first set of signals, and the first flakes are starting to drift in the air, not yet settling but not far off from doing so. Rufus, Jiya, and Wyatt are tense and abstracted, not talking much, and Karl and the non-stoking members of the gang are talking among themselves, with occasional wary looks at the newcomers. Lucy hopes it’s not a plan to cut and run if necessary, since while she more or less collectively trusts the gang, she doesn’t entirely trust Karl. He is still in this and going along, but if it ultimately comes to a decision whether to look out for number one, not meaning Flynn, she has a feeling he may do that. She can’t talk to the Sokolovs, who are occupied in driving the train, and there’s not much else to do. This is not exactly a Pullman car of railway comfort, and cold air is whistling in through the cracks in the windows. Nor is there, for that matter, very much food.

Two and a half hours out of St. Petersburg, it really starts to snow. When Lucy sticks her face out, the blowing flakes lash her almost horizontally in the face, and all she can make out of the tracks ahead is from the infernal reddish glare of the boiler. The rails gleam with ice, which could lead to a spectacular derailment or worse, and they’ll just have to hope they are coming in hot enough to avoid that. Sparks spit and lash the darkness, hot embers flying like hellish snow among the real storm, and Lucy feels slightly demonic herself, rushing toward the open gates of the underworld. Whether to enter them, or to escape, she has no idea.

Just then, the door bangs, startling everyone, and a windswept Gennady Sokolov staggers in, face almost completely black with coal. “We think we sight train NOT FAR AHEAD,” he informs them, as everyone jumps to their feet. “Hard to say if it Flynn, but CANNOT BE MANY crazy people on this line at present time of night. So is possible.”

“Can’t be,” Lucy says. “He must have left almost a day ahead of us, there’s no way we could have caught up to them in three hours.”

“Maybe, yes,” Gennady agrees, “but STRANGE THING has been happening ever since we left city. We see mile marker, and then next marker we see, is fifteen or twenty miles more on. We have burned LARGE AMOUNT of coal, to make this speed, but level in tender has not gone down. And there is BIRD flying by the cab window, this whole time. A raven.”

“A raven?” Lucy can’t help but feel that this has to be significant. If there has been unexplained intervention with their journey, and then those dreams earlier, is she being entirely, ludicrously over-optimistic to think that this is deliberate, some kind of actual manifestation of real, wild magic? Is the Raven King, for good or ill, now awake, and if so, did he come because he was called or simply because he chose to? Priscilla’s leery reaction about meddling with him made it clear that if you ask for him, you had better be prepared for him to respond, and in a way that could be either helpful or harmful or worse, an elemental force of nature beyond proper human control. Even if it presently appears to be working in their favor, it still gives her a chill. “How close are we to the other train?”

Gennady vanishes out the door again, climbs to a very precarious lookout position atop the tender, then crawls back down. “It is no more than TWENTY MINUTES ahead,” he reports. “Has slowed. WHOLE FLOCK of ravens circling overhead. We are deep in it now.”

By “it,” Lucy understands that he means the enchantment, as well as the rescue mission, and has to brush off a sensation like creeping insects. Wyatt looks particularly sick, grimacing and pulling faces and struggling to stand up as if there’s a physical weight on his back, and she looks at him in concern. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” Wyatt manages, wincing. “I think so. But whatever is going on here, it really does not like me.”

That seems rather odd to Lucy, but they are now running up fast behind the other train, until she has the sudden and horrible thought that they might not be able to slow down in time and will violently rear-end it, killing Flynn and possibly all of themselves at a blow. The whistle blasts, the brakes scrape fountains of sparks as Anton works madly to slow them down, and the bulky dark outline of the other train is now clearly visible, no more than a thousand yards ahead. The snow lashes Lucy’s face as she leans out as far as she dares, and then sees figures leaping off the sides of the other train, taking up positions for battle on the ground. But they’re moving with a peculiar, deliberate, clunky stiffness that doesn’t look human, and the superheated air from the boiler scorches her throat as she yells, “TOCKERS!”

The next instant, the snow and wind resounds with booms from the tockers’ guns, and Lucy grabs for the tocker dropper slung over her own shoulder, a twin to the one that Karl gave her in the Croft on her first day in London and she never actually got the chance to use. There is no way to precision target, so she braces the stock against her shoulder, pumps in the charge, and still feels it kick down her entire body as she fires. A sizzling blast of blue energy splits the night, but she can’t see what, if anything, she hit. The train is slowing, but it’s still going to ram the other one at more than incidental speed, and she runs back inside the car. “Brace. Brace!”

Everyone takes up emergency crash positions as if on a downing airliner, covers their heads and does their best to wedge their feet against something. They can hear the wheels screaming as Anton tries to kill the last of their momentum, to no avail. A split second, then –

It sounds like the entire world breaking apart, the roar of sundered iron and twisted rails, as their necks snap with whiplash and even the brace does only a limited amount of good. Lucy is thrown into Rufus, who sideswipes Wyatt, and they reach out communally, trying to stop Jiya from flying into a plate-glass window, as her jaw clacks hard enough to make her teeth rattle and she is very lucky that she doesn’t bite her tongue clean off. She has a dazed thought that Anton, in the cab, probably took the worst of it, and can’t even run out to look because they’re still moving, thundering down the track in a barely controlled skid and taking the rear half of the other train with them. If they derail, they’re almost certainly dead.

Miraculously – or perhaps magically – they don’t. But no sooner have they glissaded to a smoking, sparking halt then the nearest window breaks, and Jiya screams as the tockers force their way in, gear wheels clawing, machinery whining, blank metal faces looking melted and demonic in the burning lamplight. Lucy, Karl, and Wyatt get to their guns first, and three shots go off in near-unison, frying the first vanguard. The inside of the smashed-up train car resounds with blue flashes and the smell of burned ozone. Lucy thinks vaguely that she might be bleeding, that she might even have been injured more significantly in the crash, but she has no idea.

It takes ten or fifteen minutes of a sustained firefight, ducking behind splintering train seats and grabbing all the extra charges that Lucy mercifully had the foresight to bring along, to blast away enough tockers to even climb out of the train car. Rufus has apparently decided that if a plunge from the sky after going over ten Niagara Falls in no barrel won’t kill him, nothing will, and charges straight at them, blasting guns in both hands like Rambo. He’s not really hitting a whole lot, but it is confusing them, and Lucy, Jiya, Wyatt, Karl, and the gang manage to jump down onto the snowy ground. She hasn’t seen either of the Sokolovs since the collision. God, they have to be all right, they have to. It’s bad enough that, just as she feared, they may be stuck in the middle of nowhere with two crashed trains that are not going to be running any time soon. And it’s still snowing, it’s still –

Just then, with perfect, eerie synchrony, the flock of ravens swoops in overhead, in a way that isn’t quite clear whether they flew in the normal way, or have suddenly appeared from yet another thin place in the fabric of the world, and could be gone with the next wingbeat. As they soar over the tockers, something very odd (ha) starts to happen. The automatons spit bolts, run their windings frantically fast, marching in circles or twisting their gear wheels around in grotesque directions to throttle themselves. Lucy suddenly recalls something in Flynn’s story of the Raven King, about how the mechanics of man don’t work in the presence of his magic. The rescue squad stands there, guns still upraised but not having to keep firing, as the tockers self-destruct in under two minutes, falling facefirst into the snow with thuds and booms. It’s like when Wyatt took that one out for her in Covent Garden, times several dozen.

Lucy, Rufus, and Jiya exchange a stunned but desperately hopeful look, even as Wyatt himself is clearly in considerable distress. He goes to his knees, then to all fours, uttering a choked sound and tossing his head as if the presence of the ravens is physically driving him insane. Lucy is about to see if there is anything she can do for him, when she spots something – someone – moving on one of the broken carriages ahead. It’s not a tocker. It’s definitely a human.

Lucy’s breath seizes in her throat. She stares wildly at it, but can’t tell who it is, if it is in fact Flynn or someone else. She is standing in the middle of a minefield of self-destructed robots, two crashed trains, a flock of eldritch technology-destroying ravens, a heavy snowstorm, and a gang, as well as her two best friends and two very polite Russian criminals that she is presently very worried about. But she still takes a step, then another, then starts to run. Something in her leg both burns and numbs in a way that signifies considerable injury, but she doesn’t take the time to find out, running toward the dark figure. It’s tall. It’s also moving like it’s hurt. It has to –

The next instant, they literally collide, almost knocking her off her feet, as they grab at each other, Lucy raises her gun by wild reflex, and he – as it definitely is – knocks it out of her hand. He has a black eye and a split lip, has a raven feather stuck in his vest for some reason, and looks more than slightly mad himself, almost losing his balance as his own wounded leg buckles beneath him and he grabs at her to keep himself upright. This only has the effect of knocking them both off balance, and Lucy goes down atop him with a crash.

The next instant, Flynn has both arms around her so hard she can’t breathe and she doesn’t care, the realization burns through her like a lightning bolt, and in that wild moment, neither of them are thinking straight. It is – if not an actual, literal miracle – then, by any standard, not far off from one. She grabs his face in both hands, his hand tangles in her hair and drags her head down, and then, at last, unimaginably, drunkenly, desperately, deliriously, they are kissing. Their mouths open and drag against each other’s, she bites at his lips, his tongue tastes like soot and smoke and forces hers open too roughly to be tender, and she doesn’t care in the least. She gets a better grip on him as they roll over, heads turning, teeth scraping, still entangled, still kissing. That almost seems too polite a word for this savage, elemental embrace, the way Lucy has lost all sense of what is hers and what is his and what is the snowing, smoking, sorcerous night. She is engulfed in him, starving, dreaming, unable beyond all words to be satisfied except with more.

Flynn, of course, is the one to remember himself first. One moment they’re locked together, the next she feels him go stiff, and he jerks away as if she too has suddenly become red-hot to the touch. They stare at each other, gasping, eyes glazed, struggling for breath or sense, as he finally gets himself together enough to croak, “Lucy? What the fuck are you doing here?”

“We came after you.” Lucy still feels naked, stripped, bereft without his mouth on hers, the electricity that is crackling tangibly in the night, the way she is molded and melted into him. “What – how did – how are – ”

“There was a feather. A raven feather.” Flynn uses his chin to indicate it, knocked askew by their embrace but still stuck in his vest. “I don’t know where it came from, I used it to pick the lock of my cage. Then all of a sudden a bloody train crashed into us, and here you are? What th – ”

“Later.” Lucy feels too shaky to let go of him or to get to her feet. Nothing about her body appears to be working properly, and she can feel the burning brand of his mouth on hers. They struggle very unsteadily upright, blood rushing to her head and making her reel. In the latest understatement of the century, this is a huge mess. They’re going to have to spend the night in the crashed train, and try not to freeze. She needs to find out if the Sokolovs are all right, she needs to –

And yet, as they come closer to Jiya, Rufus, and the gang, Flynn stiffens. He stares at Wyatt, who is still on his knees, and stops in his tracks, throwing an arm out to keep Lucy behind him. “Hey!” he barks. “Get away from him!”

Rufus looks up. He seems momentarily relieved to recognize the cranky Russian giant from previous acquaintances, but baffled as to where he has come from and what exactly he has taken objection to. Flynn, however, is deadly serious. “GET AWAY FROM HIM!”

Lucy has a split-second to think that this must be some old monster-hunting instinct, something that Flynn recognizes that the rest of them don’t, and then another second where she thinks he has to be mistaken, it’s just Wyatt, Wyatt – although clearly needing help in all kinds of ways – is not a monster. But something is in fact happening. His eyes are turning yellow, his back is elongating and stretching in a strange way, and his hands are curling, gnarling, twisting into claws. The gang is yelling, backing away, and Rufus grabs Jiya by the hand and pulls her, both of them tripping over a downed tocker, as Flynn lunges for the nearest gun. He raises it, even as Lucy is trying madly to make any sense of the situation, can’t –

And then, she remembers the story Flynn told her in bed the other night, about Matija Korvin and Vlad Dracul. About how Dracul cursed Korvin for throwing him in prison, and how if you stumble into the old places where that curse still lies, you too will be changed, transmogrified, and will become a monster. Wyatt kept saying he wanted a cure. Lucy thought it was for Jessica, but it wasn’t. It was for him. And now, in a place absolutely rich and rotting with Matija Korvin’s magic, it is reacting particularly to Wyatt, to its old enemy, to –

Wyatt is one of Vlad Dracul’s children.

Wyatt is a werewolf.

[roogerriffic]

All or Nothing - Chapter 4

During the next few days I had been putting a lot of thought into my decision to stay in L.A or go ahead with my move to Australia. I finally decided to go ahead with the move. I need to look after me and get my life back on track, I can’t do that if I’m only staying here for 1 person. I haven’t told Seth yet, I hope he understands. I will tell him today if he’s able to come around to my place, I don’t really want to do it over the phone.

I send Seth a text “Do you want to come around to my place after you finish work?”

He must be busy because I don’t get a reply. I just keep concentrating on packing for the move. It seems never ending. It’s just on lunch time now, I stop packing to get myself something to eat. While I’m sitting down eating lunch my phone lights up and gives me a text notification. I open up the text, it’s from Seth.

“Sorry, I can’t tonight, I promised Brooke I would have dinner with her”

That messaged hurt. I manage to hold back the tears that were threatening to fall. I thought he had broken up with her. I wish I could just turn off the feelings I have for him, I hate feeling like this. I try my best to think logically about this. This just confirms that I am making the right decision about moving to Australia. I don’t reply to Seth. I just go back to keeping my distance and this time stay away. After a few hours I get another text message, it’s from Seth

“I haven’t heard from you, are you ok?”

He must have a feeling that there is something wrong, why else would he send that message? By the end of the day I am exhausted but at least I have gotten heaps done. In the meantime I have received 2 more messages and a missed call from Seth. He would know by now that I am ignoring him. It’s 9pm and I’m exhausted. Exhausted from packing and just emotionally drained. I get dressed in my pj’s and go to bed. I close my eyes and hope to drift off to sleep but my mind keeps racing. My emotions are conflicting themselves, I feel guilty for moving when I know Seth wants me to stay, I am excited for the next chapter in my life, I am still hurt because Seth is still with Brooke, I know I will miss Seth. Hours pass by and I still haven’t managed to get any sleep, it hasn’t helped that I still have been getting messages from Seth. The last message brought me to tears.

“Maybe it is better you keep your distance. I’m done with all the bullshit”

I cry myself to sleep.

A week passes and I am now on my way back to Australia. After that last message Seth sent we haven’t spoken to each other. Seth doesn’t know that I am on my way back to Australia. I sleep majority of the trip. I wake up when the flight attendant announces we will be landing in Brisbane in 30 minutes. The 30 minutes goes really quickly. The plane lands and taxis back to the terminal. As soon as I am inside the terminal, I turn my phone back on. There’s no new messages or missed calls.   I’m back at my parent’s place. I will be staying there for a couple of weeks until the house I got becomes available. I have a week off before I start my new job. I can’t wait. As the days go by, there still isn’t any word from Seth. I really do miss him but can’t bring myself to talk to him until I know Brooke is out of the picture. For my sanity I don’t want to get attached to him again. Tomorrow I will be getting a new phone so I have an Australian phone number which means I can totally focus on myself and not have to worry about if Seth is going to call or message me. A month later, I have never been happier. Work is going great, I’m in my house, and I have bought myself a new car. My mind is finally free, I am no longer dwelling on my feelings for Seth. Moving back to Australia is one of the best life decisions I have ever made. I have just got home from a night shift at work. Being a Friday night/Saturday morning, the night was full of alcohol related incidences, it’s exhausting. I have 2 days off now, so it sweetened it a little for me. Once I have a shower and get dressed, I get into bed and just chill out for a while before I go to sleep. I sit my phone on my bedside table next to my book, I pick up my book, settle down and start reading. A while later, I’m still reading....just. I can barely keep my eyes open but this is a great book and I don’t like putting it down. My phone lights up and Messenger notifies me with a ‘ding’. I don’t know who will be sending me a message at this hour, curiosity gets the better of me so I put the book down and pick my phone up. Once I unlock it, I see the profile pic of the person who sent the message. My heart sinks. It’s Seth. He rarely uses Facebook and because of that, I completely forgot that he was still on my friends list. My head was telling me don’t open the message, just ignore it, but my heart was telling me to open it. Of course I listened to my heart and opened the message.

“I have been trying to call you, your number has been disconnected. I’m hoping to catch up”

I reply “I’m no longer in the states. I have to be honest, If I had remembered you were still on my friend’s list, I would have deleted you. I was finally feeling back to myself again”

He says “I just thought you might like to know that I broke it off with Brooke”

I tell him “It’s best if we don’t contact each other, I finally have my feelings in check and I don’t want that screwed up. I’m happy”

He replies “I miss you. Can you at least tell me if you miss me at all?”

I don’t reply. I feel that all too familiar pang in my heart again. I thought I had gotten rid of it for good. I put my phone back on the bedside table and close my eyes. I hear the  notification, I don’t check what he has said, I pick up my phone to turn the power off so I can try and get a decent sleep without interruption. When I turn my phone on the next morning, I see another message from Seth. To say I’m shocked with the message is an understatement.

“Since you won’t talk to me, I am going to come to you. Give me a week and I will be there”

I brush the message off and chuckle to myself. All he knows is that I am in Brisbane. Brisbane is a big city and the chances of him finding me are slim to none.

I reply “You don’t know my address and I’m not going to give it to you”

He replies “How about this? If you don’t want me there, you have 3 days to delete me. I won’t contact you anymore, However, if you don’t delete me, you tell me your address”

I delete him straight away. Later that afternoon, I receive a text from my friend, Taylor. She has been one of my closest friends since high school. We rarely catch up because of our lives have taken different directions, but when we do catch up, it’s like we only caught up yesterday. I read her text.

“You have some explaining to do. I know you have today off work so I’m coming over now!!!”

I reply “What have I done?”

I don’t get a reply. I dare say that she’s driving, already on her way over here. 10 minutes later, there’s a knock on my door, I walk over and open the door.

Taylor asks “Are you going to spill the beans?”

Sarcastically I say “Hello, how are you?” then add “What beans?”

She asks “You seriously don’t know what I’m talking about?”

I reply “No, I have no idea”

She grabs her phone from her pocket, unlocks it, opens her messenger app, taps on a conversation to open it. She then passes her phone to me

“Check this out”

What I seen made me ropeable. How dare he do that. He stalked me on Facebook, figured out that Tay was one of my closest friends and asked her for my info.  Tay had the hide to give him my address and phone number.

I yell at her “Why would you give him my personal information for?”

She shrugs her shoulders “For a start, it’s Seth Macfarlane and two, he obviously has feelings for you if he’s willing to come here for you”

I sigh in frustration. There’s nothing that can be done now except wait. Wait for him to contact me or wait for him to show up at my door step.

She doesn’t care in the slightest that I am angry, she asks with a smirk on her face “Sooooo....... How did you meet him?”

I almost snap “I saved his life”

She thinks for a moment, then asks “How did you saving his life, end up with him having a crush on you?”

I sigh “He doesn’t have a crush on me”

She laughs “Uh.....yeah he does!”

I tell her “Look, it’s an extremely long story that I don’t feel like telling right now”

She says “Ok then, but I want to meet him when he comes to see you”

I glare at her.

She laughs at me before saying “Well I best be off now, you can thank me for this later”

Tay leaves before I can say another word. I can’t believe she gave Seth my address and phone number. Why is Seth going to all this trouble to keep in contact with me?

A week goes by and I have heard nothing from Seth. While I think it’s weird he went to all that effort to get my address and phone number and not contact me at all, I don’t put much thought into it. Right now its 6am and I have just pulled up in my driveway after finishing graveyard shift at work. As I walk up my drive I notice someone sitting at my doorstep. I can’t tell who it is, I’m too far away. This is freaking me out right now. I cautiously step closer and closer, I am a few metres away now. They appear to be asleep as they aren’t aware I am even here. The person has their back up against the wall, knees up to their chest and their head inbetween their knees so I still can’t tell who it is. I finally get close enough to recognise this person even without seeing their face. I mutter to myself “Oh for fuck’s sake”

I slap the back of his head pretty hard, it scares the living shit out of him “Jesus Christ” he blurts out

I ask him “Seth, what the fuck are you doing?”

He casually says “I was waiting for you to get home” he adds “That’s a very nice welcome by the way”

I sigh “Just get inside”

He asks while getting up to his feet “What exactly have I done wrong? I was kinda hoping for a better reaction than “What the fuck are you doing?””

I sigh loudly before explaining “I’m sorry I couldn’t give you a better reaction. You haven’t done anything wrong. I am finally happy, I’m no longer in the hell where my feelings ran my life. You show up on my doorstep and I’m scared I’m going to go back to that hell”

Once we are inside, Seth follows me to the living room. I sit down on the couch and he sits next to me.

He asks “So that’s it? You don’t want anything to do with me anymore?”

I reply “It’s not that I don’t want anything to do with you, because believe me, I do, it’s just easier this way”

He says firmly “I’m not going anywhere”

I tell him “Please don’t make this harder for me”

He raises his voice “I thought we had a good friendship, you seriously don’t want anything to do with me because you can’t keep your feelings in check?”

I yell at him “Really? You want to go there? I have told you what it has been like for me and that moving here has helped me. You don’t give a rat’s arse because YOU want to be friends”

He sighs loudly and calms himself down before saying “I will go back to L.A if you want me to. I just really wanted to try and keep our friendship, that’s all” he gets up of the couch and starts walking to the front door “I’m going back to the motel now, I will leave you alone” He looked and sounded defeated.

I blurt out “Seth, please stay”

He stops and turns around to face me, confused he asks ‘Why? I thought you didn’t want anything to do with me”

I reply “You’re right”

Confused still, he asks “Right about what? That you don’t want anything to do with me?”

I say “Not about that”

He looks at me, giving me a look as if to say “Tell me more”, when I don’t tell him he asks “Care to elaborate?”

I nod my head slightly. I take a deep breath and say “You’re right about how I don’t want anything to do with you because I can’t keep my feelings in check”

He says “I didn’t mean that to come out the way it did”

I tell him “I know, but it’s exactly how it is”

He asks “What now? Do you want me to stick around or do you want me to go back to L.A?”

I say quietly “Please stay”

He smiles softly and says “Of course”

I wake up on the couch, I rub my neck, it hurts from the awkward sleeping position. I only just notice Seth at the other end of the couch, still asleep. All I remember is just Seth and I talking on the couch. I must have fallen asleep pretty quickly. I look at the time on the clock on top of my TV unit. It’s 3:30 in the afternoon. Other than my neck, I don’t feel too bad. I carefully get up of the couch, trying not to wake Seth up, which I fail, I wake him up.

Groggily he says “What time is it?”

I reply “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you. It’s 3:30”

He groans “Really?”

I smile “Yeah, Really”

He groans again “The day has gone”

He slowly sits himself up and says “I could really do with a coffee”

I tell him “I will make you one”

He says “I can make it, you tell me where I can find everything”

I smile “I will make it, it’s fine, just say thankyou”

He smiles “Thankyou”

I reply “You’re welcome”

After I make our coffees we move to the chairs in the entertainment area outside. We don’t say much as Seth is still half asleep. Half hour later Seth says “I better get back to the motel so I can get myself respectable again”

I tell him “After you make yourself respectable again, check out of the motel. I have a spare bed for you”

He says “I couldn’t do that to you. I have no problems staying at the motel”

I say “It’s no problem. It will actually be nice to have someone around”

He smiles “Well ok then. I shall check out of the motel”

I tell him “Good”

He leaves not long after that. While I am still scared that my feeling will flare up again, I really do want to our friendship back. I do miss it.

Next Chapter     Masterlist     Previous Chapter

[4ever-untitled]

My Favorite 20 albums of 2017!

Do these things really need an introduction? This year sucked once again, so let’s just focus on the good music that happened okay? Without further ado, my favorite 20 albums of 2017:

Honorable mentions

St. Vincent - MASSEDUCTION 

Rapsody - Laila’s Wisdom 

Blanck Mass - World Eater 

Kesha - Rainbow

Pond - The Weather

Rostam - Half-Light

Birthing Hips - Urge To Merge

20.  Alex G - Rocket

“Incoherent” is a word I suppose you could use to describe Rocket, the seventh album from Alex Giannascoli, but I prefer the term “idea-full”. When your head is full of shit to say, it’s not all gonna come out as a simple little guitar ditty. It might come out as a strange looping piano ballad, or even a Death Grips-esque noise rap track. What I’m saying is, feelings are complex and hard to pin down, and Alex G does his best to wrestle with them on here. It’s a balls-to-the-wall, heart-on-your-sleeve country/folk/rock/noise odyssey that feels immensely personal and universal at the same time. Incoherent? Hey, aren’t we all?

Listen: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nPuxLpVus-k

19. Vince Staples - Big Fish Theory

Everyone’s doing trap. Everyone’s doing mumble rap with the Migos flow. Fuck rattling high hats. Fuck ad-libs. Big Fish Theory was an important statement this year; a high profile rapper who teamed up with some underground electronic music producers (not beat makers) to make something truly unique that tried to give the hip-hop envelope a little shove. Here’s the thing though: it still goes really REALLY hard. Vince took a lot of risks on Big Fish Theory, songwriting and production wise, and the results speak for themselves.

Listen: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C6iAzyhm0p0

18. Mount Kimbie - Love What Survives

Sometimes cold, nearly inhuman music can be some of the most emotionally potent. Radiohead's Kid A comes to mind. Albums that are unflinchingly ugly in their worldview and take every effort to make the music sound like it was created against their will, or perhaps by some machine. Love What Survives manages to sound distant, even otherworldly, and yet also jam packed with feeling. Electronic music has an inherent disconnect to it, like the listener was never considered in the first place, but Mount Kimbie manages to put a great amount of humanity to their throbbing electro post-punk. The results, a mix of electronic bleakness and a rich emotional core, are extraordinarily potent front to back, with excellent vocal performances from some of indie music's most unique voices. Mount Kimbie puts humanity into ugly music because, when you take a good look at it, life as a human is pretty damn ugly.

Listen: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J1kzMFnFSh0

17. Neil Cicierega - Mouth Moods

(Read my full review here) Yes, I’m serious. You know why I’m serious? Because everyone has their thing. We all have our little niche that we fulfill in this world. We all have something we’re good at. Neil Cicerega’s niche (while he is multi-talented) is making mashup albums, and I’ll be damned if he’s not the best at it. With this, his third installment in the Mouth series, Neil has made the mashup a form of high art. The lines between ironic enjoyment and genuine appreciation are blurred as songs you’ve become familiar with are chopped and screwed and combined in a way that seems in one sense horrific, but in another sense totally amazing. Mouth Moods is hilarious and incredibly enjoyable, but after a couple listens, you don’t listen to laugh, you listen to appreciate. A lot of time and care went into these tracks, and the mere idea of some of these combinations are commendable in their own right (AC/DC’s ”Back in Black” and Vanessa Carlton’s “A Thousand Miles” absolutely should not work together, and yet...) This is some of the most fun I’ve had with an album this year, and many moments left me genuinely very impressed, so I’d say that more than justifies it being on this list. It’s not just a meme. This is good music, whether you like it or not.

Listen: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DsoCe7C4Kmk

16. milo - who told you to think??!!??!!??

“I don’t even really have to rap/my nigga, it’s about if you can talk good” proclaims Milo on so the flies don’t come cut “A Song About a Raygunn (An Ode To Driver)”, and on who told you to think, it seems he’s begun talking really good. Milo’s lyricism on flies was poetic, but what he does here on the follow up is straight-up poetry. Less focus on hooks and beats (though those are also very good) and more focus on the words. He seems like the kind of person who obsesses over every syllable, and will never throw in a bar that doesn’t mean the world to him. Milo’s meticulous and abstract style makes diving into his lyrics an absolute blast. He’s a rapper for kids who are tired of hearing about bitches and hoes and want more Shakespeare references and terms that they have to look up in the regular dictionary rather than the urban one. High poetry over a beat. The essence of hip-hop.

Listen: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5mMOsl8qpfc

15. Richard Dawson - Peasant

I, and I’m am sure many others, would file this album in the same category as Joanna Newsom’s Ys. What category is that you ask? Lyrics and melodies that exude a sense of adventure, song structures that meander and drift like waves on the ocean, and stories that feel like mini epics. It doesn’t have a name, but it’s a damn exciting little nook of music that isn’t heard often, and Dawson nails it. Listening to this thing really does feel like a journey; one that’s constantly evolving and never ever boring. Dawson appears to have some sort of fascination with medieval storytelling and instrumentation. But don’t worry, this thing doesn’t sound like Renaissance Fair music. It has a great sense of modern experimentation and loose song structure that differentiates it from actual medieval music, and from pretty much anyone else making folk music right now. It’s an ambitious and wildly fun freak folk album that will draw you in with both its story and its charisma.

Listen: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U7iW5OEeCUw

14. Remo Drive - Greatest Hits

Aw man I miss being in a band in high school. We were one of the smart ones who weren’t under the illusion that “getting big” would be easy if we just really wanted it. We were just in it for fun. Remo Drive, a Minnesotan emo band, are some young whippersnappers who were in the same boat as me in high school, but through some good promotion (including a shoutout from a certain popular music nerd), the boys made it big. I’d be jealous if these guys didn’t completely deserve their success. Okay well, I’m still a little jealous. Regardless, Greatest Hits is a remarkably good debut, and one that has given emo kids around the country something new to latch onto and rightfully obsess over. Is it perfect? No. There are still kinks to work out. But I fucking love this thing and, considering this is their debut album, they can only get better and will hopefully one day become one of the emo greats. Just a prediction though. Maybe they’ll totally blow it. That would suck, but at least we’ll always have the awesome soaring hooks of Greatest Hits to re-listen to over and over and over. And over. 

Listen: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1kaMiIaT-sg

13. SZA - Ctrl

Love in 2017 is a weird thing. Everyone's so sex positive (which is a great thing!) that more people are open to hookups or being friends with benefits. That's all good and fun, but it can potentially lead to a lot of hurt feelings and heartbreak if there is a lack of communication. Modern music likes to pretend this isn't the case and that we're all out there trying to find a soulmate, but SZA knows what's really going on. She's tired of being used, and she's not afraid to call out shitty behavior by the men in her life. As you could probably guess, this album is very sexual. In fact, “Doves In The Wind” features the word "pussy" exactly 27 times. But sex and relationships is topic that needs to be discussed in 2017, especially from the female perspective. Having a casual hookup can be awkward and being sexually adventurous sometimes leaves something to be desired; a deep connection with another human being. It's not easy, but it's something worth fighting for. SZA tackles all this with a unique flow and swagger, while still keeping herself vulnerable enough for the listeners to connect to her struggle, which is one the most relatable struggles for young people today: have fun and be casual, or try to find something serious? What Ctrl teaches us is that the answer will only come if you try both, inevitably fail, and then learn from your mistakes. Maybe make a great album about it while you’re at it.

Listen: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cMD63TwzB1o

12. Open Mike Eagle - Brick Body Kids Still Daydream

Your childhood home is more than just 4 walls with a floor and a ceiling.  Your childhood home is your childhood. Every memory, good or bad, significant or minor, revolves around your home. Mike Eagle’s childhood home, the Robert Taylor Homes in Chicago, was demolished several years ago. Using this symbolic destruction, Open Mike Eagle crafted a subtly ambitious and low-key concept album. He uses it is a jumping off point for insightful takes on life for poor minorities in big cities. He also takes time to reminisce on his memories of the projects, both good and bad. It's intimate, smart, and breezy. But most importantly, it's a meaningful exploration on what it really means to be at home. 

Listen: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wQxXubLTIBw

11. Fleet Foxes - Crack-Up

Six years may feel like a long time to wait for an album, but the scope and ambition of Crack-Up justifies it. This is Fleet Foxes’ most dense and intricate album, and one that takes a few listens to fully digest, but also rewards multiple listens with it’s lush soundscapes that reveal a little more of themselves each time. People who, like me, felt that Helplessness Blues was near perfection may not completely vibe with this, but I think that if you truly sit down and give this album a chance, you’ll find a deep beauty to it that’s just as satisfying as anything the band has ever made. It really does feel like an album that would take six whole years to make.

Listen: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6GqgNebPm50

10. Brockhampton - SATURATION Trilogy

In a decade or so when I’m looking back at music through the years, I’ll think about 2017, and immediately go “Oh shit! That was the year of Saturation!” I can’t remember the last time I was as excited about a new force in hip hop as I am about Brockhampton. The three records they dropped this year were somehow all excellent in their own way. Every member shines in their own unique beautiful way, and the production choices are fresh and wonderfully off-kilter. The Saturation trilogy was an amazing feat that could have gone horribly wrong, but all the members and all the fans were extremely invested in making this work, and it did. And then some. The truth of the matter is, no one made an impact this year quite like Brockhampton. 

Listen: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n_ZRRlVDVa8

9. Tyler, The Creator - Flower Boy

Growing up is really a decision you make and not a fact of life. There are always gonna be man-children who never decided to do something with their life. Flower Boy is the sound of Tyler, The Creator finally deciding to grow up and give listeners something that’s been lacking in his music: sincerity. For the first time, Tyler really lets his sensitive side show, and he created a project that peels back the layers on the wild persona he’s created. Turns out he can do a lot more than just shock value rap. He actually has a great ear for melody and production, and his lyrics have become much more nuanced and emotionally resonant. It seems crazy to say this about a Tyler, The Creator album, but Flower Boy is beautiful, and hopefully Tyler will continue to follow this musical direction for future projects. There’s always more room to blossom.

Listen: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jxlBOBOZHqI

8. Perfume Genius - No Shape

While 2014’s Too Bright was an exploration of Mike Hadreas’ beaming confidence trying its best to balance out his crippling insecurities and fears, No Shape is pure confidence with no room for fear and all the room in the world for love. The opener “Otherside” recalls the opening tracks of his previous albums with its hushed piano balladry. but a minute goes by and suddenly there is an explosion of sparkling synths that pulls you right into the majestic world of this album and lets you know this one isn’t like the ones that came before it. From then on it’s one excellently written and immaculately produced track after another on what may be Perfume Genius’s most endearingly weird and wonderful project to date. Mike’s heart was full of love when he made this album, and you can tell. The grace and care that was put into every song is clear, and it makes for a tremendously satisfying listen.

Listen: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-EVhFTw4igw

7. Julien Baker - Turn Out The Lights

The most astounding part about Turn Out The Lights is that, after you hear how heartbreaking and beautiful and fearless it is, you listen a little closer and realize how damn relatable it is. Baker makes epic songs about little things that secretly hurt a lot more than we wished they did. The things we’ve all felt and thought about on lonely nights. Like all great art, it’s not just about the artist, it’s about all of us. It’s about the pain of existing and trying to be a human. Julien’s words are the words we’ve all been wanting to say but have never quite know how to put it, and every line hits like punch to the gut. But through all the turmoil, Baker maintains a sense of hope. As she herself put so gracefully, “The existence of anxiety or depression does not negate my own capacity for joy, or my intelligence; when I can embrace those things, I can have power over them.” Through her music, she gives herself power over her illness and let's us know that, even if everything feels like it's breaking, there is still hope.

Listen: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xV1dMqeb4_U

6. The National - Sleep Well Beast

(Read my full review here) I think Sleep Well Beast might be my favorite National album. That’s right, even better than the near-unanimously agreed upon high mark Boxer. I came to this conclusion when I realized that for every great song Boxer has, Sleep Well Beast raises it one. Boxer’s melancholy opener “Fake Empire” is pretty, but “Nobody Else Will Be There” takes the emotion to whole new levels of devastation. You a fan of “Mistaken For Strangers”? I raise you “The System Only Dreams In Total Darkness”. Like “Brainy”? You’ll love “Day I Die”. It’s basically a better version of Boxer, but it still manages to sound entirely distinct. The main difference being that their songwriting has become more mature and subdued, which in turn made room for the emotions to really ruminate within the music. I mean, it’s been 10(!) years since Boxer hit shelves, and since then The National have really grown up. Everything has more nuance, more depth, and more maturity. Out of all their albums, it’s the one that hits the most consistently, and also hits the hardest.

Listen: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2O6duDDkhis

5. Father John Misty - Pure Comedy

Pure Comedy isn’t for everybody because it wasn’t made for everybody. Honestly, it wasn’t really made for anybody but Josh Tillman himself. He decided to take a step back from the personal squabbles he dealt with on the fantastic I Love You, Honeybear and takes aim at...well, everything really. No topic is safe from Tillman’s deadpan wit and hilariously cynical worldview. The music itself is merely a vessel for Tillman’s impressively coherent rants, which walk that fine line between genius and complete pretension, admittedly slipping into the latter category on some occasions. But even though it can seem like a little much, the scale and ambition of it all can not be undersold. Plus, considering the shitshow that 2017 was, I’d say it’s a perfect time for humanity to get a bit of a wake up call. We needed some crazy old man like Father John Misty to go up on rooftops and tells us that what we’re doing is fucked up. So fucked up, that it’s actually pretty hilarious when you think about it.

Listen: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eHpV08wI-bw

4. King Krule - The OOZ

It really does ooze. Every song, every word, every little moment seems to just pour out of you speakers like syrup. The OOZ is like a puzzle. It has so many moving parts that it takes many listens for it all to start sinking into place. The big picture it slowly reveals is pretty ugly. Krule’s worldview seems tragic, and he constantly feels alone and lost in this world. Nothing makes any sense to him, or the listener for that matter. Why is it called Biscuit Town? What’s a Dum Surfer? I still don’t have all the answers, but every time I listen I get a little closer to this album’s real main idea. I don’t know if I’ll ever get there, but the joy of listening comes from those little revelations, and from the amazement of knowing how much meaning and detail King Krule put into this wild, unflinchingly weird record. It doesn’t need to be fully understood to understand that it is absolutely brilliant.

Listen: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K5-f1Bnltu8

3. Kendrick Lamar - DAMN.

What is a king to do now that he’s sitting comfortably on his throne? The answer: do what everyone else is trying to do to replace you, and do it way better than any of them. First, he releases  “The Heart Part IV”, a track that dares anyone to fuck with him. Then a week later, he shuts down anyone who would ever try with “Humble”, a track that sees Kendrick being anything but. After the absolute shock of “Humble”, we got DAMN, an album very different from but in many aspects just as admirable as To Pimp a Butterfly or Good Kid, M.A.A.D. City. Kendrick manages to blow every other rapper completely out of the water with his brilliance and talent while still making it look easy. He breezily flows over some of 2017’s most unique instrumentals with bar after bar about life post-TPAB. Kendrick tries not to let his fans, his haters, his family, or Fox News get in his head. He reflects on his past, looks towards the future, and secures his spot as one of the all time greatest rappers to walk the earth. Damn is right.

Listen: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=glaG64Ao7sM

2. Lorde - Melodrama

If there is one musical lesson I’ve learned over the past 2 years, it’s that you should never underestimate pop music. Last year, Beyonce blew me away with Lemonade, and now in 2017, Lorde is the pop star who didn’t let her one hit wonder define her and ended up with an absolute stunner of an album. When pop music is done as well as it on Melodrama, it strikes a nerve with the listener, connects with them on a deep level, and unleashes their basic instincts: to dance, to cry, to laugh, to remember, to hope. This album makes me want to do all of those things, often all at the the same time. I listen to this album and I feel a real connection with Lorde as she too tries to make heads or tails of life as an adult. Does she ever make heads or tails of it? Of course not, but she’s not here to give answers, she’s here to give you an album that will help you through it, an incredibly powerful and mature album at that, and one that perfectly captures the feeling of being on the edge of adulthood in 2017. This early adulthood college era is a messy time in our lives where we try to pretend that we’re fine and that we totally get it, but at a certain point we just can’t keep pretending. It’s all wild parties, broken hearts, lost friends, and trying to just enjoy it all while we’re still young. It’s a confusing, scary and amazing time in our lives where our only focus is getting what we want. It’s all for fun. It’s all for show. It’s all just a bunch of fucking melodrama, and Lorde captured all of it perfectly. For college kids, Melodrama is a gem. A pop album that wasn’t manufactured by a company, but created by someone who really is just like us. Someone who actually gets it. In a time where millennial bashing seems to be the cool thing to do, I am very happy that this album exists to remind me that it’s okay to be young and a little reckless. I mean, if we’re not reckless now, when the hell else can we be?

Listen: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J0DjcsK_-HY

1. Mount Eerie - A Crow Looked At Me

I really wanted to make Melodrama my number one this year. I mean, did you see what I wrote up here? That’s an album of the year write up if I’ve ever seen one. Alas, I had to give it to this album. It would be irresponsible not to. No album, hell, no piece of art that I am aware of has ever captured and expressed the experience of grief so intensely as this album. After the passing of his wife Genevieve, Phil Elvrum hid away in his home and eventually gave us this collection of 12 vignettes discussing the complete and utter emptiness he feels now that his greatest love has gone. Every single thing he does, every place he visits, every word he hears is a reminder of her death. It’s completely and utterly heartbreaking, so much so that listening to it feels almost disrespectful, like you’re eavesdropping in on someone’s very private life. Some call it exploitative, and I would be inclined to agree, yet the songs on here treat her with such deep, rich love and true respect. Even so It is a bit paradoxical. As he says in the beginning: “Death is real/someones there and then they’re not/and it’it’s not for singing about/it’s not for making into art” He dismisses the idea of turning the death of a loved one into art while doing just that. But can you really blame him? Phil just doesn’t know what to think about all this, but he knows how to make music, and that’s what he did. Was it to help with grieving? Was it for closure? Understanding? Was it to honor her memory? No one knows, and I don’t ever need to, because the fact still stands that this one of the most powerful pieces of art I have ever experienced. So yeah, it’s the best album of the year, and in fact one of the best ever made.

Listen: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H2R2Ck8qKWM

Well, thanks for reading everyone! Here’s to a great 2018!

Spotify playlist: https://open.spotify.com/user/1241380934/playlist/03JmDr3dJSvNigvFAISnbh