#as well as complete fucking menaces that will tear the world apart just to feed their own curiosity

[kariachi]

Sometimes I remember that I gave Mike and Servantis both parrot daemons and the fact both forms fit so well for such different but also similar reasons pleases me more than you know.

[mountphoenixrp]

We have a new citizen in Mount Phoenix:

          Liu Wei "Timothey" Gao, a 22 year old son of Hundun.           He is a student and barista at The Flower Mill.

FC NAME/GROUP: Ricky aka Shěn Quánruì from ZB1  CHARACTER NAME: Liu Wei "Timothey" Gao; AGE/DATE OF BIRTH: 22/20.10.2002 PLACE OF BIRTH: Harbin OCCUPATION: university student and barista at The Flower Mill  HEIGHT: 183.9 cm (6’0.4” ft) WEIGHT: N/A DEFINING FEATURES: stormy grey eyes, fined bone structure, a silver scar on his right collarbone

PERSONALITY: Liu Wei at first meeting is a delightful young man with manners and knowledge of his good looks, but not letting it be a defining characteristic. A focused mind and determination carrying through his studies, he is ready to help fellow students or himself put in the hours to get something done. However the longer you are in his presence or even upon the first meeting, you meet a man who has no problem dipping into his menace energy and provoking without reason. The moment he senses chaos and confusion, Timothey is in his element and stokes the fires as long as he wishes with no regard to those feeding him said energy. In general he dismisses certain people and he is aware of it -simply does not know how to build a bridge and hasn't been made interesting for him. Peace and quite bore him to tears, intrigue and even vengeance is what drive him forward - fuelled by pure spite some could say. The concept of "fuck around and find out" is one he plays with a lot and has slowly become apart of his personality. Eloquent and pleasant when need be, he would seem like a loving and nice person - yet he is incredibly closed off to the world when it comes to anything too loving or personal.

HISTORY:  Liu Wei is aware and thus sure of two things in his life - the immense expanse confusing and completeness of the universe and the endless chaos within him. Children have such a blessed life not comprehending what was around them, but he never had that blessed state of ignorance and he loathed people for it. Unfairly, perhaps, but then again he has something to balance it - feeding off chaos, making people uncertain in their certainties. The only fairness to him. 

His father, the god of Chaos and Creation, had enchanted his mother with the sheer power of his presence and the mood surrounding him. That was at least what his mother, a beloved Chinese actress, liked to tell her beautiful child whose eyes held so much of his father. She spoke of him rarely, giving her child only small fragments of a parent that was never in their life. He never met his father, he met a ghost - until he found out the truth. 

Being a single mother meant choices, thus her child was with her on movie sets and behind theatre productions, kept busy by colourful personalities and their endless knowledge. Liu Wei, loving the chaos, blossomed in his surroundings and in his childish glee helped said chaos to grow - at times it ended in creative mastery, but often times in complete misery. Yet no one knew why it happened, except for his mother who started to both fear her child and resent him. Instead of letting him enjoy the chaotic and confusion of creation, she handed him books to feed his mind with it. 

Timothey inhaled books, plays, poetry and once older pivoted into non-fiction as well as nothing seemed to oddly calm him. Sourcing chaos and confusion from a coming of age story or intense World War Two retelling was like feeding a dry well - one which for a while was happy with just that. However teenage Liu Wei grew to a point where it wasn’t enough, where his hormones demanded more and no creative piece could sedate him. 

Around that time his mother met her third husband - a rich Singapore IT tycoon, who had little love for the teenage boy with eyes that seemed to hold the chaos of the universe. In fact he couldn’t ever look Liu Wei in the eyes as it was looking into a void that was not easily simmered down into 0 and 1. Tension entered the household, which Timothey fed off like a teenager enjoying his first drunk experience. His mother defended him, but also scolded the boy - adding confusion into the mix and leaving her son to feel even more alive. It all ended when he was sent to a British boarding school for his high school years. The stiffness of the upper class ruleset and high society haughtiness down on him made Timothey feel trapped, suffocating and worst drained from energy. The first month he scrambled to find anything to feed his mind, but nothing seemed enough and he grew into a troublemaker with never getting his hands dirty.

Professor doctor Goldenberg, their mathematics teacher, was the man to save the hormonal lost child with a simple move - he gave Liu Wei university level mathematics problems. It had been supposed to be a punishment, but with ended up being what the child needed to find his balance. Mathematics in school was too controlled, too logical and simplified - yet when you took a step further, entered the realm where the square root of minus one was I, everything changed. Suddenly the trouble maker was transformed once more, his mind wrapped up in mathematics and starting from eleventh grade also physics. What followed were successful participation in national events and his name gaining attention from universities. However not everyone was pleased - his mother wished her child for once to live a simpler life and his stepfather felt he was being outshined.

As he was finishing high school Timothey was told about Mount Phoenix, a city more fit for his kind with a respectable university to boot. Told it was a place more suited for his kind and above all closer to home, which all sounded like several half hearted arguments to make him go away just like they had tried to the boarding school. His step-brother was one the way, hopefully a child with a less confusing presence and less trouble to love. Turning down several name worth universities Liu Wei went to Mount Pheonix as his expenses were being paid starting with university and ending with living - anything extra was on him. 

His eyes were stormy with a promise of something his mother feared to name as Timothey agreed, in silence putting together a plan to never have himself put back into the shadows again. Chaos and confusion was what the world was sustained on, putting him away in a non descriptive city would only work for so long. 

PANTHEON: Chinese CHILD OF: Hundun POWERS: 

(major) chaos empowerment - becomes stronger, faster and happier/healthier from chaos. With enough resource, meaning a larger crowd, unlocking enhancing the existing trust manipulation and animation. Can draw sustenance from the chaos, but can't heal faster or stop aging.

(minor) trust manipulation - The user can manipulate the trust and loyalties in only people, increasing, decreasing or changing it as they wish. The person needs to be in close proximity. (minor) animation - can give life to inanimate objects, animating them to act/move on their own accord for no longer than a hour. They function as extensions of the creators will, allowing the animator to potentially be able to command, control and otherwise influence them.

STRENGTHS: hard working, determined and focused  WEAKNESSES: easily wrapped up in intrigue, bad at interpersonal relationships, closed.

[heavymetalover]

Heresy (Michael Langdon x fem reader)

Summary: You’re a witch visiting the Hawthorne School for Exceptional Young Men, aiding to your fallen Supreme, Cordelia, when suddenly engaging in a spontaneous rendezvous with the Boy Wonder himself, Michael Langdon.

Warnings: smut, dirty talk, light choking, fingering, oral sex, vaginal sex, dom/sub, hickies, rough sex, daddy kink.

Word count: 4.1k

A/N: back with another one shot after a depressive episode hahaaaaa fuck

feel free to ask me stuff, i may get to a request if i have time. also i needa follow more ahs/cody blogs since im slowly morphing back into an ahs blog so ill try to follow everyone back! anyways 

enjoy:)

~~~~

 Ever since your arrival at Hawthorne, you’ve been enamored with the talk of the town. Mr. Bigshot Michael Langdon. You came with Cordelia, the plane ride made you nauseated. Not from the immoderate turbulence, but from the thought of your Supreme falling. You all had doubts, thought that Michael was just another powerful warlock, nothing too menacing; but when Michael brought back your sisters from the dead, something Cordelia couldn’t even do, you knew he was a threat.

Michael is one of the few people on this Earth you’ve met with unbreakable confidence. He holds his head high, a cunning smirk enduringly secured on his full pink lips. Yet something about him is also so child-like. His power excites him and he’s always quick to engage in conversation about himself; almost giddy with his effervescent wit, yet beautifully controlled.

You don’t know what made you want to engage with this man, the most you’ve ever done with him is shake his hand. There was a moment he brushed against you, you felt a hard bulge in his pants lightly brush against your ass, his big hand squeezing your shoulder as he wedged himself past you, lingering slightly and feeling as if he purposely was pushing his pelvis against you. You dismissed your suspicions of this minor interaction, explaining it away as a whimsical delusion plagued by your hormonal, juvenile brain. Although, you wanted more than anything to believe he was coming onto you, you were here to support the witches. Your sisters. Not the desperate, power-driven warlocks.

It’s late in the evening, Cordelia passed out on the couch in the common area while the other witches attempt to nurse her to health, a few of them nearly falling asleep next to her. For some odd reason, your eyes are resisting sleep tonight. You’re carelessly flipping through a book, eyes grazing over the tiny words. Your mind is preoccupied with something else, someone else. Constantly glancing around the room just in hopes you’d catch a glimpse of his golden curls reflecting the candlelight, or even his black cloak dramatically flowing behind him, something, anything to feed your hunger.

You presume a few hours have passed now; the whole school has gone silent except for a thumping bass in the distance. Once you fixate on the noise, your eyebrows knit in confusion. You thought you were the last person awake. You shut the book you’ve been neglecting and set it back on the shelf, prudently pursing the bass-y melody. Your heels echoing in the empty halls, stopping dead in your tracks when you come to the hall where the music originates. You walk through the arch into the rich, golden hallways lit up by flickering candles. Hard rock music blaring from a closed door, but it becomes obvious who’s room it is as you get closer. You can recognize his scent from a mile away. The music comes from Michael’s room.

You ball your fist, ready to pound his door and tell him to turn down his music, but pause before you can make contact with the door. You hear low groans over the music, momentarily mistaking them to be apart of the song, but soon realizing it’s Michael’s voice when he grunts out a loud “fuck!”

Your jaw drops, just hearing his moans on the other end of the door makes your heart sink. With little hesitation, you press your ear against the door, your earring hitting the polished wood and making a louder clink than you expected. Michael doesn’t seem to notice, continuing his low moans from inside the room.

You initially came with the intention of telling him off, giving him a much-needed reality check that the world doesn’t revolve around him. But you’re compelled to put all of that on hold and keep listening, laying your palm against his wooden door and resting on it, catching yourself pretending it’s Michael’s sturdy, defined body. You know you shouldn’t be so thirsty for him; he exudes arrogance out of his pores, exhausting and intoxicating you all at once. You’d never admit it, but buried deep down, you know you like that about him. You like his hubris, it makes you fantasize about how possessive he’d be when fucking you, how he’d humiliate you.

You run your hand down the door panel and press your cheek harder against the wood. Your other hand reaching underneath your short, lacey black dress. The scent of his cologne is strong enough to have tainted the door. You bask in the gritty, manly pheromones, starting to rub your aching clit in small circles. Your lips grazing the door as you quicken your pace, listening to his loud music and touching yourself to the rhythm. You can see why he listens to it; it’s even helping you get more into the mood.

You’re practically kissing the door when you almost fall flat onto the floor by somebody swinging it open. You regain your balance and collect yourself, feeling your face burning red with embarrassment. Michael’s icy blue eyes scope the situation for a moment, landing on you, then the door, then your hand on your crotch. You pull it away after Michael’s already found it. Shit. He clears his throat. “Y/n,” he talks to you slow, as if you were a toddler, “what the fuck?”

Your mind sets aside his condescending tone for a moment to revel in the fact that he knows your name; though you mentally beat yourself up right after for being so desperate and putting your dignity on the backburner. It takes you a split second to spew out your reply, “I-I could ask you the same.” You bite your tongue in hopes he didn’t linger too much on your stumble. “I could hear your music all the way from the common room, people are trying to sleep.”

“And why aren’t you?” he leans both his arms against the doorframe, looking so lackadaisical and impossibly sexy. You hate him for it.

“I was watching over Cordelia,” you lie, although you wish it was true. You know the only reason is because of him, because your thoughts always come back to his beautiful, smug face.

“I don’t believe you,” he says with a slight shake to his head, his lively curls bobbing with each movement.

You know you should just leave the situation now and give him one last nudge to turn down his music, but something inside you urges you to entertain his question. “Why don’t you believe me?” you ask, bouncing back and forth on the tiny heels of your stilettos. “What else would I be doing?” you wish you could swallow the words back up as soon as they leave your mouth.

He squints his eyes at you as if you had just asked the dumbest question on the planet. “Listening to me,” he shoots back, “and…” His eyes trail down to your crotch and he raises a brow. He doesn’t audibly declare your actions, as if saying the words aloud will frame the situation to be even more perverted than it already is.

“And touching myself,” you finish his sentence, taking a step closer to him.

There’s a certain energy to him, a sinister overtone even when a stupid grin spreads across his face. “You’re a nasty little witch, aren’t you?” he asks, keeping his voice low.

The tension becomes thicker with each pause, you feel your breathing getting uneven, mouth watering, a numbness to your fingertips. Michael looks completely unphased, still holding himself with the utmost confidence. “Maybe that’s for you to decide,” you reply gingerly, “sir.”

He inches himself closer to you until his nose barely brushes the tip of yours. “I think you are,” he whispers. You gulp down all the excess water in your mouth, just looking at him makes you hungry for more. He aggressively takes a chunk of your hair and pulls your head back, the candles in the hallway burn out. Did you do that?

He gives a measly scoff at your powers before turning back to you. Michael leans closer, his lips shave yours ever so slightly. Hooded eyes surveying every inch of your face, pulling tighter and smiling at your wince in pain. “You want me?” he asks, lips lugging against yours, but rejecting the satisfaction of a kiss.

“Yes,” you let out a breathy whisper. “I do, sir.” An attempt to kiss him results in your hair being mercilessly tugged again. It hurt to the point you felt a burning behind your eyes, tears threatening to appear, but you wouldn’t dare tell him to stop. At this point, you’d do anything Michael wanted you to do, be anything he wanted you to be.

He drags the back of his moist tongue down your neck and stops at the base, laying his lips down and lightly sinking his teeth into you, sucking up the salty sweat on your skin. You unexpectedly moan at his ardor, eyes darting around the hall for witnesses. He sucks vigorously, eliciting a surprised gasp from you each time he sucks harder. Deciding he’s done when your neck feels on fire, his mouth parts from your flesh with a delicious smack.

He releases his tight grasp from your hair, now clutching the back of your neck with a death grip, squeezing like he owns your body. A light groan dies on his lips as he comes back to your face, lips touching again. “I smelt you as soon as you came to my door, I know the smell of a witch well.” Neither of you make an effort to pull away, he uses one of his slender arms to caress the side of your body, moving along your curves. “I know the smell of a drenched cunt, too.” His hand finds your pussy and to his avail, he’s correct.

Sliding your panties to the slide, he thumbs your core. You grab his toned arm for balance as he touches your sensitive clit, rubbing it slowly with ease. “You eavesdropped on me fucking myself, huh?” his tone turns rough. “Invading my privacy…” he continues through gritted teeth as if he was holding back on cussing you out completely. He rubs you harder and faster, your face contorting as you grab onto him tighter. You bite your tongue to hold back screams, almost forgetting that you were standing outside of his room, but the thrill of getting caught turns you on even more. You can feel the wetness dripping down your thighs. “You like invading my privacy,” he starts again, rubbing harder than ever. You feel yourself getting pushed to the edge, biting your tongue so hard you draw blood. “Say it,” he demands.

“I like invading your… f-fuck! Y-your privacy,” it takes all your power to form a coherent sentence. Your pussy convulses under his fingers and he takes them away, leaving an agonizing throbbing in your clit.

He pulls you by your wrist into his room, shutting the door behind him. His lips automatically connect to yours, aggressively tongue-fucking your face, barely stopping to take a breath. “Is this what you wanted?” he asks breathlessly. “You want to be used like a whore?”

You smile at his crudeness; his dirty talk sends chills throughout your core. “Yes, daddy,” you respond softly, returning to his kisses. He grins against your kiss at this little nickname. A childish whimper escaping your lips when his pants rub against your unfinished cunt.

He pulls away to tug his black shirt over his head, you take the moment apart to slip off your tight dress. “I was hoping you’d stop by after I pushed myself into you,” he grins. A wave of relief passes through you when you realize that moment you shared with him wasn’t a product fabricated by being overly imaginative. “I knew your body would be mine the moment I saw you in that tight little dress.”

“I wore it just for you,” you speak your words with a sugary sweetness to match your frenzied desperation for him to fill you up. “My body is all yours.”

“I know,” he sneers. He pushes you onto the bed, towering over you as he claws off your panties. His skin slightly glistened in sweat, intimately lit by the dim lighting in his room. You’ve never seen someone look so goddamn sexy. He runs a hand through his perfect golden waved hair before settling himself between your legs. The first contact he makes is licking up your hot cunt before reintroducing his fingers. It won’t take much more to make you come since he started you off in the hall.

Now that you’re in the comfort of his room, you let all your moans escape as loud as you want. “Fuck, Michael!” you yell, hoping the music is loud enough to mask your screams. His tongue pulses against your dripping pussy as his slim fingers work your clit again. You shut your eyes as tight as you can and pull at the sheets of his bed, feeling the vibration of his moans against your cunt and the cadence of the song, everything turns you on.

Just not enough.

I need more.

Nothing seems to satisfy.

I said, I don’t want it.

I just need it.

To breathe, to feel, to know I’m alive.

Michael’s finger slides inside your pussy, pulsing to his own rhythm, speeding up before you can adjust to his intensity. He adds another finger flicking up inside your pussy, tickling your g-spot with each tap. “Fu-” you can’t even release your cursing. “Right there, right there,” you breathe, not sure your words are even audible. Michael begins pacing his tongue over your ripened clit, continuing to fuck you with his long fingers and rub your slit with his thumb, making sure every nerve is stimulated.

You yank his sheets, trying to sit up and watch him devour you, but dropping back onto the bed in defeat. “S-so good,” you cry. He speeds up even more and you yelp. He snickers at your titillation, sending a flood of heat against your cunt. “I’m,” is the only word you can get out before fauceting a stream of clear liquid from your hole.

Michael leans back, letting your pussy release all of the built-up tension. His face scrunches up inquisitively as you come all over his bed. Once you’re done leaking and completely out of breath, Michael glances at you in disbelief. “Wow,” is the only word that can cross his lips before licking up the excess filth that splashed onto your thighs. He climbs on top of you to plant a kiss on your begging lips, you taste your salty juices in his mouth. He parts from the kiss and you lick yourself off of your lips. “That’s my dirty girl,” he praises.

He takes both of your arms and pulls you to sit up on his bed. You’re so lost in ecstasy that you can’t even process Michael slipping his pants down in front of you and the enormous protrusion occupying his boxers. You get thrown back into the fire when his lengthy erection springs out and slaps your cheek. Your brain reacts as if programmed to be his little sex toy. You grab his cock in your hands and shove it down your throat. “Show me how grateful you are that I let you come,” he rocks his hips into your face. You grab his hips to push his dick even further into your mouth, working past your gags and pushing as deep as you can. Every time he thrusts you feel yourself choke on his length, “You like the way I fuck your face, huh? You like how I treat you like a dirty hole?”

You pull him out of your mouth, inhaling the smell of his cologne and spitting on the pink tip of his hard cock. You haven’t seen a dick this big outside of porn, maybe not even in porn. You stroke his length, giving yourself time to recover before shoving him back down your throat. You lick up his balls and he groans, beginning to reposition your head for sucking.

You open your mouth and he shoves himself back in, plunging to the back of your throat. You feel your mouth coat his dick with saliva, choking back on his precum and slurping back all of the juices. You run your hand up and down his shaft, feeling like you’re only able to guzzle down half of his dick. You pull it out of your mouth to spit on his glazed cock, continuing to jerk his shaft. You go back to sucking, bobbing your head up and down as fast as you can and releasing his cock to spit on it. He throws his head back as you continue mouth fucking him. “Goddamn!” he shouts, rocking himself into you even harder. You gag on his cock, tears streaming down your cheeks, he loves this. “Let me see your eyes,” he requests. You look up at him, blinking out your tears. “Fuck me,” he sighs before pulling himself out of your mouth, a white substance oozing from his hole.

You fight to catch your breath as he’s already repositioning you. Pushing you onto all fours and spitting on your cunt before entering. “I can’t wait to stretch out those tight little walls,” he says, teasing his cock up and down your folds. “Say it’s okay,” he begs, his cock pressed against your hole. Your heart skips when he says this. You nod your head, too in shock to conjure an answer. “I want to hear you say it,” he presses.

You gulp down your nervousness, trying not to appear stunned by his need for approval. “I want you to stretch out my walls, daddy,” you finally answer, using your hands to spread your pussy wide for him. “Fuck me until I can’t walk,” you plead, wiggling your tailbone and pushing his erection into your cunt.

This is admission enough for him, he inserts the head and you feel your whole-body tremble. His cock is so thick, you can really feel your pussy stretching for him. He grabs your hips and slowly starts adding some of his length. You tense up and grab his arm, he stops immediately. “Just relax, relax baby,” he reassures you.

You take a deep breath in and he pushes himself into you on exhale, placing a hand on the small of your back as he goes deeper… and deeper and deeper, as if his dick is bottomless. You find yourself pulling at his sheets again, more tears forming in your eyes. He starts rocking his hips, cramming his large cock into your tight pussy. Each push begins loosening you up, your pain turning into pleasure as he inserts more of himself into you. “Good girl,” he flatters, giving a small smack to your ass and making you jump.

Both of you moaning in pleasure, fucking to the rhythm of the song playing. The instruments enveloping you and you push yourself even more against his dick, wanting to feel all of him inside you. “Give it all to me,” you demand, pushing him deeper inside of you. You both sigh with how deep he’s getting. “Fuck me, daddy,” you hear yourself wailing like a child.

“M’yeah?” he breathes, taking it as a challenge. In an instant, he executes your request, shoving himself balls deep, filling your guts with his thick length. Taken aback, you accidentally knock out all the lights in his room with a squeal, leaving behind a single candle on the opposite side of his room. The wind gets knocked out of you; breath unsteady. You can’t summon any words to your lips, just incessant choked sobs that wither away at the back of your throat.

He keeps pounding himself into you, his balls slapping your clit and sending goosebumps throughout your body. “You like being your coven’s dirty slut?” he spits, giving another hard slap to your ass. You can’t bring yourself to answer him. He drills so deep into you that you can feel him hammering your cervix. You can’t take him anymore and autonomously shift yourself away from him with a raucous scream, crawling away from his thick cock, but Michael chases. He clicks his tongue. “Don’t run away from it, baby,” he teases as you keep shifting.

You stop crawling away once you reach the edge of his bed, his cock sitting idly inside your tight pussy as he catches up. He breaks the lull and starts pumping into you quickly again, this time pinning your arms behind your back. “No more running away,” he taunts. You feel your pussy spasming with each plunge, your muscles adjusting to his fat cock, but they never seem to process it. You can’t stop moaning, screaming for more. You roll your eyes back and drop your head in defeat, taking the hard pounding to your cunt. “That’s it, baby,” he sighs. “Take all of daddy’s cock like a good slut.”

He guides himself into you, salaciously smacking into your round ass with each thrust. You feel like your whole body is crumbling under his touch, one more move and you’d be pure dust. Your heartbeat quickened, body shaking, numbness in your legs, you know you’re close to coming. You close your eyes shut, clenching your jaw, stifled moans escaping animalistically from the back of your throat. You squeeze one of Michael’s arms as he continues holding your hands behind your back. Papers fly off his desk, the music volume fluctuates, you can’t believe how strong your powers are becoming under him.

“C’mon, baby,” he continues assaulting your cunt with hard thrusts, “come for me. Come for daddy.” He wraps a large hand around your throat, hitching your breath, and directs your body to be flush against his. Your back against his chest, creating friction as he keeps with the same fervor. His lips against your ear, “Who’s your Supreme now, baby?”

The thought of Cordelia decaying on the couch in the common space right now crosses your mind, but being under Michael’s influence sends dark thoughts rushing in your head. Who cares? “You, Michael. You’re my new Supreme,” you answer with a strangled sob.

He pushes you back onto the bed, burying your head into his mattress. You suck up his scent through the fabric; drooling onto his sheets while being fucked senseless, you love the way he uses you. “That’s right, baby,” he affirms, “I’m the fucking Supreme.”

He gives another smack, and with that, a trembling throughout your entire body. “Michael, I’m coming!” you scream, trying to lift yourself up, but he keeps pushing you down. “Michael, I’m-!” you get cut off by the unyielding orgasm overtaking your body. Your mouth hangs open, eyes rolled back, fingers digging into his sheets. The lower half of your body surrenders to the orgasm gushing juices from your already-soaking cunt.

Michael sneers over you coming before him, but he’s close to release too. You flip onto your back and he fondles your breasts, throwing his head back and letting out a deep sigh. His skin turns a sickeningly pale white, his eyes meet yours, completely blacked out. He leans down to give you a quick kiss on the lips, his skin burning hot. Why aren’t you scared?

Although you were certain you had lost feeling between your legs from orgasm, when he thrusts himself into you, the hardest he has yet, you can’t help but let out a little yelp. You feel his hot seed spilling into your cunt, he takes himself out of you, smearing his come into your folds with the tip of his cock. You don’t even give yourself the opportunity to dwell on what happened to Michael during orgasm, why he looked so evil. You write it off as maybe-it’s-a-warlock-thing.

He collapses next to you, skin returning to it’s usual light tan and eyes reverting to a deep blue. So blue that you can fall right into them. Oh, your mind wanders, how will you ever hide this from Cordelia? Or worse, how could you explain yourself to her? Face her at this time?

Michael rests his palm on your cheek, swaying your gaze towards him and snapping you out of your daze. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head about Cordelia,” he assures you. Fuck, he was listening.

He plants a soft kiss on your lips, much more loving than anything else he’s done with you tonight. “Cordelia is falling. Remember, I’m your Supreme now… and you don’t have to worry about a thing.”

[theeverlastingshade]

Favorite Albums of 2017

I can’t help but marvel at the progression of these intro paragraphs preceding my 10 favorite albums of each year. Each year has seemed to be bleaker than the last since I started this blog. This year like any other in recent memory was characterized by wide-spread moral bankruptcy and a pervasive atmosphere of failing self-accountability and disregard for even the most basic tenets of human decency, and that doesn’t even factor in the Trump presidency. Thankfully there was also still plenty of impressive music this year, and perhaps more so than any year in recent memory, as obvious as it may seem for anyone that doesn’t really pay attention to this kind of thing, 2017 was dominated by young, talented individuals that really came into their own artistically this year. Tyler, The Creator, King Krule, Moses Sumney, (Sandy) Alex G, Arca, Oso Oso, Julien Baker, Perfume Genius, Kendrick Lamar, Zola Jesus, Sampha, SZA, Thundercat, Jay Som and many others released if not undeniable career highs, then at least records that are on par with anything else that they’ve ever released. There was truly something for everyone this year, as well as plenty of LPs that pushed the limitations of the form, challenging what an album can still be. Without further ado, here are my favorite albums of 2017.

10. World Eater- Blanck Mass

                 I never thought I’d be talking about a solo record from either member of Fuck Buttons within the same breath as any of their proper albums, but World Eater is far from being just another Blanck Mass record. With World Eater John Powers has created a lean, brutal electronic record that perhaps better straddles the juxtaposition between noise and melody more impressively than anything that Fuck Buttons have done to date. World Eater opens to churning static and the breezy music box of “John Doe’s Carnival of Error”, and glides along unassumingly for a few minutes until double time kick drums and manipulated vocal loops collide into the mix. From there the urgency jumps from 0 to 100 as we barrel into the industrial collision course “Rhesus Negative”. World Eater plays much like this throughout the course of its seven tracks, with a few moments of tranquil relief scattered throughout that act as brief respites from the ensuing chaos. The balance between these dynamics is constantly in flux, and part of what really thrills about World Eater is that it feels as if one side of this duality could give way to the other within any given moment.

                 World Eater has the most extensive range of any Blanck Mass album to date, and it pushes both ends of his sound to their logical extremes. Whereas “Rhesus Negative” reaches for the jugular, “Please” feels more reminiscent of a plea for armistice. The latter fuses manipulated vocal samples, bird chirps, woodwind synths, and woodblock percussion into an uplifting march, and is one of the few songs on World Eater that doesn’t completely divulge into chaos. While the tone almost always suggests despair, “Hive Mind”, the album’s stunning conclusion and high-water mark, serves to remind us that things will not always be this bleak. “Hive-Mind” builds to a frenzied coda over the course of 8.5 minutes, and the melody towards the end has a euphoric quality that seems to approximate the feeling of hope against unreasonable odds. Of course this is all speculative given that the album is instrumental, but the music that Powers has made thus far has yet to suggest he’s one for blinding nihilism. He’s responded accordingly to the times that we’re living in, but for all the menace and terror that World Eater is dripping with, he never once outright rejects the possibility that things won’t improve.

Essentials: “Hive-Mind”, “Rhesus Negative”, “Silent Treatment”

 9. Nothing Feels Natural- Priests

                 While Priests have been active for the past half decade, they couldn’t have chosen a more fitting moment to release their debut album. Released towards the end of January, Nothing Feels Natural was a too good to be true spike of adrenaline fixated on the power of resilience. The band’s music has always emphasized the dismantling of oppressive power structures, but the songs that compose Nothing Feels Natural are richer and more nuanced than anything they’ve done up to this point without sacrificing an ounce of their pointed fury. “Pink White House” presents the band at their most outright menacing; a perfect anthem of disillusionment that finds Greer manically sneering at the façade of choice that we’re made to believe we have within binary systems “A puppet show in which you’re made to feel like you participate/Sign a letter, throw your shoe, vote for numbers 1 of 2”. “Nicki” takes shots at opportunist leeches “You hinge your success on that which you might bleed from me” and thrusts their ambitions in the face of the patriarchy “Got more appetite than a bear or a forest full of mouths to feed/So save your paltry dowry/I’m gonna buy you before you buy me”. On “No Big Bang” the band ponder the accumulated costs of progress, while on “Puff” they outwardly dismiss accerlationism as an acceptable countermeasure for dismantling an inherently broken system.

                  While remaining true to their sound Priests still manage to take plenty of interesting sonic risks, and Nothing Feels Natural succeeds in large part because of it. “JJ” fuses surf rock riffs with jittery piano chords and a galloping tom rhythm as Katie Alice Greer tears into an ex and fantasizes about being a cowboy since Red’s were her cigarette of choice. The opening song, “Appropriate”, juggles punk, noise, and jazz without losing an ounce of the momentum. Closing track “Suck” finds the band trying their hand at tense new-wave, while “Puff” combines shards of distortion with supremely funky basslines and presents Greer at her most animated. The title track balances scorched post-punk and crusty surf rock as Greer delivers a few definitive bleak sentiments “But to people in sanctuaries all I can say is/You will not, you will not be saved” amidst a sea of ambiguous imagery. They’ve never stretched themselves to the extent that they do on Nothing Feels Natural, and we’re all the better for their relentless experimentation. Nothing Feels Natural is far more than a mere call to arms; it’s a manifesto for how to live, and it’s through all the layers of seething contempt that a path towards solace can be traced.

Essentials: “JJ”, “Nothing Feels Natural”, “Pink White House”

8. Arca- Arca

                 For Arca’s third LP in four years he’s released the first one of his records that could legitimately shock those who’ve been onboard since Baron Libra. For the first time since the dream pop that he recorded while in his teens, Arca’s voice was front in center of his music. Following the progression from Xen and Mutant this could have seemed like a disastrous prospect, and yet it’s resulted in, if not his most accomplished work, certainly his most fearless and honest work to date. Here he’s pared down the mind-melting production that’s distinguished his work thus far in favor of sparser, less obtrusive soundscapes that better support his operatic delivery. Instead of trying to outdo the brilliant, otherworldly labyrinths on Mutant, he’s opted for something even more insular but far less abrasive this time around. The music throughout Arca is just as unsetting and unpredictable as anything he’s ever released, but what makes it the strangest release of his to date is how unbelievably human it sounds.

                 “Piel” sets the tone for the album as metallic strings and a trembling low-end approximate the sound of the walls closing in around you while Arca sings off shedding the skin from yesterday and cutting himself off from the mouth of honey. It’s eerie and unfamiliar in the way that only Arca is, but he’s showing far more restraint than he typically allows in his music. I can’t think of many musicians where the notion that more is less couldn’t be further from the truth than it is with Arca, but on his self-titled he’s achieved an impressive balance between allowing the music to take a backseat to his voice while still providing room for him to explore new sonic terrain. “Castration” is a throwback of sorts to the frenzied drum and bass onslaughts that he’s perfected on previous LPs, and it also manages to pack in a surprising amount of melody given the nature of the song. And on album closer “Child” he recedes back completely behind the boards once more to deliver the most tender song of his to date.

                 Arca primarily holds its own within Arca’s discography due to the fact that, despite working almost entirely within instrumental parameters up to this point, not only does he have a surprisingly sturdy, agile voice, but he manages to consistently utilize it in surprising, affecting ways. “Saunter” creeps forward apprehensively while providing one of his most gorgeous melodies to date and lies in wait for his full-throttled bellow to tear it apart from the seams. On “Desario” Arca’s at his most shrewdly populist as he softly makes masochistic pleas and assures us that there’s an abyss inside him, while on the thunderous “Reverie” he takes on a commanding, cathartic tone as he dares a former lover to try and love him once more. There’s an unflinching level of vulnerability coursing throughout Arca that’s always existed in his music but had never previously been articulated so explicitly despite how cryptic the lyrics to these songs still are. With his self-titled LP Arca has managed to vastly expand the parameters of his artistry without having to simplify what he excels so peerlessly at. Here’s to Arca the pop star.

Essentials: “Piel”, “Castration”, “Saunter”

7. Always Foreign- The World is a Beautiful Place & I Am No Longer Afraid to Die

                 Harmlessness is the kind of album that seemed guaranteed to posit a follow-up as inherently disappointing. It’s still an untouchable document of relentless ambition that continues to sound so refreshing in a climate where the vast majority of bands hardly seem capable of or interested in challenging themselves or their audience. On Always Foreign, the spirit of optimism that has propelled the vast majority of their music to date has started to dampen. It’s an album that finds the band thoroughly dissatisfied with the status quo and baring their fangs at a few different targets (primarily Donald Trump and former guitarist Nicole Shanholtzer) without once coming off as outright petty or bitter. It’s easily their most mature release to date, and an album that finds them comfortably settling into their status as elder statesmen of emo’s fourth wave without slipping into complacency.

                 While Always Foreign lacks both the immediacy and the adventurous spirit of Harmlessness, the band has still managed to push their sound forward in a number of different directions that sound both natural and fresh. Both “Dillion and Her Son” and “The Future” explore spiky pop-punk, and find the band at their most concise and accessible. “Fuzz Minor” begins groggily with simmering post-rock and switches on a dime through a few break-neck transitions before firmly landing on charred emo. “Gram” channels deceptively funky baroque pop and “Infinite Steve” calls back to the wistful post-rock that helped distinguish their debut Whenever, If Ever. On Always Foreign the band never lose sight of who they are, and where they came from, but they’re hardly beholden to the past. They’ve managed to tastefully push their sound forward and expand their wheelhouse with the most confident and assured songs of their career thus far.

                   As is the case with each of their other albums, Always Foreign contains a handful of their best songs to date, and finds the band reaching heights unparalleled in contemporary rock. “Marine Tigers” takes stock of the racism and xenophobia that David Bello’s father experienced growing up in New York throughout the 40s, and chillingly addresses how prevalent it remains today, in the process penning the album’s thesis statement “Making money is a horrible and rotten institution”. They reach one of their characteristically blistering codas propelled by a storm of brass and strings, but instead of catharsis the song practically disintegrates at the seams before tumbling into “Fuzz Minor”. “For Robin” is perhaps the most devastating song that the band has penned to date. Over delicate acoustic plucking Bello ponders how we’re able to grieve so openly for celebrities that we admire, but have no actual relationship with, while we struggle so profoundly to naturally process the deaths of those who we couldn’t be any closer to.

                  The album’s crowning achievement, and one of the most powerful songs that I’ve ever ever heard, however, belongs to “Faker”. “Faker” is a perfect song that finds the band at the height of their powers, disillusioned beyond belief, and channeling their collective frustration squarely at Donald Trump. It’s a frank, no-holds barred depiction of life under his administration, positing a procession of horrifying, but perfectly plausible scenarios that could befall the United States while he’s in office. No other song or album in 2017 has even come close to tapping into the grim reality that we face with him as president as “Faker”. It’s the kind of song that in nearly anyone else’s hands could have easily come off too on the nose, too cynical, or too ham-fisted, if not all three at once. But this is the kind of thing that’s been in the band’s wheelhouse since the beginning, and their execution astounds. As awful as the world may seem throughout the course of Always Foreign, the band continue to find strength and solace in one another. The World is a Beautiful Place & I Am No Longer Afraid to Die may have shed some of their optimism in the time between Harmlessness and Always Foreign, but their belief in the power of community as a balm for assuaging the horrors of daily existence remains as firm as it’s ever been.

Essentials: “Faker”, “For Robin”, “Marine Tigers”

6. A Deeper Understanding- The War on Drugs

                 Following up a breakthrough album as ambitious and well-executed as Lost in the Dream must have been a daunting prospect, but you’d hardly know it from the sound of their even better fourth LP A Deeper Understanding. Here is where The War on Drugs have solidified their status as rock auteurs, widening the scope of their shoegaze-inflected, psychedelic heartland rock with elements of krautrock and synth pop. And while A Deeper Understanding is handedly the most accessible LP in their discography, it comes at no cost of the perfectionist sensibilities of bandleader Adam Granduciel. Much in the way that records like Currents and Swing Lo Magellan respectively found Kevin Parker and David Longstreth indulging their populist impulses more thoroughly than ever before while simultaneously writing some of their most sophisticated arrangements to date, A Deeper Understanding has only benefitted from Granduciel’s improvement on the immediacy of songcraft.

                 As far as lyrics as concerned, just like with previous albums from The War on Drugs the emphasis isn’t on specificity, but on establishing mood, and here they continue to exist among the great purveyors of atmosphere in contemporary music. “Holding On” offers little more than the likelihood that it was written about trying to move on following a breakup “No I’m headed down a different road, yeah/Can we walk it side by side?/Is an old memory just another way of saving goodbye?”, but that sense of untamable longing is conjured through the scope of their arrangements with far more justice than mere words could articulate. Lead single “Thinking of a Place” finds Granduciel relying on the light of the moon to guide him to through the darkness and towards a place of love, and the expanse of isolation that Granduciel feels himself rooted in is conveyed in spades. That kind of slight vagueness extend itself to the album as a whole, which only reinforces its dreamlike quality. You don’t have any real idea of where you’re going, you just know that you need to press onward, and perhaps if you’re lucky you’ll be able to retain pieces of your journey after the fact.

                 While The War on Drugs have obvious, undeniable reference points (Springsteen, Dylan, Petty, etc), their take on widescreen heartland rock incorporates far more than such comparisons would suggest. Their music is grander, and denser, each song incorporating dozens of instruments and overdubs that would come off over-baked and clunky in anyone but Granduciel’s hands. The drums draw far more from the nimble strutting of Krautrock than it does from any mainstream American rock throughout the 80s, and the massive array of synthesizers hew much closer to pure synth-pop than any electronica-dabbling Americana that existed within that time frame. Their music continues to retain elements of psychedelia and shoegaze on top of this, further distinguishing them from obvious reference points and their contemporaries alike. While The War on Drugs remain reminiscent of several legacy bands, there’s still nobody that sounds like them, far more so in 2017 than in 2014.

                 Where The War on Drugs continue to noticeably excel are in their arrangements. Lost in the Dream was were The War on Drugs truly locked into their sound, and on A Deeper Understanding the band are perfecting it. The songs on A Deeper Understanding are simply massive, and necessitate a quality pair of headphones or speakers more so than everything else that I’ve heard this year. Granduciel has grown into one of the most meticulous producers currently working, and the level of detail pouring out of each of these songs is just ridiculous. Whether it’s the interlocked electric/acoustic guitar layering in “Pain”, the thick motorik rhythms of “Nothing to Find”, or the sweeping synthesizer sprawl of “Thinking of a Place”, these songs contain a level of craftsmanship that make a strong case for nothing but ambition for ambition’s sake. The further that Granduciel seems to delve inward, the richer and more engrossing his music becomes, and A Deeper Understanding is the band’s most compelling chapter to date, one that further cements Granduciel’s status as one of the most consistently rewarding musicians currently recording.

Essentials: “Nothing to Find”, “Strangest Thing”, “Thinking of a Place”

5. Crack-Up- Fleet Foxes

                 The entire landscape of music had seismically shifted throughout the gap between Crack-Up, and the previous Fleet Foxes LP, Helplessness Blues. From trends, to distribution models, to methods of consumption, Fleet Foxes were entering an entirely different playing field in 2017 than the one that existed in 2011. Thankfully, the music suggested that this didn’t seem to faze the band too much, and they returned this year with their most complex and compelling LP to date. Put simply, Crack-Up is an enormous folk record. Exquisitely arranged and produced, it’s their most gorgeous record as well as their most ambitious, a record adorned in maximalist string and horn arrangements, sublime textures, and those heavenly multi-part harmonies that have been the band’s calling card since their Sun Giant EP. While this is easily the album of theirs most guaranteed to shun casual listeners and alienate many who have been onboard primarily because of the melodic mastery exuded on their self-titled, it’s also much bolder, assured, and dynamic than anything most could have reasonable assumed this band was capable of and/or interested in making. What the band has sacrificed in immediacy they’ve gained several times over in longevity.

                  After just a minute into “I’m All That I Need / Arroyo Seco / Thumbprint Scar” it becomes clear that this is a very different kind of Fleet Foxes record. The band has always contained at least five members, each of which are multi-instrumentalists, but Crack-Up is the first album to completely take advantage of the breadth of their instrumental range. I’m All That I Need” initially lulls you into a false sense of security before an avalanche of acoustic guitars storms the mix. From there we’re taken through several different sections that pile on keys, bass, mellotron, violin, and clarinets as Robin Pecknold begins to take stock of his isolation. The song ends with a snippet of “White Winter Hymnal” being covered by a high school choir low in the mix, emphasizing how the band couldn’t be further removed from the wide-eyed, youthful disposition they fully exhibited just a decade prior. It rings like a sober acknowledgement of the passage of time, and the realities reckoned with throughout the years since. Much of the record finds Pecknold growing disillusioned with those around him and society at large while seeming to harbor crippling feelings of self-doubt and indulging in the impulse to isolate himself. It’s the coldest record they’ve made yet, but due to their refusal to give into expectations or frame feelings in a more agreeable light, it’s also their most honest work to date.

                  With an album this dense and complex it’s easy to dismiss much of it as an exercise in indulgence, but the album succeeds on a number of fronts. Both “If You Need to, Keep Time on Me” and “Kept Woman” pair down the instrumental extravagance in favor of sparse acoustic guitar/piano compositions, acting as breathers that emphasis the band’s rich harmonies in-between their baroque walls of noise; the former a mediation on acting within allocated boundaries in a relationship with a close friend and artistic collaborator while the latter is a longing ballad that seeks reconciliation with a figure named Anna. “On Another Ocean (January / June)” slowly builds from little more than scattered handclaps, cello, and piano beneath Pecknold’s understated croon before the song settles into a groove that piles on guitars, harpsichord, and mellotron with Pecknold delivering one of the strongest melodies that he’s ever written. The pacing throughout Crack-Up is superb, and they’ve achieved a remarkable balance between doing justice to the band’s inherent melodic sensibilities while remaining willing to challenge themselves.

                   This is hardly the kind of album that I ever would have expected Fleet Foxes to make, but it sounds like a perfectly natural extension of their sound. It feels firmly removed, and out of step with the current landscape of music in all of the best ways possible. Everything that made Fleet Foxes a great band since the beginning is completely amplified here, and each risk they take they manage to pull off completely. Whether it’s the nearly 9 minute, 3 movement epic prog-folk lead single “Third of May / Odaigahara” or the ambient-leaning psych folk of “Cassius” or the anthemic baroque stampede of “Mearcstapa”, the songs on Crack-Up are the band’s finest to date because, despite what the overarching tone would suggest otherwise, sonically this sounds like a band falling in love with the act of creating all over again. Before 2017 a legitimately underrated Fleet Foxes album seemed inconceivable to me, but here we are. While it took a few albums and almost a decade, Fleet Foxes have released their masterpiece, having finally carved out a lane entirely unto themselves.

Essentials: “On Another Ocean (January / June)”, “Third of May / Odaigahara“, “Mearcstapa”

4. Rocket- (Sandy) Alex G

                 After several stellar bandcamp releases (and one official LP for Domino under his belt already) (Sandy) Alex G has returned this year with Rocket, his proper breakout LP. Much like Car Seat Headrest with Matador, Alex G has been able to turn a fairly sizable following on bandcamp into a record deal with a major indie. His first commercial release, Beach Music, was solid but a little uneven and rough around the edges, and ultimately failed to completely distill everything that makes him such a compelling artist. Rocket, on the other hand, is an ambitious, multi-faceted record that, while his most accessible, is also just his best period. There’s a staggering level of improvement in nearly aspect of his artistry on Rocket. His songwriting has never been sharper, while the arranging and production are miles apart from even what he was doing on Beach Music. He’s still writing and recording almost entirely himself, and for the most part he’s working within the same parameters, but he’s never taken so many sonic risks on any previous LP, and each of them pay off handsomely. Rocket is the sound of one of the most compelling songwriters of the last handful of years completely coming into his own as a musician, with his fearlessness only matched by his curiosity.

                 This is still singer-songwriter indie rock through and through, but there’s far more happening throughout Rocket than those kinds of parameters initially suggest. The album as a whole is far more twangy than your typical Alex G affair, with songs like “Poison Root” and “Rocket” that keep jangly acoustics high in the mix. “Bobby” is the closest that Alex has ever dipped into full-blown country, and incorporates violin and gorgeous harmonies courtesy of Emily Yacina. “Witch” explores droning psych pop while on “Brick” he opts for blood-curdling noise the likes of which could not be any further removed from everything else found here. That being said, “Brick” still works as an immensely effective segue from the frenzied free jazz plucking of “Horse” to the auto-tune drenched r&b ballad “Sportstar”. While some may find Rocket an incoherent and unfocused listen, Alex manages to not only pull off these stylistic leaps steadily and seamlessly, but he also displays a vast breadth of range previously unexplored this fully in his music up to this point. Nothing on Rocket feels forced or out of place, but it all feels like a perfectly natural extension of Alex G’s resourcefulness.

                 It can be easy to read too much into the lyrics of Rocket as Alex has always been prone to keeping listeners at arm’s length, and he continues to abstain from transparency throughout. “Proud” begins simply enough with proclamations of admiration “Wanna be a star like you/Wanna make something that’s true” before he flips the intention on its head a few verses later “I wanna be fake like you/Walk around with rocks in my shoes” and the tone never provides a straight answer. “Bobby” finds an unreliable narrator eager to destroy aspects of himself, both those he loves as well as those that disgust him, in order to salvage a crumbling relationship “I’d burn them for you/If you want me to” but it’s entirely unclear if Alex plays a role in this story or not. “Judge” finds someone presumably ruing having taken someone once extremely close whose no longer in his life for granted “That day meant nothing to me/A hiccup in my memory/This life will leave you hungry/I am completely guilty” while “Guilty” ends Rocket on a particularly morose note “Have you buried all the evidence of/What you used to be?/Has the question/Become darker than the answer?/Baby, I’ve got news”, brilliantly juxtaposing some of his bleakest lyrics to date over warm organ chords, maracas, and cool saxophone lines. Each song is grounded in reality but contains subtle surreal twists that leave much of the intention up to interpretation. This reluctance to oversimplify or dispense information first and foremost ensures that Rocket is consistently engaging and rewards multiple listens.

                 While easily his most accomplished album to date, the cohesiveness and range of Rocket were hardly unprecedented. He’s been perfecting his craft for years through a handful of bandcamp releases recorded by himself in his bedroom. While Rocket is his most collaborative LP to date, it still manages to not only completely capture the unconventional essence of his artistry, but amplify it. Taken as a whole, Rocket constitutes the most dynamic and confident songs of his brief but prolific career, and suggest that far less is off the table moving forward than one might have reasonably assumed from hearing nothing more than a handful of pre-Rocket Alex G songs. He’s quickly and unassumingly become one of the most consistently compelling storytellers in music today, and regardless of the shape his tales continue to take they’re certain to be engaging. In an increasingly crowded realm of singer-songwriters across a multitude of genres Alex G stands far from the pack through sheer ingenuity alone. With any luck his adventurous spirit will continue to spoil us for years to come.

Essentials: “Proud”, “Bobby ft. Emily Yacina”, “Judge”

3. Aromanticism- Moses Sumney

                 After years of hype from the likes of Solange and Chris Taylor among many others despite having not recorded anything until last year’s understated and gorgeous Lamentations EP, Moses Sumney delivered a debut that capitalized on the potential that his live show and songs like “Lonely World” suggested. Aromanticism is a sublimely meditative record that finds Moses pondering how best to live a life without romantic love. Most of the compositions are fairly minimal, with little more than guitar, synths, and Sumney’s tremendously expressive falsetto. On the whole his songs achieve a serenity through his terrific use of space, and it’s easy to get lulled into the ambience of his compositions without realizing how impressive the arrangements actually are. Like many of the musicians on this list, Sumney has grown staggeringly as an artist since his last release. From songwriting to singing, composition, arranging, and production, Aromanticism is a remarkable leap forward that is at times loud, quiet, challenging, accessible, but it’s never anything less than bold and entirely firm in his convictions. It’s the rare debut that, not only completely lives up to all hype surrounding it, but more importantly suggests a plethora of directions that Sumney could continue to take his singular soul music.

                 Where Aromanticism truly impresses is in Sumney’s ability to convey so much while seeming to do so little. With the exception of the latter half of the album’s centerpiece, “Lonely World”, the songs on Aromanticism are truly skeletal in their construction. The pervading atmosphere is one of smoky ambience, with little more to really latch onto aside from Sumney’s consistently engaging vocals and murky guitar strums, along with the occasional brass flourish, string sweep, or ambient synth tone to help sketch out the compositions. Everything is given plenty of room to breathe and develop organically, and this spartan-like sparsity helps allow details like the extended jazz coda tacked onto the end of “Quarrel” feel like natural and welcome embellishments instead of pure indulgence. “Don’t Bother Calling” is stripped to a chugging bassline, occasional strings, and Sumney’s tender croon. His sparse harmonies cast an eerie shadow over the mix as he gentle acknowledges reservations about a relationship “I don’t know what we are/But all I know is I can’t go away with you with half a heart”. The production throughout seamlessly compliments the richness of his voice, and while he’s proved more prone to deliver his vocals with grace and precision over sheer spectacle, there are moments like the closing track “Self-Hape Tape” where he completely lets loose, gliding up and down octaves with reckless abandon above skittering guitar plucks and a rumbling low-end. There’s just enough on each song to help flesh out his deeply affecting vocal performances, and Aromanticism as a whole is all the better for his tremendous sense of restraint.

                 Aromanticism is a concept record centered around learning to live with the absence of romantic love. The songs on Aromanticism never take on a chiding or condescending tone; they simply challenge some preconceived notion about romance until Sumney’s gaze veers towards some other element to fixate on. They draw their power from Sumney’s heartfelt, engaging inquiries into the very nature of our psychological impulse to co-habitat. “Plastic” draws from the Greek myth of Icarus as he compares his emotional state to the malleability and deception inherent in plastic “My wings are made up/And so am I”. “Quarrel” explores the nature of romantic love as a political device used as a further extension of control over people. Here he breaks down the difficulty of being in relationship with someone who won’t recognize the legitimacy of their problems “With you, half the battle/Is proving we’re at war/I’d give my life just for the privilege to ignore” before reflecting that due to the inherently discriminatory nature of the world there can never be an equal relationship since someone will always be “othered” by society more so, even if marginally, than the other person “We cannot by lovers/Long as I’m the other”. On “Indulge Me” Sumney seems to find solace in silence, having grown comfortable with all his old lovers moving on “I don’t trouble nobody/Nobody troubles my body after/All my old others have found lovers”.

                 While there isn’t a single song here that does anything less than astound (interludes and all), it isn’t until “Doomed” that everything finally clicks into place. The first song that Moses Sumney released for Aromanticism, while perhaps as unorthodox as singles come, is the best song that he’s ever released and easily one of the best songs released all year. It’s an ambient-soul lucid dream that finds Moses at a croon-whisper over smoldering synth tones as he questions whether it’s even possible for him to live a meaningful life if romantic love perpetually eludes him. It moves along at a crawl, but by the time we reach the coda his delivery conveys nothing short of pure devastation. There are very few musicians who can, or even care to summon the courage to ask these kinds of questions in the first place, and although by the time that “Self-Help Tape” concludes we don’t seem any closer to answering the questions that Sumney posits throughout Aromanticsm, it feels like a reward in itself to hear someone so talented and thoughtful grapple with these dilemmas. There wasn't another debut released in 2017 that was as singular, full-formed, multi-faceted, and engaging from start to finish as Aromanticism. So far, Sumney has been asking all the right questions, and making all the right moves.

Essentials: “Doomed”, “Lonely World”, “Don’t Bother Calling”

2. The Ooz- King Krule

                 Archy Marshall’s return to form as King Krule is a remarkably cohesive voyage into the dark recesses of his mind. Following the muted lo-fi trip-hop that defined his last LP, 2015’s A New Place 2 Drown, The Ooz is far more in line with the more sonically adventurous music that he records under his King Krule moniker. 6 Feet Beneath the Moon still holds up as a great record, but it does sound somewhat reserved in retrospect, like Marshall was slightly hesitant to completely push against the boundaries of his artistry. The Ooz is the first album that Archy Marshall has made that completely lives up to the full scope of his talents. It’s a more fully-realized vision of the bleak dystopia he’s been depicting since he first started recording while fully incorporating sonic elements from everything that he’s done up to this point. He’s achieved a sound that incorporates indie rock, post-punk, punk-jazz, and trip-hop, and there’s nobody that sounds anything even remotely like him. His distinct baritone warble is front and center, but he’s never sounded as dynamic as vocalist, shrieking manically with as much ease as seamlessly transitioning into a tender croon. The Ooz is long and can be a fairly challenging listen at times, but the sonic variation, stellar songwriting, and rich production ensure that it’s a consistently rewarding listen. Everything that Archy Marhsall has released up to to his point has been impressive, but The Ooz is a particularly remarkable achievement that owns Marshall’s singular talents, existing entirely in a class of its own.

                 The sound that Marshall cultivates throughout The Ooz is more impressive than anything he’s attempted on previous records. Opening cut “Biscuit Town” sets the tone perfectly as Krule’s weary rasp lays waste to a slithering tom/snare rhythm and bleary organ chords while he begins to make note of his desolate surroundings “I seem to sink lower/gazing in the rays of the solar”. From there we begin to descend further through the gunk. “The Locomotive” continues what is handedly the strongest four song punch on a 2017 LP as Krule’s forlorn wail cuts through the fog alongside a whistle aimlessly trailing off into the void. By the time we reach the first interlude, “Bermondsey Bosom (Left)”, it becomes immensely clear that Krule has made his riskiest and most ambitious LP to date. Here he’s managed to tastefully fuse the instrumental trip-hop he explored on A New Place 2 Drown with the punk-jazz blues rock that he’s been recoding under King Krule from the start without falling prey to awkward growing pains. The Ooz is the most immersive record I’ve listened to all year, and masterfully sustains the distinct atmosphere throughout the course of its runtime despite such immense variation. While certainly on the long side, The Ooz avoids devolving into a joyless slog through his deft sense of pacing. There are a few instrumental interludes scattered throughout that help round things out in-between the more substantive cuts, and nothing overstays its welcome.

                 There’s an immense diversity present throughout The Ooz, both sonically and compositionally. The first two singles, “Czech One” and “Dum Surfer”, are not only two of his most impressive songs to date, but they could hardly be more different from one another while still completely adhering to the album’s sensibilities. The former is hushed and solemn with Krule gazing through an airplane window recounting life on the road over somber piano chords and unimposing snare taps. The latter trades the nuance of the former for something far more brash. “Dum Surfer” barrels forward courtesy of a propulsive low-end, thick saxophones, and jittery snares as Krule snarls about vomiting on pavement slabs and getting into car crashes while riding in a cab. While these two songs exist within the same sonic parameters, they suggest a scope of vast range that Krule more than lives up to throughout The Ooz. The chugging sleigh bells and theremin wails that define “Slush Puppy” are miles away from the reverb-drenched, jangly lounge blues that Krule exhibits on “A Slide In (New Drugs)”, but at no point could you ever mistake either song as the work of any other musician. King Krule continues to thrill as a producer, and throughout The Ooz he demonstrates an impeccable use of texture that elevate each of these compositions beyond what they could have been in the hands of most other producers. Whether it’s the storm of brass and saloon piano chords that dance in tandem throughout “Cadet Limbo” or the slippery, sinister basslines that aggressively creep forward throughout “Vidual”, Krule consistently manages to keep things interesting.

                 As is the case with everything that Archy Marshall has released up to this point, The Ooz is an unrelentingly bleak record. “I wish I was people” Krule pointedly warbles on “The Locomotive”, providing one of the album’s few conceivable thesis statements, matched only by “I don’t trust anyone/Only get alone with some” off of “Vidual”. Krule’s commitment to unwavering solitude has only seemed to increase with each release of his, and here his isolation has reached a new peak. “In soft bleeding, we will unite/We ooz two souls, pastel blues/Heightened touch from losing sight/Swimming through the blue lagoon” he offers up on the title track, and it seems to convey an inability to move on after having lost someone that meant the world to him. For all the gruffness that he’s prone to front, vulnerability has always been key to his work, and here he comes closer than ever to exposing the tender seams that compose his aloof temperament. As is to be expected, he provides no legitimate closure for his torment, but does offer a few thoughts on how he may find solace moving forward on “La Lune”. “They found reasons to try/Clone the sea at night/Brave waves bathe the eye/Well I crave ways to dry” he intones solemnly, seemingly vowing not to fixate on trying to find love. Whether that holds true is yet to be seen, but what’s certain is that our generation’s self-proclaimed greatest poet has delivered his as-of-now opus; a sprawling teatise on how to navigate such a horrific, unredeemable world.

Essentials: “The Ooz”, “Dum Surfer”, “Czech One”

1. Flower Boy- Tyler, The Creator

                  I haven’t followed artistic growth across any medium within my lifetime as astounding as that of Tyler, the Creator’s. Since the release of his seminal mixtape, Bastard, it was clear that Tyler was an immensely talented individual with a singular perspective and an unparrallelled imagination, but it was hard to imagine how he would, or rather if he would be capable, of maturing gracefully as an artist when his sound was tethered so strongly to such juvenile impulses. With each release following Bastard Tyler began to shed this careless fronts, allowing his introspective inclinations to begin dominating the proceedings where off-hand quips about murder, snorting coke, and worshipping satan previously took precedent. Tyler’s fourth LP, Flower Boy, is by and large the most accomplished, cohesive, honest, and fully-realized release of his to date. By fusing the Neptunes indebted synth heavy hip-hop he’s been perfecting from the start with lush neo-soul, warm baroque jazz, and elements of psychedlelia, r&b, and pop he’s managed to land on a sound that evenly distills his passions into fluid, and unconventional, but undeniably sturdy structures. One get’s the feeling that he’s released the album that he’s always wanted to make having finally reached the height of his creative powers. By responding faithfully to his imagination alone, Tyler has made an album that bleeds with intimacy and identity, one that’s elevated far beyond the sum of its components.

                  In many ways Flower Boy is simply a massively refined take on what Tyler was trying to accomplish with Cherry Bomb. While Tyler was definitely on to something with the latter record, the execution was too volatile and scattered to really leave much of an impact beyond the cult of OF. Flower Boy retains the marriage between the melodic and chaotic that Tyler was reaching for on Cherry Bomb, but improves it on every font. On Cherry Bomb he had grown visibly disenfranchised with the art of rapping, and was hurdling towards growing pains with awkward vocal deliveries in place of traditional rapping akin to Kid Cudi’s unfortunate trajectory. His rapping throughout Flower Boy is the tightest and most concise of his entire career, with flow change-ups and various masterfully implemented inflections that help punctuate the tone of each song throughout. He’s still trying to distance himself as a rapper, and he actually sings on a few songs throughout Flower Boy. When he opts to sing he recognizes the limitations of his voice and operates accordingly, remaining well within his range and using other voices when necessary to bring his colorful compositions to life. There are 11 features on Flower Boy, and each guest is given plenty of room to provide their talents on instrumentals that perfectly complement their sensibilities. This is still Tyler’s album through and through, but never before has he demonstrated such an impressive utilization of an eclectic and well-balanced ensemble.

                 Production has always been Tyler’s primary draw, and Flower Boy is the most superbly produced record in a discography defined by eclectic, forward-thinking production. Consistently layered in a rich assortment of strings, brass, keys, and synths, Flower Boy is a dense orchestration of disparate sounds, but unlike Cherry Bomb it never actually suffers from Tyler’s maximalist sensibilities. “See You Again” is tender baroque r&b that finds Tyler harmonizing with Kali Uchis, penning the most genuine and thoughtful love song in a discography ripe with them. “I Ain’t Got Time” and “Who Dat Boy” mark returns to the chaotic, unhinged sensibilities that defined Bastard and Tyler’s debut Goblin. “Who Dat Boy” is the only song on the album where Tyler doesn’t seem to even remotely challenge himself or his audience, but it’s saved from pure caricature thanks to Tyler’s tight delivery, his sinister, trunk-rattling production, and a surprisingly solid A$ap Rocky verse. “I Ain’t Got Time” bangs in a more traditional sense, and proves that Tyler can still raise pure hell when so inclined. On “Droppin’ Seeds” Lil Wayne spits another late-career gem over understated cool jazz and on “Garden Shed” Tyler tries his hand at psychedelic r&b that finds him and Estelle harmonizing with one another before a thick wall of distortion signals the arrival of Tyler’s most heartfelt verse to date. Nothing here feels all that unprecedented if you’ve been following Tyler’s trajectory closely, but the execution here simply dwarves all past efforts of his.

                  Tyler has always provided fleeting glimpses of sincerity beyond the veil of irreverence on each release of his since Bastard, but on Flower Boy he exudes an unflinching level of transparency that shocks more than anything else about this album. From the opening cut, “Forward”, Tyler establishes the album’s earnest tone on a bed of lavish synths while providing a legitimate breakout moment for Rex Orange County. “Boredom” finds Tyler continuing to grapple with loneliness and contains the most impressive string arrangements that Tyler’s ever assembled, while “Glitter” has one of the best melodies he’s ever written and offers a glimpse of the potential pop album Tyler recently suggested would follow Flower Boy. “Pothole” initially scans as a stealth re-write of Wolf’s “Slater”, but fixates on the disappointment of being ignored by old friends while trying to help them achieve their goals and contains a bafflingly well-executed hook courtesy of Jaden Smith of all people while “November” showcases some of his tightest flows to date as he raps about a series of concerns regarding his fame, creativity, and relationships that ends with him leaving a voicemail to someone he’s fallen for, the voicemail being “Glitter”. The album’s most powerful moment, sonically and lyrically, arrives on “Garden Shed”. Speculated by many to be his official coming out of the closet “All my friends lost/They couldn’t read the signs/I didn’t want to talk and tell them my location/And they ain’t wanna walk” and despite never confirming whether that’s what it’s supposed to signify or not it’s still the most open that he’s ever allowed himself to be on record.

                  With Flower Boy Tyler has blossomed into the musician that his potential has always suggested was within range. The record’s second single, and perhaps his finest song to date, “911 / Mr. Lonely”, completely distills everything that makes Flower Boy such a compelling listen, and made it immediately apparent that we’re dealing with a markedly more assured and accomplished artist than the one who recorded Cherry Bomb. The first half is dreamy, soulful boom-bap with Tyler copping to intense feelings of loneliness despite the success that he’s had “I got a sold out show but it don’t matter cause you not front row”. On the second half he lets loose with his sharpest verse since “Rusty” over demonic trap that’s tonally in-line with his past work but constructed far more impressively. The additional vocals of Frank Ocean, Steve Lacy, and Anna of the North are utilized brilliantly, with Tyler wisely allocating plenty of space to his guests so that no one really dominates until “Mr. Lonely”, which in turn only further amplifies Tyler’s verses. His willingness to push all aspects of his artistry coupled with a heightened transparency and an increasingly collaborative approach have allowed Tyler to make the best project of his career, and the most consistently compelling 2017 album that I’ve had the pleasure of listening to.

Essentials: “911/Mr. Lonely” ft. Frank Ocean, Steve Lacy, & Anna of the North, “See You Again” ft. Kali Uchis, “Garden Shed” ft. Estelle

[neganandblake]

I think I liked you better when you didn’t have a knife in your hand, Peaches... Chapter 24 - Lucille

When Blake finds herself sold out to the Saviours by her abusive fiancé, she realises that she's certainly not on her own anymore and finds an unlikely friend in Negan. And Negan does NOT like men who beat their girlfriends, one tiny bit…

Chapter 24

It was a warm evening, and the last of the sun's few rays danced across the parking lot, where the fences filled with walkers, shimmered in the late-summer haze.

Negan tugged Blake out here by the hand, dragging her over towards the high chain link fences, where several men in dirty clothes wrangled the dead, trying to goad them, as best they could, into position, while the blonde figure of Dwight stood by the gate watching them.

He glanced up as Negan and Blake approached.

Blake's heart pounded.

Negan hadn't stopped since they had left his hallway, coming all the way out here, never halting, not uttered a word to her. She could tell he was seething. But was he angry enough to feed her to the walkers up ahead?

She gave a worried frown suddenly tugging at his arm once again.

"Stop!" she uttered demandingly, in a loud, yelling voice of utter frustration, pulling her hand quickly away from his. "Stop…"

Negan suddenly paused on the dusty asphalt, and rounded on her, his already dark eyes blackening.

From here Blake could make out every line that seemed to litter his tanned and bearded face.

Her breath suddenly hitched in her throat.

"Please…just let him go," she uttered in a desperate tone, feeling almost ashamed of herself as the words slipped out of her mouth. "I'll stay here….I'll be one of your wives….i-if that's what you want…"

She trembled, her green eyes filling with tears, as they dropped from Negan's face, instead staring down at the ground beneath her feet.

"…just let him go back to Alexandria if that's what it takes…please. Please just let him go…."

It took her a long moment or two to finally stare back up at Negan….feeling so small and pathetic right now.

Because that was what she was. Practically selling herself to save him.

For what other person would try and defend someone who had done so much damage to them?

But Negan's tongue reached his line of straight white teeth irritably, and he looked down at her hard.

"You know what, Peaches," Negan suddenly muttered, his voice warmer than Blake had expected. But there was no hint of a smile. "If you were anyone else I wouldn't have thought twice about feedin' you to those dead pricks over there."

He gestured with his head over to the fences, almost sparkling in the warm sunlight.

Right now it felt like it was just the two of them alone in this world…everyone else around them seeming like a hazy blur to Blake, as her heart thudded inside her painful ribcage.

Blake breathed hard and Negan let out a hard puff of air, running a hand down his bearded face tiredly.

"Doll-face I'm gonna ask you this once, and only once," continued the dark-haired Saviour suddenly, his lips fixed into a grim line. "You sure he's what you want? What you really want? Some fucking asshole who shoved you down a flight of fuckin' stairs and treats you like shit?"

His words were stark and hit Blake hard, like a blow to the stomach.

"Because if you do this. If you want me to let. him. go," Negan quickly continued, pointing a finger at her. "Then you've got to go too….you understand that? You gotta make a decision."

Blake stared up at Negan with wide staring eyes.

There was no way she had expected that, ever.

She could go back to Alexandria. Both of them. They could just go….if that was what she wanted….

But was that Blake wanted?

Right now she felt torn….physically sick to her stomach.

Her body felt like it was trembling from head to toe. And to any outsider right at that second, Blake would have looked utterly visibly upset by Negan's words.

But before she could even open her mouth to give an answer, there came a sudden noise, as a door was thrown open behind them, and out walked David, led by Simon and another hard-faced Saviour…as well as at least fifteen other people who followed behind.

Blake gave a gulp as she saw her blonde-haired, blue-eyed fiancé for the first time, being dragged across the asphalt with a black eye and bloody nose, obviously both given to him before he was placed in that cell.

But Blake knew that she had to make a decision.

She could leave here with David…with the man who had given her her own bruises…her own broken ribs…her own complex about her appearance…

Or she could stay…without him…be the queen Negan thought she was…

But her stomach jolted violently…aching…so scared of being without David.

He loved her…he had told her that just a few minutes ago….

He did love her…didn't he?

Blake took a step backward, trembling. Feeling so apart from her usual strong-self right now…the events of the past week almost destroying her completely.

She was a monstrous bruised shell of woman right now….

It was a moment before Negan glanced her way initially, before his eyes shifted to David as he was dragged before the tall, bearded Saviour and forced to his knees.

David was silent, as tears streamed down his face.

This was the man she had fallen in love with…

Who she had shared an apartment above a coffee shop with for four years….

Who had proposed to her….who had wanted to marry her…

But this was also the man who had hurt her…

Blake saw him stare up at the looing figure of Negan, mouthing at the air.

"Now I think we have only briefly been introduced," came the low voice of Negan, giving a menacing grin as he gazed down at David, holding Lucille tight within his grip. "You're David, right? Peaches' fi-an-ce?"

Negan almost sang the words like a tune, arching his back as he did so.

At this David almost immediately nodded shakily. "Y-Yes," he uttered, but he didn't look at Blake who was standing there beside them, just a few feet away.

A crowd of Saviours had gathered around them now, standing near to the factory walls, some faces she recognised some she didn't, all of their faces fixed.

She was in trouble here, she knew that.

Blake gave a gulp as Negan continued.

"Now David," said Negan, suddenly dropping Lucille gently onto David's shoulder- although it was enough to make her fiancé tremble giving a pathetic whimper. "When you came to us…came to Simon over there….asking if you could defect from Rick's group…hell, I thought, well, what a stand-up guy…wanting to be one of us just like that…makin' no bones about the fuckin' fact that you would sell out your people for us. But, and I speak on behalf of most of us here, what we did not expect, is for you to bring your hot-as-fuck, fuckin' fiancée along for the ride. I mean, she was never fuckin' part of the deal, was she?"

Negan gave a faux-grimace, as David visibly shook.

"But, we're nice people, so we took her in, hell, I'm not gonna be the guy to break up a perfect couple like that. I mean, maybe it was true fucking love," Negan continued, suddenly lifting Lucille up to David's cheek. "But I gotta say from the minute I saw those fuckin' bruises on her arm, that look in her eyes that said 'I've been dragged through shit an' not willingly', I knew we were never gonna be best fuckin' buddies, you an' me."

Blake looked up at Negan worriedly, as he stood there seething and so, so very angry right now.

He was baring his teeth, a hint of contempt plastered across his long, bearded face.

"But I, again, bein' the awesome guy I am, gave you the benefit of the fuckin' doubt… maybe thought that Peaches here, would see sense and ditch your fuckin' ass before it was too late," Negan uttered in a loud voice, leaning back and cocking his head to the side, surveying the trembling David. "But then, and now Davey-boy this is where your mistake lies-"

Negan at once, leaned down, looming over David and leaning his face into his.

"-you fuckin' pushed it. No, wait, let me rephrase that," said Negan angrily, pressing his barbed-wire covered baseball bat closer to David's cheek. "you fuckin' pushed HER! Down the fuckin' stairs. Now if that doesn't say cowardly fuckin' piece-of-shit, then I don't fuckin' know what does! An' that is something I just do not stand for here."

David gave a whimper, as Negan suddenly stood up straight, removing Lucille from David's shoulder and running a hand down his stubbly face irritably.

Negan looked at Blake with dark chocolate eyes, titling his head as he did so, and the caramel-blonde woman almost immediately felt her breath hitch in the back of her throat, her heart pounding.

"You got anythin' to say on the matter, Doll-face?" asked Negan, his tone slightly softer now, as he looked at her, his eyes searching her exhausted face.

But Blake was lost.

Oh-so lost.

David had tried to kill her. He had made her life a misery for so long…

Blake remained silent…her breath escaping her lips shakily…trapped like a rabbit in the headlights.

But Negan gave a nod, as if satisfied with her response.

"Good," Negan uttered in a final voice, suddenly standing up tall.

And before Blake could stop him he had gritted his teeth raising Lucille above his head, as David gave a whimpering cry, wincing…

Blake's eyes widened into orbs, as he swung his baseball bat upward, ready for it to collide squarely with David's skull.

But before Blake even knew what she was doing, she had leapt forwards.

"No!" she cried loudly, scrabbling in front of Negan, coming to stand between David and the tall, dark-haired Saviour. "No…please! Don't!"

Negan suddenly stopped, Lucille stopping just an inch or two from Blake's own head, as she stared, wide-eyed, back at Negan.

"Please…" she suddenly uttered in just a whisper, staring up at the bearded man. "I'll go…..we'll go."

She knew she assigning her own fate here…

Locking herself with David for all eternity. Because he was hers. And she loved him….with all her heart….despite how much it broke hers to admit that.

Negan stared back at her, his bearded jaw tensing, and his dark eyes never leaving hers.

And it was then that Blake truly saw the disappointment in his angry eyes.

"As you fuckin' wish, Sweetheart," he muttered, his voice suddenly sounding livid.

As though that was not the answer he wanted to hear.

And with that, Negan lowered his barbed-wire covered baseball bat, giving her one last look, before turning away from her darkly.

Letting her go...

Blake's lips trembled as she watched him walking away, striding lazily back over towards his men, standing there, surrounding them.

And it was then, that in the crowd, did she see the faces of Eugene and Simon and Arat…..all people Blake had had little to do with…all staring back at her blankly…squinting through the low, setting sunshine.

She gave a gulp….her heart pounding, watching Negan's retreating back, sloping away.

Had she made a mistake?

Her heart pounded inside her sore ribs.

No…this was good…wasn't it….?

Then why, right now, did it not really feel like a victory?

But as the caramel-blonde woman turned back to her fiancé, kneeling there just a foot or two away from her, she knew that all this….it was for him.

Because he loved her…

And that was the most important thing now.

It had to be.

Blake turned her face away from the crowd of Saviours, reddening and giving a worried sob as she moved over to her sandy-haired fiancé.

But standing there looking at him, it was, right now, as if everything in the world might be ok again….

It could be just the two of them together from now on.

Maybe they didn't need anyone else?

She had saved his life…proved to him that he was the one she had chosen…

But before Blake could even reach a hand out to gently touch David's bruised face….wanting nothing more than to hold him right now…her blue-eyed fiancé had suddenly scrambled to his feet hastily.

He shoved Blake hurriedly aside with his shoulder…not even looking at her….

….instead staring up towards Negan as he walked away, with wide, hollow eyes….

"Please," David suddenly cried in a weak, desperate and raised voice, moving quickly over to the head of the Saviours.

Negan slowly spun around on his heel, cocking a dark eyebrow towards the blonde man, as Blake just stood there in disbelief.

"Please," David repeated, begging. "I-It was her…."

With that, David pointed back at Blake with a shaking hand.

"It was her! S-She was the one who wanted to come here….s-she wanted to kill you…..I-I tried to stop her….but coming here…it was her decision."

Blake gaped suddenly, taking a step back, her hands shaking as they balled at her sides, into fists.

What?

"T-That's why I pushed her….I mean, I had to…" David uttered loudly, continuing to point at Blake with desperation in his voice. "I had to stop her from trying to kill you...her and Rick...they thought this whole thing up...the two of them...but I couldn't stand for it...…..please, Negan….Sir….I did it for you…t-to become one of your people…to become Negan….I-If you want to punish anyone…kill anyone….then…then…..i-it should be her!"

And with that, David glanced around at Blake…

And that was the moment it hit her.

There was no love in his eyes.

There never had been.

There was only manipulation and cowardice.

He was a mere monster of a man….pathetic and cruel….

And that was when Blake realised, that she was not the insect ready to be squished beneath someone's boot…..it was him.

He was the insect…the cockroach….who had beaten her…bruised her…threatened her…..ruined her life, oh-so much more than the apocalypse ever had.

Tears pricked at her tear-ducts but Blake was past crying now, as she stared back at David, shaking with anger and fury.

This was the man she had convinced herself she loved.

This spineless piece of shit who had sold her out, not once but twice!

And this time, he was standing there with all the gall he possessed, asking Negan to kill her….too pathetic and weak-willed to do the job himself.

But Blake now realised, after all those days of Negan trying to convince her of it, that she was a queen.

Negan had been right all along about that.

And a queen was not going to take shit like that from anyone. Not now. Not ever. Not anymore…

Blake's eyes suddenly drifted away from David's…

….instead, at that exact moment, meeting with Negan's chocolate ones.

He knew.

Of course he knew.

He always knew.

Blake, breathing hard, his fists balled at her sides, lifted her chin….marching quickly past David and over to Negan.

She broke her gaze away and stopped at his side…facing away from David, her eyes on Negan's people….watching silently from their vantage point near the wall.….

She wanted them to see this.

And with that, Blake reached out her hand, looking once again at Negan as they stood shoulder to shoulder.

She didn't even have to say anything, before Negan's lips twitched up into wide grin, revealing a line of pearly white teeth.

He leaned in towards her suddenly, as Blake felt the weight of Lucille drop into her hand.

"Be my fuckin' guest, Sweetheart," he uttered with a low growl.

Blake gritted her teeth, her green eyes blackening darkly as she gripped the baseball bat in her hand tightly.

It felt heavier than she was expecting, the smooth wood of the handle, cool against her fingers.

And it wasn't a moment later, that Blake suddenly turned around, and, raising the bat aloft, swung it sharply into David's ribs.

Everyone around them fell deadly silent at the sound of the loud crack that seemed to reverberate across the lot.

David almost immediately doubled over, letting out a pathetic cry, as he clutched at his middle, staggering backwards.

Blake felt anger building inside her as she remembered each and every bruise and mark he had left on her skin…every vile word that had spilled from his lips.

This weak, cowardly man.

"I loved you," she uttered as David lifted his eyes up to her, scrambling back towards the fence, away from Blake.

"P-Please…" he tried to mouth…but Blake stalked towards him, readjusting her grip on the bat, and cutting across him.

"But you just…you tortured me….made me believe I was worth nothing….." she continued, swinging the baseball bat back once again. "And I convinced myself that I needed you….when I don't….I never actually did, did I?"

With that, the baseball bat collided squarely with David's stomach, tearing his blue shirt apart as it did so.

David doubled over again, this time coughing blood suddenly onto the asphalt before him.

He hurriedly turned away from Blake and limped over towards the high metal fencing, near to where Dwight was still stood beside the gate.

"P-Please…" spluttered David in a weak voice. "B-Blakey…"

But Blake wrinkled her nose, baring her teeth at him.

She hated him.

With every fibre in her body she hated him.

Hated what he had done to her.

Ground her down….made her feel like she was nothing…

Blake knew that Negan and all the Saviours were watching her from at least ten paces behind , but right now she didn't care….fury washing over her…..focused on only one thing.

"Don't you dare even fucking utter my name…" she growled in a low voice, rounding on David and grabbing him suddenly by the throat, pointing Lucille into his chest with her other hand.

She was shorter than him, yes, but right now, as David stood stooped on bended knees, clutching at his bleeding middle, Blake knew she was in control.

She had the power now, to do whatever she wanted.

She breathed hard…

Staring down at the pathetic man before her, before her eyes suddenly travelled over to Dwight standing there, one hand on the gate.

And it was in that moment Blake knew what she needed to do, bringing herself up to her full height, sneering down at David.

She leaned her face suddenly into his, grimacing as her grip tightened against his neck….

Just like his hand done just three days earlier.

Blake blinked….feeling nothing but disgust for the person she had told herself that she had once loved….as he stood here whimpering in her grasp….

For what she had felt for him had never been love….it had been fear and hurt and pain….endless….endless pain.

Blake parted her lips as David stared up at her wide eyed, mouthing at the air like a large overgrown insect.

But the caramel-blonde woman merely bared her teeth once again and moved her mouth to his ear….

"You're. not. anyone…" she uttered in a cold voice, repeating the words David had uttered to her just before he had pushed her down the stairs.

And with that, before David could move or even mumble another word, Blake had given him a sharp shove backwards, just as Dwight opened the large looming gate with a deafeningly loud creak….

…. David stumbled backwards, crying out….tumbling suddenly into the fenced-off lot….looking at Blake in horror…

…..just as a large crowd of four or five walkers descended on him….before he could do anything to stop them.

Blake stared straight ahead, as the dead tore at David's flesh….sinking their broken teeth into his skin…as he screamed in uttered pain….

…and yet, despite seeing this horror unfold before her very eyes….

…Blake felt nothing…

Nothing….

Not even a single shred of remorse.

For any love she had felt for him had died when he had sold her out to Negan….

Blake lifted her chin defiantly and turned around, as David's pained cries rang out behind her….and began to walk….

She strode back over towards the building…looking forwards flatly…walking past Negan once more…

But she didn't look at him.

Not even when she handed the bloody bat back to him soundlessly…

The tall, bearded man took it from her almost immediately….opening his mouth as if to speak…

But Blake didn't allow him to say anything more…merely walking off…parting the crowd of Saviours as she did so…

…heading back inside…out of the warm evening sunlight….

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged. I have at least another 25 chapters ready to be posted.

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