#i mean i signed them that night but it’s the principle of the thing

[fingertipsmp3]

This week has really been one of those that has me straight up not wanting to leave my house or contact anyone or do anything because something seems to go wrong with everything I do

[redvexillum]

This request is special to me because my first NSFW Alastor x Reader story on my sideblog was also about Alastor getting head 🤣 (Tell Me I'm Punny) I thought it be fitting/funny if my very first request story for this new blog would also be about Alastor getting head, -sighs- the beauty of ✨️sentimentality✨️ By the way, I took your request quite literally, if ya know what I mean 😏 XOXO, RedVexi💋

SUMMARY: You simply wanted to wake him up...in more ways than one.

WARNING/TAGS: f!reader, oral s*x (m!receiving), handjob, reader is a brat, teasing, established relationship, edging, ruined org*sm, dom/sub undertone, Alastor is not pleased

Like a deer caught in the headlights, you stared at Alastor’s sleeping visage, mesmerized by the sight. It was silly, but you felt an urge to wave your hand before his closed eyes to ensure he was truly asleep.  

He lay on his back, lips stretched wide into a close-lipped smile, hands neatly folded one atop the other on his bare chest. His breath was soft and even, mirroring the tranquility of his expression.  

For as long as you’d known Alastor, you had never once caught him sleeping. You had long assumed he was an eternal insomniac, his soul never craving or requiring rest – a restless soul, so to speak.  

When you had asked him if he ever slept, he would only grin – his trademarked shit-eating grin – and he would pinch your cheeks while wiggling them before promptly changing the topic.  

It drove you mad, for you didn’t understand the purpose of his secrecy on this subject.  

You knew he was messing with you because he delighted in your curiosity, relishing the chase as you grew increasingly frustrated. Yet now, as your gaze rested on his sleeping figure, you had to suppress a laugh. Trust Alastor to fall deeply asleep only after an intense night of fucking you until you went delirious with pleasure.  

Slowly, you sat up and winced at the ache in your backside, a vivid reminder of how he had relentlessly stretched your ass with his shadowy tendril while rubbing your core until you were an absolute sobbing mess. The memory of his touch, the way he played your body like a well-used instrument, sent a shiver down your spine. He was the master at blending the symphony of pain and pleasure that always left you breathless.  

Pouting, you glared at Alastor as his body naturally sidled up closer to you, a comfortable sigh escaping his lips. He had promised that yesterday you could control the pace and make all the decisions from start to finish. But, of course, he couldn’t last five freaking minutes before he immediately started calling all the shots.  

Even though he gave you mind-blowing orgasm after orgasm, it was the principle of the matter for you. You loved following his instructions in the bedroom, but sometimes you wanted to switch things up a bit – go a little off-script.  

Nibbling on the inside of your cheek, a mischievous spirit took over your body, a small act of tomfoolery that you were sure Alastor would approve of if he wasn’t your unsuspecting victim.  

Pressing your hand lightly on top of his abdomen, you felt the warmth of his body seep into your palm. Immediately, his muscles tensed, but he remained perfectly still, refusing to open his eyes.  

Interesting.  

With a wicked grin, you smoothed the planes of his stomach, letting your fingers brush against the fine line of hair leading down to his hips. His breathing hitched ever so slightly, a telltale sign that he was not as asleep as he pretended to be. As your hand continued to move south, you were promptly stopped when the tip of Alastor’s hardened member greeted you. You giggle softly at the prominent bulge he now displayed beneath the sheets. 

Slipping the sheet off him, his cock twitched, anticipating your next move. As you positioned yourself between his legs, Alastor spread them, giving you full access to him however you wished to touch him.  

“Looks like only half of you is up right now, Al,” you whispered, and you knew he heard you because you could see the ends of his lips twitching upwards. Yet, Alastor, the most stubborn man you had ever met, remained unmoving.  

Well, that only worked in your favour considering what you had in store for him.  

Bowing your head toward Alastor’s cock, you pressed a gentle kiss on its head, earning a jolt from him. His cock beckoned to enter your mouth as it continuously throbbed against your lips. Humming softly, your tongue peeked out, licking a strip down the length of him. Down, down, down you went until you gave him an open-mouthed kiss on his balls.  

A small groan escaped above you, quiet, could almost be mistaken for a shuddering breath. Your hands stroke the sensitive skin of his inner thighs, earning a small jerk of his hip upwards as his cock twitched, wanting to be sheathed into a wet, warm space.  

Instead of listening to his demands, you carefully suckled on his left ball, swirling it in your mouth before moving to the other. You took your time, slowly and agonizingly lapping him up, moaning as if you were singing a song of praise from the taste of him.  

The points of Alastor’s claw grazed your scalp, earning him another wanton sound from you. As you slowly parted from him, his hands flexed, grabbing a fistful of your hair and dragging your head back to the tip of his cock.  

You rolled your eyes at Alastor as you let him grind his hips against your mouth, feeling every ridge and the pull of his foreskin as he rubbed the sensitive tip against your moistened lips. His breath quickened, trying to stifle another quiet moan.  

What an impatient man, you thought, deciding that now was the time to exact a small, harmless, vengeance for last night.  

Your lips parted, ready to take him in, feeling the heat and firmness of his desire against your tongue. The taste of him, musky and addicting, filled your senses as you enveloped him. Your mouth slid down his length while your fingers wrapped around his base. Your tongue flattened as you felt the force from Alastor’s hand pushing your head down, urging you to take him deeper and deeper.  

Moving your hands, you flattened them around the front of his hips, your fingers acting as a frame around his cock. Lower and lower you went, until the tip bumped against the back of your throat.  

A louder, deeper, and almost feral growl resounded from above, and Alastor pulled on your hair to get back up until you were at the tip once more. Then, he surged his hips forward, slowly fucking your mouth as you hollowed your cheeks and sucked harder. You felt his thighs tense, his control slipping as he surrendered to the pleasure you were giving him.  

The sound of wet slurps and the symphony of your moans and his groans filled the air. Faster and faster, he thrust, the thick, heady taste of his pre-cum slid down your throat. Your fingers drifted down to the taut skin of his balls, feeling them tighten.  

You knew he was close.  

He was so, very, close.  

“Ah, darling –” The moment he called out to you, you immediately pulled your head away from his grasp – away from his weeping, throbbing cock.  

Straightening your back, your hair an absolute mess, you stared at Alastor with bemusement dancing along your wet lips. His eyes were blown wide open, and it was almost comical how he looked before you. He was panting, his hands frozen midair where he had last grabbed your hair, and you could tell he was trying to process why you had stopped him from finishing.  

His black, slit-like pupils slowly drifted down from the ceiling and landed on your eyes. “Darling,” he purred, his gaze lowering to his wanting, desperate cock before meeting your eyes once more. He gave you a grin, a silent dark warning that if you didn’t finish what you had started, he would make sure that you would do well to remember that from now on tonight.  

Undeterred, you wiped away the saliva with the back of your hand before giving him a cheeky grin. “Good morning, Al!” You said in an overly saccharine and exaggerated cheerful tone. His eyes looked less than impressed. Slowly, you prowled up his body, ensuring that your bare, wet, sodden centre smeared against his cock, causing him to shudder. He gripped your hips, forcing you to stay there, to sit right on his cock.  

His hardness pressed insistently against your entrance, and the heat between your legs was almost unbearable.  You fought the urge to rock your hips, to rub your slick folds against his shaft because you knew that you were just a breath away from losing control and letting Alastor take his fill of you.  

Alastor’s eyes darkened with lust and frustration. “You’re playing a dangerous game, darling,” he chuckled tonelessly, “a game you will lose.” He bared his sharp teeth as his claws dug into your hips.  

“Something the matter?” you asked, tilting your head with an innocent tone, hardly trying to feign a believable act of ignorance. “Is there something you would like, Al?” Your tone shifted lower, and his eyes flashed with equal parts amusement and irritation.  

“I would presume it would be quite obvious what I would want, darling,” his voice strained, yet he tried to keep an upbeat melody in his tone.  

Tamping down your laughter, you tapped your lips, mocking the pose of someone deep in thought, before snapping your fingers. Leaning forward, you gave him a chaste kiss on his left cheek. “Did you have a good sleep?” You cooed as you let out a small giggle.

“I guess you do sleep after all!” You said before fully dissolving into bright laughter. You refused to move your body; you refused to rub yourself against him like an animal in heat, no matter how much your body unconsciously squirmed in his grasp.  

Alastor’s grip on your hips tightened, his patience wearing thin. “You’re a cheeky little minx, aren’t you?” he growled, eyes darkening with desire.  

With a mischievous grin, you leaned closer, your breath hot against his ear. “Maybe I am,” you whispered. “But you had your way last night, so today is my turn.” 

Alastor’s lips brushed against your ear as he leaned closer to you, “And pray tell, darling, what is your way?” The heat between you was electric, and you could feel him straining, desperate for friction. “Come now, darling,” he murmured, his voice drenched with need. “Don’t tease me like this.” 

“Hmm, maybe,” you paused, and the points of his claws dug in deeper, telling you to get on with it, “if you asked nicely, I might consider it.” 

You felt his muscles stiffen before a low rumble resounded in his chest as he held back a dark chuckle. The bruising grip around your hips disappeared. With one hand resting on your back and the other caressing your face, he gave you a small, chaste kiss on your lips.  

“Good morning, darling,” his voice took on its characteristic jovial tone, as if he wasn’t hard and wanting, as if you hadn’t just denied him of his sweet release. “I did have a good sleep, thanks for asking!” He gave you another chaste kiss on your lips. “I’m ready to start our day!” He rubbed the tip of his nose against yours, his eyes squinting to make way for his wide grin. “We best get a move on, for I have quite a full day planned for you.” 

Suddenly, his eyes glowed a deep crimson red as he jutted his hips upward, letting you feel the heat and the hardened, silken skin of his cock. “Quite a full day, indeed,” his voice deepened, the radio filter crackling and popping in his tone.  

You bit down on your lower lip, feeling the phantom pain across your ass cheeks and the coil of heat burning hotter in your core. You had a feeling that tonight, he was going to remind you exactly who was in charge.  

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[a-simple-gaywitch]

Heart Full of You

Spencer Reid x Reader

Summary: When Spencer goes to pick Henry up from school for JJ, he doesn't expect to fall head-over-heels for his teacher

Warnings: Mentions of guns, I think that's it?

Word Count: 4541

Author's Note: I don't really like the ending I have here, but I'd LOVE to continue writing this universe, I have so many ideas!

“Fate shuffles the cards and we play.” ~Arthur Schopenhauer

~

Spencer walked through the doors of Henry and Jack’s school and headed toward the theater. JJ and Hotch had signed the boys up for the school district’s musical and had asked Spencer to pick them up. JJ and Will had their Thursday date night, and Hotch was stuck in the office. Spencer was more than happy to agree. He slipped into the auditorium and took a seat at the back, since he was still pretty early. 

He saw a younger woman, probably in her early 20s, at the front of the auditorium with a clipboard and tape measure. She was presumably taking the students’ measurements for costumes while the instructor up on the stage led the children through the dance steps. The man he knew to be one of the high school teachers sat in the middle of the front row, making notes in a book. 

The dance instructor clapped as the song ended. “Okay, everyone, that’s the choreo for the day. I’ll turn you over to Mr. Meadows.” She nodded to the teacher in the front row. 

“Thank you Miss (Y/N). Take a water break, everyone, we’re back in five.”

A small chorus of “thank you five” was heard from the older students as the kids dispersed off the stage. The woman, Miss (Y/N) as Mr. Meadows had called her, hopped off the stage with ease and joined the younger woman who was taking a high schooler’s measurements. 

“Okay, folks, let’s bring it back!” Mr. Meadows called. “Take your seats, please. I won’t keep you too much longer, I just want to go over today’s notes.” Spencer noticed the monotonous tone of his voice and the elementary schoolers’ attentions already fading. “First, I need my principles, minus Jack and Red, right at 3 tomorrow. Do not be late. Evan, that means you. We have vocal work to do with Ms. (Y/N) and I do not want to waste her time. The rest of my high school cast, 3:30. Next, principles, do your linework. The sooner you start, the easier things will be later. Finally, my junior cast, don’t forget to see Ms. (Y/N) and Ms. Addi with your grown-up before you leave. And with that, I’ll see y’all tomorrow.”

Henry ran over to Spencer, his overly large backpack thumping against his back. Jack walked behind him, dragging his bag behind him. 

“Uncle Spencer!”

“Hey, kiddos!” Spencer said, kneeling down to catch the incoming Henry in a hug. Before he knew what was happening, Henry was dragging him towards the two women at the front of the auditorium. 

“Miss (Y/N)!”

“Hey, Henry! Hi, Jack! You boys find your grownups?” the dance instructor asked him. Her clothes reminded Spencer of the teacher on that Magic School Bus show Henry liked. Her pants were covered in music notes and she wore large, dangle feather earrings.

Henry nodded. “Uh-huh! This is my Uncle Spencer!”

You looked at Spencer and smiled. “Well, while I talk to your uncle, why don’t you go let Miss Addi take your measurements for your costume?”

Once Henry bounded over to the young woman with a clipboard, Jack following close behind, Spencer said, “Uh, my name’s Spencer Reid. I’m an authorized pick-up for both Henry Lamontagne and Jack Hotchner. I’ll be bringing him home today, too.”

“Uh, Hotchner, Hotchner,” you muttered under your breath, flipping through the clipboard in your hands. “Ah, here he is. I just need your signature next to both children’s names, Mr. Reid.”

“Oh, uh, of course.” He took the clipboard and pen from you. “So, are you new to the district? I don’t remember seeing you around before.”

“Oh, no,” you said with a laugh. “No, I’m here on a volunteer basis, technically. Been working with the theater department for six years, but I’m not on their payroll. I actually work-”

“Can we go get pizza now?” Henry asked Spencer, tugging on the sleeve of his jacket. 

“Ooh, a pizza party? You must be the fun uncle,” you said. 

Spencer’s face flushed and cleared his throat. “Uh, s-sure, Henry. We’ll get it on the way home.”

“Bye, Miss (Y/N)!” Henry said, wildly waving his arm. 

“Bye, Henry, bye Jack. I’ll see you boys on Monday.”

Spencer watched you for just a moment longer as another child and her guardian approached you. 

~

The team was reviewing a local case. 3 women were killed, all dressed in period clothing. 

“You think he’s making them look like Jack the Ripper’s victims? I mean, their throats are slashed and they’re dressed in Victorian clothing.” Morgan suggested. “And we know the victims are low-risk, victims of opportunity.”

“I don’t know,” Reid muttered, scrutinizing the crime scene photos. “Something about the clothes feels off.”

“The clothes are the key. Something about them will lead us to him,” Rossi said.

“Reid, you and Callahan look into the clothing more. Dave, you and Morgan go to the latest crime scene. JJ, you’re with me. We need to build a geological profile.” After Hotch gave the assignments, the team dispersed. Spencer and Kate Callahan stayed in the briefing room, looking over the photos. 

“What if we have an expert look at the clothes?” Kate suggested. “See if anything sticks out to them? There’s a professor at the university that’s known for her dissertation on historical clothing.”

~

“Now, if you look at contemporary theater, you’ll notice huge differences in how typical gender roles are portrayed. Unlike the standard Golden Age piece, women are given more agency and more purpose in the story besides furthering the objective of the man. For example, West Side Story versus Hairspray. Even though both shows center on a woman, it’s Tracy’s will that drives the plot of Hairspray whereas Maria’s will does not drive West Side Story. This goes back to our discussion earlier in the semester regarding protagonists. However, we do see a shift during the Golden Age, in that women are beginning to be fleshed out as characters. Compare the women in Allegro to the women in Gypsy. As we progress through to the contemporary age, we begin to see more female-led shows take stage.” You glanced at your watch and sighed. “And that is where we will pick up next class. Please remember to read chapters 13 and 14 in your text. If you have any questions, you know where to find me.”

Your class gathered their belongings and slowly made their way out of the room. You were tucking your own belongings into your bag when you felt someone approach the desk. 

“Office hours are at- Oh, hello.” When you looked up, a woman was standing in front of you, presenting an FBI badge. 

“Dr. (L/N), my name is SSA Kate Callahan, and this is my partner Dr. Spencer Reid.” Standing behind her was a man you recognized from the school. He was the uncle Henry Lamontagne talked about all the time. “We were hoping you’d be willing to give us your professional opinion on some clothing pieces.”

“Oh, well, uh, sure. Let me just email my next class and let them know it’s canceled.” 

As you pulled your laptop out from your bag, Agent Callahan asked, “Don’t you have a TA that could take over?”

You huffed a laugh. “I’m a professor in the theatre department. I’m lucky I have my own workshop and somewhat of a budget during show season.” You typed up a quick email to your next class and sent it. “I usually work in my shop instead of my office, but-”

“Wherever is most comfortable for you,” Agent Callahan said. “We have some pictures that are… well, gruesome.”

You nodded. “Well, then, to the dungeons it is.” At the concerned look the agents gave each other, you said, “My workshop is in the basement. My students affectionately christened it the dungeons a few years ago. I hope you don’t mind a few sets of stairs.”

“Lead the way,” Dr. Reid said. 

Getting down to the costume shop was like a quest on its own. Not only did you have to trudge down several staircases from the classroom floors, but then you had to use your ID to take the elevator the rest of the way down. When you finally reached the basement, you dug your key hoop out of your bag and flicked through it. The key to the main portion of your shop was attached to a Phantom of the Opera keychain. 

You unlocked the door and pushed it open. “Welcome to my shop. Feel free to sit wherever you can. If there’s stuff on a chair, just set it on a workbench.” As you set your bag down at the desk in the corner, Spencer looked around the room. It could be accurately described as organized chaos. While the work benches were covered in fabrics, thread, and many other things Spencer didn’t know the names of, everywhere else was meticulously organized. Bins and drawers were labeled, and not a thing seemed out of place. Spencer looked at the dress hanging on a mannequin and couldn't think of it as anything other than a work of art. There was elaborate beading on the bodice and embroidery on the skirt.

“So, what can I help you with?” you asked as Kate and Spencer got settled. 

“We were hoping you could tell us about the outfits in these pictures,” Spencer said, pulling a file out from his satchel. “Fair warning, it’s not pleasant.”

You shrugged. “I grew up with a mom obsessed with crime shows and police procedurals. Pictures won’t bother me.” 

Spencer handed you the file folder. “We think he’s dressing them up like Jack the Ripper’s victims.”

You hummed as you looked through the pictures. “Any idea what kind of fabric was used?”

“Why does that matter?” Kate asked.

“Well, cotton was a luxury in Victorian London,” you explained. “Most common folk wore linen or wool, because it was what they could afford. It was also common to patch up clothing with fabric found around the house rather than replace a shirt or a pair of trousers.” You grabbed a magnifier from your desk and looked closer at one of the photos. 

“Do you see something?” Spencer asked as you moved to another picture. 

“I’m not sure,” you said. 

“Well, what is your gut telling you?” Callahan asked. 

You pointed toward a small section of embroidery through the magnifier. “This stitching along the underside of the skirt. It’s on all of them.”

Kate’s eyebrows scrunched up. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s a signature. Us designers like to add some sort of signature or tell into all our pieces. A secret way of letting the world know the piece is ours.” You reached across the desk and grabbed a piece of fabric. When you unfolded it, they saw it was a shirt. You held the edge of the sleeve out for the agents to see. “For example, I use a treble clef as mine. My mentor would include Mickey Mouse heads because she was a huge Disney fan. Other people just find creative ways to embroider their initials onto it in a way that just looks like an artistic choice.” 

“So, if we can find out whose signature it is, it can lead us to the origin of the outfits,” Spencer said. 

“I’ll call Garcia, see what she can find.” Callahan said.

“Oh, we don’t get cell service down here, you might need to go back upstairs,” you told her. She nodded and stepped out of the workshop. You cleared your throat. “It’s, uh, it’s nice to see you again, Dr. Reid.”

“You, too,” Spencer said with a small smile. “So, this is where you actually work, huh?”

You gave a small laugh. “Yep. Start of this semester was 7 years.”

“Congrats.”

“Thanks. So-”

“Reid. Hotch wants us back. Rossi and Morgan might have something. Thank you for your help, Dr. (L/N).”

“Of course. Happy to help.”

After Callahan and Reid left the costume shop, Kate said, “Okay, spill. The energy in there was really weird. Why didn’t you tell me you knew her?”

Spencer rubbed the back of his neck. “I, uh, I didn’t know I knew her.” At Kate's questioning look, he explained, “I met her through my godson. She volunteers at his school and goes by her first name there.”

“Uh-huh. And the awkwardness?”

“When have you known me to not be awkward, Callahan?”

Kate hummed, but dropped it.

~

You were humming along to the soundtrack you had playing, measuring a drape of fabric on your dress form, pins sticking out from your mouth. You glanced from your notebook with your measurements and pattern sketch to the fabric. You pinned a piece of the cloth up when you heard a knock at the door to your shop. 

“Come in,” you said, your voice muffled from the pins. You stuck them back in the pin cushion on your wrist before standing up and dusting off your pants. “Oh, Dr. Reid! How can I help you?”

“You, um, you can call me Spencer,” he said. “I uh, I wanted to stop by and tell you we caught the guy,” Spencer said, standing awkwardly in the doorway. “We-we couldn’t have done it without your help.”

“Oh! Well, I’m sure you would have figured it out anyway. The BAU seems to be good at that kind of thing.”

Spencer gave a small laugh. “Yes, but your help enabled us to track him down without any more lives lost.” So, what are you working on?”

“Oh, I’m making one of Eponine’s dresses. We’re doing Les Mis this semester. I have Cosette’s dress on Cordelia over there.”

“Who?”

“Oh, sorry. The dress form. We named them after Shakespearian women. It’s just a fun little thing we do here. That’s Cordelia, this one by me is Rosalind.”

Spencer smiled. You know, maybe you could tell me more about what exactly your job is at dinner?” Before you could answer, Spencer said, “Obviously, you don’t have to, I’m not trying to force you into anything, I-”

“Spencer,” you said, holding your hand up to calm him. “I’d love to go out with you. Here-” You walked over to your desk and shuffled papers around. “Aha!” You grabbed a pen and scribbled something down. “My personal number. That way we can, you know, figure out something that works with both our schedules. I’m sure yours is even crazier and more unpredictable than mine.”

The smile you gave Spencer lit a warmth in his chest that he didn’t think he would ever get tired of. 

~

“Pretty Boy! Tonight, drinks on me.”

“Oh, uh, no thanks, Morgan.”

“No, no, no, you can’t just stay in when we finally have a Friday night off. You’re coming.”

“Look, it’s not that I don’t want to- I mean, I don’t, but it’s not just that. I, um, I already have plans.” He glanced at his watch. “I’ll see you all on Monday.” He grabbed his satchel and rushed out of the BAU office. 

Morgan’s brow furrowed as he watched Spencer’s retreating form. 

“What’s wrong?” JJ asked. 

“Remember the last time Reid was this jittery and secretive?”

She sighed. “You know I do.”

“What happened last time?” Kate asked. 

“Maeve,” Garcia answered, her voice just above a whisper. 

“We have to find out what’s going on with him,” Derek decided.

“I really don’t think that’s necessary-”

“Let’s follow him,” Garcia cut Kate off. “See where he’s going, what he’s up to.”

~

“That can’t be true!” Spencer laughed. “There’s no way!”

You were laughing too. “I’m serious! I stapled the sleeve of my sweater to the set piece we were building and I didn’t notice until we were ready to lift it into place! They wouldn’t let me in the wood shop after that.”

Spencer couldn’t stop smiling the whole night. You were funny, smart, and everything he could hope for. 

“So, how did you end up working with the school district?”

“My niece,” you explained. “Her senior year, their regular choreographer went on maternity leave. The district said if they couldn’t find someone to fill the role, they would cut the play. Julia called me melting down over it, begging me to volunteer. And, you know, I’ve never been able to say no to my nieces and nephews. After that production, we found out that the choreographer was quitting to be a stay-at-home mom, so I agreed to be the regular choreographer on a volunteer basis. Then the next year, their costume connections fell through. I worked through the university to provide costumes, which is how the internship program started. This year, I’m just filling in on vocal directing while the choir director is out on medical leave. And Into the Woods is one of my favorites to sing anyway. So, what about you? How’d you end up working for the FBI?”

While Spencer told you about going to college at 12 and meeting Gideon, Morgan, Garcia, and JJ were sitting at a nearby table, hiding behind menus. 

“Who is she?” Garcia asked, trying to get a better look at you. Your back was to their table.

“I don’t know. Never seen her before.”

JJ squinted. “Something about her seems familiar.”

Before they could do more digging, a waiter came over to take their orders. When the waiter left, Spencer’s table was empty. 

“Where did they-”

Spencer walked up to their table, arms crossed against his chest. “Really, guys? Did you think you were being discreet?”

“Kid, look-”

“You were being all secretive, we were worried about you!” Garcia cut in.

Spencer sighed and dropped his arms. “I didn’t mean to worry you guys. I just- We’re all so in each other’s business, and this is so new I-”

“You wanted to keep it to yourself,” JJ said. “We get it. Looks like she’s coming back from the bathroom. We’ll get out of your hair.”

“But-”

“Come on, Pen. I’m sure he’ll tell us all about it on Monday. Right, Spence?”

Spencer smiled. “Sure, Jayje.”

~

Phone calls with your family always stressed you out. It wasn’t that you had issues with your family, it was just that they always seemed to be up in your business. And that held true for your monthly family dinner.

“(Y/N/N), I’m telling you, you’d get along great with this guy,” your older sister, Maria, said. You were over at her house for dinner, your parents and other two siblings video-calling from their respective locations. “I know you feel like ‘the universe and fate will align’ and introduce you to your soulmate or some shit, but that’s not really how the world works.”

You sighed. “Maria-”

“Come on, you haven’t dated anyone since college!”

“Because I haven’t had any interest. Liz, back me up here,” you said to your younger sister, who was feeding her twin toddlers. 

“What?”

You shook your head. “Never mind. Can we just change the subject, please? Tommy, how’s school going?” you asked your younger brother, the youngest in the family. You could tell he was only half paying attention from his dorm room. “What classes are you taking this semester?”

“Maria’s right, sweetheart,” your mother said. “How will you ever meet someone without putting yourself out there?”

“Ma-”

“I mean, you’re not getting any younger-”

“I have a boyfriend, okay, Ma? I don’t need your help!”

Your family fell silent. 

“You have a boyfriend?” Liz was the first to speak. “What’s his name? Where did you meet? How long have you been together? How-”

“Elizabeth, let her breathe!” your father said with a laugh. “We’re happy for you, pumpkin. Tell us about him. At your pace, of course.”

You smiled and told them about Spencer. Only after promising to bring him to the next real family dinner did they relent and change the subject, pestering your little brother about his college classes.

~

You and Spencer were a damn near perfect match. After that first date, the two of you barely went a day without calling or texting each other. When he was in town and not across the country on a case, he would bring you lunch. You’d frequently stay over at each others’ apartments. Months into your relationship, you knew each other better than yourselves.

Which is why, when you didn’t answer your phone on a Saturday afternoon when the team got back from a case, Spencer was concerned. He made his way to your apartment and fished the spare key you’d given him out of his pocket. He pushed your door open.

“(Y/N)? Love?” He walked into your apartment, which was unusually messy. Scraps of fabric were littered around the room, and music was blasting from your home office. “(Y/N)?”

You came rushing out of your kitchen, your hair a wild mess and your oversized pajama top drooping from your shoulder. You skidded to a halt. 

“Spencer! What are you doing here?”

“We just got in from the case. I tried calling-”

“You did?”

“-to see if you wanted to grab dinner.” You pulled your phone from your sweatpants pocket and saw the 3 missed calls from Spencer. “Are you okay? What’s going on? You look like you haven’t slept in days.”

You sighed. “I haven’t. I’ve been working nonstop. I need to make the mask for the Wolf, the Witch's coat, and Enjolras and the other revolutionary’s waistcoats, and my sister asked me to make a dress for her coworker’s daughter’s quinceanera and-”

“Whoa, whoa, hey. Breathe.” He cupped your face in his hands. “You need to stop working yourself so hard,” he said, rubbing your cheekbone with his thumb. 

“Says the man who overworked himself so much he developed chronic migraines.” At his raised eyebrow, you said, “Sorry.”

He smiled softly and kissed your forehead. “Why don’t you let me help you out a bit? Give me instructions, I’m a quick learner.”

You reached up and pulled his hands from your face. “Spencer. As much as I absolutely treasure and adore you, the thought of you seeing the absolute disaster that is my home workshop right now is literally the most terrifying thing I can imagine. More terrifying than you meeting my family. Which, by the way, my mom is insistent that you come to Thanksgiving this year.” You yawned and leaned your head against his chest. 

“We can talk about that later.” He kissed the top of your head. “How about now, into bed? You’re dead on your feet, love.” When you only nodded, Spencer led you to your bedroom. 

After getting you settled in your bed, Spencer went to stand up. You reached out and grabbed his hand. “Stay,” you mumbled, tugging him towards your bed.

The next morning, Spencer walked into the round-table room late. 

“Well, look who’s wearing the same clothes,” Derek said. “Fun night?”

“Shut up, Morgan,” Spencer said, taking a sip of his coffee. 

Hotch looked over Reid before saying, “As I was saying, Indianapolis needs us to write up a consult. Garcia is passing around the case file.”

~

Spencer was filling out paperwork at his desk when his phone started ringing. “Dr. Spencer Reid.” He froze as he heard the person on the other end of the line. “Oh- oh my god. Yeah, yeah, no, I’ll be right there. Uh, thank you.” He slammed the phone down and started gathering his belongings. 

“What’s wrong, Reid?” JJ asked, watching Spencer cram a folder into his satchel.

“(Y/N)’s at the police station.”

You were walking home from the fabric supply store when a young man stopped you. He couldn’t have been older than 20. He pulled a gun and pointed it at you. 

“Give me your purse,” he said. You saw the way his hand was wavering.

You straightened up. “No.”

“You-you can’t say no! I-I have a gun!”

You just blinked at the man- practically a boy. Then you kicked him in the groin, causing him to drop the gun as his hands flew to cup his injury. You pressed your foot on top of the gun, preventing him from picking it back up, then you dialed the police. 

They brought you to the station to give a statement. You were sitting next to one of the detective’s desks when Spencer ran in. 

“(Y/N)! Are you okay? What happened?”

The detective nodded at you and gestured toward where Reid had come from, indicating you were free to go. 

You shrugged at Spencer. “Some punk-ass kid tried to mug me. Had a gun and everything.”

“What?”

“It’s fine, I knew he wasn’t gonna go through with it.”

“How could you possibly have known that?”

“Spence, I’m from Philly. It’s not the first time someone’s tried to mug me at gunpoint.”

His eyes went wide as saucers. “That doesn’t make it better!”

You smiled and kissed Spencer’s cheek before taking his hand. “I’m fine. Thank you for coming to get me.”

“Of course, (Y/N). I love you.” Your smile widened as Spencer’s face started to pale. “I mean, uh-”

“I love you too, Spence. Come on, let’s get out of here.”

~

“Okay, closing night,” Mr. Meadows said, addressing the students, all in their brightly colored costumes. “I’m incredibly proud of all of you for making it this far. This is our last show, you’ve all done great so far. Go out there and give them one last show to remember. Now, before we get in places, Ms. (Y/N) is going to lead you through a vocal warm-up.”

“Thanks, Mr. Meadows,” you said, taking your spot in front of the group. “Okay, guys, you know the drill. Repeat after me, then all together.” You took a deep breath before leading, “To sit in solemn silence on a dull dark dock, in a pestilential prison with a lifelong lock, awaiting the sensation of a short sharp shock from a cheap and chippy chopper on a big black block.”

After the cast ran through their warm-up, you said, “I’m so proud of all of you. Go out there and break legs. I’ll see you all after at intermission.” You waved before slipping from backstage, making your way to the lobby. 

It wasn’t often that you got to just sit and enjoy the hard work your students put in, but one of your interns was staying backstage in case of any costume emergencies. You spotted Spencer in the crowd and wove through everyone to get to him. With him were Henry’s parents, Jack’s father and aunt, as well as the rest of the BAU team. 

“Hey,” Spencer said, grabbing your hand and giving you a quick kiss. “Glad you could join us.”

“Me, too,” you said as you slowly made your way into the auditorium to find your seats. “It’s gonna be nice to just enjoy the show for once.”

As the show began, you felt Spencer looking at you.

"What?" you whispered.

"Nothing. The costumes are beautiful. You're an artist."

Your cheeks flushed at his words. You took his hand in yours and rested your head on his shoulder.

Like Cinderella and her prince, Spencer was your happily ever after.

[justastraymoa]

ADVENTURES WITH CHEESE EXTENDED EDITION PT 10

Im lost. Hopelessly lost with a cat in a bag on my shoulder looking at me like I am the dumbest person on the planet. And honestly, I feel like I am right now.

How do I go out for a simple walk around the neighborhood with my cat and get lost for hours. And my phone is dying on top of it all!

There is no way I could call the boys. I would never live it down. And I mean never. Plus how were they supposed to help me if I didn’t even know where I was? I couldn’t even find a street sign to give me a hint of where I was.

And im tired, hungry, have no more water, and didn’t bring any money because it was supposed to be a short walk. Only I could get myself into situations like this.

If I use my phone to get a map up, I will kill the battery and I didn’t think to pull a map up earlier when I had more battery, because why would I do that? Why would I be smart enough to do that?

Honestly when I get back to the apartment, I am just never going to leave it again. It wasn’t worth it and I am apparently too dumb to go out on my own anyways. Maybe I could flag down a police officer or something if I see one. They may be able to at least put me in the right direction if they wouldn’t give me a courtesy ride because of Cheese.

When I finally saw the boys, it was almost completely dark. The streetlights were already on and no one was walking around anymore. I was so relieved I felt my stupid eyes start to stupidly tear up. Stupid.

Binnie walked up to me and wrapped his arms around my head so I could hide my face in his chest while the emotions passed. I held onto him tightly. Someone tugged Cheese away from me at some point, most likely Lino. And there were several rubs and pats as we stood there.

“Lets get your dumb ass home.” Lino sighed. I just nodded, thankful yet again for all 4 of them. And for the terrible circumstances that lead me to meeting and befriending them in the first place.

Once at home I was deposited directly into a chair and a large glass of ice water was placed in front of me. I drank a few gulps before forcing myself to slow down so I didn’t get sick. That would be the perfect end to this perfect night. Praying over the porcelain bowl because I drank too much water too fast.

I was lucky enough to work from home most of the time. The occasional meeting forced me to go in and work trips, but 90% of the time I spent working from my bedroom or the living room couch or the dining table. Kind of wherever I felt like sitting and a lot of the times I sat at all places throughout the day, just for a change of scenery.

The boys worked from home occasionally, when they could. I always knew when one of them was home because Cheese would abandon me for someone else. Always excited to have someone new to cuddle and bug all day. Also, he knew the boys would give him treats. I was the strict parent in this relationship. But he was still a mama’s boy at heart, so I was okay with it.

Today it was Bin who was working from home. From the dining table by the sounds of it. I could hear him talking to both himself and Cheese. And could also hear the occasional thump of something falling as Cheese was a turd because Bin wasn’t paying enough attention to him. Spoiled child that he is.

I stayed at my desk, both relieved to not be bothered and distracted by Cheese and lonely because Cheese was not here cuddling and distracting me. It was an odd combination. I would probably join Bin at the dining table later just to not feel so lonely. However, for now I had 30 emails on a crisis that popped up overnight that needed attending to.

I laughed out loud as I heard Bin go into Linos room and start to look around for the sling bag. He must be desperate enough to risk Linos wrath.

“I can lend you my makeshift sling. It works just fine!” I called.

“He cant just gatekeep all the good stuff and expect to get away with it! It’s the principle of the thing!” He called back. There was a crash as something was knocked over.

“He is going to kill you for going through his stuff!”

“He wouldn’t.”

I raised my eyebrows and waited for that to sink into Bins head.

“You will save me right. He is a softie for you.” I eventually heard him say.

I scoffed doubtful that Lino was a ‘softie’ for anyone. Except maybe his cats. He was soft for them. Humans though, me included, he was not soft for. “I will try.” I promised nothing more.

Later that night, hours after everyone had gone to bed for the night, there was a high pitched scream that tore me from my peace.

On instinct I ran from the room. Bins door was open and I could see Lino standing over his bed with a very creepy, very psychotic smile on his face in the dark room. The only light source from the hallway nightlight.

(A/N: I picture something like this look)

“I see you went into my room.” Lino stated lowly, face not losing an inch of psychotic.

My body sagged as I realized what had happened. Lino was getting his revenge. In a very Lino way.

“Im sorry.” Bin said lowly.

Beside me Chan laughed quietly. “He spent all evening trying to figure out how to get back at him for tearing the room apart.”

Hyune didn’t even look like he woke up, let alone looked to see why Bin had screamed like a little girl in the middle of the night.

I rolled my eyes and went back to bed, pulling Cheese closer to rub my face on his soft fur and hear his purring as I drifted off.

A/N: And here we are with part 10. Honestly every time I do another one of these I have so much fun but I also wonder how the heck this even happened. How the heck did I turn a bunch of random pinterest cats into Cheese and create a whole ass cat. And all because I love black cats and have had several of my own that vie for the braincell of orange cats on occasion.

Anyways enjoy! See you next time

Skz + pets masterlist

Taglist: @whatdoyouwanttocallmefor

[literary-illuminati]

2024 Book Review #14 – And Put Away Childish Things by Adrian Tchaikovsky

This book I basically came across by chance. Or, well, not exactly chance, but I’d never even heard of it before until I checked what Tchaikovsky books my local library system had copies of and saw it. Which in a sense is a terrible way to come into this – it’s an incredibly dramatic swerve from any of Tchaikovsky’s other stuff that I’ve read – but coming in totally blind pretty much worked, I think. Genuinely very fun read.

The story follows Harry Bodie, a children’s TV presenter facing down middle age with a career that’s never really lived up to expectations. Somewhat desperately, he signs on to a tabloid-ish program about digging into the family tree, hoping to use the residual fame of his grandmother and her fairly famous and successful series of postwar children’s fantasy novels as a career boost. Instead he gets his face rubbed in the fact that his great-grandmother is only recorded as an indigent madwoman, and the famous author was born in a sanitarium. That the famous Underhill stories were, in fact, based in large part on delusions told as childhood fables and family histories.

Somewhat unsurprisingly, the stories turn out to be less delusional than previously reported. Bodie is in quick succession accosted by a faun, approached by a suspicious PI, and kidnapped by a surprisingly moneyed fan-club-cum-occult-coven. Soon enough he’s getting his first taste of Underhill first hand – or, at least, what’s left of it after a century and change of economizing and entropy.

I’m on record as being fairly dismissive about the whole category of ‘stories about stories’, and I guess I need to eat my words a bit because I actually really enjoyed this. To an extent that’s probably just because it doesn’t get too meta – storyland is a work of deliberate artifice, the stories themselves don’t shape the world or do magic, it just generally never tries to get too cute or didactic about it – but still. This is a book where the hero at one point describes his situation as ‘Five Nights at Aslan’s’ so there’s no real principled distinction for me to cut here. One of the main characters is literally a folklorist.

Though, it’s less about stories than one specific story in particular. The unremarkable schlub plucked out of their mundane life and told that they’re special, that they’re the hero or the true heir and possess some inherent numinous essence that makes them the most important person in the world. This is a terribly appealing story, and one Harry feels the lure of very keenly – he’s self-aware enough to say quite clearly that he goes back to the frozen, decaying world full of half-dead monsters less out of morality or rationality than simply because it was a place where he mattered, for good or ill.

It’s probably not reading too deeply into the book’s themes to note that the story is a lure in a fairly literal sense, or that the true heir is destined to ‘save’ the world by being hollowed out and possessed by those who came before them.

Of course as much as this is in conversation with Narnia et al, it owes at least as much to whole genre of ‘what is nostalgic children’s property, but fucked up?’ creepypasta. Fairyland is choked with fungal growths and creepy, staticy not-snow. The scampering, troublemaking faun is miserable and worn out with bad knees. The Best Of All Dogs is a rotting, terrifying hellhound. There’s even a titanic evil scary clown. Aesthetically the book owes far more to r/nosleep than Lewis Carroll.

Harry himself is an absolute delight as a main character. By which I mean he just sucks so bad, but in very mundane and endearing ways. Who among us can not relate on some level to a failing middle-aged actor who always made a point of not trading on his family name but is secretly pretty resentful it hasn’t helped him more? He refuses the call to adventure then decides his life’s kind of shit and he’d rather get stabbed to death by goblins, so he comes crawling back and begs for a second chance. He’s left a glowing magic sword that will defeat all enemies, but it’s stuck in the body of one of his kidnappers so he just runs screaming and it spends the rest of the book in an evidence locker somewhere. I love him.

I really have no idea to what degree it was intentional, but it also does rather muse me that – okay, you know the standard bit of feminist media analysis where male characters are the actors, while female characters are generally walking set decoration and plot devices? It really deeply amuses me that Harry spends the better part of the story as a magical blood bank getting led around or terrified and awaiting rescue, whereas Seitchman (our counterfeit PI/folklorist) repeatedly forces herself into things through obsessive research skills and a complete disregard for her own safety (and at one point an enthusiastic if unpracticed willingness to sword people). Though to be clear this was mostly amusing to me because it was absolutely never highlighted or commented upon.

This is probably the first book I’ve read that’s recent enough to be set during lockdown without really being a COVID novel, if that makes sense? You could set this the year before or the year after without really losing much, and it lacks the ‘this was written in quarantine’ vibe of a lot of books I read last year. But it definitely adds a sense of specificity and timeliness to it that I rather enjoyed.

So yeah, do not open it expecting anything like Children of Time, but good book!

[v3nusxsky]

Come back to bed darling |fluff

*Authors note~ wanted to try my hand at some pure fluff. It's currently half 3 in the morning when I’m writing this so if there's any grammar mistakes I apologise. This is from when i had only been writing a few days so please let me know any feedback so I can improve.*

Prompt~ person a wakes up to find person b not in bed and finds them in the kitchen nursing a drink. "Come back to bed darling" fluff ensured. I hope I can do this justice for you.

✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭

It had been an exhausting day at Nevermore. Wednesday was stubbornly set on discovering what was occurring in the town of Jericho and was not above breaking the rules to find the answers. You're heart broke for your lover as she came back to your shared quarters in an absolute state of exhaustion after dealing with yet another of Wednesday's theory's. You had to admit she was a clever young lady but still seeing your love this exhausted shattered your heart. Knowing that the tall beauty was neglecting her basic needs such as sleep is what led you to this moment of being able to wrap your delicate arms around the stunning principle. Gently pulling her flush to your body you both drifted into a peaceful slumber.

It was the lack of warmth on your right side that woke you. Now there's some cruel things in the world but the panic of waking up at 3:30 in the morning and not seeing your lover in her rightful place? That was the cruelest of them all. Blinking back the haze of the sleep you had previously enjoyed you give a quick glance around the room just hoping in your exhausted state you had missed sight of your lover. Your heart shattered when you had found no signs of her. Immediately you grabbed your robe and set off to find the women who had your heart in hopes to coax her back into the bed you shared. After eliminating the bedroom and the bathroom you made your way to the kitchen. The carpet muffled the sounds of your steps so it was no shock to you when you spotted Larissa completely oblivious by your arrival.

Your lover stood in her robe, seemingly transfixed by the trees outside the window swaying in the wind. You were quick to notice a glass of untouched water was sat on the counter top seemingly forgotten about. It wasn't hard to come to the conclusion that Larissa must have woken during the night and come out for some water but must have been distracted by her own thoughts which led you to the current situation.

As of you were a hunter stalking prey you made your way over to the stunningly gorgeous women who still didn't seem to know of your presence now joining her. Ever so carefully as not to spook the taller women you slipped your hands around the beautiful curves, effectively pulling her flush to your front. You rested your chin on her shoulder, hardly reaching even on tiptoes. It was times like these that your cursed your height.

It was this action that elicited a gasp from the older women before a smile settled across her face as she lent back into you. In the semi lit kitchen you stood holding her in your arms and you knew this was all you ever wanted. Larissa was all you ever wanted, dreamed of and needed in your life. She is absolutely perfect for you. The missing piece to your puzzle. Moments like these reminded you that you'd die to save her, that you'd do anything to make her smile and you'd protect her at all costs. Nothing means

more than she does.

The body in front of you shivered ever so slightly but you felt it. Only then did you realise she must be freezing. God knows how long she was stood out here alone. The thought made your heart clench. You never wanted Larissa to feel alone. Hell you would stay up all night just to make sure she was okay. You couldn't resist pressing feather light kisses to the exposed skin of her neck, trailing up to her ear where you mumbled "come back to bed darling." Sleep had caused a thickness to your voice which caused another shiver from the women in your arms. Without waiting for a reply you slowly ghosted your hands down her sides found your way to her hands. Interlocking them with a smile tugging at your lips you gently lead Larissa back to your room.

Settling into bed you gently pulled Larissa to face you. She looks so gorgeous in the pale moonlight that you can't help but pepper kisses all over her face neck and exposed shoulders. "Gods Larissa, your absolutely beautiful. I can't believe your mine." A content sigh escaped your lips when the other women's response was to shuffle closer laying her head in the crook of your neck and leaving a light lingering kiss there. Daft fingers found their way through her silvery curls that only you had the privilege to see and with a gently kiss to the crown of her head hands running up and down her spine, you whispered into the night "sleep baby, im right here."

It wasn't long before the soft breathes were tickling the little hairs on your neck, signalling to you that your companion had entered a slumber. Ever so carefully as not to wake her you shifted to get slightly more comfortable, you may not know what had woken Larissa yet and you made the mental note to ask her tomorrow but for now you wanted to enjoy the moment. Sleep overtook you once more as a slightly mumbled "good night Larissa" left your lips.

Word count~ 963

[nanamin-nah-nanamine]

HI ANGEL god i love this okay so i’d love a matchup with someone from jjk, please. i do have a favourite, and i do have a type…so i’m curious to see who i’m matched with. i’m a leo stellium — leo sun/rising/mercury/mars w/ a pisces moon and a virgo venus. i’m also an enfp. i’m a bit of a firecracker. passionate and intense, feisty and emotional, spoiled and demanding, principled and loyal and incredibly romantic. i’d like to think i’m brave. i’m not afraid to fight for what i believe in. i’m also the eldest daughter, and a bit of a perfectionist. i’m a huge city girl, and i enjoy reading, writing, shopping, and curating hyper-specific Spotify playlists. i also love doing my skincare and makeup, and have an extensive shower and self-care routine that gives me almost the same benefits as therapy does. i adore late night drives, sunny but cold weather, the mountains, and the city lights. i grew up amongst skyscrapers, and i couldn’t live without them. my favourite way to spend a night out is with my girlfriends, going from one swanky bar to the next, exploring new restaurants, giggling and gossiping the entire time. i’m not a big fan of the outdoors, or of bugs, lizards, amphibians, stinginess, and indecision. i talk a lot, i love talking. i suppose it’s why i tend to gravitate to people opposite from me. i get along best with them, i think. my best friends are both introverts and i’ve always had a thing for quieter men (especially those of the darker-haired, slightly brooding variety). i’m still discovering my style but i know i like stuff that’s bolder, a little glamorous, and i’m a huge bootcut jeans girl. perhaps a little y2k inspired? i only really wear gold jewellery, but i’m trying to mix metals at the moment. i’m plus-sized and just started working out! thank you so much. x

Baby girl what a lovely day because you’re getting matched with….🥁🥁🥁🥁🥁🥁

Geto Suguru!!🥴

You didn’t even have to say you had a type, I read the first few lines and I was already thinking about mister Sugs🤭

This man adores you, we all know he tends to go for someone on the more extroverted spectrum and there’s nothing more our little Aquarius needs than a fire sign to keep him on his toes. He LOVES how passionate you get when you’re standing up for what you believe in, he’s also not above ticking you off on purpose just to hear your voice if he’s feeling particularly needy.

Who are we kidding, homies first love was a clan member so we know he loves a MATERIAL GWORL

Don’t even THINK about pulling your card out when you’re with him. He’s paying for everything + your girlfriends things because he got it like that(especially in his cult leader era😩)

He’s the type to let you do your own thing but to walk behind you and glare like the big guard dog he is. But if you say come, he’s by your side within seconds.

Treats you like his queen and practically worships you, doesn’t make any big decisions without asking you first.

I’m pretty sure he’s an only child meaning he’s a little used to things being his way, but if you want something it’s yes ma’am and no questions.

Basically whatever you want is yours baby💖

Activists you two do together….

• walks late at night when the earth is still

• beach trips

• have picnics and listen to music

[the1975attheirverybest]

Matty, ATVB, Simulacra and Simulation

responding to a question that someone asked ( which @abiiors has been kind enough to pass on to me). Here’s a brief explanation that I hope makes some kind of sense. ( please easy on my friends yall. Their blogs aren’t means of contacting me🩷)

it’s all very ✨meta✨ and ✨postmodern✨ I’m not really joking this is the kind of philosophy that Matty is referencing when he calls things “postmodern” or “meta.” So, strap in. Grab a snack or a drink or a joint.

ANYWAYS!

The relationship between art/ media, and “reality” has been a hot issue of contention for philosophy going alllllll the way back to Ancient Greece where Plato argued that artists are “liars” who “copy” reality and try to pass it off as real. 

This obviously brings up questions regarding imitation, invention, recording, copying, representation, transcribing, etc etc etc. 

the book that Matty is referencing Simulacra and Simulation takes up these issues in the context of our current society (postmodernist, late stage capitalist society). 

The book argues that we have become sooo obsessed with media that we have replaced “real life” with it. We treat images, recordings, video, memes, etc as real as the things that they are based on (real life). 

In this way, what we know now as reality is actually a simulation of reality. 

According to the book, this did not happen overnight. It’s something that we moved towards over centuries. The real move likely started in the 1600s and it took until the 20th century to get us to the point where we are now. 

“Simulacra” is all the excessive media that we have used to replace the real world. Signs, symbols, ads, billboards, video, sound bites, etc. 

simulacra are NOT “pretending” to be real or “hiding” the truth. They have simply BECOME THE TRUTH because we treat them as true.

The book refers to this phenomenon as “hyper reality.” Like more real than the real. The thing that we started off simply recording or copying (“real life”) has turned into “less real” than thecopy of it (the video, picture, movie, insta post, etc).

The book makes a dramatic analogy of this by telling a hypothetical scenario where someone decided to make a map of a giant empire that is soooo detailed and accurate that it becomes as large as the empire itself. So people start to treated as if it ISSSS the empire. Not a map of it. 

Fun fuckin fact: this book came out in the 80s lmao. So before social media. Imagine how wild it would be today?

Why is Matty referencing this book? 

Well, let’s take a look at his Instagram posts (pause for a moment to consider the irony that he’s posting an Instagram story of a book about how everything is basically an Instagram story of reality. Peak Matty Healy? I think so. )

The first quote that he posted is

 Simulating is not pretending: "Whoever fakes an illness can simply stay in bed and make everyone believe he is ill. Whoever simulates an illness produces in himself some of the symptoms.”

As I said above, simulation is not meant to “trick you” its not covering something real underneath. It IS the thing now. It’s acquired the status of being real. So, if someone goes so far as to act sick, stay in bed, make themselves sneeze, cough, stay up all night so that their eyes are red and they haven’t slept and they’re super tired, they might as well BE SICK. in fact now they AREEEE SICK they’re not pretending. 

2. The second quote is 

Therefore, pretending...leaves the principle of reality intact: the difference is always clear, it is simply masked, whereas simulation threatens the difference between the "true" and the “false,the real" and the imaginary 

“Pretending” would be considered lying. Like there is a truth distinct from what you are portraying and you seek to hide the truth by portraying it differently. “Simulation” however doesn’t leave any difference between what’s true and what you show publicly, the two collapse into one another. 

What does this have to do with ATVB?

Well, Matty is taking us back to “If it’s method acting but what you’re acting is actually your real life then what’s acting and what’s real?” Right?

There are, of course, other ways to extend this conundrum in light of 2023. That is, what’s rhetorical difference between “Truman Black” and “Matty Healy”? What’s the difference between the public perception of Matty Healy and the “real” Matty Healy? (Is there even such a thing?) If he commits to a joke or a bit AI HARD is the “bit” even a bit anymore? If not, does it lose its effectiveness? Cuz obviously people do acts  BECAUSE they’re acts. They’re not reality. Except we now live in a world where all “acts” can and are indeed real. 

Furthermore: is there a difference between the first and the second halves of the show? During SATVB NA the answer was no most of the time. Because they blended the setlist. BFIAFL and greatest hits were no longer clearly separated. They played bits of both at the same time. 

If all of this is true, what then does it even mean to be “sincere” or “earnest” in a world where everything has an equal degree of reality all the time?

DOES THIS MAKE ANY SENSE TO ANYBODY AT ALL OR AM I INSANEEEE

[tobiasdrake]

I expected to be dead by now and that locked door is starting to make me curious. So I guess I'll just go jump on a timedrop.

Using made-up words for an openphrase is a pretty good idea, but I've been told it's best to include numbers and symbols too. Have you considered "stostorage roomoom five ampersand"?

See, that's why you should always change your openphrase away from the default. Now malefactors of unclear intent have complete access to this person's shed. I could be stealing their personal information to sell to the shoshop keepeeper right now and they'd have no idea.

But I'm not that wicked, so I'll just take whatever this is instead.

Length implies value. This seems more than valuable enough to burgle. I will take this and be on my way.

Let's see, what else do I want to do in town? Oh, right. The flower.

First time, I panicked, flung it at Mira for being a great team leader, and fled for my life.

Second time, I tried to use it to bury the hatchet with Bonnie and only succeeded in weirding them out and making things awkward.

This time. This time, I have a plan. I'm going to pry Isa's secret love confession out of him. Right in front of the Favor Tree. Where my Lemonfriend is stalking me. Hm.

...

CAUTION TO THE WIND!

Oh my god he's so goddamn precious

Yeah. I didn't spoil my appetite with pain du chocolat this time so I was ravenous and prepared!

Then I got up to refill my drink and suddenly I hear a sickening CRRRKKK and then the goddamn bread was broken in half. How!? How do you people always know that I'm watching for that!? Which one of you is temporally screwing with me!?

I feel like I'm losing my mind. This is literally worse than dying. I will find you, Breadripper.

But I gave you a pretty flower and everything. Come on, man. Find your nerve!

*sigh* I'm going back to sleep. Enjoy your face pillow.

Good night, Isa.

That feels like it's going to be important to remember for later. Typically, if trying to read it causes physical pain, it's probably some sort of horrifying eldritch text from beyond time and space. Which usually means it's definitely worth the effort to figure out how to read it! It might hold the secret to unlimited happiness.

It means a person of slim characterization and very limited expressiveness, designed to allow the audience to easily project themselves.

Our reality's principle form of violence is playing Rock-Paper-Scissors. What are you even supposed to do with a spear?

...I mean. I guess I have this knife I use to form Scissors. Mira's got a rapier for the same purpose. Isa gets Rock out of his punching gloves while Madame Odile's Tome makes Paper.

Not sure how Mirabelle's doing Paper attacks with a sword, though. That's kind of weird. Mira, where are you getting the Paper from? Do you have a motivational brochure for the Change religion as a sidearm?

Oh my god she uses a rapier.

Mira's weapon is a blade made from thin folded steel. That's where the Paper comes from. That's genius. Mira, you're a goddamn genius.

Okay. I get it now. I understand how weaponcraft in our world of Jankenpon Combat works. So yes, this spear would be a Scissors weapon. But since it's a spear, you could also use it as a bo staff. Would it then qualify as Scissors/Rock?

Hmm....

I appreciate your pragmatism. Contextually speaking, in times of crisis, it's not stealing. It's requisitioning.

Now let's requisition whatever isn't nailed down.

Oh shit, that's the traditional Rider-Waite Eight of Pentacles.

The Pentacles sign typically pertains to commerce, labor, and material affairs. This particular card usually symbolizes slow and steady skill progression at a menial craft. The man depicted is practicing his trade, carrying out the repetitive but necessary task of crafting his wares - and in so doing, developing his skill and becoming more capable in the production of his craft.

It's not hard to see the relationship between this card and the timey-wimey mission we're on right now.

There it is. We've found the key with diagnosed and well understood gender dysphoria.

Just because the egg has cracked, that doesn't mean this key is necessarily comfortable with announcing itself yet. Cracking the egg and coming out are very different experiences. If the key doesn't feel safe or ready to do the latter then it's fine for it to remain in the drawer for however long it needs.

...

Or it would be fine except we need to unlock a door. So. Uh. We'll just ignore that for the purposes of the metaphor.

Do not force people out of their closet even if the world is in danger.

[anonymousewrites]

Adolescent Antichrist (Book 6) Chapter Four

Father Figure! Lucifer Morningstar x Teen! Reader

Demon! OC x Reader

Chapter Four: Since When Were We in High School Musical?

Summary: (Y/N) and the LGBTQ+ Breakfast Club have a normal day at school when the world turns upside down and becomes a literal stage.

            “So, yeah, the night sucked,” said (Y/N), finishing their recap of the disastrous birthday dinner with Lucifer’s family.

            “Yikes.” Em winced. “I know that Celestials and demons and all that are drama queens, but that was terrible even for me.”

            “I’m sorry about your birthday,” said Olive, frowning.

            (Y/N) shrugged. “We went out for lunch, and my dad and I grabbed some food on our way back to the penthouse and then watched Princess Diaries 2, so my day ended great.”

            “You have a thing for Anne Hathaway, don’t you?” said Noa, smirking.

            “Who wouldn’t?” sighed Olive, smiling.

            “I prefer Chris Pine in the movie,” said Marcel.

            “I like him more as Captain Kirk, even if the characterization of him could have been written better,” said Leon.

            “Guys, we’re getting distracted,” said Em, rounding her friends’ attention up. “(Y/N), are you alright after everything that happened?”

            “I mean, it made me angry to see Michael treat my dad that way and then God didn’t say anything.” (Y/N) popped a tomato into their mouth before continuing. “He’s their Father. You’d think He would try to make them better to one another after people died and the world nearly ended because of their rivalry. And, if you can believe it, that wasn’t the worst part,” said (Y/N). “God didn’t say that He loved Amenadiel, Lucifer, and Michael.”

            Leon frowned. “I thought God was all-loving.”

            “Some people say He’s wrathful,” said Marcel. “So if we’re confused, I can’t imagine how His own kids feel.”

            “Not great,” surmised Noa.

            “I feel bad for them,” said Olive.

            “I don’t feel bad for Michael,” said Noa.

            “Obviously not for him, but the principle makes me feel bad,” said Olive. “Parents should make sure their kids know they’re loved.”

            “Is the boss doing alright?” asked Em.

            (Y/N) sighed. “I think he’s spending time with Chloe, and he was with me before that, so he’s not isolating. That’s a good sign. He’s upset for sure, but he hasn’t gone into a self-destructive rut, which is an improvement on past behavior.”

            Em nodded. “And how are you doing?”

            “My dad loves me, so I didn’t have to deal with anything about that,” said (Y/N).

            Em narrowed her eyes. “Yeah, Lucifer loves you. But how do you feel after seeing Michael again after the…you-know-what.”

            “ ‘Apocalypse’ isn’t a bad word,” said (Y/N). “And I’m working on getting over it. It’s just taking some time.”

            “Exactly. That’s why we’re worried being around Michael might have been…not great?” said Olive.

            “I believe the words we used in our discussion were ‘damaging,’ ‘unproductive,’ ‘triggering’—”

            “Thanks, Leon,” said Noa, patting their shoulder, and he nodded.

            (Y/N) chuckled lightly. “Thank you for your tact, Olive, and thanks for being straightforward, Leon.” They stared at their lunchbox and shrugged. “To actually answer the question, I didn’t like being with Michael. It made me angry. I didn’t break down in front of him, I just snapped at him, but it was tough. I felt on edge, fragile, like I was back in that void.” (Y/N) shivered. “God told me I’m not made of darkness, so it’s not like I’ll bring the Apocalypse back, but I can’t help but be worried every time I get upset, and Michael makes me super upset.”

            “Because he’s a total asshole,” said Em. “He gets everyone frustrated.” She nudged (Y/N) supportively. “It’s not just an Antichrist thing.”

            (Y/N) smiled slightly. “I’ll try to remember that, even if I did feel pretty on edge last night. If my dad hadn’t been comfortable enough to snap back at Michael and had just taken the abuse, I probably would have snapped.” They shivered. “I don’t know where my limits are. I don’t know when I’m going to lose control. It frightens me.”

            Dum. Dum. Dum-dum-dum.

            (Y/N) straightened and looked around themself as drums played in the air. “What the hell is—”

            Marcel jumped onto the lunch table, and (Y/N) stared in confusion.

(“Apocalypse Please” by Muse) (Marcel) “Declare this an emergency.”

            Leon stood up next to him.

(Leon) “Come on and spread a sense of urgency.”

            Marcel took Leon’s hand and spun them as they danced across the tabletop.

(Leon and Marcel) “And pull us through~ And pull us through~”

            Everyone in the lunchroom stood from their seats, drummed on the tables with their hands and trays, and joined the song.

(Lunchroom) “And this is the end, the end! This is the end of the world!”

            The entire cafeteria had erupted into song with music coming from who-knew-where. (Y/N) stared at them in amazement since they were impressed and confused. The singing was great, but (Y/N) wasn’t sure why everyone was acting like this was fucking normal.

            Noa stepped onto the table and spun to sing at every corner of the room.

(Noa) “And it’s time we saw a miracle~”

            Olive jumped up, Noa caught her, and they dipped. Olive’s ballet practice let her extend her leg up perfectly, and she winked. before standing up and pirouetting and falling into a dramatic backband with her song.

(Olive) “Come on, it’s time for something biblical!”

            Olive bent back in the dip, put her hands on the table, and back-hand-sprung to her feet. She and Noa grinned at each other.

(Olive and Noa) “To pull though~ And pull us through~”

            How do all these idiots know this choreography? thought (Y/N). Once again, they were one of the only sane people on Earth, and they could destroy the world with enough provocation, so what did that say about the rest?

(Lunchroom) “And this is the end, the end! This is the end of the world!”

            The music continued to play, and the students in the room danced. People spun in groups, and (Y/N) wasn’t an idiot, they noticed when groups of students created choreography that showed pentagrams. Five held hands and created a star shape while others danced around them in a circle.

            (Y/N) groaned and turned to Em to suggest escaping whatever the hell Celestial bullshit had infected everyone (because what else could cause this?). Before they could say a thing, Em got up onto the table.

(Em) “Proclaim eternal victory!”

            She held out a hand to (Y/N) with a grin, and (Y/N) was such a sucker that they sighed, gave in to the music, and let the rhythm take them. They took Em’s hand, got onto the table, and held her hand tightly as the words came to their mind.

(Y/N) “Come on and change the course of history!”

            Em spun (Y/N) and pulled them closer by the waist.

((Y/N) and Em) “And pull us through, And pull us through~”

            The group on the table took one another’s hands and swung them up in the air as they and the entire lunchroom sang out.

(Everyone) “And this is the end, This is the end of the world!”

            The music ended, and everyone grinned at one another. Slowly, everyone got down from the tables or chairs they had ended up dancing on. No one said anything about the weird song and dance routine they’d all psychically known.

            The LGBTQ+ Breakfast Club got down from the table, and (Y/N) put their hands on their hips.

            “Since when were we in High School Musical?” they said.

            “I don’t know, but that was super fun,” said Marcel, laughing.

            “How did we manage that?” said Leon, tilting his head.

            “If we noticed it, then it’s probably something Celestial,” said Em. “No one else did, and we’re the non-mortals.”

            “I think that’s the first bit of Celestial influence on our lives that’s been fun,” said Olive, smiling.

            “I’ve always said the world would be better as a musical,” said Noa. “And that song is a fantastic one, so if today is the day all the world’s a stage, I’m not going to fight it.”

            “Yeah, because singing about the Apocalypse is so fun,” groaned (Y/N).

            “Come on, Birdie, we’ll ask about it later if it keeps happening,” said Em. They squeezed (Y/N)’s hand. “We deserve a little fun.”

            (Y/N) smiled and squeezed their significant other’s hand. “I guess so.”

            “And, if you really need a distraction, you get to work on your designs for your senior project now,” said Em.

            (Y/N) sighed in relief. Two hours of just fashion designing, sewing, cutting, and stitching. Now that was the therapeutic activity they needed.

l

            (Y/N) calmly pinned the hem of one of the dresses that Olive would be wearing (they had gotten their core friend group and various other friends from around school to volunteer to be their model so that (Y/N) could show real people of various builds and identities in their fashion).

            (Y/N) hummed to themself as they worked, touched a thread to their tongue to keep it from fraying, and threaded the needle before continuing to stitch.

            “These are turning out so well,” said Marcel, looking at himself in the mirror.

            “Birdie, you’re so talented,” said Em, flexing her muscles in the halter-top that showed off her arms. “I look amazing.”

            “Stop doing that, I haven’t finished it,” said (Y/N), carefully focused on Olive’s dress.

            “You’re not even looking at me, how do you know what I’m doing?” said Em.

            “I have a ‘Em Mischief Meter,’ and it’s going off right now,” said (Y/N), laughing.

            Em pouted.

            “Where do you get your inspiration?” asked Leon, standing straight and still as a statue so that (Y/N) could look at him next.

            (Y/N) shrugged. “I design what makes me feel good and what I think other people would feel good in. Fashion should make people feel empowered and like they can take on the world, whether it’s in soft, floaty dresses or leather jackets. It’s not the style but how it makes the person feel. Clothes should make people look good and get them to feel good. That’s—”

(“Fashion!” by Lady Gaga) (Y/N) “Fashion.”

            They froze as the word came out as a song, and a beat struck up. They closed their mouth, but their friends were already grinning at them, and the music kept going. (Y/N) took a deep breath and decided to lean into the musical experience of the day. Em was right—why not have some fun?

            (Y/N) let go of Olive’s dress, the hem finished, and stood. They put their hands on their hips and turned around to face everyone. With the measuring tape around their neck, the pin cushion around their wrist, and the scraps of fabric at their feet, they looked like the epitome of what people pictured in a designer.

(Y/N) “Looking good and feeling fine, Looking good and feeling fine, Looking good and feeling fine.”

            They pointed at Olive, Leon, and Em with a wink.

(Olive, Leon, and Em) “Slay, slay!” (Y/N) “Looking good and feeling fine, Looking good and feeling fine, Looking good and feeling fine.”

            They pointed at Noa, Marcel, and winked at themself in the mirror.

(Noa and Marcel) “Fashion!”

            (Y/N) grabbed some fabric and draped it around themself. They paraded around the room, hands on their hips.

(Y/N) “Step into the room like it’s a catwalk.”

            Their friends posed.

(Em, Noa, Olive, Marcel, and Leon) “Fashion!” (Y/N) “Singing to the tune, just to keep them talking.”

            Their friends struck another pose.

(Em, Noa, Olive, Marcel, and Leon) “Fashion!”

            (Y/N) spun, and the fabric around them fluttered off and into the air in a swath of sheer red.

(Y/N) “Walk into the light, displayin’ diamonds and pearls in my—” (LGBTQ+ Breakfast Club) “Fashion!” (Y/N) “Married to the night, I own the world, we own the world.”

            Other models came out of the makeshift dressing rooms with their outfits and giant grins on their faces.

(LGBTQ+ Breakfast Club) “Look at me now, I feel on top of the world in my—” (All) “Fashion!” (LGBTQ+ Breakfast Club) “Look at me now, I feel on top of the world in my—” (All) “Fashion!”

            Leon strutted down the makeshift catwalk, and his model face was on point. The group cheered.

(Leon) “Looking good and feeling fine.”

            Marcel took his turn and posed at the end of the catwalk, winking at his partner.

(Marcel) “Looking good and feeling fine.”

            Olive went onto point toes and pirouetted down the runway.

(Olive) “Looking good and feeling fine.” (All minus Olive) “Slay, slay!”

            Noa strutted next and flipping their beaded box braids over their shoulder with attitude.

(Noa) “Looking good and feeling fine.”

            Em walked down the runway and blew a kiss.

(Em) “Looking good and feeling fine.”

            (Y/N) went down last, taking off their jacket and throwing it to the side to their fans (friends).

(Y/N) “Looking good and feeling fine.” (All minus (Y/N)) “Slay, slay!”

            The entire group strutted into the hallway. The LGBTQ+ Breakfast Club and their other friends brought the music with them as they turned the corridor into their runway.

(Y/N) “You’ve got company, make sure you look your best.”

            The classroom doors opened, and people posed on tables within and in doorways.

(All) “Fashion!” (Y/N) “Makeup on your face, a new designer dress.”

            Several people began to vogue, and others took photos together in model poses.

(All) “Fashion!”

            (Y/N) joined several photos and tossed jackets and accessories they’d made at the groups.

(Y/N) “There’s a life on Mars where the couture is beyond, beyond.”

            The people in the halls slipped into (Y/N)’s designs and joined the joint catwalk.

(All) “Fashion!” (Y/N) “Married to the stars, I own the world, we own the world!”

            Different people strutted down the catwalk as people cheered and took photos. Some vogued, some did gymnastics, some danced, and others just showed their sass and shed their shier personas.

(All) “Look at me now, I feel on top of the world in my—” (Y/N) “Fashion!” (All) “Look at me know, I feel on top of the world in my—” (Y/N) “Fashion!”

            People traded accessories, jackets, and other bits of clothing. They mixed and matched and reappeared in doorways to pose in new outfits. They were all exploring new styles, laughing, and smiling together.

(All) “Looking good and feeling fine, Looking good and feeling fine, Looking good and feeling fine.” (LGBTQ+ Breakfast Club) “Slay, slay!”

            Several people brought out makeup and began to help others really express one another before taking hands and dancing. Some shier people took the hands of their friends and walked the runway together.

(All) “Looking good and feeling fine, Looking good and feeling fine, Looking good and feeling fine.” (LGBTQ+ Breakfast Club) “Slay!” (All) “Slay, slay, slay, slay!”

            (Y/N) moved onto the catwalk, and everyone looked at them.

(Y/N) “I take it off, I put it on, I feel alive when I transform, But this love’s not material, Now take it in and turn me on, Zip me up, it can’t be wrong, ‘Cause your new look’s ethereal!”

            They held the note, and everyone around them grabbed some fabric and ran around them. The fabrics of a million different colors swirled around them like a hurricane. (Y/N) spun with it, fashion and joy and pride and self-expression all around them. This was the love and creativity they adored.

(All) “Looking good and feeling fine, Looking good and feeling fine, Looking good and feeling fine.” (LGBTQ+ Breakfast Club) “Slay, slay!”

            The fabric hurricane dropped, and (Y/N) posed, a creator in their element. They spun and posed for each photo taken of them, even if their arms were exposed by their movements and the black marks appeared. In the moment, (Y/N) felt free, even if their self-esteem wasn’t completely rebuilt. They could lean in and enjoy the moment they had.

(All) “Looking good and feeling fine, Looking good and feeling fine, Looking good and feeling fine.”

            (Y/N) and their friends came together and danced, vogued, and laughed with the rest of the school.

(All) “Fashion!” (LGBTQ+ Breakfast Club) “Je me sens en paradis en—” (All) “Fashion!” (LGBTQ+ Breakfast Club) “Donnez-moi Christian Louboutins!” (All) “Fashion!” (LGBTQ+ Breakfast Club) “La monde est à moi, c’est la vie en—” (All) “Fashion!” (LGBTQ+ Breakfast Club) “Je suis en haute couture en—” (All) “Fashion!” (LGBTQ+ Breakfast Club) “Fashion, fashion, f-fashion, Fashion, fashion, Fashion, fashion!”

Taglist:

@sammyscreencaps-13

@grippleback-galaxy-galaxy

@scarlettqueen190

@ziro-the-null-god

@sammy-13

@zeros-rot

@ceridwyn3

@technikerin23

@poetoflawed

@slytherinroyalty16

@ilse235

@theurbannoodle

@lookitseddie

@amberforest08

[transmutationisms]

ooh can you go into kendall offloading his guilt to his siblings and then being seemingly over it in s4? is it just bc he wanted to tell someone? and they accept it basically unconditionally in that moment so he thinks he no longer has to carry his guilt?

sure yeah. i'm reading between some lines here and i'm willing to revise judgment if things change in the next four episodes, but here's how i see it:

in season 2, kendall's guilt was a combination of feeling he wasn't living up to what his father demanded of him, and feeling genuinely bad that he killed someone. logan saw his drug use as weakness and saw him going off with a (young, male, attractive) waiter as gay, and saw these things together as indicating that kendall was "a hothouse flower" (weak, needy, fragile; the opposite of the alpha type he wanted for an heir). but in addition, kendall shows genuine remorse, especially in the scene at doddy's house. by season 3, kendall is trying to kill his father, and he's trying to convince himself he's not like logan at all, because he's a good person. so he tries to convince himself he doesn't need logan's approval, actually, and logan's cruelty and abuse are not something he wants to aspire to. the problem is that he still knows he killed someone, and someone logan considers nrpi. that weighs on kendall because, if he dismisses doddy too, does that make him as callous as his father, whom he's trying to win a moral crusade against?

so, after this moral crusade falls to shit ("life's not knights on horseback"), kendall turns to his siblings in desperation. he doesn't elevate them to the centre of his moral universe the way he does logan, but he does think they're basically good people—certainly better than he feels about himself at that moment—and so their opinions count for something morally. and roman's response is, essentially, a more humourously-inflected version of "nrpi" that shiv signs off on. the waiter didn't matter, except insofar as his death was inconvenient for the roy siblings, and that's how roman consoles kendall and how the two of them bond in italy.

essentially to kendall this means that devaluing doddy's life is no longer exclusively a logan move. roman and shiv have signed off on this as well, and kendall can finally breathe easy knowing that having killed someone doesn't need to keep him up at night. doddy truly didn't matter. it's not a nice thing, and kendall is the master of repression so he probably just shoved it down into the recesses of his psyche, but in a way he really is freer in season 4 because he's simply come to terms with the idea that he's a roy, doddy was a working-class nobody, and he can just move on with his life now. what the show is suggesting here is that it would be impossible to be in kendall's position—the heir to an empire—and be functional under the terms of capitalism, and also have that type of guilt weighing you down. it would eat you alive. and kendall has never had the moral convictions to do anything principled about injustice (plus, like, who could overthrow waystar overnight?) and so his solution to this problem is the slow leakage of his humanity so that he can be what he was supposed to be—a roy.

[anxious-witch]

Inertia 1

Summary: Newton's first law expresses the principle of inertia: the natural behavior of a body is to move in a straight line at constant speed. In the absence of outside influences, a body's motion preserves the status quo.

Jan choose a direction of his life the moment he walked out of his parents house and cut all contact with them. He didn't want anything to do with them, or God anymore. Even his soulmark he wished he could leave behind. But when Nace Jordan joins the band, with a mark matching his own, can Jan keep going the same way he did? Or will the force make him change a direction?

Pairings: Jan Peteh/Nace Jordan

Warnings: pretty heavy religious trauma, homophobia both internalized and just in general and for child abuse

Notes:

Ao3 Link

Okay so, several things. I will try my best to post every Saturday if my uni obligations allow me, and yes today is technically a Friday, but I was just too impatient.

This fic is listed as explicit on ao3 because there will likely be smut in later chapters and I'd rather be safe than sorry, but you can check more detailed tags on ao3 link if you are not sure about something or feel free to message me.

Big thank you to my friends @domo-no-domo-yes and @wordpuddle on tumblr for beta-reading and helping me edit this

Anyway, enjoy :)

"I etch my own face upon my wicked flesh. / I am my own devastating god."

- Rachel McKibbens, from "Shiv," Women of Resistance: Poems for a New Feminism

The first memories Jan had of his own mother were of her telling him stories every night. How, when God saw how many people came into being and how they went through their lives lost and afraid, He decided to bestow upon them a Gift – a sign of His love and mercy - that would guide them to a person who would be just right for them.

A soulmate.

Jan remembered how his mother’s soft hands gently stroked his dark, unruly hair – doing her best to tame it – as she spoke of how a Gift of his own would be granted to him in a few years, that there were some ways in which he could seek the blessing of guidance towards the right path - towards his soulmate.

That was the reason why they went to church regularly. To seek the guidance under His heavenly light. To earn His Gift.

It would take Jan quite a few years to realize that was the precise moment when the metaphorical noose was placed around his neck.

When he was around five, his mother observed a faint mark behind his ear as she was cutting his hair. She made a brief remark about it, but said nothing more. Afterwards, Jan found himself tracing its borders with his finger while trying to catch a glimpse of it in the bathroom mirror.

The mark took the form of a vaguely pear-shaped outline, devoid of color and detail. His hand continued to hover over it, occasionally touching it, as he left the bathroom and crouched behind a wall, eavesdropping on his parents speaking in not-so-hushed voices in the living room.

"You know very well what this means," his father whisper shouted, "she has to be quite a few years older than he is, if the mark is already appearing this early!"

"Let’s not jump to conclusions. If she’s two, three years older…it's not the end of the world. What matters is that she is from good, Christian family."

Jan quietly tiptoed towards his room; his heart as heavy as lead. As he lay on his bed, unable to find sleep, he decided to do what his mother always suggested he do whenever he was upset. He prayed. Prayed for a soulmate his parents would love, someone they would approve of. A soulmate that would be the closest thing to Heaven in their eyes.

It had not yet dawned upon him that his soulmate should be perfect for himself, first and foremost, not his parents.

By the time Jan started primary school at the age of seven, his mark shifted two more times. First, detail and color filled the vague pear-shaped outline, transforming it into a brown acoustic guitar, and then some years later, it shifted yet again, this time into a red bass guitar. 

The whispered conversations between his parents became more frequent, and his father's expressions grew darker and angrier with each passing day. The only thing that seemed to soothe them was Jan accompanying them to church every Sunday. And so, Jan continued to do so.

Now, the church wasn’t all bad. In the silence of the stone structure, as the walls vibrated with the echoes of the choir’s song, Jan managed to bring himself to find peace. Not to mention, God was always good in his parents’ stories. Like a good Shepherd, he always took care of His flock who believed in him, including the lost lambs. So, Jan always closed his eyes and prayed as hard as he could. 

God at least, would not forsake him.

It wasn't until Jan reached high school and cautiously asked his parents if he could learn to play the guitar, that things started to change.

Inevitably, it took quite a bit of convincing. Guitar lessons meant that Jan would have less time to dedicate towards church and schoolwork, but since Jan was always a good student who worked hard to keep his grades up, they couldn't say no.

Jan was not ready to tell them that one of the reasons why he wanted those guitar lessons was so that he could spend less time under their watchful eyes, as well as attending church services. He could already feel his father's cold rage breathing down his neck at the mere thought of mentioning it. Not to mention, he was developing a taste of his own, music-wise – something which he carefully kept under wraps, as he knew the kind of music he discovered and loved would certainly be considered ungodly.

The last two years of middle school had been rough on Jan. Matej moved out just a bit before his twenty-seventh birthday, and his sister got married and moved away ages ago. This meant that Jan lived alone with his parents, with no one to divert their attention from him, which made him long for some time to have for himself.

Being so much younger than both his siblings felt awful. It was as if he was perpetually late to everything and stumbled through things his siblings seemingly did with ease. Worse yet, ever since he started puberty, his parents began asking him about girls he liked. Jan usually brushed off their queries by stating he was more interested in math than girls. 

Yet, if he had to be honest with himself, math class often bored him. He often felt as if his brain was constantly racing ahead of most of his classmates’, the problems he copied from the board completely solved long before anyone else finished. Truth be told, instead of counting how many times he mumbled “Hail Mary” for mouthing off at the teacher, his eyes strayed towards the boy sitting in the second row. He once counted seventy-eight eyelashes on the boy's upper eyelid before the teacher called his name.

His heart didn't slow until well after he left school. After that, he never looked at the boy again. 

So, picking up the guitar served two purposes. For one, he might get closer to his soulmate and meet her while learning to play the guitar – he did hear of the oft-mentioned stereotype of girls liking musicians after all – and of course, he would also have a convenient excuse to skip Sunday mass on occasion. 

Every time anything related to homosexuality was mentioned, Jan’s breath often hitched. He felt as if he was being watched, be it by his family or his peers, or by God’s eye. As if, if he ever so much as breathed the wrong way, or moved his hand a certain way, it would be obvious to everyone. 

And Jan never, ever wanted that to happen. Not in his lifetime.

Music was, as he soon learned, similar to math in some aspects. It was all about attention to detail and carefully reading the notes. Well, it was not quite the same as math however. Math made his thoughts speed up as he focused, while he sifted through all the possible answers. With music, however, it was as if his brain and his entire being focused on a singular point – one where he could simply concentrate on the notes and the strings under his fingers alone. Everything else simply faded away when music took over his soul. 

It felt like a prayer. Like for the first time in years, he witnessed what a miracle was, and found God among the strings. 

But what really changed his mind took the form of a tall, lanky boy who took lessons from the same guitar teacher. Jan often saw him either walking out of the building as he came to his lessons, or waiting in the hallway for his turn, as Jan was finished for the day.

It wasn't until their music teacher call them up for the same session and introduced them to each other that Jan truly noticed him. 

"Jan, this is Kris Guštin. Kris, this is Jan Peteh. I wanted to suggest-"

"Wait, Kris Guštin? As in, Gušti's kid?!" Jan might have been raised in a Christian household, but he did not live under a rock, and he already developed a taste of his own as of late.

Kris sighed and Ema pursed her lips. She didn't like being interrupted. Jan grimaced.

"Sorry."

"Yes. He’s my dad. Can we please get back on track?"

Jan took a good look at the tall boy for the first time. His hair was cut awfully short - Jan's own hair reached slightly below his ears, just enough to cover up his soulmark - and he looked like he got dressed in the first clothes they found in his size, which consisted of a mock-collegiate jumper and rather short shorts.

Kris shot him a glare and Jan realized he was staring. He quickly turned his eyes back towards Ema.

"As I was saying, both of you have been my students for quite some time. I think you both are very talented and your styles are very complementary. I suggest you two get to know each other better and perhaps consider forming a band."

Jan felt his mouth fall open as his jaw went slack, but no words came out. Him? In a band? His head spun. Yet somewhere, deep inside his chest, his heart warmed and swelled with joy. A desire he never dared to voice suddenly sang. 

"With him?" Kris asked, his blue eyes widening.

Ema raised a neatly-plucked eyebrow.

"Kris. I realize Jan might not have made the best impression with his earlier interruption, but he is, along with you, one of my best students. I would not have suggested this if I wasn't certain it could work."

Kris considered him carefully, his eyes narrowing slightly at his necklace with a cross on it. Jan felt a twinge of self-consciousness, as well as a sudden urge to hide it under his shirt. Wearing it was more if a habit at this point anyway. Like a lucky amulet of some sort, protecting him from anything bad that could happen.

"How about the two of you think about it? We can have a joint session for today so you can see how you fit musically. Then, you can figure out the rest on your own."

To this, they both agreed, albeit Kris was slightly less enthusiastic, at least outwardly. Jan really wanted it to work out, but he reined his expectations. He never expected music to be more than a hobby, after all.

“How about I give you a key and then I’ll mess around a bit to find something that sounds good. You can join in if you think you have a melody that will go with mine, so we’ll see if it works. Sounds good?”

Jan nodded. Kris focused on his guitar and then slowly slide his fingers over the strings. Jan listened carefully, trying to get a feel of Kris’ guitar-playing style. 

The younger boy seemed to favor clearer, more measured and consistent tones. Jan on the other hand, perhaps partly due to the kind of music he listened to, had an inclination towards more frenetic, improvisational and chaotic playing, with more distortion. Perhaps…

The next time Kris began his melody, Jan joined in. He followed it with his own, fast-paced and improvised one. Not to overpower Kris’ own playing but simply to complement it. When they reached the end, Jan and Kris exchanged a look. Kris' suspicion melted away, and he gave Jan a shy smile. 

“That was…really good actually. We should do it again…this time, with a proper song.”

In that moment, something just clicked. It was as if Jan finally found the key to solving an equation he had been struggling with. And just as it was in math, once he found the solution to one equation, it was like finding a key to solve all equations similar to it.

“Deal.”

They did end up forming a band, even if Buržuazija didn't last very long – less than two years, in fact. More importantly for Jan, however, he gained a friend. Not that he was devoid of friends before Kris came into the picture, but the younger boy was different. He wasn’t handpicked by his parents and neither was he anything like Jan pictured a son of Gušti to be - although he did indeed take after his father looks-wise.

He could come across as mean at times, but as Jan soon learned, it was more the result of a combination of affectionate teasing and awkwardness, as well as a need for order.

His parents didn't approve, of course. Neither of Kris nor Jan spending even more time playing the guitar. But this time, Jan found himself no longer caring. He began sneaking out often, as well as lying regularly as well - making up extra classes and math tutoring sessions in order to spend more time with Kris and the rest of their band. 

It was on one such night, during a festival they were set to perform in, that Jan met Bojan. His band Apokalipsa was to take the stage right before them.

However, it wasn't Bojan's voice that made him notice him. Rather, it was the way Kris stared in his direction. Like Kris was someone that saw colors for the first time when he looked at him, his turquoise eyes staring into warm pools of deep brown.

It was the look of someone completely smitten.

Jan gently nudged him and Kris startled, looking at him wide-eyed.

"You know him?"

"Um. Yeah, we went to primary school together. It's-he just has a really nice voice, y'know?"

Even under the flashing lights, he could see the faint blush that colored Kris' cheeks. Finding someone who looked at other boys the same way he did felt...odd. It was not how he he expected to feel. Jan knew was supposed to be happy to find someone like himself, but instead he just felt disconnected. Like he couldn't quite process it.

He turned to face the stage. Bojan did have a nice voice and despite being on the slightly shorter side, when he began to sing, that impression faded away. He was larger than life and had a certain charismatic quality that demanded all eyes to be on him. Jan could definitely understand why Kris liked him.

"Don't worry though. He is not like-my soulmate or anything. Not that I have one. Just. Y'know."

Jan snorted.

"Obviously, he isn’t your soulmate. He ain’t a girl, is he?"

Silence. Jan turned to look at Kris, who stared at him with his mouth set in a straight line. He fidgeted in a way that he only ever did when he was nervous. The lights shifted in color from blue to red, painting everything in an almost menacing manner. 

"Oh. I didn't know you. Um."

Jan was confused. 

"That I what?"

"That you were homophobic," Kris said, his voice barely audible.

Jan's heart stopped for a few moments. Homophobic? The lights in the venue flashed in different colors at an increased rate now. Yellow, then blue again, then red. He began shaking his head as he felt Kris’ words cut into him like a blade.

"Homophobic? No! Why would you think that? I am not homophobic, I'm-"

He stopped himself, swallowing the word before it could pass over his lips. The forbidden word. The one he would never utter with regards to himself.

Kris stared at him, but this time he looked neither fearful nor suspicious, at least. More...curious, if anything.

"But you don't think soulmates can be of the same gender?"

It was obvious, now that Kris stated it. So why did Jan feel like he was being dragged from a very dark place into the sunlight? Like he was seeing things through a completely new perspective for the first time? As if on cue, bright green lights illuminated the stage, while Jan came to a conclusion.

He felt his heart beat in his chest like a drum, as if heralding an important revelation - something life changing. Something that he couldn't go back from.

"You-that can happen?"

Thump-thump-thump. Kris' face softened.

"Of course, it can. You don't...you didn't know that?"

Jan shook his head, unable to find the right words. Kris reached out and grasped his shoulder, squeezing it gently.

"Oh Jan..."

He was saved from whatever Kris was about to say, by the end of Apokalipsa's performance and the announcer calling them to take the stage. Jan stood up quickly and moved as if he was on autopilot. He could not bring himself to look at Kris.

Somewhere between setting up their instruments and the beginning their first song, rage slowly started to build up in him. His parents, the people whom he trusted all his life, lied to him. His father must have suspected for years. Did they not like Kris because they knew his parents weren't against the notion of homosexuality and same-sex soulmates? That Kris wasn't?

Fueled by rage and spite, Jan moved his fingers over the chords. Anger was all he felt, but said wrath radiated power. He played like he wanted his parents to hear him from their bedroom at home.

He wanted them to know how he felt. How he was breaking their rules, and that there was absolutely nothing they could do about it.

Ending the song felt like coming out of a daze. They were met with thunderous applause, and Jan felt overwhelmed, like every sensation hit him all at once. He only just managed to keep his chill until they got off the stage and he put his guitar down. He then broke out into a run, and took off.

Kris was calling his name, but he didn't turn around. He could not bring himself to do so.

He slowed down once he neared the school playground, gasping for breath. Then, he made his way towards the old swing set and sat on one of the swing seats. It was too small for his already tall frame, and he had to bend his knees quite a bit to be able to fit. 

The cool breeze lightly caressed Jan’s face as he tried to untangle the chaos that was his thoughts and feelings. For seventeen years, he believed that a soulmate was a Gift people got, and made the best out of it. That meeting the one destined for him was akin to finding the puzzle piece that would complete him. That she would make him right again. That all of these dark feelings, all these little rebellions he engaged in would become unnecessary. Irrelevant.

Jan realized with a jolt that he did not quite believe that for a long time. Deep down, he knew a soulmate couldn't fix him, or life, or even his deteriorating relationship with his parents. It was just so difficult to bring himself look at cold, hard reality. 

Lies…they were familiar, polished and smooth from many years of handling them. The truth on the other hand, was all sharp edges that made him bleed, just like the guitar’s strings did when he first began playing.

Tears slid down his cheeks, and he covered his mouth with his hand to stifle a sob, but finally, he looked directly at it. Stared at the darkness in the face and embraced it for the first time, rather than shrink back into the light. 

He had to admit it to himself that his parents loved the idea of him, a lot more than they would ever love him as a person. They only loved him when he molded himself into someone they could approve of, and someone he wasn't – and probably never was. When he was obedient, didn't ask questions and behaved himself. Like a lamb who simply followed, and molded himself to fit into their idea of what a good son was. 

And Jan was so tired of pretending. Of pretending he still believed in everything they said. In everything priests said. In the end, it was all about controlling him. 

He reached for his crucifix necklace, firstly gently stroking his fingers over the cold metal and then grabbing it with his fist. Then he pulled. The delicate chain snapped and Jan was left with a cross and a broken necklace.

He put it in the pocket, with what little faith he had left. He then wiped his tears away and got up from the swing.

Walking back seemed to take much longer than it did running away. Or perhaps Jan's racing thoughts finally calmed now that he had accepted the truth.

Nonetheless, the festival still wasn't over by the time he got back. He found Kris easily enough - he was tall enough to be spotted at a glance - in a conversation with Bojan. Kris immediately noticed him and after what seemed to be a quick apology to Bojan, made his way over to him.

"Are you okay?" He asked quietly, his eyes scanning his face.

Jan gave him a weak smile.

"I will be, I think."

Kris nodded, but still looked worried. Then he bit his lip.

"Well, actually I was just talking to Bojan and um."

Jan raised an eyebrow. 

"And?"

"He was really impressed with our performance and he...asked if the two of us would like to form a new band, with him and two of his friends? Since their guitarist are quitting after the summer."

Jan shrugged. There was no harm in hearing him out, was there? He didn't have to accept. And he did owe Kris some extra time with his crush after the whole ordeal.

"Sure, let's hear him out. I mean, not like we are making any life changing decision here."

He had never been more wrong.

Since then, Jan began distancing himself from his parents even more. He questioned everything they told him, and then stopped listening altogether. He no longer accompanied them to church every Sunday, and stopped caring about what they had to say about the music he listened to, or how he spent his time.

He slowly but surely grew his hair out, hiding his mark completely. He’d scrub it off his skin if he could.

After he turned eighteen and choose a university in Ljubljana, far enough that he would need to live in a campus dormitory or rent an apartment. Unsurprisingly, his parents protested. 

Jan told them that he was moving out regardless of whether he was accepted or not. That he would find a job and move out if necessary. 

"Why?" His mother asked, searching his face, desperately trying to find a boy she raised to obey her.

She wouldn't find him. The boy was long gone.

He reached into his pocket, where he still kept the crucifix necklace on a broken chain. He set it on the table and pulled his hand back. His heart felt like it was lodged in his throat, trying to prevent him from uttering the truth. He swallowed, then forced his words out through clenched teeth. 

"I don't believe in God anymore."

There was more he wanted to say. To explain why and how. But as soon as he uttered the first sentence his father backhanded him so hard Jan felt his lip split. He tasted iron on his tongue.

His mother gasped, but did not say a word in his defense. As always. Jan felt numb as he reached for his lip and found it bleeding. His father had never hit him before this. Yelling was commonplace, sometimes grounding and things taken away, but never this. 

It was the last straw. The final note at the end of the twisted hymn that spelled out his life’s path for the past eighteen years, one that was necessary to be play before it was finally over.

"How dare you speak to me like this, in my house?!"

Jan looked at his father straight in the eyes, without so much as a flinch. They shared the same eyes, and he briefly wondered how they ended up seeing the world with them so differently.

"Which is why I am leaving. But I'd believe in God before I'd ever believe either of you again. Only straight soulmates exist, huh? You are both such fucking liars."

Jan snarled those damning words with as much venom as he could muster. The second time his father swung at him; Jan caught his hand. They stared at one another for one long, tense moment. His father was pale, his eyes wide. In that moment, he looked older than his sixty years. Frailer. For the first time, he noticed fear in his eyes. His father was scared of him. Scared of not being able to control him, of what he was capable of doing next. 

"This is what it’s all about, isn’t it?? You-you are going through some kind of phase and you think you are gay now? That your soulmate will be a man?!"

"No."

They didn't deserve to know and yet. Jan wanted to hurt them. Wanted to twist the dagger, plunge it deeper, and let them bleed for all the suffering and doubt they put him through. He wanted them to never recover, just like he knew he wouldn't. 

"I don't care if my soulmate if a woman or a man or whatever. I don't want them. I don't want any Gifts from your fucking God, or anything from you."

His mother let out a sob. Jan let go of his father's hand and took a step back. He felt nothing and everything at the same time. It was as if he was encased in cold, cold ice. Everything that happened below the surface didn't quite reach him yet. 

The child in him wanted to draw her into the hug and tell her everything will be alright, just like she did to him, so many years ago. The person he was now wanted to spit in her face and tell her she was equally complicit and made him feel just as hopeless as she felt now for years. 

"Look at what you are doing to your mother. After everything we gave you-"

"I’ve already packed. I can go now."

Silence was dark and heavy. He felt his mother's stare. He did not look back. The two sides of him were still at war, and he didn’t want either one to win.

"Where will you go?" She asked through the sobs.

"To a friend. College is only few weeks away. They said I can stay until then."

His father slammed the table with his fist. 

"To the Guštins?! I told you that boy was cursed! He is soulless, that's why he doesn't have a soulmate!"

Jan bristled at the slight against his best friend and stared at his father in grim silence for a few moments, before grabbing the discarded crucifix from the table and throwing it at him. It hit the older man squarely in the forehead, making a small cut that started bleeding immediately. Jan felt tears stinging his eyes and threatening to fall. Tears of rage and betrayal and grief, all at once. He held them back, before raising his chin and retorting, the final remnants of the lamb in him burning away to reveal a wolf. 

"The only soulless one is you! And I never want to fucking see either of you, ever again!"

He turned on his heel and ran up the stairs to his room, quickly gathering his suitcase and bags. Everything he owned and cherished was packed away in those bags. His entire life up to that point. Well. Almost. He kept wiping his tears away, not wanting to give them the satisfaction of seeing him cry. All the pictures from the church and of his parents – a reminder of the lies and the suffering he was leaving behind - were neatly set on the table. He only packed the ones he had with Kris, Bojan, Martin and Matić. He also had one picture of him and his brother, hidden in a math notebook. He wasn’t sure if he would keep it just yet, but he brought it with him anyways. There was still a glimmer of hope that he might get to keep his brother after all this, if no one else.

Nobody tried to stop him as he resolutely carried all his bags down the stairs and dragged them behind him as he stepped out of the door. 

"If you do this, you can't come back, Jan. You are adult. We have no legal obligation to help you anymore, or help save your soul from damnation."

Jan looked back at his father one last time. His shoulders were slumped, and he was holding a bloodstained piece of gauze to his forehead where the crucifix made its impact. Jan's own lip stung where it broke.

What relationship they had was past the point of no return, and he knew that for a while already. It was only a few minutes ago that they became aware of it. 

"Goodbye, dad," he said with finality, before he slammed the door behind him.

What little faith he had stored in his pocket that fateful night stayed behind in that house. He would never again find God between the strings of his guitar, nor find comfort in His divine light. Neither did he want to, ever again. But maybe, with time, he might be able to find himself.

That was the best he could hope for.

[astrangetorpedo]

boygenius: “This is the time we finally get to be around each other – we’re gonna enjoy it”

As they release The Record, one of the year's most anticipated and acclaimed debut albums, we meet Phoebe Bridgers, Lucy Dacus and Julien Baker in New York City to discuss their unique creative bond

by Gemma Samways

Tonight, the room is playing host to the 36th annual Tibet House US Benefit. Curated by Philip Glass – and featuring Laurie Anderson, Arooj Aftab and Bernard Sumner and Tom Chapman of New Order – the line-up reads like a particularly A-list episode of Later with… Jools Holland. It soon transpires its staging is similarly chaotic, with the event running approximately an hour behind schedule and artists often walking onstage unannounced.

boygenius are one of the few acts to enjoy a proper introduction. Added to the bill just 24 hours ago, their first public appearance in almost half a decade has prompted a frenzied, last minute scramble for seats, with $35 tickets exchanging hands for ten times that amount. A day later, in a photo studio in the East Village following our shoot at Jane’s Carousel in Brooklyn, the trio admit to having felt a little freaked out in the build-up.

“I was really emotional because I’ve been obsessed with Nina Simone’s Carnegie Hall album of late,” Lucy Dacus confides, sat on the sofa, sandwiched between her bandmates. Julien Baker nods, confessing to having been “so stressed about doing my job that I couldn’t fully absorb that I was playing alongside living legends.” Meanwhile, Phoebe Bridgers was still semi-delirious with jetlag, having recently landed back in the US from Japan.

“Look at this photo,” she laughs, extending her phone to me. Taken pre-gig, it shows her passed out on the dressing room floor while Lucy smirks in the foreground. “With full make-up, I look like I’m in an open casket. And because Julien was playing piano, I was having Julien-fuelled dreams.”

Certainly there were no visible signs of unease as they stepped out onstage to play stripped-back versions of ‘Not Strong Enough’ and ‘Cool About It’ – taken from their long-awaited debut album The Record – for the first time. And despite the all-star bill, the supergroup proved one of the night’s biggest draws, eliciting excited whoops from an audience who had greeted every other performer with respectfully restrained applause. Ultimately, once they started playing, they enjoyed the experience.

Less gratifying was the discovery that a group of particularly intrusive fans had tracked down their hotel after the show. “They were like, ‘Don’t worry, you’re safe’,” Lucy shudders. “And it’s like, ‘No, we aren’t: how’d you find out where we are? That’s stalking. Don’t do this.

Phoebe continues: “I mean, interactions with fans can be really sweet, especially when it’s a show like Carnegie Hall which might’ve been hard to get tickets to. But often there’s this weird thing where the rudest people bubble to the top, and the poor kid who just wants their record signed is too nice to ask. And so, while I’m trying to escape the fucking full-grown man who just grabbed me, I’m ignoring the sweet kid.

It’s fair to say a certain level of hysteria has surrounded boygenius ever since their formation. Five years ago they were all ascendant stars of the alternative scene, with the Tennessee-born Baker and Richmond, Virginia-raised Dacus being the most established, with two acclaimed albums each. By the end of 2018, the trio were being breathlessly billed by Vogue as “the Infinity War of female-led indie-rock outfits,” while their self-titled EP received widespread praise.

Objectively, it’s a collaboration that made – and still makes – total sense. Despite outgrowing their respective DIY scenes, they had each retained a fiercely independent outlook and an emotional authenticity, and that struck a chord with similarly principled, serotonin-starved audiences. Just as tantalisingly, interviews and social media interactions revealed that they didn’t take themselves especially seriously and seemed keen to distance themselves from the pedestal that fans were so intent on putting them on.

“It’s probably refreshing that we’re not character artists,” Lucy says when asked to summarise the appeal of boygenius. “Because ultimately we’re talking to you now how we usually talk to each other. Even when I’m doing my own [solo] stuff, I present a curated version of myself – like, I pick one aspect of my character per album to share. But with this band it’s totally artless.”

It’s not hyperbolic to suggest that The Record is one of the most anticipated albums of the year. To some degree that demand can be explained by Baker and Dacus expanding their fanbases further off the back of their 2021 solo records Little Oblivions and Home Video. But the real responsibility for the band’s reach surely lies at the feet of Bridgers, whose second album was nothing short of a cultural phenomenon.

Unanimously agreed to be one of 2020’s standout records, Punisher propelled the Pasadena-raised artist into music’s A-list, resulting in four Grammy nominations, an offer to found her own label (Saddest Factory, home to MUNA) and invites to collaborate with household names like Paul McCartney, SZA, Lorde and The 1975. Just days after our interview Phoebe is named one of Time’s 2023 Women of the Year, alongside Cate Blanchett and Megan Rapinoe. This coming May she will open for Taylor Swift in Tennessee, Pennsylvania, Massachusetts and New Jersey.

Despite the difference in their public profiles, the power dynamic in boygenius appears impressively balanced. A friendship first and foremost, they’ve signed the contract by acquiring matching tattoos of a tooth and of a cluster of goblets, the latter inspired by the tarot card the three of cups.

“That’s based on the first tarot reading Julien ever got,” Lucy – the band’s resident tarot expert – recalls fondly. “We were all together and that’s the first card she pulled. Plus it’s three women partying. Friendship is the highest form of love and that felt like a sweet entry into that world.”

Having been raised in the world of evangelical Christianity, Julien was initially resistant to the idea of tarot. “When you started doing a reading, I got up and sat in the tour van by myself because I thought God was gonna steal my soul,” she explains, totally serious.

“Does God do that?!” Phoebe laughs, incredulous.

“Yes! In [the book of] Samuel! But then I was like, ‘Alright, I trust you guys. I guess you can guide me through this.’ That was a fear that you guys helped me dismantle. Because by watching you engage with it, I realised that this was a tool for self-interrogation, not for summoning the devil.”

Within the band, all decisions are made democratically and affectionate ribbings are a big part of their social currency. “Roasting each other is an act of love,” Julien reasons, to the others’ approval. “If your friends aren’t talking shit about you, I don’t think they care about you.”

With Phoebe based in Los Angeles, Lucy in Philadelphia and Julien in Memphis, they largely stay in touch via group chat and FaceTime – a support network they all clearly cherish. “I can text cold something horrible that happened to me and not feel the pressure to look at my phone for hours,” says Phoebe. “But when I do I’ll see a bunch of validation.”

Julien concurs: “It’s neat that we can confide in each other. Because sometimes my sense of imposter syndrome makes me not want to talk about how excited I am about this with friends who don’t work in music. I’m talking to them like, ‘You gotta get on a plane super early and carry all this heavy equipment, so it’s not all fun.’ And having people understand it’s a job and that I’m dedicated to it is very important. But equally, with y’all I get to be like, ‘Shit’s so fucking sick!’ Like, in this band I get to be the type of excited and thankful that lacks decorum, especially when there are so many talented people in my life where our roles could have been switched in an alternate timeline.”

The roots of boygenius were laid in 2016, when Julien and Lucy performed on the same bill in Washington, D.C., followed by Julien meeting Phoebe a month later. When a canny promoter booked all three to tour together in 2018, they decided to record a collaborative seven-inch, a creative experiment that proved so fruitful they emerged with their eponymous EP.

By all accounts, the story behind The Record is similarly stress-free. Phoebe kickstarted the creative process just a week after releasing Punisher, sending a demo of ‘Emily, I’m Sorry’ to Lucy and Julien with the words, “Can we be a band again?” From there, the floodgates opened, with all three uploading demos to a shared drive, followed by two in-person writing trips – one in Healdsburg, California in April 2021 and another in Malibu in August of the same year.

Though carefully scheduled due to their individual work commitments, Lucy describes these retreats as anything but regimented. “We didn’t intend to work that hard,” she insists. “If anything, the regimen would have included breaks and we didn’t allow ourselves those.” Julien expands, “We’d be like, ‘Okay, today is a chill day,” but then we could not stop thinking about the record. And it’s just nice to be around a bunch of people who are passionate about the exact same thing.”

After whittling down the demos from a pool of 25, the final 12 were recorded at Rick Rubin’s Shangri-La studio in January 2022, with the help of co-producer Catherine Marks (Wolf Alice, Foals, PJ Harvey). Lucy specifically cites Marks’ work with Manchester Orchestra as a motivating factor for them initially reaching out, and Phoebe enthuses about her hands-on approach. “She’s the kind of producer that immediately kicks off their shoes. Wait, I’m gonna text her and tell her we’re talking about her.” She takes a group selfie of them all grinning, flicking Vs, and hits send.

Other key contributors included engineer and producer Sarah Tudzin (Slowdive, Weyes Blood), plus Jay Som’s Melina Duterte on bass. Melina will also appear as part of Boygenius’ seven-strong touring line-up, set to be unveiled at Coachella in April. Given that their band name specifically mocks society’s tendency to unfairly exalt male creatives, the idea of boygenius assembling a largely female team for this album feels satisfyingly utopian. Today, they insist it was purely circumstantial.

“They are the best people we could think of,” says Lucy. “Some days I’m like, ten-year-old me would feel that this is very important. But also there are days where I’m like, we’re doing press right now and it’s completely uninteresting that we’re women. Why are we talking about this?”

“Plus, it’s not a given that if you work with women you’re not also working with a bunch of assholes,” Phoebe grins. “Fortunately, we picked a bunch of people who aren’t assholes.” Lucy laughs. “Women can be assholes: there’s your pull quote.”

Sonically, The Record is a much richer, more ambitious collection than anything boygenius have produced previously, taking in widescreen folk-rock (‘Not Strong Enough’) and low-slung punk (‘Satanist’, ‘$20’), campfire folk (‘Cool About It’, ‘Leonard Cohen’) and string-flecked dream-pop (‘Revolution 0’), plus a swooning a cappella piece shaped around a lush three-part harmony (‘Without You Without Them’).

Though written by Lucy, Phoebe can take full credit for unearthing the latter. “I was like, ‘I want a song that’s like ‘Blue Velvet’.’ And Lucy’s like, ‘Oh… Actually I might have a song…’ And I’m like, ‘What the fuck are you talking about?!’”

“It was a washing the dishes song.” Lucy protests, smiling. “There’s, like, this whole category of songs that I don’t show people. And I didn’t think of that as a ‘me’ song because it doesn’t sound like what I do, you know? But Phoebe was like, ‘We have to do it.’ Plus, I like that it kind of picks up where we left off with ‘Ketchum, ID’ [from their 2018 EP]. So I’m glad you made us do that.”

This process of mutual encouragement is integral to the band. They’re the first to admit they’re one another’s fiercest supporters, to the extent they accidentally plagiarise each other on a regular basis. “I totally wrote ‘Garden Song’ the other day,” Julien tells Phoebe, who cheerfully bats back. “‘Revolution 0’ is basically me ripping off ‘Good News.’”

Jokes aside, all three songwriters boast instantly recognisable styles, as demonstrated by the triumvirate of singles with which they announced The Record. ‘Emily, I’m Sorry’ is quintessential Phoebe Bridgers, a slice of folky introspection that wouldn’t sound out of place on Punisher, while ‘True Blue’ showcases the quietly anthemic indie-rock that Lucy has made her calling card. Meanwhile, the buoyant ‘$20’ sees former hardcore kid Julien leaning into her love of riffing.

With most structures initially emanating from one particular songwriter, it does beg the question, what makes a track right for the band rather than remaining a solo endeavour? According to Phoebe, she relies on a type of benign Spidey-Sense. “I always know when I’m writing a boygenius song. Even with ‘Me And My Dog’ I was like, ‘I don’t think this is a solo record song.’”

Lucy is more specific. “A lot of times I’ll write a song for us in a different frame of mind, so you can be harmonising with me and saying something that’s still true for you. I don’t want to make either of you sing lyrics that don’t resonate with you.”

“I really struggle with that,” Phoebe says. “So much of my music is directly my point of view and so specific.”

“Totally,” Lucy nods, “I feel like on a lot of your songs we’re supporting…”

“…like a chorus in a Greek play,” replies Julien, finishing Lucy’s thought. “We’re not a part of the action: we’re standing behind, commenting on or observing it. But these songs only exist because we made The Record. They’re an article of the endeavour rather than a pre-planned thing.”

Lucy takes the final word on the subject. “These aren’t solo songs that we donated to each other: we had to be together to make it.”

Lyrically, The Record treads a tightrope between deadpan humour and quiet devastation. The opening line of ‘We’re In Love’ sees Lucy resolutely opting for the latter, singing, “You could absolutely break my heart / That’s how I know that we’re in love.” ‘Leonard Cohen’ falls firmly into the former camp, delivering a frontrunner for lyric of the year in: “Leonard Cohen once said there’s a crack in everything / That’s how the light gets in / And I am not an old man having an existential crisis / In a Buddhist monastery / Writing horny poetry / But I agree.”

“I think my songs have a theme of being known and feeling present,” Lucy reflects. “Because I don’t feel that at all points in my life, I’m expressing my gratitude for that.” Phoebe sees her contributions as aspirational; evidence of the very process of self-improvement. “Each of the songs I contributed have a vibe of me trying my absolute hardest to not float ten inches above my body at all times. And you guys have helped me with that, so it makes sense that it would make the album.”

‘Not Strong Enough’ is perhaps their most collaborative song: a patchwork of ideas in which each band member takes a verse, as Julien jokes, “boyband-style”. Musically, it’s also the album’s most uplifting moment, its bright melody providing a smokescreen for lyrics exploring panic attacks and low self-esteem. When I point out the deception, Phoebe laughs. “You know the meme of the pink house and the black house next to each other, where it’s like one is the music and the other is the lyrics? That’s literally a couple miles from where we recorded our album. We’ve been talking about taking a photo in front of it for years.”

After an hour in their company, it’s not difficult to see why boygenius are inspiring such levels of adoration. A tight-knit gang of smart, talented, young songwriters, they’re the sort of band I wish had existed when I was growing up, even if I am battling to resist the urge to cast them as role models. After all, why should the men of rock be lauded for chaos while women have to be figures of unimpeachable virtue? When I mention the double standard, Lucy rolls her eyes.

“I remember when Phoebe did that Playboy article [in 2020]. People were texting me like, ‘I thought she was a role model for young girls?’ And I was like, 1. You can pose in Playboy and be a role model, and 2. When exactly did she sign up for that?”

“It is tight to me that you got texts and I did not,” Phoebe smiles. “I want to be scary. Like, as women or as queer people, we’re taught that anger is not useful and that forgiveness is the highest form of enlightenment. But I don’t think so. I think that I’ve spent a lot of my life trying to make everybody in a room feel ok when I don’t feel ok. It’s great to have boundaries. And as a band we’re all really good at protecting each other.”

Staying loyal to their DIY roots, boygenius are ultimately motivated by creating a community and enjoying the process of a shared endeavour. “Writing songs for this band is the opposite of saving your darlings for yourself,” Julien explains. “I want to bring the best possible offering to the band because it’s my favourite thing. It feels good to give the songs away.”

“Seriously, we have been looking forward to this time together for years,” says Phoebe. “This is the time we finally get to be around each other so we’re gonna enjoy it.”

(x) 4/5/23

[superbattrash]

Bruclark Week Day 4: Everybody Can See It But Them

Alternative title: Not NOT a date night 

OR: that one bridal carry fic I promised to do months ago. Thanks @bruclarkweek for making me keep that promise :3

“No,” Bruce says firmly. He’s trying his best not to wince as he puts weight on his bad foot. It’s a matter of principle. It’s nothing an icepack and one of Alfred’s cocktails won’t fix. If only he can get Clark to back off; but of course, Superman doesn’t leave anyone behind. Even if that someone wants to be left behind.

“B-” Clark shuts his mouth and starts over when Bruce glares at him. They have codenames for a reason. “Batman, come on."

“I said no.” It’s like trying to convince a wall to go for a walk. Clark isn’t budging. But neither is Bruce – and they both know which one of them is more stubborn. Although, judging from the hard set of Clark’s eyes, it’s going to be an evenly matched fight today. Bruce doesn’t have the patience for this; he’s in pain.

“Your foot is very clearly broken,” Clark says as he mirrors Bruce’s stance. He looks very Superman-y with his arms crossed over his chest. And he can put his entire weight on both his feet. The asshole.

“Don't x-ray me, it's a sprain,” Bruce grumbles as he tries to shift discreetly on his feet. Clark’s eyes zero in on his foot instantly and if it wouldn’t actually get broken from it, Bruce would’ve kicked him in the shin. Stupid invulnerability.

“Either way you shouldn't walk on it!” Clark exclaims. He instantly closes his mouth like he didn’t mean to speak so loudly, and Bruce knows him well enough to know that he didn’t. He’s frustrated and it’s not like there’s anybody who can hear him, but of course Clark feels bad. He doesn’t like yelling.

Bruce doesn’t care if he yells loud enough to alert the entire planet. Let Clark be frustrated; it doesn’t change the fact that Bruce will not give in. He’s not a child; he doesn’t need help. He’s never needed help (the kids don’t count), he has 20 years of experience doing this sort of thing. Okay, perhaps the giant alien creatures aren’t exactly an every-day thing, but he’s adapting.

“That's not up to you,” he says instead of voicing all his thoughts. There’s no reason to cause a scene and he knows Clark would catch onto the ‘no help needed’ thing instantly. God, you have one or two (or five or six) sidekicks and suddenly you’re not considered to be working alone.

“Oh, so my teammate's wellbeing isn't something I should care about?” Clark asks, sarcasm dripping from his voice. It’s not like him to be this pushy. Or well, maybe it is.

“That's-”

“I should just leave you here then,” Clark says as he throws his hands up in mock defeat. “I know your comm is busted, you can't call A- agent A for help.”

Bruce doesn't comment on yet another close call of those codenames. He knows Clark is merely worked up. Which is also why Clark is interrupting him; poor Martha Kent, all her parenting is thrown out the window the second Clark gets worked up. Bruce elegantly avoids looking too closely at the fact that 9 out of 10 times it’s his fault that Clark is upset.

“I'll figure something out,” he responds, despite Clark’s point being valid. His comm is more or less busted, Alfred won’t look for him for hours seeing as he’s out on a League mission and he’s usually safe on those. As safe as one can be when you’re battling aliens and super villains.

“You'll do no such thing,” Clark huffs. “You'll hopple to the bat mobile - which by the way is five miles away - and then try to drive home with that broken-”

“Sprained.”

“-foot, and you'll have made it even worse and yet still refuse anybody's help and you'll be in constant pain for the next several months because you're too stubborn to take the help you're being offered.” Clark ends his speech with a triumphant what-do-you-say-to-that look. He should know better by now.

“I can make it to the car,” Bruce insists. He’s starting to feel the ache all the way up to his knee which is never a good sign. He doesn’t shift his weight onto his good foot though, that would be admitting defeat.

“Oh, I don’t doubt it,” Clark huffs. “But you’ll put extra strain on your already b- injured foot. You can’t see the damage; I can. You’ll tear a ligament and you’ll be forced to take a break from patrolling, is that really what you want?”

“Do you always take your lectures this far?” Bruce mutters, most of his stubbornness being replaced with exhaustion. Why is Clark always so worried about him? He’s a grown man, this is ridiculous.

“Only when talking to stubborn asshats,” Clark retorts.

Bruce doesn’t comment on Clark’s attempt at cursing him. It’s always weird hearing Clark curse, but mostly because he’s not very good at it. Martha must be a proud mother on this front, but it leaves Clark’s name calling with something to be desired.

“Would you rather I contact the rest of the League?” Clark asks when Bruce doesn’t respond. He points towards the nearby city, where the spoke is still rising towards the sky from their latest mission. “Have them come here when they’re done cleaning up the city?”

“You-”

“It’s not like Diana would rather actually go home and rest; it’s not like Wally has a day-time job and I’m sure they’d gladly throw everything in their hands to come help you to your car-”

“Alright, alright,” Bruce mumbles in defeat. “I get it.”

Clark obviously knows him too well. There’s no reason to trigger his already huge pile of guilt by dragging the others into this.

“Do you?” Clark asks and he looks really pissed.

“Yes,” Bruce says with a roll of his eyes. “I would like help getting to my car.”

Clark doesn’t move.

“I would like help getting to my car, please.”

“That’s better.” He’s more bark than bite and in the blink of an eye he’s stopped frowning and he’s back to being bright and smile-y. Bruce almost despises him for it – if not for the fact that Clark is everything Bruce wants to be as a person. Bright and warm and heroic. Something special, someone strong. Someone worthy.

Clark reaches a hand to grab at Bruce’s legs and Bruce jerks away. He lands on his bad foot and nearly falls over. He grabs Clark’s shoulder for support and can’t keep the pain entirely off his face. Thank God he’s still wearing the cowl; at least Clark can’t see his eyes.

“Are you okay?” Clark asks worriedly.

“Can’t you just carry me normally?” Bruce ignores his question.

“Normally?” Clark sighs. “Br- Batman. You’re a grown man, a human man. I can’t just grab your arm and fly off. Do you want me to throw you over my shoulder or can we do this my way?”

The mere thought of being seen thrown over Superman’s shoulder like a sack of potatoes has Bruce want to die of mortification. He gathers his cape and then crosses his arms over his chest again. He’s not going to actually choose out loud. Clark will have to read his body language. Clark does, obviously, because he always knows exactly what Bruce means which isn’t usually annoying (it works well on missions), but today everything Clark does is annoying. Bruce might be in more pain than he’s willing to admit.

Clark reaches for Bruce’s legs once again and since Bruce doesn’t resist this time, he swiftly lifts him up into his arms. Bruce ignores the swoop in his stomach at how easily Clark manhandles him. He’s not fourteen anymore, he shouldn’t feel giddy at having a strong guy being able to carry him. He’s also trying not to feel silly, being carried like a newlywed bride. Maybe the potato sack position would’ve been better, after all.

Clark taps his communicator and opens the link to the League. At least Bruce can still listen in, although there’s a lot of crackly on the line. He’ll live.

“I’ll make sure Batman gets to the batmobile and then I’ll come help you guys,” he says.

“Of course,” Diana’s response comes at the same time Wally’s does: “Of course, you will. Why not just leave that thing so you can keep cuddling all the way home?”

There’s a very audible slap, followed by an “Ow!” and Bruce is forever grateful for Diana’s everything. He’s also feeling slightly humiliated which isn’t a good look on a man in his forties. He harrumphs and shuffles further into Clark’s arms – just to be able to cross his arms tighter, obviously! He does not, in fact frown, despite what Clark’s stupid grin is saying. Bruce actively avoids meeting Clark’s eyes. He knows he’ll find more joy and teasing in them, and he can’t take any more of his brightness right now.

“Flash is right,” Diana says. “Take Batman home, we will take care of the rest.”

“What about the batmobile?” Clark asks. He’s already lifting off the ground.

“Can’t you just pick that up in your other hand?” Wally suggests with a laugh, which is then promptly followed by another “ow!”

“Flash will make sure it gets to the cave in one piece.”

“What?!” There’s a small pause where no doubt Diana is glaring at Wally before his voice comes through the comm again: “I’ll make sure it gets home safely.”

Bruce opens his mouth to object – Wally is not driving his car anywhere! – but Clark chooses that moment to shoot off into the sky (probably on purpose, the jerk).

“Thanks, guys!” Clark says before disconnecting.

“You can’t seriously be letting him drive my car,” Bruce shouts over the air flying past them. He’s about to move his cape up to cover the lower part of his face when Clark does it for him.

“It’s just a car, Bruce,” he says, because he can. They’re in the air, nobody can hear them past the noise of the wind. He’s taking advantage of the situation and he knows it. Bruce can’t even be mad at him.

“It’s my car,” he mutters but turns his head into Clark’s shoulder. The wind’s cold and he’s already given up most of his dignity – what’s a little more? It’s not like Clark will hold this against him either way.

--

They arrive at the cave twenty minutes later. It’s the longest it’s taken Clark to get anywhere since… ever. At least that’s what Bruce tells him. Clark says it’s because he doesn’t want Bruce to be entirely frozen by the time they got there, while Bruce argues that Clark just likes to torture him and prolonging his suffering several hundred feet in the air is Clark’s dark side rearing its ugly head.

It’s obviously about the cold, although the chance to have Bruce close is always nice. Not that Clark’s going to tell Bruce that; he likes being alive, thank you very much. It’s just that Bruce isn’t exactly touchy-feely and Clark… is. With some people. With Bruce, mostly. Having a best friend who knows everything about you has that effect on people though, it’s not just Clark being weird. He thinks.

Clark foregoes the cave floor and flies through and up the stairs, so Bruce has no excuse to sit at the computer and work instead of getting treatment for his ankle.

“The med bay’s in the cave,” Bruce mutters, because of course he knows what Clark is doing. He always does. He’s too clever for his own good – either of their own goods – sometimes. It doesn’t stop him from faux mind-reading everything else in Clark’s head. “I can bandage my own foot, Clark.”

“Well, I’m sure Alfred won’t mind doing it for you up here. Where you can rest.”

“I’m not a child,” Bruce objects but there’s no real heat to his words. He’s already given up on fighting Clark, which is a good thing, because Bruce may be the more stubborn of the two of them, but not when it comes to his own health. Clark knows how to play Bruce just as well as Bruce knows how to play Clark. Nearly a decade of friendship will do that to two guys.

“Stop acting like one then and let me go get Alfred.”

Bruce doesn’t answer which means Clark has won. It’s nice to be able to read Bruce without seeing his actual face. Speaking of…

“And take the cowl off, you’re not on a mission anymore.”

“Someone didn’t let me get changed in the cave, remember?” Bruce taunts. He’s probably thinking it’ll get him a free pass to the cave, but Clark knows better than to take that obvious bait.

“Well,” Clark says and super speeds them to Bruce’s bedroom. He dumps him (carefully) on the bed. “You can change now, here. I’ll wait.” He stands in front of the door for good measure.

“Pervert,” Bruce accuses when Clark doesn’t turn around, but he does as he’s told.

It turns out it’s a good thing Clark doesn’t turn around because Bruce nearly falls over trying to get his uniform off. He really can’t support his weight on his foot at all anymore and Clark feels awful. It’s not really his fault but he hates it when Bruce gets hurt on mission. It always leaves him feeling like he could’ve done more. Should’ve done more.

“Stop blaming yourself,” Bruce mutters as Clark helps him out of his undershirt. Of course, he picks up on Clark’s silent misery. “This isn’t on you.”

“Feels like it,” Clark says softly, looking over the many cuts and bruises on Bruce’s torso. He’s hurt so often, so much, and he still keeps going. Clark doesn’t know how he does it.

“I know.” Bruce’s voice in gentle in a way it only is when it’s just the two of them. When they’re somewhere safe and he can’t help but wanting to make Clark feel better. It’s been happening a lot more often recently. “Doesn’t make it true though.”

“Are you really comforting me when you’re the one who’s hurt?” Clark asks, trying for a smile.

“Are you really helping me take my socks off?” Bruce counters.

“Alright, okay, I’ll get Alfred,” Clark says and this time the smile is real. “Call when you need help getting down the stairs, okay?”

Bruce doesn’t answer because he doesn’t want to agree to needing help. Clark lets him have this one. He’ll notice when Bruce needs help. He’s not nearly as quiet as he thinks he is when he’s in pain. Besides, who can’t hear an old man hoppling down the stairs?

--

Alfred is in the kitchen with Tim and Jason. Clark can hear Dick’s heartbeat somewhere else in the manor and he knows Damian has art classes on Thursdays. The thought has something warm and safe settling in his stomach. Bruce’s family is safe and close by. He’s going to be just fine.

“Alfred,” Clark says with a nod of his head and Alfred sends him a small smile as he stirs something on the stove.

“Hi Clark,” Tim greets without looking up.

“Hey Tim.”

“Is it date night already?” There’s teasing tilt to his smile.

Clark laughs. “No, your- Bruce got injured today.” He always has to make sure not to call Bruce their dad, but especially Tim. It’s a touchy subject and Clark doesn’t want to cause any issues between the kids and Bruce.

“What else is new?” Comes from besides the fridge.

“Hello Jason, nice to see you,” Clark says earnestly. It’s not often that he gets to see Jason at the manor, but he clearly still feels at home here. He’s shoving a cookie into his mouth even as he speaks.

“Supes,” he says with a mock salute from his seat on the counter. He’s watching over Alfred’s cooking and Clark has never seen anyone else allowed this close when he cooks. It says something about the bond the two share.

Clark is surprised over and over again by how calm and collected Jason seems these days. He really doesn’t mind how he has taken a liking to the nickname Bruce uses for him in the field. Not all the time, obviously, this is Batman we’re talking about, but often enough that apparently Jason has heard it enough to grab onto it.

It’s better than ‘alien’ anyhow.

“Are you staying for dinner, Master Kent?” Alfred asks.

“Alfred, please, I’ve told you a million times-”

“Let it be a million times more, Master Kent,” he interrupts gently but firmly. “So. Dinner?”

“If it’s alright with Bruce-” Clark starts. He doesn’t want to step on any toes and maybe Bruce would like a quiet evening with his family. Although if Clark leaves, he’s pretty sure Bruce will just limp into the cave to do some bat-work, even if he can’t physically go on patrol.

“Of course, it’s alright with Master Bruce,” Alfred says with a small huff. It’s the closest he’ll come to rolling his eyes at anyone outside the family.

“Yeah, B would have you move in yesterday if he had his way,” Tim comments.

“Oh, uh,” Clark says because he really doesn’t know what to say to that. He knows he’s been over a lot these past few months but if he’s outstayed his welcome somehow, he wishes Bruce would’ve told him so.

“Tim,” Bruce’s voice calls from the doorway. He doesn’t look happy per se, but he’s not truly angry either. He’s dressed in sweats and a t-shirt; it’s a look Clark loves on him. It makes him looks so soft and comfortable, even with that almost-frown on his face. Also, how did he get down the stairs on his own?

“Bruce,” Clark says with a frown. “I told you to call for me.”

“And I told you I’m fine,” Bruce says with a wave of his hand. “Shouldn’t you boys be getting ready for patrol?”

“Shouldn’t you be getting ready for the wedding?” Jason shoots back even as he hops off the counter. “Timmy wants to be a flower girl.”

“You want to be a flower girl!” Tim calls as he chases Jason out of the kitchen. He’s still a few inches too short to keep up with Jason’s 6 feet, but that doesn’t stop him from trying to tackle his big brother in the hallway.

Bruce mutters something under his breath that even Clark can’t make out (it could be “children”, although Clark can’t be sure because he’s sort of busy looking over Bruce’s ankle while he’s not being watched – it’s a sprain as Bruce said) but Alfred chuckles warmly.

“What are we going to do with them?”

“I suggest proposing,” Alfred says. Clark gets the distinct feeling that the bat boys have some on-going joke running. And that joke includes Alfred, but Alfred always knows something Clark doesn’t, so that’s nothing new.

“I need the compression bandages,” Bruce says like Alfred hasn’t just spoken. That’s how he has conversations most of the time. Ignore and continue; it works with some people but usually not Alfred. He seems to let this one go, though.

“Master Kent, would you be so kind?” Alfred asks and Clark instantly nods. He knows where they are and he’s back before Alfred has time to bring the heat down on the stove. “Perhaps you’d do me the favor of applying the bandage as well? I’m awfully late picking Master Damian up.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” Clark says. He’s seen Alfred do this enough times to be able to do it himself. He thinks. “Go get Damian, I’ll take care of Bruce.”

“I don’t doubt it, Master Kent.”

Alfred leaves shortly after and despite Bruce’s protests (“I can bandage my own damn foot, Clark!”), Clark finally gets him to sit down in the living room long enough to get his ankle wrapped up properly.

“How long do you think it’ll take before Alfred stops calling me Master Kent?” Clark asks conversationally as he wraps the bandage around Bruce’s foot and then up his ankle.

“Forever, probably,” Bruce says. He quickly mellows out at Clark’s pouting face. “If it helps, he refers to you as Master Clark when you’re not here.”

“Why won’t he do that to me though?”

“Respect,” Bruce instantly says. “This is how he is, Clark. Give it a few more months and he’ll come around. It’s not like he calls me Bruce much.”

“But he does call you Master Bruce more than Master Wayne,” Clark points out.

“Not when we’re in public,” Bruce reminds him. “At home, yes. I’ve known him for quite a bit longer than you have though.”

“He likes me better,” Clark teases as he secures the end of the bandage. He gets kicked in the shoulder by Bruce’s other foot as a thank you.

“He does,” Bruce laughs, despite his actions. “Who wouldn’t?”

“You’re being too hard on yourself again,” Clark says as he sits down next to Bruce on the couch. “Even if you are right about me being fantastic.”

“I don’t think I used that word.”

“It was implied.”

“Of course, my bad,” Bruce laughs, and a quiet happiness settles in the bottom of Clark’s stomach. He loves making Bruce laugh. “Are you staying?”

“Alfred already made up a bed for me,” Clark says in lieu of answering.

“A bed?” Bruce raises an eyebrow and he’s not even trying to hide the smirk on his face.

“Fine, he made my bed.” Because somehow in the last few months Clark has stayed over a lot and Alfred feels bad that he doesn’t have a room of his own. Or just a proper place to sleep when he’s there. Clark always tells him he’s alright with a couch or just flying home, but Alfred insists. The kids usually roll their eyes and say he’s going to sneak out of his room anyway, so why bother making his bed? Clark still hasn’t quite figured out where they think he goes, although he has had to leave a few nights because of trouble in Metropolis. He is Superman, after all. “I didn’t ask him to, B.”

“I know you didn’t, he makes it every night,” Bruce says with a shrug.

“Do you think he’s trying to tell us something?” Clark asks carefully. He’s not going to over-step or push anything. He’s barely sure of his own feelings, he’s not going to put pressure on Bruce to know his.

“Who knows with Alfred?” Bruce shrugs again. “So. Tea and a movie?”

“I’ll get the blankets,” Clark says as he jumps off the couch.  

Because Clark knows where those are too. In fact, Bruce has three homemade blankets from Clark’s mother and they’re on the top of the blanket pile. The kids fight over who gets to use them, but tonight both Bruce and Clark are wrapped in the soft material as they sip their tea and watch mindless movies.

Bruce falls asleep halfway through the second one; head falling to rest on Clark’s shoulder and Clark shuffles down into the couch a little further to make sure he doesn’t hurt his neck. If his shuffling brings him a little closer to Bruce too, well, nobody has to know.

[kodiescove]

How did you come to Islam?

I am glad you asked!

So the year is 2018/2019, there abouts.

I made my first Muslim friend!

I found this out by asking the most terrible question I've ever asked anyone ever "hey since you have x name, does that mean you're Muslim.?"

He said yes. He was SUPER chill about me being like innocently racist. I still cringe about this exchange. I am currently cringing typing this all out.

But I was like 19/20, and racial etiquette was new to me.

Now, I knew nothing, and I mean NOTHING about Islam.

For quite a few years, it was just something my super cool "got me through my abusive relationship" online best friend practiced.

Iiiiiinnnnnnn 2022? Around there.

I was at Michael's, the crafts store, and there were these GORGEOUS stickers for Ramadan. I immediately sent a picture of them to him talking about how beautiful they were, lamenting about how I'd love to get them, but that would be cultural appropriation. I think he said it would be fine if I got them, but I still didn't get them, it didn't feel right because at the time I wasn't Muslim(obviously.)

Sometime later, it's Christmas and I'm in one of my "I need to start a business or else I'm always going to be in poverty" moods. Don't ask me why this was a thing, because I very clearly cannot produce enough of anything to run a business. Anyways. I'm thinking about making Christmas cards and then my brain goes "Well what if I make something for Muslims? I don't want to leave them out of things."

So I message my friend, asking if that would be okay.

He explains that Islam doesn't have a winter holiday like Christmas, that Muslims go off a lunar calendar and he tells me about Ramadan.

And I'm like "mhm. Okay. What's Ramadan?"

And so I spent the literal rest of the night (literally HOURS) researching Ramadan and Eid. I read THE ENTIRE wiki page for both /including/ the parts that explain the different ways different countries and regions celebrate Ramadan and Eid.

Fall 2023 I find out that what I thought was an Indian take out restaurant (because I get curry there don't hate me I was told it was an Indian place) was acting, specifically, a HALAL restaurant and I'm like "mhm. Okay. So what does that mean?"

And again, I spend hours on Google with those drop down "similar questions" just learning a little bit about Islam.

And like through these experiences I learn a basic principle that I have embodied since becoming Muslim "Islam is a religion of love and peace"

Come to 2024.

I think February. Really wanna say February. My sense of time and time keeping is really bad.

But it's the beginning of the year. I'm having a real ROUGH time of it. I'm having intrusive thoughts of self harm. I'm constantly being triggered by Tumblr because of the I/P conflict. I'm constantly triggered by trumblr because of talks of transphobia of kinds. I'm triggered by Tumblr because of the porn. My best friend is increasingly becoming a bad friend. IM NOT COPING. To the point I was hospitalized twice, and should have been a third time (thanks Brylin for never calling me back for that admission)

And through it all, I'm praying to the universe. I'm like, I'm lost, I'm suffering, I need some guidance. Please someone, anyone, give me a sign.

And there was this feeling.... this VERY distinct feeling. It was in my chest and in my belly. I can't really describe it other than light and energy radiating. Like a pulling feeling. It felt like a calling. And something inside me kept saying "turn to Islam. Turn to Allah."

I was apprehensive at first. Yknow, being a pagan witch at the time and all. It felt... well, why would Allah be calling to me.? I'm a pagan witch!

But I don't know. I won't lie and say I never found comfort in being pagan. But there's something.... different in Islam. I can sit and listen to the Quran and crochet and I just feel... at peace. I can watch videos discussing Islam and the thoughts usually racing in my head just... stop. I'm fascinated by Islamic history in a way that other periods in history haven't fascinated, /and I say this as someone who loves history/.

I will admit, there's part of me that doesn't feel good enough for Allah, for Islam. But then I remember how many times the Quran says "Allah is the most forgiving, the most merciful" and that's... that's what I need. Someone to forgive the parts of me that can't keep up because of my disability, and is understanding (see, merciful) for all the things I am not.

So tldr: basically I had a friend who started my interested and then Allah answered my prayers.

[mysticmercurial]

Lucid Dreaming: A Key to Mastering the Physical Realm? From a 12Her's Perspective 🤔💭

The 12th house is commonly known as the house of the undoing, subconscious, bed pleasures, nighttime routines, dreams/nightmares, spirituality, the deceased/spirit realm, isolation, hospitals, things done in the dark or behind the scenes, nocturnal animals. In my experience, the 12th house is also disorienting and creates realistic illusions. Illusions based on your fears, your greatest desires, things that we suppress and allow to ferment in the flourishing abyss of our subconscious mind.

I believe that we can manifest the things we want by dreaming of them first. The very concept of the 6th/12th house axis is that of your day and night routines; the 6th house, in this context, representing the physical nature of things and the 12th house representing the spiritual nature and things that go looked over, unseen or misunderstood. Afterall, what is more confusing than the nature of our jealousies and carnal desires? The 12th house IS triggering as it forces us to shine a bright light on our shadows not to remove them but to embrace them and use them to our advantage.

HOUSE CONNECTIONS TO DEATH/REBIRTH AND UNDOING 💀☯

From a derivative perspective, the 12H is 5th from the 8H of taboos and the 8H is 9th from the 12H. The 5th house represents things that bring us joy, make us passionate and things that make us feel good. The 8th house represents taboo topics, occult activities like tarot/divination, death, bdsm. The 9th house represents travel, learning, inner discovery, the freedom to expand, our morals and beliefs. If "it's not what you did, it's the principle" was a house it would be the 9th house and the principle in question would be the sign/planets aspecting that house.

**I'm still learning derivative astrology so bare with me**

The 12H being the derivative 5th house of the 8H could mean that in transforming and alchemizing our lives we find joy and give a voice to the ignored parts of ourselves. Or rather that our deepest wounds often lie in our subconscious mind waiting to be expressed in one way or another. Some express that via drug abuse, hypersexuality, alcoholism, egocentric spiritual practices, all of which are topics that fall under the 12H. To die and be reborn again (8H), one must dive deeper into the self and commit to undoing(12H).

Similarly the 8H being the derivative 9th house of the 12H could mean that the things we bury, the things we do not understand in others is what often we don't understand in ourselves. The hermetic saying as above so below, as within so without describes this very well to me because it suggests that our inner world is always influencing the world around us. Our perspectives shape the lens through which receive information. The 8H isn't always a literal death, like in tarot, it can be metaphorical deaths throughout one's life. "If you aren't evolving, you are staying the same" would describe the relationship of the 8H/12H.

Finally...

Lucid dreaming is simply defined as being aware that you are dreaming. That means from the moment you acknowledge you are not in the real world you are lucid dreaming! If you want to master your subconcious world, try going to bed before you are exhausted and seeing what you find. Set the mood for bedtime; whether that be with candles/incense, lofi jazz or rain sounds, it's all about the ambiance.

Thank you for reading this unintentionally long rant, i hope you enjoyed it 🙂

--mysticmercurial