#i never get tired of its pop brilliance

[pursuitseternal]

Hi first of all, I wanted to tell you how much I love your fanfictions I'm always happy to see something new (ascended astarion and astarion spawn stories are my favourites but the others are captivating too). I was wondering if you could write a story where the original Tav dies and is reborn a few hundred years later and Astarion finds her again. Maybe in a more modern setting where the prudery thing isn't quite so… strong

I apologise for my bad English it's not my native language I hope you can understand it anyway

“Mistrial:” a Modern Faerûn AU

Astarion x Tav |E| 2.5K modern au

Ao3 link

Summary: Hundreds of years without her, Astarion still sits on the bench, Justice Ancunìn hear case after case. Until one day, that young prosecutor gets under his skin, until she confronts him after their trial, until ancient memories stir and things awaken.

A/N: Thank you to @myfavouritelunatic and @brabblesblog for their enabling and encouragement.

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“Justice Ancunìn, I have to object,” the little firecracker of a prosecutor ground her high heel into the tile of the courtroom.

Astarion shook his head, tired of her tone already on day one. “You don’t have to, counselor,” he rubbed two fingers against his silver-haired temple, “but given that this is already your twenty-second one today, I can’t say I’m surprised.” She looked at him with sharp eyes and folded arms. The little shit. He did not care for her already.

If this had been in the good old days when Faerûn was at its prime and most debauched, he could have her flogged for her tone and sent to cool in the stocks. And that would have been before he had been turned into vampiric spawn, before he had become hero of Baldur’s Gate with the love of his life at his side. Helping him learn how to hide his immortality and vampirism from the public, learning how to still serve as Magistrate despite his… condition.

That was until time moved on, and his immortality won over the lingering bonds of love. He missed Tav, her brilliance and ferocity, her pointed ears and sweet blood, her passion in life and in the bed.

Like the blink of an eye, he moved on. City to city, career to career as hundreds of years continued their slow grind of time. Until now, now, he stared down from his bench in BGC, new finagled magic in this modern age like cars and electricity and internet. But law was law, and a judge was a judge

It was as if he never left, aside from the new spitfire attorney, just arrived from New Waterdeep, with a ferocity he would have once admired.

He just now found it tiresome. Irritating. He realized after a moment, she had the decency to wait on his final word on her request for objection. He shifted in his seat, narrowing his eyes at her. “Overruled, Counselor Ylfe.” He banged his gavel twice. “In fact, court adjourned until tomorrow,” he stood grumbling to himself. “At least I’ll be spared a twenty-third objection in so many hours…”

His pointed ears picked up on a high pitched scoff. “We shall see,” that lawyer snipped to herself. But that tone, that defiance and jabbing quality… something piqued his interest.

Stirred his ancient memory.

He finally groaned as he rested in his chambers, only moments after shutting the doors and sliding off those scratchy robes. Gods, he missed silks and wigs and velvets. Not this cheap crap everyone wore. He went to his cabinet, taking out a discrete green bottle and pouring himself a mug of its swirling ruby contents. He popped it in his microwave, one improvement on the campfire he would not begrudge using.

Not when it made his stash of blood warm for once.

But even as it hummed, his mind kept rolling over his day. Especially that stubborn, annoying, irritating prosecutor with her defiant eyes and jutting out chin and crossed arms and swaying, perfect hips, and……

“Justice Ancunìn, I figured you would finally have a moment for us to address how to best proceed civilly in your own chambers,” his head shot up, his gaze narrowed as he watched her stride on into his offices.

Her.

“What in the hells are you thinking, Counselor Ylfe?” he spat, fighting hard from baring his fangs at her. A habit eroded from nearly a millennia of practice almost overturned just at the sight of her. “You know any discourse outside of the courtroom can result in a mistrial?”

“This isn’t about the trial, this is about your abject disdain for me, personally, it would seem.” She did it again, crossing her arms and swaying her hips in that tight little black pantsuit of her hers.

Astarion let his eye wander. There was something about her… not many females cut so fine a figure in trousers, or slacks or whatever the fuck they were now.

Not since… her. The other her in his life. His true love. That was the last time he even gave a woman a second glance.

Her hair hung over her shoulder, but now, up close, he could see two pointed ears peeking through her crown of long and flowing hair. Elf. High elf.

He locked eyes with her, that piercing shade… his mind raced and wandered… flying through ancient history for some, the warmest of memories for him. Emerald Grove, Shadow Cursed Lands, the real Baldur’s Gate…

“Didn’t you hear me, Your Honor?” she snapped at him.

Astarion shook his mess of silver locks, smiling in a way that no longer hid his fangs. “I’m afraid I was… lost in the sea of my long and winding memories… darling….”

That made her freeze solid. Her smooth face drew into an inscrutable expression, her cherry red lips parted… “What did you call me…?”

Only then did he realize the slip of his own tongue, how that pet name he vowed never to use flowed right off of it. “D-darling.” He repeated, as shocked as she was at the impropriety. “I’m sorry, Ms. Ylfe.”

“Don’t be,” she instantly replied with a shake of her head. Then she smiled, even as her brows furrowed. She looked at him, at his pale face and silver hair and… dark brown eyes…. “Have you always worn contacts, Mr. Ancunìn?”

“How…” but before he could interrogate that true suspicion, his microwave dinged.

“You better get your drink, Your Honor…” That lilt in her voice was new, he noted.

“I’ll wait,” he shrugged. “I can always reheat it later. First I’ll have to apologize for my… behavior today.”

“I should hope so,” she grinned, walking around and sitting on the edge of his desk. “Treating a lady with such disdain… only to about face and call her darling the next moment… seems something only a true, black-hearted rogue would do…”

“What?” he went rigid. Bending forward, that old instinct to fight or fly racing through his nerves after centuries.

“I’ve never been a fan of contacts,” she smiled so easily as she leaned back against the top of his desk, fingers splayed on his files and papers. “Better if you just showed the world your natural eyes, Mr. Ancunìn….”

His nostrils flared, his breath racing and head swimming. But this time there was no fucking tadpole, he knew that.

“What’s your name…” he hissed, narrowed eyes leveling at her.

“I can tell you, unless you’re bent on letting your stash of blood from getting cold…. Astarion.”

His hand flew to her neck, bringing her up into his face, fangs bared, hackles raised, every long suppressed vampiric sense firing on all cylinders now as he smelled her. “Name,” he commanded.

“Taveria Ylfe,” she swallowed under his hold. “But those close to me have always called me Tav….”

“Tav,” her name was a gasp in his throat.

“And I know you,” she said, breathy and quick. “I didn’t know how… but there was something about you that made me… unsettled.”

“Twenty-two objections later and you call yourself… unsettled?” he smirked, lightening his hold, but stroking his fingers on her skin.

Her skin.

“Well, darling,” she purred, "lifetimes of perfect memory for our kind, and I should have recognized my lover with the crimson eyes and pointed fangs.”

Astarion shook his head, swallowing the rising ball of emotion that caught in his throat. “I’d cry, but it’ll make my contacts hurt,” he gave a wet laugh. His thumb traced on the side of her neck, two circle marks in her flesh, like moles or scars…

“You found them, the brands I’ve have on my flesh ever since you, Astarion,” she added, eyes batting shut under his touch. “I’ve looked for you in every lifetime, my true love with roguish swagger, red eyes, pointed fangs, and massive…”

She paused, pursing her lips.

“Ego?” he offered as an answer, but she shook her head.

“Cock,” she grinned as she bit her lip.

“I was hoping you’d say that… darling…” He hissed as her hand grasped at the gusset between his legs. “Looking for your evidence?” he growled, a roll of his hips into the pressure of her touch. So ancient and familiar. “You’ll get it, darling, if you want it…”

“I do, Astarion,” she sighed, fingers stroking back and forth on the cotton of his pants, feeling that rising erection instantly straining back.

A monsterous growl in his throat, a burning hunger in his belly, he grasped at the back of her neck, pulling her against his lips.

The age-old dance, the same taste. Closing his eyes, his body transported a millennia ago… as if he could smell blood and woodsmoke and magic in the air mixed with her scent. Had he suppressed so much of his senses he couldn’t recognize her scent? Had he ignored the same beat of her heart in her chest, same musical rush of blood in her veins?

He shook his head to let all that go, realizing her hands already tore through her own blazer and button down, clothing now cast to the floor. Already, she had shimmied off the desk, pressing harder into his kiss. He waited for no further invitation, hands instantly sliding her slacks from her perfect curves, his own clothing suddenly feeling too tight and too abrasive.

Astarion only wanted her skin on him now. After so long. He couldn’t move fast enough, his reflexes had dulled from neglect, his dexterity a fraction of what it once was with her. But it, too, slowly crept back, his hands making quick work of his own clothes.

Suddenly, those fingers remembered the smoothness of her skin, rekindled their dexterity. His hand clawed into her hair, the other stroked down her belly, backing her perfect body to perch on the edge of his desk. The gasp he drew from her lips as he sank two fingers into her folds woke something feral in him, something ancient. Vampiric.

“Tav,” he hissed, nuzzing against the music of her artery, rubbing along the stream of her blood in her neck. “May I, please…”

“Mmm, I want to see your real eyes before you take anything of mine, Astarion,” she purred, arching against him. One hand splayed on the desk behind her, she smirked and watched. Never had anyone removed contacts so quickly, so dexterously.

As he blinked, her heart poured open. That scarlet glare, that tilted head, those mussy silver curls. “I can’t believe it’s you…” she sighed.

His eyes went wide, shining in his unshed tears and well of emotion. “I’m so tired of words, Tav,” he replied, voice cracking with that exhaustion and unbridled desire now. “Just give me all of you, to lose myself in, to lose these long and draining years in, years without you.”

Not another word as said, nothing but the groans of their joining once more, the shudder of their bodies as they fucked, the creaking of the wood beneath her as he slammed his hips against it. Cock buried deep in her cunt, fangs digging into her neck.

Both parts of her were hot and leaking. Blood spilled from his mouth once more—warm and fresh and sweetened with her taste. Arousal leaked into the wood beneath them, her musk and sweat the only perfume he longed to smell.

He swirled his tongue over his bite marks, fresh bleeding wounds that swallowed those scars she was born with. A lasting brand on her skin as she had forever been on his heart, his soul.

He couldn’t bring her close enough to him, fingers clawed into her ass to keep her from sliding away with his frantic thrusts. And she had already wrapped herself around his waist, already scratched up the places of his back that weren’t riddled with scars still. Clutching him tightly to never lose him again.

Their lips were sealed together, locked as they sucked and moved and danced in their ancient kiss, the taste of her blood sending them both reeling into oblivion. She keened as her walls spasmed around his cock, that familiar ripple and beat of her climax pressing against his every wild and erratic thrust.

His forehead resting against her shoulder, the scent of her blood there was the last little push he needed, losing himself in the trembling warmth and comfort and pull of her body. His cock pulsed hard inside her, thrumming against her muscles as he came harder than anything for a thousand years. Forcing his head back up, he locked eyes with her, face twisting and arms shaking as he came. Lips pulled back to show those glistening and reddened fangs.

Her hand braced hard at the back of his neck, keeping her with him as his hips thrust, slowing as he emptied into her. At last he stilled, a foolish, young smile on his gaping lips, lips he licked clean.

He would tell her sometime, how she had made his undead heart remember how to beat and love again twice now. How she brought him back to life over and over again. But with that haze in her eyes, the way she clenched still around his cock, he knew this wouldn’t be the end of their reunion.

Thank the gods.

Lips curling as she met her mouth in a kiss, she drew him in again for more. “I have a hotel…” she whispered.

“And I have a penthouse, darling,” came his instant reply between her ravenous caresses.

“Hmm,” she laughed deep in her throat, their kiss still working slowly, unable to break apart once more. “As long as you keep it cleaner than your tent once was, I accept. Someplace for us until the morning when we return to court…”

His fingers, coated in the scent of her arousal, stayed her mouth. “Tch, surely even a young thing like you knows this will end in mistrial now,” he smirked. “Not even I can think of a clause that allows for lost soul mates to continue in court after such…” he glanced at the mess between their legs, “…debauchery.”

“Oh well,” she feigned disappointment, sliding off to retrieve her clothes. “Worth it…”

Suddenly his arms gripped her, pulling her by the swell of her ass, flush against his naked body one more time. “It’ll be days before either of us must return to court… long, exhausting, pleasure-filled days, darling.”

Tav dove up for his kiss, standing in her tiptoes to meet that smirk that haunted her for centuries. “You better hurry me away to your place, Astarion, or someone will find us here making up for lost time.”

Reluctantly and with a deafening sigh, he relented, busying himself to dress again.

“Oh,” she commented, that taunting tone in her voice, “and don’t think I missed how you never answered it your place was still a mess of chaos again.”

He turned, shaking his head as he refastened his belt. “Well, even if you are disappointed in that regard, I can assure you…” he gave her that look, those half-lidded eyes, that sharpened fanged smirk, “you won’t be left wanting in other regards.”

[mandalhoerian]

total eclipse of the heart | 1

❝ Once upon a time there was light in my life, but now there's only love in the dark. Nothing I can say, a total eclipse of the heart. ❞

Pairing: anakin skywalker x reader 

Note: fem!reader, jedi librarian!reader

Summary: Love is the death of duty, and duty is the death of love. This is the story of you and your fellow Jedi Anakin Skywalker orbiting around each other in this never-ending, all-consuming cycle.  

Warning(s): nothing else but pining and yearning lmao . also my amateur-ish 2016 writing + sun/moon dynamic GALORE . ur gonna be SICK of this imagery at the end of this. sue me. its not named the way it is for no reason HAHA

Word Count: 1455

1 | 2

If Anakin Skywalker is a star, colliding with swirling and thundering nebulas that shine upon his eyes; then you are a mere moon destined to never ever leave your planet's side. 

If Anakin is a star in a whole system, a sun; then you are still the humble moon in your humble life, which occasionally lines up with that sun to create an incredible sight to witness.

This is how your relationship is, actually. Your lives collide like hands of a clock when they have to, but this team-up never lasts too long in order with a Jedi's obligation to keep moving thanks to the raging war tearing the galaxy apart. 

A Jedi Knight and a Jedi Librarian don’t tend to cross roads often, and certainly mix like oil and water. 

Jumping around system to system wherever the orders of the Jedi Council took him naturally led to him barely ever around in the Temple and that had almost mythicized the person emerging as The Hero With No Fear adorning the headlines of HoloNet. General Skywalker quickly had become a walking beacon for attention with his brilliance in the battlefield and his unconventional way of practicing his profession. 

Maybe it was your peace-and-quiet seeking self (who just wanted to research in your own pace) being grumpy, but you wouldn’t say he is an outstanding example to look up to for Padawans and Younglings with the way he made them get used to the archives as the meeting point to gossip and share stories. 

From what Master Kenobi had told you in a passing conversation when you were complaining, it was his old habit to in the past as a Padawan to use the Archives as somewhere he could do anything other than reading because he found staying in one place stuck in a seat and glued to holobooks boring - boring! - so he had influenced others of his age to tag along in his shenanigans until he was banned from the hall for a limited amount of time. You’d asked Master Kenobi just what exactly he had done to piss your mentor off that badly but all you got was a half-tired, half-embarrassed smile before he’d scurried off Force knows where.

(You still couldn’t believe he found learning boring.) 

All things aside, you could do without picking up something something Skywalker being whispered about between preteens hidden behind shelves as you were buried in a new hyper-fixation, really. Years of getting used to quietness had brought annoyance lit like a forest fire as a downside when you were disturbed. It wasn’t him doing it intentionally as he was systems away, but if he were to pop out somewhere when you were in a particularly bad mood, you were sure you’d hurl your oldest trusty datapad at his head. Not a second wasted for the hesitation factor.   

It was a place to seek knowledge in serenity, and Skywalker had shoved his invisible hand in here and stirred the pot so irreversably that most of your time was spent patrolling around in the Archives like a dog to keep the young ones in line. “Madame Librarian alert!” line, referring you barreling down the corridors running on your tiptoes, had spread like a plague and even your former Master Jocasta Nu was amused by the inside joke that made your ears smoking red.   

It was annoyance at his shadow intruding on your relatively unaffected life by the war at first. Yes, it had all started with your one-sided animosity at him ——

—— only to be turned upside down on its after he had come to your rescue (our of nowhere, really) in what you knew to be a bounty hunter’s heist on the holocron vaults in the archives. You had no idea your body was capable of getting that red when he had all but manhandled you around to get you away from blaster shots raining down in intent to kill. Skywalker was all but taunting smirks and remarks in the action to turn the tide around and you were tight-lipped and shock-bound, the difference between you, the professionalism and the abilities, were the size of mountains. The gentleness and sweet concern for your wellbeing wrapping around you like a weighted blanket when the danger was over, though, was a contrast you weren’t even aware that you didn’t expect.

You honestly had no idea what had happened, you were left alone with the feelings you’d caught for him after he left like the whirlwind that he was.  

You took it as a lesson to learn from yet another piece of work you’d finished and used in training, made him to be a fleeting ideal and a funny what-if to be entertained in your mind, you reminded yourself every time you catch a glimpse of him here and there that the Chosen One had to be unreachable. 

You were sure your path as a Jedi was being tested on purpose by the universe as the time went on.

You did not like the fact that you had undeniable feelings for this guy. Not one bit. Annoying little moths bounced around in your stomach when someone muttered his name ever so softly in your library now, and the initial dislike was nowhere to be found -- on the contrary, you wanted to hear more about his newest victory. 

There was a reason why you were pursuing a life the Order, you had principles and it was simply no way in dead stars that you’d throw this all away for the unattainable Anakin Skywalker. A guy who has absolutely no interest for you, to top it all. 

You‘ve had asked yourself, Would I be willing to love him openly if he looked at me the way I looked at him?, a couple of times when your relationship were developing from strangers to colleagues. The Jedi in you knew it was not wise to think like this, to hope like this. 

Expectations that shouldn’t exist in the first place, you took as more lessons to overcome as Jedi. What were you going to do, keep being (barf) lovesick until the feelings decided to evaporate? Would they ever?

So you used them in your studies. Easy. It’s duty. 

In the meanwhile, you tried your best to hide even little things: the way you lingered on him when he wasn’t looking while randomly passing you by in the halls, the smile you faked to play the part when he waved at you from afar to say hello. The quiet daydreams that came over you while reading. You kept to yourself. 

At the end, It wasn’t the decision to stay away from him that hurt, it's the flashbacks that followed.

Anakin Skywalker is a star, you're a mere moon that chose to only shine with borrowed light, and you’d come to like watching him shine, from afar. And the point of no return for you was the moment you had discovered a stumbling flicker in the light of that star.

After the excitement would die down, you saw the way he would take in the clones' happiness and growing hope to win this war. You knew the way he would boast about it, being all prideful and valiant like the man he is; but later on, discovered him staring off tiredly into the blackness shining with an infinite amount of diamonds spread across, his sky blue eyes nearly ultramarine with not the lighting, but with the heaviness of his worries, hurting for others. 

Intimate moments like this in which Anakin looked more like a human than a supreme being got to you. In those, you resented unraveling him; what was hidden beneath the shiny exterior of The Chosen One. Yet you were drawn to his orbit just as much as you wanted to get away, and you shot off from the comforting confines of the archives and voicelessly floated beside him to be an unexpected yet welcome guest -- a conversation friend at most, maybe, voicing your opinions about... things. To lift the weight off his shoulders, anything not to see him in grief like that again. 

You let him in on your fears, your humanity behind the Jedi image, sometimes strategies you’d discovered belonging to the records of the Old Republic regarding the war — even when you knew whatever you blabbered about lecturing had nothing on his genius and was probably more boring than reading to him.

When your feelings roared behind your shy whispers that echoed in his ears, the anxiety that he had figured you out by now squeezed your heart in a durasteel fist, it was a warning that he’d try to pry and not a hair in your body would pick up on it because he overwhelmed all your senses already. 

But if you were good at something, that would be hiding away. Hiding away from yourself, from everything. In the Archives, and buried in the shifting pages of datapads and holoscreens.

But as long as you meditated, you were fine. Having feelings for Anakin was something you got used to overtime, you knew how to keep yourself steady, you’d normalized it.

You thought you knew everything about what this man could do to you by now. You were safe. 

But deep down you knew, you knew that only a fool would think they know everything rather than a wise man.

He loved a Senator.

[bonelymonsterclub]

(1) Branded For Carnage

“No, no, no...” you moaned, desperately twisting the rusty knobs of your cramped shower.  The pipes groaned within the walls, water trickling from the shower head, then with an ominous rattle, the water stopped.  Again.  “Shit.”  You raked your fingers through your hair, grimacing at the built-up grease from a weekend of vegging on the couch and wishing for the sweet embrace of death.  Now the weekend was over, and in little over an hour, you were to begin your new job at a bar-slash-restaurant called “Grillby's”; it was a monster-run establishment, but over the five months since monsters were freed from beneath the mountain, it was quickly becoming one of the most popular eateries in Ebott City.  You wanted to make a good first impression, and you certainly couldn't do that if you showed up looking like Death himself had personally paid you a visit, not to mention your probably smelled like sweat and junk food.  “Shit!”

You paced the limited width of the room, biting at your thumbnail, before you finally slumped against the sink and succumbed to your fate: you'd have to suck up your pride and ask one of the neighbors to take pity on you and let you clean up in their bathroom.  That wouldn't normally have been a problem, except you'd only been existing in your apartment for about two and a half weeks and, being so busy between job-hunting and unpacking your shit, you hadn't bothered to introduce yourself to anyone.

What a great first impression I'll be making, you thought sarcastically as you finally left the bathroom, your clothes for the day tossed over your arm.  You'd never had to do a walk of shame, but you imagined that it was something similar to how you felt as you exited your apartment and dragged your feet until you were in front of your neighbor's door.  You knocked lightly on the worn wood and popped your knuckles as you waited.  Thumping footsteps sounded from within and when the door swung open, you looked up... and up.  Before you stood a monster made of bone and pure spite, if the way he was glaring at you was any indication.  He was dressed in really tight-looking black pants, a long-sleeved maroon shirt, and curiously enough, despite it being the beginning of summer, a tattered red scarf and a pair of red gloves.

“Human,” he growled, crossing his arms.  “What Reason Could You Possibly Have For Interrupting The Illustrious Papyrus' Morning Routine?”

You swallowed thickly.  Now, you had no problem with monsters, considering you'd be working under one for the foreseeable future, but this had to be the most intimidating one you'd ever laid your eyes on – the deep scars across his eye socket enhanced his terrifying appearance.  Your mind couldn't help but compare him to the image humans held of the Grim Reaper.

“I See.  I Should've Known That A Mere Human Would Be Struck Speechless In My Awesome Presence,” he sighed, sounding greatly put upon.

“N- no!” you finally managed to stammer.  “That's not it.  Sorry, um... Papyrus, was it?  I'm one of your neighbors and my shower isn't working, so I was hoping I could possibly use yours?  It'll be quick; ten minutes at the most.”

Papyrus stared at you inscrutably for a moment before scoffing.  “Nice Try, Human.  You've Underestimated My Brilliance.  I Am Not Foolish Enough To Allow You To Infiltrate My Home So You Know The Layout To Raid It Later.”

You gaped at him in disbelief for a moment.  Is he serious?  “But-”

“ENOUGH!”  You jumped.  “Scurry Back To Whatever Hole You Crawled Out Of And See To It That You Don't Pester Me Again.”  He appeared to deem the conversation finished after that because, without giving you a chance to speak further, he stepped back and slammed the door in your face.

You bit your lip when you heard another door somewhere behind you click shut softly.  Papyrus' words were probably heard by all of the occupants of your floor – the whole apartment building, perhaps, considering your apparently lackluster luck.  You weren't sure you wanted to take a chance with anyone else after that – perhaps you could call up your sister, but though she didn't live very far, the travel time in addition to your shower would likely make you late.  Before you could slunk off to hide away in your apartment and try to wash up with the kitchen sink, the door in front of you swung open again, making you flinch.

“I- I was just going!”  you yelped; however, it wasn't Papyrus who was staring you down this time, but another skeleton who appeared quite a bit shorter, rounder, and all-together too tired.

Clad in a red turtleneck, black shorts, and fuzzy pink slippers, this new skeleton didn't seem quite as threatening as Papyrus.  He was a few inches shorter than you and had prominent fangs on display; he also had a scar, though it was on the top of his skull rather than directly on his face.  However, it wasn't his appearance that sent a chill down your spine.  This skeleton had a presence that not even Papyrus had managed, and it made you all the more nervous when he apparently finished his silent assessment of you and made eye contact.  (Well, you thought he was making eye contact; his eye sockets were as empty as Papyrus'.)

“*come on in,” he said, stepping aside slightly.

Whatever you expected him to say, it wasn't that, and you gaped at him for a moment.  His brow furrowed after a moment and your panic began anew, thinking you'd offended him, but he just opened the door wider.

“*well?  you wanted t’ take a shower, didn't ya?”  His mouth was set in a permanent grin, but somehow, you could've sworn it grew a little bigger as he teased, “*we ain't gonna bite, sweetheart.”

You grew flustered and shuffled past him when he waved you through the doorway.  You peered around meekly as he nudged the door shut.  The layout wasn't much different from your apartment, though they had a lot more stuff cluttering the floor.

“SANS!”

You would forever deny the startled squeak that escaped you when Papyrus barged out of the kitchen area.  He glared at you so hard that you thought you might combust on the spot.

“Sans,” he repeated in a quieter, much eerier tone.  “What, Exactly, Is That Human Doing In Our Home?”

“*they're gonna use our shower,” the shorter skeleton – Sans – replied casually.  “*geez, paps.  ya realize that makin' a good first impression ain't just not killin' someone on the spot anymore.  ya gotta show some kindness.  ‘member?”

“But Not Killing Them On The Spot Is A Kindness!”  Papyrus insisted.

“*ya wanna take that up with the kid?”

Somehow that seemed to mellow Papyrus out.  He returned his gaze to you and sighed heavily.  “My... Apologies, Human,” he said lowly through clenched teeth.  “Please, Feel Free To Put Our Shower To Good Use.  Heaven Knows That Sans Doesn't.”

Despite how... forced the apology sounded, it sort of felt like he was attempting to joke around at the end.

“Thank you so much!”  You could've cried with relief.  “I promise I'll be out of your way as soon as possible.”

Was it you or were Papyrus' cheeks turning red?  “See To It That You Do.  Sans, Breakfast Is Waiting.”

Sans pointed out the bathroom to you – though you could've located it yourself, seeing as their apartment layout was similar to yours, you were grateful for his help – and you hurried into it, locking the door behind you for good measure.  You set your work clothes on the counter, turned the shower on as hot as it would go, then stripped and hopped in.  There weren't any cleaning products you could use – just a large bottle of Mettaton's Patented Bone Bleach, which you were sure wasn't made for humans –, but you weren't too concerned.  You had post-shower products you could put in your hair and deodorant, so you scrubbed yourself down thoroughly before getting out.  It was only after you shut off the shower and stepped out that you realized that you hadn't even checked to see if there were any towels, but you saw a fluffy white one folded and set on the other side of the sink from your clothes.  You were pretty sure there hadn't been one when you walked into the bathroom, but considering that you locked the door, it wasn't like your hosts could've snuck in and set it there.  You marked it down as you being oblivious to it on your way in and set to drying yourself off before redressing.

When you stepped out of the bathroom, dirty clothes bundled under one arm, you almost collided with Papyrus’ rib cage.  You shuffled back enough to look up at him, though he stubbornly refused to meet your gaze, glaring a hole through the door behind you.

“Human, Allow Me To Make Up For My Discourteous Manners By Treating You To Breakfast.”

He gestured towards the kitchen, where you could see Sans sitting at a high-set table, groggily shoveling spoonfuls of red mush into his mouth.

“There’s really no need,” you protested.

“I Insist.”

You had a feeling you weren’t going to win this argument, especially with the way he was now scowling at you.  That’s how you found yourself seated at the table, next to Sans and across from Papyrus, with that aforementioned red mush piled onto a plate in front of you.

“Can I ask what this is?”  You prodded at the paste with your fork, thrown off by its jello-like consistency.

Papyrus scoffed as he dug into a bowl of oatmeal with dinosaur eggs.  “Honestly, You’ve No Eye For The Culinary Arts.  It’s Lasagna, My Personal Recipe!”

You stared blankly at the heap of… lasagna on your plate and wondered if it was even safe to consume.  But Sans was eating it with no problem - he’d even gone for seconds -, so it couldn’t be poisoned at the very least.  You briefly met Papyrus’ expectant stare, then scooped up a forkful of the stuff and shoved it into your mouth before you could second guess your decision.  As soon as the slop touched your tongue, you had to clamp your jaws together tightly to fight off your gag reflex.  It took everything you had to not let your face scrunch up in response to the indescribable flavor.  You somehow managed to choke it, and the next several forkfuls, down, sending Sans a grateful look when he slid his half-full glass of milk over to you, and you took a swig before daring to look Papyrus in the eyes again.  Sans had finished his meal at this point and was slumped over the table, his face buried in his arms, but you could somehow feel the threatening expectations he held for your next words.

“It… was great, Papyrus,” you said, offering him a smile.  “Nearly as great as you.”

Sans began to snore as Papyrus sat ramrod straight, looking proud - and was that a hint of relief you saw there?

“W- Well Of Course It Was!” he boasted.  “It Is The Only Meal I Learned To Cook Back In Snowdin.”

The only meal?  No wonder Sans could handle it without a problem; his poor taste buds had probably been rotted away from Papyrus’ concoction.  (Did skeletons even have taste buds?  Did they even have tongues?)

You dared to tread into unstable territory.  “This is the only meal you know?  But surely, with your cooking prowess, you’d have more in your repertoire.”

Papyrus sputtered and though he didn’t look up, Sans’ snoring ceased.  The taller skeleton’s face was turning all kinds of red and you knew you had to conclude this quickly.

“Oh, I have an idea!”  you announced with a gleeful clap of your hands, as if a thought was just coming to mind.  “I happen to have went to culinary school for a time, and I know how to make all sorts of food.  Let’s make a deal, Papyrus.  In exchange for me using your shower until mine gets fixed, how about I teach you some recipes I know?”

Papyrus mulled over this - visibly putting a hand to his chin and humming aloud -, then seemed to come to a decision with a firm nod.  He stood from his chair and leaned over the table to offer a gloved hand to you.

“You Have Yourself A Deal, Human.”

You stood as well, shaking his hand and altogether relieved your risk would be well-rewarded in exchange for something you genuinely enjoyed doing.  Your phone began buzzing insistently in your pocket - your alarm alerting you to head for Grillby’s now or you’d be late - and you gathered your clothes once more from where you’d set them beside your seat.

“I have to go now,” you said.  Papyrus’ eyes darted to your uncleared plate with barely disguised disappointment and though you knew you’d probably regret it later, you stole another large forkful of food.  It was worth it to see the spark of surprise and delight on the intimidating skeleton’s face.  “I’ll come see you later to set up our dates.  Thanks for breakfast!”

“D- DATES!?”  Papyrus’ shriek exploded behind you as you escaped their apartment to beeline to yours to deposit your clothes and slap on some deodorant before you headed out.

[dirt-cup-draco]

Fred x Reader - Not Working Out

Hello! Would I be ok to make a request for Fred Weasley where you guys have broken up but you still wear the bracelet he got you when you were together and like he points it out when you say you’re over him (you’re not) and you get flustered, if possible can it be angst at the beginning and then fluff? It’s ok if you can’t do it tho, thank you! :)) ILY

You couldn’t fathom why Fred would want to do something so final. It seemed to be ridiculous. Well, that was a lie. In reality you understood why he wanted to leave hgowarts and it wasn’t ridiculous at all to make a joke shop with George. They were brilliant, always had been. You were upset because you felt like he was leaving you behind. 

“We can still be together!” Fred reasoned, grabbing your hands as you rolled your eyes and scoffed. “We can write, I’ll visit and you can too! It’s not a goodbye Y/N” 

“It is though! You’re going off and starting your dream life and I’m not part of it!” Fred knew you had always dealt with some abandonment and trust issues, it wasn’t a secret and it had always been a source of struggle in your relationship but he had hoped you would realize he wasn’t leaving you and you could still trust his word was good. 

“Why can’t you just be happy for me?” He said, voice cracking a bit. This was really important to him too, George and him had wanted this since they were little kids with no way of making their dream come true but determined to make it happen anyways. 

“I-” You paused. You could say you were happy for him. But that would be a lie. You were scared and sad and miserable. You were already building up defenses and so you were going to lash out. “I don’t think this is a good idea, you’d do better staying at school,” 

Fred glared you, an indignant huff making its way past his lips. His cheeks were turning red with frustration. “You know that is bullshit, Umbitch is destroying everything here and it’s important for me to go out and try to bring the world a little bit of laughter, a-and if you can’t see that then I don’t think you really know me,” 

Of course you knew him. You knew your words would hurt and that he would be left feeling like you were a mistake. Yet, you were trying to protect yourself so you let him hurt instead. “You’re right. We obviously aren’t going to get over this so why don’t we just get it over with and break up?” 

Fred hadn’t been ready for that suggestion. His jaw went slack and he paused, the anger vanishing. “You really mean that?” He spoke low and slow, afraid of the answer he knew was coming. 

“I do, now run off with George, we don’t need each other,” 

--

You knew it was a mistake before you had even started fighting. You loved Fred, you didn’t want to break up. You missed him and he was right, Umbridge had cast a shadow over Hogwarts that hadn’t gone away. It had, momentarily, when the twins had made a spectacle, shattering her rules and setting of fireworks as they flew around. There had been laughter and smiles and the school had felt lighter that day. 

It was what he was meant to do but you had let your own problems hold you back from joining him. He had asked you once to go with him but he knew you were too dedicated to classes to do that. It hadn’t been a goodbye though, he had every intention of making it work between you two and it had been your fault that you weren’t exchanging letters now. 

You looked at the caricatures of Fred and George looming out over diagon alley with brilliance. The shop was bright and colorful and zany and so perfectly them. So perfectly him. You couldn’t not visit. You might have burned the bridge between you and Fred but you still wanted to see his success firsthand. You were proud of him, not surprised at all he had been thriving. 

A light jingle came from the door as you made your way in but it got lost in the sound of patrons walking through the wild shop. Kids were giggling and running between parent’s legs while students were inspecting the love potions. The whizzing and whirring, popping and sizzling of their products was almost overwhelming but it all seemed to quiet when you heard the voice you had missed so much over the past couple of months. 

“So, finally come to buy a skiving snackbox?” 

You spun around and looked Fred up and down. He looked delightful. His suit was colorful and tailored well, his hair messy and eyes bright. He looked happy more than anything but there was a tinge of sadness that seemed to be creeping in the longer he stood looking at you. 

“Just came to see what all the fuss was about,” You said airily but you could tell he didn’t buy it. 

“You know you could just admit you came here to see me,” He smirked as you blushed furiously. 

“I didn’t! I’m over you, you know?” You said matter of fact but you could already feel your conviction fading. It was hard to say it to his face. You could tell yourself as many times as you wanted to in your dorm late at night when you were missing him but that didn’t make it any more true, especially now. 

“I’m sure you are,” He teased lightly, lithe fingers coming to encircle your wrist. He held it up to the light and that smirk only grew. “You’re over me so that’s why you still wear the bracelet I gave you on your anniversary,” 

“It’s a nice bracelet is all,” 

Fred was tired of the playing. He wanted you back but the constant back and forth got exhausting. He loved you, every inch of you, including your faults but he needed you to be honest with him. “So, if I kissed you right now, would you tell me you felt nothing?” 

“Um, I-I don’t think that’s a good idea,” You squeaked. 

“Oh?” Fred challenged, his other free arm wrapping around your waist and bringing you close. Only he could make you feel like you were the only two people in the world when you were surrounded by chaos. “Well, if you’re over me like you say you are then one little kiss shouldn’t matter,” 

“That isn’t fair,” You whined, eyes scanning over his freckles to avoid looking him in the eye. 

“It’s plenty fair, do you miss me?” Fred asked, his grip tightening as he shook you a little, forcing you to look at him. 

“I-” You were going to lie. You had to. You couldn’t anymore. “Of course I miss you Fred, I’m not over you and I never meant to break things off in the first place,” You admitted all at once and watched as he grinned like a madman. “But why would you even want me back after all that? Or did you just want to hear me say it? Get some satisfaction from-” 

Your words were cut off abruptly as he placed his lips on yours, they were inviting if a little chapped. He tasted of cinnamon candies. You relaxed immediately and tangled your fingers in his hair but he pulled away. His cheeks were red. 

“The boss probably shouldn’t be doing this in the lobby,” He explained. 

You laughed and rested your forehead against his chest. You were feeling too much at the moment and tears were going to start falling if you didn’t stop yourself. “I’m so sorry,” 

“I know love, it’s alright. I tried to stay positive after... I just kept hoping you’d come back. I’m glad you did. I’m glad I know you well enough to keep that hope,” 

“You do know me well... Do you know I didn’t mean a word of what I said? I am so proud of you and it’s amazing what you are doing, ridiculous but in the most wonderful way,” You needed him to understand that you did support him you just hadn’t done it very well. 

“Would you take me back then? We have a lot to work out I think... But we can do it, yeah?” He said hopefully, stroking your cheek with a warmth you felt you didn’t deserve but you welcomed it all the same. 

“Yes, of course, I should be asking that of you not the other way around,” You said, feeling guilty. 

“Next time all you need to do is let me in Y/N... Don’t shut me out and push me away. I’m stubborn and I’ll come back,” He teased, pulling a watery laugh from you. 

That day you stayed with Fred and talked, really talked, for the first time since you had split about what you felt. No more lies and no more protecting yourself because it only left you isolated and hurting. 

Fred was glad you had come back, glad you had stayed. He promised he would protect and love you so you didn’t have to do it by yourself. He could be the one to make sure you were secure and happy and loved. He had never let you down before and he wouldn’t start now. 

You could both rest easy knowing that you two had worked it out. 

[ripleyfm]

              ･ﾟ☀   good   morning   to   everyone   except   those   who   hate   on   legend   of   korra   !   skskskks   i’m   teddy   ,   i’m   a   lil   ole   baby   swinging   back   into   the   rpc   heart   emojis   a   -   blazing   !   this   is   my   lil   sunflower   chaos   seeker   known   as   ripley   ,   a   newer   muse   for   me   but   i’m   really   excited   to   flesh   her   out   here   with   some   extra   spooky   elements   .   i   have   a   god   awful   sense   of   humor   and   too   much   enthusiasm   for   angst   so   tbh   ?   come   get   y’all   PLOTTIN   JUICE   to   distract   me   from   thirsting   over   avatar   kyoshi   !  disc / ord is @𝐤𝐲𝐨𝐬𝐡𝐢 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐫 !#6439 since i’ll be mobile for the afternoon !

* [ bruna marquezine + cis female + she / her ] —— have you met tallulah ripley ? they are a twenty-two year old senior currently studying biology & music theory. they live on decker house, and word around campus is that this leo is vibrant + gregarious, as well as hedonistic + philophobic. i wonder if they’ll make it out alive. trailing sand in on the hardwood with bare feet , running late to meetings ( and asking forgiveness with a mere flash of a grin ) , tucking a greta van fleet album among the family collection of concierto classics .

EDIT : wanted and current connections can be found here ! 

youngest   of   four   ,   born   into   an   old   money   surname   ,   her   mother ,  an  international   student  from  sao  paolo  ,  brazil  ,  and  american   father   meet   as   competing   pianists   at   holloway   ,   falling   in   love   ,   marrying   ,   and   beginning   the   next   generation   of   the   ripley   virtuosos   soon   after   graduation   .   her   childhood   is   privileged   and   uneventful   ,   strict   and   stifling   as   early   as   she   can   remember   ,   tallulah   causing   trouble   enough   as   if   to   make   up   for   her   perfectly   behaved   siblings   .

her   father   becomes   one   of   the   most   prolific   modern   composers   of   his   time   ,   and   splits   his   efforts   between   composition   and   teaching   music   theory   at   julliard   as   his   wife   continues   performances   as   a   famed   pianist   .   though   her   siblings   branch   out   into   other   instruments   ,   tallulah   is   the   only   one   stubborn   enough   to   weather   the   callouses   on   her   fingers   ,   figuring   if   she’s   going   to   be   forced   to   play   an   instrument   of   any   type   ,   it’ll   at   least   be   something   she   likes   .   thus   ,   the   only   stringed   instrument   in   the   ripley   household   becomes   hers   as   she   takes   on   the   cello   by   storm   .

practicing   cello   is   perhaps   the   only   thing   lu   truly   commits   herself   to   —   charming   and   sociable   as   she   may   be   ,   her   selectiveness   with   her   efforts   makes   her   sluggish   with   schoolwork   as   if   to   give   her   family   a   hard   time   .   her   siblings   ,   all   honor   scholars   and   first   chairs   at   their   respective   instruments   ,   pick   on   her   for   her   unmotivated   wild   child   ways   at   the   encouragement   of   her   mother   .   the   only   person   who   takes   the   time   to   sit   with   tallulah   and   keep   her   on   track   is   her   ever   -   tired   (   but   endlessly   generous   )   father   .

her   world   is   turned   upside   down   her   freshman   year   when   her   father’s   occasional   stumble   turns   into   a   more   regular   struggle   to   keep   his   balance   ,   an   ultimate   diagnosis   of   a   degenerative   disease   rattling   their   family   as   they   know   it   .   tallulah   ,   wild   and   only   tamed   by   the   kindness   of   one   man   ,   starts   acting   out   in   an   effort   to   ignore   the   world   around   her   .   the   rift   between   herself   and   her   family   only   multiplies   when   she   discovers   her   mother   having   an   affair   as   her   father’s   health   continues   to   decline   .

he   passes   away   on   a   vacation   he   and   tallulah   take   to   the   ripley   summer   beach   house   ,   something   they   had   done   to   have   some   quiet   time   together   away   from   the   judgement   of   her   siblings   .   having   to   be   the   one   to   break   the   news   to   the   family   ,   she   feels   herself   shut   down   and   lose   whatever   desire   she   had   left   to   live   the   perfect   life   her   mother   and   siblings   tried   to   force   on   her   .

she   starts   going   almost   exclusively   by   her   surname   ,   making   it   into   holloway   more   as   a   favor   to   her   family’s   generous   donations   to   the   music   program   than   on   grades   .   she’s   barely   hanging   on   by   her   involvement   in   the   university’s   symphonic   orchestra   ,   where   she’s   a   first   chair   cellist   that   shows   up   late   to   every   damn   rehearsal   and   somehow   can   cold   sightread   well   enough   to   piss   everyone   off   ksksksk   .

given   this   ,   she’s   only   minoring   in   music   theory   to   stay   in   the   orchestra   ,   and   partially   to   feel   close   to   her   dad   .   though   her   dream   is   to   write   music   scores   for   films   ,   she’s   majoring   in   biology   to   have   a   respectable   backup   plan   .   if   she   can’t   do   music   forever   ,   she’ll   disappear   onto   a   beach   somewhere   in   costa   rica   and   be   a   marine   biologist   and   never   be   heard   from   again   lmao

PERSONALITY   :   ripley   is   happiest   shotgunning   a   white   claw   before   piling   into   the   squad   car   and   calling   aux   immediately   !   loves   her   friends   and   sees   her   circle   as   found   family   that   she   would   do   anything   for   .   

she’s   laid   back   and   observant   ,   one   of   the   quieter   in   the   group   as   she   tries   to   suss   you   out   but   is   the   first   to   approach   a   newbie   and   act   as   if   you’ve   been   friends   for   ages   .   she   makes   an   active   effort   to   not   judge   others   on   the   basis   of   first   impressions   and   tends   to   be   rather   open   minded   when   meeting   others   ,   which   makes   her   a   sort   of   universal   friend   -   to   -   all   ;   given   this   ,  when  wronged  ,  she’s   a   stubborn   little   shit   and   though   she   wont   let   them   live   rent   free   in   that   headspace   ,   she’ll   go   full   send   to   making   sure   they’re   aware   they   don’t   exist   to   her   !  

she   hates   petty   drama   and   tends   to   skirt   most   responsibility   by   sweet   -   talking   her   way   out   of   things   ,   giving   the   impression   that   she   can   be   lazy   or   unmotivated   .   this   is   true   to   some   extent   ,   such   as   with   her   grades   or   her   timeliness   ,   but   those   who   strike   the   right   balance   will   see   a   side   of   ripley   that   is   laser   focused   ,   whether   its   drunken   ramblings   about   the   brilliance   of   the   chord   progressions   on   fleetwood   mac’s   rumors   or   an   astute   observation   about   the   emotion   behind   a   certain   cello   movement   .   though   she   prefers   to   skip   the   hard   thinking   and   just   enjoy   the   moment   ,   ripley’s   admittedly   a   clever   girl   ,   simply   needing   the   right   push   to   unlock   her   truest   potential   .  

she’s   incredibly   relaxed   (   sometimes   a   bit   too   much   for   the   preference   of   some   )   and   tends   to   try   and   avoid   over   -   complicating   issues   in   order   to   not   have   to   face   them   .   especially   considering   the   infidelity   of   her   mother   ,   ripley   is   a   staunch   believer   that   relationships   are   a   waste   of   time   and   is   the   annoying   bitch   who   argues   that   being   in   love   is   a   scam   made   up   by   the   simps   to   feel   valid   !  

acts   as   if   she   isn’t   FULL   of   feelings   and   emotions   24/7   n   listens   to   emo   70’s   power   ballads   when   the   person   she   likes   doesnt   confess   their   love   for   her   under   the   moonlight   like   they   were   supposed   to   in   her   fantasy   …….   smh   .   she’s   too   busy   trying   to   be   ~cool   and   effortless~   that   she   sometimes   sabotages   the   things   that   would   bring   her   the   most   happiness   ,   then   blaming   herself   in   a   vicious   cycle   that   just   leaves   her   trying   to   distract   herself   w   crazy   antics   to   avoid   focusing   on   her   feelings   .

RANDOM BLURBS :    hates   men   n   regrets   all   attraction   to   them   .   thinks   all   women   r   too   good   for   her   .   convinced   she   will   be   a   useless   bisexual   forced   2   be   forever   alone

plays   guitar   as   a   mental   break   from   cello   and   loves   it   .   i’m   still   deciding   a   vc   for   her 

knows   the   beaches   in   maine   are   cold   af   but   wants   to   go   every   weekend   anyways

drives   the   most   impractical   soft   shell   jeep   which   sucks   in   the   east   coast   wind   and   snow   and   yet   it   is   somehow   exactly   an   embodiment   of   Her   Brand tm

like   5′9   tall   and   hates   wearing   real   people   shoes   she   said   berks   or   nOTHIN

wishes   she   could   go   vegan   but   is   so   bad   at   keeping   track   of   her   meals   she’d   forget   instantly   and   down   a   20   pack   of   chicken   nugget

too   mellow   &   apathetic   to   be   a   chaotic   neutral   but   too   adventurous   to   be   a   true   neutral   so   she   lives   somewhere   in   that   lawless   grey   space   skskskks

acts   REAL   california   for   someone   who   grew   up   exclusively   on   the   east   coast   ....   hm   .....   🤔

grew  up  disconnected  from  brazilian  culture  due  to  her  mom's  whitewashing  and  she  resents  it  greatly  .  can  understand  scattered  portuguese  but  took  spanish  in  high  school  so  that's  as  close  to  the  language  as  she'll  get  .  wants  to  take  lessons  online  tho  !

inspos r lila from umbrella academy , wynonna earp , beverly marsh from it , michelle manlon from derry girls , korra from lok , adora from she ra and the pop ,  and that ugly yellow overtone used in outer banks  💖 skskskks 

[phcking-detective]

Find Familiar, ch 1/2

Nines casts the spell and feels the magic pull from their soul. They need this to work. They don’t know what else to do.

They hear nothing, but perhaps the animal is simply quiet. The summon circle contains a perch and a large bathtub, painstakingly levitated all the way to the highest floor of their tower. Even a small area filled with sand. Just in case.

A wizard never knows what form their familiar will take until they summon it.

Nines doesn’t dare open their eyes. They need this to work. They are the most brilliant wizard of their generation and likely several before and after as well, but their brilliance is purely academic. All magic comes with a price, of course. That is why they’re ... like this.

Why bright lights give them migraines, and they cannot stand to be touched, and can only wear certain fabrics, eat certain foods, sleep under EXACT conditions. Why they can understand ancient languages and cursed tomes better than they ever could read a face.

It is their Price, and they need--

Nines opens their eyes and stares resolutely at the empty summoning circle. The spell had worked. They felt it take their energy and a piece of their soul. It had cast.

But out of all the beings on this plane and sixteen others, none had answered.

Very well. They don’t need help. They never have.

A first child for inheritance, a second for insurance. A third for luck, a fourth for the middle. Fifth for work, sixth for status. Seventh to fulfill a prophecy.

And an eighth child to be tithed. Two parents, presumably, and the eighth made exactly ten, one-tenth of the family and all they owned given to the church so that they gods would look favorably upon them.

There was no point in a child after that. No prophecies or tithing, and certainly no inheritance left over after carving it up for seven others first. No one ever needed a ninth child.

And Nines has never needed anyone else.

***

Three days and nights after casting the spell, Nines has eaten few enough meals to count on one hand. The sand has not been swept from the floor, and they have not managed to drag themself from their studies long enough to utilize the bathtub for its actual purpose.

But they’re fine.

It’s fine.

They are the greatest wizard of his generation, and they will ... survive. Perhaps not live, not as others do, not in happiness. But they are not dead yet and he has no less than twenty-two contingency spells if death does dare

KNOCK

Nines looks up from their manuscript for the first time in so many hours, they don’t know if the sun is setting or rising. The crystal ball embedded above the door glows green. Someone just solved their first riddle.

Well. Surely the second will

DOOR

Nines stands, then almost collapses from the black spots overtaking their vision. That was too fast. No one should have been able to solve the second riddle that quickly.

MAT

Nines draws their wand and faces the door as the third and final crystal ball lights green.

Knock knock knock.

“Hey. Hey! Hey, asshole!”

... what? They must be dreaming. Yes, an unexpected social visit from a villager capable of bypassing all his wards is surely the stuff of nightmares.

“Either let me in or shut the fuck up!”

The indignity of being accused of speaking when Nines hates speaking, particularly to “people,” infuriates them enough that they forget their wand entirely and throws open the door to berate the--

The much smaller man glaring up at them.

Not small enough to be a dwarf, although he certainly has that ... stockiness. Perhaps a mixture of human and dwarf, but. Even half-dwarves have beards, while this man just has some rather scruffy stubble and a scar across the bridge of his nose.

“You don’t smell right,” the man informs them.

He shoulder-checks past Nines before they can respond. It’s only due to their momentary bout of dizziness that they don’t smite him immediately for that. Or when he circles around the large living area, sniffing at things like a dog.

“Should’ve expected it to be bigger in here than out there,” he says to himself. “Still kind of small though.”

“I do not receive visitors,” Nines replies as coldly as they can manage.

They have accidentally frozen people before, simply with the freezing burn of their anger, yet their magic lays calm and docile inside their chest.

“Good, I fucking hate people,” the man says.

Nines makes some sort of very undignified noise in the back of their throat at that. The man continues wandering about their space, finally sticking his entire head inside their cauldron.

They’re hallucinating. That last alchemical potion must have--

“Don’t you have any cooking pots?” he asks.

Nines doesn’t answer so they don’t have to admit the answer is no. They will not be judged by some--some vagabond, a dirty ugly little man who is--IS BAREFOOT?

“You don’t have shoes,” Nines says, as if that is the important part about a strange man breaking into their home.

“I wiped my feet, fuck off.”

Nines looks back toward the door. All three crystals glow a fading green as the wards slowly reset themselves.

They did not originally mean to bar all the villagers from visiting them forever. They simply wanted any guests to have basic manners. Knock on the door at the first floor before entering, close it behind them so leaves didn’t blow into the stairwell, and wipe their feet on the mat at the top.

Clearly, Nines had expected far too much of the general public.

Nines turns back to see the man filling their alchemy cauldron with water. Although they sterilize it thoroughly after each use in order to prevent cross-contamination among potions, they scrounge up enough hope past the exhaustion to ponder if maybe they had forgotten to do so in the haze of the last several days.

Unfortunately, the man’s flesh does not melt from his skin as he scrubs it out with a rag.

“What are you doing?” Nines asks.

“I’m hungry and you don’t have anything else to cook in,” the man says. “At least we’ll have leftov--”

“Get out of my tower!”

The man looks up and scowls at them. “You’re the one who kept fucking calling me, bitch. Make up your damn mind.”

The realization leaves them light-headed.

“I ... I didn’t ...”

The black spots creep back again, except now they can no longer accurately be called “spots.” They take up far too much of Nines’s vision for that, then consume it entirely.

Something warm and solid catches Nines before they fall. Their hands grab at whatever they can reach out of an instinctive need to hold onto something--fabric, skin, fur. Fur? Not quite. Hair, maybe. Very thick hair. Dwarf beard? No, only stubble. But very thick hair somewhere, somewhere, oh in the middle. His ... chest?

“Ow, quit pulling on that.”

“Furry,” Nines says, because they are very intelligent and also the greatest wizard of their generation.

“Yeah, moon’s close to full. Damn, you’re a gangly bitch, aren’t you? Where’s your fucking body fat, you need to eat more.”

Nines mumbles his very clever retort into his pillows. Oh, his pillows. They’re in bed. That’s nice. Their bed is soft and warm and good.

The other Warm Good thing wrapped around them lets go.

“Nooo.”

Nines pulls it back. Furrier now. They’d secretly wished for a dog. Obviously, a feline familiar would have been more practical, and certainly more in line with their introverted tendencies. Dogs need too much attention, and walks, and they drool and shed. Cats only do one of those things, and if they summoned a black one, the hair would just blend into their robes anyway.

But still. Some part of them had hoped ...

“All right, fine. Fucking bossy. Scoot over, bitch.”

The Warm Good thing piles into the bed with Nines, but there is still entirely too much skin. Nines does not go to bed with people. Certainly not with skin showing. They want--they need--

They want a dog.

They need a person.

Of course. A fully animal familiar could only do so much for them without thumbs, and monkeys are horrendous. Only a real person would be smart enough to take care of them the way they need it.

But a person-familiar ... unheard of. Impossible. No one had ever summoned a human before, and it would be grossly unethical regardless.

Nines crows with the proof that they really are the greatest wizard of their generation, and likely several before and after.

“OK, so you’re good with me being a werewolf, right? Because if you start crying about a monster and get a bunch of pitchforks up in here, I’m pissing on all your robes.”

A werewolf. Half man, half wolf. Brilliant!

“So. What’s your name?”

“Nines.”

“Fuck, humans are still doing that? Your litters are bigger than ours, goddamn. And popping them out one at a time like that?”

The werewolf shudders. Nines pets over them, much more fur than skin now.

“Was two of us,” they say, all filter gone with how tired they are. “Twins instead of just the last eighth. Connor, Connor was ... just ... a second quicker.”

“What, so they threw you away?” he asks, the question nearly a growl.

“Tech,,nicaaally,” Nines slurs. “They did him too. Gave him. Away. Just, pretended to love him first. It’s, s’crueler. I think. At least I, ahhhhh. I always knew.”

“Phckin’ hue-mens,” the werewolf growls.

“Mmhmm.”

“Miiine.”

That is the last word he can growl out before the transformation completes. Then Nines receives the dog they wanted. Like this, it is far easier to feel their familiar’s mind at the edge of their own, to recognize the bond for what it is.

Good boy, [name].

It’s Gavin, dickhead.

Adequate boy, Gavin.

The wolf huffs. Go to sleep. I’ll feed you soup in the morning and maybe you won’t be so hangry.

I only want potatoes and carrots. NO celery.

Go the fuck to SLEEP.

Nines does so.

--

The wolf licks their face only after he’s absolutely certain they’re unconscious. The dumb human just smells dehydrated.

He didn’t want to come at first. Didn’t understand what the ache in his head was in the first place, or why he kept feeling hungry no matter how much he ate or that he had to pee for four hours straight.

Just that he needed to go, go this way, this way, this way!

Fucking asshole wizard summoning him like he’s their goddamn dog.

(But it’s not like he has a pack of his own. Not like he has anything better to do. No one to protect or feed or cuddle.)

(And this human obviously needs his help.)

He’ll only stay for the moon, just so he has a safe place to sleep it off away from angry villagers convinced he’ll “deflower” their women--who already smell of sex by the way--even though he really prefers men.

And this one wizard, apparently.

Gavin licks Nines again. The human already smells way better with his scent on them, and this is the most luxurious bed he’s ever curled up in.

He can spend the night. Make some breakfast. He’s hungry, right? Wouldn’t make sense to leave a good meal behind.

Yeah, he’s just staying for the food.

***

***

One of my lovely followers recently commissioned a second chapter! It’s rated E for Explicit (sex scenes). Subscribers to my Patreon get early access to all my commissioned fics 2 weeks earlier than they’re posted to AO3 or tumblr ^^

[rumours-spiral]

i’ll be safe in your sound- anna x katherine

(kinda loosely) based off of this wonderful post by @you-need-a-jello-shot. thanks again for letting me use the idea! 

note: this 100% ended up turning into an anna x kat fic but after what genesis put on her story earlier, am i really to blame? to the user who said they’d like to see more of these two, here you go! expect more bc writing this made me fall in love with this ship

(also to the people who asked for the parrlyn fic, its almost finished) 

summary: anna and katherine are very cute & very in love. pure fluff 

words: 1306

warnings: very brief hint to past sexual assault 

Anna’s eyes drifted open lazily, only to be met with the beautiful sight of Katherine. She was sitting up against the headboard, sleepy eyes trained on the landscape-turned phone in her hands. A headphone wire could be seen running from where it was connected into the phone. It rested on her girlfriend’s chest before running up her neck and to her ear. Anna realised with a dopey grin and an amused exhalation that Katherine had only put one earphone in, leaving the ear closest to Anna free. Her suspicions of why this had been done were confirmed when the woman turned to face her immediately at the noise. She gave Anna a breath-taking little smile.

“Morning,” Kat whispered, her voice husky with sleep. It gave Anna butterflies to see Kat like this- long, chestnut and pink-tipped hair messy and free, cascading down her shoulders and staining Anna’s white sheets that delightful colour; her eyes lidded and sweet. Everything about Kat always seemed soft, but something about feeling the warmth she shared under the covers and seeing her in the muted light made her outright heavenly. Whatever she was watching was completely disregarded, the phone now resting on her lap. Anna felt that dopey grin worsen.

“Morning.” She leaned up slightly and Katherine tipped her head down to give her a gentle kiss. They pulled apart slowly. Anna felt something too powerful for such an early morning expand in her chest when she looked at Kat’s brown eyes, so she turned her gaze to her hair, snaking an arm out from under the duvet to hold a lock of it. Katherine gave her an amused look at the near reverence in Anna’s eyes at it.

“What?” Anna looked up at her voice.

“You’re pretty,” Anna said simply. Kat felt a blush spread in her cheeks and she, too, averted her eyes from the brilliance that was her girlfriend. She looked at the dark hand that held her hair, remembering faintly a dozen similar scenes from a different life. The hand she watched now had skin as soft and pure and safe as its movements; it wasn’t muscular, or calloused from instrument strings or stained with ink. It was a hand of giving and holding, not of stealing and possessing. She smiled down at it, lifting the hand to press a kiss to its knuckles. She looked back up at the other woman and found eyes that seemed to know exactly what Kat was thinking. They always did.

“You’re pretty, too,” was Katherine’s bashful little reply. It felt quite pathetic, and not nearly adequate enough to describe Anna, yet a smile spread across her face anyway. The hand was still held up to her face and she looked to be almost trying to hide behind it. Anna’s smile turned into a playful grin, and she pulled her hand away to place it on the bed on the other side of Katherine. She pushed herself up into a half-sitting position, leaning partly over her girlfriend so she could have their faces close. She was ever watchful of the brunette’s body language and reactions, but found only amusement dancing in her eyes.

She hooked a leg over Anna’s waist suddenly, and flipped them so that Katherine was hovering over the other in one swift movement, her victim letting out a yelp. She captured Anna in a slightly less-than-innocent kiss, silencing her, but pulled away after a second, leaving Anna’s head still reaching for her. She let her head fall back to the bed dramatically, pouting up at her. Katherine let out a breathless sort of giggle.

“Your breath smells too bad to do that right now,” she whispered it like she was in a pantomime, playing along with Anna’s dramatic reactions. Anna gave a gasp, trying to look indignant, but she knew it failed when she felt her mouth curving into a smile anyway and saw Katherine’s eyes go incredibly brighter.

“Your breath doesn’t smell incredible, either,” it came out as a laugh, the theatricality forgotten. Kat giggled as well, and rolled off of Anna to lie on her back. She stretched her hand out, feeling for Anna’s, and laced them together wordlessly. They lapsed into a comfortable silence, listening to each other’s breaths and the muffled sounds of their housemates moving around.

“Anna?”

She received a hum.

“I really want a cookie.”

Anna laughed again, soft as the pillow beneath her head.

“Come on, then,” she said. Kat tackling her had tangled them in the sheets, so when Anna tried to stand on the half-covered leg she swung onto the floor, she ended up only yanking Kat across the bed and almost falling onto the ground herself.

Kat let out a peal of laughter, a musical sound that Anna didn’t think she’d ever tire of hearing. Anna turned around to face the bed, chortling even harder than she had been when she saw half the duvet had been pulled off the bed in her trip. Kat’s legs remained on her original side, though her torso and arm (that was still connected to Anna) were on Anna’s side. She was tangled, too.

They unlinked hands- Cleves to unwrap the sheet winding around her leg and Kat to get out of the mess she was in. Kat had somehow freed herself before Cleves, so when she looked up to check Kat’s progress, she instead saw her opening the curtains. Her back was to Anna, and she was wearing one of her shirts- a red and black flannel that stopped just at her mid-thigh. That same powerful, consuming feeling fluttered in Anna’s chest at the sight. She looked away before Kat turned back to her.

“Anna? You go down before me, I need to find my phone.” She was currently attempting to lift up the duvet and shake it in her search. Anna was going to argue that she should stay and help, but decided to get Kat’s cookies and tea started before she got down there. She gave a temporary farewell.

She found all the girls already in the kitchen. Anne was standing next to Cathy at the table and eating cereal. Her back was turned to her but she could tell from the glare Aragon was currently shooting at her from where she stood next to the toaster that she was dropping it everywhere. Cathy was reading a newspaper, and Jane sat across her, nursing a steaming cup of tea.

Jane smiled when Anna walked in, greeting her with a “morning, love”. Anna replied to her as she moved through the kitchen, walking toward Aragon and her ever-hardening stare at Anne when she heard the girl warble her own greeting with a mouthful of coco pops. Aragon paused from this one-sided glaring contest to inform Anna of the general plan for today.

Anna listened half-heartedly, rifling through a cupboard to find Katherine’s cookies. She turned around in time, packet of the biscuits in hand, to see Katherine walking into the room. She was so distracted by her that she hardly saw the doubletake Jane took at the woman. Anne (who looked comical with a spoon hanging from her mouth, abandoned in shock) tapped Cathy’s head and all three of their heads followed Katherine’s trek. She heard Aragon choke slightly on her water from beside her.

Anna realised what they were shocked at with a broad smile. She handed Katherine a cookie when the woman neared her, and in return got a very confused look from.

Kat stood there, eating her cookie, with everyone still staring at her.

“What?” She asked, slightly defensively.

Her cousin pulled the spoon from her mouth.

“Your hair’s down.”

Katherine raised her cookie-free hand up to feel, as if she didn’t already know. And, of course, Anne was right.

“Oh.”

“Your hair is never down.”

“Oh.”

[the-blind-assassin-12]

Jigsaw // Red: Part Two

Nothin’ Good Comin’

A/N: I re-watched all of season 2 before finishing this. So now my pain is your pain, sorry. Time for Billy to get some revenge. 

Warning: murder, death, violence, mentions of sexual assault  

Word Count: 3,259

Prompt: (i have a feeling this is the furthest thing from what you were hoping for, anon. But...I just can’t see Billy fluff like that so I hope you don’t hate me! Thank you for sending a request!) 

The light came in through the curtains, the silver-gold brilliance of the sun’s first rays marking the early start of a new day. Normally, Billy would have been awake for an hour or two already, moving about in the semi-darkness, performing his morning routine; workout, coffee, shower, news. He liked starting his day before the world did, feeling like it gave him an edge, a sharpness that he could use to his advantage, and he took advantages whenever he could grab them. But it wasn’t a normal morning. It hadn’t been a normal night, either, the two of you lingering in the limbo between sleep and wakefulness, neither of you willing to close your eyes for too many minutes. Instead, the hours were spent committing everything to memory- the way he felt your moans through your kiss, your chest pressed to his. The soft flutter of your eyelids and the way it felt to sink into you. Your legs wrapped around his waist, twined with his or thrown over his shoulder. The way his name sounded and what it did to his heartbeat and his breathing when you sighed it into his ear. He wanted to etch you into his bones and tattoo you into his memory. Every freckle, every eyelash, the distinct weight of your body draped over his, the gentle warmth of your breath on his skin, all of it, all of you.

You brushed your fingertips over his eyebrow, tracing the curve of his orbital bone until your light touch found the birthmark between his cheek and lashes. The fingers of your other hand were threading through his hair, long dark strands spread out over the pillowcase. He didn’t dare open his eyes, the lids shutting even more tightly as you lowered yourself over his chest, lips finding his and fitting together seamlessly. Each kiss that you left him with erased every pair of lips that weren’t yours from his memory, his palms forgetting the feel of anyone’s skin but yours with each press and pass over your back. Billy savored every second of closeness, every last shadow as the night melted into morning and painted the patterns of the window frame on the sheets, holding you like it was the last chance he’d ever have, like he couldn’t get you close enough.

In a way, he couldn’t. Somehow, against any natural instinct or ingrained behavior and contrary to what he thought was better judgement, somehow in the time between getting back to you after his last deployment and the dwindling hours left before he’d be torn away again, Billy Russo had fallen in love with you. And that love presented itself in the form of a dull emptiness that was only quelled when he was with you. It was an ache that he always seemed to have, but he’d shoved bullshit and bravado into it for years, packing it down and trying to fill the deep gouges that his life had scraped into him through neglect and abuse. It stung, like rock salt being pressed into a bleeding wound, but he grew up learning how to grit his teeth and bear it, letting it make him hard, calcified and sharp. With you he’d felt something he never had before; comfort and happiness and ease with himself as he was in the moment. With you, that ache was filled and soothed, the calluses shaved away from the jagged edges around his heart, leaving it less protected and more open than ever before.

“Good morning, Billy,” you mumbled sleepily against his lips, slowly breaking the kiss to melt against his side with a sigh. You trailed your fingertips up and down his chest as you tucked your face into his shoulder.

Billy stayed silent, concentrating on the sound of your breathing, the warmth of your body, the smell of your shampoo. It’s the last good morning for a while, gotta make it count. He tightened his hold on you, flexing his arms and pulling himself closer.

You wrinkled your forehead when he still hadn’t said anything a full thirty seconds later, lifting your head to look at him through the curtain of your hair. Swiping it aside, you propped yourself on your elbow, his hand resting on your hip, thumb slowly circling around the bone. “Hey,” you reached for his face to make him look into your eyes instead of where he was touching you. “Look sharp, lieutenant, what’s wrong?”

Billy stopped the motion of his thumb to bring his hand up behind your neck, fingers combing through the hair at the nape. She knows what’s wrong. The ache throbbed but was immediately healed as you dropped your lips to his jaw, his cheek, the corner of his eye. “Nothin’,” he fibbed, returning your kisses with one of his own, lips brushing the tip of your nose. “Just tired.” He grinned. “You kept me up all night, I’m gonna have to sleep on the plane.” He knew he wouldn’t.

The smile that you answered with lit the room more than the early morning light that was spilling in. “Had to remind you what you’re coming home to, Billy.”

His chest tightened. Home. The word, to him, had always just meant The States. His apartment was just where he stayed. The few foster families he’d been placed with and the group home he’d spent most of his childhood in didn’t count. They were obligatory, state mandated and regulated constructs designed to make unwanted kids forget that the world didn’t give a shit about them. But home was something he could finally have, because he had you. He tugged you down on top of him. “Like I could ever forget.”

..  .. ..  .. .. ..  .. .. 

He bolted upright, your name on his lips, breaths coming quick and shallow, and sweat beading on his brow despite the chill in the drafty old warehouse. She… Eyes darting over the dilapidated couch cushion, he searched for any sign of the phantom warmth he still felt leftover from your touch in his dream. A sound somewhere between a sob and a grunt, between anger and despair forced its way from his mouth and he gripped his head with both hands. She’s gone. It was a dream, she’s gone. Another harsh sound escaped him as he stood from the couch to pace the cracked concrete floor. The sky outside was still inky black, illuminated by neons and streetlights. He figured that he’d only gotten a few hours of sleep, but waking up in the Hellscape that his reality had become after the juxtaposition of your body over his and your breath on his skin that his tired, fractured mind had conjured would make it impossible for him to get anymore rest, impossible to do anything but move. Before he knew it, he’d tucked your photo into the pocket of his now sweat and muck ridden sweatshirt, pulled his hood up over his head, and barreled down the steps and out into the night.

He didn’t know where he was going until he was sitting on the dented aluminum bleachers, the cold seeping through the thin scrub pants he wore. The distant hum of engines rumbling over the crumbling streets of the boroughs and the muffled shouts from the housing projects behind the ball fields finally drowned out the teasing whispers leftover from his dream. His left knee bounced erratically as he let go of the illusion and focused on the moment. Staring at the dusty home plate on the other side of the chain link fence, the gears started turning, slowly at first before gaining traction, and a plan started falling into place. I know how to flush ‘em out…Frank…Madani… I know how to get their attention…then I can make ‘em pay. He pulled his sweatshirt more tightly around himself, leaning back on the seat behind him and stretched out his long legs on the one below. He found the photo in his pocket, fingers gliding over the glossy paper, and he nodded off, sirens wailing three bridges away as a lullaby.

..  .. ..  .. .. ..  .. .. ..

The sunlight bore into his closed eyelids, slicing them open as birdsong filled his ears and he woke with a start and a gasp. Wide eyes taking stock of his surroundings, he recalled the events of the previous evening, recalled the plan that he’d formed. With a sniff through flared nostrils, Billy cracked his neck and rotated his left shoulder until it popped, releasing the tension that always built up as he slept before standing from the bleachers, hands shoved in his pockets and filthy socked feet carrying him out of the park and around the corner. It was early enough on a Saturday that not many people were out in this part of town, unless they were still straggling back home from the night before, drunk from bars or yawning from overnight shifts. He found the blue MTA sign for the bus that would take him where he needed to go, and stood there quietly waiting for it to come into view. A woman was sitting on the bench under the covered bus stop, but she had no reaction to Billy’s arrival. Typical New Yorker, blinders on and headphones in, doesn’t wanna know how scared she should be. The air brakes puffed as the bus turned the corner, and the woman stood right behind Billy, close enough that when she gripped the rail to board, her fingers brushed his.

He found a seat and took it silently, forgoing fare in favor of a glare that the bus driver didn’t have the energy to deal with, and stared straight ahead at the seat in front of him, the oblivious woman taking a seat a few rows behind him. Before the doors closed and the bus took off, a young man reeking of stale beer and the heavy smell of whiskey staggered by, shooting a look in Billy’s direction, and laughing as he fell into the seat right behind him. Billy narrowed his eyes as the guy leaned around his seat, nearly falling out of it as the bus began moving.

“Look at you,” he was right beside Billy’s ear, arms leaning on his knees and sunglasses perched on his head. He snickered drunkenly. “The hell happened to your face? The hell are your shoes?” Billy narrowed his eyes and cracked his knuckles. The jerk looked around, trying to get the attention of their fellow riders. “Look at this Edward Scissorhands lookin’ fuck. What’s the matter, Ed? Mommy put your face in a blender?” He laughed then, and shoved the back of Billy’s head, a low growl barely audible coming from somewhere in his throat. “You are one sorry sack, buddy. A real fuckin freak.”

The bus stopped then, and the man stood, laughing as he staggered back out. It wasn’t Billy’s stop. But it was close enough. With a devilish grin he stood and followed the guy down the aisle, the driver letting out a sigh of relief at Billy’s departure. Down one street and through the alley of another he followed his new friend- who happened to be of the same build and size- until they were alone, between two buildings, the man stopping and flicking open a decent sized pocket blade. In a whirlwind of motion that came more naturally than breathing, Billy blocked the attacker’s stab, peeling the knife from this hand by bending it back over his wrist and letting it clatter to the floor. In less than fifteen seconds he had his arm snaked around the asshole’s neck and a grip on his mandible. With one hard crack he snapped the man’s neck and dropped his limp body to the ground. Thanks for the new duds, asshole. Billy stripped off the last remaining vestiges of his hospital stay, clothing himself in the dead man’s jeans, shirt, boots and jacket, plucking the glasses from his head and bending to pick up the dropped blade. Pulling the photos from the pocket of the sweatshirt, he tucked them in the inner pocket of the black, faux fur-lined coat, making sure that he kept you with him as he continued on. He walked back out of the alley leaving his dirty clothes and the corpse of the idiot who pissed him off behind him. That was a good warm up. Back on track.  

It was just a few more blocks and he didn’t mind the walk, preferring motion to stillness and questioning how he ever stood being holed up in some sniper post for days at a time. Before he knew it, Billy was walking up the front steps of a rundown old house that felt disgustingly familiar. He made quick work of the lock, letting himself in as he used to, and took a seat at the kitchen table, waiting for Arthur to waddle out from his bedroom. A half empty bottle of shitty amber liquor stood on the table next to an ashtray and yesterday’s paper, a stickball bat propped against the wall in the corner. Fucker still has that? Unbelievable. His lip curled and he shook his head aggressively, recalling the three times he’d spoken about Arthur in his adult life: once with Frank while they watched Jr.’s little league game, once with Madani while he was using her for intel, and once with you, the only person who’d truly understood.

..  .. ..  .. .. ..  ..

“I didn’t… I didn’t talk about it for a long time. Didn’t know how to- didn’t know who to talk to, ya know? Didn’t know who to trust. Didn’t know- Hell, maybe there was somethin’ wrong with me, right? Maybe I did somethin’ wrong and that’s why-“ He sniffed, nose wrinkling as he shook his head. “Took me a while but I figured it out. Grown man calls you pretty…you know nothin’ good is comin’.”

“That’s fucked, Billy, I’m… “ your hand found its way into his, and he flipped his palm over so that you could twine your fingers together. “It makes me sick that you had to deal with that I… “ you shook your head but your eyes stayed focused on his. “I know what that’s like, not knowing who to trust… thinking you were wrong… this was someone who was supposed to…who you were supposed to look up to and…” you exhaled, anger and heartbreak written on your face.

“Hey,” he shrugged and pulled you closer to him, running his other hand up and down your bare spine as you lay tangled in bed. “It’s okay. Bastard got his, and I’m alright.” Got you now, the rest I can deal with.

“Yeah,” you kissed his cheek just above the hairline of his beard. “Yeah y’are Billy.”

..  .. ..  .. .. ..  ..

The exchange was quick- a few questions about his face, a few denials of any past wrongdoing, Arthur’s fat, wet frog lips glistening as he took a sip of his boozy coffee. The insistence that he’d been unfairly punished finally shattered what was left of Billy’s calm. Unfair. This asshole doesn’t know unfair. This asshole doesn’t know punishment.

“I was happy to love you kids,” he snarled at Billy. “And some’a you” he said it with disdain for the fact that Billy wasn’t one of the some, “were happy to love me back.”

It happened in a flurry of chairs scraping over the linoleum, mugs shattering on the floor and muffled, fearful sounds from the old man. Billy grabbed for the stick, snapping it over his knee easily to leave two jagged, splintered ends. He plunged one straight through the layers of fat over Arthur’s heart to pierce the muscle and cease its beating, ridding the world of one more piece of shit and leaving a nice big crimson puddle of blood, knowing that Madani and Frank would read his message loud and clear. The satisfaction of bleeding the lousy life out of his childhood abuser mixed with the vengeful rage resulting in a dizzying high that made him feel strong for the first time since leaving Krista in a heap on the floor of his hospital room. He helped himself to a leftover sub sandwich in Arthur’s fridge, found a small wad of cash crumpled on a side table, and left the scene, closing his jacket to cover up his shirt, drenched in blood.

Kicking the other half of the broken stickball bat towards the lumpy form of Arthur’s body, Billy exited the house through the backdoor in search of somewhere he could stake the place out. The house next to Arthur’s had been condemned, deemed unlivable, the tool shed in its yard looking more structurally sound than the house itself. Perfect. He hopped the short fence easily, throwing a look over his shoulder to ensure than no nosy neighbors were peeking through their curtains. Satisfied that he hadn’t been spotted, he slipped into the shed and waited, knowing that as soon as Madani got wind of this she’d be there with all her justice and her jealous hatred, knew she’d find her way onto the crime scene even though she didn’t belong there, knew she couldn’t let go of her desire to see him behind bars. Not gonna happen, Dinah.

Only a few hours passed by, Billy silently staring through the window of the shed, belly full and adrenaline levels back to normal, fingers grazing over that glossy photo in his pocket as he waited. When he saw her go into the house, he grinned. So predictable. He’d purposely left Arthur’s kitchen curtain open so he could see what was going on inside, his eagle eyes not needing the scope of a gun for accuracy. Billy had taken a lot of damage through the years, but his eyesight was still as keen as ever. He watched Madani pull her phone from her pocket and make a call that he knew wasn’t to her superior. Yeah, that’s right Madani, call your dog. Call Frank to clean this up for you. A few more minutes went by before he saw her leave, and he exited the tool shed to follow her. The first car he tried was locked, but a second, older model was left open, the owner probably hoping for someone to steal it for the insurance. Billy was happy to oblige, hotwiring it before Madani had even pulled out of Arthur’s driveway. Keeping his distance, he trailed her all the way back to her place, the edges of his brain tingling and stinging with memories of being there, of being with her and wishing it was you. I’m sorry, it should have been you. It always was, for me.  

She parked her car and he watched her nervously check her surroundings, one hand near her waistband on the gun she never left home without. He gave her a few minutes before exiting the stolen car and finding the stairwell, climbing unseen to her floor. He opened his jacket, wanting her to see his shirt and how it had gone from crisp white to deep red, wanting her to know what she was in for as soon as she laid eyes on him. He knew she had locks on her door, and he knew she’d bolt them behind her. But he knew it didn’t matter- he knew he’d be able to break the door down, throwing all of his weight and the weight of his hatred, the weight of his anger, the  weight of your loss straight through the bolts and locks. Nothing was going to stop him from getting through that door.

Nothin good is comin for you, Dinah. Nothin good at all.

.

.

.

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[kalluun-patangaroa]

Coat by Dunhill

MR PORTER

THE LOOK: MR BRETT ANDERSON

October 18, 2011

Photography by Mr Matt Irwin | Styling by Mr Dan May

Words by Mr Dan Cairns

In all these years of sitting down to chew the fat with pop stars, I have never met one quite as sartorially elegant as Mr Anderson. That's not to say he's a flash Harry when it comes to selecting his wardrobe. Today, the Suede front man and one-time dedicated hedonist, who in the band's Britpop-begetting heyday would take to the stage in hipsters and a see-through blouse, is sporting an understated - though almost certainly high-end - black shirt and designer jeans. Far from being foppish and effete, as those early heroin-chic Suede photographs and videos had led me to expect, Mr Anderson in person is tall, tanned, well-built, unselfconsciously masculine and unmistakably groomed. Who knew?

Looking back on my career, lots of people distrusted the band, and especially me. I definitely regret that

The 44-year-old is here to talk about his new solo album, Black Rainbows, which sees the singer return to the sphere of rock for the first time since his brief 2004 reunion with Suede's first guitarist Mr Bernard Butler, as The Tears. Gone are the instrumentally Spartan and lyrically questioning ruminations of Mr Anderson's two previous releases, Wilderness and Slow Attack. Working with Mr Leo Abrahams, he has returned to the sounds and subject matter that first fired his imagination, and captivated fans, when Suede exploded on to the front pages of the music press in 1992, louche, androgynous and feral. One of the best - and most underrated - lyricists of his generation, he scatters fresh gems across the new album, singing of people with "ashtray eyes" and "carpet burns", his Mr Patrick Hamiltonesque skill for shining a light on the seedy underbelly of disappointed lives as sharp as ever.

Combine Black Rainbows' brilliance with last year's thrilling and rapturously received Suede reunion shows and it isn't surprising to find Mr Anderson in such good spirits, chatting over a slice of Bakewell tart and a cup of tea. Gone is the slightly hangdog demeanour of recent years; today, he's beaming. "Looking back on my career," Mr Anderson says, hindsight bestowing its benefits, "the one thing I have regrets about is that I messed around with the media a bit, and did prance about for the cameras, all those kinds of things - which were fun, and very much part of the whole hype maelstrom about Suede at the time. But lots of people distrusted the band, and especially me, as a consequence, and that did drag attention away from the music. So I definitely regret that. But, you know, what can you do? You're 24, last week you signed off the dole, and you're in a studio in the East End having your photo taken for a magazine cover. And that's kind of fun. You really do think, 'Thank f*** for that - this is a more interesting life than the past three years, scraping money together for cat food'."

THE WORK

Mr Anderson's solo album, Black Rainbows, sees the artist return to the sphere of rock for the first time in seven years

The singer admits that, until last year, he had spent many years refusing to engage with his musical past - rather as, before Black Rainbows relit the fire, he had resisted rock music. The reissue of Suede's back catalogue last year and the band's comeback shows forced him to confront it, however. "I've always had this thing," he continues, "of 'Never look back, always move forwards'." Does he feel as if he's competing against his past? "Oh, definitely. But lots of people, if they've made great work, they're always in its shadow, aren't they? For me, it's [the second Suede album] Dog Man Star. My fanbase is always comparing everything I do with that record. And that can become tiring - until the moment when you think, 'Yeah, Dog Man Star is a great album. What can I do about it?' I mean, I can imagine being oppressed by the past in that way, but at least you have made something great, and can use that as a positive. If you've never made something that casts that shadow, surely that's more worrying."

I was very lippy and out there in the early days, but I'm not embarrassed about it; it's very much part of me

Mr Anderson says he has much more perspective now - and affection, even compassion, for his younger self. "I was very lippy and very out there in the early days, but I'm not embarrassed about it; it's very much part of me, and I quite respect it in a funny sort of way. I mean, I don't want to act like that any more, because I have more confidence in myself, in the different sides of myself; but I still respect the fact that I had the guts to do something that stuck out."

He admits he finds the homogenisation of today's alternative music trying, and blames what he calls "the shuffle culture, which has reduced tribalism". "You can listen to a whole host of eclectic music, and that's wonderful in a way, because it means that lots of new bands are boundless in the way they will pilfer from multiple genres. But there was something to be said for being at school and getting beaten up because you liked punk music. That sort of thing gave a real frisson to being a music fan, and gave you a personal badge of identity."

In their prime, Suede's music was sleazy and dangerous - to the point where you could almost smell it. The best moments on Black Rainbows exude the same sense of ambiguity and menace. "That, for me, is what great music is," says Mr Anderson, finishing his cup of tea. "It's about personality rather than proficiency, that feeling that you've got something of the writer left behind when they've left the room." And with that he is off. Gone, maybe - but a trace of Mr Brett Anderson still lingers.

Black Rainbows is out now brettanderson.co.uk

Leather jacket by Givenchy | Shirt by J. Crew

Coat by Alexander McQueen | Shirt by A.P.C.

Shirt by Balenciaga

Leather jacket by Lanvin | Shirt by PS Paul Smith

Shirt by Givenchy | Trousers by J. Crew

[beauvoyr]

Lazy People’s Club for the Sleepy and Tired | 20

decaying | 20 Pairings: Noctis/Reader Genre: Friendship/Romance/Friends-to-Lovers Tags: Fluff, Humor, Eventual Romance, Slow Burn, Abuse, Torture, asphyxiation, no beta we die like men, pre-Omen trailer route, pre-demon Noctis Chapter Rating: T+ Crossposted on: ao3 Summary: Rules to join the Lazy People’s Club for the Sleepy and Tired: 1) One must love sleep. Sleep is love. Sleep is life. 2) One must be tired. Physically or emotionally, both are acceptable. 3) One must love video games. Halfhearted interest in video games will result in immediate termination of membership. Fortunately, Noctis falls into all three categories. CHAPTER SUMMARY: Noctis sidesteps a scruffy man in chic boho ensemble of scarves and fedora, stopping across glassy automated doors dinging with every customer it receives. “We’re here.”

YOU WEAR SUNLIGHT IN THE MOST RADIANT way. It dusts you in a gossamer glow; sunlight dripping off your body, glistening, luscious enough for anyone to lick the sunny sweetness from your skin. A guilty part of him liked you against a backdrop of black with stars clustering your hair and sleep-heavy eyes lidding low, but he has a newfound appreciation for the way the sun sheathes your skin in subtle extravagance, colouring you in ways artificial lighting couldn’t.

Pocketing his hands, Noctis observes how you underwent the same transformation he’s seen time and time again.

You dash up the Crystal Promenade, crossing crowded roads and marvelling at the magnificent stained glass streets sprawled under your sandals. The breeze picks up, sheer lace bouncing off your thighs, and cooing doves scatter into flight. You dart through pockets of space between the crowd, examine silvery timepieces displayed in Chopard, perking up at the street performers orchestrating a waltz with a cello, a violin, and an Electone. Prompto’s habit must’ve rubbed off on you, for you snapped a picture of some jolly bystanders waltzing along to the sentimental tune, and then a few more of the merry musicians tapping their feet in tandem.

“It’s Je Te Veux,” you tell him once he reaches your side, bright eyes all eager.

He’s never heard of that one before, but he can count on you and your endless database of classical music ingrained in that knotty head of yours. He makes a toneless sort of hum, realises it couldn’t be heard over the vibrato, and tries again. “What’s that?”

“Satie composed it.” You palm your phone to your chest, eyes trained on the graceful glide of the dancers having a good time with one another. The brilliance of your smile seems to fade for a second and Noctis wonders what’s up—that is until you seem intent on avoiding his eyes. “It means I want you.”

Oh. Oh.

There are no cymbals in the waltz, but Noctis is sure his heart is beating to the sound of a toy monkey clanging brass cymbals together. Jarringly loud in his ears, all clang clang clang like some annoying alarm in that morning Marlboro cartoon show. The sunny warmth is starting to get to him, reaching his ears, and he fights the awkward urge to have a stiff, long walk through Insomnia just to get away from the teasing lilt of the violin.

All Noctis does is to rub his nape in faux indifference. He too avoids your eyes.

“Hmm. I see.”

THE SHOP HE’S LOOKING FOR is housed in the upscale part of the city, all cobblestones fanned in russet reds, blossoming shrubs edging the walkways, iron scrollwork fencing the pavements. Prompto’s always skittish on the rare occasions when Ignis drags them here, needing to complete a grocery errand or two. Either one of the buttons on Noctis’ jacket had vanished and only DKNY carried specific silver buttons with monogrammed engravings, or he needed to replace one of his scandalous-looking shirt garters—the ones that fit around the curve of his thigh like some contraption for the kinky. Noctis isn’t judging, but he has his own suspicions about Ignis because who doesn’t?

Whatever, he’d rather not think about it now. He’d very much like to concentrate on how you’ve gone ahead with locating what he needed, pointing at a sun-bleached signboard hanging overhead.

“Is this the correct store?” You crane your neck to decipher the neon-lit swirls scrawled on the board juxtaposing deep stonewalls. “Vivienne Westwood?”

He comes to a stop before the broad, polished glass popping out on the sidewalk. “Yep, that’s the one.” Reflected, you and him: A vision in white and shrouded in black, your head tipped aside, him toeing the pavement. A wireframe mannequin models an assemblage of scarf, skirt, and matching heels, not that he knows anything about fashion. It’s just that he enjoyed watching your animated reflection scrutinising tortoiseshell sunnies perched on its head, hand on your chin. A corner of his lips slants upwards at the sight. “Most of us have our stuffs personally tailored, so, yeah. Either from Vivienne Westwood or Roen.”

You tiptoe a little to get a closer look at another pair of paisley sunglasses hanging by a string. “Kinda like personal tailors? Since you guys have fashion labels working for the royal family?”

“Something like that.” He shrugs. “Why?”

“‘cause I noticed your boots have those pretty red soles,” you say matter-of-factly, pointing downwards to what seems to be his boots. Noctis gets that awkward feeling again, like some inside joke just went over his head. What does that have to do with anything when he’s out here with you? You’re not going to make him take off his shoes again, are you? Just to examine his toes, like some bizarre déjà vu of his first meeting with you? Thankfully, you seem to pick up on his confusion since you've gone ahead tilting your head with a smile. "Christian Louboutin, right?"

Yeah, he has no experience to go through this conversation. That’s up Ignis’ alley, not his. But he might have heard the name bounced back and forth during personal fitting sessions, might have something to do with a Loubouwhatever measuring his feet with tape. Safe to say, Noctis is just going to play along. “Uh—yeah. Personalized everything. Head to toe.” He pauses at your knowing nod, growing suspicious. As much as he’s flattered—and a tad bit pleased—that you always keep your eyes on him enough to notice the finer points to his clothes, red soles are incredibly specific knowledge only privy to those with a keen interest in fashion. Finding no harm in prying, he nudges you in the side. “…didn’t think you’re the type to like fashion.”

You sidle up to him, hands quick to return his jab with one of your own. “Not me, no. Byron’s a huge fashion nerd who keeps his Pinterest board full of fashion brands, that’s all.” Noctis huffs at your predictable action, swatting you aside. He’s way too used to your antics by now—not that he knows if it’s a good thing or not. Thwarted, you backpedalled, keeping your hands to yourself. “He’s always buzzing about new fashion trends or whatever’s hot in the market, and he has this huge stash of fashion magazines in his room, making scrapbooks out of the bits he liked. It’s also kinda creepy since he idolises Claire Farron enough to have her posters on his walls. After a while, you just pick up about stuffs like that when he’s around 24/7.”

That’s some unnecessary insight on the guy who continuously pisses him off at every waking moment of his life, but Noctis isn’t about to say that to your face, not when said guy is your childhood butler who took whippings in your stead. If Gladio likened him to an older, pissier version of Ignis, the truth might not be far off. Grunting, Noctis nudges the door open for you. “C’mon, let’s get inside.”

Apparently, the store manager witnessed his interaction with you, greeting them with a bemused smile when the waft of cool air hit him. Her silver nametag reads Magisa. “Welcome, Your Highness,” she says with her pencil thin eyebrows still parked high on her forehead. “May I help you and your companion for today?”

Dealing with sales reps hounding his every step and tailing him worse than Glaives is enough to seize him up. A quick shake of his head has the wrinkled woman peering him over her rimmed glasses, and Noctis lets his eyes wander the store to avoid her piercing stare. “Nah, we’re good. I’m just going to look around.”

“Of course, Your Highness,” she placates, even if her half-bow is stunted with the fact that she’s still sneaking stares at your general direction. “If you and your lady friend require assistance, please do not hesitate to approach any of us.”

With how she places great emphasis on the word, Noctis has the sense to grimace. Should he be worried if this will blow up when the tabloids lap it all up? Yeah, hopefully not. It's his first time entering the store without his usual duo flanking his sides, and sensational scoops are one way to get the readership spiking faster than the Citadel's PR Department's migraine.

"Uh. Thanks. Can you just…?" he makes some vague hand gesture, hoping it’s a loose interpretation of what he needs, eyes skirting around when her stare is harder than stone. "We just want to shop without—uh, things happening."

She seems to understand him that much with no questions asked, quick on her feet to flip the sign to Closed and drops the automated blinds over the storefront with a click of a button. The sudden hush accompanying his personal shopping experience has you teetering closer to him, wary eyes searching his face for any signs of reassurance. Your fingers worry the hems of his jacket, chewing on your bottom lip out of habit again. Noctis squeezes your shoulder to ease your nerves before Magisa turns.

“As much as I love celebrity news, I don’t want to see some clickbait article like You Wouldn’t Believe What Prince Noctis Did Last Weekend on Insomnia Daily’s website,” she announces, a corner of her mouth tugging upwards on one side. She looks like she’s seen her fair share of celeb mishaps in her own store and would love nothing more than to die of natural causes than a heart attack. “By all means, Your Highness, do be careful. The media circus is barbaric enough to tear your reputation into shreds if you drop your guard.”

And not even the Glaives can guard him against it. "…yeah, copy that.”

Magisa is sensible enough to keep a respectful distance from him when he strolls through the rolling racks, suede jackets, knitted sweaters, complementing accessories, an orgasm of colours reaching out to him. It’s easy to forget why he’s here when he’s here with you, taking in the slanted photo frames hanging off the walls, glorious lights dawning on you and him, stops at an eye-catching bomber jacket studded in stars across its back—until he’s distracted by your fingers tugging his cuff.

“What are we looking for, Prince? Anything specific in mind for Ignis? Or is there anything he’s been eyeing?”

That’s a good question. Walking into another aisle offers rows of men’s accessories hanging from sleek metal plates. Noctis eyes a leather belt with some punk rock aesthetic on it; Prompto’d like that. “No idea actually. Was hoping we’d just find something here for him.”

“Maybe I can browse the other side and see what I can come up with?” you offer, slinking backwards with a genuine expression of being helpful to the cause. Noctis turns on his heels, catching the flit of your fingers trailing in the air as goodbye. Your back turns to him when you wander through gypsum partitions, leaving an echo of your voice. “I’ll come back soon.”

That is not how he envisioned this to be, but uh. “Sure, I guess…” Noctis answers to an empty space, minding how awkward it feels when you’re not by his side. He has half the urge to chase you just because—and the other half is judging him through Magisa's pointed silence, having witnessed every waking second.

Deciding it's best to concentrate on the task in hand, he orientates his focus to a suave combo of a dress shirt, striped belt, and gradient aviators arbitrarily arranged on a wall-mounted shelf. The clashing colours don't scream Ignis Posh Scientia, so it's a solid No for Noctis. A cashmere scarf in tartan isn't Ignis Stylish Scientia either, and Noctis backs away from the section altogether. After rifling through three snazzy co-ords, four fitted pants whilst knowing nothing of Ignis’ size, two loafers and simultaneously thwarted by Ignis’ mysterious size yet again, Noctis is almost ready to call it a day.

Magisa, thankfully, steps up to her task after sensing his deathly desperation and escorts him to a selection of accessories for the subdued, wrinkled hands lifting one of the many displays for him to choose. Having her recommendations ironed out some of the hitches in his grand plan, deciding the subtle emboss of a skull on a pair of suspenders is better than the garish VW belt buckle, and with satisfaction, Noctis follows her to the cashier—

—or not, when a sharp glint has him making a short detour to a tiered jewellery display.

Hanging off the dainty hooks are little bits of silver with varying pendants, necklaces and chokers sparkling under a well-placed spotlight. Before he takes a step back to think why he’s here and what he’s doing and Magisa’s incredible concern with whatever he’s up to, Noctis threads his fingers through a delicate star necklace.

Diamante dotting all five points up to its heart, sleek silver chain neither too long nor short like his soon-to-be five months with you. Just right, maybe just right sitting at the base of your neck nestled between your collarbones. That’s not too bad of a thought, so before he overthinks things and dabbles into the mechanics guiding his rash action, he hands it over to a waiting Magisa, who accepts it with pursed lips.

“Shall I pack it separately?” she asks none too subtly, returning to the cash register to ring up his purchases. “Would you prefer a nondescript bag or a ribbon to go with it?”

Noctis cocks a brow, withdrawing his wallet and putting his card on the proffered tray. “Is this about the suspenders or?” She gives him a look, the one that makes him feel like he's in trouble after Ignis looted his unhealthy Nissin collection, and he instantly knows what she's referring to. "Uh. Separately packaged. Just a box will do." Maybe a ribbon? "Nothing too flashy for the ribbon. Simple stuff."

“Of course, Highness, she doesn’t seem like the gaudy sort,” she offers her opinion—not that he asked her for it, but it’s a little reassuring that Magisa seems satisfied with his choice. Deft hands slotted his card, nude fingernails key in numbers on the screen, making quick work of boxing up the necklace for him to hide.

And hiding your necklace is just a simple affair of attuning it with his armoury, stowing it deep where nobody else knows its presence but him.

The fracture of blue scattering over the countertop disappears in seconds, and it has Magisa pinching her glasses to lower it by a fraction.

“Well,” she comments, impressed, “that’s handy.”

Noctis smirks.

THAT PAPERBAG IN YOUR ARMS shouldn’t be getting under his skin, but it is. You emerge almost guiltlessly from the storefront with your purchase, a sizeable heft for its nondescript beige, smiling his way. Just what exactly is in it, that's the million Credit question right there. It could be something for your own closet since you've never gone shopping on your own before, but the irrational and conspiratorial Noctis whispers it's something for Byron, definitely for Byron, because when are you notthinking about fashionable little Byron and his four-digit leather gloves anyway? Your morning conversation said all that needs to be said.

The sun’s irritating his skin and feeding the irritation in his heart, but you don’t seem to notice any of it.

“So what’re we doing now, Prince?” you say, prancing by his side in that one-two skip you do whenever you’re excited, but you’re playing off your excitement just so he won’t say anything about it. “Is there anything else you wanna do?”

Crossing the Ladian Avenue together, heavily blossoming magnolia trees shaded the pavement, creamy innocence perfuming the air. Strips of grass overlay granite slabs, pink petals dusting the surface. Children play imaginary hopscotch on evenings when their parents are off from work, couples marvel over the bold jewels growing on these magnolias, and for people like Noctis, someone not exactly a parent or your boyfriend, he pockets his hands and tries to shrug off his misplaced displeasure. Tries, because he’s still not good at it, but at least he’s willing to try.

“You hungry?”

Cracked sunlight falls over a part of your face, highlighting the sheer luminance of your eye. “Yeah? I mean, I’m totally cool if you wanna go home now since we’ve got what you need, but…” you stop underneath a magnolia, leaning against the scrawny trunks clustered together, “if it’s not too much of a hassle for you, can we go to the bookstore together?”

“The bookstore?” he repeats—totally not distracted by how the sunlight fragments colours in your iris, totally not wanting to press his fingers to your cheek to feel how warm you are. “Sure, if you have something to do there. Not that far of a detour from here.” Pointing to some few blocks in the distance to show how close it is, his hand falls to his hip just so he’d avoid touching you out of your comfort zone. “You wanna head there now?”

You give a little stretch with your arms high above your head, making a sound of pure content. One that Noctis has never heard before. “Nah, later. Lunch sounds way more tempting. Where do you wanna take me this time?”

He can’t say he’s thought that far ahead, but he’s proud of himself for being able to turn the question right at you. “What do you wanna eat this time?”

“The ramen we had was really tasty,” you suggest, though you quickly retract your statement with a finger tapping your chin, “but I kinda wanna eat something different. Something like that, but not something like that?”

There you go again, all roundabout answers with no end in sight. Five months in and you’re still you. Shreds of magnolias drift in the breeze as he snorts, dusting off pretty pinks falling on his shoulder. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Exactly what it means, Prince,” you say, quick hands cupping a fluttering petal, delighted like you’ve never seen one before. Maybe Byron’s never pruned magnolias for your vases, that’s possible enough. “Kinda like one of those feel-good foods? Homely kinds of stuff, nothing fancy, just delicious meals straight from the heart.”

The wind picks up, sweeping through the boulevard, a flurry of flowers raining on you and him. Nonchalantly picking out a petal streaked in rich pinks fading in whites from your hair, Noctis drops it into your outstretched hands. You crane your neck to reward his gift with a smile, and it’s all he needs. “Ever had oden before?”

“Nope, never had them.” You shake your head as Noctis plucks off more pinks from your hair, his jacket, your shoulders, presents in the palms of the queen in white. “What’s oden like? Loads of rich broth? Warm, fuzzy foodie meals? Instaglam-worthy shots?”

“Your inner Prom is coming out,” he points out, and you laugh.

Just like this, it’s nice standing around, talking with you all casual like nothing else matters in this world. Pressing your back to the tree, cornering you like this—oh. Magisa’s warning throbs in his head.

Yeah, shit, he kind of forgot about that, didn’t he?

Noctis consciously takes a step back, catching questions in your eyes.

The Glaives tailing him 24/7 would peck all this up like Chocobo feed for the rest of the Glaives back home to gobble over, and if he’s hoping this won’t be #1 trending gossip in Insomnia, he better start praying to whatever Astrals’ out there watching over him. They say Ramuh’s the kindest of the bunch, right? So maybe Ramuh would listen and spare him all the media sharks who could’ve spied on him.

Out in the open space, anyone could be watching him—you. He doesn't have the cover of the night to help him out when it's bright and breezy like this, nothing like the privacy of a lake and the stars, nothing like Prompto’s presence warranting a friendly outing. Going out with him and Ignis is one thing while going out with you is on another scale altogether. He doesn’t enjoy freedom the way a commoner does, all because he’s the prince. And princes don’t get to walk around with you the same way Byron does.

There it is again.

He hates it. Hates the familiar edges of that moody, problematic prince coming up. All because he doesn’t think things through and his temperament is getting the best of him and he just can’t say it because he doesn’t know how to make it sound not so awkward since he doesn’t want to be your friend anymore but he can’t go past a boyfriend because what kind of shitty boyfriend is he going to be when he can’t even date you normally. And then there’s Byron too, feeding the unhealthy glutton for jealousy in him. So he’ll probably end up ruining this day in the end, won’t he?

Pretending the disappointment clouding your eyes is nothing more than confusion, he quirks a finger for you to follow. “C’mon, let’s go. I’m starving.”

The abrupt change in his demeanour isn't lost on you. Still, you seem to stumble out of whatever daydream cluttering your head, petals once clasped tight in your palms now scattering all over the ground. “…right, lead the way.”

He’s good at pretending, isn’t he? He’s been pretending he’s got his life together all these years, so he’s sure he can pretend to be your friend just a little while longer.

A MOUTHFUL OF PIPING HOT oden, you learn, is sunshine melting on your tongue: A hot ball of rich, savoury sun. As expected, Noctis memorised every alleyway right down to its missing tile, bringing you to the best place in the city to enjoy your lunch. You’ve never seen someone conducting business from a wooden cart curtained in red, but the novelty of the experience has you eager to sink onto the wooden stool for the pick-and-mix session to begin. The ancient owner, yet another friend of the prince, is all toothy grins when Noctis ducks into his stall, batting away all attempts at paying at the end of the meal.

“You’re definitely the People Prince,” you say, en route to the bookstore across a boulevard lined in street lamps. Paper bag bouncing by your side, you take a peek at his face. “I’m kinda surprised how many people actually know you—not like know know, but they know you like you’re friends from way before.”

Noctis shrugs like it means nothing to him, but you’ve long learnt his belligerent blue eyes are more honest than he is. “Used to hang out loads with Prom when I was in high school. Arcades, ramen stalls, oden carts, cinemas, karaoke, you name it, we did ‘em all.” He swoops sharp right into another street, plodding uphill past grey-bricked boutiques. “When you’re a regular, you’re instantly a level above most customers they get on other days.”

You tail him from behind, though momentarily, a woman walking her leashed Shih Tzu makes you coo for a second. Noctis flashes you a look for your unintelligible cooing, not expecting that form of a reply, and you fiddle for an answer. “Um—well, you’re the prince and you get along so well with them, so you’re everyone’s favourite.”

“Totally not,” he rebukes with less bite and more of a scowl. Curt, leaving the conversation in the dust, just like that.

Had you hit a sore spot somehow? He’s been testier ever since you got out of Vivienne Westwood a little later than he did. Is it because it's the usual cliché of guys hating girls when they go off on a shopping spree? And then they have to wait for what seems like aeons before their significant other comes back to reality? Free oden failed in cheering him up, even if the ecstatic old man loaded up his portion with more freebies, so hangry from both hunger and anger is out of the question since you’re full and he’s full and he’s still taking you to the bookstore like what you wanted.

So what was your fault?

You don't know.

Noctis sidesteps a scruffy man in chic boho ensemble of scarves and fedora, stopping across glassy automated doors dinging with every customer it receives. “We’re here.”

Catching up brings you to an uncommon bookstore, broad posters taping the front of the store in the latest literature fixes. Over three storeys of rosy stucco, wooden slats and hanging creepers swirling over walls, you assume it's a café bookstore with a vintage spin to it. The whole atmosphere matches a parked car next to its entrance, white racing stripes across chintzy pink convertible, silver Vixen on its antique hood. It even has a Moogle bauble on its antenna, making you smile at how cute it is.

Unfortunately, Noctis doesn’t share your sentiment and doesn’t share your thoughts. He just stares at you staring at the car, and you felt bad for pulling him all the way here. Maybe he doesn’t want to be here after all? And he’s just too polite to say anything about it?

Somehow, that sends your premature joy plummeting to the ground.

“C’mon, let’s go in.”

“—right.”

The brisk exchange falls flat with you following Noctis inside, chilly air-conditioning fleecing your sun-warmed skin. Coffee and contemporary fixtures are in place, rows of books on weathered racks, but it’s hard to concentrate on the people and the place when Noctis and only Noctis is in your head. You pissed him off, didn’t you? In some way you can’t explain since you don’t know how you screwed up. You knew this day would come. Just like how you fight with Byron over the smallest of things, this could cement the start of a dispute between you and Noctis over who knows what and Gods know why.

He’s walking ahead.

He isn’t waiting for you.

Wandering through stationeries shelved along the walls, fingers drifting over jutting pencils, you are lost. Shellac finishes to a wooden barrel fail to reignite your interest in purchasing and engraving a fountain pen for Ignis’ birthday. The bookstore is suddenly too cold, too lonely for you alone, standing in front of a glass display. You are a face among the many masks hustling about, giggling and chatting and walking along. You can’t share Noctis’ world when he’s not here with you.

A soft graze on your elbow has you looking up to your left, sinking into a trance when familiar blackness return.

Oh. Noctis is here all along, blue eyes unreadable. He’s doing something with his hand. Oh. He’s holding you. He turns his back, fingers laced through yours, leading you away from the crowd. Past uncaring apron-wearing helpers, past scampering children, past the broadest wall leading to an emergency exit. Heavy fire doors are bolted shut behind him. They erase all sounds, hiding you and him from scandalized eyes.

His hand is warm in yours.

Fluorescent bulb flickers overhead, the stairwell smells of dust and cement. You can’t hear your heart beating when Noctis tips his head, messy bangs turning blue eyes black. He has your back to the wall like he had you at the tree—only, there is no distance separating you and him. He presses into your space with the intent to take everything, leaving nothing behind. You let him. His leg nudges between your knees up your thigh and he bends close enough for you to feel his breath on your cheeks. You can't breathe.

Dry lips descend on your ear with a warm whisper.

“Ah. A white puppy.”

You feel him smile.

“It’s too bad, really, that I need a black mongrel instead.”

It shuts down in black. Your eyes are wide open but you can’t see. Noctis is gone but you still feel his knee brushing against your inner thighs. Crawling the column of your neck is his hand, and it settles with a thumb on your jugular. He breathes low and harsh and you can’t mistake the shudder up your spine as anything else other than fear. You can’t see him, but you feel him holding you down the cracking drywall. You can’t move. You can’t scream.

He is saying something, but you hear him no more, not over the Crystal humming in your ear. It drowns him out like summer bees and static TV, but his breath laving your lobe is warm, rank, smelling of death and decay. Clawed fingernails dig half-moons in your wrist. You flinch under his strength. He doesn’t budge. You are cold when it is hot and sweat starts from your scalp sliding to your shoulder. Knees are buckling underneath you and you are certain you are falling but there is no telltale pain bruising your knees. You don’t know if you are standing or you are kneeling or you are here.

Blackness thickens because it’s never gone from the start, and the Crystal grows louder like it fights to be heard over Noctis. Electricity slithers where the crescents lie on your wrist, tattooing your skin in short jolts. Ouch you gasp but your lips do not move and your voice is unheard.

You’ve felt this before.

It’s magic.

But there is no blue in the blacks, only frayed red seeping through. Blotting out the dark, blurring into greys.

The buzz snips off sharp as scissors.

A mouthful of piping hot oden, you learn, is sunshine melting on your tongue: A hot ball of rich, savoury sun. As expected, Noctis memorised every alleyway right down to its missing tile, bringing you to the best place in the city to enjoy your lunch. A woman walking her leashed Shih Tzu has you distractedly cooing for a second. Over three storeys of rosy stucco, wooden slats and hanging creepers swirling over walls, it’s a café bookstore with a vintage spin to it. Coffee and contemporary fixtures are in place, rows of books on purposely weathered racks, and the shellac finishes to a wooden barrel catches your fancy for Ignis’ gift.

The cashier hands your change with a smile and you exit the store to find Noctis waiting outside. Why is he looking all glum and sullen with his arms crossed over his chest anyway? Didn't that oden old man load up his bowl with all the grilled fishcake and sticky tofu skins? That can’t do, he can’t do all the frowning when you’re all happy from the food.

“Sorry for the wait!” You cosy up to him, tucking your packaged pen by your side. Noctis visibly jumps and looks at you as if you’ve grown a second head. His face is priceless and you can't help but laugh at him. "Gosh, Prince, what's wrong? Did something happen?”

“Uh—no, nothing happened,” he’s quick to sputter with a shake of his head, though he can’t seem to wipe that silly look he gives you. “You… okay?”

You’re confused, but not as confused as Noctis. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

And Noctis takes a hard, long look. Narrowed blue eyes, lips curled, arms uncrossing to drop by his sides. He surveys you how one surveys an advertisement, even if all you had for an offering is this white dress and two sets of gifts. After a while, seemingly coming to a decision, he guiltily rubs his nape. "No. Nothing. Forget it."

“What, all that and nothing?” you chide at the anticlimactic end, taking one step after another.

He doesn’t answer, walking past an empty parking lot, and you jab him in his side, inciting an undignified yelp at your pre-emptive attack. So maybe it’s not worth it when he turns around and you get a sense of belated uh-oh when he chases you up the street, but at least now you know Gladio’s training is paying off because hey, your sides aren’t hurting that much anymore.

YOU ARE WEIRD AND UNREPENTANT and everything in Noctis’ dictionary of a catastrophe. Here he is, trying his damned best in keeping a distance from you, and you all but kicked over the barricades and shredded the WARNING flyers he tacked on the signboards. What’s he supposed to do when you ran fast uphill—but he’s faster,duh, and it ends in him yanking you through backstreet detours to avoid a ruckus. You had the nerve to laugh at him with the biggest, most brilliant smile he’s ever seen—not that it’s forgiven anything you’ve done to him today, absolutely none at all.

He can’t believe he’s saying this, but he’s glad to see your chilly chamber of secrets, even if it means his toes have to freeze on marble again.

Incredibly in a good mood, you are humming. Clicking on your desktop, belting out Billboard’s Top 20 instead of dead people’s music, boiling hot water and making tea. Noctis drops on a chair and observes you with a palm propping his head. Observes, because he’s sure as hell never experienced something like this before, never seen the city life infecting you all the way to your room, never heard you singing softly under your breath to some crappy lyrics scrawled on restroom stalls.

Did the bookstore unlock some hidden part of your personality like some side quest in a prophecy? Visit the bookstore to gain a new skill: Humming! or something? Noctis makes a face at that. Five years with Prompto and his RPG obsession definitely rubbed off on him.

You balance two cups in a hand and a teapot in the other, clicking off the music. “Here you go, Prince.” When he makes a move to help, you all but shushed him to sit, bringing porcelain to his face and pouring a stream of gold liquid right in it. “Sorry I don’t have anything good, Byron’s been too distracted with Ignis’ birthday party until he forgot my groceries this week.”

Noctis takes a sip of the bland concoction and considers what you said—not that he’s surprised irritation’s rapidly overtaking his initial revelation at your good mood because it’s Byron and when are you not in a good mood about Byron anyway? “Hmm.”

Either you heard him or you don’t as you sit right beside him instead of your usual spot behind your desk, nursing your own cupful. “He’s been baking nonstop,” you say with a sparkle in your eyes, but it vanished when you continue, “and when he screws up, I’m his garbage can apparently. He’s okay with cooking but he’s still crap at baking so I kinda think he’s trying to impress Ignis with this cake but ah—but don’t tell him I told you, he’ll totally kill me.”

His tone darkens with another deep sip. “Hmm.”

Radiating the sun’s enthusiasm, you aren’t unenthused with the one-sided conversation. He sets down his polished cup a little too sharply and you take it as a chance for refilling, not that he’s in any mood to drink more.

“So anyway, thanks for taking me out today,” you cheer, attempting to duck your head just so you’d meet his downturned eyes since he’s gone ahead with slouching in his seat. “Things are really different in the morning, huh? The kids, the streets, the shops, I didn’t think it’d be that different from all the times we went out at night. I was so, so wrong.”

He says nothing and stares right back at you.

He’s an ass for sulking about Byron now, isn’t he?

He is.

Not discouraged by his off-putting silence, you reach by your chair to pull the VW paper bag in your lap, hands flattening crinkles at the folds. Great, seeing that stuff shoves his mood off a cliff faster than a dive. You’re not going to make him sit through you parading your purchase for Byron, are you? He’d rather leave before that happens. No way in hell he’ll stick around to drag that knife down his heart like a goddamn masochist who likes this shit.

The moment he tries to get to his feet, tries, your hands shoot out to dump the bag on him. Whump it goes on his jeans, and Noctis stays because his legs suddenly forgot how to walk.

“That’s yours, Prince, as thanks for today—and also kind of like thanks for sticking with me all the time—wait, no, that’s not what I meant—as in thanks for letting me stick with you.” Your voice is thin at your fumbling, eyes nervously sweeping from him to the bag, bouncing your knees, and he swallows. “I mean it. So. Yeah. Um, thanks for all these four months together and I’ll work really, really hard to make sure the fifth month counts. Yeah. Yeah.”

So maybe his brain can’t quite catch up because his mouth betrays him with a stupid, “Uh.” And that’s not what he’s trying to say when you look positively petrified at the dead sound like he doesn’t care when he obviously cares, damn it. “Wait no—I just.” He swallows the tightness in his throat because why is it so hard to say something when just a word makes the difference between life and death because you, too, counted all the months together like him? His mouth still can’t process the important message and he ends up with another dumb, “Um. Thanks.”

What else? What else? Should he add that he’s sorry for being an ass today just because a certain green-eyed monster kept taunting him with Byron’s name? That blew out of proportions—and that embarrassed him to the point of no return. Here you are, gifting him the same paper bag that haunted him all the way from Vivienne Westwood, and it’s not for your butler of decades. It’s for him. A five-monthiversary gift. For him.

And nobody else but him.

Because you only had eyes for him from the start.

The silence is deafening. He considers you considering him, you’re all wide-eyed silence, he’s all eyes lidded low silent. Your hands smoothen white cotton over your thighs. Teeth are back on your bottom lip, gnawing, pulling. He’s going to mess this up again, isn’t he? Yeah, he is. He totally is. How’s he supposed to say something, anything, when his thoughts are a jumbled mess of surplus jealousy and growing shame?

The next best thing for him to do is the good old adage of action speaks louder than words. Taking the advice to heart, Noctis snatches the ribboned box from his armoury in a burst of blue, tossing it to your lap. Not the best way to gift you, but it evens out the score since you threw his first.

You haven’t moved an inch as the box bounces on your thighs. You probably stopped breathing too.

Noctis clears his throat and remembers that conversation is a two-way thing, as bad as he is at it. “That’s… yours.”

On cue, trembling fingers scramble to lift it to uncertain eyes and he’s rewarded with the sight of a dumbstruck strategist trying to make sense of the package. Turning it in every angle in sunlight diffused by recessed lighting, examining the gold emboss on cool grey, and he’s willing to bet if he’s not there, you would’ve even sniffed the whole box like it’s an edible prank. In the end, you make a hapless sound, balancing it on your jittery lap with a rigid smile.

“Um.” You say, just as dumb as he did. “That was unexpected.”

Noctis tilts his head the other way round. “What, no thanks?”

Instantly, you seize up in panic. He meant it in a funny sense, just a friendly tease, but apparently, it's lost in the mathematics in your head. “No, no, I really, really, really appreciate it. Thank you so much, Prince, I—” you stop to make a strangled sound, pressing your palm to your mouth to stifle the noise. “—thanks, seriously, thanks. ”

Noctis catches your eyes turning glassy and hell, you’re not going to cry, are you? It’s already bad enough he’s struggling to deal with his internal issues; he can’t deal with a crying strategist right now. “Wait—stop. Don’t cry. Dude, seriously, chill.”

It takes a whole seven seconds for you to sniff like you’re draining your eyes inwardly, dabbing the wet corners with the back of your hand. “Not crying, but close enough.”

“Yeah, right.” Six, he hates it when someone messes up his hair, but his own hand is messing up his hair and he can’t get mad at himself, can he? Whatever. Noctis gives up understanding this whole thing and winds up gesturing haplessly at your gift. “You can open it if you want.”

“Sure—" you sniff and Noctis’ wary eyes are searching for any signs of tears as you wave at his gift hopelessly. “—you too, open that if you want to.”

So.

Now that it’s gotten to this point, he can’t imagine what’s in the paper bag or summon the last memory of receiving a gift outside of birthdays. All he knows is that he extracts a folded jacket from its depths, feels his brows meeting at the middle, almost did a double take when he gets a good look at the pin-sized stars dotting the back, physically refrained himself from doing said double take because it’s the same jacket he eyed the moment he stepped in the shop, and floundered for something to say. If you noticed his red soles, he can’t say he’s surprised you noticed how he lingered a second too long at the rack. Noctis leans deeper in his seat and stops trying to pin the precise point in the timeline to answer when you snuck behind his back to buy this for him. He finds none.

An awed gasp from your end tells him your reaction.

Now it’s his turn to dart back and forth from your face to the necklace dripping between your fingers. Your flushed face. One with a garbled series of stuttered ah, um, uh and more ah, um, uh until you abruptly swallowed all nonsensical noises and looked at it with the softest expression he’s ever seen on your face. Wet eyelashes quivering. Lips trembling. Soundless.

The silence returns.

Then, a quiet, “Star.”

Noctis searches for his voice for a while. He finds it, but he can’t release it from wavering. “Yeah.”

“Stella,” you say.

He gets that much. Star. Just like the ones on his jacket. “Yeah.”

“Stella,” you repeat, and a weaker, “Noctis.”

Noctis buries his hands in his jacket. He doesn’t realise when he’d done it. His fingers are burrowing deeper into fine fabric and hummingbirds are caged in his ribs. His name. On your lips. His name. Everything else matters little now. “Yeah?”

Slowly, almost unearthly, you return from your starry reverie with the lethargy of a woman drowning in the sea. Languid, lifting the necklace to your eyes—only, you are not looking at it, you are looking past the pendant, you are looking at him. “Just like the stars we saw that night, remember?”

Oh. Oh. The hummingbirds are loud. And fast. Noctis fishes something from his vocabulary along the lines of hey just so you know, it’s totally fine if you wanna call me by my name but some words end up omitted after an unexpected filtering and all he’s left with is a lame, “That’s my name.”

Your eyes are gentle when you say, “I know.”

The hummingbirds struggle maddeningly loud against his ribcage and Noctis thinks of come here, Noct, and come here and let me love you, and he knows what exactly he wants. “You know.” His voice has gone rougher in the edges. “You can call me by my name.”

The necklace ripples in the air. There is no breeze. Only your hand trembles. You don’t cry. You don’t smile. You don’t look away. “I can’t call you that, I’m sorry…” Your tongue twists each word with care, yet the undertones betray your want—your inherent need for his name. “I respect you as the prince, and it’s a reminder to me that you are my prince. It’s something I shouldn’t ever forget, as someone who wants to serve you.”

The reasoning behind your logic is solid but Noctis doesn’t want logic now.

Logic has no place between two people of a chance meeting on the 56th floor.

“I don’t want to be the prince to you. I want to be.” He pauses, looks mildly uncomfortable, and shakes his head. He wants it. Even if it’s pretending game for two. “Wanna be someone normal to you.” We aren’t normal, he says, we can never be normal with how things are, but I’ll keep pretending it’s normal if you’ll let me. “Not your prince, not your future duty. Just… normal.”

Someone normal enough to take walks with you on flowering promenades.

Someone normal enough to spend hours with you playing video games.

Someone normal enough to sleep together with you.

“So,” you murmur quietly, "is it okay," tipping your head aside, "if I," looping silver around your neck, "call you," clasp fixed securely in place, the star at home between your collarbones, "Noctis?"

He doesn’t trust his voice. Back to action it is, with a slow nod of his own.

You are the very image of his imagination, star sitting at the base of your neck, the centrepiece of your shoulders. You are too real. More than what his paltry dreams offered in his sheets, you are in your chair in a room too cold with his necklace on your neck and he stops hearing the hummingbirds and starts feeling them under his skin. They’ve escaped, fluttering in his nerves, almost guiding his fingers with enough force to touch the silver on your skin.

“Noctis,” you say, fingering his chain.

He nods again.

“Noctis,” you say, a finger stopping on the star.

He softly agrees with your echo, “Yeah.”

“Noctis,” you say, eyes falling shut, head downcast. “Thank you.”

He knows his name belongs on your lips when he, too, closes his eyes. There are stars on the backs of his eyelids and he thinks he’ll dream of them tonight.

IT IS ONLY MUCH LATER ON when you are in the company of your mirror that you allow yourself a moment to examine your reflection. You are twenty and your hands are still bloodied with people whose names you don’t know. You are father’s bundle of sins and your mother is dead. Your eyes are bruised black and your sickly pallor hasn’t improved five months removed from the House of Andronicus. You suspect the illness lies not within the house, but within you yourself. You are a decaying garden and it shows in your eyes, on your lips, on your tongue.

But one thing has changed.

Mother’s hands are gone from your neck.

And in its stead is the prince’s—no, he’s no longer the prince to you.

Noctis.

That is his name.

In its stead is Noctis’ necklace, a weight different from mother’s. It’s cold like her hands, but it’s not hers. It’s Noctis’. The edge of the star goes under your fingernail and you know it is a closure you’ve long sought. Her burial is long overdue.

“Goodbye, mama. Rest in peace.”

[tbc.]

NOTES:

in case anyone hasn’t seen it yet, Erion Makuo drew EXTREMELY FANTASTIC AND IMMENSELY BEAUTIFUL ARTWORK of Omen Noctis here so please go and check it out and send the artist HUGE LOVES! thank you so much for the gorgeous artwork!!! ;u; Bless Erion, bless the artwork, bless everything about them!!!

yells bc it took me ten thousand years to edit this chapter oh my god im so glad it’s done. cheers to plot devices trying to move the fic along! to those of you who are still reading, thank you so much for waiting roughly 4 months for this update! i’m really touched by all of the positive and encouraging moral support i’ve received through comments, kudos, and tumblr messages, especially through the tough times i’m facing and despite my inactivity on tumblr too. i’m still working in the same place, still floating along, still suffering, but coming back to work on this project and others, fuelled by everyone’s support, really gave a huge boost to my emotional health. thank you so much, everyone, you guys are the best, the biggest life-changers, the awesomest people i could ever ask for in times like this.

so what’s next in decaying? everything is going to hell, that’s for sure. more fluff, equally balanced with more questionable content. if you’re uncomfortable with darker themes and morally dubious actions done by the characters, as usual, i’ll include appropriate warnings at the beginning of each chapter and even a little tldr at the bottom as a summary should you want to skip it.

i’ll try to have the next update as soon as i can since my progress is slightly hampered by my bilateral hand conditions, so please look forward to the next chapter as soon as i can! do take care, my lovely friends and readers; stay healthy and hydrated, keep hustling, the times are tough and things are getting tougher, but remember you can do it!

PREVIEW: you’re drowning in air but the world isn’t swimming past you anymore, reality isn’t flitting and warping around in dimensions before your eyes, and you finally feel you’re conscious enough to understand that night has fallen yet again over insomnia, over your room. but why’s byron waiting in the dark without any light and why’s he bending over to caress your cheek and he’s whispering go back to sleep too loudly and all you can tell him is wait byron i’m scared please stay voicelessly when your limbs don’t move and you can’t move and it’s dark, it’s too dark, but why can you see gold eyes and the line of his smile shifting into a smirk and—

[vanoozle]

Existential Sucker Punch

I’m falling off the face of reality, and pulling its placenta out with me. It’s scraping across the ground like a snail trail, and this is how new realities are born. I wanna put a straw into this goopy liquid and blow some bubbles into it. Then live in those bubbles and pop them.

The only person that really made sense to me is dying, and she never really expressed herself in a way to prove to you her brilliance, or of course what she was even trying to say. So here I am alone, trying to level up the intelligence of society. Trying to save us from our own stupidity. There’s something essentially goopy and circular about what we are.

Speaking of circularity, let’s talk about the British. They have so mastered the art of unintentional absurdity, that satire was merely a practice in precise description. The British. They’ve managed to pull the placenta of reality around the world and give birth to itself. Wine, I like it. I’m drinking the leftovers from from that time that everyone talks about their favorite celestial myth. It’s tiring.

It’s January, it was a month ago. I don’t care. The British have really done a number on us. On ourselves. They are circular things. All of us are. I’m just fucking tired of how stupid things are… it’s not just about life and death, it’s not just about what makes life worth living, the further you get into it, the more you realize that everything is nonsense. I thought I was trying to explain something. There was a way that the desperation of this genius dying made me urgently want to state this as bluntly as possible.

We are morons.

I’ve spent my life like that one character in Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy who wants to insult everyone in alphabetical order, except instead, I’m on a life’s journey to explain how stupid we all are in the nicest way possible. So I’m kind of unlike that character, in that I don’t want to hurt people, but very much like that character in that I think that upon examination.. ugh..

Liberosis. The desire to care less. Thanks, Kevin. What about the desire to be less intelligent? To think less. I love being smart, increasing my intelligence, increasing my examination, but it gets lonely, and the less I care about survival for its own sake. It’s gotta be for something, survival that is. I don’t want to answer it now because what makes life worth living for me is a thing that I don’t think most people can relate to, except for Heidi, the one who’s dying. Also Khayah...also Hofstadter. Not a relatable thing.

Yep.

I speak English. I’m not British. That happened. The same way that that happened is the same way I want to pull the placenta out of reality and take it with me just to turn it inside out and wrap myself in the new one. Pink Floyd, they did something good right? Their long wailing notes feel like how this snail trail is accumulating wetness and mass.

Liquorosis. The desire to think less. I don’t think I have any “real” friends. In the sense that there are any people here with me in my mind. I miss Kevin a lot. Yet another part of me dying. He liked books, weird ones. So yeah, here I am on the edge of the abyss that you’re not supposed to look into. I’m looking deep into it. I’m crying, been crying on and off for a few days. The type of crying you do when you’re intellectually tall, bumping into the architecture not high enough for you.. not quite. The type of crying you do when the best part of your mind is dying along with your best friend, and the next closest friend to you is probably not your friend anymore. Or will be but…

Being real is hard. I try to get along with people, that’s a new thing. It takes a lot of bending down.

I don’t have the patience for it. Examination is the abyss. It’s too much. This little one needs validation. I like company. Company shouldn’t require bending down.

This is not even a book or a letter anymore. I just imagine my “friends” pretending that they like my writing. Ugh… what it has been has nothing to do with just being nice to people. It has to do with cognition, the goopy circularity of cognition and reality. It’s not like a feel-good, let’s have a BBQ kind of thing. It’s an essential and abstract thing.

This goopy hypersphere is what I want to get a grasp of, to describe. That’s valuable for its own sake, for me. Goopy cognitive hypersphere. The mind inside, the mind outside. The mind outside. I like that. The reality born from imagination. The reality born from maladaptation. The outside inside. The representation of the outside in the inside, and then in turn to create the outside.

I’m tired. Existentially tired.

“Backwards Wordsworth”

That was a good one. I’ll miss Heidi forever. It’s not her. It’s the playful intelligence. Even at 18, it was more smart than the conversations I have now. More intrinsically valuable conversation. That’s why I’ve been obsessed with my files. Where are all those good conversations stored? What can I do to access them? Never recorded, not the raw data, and not the value that I can try to convey to those who haven’t experienced her or us.

Oh please save me from my lack of company.

[funknrolll]

New music Friday: the reinvention of 60s, 70s and 80s all times classics!!

Hi everyone, here I am again with some new music you will hopefully love as much as I do!! These last months have been extremely prolific musically speaking and we got to see published so many new songs and albums by some of the most influential and greatest artists on the music scene, and I’m so happy to tell you, my music lovers, all about this new music!! This review will be about some new songs and an album that have something in common: they’re all the reinvention of those old 60s, 70s and 80s sounds, rhythms and melodies that we all love so much, and they’ve all been reinvented, modernized, renewed and got a new life.

1. Chaka Khan- Hello Happiness. Finally our beloved legend and icon Chaka Khan, the undisputed queen of funk, has just dropped a new album that in my opinion is a TOTAL MASTERPIECE!! I love everything about this work: the melodies, the lyrics, Chaka Khan’s unique voice, EVERYTHING about this masterpiece is perfect. To be honest I have been in such a trepidation to listen to this album!! Let us see why we can consider Chaka Khan’s latest work a masterpiece!! There are so many peculiarities that impressed me about this album: the first one is the craftsmanship and the arrangements that I find extremely brilliant. In my opinion the melodies and the sounds of this masterpiece were clearly influenced by those sounds and melodies that characterized music in the 70s and this peculiarity makes this album so unique, and a real gem! Moreover along with the sounds and melodies, the uniqueness of this album lays in its meaningful message which is in my opinion so mesmerizing. As a girl who has gone through a lot I can say that after I finished to listen to this album I suddenly felt so empowered and I am so grateful to Chaka Khan for this!! Through the positive and empowering message this work of art is a celebration of life, a way to empower every girl and woman and human being on this earth, and the positive vibes it is sending are so contagious!! In addition not only is this album a celebration of women and girls, but it is also a celebration of life and this is what we all need to remind ourselves: life is beautiful, life is precious, life is energy. The positive energy contained in this album is so powerful. It really is a celebration of strong women who can blossom against all the odds, who stand up for themselves, and we all should feel empowered by this masterpiece. Speaking again about the melodies and the sounds, I really loved how the melodies that characterized music in the 70s have gained a new life and have been renewed through this work of art, and how every song has been meticulously, precisely and attentively crafted under every possible aspect. I can also say that every song is so unique and special and they are all different and super energetic and fresh not only lyrically speaking, but also melodically speaking!! Moreover some of my favorite songs that I really suggest you to listen are: Too hot clearly a blues song of which I particularly loved the intro which is so unique, the lyric which is so empowering because as you will listen it deals with a strong woman standing for herself, looking for a strong man who can handle her. Isn’t that enough is another gem in this album, and you need to listen attentively to the melodies and the sounds that in my opinion are so brilliant, Chaka Khan’s voice is as always on point and it is even more enhanced in this song which is what I love the most about this album. Two other songs I appreciated so much are Like a Lady and Ladylike. I find these songs so brilliant because the lyrics are pretty much the same but the arrangements are different. Like a Lady is characterized by fast tempo and rhythms and it is so energetic while Ladylike is a slow song, a ballad to be precise and Chaka’s voice is accompanied by a guitar, it is such a perfect song to listen to by the sea during a beautiful sunset!! The brilliance of these songs lays in the fact that the same song can be arranged in two totally different ways. Furthermore what I loved about this work of art is also how Chaka’s voice has been enhanced and evaluated in every single song, and it’s just so beautiful to listen to her voice at its fullest potential and power. To sum up this fresh, energetic, empowering, brilliant, album is what we needed in our lives, a real celebration of life and positivity. I recommend you guys to listen to this masterpiece and let it empower yourselves and give you the energy you need.

2. Bruno Mars Ft Cardi B- Please Me. As many of you know these two artists are fans of Michael Jackson and as a fan of Michael Jackson myself, when I first listened to this song it was inevitable for me to notice the King of Pop’s influences in this song. I would say that with this latest work Cardi B and Bruno have been inspired by some of those melodies we got to listen to in Michael Jackson’s best selling album, Thriller, and modernized, eventually turning them into a well crafted catchy tuned masterpiece. Moreover Bruno’s voice is perfectly on point and the lines rapped by Cardi B are what this song needed to be perfectly unique!! In addition those 80s melodies and sounds that have been modernized and renewed are the peculiarity of this masterpiece that we will never get tired of!! To sum up I can say that Cardi and Bruno have done an excellent job with this song and I cannot wait to hear more from this groundbreaking duo!!

3. Lizzo- Cuz I love you. This song has been such a pleasant surprise, I honestly knew Lizzo as a super talented musician, but what I didn’t know was that she is also a super talented singer with astonishing vocal skills which is why I would consider this song a revelation for me!! The arrangement of this song is among the characteristics that have impressed me the most!! In my humble opinion melodically speaking this song has been influenced by music in the 60s, indeed if you music lovers know a bit about music history and music in the 60s, I would say that I find some influences coming from Etta James repertoire, more specifically I find some melodic and resemblance to the song I would rather go blind (I hope you music lovers know this song). The intention used while singing this song reminds me of Etta James’s song so much. I really loved the arrangement of this song and those old time classic vibes the melodies give are a peculiarity that make this song a masterpiece!! Another characteristic that positively impressed me is its freshness. In addition I really appreciated how old melodies coming straight from the 60s are combined together with new sounds from 2019 and managed to create such a perfect balance and harmony and as a result we get to listen to such a brilliant song. As regards to Lizzo’s voice, there’s not much to say rather than she is super talented and her vocals skills are perfect and I get chills every time I listen to her singing!! A real joy for my ears!! Moreover I think this amazing talented artist at her young age is the perfect epitome of a complete artist: she is a brilliant musician, she is a great dancer, her vocal skills are astonishing and she holds the stage like only some of the greatest artists do!! I really recommend you guys this song because it is so good and I also suggest you to check out the videos of Lizzo’s concerts because she really is a goddess on stage!!

It’s all for today!! As we have seen today good old melodies are immortal and are here to stay and to come back to be reused and to be renewed and refreshed, a to be turned into new modern great music, and I cannot be happier!! I suggest you to BUY the copy of the album I wrote you about, either way you can find the album and these songs on music applications like @amazonmusicblog @itunes Tidal @spotify @deezer-premium-free . PLEASE DO NOT DOWNLOAD ILLEGALLY THESE SONGS OR THIS ALBUM. Remember as Prince once said “ALBUMS STILL MATTER” and we need to support music and artists!! I hope you enjoyed this article/review!! G❤️

[thesinglesjukebox]

HAIM - NOW I'M IN IT

[7.54]

Hard times...

Ian Mathers: Sometimes adulthood feels like the process of realizing you've been "trying to find [your] way back for a minute" for years now. Part of that is that you can never get back (to fewer responsibilities, a younger body, a less complicated life) and part of that is that you don't need to because you've grown in ways you didn't expect or notice and part of that is just that feeling like you're in it is just the condition of being an adult (at least here and now). Of course, Danielle Haim has said the song is about depression. I'm not the only person I know for whom adulthood and depression seem inextricable. [8]

Wayne Weizhen Zhang: Like grey clouds drifting slowly overhead, depression can manifest itself gradually. You may not even notice it happening. That is, until it's too big to ignore: suddenly, there's an underlying sadness that keeps popping up, and you're too anxious to reach out to others, too unhappy to look in the mirror, too tired to leave your apartment. You're just in it. "Now I'm In It" perfectly captures the moment you realize this -- and while so many songs that discuss mental health can seem condescending or sloganeering, the introspection that Haim does here is genuinely powerful. This is art about depression without wallowing, set to an undulating guitar rift that recalls the strength of "Dancing on My Own." At face value, "Damn I'm in it/ And I've been tryna find my way back for a minute" sounds so simple as to be mundane, but to me, it feels like liberation that can only come from being honest with yourself. Every time I hear it, it feels like air in my lungs, sunshine on my skin. There's a moment during the music video (at 3:20) when, after making it through a shit day, Danielle Haim musters the energy to go out with her sisters. As they cross the street, drums beat triumphantly and a sample of what sounds like cheering plays -- and then, inexplicably, she breaks the fourth wall, shooting a glance directly into the camera, almost like she's looking directly at her depression and giving it the side eye. I have yet to give a 10 since starting to write for TSJ, but that moment alone merits my first one. [10]

Michael Hong: Perhaps the best shot of the music video is the one in which Danielle Haim goes through a car wash, but the most emblematic is likely the penultimate one, where she downs a shot, grimaces and takes one breath. The song is its "before image," a tightly wound version of Danielle Haim over a tense guitar that feels synthetic as it pulses across the track. As it progresses, Danielle loosens up and regains some of that confidence symbolic of Haim. The instrumental also gradually shifts, focusing more attention on other more organic elements. The piano line on the bridge allows her to take stock of her surroundings, backed in harmony by her sisters, but it's those drums on the last chorus that deliver the track's final moment of catharsis. Like depression, that guitar vamp remains, but Haim push it to the background, mostly stopping it from overpowering themselves. It's Danielle Haim, defiantly rejecting depression and taking back control for what feels like that penultimate shot -- the ability to finally breathe after a particularly difficult episode. [8]

Isabel Cole: If it hadn't been for Danielle Haim's Instagram post, I probably wouldn't have known to read this as a song about mental health. But once I saw that it made an immediate intuitive sense: the anxious thrumming that won't relent even as the melody opens up in the chorus, stumbling-fast lyrics sketching a harried picture of isolation, an atmosphere of panic and dread like pacing restlessly in a room you can't make yourself leave. The sigh of regret in the bridge, the dawning realization that you can no longer deny. I've spent a lot of hours looking for something I knew I wouldn't find in mirrors, too. Haim build a gorgeous encasement for the sentiment, lush and textured and perfect, actually, for listening to on repeat on a long walk taken trying to get a little further back to yourself; I particularly love the moment the second verse starts and everything deepens and opens at once. Would love this even if I weren't spiritually obligated to give at least a [7] to any song that closes by layering one of its parts over the other. [9]

Alfred Soto: Whenever they use a skittering rhythm track that forces them into breathlessness, I swoon, but then I liked but then Something to Tell You more than most. The ghost of "I Love You Always Forever" haunts -- will Haim's next album study their idea of '90s-ness? [7]

Will Adams: Haim, always ones to wear their references on their sleeves, take their soft-rock aesthetic to the extreme by synthesizing "I Want You" and "I Love You Always Forever." Those choices alone make "Now I'm In It" great, but Danielle using her signature patter to evoke racing thoughts is the cherry on top. The verse barges in by the second chorus, words tumbling over each other resulting in sensory overload. And then, finally, gloriously, the bridge arrives, when everything falls away and a moment of clarity is reached. The ensuing chorus is the same as it was, but now it feels assured, confident amidst the chaos. "Now I'm In It" is a song about going through it that goes through it. [8]

Tobi Tella: The frantic, almost falling-on-top-of-each-other speed of the lyrics is the real secret of the song -- it puts the listener on edge from minute one. I wish it built to more in certain ways, but I think the tension with such little release feels deliberate -- I feel like I'm still in it too. [7]

Kylo Nocom: Never trust a man who will gleefully scrutinize a Haim track's influences as a marker of unoriginality and yet ignore any accusation you throw at LCD Soundsystem. "Now I'm In It" bubbles, springs, and thrusts forward until the sisters reach a bridge that would make Vampire Weekend circa Modern Vampires proud. [8]

Oliver Maier: Rostam and Rechtshaid's production team-up unsurprisingly results in shades of the bleary, melancholic sound of Modern Vampires of the City, notably in the bluesy piano, ambient noise and thudding drums that filter in after the second chorus. That moment also happens to be the point at which Haim often run out of ideas (even in their best songs) and resort to padding out the remainder of the track with repetition upon repetition to the point of indulgence. Here they're more economical, more conscientious of the song's arc, and the final chorus feels earned rather than copy-pasted as a result. A shame that said chorus is not quite as catchy as they're capable of, though "I can hear it/But I can't feel it" is as succinct and lovely a lyric about depression as has ever been penned. [6]

Jacob Sujin Kuppermann: "Now I'm In It" turns the corner well-- that slowdown after the two-minute mark, when the piano and harmonies come in and the fervent pulse of the rhythm guitar stills a little, is genuine catharsis. But the rest, both before and after, feels nervy and formless. Danielle remains a great pop vocalist, but the words she sings are sketches and the beat below it sounds like something Katy Perry and Zedd would've thrown out earlier this year. [5]

Thomas Inskeep: The song throbs and thrums, yet the Haim sisters just sound bored, and I'm unmoved. Actually, worse than unmoved: I'm annoyed. [3]

William John: While the track motors along behind her, Danielle Haim here breathlessly corkscrews her way through the awful, disenfranchising inertia that most of us are prone to from time to time. When paired with preceding single "Summer Girl", "Now I'm In It" seems to indicate that a central theme of Haim's putative third album will be the power of the collective in providing a fulcrum for those experiencing trauma. Though the lyric sheet suggests the protagonist remains in the widening gyre, the music video powerfully reinforces the notion that help is always available, even when it seems like it isn't. And maybe the gyre remains, but maybe also, with others around to lend a hand, it might stop widening, or even get a bit narrower. Haim have always been about "the sisterhood," in the most literal sense, but the image of Este and Alana, scuttling down a street and carrying Danielle on a stretcher, nursing her through the rut, might be their paradigm illustration of that concept. [9]

Kayla Beardslee: In the past month or two, as I've built up enough reviews to start referencing my past scores as a consistent standard, I've latched onto two regrets over too-low scores. One of those regrets is "Summer Girl": I was initially impressed and gave it an 8, but as the song kept growing on me in the following weeks, I realized I loved it enough to be a 10. The brilliance of Danielle Haim's restrained vocals, the quiet intensity of the lyrics, the sax riff that carries it all along -- it was quickly becoming my favorite Haim track. Well, the good news is that I was wrong: "Summer Girl" is still an 8 or 9. This is a 10. "Now I'm In It" sounds, somehow, both clean and impossibly hazy. The production is mixed clearly, but allows each bouncing bass note and subtle sound effect to shine; in contrast, Danielle's voice, as impressively agile as ever, folds itself into reverb and whispered backing vocals. Even the fuzz of static in the background of the bridge feels like purposefully crafted chaos. The sisters have said that the song is about Danielle's struggle with depression, and the lyrics reinforce that idea of being stuck in a mental fog. Like the bridge of "Summer Girl," the heart of "In It" boils down to a specific moment: in this case, it's when Danielle sings, full of longing, "And the rain keeps coming down along the ceiling/And I can hear it/But I can't feel it." I love that line, not only because it's absent from the first chorus and comes as a total surprise in the second, but because of how well it works as a metaphor on two levels. Being numb to "the rain" can signify detachment from the outside world, but it can also mean refusing to acknowledge your own depression: this track is smart and detailed enough to express both. And yet the music itself is a rejection of the lethargy of depression. With layers of instrumentation being constantly added and dropped, each section of the song is unique, and all of it builds up to that forceful, cathartic final chorus. In a lesser song, this clear sense of musical growth working against the stagnant nature of the lyrics would feel contradictory, but here, it feels instead like an intentional message of hope. Things will change, even in the storm -- and, if "Now I'm In It" is any indication, Haim will only keep getting better. [10]

[Read and comment on The Singles Jukebox]

[nyota-sungura]

Also a note for Anon-chan; I am the Wifey. I am in a rut with my writing at the moment; I don't know how to get my mojo back for writing threads or starters, but I know one person out of three that can make me had a burst was motivation and inspiration and that's Leo. They take the time to look through my blog, pick a muse and cater a starter to that muse. It's very rare I get that treatment and I know it's not expected whatsoever but it honestly makes me feel like the pressure is off my -

- shoulders in making choices / guesses to people I rp with who they want to rp with. Yes; I don’t have bios; that’s a choice I made and stick by. But people like Leo who KNOW my muses; follow my muses and look up things about my muses or even comes to me to ask about muses - honestly gives my 1% inspiration to write to a 99% level of output. Yes; I get overwhelmed with their brilliance, but I never feel obligated to reply to them all right away; I can horde them and smile at the starters – Leo makes me because i can feel the passion and love in typing them out. Leo can write me 56789 threads and I can reply to 10 and I know they won’t stop rping with me or think I’m greedy or give up trying looking into muses with me and that honestly keeps me going here sometimes. So LONG STORY SHORT; I’m a greedy hoe for leo’s writing and I demand their love and passion through writing whenever they are in the mood to give it. mwah.

Okay first of all, I’m not crying, that gd onion ninja got my ass again. 

L I S T E N  H E R E  Y O U. 

I love all of your muses, bios or no. I love how you just spontaneously decide “Oh yes, I’m going to make one of those and its going to be SPECTACULAR” and it always is. I love how much you love your bbies and I love your writing as a whole. I love writing with you always and I love YOU too y’know you’re such a sweet bean and you’re giving your best. I don’t care how many threads we have, how many you reply to or how long it takes. I just love writing with you no matter the frequency or anything like that. There is not a time in the world I wouldn’t just throw down 28 starters for you in one go and be like LOVE ME because yes pls do pls love me you adorable nugget. I wanna give you more reasons to enjoy your own creativity and I am more than happy that I’m inspiring you to get out of that rut and will continue to do what I do best to help– THROW THESE CRAZY FUCKS AT ALL YOUR BABIES!! 

As a fellow muse horder I can understand that treatment being selective and wanna give u it all too okay. Pls, I will read, sift and drive u fuckin’ nuts about ur own bbies okay. 

Now Y’ALL, listen here– Tala is absolutely amazing all around. I’d honestly throw down 60 threads in a heartbeat for her okay no damn lie I HAVE DONE SUCH THINGS BEFORE AND I WILL DO THEM AGAIN. And I know it can be a bit shocking to think that anyone would write that many starters for any one individual but believe me: Tala is more than worth it. Her muses, her writing, everything there is about her inspires me and makes me want to bolster my own skills and shove them at her okay. Even without bios you can see just how wonderful her fucks are and I love them all. 

I remember back when I first saw wifey’s bagel and was intimidated af, not because of the muse count but because of the quality I saw. I was just a whole bag of anxiety and S W E A T S but then I just. Popped right up and was like “Ohey these might help” when she needed some column pages and here we are now. Its been four friggin’ years and I NEVER tire of seeing her on my dash and reading about all her bbies. 

[cristalconnors]

CRISTAL CONNORS TOP 10 SONGS OF 2018

10. “Beyondless” by iceage

“But if you think I am that pillar which you needed, believe me, dearest, it ain’t me.”

Earth-shaking, strobing guitars, dizzying distortion, tortured vocals emanating deep from the gut- not exactly new territory for iceage, but this powerful exploration of isolation and inaccessibility still stands out in their catalogue for its tremendous emotional clarity and sublime simplicity. Funny that a song about finite limitations manages to reinforce that the band’s spiritual and sonic scope seems to be limitless.

9. “Rage” by Rico Nasty

“Don’t compare me to these bitches because we are not the same.”

The blossoming of late 2000′s era scene kids into full-fledged artists in their own right, across countless mediums and genres, was of course an inevitability. But the often startling ways that an artist may find inspiration from a band like Slipknot have been straight up delightful. Enter Rico Nasty, whose scope and inspiration as an artist expands well beyond nu metal, but is nonetheless a perfect exemplification of the phenomenon. On “Rage,” Rico snarls over harsh, growling guitar (impeccably produced by Kenny Beats), crafting a hypnotic banger that establishes her as a one-of-a-kind, swaggering rock star of rap that is absolutely, under no circumstances, to be fucked with.

8. “Pristine” by Snail Mail

“Who do you change for? Who’s top of your world? And out of everyone, who’s your type of girl?”

It’s hard to explain just how thoroughly this song would have ruined my life if I had heard it at 16. Lindsey Jordan uniquely understands the absolute certainty when you’re a teenager that you’ve figured everything out- that how you feel right now at this moment is how you’ll always feel. For something so remarkably in tune with the emotional rawness of youth, it feels incredibly polished, mature, and, well, pristine. This is not the eat-your-heart-out, melodramatic nonsense you listen back to and cringe at, but is instead a clear-headed, bedroom rock gem that will never lose its cathartic magic, no matter how old you are.

7. “Slow Burn” by Kacey Musgraves

“In Tennessee the sun’s going down, but in Beijing they’re heading out to work.”

It isn’t often a country star’s concerned with the goings on in Beijing. Increasingly, the genre’s been characterized by navel-gazing, blind patriotism and unimaginative song writing. “Slow Burn” announces that Golden Hour isn’t interested in being like anything else. Musgraves probes deep into her own soul but also sets her eyes on the whole world, crafting a gently moving, stream of consciousness rhapsody characterized by complex textures and a deceptively simple, sweeping lyricism. 

6. “Honey” by Robyn

“No, you’re not gonna get what you need, but baby I have what you want. Come get your honey.”

Robyn has always known the best place to work through something is the dance floor, and no one is as skilled at mining pop for every ounce of melancholy it’s got. The disparity between what we want and what we need is the primary concern this time, as sizzling, pulsing synths and a gradual, miraculous crescendo tell us it’s okay to give in to our base desires, even though we know they’re bad for us. 

5. “Falling into Me” by Let’s Eat Grandma

“You. Me. This”

Let’s Eat Grandma’s Jenny Hollingworth and Rosa Walton just want us to go for it, to say whatever it is we wanted to say to our crush, to just live in the moment. This all may sound tired and trite, but the post modern brilliance of the whirling pop fantasia “Falling into Me” makes tried and true pop tropes sound as rousing and electric as the first time you heard Prince or Britney Spears, but is unmistakably a groundbreaking, singular achievement. 

4. “Lemon Glow” by Beach House

“I come alive.”

Beach House traffics in the smallest of details, slightly nudging their sound in one direction or another in ways that can feel seismic. But even to the casual listener, “Lemon Glow” marks a departure, still distinctly Beach House, but utilizing spellbindingly looped synths, shredding guitars and deranged harmonies to suggest something more sinister and dense than the rest of their oeuvre, proving once again that their songwriting toolkit is seemingly bottomless, and that just when you think they’ve hit a wall, they shatter it and expand.

3. “Honesty” by Yves Tumor

“I want to wrap around you, but I can’t be seen around you.”

My first time wading through Yves Tumor’s inexplicable Safe in the Hands of Love, it wasn’t until I was seized by the delirious hook of “Honesty” that I understood I was listening to something truly monumental. Since then, it’s the track that I most often return to to dip back into his disorienting soundscape, with its meticulous production, enchanting repetition, and unconventional spurts of percussion that bleed together into a positively entrancing sound that demands you to close your eyes and bob your head along with the beat.

2. “Is it Cold in the Water?” by SOPHIE

“I’m liquid. I’m floating into the blue.”

SOPHIE had established herself as an exquisite manufacturer of plastic sounds and a skilled observer and satirist of conventional pop tropes, but with “Is it Cold in the Water?” she developed a captivating, immersive sound all her own. Intimidating, arpeggiated synths and a colossal bass line evoke the sense of punishing, crashing waves, as our protagonist, voiced by Cecile Believe, stands on the precipice, wailing out into the void, frightened but curious. As a trans woman, SOPHIE captures the simultaneously terrifying and ecstatic leap of faith that is coming out, shedding the referential for something decidedly more personal and affecting. 

1. “Nobody” by Mitski

“I’ve been big and small, and big and small, and big and small again, and still nobody wants me.”

Mitski may be a meme, but that’s only because she hit it out of the ballpark here in every regard. Her discotheque is somehow even sadder than the one from “Dancing on My Own,” but twice as joyous, delivering truly arresting lyrics plucked straight from a distinguished poetry journal set to Chic-esque guitars and piano, creating a dazzling dichotomy between the divine and the depressing, begging you to break a sweat in your bedroom only to collapse on the bed in a fit of tears. 

[letterboxd]

Most Picture.

There are many ways to predict how the Oscars will go. How much money is the studio spending on the campaign? How highly rated are the nominated films? How much work have nominees put in during the awards season? Is it simply their time?

For this 2019 horse race, we thought it would be fun to go for a different metric. A fool-proof statistical analysis to find not what is the Best Picture, but what is the Most. And with that, we set about investigating the stats on rewatches of the eight films nominated for Best Picture.

It turns out that plenty in the Letterboxd community have logged the Best Picture nominees more than once, and in some obsessive cases, well into double figures. We had a feeling, based on anecdotal mood and general noise, that A Star Is Born and Bohemian Rhapsody would be right up there in the stanning stakes. And they are (read on for our Q&A with Letterboxd’s most obsessive A Star Is Born fan). But also: The Favourite made the top three, and the film you have rewatched the most left the other seven in the dust.

Without further ado, Letterboxd presents the 2019 “Most” Picture Awards, ranked by the number of members who’ve watched the 2019 Academy Award Best Picture nominees two or more times (total in brackets, as of today).

Each film features a review from its greatest fan, i.e. the Letterboxd member who has logged the film more than any other (at the time of writing).

And the 2019 “Most” Picture Awards go to…

1. Black Panther (13,268)

“Would I see this movie a personal record high of seven times in theaters? For Wakanda? Without question.” —Krys (12 watches, seven in cinemas)

2. A Star Is Born (5,943)

“TIRED: discourse about whether or not the film hates pop music, all think pieces about whether the film thinks Ally is a sell out and what that means for feminism, discourse on whether Why Did You Do That? is a bop or not.

WIRED: discourse about whether or not Jackson Maine even had an ass good enough to inspire such pop perfection.” —Juliette (16 watches)

3. The Favourite (5,378)

“I miss this so much I dreamt it. Instead of riding, Sarah was doing cartwheels.” —CBotty (15 watches)

4. Bohemian Rhapsody (4,928)

“The critics can go fuck themselves. THIS IS THE BEST MOVIE I HAVE SEEN! (for the fifth time).” —Iain (16 watches)

5. Roma (4,270)

“Yes I’ve seen this twice today, yes i cried like a bitch both times, yes this is the only movie.” —Eve (7 watches)

“My feelings regarding Roma are complicated to say the least. It’s like dating the girl of your dreams, only to realize that you are completely incompatible, which ends in desperate clinginess for an ideal that was never true to begin with. It’s been a strange journey of love, disappointment, and eventual acceptance, where I’ve come to terms with my feelings. I still admire the hell out of it, and I hope it wins all the awards in the world.” —Orrin (7 watches, admittedly more times than they have actually seen it)

6. BlacKkKlansman (3,669)

“This movie is so fucking powerful, and I loved every second of it.” —Kota (6 watches)

7. Green Book (1,370)

“OK what a way to start the new year. I love this movie so much. Viggo Mortensen and Mahershala Ali are for sure going to get nominated (and it’s well deserved).” —Anthony (5 watches)

8. Vice (1,164)

“8.4/10” —Harrison (4 watches)

Unpacking the re-watchability of A Star Is Born.

“I just expect it to be exactly what it is and to be there.”

Of the eight Best Picture finalists, Black Panther has been out the longest, had the largest budget, and has done the rounds of the streaming services. It was always gonna take the top spot in a rewatch match. But to figure out the rewatchability of second-place-getter A Star Is Born, we went to the film’s hardest stanner, Juliette, to help us understand why fans keep coming back even though it’s a complicated watch.

While Juliette’s multiple reviews are meme-tastic, quippy, punctuation-free gems of observation, when we asked her to explain herself, she went remarkably deep. Her replies may just make you want to take another look at Ally and Jack. [Note: this interview contains spoilers for the film’s plot.]

How many times do you think you have seen A Star Is Born? Juliette: I think I have seen the film sixteen times? I know for certain I have seen it fourteen times in theaters, but I’m not sure how many times I’ve watched it in the comfort of my own home since it’s been released on digital. There’s just something about the energy in a theater while this film is being screened. It gives me chills just thinking about it!

What keeps you coming back to it? It's so hard to pinpoint what exactly it is that draws me back to this film time and time again. I love a good love story when properly executed! I’m kind of obsessed with celebrity culture! I love a great musical! And like many people, the subjects of this film: alcoholism, mental illness, suicide, self-doubt, the cultivation of the self, love, mentorship, and reconciliation of one’s experiences with a flawed parental figure are all things that have permeated my life. Some of these things, I understand and have a firm grasp on, they feel definitive and their impacts are a tangible output. Some of these things, I still grapple with daily. There is little definition, largely just confusion and sporadic outbursts of pain.

When I return to this film, which I often do, the thing I don’t expect it to give me is answers. I don’t expect the film to be able to define for me what I must come to define for myself. I don’t expect it to clarify my confusion. I don’t expect it to eradicate the pain. I just expect it to be exactly what it is and to be there.

There’s a scene towards the end of this film where, while mourning the loss of his brother, Bobby explains how he heard one of Jackson’s songs performed at a bar. At first, it angers him. He feels like no one really knew Jackson. But then, something shifts and just hearing the song begins to soothe him. It reminds him that, in spite of their trauma and their turmoil, it isn’t all for nothing.

That’s what this film is for me. It soothes me. It reminds me that the facilitation of our healing can come through art. It reminds me that for people, who once felt broken and irreparable, it is possible to find love and happiness not just with another person, but within one’s self. It reminds me that our pain and our devastation can be met in equal measure with (and even maybe be overcome by) our brilliance, our triumph, and our devotion to one another.

What have you noticed with each rewatch? What I notice most with each subsequent rewatch of the film is what a massive undertaking the sound editing and mixing for this film must have been. I have such deep and profound respect and admiration for all the work that went into crafting the audio for this film! The film is such a visceral experience, one that truly engages all of the senses. I remember physically recoiling in the theater the first time I heard the sound of Jackson’s tinnitus. I remember feeling my entire seat shake in time with the music during the concert sequences.

I also have a sincere recommendation! Once you watch the film a few times, I really encourage you to watch the film just through the lens of watching Lukas Nelson & Promise of the Real in the background of the pivotal scenes. It adds so much dimension to scenes you thought you already knew!

What is the single greatest scene in this version of A Star Is Born? As clichéd or “basic” as it may seem to say, there is no denying that the greatest scene in this film is when Ally joins Jackson on stage and the two perform Shallow together. It’s a cataclysmic and mesmerizing moment.

It’s the way Jackson physically steps back and acquiesces his spotlight to new talent. It’s the combination of awe and support in Jackson’s eyes as he watches Ally assume center-stage. It’s the way Ally assumes her place at the mic for the first time. It’s how Ally—all at once terrified, shocked, overwhelmed, empowered, and free—finds a version of herself she had long thought impossible to access under the stage lights. The arc of which is punctuated by Gaga’s impeccable performance in this scene, most noticeably by the shift in her physicality, from her hands covering her eyes, unable to make eye contact, to grabbing the mic and belting her now patented cathartic wail.

It’s the way, two artists—no, two people—are separated physically on the stage singing into their individual microphones, but slowly find their way to meet in the middle and sing as one. In itself, this scene is the film in miniature. If this scene hadn’t worked, it’s very unlikely the rest of the film would have worked.

Not to mention, the scene is just absolutely stunning. Of course, the music is heavenly, that’s a given. In terms of the composition, I love how the camera moves around and captures each protagonist in different ways. And the color palette is gorgeous. The way that blue and red light dance around our protagonists throughout the sequence is just jaw-dropping. It’s the kind of high an artist, and in a turn a viewer, could spend their whole life chasing.

What do you wish haters understood about the film’s greatness? My first priority would be to tell the haters that Lady Gaga is not playing herself in A Star Is Born! Just because Gaga is a singer playing a singer, doesn’t mean she isn’t acting!

Furthermore, to me, it feels unfair that the power of her performance is sometimes diminished just because she sings in the film. Anyone can sing in a way that is technically proficient with enough training, but to tell a story through song? To act a song? To perform with every iota of your being musically? That’s a whole other skill and it is just as worthy of recognition and respect as any other leading performance this year.

Secondly, I would like to convey that just because something is a remake doesn’t mean that it lacks value or that it lacks something to say. I can’t pinpoint what exactly it is about this story that seems to capture the collective imagination every few decades, but I think it has something to do with how it presents ascension at the expense of descent, art as both artifice and freedom of authentic expression, and love in spite of sacrifice and self-destruction. There’s something about that cocktail that becomes the perfect receptacle for the expression and examination of our cultural anxieties.

Its malleable formula allows for questions to be asked about how we think about celebrity and fame, the self-identification process, and the value of art. In that sense, a remake of A Star Is Born is vital and refreshing, and certainly not tired and uninspired, and most importantly, it doesn’t lack something to say. It’s inherently reflective of the culture it was created in by its very nature. It allows us to ponder not just how Hollywood tells stories about itself, but also how we tell stories about ourselves. And if you ask me, there’s so much value in that.

What do you think should win Best Picture at this year’s Oscars? Well, I’m clearly biased towards A Star Is Born, but I would not be mad to see Roma or The Favourite walk off with the evening’s top prize!

What do you think will win Best Picture? My heart says Roma, my head says Green Book.