#like when you’re performing a ritual and you can feel the meaning soaked into every gesture. it hit me when i was reading the chinese

[yea-baiyi]

i just posted but i feel INSANE hua cheng’s entire appearance in the ghost groom arc is just symbolism.

when xie lian is alone (having sent everyone away, in danger but perfectly capable of fighting his way out), hua cheng steps in front of xie lian, offers his hand, and guides xie lian through the woods to where he needs to be. monsters cower before him, magical barriers don’t stop him, he steps on the skulls of enemies and crushes them so thoroughly that xie lian behind him feels like he is walking on flat ground. he doesn’t just swoop in without asking — he offers his hand, and waits, and xie lian willingly reaches out and lets himself be guided. and his grip is featherlight, even as he steers xie lian through danger and darkness. his blood rain warns away all who would dare harm them, but xie lian doesn’t get hit by a drop. and hua cheng does this all in his true form, not in disguise, because he’s not playing a character or trying to achieve anything, this is just him. despite not being confident enough to face xie lian directly, hua cheng has already shown him exactly who he is.

(now excuse me while i gnaw through an entire wall because how was this not glaringly obvious to me all along)

[a-fools-circus]

happy October aka Kinktober !! all drabbles will be from the Ghostober prompt list by @kroas-adtam. and hopefully i won't lose motivation after the first week. enjoy !

Ghostober Day 1: High Sex

Pairing: Papa IV/f!Reader Word Count: 1.5k Tags/Warnings: drug use (obviously), high sex (obviously), f receiving oral, vaginal fingering, dirty talk, use of the word 'cunt'

NSFW under the cut/Minors DNI

You weren’t sure what you expected to happen when you brought weed to Copia’s dressing room after tonight’s ritual. Maybe it would calm him down and prevent him from obsessing over minute details. Maybe he’d get tired and finally get a good amount of sleep tonight—something that never happened on tour. 

You certainly didn’t expect him to drop to his knees and bury his face between your legs. 

It took a little while before he got this desperate. At first, the only thing that changed was his humor. Meaning he found everything absolutely hilarious. He was definitely calmer than he typically is; he focused on the red sequins of his jacket instead of the possible mishaps of his performance. It didn't help that you found the fascination with his clothes hilarious, which only prompted him to laugh with you.

It was almost sweet how you sat together, limbs entangled, sharing a joint, as your laughter and slurred speech filled the room. The rest of the world faded away completely.

However, with your intoxicated states came increased sensitivity, meaning you both felt every slight brush as your bodies shifted. You didn't intend for your legs to rub against his hips, but when he stopped laughing and started grunting, you couldn't stop yourself from continuing. All that mattered was enticing him to keep making those noises.

But playing with fire had its consequences. It took only a few more teasing rubs—including one "accidental" brush of your hand—for Copia's restraint to break. Whether it was the lingering adrenaline from the show or the marijuana in his system (or, perhaps, a mixture of both), you couldn't tell, but something in him needed more.

You could barely register his movements when they happened. He pushes your legs off of his lap as he scoots to the edge of the sofa, the sudden movement nearly causing you to drop the blunt in your hand. He drops to his knees before you with an audible thud. 

A weak giggle leaves your lips, looking down at him as he parts your legs. “Copia, what are you—” His sudden tug on your hips cuts you off, dragging you to the edge of the cushion and bringing your body closer to his eager form. 

“I need to taste you, cara,” you can barely hear him mutter. He tugs firmly at your clothing, practically tearing away every piece of fabric that adorns your lower half until only your panties remain. There’s a fierce determination in his eyes, visible even in the low light of the room. “I need to feel your cunt throb against my tongue.”

Copia parts your thighs, his hands grasping firmly as he delves into the tempting space between them. He kisses the drenched fabric of your panties before licking across the wet stain of your arousal. Gloved hands claw at your clothing, pushing it to the side, too impatient to bother taking it off. 

You can barely see him pull his gloves off below you. Now freed from the restricting fabric, his hand brushes over your soaked and sensitive skin. He hardly applies any pressure as he savors the wetness that seeps onto his fingers. He curses under his breath, smiling raggedly as you twitch and whine at his fleeting touches. 

“Look at you, tesoro…Already dripping wet for me. So needy and willing. So desperate for your Papa, eh?” His eyes lock onto yours, bloodshot with pupils dilated with lust. You groan as his thumb swirls over your clit. “You’re aching for it, yeah? To feel Papa’s mouth on your needy cunt?”

The hunger in his movements and words is unlike anything you’ve witnessed in him before. He can get desperate—especially if you deprive him of what he wants—but he’s never been like this. 

It really turns you on.

You sigh breathlessly as you nod at his words. “Yes, Copia. I want your mouth on—”

His movements stop entirely, his hands moving to your thighs as a disappointed “tsk” leaves his mouth. “Ah, ah. Papa.”

You whine and roll your hips toward him. Your thighs tremble under his firm grasp. “Y-yes, Papa,” you pant. “Yes, I want your mouth on me. Please, please put your mouth on me.”

“There’s my good girl.”

Copia’s hands stay firmly on your thighs as he finally gives in to your desire. His tongue darts out, licking one long, slow wet stripe over your aching heat. The sensation makes you shudder—every nerve feels alight in your intoxicated state. 

Before you can even open your mouth to react, his lips latch onto you, his tongue exploring every inch of your wet flesh. His eyes flutter shut as he focuses on your taste, your texture, and the sounds that spill from your lips. His tongue slides over your clit to swirl delicious circles around it. Every point of contact makes you squirm and whine.

Your hips instinctively arch towards him. Your head falls back against the sofa, lips parting as his mouth makes you moan and sigh. One hand glides through the strands of his hair while the other brings the nearly-forgotten blunt to your mouth. You take a hit, sighing as the smoke fills your lungs. 

“Hai un sapore così buono, cara.” Copia’s voice is muffled against your sensitive skin, but you feel every syllable as his words vibrate against you. 

He pulls back slightly and the air against your wet skin makes you shiver. You can hear the faint sound of him spitting as he sits before you. Two of his fingers run over your slit, swirling his saliva with your arousal as he teases your entrance. The sensation makes you whine. 

A groan rumbles in his throat as his fingers move daringly closer to your core. Then, in a sudden move that catches you off-guard, two digits slide effortlessly inside. Copia immediately curls his fingers upwards, knowing exactly where to direct his touch to coax every ounce of pleasure out of you. You can almost feel him smile against you when he presses a kiss to your thigh as you groan and twitch. 

Copia’s determination only swells as he hears your reactions. His tongue laps at the escaping droplets of your arousal as they cascade over your skin. “So good for Papa…Cazzo.” He mutters into the meat of your thigh as his fingers pump into you. Filthy praise and desire spill from his lips, breathless words that tell you just how lost in his lust he is.

“Fuck, Papa…” You mewl as your body thrums with incessant need. One leg moves to rest on his shoulder, pulling him in and keeping him close. He growls and a string of affirmations falls from his lips. You couldn’t get a word in edgewise if you wanted to.

“So good…your cunt is so fucking good, cara.” His words only amplify your desire as the friction makes you jerk your hips against his movements. “Yeah, fucking grind that pussy against me. Prendilo, dolcezza, prendilo.”

His movements pick up speed, his fingers pounding into you as his tongue finds its way back to your clit. You can’t even form words; your mind is too focused on the sensations to do anything other than moan and whine. Your grip tightens in his hair for silent encouragement. 

The familiar tension in your abdomen coils with each flick of his tongue and curl of his fingers. “Papa, ‘m gonna…you’re gonna make me cum,” you sigh, your words slurring together. 

Copia groans against your clit, the sensation vibrating deep within your core. “Mm, such a pretty pussy deserves to cum on my face, yes?” You whine in response, nearly clamping your thighs around his head. His free hand latches onto your thigh to hold you open as his mouth laps and sucks. 

A final pump of his fingers has you crying out, your orgasm hitting you in powerful waves. The feeling is intense—far more intense than when you’re sober. Copia groans against you as you tug his hair to keep him in place. His tongue licks slowly over your sensitive skin, working you through the high. 

You barely have the energy to move, lying on the sofa panting for air and throbbing around his fingers. You whine when he slides out, the loss of contact leaving you empty. It takes every ounce of restraint not to clamp your thighs around him when you feel him lap at your entrance to lick up the wet remnants of your climax. 

Copia places a small kiss on your thigh before rising from his knelt position. He’s beyond disheveled; his hair is tousled from your grip and the paint on the lower half of his face is smudged or completely wiped off. You can only imagine what the inside of your thighs looks like. 

He takes the blunt out of your hand, knowing you’ve completely forgotten about it. You watch with half-lidded eyes as he takes a hit from it and sits on the empty cushion next to you. The sequins on his jacket glimmer despite the low light of the room. Placing a hand on your thigh, he squeezes playfully. 

You smile weakly at him, your mind swimming with a mixture of intoxication and a post-orgasm haze. “I’ve gotta get you high more often.”

[reincarnated70sbaby]

linger

listen before you read!

robert plant xfem!oc

warnings : drug use, swearing, trucklot of angst ;)

word count : 2.1k

an: was listening to ‘linger’ by the cranberries and I couldn’t pass up this angsty idea I got 😎 timeline is off but yolo ig...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sloane leaned down to the table to take an extra line for her pre-performance nerves. She felt a little more nervous today, this particular concert being one of the largest yet. She was the front woman of The CAPs, who were opening for Led Zeppelin for their summer of ‘69 tour. This was exactly the break the band needed, finally getting recognition for all their talent and hard work over the last two years.

She applied a little powder to her face, and patted on her classic red lipstick to her slightly chapped lips. Securing the clasps of her platform red heels, she shook her body in hopes of shaking away her anxious jitters. Once she had finished her body-shaking ritual, she walked out from the wings of the stage.

As she walked across to centre stage, wind blowing through the holes of her white crochet dress. The crowd cheered loudly as the band waved to them.

“How’s everyone doin’ today? It’s so hot today, my boobs are sweating off!” She greeted the crowd with her bubbly nature. Adjusting the mic stand to her height, she continued to address the huge crowd. “Today’s set list will have a slight adjustment to it, we’re starting off with a new song I wrote just last night. It’s a little softer than our other music, so just sit back- or should I say lean back on the person behind you - and relax. This is called ‘Linger’ "

While she was speaking to the crowd, a teenage roadie ran onto the stage and placed a stool, for Sloane to sit on, and disappeared again in a heartbeat. The crowd, didn’t even take notice of the young boy, entranced with the tawny blonde singer as usual.

Sloane sat down, crossed her legs and nodded toward Rory, to begin. Rory started picking a simple guitar melody on his trusty Gibson acoustic, the first guitar he ever picked up. Sloane swayed lightly to the rhythm, eyes on the horizon above the crowd. Soon after, Marshall joined in with quiet, but strong beat on drums. At the same time, Oscar added the baseline to the song.

Taking a deep breath, Sloane began the song.

If you, If you could return, Don’t let it burn, Don’t let it fade, I’m sure I’m not being rude, It’s just your attitude, It’s tearing me apart, It’s ruining every day

I swore, I swore I would be true, But honey so did you, So why were you holding her hand? Is that the way we stand? We’re you lying all the time? Was it just a game to you?

Sloane sang gently, her eyes closed with a pained look on her face. She thought back to the day before, when everything fell apart.

———

“Sloane, honey, please tell me what’s wrong! You’re being so closed off with me today!” Robert pleaded, grabbing her hand while she was walking away. Sloane yanked her hand away and walked towards an empty storeroom in the hotel corridor.

“Don’t get any ideas, we need to talk privately” Sloane commanded as she entered into the storeroom. It had barely enough space for both of them to fit, being crammed full with towels and bedsheets.

“Please, love, jus’ tell me what’s bothering you, I wanna make you happy”

“Oh fuck off Robert, you’re so fake and a liar. These past couple of months have all been a lie!”

“What’re talkin’ about? I have never lied to you once”

“Seriously? ‘I’ve never lied to you’? Are you actually for real right now? Do you know what I just found out Robert? You’re fucking married! And she’s coming here tonight! You didn’t think I would deserve to know that!” She yelled, ignoring her previous statement about keeping this private.

“I didn’t tell you because I was scared okay? I have never felt like this before with anyone else. All the groupies were just for sex, but when I met you I had fallen for you Slo, you make me a better person in every way”

“I don’t care how I make you feel, you’re still married! With kids! How would they feel if they found out their father was in a relationship with a woman other than their mother? I can’t believe you did this to me willingly, even after I told you what happened with my parents. That messed me up, seeing my father with another woman, and leaving my mother for her. Never seeing him again, choosing his new family over me and my siblings. That hurts me the most Robert, you knew my history and you ignored it!” Sloane cried out, tears falling freely on her face, running her dark eye makeup.

“I never meant to hurt you love, you mean so much to me. I just didn’t think- I never fuckin think, but I my feelings were so strong for you, I never thought about Maureen, I’m shamed to admit it” Robert plead, guilt weighing on his conscience. He reached out to wipe her tears away, but Sloane turned her head, the same pained look on her face.

“We’re done. I can’t stay with someone who could forget about their own wife and kids, and forget to tell their girlfriend that she’s actually a mistress. Goodbye” Sloane said, pushing her way out of the cramped closet, before running to the elevator at the end of the hall.

———

But I’m in so deep, You know I’m such a fool for you, You got me wrapped around your finger, Do you have to let it linger? Do you have to? Do you have to let it linger?

Sloane sang emotionally, a single tear escaped her tear duct. She took the break for guitar solo to take a couple deep breathes, and to calm her heightened emotions down.

Oh, I thought the world of you, I thought nothing could go wrong, But I was wrong, I was wrong

If you, if you could get by, Trying not to lie, Things wouldn’t be so confused, And I wouldn’t feel so used, But you always knew, I just want to be with you

———

Sloane sat at the large round table, sipping her wine. The two bands had just completed all the concerts in France, and were having a celebratory dinner for the night. The lights were dim in the fancy restaurant, but Sloane could still see the heartbreaking sight of Maureen and Robert cozying up to eachother. She longed to be the one Robert was dedicated to, to be his Maureen, to be the one who sipped on his beer instead of her wine for a change, to rest her hand on his knee. She wished to be the one who would sleep with him in bed each night, without a worry of cheating or unfaithfulness. Her heart was also broken for Maureen, she was so inlove with Robert, as was he with her. She was also probably the greatest mother out there, being a single parent for a lot of the year.

Sloane switched her focus from the smitten couple, to Marshall and John Bonham's discussion on gongs, congas and all exotic drums.

Everything had been going so well, the concerts each night going to wonderfully, the bands got on great together. Even all the touring crew and management got on well with eachother. It was like one, big, slightly dysfunctional family.

Sloane wished she could vent to one of her bandmates about her case of ill fated love, but she knew if she told any of the CAP boys, tension would arise between the bands, and she simply couldn't bear to break the harmony.

“I’m sorry everyone, but I feel a bit ill and I think it would be best if I went to my room” Sloane announced, rising from her chair. She briefly locked eyes with Robert, before averting her eyes that threatened to fill with tears.

“Are you sure you’re okay Slo? I can come up and look after you if you feel faint or anything?” Rory asked genuinely, concerned for his little sister, he noticed she had been a little less bubbly than normal today.

“I’m fine Ror, I’ll think being on the go and travelling for the last couple of months has caught up with me. I’ll call you if I need you. Love you” she said, hugging him tightly.

“Love you, stay safe sis”

A chorus of goodbyes were heard as she left the table and walked out of the brassiere restaurant.

As soon as she entered her large room, she decided to clean up her stuff in order to distract herself. She folded all her clothes, tucked all her shoes into her suitcase, and cleaned up her makeup station on the vanity, placing the assortment of beauty products in the black makeup bag she owned.

After she was done cleaning, she ordered a couple bottles of wine, with some croissant from room service, taking advantage of the readily available French delicacies.

Lowering herself into the warm bubble bath she ran while waiting for her room service, her mind wandered to the whole situation, creating lyrics in her head. Luckily she brought her songbook, so there was no need to get out of the bath in search for it. She poured her heart out into the lyrics. After finishing the lyrics up, she soaked for a little longer, until she felt herself pruning and wrapped the fuzzy bath robe around herself.

She was about to turn off her bedside light to sleep, when she heard a light knock on the door. Her head scrambled, trying to figuring out who it was. Must be Rory checking up on me she thought. Opening the door, her heart skipped a beat at the visitor.

“Sloane let me-“

“Robert, please, I told you we were over”

“Will you let me speak, I need to talk to you”

Sloane stepped aside from the door, letting him in. She guided him to the seating area of the room, not wanting to risk being near the bed.

“Uh, d’want tea or something?” Sloane asked the blonde man, the air heavy with awkward tension.

“Yeah sure, love. That’d be great” Robert answered warmly.

“So, what do you want to say” Sloane asked, pushing his tea on front of him.

“Sloane, I’m sorry. I still do love you and I hate that I fucked everything up. I was just so infatuated- I still am, and I regret that I made you feel upset. I just want to say sorry”

“I- I still love you too Robert, it wasn’t just one sided, I really thought you were the one”

“Sloane, I don’t know what to say… If- if you ask me to, I will. I want you. I want to be yours.”

“Robert- I. I can’t do that. As much as I want to love you and be with you, I can’t be a homewrecker. I’ve seen the way you are with Maureen, you love her. I know in my gut that you’re better off with her. She loves you and deserves you 100%” Sloane’s face was wet with tears.

“Uh, okay. I’m sorry love, I really wish I didn’t fuck up our relationship. I really hope that one day we can be friends again, when you’re ready” Robert got up to leave, but was stopped when Sloane grabbed his hand.

“There’s a part of me that will always love you Robert. This was wonderful while it lasted” She spoke with a sad smile on her face.

Robert squeezed her hand in agreement, before exiting the room.

———

And I’m in so deep, You know I’m such a fool for you You got me wrapped around your finger, oh, Do you have to let it linger? Do you have to? Do you have to let it linger?

Oh I’m in so deep, You know I still have love for you, My love has wrapped me round your finger, oh, Do you have to let it linger? Do you have? Do you have to let it linger?

The CAPs finished their song, and Sloane stood up to thank the crowd.

“Robert, darling, there you are. Was that singer at the dinner last night?” Maureen asked warmly to her husband, joining him in the wings.

“Uh, yeah, but she left early because of travel sickness y’know the sort” Robert answered absentmindedly, his deep blue eyes trained on the lead singer, who was preparing for the next song in the band’s set list.

“I must have missed her. She’s gorgeous, isn’t she? I love that song she just sang, great voice” Maureen mused, admiring Sloane’s confidence , akin to her husbands.

“Yeah, yeah she is. She’s a beautiful person, inside and out”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

my first Robert fic!!! I’m more of a Jimmy girl, but I love the golden god too (Leo men <3)

as always, any criticism/ideas are welcome in my inbox or comments 🤍

tag list : @dreamersdrowse @rebel-without-a-zeppelin @princesspagey ask me if you would like to be added!!

[bump1nthen1ght]

Sick Day (Demon x Reader)

Pairing: Gender Neutral Reader/ Non-Binary Demon

Genre: Urban fantasy, Domesticity, Established relationship

Warnings: Mentions of sickness (fevers, body chills, headaches), but nothing graphic

Word Count: 2008 words

Summary: Your demon partner isn’t sure how to play doctor

A/N: Based of this prompt by @monsterkinkmeme

“It’s the first time you’ve dated a demon and it’s also the first time you’ve gotten sick since you’ve been together. A fever paired with a throbbing headache has you hiding in bed for most of the day, trying to sleep whatever bug you caught, off. Your demon lover, on the other hand, is beside themselves and has turned to Google and WebMD on how best to take care of you. They now think you are dying because of your symptoms and are devising a way to save you.”

The minute I saw this prompt I was immediately awash with PINING for a large demon partner to cuddle with and I knew I had to write it.

A week after finals, 7 months into your relationship with Motholg, your immune system gives up.

You had been leaving work, thinking the heat in your cheeks and the ache in your bones was a product of a 6 hour shift, walking to Motholg’s apartment for date night. The past two week had you cooped up, anxious and studying, meaning you barely were able to make time for your partner.

You probably should have expected it, it’s happened every finals week since high school; A couple days into break you get a high fever and are stuck in your bed for a solid 48 hours. But you thought that, perhaps, this year was the exception. After nearly passing out when handing Motholg their fresh-made lasagna, you knew you weren’t so lucky.

“Darling?”

You groan from your blanket burrito, eyes and sweaty forehead barely peeking into the dim light of Motholg’s bedroom. The thought of forming a coherent thought makes your brain pound, so you don’t even try.

“I’ve made you some...uh…”

The door creaks open, Motholg automatically ducking their head so their long horns don’t hit the frame. Their red, slitted eyes narrow at something steaming in a teacup. “Yas-mine? Jasmeen? Uh-some herbal remedy I ordered from your virtual shopkeep. It was touted by several women named “Brenda” to  be the best thing for human illnesses.” Motholg’s hooves tap against the floor, just below the line of “too loud” for your migraine. You give another non-committal hum as they sit down on the bed. Despite being custom-made for their 7-foot stature, the bedframe still creaks under their weight. The top of your blanket sarcophagus is pulled back, revealing your disgruntled face.

Motholg helps you prop yourself up and hands you the teacup. You take a sip, quickly realizing it’s still quite hot, but power through anyway. The scalding water melts from your mouth down to your toes, abating your shivers, if only temporarily.

As you drink, Motholg’s fingers card through your messy hair, massaging your skull before resting their palm on your cheek. Their hand covers almost the entire side of your head, spotting a glimpse of a frown between their fingers.

“You’re even hotter than before and still quite sweaty. Would you like me to take the blankets?”

You shake your head, setting down your cup of tea.

“No, it’s probably just my fever breaking. It’s actually a good sign, despite how shitty I feel.” The warmth of your cocoon is beckoning you, your exposed chest and arms already shivering. “The blankets are good for my chills, but a big glass of ice water would be nice.”

Motholg raises an eyebrow, clearly perturbed by your backwards human symptoms. But they pat your head once more before sitting up.

“Of course, dear.” Motholg leans down to kiss your forehead, but is intercepted by the palm of your hand.

“Uh-uh, I don’t need you getting sick too.” Motholg scrunches up their face, then blows a raspberry into your skin. You retaliate by pushing away their face feebly.

“As if your human illness could fell me darling.” The sigh dramatically, pushing your hand away. “Though you are very sweet to think it could.”

You stick out your tongue and shove them. Motholg relents, blowing a kiss as they back out of the bedroom.

Your brain is beginning to drift into sleep when a glass clinks on the nightstand. Not bothering to open your eyes, far too tired, you mutter a “Thank you.” Motholg whispers a “You’re welcome,” as they lay on the bed once more. Their warm fur tickles your neck as they cuddle up behind you, arm thrown around your side and nuzzling their face into your hair. A hot breath and a slight nip of their extended canines only wills you to dreamland faster.

Motholg won’t go to sleep, only needing a full 8 hours every 4 days, but are rather content to lay beside you. They lovingly stroke your arm and sidle farther down under the comforter, whispering occasional sweet nothings and rocking you into unconsciousness.

--------

The dull red of the bedside clock pries open your eyes, a stark contrast compared to the pitchblack of the bedroom. Your brain is still in a fog, but given then the 3 AM flashing nearby, you’ve been asleep for about 9 hours.

And I’m about to sleep 9 more.

Motholg had left the bed at some point, but their warmth still lingers on the blankets. You close your eyes and snuggle in.

Slam!

But then the door slams open.

On a normal night, the noise might’ve jerked you upright , but your eyes simply roll over to the doorway. Your brain already misses unconsciousness.

Motholg stands, their new smartphone in hand as they breathe heavily.

“Darling, what did you say your body temperature was?”

You prop yourself up on your elbows, slowly giving up on those peaceful 9 hours.

“99.7 last time I checked.” You tap your forehead with the back of your hand. “Probably less now. The sleep has been helping a lot. Good night.”

In an instant, Motholg is over to the bed, placing their hand on your forehead. You let out a disappointed sigh and try to go back to sleep anyways. The click of their hooves on hardwood, Motholg’s jittering shakes of your shoulder, and the strong smell of iron quickly eliminates that as a possibility.

You turn towards your partner, now noticing the sheen of liquid covering their hands. Red streaks follow their fingertips on their smartphone.

“Babe, why are your hands soaked in blood?”

“Goat’s blood, technically.”

Before you can even respond to that baffling answer, Motholg grabs your shoulder. The blood sticks to the short sleeves of your pajamas.

Damn, now I’ll have to wash this tomorrow.

“Here, it says the ritual-”

“The what?”

“-needs to be completed at 3:30 AM on a new moon.” Motholg pauses, checks their phone, then continues, “Yes, a new moon.”

Motholg begins to walk away, your arm still in their grip, but your resistance stalls them.

“Okay, Motholg, you’re scaring me. What’s going on? How the hell did you get goat’s blood at this hour?”

Motholg sighs and rolls their eyes, “Unimportant-”

You give Motholg a dissatisfied look, finally making them relent in heir tirade. They turn towards you.

“I fear for your life. I’ve consulted your online physician and your symptoms fall in line with many fatal illnesses.”

Now accepting that this is officially a conversation, you throw back your blankets and sit up.

“Do you mean WebMD?”

Motholg nods furiously and shows you their phone screen, tapping the glass with a long claw.

“See here? Full body chills are associated with pneumonia, so is a high fever. There’s also the possibility something is wrong with one of your organs. Not surprising, considering how squishy they are.” Motholg flicks their screen upward, a myriad of diagrams flips across it.

“Now, I know a couple of ceremonies my father used to perform to curse others with these illnesses, so I thought if I reversed the procedure-” Motholg pauses again, flipping to a new tab on their phone, “-So, I did some googling-”

Motholg pauses when your hand rests against their cheek. Their red eyes, which glow just slightly in the dark, look to you. You brush your thumb across their face, just barely grazing against the fur which starts at the base of their neck.

“Darling, I appreciate the concern really, I do. But these websites…” you pause, slowly pushing Motholg’s phone down and out of eyesight, “They really only show worst case scenarios. Honestly, they kind of just scare you into going to a doctor in person.”

Motholg’s eyes dart between your face and their phone, now pressed face down on their bed. They give off an aura of anxiety and stress, their hands fidgety and their hooves lightly tapping against the floor. “Here,” You pull up the covers, opening up the spot next to you. “Do you want to lie down with me for a while?”

“Oh, I don’t need to rest.”

“Just because your body doesn’t require it doesn't mean it won’t feel good. C’mon.” You pat the bed. “I think it will give you some peace of mind, keeping an eye on me.”

Motholg’s eyes shifted back to their phone, their brow furrowed. You pout your lips and slide your fingers up their chest. Their fur sticks and tussles under your touch.

“Babe, I would feel better if you relax, seriously.” You reach down to the bedside drawer, pulling out your sleep mask. “You can even bring your computer and get some work done.”

Hesitantly, they nod. You sigh in relief. Their hand unconsciously twirls your hair.

“I suppose….You would know about these things.”

“Yes, thank you.”

Motholg leaves to get their things, while you slip back under the covers. Before you put your sleep mask on, you shout to them.

“Make sure to wash that blood off!” You look down at your damp sleeve. “And could you get me a wet wipe as well?”

Motholg makes an affirmative noise, and you finally lay back and close your eyes.

Their body heat lingers above your as they sweetly wipe away the blood on your arm. You mutter a thank you. The bed dips as they down next to you, mattress bending as they adjust their laptop and fluff the pillows.

“Darling?”

“Hmmm?” You murmur, face still stuffed in your pillow.

“I just wanted to apologize for waking you. I feel very foolish for acting so paranoid.”

You flip your head to their side, keeping your mask on.

“No need to apologize, I get it.”

“Thank you for your understanding, but still, I feel so silly. To think a tiny sickness would force my emotions to overcome me.”

You slowly push up your mask, eyes peeking out from under the duvet. Motholg sheepishly picks at their keyboard, avoiding your eyes,

As disgruntled as it made you at first, Motholg’s droopy gaze stirred guilt in your gut. You wonder how many scenarios had run through their head while they googled, how helpless they must’ve felt. There might be a hole paced into the floor of the living room, given how flustered they were when they barged in.

You reach out to Motholg’s wrist, brushing your thumb over the back of their palm. Their red irises look over, and you think you see the tinies remnants of tear tracks at the corner of their eyes.

“Emotions aren’t a bad thing, they’re natural.” Grabbing the top of the blanket, you roll over to Motholg’s side. Their large body dwarfs yours and when you curl up against them, the tips of your feet barely meet the top of their calves. Their black fur is soft against your face, like a  mixture of a plush carpet and a goosefeather pillow.

Oh good, they used the Tea Tree soap.

“I’d probably do the same if you got sick.” You reach your hand up to their chest, cording through their thick fur. “We’re just gonna have to trust the other’s okay, huh?”

With your chin tucked into their ribs, Motholg smiles down at you. A claw runs up the back of your neck, stirring up goosebumps but relaxing your muscles.

“I believe so, darling.” Their fangs jut out from their lips as they continue to rub your neck. It’s quite goofy looking, for a demon, and gets a chuckle out of you.

You crane your neck and Motholg meets you halfway for a kiss, consequences be damned.

“Good night, I love you.”

“I love you too, sweetling.”

You fall asleep with Motholg’s fingers curled in your hair, the slight tap of their claws on the keys, a simmering contentment in your heart.

--------

A week later, when  you’re back to full health, you and Motholg are making dinner when-

“Ah-choo!”

You stop stirring the pasta and furrow your brows at Motholg. They’ve stilled, mid-movement while setting out the plates. Their face burns with embarrassment.

“A silly human sickness, huh?”

[dornish-queen]

Pedro Pascal on Fame and ‘The Mandalorian’: ‘Can We Cut the S— and Talk About the Child?’

By Adam B. Vary

Photographs by Beau Grealy

When Pedro Pascal was roughly 4 years old, he and his family went to see the 1978 hit movie “Superman,” starring Christopher Reeve. Pascal’s young parents had come to live in San Antonio after fleeing their native Chile during the rise of dictator Augusto Pinochet in the mid-1970s. Taking Pascal and his older sister to the movies — sometimes more than once a week — had become a kind of family ritual, a way to soak up as much American pop culture as possible.

At some point during this particular visit, Pascal needed to go to the bathroom, and his parents let him go by himself. “I didn’t really know how to read yet,” Pascal says with the same Cheshire grin that dazzled “Game of Thrones” fans during his run as the wily (and doomed) Oberyn Martel. “I did not find my way back to ‘Superman.'”

Instead, Pascal wandered into a different theater (he thinks it was showing the 1979 domestic drama “Kramer vs. Kramer,” but, again, he was 4). In his shock and bewilderment at being lost, he curled up into an open seat and fell asleep. When he woke up, the movie was over, the theater was empty, and his parents were standing over him. To his surprise, they seemed rather calm, but another detail sticks out even more.

“I know that they finished their movie,” he says, bending over in laughter. “My sister was trying to get a rise out of me by telling me, ‘This happened and that happened and then Superman did this and then, you know, the earthquake and spinning around the planet.'” In the face of such relentless sibling mockery, Pascal did the only logical thing: “I said, ‘All that happened in my movie too.'”

He had no way of knowing it at the time, of course, but some 40 years later, Pascal would in fact get the chance to star in a movie alongside a DC Comics superhero — not to mention battle Stormtroopers and, er, face off against the most formidable warrior in Westeros. After his breakout on “Game of Thrones,” he became an instant get-me-that-guy sensation, mostly as headstrong, taciturn men of action — from chasing drug traffickers in Colombia for three seasons on Netflix’s “Narcos” to squaring off against Denzel Washington in “The Equalizer 2.”

This year, though, Pascal finds himself poised for the kind of marquee career he’s spent a lifetime dreaming about. On Oct. 30, he’ll return for Season 2 as the title star of “The Mandalorian,” Lucasfilm’s light-speed hit “Star Wars” series for Disney Plus that earned 15 Emmy nominations, including best drama, in its first season. And then on Dec. 25 — COVID-19 depending — he’ll play the slippery comic book villain Maxwell Lord opposite Gal Gadot, Chris Pine and Kristen Wiig in “Wonder Woman 1984.”

The roles are at once wildly divergent and the best showcase yet for Pascal’s elastic talents. In “The Mandalorian,” he must hide his face — and, in some episodes, his whole body — in a performance that pushes minimalism and restraint to an almost ascetic ideal. In “Wonder Woman 1984,” by stark contrast, he is delivering the kind of big, broad bad-guy character that populated the 1980s popcorn spectaculars of his youth.

“I continually am so surprised when everybody pegs him as such a serious guy,” says “Wonder Woman 1984” director Patty Jenkins. “I have to say, Pedro is one of the most appealing people I have known. He instantly becomes someone that everybody invites over and you want to have around and you want to talk to.”

Talk with Pascal for just five minutes — even when he’s stuck in his car because he ran out of time running errands before his flight to make it to the set of a Nicolas Cage movie in Budapest — and you get an immediate sense of what Jenkins is talking about. Before our interview really starts, Pascal points out, via Zoom, that my dog is licking his nether regions in the background. “Don’t stop him!” he says with an almost naughty reproach. “Let him live his life!”

Over our three such conversations, it’s also clear that Pascal’s great good humor and charm have been at once ballast for a number of striking hardships, and a bulwark that makes his hard-won success a challenge for him to fully accept.

Before Pascal knew anything about “The Mandalorian,” its showrunner and executive producer Jon Favreau knew he wanted Pascal to star in it.

“He feels very much like a classic movie star in his charm and his delivery,” says Favreau. “And he’s somebody who takes his craft very seriously.” Favreau felt Pascal had the presence and skill essential to deliver a character — named Din Djarin, but mostly called Mando — who spends virtually every second of his time on screen wearing a helmet, part of the sacrosanct creed of the Mandalorian order.

Convincing any actor to hide their face for the run of a series can be as precarious as escaping a Sarlacc pit. To win Pascal over in their initial meeting, Favreau brought him behind the “Mandalorian” curtain, into a conference room papered with storyboards covering the arc of the first season. “When he walked in, it must have felt a little surreal,” Favreau says. “You know, most of your experiences as an actor, people are kicking the tires to see if it’s a good fit. But in this case, everything was locked and loaded.”

Needless to say, it worked. “I hope this doesn’t sound like me fashioning myself like I’m, you know, so smart, but I agreed to do this [show] because the impression I had when I had my first meeting was that this is the next big s—,” Pascal says with a laugh.

Favreau’s determination to cast Pascal, however, put the actor in a tricky situation: Pascal’s own commitments to make “Wonder Woman 1984” in London and to perform in a Broadway run of “King Lear” with Glenda Jackson barreled right into the production schedule for “The Mandalorian.” Some scenes on the show, and in at least one case a full episode, would need to lean on the anonymity of the title character more than anyone had quite planned, with two stunt performers — Brendan Wayne and Lateef Crowder — playing Mando on set and Pascal dubbing in the dialogue months later.

Pascal was already being asked to smother one of his best tools as an actor, extraordinarily uncommon for anyone shouldering the newest iteration of a global live-action franchise. (Imagine Robert Downey Jr. only playing Iron Man while wearing a mask — you can’t!) Now he had to hand over control of Mando’s body to other performers too. Some actors would have walked away. Pascal didn’t.

“If there were more than just a couple of pages of a one-on-one scene, I did feel uneasy about not, in some instances, being able to totally author that,” he says. “But it was so easy in such a sort of practical and unexciting way for it to be up to them. When you’re dealing with a franchise as large as this, you are such a passenger to however they’re going to carve it out. It’s just so specific. It’s ‘Star Wars.'” (For Season 2, Pascal says he was on the set far more, though he still sat out many of Mando’s stunts.)

“The Mandalorian” was indeed the next big s—, helping to catapult the launch of Disney Plus to 26.5 million subscribers in its first six weeks. With the “Star Wars” movies frozen in carbonite until 2023 (at least), I noted offhand that he’s now effectively the face of one of the biggest pop-culture franchises in the world. Pascal could barely suppress rolling his eyes.

“I mean, come on, there isn’t a face!” he says with a laugh that feels maybe a little forced. “If you want to say, ‘You’re the silhouette’ — which is also a team effort — then, yeah.” He pauses. “Can we just cut the s— and talk about the Child?”

Yes, of course, the Child — or, as the rest of the galaxy calls it, Baby Yoda. Pascal first saw the incandescently cute creature during his download of “Mandalorian” storyboards in that initial meeting with Favreau. “Literally, my eyes following left to right, up and down, and, boom, Baby Yoda close to the end of the first episode,” he says. “That was when I was like, ‘Oh, yep, that’s a winner!'”

Baby Yoda is undeniably the breakout star of “The Mandalorian,” inspiring infinite memes and apocryphal basketball game sightings. But the show wouldn’t work if audiences weren’t invested in Mando’s evolving emotional connection to the wee scene stealer, something Favreau says Pascal understood from the jump. “He’s tracking the arc of that relationship,” says the showrunner. “His insight has made us rethink moments over the course of the show.” (As with all things “Star Wars,” questions about specifics are deflected in deference to the all-powerful Galactic Order of Spoilers.)

Even if Pascal couldn’t always be inside Mando’s body, he never left the character’s head, always aware of how this orphaned bounty hunter who caroms from planet to planet would look askance at anything that felt too good (or too adorable) to be true.

“The transience is something that I’m incredibly familiar with, you know?” Pascal says. “Understanding the opportunity for complexity under all of the armor was not hard for me.”

When Pascal was 4 months old, his parents had to leave him and his sister with their aunt, so they could go into hiding to avoid capture during Pinochet’s crackdown against his opposition. After six months, they finally managed to climb the walls of the Venezuelan embassy during a shift change and claim asylum; from there, the family relocated, first to Denmark, then to San Antonio, where Pascal’s father got a job as a physician.

Pascal was too young to remember any of this, and for a healthy stretch of his childhood, his complicated Chilean heritage sat in parallel to his life in the U.S. — separate tracks, equally important, never quite intersecting. By the time Pascal was 8, his family was able to take regular trips back to Chile to visit with his 34 first cousins. But he doesn’t remember really talking about any of his time there all that much with his American friends.

“I remember at one point not even realizing that my parents had accents until a friend was like, ‘Why does your mom talk like that?'” Pascal says. “And I remember thinking, like what?”

Besides, he loved his life in San Antonio. His father took him and his sister to Spurs basketball games during the week if their homework was done. He hoodwinked his mother into letting him see “Poltergeist” at the local multiplex. He watched just about anything on cable; the HBO special of Whoopi Goldberg’s one-woman Broadway show knocked him flat. He remembers seeing Henry Thomas in “E.T.” and Christian Bale in “Empire of the Sun” and wishing ardently, urgently, I want to live those stories too.

Then his father got a job in Orange County, Calif. After Pascal finished the fifth grade, they moved there. It was a shock. “There were two really, really rough years,” he says. “A lot of bullying.”

His mother found him a nascent performing arts high school in the area, and Pascal burrowed even further into his obsessions, devouring any play or movie he could get his hands on. His senior year, a friend of his mother’s gave Pascal her ticket to a long two-part play running in downtown Los Angeles that her bad back couldn’t withstand. He got out of school early to drive there by himself. It was the pre-Broadway run of “Angels in America.”

“And it changed me,” he says with almost religious awe. “It changed me.”

After studying acting at NYU’s Tisch School of the Arts, Pascal booked a succession of solid gigs, like MTV’s “Undressed” and “Buffy the Vampire Slayer.” But the sudden death of his mother — who’d only just been permitted to move back to Chile a few years earlier — took the wind right from Pascal’s sails. He lost his agent, and his career stalled almost completely.

As a tribute to her, he decided to change his professional last name from Balmaceda, his father’s, to Pascal, his mother’s. “And also, because Americans had such a hard time pronouncing Balmaceda,” he says. “It was exhausting.”

Pascal even tried swapping out Pedro for Alexander (an homage to Ingmar Bergman’s “Fanny and Alexander,” one of the formative films of his youth). “I was willing to do absolutely anything to work more,” he says. “And that meant if people felt confused by who they were looking at in the casting room because his first name was Pedro, then I’ll change that. It didn’t work.”

It was a desperately lean time for Pascal. He booked an occasional “Law & Order” episode, but mostly he was pounding the pavement along with his other New York theater friends — like Oscar Isaac, who met Pascal doing an Off Broadway play. They became fast, lifelong friends, bonding over their shared passions and frustrations as actors.

“It’s gotten better, but at that point, it was so easy to be pigeonholed in very specific roles because we’re Latinos,” says Isaac. “It’s like, how many gang member roles am I going to be sent?” As with so many actors, the dream Pascal and Isaac shared to live the stories of their childhoods had been stripped down to its most basic utility. “The dream was to be able to pay rent,” says Isaac. “There wasn’t a strategy. We were just struggling. It was talking about how to do this thing that we both love but seems kind of insurmountable.”

As with so few actors, that dream was finally rekindled through sheer nerve and the luck of who you know, when another lifelong friend, actor Sarah Paulson, agreed to pass along Pascal’s audition for Oberyn Martell to her best friend Amanda Peet, who is married to “Game of Thrones” co-showrunner David Benioff.

“First of all, it was an iPhone selfie audition, which was unusual,” Benioff remembers over email. “And this wasn’t one of the new-fangled iPhones with the fancy cameras. It looked like s—; it was shot vertical; the whole thing was very amateurish. Except for the performance, which was intense and believable and just right.”

Before Pascal knew it, he found himself in Belfast, sitting inside the Great Hall of the Red Keep as one of the judges at Tyrion Lannister’s trial for the murder of King Joffrey. “I was between Charles Dance and Lena Headey, with a view of the entire f—ing set,” Pascal says, his eyes wide and astonished still at the memory. “I couldn’t believe I didn’t have an uncomfortable costume on. You know, I got to sit — and with this view.” He sighs. “It strangely aligned itself with the kind of thinking I was developing as a child that, at that point, I was convinced was not happening.”

And then it all started to happen.

In early 2018, while Pascal was in Hawaii preparing to make the Netflix thriller “Triple Frontier” — opposite his old friend Isaac — he got a call from the film’s producer Charles Roven, who told him Patty Jenkins wanted to meet with him in London to discuss a role in another film Roven was producing, “Wonder Woman 1984.”

“It was a f—ing offer,” Pascal says in an incredulous whisper. “I wasn’t really grasping that Patty wanted to talk to me about a part that I was going to play, not a part that I needed to get. I wasn’t able to totally accept that.”

Pascal had actually shot a TV pilot with Jenkins that wasn’t picked up, made right before his life-changing run on “Game of Thrones” aired. “I got to work with Patty for three days or something and then thought I’d never see her again,” he says. “I didn’t even know she remembered me from that.”

She did. “I worked with him, so I knew him,” she says. “I didn’t need him to prove anything for me. I just loved the idea of him, and I thought he would be kind of unexpected, because he doesn’t scream ‘villain.'”

In Jenkins’ vision, Max Lord — a longstanding DC Comics rogue who shares a particularly tangled history with Wonder Woman — is a slick, self-styled tycoon with a knack for manipulation and an undercurrent of genuine pathos. It was the kind of larger-than-life character Pascal had never been asked to tackle before, so he did something equally unorthodox: He transformed his script into a kind of pop-art scrapbook, filled with blown-up photocopies of Max Lord from the comic books that Pascal then manipulated through his lens on the character.

Even the few pages Pascal flashes to me over Zoom are quite revealing. One, featuring Max sporting a power suit and a smarmy grin, has several burned-out holes, including through the character’s eye. Another page features Max surrounded by text bubbles into which Pascal has written, over and over and over again in itty-bitty lettering, “You are a f—ing piece of s—.”

“I felt like I had wake myself up again in a big way,” he says. “This was just a practical way of, like, instead of going home tired and putting Netflix on, [I would] actually deal with this physical thing, doodle and think about it and run it.”

Jenkins is so bullish on Pascal’s performance that she thinks it could explode his career in the same way her 2003 film “Monster” forever changed how the industry saw Charlize Theron. “I would never cast him as just the stoic, quiet guy,” Jenkins says. “I almost think he’s unrecognizable from ‘Narcos’ to ‘Wonder Woman.’ Wouldn’t even know that was the same guy. But I think that may change.”

When people can see “Wonder Woman 1984” remains caught in the chaos the pandemic has wreaked on the industry; both Pascal and Jenkins are hopeful the Dec. 25 release date will stick, but neither is terribly sure it will. Perhaps it’s because of that uncertainty, perhaps it’s because he’s spent his life on the outside of a dream he’s now suddenly living, but Pascal does not share Jenkins’ optimism that his experience making “Wonder Woman 1984” will open doors to more opportunities like it.

“It will never happen again,” Pascal says, once more in that incredulous whisper. “It felt so special.”

After all he’s done in a few short years, why wouldn’t Pascal think more roles like this are on his horizon?

“I don’t know!” he finally says with a playful — and pointed — howl. “I’m protecting myself psychologically! It’s just all too good to be true! How dare I!”

[ronsenburg]

Since you mentioned you were looking for drabble requests, if you haven't moved on from AA already, could I request something where Apollo or Klavier is struggling against pride/feeling that his problem isn't a big deal/some kind of internal roadblock to seek comfort from the other? Maybe they lost a case they don't think they should have lost, or it's the anniversary of something sad, or they just feel crappy physically or emotionally. Any reason is fine. Thanks for considering my request ^^

vorher:

It’s nearly six pm by the time Franziska finds him, tucked into a chair in the corner of some pretentious and probably ephemeral bar downtown.

It isn’t one of his usual haunts, but the staff seem to know who he is well enough, anyway. Though he is just barely twenty-three and his tab has been approaching the four figure mark for the past hour and a half, no one has bothered to card him or attempt cutting him off yet. Of course, that may have had more to do with the sizable tips slid to whatever staff member is closest in proximity rather than his rather notorious celebrity status, but Klavier’s ego has been rapidly ceasing to care about such things in recent months. What matters to him at this very moment is less the thrill of universal adoration and more the ability to nurse his wounded pride in pseudo-solitude with a vastly overpriced drink.

That solitude is shattered, however, by the arrival of Prosecutor Franziska Von Karma. The sound of her heels clicking firmly against the highly lacquered floors crescendos over whatever smooth jazz cover they’re piping through the hidden speakers as she makes her way directly over to him.

“Are you finished with your tantrum yet?” she asks, removing her dark sunglasses and placing them onto the surface of the bar beside him without any sort of invitation.

It takes a moment for the words to process; Klavier has spent so long playing the role of the ostentatious expat that his alcohol muddled brain can barely grasp the crisp and nearly foreign sounding syllables of her German.

By then, she has already removed her long leather gloves and cape, handing them off to an employee that floats near her elbow like a well trained dog on a leash. When she slides into the chair beside him and signals for the bartender, the scotch she orders for herself is nearly as expensive as Klavier’s own. If he weren’t so chagrined by her sudden interruption, he would likely be impressed.

“Since when is enjoying a drink after work considered a tantrum?” Klavier returns, finally, and also in German. He attempts to fire off one of his charming smiles as he speaks, but the words feel so clumsy and out of practice on his lips that the gesture falls short and sounds far more like the kind of sulk that directly proves the point she has made.

Franziska raises a perfectly arched eyebrow in reaction, though whether it is a response meant specifically for his faltering pronunciations or juvenile tone, Klavier can’t be at all sure. “Since someone recently made a complete fool of himself in a court of law.”

The words strike out like the lash of a whip; Klavier winces despite himself. Franziska is only two years older than him, but when she glances away with an air of disinterested disdain to take a sip from the tumbler placed in front of her, the gap seems far wider.

“You heard?”

“I saw,” she replies, glancing over to him again just long enough to offer a small, disparaging smirk. “It was quite the performance. Do people actually pay you money to see such foolishness on stage?”

The shame he’d been attempting to shove away for the past five hours flares up just below the surface of his thoughts then, hot and bright enough that he suddenly feels sick to his stomach.

“You are just as charming as they say, Fraulein,” Klavier smiles; the sarcasm tastes false and bitter on his tongue.

In truth, he had made a fool of himself.

Klavier has always prided himself on being meticulous in his pursuit of the truth, in perfectly balancing the demands of both his prosecutorial career and his life as a musician. And, most of the time, he’d succeeded so brilliantly that it had blinded him to the subtly advancing and yet still discreet signs that he might have been slipping.

There had been issues with the band’s latest album.

With the ink long since dried on the studio’s contract and their chosen title already heavily marketed, the pressure to produce something of value had been mounting. Every song he’d written since then had seemed increasingly vapid, words that fit a theme but lacked any sort of meaning, chords that sounded deliberately catchy but were devoid of anything new and surprising. They were going through the motions, but those motions were long since stale. There was nothing of the artistic fire that had skyrocketed them to success in their early years and that alone drained any last bit of excitement he might have derived from the process.

It was driving a neat wedge through the center of the band; Daryan called him a diva, so used to having things his own way that he fell to pieces at the idea of ever being told what to do. Take the money, release an album that was shallow but on brand. They could always switch it up next time when time was on their side. You’re the lawyer, he'd mocked, you should know exactly how much of our asses are on the line here.

Their arguments on the subject had become more and more frequent as the days passed, spilling from band practice to crime scenes and, finally, to the kitchen of Klavier’s apartment. This time, it was Daryan who had packed what few belongings he’d scattered throughout Klavier’s various shelves and drawers into an old duffle bag and left, slamming the door shut behind him with finality as he’d gone.

As Klavier’s luck would dictate, Daryan had been the lead detective on this last case. While they were both professional enough not to ignore each other completely during the proceedings, the type of communication necessary for a successful indictment had been… difficult, to say the least.

And so he’d been distracted in his investigation, enough that he’d overlooked a piece of evidence so decisive in the opposition’s favor that when it had been presented, he’d been left gaping in uncharacteristic surprise from his place at the bench.

Yes, he’d been slipping, unable to see the progression of his descent until he had been standing firmly at the bottom of a tall slope.

He was only lucky, he supposed, that this was not a murder trial.

Back at the bar, Klavier rolls his eyes softly, more an aversion of his gaze than a gesture for dramatic display. Franziska doesn’t seem to be paying him enough attention to notice such things, anyway.

“Well, you can consider me scolded. Your work is done.”

“And yet, that’s not why I’m here,” Franziska returns. Ignoring the eyebrow he raises toward her in obvious question, she instead tilts the tumbler back, swallowing the last centimeter of the amber drink. “I would not waste my time and energy searching the city to scold a fool who seems to be doing an admirable job of berating himself. No, despite your recent failures, there are people in this city who seem to care about your well being. It would be a shame if you were to drown in a pool of your own vomit.”

He cannot help his rather obvious flinch at her words, no matter how quickly he endeavors to mask it. “How very touching, ja? I was expecting more anger.”

Franziska pauses in the midst of extracting a matte black card from the small handbag she carries. When her steel grey eyes meet his, Klavier suddenly understands the fear the von Karma name had once inspired in courtrooms across the world.

“Oh, I am angry,” she smiles, wagging her finger in such a way that it is clear she is mocking him. “You allowed a criminal to walk free today. But he is guilty, I am certain of that. And now he will be cocky.”

Klavier is so stunned by her words that he barely registers that she has slid her card across the surface of the wooden bar, let alone has the presence of mind to argue.

“There will be more evidence to find and new charges to file,” she continues, unperturbed by his gaping. “I will assume that next time you will have your priorities in the correct order.”

With that, she stands and turns to the attendant who is still waiting nearby, ready to help her back into the dark, cashmere folds of her cloak. When the complex ritual of donning her long gloves and sunglasses is complete, she turns once again to face him.

“I will be driving you home. You may choose, now, whether you would like to accompany me willingly or if you will require Detective Gumshoe’s escort. You have until I reach the door to decide.”

It feels as though a whirlwind has swept through the room, appearing out of nowhere to disrupt his wallowing completely before disappearing as suddenly as she had come. Klavier is not stupid enough to doubt Franziska’s words, despite the fact that he is twenty-three and more than a bit inebriated. He wavers only slightly as he finds his own feet and follows her out onto the sun soaked sidewalk beyond the bar.

If she is smiling when she looks back towards him, it is the small, private smirk of victory. Klavier finds that he is too preoccupied with the act of placing one foot in front of the other along the uneven slabs of concrete to care. He stumbles gracelessly into the backseat of the car Franziska indicates, through a door held open by a man that Klavier can only assume is the Detective she had mentioned inside.

“Huh,” he comments before closing the door. “Somehow I thought you’d be taller, pal.”

A sharp stab of pain somewhere behind his left temple resonates brightly in response.

This is something he will certainly regret tomorrow.

nachher:

“Okay, spill,” Apollo demands, crossing his arms in a visible display of stubborn obstination that, at any other time, Klavier might find endlessly adorable.

Tonight, however, he has reached a new level of exhaustion, one that leaves him blinking back at Apollo in baffled surprise as he attempts to pivot his thoughts from their previous trajectory in order to make sense of the other’s sudden words. “Spill was?”

As his words indicate, the intended course adjustment doesn’t go very well at all.

“Whatever’s going on with you,” Apollo replies, huffing out a sigh of what sounds nearly like frustration. “You’ve been working late, you don’t eat, you haven’t been sleeping. Something’s up; I think you should tell me what it is.”

Though Apollo’s words and posture are combative, it is all for show. There is an uncertainty in his eyes and concern exposed in the way he bites at the inside of his lip in silence, waiting for Klavier to speak. The fact that Klavier has learned to recognize this expression through repeatedly causing it is a painful enough thing to shoulder; to admit to the reason behind his behavior when it will only bring them both all the more strife, however, would be far worse. Not because he doubts the limits of Apollo’s strength; it is his own resilience that is threatened by the thought of divulging the extent of his insecurities.

Klavier runs a hand through the strands of hair that have escaped the hasty braid he had tied earlier that evening and attempts an apologetic smile. “Ach, Liebling, there is nothing to tell. It is just work.”

“You’re lying.”

It is stated as a fact, nothing more. But while there is nothing accusatory in Apollo’s tone and his face is perfectly even as he says it, Klavier still feels the words as though they are the sting of an attack.

“Ja?” he responds. “And you promised there would be no bracelet inside the house, did you not?”

What he intends is for the words to sound facetious, a nod to the same kind of fond banter they had indulged in long before the intimacy of a romantic relationship. But Klavier is lying; it is not an offense often committed between them and certainly not one he has reveled in or perpetuated out of malice, now. Still, to be seen through so shifted his smile without meaning to. Klavier can feel it teetering on the edge of a sneer that feels both unfamiliar and familiar all at once.

What follows, then, is a long pause.

A lifted arm, a proffered bare wrist, is Apollo’s only response.

That gesture feels more devastating than the aftermath of an actual, physical fight. Klavier can feel the air exit his lungs in a sharp hiss of remorse, his posture on the plush sofa of their study crumbling as he leans forward to place his head into his waiting hands.

“That was uncalled for,” Klavier begins, though his voice is muffled by the skin of his palms pressed firmly against his speaking mouth. “I am sorry, Schatz, I—“

But his words are interrupted by the sudden creak of sofa springs, the cushions on either side of Klavier dipping under the newly applied weight of Apollo’s knees. There is the feeling of Apollo’s warm fingers wrapping around the skin of his wrists, gently pulling his hands away from his face.

“I know you, Klavier,” Apollo says softly; his voice is so uncharacteristically gentle that the words sound less like a statement and more the sweetest declaration of love. Maybe they are. After all, Klavier has been loved before. But being actually, truly known? He glances up into Apollo’s brown eyes, warm with determination and affection. “I don’t need the bracelet to see when you’re upset. If you don’t want to talk about it right now, I understand, but you don’t have to go around pretending everything is okay when it isn’t.”

“Bold words for someone who insists upon always being fine, ja?” Klavier murmurs, another half hearted attempt at humor that falls flat in what little space exists between them. 

Apollo still lifts the edge of his lips in a small, humored smile of concession. “In court, maybe. But not with you. We all need to be vulnerable, sometimes.”

The breath that Klavier exhales wavers under the strain of unspoken emotions, his eyes fluttering closed just as Apollo leans forward to place a featherlight kiss against the center of his forehead, against his cheekbone, against the corner of his downturned mouth. 

“You can trust me, Klavier,” he concludes. “I’ll always be here, whenever you’re ready, okay?” 

Klavier finds he does not have the words to respond, then, even as the sound of fabric rustling against fabric fills the air and the hands holding Klavier’s wrists retreat. Their absence is felt immediately in the lack of warmth as Apollo slides back off the couch and onto his feet. 

“Apollo?”

Apollo’s footsteps stall halfway through the door.

Klavier still finds he needs to clear his throat before he can continue to speak, swallowing back the sentiments that have collected there that he is otherwise unable to express. “Could you stay? Bitte. Just for a moment.”

This is a weakness Klavier should not afford himself. It is selfish to ask Apollo to comfort him when Klavier cannot even bring himself to explain precisely why he requires it. But Apollo’s eyes are soft when they find Klavier’s gaze once again, inexplicably fully of acceptance and, beyond that, what Klavier knows is love.

“Yeah,” he nods, “of course.”

Apollo stays far longer than a moment, his fingers combing through the strands of Klavier’s loose hair under the fading light that filters in though the slightly open window. They don’t speak, but the steady rhythm of Apollo’s breath in the otherwise silent room, the gentle pressure of his fingers, is enough to distract him from the tumultuous cascade of his own thoughts.

[drinkthepoisonedchalice]

Sacrifice

This ficlet was written in response to @writethisacc on twitter’s Halloween prompt “sacrifice”

    Jimin had to admit, he rather liked Jeongguk’s habit of suddenly appearing in his bed. Usually he would show up when Jimin was lazing about in his mountain of pillows, hands immediately seeking skin, rousing Jimin from his doze and demanding his attention. Jimin wasn’t in his bed this time though, but rather was sat at his vanity applying a deep purple smokey eye when Jeongguk popped into existence, fully dressed for once in his preferred style of black leather and clunky boots, perched on the edge of Jimin's bed.

    “We should go get some coffee,” the demon said by way of greeting. 

    Jimin spared him a glance over his shoulder before reaching for his glitter pallet. “Why, are you tired? What am I saying? You don’t sleep.” Jeongguk met his eyes in the mirror of his vanity, dark and black and bottomless. “I don’t think we have time. The party starts in half an hour. I can make you a cup before we leave.” 

    “You should be careful about the things you give demons. Even an offering like a cup of coffee could be used to tie you to them for life.”

    Jimin snorted. “I gave you a blowjob last night, does that mean I’m eternally bound to you now?”

    Jeongguk looked away, a hint of tongue poking through his cheek as his eyebrows furrowed. “You know I’d bind you to me the moment you let me.”

    Jimin sighed as he stood up. Jeongguk always got fussy like this even though he was the one who persistently brought the topic up. “Sorry, Jeonggukie,” Jimin said as he made his way to stand between the other man’s knees, one hand reaching out to brush one of his curly black locks out of his face, “I much prefer having you show up in my bed to spending the rest of my life as your acolyte running all of your hellish errands.”

    Jeongguk’s hands easily found Jimin’s hips. “Just because you’re my acolyte doesn’t mean I can’t take you to bed,” he growled as he pulled Jimin into his lap. Jimin went willingly, graciously accepting the burning kiss Jeongguk pressed to his lips. “Think of the power, Mimi,” Jeongguk said as his hands wandered down to Jimin’s thighs, squeezing the supple flesh hidden under Jimin’s slacks. “No more hiding in your sister’s shadow. I thought you wanted powers of your very own.”

    Jimin hummed as Jeongguk detoured to press kisses against his jaw, down his neck. “I do. You know I do. I’m just not sure if I want them at the cost of dedicating my short mortal life to being your servant.”

    Jeongguk licked at the base of his neck and Jimin shivered all the way down to his toes. “But you don’t have to be mortal. If I make you mine I get to dictate when you die.”

    Jimin raised an unimpressed eyebrow, but Jeongguk was too busy nosing at his collar to see. “So I get to live until you get bored with me?”

    Finally Jeongguk looked up at him, eyes as black and fathomless as night. “Who said I would get bored of you?”

    Jimin swallowed. It took all of his effort to push at Jeongguk’s shoulders, feet returning to the floor. “Either way, there’s still more I need to learn before I can leave my coven.”

    Jeongguk slouched back against the bed as Jimin returned to his vanity, only holding himself up with his elbows. “How much can you really learn without powers of your own?”

    Jimin shot him a scathing glance in the mirror as he reached for his mascara. “Enough to be able to summon a demon, that’s for sure. Besides, you know my potions need work.”

    Jeongguk sighed and flopped onto his back. “I can teach you potions. You just like to be difficult.” 

    “Or maybe I’m just not ready to leave my coven yet,” Jimin shot back, and even though he couldn’t see it he could practically feel Jeongguk rolling his eyes. 

    “Why are you even dragging me to this party again?”

    Jimin capped his mascara with a smile. “It’s called irony, darling.”

    Jungkook sighed as he pulled one of Jimin’s pillows closer to cradle it against his chest. “I call it boring. It’s Halloween. Let’s go to a haunted house.”

    Now it was Jimin’s turn to roll his eyes as he lightly ran his highlight brush across his cheekbones. “Come on, Jeonggukie. You know tonight is more than just that. Witches have always performed a sacrifice on Samhain. Besides, tonight's party is literally about you. You can’t tell me you’ve never wanted to go to one of these things.”

    “Yeah, I’ve always wanted to see you guys sit in a circle and chant for an hour. Prime time entertainment right here, folks.”

    “You’re such a brat,” Jimin hissed as he snapped his highlight container closed. “Look, we’ll go to my aunt’s house and eat and drink for a few hours, then we’ll cut open a goat and say a few spells and be home in time for me to choke on your dick for twenty minutes before I go to bed.” 

    “Twenty minutes,” Jeongguk scoffed.

    Jimin pouted at his reflection in the mirror. “You know my jaw starts to hurt after too long.”

    Jimin blinked and Jeongguk was leaning over him, hands braced against the vanity desk as he loomed over Jimin, nose trailing down the witch’s cheek. “Then I guess I’ll just have to-”

    Jimin’s bedroom door opened. Jimin turned his head to see his mother standing in the doorway. He didn’t have to look back at the mirror to know that Jeongguk was gone. 

    “Your sister and I are getting ready to leave,” Jimin’s mother said. She looked stunning in her long black dress, the silken fabric hugging her curves, her lips as red as sin. The silver crucifixes hanging from her ears and around her neck matched Jimin’s own. “Will you be riding with us?”

    Jimin shook his head. “No, I’ll be meeting you there.”

    From the twist of his mother’s lips he could tell that she didn’t approve, but she simply shrugged it off. “Don’t be too late.”

    “I won’t,” Jimin promised as the door closed and Jeongguk was back again, his face buried in Jimin’s neck. 

    “Don’t tell me you were expecting to take the bike,” Jeongguk said, muffled into Jimin’s skin.

    “Are you kidding me?” Jimin pushed the demon back so he could stand. “Of course we’re taking the bike.”

    Jimin nearly salivated every time he saw Jeongguk’s Harley. It was sleek and black and sexy and Jimin practically purred along with the engine every time he got to ride it hanging on to Jeongguk’s back. After his mother and sister had left they strolled out to where the bike was conveniently located at the end of their driveway. 

    “So where are we headed tonight?” Jeongguk asked as he threw a leg over the bike, settling comfortably into the leather seat.

    “My aunt Yeojin’s house. She’s the one the sacrifice is for, so she has to host.” Jimin mounted the bike behind Jeongguk, pressing up tight against the demon’s back. Jeongguk didn’t own helmets, which Jimin would have thought was reckless if it wasn’t for what Jeongguk was. 

    “And what is the old witch asking for tonight?” Jeongguk asked as he brought the bike to life underneath them.

    “She wants an heir.” Jimin wound his arms around Jeongguk’s waist and held on tight. “She’s nearly at the age where she won’t be able to have children anymore, and none of her attempts to conceive have turned up. The coven decided that she was old enough to justify asking a demon for help.” 

    Jeongguk looked back at Jimin over his shoulder, his brow furrowed and lips drawn. “Asking for a baby, that’s...that’s a big spell.”

    Jimin just smiled up at him and snuggled closer. “Maybe that’s why they’re asking such a powerful demon.” 

    Jeongguk just shook his head and turned them out of the parking lot. 

    Months ago, Jimin had summoned Jeongguk just to see if he could. He’d believed that he couldn’t, of course, not possessing powers like his mother and sister did, so when Jeongguk had shown up in the middle of the pentagram in Jimin’s basement he'd had no idea what he was actually planning to ask for. Not having thought he would actually get that far, when Jeongguk had asked him what he wanted Jimin had shrugged his shoulders and said, “to get laid, I guess.”

    Jeongguk had smiled and then promptly bent Jimin over the altar and fucked him stupid. Jimin wasn’t really sure why Jeongguk kept coming back after that, but he’d also learned not to question good sex. If sometimes, between rounds, he and Jeongguk let slip bits and pieces about themselves then that was fine too. It was about two months into their arrangement that Jeongguk had pulled himself out of Jimin’s bed after an hour of edging him until he cried, thrown Jimin’s pants at him and told him they were going for coffee. The relationship had progressed from there, to the point where Jimin now had enough sway to drag Jeongguk with him to his aunt’s Halloween party. 

    They were a chatty bunch, his mother’s coven. Half of the night Jimin would be listening to his aunts prattle on about their daughters’ achievements, while the other half would be spent with said daughters on the back porch smoking herb and avoiding their mothers. Nonetheless, Jimin’s wine glass was never empty and his aunt Sowon’s pumpkin spice cake was to die for. Jeongguk behaved himself quite well too, letting the aunts gush over how handsome he was as Jimin took him on a turn about the room. It was his night after all, it only made sense for him to soak up praise from the women about to ask him for a baby. 

    The witching hour was close at hand when Jeongguk finally pulled him in with an arm around his waist and whispered into Jimin’s ear, “if I have to hear about little Hyunmi’s graduation ceremony one more time I’m going to set something on fire.”

    Jimin just patted the demon on the chest. If his count was right, and it probably wasn’t, he was about six glasses of wine into the night and feeling all the lighter for it. When he leaned close to murmur back into Jeongguk’s ear he kept bumping his nose into the other man’s cheek. “Come on, I’ll give you a little preview of tonight’s entertainment.” He then took Jeongguk by the hand and led him out of the main party room, toward the other, deserted end of the house where the door to the basement was located. 

    The ritual area had already been prepared ahead of time, before the party even started. The candles lining the room and adorning the altars had already burned halfway down the wax, the usually barren cement walls covered in deep purple drapery. The center of the room was hollowed out, three steps leading down to the space where they would hang a goat from the ceiling and collect its blood before the entire coven joined together to paint the witch receiving the gift in their sacrifice. Jimin assumed that tonight they would all be painting aunt Yeojin’s womb red. 

    Something was different about tonight’s sacrifice though. Jimin pulled Jeongguk along behind him by the hand as he approached the table set up in the middle of the basement. Where there should be a chain over his head and a bucket at his feet there was instead a table covered in purple silk. 

    “That’s weird,” Jimin said as he began picking at the items on the table, an amethyst encrusted goblet, a set of thick leather restraints. “I’ve never seen the basement like this before.”

    “I don’t think you’ll be sacrificing a goat tonight, Mimi,” Jeongguk said as his eyes roamed over the altars set up around the room. He stepped away to grab a bottle of wine resting among the chunks of amethyst and lavender incense and turned the label for Jimin to see. Jimin knew the vintage. It was aunt Yeojin’s favorite, a potent red that he had been drinking all night. The moment his glass was halfway empty one of his aunts had been filling it back up again. 

    Jimin ran his hand along the edge of the table, away from the goblet and the restraints and the cold silver dagger and towards the layers of purple fabric piled up at the end. He ran his hands across the soft fabric of the jacket, the silkiness of the button up shirt and the cummerbund. It was a suit, the same dark plum color as the rest of the decorations. It was his suit. His mother had bought it for him last month. 

    “No,” Jimin whispered, “they wouldn’t. They-”

    “Tell me, Mimi, as you dragged me here, did it truly never cross your mind that you might be the sacrifice?” 

    When Jimin looked over at Jeongguk the demon met him with calm, steady eyes, a complete contrast to how Jimin’s heart was now jackrabbiting in his chest. “Jeongguk, we need to-”

    The door to the basement opened. Jimin looked up to find his mother standing at the top of the stairs. He didn’t have to look back to know that Jeongguk was gone, he could feel it in the way his chest was caving in on itself, the way he struggled just to breathe. 

    His mother showed her surprise at his presence for just a moment, quickly slipping back into an air of unbothered serenity. “Oh,” she said, “you’re already here. Well, no matter, I suppose we can go ahead and start.”

    “Mother, please,” Jimin took a step back, then another until his back hit the edge of the table, “you don’t have to-”

    With a wave of her fingers his mother’s spell hit him in the chest, and everything went dark.

    When Jimin came to he could feel a hand under his head lifting him up as the rim of a cup touched his lips. Jimin choked as warm liquid rushed into his mouth, his nose and throat burning as he tried to swallow the wine they were drowning him with. 

    “There you go, darling,” his aunt Yeojin said as she stood above him. She gently placed his head back on the table, brushing a few strands of hair out of his face. Jimin recognized the ceiling above him, the chain hanging from it. He tried to move his arms to sit up but they were held to his body by thick leather restraints. Of what he could see of himself he knew he had been dressed in purple fabric, the suit his mother had bought him. 

    His aunts were surrounding him, moving about as they finished their preparations. He had seen them do this a hundred times before as he stood at the edge of the room, shoulder to shoulder with his cousins. Now he was looking up at them, catching glimpses of their pale faces under the hood of their cloaks. None of them would look back at him, none except his mother, who stopped at the head of the table to calmly pet his hair. 

    “Mother,” Jimin whispered. His voice shook, his body trembled. “Why?”

    “Oh darling,” his mother cooed, “even you know that something cannot be created from nothing, and there is nothing equivalent to a human soul.”

    Jimin could feel a wetness dampening his eyelashes, and his mother quickly wiped it away before it could ruin his mascara. “But why me?”

    The smile his mother gave him was gentle, if condescending. “Because a witch’s powers can only be given to her daughters. What other purpose could you possibly serve besides this?”

    “It’s time,” aunt Yeojin said, and Jimin’s mother quickly left his side. 

Jimin knew how things would go from here. The witches, his coven, his aunts, joined hands around him. Incense of lavender and sage was thick in the air as they began their chant, invoking Jeongguk to hear them and bend to their will. 

Jeongguk was already here though. Jimin could see him standing just behind his aunts, watching as Jimin squirmed and cried and trembled on the table. Their eyes met, Jimin's desperate, Jeongguk's dark and deep and endless. 

"Jeonggukie," Jimin whimpered, "help me, please." 

Jeongguk just shook his head. "I can't. I can't enter a witch's circle." 

Jimin choked on a sob. 

"But," the demon said, "I can give you the powers you need to help yourself." 

Jimin's hands twisted in the purple silk beneath him. He could see the cold silver dagger in his aunts' hands, each giving it their blessing as it was passed around the circle. "I'll do anything, please," Jimin begged. 

Jeongguk's smile was indulgent, victorious. "You know what you need to do. Say the words." 

Jimin's breath hitched. The dagger was in his aunt Yeojin's hands now, receiving the final blessing. He looked into Jeongguk's eyes, willed the demon to pull him into those depths and keep him there. "I give myself to you. I'm yours. I'm all yours." 

Aunt Yeojin sunk the dagger into Jimin's chest. 

Jimin screamed. 

His chest was burning. His body was burning. The flames jumped from his skin and consumed everything in their path. The women around him screamed, and Jimin squeezed his eyes shut. 

When he opened them again Jeongguk was the only person left standing over him. The air was thick with smoke, and the back of Jimin’s mouth tasted like charred meat. He pushed himself up into a sitting position, no longer restrained by the leather bindings or even his suit. He touched a hand to his chest but there was no wound, no blood, just a scar that looked as if it had been there for years.

Jeongguk shrugged out of his leather jacket and draped the heavy material over Jimin’s shoulders. “Let’s go get some coffee.”

[sakurasangcl]

ethereal

pairing: Elf!Yukhei (Lucas) x Human!Reader

word count: 3.7k

genre: smut, mainly, with angst and fluff

plot: Because of a century old deal, you’re chosen as the bride of the Fey King. He turns out to be different than what you expected, and a lot more is asked of you than you would have originally thought. 

warnings: creampie, marking, spit, a little bit of spanking, you will catch feels

One hundred years ago, your town had made a deal with the fey. To willingly give them any female of their choice to wed the future king. Over the century, the town grew and those original families never left. Few girls of the proper age were left, and you were one of them. 

The date was set to be October 28th, when the agreement itself was originally made. The eligible females were left by the woods in an old, well kept building made specifically for this day. There were no locks on any doors nor windows in the one room building. There was a large fireplace to keep warm, along with sofas and chairs to lounge in.

You were in a white dress too sheer for your liking, with a blanket wrapped around you while you tended to the fire. The other girls gossiped over who they thought would be taken, and how they felt so lucky and were overjoyed to be there. You, however, just wanted to go home. After a while, some of the girls seemed to have quieted down; it was getting late and the moon was high in the sky. A yawn escaped you as you added more wood to the fire. You pushed a chair closer to the warmth and laid down in it, letting yourself drift off to a light sleep, briefly wondering if you should try to barricade yourself inside. 

You woke up with the fire having nearly gone out, and you felt a shiver of fear overtake you. A cold breeze lowers the temperature in the room, and you realize that the door is open. You open your eyes and move slowly, surveying the room. A large, humanoid creature was surveying the room, taking its time looking at each girl. Nearby, a girl coughs in her sleep. 

It turns its head and looks around you, and slowly walks in your direction. You pull the blanket around you, fear causing your heart to pound in your ears. You kept your breathing stead, trying to remain calm. You close your eyes and feign sleep, wanting it to pass you and leave you be. 

“I know you’re awake, Y/N,” a deep, undeniably masculine voice says. The hair on your arms stands up; he knows your name. He bends down, his face merely inches from yours. “Now, will you come willingly or must I use force?”

You don’t answer, but he takes your lack of movement for one. He scoops you up in his arms, and he's very warm. He makes sure the blanket is still wrapped around you, and he gently touches your forehead, rendering you unconscious. 

You slowly wake back up, and you notice how comfortable the bed you're laying in is. The sheets are soft and smell clean. Your eyes slowly open to the light, and you find yourself in a fairly barren room. As you slowly sit up, a very handsome man rushes over. His appearance was certainly ethereal and non human.

"Be careful, that spell can make a bear stay down. Easy," He says, obviously concerned for you as he places his hand on your back to help you sit up. "How are you feeling?" He asks, searching your eyes. 

You can't help but blush as you look away. "Fine, I suppose. I would rather be home," you say, finding a window to look outside. 

"Well… this is your new home. I hope you will learn to enjoy it," he says, standing up. "There is a bath waiting for you in the room over. I suggest you go now. Someone will bring you breakfast. There is a festival tonight that your presence is required at." He informs you, opening a door to the bathroom. 

"What kind of festival? I've not heard of one this time of year…" you ask, getting out of bed. "And who are you?" 

"Oh! I'm so sorry! My name is Yukhei, Wong Yukhei," Yukhei says. "I'm normally called Lucas, but please, call me Yukhei." 

As you get out of bed, he explains, “The festival is for us. There has to be a ritual so you can be with me.” Yukhei walks over and takes your hand, helping you stand. “Because we, as creatures of the fey, live longer, there is an ancient ritual that we must perform so you can stay with me as my wife.” 

You stumble at his words, and he effortlessly leads you to the bathroom, where hot water was waiting for you. You aren’t sure what to say, and it doesn’t bother him. 

“I’ll leave you here. I will see you tonight. Please, be careful and do not leave this building without me. It isn’t safe for you out there.” Yukhei warns you, kissing your knuckles before leaving you alone. 

Hours later, you’re dressed in a dress that seems to be made of pure moonlight. The silver reflects every light, and the dress both hugs your body and leaves room for easy movement. It has long, flowing sleeves and a slight train that follows you out of the room you learnt was to be your bedroom- shared with Yukhei, of course. 

You found him waiting by the front door, looking even more handsome in his suit. He has you hold onto one of his arms as he opens the door. 

"Whatever you do," Yukhei warns you, "don't let go of my arm and try not to look any of them in the eyes. If you get scared, just hold closer to me. I'm not only their leader, but a high elf. I'm stronger than them, so don't worry." 

You nod, not understanding why he was saying such silly things, but deciding to agree nonetheless. 

You walk through a brilliant garden, surprised at how many flowers were blooming even though it was not in them. Once you exited the main gate, many different types of creatures greeted you. Most seemed to be having fun, and were greeting you with bowing and murmurs of “your majesty.” You heard music the closer you got to the festival, and the creatures were both of your nightmares and dreams. 

All sorts of mythical creatures had gathered, from elves and faeries to oni and tengu, and other types of yokai. Your grip on Yukhei tightened as you made your way to the riverside. Lanterns lit your pathway, and Yukhei remained a steady guide so you wouldn’t trip. You stop by an empty basin, and the music fades away into the wind.

An elderly nekomata steps forward from the crowd, making its way to your feet. The two-tailed cat purrs and rubs itself against you, doing the same with Yukhei. 

“He is accepting you on behalf of the others,” he whispers in your ear. 

A kodama or anito, you aren’t quite sure which, comes over to you, carrying a small bowl above its head. The little creature fills it with water from the river, then offers it to Yukhei. He begins to fill the basin with the help of it, acting rather solemn as he lets your arm go. When he does, you feel vulnerable and hyper-aware of all the creatures surrounding you that could easily kill you if they wished.

The nekomata returns, leaping upon the basin. It drops an odd assortment of herbs into the basin, and the water starts to tint to a light purple. 

An elf appears before you with an ornate knife on a cushion. Fear chilled your spine as Yukhei smiled softly, but you couldn’t read what was in his eyes. He took the knife and brought it to his finger, gently slicing the skin. Three drops of blood join the water, and it causes ripples upon the smooth surface. You gasp as Yukhei does so, but when you look up, the elf was already bandaging his finger. 

A faerie brings you an intricately carved wooden cup, and you take it as offered. 

“Dip it in and drink,” Yukhei whispers. 

You look at him and raise an eyebrow, wondering what it would taste like. You do as he says, and are surprised at the taste. It’s certainly like a tea, with a hint of mint in it. You drink the entire cup before looking at him expectantly. 

He smiles softly and takes the cup, handing it to the faerie. 

You suddenly begin to feel nauseous, but also extremely hot. You feel sick, and you know your feet won’t keep you up much longer.

Before you can fall, Yukhei sweeps you off your feet. He takes off his shoes and yours, carrying you into the river. You suddenly fear that he will drown you, but he keeps you in his arms. The water cools you down, and you begin to feel as though you drank too much alcohol. Dizzy, you rest your head against his muscular chest. 

“Shh, I’ve got you, baobei,” he assures you. 

You blush as you realize you had groaned in pain, and look away to the full moon. Yukhei gently trickles the water onto your forehead, then gently kisses your temple. 

“That’s it here. Let’s go home, okay?” Yukhei asks, and you nod in response, too tired to disagree. 

He carries you, both of you soaking wet, back to what you realize is a castle. He walks you to your bedroom, which had a small fire lit so the room was warm. 

"There's one last thing to compete the ritual," he tells you, beginning to take off his wet clothes. 

"Please enlighten me, because I have no clue what any of that was about. I mean, I drank your blood!" You say, feeling more clear headed now. 

"It makes you immortal, or near so. Like I said, you need to be a suitable partner for me. Everything was perfect except your mortality. And to finish it, well, we have sex," he explains. 

Your snark immediately fades into surprise, and you look at him blankly. "What?" You ask.

Yukhei grabs a warm towel as he undresses and dries off, causing you to look away. "We have sex. You are my wife. I know some human customs, and women don't get shamed for sleeping with their husband," he says. 

You don't really know how to respond, and Yukhei doesn't push you any. He takes a towel and starts drying you off, messaging your wet hair into it. 

"Can I at least undress you so you can wear something dry? It's not safe to get sick after that ritual," Yukhei explains, hesitating with his hands at the ties of your dress.

"Yes, but explain how it isn't safe," you bargain. 

Although you cannot see him behind you on the bed, he nods. You feel his fingers begin to untie and loosen the dress, as he explains. "The ritual itself is dangerous, as it alters the person's mortality and changes them physically. During this time, you are both extremely weak and impressively strong. Your immune system is forced to lower in order for this change to occur, which means you can get sick easier. And that also means you being sick would be more dangerous. Especially if it turns into a worse sickness." 

With warm, gentle touch he pulls down the sleeves and dress, and you were suddenly glad he was behind you. Yukhei takes the towel and wraps it around you, and you stand up, letting the dress fall off. He gently rubs you dry, avoiding you private areas. 

"Why did you choose me?" You ask, still avoiding the topic of sex. 

He smiles and pulls you back on the bed next to him, keeping one of your hands in his. "Do you really not remember?" Yukhei laughs, causing you to tilt your head in confusion. "When we were little, we would play together in the woods. After your school and my lessons, we would play all sorts of games." 

"But that child's name was Lucas… and he was my imaginary friend," you say in disbelief. 

Yukhei laughs once again, shaking his head. "I told you already, I'm often called Lucas. We met when you slipped into the creek. I helped you get out and rescued your shoe from the mud." 

Your eyes light up as you remember the incident, and a sudden wave of relief washes over you. People thought you were crazy over this friendship, as there was no one named Lucas in town. 

You have an urge to lean in and kiss Yukhei, so you do. His lips were soft against yours, and he gladly kissed you back. 

"I'm guessing you believe me?" He asks with a smirk. 

"Shut up and kiss me," you respond, letting him pull you closer. This prompts you to straddle his lap and pull on his hair. 

He gladly does so, his hands gripping your hips firmly, but gently. You try to get your tongue to explore his mouth, but he utterly dominates you. After what was nearly an hour of kissing he pulls away. Yukhei gently rubs his thumb across your cheekbone, his hand cupping your face. Despite being extremely hard against your thigh, his words were tender and his eyes serious.

"Do you want to keep going, or do you want to stop?" Yukhei asks. "Either way it's up to you, Baobei." 

"Baobei?" You softly ask, the term unfamiliar. 

"Baby, my baby," he whispers lovingly. Your heart melts at his tenderness, and you know you give in. You're helpless against his charms. 

"Yukhei," you begin, "I- I want you to keep going. I'm sure of it." 

He doesn't question your words, and he goes back to kissing you. Yukhei guides your hips down, grinding on his muscular thigh to give you friction. He holds you up by your thighs, laying you on the bed with his lips still on yours. Yukhei only pulls away to take off the rest of your dress. 

You consider hiding yourself from him, but you get mesmerized by the look he was giving you. It was one of pure admiration and desire. 

"Baobei… you're gorgeous," he whispers, covering your body with his. Yukhei kisses your lips briefly before moving down your neck. He bites and sucks marks onto your neck, causing soft gasps to escape you. One of Yukhei's hands ghosts up your body and he begins to knead your breasts, pinching your nipple. He moves his mouth the the free one, nipping and sucking until the skin bloomed colors. Yukhei then shifted and gave the same attention to the other one, electing many soft moans from you. 

You could feel your thighs getting slick with your wetness, and he hadn't even touched you there yet. You blush as his mouth travels between the valley of your breasts. Yukhei moves and settles between your legs, holding them open as he gazes at your womanhood. 

"Fuck, you're pussy is so wet for me already," he groans, diving right in with a long lick of your juices. He moans again, adding, "and you taste amazing." 

You tense and pull away from him, but Yukhei grips your hips firmly and growls, "Behave for me. If you don't stay still I will tie you down." 

You gasp as he goes back to eating you out, his tongue thrusting into you as his thumb rubbed your clit. Yukhei moans into you, and the vibrations make you realize the building pressure in your stomach that was threatening to collapse. 

You gasp softly and grab at the sheets, and Yukhei smirks against your thighs. He inserts a finger into you, searching for your spot. When he finds it he knows by how you immediately try to close your legs. 

"Baobei," Yukhei growls, pushing your legs open again as he continues thrusting into you, relishing how you come closer to your high. 

Yukhei watches as he adds another finger into you, groaning at the obscene wet noises. He sucks in your clit, teasing the bud between his teeth. 

You let out a sob of pleasure as you orgasm harshly, and Yukhei gladly laps it up. Your legs shake as you try to ground yourself, taking deep breaths. 

"Are you okay, Y/N?" He softly asks, his clean hand touching your cheek. 

You nuzzle into his hand, nodding. He smiles at how cute you are, his thumb running across your lips. 

"Open," he firmly commands. 

You do as he asks, arousal shooting straight to your core. He puts his fingers in your mouth, the ones covered in your juices. 

"Suck." 

You do, blushing at tasting yourself. "Good girl," Yukhei praises, his voice husky and deeper. 

He then stands up and removes the towels, baring your body and his more fully to each other. Your mouth waters at the sight of his toned body and his happy trail. Your eyes widened at his cock, proudly erect and weeping precum. Yukhei smirks at your reaction before joining you back on the bed, making himself comfortable between your legs. 

"Are you okay with this?" He asks once more, and you begin to see the magic swirling in his eyes. 

You nod, and he raises an eyebrow.

"Words, Baobei," he growls, teasing your entrance with the tip of his cock, getting himself slick with your juices. 

"Yes, please yes, fuck," you breath out, biting your lip to hold back your moans.

Yukhei grins and spits onto his hand, gathering it and your juices to coat himself. He eases himself into you, slowly watching as your face contorts. Once he's fully inside of you, he forces your mouth open with his thumb and spits. 

"Swallow like a good girl. You're mine. All mine," Yukhei says firmly, starting to thrust into you.

You nearly choke as you swallow, his cock filling you perfectly. One of his hands finds your waist as his lips begin to suck on your neck. You let out pleasured moans, your nails taking down his back. 

"Yukhei~" you moan, accidentally clenching on him. 

This causes him to bite you harder before looking you in the eyes. "You're doing so good for me, Y/N. You look so pretty when I fuck you good," he says. "Are you gonna cum on my cock like a good girl?" Yukhei asks, reaching a hand between your bodies to rub your clit. 

You moan louder and nod, the coil snapping once again. Your vision blackens once again, and your legs feel like jelly. You feel yourself clenching tightly around him as he continues to thrust. 

Yukhei suddenly stills and groans, a warmth filling you as he cums inside of you. He thrusts weakly a few more times, his cum going straight into your womb. You whine, sensitive now. 

Yukhei gently and sweetly kisses your lips before slowly pulling out of you. "Can you go for one more round, Baobei? I want to fill your pretty pussy with my cum." 

You nod slightly and he smirks. He kisses your lips gently once more, before attacking your neck. You whine in pain as he bites your soft flesh, and you can tell that you will be bruised. 

He gently turns you over, guiding you into the position he wanted. “Go on all fours,” Yukhei coos, helping prop you up with pillows. “Let me see you,” he coos, kissing your cheek and down  your back. 

Yukhei puts his hands on your waist, teasing your soaking core with his cock again.  You softly whimper and press back against him.

“Even as worn out you still want more? Hmm, gorgeous?” he says, his sweet words contrasted as he smacks your ass, hard. 

You yelp and nod, moaning as he slides his length into you. “So wet already,” he moans, his grip tight on your hips. 

He goes immediately into a brutal pace, leaving you a moaning mess as he chases his high. You moan loudly, crying out in pleasure as he repeatedly hits your g spot. Yukhei reaches down and rubs your clit, and soon you can tell you’re going to cum again. 

He feels you clenching around him and he slows his thrusts. “Not yet, baby girl. Not yet,” Yukhei commands you. “Keep being a good girl and wait for me.” His thrusts then get harder than before, and you know his hands will leave bruises. 

“Please?” you whine, begging him to let you orgasm as you struggled to keep it off. 

“No.” 

“Please?” you sob, tearing up as your body tenses up. 

“Not yet.”

You whine but stay quiet, your eyes screwed shut. Suddenly, your orgasm can’t be stopped as he rubs your clitorsis, and you feel and odd release. You look back at Yukhei who is grinning and groaning, stilling himself as he cums in you.

“Fuck. You just squirted,” he tells you, thrusting limply a few more times as he gently soothes your back, kissing your cheek. 

Your eyes widen in surprise and you blush, biting your lip some. Yukhei laughs at you lovingly, pulling out and watching his cum leak out of you, satisfied. 

You groan softly as he helps you roll over, feeling his sticky seed between your thighs. He disappears for a moment and returns wearing boxers, holding a shirt and a damp washcloth. 

You whine as he spreads your legs, trying to protest but too tired to speak. 

“Let me clean you, Baobei. Then I need to take you to the bathroom. You need to use the bathroom before you sleep. I don’t want you getting sick, remember?” Yukhei gently coos, cleaning you off and helping you into his shirt. 

He then picks you up bridal shower and brings you to the bathroom, patiently waiting for you outside to be done. Once over with, he takes you back to bed and cuddles with you. 

“Are you feeling okay?” he gently asks, kissing your forehead as you snuggle closer to his chest. 

“Yeah.” 

“Tired?”

“Yeah.” 

“Good.”  You slap him, knowing he was smirking playfully at you. 

When you wake up in the morning, Yukhei had already left. Two female elves or fey of some sort of humanoid form come in. They help you get out of bed, giggling to themselves when they see you. 

“What?” you ask them, and they quickly stop their giggling. 

“Nothing, your majesty,” the first one says, helping you stand.

Your steps are uncertain as they lead you towards the wardrobe, helping you stand before the mirror. They go and talk about which dress to choose, and you eye yourself in the mirror. Immediately, you notice the blooming hickeys on your neck and down your collarbone. You blush as you pull off the shirt, looking at the bruises on your body. 

“Admiring my handiwork?” you hear Yukhei say from the doorway.

[indigaux]

✨🌊🌿🌺Spiritual Bath Reading🌹🌱🧖🏽🌙

Similar to Tasseomancy, this spiritual bath reading requires a careful observation of leftover herbs after a bath. In Tasseomancy, also known as tea leaf reading, one would search for patterns, images, words, letters, or numbers left over from a cup of loose leaf tea. In this spiritual bath reading, one must also pay attention to the positions of the herbs, what herbs are left over, and the mannerisms of the herbs, too. This is a form of divination brought to my attention by my ancestors during meditation and it is to be used to unmask stresses and/or ailments that your body holds internally and externally. 

A spiritual bath reading is a type of divination that demands faith in one’s own intuition, otherwise, there is a risk of the message being misinterpreted and thus, the spirits that were invoked to share wisdom will have wasted their energy on something that can’t even be understood yet. I personally don’t believe that spirits (most of them) will have adverse reactions to having their energy wasted. I don’t believe that they get angry and wish to punish people for things like this. But I do believe that they get annoyed. So, if you are going to perform this spiritual bath reading, please make sure that you are in a secure place in your spiritual journey in which your relationship with the spirits  is rich, and your trust in your own intuition is deep. I strongly suggest this, though it is not a requirement! 

Part One

Make sure your bathtub is clean! I do this in two parts. First, I like to scrub it down with some bathroom cleaning spray, then I rinse the tub. Second, I stump the drain and let some cool water run. As the water is running, I’ll dribble some spiritual cleanser like Florida Water, Palo Santo Water, or most often the Lemon Wash by Rootine Rituals. I let the water run until the water reaches wall to wall of the tub, then I drain it all out. After that, it’s time run some hot water in the tub.

The first thing I like to add to my spiritual baths is salt. I do this while the water is still running. When I add the salt, I pray that the water is cleansed and suitable to become a portal through which the ancestors can speak and heal.

I’ll let the water run some more while I gather a candle from the [ancestor] altar. I’ll put it on the tub’s edge to give space for my ancestor to listen to my words and my body. Some brujas consider it taboo to be nude in front of the ancestors, but I the way I see it, we are supposed to be naked with them anyhow. Naked mentally, spiritually, and so I don’t see what’s wrong with it physically. I should not be ashamed of showing them my true, raw self. And there is nothing inherently sexual about it.

Add some herbs to the bath. I always add an odd number variety of herbs, or if I’m doing an even number variety, I will place an odd number of leaves, petals, or roots from those herbs. 

Add any oils, powders, sugars, crystals, or other enhancers if you like. I love adding these things, but the most important tool for this reading is the herbs! One enhancer that I find highly powerful and effective is 9 Espiritus from El Mas Alla, a product that can be found at Botanicas. I bought 9 Espiritus off of a gut feeling. I can’t find anything about it online, not even on the wholesale website, but I know that 9 is an ancestral number and espiritus means spirits. Since I am calling upon them to a message in the bath, of course I added some 9 Espiritus spiritual water to the mix. As I do this, I thank the ancestors for their presence. I welcome them and pray thanks to them. 

Then, I’ll add some Florida Water before using my right hand to stir clockwise the bath water. As the herbs, oil, and powder swirl to and fro, I’ll speak a prayer. Usually at this part, I’m praying to an Orisha, a deity. You are encouraged to choose a spirit most relevant to you and your intention for the bath. 

Finally, cleanse the bathroom with smoke. I like to use palo santo, but dragons blood incense or any type of sage will work fine. There are even magical sprays that will do. 

Part Two

Step into the tub left foot first if you’re able. Enjoy your bath! I enjoy the bath by laying on my back and doing a brief mediation. This isn’t a requirement, but at the very least, you should be thinking about the stresses that you’ve been facing. Acknowledge how those stresses show up in your body: discomfort, aching, negative emotions, soreness... ask the spirits to remove these things from you so that you can face it from a different perspective. This way, you have a better understanding and you are better armed against these ailments should they return in the future. 

It is at the point that I’ll play with the leaves and petals in the tub. Placing them on parts of my body that have energy imbalances. As a Reiki Master, I suggest placing herbs on your body, too. Use your intuition to guide your hand. I do this as a form of chakra healing and to familiarize the herb’s energy with my energy. I’ll rub some leaves on myself and then pick another leaf to do the same. With some herbs, I’ll rip the leaf a little, too. Then, the herb’s fluids are more easily extracted into the tub. That way, I’m literally soaking in the healing properties of these herbs. 

Visualize yourself overcoming the stresses in your life. See yourself accomplishing your goals, receiving your blessings, and feel the joy in your breath as you think of it. Let every breath be a prayer. Every breath is a thanks to the universe, spirits, god, your ancestors, and the earth. 

Part Three

Once you are ready to leave the bathtub, unstop the drain. As the water begins to go down the drain, get comfortable. Let the water go lower and lower around your body. This is the way it looks when blockages get removed, when negativity is drained and balance is restored. 

When the drain begins to holler, this is the sound of spirits releasing their battle cries against your enemies. This is the sound of the enemy resisting. This is the sound of your ancestors cheering as you bask in your own triumph. When the silence comes, know that it is the sound of a blank canvas. You have been delivered your blessings, now what will you do with them? The silence is the sound of the potential of your next move.

I am intentional with my next actions at this stage. Usually I’ll remain silent until 3, 5, or 9 meaningful words are ready to come out of my mouth. Words that I want to bring with me into battle with my struggles. Words that I know will inspire self love and healing. Words of protection and assurance.

Part Four

Get out of the tub and see what message may be left behind by the herbs in your tub. Look for images, patterns, or symbols that stand out to you. The herbs can interact with patterns or marks in the tub. 

Pay attention to all the details. The message left in the tub is catered to you and your mind. Trust that the way you read it is valid. Trust that your intuition is honest and enough. If you would like a second opinion, feel free to send a photo of your post-spiritual bath herbs to me and I’ll help you out with a soft interpretation.

[world-of-socks]

Chapter 4: Destabilizing Two Stones With One Axe

Note: yup I actually felt like writing today. I’m holding off on writing White’s chapters cause 1 they are secondary to the main story 2 because... well I’m bad at writing her character. I’m willing to give it try, just not yet lol. Anyways I hope you enjoy Blue’s chapter. As always I got the idea from @steven-universe-au-prompts . I might need to make a master post for the links for all the chapters thus far. You’ll find that under the tag (frick what should I title this AU): each and every star fell to earth AU master post. (Did I come up with that name just now. Yup. Is it good, nope. Does it sound kinda cool, sure.)

Blue, Chryss, and the rest of the squadron spent the rest of the evening talking about their missions, performing strange human rituals, and laughing.

“Hey, Blue get over here!” Diopside laughed, “Wanna play this game with us?”

“Uhm, I don’t-... I’m not sure.” she stammered.

“Oh c’mon, we’ll teach you!” Citrine smiled.

Blue looked around shyly, her eyes fell on Chryss, she simply patted the spot on the floor next to her. She shuffled over to her and sat down, fiddling awkwardly with her hands.

“Ok so ‘ere’s what you do.” Aquamarine announced, “You take this little stone ‘ere, right? And you throw it into the other gem’s group of stones. The stones that leave this circle ‘ere are the amount of points you will receive. Then you just repeat the process until one gem is entirely out of their stones. And then you count the points!”

“So who do you wanna play against?” Diopside asked with an exuberance in her voice that Blue was not used to.

“I-... uh… I’ll play against the-... I mean-...Citrine.” she fumbled over her words, still deeply unsure of herself in this new culture. Was it even something she wanted?

The group all through teasing remarks at Citrine while she moved to her new spot in the circle of gems. The two set up their stones. Blue copied Citrine.

Citrine cracked her knuckles, “Prepare to be beaten newby.”

The gem looked up for a moment to notice the blue gem’s face, “I’ll go easy on you.”

It was Blue’s move first, she knocked a few stones to the side, none left the circle. Citrine was next, she hit three out of the circle. Blue frowned, she didn’t understand why this was seen as entertainment. Why would one find joy in simply throwing stones? It seemed quite barbaric in nature to her.

Blue obviously lost the game. She was inexperienced. The group laughed and teased Citrine claiming that Blue had simply Held back her true stone throwing powers in order to make you feel better. She was very confused.

“No I didn’t. I failed at the task. I was inefficient, if I had done more research beforehand I would’ve gained more points, but-” Blue was cut off.

“We were just messing with Citrine.” Chryss put a hand on her shoulder, “It’s just a silly game Blue, you don’t have to play anymore if you don’t want to.”

“I-... is that alright?” She asked, she truly didn’t want to play again.

“Of course!” Diopside replied, “You can just watch if that makes you happy.”

Blue nodded.

The squadron stayed up until the sun had risen; everyone laughing or smiling, just enjoying the fact that they were there. Blue didn’t do or say much, but she felt included, like she was a part of something.

“Oh stars!” Chryss noticed the orange-yellow glow that had soaked through the tent with a warm glow, “Peach is gonna kill us!”

“What else is new?” Citrine giggled, not noticing the sun.

Diopside got to her feet, “Citrine look!”

“What-” Citrine still laughed to herself, but when she saw the sun the giggling stopped, “I’m such a clod.”

“If we get in our cots now and pretend like we’ve been asleep this whole time, maybe Peach won’t tell the difference.” Aquamarine scrambled to her caught and closed her eyes, tight.

“What- what’s happening?” Blue felt lost again.

“Future vision, though.” Citirne warned, still in her cot anyway.

“... but sometimes she can’t predict accurately. We might be safe.” Diopside said from the safety of her cot.

“I’ll explain later, Blue. Just lay down on your cot.” Chryss was the only one to answer Blue’s desperate plea for an answer.

She quickly did as she was told, while she marvelled at how suddenly the mood had changed and how quickly her squadron mates had quieted themselves. She heard the birds singing, the winds rustling gently across the folds of the fabric tent. The sun was slowly beginning to warm her form again.

Suddenly, someone pushed back the folds of the entrance to the tent, she heard a sharp involuntary intake of breath from Citrine. She couldn’t see who had just walked into their room.

“Sit up, you clods. I’ve had a rough morning and I’m not in the mood for you to fool around with me. I didn’t need future vision to see that you all would disobey my strong suggestion and sleep tonight.” The voice was annoyed, but more tired than truly angry, Blue recognized the tone, “Well… it's your loss. We have a long day today, and you would have benefitted from sleep.”

The group quickly hopped out of bed and lined up at the front of the tent, saluting the general on their way out.

Each soldier said something along the lines of, “Yes, General Peach.” or “Sorry Miss sapphire.” on their way out of the tent.

Blue was stopped before she could follow her usual trail behind Chryss.

The sapphire summoned a clipboard from her gem and looked at it for a moment, “Blue Kyanite, correct?”

“Yes.” she nodded, she felt strangely frightened.

“Mmhm. Chryss recruited you, yes?” the general didn’t look up at her.

“Yes.” she replied again.

“Ok, so here’s the deal newby. Each morning I expect you all to be rested so that you can well-accomplish what I ask of you. Then I will instruct you in your training drills. You will train with your squadron and live with your squadron. You might have noticed that your squad is smaller than what you're used to. We are a small army, which means that I expect you to train hard and work hard for our cause. Both your squad and I will give you further instruction throughout the day, am I clear?” It seemed as though she had recited this speech many, many times.

“Yes.” she swallowed.

Peach held open the flap of fabric so that Blue could leave with the rest of her group. She was quite relieved to be out of Peach’s intense presence.

As the group trailed behind the other squadrons that were under Peach Sapphire’s command, they began to loosen up a bit again.

“What had her so annoyed?” Citrine pondered aloud.

“Maybe she got punched in the eye.” Aquamarine joked.

The group laughed a little.

“Seriously though guys,” Chryss attempted to reign the group back in, “She said that she had a ‘rough morning’, I wonder what happened…”

“Yeah…” Citrine trailed off.

Blue looked to Diopside who’s face had changed from startled, to pondering, to something more dangerous: plotting and mischievous. Blue had a feeling of what was coming next and gently shook her head, but Diopside didn’t see.

“Imma’ go ask her.” Diopside grinned with a glint in her eye.

“Uh, no. You aren’t.” Citrine grabbed her arm, but she wriggled away and was already dashing to where Peach was leading the group.

Citrine slapped her palm to her face; Chryss groaned. There was no stopping that gem.

“I mean… at least we might figure out what happened…” Aquamarine pointed out.

“Yeah, if she doesn’t end up in a bubble first.” Citrine replied.

Blue couldn’t tell if they were being serious or not. Would Diopside really be shattered for asking? That’s what would have happened in a normal court of gems, right? She had always gotten the impression that Rose’s army wasn’t normal.

As the group approached their destination, Diopside rejoined them. She had her usual grin on her face.

“Ah, there she is! You weren’t shattered!” Citrine was obviously joking now, Blue noted.

“So what’d you learn?” Chryss asked.

“Well, I learned that I’m supposed to mind my own business and to get back with my squad.” She smiled, a small amount of pride in her face.

“Stars, she is in a bad mood.” Aquamarine shook her head.

“Is it not normally like this?” Blue piped up. Was this not how a general would command respect?

“Not really.” Citrine replied, “She’s pretty strict, but usually we can joke around with her. I guess she’s just having a bad day.”

“Hm.” Blue replied, turning her gaze to the one eyed general.

……….

“You all know the drill!” Peach called to her soldiers, “And if you don’t have the more experienced gems in your squadron explain. Get your weapons, and get in position!”

“Wha-... what do I do?” Blue scrambled to run along with Chryss the best she could, she hated feeling this lost.

“Just summon your preferred weapon and follow my lead.” she replied.

“I-... I don’t have a weapon.” as the words escaped Blue’s lips, she felt herself growing more panicked.

“You don’t?!” Chryss hissed under her breath.

“No…”

Chryss cursed quietly in ancient gem, “Follow me, we’re gonna have to go see Bismuth.”

Chryss took Blue’s hand and they wove in and out of soldiers until they made their way to Peach, in front of everyone.

“What now?” Peach groaned, “Why must your squadron pick the worst days to fall apart on me?! Go on now, lay it one me.”

“I’m really sorry but Blue doesn’t have a weapon…”

Blue looked down at the floor sheepishly, she had no wish to displease the commander anymore than she already had, no less in front of that many soldiers.

“She doesn’t?” there was a surprise in her voice, “Hm. Were you more of a diplomat, Blue?”

“Yes.”

“I guess that explains it.” Peach looked away from her, “Chryss, take her to the forge and have Bis get her a weapon. Get right back here when you’re done!”

Blue breathed a sigh.

As they walked down the hill, Chryss turned to Blue, “Well that went slightly better than I thought.”

Blue smiled, “Yes, I guess so.”

“You got me out of morning drills!” She laughed and aimed a playful punch into Blue’s shoulder, “Nice going!”

Neither Chryss or Blue said much more than that on the way to the forge, they both just looked around at the scene in front of them. Gems were still waking up and running drills with their generals. A Jasper was running laps around the camp with her soldiers, others were talking around fires, and still others ran maintenance missions to keep the camp running smoothly. As they approached the forge, a light smoke blew into their faces. Chryss coughed, Blue didn’t.

“Hey Chryssie, what can we do for ya?” Bis greeted her as they walked into the forge.

“My friend here needs to be fitted for a weapon.” Chryss replied, bouncing on her feet a little.

“I see! What weapon would you like… erm… what’s yer’ name?” Bis addressed Blue kindly.

“Blue.”

“Blue. What weapon would you like and we can get you fitted for size and weight and such.” Bis leaned over the large table that the others used to hold tools and other miscellaneous objects, and gave a friendly smile.

“She’s actually not sure of a weapon. Are you, Blue?” Chryss looked up at her.

“No, I’m not sure.”

“Ah ok, that’s alright.” Bis left her post to walk with them, “Here, come with me, you can try out some things to see what you’d like.”

She led them around to a room with solid walls and a few test dummies with fake gems on their forms. The room was poorly decorated and was quite bland to look at, but it accomplished its purpose.

The next few hours was spent with Bis demonstrating different weapons, Blue trying them out, and Chryss patiently watching the entire scene. And though Blue spent what felt like an eternity trying out weapon after weapon, she refused to settle on a weapon that didn’t feel right to her. None of the weapons had felt right to her… Until…

“What about this one?” Bis held a large double sided axe in her hands, stars were engraved into each side.

She demonstrated the basics of how she could wield it and then handed the weapon to her. As soon as she felt its weight in her hands, she knew that this could be the one. She swung it into the air, a grin on her face.

“This is the one.”

“The axe, huh? Hm. Unusual for a Kyanite to be wielding an axe, but then again, Rose quartz’s don't usually wield a sword now do they?”

“Hm.” She replied, still enamoured with the weapon.

“I’ll get on making you your axe right away, Blue. You probably already know this, but just another reminder to only aim to destabilize.”

Blue nodded slowly.

As the two sat and waited for Bis to finish Blue’s axe, Blue turned to her friend and asked,

“Why don’t you aim to shatter your opponents? Wouldn’t that be more efficient?”

Chryss took in a sharp, long intake of breath, “We’d be just as bad as them, Blue. We aren’t just fighting for this planet; we’re fighting for our beliefs.”

[leepace71]

When Pedro Pascal was roughly 4 years old, he and his family went to see the 1978 hit movie “Superman,” starring Christopher Reeve. Pascal’s young parents had come to live in San Antonio after fleeing their native Chile during the rise of dictator Augusto Pinochet in the mid-1970s. Taking Pascal and his older sister to the movies — sometimes more than once a week — had become a kind of family ritual, a way to soak up as much American pop culture as possible.At some point during this particular visit, Pascal needed to go to the bathroom, and his parents let him go by himself. “I didn’t really know how to read yet,” Pascal says with the same Cheshire grin that dazzled “Game of Thrones” fans during his run as the wily (and doomed) Oberyn Martel. “I did not find my way back to ‘Superman.'”

Instead, Pascal wandered into a different theater (he thinks it was showing the 1979 domestic drama “Kramer vs. Kramer,” but, again, he was 4). In his shock and bewilderment at being lost, he curled up into an open seat and fell asleep. When he woke up, the movie was over, the theater was empty, and his parents were standing over him. To his surprise, they seemed rather calm, but another detail sticks out even more.

“I know that they finished their movie,” he says, bending over in laughter. “My sister was trying to get a rise out of me by telling me, ‘This happened and that happened and then Superman did this and then, you know, the earthquake and spinning around the planet.'” In the face of such relentless sibling mockery, Pascal did the only logical thing: “I said, ‘All that happened in my movie too.'”

He had no way of knowing it at the time, of course, but some 40 years later, Pascal would in fact get the chance to star in a movie alongside a DC Comics superhero — not to mention battle Stormtroopers and, er, face off against the most formidable warrior in Westeros. After his breakout on “Game of Thrones,” he became an instant get-me-that-guy sensation, mostly as headstrong, taciturn men of action — from chasing drug traffickers in Colombia for three seasons on Netflix’s “Narcos” to squaring off against Denzel Washington in “The Equalizer 2.”

This year, though, Pascal finds himself poised for the kind of marquee career he’s spent a lifetime dreaming about. On Oct. 30, he’ll return for Season 2 as the title star of ��The Mandalorian,” Lucasfilm’s light-speed hit “Star Wars” series for Disney Plus that earned 15 Emmy nominations, including best drama, in its first season. And then on Dec. 25 — COVID-19 depending — he’ll play the slippery comic book villain Maxwell Lord opposite Gal Gadot, Chris Pine and Kristen Wiig in “Wonder Woman 1984.”

The roles are at once wildly divergent and the best showcase yet for Pascal’s elastic talents. In “The Mandalorian,” he must hide his face — and, in some episodes, his whole body — in a performance that pushes minimalism and restraint to an almost ascetic ideal. In “Wonder Woman 1984,” by stark contrast, he is delivering the kind of big, broad bad-guy character that populated the 1980s popcorn spectaculars of his youth.

“I continually am so surprised when everybody pegs him as such a serious guy,” says “Wonder Woman 1984” director Patty Jenkins. “I have to say, Pedro is one of the most appealing people I have known. He instantly becomes someone that everybody invites over and you want to have around and you want to talk to.”

Talk with Pascal for just five minutes — even when he’s stuck in his car because he ran out of time running errands before his flight to make it to the set of a Nicolas Cage movie in Budapest — and you get an immediate sense of what Jenkins is talking about. Before our interview really starts, Pascal points out, via Zoom, that my dog is licking his nether regions in the background. “Don’t stop him!” he says with an almost naughty reproach. “Let him live his life!”

Over our three such conversations, it’s also clear that Pascal’s great good humor and charm have been at once ballast for a number of striking hardships, and a bulwark that makes his hard-won success a challenge for him to fully accept.

Before Pascal knew anything about “The Mandalorian,” its showrunner and executive producer Jon Favreau knew he wanted Pascal to star in it.

“He feels very much like a classic movie star in his charm and his delivery,” says Favreau. “And he’s somebody who takes his craft very seriously.” Favreau felt Pascal had the presence and skill essential to deliver a character — named Din Djarin, but mostly called Mando — who spends virtually every second of his time on screen wearing a helmet, part of the sacrosanct creed of the Mandalorian order.

Convincing any actor to hide their face for the run of a series can be as precarious as escaping a Sarlacc pit. To win Pascal over in their initial meeting, Favreau brought him behind the “Mandalorian” curtain, into a conference room papered with storyboards covering the arc of the first season. “When he walked in, it must have felt a little surreal,” Favreau says. “You know, most of your experiences as an actor, people are kicking the tires to see if it’s a good fit. But in this case, everything was locked and loaded.”

Needless to say, it worked. “I hope this doesn’t sound like me fashioning myself like I’m, you know, so smart, but I agreed to do this [show] because the impression I had when I had my first meeting was that this is the next big s—,” Pascal says with a laugh.

Favreau’s determination to cast Pascal, however, put the actor in a tricky situation: Pascal’s own commitments to make “Wonder Woman 1984” in London and to perform in a Broadway run of “King Lear” with Glenda Jackson barreled right into the production schedule for “The Mandalorian.” Some scenes on the show, and in at least one case a full episode, would need to lean on the anonymity of the title character more than anyone had quite planned, with two stunt performers — Brendan Wayne and Lateef Crowder — playing Mando on set and Pascal dubbing in the dialogue months later.

Pascal was already being asked to smother one of his best tools as an actor, extraordinarily uncommon for anyone shouldering the newest iteration of a global live-action franchise. (Imagine Robert Downey Jr. only playing Iron Man while wearing a mask — you can’t!) Now he had to hand over control of Mando’s body to other performers too. Some actors would have walked away. Pascal didn’t.

“If there were more than just a couple of pages of a one-on-one scene, I did feel uneasy about not, in some instances, being able to totally author that,” he says. “But it was so easy in such a sort of practical and unexciting way for it to be up to them. When you’re dealing with a franchise as large as this, you are such a passenger to however they’re going to carve it out. It’s just so specific. It’s ‘Star Wars.'” (For Season 2, Pascal says he was on the set far more, though he still sat out many of Mando’s stunts.)

“The Mandalorian” was indeed the next big s—, helping to catapult the launch of Disney Plus to 26.5 million subscribers in its first six weeks. With the “Star Wars” movies frozen in carbonite until 2023 (at least), I noted offhand that he’s now effectively the face of one of the biggest pop-culture franchises in the world. Pascal could barely suppress rolling his eyes.

“I mean, come on, there isn’t a face!” he says with a laugh that feels maybe a little forced. “If you want to say, ‘You’re the silhouette’ — which is also a team effort — then, yeah.” He pauses. “Can we just cut the s— and talk about the Child?”

Yes, of course, the Child — or, as the rest of the galaxy calls it, Baby Yoda. Pascal first saw the incandescently cute creature during his download of “Mandalorian” storyboards in that initial meeting with Favreau. “Literally, my eyes following left to right, up and down, and, boom, Baby Yoda close to the end of the first episode,” he says. “That was when I was like, ‘Oh, yep, that’s a winner!'”

Baby Yoda is undeniably the breakout star of “The Mandalorian,” inspiring infinite memes and apocryphal basketball game sightings. But the show wouldn’t work if audiences weren’t invested in Mando’s evolving emotional connection to the wee scene stealer, something Favreau says Pascal understood from the jump. “He’s tracking the arc of that relationship,” says the showrunner. “His insight has made us rethink moments over the course of the show.” (As with all things “Star Wars,” questions about specifics are deflected in deference to the all-powerful Galactic Order of Spoilers.)

Even if Pascal couldn’t always be inside Mando’s body, he never left the character’s head, always aware of how this orphaned bounty hunter who caroms from planet to planet would look askance at anything that felt too good (or too adorable) to be true.

“The transience is something that I’m incredibly familiar with, you know?” Pascal says. “Understanding the opportunity for complexity under all of the armor was not hard for me.”

When Pascal was 4 months old, his parents had to leave him and his sister with their aunt, so they could go into hiding to avoid capture during Pinochet’s crackdown against his opposition. After six months, they finally managed to climb the walls of the Venezuelan embassy during a shift change and claim asylum; from there, the family relocated, first to Denmark, then to San Antonio, where Pascal’s father got a job as a physician.

Pascal was too young to remember any of this, and for a healthy stretch of his childhood, his complicated Chilean heritage sat in parallel to his life in the U.S. — separate tracks, equally important, never quite intersecting. By the time Pascal was 8, his family was able to take regular trips back to Chile to visit with his 34 first cousins. But he doesn’t remember really talking about any of his time there all that much with his American friends.

“I remember at one point not even realizing that my parents had accents until a friend was like, ‘Why does your mom talk like that?'” Pascal says. “And I remember thinking, like what?”

Besides, he loved his life in San Antonio. His father took him and his sister to Spurs basketball games during the week if their homework was done. He hoodwinked his mother into letting him see “Poltergeist” at the local multiplex. He watched just about anything on cable; the HBO special of Whoopi Goldberg’s one-woman Broadway show knocked him flat. He remembers seeing Henry Thomas in “E.T.” and Christian Bale in “Empire of the Sun” and wishing ardently, urgently, I want to live those stories too.

Then his father got a job in Orange County, Calif. After Pascal finished the fifth grade, they moved there. It was a shock. “There were two really, really rough years,” he says. “A lot of bullying.”

His mother found him a nascent performing arts high school in the area, and Pascal burrowed even further into his obsessions, devouring any play or movie he could get his hands on. His senior year, a friend of his mother’s gave Pascal her ticket to a long two-part play running in downtown Los Angeles that her bad back couldn’t withstand. He got out of school early to drive there by himself. It was the pre-Broadway run of “Angels in America.”

“And it changed me,” he says with almost religious awe. “It changed me.”

After studying acting at NYU’s Tisch School of the Arts, Pascal booked a succession of solid gigs, like MTV’s “Undressed” and “Buffy the Vampire Slayer.” But the sudden death of his mother — who’d only just been permitted to move back to Chile a few years earlier — took the wind right from Pascal’s sails. He lost his agent, and his career stalled almost completely.

As a tribute to her, he decided to change his professional last name from Balmaceda, his father’s, to Pascal, his mother’s. “And also, because Americans had such a hard time pronouncing Balmaceda,” he says. “It was exhausting.”

Pascal even tried swapping out Pedro for Alexander (an homage to Ingmar Bergman’s “Fanny and Alexander,” one of the formative films of his youth). “I was willing to do absolutely anything to work more,” he says. “And that meant if people felt confused by who they were looking at in the casting room because his first name was Pedro, then I’ll change that. It didn’t work.”

It was a desperately lean time for Pascal. He booked an occasional “Law & Order” episode, but mostly he was pounding the pavement along with his other New York theater friends — like Oscar Isaac, who met Pascal doing an Off Broadway play. They became fast, lifelong friends, bonding over their shared passions and frustrations as actors.

“It’s gotten better, but at that point, it was so easy to be pigeonholed in very specific roles because we’re Latinos,” says Isaac. “It’s like, how many gang member roles am I going to be sent?” As with so many actors, the dream Pascal and Isaac shared to live the stories of their childhoods had been stripped down to its most basic utility. “The dream was to be able to pay rent,” says Isaac. “There wasn’t a strategy. We were just struggling. It was talking about how to do this thing that we both love but seems kind of insurmountable.”

As with so few actors, that dream was finally rekindled through sheer nerve and the luck of who you know, when another lifelong friend, actor Sarah Paulson, agreed to pass along Pascal’s audition for Oberyn Martell to her best friend Amanda Peet, who is married to “Game of Thrones” co-showrunner David Benioff.

“First of all, it was an iPhone selfie audition, which was unusual,” Benioff remembers over email. “And this wasn’t one of the new-fangled iPhones with the fancy cameras. It looked like s—; it was shot vertical; the whole thing was very amateurish. Except for the performance, which was intense and believable and just right.”

Before Pascal knew it, he found himself in Belfast, sitting inside the Great Hall of the Red Keep as one of the judges at Tyrion Lannister’s trial for the murder of King Joffrey. “I was between Charles Dance and Lena Headey, with a view of the entire f—ing set,” Pascal says, his eyes wide and astonished still at the memory. “I couldn’t believe I didn’t have an uncomfortable costume on. You know, I got to sit — and with this view.” He sighs. “It strangely aligned itself with the kind of thinking I was developing as a child that, at that point, I was convinced was not happening.”

And then it all started to happen.

In early 2018, while Pascal was in Hawaii preparing to make the Netflix thriller “Triple Frontier” — opposite his old friend Isaac — he got a call from the film’s producer Charles Roven, who told him Patty Jenkins wanted to meet with him in London to discuss a role in another film Roven was producing, “Wonder Woman 1984.”

“It was a f—ing offer,” Pascal says in an incredulous whisper. “I wasn’t really grasping that Patty wanted to talk to me about a part that I was going to play, not a part that I needed to get. I wasn’t able to totally accept that.”

Pascal had actually shot a TV pilot with Jenkins that wasn’t picked up, made right before his life-changing run on “Game of Thrones” aired. “I got to work with Patty for three days or something and then thought I’d never see her again,” he says. “I didn’t even know she remembered me from that.”

She did. “I worked with him, so I knew him,” she says. “I didn’t need him to prove anything for me. I just loved the idea of him, and I thought he would be kind of unexpected, because he doesn’t scream ‘villain.'”

In Jenkins’ vision, Max Lord — a longstanding DC Comics rogue who shares a particularly tangled history with Wonder Woman — is a slick, self-styled tycoon with a knack for manipulation and an undercurrent of genuine pathos. It was the kind of larger-than-life character Pascal had never been asked to tackle before, so he did something equally unorthodox: He transformed his script into a kind of pop-art scrapbook, filled with blown-up photocopies of Max Lord from the comic books that Pascal then manipulated through his lens on the character.

Even the few pages Pascal flashes to me over Zoom are quite revealing. One, featuring Max sporting a power suit and a smarmy grin, has several burned-out holes, including through the character’s eye. Another page features Max surrounded by text bubbles into which Pascal has written, over and over and over again in itty-bitty lettering, “You are a f—ing piece of s—.”

“I felt like I had wake myself up again in a big way,” he says. “This was just a practical way of, like, instead of going home tired and putting Netflix on, [I would] actually deal with this physical thing, doodle and think about it and run it.”

Jenkins is so bullish on Pascal’s performance that she thinks it could explode his career in the same way her 2003 film “Monster” forever changed how the industry saw Charlize Theron. “I would never cast him as just the stoic, quiet guy,” Jenkins says. “I almost think he’s unrecognizable from ‘Narcos’ to ‘Wonder Woman.’ Wouldn’t even know that was the same guy. But I think that may change.”

When people can see “Wonder Woman 1984” remains caught in the chaos the pandemic has wreaked on the industry; both Pascal and Jenkins are hopeful the Dec. 25 release date will stick, but neither is terribly sure it will. Perhaps it’s because of that uncertainty, perhaps it’s because he’s spent his life on the outside of a dream he’s now suddenly living, but Pascal does not share Jenkins’ optimism that his experience making “Wonder Woman 1984” will open doors to more opportunities like it.

“It will never happen again,” Pascal says, once more in that incredulous whisper. “It felt so special.”

After all he’s done in a few short years, why wouldn’t Pascal think more roles like this are on his horizon?

“I don’t know!” he finally says with a playful — and pointed — howl. “I’m protecting myself psychologically! It’s just all too good to be true! How dare I!”

x

[sweetlangdon]

Reckoning: Part Five (Michael Langdon x Reader)

Notes: AU of the Outpost plot of Apocalypse. A Gray accidentally finds Michael while he’s performing the ritual. Things take an interesting turn.

Warnings: Blood, violence, murder, all the usual stuff you’ve come to expect from this fic. 

Word Count: 5.0k

You can find the previous parts here.

 Her dreams were filled with Hellfire and devils and a world ravaged by the darkness. She heard it whispering to her as she slept, voices that seemed so much closer, so much clearer once she’d taken Langdon’s knife in that blood-soaked room. In her dreams, the sky was scarlet, a fire left burning. Everything else had drowned in ash and smoke except for the heap of bodies. They were pale, nearly withered away to bones. Left in twisted, macabre shapes with blood running from the corners of their mouths.

But she knew their faces. Every single one.

The Outpost, a hulking, black shape, loomed over them, awash in gold and orange from the fires. And then there was Langdon—impossibly, frustratingly perfect, dark and immaculate all at once. Not a drop of blood on him, not a speck of dirt on his clothes. She’d been distracted by the way the wind stirred his hair. His eyes were two deep pools of obsidian, an unforgiving black. And then he was moving toward her, dust and sand and ash swirling around his shoes, every movement more graceful than the last.

And he was grinning at her. That slow, arrogant crooked grin that took a while to curve his lips, the one that she tried to tell herself she hated. His molten black gaze drifted from her eyes to her hand as he closed the distance between. She hadn’t noticed it, the knife clutched in her fist, the crimson dripping from her fingers that didn’t belong to her.

But he did. Of course he did, because Langdon knew everything. Knew whatever darkness was locked away deep inside her soul. Knew what it took to coax it out and set it free.

And it was beginning to scare her, how much she wanted it.

His long fingers wrapped around hers still gripping the knife. His knife. Her breath hitched as his knuckles brushed her hair. He took her face in his hand, his thumb tracing the swell of her cheek. Langdon’s grin widened, and she decided that the abyss in his eyes wasn’t so horrifying anymore.

But he could keep the fucking snakes.

“Chaos becomes you,” Langdon whispered. A low growl that rumbled through her bones like thunder. Cataclysmic.

She’d been afraid the first time he told her that—terrified and angry and attracted, which seemed to be a package deal when it came to the fucking Antichrist. And now, once she heard the words echo through her thoughts, filling up her dreams, whispered against her skin in the blazing red light of the apocalypse, she believed it. She felt it, as real as she felt him.

And damn, if it didn’t feel good.

The knife slipped from her fingers when he kissed her. She barely heard the metallic thud of the blade dropping into the dirt, so lost in his touch. Langdon drew her to him, holding her face in the searing warmth of his hands, his rings lightly grazing her skin. He held her with a needy desperation that she didn’t expect. She forgot about the blood coating her hands, too eager to taste the chaos on his tongue.

There was scarlet where she traced the sharp lines of his jaw up to his cheekbones, wherever her fingers tangled into his silken hair. When he parted from her, she brushed her thumb along his lower lip before his head dipped toward her throat. And then she couldn’t hear anything else, nothing but his ragged, panting breath against her neck and the moan that echoed when he left a trail of kisses down to her collarbone. His lips were soft, but every time they swept across her skin, it felt like an inferno. He’d set her soul alight and now she needed him to stoke the flames, to keep that wildfire burning. Langdon smelled of smoke and darker things she couldn’t name—some kind of ancient power that tinged the air around them.

She didn’t care what the hell it was. She wanted it.

And if Langdon wanted chaos, she’d give it to him.

***

She was unceremoniously awoken by someone jostling her shoulder.

It wasn’t pleasant. It was actually so goddamn irritating that she tried to shove them away while still holding tight to sleep. Even after she’d groaned and swore loudly, rolling over on her paltry cot to escape, her fellow Gray shoved nearly her entire body weight into her shoulder. The Gray was lucky she wasn’t awake yet, otherwise she would’ve found herself sprawled on the floor. Her reflexes used to be quicker; it hadn’t mattered back then if she was half-asleep. For whatever reason, some of those survival instincts had worn off while they’d been trapped in this miserable pit.

“Fuck off.”

“You have to wake up.” Her roommate—whose name she always forgot despite the two of them spending eighteen months together in servitude—sounded completely done with her shit. “You can’t oversleep. I mean, it’s your business if you want Venable to starve you again, but I wouldn’t try her patience.”

“She can fuck off, too.” The long-suffering groan was muffled into her pillow until her fingers closed around the knife resting under it. Her muscles tensed. She’d almost forgotten about Langdon’s knife. “All right…I’m getting up. Stop hovering.”

If she had to guess, she’d gotten a few hours of sleep, but it didn’t feel like it.

Letting go of the knife’s sleek hilt, she made sure it was still safely hidden. There wasn’t any way to carry it around without her roommate noticing, so she pulled the blanket up over her pillow and hoped that the Gray didn’t get nosy while she was off doing the day’s chores. Her roommate eyed her, a mix of suspicion with a noticeable smugness that she didn’t really care for. She dressed quickly in a new, clean uniform without saying a word, trying to shake the last of the stubborn grogginess from her limbs.

Her heart slammed against her ribs when she saw Langdon’s coat tucked away in her wardrobe, the black striking among the drab shades of gray and white. She took a fistful of the fabric, gently, almost reverently, fingertips settling against the red silk lining. Something had been left in one of the inside pockets. Her thumb caught the edge of it, and with a little careful, discreet maneuvering, she found the clear vial of white pills Langdon had shown to the Outpost. The pills, he’d said, that would cause a painful but quick death.

Careless wasn’t his style. They’d been acquainted for about twenty-four hours if she had to guess, but after seeing him up close, she realized he never did anything without a reason.

Damn it, Langdon. What kind of fucked up nonsense is this? She stashed them in one of the extra pairs of shoes at the bottom of her wardrobe as she heard the approach of her roommate’s footsteps.

The weak, golden light from their fireplace tossed strange shadows onto both of them. She listened to the drumming of her pulse in her ears. It wouldn’t quiet down.

“You talk in your sleep, you know.” The Gray folded her arms over her chest. She hated the smug grin that pulled at one corner of her roommate’s mouth. That amount of arrogance wasn’t attractive on anyone—except, maybe, for Langdon. With the population of the world blown to hell, he practically had it trademarked.

It had been too late to hide the coat.

Well, now I’m completely fucked.

She squeezed her eyes shut. “No.”

“Well, you do.”

She was positive her fellow Gray had seen the coat before she tried to tuck it back between her uniforms and sparse personal belongings. More than enough time for her to catch the scent of something to throw into the Outpost’s rumor mill. It was the only form of cheap entertainment the Grays had to pass the time. Part of the reason why things spread so fast around here was her hawkish gaze and penchant for eavesdropping. Her interests usually involved tearing apart the Purples—and after catering to their every goddamn need, she had to admit it was cathartic—but if her roommate figured out that was Langdon’s coat…

She’d be the first casualty of the Grays. They’d rip her to fucking shreds.

…But would their jealousy be such a bad thing? She’d never been on the receiving end of anyone else’s envy. Maybe it was petty as fuck, but she had to admit that maybe it would be fun for once.

“Sounds like you and Langdon—”

She looked up sharply, eyebrows knit together. “Sounds like it’s none of your business.”

“You don’t have to get defensive,” her roommate answered. But the smugness was still there, and fuck, it annoyed her. “I doubt you’re the only person who’s fantasized about Langdon since he got here. I mean, have you seen the way Gallant looks at him?”

Actually, she’d forgotten about Gallant. But her roommate had a point. Langdon liked to sow chaos, liked to play with people’s minds. She had proof of that now. What would stop him from fucking with all of them? Was she just another pawn to him, a complete dumbass charmed by a pretty face and the allure of doing whatever the hell she wanted without consequence?

How could she trust any interest he’d shown in her as genuine?

“Whatever,” she replied. “It was just a dream.”

An omen or a prophecy? Hell if she knew.

“Oh, I don’t think it was just anything,” her roommate persisted. “Care to share? Come on, I thought you would’ve been dying to spill the details—”

She scowled. Yeah, like your bloody corpse thrown in a pile of bodies.

“I’m really not.”

The creak of the door’s hinges saved her from her roommate’s interrogation. Neither of them had heard the tap of Venable’s cane until she appeared at the threshold of their shared room. She wore a frown as severe as her hair, the cloud of perpetual disappointment following in her wake along with a sense of impending doom. Her mere presence could suck the life out of anything that was still breathing around her. She’d met a lot of uptight authority figures in her life, had a couple sets of foster parents who were stricter than the nuns at the Catholic school she’d once attended. Somehow, Venable put every single one of them to shame in their eighteen months together.

“Ladies.” Venable’s tone was even but firm, carrying a hint of exasperation. “Have I not been clear about the schedule? I’m sorry you don’t have the luxury of late mornings, but that’s not how things run around here.” Venable’s dark gaze fixed on her, and it felt like the woman had slapped her across the face. She caught herself before she rolled her eyes. Mornings, as a concept, were a thing of the past, another lifetime entirely. “You were warned about this, were you not? If I have to tell you again, there will be harsher consequences.”

That was Venable Speak for I’ll throw your ass out of here faster than you can blink. She would be left to the radiation poisoning if the desperate cannibals didn’t get to her first. She’d thought about it a lot while doing her chores, all the ways it could happen, while counting the minutes until curfew. She often debated which was worse, weighed her options. Of all the shit she’d been through in her life, nothing had made her feel more pathetic and hopeless than this. Venable had been lecturing her with the same warning for about two months, if she’d counted right. She suspected they couldn’t spare any more Grays or her own corpse would’ve been rotting in the wasteland outside by now.

She held her tongue, even though it nearly killed her. This was about survival, after all. “Yes, ma’am.”

***

Doing laundry for the Purples was the most thankless, mind-numbing job on this ruined planet, so of course the second she’d been put on Venable’s shitlist, it was the task she’d been assigned. It wasn’t that she hated being invisible, because she had been used to that before the bombs dropped. The Purples, as a specific tax bracket that could actually afford survival, were extremely high maintenance. And the fact that life as everyone knew it had ended did not change that. Venable’s weird ass Victorian Gothic aesthetic seemed to make it worse. Somehow, she never thought surviving the apocalypse would involve a future—or lack thereof—washing rich people’s dirty clothes.

But, survival was survival. She was lucky to be here, even if people like Venable and Mead made her constantly question her worth. If she was such a goddamn nobody, then why would she ever catch the interest of the Antichrist himself?

Her thoughts were traitorous bastards. Every time her mind wandered off throughout her monotonous work day, she always found herself thinking of Langdon. Whatever she’d felt when he gave her that knife and asked her to wound him—and the power she’d had, even though it had been fleeting, when she thought she’d mortally stabbed him. The intensity of his gaze, the preternatural heat of his body. She actually fucking missed that pretentious asshole, which was wild and ridiculous and maybe a little bit pathetic.

She was the only one in this miserable place who knew his secret. That had to be worth something.

After she dropped off the last of the clean towels in Coco’s room, narrowly avoiding some kind of argument between her and the Gray, Mallory, who was attached to her hip, she slipped away to Langdon’s suite. She told herself it was because of the bloodstained towels she’d left all over his bathroom floor last night. Anything else would’ve been pitiful.

When a knock on the door didn’t elicit any kind of response, she found it unlocked.

“Langdon?”

The door shut with a soft click behind her once she’d slipped inside. She didn’t have his coat with her—she’d have to return it after curfew, the only time that was relatively safe—so it was pointless to be here without him. The bathroom door was open this time, the room empty. Nothing but the flicker of candlelight, splashing like gold on the walls. Unlike a lot of the Purple suites, this one was kept tidy, the bed made as if it hadn’t even been slept in. Like she’d noticed last night, there were no personal touches to the room except for the laptop on the desk, which wasn’t even there anymore.

The room was so much colder without him in it.

She ached to know more about him. Any sort of hint about who he was outside this place before the world fell apart. Before he made it this way. What kind of life led to bringing about the apocalypse? She wondered if he had a family. A spouse. Parents. Her only frame of reference for the Antichrist was The Omen, and she doubted that was any help whatsoever in this situation.

Her life was so fucking bizarre.

“All right, Langdon,” she said to the vacant room. “Let’s see…”

Her fingers trailed across the top of the desk. Sitting in the chair, she pulled open the drawers, only to find every single one of them empty. No Cooperative files like she’d seen in Venable’s office. No letters. Not even a worn photograph of his family. She lingered there a moment longer, drumming her fingers on the glossy wood, wondering if Langdon would know she’d been in here without him. Maybe he would; he seemed to have eyes everywhere, an eerie omniscience. A satisfied grin tugged at the corner of her lips, knowing he was probably somewhere in the Outpost conducting interviews while she had the run of his private suite.

A soft gasp broke the quiet when she pulled the armoire open and discovered it overflowing with his clothes. “You are a fancy bastard.”

It was mostly a sea of endless black, a few pieces of dark or bright red lost in between. Her fingers skirted over silk and satin and velvet, neatly pressed pants, waistcoats, and jackets kept in impeccable order. A row of dress shoes and ankle length boots sat on the bottom shelf, all of them polished. The scent of him, dark and cloying, drifted into her senses the longer she stayed there snooping through his personal wardrobe.

And the absence of him was downright maddening.

She could almost imagine him here with her, silent as a phantom. Keeping watch.

A small drawer held his silk cravats, but that wasn’t what caught her attention. Next to the tangle of expensive silk sat a crystal bottle, the cap gilded with a decorative flourish and a serpent winding around it. She took it out, eyebrow inching upward. Two tiny rubies flashed in the candlelight, the serpent’s intense, angry gaze fixed in the middle distance. It was nothing more than a cologne bottle, except it happened to be so vague and yet so elegant that she wondered where the hell it had come from. Whatever scent it held turned amber in the light.

“Pretentious,” she muttered. “Hedonistic. I can’t say I’m surprised…but if I had access to anything I could ever want, I’d flaunt it, too. Being Satan’s son must have its perks.”

Once she uncapped the bottle, the scent hit her immediately. Rich and warm and earthy with a hint of bergamot and citrus. There were some darker notes hidden in there, some things she couldn’t place. Alluring. Decadent. She closed her eyes and breathed in deep, letting it fill up her senses as if Langdon had been hovering right behind her, knuckles grazing the back of her neck, his chest flush against her spine. She was lucky the room wasn’t occupied because the sound that it provoked was probably the definition of unholy.

She sprayed it on her wrists and the hollow of her throat, the scent blossoming on her skin, following her even when she left the bottle where she’d found it. With the armoire shut, she went to the dresser. The top drawer had an orderly pile of black dress shirts; to her shock—because she thought he would’ve burned them along with the bloodied towels that had gone missing—she saw his ruined shirt tucked into the corner. The only thing in this room that wasn’t perfectly arranged. She pushed the drawer closed once she wrenched it out of its hiding spot.

It took her a minute to find the tear in the shirt, the place where the blade of his knife had pierced him. But it was still there, the only reminder that it hadn’t been some feverish nightmare. Her fingers worried at the ripped fabric, stumbling over where she could feel the dried blood. She stared at it for a long time, remembering how odd it had felt when the blade sunk into him, how easily she could do it again. There was the absence of him, but the absence of that power, too; she felt it fading and wondered if she’d ever be able to summon it again.

Maybe she was better off being a nobody. A shitty worker ant under Venable’s shoe.

“Sorry, Langdon.” She rolled up the shirt and shoved it into the pocket of her apron. “Old habits and all that. Though, I don’t think you’ll be missing this much.” 

The door closed softly again behind her, and she stayed for just a moment more, her forehead resting against it as the scent of him drifted into the hallway with her. When she spun around, she caught the edge of a shadow darting around the corner. Her heart leapt straight into her throat, thinking it was Langdon. But it was so much worse than that.

Her roommate locked eyes with her from across the hallway, the two of them separated by the wide expanse of one of the main staircases. The Gray had captured her gaze long enough for her to know that this time, she was completely and utterly fucked. There were no lies to tell now, no excuses to explain this away. Her fellow Gray didn’t say anything, just lifted her chin in a sort of childish, condescending manner before she disappeared down the stairs.

Shit. 

***

She awoke sometime past curfew, a feeling weaseling into her subconscious to wrench her out of a dreamless sleep. It felt more like a warning than her internal alarm clock, now set to the formless passage of time down here. Wrestling her way out of the fatigue that threatened to drag her back into the blissful dark, she sat up and blinked against whatever still blurred her vision.

Her roommate was awake. Wide awake. The doors to her own wardrobe had been thrown open, her fellow Gray, dressed in one of those horrible vintage nightgowns, stood there rifling through her personal shit. She’d found what she was looking for, though, because Langdon’s coat was in her hands and she recognized the pool of black fabric at her roommate’s bare feet as the shirt she’d stolen from his room earlier. Now she knew why her roommate had been asleep already when she went to bed, why her gossipy ass hadn’t said a word about what she’d seen. The Gray had been waiting instead. Biding her time for the right opportunity.

She swung her legs over the side of her cot. The floor was chilly under her toes. “What the fuck are you doing?”

The Gray’s smile was slow and rather triumphant. “I should be asking you that. Is this Langdon’s coat? How did you get this?” She took a few steps forward, trampling over the shirt she’d left on the floor. It made her irrationally angry, the way she kicked it to the side.

“I think he would say that’s classified.” She couldn’t help the smart comeback, despite the anger in her blood. “Why are you going through my shit? Who gave you the right?”

Her roommate’s grin dissolved into a deep frown. “I saw you,” she accused. “In Langdon’s room earlier. And I saw you hiding this.”

“I know you did.” Without thinking about it, her hand slid beneath her pillow, fingers curling around the handle of Langdon’s knife. “Now put that back where you found it.”

The Gray’s eyes narrowed. “So, what’s the story between you and him, then?” Her roommate threw the coat at her chest and she caught it with one hand, letting it drape across the cot where her blanket had been left in a tangle. “The secret visits, his clothes in our room—Mead said you were a thief. For the record, I never believed her.”

Well, maybe you should have.

“He asked me to do his laundry.”

“Right.” Her roommate scoffed. “Do you expect me to believe that?”

“Not really.” Her fist tightened around the knife.

“Are you fucking him?” the Gray asked. “Is that what this little arrangement is about? You give him everything he wants, and he’ll let you into the Sanctuary?”

“If I was,” she slipped the knife out from under her pillow, the blade flashing silver, “would that make you jealous?”

The Gray let out a trembling breath. “What are you doing?” She stumbled back a few steps, her eyes horrifyingly wide as she rose off her cot.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

She advanced on her roommate, the knife clutched in her fist. The Gray wilted into a corner, a frightened whimper springing free from her throat. She wanted another taste of that power so badly, wanted the feeling of chasing after the chaos Langdon had unleashed inside her. It disappointed her a little that the Gray didn’t fight back, didn’t so much as scratch her or make a desperate grab for the blade. Once her roommate sunk into the wall, recoiling, silent tears dripping down her face, she leaned over the Gray with one hand splayed above her head.

“Would you be jealous,” she asked again, “if he wanted me?”

“Stop,” the Gray yelled. “I’ll tell Venable what you’ve been doing. And she’ll tell Mead, and they’ll throw you out and shoot you—”

It was quick. Not a second thought spared, just a swift, violent motion and the blade of the knife disappeared into the soft flesh of her roommate’s upper torso, slipping between her ribs. The Gray went slack with terrified shock, eyes wide like a deer caught in the headlights, one last pained whimper left to give. Another violent tug and the blade sliced upwards, a rush of blood spurting down the Gray’s white nightgown. Scarlet dribbled from her roommate’s chin, and she felt the splatter of her choking cough hit the side of her face. The Gray’s blood was warm, running down between them, her own nightgown stained from the aftermath. She pulled the blade out and watched the Gray crumple to the floor, the pool of blood growing bigger and darker around them. It was sticky and familiar between her toes.

She was panting heavily from the adrenaline, her exhales shaky. She dragged her sleeve across her forehead. “Shit.”

The blade had turned red, the air in the room tinged with the familiar scent of iron. She lowered into a crouch, eyes fixed on the Gray’s still body. Her sightless eyes. Rising to her full height, she gathered up Michael’s shirt from the heap on the floor and stowed it away in her wardrobe. She’d still have to return the coat to him, once she figured out how to deal with this mess. On the bright side, maybe he’d let her borrow his shower again.

The fire in the hearth behind her flickered wildly and then almost extinguished as if it had been smothered by a strong wind. The change in the air around her was immediate; the sharp rise temperature caused the hair on the back of her neck to stand up, a bead of sweat to trickle down the side of her face. She heard herself exhale, but it was more than that—the tension in her muscles dissipated, and she could take a deep breath. The ache lessened.

When she turned around, Langdon had his arms folded calmly behind his back, dark amusement on his lips. He cut a tall, lithe figure in tailored pants and a waistcoat, and the casual way he’d rolled up the sleeves of his shirt caught her off guard.

“This is becoming a habit between us.”

She listened to the measured cadence of his footsteps. He moved past her to have a look at the body growing cold at her feet, his arm brushing against hers, his skin searing hot through the sleeve of her nightgown. Hearing the low rumble of his voice again made her stomach do another embarrassing somersault. His head turned toward her again, icy gaze drifting to the knife still clutched in her hand.

“You stole my knife.”

She threw him a pointed look. “Bullshit, Langdon. You let me take it.”

The slight rise of his chin, the mischievous, barely perceptible tilt of his head told her that she’d been right.

“I knew the temptation would be too much.” Langdon stepped closer, all languid elegance, that arrogant grin overtaking his face. “I knew the moment you turned the blade on me you wouldn’t be able to let it go.” His fingers closed around hers, wrapped around the hilt of the knife and smeared the blood. When she tried to let go and push the knife into his hand, he held tight to her fingers, his thumb tracing her knuckles.

“No,” he whispered, nudging her forehead with his, so close that the warmth she’d missed seeped through the thin fabric of her bloodstained nightgown. “I think you’ve earned the right to keep it.”

The knife slipped from her fingers and buried itself into the floorboards. Langdon hadn’t let go of her hand; instead, he brought it between them like he had last night, except now the blood was still warm and new on her skin. She watched, her breath catching a little in her throat, as he flipped her hand over to inspect the inside of her wrist. The pad of his thumb was soft, curious, as it followed the veins there. He ducked his head, nose skirting the delicate bone where the blood started to congeal. A flutter of his long eyelashes, the sharp intake of his breath told her that Langdon had discovered the remnants of his cologne on her. 

He didn’t say anything, just pressed his lips to the inside of her wrist. The touch was gentle, so fleeting that she could’ve imagined it. But it was enough to ignite the fire in her veins, enough to make the room spin just a little. She wanted to reach out and tangle her fingers in his hair like her dream, but she stopped herself. Fucking hell.

She struggled to speak. “I don’t know what I’m going to do.” Her voice shook more than she would’ve liked. “How am I going to explain this? Venable’s going to notice one of us is missing and I don’t—”

“You won’t have to,” he assured, voice dropping to a whisper. When he looked up, his smirk had returned. Langdon let go of her wrist and she hated him for it. “Leave that to me.” He searched her gaze and held onto it with an intensity that made her cheeks flush. “Anyone willing to kill to protect their secrets—and mine—is worthy of my trust. Do I have yours?”

She crouched to wrench the knife from the floor. “If you clean up the mess first.”

Langdon reached out a hand, fingers curled, his rings catching the weak light from the fireplace. The blood that had been spilled on the floor started to leach back into her corpse, not a trace of it left behind except for the red she’d managed to, yet again, get all over her clothes and hands. And then the Gray’s body ignited, the flames summoned from nowhere and producing little smoke. Together, they watched the body burn until there was nothing left except a few singed floorboards.

She supposed there were perks to earning the Antichrist’s trust, too.

*** 

Tagging my usual list, but if you want to (or don’t want to) be tagged, just let me know! 

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[cinemavariety]

Cinema Variety’s Top Favorite Films of 2019

To quote Principal Duvall from the 2004 teen comedy classic Mean Girls: “I just wanted to say that you’re all winners, and that I couldn’t be happier the year is ending” 2019 was both a super difficult year personally, but even more so, I feel as if it was one of the weakest years for cinema in recent memory. Thankfully the last few months of the year have made up for it with a surplus of absolutely incredible cinematic experiences, many of which are reflected in this year’s rankings. I present to you my favorite films of 2019. Check out my rankings from previous years by checking out the links below:

Top Picks of 2018 List Top Picks of 2017 List Top Picks of 2016 List Top Picks of 2015 List Top Picks of 2014 List Top Picks of 2013 List

Honorable Mentions: Midsommar Uncut Gems Parasite 3 From Hell The Death and Life of John F. Donavan **THIS LIST IS IN ORDER AND CONTAINS SOME MILD SPOILERS**

#16 - Ready or Not Directed by Matt Bettinelli-Olpin & Tyler Gillett

Ready or Not looked entertaining enough from the trailers, but it certainly wasn’t anything I was dying to go see. Especially in a movie theatre. However my brother convinced me to go with him and it ended up being one of the most consistently fun and entertaining theatrical experiences of 2019.

There were a lot of similar plot elements to the brilliant 2013 horror film - You’re Next (which by the way is one of my favorites). The plot is about a young girl, who grew up an orphan, marrying into an insanely wealthy family. The family has a tradition of playing a game on the wedding night, and she ends up choosing a game of hide and seek. Unbeknownst to the bride, the family is actually planning to hunt her down and murder her in order to perform some type of satanic ritual.     

Horror comedies only work for me about half the time, but his film has enough graphic violence and intense situations to counterbalance all of the humor throughout. They complemented each other well and the result was a super funny and super bloody cat and mouse hunt of social classes.

#15 - Doctor Sleep Directed by Mike Flanagan

Helming the sequel to The Shining is no easy undertaking whatsoever. Kubrick’s arthouse horror masterpiece will forever remain not only one of my favorite of his films, but also as one of my favorite genre pieces in general. I was immediately relieved when I discovered that Mike Flanagan signed on to direct the adaptation of Stephen King’s sequel - Doctor Sleep.

I already knew beforehand that Doctor Sleep was more of a fantasy story than a direct horror, and also wasn’t one of the most popular of King’s works. The film ended up being a pretty epic fantasy thriller. Flanagan excels in creating his own universe while also honoring the source material, as well as paying homage to Kubrick’s film. However, it shines more when it does its own thing instead of trying to be nostalgia porn.

Most of the film worked for me, some of it didn’t. The recasting of Jack Torrance’s character left a slightly sour taste in my mouth. Ewan McGregor does a great job as the recovering Danny but it is really Rebecca Ferguson who steals the show with her villain character Rose the Hat.

Doctor Sleep proves that Flanagan has become one of the most consistent horror directors working in the industry. There’s always a pulse to be discovered in the foundations of his storytelling.

#14 - High Life Directed by Claire Denis

Claire Denis, one of the most polarizing French auteurs, debuted her first English language film in 2019 with High Life. I had the pleasure of seeing the film on a big screen, and even though I felt a little underwhelmed as an initial reaction to the finale, the film seemed to linger in my subconscious like a haunting unresolved dream. It held up even better on a re-watch, which you can view for free if you have Amazon Prime.

It’s definitely unlike any space film that I have ever seen. The premise surrounds a group of prisoners on death row who are sent to the farthest depths of space on a doomed voyage. All of the occupants are corralled by Juliette Binoche’s character, who plays some type of mad space scientist, is obsessed with collecting their semen in order to create new life in the abyss of the cosmos.

High Life is a slow burn, often minimalist film, which relies more heavily on atmosphere/score/visuals than it does on dialogue or forced plot elements. It’s bewilderingly nihilistic in how it depicts human behavior gone horribly awry. Robert Pattinson gives an understated performance and seems to provide the only glimmer of what seems to be hope by the end of the film.

#13 - Too Old to Die Young Directed by Nicolas Winding Refn

Too Old To Die Young finds the celebrated auteur, Nicolas Winding Refn, sharing his view of humanity and society at its most despicable. Hate seems to seep out of the cracks of every neon-soaked frame in the limited series. Amazon gave Refn free reigns in creating his phantasmagoria.

All of his usual motifs and creative decisions are employed in full force with Too Old To Die Young, sometimes to an almost unbearable degree unless you are a truth Refn aficionado. His long takes, infinitesimal silences between lines, neon lighting, synth score and characters belonging to a criminal underworld are all utilized to great affect within the series.

I won’t lie, I found it to be some of Refn’s most challenging work to date. There are so many aspects to be found within this series that went over my head, it is art that demands a re-watch. And while I believe that Refn’s sensibilities are best conveyed through a film medium, the limited series allows Refn to explore what he wants to convey like an artist adding layer upon layer of colors onto a blank palette.

#12 - Age Out Directed by A.J. Edwards

A.J. Edwards returned in 2019 with his sophomore directorial effort - Age Out (originally titled Friday’s Child). Edwards has served as one of many creatives who worked on the editing team of Terrence Malick’s films in the last decade. Malick’s influence on the director is quite noticeable. Edwards directed his first film in 2014, The Better Angels, which was a decent debut. Whereas The Better Angels oftentimes felt too close of a mimicry of Malick’s style, Age Out utilizes certain aspects of the style while also allowing Edwards to have his own authorial voice.

The film centers around a young man named Richie as he is about to “age out” of the foster care facility in which he was raised - a frightening reality for countless youth in America and around the world. Richie is left to navigate the difficulties of the adult world at a mere eighteen years old, without any family or parental figures to help him along the way. He makes friends with a seedy townie who revels in delinquency and causing ruckus. Also, there is a romantic subplot between Richie and a girl named Joan, portrayed tenderly by Imogen Poots. This relationship seems to be the only saving grace in Richie’s life. However, a turn of events soon reveal that Richie’s traumatic past has gotten the better of him and threatens to doom his entire future.

Edwards shoots the film in a boxed style with a 1.33 : 1 aspect ratio. This aids with the sense of claustrophobia and paranoia that invades Richie’s life. As aforementioned, many of Malick’s motifs are used here: a floating steadicam guiding the audience along, hushed dialogue, montages with classical music, and even some voice overs. However, this aesthetic isn’t heavy handed in any way. In fact, it’s a joy to see directors whose work can almost go into the Malick canon as the auteur has had such an influence on a lot of young, upcoming directors. Age Out is both a coming of age story and a cry of warning for unhealed trauma.

#11 - An Elephant Sitting Still Directed by Hu Bo

An Elephant Sitting Still now holds the spot as the longest running film that I have ever seen. It sits in at just under four hours, and it completely delivers without ever feeling like it drags on unnecessarily. The film technically premiered in 2018 and is considered a 2018 film among critic circles. However, the epic didn’t get a widespread distribution in the U.S. until this year, so I am overlooking this discrepancy. The film was marked with somewhat of a controversy after the director Hu Bo took his own life right after post production was completed. Hu Bo is an author turned director and An Elephant Sitting Still marks his first foray into cinema. It’s one of the best directorial debuts I have ever seen.

The film centers around four different characters during the span of a single day. All of these characters are marked with some sort of tragedy, and many of their stories intertwine in a synchronistic fashion. It reminded me of other masterpieces such an Inarittu’s Amores Perros or Paul Thomas Anderson’s Magnolia. The film takes place in the industrial regions of Northern China, and the barren landscapes reflect an inner emptiness that emanates from all the characters.

There is a hollowness to these people as they navigate through life. An Elephant Sitting Still is nothing short of nihilistic. It’s an angry, desperate and hauntingly beautiful cry of pain from a director who was most certainly haunted by his own inner demons. It manages to be both an odyssey of human cruelty and a swan song from a young man who didn’t see a light at the end of the tunnel.

#10 - Joker Directed by Todd Phillips

“It’s getting crazier out there, isn’t it?” These are some of the first lines to be uttered in Todd Philip’s pitch-black satire on society. These lines are what best exemplify the themes that Philip’s was pushing: our society is profoundly sick, everything seems to be getting worse, we have no saviors in sight and hope isn’t always on the horizon. Just from these first utterances, it is clear that Philips is taking all of the political and socioeconomic turmoil of the last four years and has created a problem child that is Joker.

Joaquin Phoenix turns in one of his most disturbed and flawless performances yet - which is no surprise. However, I have yet to see him embody a character so genuinely as he did in The Master. But this isn’t Paul Thomas Anderson, this is Todd Phillips. And the fact that the comedy director even created this piece of art is something that still has me scratching my head. Subtlety is never at play in the film, and there are quite a few plot points that are a little too on-the-nose, even for me. However, all of the other elements redeem it and make this one of the best films of the year. The cinematography is pleasing for the eyes, and the menacing cello scores echoes an existential loneliness that I felt permeate my very being.

The last thirty minutes are exactly what I was hoping from this film. It’s a breath of fresh air to see Hollywood actually stick to creating a nihilistic film that doesn’t once try to water itself down.

#9 - Luce Directed by Julius Onah

Director Julius Onah decided to really step up his game with his latest film Luce. After the dumpster fire that was The Cloverfield Paradox (seriously, thanks for completely ruining what was becoming a dope anthology franchise), Onah has proven that he can be a master of his craft with the proper source material. In regards to the story being told, every element of the film works to its advantage: editing, performances, direction, and most importantly - the screenplay. It’s one of most well written screenplays I have come across in 2019. I immediately could tell from the dialogue that this movie must have been adapted from a stage play, and sure enough upon searching, I found out it was. Not all stage adaptations work, in fact I’d say more than half don’t end up being too effective, but this one stuck its landing and then more.

The story revolves around an overly concerned teacher who contacts Luce’s parents after he writes a paper that comes off as threatening. The paper in question seemed to hold a sentiment in which violence was called for in order to overcome colonialism. It’s important to note that Luce was a child soldier in his native country before being adopted by his parents - played by Naomi Watts and Tim Roth who both gave stunning performances. The rest of the story is an investigation into who their son actually is, which eventually results in moral debates regarding race and identity.

Luce is also a film that effectively helps the audience empathize with the main character, while at the same time questioning whether his intentions are genuine, or a coy to hide something much darker. The truth isn’t always black and white, and this was my biggest takeaway from the movie.

#8 - Monos Directed by Alejandro Landes

Monos felt like a hybrid of elements inspired from great works such as Lord of the Flies, Aguirre: The Wrath of God and Apocalypse Now. This is only the third film to be directed by Alejandro Landes, however it looks and feels as if it was created by a seasoned veteran of the industry.

A group of children guerilla soldiers hold base on a mountaintop where they keep a hostage, watch over a prized cow, and act as a defensive force against an unbeknownst group of enemies. There is little to no exposition in the film. Landes drops the audience off right in the middle of the chaos.

We aren’t exactly sure what these children are risking their lives to fight for, or why they are doing it, but it goes to show the conditions in which they were raised for them to find normalcy in the violent lifestyle of a guerilla soldier. The landscapes are absolutely gorgeous, and there are even a few scenes where I questioned how they accomplished such shots/stunts with a low budget.

#7 - The Beach Bum Directed by Harmony Korine

The Beach Bum might not be the best film that Harmony Korine has directed (it’s certainly no Spring Breakers), but it is easily the most fun. It’s been almost seven long years since Korine’s last project, and I had been waiting in eager anticipation to see what he would do next. He was originally going to do a gangster crime drama called The Trap, which is what I was really hoping from Korine, but that fell through and he ended up making one of the best stoner comedies I have ever had the pleasure of watching.

The Beach Bum is probably Korine’s most accessible and audience-friendly film he’s ever done. I say that lightly though, because it still remains just as highly divisive as his other work. The plot is loose. It follows the misadventures and antics of Moondog, a washed up poet and complete burnout. He is soon sent to rehab for all of his illegal activities, in which he breaks out with the help of Zac Efron’s character, who might have just been my favorite character of the film. Korine seems to have a consistently solid knack to create dirty, seedy and absolutely enthralling characters.

I am really happy that he decided to keep a very similar visual aesthetic to his previous masterpiece, Spring Breakers. Benoit Debie, who is the king of neon lighting and discombobulating camerawork, does a masterful job at creating the textured and visual world of The Beach Bum. Hell, it’s probably one of the main reasons why I decided to see it twice on the big screen.

I’m not the biggest fan of comedies, mostly because I have a very bizarre sense of humor and find most of them to be completely hollow. But Korine’s darkly nihilistic sense of humor suits my sensibilities perfectly and I found myself laughing out loud at various points throughout The Beach Bum. It’s a fun, and even slightly endearing film at certain points thanks to the presence of Isla Fisher’s character as the wife. I look forward to whatever Korine decides to do next. At this point, who knows where he will decide to go with his career. I just hope I don’t have to wait another five plus years to see more of his work.

#6 - A Hidden Life Directed by Terrence Malick

Malick isn’t “back” - he never left. A Hidden Life isn’t a “return to form”. His form has always been there, it’s been evolving since The Tree of Life. In fact, the structure and flow of this film is extremely reminiscent of his past three films.

How far are you willing to walk the path of righteousness, even when the path is marred with pain and unanswered sufferings? How long are you able to cling to your faith when it feels like all hope is lost? How do you fight for what is good, when everyone around you is telling you to submit to forces of absolute evil? These are some of just many questions explored in Terrence Malick’s newest tour de force. As with many of Malick’s recent work, these aren’t questions that are necessarily outright answered during the film. They are instead questions of morality meant to be repeated throughout the story, almost like a mantra or an ode to pure faith.

A Hidden Life is Malick’s first return to chronological and narrative-driven filmmaking since The New World. It has garnered praise almost universally among critics, and is regarded as his best film in ten years since The Tree of Life. While I am in the few who don’t exactly agree that this is Malick’s best film in a decade, I might even dare say that it is among my least favorites of Malick’s recent output, I am still not denying the sublime mastery instilled in every single shot of this film.

A Hidden Life tells the noble true story of Franz Jagerstatter, an Austrian conscientious objector, who refuses to fight for the Nazis in World War II due to his religious beliefs and is eventually executed for it. He is decades later deemed a martyr by the Church - all the more telling as to why Malick decided to tackle this story. The heart of this story is told through letters that Franz and his wife Fani exchange throughout his period spent as a political prisoner. Fani seems to be one of the only people in Franz’s life who sticks by his side. No matter how soul crushing Franz’s decision is for Fani, she understands him well enough to know that death is a better option than spoiling your soul and humanity. “Better to suffer injustices than to do it,” as one character painfully states in the film. And while I wasn’t as emotionally wrecked as I thought I would be by this film, I instead feel inspired by Franz’s commitment to his innate goodness. The back and forth perspectives of Franz and Fani are well executed -  we as an audience get reprieves from the dreary confines of a prison cell to the majestic grandeur of the Austrian mountainside. The mountains and surrounding nature are characters within themselves. Near the finale, as Franz is face to face with his mortality, his mind wanders back to riding his motorcycle through the village on a sunny day as the mountains loom in the background. These are the final desires of a doomed man, something as simple as having the freedom to go outside and feel the grass beneath his feet - to experience the wonders of nature that most people don’t think twice about.

As mentioned earlier, it is far from my favorite of Malick’s oeuvre, and is not without its slight misgivings. It was stated that this was Malick’s return to “narratively focused” filmmaking. But he still utilized his signature elliptical style, and for me these moods oftentimes clashed and kept me at a distance emotionally. I rarely say this with a Malick film, but more of a reliance on dialogue would have worked wonders for me. There are quite a few sequences in which Malick opted for montage instead of a more fleshed out scene, which I believe would have further added to the power of the story.

These are all slight issues, and I myself might be a harsher critic than most simply because I hold Malick to such a high standard. Once you can give yourself to the film, A Hidden Life becomes a true zen experience. It managed to instill a sense of serene presence within myself. I felt very grateful for the most basic and common details of my life and this world. Malick’s work can be such a sensorial rush, and making even mundane objects and rooms look absolutely gorgeous, that it’s as if “everything is shining” in my own life after seeing the film. I look forward to returning to The Church of Malick very soon.

#5 - Ad Astra Directed by James Gray

Ad Astra got a lot of unwarranted hate this year in my opinion. It truly is a shame because I believe that James Gray has struck gold once again. While I don’t adore it to the same degree as I did Gray’s previous feature, The Lost City of Z, Ad Astra succeeds in being one of the most understated space films made in the 21st century.

It’s not exactly a wholly original story, or a plot that is something that we haven’t seen before. It’s the way Gray goes about telling this story and exploring these themes that makes it so very special. It’s not forcing any overreaching philosophical or ethical message onto the viewer, it’s not overly complicated or overly long, and rather than trying to present completely senseless physical explanations to the audience, it just accepts the fiction aspect as “science fiction”.

Hoyte Van Hoytema is a brilliant Director of Photography and he crafts some of the most breathtaking space shots in recent memory. He really captures the breathtaking enormity of the cosmis abyss. The scenes that take place near Nepture during the finale are jaw dropping. We see two characters wrestling each other while suspended midair and the camera pulls out to reveal their absolutely terrifying ordeal while splashes of Neptune’s purple color emanates behind them. What I enjoyed most about the film is this sort of serene, zen atmosphere that Gray creates through the visuals, the score and Brad Pitt’s heartfelt but quietly somber voiceover.

Pitt portrays a lonely, broken and existentially conflicted astronaut. He finds the quiet infinitude of space to be a reprieve from the chaos of conflict happening down on Earth. He feels more at home among the stars than he does on the planet in which he was born. His perspective reminds me of the blue God from Watchmen, Doctor Manhattan, when he’s dwelling peacefully on Mars and laments his feelings toward Earth and all the people on it: “I am tired of Earth. These People. I am tired of being caught in the tangle of their lives.”

James Gray’s Ad Astra, much like his previous two films before this, detail the pains and tribulations of undaunted pioneers as they explore foreign territories. The final monologue of Pitt’s washed over me like a gentle breeze: “I will rely on those closest to me, and I will share their burders, as they share mine. I will live and love.”

#4 - Anima Directed by Paul Thomas Anderson

Interprative dance, experimental film, and visual albums are three of my absolutely favorite art forms. The real MVP of modern cinema, Paul Thomas Anderson, has collaborated with one of the real MVP’s of modern music, Thom Yorke, to create a fifteen minute long music video on the power of human connection.

Thom Yorke plays a sleepy commuter, a passive bystander, a human sheep, a functioning cog in some great machinery. He makes brief eye contact with a pretty woman on the train, and notices that she leaves behind a briefcase. The rest of the short details his efforts as he dodges through obstacle after obstacle trying to find the woman and return the briefcase to her. I couldn’t believe my eyes as Anderson concocts the innermost desires of being seen, understood, and loved. The results are strokes of flashing light projections on concrete walls, bodies undulating as they separate and conjoin simultaneously, giddy humans running through fog, and lovers meeting in the union of hearts.

The final section, Dawn Chorus, is one of the most gentle and blissful experiences I have ever witnessed, let alone one in a film distributed by Netflix. Paul Thomas Anderson and Thom Yorke’s project had me understanding why I fell in love with this medium in the first place.

#3 - 1917 Directed by Sam Mendes

1917 takes the spot as my favorite war film of the decade. Personally, I found it to be one of the best war films ever made in general. What director Sam Mendes and DOP Roger Deakins have created is nothing short of a miracle. It’s the first “single take” war film to ever be made, mainly because this is a feat that is far from easy to pull off. Mendes and Deakins shot the movie in extreme long takes, and spliced them all together to make the whole movie come off as a seamless single take. These tracking shots never leave the side of the characters, we are in their footsteps on the journey the entire time.

1917 has a pretty simple premise: two young British soldiers are given a near impossible mission to cross enemy territory and deliver a message that will stop a deadly attack on over 1,500 soldiers - one of them being the brother of one of the two soldiers sent on the mission. The familial aspect contributes added emotional gravitas to the plot overall.

1917 is more of an experiential war film than it is a action or battle focused war film. It’s best to be seen in an IMAX because the sound design and the invasive tracking shots make you feel as if you are walking along these two soldiers as they face grave perils on their quest to deliver the message. I very much so enjoyed that they kept the plot small and intimate, without resorting to constant firepower to keep the audience engaged. That isn’t too say that the movie doesn’t have more than enough of its fair share of nail biting action sequences, and also plenty of gruesome shots depicting the carnage that World War I brought. These soldiers have to army crawl over rotting corpses, while rats and crows are seen pecking and chewing through the remains. The filmmaker doesn’t turn a blind eye to the horrors that war produced. To me, this is one of many reasons why I believe 1917 is superior to other popular recent war films such as Dunkirk. I don’t want my war films to be sanitized. War needs to be portrayed as it truly is - acts of complete inhumanity.

Dare I say that 1917 is Come and See for the 21st century. While Come and See is most definitely the superior film, there were echoes of the classic Soviet Union masterpiece that ring throughout 1917. Maybe it’s the expertly crafted tracking shots, maybe it’s the maddening use of sound design/editing, or maybe it’s the shell shocked expression that is engraved on one of the main characters faces near the finale.

1917 does an amazing job of being very loud, but also utilizing silence in certain scenes to great affect. The juxtaposition is most expertly crafted during one scene that involved flares popping off in the sky, lighting up the ruins of a city, as one the characters runs away from enemy fire. It’s an absolutely exhilarating scene. I ended up bawling by the end of the movie, mostly just because of all the pent up anxiety and distress I felt throughout. You don’t see many films that take place during World War I anymore. But 1917 shows it is not a time period to be forgotten about.

#2 - The Lighthouse Directed by Robert Eggers

I had been eagerly anticipating Robert Eggers’s follow-up film after he released The VVitch back in 2016. At first it was reported that he was going to be doing an adaptation of Nosferatu, which I still think would be a great story for Egger’s to adapt, especially after witnessing what he instead decided to make - The Lighthouse.

Shot gorgeously in black & white on gritty 16mm celluloid, the film looks like it comes from a completely different era (the dialogue as well). There were many shots that had a similar look to some of Bergman’s early work on the Faroe islands.

The Lighthouse has a fairly simple plot. Robert Pattinson plays Winslow who goes to work for a seasoned lighthouse keeper named Thomas who is played by Willem Dafoe. Winslow is new to being a wickie and Thomas takes him under his wing to show him the ropes. Thomas orders him about incessantly in a brute and abusive manner.

There is a minimalism to the plot, however all of the other elements are done so perfectly that the daily grueling routines of these wickies becomes nothing short of hypnotizing. The sound design and score ratchets up the harsh conditions of the island. Wind sounds like its constantly shrieking outside - a reminder of the unease that seems to be building to an overflow. The dialogue, diction, and accents are all completely authentic to the time period and setting that the story is taking place in. Eggers commitment is second to none when it come to detail and authenticity with aspects such as the character’s accents and inflections. A real case of cabin fever befalls the two men who both seem to become obsessed with the mystical light that emanates at the top of the light house.

While I really enjoyed The VVItch, I absolutely adored The Lighthouse and find it to be a much stronger work from Eggers. I think what I vibed with most about it is that the movie doesn’t feel the need to be confined to one particular genre. Whereas The VVitch was literally about a witch bringing misery to a Puritan family, it was constricted to be somewhat of a horror film. However, The Lighthouse manages to be many different tones: a fever dream surrealist film, an arthouse horror, a slapstick comedy, and a nautical retelling of many ancient sea myths. And all of these different tones worked together and bounced off each other in perfect harmony.

I found myself both laughing and completely repulsed by the images I was seeing - especially within the last act of the film which succeeded in shaking me up and making me feel both bewildered and slightly nauseated. It ends up being a gritty, dirty, and uncompromising journey into total psychosis. By the conclusion of the film, the audience comes to the same realization as the two characters - there really was enchantment in the light after all.

#1 - Waves Directed by Trey Edward Shults

Waves is an operatic cry for people to be better to one another. It is by far my favorite film of the year, and I truly believe it to be one of the finest films ever made. It earned itself a well deserved spot in my Top 25 Favorite Films of the Decade.

Trey Edward Shults started out his cinematic career on a strong note with Krisha. He delivered once again with his sophomore debut - It Comes at Night (even if I do find it to be easily the weakest of out the three he has directed). But for me, Waves is where Shults really experiments with his style to such a fine tuned degree that we find the director not calming down his vision or becoming more “grounded”, instead he expands upon his prowess with one of the most powerful family dramas I’ve ever seen.

Shults is another director who made my list this year who is somewhat of a protege of Terrence Malick. Shults worked as an intern for Malick on both The Tree of Life and Voyage of Time. It is quite clear the influence that Malick has on Shult’s vision. But Shults, even more-so than Edwards who also made my list this year, has taken Malick’s inspiration and created something wholly his own.

Shults has created an experiential rollercoaster of actions, consequences and the toxic fallout than can come from such actions. Waves is essentially two films in one. The first half is the energetic, chaotic and traumatic first half in its depiction of toxic masculinity taken too far, to the eventual accident that changes all of the characters lives. The camera is constantly floating in this portion, or shall I even say flying through the air and around the characters. The camera has no limits in what it can do and that along with the editing, and most noticeably the insanely perfect soundtrack/score, this portion ends up feeling like one prolonged anxiety attack.

The second half of the film switches character POVs masterfully. There’s a psychedelic shift of perspective from the brother’s eyes covered in flashing lights from the back of a police car to his little sister’s eyes in the back of their parent’s car (you have to have seen the film to completely understand what I am referring to of course). This second half of the film is where the camera slows down a little. This portion is more character focused and less interested in being flashy through its aesthetic. We get more dialogue, more character details, and a lot more tears in this half. It’s like a long cathartic release after experiencing an hour of trauma and abuse. It succeeds in tearing you apart, to only slowly piece you back together.

As mentioned previously, Shults’s soundtrack decisions were the cherry on top for me. Tame Impala, Animal Collective & Tyler the Creator are three of my favorite artists and their music is utilized perfectly within the story. What made this film so special to me, other than the fact it all takes place in the state in which I grew up in, was that no other film has better reminded me of my own humanity in years. This film makes me want to be a better brother, a better friend, a better son, and a better person in general. You never know when a single moment can shatter your entire world. In the end, it left me with a strong message that struck me to my core: appreciate what you have in life, and tread carefully.

[artificialqueens]

Glimmer & Gold (Branjie) - TheDane

Authors note: Hi everyone! Long time no see. Big thank you to Q-tip, Mac, Grey-Darling and VeronicaSanders for helping me out with betaing and advice for this fic. You can find me on @ArtificialDane.

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Some called Vanjie stupid, her fog horn voice the first thing anyone noticed about her. She was not educated, Vanjie proclaiming it loud and proud, but she was smart. So smart she had picked Brooke apart in a single glance, looking into his soul from the moment she directed her full attention to him.

////

Brooke slid the wig off of Vanjie’s head, his boyfriend’s hair slick from how hard she had worked the stage, the tiny body somehow holding more energy than Brooke had seen in even the most trained of dancers. The elastic had left behind a dent, Brooke running his thumb over it, soothing the skin, the angry mark only one of several he knew he would find on Vanjie’s body.

“There you are.”

“Bitch, I’ve been here the entire time.”

Brooke smiled, Vanjie already tipping her head up to accept the kiss she knew was coming, Brooke touching their lips together, her lipstick sticky and sweet against his own lips, the cherry almost even sweeter when he wasn’t wearing anything of his own.

He had come out to see her, watching as she twirled and spun, flirting with patrons and picking up the dollars she had promised she’d use to buy something nice for her sugar, though Brooke was the one who pulled out his wallet more often than not, money something that came and went in Vanjie’s hands.

“You have.”

Brooke liked to save, each and every dollar counted by the end of a night and getting tucked away, safe and sound for a rainy day, though those were few and far between in this new life.

Vanjie cackled, her voice loud and filled with joy, a joy Brooke couldn’t help but match, Vanjie like fireworks, always ready to explode in bursts of color.

“Help me?”

“Sure.”

Brooke knew it was more for his benefit, Vanjie dumping down on the hotel chair, a teasing glint in her eyes as she leaned back, spreading her arms along the back, owning the room she was in. Brooke caught his breath, the air in the room suddenly hot, his cheeks dusted with pink, his khaki shorts growing tighter.

“Then get to it, stud.”

Brooke couldn’t really say exactly when the ritual had started, Vanjie peeling her own lashes off. He grabbed a makeup wipe, his knees hitting the carpet, Vanjie just the perfect height for him to fit between her legs and work away at removing the thick layers of Vanjie from his boyfriend. Wipe after wipe getting discarded in the trash can as Jose came into view, his eyes bright with the mischief Brooke so adored.

Some called Vanjie stupid, her fog horn voice the first thing anyone noticed about her. She was not educated, Vanjie proclaiming it loud and proud, but she was smart. So smart she had picked Brooke apart in a single glance, looking into his soul from the moment she directed her full attention to him.

/

“Stay still.”

“Make me.”

Brooke ran his fingers through Vanjie’s hair, the air around them filled with steam, hot water beating down on their bodies. It didn’t matter where they were, didn’t matter what continent, what country, what hotel or apartment they were in, as long as Brooke got to have this.

Brooke knew who he was, but he had never expected anyone to not only see, but appreciate that part of him. He had tried to hide, tried to change, tried to do anything to be someone he was not, but it always came to the surface. An itch he couldn’t ignore, a need so strong he could taste it, and it had come with Vanjie too.

The first time it happened it had been during Drag Race, Brooke unable to hold back, Vanjie’s worry, her anxiety rushing off of her in waves, calling Brooke like a siren song. He had managed so well, staying on his own path, staying in his own lane for three whole weeks until it became too much. Vanjie had faltered, stumbled for a second, the judges unable to see what Brooke saw whenever he looked at her, a fireball of red and orange.

She had let him dance around her, Brooke nearing her, almost as scared of her rejection as he was of the defeat he could see on her face. Vanjie had allowed him to soothe and tut, to bring her back to the magnificent creature Brooke knew she was with gentle touches and encouraging words, the tape forcing him to bite his lip the first time he saw it, his voice so soft he could barely recognise it

“Be careful what you wish for.”

Brooke took the showerhead, his height meaning it was barely a reach, his hand covering Vanjie’s eyes as he rinsed his hair, washing the day away, washing the night and her performance down the drain, though they would do it all again tomorrow.

He had never had a boyfriend before, and it wasn’t hard to blame this part of himself for that fact. Brooke knew he was a handful, knew his need to pamper, his inability to keep his hands away was sometimes overwhelming. He had always been tall, strong, masculine, his hookups often urging him to take charge, but Brooke couldn’t bring his palms to hurt, not by his own will. The sharp sting of flesh did nothing for him, the ecstasy he knew he should be feeling never truly there. Brooke had never enjoyed being in control in the bedroom, and with Vanjie, he didn’t have to be.

Vanjie hummed, pleasure radiating off of him. He was soaking up Brooke’s attention, like a flower that finally had water, and Brooke knew exactly how he felt, his cock digging into Vanjie’s lower back, but he knew what came next, and his pleasure wasn’t it, at least not the physical kind. Brooke’s arm was around Vanjie’s waist, holding him against his body, Vanjie smiling as he helped him lather up a washcloth. Brooke washed his arms, his shoulders, the pure strength in those limbs almost taking his breath away. He could lift Vanjie without breaking a sweat, the two of them even attempting it once or twice, Vanjie declaring loudly that there was a ‘fucking trick in there for the coins!’ but Vanjie was stronger than he let on. His chest and stomach tight and trained, Brooke almost having to force him to come to the gym, but after the first stolen kisses in the few seconds of privacy they had at the Drag Race hotel, it had become a ritual for them.

“You’re missing something, lover boy.”

Brooke nodded, his hand on Vanjie’s hip turning him around. He once again fell on his knees, Vanjie’s body blocking the spray, Brooke shivering as the drips on his body dried, cold air wrapping around him, but he didn’t care, not when he got to do this. He lifted Vanjie’s foot, wiping it off, first one, then the other. Strong calves, perfectly formed thighs. He almost didn’t dare look, but Vanjie’s hand in his hair forced him, a bitten off moan falling from his lips as he came face to face with Vanjie’s cock, shaft standing to attention and thankfully as hard as Brooke was himself, his dick bopping and weeping, precum mixing with the water that swirled around beneath them both.

“Can I-?”

“No.”

Brooke froze, eyes wide, Vanjie’s hand tugging. He was pulling Brooke’s eyes up, up, up, until he was looking at him, brown and blue irises meeting. It was a game they played, Vanjie’s shoulders square, his stance telling Brooke everything he needed to know. It was going to be a long, and very very pleasurable night.

/

Being with Vanjie was like playing with fire. Bright and hot, so warm it almost hurt, licks of flames covering Brooke’s body.

Vanjie had forced him to take his time, not that Brooke had minded, hands exploring his body, their mouths tracing lazy kisses that betrayed the desperation he felt as he moved his fingers inside of him.

Brooke was fucking Vanjie exactly how he liked it, their bodies twisted together, his nails buried in Brooke’s bicep, his mouth open in pleasure, moans and gasps leaving him as he worked his hips, chasing his pleasure, using Brooke, who didn’t mind it at all.

“More.”

Brooke sat up on his knees, lifting Vanjie’s leg, hooking it into his elbow. Vanjie’s nails were digging in, breaking skin, the spark of pain doing nothing for him compared to the satisfied groan he was rewarded with when the angle became just right. His hips snapped, Vanjie’s spine arched, his entire body taunt and tight.

“Shit, please- I- Brooke.”

Vanjie was usually loud, so loud and lively, always the center of attention, always the life of the party while Brooke was anything but that, but in bed, Vanjie rarely spoke at all, his body telling Brooke everything he needed to know. A moan here, a groan there, a hitch of breath or, if he was lucky, a whimper telling him more than any praise ever could.

He sped up, skin slapping against skin, Vanjie’s cock trapped between them, their chests sliding together, Vanjie’s foot digging into his hip. There was still glitter there, Vanjie shining gold, the flecks splattered across his pecs. Brooke felt a sharp kick, Vanjie making him change his angle.

“Wha-”

“Getting tired loverboy?” Vanjie smiled, and Brooke wanted to kiss it off his face, the grin tormenting him. “Show me what that dick can do.”

Brooke gasped, all breath leaving his chest and he nodded. Vanjie was urging him on, and Brooke felt like he was shaking apart. Vanjie forcing him to go faster and faster, their breath mingling, hot groans and sounds of pleasure falling from their lips until Vanjie pulled his hair, Brooke crashing into him, their mouths messy, teeth clicking but it didn’t matter, didn’t matter at all because Vanjie was coming, his body so tight Brooke cried out, and then, relief, his stomach coated in Vanjie’s cum, his mark on him.

“Come on.”

Brooke groaned, his eyes squeezed together, his hips still pumping, their bodies so close together they felt like one.

“Come on Papi.”

Vanjie kissed him again, and he was gone.

/

“Sweet or regular?”

“Regular. Who do you think I am? Some fancy New York bitch?”

Vanjie smiled brightly, the challenge clear on his face, and under normal circumstances Brooke would have thrown something right back, the shade playing at the tip of his tongue, but he was simply too content, like a cat that had gotten the cream.

“No, you’re just a regular dad.”

“Oh my god bitch shut up.”

Brooke laughed. He knew Vanjie cared for him, maybe even loved him, his traits of jealousy one he usually despised but he had only felt pure contentment when Vanjie had hollered and yelled at the bellboy to cover his eyes when he had answered room service with only a pillow covering his junk.

Brooke climbed into bed, plates of fries in hand as he settled against the headboard, his boyfriend stealing some of his sweet potato straight away, despite his words only seconds before. Vanjie pushed his arm, demanding and commanding space as he laid down next to him, snuggled up and safe underneath his arm. Something meaningless was playing on TV, Vanjie already caught up in it, but Brooke simply turned his face, a kiss getting pressed into Vanjie’s hair, his chin resting against Vanjies head as he breathed in, completely at peace with the world here at this anonymous hotel because he had him, right where he needed to be.

“So, about that blow job?”

[windingriverherbals]

NEW CRESCENT MOON IN ARIES

We have passed through the Dark Moon in Aries into the New Crescent Moon today. We passed through the Spring Equinox last week, which is the official start of the lunar year, and have moved into the New Moon in Aries which is the official start to the lunar year. We can all feel the palpable energy of Mother Earth at this time of year as we watch the seeds push upward and out of the topsoil. As they make this upward movement, they meet resistance! Yet once they break through they receive the reward of the sun’s warmth. The sun’s light even when they are scarcely born fills them with a great desire to attain full growth.

Under the Aries Moon, we can tap into Aries ability tot face our fears in new ways, to find the courage to live a full and meaningful life. This is a time to follow our internal wisdom, our intuition with every ounce of courage we have been given because it takes courage to move deep into our wisdom. Because once we do this work, it becomes difficult not to be true to our hopes and dreams.

Everything moves in cycles and this turning of the wheel at the Spring Equinox is springs reminder that we are always moving and flowing. And whenever old growth is stripped away we make the space for new shoots. We can find inner and outer resistance, yet, patters can be broken and living from the energy of your core is stronger than your apathy!

  For this New Crescent Moon, I want to share the story of the Celtic Alder Tree. The Alder Tree falls under the New/Waxing Moon Phase from March 18th – April 14th. So if you are born under these dates, this is your tree. The Alder tree is known as the Tree of Fairies and is associated with courage and our expanding spirit. It grows near the water in swampy, bog areas. Its wood is flexible and resistant to the rotting effects of water as when it is left to soak in water, it actually becomes hardened! This made it a perfect wood to use for bridges and it is said mythology, that the Alder tree bridges the magical space between earth and the heavens.

It is a tree that teaches you to follow your instincts and is symbolism is about the release, determination, and inner confidence. It is also a tree that supports and protects you physically, emotionally, and physically. It teaches us to blend strength and courage with a generosity of spirit of compassion. Can we not relate to the teachings of Alder in these times?

It is also the tree of the Spring Equinox when seeds awaken. It calls us to plant seeds under this spring energy. To hold it in our hand and envision a world in which we live in balance with nature, in peace with each other, where creativity and love flourish together. Placing your seed in the earth and watering and tending to are actions we can take to bring her qualities to birth in the world. It is the Alder tree that helps us to find a way to express our hopes and dreams at this Lunar New Year.

With this Lunar Fire, we can mix water and fire to influence us in finding the clarity, action or determination to complete the actions we desire. There is energy now that illuminates your understanding, it circulates endlessly behind and through your emotions. You know it as an inner light that burns clearly and steadily ~ this is a light that radiates out into the world from inside.

Planting & Designing Your Moon Garden

Under the heightened energies of the New and Full Moons we experience our highest tides ~ but did you know that it is a time when the waters beneath the earth are also affected? The same gravitational pull that is placed on the waters of the ocean also pulls the groundwater upward bringing moisture to the soils at the surface, encouraging your seeds to swell and burst into sprouts!

You can plant your flowers in a circle or a half-moon shape so that when they bloom the shape of the Moon is revealed. Find space in your garden, start some seedlings indoors, or plan your garden for the next New Moon. Whatever you do, it will carry the energy and intentions of your heart ~ so don’t wait, start today.

Planting a garden of white and silvery flowers that bloom at night can add a radiant, shimmering energy to your evening rituals. Here are a few flowers I love.

These flowers are fragrant and so if you can place them close to your home, you can also enjoy their evening fragrance on warm summer evenings when your windows are open.

Evening Primrose (Oenothera) ~ a night bloomer that attracts moths and nocturnal bees. The flowers are said to be from the ethereal realm of fairies and have a sweet fragrance that can be enjoyed during the moonlight hours. The symbolism of primrose flowers is patience, kindness and gentleness ~ connecting you to the solar plexus and heart chakra.

Moonflower (datura inoxia) ~ catching her unawares in the moonlight hours is magical, as you can be sure to experience the full glory of her blooms; the night air swirling with her rich, intoxicating scent. Glowing like the moon these flowers contain the mysteries of your intuition and connect you with the mystical movement of the stars and moon. She will connect you to your crown chakra.

Note: these flowers are cousins to morning glories so they will need a trellis or support to climb.

Night Phlox (zaluzianskya capensis) ~ also known as midnight candy; the fragrance of the night blooms is reminiscent of honey or vanilla. Coming from the Greek meaning “flame” these beauties will also connect you to your crown chakra AND are known to stir inner courage and honesty to all that look upon them.

Jasmine (jasminum nitidum)~ the sensuous scent of Jasmine has a fragrance that invokes passion, sensuality, and love (the world needs more love!).

A second way to plant a Moon Garden is to bring the Moon out during the day by planting these sweet plants

Dusty Miller (senecio cineraria) beautiful silvery, a velvety soft plant that is wonderful for contrasting dark foliage and is also a great bed plant ~ represents happiness and delicacy.

Mugwort (Artemisia vulgaris) this plant is not only connected to the Moon but is also known for enhancing your dreams.

A few other day plants for you to consider are Lambs Ears, Silver Thyme, and Silver Sage.

And I could not leave out this most auspicious herb!

Moonwort (lunaria annua) ~ in the language of flowers this plant represents money, sincerity & honesty. It has dried pods that are beautiful and can be used later in the ceremony. However, please note that this is a biannual plant ~ meaning it lives two years and will flower in the second year. Its flowers will be followed by a dollar coin-sized flat pod that changes from green to brown and then as the seed drops, to the beautiful silver color… so planting these for the first two years will ensure flowering each year.

Planting & Designing Your Elemental Garden

Before you plant anything, you’ll need to figure out how much space you have to work with. Ideally, you’ll want to make your elemental garden in a circle. To make a circle in your yard, figure out first where you want the center to be. Mark the center by driving a temporary stake into the ground. Next, figure out what diameter you want the circle to be. Using a piece of string tied to the top of the stake, walk around in a circle, marking the perimeter. You can do this with birdseed, a handful of dirt, or anything else you like. Once you’ve marked your circle, till up the soil. Although it’s a good exercise to use a shovel, it’s also backbreaking work. If you’ve got a large space to cover, you may want to invest in a good rototiller.

Once you’ve tilled up the soil, figure out which way is north. You can do this easily with a compass, or if you know where the sun rises and sets, it shouldn’t be too hard to determine which way is east and which is west. After you’ve figured out your directions, divide your circle into quadrants, so that each direction has one-quarter of the circle, and mark your spaces with stones.

Choosing Your Plants

Each of the four directions is associated with an element. North is connected to the earth, east to air, south to fire and west to water. To plant your elemental garden, figure out which plants are connected with those particular elements — and this will vary depending on where you live. For example, the earth is associated with stability and security. Why not plant some herbs there that carry the same associations? Bryony, cinquefoil, honeysuckle, and pennyroyal* are all related to earth.

For the east section of your garden, which is tied into the themes of air, use plants connected with inspiration, wisdom, and knowledge. Sage, marjoram, mugwort, and members of the mint family are perfect for this quarter of the circle. In the south, select plants related to the passionate qualities of fire, such as basil, betony, rosemary, and rue. Finally, the west quadrant is where your water-related plants should go — hyssop, yarrow, chamomile, and ivy will do well in this section.

Offering Blessings

As you dig a hole for each plant, you may wish to add a blessing. Get your hands in the dirt, dig in, and feel the soil. Thank the earth for the gift it’s going to give you. As you place the plant or seeds in the hole, you might want to offer something like:

Or, you may prefer to offer a specific blessing for each quadrant – for the southern section, offer a blessing of fire, for the west, a blessing of water, and so on. In some traditions, it’s popular to smudge the garden or perform some other purification rite after planting — after all, a garden is a sacred space.

If you’re going to spend any time in your elemental garden — and you’ll need to if you don’t want your plants to die — it’s not a bad idea to add accessories that make you feel at home. It doesn’t have to be fancy, but you might want to consider some of the following:

Statues of the gods of your tradition

A gazing ball

A fountain or other water feature

A fire bowl

A small altar

A bench or chair for meditation

Wind chimes or bells

A prayer pole or decorative flag

To tie in the accessories to the elemental theme, consider a water feature in the south corner, a small brazier to the west, a pile of stones in the north, or a decorative flag on the eastern portion. Any of these will be perfect for bringing you closer to the elements in your garden. Make your garden a place where you can sit and reflect, and it will indeed be a spiritual and magical place!

Ways that you can use your flowers after they have blossomed under the energy of the moon are many! You can cut and dry the flowers to use in creating mandalas or artwork or add them to your sage bundle; pluck the flowers at the height of their bloom and place them in a bath to catch their healing energy. I encourage you to explore the myriad of possibilities in which their energy speaks to your creativity. by Wigington, Patti. Learn Religions

The beauty of flowers has been shared throughout time as a way to evoke feelings and thoughts that are sometimes difficult to find words for ~ using this time to place or invoke your intentions can bring you grounding, joy, and keep it flowing throughout the summer.

A few thoughts to consider while you are planting or planing ~

What is the beginning? Where is the growing center and how can you tap into your courage? What is just beginning to germinate? How can you follow your inner wisdom more closely?

Spring is a time to replenish, a time when the rains come, plants grow, animals drink ad the Earth replenishes herself. Heed the lesson. We each need time to replenish ourselves as well. Allow yourself to be replenished; get out into the rain, put your bare feet on the earth, remember the joys of being young and free and feel the happiness it brings Plant seeds, plant joy. Spread love and hope.

THE COURAGE TO TRUST YOUR INNER WISDOM NEW CRESCENT MOON IN ARIES We have passed through the Dark Moon in Aries into the New Crescent Moon today.

[sunshineandfangs]

Klarosummer - Quote ||  Wees Die Oorvloei

@klarosummerbingo

The quote is the first line so I won’t type it twice. Also, bingo again, technically!

“The ritual needs daisies, not sunflowers!” Caroline barked, voice sharp. Her eyes were narrowed as she scrutinized every detail - to an even greater degree than normal - her nails biting into skin as she stood with her arms crossed.

Absolutely, nothing could go wrong. Nothing. It wasn’t a question of being a perfectionist (which she also was), this was a matter of life and death. And failure meant death.

Possibly her coven’s.

Likely her own.

But certainly Bonnie’s if she didn’t execute her plans flawlessly.

---

A Few Days Ago

“Marcel,” Bonnie intoned coolly, unruffled by the circle of jeering nightwalkers that surrounded her.

“Bonnie Bennett,” he greeted back with mocking cheer. “My, my how the infamous Bennett line has fallen.”

She didn’t let even a ripple of her distaste and offense cross her face, instead retorting, “You realize your stranglehold on this city won’t last. Nothing does.”

He laughed, spreading his arms wide. “Look around you, witch. We’re vampires! We last forever!”

Even as the nightwalkers jeered and flashed fangs, their eyes alight with sadistic delight, Bonnie just smiled coldly back. A hint of her own sardonic pleasure on her face.

“You’re even bigger fools than I thought.”

That got a reaction, Marcel immediately scowling as he stalked closer.

“Now, see that attitude just won’t do.” Spinning on his heel he walked the perimeter of the crew surrounding the witch, working them into a frenzy as he called, “now, will it my friends? And to make matters even worse, she’s been accused of the crime of performing magic in the Quarter.” He whirled to face her. “So, how do you plead, witch?”

“I’m not going to indulge your little power trip, Marcel.”

“Well, if you’re not going to speak up...” He flashed directly in front of her. “Then, we find you guilty.”

And on the last word he lashed his arm out, slicing through her neck like wet paper. Even as she fell the defiant gleam remained in her eyes, fading only when her life did.

“Let the crows have her,” Marcel commanded, leaving the body to rot in the growing pool of blood, his nightwalkers hot on his heels.

---

Caroline’s keen eyes traced over the runes in the circle surrounding Bonnie’s body, verifying that every stroke was correct for the thousandth time. She counted the candles as her eyes swept back the other way, double and triple checking that they had the right number and they rested in the correct spots.

With careful steps, expertly skirting the lines of their important work, disturbing nothing, she moved toward a copper bowl filled with cut flowers. The daisies were large, but unblemished, each soft petal looking as fresh as a live plant. Picking up a second bowl, Caroline slowly poured poppy seed oil over the flowers, soaking them.

Ignis

Together the flowers and oil burned. A Beginning and The End. It smelled oddly sweet, the flames burning a bright yellow-orange. After several long moments, the only sound the crackling of the flame, it died down. At the base of the bowl were ashes.

Walking clockwise and then counterclockwise, the blonde witch painted runes on the foreheads of each of her fellow coven members. Passing the bowl off to April, Caroline took her place standing at Bonnie’s head, her own runes painted on by April’s steady hands.

Meeting the eyes of each of the others, Caroline took a deep breath before looking up, the full moon now at its apex.

Redi Agitari Fluxus 

Statera iusta et exolvuntur 

Nos hóstias immolámus

Redi Agitari Fluxus

An unnatural wind swept through the circle as the candle’s flames erupted into pillars of fire. Their color turned green as they danced in the wind.

Redi Agitari Fluxus

Statera iusta et exolvuntur

Nos hóstias immolámus

Redi Agitari Fluxus

Caroline continued chanting in time with her coven, feeling Bonnie’s skin stitching itself together, feeling as the earth trembled under their feet. The wind whipped harder, seeming to screech even as the fire kept dancing to a different rhythm. 

Redi Agitari Fluxus

Statera iusta et exolvuntur

Nos hóstias immolámus

Redi Agitari Fluxus

All at once the fire went out and the wind died.

In the silence Bonnie sat up with a gasp.

---

Marcel glared for a split second, the illusive Caroline Forbes somehow looking even more unimpressed and disdainful than the willful Bennett witch had. However, his upset quickly melted away as the joy of killing not one, but two upstarts in the same week hit.

The death of Caroline Forbes might just deserve a party.

“Caroline Forbes,” he started only to be cut off with a sneer.

She tsk-ed. “You’re repeating yourself, Marcel. How shameful.” 

This time it was her to take command of the show circling the perimeter.  Vampires hissed and bared their fangs at her, yet unconsciously shied away as she passed.

“Bonnie told me of your arrogance, you know? ‘We’re vampires! We last forever’.” Caroline impersonated his voice with deliberately insulting inaccuracy, reveling in his unease when he reacted to her words rather than her tone.

“Oh, did I forget to mention?” She asked with faux wide-eyed innocence. “Witches have their own ways of sipping from forever. Tell me, Marcel, have you visited Davina today?”

He froze.

A blink and he was snarling in her face, veins and fangs displayed in all their glory.

“What have you done?!”

“What should have been done ages ago!” The blonde finally broke her composure, shouting back in Marcel’s face, not the slightest bit intimidated. 

They glared in each other’s faces, everyone around them fading to nothing as they watched in bated silence.

After a breath, she calmed. “You know I would almost thank you if you hadn’t murdered my friend. She got better. But still it’s the principle of the thing, I’m sure you understand?”

Her hand shot forward like lightning just managing to pierce the skin of his chest, blood coating her nails and the tips of her fingers, before a second hand wrapped around her wrist, halting her motion.

Heat and power pressed itself along her back, a voice rumbling in her ear.

“Apologies sweetheart, but I’m afraid I can’t allow you to kill him. Wayward son though he may be, only I have the right to punish my family.”

She pursed her lips together, internally cursing his timing. Her information was faulty and heads would roll when she returned.

“Klaus,” she stated calmly. “Surely, New Orleans politics is a bit beneath you?”

He huffed sounding a tad amused as he whirled her around to face him. There was a tiny glint of that humor, but his expression was dark and foreboding, all threat and menace.

“Careful, sweetheart, I’m not one you can dictate to.”

She smirked at him, her own expression just as severe. “Neither am I.”

In an instant she vanished from the circle of predators, a fluttering piece of card stock left in her wake.

Klaus’ snatched it between his fingers, flipping it around to read the elegant black print.

Caroline Forbes

Supreme of the Sempiternus Coven

See you soon, Klaus

---

Author’s Note: Today’s language is a bit of a stretch, I admit. According to Google, the Gerbara daisy was first discovered in South Africa where one of the languages there is Afrikaans. “Be the Overflow” in Afrikaans is today’s title. It’s also a reference to What the Water Gave me - Florence + the Machine. Fun Fact: Not only do sunflowers and daisies resemble one another in general shape, they also share similar flower meanings.

Google translated my spell for me so it’s definitely off:

Return Disrupt Flow

Balance the Cycle

We Offer these Sacrifices

Return Disrupt Flow

Sempiternus = eternal in Latin