#looking forward to the cast recording in any case

[starlene]

I'm going to see the fine old men (and everybody else, but especially them) of Moulin Rouge! Stockholm for the last time in three days... and the only thing I've been thinking about so far this week is the fine old men of Änglagård.

Of course!!

[azurevi]

sopping wet cat & love confessions

pairing: leona x gn!reader

summary: where leona has had a long day, and you have the power to make everything bad go away.

note: this is basically just 1.8k of domestic fluff

It had been an agonizingly long day for Leona. 

He’d woken up on the wrong side of the bed, and thus carried this dark cloud over his head the whole day. The second lesson had barely started when he was called to stop a dumb fight over an omelet between his dorm members. During his wait for the lunch delivery, Trein made a personal visit and warned him about his ghastly attendance record. While he’d taken it with a pinch of salt, the fact that his rest was disturbed dragged his mood even further down. 

Then Ruggie came with a vegetarian sandwich because the canteen was already filled to the brim with students when he’d arrived. Needless to say, Leona didn’t get anything in his stomach in the end.

Just when he thought it couldn’t get any worse, Kifaji messaged him a reminder of Farena’s birthday party next month, assuring him that he had more phone numbers ready in case he planned to block him. 

What really took the cake, though, was the fact that you weren’t around to chase the gloom away. You were so preoccupied with the schoolwork on hand that you’d missed his call, which you later made up for by texting him three consecutive messages. 

‘busy rn, ttyl, love u <3’

Joyous. 

It was barely four, but the sky was already dimmed by the rain that’d been brewing the whole day. After the last school bell of the day, Leona walked out into the courtyard, hands stuffed in his pockets, donning a ‘don’t touch me if you want to live’ look. He’d take a nap to get his mind off things, but they were supposed to have a club practice today.

If only it could be canceled due to bad weather...

For once, the world seemed to have heard his wish. Scarce raindrops dotted his shirt and bruised the flowers. It was a mere drizzle, but enough of an excuse.

However, he could only make a few steps before it got heavier at an alarming speed, assaulting his face. Picking up pace, he hoped to get under a roof before it could turn into a downpour, but the sky was quicker as it tore a hole in itself. The rain poured down on him in showers, dousing him in a matter of seconds before he could make it back into the hallway.

So fate really was hellbent on dampening his mood. He was pretty darn close to turning the whole campus into sand. 

As he made his way to the mirror chamber, the passing students casted bewildered yet timid looks at his permanent scowl. The uniform was suffocating him, clinging to his body like a second skin. His hair stuck to his neck. If one more person dared breathe in his direction, he wasn’t going to be the only one having a bad day.

Head clouded with thousands of ways to cuss the world out, he let his legs lead him through the mirror. He navigated the turns and corners, swung open doors in his way, and walked through corridors with muscle memory alone, until he came to a stop in front of his room, and realized that it wasn’t his room.

It was yours. Somehow, in his mindlessness, he’d ended up right at your doorstep, hand raised in the middle of a knock. And somehow, he completed the action.

“Coming!” You yelled. Footsteps chased towards the door, and then he was face to face with you. Your jaw dropped open as you took in his soaked state.

“Hey.” He said. You sidestepped to let him in, not so subtly eyeing the puddle on the floor. “Sevens, you’re drenched.” 

“What a keen observation.” he couldn’t help the sarcasm slipping through his tongue.

Stepping forward, you observed the tight knit of his brows and the downturn of his mouth, and asked, “Bad day?”

He only grumbled, finding it a bit embarrassing to admit. Instead, he leaned forward with outstretched arms, trying to pull you into one very damp hug.

“Woah, stop there,” you clasped his elbows, keeping him at arm’s length. A look of betrayal dawned on his face. “How about we get you out of those clothes first? You could get a cold like this.”

“And then what, wear yours?” He gave you a once-over, emphasizing on your height.

You made a look before heading towards the wardrobe, where you pulled out a shirt that was way too big for you.

“...So it’s you,” he took the shirt, noting the way it was bathed in your scent. “Ruggie berated me for weeks about this missing shirt, you know.”

“Yea, got it. Now go change,” you pushed him toward the bathroom. He gripped the doorframe, snapping his head toward you. 

“Would you happen to have my pants too?”

“Haha. No.” You rushed to grab your pajama pants, rolling your eyes at his grimace. “It’s either this or fish skin around your legs.”

It looked like arguments were brewing in his head, but he bit down on them and closed the door. While you waited, you grabbed a few sheets of paper towels and cleaned up the wet footprints on the ground, shaking your head when he tried to suppress a few sneezes.

The giggles that came out of you when he emerged was almost enough to make him change back into the wet clothes. He tugged at the cloud-printed trousers that reached all the way above his ankle. “Not a word about this.”

“Pity. I know a few people who would get a kick out of this.”

Shoulders slouched, he headed over to where you were seated on the bed, a towel resting on your lap. Just as he thought he was finally getting the recharging hug, you pulled his hands away and grabbed the towel. “Your hair is dripping.”

“Are you just doing this on purpose now?”

“If you mean purposefully safeguarding your health, then yes, I am.” 

“It’s just wet hair, you go to bed like this all the time.”

“Rainwater's different,” you snatched your phone from the nightstand, thumbs gliding across screen quickly. “Okay. You know what you looked like just now? This."

On the screen were a few photos of doe-eyed cats in the shower that you’d searched up by typing ‘sopping wet cat’. 

“I did not -”

“You did!” You scrolled further down, and suddenly a chortle erupted out of you, which you immediately hid by shielding your face. It didn’t stop the laughs spilling out of you though. “Oh my- Oh my goodness. Look at this cat,” 

He squinted at the photo of a kitty, face covered in milk, with the resemblance of an old, weak man. Meanwhile you were still struggling, flopping onto your back as you laughed wildly. Despite the roll of his eyes, the corner of his mouth quivered. Not at the cat, obviously, but at your poor, absurd humor.

“Fine, whatever. Do what you want.” 

You sat up immediately, still trembling at the memory of the cat drowned in milk. After wrapping the towel around his head, you started ruffle his hair, pursing your lips when his ears twitched at the brushes of your fingers. You pulled the towel toward his jaw so that only his face was visible, and burst into laughter again. Who knew what you were imagining in your head.

“Stop it,” he grabbed your wrist, but the chuckle that escaped him at the end of the sentence was indisputable. 

“Ok, sorry.” You carried on, undoing his twin braids and tousling his hair into a birdnest. On your face were remnants of a grin, gracing your features. He would very much like to see them bloom into a smile again. 

Closing his eyes, he willed his senses to focus on your fingers as they untangled the stubborn knots in his mane. From left to right, you dedicated meticulous attention to each collected strand. He couldn’t help but shiver when you moved on to his ears, wiping the water that’d collected there. The tension in his muscles relaxed along with the tightness that’d strained his face the whole day, and soon he felt his chest rumble in satisfaction.

“You’re glad I love you,” he opened his eyes at your words. “Or else I’d never spoil you like this.”

You got off the bed with the damp towel while he stayed frozen in his spot.

Right. Love. That thing. 

How in the world were you able to utter that word all the time without batting an eye anyway? Anytime he tried to tell you how much he adored you, it felt like spitting his whole heart out onto a plate. It felt like pushing something spiky out of his throat. It felt like admitting that he was very, very vulnerable, and he couldn't stomach that. Not yet.

"Do you want to talk about your day?" You said from the bathroom, voice overlapping with the running tap.

"There were these pups who only knew how to use their brawn. Trein spent a whole 30 minutes bugging me. Skipped lunch. Kifaji texted."

"Yikes," you returned and climbed back onto the mattress, leaning against the bed frame. "Alright, let's make it better then."

He half expected you to block him again as he dived in, but you welcomed him with open arms. He lay his weight on you at first, reaching around your waist, before shuffling closer. Despite just having been soaked to the bones, he was as warm as a bowl of hot soup. Sleep crept on him almost instantly, he couldn't help it. Everything around him was way too soft– your bed, your torso encircled by his arms, his shirt around his body smelled nothing like him and everything like you, your hands buried in his hair. He took a greedy breath as he nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck, then exhaled, hot air fanning your skin.

God forbid that anyone should see him in this state.

"By the way. That thing you said earlier," his words slurred. "I feel the same."

"What thing?" You replied innocently.

He shifted. "Y'know. The thing I'm lucky for." 

"I'm afraid I'm clueless."

His head snapped up in annoyance. You weren't fooling anyone with your tone, but if you wanted to act oblivious, two could play this game

"I mean this," He moved in to press his lips to your forehead. "And this…" Another kiss fell on your left eyelid. "And this," The top of your nose. "And also this." He moved on to your cheeks, lastly sealing the spell by burying his head against your neck again. They were like stamps, his own way of showing you the evidence of his love. 

Instead of responding, you gave him a stamp of your own, sure and gentle on the crown of his head. Outside the storm was still wrecking havoc, but he was inside now, not just under a shelter, but especially in your embrace.

Leona wasn't sure how or when, but your presence in his life had made his dreams a bit more bearable, a bit more attainable. And perhaps, in this very moment when he was able to forget the world around him, they had already come true.

[oleander-nin]

Horrortober Day 12- Stalker(Yandere Rise Donnie x Reader)

A/N, not important: Sorry it's short. I just... Couldn't. Any criticism is welcome, constructive or not. This is supposed to be a gender neutral reader, so if I screwed up somewhere, please tell me.

-Ollie

CW: stalking, recording without permission, planned drugging, planned kidnapping, dark themes, yandere themes

Words: 718

Summary: It's time to take you home

Donnie's gaze flits over the many screens, a deep scowl on his face. He couldn't believe you were up this late again, despite his advice earlier. You promised you'd get sleep. He had the texts open, looking at them before looking back at you across the cameras he had planted in your room so long ago. You were up again, a pencil in your hand with the other knotted in your hair and homework on your desk. Why hadn’t you come to him if it was giving you this much trouble? He would have done it for you in mere moments. It was an insult to him to not let him help.

Donnie’s frown deepens as he leans back in his chair, trying to decide how to move forward. You clearly needed his support, needed a guiding hand to set you straight. He was completely willing to do that for you, to set you a schedule and hold you to it. He would do anything for you. Gosh, he would love to do everything for you.

He continues to watch the screen, analyzing every movement and burning it into his retinas. He could take you home. Your area in his lab was set up, the blankets and pillows in the corner to your liking. He knew this because it was an exact replica of the ‘nest’ you had in childhood, thanks to the pictures Donnie salvaged off of your old phone. He had gotten everything perfect for you. A cabinet in the kitchen was full of your favorite snacks, the fridge stocked with food that could be turned to meals of your taste, and Donnie’s own room was set to match the temperature of yours. Everything was ready, all he needed now was you.

Donnie wasn’t sure why he had held out for so long. Maybe it was because you seemed so happy the other day when he texted you, or when you hugged him for a few seconds longer than normal after he gave you your new phone. He knew the adjustment to your new life with him would be difficult, and he wasn’t fully ready to give up seeing you smile so brightly at him just yet.

But seeing you in your room, textbook open at three in the morning with tears in your eyes? It broke his heart in two. You’d never need to study like that again once he took you. Your life would be one of comfort and love. He’d dedicate every hour to you, making sure you were as happy as you could be. Sure, you wouldn’t have your freedom anymore. He couldn’t risk you going outside and getting hurt after all, but that is all a necessary sacrifice. You were too precious to be cast into the world, to hold a job and be harassed by life itself. You were something to be treasured, something to be spoiled and kept safe. He didn’t care he would be keeping you in a box that you would never leave, as long as you were safe and by his side.

He would die without you. He would wither up and collapse, his own heart breaking. Donnie knew he was being dramatic, but he felt his metaphor to be true. Without you, he would be nothing, just as you were nothing without him. Donnie looks back at the screen, watching your head loll forwards as you fight the sleep your body and mind so desperately needed. From the angle of the camera, he could just slightly see the bags under your eyes. They had grown since you last saw him, and his heart panged with worry. That wasn’t good.

Donnie scowls, standing up and leaving his desk for a moment. He crosses his lab and enters the room, searching his drawers for the small pill bottle of Ambien he kept in them. He needed to be prepared for when you arrived, just in case you were awake and still struggling. He counts the necessary pills for your weight and sets them on the desk, prepared to force you to take them if needed. Once the small gift he had for you was set up, Donnie returns to the heart of his lab, grabbing his tech bō and spider-shell.

It was time to bring you home.

[storiesofsvu]

A Dangerous Game Ch 19

Emily Prentiss x reader warnings: language, usual BAU case work/crime. mentions of smut. i am more than well aware that half of this technology doesn't work like this in real life, we're not gonna talk about it. for the sake of the fic, this is how it works LOL. part of me feels like this is a filler chapter but it was needed for how things are going to progress.

When you landed back in Quantico Derek was quick to say he’d be the one to swing through the BAU to pass off paperwork to Emily. You thanked him, but said you had to pick up a couple things from your desk and pop in to say hi to Penelope. Luckily the bull pen was empty, you were able to snag what you needed without being seen, swinging your go bag over your shoulder again you wandered through the halls until you reached Garcia’s office, softly knocking on the open door as you stepped through it.

“Hey you.” She greeted with a warm smile and you gratefully accepted the tight hug as she stood, wrapping you into her arms and pressing a kiss to your cheek. “How was Seattle?”

“Shit.” You mumbled back, slipping out of her embrace and dropping down into a spare chair, “very unfortunately ran into a not so good ex, but at least Morgan was there to counter balance the crap.”

“He is very good at that.” She smiled.

“And don’t worry.” You reached into your bag, “I was not too distracted to forget your present.” You gently set the box down on her desk and she beamed across at you. It had started pretty early on, that whenever you went somewhere new, you’d pick something up for Garcia, it was usually some kind of coffee mug, and this time it was exactly that, from the original Starbucks.

“You are an angel.” She leant forward, kissing your temple and you smiled, squeezing at her hand before you glanced toward her computer screen.

“What’s got you working late?”

“They raided a warehouse Dewald was hiding out at, found a bunch of his electronics, I’ve been working my way through them.”

“Rat bastard.” You grumbled, “deserves to be behind bars.”

“He is.”

“What?” You sat up straight at that.

“Well, I guess he’s not technically behind bars, but he’s in cuffs. They picked him up this morning, he’s been in interrogation all day.”

“Why did no one tell me?!”

“Well, you haven’t really been picking up your phone this week.”

“I— okay. Fair.” You let out a small sigh, twirling your chair slightly to face the desk, “you found anything good yet?”

“I’m honestly not sure, after decoding a bunch I got into his hard drive and I’ve kinda just been poking around. There’s a ton of these audio files, some of them are date stamped and there’s a ton that aren’t.”

“Just audio? I mean we already knew he was big in surveillance.”

“Yeah.” Penelope leant forward, clicking on one, “and look at this, like, it’s just static for hours, sometimes even days at a time.”

“Weird.”

“Right? I’ve just been fast forwarding through basically silence. If I listen carefully or separate off background noises I can kinda hear traffic, or distant noises and I’m pretty sure there’s an animal somewhere but why would Dewald have this?”

“I mean, he’s a psychopathic killer, we may never be able to figure out his motives.”

“Oh! Oh!” She nearly jumped suddenly, “that was a door closing.” Her hand shot out, hitting the play button so the two of you could actually hear the recording rather than skimming through it. Her head tilted as her eyes widened slightly, “and that… sounds like two people who are very eager to get to the bedroom.”

“Dewald never had any sexual motivations or crimes.” Your brow furrowed, but she was correct, you could hear the sound of shoes being kicked off, clothing and belts hitting the floor, the very clear sound of two people kissing, breathy moans and gasps coming through the speakers.

“That is definitely two people getting busy.”

“It’s two women….” Your head tilted as you listened.

“Are you sure?”

“Pen..” You cast her a look and she laughed.

“Right.”

A dark chuckle rang through the speaker and it sent a shiver down your spine before an all too familiar voice followed it,

“Oh princess… I never said you weren’t allowed to come. Poor thing. You must be incredibly pent up.” A small thud, “go ahead, make a mess of daddy’s pants.”

Your eyes widened at the same time Penelope’s did, however it was only your heart that began to race in your chest.

“Oh.. my god.” She gasped, “that is Emily…”

“Turn it off!” You smacked her hand, “Pen, turn it off, turn it”—

It was too late to save your own humility as your voice was the next to very clearly come through the speaker.

“Oh fuck…. Oh god daddy!”

“That’s it princess. Let everyone know just how good daddy fucks you.”

It was Penelope’s turn to smack your arm with her hand, latching on as she turned to you with a gasp, her eyes wide before the grin took over her cheeks.

“Oh my god! You guys are kinky!” She laughed, “I knew it! I knew there was something going on with you but I did not realize it had progressed this far.”

“Can you turn it off please!”

“Oh, yes. Sorry.” Her hand left your arm, darting out to pause the recording. “Jeeze. No wonder Emily’s so smitten with you.”

You’d dropped your face into your hands in an attempt to hide your complete and utter humiliation, letting out a heavy groan before you glanced back up at the other woman.

“I would definitely not call it that, and it is very much past tense.”

“Oh come on.”

“Can we not talk about this please!” You begged, it had been a long enough week as is and to be completely honest, you were still feeling the hangover.

“Why?” She nearly whined back and you could see the glee etched across her face, and not in the way that she was going to tease you about.

“You really wanna know?”

“Yes please.” She nodded with a wild grin and you let out a heavy sigh, rolling your chair closer to her computer.

“You said some of these were dated?” She nodded, watching you scroll through the pages until you found what you were looking for, “put an earphone in, I don’t need or want to hear this again.”

You watched as Penelope’s face fell, glancing over to you before she reached out and squeezed your hand. A few minutes later she paused the recording and pulled out her earphone, having heard enough,

“When was this?”

“About two weeks ago.” You sighed, “same day I got kicked off the case. Still have no clue why the fuck she would send me flowers right before pulling that.”

“She sent you flowers?”

“Yeah.”

“You sure?”

“There wasn’t a note or anything but it was the only thing that made sense.”

“Hold on.” She wheeled her chair over to another computer where she was quick to pull up traffic cams and find the right time and date. “That little weasel.”

“Is that Dewald?” Your brow furrowed, watching as he placed the bouquet down on your doorstep before turning and heading back down the steps, “but… she texted me about them.”

“When?”

“When I got home from the verbal lashing.” You rolled your eyes and Penelope’s eyes narrowed.

“Do you still have the texts?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Phone please.” She extended her hand and you gave her the device after unlocking it, watching as she hooked it up to the computer and swiped through various screens. “Does Em still have that iPad?”

“Yeah, usually on the coffee table.”

“Look, these texts,” her cursor highlighted a handful, “all from Emily. But the one about the flowers… he cloned her phone. Well, iPad in this case but thanks to the cloud and all that fancy stuff, he’s got access to her texts. This guy is almost too good.”

“You’ve lost me.” You rubbed a hand over your face, “and why do you have surveillance outside my house?”

“It’s how we managed to track him down. We knew he was targeting you, easiest place to start was your home.”

“Targeting, no. Pen you’re going down the wrong road here.”

“You know that’s why Emily took you off the case, right?”

“What?” You laughed, “no, it was cause I went rogue without her permission.”

“No sweet cheeks, Dewald was going after you.”

“What are you talking about? Because I was the original agent on the case?” Your brow furrowed as your tired hungover brain tried to unscramble what she was saying. It certainly wasn’t helping that she was piecing things together, beginning to talk a million miles a minute between clicking through random screens on multiple computers.

“No. Well, that is what I originally thought, but look at this.” She had pulled up a video from the field in Florida and you nearly winced at the sight of Emily kissing your temple, “he witnessed that. He was peeved she killed his partner and wanted to get back at her in a similar way. He managed to get out of Florida, get to DC and now we know he had something recording in Emily’s apartment. You were the target because he thought the two of you were together. Ten bucks says that after cloning her phone his plan was to lure you out, making you think you were meeting her for a romantic date night and do… unspeakable things instead… the flowers were the start of the seduction. Until you replied like that and he realized that this route wasn’t the route to go.” She paused to glance up at you and you were looking at her like she had two heads, “did you not know any of this? She really didn’t tell you about the cat?”

“What cat?!” You asked, groaning, “that conversation you just heard was the last time we spoke outside of this office.”

“Man, she really did keep you in the dark on this one.” Her voice was softer when she began to come back to earth, realizing how much she had just info dumped on you at the end of a very long week.

“Penelope, I love you to bits and pieces.” You sighed, standing from your chair, leaning forward to kiss the top of her head, “but my brain is too hungover for this. Enjoy your conspiracy theories and if you listen to any more of that, for the love of god fast forward please.”

“Oh, oh don’t worry. I will be zooming past all of that.” She chuckled softly before her voice softened, “and hey… just think about it, okay?”

“Yeah, sure.”

*

Across the building, Derek was waiting in Emily’s office while he was filling out some last minute paperwork on the case from Seattle. He heard a small shuffling behind him before her blazer came swinging into view, being tossed onto a spare chair.

“You coulda just left the files.” She greeted.

“Had to finish up a couple of things.” He shrugged, “and I wanted to see how it went with Dewald.”

“He won’t say much but he also didn’t lawyer up. Now it’s Saturday, so he gets to spend the rest of the weekend in the tombs.”

“At least you got him.”

“Yeah.” She sighed, dropping down into the chair behind her desk, “I take it Wilson didn’t come in from the jet.”

“I told her I could handle it.” He replied, Emily tired enough she didn’t pick up on the shift in his tone, the coolness of his voice the second you were brought up.

“How’s she holding up?”

“Better.” He sighed, flipping a file closed, “think a night out helped.”

“Oh?” She raised a brow, feeling her stomach begin to churn, “I didn’t expect that drink to go well….”

“I didn’t ask.” He shrugged as he moved to stand, “but she got in pretty late.” He dropped the file onto her desk, “anyways, I’ll see ya Monday.”

“Yeah.”

Emily’s lips pursed as she watched him leave the office, she knew that she technically had no right to be jealous or upset right now, but it didn’t matter, she still very much was. Instead she tried to push it to the back of her mind, picking up the files Derek had left to go over them before submitting them. She still had a bunch of her own to go through as well, making sure Dewald would be ready to be processed out on Monday. It was a few hours later by the time she heard Penelope’s heels making their way toward her office, pausing right as she crossed the doorway.

“Hi…” she greeted, her boldness suddenly vanishing from her body.

“Hi…?” Emily raised a brow in her direction.

“Uh.. I… uh…”

“What?” She laughed, “spit it out Garcia.” She took in the expression on the other woman’s face, worry taking over her, “oh god… what did you do?”

“You know, this time… I actually didn’t do anything. But I do have a bone to pick with you and honestly, I’m more than a little mad at you right now. Because you did do something.”

“What are you on about?” She laughed once more, placing down her pen to fully tune into the blonde.

“You and Wilson.” She finally spat it out and she definitely caught the way Emily tensed.

“I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.” She bluffed, though she could feel her heart rate spike.

“Oh come on Emily! Cut the crap! It’s been the unspoken topic all week. I know I’m not a profiler but I’m not dumb. Not to mention I’ve been going through Dewald’s computer, and now I know you know about the bug in your apartment.”

“Oh god…” Emily dropped her face into her hands, more than a little embarrassed as she realized what Penelope was talking about and just how much she must have heard.

“Also, Wilson knows that I know. But she did swear me to secrecy.”

“As she should have!”

“You need to talk to her!”

“Why?” She looked up at her with an exasperated sigh. It was Saturday, she shouldn’t have even been working in the first place and now everything was coming out of the woodwork.

“For starters you owe her one hell of an apology.”

“What?”

“Two days before you kicked her off the case you found the bug, didn’t you? Sergio broke something, and the apartment gets really quiet from then on in. Until you ended things with her. Which, for the record, I don’t believe one bit. I know you Emily, you wouldn’t be that cruel unless there was a reason. You would have let her down easily, especially knowing that you still have to work together and instead you tore a strip off her, crushed her heart. After all those weeks of sickeningly cute date nights, spending the entire weekend together? And don’t even get me started on how much sex you two were having, my god, good on you guys! After all of that, to rip the rug out from under her, it’s gotta be about the case. You need to talk to her because you care about her, and you hurt her…”

“Are you done?” Emily asked softly, her voice meek, her gaze directed down at the desk in front of her as Penelope let out a huff and she felt the tears misting into her eyes.

“I think so.”

“I broke her heart Pen…” She finally glanced up at the other woman who winced at the look of sheer pain written across her expressions and she finally fully came clean about everything, not that it mattered, Penelope had clearly already heard basically everything.

“So you go and apologize.”

“What? Right now? She just got back from Seattle; I think I can give her a little breathing room.”

“That’s honestly probably a good idea, she’s pretty hungover.”

“She mention anything about Skylar?” Emily raised a cautious brow.

“No. And hey! Even if she did, I wouldn’t tell you because you don’t get the privilege of knowing until you’ve apologized and begged for forgiveness that I really, really hope she gives you because you guys are so stinkin’ cute and honestly I just really need you to kiss and make up and be together.”

“I honestly don’t know if she’ll ever forgive me.”

“Oh c’mon.”

“Pen, you don’t understand, she’s been hurt so badly before, walked out on, abandoned and now I’ve done the exact same thing to her.”

“Yeah but it was to keep her safe. She’s gotta at least understand that.”

“How is she supposed to trust me again?”

“Well you start with an apology and an explanation, and then give it time.” Penelope’s voice was softer this time, “you really care about her don’t you?” When Emily looked up at her, her eyes were blurred with tears and she let out a shaky sigh, finally fucking saying the words out loud.

“She was the first person I let myself fall in love with in a very long time.”

“Well then tell her that!” The last three words were enunciated by Garcia smacking the file folder in her hand against Emily’s arm.

“Hey!”

“Idiots.” The blonde muttered under her breath, turning to leave the room. “Promise me?”

“I will!” Emily groaned, “once we know Dewald’s in actual prison, I’ll explain everything.”

“Good!” Penelope called as she disappeared out of the office.

*

When you got home that night you realized just how fucking exhausted you were, grabbing the mail from the mail box as you unlocked the front door. The first thing you noticed was that you kicked something small, shooting it across the floor before it clinked against the bottom stair. The second was the beeping coming from the now working and active alarm system.

Dropping the mail onto the entry way table you padded over to the security system and punched in the code you’d chosen when Derek was attempting to set it up and the beeping stopped. Brow furrowed, you moved back to the stairs, picking up what was glinting in the sunlight and realized it was your spare key, pocketing it you flipped through the pile of mail. Nestled in between the folds of a Whole Foods flyer was the blue lanyard the key had been on the last time you’d seen it.

You glanced between it and the alarm box a few times. Emily had been in your house. Emily had made sure that the security system was properly up and running by the time you got home and had slipped the key under the door rather than stashing it on the lanyard somewhere. Two big things that would contribute to your continued safety.

Maybe there was something to Penelope’s findings after all.  

__________________

@mickey-gomez @momlifebehard @melindawarnersgf @itisdoctortoyousir @emilyprentiss4life @somethingimaginative17 @temilyrights @alexxavicry  @anya-casablanca @daddy-heather-dunbar @aliensaurusrex @rustyzebra @ilovemycrayons @thegrantwater @leftoverenvy @kades95 @dextur @m00nkn1ghts @augustvandyne @supercriminalbean @daffodil-heart @msvenablesbitch @its-soph-xx  @going-gray @just-a-torn-up-masterpiece @hopelesslyfallenninlove @peanutbutterprincess  @kdaghay @emilyprentisssluvr @lex13cm @awolfcsworld @zizzlekwum @emobabeyy @riveramorylunar @s1ut4nat @midnight-sapphic @scorpsik @thisisraes @prentiss-theorem @unsubologyy @strongsassysexysloane @svushots  @overtrred28 @hbkswife @happenstnces  @sapphicprentiss @heidss @geekyandgay98 @pagetboobstarcomments

[randomwriteronline]

Bionicle and Plato's Cave: Mata Nui help us Random has been thinking again

HI. MY BRAIN HAS ONCE AGAIN BEEN SCRAMBLED. WHY DOES THIS KEEP HAPPENING.

A thing about stories is that there aren't really fully, one-hundred percent original ones. This is not a bad thing, it just happens.

Stories keep repeating one another whether we like it or not, maintaining their own identities through a variety of changes, and Bionicle repeats many, many stories within itself: you've got Polynesian mythos, fantasy epics, dystopian fiction, cosmic horrors, torahic and/or biblical episodes, a subversion of Pinocchio, an Odissey cut short... The works. I'm half certain one would manage to fit some parts of the Divine Comedy in there, probably.

But speaking of deeply allegorical works, the Organic Annal is that too - specifically bearing a resemblance to one of Greek philosopher Plato's most famous allegorical myths, that of the cave.

For those who do not know it, please have a simplistic bastardized version of its first half, which is the most relevant in this case:

A group of men have been, since birth, shackled within the deepest recesses of a cave. They are sat facing a wall upon which a fire casts the shadows of figurines (a tree, a donkey, a vase, etc) placed before it: this is all they've ever known, what they perceive to be reality. Imagine, then, that one of these prisoners manages to free themself from their restraints, and for the first time looks back. Thus they discover the figurines, the fire, and the lie they thought was truth; and though it would be easy to consider these new idols the "true" reality, the prisoner looks past them and sees that the cave stretches forward. As such they crawl through it until they reach the outside world: the sunlight forces their eyes down as they are not used to it yet, and their first taste of this new environment is a reflection in a puddle, or maybe a lake, wobbly and not quite clear. Only when they've accustomed to the Sun they can raise their head and properly discover the real world.

The myth of the cave is an allegory for the philosopher's quest in search of true knowledge, which resides not in the imperfect physical world, but in the perfect metaphysical realm of ideas.

This is not, necessarily, the allegory I believe the Innard Scoresheet represents.

The Biological Chronicle is, to me, a story about stories. About making stories, about being swept in the flow of a story, about recreating ourselves in stories over and over and over again.

I promise it will probably make more sense later.

But back to the point: the myth and the Flesh Record follow a similar structure and have a similar message. That is the thesis of this post until I inevitably get derailed again. Let's look at that.

In applying the steps (shadow, copy, reflection, reality) of the philosopher's journey towards enlightenment to the Meat Diaries, I'll do what Plato would bludgeon my head with a stick for and take them much more literally: the places described are physical ones, and the characters actively move between them. This is not because of any personal wish to specifically spite some dead Athenian fuck, but because that is literally what happens in the Entrail Annotations, whether through actual movement or changes of perspective.

The island of Mata Nui is of course the first step: shadows cast upon a cave wall.

There is a certain irony in this. Mata Nui shares the same allegorical location as the cave, yet physically is its complete opposite - an open space signaling the end of an enormous interconnected system of caves. The journey starts from the end. Great job everybody, we've found reality! This philosophy shit is easy.

But the island is still very much the cave. It looks prettier and livelier than the cave, but it's still a prison in which the Matoran have been confined with no chance of escaping; it's still cut off from the world at large, be it beneath it ir around it; it's still a place where beings who do not know any better blindly believe what is told to them. Only seven people know the truth (or what they believe to be the truth) and spin it in tales of shadow puppets: simplistic retellings full of gaps to fill with magic and terror and prophecies. The Turaga mean no harm - they had no way to know when or if they would have ever returned to Metru Nui, and it made no sense reminding the Matoran of a place they may end up agonizing to see without being able to - but it remains that Mata Nui is a cave, a prison of ignorance.

Things change after Mask of Light: shackles broken and door opened, the silver sea stretches before the Matoran and offers them a sight familiar yet different, more defined.

Metru Nui is the figurine, the copy held in front of the fire. It's the first introduction to the Matoran Universe proper, the first step towards the cave's exit. Here we see how the Matoran are supposed to work, how this sort of society is meant to function, and it... well, it sort of sucks the joy out of it, doesn't it? The soft edges of the figurine's shadow have been replaced by hard protodermis sides that leave no room to the imagination, letting us see the craftmanship clearly. And it's... it's kind of unpleasant. Kind of dull and mean and so... unmagical. I'd like the shadows again please. Those were nicer.

(Plato describes this exact happenstance in the philosopher's journey - upon seeing something closer to the truth one might feel repelled and want to return to simpler times. But we persevere. We must.)

Or perhaps this step is not Metru Nui itself, but the Turaga's recollection of it. The city they knew is now gone, abandoned to itself and rotting miserably alone for a thousand years, and yet they still cling to that pristine image their minds have sculpted for it, forgetting details, crafting imperfect copies of its reality: their own stories place it in a time before time, turn it as they say in a "city of legends", of great minds and a great hero and a strange tension pervading it that they might not consciously recognize. This is their basis for the stories they told, and they believe it to be the truth. It is not. The truth is deeper behind them.

The Matoran Universe as a whole is a reflection in the water. We've gotten out of that cave, but it's still too bright and our eyes can't adapt quickly enough: this will have to do for now.

But what is it a reflection of? A body? That's a given, since the whole thing is housed inside one. Yet this body does not behave like a body, its organs don't act like organs. They are landmarks and settlements, and there are species and parties involved in their own more or less treacherous businesses, and death is everywhere and seldom spares anybody, and evil isn't a singular incomprehensible thing but many perfectly identical pieces, and everything is happening all the time and I would like a break. Please. I can't handle all of this. It's too close to how everything already is. Let's go back to the figurines. They were worse than the shadows, but not to this extent. Please. I just don't want to see the bad guys win. I just don't want to see my friends die.

(Upon seeing something closer to the truth one might feel repelled and want to return to simpler times. But we persevere. We must.)

The Matoran Universe is a terrible place, but it's still far away. The edges are wobbly when the surface shifts: the stakes are universal in size, the rivalries are exaggerated, the situations are fantastical, the evil so terrible and terribly simple. It does what it does because it simply does it, and after all why else should it do it? In its increasing complexity it's still simple and sometimes a bit silly. It's still dolls that you can hold in your hand to make fly around.

As @sepublic mentions briefly here, Bara Magna is by contrast just so human. Before the big bombastic Rock-Em-Sock-Em Jumbo Edition ending and peeling away the sci-fi elements, these are stories of people trying to live. This is reality.

People are sleazy. People have priorities that not always include the well-being of other being put first. People are evil for reasons beyond just "power" or "money" or "why not". Strakk is a massive selfish bastard and also he is the one motherfucker who gets me because to be very honest I too would not want to wade through a desert crawling with quicksand and huge bat winged serpents and raptor riding marauders and spartans so bloodthirsty they don't even name their children until they make a new body count record without being paid well enough. Mata Nui's idealized honor makes him a complete anomaly because nobody is a prince in shining armor here. They're all covered in bones and doing their best not to start a war again.

Even his quest, despite what it entails and how solemnly he presents it and the information we as readers have (his identity as a usurped god exiled from his own body), is surprisingly real - in fact, his struggle is actually the same as Kiina's: both of them are strangers to the region suddenly separated from their people during a time of great strife and desperately wanting to reunite with them. The difference being that while Kiina had no chance to do such a thing, Mata Nui was built to fix both of their problems.

This is what the Matoran Universe is made in the image of. And while it very much deviated across time, the core of it remained the same: elemental tribes and variegated species caught in a dance of death, biting each other's tails endlessly.

This is the world the MU beings find once fully free. It's rough, but they've been through something like this before.

They'll handle it.

They always have.

That is the will of the Non-Mineral Journal.

Of Bionicle, the story-that-ended.

BUT.

Not necessarily of Bionicle, the story-that-does-not-end.

Now we are getting into "Random Experiences Getting The Brain Scrubbed By The Hard Back Of A Sponge And Makes It The Problem Of Everybody Listening To The Inane Yelling" territory. I'm talking walking into headcanon if not straight up just fanfiction territory. Possibly also sensible speculation but I don't know how to tell. Please do come smack me if you feel it is needed.

It's wild that Bionicle has managed to endure for what now (2024) are 23 years. The endless rebuildable possibilities intrinsic to being a LEGO product have certainly helped, but at the same time I really do feel like it wouldn't have held this strongly without its story.

I will admit I'm not a building kind of person. I had some ancient LEGO bricks when I was little and what I usually did with them was stacking them in a really tall line and try to keep it upright until they fell and scattered like lemmings booking it for a cliff. Getting into Bionicle would have never been possible for me had my dear beautiful friend @cantankerouscanuck not innocently dropped me links to Legends of Metru Nui, Web of Shadows, and the Crosswired Geeks website asking if I could have please considered skimming through it. This was back in september 2023. These pieces of plastic have been irreversibly fucking up my brain for nine months, and it was only possible because the plot and characters were written in a way that actively sunk its teeth into my skull and did an alligator death spin so potent that I'm still reeling from it, thinking about it.

I do think that's one of the main reasons why it's still going, why people still talk about it. It lives on through fans who still look at all the enormous potential left by the gaps and holes in the story and work on them, analyze them, make their own versions of them. So this second section is about that part of Bionicle, the story that just does not end, carried on by others.

So back to the point, what actually kickstarted this entire line of thought (the Squishy Note and the allegory of the cave are sort of the same lol) was a headcanon I have about the characters that have been actually missing from this analysis: the Great Beings.

You Know.

The Guys Who Kickstarted Every Single Thing, And Notably Continuously Did All Of It Wrong.

From my own prior knowledge I had understood that they are all Glatorian, and I just learned that they also were, apparently, given their incredible weird fucked up mental powers that made them into godly creatures by a space octopus.

I am going to take both pieces of information and discard them.

There is nothing necessarily wrong with them, except maybe coming from the leftest field available like a sack of granite to the face, but I feel like this kind of explanation for who and what they are isn't really satisfactory to me specifically. It does fit with the allegory of the cave still, technically - they are part of the real world, the ones who created every layer of detachment from it on purpose (somebody must have shackled those prisoners at the bottom of the cave, after all) and have managed to get to a higher level of reality still, following the platonic quest for knowledge into something that resembles the iperuranium, the perfect metaphysical world in which ideas reside.

But also... I'd like for there to be a limit to how higher we can go, you know? Into the cosmic horror? Because everything is cosmic horror in the Doctor's Report already. We live on a god's face. We live in a god's body. We are a god's cells. Our universe is a tiny manmade action figure in a larger universe. Our god is just a synthetic soul. The real older gods made it and sent it around to do their bidding. Also they're all gonna kill us when we figure out our universe is fake. Cosmic horror. Cosmic horror for miles. These are fucking LEGOs. Why is there so much existentialism in them.

So yeah, at the cost of sounding boring the psychic octopus from outer space might be a little bit too far for my personal tastes.

This does not mean I am immune to adding onto the cosmic horror.

Because my personal interpretation of who/what they are still adds onto the cosmic horror.

It just doesn't also include "giant aquatic fauna with psychic powers" in the already very large salad of sentient sapient species who have stakes in this universe, because I think we have enough of those.

So what is my platonic ideal form for them?

The Great Beings are human beings. Straight up just people. They're the readers, the players, the writers, the designers, the creators and tellers of the chronicle itself - they have this immense dominion over everything around them because they are the origin of everything around them in a sense, but their constant failings make sense because for all the influence and power they are still human, and that makes them very, very fallible. I mean, mr Greg "I will rewire your brain chemistry forever with some of the best stuff you'll read as a kid, and also for undiscernible reasons doors aren't canon" Farshtey would be one of them. Things make a lot of sense.

(this is impossible in Stone Cold Canon by the way and I am aware, because if we got to properly see the Great Beings they would have needed to be products to sell, but this is not a matter of probability it's a matter of Vision. like can you imagine how fucking cool would have been a Bonkle movie where the characters finally meet the Great Beings face to face and when it happens the style just completely shifts from 3D animation to a stop-motion and live-action combo with the Great Beings played by people and the characters portrayed by their actual sets with all of the lack of expression and stiff hands and all. do you see it. im about to blow up)

And so, we return to the allegory.

What are the shadows on the wall? Are they still the Turaga's tales? Then shouldn't they be their memories, as well? Everything that comes out of their mouth is hazy either with nostalgia or simplification, and none of it can be real. Yet they present it as such, because to them it is. Their ignorance is the same as the Matoran's, but they do not grasp it because they can't. Mata Nui to them is not the cave, it's the reflection in a lake: an imperfect mirror of reality. They cannot see the fire nor the figurines.

They are the figurines. Man-made creations confined under artificial light in a vast underground system, as large as a whole galaxy and yet so small, so isolated, so far back into the cave they are never meant to know anything other than. The shadows were their own but they can't realize that, and they can't realize they themselves are copies. The Matoran Universe is a puppet show that Teridax shuts down as he takes its reigns: he banishes its fire, Mata Nui (who is a gnostic Demiurge, a god made by gods demanding worship despite its falsehood - another copy not fully aware of being a copy) and shuts the entrance, plunging it all into darkness. No more knowledge. It is not something dolls need, after all.

Bara Magna is not the last step. It is not yet reality, not yet the truth. It's closer, much closer, but it's not: it's the lake, the puddle, the reflection that distorts when something is thrown into it. The stakes are more realistic, the characters and motivations, but not yet real. There is still a layer of separation: the elemental powers, the alien setting, the strange beasts, the supernatural history, the secrets pointing to things much bigger and more fantastical than anything reality could be, the way it is cut short by no fault of its own. What does it reflect? It's not the Matoran Universe, since that is a model based on Bara/Spherus Magna. It's not Mata Nui, because that is an attempt at recreating what the Matoran Universe was, at least in part. So... Is it the real world? Our, world?

It must be.

The Great Beings (us, the players and readers and writers and artists) shaped all of this. This universe is their creation, their work, and it is based on what they know, on their reality, because all stories are.

Maybe it was a story as close to real as possible that turned fantastic and wild until it became mythical, or maybe it was a simple story that grew so complex and grounded that it became life-like. It doesn't matter. It's a long story, a really, really long one, and maybe they're tired of it, or maybe they don't know what to do with it, or maybe they just think it has run its course, or maybe... Maybe they don't know how to tell it again. Tell it like this again.

So... I guess the thing to do is clean up.

Full tabula rasa.

And once we're done we can take these figurines we still have left, the last proof of all this immense work, this spiraling dive into who and what we are, how we function, how we create, how we imitate and recreate ourselves in fictional worlds that are our own and yet completely alien over and over, and make new ones. Distorted reflections that become imperfect copies to place before a fire so that their shadows can play out a new story upon a cave wall, for those same dolls to believe they are real.

God I got sidetracked severely

[psychicpinenut]

netflix atla review

i decided that i wanted to see it through anyway so i finished the netflix atla. here are the things that made me want to hurl rocks at my tv (i might not remember a lot of things because i stopped watching after ep 4 and only continued this week so this might get rambly as i try to recall things)

let me start on the cast. no offense to these kids but my god. one of the things i hate the most is when you can tell an actor is acting. the whole time you could see that they walk up to their mark, stop there and recite the lines like they're in a high school play. and i get that they're young and probably don't have too much experience but i just keep thinking about the original voice cast who were children as well at the time of recording and they're some of the most talented actors i've ever heard. but then again i know they had to not only find people who resemble the characters but can do martial arts and act. so whatever, i hope they'll grow more during this. the only actor i liked was dallas liu who is the oldest of the main cast (i believe he was around 20 when they filmed this) which is probably why he doesn't have a chronic case of child acting.

constantly making up and/or changing lore:

why can aang only speak to past avatars in their shrines?

roku is sidelined in favor of kyoshi (who for some reason is extremely aggressive towards him) who can see into the future apparently because she gave aang a vision of the northern water tribe being destroyed instead of sozin's comet coming.

aang somehow being "lost" to the ocean spirit at the end which is ???

sokka and katara can enter the spirit world with aang

koh keeping his victims like some fucking spider and only gives them back after aang gave some stupid totem back. they also brought him so forward that he doesn't tell aang about tui and la which was the entire fucking point of looking him up in the first place

yue is a fox? in the spirit world?

wan shi tong is there also in the spirit world

i'm guessing they're already abandoning the ancient library storyline because they already intoduced wan shi tong and zhao was shown that he found out about tui and la from the fire sages in roku's temple. which is going to be interesting because that's where sokka finds out about the solar eclipse but i guess they'll come up with some other solution like toph can sense the moon moving through her feet or some shit

tui and la becoming mortals for only one night?

zuko having extensive research on the avatars should mean he knows that roku is his great grandfather but we're either leaving that one out or he's just not good at research

they took out sokka's sexism, thus eliminating any chance of character development, in favor of putting in actual sexism perpetrated by the show itself. suki is made into this small town girl, rapunzel type of character who needs sokka, the man, to bring the world to her and expand her mind. and then instead of sokka being grateful to suki for teaching him, she's the one that's thankful for ... going there? and bringing the world to her? because strong women mean they can punch right?

constant references to book 2 in the first season

they made so that aang didn't actually run away from his responsibility as the avatar - which is a pretty important part of his arc as that guilt follows him through the entire series - but that he only took a little trip to clear his head. which makes everyone accusing him of disappearing seem dumb and unfair

which leads me to bumi. why the fuck would bumi be so pissed at him? the whole episode he's antagonizing him and yelling at him to go do his job as the avatar meanwhile he's holding him hostage and making him do his challenges. like let him go so he can do his job maybe?? stupid

the entire ep 3-4. they really just shoved like 5 episodes together into one which i get because they don't have time to do everything but they did it so badly and the messages from each episode disappeared in favor of the CGI fight scenes.

like what do you mean sokka barely even got to interact with jet? that's the episode where sokka is proven to have good instincts and leadership because he saw jet for what he was.

why are teo and his dad here? what about aang's massive grief over the industrialization of his wiped out culture?

why would jet try to kill bumi? they completely obliterated the moral dilemma of jet wiping out a fire nation village because he sees that as justified even though he's killing civilians who happen to be fire nation.

for some reason they had sokka and katara go through the secret tunnel which is kind of fucking weird. i don't mind if they cut the kaang romance line but it is going to be interesting once it comes to the earthly attachments and some plotlines that revolve around aang having a major crush on katara. also what do you mean the badger moles sense "emotions"? toph is about to sense people's emotions in her feet and learn bending that way

they mary sue'd katara. she's bad at waterbending until she isn't and suddenly she's a master just from self taught basic waterbending she learned from the scroll gran gran gave her?? which is another thing they robbed us of because katara going to great lengths to steal the scroll shows how determined she is and desperate to learn waterbending but here she just gets handed the scroll. she's timid and lukewarm the entire season, the only time i can recall her even raising her voice is when she's arguing with sokka over jet. she gets mad at pakku for not letting her fight which is stupid because girl who is gonna stop you? go and fight?? you should be getting mad at pakku for not even trying to teach you waterbending. then she brings the entire untrained female population to the fight because girl power™. despite all of this, she's proclaimed a master without any actual training and beats zuko's ass purely because she's So Good. like at this point she shouldn't be able to hold her own against zuko without the full moon's help because as soon as the sun comes up zuko easily overpowers her ("you rise with the moon i rise with the sun"). which didn't happen here because she's a self proclaimed master now apparently

aang didn't bend a single waterdrop the entire season. it's book 1: water. it's called water. where's the bending aang? too busy doing another stupid walk and talk

stripped of iroh telling zuko he thinks of him as his son

stripped of one of the rawest lines i've ever heard on television: "my father says she was born lucky, he says i was lucky to be born"

which leads me into azula's character. they brought her in earlier just so her role in the whole season can be her groveling at ozai's feet, seeking his approval, trying to outdo zuko. which is insane cause she already outdoes zuko by a mile. she's a prodigy. they make it look like ozai favors zuko over azula which is so fucking insaaaane it made me so mad. she already knows she's better than zuko, she doesn't need her father's approval. also why isn't her fire blue.

iroh being the one who kills zhao. this one pissed me off so badly because in the original, as the ocean spirit takes hold of him zuko reaches out to zhao to try to save him.... that man tried to have him KILLED. and zuko still tried to save him. but zhao's arrogance didn't let him take his hand and that was his demise. that single act tells us so much about zuko and they just??? took that out??? so iroh can just murder him?? instead of it being the ocean spirit's revenge for killing its partner? instead of giving us that glimpse into who zuko is as a person? i'm going insane

don't even mention the fact that zuko fought back against ozai during the agni kai. he was literally banished because he refused to fight him. he got the scar because he refused to fight him. that's who zuko is!!!! and then they show us that he, a 13 year old boy who is still fairly inexperienced at bending, could have defeated ozai but he chose not to?? i'm sorry???

during the meeting where he spoke out against their plan, they made it look like he only spoke up because the general taunted him and not because he thought what they wanted to do was morally wrong.

now tell me which line hits harder: "compassion is a sign of weakness" or "you will learn respect and suffering will be your teacher". yeah...

yue bringing sokka to the spirit oasis to heal momo?? it was so fucking stupid and unserious that they were cradling a cgi lemur that i was in tears of pain. i almost gave up there

sokka constantly talking about wanting to be a better warrior and bossing katara around but doing absolutely fuck all to prove himself was insane. sokka was just standing around the whole season making bad jokes (cause wow they made sokka unfunny somehow) and flirting with women.

there was no goofiness or lightheartedness to aang. he took everything so fucking seriously it actually hurt to watch because they blew things out of proportion that didn't need to be. why was he so afraid of his normal bending power? not even his avatar state power but just his airbending. constantly angsting over his responsibility and how he's failing as the avatar. jesus fucking christ.

since zuko never stole katara's necklace, june had to use some fuckin random fabric she found on one of the trees that could've belonged to anybody??

zuko was able to capture aang after june found him instead of getting his ass whooped and paralysed so when zhao basically forces him to hand aang over to him, it's easier to guess who the blue spirit is as zuko makes a whole scene about it earlier

truly the one thing i really liked was the addition that the 41st division was the crew he protected at the war meeting

circling back to the first episode where we start out in the past and we get to see the whole genocide of the air nomads instead of finding out along with aang. we also get to see how he ends up in the iceberg so we don't get his story paralleled with zuko's backstory like in the storm. i mean whatever but the aang and zuko parallels were always dear to me.

hated zhao's actor. instead of him being intimidating and scary, he was acting like a frat boy and talked like tom cruise's character in magnolia. just simply annoying

jet telling katara to just stop being sad about her mom and she stops being sad and suddenly she can bend again. and later when he tells her she can bend because he helped her, she straight up denies it because it was "all her" like i gotta disagree there cause no, it was definitely him who helped you.

icing on the cake was when zuko walks into a bar and the patrons there reference like 4 storylines that they skipped over

so anyway... that's all i could think of at the top of my head and i hope they fuck up less in the upcoming seasons god willing

[ren-and-co]

BTD Mystery Room AU: DC Oleander's Little Secret

Summary of the AU: Despite his protest, Lawrence Oleander became a newly promoted detective constable. He loathed the promotion because he was comfortable being an officer and had much spare time to visit many flower shops during his patrol. He was assigned to be an assistant to an infamously feared inspector in the whole unit, with near-perfect records of catching the culprits, and many assistants kept asking to be moved out due to the harsh working conditions. And when Lawrence entered his new office, he was met with a pair of fox ears peeking out of the table, a voice grumbling about where he had put his case file, and a fluffy tail gently waving towards him. That's how he found out his boss is a childish, short fox beastkin with a knack for misplacing his things and the alter he has due to his CDD. [This AU is mainly Lawrence x Ren]

Ren is a very observant man despite his hyperactive nature.

Ever since he had Detective Constable Oleander—or as he often called him, “Law”—as his assistant to help with his overspilling case problem, his eyes always watched the taller man’s habit during all their constant visits to multiple crime scenes. Something that made his eyes glistening in the dark, full of amazement.

The first thing that Law always does during their investigation is to go straight to the place where the corpse was found, stare at the body for a couple of minutes, put his hands together, and quietly mutter words while closing his eyes before ending the routine with a slight nod towards the corpse and continuing the investigation.

Fox deduced it was just a tiny prayer to respect the dead, but Ren wanted to know the truth straight from the assistant’s mouth.

So here he was, doing paperwork related to his last case quietly in his office, with orange eyes sometimes wandering to the taller man across him, also filling up reports for The Commissioner on his desk.

You have the chance, kid. Ren could feel Fox’s voice on his head, prompting him to put down the pen and entirely focus on the conversation inside his mind.

C’mon, he’s busy, Fox! His gaze is now positioned directly towards Lawrence. Look at him, hunching his back like a giraffe trying to fit into this room. Tall and cute, and I would hug him—

Fox let out a gagging noise. God, you have a crush on him.

Wha— no!! No, I am NOT!!!

Look at your face right now, kiddo. Ren could feel his face internally gripped by Fox and was forced to look at the version of his older alter. Flush across your face, slight cold sweat, hands fidgeting absentmindedly, pupils dilating, and— Fox jabbed his knees lightly, but somehow it’s making him lose balance. —wobbly, weak knees. I’m 92,7% sure you’re lovesick.

The migraine slowly set in the more he’s trying to argue, making the current fronter groan in discomfort, breathing getting shallower. He blinked a couple of times and slowly counted to ten internally. 

This is why he doesn’t like focusing too much on the innerworld of his mind; it’d make him feel terrible physically.

“Ren?” His fox ears perked up, picking up his assistant's familiar, gentle voice. Right before him, Law stared at him, bright blue eyes seemingly glowing under the shadow cast by the sunlight against his back. The other tilted his head slightly, leaning forward, tips of their noses almost touching. “Are you alright? Did something happen?”

Ren could feel his face heating up, but he was trying to ignore the bubbling euphoria in his chest and more of Fox’s pestering inside his mind. “Sorry, just been thinking hard.” He let out a small laugh, grinning as per usual. “Actually, I wanna ask ya somethin’, Law.”

“Hm?” One of his eyebrows raised.

“I’ve been wondering about your…” Prayer? Routine? “...habit, with the victims of our cases.” He still remembered the first time he saw how the other did his thing. 

The lack of light in his eyes, devoid of any life. Yet he still chanted those words like an ancient magic spell.

Law straightened up his back, the corner of his lips tugging upwards slowly. “My mother.” He inhaled. “Most of my family members work in the medical background. My mother is a heart surgeon, and both of my older sisters are nurses in a local community hospital.” The memories of the inspector’s hospital days rushed over him, and he couldn’t help but brush his thumb over his wrist, tracing the faded scars staining his tanned skin. “My family used to pray for the ones who didn’t make it to the emergency room or those who succumbed to their illnesses. A prayer to let the souls be in peace.”

(Ren couldn’t imagine Lawrence in a doctor’s coat nor a medical scrub worn by nurses and doctors alike. The man was so obsessed with death that he’d probably be waiting for multiple people to die patiently, in Ren’s honest opinion.)

Something was lacking in the statement, and Ren could feel Fox nudged him aside to give him room to front together. “Your father, Oleander?” It was Fox’s turn to ask now. Fingers carded his hair backwards, pushing away Ren’s signature messy bangs. A sign of the appearance of another alter.

The smile on Law’s face faded, and the lifeless eyes came staring back into his soul. “In jail. Attempted murder on drowning his son.”He growled, hands quickly grabbing the more petite figure’s shoulders, making him yelp in pain. His grip was like something a machine would produce; hard and wouldn’t be able to come off no matter how hard he tried to pry himself off. 

“When I was little, I never believed in those prayers. I was so foolish at that time. Those prayers sounded like a nuisance.” The grip tightened, and Ren was sure it’d leave some awful bruise. “I was foolish. My father showed me the truth behind those prayers. He threw me off the boat in the middle of the lake and prayed to The River. I’ve seen The River, Ren. They are real. It almost carried me away to the other side. But it didn’t carry me to the light, Ren. It made me stay in the darkness—.”

The beastkin couldn’t catch the rest of the frantic mumbles without ignoring the evergrowing pain. The River? Is that the name of a place? A symbol of the afterlife? He couldn’t care less as he could feel the panic bubbling up his chest violently and ready to spill out.

Dangerdangerdangerdangerhelphelphelp—

I’ll handle this. Stay back and rest.

Then, the last thing he saw was the flickering light of life in the eyes of his assistant before the darkness set in, and someone took his position fully.

It was Fox’s time to come in full force, baring his fangs and snarling aloud. “DETECTIVE CONSTABLE OLEANDER, UNHAND ME AT ONCE, OR I’LL RIP OFF YOUR LIMBS AND EAT YOUR HEART!!!”

As soon as Lawrence loosened his grip, the beastkin pushed him away as far as he could and sat back down, cold gaze and fangs baring, and low growls emanated. His tail looked a lot puffier, an attempt to look large, compensating for his smaller stature.

A form of intimidation, the nature of many carnivorous beastkins.

The light of life finally came back to Lawrence, slowly processing what just happened in a short time. Fox couldn’t help but huff in relief. “Finally, you’re getting your senses back.” His lips pressed together tightly to form a slight grimace. “I thought something possessed you, and I almost tore your throat apart right there.”

“I…” Lawrence was about to speak but then averted his eyes. His body hunched forward, staring down at the ground. “I’m sorry, Inspector Hana…” He croaked, voice cracked. The way he folded his arms, fingers rubbing both of his elbows. It felt like he was smaller than what he usually looked like.

His assistant now looked like a wounded doe, silently waiting for death to arrive.

Very contrasting to him minutes ago. A raging buck that was about to stab him with his antlers.

Fox couldn’t stay angry for long. Despite his violent outbursts, this man is still a valuable department member. He is a fast learner, aware of his surroundings, and has good instincts and critical thinking skills under pressure. If he let this man go, he wouldn’t get the same mindpower no matter how many future assistants the Mystery Room gets.

“It’s alright.” He tried to raise his arm to hold the other’s hand, but the sharp pain on his shoulder made him wince. He almost forgot about the marks from the iron grip this beast had. “Get me an icepack. It should be in the breakroom’s fridge.”

The taller man quickly rushed outside for some moments before returning with the mentioned item, wrapped in a thin towel. It was a considerate small gesture that the inspector appreciated the most.

“May I…?” Lawrence gestured the towel bundle towards the shoulder, and Fox nodded, letting his assistant press the cold pack onto one of his shoulders, biting his lip to hold back the pained noises. He could even see the reddish handprint marks peeking from under his short-sleeved shirt and grimaced once more.

Silence finally settled in comfortably between the two of them. Only their breathing could be heard. Occasionally, small gasps escaped from the beastkin’s lips, holding back the pain of the bruise being pressed a bit too hard for his liking.

A beastkin often follows their instincts, even when the human side suppresses the beast’s nature. And Fox couldn’t help but lean closer to the taller man, gently sniffing his skin and inhaling the natural scent. Many humans don’t realise that most of their scents carry distinct aromas other than the stink of sweat, and Ren uses this knowledge to solve crimes that even the homicide department couldn’t solve.

Fox could detect whiffs of wet soil and grass, rotten wood, and burnt pinewood tar. Something you would smell during a camping trip in the middle of a mountainside. Hints of the smell of rain and rotting flesh started to appear the longer he sniffed the other, now scrunching his nose and leaning away.

“You stink.” No clarification of the scent, just him being blunt about it while not oversharing the information. “You showered every morning, I’m sure. You should invest in essential oils dabbed in your uniform if you hate those artificially mass-produced men's body sprays.”

“How do you-”

“Your hair is always slightly damp whenever you come into the office. I can smell soap from it, but none of the other scents, unlike many shampoos from convenience stores or body shops.” Lawrence slowly carded his hair, eyes widened, and now leaning closer towards his face. “And when the Commissioner visits the office, you always put up a good distance between you and him with a scrunching-up nose and holding a finger under it, possibly to block out the overwhelming smell from that bastard’s cologne. You would do the same thing whenever anyone with a strong perfume smell comes into our office— hey, you’re too close, Oleander.”

His response only got a small sheepish grin from the other. “Sorry, you sound very alive whenever you’re deducing.”

Fox narrowed his eyes, ignoring his own slightly heated face. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

 “I can hear it. The unwavering confidence in every sentence of yours.” Lawrence moved his hand from his hair to cup Fox’s face gently. “Not skipping a beat, nor stuttering. Ren did all of his analysis without any doubts. He’s a warm figure, like a sunshine in a field of sunflowers.”

A light slap is enough to swat away the hand from the beastkin’s now reddened face. “Stop seducing me, Detective Constable Oleander.” He sneered, pushing out the other’s face with his palm. “Unless you’re gonna tell me about the prayer, go fuck yourself.”

“I will when you’re nearing your deathbed, Inspector.”

“Is that your way of telling me you don’t want to tell me?”

The small, knowing smile from the assistant answered his question.

[sydsaint]

WarDaddy Time Babes!!

Summary: The reader is MJF's sister and a replacement for RJ City on his podcast show, Hey! ew. Her special guest for the show is Wardlow, and the pair have instant chemistry.

"Thanks again for setting this whole thing up for me, Max. Turns out that you're actually useful for some things." You tease your brother while one of the camera crew attaches your microphone.

Max rolls his eyes at you an scoffs. "Yeah well, I knew that I'd never hear the end of it if I didn't." He insists. "Have fun. I hope that you embarrass yourself."

"Me?" You laugh. "Please. Never gonna happen little brother." You wink at him.

Max rolls his eyes again and walks off since his work is done for the night. You adjust your blouse once the audio team is done and wait for your podcast guest to arrive.

A few minutes later, a large shadow is cast in the small room. You glance at the doorway where your special guest awaits you. Wardlow.

"Wardlow, hi!" You walk over to him with a friendly and confident smile. "Damn, you are fucking tall." You laugh when you have to crane your neck in order to look him in the eyes. "I hope that my brother didn't give you any trouble when he asked you to be on the show."

Wardlow smiles down at you and chuckles. "Not at all. I've actually been looking forward to meeting you, Y/N." He admits. "Friedman used to go on about his evil sister all of the time."

"Evil, huh?" You grin. "Well I wouldn't say that exactly. But I guess that Max had to learn all of those backhanded tactics from somewhere right?" You joke. "Come on, lets get you mic'd up and then we can get the interview started." You usher him into the room.

Wardlow nods and the audio team get him wired up for his interview. You retrieve your list of questions that you wrote up earlier and take a seat in your chair. Wardlow sits down in the chair next to you and the camera crew signal that they are ready to record.

"Hello! And welcome to, 'Hey! EW', my name is Y/N Friedman filling in for RJ City while he's busy being less cool than me." You snark. "I am sitting here today with the current AEW TNT champion. Everyone's favorite muscly hunk, Wardlow." You nod to Wardlow. "Now Wardlow, tell me? How does it feel to be my current favorite man in AEW after your shocking betrayl of my own brother, and resident pain in the ass scumbag, Maxwell Jacob Friedman?"

Wardlow attempts to hide a laugh and shifts in his chair. "Umm, I have to say. Yeah, it feels great. Thanks." He tells you.

"Oh no thanks needed here, big man." You laugh. "I think that we can all agree that you were doing the world a favor with that one." You insist and glance back down at your paper. "Now you grew up in a very small town, which apparently is home to the 3rd largest Amish population in the country. How was it growing up Amish?" You joke with a serious look on your face.

Again, Wardlow stifles a small laugh. "Well, I wasn't really Amish growing up." He admits. "But I did know a lot of them as a kid." He adds.

"Now I assume that when you say 'knew them,' you really mean that you freelanced as a workhorse for them?" You quip. "You know, raising barns and carrying lumber? Things like that?"

"Uh, yeah sure. I guess you could say that." Wardlow nods.

You rattle off a few more ridiculous question that you've got written down. But Wardlow seems to have a good answer for every one of them. The chemistry in the room is at an all time high with every back-and-forth exchange.

"Now according to my sources, you claim that you strive to up the numbers in AEW's female demographics. As well as their 19-40 demo's as well?" You ask Wardlow the last question on your list.

"Yes." Wardlow nods.

"Well." You uncross your legs and lean forward in your chair. "It just so happens that I am a member of both of those demographics. So please, pitch me your case for upping these rating." You ask him.

Wardlow nods, a grin playing on his face. "Alright." He agrees and gets to his feet.

You watch with your hands folded in front of you as Wardlow gets up and carefully pulls his shirt over his head. He turns to the camera and does a couple of flexes before he turns back to you.

You remain stone-faced at the impressive display. "Okay, solid point." You nodd at him. "But what if I'm not convinced?" You challenge him.

"I bet that I could lift and hold you on one shoulder no problem." Wardlow replies without missing a beat.

Before you can get a reply out, Wardlow hauls you to your feet by the arm. You get pulled to your feet and he does as promised with very little effort. You are hauled up and set on his left shoulder with ease and you finally break character and let out a laugh.

"Damn!" You laugh as Wardlow sets you back down on the floor. "Well a girl certainly can't argue with that." You sit back down in your chair.

You finish up the interview and strip off your microphone from your blouse. Wardlow lingers around after everything is finalized so you walk over to him to chat.

"Well, that was definitely the funnest interview that I've done." You laugh as you approach him.

Wardlow chuckles and nods in agreement. "Yeah, I had fun." He admits. "You know, you are way more fun than your brother." He jokes. "And prettier, too."

"I get that a lot." You giggle. "Hey, if you aren't busy. You wan't to grab some dinner with me?" You ask him.

"Sure." Wardlow grins down at you. "I could eat."

[ask-de-writer]

FIENDSHIP IS MAGIC  

(Part 64 of ?)  

18+ readers only  (sex scenes)

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FIENDSHIP IS MAGIC

or

Making Fiends and Influencing Ponies

An Anthro *Tail* of the Mane Six

Part 64 of ? (Work in Progress)

by

De Writer

67461 words (story in progress)

© 2022 by Glen Ten-Eyck

All rights reserved.  This document may not be copied or distributed on   or to any medium or placed in any mass storage system except by the express written consent of the author.

//////////////

Copyright fair use rules for Tumblr users

This story is age restricted to 18+

years or older!

Users  of Tumblr.com are specifically granted the following rights.  They may   reblog the story provided that all author and copyright information remains intact.  They may use the characters or original  characters in my settings for fan fiction, fan art works, cosplay, or fan musical compositions.

All sorts of fan art, cosplay, music or fiction is actively encouraged.

///////////////////////

New to the story?  Read from the start HERE

//////////////////////

Princess Twilight's attention was captivated by the dancers on the different stages. She practically glomped the other two Princesses and demanded to know, “Have you ever seen any dance performance like these? I know that there is no record of them in the Royal Library! I looked, after I found your private closed stacks!”

Princess Luna gave her a sideways look as she replied, “Oh, you did, did you?”

Princess Celestia just turned red in the face. Quietly, she returned, “No, Twi, a performance like this is turning into? Never in close enough to four thousand years have I seen anything like this.”

Kin had quietly herded Pinkie Pie back to the group. She whispered, “Twi is hatching an idea that you will absolutely want to hear.”

The Gryphon Ambassador was listening closely. He had a mirror out and was whispering, “Grata, Hisst, Empress, this show is like nothing ever done before and it is being done for our aid! Princess Celestia just confirmed that she has never beheld anything like it! The show has not even been put on and already they have raised about thirty eight thousand golden bits for us!”

He listened carefully to the reply. “I will tell them. There is much else happening in the Kingdom. They are, along with this, working to forstall a coup attempt.

“The first of the four casualty trains will be coming this afternoon. The Kindred Spirit Trauma Hospital is fully staffed and waiting for them.”

He listened more and closed his mirror.

He turned to Pinkie and gestured with a wing at the set dance going on the stage, “How do you manage to have a three step waterfall and pool on the stage?”

Pinkie snorted, “We had a little help with that one! It is mostly a Glamor spell cast by one of the foremost practitioners of non Equine magic in the kingdom.”

Meanwhile, Luna, eybrows raised almost all the way to her crown, was asking, “Are you sure about this, Twilight? Yes, Tia and I are the second and third best Rom dancers presently living but Rom dance is not like this!”

Nodding emphatically, Twilight stated, “True. Kin can coach us in how this kind of dance works in only a few minutes. We saw that last night.”

Celestia pointed out, “This might conflict with the Hospital's work.”

Luna replied, “We have a day and a half. Besides casualties we have ten more Gryphon surgeons who are not injured coming to learn. With their help, we could easily deal with the new cases.

“I think that Twi's idea is a good one! We have WATCHED enough performances. It is about time that we are IN one! Get Pinkie, Foamy, and Clarice over here while we still have the time!”

Pinkie piped up, “I'm already here. What's your idea?”

The other two nudged Twilight forward, “It's your idea, Twi. You pitch it.”

She took a deep breath and began, “Well, I thought that We, the Princesses could do one of the features between the set pieces. The basic idea is that we will all be on stage, taking turns as the lead. We will all be using those hidden wing outfits. First, Celestia will begin, with a low spotlight that will brighten. As it does, she will do the wing reveal and some flashy wing work, then she will be pulling hers close as I join her and sort of do the same while she goes to support dancing and then Luna will join me and I will retire to the support role with Celestia.

“Sort of presenting the passage of a day, through evening and night. You see?”

Pinkie bobbed her head as she turned and sprinted for the stages, “Foamy! Clarice! Quick! We have a dance emergency! You need to score a new one, fast!”

The Princesses huddled with the choreographers as Twilight explained her idea. Kin joined them shortly.

Kin pointed out, “I will need to do Princess Twilight entirely from scratch, which is no problem. For both Princesses Celestia and Luna I will need to lift coordination issues from Red. Their dancing is done to a music that is completely alien to what you will all be working with. Also, stripping is a whole different mindset. With your royal permission I will take care of it for you.”

Without waiting, she took up a pencil and pad, beginning to make sketches while talking over the act with the choreographers.

Pinkie nodded, not even waiting for their answer as she took off for backstage! Shortly she returned with Red. “Here you are, Kin. She is happy to do this for the show! Giving Royals, wing work and stripping reflexes? Not something found on most resumes!”

Celestia nodded, “True enough! Have we got time enough to do a full rehearsal? I mean, those trains of casualties will be arriving soon.”

Luna gave a slightly embarrassed happy skip as she replied, “Plenty of time, actually. Even once they get here, they have to be offloaded and the cases transported to the hospital. These are nearly all serious injuries but not life threatening. What I wonder is whether our costumes can be ready in time for us to rehearse with them.”

Rarity spoke up from where she was watching the finale of the mainstage second act, “If I can get the measurements and costume work up sketches, I should be able to have them for you in less than an hour.”

Kin put down her pencil and handed Rarity the file of drawings that she had been working on. “Here you go, Sweet Love. But not before you get a kiss. I've missed hugging you for simply hours!”

Suiting action to words, she pulled Rarity close and kissed her deeply. As they broke the kiss, Rarity added, “As soon as I get back with these, we will watch a run through of the act and then, Love of Mine, we both are in serious need of milking!”

Kin grinned, placing a hand over her boobs in fake modesty, she replied archly, "Should you speak of such things in public?” Breaking into a grin, she finished, “Only when alone or with some pony, like say, ME! Now scoot! Sooner done, sooner we play!”

With a flirt of her tail, Rarity got.

Kin held Red close and gently stroked from the back of her head to the end of her ribs, her fingers dancing lightly along. She gave Red a quick hug and then gestured to Princess Twilight.

“You first, My Princess. It will not take long, but I have the most to do with you. As I have promised, State and personal secrets are totally safe.”

She simply nodded and snuggled up to Kin. As Kin's fingers danced along her spine, Twilight's ears pointed down to the stage where the between act feature dancer was beginning! Her eyes opened in comprehension! “So THAT is what all those dance teachers were trying to show me!”

As she traded places with Princess Luna, Luna giggled, “What? They were trying to teach you how to strip?”

Twilight bleped her tongue at Luna and confessed, “Actually, it was picking up the rhythm of the music for dancing. I've always sort of had two left hooves at dancing. Now I know how to do it right!”

As Celestia took her turn with Kin, she commented, “That's wonderful, Twi. I love Rom dancing but Court ballroom? Boring. I rather expect that this will be anything but!”

TO BE CONTINUED

<==PREVIOUS ~ NEXT==>

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[sidesteppostinghours]

2, 5 and 6 for the artist asks?

evening aurrie!! thank you for the ask!

2. Is it easier to draw someone facing left or right (or forward even)

oh this question is going for artists knees huh. i will draw right facing people till the day i Die. when i draw digitally, i will flip the canvas if theres a character facing left. this has, however, caused shading problems before :') when i draw traditionally i just suffer 😔

5. Estimate of how much of your art you post online vs. the art you keep for yourself

hmmm. id say a good 10:90 ratio for art i post vs art i keep for myself, for various reasons. the biggest reason is that i dont think itd be anything interesting. most of what i draw are headshots and sometimes dumb comics. a lot of what i draw is tailor made to me specifically, and i dont like the idea of a lot of people looking at it, even if i find it funny or show it to a few irl friends. another reason is my art is primarily oc art, and i dont want to post 'spoilers' for their stories, just in case (freely admit this is one of the more bullshit reasons, considering my track record with completing projects). but. also? a really. Really big reason i dont post most of my (fhr) art here is because im a traditional artist and i dont know how to take good pictures 💀

6. Anything that might inspire you subconsciously (i.e. this horse wasn't supposed to look like the Last Unicorn but I see it)

Sigh.

neither of them were intentional. i dont even Watch any of these shows. i dont know how it happened 😭

im also certain Somebodys influencing these two assholes, i just cant figure out who exactly. im pretty sure the pirate story was inspired by the owl house, and the seasons cast miight have been influenced by the writing of underworld office/not exactly a hero and persona 5?? dont quote me on that though.

questions from here!

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

Yellow City, Chapter Eight - a Malevolent AU

An accidental discovery.

A discovery of worth.

A threat that must be answered.

Yellow City, chapter eight. A sequel to Cloud City.

AO3

---------

Parker kept looking behind nervously.

Arthur kept his eyes forward. Where they belonged. “Geez, it’s like you never snuck into a place before,” he whispered.

Parker flipped him the bird.

Arthur grinned, tipped his hat (there was no hat), and moved on.

Boxes rose in the gloom. The only light came from high windows, rusted mullions casting criss-cross shadows on the walls. It smelled unlived-in—not bad, not nasty like Kissinger’s vomitous and mildewed areas, but just… unused.

There was no way to avoid leaving footprints in this dust (and Arthur had a bad moment, a really bad one, when he realized he was leaving foot-prints with toes though he thought he was wearing square-toed Oxfords), but he shook his head and forgot about them because there was nothing else he could do.

The crates rose to the ceiling, stacked, covered haphazardly with old tarps. There had to be hundreds in here. “Shit,” Arthur muttered. “See any markings? Anything that might tip us off?”

Outside the doors, screeching, banging, howling—

“What the fuck are they doing out there?” whispered Parker.

“Focus! We need to do this. Okay. Let’s see. Use our heads. We know this happened ten years ago, right?”

Parker did a double-take. “What happened ten years ago?”

“The Lady’s bereavement. Parker, I gave you the case file. Did you just not fucking read it?”

Parker stared for a moment. “No, sure, I read it. Right. Wait a minute—ten years ago? That’s when you lost—”

“Then logically, the crates will be toward the front,” Arthur said, “since what’s in here goes back generations to the Lady’s ancestors.”

“What in fuck —”

“Keep. Up. Don’t make me force you to use a damn broom to earn your pay,” Arthur whispered, and crept ahead. 

Parker sighed and fell silent.

Arthur began lifting tarps toward the front of the warehouse, where the dust was still thick, but less like

(These were not crates those were not tarps this temple was wide and turquoise and pillared and dangerous with overturned pews and broken musical instruments and cracked altars and suspicious holes and)

creosote that had never been scraped off. There had to be some sign. Some indication of content or date. The Lady was royalty, surely they hadn’t just—

A huge boom from outside, followed by Hastur’s equally enormous laugh.

“Shit,” said Parker. “I gotta go see what they’re doing.”

“Open those doors now, with everybody’s attention drawn, and you’ll give us away,” Arthur cautioned.

Parker threw up his hands. “What are we even looking for?”

“Her records. Her ancestors kept records. She needs them.”

“For what ?”

(To stay alive no that can’t be right why would she need knowledge to—) Arthur frowned. “Maybe I didn’t ask that.”

Parker frowned back. “Bullshit. You’re nosy as fuck. You asked, or you wouldn’t have taken the job.”

And Arthur just 

(knew just knew the way he knew the way he knew Nath-Horthath was dead knew this had been his temple knew)

sighed and said, “She told me some things. Really personal things. I don’t feel like repeating them to you yet because I don’t think you’re ready.”

Parker’s jaw clenched. “You don’t think I’m ready. ”

“No. I don’t.”

Parker’s fists clenched. “Do you have any idea the kind of secrets I’ve carried? The kind of hidden things I’ve known?”

“The whole city's got an idea ow,” Arthur said.

Parker tried to 

(So easy, so simple, like time slowed down, seeing Parker twist as if in slow motion, the collar around his neck sparking and tingling)

sock him in the nose, but Arthur was faster. Fighting was old hat, old hand, easy-peasy in a world this rough, and he dodged, grabbed Parker’s arm, pulled him off balance, and then socked him in the nose.

Parker grabbed his jacket (soft flowing beautiful gauzy yellow) and they both went down.

A bang on the doors echoed their violence, as if someone or something had been thrown against them, and dust rattled down from somewhere overhead and got in their faces, and

(coughing and wiping it away and for one moment Arthur saw this place for what it was, a glorious blue temple like something made from shallow sea and tenor voices, a temple of sea shells and sea foam to a sea god who loved music and loved vengeance and struck like tsunami and sang as sweet and now was dead, dead and gone, because when Celephaïs was lost he would not leave and Arthur knew Arthur knew Arthur knew—)

Arthur screamed.

Parker’s tie (not a tie some kind of collar) sparked like Hastur's anger and he screamed.

Screams outside too, as Hastur’s pet fish-woman beat the shit out of some miserable godless guards, and

(Arthur writhed on the broken, debris-covered floor just for a moment, just for a moment, seeing the words carved by a god into the ceilings and walls to never fade even as all the world crashed down)

“Parker, you asshole!” Arthur said, and kicked his shin.

“Fuck!” said Parker, trying to loosen his tie (pull off Hastur’s lacy golden collar).

Arthur climbed to his feet, tugging his shirt down. “You are fucking paying this cleaning bill.”

“What?” Parker said, looking at him as if totally lost.

Arthur glared. Kicked him again (not hard) on the hip. Then resumed looking under tarps.

Parker lay there on the floor of this dusty warehouse (abandoned temple) and stared. 

“We got together in a place like this, you know,” said Arthur, dropping one tower-tarp and heading toward another.

“You… who?” said Parker. “Bella?”

Arthur stopped moving for a moment and swayed on his feet. “No. Hastur and me.”

“Hastur… and you,” said Parker. “Fucking hell, you’re crazy.”

“Maybe,” said Arthur softly, peering under a slightly tacky tarp. “But I don’t really care. He’s worth it.”

“He… fuck. Arthur. Listen to me. He doesn’t love you.”

Arthur snorted. “You would think that.”

‘No!” Parker sat up. His neck looked slightly discolored around his tie (collar), as though it had bruised him. “He doesn’t fucking love you. You’re a toy. A pet. And you think—gods, I don’t know what the shit you’re thinking—about there being a relationship just gives him ammo!”

Arthur climbed a little, inspecting. “Do you see a crowbar?”

“Answer me, damn it! I’m right, and I know you hear me!”

Arthur sighed. “There’s one.” He hopped down.

“Lester!”

“We were stuck in a stakeout,” said Arthur, hefting the crowbar (broken javelin) before climbing back up. “And I mean stuck. We picked the wrong place, and instead of being able to tail our guy, we had to stay holed up for the whole fucking night while his guards played pinochle and made awful jokes. We couldn’t get out.”

“This didn’t happen,” said Parker.

“I don’t know what time it hit me,” said Arthur, prying a crate open with the terrible sound of rusted nails and ruined wood. “I guess it’s just because we were so close—it was just a fucking hidey-hole, you know? Not really meant for two grown people.”

“This didn’t happen,” said Parker.

“And he’s got all those birth defects,” said Arthur, rummaging through the crate, “which most people just can’t see past. But fuck those people, I say.”

Parker smacked his hands over his face and screamed into them.

“Come on, man,” said Arthur, climbing another tower to pry open a crate. “He’s not hideous, or something. He’s just different.”

“Those aren’t birth defects. He’s a fucking god. You are fucking a god. You… fuck.” Parker’s voice trailed off. “I really didn’t think it would happen to you.”

“What wouldn’t?” said Arthur.

"You going crazy," Parker said quietly. "You losing yourself. I thought... it's like when you lost your eye and your hand. I didn't think it would—"

Arthur gasped. “Parker! Get up here, now!”

Parker groaned like a hundred-year-old-man as he stood, brushed down the stupid yellow smock he’d been put in, and then froze. "Arthur? What is that?"

Light danced over Arthur’s face. He reached into the crate (not a crate some kind of chest golden and inlaid with turquoise) and pulled out—

“What the fuck?” Parker said.

At the baby’s first cry, the sound outside the temple stopped.

At the baby's second cry, the doors slammed open.

“What's happening?" called the goons, while Hastur behind them bellowed Arthur's name (and seemed unable to cross the threshold for some reason), and those goons

(beautiful tall beings, winged and sad and glorious, red tear-marks down their feathered faces as if they’d wept so much that they’d stained themselves)

raced toward them, and Arthur had no desire to turn a baby over to a 

(It’s not a baby)

couple of thugs who’d left it in a fucking crate, and Parker was obviously not safe with a

(not a baby)

baby, either, and that meant Arthur only had one way to respond. He turned and ran into the gloom of the warehouse, trying to quiet the kid, knowing there may be no exit back there without a boat, but if he could just work back around, get the baby to Hastur, then—

“Stop him!” howled the goons.

Arthur ran.

#

It was chaos. Chaos, regardless of mental state.

What Arthur had (and whose he was) limited what the guards of this dead god’s temple could do, and they tried to scare the crazy human (herd him) into going the direction they needed. They didn’t dare just grab. They could fly, could catch any prey for sacrifice, but the King in Yellow allowed this temple to remain out of kindness he rarely showed, and if they gave him reason to tear it down, they’d have nothing left of their god.

June (the spawn of Dagon), owned by Hastur (but who wasn’t these days) did not help because she apparently thought Arthur was in danger, and kept body-slamming the guards before they could push the human in the right direction.

The other human (who still smelled just a little bit of rot, like he’d mouldered, but gotten better) didn’t help either, shouting Arthur’s name, demanding he put it down, chasing him in the wrong directions.

It also didn’t help that the temple was ruined, all rubble and enormous chunks of stonework that had come down when Nath-Horthath died, never repaired out of sorrow. So the human (carrying an absolutely impossible thing) kept diving into small spaces and through wing-hostile archways and into funny holes they didn’t even know existed, like some crazy mouse, and if not for the sound of what he held (singing, singing, glorious and holy), they’d never have kept track.

Hastur the Unspeakable had plenty to say back at the front door, threats and dire warnings, and the crowd that had gathered (starved for something new, and boy, was Hastur’s human good at providing that) howled and threw food and other completely random things through the doors and sent flying scouts in to see what was going on.

And the guards tried, chased, dared not grab, and finally, lost the insane human pet altogether.

#

Police sirens (screeching bellowing madness-making cries) sent Arthur running faster, because Parker may have gotten caught being corrupt, but the rest of the cops were just as wicked through and through, sold out to Kissinger (the Defiler and god of putrescence), and he dared not let them get this child.

The baby was so important. The baby was the Lady’s family, a cousin, thought kidnapped and dead (and ‘ten years’ did not connect to ‘still an infant’ but that didn't matter now), and this was even more important than papers, though having found this child, he was sure the papers were in the warehouse, too.

It would take a miracle to get a chance for those papers now, but the baby was more important.

The infant stopped crying so much (singing? It was singing?) and Arthur finally the chance to get away from the goons, and by some miracle, he found his way outside the back of the warehouse.

It wasn’t a good outside. A sort of balcony, if that’s what they were called when built over water, clearly leftover from olden times and not remotely safe this close to the Lake. But the chain on the door had been rusted, and he’d been able to bash his way out (covered by June’s brand of violence, and Arthur really understood why she’d stayed on the payroll), and now at least they had a minute to breathe.

They had no exit. There wasn’t a boat, not that Arthur would have known how to use one, anyway. His only chance was to hope they’d miss this door, to hope no Lake beasts came to eat them, to hope this exit only a loon would take was beneath their notice. He would wait until they moved past, and then work his way back toward the front.

He bounced the baby gently. “It’s all right. It’s all right. I have you.”

Merge with me, the baby said, and Arthur laughed at its adorable babbling. “You’re talkative, huh? Bet they’ll never shut you up once you really learn to speak.”

I would have you already but for that collar, the baby said, tiny pudgy hands scratching lightly at Arthur’s throat.

“Yeah, I’ll bet you’re hungry. Sorry, little guy. I’m not equipped to solve that naturally.”

I will die without a host, said the baby.

“Come on, Hastur, where are you?” Arthur muttered, because of course Hastur would guess what Arthur would do, of course Hastur would find a way back here to rescue them both.

Give me an offering, if you cannot give me yourself, said the baby, and I may yet live.

Poor fussy thing. This might have been one of the worst days of its young life. Arthur hardly blamed it for being fussy, but he did know what to do to help that.

Very quietly, keeping his volume below all the clamor in the warehouse (the temple invaded, a complex violation) and hoping he’d summon nothing awful from the Lake, Arthur began to sing.

#

June found him.

She’d been asked to, was obviously more capable than the servants of the dead god (Ha! Failure), and was of a size with His pet, so she discerned just where he might be before the rest of them with all their useless might and feathers.

Outside. Over the water, which wasn’t super safe (she hated water almost as much as she loved it), but because it was an insane place to be, naturally, that’s where he was. Arthur, seated on a single turquoise beam as if unaware it was barely wider than his buttocks, rocking the… whatever that was, singing to it, and crying.

Here, she thought to her Lord, her purpose and her god, and knew that by finding His pet, she’d pleased Him.

#

Arthur was unaware of June.

He held this little baby (a boy, he was sure), and looked into his blue eyes and sang, and put all his heart into it, and grieved something he couldn’t think too much about (Faroe), and ached deep down so cruelly horribly sharply helplessly for how much he loved what he could not recall.

The shadow that spread over him was familiar, misshapen if he didn’t know why it looked that way, but he kept singing softly to the child.

“You can sing?” Hastur’s tone was tense, rough (which was the damn goal), almost breathless as he slid and hovered tentacles all around, ensuring Arthur couldn’t fall. 

“The Lady’s cousin,” said Arthur, keeping his voice smooth as he answered a question that hadn’t been asked. “The records she needs are in there, too, I’m sure, but I don’t know how we’re going to get to them now that this happened. Kid mattered more.”

“You can sing,” said Hastur more roughly, and the tips of his tentacles twitched as he gently lifted Arthur and pulled him in to safety.

“Yeah, but how are we going to get to them? They’ll get the law involved now. As it is… fuck, we can’t let them take the kid back. They had him in a crate. A crate, Hastur! They would’ve let him die!”

Hastur seemed to be having trouble focusing. “You can sing,” he whispered to himself.

“Hey! Focus. What are we going to do?” said Arthur, holding that baby tightly.

The baby turned his eyes (blue but unblinking and absolutely inhuman) to Hastur and baby-babbled (spoke like a god) something.

“Yes,” said Hastur. “I think that would be fair.”

“What?” said Arthur.

“This is complicated, little detective,” murmured Hastur, holding Arthur close, his many limbs quivering with an excitement Arthur knew was rare. “You’ve made quite a political splash.”

“Political?” Arthur scowled. “This is a baby. Fuck politics!”

“The baby is the least of things endangered right now,” rumbled Hastur.

“Call the Lady.”

Hastur sighed. “Arthur. She won’t respond.”

“No. Call the Lady. Call Mama Laveau. They’ll get involved. I know it. I know.”

“Arthur…”

“It’s a baby!” Arthur cried, and his voice broke.

Hastur sighed. “Well. Let’s go see what can be done.”

Arthur was deeply glad to leave the Lake behind, and pressed in close to his lover’s chest.

#

Parker looked worse for wear. He sported a black eye and a split lip, but he looked deeply pleased with himself. Weird stains marred his suit (his yellow shift, which was less shear thanks to said stains), and his fingertips were similarly stained.

The goons looked a little beat-up, too. Arthur hoped that meant Parker had held his own. Cloud City Investigations had a reputation, after all.

He barely heard the conversations over him (growling and raised voices and unspeakable language). Barely paid mind to anything going on as long as he could hold the baby, so the baby didn’t get stolen away again, so the baby was safe with him.

“Call Mama Laveau,” he kept saying. “Call the Lady.”

But everyone acted like that wasn’t going to happen, or wouldn’t do any good. He wondered if he’d have to escape with the kid and bring the baby to one of them.

For some reason, the warehouse was… changing.

And Arthur knew it couldn’t, knew it made no sense for the thing to be better repaired every time he looked its way, but it was, it was changing, and was all the better for it. No longer leaning (no longer covered in vines). No longer marked with black shit like mold (no longer dusty or dirty). The doors wide open, weak daylight casting black shadows between the uneven towers of crates (bright double-sunlight gleaming through golden doors, dancing through dust motes and clearly showing statuary being replaced and enormous walls being repaired and the altar, deep in, being set upright and polished).

It… was starting to hurt his head. The warehouse was changing too much.

“Easy, little detective,” Hastur murmured. “You’re hyperventilating. Look at me. Just look at me.”

And Arthur did, and it was relief (no it was not) and it was so much safer (no it was not) and his brain tried to process the real Hastur versus the real Hastur and his thoughts hurt and strained and ached like they were too full, and—

”I see,” said Hastur softly. “You need to rest.”

“No,” said Arthur, clutching the baby. “Not until he’s safe, and I don’t know anybody here who could watch him.”

“I assure you, he is safe,” said Hastur gently. “But you cannot care for him if you collapse.”

Arthur knew he was close to collapse. Could feel it (the temple had changed again and now so many people were inside), but the baby…

The baby. If he did this wrong, the baby would die. It was on him, all on him, absolutely all this baby’s survival was on him—

“Hey,” said Asenath, and Arthur turned toward her with a gasp.

Hastur stilled. “Why are you here? He’s broken no laws!”

“He was crying out to her,” said Asenath, tone dry, one eyebrow raised. “Fully, in faith, with everything in him. Kind of hard to ignore.”

Mama Laveau heard through the grapevine. “What about the Lady?” said Arthur.

“Shhh,” hushed Hastur. “He is allowed to do that, witch.”

Asenath raised both hands, a peace, friend motion. “Calm down, you great big banana. If she were mad, I wouldn’t be the one standing here. No, uh. Angry isn’t the problem.”

The murmuring had stopped. Arthur hadn’t realized how many voices there were until they ceased.

“He’s mine,” Hastur growled, as if she'd threatened something weird.

“Is he?” said Asenath. “Hey, big guy. Nice, uh. Baby you’ve got there.”

“He’s wonderful,” Arthur 

This madman is delightful. I would buy him for my host.

“No,” snarled Hastur.

“He is wonderful,” said Arthur. “Look at his little face!”

“Sweetie, nobody but you can see that right now,” said Asenath.

Arthur stared at her. "What?"

“You agreed to a transfer of knowledge,” Hastur growled.

I lied.

Adorable baby babble, tiny fists going. 

“Yeah, I know, it’s a lot,” said Arthur, catching one fist (some kind of feathered tentacle) and planting a kiss. “He’s gotta be starving.”

Asenath snorted. “He was. Thanks to you, he’s not.”

Arthur’s brain adapted. “Guess I was just lucky I had that milk from the store.”

Asenath stared. “Wow.”

“He’s mine,” said Hastur again. “ I used him. I brought him through. I recognized his specialness.”

“Chill. I’m here for the kid. You want to take it as a warning that maybe flashing your cash on every street corner isn’t the best idea, that’s on you,” said Asenath.

Hastur growled, a constant, dangerous thrum (and the temple gleamed in the suns like it had never been abandoned and Arthur decided not to look over there anymore).

Arthur reached up and patted Hastur’s shoulder. “Hey. It’s Mama Laveau. It’s gonna be okay.”

"It's time, Arthur," said Asenath.

“For… for the baby?” said Arthur in a small voice.

“He’s got family, as it turns out, more than the Lady,” said Asenath, who really said, His worshippers need him, but Arthur couldn't parse it.

“He was in a fucking box.” Arthur set his jaw.

“He put himself there? Fuck, he can’t understand this, can he?” said Asenath.

“I will try to explain forgotten ones later, but for now, let us assume he cannot.”

Delightful. I would buy him.

“Stop that,” said Asenath sharply. “You’re not funny.”

The baby laughed.

“He wasn’t forgotten!” Arthur said, louder. “Some asshole very much did that on purpose!”

“To keep him safe,” said Asenath, soothing. “It wasn’t to hurt him. He was left to be found, and would have been sooner if—” these idiot dumbass worshippers “—the paid goons had actually taken care of the place instead of moping on their butts.”

Arthur struggled with this one. “But…”

“It was a really fancy crate,” said Asenath, deadpan. “Really. They should’ve seen.”

“Fools,” said Hastur, low. “To lose a forgotten one. Pathetic.”

“Yes, yes, you would never,” said Asenath. “It’s gonna be okay. Trust me.”

It was hard to do (felt like failing like losing like losing her), but Arthur did.

Farewell, mad one. May we meet again.

“Don’t cry,” said Arthur, who was crying. “It’s gonna be okay. Don’t cry.”

“We are done here,” growled Hastur.

“Don’t forget your plus-one,” Asenath said mildly, and as she carried the baby away, she glowed, or the baby did, so brightly, so horrifyingly, like the baby was a little sun, but Asenath didn’t respond, as though he’d already been doing that, but if he had, Arthur would be burned, Arthur would be blind, Arthur would be cooked from the inside-out—

“Here,” said June, and dropped Parker at Hastur’s metaphorical feet like a sack of laundry. “Tried to run.”

“What? Run where?” Arthur said.

Hastur snatched Parker off the ground, and he was not gentle. Parker cried out.

“Whoa, hey!” said Arthur.

Hastur brought Parker right to his face, snarling viciously, choking and squeezing. “You knew he could sing!”

“‘Course… I did,” Parker choked, somehow smiling over the tentacle turning his face purple.

And voices cried and cheered and demanded and shouted and called for Hastur by his many names and hurled wild offers to “buy your slave” and

Arthur was shaking. Arthur couldn’t think. Arthur couldn’t

Parker’s eyes were losing focus.

Arthur bit down. His teeth did nothing, of course–Hastur’s hide was strong and thick–but Hastur could also feel it. 

“What?” Hastur roared.

“Drop him!” said Arthur.

“I’ll do more than drop him,” Hastur snarled, and they were suddenly airborne.

High, high, so high, and it

(shone in the light of the two suns and it was so huge and so sprawling and it had to be because this was the city of a god and the lake gleamed blue and the buildings gleamed gold and none of it obeyed physics and the whole place curved and warped and jutted at whatever angle Hastur willed and the walled-off palaces for various gods stuck out like accidental designs and hey, there was Dagon with his pond and grasses and Arthur couldn’t have possibly just walked in there though he sure as hell had and)

Cloud City was incredible from up high. Incredible, and Arthur gasped and clung to Hastur, staring down at rounded tops of towers, at grim streets made beautiful by distance and perpendicularity, at both ocean and Lake black and frightening, and

(The Wood bordered the city on one side and he could not see past it but all around was a ruined land a ruined world a cracked and bleeding creation with smoke here and there and broken-bone-trees like patches of tangled hair and the distant glint-points of something maybe not destroyed or maybe the ground honed sharp)

beyond Cloud City was nothing, nothing, absolutely nothing, an empty world with tiny, lurching specks of Waste Beasts, though Arthur knew there were other places out there, because he’d come from one, because his family had been in one, before they’d decided to sell everything they owned and move to Cloud City, but Arthur couldn’t see one, not even the smoke from someone’s fire, and it was like someone had taken a shovel to all the world and just tilled the world flat.

Arthur meant to say stop hurting Parker. He meant to ask Hastur where the baby was. He meant to demand knowledge of what in hell was going on in that (temple) warehouse.

Instead, he passed out, and the little of his mind that still worked was grateful he finally did.

#

Arthur slept.

He vaguely heard them. Talking. Voices.

He knew who they were (partners) so he was not concerned, even though

It’s how he met Bella

it sure seemed like it was relevant to him and his life, but he felt safe, cradled tightly in Hastur’s many arms, and he was tired; it would be better, Arthur felt, to interact with it all later.

Not now.

Not now.

Not now.

#

Hastur threw Parker to the ground—not nearly as roughly as he could, and therefore not roughly enough to please Parker—but it sure didn’t tickle. “You knew he could sing!”

Parker rose slowly, panting; he was still covered in Songbird spew (he'd gotten a few really good hits in), plus whatever that June chick had for blood (not that he’d drawn it, but their claws had, and she’d carried him when he tried to run away), but he was still better off than with his chosen god.

And that did not bear thinking about because to accept that was to accept a completely wasted life from the age of fifteen, and he couldn’t. He couldn’t. He couldn’t. “Yeah, I knew,” Parker graveled, throat still fucked up.

“You should’ve told me.” Hastur was pissed, and his tentacles cracked like whips.

“He didn’t tell you. Why in fuck should I?” Parker challenged.

“Because you know how I crave artistry,” Hastur said, so that gig was up, because they both know Parker had kept that to himself on purpose.

“I thought he’d have told you when you were play-pretending at being a Summon,” Parker sneered. “He didn’t. Gee, I wonder why no–”

Hastur snatched him up, held him far too close, and the many eyes behind his mask burned like light through magnifying glasses. “You will tell me now.”

Parker looked down.

Arthur lay in Hastur’s arms. The burns had been healed, his clothes changed, his body cleaned. His hair, it turned out, had a bit of a wave, and the result was almost angelic—in spite of the tiredness, the lines on his face, the pulse in his neck. A weary angel, maybe, long past retirement age.

“Now,” growled Hastur.

Parker sighed. “Before he was a detective, he was a reporter.”

And in his sleep, Arthur remembered it all.

#

Remembered covering all the fine arts Cloud City had to offer, and being so proud of the job. Remembered covering even the very not-fine arts, the backroom and penniless stuff, music on washboards and empty oil barrels, and it was just grand.

He loved the music in fug-filled bars, in dark places hardly lit well enough to see what he was drinking. Places where the music seemed to come from the smoke, where nobody knew anyone (but they really know everyone), and the voices were as sultry as the air.

Where he met Bella, and interviewed her, and they hit it off (and anyone who read the article later could tell), and ended up dating in unconventional ways (and singing together while sitting on rooftops, or walking late enough at night to hear the crooning of unseen things, or just hanging out in bars without music, eating greasy and fried foods, giggling over messy fingers.

And making love. Which both denied until Bella couldn’t hide it anymore.

#

“They never married?” said Hastur.

“He really never told you shit, did he?” said Parker, low.

“Let’s just say I find myself in doubt about much he said,” said Hastur.

Parker smirked again. “Take that out on him, then. I dare you.”

Hastur stroked Arthur’s hair. “He’s mad. We’ll see what I do.”

#

They sang together. Arthur loved it; he even wrote some music for Bella, and for their child. They didn’t marry, didn’t have to; Cloud City was not a place that cared if a parent was unmarried.

Though Arthur regretted later that they had not. He wished he’d shown her move love in his time; wished he’d made the effort to ensure she felt as beautiful as he thought she was.

And they shared their kid, trading off, both enjoying Faroe and enjoying the time without Faroe, and it was all so beautiful.

Until that night.

Botched burglary. Mafia mess. Stupid deaths, pointless murders, all for people who owned things they never touched not getting the money they wanted.

Bella was hit in the crossfire.

Arthur was late. Arthur had figured something out, overheard some conversations, realized something was going down, and hurried to the Salty Siren because Bella sang that night. And he was too late, and she wasn’t the only one shot, but in the moment, the only one Arthur cared about, and—

#

“He left her?” said Hastur slowly.

“He told us that night he thought he had to catch the one who shot her, and it would help, somehow, like she'd live if he did,” said Parker with a shrug. “He doesn’t really remember. He was fucked in the head. But yeah—Bella died alone.”

“How tragic,” Hastur purred, tracing Arthur’s lips, and moved on to the part he cared about. “So he wrote music, as well.”

“He stopped,” said Parker. “Music meant Bella. He stopped. And he stopped reporting on music, swapped to crime, and made his way into the P.I. business after. Then about a year after that, Faroe died.” Parker shrugged again.

Hastur considered. He ran his fingers through Arthur’s hair, enjoying the shine. “I wonder what else he mistold me.”

“I wonder,” said Parker.

“Don’t sneer,” said Hastur. “I will punish you for it.”

Parker set his jaw.

“Bella,” whispered Arthur.

“Rest,” bid Hastur. “Rest, while I think what to do.”

“What to do?” said Parker.

Hastur put him down. “The witch was right. Others have finally realized his value.”

Parker frowned. “What really happened back there?”

Hastur shrugged. “Nath-Horthath left a forgotten one of himself in his temple before he went to die—and his people never discovered it. Disgraceful, really.”

“So… what, Nath-Horthath is coming back?” said Parker.

“I’d say so, given the worship they were already giving him.”

Parker looked pale. “Arthur should’ve been eaten.”

“Should have, yes.”

“Why wasn’t he?”

“Because he is Arthur,” said Hastur expansively.

Parker rolled his eyes. “Sure. But why?”

“First, the forgotten one was too tired and starved to take advantage. Second… I believe Arthur endeared it.”

Parker sighed. “He does that.”

“Yes. He does that. And will continue to do that.”

Parker eyed him. “What in fuck are you thinking of doing?”

Hastur smacked him. 

Such a light flick, barely anything, but Parker went down hard.

“Satisfied?” said Hastur. “Is that what you want?”

“Yeah," gasped Parker, "if he knows it’s happening, anyway."

“He won’t. He never will. And I am never selling you back to him.”

Parker glared up from the floor, daring, and in spite of himself, his lower lip trembled. “Even when Arthur finds out what you paid?”

“Hastur?” said Arthur.

“Shhh. Rest,” said Hastur, switching gears, stroking his hair.

“Hey,” said Arthur, eyes half-open, clearly not fully awake. “Hey. How come…”

“What, little detective?” rumbled Hastur.

“How come we can’t bring Faroe back?”

Parker inhaled.

Hastur sighed.

“Asenath’s here,” mumbled Arthur. “Parker’s here. How come…”

“Your daughter made no deal with any god,” said Hastur almost gently. “We have no way to reach her, to find her, to pull her from the Dark World. I’m sorry, Arthur.”

“No, you’re not,” Parker whispered, but Arthur seemed to believe him.

Tears slid from Arthur’s tightly closed eyes, gleaming in the overhead light. “I see,” he said, and seemingly went back to sleep.

Parker swallowed audibly. “Fuck.”

“Go bathe. Clean yourself. If you do not, I will do it for you,” threatened Hastur.

Parker obeyed because it was better than the alternative. 

Arthur slept, and dreamed of Bella, and forgot that she had died.

[hillbillyhippiemusicreview]

THE HHMR ISSUED A STORM WARNING: A NORTHER IS BLOWING IN AS SHANE SMITH AND THE SAINTS ROLL OUT THEIR LATEST RELEASE

Areas affected include: The Heart, The Soul, & Your Tappin’ Toes. Prepare accordingly.

Strong. Fast moving. Cold. Breathtaking. Those are adjectives to describe a Norther or Blue Norther, a storm bringing in fast cold winds from the north into Texas and surrounding states. Those words also perfectly describe Shane Smith & the Saints newest album, Norther. This album hits you hard and fast! Shane, Bennett, Dustin, Chase and Zach put together an eclectic record that, in my humble opinion, is their best work yet, even topping my favorite, 2013’s Coast.

Before I go any further, I will give a disclaimer that this review is biased—for good reason. I have no affiliation with the band; I’ve only met Shane twice, I’ve met the other members each once, and I follow Bennett on instagram (he’s also originally from my adoptive city of Louisville, KY). BUT, they are my *favorite* band! I may have Timmy Ty’s lyrics tattooed on my arm, but there hasn’t ever been a band that puts me in a trance quite like Shane Smith & the Saints. I’ve seen them at: Tumbleweed (LaCygne, KS), the Basement East (Nashville, TN), Headliners (Louisville, KY), Bulls, Bands, and Barrels (Lexington, KY), and most recently for their headline debut at the Mother Church, the Ryman Auditorium (Nashville, TN). So yes, I am a fan—to say the least. I *may* even fanboy out when they are within a 4 hour drive. That may ruin the credibility of my review in some people’s eyes; however, in others it makes this review even more true and authentic as I have been a fan for 10 years for no reason except for the facts that they make damn fine music, and that they are the some of the nicest artists I have ever met. And to “kind of” quote Uncle Dallas Moore, “there ain’t no one [reading] my shit anyway.” 🤠

Norther opens with “Book of Joe,” a hard hitting ballad with a heavy fiddle presence from Bennett and drums that hit you so hard that your heartbeat matches that of the drum beat. “Book of Joe” repeatedly tells us that “It’s a rich man’s war, it’s a poor man’s fight”—no matter which side of the dollar you are on, this life is always a battle. Next up, we get “Fire in the Sky.” Shane starts out by “deep talking” the lyrics, reminiscent of some of Johnny Cash’s lasts works. But then it goes into a toe tappin’, head banging song that isn’t country, Americana, or red dirt, but in my limited Eastern Kentucky vernacular can only be described as Rock.

We have to go all the way to track number 7 (out of 13) for what may be my favorite song on the album, “Wheels.” One set of lyrics in particular makes this song my favorite…“You can’t blame the memories because they brought you a long long way.” As imperfect humans living in a broken world, we have all had experiences that that have shaped us. Some are great and some we could do without. Personally, looking back at those memories, the good and the bad, they all taught me a lesson or changed my direction; something I am thankful for from the Man up above. And “Just like wheels caught in their motion,” we keep trudging forward throughout this crazy life. Jumping down to the 10th song on the album, “1,000 Wild Horses” gives something to the lover of “real country.” While it may be a little faster and have some great instrumentals, the focus is obviously Shane’s deep voice, the lyrics, and the melody.

Y’all, most albums have one or two of those “skip over songs.” That isn’t the case with Norther. The album has 13 imposing songs, 6 of which were singles starting with “Hummingbird” back in 2022. I’ve already told you once, I am biased because Shane Smith & the Saints are my favorite band for no other reasons except they make great music that casts a spell on me every time I hear it; and that in my few interactions, they are all humble, friendly and down to earth fellas who work as hard as hell to make the music they want to make. So, I know it is only March, but this album has the potential to have my vote for best release of 2024!

Do yourself and the band a favor and go listen to these independent artists right now. Stream them on your preferred platform, check out their merch, and lastly go to the show! I’ve been to a ton of shows over the years, but not one show impacted me the way Shane Smith & the Saints with Justin Wells did at the Basement East. P.S. and that was a show they played with borrowed instruments from Turnpike Troubadours (I think) after their van burned!

-Cheers, N.

Below is the music video for “Adeline,” a track off Norther

[amorest-viesse]

[A Cherished Story Someday] - Chloe SSR Card Story Translation

Ft. Chloe, Akira, and the Western wizards

A Dance With You Here - Chapter 1

[Living Room]

Akira: Oh, so this is where you’ve been, Chloe.

Chloe: Good afternoon, Master Sage. Were you looking for me?

Akira: Yes, I wanted to give you something. Here.

Chloe: Whoa, thanks! Is this an invitation? …Oh! It’s from Sir Partle of the Daydream Castle!

As Chloe broke the seal on the letter, his eyes sparkled like a child receiving a present.

Chloe: Oh wow! We’ve been invited to a dinner party! It says he wants to thank us for helping with the mysterious mask incident.

Sir Partle’s request from around the time we all started living together at the Manor…

A mask in his collection was impersonating castle residents and inviting them to dance, causing strange and disturbing rumors to arise.

Chloe: I’m soo happy he still remembers us!

Seeing Chloe smile as he recalled the successful mission suddenly gave me an idea.

Akira: Hey Chloe, would it be okay with you if I recorded the dinner party into the “Book of Memories”?

Chloe: The Book of Memories?

Akira: Murr gave it to me. By holding it up and casting a spell, the book will record whatever scene is before it within its pages.

Akira: Apparently Murr used to use it from time to time, but he got bored of it and thought I’d make better use of it.

Chloe: Ahaha, sounds like Murr! Still, it seems like a pretty valuable item.

Akira: Right? It’s interesting to see the things Murr recorded in the past, but I’d like to record my memories with everyone here too.

Akira: Would that be alright with you?

Chloe: Definitely!

Chloe: I tackled my first ever mission there, so it’s a special place for me too. I’d love to add it to the Book of Memories!

Chloe: Looking forward to it, Master Sage.

Akira: Me too!

A Dance With You Here - Chapter 2

[Chloe’s Room, Night]

Chloe: Huh? I know the Master Sage gave it to me, but where did I put it...

Chloe: Hey, by any chance, did you want to come along to the Daydream Castle too?

Chloe: Oh, but even if you wanted to… what if something went wrong?

♡♥♡

[Elevator, Afternoon]

Chloe: Sorry to keep you guys waiting! …Huh? Where are the Southern wizards?

Shylock: I informed them of the occasion, but it seems they had other plans in mind for today.

Akira: It was just bad timing, but they told us to have plenty fun for all of them. 

Chloe: Oh I see now… In that case, I’ll make sure to bring back tons of stories to tell!

[Daydream Castle]

By the time we arrived at Sir Partle’s castle, the dinner party had already begun.

Aristocrats milled about in gorgeous masks and costumes, befitting of the brilliant decorations that adorned the hall. The sounds of conversation and laughter filled the air.

Aristocrat 1: Oh my, isn’t that lad the one who unraveled the mask mystery?

Aristocrat 2: It is! That’s the kid!

Aristocrat 3: I told all of my friends about him, and they loved the story! Now that’s a wizard you can depend on.

Chloe: I’m glad to hear it! Thank you so much!

Aristocrat 4: Destiny must have reunited us here! Won’t you join me for some light conversation?

Chloe: Whoa!

[chattering voices]

Murr: Huh? Chloe’s disappeared!

Akira: He’s been totally surrounded by aristocrats…!

I tried to cut through the sea of nobles to save Chloe from the overwhelming crowd.

That’s when I felt a light tap on my shoulder.

Chloe: Master Sage.

Akira: Chloe! Are you alright? How did you get out of that crowd...

Chloe: Hey, let’s dance.

Akira: Right now? W- why? Not to mention, I’m not very good at it…

Chloe: What do you mean? Isn’t that why we’re here?

Akira: But, this is a dinner party, not a masquerade ball— Whoa!

Without waiting for a reply, Chloe took me by the hand and spun me around, leading me to the center of the room.

Rustica: Oh? If we’re hosting a ball, then we’ll need some music as accompaniment. Allow me to take care of that.

As if following the tune of Rustica’s harpsichord, Chloe danced around me, his steps quick and light...

Chloe: …

He gazed at me from behind his mask, violet eyes unwavering.

Akira: (...Something feels different about Chloe.)

As I stared into his eyes, trying to pinpoint the difference, I suddenly tripped over myself, unable to keep up with his dancing.

???: Master Sage!

A Dance With You Here - Chapter 3

Chloe: That was close… Are you alright, Master Sage? You didn’t twist your ankle, did you?

Having fallen over, I looked up to see myself in Chloe’s arms.

Akira: T- thank you very much for catching me, Chloe. Umm, what in the world just happened…

Returning my gaze to the dancefloor, I spied the other Chloe who had frozen in place.

Chloe?: …

Chloe: Hey, you’re the mask, right? I left you behind in case anything happened, but I guess you followed me anyways.

Mask: I knew that if I came along, I could dance with you, the Master Sage, and everyone else. I couldn’t let the chance escape me!

Mask: Now then! Let’s dance, Chloe!

The mask took Chloe’s hand, its voice full of joy.

Chloe: Whoa! Hold on! If you start spinning me like this, I won’t be able to keep up! Haha!

Despite his protests, Chloe danced along, frantically mirroring the mask’s steps. All eyes were on them as they wove a beautiful display together.

Mask: Are you embarrassed?

Chloe: …Well, a little bit. But I gotta admit, I’ve always wanted to dance with you here too.

Chloe: That’s why… I’m gonna enjoy this moment to its fullest!

[Applause]

As Chloe and the mask finished their dance, a thunderous applause arose from the crowd.

Chloe: Hearing everyone’s applause makes me so happy! You must— Ah.

The space where Chloe’s dance partner had stood was completely empty. At his feet lay a simple mask.

Picking it up, Chloe addressed it as if speaking to a friend.

Chloe: …Thank you. I’m glad you danced with me.

Before I realized it, everyone was dancing along to the music, inspired by Chloe and the mask.

Chloe: I’m so sorry for all that trouble earlier!

Akira: You don’t have to apologize Chloe. I enjoyed myself too, so don’t worry about it.

Chloe: Really? In that case, would you mind having one more dance? Except this time, it’ll actually be me as your escort.

Akira: Thank you so much, but I really am hopeless when it comes to dancing…

Chloe: I kinda get how you feel.

Chloe: I’d never had a chance to dance before my first ball, so I wasn’t even sure if I could do it.

Chloe: However, thanks to Rustica teaching me, I started to learn little by little. Now I can have a lot of fun dancing, just like earlier.

Chloe: If we’re both enjoying ourselves, you won’t feel embarassed even if we trip up! We can dance how we please, just like everyone else! How about it?

Akira: …Okay! And if it’s alright with you, can we record our dance into the Book of Memories?

Chloe: Absolutely! Here we go, Master Sage!

Chloe: Suispicibo Voitingoc!

Winking at me, Chloe recited his spell. The Book of Memories flew into the air, bearing wtiness as we spun ‘round and ‘round on the dance floor.

After our dance was complete, Chloe and I looked over the image recorded in the book.

Chloe: Wow! Look at that! It’s a drawing of us! I love the expressions on our faces!

Akira: Agreed! It’s all thanks to you teaching me how to dance. I really appreciate it!

Chloe: And thank you for all the memories we’ve made here.

Chloe: Whenever I look back on this, I’ll be able to remember all the fun I’ve had. Oh that makes me so happy!

Chloe’s face glowed with joy. The next time I look at the Book of Memories, I was certain that I would be able to recall his smile perfectly.

Escape from the Sewing Room - Card Episode

Akira: Do you have a favorite story, Chloe? Like a legend that you would read over and over again…?

Chloe: I really love adventure stories about exploring the whole wide world. I used to read a ton of them!

Akira: Adventure stories? That’s great! What did you like about them?

Chloe: Well...

Chloe: ...Back when I was still locked up in the sewing room at home, I couldn’t even read books like I do now.

Chloe: So I would make up my own stories about going on an adventure to places like a city or an island.

Chloe: Since it was all in my head, I never had to worry about what other people would think, and I could go anywhere without bothering anyone…

Akira: Chloe…

Chloe: Oh no, I started talking about sad things again! I’m so sorry!

Chloe: Ah! But whenever I read adventure books during my travels with Rustica, I was surprised to find out there really were cities like the ones I had imagined!

Chloe: Not to mention all kinds of places and stories that never once crossed my mind! They were all so exciting!

Chloe: Which is why I love adventure stories so much. Oh, and they can also be pretty good travel guides!

Akira: Travel guides?

Chloe: Yes, yes! Sometimes, you learn things from them that can be helpful while traveling.

Akira: It’s pretty cool to be able to apply something you learned from a story in real life.

Chloe: Right? Back when I was all by myself in that sewing room, I never would’ve imagined that I’d get to go on a real adventure myself someday!

Home Screen Voice Line

“…Was I smiling just now? I guess seeing you happy made me happy too. Hey, whatever happens from now on, I hope we can keep on smiling like this.”

[phantombanquet]

Blue Lock - A long interview with Tasuku Kaito, who plays the role of Meguru Bachira!

Date Released: February 6, 2022

Translation by: phantombanquet

We bring you a long interview with Tasuku Kaito, who plays the role of Meguru Bachira! The interview is full of interesting topics such as his impression of the original work, the appeal of “Blue Lock” and Meguru Bachira, and so on.

Please take a look.

“What are your impressions of the original work, and what are its highlights?”

Tasuku Kaito: It is a kind of work that draws you into the development of the story and keeps you turning the pages. I used to play soccer myself, so there were a lot of things I could relate to, like the necessary thinking needed in order to play soccer, and the play style of the players. I thought that it was an “egoistic” youth sports manga, with each scene making my hands sweat from the plot twists.

After all, I think the point of interest is “ego”. The appearing characters are aware of their own weapons, polish them, and aim for the goal with the will to not lose to anyone. The most appealing aspect of this work is the bare “ego” that says: I'm going to do it, not someone else.

“Kaito-san, do you have an 'ego' yourself?”

Tasuku Kaito: It's striving to finish what I've decided to do until the end. I think no one can beat me in regards to that, and I don't want to give that up. I don't want to compromise on anything because if I do, I won't continue to grow, so I think this is the part of my “ego” that I don't want to lose to anyone else.

“Could you please tell us the charms of Meguru Bachira when you play as him?”

Tasuku Kaito: I think it’s charming that he goes ahead on his own. It’s a bit difficult to push forward with your goal in a situation where someone is holding back. There were times where I found myself hesitating in certain situations, so I find Bachira’s egocentric attitude charming.

Besides, Bachira doesn't think of difficulties as difficulties, but rather, he enjoys it. Usually, when a wall blocks my way, I think in a somewhat negative way like, “what should I do...”, but in Bachira's case, he treats difficulties as a positive thing, and it's amazing to think that he has that kind of instinct to figure out what he should do to climb over the wall in front of him.

“What do you keep in mind when you play as Bachira?”

Tasuku Kaito: This character has plenty of scenes where he is lively, but I have low energy, so I usually tell myself: “This scene (involving Bachira) is set in a fun setting, so let's wind up the tension!”. I try to give importance in sympathizing with his feelings.

During the post-recording, Director (Tetsuaki) Watanabe-san and Sound Director (Fumiyuki) Goh-san gave me advices like, “Bachira is a high school student, but has an innocent, childlish side, so it's best to not keep a strange appearance for him,” and “Why don't you try acting as energetically and innocently as a young boy having fun?”, so I play as Bachira with these in mind.

“Bachira has a lot of scenes involving Yoichi Isagi, but did you have any previous meetings with Kazuki Ura, who plays the role of Yoichi Isagi, before the recording?”

Tasuku Kaito: Personally, there are several famous seniors, who are like heavenly beings to me, that also appear in this cast, and I think we have to value a part of our feelings and passion for the characters we play, so that we won't be at a disadvantage. Since Isagi and Bachira often interact together, we both talked about how it would be nice if we could borrow the hearts of our seniors, put together our feelings into the drama, and give it our all while we grow alongside each other.

“Are there any characters that are similar to you, or any characters that you admire because they are completely different from you?”

Tasuku Kaito: I have a strong negative-like side myself, so, in a way, I think I am similar to (Aoshi) Tokimitsu. He also has a very negative attitude, so I could really relate to his worries and how his mind works, which he doesn't show. (Laughs)

I guess the character that I admire is (Shoei) Barou. I think it’s cool how he gives importance to his own pride, pushing forward on his own path and sticking to it until the end as a king, regardless of what anyone else says. As a man, I really admire the way he shows off his sheer strength. And as the story progresses, Barou’s overly helpful and a little bit of his mischievous side also comes out; I think the gap between that and his usual attitude is one of his charms.

“Lastly, please give a few words to the fans for the release of the TV anime.”

Tasuku Kaito: The original work is intense, entertaining, and well-known. It is the kind of work that allows you to feel the growth of Isagi, Bachira, and every single character. While I perform as Bachira, I am also growing as I encounter challenges one at a time. I am recording the anime alongside the performances of my seniors, feeling every day that the anime will be as “egoistic” and breathtaking as the original work. I hope you look forward to its release.

Thank you for today!

The “Blue Lock” TV anime is scheduled to air in 2022.

Further information will be released at any time on the official website and official Twitter (@BLUELOCK_PR)!!

Please also check out Meguru Bachira’s character PV released on YouTube!

▼ Meguru Bachira Character PV

Original Interview

[victoriavanish-stories]

Obscurity

C.W. 18+ descriptions of blood, murder, trauma, and childhood trauma, including abuse(sexual) implied, not graphically explained.

A.N. @throwingmetothelions gave me so much insight on this piece. I cannot thank her enough for her help and support. I had additional individuals help out as well, and I am forever grateful for their input. I wrote this story as a follow-up to Ricky Olson's story, Sunshine. If you haven't read the short story, it's not absolutely required-but it might help.

Sunlight bled through the blinds, casting horizontal shadows all over the station. Midafternoon meant the kids were out playing at the parks, coasting down plastic slides, swaying back and forth on swing sets with chains that squeaked every time they propelled themselves forward. If they weren't at the parks, they'd be down at the public pool, eyes red from chlorine and shoulders stained with a thick white coat of sunscreen. Stores began to line the shelves with back-to-school supplies. In just a few weeks, the racks will be empty, ready for the next major holiday or event to take their place. It seemed to him that July always passed by with slow locomotion despite the Independence Day parades, co-workers' scheduling the end of the summer bar-b-ques, and weekend baseball games. It appeared to go on forever. 

Five of six unevenly spread desks sat in the station, organized and functional, and one a scattered mess. A wire basket to the left was overflowing with paperwork like a sick recreation of office jenga ready to topple. To the right, blinking red lights on the corded gray phone indicated the multiple calls on hold from reception. Business cards that read Detective Shepard were the only thing on his chaotic desk that showed any achievement. No family photos, nothing that would show he had any personal life outside of the office. 

He had been married fourteen years; just last year, she had filed for divorce, citing irreconcilable differences, and when he'd gone in front of the judge, he didn't dispute. He had visitation rights, but with late nights and long hours working the cases on his desk, he always had to reschedule. He'd sent birthday gifts two months ago with superheroes and baseball things for them with not even a thank you in return. Seemingly fair as he knew as much about them as they knew about him, long hours from officer to detective collectively made him miss out on parent-teacher conferences, little league, birthday parties, some of the significant milestones the circle of childhood trauma continued repeating the lack of fatherly love from his childhood to theirs. His life seemed to be a revolving door of people entering and exiting.

After the office was vacant, Detective Shepard reached under his desk for the mint green box, tossing the lid aside and pulling out the file he'd become so familiar with. He'd checked out the records a month ago. The label on the side was faded, but he could still distinguish the words' Cold Cases 1990-2000' with the county, state, and signature of the individual who logged them. To anyone else, it was just another crime of opportunity with no evidence or witnesses. To him, it was a case that shaped his whole life. 

His eyes were tired from reading and re-reading the case notes. He was impressed with how thorough the investigator on the case was, each note time stamped with the evidence log at the end. The autopsy report expressed the cause of death was stabbing; death was ruled a homicide, with no suspects. He stared at the faded DMV photo paperclipped to the file, golden curls in her hair, a glint in her eye; he was disappointed that whoever took it didn't let her smile. She always looked better when she smiled. 

His mind wandered back to the last time he'd seen her smile. Her head poked around the door of his room one morning before school with his breakfast on a plastic plate. A  knockoff box of pop-tarts before school, crusty pastry filled with chocolate, would make any kid excited but the excitement was soon lost when he saw her come dressed in her work uniform. 

"Good morning, Sunshine," she'd smile, bringing in his special breakfast. He remembered her sitting on the end of his bed, rubbing his leg through the blankets, trying to soothe the blow of her going to work again. After getting dressed and ready for school, she dropped him off at their neighbor's before giving him a lipstick-stained kiss on his cheek.

After school, with two hands gripping the straps of his backpack, he'd hum their song to himself as he made his way home. Once he was home, he immediately locked the door. Reaching into his bag, he took out the report his teacher handed him that day with the large gold sticker, securing it under one of the fruit magnets, sure she'd see it when she came home. He tossed the backpack on his bed before pulling out the paper and crayons. He knew the routine when he came home from school: stay in the house, don't answer the door for anyone. If there was an emergency, grab the list of phone numbers from the fridge, and run next door to the neighbors. He never had to use the list of phone numbers before. She'd been late getting off work a time or two, and he just had to wait patiently. 

Hours went by, and the sky grew dark with no sign of her; he continued to color until all of his white sheets were full of pictures of animals he'd only seen in a zoo tethered to a stick figure boy hand like a pet, stick figure people in a park with the sun mainly drawn in one corner, and attempts at recreating his favorite cartoons. He rubbed his eyes and yawned; she had never been this late. His stomach rumbled with hunger. He'd made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich it was supposed to be for her, but he was too hungry and tired to make another. The boy started with half, but when his stomach continued to growl, he thought to himself, "I can make her another one," as he swallowed the remaining half. 

He ran a bath, the tub nearly overflowing with water. Just barely drying himself with the towel, he pulled the cotton pajama pants over his damp legs, the fabric sticking as he tried to force his feet through. He crawled into his bed, pulling the blankets up to his chin and rolling around to try and tuck himself in; it wasn't as good as she would have done. He slept the same, drifting off to the thought that she'd be so proud that he cared for himself all day. 

"Son, I need you to get up. Wake up, kid." A heavy-handed man was shaking his shoulder as the haze of morning grogginess faded.

The boy was startled to see the man in his room. He had thin brown hair that receded past his forehead, aviator glasses on even indoors, thick lines around his face, and the smell of cigarettes coming from his breath. A Navy blue blazer covered a blue button-down polo, and the boy remembered the badge and the gun clipped to the belt that held up his black slacks. The boy soon realized his mom wasn't home. He wasn't supposed to let strangers in the house, but she'd always taught him the police were good guys, so he guessed it was okay. 

They sat on his bed for a while. The officer let him play with his badge, and he showed him his gun. Afterward, a lady in a suit with files and papers in her briefcase came in to see him; her face was slightly red, with tear-stained cheeks. She'd given him her best smile, asked him his name, and if anyone else was in the home with him. He shook his head no. When she asked about his dad, all he could do was shrug his shoulders. 

"Any grandparents or aunts and uncles?" she asked. He shook his head no. His mom had never introduced him to anyone before. The lady's eyes went glossy for a minute as she took a slow, deep breath. 

"Sweetie, have you ever known someone who died before?" 

She didn't explain it well. The boy asked multiple questions, making her more uncomfortable as she tried to explain the best she could. Eventually, she changed the subject, telling him he would be going to some friends of hers for a little while until they found someplace for him to stay. 

"Why can't I stay here?" he asked. 

"Because there is no one here to take care of you." 

The social worker helped him pack his suitcase. He tried to pack mostly toys instead of clothes, but she softly corrected him. She ensured he had his backpack and suitcase before helping him into the back of her Chevy. His first home was with a lovely lady named Donna, short and plump - all smiles with long mocha hair; she'd made up her spare room for him with snacks and drinks he usually only got on his birthday. He had made himself sick the first night, trying to eat them all. Donna tucked him in at night and asked if he liked bedtime stories. He only shook his head no. Would it be outrageous for him to ask her to sing? He bit back the question; it wouldn't be the same if she did. As she turned the lights out, he rolled over to his side, facing the wall, his voice trembling as he whispered.

"You are my sunshine, my only sunshine…" 

The social worker returned after a week to take him somewhere else. A farmhouse twenty minutes outside of town had the name Dell painted on the side of their mailbox. They seemed like nice enough people. Rhonda had bright red hair with lots of volume and curls; he noticed the smell of hairspray was overpowering when she'd bring him in for a hug. Despite the warmth of the action, it seemed forced. Tom was the man of the house with feathered brown hair that ended at his shoulders; he always wore a denim coat and had a mustache on his lip.

The house was always busy, with fifteen or more kids running inside and out. Rhonda and Tom spent most of their days making food for the kids, doing laundry, arranging activities, and other kid-related things that took up all their time. Rhonda seemed happy. She loved being a mom and adored having kids around. Tom loved Rhonda, tolerating the kids because it made her happy. The boy wondered why they didn't have any of their own. Maybe they were practicing before having some of their own. He'd never had a male figure around before, unsure how to approach or talk to Tom when he asked him questions. The boy hid behind Rhonda during the first week, clinging to her jeans belt loop as if she'd run away from him. He didn't want to play with the other kids or talk to Tom at dinner; he just silently stayed within arms reach of Rhonda. 

After two years with the Dells' the boy saw a lot of kids coming and going. Some were there for a week, others a month. He wondered when it would be his turn each time one left, but when it wasn't, he began to think his placement was permanent. Once, he shared a bunk with another boy who was thirteen years old. His name was Daniel. He didn't talk much, but he seemed to be a happy and loving kid, always grabbing the boy's shoulders and giving him hugs. Sometimes, they would lay in the bed together, and he'd read stories as the boy fell asleep. One night, Daniel climbed into the boy's bed without a book; he said there were more amusing things to do than reading before bed.

He never spoke of it to anyone. Daniel spent another three weeks in the Dell's house before someone decided to adopt him, three weeks longer than the boy wanted. Afterward, he just receded into himself, thinking it would be like it never happened if he locked it away. 

What was locked away didn't stay there for long. The boy found himself lashing out at the other kids in the house; he'd push them, steal their toys, take the heads and limbs of some of the dolls, drop them into the ditch, and watch their discarded pieces float away. Rhonda thought he might have needed an outlet and might have been bored. 

Nate was the man next door; he was a typical blue-collar guy who worked on his cars in his front yard a lot. Rhonda introduced them and said he needed something to keep his hands busy. Nate had him do chores around the place, weeds, and lawn mowing; he even taught him to work on the cars. One afternoon, they'd finished working on an old Chevy Camaro Nate had purchased at an auction the month before. He brought him inside, and while Nate cracked open a beer, the boy had been handed a cream soda. 

The boy first noticed the heads of animals hanging on the old wood plank walls; the next was the two glass cases of guns perfectly displayed in the living room. 

"Ever been hun'in?" Nate had asked. The boy shook his head; he hadn't realized that was a thing. Nate spent the next hour discussing the finer points of hunting, getting up early in the morning, perched in a tree, waiting for his prey. And when you got the perfect shot and brought the prize home, nothing was like it. He wasn't as interested in waiting and being brought home as he was in the execution. Nate described how you'd have to clean, drain, chop, and then preserve your kill. All things the boy kept to memory in great detail. 

The work at Nate’s helped keep him from bullying the kids, but it didn’t help him open up to anyone. Years of stone-cold emotion later, he'd pushed away anyone who tried to get close. Still, permanent placement with the Shepards by age fifteen and a stable set of friends is how he met his wife, got into the police academy, bought their first home, and pulled himself out of poverty. He thought about his mother often, wondering if she'd be proud of him or what she would have thought of his wife and kids. 

As the old saying goes, your luck will run out one day. Two years after becoming a detective, Shepard had an affair with one of the crime scene investigators from the lab. It didn't end his marriage immediately, but the affair changed them. They played along like nothing happened and ignored each other until the fights were more than the silence. Now divorced with no friends, he was middle-aged, living in a run-down one-bedroom apartment where the fridge door stuck when you opened it, the shower took forever to heat up, and the linoleum in the kitchen was still an ugly floral pattern that went out with the 80s. When he wasn't spending long hours looking through files and avoiding his paperwork, he was in that shitty apartment, missing out on time with his family.

When his mother's birthday approached, he used the power of his badge to dig up information about her. He'd never known what happened; foster families told him she'd died in a car accident on the way home from work, and for years, he believed it. Computer filing systems were new, but their information storage was still limited. When he searched her last name, he'd hoped to find an accident report and a coroner's release. When the only result had been filed under homicide and logged in the cold cases department, he thought it might have been a clerical error. All of this led to the box under his desk, the file he continued to read, studying the reports like he was a student in college, and the information was on his final. Fading polaroids of a crime scene clipped to the file, no matter how old the images, it was hard to miss the crimson streak painting the walls. 

Finding her burial site with no obituary or funeral announcement was hard. She had become a number on a file in the system of lost souls. But he wasn't a detective for nothing. Starting with the coroner who'd been on the case, he researched the path her remains made from autopsy to mortuary. The mortuary owned a cemetery that, ironically, was only four miles from the diner where she worked. It was a long shot, but worth the trip. 

X

Parked across the street in his brazen orange Pontiac, he felt like he was on an old-school stakeout, eyes fixed on the house like it would run away if he glanced elsewhere. A cement walkway, gravel driveway, a new chain link fence, and flower beds by the front door decorated with purple Iris and blue hydrangeas made the old place look fresh and new. Freshly planted sod covered the yard; it had been barren and brown when he'd lived there. The front door had been wood with chipped paint and weak hinges; the storm door creaked when you opened it- the springs reacting so quickly that the door would slam shut before you could turn around to catch it. Now, the annoyingly fresh coral red screamed at him from the sidewalk, the creaking storm door replaced by tempered glass. Even the house he used to live in healed and moved on without him. 

His head flopped against the headrest, blowing out the air from his lungs. He'd picked up a local county map at the gas station, tossing it aside in his passenger seat, three large red circles marking his critical daily destinations. He marked an X through one before starting the car and driving away. The county was small, with few side streets and stop lights. He passed a sandy brick building on a large corner lot, the 'T' in elementary missing; nice to see some things hadn't changed. 

He recognized Donna's house a few more streets away, a bright red for sale sign on the front lawn. Safe to say she didn't live there anymore; was she still alive? As he turned off the main road to the cemetery, he recognized the landmarks, and if he followed them another three miles south, he'd pass the Dell's old place. 

He had always hated cemeteries. Corpses rotting under the ground, slabs of stone marking their place - simultaneously overcrowded and empty, they were an ominous place even during the day. He drove the narrow streets, reading the plot signs and trying to find the correct year: 1998, 2000, 2002, 2006. It felt awkward stepping in the grass above those seemingly resting in peace. They may not have been alive, but he had that uncomfortable feeling like when he was a kid and thought his stuffed animals had feelings of their own; maybe the dead didn't appreciate being walked on. He mumbled sorry's under his breath as he tried to soften his steps. He nearly passed her. 

A 12x8 memorial plaque resting on a granite slab barely a foot from her neighbor's bronze letters spelling out 'In memorial of' her name and the dates of her birth and death. He hadn't realized how young his mother had been when she died. Twenty-eight seemed old to a young boy; now, he could only think she barely had the chance to live.                 

What made killers the type of people they are? What possessed them to kill? Was it power? Was it control? Was it a primal urge within us that we lost due to no longer having to hunt for our food like animals? An urge that was only satisfied by killing our kind. As he rested his knees on the grass, he thought he should feel something: sadness, pain, anger. Had he been so damaged that he could not express himself in a way that mattered? He rationalized that it was his police training, or it might have been Tom's voice saying to him, "Buck up. Boys don't cry." 

 X

"Booth or counter?" a young grungy girl with a nose ring, black eye shadow, crimson lips, and ash brown hair pulled into two messy space buns caught him as he walked in the door. He'd only seen the diner once with his mother; back then, the seats had been a curry yellow, aggregate tiles and dingy paint from years of customers smoking indoors. They'd reimagined the diner into a fifties style with a black and white square grid floor, scarlet red and dodger blue booths, and cardboard cutouts of Elvis and Marilyn Monroe standing in the corners. Fake vinyl records with Coca-Cola labeled on them hung on the walls with black and white photos of old cars and even older people next to them. Mumbling "booth," the girl rolled her eyes, grabbed a two-sided menu, and led him to a booth a few feet from the door.  The red leather was dry, and he could feel the springs digging into him as he sat down. 

Walking up to his table with a jump in her stride she was all smiles, brown doe eyes under thick black lashes, olive-colored skin with strawberry blonde hair pulled into a ponytail. She tilted her head just slightly as she set the mug down in front of him holding up the coffee pot before pouring the steaming liquid into the ceramic cup. 

"What can I getcha?" he glanced at the name tag pinned above her left breast- gold plated with black letters spelling out her name. She wore a periwinkle dress that reached her knees, a white apron tied around her waist, and short white sleeves that matched the white collar at her neck. A pair of cream-colored sneakers on her feet stained with grease and condiments was better than a short, uncomfortable set of heels. Maybe this girl would go home at night with less pain in her feet.

He stared blankly at her shoes somewhere in his scattered brain, a memory of his mother coming into the house after a long day, kicking off her heels, leaning against the fridge to rub her toes and the balls of her feet, wincing when she'd hit that tender spot. She wouldn't sit down after that, immediately working in the kitchen to get dinner started regardless of how hard her day had been. He hoped this poor girl didn’t suffer the same fate at her workday's end. 

His eyes wandered from her shoes to the free skin on her calves, following her lean legs up under her dress. He knew it was in poor taste, but with all his emotions, he needed to have a more physical outlet. She cleared her throat, catching his attention.

"Do you need a few more minutes?" her voice was low but sweet. Shepard flipped the menu over a few times; he hadn't even looked at it.

"Biscuits and gravy will do."  As she was jotting his order down on a small notepad, a man's gruff and muffled voice was climbing in volume from across the room. Detective Shepard saw how her eyes rolled behind her skull as she continued to write. 

She ripped the paper from the notepad, smiled at him, and winked before turning toward the kitchen. The skirt of her uniform flowed as she spun around. He caught just a glance of her thighs that the material would have otherwise hidden. He thought about asking her on a date. Still thinking about that physical outlet, it occurred to him it would be more polite to feed her and discuss a short conversation before assuming she'd fuck him. 

She filled up his mug again, he smiled at her, not saying a word, watching her walk away again. After she’d left he opened the sealed creamer cups adding two to the dark liquid taking a sip before deciding it needed a little sugar. When she disappeared behind the steel cafe doors, his hypervigilant eyes started to take in the room around him.

A couple in their mid-fifties were sitting at the counter leaning into one another as they spoke; the husband talked with his hands a lot, and his wife had to move his cup of tea out of the way several times to avoid him knocking it over. At the end of the diner, in a booth, was a man whose age no one could guess. He wore a faded baseball cap, his grey beard covered in grease from the mountain of bacon and sausage he was shoving into his mouth. Red and blue whitetail flannel seemed warm for the late summer, and the undone buttons showed the dingy white shirt he wore underneath. Pearly white and leveled teeth chomped down noisily on his food. The teeth would slip around in his mouth, using his tongue to click them back in place. 

She ambled from behind the counter, a plate in each hand. She placed the warm plates in front of him and took extra care to lean in close. 

"Anything else, sweetie?" Her hands rubbed the apron on her dress, straightening the semi-crinkled fabric. 

"No," He half-heartedly offered. Taking the fork in hand, he pushed around his food a bit, watching the steam rise from the gravy each time he pushed it around. 

"You sure?" Her palm flattened against the table, leaning on it while her other hand rested on her hip. He made a flat joke about her having dinner with him that night, taking a sip of the coffee she'd brought, thinking it would help him swallow the lump down easier, perplexed when she accepted his offer, he choked on the bittersweet liquid. Again, she twirled away from him with a wink. He felt hesitant about having dinner with her; she couldn't have been more than twenty-four, at least ten years his junior.

When he'd finished his food, she returned with his check, a folded piece of her notepad hidden underneath. Leaving enough cash to cover his bill and a gracious tip, he took the lined piece of paper and folded it into his pocket as he left. 

The detective called her around four in the afternoon; they decided to meet at some Italian restaurant downtown. He was nervous, pacing back and forth in the parking lot, fighting with himself about jumping back in his car and calling it off. Checking his watch, he waited anxiously, rubbing his sweaty palms together. He hadn't been on a date since the divorce, not a proper one; he’d continued to sleep with women just for the sake of having physical connections. 

She’d arrived on time. He sat in that dimly lit restaurant, listening to her talk about her temporary job and living in that town her whole life. Something about having been raised by a single mom; dad had ducked out when she was a baby. One day, she would get out of there and be a singer. She was saving money to take a long trip to Nashville. He couldn't bring himself to tell her about his ex-wife and kids, just that he was a detective. Her enthusiastic questions about how many killers he had caught were any of them serial killers and whether the cases had been gruesome. She was less than thrilled that the cases weren't cinematic and thrilling. 

He offered her a ride back home, and when she was in his passenger seat, she started asking him where he was staying. He described the cheap hotel he'd picked for the weekend; she quipped back quickly, "I haven't seen that one yet." 

How many had she fucking seen?

It didn't matter then; he changed direction, heading for his hotel instead of her place. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her give a coy smile, her thighs squeezing together. 

How innocent she looked was just in how she looked. She wasn't so innocent on her knees, her mascara smeared from her tears, with his dick down her throat. It would have been easier to have her bent over; face shoved into the pillows so he wouldn't have to look at her. She insisted on being on top, and who was he to stop her? He was getting what he wanted one way or the other. 

He flopped onto his back, the bed squeaking beneath them as they awkwardly shuffled around. Opening her legs over him, she straddles his lap, roughly taking him in her hand. She'd grazed him with one of her nails; it was a short-lived pain forgotten when his dick sank into warm wet flesh. She'd slapped his shoulders and grabbed the headboard, her mouth falling open with a deep sigh; if she was faking, she was damn good at it. She sat on him for a while, feeling her body mold to him before she was ready to move.

She moved up and down forward and back, slowly feeling the way he filled her up with each drop onto him. His hands rubbed her thighs, impatient to have her move faster. She rolled on him harder and quicker, arching up underneath her weight as he swallowed down the moans. After a while he bends his knees bucking his hips making her squeal and giggle. Either she is enjoying it or going for an academy award in acting. 

Sitting up on his elbow he takes a calloused hand and cups the side of her face. Fingers finding their way down, wrapping around her delicate neck, she giggled into his lips at how playfully kinky he was being. But for him, his mind was somewhere else. He could easily crush her windpipe under his grip; there was a single bone in her throat that could easily break with just enough force. He squeezed enough pressure to feel her rise up before settling back down. He waited, letting her grow used to the feeling before squeezing tighter. Her mouth fell open, and her eyes rolled back; his hand uncontrollably squeezed harder, and there was a little fear in her eyes as her hands reached up to grab his wrists. He reluctantly loosened his grip, letting the air fill her lungs; she paused momentarily, looking into his eyes before smiling again, resuming her movements. 

When they'd both caught their breath and settled in bed, he lay awake staring at the ceiling, listening to her soft breathing next to him. He closed his eyes and feigned sleep when she stirred, groaning and stretching as she woke. He heard the quiet shuffling as she gathered her things, dressed, and opened his hotel door. He opened his eyes just slightly to see the light from the hallway and her shadow stepping out of the door, closing it behind her.

X

Sitting in a scarlet leather booth again, he returned later than the day before. The waitress he'd spent the night with last night was giggling with one of her coworkers behind the counter; when he'd catch them smiling and looking in his direction, he'd force a smile and wave. When the last customer left, she sauntered to his table, leaning in close as she spoke.

"You gonna hang around? I'm off in an hour." 

"If you're here, I'm here." she smiled, leaning in to kiss his cheek before spinning around and disappearing behind the double kitchen doors. Detective Shepard watched as her coworkers left the diner individually, looking out the window to ensure their cars had disappeared far down the road. He got up from the table quietly, making his way to the kitchen doors; pushing them open with his elbow, he stepped in slowly, seeing her in the back corner of the kitchen breaking down boxes. 

Startled, she jumped a little when she saw him but smiled as she returned to her task. He had nothing; how would he have done it if he had nothing with him? Blue eyes scanned the kitchen, searching around the stoves and the sinks; nothing was ready and available, having been cleaned and put away for a new day tomorrow. While he was looking around, he realized she could have easily run past him to the exit. What was it he was doing wrong? 

At the ticket window was a tray of folded silverware tucked away in cheap white napkins. With the set of silverware, there were steak knives available. He crossed over to them, admiring how tightly she'd wrapped them. Breaking the seal of the red wrapping, he took out the steak knife, letting the rest of the silverware fall to the floor.

"Hey. That's not fair." She may have been attempting to scold him, but the flirtatious tone drowned out the seriousness of her words. 

He studied the knife; the serrated edge would not leave as clean a cut as what he'd read about in the autopsy report. Regardless, it would do the job. He felt the weight of the wooden hilt in his hands, letting the blade catch the light, watermarks from a poor washing job on the blade. 

"Could you not?" her tone changed, stern but soft. Her sneakers squeaked across the tiles; the mopped floor had not yet dried, making each step like nails on a chalkboard. He played the action in his head only; he'd have backed her against the wall, taken her throat in his hands, and then thrust the knife into her with all the strength he had. The knife in his hand wasn't long enough to cut through her body like his mother had been; he'd barely make it to an organ with how short the blade was. Would she still bleed out? Could you bleed out with a small knife like that?

It was only an intrusive thought, a recreation of a crime scene he'd read about repeatedly. It could have remained an intrusive thought; he might have been able to walk away, play it as a joke, and have dinner with her again before forgetting her altogether. But the questions became an impulse, desperate to be answered. 

Her muscles resisted the blade as he plunged it into her abdomen, the disturbing crunch and ripping sound the only thing he could hear. A flash of regret made his hand go weak; she whimpered when the trembling fingers jerked the blade a bit. Warm blood slowly poured onto his hand; realizing there was no going back, he gave a soft thrust and twisted, jolting her and making her slump over the knife. She coughed, the sound giving way to a gurgle as the saliva and blood filled her throat. 

Her body started to go limp, knees giving to her weight, pulling the knife out when her weight was too much to hold. Blood spattered to the floor, pooling around his feet, the thick smell of copper in the air. He stepped back, trying to keep his shoe impression out of the blood on the ground. She didn't fall gracefully, more like a doll someone discarded, spread out over the floor, brown eyes, unfocused, color draining from her cheeks as the blood soaked her dress. He expected her to bleed more, to have it all over the place. Crime scenes he'd walked into were messy. If he watched her long enough, maybe the blood would start pooling underneath her.

The whole thing had been over in seconds; he marveled at how quick, easy, and oddly satisfying it all had been. A hand towel was on the shelf to his left; he took it and wrapped the blade in the scratchy microfiber cloth. Pocketing the red seal and napkin the silverware had been folded in, he left the silver scattered on the floor where they’d fallen. 

Stepping backward out of the double kitchen doors, he kept the towel in his hands, the blood starting to slip through the fibers and onto his fingers. Detective Shepard climbed into his car, dropping the towel in his passenger seat and patting his pockets for his keys. He turned the key in the ignition, clicked his seat belt, and backed out of the parking lot like any other Saturday. 

With the radio off and the window down, he let the wind's throb fill his ears. He'd passed by some locals, giving them a polite wave as he drove by. They knew nothing; he'd be long gone before anyone figured it out. Clammy palms gripped the synthetic leather of his steering wheel; he squirmed in his seat as he tried to fight off the sudden stab in his chest and slow his breathing. A thrill returned to him, like when he was a teenager and snuck a girl into his room for the first time. His dad came home early, and she had to hide under his bed. He'd felt anxious, the adrenaline coursing through him like fire, or had it been the teenage hormones? Only one thing was on his mind when his dad left, and he'd snuck her back out. It was the same thought he had running through his mind now. 

[socialshakespeare]

Hi! Sorry if this is rude, but when are you going to update the archives?

Hi anon, thanks for asking! Firstly, in case anyone was unaware, our current archive offerings can be accessed from the link in our sidebar, or you can click here: https://bit.ly/3KCNMtc

Most recordings from 2014-2020 are available, beginning with Hamlet in 2014, although there are still some missing that were never uploaded. (I'm working on a way for previous leaders to send in any recordings and chat logs they might have that I don't.)

As for the more recent recordings, I'm sorry that those haven't made it to the public archive yet. The past several years have been very difficult for me because of the pandemic and everything it caused in my life, and I put the archive on the back burner for longer than I realized. Currently, I have a backlog of recordings that need to be converted to MP3 files and re-uploaded, because Skype's recorder saves everything as video files.

I do want to apologize for the lack of communication on my part. My instinct is always to blaze through a project and post about it when I'm done, but I'm realizing now that this project is far too big to do that and I really ought to be posting updates more often. Starting now, I'll be posting with the tag "SocShakes archive" whenever a batch of new recordings or chat logs are available in the public folders, so folks can follow that tag directly for updates.

Here is what I'm working on now: • converting all the recent recordings to mp3 files • moving files that we already own into the appropriate folders • making copies of / re-uploading files hosted by others so we won't lose access to anything again • figuring out a way to track down missing recordings and chat logs

(I've been focusing on the recordings, so you'll notice I haven't done much with previous cast lists and chat logs yet. Someday, I would love to have the time to actually clean up and edit the audio to remove polterskypes, but that's still in the future at this point!)

Please do reach out with any other questions or concerns. Looking forward to reading Romeo and Juliet with everyone!

Emerson (trashprinceofdenmark)