#palpable awkwardness and mundanity but whatever

[tragedygf]

not me getting my romanian teacher to read my dark vanessa

[lu-lus-dicks]

@huskers-bar x @nunalastor chapter 4

Tags: enemies to lovers, angst?, eventual fluff, yearning?, soft huskers-bar, both mods are separate people, no beta we die like i do, minor character death, ooc, au: hellaverse (hazbin hotel), nunalastor is head of the marketing department, jealousy?, huskers-bar is an employee at voxtek, lulu as a villain, huskers-bar is a liar, secret dating?

chapter: 4/? / chapter Word count: 2,484 / total word count: 7,426

nunalastor as a single entity is nunalastor, traumatized mod dickmaster and cursed mod nun. and huskers-bar just husk/huskers. babygirl anon will be babygirl anon. I will be lulu. Angie will be angie but is meant to be read as angel dust.

A/N: pure lore this chapter. Almost none of the funny :( sorry. i've decided that as an apology for not being active at all today, the entirety of the next chapter is just going to be nunalastor fucking. I will also stop talking about plot from now on, cuz i'm just bullshitting my way through at this point.

"Hi" Lulu greeted. The room fell into an awkward silence, and the air thickened with palpable tension. Lulu locked his gaze with Alastor's, refusing to look away. The seconds stretched into minutes, elongating the unspoken battle of wills and determination, a staring contest neither wanted to lose, although Lulu was undeniably unaware of the game and was just being a menace.

"how may I assist you today?" Alastor finally spoke, his voice punctuated by a forced smile that failed to reach his eyes. The constant staring wasn't enough to get him to blink even once, but the mundane nature of just staring at Lulu was more than reason enough for Alastor to interject their five extremely long minutes of silence. Plus he didn't need the other members of the hotel to start asking questions. they were too persistent anyway.

Lulu snapped out of his reverie, jolted back to reality by Alastor's question. He rummaged through his bag, shuffling items aside in search of something specific, his actions conveying a sense of excitement. Ugh, he could've been a living vibrator with how jarring the immediate mood shift was. "Ah, right," He mumbled, his attention divided between the bag and Alastor. "I'm here to try and convince you to help me... Again."

Alastor let an exasperated sigh slip, pinching the bridge of his nose. This had been the third time lulu approached him this week alone and this feral... whatever that thing was, wasn't giving up on it "we've already went over this lulu, I am not going to help you steal Lucifers blood"

Lulu pouted, letting out a saddened squeak, his hands immediately stopping their search for the list of reasons Alastor should let Lulu steal Lucifers blood "Not even for 75 souls? Really cute ones?" He bargained, shoulders slumping and posture generally turning a lot more depressed, just like the owner of those shoulders probably was.

"No." Alastor reiterated, "No amount of souls is going to cut it."

The very annoyed and pissed expression on lulus face was honestly disgusting. Lulu leaned in closer, as if the proximity would convince Alastor. oh how wrong he was.

"Dear, why don't you just stop with this nonsense?" Alastor said, the corners of his trademark fake smile twitching in irritation. He put his hands back behind him and stepped away. The more distance between this creature and him the more comfortable he felt.

"what if it was the entire west side of the pentagram?" Lulu offered, sort of as a last ditch attempt... for today at least. Lulu was not exactly sane enough to know when to quit.

"I highly doubt a creature such as yourself is going to be able to achieve such a thing" Alastor answered, mostly as a jab to Lulus pathetic self, but the idea of him gathering so many souls was an amusing one.

However, Lulu didn't think so. Lulus eyes lit up with mischief, immediately switching from that almost-scowl to a smirk even the devil wouldn't be able to mimic. He jumped from the realization, "so that is a maybe! progress"

Alastor shouldn't be surprised but he is. Why is Lulu so obsessed with lucifers blood? sure it tasted good but not that good. Alastor sighed, shaking his head in disbelief and spoke "if that was all you came here for than you're welcome to leave"

"yeah, okay-" Lulu cut himself off as soon as he noticed a sexy four armed hottie walking by the door. "woah! who's that sexy thing over there?"

"excuse me?" Angie turned his head at the directed voice at him. he looked left and right, as if to make sure it was really him that this random imp looking creature was talking to. Once he was sure there was no one else, he put on his trademark seductive smile "oh, are you one of my fans?"

"no, never seen you in my life. what's a beautiful thing like you doing here?" Lulu said casually, running up to Angie and circling around him. The concept of personal space must've been a heaven thing because Lulu was prodding at absolutely every part of Angie.

"oh, that's a first." Angie chuckled nervously as he watched Lulu welcome himself to his body. "well the names angie"

"the names lulu." Lulu answered in a heartbeat. He finally relented the assault and turned to Alastor, waving "Bye Alastor, I'll be stealing your bitches"

"what?"

~

"he's the most precious thing I have with me here at the hotel!" Angie said petting the pig in question. Little fat nuggets was very comfortably set in his lap and was napping.

"he is a cute pig, i'll admit." Lulu said, laughing along and staring at the adorable little creature. He tapped his fingers against the nearest surface, humming to himself. "hmm... say though, what is it that you actually desire? surely there's more to your existence than just taking care of fat nuggets?"

Angie slumped at that question, he didn't like being reminded of work, especially not when he's supposed to be relaxing. HE looked away, scratching the back of his head "oh, that's complicated"

"how so?" Lulu pried, crossing his legs, picking up his teacup and taking one sip. "It's tea time, and tea needs spillin"

Angie shrugged, reaching out one of his four arms to grab his own cup. he blew on it before taking a sip and sighing. "well, I kinda sold my soul to a blind prick" He began

"ah, gotcha" Lulu nodded, "go on, what's this prick like?" he pried, observing him with a keen eye.

That was all it took for Angie to start going off. "he's a real asshole, and not the sexy kind. he has no sense of personal space and is so insistent on always having me around. it's pathetic really-"

As Angie continued his rambling about how unbearable val was, Lulu listened attentively, observing him with a keen eye. Sensing Angie's frustration and dissatisfaction, Lulu formulated a surprising proposal. "What if I told you," Lulu interjected, his voice filled with intrigue, "that I could help you with that?"

"You're serious?" Angie asked, his voice tinged with both skepticism and caution, but he wasn't too against the idea, who would be?

Lulu nodded, a mischievous smile playing on his lips. "Absolutely. I have been trying to find a way to gain status you see, and what better way than to steal the porn overlords most prized bitch?"

Angie leaned forward, his attention fully captured by Lulu's proposition. "And what would you want in return? I've learned the hard way that nothing comes without a price. Not making that mistake again"

Lulu's smile widened as he raised his teacup to his lips, savoring another sip before placing it back on the table. "you're absolutely right. The thing is, the plan I have in mind isn't one I can carry out on my own. I need a helping hand. A partner in crime" Lulu said, letting the rest be left unspoken.

"i'm not helping you kill someone" Angie said, crossing his first set of arms over his chest and wrapping the second around fat nuggets almost like a shield.

"kill? nonsense" Lulu said, waving his hand in dismissal, as if even the mere idea of it was ridiculous. |I need you to help me collect souls. souls that will give me a name. nothing more. I can guarantee I will not be harming any soul that I collect"

That sounded very sketchy. On one hand, yes it made sense, collecting souls was how other overlords became overlords, but most overlords were also assholes. Angie couldn't let another one like valentino exist in the world. But the offer was too tempting... "how do I know you ain't lying?"

Lulu got up, extending a hand over to angie, pausing first in confusion. He was having trouble deciding which hand would need shaking "uh..." He shook it off. "I'll make a contract. In exchange for your assistance, I promise to free you from valentino grasp. In addition, I promise that I will not harm a single soul in the process"

Angie was sold. That was enough a reason to think this guy wasn't fucking around. "As you already know, I've already sold a part of my soul. no need for the deal. I'll help you"

"wonderful. I'll be discussing the plan with you two weeks before the next extermination"

~

Vox stared at Huskers, his crimson eyes narrowing as he processed the situation. Alastor, the infamous Radio Demon, had broken another of Vox's employees watches. His anger was palpable and causing static to appear between his antennas. "That fucking bastard?!"

Husk shifted uncomfortably under Vox's gaze. The pitch shift in Vox's voice was stupid but a little intimidating. "I'm sorry. I didn't get to talk to him, I went to this hotel after Angie offered, and I just stumbled upon him there"

Vox looked like he was about to blow a fuse but for a moment Vox's anger got replaced with a smirk. He paced back and forth across his office, his sharp claws clicking against the marble floor. The gears in his mind (literally) spun rapidly, taking into account every single opportunity he had now that husk was attending the hotel.

"Hmm," Vox muttered, his screen displaying a smirk worthy of the sexiest man on twitter. "Maybe this isn't such a bad idea. Someone to gather intel on my dear Alastor-I mean, that asshole!" He turned his attention back to Huskers, his gaze piercing. "It has failed once, but to be fair, that Pentious was a complete idiot." Vox paused, putting a finger up to his face. "Do they trust you?"

Husker hesitated, unsure how to respond. "Uh... not particularly," they admitted. Sure, they were in hell, but they were almost killed on the first day, that can't be a sign of trust.

Vox waved a dismissive hand in the air. "Unimportant. From now on, you are free from all other duties," He declared, his voice full of pure adulterated joy, one only a horny man like vox could make. "Your primary job will be to gather intel on that radio prick. I want to know his every move, his every plan. What he eats. Where he sleeps. What his favorite color is. What time he goes to sleep. What his hooves look like-"

"But sir—" Husker began, his voice tinged with hesitation.

Vox's eyes narrowed, his patience wearing thin. "Do not even try to negotiate with me on this," he warned, his voice laced with a dangerous edge. "I own your soul" He reminded.

Husker's shoulders slumped, defeated. "Okay," he muttered, his voice barely audible. It would be fine. He saw Alastor once the entire day anyway and that was when he needed to break his tech. He wouldn't even get the opportunities to gather intel anyway.

"good" Vox turned away, his mind already racing with schemes and plots. He had been blindsided by Alastor once, but this time would be different. He would have his dear Alastor tied up and begging for mercy!

~

"and that concludes today's exercises! you're free to go about your days as usual now!" Charlie clapped, signaling everyone's dismissal. She turned to huskers and called out before they could leave "Huskers, may I have a moment?"

"yes, your... highness?"

Charlie chuckled, shaking her head. "Just Charlie," she corrected, her warm smile putting Huskers slightly at ease. "You know we have rooms at the hotel for you to stay at, right? I think it would be beneficial for all of us if you were available as soon as we started, and if it's something you'd like?"

Huskers' shoulders slumped and they sighed. "I mean, it's not entirely up to me, Princess. I'd have to consult with my boss first," They explained. It wouldn't be everyday that Vox showed mercy.

Charlie's expression turned thoughtful, and she nodded understandingly. "Alright, we'll let you talk it out with him and hopefully we can get you here!"

Charlie's excitement died down quickly though, realizing that due to short staff (literally), they were out of rooms where people could actually survive. "Unfortunately, we only have one empty and clean room at the hotel right now, and it's up with our marketing staff."

Huskers eyes lit up. The marketing staff? That's Nunalastor!

"And they tend to get messy at nigh-"

"I'll do it!" they far too quickly accepted, not wanting to miss the opportunity. "I don't mind at all. I'd love to take the room! I'm sure nu-the marketing staff are lovely!" they chuckled nervously, making it way too obvious what their intentions were.

Charlie, bless her heart, either didn't notice or didn't mention it. Her eyes sparkled with joy. "Wow, such enthusiasm! See, I knew I was right about you!"

~

Alastor hummed to himself as he traveled up the stairs. He couldn't help but overhear huskers little interaction with charlie and he just couldn't let the opportunity for some chaos and fun pass. He approached the door to Dickmasters and Nuns room and knocked thrice. Some thumping could be heard on the other side before the door opened in front of him.

Dickmaster answered "yes?"

"greetings, cohorts" Alastor greeted with that charming smile of his. Both Nun and Dickmaster collectively rolled their eyes.

"do you mind? we're in the middle of a fucking..." Dickmaster trailed off.

"we are not fucking, they're just too dumb to finish that sentence" Nun shouted from behind the room. The fact that they were sprawled across the bed in nothing but a shirt on wasn't helping the situation.

Alastor chose to not comment on it. He didn't care. His eyes gleamed with mischief as he began to speak "I have a favor. you see this new resident of ours is here to make my life miserable. I can hear vox's pathetic begging almost from across the pentagram, and they're a spy of his. I'm sure of it, however I don't view them as a threat"

Dickmaster raised a brow, unamused. "uhm, congrats? what's that gotta do with us?"

Alastor chuckled, leaning in font of them, hands resting on his cane. "oh, nothing much. I simply ask that you make their life miserable with your charming little quirks"

Nun and Dickmaster exchanged glances, contemplating Alastor's request. It wouldn't be hard and could prove to be quite entertaining. Plus, Nun wanted to stick it to that guy for some reason. After a brief silence, they smirked and nodded. "oh, will do at some point. What's in it for us though?"

"Entertainment"

"that's hardly a fair deal"

"By the looks of things, that isn't going to stop you." Alastor doesn't wait for a response and starts to melt away into his shadow. "they'll be staying in the room across from you." is the words he left with.

"fuck that guy with his own cane, seriously"

[robininthelabyrinth]

Spilled Pearls

- Chapter 8 - ao3 -

Lan Qiren’s brother did not outwardly react when Wen Ruohan announced what happened.

He merely stared, face as impassive as a stone washed clean by the river, his posture and position impeccable from the little glimpses Lan Qiren kept stealing of him – he was trying to keep his head ducked and his gaze firmly on the ground, trying to demonstrate penitence, but he couldn’t quite resist looking. He assumed that his brother’s seeming indifference was a mask for the rage he undoubtedly felt, seeing his little brother screw up what would have otherwise been a perfect discussion conference for the Lan sect.

It seemed like a reasonable conclusion, given that Lao Nie was taking up all the slack of reacting with rage without any such mask whatsoever.

“He’s little more than a child!” Lao Nie shouted.

“Little more, perhaps,” Wen Ruohan said smoothly. He was enjoying himself, Lan Qiren thought. “But regardless of how close or how far he is, he is adult enough.”

“He can’t marry or inherit –”

“He shed blood in a night-hunt, and that means he can swear oaths, which is all that’s relevant here. It isn’t as if I married him.”

“He’s sixteen! If someone removed sixteen years out of your life, Hanhan, you wouldn’t even notice the absence!”

“True, but irrelevant,” Wen Ruohan said. “And don’t call me that, Sect Leader Nie.”

“I’ll call you whatever I damn well please, you little –”

“You are unharmed?” Lan Qiren’s brother asked Lan Qiren.

Lan Qiren, who’d been spectating the increasingly fraught back and forth between the two sect leaders, turned to look at him, surprised to be addressed.

“I’m fine,” he said quickly. “I only had a headache, and Sect Leader Wen took care of that.”

“You call me da-ge now,” Wen Ruohan reminded him, turning briefly away from his argument to do so. “Your oath, remember.”

“Does he even remember swearing the oaths?” Lao Nie hissed. “You know how these Lan drink – you and your damned need for control! Just because you can’t get it one way, you have to try another, is that it, Hanhan?”

“Sect Leader Nie, if you really find it impossible to be civil -” 

“If you are unharmed, then we can return to the Cloud Recesses,” Lan Qiren’s brother said, ignoring them both. His voice was as distant and cold as a winter breeze, piercing and lifeless; it reminded Lan Qiren a little of his father, and he shivered. “We will determine the remainder at that time.”

“See?” Wen Ruohan said goadingly to Lao Nie, whose scowl only deepened. “If even his own sect doesn’t object to it –”

“They didn’t not object, they’re refraining from making a statement; it’s not the same thing. ‘Even ten years isn’t too late for a gentleman to get revenge’ – !”

“I should like to see them try.”

Lan Qiren felt a sudden sense of relief, heralded by a bright and abrupt clarity: of course Wen Ruohan hadn’t sworn brotherhood with him on his behalf! He’d only done it because he’d seen Lan Qiren together with Lao Nie, found that the sight offended his vision, and immediately decided to disrupt it. Never mind that Lao Nie didn’t have any intentions beyond the casual mentorship of any older cultivator to a junior – Wen Ruohan was well known for his paranoia, his irritability, his tendency to seize on crazy ideas. And, of course, there was his jealousy, a trait to which he had himself admitted…

A treasure sword used to prop up a table, indeed. It wasn’t about Lan Qiren's merits or the Lan sect’s supposed failings at all. The only table Wen Ruohan was concerned with was Lao Nie’s!

(And that certainly did explain the whole bizarre ‘Hanhan’ thing better than any other hypothesis Lan Qiren had come up with.)

Lan Qiren wasn’t sure it was better, exactly, to be a pawn in a strange game between sect leaders, but it was at least more familiar. As a younger son of a politically minded Great Sect, he was more like a daughter; being used for some scheme by the adults around him had always been his destiny, barring some tragedy or especially indulgent parents – the former was unlikely, the latter he lacked – and so his fate was set.

Of course, it would have been better not to be in a game involving Wen Ruohan at all, but he supposed that there were worse options.

After all, if Wen Ruohan’s primary interest was in tormenting Lao Nie, he probably wouldn’t demand Lan Qiren’s presence in the Nightless City all that often – probably just enough to show that he could – and Lan Qiren would be allowed to continue with his plans for his future. It might even turn out to be something of a benefit. After all, a musician with limited martial skills, traveling all alone, could always use strong friends that were nearby, and the Wen sect’s reach far exceeded that of the Lan sect…

Anyway, comparatively, Lan Qiren disliked far more the idea of being stuck in the Jin sect with its inexplicable devotion to worldly affairs (and when it came to Jin Guangshan, word was that that usually meant literal affairs…), and he would have undoubtedly gone utterly mad in the Jiang sect, with its emphasis on freedom and lack of any rules to explain anything. And of course, regrettably, the Nie sect wouldn't have done such a thing to begin with, secretive as they were...

No, it wouldn’t be so bad, Lan Qiren tried to convince himself. It wouldn’t be so bad at all.

The illusion lasted exactly as long as it took for the leaders of the five Great Sects to retreat to finalize their discussions on business – with Sect Leader Jiang and Jin stepping up to keep Sect Leaders Wen and Nie from each other’s throats, even as Lan Qiren’s brother ignored them all – and Lan Qiren returned to his proper place among the other Lan sect disciples.

“Did he really put you in the Fire Palace until you agreed?” one of them asked, then was promptly elbowed by at least three of his fellows – it was poor Lan Yueheng that had asked, naturally; he was extraordinarily good at mathematics and extraordinarily bad at just about everything else, including both tact and following the Lan sect rules. Lan Qiren had gotten on quite well with him in the past, each one happy to have an audience to listen to their rambling without caring too much if the other side was really listening, but Lan Yueheng was Lan Ganhui’s mother’s sister’s son, the two of them raised together like brothers, and in recent years the latter had a habit of restricting the former from spending too much time with Lan Qiren, the favorite subject of his mockery.

“No,” Lan Qiren said stiffly, and turned his face away in sudden upset. He had almost managed to forget that his new sworn brother was reputed to enjoy spending his free time torturing people, enough so that he had an entire prison devoted to it.

The older brother guided, the younger brother obeyed – what was Lan Qiren supposed to learn from Wen Ruohan? How to be cruel and pitiless, how to hurt people, how to increase his cultivation by doing all manner of dirty things?

Even if he didn’t learn such things, wouldn’t people assume it of him anyway?

“But I heard –” Lan Yueheng persisted, then hissed when someone stepped on his foot.

“No,” Lan Qiren said, stronger this time. “Do not speak behind the backs of others, Yueheng-xiong.”

“Oh. Right.”

Someone muttered killjoy under their breath, but that wasn’t exactly new; his brother thought he was one, and he was popular, so others often followed his lead - and anyway, perhaps he was. At any rate, they all stood around in awkward silence for a little while before someone decided to recount one of the incidents in the main event competition once again, their voice a little over-loud in the silence, and a perfectly anodyne conversation about Qingheng-jun’s performance started up in earnest to cover over all the things they did not say.

That, too, was not new.

Truly, life would be easier if everyone would just listen to the rules, Lan Qiren thought wistfully. The nice written-down ones, just those, and never mind about all the unspoken ones, the ones that everyone seemed to intuitively understand except for him – he tried his best to learn those, too, and to extrapolate from one situation to another, but unspoken rules seemed as changeable as a puff of cloud. It was simply impossible.

In the end, the sect leaders finished up their business and each of them took their leave from the Nightless City, just the way that always happened. Before he went, Lao Nie put his hand on Lan Qiren’s shoulder and said, “Write to me if you ever need anything at all,” while glaring at Wen Ruohan, who smirked back; Lan Qiren’s brother did not glance at either of them and merely walked off, his hands behind his back and his posture straight and tall as a tree. The other two Great Sect leaders, Jin and Jiang, exchanged glances of their own and headed off their own way without a word, choosing, quite prudently, not to get involved.

Lan Qiren saluted to Lao Nie and, slightly more hesitantly, to Wen Ruohan, then followed after his brother. To his relief, Wen Ruohan didn’t stop him, only watched him go, his eyes glittering malevolently - his gaze a palpable weight. It wasn’t quite like the first few times they’d met, where the pressure almost felt like the other man was exerting power on him; rather, Lan Qiren suspected, the weight he was feeling was only the weight of all the new expectations that had fallen onto his shoulders as a result of his new brotherhood. 

The ride home was excruciatingly awkward.

It was not a short journey, and Lan Qiren did not speak to his brother once the entire time by mutual unspoken agreement. He might not have noticed such a thing normally, but his brother’s usually cool aura was positively frigid, driving Lan Qiren to silence even when he might have otherwise spoken on mundane matters such as the weather or travel conditions.

Lan Qiren even suspected that if he had dared to try, his brother might have used the muting spell on him.

Naturally, the other disciples followed his brother’s lead – poor Lan Yueheng looked especially torn up over it, and at one point Lan Qiren found a book on abstruse geometry hidden under his pillow in what was probably a well-meaning gesture of solidarity – and Lan Qiren was stuck in that uncomfortable place where he finally had the peace and solitude he often longed for when stuck in a crowd while also simultaneously feeling awful about it, struck with a sudden desire for the company of his family, however cold it might be.

When at last they returned home in the late afternoon, Lan Qiren knew from experience what to do next: he went straight to the hanshi, where his father was waiting for their report, and knelt in penance outside. If the trip had gone well, he would have helped his brother settle the final matters relating to their trip – putting back anything borrowed from the sect’s stores, registering everyone as having arrived with no one lost on the way, that sort of thing – but since it hadn’t, his duties were limited to…well, this.

It was unpleasant, but then, it was supposed to be.

He waited for over a shichen in unmoving silence. The remainder of the sect tiptoed around him, with the disciples that had remained behind sending him sympathetic looks that suggested that they didn’t know exactly what had happened but were burning with curiosity to find out.

It was already dark by the time his brother arrived.

When he did so, he walked right by Lan Qiren without looking and went inside.

There was no written rule against eavesdropping, although there were several unspoken rules about it that were sometimes but not always applicable, but even when (guiltily) straining his ears to the utmost, Lan Qiren could only hear the vaguest murmur of voices within.

It was only after some time – towards the end of his brother’s report, no doubt – that there was a brief uptick, a surprised exclamation (possibly “what?!”, although Lan Qiren’s father was soft-spoken enough that even an exclamation was too muffled to be properly audible), and Lan Qiren braced himself.

After a little longer, the door to the hanshi opened.

“Qiren,” his father’s voice drifted out. “Enter.”

Lan Qiren got up, a little unsteady from all the kneeling, straightened himself out and walked inside, his hands folded behind his back. He would have knelt again, but his father waved for him to keep standing, frowning thoughtfully at him as his brother drank the tea they had been sharing.

“You swore an oath of brotherhood with Sect Leader Wen?” his father asked, his face frustratingly neutral.

Lan Qiren nodded, then amended: “I do not remember doing so. He offered me a toast, and would not allow me to reject it, and then the next morning, he informed me that we had sworn an oath together and showed me the written version of the oath.”

The paper in question was laid out on the table in front of his father. Lan Qiren’s brother had confiscated it after Wen Ruohan had showed it to him, and Lan Qiren hadn’t figured out a way to ask to see it, though he desperately wanted to know whether they had sworn one of the classical brotherhood oaths or if they’d added their own clauses. It seemed like a thing Wen Ruohan would do, yet the idea had only belatedly occurred to Lan Qiren, which meant he hadn’t properly examined the oath while he’d had the chance.

His father hummed thoughtfully.

“There’s no reason to doubt Sect Leader Wen,” Lan Qiren’s brother opined. “He is meticulous in his schemes. Even if there were, the announcement was public; I would not have our clan be known as oath-breakers.”

“Public and unrefuted,” Lan Qiren’s father said, and Lan Qiren blinked because he almost sounded disapproving – but his father never disapproved of anything his brother did, as far as he knew. “Still, you are not wrong. There are few more decisive than Sect Leader Wen. Once he settled on his course, he would not leave such a gap through which one could retreat, not even for himself…Qiren.”

Lan Qiren straightened.

“You were unharmed?”

He blinked at the unexpected question, the same his brother had posed.

“I only had a headache,” he said hesitantly, vaguely aware from the way his father looked at him and his brother did as well that his answer was not what they were expecting. “From the liquor. Nothing else.”

“Did anything else hurt?” his father pressed. “Your body?”

Lan Qiren thought back. “My upper arms,” he said, remembering. He’d thought it was from the uncomfortable bed. “And my right knee. They were a little bruised, I think, but it went away after Sect Leader Wen shared spiritual energy with me.”

His father frowned and twisted his fingers in a gesture; an array opened beneath Lan Qiren’s feet, and the places he had mentioned, as well as his palms and forehead, began to glow.

The marks on his arms, glowing with the pale echoes of Wen Ruohan’s qi, were in the shape of hands.

(Wen Ruohan had commented on Lan Qiren’s enthusiastic telling of the Lan sect rules while intoxicated, to the point of seeking to hold him down as an unwilling audience. Had Wen Ruohan had to physically restrain him from causing trouble as well?)

“The disgrace was minimal, then,” his brother remarked, and when their father said nothing but dismissed the spell Lan Qiren abruptly realized that they were trying to figure out if he had, in fact, been deflowered, just as Wen Ruohan had teasingly hinted that night. He had not shared with anyone that he had woken up in Wen Ruohan’s bed, too mortified to do so, and now that the suggestion had been seriously raised, he was even more determined never to do so. “Not that that will help the rumors.”

Lan Qiren hadn’t thought – surely people wouldn’t think – wouldn’t assume –

Wen Ruohan had no reputation for liking young boys. He wasn’t even known to cut his sleeve!

(Lan Qiren didn’t know what he himself liked. He’d thought he’d have more time to figure it out.)

“We do not guide our sect according to rumors.”

His brother put down his teacup with a little more force than necessary. “Is it the sale or the price that you object to, Father?” he asked, voice far sharper than it should be when speaking to an elder, least of all their father. “See what I have accomplished for our sect, and without even the official authority of being vested as sect leader! It is just as you taught me! Am I to flinch simply because he shares my blood?”

“It is not what is taken,” their father responded, his voice a little sharper than usual as well, but not by much; he might as well have been commenting disapprovingly on an unfortunate turn in the weather. “But that it is Wen Ruohan who takes. His greed knows no boundaries, his recklessness grows by the year – today Qiren is unharmed and your plans may proceed, but what of tomorrow?”

“Have you thought of any better use to put him to? His role is to serve the sect!”

“As a disciple of the Lan sect,” their father said. His tone was still mild, but his voice was icy enough to make Lan Qiren shiver in a confused sort of fear that he did not quite understand. “Not as a plaything for Wen Ruohan.”

By all rights, Lan Qiren’s brother ought to now kneel and beg forgiveness from his elder, his sect leader, his father, but instead he only shook his head. “An oath of brotherhood goes both ways,” he reminded their father, speaking to him as if they were equals. “Sect Leader Wen announced to the world that he swore an oath with a child – does that not also mean that responsibility for his safety and wellbeing falls equally on his shoulders? Any harm to him stains Sect Leader Wen’s name as much if not more than ours.”

“Are we to let outsiders educate our children, then?”

“One cannot compare a foolish younger son to a brother, voluntarily chosen. He chose it, not us; everyone knows this. Any mistakes Qiren makes will fall heavier on his shoulders.”

Their father frowned deeply enough to carve additional lines into his prematurely aged face. “You plan to use Qiren as a lever, then, and extract concessions for every slight.”

His brother shrugged, almost careless in his arrogance. “If Sect Leader Wen chooses to give me such a handle over him, am I meant to refuse? For all his clever schemes, he is also known to be moody and impulsive, easily lured into rashness…I see an opportunity here, not a trap. You chose to give me responsibility early, to have me help you make our sect stronger, greater; that is what I was born to do. You gave me power and I have done well with it, done exactly what you’ve asked me to do. I’ve made you proud - haven’t I?”

“But what of the risk that Wen Ruohan might ignore public opinion and harm Qiren regardless?” his father pressed, not answering. It wasn’t really necessary, of course; he was always proud of Lan Qiren’s brother, no matter what he did - his eldest son was his treasure, the only thing he cared for; it was as fact as undeniable as the direction in which the sun rose each morning. “The Lan sect does not buy riches with blood.”

“I have thought it over, Father,” his brother said quietly. “It is only a risk that he might be harmed, not a guarantee; it’s not as if I am sending Qiren to the Fire Palace myself. And there is the hope here, not of riches, but of glory for the sect –”

“Glory for the sect?” their father asked, voice rich with meaning Lan Qiren did not understand. “Or for yourself?”

“Are they not one and the same?” Lan Qiren’s brother was unmoved. “In the future, it will be mine, and so there is no difference - whatever you say now, that is what you have always shown me. Besides, Qiren will agree.”

Lan Qiren did not take a step backwards when they turned to look at him, though he dearly wanted to. His hands were still behind his back, gripped tight enough to hurt; he suspected when he looked later on he would find blood beneath his fingernails, dug in deep into his flesh.

“Well?” their father asked of him, though his gaze settled somewhere above Lan Qiren’s head as it always seemed to, as different as night and day from the tender and forgiving looks he gave his eldest son even in the midst of their argument. His voice was so cold that Lan Qiren could feel it against his skin like the bitter winter wind. “What do you say?”

Is it the sale or the price that you object to?

It’s not what is taken, but that it is Wen Ruohan who takes.

Have you thought of any better use to put him to?

His role is to serve the sect.

“I do not see what choice there is,” he said dully, his eyes focused on his father’s face just as his father’s refused to focus on his, foolishly still looking for the affection he knew he would likely never find. In his father’s mind, he had only one son – even his objections on Lan Qiren’s behalf, however mild, were nothing more than what he would have said on behalf of any Lan sect disciple. Even Lan Qiren, foolish and bad at people as he was, could see that his father’s primary concern over the approach his brother had suggested was its potential impact on the reputation of his brother and his sect. “I swore an oath. Even if I do not remember it, as a matter of personal honor, I will not allow myself to be foresworn.”

“There,” his brother said, his voice rich in satisfaction. “You see? The choice is made. It is only what we do with it now that matters.”

Lan Qiren bit his lower lip to keep himself from doing something stupid, like asking do either of you care about me at all.

“Very well,” their father said indifferently. “Then it will be as you say. Qiren.”

“Father.”

“You will spend the night kneeling in the ancestral hall to consider the consequences of violating the prohibition against alcohol and the injunction to maintain your discipline. In view of the circumstances, no other punishment will be imposed.”

“Thank you, Father.”

“Dismissed.”

As Lan Qiren left, he heard his father ask his brother to tell him about the riding competition.

He did not ask about music.

[weeb-check]

Kunimi/Kindaichi- Sometimes all we need is a little help from our Senpai (one-shot)

Kindaichi glanced at Kunimi while he spiked down one of the balls tossed by Watari.

They had recently been defeated by Karasuno in the semi-finals of the Spring Inter-high tournament. All of them were still pretty bummed out but then Oikawa had given a big speech to all the second and first years about never letting down the reputation that Aoba Johsei had built over the years and to not lose to Karasuno, especially the super quick-duo, ever again.

Almost everyone was staying late for practice again, the anger and frustration on loosing still ablaze within their hearts.

"Nice kill Kunimi!" Watari exclaimed as Iwaizumi jumped a bit too late to block Kunimi's spike.

Kunimi high-fived Watari at the compliment while Oikawa called out to Kindaichi who was immersed in staring at Kunimi.

"Kindaichi-chan!" he beckoned him.

"Kindaichi!!!!" he said a bit loudly walking towards the first year. He waved his hands in front of him making Kindaichi get out of his stupor.

"Sumimasen senpai," Kindaichi apologised, rubbing his neck sheepishly as a faint blush marked his cheeks.

Oikawa waved him off and told him to get in position to spike again while he tossed the ball at him. On the other hand, his mind was already plotting the mission to get his two helpless juniors to realise their feelings towards each other.

Oikawa had been noticing them from quite a while back now. Stealing glances, constant blushes, the two of them were very much in love, he knew but were too stubborn and oblivious to confess to each other.

"Looks like I have to take the reins again" Oikawa sighed to himself while Iwaizumi jogged towards him.

"Take the reins for what crappy guy, or should I say shitty guy," Iwaizumi stated, wiping the glistening sweat off his brow while Oikawa gulped.

Iwaizumi looked sexy without even trying.

"Don't tell me you are going to interrupt into someone else's matters again." he deadpanned while Oikawa swallowed again.

"No, No," Oikawa assented furiously to which Iwaizumi just looked at him with a sceptical stare.

"And can you stop calling me crappy guy please," Oikawa added, irked as he went over to the bench to drink water.

"Then shitty guy it is." Iwaizumi declared loudly.

"Crappy is better," the captain of Aoba Johsei boys volleyball team shouted back which Iwaizumi very clearly showed that he had ignored.

---------------------

Next day-

"Kindaichi, over here" Oikawa waved his hand, signalling over to him.

"Kunimi you too," he added as both of the 1st years loped up to him.

"What is it senpai?" Kindaichi asked.

"To beat Karasuno next year I have been thinking of some tactics. And one of the tactics involves using both of you as an attack." Oikawa explained.

"But how is that possible senpai?" Kunimi asked, with that same bored expression on his face.

"Kindaichi is the middle blocker while I am a wing spiker." he reasoned.

"The only way we can work together is by blocking the opponent's oncoming spike."

"It is quite easy. Kunimi-chan. You can train to be a setter and then practice together with Kindaichi. Both of you have previously come from the same junior high, so you two are already in sync. All it requires is a bit of skill and resilience."

"Yes, for once I agree with Oikawa. Your attack could startle our competitors, give us more options in offence and an edge against the others." Iwaizumi added while Oikawa jumped in surprise from the abrupt interruption.

"'Thank you Iwa-chan' Oikawa thought and smiled to himself deviously.

"So, there you go. You two will start practising from today and I need to see Kindaichi hitting at least some spikes by the end of today's practice." Oikawa ordered.

"Chop, chop! Let us go" and with that, he left leaving no room for his juniors to argue.

"Guess I have to learn being a setter now," Kunimi said, already fretting over the extra work he would have to put while rejoicing from the inside.

Kindaichi agreed, "Oikawa senpai does not even allow us to say something. But then it is for the good of the team. So, I guess we could practice together." Kindaichi reflected while his inner conscious was on cloud 9 at the thought of practising with Kunimi after such a long time.

And so, the two starters of Kitagawa Daichi started their practice with some assistance from their senior, though whenever Iwaizumi or Watari tried to help them out, Oikawa would always present himself before them, ushering them away at some of the other pretences.

"Let them learn on their own Iwa-chan. Besides, I need you to practice my tosses with." this was Oikawa's reason mostly every time.

"Acting like matchmaker again Oikawa." Iwaizumi used to say.

"What are you talking about Iwa-chan." He asserted, feigning surprise at his words while refusing passionately.

Iwaizumi saw through his lie but did not comment further on that.

---------------------

Kindaichi was getting frustrated now. He wanted to tear out his hair in impediment. It was getting too much. Oikawa-senpai was making him practising with Kunimi only for the good of the team, but he was getting constantly distracted by Kunimi's touches.

Every time they jumped together to block, his side would touch Kunimi's and Kindaichi's concentration would deter for a bit earning him a glare from Iwaizumi-senpai, who could be scary. Every time Kunimi would set for him, the look that he gave him drove him mad, as if he was also longing for something. How he wished that Kunimi felt at least one-tenth of whatever Kindaichi felt for him.

Enough was enough, he decided, piercing his pen through the wooden desk receiving a glare from his teacher at his sudden outburst.

Today, Kindaichi would man-up and approach Kunimi about his feelings directly. At that precise moment, the bell rang for the lunch break and the class immediately dispersed. Kindaichi took out his bento as Kunimi entered his class, his eyes searching for his crush.

-------------------------

Kunimi could never figure out how Kindaichi managed to look so good even while doing simple tasks like taking out his lunch box. Like come on, he was just doing mundane tasks, still, it riled Kunimi up every time and he had to withstand the urge to not go and ravage him at that very spot. Maintaining his usual world-weary, uninterested expression was getting troublesome for him ad the days passed. Kindaichi had folded his shirt sleeves so that his arms were sticking out and the way the muscles rippled and flexed as he moved about was almost too much for Kunimi to handle. He almost thought about ditching him at lunch today also and go up to the roof and indulge himself in fantasies about him and Kindaichi again. But then Kindaichi waved at him and it was too late to put his plan into action today, Kunimi thought as both of them walked towards the cafeteria, chatting away animately.

Enough is enough, Kunimi decided, today he would confront Kindaichi about his feelings no matter what.

-------------------------

On the other hand, Oikawa was getting pretty annoyed. It had been a month since both of them were training together. Oikawa had not missed even a single opportunity to lure both of them together, but not one of them made a move. The sexual tensions between them was palpable and even Watari had asked him if both of them were going out or not. The continuous evasive glances they gave each other, the way both of them gawked at each other but averted their gazes as soon as their eyes meet, not wanting to get caught, was thoroughly pestering him.

Enough was enough, Oikawa decided.

Today he would make them confess to each other no matter what and with that he stomped towards the cafeteria, resolute in his mind. Fortunately, he did not have to search much and instantly found both of them talking to each other, engaged in their own worlds.

"Today, we will be having a team meeting at 5. Please come on time both of you." Oikawa declared suddenly, interrupting their conversation and then left to have his bento with Watari and Iwaizumi.

"But today is Tuesday right?" KIndaichi questioned.

"We usually have an off today and neither do we have a match tomorrow. Why the team meeting then?" he voiced out his thoughts out loud

"Dunno," Kunimi replied, sipping on his orange juice.

Kindaichi resisted the urge to wipe off the small drops of juice that lingered on the side of Kunimi's mouth, fisting his hands underneath the table and instead focused on eating his meal.

Meanwhile, Oikawa had everything set-up before 5. Oh, how they would not be able to ignore this, he smirked.

-------------------------

Kunimi and Kindaichi walked towards the gymnasium after school, their bags slung over their shoulders, conversing away about a new tv show.

They opened the heavy gym door only to meet with pin-drop silence.

"Huh," Kindaichi's cocked his head in part confusion and part surprise.

"No, one is here."

"I know we are 15 minutes early but I had expected at least someone to already be here," Kunimi commented while Kindaichi froze.

"Are, Kindaichi," Kunimi exclaimed as he saw Kindaichi suddenly stiffen beside him and then lifted his gaze to see what Kindaichi had made Kindaichi act this way.

Directly above them was a mistletoe.

"Ohh," he said lamely while both of them blushed furiously.

An awkward silence fell over them. The tension between them was so thick that it could be cut with a knife. Both of them were at loss for words. The resolutions that they had diced on earlier, to confess to each other long forgotten.

"We could ignore...." Kunimi started only to be cut off by a pair of warm lips upon his own and his eyes widened, as big as saucers.

Kindaichi was kissing him, on the lips.

It was too much for him to respond, too much to take in, to he just froze on the spot, immobile for some time, not being able to think properly.

Kindaichi was kissing him for god's sake, he had lost the ability to think the moment his lips had touched him, every coherent thought leaving his mind only to be replaced by Kindaichi and Kindaichi.

Kindaichi, however, took this as a bad sign and immediately detached his lips. His heart fell. Maybe had read all the signs wrong. Maybe Kunimi did not like him after all.

He turned to walk away only to feel a warm pair of hands grab his cheeks and an equally warm pair of lips descend upon his.

Ahhhhh, this is what heaven must feel like, Kindaichi mused to himself as he smiled into the kiss. He had not been wrong after all.

As Oikawa and Iwaizumi passed through the gymnasium, they saw both of them together, snogging the living daylights out of each other with mistletoe on top of their heads.

"Its about time!!" Oikawa gushed, making adorable faces at them.

"I know that was you Oikawa," Iwaizumi indicated and Oikawa was too busy fangirling about the couple to even hear what Iwaizumi had said. And even if he had, he did not have to ask about what Iwa-chan was referring too.

[smokeybrandreviews]

Smokey brand Movie Reviews: As Hard As Chinese Arithmetic

So far, this year has been a doozy, man. We had an insurrection at the Capital. Then a big-tittied, Goth Vampire, Amazon Mommy just triggered all of the interweb’s fetishes, male, female, and other. Then, a bunch of Reddit Sh*tposters broke Wall Street for the Lolz. It has been a f*cking ride, man. I’m just happy we made it to the end of the month because, f*ck, i need a breather. Plus, the first new film of the year, a proper theatrical flick, released in the multiplex, just dropped. Since we ain’t got vaccines for the Wuha and i hate society in general, i wasn’t about to brave the outside for it. Fortunately for me, Warner Brothers said f*ck it, and decided to release their entire 2021 film slate, same day as theaters, to HBOmax. The first flick out the gate with this rather comfy release strategy? The Little Things. From what I've seen, this cast is dope but I've heard mixed reviews. Curious to see which side of the discourse I'll land on. Either way, I'm watching this thing from the comfort of my couch and i kind of dig it.

The Good

Denzel Washington is, obviously, the best thing about this flick. Dude is always one of, if not the best, thing about whatever he's in and this is no different. Washington has been acting a real long time so this the of part he can play in his sleep. I think, though, that might have been a detriment because his Joe Deacon comes across as a little “samey.” I re-watched Virtuosity the other day and this character feels like the cat he played in that, which feels like the cat he played in Man on Fire, which feels like the cat he played in Equalizer. I'm not mad, mind you, Rampage Washington is one of my favorite things about Hollywood, but I think playing this character like that was a mistake. Still, it was fun to watch.

Rami Malik plays, like, a regular dude in this. His Jim Baxter is kind of the foil to Washington's more aggressive, more passionate Deke, and it's weird to see. Like, i get it, Rami wants avoid being typecast as the weirdo but, I mean, the weirdo is where it's at, you know? If the character is well written and there's room to really dig in with an eclectic performance, why not go weird? Malek sure has the face for it.

Jared Leto just plays himself. The character he's supposed to be portraying is named Albert Sprama but this is just regular ass, crazy ass, cult leader ass Jared Leto. It's not a bad performance but you can tell Leto isn't really trying to be anything but who he is in this.

The atmosphere in this thing is palpable. I respect that. Neo-Noirs and thrillers like this need that. They need to feel seedy, gritty, dirty. For all of it's faults, The Little Things definitely nails that. It ain't Nineties grunge but it does a pretty good job of emulating that kind of energy, even if it's really just a facsimile and not the genuine article.

Listen, this is a gorgeous film. The cinematography and scene composition are top notch. As far as a visual piece of media, it really does deliver. There's this sordid, grimy, feel to the presentation that really mimics David Fincher's early work. I'm a fan of Fincher's so I noticed the similarities immediately but, as much reverence as this content has for his work, David Fincher  this ain't.

This thing is beautifully directed. I might have my issues with the film as a whole, but John Lee Hancock put his best foot forward trying to visually craft this narrative, for sure. It's a little awkward seeing dude forge this type of story considering his more, lighthearted entries into the Hollywood collective, but he approaches it with the same flair and professionalism as he does those films, too.

The Bad

Look, I love the principals of this cast. They are all great actors Individually Together, there's no real chemistry, especially between Malik and Washington. I think that's more because of the lacking script more than anything. A lot of this movie feels like it's adequacy relies too heavily on it's lead's abilities rather than a solid script or screenplay. That's a shame because a crime thriller starring Denzel Washington and Rami Malik chasing after Jared Leto sounds like a swell f*cking times.

So this thing is a period piece. It's supposed to take place in the Nineties and, as a cat who grew up during that time, this definitely doesn't feel like them. Sure, there's little nods and everything to it like music choices and certain set dressings but, overall, this doesn't scream Super Grunge, Extreme Radical to me. Which, we all know, is exactly what the Nineties absolutely were.

There is a distinct, Fincher-esque, energy to this film but it fails miserably properly capturing it. Like, This movie is trying WAY too hard to be Se7en. I understand why it would, that film is a masterpiece but one shouldn't wear your inspirations so nakedly. Makes it way too easy to draw the obvious comparison and your entry will always be left wanting. It's weird to think that Hancock thought he could do that considering his catalog of film. Nothing about The Blindside or Saving Mr. Banks gives me confidence that he can adequately pull off something as macabre as Se7en and  it really seems dubious to me that he tried.

The strength of Se7en started with what was on the page. Fincher crafted this diabolical, challenging, degenerate narrative and had the perfect cast to bring it to life. The Little Things has the ambition to pull that same thing off but the script is way too weak for that. Hancock can't write this stuff, man. Indeed, it really feels like he watched Se7en, thought up a twist, and wrote from there. Basically, he wrote this screenplay the same way Stephanie Meyer wrote Twilight and we all see how well that turned out. If you don't have a story to tell, don't make a movie. Nothing great start with just a gimmick unless you're selling toys and that only works because kids are idiots.

Bro, what is this dialogue??

This movie is long, man. Long and barren. One could say that it is actually really boring at parts. Now, I'm not saying that, I'm a fan of the slow burn, bu this was even taxing my nerves. I think, though, that a better script could have goes a long way to alleviating that. The fact that I didn't give a sh*t about anything going on with these characters really made it hard to stay engaged.

The Verdict

The Little Thing is a January movie and it's weird to get one of those in this, new Pandemic age. More than anything, it's a disappointment, especially coming of excellent January releases these past few years like Underwater, The Nightingale, and Paddington 2. This film does not come close to the quality of those and it's real deflating. I wanted to this movie to be excellent. There are a few individual components that actually are. Great lead performances, outstanding direction, beautiful camera work but the core of this movie is lacking. The screenplay is a complete letdown which is the most f*cked up aspect of this this whole situation. Apparently, Hancock wrote the first draft of this flick in Ninety-three and this is the best we got. This is the version that made the screen. F*cking trash, man. The Little Things isn't a terrible film, not at all, but it's not good either. It is an incredibly mundane and pedestrian attempt at trying to copy Se7en but it never reaches those heights. You've seen this movie before done much, much, better. If this thing as shorter, I could recommend it might higher but this whole ass, two-hour run time is a bit much. If you have HBOmax and time to kill, its a decent watch, just don't expect too much from it. If you want this to be your grand return to the cinema, pass on that. It's not worth the ticket price.

[homenum-revelio-hq]

Welcome (again) to the Order of the Phoenix, Amos!

You have been accepted for the role of non-biography character MAURICE CREEVEY with the faceclaim of Tom Sturridge! We really enjoyed reading through your application! The idea of a Muggleborn character who is actually not all that excited about going to Hogwarts is awesome! He’s resentful that he was taken away without a choice - resentful that he can’t go back and be the same person. We’re so thrilled to have him as an addition to the cast!

Please take a look at the new member checklist and send in your account within 24 hours! Thank you for joining the fight against Voldemort!

OUT OF CHARACTER:

NAME: Amos

AGE: 22

TIMEZONE: GMT

ACTIVITY LEVEL: You already have a pretty good idea of my activity. There is also plenty of time when I’m around and could be writing but I am either caught up on Fab or don’t have quite the right muse for him, so hopefully this new charrie can fill those gaps!

ANYTHING ELSE: nope

CHARACTER DETAILS:

NAME: Maurice Creevey

AGE: 24

GENDER, PRONOUNS, and SEXUALITY: Male, He/Him, Homosexual. Gender isn’t something he’s really ever thought about. He’s pretty content in that respect. He is quite unapologetically gay though.

BLOOD STATUS: Muggleborn

HOUSE ALUMNI: Ravenclaw

ANY CHANGES: This is where you can request a FC change or a change from something in the skeleton bio.

CHARACTER BACKGROUND:

PERSONALITY: 

To sum Maurice up very concisely, he’s angry. He hasn’t always been. He was a relatively happy go lucky child, full of endless energy and enthusiasm. Then he was plucked from his life and sent away to a school to learn magic. At first that was pretty cool, after all, every 11 year old wishes they had magical abilities, the difference being they get to grow up and forget those wishes and live normal lives. He has to live with his childish fantasies for the rest of his life. And apart from that, he appears to be in a world where muggleborns are being hunted and killed by an evil wizard and his crazy cult. To make things worse, they can’t escape back to their muggle lives because of all the damn secrecy laws. So yes, he’s angry, and a lot of his actions are fueled by that. Make no mistake though, Maurice is no Gryffindor, he doesn’t use his anger in brash reckless ways, he is more calculated. You may catch it crackling under the surface occasionally, but it would take a lot to make him properly explode. Even slurs like ‘mudblood’ would only make him roll his eyes and perhaps give a snarky retort.

Maurice is a Ravenclaw. He is a big believer that knowledge is power. He did fairly well at his subjects in Hogwarts considering he didn’t try all that hard. He did not choose this path and as a consequence, resented it. He would often get his brother who was a few years older, to send him muggle textbooks when he’d finished with them. He was fascinated by science and maths and history. Of course he had some curiosity for his lessons at Hogwarts, and the things he and his magic was capable of, but the element of choice was important for him. It felt like by attending Hogwarts, a whole area of understanding was suddenly off limits. As anyone knows, forbidden knowledge is the most desirable.

He likes to ask questions about as much as any other Ravenclaw, but he is also a big observer. He likes to take time to gather information before jumping into a lot of things, especially interactions with other people. He by no means stalks people, but a few minutes, to watch, take someone in, before starting a conversation is quite usual for him. It’s all about making informed choices.  As a consequence, unexpected interactions can throw him, making him more awkward than he’d like.

He can be arrogant, he has a conviction in his beliefs that can come across as condescension if viewed the wrong way. He can get frustrated when someone is not following his thinking quite as quickly as he’d like, which is why he’d make a terrible teacher. However, this works equally in the opposite direction. His frustration can be palpable when he doesn’t understand something, and these moments are when he is least in control. A lot of his acts of protest come from anger, sure, but also the frustration of not being able to fathom how things got so bad, why they can’t just make them better now, why people can’t see it for themselves. But usually he is quiet. Unless he is invited to speak, or is so damn angry the words won’t stop, he can keep his thoughts to himself until someone is listening and his words can have an impact.

BRIEF OVERVIEW OF FAMILY: 

Until the age of 11 Maurice grew up in a very normal, working class family in the midlands. His mother was a typical housewife, loving but somewhat distracted, staring out of windows whilst doing the washing up, leaving the dinner in slightly too long when listening to the radio. Maurice didn’t mind, he barely noticed, and she was excellent at bedtime stories, so what was there to complain about? His father was a miner, a tough, but humorous man. He worked hard, and he always came home dirty, but played football with them in the garden the weekends.

He has one older brother. Not the brightest bulb, but the kindest person Maurice knows. Maurice always thought him brave, in a quiet way. There is no one Maurice has ever looked up to quite like his big brother, even if they squabbled and scrapped as much as any other loving siblings.

Perhaps this happy set up, along with glowing school reports and a nice bunch of friends, was why he has always resented being ripped from that life and that path. 

When he was a child, he dreamed of being an astronaut, an archaeologist, a doctor, a lawyer, and what’s more, none of these were stretches for him, with his brain and desire for learning, he could have done it, he could have gotten out of the rows and rows of back to back terraced houses that he and his family were confined to. He could have taken them with him. But he was torn away and sent to Hogwarts, and his parents only vaguely understood, were proud, but in a distant way. His brother became a milkman, a job he enjoyed, but not one that paid well. He married young, his school sweetheart, and they are expecting their first child. They all seem happy enough, they have the things that matter, enough food to eat, a roof over their head, love, but Maurice can’t help but feel he could have saved them. The terror of living paycheck to paycheck, the mundanity of their terraced hells, or just never being able to treat yourself to that little bit extra. He remembered as a child, when his father would be on strike, the unspoken fear that filled up their home. He had wanted to save them from that.

When he would return home for the summer, he would act like nothing had changed, he wouldn’t speak of Hogwarts, or of his magic. He would pretend like he was no different from them, but something had changed and something had broken, and eventually he realised that something couldn’t be fixed. Getting his Hogwarts letter had been the beginning of the end for Maurice. He hated it when summer would end and he’d have to go back, but he also hated going home in the first place.

OCCUPATION: 

Maurice works as a sound engineer at the Wizarding Wireless Network. It was not something he expected of himself, more something he fell into. A job at the Ministry would have gone against all his principals. A deep hatred for ‘the man’ but also the wizarding world in general, he wasn’t about to go work in a place trying to keep it all ticking over, and bore himself to death in the process.

He considered more academic positions, but he’d had a hard enough time concentrating at Hogwarts. Trawling magical forests for new flora and fauna, or raiding tombs and breaking their curses had no appeal to him. Which largely left working class positions or the arts. It was not a tricky decision.

The newspaper was an option, but the fact that the Daily Prophet seemed to have a monopoly on journalism in wizarding Britain didn’t sit well with Maurice. Without another widely available newspaper to oppose their horribly biased reporting, what was the point? He would not be a puppet for their propaganda. For a while, he tried to write his own pieces, publish them independently, but that wasn’t entirely successful. The pieces were convoluted, preachy, and he had no audience, no one to either agree nor criticise him.

Eventually he wound up at the Wizarding Wireless Network. Again, it irked him that there was only one major company broadcasting, but at least they had a bit more variation, and whilst they did broadcast the news, the purpose leaned towards entertainment. It’s not a cause Maurice is particularly passionate for, but it’s not one he opposes.

As a sound engineer, he’s around for recordings and broadcasts, cleans up pre recorded audio, fixes equipment, just whatever needs doing that seems like it fit within his job title. Most of it he learned on the job, but it was fascinating enough to capture his attention, and similar enough to muggle radio not to infuriate him. It also introduced him to the world of pirate radio.

About 2 years after he started at WWN, his friend and mentor quit, and in his last few days, confided in Maurice that he was leaving to start his own show. Technically WWN was the only official broadcaster on wizarding radios, but if you knew how to get a frequency, you could broadcast whatever you liked. He and some friends were setting up a station out of someone’s garage, mostly to play the music the WWN spurned.

The idea lit a flame in Maurice. Of course, the fact that it was ever so slightly against the rules, and possibly the law, made it exciting. But the idea of broadcasting whatever he liked, even if there was no one listening, putting something out there, finite and unique.

So that’s what he does with his evenings at the weekends, he broadcasts late into the night and the early mornings. The Order gives him a focus, not just long rambling opinion pieces that sounds like the inner thoughts of a paranoid conspiracy theorist. He has found a purpose now. His show, it helps spread news, it helps spread information, it helps spread hope. Of course there is the tricky business of making sure the wrong ears don’t hear it, but he’s a smart guy, there’s a way around everything.

ROLE WITHIN THE ORDER/THOUGHTS ABOUT THE ORDER: 

Maurice joined the Order with best friend, Daisy Hookum. He was at the same Squib’s Rights March, right in the middle of the rioting, and landed square in the Order’s gaze because of it.

Maurice has always been an activist, even before graduating Hogwarts, he would hold small demonstrations, conquering whatever stage fright he might have for the greater good. Standing up on tables at breakfast to make impassioned speeches, chaining himself to statues and refusing to go to class, he even came very close to slashing a painting once before the painting’s occupant managed to talk him out of it.

Maurice has taken a lot of inspiration from muggle strikes and demonstration techniques. He remembers picket lines from his childhood, and grew up with the punk movement. He even had a bright red mohawk once before Daisy told him it really didn’t suit him.

These energies are what he hoped to bring to the Order. He recognises that Voldemort and the Death Eaters are the main enemy, but in his eyes, the Ministry are accomplices, and he feels just as violently about them. The Death Eaters may be the ones directly killing people, but the Ministry are letting them do it, even helping them to a certain degree. The fact that so many squeaky clean Ministry employees come to the Order to ‘do their part’ indicates to him, that there are just as many who are going over to Voldemort for the same reason. He wishes more of their actions were against the Ministry directly, but he can also do that in his own time.

Day to day, Maurice is generally a pretty good foot soldier, he isn’t crazy about the actual violence part, but he’ll do it if he has to. He’d like a louder voice at the table, but he knows how these things work, and he knows too many cooks spoil the broth. The fact that they are organised is enough for him. There is a system, and if he ever feels he needs to take something to the top, then he knows how to do that.

He has also brought his pirate radio platform to the Order. It’s a good way to spread news to people such as those being helped by the dissendium task force, and a good way to organise large groups of people. And also quite simply, it can raise spirits. Assuming that people tune in to listen. Maurice doesn’t think it’s quite being used to its full potential, but it’s getting there. The Order function on secrecy, whereas Maurice wants to inform the masses. There is clearly a conflict of interest. 

(I see this radio show as being very similar to the Potterwatch of the second wizarding war, and if it isn’t quite at that structure yet, then building it up to that during the game.)

I think although he is happy to fight with the Order, and be on the front line of the fight against You-Know-Who, his main motives are doing something about the International Statute of Secrecy, even if he is a little distracted by other things and other causes, it all really comes back to him having the choice to fight, to flee, to live his life where he pleases, taking the elements of both cultures and combining them. And he wants that choice for others as well. A lot of his anger and frustration is on a very personal selfish level, but he does recognise that he’s fighting this cause for people other than himself.

SURVIVAL: 

Being both muggleborn and publicly vocal in his opinions, does put a bit of a target on Maurice’s back. He’s had a few close scrapes in the past, but luckily that’s as much as they were. Making enemies with a lot of purebloods perhaps isn’t the most efficient way to survive this war. He doesn’t move around a lot, thankfully he’s never been traced to his home address and he wants to keep it that way. He rents a little place in Muggle London, clean and comfortable enough, but out of the way and non-descript. He wards it heavily, and takes great lengths to make sure he isn’t followed home.

He isn’t too bad at dueling, but it isn’t his greatest strength. Mostly he relies on quick thinking rather than brute strength. And paranoia. He’s seen what the other side is capable of, and he’s heard enough of Moody’s lecture like speeches to know how to watch his back.

Still, he can lay awake many nights, realising there that if he continues to fight like this, there is a large chance he won’t survive the war. Is it worth it? He usually falls asleep before reaching a conclusive answer. Needless to say, as a 24 year old, he is terrified of dying. He is just also too angry to let that stop him.

RELATIONSHIPS:

Daisy Hookum: Friends since first year, he and Daisy have a special bond. There are very few people who know him as closely as Daisy knows him. Even his family, who he loves dearly, can’t understand him the way Daisy does. They may have been brought together by class timetables and group projects, but what bonded them was their shared views of the world. Particularly as they got older, they could talk for hours and hours about their politics. They didn’t always agree on every point, but respected each other enough to hear the other out. Of course this wasn’t the only thing that kept them friends. They could have fun together, let loose, forget for a little while that things were so bad, forget how angry they were.

They joined the Order together, as they did so much together. But then Daisy left for her year in the muggle world. Since then the relationship has been strained. He understood better than most what she was trying to do, but the reality is still that he felt abandoned, and jealous, that she could go off and live her ‘muggle’ life. It’s become obvious since her return that Maurice’s idea of activism is now split from hers. She wants to take a more passive role, and Maurice couldn’t bear that.

Caradoc Dearborn: Caradoc is someone Maurice begrudgingly looks up to. On the one hand he is everything he despises, wealthy and pure blooded. But the way he conducts himself is something that Maurice admires. He can’t help but want to be in Caradoc’s good books. If he had an issue within the Order, he would most likely take it to Caradoc.

Mary MacDonald: Mary is a more recent friend. They were a few years apart at Hogwarts and so only got to know each other after they both joined the Order. A lot of Mary’s politics match up with Maurice’s, and apart from that they are very compatible on a personal level. She is one of the lucky few Maurice has let in. Of course it helps that she is muggle-born as well, he feels that with so few of them inside the Order, they really have to stick together.

He has never been the most social of people. It is not that he doesn’t enjoy company, more that he doesn’t settle. If he is going to spend time with someone, properly invest in them, he wants to be sure they are the right person. He does not do this consciously you understand, but he is constantly assessing and reassessing the people in his life. First impressions, as he’s found, are often misleading, but that doesn’t mean doesn’t heed them. He’s more inclined to search out the red flags than give someone the benefit of the doubt. The people who slip through the cracks however, get the best of him. The warmth, the wit, everything he’s been desperately been bottling up waiting for the right vessel to pour it into.

Generally, Maurice is going to feel some animosity for the richer, pure blooded members of the order, but he’ll tolerate them. He’s also going to be fairly uninterested in those who aren’t as active in the cause, or any cause for that matter. So maybe he’s made a few enemies within the Order, or at least brushed some people the wrong way. Or perhaps he’s been pleasantly surprised by others.

OOC EXPLORATION:

SHIPS/ANTI-SHIPS: No ships or antiships, I’m really open to anything. I do see Maurice as gay, so I think relationships with women would be unlikely, but I’m a sucker for some unrequited love plots, or maybe some confused one night stands. Basically anything is on the table.

WHAT PRIVILEGES AND BIASES DOES YOUR CHARACTER HAVE?

Well Maurice is a white male, so let’s start with that. I don’t think feminism is high up on his rank of causes, or racism, simply because I don’t think it’s played a huge role within his personal life experience. He probably doesn’t even realise a lot of the privileges he has as a white man.

He’s also gay, and whilst he is quite unapologetic about that, his sexuality seemed to be more of an issue in his muggle life than in the wizarding world, so it isn’t something he feels the need to fight about all the time. Again there are more important causes right now.

As a person who grew up in a working class family, he generally just resents the wealthy, and he won’t give them much chance to prove themselves to him either. This definitely stems from growing up poor, but perhaps if he’d been able to make his own fortune and save his family from their poverty, then he wouldn’t feel as strongly. In that sense it’s quite hypocritical. Now it’s also tied to the fact that the wealthy are the ones in control, both in the Death Eaters and their reign of terror, and at the Ministry, making and enforcing the laws that keep them all trapped and helpless. It hasn’t missed his attention that most of the wealthier wizards are pureblooded, so he’ll often lump them in with his disdain.

This works the other way as well. He’s willing to overlook a lot of shit that his working class/muggle born acquaintances get up to, forgive a lot of their sins. I don’t think he realises he does this, but it certainly happens.

He doesn’t necessarily hate the people who work for the Ministry, even if he has a dislike for the establishment and the way it’s run. He understands everyone has to work, and most don’t get the privilege of doing something they like or agree with entirely. There is a bit of time though where he’ll figure out their motives before he really trusts or likes them.

Law enforcement isn’t particularly in his good books either, but that is perhaps more linked to his view of how muggle police act towards protests and demonstrations.

When it comes to the issues of half-breeds, he’ll go along to the marches, he’ll sign the petitions, he’s probably up to date on all the latest views and opinions, but again, it’s not at the top of his priorities.

WHAT ARE YOU MOST LOOKING FORWARD TO? You already know I love this roleplay. I’m looking forward to being more active hopefully, interacting with a wider range of characters, playing someone who is quite different to Fab as well and stretching those writing muscles.

PLOT DROP IDEAS: 

I would love to see his pirate radio show have an effect somehow, either positive or negative (but maybe more positive at least at first, I’ve already done a lot of disappointing the Order with Fab).

I would love to see how his bloodstatus affects him. If he is genuinely more in danger for being a loud annoying muggleborn, it might be nice to work that into the larger plot somehow.

ANYTHING ELSE? I haven’t put whether he’s low level or mid level in the Order, I’m happy for either, wherever you think he’d fit best.

EXTRA FOR NON-BIO CHARACTERS:

PAST: 

Maurice Creevey grew up in the midlands, part of a typical working class family. His mother was a housewife, and his father a Miner. The strikes and picket lines his father was a part of were some of his first experiences with activism, and the spark didn’t stop there. Maurice was rudely torn from his happy muggle life by the revelation he was a Wizard and the letter ‘inviting’ him to study at Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry. With no choice but to follow this path, Maurice has resented it ever since. He didn’t waste his time there by any means though. This was when he got his first taste for activism, protesting in the great hall and demonstrating in classes. These habits followed him faithfully into adulthood, developing until he found real urgent causes. At the top of his list, was tearing down the Statue of Secrecy that traps all muggle-borns in the wizarding world whilst an evil wizard and his cronies are attempting to pick them off one by one, and also prevents the muggles from fighting back on their own terms.

PRESENT:

It’s his activism that brought him to the attention of the Order. He is a good soldier for the Order, willing to do what has to be done and follow orders dutifully. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t have his own intentions. Maurice works for the Wizarding Wireless Network, and a few nights a week he hosts his own pirate radio station. Sometimes his broadcasts can get hundreds or thousands of listeners, all scared but hopeful, wanting to hear what no-one else is telling them, the news the papers won’t print, the the stories the WWN won’t air. The Order value their secrecy, but Maurice knows information is power, and knowledge gives you a choice. He knows he can use his show to the Order’s advantage if only it’s given a chance.

FC CHOICES: top choice is Tom Sturridge, I’m not very good at fcs so if you don’t think he fits I’m happy to go with recommendations!

[dustedmagazine]

Dusted’s Decade Picks

Heron Oblivion, still the closest thing to a Dusted consensus pick

Just as, in spring, the young's fancy turns to thoughts of love, at the end of the decade the thoughts of critics and fans naturally tend towards reflection. Sure, time is an arbitrary human division of reality, but it seems to be working out okay for us so far. We're too humble a bunch to offer some sort of itemized list of The Best Of or anything like that, though; a decade is hard enough to wrap your head around when it's just your life, let alone all the music produced during said time. Instead these decade picks are our jumping off points to consider our decades, whether in personal terms, or aesthetic ones, or any other. The records we reflect on here are, to be sure, some of our picks for the best of the 2010s (for more, check back this afternoon), but think of what follows less as anything exhaustive and more as our hand-picked tour to what stuck with us over the course of these ten years, and why.

Brian Eno — The Ship (Warp, 2016)

You don’t need to dig deep to see that our rapidly evolving and hyper-consciously inclusive discourse is taking on the fluidity of its surroundings. In 2016, a year of what I’ll gently call transformation, Brian Eno had his finger on multiple pulses; The Ship resulted. It’s anchored in steady modality, and its melody, once introduced, doesn’t change, but everything else ebbs and flows with the Protean certainty of uncertainty. While the album moves from the watery ambiguities of the title track, through the emotional and textural extremes of “Fickle Sun” toward the gorgeously orchestrated version of “I’m Set Free,” implying some kind of final redemption, the moment-to-moment motion remains wonderfully non-binary. Images of war and of the instants producing its ravaging effects mirror and counterbalance the calmly and increasingly gender-fluid voice as it concludes the titular piece by depicting “wave after wave after wave.” Is it all Salman Rushdie’s numbers marching again? The lyrics embody the movement from “undescribed” through “undefined” and “unrefined’” connoting a journey toward aging, but size, place, chronology and the music encompassing them remain in constant flux, often nearly but never quite recognizable. Genre and sample float in and out of view with the elusive but devastating certainty of tides as the ship travels toward silence, toward that ultimate ambiguity that follows all disillusion, filling the time between cycles. The disconnect between stasis and motion is as disconcerting as these pieces’ relationship to the songform Eno inherited and exploded. The album encapsulates the modernist subtlety and Romantic grace propelling his art and the state of a civilization in the faintly but still glowing borderlands between change and decay.

Marc Medwin

Cate Le Bon — Cyrk (Control Group, 2012)

There's no artist whose work I anticipated more this decade than Cate Le Bon, and no artist who frustrated me more with each release, only to keep reeling me in for the long run. Le Bon's innate talent is for soothing yet oblique folk, soberly psychedelic, which she originally delivered in the Welsh language, and continued into English with rustic reserve.

Except something about her pastoralism seems to bore her, and the four-chord arpeggios are shot through with scorches of noise, or sent haywire with post-punk brittleness. In its present state, her music is built around chattering xylophones and croaking saxophone, even as the lyrics draw deeper into memory and introspection, with ever more haunting payoffs. It's as if Nick Drake shoved his way into the leadership of Pere Ubu. She's taken breaks from music to work on pottery and furniture-making, and retreats to locales like a British cottage and Texas art colony to plumb for new inspirations. She's clearly energized by collaboration and relocation, but there’s a force to her persona that, despite her introverted presence, dominates a session. Rare for our age, she's an artist who gets to follow her muse full time, bouncing between record labels and seeing her name spelled out in the medium typefaces on festival bills.

Cyrk, from 2012, is the record where I fell in, and it captures her at something close to joyous, a half smile. Landing between her earliest folk and later surrealism, it is open to comparison with the Velvet Underground. But not the VU that is archetypical to indie rock – Cyrk is more an echo of the solo work that followed. There’s the sharp compositional order and Welsh lilt of John Cale. Like Lou Reed, she makes a grand electric guitar hook out of the words “you’re making it worse.” The homebound twee of Mo Tucker and forbidding atmosphere of Nico are present in equal parts. Those comparisons are reductive, but they demonstrate how Cyrk feels instantly familiar if you’ve garnered certain listening habits. Songs surround you with woolly keyboard and guitar hooks, and one can forget a song ends with an awkward trumpet coda even after dozens of listens. The awkwardness is what keeps the album fresh.

She lulls, then dowses with cold water. So Cyrk isn't an entirely easy record, even if it is frequently a pretty one. The most epic song here, reaching high with those woolly hums and twang, is "Fold the Cloth.” It bobs along, coiling tight as she reaches into the strange register of female falsetto. Le Bon cranks out a fuzz solo – she's great at extending her sung melodies across instruments. Then the climax chants out, "fold the cloth or cut the cloth.” What is so important about this mundane action? Her mystery lyrics never feel haphazard, like LSD posey. They are out of step with pop grandiose. Maybe when her back is turned, there's a full smile.

Who are "Julia" and "Greta,” two mid-album sketches that avoid verse-chorus structure? Julia is represented by a limp waltz, Greta by pulses on keyboards. Shortly after the release, Le Bon followed up with the EP Cyrk II made up of tracks left off the album. To a piece, they’re easier numbers than "Julia" and "Greta.” The cryptic and the scribble are essential to how Cyrk flows, which is to say it flows haltingly.

This approach dampens her acclaim and her potential audience, but that's how she fashions decades-old tropes into fresh art. She’s also quite the band leader. Drummers have a different thud when they play on her stage. Musicians' fills disappear. She brings in a horn solo as often as she lays down a guitar lead. The closer tracks, "Plowing Out Pts 1 & 2," aren't inherently linked numbers. By the second part, the group has worked up to a carnival swirl, frothing like "Sister Ray" yet as sweet as a children's TV show theme. Does that sound sinister? The effect is more like heartbreak fuelling abandon, her forlorn presence informing everyone's playing.

Fuse this album with the excellent Cyrk II tracks, and you can image a deluxe double LP 10th anniversary reissue in a few years. Ha ha no. I expect nothing so garish will happen. It sure wouldn't suit the artist. In a decade where "fan service" became an everyday concept, Le Bon is immune. She's a songwriter who seems like she might walk away from at all without notice, if that’s where her craftsmanship leads. The odd and oddly comfortable chair that is Cyrk doesn't suit any particular decor, but my room would feel bare without it.

Ben Donnelly

Converge — All We Love We Leave Behind (Epitaph)

Here’s the scenario: Heavily tatted guy has some dogs. He really loves his dogs. Heavily tatted guy goes on tour with his band. While he’s on the road, one of his dogs dies. Heavily tatted guy gets really sad. He writes a song about it.  

That should be the set-up for an insufferably maudlin emo record. But instead what you get is Converge’s “All We Love We Leave Behind” and the searing LP that shares the title. The songs dive headlong into the emotional intensities of loss and reflect on the cost of artistic ambition. The enormously talented line-up that recorded All We Love We Leave Behind in 2012 had been playing together for just over a decade, and vocalist Jacob Bannon and guitarist Kurt Ballou had been collaborating for more than twenty years. It shows. The record pummels and roars with remarkable precision, and its songs maniacally twist, and somehow they soar.  

Any number of genre tags have been stuck on (or innovated by) Converge’s music: mathcore, metalcore, post-hardcore. It’s fun to split sonic hairs. But All We Love… is most notable for its exhilarating fury and naked heart, musical qualities that no subgenre can entirely claim. Few bands can couple such carefully crafted artifice with such raw intensity. And few records of the decade can match the compositional wit and palpable passion of All We Love…, which never lets itself slip into shallow romanticism. It hurts. And it ruthlessly rocks.  

Jonathan Shaw

EMA — The Future’s Void (City Slang, 2014)

When trying to narrow down to whatever my own most important records of the decade are, I tried to keep it to one per artist (as I do with individual years, although it’s a lot easier there). Out of everyone, though, EMA came by far the closest to having two records on that list, and this could have been 2017’s Exile in the Outer Ring, which along with The Future’s Void comes terrifyingly close to unpacking an awful lot of what’s going wrong, and has been going wrong, with the world we live in for a while now. The Future’s Void focuses more on the technological end of our particular dystopia, shuddering both emotionally and sonically through the dead end of the Cold War all the way to us refreshing our preferred social media site when somebody dies. EMA is right there with us, too; this isn’t judgment, it’s just reporting from the front line. And it must be said, very few things from this decade ripped like “Cthulu” rips.

Ian Mathers

The Field — Looping State of Mind (Kompakt, 2011)

Looping State of Mind by The Field

On Looping State of Mind, Swedish producer Axel Willner builds his music with seamlessly jointed loops of synths, beats, guitars and voice to create warm cushions of sound that envelop the ears, nod the head and move the body. Willner is a master of texture and atmosphere, in lesser hands this may have produced mere comfort food but there is spice in the details that elevates this record as he accretes iotas of elements, withholding release to heighten anticipation. Although this is essentially deep house built on almost exclusively motorik 4/4 beats, Willner also plays with ambient, post-punk and shoegaze dynamics. From the slow piano dub of “Then It’s White,” which wouldn’t be out of place on a Labradford or Pan American album, to the ecstatic shuffling lope of “Arpeggiated Love” and “Is This Power” with its hint of a truncated Gang of Four-like bass riff, Looping State of Mind is a deeply satisfying smorgasbord of delicacies and a highlight of The Field’s four album output during the 2010s.

Andrew Forell

Gang Gang Dance — “Glass Jar” (4AD, 2011)

Instead of telling you my favorite album of the decade — I made my case for it the first year we moved to Tumblr, help yourself — it feels more fitting to tell you a story from my friend Will about my favorite piece of music from the last 10 years, a song that arrived just before the rise of streaming, which flattened “the album experience” to oppressive uniformity and rendered it an increasingly joyless, rudderless routine of force-fed jams and AI/VC-directed mixes catering to a listener that exists in username only. The first four seconds of “Glass Jar” told you everything you needed to know about what lie ahead, but here’s the kind of thing that could happen before everything was all the time:

I took eight hours of coursework in five weeks in order to get caught up on classes and be in a friend's wedding at the end of June. Finishing a week earlier than the usual summer session meant I had to give my end-of-class presentations and turn in my end-of-class papers in a single day, which in turn meant that I was well into the 60-70 hour range without sleep by the time I got to the airport for an early-morning flight. (Partly my fault for insisting that I needed to stay up and make a “wedding night” mix for the couple — real virgin bride included — and even more my fault for insisting that it be a single, perfectly crossfaded track). I was fuelled only by lingering adrenaline fumes and whatever herbal gunpowder shit I had been mixing with my coffee — piracetam, rhodiola, bacopa or DMAE depending on the combination we had at the time. At any rate, eyes burning, skull heavy, joints stiff with dry rot, I still had my wits enough to refuse the backscatter machine at the TSA checkpoint; instead of the usual begrudging pat-down, I got pulled into a separate room. Anyway, it was a weird psychic setback at that particular time, but nothing came of it. Having arrived at my gate, I popped on the iPod with a brand new set of studio headphones and finally got around to listening to the Gang Gang Dance I had downloaded months before. "Glass Jar," at that moment, was the most religious experience I’d had in four years. I was literally weeping with joy.

Point being: It is worth it to stay up for a few days just to listen to ‘Glass Jar’ the way it was meant to be heard.

Patrick Masterson

Heron Oblivion — Heron Oblivion (Sub Pop, 2016)

Heron Oblivion by Heron Oblivion

Heron Oblivion’s self-titled first album fused unholy guitar racket with a limpid serenity. It was loud and cathartic but also pure beauty, floating drummer Meg Baird’s unearthly vocals over a sound that was as turbulent and majestic as nature itself, now roiled in storm, now glistening with dewy clarity. The band convened four storied guitarists—Baird from Espers, Ethan Miller and Noel Harmonson from Comets on Fire and Charlie Sauffley—then relegated two of them to other instruments (Baird on drums and Miller on bass). The sound drew on the full flared wail and scree of Hendrix and Acid Mothers Temple, the misty romance of Pentangle and Fairport Convention. It was a record out of time and could have happened in any year from about 1963 onward, or it could have not happened at all. We were so glad it did at Dusted; Heron Oblivion’s eponymous was closer to a consensus pick than any record before or since, and if you want to define a decade, how about the careening riffs of “Oriar” breaking for Baird’s dream-like chants?

Jennifer Kelly

The Jacka — What Happened to the World (The Artist, 2014)

Probably the most prophetic rap album of the 2010s. The Jacka was the king of Bay rap since he started MOB movement. He was always generous with his time, and clique albums were pouring out of The Jacka and his disciples every few months. Even some of his own albums resembled at times collective efforts. This generosity made some of the albums unfocused and disjointed, yet what it really shows is that even in the times when dreams of collective living were abandoned The Jacka still had hopes for Utopia and collective struggles. It was about the riches, but he saw the riches in people first and foremost.

This final album before he was gunned down in the early 2014 is full of predictions about what’s going to happen to him. Maybe this explains why it’s focused as never before and even Jacka’s leaned-out voice has doomed overtones. This music is the only possible answer to the question the album’s title poses: everything is wrong with the world where artists are murdered over music.

Ray Garraty

John Maus — We Must Become Pitiless Censors of Ourselves (Upset The Rhythm, 2011)

We Must Become the Pitiless Censors of Ourselves by John Maus

Minnesota polymath John Maus’ quest for the perfect pop song found its apotheosis on his third album We Must Become Pitiless Censors of Ourselves in 2011. On the surface an homage to 1980s synth pop, Maus’ album reveals its depth with repeated listens. Over expertly constructed layers of vintage keyboards, Maus’ oft-stentorian baritone alternately intones and croons deceptively simple couplets that blur the line between sincerity and provocation. Lurking beneath the smooth surface Maus uses Baroque musical tropes that give the record a liturgical atmosphere that reinforces the Gregorian repetition of his lyrics. The tension between the radical ironic banality of the words and the deeply serious nature of the music and voice makes We Must Become Pitiless Censors of Ourselves an oddly compelling collection that interrogates the very notion of taste and serves an apt soundtrack to the post-truth age.

Andrew Forell

Joshua Abrams & Natural Information Society — Mandatory Reality (Eremite, 2019)

Mandatory Reality by Joshua Abrams & Natural Information Society

Any one of the albums that Joshua Abrams has made under the Natural Information Society banner could have made this list. While each has a particular character, they share common essences of sound and spirit. Abrams made his bones playing bass with Nicole Mitchell, Matana Roberts, Mike Reed, Fred Anderson, Chad Taylor, and many others, but in the Society his main instrument is the guimbri, a three-stringed bass lute from Morocco. He uses it to braid melody, groove, and tone into complex strands of sound that feel like they might never end. Mandatory Reality is the album where he delivers on the promise of that sound. Its centerpiece is “Finite,” a forty-minute long performance by an eight-person, all-acoustic version of Natural Information Society. It has become the main and often sole piece that the Society plays. Put the needle down and at first it sounds like you are hearing some ensemble that Don Cherry might have convened negotiating a lost Steve Reich composition. But as the music winds patiently onwards, strings, drums, horns, and harmonium rise in turn to the surface. These aren’t solos in the jazz sense so much as individual invitations for the audience to ease deeper into the sonic entirety. The music doesn’t end when the record does, but keeps manifesting with each performance. Mandatory Reality is a nodal point in an endless stream of sound that courses through the collective unconscious, periodically surfacing in order to engage new listeners and take them to the source.

Bill Meyer

Mansions — Doom Loop (Clifton Motel, 2013)

I knew nothing about Mansions when I first heard about this record; I can’t even remember how I heard about this record. But I liked the name of the album and the album art, so I listened to it. Sometimes the most important records in your decade have as much to do with you as with them. I’d been frantically looking for a job for nearly two years at that point, the severance and my access Ontario’s Employment Insurance program (basically, you pay in every paycheck, and then have ~8 months of support if you’re unemployed) had both ran out. I was living with a friend in Toronto sponsoring my American wife into the country (fun fact: they don’t care if you have an income when you do that), feeling the walls close in a little each day, sure I was going to wind up one of those kids who had to move back to the small town I’d left and a parent’s house. There were multiple days I’d send out 10+ applications and then walk around my neighbourhood blasting “Climbers” and “Out for Blood” through my earbuds, cueing up “La Dentista” again and dreaming of revenge… on what? Capitalism? There was no more proximate target in view. That’s not to say that Doom Loop is necessarily about being poor or about the shit hand my generation (I fit, just barely) got in the job market, or anything like that; but for me it is about the almost literal doom loop of that worst six months, and I still can’t listen to “The Economist” without my blood pressure spiking a little.

Ian Mathers

Protomartyr — Under Colour of Official Right (Hardly Art, 2014)

Under Color of Official Right by Protomartyr

By my count, Protomartyr made not one but four great albums in the 2010s, racking up a string of rhythmically unstoppable, intellectually challenging discs with absolute commitment and intent. I caught whiff of the band in 2012, while helping out with editing the old Dusted. Jon Treneff’s review of All Passion No Technique told a story of exhilarant discovery; I read it and immediately wanted in. The conversion event, though, came two years later, with the stupendous Under Color of Official Right, all Wire-y rampage and Fall-spittled-bile, a rattletrap construction of every sort of punk rock held together by the preening contempt of black-suited Joe Casey. Doug Mosurock reviewed it for us, concluding, “Poppier than expected, but still covered in burrs, and adeptly analyzing the pain and suffering of their city and this year’s edition of the society that judges it, Protomartyr has raised the bar high enough for any bands to follow, so high that most won’t even know it’s there.” Except here’s the thing: Protomartyr jumped that bar two more times this decade, and there’s no reason to believe that they won’t do it again. The industry turned on the kind of bands with four working class dudes who can play a while ago, but this is the band of the 2010s anyway.

Jennifer Kelly

Tau Ceti IV — Satan, You’re the God of This Age, but Your Reign Is Ending (Cold Vomit, 2018)

Satan, You're The God of This Age But Your Reign is Ending by Tau Ceti IV

This decade was full of takes on American primitive guitar. Some were pretty good, a few were great, many were forgettable, and then there was this overlooked gem from Jordan Darby of Uranium Orchard. Satan, You’re the God of This Age, but Your Reign Is Ending is an antidote to bland genre exercises. Like John Fahey, Darby has a distinct voice and style, as well as a sense of humor. Also like Fahey, his playing incorporates diverse influences in subtle but pronounced ways. American primitive itself isn’t a staid template. Though there are also plenty of beautiful, dare I say pastoral moments, which still stand out for being genuinely evocative.

Darby’s background in aggressive electric guitar music partly explains his approach. (Not sure if he’s the only ex-hardcore guy to go in this direction, but there can’t be many.) His playing is heavier than one might expect, but it feels natural, not like he’s just playing metal riffs on an acoustic guitar. But heaviness isn’t the only difference. Like his other projects, Satan is wonderfully off-kilter. This album’s strangeness isn’t reducible to component parts, but here are two representative examples: “The Wind Cries Mary” gradually encroaches on the last track, and throughout, the microphone picks up more string noise than most would consider tasteful. It all works, or at least it’s never boring.

Ethan Milititisky

Z-Ro — The Crown (Rap-a-Lot, 2014)

When singing in rap was outsourced to pop singers and Auto Tune, Z-Ro remained true to his self, singing even more than he ever did. He did his hooks and his verses himself, and no singing could harm his image as a hustler moonlighting as a rapper. He can’t be copied exactly because of his gift, to combine singing soft and rapping hard. It’s a sort of common wisdom that he recorded his best material in the previous decade, yet quite apart from hundreds of artists that continued to capitalize on their fame he re-invented himself all the past decade, making songs that didn’t sound like each other out of the same raw material. The Crown is a tough pick because since his post-prison output he made solid discs one after each other.

Ray Garraty

[beckzorz]

Out of Nowhere (4/21)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes/OFC Summary: An offhand comment at work draws Jesse Kaplan into the orbit of Bucky Barnes. Bucky’s excited at the prospect of normalcy, but there’s nothing normal about falling in love with the Winter Soldier. Words: 3016 A/N: The song for this chapter is “Brooklyn Boogie” by Louis Prima from Jumpin’ With The Big Swing Bands. We’ve got more interaction upcoming, prepare yourself... It might even be less awkward than before XD Hope you enjoy!

PART 4: “BROOKLYN BOOGIE”

    Today, 2:08 PM

itsadrian: guess what jesse.kaplan: What? itsadrian: i googled bucky barnes again jesse.kaplan: … no itsadrian: yes itsadrian: i couldn’t help myself lol itsadrian: i was surprised jesse.kaplan: I don’t want to know!!! jesse.kaplan: I’m serious!! itsadrian: ok ok! my lips are sealed itsadrian: … are you planning on seeing him again? jesse.kaplan: asdfhuihtlsbt jesse.kaplan: I have WORK TO DO itsadrian: lol ok ok

—

Adrian was from the internet. Jesse had never met her in person, but Adrian was the person she talked to most. Barely a day went by when they didn’t share some anecdote from their day, though it was rarely anything particularly groundbreaking. Meeting the Winter Soldier was probably the most interesting thing that had ever happened to either of them—Adrian was a receptionist for a contracting firm, and she had ample free time to message. Jesse worked quickly enough to sneak in a few chats during the day, and the timing usually worked out despite the hour difference.

Jesse hadn’t spoken of her encounters with Barnes with anyone else, and dealing with Adrian’s questions had been harrowing enough. Now wasn’t the time to be distracted—another project was coming up, and they needed flyers edited and printed, and…

And Jesse was only just focused enough to carry out the mundane edits, the mundane printing, the mundane going and gathering and envelope-stuffing.

It was really rather remarkable how much effort it took not to think about something. At the printer, she tried not to think about how she’d heard of Barnes’ first visit to Marilyn just here, juggling papers just as now. At her desk, it was about all the times he’d called her smart. On her way home, when she itched to pull out her phone to talk to someone, anyone about it, there was his terrible texting. She’d thought a guy who grew up in the typewriter era would use full words, but he’d adjusted to that aspect of modernity perfectly well.

Jesse sighed and stuffed her hands between her knees. What was the matter with her? No one warranted this much sustained thought, not even a superhero. If anything, that made it worse. Sure, she’d sighed over a famous person now and again, but she’d never actually met any of them. It was almost a given that they’d be a disappointment after any errant daydreams of perfect, charming strangers swooping in and… well. And.

Of course, Bucky Barnes was far from perfect. Awkward, uncomfortable, sometimes downright unsettling. The memory of that coldness that crept over him every so often made her shiver even in the heat of the subway. It was almost enough to make her forget his brief bursts of warmth.

But not quite.

Jesse clutched her purse to her side as she hurried up the stairs to street level, five blocks east, and up two flights of stairs to her apartment. She slipped out of her flats and leaned heavily against the door. Fran wasn’t home yet—he went to the gym after work most days—so she had the place to herself for at least another half-hour.

Plenty of time for a cold shower.

–

    XXX-XXX-XXXX     Today, 6:42 PM

XXX-XXX-XXXX: i have an idea XXX-XXX-XXXX: u free sat?

–

Jesse nearly dropped her towel when she checked her phone. She brushed her wet hair back to keep it from dripping on her screen and hastily responded in the affirmative. Then she flopped onto her bed, hair slick against her neck and heart racing.

So much for that cold shower.

–

Saturday was beautiful. Blue sky, fluffy clouds, not so much sun exposure that Jesse had to worry about sunburns or, god forbid, a tan. Bucky had suggested a cafe in Brooklyn Heights; Jesse had googled it yesterday, and it looked reasonable enough. Less than an hour to get there. She had no idea where Barnes lived—and she doubted he knew where she did either—but Brooklyn Heights was where Steve Rogers had grown up. It was Bucky Barnes’ home turf too, whether or not he lived there still.

Jesse got a small table along the wall and sat facing the room. Sitting with her back to a room always raised her hackles, and in this case, well, she was waiting for someone. She tapped her foot, anxious, not at all in time to the quiet music piped in from the ceiling. According to her phone, she was still a few minutes early.

The muted television was playing local news. How could a string of overnight break-ins be unconfirmed? Did they know what unconfirmed meant? Jesse ignored the television and checked her phone, then studied the other customers. The people sitting alone were all either using their phones or reading books. Some were probably doing both. Jesse studied the various groups—a couple here, a trio of laughing high schoolers there. Some senior citizens, some yoga moms.

Did she look alright? She tucked the stray hairs at her temples behind her ears for the hundredth time. She couldn’t do anything more, but that didn’t stop her worrying the inside of her lip. Well, she could adjust her posture. She sat up as straight as she could, then deflated. She didn’t want to look like a board.

The chime of the door was a relief, if only to distract her from her own busy mind. But behind the initial clump of college boys was Bucky Barnes, a cap low on his head and his arms stiff at his sides. His discomfort was palpable, and Jesse winced at his expression. He looked as uncomfortable as he’d first been on Thursday, before he’d relaxed into their first dance. He’d never really recovered—she considered their brief conversation in the hospital elevator the most relaxed he’d been with her yet—but he had calmed down.

She hoped he’d calm down here, too. She didn’t think she could handle the secondhand stress on top of actually listening to whatever he had to say.

Bucky spotted her and made a beeline for her table. She stood up hastily and smiled.

“Hey,” she said.

He hummed in response, sliding neatly into the chair across from her. Jesse sat back down. Apparently they hadn’t reached hugging status. Oh well.

She tucked her phone into her back pocket. “How are you?”

“Fine,” he said. “You?” He wasn’t looking at her. Not directly, at least.

Jesse got the feeling he was sussing out the room. She glanced around again, curiosity rekindled. Trying to see through his eyes was an exercise in creativity. “I’m fine,” she said, attention elsewhere. “Did you want to get something to drink?”

He paused, frowned.

“I can get it, if you want,” she offered, pity overcoming her spending budget.

“No,” he said. He stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. “I can take care of myself.”

“Well, duh,” Jesse said, amusement tinging her annoyance into something bearable. “You don’t always have to, though. Waiting in line is boring.”

“So we can wait together.”

At that, Jesse smiled. “Good call.”

The line was short, and Bucky went unidentified—or at least, unapproached—as they put in their drink orders. He gave his name as James, not Bucky, which gave Jesse pause. Should she call him that, here in public? It didn’t seem necessary. She’d never even spoken his name aloud. Not that she could remember, anyway. She thought of him unnervingly often, sure, but they were worlds apart. Calling him Bucky? Saying the name aloud?

She wasn’t sure she could say it without betraying herself.

And she sure as hell wasn’t going to try today.

“So,” she said once they were back at a table. “You said you had an idea?”

“Yeah.” Bucky gripped his Americano—his hands dwarfed the small cup—and stared at her seriously. “I have an idea for your work.”

“Cool!” Jesse said. “You should talk to Marilyn once she’s better. Or I can connect you with—”

“I want to talk to you.”

Jesse blinked, touched. Touched and confused. “Okay, well, here I am. Talk away.”

“I liked teaching those kids,” he said. “They got over… it. Me. And they learned. They liked learning.”

“That’s great.” She grinned. He’d gotten that experience partly because of her. There was no harm in feeling smug about her contribution.

“Yeah, it was.” He took a steadying breath. “I want to do it again.”

“Ah?” Jesse blinked. That was good to hear, but why wasn’t he talking to Marilyn again? This all was her department, not Jesse’s. Jesse didn’t have a department.

“Could we do something like that with dancing?”

“Sure! There are loads of great teachers around. It’d be easy to find someone.”

“I already did,” Bucky said. His lips twitched now. He was amused by… her?

“Oh,” she said. Her cheeks flamed. “You meant actual we.”

“Yeah.”

Jesse scrambled to put together a coherent response. Her heart sang—Bucky wanted to do something with her!—but her brain screamed in terror. How could he think this was a good idea?! “I’ve never taught before. I wouldn’t know how to explain what I’m doing!”

“You’re smart, I bet you could figure it out.”

Did he always dismantle concerns so easily? She didn’t feel particularly smart at the moment. “I don’t like crowds,” she tried.

He rolled his eyes. “I managed.”

She cradled her iced mocha, staring down through the plastic lid at the milkiness below. Bucky had managed everything life had thrown at him. Almost dying, losing a limb, brainwashing, cryofreeze, more brainwashing, living as a fugitive… As uncomfortable as he behaved in aimless crowds, they were surely nothing next to all the horrors he’d had to deal with. And while he wasn’t at ease, he didn’t shy away from invitations. At least, not from her.

Jesse, meanwhile, had managed by avoiding all the things she feared and disliked. Unstructured crowds, leadership positions, deeply committed romance… She was fine, she was doing fine, but putting herself in the spotlight was high on her list of things to avoid.

She’d never been brave. She’d been smart. She’d been so smart that she’d never really learned how to screw up, and up to now she’d been too afraid to try.

Jesse snuck a glance at Bucky. He was staring at her over the rim of his cup as he drank. Was he daring her to say yes? Or just waiting for an answer?

What would happen if she said no? Disappointment, no doubt. Disgust, maybe. He might be so disappointed he’d leave her alone. That wouldn’t be so bad, would it? Maybe then she could get over her fixation and keep all that mental energy for her real life.

What would happen if she said yes?

BCEI would have to find a school willing to implement their program, and she and Bucky would have to lesson plan together. They would have to practice basic moves together, and then teach them to a crowd of adolescents. The prospect was frightening, but the possibility of working with him, dancing with him, spending time with him—

“I can talk to my boss on Monday,” she found herself saying.

A real smile lit up his face. It was the first time she’d ever seen him so genuinely pleased, and she couldn’t help but smile back. Gosh, his eyes really were that blue. The longer she looked at him, the less she wanted to look away.

“Great,” Bucky said. He knocked on the table with his prosthetic knuckles and lifted his cup towards her. “To something normal. For a change.”

Jesse giggled, delighted by his unusual candidness. “Amen to that!” She tapped her plastic cup against his ceramic mug and drank the last of her mocha.

If Bucky got a kick out of normalcy, well, he’d be thrilled with her. She smiled, teeth still holding onto her straw. She usually hated being called normal, but you know what? From Bucky Barnes, supersoldier, she’d take it.

–

A popular dance band from New Orleans was in town for a special dance event that night in Manhattan. Jesse hadn’t bothered mentioning it to Bucky, figuring she’d do better not to abuse his patience. She’d hopefully see him soon anyway, and this way she could wear one of her 40s dresses without feeling awkward about it. She pinned the front of her hair into swooping rolls and curled the rest into neat waves, then shimmied into her teal dress. She loved wearing it, and she was glad for the excuse. The nipped waist emphasized her figure, and the color made her skin glow; she felt like a vixen, or at least something approaching beautiful. Jesse tramped off to the subway with her oversized purse later than planned but grinning.

Today was a good day.

Once she arrived and paid, she found a corner to change her shoes and immediately spotted a dance friend on the sidelines. They wormed their way into a slot in the crowd, and Jesse’s spirit soared as she danced. Let other people talk up yoga and meditation; this was unfiltered joy right here.

After her first dance, Jesse made a beeline for Mike, who’d been dancing near her.

“Wanna dance?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Mike said, though his smile was dimmer than usual.

They started the new song, which was slow enough to allow for some conversation.

“Your friend is here,” Mike said.

Jesse blinked up at him, confused. “Who?”

“You know.” Mike jerked her head to the left, towards the back edge of the room. Jesse followed his gaze. Her heart skipped a beat.

Bucky was here!

Wait, did Mike think they were friends?

Were they friends? Jesse considered the possibility, but no. They knew too little of each other. They’d never spent time together socially, apart from the Stark Benefit. And their coffee this morning didn’t count. That was for work, not the pleasure of each other’s company. They’d danced together, sure, but a few dances, however memorable, were no basis for a friendship.

Well, if they weren’t friends, they were friendly. She didn’t bother correcting Mike. She’d rather dance than argue semantics. Besides, Bucky probably wouldn’t appreciate being spoken about. Did supersoldiers have super hearing? Jesse glanced in Bucky’s direction, but the crowd had shifted and she couldn’t make him out. Whether he did or not, she’d rather keep quiet. Her relationship with Bucky, whatever it was, wasn’t Mike’s business. And there was certainly no harm in keeping her secret pleasure at his assumption to herself. If someone from a distance fancied they were friends, maybe one day it would be possible.

The dance with Mike was as invigorating as usual. When the dance turned her in the right direction, Jesse couldn’t help looking across the room in the off-chance she’d be able to make out Bucky in the crowd. She turned back to face Mike after one search and found him studying her with a frown.

“What’s up?” she asked.

Mike shook his head and averted his gaze. “Nothing.” He drew her in for a spin. “Just thinking.”

“Happens to the best of us.” Jesse didn’t expect a response to her snark, but Mike surprised her.

“Is he worth the stress?”

“Huh?”

Mike was making zero sense tonight. Jesse stared up at him, but from closed position she couldn’t see past his chin.

“Him. You know. Bad stuff happens around people like that.”

Understanding dawned at last. Mike was worried about her.

“Nothing’s happened so far, just some dancing,” Jesse told him. “I think that’s pretty normal.”

“It’s not normal for someone like that to come dancing,” Mike said darkly.

“Well, maybe it should be,” Jesse retorted. “Why shouldn’t he have some fun for a change?”

Mike sighed. “Sorry, sorry. Just—sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Jesse said automatically. The song ended there, and Mike stepped back from her quickly. He didn’t meet her eye. “It’s okay, Mike. I appreciate the concern, but it’s fine. Really.”

Mike smiled absently. “Here’s hoping.” He clapped her on the shoulder and strode away.

Jesse’s stomach twisted unpleasantly and her blood pounded in her ears. She abandoned the dance floor, too disturbed by Mike’s insinuations to seek Bucky out just yet.

What right did Mike have to say Bucky shouldn’t go dancing? After all Bucky had been through, he deserved as many chances at a good time as the rest of them. More so, even. Jesse hadn’t fought in the army, American or otherwise. She hadn’t helped dismantle any evil organizations either. Bucky had earned his good time, thank you very much.

Jesse pulled her water bottle out of her purse and drank, still facing away from the crowd. She knew how to avoid being asked to dance. Right now, she had no desire to force a smile. She wished she could go back, get Mike, and tell him how wrong he was, how unjust!

But confrontation was so not her style that the very thought deflated her. Her shoulders slumped. She collapsed into one of the chairs along the side of the room, holding her water bottle between her knees. Mike was allowed to express his concerns, and they weren’t entirely invalid. Crazy shit did happen around people like Bucky. The alien invasion had started at Avengers Tower. Sokovia, the bombing at the Accords… Mike wasn’t wrong.

But apart from the Stark benefit, all the places she’d met Bucky were off the usual radar for strange events. A coffee shop, dance halls, a hospital. Everyday normal places. If everyday normal places were suspect now, what even was the point? Life had to go on.

Someone sat next to her, and Jesse glanced over. Bucky tilted his head in her direction. His hair was tucked behind his ear, and his dress shirt sleeves were rolled up over a long-sleeved undershirt, hiding his arms. Though he wasn’t smiling, he wasn’t uncomfortable. He held out his metal hand to her without a word.

Jesse looked up at his face. Bucky was looking out at the crowd with little of the reservation he’d worn on Thursday. Somehow, he’d gotten over his discomfort.

She took his hand and let him lead her onto the floor.

Life had to go on.

For all of them.

[chiyoumen]

Two Faced | Chapter 3: Inseparable

Angst | Hurt, no comfort | Jealousy | Denial 

I wasn’t able to get to my computer to post chapter 3 here on tumblr, but here it is now (for anyone who is past meeting Ren and hasn’t read this chapter on Ao3 yet lmao)

Summary:

Neither of them expected their reunion to be so... Bleak. Distance had given them both false expectations and changes in perception. The contact high had faded, and so had their victories.

Ren keeps his stead fast desire for treasure, and Ryo keeps his desire for justice, and peace. The conflict lay in their want for one another... Of which they both further deny.

But, Ren knows he needs Ryo to reach his goals, whether he cared about him or not... Their disappointing reunion left them both feeling raw.

What happens when he eavesdrops, and finds how Ryo speaks about him to other people?

What happens when he hears him flirting with another man?

Notes:

There is, of course, major spoilers for Shenmue III from this point on. Future chapters are planned, and will hopefully make it out as I replay the game again. 

This chapter is based on the meeting with Ren in Niaowu, which was far more mundane than I expected. But it gave me something to work with, so here we are. It also involved the scene after they meet, where Ryo talks to Shenhua about him, and then calling some people, since I had the international calling card. 

Major thanks to everyone who's commented, left kudos, and sent asks to me about this, or generally read this and supported in any way. Your support keeps this alive and I greatly appreciate it!

Hope you enjoy!

[Inseparable]

"He really liked you, didn't he?"

Honestly, he wasn't so sure about Joy's observation. Whenever he was around Ren, there was a palpable tension. The kiss they shared, the memories... The moment he felt strongest was at the top of the yellow head building, Ren's hand upon his shoulder, staring off into the sunset sky as Lan Di got away. He felt nearly defeated when Lan Di had escaped. But there was much more in that moment. He felt so close - like he could truly accomplish finding his father's killer.

And now... He was beginning to feel more alone than ever. While his relationship with Shenhua had grown, and he felt safe with her, she was... Comfortable. He didn't know how else to put that. She was innocent, and he was scared of her seeing more of the world than necessary - but she'd made her choice to follow him. He couldn't blame her for wanting to save her father... And he absolutely wanted to help. She was by no means weak, but she was quite naive.

Ren following him to China was something he'd anticipated, but he hadn't allowed himself to think on it too much. What if he hadn't shown up? He couldn't let himself feel that disappointment.

But he had shown up.

"Is that really all I get!?"

Ryo's heart practically punched through his chest when he heard that abrasive voice slice through the crowds and busy vendors. Ryo saw him the moment he turned the corner and did not hesitate to approach.

"THIS much." Ryo watched him gesture a large amount, "I want THIIIS much."

"Ren-" He tried to push through Ren's argument with the vendor.

Finally, he was here again. But he didn't turn around. He was just shouting about noodles and how stingy the vendor was being... This wasn't surprising.

"Ren!" Ryo needed to be heard.

Ren turned and face him, his heart leaping in frustration over the situation, words slipping from his lips because he did not want this to happen now, "Oh, for crying out loud!"

Play it cool, play it cool. You didn't follow him across China only out of worry. Right, money. That was the main reason, duh. Screw any other reason, honestly. It was the truth, just... Not the whole truth.

"What are you doing here?" Ryo asked, as if he hadn't known Ren would follow him all along.

"What's it look like I'm doing?" Ren gestured to the stand multiple times, "I'm buying some chow mein!"

Ryo glared, "This is no time for jokes."

Ren drew his hands up, taking a step back, that scowl always made his heart skip, "Oh, there you go with that scary face again."

Ryo stepped closer, grabbing Ren's full attention, at least for a moment, "What the hell are you doing in Niaowu?"

'Say it,' Ryo plead internally, 'say you actually care for once, damn it.'

Ren stared at him for a moment, and the smirk that grew on Ren's face made Ryo scared to hear what he was about to say.

"You remember hearing Zhu Yuanda's story back in Kowloon?" Ren wagged his finger upward, and as he finished his statement, he couldn't bear to keep looking at Ryo, and darted his eyes away. Focus on anything else.

Ryo glared instantly, "About what?"

'Please don't say treasure.' Ryo thought, but it was cut off by exactly what he didn't want.

"Treasure!"

'Bastard.' he internally replied, glaring a little.

"I'm talking about treasure!" Ren hissed, briefly raising his fist to him to prove his sure, rock-steady stance on exactly what he was after. But he couldn't look at Ryo anymore, or that rock wall of a facade may crumble. So he turned away, unable to avoid the tension when Ryo lingered closer despite his move away, "The scent is so strong I can practically smell it..."

Ryo sighed, turning his head to stare at the ground. Ren really wasn't as good as he'd built him up to be. In the end, Ryo didn't give a damn about treasure. He wanted vengeance, justice, and eventually peace, and while he had thought Ren cared about that - he very clearly didn't.

"You..." Ryo's voice dropped, trailing off.

He shouldn't have been surprised.

Ren looked back to him, brow raising at Ryo's sudden downcast appearance. Damn. It worked. Ryo couldn't see through anything.

Ren stretched his arms back in the most nonchalant manner he could, deciding that he really didn't want to deal with the aftermath of this encounter. It wasn't his fault that Ryo showed up unexpectedly, he wasn't prepared! And now the kid was upset. Whatever. Ryo could handle himself.

"I'm gonna walk around some more." He flashed a fake, crooked smile at Ryo as he backed away, waving, abrupt and awkward, completely disregarding why he had been at the noodle stand in the first place, "See ya."

As Ryo glared at his back, he hadn't the faintest idea that Ren could be cursing himself mentally the entire time he walked away. Instead, Ryo was wondering how the Hell they'd gotten so close - only for it to be torn away to shreds and crumble so quickly... They'd only been apart a few weeks, but perhaps that was enough to put all their pain and differences in perspective. Or at least remind Ren what his real goal was.

"That Ren could easily pass for a red snake..." He sighed, mumbling to himself, "Guess I should head back to the bustling diner I go." He'd said it loudly in a last ditch effort to tell Ren where he'd be. But the man didn't even acknowledge him.

Ryo's heart had sunk into his stomach, any attempt at staying positive was gone, and he hadn't moved away from their meeting spot right away. He had a feeling that they both knew they'd see one another again - but this was not what he'd been anticipating... And Ren felt as cold as ever. That smirk of his was the same yet it felt so false and hollow. He felt more like the man he met the tried to stab him right off the bat... He felt like that same broken thug he distrusted, and needed to go to for help. He no longer felt the man who spoke up against his cool demeanor, the man who helped him when he didn't need to... the man he'd kissed.

He felt used.

Ryo's fists clenched tightly with his anger, rage brimming his eyes with tears. He'd tried to avoid disappointing himself with thoughts of their reunion - yet this was worse than he'd tried not to imagine. This hurt.

"Damn it..." He muttered inaudibly through gritted teeth, watching Ren's pony tail lightly chase him in the air as he walked away, "Damn you!"

Ren was thinking the same words.

There was nothing about their reunion that felt good - aside from the initial excitement of hearing Ryo call his name. But he was hungry and cranky, not only that, he hadn't expected Ryo to find him in the middle of a vendor's market. This was not going right. This was awful. He couldn't have possibly played it off any worse. Whatever, he really was there to find treasure! Not that he thought Ryo believed that anymore.

Did he care? Sure. Should he? Absolutely not. He had a job to do, and his number one goal was to become rich beyond his wildest dreams. It wasn't his fault that some dumb, passionate kid made him feel a thing or two. It's not like he hadn't slept with people or had brief flings without a second thought before. This was just like that. This was only that...

Being in an actual, public relationship with another man would be a scary prospect at best. Ren had a fondness for women too, but was by no means traditional, nor did he really care about the public opinion. He liked who he liked, despite sexual activity between men being illegal in his hometown. But fuck staying there, anyway, how boring. And since when did he care about any law he didn't want to follow? Boom, problem solved. But only the gods knew how Ryo might feel about that sort of thing. He had no idea how Japanese culture worked when it came to... All of that.

Gods, he was thinking too much. Headache central.

Although... None of it meant he had to be so cold to Ryo.

Maybe he should try again...? He already knew where Ryo was staying, perhaps he could try and stop by, change things. He didn't have to, and he had shit to do, but what good was any of this if Ryo remained pissed at him? There wasn't going to be any treasure, and there wasn't gonna be any glory if he couldn't tail it off the damn kid.

Yeah, that was his rationale.

Ren sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose as he walked along the riverside. Yes, he fucked up. He had to do something. Like fixing a business partnership, right? Damn.

Not too long after their fleeting reunion, Ren made the decision to find Ryo in the Niaowu hotel. He'd been waiting for a while, and it was nearly nine. With a disgruntled groan, he headed into the lobby bathroom, annoyed at Ryo for making him wait so damn long...

Now, he wasn't usually the type to hype himself up, and he felt like an idiot doing so, mumbling under his breath. 'You can do this, he's just a dumb kid, he'll forgive you, this isn't a big deal. You don't even need to ask the idiot.' That was good enough right?

He stared at his hands for a moment, releasing a slow sigh. Gods, he was tired. Getting here hadn't been easy, and now, being here wasn't easy.

Adjusting his bandanna, he moved to leave the restroom.

He froze briefly when he heard Ryo's voice out front. Ren was about ready to push himself ahead, go catch him, talk to him, but he changed his mind the instant he heard a woman respond to him. He snaked against the wall, keeping himself pressed against it as he neared the corner, briefly peeking out to see Ryo sit down with a young, beautiful girl. How strange was that? A girl? Really?

Ren scowled, and moved back against the wall. He was in no way above eavesdropping. He hadn't heard the beginning of their conversation clearly.

Ryo was always awkward, but even more so when he spoke to women.

"Have you found anything?" The woman asked, a delicate, sweet voice reaching their ears.

"Hm. Nothing... New." Ryo replied.

She seemed disappointed, but resigned to patience, "Okay..."

"I..." Ryo paused on and off, as if he wasn't sure he wanted to tell her this, "Met someone... Unexpected, though."

Unexpected in the way he ran into him, not entirely unexpected, as he knew he'd see him eventually.

"Oh, who?" The woman replied.

"A man I met in Hong Kong, named Ren."

Ren's heart skipped, cold sweat beading throughout his skin.

"Ren, huh?" The girl seemed curious, "Is he a friend of yours?"

Neither of them knew the answer to that. But Ryo's response forced Ren into a state of anger that he had to swallow like a dry rock.

"Not... exactly.

Excuse you, kid?

"I keep my guard up when he's around."

'Seriously?' Ren glowered internally, 'After all I've done?'

"So..." She pushed for clarification, "He's a bad guy?"

"Uhm..."

Ren's entire body was washed over in a cold ice.

"Yeah, actually. He is."

Ren's hands balled into fists as he attempted to slow down his rapid breaths. He wasn't going to disagree when he was called a thug, or a jerk, or a snake. But he wasn't a bad guy! ...Was he? No! He was just trying to make a damn living in this harsh environment. One that he was born into and wasn't his fault to begin with!

Yet, his anger was lightly soothed, softened a little upon hearing, "But... We can trust him?"

"Well, yeah... We just have to watch our backs is all."

It was something. But not enough to completely quell the heaviness and heat weighing on him now.

"O...Kay?" She seemed just as confused about the two's relationship as they did.

So... Was that really how Ryo felt about him...?

Ren felt lost in a dizzying heart palpitation. He couldn't find his breath anymore, until he somehow forced a shaky one into his lungs. His nails were digging into his palms, only protected by the fabric of his gloves. He really was a bad guy, wasn't he? He's a thug, a villain, and Ryo had only needed him for help. Never took him for the using people sort, but maybe Ryo wasn't as innocent as anyone liked to believe...

With a start, Ren realized he needed to hide better as the girl passed by, toward the stairs. He slid down the hall, cautious, quick, and careful. He pushed himself off the wall to hide behind the corner in front of the bathroom door, still hidden.

He listened to Ryo and the girl bid each other a good night, and he peeked out very carefully to see if Ryo followed her. He felt some sense of relief when Ryo didn't tail her - but panicked when he almost turned his way. He hid again, and he wasn't spotted. All Ren ended up hearing was the sound of a phone being picked up - and Ryo beginning to dial a number.

Well, he certainly didn't want to apologize now anyway. If he wanted a bag guy, he was going to see one. Bad guys don't apologize, bad guys don't do rescue missions. But Ren had to stay put, there was no way he was going to sneak past Ryo while he was on the phone - Lords knew the damn hotel woman might say something.

But again... Ren was not above eaves dropping. Slowly, he lowered himself to the floor, closing his eyes as he sat on the ground and listened.

"Joy?"

Joy. Joy!? Why of all people would he call Joy? Either way, at first it was a typical greeting, boring the crap out of Ren already. He leaned his head back against the wall, and waited.

But his head shot up when Ryo began talking about him, yet again.

"I ran into Ren here..."

Yeesh, don't say it so dryly.

"Yeah..." He paused, "Play nice? With Ren?"

Ren grimaced to himself. But hey, he wasn't much one for playing nice either. Fair. But the next statement wasn't.

"Don't make me laugh. Nobody would make a great team with him."

'Wow, thanks.' Ren bit back that sarcastic statement, by literally biting his lip, 'Least I'm a leader. I've got people waiting for orders. Tsk.'

"He's only interested in treasure! Treasure is about the last thing I'm after."

Ren's hand hesitantly met his face, rubbing his temples with his thumb and forefinger. This was a nightmare. Ryo was both completely right and wrong at the same time. Ren's desperation for power and riches completely conflicted with the way his heart was beating right then, with the way he wanted to yell at him for being such a damn idiot, for disregarding his actions and taking priory over his words... Not that he was about to admit a damn thing.

Though the way Ryo spoke next put a dent in his lost thoughts, "A... blast? With Ren? Really?"

Ren peeked out again, nearly crawling to look that annoyingly far around the corner, too quickly, almost making a sound. It was difficult to see him, but he'd stepped back enough. Either the lighting had changed, or Ryo's face had become flushed with red... Ren knew his face matched.

But Ryo scowled, "Give me a break."

Oh, what Ren wouldn't do to hear Joy's side of the conversation. She knew him, she knew him more than he liked to admit... She was gonna weasel his feelings out without being blunt, wasn't she? But Ryo was convinced that he didn't care now, and Joy may have made him flustered, but that didn't change anything!

They shared a kiss! How the hell was he so damn convinced he didn't care? Gods, what kind of a mess had he gotten himself into... Sure, he was the type to run off and do reckless things... But chasing a boy across China? What the fuck was he thinking? At least his friends didn't seem surprised. Wong and Joy may have been able to read him like an open book, but any of his men? Nah. They expected him to chase the scent of money, hell, they trusted him to do so. Of course he'd go running off at the statement 'treasures of the Qing dynasty.' It was a priority to him... Ryo was merely a benefit to the chase. Yeah. That was all. It was better to look at a pretty boy (and potentially a pretty girl now, too) on the trail to gold than fight along side a ton of old geezers. Uhg.

Ren had been lost in thought, and he hadn't realized that Ryo was talking to someone else already. They had been talking for a moment already, and Ren hadn't caught on until he heard...

"Naturally, I didn't do it alone. I was with a few friends I made back in Hong Kong."

Ren peeked up a little again. But scowled, were they friends or not? And who was he talking to!? Yeesh. And he thought he was the hot and cold one.  

Ren stood again, moving a little bit further in when he realized Ryo had moved closer to the phone, his voice more on a hush-hush level. Whoever was on the other end of the line must have been someone who knew of Ryo's path and all that was going on... He wanted to keep it private.

"They were at least trustworthy, but they couldn't hold a candle to you..."

Ren froze in place, staring at Ryo's profile with wide eyes and a sneer. Ohhh no. No, no. Ren knew that tone. That extremely subtle flirting. That damn tease - so similar to the way he spoke his name, the very thing that drove him up a damn wall. Ren gritted his teeth, knowing he was going to get a headache after all of this. There was no way he was talking to a girl, either. He could never be that suave with a woman.

"There were so many times when I wondered, what if I'd brought you with me to Hong Kong..."

Ren felt his stomach drop, every part of him washed with cold again...

That smile in Ryo's voice, that genuine care, who the hell was it on the other line!?

"Yeah, why?" Ryo muttered, a gentle lull to his tone.

No, no, maybe it was just a friend. Maybe he just knew that person really well. Maybe it was a brother or something? That had to be it. Ryo couldn't possibly talk to someone like that in a flirtatious manner... But he did hear a masculine tone on the other line as he stepped closer, pressed back against the wall.

"Are you blushing, Guizhang?"

Guizhang!? Who the fuck is Guizhang!? If he'd been told, he'd completely forgotten. But now, whoever he was, he had his scorn.

Ren thought he'd already heard the worst crap he could possibly hear while eavesdropping. He was wrong. This took the cake, and the presents, and the house. His ears were ringing, vision tunnelling, and his heart felt like it was about to give. All the fury he'd ever felt seemed to rise back into every single fiber of his being all at once. All over a stupid kid and a stupid mystery phone man and a stupid treasure! It was all stupid, worthless, useless crap!

It took all of his willpower not to stomp up to Ryo right then and there to confront him. Who the hell did he think he was!? How could this possibly get any worse!? He knew confronting him would be far worse than keeping his mouth shut, and pretending he heard nothing inside the wall of Niaowu Hotel... And that's what he would do. Erase this night, erase the ideals he had, erase any promises in a devil's heart.

But he wasn't going to leave Niaowu empty handed, and that meant shoving his heart as far down as it could go, deep into the crevices of his own personal hell in hopes that no one would ever find it again.

It was only a matter of time before Ryo would need him, and Ren was going to make it as clear as possible - he wanted treasure. Nothing more, nothing less.

[impfiltration-archive]

@pafallende​ liked for a thing after the holts are kidnapped, shiro is rather susceptible to katie’s tears

Katie had never felt so small. 

It was more than just her size. Humans scaled on the smaller side throughout this grand universe; the girl has stood before giants, and her confidence was never this shaken. 

She’s trembling like a scared animal, now—curled up on herself and trying not to cry. Neither of her parents had ever spoken about feelings as some kind of shameful act; in fact, they were quite insistent about expressing yourself. Katie did not like to cry, though. One time, when she was enrolled in the private institute for prospective engineers in the albidax system, she cried and everyone laughed.

Her face was ugly when her eyes were all puffy and her skin turned blotchy; what’s more, she was pathetic for wailing like she was still an infant.  

Tears were fine when they were absorbed by her mother’s lap, but not in the big, open halls of the central precinct. That shame shouldn’t be as palpable as it is now—not after the fresh trauma of a home invasion. However, it seems like that one string of pride is keeping Katie from shrieking ugly, high-pitched cries and tearing at whatever’s around her. The method is only barely working, though—there’s little, needling tears making their way down her reddening face, and Katie keeps sniffling. 

As plush as her seat might be, there’s not anymore cushion for her to sink into; instead, Katie just tries hiding her face behind her knees. Whenever she closes her eyes, the masked figures are tearing through her room again—it’s better to just barely peek over her legs, then stare at the floors as all the noise of the precinct plays overhead.  

There’s footsteps, chatter, and lots the ringing. Katie hopes there’s something about her family throughout all the chitchat and calls. Maybe someone spotted the shuttle that took them, or the investigators already figured out who ransacked her home—yet no one comes to talk to her. Everyone just keeps walking by, doing nothing that might help her family.

It’s all just a bunch of other nonsense. 

Her gaze hardens, but before any agitation can really consolidate, a hand settles on her shoulder. Katie sits up instantly and her head snaps to the right. It’s Shiro and Katie has never felt so much relief in that exact moment. Her wide, frightful eyes crinkle into something soft as she surges from her caved-in position to cling onto the man, all the while crying, “Shiro!”

The hug is awkward—the girl wound up standing up on her knees, and was practically spilling out of her chair. She trapped Shiro in an odd stance, too. His left arm is stuck to his side, now, and he’d been standing at an angel. It hardly matters, though, as his relief was also immense. He winds up settling his free-hand around her shoulders, then squeezes just enough to provide some comfort. 

It’s upsetting to find out she’d just been left out here. There’s a well of shame that’s been pooling in the recesses of his mind, and it just ended up even deeper. Not only did he fail his post, but he also left his youngest and now only charge to in some lobby. 

Not like he had much choice with the latter-half. The intruders had used sedatives—Shiro could barely move by the time any reinforcements arrived, he was lucky he could be treated at the precinct instead of being hauled over to the hospital.

There’s no convincing him of any immunity, though. A good guard wouldn’t have let intruders get past the front doors, must less stick him full of tranquilizers. Shiro even felt a pinch of shame over how eagerly Katie received him. Given the circumstances, she should be screaming at him. Being terminated by a twelve year old would be a fitting end to his time as a personal guard. 

He buries all that ignominy in the wake of Katie’s abject state, though; she’s obviously scared, confused, and in need of consolation. Yet he can’t think of anything to say besides a long series of apologies. 

I’m sorry I didn’t stop them. I’m sorry I didn’t protect your family. I’m sorry you were left alone. I’m sorry your father put so much faith in someone that failed him.

His hand moves from between her shoulder-blades to the back of her head, and Shiro hopes that somehow conveys at least a fraction of his remorse. Katie just peels her face away from his side to reveal a snotty, tearful look. It pierces straight through his heart and drops it somewhere at his feet. She looks so fragile, his blood boils when he remembers the intruder that had picked her up—kicking and screaming—by her hair. 

“Takashi,” she only ever used his first name when serious, and her voice was as pitiful as her face, “I don’t want to be here anymore.”

Katie’s grip had loosened enough for Shiro to crouch down more around eye-level. His own hues are watery but the man’s jawline is tight; he’s trying to maintain a calm facade for Katie’s sake. He cups her face with one hand, and says in earnest, “I know, we just have to stay here a little longer while they figure things out. They need to decide who’ll be taking care of you.” 

Immediately, Katie is whimpering, “I don’t want to be sent to some place! I want my family.”

Were this situation more mundane, Shiro might remind her that “young adults” don’t whine. This isn’t the place to assert etiquette; if anything, Shiro wishes he could cave in to her doe eyes. If only he could pull the Holts out of his pocket like an extra piece of candy. Unfortunately, Shiro can’t succumb to her sniffles, or even the way her little hand rest over his.

He might as well been curb-stomped. 

“I’m sorry, Katie,” somehow, he keeps his voice from wavering, but there’s no denying just how soft it just went, “you’ll need to stay somewhere while they look for your family.”

Her bottom lip trembles and Katie pulls away from him before more or less crumbling into the armrest. Shiro could hear some muffled hiccuping, meaning Katie had finally broken into full-blown sobbing. He’s taken aback for a tick—unsure whether this is a cue to give her space or smother her in his arms. Neither option sound quite right, so Shiro opts to brush back her hair as he whispers ever so gently, “Hey, they’ll probably send you to Kaylana. You know she’ll take good care of you until your family is rescued.”

Her head shifts, like she had been shaking it no, then she speaks in a muffled tone, “But she lives so far away. They’re probably just going to send me somewhere on Earth. What if the kidnappers come back? What if I end up with someone who’ll just use me for dad’s name?”

Shiro felt something fold over in his gut. He wants to pat her back until these dramatics subside, but there’s no denying that there is some validity to Katie’s worries. The kidnapping was very clearly a coordinated attack, and what’s more, the kidnappers had aimed for all the Holts. 

Sam made sense. Shiro only ever stood outside the meeting hall or lab doors, but that man had dealings with almost every colony in this quadrant and Central Command. He had enough clout to be a prime target for rebels and foolhardy bounty hunters. If someone had targeted not just him, but his whole family, then something nefarious was brewing, and Katie was apart of it.

A second kidnapping was likely, and if not, then there were plenty of low-leveled officials that would see her being orphaned as a chance to bolster their career. Taking custody of a Holt child would put them in the favor of dozens of different diplomatic figures.

Admittedly, Shiro can feel his sense of reason start to fray at the edges. These concerns had standing, but they were based off the assumption that her case would only be treated haphazardly. He can imagine why Katie feels that way after she’s been left here all alone, and he tries not to agree. 

Again, he smooths out her hair. It’s getting harder and harder to steel his expression into something cool and collected, He’s only managing it now because Katie is crying into the armrest. “That isn’t going to happen. You’ll be protected, I promise.”

Shiro bites his lip when Katie shows the white of her eyes. They’re wet, puffy, and continuously overflowing with fat teardrops. “Does that mean you’re staying with me?”

His reluctance to answer or even meet her eyes in answer enough. Katie sits up again; by this point, she’s well past pride, and feels no shame in exposing her ugly crying face. “But who’s suppose to protect me then? You promised you’d always be there.”

Shiro winces at that. He knows the exact moment she’s talking about, too—back when she was much younger, and he had first been assigned to the Holts. He had made a big, noble pledge about how he’d protect her from all monsters and creeps, and this is the first time he ever regretted it. “I’m.. not going to be assigned to you anymore after tonight.” 

He failed. And Sam had been the only thing keeping him from some military outpost. The Garrison scored him as perfect solider material, and various generals had hounded after him before Sam made a request for a personal guard. Shiro does not mention this; that’s not Katie’s problem, and this is a fate he deserves at this point. 

Katie didn’t care about any of Shiro’s brooding though, and she grapples onto one of his arms like it might’ve been a stuffed animal that was being taken away from her. “No, you can’t leave me!”

He winds up with an armful of snot, but Shiro only moves to try and calm her. Katie’s hold turns into a death grip, and eyes seethed with a sound dissent at Shiro’s quiet, little, “Katie.”

“You’re suppose to protect me! You can’t leave me here-- They’re going to send me to someplace horrible, or the kidnappers are just going to come back. Please, Shiro, don’t leave me here.”

She was picture-perfect is someone ever wanted to phorogrpah desperation. Shiro stared right into those tearful, honey eyes and felt a little bit of his soul wither away. 

He closed his own eyes and sighed something long and tired. Shiro wanted to remind himself that he was too close to the situation. He was reading into it, just trying to insert himself back into the narrative. There’s the clanking of metal boots somewhere behind them that catches his attention instead. Of course, it was a Galra solider (That clanking was always a precursor to being berated at the Garrison). For a second, she seemed to be heading for them—perhaps to act as escort for Katie to some actual accommodations—but the woman simply passes through. Probably making some rounds; you could always find a solider or sentry on patrol in any big or heavily-populated space. 

Either way, she was just another body in this hall of white noise. 

Shiro’s eyes still trail after the solider for a handful of moments, though. He eyed her armor specifically, and felt bile raise in his throat at the sight of it. Despite all his shame, Shiro can’t quite stomach the thought of being fitted into his own armor (His doubts with the empire were repressed somewhere in his subconscious, then masked over with simple repulsion). It almost happened to him once already, but Sam had saved him from that fate. 

Now his daughter was clinging onto him like he was her lifeline, begging for his help with every fiber of her being. 

Shiro looks back into her eyes and sees a reflection of Sam. All the sudden, Shiro feels the flighty sense of impulse in his chest steel over, and scans the whole of the lobby. There’s all sorts of people—either milling about or working at different terminals, but no one’s paying attention to them. It would take something obnoxious or truly suspicious to draw any eyes. 

Keeping his voice low, Shiro carefully eases his arm out of Katie’s grip, and mutters under his breath, “Keep your head down low and don’t make any sound.”

Katie’s brows raise up with momentary confusion before she nods. Her tears are finally thinning out, and she sniffles one last time as Shiro stands back up. As big as Katie might be getting, Shiro can still pick her up like she’s six. Katie easily fits into the position, and tucks her head into the space between Shiro’s shoulder and neck—just as he instructed.

She also digs her fingers into the collar of her uniform, and Shiro settles his hand against the back of her hand in turn. This way, her hair wouldn’t be noticeable. He doesn’t waste any further time situating her; Shiro pivots around, then makes his way to the main doors. His pace was brisk pace, but not too much so.

Being nonchalant was key here. There was a little bubble of paranoia forming in his chest, and Shiro imagines Katie is experiencing the same anxiety—her grip was getting tighter and tighter. There were dozens of people in their peripherals, and all all they had to do was notice her. Shiro just swallows hard and keeps his eyes forward; he could already see the nighttime sky through the glass doors. 

Once he got Katie through them, it was just a matter of finding a shuttle and leaving before anyone noticed they were gone. He been trained to fly just about any standard ship, and stealing one from the precinct lot wouldn’t be hard—security was minimal unless you were in a military facility. 

Step by step, Shiro made a sort of catalog of things they’d need immediately, and how to get his hands on them (He had practice when he was young, and dreamt about running away to live in nebulous clouds).

As nerve-wrecking as every step was (Traitor, traitor, traitor), there’s no denying the burst of excitement that Shiro felt when the cool, night air finally hit them. He rubs reassuring circles into Katie’s back as that giddiness starts to mix with his neuroticism into a manic cocktail.

He’s finally escaping. 

They just need to get out of here before he’s found kidnapping a diplomat’s daughter. 

[flatsuke]

are requests still open? :D I would like to request for a Keisuke Shijo fluff/nsfw (*´꒳`*) he's from Liar! Office deception(: he's such a babe but there's currently no fanfic for him yet coz.. he's pretty new? If you haven't played the game yet, then I would like to request for a eisuke/ota fluff(*´꒳`*). Thank you! You're an amazing writer(: all the best💜

Hi anon! Unfortunately, I haven’t played Liar yet, so I chose to write some Eisuke fluff instead (I hope you don’t mind). Thank you for the compliment and I hope you like this ^^!

Title: tête-à-tête

Summary: Eisuke can’t keep his eyes to himself, while she makes a mistake that’d seemingly jeopardize her. It doesn’t.

Genre:  Fluff, Romance

Pairing:  MC/Eisuke

a/n: this fic is based on this post i made a while back lmao. i’m kinda proud of turning a shitpost into an actual fic :’) also, eisuke and mc are dorks.

@maidofstars @2bedroom-baddestbidderlove @bolt8826

@ada254 (THANK YOU FOR YOUR IDEAS IN THE TAGS!!)

“This is a pain,” Luke said, moping. “I came all the wayhere only to find out MC isn’t here yet.”

“You do know that you’re required to be here for auctionmeetings, right?” Eisuke sipped his coffee, not even bothering to hide hisdispleasure at his own tasteless brew.

“There’s no point in being here if I don’t get to see hermagnificent collarbones today…”

“Aaand there he goes again,” Ota commented.

True enough, the penthouse wasn’t as lively as it ought tobe with MC absent. Eisuke could feel his mood quickly dampening at the taste ofcoffee that wasn’t hers. He had half a mind to page her just to salvage histaste buds, but he had to restrain himself. She worked herself to the boneyesterday, and was feeling a bit guilty.

“Well, collarbones aside, MC really is cute, huh?” Babaadded.

Eisuke felt a stinging pain in his mouth, only to realize hebit his tongue at Baba’s statement.

“Aw, come on, guys. Don’t look at me like that. Are yousaying you all seriously haven’tthought that at least once?”

The room grew a bit silent at the thief’s retort, and Eisukefound himself musing on it. Baba wasn’t wrong in the least. She was very easy on the eyes, what with the wayshe smiled at him and carried herself around him. She wore the maid’s uniformalmost every single day, but he wasn’t a fool not to see that she was hidingsomething special underneath all that. He’d be a blind idiot to thinkotherwise—not that he’d ever admit it out loud, though.

“I guess she has nice legs,” Mamoru said, taking anotherdrag.

The thought of MC diligently cleaning the room, clad in herfitted, work-prescribed stockings conjured not-so-innocent images in Eisuke’smind.

“Oh, so you’ve got a thing for legs now, Mamo?” Ota teasedback.

“Shut up. You see ‘em just as much as I do.”

Her bending down,looking for something underneath a couch, her rear facing me—

“Boss?”

Baba’s voice shook Eisuke from hisdefinitely-not-work-related trance, and Eisuke had to hide his irritation, lestthe others have an inkling of his definitely-not-work-related thoughts.

“You’re oddly quiet today,” Baba noted, the smile neverleaving his face.

“Unlike some people, I have better things to think about.” Says the man thinking about her bent over.

“Really, Eisuke? We all know you think she’s cute, so don’tbother hiding it,” Ota added smugly.

“Whatever.” Like hellI’m telling you that.

Not long after, they heard a soft knock from the door, andsure enough, she had arrived for the day’s cleaning. The others stared at heras if they had seen a ghost, but she could only look back at them curiously.

Talk about bad timing—

“Uh, is there something going on?” she asked tentatively.

“Nothing you should concern yourself with, MC!” Babachirped. “Don’t worry your pretty little mind about us.”

“Okay…” She didn’t look convinced, but she started cleaninganyway.

Try as he might, Eisuke couldn’t keep his eyes off her evenif he wanted to. Either Baba’s comment got to him, or he was starting to losehis wits.

Either way, he had to admit, there was one thing thatbothered him about Baba’s comment.

She’s definitely morethan just cute.

That night, Eisuke plopped down on his bed. It had been along day full of meetings that seemed to drone on and on, and he wanted nothingmore than to just sleep his troubles away. He unbuttoned the topmost buttons ofhis shirt before letting out a sigh.

This bed’s way too bigfor just one person.

Not that he wanted a smaller bed, but lately, he wasstarting to feel something every timehe saw the cold, empty side of his bed.

Without warning, the image of MC, immaculately sprawled on his bed, dressed in nothing but his shirt, appeared in his mind. Ashiver went down his spine before he begrudgingly realized that he should not be thinking those sorts of thingsabout his employee, of all people. Ugh, Baba’s rubbing off on me.

His phone buzzed next to him, and he scowled at the sound.Whoever the hell wanted to disturb him at this ungodly hour was about to get apiece of his mind. He was about to send the interloper a scathing reply when hesaw MC’s name on the screen.

Strange. He couldn’t remember the last time she texted himfor anything. Most of the time, their form of communication consisted of himpaging her, or the occasional call from him. She never initiated contact, asfar as he could recall. If he was being completely honest, it disheartened him.

Curious, he opened her message only to be met with asurprise.

“Holy shit. Holy fuckingshit.”

The “message” she had sent him wasn’t a work-related text oran innocent greeting. No, her message was the farthest thing from innocent—it was a picture of her in front ofher bathroom mirror, wearing nothing but lacy lingerie that left nothing to theimagination.

He had to refresh the message twice just to make sure itreally was her, and not some fantasy conjured by his overworked mind. No matterhow much he re-opened it, all he could see was her, clad in a lacy black bikiniset he never would’ve thought she’d dare to wear. Who knew that under her maid’suniform and her quiet countenance was a stunning body and an even bolderspirit? Mamoru may have called her a kid all the time, but the cop was a blindfool as far as Eisuke was concerned.

The real stinger was the caption that came with the photo:

[Do I look good inthis :) ?]

Good god, she’s goingto be the death of me.

Why the hell would she send him this? It feltout-of-character for someone as shy as she was, but he couldn’t find himself disappointedat the situation. In fact, if he had to say, he was almost…ecstatic, even. If this was her way coming on to him, then Eisuke wasn’tcomplaining anytime soon.

Nevertheless, he was still her boss. The rational side ofhim urged him to delete the photo and erase everything from his memory.

But, goddamn it, you’vewaited so long for an opportunity, and it looks like she made the first move.

That was also true. God knows how many lonely nights he’dspend with only his right hand as company and images of her lost in the throesof pleasure. He’d die before saying it out loud, but nothing save for her her seemed to excite him anymore. Thecompany of other women did nothing to rouse his blood, but even her mostmundane gesture sent him into a spiral of dwindling self-control.

He stared at the photo one last time. Maybe this was hisreward for months of sleeping alone. If there was a god out there, then damn,maybe he’d start praying if this was what faith got him.

Tomorrow, he’d confront her about it. For now, he desperatelyneeded a cold—no—freezing shower torelieve him of the uncomfortable tightness in his pants.

I’m seriously going tolose my mind.

Impatient as he was, Eisuke couldn’t wait for the next dayto come. He paged MC up to his office as soon as soon as he arrived thatmorning. If he was anxious or excited, he couldn’t tell at this point; all hewanted was to see MC as soon as possible. He even prepared some wine for themto hopefully get the message across.

He heard her knock on the door and beckoned her to come in. Eisukeschooled his most neutral expression while she looked adorably flustered,fiddling with the hem of her uniform.

“MC, you know why I called you in here, right?” he askedher, pouring some wine to appear casual.

She gulped before answering him.

“Is it because I accidentally sent you my nudes…?”

…What?

He froze and stopped pouring the moment he processed herwords.

“…Accidentally?” Thewords were ringing in his head as she nodded back at him. Suddenly, he wantednothing more than the ground to swallow him up and erase this memory from existence.

For a while, they both remained in painful silence. Theawkwardness was so palpable that Eisuke wondered if she wanted to hide in ahole as much as he did. Her unabashed blush seemed to indicate it.

But wait a minute, he thought. If she sent him the pictureby mistake, then that meant someone elsewas meant to receive it. As far as he could remember, she wasn’t dating anyoneat the moment.

Or was she? Shecould very well be dating one of the other auction managers right now and hewould be none the wiser.

He felt a pang of white-hot fury at the thought of one ofthem raking their eyes all over her, pressing their lips on her smooth skin,savoring the cries from her lips and—

“Mr. Ichinomiya,” she said, looking away from him. “Just…pleaseforget this ever happened. It was a complete accident, and I swear this’llnever happen again—“

“Who did you mean to send it to?”

“E—excuse me?”

“Just answer the question.” For my peace of mind.

She was still blushing, but she forced herself to speakanyway.

“…Look, I don’t know why youhave to know, but my friend gave me some lingerie as a birthday present, andshe wanted me to send her a picture to show that it fit me. Your name justhappened to be next to hers on my contact list, so…”

Eisuke inwardly let out a sigh of relief. If it had beensome cretin, god knows what he would’ve done.

“Sir, I really think you should just delete the photo andpretend this never happened.”

True, he probably should. If he were a good boss and apolite gentleman, he’d delete the photo to save them both the potential trouble(not to mention awkwardness) in the future. Then they could both resume theirlives as if nothing happened.

The only problem was he was neither of those things.

“How about this instead?” Eisuke suggested. “It’d be unfairto you if you were the only one in a compromising position. I’ll be sure toreturn the favor, then we’ll be even. Deal?”

“I really don’t understand…”

“You’ll see soon enough.” Eisuke took a long sip of his wine,easing his earlier tension.

“By the way, you didn’t look half-bad.”

If she was blushing a while ago, then she was positivelybeet red now.

“Oh, um, thank you…”

She left his office after giving a hurried bow, and Eisukecould only smirk at how his plan would come to fruition very soon.

That night, MC plopped on her own bed, dead tired from theday’s events. Today was absolutely mortifying,to say the least. She really hadn’t meant to send him the godforsaken photo,and she thought she had sealed her doom the moment she realized she sent it to Mr. Ichinomiya, of all people.

God, I really thoughtI was gonna die back there.

But the look on his face when she told him it was an accident—itwas the same look he’d always have whenever he drank someone else’s coffee. Itwas the look he had whenever he’d try to pet an animal, only to have it claw athim in retaliation.

It was, dare she say it, disappointment.

Come on. Like he’d bedisappointed by something like that.

And yet, the look on his face when she told him the picturewas meant for a friend—it was undeniably relief.

She didn’t know what to believe anymore, and there was afluttering in her stomach she couldn’t shake off. It only grew worse when sheremembered his earlier compliment.

Get it together, MC!He’s your boss, for crying out loud.

Her phone buzzed, and she picked it up only to see that Mr.Ichinomiya sent her a text.

After what happened, she could only feel apprehension atwhat was to come. Surely, he was going to fire her after today. God, now she neededto look for a new job, too. Great.

Shakily, her finger swiped the phone screen to open themessage.

“…What is this?”

The room suddenly became very warm, and all the blood rushedto her cheeks the moment the screen changed.

It wasn’t a brief text, but rather, a picture of himself. Hewas standing in front of his own bathroom mirror wearing only his blackboxer-briefs, giving her a delicious, unadulterated view of his lean, chiseledbuild. She had to gulp at the distinct V-line that ran down his hips and into…that place.

There was a caption that came along with the photo, and MChad to blink twice to make sure she wasn’t seeing things:

[Now we’re even. Belatedhappy birthday ;)]

Facing him tomorrow was going to be one hell of a task.

[socialattractionuk]

Could silent dating change my love life?

It’s all fun ‘n’ games at Shhh Dating in London (Picture: Hannah Berry George)

If you’re single and human then, like me, you’re probably sick of online dating.

RSI from too much swiping is a thing.

And there are countless men and women who tick all the boxes but there’s just no spark when you meet them in person, yet you sit through two hours of polite small talk before someone is brave enough to make an exit.

So I put the feelers out to try something different – and silent speed dating is what came back.

Shhh Dating landed in London in 2017 and has been treating random strangers to awkward close encounters ever since.

Founder Adam Wilder had the idea when he was doing the long-distance thing with his girlfriend. There were moments when they would Skype and just silently ‘be’ with one another. It often made them feel closer than words could.

Those ice breaker games can get quite extreme (Picture: Hannah Berry George)

So he came back to London and set it up. At the first event, everyone found a match – so he decided to do more.

Situations that other people often find uncomfortable are my jam so I went along with the vague hope of not just enjoying myself, but maybe making a meaningful connection.

I try not to drink on first dates – no one wants to end up on a dull second because of the mistaken belief that the first was incredible because…booze. I had one pre-game drink (thanks to a challenging day) but chose not to bring a bottle to this BYOB event.

As we start to gather, I migrate to the table where there is water and, more importantly, sweets. There’s nothing like breaking the ice with a Haribo in hand.

Like a 1950s dance, the women swirl together on one side of the room, the men on the other. One bold chap breaks ranks and strides across the room to initiate some awkward chat. Two women, who are obviously friends, stick together like glue, cradling their bottle of rosé between them.

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At the heart of this event is the silent dating part. Just like speed dating, there’ll be rows of chairs facing each other down long tables where we will sit, staring deep, intently and uneasily into a complete stranger’s soul.

But when it comes to kicking things off, Adam’s no fool. Much to my chagrin, he doesn’t just throw us into the lion’s den.

Instead, a few light bonding games come first – much as you would expect at the beginning of a drama class. We start with some basic walking around the room in random directions, before moving onto eye contact and then handshakes – all light fun to get people warmed up and more open to embracing what we’re all here for.

Light giggles ricochet around the space and one woman makes frequent eye rolls at me when our paths cross – it does, after all, feel a bit silly. But the more comfortable you are the easier it is and, as I live for making a tit out of myself, this suits me just fine.

In fact, you can’t wipe the Cheshire cat grin off my face.

Hannah takes dating very seriously (Picture: Hannah Berry George)

At the end of each exercise – which last no more than a minute or so – we do a lil’ namaste to one another before we search for our next encounter. As the evening progresses, the games get more hands on.

I’m beside myself with gleeful competitive spirit and find myself wrapped in arms when we play a game where we have to hold the hands of two different people at any one time, only letting go of one to find another.

Then there’s a rather jarring period of standing on one side of the room and walking to the other if whatever shameful claim to fame Adam has called out has applied to you. Awkward, but I guess it helps to pick out the more adventurous among us.

There’s one man who has caught my eye – but the other girls are beelining him so I leave them to it. I’m not here for that sort of competition.

Eventually, even I get slightly weirded out when we have to stand in a circle and let the person behind us massage our shoulders while we massage the person in front – in my case, both men. Call me crazy but, in my experience, strange men coming at me from behind is normally a fight or flight situation.

Hannah looking in her element as it gets all rather hands on at Shhh Dating (Picture: Hannah Berry George)

However, the group is bonding over shared experiences – exactly what ringmaster Adam is aiming for. We break to take sips of water or gulps of wine before we settle down to the main event: eye-gazing dating.

Each of us wears a numbered sticker and are handed a dating ‘card’ and pen.

As we settle into our seats – men on one side of the table, women on the other – and Adam tells us to ‘just be in the moment’, the sound of a toilet flushing just outside the room provides some unexpected ambient noise. It’s a poignant moment. I can’t help thinking it’s symbolic of my love life.

We then sit in silence simply looking into each other’s eyes, as Wonderwall plays in the background. I didn’t expect Liam Gallagher to be providing the soundtrack to the silent dating – but then I don’t expect he’d have meant for it to be used this way either.

It sounds simple. But it is not. And it’s obvious which guys are comfortable with it and which are not – the latter fidgeting and making silly facial expressions to relieve their palpable anxiety. It’s sweet, but a turn on it is not.

However, in the disarming moments where they settle, like a captured animal accepting its fate – even for a split second – there’s something quite beautiful that touches me irrevocably.

I think about how the world would be a nicer place if we all did this – made genuine, non-sexual connections – on a daily basis. I also consider how many people I would date on sight but rule out when they open their mouth.

The first rule to eye-gazing dating: keep your eyes closed (Picture: Hannah Berry George)

At the end of each ’round’ the women, quaintly, get up and move along one seat to their next ‘partner’. And each make a note of the previous number and write any notes alongside.

One guy has the face of a cute puppy and I want to rescue him, even though I’m not a dog person. Sometimes, I stare so hard that their face dissolves to one prominent eyeball.

I find my notes after the evening and, reading back over them, I am reminded there was one guy I thought I’d like to look deep into my soul. But then my mind drifts to domestic homicide. He could murder me. So I put him down as a ‘no’. Another I noted looked at me quizzically like I might have killed someone (I haven’t).

Adam tells me there were an incredible 67 matches within the group of about 30-35 looking-for-love hopefuls. And, though there was no one who took my fancy enough for me to make a match, I am glad someone saw fit to rescue the puppy.

Shhh Dating sells itself as ‘London’s favourite alternative dating event where we forget the blah blah and get right into it’ – and it is certainly something different to try if you’re bored of the mundane BS we have to endure in our quest to find love.

But I start to wonder if the kind of men I fancy would ever come to an event like this. Then I think, is that such a bad thing? Perhaps it’s just that I am usually attracted to the wrong sort of men.

Maybe it is time to try something different after all.

  Shhh Dating costs £25 and happens every month. You can book it here.

Hannah Berry George is a writer and director. Find more from her at hannahberrygeorge.com or on Twitter and Instagram @veryberrygeorge