#the one for sacrilege in particular is real fucked up

[psqqa]

by the time i stopped to consider why the fuck i was putting this together in the first place, i’d already typed most of it up. idk i guess i just like throwing my joy into the void, where the void can either choose to ignore it or derive some joy from it itself. either is fine.

anyway, i’m never going to have enough of these in any one category to put together a proper FST or anything, nor am i capable of imprinting on a song for reasons that aren’t like “feathers.......hawks”, because really this is all driven by my terrible sense of humour, but what i have collected so far Sparks Joy, so into the void it goes. 

psqqa’s list of songs applicable to bnha in some way, shape, or form

No One Is Alone - Into the Woods - this is a vibe i’ve been getting from the manga for a while but then the my villain academia arc just totally cinched it (while we’re seeing our side/maybe we forgot/they are not alone/no one is alone)

Falling - Haim - this one is a bakugou song for me, which probably says something about me because i’m fairly sure it could almost equally be a midoriya song if you wanted it to be. yes, both could be good, but the brain doesn’t always work that way. (they keep saying/don’t stop/no it’s never enough/i’ll never look back/never give up/and if it gets rough/it’s time to get rough)

Ice and the Storm - My Brightest Diamond - inatodo. i did warn you. (darling we’ve accumulated/too much miscommunication/in the beginning everything is soft/not defensive/perhaps we begin again/shining)

Sacrilege - Yeah Yeah Yeahs - feathers.......hawks. probably dabi/hawks given the options so far, but that’s pretty immaterial tbh (fallen for a guy/fell down from the sky/halo/round his head/feathers in our bed)

Girl - Anouk - listen i’m not going to lie, i’ve never fully been able to figure out what the hell is going on in this song. like, i would say it’s just straight up anouk being in love with the titular “Girl”, but then there’s the “him” in the first verse so who even knows. i’ve settled on polyamory, which makes this my jirou highkey got the feels for yaomomo and lowkey got the feels for kaminari and she needs yaomomo to understand this so they can work on a frankly totally unnecessary because kaminari is already all in baby Wooing Plan (still got my hands/they’re clinging/so i just keep going/i don’t know where i belong/could i belong to you)

Electric Feel - MGMT - electric..........kaminari. i like to think of it in terms of kaminari/jirou/yaomomo. idk maybe he gets bored waiting for them to plan their Wooing Plan and just takes matters into his own terrible pickup line hands. or perhaps it’s just aimed at yaomomo and we can take these two songs jointly to be The Wooing of YaoMomo. which actually now that i’ve typed it out i am quite fond of as an idea. (i said ooh girl/shock me like an electric eel/baby girl/turn me on with your electric feel)

the three song stretch that runs Slow Show-Apartment Story-Start A War - The National - The Soul-Crushing Weight Of Being In Your Early-To-Mid-Twenties!kiribaku. this would be like triply the case if i were reading this manga in 2012 instead of 2019. (i wanna hurry home to you/put on a slow dumb show for you/and crack you up - be still for a second while i/try and try to pin your flowers on/can you carry my drink i have everything else/i can tie my tie all by myself - do you really think you can just/put it in a safe behind a/painting lock it up and leave/walk away now/and you’re gonna start a war)

Fireproof - The National - also kiribaku. look man idk what to tell you. it just be like that sometimes. (you’re fireproof/nothing breaks your heart/you’re fireproof/it’s just the way you are)

The Man of Metropolis Steals Our Hearts - Sufjan Stevens - man of steel, man of heart...............tetsutetsu. pick your tetsutetsu ship of choice. it doesn’t matter. all parties equally applicable because only a steel man can be a lover/if he had hands to tremble all over/we celebrate our sense of each other/we have a lot to give one another

New Shoes - Paolo Nutini - kirishima song!! (hey i put some new shoes on/and suddenly everything’s right/i said hey i put some new shoes on/and everybody’s smiling/it’s so inviting)

Dance Apocalyptic - Janelle Monae - mina song!! what can i say, it’s got mina energy. also i feel like ‘dance apocalyptic’ would a great hero name for mina. (but i really, really want to thank you/for dancing ‘til the end/you found a way to break out/you’re not afraid to break out)

Whoo! Alright – Yeah...Uh Huh - The Rapture - kaminari song!!! do the lyrics even work for him? who knows, i’m just in it for the cowbell. and so is kaminari. (people don’t dance no more/they just stand there like this/they cross their arms and/stare you down and/drink and moan and diss)

Invincible - OK Go - now i could, and i guess sort of do, think of this as a bakugou ship song generally, but to be quite honest, i think it’s probably just the song his brain plays on a loop whenever he does anything (when they finally come to destroy the earth/they’ll have to deal with you first/and now my money says they won’t know about/the thousand fahren/heit hot metal/lights behind your eyes/invincible/oh oh oh/you’re invincible)

Daniel - Bat for Lashes - tododeku - don’t @ me (daniel/when i first saw you/i knew that you had/a flame in your heart/and under wild blue skies/marble movie skies/i found a home in your eyes/we’d never be apart)

Gekommen um zu bleiben - Wir sind Helden - BAKUSQUAD!!!! i mean, also like 1-a generally, but for me it’s really the bakusquad.....also i literally just realized that the band name itself works really well here (wir gehen nicht/aber wenn wir gehen/dann gehen wir in scheiben/entschuldigung ich sagte/wir sind gekommen um zu bleiben)

Don’t Call Me Baby - Madison Avenue - the kacchako song. why? because i was reliving the turn of the millennium. next question. (don’t think that i’m not strong/i’m the one to take you on/don’t underestimate me boy/i’ll make you sorry you were born/you don’t know me/the way you really should/you sure misunderstood/don’t call me baby)

You Will Not Take My Heart Alive - Joanna Newsom - All Might. although i think this entire album is one he would Have Feelings about. and tbh it’s impossible at this point for me to consider any one song off this album entirely on its own. it’s always within the greater context of the album as a whole. (and i won’t come round this way again/where the lonely wind abides/and you will not take my heart alive)

Don’t Wanna Fight - Alabama Shakes - bakudeku. i didn’t actually think any song would ping me as bakudeku at any point, but here we are. (what you like/what i like/why can’t we both be right?/attacking/defending/until there’s nothing left/worth winning)

Mrs. Robinson - Simon & Garfunkel - hawks/dabi-hawks/endeavour melodramatic clusterfuck. no i’m not taking questions. (DEE DEE DEE DEE DEE DEE DEE DEE DEE DEE DEE DEE DEE/DOO DOO DOO DOO DOO DOO DOO DOO DOO/DEE DEE DEE DEE DEE DEE DEE DEE DEE DEE DEE DEE DEE)

Riot Rhythm - Sleigh Bells - riot........kirishima. but yeah kirishima and bakugou are bros and that’s Good. they might also be more than bros, but that’s up to you i guess. (because my best friend/she's okay/carve you out/all the way/straight A kids/like a treat/she stands up/takes the heat)

In The Shadows - The Rasmus - tokoyami. i feel like i’m virtually incapable of talking about tokoyami without also mentioning this song, but like, you’ve seen the video right? (i've been watching/i've been waiting/in the shadows/for my time)

The Hero - Queen - this one is probably cheating, given that it was written for the actual soundtrack of an actual superhero movie, but it’s not like there’s any rules to this and i’ve never seen the movie......or anything else with flash in it i guess, so whatever. anyway, not so much All Might as like every character in this manga when they were 4yo watching All Might. (he’s for every one of us/stands for every one of us/he’ll save with a mighty hand)

Impossible Soul - Sufjan Stevens - this wasn’t on this list until sometime around 2:30 AM last night when i was lying awake because i didn’t take my nightly melatonin and something something i can’t even vaguely remember the train of thought but it ended in me deciding this was a good bakudeku song. not so much the first part, but like ‘do you want to be afraid’ onward. maybe the eight minutes of “boy we can do much more together” will be enough for bakugou to get the message. (boy we can do much more together/better get it right/get it right/get it right/get it right/boy we can do much more together/it’s not so impossible)

to be updated if further song pinging happens, i guess?

[jackrrabbit]

Adversary /// Overhaul x f!Reader (18+)

Summary: You make a deal with the devil to save your life, but it turns out Overhaul’s not interested in your soul.

A/N: Remember when I said I was going to do a fantasy collab and then dipped for like 9 months? Hahaha…anyway…

@pleasantanathema @ present-mel @shadowworks—if it’s not too late, here’s my part for the Pleasant & Strider Fantasy AU Writing Collab from a million years ago. Go check out the masterlist and gorge yourself on these amazing pieces!!

Tags/Warnings: dubcon, demon fuckery & occult things, big heresy/sacrilege/perversion of religion, sex in a church ft. Catholic sex guilt, other than that it’s not that bad lol, inexperienced reader, mild degradation, shameless camp and demon-fucking clichés, Overhaul calls you “little girl” 👉👈

He doesn’t look like a demon.

Not that you really know what demons are supposed to look like. But…red skin, right? Fangs and claws and swirling masses of bad energy. Maybe cloven hooves for feet. Yes, that’s the Disney version—but even if you didn’t expect a cartoon personification of evil, you didn’t expect this.

He looks like a doctor, you think. Lab coat hanging open, surgery mask pushed down under his jaw, stethoscope draped over his shoulders. No, he’s a little young to really look like a doctor…an intern, you amend, shifting back in your hospital bed. He looks like he fits right in here, not a hair out of place. Except for, you know, the polished black horns curling out of the sides of his skull.

Overhaul. It was written in the book. That’s the only thing you have to call him in your head.

He’s standing in the center of the sigil you drew at the foot of your bed before midnight, surveying the room critically without meeting your gaze. He looks annoyed—that’s not a good sign, is it?—but then again, of course he’s annoyed. You’d be annoyed too if you got summoned out of your cozy hell dimension in the middle of the night. According to the book, you’re lucky he even showed up…although ‘lucky’ isn’t really how you’d describe yourself most days.

“So,” Overhaul says after a long moment of silence in which you question every choice you’ve made in your relatively short life. “You’re dying.”

You nod.

“And you don’t want to be.”

You nod again, wondering if you’re supposed to be contributing more to this conversation. It’s a bit difficult when your mouth is so dry it feels like you’ve been eating dirt, but you suppose being in the presence of an unholy servant of Satan will do that to a person.

“Fine.” He sighs, frowns, and then finally lowers his gaze onto yours—and you shiver.

Those eyes. No human has eyes like that.

“Make me an offer,” Overhaul tells you, and through his open mouth you catch a flash of sharp white teeth.

Okay. Okay. The chirping of the heart monitor speeds up (as if it weren’t obvious enough that you’re terrified) and you fold your knees up to your chest and fidget with your ring and think. He’s giving you a chance to establish parameters. You’re supposed to start with his end of the deal, the thing you want from him. That’s what it said to do in the grimoire, aka the 19th century demonology volume your creepy cousin brought back from her pagan anthropology research trip in rural France. The one you keep hidden under your bed because your mother would burn it if she knew you were reading about summoning demons.

Offer nothing to a hell creature without first telling him your price. You know the words by heart, both the winding calligraphy of the original French from the grimoire and the rushed scrawl of the English translation your cousin left for you in sheets of lined paper layered between the pages of the book for you to read. Really, this is her fault. She was the one who slipped you the book, who told you that it worked, who snuck you the ingredients for the summoning. She was the one who left a bookmark at the chapter on this particular demon, one that specializes in ‘Contrat pour Remédier au Déséquilibre des Quatre Humeurs’, which she said meant a contract to cure any illness. Even his ‘name’ is translated in her hand, practically an afterthought in the margins of the page.

‘Le Malin qui Ravage et Rebâtit’— Overhaul?

You looked up the literal meaning of this phrase on your own. It did not reassure you.

“Girl.” His voice is cold, irate. Your eyes snap back up to his and it feels like that burning gaze is laser-beaming into your skull. “Do not test me. My time is limited…as is yours.”

You swallow. “How long do I have left?”

“Less than a single human year,” he tells you without a trace of sympathy. “Seven months, twelve days, three hours. Or so. You’ll be too exhausted to leave this bed in four months, and the pain will become intolerable in six… By the end, you’ll wish—“

“Stop,” you breathe out. The heart monitor is beeping wildly and you squeeze your knees into your chest, trying to calm down your breathing. “Stop, I—I want to live.”

“Of course you do.” Overhaul’s lip curls. “How very predictable.”

Be specific, you remind yourself, doing your best to ignore the stifling disapproval from the man—the demon—in front of you. Something about him (maybe how clean-cut he looks, maybe the indisputable authority in his demeanor) makes you want to impress him. But you didn’t turn your back on your religion—you didn’t draw pagan symbols on the floor in chalk, fill silver cups with various questionable substances (including your own virgin blood), and turn the crucifix your mother hung over your bed upside-down so you could let a demon make you feel guilty for wanting to survive. “I want to be cured. I’m okay with whatever natural death I have instead when I’m older, I just don’t want to die of this illness. I want you to make me healthy.”

“Simple enough. What else?”

‘Simple’? Your heart surges with something you’ve felt very little of since your initial diagnosis—hope. “T-That’s it. Just the cure.”

Overhaul glares at you. “Humans… Every vice in the world available to you, and you limit yourselves to the basest priority of survival.”

“But you can do it? You can cure me?” you persist.

Overhaul steps forward (quiet, so quiet you wonder if he really moved) and holds a hand out to you past the foot of your bed—you hesitate, and a second later you can see the muscles in his hand flex, stretching the latex of his plastic gloves tight over his knuckles.

Just do it. You give him your hand. Carefully. Like you’re scared the contact will burn you. It doesn’t (although his skin feels warmer than yours), but after a moment his grip tightens, sliding down past your hand to circle the fragile bones of your wrist and squeeze.

“Ow?” You wince.

The demon’s eyes flicker closed for a second, lips moving silently like he’s talking to himself—and then he drops your hand unceremoniously back onto your lap. “You could be cured before the sun rises this morning. I doubt your stay in the hospital will extend past the end of the week.”

He sounds bored, voice as flat and passionless as it was earlier, but your heart is soaring. Cured. You’ve lived with this illness for so many years, you can’t remember the last time someone told you you could be cured. And getting out of the hospital that soon? You can just imagine taking down all the decorations from the walls of your room here and setting them up in your old bedroom at home. You could see friends on the weekend and not take an oxygen bag, you could get a job or—or apply to college, you could have a life—

“That is…assuming you have something to offer me in exchange for the cure.”

Your stomach drops. You’d almost forgotten about the other half of the deal.

“Don’t tell me I came all this way for nothing.” Overhaul steps back, and the orange light of the candles you set sends strange shadows over his arrogant face. The fires look brighter now, and you find yourself tracing the lines of those shining black horns. In an odd way, they look natural—so organically framing his temples that you can’t imagine him without them.

“N-No, of course not. I have some money—I mean, my mom has some, and I can get it for you…” Which is half the truth. If you know anything, it’s that your mother’s spent most of her savings on your treatment and care. You probably have more debt than you have money in the bank right now—you’d try to get rid of that, too, if you hadn’t read in the book how important it is to keep your request as simple and straightforward as possible.

…Although it’s apparently not enough. Overhaul’s eyes narrow, molten gold irises carved into slits. “Even if I had a use for human money, do you really believe your life is worth so little?”

“No—no,” you say quickly. “I just thought—in case you were interested—”

The air crackles with energy, the candle flames spark bright blood-red, and the hair on your arms stands straight up. “I am not.”

“Okay! I get it.” You wave your hands back and forth, pulling your IV line from side to side with the motion. The book was very clear about staying calm and rational while you work out the terms of the deal, but that’s easier said than done when you have a real live (live?) hell creature in front of you. You always knew this was going to be the hard part—all the stories say there’s only one thing that a demon would be interested in, and no matter how inviting the prospect of living past this illness is, you know you’d rather die than sell your immortal soul to the devil. “I’ll give you anything except my soul! And—and don’t hurt anyone I care about, or— just don’t hurt anyone, okay? Other than that, if there’s anything I can give you, I will.”

Overhaul’s lip curls, baring a thin strip of those unnaturally sharp canines. “And is your soul really so valuable?”

This throws you for a loop. Isn’t that the standard deal? A soul for a wish? That’s how it’s supposed to work—at least in this twisted version of reality where you can summon a demon to perform unholy miracles for you. But if you think about it, it doesn’t really make sense, does it? Why would your soul be valuable to him? You can’t form an argument, especially since you’re not willing to barter it away in the first place.

Your mouth is pursed open as you search for a response, but Overhaul doesn’t seem willing to wait. A gloved hand wraps its way around the railing at the side of your bed, and he leans in closer. “Little girl…what makes you think you possess anything I desire?”

Little girl. You’re not a little girl, you’re a grown woman—and yet there’s no untruth in the statement. In front of him you feel insignificant, immature, weak. You have nothing real to offer, and something tells you that you’re not going to get rid of the demon you summoned without a sacrifice you’re not willing to make.

You twist your ring around your finger—the nervous habit you haven’t bothered to break because you’ve always had more important things to worry about—and the glint of silver in the candlelight must catch Overhaul’s eye because before you even notice him moving, your delicate hand is trapped in his larger one to give him a better view of the tiny piece of jewelry. “What is this?”

“It’s—um, a ring. A purity ring.” Has he never seen one before? Well…actually, that makes sense.

Overhaul turns your hand over in his without touching the band of silver. He’s looking at it closely, inspecting the lovingly engraved cross in the design and the inscription on the other side. “Matthew 5:8,” he reads out.

“…Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God,” you recite cautiously. It feels wrong to speak the words in front of him, but somehow you can’t help yourself.

Overhaul’s hand doesn’t leave yours. “This ring is important to you.”

“It’s a symbol of a—a promise I made to God. To save myself for my future husband.”

“To ‘save yourself’? To save what?”

You can’t believe you’re explaining this to a literal demon. You close your eyes and inhale slowly and taste smoke. “My…virginity. It’s a promise that I won’t have sex until I enter into a biblical marriage.”

At this, Overhaul is quiet. You give him a moment to answer, half expecting him to question why you think God cares about your sexual status (honestly, you’d be lying if you said you haven’t wondered this yourself), but he stays quiet until you peek up at him to try and gauge the look on his coldly handsome face.

He’s still staring at the ring. He hasn’t touched it—maybe he can’t, because of the cross?—and through the latex, his skin feels hotter than a human’s is supposed to be.

“Is there…” you start, but you trail off when you realize you have nothing to ask. You give a little tug to try and take your hand away and you’re surprised when your wrist actually slides out of his grip to fall back on the nest of sheets in your lap. You didn’t think he’d let you go so easily.

Overhaul turns his head to the side, eyes drilling into you so you feel like you should lower your gaze. The candlelight flickers in strange shadows over his horns. “This will do,” he says quietly.

“What?”

“In exchange for your cure.” The demon taps his own left ring finger, the place where the purity ring sits on your hand, and your heart soars. He actually wants that? It’s just a simple silver band, not worth much, but you’re not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Maybe it has some special significance because of the religious connotation. Your mother will be angry you’ve lost it, but you’re happy to cope with that if it means living to actually get married!

“Yes!” you blurt out before he has a chance to rethink his offer. Sure, you’ll miss the purity ring—you’ve had it since you were a kid, after all—but there’s no question you’re getting the better end of this deal. At least in your opinion.

Something flashes through his yellow eyes, something you don’t even want to try and identify. “The contract, then.”

You barely have time to notice that his voice has gentled, that it’s practically silken in comparison to before, when the candlelight flickers again and suddenly the contract is everywhere. Everywhere. Writing appears on every surface in the room, covering the walls, stretching over the ceiling, coiling around the sides of the hospital equipment and decorating your bedsheets until you and Overhaul are the only untouched surfaces in sight. The characters are inscribed in red, dark red like—don’t think about that, you tell yourself squeamishly. You can make out some of the letters, even a word here or there—French, you recognize, mixed with what looks like Latin and interspersed with what you can only guess are runes.

“I can’t read this,” you tell him, fidgeting with your ring for what you now realize will be the last time.

“I only need your name,” he purrs, and then you feel a fragile weight in your hand: a feather, pearl-black and glossy and too large to belong to any bird you can think of, its angled tip glistening with wet ink. There’s an empty space in the writing before you, and Overhaul’s gloved hand comes to yours again to guide you into place.

This feels wrong…then again, of course it does. Even if you’re getting off relatively easy and just losing your ring rather than your soul, you’re still making a deal with a demon. You sign your name, forcing yourself to think about the future you have ahead of you rather than a disapproving white-bearded caricature of The Man Upstairs wagging his finger at you for haggling with a literal servant of Satan. People have done worse things to survive, haven’t they? It’s just a ring.

You set the feather down and Overhaul sighs, thick black eyelashes obscuring his intense gaze for a moment—and then the contract is gone, leaving your hospital room as blank and sterile as it’s supposed to be (well, aside from the candles and all the other ritual stuff you threw together to summon a demon in the first place).

“Are you going to cure—heal me now?” you ask.

“…Patience, little girl.” He’s pulling his glove off, peeling it down his fingers to bare the pale skin of his hand. You catch your breath and wonder what this is going to feel like, and then the tips of his fingers meet your cheek and—

you stop breathing.

It doesn’t hurt.

Or if it does, you don’t remember the pain a second later when breath floods back into your lungs. What you do feel is energy. Strength in your muscles, blood pumping through your veins, every inhale and exhale as light as a bird and freer. You feel healthy. You’re surprised you even remember what health feels like but you do: it’s like you’ve only been half alive, and now life is surging into you and through you and around you, bubbling up in your core like a spring overflowing. You blink rapidly, thinking you might cry from the sheer pleasure of it, but when you open your mouth it’s laughter that comes out. You’re healthy. You’re alive. You barely notice the IV line literally falling off of your skin because the hole where it entered your vein is sealed shut and healed perfectly.

No more needles. No more hospitals. Even without all the monitors beeping out your heart rate and measuring your vitals, there’s not a shred of doubt in your mind that you’re cured.

“Thank you!” you laugh, looking up at Overhaul and for the first time, not caring that he’s evil incarnate. “I feel—I’m okay! It worked!”

“Of course it did.” His expression is inscrutable, but he lets you have a few moments to enjoy your newfound health.

You roll your shoulders back, flex each muscle you can isolate one by one to test, make fists with your fingers and then run them over your hair, which is already thicker and shinier than it was a moment ago. Your body thrums with energy—you want to run, to feel the ground against your bare feet and the cold night air on your face, and you think you could do it! Your legs are already swinging over the side of your cot, ready to run barefoot out of the hospital if that’s what it takes, but before you can stand up Overhaul’s pushing you back down onto the bed.

“Have you forgotten your end of the bargain already?”

Honestly you did forget, but only for a second, only because you were so excited to just be outside again. “Oh, yeah. Of course.” Your hand goes to your left ring finger, ready to slip the ring off and hand it over, but Overhaul shakes his head.

“Not here.”

“What—?”

You’re falling. Your hospital room is disappearing, the image of your walls and your window and your bed disintegrating into yawning black, and you’re falling through it into nothing, into emptiness, and Overhaul’s still-bare hand in yours is the only anchor you have so you clutch onto it and squeeze your eyes shut. You want to scream—that’s the sane thing to do when you’re falling through miles and miles of empty space, right?—but when you open your throat the sound is swallowed up just like the light was…

Overhaul’s hand burns into yours, an improbable lifeline that you pull closer more out of terror than conscious thought. The slick, empty air rushes around you and you think I am going to die like this and then, incredibly, as soon as you’ve accepted your imminent demise, you feel your back mold onto a chilled, flat surface, vertebra by vertebra up to the back of your head, as if you’ve been lain down onto it.

Your heart thuds in your ears and you brace for an impact because your body hasn’t quite accepted yet that it’s not falling anymore—but at the same time, you know you’re lying down on something. You pry your fingers away from their vice-grip on Overhaul’s arm and feel around blindly for what’s underneath you, and when it seems reasonably tangible you let yourself open your eyes.

Way above, vaulted dozens of feet over your head, is a ceiling studded with gilt-edged frescoes and stained glass. It’s raining (even though it wasn’t in the hospital, you think) but through the massive panes of colored glass there’s enough oily blue light to make out that you’re in a church.

You’re in a church, with a demon. Isn’t that against the rules?

You sit up stiffly and look over at Overhaul, who’s standing at your side and looking down at you…which is how you realize the soft, cold surface you’ve been deposited onto is the blanket on top of the altar in the sanctuary. “Where...did you take me?”

“You should know this place.”

And you do, when you look around. It’s empty now and you’ve never been here at night, but this is a church your mother would bring you to when you were little, back before the disease got so bad you couldn’t risk traveling to it anymore. This is where you took your purity vow…the ring feels heavy on your hand. “Why—why—“

“I can’t stand human hospitals. Filthy places… How that reek of illness and death doesn’t bother your kind, I’ll never understand.” Overhaul pulls his latex glove back on. He’s dressed differently now, no longer impersonating a doctor—black shirt, black pants, and a…bird mask in red leather and gold. So are you, as a matter of fact. Instead of your hospital gown, you’re in a gauzy white dress that’s already been pushed up to pool around the tops of your thighs.

The slip is too thin for the cold, and you can feel your nipples standing up under the cloth so you fold your arms over your chest and hug yourself. “Why did you take me here?” The sound of your voice echoes off the walls eerily and you wish you hadn’t spoken so loudly. The reflection of your words sounds girlish, nervous.

“I told you. Your side of our contract.” Even in this dark, the angular features of his face are clearly concentrating—on you. “Are you already having second thoughts? Such a fickle little thing…”

“You mean the ring?” You reach for it again, ready to tear it off and throw it at him if that’s what it takes to see your deal through, but Overhaul snatches your hand away, pinning it above you.

���Not the ring,” he says. “The promise.”

The…promise?

A chill makes its way down your spine despite the heat radiating off the demon’s body and onto yours. “I don’t understand.”

“The promise,” Overhaul repeats—and you hear a sound almost like wings flapping and then he’s on the altar with you, knees straddling your hips as a single hand holds both your wrists above your head. “To remain a virgin until marriage. Your promise to God.”

A streak of lightning cracks down on the other side of the stained glass window behind the altar, illuminating the room briefly in spectacular pits of red and orange and yellow…and then it’s dark again, and the only color you can make out is the gold in Overhaul’s eyes.

“I’m going to break it,” he murmurs, lowering his head toward your ear right as the answering thunder rolls through the sanctuary, up through the altar, up into you.

///

Méfiez-vous de son piège, the grimoire said. Beware of the catch.

Of course it wasn’t just a ring.

Overhaul’s fingers are in—inside you, his middle and ring finger pumping through the length of your cunt like they belong there, like you were made to be touched this way. A mixture of your juices and your own spit cling to the latex because he made you suck his fingers before he put them in you and he hasn’t bothered to take his gloves off—not that you asked. You’ve been too busy biting your lip to try and muffle the moans that he keeps forcing out of you. He’s bracing himself on top of you with one hand and fingering you with the other, so your own hands are free to push into your eyes and hide your face…until he yanks your arm back and stops.

“Look at me.”

Your eyes are screwed shut and you shake your head back and forth, the movement shuddering your whole body right down to your pussy wrapped around Overhaul’s fingers. He slows the movement and kneels back, pushing one of your thighs up into your chest as he does it.

“Look at me.”

And you’re not sure whether it’s some unearthly power he has over you or the plain old deterioration of your willpower, but you can’t refuse him. You crack your eyes open and he’s glaring down at you, skin pale as ice in the blue light. Once he’s satisfied that you’re watching, the demon leans back in to fuck your cunt with his fingers, slowly at first and then quicker when he hits something inside of you—a spot, a place on the inner wall of your pussy that makes you feel like you’ve been shocked— heat blooms through you like blood in water and you gasp and he curls his fingers up to pet over that spot again.

“Wait—wait, that’s—it feels—weird!” You’ve never felt like this before. You’re not supposed to feel like this, it’s wrong.

“I understand you’ve never touched yourself, but don’t pretend you don’t like it.” Overhaul says, voice as indifferent and calm as ever even though your cunt is dripping clear sticky liquid over the plastic of his glove.

He pushes back in and grinds his palm over the little button on the top of your pussy—your clit?—and you want to scream. “No, I—I don’t—nnhh...”

Do you like it? The demon’s body is so hot next to yours, like he’s running a fever except you’re the one going out of your mind… You’ve heard metaphors for sexual pleasure before (that it’s like having something to drink when you’re dying of thirst; or that it’s the ultimate act of intimacy, love in physical form) but all of that’s a fucking lie. There’s nothing to compare it to, no reference that makes sense, because it doesn’t make sense—you don’t even want him to keep going, do you? You’re only doing this because you signed your name on a devil’s contract, because you don’t want to die and there’s no alternative…but that doesn’t explain why you feel so warm from the inside out, why you’re squirming and your hips are rocking involuntarily no matter how much you try to keep still. This isn’t right. You feel like you’ve been lied to.

A good girl wouldn’t like this.

Overhaul isn’t going to let you close your eyes, so you don’t—but the sounds coming out of your mouth are so…indecent (and how can you think these things about yourself? the word feels like someone else is saying it when you hear it in your head) that your hand is drifting up to your mouth before you can stop yourself, trying to stifle all of it…

“Let your voice out. I want you to hear yourself moan.”

Long fingers slide their way out of your pussy and then move up to rub quick little circles around your clit and you moan, like a whore, like a girl getting her cunt rubbed by a demon— “Oh, uhhhn—something, it’s—coming—“ There’s something building up in your core—a peak, a climax, something that makes you fist your hands in the nightgown he put you in (so tight you’re surprised the thin fabric hasn’t torn) and tilt your hips up into him, begging without words because you don’t have any to express what your body is asking for…

But he doesn’t give it to you. Overhaul takes his hand away from your pussy and the shock of the cool air after his too-hot touch is almost enough to send you over that edge—almost. Not quite. And without it, you’re left shivering and quaking, thighs twitching as your baser instincts beg you to just put your hand between your legs for once and hump your fingers to completion if the demon won’t do it.

You’re not going to risk that, though. Not when Overhaul’s dragging your body closer, bunching up the blanket on the altar under your spine, so your pelvis is angled to his… He’s already shirtless and you hear him unzipping his pants but you can’t bring yourself to actually look at him, even when you feel something hard and hot nudging up against your inner thigh and then aligning to your sticky wet slit.

“This will hurt a bit, but I want you to look,” he says, and you don’t even understand at first until you make yourself feel it—his cock, pushing up against your tight cunt to finish this, this perversion of what your first time was supposed to be…

And what was it supposed to be? Roses and candles and soft kisses? A nameless, faceless husband unzipping your wedding dress and making love to you with the lights off? The way the demon touches you should be cruel in comparison but it isn’t, it’s lighting fires under your skin and turning your brains to mush, so how is your body supposed to tell the difference?

It’ll hurt, you know that, you’ve heard enough about sex to know that it always hurts the first time for girls…women. It was already a stretch to fit his fingers in your virgin pussy, so of course his cock is going to hurt. You turn your head toward the window at your side and try on look out at the rain drawing rivulets like veins over the glass, something to focus on instead of him.

“I said look,” the demon hisses, and his hips push forward a bit and you bite off a whimper of pain. “Watch me take your virginity…look at your tight little cunt swallowing me up just like it was made to.”

“N-No—“ you whine, even though it’s not like you can ignore it. “Don’t make me, don’t make me look, I can’t—“

“Then look at me.”

It’s what he wants, some kind of wicked satisfaction he gets off on, but you’re lucky enough to even get an option so you choose that one, shifting your gaze up into his face instead of the place where his cock is pressing deeper and deeper inside you. Overhaul’s eyes are half-lidded and it’s hard to tell from behind the mask but the look on his face is…pleasure? No, that would be too human. Restraint, at least. He could just thrust up into your body in one stroke, but he wants you to feel it for some reason.

Maybe because it’s a worse betrayal of your chastity if you want to get fucked.

Lucky for you, though, you can barely feel anything aside from the pain. The heat you felt building earlier is draining out of you even as Overhaul tilts deeper, layering his chest over yours. You’re almost grateful for the modest barrier the dress provides between your torso and the solid muscle of his abdomen. His cock in your pussy feels like it’s too big too deep too much and it’s the first time you’ve felt like your body wasn’t created specifically for this purpose so you hold it tight.

“Does it hurt?”

A second of clarity makes you want to snarl (of course it fucking hurts, I’m losing my virginity to a demon I summoned from hell) and you dig your fingernails into your palms to stop yourself from saying it out loud. Overhaul pulls out a fraction of an inch and then pushes back in and you feel like the breath’s being pushed out of your lungs. “Yes! Yes, it—it hurts—“

“I can make you enjoy it…for a price,” he sighs, settling into a slow rocking motion of his hips pushing into yours.

And you want to, every sore muscle in your cunt is telling you to give in and give up, give him what he wants so you can enjoy it like he says—but you’d rather hate every second of this than make another deal. You shake your head quickly and because you’re still too afraid to look away from him, you don’t miss the look of surprise that flits across his face before he tamps it down. “I don’t—I don’t want to—like it,” you gasp out between thrusts. “It’s better if—if it h-hurts…”

This time it’s obvious—his eyes really do widen, and you feel some petty triumph at having caught him off guard like this. Who’s predictable now? you think—and then he’s lifting one hand off the altar at the side of your head and tugging his glove off with his teeth, and you don’t even have time to be afraid of what he’s going to do to you because it’s too late, his bare fingers are already stroking over your mound and onto your core, massaging into the flesh of your stomach so he can feel his own cock sliding in and out of you—

and it doesn’t hurt anymore?

You only have a second to try and understand—he cured you, he healed the pain from your first time just like he healed your illness?—before he hooks his grip under your thigh and folds your legs into your chest so he can fuck into you harder than before. His cock slaps into your pussy and you can hear it, hear how wet your filthy little cunt is, smeared through with your juices. It’s sick—the sound of skin against skin, and the moaning you can’t hold back, you sound like a woman in a porno and you wish the pain would come back just so you could keep hating what he’s doing to you. “What—what did you do—“

The demon ignores you. “It feels good, doesn’t it.”

“Nn—“ It’s deeper like this…deeper and rougher and you can feel it. Now that the pain’s been reduced to the dull ache of a stretched muscle, you can feel everything—his cock sliding against that same spot in your cunt that makes you want to squeal, the friction of his body moving against your clit, all of it, everything you wanted to block out— he pumps into you and you hear your breath sobbing out a moan a second out of rhythm, the sounds of you bouncing on demon cock echoing over the walls. “Please—ah, ahhh…”

“‘Please?’ Are you begging—me, little girl?” Overhaul pushes your thigh up and drags his cock through you, excruciatingly slow, forcing you to feel the thick head slide over every gummy wall in your slick pussy.

You shake your head, mewl, try to force your hips to stop rocking back into his and grinding your clit against him. But you can’t. You’re a—you were a virgin, for fuck’s sake! Overhaul’s immortal. Probably thousands of years of experience on how to make you feel like you want this, like you’re only alive in the places he touches you… You’re at his mercy, if he has any. You never stood a chance.

“Then are you begging your god?” His body lowers directly onto yours and like you’re being controlled by puppet strings your arms fold around him and rake your fingernails uselessly into the smooth skin of his back. You can feel the vibration of his mirthless laughter through his chest. “It must hurt terribly…to know he isn’t listening.”

“Don’t—stop, please,” you sob. “Don’t say—don’t stop—please!”

“Listen to yourself, girl—“ Overhaul’s breath is faster now, but you don’t have time to question it because you feel your peak coming again, the tension rising up through your cunt and your abdomen, harsher and crueler than when his fingers were in you but you want it just as much. More. “Has he ever answered your prayers? Has he...ahh, fuck—who’s the one giving you what you need?”

“No— please, please just let me let me, please—“ You’re talking nonsense now, begging for the release—at least then it’ll be over, and you need it, you need it so badly you feel your muscles locking up, cramping, your ankles crossing each other behind Overhaul’s back.

“Good girl,” the demon breathes, and then he lifts off you so he’s kneeling upright with the two of you still connected, his thick, heavy cock still speared in your pussy, and his fingers come down again to rub at your clit. Everything’s so wet you can hear the motion of his fingers slicking themselves through your juices, sliding up and down the little button over and over and it feels so good that a tiny part of you almost wants to drag it out, to savor it, but the rest of your body is going to die, is going to go crazy if the demon doesn’t let you cum right now, right now, right now!

And he does. Praise the Lord. The pads of Overhaul’s fingers pass over your clit one last time and your head rolls back, your throat moves but you can’t even make a sound, your legs shake and you cum.

You didn’t know it was like this.

Your cunt squeezes down on his cock, throbbing and pulsing and your toes literally curl (you didn’t think that was a real thing!) and your vision goes black for a moment and—oh fuck oh fuck i want this i want more how is it possible that i’ve never felt like this—you understand, more intimately than ever, why sex is wrong:

because nothing that makes you feel this good could possibly come without a cost, could it?

///

It must take longer than you thought for you to come back to your senses, because when you regain awareness of your body you’re in your hospital bed. You’re clean, too, and you wonder for a second if Overhaul bothered to clean you up? Or no…he probably just snapped his fingers and transported you back to your room. You’re not really sure how it works.

What you are sure of, however, is that you just got fucked by a demon. You’re sore in places that you didn’t know it was possible to be sore, and there are already bruises forming on the flesh of your thighs from how tight he was holding you. You don’t really have time to inspect these, though, because apparently your…ordeal (if you can call it that) isn’t over.

Overhaul’s still here.

He’s facing the hints of sunrise through the east window, dressed again in the immaculate lab coat and surgeon’s mask. “You’re awake,” he says without looking at you.

You nod hesitantly. You’re not really sure what the protocol is in this situation, but at least you’ve finally held up your side of the contract, right? And so has he. Despite having been up all night doing sinful things, you’re still itching to get out of this bed and test the limits of your healthy body. “You’re…going to leave, right?”

“Yes—”

At that, you sigh in relief and settle back into your starched bedsheets.

“But there’s one more thing you owe me.”

“Goddamnit,” you swear for the very first time in your life. After what you just did, taking the Lord’s name in vain seems like a relatively minor sin.

Overhaul’s mildly irritated expression doesn’t change, but he holds his hand out to you, palm up, the way you imagine someone would if they were helping you out of a car or requesting a dance at an old-fashioned ball. And really, you want all of this to be over—you want to get out of this hospital, you want to taste what the air outside is like, you want to distract yourself from what you just gave up in exchange for a future. At this point you’re just going to have to hope God isn’t as picky about the whole premarital sex thing as you grew up believing.

So you put your hand in Overhaul’s.

Slowly, carefully, like he’s afraid it’ll burn him, he slides your purity ring down your finger and balances it in the palm of his bare hand. It sizzles when he touches it, glowing orange until it eventually burns down into a ash-black circle in the center of his palm. Once he’s satisfied that your pretty little ring has been reduced to nothing more than a scorch mark, he closes his hand around yours and you feel something sharp, painfully hot, etching onto your finger.

It’s over in a second, but you still yelp and yank your hand away from him as soon as he lets you. “Ah—ow, what was that?”

He burned you, he literally burned you! He’s already healed it, but there’s still a thin, pale scar, an intentional one left wrapping around the skin at the base of your left ring finger. Like a wedding ring.

When you look close, you can make out a symbol on the back of your finger where the cross used to sit—and even though your conscious mind doesn’t recognize it, the sight of it rings out something inside your ribcage, deeper and truer than flesh and blood. It’s the devil’s mark, you think. It’s his.

“…A promise,” Overhaul says softly, and even though it’s a chilly morning, you can feel the heat of his hands on yours a long time after he vanishes back into the dark.

[itmighthavebeenintentional]

Detours on the Road so Far - Ch 1

Detours on the Road so Far

- Or - 

Why Sam and Dean Need Actual Adult Supervision

Summary: Shenanigans. Lots of them. Crack. Probably some pie. (SERIES SUMMARY)

Warning: Shenanigans. Unintentional drug use. Crackfic. 

Rating: Let’s call this one at least Teen, if not Mature. See Warning above.

Word Count: 1700-ish

Author’s Note: THIS IS CRACK: unapologetically, unequivocally, utterly crack. Some of it makes little sense. Some of it makes fun of our favorite characters. I love these guys; this is just for fun. The stories are not in any particular order. Time frames will be referenced at the beginning of each chapter. Also, I was having some formatting issues, so if this ends up looking really wonky, please let me know, and I’ll do what I can.

This story is dedicated to a wonderful friend who let me behind the scenes into their writing process and watch the development of a wonderful story, a friend who fiercely has their folks’ backs and is the first on the scene if support and flails are needed. To a writer who can write action, romance, intrigue, and brothers being brothers. @stunudo​ , I am so glad I met you, and even gladder you didn’t absolutely fire me for all the awful puns.

ItMightHaveBeenIntentional’s Masterlist

Chapter 1: Everything is Awesome (set sometime in season 8...ish)

Sam yawns as he shuffles down the hall, scratching the back of his head and grinning to himself. It still amazes him, even after the months they’ve been here, to have an actual home and comfortable bed to come back to after their days and weeks on the road. Even the hours crammed in the car with his brother and his painfully slow evolution of music is more bearable, knowing there are clean sheets, peace (relative peace, anyway) and quiet, and their very own refrigerator waiting for them at the other end.

He pauses as a new sound drifts towards him from the kitchen, and he frowns. It’s not a bad sound, exactly; he knows exactly what it is. But Dean doesn’t tend to sing this early in the morning, and not ever in the kitchen. It’s not the most wrong thing Sam has ever heard, but it’s strange enough for him to take notice.

Well, he can’t be possessed, so...hex bag, maybe? Their last case in Colorado didn’t involve witches, but there was always the chance they’d run across one without realizing and pissed him or her off somehow.

Dammit.

 He cautiously enters the kitchen, hoping that he’s just assuming worst case scenario. He is greeted by the sight of Dean seated at the table, staring intently at a large, clear glass coffee mug as he adds creamer to the steaming brew. 

“Morning,” Sam says, stretching. Dean waves distractedly, his concentration focused entirely on his coffee. At least that part is normal. He doesn’t usually add creamer, but it’s not unheard of, so Sam simply shrugs as he turns to the fridge. 

At least the singing stopped, or (better yet) maybe he just imagined it in the first place. Maybe he just hadn’t been fully awake yet. Sam opens the refrigerator, his eyes already moving over the contents to find something for breakfast that won’t add to Dean’s cholesterol issues his older brother tacitly refuses to acknowledge.

Except there aren’t any contents to peruse. The entire refrigerator is completely empty. Not even a wrapper.

 He turns back to Dean, the questions dying on his tongue as he watches his brother continue to add creamer to his coffee, dark brown and beige swirling in the clear mug. Dean finally sets the creamer down, watching the coffee cup as if he’s been interrogating it and it’s finally about to break.

 “Sammy,” he says, his eyes glued to the mug, “we are never using anything but clear coffee cups again. This shit is magic.”

 What?

“Seriously, Sam,” he continues, his eyes lit with pure, childlike innocence and curiosity. “It just...it mixes itself. Food doesn’t do things to itself, Sam. I mean, yeah, Jell-O moves by itself, but no other food does that. But Jell-O is evil, anyway, so yeah. Wait, except for Jell-O shots. Jell-O shots are awesome. But otherwise, Jell-O is a slime creature sent by Eve to torment small children into thinking they’re getting a real dessert when it’s really just ectoplasm’s third cousin. Twice removed.”

 And then Dean giggles.

 Sam stares at his brother, his jaw hanging down, absolutely clueless as to how to proceed. First, Dean has never said that many words together in his entire life. Second, what the fuck? Third, what. The. Ever. Living. Fuck.

 Dean adds more creamer.

 “I think...I think that’s enough, Dean. You’re going to spill your coffee.”

 Horror washes over Dean’s face, and he slams the creamer container on the table, dropping down to eye his coffee along the top edge. “Sacrilege! I wouldn’t do that, Sam, you know I’d never waste coffee like that!”

 Sam knows he needs to close his mouth at some point, but it’s just too damned early to go with the flow on this shit.

 “Dean, are you feeling okay? I know we got back pretty late last night, but you’re acting a little off.” But his brother isn’t acting tired, not exactly. Sam realizes that his brother is also still wearing yesterday’s traveling clothes.

 “Dean, did you sleep in your clothes?”

 Dean reaches out a finger and slowly pokes his coffee mug. The cream swirls lightly through the dark liquid, further mixing the two, and Dean...giggles.

 Again.

 “It’s kinda sad when they finally get all mixed together,” he says, frowning a little. Then his face brightens as he grabs the mug. “But now I can drink it, so that's less sad, right? I mean, you can’t really be sad drinking coffee, Sam. You should drink more coffee; you’ll be less sad all the time.”

 Sam’s jaw clenches involuntarily as he watches Dean alternate between sips and sloshing the cup around to watch the contents. His brother is obviously not in any distress, but spells have started out like this before, seemingly harmless and then, before you know it, hearts are exploding or organs disintegrate or something else equally nasty.

 “I can hear the colors, Sammy,” Dean murmurs, tapping the mug gently. “I think...what, would you say? Beige? Ecru? Does it sound like ecru to you?”

 Sam was unaware Dean even knew those colors existed, much less how to pronounce them. Luckily, since Dean is wearing yesterday’s clothes, it makes looking for the hex bag easier. After two unsuccessful attempts to get Dean to go through his own pockets (“But the coffee isn’t in my pockets, Sam, it’s in my hands. Why the hell would I put down the coffee to look through my pockets?”) Sam gives up with a sigh that holds the burdens of the world in it and searches his brother’s clothes himself.

 “Knock if off! That tickles; you’re gonna make me spill the coffee!”

 For fuck’s sake.

 His search proves frustratingly fruitless. But if the hex bag isn’t on Dean, then what? A spell? A curse? What the hell is going on?

 Sam’s stomach growls, adding another question to the long list. Where the hell is all the food? Well, that, at least, he can ask Dean and maybe get a straight answer.

 “Dean, do you know why the fridge is empty? It was pretty stocked when we left. Where’d all the food go?”

 Dean grins and points down at the stomach of his shirt, which is a bit rounder than normal. “In mah belleh.”

 When Sam’s face finally emerges from his palms, he finds Dean staring at him with alarming concern.

 “Are you hungry, Sam? We can go to town and get breakfast! That would be awesome, breakfast is awesome! Do you want pancakes or waffles? Nevermind, you’re huge, you should eat both. You need to eat more, Sam, you’re too skinny.”

 “Seriously, dude, are you feeling okay? You’re acting...weird.”

 “You know what’s weird, Sammy? I ate two pies, a block of cheese, and all those protein bar things you hide in the back of the pantry. And by the way, you don’t need to hide those things from me anymore, they are absolutely vile. But then I had those bags of chips, and...what else. Oh, yeah, there was some bologna, I think, and I ate the bacon, and whatever was in the vegetable drawer, which actually ended up not being horrible. But I’m still kinda hungry.”

 Sam is speechless. It doesn’t happen often, but apparently it can still happen, even after all these decades of living with his brother. He just can’t wrap his head around-

 Wait, what pie?

 “Dean, we didn’t have any pie before we left, and we didn’t stop on the way home yesterday. What pie did you eat?”

 “Sarah gave me two pies as a thank you. It would have been rude not to eat them. I had a piece last night after you crashed, and it was -awesome- so I had another piece, and then I had to try the other pie, and it was friggin delicious, and then I looked up and some asshole had eaten the rest of both the pies.” He eyes Sam suspiciously for a minute, clutching his coffee mug a little closer to himself.

 “And then I got hungry, so I had a snack.”

 “What was in the pies, Dean?”

 “Dunno,” he says, slurping coffee obnoxiously loudly. “Deliciousness. Sarah didn't say what kind they were, just said they were her way of saying thanks for getting rid of the ghost. Called it her ‘University of Colorado Specials’ or something like that. But those pies were made of magic, Sam, delicious, delicious magic.”

“What else did Sarah say, Dean?”

The elder Winchester thinks long and hard for a moment, frowning. “She didn’t. She winked a lot, though. Do you think she had something stuck in her eye?”

 Sam leans on his hands to keep from using them on his brother. He takes a deep, steadying breath and tries again.

 “Can you tell me anything else about the pies, Dean? Anything at all?”

 He thinks for a long moment, then his face melts into a dreamy expression Sam is pretty sure he’s never seen on his brother’s face before. “One of ‘em was this lemon thing that was like a citrus tree starred in a porn. The flavor just explodes in your mouth like-”

 “I don’t need to know!”

 But Dean is still going.

 “A firecracker, Sam, a Roman Candle of delicious. And the other was this...chocolatey, coffee, creamy thing. Coffee, Sam! Coffee and chocolate in a pie! They can do that now! What’ll these crazy college kids think of next?”

 He grins at Sam, taking another long slurp of coffee. Sam bites his lip, considering Dean for a long silent moment. He’s pretty sure now that Dean will be just fine and more than likely back to normal by the end of the day...maybe.

 “I’m gonna go check in with Sarah. Just make sure she hasn’t...erm...seen anything else weird.”

 “But, Sam, we ghosted that ghost!” Dean stops, thinks about what he just said, and giggles.

 Again.

 “I just want to see...how much...we ghosted that ghost. And maybe get the recipes for those pies. I’m sure everything’s fine. You know me, I just like to be sure.”

 “That’s awesome, Sam, you’re so awesome! We could make the pies together! And you could even eat some! You still need to eat more. Can we go get breakfast now?”

 Sigh.

 “Yeah, Dean. We’ll go get breakfast. I’ll call Sarah on the way.”

 Dean grins, his whole face lighting up, and Sam allows himself to see at least a little humor in the situation.

 And then Dean starts singing that song from the damned Lego movie, and Sam. 

Just. 

Can’t.

[arcticdementor]

“Hey bro! Check out this Nike ad!” This was my entry point into a new world.

…

Since Carlos had lived mostly outside the United States, he was able to follow soccer on a level I’d never encountered in my hometown. Back then, before social media and the advent of scarf-wearing Northwestern fútbol hipsters, big-time European soccer was like the metric system: Known to almost all but ourselves. But Carlos knew, and immediately used LimeWire to curate me a massive archive of 1990s through early 2000s soccer highlights. What was I doing in the world without them?

Oddly enough, in trying to inculcate me in soccer fandom, he started not with game highlights, but with the advertisements. Yes, Carlos was an educator and a voluntary footsoldier for Big Apparel. Going in, I had no clue about high-quality, internationally popular Nike soccer ads. The ads, written by the legendary Wieden+Kennedy firm, were miniature movies, films that were often creatively daring but also quite funny. The most popular of these ads might be “Good vs. Evil,” from 1996, where Nike’s best soccer players team up to play Satan’s literal army. The blending of sacrilege, theology and comedy just worked, like a more ambitious version of Space Jam that somehow took itself less seriously than Space Jam.

…

Yes, I know ads aren’t supposed to be high art. I understand that they are the purest distillation of manipulative greed. And yet, they sometimes are culturally relevant generational touchstones. While Nike was weaving soccer into enduring pop culture abroad, it was having a similar kind of success with basketball and baseball stateside. These ads weren’t just pure ephemera. Michael Jordan’s commercials were so good that, as he nears age 60, his sneaker still outsells any modern athlete’s. “Chicks dig the long ball” is a phrase (a) that can get you sent to the modern HR department and b) whose origins are fondly remembered by most American men over the age of 35.

Modern Nike ads will never be so remembered. It’s not because we’re so inundated with information these days, though we are. And it’s not because today’s overexposed athletes lack the mystique of the 1990s superstars, though they do. It’s because the modern Nike ads are beyond fucking terrible.

…

They’re bad for many causes, but one in particular is an incongruity at the company’s heart. Nike, like so many major institutions, is suffering from what I’ll call Existence Dissonance. It’s happening in a particular way, for a particular reason and the result is that what Nike is happens to be at cross-purposes from what Nike aspires to be.

…

For all the talk of a racial reckoning within major industries, Nike’s main problem is this: It’s a company built on masculinity, most specifically Michael Jordan’s alpha dog brand of it. Now, due to its own ambitions, scandals, and intellectual trends, Nike finds masculinity problematic enough to loudly reject.

This rejection is part of the broader culture war, but it’s accelerating due to an arcane quirk in the apparel giant’s strange restructuring plan, announced in June. Under the leadership of new CEO John Donahoe, Nike is moving away from its classic discrete sports categories (Nike Basketball, Nike Soccer, etc.) in favor of a system where all products are shoveled into one of three divisions: men’s, women’s and kids’. Obviously Nike made clothing tailored to the specificities of all these groups before, but now, Nike is emphasizing gender over sport. Gone is the model of the product appealing to basketball fans because they are basketball fans. It’s now replaced by a model of, say, the product appealing to women because they are women.

And hey, women buy sneakers too. Actually, women buy the lion’s share of clothing in the United States. While women shoppers are market dominant in nearly every aspect of American apparel, the clothing multinational named after a Greek goddess happens to be a major exception. At Nike, according to its own records, men account for roughly twice as much revenue as women do.

You might see that stat and think, “Well, this means that Nike will prioritize men over women in its new, odd, gendered segmentation of the company.” That’s not necessarily how this all works, thanks to a phenomenon I’ll call Undecided Whale. The idea is that a company, as its aims grow more expansive, starts catering less to the locked-in core customer and more to a potential whale which demonstrates some interest. Sure, you can just keep doing what’s made you rich, but how can you even focus on your primary business with that whale out there, swimming so tantalizingly close? The whale, should you bring it in, has the potential to enrich you far more than your core customers ever did. And yeah yeah yeah, a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, but those were birds. This is a damned whale! And so you start forgetting about your base.

You can see this dynamic in other places. For the NBA, China is its Undecided Whale. It could be argued that the NBA fixates more on China than on America, even if the vast majority of TV money comes from U.S. viewership. The league figures it has more or less hit its ceiling in its home country, so China becomes an obsession as this massive, theoretical growth engine.

…

Here’s the main issue for Nike in this endeavor: The company, as a raison d’être, promotes athletic excellence. While women are among Nike’s major sports stars, the core of high-level performance, in the overwhelming majority of sports, is male. Every sane person knows that, though nobody in professional class life seems rude enough to say so. Obviously, there’s the observable reality of who tends to set records and there’s also the pervasive understanding that testosterone, the main male sex hormone, happens to give unfair advantages to the athletes who inject it.

Speaking of which, there’s a famous This American Life episode from 2002 where the public radio journos actually test their own testosterone levels. The big joke of the episode is just how comically low their T levels are. Sure, you would stereotype bookish public radio men in this way, and yet the results are on the nose enough to shock.

As a nerdy media-weakling type, I can relate to the stunning realization that you’ve been largely living apart from T. Before working in the NBA setting, I was an intern in the cubicles of Salon.com’s San Francisco office, around the time it was shifting from respectable online magazine into inane outrage content mill. Going from that setting to the NBA locker room was some jarring whiplash, like leaving the faculty lounge for a pirate ship. To quote Charles Barkley on the latter culture, “The locker room is sexist, racist, and homophobic … and it’s fun and I miss it.”

…

The “Good vs. Evil” ad boasts a “Like” to “Dislike” ratio of 20-to-1 on YouTube. On June 17th of 2021, Nike put out an ad ahead of the Euro Cup that referenced “Good vs. Evil” as briefly as it could. In this case, a little child popped his collar and used Cantona’s catchphrase. As of this writing, the new ad has earned a thousand more punches of the Dislike than of the Like button.

When you see it, it’s no surprise that the latest Euro Cup ad is disliked. I mean, you have to look at this shit. I know we’re so numb to the ever-escalating emanations of radical chic from our largest corporations, but sometimes it’s worth pausing just to take stock and gawk.

…

But today we are in the land of new football, where we take dictatorial direction from less-than-athletic minors. After her announcement, we are treated to a montage of different people who offer tolerance bromides.

“There are no borders here!”

“Here, you can be whoever you want. Be with whoever you want.”

(Two men kiss following that line, because subtlety isn’t part of this new world order.)

Then, a woman who appears to be breastfeeding under a soccer shirt, threatens, in French, “And if you disagree …”

And this is when the little boy gives us Cantona’s “au revoir” line before kicking a ball out of a soccer stadium, presumably because that’s what happens to the ignorant soccer hooligan. He gets kicked out for raging against gay men kissing or French ladies breastfeeding or somesuch. Later, a referee wearing a hijab instructs us, “Leave the hate,” before narrator girl explains, “You might as well join us because no one can stop us.”

Is that last line supposed to be … inspiring? That’s what a movie villain says, like if Bane took the form of Stan Marsh’s sister. Speaking of which, was this ad actually written by the creators of South Park as an elaborate prank? It’s certainly more convincing as an aggressive parody of liberals than as a sales pitch. Why, in anything other than a comedic setup, is a woman breastfeeding in a big-budget Euro Cup ad?

It’s tempting to fall into the pro-vanguardism template the boomers have handed down to us and sheepishly say, “I must be getting old, because this seems weird to me,” but let’s get real. You dislike this ad because it sucks. You are having a natural, human response to shitty art. This a hollow sermon from a priest whose sins were in the papers. Nobody is impressed by what Nike’s doing here. Nobody thinks Nike, a multinational famous for its sweatshops, is ushering us into an enlightened utopia. Sure, most media types are afraid to criticize the ad publicly. You might inspire suspicion that what you’re secretly against is men kissing and women breastfeeding, but nobody actually likes the stupid ad. No college kid would show it to a new friend he’s trying to impress, and it’s hard to envision a massive cohort of Gen Z women giving a shit about this ad either.

Now juxtapose that ad not just against the classics of the 1990s but also the 2000s products that preceded the Great Awokening. Compare it to another Nike Euro Cup advertisement, Guy Ritchie’s “Take It to the Next Level.”

…

Here’s the problem, insofar as problems are pretended into existence by our media class: The ad is very, very male. Really, what we are watching here is a boyhood fantasy. Our protagonist gets called up to the big show, and next thing you know he’s cavorting with multiple ladies, and autographing titties to the chagrin of his date. He can be seen buying a luxury sports car and arriving at his childhood home in it as his father beams with pride. Training sessions show him either puking from exhaustion or playing grab-ass with his fellow soccer bros. This is jock life, distilled. Art works when it’s true and it’s true that this is a vivid depiction of a common fantasy realized.

Nike’s highly successful “Write the Future” ad (16,000 Likes, 257 Dislikes) works along similar themes.

…

The recent Olympic ads were especially heavy on cringe radical chic, and might have stood out less in this respect if the athletes themselves mirrored that tone on the big stage. Not so much in these Olympics. It seems as though Nike made the commercials in preparation for an explosion of telegenic activism, only to see American athletes mostly, quietly accept their medals, chomp down on the gold, and praise God or country. Perhaps you could consider Simone Biles bowing out of events due to mental health as a form of activism, but overall, the athletes basically behaved in the manner they would have back in 1996.

But Nike forged onwards anyway. This ad in celebration of the U.S. women’s basketball team made some waves, getting ripped in conservative media as the latest offense by woke capital.

…

“Today I have a presentation on dynasties,” a pink-haired teenage girl tells us. “But I refuse to talk about the ancient history and drama. That’s just the patriarchy. Instead, I’m going to talk about a dynasty that I actually look up to. An all-women dynasty. Women of color. Gay women. Women who fight for social justice. Women with a jump shot. A dynasty that makes your favorite men’s basketball, football, and baseball teams look like amateurs.”

When she says, “That’s just the patriarchy,” the camera pans to a bust of (I think) Julius Caesar. At another point, the girl says, “A dynasty that makes Alexander the Great look like Alexander the Okay.” Fuck you, Classical Antiquity. Fuck you, fans of teams. You’re all just the patriarchy. Or something.

Nike could easily sell the successful American women’s basketball team without denigrating other teams, genders and ancient Mediterranean empires that have nothing to do with this. Could but won’t. The company now conveys an almost visceral need for women to triumph over men because … well, nobody really explains why, even if it has something to do with Undecided Whaling. In Nike’s tentpole Olympics ad titled “Best Day Ever,” the narrator fantasizes about the future, declaring, “The WNBA will surpass the NBA in popularity!” ​

…

There are theories on the emergence of woke capital, with many having observed that, following Occupy Wall Street, media institutions ramped up on census category grievance. The thinking goes that, in response to the threat of a real economic revolution, the power players in our society pushed identity politics to undermine group solidarity. Well, that was a fiendishly brilliant plan, if anyone actually hatched it.

I’m not so convinced, though, as I’m more inclined to believe that a lot of history happens by happenstance. If we’re to specifically analyze the Nike Awokening, there is a recent top-down element of a mandate for Undecided Whaling, but that mandate was preceded by a socially conscious middle class campaign within the company.

This isn’t unique to Nike, either. Given my past life covering the team that tech moguls root for, I’ve run into such people. They aren’t, by and large, ideological. Very few are messianically devoted to seeing the world through the intersectionality lens. They are, however, terrified of their employees who feel this way. The mid-tier labor force, this cohort who actually internalized their university teachings, are full of fervor and willing to risk burned bridges in favor of causes they deem righteous. The big bosses just don’t want a headline-making walkout on their hands, so they placate and mollify, eventually bending the company’s voice into language of righteousness.

…

All the guilt and atonement transference make for bad art. And so the ads suck. There’s no Machiavellian conspiracy behind the production. It’s just a combination of desperately wanting female market share and desperately wanting to move on from the publicized sins of a masculine past. So, to message its ambitions, the exhausted corporation leans on the employees with the loudest answers.

There’s a lot of interplay between Nike and Wieden+Kennedy when the former asks the latter for a type of ad, but the through line from both sides is a lot of cooks in the kitchen. Based on conversations with people who’ve worked in both environments, there’s a dearth of personnel who are deeply connected to sports. In place of a grounding in a subculture, you’re getting ideas from folks who went to nice colleges and trendy ad schools, the type of people who throw words like “patriarchy” at the screen to celebrate a gold medal victory. The older leaders, uneasy in their station and thus obsessed with looking cutting edge, lean on the younger types because the youth are confident. Unfortunately, that confidence is rooted in an ability to regurgitate liturgy, rather than generative genius. They’ve a mandate to replace a marred past, which they leap at, but they’re incapable of inventing a better future.

…

Ironically, Nike mattered a lot more in the days when its position was less dominant. Back when it had to really fight for market share, it made bold, genre-altering art. The ads were synonymous with masculine victory, plus they were cheekily irreverent. And so the dudes loved them. Today, Nike is something else. It LARPs as a grandiose feminist nonprofit as it floats aimlessly on the vessel Michael Jordan built long ago. Like Jordan himself, Nike is rich forever off what it can replicate never. Unlike Jordan, it now wishes to be known for anything but its triumphs. Nike once told a story and that story resonated with its audience. Now it’s decided that its audience is the problem. It wouldn’t shock you to learn that Carlos hated the new Nike ads I texted to him. His exact words were, “I don’t want fucking activism from a sweatshop monopoly.” He’ll still buy the gear, though, just not the narrative. Nike remains, but the story about itself has run out. Au revoir. 

[ramblinganthropologist]

Spring Fever

Summary: Spring is upon Skyhold, and with it warmth and sun. However, it’s not just the temperature that’s heating up. For one poor mage, it’s the discovery that she really stepped in it this time. At least there’s chocolate, right? Word count: 1883

---

“Oi, where are you?”

“I'm up here!”

The library was empty for once. With how nice it had been the last couple of days, most people were taking their reading outside. Only she, Solas, and Leliana upstairs were spending any real time in the building as others found more reasonable places to study. It made the place quiet as the tomb, but it was excellent for moving books around.

Like the ones on the very top shelves that had been there before they had found Skyhold.

Even with her height, Trevy needed a ladder to reach them. Dust speckled the sunbeams like little stars as she worked, cleaning the shelves and rearranging the books. Some of them, more damaged than others, were put in her basket for repair. Hopefully, she or someone else in the library would get them back to normal.

When she came down to the ground, Jackel was there waiting for her. She had her arms crossed over her chest and was pouting. She often pouted, but this one was a little more ridiculous than usual. Maybe Josephine had yelled at her.

Trevy offered a smile as she put her basket of damaged books on her desk. “Something wrong?”

“Yeah, you promised we'd go outside today.” Her hand was tugged towards the door. “Let Ian handle the rest, you can boss him around.”

At first she tried to protest, but the memory came back to her as they wound through the library. She had promised to eat lunch with her outside since it was so nice, partially because even she wanted a little sun. In this mid spring, the heat of summer had yet to make stepping outside unbearable. Those with sense in their heads would take it up.

Or, in her case, someone with a good friend. Hopefully, Ian didn't mind having to do a little more work.

A sweet breeze blew right at them as Jackel and Trevy exited the library. The elf was dragging her towards the gardens, and a tree in particular. She had claimed it by placing her bow down; anyone in Skyhold with sense in their head knew what that meant. Besides, with so few Dalish there, it was pretty iconic.

“You smell like dust.”

“Well, I was dusting.” The mage chuckled as she settled into a spot under the tree. “So, what's for lunch today?”

Jackel rummaged through her bag before tossing some things out. There was some bread – probably stolen from the kitchen – and a bit of the chocolate spread she would literally kill for. This she treasured above all else and often didn't share with anyone. Not even her brothers were so lucky.

And yet, the honor fell to Trevy; how amazing.

“Can you heat up the water for tea? Got some from a clan that passed by.” The elf tossed a small pot at her, then her water skin. She was too focused on getting the lid off the jar, swearing in rapid elvhen as it refused to open.

She was cute when she swore; it was adorable sacrilege.

Trevy chuckled as she complied and soon had the water boiling with a little bit of magic. By now, she had drunk enough tea with the elf to know how to get things ready. It was soon ready for them to drink, though a little too hot for her tastes.

“Going to share any of that?”

“If you get the damn lid open.” Jackel's pout was downright comical as she handed the jar over. “Damn Orlesians don't want you getting into this shit, do they?”

Well, they were Orlesians; that was probably the only exercise they got if they deigned to open it themselves. That got the mage chuckling even more as she popped the lid open without much trouble. If she had to say anything, it was that her friend had loosened it.

At least, that's what she would say; otherwise there would be more pouting.

“There you go, all open.” Trevy went to hand it back, but frowned. Jackel wasn't moving to take it back and dig in like she often would. Instead, the elf was staring at her, eyebrows knitted together in deep thought. To say it was unsettling was putting it mildly. “Is there a problem?”

Much to her surprise, soon there was a warm hand on her cheek. It was rough and callused, but still somehow delicate in its touch. With such little contact, the mage would have jumped back if not for the fact her back was literally against a tree.

“You have freckles.”

Jackel was practically beaming as she leaned back to double check the view. Trevy's own hand replaced the elf's, not nearly as warm. It wasn't' as if she could feel the existence of freckles, but she did it anyway.

When had it gotten so warm?

“I do?”

“Yeah, all over your cheeks and nose. You must've just started getting them from me dragging you out so much.” The elf was already digging into the jar of chocolate with gusto. “Looks good on you.”

Trevy had been reaching for the tea in order to prevent a possible choking hazard. However, heat was soon spreading through her face, tinting her cheeks pink and making the mentioned freckles stick out even more than they had before. Even in her stunned silence, once thought kept slamming through her mind at rapid pace, as if it was being screamed through her brain.

When had Jackel's words started to make her blush?

“Hey, you ok?”

The elf's voice brought her down to earth. Jackel already had chocolate smeared on her face as she bit down on her lunch. A delicate eater she was not by any means, no matter how hard Josephine worked on it. Some might have thought her obstinate refusal was spite, but the mage knew better: that was just how she was.

And it was charming, in its own weird way. Though, that in itself was weird too.

White hair flew as Trevy shook her head to clear her thoughts. “Oh, I'm fine. Just a brain fog moment. Do you want some tea?”

Soon the tea was poured and both had settled into their lunch. Unsurprisingly, it was Jackel who ate most of the chocolate spread. Once, she had said jokingly that she had a separate stomach for sweets, and she was well on her way to proving it. Of course, Trevy wasn't far behind with the tea. Mages and tea went together well, and she was hardly trying to break a stereotype.

Besides, it really was good tea. The Dalish had good taste.

She would have gotten up to go back to work, but there was a problem. Not long after finishing off the jar of chocolate, Jackel had yawned and laid down for an afternoon nap. It wouldn't have been an issue, but her pillow happened to be Trevy's lap. So, there she was, sleeping peacefully in the middle of a warm spring day.

With her head in the mage's lap.

Once again, Trevy's cheeks turned pink as she glanced down at her friend. It was rare to catch her in a state other than an active agent of chaos. Yet, there she was sleeping like a rock, content in the realm of whatever dream she had fallen into.

“I hope Ian doesn't mind me staying out a bit later.” Like a cat, it was doubtful that the elf was going to get up anytime soon. And, in a similar reaction to having the library's mouser sleeping in her lap, Trevy didn't want to wake her up either. Both needed their rest, and both were equally sweet as they dozed off in a warm patch of sun.

That same sun turned the red of Jackel's hair even more fiery than it already was. From where she was watching, it definitely looked soft to the touch. Of course, actually doing so would no doubt wake her up and cause some awkward questions.

Or would it? She was kind of out of it...

Trevy had that argument with herself for a few minutes. She wasn't even sure why she was having it; the whole subject was ridiculous. In her informed opinion, she was acting worse than the young apprentices who fawned over new additions to the circles. And that was pretty hard to do: some of them got downright embarrassing.

During her internal battle, Jackel stirred in her sleep. At first, the mage feared she might wake and happen upon what was frankly one of the most ridiculous things she had ever done – including the lyrium tattoo – and laugh. Instead, she just shifted a little more to the side and continued sleeping, her breathing returning to a regular rhythm as she dozed on. Now her face was covered with her hair, obscuring the tattoos she was so proud of when she was awake.

They were nice, really. It was hard to picture her without them. Maybe that was why Trevy reached down to brush hair from the elf's face and behind her sensitive ear. Her tattoos were out in the open once again, proclaiming her dedication to the goddess Mythal and her completion of her apprenticeship.

And, as a bonus, the mage discovered that she was right: it was soft.

Pink cheeked, Trevy leaned back against the bark of the tree and closed her eyes. In the quiet, she could hear her heart beating, faster than it should have been. Her face was still uncomfortably warm, though not quite burning. It was her fluttering heart that was causing her the most trouble, of course. Somehow, she swore it had been replaced by a little bird.

A little bird that got very excited at the sight of a certain elf.

Realization slowly dawned there in the peace of that warm spring day. Grey eyes snapped open in shock and peered down at the still-sleeping woman in her lap. Blood flooded into the mage's cheeks, turning them crimson.

“Oh no. Oh, Maker, please don't do this to me.”

Her prayers were for naught, for Trevy had committed a grave error that warm day. Moans would do her nothing as she watched Jackel sleep on, unaware of the turmoil going on up above her. And how tragic it was, indeed.

Somehow, she had fallen for the most emotionally constipated person in the whole damn Inquisition.

At least she could mourn her terrible taste in women in the warmth of that spring day. It didn't help much, but it took some of the sting out. Nothing would fix it, however. The only comfort – harsh as it might be – was that Jackel would probably never notice.

She was a cute woman, but she was dense as fucking hell.

“Please let this be over soon.” Red cheeks told her otherwise as Trevy leaned back into the bark to wait for her friend to wake up. Her life had just gotten a lot more complicated, and it was all the elf's fault. She could have at least been awake for it, but instead she dreamed on.

Man, this was going to be hard to explain when she woke up.

[gendryw4ters-blog]

I love your playlist thingy and if you want I had this idea: bob ships and their favorite sex song/s? I've had this discussion (fight let's be real) with me mates "what's the saddest, happiest, most sexy, motivating song etc" and we all agreed with sexy on "Do I wanna know?" by Arctic Monkeys, mostly because that's the only one we could think of.

first and foremost “me mates” makes me think you’re a local and if you are then NICE but also even if not then still nice cause!! you’re so sweet and this ask is a really cool idea omg! 

secondly, i personally would disagree on you with the AM choice but only because! of my complicated AM feelings. i think if i had to pick some sexy songs they’d probably be:

hey - pixies

hit me like that snare - alt-J

indie rokkers - mgmt (which unfortunately! i can never find anywhere else but youtube it’s devastating honestly)

(it goes without saying maybe but all of those songs are kind of nsfw, ESPECIALLY the alt-J one holy shit so like!! yknow! tread carefully and all that)

also! as for the songs thing! im gonna stick a handful under a readmore as well as a lil explanation about my stance on nsfw content!! because it’s something i havent rly talked about but think maybe i should, ya feel??

OKAY so let’s just get the stance thing out of the way- ive been thinking about this long and hard (badum tss) and like, i don’t really post nsfw things and i think im going to keep it that way for the most part, just cause of a bunch of complicated personal shit and also!! cause i know i have a couple of younger followers and things like that

having said that, i don’t dislike it by any means and def still have a bunch of nsfw headcanons and smutty ideas, and so since this one isn’t particularly graphic (like at all lmao, and tbh im probably just being a bit of a worrywart and rambling to cover my ass from whatever imaginary trouble i could see myself somehow accidentally getting into, but that’s nothing new with me), it’s something i wanna have a go at!! 

SO with all that in mind, here are a bunch of ships in no particular order and songs that they’d definitely bang to:

Speirs/Web: Deadcrush - alt-J (this could have gone to babejulian but that felt cruel) (also! i think it fits them- it’s the alt-J of web with the darker vibes of speirs)

Grant/Speirs: Sacrilege - Yeah Yeah Yeahs (i actually! have some writing involving this in my notes that i have to finish off soon!!)e

Webgott: Rich - Yeah Yeah Yeahs (there are others that definitely would fit them though!! for sure) (but this ties with my loud Lieb headcanons) (his MUSIC i mean gosh what else were YOU thinking this is a good and wholesome blog)

Luztoye: Reptilia - The Strokes (quietly in the background; they’ve hit shuffle on the Toye list) (they chat more than they listen to music!! at least thats what i think)

Winnix: Your Precious Love - Otis Redding (bunch of fucking sappy dads) (probably slow danced their way to bed)

Speirs/Roe: Come As You Are - Nirvana (i THINK but this is def up for debate) (cause it could also be To Bring You My Love by PJ Harvey)

Baberoe: Best Friend - Foster The People (but ALSO The Sound of Silence which seems like an odd choice i know but!! i have some writing to go with this too that i need to get around to posting but anyways the bit where the drum kicks in is good shit)

Babe/Julian: Where Is My Mind? - Pixies (specifically!! like as in this scene from Mr Nobody WHICH IS SUCH A GOOD FILM I HAVE TO WATCH IT AGAIN SOON) (oh ye nsfw warning for that clip!! not too intense but you DO see a boob)

Speirton: Personal Jesus - Depeche Mode (questioning this one maybe so id be up for suggestions) (this OR atomic by blondie perhaps?)

Roe/Toye: 1979 - The Smashing Pumpkins (was very nearly Love Will Tear Us Apart but that felt almost too mean like i have to give them some happines sometimes okay)

Gene/Renee: House Of The Rising Sun - alt-J (it’s perhaps difficult to make the connection here but! focus more on the sound of the music than the lyrics; the gentle rise and fall. it’s not soft, but it’s not crazy wild either, it’s gentle but firm and it’s full of feeling which would totally be the case okay)

that’s!! all the ones i can think of right in this moment but! if there are any other ships you’d want them for OR you want another song they might listen to OR you want to offer your own tracks then!! by all means send me an ask cause i love doing music things like this!!

hope i got the vibes right! much love

[itispossibleihaveissues]

This Night Chapter 7

TITLE: This Night AUTHOR: Mikimoo RECIPIENT: tristen84 PAIRING: JayDick RATING: Mature

WARNINGS: Off screen Non-Con, murder of innocent young people, violence

SUMMARY: The Red Hood and Officer Grayson are on the same case. A small misstep has far reaching consequences for them both.

Thank you to burkesl17 for the beta!

Chapter 1, 2 3 4 5 6

“No!” Jason said, as firmly as he could without yelling. He waved Dick's discharge papers at him for emphasis. “You're not going back there, you are going the fuck home to recover!”

“I can't leave this unfinished, Jason!” Dick had his most obstinate face on, and was using Jason's full name which always meant trouble.

“You're on leave, dammit. You'll be met at the airport for a full debrief with the FBI agents taking over the case, and then you will be flown back to the Haven or Gotham where you will be further debriefed and put on leave until you are fully recovered!” So maybe Jason was not doing so great at the not yelling.

“Fine,” Dick said, the jut of his jaw hadn't lessened even a fraction and the stubborn anger in his gaze was still going at full throttle.

“That doesn't mean you can come back as Nightwing either, Dick.” Jason growled, he could already see he was going to have to stake out the bullheaded jackasses apartment to prevent it. “If you even think about it, I'll tell Bruce you're not fit.” He waved a hand as betrayal flooded Dick's face. “Not the specifics, but enough that he'll bench you.”

“You think he can? I'm a grown man, I work with him now, not for him.”

“Do you? Do you really, Dick? If he says jump you'll jump and we both know it.”

Dick huffed loudly, like a surly teenager. “You know me so well, Jason?”

“Stop being such an ass about this, give yourself a break.”  

Dick looked like he was gearing up to really let rip, and Jason didn't honestly think he could handle it, so he made an effort to rein in his own temper. “Look, Just take a bit of time, then we will go in together, okay? I'll even play by your rules.” And he would. Mostly because he suspected Wilson was going to be pretty damn thorough with wiping out the Santa Prisca portion of  ZK12. That left the American and European parts – Jason was planning to have a hand in some of that take down, he just had to bide his time.

Dick rubbed his hands over his face then looked at Jason with slightly wild eyes. “I can't sit around and do nothing, Jay. I can't, I'll lose it.” He ran a hand back through his hair, tugging on it sharply. He was acting like a caged animal.

“I'm not saying don't do anything useful, Dick. I'm just saying that heading back to the Santa Prisca strong-hold is not going to be productive – if we send someone there it shouldn't be us, not now at least.”

“Why? We're the best qualified,” Dick insisted.

Jason took a calming breath. He wanted to go too, but he didn't want Dick to go. That meant he had to play a little dirty. “We're too emotionally involved, we nearly died.”

“Nearly dying is basically every other day for us, so don't give me that bullshit.”

“Yeah, it is, but what happened to you terrified me!” Jason burst out, unable to contain himself. “I thought you were dead multiple times and I don't want to fucking deal with it yet, okay? I know if I go, I won’t be fully on the ball and I am not going to give those fuckers the satisfaction of getting one over on me again!” He took a calming breath. “When I go after ZK12, I'm going to be prepared and I'm going to get them all.”

Dick looked guilty now, which wasn't want Jason had been aiming for with his sudden honesty. This whole conversation was exhausting him. “Dick,  just take a step back, what if our positions were reversed? What if, God forbid, it was Roy or Cassandra or Tim who had just been through what you have? How would you feel about them going back?”

“I would be afraid,” Dick admitted, after a moment clearly battling with himself. “I'd suggest they sat out until they were recovered.”

“Right. And then you would hare off and do it yourself. I get that. But I'm not asking you to stop trying to bring these fucks down, just leave the fighting part to others until you are back to full functionality. There is a shit ton of research to do – we need to get the entire organization, and we know very little about their operations in Europe. Let's do this smart, okay?”

Amazingly, Dick nodded and hobbled forward to snatch the discharge forms out of Jason's grip. “Since when did you get all sensible and shit?” he asked, signing the papers with a slightly shaky hand.

Jason was even more sure he was doing the right thing by preventing Dick from throwing himself back into this particular fight. He was still sick and emotionally wounded, getting him to take care of himself was going to be a challenge and Jason suspected it was going to be up to him. Whoopee.

“I've always been sensible, you people are the ones with dust for brains,” Jason said with a dismissive sniff.

“Oh, don't give me that, little brother,  I can list a bunch of times you've been an idiot or just gone completely loco. I mean, the whole Murder!Batman shtick was pretty bonkers, and that one time you blew a hole in the GCPD to get at a guy in the lock up, then murdered him in front of the damn cops.”

“I'll give you the times when I was actually out of my mind, big deal. And that guy abused four children that we know of so he deserved it. Other than those very specific occasions, I've been very sensible.”

“You set fire to a nun,” Dick said, smugly, as he took off towards the door with a wobbly gait.

Jason followed behind him, waving his arms in indignation. “I did not!” he said, hotly. “I set fire to some textbooks, the nun was accidental collateral damage, and it was just her habit that got a bit singed – no real harm done.”

“That makes it okay then.”

“Well, they never sent me back to that group home that's for sure,” Jason grumbled.  “How did you even find out about that?” It must have been from Bruce, the fucking traitor, although saying that – Bruce had been pretty forthcoming about the trouble Dick had gotten himself into during his years at the manor – the list of unfortunate incidents had been surprisingly expansive. He grinned.  “If it's a competition between us, I can remind you of a fair few occasions where you have my indiscretions beat.”

“Like what?” Dick handed over his papers at the front desk and leaned heavily on the wall, trying to pretend he wasn't exhausted from the short walk.

That didn't mean Jason was going to take pity on him. “When you were fifteen, you and Roy got drunk at a Wayne Charity Gala, and you pissed off a balcony and onto the guests having a smoke round back.”

“That was Roy's fault!” Dick had gone a very fetching shade of pink.

“As I heard it, from Bruce, you knew exactly what you were doing. You managed to get a direct hit on Mr. Slate, the man responsible for signing the papers that had given the CPS permission to take you away from the circus and then for placing you in Juvie instead of  proper foster care. So, tell me again how it was an accident?”

Dick looked sheepish, “I was was angry and drunk enough I probably would have done worse if Roy hadn't talked me down.”

“Harper being the voice of reason? Wonders will never cease.”

“Sort of reason, I did still piss on a bunch of people.”

“Sounds like something I would have done, to be honest,” Jason didn't bother to hide his admiration.

“You didn't have the monopoly on teenage angst and problems with rage, Jason. I was just lucky enough to survive mine.” Dick winced at his own words and a frown began to form on his face again.

Jason wanted to reach out to him. He wished he had known that younger Dick, really known him rather than what passed for their relationship a few years later. They probably would have burnt the manor to cinders or razed the city to the ground, but it would have been cathartic - misery loved company after all.

“Well,” he said, ignoring the shadowed look on Dick's face. “Your worst offence by far was when you crashed Bruce's 1954 Bentley when you were twelve and he grounded you for life. You should still be grounded.”

“I thought because it was old he wouldn't miss it as much!”

“A classic Bentley, Dick, practically vintage! And you murdered it, that's sacrilege in car terms.”

“Who did Grayson murder?” Ruiz joined them, still bruised but looking much better than the last time they had seen her.

“Bruce Wayne's car, a beautiful, beautiful car,” Jason told her as Dick stepped forward to give her a tight hug.

“Don't be such a sap, Grayson,” Ruiz said, her eyes suspiciously bright. “We have a long road ahead of us.”

“Yeah. What are you going to do? You can't return to work while this is on going, it's too dangerous.” Dick told her, repeating the exact thing Jason had just spent forty minutes arguing with him about. The man was clearly born to drive him crazy.

“I don't know,” she admitted. “My family have gone to stay with my mother, so they are safe for the moment. I can't allow them to be at risk, but I don't want to give up this fight either. My superiors want me in witness protection, but we don't know if even that is going to be safe, they have people in the force.”

“I know,” Dick said, unhappily. “Look, maybe I can pull some strings, get you out the country for a few months. Both the FBI and Interpol have an interest in this case and keeping you alive to testify is going to be crucial for them.”

“And how will you do that, Grayson?” Ruiz asked, sharply.

“Bruce Wayne has a lot of influence and a lot of cash. And he is going to be grateful you rescued his son,” Jason told her.

“Which son?” she shot back and Dick's eyebrows climbed so high they disappeared under the ridiculous fall of his hair.

“What's this?” he asked.

“I told some bad guys I was Bruce's illegitimate son in order to stop them shooting me.” Jason shrugged “I'm not, by the way,” he told Ruiz.

“Hmm,” Ruiz said, clearly unconvinced. “You're something to him though, and to each other. You don't risk the things you risked just for an acquaintance.”

“He would,” Jason jerked a thumb at Dick, who scoffed at him and made a face.

“So would you, you  hadn't even met Ruiz and you helped me go back for her. At least I have the excuse that it's my job.”

“It's mine too, In a manner of speaking.”

“You're both idiots, is what you’re telling me?” Ruiz said, with a wry grin.

“Basically,” Dick agreed with an easy smile that was mostly real.

“And you both know each other from Bludhaven?”

“You are a relentless woman,” Jason sighed. “Yes, we know each other, have done for awhile – I guess you could say I'm a PI, like Dick said, so our paths have crossed professionally. But we also know each other via-” he scrunched up his nose trying to think of a good description. “Mutual family,” he finished at last.

Ruiz looked perplexed. “Okay, I'm not sure if that makes sense or not, but I’ll take what I'm given, for now.”

They headed towards the hospital entrance, where men in suits were waiting to take them to the airport. Jason really hoped the cover identity he and Dick had cobbled together for him held up under scrutiny. The internet connection had not been the best, or the most secure. Luckily they had access to some emergency pre-prepared electronic paperwork, provided for all of them by Alfred and Babs, to use when caught on the fly. Hopefully it was good enough to at least get them back to American soil.

 They landed back in Gotham International at mid morning a few days later. All the debriefing had been grueling, but their story had held up. Neither they nor Ruiz had spoken much about the torture, just about the drugs and vague descriptions of beatings. They had agreed to keep Wilson's name out of it, just described him as some sort of private contractor fighting against the cartel who had helped them in the hopes of gaining information and cash. The story overall had been a little shaky, and there were some agents who clearly knew they were leaving stuff out, but the three of them held firm and stuck to their story.

Now it was time to go home and start recovering a little. That and put things into motion to get Ruiz to safety. She had balked at coming to America, but Jason figured they could negotiate with her to stay for a few months, or go somewhere else – Mexico or South America perhaps. Either way, they would make sure they had people to keep an eye on her wherever she ended up.

They stepped off the small private plane that had been provided for them to find Alfred waiting by one of Bruce's big grey cars, the winter sunlight hitting the bonnet like fireworks. Jason was torn between relief at being home and trepidation of having to face his family, even if it was just Alf.

He hesitated, he didn't want to keep his feet moving towards the car. either did Dick it seemed, he was tense and practically vibrating with anxiety as their boots hit the tarmac. And Jason couldn't leave him.

His warped sense of guilt and his over-protective instincts were going to fuck him up. But there was no way around it that he could see. His need to be there for Dick in some undefined way was going to take him right back into the jaws of his past, which was the last place he wanted to be after the few weeks they had just had.

“Hey, Alf,” Dick said, with a tight and unconvincing grin. “Thanks for picking us up.”

It was clear the fake cheer wasn't missed, as Alfred nodded a greeting. “Master Dick, I'm glad to see you home in one piece. Master Jason, a rare pleasure.”

Jason flushed and raised a hand in a half-hearted wave. He had not been prepared for this, he should have been. But he wasn't.

If he thought that was bad, sliding into the warm interior of the car and coming face to face with Bruce was like a nightmare come to life. For years he had dreamed of bumping into him while in his underwear or other awkward situations. This was way, way worse.

He froze, staring at Bruce's impassive face. Dick followed him into the car, still exchanging platitudes with Alfred. He had clearly expected Jason to have moved further inside and sat practically on his lap, making them both jump in surprise. Dick tumbled back out onto the tarmac.  Jason remained where he was, eyes no doubt comically wide.

Bruce looked utterly mystified, or at least there was a confused furrow in his brow which conveyed as much.

“Dick?” he asked, “are you alright?”

The deep rumble of his voice, so totally different from Wilson's smug tones, made feeling crash into Jason like high tide against the rocks. He was usually so much more fortified for any meetings with Bruce – but now he was so raw from everything that had happened, he felt like just being in the man's presence could break him apart.

Dick's head appeared in the doorway, he was slightly pink from embarrassment. “Hey, Bruce,” He said, not meeting his eyes – always a fatal mistake. Instead he looked at Jason “What the hell, Jay? Move up.”

Jason moved. Which left him facing Bruce in the broad interior of the car. He wished it was Batman there to greet them instead. He knew how he felt about Batman, wasn't so conflicted and full of doubt.

Dick slid in beside him and shut the door, taking a moment to fiddle with his seat belt, perhaps attempting to collect himself, as Jason was also desperately trying to do. He hadn't expected this either.

Bruce was impassive, but he was watching Dick carefully. He may not be showing anything on his face, but he was clearly cataloging Dick's slightly odd behavior.  Jason in turn, watched him for any sign he was going to do anything to upset Dick. Bruce often struggled to express his concern in a helpful or constructive way, and instead went for bluntness, irritation or flinty silence. Jason was aware that in this, he and the old man were very much alike, and he hated it.

“To what do we owe this honor?” Jason said into the awkward pause, forcing the words out and trying his level best to keep his voice nice and even.

“You fell off the grid for a week. First Dick takes off for work,” said with a surprising edge of scorn, "then I get the BPD knocking at my door saying he has been kidnapped, and to wait on a ransom that never came. I was concerned, ZK12 rarely return kidnap victims in good shape.” He didn't sound concerned, he sounded like he was placing an order in the World’s most mediocre restaurant. A clear sign he had probably been climbing the walls with worry.  

“Why didn't you come rescue him then?” Jason snapped in spite of himself.

“Because I discovered you had also gone to Santa Prisca, and I decided the two of you together could probably take care of things, or at least let me know if that wasn't the case. At the time I believed no news was good news and you were both undercover. Was I wrong?”

And wow, to be giving that kind of trust, even in such a backhanded way, was so huge, so intense that Jason wouldn't know what to do with it on a good day. This however was not a good day. He had completely and utterly failed to do anything Bruce had put his faith in him doing.

He was surprised to find there were still new ways to feel completely crushed.

He sat mute and wide eyed staring at Bruce with his mouth slightly open, like a landed fish. What the fuck could he say? Could he say anything without having a complete emotional meltdown? He honestly wasn't sure.

“No, you weren't wrong,” Dick said, his voice was thick, and he cleared his throat loudly. “I was careless and got caught, Jason rescued me. If he hadn't I might never have got out. They used a drug on me I'm unfamiliar with. We did have a look at the properties of it – Jason ran tests in the field to prevent side effects when he gave me antibiotics. We have all the data, if we run it through the computer in the cave I bet we can find trace hits in that people trafficking case from Gotham North last month – I wager that's what they were hitting the victims with and it wouldn't have shown up in any of the regular tests.”

And with that, Bruce allowed himself to be distracted. But Jason suspected it was only superficial, he was still watching them both very carefully. Dick was now making a good show of acting normal, but it had been a shaky enough start that Bruce was clearly suspicious. And Jason was acting far from normal too despite his best efforts, he was usually so full of piss and vinegar whenever they had contact that his silence was probably an even bigger warning sign than Dick's awkwardness. At least Dick could pass his off at embarrassment for his 'stupidity' in getting caught.

Taking the blame for what had happened was such a typical Dick thing. A month ago Jason would have sneered at it, mocked and berated him for his dumb-ass martyr complex. But now, he was covering for Jason's mistakes and not only that, he was blatantly forgiving them.

It was intolerable.

Suddenly Jason's skin felt itchy, like there were insects made of doubt and shame crawling all over him. He couldn't breathe in the damn car, he had to get out.

As they drew towards the intersection at 23rd and 12th Jason unbuckled his belt. Dick shot him a wide eyed glance, but before he could say anything, they stopped at the lights and Jason threw open the door, practically falling onto the sidewalk in his haste to escape. He heard Dick calling his name but he ignored it and took off as fast as his throbbing ankle could carry him.

He was running on instinct, down familiar alleys and side streets, vaulting the fence at old Martins place and twisting through the doorway of the abandoned grocery shop on the corner. When he finally came to a halt, close to one of his shabbier safe houses, all he could do was sink to the floor and try to breathe. He honestly couldn't deal with this, with any of it.

Fuck, Dick was taking things better than him. He needed a drink, but failing that, he needed to hit the streets and beat the fear and confusion out of himself.

 Evening found him pacing his safe house like a trapped beast. He was feeling terrible for abandoning Dick, and for the questions he had probably had to field on Jason's behalf. But the prospect of having to go to the manor to see him was not bearable, and unnecessary anyway. If he was there then he was safe and someone would be making sure he was looking after himself, but what was the probability of that actually being the case? It was far more likely he had gone home to Bludhaven like the annoying self sacrificing prick he was. And that meant that at best he would be moping and at worst, Nightwing would be preparing to hit the streets in an hour or so. And that was a recipe for disaster.

“Fuck!” Jason chucked his half empty can of beer in the direction of the sink. It wasn't helping anyway, and any more and he wouldn't be able to suit up and hit the roof tops, let alone drive to the Haven. Which appeared to be what he was doing, judging by the fact he was already out of the door, keys to his bike in his hand.

He justified it to himself as he drove, if Dick was there, he would need watching because he was a moron. If he wasn't in the Haven, then his patch was undefended and Jason would be more use there than Gotham, which tended to be rather saturated with vigilantes these days.

It was a completely logical course of action.

He decided to scope out Dick's shitty apartment from the roof of the chicken shop across the way rather than knock on the door. Most of the apartment seemed dark, except for the hallway and bathroom lights. He was fairly sure even Dick would have remembered to switch his lights off before going away on a long term mission. Probably.

He would just wait for a bit, and then head out, that way he could cover all his bases. Jason flipped out his binoculars and settled back to watch.

“Papa Bat teach you those manners? Spying is pretty invasive, you know,” Dick said, from somewhere behind him, making Jason  jump and cuss colorfully before spinning round to face him.

Dick was dressed in ratty sneakers, leggings and a big warm sweater. He looked like he belonged on the rooftop as much as Nightwing did, like he owned it. But he also looked like a slob, and leggings? Really?  Jason was surprised at the rush of warmth that overtook the embarrassment at having been caught stalking him.

“The fuck you wearing, Dick?” he asked, with as much of a sneer as he could put in his voice.

Dick looked down at himself. “What these? Running tights. They're warmer than slacks or sweats and  better for clambering on rooftops.”

“Uh huh.”

“Whatever, at least I'm not hanging around on freezing cold buildings and spying on people.”  

“How'd you know?” Jason asked.

Dick's lips twitched. “Lucky guess. Although if I'm honest, this is the second spot I checked.” He shrugged. “I figured you might want to check up on me, you've been bizarrely attentive since we got to the hospital.”

“Yeah, well,” Jason said, pointlessly. It was unnerving that he had been so transparent, even more so that he hadn't really noticed himself doing it. But he supposed all the hand holding and sappy shit had been a bit out of character.

“I have food inside, enough for two.” Dick pushed off the building he was leaning against and started towards the fire escape.

Jason was slightly perturbed he had apparently been such a sure thing Dick had even planned to feed him. He got up stiffly and followed. “You didn't cook it though, right?” He asked as he swung down after Dick, who was scaling down the building effortlessly, despite his bad leg. “I've heard tales of your cooking, none were complimentary.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dick said, “those stories have been greatly exaggerated. I'll have you know I'm a wizard with the microwave these days.”

Food was actually spaghetti bolognese, and although the sauce was mostly from a bottle, it was a  satisfying meal with the addition of mince and some frozen veg. The silence while they ate was companionable, and Jason felt at ease for the first time in far too long.

After dinner, Dick shoved the dishes into the sink and waved off Jason's offer to clean them, instead he ushered him through to the living room and sat on the big comfy chair, dislodging a small pile of dirty laundry and take-out menus.

Jason chose the sofa, which was relatively free of debris, he did find one of Dick's escrima sticks wedged behind the cushion, but that was the only offensive item. Dick flicked the TV on wordlessly, hunting thought he channels with a quiet determination. It was clear he didn't want to talk and Jason decided to give him his space.

“What horrifying show are you going to subject me to?”  he asked, as Dick failed to settle on a channel.

Dick looked relieved, like he had been expecting Jason to insist on talking about things. Like he would.

“Dunno,” he said, “maybe this documentary about mermaids?”

“Why the fuck would I want to watch that?”

“Because mermaids, Jason. Who doesn't love mermaids?”

Jason hid a grin and leaned back in his seat, shoving aside a stack of messy note pads with his socked foot so he could rest it on the small coffee table. Dick didn't seem to care about the abuse of his furniture and swung his own legs over the arm of the chair. Curling into his ridiculous sweater and twitching his feet like he couldn't keep still.

It occurred to Jason that although Dick had made a good argument for the leggings, the true reason for his choice of attire might be a little more complicated. They were the closest thing to his Nightwing suit in terms of strong figure hugging material he could possibly get away with. The suit was more than just a costume, it was wrapped up with so much self. A shield, a comfort, it represented strength and safety.

It was the same reason Jason was wearing his old battered body armor under his shirt.

Both of them were still struggling to deal with all that had happened and all that was to come, and Jason was genuinely concerned about what lay ahead for Dick, who followed in the family footsteps and tended to deal with the bad shit by ignoring it or self flagellating.

It was going to be a hard road, but right now there was a scene of calm, and Jason found himself enjoying the easy silence as Dick sniggered at the TV and jiggled his legs around annoyingly.

There would be time to deal with the crap tomorrow, or the next day. For now he was just glad they were both home safe.

----

And that's it for now! (sequels, prequels etc are in the works.)

Thank you for your patience, tristen84, I hope you enjoyed it! (only 4 months late this time!)

And thank you all for reading and for all the wonderful comments and kudos!

[serenagaywaterford]

#5 - now don’t hold back, how do you really feel about Nick? Haha... yeah, Max so far hasn’t been great, thinking back, there was only the one scene with Eden that was somewhat memorable for me. Nothing else really stood out. There is still time though, I’ll give them the benefit of the doubt. I don’t dislike him as much as you do, I think he’s served a purpose, provides really the only comfort June has in this world. Don’t think of him as June’s hero, but someone June uses to survive...

People like a ship on a show, I get that. This one is really the only logical one. When you are stuck together in this world, it’s only natural. Even when Luke is still in the picture technically. But I just don’t care... for me a happy ending for June is for her to be reunited with her daughters, and have Moira/Emily in her life (don’t think Janine makes it to Canada). Either Luke/Nick or both in her life is a nice little bonus, but not essential.

--------

LMAO. I keep all my Nick hate repressed in a little hard ball in my tummy (mostly cos I don’t care for fandom drama) but sometimes the wordvomit just spews when I feel safe on my blog haha. Everyone needs their release, right? LOL. I just sort of wish they’d cast a better actor. I probably would still have some of the same issues, but not to such a high level.

I agree. I think we’re talking about the same Nick/Eden scene? (I’m thinking the one at the pool where he’s trying to talk her out of doing the Dumb Teenage Thing she wants to do. (I love Eden sfm, ngl.) Is that the one you’re thinking of too?) I will admit, that is probably only the second time I have ever really enjoyed his acting or a scene with him. It’s the only time I’ve ever enjoyed a scene with him that doesn’t also have Serena in it. Cos, the other one I really liked was when he confronts Serena about June’s mental health. The tension there was so good. Again, he wasn’t on Yvonne’s level but it was a good enough scene writing and directing-wise that Yvonne could carry it easily and Max rose up a little to meet her. Almost. I’m biased, ofc.

Don’t get me wrong, I may be completely bored by the character/actor BUT I do recognise his integral purpose to June’s story, and appreciate that June does need/deserve/want comfort and only he can do that for her. He is (was, arguably, cos I personally think he’s served this purpose and it’s done) totally necessary to her survival, especially from a psychological standpoint. I just resist other people calling him a fucking hero. He’s not. June is. He’s her sidekick. He’s part of what makes her able to overcome certain circumstances, and lbr, without him, she’d probably be dead or in the Colonies cos Fred ain’t ever knocking her up. It’s more fandom’s obsession with treating him like the centre of the THT universe and everything about June revolves around him and it’s just disgusting to me to take a story about women, and especially a particular woman, and center it on a MAN.

((((Cos he’s cute, allegedly.))))

I never had a huge issue with it in the book, cos characters are made to play certain roles in assisting the protagonist. But I honestly have no understanding how anybody could read the book and go, “Hmm, this is good and all, but it’ll be so much more interesting to make it all about the guy, Nick.” 

[Caveat... I am completely aware of how hypocritical I’m being, lol. I read the book and Serena was a somewhat interesting character but nowhere near as fascinating as she is on the show, lmao. At least, imo, she’s a woman, in a story that should be about women.]

Not to mention, Luke exists. And June still deeply loves him. Clearly. As soon as Nick even mentioned him, her mind went to him and Hannah. Whether I think they can work again (I don’t) outside Gilead, meh. Luke exists. Luke wants June back. June probably will attempt to make it work with him again as a family. Nick is not her “soulmate”, imo. I don’t want some epic romance bullshit for this show.

Now, in all fairness, Luke doesn’t exactly get a free pass from me either. I don’t really like the guy. (For different reasons. I think the actor is perfect actually for the role and does it very well.) I just find the character of Luke, sort of like a wet rag. Again, he’s another character that just sort of slides on by, not really caring and not taking the women’s concerns seriously (esp obvs in convos with Moira) and then just sulks a lot. Like, a lot. I get trauma gets handled differently by different people but Luke rubs me the wrong way. Even before Gilead. He seemed to have no issue being “the man of the house” and stepping into that patriarchal role. AGAIN, if we’re coming back to complaints about Serena not having any foresight, here’s another character that didn’t really care what was happening until it affected him personally. Now, that’s not to say criticisms of Serena for those reasons aren’t warranted; they totally are (She is at the far extreme end). But there are a whole host of characters who also gave no real shits about anyone else until they were personally affected by the system (Nick and June also fall on this spectrum, and arguably Nick is way down with Serena in terms of this, whereas Luke and June are not as bad, and June is certainly not as bad as Luke. Where was he at the protests? Hmm?). That’s sort of the whole point of the flashbacks about the rise of Gilead? We all sort of just go along with things, no matter how bad they are for others... until it personally affects us??? And often then, it’s too late to fix it. It’s the insidious rise of fascism in a nutshell.

People like a ship on a show, I get that. This one is really the only logical one. When you are stuck together in this world, it’s only natural.

Exactly! It is completely understandable and natural. And I enjoy seeing June regain parts of herself and find some pleasure and freedom through it. And you would latch onto anybody who can offer that. But Gilead, and especially June’s world, is a very, very small part of things and she has little access to anything else. Of course, a man being kind to her and protective of her and giving her good sex, hope, comfort, respect, affection, love, etc etc. is good. What else does the poor woman have? Fred? Serena? Rita? That’s her entire world. In that house. But what happens when that world expands? 

And I do completely understand shipping them. It does make total sense. And I gotta say, shipping canon pairings is such a relief. (I rarely have that opportunity lmao but when I did, it was so NICE.) 

Honestly, there isn’t much else to choose from in THT. It’s easy enough to keep shipping out of it but fandom is inherently shippy and full of straight fangirls, I think. It’s gonna happen. If AO3 is anything to go by, the majority (by an overwhelming amount) is June/Nick, with June/Serena second*, and June/Luke and June/Fred trailing those two. I get it.

(* I actually think this number would be higher if 2x10 had not happened the way it did. Specifically if it had not been Serena suggesting it (or at least had the lead up been better written). I saw a surge of interest after 2x08 especially but wham! 2x10, and then it’s just like, “HOW??? This is so wrong now, when it was only problematic before, now it’s like woah no way.”)

I agree about the happy ending. It’s June, free, with her daughters. Moira is absolutely essential to be in June’s life. I will not accept it otherwise. They are not allowed to kill Moira. She must be there. If it’s just June, Moira, Hannah, and Nicole, that’ll do.

Emily, eh. For me, I’m not that attached to the character and I want her healing more than anything, wherever that is. There’s another one who I’m not convinced would be able to just slide back into life with Sylvia and Oliver. (She had mentally given up on them way before she even was mutilated. it’s gonna be an incredibly hard road for her.) I want Emily alive and working towards being less traumatized. Minimum. I think she should have died way back, but since they’ve kept her alive this long and via such completely idiotic means, she has to stay alive now.

ITA about Janine, sadly. This may be sacrilege, but I’d rather her make it thru the series alive than Emily? I don’t dislike Emily by any means but I just enjoy Janine more. I find her more interesting. Eek. Is that bad?

I’d rather not have Nick around, simply cos it’s too much potential for stupid TV love triangle drama, and you know the showrunners won’t be able to resist playing on that. OR, going down the “June is pining for the love she left behind and that’s why it doesn’t work with Luke” route (BARF!). OR, alternately, presenting it as some super-cool post-monogamy hippie commune thing where people can just get on and there's no such thing as jealousy. Either way, I don’t want it. So I’d rather just knock out Nick in a blaze of glory, doing something incredibly brave and selfless for the CAUSE. Not just for June. I’m sick of his whole “for June only” shtick. Other women exist. Other women need your help too. I personally think it would perfect for him to die helping other women who specifically are not June nor connected to her. It would show some growth. If he dies for June specifically, I don’t think that shows any growth whatsoever. I’d argue that him dying For June just proves he’s not learnt anything, because it’s still just about what he wants and how things affect him.

But hey, I don’t think they will kill off Nick at all. He’s too much of a fan fav. I would like them too, but I don’t get what I want on TV. And probably only 7 people would watch the show I’d write, lol.