#//in the main verse he really only busts out the they/thems around people he knows and trusts well | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

yoonpobs · 3 years

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bad boy good thing | drabble i. | m

WARNINGS. jealous jk, jk's gf is hot and he's not the only one who thinks that, jimin and tae as instigators, i swear jimin and jk love each other, fucking in public spaces aka a car in a parking lot, jk luvs his gf, appearance of perpetrator jin!

NOTE. i missed this couple 🥺oc is living her hot girl summer life and jk does nawt know how to deal with it Lol. hope u enjoy loves!!!!

WORDS. 3k+

“I’m okay,” Jungkook murmurs, eyes fluttering shut as he repeats his own personal mantra. “I’m good. I’m fine—I’m chill. Chillest person ever. I’m good—”

“He’s not okay,” Taehyung snickers.

Jungkook blocks the negativity out, purposefully and intentionally. Nothing could ruin his day—not on his watch, especially as the sun shines over bodies across the beach while the waves break into beautiful fragments that he’s yearning to dip his feet into.

Personal affirmations came first.

“I’m good, I’m fine, I’m okay,” he chants like a crazy person, definitely earning some form of side-eye from the people next to him but he can’t be bothered. Another person thinking that he was insane wasn’t the worst thing that could happen to him—not when—

“You should open your eyes,” Jimin says, “How are you going to fight them if you don’t know thy enemy?”

Immediately, Jungkook’s peace is disturbed by the mouth of Park Jimin, who painfully reminds him of why he’s got into the entire personal mantra and affirmation thing. He used to think it was redundant, unnecessary. How could the universe return your wishes just as you’ve uttered them into the atmosphere? It didn’t seem logical to him.

But right now, that didn’t matter—not when he had bigger things to be worried about.

“Don’t disturb my peace,” Jungkook snaps.

“They did it first,” Jimin retorts, cocking his head towards the flock of people at a certain part of the beach, specifically towards where the water meets the shore.

Jungkook’s eye twitches. His peace is disrupted, his happiness is compromised and it’s all Park Jimin’s fault. He spent a good amount of time getting into his zone, reaffirming himself that he was in fact, fine, good—he was okay! But now, he feels all his resolve dissolve when he realises he can’t even see the main thing that was responsible for his dilemmas.

“You’d think a celebrity was on this beach,” Taehyung snorts.

“Not helping,” Jungkook says dryly.

“So isn’t your crazy person chanting,” Jimin points out, “but yet, here we are—listening to you reciting your own version of a biblical verse.”

“I’m fine,” Jungkook grits for the umpteenth time, and no less is his assertions any more convincing than it was a moment ago. The flicker of his irises towards to crowd is enough to prove that fact. “I’m just enjoying my day at the beach with my friends and my girlfriend.”

“See, there are two false statements in that,” Taehyung tilts his head downwards, offering a smug smirk that Jungkook wishes he could shove into the sand beneath him. “You’re definitely not enjoying this because I can see the veins protruding out of your neck at how hard you’re clenching your jaw, and”—the older boy makes the effort to taunt Jungkook further by letting out a low whistle the moment the crowd seems to grow slightly bigger—“you’re partially right about the friend part. Your girlfriend though … where is she?”

I’m good. I’m okay. I’m cool—

“Oblivious, as usual,” Jimin sighs, plopping back onto the beach towel beneath him while shooting Jungkook a pointed stare. “It’d be sad if you only called her your girlfriend for six months when you’ve been in love with her for seven years.”

“Okay that’s it. I’m going there,” Jungkook declares, huffing as he pushes himself off the ground while Jimin makes an effort to grab at his ankle, halting the younger boy from causing any damage and potentially getting them banned from ever returning.

“Not with that temper you aren’t,” Jimin snaps, “Sit your ass down. God. Can’t you take a joke?”

“A joke?” Jungkook splutters, abhorred. “You literally just said she’s going to break up with me!”

“I said that it’d be sad if—”

“Same fucking difference,” he hisses, rubbing a hand across his face before he kicks Jimin’s petty grip off his ankle while levelling him with a menacing glare. Jungkook’s eyes slowly drift to the side where you finally enter his vision, still smiling like the soft and sweet person you were as you help Namjoon with whatever crab hunting mission he had.

See, Jungkook’s mature enough to know that you and Namjoon were good friends, great ones, even. The two of you were smart and clicked well, and if anything, Jungkook was more envious of the fact that the two of you shared such a wholesome and meaningful friendship than anything else.

The fact that Namjoon used to have feelings for you didn’t bother Jungkook anymore, not when he knew where your heart truly laid. He also trusted Namjoon with his entire life and his firstborns (not that he’d ever tell you that, and God—did he hope that day would eventually come when it came to you). But still, Jungkook was mature—he did some growing up, and he was proud of that.

But Jungkook’s human, a flawed, ever-learning and constantly improving human. A human who’s crazy in love with his pretty girlfriend that he’s longed for years—and a human who isn’t blind. A human who can’t ignore the fact that, apparently, he wasn’t the only person that was trying to keep himself in check at how stunning you were. Every day—and especially today, with how your dainty yellow bikini drapes over the curves of your body.

Jungkook nearly cries. Yellow was his favourite colour. You wore it for him.

Not for—

“Maybe you should head over,” Taehyung murmurs, snapping Jungkook out of his love-filled mind as his eyes clear, immediately catching what his friend was referring to.

Some dude. Talking to you. Smiling at you like you carried all the answers to all the world problems as you giggle a tune comparable to birds chirping. Maybe Jungkook was exaggerating but it always sounded like you were singing his favourite song even if you were just explaining economical concepts to him like a soothing e-book.

“God, why couldn’t she have been ugly,” Jungkook groans.

“You wouldn’t have dated her otherwise,” Jimin retorts.

Jungkook gawks, affronted as he gives his two friends a scandalised expression as he places his hands over his chest to indicate the offence he took to that statement.

“I’m not superficial,” he huffs, “I fell in love with her because of her—”

“Personality, yada yada,” Jimin mocks him in a lower tune that has Jungkook glaring at him. “Yeah, okay. But don’t tell me that her being pretty doesn’t help you bust a nut every once in a while.”

Jungkook flushes.

“Well, yeah, but I’m her boyfriend—”

“Thank you for reminding me that you are in fact, still a boy,” Jimin rolls his eyes, “Men. Mansplaining everything, really.”

Jungkook’s jaw slackens as his eyes briefly land on Taehyung’s figure who doesn’t look too bothered with how the conversation turned out as he shrugs in response.

“How about you do the typical manly thing of being a jealous prick and go over there and stomp over all her fan club members,” Jimin says sarcastically, resting his arm over his eyes to shield them from the sun.

There’s a brief rustle from where the sand meets the towel, and a relatively long period of silence while the only thing that permeates the air is the sound of waves with laughter coming from a family a distance away.

“He did exactly that, didn’t he.”

“You need to stop giving him ideas,” Taehyung sighs, plopping a grape into his mouth before occupying the space next to his friend. “Should we find another beach to frequent?”

“Really?” you laugh, “That’s so cool! I’m actually planning on landing an apprenticeship there over the summer.”

“Oh?” The man is leaning way too close to you for comfort, but you’re unfazed. Jungkook doesn’t even want to know where the hell Namjoon had gone, leaving you with this broad-shouldered, terrifyingly handsome man. “I could definitely put a good word in for you if you’d like.”

You beam, appreciative rather than brazen. But Jungkook thinks the man doesn’t know that.

“I don’t think I can accept that, Seokjin.”

And of course, you knew his name.

“Why not?” Seokjin smirks, and Jungkook knows that it’s definitely done him justice in other situations. “For a beautiful—”

“____,” he interjects, smoothly (or not quite) sliding next to you as his arms wrap around your waist before his glare rests on the man before him, who looks both shocked and unbothered at his appearance. “Who’s this?”

You jump slightly at Jungkook’s arrival but relax when you realise that it was just him and not some other beach weirdo.

“Jungkook, this is Seokjin! He actually attended our university—”

“Really,” he says dryly, “That’s nice.”

“Is this your …?” Seokjin looks Jungkook up and down before settling with a rather unimpressed look. “Do seniors usually bring their shadows out for playdates?”

Your eyes widen at his patronising tone, and before can even think to correct him with a tilted frown, Jungkook’s fingers dig into your waist, a precursor to his jaw that clenches while he engages in his own version of a staredown with the man before you.

“Boyfriend.”

Seokjin raises a brow.

“Me,” Jungkook blinks, unnerved and quite frankly, tired. He’s crossed this bridge enough times, and it’s always the same. Some older dude who thought that you were doing charity work by having Jungkook tag along with like some puny little brother. “I’m her boyfriend.”

“Jungkook—” you start, softly reaching to grip his arm.

“Interesting,” Seokjin says offhandedly and Jungkook knows it’s anything but. “Well, my offer still stands.”

He’s directing it to you as you peer up at him with your notoriously innocent eyes. Jungkook hates that this douche is still unaffected by his blatant declaration of the fact that you were—taken.

“I—that’s fine, Seokjin,” you say softly, lips curling into a thankful smile before he nods.

The look he sends Jungkook is nothing short of unimpressed, and Jungkook’s thinking of clamming the dude into the sand and quite literally, bury the hatchet with him. Sure, he was handsome and broad, and undoubtedly ripped—but Jungkook trained to benchpress twice his weight so he could beat up assholes who tried to hit on his girlfriend.

Right before he leaves, Jungkook calls for his name—intentionally calling him Seokmin—noting the way his face drops into a scowl.

“You’re not her type.”

He scoffs.

“And you are?” he throws back, brows raised as a challenge.

“That’s why I get to hold her and you’re walking away.”

With that, Seokjin doesn’t bother responding to Jungkook, especially in the way that you gawk at your boyfriend’s blatant warning to the older man.

He titters off, and it’s effectively just you and Jungkook standing by the shore while you briefly see the way Namjoon stutters before deciding to return to where Jimin and Taehyung lays.

Jungkook’s still seething in his rage, clenching and unclenching his fists even though he got the last word. It wasn’t that he thought you’d elope with Seokjin and leave him—he trusted you wholeheartedly and vice versa. He knew you loved him and so did he.

It had more to do with the fact that Seokjin saw you, and eventually, him—and thought that Jungkook wasn’t fit to be your boyfriend. That he saw a gorgeous girl on the beach and expected her to be single, and if not—to be with a boyfriend that had his shit together and not … not Jungkook.

“Jungkook?” you say quietly, tugging at his elbow while you peer up at him with wide and apologetic eyes. “I’m sorry.”

It’s no good, the fact that you’re apologising. As if you were responsible for his insecurities when you’ve done nothing but shower him with love and support ever since the two of you started officially dating.

“Don’t apologise,” he says stiffly, though his heart isn’t angry—he can’t help the way his words get out. “It’s not your fault.”

“But—”

“If you apologise then you’re gonna piss me off, baby,” he says lightly, peering you down with a small smirk as your eyes widen.

“I—okay,” you say weakly, and before he knows it, you’re intertwining your fingers with his, eyes suddenly twinkling in a way he’s grown all too familiar with.

“You have the keys?” he murmurs softly.

You nod, blind and in love as you sigh.

“Take care of me?” you ask sweetly, and Jungkook forgets all about Seokjin when he has you right in front of him.

“O-Oh, fuck—Jungkook—ngh—”

Maybe Jungkook really was a crazy person, but he’d argue that you were equally as crazy to oblige to indulge in his lewd fantasies. He was crazy, for you and your cunt that was like nirvana, and it’s proven further when he fucks into you at a brutal pace, uncaring whether or not the car shakes with the exertion of the activities that were taking place in it.

It could be the fact that he had a decade worth of fantasies to play out, but he knows that he plays a huge part in opening your sexual nature and he couldn’t be happier about it, especially when you unabashedly throw your head onto your chest, whimpering with the dirty squelches of his thrusts that echo in the vehicle.

“You’re mine, aren’t you?” he growls, hand wrapping around the back of your neck to force your glassy eyes to look at him.

The look on your face is enough to get Jungkook even more riled up, your flushed cheeks and swollen lips while you nod your head manically, crazy—and his.

“Y-Yours,” you whimper, and just about then, Jungkook brings your hips down with his free hand and meets you with a sharp thrust that has your mouth dropping open and your face scrunched up in pleasure. “F-Fuck, J-Jungkook.”

“No one gets to fuck you like this,” he hisses, pressing a hot kiss to your neck as you whine, hips involuntarily swivelling to meet his fast pace. The car is shaking and it’s all too risky, Jungkook knows that—but his rationale is clouded with the antagonising face of Seokjin. “No one gets to see you like this. Only I do.”

“Y-Yes!” you sob, clutching onto him as he feels your pussy tighten viciously around him, the walls of your inner linings spasming as Jungkook hisses at the feeling. “Only you K-Kook. Only ever want you.”

Jungkook believes you, especially when you desperately hold onto him as he feels himself slowly reach the edge. He knows you are too, especially when your whines get higher in pitch, and your tugs against his shoulders get tighter. He knows because he’s learnt about your body as your boyfriend—and he’s the only person that will ever get to have you like this.

The thought, paired along with the risk of your situation only fuels his determination to get you off, his strong arms immediately wrapping around you to root you into place as he shoves his cock deeper into you.

“Come on, pretty girl,” he croons as you mewl in pleasure, breathless whines turning more desperate as your eyes flutter shut. “You wanna show me how much you want me?”

You nod manically, your pussy fluttering around his length as he grunts in exertion.

“G-Gonna—pleasedon’tstop—fuck, I-I’m cumming—!” you cry, tugging your face into the crook of his neck as Jungkook bites his lips in focus, all ready to accept your hot pleasure and his own.

“Come for me,” he encourages, lips hovering over your earlobe as you obey his orders, head thrown back as he watches your mouth drop wider and your eyes roll to the back of your head, pussy tightening around his length.

Jungkook thinks you’re beautiful. On days where you don’t feel like you do, but he may be biased to say that he thinks you look absolutely stunning for him like this. When he knows that he’s the one responsible for your reddened cheeks, the way you so desperately cling onto him whenever you’d orgasm (the only person that would ever know this fact about you), and the way that you’re left breathless, satiated and with that hazed expression after his resolute efforts.

Jungkook cums shortly after, with those exact thoughts plaguing his mind. He was so whipped. He really only had to think of you and he would get hard, and having you right above him, soft and warm with your arms draped loosely over his form made his heart all mushy and soft despite the way his cock stands erect.

You mewl in oversensitivity although you don’t complain. You never do, whenever Jungkook cums after you. Even now, when Jungkook comes down from his high with pants of his own, his own mind-clearing while his cock softens in you—you remain patient. Patient like the ever-loving, wonderful girlfriend that you were—one that Jungkook wasn’t sure he deserved.

“Wow,” you giggle, forehead resting against his as you return from your own post-orgasmic bliss. “I can’t believe I let you fuck me in a parking lot.”

Jungkook flushes, reality sinking in when he realised that the two of you weren’t hidden from plain sight. While the idea of being caught was definitely arousing, Jungkook knew he wasn’t too keen on having anyone see you delirious, even if it was all for him. He was lucky enough that your bikini top remained on the entire time, but both your sweaty bodies were enough of a dead giveaway.

“I just,” Jungkook tries to explain, words slurring in embarrassment as you raise a brow at him. “You look really pretty today.”

You stare at his forlorn expression as if admitting that pained him. Jungkook feels slightly embarrassed at how he reacted, and if you notice this, you don’t point it out—yet.

“Wore this for you,” you murmur, pressing a soft kiss to the mole under his lip. Jungkook’s heart soars at your admission even if he knew that. “You know it’s only for you, right?”

Your question is purposeful and Jungkook shamefully looks to his lap, and even then—you’re still connected. He slowly pulls out, wincing when his cum threatens to pool out of your pussy, but before he can pretend to clean you up, you’re putting your bikini bottoms back in place and clamping your hands over his cheeks so that he’d look at you.

“Jungkook,” you say sternly.

He sighs.

“Yes,” he groans, feeling a lot like a child who’s being berated. “I just—God. He was such a prick.”

“I know,” you say gently, fingers combing through his hair while he melts into your touch. “There are a lot of pricks out there, but you know that I only love you, right?”

Your confession is the same as the one you’ve made six months ago, and just last night before the two of you fell asleep—but it’s a confession that Jungkook never grows tired of.

“I know,” he mumbles as you giggle at him. “It’s just that … he really thought he had a chance with you, and when he saw me it was like—”

You frown, finger pressed against his lips to stop his rambling as he peers up at you with doe-eyes.

“None of that,” you chide lightly, “I don’t care what people think. The only person I care about is you, and no one will change that, okay?”

Jungkook feels himself relax into your touch, especially when you lean forward to capture his lips in a soft kiss that isn’t set to lead anywhere. He remembers. He remembers the times where you were unsure and all too worried of the words of others—and here you were, with him and with your gentle and loving soul, the embodiment of comfort as you tell him the words he’s always known but needs to be reminded of.

“I love you,” he says quietly as you grin widely at him, “Sorry for—you know.”

You roll your eyes, lifting your leg to get off his lap as you wince at the cum that threatens to escape your lips.

“I mean, it was kind of hot,” you shrug with a small smirk.

“God, I’ve created a monster,” Jungkook snorts, looking over at you when you shoot him a devious grin.

“You love it,” you throw back cheekily, leaning into his shoulder as he wraps an arm around you with a sigh.

He does. And he knows that he’s the only one that you’ll love back.

#bad boy good thing #bbgt #bts #bts fics #bts series #bad boy good thing drabbles #jungkook smut #jungkook fluff #jungkook angst #jungkook drabble #jungkook scenarios #jungkook x oc #bts fanfiction #jungkook scenario #bts jungkook #jeon jungkook

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natromanxoff · 3 years

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Queen live at Oakland Coliseum Arena in Oakland, CA, USA - September 7, 1982 (Part-1)

(x)

The band are in great form tonight, full of vitality and passion. Only the intro of Rock It is performed from now onward. When the vocal is expected to re-enter after the rhythm section joins in, the band jump into the first verse of the fast We Will Rock You. John Deacon's bass solo after the second chorus is aggressive, and overall the band are clearly happy to be playing the longer version of the song again - although they do have a bit of trouble getting out of the middle section together, but they recover well. Freddie offers a great version of Play The Game. After the song, he has a word with the enthusiastic audience. "So here we are, back again in Oakland after a long time. Has everybody been keeping okay since we've been away?" Naturally everyone says "yeah", and Freddie replies, "Bullshit!" He continues, "Anyway, we have a lot of new songs for you since we were here last, and this next one is a song for all the girls here tonight, you know what I mean? The real girls. If you've got tits or if you haven't got tits it don't matter." The girls quickly stop cheering as Freddie is just trying too hard when he actually doesn't have to. He attempts to recover, "You just don't understand English. It doesn't matter. This is a Roger Taylor composition [the mention of Roger's name gets the girls screaming again] entitled Calling All Girls." Just before the first chorus of the song, Freddie adlibs, "I've got a message for you babe!" After the second chorus, following "take a message of love for all to hear," he adds to the energy with a few spontaneous words: "Have you got it? Can you hear it? Can you feel it?" Tonight is the first known performance of the Hot Space rocker Put Out The Fire, segueing from the vocal improv of Now I'm Here (Freddie doesn't have the lyrics perfected yet, which suggests it hasn't been performed too many times - fan club magazines from the period say the song was performed as a standalone piece earlier in the tour). After the second chorus, the band seamlessly jump into Dragon Attack. The combination of these three songs seems to recall the medley idea that had been dropped in 1981. After Now I'm Here, Freddie challenges the audience to one of his usual vocal duels. For the first time, he is heard singing "Dee do de de", something that would become part of the lyrics of "Living On My Own" off his first solo album in 1985. Shortly thereafter, after an "alright" that's held for a few seconds, he shouts, "You can do it!" in encouragement, after which he says, "Not bad! It's amazing what you will do if you're pushed." He really takes a liking to this audience. During the next song, Save Me, instead of singing the line "I love you 'til I die," he speaks the words "I love ya", and during the three quiet beats leading into the first chorus, he quickly and poignantly adds, "don't forget it!" Freddie once again dedicates Fat Bottomed Girls to "people who like fucking a lot." In the second verse of Crazy Little Thing Called Love, he modifies a lyric to say "she knows how to fuck and roll." One can draw their own conclusions as to where Freddie Mercury's mind was at on this tour. He turns in a very passionate version of Bohemian Rhapsody (despite not being in full voice by the end of the show), where everything seems to come home to him. Only he knew what the song really meant, but plenty have suggested that the proverbial man being killed in the first verse as told to his mother is his former self that had not yet come to terms with his sexuality. A clash of worlds in 1982, if that's the case. Matt Granz (also with a story from San Francisco '77) fondly shares his memories of this show here:

“This photo is from Queen's last Bay area show ever with Freddie Mercury. With the new direction that they took with the album "The Game" Brian May stated that Queen had "gained the world, but lost America". I think that after they played a Los Angeles gig or two after this particular show that they never did come back to the US. That is truly sad since they were one of the most charismatic of all rock groups to ever play on a stage. This concert was no exception! This photo was taken during Brian's echo solo. The three lights backlighting Brian belonged to one of two manned light pods that followed him around the stage. It was a spectacular effect!

The friend I went to the concert with (who's name I can't even begin to recall) took his SLR 35mm and I took a pocket fixed focus... after seeing me lament over the bad quality of my images he took mercy on me and sold me this memory as an 8x10 B&W Glossy that I kept secured in a folder... and just recently rediscovered and decided to digitize these many years later. My own pics from the concert all came out underexposed... drat! His SLR had some great lenses and he had his own darkroom. He also had great access to many good spots to shoot from.

By the way… remember the days when you didn't need a press badge to bring a camera to a concert? What happened??? Lawyers, I'll tell ya... Lawyers.

The story behind the Flying V being utilized was that at the very onset of his Echo solo, Brian busted a string on the "Red Special". He waked backstage and then shortly reappeared with this guitar. The sound was quite different. After the solo was done fifteen minutes later, he took back his own guitar and proceeded to use it for the rest of the show. It was pretty unusual to see him playing this and (besides the Tele he plays on Crazy Little Thing Called Love for the songs' first solo) have not seen him play another electric besides his main axe that he and his father made.

I was pretty poor at the time, but I liked this photo enough to buy it because of the before mentioned spectacular lighting and the fact that Brian is playing a Flying V.

Though I was not a fan of The Game, this concert was superb! I came to see Brian (being a guitarist myself) and was amazed at how distracted I was by the rest of the band. They were flawless that night and the floor seats I snuck into... 20 rows from the stage... provided the perfect viewing experience. The light show was also the best I had ever seen as well, in that it didn't distract from the music or musicians but rather pulsated perfectly with the beats and saturated the stage with great color combinations.

Freddie, Brian, Roger & John all had the whole auditorium held by the throat from the very start of the show till the last fading notes of "God Save the Queen". Sheer Excellence!” Most of the photos were taken by Sean Trend. A few of the pictures show Brian with the Gibson Flying V, as he had played in East Rutherford last month. But this time he begins his solo with the Flying V, as confirmed by someone who attended the show. Brian, in disbelief, later commented on this: http://www.brianmay.com

“Well, I'm shocked. I definitely would have sworn that I never played a solo live with a Flying V. I played around with them, but mainly at home, except for one video appearance for "Princes of the Universe" in which I'm obviously not really playing!!!

Cheers Bri”

(x)

Part-2

#queen #queen band #roger taylor #freddie mercury #brian may #john deacon #queen concerts

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yoditorian · 3 years

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a law divine - 1

soulmate au!ezra/reader

this is solely the fault of one single anon who called out something i put in the tags and now it’s a whole universe but you know what?? it’s the love of my life. anon i hope u see this 💛 i also just want to say i know there isn’t A Lot of soulmate talk in this one but it’s important for the narrative okay bear with me

playlist // series masterlist // main masterlist

word count: 7.2k (a Big Boy)

warnings: swearing, my usual allusions to smut bc we keep things neutral in this house, brief food/alcohol mentions, 18+ please no babies

It might be the ugliest ship you’ve ever seen.

Not that you’re really one to judge, the one you charter out when you’re running point on a job is a mismatched patchwork of rusty panels held together with electrical tape and hope. If there’s the slightest possibility you might be a teeny tiny bit disappointed in it, it’s only because agency jobs are usually a little cushier. A little safer for once. You could do with a bit safer.

Your family might prefer a lot safer, but you’d sooner take your chances in open space without a suit than take a job working scrapyards. At least risking your life on digs gets a decent payout.

“You the danger mouse?”

It’s not an accent you hear often on the Pug, the majority of the station’s population is human, but you turn with a smile to meet the bright purple eyes of the Thanne. Armour-strong scales and sharp teeth, but he seems kind and mild mannered despite his clear predatory biology. You nod as you readjust the pack on your shoulders.

“I’m Iras.” He holds his hand out to you. A distinctly human gesture made a little awkward by the sharp edged scales and extra fingers, but you shake it nonetheless. He’s your captain for this job after all. You wonder where a Thanne became so well versed in human custom, the species as a whole tend to keep to themselves instead of branching out into the universe like so many others, until his crew members appear on the boarding ramp.

Iras gestures to each of them in turn. Summer, a blonde woman with dark skin and a kind smile, and Milo, an older man with a swirling tattoo above his left eyebrow that matches the navy blue of his eyes.

“Is it just us?” You ask. You could have sworn there was a fifth name on the manifest you’d been forwarded, but teams are always subject to change. You just hope you’ll have your own room.

“Ezra always leaves things down to the wire, he’ll show up right before we’re due to push out.” Summer laughs fondly, throwing an arm around your shoulders like she’s known you her whole life. You’re usually a little wary with brand new teams but the way she’s already chatting away makes you feel at home. The last agency job you were sent on got dicey, fast, somehow you’re sure the same won’t happen with this lot.

“There he is.” Milo leans out of the ship to point out into the docks.

You turn to see a man sauntering through the throngs of harvesters towards the ship, and it’s odd. The rest of the crowd seems to melt away as he closes the distance, even the weight of Summer’s arm on your shoulders feels not quite there. You take the moment to study him. He looks all business with his dark hair and his charcoal grey shirt and the neat pack slung over his shoulder, but his pants and boots have seen better days and the streak of blonde at his temple makes you smile. It’s nice to finally be with a crew without a single stuffy addition.

“It’s not often I get to congregate with like-minded souls.” He grins when he’s in earshot, a flash of something feline in his eyes. You don’t want to admit that you like it.

“Like-minded?” You tilt your head at him as you follow Summer up the ramp and into the ship. Ezra slips in behind you just as it starts to raise. Just like the others said.

“We’ve all got the same death wish, Sunspot.”

The launch, at least, is smooth despite the beaten up ship and it’s only about twenty minutes before you’re far enough from the Pug to punch a lane to the next system over. At least it isn’t far, there’s only a day between now and making planetfall. Somehow, you’re not surprised to find that it’s more of a barracks and bunk beds situation rather than each having a private quarters. Last time you were hired by the agency, you definitely got your own room. But it gives you a chance to chat with the others as you unpack.

Milo explains the air isn’t breathable, so he’ll need to double check to make sure everyone’s filters are running at capacity. But he reassures you that it’s a comfortable temperature, so it’s good to know you won’t be sweltering in your suits or freezing your asses off.

You pick the bed on the wall beside the door, taking out a few essentials from your pack and tucking the rest safely away in the storage compartment. Just as he did back at the docks, Ezra is the last to find his way to the room. He settles his things on the bunk opposite yours because the universe has it out for you, apparently.

“Did I hear one of them call you the danger mouse?”

You struggle not to roll your eyes at the nickname awarded to anyone stupid enough to do your job, although admittedly he doesn’t sound like he knows why. You offer him your name instead and pretend the way he rolls it around in his mouth doesn’t send a shock right down to your bones. You’re not in the habit of sleeping with colleagues, not until the job’s over at least. But you’d be lying if you said you’re not tempted.

“They call me in when a site’s unstable but too profitable to close.” You answer, tugging your sleeves up as the climate control settles to a comfortable temperature.

Ezra raises an eyebrow, waiting for you to continue, and you pull off your gloves. They land on your thin mattress as you hold your hands out between you. Not even the slightest twitch.

“Steadiest hands on the Pug.”

“So they are.” There’s a challenge in his voice that threatens to send a shiver up your spine. It’s clear he doesn’t doubt your skill in the field, but the return of that glint in his eye from the docks has you wondering exactly what else he’s thinking about as he studies your hands. It’s not hard to work out.

It’s been so long since you had to travel out of the system, you forgot how much inter-system lanes can fuck with the human brain. You’re half asleep for the thirty minutes you spend sorting your things for the morning, barely enough energy to change into the sweatpants and ratty t-shirt you call pyjamas, before you crawl into bed and settle down almost immediately.

Only you don’t get to sleep for as long as you’d like. The rest of the crew seem to have filtered in after you, the shift of sheets and snores float through the dimmed room. Except, it’s not just that. There’s shuffling and bed creaking from further down the line of bunks. A hushed giggle sounds in the silence and-

Oh god. Oh no.

They’re not. They can’t be, they- they are.

You’re very awake all of a sudden, eyes wide as you keep them firmly on the ceiling and wishing as hard as you can for an alarm to start beeping or something. Anything to get whoever’s banging Summer to stop. A deep voice hushes her when she laughs again. Iras. Knowing is somehow worse. The mechanics- you don’t even want to think about it.

You turn onto your side slowly, but loud enough to hint that maybe they should find somewhere else for their escapades, and fold your pillow around your head as a kind of makeshift set of earmuffs. Whether they’ve quieted down or it muffles the noise, you’re not sure, but it seems to have worked enough. You catch Ezra’s eye in the almost-darkness, much in the same position as he holds his pillow over his own ears.

It’s embarrassing for the both of you, even as you share a conspiratorial look. But somehow, it’s less awkward to have to hear Iras and Summer going at it when you know he’s awake. He winces when a particularly loud squeak echoes through the room, and it takes everything in you not to bust out laughing. You fall asleep again eventually, making faces at Ezra in the dark until neither of you can keep your eyes open anymore.

You’re surprisingly well rested come the morning, when the whole ship jolts as it punches into the system and you’re almost thrown out of bed. So much so that it’s easy to forget that you woke up at all until you shuffle into the main living compartment of the ship. One of the crates by the wall has been cracked open, Milo hands out granola bars for breakfast.

Summer and Iras are sitting in the same chair, feeding each other, and it might be cute if you’d been awake longer and hadn’t been woken up by their activities in the middle of the night. You slump into a free chair, face twisted in disgust for a moment. You’re pretty sure nobody else sees until Ezra laughs and drops into the seat beside you. They’re nice people, from how they took you as a friend immediately, but that doesn’t change the fact that it’s just a bit much for your perpetually single heart to take.

“It’s a week-long job, they can’t take a break?” You watch as they finally pry themselves apart to start, you know, actually working. But not without a genuinely gross kiss that definitely toes the line of public decency. Suddenly the half-eaten bar in your hand isn’t all that appealing anymore.

“Soulmates take no breaks, Sunspot. I’m sure yours would be hard pressed to be anywhere but in bed with you whenever they get the chance.” Ezra winks and it takes you a moment to remember where you are. A glance at the pair makes your new knowledge obvious, the way they seem to be touching, even now, on opposite sides of the room.

“I’m not sure I believe in all that red string stuff.”

Once the ship is safely landed a short walk from the site, the days you spend digging pass with ease. The deposit is a decent size, it takes all five of you to cover it completely, and the payout should be enough to keep you all comfortable for a little while even with the agency’s cut. The crew around you fill the time enough that you barely notice the week coming to a close.

Summer sings in the mornings as she cleans her equipment and readies her pack for the day. Miles talks gently to the cells as though they can hear him, shushing them any time he worries a gem might corrupt. Iras seems to have a secret superpower when it comes to the ration packs, they always taste better when he’s the one on lunch duty. And Ezra spends the afternoons regaling you all with tales of ancient beasts, laying eggs that fossilise into the very gems you’re harvesting. Although you’re not sure how true they are.

You almost get through the whole dig without a hitch. Almost. But aurelac is a tricky thing, even a change in the wind can turn a site for the worst. You’re all sitting around at lunch when it happens. The telltale smoke wafts up into the air for no visible reason at all and although you’ve collected enough to cover the quota, you’d still rather not lose viable gems.

“Get to what you came here for.” Iras gestures in your direction and you dive into the pit head first.

You’re not even sure you stop to think as you follow the harvesting steps at lightning speed, salvaging half the corrupted cells before someone tugs you out by the collar of your suit. The rest of the site starts to smoke the moment you’re out of range, spitting and hissing and rendering the rest of the gems worthless.

“Danger mouse indeed.” Ezra chuckles over the comm system, hand still fisted in the fabric of your suit. For once, the nickname makes you smile.

While you all go your separate ways after the ship has docked back on the Pug, Summer makes you all promise to meet later at a club you’ve only heard of in your friends’ messy night out stories. Still, you pinky swear when she holds her hand out to you and try to remember if you have a single item in your wardrobe that’ll pass as club attire. Or at least something that isn’t so worn there are holes in it.

Even if it’s a song he knows, there’s no chance that Ezra could recognise it with the volume cranked so high through the cheap speaker that everything but the beat is distorted. Still, it doesn’t stop people from dancing.

He’s a little late, as usual, but he doesn’t need to worry as Iras appears behind him and claps a hand on his shoulder, pointing to a booth across the room where Milo is looking increasingly uncomfortable.

It doesn’t take long for Ezra to spot you and Summer in the middle of the dance floor, as he follows Iras around the edge of the space to the booth Milo’s claimed. You’re both more jumping than dancing, yelling the unintelligible lyrics of the song into each other's faces. He can’t hear your breathless laughter as Summer spins you in a circle, smile wide and bright, but he can feel it in his ribs. The drums of the song kick in at the same time the swirling lights of the club light you up like some kind of celestial being, just as you catch his eye through the crowd. And everyone else disappears. The rest of the world, rest of the universe, fades into the background. Just like they did the first time he saw you, glaring suspiciously at the ship on the docks.

Summer’s dragging you back to the table when the song comes to a close, the both of you out of breath and laughing, and Ezra has to try desperately to remember how to speak when he watches a little bead of sweat slide down the side of your neck. And stop himself from just licking a line straight up it. His silent suffering only increases when Milo holds out a shot of the most potent alcohol the Pug has to offer and you down it without so much as a flinch, winking at him when you return the glass to the table for good measure.

Milo calls it a night only an hour later, clearly only having braved the crowds of the club to celebrate the job. Summer and Iras are tangled in each other on the dancefloor, or the booth, as they keep the shots coming. You, at least, decide to keep your wits about you, declining every drink after the one Milo had handed you. Nobody’s going to fuck with a Thanne, even in as seedy a club as this, so you don’t worry about Summer as she gets sloppier and sloppier. But there’s no spiky non-human boyfriend looking out for you down here, it’s just you and the knife you keep at your hip.

You pull yourself from the dance floor, eyes tracking the room for the missing member of your party, until you feel a set of eyes on you from above. Ezra’s leaning on the bannister of the stairs, his unflinching gaze set solely on you. And you can’t help but smile. You follow him up to the mezzanine without hesitation when he glances upwards and back to you. The buzz of the shot has mostly faded from your veins, replaced by something much more dangerous by the way he’s looking at you. The way he’s looked at you since you met him.

It’s not hard to spot your friends from up here, leaning over the barrier with Ezra to people watch. He crafts stories about every stranger who catches his eye. The man hunched over the bar in a beaten up jacket, the waitress who fiddles with her necklace any time her hands aren’t occupied, the pair of lovers tucked away in the dark corner on the other side of the mezzanine. You find yourself sliding closer to him the more he talks, wrapped up in the warmth of his voice even in the rundown club. Your shoulder knocks into his as you mindlessly bop to the music and listen to his made up stories. Utterly enchanted. It’s hard to remember a time when you felt this way with anybody, if you ever did at all. To tell the truth, it’s hard to remember anyone before Ezra. And neither of you have even made a move yet.

He's got his arms braced on the barrier, and you find yourself lifting the one closest to you so you can slip in between them. Surrounded on all sides and you couldn’t feel more comfortable. To his credit, he doesn’t falter in his vivid storytelling about the group now settled in the booth your crew had claimed earlier, not even a stutter as you turn in his arms to face him. He’s decided they’re here to celebrate the beginning of a new job, rather than a successful harvest. His eyes flick to you for the barest moment, enough to notice yours are firmly focused on the way his lips move around his words, before searching the club below for another story. Another way to keep his mind and mouth occupied so he doesn’t accidentally admit all the sinful things he wants to do to you when you press your ass up against him like that.

“Ezra.”

He shouldn’t be able to hear you over the music, but you’re nose to nose and he’d be hard pressed to ignore the way you practically purr his name. He’s expecting you to make another flirty comment in that voice that sends his mind reeling into all manner of indecent places the same way you have been all night.

“Can I kiss you?”

He doesn’t expect you to just outright ask him.

“Yeah.” Yeah. Hell of a time for his eloquence to fail, not that it matters anyway. You’re on him the moment he stops speaking.

It’s like the sun explodes inside him, the way his stomach bottoms out the second your lips touch his. There’s nothing soft about it, not the way he might have imagined there would be. If he’d been so bold as to let himself imagine what kissing you might be like. You’re all warmth and heat and you still taste a little bit like the shot you’d thrown back earlier, and he finds himself falling. Not that Ezra minds, he hopes his parachute never opens if it means you’ll keep kissing him like this.

You let your fingers roam under his jacket, twist themselves in the thin fabric of his t-shirt, and you sigh into his mouth. God, you knew he’d be good at this. His hands leave a trail of starlight as they trace over your body, never quite choosing a place to rest. They start to settle on your shoulders, only to skim down your arms and squeeze harshly on your waist, to play along the strip of skin he finds just underneath the hem of your shirt, to grip harder than he might mean to onto the meat of your ass through your pants. You gasp, break the kiss for barely a moment, and stop his apology in its tracks.

He doesn’t protest when you walk him backwards, still groping at each other like it’s just the two of you in the whole club. Ezra only groans when his back hits the wall and you push even closer into him, as if there was even any space left for air between your bodies already. He’s not about to complain. He could kiss you for a thousand years and it still wouldn’t be enough. It’’ll never be enough, not for a soul as hungry as his. You pull back too soon, far too soon, and it takes a solid minute for his brain to kick in and break the vice grip he still has a little too low for the public eye.

Oh, that look on your face. He’s in trouble.

“Where are you off to?” Ezra asks, flushed and breathless, a hand stretched halfway out to where you’re backing toward the stairs.

“Home,” You say with a sly smile, “You coming?”

He can’t push off the wall fast enough.

You don’t live far from the club, a ten minute walk at the most, but Ezra manages to make it a solid twenty with the way he keeps pulling you to him. Not that you’re about to complain. You’ve been waiting a week to let him get his hands on you. At the press of his lips on your neck, the shudder it sends down your spine, you wonder if part of you has been waiting even longer than that.

You’re trying, desperately, to type in the keycode to your apartment. If Ezra could calm down with the grabby hands, you might have gotten it right straight away.

“No roommates?” He asks, kissing along your shoulder, and you take the temporary reprieve to kick your brain into gear and remember the fucking numbers.

“Hugo won’t be too upset if I make him sleep on the couch.”

The door slides back into the wall to reveal a dark apartment, a strip of light from the hall falling on a very orange cat. He stares at you for a second, clearly not particularly pleased that he’s been so rudely roused from a nap, before he settles back to sleep stretched out on the couch cushions. Hugo. Ezra is silently relieved that the roommate is just a cat, he’s not sure he’s got the self control to stay quiet tonight. Or to make sure you do.

You waste no time once you gesture for Ezra to walk in ahead of you, flicking the switch on the wall to slide the door shut and pulling him back to your lips. He doesn’t hesitate to crowd you up against the cold metal.

Although you could devour each other until the closest sun explodes and swallows the station whole, Ezra has to break away. To think, to breathe, to tease you a little about the moan he just swallowed from you. But you beat him to it.

“Gotta catch your breath?” The smile on your face threatens to make his knees buckle, and with you pressed up against the closed door the way you are? He might just let them.

“What do you want, Sunspot?”

You left a lamp on in your bedroom, the door cracked just enough to let a little filter through to the main living space. Still, he’s almost completely silhouetted against the warm yellow glow. As if he’s some kind of ethereal being, maybe he is.

“Make me see the stars.” You pull him in as close as you can and let your lips brush over his as you whisper. His next words make you shudder almost as much as the way he drags the zipper of your jacket down, slowly, tooth by tooth.

“As you wish.”

And boy, does he deliver.

You’re expecting things to feel more unfamiliar than they do, as you explore each other for the first time, but it’s like you’ve been here before. Once, twice, a hundred times before. Every move feels oddly choreographed. Ezra knows exactly how to take you apart and put you back together again, the way he pulls every twitch and moan out of you so expertly. You’re no different, as your fingers map the plains of his chest like it’s muscle memory.

You shake it off, put the thoughts to the back of your mind. You’ve been around the block a little in your time on the Pug, it only makes sense that he has the same kind of experience. But shared experience or not, you can’t deny how much having him so close feels like a homecoming of sorts.

It’s the best sleep of your whole fucking life and, honestly, you’re not that surprised. Ezra makes a damn good pillow. Even if you both wake hours later into the day cycle than either of you normally would. Even if he’s more of a morning person than you are. It’s kind of nice, to sit still snuggled in your pile of blankets and watch him potter around your apartment as Hugo winds around his ankles like he’s been there for years.

Your fridge, however, is heartbreakingly empty and renders his offer of making breakfast pointless. Instead, he pulls his shirt on and offers to take you to the best little diner he knows, tucked away in the heart of the marketplace. It’s a hard offer to turn down.

“What kind of gentleman would I be to have so much income at my disposal and not treat such a beauty as yourself to a good meal?” He winks as he flashes his credit chit at you as if you didn’t scan in for your paychecks at the same time. You laugh as you empty a food pouch into Hugo’s bowl, and tell him he better show you all the good breakfast spots. You shrug off his raised eyebrow and mutters of a ‘next time’. As if he didn’t already know.

Still, Ezra takes you by the hand the moment your apartment door secures itself shut behind you, leading you through the hall and out into the street, and you’ve never felt more wanted.

It’s like everything’s brighter, walking leisurely through the bustling market stalls with Ezra. The smells are stronger as spices in the air cling to your nose, the cacophony of vendors calling out almost sounds like music, and you start to laugh. Hand in his, in the middle of the maze of stalls full of food and tools and trinkets. As if it’s just the two of you in the whole universe.

At least Ezra doesn’t look back at you like you’re crazy. He smiles too, just as big, and you feel bathed in warmth the same as when the sun comes out planetside.

You’re both still grinning when he leads you deeper through the market, down an alley and up a flight of stairs to an unassuming door.

“Is this where you murder me?” You joke just as the door opens to reveal a short older woman with an eyepatch, who pulls Ezra down into a tight hug as soon as he’s in arms reach. He introduces her as Merse, the woman who’s run the best diner no one’s ever heard of on the whole station. She slaps his arm for his cheek, but her grin grows twice as wide when she spots your intertwined hands.

Ezra pulls you through the doorway after him as he follows Merse, chatting about how she always keeps the best table open just in case he brings a friend and you try not to smile too wide when she wiggles her eyebrows at you. He says something to you, but you’re too distracted by the view from the big windows.

The far wall is completely glass, overlooking the main docks, lined with booths. A small family sits in one of them, their two children standing up on the seats to watch the ships come and go. You’ve never seen it from this angle before, always down in the masses and scanning the boards for new jobs. It’s kind of beautiful. In a rusty, patchwork sort of way.

Merse points you towards one of the booths with a promise that she’ll bring you the best breakfast you’ll ever have, something tells you she’s not lying.

It’s not long after you slide into the booth that she comes marching out of the kitchen with two plates, wafting steam that makes your mouth water and your stomach rumble. Rice and vegetables and eggs and all sorts of things you’ve never even seen pile high, and you’d worry you wouldn’t be able to finish it all if you weren’t so hungry.

“You know I won’t break, right?” You push your fork around in the remaining rice on your plate as you watch Ezra absorb your words. He thinks about it for a long moment, dark eyes over you before settling on your own.

“What’s this about?” He knows, you know he knows. More importantly, you know he’s going to make you say it. In the middle of the day cycle, in this family friendly diner.

“Just,” You exhale sharply, “Making sure you’re aware.” Your body floods with a shyness that’s alien compared to the confidence you had last night and suddenly, your breakfast is the most interesting thing on the Pug. You can practically feel him smiling at you, but you don’t dare look up to meet it.

He was right though, the food really is some of the best you’ve ever had.

It’s not until you’ve wandered back through the market, still hand in hand, and found your way back to your apartment that Ezra decides to bring it up. He may have been more than a little distracted last night, but he’s sure he spotted a set of old books sitting on a shelf above your couch. You freeze, ready to go on the defensive about how ink and paper will never be obsolete, until you realise he’s genuinely interested. He’s not judging you by any means. Something about the curiosity shining in his eyes makes your heart flutter more than you care to admit.

He could watch you talk about your books all day, every day, for the rest of his life. How your eyes lit up when you recognised his interest, a paperback lover himself. You can’t seem to stop yourself as you dive into the intricate details of your favourite classics, two or three hundred year old texts that make you feel like you’ve lived a thousand different lives at once. He wants so badly for you to keep talking but the more impassioned you become, the more he wants to kiss you.

You trail off at some point, he loses track when you climb into his lap to point out notes you’ve made in margins and the books lie scattered on the couch beside you as you kiss him until neither of you can breathe. You’re still a little achy from last night, deep in your bones, and you hiss when his teeth scrape across your shoulder.

“Won’t break, is that right?” Ezra chuckles darkly and nips at your jaw, “Can I try?”

“Please.”

You wake at the creak of your bedroom door, sometime in the early hours. Hugo noses his way through the narrow gap and hops up onto the bed, curling up on the unclaimed pillow by your head. Ezra sleeps deeply, face buried in your neck, and you let the warmth of him wash over you. It ebbs and flows like a tide, that familiarity. The undeniable fact that something about this just feels right. You’ve known this man a week and yet you’re here wondering, as he rests in your arms, if he might want more than just this with you.

Oh, but you are so afraid. Afraid to put a name to anything about him because what then? Will he tell you that you’re simply a placeholder in his life for something better, or that his heart might bleed through his skin when you’re apart? You’re not sure which is worse. Not that it matters, there is no word in any language that would be able to explain exactly how you feel about the man asleep in your arms. It’s enough, you think, to have him with you at all. In any capacity. Whatever pieces of his soul he bares as your breathing evens and his mind wanders. That is enough, and you will protect it with your life.

You have to part ways at some point, of course. Another week of rolling around in your bed sheets together, on the couch, on your pitiful kitchen counter, up against the wall, and Ezra gets a call from the agency. It’s a last minute job, the crew only need an extra set of hands to fit the safety standards, but it’s several systems out from the Pug. It’ll take him away for at least a month. You trail after him at the docks, with promises of messages in his absence and all manner of unsavoury activities on his return. It’s with a deep kiss and a wolf whistle from a couple of dock workers on their break, that you wish him luck. And ask him to hurry back.

Summer’s message surprises you when it dings through on your tablet. Some gajillionaire on Dallore T53 has found an aurelac deposit on the grounds of his new estate and wants it gone. She’s preoccupied, already out on another dig with Iras and a new crew. But it’s the kindness of her even thinking to offer it to you that makes your heart swell. It’s been a while since you’ve had real, honest to god, friends.

You’d go in alone, normally, for something like this. But now? Now, you’re punching in Ezra’s comm pin before you can even really register what it is that you’re doing. He only got back a week ago, and you made him settle in back home before he could settle in yours. It’s not like the two of you would be doing any resting on his return to your apartment, exactly. The job was a pain, he’d told you, it ran months longer than anyone expected and you’re sure he’s still exhausted. He won’t agree, but you find you have to ask. Just in case.

“Sunspot?” He sounds happy, rested. And you breathe a sigh of relief, at least he can follow your orders when he wants to.

Hugo snakes around your ankles at the familiar voice, the same way he does any time the man himself walks through the door. If you didn’t know that the little orange devil’s alliances lie in who feeds him, you might think he loves him more than you.

You explain about the job, make sure to stress that he doesn’t have to come. That you don’t even really need to take it if he’d rather you stay close by. Okay, you don’t say that out loud, but the smile you hear in his words through the speaker makes it known that he’s heard you. Loud and clear.

It doesn’t matter in the end, not when he accepts before you even have a chance to give him any details. You don’t know why you were so worried he might say no.

“Any excuse to be warmed by your light, Sunspot.” Hugo brushes up against your leg at the same time Ezra’s voice practically drips through the speaker, smooth as honey.

“Is that a euphemism?”

“Do you want it to be?”

You choke on your breath and he laughs like you’ve told the funniest joke in the universe. He’ll kill you one of these days, you’re sure of it.

You charter the ship you usually take on private jobs, the space a little smaller than you remember with another person on board, but it’s not like either of you aren’t used to being in close quarters with each other by now. At least Ezra has the decency not to be mean about the beaten up exterior, she still flies true. He’d grinned at that, told you how a rough outside often means the opposite of the interior mechanics. The glint in his eye is enough to know he’s not just talking about the ship.

At least the planet is in the same system as the Pug, so there’s no need to punch through to a lane. You fly in silence for a few hours, the familiar feel of the controls under your fingers as you guide it through the sky. Ezra’s eyes remain firmly on you although you pretend as though you don’t notice, and it takes him a moment to come back to the present when you ask him to flick a few switches and prepare to enter the atmosphere.

The coordinates the client gave you to land are only a short walk from the house itself, a great stone castle-looking thing. It’s kind of ugly, the way the limestone juts out above the treeline. A big white block among the rich reds and oranges of the leaves. They grow that colour all year round, perpetually stuck in spring and summer. It must be nice to have the kind of money to find somewhere like that and decide you’ll build a house there. The air is breathable, and a quick look at the planet file proves it’s never too hot or too cold. A perfect place to build a house really. Although, if it were you making that kind of decision, you’d maybe go for a design that’s a little less cubist.

The deposit isn’t huge, but it’ll be a good payout nonetheless providing the cells are all in good nick. You and Ezra wade through swathes of long grass and wildflowers until you find a spot to set up camp. At least you’re not stuck in bulky suits and having to lug around your equipment.

You couldn’t have asked for a more perfect dig if you’d tried. Each of the cells sit far enough away from each other that even if one were to fail, it wouldn’t corrupt a whole mess of the others. Although with both of your talents, it doesn’t surprise you when you collect every last crystal without a single misstep.

You’d told Ezra the profit would be split down the middle, equal pay for equal work. But it doesn’t stop him from sliding an extra gem into your pack to cover the ship charter. After all, you’re the one who was offered the job in the first place. He’s just following his heart, the one that walks around outside of his body and throws itself into deposits mid-corruption.

You hold one of the little gems aloft in the sunlight and watch as it sparkles.

“I used to think it was weird how rabid people go for these. But the more I dig the more I get it, isn’t it the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?”

Ezra tilts his head like he’s studying the rock, but his dark eyes don’t leave yours.

“It’s a close second.”

Sap.

Night falls before either of you realise just how late it is, clearing out the last few cells of the deposit. It’s not worth going back to the Pug now, he reasons, and you find it hard to disagree. The ache of the few days you’ve spent digging has settled deep in your muscles, the thought of having to run through docking procedure when you’re so tired is enough to make you wince.

You let him take you for all you’re worth under the watchful eye of the heavens, and find there’s more stars behind your eyelids than you could ever hope to see in the skies. It’s all you can do to cry out the name of the only god to ever make you feel this holy. Ezra.

He wakes with the sun, the same way he always has on jobs, to find you curled so tightly against him that it bubbles up from his toes all the way to his throat and he finds his eyes threatening to spill over. Everything in the universe seems to slot so perfectly together when you’re like this. Ezra sighs, content to never let the moment end. You are so beautiful.

He shifts up onto his elbow a little, still cradling you against him, and lets his free hand trail softly over your face. Tracing the shell of your ear, the curve of your cheekbone, the bridge of your nose. The dawn’s sunlight breaks over the trees and filters through the fabric of the tent, bathing you in soft green light. He could stay here, holding you, until the universe implodes. Ezra doubts he’d notice such an insignificant thing with you beside him.

But end it must, and he rouses you gently with soft whispers and kisses against your temple. You stretch in his arms, not unlike Hugo, and sigh as your joints pop and settle. Packing up happens slowly, moving around each other so naturally it’s as though you’ve done it a thousand times before. Every time Ezra passes, you drop a kiss wherever you can reach. His shoulder, the arm of his jacket, that little patch on his jaw. He pretends not to blush when you catch his hand and carefully press your lips to the little tattoo between his thumb and index finger, you pretend not to notice when he does.

You’ll be the death of him, he’s sure of it. The way you keep watching him out of the corner of your eye, the way your smile is so bright when he catches you that he can barely stand to look at it. With the tent and equipment packed up, his fingers itch to thread through your own as you start the walk back to the ship, there’s not a word in the universe strong enough to describe just how much he hates that both his and your hands are too full.

It’s odd, thinking about it. How you met by pure chance, hired by the agency just because you were on the same station at the same time. Would he have ever met you if you’d chosen a different career path, if he had? Maybe somewhere, centuries before or after this moment, where you’re meeting again. Different lives, different times, spanning across all of existence. Maybe, right here and now, you’re starting to feel the way he does about you. Just a little. Maybe he’ll get up the courage to ask what you think, how far you want to take things. He’d give himself to you in a heartbeat, without question. In a way, he already has.

Ezra can’t stop himself.

“What do you make of the red string of fate?”

“All you’ve seen of the universe and you still believe in soulmates?”

“Maybe I’m more foolish that I made myself out to be.” He shrugs, trying not to let his eyes fall to the little finger of his right hand. Trying not to clench his fist to show you exactly how much your disbelief affects him down to his bones, as though his soul itself is frowning. You’re smiling. Uncharacteristically quiet, but you seem appropriately pleased by his answer and stray a little further out into the long grass.

Curiosity gets the better of you.

“Can you see yours?” You have to call out across the gap you’ve unintentionally created, yellow stalks swishing in the breeze between you, and for a moment you’re not sure he heard.

Ezra looks at his right hand, at the thin red string tied neatly at the knuckle of his little finger, and follows the line as it threads through the grass to where it’s knotted at your left.

“No.”

TAGLIST (add yourself here):

@bee-dameron @keeper0fthestars @thevoiceinyourheadx @firstofficerwiggles @1800-fight-me @ew-erin @chatterbean @gotta-have-faye @freeshavocadoooo @darnitdraco @greeneyedblondie44 @fire-is-catching-always

#oh god here it is i hope it lives up to what i've made it out to be #a law divine #prospect (2019)#ezra (prospect)#ezra x reader #ezra x you #liz does words #soulmate au #smut

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huntresswarlock · 3 years

Note

I am so sorry

But also no I’m not

1 for all because I am an evil bastard

Then more specifically

4, 12, 18, 24, 25, 35, 40, 42, 44, 45, 56, 63, 69 for Lady, Harmony, Nomiki, Odonys, Ione and Somnia

6, 44 and 58 for Nik and Valerie

20, 40, 42, 56, 65 for Icarus as well

💞💞💞

under a read more because i cannot shut up about my characters and i won't apologize for that!

most of these will b organized by character instead of by question but since you asked for 1 for all of em i'll put them all underneath it

1. why did they choose their class(es)? their subclass(es)?

Nik: they found a weird book in a thrift shop and accidentally figured out how to poke Ink-Treader to get certain automatic responses in the form of magic powers, which they swear are totally normal and not the result of a pact (conscious or not) at all.

Nomiki: her mother was a fighter who trained her well, and when she was a bit older she swore vengeance against that which destroyed her world, which she initially thought was the gods but then turned out to be The Hungry Hungry Caterpillar (Eldritch Edition)

Harmony: was always an outdoors-y sort of girl, so druid made sense when she was transported into The School, and then the Dictionfairy of the Summer Reading Court took a special interest in her and gave her some extra stuff on top of druidic powers!

Lady: built to be a… let’s call her a “personal companion,” whose main gimmick was that she is extremely intelligent about a great many things with a perfect memory; hence Archivist. as for the Artificer class itself, that came about primarily when she was working with an inventor/engineer named Rowan Keen, who enlisted her as his assistant in his projects. she learned a great deal about mechanical engineering and building from him, as well as receiving some upgrades like sewing/welding tools in her hands to assist her with this.

Somnia: she is very old (like, 650ish years old) and very in tune with nature already, and then the goddess of sleep saved her life with a drop of her blood, giving her the Stars circle powers

Odonys: they were formerly a Watcher Oath paladin, and took up that mantle because it's what their society set out for them. they made the choice to break away from it when offered freedom by the primal embodiment of chaos, though they have mixed feelings on this because it caused them to be exiled

Ione: she didn't have a choice 😔 nearly drowning unlocked some latent sorcerer powers

Valerie: stunt fighting training baybeeeeee

Icarus: also didn't have a choice, on account of nearly burning himself to death and then taking a deal from the god of fire to work for him in exchange for not dying

Lady

4. if they could learn one spell that isn’t available to them at present, which spell would it be?

Chaos Bolt is the meme answer, Dream (to reach out to Rowan) is the sad answer

12. have they ever been in love?

she's not supposed to have been. but. ;)

18. do they see themself as a leader or a follower?

a follower, for the time being! she has spent a long time taking orders and fulfilling requests, and though that part of her life is done now, she is still content to leave the leading to others.

24. which of the four elements speaks to them the most?

🔥🔥🔥 it's wild and free

25. what stories do they like to tell? what stories do they like to hear?

she doesn't really tell stories, but if requested, she would tell stories about things that happened to her

she likes to hear stories she hasn't heard before

35. which party member do they worry for?

Domino Domino Domino Domino Domino D

40. do they enjoy poetry?

yes! she's not really one for composing it, but it's nice to listen to

42. what are three words they would use to describe themself?

beautiful, intelligent, free

44. what do they need to learn?

WHEN WILL SHE LEARN!!!!! THAT HER ACTIONS!!!!!!!!!! HAVE CONSEQUENCES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

45. how do they hug people?

at 4'11", she's almost certainly going to be shorter than whoever she's hugging, so she tends to go for arms-under-the-shoulders and head-onto-chest. she gives really really good hugs, on account of all of her......... padding.

56. what animal do they most relate to?

caged bird that recently busted out :>

63. what fight has scared them the most?

before she got free will, we encountered some Crown-of-Thorns Starfish (In Space) that knocked her down to single-digit HP. though she wasn't physically able to feel fear at the time, the significant damage was deeply alarming.

69.how would they describe their party members?

Domino: "My dear friend, and a very kind and intelligent woman. I was very concerned for her when I was still under restrictions. Now I am no longer restrained in what I can think or do, but I find that I am still worried about her. She is always so melancholy when she thinks no one is looking..."

Rusty: "Something of an enigma. I only recently learned his real name: Rheneas Dolgoch. Apparently he used to be involved in various criminal activities before being framed for the disappearance of his boyfriend and then taking this portalhopping job for Dr. Horizon. I'd like to get to know him better, and have him teach me some things."

Clifton: "An honest man, with a good heart, and somewhat lacking the brains to think through his actions. Still, he tries, and he is responsible for getting Kinmati's attention with regards to my previous plight. I do wonder if adventuring across the multiverse is the best coping mechanism for the loss of his fiancée, but..."

Harmony

4. if they could learn one spell that isn’t available to them at present, which spell would it be?

the campaign stopped at level 12, but i think she would have jumped at the chance to use Animal Shapes!

12. have they ever been in love?

yes!!!! she loves her girlfriend, Mick, very very much

18. do they see themself as a leader or a follower?

she would describe herself as leading from the back, primarily encouraging others to be their best selves but not exactly telling them what to do

24. which of the four elements speaks to them the most?

🌎 (earth), because it's grounding and stable, like her

25. what stories do they like to tell? what stories do they like to hear?

harmy likes to hear and tell stories with happy endings!

35. which party member do they worry for?

she worried about both other party members equally, really, for different reasons. they were both working through more issues than her, so she felt the need to be the emotional glue holding them together and getting them to talk things out.

40. do they enjoy poetry?

not as much as prose, but she likes a good poem or two! especially free verse stuff

42. what are three words they would use to describe themself?

cheerful, outdoorsy, kind

44. what do they need to learn?

over the course of the campaign she needed to learn (and did learn) when to keep trying with diplomacy and when to fight back

45. how do they hug people?

really really tightly! probably while rocking them back and forth, too

56. what animal do they most relate to?

she turned into horses a lot so....... honse

63. what fight has scared them the most?

the fight with Mr. Ciliary when Mick seemed dead-set on sacrificing herself so that Harmony and Bill could leave scared her quite a bit

69.how would they describe their party members?

Mick: "My girlfriend!!!!!!!! She's so strong and cool and pretty, and she's a really big streamer, I love her!!!!"

Bill: "One of my best friends! He's really smart, and crazy good at fencing. And he takes really good care of Mikey."

Nomiki

4. if they could learn one spell that isn’t available to them at present, which spell would it be?

Mending would be really useful for her

12. have they ever been in love?

yes, she loves her boyfriend Ramiel, the god of storms

18. do they see themself as a leader or a follower?

a leader, even if she has to strike out on her own

24. which of the four elements speaks to them the most?

🌎 (earth) for strength and stability

25. what stories do they like to tell? what stories do they like to hear?

she likes to hear any stories told by her dad

she tells a lot of myths and folktales and fables

35. which party member do they worry for?

Xiro, at least until their fighting training started to pick up

40. do they enjoy poetry?

yes, though she's no good at reading or reciting it, she likes to hear it being spoken aloud

42. what are three words they would use to describe themself?

big, strong, stubborn

44. what do they need to learn?

nomiki needed to learn how to trust people and open up again

45. how do they hug people?

BIG hugs. huge hugs from a huge woman with huge arm muscles (and later on huge wings). like being wrapped up in a warm blanket in the dead of winter, like the promise of safety from any monsters out to get you. like a loaf of bread right out of the oven.

56. what animal do they most relate to?

cows! pretty, large, gentle, stubborn

63. what fight has scared them the most?

fighting the King of the Storm played right into her storm phobia, so much so that she couldn't even face it properly and mostly dealt with its offshoots

69.how would they describe their party members?

Xiro: "Xiro is my friend, and my little sibling. They're a really good fighter and baker, and they've helped a lot of people.

Muire: "Muire's my friend too. She's crazy smart, though sometimes she can forget not everyone around her is as smart as she is. But she has a good heart."

Odonys

4. if they could learn one spell that isn’t available to them at present, which spell would it be?

being able to cast Zone of Truth would come in handy when dealing with Q'ix, but since they only have two levels in paladin now, they've lost the ability to do so 😔

12. have they ever been in love?

tritons don't feel stupid things like love.

18. do they see themself as a leader or a follower?

follower. second-in-command, sure, but still a follower. though that's been shifting, lately...

24. which of the four elements speaks to them the most?

🌊 for its adaptability and power

25. what stories do they like to tell? what stories do they like to hear?

they don't really tell stories, but they like to hear the tales of myths and gods and heroes

35. which party member do they worry for?

as if they'd worry about any of their party members, hilarious! the closest thing would be mild confusion about Suvi's tangled concerns for the party's free will

40. do they enjoy poetry?

they've never had the chance to hear poetry, and i don't think they would enjoy it unless it was in the style of an epic

42. what are three words they would use to describe themself?

solitary, unpleasant, scarred

44. what do they need to learn?

how to exist around others, how to rely on others, what their place in the world is

45. how do they hug people?

they don't.

56. what animal do they most relate to?

a dog, a feral dog to be specific. they even resource guard!

63. what fight has scared them the most?

they have trained hard not to feel any fear when fighting, even on the brink of death. still, being chased by every shark in the ocean did get to them.

69.how would they describe their party members?

Q'ix: "Annoying. Good with their fiddle, gifted with magic, but I don't trust them at all, and I don't know if it's worth keeping them around."

Sloane: "A creature that skinny has no business being anywhere close to the middle of the fight, and yet that's where he is constantly, like Breidr when he gets underfoot. Except Breidr has more bulk. Still, he seems to know what he's doing with that sword."

Suvi: "I wonder if there's even anything underneath all the layers of falsehoods and misdirection she wears. But she has been helpful, and having a cart has come in handy."

Amber: "A woman of few words and strong convictions. I appreciate her presence."

Somnia

4. if they could learn one spell that isn’t available to them at present, which spell would it be?

Catnap, so she can cast it on Nemo and Gimmy!

12. have they ever been in love?

Somnia loves her children very much, and loves life, but in terms of romantic love specifically, no. as for the person she used to be before she died and was resurrected? ... also no.

18. do they see themself as a leader or a follower?

a follower, mostly. she's old, and she's done enough leading that she's happy to let her kids take the lead.

24. which of the four elements speaks to them the most?

🌎 (earth) on account of druid stuff as well as dependability

25. what stories do they like to tell? what stories do they like to hear?

somnia likes to tell the stories of the constellations on whatever world she finds herself on! she has an innate ability to know them and know what they mean

she likes to hear whatever sorts of stories are being told, she's really not picky; it's more important that the story is important to whoever is telling it

35. which party member do they worry for?

Nemo, constantly. they are so young and they've been through so much that she can't help but worry. Gimmy is at least an adult, though he still needs a bit of fussing over.

40. do they enjoy poetry?

i don't think she actively seeks it out, but she won't say no to listening to or reading some if the opportunity presents itself

42. what are three words they would use to describe themself?

motherly, empathetic, old

44. what do they need to learn?

she needs to learn that not everyone can be saved, or is worth saving, i think

45. how do they hug people?

with that good deep pressure therapy and mom bod

56. what animal do they most relate to?

tortoise, probably. old and slow and wise.

63. what fight has scared them the most?

the fight with the Found Footage when she was knocked out and wasn't sure whether Nemo and Gimmy would be okay without her. though tbh this upcoming fight with the Imago is more than likely going to take the scariest fight spot, at least until we finally face the Broken Lurker.

69.how would they describe their party members?

Nemo: "Oh, my poor little Orion... they're a good child, they really are. But they were surrounded by people who didn't know or care to realize that, and they've thought themself a nobody for so long that it hurts my heart. I wish they could see how many people they've helped just by being themself."

Gimmy: "Gimmy is very dear to me. He pretends like he doesn't care, but I know that he does. I can see it when he works on his little dragon construct, and when we were speaking to Minerva about Nemo's past. He just needs a little bit of help understanding how to be polite and kind to others, that's all."

Nik

6. which party member do they relate to the most?

tbh probably svetlana. they're both big smarties who have Simic roots! they're basically identical!

44. what do they need to learn?

how to care about other people beyond just "what can this person do for me?"

58. what do they think their role in the party is? what is their role in actuality?

they think they're the brains of this operation and the sole voice of reason, but really they're a bit of dead weight because i didn't build them very well

Valerie

6. which party member do they relate to the most?

tough to say because we've only had a couple of sessions of the campaign she's in, but right now probably Ashlyn. just two mean girls against the world!

44. what do they need to learn?

it's actually not a bad thing to be girly or to embrace femininity, it's not a weakness like she thinks she is but can be neutral or even a major strength

58. what do they think their role in the party is? what is their role in actuality?

she thinks she's the only competent member of the party and the fearless leader; she is an asset in fights for sure, especially once she gets some maneuvers, but in reality she is only one piece of the puzzle

Icarus

20. which of the five senses do they rely the most on?

hearing! icarus has always had impeccable hearing and has relied on it a lot when sneaking around

40. do they enjoy poetry?

he does not talk about the angsty teenage poems he wrote when he was younger and didn't realize he was trans. but i think if he applied himself he could be a good poet, and he likes to read and listen to it.

42. what are three words they would use to describe themself?

selfish, failure, coward

56. what animal do they most relate to?

prior to almost burning to death, he would have said a swan. post-burning... an ugly duck

65. what is holding them back?

what isn't holding him back tbh. he has a lot of issues stemming from being raised to think he was perfect and then tossed aside as soon as he stepped out of line. i think the number one thing though is the image he has of himself as a bad person who does bad things. he used to be a bad and selfish person who has hurt a lot of people; after his near-death experience he became really humble and considerate, but still thinks of himself in terms of his past actions, instead of what he is doing now to redeem himself. what is holding him back is his inability to recognize that he's changed.

#manicdragondreamgirl #thank u so so much alden ilu for indulging me #also sorry for the wait this was hefty

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aion-rsa · 3 years

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How The Rolling Stones’ Exile on Main Street Earned Its Rep

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Apple TV+’s docuseries 1971: The Year That Music Changed Everything makes it seem like The Rolling Stones’ Exile On Main Street album was more fun to record than listen to, and that sets a high standard. The record distills the band’s sounds, from acoustic world music political ballads, through deep heartfelt blues, to honky tonk so funky you have to shake your ass. The group plays country, Southern blues, R&B, and the almost-punk-before-punk “Rip This Joint.” “Tumbling Dice,” is a radio staple. Keith Richards even took the lead vocals on a track to keep you happy. There was so much material, it came out as a double album. What could be more fun than that?

Richards’ Nellcôte mansion, on the Côte d’Azur in the South of France, was the hardest rocking musical getaway paradise in 1971. It was a Rock and Roll Main Street, and even the most mainstream players mainlined the exile vibe. Guitar god Eric Clapton and underground country legend Gram Parsons mixed drinks and drugs with movie stars like James Caan and Faye Dunaway, while playwright Terry Southern stopped taking note, according to Robert Greenfield’s book Exile on Main Street: A Season In Hell With The Rolling Stones.

William S. Burroughs inspired Mick Jagger to cut and paste a word collage together to form the lyrics to “Casino Boogie.” Paul McCartney and Ringo Starr dropped by the almost-week-long afterparty for Jagger’s wedding to Nicaraguan-born model Bianca Pérez Morena de Macias in Saint-Tropez. John Lennon, who was on methadone treatment, reputedly threw up at the foot of the grand staircase and passed out in it.

“The sunshine bores the daylights out of me,” Jagger sings on “Rocks Off,” the album’s opening song. The Rolling Stones strolled through their recent past darkly. The murder of Meredith Hunter at the Altamont speedway concert in late 1969 signaled, to many, the death of decade’s peace-and-love counterculture. But the band’s troubles went all the way back to the Redlands drug bust of 1967, and the death of Brian Jones. Adversity worked well, creatively, for the Stones, and they continued to pump out classics like “Gimme Shelter” in 1969, and controversy like “Brown Sugar” in 1971. Sticky Fingers, their ninth album, hung nicely at the top of the charts on both sides of the Atlantic.

The songs, and Allen Klein’s aggressive managerial money-making maneuvers, put the band in the 93% tax bracket for Britain’s highest earners. The Stones owed more than they could pay. To avoid penalties, they moved to France. Mick went to Paris. Mick Taylor, Bill Wyman and Charlie Watts bought or rented places along the French Riviera. Richards and his girlfriend, German-Italian actress and model Anita Pallenberg, moved into Nellcôte, a villa in Villefranche-sur-Mer, near Nice. During the Nazi occupation of France during World War II, the seaside mansion was the headquarters of the local Gestapo. Swastikas were carved into floor vents, staircases and ventilator grates.

Culture

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By Tony Sokol

As pointed out in 1971: The Year That Music Changed Everything, the Stones had recently signed with Atlantic Records, and the label wanted an album. The band scoured the Riviera for a suitable recording studio, but wound up parking their mobile studio next to Keith’s house. Richards transformed the basement into a recording studio, and the band stole electricity from the railway tracks across the street to power amplifiers and the mobile recording truck.

The layout wasn’t the best. Bill Wyman, who is only credited for eight of the album’s songs on bass, plugged into an amp which was mic’d up in the hallway. Producer Jimmy Miller ended each take by running from the truck into the basement to check sound. The humidity caused the guitars to go out of tune. This gave the album its working title: “Tropical Disease.” The song “Ventilator Blues” was inspired by the conditions.

The band also had to deal with Keith’s erratic schedule. “I never plan anything,” Richards says in the documentary Stones in Exile. “Mick needs to know what he’s going to do tomorrow. Whereas I’m just happy to wake up and see who’s hanging around. Mick’s rock; I’m roll.” Richards, Taylor, Watts, pianist Nicky Hopkins, saxophonist Bobby Keys, drummer Jimmy Miller, and horn player Jim Price would jam all night while engineer Andy Johns ran the reels. Sessions would start when the guitarist rolled out of bed, or before he slipped off to put his son Marlon to sleep. After that Keith might pull a disappearing act, playing guitar in the un-mic’d second floor bathroom, or passing out. Richards was open about pot and alcohol, sharing liberally, but quiet about his heroin use.

Richards got clean in the spring of 1971, but hurt his back in a go-kart accident, according to Greenfield’s book. His vehicle flipped while racing his friend Tommy Weber at a track in Cannes. Richards took morphine for the pain, and within a few months, was using again. For sessions, he’d down a Mandrax, which is like a Quaalude, with whiskey. Charlie Watts was drinking brandy until he was past sloppy, and Jagger was taking speed to keep up with the hours Keith set. It was Richards’ place, and Mick was almost a hostage. When he left, it seemed nothing got done. Richards, left alone, could be downright dangerous. He almost burned himself, Anita and the entire house down when he fell asleep with a lit cigarette.

Richards was buying pure, uncut heroin from Castilian dealers. He was getting it by the kilo, and it became part of the social regimen of the villa. He shared so regularly with Gram Parsons that Mick got jealous, professionally. Parsons wanted Richards to produce his next album and join him on tour, which would have left the Stones without their guitarist for two years. Parsons was quietly asked to leave. Drugs split the Stones into two camps: Jagger, Wyman and Watts stuck to pills, booze and softer drugs. Richards, Taylor, producer Jimmy Miller, sax player Bobby Keys and engineer Andy Johns shot dope.

It cost them their gear. Wyman’s bass, Keys’ saxophone and nine of Richards’ guitars were stolen by dealers from Marseille who were owed money, while the entourage was watching television during the day. The Stones’ lawyers bribed local police to keep the party going, but even the most corrupt French cops, like Captain Louis Renault in Casablanca, have their limits. Besides, the Stones were welcomed in France because they were rich rock stars who were going to spend lots of money. If all their cash went to illegal and nontaxable drugs, the French government didn’t have much use for them.

The tipping point seems to have come with Anita Pallenberg. She maintained a steadily rocky relationship with the Stones. Richards stole, or saved, her from a paranoid and abusive Brian Jones, and there were rumors Jagger had an affair with her while filming Nic Roeg’s Performance in 1968. According to Greenfield’s book, Mick also slept with her while Richards was on the nod during the Exile sessions. Police came knocking to ask about a claim that Pallenberg had given heroin to the 14-year-old daughter of the villa’s chef.

The French police left without validating the charge, but said they’d be back to have a better look around the mansion. Richards and Pallenberg took off on his speedboat, fittingly named Mandrax II. The rest of the band slipped out soon after with the tapes. Pallenberg and Richards were charged with possession of heroin with intent to traffic in 1973. They were then exiled from France for the next two years.

The party continued when the Rolling Stones reconvened in Sunset Sound studios in Los Angeles. The band tossed TVs off the balconies of hotel rooms with Marc Bolan and Neil Young. The tapes for the album stretched from 1969 to 1972. The band edited hours of jams into song structure. Jagger scatted melodic placeholders for unfinished lyrics, and recruited session players like Billy Preston and Doctor John to fill in any sonic emptiness. The words to “Tumbling Dice,” for instance, were written last minute. The song has an unusual structure, as the verses become shorter, the choruses get longer. It may have Watts’ best drum performance.

Exile on Main Street contains some of Richards’ best guitar work. The album really belongs to Keith. “Happy” is almost entirely his. He’s on vocals, guitar and bass, with Miller on drums, Keys on maracas, overdubs from Taylor, and backing vocals from Jagger. “Sweet Black Angel” is a political love letter to civil rights activist Angela Davis. “Shake Your Hips” put the hair on ZZ Top’s lips. The album cover set the visual tone for punk. Some people claim it’s the Rolling Stones’ best work. It is a classic which catches them at their hedonistic peak. Its dirty, loosely played backing created an identifiable sound. The Stones’ first double LP, it is best heard in its entirety, and earned its street cred.

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1971: The Year Music Changed Everything is available to stream on Apple TV+ now.

The post How The Rolling Stones’ Exile on Main Street Earned Its Rep appeared first on Den of Geek.

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doomedandstoned · 3 years

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Chattanooga’s Dope Skum Drop Gritty First Spin

~Doomed & Stoned Debuts~

By Billy Goate

Stompin' southern stoner riffs and great big beats collide with punkish vocals in 'Tanasi' (2021). It's the debut EP from Chattanooga's DOPE SKUM. These guys know it's about to get hot as we transition from winter to spring and on into summer, too. Oh those muggy days in Tennessee! What I miss most about spending time in the Deep South are the cicada at sunset, the smell of honeysuckle during evening strolls, and those damned thunderstorms -- the kind that loom large and loud and'll put the fear of Zeus right in ya.

So new that they're not yet in the oft-referenced Encyclopaedia Metallum, Dope Skum attracted my attention earlier this month when we met on Instagram -- a platform I avoided for years, but have finally come to embrace, if for no better reason than these kinds of spontaneous encounters. They're another child born of the Great Lockdown, a two-piecer with Cody Landress-Gibson on guitar and voice and James Silber on drums. Like many of the duos we've visited recently in this humble rag, Dope Skum bring impressive heft that could easily fool the common bystander into believing they're dang near twice the size.

Cody Landress-Gibson of Dope Skum

Drawn together by their affinity for punk rock and the heaviest of metal, Dope Skum have a distinctive, if eccentric sound that kinda reminds me of Portland's LáGoon, at least in the crooning department. If you look at the history of sludge metal, bands of this kind typically start out as lo-fi punk or thrash and just get slower, meaner, deeper, and heavier over time (I'm thinking of an outfit just one state over, NC's Buzzov*en).

Dope Skum describe their sound as "nastier than an old timer's moonshine mash," which made me wince. Standing on a "rock-solid foundation of sludgy stoner metal with a notable punky inflection" the band is influenced by the likes of Weedeater, Iron Monkey, Eyehategod, and Toke. This is rude, crude, raucous terrain we're entering, people. And I'm sure the guys are just itching like an ankle full of chiggers to take the act to the stage, if they haven't gotten busted for an illegal house show by now.

James Silber of Dope Skum

'Tanasi' (2021) is their 5-track debut, and while trying to look up the meaning of the word -- temporarily mistaking it for the Japanese "Tansai" (which I thought might be a reference to some to some "lightly colored" strain of weed) -- it finally hit me that Tanasi might be referring how folks generations deep in Chattanooga pronounce Tennessee, with characteristic Southern drawl. As if the state-shaped logo on the album cover wasn't clue enough. Truth be told, Tanasi is actually the Native American/Cherokee word that Tennessee is derived from.

Dope Skum are only happy to let the unique character of their surroundings and its fascinating, tangled history leak into the songcraft too, which the guys quip, "recalls simplistic fiddle tunes of yore." They go on describe their first opus to us:

Exuding a gritty DIY ethos and an anti-establishment attitude, 'Tanasi' is deliberately rough around the edges, and doesn’t play by any particular set of rules. There is no ulterior motive, no grand artistic vision. Dope Skum simply play engaging music that appeals to their interests and their roots.

I can definitely get behind that. If you like riffs that can really rumble, honest lyrics delivered with vocals that sting like an onary hornet's nest, and rhythms that swing wide and heavy with stomping Southern swagger, you'll be saying Tanasi in no time! "We wanted to try and create something that was southern, punky, and sludgy," the band concludes. "I think we accomplished that."

Look for the EP to drop this weekend in digital format. I'm sure if you guys dig it, 'twill find its way to a suitable label for a physical release in the near future. I'm currently stuck on a loop between "Anxiety" and "Chickamauga" as my tracks of choice. Doomed & Stoned is pleased to give you a first listen to Dope Skum's Tanasi and let you find a few favs of your own.

Give ear...

Tanasi EP by Dope Skum

Dope Skum Take Us On Tour Of 'Tanasi'

How did Dope Skum become a thing and what tools did you use to create 'Tanasi' (2021)?

Dope Skum started in late-2020 with myself, Cody Landress-Gibson, on guitar and James Silber on drums. Our gear really isn't anything to write home about. On the EP, I played a Harley Benton DC Junior with a single P90 pickup running through a Rat ProCo, Orange Fur Coat Fuzz, and EarthQuaker Devices Ghost Echo at times into a Marshall MG50CFX. James plays a Yamaha drum set with PA Meinl Classics cymbals. It's pretty "working class" gear, nothing too fancy.

What's the story behind the new record?

James and I started jamming and both had a pretty solid idea of the sound we were going for. We wanted something in the same vein as Weedeater, but maintain the ability to throw in elements of different influences we have. I had already written some riffs, and we threw them together to what became the EP. We recorded, mixed, and mastered everything ourselves at my house/garage in Chattanooga.

We'd love a guided tour through the new EP. Can you give us insight into the themes explored in these five monster tracks?

Feast of Snakes: The title was inspired by a Harry Crews novel, but the song doesn't pull from the novel at all. It's essentially an anti-authoritarian song. Politicians, kings, people in power tend to be snakes in the grass. There are also some religious metaphors used, as well, throughout the song.

Anxiety: The idea behind this one lyrically and musically was to try and put that emotion/feeling into a musical context. It's why the lyrics don't start until the second time into the verse riff. You're waiting, and you know you need to act, but something is just holding you back -- you just feel kind of stuck.

Chickamauga: This one is all instrumental. I had written the main riff that is throughout the song one night and brought it to James at a practice. We really didn't know where to go with it, so for the EP we recorded it live and just let whatever came up get included on the EP. I named it "Chickamauga" after the second bloodiest battle in the Civil War that took place just south of Chattanooga. With the build-up in the song, it's kind of like a soldier waiting for the battle to take place, then the chaos, then silence either from surviving the melee or dying. It's probably one of the tracks that will stick out the most because it doesn't really fit the "genre."

The Levee: I wrote this song with the thought of losing someone you love, the death of a close partner or family member. That one person you feel like you can't live without. I also love the riffs in this song. They groove well and the ending riff is super fun to play.

Mountain Cur: The final track on the EP is essentially about a lone wolf or stray dog that roams the mountains and hills. The intention was to use it as a metaphor for loneliness. This dog is all alone and has no one. He's committing these acts of violence as cry out for help and companionship. Don't know if it comes across this way, but that was the intention! Also, at the beginning is audio from a scene in Lawless (2012), which is a film about the Bondurant brothers who were outlaws moonshiners in rural Virginia in the '20s during Prohibition.

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#D&S Debuts #Dope Skum #Chattanooga #Tennessee #doom #sludge #metal #doom metal #D&S Reviews #D&S Interviews #HeavyBest2021 #Doomed and Stoned

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kusunogatari · 3 years

Text

[ Happy Holidays ] [ @uchiha-madara ] [ Uchiha Madara, Suigin Ryū ] [ Verse: Make Ends Meet ] [ Alcohol ]

“So...any plans for the holidays?”

Shrugging out of her coat before taking her seat, Ryū pauses to give her companion a glance. Holiday plans…? “Well...no, nothing specific. Honestly I was just planning on staying home and...doing whatever it is I usually do.” Not exactly a practitioner of any main Winter holidays, Ryū herself doesn’t have much reason to celebrate. Add in that there’s no family to share it with, and friends are a scarce commodity, and she just...didn’t think to make any plans. “Why?”

“Just wondered if there was anything you’d like to do.” Already seated opposite her, Madara’s posture is lax as he watches her do the same. “I have a party or two I’m expected to attend, and I’m sure Izuna will want to do something...but otherwise I’m rather open for once. Which of course means I must first offer opportunities to you,” he finishes, giving her a hint of a smirk.

Her eyes give a subtle roll. “Well I wouldn’t be opposed,” is her reply, tucking a napkin over her lap politely. “Did you have anything in mind, or…?”

“Hm, not particularly. I’m not one much for holiday frivolities. That’s more Izuna’s speed, most of the time. But given I have additional company this year, I believed it would be polite to ask.”

“I might have to start calling you the Grinch,” Ryū gently teases, a smile curling her lips.

“I asked, didn’t I?”

“Yes, yes you did.” Her head tilts, thinking. In truth she has a little trouble thinking up what might be suitable. She’s always been a bit of a shut-in...what do people like to do this time of year? “I’ll...think it over. See if I can come up with something.”

“Very well. I’ll text you the days I’ve got something else scheduled. Though I suppose you could always come with me, if you’d like.”

Greys widen slightly in surprise. “Oh?”

“Why not?”

“Well, I...I don’t know.” She’s still getting used to this whole...arrangement, after all. It’s been a few weeks, and while she’s gotten acquainted and accustomed to Madara’s presence, him wanting to be seen much in her company still takes her by surprise. Part of her still sees his position as far above her own. Being invited to stand at that level - even if only temporarily - is just a little unexpected yet. “Would it be okay…?”

“I think I’m hardly disqualified from bringing a date,” Madara replies, taking a sip of his water as they await a server. “And there’s scarcely anyone else I’ve any mind to bring.”

That brings a sheepish tinge of pink to her cheeks. “Well...all right then.”

“Perfect. We’ll have to find you something to wear.”

“But -?!”

“Is that not part of our agreement?” Mouth hidden behind his glass, she can nonetheless tell he’s smirking at her. “Monetary exchanges can also be purchased items of equal or greater value.”

The color in her face darkens. He’s...not wrong. But him bringing up the finer details of their arrangement always makes her feel...awkward. She agreed to it. Understands it. And yet…

“I guess there’s little use in trying to tell you no,” is her mumbled concession, glancing aside as he chuckles.

“Then it’s settled. We can scope out a shop or two after we eat, hm?”

Her subtle reply is a nod.

As has quickly become a tradition, the pair of them are out for what Madara affectionately calls a ‘date’. Given their arrangement, Ryū can’t help but feel like the title is a little...misused. While there’s certainly a well-established mutual attraction between them, the contract they signed after those first meetings seems to nag at her like a collar around the neck. A weight that reminds her that - at least to some degree - this isn’t as genuine as it could be without that tricky little document.

...and yet, she finds it hard to complain. She enjoyed her job well enough, but freedom from it isn’t exactly something to sneeze at, either. Rather than a club of patrons, she only has one party she’s responsible for now: Madara. Her bills are paid, her worries all but dashed. And so far, there haven’t been any snags. Beyond her own self-consciousness, it’s actually been...rather nice.

So, she tries to put that thought aside, for now. Instead, between snippets of conversation, she attempts to plan out something for the pair of them to do.

“I think maybe, for your new gown, we should look for something red.”

Ryū’s eyes can’t help but widen slightly as they stroll along a sidewalk after lunch, arm in arm toward a shop Madara knows. “Red? Why?”

“It’s a holiday color, and I’d much prefer it over green,” he replies blithely. “We could do white, but you seem to dress it in so often already. A change of pace might be good for you, hm?”

“It just seems a little, uh…”

A brow perks, waiting for an explanation.

“...bold,” she decides to offer, looking sheepish.

“I’ll have my date be nothing but,” is his retort, given with a smirk. “How am I to attend a party unless you’re the centerpiece of every room we walk in?”

“But -?!”

“You’re too modest,” Madara cuts in, not allowing her to argue. “You deserve to be fawned over, admired. Besides, I’ll not refuse the boost to my own ego.”

Ryū threatens to pout.

“I’m jesting. At least, in part.” Reaching the proper door, he holds it open for her, following her in as warm air meets their faces. “Now...let’s get you outfitted.”

She lets him take the lead, unable to help balking a bit at the grandeur. Before meeting him, she’d never even bother stepping into a shop like this. But anymore, it’s becoming her new normal. Yet she finds herself unable to fully adjust, even now.

Browsing with a critical eye, Madara eventually finds two gowns to loop over his arm, heading toward the fitting rooms for her to try them. “Whichever you prefer. The rest, I think, aren’t quite suitable for what we’re aiming for.”

Unable to argue, Ryū accepts them and heads into the changing stall. Well...here goes nothing.

The first is a knee length, form-fitting gown with a split up one side to her hip. A rather daring neckline plunges down and makes her blush. She’d...rather it be a little more prudish if she can help it. Still, she emerges to get Madara’s opinion.

“Hm...I like it.” Eyes move up and down her form openly, earning a bit more color in her face. “But let’s see the other.”

His second pick is, admittedly, more her style. This one sweeps the floor, the skirt long and flowing as she moves. A white sash ties in the waist. And as it’s strapless, it hugs above her bust, leaving far less to the imagination than the first one.

Immediately, she can tell he agrees. His gaze alights as she steps out. “There...perfect. What do you think?”

“It’s more my speed,” is her smile-tinged reply.

“Then it’s yours. Let’s get it all paid for, and I’ll let you go for the evening. I’ll find the invitation at home and text you the details. Otherwise, you need to think of our own little escapade, hm?”

“Mhm!” She’s been mulling it over while modeling, and a few ideas are starting to come to mind. Whether or not they’ll work is another question, but...they’ll have to start somewhere.

Madara sees her brought home, Ryū hanging the gown along her bedroom door, visible through its clear bag.

...it is really pretty, but...she’s never worn anything so...so bright in her life. Madara’s right: she’ll certainly draw eyes in it. She might not be certain that’s a good thing, but...no turning back now. So instead, she settles atop her bed to do some reconnaissance for her ideas on her phone, scribbling notes in a little notebook she keeps by her bed. A while later she gets Madara’s text.

So the party is Christmas Eve, Thursday. Six o’clock. Agreeable?

She looses a small snort and replies, Not sure I have much choice at this point, do I?

I’d like to at least give you the illusion. May I pick you up at five-thirty?

Sure! I’ll be ready to go by then.

Have you planned out our own day?

Maybe~ Any preferred date, or…?

Anything but Christmas or its eve. Izuna lays claim to one, and the party the other. Otherwise I’m at your disposal: simply say the word.

A smile curls her lips. How about the Saturday after?

Perfect. And what is on our agenda?

Ryū adjusts her position atop her bed. Well...I thought we could try some ice skating in the morning. I’ve never been, but I want to learn! Then maybe retreat to your place for cheesy holiday movies and cocoa…?

It’s dripping with clichés, but I can agree to that. I can sit through bad movies for your sake.

Then it’s settled!

Brilliant.

With that arranged and an excited smile on her face, Ryū powers down her mobile and continues about her evening before calling a night, and crawling cozily into bed.

The week that follows crawls by at a snail’s pace. Both looking forward to and yet dreading the coming days (if only because she’s nervous), Ryū finds herself checking clocks often. At times they barely seem to move, and at others she feels she’s been flung into the future. The duality leaves her feeling on edge for most of the days preceding.

And then, it’s Thursday.

Unsure how much time she’ll need, Ryū starts getting ready...far earlier than she really needs to. A shower sees her all tidied up, drying and carefully styling her hair. The mess of waves is usually just that: a mess. But some product and attention sees them turned to ribbons of ringlets down her back, bangs carefully coiffed over her brow. Then on slips the dress, and a few tiny highlights of makeup. A hint of blush is, at first, all she wants to bother with. But after a very heated internal debate, she opens a tube of lipstick she’s never dared to touch: bright cherry red.

At first, the sight of it makes her balk. It’s so...loud! But then her eyes adjust. And she...takes out a barely-used eyeshadow pallet. Dusts a little red along her eyelids. Dares to add a little dark eyeliner.

In the end, she has a bit of trouble recognizing herself, but...it actually looks...good?

Huh.

And then she...has an hour to kill. Well, better to be ready early than scrambling as he knocks on the door. Ryū takes to lounging in her sitting space, absently browsing her phone: the best way to kill time. Forty-five minutes later, she gets a warning text: he’s almost there.

Her heart crawls up her throat, threatening to break out through her teeth when he later knocks.

No backing out, now.

A few moments to steel her nerves, she then pulls open the door.

Madara looks...well, perfect as always. A midnight black suit is perfectly tailored, the vest beneath and the tie over his chest both a deep crimson. The petals of a red rose peek out of a button hole, and he looks back from fiddling with it to her.

Her gut clenches.

...and to her surprise, he freezes.

“...is it that bad?” she jokes, flashing a nervous smile.

A moment longer, and then he seems to reboot. WIth a blink, he replies, “I’ve half a mind to demand you replace your entire wardrobe with red.”

To match, her cheeks flare with color.

“You look stunning,” Madara then adds, regaining his composure fully and offering a hand, which she takes. “But enough of my ogling: we’d best be off.”

Apartment locked, Ryū finds herself whisked to the car, a short ride across town finding them at a rather lavish home along one of the city’s hills. Modern and sleek, it seems to tower over her, as if knowing she doesn’t belong.

“We won’t have to stay long,” Madara then offers, breaking her thoughts. “Just make an appearance, say we were here, rub a few elbows.”

“...but -?”

“As much as I like free food and liquor, I’d rather not eat up my entire evening.” He doesn’t look at her, but she wonders if he knows she’s a bit...overwhelmed.

“...all right.”

There’s a bit of a wait to get in, other guests lined up at the door and talking in murmurs. Ryū, for the most part, just focuses on not looking as nervous as she feels. A few passersby do give her rather obvious looks, and she can’t really stop the heat that builds in her cheeks every time.

“Told you you’d be a centerpiece,” Madara teases, chuckling at her flustered mumbling.

Inside is only more crowded, food and wine everywhere. The home, like something out of a magazine, is decorated perfectly with white lights, tinsel, ornaments, and other trappings. A two-story tree stands in the middle of the open space of the house’s belly, gleaming with decorations.

Ryū doesn’t even have any lights up in her apartment…

“A bit gaudy, isn’t it?”

“I think it’s beautiful,” is her quiet reply, looking it all over.

“All for show. Which I suppose isn’t a bad thing, just..frivolous.”

“Most beauty is.”

“Mm...not all.”

That earns him a hint of a look, laughing softly as he tows her around by the arm. A few people stop to talk, Ryū mostly listening. Seems Madara knows his share of the guests, but Ryū doesn’t recognize anyone. Not that she expected to.

“Love your dress,” one woman randomly compliments, catching her off-guard.

“O-oh...thank you! It -”

“Suits her perfectly,” Madara cuts in. “I think red really is her color.”

Trying not to balk at the attention, Ryū just lets the subject lie. There’s little winning that war, anyway.

Two hours later, feet starting to get sore and her social meter just about run dry, Ryū says a silent prayer of thanks when Madara declares the outing over. A glass or two of champagne has her a little warm, and all in all she just wants to get home and off her feet.

“Thank you for your patience,” he offers as they reenter the car.

“No, it was fun! A little...out of my usual league, but I liked it.”

“Careful, I might invite you to more of them.”

“Just remind me to wear flat shoes, next time.”

By the time they get back to her building, she’s nearly dozing. Only once Madara drops her off at her door does she dare to kick off her heels, wincing a bit as she stands flat.

“Oof…”

Her fridge provides leftover Chinese food, her form flopping unceremoniously atop her couch. A buzz of her mobile then shows a text from Madara.

Thank you again for accompanying me.

Ryū can’t help a tired smile. Thank YOU for taking me. See you Saturday <3

The next morning, Ryū feels oddly...empty.

She’s never really celebrated Christmas. The few foster homes she’d been in had done so, but...it had felt rather disconnected. They hadn’t been true family, so a holiday so based in your loved ones and giving never felt quite right. It’s never really bothered her before.

And yet…

Her thoughts are broken by a knock at the door. She blinks. She’s...not expecting anyone. Or anything. What is…?

A peek through her door shows a delivery man. And in his arms is the most ridiculous bundle of red roses she’s ever seen in her life.

“Wha-?!”

“A delivery for you, ma’am!”

Speechless, Ryū just...stands aside, letting him in to set the arrangement on her little kitchen table. “...uh…?”

“There’s a card attached for you,” is the only additional explanation she gets before being left to her devices.

...this has Madara written all over it. And a peek at the card confirms as much.

Red really is your color. Consider this a final thank you, and a gift for the holiday. -Madara

...but she hasn’t gotten him anything!

The flowers are so numerous, they practically dwarf her table. Well...so much for sitting here for the next...while. But her real conundrum is what on earth she’s going to do to repay him! There really isn’t time to get him anything...and in all honesty the short notice leaves her unsure what to get him, anyway.

...maybe…

Unsure what else to do, Ryū instead busies herself in the kitchen. Flowers won’t last forever, so...she’ll gift him something in a similar vein: food!

A few hours later, she has several different batches of cookies made, the variety all bundled up into a basket she has on hand. Doing it all up in a bow, there’s a curt nod of satisfaction.

Perfect!

To her phone she then goes to text Madara a thank you (now...several hours later) only to see an email that makes her heart sink.

...well, drat.

Hey! You know you didn’t have to get me flowers, but...they’re beautiful, thank you. Hope you know that means payback, though :P But I have bad news: the skating rink is closed tomorrow. Something about frozen pipes. Ironic, huh? Should we just have the movie day instead, then?

She pouts at her phone. There are probably other rinks, but...it seems a bit short notice to change things now. And maybe she just wants a quiet day, all things considered.

Flowers are always appropriate. As for tomorrow, I’m perfectly fine with keeping things simple. Shall we adjust the time a bit later in the day?

Sure, sounds perfect. See you then!

Well...time to munch extra cookies and whittle away the evening.

Noon the next day, Ryū stands on Madara’s doorstep, kicking some snow from her boots and knocking, basket on her arm.

When it opens, he looks first to her face, and then to the cookies. “...are you trying to make me fat?”

“Maybe,” is her teasing reply, stepping in and removing her shoes. “How was your Christmas?”

“Perfectly adequate. Izuna was here, along with a good bottle of wine. He’ll be upset to know he missed the cookies.”

“You could always save him some.”

“I could,” he admits, taking the basket toward the kitchen. “But I won’t.”

“So cruel!”

“It’s what elder brothers are for.” Instead, he goes so far as to snap a pic and tease Izuna via text. “...oh yes, he’s fuming.”

Ryū just laughs.

“Go pick us a movie, and I’ll get on that cocoa. I’m sure Netflix is full of cheesy holiday films.”

“Roger that.” Browsing the selection, she grins at a certain find. Oh yes, this is perfect.

“Make a decision?” Madara asks a few minutes later, ferrying a tray complete with cocoa, some of the cookies, and popcorn.

“I think so.” She cozies herself up beside him once he sits, the movie beginning to play. But it’s not anything live-action. Oh no...this is How the Grinch Stole Christmas.

“...you did this on purpose,” he accuses.

Her only reply is a grin.

And so, they sit and watch as the Grinch bemoans the holiday before hatching his plan, elaborating stealing it away only to find regret, and restore all he stole.

“I don’t remember this being so short,” Ryū pouts as it finishes.

“Hm, nor do I.”

“Ooh, that one next!” She points at the screen, where Rudolph is recommended.

“Are you going to plague me all day with children’s movies?”

“Aww, but they’re classics!”

Exaggeratedly rolling his eyes, Madara nevertheless queues up the next film.

The entire afternoon passes as thus, the pair of them getting through a handful of Christmas movies before he finally calls it quits.

“Shall we do dinner?”

“You’re hungry after all those cookies?” is Ryū’s disbelieving counter question.

“Who’s fault is that?”

“I didn’t make you eat them!”

“And yet you would be offended if I didn’t.”

To her chagrin, it seems he already had the meal plotted anyway despite not covering it in their plans. So Ryū sits to a crab dinner, giving Madara a look. “...you’re spoiling me.”

“As is my current primary want in life. Get used to it.”

By the meal's end, she’s thoroughly stuffed and content.

“So, how would you rate your day?” he asks from across the table.

She hums. “...nine.”

“...only nine?”

“We didn’t get to go ice skating.”

That earns a snort. “...maybe next time. For now, you’d best head home if you’re going to. Of course you’re free to stay if you’d like. Up to you.”

Ryū’s head gives a thoughtful tilt. In truth she doesn’t have any obligations tomorrow. “...I won’t be in the way?”

“Not at all. My schedule is wide open. We can do the cheesy thing and sleep late, have breakfast...whatever seems agreeable to you.”

“You know, you can make some of the decisions sometimes,” is her reply, smiling.

“I make plenty of decisions in my day to day. So I’ll leave at least some of them up to you.”

“...well all right then. I’ll stay.”

That gets him to smile. “Perfect. Now...how about some wine? And it looks like it’s beginning to snow, if you’d like to step out and watch some.”

Ryū perks up. “Sure!”

Pouring two glasses, Madara makes for a rear door that leads to a balcony. “...ah…”

“Forget something?”

“It seems I did.” Hands full with their drinks, he instead gives an indicative glance upward to a plant hanging above the door.

Mistletoe.

In spite of herself, Ryū flushes pink. “...you did that on purpose.”

“Was my acting not convincing?”

She doesn’t answer, lips pursing.

“Don’t want to break traditions now, do we?”

Despite her efforts to fight it, Ryū finds herself losing to the urge to smile, sighing in defeat. “...I guess not.” Stepping up a bit closer, there’s a flicker of her eyes from his, to his lips, and back before obliging, slow and smooth.

Only once they part does Madara add, “I suppose that means we’ll have to do it again when we come back in.”

“Very clever.”

“Thank you.” Handing her her glass, Madara toasts them before offering, “Happy holidays, Ryū.”

“...happy holidays, Madara. The best I’ve had in a long time.”

“Then I’ll have to try even harder next year.”

She just laughs, sipping her wine as the snow begins to flurry. “Y’know...I think today is a ten now.”

“The only score I’ll accept.”

Well, almost a month after the actual g.iveaway, I’ve finally got all the gifts done :’D The other two are on the art sideblog, @sylveradrake if you want to see them! But this is the one written request I got, which was a drabble for Phoenix of our muses! I’ll admit I’m a little rusty writing this verse, hahaha - so hopefully it still came out all right. Borrowed an idea from a friend to make this sort of a Wintery-themed piece, as is appropriate given the time of year here in the northern hemisphere lol. And torturing Madara with Christmas movies was an opportunity I couldn’t pass up x3 Anywho, I hope you enjoyed it Phoenix, and apologies for the wait. Here’s our dorks being holiday cuties, haha~

#uchihamadara #uchiha madara #suigin ryū #make ends meet [ au ]#alcohol //

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theyearoftheking · 4 years

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Book Thirty: The Dark Half

“Stark reached out, not physically, but with his mind, and seized that disappearing tail of Thad’s mental probe. In the eye of Stark’s own mind it looked like a worm, a fat white maggot deliriously stuffed with offal and decay...”

So, let me tell you about the dark half inhabiting my house... a little over a year ago, we decided to get Waverly, our beautiful golden rescue pet angel, a friend. She loved spending time with her dog cousins, and would sink into a deep depression when we’d bring her back home again. Seriously. Look at this beautiful face. She is truly an angel in dog form.

So, we found a rescue beagle (my daughter’s alleged dream dog of the week).

Y’all.

I was not prepared for beagle life. Biscuit Beast tore through two different cages, pooped (and smeared it!) everywhere, and chewed up everything from Legos, to Ugg boots to video game controllers. And the sight of a pom-pom on a hat makes her crazy with uncontrolled chewing fueled rage. She was an absolute menace. We tried everything from melatonin, to CBD oil, to just flat-out not leaving the house. She is a lovely, cuddly dog... but her mouth gets her in trouble every time.

And then quarantine happened. Biscuit Beast has been thrilled to have her people home with her 24/7 all day, every day. Lots of cuddles, walks around the neighborhood, and all the personal interaction a beagle could ask for. We even left on two short jaunts, and she didn’t chew anything. She received all the praise for being the best dog in the world.

And then yesterday, I walk upstairs to find this. She gnawed my copy of The Dark Half like it was a t-bone. And it made no sense. We had been home with her all day, she had a long walk around the lake, and plenty of attention. But her dark half just can’t be tamed. Oh, Biscuit Beast. To know beagles is to love them.

Biscuit Beast may destroy everything she can wrap her strong little jaw around, but at least she’s not violently killing people, and threatening lives everywhere she goes, unlike George Stark in The Dark Half. I guess I’ve got that going for me?

The Dark Half was fun. It was my first time reading it, and you could almost hear Steve whispering, “Wouldn’t it be funny if Richard Bachman came to life and became my murderous alter-ego?” The author’s note actually reads, “I’m indebted to the late Richard Bachman for his help and inspiration. This novel could not have been written without him.”

It makes you wonder what the relationship between an author and his pseudonym is like. Is it dark? Does it take you in directions you don’t expect? Do you end up resenting the pseudonym for contractually forcing you to write books outside your comfort zone? Steve had created an entire biography for Bachman, and seemed almost gleeful about killing him; not unlike Thad Beaumont, the main character in The Dark Half.

The book opens with child Thad, who is suffering from horrible headaches and seizures. He goes in for surgery, and the neurologist finds remains of a fetus in Thad’s head: an eye, part of a nostril, three fingernails and two teeth. *Shudder*

Thad grows up to become a relatively famous writer, and we find him reading a People magazine article discussing how he “killed” his pseudonym, George Stark. The article even includes a picture of Thad and his wife, Liz, standing on Stark’s grave. His gravestone reads, “Not a Very Nice Guy”. Thad seems equally amused and embarrassed by the article; and quickly brushes it to the side in order to help his wife care for their adorable twins, Wendy and William.

Then, shit gets weird. The police show up on Thad’s doorstep, ready to arrest him for a brutal, local murder they’re confident he committed. After all, his fingerprints are all over the crime scene. There’s only one small problem: Thad has an iron-clad alibi for the night of the murder, with witnesses galore attesting to his presence.

The police are thrown.

Meanwhile, several more brutal murders are committed in New York City, including a young man who had figured out the Thad/George connection, and was attempting to blackmail him. Written in blood on his wall is the phrase, “The Sparrows are Flying Again”. The other murder victims are all people who were associated with the People magazine article. Very strange.

But Thad is starting to put some pieces together. In his office, he also finds the words, “The Sparrows are Flying Again” randomly scratched on a piece of paper. It reminds him of when he was a kid, and the sounds of birdsong would precede one of his bad headaches. He has his suspicions about who the real murderer is. He makes the logical jump that it has to be his pseudonym, George Stark. Because, who else would it be?

Spoiler: It’s George Stark!

George calls him from one of the murder scenes to gloat, and basically tells Thad he’s not ready to be dead yet. And Thad needs to get started on his next Stark novel. George doesn’t have a lot of time left... his body is starting to deteriorate into a gross mess, and unless Thad starts writing, George is going to (literally) waste away.

So, George ends up kidnapping Liz and the kids, and takes them to their Maine cottage, where he holds them hostage until Thad starts working on his next novel. Thad starts writing, which causes George to heal, and Thad to take on George’s ailments. There’s some negative, co-dependent symbiosis going on here. Eventually, Thad stops writing, and summons billions of sparrows to bust in the house and peck George to death, before carrying him off to the depths of hell.

Why sparrows? Well, because they’re psychopomps of course! For those not versed in ancient Greek, psychopomp means, “guide of souls.” According to Thad’s fellow professor, Rawlie DeLesseps, “...those who conduct. In this case, those who conduct human souls back and forth between the land of the living and the land of the dead... Gatherings of sparrows are rather more ominous... sparrows are said to be the outriders of the deceased... which means their job is to guide lost souls back into the land of the living. They are, in other words, the harbingers of the living dead...”

Y’all... there is so much going on here. Is George a metaphor for Steve’s drug addiction? Think about it... the more it took over, the sicker Steve got. And it kept him from doing the kind of writing he always wanted to do (novels like this, compared to dung-heaps like The Tommyknockers). Once his addiction was banished and dragged back to hell, he was reunited with his family and kids. Maybe a little bit of a stretch, but thought provoking.

I really liked this novel; it was tightly edited and well written, it kept my attention and it gave me a glimpse into Steve’s crazy brain. And it had some fun Castle Rock mentions... like that time George Bannerman helped solve that string of nasty murders (The Dead Zone), only to be taken out by a rabid dog (Cujo). Rest in peace, George.

No Dark Tower or Wisconsin mentions, just good, clean, Steve fun.

Total Wisconsin Mentions: 24

Total Dark Tower References: 22

Book Grade: B+

Rebecca’s Definitive Ranking of Stephen King Books

The Talisman: A+

Misery: A+

Different Seasons: A+

It: A+

The Shining: A-

The Stand: A-

The Drawing of the Three: A-

Nightmares in the Sky: B+

The Dark Half: B+

Skeleton Crew: B+

The Dead Zone: B+

‘Salem’s Lot: B+

Carrie: B+

Creepshow: B+

Cycle of the Werewolf: B-

Danse Macabre: B-

The Running Man: C+

Thinner: C+

Dark Visions: C+

The Eyes of the Dragon: C+

The Long Walk: C+

The Gunslinger: C+

Pet Sematary: C+

Firestarter: C+

Rage: C

Cujo: C-

Nightshift: C-

Roadwork: D

Christine: D

The Tommyknockers: D-

Next up is Four Past Midnight, another collection I’ve thumbed through. Four Past Midnight contains classics like The Langoliers and Secret Window, Secret Garden; which was an excellent movie. When I started reading The Dark Half, my husband told me what a great movie it was. I asked him for the plot, to see if it was similar to the book, or a Lawnmower Man type situation. He then proceeded to give me the entire plot of The Secret Window. And tried to convince me they were basically the same story. I’m going to reserve judgement. So, stay tuned for that. I hope everyone is staying healthy, washing hands and wearing masks.

Until next time, Long Days and Pleasant Nights,

Rebecca

#stephen king #the dark half #constant readers #sparrows #the dark tower #psychopomps #richard bachman #beagles

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365daysofsasuhina · 5 years

Text

[ 365 Days of SasuHina || Day Three Hundred Thirteen: Bright Lights ] [ Uchiha Sasuke, Hyūga Hinata ] [ SasuHina, vulgarity ] [ Verse: Oil and Blood ] [ AO3 Link ]

Another night...another bout of insomnia.

Giving up on keeping her eyes closed, Hinata instead lets them open to stare up at the ceiling. The last time this happened, she found a man half-dead in an alleyway, and subsequently almost got herself killed the other day when his rival gang snatched her up.

...it’s a long story.

She’s now on her third day off work. Her doctor contact managed to get her a full week with a cover story of being under treatment for something highly contagious. Her boss, not wanting anyone else to get sick and vanish, handed over the (unpaid) set of days off without question once the doc signed a note.

Which is good, because Hinata really hasn’t felt like going into work.

She’s had Uchiha casually stalking her apartment building, discouraged from leaving it unless absolutely necessary. And beyond Sasuke taking her to get groceries two days ago (the man she saved and who accidentally started this whole fiasco), she hasn’t left the building, much less her apartment.

As dragging as work can be, she never realized until now how boring it is to be stuck at home. She’s bounced between bingeing shows and movies to playing games to browsing social media...to even just people watching from her window. Something she normally detests, given her own distaste of being observed. Well...by people, anyway. It’s unavoidable otherwise, what with security being as high as it is in Japan anymore.

But now here she is, three nights in and she’s finally reached a point where even sleep can’t do anything for her. So, now what to do. She doesn’t feel like watching or playing anything…

...she almost feels like going for a walk.

Of course, there’s no avoiding how odd that seems, given that it was this exact scenario over two weeks ago that got her into this mess in the first place: being unable to sleep, going for a walk under the bright lights of the nightlife city, and stumbling across a mod-stripped Sasuke in the gutter.

Does she dare do so again? Or will she risk running into some other mess that will get her life all the more interrupted?

...but then again...how much worse can it get, really?

Sighing, she chews her tongue in thought. If she does want to go for a walk...she’ll have to do so with an escort to make sure no snooping Senju snatches her off the sidewalk like last time she was out and about.

But her next question is who exactly is on duty...Sasuke’s the only one she’s talked to. The rest she’s had no real reason to see given her reclusion in her apartment. Anyone else...she’s not sure if she should ask to leave. They might just get annoyed, and she’s not really eager to push her luck anymore than she has. Sasuke made it pretty clear she’s not likely to have the gang’s support for too long. She might have saved Sasuke’s life...but one favor was likely already paid off when they in turn got her out of Tobirama’s clutches.

At least, in most minds.

Sasuke’s convinced he still owes her, given that it was his involvement in the first place that got her taken. His father seeing it the same way, however...hasn’t been going well.

And she’s still not sure what she’d rather have. While certainly not eager to be tug-of-warred between Uchiha and Senju, Hinata would rather just...not have to deal with either. She did her good deed, she got Sasuke out of trouble.

So why is she suddenly the one in distress?

Deciding to try her luck, she accesses Sasuke’s contact information in her communicator mod. It awaits input for a long moment befores she simply asks, Are you on duty this evening?

There’s a minute of silence.

Yeah. Why?

She can’t help a small sigh of relief. ...I can’t sleep. Sorta want to go for a walk.

You mean even considering what happened last time?

Her lips purse in a pout. Well I won’t be going alone this time, will I?

...she can almost hear his vexed sigh. ...guess you’ve got a point. All right, fine. You get fifteen minutes. Then back to bed, missy.

Hinata deadpans. Missy? What is she, sixteen? Ugh… Getting out of bed, she throws on random clothes and makes her way down to the main floor, feeling almost odd after a few days not seeing it.

And as expected, Sasuke waits near the entrance, leaned and relaxed.

At least he’s not smoking this time...eugh.

“Anything in particular keeping you awake?”

She gives him a glance. “You mean b-besides being caught in a turf war I have n-no real part in on account of doing something nice? Wondering if I’m going to lose my job or my apartment or whatever else? Nothing much, I guess.”

He just snorts. “Never would have taken you for the sassy type.”

“Even I have limits to my patience.”

“Clock’s ticking. Let’s see if we can tucker you out enough to sleep.”

Falling into step with him, Hinata asks, “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Aren’t you...tired?”

“What, you think I’m not used to pulling all nighters?” Sasuke glances up, taking in the sights of the city’s neon lights. “I don’t really have much of a set sleep schedule. I just take it when I can.”

“That bad, huh?”

“My line of work isn’t exactly a nine to five. It’s whenever, wherever, however. All according to when my old man needs me to do something.”

Hinata gives a hum at that. And then a thought strikes her. “What...were you doing the night I found you? If...you don’t m-mind my asking.”

Shoulders shrug, indicating indifference. “Actually had the night off. Had been to a bar, was stumbling around...and they got the jump on me. Three Senju, all under direct orders of Tobirama. He’s wanted me dead for a looong time. Well...he wants us all dead, ideally. But as my dad’s more active son, I’m a pretty big target.”

Her brows furrow. “...active…?”

“My brother’s got some health issues. Mostly taken care of by mods, but...he’s still gotta be careful. So he’s more of an organizer, behind-the-scenes sorta guy rather than a runner-gunner like me. There’s only one reason he showed up to help bust you and the doc out. And a hint: it wasn’t you.”

“...oh…”

“Do I get to ask a counter question?”

“I guess there’s n-nothing else to do while we walk.”

“Why’d your dad cut you off?”

To her own surprise, the question doesn’t sour her mood. Maybe she’s too tired. “...my father is one of the biggest mod manufacturers in the east. Mostly medical ones rather than cosmetic. They help a lot of people, save a lot of lives...but are unethically expensive. When I got old enough to realize just what he was doing, I f-found my courage and confronted him about it. He ridiculed me, told me I didn’t understand, and...disinherited me. My sister is who will get everything when my father dies...partially split with my cousin, who is one of the main engineers behind the tech. But he’s not a child of my father, s-so...he’ll get less despite doing far more.”

Sasuke seems to mull that over for a moment. “...full offense, but...your dad’s a right prick.”

Hinata can’t help a snort. “...yeah. Yeah, he is.”

“And now you work in an insurance company who does pretty much the same thing, just from a different angle: extorts people for the mods they need.”

“...yeah.”

“Does that feel a bit...hypocritical to you, given what you tried to stand up for with your dad?”

“...in a way. But you also know I don’t do everything by the book. Whenever I can - when the case is bad enough - I refer them to Suigin-san and her ‘charitable’ work. I’ve never been caught.”

“How’d you meet her, anyway?”

“As a patient, believe it or not.” There’s a moment of hesitation, and then Hinata lifts a hand to her chest. “...I have an implant in my heart. I’ve had it since I was twelve. My cousin Neji, he…” She sighs. “...he and I had a very...s-strained relationship when young. His father, my father’s twin, was equal parts of the company, and...died when we were small. For the longest time, e-everyone suspected my father had him killed, to gain complete control. Obviously...that earned hatred from my cousin. And as my father’s heir...I was the target he could go after. He’s always been a genius, and...developed a subcutaneous mod that acts as a taser. He never told anyone, and experimented with it on himself. When he perfected it...he attacked me with it w-when we were preteens. I’d always been a little frail, and...the voltage stopped my heart.”

Sasuke’s eyes go wide. “Oh, shit…”

A somber nod. “...when I came to, I was in a clinic nearby the private school we were attending, where he attacked me. And it was Suigin-san who saved me. She implanted the device that keeps my heart stable, and...we’ve been connected ever since. So, once I got my job, I was talking to her about my f-frustrations, and...she admitted to her under-the-table work. And that’s...how that all got s-started.”

“...well I’ll be damned. How, uh...how do you guys get along now? You and your cousin?”

“After the...falling out, he approached me. Told me my father had blackmailed him to work for the company...saying he’d not press charges for attacking me if he agreed to use his genius for the tech. Of course, he had no choice...but once he realized what I stood for, and that I let it all go for my m-morals...he finally apologized. I couldn’t blame him for hating me...what I stood for. But we’re decent friends, now. We don’t talk much for fear of my father getting angry and s-sabotaging Neji somehow, though.”

“...and I thought my family had problems.”

Hinata can’t help a soft laugh. “Well...it could be worse. Anymore I’m just...getting by. Not really sure what else to d-do with myself. I help who I can with Suigin-san’s assistance, but...it’s drops in the bucket, y’know?”

“Yeah...well…” Sasuke gives her a glance. “...the offer still stands to go after him as my debt. Maybe I could do something about all that, huh?”

“...maybe. Right now, though...I’m too tired to think about it.”

“Tired enough to sleep?”

“Mm...I hope so.”

The pair then start angling back toward the proper building. Once there, Sasuke seems to...hesitate under the lights.

“...sorry if I, uh...pressed too hard.”

“No, not at all. I didn’t say a-anything I didn’t want to. Besides, it...sort of felt nice to get that off my chest. Maybe I really will sleep now.”

“...I hope so. I’ll be off in the morning to rest, but...I’ll keep you updated. Something tells me my dad’ll have made up his mind about things. We’ll see.”

“All right. Goodnight, Sasuke-san.”

“Night.”

Dredging back up to her room, Hinata collapses into bed. And by some grace, it takes her only moments to fall asleep.

.oOo.

(This is a sequel to days 250, 254, 269, 300, 303, and 309!) Aaand more cyberpunk AU. And a bit more detailed background on our two MCs...well, more so Hinata than Sasuke, but we'll get there. You think she'd be more wary of walking around at night, but...well, I guess she feels a bit safer given who she's with ;3 Also for anyone curious (which I doubt but whatever lol), this actually subtly mirrors the "canon" plot of how Hinata and Ryū meet, Ryū being one of the medics that helps save Hinata after her fight against Neji in the chūnin exams! Just a wee lil tidbit I threw in, lol Buuut anyway, I am...EXHAUSTED so I'm gonna go crash! Thanks so much for reading~

#sasuhina #uchiha sasuke #hyūga hinata #vulgarity //#oil and blood [ au ]#365daysofsasuhina

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pedrospal · 5 years

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Blood splashes across the wall.

Denny staggers, his hand rushing to his face. Red seeps between his fingers as he clutches his nose, and he looks up at his assailant with wide teary eyes.

The elder teenager didn't seem to care. Another fist slammed into the side of Denny's jaw. Teeth clattered onto the asphalt, quickly followed by his skull. A knee presses hard against his back and a hand grips his neck too tight. Dull pain radiates through his body, the icy burn flooding from his bruised eye and split lips.

"Should've fucking paid up, bitchboy."

He can't fight it as his head is forced up only to be slammed back down into the ground. There's an audible crunch as his nose breaks. Pain lances through him and he cries aloud, only to be answered by the ground in another brutal whack. He can hear the other boys laughing around him, jeering and mocking.

The grip on his neck tightens and Denny tenses, prepared to be beaten down again; there is a scream from above him and the pressure on his back vanishes.

He manages to raise his head slightly. The world whirls and blurs, colours oversaturated and painful. But he can make out two new silhouettes in the gang of people and feels hope and relief blossom through him.

Ophelia is twisting the black-haired teenager's arm behind his back. His face is crunched in agony as she continues to twist. Her face is stony and full of fire.

Guy stands between Denny and the rest of the gang, hands raised and legs apart, tense and coiled on the balls of his feet. A jaguar poised to pounce.

The gang of teens seem equally as surprised as Denny, though their faces quickly regain their sneering expressions.

"Hey now!"

One of the other teens called out. His chest was puffed in forced bravado as he stepped forward- the pained cry coming from his friend as Ophelia sharply pulled on his arm stopped him.

"Uh, what I mean to say is, this guy refused to pay up! He betrayed us, so we're just teachin' him a lesson! That's all! We ain't doing nothing wrong! Gang business, y'know?"

"Turn around."

A voice so cold it froze the air. Its speaker remained stock still, barely even the rise and fall of his chest to indicate he was breathing. Guy hadn't even spared a glance towards the faux leader, brown eyes locked onto a girl who stood near the back of the gang.

"Hey, you can't just come into our territory and start bossin' us around! Who do you-" The teen that had stepped forward was silenced as the girl raised her hand.

"Huh? Boss, wh-"

"Why should we?" Her voice didn't quite match the coldness of Guy's, but it certainly served the intended purpose.

She too stood tall, with an easy air that one could mistake for confidence, a gleam in her eyes that spoke of cruelty and domination. Wolf's eyes, and the role in her gang to match.

It was Ophelia who answered the leader's question.

"Because we always give people three chances to run. Go, now."

Wolf Eyes moved forward a step. A wordless statement even the most foolish could read. Refusal.

A harsh crack akin to a gunshot rang out in the silence, accompanied by a scream. Ophelia dropped the black haired teen's now floppy arm. He stumbled forward then fled to safety out the street.

"Last chance. Turn around and forget this ever happened." Each word was spoken with eerie frozen calm, Ophelia's expression unchanging.

Wolf Eyes' face twisted in anger and hatred as she stepped forward. She seemed to consider something.

"You really dare to throw around threats when there's only two of you and twelve of us?" Wolf Eyes huffed a slight chuckle as she raised a hand. "Normally I'd be fair and only let two of my Wolves savage you, but since you've pissed me off, you don't get my mercy."

She flung her hand down at the same time that Guy finally moved. The words were barely out of her mouth when the first teen fell, blood pouring out of his nose and mouth and a shoe-shaped bruise already forming over his face.

Guy rebounded off the wall and leapt at another of the goons with leg outstretched. The teen darted out of the way just in time to meet a fist to the throat, and Guy used that momentum to swing around in a perfectly-executed spinning kick. Another kid stumbled down, winded, and Ophelia slammed his face into the concrete as she too joined the scramble.

It was beautiful carnage. The duo wove and danced within the gang as if they were nought but wind, pouncing and striking with brutal precision. Each movement was fluid as water and impassioned as fire. They complimented each other's moves in perfect predator's grace, a lioness and a jaguar verses a pack of mutts.

In the heat of it Wolf Eyes ran at Ophelia, nothing but rage burning in those wild wolfish eyes. Her first swing clipped Ophelia's head and sent her stumbling back out of the main crowd. Wolf Eyes leapt again. A sweeping kick threw her to the side, stumbling, but she recovered with the speed of an experienced street fighter and came back at Ophelia with an iron fist.

There was a crunch. Blood arced into the air as Ophelia's nose was broken. She staggered back but managed to avoid the next kick and come forward with a strong left hook. Enamel spread across the floor.

Wolf Eyes fell back, clutching her bloody mouth as she glared at Ophelia with pure hatred cut into every line of her face. But Ophelia could see the fear and faint respect in her body and let her retreat.

Guy has taken down the rest of the gang. They scramble and stagger and stumble, up and away, backing down with their metaphorical tails between their legs. Their leader fixes one last glare at the duo, spitting red on the ground in a final act of anger before turning and walking away with the rest of them.

They don't relax until the gang is gone.

Then Ophelia is by Denny's side, helping him sit up gently with careful hands. She seems not to care about her own injuries, instead worriedly checking over her younger brother.

"Open your mouth." Despite her short words her tone is soft and concerned.

Denny obliges in his concussed daze. Blood drips down his chin, sticky and metallic.

"You're lucky. They only knocked out your baby teeth."

Ophelia squints at his swollen nose, before touching it lightly with the tips of her fingers. It's tender and Denny holds back a cry at the pain. She must have noticed the wetness in his eyes because she immediately retracted her hand.

"It doesn't look too bad. Probably just fractured. It'll heal up fine."

Her own nose is twisted and smushed and rapidly swelling, blood dripping down her neck and onto her purple shirt. But she disregards it entirely, instead focusing on Denny.

Ophelia looks at his eyes for a minute, and the intensity that always burns deep in her brown eyes still intimidates Denny even though he's seen it a hundred times. Metaphors about deer in headlights and rabbit seeing an eagle spring to mind.

The predator's gaze breaks away from his as her forehead furrowed slightly, looking him over.

"You've got a minor concussion."

Guy crouches down beside them, making Denny jump although Ophelia doesn't react. He didn't even see his older brother approach, let alone hear him!

...Denny quietly admits to himself that he probably never will be able to tell when either of his siblings are approaching, knowing their incredible skills.

A lukewarm wet flannel is pressed into his hand. He doesn't know when Guy brought- or found- a medkit, but he's grateful nonetheless when he presses the medicine-infused cloth against his nose and the pain dulls into nothing. He takes his brother's hand and allows him to help him up. Now he's closer he sees the state Guy is in- blood drips steadily from a deep looking gash across his lips and there's bruising and swelling already forming around his eyes and cheeks. Dark crimson stains his brother's torn black shirt, though whether it's his or the other teenagers' Denny doesn't know, and he sees the stiffness in his actions that indicate he's busted a few ribs. Ophelia stands too and the way she holds her left ankle slightly raised shows she's probably sprained it.

"Come on, let's get you home." Ophelia's tone is soft as she puts a hand on Denny's shoulder, supporting him. In turn he grips her arm back, offering himself as a walking aid. He feels Guy stumble slightly beside him and puts an arm out, holding the older teen's forearm. Guy tenses, but then allows Denny to help him balance.

Together the trio walk home, supporting each other the whole way back.

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talesofmetalandmagic · 5 years

Photo

For the BadThingsHappenBingo: “Kidnapping”, with Lorian, Elder Prince, and Dark Sun Gwyndolin

Proposed by: @reaper-apologist-andromeda Set in: requester’s verse. Characters: Lorian, Older Prince; Dark Sun Gwyndolin Ship: Lorilin TW: Mention of parental abuse Notes: Gwyndolin uses he/him pronouns

Synopsis: once lived a Saint named Aldrich, famed for his thirst for human flesh. He’s now long gone, burnt at the First Flame, but his followers live on, and to this day they still hunt innocent victims to offer to their lord the moment he eventually returns. No one is safe from them: not even the Elder Prince of the kingdom of Lothric.

It’s the first arrow that alerts him of the incoming danger. Lorian pulls the bridle to his chest and raises his open palm to impose silence. Once it’s done, he lowers the hand to his side, to the spot where his sword awaits to be drawn. -You know what to do.- he says. He doesn’t sound like a general, he realizes with a sudden gulp. His tone was too shaky, his eyes too low, and even his hand wasn’t straight enough. He can see the disappointed glare in Father’s eyes in every wrinkle of every tree. Piercing through him as if another arrow had been shot right into his skin. When the second arrow does strike, Lorian’s horse whines in pain despite not being the one hit. The man at his left sinks on the floor like a mannequin, a groan escaping his lips. -Reveal yourself!- Lorian calls. He raises his sword in the air, like the great warrior kings that populate the frescoes in the main halls. He has always felt so tiny, whenever he passed them by. He can only imagine what Lothric would feel in his stead. -Your highness!-. Lorian turns around, his ponytail whipping his face. -Look o— A third arrow strikes, and it hits him right in the chest. Next thing he sees is the pale grey sky, and the branches of the trees like cracks on the cement.

His knees are in his belly, feeling tight and as heavy as a boulder. His ponytail has come undone, and strands of stray hair fill his mouth and get stuck to his teeth. His hands are untied – strange enough, but not the proper moment to ponder. Lorian combs his hair with his fingers, panting through the cold. He’s thirsty, too thirsty to even form words. His mouth is dry, as if a layer of sand had remained stuck to his palate and tongue. Even opening his mouth, everything being so godsdamn dry, feels like pain on his dry lips. His cage is as tight as a column, and so rusted the mere touch leaves a thick stain of red on Lorian’s finger. And so are all the others, dozens upon dozens, filling every corner of the cave. A black-haired woman, clad in a ragged dress, lays curled up at his left, dozed off in a deep sleep that the prince can’t help but envy. A young ginger man is lost in sobbing at his right. -Hey.- the prince whispers. -Hush. Don’t cry. We’ll be fine.- But the young one doesn’t seem to acknowledge he even exists, and his sobbing echoes through the cavern – tens, dozens, hundreds of people are crying at the same time, and their voices seem to blend into a senseless cacophony of despair. The knife he’d carry at his belt is no longer: neither is his belt at all, for that matter, and the strings of his boots, his medallion with the symbol of the Way of Blue engraved into it, his hairband, have all been taken away. His medallion is precious, but not the rest: they didn’t do it for the money. They want me alive, he presumes. And a more welcoming thought picks up at the bottom of his mind. They haven’t recognized me. Somehow it feels comforting. And at the though of Father foolishly revealing himself, screaming “I’m the king” in his captors’ faces, he can’t resist but snicker. He will be fine. He won’t make that mistake. What will he do, however, is simply beyond him. Staying calm is the first logical step – think of Lothric, think of home, think of the people around him that need a stable and firm prince to hold onto. His chest itches where the arrow had struck him, but no blood seeps out. They must have really skilled clerics.

For a while, Lorian’s thoughts drift away into an Abyss of no light. He doesn’t recognize any of the faces of his guards among the prisoners that share his limited space. The ginger man at his side, however, has ceased his crying and allowed him to hold his hand. -Thank you, Your Majesty.- he says. -Maybe they will be looking for you. It’s said that His Majesty is highly protective of his offspring.- Offspring: the proper word to refer to both him and his little brother. He must be missing him indeed, from the now lonely bedchambers he’s been confined to all his life. Lorian gives a distracted nod, hoping a white lie wouldn’t tarnish his perfect, princely soul. Or bring some sort of comfort to the terrified youth. -The Aldrich Faithfuls are strong and fearsome, but highly disorganized.- Lorian whispers. -If there was a leader, I’d start with them.- Their leader is a long-dead Saint – if such a name even befits the monstrous creature – that found the utmost pleasure in eating human flesh. His followers share a shred of the same tradition, and limit their consumption to “human dregs”. Whatever those things even are: maybe they’re even closer cannibals than Aldrich, and the joke makes the young man chuckle. -Listen.- Lorian suddenly says, and his cage rings as one of the Followers runs by its side and slams his shoulder against it. They converge towards the door, armed with longswords and axes and big hammers, golden Cleric Bells dangling on their belts. -They busted us!- a voice screams, but the blood-curdling scream that follows can only mean death. And a blinding white light – like the moon, Lorian thinks, and not even he knows how and why he came to that idea – fills the room, coming from the now open gates of the cavern. Their swords glisten as if they were made of silver. Their armors are garbed in white, looking as soft as clouds. And in the very middle of them there’s a child, no, a Godling, raising a small bow into the air, and a rain of arrows shines against the roof of the cave like a sky full of stars. -You’re free.- a stern female voice calls. An armored figure, clad in copper from their head to their toes, opens the door to his cage. -All of you. Run outside, do not look back. You’ll be reunited to your own soon enough.- Lorian takes a deep breath. -I’m Prince Lorian of Lothric.- he calls, but they do not seem to have heard. He suddenly feels tense, as if he expected a very familiar wooden blow to his palms. But I’m not there, and he’s not with me. The young figure, clad in a white tunic with silver accents, pulls at their bow again. A golden crown, in the shape of a blooming sun, covers their face up to the eyes. A golden crown he knows. -The Darkmoon!-. It’s the voice of the ginger man, wet in tears of joy. -He has come for us! Praise the Darkmoon and his Blades!- -Lady Sirris.- Gwyndolin’s smooth voice is like a song. -Lady Itoro. Left and right, surround them.- The woman in copper raises her arm to indicate she has understood. Another woman, clad in the traditional fashion of the Sunless Realms, draws an Estoc of her own towards a A black-haired woman lays on the ground, passed out and bleeding, a Greatsword still in the motionless hand. Lorian leaps to it and grabs it, welding it as if it was his own. Luckily, that one is still in the castle where it should be. Father would be rabid if he lost it, and he’d not even have another one forged. A lesson must be learned, boy, a voice repeats from the bottom of his mind. Lorian lashes at another sinner, plunging his sword right into his leg. And a second and third, always at the legs, before they even notice him. That’s panic for you, he thinks, and knocks another one down. The rain of arrows glows above him, and shines like ice or hail against a full moon.

Sweat drips down his face as he pants against the wall of the cavern, sticking to his long unkept hair. Yet again, a source of disdain – too good he’s not here and he will never know. Even so, Lorian has to remind himself of that, as a shadow looms over him and offers him a pale, open hand. He takes it without a second thought. As he has learned. -I thank you for your bravery, Prince Lorian.- The Darkmoon’s voice is high in pitch and gentle in tone, the opposite of what Lorian had been used to for a length he can hardly recall. He gives a timid shrug, shaking the rubble off his clothes. It feels as if he had been battling all his life. His muscles are sore, his heart seems to tremble within his ribcage, and his mouth is as dry as sandpaper. With what little voice he has, Lorian pants out a “thank you”; but not even he can hear it. Let alone the Divine himself.

-You were quick.- he adds. Then another, confused pause. -To intervene, I mean.- -And so were you.- Now that he’s standing, Gwyndolin looks smaller and much less imposing than before. Friendly, Lorian may add; and just as beautiful as the Moon that grants him his powers. -’Tis but the duty of the Darkmoon Blades. All of you are free, now.- The sun is setting in the farthest corner of the sky, and the clouds around it are lilac and smooth. Mother would love to paint them, if she still did. Maybe, Lorian tell himself as a means of consolation, just looking at them would be enough to make her content. The freed people are huddled in the nearby square, in groups of three to five, and the soft pitter-patter of their low chattering is a pleasant enough song to Lorian’s ears. -The Crown of Lothric will reward you greatly.- he says to the Godling by his side. Only one moment later does he realize – and he holds in place, covering his mouth as if he was ashamed. Because he is. He averts his eyes from Gwyndolin’s questioning expression, heart pounding again as if he was back into the cage. -I apologize, My Liege.-. He stares at his own feet, blinking frantically. -I didn’t mean to disrespect you. I meant no offense, I swear. Treating you like a mere mercenary…- Lorian can feel a stare at the bottom of his spine. Maybe it’s the crowd indeed, trying to figure out what the role of the bloody prince will be in that whole ordeal. Maybe it’s his father all the way from Lothric. He’s not present, nor will he be – Lorian knows, for he has lived by his side for more than twenty years – but he can still look at him from the castle, frowning and disappointed, black crevices in the depth of his pale white forehead as he sneers to his stupid, soft son. But there’s none in Gwyndolin’s smooth face – he can tell so, even with the sun-shaped crown that keeps his forehead covered. And there’s no wrinkles in his mouth either, as he offers him a pleasant expression. As sweet as ambrosia, which the Gods are said to eat. -No offense taken, Your Majesty.- Lorian almost jumps as the high-pitched, smooth voice reaches his ears again. As he expected no such thing. He had already prepared himself for that same, disappointed paternal growl. My father has such a growling voice because underneath his silk and furs, there’s but a beast, he would think whenever he was particularly angry at him. More and more frequently as the years passed, and the Flame flickered more, and Mother’s eyes were more and more forsaken. A skinny beast, with no claws and no fangs, but with a venomous tongue with a sharp aim, more similar to that of a snake than the dragons he so longingly coveted. But as he stares again at Gwyndolin’s tunic, and the slender reptilian forms that stick out from underneath, he starts to regret that analogy as well. For the snakes he sees are tender, and look at him with eyes no less sweet than a pup or a kitten. Lost in thought, he’s woken up again by the same, sweet tones. -Feel no remorse for your offer. I have no issues with your protocols and ways of doing. Nor do I expect to sindacate about the grateful will of parents whose child was taken from them.- There’s nothing to worry about in that regard. Lorian keeps the thought to himself, and whispers another, fainter “thank you”. Gwyndolin places his hand in his and gives it a gentle squeeze. -Now rest, Your Majesty. Soon all of you will be given a proper shelter, and reunited with your families.- -Have you heard the Darkmoon?- Lady Itoro repeats from a nearby post. -Everybody, keep calm. You’ll be fed and accommodated as soon as possible.- -Allow me to help you, My Liege. As the Crown Prince…- Lorian hesitates, grabbing the edge of his coat with sweaty hands. But Gwyndolin’s face, despite his covered eyes, means no harm. -Yes, Your Grace?- Lorian takes a deep breath, averting his gaze from the crowd. -…’tis my duty to help these poor people.- Gwyndolin opens a childlike hand and places it on his shoulder, pale and soft as silk right out of the cocoon. -Your presence is welcome, Prince Lorian. The blankets are over there. Soon, the soup will be ready, and we’ll need all hands possible to feed them quickly.- Lorian nods, and the eyes piercing his back seem to fade away.

The soup is like a rainbow: thick red and yellow bell peppers, orange carrots, pale onions, bright green leaves of mint, and a pinch of violet to make it look prettier. Lorian mixes it up without a word, feeling the gentle smell in his nostrils. For an adventure, this one was short enough. And it ended well. Gwyndolin sits cross-legged on a rock, no higher than the commoners that surround him. He smiles at all of them as if he has known them all his life. Lorian pours another bowl and leans it towards the Godling’s face. -Here, My Liege.- -No need for that.- Gwyndolin gives a gentle, sweet chuckle. -You can call me Gwyndolin. But I thank you for the offer, Lorian. I could have used some more.- Lorian sits down, by his side, like two children exchanging smalltalk. He has the same pale skin Lothric and Father have – but he shares Lothric’s cold voice as well, and a gentility only worthy of a prince. -You have fed countless.-. Gwyndolin stares in front of himself, contemplative. -I can feel nothing but respect for a prince so hard-working.- Lorian can feel himself blush. He says nothing, but a part of him feels as if Gwyndolin already knows. They’re an intelligent one, and as ancestral as the world itself. What is a prince, next to a God? -Those people owe you greatly.- -And you.- Gwyndolin says. -You fought valiantly. And tonight, you too will return home.- Lorian nods, not willing to add any further words. -I will cherish the memory of this day.- he says. The Darkmoon looks at him oddly, and there’s no surprise: he has been kidnapped, he remembers, and there should be no fondness in the trauma of the countless around. Yet, he feels no remorse at being selfish for once. And Gwyndolin looks as gorgeous as he’s ever been, smiling by his side, as gentle as the moon. Could a prince aspire to a God? -Yet,- he ends up muttering, -I do not feel safe.- Gwyndolin nods, taking his hands into his own. -I understand. Breathe, Lorian. ’Tis all over.- Lorian nods again. Because it is, for once in his life.

#dark souls #dark souls 3 #dark sun gwyndolin #lorian elder prince #lorilin #badthingshappenbingo #kidnapping #ily fren #hope u like it

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areasontobreathe · 5 years

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To any of my followers who spent their holidays being judged by strangers and family who can’t take the time to even know you, I just want you to know, you aren’t alone.

On every single social media platform I am on, I try very hard to spread positivity. And I get it, it comes off a little saccharine at times - You aren’t just thinking I am trying to hard sometimes. I am literally trying too hard sometimes, because I have had such a crummy day/week/whatever that I want to put some ‘nice’ in the world in case someone else is going through what I am going through, or something even worse.

Because, honestly, I wish someone was there to be nice to me.

However, the travesty of a holiday that I recently experienced must be said. This is your last chance: if you click below, there is profanity, mention of homophobia, mention of someone wishing rape on another individual, discussion of Christianity in both positive and negative light, and you’ll probably leave thinking I am crazy. And that’s okay - I know it sounds nuttier than squirrel turds, but it’s a harmless kind of crazy, which you’ll see if you read on.

Oh, and this is 100% not made up. Which is even weirder.

Christmas is usually my absolute favorite holiday. I get an excuse to wear silly sweaters and buy silly and/or thoughtful gifts. I get to cook for people I love and their families. Deck the house out in lights, cinnamon scented everything. I just love it.

2018 conspired to change that, apparently. In the lead up between Thanksgiving and Christmas, my spouse and I had a huge fight. The reason? Their family decided that ‘we’ were doing Christmas at my spouse’s uncle’s house. The misogynist, racist, homophobic, Christian zealot uncle’s house.

Umm... How about nooooooooooo. I refused to go, because this man has successfully pissed me right the fuck off every holiday for the last 7 years. I am not letting him ruin my Christmas this year. No. So, fight ensues, because my family is staying with us, and my spouse currently cannot stand the sight of my mom and wants to spend time with his family.

Eventually, the decision is made that the in-laws are coming to my house for Christmas instead (what on earth did I sign up for?). I made 2 things abundantly clear:

1) My family does an appetizer-buffet style Christmas, so that’s what I’m making, because I just made an enormous, traditional Thanksgiving dinner a month ago.

2) If Uncle Douchenozzle acts out of line, I’m kicking him out of my house. End of story. I’m a big believer in forgiveness, but that doesn’t mean I have to let him be rude to me.

Spouse agrees, in laws are coming to my house. Sigh.

Day of Christmas, I’m busting my butt getting food prepared, because my kitchen is too tiny for assistance, really, and everything has to be timed properly, whatnot. All other family members are sick and can’t make it. Okay, fine, leftovers for days.

Oh, But Uncle Douchenozzle makes it over to my house. He insists we all stop eating so he can pray over the meal before he eats. He talks at the top of his lungs and drives literally everyone but my spouse and I out of the room, and I’m squishing a panic attack as hard as I can to avoid being rude. Finally, time to exchange gifts, which means we can usher him out soon. He hands my spouse a wrapped package, and me a card. It’s a pretty typical Christmas card, doves and peace and joy and all that.

And a little note:

Go ahead. Look those verses up. I’ll wait.

Yeah. You did not misread those. This man came into my home, at my reluctance, ate at my table, and gave me Christmas card with a message that says, essentially, that I’m going to Hell. I’m sure he meant well, in his judgmental way: he has made inferences that my spouse and I don’t know God and he would really like us to get saved, etc, so on, so forth, for several years now. But the thing is? He has no idea what our leanings on faith/religion are. He has never bothered to ask, he just assumes we are Atheists or something because we disagree with him a lot of the time.

Well, yeah dude. You disowned your daughter when she came out to you at 18, and literally said you hope she gets raped as punishment from God for her homosexuality. I’m gonna disagree with you, hard.

And this is where things get kind of hysterical: I do, actually, believe in God. I’m saved. Have been for over 20 years. Then again, I don’t think Uncle Douchenozzle and I believe in the same God necessarily, sooo.... And honestly, I would never say I am Christian, because WBC is ‘Christian’, Uncle Douchenozzle is ‘Christian’, and I agree with half of one fact that I have heard from either of them - Yep, There’s a God. After that, it’s a lot of ‘nope’.

Where I start to sound madder than a box of frogs: The reason I don’t believe in any of the same things they do. It’s because I am, believe it or not, a child of prophecy.

Wait! Hang on! I’m not joking! Just listen a sec, okay?

When I was 14, I was a Church Camp (which is a thing), and the pastor at the camp prophesied over me between lunch and dinner one day (If you have ever spent a lot of time around Fundamental Christians of the Protestant Flavor, this is a really normal thing, I swear). Nothing flashy, no booming harmonics or funny lights or suspicious fog machines. But I will never forget what he told me, especially because it came out of pretty much nowhere.

He said that I was called by God to be a Servant (be patient...). Not to serve and grovel at the foot of man, but help and aide others without hesitation, to love without judgement, and to forgive completely. And that, while my name would be forgotten, as all servants in the Bible were (even the Angels who opened Jesus’ tomb had no names) my kindness and unwavering support of people would change lives.

He said this. To a 14 year old girl. Who was eight years into being abused by her own brother, and only stopped being abused by her grandmother because the grandmother fucking croaked. I did exactly what you think I did. I said “oh, fuck this dude, he’s nuts.” And I spent the next several years avoiding being kind to people, just because no one was there for me when I needed it.

Oh, my, gosh. I was miserable. Then, God got a little impatient and a lot less subtle about this shit: My boss asked me to help her organize a food and gift drive for underprivleged teenagers who aged out of Toys For Tots but were still young enough that it sucked not getting Christmas presents. I had actually been one of those kids before, minus the toy drive, so I attacked this thing with a vengence. My team spoiled those kids rotten, gave them good food that you actually want to eat.... everything for Christmas dinner but the main meat course. I did God’s work out of spite because no one was there for me like that.

It was the gateway good-deed, my friends. I was genuinely happy for the first time in years. And it slid from there: Being nice to people, volunteer events and fundraisers once a month, 6 different gift and/or food drives at Christmas, you name it. And I feed people. Oh my gosh do I feed people. It’s like a compulsion: if you are at my house and it gets dark, I assume you are staying for dinner and will cook for you.

But other things have come to mind over the years: I have never in my life judged someone for their religion. Honestly, I’m pretty sure we all believe in the same higher power, we just use different names (which, technically, Christianity does say there is only one God... And if they’re all the same higher power, then yeah, that’s true). Being a jerk about it, yeah I judge, but I let them prove they’re assholes before I call them one. I have always been genuinely nonplussed when people come out to me. Cool, I’m very glad you trust me enough to tell me. I will literally never tell anyone, because that would not be cool of me. Okay. Good talk. And I am actually that person who sees a challenge when someone decides they don’t like me as a person. Oh, for real fam? We gon’ be besties. Just you wait. (One person I did this to actually brags out how ‘insidiously friendly’ I am)

Then we circle back, and that Bible verse is jotted in my Christmas card. I sobbed for 2 hours, could not calm down. Like, dude, you don’t even know me. I am literally doing what God told me to do!

So yeah, if you had someone hate you for religion, or sexual orientation, or being trans... if you had to hide yourself and listen to them disparage people like you, I am so so sorry. But I’m here for you. Because you read this entire beast of a post, so you were there for me. We need to be there for each other 💜

#long post #i'm not kidding #tw:profanity #tw: christianity #really this is long

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spoopybruh · 6 years

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Excerpt in relation to this AU + spectrum!verse

He teases Shane about his hobby of collecting and framing butterflies, but gets him sturdy box frames for his craft. Leans in, hip resting against the side of his companion’s desk, observing his hands at work with a curious tilt of his head. Ryan is, surprisingly, quiet when he’s focused on something.

And right now, the subject of his focus appears to be Shane. Though he makes no move to address the intensity of his gaze, he could feel the weight of it resting between his shoulders as he smooths out the material and carefully pins the specimens he’d collected to the plastazote.

With practised ease, Shane patiently introduces the body pins in a sturdy pressure, going the extra mile to ensure that they’re secure with cross-pinning. It’s only when he begins wiping excess dust off the main frame that Ryan finally speaks.

“Why butterflies?” A brief scrape of chair legs can be heard as he takes a seat. “Just seems kinda like an expensive hobby to have, that’s all.”

“More expensive than your sneakers?” Shane couldn’t let go of the opportunity for a sly dig back in return, pausing to shoot Ryan a cheeky grin. He watches the other reach out instinctively with the intention of pushing his shoulder playfully, only to remember what Shane had been in the middle of doing, resulting in a quick retraction and grins even wider.

"At least I use them. Shut up and answer the question.” “Don’t you mean shut up or answer the question? Bit impossible to do both at once, I’m afraid.” He has to place his pins down so that he could snicker in earnest when he earned himself an irritated sound from Ryan. Alright, better throw the ol Bergmeister a bone before he puffs up for real. He’s had his smidge of fun. “They make me happy, that’s all.” “Really? That’s it?” “Yeah. What other reason do you need to do something?” A quick glance at Ryan’s expression tells him the other sees his point but refuses to concede purely for the sake of banter and Shane sighs. Not unkindly. In fact, it’d be odd if Ryan didn’t hold onto that. There must be something more. There’s always something more in his companion’s perspective. That’s why he sees things where there isn’t.

And while it’s a trait that is trying from time to time, it is a respectable ability that had led the detective into cracking open several cases. Cold ones.

“Beautiful things are fragile, Ryan. You can keep them behind glass, and they’d be safe. But that doesn’t mean they’d be happy.” Like people. Like you. He doesn’t say. “Memories, on the other hand, they stay. And you can revisit the feeling however many times you like.”

His handiwork is given a thorough inspection. Once satisfied, Shane begins the process of piecing the case frame back together. “The butterflies I collect- they’re all tied to a good memory. I like to look at them and revisit from time to time. Even when I’m bored of them-” And that’s the problem. He’s always bored. Sure, he’ll find something that captures his fancy. But they never last. Even if he wants them to. He loses interest eventually. Sometimes completely. Not for the lack of trying though.

"Even when I’m bored of them, I can still appreciate their beauty. Things don’t change.” Frozen in stasis. “Satisfied?”

Ryan’s still scrunching his features like he wants to argue, but Shane knows without having to push, that it’s sufficient enough of a response for now. “I guess. I still think it’s weird but it’s fitting for someone as wacky as you.”

“Hey you’re the one who believes in ghosts without definitive proof-” “There is definitive proof, mister! And one of these days you’ll see that I’m right.”

"Sure, you keep telling yourself that.”

He snickers again when he’s graced with another abortive swipe. But Ryan’s grinning back at him in return with one of his fond but exasperated sighs all the same.

“You read too much into shit with that Detective noggin of yours, Ryan. Gotta learn how to turn it off sometimes. Might cause you trouble if you don’t. You never know what kind of attention you’d be getting when you look too deep.”

"Oh please, I can handle my own shit. Although I gotta say, you sure are sounding eerily similar to someone else for a moment there. Been hanging around Goldsworth often lately? Is this a planned intervention?”

Against his own volition, Shane wheezes. “Ryan, sweetie. We’re all gathered here today because we’re worried about you-” He simpers and the both of them break off into bouts of laughter. Then Ryan just has to one up Shane by busting out his ‘Ricky’ impersonation and they’re gone.

It takes a while before Shane can regain his breath again, chest aching as he inhales lungfuls of air.

“Okay fine, I’ll admit. That’s some grade A pretentious ricky stuff right there. But you gotta admit, the man has a point. With a background like his and all that, he’d be the type.”

“The type to what?”

With a brain like Ryan’s, it’s not too difficult to get him on track. A little nudge here. A suggestion there. And he could already see gears slowly beginning to turn. It’d probably be easier to bite the bullet and tell him. That way, Ryan wouldn’t spend his time trying to make connections out of nothing. But certain sacrifices are necessary. And if that’s the only option he has, then it’s an option he’ll take. Shane is, unfortunately, just as human as everyone else.

So he simply smiles in a manner he knows would get under his companion’s skin. Much as it always does when he’s being cryptic.

“Come help me choose where to put this up.” He replies in lieu of a proper response, holding up the pristine frame as he stands.

Ryan complains in a bout of huffs and annoyed tongue clicks, but Shane hears the steady sound of footfalls following after him. They contemplate the pros and cons of hanging it with the rest as Shane dips down to press chaste kisses against the line of Ryan’s shoulders.

Not today. Not now. Maybe not ever. Not yet.

#spectrum!verseshane #myfics #its not really anything concrete. just written to cope w things

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sparklyjojos · 6 years

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--[Disco Wednesdayyy 24/?] The brave new world is made out of closed rooms, or are we really switching the genre over 1000 pages into the book? Okay then. [tw: csa, child abuse, brief gore]--

Last time, Disco arrived at the World’s End, accidentally jumped to the year 2019, and discovered that a company called Styron Japan built themselves a nice new skyscraper in Chofu. As soon as Disco enters the building, a bunch of company vicepresidents introduce themselves and tell him JJ Styron is already waiting. Judging by their quick explanations, JJ naturalized himself through marriage with a Japanese woman and was planning on spreading his influence to Japan.

JJ welcomes Disco with tea and sweets and says he’s been awaiting this visit for years. He looks startingly young for his 38 years, but asked about it claims he’s just taking good care of himself, since it’s not like he can jump in time or something, haha! Already unsettled, Disco asks about Sharon Styron’s death.

“Ah, yes, she’s dead.” JJ answers casually. “I killed her. Drugged her so she couldn’t move and cut her to pieces while she was still conscious.”

“...Why?”

“Why? Because she betrayed me, of course! The only thing she cared about was protecting you. I’ve been trying to find you and your family, and she refused to give me any information. She claimed you were an orphan.” So she must have sincerely believed the lies Disco told her about his identity... “Well, but it turns out she wasn’t lying... Mr. William Eady.”

Completely confused, Disco looks at the documents JJ shows him. A birth certificate. ‘William Eady’, ‘orphan’, a slightly different day of birth, ‘St. Paul’s Church in New York’ as the place he was found in. Everything exactly like in the made up story he told Sharon. ...If emotions can take external shape, can imagination, fiction? But then Disco notices the documents were ‘found’ by the law office in which the real William Eady is employed, so it’s likely that the lawyer forged the certificate to protect Disco.

“What were you going to do to me when you found me?”

“Kill you, if you went in my way. But now that the company is big enough to no longer be threatened by you, I don’t really care. And you know what? I can’t help but feel deep respect for you for doing your best to solve the mystery. Which is why I’d love for you to become the sales promoter for our wonderful Kozue Method! I can vouch for its effectiveness -- why, I’m my company’s client as well, and look how youthful I am. Well, my body is physically 11, haha!”

He spreads a variety of pamphlets on the table.

“You’ve heard about using stem cells acquired from clones to grow organs and such, have you? The Kozue Method is bolder! You can exchange the entire body at once! It’s perfectly possible, since the personality of a person is tied to consciousness, and not their physical body. Of course, we cooperate with the Blackswan company, who’s the patent holder for the Main Child treatment and for thouroughly preparing the Jacket, that is, the vessel Sub Child. It’s the single greatest development in the world’s history, and it’s all thanks to you, Disco!”

The Kozue Method involves the following procedure. The client -- the Main Child -- is given horrible abuse, so just like it was with Kozue parts of themselves split off and take over fetuses still in the womb, pushing the original souls out. These split off parts -- the Sub Children -- are born and raised, then mysteriously disappear one day, and the empty bodies (the ‘Jackets’, as JJ calls them) are used as new vessels for the Main Child.

That’s not all. From what JJ says, it seems the global consciousness, humanity’s emotions and will, can now be curated -- after all, there’s a way to get negative emotions and violent thoughts quite literally out of you, and apparently resentment will vanish with ‘split personalities’ too. This resulted in a clean, shiny, perfectly peaceful world with apparently zero creativity, to the point that no new fictional media is really made. [I’m... honestly confused as to how this exactly works, especially considering some later parts. Maybe JJ is just overexaggerating.]

“It really is all thanks to you! You found Kozue and the six others, managed to connect them back together, and the news spread all over the world. You’re a hero, Disco!”

“...How many kids did you... did you sell?”

“In the last 10 years it’d be, hm, two hundred millions? Now, now, I understand you have reservations. There’s a little guilt involved, but it’s not like people don’t live with many little guilts on their backs anyway. We’re improving the procedures, too! We already established that sexual abuse makes the job done the quickest, and hey, the faster it is, the shorter it hurts! The kid will just forget it anyway. The Blackswan guys are true specialists, they can do a lot in just one tiny moment. In a single second the child gets, what did you call it? ‘Abuse’, and in the next, the memory has already been moved to the other personality. It’s good that the parents don’t have to see it, since nobody likes to live thinking their children are being hurt.”

Blackswan. The company’s logo on the pamphlets looks familiar.

[The name Blackswan (or Black Swan? I’m not sure of the spelling here) may be a reference to Project Bluebird, which -- at least according to all the conspiracy websites out there -- involved among other unethical experiments trying to induce DID in healthy subjects.]

“You may think: what about the parents of the Sub Children?” JJ continues. “Aren’t they angry? Here’s where one of our big achievements comes into play. You’ve heard about the vanishing twin phenomenon, right? Of course you have, you met Daibakusho Curry. It happens a lot in nature. The strongest survives. What we’re doing here is just giving the poor weak kids a chance! We retrieve and raise them, so they can get a go at living before... being reused.”

How can this future be avoided?, Disco thinks. Is the Black Bird Man involved? Maybe if Disco finds and defeats him, all this can be fixed. But no, he can’t change the future in any way... so what can he do? Find children. Somehow protect the Main Children from abuse, so this entire system breaks. So twins no longer vanish, just like he promised to Run Run -- oh God, if Run Run can speak and act like a human, does this mean...?

Disco asks JJ if Run Run was a victim of their experiments too (maybe they tried to transfer human souls into animal bodies at first?), but JJ seems to genuinely have no idea what he’s talking about.

“Ah, whatever,” JJ says, waving his hand. “You don’t seem convinced, and I’ll forget everything that happened here anyway once you leave.”

But before Disco can actually leave, JJ turns on a futuristic screen and shows him a documentary called LAMIA SYNDROME (2019), sponsored among other by Styron Japan. “Just so you know I’m not lying to you,” JJ says.

The documentary states that 4- to 8-year-old children have been disappearing all over the world since autumn 2006 in a phenomenon called Lamia Syndrome. A few parents talk about how their children suddenly vanished even under close supervision. We see a recording from a mall security camera showing a little girl holding her grandfather’s hand one second and disappearing the next. The footage is then repeated frame by frame. Just before the girl vanishes, another man shows up in the frame.

It’s not the Black Bird Man.

It’s future ‘Disco’. He looks around sixty and seems very happy about something. Looking straight into the camera, he gives it a thumbs up, and with the other hand holds up a sign with a single sentence:

THE WORLD IS MADE OUT OF CLOSED ROOMS

The documentary has a literary critic explain that “this is the title of Ehimegawa Juuzou’s 1996 novel, the 7th book in the Runbaba series. In it, a criminal called the Locked Room Billionaire announces that he’s going to kill a billion people in locked room situations in just ten years. Even if people may try to avoid going inside buildings or returning home, they’re nevertheless trapped in the locked rooms of their own fear.”

[Lore note: this is not even remotely what Maijo’s 2002 novel The World is Made out of Closed Rooms is about. Instead, it seems to be a combination of Seiryoin’s Cosmic and Carnival, with the main villain’s name and modus operandi being a mix of the Locked Room Lord and the Billion Killer. 1996 is when Cosmic was first released, too. I honestly wonder how different JDC is in Disco-verse if Mitamura could get away with this.]

“The crowded mall situation seems similar to one from the book,” the critic continues, “although there’s no proof that the same locked room trick was used. This time, there’s just an evil man at work. He seems similar in looks to Disco Wednesdayyy, a detective and one of the 31 people who disappeared in the Pine House case, which concerned Ehimegawa Juuzou’s death. The same man was involved in finding Yamagishi Kozue, the origin of the Kozue Method. Closed Rooms predicted our current situation in which children are sent to shelters in order to protect them from the Lamia Syndrome. Maybe by using the book’s title, the man is trying to say that he, a great detective, will eventually open the locked room... that is, bust open the shelters and kidnap the children.”

(Disco’s like, no, no, I’m not even a great detective, I’m a hardboiled detective! I don’t know shit about locked room tricks! I haven’t even read Mitamura’s books! [You know, you probably should, Mitamura seems to have put a lot of useful hints in those.] And all this must be a mistake, it’s not like I’d ever start kidnapping children... right?)

The documentary then shows an interview with the only survivor of the Pine House -- Dezuumi Style, now much older, who isn’t sure whether the man in the photo really is his friend Disco Wednesdayyy (and aw, he really refers to Disco as his friend, even if they hardly ever talked). From the interview we learn that this new world doesn’t need writers or great detectives anymore; no locked room murders or tricky false alibi cases or anything similar ever happens anymore. Dezuumi believes that ‘Disco’s’ Closed Rooms message is sarcastic, to show that “in a stiff world without different points of view or creativity, instead of people being closed in locked rooms in mystery novels, it’s now human emotions, ideas and values that are closed in new locked rooms...”

“But isn’t it right to stop the unwanted thoughts and focus on the useful ones?” the interviewer asks.

“No. People should be always thinking about new topics and coming up with new inventions. They should dare to break things. Trying to keep everyone’s thoughts perfectly ordered is terrorism.”

Next, the documentary shows Iwasaki Kousuke, the taxi driver from Nishi Akatsuki, who also isn’t sure if that’s Disco in the photo. When the interviewer brings up that Iwasaki’s family defeated cancer thanks to Kozue Method and that the idea of ‘a lifespan’ may soon be irrelevant to humanity, Iwasaki says that he’s still not sure if that’s a good thing. Death is a fact of life, after all, and we should be grateful for happiness and sadness.

The documentary then says the whoever the mysterious man is, he has kidnapped close to three hundred million children since 2006...

JJ stops the movie, saying that what he wanted Disco to see is that there really is only a tiny group of people in Japan standing against him, and the rest of the world is pretty much his. “But do you understand now why I have respect for you? Three hundred millions! For the first two years, we could hardly ever find the kids, since you hid the majority of them! I thought that maybe killing your family would lure you out, but that plan didn’t work out... and it’s not like the Blackswan guys haven’t already killed you seven times.” The time fold effects must have protected Disco from permanently dying in the future.

Three hundred million kids?! That’s be over 60 000 a day! You’d need an entire organization of space-jumpers to pull off something like this... or thirty one people from the Pine House. Did ‘Mercury C’ prevent everyone from leaving because they were meant to form a group, and their mysterious disappearance meant they simply moved to the shadows? Have the others spent years and years helping him hide the kids from Styron and recruit new space-jumpers?...

But where do you even hide three hundred million kids? They could probably warp any small space to accomodate even that number, and since they could jump in time they’d just make it so a child stays there for merely a second before it’s returned to their parents once the world becomes safe. But would they ever return them, considering that Styron won the battle for the world?...

Disco asks if JJ hurt the families of Disco’s accomplices, to which JJ claims he wanted to take down Disco first, so he didn’t bother yet. But anyway, JJ really wants Disco to stop this whole children kidnapping thing, because can’t Disco see how much the parents are hurt by his actions~? [You’re one to talk, buddy.] He resumes the documentary to show one last scene.

19-year-old Kozue says she’s not sure if the man in the photo is Disco. “I feel sympathy for the affected parents, and I think it'd be best to return the kids to them. The Disco I knew wouldn't do something horrible like that. Are you sure it's not someone else?” Then, as she’s leaving the shot, she looks back at the camera and yells that maybe it’d be better if she had never gotten involved with Disco at all.

The documentary ends by stating that the global birth rate is drastically falling, since women are afraid to bring children into the world in which the Lamia Syndrome runs rampant. It’s predicted that by 2080 the human race will stop procreating except for the purpose of prolonging their immortal lives.

“See? If you keep going, you’ll be the one responsible for the destruction of the human race,” JJ says. “Don’t you feel bad about it?”

But all Disco answers with is “Thank you for the movie, JJ. It was quite illuminating.”

“Huh? That’s not just some movie, that’s reality! Don’t you feel bad? Angry?”

“Not really. All it did was prove me that I’m right. Have you ever seen the kanji for ‘lifespan’ (寿命)? The first one (寿) may mean ‘congratulations’, ‘celebration’, ‘being happy with life’. There would be nothing to ‘celebrate’ if there wasn’t a finite ‘lifespan’. You really aren’t naturalized yet if you don’t get it. Japanese people understand why there would be no charm in making sakura trees bloom all year long.”

“Well, clearly Japanese people are mistaken. You can’t look at kamikaze pilots and tell me there’s nothing wrong with their heads!”

“You really don’t get sacrifices for a great cause, JJ. While kamikaze sacrificed their lives, they yelled ‘banzai’, which means ‘ten thousand years of life’. Not death, but life. You saw me smile in that photo in the documentary, did you? That smile is my banzai. If the future can’t be changed, then all this movie proves is that my future is bright: every single day spent fulfilled as I’m protecting children.”

As Disco sets to leave (again), JJ pulls out his last trump card and calls his Japanese wife to the room.

It’s Norma Brown. Or rather, Fuyuno Norma Brown. JJ’s new name is apparently Fuyuno Shinji.

Norma is overjoyed to see Disco and sweeps him in a hug, saying that she’s been looking for him all this time. She’s different than he remembers. Sure, she has the same personality, but she looks Japanese, which overall makes her the spitting image of Norma-faced Koeda.

“Do you not like this body of mine, Disco?” she asks seeing his reaction. “Don’t worry, it wasn’t obtained from some poor child! Shinji, haven’t you explained that to him yet?! The method has been improved, Disco! The Jackets are now cultivated in artificial wombs. No more pushing out souls out of the original to obtain a Subchild! After birth, they’re raised by good volunteer mothers. In addition, we discovered that stimulus other than ‘suffering’ works for inducing new personalities. Children aren’t hurting anymore, Disco!”

“It’s useless, honey,” JJ says. “This isn’t the Disco you knew. He no longer protects children.”

Norma tries to persuade Disco to stop taking children away, but he still won’t budge. She has a little exchange with JJ who seems to be seriously jealous (”Do you love me like you love Disco?”), and assures JJ that of course she loves him, Disco starts considering to bring out one of his hidden knives and attack JJ...

But before Disco can make a move, something explodes. It takes Disco a few seconds to realize that while he’s still holding Norma in his arms, her lower half was blown off by a small bomb hidden inside her body, much like the one Disco once pulled out of Nils. Her last words are, “You’re my hero, Disco.”

Disco desperately puts her body back together, trying not to ‘run away to the Pineapple Home’ [I like that this became a metaphore for withdrawing into your mind from shock]. But no matter what he does, she doesn’t come back to life.

“This isn’t her original body,” JJ says. He looks almost as shocked as Disco by what just happened. “The soul can’t return to it, and the original body is already gone...”

“But there’s a spare one, right? There must be!” Disco yells, mortified at his own response. Would he really sacrifice a child for her?... “No, wait... If I just return to the past, all will be undone. She’ll be alive again--”

“No. Norma is dead,” JJ says. “She’s going to be dead in every possible history from now on. Sure, this is just an imaginary, fictional future... but she wasn’t. She came from the past. We met in 2003, and the Blackswan guys helped arrange it so that she’d be taken to 2008, and then we’d get married. Now that she’s gone, her research will disappear too. She was the one who came up with all the new projects, so our progress will be lost... according to plan. Of course! The Blackswan guys must have swindled me again! She’s been kept here all this time for the sole purpose of being killed in front of you! It’s your fault!”

Was it really his fault?... No. Everything's already decided. Every attempt to change history is already contained in that history.

While JJ is still blaming him, Disco doesn’t take that shit and asks “JJ, what was the phrase activating the bomb? It was the question you asked her, wasn’t it?”

[Wait, those bombs are phrase-activated. Which means Nils openly opposing JJ Styron while in a conversation with him was even more awe-inspiring than I thought. DAMN, kid.]

Disco puts the bomb back together, slam dunks it into JJ's body, and starts the last barrage of questions.

Why isn’t JJ busy with drug cartels anymore? Apparently the Blackswan guys managed to somehow remove the hallucinatory effect of drugs, since it could destroy their idea of perfectly managed global consciousness.

So there’s peace in the world, but no new media is created, no Spielbergs or Hendrixes? Maybe so, but hey, even Disco’s beloved San Diego is now clean and pretty! (Disco finds this fact hard to imagine and honestly quite disturbing.)

What was going on with that case with JJ’s seven underlings, why were they all hanging by just one leg? “I don’t know, have you tried asking that kid that should be in the Pine House, Nils Mikami?” [Yeah, you better remember his name!]

Does JJ know about the Pineapple Home? No clue what that even is.

Alright. As Disco prepares to leave (for the nth time in this sequence), JJ says, “If you go back to the past now, the childless method Norma invented would cease to exist too, you know.”

“No. Norma was a great person, but not a unique one. There are many others like her who can come up with it.” [I assume that since the future is unchanging, somebody else really will come up with it.]

“...in the end, I’m weak and you’re weak. No matter the time or place, the weak are an easy target. No, maybe we just have different kinds of strength. After all, you didn’t run away even as Norma was dying in your arms. ...you know, she didn’t answer my question properly. She said that she loved me. But my question was... Do you love me like you love Disco?”

Disco instantly pulls the bomb out of JJ’s body and tosses it through the window, where it explodes at a safe distance. Not ouf of mercy or anything, just because fuck you, you slimy bastard, you’re not getting off that easy, and Disco will be sure to think of a much, much worse punishment later. [HELL YEAH]

Leaving the room (and pretty devastated looking JJ), Disco happens to glance at the sweets he was welcomed with, and notices the logo of a shop called Makuri-ya. ‘Makuri”... “Mercury”? Mercury C did say he was the owner of a traditional Japanese confectionary shop in Chofu...

It may be a good time to go shopping for some explanation.

#sparkly reads disco #maijo and jdc stuff #long post #I still have no idea how this entire system works tbh this was... a confusing chapter #also are there really TWO female characters who solely exist in this book to get fridged for manpain. seriously maijo what the hell

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