#yes i love his panache i love how much he fucks up everything and i love how hes beyond redemption
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no by all means keep judging cartoon villains solely by if they get redeemed in the end. i know some of us like to talk about other stuff like characterization or entertainment value or nuance as something that makes a good villain. but i think the only thing that actually matters is if the villain ends up on good terms with the protagonist at the end. all the Good TM cartoons with Good TM creators make the villains die a Horrible Death for being Abusers or whatever. and all the Bad TM cartoons with Bad TM creators Forgive Fascists by not making them get publicly executed by the 14 year old protagonist in front of the 8 year old target demographic.
i mean im so glad that more cartoons nowadays are subverting the psyop to support fascists that a few queer artists and queer shows definitely invented in 2017. there are so many popular cartoons doing that. it's almost like there are more properties killing their villains now and in the past than there ever were of properties that didn't do this. and it's almost like whether the villain gets redeemed at the end is more about the context of the story and its themes leading up to a narratively sound decision.
but you know. a few queer shows made by trans ppl were popular and they didn't kill their fascists and even had the gall to make them nuanced while also looking into the harm they did. guess it's trendy to forgive your abusers now because like two cartoons said so. out of like 40 other similarly high profile works that just straight up hit their villains with a bus or smth. by all means. keep heaping praise onto that one show about how they "let their villain just be evil" instead of talking about anything more interesting. that's so subversive, everyone's doing it!
#shut up pandora#check off my 'monthly rant about the treatment of the creators of steven universe and she ra'#this is because of the 'praise' ive been seeing for belos btw#yes i love his panache i love how much he fucks up everything and i love how hes beyond redemption#thats not because he was Born Evil and has always Been Evil???#ppl who show baby belos going out of his way to make calebs life a living hell and evelyn Rescuing this poor blond boy from his Evil Brothe#i am sending so many bad vibes at you rn#he isnt a good villain bc dana terrace decided to be 'subversive' by not redeeming belos#JUST being subversive while writing the story doesnt mean you make a good story being subversive =/= being good#hes a good villain because while his decisions are dogshit we can understand why he made them on an emotional level#and since gravity falls seems to be the golden standard for modern cartoons i guess#bill cipher also isnt a good villain bc hes evil and they killed him#bill is a good villain bc hes entertaining in the threat he poses#what makes a character a good villain is about stuff they do while theyre being a villain#dont just sum it up with 'duhhh they killed them at the end so its good' thats entirely dependent on the story!#anyway this is specifically about modern western cartoon fandoms#if youre telling me to watch shows that arent modern western cartoons or like. read a book then know that i do that already#this stuff isnt as big of a discourse topic in those circles but im talking about this specific circle rn
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The One With The Room Reassignment
Aguni needs a new room. For, well, reasons. Embarrassing reasons. Reasons that he’s trying not to disclose to anyone, least of all Takeru, who...well, you know how he is.
But it’ll all be okay.
Right?
(Because I simply could not have read this post by @missdrake without writing the Aguni prompt. I mean, come on, the opportunity for banter was just too good!)
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Rating: ‼️18+‼️ Do Not Interact If You Are Underage
Warnings: descriptions of sexual situations, referenced drug use, alcohol, threats of violence
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Of all the places Aguni could be right now, this has to be one of the worst.
It’s not that he dislikes Takeru’s room, per se. On the contrary, he actually enjoys the subtle opulence of the space, spelled out in caramel-colored woods and blue-green drapes.
It’s fancy, yes, but approachable. Comfortable, even.
But, in this moment, Aguni feels anything but comfortable. He feels antsy, he feels jumpy—he feels the angry little teeth of embarrassment nibbling at the ends of his nerves, and its making his palms sweat.
Are the lights in here extra hot, or is that just him?
...It’s probably just him.
It doesn’t help that Takeru is staring at him, those deep-dark eyes filled with their usual mix of subtle scrutiny mixed with glittering amusement and finished off with a dash of smug confidence—like a flourish of whipped cream atop a hot fudge sundae, if the whipped cream had the uncanny ability to see into a person’s soul and the hot fudge sundae was a lovable bastard whose modus operandi involved creating as much drama as possible.
“This is a pleasant surprise,” Takeru says—and he is so very feline, stretched into a graceful sprawl along the black leather sofa, his lips curled into a serene, sleepy smile around the lip of a champagne flute.
Aguni doesn’t even like champagne, but he’s been taking small, nervous sips from his own glass all the same because that is infinitely more manageable than talking. Except, well...because he’s not talking, the situation is getting more and more awkward by the minute.
“Didn’t expect you to be alone.”
“I’ve decided to take the night off,” Takeru says, rolling his shoulders back in a slow stretch of spine, “The games, the meetings, the endless parade of unfortunates looking for guidance and reassurance? It wears on you, Mori-chan.”
As if to illustrate the point, Takeru heaves a dramatic sigh.
“There’s something wearing on you, too, isn’t there? You look...pained?”
“I, uh,” Aguni swallows nervously. This is the part he’s been dreading for the last hour, and now that it’s here...well. All he has to do is stick to the plan and everything will be okay.
Maybe.
Hopefully.
“I...” Aguni gulps, “need a new room.”
Although his delivery leaves something to be desired in the “calm and collected” department, Aguni is quite pleased with himself for having managing to get the words out without blushing.
...Okay, he’s probably blushing a little bit, but Takeru hasn’t teased him about it yet, so it can’t be that bad.
“Oh? Why?”
Aguni’s jaw tightens. The problem with Takeru (one of the many, if he’s being honest) is that the man can be particularly difficult to read. Even after thirty-plus years of friendship, Aguni can’t tell what he’s thinking half of the time, which has left him in quite a few...situations. Difficult situations. Confusing situations. Awkward situations.
Situations like these, where Aguni’s brain is spinning like a high-powered carousel on a pottery wheel inside of a giant blender and someone keeps pressing the ‘pulse’ button with a giant hammer and it’s all very loud and very unpleasant.
“The bed,” he answers slowly, “uh, the bed is...broken.”
“Broken?”
Aguni takes another gulp of alcohol—too much for one swallow, and his throat spasms around the popping fizz of carbonation. He coughs slightly.
“Yes,” Aguni clarifies, “Broken.”
Takeru rolls his eyes.
“Always the brilliant conversationalist,” Takeru says, dripping with sarcasm and waving his champagne with a dismissive gesture, “We’ve established that the bed is broken, but you’ve failed to mention how it is broken, and since I do not know the extend of the breakage, I am unable to determine if you do, in fact, need to be moved to a different room. Space is limited, Mori-chan. I can’t afford to be frivolous about such things.”
Had he not been so focused on maintaining some semblance of composure, Aguni might have teased his friend for lecturing him about frivolity—but now is not the time for chit-chat. He is a man on a mission, and the success of said mission is dependent on his ability to, as they say, ‘get in and get out.’
“The frame. It, uh...snapped off of the headboard,”Aguni answers carefully, “It’s...I can’t sleep on it.”
Takeru’s eyes narrow.
“Ah. I see.”
Silence settles between them once more—only for a moment, but it’s enough to make Aguni shift uncomfortably in his seat.
“I can fix it,” Aguni adds, “I just...need a place to stay tonight.”
There is a flash of silver—Takeru is one of the only people Aguni knows under the age of sixty who uses a cigarette case, which is both charming and frequently inconvenient— and it’s only a second before the scent of smoke and nicotine fills the air.
“I suppose that’s reasonable,” he concludes—and it’s a weight off of Aguni’s mind and heart that Takeru hasn’t decided to ask him a million questions regarding the “why’s” and “how’s” of his current predicament.
Perhaps there’s a chance he can make it out of here (relatively) unscathed.
So, when Takeru offers Aguni a drag on his cigarette, Aguni doesn’t much read into the gesture and gladly accepts.
“Hm,” Takeru says.
“What?”
“That is...so interesting.”
Aguni hands the cigarette back to his friend.
“Not sure what you mean.”
“I’m just reminiscing, I suppose,” Takeru says airily, “about the last time we shared a cigarette. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”
Something blooms in Aguni—something bad and uncertain.
“I don’t—“
“Oh, it’s been years. Three, actually. And a half. Tell me, Mori-chan,” Takeru furrows his brow, “can you remember where we were three-and-a-half years ago?”
Remember the ‘something’ that bloomed inside Aguni just a moment ago? Well, it has a name, and that name is ‘intense discomfort.’ He knows where this is going. He knows he’s powerless to stop it.
“Don’t worry, my dear friend—I remember,” he says, closing his eyes and smiling to himself, “Halloween. Osaka. 2018. I was Freddie Mercury. You were Elton John. It took me ages to get all those sequins sewn on...”
Takeru takes one final hit from the cigarette before stubbing it out into a (decidedly lovely) teacup that happened to be conveniently placed on the coffee table in front of him.
“Isn’t that the year you threw the statue of Colonel Sanders into the river?”
Takeru sneers.
“You mean the year I threw Colonel Sanders into the river alone because...somebody ran off with the mascot from that mediocre takoyaki stand,” he snips, “and then had the audacity to show up two hours later asking for a cigarette. Do you know why you asked for a cigarette, Mori-chan?”
“Oh no.”
“It’s because you didn’t have any on you. Because you don’t usually smoke. Unless,” and Takeru positively relishes his dramatic pause, “it’s after sex.”
Aguni doesn’t say anything.
“You thought you could come into my house,” Takeru shouts, “after having mind-blowing, soul-shattering sex—the kind of sex that snaps bed frames clean in half—and I wouldn’t know about it?”
“But how did you—?”
“I heard you,” Takeru spits, “howling like...like some kind of demonic wolf in the light of a full moon!”
“I couldn’t have been that loud...”
“Loud enough to hear from down the hall,” Takeru adds, “frankly, I’m impressed. And a little jealous.”
“Jealous?”
“Of your lover. Nobody’s broken a bed fucking me lately, which is a goddamn shame,” Takeru sips from his glass, “Don’t suppose you’ll tell me who it was, hm?”
“No,” Aguni snaps, perhaps a bit too quickly, “making fun of me is one thing, but I won’t you have you making fun of my...uh, my...”
“Paramour?”
“...Sure,” Aguni says, “Look, the point is, it’s important that I—“
“Yes, yes, you’re about to lecture me about ‘privacy’ and ‘boundaries’ and all the things decent people like you are oh-so-interested in preserving,” Takeru says, rolling his eyes, “Believe it or not, I am capable of discretion.”
“You are?”
“When the situation calls for it,” Takeru muses, “or if it’s simply more fun to keep my mouth shut and watch the drama unfold. You having a secret lover ticks both boxes.”
Takeru jumps up from his seat and claps his hands together.
“So! I have decided,” he announces with great panache, “that I shall, in fact, give you a new room. A nice one, too. Maybe even nicer than the one you’re in currently.”
Aguni huffs a relieved breath.
“Thank you.”
“But!” Takeru flops down on the couch next to Aguni with all the grace of a fleshly-flipped pancake, “You have to do something for me.”
“I don’t—“
“You have to answer three,” and Takeru holds up three fingers in front of Aguni’s face, “of my questions. Truthfully. No skips, no take-backs.”
This is...well. This is not ideal.
Aguni considers his options. On one hand, he’s entirely justified in slapping Takeru across the face and shouting ‘absolutely not!’—and, honestly, Takeru would probably understand because, while he is an asshole, he is a self-aware asshole.
On the other hand, it’s only three questions. Maybe, if he’s able to keep Takeru on topic (a Herculean effort to be sure), Aguni can make quick work of getting a new room and, more importantly, getting the hell out of here.
“Fine,” he mumbles, “but make it quick. I’m tired.”
“Yeah, I bet you are,” Takeru says, “nothing wears you out quite like an evening of dirty, nasty, animalistic—“
“Takeru!”
“—Depraved, disgusting fucking,” and he makes a very disgusted ugh-ing sound when he notices Aguni shooting him a pointed glare, “Fine. Lovemaking. Whatever. The point is that you got it in real good and that’s enough to make anyone tired.”
“Dealing with you is making me tired. Please, just...ask your questions so I can get a room and go to bed.”
“Fine, fine,” Takeru says, and he makes a great show of thinking the matter over, mouth puckering into a pouty little frown before snapping into a mischievous smirk, “Question one: did you shower before coming here?”
Aguni sighs and looks down at his shoes.
“No.”
“Oh, that is gross,” Takeru shouts, clapping him on the back, “I’m so proud of you!”
Aguni rolls his eyes, trying his hardest to look unaffected by his friend’s prying. But he can’t hide the blush from blooming on his face, because this is all very mortifying and he doesn’t particularly enjoy the way Takeru is looking at him with a devious little smile.
“It’s like looking in a mirror,” Takeru says, running a hand through his hair, “a less-handsome—but taller—mirror!”
“Got a good two inches on you,” Aguni says, and he relishes the way his companion winces. Although he is not a short man by any means, Takeru has always been just a bit shorter than him—which has led to quite a few jabs over the years.
“Maybe in height,” Takeru quips, “but certainly not everywhere else, hm?”
It’s odd, but somehow, Aguni has not yet gotten used to feeling his soul leave his body. He doesn’t hide the fact that he’s dying inside, letting the pain shine out directly from his face and hopes it slaps Takeru across the mouth so he doesn’t have to.
“I couldn’t resist,” Takeru says between chuckles, “You know how I am!”
“Unfortunately.”
But Takeru is too busy staring at him now to give one of his classically witty retorts. To the untrained eye, it would appear that he is carefully considering something. Because Aguni knows that the words ‘careful’ and ‘consideration’ are not part of Takeru’s vocabulary, he steels himself for whatever batshit-insane bullshit is going to come flying at him next.
“Now, I know the identity of your new squeeze is off-limits. Which I am sympathetic towards, because I am a sensitive and caring man—which, by the way, is something you should mention to any and all available singles you should happen upon throughout your travels...”
There’s just something about the way Takeru talks—and talks, and talks—that sets Aguni’s blood to boil.
“You know why it took me three years to get laid? Because you,” Aguni snaps, “wouldn’t stop fucking talking long enough for me to get away and meet someone.”
“Ooh, so bitchy! Seems like you could use a little more of whatever you just had,” Takeru runs a finger along the rim of his glass, smiling to himself when the friction creates a high-pitched hum, “if that’s a possibility, of course.”
Aguni feels a headache coming on. He runs at his temples in a (futile) attempt to stave it off.
“I don’t have time for your games, Takeru. If you want to ask me if this was a one-night stand, then ask me if it was a one-night stand.”
“Fine, then. Mori-chan,” Takeru places his glass on the table and turns to face Aguni. He pulls his legs up and hugs his shins close to himself, chin resting on his knobby knees—like a high school girl at a sleepover, “Did you give that mystery individual the fuck of a lifetime because you knew it was going to be a one-time thing...or because this is the start of something more?”
“I...” Aguni pauses, “I don’t know.”
Takeru’s brow furrows.
“Don’t look at me like that! I was, uh,” Aguni rubs the back of his neck uncertainly, “I thought we’d maybe have that conversation when I got back.”
Takeru tilts his head slightly to the left.
“Got back from where?”
“Here.”
“Mori-chan. Darling. Dearest,” Takeru places a hand on his shoulder, fingers gripping into the skin a little more with each passing moment, “do you mean to tell me that you...left your lover alone on a broken bed...to come talk to me?”
“No,” Aguni answers, “Left ‘em in the bath.”
“Oh my God...”
“What? I thought it was a nice gesture.”
“You are so cute and hopeless.”
Takeru scoots close enough to Aguni that their hips are touching, the arm that had been gripping his shoulder now slung around his mid-back.
“Picture it,” he says, reaching his other arm out in front of them as if grasping at a ghost of a dream, “your paramour—whoever they may be—sitting alone in a bathtub. Naked. Glistening.”
“...Glistening?”
“Sparkling, even.”
That is...oh dear. Aguni hadn’t thought of it like that. And now he can’t stop thinking about it. His mind’s eye is conjuring up a most hypnotic display, involving skin and steam and a crystalline droplets rolling down the length of a neck and—
“I put bubbles in,” he admits, voice soft and unfocused as he drifts in his daydream, “Lavender-scented.”
“That’s. Wow,” Takeru sighs, patting Aguni’s knee, “You’re a stronger man than I am, that’s for sure. I simply wouldn’t be able to resist the temptation. I mean, you could be in there right now, but...you’re here with me instead.”
Something breaks in Aguni. Something he hadn’t been aware of before now, but was apparently a very important piece of whatever was keeping him from grabbing Takeru by the lapels and shaking him with all the strength and rage that has been building up for the past twenty minutes.
Because that’s what he’s doing right now. He’s grabbing Takeru by the lapels of his weird robe thing and shaking him within an inch of his life. He’s also yelling, something like ‘give me the goddamn room’ but it’s hard to hear over the deafening rush of blood in his ears.
“Not...the...silk,” Takeru begs—well, as much as a man being maliciously jostled can beg—while his hands attempt to loosen Aguni’s own from his outfit, “She didn’t...do anything...wrong!”
Aguni stops shaking him, but not because he wants to—no, he very much wants to continue shaking this annoying man until his head snaps off and flies out the window—but because Takeru has started to take on a bit of a sickly greenish tinge and Aguni is not in the mood to deal with that on top of everything else.
“I will tear that tacky thing to shreds if you don’t give me a new room,” he seethes, releasing his grip on Takeru altogether and enjoying the way the other man falls back slightly as he’s let go, “I snapped a fucking bed frame an hour ago; I could tear that and you in half without even trying.”
“Okay, but,” and Takeru winces, “I just...there’s a bit of a problem. Not...a ‘problem’ problem, but...I’m very worried about how you’ll react after that little outburst you just had.”
Great. Of course there’s a catch. There’s always a catch with Takeru—but Aguni had been naive enough to think that his frustrating questionnaire had been it.
“There’s only one room available,” Takeru continues, as if he’s trying to calm a very angry horse or convince a toddler to do literally anything, “and it’s...well, it’s...the one next door.”
“You mean,” Aguni says very flatly, “the room next to this one?”
“Yes.”
“With the adjoining door?”
“Hit me if you want,” Takeru says, pressing himself against the arm of the couch and, therefore, as far away from Aguni’s anger as possible, “just...please don’t shake me again. My delicate constitution couldn’t possible take it.”
Aguni is reminded of a poem—the Robert Frost one about two roads in a wood or something like that. The way he figures, he’s got two roads in front of him right now: the ‘scream at Takeru and maybe shake him a little more and also refuse the room’ road versus the ‘it’s only one night and things couldn’t possibly get worse than they already are so take the room and maybe try to salvage the evening’ road.
Both are tempting.
“I wasn’t kidding when I said it was nicer than your current room. Good view, spacious, well-decorated,” he says, “Except for the credenza under the TV, that’s hideous. Wouldn’t be mad if you, y’know, decided to break that in the heat of the moment...”
Aguni must look positively murderous, because Takeru immediately switches into grovel mode, which includes various assorted platitudes and exclamations of ‘it was just a joke!’ and ‘please don’t kill me!’
It’s kind of funny, actually.
“Listen,” Takeru half-pleads, “I’ll be good. I’ll be quiet. You won’t even know I’m over here. Hell, if I smoke enough weed, I won’t know I’m here, which will work out just great! I slip into a light coma, you slip into a comfortable bed with your sweetheart, and everybody’s happy.”
“You just want an excuse to get high.”
“No,” he answers confidently, “I want you to be happy and I want to get high. Use my mind-altering substances for good, not evil. You know, like a superhero. Or maybe even Jesus.”
Aguni decides not to bring Takeru’s half-joking-but-not-really God-complex into question, because that would launch him into an hour-long tirade about the importance of self-love and how he would be an excellent choice for the next mayor of Tokyo. And maybe he wouldn’t be the worst mayor Tokyo has ever had, but...well. He might not be very good at it, either.
And maybe it’s because he’s incapable of staying too horribly angry at his best friend for very long, but Aguni concludes that it’s best just to take the room and let the situation go. He’s had enough drama for one night.
“Fine,” Aguni finally says, “I’ll take it.”
And he moves to stand before Takeru can suck him in to another conversation.
“You know,” Takeru calls casually as Aguni begins to walk towards the door, “I still haven’t asked my third question...”
“You have got to be kidding—“
“But,” Takeru quickly interjects, “I don’t have to ask, because I already know that the answer is ‘yes.’”
“Hm?”
“Yes,” Takeru concludes with a wry smile, “you are happy. Even when you were about to about to slap me, I could see it written all over your face.”
Aguni feels...embarrassed. Again. He’s truly been on an emotional rollercoaster since stepping foot into Takeru’s room, and it’s almost poetic that he has managed to start and end his journey with a begrudging blush.
“Now, go,” Takeru says, shooing him off with a roll of his wrist, “get out of my sight and into bed with that sexy little secret you insist upon hiding from the rest of us!”
Aguni doesn’t need to be told twice. He swiftly makes his way towards the exit, his legs taking slightly-larger-than-normal strides as he attempts not to appear too giddy at the thought of returning to his lover. Maybe they can test out the bathtub in the new room. Or the shower. Or maybe just hang out in bathrobes and talk?
Honestly, he’s just excited to see them again. A nice, soothing presence. Something to help him decompress after...whatever the hell that just was with Takeru. There’s a seventy-five-percent chance that he’ll stay true to his word and be stoned out of his mind by the time they switch rooms, and a twenty-percent chance that he’ll spend the night pressed up against the door trying to listen in. The other five percent? That’s what Aguni likes to call the ‘wild card allotment’ because Takeru is...well, he’s just the kind of guy to do something completely unpredictable, and he likes to plan for that.
“Remember,” Takeru calls out just as Aguni is stepping out, “Break the credenza!”
And Aguni has never been happier to shut a door in his life.
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PS: the thing with throwing the statue of Colonel Sanders in the river is a thing that actually happened and I think it’s really funny so that’s why I put it in here. Plus, like. Takeru totally would.
#alice in borderland#danma takeru#hatter#spicy boy#alice in borderland netflix#aguni morizono#writings and such#this took so long omg but it’s DONE wow what a time what an adventure#listen. I just. we need more of them being actual buddies.#like. just guys being dudes.
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>the nightsisters try to kill Dooku
>Dooku wants the nightsisters to protect him
We really Scooby Doo here now
Dooku calls Talzin mother and then sister
I just realized; do we ever get normal nightsisters that are relevant? I think it's just Talzin and Asajj, right?
Dooku: A warrior of the same caliber [as Maul]?
...hang on, Maul got bodied by a Padawan. Why is being compared to him a compliment
Why would you need to procure an assassin because you were attacked. You procure a guard for that, not an assassin
Talzin has this incredibly dramatic echoed-voice effect. I'm not sure why, aside from style
So we have Feral, Maul, and...Saváge? What a pretentious motherfucker lmao
Darth Maul coming from a village of Mauls has always seemed silly to me. His TPM design is almost the entirety of his characterization so it's always felt very Specifically Maul. Being like "oh yeah nah this wasn't on purpose I was just born looking like space Satan" is...hard to take seriously
Cos, it also means, Darth Maul's look in TPM wasn't special at all! He wasn't wearing a Bad Guy Outfit; his appearance is as generic as the grizzled brown-haired white man starring in every shooter game. No drama or panache intended. Motherfucker is out here chewing scenery in jeans and a t-shirt
Puppy-dog eyes space Satan
Asajj's skirt is pussy-out short
Animator: hey boss what am I supposed to do about all these upskirts?
Boss: why would you have to do anything
Animator: what if some bored lady on the internet frame-by-frames and laughs at us
Look, I can't not notice this
:muffled Wilhelm in the distance:
Love how nightsister powers are literally just whatever the plot needs at the moment. Fuckin, steroids, summon +1 broadaxe, invisibility, roofies, GPS, whatever, they can do all of it and nobody's ever going to ask "wait did you just build that broadaxe out of thin air or teleport it from another location? Either way that's a gamebreaking level of manipulation of reality never seen before so why aren't you using it more often?"
God this is so fucking tryhard. Savage Opress. Suffering secondhand fucking embarrassment
Oh boy can't wait for Saváge here to kill a bunch of generic clones for the narrative to prove how cool he is, again
:watches men with guns run into melee range before firing them: I am never going to be able to take this seriously
So they really just had a bunch of infantry to defend this base, huh. No, say...cannons? Artillery?
Bro you're literally OUTSIDE the temple, how can you possibly say that you've taken it?? There are still dudes inside
If you were on the shitter for this battle you'd come out and be absolutely fucking fine and still hold the base because the motherfucker just leaves
"Your powers will rival that of the great Sith lord, Darth Maul"
...again. Bodied by a Padawan.
Also, oh, are all these Dathomir inhabitants naturally Force-sensitive? Or do they cull the nulls? That second option feels very Talzin
Man, I gotta say that I'm not really into the story structure of "show us exactly what the bad guys are doing and then show us the heroes reacting to this". It saps tension and makes the heroes feel stupid because as the audience, we know so much more. It's especially jarring because the show has a very tight focus when it comes to Anakin's emotional perspective, but doesn't let you get immersed in it because it's constantly zooming you out
Like this opening dialog is all "mysterious killer!" and it makes me just kinda zone out because I already know everything they're gonna try and investigate
These are some unusually thicc clone troopers
"this is the work of a reckless, impulsive animal" yes I literally just spent thirty minutes being told that. If this sort of thing brought new information I'd be less annoyed, but it's just repetitive
God Saváge you have a terrible grip, space your hands out at least, you look like you're holding a pool noodle
"Iridonia is where the rest of the males of the species live" wait, hang on, huh? How widespread is this night cult thing? I was under the impression that Talzin's operation was relatively small, not something so large you'd call the normal male population "the rest"
...Saváge can drive a ship on his own? Legit question. He seemed brain-nuked by Talzin and his village is the epitome of low-tech; they don't even have blasters
Obi-Wan addresses Talzin as "mother"
I wonder how much of Obi-Wan's calling Saváge an animal is purposely there to demonstrate Obi-Wan having prejudice after Maul-related trauma (Saváge is like twice the size of Maul, I was surprised Obi-Wan mistook him for Maul on the recording) and how much of it is...actually, literally correct... Talzin's ritual seems to have legit burnt away some brain function. Obi-Wan doesn't know this, of course, but since We The Audience know everything...not a great choice if the writers wanted to portray Obi-Wan as having lingering prejudice
Hey remember when Dooku showed up and Talzin manifested a cup into reality and he drank it without blinking? Why didn't you just poison him then. Why this weird convoluted sleeper agent plan. You could be done with this revenge business already, Asajj, yeesh
--how did these guys know to come to Toydaria? I don't remember Talzin mentioning Toydaria. Ah, whatever
So he does have a chauffeur
Ventress this plan was fucking terrible, don't blame him for you being an idiot
Dooku is another tragic victim of "can't animate capes so he has to run around in his jammies" syndrome
Poor dude. Condemned to C-list filler villain status
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That the nights were mainly made for saying things that you can't say tomorrow day
Why would that comfort me?”
“Because I’m calling you from the office, and I’m sitting at your chair, and if you were here I’d—” Leonardo can feel his heart on his throat. It’s exhilarating: “I’d already have you on my lap”.
He can imagine Primo tipping his head back when he hears his surprised laugh, can almost see the long line of his neck. He wets his lower lip.
“You fucking wish—”.
“Oh, yes. I do”, he cuts Primo again. It’s so satisfying being able to teach him a thing or two, give him a cup of his own medicine. “I’d have you on my lap and. I’d be kissing you. All filthy”. And then, for good measure: “You’d be loving it, of course”.
—
Primo cannot take a compliment. Leonardo exploits that relentlessly. Having certain conversations when you don’t have to look at someone in the face is easier. They argue, but what else is new under the sun.
Plot What Plot / Porn Without Plot, Phone Sex
Continue reading on AO3 or under the cut.
“That is the single most stupid idea that I’ve heard you suggest in my entire life”.
Leonardo sighs. He makes it loud and put upon, reclining himself in the chair.
“And also the only one you’ve entertained in the whole day”, he replies, accommodating the telephone to his ear.
If Primo is going for the dramatics, so is he.
He observes how one of the light bulbs of the office lamp titillates, then the clock on the wall, making its way slowly but unmistakably past midnight. They’ve been going at it for an hour. By all means he should have hung up on Primo quite a few times by now. And yet again—
“You’re. Relying on me being desperate to get me to listen to that”.
—the day has not come in which he willingly lets him have the last word.
“You’re not desperate. You’re bored”. Not the truth, but the closest to the truth he supposes Primo might accept. “I’m giving you a shortcut to come back here. Regroup. Come up with a new strategy”.
He can almost hear Primo thinking. Weighing in the very carefully curated map of the plan in his brain what a two, three weeks delay might mean for the deal. If any of their competitors might feel as if they can take the chance to talk with the Romans themselves. Where the drugs would go in the end.
“...It’s too much time wasted”, the other points, after a beat. “We’d almost be starting again from zero”.
Leonardo rolls his eyes.
“You know that’s not true”. He snorts. “Not from zero, at least we know what not to try now. We can build from that”. He shrugs to himself. “I wouldn’t call that a waste”.
It’s not the worst thing that can happen. Primo would benefit from looking at it from afar, see the issue in the grand scheme of things. And anyway it’s not as if they have to answer to Salvatore anymore. He’s not going to get mad at Primo if they don't instantly get results. He’s certainly not going to push him needlessly into a dangerous situation just because of it. Primo is reckless enough by himself.
And then Primo says, slowly and with panache: “You can just tell me that you miss me”.
Leonardo’s chest does a funny thing.
“It’s the third time you've called me this week. I haven’t had time to miss you”.
“—Very desperate to get me back”, Primo continues, as if he hasn’t spoken. He can practically taste his smirk. “Does it worry you that much, what I might be doing between meeting and meeting? The looks I might be getting?”
The absolute affront.
“I’d be more worried if you told me you aren’t getting any looks. Have you seen yourself in a mirror? I’m not sure there’s people out there who can resist not looking”, he doesn’t know why he says that, would probably swallow his tongue if he tried to do it to Primo’s face, but there’s something about Primo’s stunned silence in response to that that fills him with excitement, and also a lot of vindictive joy. He imagines Primo nervously passing a hand through his hair, and decides not to let him enough time to get his bearings back. “I can imagine it, you strutting downtown looking so sharp, so tempting”, he continues, as if in a passing observation. “Have you brought the blue suit over there?”, he asks, trying not to smile, lest it ruin his very innocent tone.
“...The blue suit?”
“The one you brought to the office’s inauguration last month”, he specifies. Blue as the sky, very modern, very snug on his ass. It’s seared on Leonardo’s memory. “It does look good on you. Brings out your eyes”. Primo makes a non committal sound. If this is it, if Leonardo has truly reduced him and his bratty answers to that he’s— not sure what he’s going to do. Surely something. “Perhaps it’s you the one who misses me”, Leonardo continues, then. Hearing Primo laughing a little, sounding a tad bit nervous, sure is something. He fills it under the long list of things he is not reflecting on, right next to the rush of affection he feels when he hears it. “You’re missing a lot of things, yes”, he continues, ignoring him as the other had earlier attempted to do. And then his heart misses a beat, and starts beating wildly: “I can tell you what you’d be doing if you were here, if it serves you for comfort”.
The words are out of Leonardo’s mouth before he can really reflect on them. When they register in his brain, he has already said then, so what’s the point in stopping? It’s stupid, and reckless, and alltoguether a bad idea to just. Spring this type of conversation with your boss. He decidedly doesn’t question why he’s doing it with Primo, as with many other ideas they’ve put into motion in their months of partnership. It’s as if reining the other in on the usual has passed onto him part of his impetuousness.
“Why would that comfort me?”
“Because I’m calling you from the office, and I’m sitting at your chair, and if you were here I’d—” He can feel his heart on his throat. It’s exhilarating: “I’d already have you on my lap”.
He can imagine Primo tipping his head back when he hears his surprised laugh, can almost see the long line of his neck. He wets his lower lip.
“You fucking wish—”.
“Oh, yes. I do”, he cuts Primo again. It’s so satisfying being able to teach him a thing or two, give him a cup of his own medicine. “I’d have you on my lap and. I’d be kissing you. All filthy”. And then, for good measure: “You’d be loving it, of course”.
“You’re flattering yourself. Definitely”, Primo replies, because he’s first and foremost an asshole. He does it way too quickly, which Leonardo, for some reason, takes as a personal victory. He’d be satisfied to leave it like that, return to a less slippery slope conversation, except that that’s when Primo decides to add: “Besides, if anything I’d have you exactly as I want to. Under me, soft and pliant”.
That’s not true, that’s not true at all, it’s so untrue Leonardo has to keep himself from laughing. If anyone’s soft and pliant during sex it’s not him. Primo’s all talk and no bite when the moment comes. But yet again, there’s something about the way Primo says soft that does wonders to every kind of reserve he might have had about how he looks as opposed to Primo, so lean, with legs for days. That’s why he settles for a placating: “Anyway, you’d be out of your clothes soon enough”.
“...Even if it’s the blue suit? I thought you liked how it looked on me?”
Primo has no business sounding that innocent.
Leonardo tips his head back, lets it rest against the chair. He looks at the ceiling, not because it’s really going to help him at any rate to ignore the wave of excitement going down his back, settling on his lower belly, but because he really wants to focus. If Primo is not going to change tracks in the conversation, he definitely is not.
“Hard to bend you over the table with it on”, he points out, very happy to see that his tone keeps being levelled. “Would you like that? Seems sturdy enough”.
“The table”, Primo repeats, disbelieving, as if looking for confirmation.
Leonardo’s nerves are alight, which is the minimum he supposes he could expect from telling your boss about. This. His collar feels a bit tight, so he undoes it a bit. He tips his pelvis a little forward, opens a bit his legs, keeps a hand on his leg, slowly going up to his mid-thigh, then down again.
“Oh, you are sturdy enough. I know you can take me”.
He hears Primo’s “...mmh?” and then a tell-tale rustling and he feels his throat dry. His face splits in a grin. “Are you touching yourself?” Primo takes air. Leonardo cuts in again before he can find a way to talk it back: “Because you can. I want you to. I want to hear you. I’ve been thinking about it all day”.
Not really, because someone has to keep a levelled enough head to keep things working in Gioia Tauro, but he knows Primo, knows how much he likes to be the centre of attention whether he’s present or not, has seen the face he makes when he tells him that he’s been thinking about him. Besides, even if he has not thought about it all day, now it’s everything that occupies his mind.
“About what, exactly, have you been thinking about”, prompts Primo, sounding breathless, and also fatidical, as if he can’t really believe that they’re talking about this, which, honestly, is a sentiment that Leonardo feels in his very soul.
His hand on his leg goes up, and up, and he’s palming himself through his trousers.
“I’d keep your arms behind your back, fuck you until you couldn’t stand up”, he suggests, tone a little lower. “Or maybe…”, he feels a little air cooling the sweat at his neck, “...against the window, with your arms over the ledge. Overlooking the bay. Letting the whole city hear the sounds you do for me”. Primo’s little ‘nnnhg’ has him fumbling with his trousers’ buttons to take himself in hand. “Then again, perhaps not. I like them when you do them just for me”.
“Yes— Fuck—”.
If Leonardo closes his eyes, he can almost see it, the long expanse of Primo’s back drenched in sweat, his hands leaving red marks on the other’s hips, the little noises that he makes every time he buries himself in him. “Is that a yes? Would you like that?”
“Yes, I— Yes, I’d want—”.
It gives Leonardo such a rush of power, to make such a mess out of Primo. He feels drunk on it.
“I’d have you on the sofa, better, I think”, the words fall unbidden from his lips, and he’s got no idea how he manages to be any kind of coherent. “Spread under me, legs around my hips”. He groans, rhythm uncoordinated. “I’d be kissing your neck, you know? I’d leave marks. Let everyone who looks at you know exactly with whom do you belong”.
And Primo’s coming, he knows that sound, can imagine him absolutely lost in it, flushed down to his chest, head tipped back, hair a mess, and so, so fucking beautiful— that he’s overcome by his orgasm too, swallowed down by the wave of pleasure.
“...That’s what I’d do, if you were here”, Leonardo cannot help but rubbing, overlooking the office’s sofa, when he recuperates his higher brain functions. He tries to calm his breathing to something more manageable, his body still thrumming, his suit an absolute mess.
“But I’m not”, Primo points out, irritated, and sounding so breathless. It makes Leonardo proud. It also makes him giggle.
“You’ll think about something”, he replies, sincerely. “You always come up with great ideas”.
Primo clearly tries to sound mocking and clearly misses by a mile when he asks: “You think so?”
It makes Leonardo feel— not proprietary, exactly, nor defensive. Protective, perhaps?
“Well, insane, sometimes, but always great, yes”, he insists. It’s not as if they have to answer to Salvatore anymore. He’s not going to dismiss Primo just to motivate him. Especially not when it’s so obvious that that type of response make him do so much stupid shit. “See you on Wednesday?”
“Make it the weekend”, Primo counters, after a moment. “Let me try...”, and then he’s lost in thought. Either he’s not fully convinced with the idea, or he’s still out of it, but he doesn’t share it with Leonardo. What he says is: “I’m taking you up on your word. On the stuff you’ve said. Wouldn’t mind putting your ideas into practise when I’m there”.
“That, we’ll see”, Leonardo says, grinning.
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Infinitatem Venatus
The Infinity Game
Rating: PG-13 // SFW
Genre: AngelsandDemons! AU | angst | romance | drama
Pairing: OT7 x [Reader/Layla/Saoirse]
Warnings: Strong Language, extreme angst, violence, Jin is Lucifer. Jin is the Devil. [just making sure that’s out there], religious undertones [things have been embellished/changed to fit the nature of the story]
Word Count: 4.3K
A/N: Firstly - there are bold and italicized phrases scattered throughout. That is meant to represent Hoseok speaking to [reader] as these moments are happening throughout the day! Second, shout out to @aroseforyoongi for requesting a drabble for the 100 follower special. If it weren’t for that drabble? I probably wouldn’t have mustered the courage to even pull this AU to Tumblr. And @moccahobi cause Hobi is a bad ass. Issa lot. Thanks to Admin E for the beta-panache! And to Admin L who wanted a saucier Devil Jin. Enjoy!
© thebiasrekkers ( Admin T). All rights reserved. Reposting/modifying our work is prohibited. Translations are not allowed. Plagiarism/stealing is not tolerated by any means. Legal action will be taken in instances of theft.
There was a line drawn in the sand.
Pain.
“Moloch, did you really think I’d let you have her?” Hoseok’s voice was a deep; raspy growl. A sound that you weren’t used to hearing. Not your Hobi. He couldn’t possibly sound like this. He wasn’t capable of such vehemence, right? But it was him. It was Hoseok hovering above you. His eyes blazing a fiery gold as his hands clenched and unclenched at his side. The air stirring with each flap of the large white wings protruding from his back.
The demon across from him smirked, tapping a finger against a bloodied lip. “If I knew she was the key to getting you to play with me, I’d have attempted to grab her sooner.” The sulfurous stench of the underworld was thick in the air, and it made you nauseous. Moloch’s blood-red gaze landed on you, causing you to back up just a hair more.
You didn’t care that your hands were shredded. A trickle of blood from your ears left you disoriented from the previous explosion. Hoseok snapped his fingers rapidly in front of Moloch. “Eyes here, asshole. I’m going to tell you one more fucking time, Moloch. If you risk the game, if you test me any further...I will kill you,” he hissed between clenched teeth.
Moloch looked taken aback by the words coming out of Hoseok's mouth. After a moment, he scoffed at the malevolence oozing from the archangel. “You love her.” The demon said, puzzled as a muscle ticked near Hoseok’s jaw. He looked down at you; just as bewildered at Hobi’s behavior. “I’ll be damned! You fucking love her!” Moloch pointed and howled his amusement, a devious glint sparkling in his crimson eyes. “She probably doesn’t know, does she ..Hobi?” The demon’s tone was smug.
Hoseok swallowed thickly, turning his gaze to you. “Moloch...leave before I make a scene.” Moloch held up his hands in mock defeat.
“Fine, Hoseok. Have it your way...” The large black wings spread as the demon hovered. “...you may love her, but her soul is still up for grabs. So you better let her know what’s at stake, Hoseok. The game is still afoot.” Moloch narrowed his eyes before shooting skyward with what seemed to be a mere quiver of his wings.
A game set in motion before the advent of humanity.
The scent of sulfur finally seemed to disappear as Hoseok descended. He had his back to you for a few tense, silent, moments. The wings disappeared as he turned to face you. He looked like himself, the deep brown of his eyes sad at the state of you.
“Oh, baby...” He moved toward you and you moved back. He flinched as if he was gut-punched. “Listen, I would never hurt you. You know that, right?” He held his hands up as he approached you slowly. Your eyes were wide and full of unshed tears.
“What are you, Hobi?” The first tears slid down your bruised cheek. He gasped kneeling down to wrap you up in the warmth of a honey-cinnamon scented embrace. “Why is this happening?!”
You clung to him. The only thing that you knew was safe. The only place you felt like home. You sobbed into his chest as he stroked your hair. Hoseok placed an arm under your legs, hefting you up against his chest. “Hey, hey, calm down. They can’t hurt you anymore.”
You nodded softly, sniffling into his shoulder. He turned to see the devastation from such a minor confrontation. You didn’t notice the pressure of his fingers digging into your skin.
They can’t hurt you anymore.
Because he wouldn’t let them.
There was only us in the beginning. Everything was fine. Or so we thought.
“You don’t understand what you’re saying?!” A shrill voice seemed to rattle the glass around them. A set of fierce green eyes seemed to blaze in fury. Saoirse was vibrating as she stared down someone she once thought to be her friend. “You cannot mean that. Please tell me you’re joking?” Her gaze softened slightly, a hand reaching out to the immovable object before her.
“I-I can’t, Saorise. And I am very serious about this.” Soft, gentle, and too pure for this world. Layla, eyes full of unshed tears, stood in on the other side of the line. “I love Him, Saoirse. Even with what He is - I still love him.”
Saoirse felt her heart race again. It wasn’t supposed to be like this; at least that’s what had been explained to her. They were special - the Acquisitae. They were beings that carried the weight of many lives. Souls that existed rolled into one existence through time. Past lives? Deja vu? All of it flickered, bits of memory seeping into the consciousness of the current owner’s life.
There were few of them left undecided. Some refusing to be a pawn for either side; some choosing a particular side for one reason or another. But, in the rare instance, if a side was chosen, it was mainly because of hate or love.
In the scheme of things, there was nothing wrong with that. But, Saorise couldn’t fathom anyone in their right mind falling in love with Lucifer. He wanted to destroy the already tedious balance, splatter the land in chaos and strife - just because he could. “Layla, you cannot save Him. He is beyond it!”
“No one is beyond saving, Saoirse. You of all people should know that.” Layla’s demeanor cooled as the other woman flinched. “For all that you’ve done, you still were granted forgiveness for choosing to stand with the Caelestis. You made your choice. I’ve made mine.” She crossed her arms, posture straightening. “I believe I can make a difference in my own way. So until this thing comes to a head, This is goodbye. I’m with Tenebrarum. Period.”
But someone wanted more. He wanted more. None of us could understand it.
Saoirse’s mouth fell slightly agape as Layla dropped that finality. It wasn’t just about their friendship, mostly. It was about the fate of all of existence. They were in the final days and they needed to be together.
They should have been together.
The sound of cellphone ringing interrupted the heavy silence. Layla answered immediately. “Yes, Sir?”
The smoothe dulcet poison of Jin’s voice echoed into the open space. “Come to me, Layla.”
Saoirse couldn’t deny the prickles sliding against her skin at the sound of his voice. But she had enough willpower to deny the sensation.
“I’m on my way.” Layla hung up the phone, aware of the sway Jin could have on others. She turned one last glance to her friend. “Stay away from Tenebrarum - and me.” She pushed past Saoirse as a muscle clenched in her jaw.
The scent of sulfur lingered faintly in the air, causing Saoirse to wrinkle her nose. She left the building, yanking her cellphone out of her pocket. The phone seemed to barely get a full ring before a worried voice answered on the other end.
“Saoirse?” A sudden warmth filled with the scent of earth after a cleansing rain rushed over her.
“Jimin. She’s gone.” Her voice sounded weaker than she’d intended.
There was a long sigh. “Ah, love. I’m so sorry. You tried. Come home, okay? I’ll let the others know.” She could feel his disappointment on the other line.
“She thinks she loves him.” Her fingers tangled in the fiery red-gold strands of her hair. “She thinks she can help him.”
His way of thinking had always been different. But...we never thought that he would...
“It’s a part of his charm, love. It’s unfortunate, the spell that she’s under. But such is the price of those who choose him.” Jimin respected her desire to rescue her friend. He wanted her to try, because it would make the coming days easier had she come along. And now? “I don’t want you on that side of town too much longer. Please come home?”
“Yeah.” Saoirse nodded while turning to The Shard. It was one of the tallest buildings in London - home to Tenebrarum Acq. Ltd., the current residence of CEO Kim Seokjin. Only a handful knew the truth.
Hell was empty. Empty because the devils were all here.
Somewhere in the In-Between…
“Check.”
A Knight moved to capture a King. There was still a way. There was always a way out.
The opposing side chuckled while moving to a King-side castle. The King was protected with the Rook blocking the way.
They both sighed softly. “How long have we been at this?” Taehyung’s deep baritone echoed in the mystical space.
“Does it matter?” Jungkook smirked, retreating his Knight. He could swoop in to take the Rook, sure. But, losing his Knight to the King? Even he appreciated the role of smaller pieces on the game board. “Are you weary, Michael?” Jungkook crooned with his fingers clasped against his knee. “Maybe you should reconsider my offer?” He leaned forward so that the magma-lined ring flared in the depths of his dark brown eyes.
Taehyung’s nose wrinkled at the slight sulfuric odor. “Perhaps it is you that should reconsider, Samael.” The Angel was steadfast and unmoving in his conviction. “Come back to us. This is pointless.” Taehyung’s brow furrowed as he tried to reason with someone he once called Brother.
“Is it?” Jungkook’s eyes were ablaze. “We are pieces, Michael! We are nothing but showy pieces and for what?” He hissed. “To keep a world in order that thrives in disorder? LOOK AT THEM!” His hand waved to disturb the cloudy aura around them. The world flickered below.
Poverty.
Destruction.
War.
Greed.
We never thought he would Fall.
Taehyung stared at all the things that gave Jin power, establishing his reign in the mortal realm. A tear slid down his cheek without warning. Jungkook sighed, reaching forward to brush the sparkling drop away. “Hark, a tear for those who destroy themselves.” There was a fizzle against his skin - a reminder of the choice he made when he fell from Grace.
Taehyung grabbed that hand before it moved too far away. “Please. I don’t want to fight you.” Jungkook stared at the slender fingers wrapped around his wrist.
“It’s too late, Taehyung. What will be, will be.” He pulled away, leaving Taehyung’s hand hovering. “And when the time comes? I’ll make you change your mind.” Jungkook stood up, stuffing his hands into the pockets of pressed black slacks. That fiery ring flared in the center of his eyes as he walked away,his form disappearing into the thick hanging mist.
Taehyung watched the path for a few minutes before lowering his hand. His eyes wandered to the board locked in a stalemate. A deep inhale had his nostrils flaring before he slammed his fist against the board.
Smashing it, and the table, in two.
The balance has always tipped more one way than the other.
It was a stupid comparison, after all. Life being a chess game. Because while you could sacrifice plastic pieces, it was something far riskier to sacrifice pieces of flesh and blood.
Even heavier a price should this game be lost.
All the things you know about the Final Days are absolutely true.
Winter receded, leaving all the auction houses hungry to get into their season. Famous artists settled their wares, antique rarities were whispered among certain circles and the buys were ready to redecorate. The competition was fierce between all the art brokers. But none more fierce than the lasting feud between two of the oldest brokerages.
Caelestis Wares and Tenebrarum Acq. Ltd.
It was always a spectacle when the two vied for valuable pieces.
A lucrative one.
There were members of each auction house that were known to cause a scene. Imagine the hint of blood lust in the air when those two members were in attendance. The auction was abuzz because they were in attendance at the same time.
“Did you see them?” An overly-jeweled socialite purred to her circle of friends. A flutter of fans attempted to dry beads of sweat pooling atop their skin. “I don’t think I plan to do anything but watch.” Her eyes were wide and lust-blown.
The group of women swallowed thickly as their eyes hit the left side corner of the room. Kim Namjoon was one of the most seasoned brokers at Tenebrarum. He wore a suit of gray tweed that tucked and cut against his form. A lighter turtle neck stretched against a broad chest. A pair of glasses sat on the bridge of his nose. The silvery blonde of his hair was smoothed at the sides, settling against the collar of his jacket. His arms crossed, causing the fabric to stretch against the push of his biceps. A smirk lifted the corner of his lips as he spoke.
All the things you hear about the Supernatural? They’re real too.
They couldn’t hear what was being said, but they knew who it was being said to. One of the women let a small whine slip as they ogled his conversation partner.
Min Yoongi.
Yoongi stood a hair shorter than Namjoon. Even so, he still gave off an air of unmistakable authority. He wasn’t just the head broker of Caelestis Wares. He was the current CEO. There were a few rare pieces that both houses had their eyes on.
The whole room buzzed over which item it could be, let alone the monetary bloodbath that would ensue for either to acquire it. The prospect was more exciting than anything they would bid on later.
“Gabriel, it’s been a while since you’ve left the roost.” Namjoon tilted his gaze to Yoongi. “It warms my heart to see you using those old legs of yours.” There was that magma-lined flare in the depths of his eyes. “Things really are getting tight if you’ve come out.”
There was a weary sigh from Yoongi as he fingered the button on the black jacket he wore. A white button-down worn underneath, paired with pressed slacks. The clinking of rings against his fingers were audible as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “You still have a big mouth, Mammon.” A side-long glance was given to the taller demon. Yoongi scoffed. “And you’re still expensive.”
Namjoon’s brow rose as he looked over his outfit. “Come now, Gabriel. You should know that these things are about status and expense. I must look the part, after all.” He placed a gentle hand over his heart - at least where his heart should be. “It’s all about playing the game, no?”
Nothing is safe from the Apocalypse. Everybody is choosing a side or being bribed into making a choice.
There was no mirth to be found in Yoongi’s narrowed gaze. “Namjoon, there’s going to come a day...” A muscle ticked near his jaw as he bit back his words.
“Oh, I’m aware, Yoongi. If I have my way...” He pushed off the wall to lean a hair closer to Yoongi. “...it will be pretty soon.” He patted Yoongi on the shoulder as he side-stepped away. “Good luck today.”
Yoongi watched Namjoon strut into the circle of women that had been staring them down. He rolled his eyes as one woman looked ready to melt to the floor. The vibration of his phone gave him a reason to step out of the room.
His brow furrowed as he saw Jimin’s name flash on the caller ID. He picked up and didn’t get a chance to greet the younger. “We lost her, Gabriel.” The sadness was palpable in his voice. “Saoirse tried to convince her, and she said she loved him. She doesn’t understand--”
Yoongi pinched the bridge of his nose, cutting him off with a heavy sigh. “Breathe, Uriel.” There was a shuddering sound that slid into a soft sniffle. “We knew there was a chance for failure. We’ll figure it out, Jimin. Alright?” There was a sound of words that wanted to be spoken, but ultimately were held back.
“I’m sorry, Yoongi.” The remorse in Jimin’s tone only grated on his nerves. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. No one but his own.
“It’s ok, Jimin. Take care of Saoirse. We’ll regroup tonight.” A tone sounded to notify guests the auction was starting. “Look, I’ll be a little late tonight. Get everyone caught up and I’ll get there when I can.”
The tone sounded again. “Who is it, Yoongi?”
He gritted his teeth as a long silence followed. He considered whether he needed to answer. “It’s Namjoon.”
There was a hiss on the other end. “Shouldn’t we-”
“NO!” He flinched at the volume of his own voice. “No. I’ll be fine. Do as I asked. I’ll keep in touch.”
“As you wish. Good luck.”
The call disconnected.
It’s just that some of you are worth far more than you realize.
Yoongi rolled his head back against the throb in his skull. “Stubborn woman. So, g’damned stubborn.”
He stared at Layla’s contact fighting the urge to call her. The third tone sounded forcing him to let it go - for now. He walked into the auction space, his eyes landing on an 18th-century suspension lamp. It was rumored to be used by a pious man who made a deal to lend his soul to the benefit of Heaven. Remnants of his blood mixed in the oil kept demons at bay. A powerful relic that needed to not be in the hands of Tenebrarum.
He sat on the opposite side of the room from Namjoon. The auctioneer’s smile grew as he realized what was about to happen. They wheeled the suspension lamp to the front. “The first item up for bid, ladies and gentlemen, is an 18th-century suspension lamp from Italy. We’ll start the bidding at one hundred thousand dollars.”
Namjoon and Yoongi raised their paddles at the same time.
So what are we? What are the Acquisitae?
Layla arrived at the top floor exhaling softly before tapping softly on the large double doors of its current CEO.
“Enter,” came the smooth, buttery, poisonous silk of Kim Seokjin’s voice.
She pushed inside to catch him leaning, lazily, against the massive blackwood desk. The perfect petal pink of his lips tilted upward.
“Do you need something, Sir?” A brow arched as she closed the door behind her.
A long finger crooked in her direction, beckoning her to come closer to him. “I need you, Layla.” She stepped closer as his finger tucked under the point of her chin. “I need you to stay away from Calestis Wares.” The other hand slid into the niche of her waist, pulling her against his taller frame. Her lashes fluttered shut as a breath slid quietly from between her lips. “You’ve made your choice, haven’t you?” His lips hovered over the apple of her cheeks.
“Yes, Jin.” She had long gone nose blind to the scent of sulfur that surrounded the infernals. Being around Jin, in the beginning, caused her eyes to water. He gave off the strongest scent and she pushed through. Forced herself to endure, and now? “I told them I’ve chosen my path willingly. You don’t have to worry.”
You are precious. You are the key to saving all of existence.
Jin smirked as she tilted her head, exposing the tender flesh of her neck. His breath was like a handheld blow dryer focused in one spot too long. She flinched, and endured, as he purposely caused her discomfort. The fiery-red ring flared in his gaze and he managed to keep his irritation at bay. He watched as her skin reddened from exposure to the heat. “You really have chosen me, haven’t you?” The smile was lazy as he released her.
Layla’s fingers clenched into the fabric of her pencil skirt. The closer one stood to Jin, the more prone to loss of control. She gave another heavy swallow as she nodded rapidly. “Y-Yes, Jin.”
“I knew you were smart, Layla.” He clasped his hands together against his leg. Her eyes widened at the black nails and silver rings adorning his fingers. “Maybe you can help them be smart too, hm?” Layla looked up, confused. Seokjin smiled and he seemed too radiant. Her gaze lowered to the floor as he continued. “Why don’t you invite your friend, Saoirse?” A brow arched as her gaze whipped upward.
“Excuse me?” A breathless sound pushed from between her lips.
“Saoirse isn’t so saintly, we know this. I mean she used to…” Layla cleared her throat before Seokjin finished his sentence. He smirked at her sentimentalism. “...you know what she used to do, Layla. Doesn’t it make you curious why they even let her stay? All the sins that have permeated her whole life. I wouldn’t judge her. I feel like she could be who she really is here.”
Liar. Snake-oil salesman. Seducer. It was all true. Jin was all of these things and his good looks were the nail in the convincing coffin that he backed many people into.
“I won’t do that, Jin.” Layla swayed on her heels before shaking her head. “I agreed to work for you. I have my own agenda and it doesn’t involve sharing.” She spoke through clenched teeth.
“Oh ho! Is that jealousy I smell?” He pushed off the desk with a flare of nostrils. “I like this scent on you. Maybe I’ll pull her in myself?” He loomed over her with hellfire blazing in his eyes. “Because last I checked, I was the one in charge.”
Layla’s posture straightened with no signs of backing down. “I know you’re in charge. I remember who you are, Lucifer, The Morning Star,” she spat, “and if you think I’ll let you hurt her, you do not know me very well.”
You are the key to saving us.
Seokjin clenched his hand at his side as she smirked up at him. “Go ahead. If that’s the best you can do to assert your will.” The red in his eyes turned an abyssal black that swallowed the whites of his eyes. “You realize it now, don’t you?” Her head nodded as he remained quiet. “It’s different when we submit of our own free will.” She smiled, magnificent, triumphant that her theory had proven correct. “We are on equal footing, Seokjin.”
Her phone buzzed. She retrieved it from her pocket with a soft sigh. “Your two o’clock is early. You should do something about your temper.” She turned on her heel and left his office. Letting the air hiss from her lungs as she practically jogged toward the elevator.
Seokjin stared at the door in utter silence. Others came to him with very little need to flex his powers of persuasion. But when Layla came to him from Caelestis, he was eager to get his talons into Yoongi’s most prized possession. Now he realized something he hadn’t before - and now he wanted to corrupt her even more.
His blood was running hot at the thought of the next Spring Gala. A plume of smoke slithered through his nostrils as he chuckled. He turned to check his reflection in the mirror. If you thought about some of the most favored songs in all of history that were named after a woman, you’d tend to wonder what sway that person had on the songwriter, right?
Seokjin chuckled, as he hummed that old Eric Clapton classic. “Laayyyla, you got me on my knees - Layla.” He adjusted his tie in the mirror, a full bright smile spreading across his face. “I’m begging darlin’ please, Layla…”
He whistled as he settled into the leather wingback behind his desk. “...darlin’ won’t you ease my worried mind?” The door clicked as Layla entered again and he clasped his fingers on his desk.
“Mr. Kim, your two o’clock is here.”
You listened to Hoseok explain what was at stake. He spoke of the real world and the creatures that existed just in the shadows. He brought all your nightmares to life and then said that some were fighting on your side.
Jimin and Saoirse showed up almost an hour after you. Luckily, you had a shower, a drink, and Hobi fretting over you for every breath you took.
Saoirse kept eyeing a bottle of whiskey, an internal struggle visible in the shaking of her eyes. She opted to stay next to you, especially after retelling her meeting with Layla earlier. The two of you watched Jimin and Hoseok in the kitchen, deep in quiet conversation.
“Does she know?” Jimin asked, pouring a cup of coffee. Hoseok stared off into space before Jimin spoke again. “Raguel. Does. She. Know?” A muscle ticked in his jaw as Hobi nodded, his shoulders sagging. “What happened?”
Hoseok let a trembling hand settle over his eyes. “Moloch.” Jimin’s wide-eyed gaze turned to him.
“Wait. Moloch came for her?” Jimin managed to keep his voice down.
Hoseok nodded, the exhaustion apparent as he leaned against the counter. “We leveled half a neighborhood, Jimin. He was dead set on leaving with her in any condition.” They slid a glance over to the ladies hugging on the couch. Jimin noted the purple-yellow bruises on your shoulder and a bandaged ankle.
The kettle was placed back on the stove before turning to Hoseok. “Yoongi is at the auction with Namjoon. Layla willingly gave herself up to Seokjin.” A bitter smile formed as he leaned next to Hoseok. “Things went from bad to worse, yeah?”
Hoseok’s eyes were on you this whole time. “I’m not giving up on her, Jimin.” They both looked over to the two trying to find reasons to smile. You held Saoirse through a sob as she fought not to sink into her old habits.
“I’m not giving up either, Hobi.” Jimin placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder. They picked up steaming mugs of coffee to join the two in the living room. Hoseok sighed deeply, trying to feign a smile for you. “And now, I’ll tell you who We are.”
#bangtanscenery#bangtanscenerycollab#btswriterscollective#hyunglinenetwork#bangtanarmynet#bts ot7 x reader#bts ot7 fanfiction#angels and demons au#heaven and hell au#biasrekkers#bts ot7 x oc#bts fanfiction#thebiasrekkers
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My Baby Does Me: Chapter 16
POV: John Deacon x reader
Notes: ongoing fic; tag list available; taking requests
Warnings: some steamy as fuck staircase action? Swearing?
Abstract: Don’t you know, honey, that love’s a game?
“You’re sure about this?” John Deacon asked you as he helped you out of his green Mercedes-Benz. Closing the door carefully behind you, he squeezed your hand to make sure you were really paying attention; this was a typical action of his, you were noticing. When he wanted to know for a fact you were hearing him, taking his words in, understanding him, he’d squeeze your hand in some pulsing rhythm known only to him. It was like a Morse code, his own secret way of asking “hey, are you listening? this is important to me.” What you loved most about the simple gesture was that instead of voicing this, he used music. What he couldn’t bring himself to say, what he kept silent, he could give voice to in song. You wondered for the first time if this was something he did in every facet of his life.
“Sure about what?” You asked, squeezing his hand back. It was your way of reminding him you hung on his every word.
“About me coming up with you.” He nodded his head towards your five story walk-up.
This felt like a loaded question, ready to shoot you in the heart if you answered wrongly. You couldn’t deny your inner fear that this was somehow still a dream; you’d go to your apartment and suddenly wake up, having dreamed the whole vivid party and people up in an attempt to not feel alone. Or, you’d send him home, and he’d never return to your life. He’d forget about you, think on your night together fondly, but never attached enough to really seek you out. How much of this could he read on your face, you pondered? You needed to say something; you noticed the silence stretching out in front of you and Deacy like this endless night had, on and on inexplicably so.
“You’re retreating again,” Deacy reminded you, “We promised each other we wouldn’t do that. I know it’ll be challenging for us both, but I can’t read your mind, Y/N.”
“You’re right; I’m sorry.” You said giving him a quick random hug. You needed the instant validation of physical contact beyond what some little hand holding could tell you. His heart was beating fast, as if he had run up those five stories leading to your apartment door. Nerves, you thought. He had them, too. Hidden deep down, maybe, his insecurities were, but there they were. “I’m afraid for this night to end.” You confided.
“How so?” Deacy asked, running his fingers up your neck, to hold your face in his hands. He wanted to make sure you were looking him in the eyes; whether to make sure you were telling the truth, or to help build the foundations of safe sharing that true vulnerability and deep intimacy needed, you weren’t sure. It was probably both, you figured. Thinking back over the night, you knew he was right. He had mentioned during the ride here you hadn’t be very forthcoming all night, and you hadn’t been. Being too afraid to speak your mind when it related to your heart had caused him to question not your interest in him, but perhaps your security of self identity and readiness to enter into a relationship. In a way, you had caused him to question the validity of his own feelings. He was insecure not about you, but about pledging his time, his heart to another person to find them lacking, ill-prepared, and petrified. He wanted, more than anything, a two-way-street, and nothing else would do; in fact, you had yourself pledged to only satisfy any romantic enterprises with reciprocity; you wanted magic, or nothing.
“Y/N,” Deacy said, staring into your olive-colored eyes, “I know we haven’t know each other for a full day yet; there’s nothing you can say to make me turn tail and run. Take a breath with me, and tell me whatever is on your mind.”
You reached up, taking one of his hands in yours, and breathed with him in unison. “I am afraid this was all some wild hallucination; I wasn’t joking when I said I had to keep reminding myself you were here with me. I fear when this night ends, you’ll return to your rock-star ways, and I’ll be here still wondering if it really happened or not.”
“Ridiculous,” He said, using the word you had been thinking all night. “You still have that string I gave you?”
“Yes, I do.” You rummaged around in the hidden pocket of your dress and pulled out the balloon string from earlier. “Though, I’m not quite sure why I have it.”
“Roger popped a balloon he asked me to hold to trick me while he made a getaway when we were playing the game.”
“Oh, which game?” You asked cheekily. “So many games seemed to have happened tonight.”
Deacy chuckled, “Indeed. Here, can I see it?”
You handed him the string. He took your hand and placed it hovering perpendicular in the air in front of you both. He began tying it around your wrist. “Okay, here’s what I can promise you: I may not always be around in person to remind you that I’m in this with you. So, I want you to use this string, as mundane as it is, to remind yourself that tonight happened, that tomorrow will happen, and the day after that will happen--together. When I can’t be here to tell you, use it to remind you it happened, that we’re happening. When you start to doubt, look down and remember how I couldn’t keep my eyes off you before we met, and how I danced across a crowded room to meet you.”
“How you threatened Roger to keep him away from me.”
“Exactly. I’d do it again, too.” Deacy said, wrapping his arms around you, “Though something tells me I won’t have to.”
“Roger and Lydia did seem to hit it off tonight, didn’t they?”
“Yes,” a look crossed his face you couldn’t quite interpret. He sighed, “Freddie and Jim are probably quite pleased with themselves about that.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt it.” You said happy to be held and even happier to hold him. “I never knew they were such matchmakers.”
“Yes, let’s call it a hobby. It sounds nicer than gamblers.” Deacy danced out of your embrace, and kept one of your hands in his; he twirled you around, switching which hand he held of yours with great ease and panache. “Come on, let’s make our way.”
Your building was older, probably built shortly before the war; you were surprised it was still in working order, to be honest. However, you really liked its vintage feel. Something about the history of the building sang to you; it had seen things you hadn’t and if you listened hard enough, maybe it would be able to communicate all of its secrets to you. The once cornflower blue tiles of the lobby were grimy, lacking their original luster; this made you like them even more, if you were being honest. The ceiling was some ornate-looking tin tiling that was probably incredibly cheap, while looking somewhat posh. It was the kind of lobby that never seemed to have enough lighting; it had the ambiance of a noir spy flick, and boy were you a sucker for it. Almost as much of a sucker you were for John Deacon and Queen. You put a hand on the railing of the staircase, walked up a couple steps until you were taller than him, and turned back to Deacy, extending the hand tied with the balloon string.
“All the way up,” You said, waggling your eyebrows at him.
“All the way?” He asked as he looked up past you towards the spirals above.
“All the way. Afraid?” You questioned playfully.
“Never,” He lied. “Though I’m sure we can find a way to make it interesting…” His voice trailed off as he placed a hand on one of your knees, instead of taking your hand. He rubbed the crease in your skin slowly, trying to see if you were ticklish. When you didn’t giggle at the touch, he kept moving his hand up your leg, up the back of your thigh. At his rate, you thought, you’d never make it up the first flight.
Your breathing was increasing with hurried and unexpected excitement. As his hands, both now, reached up past your thighs and traveled around the circumference of your ass, you knew if you didn’t act fast you’d be fucking on this staircase. Though, you couldn’t help but wonder what kind of game this one was; everything was a game to John Deacon, and you knew you wanted to figure it out, to figure him out. You placed your hands over his, reaching behind you. You turned to look at him, and said, “Now, now, now, you’ll have to earn that, John.” You winked at him, and sped up the rest of the flight of stairs. Your heels clacked on the tiles of the staircase, and as you rounded the first corner, you turned back, and saw him pursuing you intently and fast.
“Stop,” he said; not harshly, but definitely with a touch of sophisticated command.
You stopped dead in your tracks, one foot on the next staircase, waiting.
“For every flight we pass, you’ll need to pay a fee.” He said simply.
“A fee?” You asked, instantly getting wetter.
“A fee.”
“And what do you intend to pay me in return?”
“Oh, I think you’ll enjoy your fee sufficiently enough to stand for my payment as well.”
“Oh?” You asked, repeating his quite, confident tone. “I wouldn’t be so sure.”
“I swear, your virtue will remain intact.” He held up a hand to seal the bargain.
“Oh, my virtue hasn’t been intact for years.”
He smiled knowingly, “I mean we won’t have sex, per your request of the night.”
You nodded, waiting.
“Doesn’t mean we can’t have fun while we’re at it, though?”
You didn’t really want to resist him, and with the wetness expanding down your inner thighs, you weren’t so sure you could even convincingly pretend at this point; you wanted him, entirely.
“Do you worst, John Deacon.”
On the top of flight one, he met you, where you waited. He put his arms around the back of your neck to draw you into a kiss. Nothing was slow about this kiss; it was familiar and hungry. You’d starve to death on a diet of his kisses, you thought. You’d never have enough to be full, never get tired of his taste, always long for seconds, thirds, a whole buffet. You could get used to this. Each time he kissed your lips, he carefully, calculatingly bit your bottom lip, before opening his mouth wider until your kisses turned into tongues and moans. However, just as suddenly as it had started, he pulled away.
“My turn,” He said, and started running up the next flight of stairs. Smiling, you pursued him quickly, almost catching up to him, but not quite; it was a straightforward chasing game, and half the fun was in the chase itself.
On the second landing, you pulled him to you by the waistband of his red jeans. He came to you with little resistance. You raised one eyebrow at him, and unbuttoned and unzipped his fly. A fast flash of surprise whipped past his face, and was rapidly erased by the swift entering of your hand into his polka-dot underwear. To say you had been waiting to tease him like this all night was perhaps an understatement to your desires. Semi-hard already, he hardened posthaste. You slowly stroked his cock, shaft to head, while staring him in the eyes. He held your gaze expertly until you were quite certain he couldn’t handle it anymore; Deacy pulled you in for a kiss, which you returned, once, before removing your hand, leaving him unfinished, and with his pants down.
“How’s that for a distraction?” You were both thinking of the string; you turned around and started up the next flight.
“Not fair!” You heard Deacy say from the second story landing.
“Fairness, if I recall, wasn’t promised!” You intoned from above.
John Deacon was impressed, and totally smitten; would it be inappropriate to say so, with one’s dick out, he wondered? He didn’t want to jinx it, so he did up his jeans, tried to silence his pounding erection, and decided to follow you at an all out run. When he found the third story landing, he saw you sitting, legs spread, heels up, waiting for him. Deacy felt like he was suddenly living in Roger’s sex life, for a second, and he reached up to make sure his hair wasn’t suddenly blond and perfect; nope, still auburn and coiled. He and Roger enjoyed sharing stories together. And this encounter felt all too familiar.
“Right,” He said, “Somehow I feel like this is a trap.”
“One of your own making, then; I do believe it is your flight, technically. Do with me what you will…” You threw your head back, smiling, clearly having too much fun in the game.
Deacy moaned in expectation, and quickly met you. He laid down on top of you, snaking his hands up your back, one on the back of your neck and head as he lowered you down. One of his legs was between yours, and with it, he was rubbing vigorously at your clitoral area. Instantly, you couldn’t think of anything of but those motions and his kisses. Currently, he was kissing down your neck, speedily as if he had a mission and time limit in mind. He got to your bra, carefully slid a hand into one of the cups, and excavated the breast within. Noticing your nipple was already hard, he didn’t waste one second: he trailed his tongue around the areola in rhythmic circles, making you shiver and moan. He bit down, and sucked hypnotically at your nipple. He could feel your body tensing up with the constant simulation; you quiet moans, like fire, stirred him to the core; he craved to be inside of you; however, before any resolution could be met, he once more backed away, stood up, and bounded up the stairs.
Pulling yourself together as fast as you could, which wasn’t easy considering how turned on you were, you stood and followed him up towards the forth story landing. Finding him there, he was standing very still, gazing at you with such intensity you could have sworn he was ready to attack you. You wondered who was in control, for you surely were losing control over yourself with joy and excitement. You stood, facing him, giving him as much vigor back as he gave you. Ready for anything. You breathed as one, staring each other down.
Who would break first, you both wondered? He broke first, and you rushed to meet him. Crashing into each other, he pulled you over to the wall, and pinned you there. You took the opportunity to lick up his neck, and slowly bite back down it. Distracting him to such a point he loosened his grasp on you. You wrapped your arms around him and pulled him into a kiss. He placed his hands on your waist, and lifted you up, sliding his hands along your ass and thighs to wrap your legs around his waist. Your bodies were pressed up against each other so tightly, you reckoned light wouldn’t be able to escape through them. The magnetism of your desire would keep everything at bay. Every kiss was a furthering of that contract you had made and every kiss deepened your budding mutual feelings. He was hard against your vagina, and you were rubbing each other into a frenzy powered by pure, basic friction. Friction was sexually underrated, you thought.
You couldn’t wait to make love to him, and yet part of the fun was the waiting. It was part of the game. Deacy felt this in such a copacetic way he didn’t feel the need to voice it; he already knew you were in exacting, devoted agreement. So much so, you lightly pushed him away at the same moment he slowly back away from you. Every touch was a ration, meant to last and stave off any lingering longing.
Hand in hand, you silently ascended the last staircase. At the base of the fifth floor landing, you paused. The tiles here were lilac and saffron; the wallpaper gray and understated. “That’s mine,” You were pointing to 5B. “Two flats to each landing; we were lucky to get into this building; it’s cheaper, so a lot of students try to get in it.” You reached up to an antique lantern, in disrepair, and pulled a key out of it. “We keep a spare here, just in case.” You explained to Deacy. However, before you could use the key, the door began opening on its own.
Roger wore an amused smile; lazily tracing his lips with a finger, he flashed his shockingly blue eyes at Deacy, and said, “Well, if it isn’t our good old-fashioned lover boy.”
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#john deacon x reader#john deacon#joe mazzello#roger taylor#ben hardy#bohemian rhapsody#queen x reader
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Angus McDonald, The Greatest Detective Alive and Even Greater Son
hhheeeeeere is the second part to that lil thing i did earlier today!!!!!! it was so much longer than i wanted it to be yikes! this was supposed to be for fathers day but oh well!!
heres the first part!
Kravitz was extremely grateful to Angus as he held a steaming mug of cocoa between his cold hands. He admittedly hadn’t made hot chocolate since before he was alive and would have most definitely scorched the milk to the bottom of Taako’s nice pan. Taako had taught him a few things here and there, but Kravitz had never fully grasped the concept of... food.
Angus on the other hand took Taako’s teachings and had made leaps and bounds. The kid was eight and could make macarons from scratch for Pan’s sake!
Angus was again seated on the edge of the island, closer to the stove now, swinging his little legs as he sipped his cocoa. He and Kravitz sat in silence- a comfortable one- until Kravitz stood up from his leaning position against the counter and said “Healing potion!” quickly before rushing out of the room. Angus sat in still silence, confused until Kravitz rushed back in with six or seven bottles stacked precariously in his arms. One by one, he laid out the bottles on the counter next to Angus and then put his hands on his waist, nodding at the bottles and then to Angus.
“I uh, I don’t really know which one I’m supposed to give you but I’m sure you don’t want to walk around with a split lip,” he said, then leaned in with a glimmer in his eye, “Even if it does make you look like a total badass.”
Angus reflexively brought a hand to his mouth, wincing when he touched the split skin. He smiled- which turned to a grimace quickly- and then set his cocoa down, hopping off the counter top and examining the bottles.
“Hmm, well I could probably take that tall one over there, it looks like its base ingredient is-” he lifted the bottle and looked at the adhered parchment on the bottle. “Yeah, the main ingredient is comfrey, but I can only take half of it because I’m just a little boy,” Angus explained. Looking up at Kravitz for permission he was surprised to see the man who’d haunted his nightmares a few times staring at him in admiration.
“You’re only eight?” Kravitz asked, his hands clasped under his chin.
“That’s right,” Angus replied.
“And you learned from...?”
“...Books?”
Kravitz shook his head in disbelief. “See, here’s the thing Angus, I’m quite literally centuries old and I have never known any of that until just now when an eight year old told me.”
Angus shrugged. “Who was gonna measure my healing potions for me? You gotta figure it out at some point in life-” He stopped and grinned sheepishly “-Or in death I suppose, sir.” He picked up the bottle of shimmering green liquid and popped the cork, taking a hearty swig that would’ve put Magnus to shame and set it back down on the counter. Within seconds his wounds disappeared, and within seconds Kravitz was undeniably attached to this little detective.
Taako had been walking for twenty-some odd minutes before realizing he could probably just teleport in to Lucas’ office or at least levitate, but continued to walk. He hoped the exercise would burn out the anger, but if anything it ignited it. By the time Taako crossed the threshold in to Lucas’ so-called magic school he wasn’t just angry, this fully realized creation was livid.
He walked briskly through the recently renovated halls, following the signs stating “Headmasters Office”. When he approached the office, he rapped on the door twice. When there was no answer he knocked again. Angrily sighing, he knocked one more time saying a quick spell under his breath, and sent the door flying open.
Lucas Miller was not expecting visitors. It was 8 p.m., the students had long since left the educational buildings for their dormitories, so when he’d heard a quiet knock he’d assumed he was hearing things (Which wasn’t uncommon for him, he was a bit bonkers.) At the second knock, he begrudgingly rose from his comfortable desk chair and shuffled over to the door, unable to reach it before he was blasted back to the ground with a wave of force.
A tall, beautiful and angry elf stood over him, a look of sheer rage on his face as he pointed a glaive at the prone man.
“T-Taako! What a p-pleasant surprise?” Lucas said, flinging a hand up in genuine fear for his life.
“Oh you’re surprised? Imagine my surprise when one of your students showed up on my doorstep with a broken face!” Taako screeched at the grovelling man-boy on the ground, shoving the Krebstar ever closer to Lucas’ neck with each accentuated word.
Lucas shook his head, blinking in confusion. “What do you mean, I haven’t had any incident reports today,” he sputtered.
Taako let out a noise of disbelief. “Lucas, your school has been open for two months, how many trouble-makers do you have already?” he asked accusingly.
Lucas scrambled away from the Krebstar and stood up quickly, adjusting his glasses and robes before standing tall in the face of his adversary.
“Not many, save for that McDonald boy. He’s been causing quite a bit of trouble with some of my brighter students,” Lucas said with a sniff.
Taako let his mouth hang open. He didn’t care if the flies got in. This was just too, “Un-damn-believable, you really want to tell me that you’ve got Angus McDonald, boy detective under your roof and there are boys smarter than that? Wow Lucas, you really must have done some crazy hinky magic to attract that much intelligence to a dopey place like this,” Taako razzed, using the Krebstar to gesture to the room around them.
Lucas spluttered. “I-I never said they were smarter than Angus they just... Have more potential is all,” he explained tentatively.
Taako nodded slowly. “Uh-huh... Potential...” He glanced over at Lucas’ desk and spied four sacks of coins, bulging. It didn’t take much to piece together the circumstances of the situation. “Potential... Monetarily, you mean.”
Grinning and shrugging as if to say ‘guilty as charged’ Lucas looked over his shoulder at the fat sacks of gold, a small but pleased smile crossing his face. It quickly faded when he felt a sharp prick on his adams apple. Turning his head back slowly he looked down at the glaive that was ever so precariously placed against his throat.
“So... So you’re telling me... That you would rather take hush money from your beneficiaries than let a little boy get a quality education?” Taako asked, his head tilted slightly, his left eye subtly twitching.
At a loss for words again, Lucas wracked his brain for a rational response. “I-I mean, their fathers are very powerful people Taako, I can’t just, I can’t just turn them down.”
Taako’s eyes flashed dangerously and he took a step closer, pressing the Krebstar harder sending Lucas Miller stumbling backwards in to his desk. A pen holder dropped to the ground and shattered, sending nice pens scattering. Lucas let out a disappointed noise but his attention was immediately drawn back to Taako as the powerful wizard began to speak again.
“So what you’re telling me is... That because Angus doesn’t have a powerful father he isn’t as valuable to you and he won’t amount to anything,” Taako said slowly. “And don’t lie, I want your complete and honest truth, Lucas.
Lucas shut his eyes and grimaced as he let out a weak “Yes” but was surprised when the needle-point pressure from his neck was removed. When he opened his eyes, there was no Taako but a jingling from behind him.
Taako lifted two bags of the hush money from the table and shrugged. “Well, good thing he’s about to have two then.” And with that, he kicked Lucas’ window out, sending glass shattering and hopped out of the window, mustering as much confident panache as he could. He was about to do something very, very stupid.
The Headmaster watched dumbly as a dazzling elf stole his money and destroyed his property, but couldn’t help but feel like he brought it on himself. He’d already learned once to not fuck with the Seven Birds. He done goofed.
Angus had been tucked in by Kravitz, read a bedtime encyclopedia and sent off to snooze-land. After gently removing glasses and setting them on the nice bedside table that was comically shaped like a duck, Kravitz left the dark room and began pacing in the sitting room, impatiently waiting for Taako to return.
It was after midnight when the lock turned in the door. Kravitz rushed over and flung the door open, revealing a nervous but... glowing(?) Taako.
“H-hey babe, sorry I was out for so long, I had a couple things to take care of-” Taako began, before being cut off by a bone-crushing hug from his dead boyfriend. He let out a sound of distress and Kravitz loosened his grip.
Looking down at his boyfriend, Kravitz searched Taako’s face for some sign of guilt or remorse but found none. Only unwavering anxiety and excitement. “Is everything alright love?” He asked, guiding Taako over to the lounge.
Taako tucked a piece of his hair behind a long ear and nodded. Sitting down he looked at Kravitz with a face full of terror. “So, uh, you know that I like, love you and stuff,” he said nervously. Kravitz nodded vigorously, his grip tightening slightly on Taakos hand. “And uh, well we’ve talked about getting married and like, like having a family and junk and I uh, well I still really want that but uh- oh shit, just let me show you what I did,” he rushed out.
Reaching in to his robes he withdrew some parchment, rolled up and sealed with the Neverwinter Government Official sigil and wax. Kravitz blinked and took the roll from Taako, glancing up at him briefly. Taako waved him on and watched anxiously as the love of his life broke the seal on the biggest decision he’d ever made for himself and others. He silently sent a prayer out to Istus and Pan and the Raven Queen and whatever God that would listen, praying that this would turn out alright.
Kravitz was at first confused, then shocked, then... unbridled happiness. On the paper were two names next to eachother, and below them another. Their names. And Angus’.
Kravitz looked up, blinking rapidly. “Wh-what is this?” He asked, stupefied by this feeble piece of parchment.
Taako quickly explained what had transpired at the school, and then what had occurred after. The government offices were closed, of course, but Taako knew of one government official who would wake at any hour for the Seven Birds. He marched right in to Lord Artemis Sterling’s office which had been occupied by the regal and two small dwarven children. Mookie laid passive in front of the fireplace on a fur rug, and Mavis sat in the window overlooking the garden, reading a book. They stayed there as Taako explained the predicament, his very shallow plan, and quite literal need for this all to work. And Sterling obliged.
“Adoption papers,” Kravitz breathed out.
Taako nodded almost imperceptibly. “Y-yeah, I know I should have probably asked and all that but Lucas just made me so mad I just wanted to prove that little weasel wrong, you know?” he replied, his voice trembling.
Kravitz reached over and took Taakos hand in his, eyes watering. “He’s ours?” he asked quietly.
Taako swallowed hard, trying to keep the tears at bay. He failed miserably. Crying and laughing softly he nodded. “Yeah. Yeah he’s ours.”
Kravitz let out an overjoyed laugh and stood up, scooping Taako up and planting a big kiss on him followed by another bone crushing hug. Taako let out a breathy laugh, his tears (happy) falling on to the magical fabric of Kravitz shirt and rolling off. His smile faltered though, as he tapped Kravitz on the shoulder, signalling to put him down.
They both turned to face the small boy who had entered the room not 5 seconds ago, and sported sheepish smiles.
“Hey Ango,” Taako said softly. The young boy rubbed his eyes sleepily and padded over to the pair, looking up confusedly.
“I was real worried about you, sir. You left for a really long time, and you didn’t say where you were going, that makes detective work kind of hard you know,” he said in a scratchy and quiet voice.
Taako bent down, taking a knee in front of Angus and giving him a tender hug. “I know buddy, listen I’m real sorry I just had some stuff to take care of,” he explained.
Angus pulled away, surprised by the contact and Taako’s soft demeanor. Something was wrong. “W-what? What happened sir? Is everyone okay? Merle and Davenport, are they alright? Did something happen at the Chug n’ Squeeze?” He fired off these questions rapidly, working himself up and waking himself up.
Taako shook his head and looked up at Kravitz, who shrugged and sat down on the chair next to them. Taako turned his head back to Angus and smiled again, a little more nervous than before. “No, no Agnes, I uh.. Well gosh I think its good news but, uh, I dunno maybe you wont? And uh if you’re not in to it well thats fine I can uh go back to the office tomorrow and fix it but,” and with that Taako reached over to where the papers laid curled on the coffee table and handed them to Angus.
Angus... He didn’t know what to say. He stared at the papers for a long time without saying anything. Taako thought he might have paralyzed himself, until Angus looked up at him with tears in his eyes.
“Are these real?” He asked in a timid and shaking voice.
Taako nodded. “As real as you and me buddy. I’d say Krav too but he’s kinda not real?”
Kravitz laughed. Then Taako laughed. Then Angus cried.
He cried for hours, god Taako lost track of how long Angus cried. Through sniffles and sobs there were copious thank-yous and i’m-so-gratefuls, which he assumed meant that Angus was happy with the executive decision Taako had made.
Around 3 in the morning, Angus fell asleep. Kravitz walked behind as Taako carried him to his bed. His bed, and tucked the boy detective in for the night.
In the morning Taako was still thrumming with excitement and pride. He had a son. And a good one too. Smart, capable, talented- everything that he and Lup were as kids but with so much more. Angus was his. Theirs. Taako looked over at Kravitz who was staring at him with such intense love it forced him to get out of bed and pull his love along with him to wake up their new son who was... Not in his room.
Taako blanched. He knew that Angus wouldn’t take to it, he had probably been delirious from lack of sleep and that healing potion Taako probably should have thrown out when it had expired four years ago...
The two men frantically searched the room then ran down the hallway, past the kitchen to the living room, but were drawn back to the door left ajar to the kitchen. Pushing the door open quietly, Taako and Kravitz observed as Angus, The Greatest Detective Alive concocted a breakfast that required five different pans and a delicious smelling something coming from the oven. Taako looked up at Kravitz and jutted his thumb out towards Angus as if to say ‘can you believe this shit?’
Angus turned around to look at his recipe book and let out a screech and dropped the wooden spoon in his hand to the floor. “S-sorry sirs! Did I wake you?” he asked, wiping his hands on the too-big apron he’d borrowed from the back of the kitchen door.
Taako shook his head and sat down on the bar stool next to the island, Kravitz taking the seat to his left. They watched as Angus scooped various items on to a plate and placed the heaping ceramics (That they had 100% definitely painted at the Chug n’ Squeeze on Glaze Night) in front of his two new patrons. He nervously watched them eat and then quickly poured them two mugs of cocoa.
Taako looked over at Kravitz who was shoveling the food down as fast as in-humanly possible and snorted, then took a sip of his cocoa. Blinking he shook his head and looked down at Angus. “Little man, did you put chili powder in this?”
Angus wrung his hands together nervously. “Ye-yes, thats how I like it, I thought you might too sir. The capsacin really helps my gears get going in the morning,” he replied.
Taako leaned back and slapped his knee before downing the mug of cocoa and slamming it down onto the countertop. “Angus McDonald, you may be a good detective, but I don’t think you can be as great of a detective when you’re this amazing as a son,” Taako said jovially. Kravitz nodded and continued to eat like his life depended on it.
“Well, sir, I like to think that I’m a great multi-tasker,” he said, grinning.
Taako rolled his eyes and smiled widely back, before hopping off the stool and enveloping Angus in a bone-crushing hug that would put Kravitz to shame. “I love you, kid,” he said softly.
“Love you too.. Dad.”
#:))))))))#the end!!!#taz balance#taz fic#taz fanfiction#taakitz#taako#kravitz#angus mcdonald#sorry if this has typos i honestly didnt proofread it i just wanted to get it out of my brain
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The next part of my fix for @inkedinserendipity ’s hit! Find her and @lichlesbian ’s collab to fix it here!
PART 1 PART 2
Kravitz has ten years, two months, five days and a handful of change until he gets to officially meet Taako from TV.
And so he passes the time.
Ravens Roost is the easiest place to be most of the time, the ongoing civil war producing souls Kravitz leaps to acquire and escort. He sees Magnus at various times, on the battlefield and in the town. He seems happy, even more so than he usually was.
( A large hand, fragile and withered, takes his own.
"I miss her, Krav. I miss her so much."
"You'll see her soon."
"Promise?"
"...I promise."
A smile breaks onto the old man's face. He passes a week later.)
He's there for their wedding, clapping and cheering right along with the crowd as Magnus picks up his wife and pulls her in for a deep kiss. He turns to his right, flashing a smile at a cloaked figure that watches on silently. "Beautiful wedding, hm?" He says and the figure jumps, white hair barely visible behind the hood that obscures Lucretia's face. "It is," she replies just as softly, the edges of her voice betraying her feigned composure. She's watching the couple intensely, her face hidden but has to be twisted in both guilt and bittersweet happiness.
(They're standing together, sipping champagne and overlooking a cityscape as their family opens Candlenights presents behind them in the warmth of Taako's apartment. She downs her glass in one gulp, twirling the now empty flute with ease as she leans forward on the balcony rails. A necklace dangles from her neck; a diamond, the stone catching and reflecting a rainbow as it catches the white light of the moon. They're silent for a moment, both of them enjoying a moment of reprise from the cacophony before-
"Thank you."
"Whatever for?" He says, turning towards her. "The necklace wasn't my idea, you know."
"Even if you delivered to me?"
He gives her a "you-know-him" look and she sighs, a smile crossing her lips. "Still. Thank you for everything. You've...helped us all, so much more than you could know."
"By not killing your Reclaimers every time I saw them? I would assume so."
She laughs softly before plucking his flute of champagne from his grasp and draining it in one go, never taking her eyes off of him.)
They both leave gifts for the newlyweds, one box being gold with black trimming on the edge, another wrapped in red with an iridescent ribbon ("Where did you get that?" He asks, intrigued, and she smiles under her hood. He's made her smile almost a decade early.). They both turn to leave, making off in different directions before they hear a shout behind them, followed by heavy footfalls as Magnus Burnsides runs up to both of them.
"Hail and well met, strangers!" He says, a grin already on his face. "There's no need to leave yet! The reception is gonna begin in a bit, and there's more than enough food to go around."
He steals a glance at Lucretia to find her trembling slightly, frozen in place as she stares at her best friend. "I..." she starts, trailing off just as quickly. "I-"
"We're a bit busy, sorry," Kravitz intervenes, slipping on his work accent. "Got a caravan to catch and all that." He puts an arm around her and she thankfully doesn't tense, knowing the movement would probably catch Magnus's attention. "Marvelous wedding, by the way. Congrats."
"Thanks!" He beams, and Kravitz feels himself grin back before turning with Lucretia and walking away, the noise of a joyous town fading slowly behind them.
She asks him to join up with him, afterward, to help her create an organization to acquire and destroy certain relics of great power. He refuses, telling her that he is already employed to a higher power ("You're a cleric, then?" "...of a sort, yes."), but leaving her with a few choice people to contact.
He goes to the beach, sometimes, spending the day doing nothing but drinking and walking across the sand, never going more than ankle deep into the ocean (A lifetime away and he still gets nightmares). He passes by a beach dwarf village and stays in their inns, even making merry in their taverns, when he's up to it.
There is a Temple of Pan in this village and he visits it frequently, sometimes finding and making conversations with Pans' worshippers. He leaves the temple in the evening, making his way through the various houses before stopping at one in particular, a home similar to any other- save for the muffled sound of raised voices from the interior, and the two small figures that sit together on the porch, curled into each other.
He spends many a night distracting them, coming at times as a travelling magician with dancing lights and small candies, as a dog that plays tag with them through the yard, as a raven that brings trinkets to wear or sell. He likes to believe that he made their childhoods a little better.
(He finds Merle sitting on the edge of the shore, staring distantly at the horizon with a beer in hand. He does not give any indication of noticing the muffled footsteps behind him, saying nothing of Death's presence until Kravitz is directly behind him.
"I never knew you owned a plain shirt."
This gets a laugh out of the dwarf, rough and sharp and devoid of mirth. "Yeah, well, it's not every day the mother of your children passes away. Had to commemorate her somehow.” He looks down at the button-up he’s wearing, fiddling with the silver-blue buttons on the sleeves. “She got this for me on our anniversary.”
“Of your marriage?”
“Naw, of our divorce.” He pats the sand beside him and Kravitz sits, acutely aware of the sand that’s plastering itself to his behind. “We tried to...reconcile, you know, after the Hunger. Mostly for Mavie and Mookie’s sakes. She-she didn’t despise me, even after all the times I went MIA, and I...didn’t hate her either, ya know? She was a good woman, smart and independent, but she got stuck with a chump like me.”
“You saved the world.”
“I couldn’t even save my marriage.”
“You forged a friendship in its stead.”
“Fuck, Krav,” he looks at the reaper with a wry smile. “Why won’t you people let me wallow in my self-hatred for a second?”
“‘Cause you’re better than that, old man. You really are.”
“You’ve been hanging out with Taako too much.”
“The same way you hang out with plants too much.”
This draws out a laugh, a real one this time, and suddenly it feels like the world has clicked back into place.)
Barry...Barry is something else.
Kravitz was looking forward to getting the jump on the man, marking down dates and going through all previous tricks Barry had pulled on him (an embarrassingly long list. He hopes the Queen doesn’t watch too closely). He marks off every cave, every town, every grave Barry has either dug for himself or had been made by nature Herself after his deaths and lies in wait at every one of them. He does not want to bring Barry in-no, that would mess with the flow of Fate-but like hell he’s allowing himself to fall for the same tricks.
And he doesn’t.
Barry, it seems, is not confined to a timeline like every other creature in existence.
He doesn’t follow the same routes he did the first time. His hiding spots have changed; only slightly, one cave over at most, but still enough to stump Kravitz for hours at a time. He dies at the same rate but for different reasons-falling instead of burning, burning instead of drowning, drowning instead of putting a wand to his head and bidding Kravitz adieu. He doesn’t even use the same spells when they confront each other; he finds himself subjugated to a Flame Strike instead of a Tidal Wave, trapped in Otiluke’s Resilient Sphere rather than in a simple Hold Person. Results are varied, and Kravitz does not like that at all.
(It seems that his quick mind is not confined to repeating the same patterns.
“It’s quite odd, My Queen. Is he..?”
No. That child cannot parse through the veil of Fate. He is merely...trickier than most.
A smile from the Queen. Does he irk you, my Emissary?
“No!” A pause. “Yes.”
The result is the same, nonetheless. But think, Kravitz. How varied must his suffering be, even through time. A different type of sorrow, every time.
“I don’t believe I understand.”
You do. You just don’t know it yet.)
There are those times, though, that Kravitz chances upon him in a bar staring distantly into his cup, or in a cave whispering names and images to himself as he fights to keep it together, pure emotion whipping off his ethereal form in arcs that not only hit Kravitz for 19 points of damage but also make his chest tight and eyes burn with an emotion he thought was sealed up for later use decades ago. Only later, as he gazes up at the two moons does he understand.
(A whisper, breathed out after escaping something worse than death.
How did you do it?
He looks up from his wife, limp but alive and cradled in his arms as he sets her down gently.
We all need phylacteries, he says softly, his hand finding hers on instinct. And they must be stronger than the pain. My love was stronger than my pain.)
It’s only on the bad days that he goes to see Taako.
Taako, with his glam-on-a-budget caravan and charming smile that hooks villagers in.
Taako, with his sometimes-perfect one liners, and other-times-not-so-much ones that are delivered with just enough sass and panache that the audience cracks a smile and moves on.
Taako, whose only spells at this point revolve around hiding his flaws and seeing through the same deceit he builds his life upon.
He looks happy, honestly, and Kravitz thinks that he never would have noticed the cracks if Taako didn’t enjoy drinking in the middle of the night(there is no one to hear you cry in the middle of a bumfuck town at 2 AM).
After a thousand years, Kravitz has developed enough self-discipline to let this by.
Sazed comes and it takes all of Kravitz’s willpower not to cut him down, settling instead for sticking his leg out when he passes him on the street, for chasing him as he races back to his caravan as a huge black raven that disappears when Taako looks up to see the source of the commotion. This too is a countdown-he will reap this fuckers’ soul in about twenty years, when he expires sad and alone in an alleyway.
He doesn’t get involved until after Glamour Springs when his love is on the run, broke and terrified, hidden behind glamours and comments that can go from sharp to seductive in an instant. He gets involved cautiously, heeding his Queen’s words and never actually revealing himself to the elf. A piece of gold here. A job posting sheet there. He is the strokes of good luck that one could survive without; but Taako hordes these moments, those feelings of being protected and taken care of. They are fleeting but they are there, the beginnings of a smile always creeping across his face whenever he wakes up to find a dropped wallet, a coin, or food tucked neatly beside him. “Thanks”, he'll say, to no one in particular, pocketing his new acquisition.
(Sometimes, on a high enough perception check, he swears he sees the shadows bow in acknowledgment.)
When Taako finally finds Craig's List, it's like the world begins to fast forward. There's Phandalin, there's the moon, there's the train and the festival and Goldcliff and Candlenights and-
Then, he is called.
The Raven Queen looks down at him, porcelain mask stoic and covering the darkness behind it.
You know your task, my Emissary.
For the first time in a long time, Kravitz smiles.
He cracks his knuckles, summoning his scythe to punch a hole through the Prime Material Plane.
“Let's get to work, shall we?”
(It's right then when our three heroes, dressed in different shades of red null suits, see a rift open in the Crystal Kingdom.)
#layla writes#taako#taakitz#kravitz#The Raven Queen#lucretia#magnus burnsides#Barry Bluejeans#Taako Taaco#seren i hate you
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BOOK EXCERPT: Slouchers: The Novelization
The following is an excerpt from Slouchers: The Novelization, a book based on the 1992 Gen-X movie by the same name.
It’s being re-published for the first time since 1992 and is available here, among other stores:
Excerpt from
Slouchers: The Novelization
“Did you guys know R2D2 and C3PO were designed by the same inventor?” announces Cody. “But that he was bi-polar? So each robot represents a different emotional side to his personality?”
“Watched Jaws again last night,” says a voice from the pitched roof, changing the subject.
It is Wes.
Willow’s camera pans upwards, past the NO LOITERING SIGN. Wes likes to sit on roofs. Also, he is gay, which can only make Willow’s documentary that much more interesting—and current. Homosexuals have been in the news recently because they are “coming out of the closet,” which means they are announcing to their families they are “homosexuals.”
This has never before happened in the history of “homosexuality,” which most likely goes back years, if not decades.
“I believe that the entire premise of Jaws was based on the Kennedy assassination,” he finishes.
When Willow first met him, a week ago, Wes had already been on the roof for a month. He’s in it for the long haul!
“Here we go,” says Cody. He rolls his eyes in mock exasperation. He doesn’t have time for any of this.
Actually, he does.
All he has, really, is time.
The video store doesn’t open for another hour. It will then close one hour beyond that.
Cody likes to earn extra dough by participating in the bootleg cassette and video black market: celebrity sex tapes, illegal rock concert movies, and hours upon hours of hilarious bloopers from the recently released Silence of the Lambs, including a long scene in which the lotion is not properly placed in the basket.
Wes—up on the roof—also has nothing but time. He’s been kicked out of his home and he intends to stay up on the slanted roof until his parents, who just don’t understand, eventually visit him and profusely apologize.
Like all parents in movies, they do not understand “homosexuals.”
But Wes is a Gen X’er. And Gen X’ers take matters into their own hands!
The term “Gen X” was coined in 1991 by writer and “Baby Boomer” Douglas Coupland. “Baby Boomer” is another important sociological term, this one coined years ago by a writer from the “Greatest Generation.” Before that, no generations—at least with any marketable names—ever existed. That’s just the way it was.
And this is the way it is now …
“Okay,” says Wes, from the roof, encouraged. “So listen to this: the shark is Oswald, right? The first woman to be killed—the swimmer in the ocean— that would represent Kennedy, okay? The rest of the dead would be the soldiers in Vietnam, yeah?” Wes looks down at Willow. “Isn’t the memory card full? You’ve been shooting on your Fuji DS-100 digicam ten minutes already, right?”
“Not yet,” answers Willow. “Few more minutes! Show the entire universe what you’re made of!”
It’s interesting that the Kennedy assassination was just mentioned. One of Willow’s all-time cinematic influences—more so than even Truffaut, whom she has yet to see—is the herky-jerky camera movements from the Zapruder Film, so influential on MTV’s documentarian, vérité style: exciting, loose, impulsive.
Volatile.
Standing gingerly, and making sure his left foot is planted properly so as to not fall off the roof, Wes spreads his arms wide. “Welcome to our reality! We’ve just graduated from college. And we have no jobs. Or prospects! Fuck it! Down the up elevator!”
As if to prove his point, Wes opens his graduation robe wide and dips his head so that his mortar board can be seen. It’s badly stained with alcoholic drinks. Written in white electrical tape across it is “NOW! WHAT?!”
Beneath his robe, Wes wears a ripped T-shirt recently purchased from Old Navy. He would have ripped it himself, in all the right places, but he figured he’d just let the Chinese workers do it for him.
“We call it our maxi pad,” announces Topper to the world. “Our den of equality. Here, anybody is free to be a sloucher!”
“And proud of it,” Cody semi-screams.
Cody slumbers over to the pay phone. He’s holding a half-eaten slice of convenience store pizza and a stack of quarters. He places the receiver to his ear. He’s been on hold forever with KQMV, the grunge radio station. He wants them— no, needs them—to play “Smells Like Teen Spirit.”
It’s been fifteen minutes.
Fuck it. On to something new. He hangs up. Inserts quarters. He dials 1-900-DAY-DREA.
An operator answers. “1-900-DAYDREAM. How may I assist you to daydream today?”
“I need a daydream please,” says Cody. He’d think of one himself but he’s too lazy.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-three.”
“Interests?”
“Films. Pop culture. Sci-Fi. Um …” He pauses. What else? “Fantasy, I guess? Horror. That’s about it. Oh, equal rights for … everyone, I guess, too?”
The operator is silent. She’s thinking. What would a twenty-three year old with these particular interests daydream about?
“I think I have it,” she eventually says. “You’re a famous filmmaker. And you’re walking into the premiere of your new blockbuster. It’s all about monsters.”
“I daydreamed that the other day. Another operator gave it to me.”
“Hmmmm. Then let’s try this one. You’re attending a party with many beautiful women—do you like women?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. A bevvy of beautiful women are attending a party and you are invited. Maybe you had a crush on a few in high school. Typically in these sorts of social situations, you’re shy, you don’t say much. Not that you can’t. It’s just that you don’t want to. But you decide that this party will be different. You walk in confidently. All heads turn. You loudly announce that you have a few conspiracy theories about the movie The Shining. There’s a gasp. What a way to enter a party! The women are stunned! They’ve never seen or heard anything like this!”
“Oooh, that’s good,” says Cody. “Very good, yes! I like that!”
“Before long, the most beautiful women are in the bedroom, listening to all of your fascinating, original theories on The Shining.”
“Ooooh.”
“You have so many Stanley Kubrick theories, like how The Overlook’s distinctive, hexagonally-patterned carpeting depicts the chemical compound for the soon-to-be invented crack cocaine. The girls are blown away. They’re in heaven. You sit back on the bed, your arms behind your head, and you’re nodding, as if to say: Yeah. No big deal. I just knew you would dig my theories. Whatever!”
“Wow.”
“And that is your daydream for today.”
“Do I sleep with them?”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to insert another $1.25 in quarters to find out.”
Cody hangs up.
Harsh realm.
But cool. He can handle the rest of the daydream himself. He has enough to work with—barely, but enough. He takes a bite out of his pizza, a huge one. He places the slice back down on to the dirty, metallic surface within the phone booth. It’ll be safe until he returns in ten minutes. He blades over to the curb, mouth stuffed, and sinks down with a loud sigh. His energy for the day is sapped.
But he has some daydreaming to do …
“Hey, everyone!” says Topper, skateboarding past Cody, “how much realistically to run into the Convenience Mart right now, buck naked, and then eat a roller dog and then jet right back out? How much realistically would it take for you to do that? Seriously? Realistically?”
“Twenty,” says Jack Jack.
“Fifteen,” says Wes.
“I’d do it for nothin’,” says Royce, chewing languidly on a straw. “Fuck it. I’d do anything for free. I’m crazy like that!”
Royce smokes his Camels “straight.” Kicked out of the Army after forcing the citizens of Baghdad to memorize at gunpoint the lyrics to R.E.M.’s “Everybody Hurts”, he’s back in Seattle and living it up in the parking lot. Royce is the badass of the bunch, the one with the streetwise panache. The one who wears the Army fatigues and a hospital bracelet that’s never been explained but is now fraying. The bracelet is tie-dyed.
Sipping on a 40, Royce has just returned from yet another visit to the plasma bank. His purpose this time was to pay for all the personal lubrication at the Convenience Mart that will assist him in making a deposit at the sperm bank so that he can earn enough money for all the Ring Dings and tall cans of 40 he so desperately craves at the Convenience Mart.
It’s the perfect hustle.
“Then why don’t you?” Royce shrugs. He adjusts his camouflage Army jacket. He fiddles with his plastic hospital bracelet.
“Juss don’t feel like it, is all,” he says. “Fuck it. Fuck everything!” “Hey, guys,” asks Topper. “Can I ask you a personal question?”
“Sure,” says Wes from the roof.
“So when you’re sitting in a pool and you feel something that ain’t cool, does it have to be diarrhea?”
Wes laughs. He’s heard this before. And yet it never grows tiresome.
Willow turns off her digital video cam by hitting the large, red STOP button.
“You guys,” announces Willow. “Incredible! Amazing! MTV will love this! You guys are the best! Just acting like yourselves, you’re stars! The world will soon know you all!”
“When’s the contest deadline?” asks Wes, sitting back down on the roof’s slope, making room for his graduation robe to bloom out like a red cloud within a heroin syringe. “When do you have to mail this in?”
Leave it to the homosexual character to be overly concerned about logistics!
“One week from today,” answers Willow. “At exactly this time. They’ll pick a winner, live on the air, for their Grunge Voice of a Generation! I’m going to be cutting it close! But I must get this right, I just have to! There are no second chances!”
“And then you’ll be MTV’s first Grunge Veejay!” says Topper, skateboarding past, sipping on a mug of locally crafted Hefferveisen brew, the latest hops “craze.”
There are so many breweries in this Northwest city that you can practically smell yeast in the air!
Willow prays it’s yeast.
“And we can all move into your mansion. And do nothing all day, every day,” exclaims Topper.
“Do?” asks Jack Jack. “More like yabba-dabba-don’t!”
“I thought you wanted to be the first skateboarder to perform a 360-inward-double-heel flip in slow motion on a Doritos TV ad,” says Wes.
Topper’s face flushes. That is, indeed, his dream. But when someone else says it, it just sounds too insurmountable for anyone to actually achieve …
“Maybe,” he mumbles. “I don’t know. You know, maybe.”
“I don’t want to be MTV’s first grunge veejay,” says Willow. “I want to be a filmmaker. I want to capture my generation on expensive VHS tape.”
“But can we still move into your mansion? And do nothing all day, every day?” asks Topper. “When you get famous?”
“We do that anyway,” says Wes from above. “All day, every day. Nothing.”
“Right. But we can then do it inside,” says Topper. “And not outside. Where it rains.”
“Rain is nothing but a conceit,” announces Wes.
“Of what?”
“Of reality,” says Wes. “We’re living within a giant computer.”
“Like Tron?” asks Topper, reaching for another nacho and dipping it into a cardboard container of liquid cheese. “Greed is good. Nachos are better.”
“Can you imagine?” asks Topper. “We’re nothing more than images and pictures inside a huge Tandy TRS-80 in the sky?”
“Can’t even,” says Cody, although it’s hard to tell if he’s being sarcastic. It’s his second language.
“Being programmed by a Radio Shack employee to do anything the guy wants,” says Topper.
“So you’re saying that if my programmer wants me to spit, then he would just have me spit?” asks Jack Jack.
He spits.
“Yes.”
“But what if my programmer does not want me to spit and yet I want to spit?”
Jack Jack goes to spit but stops himself at the last moment.
“Then he never wanted you to spit,” says Cody. “He didn’t want you to spit from the beginning.”
Jack Jack spits.
“I guess he did want you to spit. So he just had you do it.”
Jack Jack spits. “Wanted you to spit.”
Jack Jack goes to spit, stops himself.
“Didn’t want you to spit.”
“So what you’re saying,” says Jack Jack, “is that I have zero sovereignty over my own destiny?”
“You vill obey the programmer’s wishes or zelse!” says Wes, from the roof, in the hilarious voice of Sergeant Schultz from Hogan’s Heroes.
“All this with an 8-bit Radio Shack computer,” says Topper. “Imagine the possibilities with a 16-bit!”
“But if we all are truly and really programmed,” says Spooner to Wes, “would this mean you were programmed to be gay?”
“Wouldn’t want it any other way,” says Wes, now in his own voice.
“I’m a Pepper, he’s a Pepper, she’s a Pepper, wouldn’t you like to be a Pepper, too?” sings Spooner, mimicking the 1970s Dr. Pepper commercial he sings whenever something even halfway earnest is said in conversation.
The Greatest Generation had their earnestness.
The Gen X’ers have something far better: studied insouciance.
Something that actually matters.
“You might be a Pepper but crass materialism will get you nowhere,” declares Cody, sipping from a plastic bottle of OK Cola. He is obsessed with this drink, as are all twenty-somethings.
The Greatest Generation had their World War II.
The Gen X’ers have something far better: the Cola Wars.
“Time to hit the grindstone,” declares Willow, as she clips the digicam onto a belt-loop of her factory-aged work jeans, just next to her large pink beeper. “Can’t just chat all day!”
“You’ll know where to find us,” Wes announces from behind her, still on the roof. “Out here, in our little slice of paved heaven.”
Cody is at the curb. He’s done with his daydream.
He didn’t end up sleeping with any of the beautiful women after talking about conspiracy theories from The Shining but he did manage to receive oral pleasure.
So, really, the daydream could have been a hell of a lot worse.
“Yeah, ain’t going nowhere,” agrees Topper, still on top of the overturned trash can. “Because there ain’t nowhere to go.”
“Turtle and the hare,” says Jack Jack. “Turtle and the hare.”
“Prozac and the booze,” says Wes. “Prozac and the booze.”
“Echoing that,” says Cody, mouth full of cheap ’za, some of which falls to the concrete below. “Man, remember when twenty-two felt old?! Now it don’t feel like nothin’!”
“Rimbaud did he best work before twenty,” says Spooner. “Maybe we’re doomed.”
He lazily scratches at his club hand-stamp. It is in the shape of Bart Simpson wearing unlaced combat boots. Cody is infamous for being too cool to chew; and when he’s truly feeling the grunge spirit—too lazy to even breathe—he’ll wear a working sleep apnea mask fashioned for the daytime. The mask is flanneled.
“It’s the nineties,” Jack Jack says, as way of explanation. “It’s the motherfuckin’ nineties.”
“See ya soon, boys,” says Willow, leaving the parking lot and this amazing conversation behind.
She enters a record store …
BOOK EXCERPT: Slouchers: The Novelization was originally published on Weekly Humorist
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Souvenirs (A CS AU) Part 6/14
A Modern CS AU where Emma has grown up in Maine her whole life and runs a store with Ruby and MM. Killian Jones is the new guy in town, who just bought the local bar. Only Emma and Killian have met before and now she can’t help but wonder if their past has influenced his plans for the future. Includes tons of fluff and a happily ever after. Rated M.
Part One Here, Part Two Here, Part Three Here, Part Four Here, Part Five Here
A/N: Today’s installment of ‘Souvenirs’ brings the final reveal of why it took so long for Emma and Killian to reconnect. It’s prompted when an unexpected call comes in the middle of a date. Queue a bit of an emotional confession, cute CS support of each other, Smut Smut Smut and then you know, more fluff. Hope you all enjoy and as always, thanks for reading!
“Explain to me, Emma, how a man can go through life running in culinary circles and never ever have had something that tastes quite this delicious.”
Emma rolled her eyes but couldn’t help a smile appearing on her face at Killian’s excessive praise. He did certainly seem to like the four-blend mac and cheese pizza she’d just made. It was her ultimate comfort food, filled with cheesy goodness, an ungodly amount of calories, and enough cholesterol to put down a horse. So of course, Killian had eaten near six slices.
“I think your friends are in a world that is a little higher brow than me when it comes to cooking tastes. On this side of the pond, we embrace the butter and regret our choices later.”
Killian’s laugh filled her with that same sense of warmth as always. His hand covered hers and she looked up to him, feeling really happy and knowing he felt just the same. Life with Killian back was good, really good. Actually it was better than she could ever have imagined.
Before Emma could put that thought into words and share it with him, the ringing of Killian’s phone broke the moment and Emma noted that the tone of it was different, as if set to a specific caller. She wasn’t nosey, she didn’t glance at the screen as he flashed it, and though in the past she may have been wary, she had no real problem with Killian taking the call. What bothered her was the worry that seemed to cling to him as he did so.
“I’m sorry love, just give me a moment.” Emma nodded as Killian moved to the living room.
As he spoke with whoever it was, Emma worked to clear the table, moving to the kitchen, trying to give him the space he needed. Something about Killian’s demeanor told her that this would take a while, and Emma allowed herself to get lost in thoughts as she cleaned each dish she’d used. Unbeknownst to her, she’d started humming and the lighthearted tune was an honest portrayal of how she felt. Whatever the subject of that call, she knew that Killian cared for her and that was enough.
Emma was so caught up in the cleaning that she didn’t hear Killian approach, didn’t note that he was there until his arms had wrapped around her and he’d placed a kiss to her cheek. It brought a smile to her lips immediately and she felt the same flutter of those happy butterflies swirling around inside her. Only Killian could ever incite that, and Emma hoped that these responses would never go away.
“Everything okay?” She asked as she spun around in his arms. She ran a hand over the worry lines that were still etched on his face, watched as his eyes searched hers as if trying to understand before he spoke.
“My brother, Liam. He’s the reason I didn’t follow you five years ago.” Emma waited for him to go on, because honestly, she had guessed as much. After a deep breath he filled in what she didn’t know.
“My brother was married to his childhood sweetheart, a girl from where we grew up. Her name was Stella, and she was good and kind and made Liam very happy. The day you left there was an accident. Stella’s car was hit by a wayward truck as she was driving the little ones to their playgroup.”
Emma’s heart clutched painfully. This sounded like a nightmare, a real living nightmare made real. It was heartbreaking and senseless, and she could tell already where the story was heading even before he uttered the confirming words. Her hands came to rest on Killian’s chest, one lovingly placed above his heart, feeling the uneven beats that told of his own personal sadness.
“She was killed on impact.” Emma felt tears stinging at her eyes.
“And the kids?” Killian sighed, and she heard the relief there.
“Both shaken, but alive. My brother, on the other hand… I watched the man who’d essentially raised me stumble into an understandable darkness. I don’t know what he would have done if it wasn’t for his sons, Emma.” Emma ran her hand lightly across his cheek.
“And you.” Killian nodded.
“Aye, and me love. I moved in and immediately did everything I could to help. It took time, but we found a rhythm, one that kept us moving forward and the boys knowing they were loved and safe.” Emma felt a tear slip down her cheek, but she continued to look at Killian.
“What changed?” Finally Killian smiled and he ran a thumb over Emma’s cheek drying the tears that had fallen.
“Sometimes we get a second chance. Liam met someone, my future sister-in-law, Elsa. That’s who called. See, Liam’s work involves some travel, and this was the first time Elsa had been watching the boys herself. Young William was giving her the run around on one of his favorite blankets, and I had to talk her through the ritual the little lad needs.” Emma nodded.
“I like second chances.”
Emma shifted to pull Killian into a hug as she silently tried to convey that she meant second chances for more than just his brother and his nephews. As she did she soaked in the warmth of him, knowing that she was lucky to have some claim on this amazing man’s heart. He had dropped everything for his brother and his nephews because he was truly honorable, and a man with more character than most people could ever dream of possessing. Killian’s goodness was undeniable, and now she was just happy that he was here.
“I loved you even then, Swan. All it took was one night, but they needed me. I couldn’t turn from my responsibilities.” His voice was breaking and Emma pulled back, forcing him to look at her.
“Hey, no regrets, Killian, I mean it. You did exactly the right thing, and look, we’re here now, and we’re happy. You make me happy.”
With that, the sadness in his blue eyes shifted, and he pulled her to him for a kiss. Emma felt that Killian needed a physical reminder that they were okay and together, and she happily gave him that, accepting it readily when the kiss turned passionate and demanding. She pulled back, panting from the fierceness of it and wanting so much more than kisses.
“You should know, Emma, I’ll only ever need this one second chance. I solemnly vow to stand by your side as long as you’ll have me.”
Could he possibly know what those words meant to her? That his saying this made her dream of forever with the devilishly handsome bar owner with the piercing blue eyes? Emma needed a slight reprieve from all of this. Lovely as it was, this was coming straight after a lot of really tough emotions. She craved the easygoing lightness that they shared to come back.
“Oh yeah? Any reasons in particular I should keep you?” Her teasing voice pulled a grunt from him that she nearly laughed at as she stepped back so she was resting against the counter. Then, Emma watched as the slight frustration in his eyes turned playful and she knew she was in trouble.
“I make a mean dessert.” Emma gulped at that. The claim sounded so charged with raw sexual tension, and the timbre in his voice made her crave him instead of chocolate.
“You don’t say.”
The words tumbled past her lips far faster than normal conversation would have dictated and Killian grinned at how flustered he had her. He aimed to keep her off balance as he stepped closer, so they were only a breath apart. His hands were at her sides, boxing her into the kitchen counter, and Emma felt a shiver course through her, wanting his touch but loving this standoff and the anticipation it built even more.
“Aye love. I’m only missing one thing… a proper canvas.”
Unconsciously, she arched her hips to him, making contact and that was the signal he needed. He reached into the fridge so quick Emma barely felt him step away and pulled out a bowl with exactly what Emma had wanted – chocolate, in the form of frosting.
“You made frosting from scratch?” Her eyes grew bigger and looked at his face, where she saw a faint flush cross his cheeks.
“I did, and though this wasn’t its original intent, I’ve come up with a bit of improvisation that I think will leave us more than satisfied. Do you trust me?” The words clung to her. It was the question of a lifetime for Emma Swan: who could she trust? Killian. She could trust Killian.
“Yes. I trust you.”
She watched the happy smile on his face reach his eyes, but she used the slight hesitation on his part to push him away. With more coordination than the adrenaline coursing through her veins should have allowed, she unzipped the off-white dress she’d been wearing and stepped out of it, now standing before him in only her bra and panties. His gaze moved across her body as he took everything in, and Emma felt her confidence surge.
“I really like this dress, and I’d be sad to see our enthusiasm for dessert be its downfall.”
Killian nodded at that, clearly still trying to get a hold of the situation again, but Emma loved seeing him this way, crazily turned on and just a half a step behind her. She reached a finger into the bowl of frosting and snuck a taste, taking care to suck the chocolate from the tip of her finger with a bit more panache than was strictly necessary.
“Fuck, Emma.” She switched tactics, her hands roaming to the button of his jeans.
“I think this will be a lot more fun if you’re a lot more naked.”
“Happy to oblige, love.”
And he did, but it came at a cost because now Emma was slightly distracted and Killian had time to catch up. Without warning he began covering her in a trail of the chocolate, which was cold to the touch and sent goose bumps across her skin. No matter, because the thought that his mouth and his tongue would be everywhere that the frosting was had her body nearly on fire.
Killian by no means disappointed her expectations. His expert mastery of her body by now made the dessert all too enjoyable, and Emma nearly lost her mind in wanting him before having to turn the tables with a little culinary experimentation of her own. The two of them were meticulous, starting slow, aimed at teasing before giving over to the pleasure of it. It was dizzying, and hot and exactly what was needed after everything today had brought.
“You know what goes really good right after a chocolate indulgence?” Emma asked as Killian held her against the counter again, panting slightly.
“What?” She nipped at his bottom lip lightly and then pulled back to whisper.
“Shower sex.” Emma could have sworn she heard him say that she would be the death of him as he whisked her away to indulge her fancy yet again.
…………………………….
Killian had a thought pulling at him as he watched Emma drying her hair after what could only be called a fantastically executed shower seduction. In that moment, he realized there would never be any reprieve from these feelings. The pang in his gut and the flutter in his heart when he looked at Emma Swan would follow him always. She was fast becoming everything to him and with each passing moment in her presence the claim she had on his heart grew stronger. He loved her fully, undoubtedly, in a forever kind of way.
He’d let that slip tonight, when he’d told her the truth of what his life had been over the past five years. He’d told her he loved her all this time and he’d watched the light in her eyes that had come hard and fast at the words. She hadn’t said it back, but he knew that she felt it. Killian didn’t need the words when he had Emma’s trust.
“What?”
Emma’s questioning of his staring pulled him from the thoughts and he shook his head, not wishing to overwhelm her with his internal reverie. Instead he covered his sincerity with the same mirthful flirtation that they shared so often, letting his grin grow wider.
“Just marveling at my luck as I do so often these days. You truly are stunning, Swan.”
“Ah, so you’re into me for my body. Good to know.”
“If ever you are in doubt that I desire you for everything you are Swan, know that you are wrong. There is nothing, and I mean nothing, that I would change about the person you are inside and out.”
Emma smiled, her face holding the innocence of someone who’d never been hurt before. Killian knew that wasn’t true, but to know that she saw him as someone safe to be that way with was a heady thing. She made her way to the bed and nestled in beside him, letting free a small yawn.
“Tired?” She nodded into his chest.
“My boyfriend’s a menace. Constantly pleasing me and treating me so well.” His arms around her tightened as he dropped a kiss to her temple.
“You seem like the kind of lass who deserves it.”
“I bet you say that to all the girls.” She was quickly falling into sleep, Killian could tell as her breathing was evening out.
“What other girls? There will never be anyone who compares to you, Emma.”
She stretched against him, not realizing that the touch of her skin would send those same desirous thoughts coursing through him. He wouldn’t trade it for the world though. He’d gone far too long without having her, and Killian would never regret a single second where he had Emma’s touch in any way she’d grant it.
“I know. Love you.”
The last part was mumbled so low Killian barely heard it. His heart pounded in his ears, he felt this sort of euphoric joy he’d never known before. Forget what he’d just been thinking, knowing for certain that she loved him was so much better than leaving things unspoken. The world was so impossibly perfect in this moment there was simply no way to deny it.
“Emma?” he asked, but she didn’t respond, and Killian knew now that his Swan was sleeping.
He ran a hand through her damp hair, grounding himself in the facts. Emma was here, she was happy, and her heart was his just as his belonged fully to her. Though sleep was far off for him, Killian lay there completely content to hold her, to keep her warm and safe from the outside world.
He’d done the same their first night all those years ago, denying himself the rest he likely needed for the chance to take everything in. Killian had never known emotion so fierce or feeling so strong as when he held this woman in his arms. Everything in his mind and body told him never to let go, that being with her was the dream. Now though, his mind went further than dreaming of a reunion. It looked to build a future with her, since Killian didn’t dare to contemplate life without her ever again.
Visions of her moving in here with him, into the house he’d found for them, danced across his mind. Sure, he’d styled it to his tastes, but he would change anything to make her happy with the place, to make her feel at home. To have a home with Emma, that was the first dream and it was one he could hardly wait for.
Then he’d ask her to allow him the privilege of being her husband, to spend the rest of their days together, as a team and as a unit together. He imagined a wedding with Emma walking towards him in a white gown, her big green eyes looking at him with the most sincere happiness. Liam and Elsa and the boys would be there with the friends he’d made here and back in London. Emma’s friends, as her chosen family, would be there too all in the name of the two of them and their life together.
And kids. Killian really wanted a family, a big family, and from his understanding of the woman in his arms, that was something they shared. She’d told him all those years ago what it had meant to live without siblings and how lonely it had been going through life alone. Killian wanted to make sure Emma was never lonely again. He was beyond certain that she would be the best mother in the world as she was loving and kind and patient. Any child of Emma’s would speak their mind and follow the truth. They would choose to see the good in people even if they took their time to trust and Killian would love them all because they were a part of their mother.
Emma shifted in her sleep, and Killian stilled his hand that had been absent-mindedly trailing across her back. But when her eyes fluttered open and locked on his he couldn’t help but smile. She ran a hand across his chest and as she came to actual consciousness, her expression took on a look of teasing.
“Are you going to marvel at your luck all night, or were you planning to sleep?” Killian couldn’t help a laugh from bubbling up in his chest.
“My apologies, love. A bit lost in my thoughts I fear.”
He looked past her head to the clock to find that a few hours had elapsed since she’d fallen asleep. Surely time wasn’t slipping by so quickly. The thought unnerved him, because now there would never be enough time. He wanted Emma forever and to make the most of every precious moment they had, no matter how small.
“If you weren’t exhausted enough from the shower to go to sleep then clearly I’m slipping in my girlfriend duties.” Her hands trailed down to grip his cock and he reveled in the feel of it. She was so sure and so damn tempting. It drove him just a little mad.
“There’s no need to worry about your many talents, love.” Emma smiled as she climbed astride him and dropped a kiss to his lips.
“So the problem is that you’re insatiable then?” He nodded.
“With you, yes.”
“Challenge accepted.” And lord did she ever rise to it, setting a rhythm that had Killian unable to maintain much control. They chased their release and though he now felt the last bit of restlessness wafting away, Emma looked at him, eyes wide and assessing.
“Will you sleep now? Please.” He nodded and meant it.
“Aye, love, anything for you.”
Killian smiled as Emma kept herself purposefully awake to make sure he did. She cared about him and that was the greatest gift, one Killian would never take for granted. Emma ran a hand through the strands of his hair that fell at his forehead and the motion was so soothing, Killian had no chance of fighting the fatigue that had been lurking underneath all the daydreaming. Then, when Emma was certain that he was asleep, she followed, and to no surprise, they dreamed of each other.
Post-Note: So this chapter got a lot of major things done. One – now you all have the backstory of why Killian didn’t go after Emma right away. Two – I got to use smutty frosting encounters again (wow do I miss my ‘Steady’ AU right about now). And Three – an entire segment of Killian POV that’s based on his dreams for him and Emma, all of which will be coming true, In other words it was fluff galore. Anyway, hope you guys enjoyed and thanks so much for reading!
#captain swan#captain swan au#captain swan fic#captain swan ff#cs#cs fic#cs ff#cs fluff#cs smut#cs au#emma swan#killian jones#liam jones#ouat au#souvenirs#souvenirs cs au#souvenirs 6
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The Ides Of July 2017
Hey guys! It’s time once again for The Ides Of, but this is a shorter column than usual. What can I say, it’s summer, there’s less TV on and I’ve been outside at least once. Don’t get me wrong, there’s still some damn good stuff in here, but there’s notably less.
Part of me feels like I should compensate with a longer, ramblier introduction, but nah, let’s get on with it.
(Is ‘ramblier’ even a word? I don’t think it is. More rambly? No, that’s not right either.)
—
Movies
I began the month by watching John Wick: Chapter 2 (Chad Stahelski 2017), which picks up pretty much right where the first film left off, and doesn’t let go for the entire running time. It’s another hugely enjoyable action movie with some fantastic set pieces and a brilliant, central performance from Keanu Reeves. I would probably say it was a step down from Chapter 1, if only because it hits a lot of the same beats and doesn’t come out of nowhere as being surprisingly awesome. I think what makes these films work is the very slow, deliberate world-building that goes on around the rather basic revenge plotlines. John Wick’s world of assassins has a definite fantasy twist to it, and every new rule, every new artefact we see, such as ‘markers’ only asks more questions, and I think that feeling of only just scratching the surface of a mystery is very powerful. It’s why I think the fervour of my fandom for a new world is always at it’s highest right at the start. When every page is a new discovery. In John Wick, both chapters, every scene is a new discovery. It’s why I’m both excited and nervous about the upcoming John Wick comics (even if they are by the excellent Greg Pak) and the possibility of a TV show. I want things to remain murky here. I mentioned Keanu earlier, but the rest of the cast is also great, with standouts being Ian McShane (of fucking course), Peter Serafinowicz and a very cool Matrix reunion with Reeves and Laurence Fishburne. These John Wick movies are just a lot of fun, very cool action, strong (albeit, as I said, simple) stories and just that hint of something higher.
I then watched La La Land (Damien Chazelle 2016), finally getting around to one of this year’s big Oscar contenders after months and months of hearing and reading some rather heated debate. Now that we’re a bit removed from all that, I have to say that La La Land is a thoroughly enjoyable movie that deserves a lot of the praise it received and, in my view, not as much criticism. The opening musical sequence is just a delight, a blast of classic Hollywood movie magic in that most prosaic of places… a traffic jam. That sense of old-school big musical carries throughout, and whilst at times I feel like the balance between that and the more modern, plotty scenes is a bit off, it works more than it doesn’t. All of the musical numbers are excellent, sticking in my head after the film, and I enjoyed how they fit into the story of Seb and Mia, both of whom are interesting, flawed characters with strong performances from Ryan Gosling and Emma Stone. At first I was surprised that Stone won an Oscar here, because it’s not the kind of role that normally wins the big awards, but in a way, that makes it even better. She just sells the whole conceit here so well. One thing I found interesting is that the movie uses the classic Hollywood musical romance style to tell the story of a relationship that doesn’t end up working out. The two main characters aren’t able to live their professional dreams together. They have to sacrifice their being together to be successful in their own fields of acting and Jazz music (speak of the Jazz thing, that whole ‘La La Land white mansplains Jazz’ thing was way overblown, yes, Seb does do that a bit, but 2, 3 scenes later, John Legend’s character disagrees with him, and is shown to be correct!). I am conflicted about that final scene, where they idealise their romance and we see how it ‘could’ have gone. I can’t quite parse the meaning just yet. But overall, La La Land is great, effortlessly charming, with a directorial style and panache that hasn’t been discussed enough I don’t think. I think I definitely need to see ‘Moonlight’ now, just to see how they stack up. La La Land is good for sure, but I can see why others didn’t like it and don’t see it as ‘worthy’. Hopefully we can forget about that now and just appreciate what an experience it is.
And finally, I went to the cinema to see Spider-Man: Homecoming (Jon Watts 2017) and it should be no surprise at this point that I loved it. Not only do I like basically every MCU film, Spider-Man is my overall favourite superhero, so having him get his own story in that universe is just what dreams are made of for this particular dork, particularly after the relative let-down of the Amazing Spider-Man movies. I would probably say that Homecoming isn’t as good as an overall film as the first 2 Raimis (particularly Spider-Man 2), but that MCU connection gives it that extra edge. Think about it, when people talk about what makes Spider-Man so special, it’s pretty much always in comparison to other superheroes. Compared to Captain America and Thor his life’s a mess. A young kid can’t identify with Batman, but they can with Spidey. Superman’s costume shows his face, but Spider-Man’s hides his, so it could be anyone under there! Spider-Man’s charm is that he’s not like other heroes, so, as good as Raimi was, given that Spider-Man is the only hero in those films, that charm is missing. Lest we forget, the very first issue of Amazing Spider-Man sees Spider try, and fail, to join the Fantastic Four. This film follows a similar path, although swap out the FF for the Avengers. Post-Civil War, Peter Parker is desperate to join the Avengers and be like Iron Man. But throughout the course of the film, he, and the audience, realise that isn’t where Spider-Man is supposed to go. He has his own corner of the Marvel Universe. A friendly neighbourhood if you will! Basically everything in this movie works. I’ll start first by saying that Tom Holland is pretty much perfect. He showed that already in Civil War, but man, he doesn’t drop the ball here. He is funny, endearing, clever and heroic. Basically, he is Spider-Man. The cameos from Robert Downey Jnr’s Tony Stark are just enough, and the way other Avengers make their presence known is just hilarious. I thought Michael Keaton was brilliant as The Vulture, making the character understandable but also very menacing. But of course, with Spider-Man, it’s not just about the superhero action, but also about the personal drama, and I think Homecoming does the best of any adaptation at nailing Peter Parker’s home-life. The scenes between Peter and (the still disarmingly hot) Aunt May are great, hinting at the tragedy that binds them, but not dragged down by them. All of the high school stuff and characters are fantastic, feeling like the best combination of the classic Lee/Ditko days and the more modern, Ultimate Spider-Man. I mean, Ned is basically just Miles Morales’ best friend Ganke (speaking of Miles, loved the reference to him with Donald Glover’s character) and the new spins given to Liz, Flash Thompson, Betty Brant and MJ are great. I really loved Zendaya’s performance as ‘Michelle’ here, she’s a different kind of love interest, in that she barely is one at all! She came out of nowhere to be perhaps the funniest character in the film. And man, is it funny, that’s another thing Homecoming delivers where other films perhaps didn’t, the humour. The MCU is always comedic, but this is taken to another level. Can you tell I really liked this movie? I watched it after a tough week personally, and it really turned things around. Spider-Man has always taught me a lot about how to live my life, and it’s great that he continues to do so. I hope Tom Holland is inspiring a new generation of kids.
Television
Given that it’s Summah, there’s not as much TV as there usually is, but what there is to talk about is good stuff. The only returning show for me at the moment is Preacher (AMC) which is back with one hell of a bang. This second season has the series feeling a lot more confident, both in it’s ability to stick closer to the comics now that we’ve left Annville behind, but also in how it deviates from the source material. Whilst I enjoyed Season 1, Preacher really should be a road trip story, and that element is front and centre, as Jesse, Tulip and Cassidy search across America for God. Not only are they being followed by the Saint Of Killers, but recent episodes have begun to introduce my favourite antagonists from the comics, Herr Starr and The Grail. The fact that their introduction has been somewhat surprising is a sign of how good this show can be. It is familiar, but also able to give me something new. I said this a lot last year, but whilst the story may differ, the tone of this show is pure uncut Ennis and Dillon, and that’s hard to beat. The opening sequence of the Season Premiere was just the perfect mix of comedy, gross-out and violence. It blew me away. I continue to love the central performances from Dominic Cooper, Ruth Negga and Joe Gilgun. I don’t think any of them are likely to get Awards consideration, but they deserve it for me. The only real negative for me so far this season has been the Eugene/Arseface storyline, where we see what he’s up to in Hell. I get what they were trying to do, but making Hitler a sympathetic character doesn’t really work. It just felt like the wrong kind of ‘offensive’ for Preacher. But the sequences showing Eugene reliving his worst memory were some of the best the show has done. Preacher is a series that’s not for everyone, but as a fan of the comics, I really enjoy it a lot, Rogen and Goldberg continue to grow and evolve the show, and it’s really very exciting.
I also watched 2 Netflix originals in their entireties. First was Five Came Back (Netflix), a 3-part documentary series about the filmmaking exploits of 5 famous Hollywood Directors during WW2; John Ford, William Wyler, John Huston, Frank Capra and George Stevens. The series uses a lot of fascinating archival footage, and also pairs each of the 5 with a modern director; Steven Spielberg, Francis Ford Coppola, Guillermo Del Toro, Lawrence Kasan and Paul Greengrass. I found this to be a fantastic, powerful documentary, which made me look at not just these individual directors differently, but also see cinema as a whole and WW2 in a new light. The first episode is a little slow, introducing us to the 5 men’s lives before the War, but the later episodes are on a whole other level, and just blew me away with the footage they shot. One thing that really brings it home is the fact that a lot of what, particularly Ford and Stevens shot, was in colour. You don’t often see WW2 in colour, but it made it feel so much more real and effective. The football of Dachau concentration camp in colour was particularly harrowing. You just don’t expect to see that in colour. It was incredibly powerful and you really see why, after his experiences, George Stevens felt he was no longer able to direct comedy films, and instead only did drama from then on. It changed him so deeply. One thing that’s particularly cool about this series is that Netflix have also put a lot of the propaganda films the Directors made on the site as well. I haven’t watched any yet, but I am intrigued. It’s certainly made me more interested in their wider careers. I’ve seen most of Ford and Capra’s big pictures, but the likes of Wyler, Huston (who I know more as an actor) and Stevens I don’t think I’ve see any films of. If anyone can show me how I can see ‘The Best Years Of Our Lives’ in the UK, let me know, it looks like a fantastic counter piece to ‘It’s A Wonderful Life’. If you have any interest in the golden age of Cinema or WW2, you have to watch this series, it is a superb examination of both.
Over the space of just about 3 weeks I watched every episode of GLOW (Netflix), which really is fantastic. Given that I like the bastard art form that is professional wrestling, I was already pre-disposed to liking this series, but it transcends that to become a top quality series in it’s own right that, actually acts as a fantastic explanation of why ‘sports entertainment’ works. If you have any friends or family that don’t quite get it, I think GLOW, rather than any 5-star match or amazing promo will help you explain. Over the course of 10 episodes GLOW introduces some truly fantastic characters, delivers some brilliantly funny moments and also provides enough depth and drama so as not to be ridiculous. The way the series plays with stereotypes is just excellent, as pretty much everyone defies your expectations. The central performances from Alison Brie, Marc Maron and Betty Gilpin are the standouts, but really, everyone is good. I was very surprised to see UK pop star Kate Nash appear as Rhonda. I had no idea she could even act, but she was hilarious in all her scenes. It was also great to see Knives Chau from Scott Pilgrim, Ellen Wong appear, and as a fan of the much maligned 3rd season of Veronica Mars and poor Piz, Chris Lowell was fun as Bash. But the main thing here is Brie, whose Ruth is just one of the great modern TV protagonists. She manages to be both sympathetic and also an awful person at times, and it was great to see her slowly get her confidence back as she develops the ‘Zoya The Destroya’ persona. Her Russian heel accent is so damn good. One thing I liked is that the show treated Wrestling seriously, and that the matches we do see were kind of good, by 80s standards. It was great to see so many cameos from real wrestlers, the likes of Johnny Mundo, Tyrus, Carlito, Joey Ryan, Alex Riley (surprisingly good? How did this happen, he was so bad!), Kazarian and Daniels and of course, Awesome Kong/Kharma, who plays the biggest role in the series. GLOW is just a fun ride from start to finish, and I think it’s probably the best paced Netflix show I’ve watched. Most of their shows, as much as I enjoy them, tend to lag in the middle, but with this? I could have easily watched 3, 4 more episodes. Perhaps it’s the 1980s setting? Both this and Stranger Things kept the pace. I can’t wait for a second season, and man, if WWE knows what they’re doing, they should try and get some of the stars of GLOW to appear at Summerslam a la Stephen Amell. I mean, Smackdown already has a sexy Russian villain and a heroic champion who literally feels the Glow. It makes almost too much sense.
Now for some quick hits!
The 2-part iZombie (The CW) was really excellent, and set the series up for a very different 4th season next year. Zombies are now public knowledge, and a significant proportion of Seattle’s population are now Zombies. This is what the series has sort of been building to all along, but I don’t know if I ever actually expected it to happen. Now that it has, I am very excited to see what it will be like. Part of me will miss the classic dynamic of eating brains and solving crimes, but I have faith that the writers can keep the sense of humour and we won’t lose what makes the show fun.
The finale of American Gods (Starz) was very strong, particularly for an amazing Ian McShane monologue, the appearance of several Jesuses (Jesi?) and another brilliantly stylish flashback sequence focusing on Bilquis, but man, 8 episodes was too short a season, I feel like Fuller and Green have only just gotten started! Part of me thinks I should re-read Gaiman’s novel before Season 2, but I also like the fact that my memory is so hazy, it means I can still be surprised, like Preacher. These 2 shows actually have quite a few similarities now that I think about it.
Silicon Valley (HBO) ended it’s 4th season with the departure of one the main characters, Ehrlich Bachman, and I have to say it was bittersweet. I will mis T.J. Miller’s scene-stealing performance, but they way he left? Just abandoned by Gavin in Tibet to do drugs? It was so damn funny. I hope the series will be as strong without him, I think it might actually help them shake things up a bit and allow the plot to progress a bit more, because whilst this series is always funny, Season 4 did feel a bit like ‘2 steps forward, 1 step back’ at times.
The last few episodes of Veep (HBO) Season 6 were a bit like that too, although probably intentionally? Especially given that the finale featured flashbacks to throughout Selina’s political career. I am wary of her running for President again, but at this point I could watch these actors do anything, they are so funny, and I think that David Mandel and his writers, whilst different from Iannucci, have a firm handle on them. Veep is just a comedic classic at this point, and if a Presidential comedy can still be funny in the age of Trump, it really is good.
Music
Two albums to talk about this month, and both a returns for recent favourites of mine. First up is How Did We Get So Dark? (Warner Bros. Records 2017), the second album from Royal Blood. With this record, the Brighton two-piece don’t exactly reinvent the wheel, once more delivering 10 blistering rock tracks in the space of about 35 minutes. But when the wheel you’ve already got is so damn good, then it doesn’t really matter does it? This is another great collection of rock songs, that hit hard and stick in your memory. Given that this is reportedly a break-up album, the subject matter of the songs is probably a little darker than the self-titled debut, but with Royal Blood, the lyrics tend not to matter as much as the feel of the song, of the bass and the drums just kicking in your face. I would say my my favourite song on here is probably ‘Hook, Line And Sinker’, but the title track is also great, and really, they’re all excellent. I suppose it would have been interesting to see what a more experimental Royal Blood album would be like, but for now, I’m fine with a bit more of their formula. If they haven’t changed after 2 or 3 more albums, then I’ll be worried.
Public Service Broadcasting’s Every Valley (PIAS Recordings 2017) does however represent a rather big evolution for the band in question, as they are now no longer sampling old films and documentaries, but actually feature some singing! This record is another concept album, with the band once again examining an area of history. One might think that Welsh Mining would be nowhere near as exciting as ‘The Race For Space’, but it turns out it is, and, in my opinion at least, makes for a better album, their best yet. Given the current surge in left-wing politics in this country, this is now a very timely album and one that has resonated with me a lot. One of my great-grandfathers was a miner, albeit not in Wales, so there’s that personal connection too. The mines allowed so many working class people to provide for their families, and that allowed subsequent generations to prosper, leading to my generation of the family being far more middle class and comfortable. When the mines and other industries were gone, I think Britain lost that social mobility, and we need to bring that back. Enough politics though, what about the music? It’s fantastic, with PSB’s familiar excellent musicianship married not only with iconic, memorable samples, but as I said, also with some original singing from some great guest-stars, such as Tracyanne Campbell from Camera Obscura and James Dean Bradfield of The Manic Street Preachers. However I think the best song features singing from the band itself, as J. Willgoose Esq himself duets with Lisa Jen Brown on the heartbreaking ‘You + Me’. That song is just wonderful even outside of the concept. It has extra meaning because of the other songs around it, but can stand alone I think. The same can also be said for the final track, ‘Take Me Home’, which features a resounding chorus from a real Welsh men’s choir. The last few tracks here, after the strikes and after the mines have been shuttered just wreck me. I almost cried when I first heard them. This is just a wonderful album, from a brilliant band that always impress and look to do new things. They could easily be a novelty, gimmick band, but this shows they are so much more.
Books
Not to toot my own horn too much, but sometimes I can be an astute, intuitive motherfucker. Last month, when talking about Moonglow (2016) by Michael Chabon, I wrote that it reminded me a lot of Gravity’s Rainbow. Well, only a few pages later… Chabon brings up that book in the text! That brought a real smile to my face, as did the rest of this novel, as well as a fair few tears. Chabon’s depiction of his grandfather’s life comes together very well, telling a fascinating story about some very interesting people. The revelation of just what Chabon’s grandmother’s secret was blew me away, especially in the rather nonchalant way it was explained. It wasn’t some big bomb-shell (this book has enough literal ones of those!) but a slow unravelling. Like I said, it was emotional, and I can only imagine what it was like for Michael Chabon and his family to discover and for him to write about. This is a very strong book from a brilliant writer, yes, it’s a deeply personal story about his family, but I think the themes brought up are applicable to almost anyone. It certainly made me reflect on my relationships with my parents and particularly my grandparents. All 4 of them are dead now, but I certainly feel like I should speak to my Dad and Aunts and Uncles to get a better sense of where I come from.
I’m currently reading Dorian Lynskey’s 33 Revolutions Per Minute: A History Of Protest Songs (2010), which is, as the title would suggest, a history of protest music throughout the 20th century. Lynskey writes about 33 songs and how they reflected and even formed social change. This is a very interesting read, and in these politically tumultuous times, one that feels very vital, even if it is 7 years old. One thing that I appreciate here is the breadth of songs Lynskey chooses to write about. Some of them are very familiar to me, like ‘Strange Fruit’ or ‘Give Peace A Chance’ and others I’ve never heard of! I’m excited to find out more, and luckily, every song in this book apart from one is on Apple Music, so I’ve been able to compile a playlist so after reading a chapter I can listen to the actual song. I’m currently just getting up to the 1970s, with the next chapter to read being ‘The Revolution Will Not Be Televised’ by Gil Scott-Heron, which is just a classic. Of course, this book is more than just a music book, and instead reflects the changes in Western, particularly American, society. A lot of these early chapters are about Civil Rights, and then Vietnam. From reading the contents, that’s going to evolve into Gay Rights, and feminism, and many other causes. Every chapter teaches me something new, not just about the musicians, but about the protest movements themselves. The only negative thing really is that reading this book has shone a light on the fact that our current political climate is sorely missing any good protest songs. The final chapter in this book is Green Day’s ‘American Idiot’, and that song is nearly 15 years old! I think it’s because the left is so much more cynical nowadays, when we see a song with a ‘message’, we dismiss it as preachy and smug? That’s certainly what I tend to think, but then again, I do like a lot of the songs in this book! I suppose if he did an update Lynskey could write about ‘Oooohhhh, Jeremy Corbyn’ to the tune of Seven Nation Army? That’s about as close as we get these days.
Games
Much to my shame, I have barely had any time for video games this month. I haven’t even touched Zelda! I am a failure to the people of Hyrule. I hope they'll forgive me. I have however still been playing Mario Kart 8 Deluxe (Nintendo Switch) when I have a spare half an hour or so. I’ve been playing it in Hand-Held Mode this time, and it is just so awesome to be playing a hand-held Mario Kart Game with such awesome graphics. I can remember playing the shit out of Mario Kart Super Circuit on the Gameboy Advance, and this is bringing back fond memories… only it’s 100 times better and bigger. One thing that I think is going to increase my playing time going forward is that I’ve just picked up a Switch Carry Case. Now I’ll have nothing to worry about in putting it in my bag and gaming on the go. Now that I have this case, I think I’ll start using the Switch to it’s full potential and perhaps actually get on with Zelda once more.
—
So that’s your lot, I hope you enjoyed it. I must admit that even though this was shorter than normal, writing this was a bit like pulling teeth!
Hopefully next month will be easier, especially because Game Of Thrones is back! Oh man, I’m excited for that.
#The Ides Of#July#2017#Movies#John Wick: Chapter 2#La La Land#Spider-Man: Homecoming#Television#Five Came Back#iZombie#American Gods#GLOW#Silicon Valley#Veep#Preacher#Music#Royal Blood#Public Service Broadcasting#Books#Michael Chabon#Dorian Lynskey#Games#Nintendo#Switch#Mario Kart 8 Deluxe
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6 Horrific Realities of Living With a Bedbug Infestation
But throwing out your belongings is harder than you think -- particularly if your goal is not to infect a bunch of strangers' houses with biting insects. Although we took precautions (wrapping our rugs and sheets in garbage bags, sealing them with duct tape, and labeling them with the word "bedbugs" and a cartoon picture of a mean-looking insect with frowny eyes), the dumpster scavengers were undeterred. In fact, while depositing our second load of plagued goods, we found some unwitting schlub collecting our very first load. He ignored our protests, threw the bag of bug-infested goods over his shoulder, and sauntered off, whistling a little tune like some kind of Johnny Fucking Appleseed of bedbugs.From then on, we knew the only way to avoid spreading our curse to others was to destroy everything we owned. We disassembled our futon and then smashed it with a hammer. I threw our TV into the dumpster hard enough to shatter its screen. My desk was cathartically splintered by my renfair ax.As far as personal catastrophes go, a bedbug infestation sounds fairly minor. You might even wonder why it pops up in the headlines so often, alongside all of the real problems people have. Until, that is, it happens to you.Then you find out it's a fucking nightmare.I did, when bedbugs infested my apartment. If your experience with bedbugs (which I sincerely hope you never have) is anything like mine and my wife's, here's what you have to look forward to ...
6. You Will Cover Yourself in Vaseline
Bedbugs are drawn inexorably toward any warm bodies, but since they can't jump or fly, their mobility is actually pretty low. Vaseline may as well be quicksand for them, so a common survival tactic for the afflicted is to create isolated beds, using Vaseline the way you'd use garlic as a vampire repellent. You smear the stuff on the bed frame and the legs of the bed to create an impassible barrier (you can also try nesting the legs of your bed in bowls of baby powder -- the little bastards get stuck in it). But what if the bedbugs are already in your bed, or places that can't be roped off with rings of Vaseline?
You smear it on yourself, that's what. And if you think you have too much dignity and self-respect to turn your body into a greasy insect trap, well, try living with bedbugs for a few months.
That's because getting bedbugs is like being a fan of the Chicago Cubs: Even though you know the days ahead are going to be filled with suffering and misery, you still have to get up every day and live your life. For instance, I had an active nightlife (that is, I did frequent late-night World of Warcraft raids), and bedbugs love their midnight munchies. So any time I looked down, I'd see a platoon of bloodsuckers sprinting across my desk. And I don't much like being bitten -- the distraction was seriously hurting my damage per second.
So, I slathered my ankles, wrists, and arms with coating after coating of Vaseline until I resembled a glazed doughnut. And yes, it worked -- the bugs would crawl up to me, try to feast on my delicious blood, and immediately get stuck. At the end of the night, I'd retire to the bathroom to scrape off the glaze -- which was by now covered in bedbug sprinkles. I was the doughnut Satan would give as ironic punishment to a glutton.
And if you're sitting out there judging my disgusting, insect-encrusted lifestyle, that's also part of the delightful bedbug experience. Because ...
5. You Will Be Unfairly Judged
Before we go any further, let's debunk some rumors:
First of all, bedbug infestations have nothing to do with how clean you are. Everything from my yuppie apartment building to the flagship Nike Store to the NYC Department of Health has had an outbreak -- even multimillionaires like Howard Stern aren't immune. Despite the best attempts to blame the bedbug problem on hippies, science has shown us that bedbugs are actually immune to DDT, so getting rid of it in the '50s had nothing to do with their current resurgence. Hell, they don't even really live in beds: They can infest everything from train seats to wallpaper to baseboards to your fucking alarm clock.
And no, getting rid of an infestation isn't just a matter of calling your landlord to have somebody come over and spray -- living with the little monsters doesn't mean the person is lazy or OK with it (who the hell would be?). These things haven't survived natural selection by being stupid -- after we sprayed, the bedbugs just followed us to other rooms, indulging in the sweet smorgasbord of our shed flesh that littered the floors of our living room and kitchen. All the bugs had to do was cross a few trivial feet of hardwood, a simple task for a creature that can scale electrical wire like a crazy parasitic Spider-Man.
Oh, and despite the fact that in Massachusetts my landlord was legally responsible for exterminating my bedbugs, he still tried to con me into paying for them, dodged summons to court, and in general acted like an all-around douche -- if there was a housing law for him to violate, he did it with panache. We escaped (sans our security deposit), and as far as we know he never got any comeuppance.
For support, I found myself reaching out to the only group who could truly sympathize: other people living with infestations. They are clustered on a little island of sanity in the middle of the Internet called BedBugger.com. As a source of news, information, commiseration, and (somehow) rationality, I can confidently say that they are totally responsible for what tattered shreds remain of my sanity (shortly after I joined, one long-term member actually let me call them in the middle of the night and panic). Just knowing other folks are going through the same thing makes you feel less alone. Not that I ever really felt "alone" with the 7 million other inhabitants in my apartment.
4. You Will Be Driven to Dangerous Measures
So you've sprayed your place and slathered yourself in petroleum jelly. Now you have to clear out your clothes. Short of spraying your stuff with horrifying pesticides, the easiest way to kill off bedbugs is to help them reach their "thermal death point," which is exactly what it sounds like: We crammed every piece of clothing we owned into the dryer for two hours, letting those bastards burn in there for $2.50 a load. By the end, it probably would've been cheaper to bribe the bugs out of our home with a whirlwind Vegas weekend of hookers and blow, but sadly, they're only insects with tiny brains and lack the physiology to properly enjoy cocaine or human genitals.
You're supposed to put everything that isn't laundry into an oven, and since I was working as a teacher, it was very important that anything I gave to my students (like their homework) be bug-free, lest I become the Typhoid Mary of bedbugs. But I ran into a problem: Stuff like paper, shoes, and sex toys can't go in an oven. Conventional wisdom says to heat them up with a sealable container and PackTite (a specialized heating system for situations just like this), but I'm not a big fan of conventional wisdom (that is, I was too broke to afford PackTite), so I put a bunch of non-clothing stuff in the dryer in the basement, wedged it closed with bricks so the heavier items wouldn't knock the door open, and left the machine running to scorch away my sorrows.
There was logic to my actions, of course -- the type of logic that rises like a misty aroma from a brain soaking in a cocktail of fear and madness. "I have too many things to put in the oven," I sang to myself, sweetly, "so I will put them in the dryer. The bugs will burn and I will be free." One of my neighbors failed to appreciate the beauty of my logic. His naive, bugless eyes saw not the key to sweet relief through death, but a gas dryer (which used an open flame) packed with flammable shit and wedged shut. He responded by dragging my ass into the basement and calling the cops.
I was let off with a warning and learned exactly nothing from this, because the fiery death of me and my neighbors was a trifle compared to the threat of bedbugs. I continued to cleanse my students' homework in the oven, which amounted to stuffing large amounts of paper near an open goddamn flame, right up until the end of the ordeal. At this point, I've used up so much residual good luck that I'm liable to die from someone else's game of Russian roulette.
But this, amazingly, was still just the beginning ...
3. You Will Have to Destroy Your Belongings
With our clothes scourged like LV-426 at the end of Aliens, we realized it was time to nuke our furniture from orbit as well -- which meant throwing out everything we owned.
But throwing out your belongings is harder than you think -- particularly if your goal is not to infect a bunch of strangers' houses with biting insects. Although we took precautions (wrapping our rugs and sheets in garbage bags, sealing them with duct tape, and labeling them with the word "bedbugs" and a cartoon picture of a mean-looking insect with frowny eyes), the dumpster scavengers were undeterred. In fact, while depositing our second load of plagued goods, we found some unwitting schlub collecting our very first load. He ignored our protests, threw the bag of bug-infested goods over his shoulder, and sauntered off, whistling a little tune like some kind of Johnny Fucking Appleseed of bedbugs.
From then on, we knew the only way to avoid spreading our curse to others was to destroy everything we owned. We disassembled our futon and then smashed it with a hammer. I threw our TV into the dumpster hard enough to shatter its screen. My desk was cathartically splintered by my renfair ax.
And no, we weren't just being paranoid -- the infection of others' homes through casually repossessed furniture is a bigger problem than you might hope. Boston, for example, is home to something called Allston Christmas, in which students from its roughly 7 billion colleges move out and leave most of their furniture on the curb. Guess what happens when you take that furniture home. Bedbugs. Bedbugs happen.
2. After Everything, You May Still Have to Flee Your Own Home
After two months of sealing our clothes in plastic bags the size of Godzilla condoms, scrubbing our bodies with buckets of isopropyl alcohol, and three failed pesticide treatments, we finally found the solution to our problems: retreat. That's right. We moved out of our apartment. The bedbugs won.
But our ordeal wasn't over: To make sure we didn't bring any of the vermin with us, we had to conduct a "truck-based treatment," which means we rented a U-Haul and turned it into an insect abattoir -- and, somehow, "loading everything you own into a truck and then baking it" is even more complicated than it seems.
First, we needed a propane permit, which meant we had to explain to a bunch of skeptical firefighters that this process wouldn't combust our crap. Second, we couldn't just throw our stuff in the U-Haul and be on our way -- we had to pack the truck carefully, making sure the air would be circulating and there would be no cool pockets for the flesh-eating bastards to hide in. And finally, we had to park a truck on a busy Boston street and hope no curious Sox fan wandered in and died of stupidity next to our mattress.
It looks crazy, and it worked. The guys hooked up the machine, we all took turns watching it heat, and then we got a pizza and just hung around for eight hours. Once we finished, we let our newest best friends drive off in their pickup and moved into our new apartment.
The infestation had cost us something close to $5,000 once all was said and done. Take a moment to imagine all of those people who A) don't have the money to do this and B) don't have the option to move. Oh, and it also cost my sanity.
That's because here is where I hit rock bottom. After weeks of torment, a hard day of moving, and the sweet relief of finally roasting every bug left on my personal belongings, I stripped off all my clothing to discover two massive bites on my leg. I panicked. The idea of all this expense and inconvenience being pointless sent me into a downward spiral, knowing that it all might have been for nothing.
1. You Will Be Scarred Forever
My new place, as it turned out, was bedbug-free. I didn't believe it until they brought in a bedbug-sniffing dog (yes, those exist, and they are the most wonderful things in the world) to convince me.
It turns out my psyche has been irrevocably warped by this experience. I'd call it PTSD, but that insults everyone who has experienced worse shit than mere bedbugs. Instead, I'll draw on my years of psychological training (seriously) to bullshit a new name: PBI, or post-bedbug insanity.
To get an idea of how my brain works now, take a look at the chaos around your computer. Check out that little black dot near the mouse. Is it lint? A food particle? A stray dingleberry? Or is it a bedbug? Now take off your pants and contemplate all the random red spots that have sprouted since you last inspected your legs. Is that new splotch an ingrown hair? A wildly inaccurate crotch piercing? Or is it a bedbug bite?
This is how I think now. Any stray speck of dust creates an instant rush of fear. Whenever I see a yard sale, it's all I can do to stop myself from screaming inane warnings and dousing each piece of furniture with gasoline. I've spent more time on my knees in hotel rooms than the average congressional aide, but I'm searching the mattress for evidence of an infestation instead of angling for a promotion.
And I'm not alone. People who experience bedbug infestations can end up depressed or socially anxious, start hallucinating, or other things that are way too depressing for a comedy article to get into. You might be thinking, "Oh, it's just insects," but that's because you don't understand how this problem gets under your skin and inside your brain and festers. Hold on -- I have an itchy lump near my elbow right now, and I was recently on an airplane. These must be bedbugs.
Excuse me, I need to go take a bath in isopropyl alcohol.
This article was first published on Cracked.com.
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