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pascalpanic · 3 years

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Burning The Midnight Oil (Javier Peña x gn!Reader)

Summary: Javier has been burning the candle at both ends. He just needs some rest. Luckily, you’ve got your husband covered.

W/C: 3.4K

Warnings: oh boy um. language, non sexual nudity, brief sexual jokes/innuendo, lots of talk of sleep deprivation bc that’s a plot point here, brief mentions of alcohol and guns (maybe once each), mostly talk of food/eating, eating meat/pork (Javier does, not reader) otherwise I’d say it’s fluffy for the most part

A/N: ☄️ anon, god bless your soul for this idea!! I really love it so I banged it out in one night and here we are!!

You haven’t seen your husband in days. You know he’s exhausted, only ever showing up at home when you’re off at work. It’s a terrible situation, the only contact you’ve had with him being at odd hours over the phone.

The DEA has been all hands on deck this week, requiring their men to be there at all times unless they’re at home and sleeping; even then, they only get about six hours off at a time, many of them too wired to sleep. Javier only gets to come home every other day, usually during the middle of the day. He’s been staying up for a dangerous amount of time, in your opinion, leaving you just about ready to find the heads of the cartel and beat their asses yourself.

During the work week, you can’t complain. You have no right to. You knew when you and Javier had eloped and married that the man’s job was a baggage you’d be forced to carry as a couple. You normally didn’t mind, but when it goes into the weekend, that’s when you get mad. Not just that you don’t get your husband at home with you, but that he doesn’t get to be home. He deserves it. Javier hardly relaxes during the weekends, and essentially does not relax on weeknights until he’s fallen asleep with his head on your chest.

Saturday found you running errands, expecting Javier home by midday at the very latest. Returning home with a pep in your step and finding no Javier there, your mood and smile fell instantly. It’s Saturday; your husband should be home. They should be letting them go home, you thought angrily as you took your anger out by chopping the vegetables to go into your dinner. Surely Javier will be home by dinnertime.

Nothing. 6 P.M., 7 P.M., no Javier, just a dinner growing cold and your heart sinking. You knew Javier had got his break yesterday, and had been in the apartment while you worked, but a slightly rumpled bed was the only evidence he was even there.

At 8, you walk to the phone and dial the DEA office, specifically Javier’s extension.

Your husband picks up and his voice wrecks your heart. “Peña,” he mumbles, his voice crackly. It sounds like his morning grumble after a long night of sleep next to you.

“Javi,” you coo, heart breaking. “Baby, when are you coming home?”

Javier perches on the edge of his desk, phone tucked between his cheek and shoulder. “Fuck, cariño, I don’t know,” he admits, rubbing his face. “I just woke up, I got an hour nap in the break room office. We have to keep going. We’re so close, I can tell.”

You understand his desperation, but you know exactly what he looks like now, a stubble growing thanks to his time away from home, his eyes bloodshot and drooping. His hair is probably messy and his shirt is probably all wrinkly; you’re absolutely certain he’s holding a mug of the sludgy black coffee the office brews. He’s most definitely the picture of exhaustion, and even though you can’t see him, you know your husband. He is a wreck. “I can let Saturday slide, but you’re coming home tomorrow, I don’t care how long. I need to see you and you need to be taken care of.” “I’m doing just fine,” Javier shakes his head and you can hear a flick of a lighter as he’s most likely lighting a cigarette.

“You’re not, and don’t try to pull that card with me. I know you. You’re a disaster; I can tell from your voice. You haven’t eaten and you haven’t slept and you can’t deny it. I want you home as soon as you can tomorrow, you got it? Don’t you even fucking dare try it, Javier Fernando Peña.”

The full name: ouch. He sighs and exhales the cigarette smoke, then takes a sip of his coffee before answering you. “God, I fucking love you,” he chuckles softly. “Okay.”

Another sign of Javier’s exhaustion: how easily he gives in. Javier is a stubborn man, but over your years together he’s learned that you’re just as hard to budge. When both of you are set, neither of you can be moved. Your sarcasm and wit and willpower was what drew him to you in the first place; Javier could never have a compliant, submitting partner. He’d be a mess. He needs you to ground him, he knew and still knows it. It’s why you’re married now.

“I love you too, handsome. Call me before you come home, okay baby? I want to be awake for you,” you say, a soft smile on your face. Your voice is much warmer, less jagged and rough.

It’s the way you always get Javi, the thing that makes him melt the most: when you’re snapping one second and gentle the next. God, he fucking loves you. You understand him, you don’t question him when he comes home and doesn’t speak. You read him and then you hold him, and all of his fears dissipate with his calming breath. “Okay. I love you,” he repeats again, more earnest and purposeful. He wants you to know it; he worries you haven’t felt it in the past week. It’s also another sign of his exhaustion.

“I love you too, Javi,” you remind him as you chuckle and stand. “Don’t fall asleep on the job. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Javier groans and cracks his neck after hanging up, sliding the typewriter back to the beginning. Just a little longer, he tells himself, then he gets to come home to you.

The phone rings around 5 in the morning, waking you from a restless slumber. The sun is just starting to rise, making the sky lighter and colorful from its previous midnight blue. Knowing Javier would be calling, it was impossible for you to sleep fully, leaving you in a dozing state more similar to a daydream than to any form of REM.

“Hello?” You answer with a groggy voice, hoping it’s Javier. Who else could it be, at this hour on a Sunday morning?

“Hey, dulzura,” Javier sighs into the phone. “I’m packing up my shit now. We didn’t get Escobar, but we got one of his big guys late last night. They’re bringing in some Search Bloc guys and giving us tomorrow off.”

You nearly cry in relief at his words, making a noise between a sigh and a squeal, heavy and happy. Javier laughs softly at your noise of relief, allowing himself to smile. His vision is hazy from the lack of sleep, but he’ll be cognizant enough after this last cup of coffee kicks in. “Get your ass home, Javi,” you tell him with a voice just as sleepy as his own. “You got an ETA for me?”

There’s a moment of silence as he looks at his watch. “5:45.”

Your eyes haven’t even opened yet, and you finally let them as you look at the clock. That’s soon, really soon, and it makes your heart speed up a little as your body forces you awake. “Great. I’ll see you then. Drive safe. If you’re too tired-”

“Steve will not be driving,” he cuts you off with a grumble. It makes you giggle a little, his adamance that Steve could never possibly do something better than him, more competently.

“Just reminding you. I’ll see you,” you tell him and hang up before he can make another sarcastic comment.

He’s glad you hang up so fast. He doesn’t have the brain power for a classic witty retort.

Javier goes to unlock the apartment door about half an hour later, but finds that his keys aren’t necessary: you’ve left the door unlocked for him.

He’d be ashamed to admit it to anyone but you, but it really does happen: Javier’s eyes water as he walks inside to the smell of cooking, the stream of soft light through the kitchen window, the sound of soft Sunday morning music drifting from the radio.

You’re at the oven, cooking, and turn when you hear a noise, grinning to see Javier. “Hey, handsome,” you squeal and rush over, wrapping your arms around him.

Javier buries his face in your hair, throwing his arms back around you. You smell fresh and clean, so soft in the fluffy robe he bought you for your birthday a few months ago now. You’re surprised to feel warm water drip from his eyes to your neck, and you pull away with a frown, cupping his face. “Are you okay, love?” You ask, wiping the tears from his eyes.

He nods. “So tired,” he admits and swallows hard. “So glad I’m home. So lucky I have you.”

You have a feeling he doesn’t have the energy to kiss you. Instead, you press your forehead to his and squeeze him tight in your arms. “Okay. I cooked breakfast. You need it. Why don’t you go take a shower?” You ask, breaking away and rubbing his arms.

He shakes his head. “My arms feel like lead. I don’t know if I can even wash my hair,” he admits, his voice a low rumble from his chest. “Just let me sleep, baby.”

“I’ll come with you, then,” you offer, already unbuttoning his shirt and working it off of him purely for comfort. You know your way around your husband’s body by now. You could unbutton his shirts blind; in fact, you have. “Come on, cariño,” you murmur and pull him along to the bathroom by the side of an unbuttoned shirt.

Once in the bathroom, Javier blinks and squints at the bright vanity lights, overwhelmed. You turn on the shower, the bathroom filling with warmth as the water heats and steam fills the air. Even in his tired state, Javier loves to undress you. He tugs the belt from your fuzzy robe, sliding it off your shoulders and tossing it on the counter. You then strip off your respective clothes, and you’re the first to step into the stream of the warm water.

Javi doesn’t have to say anything; you can tell his thoughts from your gaze. His eyes rake your body, taking in the sight of his most beloved person on the planet in all of your naked glory. He climbs in after you, and you grab a bar of soap and get to scrubbing, covering all of Javier’s body with the cucumber-scented suds. He leans his head back against the shower wall, loving your warm hands and the hot water. If he wasn’t standing, if his back wasn’t aching so hard, he’d fall asleep here and now. He’s never been more blissful.

You rinse his body then work his shampoo into his thick hair, your fingers scratching his scalp and massaging his head. “You’re the fucking best,” Javi mumbles sleepily. You just chuckle and work the soap into his hair, stripping it of the grime and cigarette smoke of the office, until he’s wiped clean, ready to start anew.

Later, you wash yourself and let Javier enjoy the hot stream of the water. He’s so zoned out you can’t even tell if he’s awake. You have to actually check. “Javi, baby?”

“Hm?” He mumbles

“Did you fall asleep on me?” You chuckle as you turn off the shower, which makes Javier frown at the loss of warmth.

“‘Course not,” he grumbles, taking the fluffy towel from you and wiping his face.

After the two of you have dressed in fresh clothes, you sit on the edge of your bed and wait for Javier to finish. He pulls a worn t-shirt over his head, then comes and sits next to you, kissing the side of your head. “You’re so good to me,” he mumbles into your temple.

He goes to flop back but you put an arm around him, catching him. “Excuse me, Agent. I made breakfast,” you chuckle and sneak a kiss from his lips, chuckling at the way his mustache is still a little damp. “When was the last time you ate?”

Javier stares off as he considers it. It takes a while for him to respond. You nod at that. “Exactly. Come on, I made breakfast just the way you like it.”

The food is still somewhat warm when you find your way to the kitchen. Javier loves the local cuisine, always has, but something about an American breakfast makes him weak at the knees. He sits at the kitchen counter and sighs as you hand him a plate of buttered toast. “There’s your appetizer,” you chuckle and head back to the stove. Half-cooked bacon, which you turned off when he came in, sits in a pan, and you turn it back on to finish. You crack a couple of eggs into another pan, making sure they sit just right so they’re the way Javi likes them: fried. You sprinkle them with salt and pepper, humming to the radio as you cook.

The sizzling bacon makes Javier’s stomach grumble. The toast isn’t even that warm anymore, but the carby goodness fills Javi’s mouth and suddenly he’s never felt so ravenous. The two pieces of buttered toast are devoured in a heartbeat.

Bringing him a mug, you pour some coffee and his favorite creamer in. “You’d better tip me later,” you tease him with a wink as you return to the stove, flipping the bacon and putting some onto a plate.

“I will tip you anything you want, I swear,” he murmurs before sipping at the ceramic mug, the warm coffee going down like it’s the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted, warming him from the inside out. The A/C blasts in the apartment, making his dripping hair feel even colder.

In yet another pan, you start pouring the premade pancake mix you’d prepared before he got home. “All of this and the sun is barely up,” He muses, wandering to the other side of the counter and stealing a strip of bacon.

“Quit,” you whine and smack his hand, making the bacon fall back onto the plate. “Your order isn’t ready yet, sir. Stop harassing the cook.” When his arms wrap around you, your defenses fall. “Go sit down,” you say weakly as he kisses your neck.

At least he obeys. Javier sits in his chair and watches you intently, downing his coffee in a short amount of time.

Finally, the feast all comes together, and you present it to Javier on a large plate: bacon, fried eggs, fruit (which you know he won’t eat, but it’s worth a shot), and heart-shaped pancakes. “I wanted to make a pistol, but I’m not super artistic,” you chuckle as you refer to the fluffy cakes on the plate.

Javier shakes his head but smiles. “Thank you, dulzura,” he manages out before he digs in, devouring the plate at a breakneck speed. You’re content to watch, standing across from him. You go to refill his coffee and come back to find the pancakes completely gone.

It doesn’t take much time at all before the plate is wiped clean, the entire thing in Javier’s stomach. Food has never been the biggest concern for him; he skips meals often for work, and you suspect he hasn’t done much more than snack here or there over the past week. His eyes droop even further now that he has a full stomach, and it warms your heart. You’ve got your husband cleaned and fed; now all you need is one last step before you have your beloved Javi back.

“Alright, handsome,” you smile as you drape your arms across his shoulders. “Nap time.”

He can’t deny that. He stands, letting your arms fall off his shoulders. He pulls you around to his front and wraps his arms around you; you know what comes next in this routine. Your feet slide on top of his and Javier walks the two of you to the bedroom, you backwards and being led by him. Javier is not an overly affectionate man: kisses and sex, primarily, hugs if one of you really needs it. This is his one little act he insists on, since you don’t let him carry you.

As you waddle along, you kiss along Javier’s jaw, giving him all of the affection he missed out on in the past week. When you finally enter your bedroom, you stop as you feel the backs of your calves against the bed. You know this routine all too well. It’s usually reserved for when Javier can’t get his hands off of you, when you desperately need him on top of you, surrounding you, kissing your neck. “Wait,” you murmur and step off of his feet, going to pull back the covers.

You return to the end of the bed, standing on top of his feet again. “There,” you say with a grin, and Javi has no choice but to grin back then kiss you. “Okay, continue.”

Then your routine resumes: you fall backwards onto the bed and Javier falls on top of you. You both grunt with the impact but you smile, wrapping one arm around Javi while the other grabs the sheets and blankets and pulls them over the both of you.

Javi’s cheek is nestled against your chest, listening to your heartbeat, his eyes already shut. “Real cute. Get off of me now,” you tease and nudge his side.

His body beneath yours is all he’s needed, all he’s dreamt about while half-consciously dreaming on the apartment couch. He can feel your chest rise and fall, his head going with it. “No,” he simply mutters, his face squished against the skin encasing your beating heart. “M’comftrble.”

You can’t deny him that, you chuckle, your hands reaching down to entangle your fingers in his dark brown hair, nearly black from the dampness it holds. “Fine,” you sigh, whispering the word to him. “I love you so much, Javi. Missed you. Missed my man.”

“Missed you too, dulzura,” Javi mumbles back, but it’s clear he’s almost already out.

“How long were you up, minus that nap, Javi?” You ask.

He thinks on it for a minute, and you think he might’ve fallen asleep until he responds. “36.”

“Hours?” you exclaim quietly, massaging his scalp. “Baby.”

“I know. Had’ta.”

“Well, you can sleep as long as you need to now, love,” you murmur and kiss his forehead. He makes a soft noise of disapproval. “Just a nap. Wake me in like an hour.”

“Okay,” you lie, knowing you’ll let him sleep as long as his body needs it. “Rest now, baby.”

Javier nods and you exhale deeply, holding his head to your chest. He’s back now, your husband, and you know he’s safe, know he’s healthy and well taken-care of: you did it yourself. His breathing slows. You can feel it against your chest, the way the steady rise and fall becomes slower and slower and you know you’ve won when you hear a soft snore, his parted lips smashed against your chest.

You stay like that for a while, Javier lying on top of you and resting. It’s a comfort to have him pressed against you, to feel your husband’s body and know that he’s here. It’s even better to know he’s resting well, deeply, from the way he slumbers against your body. You intermittently kiss his head, continuing to rub his head in hopes it’ll loosen the tension he’ll surely have when he wakes.

About an hour passes, and you find yourself drowsier and drowsier as the sun rises higher and higher in the sky. Scooting out from beneath Javier, you replace your chest with a pillow to support his face. Rolling him slightly to the side, you cuddle in behind him and spoon him, your arms around him.

The quiet Sunday morning is all too perfect. You drift off too, then wake up an hour or two later and proceed about your household chores. You burn some pretty candles, clean, listen to the radio.

Javier doesn’t wake until 10 P.M. that night, 15 hours after he fell asleep.

Some nap.

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badb1tchbokuto · 3 years

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Ch. 2 Alone, Together - Miya Atsumu x You

chapter 1: here

(crossposted on ao3)

warnings: mild smut, alcohol, mentions of time skip

wc: 3.7k

As if you had sensed his worries, your eyes flutter open. “You okay?” You groggily whisper. Knowing he’s on borrowed time, he scoots down to level his face with yours and kisses you deeply. “Yeah baby, no worries.” He breathily responds as your hands begin to wander from his chiseled abdomen to his navel and down to the tufts of hair trailing to his boxer briefs.

At this point Atsumu knows he’s completely, utterly, royally fucked.

⳾⑅❀⑅❀⑅❀⑅❀⑅❀⑅⳾

Atsumu tried. He really, really did.

Standing on the tiny kitchenette of his shared hotel suite with Bokkun(who was off spending time with Akaashi), he hangs up the phone after a long Facetime session with Samu guiding him on how to make the best onigiri and miso soup.

It really shouldn’t have taken that long. All he had to do was wash the rice, pop it into the mini rice cooker stowed in the counter, cut some fresh tuna, sear the rest, then assemble it all into balls along with the seasoning, condiments and nori.

He’d know how to make miso soup even if he was blindfolded. All he had to do was mix in the ingredients he bought on a small pot of water. Dashi, miso paste, diced silken tofu, sliced green onions, some more nori, all dropped in at different times and simmered to get the perfect taste. Plus, this was one of the first dishes their ma taught them how to make before he and Samu moved away.

Really, it should have been a breeze. He’d made onigiris for himself countless of times before, admittedly nowhere near as tasty as the ones Osamu makes, but they were still edible.

This time, however, it had to delicious. Mouthwatering, perfect.

For the umpteenth time, Atsumu is picking off the nori on the last rice ball, wrapping and rewrapping, then wrapping again because the nori just wasn’t hugging the rice in a fashion uniform to the seven others arranged in front of him.

“Why does it look so weird??” He frustrates.

Atsumu’s mind replays, yet again, to your shared conversation at the club. Specifically to the part where he realizes he didn’t really know how to talk about himself outside of volleyball. He surmises at this; a gnawing, alarming thought of wondering whether he really knew himself at all.

Three hours ago...

“How do I usually describe myself?” He repeatedly thinks as he wanders down the seemingly endless aisles of Isetan’s Depa-Chika, scouring for the exact brands of ingredients Samu instructed him to buy.

Lost somewhere in the frozen food section, Atsumu pushes a half filled cart in reverie. He resolves then and there to get to know himself, whatever that means or entails. Not just so he can talk to you or anyone new for that matter, but honestly more so to know how to articulate to himself who he really is in private. Without the cameras flashing, without the people buzzing, without having to watch himself through others’ incredibly varied perceptions of him, without using his brother or his friends and teammates as a crutch, however difficult or impossible that seems.

He takes his time at the store, tediously combing the shelves for a special kind of mirin Osamu swears by, then proceeds to have an internal debate whether he should choose chutoro or otoro (he chooses otoro, the fattiest and therefore the tastiest in his opinion), his supposedly quick trip to the grocery store devouring more than an hour of his time.

It is now 7:15pm.

You’re supposed to arrive in fifteen minutes, but Atsumu still hadn’t even showered, hadn’t even cleaned up the kitchen, hadn’t even finished wrapping that last stubborn rice ball.

The hotel phone rings and Atsumu panics.

It’s the concierge alerting him of your arrival. Sending you up, Atsumu races around the small space in a haste, swiping the counter and dining table with disinfectant, racing to throw empty packages into the bin.

The doorbell rings and Atsumu is sweating.

He’s an athlete for fuck’s sake, why did running around for less than a minute knock his breath out like that?

“I’m coming!” He yells, or tries to. What comes out is a cracked, high pitched attempt, sounding much like a prepubescent boy going through rapid hormonal changes. He cringes, mortified.

Atsumu hears you trying to stifle a giggle.

He clears his throat, repeats in his signature silky voice, then runs to open the door.

You’re smiling sheepishly, the tip of your nose frosty from the autumn chill, all bundled up in a casual outfit that somehow knocks Atsumu’s breath out.

“My share of dinner!” You announce, arms stretched out with a box of wagashi and a bottle of nigori sake.

“Yer’ so frickin cute,” he dotes. He can’t help himself, he snakes an arm on your waist and pulls you in for a gentle kiss.

“Yer’ early, missed me that much already?” He whispers teasingly on your lips.

You laugh as you kiss him back, gently patting his cheek as a response before pulling away. Funny how it seems like he’s the one who missed you that much...

Atsumu sneakily sniffs his shirt as you take off your shoes at the genkan.

“Oh no...” Not musty, but he reeks of kitchen smoke, aburi tuna and dried sweat.

“Need ta’ shower real quick.”

“Oh sorry, want me to come back in a bit?”

He digresses. “No no. Gimme a minute, come in and get comfy.”

He excuses himself, leaving you in the kitchen as he rushes to the bathroom.

You look around the hotel suite, kitchenette roughly cleaned, flecks of nori and furikake smattering the floor but otherwise spotless. The cramped countertop had a steaming pot laid next to a row of neatly arranged onigiri on two plates, decorated with vegetables jaggedly cut in what you assume are attempts at flower patterns.

It’s a simple dinner, you know. But you still can’t help but be impressed that Atsumu put in that much effort, that much care in making you a homemade dinner. On your first date no less.

You smile, butterflies fluttering in your belly at the thought that this callous, reckless, stupidly tall and handsome man is being domestic just for you.

Pulling out your phone, you send a quick text to Kaori and Yukie, gushing over how cute Atsumu is and even sending them a quick snapshot of the onigiri he plated with special care. “Get it!!!” Kaori enthusiastically replies. “Send a ‘1’ by midnight if it’s good and give us a play by play tomorrow. ‘2’ if we need to fake an emergency asap!” Yukie responds, ever the more calculating but motherly one.

As Atsumu massages purple shampoo on his tresses, he elucidates a fact about him he already knows is true on court that he supposes could be said the same of him off it.

1. Miya Atsumu is a perfectionist.

He practices for hours daily to hone his craft, has been doing so since the fourth grade really. At first just to spite Samu, but then he just suddenly fell in love with volleyball.

To Atsumu, nothing short of absolute perfection qualifies when it comes to dedicating himself to the things he cares about. It is through this philosophy that he is now one of Asia’s top setters, that he’s certain anyone who can’t receive his set is a scrub; a roaring confidence gained from knowing he puts his all to whatever he chooses to set his mind to, whether that’s volleyball or cooking dinner for a very cute girl he finds himself wanting to impress and spend more time with.

He frowns upon remembering that one of the onigiris he made is lopsided, that he didn’t even have time to shower and properly clean up before you arrived, that the atmosphere you walked in on your first official date with Miya Atsumu the perfectionist, wasn’t, well...perfect.

He thinks about this as he readies himself, spraying on the woodsy, smoky vanilla perfume he swore you wore when you first met. He usually reserves the scent for special occasions, but he believes that this counts as one.

Atsumu finds you in the kitchen, fixated on trying to salvage the onigiri he was having trouble wrapping earlier.

He leans over your shoulder, and though your nerves are in haywire and the butterflies in your stomach seem to keep multiplying, you instinctually lean back into him. Atsumu smiles as he drapes his arms around you from behind, thumbs brushing up and down the bare sliver of skin on your hip.

Your mind is a blur, every thought suddenly jumbled and incoherent. All that’s left is you anticipating, thrilling where Atsumu will move his fingers next on your heating body. Dropping his head on your shoulder and finally getting a closer whiff of your sexy scent, he whispers teasingly close to your ear.

“Sorry for the wait, ya’ ready to fall in love with me?”

You swiftly turn around and pull him into a deep kiss as an answer.

——

By the time you’ve moved to sit at small table by the kitchen, your lips are sweetly swollen and your clothes are wrinkled. Atsumu is panting, hair even more tousled and a small love bite is beginning to bloom on his right collarbone.

You stare at him, mesmerized at how he seems to look even more gorgeous unkempt.

“Why don’t cha take a picture babe, it’ll last longer.” He smirks then sticks his tongue out to pose, ego inflating at catching you ogling him.

You quip. “Sure, can I take naked ones after?”

“Aww, you’re so polite. Whatta’ good girl. You don’t need to ask. I’ll gladly give them to you for free, even throw in a lil show if ya want.” He leans closer, resting his head on his flexed, chiseled propped arm, smirking a little more mischievously as he gazes at you in challenge.

You can almost see his ego rapidly inflating like a balloon, and naturally, you kind of want to pop it.

In your best faux posh British accent, you offer. “A most forthcoming and lucrative offer mister Miya. What do you say I start and manage an OnlyFans account for you?”

You giggle uncontrollably as the look on his face changes instantly from confidence to confusion.

Brows furrowed and lips formed into a tiny pout, he concludes. “It’s a good thing yer so cute, yer a weirdo.”

You laugh, snorting a little. Atsumu chuckles at this, finding your little quirk amusing and rather irresistible.

“Keep the accent though, it’s kinda hot.” You kick him under the table and continue to banter as you both set up the table.

Atsumu watches expectantly as you take the first sip of the miso broth. The soup is delicious, and as soon as you tell him this he visibly relaxes.

The onigiris’ fillings however, are inconsistent. On the first one, the filling oozes out whenever you take a bite. On another, there’s barely any tuna and a ton of furikake. You decide to spare him your criticisms and just enjoy the meal he so graciously prepared.

Still, your heart just feels so damn full.

You make sure to repeatedly compliment Atsumu on his cooking to show appreciation for his efforts, the first time anyone has ever cooked for you on a date and the first time he(and not his pro-chef brother! Ha!) has ever been acknowledged for his culinary efforts.

Dinner is pleasant, both of you exchanging stories of varied life experiences.

You talk about the places you’ve lived in, your childhood, life in university. Atsumu actively listens, enchanted with how different your upbringing was in comparison to his, especially since he’d forgone college and went pro immediately after being scouted in high school. Despite the stark differences, he asks a ton of questions; some in confusion as he asks you to clarify or talk about certain details you purposely leave out.

You notice that he’s very observant, so you casually comment it.

Atsumu decides then that yes, it’s true. He makes a mental note to add this to the little list he’s crafting in his head about who he is.

2. Miya Atsumu is observant.

He thinks that you literally could have told him he was a seaweed and he would have agreed just because he is so transfixed by your mere presence and voice, but he knows this to be true on court for him as well. How else would he sync up with his spikers? How else would he know which serve to use and how to to angle his sets best? Through thorough studying and keen awareness of his teammates’ likes, dislikes, mannerisms and ticks, he is able to turn a seemingly mismatched chaotic group like the Black Jackals into synchronized raging monsters, dancing to a tune in which he is the lone orchestrator.

Atsumu is earnest in asking you questions about your life; his genuine interest coaxing you to share seemingly inconsequential details you intentionally initially skip over, snippets of your upbringing you thought were too boring to even mention, some too painful to share. Hesitantly at first, then comfortably as Atsumu intently listens. You don’t know why he takes a keen interest in you to that degree, but you come to learn that Atsumu is transparent and rather straightforward. He asks because he wants to know.

You relax, feeling touched and appreciated as you realize that he seems to just want to know every little thing about you, even the parts of you that you think are boring, unimportant or unworthy.

The conversation shifts to more light hearted topics as you both begin to indulge on the dessert and sake you brought.

Feeding you half of a red bean wagashi he swears is the best one, Atsumu continues to tell you about shenanigans from his volleyball team, particularly the initiation ritual of being ambushed to sing a full song at one’s first team dinner with a hot pink wireless karaoke mic on full blast.

“Bokkun, Omi, and Shoyou weren’t even there yet and I didn’t know anyone my age since they were all older than me.. I was only eighteen! They told me I couldn’t eat dinner and had to sit in a different table if I didn’t do it.. and I had 10 seconds to pick a song! A western one at that because Adriah and Oliver had to understand too and they didn’t speak Japanese then..”

Imagining a younger Atsumu with a bad dye job nervously trying to think of a song to sing out loud in public, you laugh as he describes in detail how awkward the whole ordeal was. You wonder if any of the older members have a video of this, making sure to ask Meian if you ever have the opportunity to see the team again.

He recounts how shameless Bokuto and Hinata were when they had to do it, with Bokuto even doing an encore with a dance routine that resulted in them being banned from a restaurant in Kyoto. You’re both dying of laughter as he wheezes out how Sakusa almost gave up his career upon realizing he had to do it as well. Thankfully his team sort of pitied him and let him sing to a small izakaya in Sendai instead of the mega hotel restaurants they usually celebrate in.

As the night progresses, you and Atsumu end up sitting side by side, legs touching due to the close proximity of your chairs, holding hands, and sharing sweet sake flavored kisses in between laughs.

After some time, the kisses start to linger, becoming more heated. It’s when you subtly lick Atsumu’s tongue then slowly bite and suck on his full lower lip that he loses control and pulls you into his lap. Straddling him, you keep one hand on his chest to steady yourself as you move your other hand to brush his soft hair out of his face. “You’re so beautiful.” You whisper as you stare into his half lidded hazel eyes before leaning in to kiss him.

Atsumu flushes at this. It’s the first time he’s been called beautiful. Handsome? Sure. Sexy? Even more often. But beautiful? It feels intimate, leaving him vulnerable and exposed in a way that seems to transcend the physical. He revels in this as he lavishes you with open mouthed kisses, starting from just below your ear and moving down your neck, his wet lips ghosting over the hollow of your throat to just above your cleavage. You mewl, aching to feel more of him, subconsciously grinding your hips on his lap where you can feel him bulging out of his sweatpants.

Atsumu moves one of his hands from your waist, brushing his large knuckles up your torso until it reaches the underside of your breasts. You notice that despite his kisses growing more desperate and him feeling fully erect under you, he hasn’t made a move to further the heavy petting. Respecting his boundaries, you ask. “Everything okay? We don’t have to go all the way if you’re uncomfortable.”

“Oh fuck.. sorry, yea, I’m good.” He kisses your lips again as his hands rub up and down your bare sides, your sweater having ridden up a while ago. “Trust me, I want you. So bad. I’m just tryin' to hold myself back for once.”

“Huh? Why?”

“I wanted to take my time.” He gently pecks your forehead, then your nose, and then back to your lips. He does this while looking at you eye to eye, a stark contrast to the steamy make out session you were just having. Atsumu’s gaze becomes smoldering as his eyes move to your lips again. “I don’t know why, but I just know I’ll get addicted to ya’.”

You grab the wrist that’s placed on your waist, unfurling his long, elegant fingers. Atsumu is watching you in intense curiosity as you take his pointer and middle digits, pulling them up slowly to your mouth and sucking, all while looking up at him. Instantly, Atsumu groans and you’re positive you can feel his member twitch against your crotch.

You release his fingers with a pop, then lick the length slowly, gaze never leaving his as his focus struggles in anticipation of what you'll do next.

You guide his digits by dragging them from your exposed torso and up to the curves of your breasts to your hardening buds straining your lace bralette, his wet fingers leaving a slight translucent trail of saliva on the expanse of your stomach. Before Atsumu can twist his fingers to pay attention to your nipples, you hold his wrist and move the fingers down your torso, pushing past the elastic waistband of your pants. With your hand over his, you splay his saliva coated fingers against your dampening underwear, stroking your mound before resting the two fingers over your labia, coaxing your slick slit to open. Atsumu’s pupils are dilated, his breathing heavy and his other hand gripping your hips so tightly you can feel bruises starting to form as he tries his best to control himself.

“I’m afraid time is the one thing we both can’t afford Atsumu. But please, have me. Fuck me. Take your fill.”

It’s all the confirmation he needs as he moves your panties aside, circling his fingers on your throbbing clit before sliding them seamlessly inside your tight, soft walls.

It’s not until much, much later, after you’ve had sex in the kitchen, then on his bed, then in the bathroom as you both intended to clean up, then finally cuddling back in his bed before falling asleep that Atsumu remembers the rest of what you said right before he lost all coherent thought.

Why can’t we afford time? Why don’t we have the time? Surely you’re both busy with your careers, but you’re someone he finds himself liking more and more. And now that you’re here, with your head on his chest, one arm wrapped around his bare torso and one leg intertwined with his, he thinks that this feels too good, too perfect, to not keep chasing, and he’ll be damned if he didn’t make time for more moments like tonight.

As his thoughts lull him to sleep, he remembers why time is beyond both of your control.

He's only in Tokyo for volleyball - for the league match they just won and now to train with the Olympic team for an upcoming friendly match in Shanghai. You’re here temporarily too, on a project with a definitive deadline that will not only mark the end of your stay in the country, but signal the end of you seeing him. Possibly forever.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

At this point, Atsumu knows he’s completely, utterly, royally fucked.

You’re both on borrowed time, but now that he’s had a taste of what it’s like to spend time with you, to be inside you, to just be with you, he knows that this growing hunger for you is insatiable. He thinks then that he finally understands Samu when he rambles about gradually getting hungrier and hungrier when watching others eat. His appetite for volleyball had always been there, like second skin and breathing. But for the longest time he didn't realize that seeing lovers around him display genuine affection towards each other(from his ma and pa, Bokuto and Akaashi, Meian and his wife, Aran and his high school sweetheart), all build bonds that can only truly be forged by sharing and accepting each other's hopes, dreams, and vulnerabilities, is something that he was growing hungrier and hungrier for without even noticing. Up until he met you that is. As you pull away from his lips and begin to slowly kiss down his body, following the trail of where your hands have just wandered, he thinks, “fuck it.”

Just as he became a setter even though he initially intended to be a spiker, just as he chose to be a professional athlete instead of following a safe path to success in university, just as he contorts and bends over his body in random, sometimes painful ways to make sure his spikers have the best sets, and just as he adjusts and twists routined plays in order to beat opponents, he knows then.

3. Miya Atsumu is a risk taker.

He’d been luckily winning his gambles so far, it’s about time he try his luck in love.

#Miya Atsumu x you #miya atsumu x reader #miya atsumu x y/n #atsumu x reader #atsumu x you #atsumu x y/n #miya atsumu x female reader #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu x you #hq x reader #hq x you #haikyuu fic #hq fics #miya atsumu #atsumu #thanks for reading!

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caltropspress · 3 years

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FEEDBACK LOOP #7: Curly Castro’s “Weapon 13X” featuring Breeze Brewin

There was a very old man, an old white man out in the crowd, and he started screaming and crying like a baby and he kept crying and he said, “God damn, God damn, what is this God damn country coming to that the niggers have got guns, the niggers are armed and the police can’t even arrest them!” He kept crying and somebody led him away through the crowd.

—Robert F. Williams, Negroes with Guns (1962)

Gun flash beats the child’s head in, maniac teeth dance in a bloody grin blue lies, badge confessions, yng dude dead just beyond his mama’s arms

—Amiri Baraka, “Stop Killer Cops”

Police said Cleaver and Hutton were holed up at 1218 28th Street with two 9 mm automatic pistols, two AR-15 and one military-type M-14 automatic rifle, and a large supply of ammunition, some armor-piercing.

—Berkeley Barb, Volume 6, Number 15, Issue 139

“Weapon 13X” is a diptych. Two verses; one pivot—or volta, for you bookworms. Curly Castro is first with a séance that summons the mysteries of Clarence 13X and Weapon X. These nullified variables and Roman numerals come together in an elixir mix so potent that it would make Aes Rock choke on the amalgam. Castro opens the fission gate and discharges two-hundred forty thousand mega-therms on the city of brotherly love, the city of bombs from above onto a 6221 Osage Avenue row house. Shameek just got bust in his arm, leg, leg, arm, head. The Black man is God personified, and Logan is regenerative. Adamantium claws. Mathematical jaws. Science dropped and experiments performed. Spark this like metal does when dragged across concrete.

2. “Harriet would grab her balls, / This my gun, and this my rifle.”

Harriet Tubman gets cast by Kubrick for Full Metal Jacket, recites the Rifleman’s Creed, but it was actually a pistol she kept buried within the folds of her calico. She sallied forth seeing visions from the overseer’s heave of a weight—made her skull snap. Don’t sleep. “When the caliber’s inside you,” you can’t necessarily count on “the muzzle smoke revival.”

Quelle Chris provides production, lest we forget his 2019 Guns album with its Dada-bullet, double-barreled barrage album art. The title track armed to the teeth: “Ain’t no cracking that code, / Ain’t no safety on locks, / Might as well get you one, / Procrastinating will get you popped.” The machine gun funk outs finks and COINTELPRO cooperators, conspirators, dispiriters. Here, Castro’s got those same turncoats and sucker MCs in his sights, so to speak.

4. [The oppressor] teaches the Negro that he has no worth-while past, that his race has done nothing significant since the beginning of time, and that there is no evidence that he will ever achieve anything great. (Carter Godwin Woodson, The Mis-Education of the Negro, 1933)

Castro makes a promise, provoked by those who came before him, those who brandished firearms in the faces of their enemies:

We never will disarm: these are the lies that you were sold, When your glory tripped up, you trade your weapons in for gold. With Yakub in the schools, trade your dreams, knowledge folds. Found the tome, Mis-Education Negroes…

Dr. Yakub sloshing liquids in the lab—Bunsen burners explode and the lab leak is viral whiteness. Tricknology replaces Biology. Castro is looking back while moving forward. “Doomed to repeat it”-type forewarnings. He knows the ledge and also wants his people to.

aim get your sights & its sound in abstract or journal movements to a peace settlement

dude shot my man

dead, precious lord blow off theres no willy in th blues theres no you.

—from Tom Weatherly’s Maumau American Cantos (1970)

Castro is a “gunhand, cybernetic with spray cans, / Basquiat, baklava, Mau Mau.” That’s likely an intentional malaprop—surely his militant stance calls for a balaclava. Even still, Castro doesn’t stutter. He will still sh-sh-shift his voice on you—the dynamics of his delivery raise stakes and get guttural, scraping against sewer plates. He’s potent, even if Basquiat’s pistol appears flaccid with its hand-scrawled linework. In another piece, Basquiat starts the decolonization process at the point of a safari helmet. The image detonates.

6. Free country? Man, I should fuck you up for sayin’ that stupid shit alone.

“This film is a call to racial violence!” a film critic shouted at Roger Ebert after a screening of Do the Right Thing. She worried Bed-Stuy would set fire to theaters, but Lee’s 1989 film wasn’t The Rite of Spring in Paris in 1913. An amerikan psychotic turn to theater violence would be postponed until Aurora in 2012, and it would be white violence, which would come as a shock to none who have tracked the trajectory of white violence. Displacement is white violence, too. White violence is a sine qua non for gentrification. And so Castro allies himself with “Buggin’ Out battle brownstone houses, some Bird fans, / While Mookie turns the radio up and launched the trashcan.”

7. “We are the weapons.”

Of late, Castro has consistently been proving you’re out your depth, with verses so allusive they suggest a strong “Erick Sermon and Parrish Smith, nobody blink. / They don’t now who the fuck that is” vibe. So what, though? At this point, Castro’s a vet, an elder. The youngins need to catch up or cash out. Get KRS-One bookish, kiddies, or be left behind. Be the weapon or never prosper. Create your own mythos: “Omega built a mother by the sun and Cyclops sent / a blurred Baraka poem capable to raise the dead. / Yet instead I use the sword...”—with Wu-Tang pronunciation of the w in “sword,” of course. History moves backwards and forwards at the same time. Language is lost and recovered. The poem is “blurred” because it’s been duplicated on a mimeograph—a machine that involves a “drum.” The words are ink-smudged. Baraka’s former partner, Diane di Prima, shouted, “"Power to the people's mimeo machines!” Accuse and attack, Baraka sloganeered. We’re talking about agency—by hand-crank, handgun, or mic check.

Castro creates imagery like Emory Douglas did with paint: painfully bold and saturated with color like blood soaks clothes. Baraka called Douglas’s art a combo of “expressionist agitprop and homeboy familiarity,” which applies to what Castro does on the track. I quote Mao who called literature and art “part of the whole proletarian revolutionary cause,” and Mao quotes Lenin who called lit and art the “cogs and wheels in the whole revolutionary machine.” And Baraka also said Douglas’s work:

functioned as if you were in the middle of a rumble and somebody tossed you a machine pistol. It armed your mind and demeanor. Ruthlessly funny, but at the same time functional as the .45 slugs pouring out of that weapon.

The Panthers were trapped and tear-gassed in a West Oakland basement. Eldridge Cleaver told Bobby to go out naked—unarmed as the day he was born not quite eighteen years earlier—but he emerged from the burning house fully dressed, with dignity, and he was searchlighted and shotshotshotshotshotshotshot dead.

Castro needs Brewin to make the cypher complete—a two-man killarmy using loud words in quiet wars, no silencer.

9. “Before blurting out, try analysis, brother.”

Breeze’s Yo, listen… at the start of his verse is comparable to Sir Thomas Wyatt intoning Whoso list to hunt… to begin his 16th-century sonnet. The amalgam here is less Five Percenter plus clandestine government experimentation and more a deconstruction of the both violent and sexualized language of braggadocio. “Anything you say isn’t played like Miranda Rights,” and so we’re already with our hands behind our backs, silenced by an pig officer’s gag order. The competition doesn’t get played; they play themselves.

Sir Thomas Wyatt sets it off like so:

Whoso list to hunt, I know where is an hind, But as for me, hélas, I may no more. The vain travail hath wearied me so sore, I am of them that farthest cometh behind. Yet may I by no means my wearied mind Draw from the deer, but as she fleeth afore Fainting I follow.

Breeze has wanted to stay pleasant to the ears—you know, like Lauryn Hill phone sexing—so this isn’t new territory but rather a well-worn path. Wyatt’s wearied and “so sore” by “the hunt,” the pursuit of his love interest, even though he knows “where is an hind.” Still, “as she fleeth afore / Fainting [he] follows.” He can’t help himself.

Love is lost within violent pursuit. Breeze speaks of a “plan to strike” and “zero in” on a “target,” his quarry. He and Castro are “talking about broads often, no doubt, / We broad and burly as hell, / Brag about the hunt, you was jukin’ a girly gazelle.” Breeze’s assault is dizzying, a salvo from all angles: “Hit ’em with some counter clay rebuttals that’s subtle but still befuddle if dude slow.”

10. “It’s nothin’, I gotcha, and that’s word to Super Lover Cee.”

Super Lover Cee and Casanova Rud’s 1988 single “Girls I Got ’Em Locked” articulates the carceral embrace of “locking” a girl down, which—consequently—requires violence to enforce: “Don’t ever touch a girl owned by me or I’ll ruin ya’, / Slap you with my mic simultaneously as I’m doin’ ya.” The girl is commodified, and Super Lover Cee takes a proprietary attitude toward the relationship. If you overstep, you’ll be ruined, that is, you’ll fall. And while you’re prostrate, you’ll be slapped with the phallic mic simultaneously. Is the Super Lover doin’ her or you, though? What’s truly getting him off? That hypermasculine posturing skews homoerotic. Breeze Brewin laughs at you for subscribing to the nonsense: “Dag, if that was what you believe then your world be a hell.”

11.

Liberal discourse suggests policing your impulses. Put down the gun—don’t touch it. “Touchy subjects,” like racism (apparently), get the “We need to have a conversation” treatment. Look, don’t touch. Don’t touch the exhibit of stolen artifacts—those Benin bronzes in the British Museum. Beneath the topic of orignoo gunn clapping, Curly Castro’s track is about the x’s and o’s of eros as well. Many gestures meant to protect women are merely some other man staking his claim, adorning her with “diamonds in letters plain,” as Wyatt writes of the collar around the deer’s “fair neck.” Wyatt’s sonnet warns against overstepping (or even half-stepping). The collar reads Noli me tangere (touch me not)—she belongs to someone else. It’s a bad touch example. Like his fellow Indelible J-Treds, Breeze Brewin is the living circle-circle-dot-dot: nobody can touch him.

12.

Let’s bring it back to Little Bobby Hutton. When Eldridge Cleaver told him to leave the ambushed basement naked, he was thinking of Bobby’s safety. He thought the extreme measure of appearing on the street without clothes would be enough to convince the pigs he wasn’t armed. Cleaver was naïve to think so. Bobby Hutton was right to emerge clothed. In doing so, he rejected the indignity of the auction block, the lynching, the mutilation and spreading of souvenir flesh. The searchlight made Bobby Hutton the subject of a spectacle, yes, but he refused to consent to the psychosexual desires of white supremacy. He refused the castration ritual. Little Bobby Hutton, in effect, threw down a challenge to the cops: Use your imagination once again. Try to think of a few situations where your own weapon might be used against you…used against you…used against you.

Images:

Emory Douglas, The Black Panther, Vol. IV, No. 78, 1971 (detail) | Weapon X (detail, issue unknown) | Emory Douglas, Rat Subterranean News (1970) | Harriet Tubman with gun sketch | Anti-Mau Mau British propaganda poster | Newspaper headline from Negroes with Guns | Jean-Michel Basquiat, Untitled (date unknown) | Jean-Michel Basquiat, Native Carrying Some Guns, Bibles, and Amorites on Safari (1982) | Screenshot from Spike Lee’s Do the Right Thing (1989) | Two images from the Berkeley Barb, Volume 6, Number 15, Issue 139 (1968) | Emory Douglas, The Black Panther (miscellaneous poster) | Medieval depiction of the hunt (unknown) | Image detail from the Berkeley Barb, Volume 6, Number 15, Issue 139 (1968)

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cloudbeom · 4 years

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privacy | Igirl Idol

request by: @l0vely-ang3l

Genre: Slight angst; slight crack; fluff; comfort

Words: 2.6k+

Summary: it was hard enough to hide the fact you’re dating from the public, but its harder to hide the fact from your seven brothers, who literally act like your real brothers even off-camera.

Pairing: BTS x reader (platonic); Implied Sope; Implied Taekook; slight mention of Choi Jongho

Note: The reader here is 17, so the year set here is 2017 during their ly album when jungoo was about 19~20 (though it's not mentioned, just to clarify these lil details)

A/n: awe it's okay we’re a loving and supportive community here ❤ and blessss you for requesting an 8th member fic I enjoyed writing this! I’ve been dying to write one for ages but my brain is dried of ideas so thank you for the request! I hope you enjoy and thank you ≧◡≦

Also: Shout out to anyone who can spot the BuzzFeed unsolved reference here hehe

“Yeah, don’t worry. I just got home,” You say into the phone with a small smile, kicking your shoes and taking your coat off, the phone between your shoulder and your ear, “I will, stop worrying so much!” You giggle into the receiver as you looked into the body mirror, a huge smile on your face, taking your phone into your hands, “See you soon, I love you too.” You say, before hanging up.

“Who was that?” Jimin suddenly appeared from the doorway, making you jump as you suddenly saw him from the mirror, yelping.

“Who was what? there’s no one here,” You say, shoving your phone in your pocket, “Aish Jimin are you on that crazy, unhealthy diet again? there’s no one here but me.”

Jimin fakes offended, following you as you walked over to your table where all your makeup was, him circling you and looking at your outfit, “You’re wearing your favorite hoodie and jeans that you’ve only worn once when you were at that G dragon concert claiming its an ‘attractive, hot smoking pair’.... almost looks like you’ve got a date,” Jimin sneered, obviously thinking that wasn’t it.

“Ha! with who? I was just out with Yeji, you know, like I always do,” You say, and Jimin eyes you weirdly.

“You say that as you smell like the Victoria Secret perfume you only use when you're at award shows?” Jimin questions, then he gasps, as in putting two and two together, “No... don’t tell me you..really had a date?!”

You immediately turned around and clasp your hand over Jimin’s mouth, looking frantically around. Thankfully the other members were nowhere in sight, probably doing their own thing somewhere around the building or the studio.

“Shut up!”

“Mmmmm!” Jimin says, inaudible because of your hand clamping his mouth, and you only removed your hand when he stopped moving completely. But when you let go, he grabs both of your shoulders and shakes you, as if you’ve lost your mind.

“Are you crazy? With who? Does the staff know? The hyungs? Did you sneak out? How many times did you sneak out before this? oh my god, what if dispatch catches wind of this- (Y/n)- are you crazy?!”

You move over to grab both of his hands that were shaking you to stop him, “You’re being dramatic.” “I am not!” Jimin blurts dramatically, grabbing your shoulders again and you couldn’t help but roll your eyes, “It’s just... when?”

“In my defense, I had been seeing him for almost five months now and-”

“(Y/n) is dating?!” A cry from the wide-open doorway was heard, both of you and Jimin’s heads turned to see Jeongguk with his mouth gaping open, next to him Taehyung who had his eyes widened comically, not believing what his ears had overheard.

“Why are you guys standing by the doorway like that?” Yoongi’s drowsy, grouchy voice was heard from the outside, and you shook your head to both Taehyung and Jeongguk who was still in overdramatic shock, standing by the doorway, you mouthing ‘don't tell him, don't tell him!’ because you knew if Yoongi knew you were dating, he’s going to beat your ass.

“(Y/n) has- she has a boyfriend!” Taehyung says, still sounding shocked himself and you shot him a glare, and he shook his head like you were the criminal here, and Jeongguk looks at Tae slowly, his mouth still gaping like a fish, like he didn’t believe what Taehyung had said.

“She has a what,” Yoongi says, his tone not implying Taehyung repeat it, and he didn’t. Yoongi sounding more wide awake now. He walked over, pushing the two maknaes from the doorway to your room, his eyes meeting yours, and the scene of you, fixed with Jimin’s hand tightly on your shoulders and a nervous grin on your face.

“Eheh... Heyy... Yoongi hyung.. um, how was your rest?” You asked, followed by nervous laughter, your eyes passing Yoongi’s head to signal you are so fucking dead to me to the two maknaes who looked at you with much horror.

“How was my rest? let’s all take a seat down at the living room as I call Namjoon, then we can all talk about my rest, yeah?”

“Ah, you- you don’t need to do that, hyung! I was just going to sleep too anyway,” you gave your best fake yawn, stretching, as you attempted to walk past Yoongi.

Only he grabbed you by your shoulder as you passed him, and you sweatdropped.

“I’m pretty sure we have more important matters to talk about.”

Yeah no shit.

A quiet awkward silence passed through the living room as all 8 members of Bangtan had gathered there, Namjoon sitting on the couch opposite to you, the three maknaes spread on the floor, Yoongi and Hoseok sitting on the couch with Yoongi folding his arms and Jin standing behind, a stern look on his face.

You would’ve imagined if this were a western film, a tumbleweed would’ve passed right through the middle of the living room as all eyes were on you, Hoseok and Jin having no clue what was going on but sensing it was something bad that you had done.

“Do you have anything you want to say, (Y/n)?” Namjoon asked, looking at you with no hostility in his voice. It was obvious Yoongi had told him what happened, but still, being the great leader he was, he always tried to take every situation lightly, never trying to force out anything from his members like some interrogation.

Much to Yoongi’s dismay, who’d love to just do the latter.

But you understood why Yoongi was like that. He had trust issues yet he trusted his members with his whole heart, you knew he also just wanted the best for you. Ever since debut Yoongi was with you for all those years along with the other members, you’ve never had a boyfriend before. So it was no surprise at how Yoongi was reacting. You were practically a baby in his eyes.

“Uh, no.” You say, earning a light scoff from Yoongi.

“No my ass,” Yoongi muttered, earning a chuckle from the leader, “The fuck are you laughing at?”

“Then, do you have anything to say, hyung?”

Yoongi’s ears turn red at Namjoon calling him out, “Yeah, (Y/n) has a boyfriend she’s been seeing for five months and we didn’t know about it- why are you so calm about this?”

“(Y/n) has a what?!” Now it was Seokjin who shrieked dramatically, walking up to hug you from behind, “But.... you’re a baby!”

“Hey... Jimin’s the baby of the group.” Taehyung says under his breath, Jimin laughs a little, his shoulders shaking from his little giggle, and Jeongguk looks offended.

“ARMY says I’m the baby, though,” He says with a pout, Taehyung sighs, pulling both Jimin and Jeongguk who was on each of his side close to him, all three heads touching.

“All three of us are the babies,” he says, opening one of his eyes to meet yours, “Innocent and pure, unlike you, demon woman.” he hissed tauntingly, and you looked down at your fingers, sighing and not up to your brother’s jokes.

“Would you like to confirm that, (Y/n)?” Namjoon asked.

“Yeah, it’s true. Look I’m sorry okay? I just... I’m just a little overwhelmed of this idol life and I needed an escape.. he’s my best friend and I had a crush on him since before my trainee days. I’ll... I’ll break up with him if it would make you happy.” you say, specifically looking at Yoongi, who turned away from you, his face still mad and pouted, even after your statement.

Seokjin was still hugging you from behind and when Namjoon didn’t reply, you thought he was disappointed in you. And Hoseok decided to step in.

“I don’t think it’s a bad thing, Joon,” Hoseok says, surprising Yoongi who sat next to him, but didn’t attempt to stop him talking, “She said she’s been dating him for five months, and we- or, fortunately, dispatch, didn’t know about it, I think she’s capable of hiding it.”

“But until when?” Seokjin says now, “I mean, I’m all for it, I support (Y/n) too,” He says, ruffling your hair, “But I’m just worried... what if he hurts and breaks your heart? I don’t want you to be depressed and sad.. you’re our little sister..”

“Say something, Joon,” Yoongi says, poking Namjoon’s thigh.

All 7 members but you turned their heads at their leader. If there was one thing they shared in common, besides their over love for food and fighting over discount coupons that were given as prizes every time they had run BTS, it was respecting their leader’s choices and never arguing on it. Namjoon was and is the leader for a reason, after all.

But you were afraid of what he was going to think of you. You looked up to Namjoon a lot. If you hear him agreeing more to Yoongi, you knew you’re never going to see him the same way again.

“I think...” Namjoon says, then he looks up with a soft smile, coming to a decision, “I think it’s alright,” he says, and you finally look up to see if he was joking, but Namjoon’s eyes only held empathy, no disappointment in them.

“But-” Yoongi started, but Namjoon cuts him off with an, “I’m not finished,”

“I’m a little disappointed that you didn’t inform us, but kept it a secret for five months now, because if something could’ve happened to you in public if you were out with him we wouldn’t be able to help you, (Y/n),” He says, sounding like a parent more than a brother, “We’re a team, we’re not supposed to keep secrets from each other. We’re you planning to keep it a secret forever if Jimin hadn’t caught you?”

You only nodded, looking down shamefully, as if being told off by your father, and Namjoon sighs.

“I understand your motive, (Y/n), I can only imagine how hard it is for you.” He says, “I won’t tell the company about this, you have my word.”

Your eyes lit up, feeling relieved of what Namjoon had said, “re-really?”

“You’re not gonna tell them?” Yoongi asked, looking at the leader, and Hoseok adds on

“Yeah, are you sure not just informing them is really the best idea? We don’t always have to make it public, for safety, y’know?” he says, but Namjoon gave both of them a knowing look and a slight grin.

“Yoongi hyung, Hoseok hyung, her dating secret isn’t the only secret we’re not telling the company. if you remember what I had caught the both of you doing that one time in the studio-”

“I get it I get it! Okay fine a secret it is,” Yoongi says, covering his ears, the four maknaes looking at the two of them weirdly as if getting the message.

“Really?” Jin asked, having shut your ears, “Right in front of the kids? Have you no shame?” he asked, causing Hoseok to laugh nervously.

“Can we not talk about this?” Hoseok says, rubbing the back of his neck shyly, “But.. who’s the guy, (Y/n)?”

You looked down shyly, “He’s my old friend... Now a contestant of MixNine... Choi Jongho..”

“Who’s that?” Taehyung asked, tilting his head, “Oh my god, is he older than you?”

You shake your head, “He’s about my age, we were classmates since kindergarten, and he’s been dreaming to be an idol too!” you exclaim happily, and Jimin smiled.

“Well, at least you look happy,” He says, cooing, happy for you, “I’ve never seen you this happy and excited since we watched G dragon live.”

“She’s blushing too,” Jeongguk states, “Gross, stop acting like a girl!” he says, not used to your shy demeanor.

You giggled a little, and Namjoon shakes his head, “But you have to know that dating isn’t your first priority and that if your planning to dance with the devil, you need to live with it when he sets you on fire. Okay, (Y/n)?”

“I know,” You say, “I’ll keep that in mind,”

“Wait, I realized something,” Jin says, having been playing with your hair the whole time, “You’re only 17... you- you use protection right?”

“What? no-! I mean- we don’t do that, hyung! I love him! Not dick deprived!” you say, causing him to laugh.

“I know, just... make sure you don't do it until you’re 18,” he says, “And also don’t do it in your room- or the whole dorm.”

“I second that,” Hobi responds, and you covered your face that was reddening from what they were saying.

“Gosh, I’m not ready for that,” you giggle, now in a better mood than you were before, the spirits lifting in the room as you turn away from their teasing.

And your eyes met Yoongi’s.

Yoongi looked at you with a soft gaze. You knew he acted how he was just because he probably realized that you’re not the 14-year old who debuted with them during 2013 but now almost 18 and someone who wouldn’t need the opinions and guidance of her older members she calls her brothers.

You and Yoongi are close, admittedly you're closer to him than any other member, and one of Yoongi’s fears was that one day, a day will come when you won't need him anymore. He must’ve thought that day was probably today.

You can only hope that he knows how wrong he is.

“Bring him here sometime, I’d like to meet him,” Yoongi says when he stands, walking over to ruffle your hair, ”But also know that this doesn’t mean shit and your still the baby of the group, despite the only one with a significant other.”

“Are you sure she’s the only one with a significant other, hyung?” Hoseok asked teasingly, wriggling his eyebrows, and Yoongi glares at him to shut the fuck up Hoseok you're not helping at all, Hoseok giggles, finding it adorable as he stands up to join Yoongi too, “but I agree with hyung! Bring him over sometime!” he says, kissing your forehead- a typical Hobi thing, before leaving to probably the studio again.

“I’ll go make sure Yoongi and Hoseok actually start producing, and not doing other things,” Namjoon chuckles, standing to follow the two out, patting your shoulder as he passed you, “But I’m really proud of you. Don’t hide anything from us anymore okay?”

Jin sighs with a smile, “Glad that’s over. Now if you’ll excuse me, hyung needs to make dinner for the babies,” he says as he stands, humming as he walks over to the kitchen.

"I thought I was the only baby,” Jimin grumbles and Tae sighs.

“We're fighting about who’s the baby here, but are we not considering how she has a boyfriend yet we’re still single?” Kookie pouts, and you can't help but roll your eyes

“I’m just irresistible,” You say, looking at Jimin so he’d back you up, and Jimin nods vigorously, making you smile, “See? Jimin agrees!”

“Oh come on, just date me,” Taehyung winks and Jeongguk fake gagged

“In a million years, hyung,” you hear Jeongguk retort and Jimin giggle, “Aish, enough of this, (Y/n), play overwatch with me!”

Jeongguk pulls you up and Jimin and Tae follow, Tae mumbling about how he’d be an amazing boyfriend and Jimin laughing the whole way.

Needless to say, nothing has changed. Except that you probably love your brothers even more now. Not just because of the fact that you could trust them and solve problems easily when you're together, but also because no matter what they’ll always love and support you. Their baby sister.

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diyunho · 5 years

Text

The Joker x Reader - “Nobody” Part 2

After not feeling well for months, The Joker finally found out why: the life threatening condition is so serious there’s only a 50/50 chance of survival. Dealing with a brain tumor is not going to be easy, that’s why The King of Gotham asked his half-brother Arthur to help Y/N while he’ll undergo treatment.

Part 1

“Hey Pumpkin,” The Joker kisses you. “Are you awake?”

You smack your lips and stretch, opening your eyes since you have no other choice.

“I am now… Are you feeling sick? Need anything?” the nursing side takes over while he’s silent, too busy wrapping your right leg around his waist. “Mister Joker,” you immediately gasp. “No guns in bed!”

“It’s not my gun,” he smirks and you chuckle at the evident truth. “When’s the last time we had sex, huh? Two weeks ago?!”

“Mmmm…” you debate, caressing his face. “Something like that.”

“All the meds are messing me up,” J pouts. “Great news though: turns out I’m not dead yet,” he adds and you yank him in your arms before his speech ruins the mood.

“Maybe we should sleep outdoors more often; it seems to have a beneficial effect,” Y/N underlines the welcomed idea The Joker had last night about resting on the terrace.

“Or maybe it’s just from having my girl close,” he utters a nice sentence, instantly correcting himself. “This is clearly the tumor messing with my brain; makes me say weird stuff.”

“Perhaps we should keep it then,” you sigh as The King of Gotham pulls down on your PJ shorts. “I like to hear weird stuff like that.”

“Do ya’?!” he fakes his surprise because he tries to avoid the subject.

“U-hum.”

“Naaah, I vote for sex and dirty talk!” J hisses and slides on top of you, prompting laughter when he starts nibbling on your cleavage. “Let’s have some fun before my mojo’s gone!”

“Mojo!” you repeat since you can’t stop cracking up, the unexpected entertaining morning 100 percent welcomed after the stressful past months.

“Shut up and let’s sin,” The Joker gives in to your charms. “You can be laud: Arthur’s a heavy sleeper, not that he can hear us anyway.”

***********

His brother is actually downstairs; Arthur woke up at 7:15am, moped around for a bit, then decided to cook breakfast. That’s what he’s been doing for the past 20 minutes: it wasn’t difficult to locate the necessary ingredients and bestowing his talents upon the famished couple might help in the long run.

He figured Y/N and J will appreciate his culinary abilities succeeding napping on the inflatable mattress outside; fresh air is bound to make one hungrier than usual.

So here’s the result of his hard work: two plates filled with bacon, eggs, hash browns, waffles and freshly sliced oranges perfectly arranged in symmetrical patterns.

Arthur places the dishes on a tray, humming a little song while he pours hot tea in the cups; it smells delicious and he can’t wait to enjoy the praises: he needs extra credit after upsetting Y/N yesterday with the unnecessary fight she witnessed by accident.

Mister Fleck lights up a cigarette, swiftly creeping out The Penthouse: he puffs the smoke like a chimney, mindful at the ashes flying in the breeze. A few extra steps and he’s almost in front of the canopy; Arthur prepares to announce his presence when moans reach his ear. He freezes and carefully listens, unsure on what to do.

“Oh my God, J!” you squeal as The Joker growls, purring up a storm.

“What are you doing to me, Kitten?”

Further panting and groaning suggests he should probably abandon his plan: Arthur holds in his breath, unwilling to interrupt the fun. The 42 year old begins to gracefully walk backwards, totally caught up in a tiny dance with the food tray.

“Sssttttt,” he admonishes his own action while sliding the glass door. “Let’s give the kids privacy,”Arthur mumbles and covers the plates to keep breakfast warm.

In about 20 minutes he notices J chasing you towards the entrance, your rosy cheeks turning red when you bump into the guest.

“Good morning,” you smile and let The Joker catch you.

“Easy prey,” he gropes a bubbly Y/N although if his older brother is present.

“Morning,” the reply triggers your boyfriend’s out of context comment:

“You cooked?!”

“Yeah,” Arthur gestures at the covered plates. “It’s ready to go.”

“Let me take a fast shower and brush my teeth. Are you coming?” J slaps you butt instead of another encouragement and you steal a piece of bacon to munch on the way up to the master bathroom:

“Thank you Arthur!”

“No problem,” he blows a rebel curl off his forehead, intrigued to see his sibling in a good mood; it’s a well-known fact The Joker didn’t have an abundance of fine days lately. Today must be an exception.

He’s actually the first one to arrive and Arthur has to ask:

“Where’s my sister-in-law?”

“She’s not your sister-in-law!” the sour tone underlines.

“I had you guys married,” the man insists.

“We didn’t agree to that!” The Joker hisses. “I barely tolerate her!” Arthur calmly lights up his second cigarette for the day, sharing wisdom with the feisty green haired menace:

“I wouldn’t take her for granted if I were you; one day you might wake up and realize she’s not even here. I talk from my own experience when I tell you it happened to me too: my relationship with the woman I loved was just an illusion, nothing more. Trust me when I tell you you’ll never feel such a deep disappointment again…”

“Ahhhh, I’m starving!” you pop up in the kitchen, completely unaware of the discussion they’re having. “Coffeeeeee,” you gush at the freshly brewed pot, excited to sip on the miracle drink.

“It’s impossible for us to hallucinate in the same time,” Arthur whispers. “Wanna check to make sure?”

J nods a yes and you’re suddenly trapped at the counter: Arthur grabs your right hand, his brother your left, both squeezing your fingers.

“I think you’re OK,” Mister Fleck concludes and you’re confused:

“What’s going on?”

“Confirming you’re real,” he admits on their strange experiment.

“Of course I’m real,” Y/N frowns, yet she has a vague idea regarding the mysterious behavior.

“Perfect; take your coffee and let’s eat,” J avoids expanding on the topic; that’s the best he can muster without revealing the slight panic at the thought you might be a product of his imagination.

*************

“I have a meeting at Savage Club this evening. Could end up profitable, depending on the terms. Would you care to accompany me?” Arthur offers to get The Joker out of the house for the heck of it.

“Nah…” the latest mutters, quite uncomfortable after his afternoon pills.

“Come on, baby; let’s go out!!! It’s been forever!” you implore because the proposal sounds super enticing. “I miss having fun,” you blur out and continue when his bitterness is obvious: “Not that it’s not fun staying home. Pleeeeaasseee, can we? I promise I’ll take care of you.”

“I don’t need you to take care of me; I’m not a child!” The Joker raises his voice and you are frustrated since no matter what you articulate it gets twisted.

“Why do you have to be like this?...” the rhetorical question is a clear statement of how much you hate conflict over trivial issues of no importance whatsoever.

Your other half believes otherwise.

“Like what, hm? Like what?! Explain so everybody can get an intelligible and logical breakdown!!” J yells for no reason but you are so done with his outbursts.

“Never mind,” you sniffle and stroll out on the terrace in order to avoid more bickering; today started so damned uplifting and you don’t know how to keep things together anymore.

When you give your all and you don’t receive too much in return, the good moments blur out in the background to the point of becoming insignificant.

“You’re a jerk,” Arthur affirms after he’s left alone with his sibling.

“Pfft,” The Joker rolls his eyes. “It’s the tumor,” he sarcastically emphasizes.

“Bullshit! It’s not the tumor, kid. And I’m taking her out, she earned it. Your crabby ass can stay here; Y/N is certainly due for refreshing fun!” the fierce answer provokes J’s resentment.

“Definitely not!!!”

“Watch me,” Arthur scoffs at his relative’s conduct, deciding to follow you outdoors.

You watch the busy city from the 30th floor and it’s safe to say you don’t really see it; the wrists loosely hanging over the railing cue him to approach with caution.

“I had this epiphany that you should escort me to Savage Club,” he tests the waters. “If you don’t fancy to attend the gathering you can always sit at the bar and have some drinks. Call me insane but I have this hunch you might want a distraction.”

“I can’t,” you regretfully inform. “I have to ensure J takes his medications and eats; what if he has an episode while I’m gone?... I simply can’t…”

“Plenty of people to supervise him; he’ll be ok.”

You don’t reply and Arthur lights up another cigarette, nonchalantly chatting with the quiet Y/N.

“Tell you how this will play: we’ll get ready and at 6pm we are leaving with or without the kid. If he joins it’s fine, if not… infinitely better,” he elbows a sulky Y/N. C’mon, put on a happy face! See?” he grabs the corners of his mouth and forces them into an eerie grin, eager to demonstrate his proclamation. “It’s not complicated, you just have to practice,” he moves his fingers to your face and elevates the corners of your lips, trying to mimic a smirk for a few seconds. “Tough crowd…” he grumbles when there’s no reaction. “Don’t make me take out the heavy artillery,” Arthur threatens. “I used to do stand-up comedy, you know?”

“… Did you?...” you finally respond to his repeated attempts, pretending you are clueless of his skills.

“You should be aware I’m a tour de force nobody should reckon with,” Mister Fleck boasts, super confident he can make you laugh.

“Yeah, after you tell a joke there’s so much silence you can hear the crickets chirping all the way from New York!” J snarls because he tiptoed on the patio to spy on the conversation.

“Oh yeah?!” Arthur gets annoyed and without further delay he lays upon you one of the best masterpieces to ever emerge from his genius brain: “I hope my death makes more cents than my life.”

And now he waits… and waits…

“Told you before: it’s not funny,” The Joker reprises his march back to the Penthouse, thrilled at his brother’s failure when the unthinkable happens: Y/N bursts out laughing like crazy, not necessarily due to the pun being hilarious (she actually finds it kind of sad, that’s why she didn’t react sooner).

Arthur’s inflated ego makes him shout from the top of his lungs, ensuring the younger sibling can perceive his triumphant bragging:

“IT IS FUNNY!”

************* “Welcome to my humble kingdom,” Joker guides you towards the bar among the increasing ruckus his presence is creating among the audience.

Savage Club belongs to him and his “fans” meet here on a regular basis: a safe haven for the eccentrics, misfits and wackos, ready to do whatever necessary to please their role model.

Arthur picks a microscopic crumb from the collar of his impeccable red suit while pulling a high chair for you:

“Take a sit,” he quickly glances at the huge mirror behind the counter to make sure his clown make-up is flawless: it took him an hour to get ready after you accepted his invitation. He’s usually faster yet the feminine company required auxiliary efforts; it’s not every day you steal a woman from her crib and take her out for invigorating entertainment.

The woman being your brother’s partner makes it even better.

“J is not answering my texts,” you sigh, already worried he might be sick.

“It’s his fault for acting up,” Arthur takes out a cigarette and seven hands holding lighters pop up around him. He chooses the one belonging to the pretty lady to his right, giving her a little wicked wink that visibly flusters the recipient of such undivided attention. “I’m going to my meeting, it should take too long,” he addresses Y/N and she nods, prepared to guzzle down much needed alcohol away from the grumpy boyfriend.

“Nothing happens to my sister-in-law,” Joker barks at one of the bouncers on his way to the VIP room; there’s no soul to argue the disclosure regarding your connection so he gets away with it.

“No worries, sir; she’s safe.”

“You misunderstand,” Arthur cuts him off. “This is for their safety,” he points at the mob. “In case you didn’t recognize her, that’s Y’N and she’s in a foul mood; we all heard rumors about her temper, hm?”

“Yes, Mister Joker.”

“Don’t be an idiot!” The Clown scolds. “My brother’s Mister Joker; I’m simply Joker. Or did you forget?!”

*************

1 hour and 13 minutes later

“How are we doing?” Arthur makes himself comfortable next to you, gesturing at the 8 empty shot glasses collected in a small pyramid.

“Amazing,” you slurp from your second Mai Tai cocktail and chew on the pink straw.

“How many can shots can you handle?” he curiously interrogates the buzzed Y/N.

“About 5,” you snort and it makes him content to notice you’re carefree for once.

“Going overboard?” Arthur snickers and you lift your glass, lively concluding: “I’ll drink to that!”

He has no beverage so he snatches a beer bottle from a guy, inquiring:

“Did you touch this?”

“Not yet, sir.”

“It’s mine,” he clinks the container against yours and instructs: ”Here’s to going overboard; bottoms up!”

**************

“Look who’s home at 2 in the morning!” J criticizes when Y/N and Arthur show up in the living room at The Penthouse.

“I wasn’t aware we had a curfew!” your drinking buddy enunciates as you hide behind him, concealing your face in the soft fabric of his jacket.

You obviously thought your boyfriend would be in bed but nope, he waited for your victorious return.

“A-are you mad?” your slurred words dissipate in the air, closely followed by hiccups.

The Joker exhales, resigned: oddly enough he missed you, although you were absent for a whopping 5 hours and a half.

“No.”

“Oh my God!” you peek from beyond your human shield as if the opposite was stated. ”W-what are you gonna do?”

“You’ll see,” J finally takes his night meds: he postponed the remedy because he wanted to be awake for this magnificent after show.

“Oh my God!” you squeak, appalled. “W-what are you gonna d-do?” the repeated question prompts actual confessions:

“First, I’ll help you take a shower and brush your teeth…”

“Oh my God!” your eyes get big like this is the worst thing ever; the inebriated Y/N can’t connect the dots too well.

“Then we’ll have sex and I’ll be sweet; you won’t remember in the morning,” The Joker sneers.

“Oh my God!” you glare at Arthur completely dumbfounded, then at J, then at Arthur who’s sturdily holding your arm so you won’t fall.

“Stop teasing her!” he hisses.

“I’m literally replying to her quizzing.”

“W-what are you gonna do?” the plastered Y/N has to know again.

“This is your fault!” The Joker comes to grab you, exasperated. “I consider you responsible!”

“Cool,” Arthur proudly delivers his date to the rightful owner. “I’ll retreat to my room and leave you kids alone,” he waves and distances from the couple while blessing them: “By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you Nobody and Joker!”

“Shut the hell up!” his brother snaps, irritated at the persistent charade.

“You may kiss the bride!” Arthur mocks, positively not giving a crap about the rant: he’s an individual with a mission and won’t admit defeat that easily.

“Can you believe this shit?!” The Joker complains and shoves Y/N in one of the bathrooms downstairs. “Ewww, you smell like a distillery,” he rants while tugging on your clothes.

“Oh my God!” you whimper, distressed at his words.

“Ugghhh, you sound like a broken record!” The King of Gotham urges you to step in the shower and it doesn’t fail:

“Oh my God!”

“Seriously??!!” your actions skyrocket his blood pressure to unknown heights. “Take a break!”

“A-are you mad?” you stutter, the hot water making you even drowsier.

“I’m starting to be!!” he reprimands and you fakely sob since you can’t recall how to cry properly:

“W-what are you gonna do?”

The great Clown Prince of Crime huffs, convinced the universe unleashed you upon him to test his patience as punishment for past transgressions:

“Why me?!”

You rub your eyes and J turns off the water, bundling the intoxicated Y/N in a huge towel.

“Stupid helpless burrito,” he grunts and sweeps you off your feet, entirely done for the night.

Ahh, it sure feels nice and you bury your cheeks in his neck, burping in the process.

“Jesus!” he protests as you clumsily apologize:

“S-sorry baby…”

“I should push you off the balcony and be done with this ordeal!” he stumbles on the hallway, vexed.

The Joker really should have kept his opinion to himself since Pandora’s Box is automatically reopened.

“Oh my God!”

“I’m cursed,” the genuine declaration is accompanied by a soft kiss; despite the circumstances, The Joker is not that angry.

Arthur closes the door to his bedroom, delighted to have observed the scene:

“He kissed the bride,” the man inhales from the last cigarette of the day, flicking the bud out the window afterwards.

Also read: MASTERLIST

You can follow me on Ao3 and Wattpad under the same blog name: DiYunho.

#the joker x reader #the joker fanfiction #joker arthur fleck #arthur fleck x reader #the joker imagine #the joker jared leto #the joker #the joker suicide squad #joker #the joker joaquin pheonix #joker fanfiction #joker imagines #mister j #Mistah J #dc #dcu

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theonceoverthinker · 5 years

Text

OUAT 3X19 - A Curious Thing

You ever feel like A&E regret giving some episodes some titles in hindsight? Because this one would’ve been PERFECT for Season 7, or Wonderland too, I suppose. And the title itself is only mildly fitting, too. ...I don’t even have a joke, that’s just weird. XD

Anyways, there’s a review under the cut, if you want to check it out. There might be smart things and there might be dumb things, but you’ll never know until you check it out, right?

Press Release

Zelena threatens to kill Henry if Hook - whose lips have been cursed by the Wicked Witch – doesn’t proceed with kissing Emma, which will drain all of her magical powers away, and things begin to heat up between Regina and Robin Hood. Meanwhile, back in the Fairy Tale Land that was during the past year, Snow and Charming go in search of Glinda, the Good Witch of the South, to see if she can help them defeat Zelena, and the curse that will ultimately send the Fairy Tale characters back to Storybrooke is cast – but from an unlikely source.

Main Thoughts - Characters/Stories/Themes and Their Effectiveness

Past

This segment is such a big contrast and parallel filled segment to the “Pilot.” Think about it:

-Regina breaks up their official wedding, Zelena breaks up their official pregnancy announcement

-Snow and David go to see a Dark One in the “Pilot” and they go to see an ultra light being here.

-They think through all of the alternatives before realizing they have to go with the suckiest option.

-Snow and David end the “Pilot” holding each other, both on the brink of collapse of exhaustion and death and here, they end the segment full of life and hope.

Otherwise, the story here was pretty good! It had a well put together story with a bouncing pace, lots of funny moments, and great character moments. It’s great seeing all of the EF characters come together on this smaller scale for the mission at the beginning, as all of their quirks and skills are put on display! It allows for everyone to feel in on the action and allows for the later focus on Regina, Snow, and Charming to feel more organic.

Present

I like Emma snapping at Henry. I don’t like that she and Henry got upset at one another, but I think the moment was well written. Henry is tired of being lied to, something well established in the past, present, and future as something of a trigger for him and Emma’s been established as hating the idea of Henry getting swept up in the drama and danger that their fairy tale life exposes them too. It makes for a very interesting conflict that while framing Emma as in the wrong, and rightly so, doesn’t paint either of them in an all-that-good, but also not an all-that-bad light. It’s complicated and it’s an important moment for them and it makes the apology work so well.

Regina being the one to break the curse worked so well for me! Her connection to Henry was a constant presence throughout the season and the kiss itself worked nicely within the narrative. I also like how it was (I hope I can say this right) not a case of either Regina or Emma being the better mother than the other, but a kiss of circumstance. Like, either mother could’ve done it, but since Emma already got the TLK in Season 1, it was really satisfying to see Regina get it here!

I’m trying to think of what I think of Killian during this episode. You see, I like Killian’s actions for being wrong, but the result of being backed into a corner. I also like the resulting resentment from Emma, Snow, and David, BUT (And I know this is more of an issue with the next episode, but bear with me) it makes the easy forgiveness in the next episode feel disjointed. BUT that having been said, I like that side of the disjointment too because they’re in a middle of a crisis and crises on this show have a tendency to bring out everyone’s more cooperative side and what happens in the next episode (From what memory serves) fits the buildup of most everything else from the season. So you see where I’m at, right? I’m confused, but not necessarily mad. Like, this part is hard to watch as a Killian fan, seeing everyone turn on him, but it’s in the same vein as the consequences of Emma lying to Henry about Neal in Season 2 were: It’s well written, but I don’t like seeing my favorite characters in such a position. ...Did ANY of that make sense?

Insights - Stream of Consciousness

-I love how Zelena’s plan is dependent on Snow and Charming wanting to get it on and have another kid and she’s 100% right about it. XD

-...Is it just me or is Zelena putting her hand on Snow while whispering to her just a liiiiiiiittle hot?

-I love these little bits of Regina and Grumpy’s dynamic. Grumpy really is the voice of the people and while I adore the family dynamic that Regina is forming with all the mains, I do like seeing a character who has little reason to like her point that fact out.

-THANK YOU REGINA FOR GIVING A LITTLE DEFINITION TO WHAT IT’S LIKE TO BE WITHOUT A HEART!

-Is it weird to anyone else how Henry calls Regina “Madam Mayor?” Like, I know he doesn’t have his memories, but why not Mayor Mills?

-He’s been through a lot of tough stuff.” “And a lot of good stuff.” I really like that mini debate between Emma and Regina!

-I remember reading a fic of Rumple taking Killian hostage for this conversation and it being the best thing ever!

-Nooooooootttt a good idea telling your enemy the name of the first person you’re gonna attack. Just saying.

-”Where you come from, people bathe in the river and use pine cones for money.” REGINA’S SASS IS SO FUCKING EN-POINTE!

-I like how Henry knows he can’t handle a seven hour car ride just yet and makes a plan for that.

-Killian, your idea is so fucking stupid, but that smirk is so fucking adorable that I just can’t even. XD

-”Why do women keep their shoe boxes?” Solid question, but mine is why is she keeping her shoe boxes in a fucking suitcase?!

-Emma’s fuckstruck face at seeing the book appear crack me the fuck up! XD

-The entire scene with the snowbells! OMG! XD

-”If pure of heart, then she won’t hide.” Yeahhhhh. The revelations from 4B make this REALLY uncomfortable! XD

-That having been said, the fact that Regina can’t get through and her resulting reaction to that is funny as fuck!

-Okay, now that the auction is a thing, I can’t look at props and not think of them as lots! XD

-Do you think if Snow didn’t have a pure heart, but the baby did, she’d be allowed to pass through the door?

-”There has to be another way to enact it [The Dark Curse].” Give it four seasons, Snow. There will be...in TWO ways, no less! XD

-”I’ve got GPS on his phone.” I fucking love those small moments where technology beats magic! XD

-...I realize that if Killian’s plan worked, he and Smee would basically become co-parents until Zelena’s defeated. SOMEONE MAKE THIS A SITCOM!!!

-That second “mom” in Regina’s direction...it just did stuff to me. Beautiful magnificent stuff. *Cries forever*

-Wow. The effects of Emma’s light magic on Zelena are REALLY weird...but I still like it! It’s like something out of a stage play with the lighting and the smoke and the close shots on Zelena’s hands make the whole thing really unique!

-The contrast to the first and second curse casting is really something!

-I Disney Ship Henry/Pizza!

-Okay, this Regal Believer content just makes me wanna cry of happiness! Seeing Henry and Regina bonding like this is so cathartic!

-Kind of forever a little salty that the most we get out of Robin and Henry bonding is that handshake.

-There the CG people go having all sorts of fun again! :D

-UM! So Neal can talk to birds! We should talk about this!

-Yo! You can’t hit me with all of these Neal feels in a row like this!

Arcs - How Are These Storylines Progressing?

The Wicked Witch - FUCK ME! Zelena’s fucking hardcore! Like, whether in the past or the present, I feel like the stakes of her villainy continuously rise with each and every episode! And this episode really shows us her power in regards to her army. Like, there are monkeys coming from EVERY direction here! It makes for something genuinely intimidating!

Emma Accepting Home - I like what we see of this arc in this episode. Now that Henry’s on the verge of getting his memories back, Emma’s anxieties come back so fiercely and they’re appropriately further compelled by the threat of the monkeys and the exposure of Killian’s lie.

Regina’s Redemption - This is the penultimate moment of payoff for Regina’s redemption this season and it’s fantastic! The buildup has been pretty solid, with Regina fighting so hard for and alongside all of the heroes, especially Henry!

Neal’s Death - I love how basically as soon as the story is able to, Neal’s death is addressed and gracefully acknowledged for Henry.

Killian’s Redemption - Killian’s plan is pretty stupid here. That having been said, the entire time Killian’s enacting this stupid plan, Henry’s safety and happiness is his top priority, as is Smee’s, a bit. “Don’t stop, no matter what you hear.” Like, Killian’s willing to fucking DIE for Henry’s safety. Just, this episode shows both Killian at his best and worst.

Favorite Dynamic

Emma and Henry. Regal Believer was really close to taking this spot, but I loved all the friction between Emma and Henry here as well as the love between them. I talked about it before so i won’t repeat myself too much, but that fight just does so much to show all of the stress these two have been under for the past half season. The lying and anxiety have just been building up on both of their ends and the way it comes out is absolutely heartbreaking! But you can tell that there’s still a lot of love there between them in the way that Henry trusts Emma to believe in magic and the storybook.

Writer

Adam and Eddy are today’s writers! They did a nice job here. The storytelling is tight, allows for a good variety of characters to get focus (Like, I’m kind of amazing that basically all of the mains plus Zelena plus Robin plus Neal get at least one standout moment). The balance here is so good! And the story in terms of being payoff works so well because it’s so in sync with the setup of the previous episodes.

Rating

10/10. This is just a good clean episode. It has a story and tells it well!

Flip My Ship - The Home of All Things “Shippy Goodness”

Outlaw Queen - “What I’m doing is saving your ass.” The reaction to this line is not only hysterical, but it shows me what I love about this pairing. Regina just begrudgingly respects Robin for his utter gall, and it’s just this stark and cool moment. Honestly, I just love how Regina reacts to Robin’s sass. And in the present, that sass from both sides makes for something honestly pretty sweet and cute.

Swan Queen - Now this might be just me, but anyone else notice that borderline jealous expression Emma had on her face when post-makeout Regina came in? XD

Rumbelle - I love how Belle gets through to Rumple for just a few moments in the past. It makes me think of the beginning of the Margot/Tilly scene from “Is This Henry Mills?” and it’s just heartwarming to see Rumple so gentle. He speaks so softly and it’s...it’s just fucking nice.

Snowing - David...you fucking dork with that fucking flower...I love you… AND SPEAKING OF DAVID, DUDE! YOU HAVE NO RIGHT TO BE THAT FUCKING CUTE WITH YOUR WIFE JUST AS YOU’RE ABOUT TO “DIE!” NO RIGHT! That speech! That FUCKING speech was too amazing! AND SNOW’S GOODBYE! She can’t even look at the heart she’s gonna crush because she wants to treasure those last few seconds with him! Finally, the heart sharing. What a beautiful and smart resolution to the casting of the new curse. And it’s so romantic and personal to the two of them and their journey. It’s a simply iconic Snowing moment!

Swan Fire - Neal and Emma put in so much effort into preserving each other’s memory -- Emma’s literal memory and Neal’s eternal memory -- here! <3

-----

Sorry that this one is both late and not super strongly written. I guess I just wasn’t in the zone here. But thank you for reading all the same and to @daensarah and @watchingfairytales. I’ll have something better next time as we explore “Kansas.”

Season 3 Total (179/220)

Writer’s Scores: Adam and Eddy (49/60) Kalinda Vazquez (26/40) Andrew Chambliss (34/50) Jane Espenson (28/30)* David Goodman (29/40) Robert Hull (30/40) Christine Boylan (20/20)* Daniel Thomsen (28/30)*

* Indicates that their work for the season is complete

*Links to the rest of my rewatch will no longer be provided. They take posts with links outside of searches and I spend way too much time on these reviews to not give them that kind of exposure. Sorry for the inconvenience, but they still can be found on my page under Operation Rewatch.

#ouat #once upon a time #watching fairytales #ouat 3x19 #ouat rewatch #jenna watches ouat

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medusinestories · 7 years

Note

“tell me what to do, please!” with SilverFlintHamilton if you do them. If not just silverflint I guess

Well it’s only been 2 months! *cough* Anyhow, I wanted to write something domestic, but these three boys are terrible at being nice to each other, so have them being bastards to each other instead. It’s set in my Bristol verse, and follows the ridiculous Flint knitting fic. This one is probably sillier. Sorry if that wasn’t what you expected with that prompt, but I just wanted to write something light for once.

A bit of vocab: coryza is an 18th century word for a cold.

ToMake a Posset

Takea quart of new Cream, a quarter of an ounce of Cynamon, Nutmegquartered, and boyl it till it taste of the spice, and keep italwayes stirring, or it will burn to; then take the yolks of 7 Eggsbeaten well together with a little cold Creame; then put that intothe other Creame that is on the fire, and stir it till it begin toboyle; then take it off and sweeten it with Sugar, and stir on tillit be indifferent coole; then take somewhat more than a quarter of apinte of Sack (half a pinte will be too much) sweeten that also, andset it on the fire till it be ready to boyle; then put it in aconvenient vessel, and pour your Creame into it, elevating your handto make it froath, which is the grace of your Posset; and if you putit thorow a tunnell, it is held the more exquisite way.

– TheArt of Cookery Refined and Augmented, 1654

“Maybeyou should scale down the recipe if the pot’s too small,” Flintpointed out when Thomas had chased the last billow of smoke out ofthe window, flapping a kitchen rag after it. The stench of burneddairy, on the other hand, was going to linger for hours.

“Andhow would you scale down a recipe that requires seven egg yolks,pray?”

Flinthad to swallow down a smirk at the frosty edge of Thomas’ voice. Hecouldn’t say that he didn’t enjoy watching him struggle. Everythingusually seemed to come so easily and naturally to Thomas that seeinghim stumped once in a while was a welcome change.

“I’mjust saying, those are seven good eggs.” And Thomas was no cook,and Flint hated waste.

“Ah,there you are!” Flint had been too focused on Thomas to even hearSilver come in. Puzzlement etched its way on Silver’s face as he tookin Thomas amidst a variety of cooking utensils and ingredients. Thena mischievous smirk curled his lips. “Well well well, what do wehave here?”

“Idon’t need another spectator, thank you very much,” came Thomas’retort.

Ofcourse this only made Silver smirk wider. He hopped towards Flint andunceremoniously settled in his lap. Sometimes, he reminded Flint ofthe cat. It never did as it was told, fled at the first sign oftrouble, and invariably chose to hang around when it was mostunwelcome. And in spite of that, Flint couldn’t help feeling a warmglow whenever the cat – and Silver – elected to settle on hislap.

“Howmuch of this have I missed?” Silver asked, his warm breath ticklingFlint’s throat. One of Flint’s arms automatically wrapped Silver’swaist to keep him secure.

“Notmuch. Just a bit of cream boiling over.”

“Thatpot was much too small,” Thomas snapped. He was looking decidedlyrumpled, a look that Flint quite enjoyed. He’d rolled up his sleevesover his elbows, baring his shapely forearms. His hair was on thedishevelled side from having been worried every time Thomas ran hisfingers through it in frustration, and his face glowed pink from theheat of the kitchen. And, likely, from the annoyance at beingrevealed as such a poor cook.

Silvermade an amused sound. “And what is all this cooking in aid of, mayI ask?”

“It’sfor Madi. I’m sure it hasn’t escaped your notice that she has a touchof coryza,” Thomas said. “My mother swore by this when someonewas feeling unwell.”

“Ah,so you’re preparing a purgative,” Silver said brightly. “Verythoughtful, my Lord.”

“John,”Flint admonished softly, gently squeezing his hip.

Thomasnarrowed his eyes at Silver. “Well I don’t see you takingcare of her.”

“Er,excuse me,” Silver started, and by the higher pitch of his voiceFlint knew that Thomas had just expertly pressed one of his buttons.“I was with her not a few minutes ago. She told me she wanted torest and, more importantly, that she’d rather not eat anything. Ileft her with some hot wine and a bed warmer. She’s got all sheneeds.”

“Wellat some point she’ll need to eat, and then she can have a posset.It’s capital against chills.”

“Ohright, capital,” Silver repeated in a perfect imitation ofThomas’ accent. Flint rolled his eyes. “And how does one go aboutmaking such a specialised remedy?”

“Ihave a recipe right here,” Thomas said primly. What he didn’t say,but Flint knew, was that he was finding the recipe hard to follow.Even Flint thought the instructions both vague and overly technical,and he’d been cooking on an off for decades. “In fact if you don’tmind I’ll get back to it right now.”

Withmore of a flourish than necessary, Thomas turned back to the fire andto the pot of spice-infused cream that had just recently boiled over.Flint and Silver watched quietly as Thomas attempted to finishcracking eggs, getting rid of the whites, and tipping the yolks intoa bowl, all the while keeping an eye on the heating cream. That hadbeen why the pot had boiled over in the first place.

“Thisis better than watching drunk men playing darts,” Silver murmuredin Flint’s ear. Flint shushed him.

“James,it’s boiling!” Thomas called out, his tone more than a littlealarmed.

“Well?What’s the next step?”

“I–”Thomas frantically searched the table for the scrap of paper on whichhe’d jotted down the recipe.

“OhThomas you disappoint,” Silver said. “I thought you intellectualscould do just about anything without needing to refer toinstructions!”

“Shutup and tellme what to do! Please!”

“AmI supposed to shut up or to tell you what to do?” asked Silver witha chuckle.

“Takeit off the heat,” Flint said, louderthan Silver.WatchingThomas squirm a bit was one thing but, unlike Silver apparently,Flint didn’t want to see him make a mess of this.

Thomasdid as he was told, though he put the scorching pot straight onto thewoodentable.Silver hissed as though he’d been burned himself, butThomas seemed a bit toofrantic to pick up on thefact he’d just ruined a perfectly good tabletop.Hefinally found his recipe and read it over.

“Right.Addsugarto taste,then it goes into thecold egg mixture,” he muttered to himself. Flinthad the feeling he was skipping a step, but couldn’t recall what itwas.Inthe meantime, Thomasliberallysprinkledsugar intothe steaming cream, gaveit a brief stir,thengingerlypickedupthe pot.

“Notso fa–”Flintstarted, but itwas too late. Thomashad poured the hotcream onto the raw eggs.“Stir it, quick!”

OnFlint’s lap, Silver shook with silent laughter asThomas stared at Flint, nonplussed, beforewhiskingthemixture none too gently.Flintgavea long sigh,hoping that the cream wouldn’t havehad time to cookthe eggs.

“Shouldit have bits in it?” Thomas asked.

Silvergasped for air, wheezing with laughter. Flint squeezed him closer tohim, both to shush him and to keep him from losing his balance.

“Doesit have a lot of bits?”Flintasked.

“Not…exceedingly,” Thomassaid, still bent over his work.

“ThenI suppose it’s fine.”

“Ifyou like scrambled eggs,” Silver added,havingregained his breath, andFlint sharplypoked himinthe ribs.Hecould mockall he liked, but Silver hadn’t known aboutthateither until he’d tried to make a custard afew weeks back.Flinthad barely managed to save it.

Thomasshot Silver a glare out of the corner of his eye, but returned to hisrecipe. He added quite a bit of good white wine to the mixture, andstirred.

“Ican’t say my mother’s posset looked like this,” Thomas said after awhile.

Flintwasn’t surprised. “Show me what it looks like.”

Thomasbrought the pot over.Flint cranedhis neck sohe could better seethe mess of Thomas’recipe overSilver’s shoulder.Lumpsof cookedegg, bigand small,floatedin the creamy substance.It probably wouldn’t taste badbut it certainly wasn’t appetising.

“Itstill needs to cook a bit, doesn’t it?” Flint said. Hopefully thatmight help it set.

“You’reright,” Thomas said with a sigh. “Can’t hurt to try.” He’dtaken a few steps towards the fire when Silver spoke.

“Itlooks like what the baby puked up,” he muttered, nearly absently.

“Thebaby?” Flint said, intrigued mainly by Silver’s tone. More oftenthan he knew, Silver gave away some small clue about his past. Flintusually just collected these hints in a corner of his mind, quietlypiecing together what he knew. This time he couldn’t help but ask.

Silverturned to him, frowning. “A baby, any baby. Haven’t you ever seen ababy puke?”

“Notup close,” Flint answered, while Thomas simultaneously said“Actually, no.” Thomas had stopped midway to the fire and turnedback towards them. He gave Flint a little smile when their eyes met;he too must have picked up on Silver’s revealing comment.

“Well,that’s what it looks like,” said Silver, his tone harsher thanbefore. He pointed at the pot of curdled cream. “Well done Thomas,you’ve made Cream of Baby Vomit. I’m sure Madi will be cured of herappetite forevermore.”

Thomasvisibly bristled. “Now listen here you little–” he snarled,whipping the spoon out of the mix to point it at Silver. Gobs ofmixture splattered across the room. Silver let out a revolted cry,and Flint yelped in surprise when some of it splashed right into inhis eye.

Allof a sudden, everything went quiet.

“James,are you all right?” Thomas asked.

“Fine,”Flint grumbled, wiping his face with his sleeve. His eye stung like abitch and tears had already started streaming down his cheek.

��It’sa bit red,” Silver observed from up close. “But I don’t think themixture was hot enough to burn you.”

Silverpressed a kiss to the corner of Flint’s eye, and Flint saw Thomas’face relax into a gentle smile.

“MayI?” As Silver shifted back, Thomas kissed Flint’s eyelid, his lipsfeather-light. Then he turned to Silver and bent to kiss a gob of themixture off his temple, making Silver shiver ever so slightly inFlint’s lap. Flint was glad, because if Silver was distracted thenhe’d maybe miss the barely concealed look of disgust on Thomas’ facewhen he tasted his own concoction.

“Imay have gone a bit far with the goading,” Silver admitted after abeat.

“Yes,maybe,” Thomas said quietly. He obviously knew Silver well enoughby now not to expect a better apology than that.

“What’sgoing on here? Why were you shouting?”

Madiwas standing in the doorway. Her usually clear voice was husky, andshe was tightly wrapped in a bright green woollen shawl. She onlyever wore it to bed, considering that it was quite crude, but a warmfeeling spread in Flint’s chest every time he saw her wear what he’dmade for her.

“Andwhat’s that?” Madi pointed to the ground, her brow furrowed.

Onlythen did Flint notice the streak of white lumpy posset in the middleof the kitchen floor. Then he spotted, with growing annoyance,splashes of the stuff in bizarre and random places: up the walls, onpans and utensils, speckling shelves. Bookshelves. And likely on thebooks, too.

“Iwas just, um, experimenting with something and we got a bit excited,”Thomas said with an easy smile, managing somehow not to sounddesperately embarrassed, though Flint was sure he was. “You shouldbe in bed, Madi. Shall I walk you back upstairs?”

Madigave a grumpy shrug, but took Thomas’ arm when he offered it to her andleaned her head on it.

“AndI’m sure you two can clean that up,” he said, his smile justbordering on wicked. Flint heard Silver’s outraged little gasp at having been so easily outmanoeuvred.

“Yes,please do,” Madi said, trying to repress a sniffle. “It lookslike a baby was sick in here.”

Andthen Flint had to grab Silver before he rolled off of his lap,writhing with uncontrollable laughter.

#black sails fanfic #silverflinthomas #James Flint #John Silver #Thomas Hamilton #Madi #humour #domestic #OT4 #arzani-fuchsia #prompt fill #ficlet

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ladyloveandjustice · 7 years

Text

Trick the Past Again- An Akane Kurashiki Mix

"I'll do whatever it takes to achieve my goals. That's just the kind of person I am."

Kidnapper, killer, time traveler, mastermind, scientist, conspiracy nut, cult leader, savior of humanity. A mix for Akane Kurashiki.

Play on Playmoss

Play on 8tracks

Play on Spotify

Basically my experiences with Zero Escape can be expressed with a “do it for her” graphic starring Akane Kurashiki. I adore her in all her complex, morally ambiguous, well-intentioned extremist, Machiavellian glory. So here’s my mix tribute to her, complete with the usual obsessively detailed annotations under the cut.

AAA

Fairly self-explanatory, this song easily applies to a girl who jumps timelines, changes history and tosses aside moral concerns for the big picture and greater good.

“time comes in particles” someone once said and this is what i remember/this is how my brain works.

.you won’t become numb, i won’t stay the same. if i try hard enough i can cry paper planes and we’ll connect the dots in the history books and you’ll see the bigger picture, i’ll shrink down the greater good.

Akane will do anything to stave off the apocalypse and every time she reunites with Junpei or other friends, they’re always completely different versions of themselves.

i think a storm is moving in. so watch out for our favorite apocalypse. and who will we be the next time we meet?

Uma Thurman

This song struck me as Junpei’s POV in the first game, where Akane is manipulating him like a boss, doing whatever it takes to stay alive and even hitching a ride in his brainspace and hey, he seemed pretty okay with that.

I can work a miracle/keep you like an oath/May nothing but death do us part /You'll find your way/And may death find you alive

She wants to dance like Uma Thurman/Bury me 'til I confess/She wants to dance like Uma Thurman/And I can't get you out of my head

Divide me down to the smallest I can be/Put your venom in me

Oh no!

"Junpei, I will never forget you. But please, forget me. You need to forget...I won’t let anything get in the way of my goals. That’s just the kind of person I am. Even if that means I must lose my life, I swear I'll make the AB Project a success!"

Don't do love, don't do friends/I'm only after success/Don't need a relationship/I'll never soften my grip

I know exactly what I want and who I want to be/I know exactly why I walk and talk like a machine/I'm now becoming my own self-fulfilled prophecy

One track mind, one track heart

I’m gonna live/I’m gonna fly/I’m gonna fail/ I’m gonna die

Cold War

"This will be the culmination of many years of hard work. We cannot afford failure."

So you think that I'm alone/But being alone is the only way to be/When you step outside/You spend life fighting for your sanity/This is a cold war/You better know what you're fighting for

Just One Yesterday

Probably primarily addressed at Junpei. She’s “teaching him (and the others) a lesson” by putting them in the Nonary game, giving him the information he needs to know so she can succeed. It’s all so she can save her past self, her “yesterday”. She doesn’t care if she dies many times in the process.

(I know I’m bad news)/(I saved it all for you)I want to teach you a lesson in the worst kind of way/Still I’d trade all my tomorrows for just one yesterday

And then after all that? She leaves him behind because she has more important things to do.

And I’m here to give you all of my love/So I can watch your face as I take it all away

Strings and Attractors

I went around and read some extra material about Akane, and apparently the future version of her in VLR gets so good at projecting herself through the connected timelines she becomes really detached and basically omnipotent in a way. She “loses herself” in all the repeating timelines, and this song expresses those feelings.

And sometimes I/Get lost in time

The moment fading/We watch the end/Over again/And keep repeating

I feel like I'm just disappearing

Playing for Keeps

This song is Akane addressing her former kidnappers, as she masterfully arranges it so they kill each other. Revenge is sweet

"I must punish them. For the innocent lives they sacrificed. This is the only warning they will receive."

It's a lonely road where the forgotten go/Where your misery finds its company It's a long way down to the sacred ground/Where the reapers playing for keeps

You're next in line for judgement day now/Aren't you praying, aren't you begging that you're anyone else?

Well I bet you're sorry now/Well you did this to yourself

Still alive

GLaDOS/Akane OTP? They kind of have the same ends-justifies-the-means attitudes when it comes to their experiments on people, so this song fits Akane well, especially adding in some vengefulness towards her kidnappers. Amusingly, Junpei indicated (in an assholish way) that Akane is also pretty fond of cake in ZTD, so even that part fits.

We do what we must/because we can/For the good of all of us./Except the ones who are dead.

Look at me, still talking when there's science to do/When I look out there, it makes me glad I'm not you./I've experiments to run/There is research to be done/On the people who are still alive.

Black Sheep

You could consider this from Sigma’s POV or basically any of Akane’s accomplices in her apocalypse-erasing plan. She (and Sigma and Phi and co) knew the world was going to end. They prepared for it and now Akane’s going to get everyone working to change the past.

Hello again, friend of a friend/I knew you when/Our common goal was waiting for the world to end/Now that the truth is just a rule that you can bend/You crack the whip, shape-shift and trick the past again

Also she’s gonna get a base on the freakin’ moon

Got real estate, I'm buying it all up in outer space

Castle

Akane the cult-leader. She rules her organization with a iron fist and she’s ready to dethrone the old man in charge of the rival cult.

I'm headed straight for the castle/They wanna make me their queen/And there's an old man sitting on the throne that's saying that I probably shouldn't be so mean

Oh, all these minutes passing, sick of feeling used/if you wanna break these walls down, you’re gonna get bruised/And now my neck is open wide, begging for a fist around it/Already choking on my pride, so there's no use crying about it

I am not a robot

Akane having to deal with emogothedgyJunpei, God pity her. Also applies to how she tends to suppress her feelings and vulnerability as well.

“I’m done playing action hero...I’m an adult now”

“Actually, Junpei, you seem pretty childish to me.”

You've been acting awful tough lately/Smoking a lot of cigarettes lately/But inside, you're just a little baby

I'm vulnerable/I am not a robot/You're lovable/But you're just troubled

Soap

“Junpei told me I was a girl who “said things that shouldn’t be said.”

Uh-oh, there it goes, I said too much, it overflowed/Why do I always spill?

I feel it coming out my throat/Guess I better wash my mouth out with soap/God, I wish I never spoke

Academia

“This girl here, she’s always been really smart. If even the tiniest thing is off she’ll start talking about “ifs” and “buts” like someone twice her age. But to all of us at grade school, she was strange. And well, kind of scary.”

Oh Academia, you can pick me up, soothe me with your words when I need your love./You're a difficult equation with a knack for heart evasion/Will you listen to my proof or will you add another page on?

Hope on Fire

Akane building and doing everything she can to manipulate time and prevent the apocalypse from happening again, even deliberately getting herself stabbed to death.

gotta leave gotta bleed/you've gotta stop lying still/'cause this is no kind of life/you don't need guarantees/you just want something to build/before you turn to the knife

gotta move gotta choose/you've got a difference to make/don't watch it happen again/gotta change rearrange/something's bending to break/it's just a matter of when

Blindness

Akane didn’t want for any of this to happen. She was a victim of circumstance. She was forced into the role of savior of humanity- she chose to accept it and ruthlessly did what needed to be done rather than run away, but there’s no way she doesn’t get weary of jumping timelines over and over again.

All the survivors singing in the rain/I was the one with the world at my feet/Got us a battle, leave it up to me

What it is and where it stops nobody knows/You gave me a life I never chose/I wanna leave but the world won't let me go

#akane kurashiki #zero escape #nine persons nine hours nine doors #999 #virtue's last reward #zero time dilemma #my fanmix #8tracks #playmoss #kurashiki akane #video games

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belleoftheballpoint · 7 years

Text

Second Star to the Right

7 September 1940

Ash and smoke bleed into the clouds, and rain beats down on Regina Mills’ windshield. An obsidian plume mars the horizon behind her, casting an oppressive shadow upon the narrow, wet one-laned road as she speeds around a corner, her elbow banging into the driver’s side door as she sharply swerves around the curve.

“Regina, slow down!” Emma Swan shouts, bracing one hand on the dash and the other against a splintered passenger side window, glass fogging around her fingers and palm. “We’re not gonna make it if we crash before we get there!”

But Regina can’t slow down, can’t stop, can’t pause for a minute to think beyond Almost there almost there almost there! and the frantic ba-bump ba-bump ba-bump of her heart beating in her chest.

Sweat beads at her temples, tracks through ash, grime, and a smear of blood at her hairline. She’s shaking, muscles spasming painfully, harshly inhaling shuddering breath after breath.

Calm down, Regina. Just breathe, she thinks, trying to convince herself that everything is going to be alright.

But there’s a drowning dread brewing in her belly, a gnawing terror clawing at her heart as her eyes dart up to the rear view mirror again and again – the sky alight in an unforgiving red behind them as rubber hitting the road puts more distance between them and the horrors of a bloodbath they weren’t prepared for at the Swan House.

God, all those people. The screaming. The flames.

Robin is missing.

Kathryn is dead.

And the world is on fire.

Emma yells again as Regina jerks the wheel to swerve and miss broken crates and an overturned delivery truck on the righthand side of the road. There’s debris littered everywhere – fallen trees, burning countryside, gaping wounds in the earth the size of craters, big billows of smoke reaching up into the air like skeletal tendrils.

She can barely hear Emma, barely lets her friend’s sharp curses divert her attention. She wonders if she’ll be too late, wonders if Henry and Roland are alright.

She needs to get back, needs to get home, needs to get to her boys. She’s sure they’re alright, prays they are, hopes they are. For what more can she do with five more miles separating her boys from the safety of her arms and the frantic combing of her eyes over their limbs and faces to make sure they’re untouched by the inferno that came from the sky. She thinks of Henry’s apple cheeks and sweet smile. Thinks of Roland’s curly hair and delicious dimples. Dimples he got from his father. Oh God, Robin. She thinks of Robin, of all their letters and tear-stained parchment, and a million unanswered questions filling the pit of her belly with dread.

Her knuckles turn white as she tightens her grip on the steering wheel and bites down on her lower lip. She needs to get home. Now.

Slamming her foot on the accelerator, the tires grip to the road and yank them forward with a lurch. Rubber meeting ground in a godawful screech.

How did everything turn upside down so quickly? How did it all go to shit? That last question makes her think of Robin again. He’s rubbed off on her, and that makes her smile, makes her eyes water, and goddammit, she does not have time for this. This is why you don’t fall in love during wartime, Regina, she thinks. This is why you focus on duty, why you do your part and keep your heart out of play. But she didn’t keep her heart out of play; it cracked open, slowly at first, and then all at once, letting warmth and comfort and love flood in. Robin and Roland had done that, with their charm and their goofy grins, her love for them had snuck up on her, and she’d been flabbergasted at how much she and Henry had soon wanted the Locksley men in their lives. Their love had laid her heart bare in a way that it hadn’t been in years (not since Daniel, not since before she’d been brokered into a marriage to Leopold, and not since she’d first held her darling Henry to her chest. He’d been lost just like her, an orphan during wartime, and she may not have brought him into this world with blood and pain, but she’d loved him instantly with a force so fierce she hadn’t known where it had come from.

“Regina!” Emma exclaims and grips tightly to her arm to get her attention, pulling her out of the past and into the very chaotic present. “I don’t want to die in this stupid piece of metal! Not after what we just went through! Not after Kathryn…”

Regina whips her head around, glaring at Emma, fighting off tears threatening to fall.

Robin is missing.

Kathryn is dead.

The world is one fire.

And she has to get home to the boys.

It’s a mantra she keeps repeating in her head. Something to ground her. Truths she can’t ignore.

It keeps her going, keeps her from breaking down.

Regina’s eyes are back on the road in front of her, but she doesn’t miss the reassurance in Emma’s voice when she speaks next.

“I know, and you know, they’re safe–” the boys, she’s talking about the boys “–Maggie and Marcus wouldn’t let anything happen to Roland. And they love you and Henry, as if you were their own blood. They’ll protect them.” Emma lets go of Regina’s hand as they turn onto the long driveway up to the Locksley farm. Emma blows out a breath, and then gasps, turning around swiftly in her seat and craning her neck to peer out the cab of the truck and up into the clouds.

Regina follows her gaze out her driver’s side mirror.

Planes. An entire fleet, flying overhead toward the city center.

Oh God. Changing autumn leaves pass by in a blur as Regina barrels up the driveway, pebbles spinning out from beneath the truck’s tires as they grapple against gravel for traction.

Her fingers grip more tightly to the steering wheel and she presses down on the pedal again, hard. Takes the next turn at an alarming speed, and on any other day, she’d be more cautious. She’s never driven like this before, hasn’t really driven in years, would never drive like this in general, but there’s still a faint metallic taste in her mouth. There’s still the subtle, unwelcomed burn of ash in her lungs. And Kathryn’s broken body is still clearly painted in her mind.

The lower pasture up ahead blurs, goes watery, and then tears spill beyond her lashes like a flood breaking through a dam. “Almost there,” Regina urgently speaks, voice caught in her throat.

“Come on, come on.” She can see Emma staring at her through the corner of her eye.

They pass over hills and into the valley paralleling the lake, getting closer and closer to the homestead as her heart violently beats faster and faster in her chest. Ba-bump ba-bump ba-bump. The sound of it bleeding into her eardrums, drowning out all other sounds, snuffing out the voice in her head telling her she’s not going to make it, shouting that things will never be the same again as more planes fly overhead.

This is it, she thinks. This is how the world ends.

The truck skids to a halt on the graveled drive in front of Maggie and Marcus Locksley’s country home. And then Regina’s pushing open the door, slamming it shut behind her–the key still in the ignition. She doesn’t take the time to wait for Emma before hiking up her skirt and bounding up the front steps of the house, practically throwing open the front screen door; it violently swings on its hinges, bangs against the wall with a godawful snap. But she doesn’t care that that’s probably left a doorknob dent in the drywall. Who the fuck cares about something like that when London has just been bombed and the city is burning?

She’s out of breath when she shouts, “Henry!” careening down the entryway hallway. “Henry! Roland! Maggie! Marcus!”

She sees Maggie first. “Christ, Regina! You’re covered in blood!”

And she is, but she doesn’t have time to explain, hears the echo of Kathryn’s scream in her head as the ceiling had collapsed on them, remembers the heat of the inferno singing the hair on her arms, and her colleague’s blood on her hands and apron as she and Emma had tried to carry Kathryn out of the rubble of the Swan House. But she doesn’t say any of that, instead blinks back tears burning at the corners of her eyes and says, “It’s not mine!” and begs, “Where are the boys?” Maggie pulls her into a quick squeeze and runs her palms down Regina’s arms, checking her over for injuries. A mother through and through. “Marcus has the boys. They’re grabbing the dog and then we’re going to the cellar. Bags are already together.”

Regina nods frantically, and then Emma’s behind her, the screen door slamming into its frame again. “We have to go!” she shouts. “Where are the kids?”

“They’re coming,” Maggie replies, handing Regina and Emma potato sacks filled to the brim with clothing, canteens filled with fresh well water, produce, and basic medical supplies. Regina’s eyes widen as she stares at the contents. There are black market items in these bags. Things they’ve been out of for months, things she thought Maggie had gotten rid of, some things that she in fact helped the older woman get rid of. And yet here they are.

“Maggie…” she says, “where did you…”

“Does it matter?”

No, she supposes it doesn’t, and they’ll be happy for Maggie’s hoarding of illegal items when they’re down in the bunker.

“Okay, we have to go, seriously,” Emma says again. “There’s gonna be a second wave any minute! This isn’t a drill!”

“Where are the boys?” Regina shouts again, nerves unraveling at the seams.

"We’re here!” Marcus Locksley calls. Roland is propped up above his hip, arms tightly wrapped around his grandpa’s neck, and then Henry is shouting, running past the two of them and colliding against Regina’s body.

"Mom!” He cries as she drops to her knees and clutches him to her, her fingers threading into his hair as she breathes his name in a sigh of relief. Her baby is safe; he’s safe. He’s in her arms, and she’s breathing him in, and kissing his cheeks, and drying tears from his eyes, and he’s safe.

It takes them all of five minutes after that to make it across the field to the bunker, and as they lock the shelter door behind them and start running down the stairs, the next wave begins.

Dust unsettles, the walls vibrate, Roland buries his face into his grandpa’s chest and whimpers.

“Mom, I’m scared,” Henry cries into Regina’s shoulder as they huddle together in the far corner of the cellar.

She hugs him a little tighter, presses her lips to the crown of his head and whispers, “I know, honey. Me too.”

“Regina?” Marcus sets Roland down and the five year old runs over to her.

“Yes, sweetheart?” she says, folding him into her side and giving him and Henry a squeeze. She ushers them to the cot near the shelf with all the canned peaches and beans, and urges them to sit down.

Roland wipes his runny nose on his sleeve and sniffles. “Is my papa gonna be okay?”

“Oh sweetheart, it’ll be okay,” she says, brushing his curls out of his face and situating herself onto the cot so both of the boys can curl into her sides. She combs her fingers through their hair, and whispers reassuringly, “He’s safe; your papa’s safe.” And then she says, “We’re safe. You’re safe, he’s safe, we’re safe.”

She repeats those words over and over. And then it begins again.

Boom.

The walls shake.

Boom.

Dust unsettles.

Boom.

Roland covers his ears, and Henry buries his face in his mother’s side.

“We’re going to be alright,” Regina whispers, pressing a kiss to Henry’s brow and combing her fingers through Roland’s curls again.

She wraps her arms more tightly around them both and prays to God she’s right.

#second star to the Right #regina mills #robin hood #roland hood #henry mills #outlaw queen #oq au #ww2

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countdownto65 · 7 years

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All grown up dispite your sentence

I am writing this (entery) from the point of view of a mother. A mother who has been forced into single motherhood because of your repeated transgressions and consequently your repeated sentences of incarceration. She is almost 14. You have been locked up for 11 and a half of thoes years. I should have known better from the start but I was young and dealing with my own deamons of past abuse. I met you fresh off of a 6 year sentence for breaking and entering. I was 19. Dating you was the ultimate act of defiance toward my parents. After a few months you did another B and E and got hemmed up, but because of a loophole in ilegal search and seizure, you only got a parole violation and did a year and a half. At this time you had noone to look out for but yourself so the consequences were your own. I wrote you often, we rekindled our relationship the day you got out. I became pregnant sometime in those first few weeks. Here is where I had my error in thinking. It was that I believed you. I believed that the “family you’ve always wanted” was enough to keep your nose clean. We bought a house, you had a good union job doing commerical roofing. Then your bunkie got out. I knew he was bad news but you guys hung out nonetheless. One day I came home for lunch from work to your P.O. wanting to “look around”. Since I’d been kept in the dark about your criminal activity I said no problem. The house checked out fine. Your garage was another story, full of stolen motors both car and boat. You got another 2 years. Our daughter was 10 months old. I worked at a pizza place and had no education so the $800 a month mortgage payment was not a viable option. I lost you and our home in one (feld) swoop. I was determined to keep our family together. I worked full time and made sure I took our toddler to Coldwater from Jackson every week. You saw her first steps behind bars. You heard her first words behind bars. You missed her first 2 birthdays because you were behind bars. You would be angry if I missed a call or visit. You would say to think about your feelings, but did you think about ours? I was at this point waitressing 40 hours a week and having to leave our baby with my mom. I had to deal with a baby who suffered from such bad seperation anxiety that she would cry until she would vomit if I even stepped away to take a smoke break. I suffered from crippling insomnia but could never take a nap because no one was there to watch the baby. Sometimes I would drive to Coldwater with no sleep for 72 hours, but if I didn’t go, because the drive wasn’t safe, we would fight. So I went. I sat in on your parole hearing. They said if you came back you could expect to do no less then 10 years. I picked you up the day you got out. You again said never again. You said this was your hardest bit because you were “sucker stroking” the whole time about me and our daughter. I said I would never visit you again in prison so you better stay out. The next year and a half was long. I was resentful. Resentful for the difficulty of the last two years. Resentful that we had to live in a crappy rental. Resentful that I was still having to nag you into good decisions. (Don’t loot the abandoned house next door, don’t scam your roofing client out of extra materials, don’t go hunting with a gun…remember your a felon?) I was still young, about 26 at this point. I was unhappy and eventually asked you to leave. I said if you could keep your nose clean for a year without my oversight we would be a family. Within 9 months you were back in the joint on your current bit. You got safe cracking, B and E, and habitual. Your sentence was 10 to 40 years. Our daughter was 5. Remember how I said I will never visit you again? It was a year before we went to visit and that was the only time I ever did. It was only to sign off on the fact that my mother could take our daughter to see you, which she has done faithfully once a month for the last 9 years. I’ve moved on with my life. It doesn’t work that way for your child. At 7 we were driving home from the zoo when the song “Dance with my Father Again” came on the radio. She sobbed so hard she could barely breathe. I hated you at that moment. She made a scrapbook of all your pictures from visits and from before prison when we were a family and we went through it often, usually bringing her to tears. She shot her first deer at 10 and the only thing she could think of was how proud you’d be. Now that you have a possibility of parole this year she has been saving change in a jar in lew of doing fun 13 year old things because she wants you to have something when you get out. She suffers from anxiety and depression from worrying about the details of your release…will you get your parole, will your housing be stable, will you be able to stay out? Somedays she hates me because I’m not you, because I don’t care enough about you. The truth is I care about you deeply, I just can’t allow myself to have faith in you again and be let down. She has had 6 boyfriends in the last year. She is too young for and I allow no oppertunity for sexual relationships, but everyone she says I love you to. Do you think this has something to do with your absence and the void left for male attention? I do. I realize it seems like time stands still in the joint but although she may still be a little girl in your eyes, she has grown up DISPITE your sentence. I guess in conclusion I am saying if you do get this oppertunity to get released this summer don’t blow it. It will not be easy to start over in your mid forties. You will hit challenges, in employment, in the tens of thousands of restitution you have to pay, in coparenting a teenager. Don’t let that bring you back to your old ways of getting by. Accept the support and social services the community has to offer. Accepting this help does not make you soft. It makes you a real.man, a real father and a real productive member of society. One that has a chance to land on your feet. Make no mistakes, my mother will not visit you or put money on your books. If you have a next bit it will be a lonley one and if you think starting over in your forties is hard try your 60’s. Most importantly a 15 year old will not be as forgiving of her daddy’s indiscretions as a 5 year old was. Please let her know what it feels like to have a father on the outside.

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animalhead · 5 years

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Top 10 Albums/Songs of 2018

Top 10 Albums of 2018

10. Death Grips - Year Of The Snitch - All I could think about on my first listen of this album was Michael Jackson. It's pure theater, pure performance. Multi-layered and captivating. Metal af.

9. Olafur Arnulds - re:member - For the past couple years I've managed to slip a random soundscape/classical album into my list which I'm sure everyone greatly appreciates. Well, this year is no exception. I'll explain myself again - I live in a noisy-ass, toddler-and-baby world and my brain needs some quiet every now and again. I won't pretend to know the state of modern classical music, or what makes a classical album important today, etc. I'll just say that listening to this album makes me feel good. Olafur Arnulds never fails to give me my space.

8. Ashley Monroe - Sparrow - Maybe the saddest album of the year thematically. I don't know if I've heard a more powerful blend of poetry, soul, and country music. Sparrow feels like a crossover, but a crossover from what to what? Where did she come from? It's like Bill Withers and Carole King secretly raised a kid in Nashville. "Hands on You" is the sexiest jam of the year.

7. John Prine - The Tree of Forgiveness - I think the last time I put John Prine on my Top 10 list, I said that I had a feeling it would be his last album. Thank god I was wrong. I can't remember where I heard this, but someone said that the genius of Prine is that he infuses the absolutely domestic with sacred meaning. It's so true: who else can sing about putting stuff on layaway and taking the garbage out and somehow make it seem like the meaning of love and life? And The Tree of Forgiveness proves that he hasn't lost a single step. Just listen to "Egg & Daughter Nite, Lincoln Nebraska 1967" and then "Summer's End". Laugh, cry, repeat. I will forever love John Prine.

6. Sarah Louise - Deeper Woods - Joanna Newsom has been on hiatus and I've been getting desperate for the sort of ethereal, naturalist root music that she does so well. Luckily I found Sarah Louise, who has a Grace Slick-meets-Joan Baez-meets-Nico thing going on. I'll always be a sucker for stripped down spooky Robert Frost folk, and this one covers all the bases. Haunting.

5. Remember Sports - Slow Buzz - I actually really liked this album so thanks TZ for recommending it; I wish I had more time with it prior to now. Lyrically it is excellent - it's unique, vulnerable, smart, and relatable all at the same time. The vocals have that indie Pinegrove guts-exposure that makes it so believable. I would absolutely go to a show and stand in the back in my Violent Femmes t-shirt and nod along unassumingly. That said though, I can't get it out of my head that there is something so heartbreaking about this album - it's world-weary and it dares to ask the universe to give back the prom queen angst and Nick-and-Nora breakup 'sad's that were par for the course before weekly school shootings and nazis part deux. I respect it for that.

4. Mitski - Be the Cowboy - Such great instrumental breakdowns, such strange melodies, such a well-crafted album from start to finish. The way Mitski blends synth with acoustics with electric strings is perfect. She manages to be obscure and 'out there' while simultaneously being so open and accessible; no easy feat.

3. Hop Along - Bark Your Head Off, Dog - Hop Along was a breath of fresh air this year and I think I listened to BYHOD the most of any album. It's light and airy, but cutting and witty also. It plays like a 90s femme alt-rock collection and it's glued together with poignant lyrics. The vocals of Francis Quinlan are fantastic, whose improvised repetition and early indie style rings with the urgency of someone who knows something big is going to happen but can't get anyone to pay attention.

2. Saba - CARE FOR ME - Remember a little album called Good Kid, M.A.A.D City? CFM is the Chicago version. Saba takes you to the honest extremes of his emotion, pulling out raw despair and depression at times and love and hope at other times. No other album this year had me hanging on every word, rooting for the artist throughout the entire track list. To say the album feels like a movie seems to cheapen it, though it has the dramatic peaks and valleys of a blockbuster. No, it's a memoir. Saba treats the listener like a friend, venting and raging on "LIFE", laughing and dreaming on "SMILE", utterly disassembling the music industry on "GREY", and storytelling like a master on "PROM / KING". Listen to this again and then go amend your lists. Oh yeah, Chance is on it.

1. Snail Mail - Lush - I have a hard time putting my finger on exactly why I loved this album so much this year. Maybe it's the vocals - smooth and swaying, sort of pissed off, sort of disappointed. Maybe it's the space - tracks are minimalist, echoed, and beautifully bare. I tend to lean toward the personality of it all. It feels like Lindsey Jordan is breaking free of something, and that gives the whole album an optimistic, eyes-on-the-horizon vibe that is intoxicating. Top notch album that defined the year for me.

Worst Album of 2018

Decemberists - I'll Be Your Girl - I used to get pumped when a new Decemberists album came out - their stuff was interesting, smart, nerd fuel. These days when they release an album, I only find myself thinking 'ugh just please don't be complete shit'. And this album wasn't exactly that, but it wasn't exactly anything. It's just the last of the crinkled post-its on the bottom of Colin Meloy's weird poem trashcan. There's no real heart or message anywhere. Their last good album was The King is Dead (and it was a really good album), but the band itself is increasingly feeling like Meloy's jackoff mirror. I'm pretty sure he's holding the rest of the band captive in his grapevine garland-draped, all-too-rustic cellar.

Top 10 Songs (that weren't on my Top 10 Albums) of 2018

10. Parquet Courts - "Total Football" - "...and FUCK TOM BRADY!"

9. Metric - "Dressed to Suppress" - Great track on a really fun album.

8. Natalie Prass - "Short Court Style" - Now That's What I Call Music 1,563.

7. Old Crow Medicine Show - "Look Away" - OCMS still finding beauty in the rust of the south.

6. Kanye West - "Ghost Town" - Most heartfelt track on a decent, but maybe a little lazy (?) album.

5. Unknown Mortal Orchestra - "American Guilt" - Making Americans examine our own social presence.

4. Israel Nash - "Rolling On" - Big full-bodied sound wall.

3. Courtney Barnett - "Need A Little Time" - CB gettin' deep.

2. Leon Bridges - "Beyond" - Pure, wonderful love song.

1. Dawes - "Crack The Case" - Beautiful. One of the best current singer/songwriters.

Top 5 Players from MTV's The Challenge (so sue me)

5. Sylvia - I don't know why I like Sylvia so much. She headbutted that drunken, cig-smoking mom, Marie. She's just a little firecracker. A fiesty underdog with a lot of heart.

4. Shane - Shane is a self-titled bitch. He's the snakiest, slimiest player there is. He actually threw an entire challenge so that a certain player on his team would be voted out.

3. Wes - Arguably the arch-nemesis of Bananas before Devin came along. Always hatching schemes that are way too complicated and get him thrown out.

2. Devin - The way this dude fucks with Johnny Bananas is hilarious. Someone had to come in and usher out the old heads - Devin is the man for the job.

1. Cara Maria - She's a force and completely independent. She was the first woman to ever win The Challenge solo. She can be a bit cringey sometimes, but she's a beast.

#top 10 lists #top 10 songs #top 10 #albums #rating #review

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witchofenoch · 7 years

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Personal post. Content warnings: PTSD, depression, anxiety, self-hatred, self-doubt, frustration, miscarriage, infertility, gender issues, trans issues, emotional abuse, childhood abuse, nightmares, insomnia, prostitution mentioned but didn't occur, childhood sexual abuse alluded to, physical abuse implied

Writing the warnings is so tiring I usually discard the post before I even finish with them. Nothing's getting better or easier tonight though. I just want to read until I fall asleep and have decent dreams and wake up feeling human. Instead I'm wide awake at midnight, chest full to bursting with frustration and anger and grief and fear.

I'm frustrated with so much, it's a shorter list by far of what isn't frustrating me. My biggest frustration? Myself. Not just because of my mental illnesses or autism or dysphoria or anything like that; I'm frustrated as hell at my nightmares. I want to sleep, NEED to just sleep, but I'd rather be awake for 4 straight days, pass out, repeat. I'm terrified of seeing that monster. With every nightmare he touches me more and my dream self excuses and forgives him more. Maybe some people could accept that as healing or moving on, but it's pure terror for me. What he did was completely unforgivable. He is the worst of the monsters out there. I feel like I've been hexed, like there's something attached to me that's gnawing at my soul and tearing at my mind.

I'm so damn angry. At him, absolutely, but also at the many, many adults who were around when I was a kid: who knew something was wrong and chose to ignore it: who blocked it out with no thought spared for the child going through it. The adults who blamed my mom, my sister, and me for his behavior. The people who took advantage of me later knowing that I knew nothing else or nothing better. The kids in high school who started rumors that I was a prostitute because he, "an old man," "picked [me] up at the bus stop" and made me "kiss him" on the lips when I was a teenager (quotes around the parts they spread through about half of the school, though they exaggerated the lewdness which has only fueled my nightmares since). It's been a decade and a half and my anger toward all of them hasn't eased: mostly it's gotten worse. I look at the kids my sister nannies, friends' kids, celebs' kids, and I cannot fathom someone hurting them. I'm angry at being left alone to grieve every loss in my life, being told to "get over it" or being flat-out ignored until I could "get it together" long enough to fake being okay. I'm angry at the would-have-been fathers for making me suffer in silence. (One didn't and we're friends to this day. He deserves to be mentioned.)

I'm grieving. I'm mourning the kid I couldn't be, the me who was taken before they were made, the years I don't remember, the adult I'll never be, the freedom I'll never feel, the memories I didn't get to make. I'm mourning the years wasted trying to get someone to pay attention to me: to show me some kind, any kind, of affection. Even the high school dances I couldn't attend, first because I was in fear for my life and later because no one wanted me around. I'm grieving for the miscarriages I've had, all 7 of them, all 8 could-have-beens.

I'm afraid and it's exhausting. Flinching at every single sudden noise. My heart pounding almost as loud as the knocks on the door. Always scanning the room or courtyard or parking garage for escape routes before I notice anything else around me. Feeling physically ill for the rest of the day after I smell certain colognes, shampoos, laundry detergents. Frantically glancing around to find potential weapons when I see an Iron Maiden t-shirt on a stocky guy around my height or almost-pastel short-sleeved button up shirts with a front pocket on one side or a petite brunette wearing a mini-skirt. (Abusers come in all shapes, sizes, and genders, fyi.) Straight-up hiding behind shelves in stores or behind a rack of clothes, in bathrooms, fitting rooms, closets, a dark corner until the people who sorta look or sound like One of Them is gone. Hiding (from) my phone when I get a call from "Unknown" or just numbers I don't know. Blocking or deactivating cameras and mics in my computers, phones, and tablets because yes, I've been hacked by abusers more than once. Hiding under a blanket when I read at night because when I was a kid it was the only time I felt safe aside from when I'd climb to the top of my tree. Being unable to sleep if the door is cracked open. Startling awake at anything that sounds like a door slamming shut, a window opening, someone knocking on the door, wall, or windows. Waking up with panic for no discernable reason. Cringing at certain words. Wanting to fight someone if they call a girl, boy, or woman "babydoll," "doll face," "little girl/boy," "little one," "baby girl/boy" (if they're 5 or older), or any other infantilizing pet name because You Will Not Hurt Them.

I'm tired. So damn tired. My shoulders are sore, my hips ache, my knees throb, my wrists ache, my back aches, my head hurts, my neck is stiff and sore, my chest feels like it's in a vice, my boobs hurt, and all of that is all the time. I have scars from the back of my head to ankles. I have old injuries that'll probably never heal. I have crap wrong that I was just unlucky enough to have been born with. I have things wrong with me that doctors can't figure out, like why I've had 7 miscarriages over 11 years and not one pregnancy that lasted more than 12 weeks. Things doctors refuse to fix, like removing my boobs which constantly ache, touching certain areas causes sharp pain (they have all of that on file and diagnosed), and I can't gain and maintain a healthy weight because the dysphoria messes me up (but good luck getting good trans "counseling" and docs and a surgeon who'll "diagnose" you as trans with dysphoria AND agree to operate to make you LESS feminine in any way in Churchy McChurchville). "Insurance won't cover it." "You might regret it." "What if you decide to have kids later." (That last one is a whole other can of worms and I need all of that stuff out of me too but even at almost 30 I'm condescended and told I'll change my mind, regret it, meet a Really Nice Guy™ and want to start a family, blah blah bull.)

I've had my battles with insomnia for as long as I can remember (which, for more than bits-and-pieces, is only as far back as 14). I've had night terrors since I was an infant. I've stayed awake for almost 60 hours, and I've slept for 25 hours straight. For a while in high school I was so scared that I got an hour or two of sleep a day when my sister was home and awake but her boyfriend wasn't there. That would last 6 days out of the week. I'd crash for 10-12 hours on my mom's day off. Rinse and repeat for 2 or 3 years. I've been a homeless kid, a couch surfing teenager, and a constantly moving adult. I haven't lived in one place for more than 2 years since we left The Monster when I was a preteen. Even then, I've shuffled around from my parents' house to my sister's apartments (she moves every couple of years too) to my grandma's house before she moved into an independent living place. (It's actually nice. I was the hardest to convince.) I may have found a place to stay for a while: the area if not the apartment.

Still.. the nightmares. Waking up sideways across the bed. Waking up so tangled in my covers I start panicking trying to get out. Seeing their faces until I finally blink them away. Smelling beer or smoke as I'm finally drifting off. Night terrors. Waking up with bruises around my arms, wrists, and legs. Waking up still feeling like someone's touching me, hurting me, or breathing down my neck. My dreams can be totally mundane except A or C or, the most often and worst, The Monster will be there. When it's A or C they'll be watching me, talking to me, chasing me, fighting me, screaming at me. It's a nightmare, stressful as hell, but I recover and go about my day just a tad more on edge. The Monster will just show up and we'll act like we're trying to form a relationship, like he's gotten nice and I've been forgiving. But every time he touches me I feel so sick I'm surprised I don't wake up. My sister and sometimes others show up trying to make me stop the farce, but I'm always too scared.

This last dream, night before last.. It was boring, nothing remarkable was going on. Then The Monster showed up in a city cop's blue uniform. In that world he was apparently an actual cop. With each nightmare dream!me has let him slowly get closer and closer and had long-arm hugged him before this. He'd "accidentally" brush my arm when walking by or bump his leg against mine while sitting next to me. This time he, the cop iteration of him, reached up for something on a shelf above me and was pressed against my back. He hugged me. He had me sit almost on his lap. At first I was nauseated, then accepting of it, then my sister showed up and gave me the "wtf are you doing!?" face and I got scared. Eventually I woke up, probably when my brother-in-law left for work or maybe he came into the room to feed the fish. I'm just glad I woke up when I did and things stopped escalating.

Ugh. "2am and I'm still awake writing a song. If I get it all down on paper it's no longer inside of me threatening the life it belongs to. And I feel like I'm naked in front of a crowd 'cause these words are my diary screaming out loud and I know that you'll use them however you want to." I don't know. Whenever I'm up late writing, or trying to write, the stuff I'm going through that song comes to mind. So much of it is relatable for me.

"May he turned 21 on the base at Fort Bliss. 'Just today' he said down to the flask in his fist. Ain't been sober since maybe October of last year." Turning 21 in May and not being sober for months before that applies to a past abuser. The drunk in the military part applies to another. Really, every word of it applies to a rather small part of my life when a lot of connected events occurred. At least, after the first verse (about going with a friend to be there for her when she got an abortion) and "writing a song" unless you take "song" metaphorically as it's been used in literature, trope names, and poetry, and lyrics to mean story, tale, or speech (e.g., a "songbird telling his tale," swan song, "singing to the choir").

I should hop off this carousel before it opens into a drain. It's about 2:45am now. I'm just starting to feel sleepy, but I'm still as mentally awake as before. I hope getting this out helps me sleep a little better, at least for a night or so.

#personal #witche

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