#so please forgive the incohesion

[im-outofideas]

an old new thing

fandom: good omens

w/c: 1977

summary: word vomit domestic life feat. crowley and aziraphale.

a/n: got dang this is all over the place!!! this is plotless fluff and very much self indulgent. self-soothing after season 2. also i cannot write kiss scenes for my life so it turnt stupid LOL. please do not pay it any attention and enjoy the rest 🫶

----

"What on earth are you doing?"

"Convincing you."

“Well.. I’m not convinced.”

“You will be.”

Crowley stiffened. Over the last six millennia, Aziraphale had used distance as a hand over Crowley. If he'd suggested a scheme slightly too outrageous, or gone out and done it himself before relaying it to Aziraphale, he wouldn't see the angel for a long time. It sure took a lot of patience, being his..frenemy.

To be fair, Aziraphale was much more tolerant of mistakes than the angels he’d been surrounded by for all of eternity. Much more forgiving than the demons Crowley reported to. It only took hunting the angel down (not a particularly difficult task; he was conveniently predictable) and a little dance before they were back on their Arrangement and regularly scheduled meetings. Still, the weeks of silence frustrated Crowley beyond anything. He's glad Aziraphale decided to do away with the silent treatment since the notpocalypse.

He's taken up a new way to get Crowley to admit when he's wrong. Or to get him to admit Aziraphale is right. Rather than disappear, Aziraphale will cling. He’ll bother and bother and bother. He’ll talk and pout and follow Crowley endlessly until he’s had enough. Crowley definitely prefers this to the former method. He’d rather be annoyed endlessly than ignored for a little while.

Perhaps it's even why it takes so much longer for him to fold.

With that said, it's just so new. After 6,000 years of the same old routine, the affectionate turn in their relationship is taking some getting used to. It’s a bit much to handle in Crowley’s opinion. It's probably why Aziraphale does it so often, the bastard. He knows it's effective.

---

Two nights ago, Aziraphale had been reading on the armchair when the lights inexplicably went out. He picked up the lit patchouli candle next to him when a sound came from the darkness.

Aziraphale has cleverly stayed away from horror content most of his existence. Unfortunately, this made him very unaware of most cliches used in films. He was an excellent target.

“Crowley?” He tucked the book underneath his arm, using both hands to grip the candle closer to him. Another noise came from the left.

Aziraphale went to investigate. Crowley was meant to be in Glasgow for a boogie-concert. Both decided it would be better if he had gone unaccompanied. The last time Aziraphale attended a concert with the demon, a spill to his tartan coat had him miracle every narcotic on site into the chalky substance they put in candied hearts. There was a lot of confusion among the mosh pit, mainly about the lack of confusion everyone felt.

“Is that you, mister Mouse? I've told you, it's not safe for you here. There are snakes in this household.” Aziraphale called out, but there was no response. All noises stopped.

He went to the front door, intending to check the electrical box outside. He swung the door open. Aziraphale felt a presence somewhere out in the night. Dread filled his guts.

He chuckled to himself for being silly. The list of things which could harm an angel were short. Other angels took up a majority of it. Fear was one of the hundreds of human attributes he's indulged in during his time on earth.

He took a breath of courage, but choked on it when a two-headed, red goblin roared out from the side of the doorframe. Aziraphale screamed, dropping the candle and the book. The goblin quickly saved the book from hitting the floor, but the candle shattered. The ancient and quite ridiculously flammable carpet lit up instantly.

Aziraphale clutched his chest and shouted several incohesive ‘oh dear goodnesses’ while Crowley blew the fire out in a long, icy breath.

“Hm, well. Wasn’t expecting that.”

Aziraphale pushed past him. “Oh no, oh no..” he softly repeated until he was too far away to hear. The lights inside the bookshop flickered on. Crowley could now see the charred stain over the antique rug. He hissed.

The “oh no’s” were returning, growing steadily in volume, until it was shouted right near Crowley’s ear. Aziraphale appeared in the doorway.

“Look what you've done!” He whined.

Crowley stared at the spot in disbelief. “How did it go up so fast?”

“You startled me!” He continued indignantly.

“It's October, angel. Really, what do you use to top off these carpets? Petrol?”

“You burnt my rug!”

“...would explain the Bentley's recent behavior.* Actually, you dropped the candle. Seems terribly irresponsible to keep candles in an old bookshop.”

“You turned out the lights. I needed to see!”

“Right, well. Not a big deal.” Crowley pushed the armchair directly over the stain. “Good as new.”

“Not good as new, it’s still all ruined.” Aziraphale enunciated dramatically. “I expect you to fix it.”

“You're being ridiculous. You can't expect me to miracle it out tonight. The two heads thing took a lot out of me. You can’t even see it!” Crowley sat on the armchair, covering the gap - in which the stain was still very much visible - with his legs.

“I don’t expect you to miracle it out,” Aziraphale said. “I want it restored. Naturally.”

Crowley groaned. “Alright, sure. Fine."

“And a new candle.”

“Whatever you want.” he said spitefully.

“And company to Derren Brown’s Illusionist performance.”

“Never!”

---

Aziraphale is currently hugging Crowley from behind him, entrapping his arms in a one-sided embrace.

“No, I will not. Get off!” Crowley growled, pulling out his arms. Aziraphale remained hugging around his waist. Crowley huffed. “If a person makes a mistake, and then fixes said mistake, the mistake no longer exists and nobody owes anyone anything. I agreed to fix the rug. I’m not going to a silly magic show.”

“I’d hardly call it a mistake. The scare was certainly deliberate.” Aziraphale grumbled. “He who has done wrong unto another must make it up to thee who he wronged.” He made up.

“What, like… building interest? That's not how it works. Do all angels forgive like a bank?”

“Afraid so.” He hugged a little tighter. “Even though I've returned, I still haven't made up for… leaving.” The example seemed to spill out before he could ponder its appropriateness. “Didn’t do much good in the end, did it? So much was damaged. World nearly ended again. No, haven't even begun to make up for it.”

It's a tricky thing. Part of the healing process for Aziraphale had been to bring it up every so often, as casually as possible. Even during moments of domesticity. Perhaps one day they'd grow immune to the pain if exposed to it enough times. That was Aziraphale's logic, though sometimes he regretted ruining a nice moment with a sour memory. Crowley saw it more like a confession. A way for Aziraphale to relieve the guilt he felt. Guilt which hit him harder anytime he realized he was starting to feel happy rather than guilty. What a bitch, that guilt.

Angel’s felt nothing but guilt for over 6 millennia. Only for ever doing what he thought was right.

Personally, Crowley wished to never speak of it again. He didn't find it healing to reopen wounds. But he was working on his tendency to run from his fears, so he tolerated it.

“Course you have. I’ve forgiven you for that.” He softened.

“Yes, well..” I haven’t, he didn’t say.

Crowley squeezed the arm around his middle and took in a breath. “You can hold me however long you want, I’m still not going to the show with you.” He reminded Aziraphale despite not wanting to go. Perhaps he was running a bit. The subject is still awfully uncomfortable.

“It won’t kill you, my dear. It’ll only last six hours.”

“Six hours?? I’ll go mad. Add onto the week of you attempting all the tricks you've seen him do. Forcing me to watch. Forcing me to participate. No. You cannot make me- haha! You can’t make me go!” Aziraphale began to tickle around his grip.

Crowley tried to walk away, but Aziraphale followed surprisingly lightly on his back. Like a pair of wings. It would’ve been less frustrating if he had held Crowley solid.

“Let go!” He laughed.

“Oh, please come with me darling. We’ll have an incredible time. He won’t be performing here again for another year!” Aziraphale persuaded, pretending it was still his words doing all the bargaining.

“I- ehehe, piss off!!” Crowley stumbled over to the couch, legs beginning to give out under him. With a war cry, he suplexed himself Aziraphale-first onto the couch. His attempt to dislodge the angel failed. Infact, it only invigorated him. The hold around him tightened and the once gentle tickling turned deadly. Like a snake. Ironic.

There was an initial few seconds of kicking and cackling, before the laughter became true and bright. Still every bit as loud, but margins sweeter.

“GET OFF!” He shrieked.

“I think you’ll find you're the one on top of me. I’m quite frightfully stuck. I can’t seem to get out.” Aziraphale replied calmly. “Do you mind letting me up?”

Crowley struggled to sit up or wiggle off with Aziraphale still holding onto him. He dropped his head back and laughed in frustration. “Please!”

“Oh, alright.” Aziraphale chuckled. He stopped and let go. Crowley immediately rolled off the couch.

They both lay staring at the ceiling for a moment. Crowley turned his head to look under the armchair, directly at the charred stain. The cleaners wouldn't arrive for another day.

"Never do that again. Ever."

"I'll do it again the second your back is turned."

The threat made Crowley blush. There was another silence.

“Why do you want me to go with you anyway? I'll only spoil it with my complaining.”

“Nonsense. I enjoy most things more with your company. You could never spoil it.” Aziraphale stood up to straighten himself out. He stepped over Crowley, who frowned. Bastard didn’t even lend a hand. “But I suppose you’re right. I wouldn't want you to have a bad evening on my behalf.”

Aziraphale left the room without Crowley for the first time in two days.

“Hang on!” Crowley called from the floor. “What, that’s it? All that.. blasted effort into persuading me and you’re just letting it go?”

“Well, I tried everything I could think of. I figure you must dread to go if you're willing to endure all that tickling.” Crowley could hear him fiddling with cups. “I’ve stooped to torture. How you've corrupted me.” Aziraphale said low and fond.

“You only did it for a moment.” Crowley said as Aziraphale returned with a bottle of wine and two glasses. He furrowed an eyebrow.

“What’s this? You'll miss the performance if we start drinking now.”

“Oh yes, well… what's a year to beings like us anyway?” Aziraphale said gently. “Are you saying I could have convinced you if I kept going?”

“What? Ngk-no, no. I mean, maybe. F'ya did it long enough. This.. bloody corporeal thing. Right ticklish. But don't you dare!” he pointed at Aziraphale. He dropped his hand to his chest. “But the pestering. The hugging, I mean. I almost conceded there. Didn't, though. But that's only ‘cause I didn’t want it to stop so soon. Shut up!” he exclaimed upon seeing Aziraphale smile widely.

"Ugh." By that explanation, the same logic would have applied to the tickling.

“You could have just said.” Aziraphale smiled, bending slightly over Crowley’s head. He appeared upside down. Crowley looked away too late - a little smile was tugging the corner of his own mouth. “So, then, tell me. How can I convince you to join me?”

“Get me off this damn floor, for one.”

Aziraphale pulled Crowley up as though he were a feather, holding his hands. He scooted closer, straightening out the fabric over his chest. “And then?”

“Hm," he looked off. "I suppose you could give me a kiss. Might do the trick.” He said with a smirk and an old confidence in his words. He was grateful how well this communication thing was finally working out.

Both were flush when they parted. To Crowley’s dismay, a bit of steam trickled out of his ears quite cartoonishly.

“Look at the time!” he said, flustered again. “Ahm, better get a move on if we want good seats. Might as well be comfortable if we’re going to be there for six hours.” He hurried out the room to the front door. Aziraphale smiled and straightened with giddiness. How good the demon was to him.

“Bring the wine!” the demon shouted.

*referencing the headcanon that the Bentley and bookshop are in love with each other. 😼

#good omens #fluff #crowley is ticklish #he is at heart just a little bit of a good person #aziraphale is just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing

[dialovers-lover-xoxo]

Kanato Sakamaki x Reader Smut NSFW

This is very explicit NSFW!!! If you’re not of age or aren’t comfortable with nsfw posts you may not want to read under the cut :) ❌❌❌

Extreme sadist Kanato, Hair pulling, Biting, Over a desk, Very rough, Jealous sex, In school

I’m a vanilla person who prefers romantic smuts so I’ve never written smut this rough before so if I should change something/add something/get rid of something or you just have general advice feel free to comment!

Again: explicit nsfw warning!!!

—————————————————————-

Your head was swiveling around nervously, analyzing the hallway just in case Kanato was there. A boy from your class had started a conversation with you and you were desperately trying to escape without being rude. The guy was nice but if Kanato saw...it would be bad.

Finally the bell rang and you took that as your excuse, running off. You leaned against the wall of an empty hallway and breathed, relieved Kanato had not caught you. “Relieved I didn’t see you?” A voice snarled. Your eyes snapped open and you stared at Kanato, who looked murderous. You opened your mouth to speak but Kanato interrupted you, yelling. “You are MY doll! Why would you talk to him?!” “He started to talk to me-“ “Then why didn’t you leave? You don’t owe him a conversation. He’s a worthless mortal.” “I tried to leave but it would’ve been rude so I tried to get an excuse-“ “Shut up! I’ll teach you who you belong to.”

You whimpered as Kanato gripped your arm so tightly it hurt and flung you inside the nearest classroom, slamming the door shut. He bent you over a desk and pulled down your skirt and underwear roughly. “Wait, Kanato-!” “Shut up!” He yelled. You shut your mouth at once. If he were to keep yelling people would hear and come running.

You leaned over the desk all the way and gripped onto the front of it then cried out when Kanato thrusted hard into you. He grabbed a fistful of your hair, yanking your head back. He tugged hard and the way his hips kept slamming into yours made you repeatedly bump into the desk. You started to cry in pain and pleasure as Kanato’s member hit your sweet spot with every thrust of his hips.

“Ah! Kanato!” You cried out, tears slipping down your face as he relentlessly pounded into you, your body continuously banging against the hard desk.

You sobbed and Kanato laughed. “You sound so cute, crying in pain. Cry some more, I may forgive you.” His tone was gentle but the way he thrusted inside you was anything but.

“Please, Kanato, I’m sorry-“ Kanato yanked your hair more and you cried out. “I didn’t tell you to apologize, I told you to cry.” He bit down on your shoulder harder than usual and a moan of both pain and ecstasy left your lips. Kanato licked the bite mark. “Fufu...your face is all red, you look so cute with those tears on your face.”

He bit the nape of your neck and one of his hands traveled down to rub your clit, his member still slamming into you, your hipbones still crashing against the desk. The overstimulation of the pain you felt and the pleasure that was soaring through you was too much for you to handle, you sobbed and cried but you didn’t struggle, allowing Kanato to use you as he pleased.

You gripped onto the desk so hard your knuckles turned white. You sobbed and made incohesive sentences. Kanato hit your sweet spot again and your orgasm hit you completely out of nowhere, leaving you moaning and shaking. Your legs gave way and Kanato leaned your torso back against the desk.

Exhausted, you lay there until Kanato groaned and cummed inside you. He finally pulled out and started dressing himself again. You winced in pain as you pulled up your underwear and skirt. “Have you learned your lesson?” Kanato asked you seriously. “Yes.” You said, wiping a few tears. Kanato smiled and pressed a sweet kiss to your lips. “Good girl.”

——————————————————————

Feedback is always appreciated. Even just one simple comment makes my day because it always makes me so happy knowing you guys enjoy my posts! ❤️

It also fuels my insatiable ego 😂😂😂

Master lists of my other smuts!

#kanato sakamaki #sakamaki kanato #diabolik lovers kanato #diabolik lovers smut #diabolik lovers x reader #kanato x reader #lemon x reader #x reader lemon #lemon fanfic #lemon fic #smut story #smut fic #smut x reader #x reader smut #smutty goodness #smutty fanfiction #smut fanfiction #smutty #smut #diabolik lovers fandom #x reader fanfiction #x reader fic #x reader

[tinymixtapes]

Feature: The Actavis-Charmed White Rabbit

“Ride on, King Jesus. No man can a-hinder me.” &c. “I was but young when I begun. No man can a-hinder me.” &c. – “Ride on, King Jesus,” trad. spiritual “[The] elements which participate in the naming of the genre say nothing about the musical features, but maybe say everything about the pragmatics of the music.” – Gabriele Marino “Shit gettin’ too specific / 10 black whips, I’m too consistent.” – Nayvadius DeMun Wilburn, “POA” EVOL didn’t have to hurt, but it did anyway. As I wrote in 2016’s year-end round-up, the project came from a place of supreme negative affect, a homo-glossic hymn for the heartless. But it was brilliant: both kissing and dissing Baudrillard’s perpetually pimped system — one foot in, one foot out, in the words of one Carlton Ridenhour — it glorified and elevated the democratizing electronic reproduction technologies (i.e., DAWs) that made the trap an object of ironic reverse-salvation: more than just a locus in situ, but rather a space that has come to extend beyond temporal-spatial peripheries. EVOL eschewed mimesis, aesthetic integration, and other methods of commentary or dissent, refusing new textual structures while embracing capital and media. And yet it was pervaded and charmed by a unique, cthonic dissonance, an unflappable verbal acuity, and a flair for dramatic dialogue that, among other things, lent the project a necessary anti-message, non alternative facts. EVOL currently maintains a 6/10 user score on Metacritic. So if the medium makes the event, what claims the residual? The (pre-)produced, not the deconstructed. This crucial question-comment, an antiphonal lingerer, introduces both FUTURE and HNDRXX, twins separated at birth and equal parts of Nayvadius Wilburn’s latest project and eponymous annual feature. Both releases are less conservative, more consonant and conceptual than their year-old cousin, yet they are similarly anachronistic — without immediate precedent and avoiding emerging modalities — and, likewise, willfully ignorant of ethnic memory, along with any sincere corporal politics. The albums are rich with recuperative ideas and textures, but — unlike the heart of darkness that EVOL exposed or the heights scaled by the similarly expansive DS2 — both neglect to introduce new forms of subjectivity, instead sticking to the recognizable and shunning the reconfigured or re-encoded. As such, FUTURE and HNDRXX represent two fraternal, distinct channels of multiple identity and contradictory spirit. And while Wilburn has never been known for his consistency so much as his prolificacy, both releases, in their own ways, bathe in a lack of precision and concision, making them two of his most irregular releases yet. --- A Glorious Mess Photo: Instagram Presenting a nonlinear narrative expressed within the bounds of Wilburn’s typical, peculiar brand of promethazine-laced, earnestly-apolitical guerrilla semiotics, FUTURE, this 17-track oral odyssey, is simultaneously expansive and atomized. It is a glorious mess, inchoate and incohesive in form and objective, though always regal in pretension. Exhaustive in premise, the sheer length of the thing is demanding and results in one of his most verbose standard releases yet. It is advertised with no frills and no features, though it is, ironically, maximalist in intention. It is host to only a relatively small number of core en-bando regulars — the predictable lot of collaborators, Metro Boomin, Zaytoven, et al. — and tracks jump from interaction to action in a jarring, forced manner, shifting participatory onus onto the willing participant, demanding, again and again, critical analyses and interpretations of sequencing, companion art, etc. Despite these troublesome functions, these typical auto-histories are almost entirely logocentric, their reproductive illustration hardly pushing the sound barrier nor bolstering the appeal or nature of Wilburn’s codeine-choked, vocoded vocabulary. And for partly justifiable pretense: as What a Time to be Alive made abundantly clear, Wilburn — Astronaut, a fully-fleshed alter ego conceived and introduced in the narrows of EVOL: a reticent subject to the object Pluto and outer-spacial anti-griot active in the seeking and seizure of any negative space — is at his sharpest and most readily receptive when not stymied by the whims and wiles of those of an outer orbit. As a result, FUTURE seems to inhabit a more comfortable, self-affirming, bon vivant milieu, one that echoes the free-form, bleeding structural nature of DS2, though one counter to the asphyxiatic restraint of EVOL. The latter and FUTURE are equal-opposites, as are FUTURE and HNDRXX together, in their own, more nuanced ways. In contrast to his viscous delivery and presentational subject matter, the identities are fluid, Wilburn often self-fabricating and inhabiting Future Hendrix on the same track. The art herein gestures provocatively toward crowd-pleasing, dominant forms — embracing Wilburn’s prolific artisan-rockstar status as on lead single and self-styled whip-Shiva “Draco” or on HNDRXX’s Mustardian post-hyphy serenade “Incredible” — while at the same time innocently coveting and pretending an alternate, homogenic base, one that, in terms of lexicon, savors only distaste, hedonism, and capital (“Zoom,” “Super Trapper”). Variegated in inspiration and construction, the applied thematics and colors are, to be sure, indebted to precepts and improvisational schemata as diverse as boilerplate G-funk instrumentation (“Mask Off”), biblical-ahistorical Apocrypha (“High Demand”), athletics and English monarchical genealogy (“Lookin Exotic”), Afro-American animation history (“Super Trapper”), and rockism-affirming modalities and discourses (“Outta Time,” “I’m so Groovy,” “Use Me”). In this way, FUTURE presents a near-constant mercuriality in all respects, one unintentionally discursive upon first and even repeated listens. Ostensibly a neo-noir, it is the first Future project, to my knowledge, to feature skits. The half-sketched, condescending, and ultimately evanescent Andreësque-Snoopean-styled interludes are telling, though, pigs on the wing introducing and highlighting near-constant shifts in mood, mode, and expectation: FUTURE is also wildly uneven and inconsistent, each track transubstantiating a different, liminal amalgam of Wilburn’s stock personae. In contrast to his viscous delivery and presentational subject matter, the identities are entirely fluid, Wilburn often self-fabricating and inhabiting Future Hendrix on the same track. “I do my best to put my ego first/ I need to stop it,” Wilburn croons later on “Lookin Exotic.” And though never lacking in reminiscence, this masked other is, textually, at his least reflexive, wholly re-animating the cold-hearted caricatures EVOL brought to the fore. “I don’t care if you was my daddy/ Bitch I’ma cut off your neck” or “Sold crack to a pregnant lady/ Forgive me for the crack baby.” It’s not only to be expected but rather — in an admittedly inappropriate, spectacular fashion — welcomed: Wilburn has never truly succeeded as the tempted troubadour he aspired to be (e.g. Rihanna’s 2012 co-feature “Loveeeeeee Song”) and Romantic gestures like those making FUTURE’s penultimate track “When I Was Broke” only heighten the delightful awkwardness of transition, compounding the project’s persistent problem areas. Griots like Wilburn have traditionally held an ambiguous status, both revered and feared for their unique, lyrical ability to praise or critique. Yet Wilburn can’t seem to reconcile his will to authority with his human desire for affection and popularity, resulting in a fractured figuration of love and regret. “It can get scary when you legendary.” --- Diffusion of Ego and Selfhood Photo: Instagram Decidedly anti-Afrofuture, FUTURE and HNDRXX (the latter perhaps to a greater degree) both ignore ideology, precluding specific self-determinative typologies of diasporic history. They instead recognize and affirm a rather difference-blind urban subjecthood, a vague city-centric memory, one with yet finite reaches and concrete denotations. These stories are totems to the individual rather than the collective body, though they are firmly established in pseudo-geographic imaginations, viz the rival topography of Downtown Atlanta. The “kitchen” itself is revisited in “Scrape” and reminiscence is fond and tender, longing for a visually recognizable, though personally uninhabited, pre-Clintonian era of unfettered self-medication and exchange. It is one of FUTURE’s few political moments. Meanwhile, “I Thank U” characterizes a grotesque recognition of socioeconomic aspiration and a personal will, one insincerely personified in the nameless, disregarded, and ultimately discarded female form: “Girl, I thank you, I thank you/ I thank you/ ‘Cause you made me hustle.” Astonishingly, though, pro forma fables of interpellation, hailing by way of repressive state apparatuses (i.e., the 12, the five-o), are limited in narrative and scope, practically absent on FUTURE. The glorious absence of the political, de rigeuer for Wilburn, is notable only for its allowance of other, multicolored elements to shine to the fore. The body is also a topic of discussion, but it is a similarly fractured and elusive discourse. Here, the body reveals itself as a typical tool for extraction and gain, a figurative and literal “money machine,” a position of popped tags, a seat of sexual subjugation — “Ya baby mama fuck me better when the rent’s due” or, more pointedly and comically, “I’m ‘bout to push me some weight/ You won’t catch me in the gym.” Pucci may be different from Gucci, but, here, the song remains the same, immediately present in form and function: “I do good dope/ I got a good hoe.” This mortal corpus is furthermore a domain of abuse and disintegration: self-elision in pursuit of dissociation, mind-body dislocation (“Percocet,” Wilburn hymns delightedly on “Mask Off’s” infectious hook, “Molly, Percocet”). And to sometimes devastating effect, namely vis-à-vis “My Collection,” in which he briefly reflects, “No this codeine ain’t got nothin’ to do with my lil’ child/ I used to sell dope at my grandma’s house, as a rude child.” Or on “Might as Well,” to which age is of some concern: “I was selling crack when Snoop dropped ‘Juice and Gin’” (Wilburn was 10 years old in 1994). These are just a handful of shimmering moments that seem sincerely and meaningfully autobiographical, transcending self-imposed myth and averting any obstacle of mischaracterization. These functions of absence are yet more examples of Wilburn’s discursive methods. The body is also a topic of discussion, but it is a similarly fractured and elusive discourse. He, too, briefly pays to cum (“I’m so Groovy”), later summoning and entertaining the cursed ghost of Breezy in earnest burlesque (“High Demand”). As reflected earlier, the female body is subject to an entirely predictable, lingering gaze, one characterized and personalized by the behavior of agents of fortune populating Wilburn’s star-studded universe: “She told me she was an angel/ She fucked two rappers and three singers/ She got a few athletes on speed dial.” HNDRXX is a total rock record. Sequitur, Wilburn prefers caricatures to characters and the result is, unsurprisingly, literally objectifying. As is the case on, again, “My Collection”: “Anytime I got you, girl you my possession/ Even if I hit you once, you part of my collection.” Revisiting his tenuous relationship with ex-fiancée Ciara, this particular track makes something of a sequel to 2014’s misguided love-song “Trophy,” Wilburn only harboring an adolescent resentment for his former keepsake. “I’m so Groovy” presents a coarser analog: “Oh, that’s your bitch?/ I just bought her.” Even the aptly-titled Rihanna-feature “Selfish” is rife with interpersonal confusion and coercive tactics, interactive in its bold duplicity: the cardinal refrain “Let’s be selfish, selfish, baby/ Tonight” is an inherent evasion in its circumstance, ultimately clouding both identity and intention by way of first-person action and vernacular. (Where is the us in I?) Given the good health hip-hop is in, none of these tableaux should necessarily come as a surprise — especially coming from a man who operates prohibitively “on ratchet time,” like some Actavis-charmed white rabbit, a towering figure who once proclaimed the codeine-stained essence of his urine. Both releases neither offer, stake, nor explore any new worlds in themselves, returning only the diminished residual and the habitual. But, taken in conjunction with FUTURE’s renewed dedication to rapid-fire textual and illustrative inconsistency along with HNDRXX’s poetical, ad hoc treatment of the body and truncation of history, the project makes a token no less: reflecting a diffusion of ego and selfhood that alternately frustrates and stimulates. HNDRXX’s final track, the seven-and-a-half minute elegiac “Sorry,” is a simulation of abject contrition regarding past and future alter-egos’ behavior. Though a seemingly insufficient conclusion, the text scans like a letter penned to family, friends, and fans. Wilburn has never totally shied away from sympathetic histrionics, despite the machismo posturing, and “Sorry” embarks on yet another circuitous confession, recounting all of Wilburn’s sins, laid bare in earnest compunction. “Ain’t really tryin’ / I ain’t really tryin’,” he repeats, stammering over his auto-tuned utterances. It is an incomplete identification, neglecting the shifting autonomies that populate his character. http://j.mp/2mQabuC