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gaiuswrites · 3 years

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King of Cups || Chapter 9

Chapter 9: The Hanged Man

Archive: ao3 | masterlist | eight

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!Reader

Summary: After some time apart, new conclusions are met.

Word count: 7.8k~

Rating: Explicit

Warnings/tags: SMUT, fingering, unprotected piv sex, emo emo emo (are we even surprised any more), mature themes, abandonment/family trauma, loss

Notes: Friends, wow. I'm honestly embarrassed by how long this took. Thank you for your patience. I hope you find the reward worth the wait. This chapter is nearly all in Din's POV until it switches and blends in the last chunk. If you’re new to KOC, you’re more than welcome to start at this chapter! Love you guys x (gif credit: @bestintheparsec)

“Din.”

Familiar fingers brush through his hair, a hand he knew once combing over his overgrown locks. He feels the drag of nails across his scalp, tucking a truant curl behind his ear, and the act feels like home— like hearth.

Somewhere beyond his open window a morning bird trills, perched in its roost nestled into the forked branch of the elm.

He breathes a sigh, the sound thick with sleep, and turns to his pillow, burying himself deeper into the linen.

“Din, honey.”

He blinks— lazily, molassesed— her shape clearing into focus.

Green eyes peer back at him, fine lines framing the corners of them, and crescents crease around her lips, pulled warm into a soft curve.

Small toys— wooden things, baubles and bits, dolls made from scraps of old fabric—litter the floor, spilling from the chest butted against the stone of the wall. A book, well-loved and dog-eared, rests on his nightstand—the one he insisted she read from each night, the story he couldn’t possibly fall asleep without hearing—the images written on the page, dancing in his small mind to the tune of her voice.

It’s all there now as it was then before.

“It’s time to wake up.”

She sits at the edge of the bed—his bed—the weight of her arm draped over his shoulder like a blanket— like shelter. Like never being fearful again. Like never dying. Like summer, forever.

“I am awake,” he murmurs, and it is with his own tongue that he speaks. Not that of a boy, but a man—unfiltered, unmodulated. Stripped of his helmet, he hardly recognizes the tenor of it, of its richness, but he feels the words reverberate against the hollow of his throat and he knows they belong to him.

Light casts through the window behind her—particles of dust, trapped in the tines. Floating there, suspended on strings.

She only smiles, and strokes a thumb across the sweep of his cheekbone, there in the room he last felt safe.

“No, not yet.”

It’s time to wake up. It’s time to wake up. Wake up wake up wake—

“Not yet.”

His eyes blur open with a flutter of his lashes, the lifeless durasteel ceiling coming into view—the jade of her gaze fading, fading. Blowing away.

He shifts a hand through his hair— through the long strands in dire need of trimming— lying on his bedroll, spine knobbing into the thin mattress. The cold metal overhead stares back at him.

His chest rises. Falls.

Din can still feel her, the warmth of her, there on his cheek.

///

There is no part of this that comes easy.

He knows what you’re thinking, he can see it in the guard you’ve encased yourself with— your glass walls, your glass house. Transparent but impenetrable, Din can only look. A spectator, watching as you go about your routines— a stranger on the outside.

And he sees how you look at him.

You think he’s fine.

You think he’s marble. Unbreakable. Impervious to time, to cold, and he does nothing to correct you; no, he allows the belief. He lets you believe the calloused veneer of his beskar— lets you assume he is more machine than man.

Din thought it would be simpler. Convenient. Din thought it would hurt less.

Because how can he tell you? How can he possibly communicate the imprint you’ve left on him— how his mind revolves around the imagery of that evening in vicious figure-eights. How he can’t unremember your heat curling around his fingers, how he can’t unbridle the pulse of his cock in your palm. How he can’t unspeak that which he called you, his virgin tongue flicking new and flighty around the word.

Cyare.

It tripped—in the midst of his pleasure, it sprang clumsy from him how the inevitable always seems to where you are concerned: transport to Coruscant, his past, his history, his identity— it just happens, reasonless, illogically. Some driving magic beckoning him to buckle, wishing him to give.

Your moans, your gasps, how you prayed his name— this is the white noise murmuring through the ship, harmonizing with the tinny mechanical beeps and settling groans of the bulkheads. You churn like smog through his helmet. Ever present, the memory of you is constant— invasive. It’s suffocating him.

He’s been dealt plenty of injuries and contusions— he has the scars enough to prove it— but it’s this. It’s this that’s killing him. It’s you.

All of these paintings, life-like and lurid, and yet it is this wound - untended, uncauterized - that scalds most: the moment Din, that beskar apparition, slipped away from you. You were there, hip under the weight of his glove, and he simply

went, like fog.

He watched your face crest and fall—felt your heart, skipping nervous like a stone over a morning pond, little waves rippling lightly, lightly out and out until it puttered quiet and

sank.

He abandoned you there. He left you before you had the opportunity to convince Din that you wouldn't do the same to him. Because Din has learned this, his suit of armor a trudging reminder of the inherent fact: good things leave.

You’ll be gone soon. You’ll leave him—he’s taking you home and you’ll leave him. His son will leave him.

He’ll be alone again. He’ll have the Crest, he’ll have the Guild—he’ll have the life he once cast in stone for himself, the life he’s worn as proudly as the Mudhorn emblem he boasts on his pauldron. But that was then - before - and he can never find his way back to that now; now that he knows what he knows—of breakfast and bitter caf and laughter like church bells and warmth and goodness and you.

There is no part of this that comes easy.

There in the galley, lamp-lit iridescence caressing your countenance, you asked him once if he was scared of anything and he told you he wasn’t sure— not yet.

Din lied.

As a rule, he doesn’t make a habit out of dishonesty; it doesn’t typically suit him, he is blunted to a fault— earning allies and enemies alike with the very attribute—but he lied to you then. Maybe his fears are the same as everyone else’s, maybe they’re simple. Human.

Maybe he’s scared that you’ll unchain him from his armor, of his shortcomings and tragic flaws and see the pulpy heart of him—that you’ll look and look and look, and you will like nothing that you find there. That he’s just a man.

And perhaps, he’d rather remain unknown than risk the chance of being unlovable.

For there is a certain hollow you befriend in the aftershock of loss—there is an aperture loss gores you with. There are some holes time can never fill; they remain trenched, dug from rusted trowels— left to fester, left to ill.

Sometimes, in the surly vacuum of space, in those dulled moments in which he has nothing but to count the seconds as they tick clocklessly away, Din attempts to conjure the last word his mother gave to him. He didn’t know it then—he didn’t know it was intended as a gift, boxed and ribboned and bowed. He didn’t realize—a child, wide-eyed with naivety, drenched in fright—that he should cherish it. Remember it. Keep it safe.

No matter how hard he tries, how hard he strains, he can’t recall it. He practices the nightmared memory of it, transports himself into that war zone, dodging shrapnel and brimstone just to catch sight of her face— and he can see her lips moving, can feel the fan of the flames as his world is reduced to cinders, but he cannot hear her.

Was it goodbye? Was it I love you? Was it be safe? Was it hide? Hide hide hide for me. Be good and hide, kind boy—

It dogs him. The nothinged mumble, his silent passenger.

There is no part of this that comes easy.

He heard you. There in Valentia, the city buzzing cacophonously like an orchestra tuning their instruments, he overheard the Twi’lek translate for the older woman.

Family, she said. You have a beautiful family.

Din has never in his life considered forsaking his Creed— forgoing the thing that saved him, made him, honed him to tungsten, sharp as a blade.

But he did then.

It was a flash, something fickle and brief— like the flicker of a candle before it diffused to smoke— but in that nanosecond he saw himself ripping off his helmet. He saw himself going to you, pulling you close to his plated chest. He saw the surprise wash over you—the shock that bubbled to elation. He saw you smile, that crippling gorgeous thing, with his own naked eyes and—

And then suddenly you were there before him, snapping Din from his reverie, blanket snug to your chest, the child — his child— slung beside you. He wished he had an explanation, but before he could process his actions his hand was drawing itself to your body, tugged by some unseen force—robbed of his autonomy— and rapturously, he touched you. He felt you.

His knuckles grazed your arm—your warmth, radiating past the aged leather of his glove—and the wisdom that woman uttered, the plain truth only the ancient could learn— only a mother could know— rattled around his mind, unanchored and barreling.

Yearn for the past. Reclaim time.

Hold onto them hold onto them hold on—

Never let them go.

Ready? he asked you, arm resigned to his side, feigning monotony beneath the cover of his visor.

You threaded an even smile to your lips, as if Din were none the wiser— as if he hadn’t catalogued every lick of your expressions, every curve and bow and wrinkle as your emotions sung across your face. As if he didn’t know when you were lying. As if he didn’t know when you were falling apart.

Ready, you replied, swallowing past the disappointment welled in your throat.

Both your hearts broke then. Perfectly—the same.

This is the Way.

///

Din is gone over a week. It’s the longest he’s ever been away for a hunt—it’s the longest nine days of your kriffing life.

The ship feels vacant without him; she’s cumbersome, too cavernous for the likes of only you and his foundling. Her durasteel sidings yawn morose against the wind beating restless against her—her metal stretching like a lothcat in a patch of sun. The doors and hatches complain ajar and gripe shut, as if she’s recalcitrant to go about her standard operating procedures without Din’s presence. The old gal misses him, down to her steely bones and dual ion turbines, and in truth — and despite yourself— you suppose a small part of you feels the same, shares an inkling of that same loneliness.

The rituals and dog-eared routines you’d drawn comfort from are now rinsed in a forlorn wash.

The single bowl of food you prepare looks wrong without its twin beside it.

You scroll a finger over your display screen, flicking through various articles, the faint light from the holopad basking the contours of your face in a lonesome shade of inanimate blue.

Anything good you hear him ask, there in your inner ear— the memory of his voice leaving a nick among the many wrinkles of your brain.

You sigh, quietly— alone. Never.

Even Munch misses him, although he expresses it differently. He’s been a downright terror with Din gone. At first it was a vacation, a luxury retreat; you and the child gorged yourself on crackers and grava berries and dried bantha meat—mindful of sweeping up the crumbs on whichever surface you snacked. You giggled and ran amok and shared secrets in code only the two of you could decipher.

But one day grew to two, and two to three and three to four and by the fifth you were out of treats and your patience too had dwindled to short supply.

The child is special— unquestionably unique. And as much as you adore him, would lay down your life for him if it came to it, Maker he is uniquely qualified to send you round the bend twice over. He’s baffling, infuriating— just like his father. Of all the things he could have inherited from the man, of course he decided to latch on to his vexing penchant for mystery.

You lost him for half a day. He was somewhere aboard the Crest, of that you knew that for certain, but he managed to enact a stunt that could’ve puzzled even the most illustrious of illusionists with how quickly and effectively he vanished, seemingly out of thin air.

He emerged eventually for dinner, babbling wickedly. There was that, at least: you could always count on Munch to — well, munch.

Over a week of this— nine days, sixteen hours, and twenty-two minutes, to be exact… But who’s counting.

The sky glitches with lightning, sparking like a bulb in dreadful need of changing, and veins of violet skitter along the horizon, chased by the clapping hammer of thunder. Fat drops of rain trace down the transparisteel, the metalled drum of their pattering against the Crest lullabying your eyelids to a slumbered close. You drift, weightless, waxing and waning in and out of a reoccurring dream that always blurs to mere suggestion - to shadow - as soon as you wake.

The harsh sound stirs you—the ramp’s gears springing to life, signaling the Mandalorian’s return. Rapidly, you blink clear the slog of sleep from your eye, re-emerging from the forgotten depths of your subconscious and half-roused, you bound from the copilot’s chair. You rally from your stupor, instinct urging you to meet the bounty hunter by the entrance—some tittering, foolish part of you still so glad and girlish just to see him.

Hobbling down the ladder with veteraned coordination - one leg one arm one foot one hand - you hop the last two rungs to land catlike on the balls of your feet, heading towards the stern of the ship and—

You don’t make it three steps.

He’s there. Din is there— nine days later and finally, like a hallucination, he’s here— ominous and backlit by the glow seeping in from the galley. An obelisk, undaunted.

Your gut somersaults, flipping until it dizzies.

Knee-jerked and reflexive, the basest part of you demands you go to him, to cross the threshold separating you— the time and space and uncertainty dredged like a moat between you two. But instead of greeting him as you wish— two arms thrown around him, welcoming him home—back to the Crest, to the child, to you—you stand there, dumbstruck and wanting.

The passage of the corridor is like a strait. It's so narrow you can smell him— his carbon musk, his petrichored sweat—and it furls thick into your sinuses, fogging up your vision, clotting the faulty wiring of your mind. He’s brought the wet in with him, drip dropping from his hulking frame to splat puddled onto the deck.

plop

A beat ferments, hanging ripe from its branch as the tempest rages outside the sheltered hull of the ship. Distantly, thunder booms from above.

“Din— hi.”

“You’re up.” He doesn’t move from the archway. Stiffened, composed from granite, the man hardly breathes. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” you offer hastily—untruthfully.

Din scans you: your obviously tousled hair, the drowsy flush kissing your jaw, the tell-tale crinkle of your tunic. Your tongue darts out to skip over your lip and his lungs pull, aching beneath his ribs.

Maker, you’re pretty even when you lie.

“Go back to sleep,” he assures, but you hardly register it; it’s scarcely above a murmur by the time the words hum through his modulator.

“Can I make you some food? Can I—"

There’s a tarred shake of his helm, tiredly dissuading you. “No, you—you’ve done enough.”

“But you must be exhausted, Din. Let me help you,” you urge, sincerity shaping the lilt of your voice. “Please, I—” You falter. Vision finally adjusted in the dimmed hall, it is then that you spot it.

Your mouth runs dry.

He’s dappled in a violent scarlet, foreign red splatters contrasted against all that silvered grey, bleeding with the rainwater to roll sanguined down the rounded edges of his armor.

Blood. He’s covered in blood.

Something pitted—something vital— in you contracts; horror, prickling the fine hairs along your forearm. “Maker, what happened?”

Eyes gaping fearful, you skitter around his breastplate, his vambraces, the paneling of his flight suit, roving meticulously in search for the source of his injury. Thoughtless, consumed with only one concern - is he hurt? - your hand flies to his chest where it rests—solid. Fretting. “Stars, are you—”

He can see it—he can see you, always—how your gaze swells, laced with a surge of adrenaline, of care, and Din lays his broad palm flat over your knuckles, grabbing your frantic attention. “It’s not mine—hey, it’s not mine.”

Your shoulders deflate, relief visibly relaxing the rigidity in your spine, and for the first time in what feels like minutes you release the breath you’d fostered high behind your teeth.

He doesn’t know what overtakes him. Perhaps it’s your sleep swollen lips or the soft petal of your cheek— taunting Din, daring him to feel you again, as he did before— or perhaps it’s the all too apparent fact that you simply give a shit about him— despite everything he’s done, all of that which he has left unsaid. That you worry. That you care.

Puppeted, arm hoisted by some invisible strings of fate—those unseen threads of inevitability—he reaches for you. Din’s thumb roams the slope of your cheekbone, the buttered hide of his glove gliding over your skin. Something rattles flustered in your chest, and you must look pathetic— how your eyes bat at him and your mouth parts, breathy and demure.

“Dala.” He sounds pained when he says it, as if it’s poisoning him; the very syllables like hemlock dripping down his tongue—slowly gradually, ending his life— this life.

This life as he knows it.

You nuzzle into the cradle of his palm, encircling a hand around his wrist, urging him still. You both know he could break away from you without an ounce of strength squandered, but he doesn’t; he listens, he quiets for you. Enchanted, neither of you dare move— neither of you, willing to shatter the profound spell of intimacy you’ve stumbled onto.

He holds you like this, and you hold him to you. His hand on your cheek; yours over the birdcaged throb of his heart— burning - devouring - its entombed aril like the heart of a dying star.

“Where’d you go?” you whisper, heathered, into the heel of his hand. There is something broken in your cadence, like the chipped rim of a fragile cup, and it punctures him just there beneath his sternum.

Where’d you go?

Where’d you go before? When you left— where did you spirit away to?

Why didn’t you take me with you?

A sick wave rots his stomach. He couldn’t answer you then, not when you were wobbly and coltish beneath him—Din can barely answer you now. His digits twine into your hair, cupping the arc of your neck. The gesture is not unkind. It is delicate— urgent, too—and the following hush you share speaks tomes for the both of you, the sob of his leathered fist admitting what he cannot utter.

I couldn’t. I couldn’t.

Maker, if you could see him. See how his face folds for you, grief lined into the shallow grooves that mark him. The cycles of it— how they bend him into something contorted. Something in need - I need you I need you I need - something ugly, he thinks. Leftover. Hidden. Hide hide hide hi—

You turn, pressing a kiss into the rough of his palm. It’s a soft thing— trepid and cautious—too worried you might frighten him away to offer anything more than a chaste brush of your lips—too worried you’ll send him scurrying back into the cratered unknown he crawled out from.

But he doesn’t.

Din doesn’t turn tail and run, he stands firm—weaving his hand further into your scalp, guiding you closer to him with a throaty sound. The forehead of his helm sinks to yours, and through its filter you discern the tremor of Din’s breathing, made fuzzy by the tinny modulator.

This is nothing like before. Din was hot blooded and vicious then, possessed by the infernal likes of some great beast, but he has since been tamed, if only momentarily—coaxed into a certain meekness by the frail ache of his heart—by the grace of your kind mouth, kissing his gun-worn glove.

He groans your name, mumbled and brassy. The two of you so close, so merged, that if it weren’t for his helmet, you’d feel the tickle of the syllables as they sweep over your face. Din repeats himself, repentant—praying for forgiveness on the cross of your name—your kiss, a benediction.

Again, he calls you. I’m sorry.

Again, you kiss him. There is nothing to forgive.

Again. Again.

With a flutter of bravado, you sling a lumbered arm over the span of his neck, notching yourself into his chest, an interlocking piece finding it’s match. Din’s forearm comes to coil around your waist, wide hand spanning the small of your back, and if possible, gathers you nearer— a growl emanating somewhere from under his beskar.

“Tell me to stop,” he breathes, bullet riddled—grating—warring with the countless shards of himself he has yet to reconcile; but his body betrays his intentions as Din’s grasp finds itself lower, filling his fingers with the plush of your ass. “Tell me, please.”

Arousal rushes to pool in your depths—at the proximity of him, the hungered way at which he paws you—and it’s a reaction you feel mimicked by the iron rod straining against Din’s flight suit, pressing into your thigh. You shake your head, gaze colored earnest, and you shift, applying a grind of your hips against him in response.

Din lets out a defeated groan; weak to you, a fabled Mandalorian warrior brought to trembling knees by the guile of a good woman. And suddenly, like striking a match in a room swarmed with gas, you are incendiary.

He’s everywhere— groping and kneading your arms, your ass, your neck and waist. You are malleable beneath him, sculpted like wet clay under his eager touch—as if he is committing your form to memory; the fervor of his grip, reclaiming time.

He hooks a hand under the crease of your knee, yanking you to the column of his armor, sealing your bodies together. Gyrating your hips against him, your clit yearns against his thick outline as you dig into the cowl draped over his shoulders.

Sliding his hand down your backside, he presses his palm into your clothed heat from behind, pads of his fingers insistent as you saddle your spine into his touch, granting him better access. His cock brays, straining beneath his many layers, and a withered moan breaches past your lips.

“Gods, Din.”

Din. He can’t stand that—his name, lush in your wet mouth—and without ceremony, drops your leg from where he’d glued it to his hip. Like a beggar, impoverished and need-stricken, he begins to fight with your clothing, half tempted to rip the damn things off you, leaving you tattered; he’d happily buy you a new wardrobe if it meant having you as he’s wanted for these long months—naked and vulnerable and his.

Your tunic and pants come off in a flurry, your underwear too, discarded hastily in some forgotten corner—and with a hand on your chest, he walks you backwards until your bare ass connects with the durasteel, a jagged inhale tearing through you at the chill. A question knits your brows to meet as Din paces away from you, increasing his distance.

“What are you-”

He interrupts you with a groan. “Just - gedet’ye - just let me—”

His gaze drips like wax down your body—eyes dressing over your clavicle, the supple weight of your breasts, the gorgeous dusting of hair at your mound, the sweet press of your thighs as you clench them together, your pretty knees, your pretty ankles, your pretty feet, pigeoned inward nervously.

Pretty pretty pretty—fuck, all of you. So fucking pretty.

With the cock of his chin, his gaze returns to the heave of your breasts—tracing over your nipples pebbling in the everpresent draft of the Razor Crest— and you rile under him, heart stammering loud—so loud you’re convinced he can hear it with the aid of his helm. And Maker above, the way you’re fucking staring at him—all hooded lids and flushed cheeks. Din wants to fucking ravish you.

Dismantle you.

Pick you apart bit by bit until you’ve come undone completely.

And as if slogging through gravity itself, movements prowled, he steps to you. Din finds your hips, running the whisper of his gloves along the slopes of your sides; a master of patience, commanding time to his will, he crawls up your skin

slow

deliberate.

You’re all but helpless to the shiver that traverses the planes of your body, zipping along your synapses like the fault lines of a quaking planet—cracking you open, exposing your molten core. You’re not proud of the noise you make when he cups your breasts. Starved, you whine as he takes you into his hands, pinching and groping until you’re pert and sore and you drive your pelvis into him, rutting yourself against his frame like some flea ridden slum-mutt in the prime of her heat.

Din seethes, mumbling in Mando’a—spitting curses you can’t pretend to comprehend, but that blot warmth along your cheekbones at the oaky depravity of which he utters them.

He seals over your mound, blood pumping at your seam, bundle of nerves pulsing steady against the heel of his hand. Immobile, he waits, hovering stagnant and teasing before his lust to feel you outweighs his desire to make you be good and wait—and parting through your curls, he kisses the tips of his orange gloves into your honeyed cunt.

It’s dirty. He’s dirty, he’s fucking filthy—covered in foreign blood and alien soil—and you feel depraved, unclean. Powerful. You feel, perhaps, as the Maker intended—wild and without shame, to roam his gateless garden and sully the soles of your feet.

You feel raw. Din Djarin sands you raw.

The pump of his wrist is merciless, pistoning in and out in shallow thrusts, knuckles angled to prod at that spot— that piece of primordial heaven sequestered at the channel of your cunt—and he keeps discovering it over and over again with a sharp shooter’s precision—zeroing in on his mark and releasing the trigger. Dead eyed.

You grab greedily at his bulge, at his cock begging for regard beneath the protective fabric covering him, and you squeeze the best you can. The angle is awkward and unweildy and it’s not nearly enough for either of you, but it conveys your intention well enough.

Can I have this? Will you give this to me?

Din growls his reply, leaving your pussy to fumble with the waist of his trousers, fidgeting over the pesky buttons—the final of the flimsy holdouts separating you and the tempered steel hanging solid between his legs. It bobs free from his pants, ruddied tip straining and pining for you, and without spending another moment idle, he rediscovers the warmth of your naked body— molding himself to your form, his grip once more finding the pit of your knee and bracing it to his side.

He ruts the underside of his shaft through your slick folds, his blunt head nudging at the swollen cleft of your center—each pitch of Din’s hips sending bolts of pleasure crackling through your core. He’s stifling a string of moans while he does it, while he undulates against you, the sighs and gasps digitized to near silence as he coats his cock in your gloss—and not for the first time do you find yourself considering how fucking colossal Din is. How fucking virile and engulfing, like blaster smoke and tabacco and cedar. Like coaled smog from a cremulator. Like giving life, like taking it away— like mercy. Vengeance.

Din swipes your standing leg up to match the other in a fluid motion, effectively levitating you off the ground with only his palms secured beneath your hamstrings and your strangled hold around his neck to suspend you.

“Tell me to stop and I will.” He’s practically begging you now, anguish wrecking through the timber of his voice—grasping blindly for an excuse not to lose himself in you completely, not to bury his primal drives and fears into the chasm of your sex.

You’ll leave him you’ll leave him he’s terrified you’ll leave him

“I-I don’t want you to stop— I want this. Din, I want you, I missed you. I miss you.” You miss him. He’s right here, cock streaking through your middle and still, you miss him. You’ll never stop missing him—wanting him. An unscratchable itch at the median of your back, burning for his affection, for his touch.

He releases a husked sound at that, as if hearing it from you hurts— your words, purpling a bruise into the bloody beat of his heart—and like a dipping sun sinking below the crust of a darkening planet, the last of Din’s resolve fades to utter black as he finally - finally - buries himself into where you weep for him.

Oh Maker. Fuck, fuck—

You muffle a relieved cry, forehead collapsing to the slope of his shoulder. Your walls shutter, blinking and gasping around his cock as he rolls up into you, lips pulling taut around his girth with each drag through your cunt. Din fucks you slurred and languid—his pace, sweltering like a summer fever—heavy, punitive. Smothering and thick. You can feel every vein, every silken ridge, as he notches himself inch by inch— the cant of his hips meditated, aiming to melt you open with each wave.

Stuffed to the hilt inside you, he rakes in a ragged breath, calming the race of his bloodstream drumming percussive in his ears.

It occurs to you then that he might be trying to be careful with you, curled around him like this, crushed up against the bulkhead. You think he might be treating you as a jeweler would handle a rarified gem— gentle and tip-toed, afraid of letting you clatter to the counter, of scuffing your facets— devaluing you.

But you don’t want that. You don’t want cautious or considerate or any of those awfully pious things. You want to be owned. Devoured. You don’t want to feel anything else but him. You want him to need you so terribly, so primally, he bleeds. You want to forget your own damn name and replace the memory of it with his—just his, to sit besot like liquor on your tongue. Din Din Din.

“Fuck me— please - please - fuck me harder Din.” Fuck me like you need to. Fuck me like you want me— please just tell me you want me. Tell me I’m wanted. Tell me I’m worth this.

You can see the deliberation span over his mask, the light glinting off the steel there hesitant, wary. Are you sure?

“Fuck me.” I want this. I want you.

He wants to give this to you somewhere soft— somewhere you deserve. With a feathered mattress and molted down pillows and gauzy curtains billowing in a sea breeze as light dapples prismed patterns on your dewy skin. He wants to give this to you somewhere beautiful—perhaps on that planet you once probed him about - Adega - with its red trees and warm nights and friendly natives you’d cherish and keep aloft in your breast.

He wants you to feel safe. Adored.

But what he wants and what he needs are two vastly different things—two opposing extremes at odds with the other. Because he needs to fuck you here— it has to be here. Needs to score your backside with metaled bites from the Crest’s unforgiving interior; needs you crumpled and sloppy, panting out his name to echo shamelessly into the deviled bowels of his gunship.

He needs you charred for him. Scorched earth.

And with your panted pleas, lilting addictive and irresistible, he is all but helpless to deny you— to deny himself. Relenting, resolved, his voice bottoms out.

“I-I’m gonna fucking ruin you.”

He fucks you frenzied. The snap of his hips drives you into the wall; he lifts you off his cock just to spear you on it once more, fucking up up up into you, unleashing all his strength— his neglected need—into the grail of your womb. The salted slaps of skin are loud enough to make a lecher blush. It’s a chorus of beskar rattling, wet and ugly and Maker, he’s splitting you open and all you can do is mewl.

You screw your eyes shut, lost to oblivion—crown of your head shoved back, jugular bared for him like prey before the slaughter.

“No.” Leveraging his mass against you, Din clasps at the nape of your neck to command your focus, forcing your chin. “No, look at me,” he orders, brutal and sinewed and there’s desperation there. Din needs you looking at him — seeing him— the embrace of your gaze like a life raft, tethering him here, grounding him to this plane of existence, the one where he has found salvation—if only fleeting, if only like hourglassed sand sifting through his fingers—within the temple of your body. Struggling and led-lidded, you pry your lashes apart, shivering as you drink in the punishing expression leering across his visor; and as you always do, you peer past the murky T there, meeting his eyes camouflaged in their sockets behind it.

“There you are. There you are, my pretty thing - hnng—” He silences himself with a hoarse moan, the sensation of you clenching firm around him, gripping Din like a man would a rope, dangling some feet above the ground, hiccuping him to stutter. “T-That’s it, dala—fuck, y-your pussy is so godsdamn tight.”

You go boneless at the praise—at how he tongues out those fond epithets, vehement and covetous and brined in sincerity—and your breathing quickens as you soak the coarse weave of Din’s flight suit, chafing your clit to shambles with each bow of his starved sex.

You’re close. Stars, you’re so kriffing close—reach out and touch it and you’re there, a promise fulfilled dancing at your fingertips—and you almost tell him; you wish you could - don’t stop don’t stop please right there Din - but you’ve lost your voice, vocal chords stricken with tension. More than that, you’ve lost the wedge of your brain that recognizes articulation all together. Speech itself. You’re wasted. You’re shattered. You’re being fucked within an inch of your sorry life.

Nimbled, without a word of warning, Din relocates— grappling under the plats of your thighs and bracing you featherlight to his chest—negligible in comparison to the ton of armor he dons cycle after cycle, weightless when compared to that of his Creed, hanging like a yoke around his gullet. You yip in surprise and scramble around him, calves digging into his back, forearms clamped around his shoulders—his cock remaining delved within your pussy with each footfall.

Four long strides and he’s reached his destination: a large crate, stranded just outside the hallway leading to the galley. Stooping at the waist, he lowers you down with astonishing ease until you’re flush on your back, knees flanking his frame. You heave a sigh, petulant and wanting, when he slips from you mid-adjustment, a lewd squelch accompanying the movement. It is to the fervor of your clawing, desperate nails scratching down metal - please please please - that he glides back into you with one deft sweep, a satisfied gasp tumbling loose from him.

He looms over you now— Din, a tower unyielding—thrusting into you rough and hard and perfect. He’s filling you in undiscovered places long gone unrealized, nooks you didn’t know you had—the length of him completing you, making you whole.

“Tell me to stop,” he pants, orange pads of his gloves dimpling your hips.

With a tremor of your chin, you moan—broken and chirping. “Don’t - please - please don’t - shit - don't stop—” Your prayers convulse, dying in your throat, sentence cut short as he circles his thumb over your clit, catching at your slippery bud. Ever the marksman, he’s debilitatingly attentive to you, the hide of his glove snagging against your cleft, and combined with the steady rock of his dick shredding you open, you’re all but defenseless to the dawning of your release, crawling closer and closer and—

“Din,” you pant, ”Din Din Din, I think I—I’m gonna cum. I’m gonna, oh Maker—”

The muscles in your stomach seize, a twisted expression cramping your brow. You scamper to his arms, reaching out for something - anything - a parcel of real estate to clutch onto while you unravel. You’re grappling with his pauldrons, the pulsepoint at your wrist humming over the symbol welded to his shoulder, and you mage into starlight. You’re fizzing. You’re blind. You’re atomic and phasing in and out of realities and you burn— a meteor hurtling through the upper atmosphere crashing crashing crashing and—

Language exhausted, all there is left for you to do is cry, the evidence of your orgasm ricocheting like a hail of gunfire against the Razor Crest walls.

“That’s a good girl, that’s a good girl for me—f-fuck." It’s like taking a jab to his solar plexus, how you cinch around him— the corset of your walls milking his cock until he’s shaking, stumbling. The drive of his pelvis has gone erratic, the throbbing bloom gnashing its teeth in his gut—that rabid thing desperate to be released, uncaged—teeters on the identical ledge you’d just leapt from.

“Tell me to stop - please - tell me to, tell me to stop—” You’re all eyes. Your whole face, swallowed by the sweet, glassy orbs notched below the quiver of your forehead, and you’re looking at him like he could hang the damn moon and it’s too much— it’s too much too much he can’t levee this raging need— and with a hurried gasp he pulls out of your heat to tug at his slicked cock— panting ragged as he gushes onto your stomach, your legs, your pretty pussy made pink and puffy with abuse.

His breathing is labored; you can see it in the mountainous rise and fall of his chest plate as his strokes slow, his other hand digging into your flesh, indenting you. He exhales, scraping clean the fissure between his lungs, and Din tips his head, angling it backwards— granting you a rare sliver of the stubbled swath along his neck. The sightly patch, treasured behind his silvered grotto, shouldn’t be the thing that plays upon your heartstrings like one would pluck a harp— not after he’s burrowed himself inside you, not after he’s carved you to his likeness— but it does. You’re butterflied and cherry blossomed and you grin— not so much on your lips but in your soul, and there is a purring warmth that’s radiating like candle flame from the anima alive beneath your breasts and—

And then, suddenly — like time, like memory— he is gone.

He leaves you. Mirrored, he does as he did that night—laying a squeeze into the meat of your hip, he transpires to atoms, dissipating round the unknown bend of a corner and you’re alone again—alone, with only the citric bile steeping in your insides to accompany you, threatening to rise up your windpipe.

No. No no nonono—

Din’s presence, a beacon in the moonless night, disappears— leaving you orphaned and moored and mortified. He’s done it again— he’s left you, he keeps leaving you— and it renders you sick; viscerally, you’re angered and ill and green-washed with naivety.

Fool you once, shame on them. Fool you twice, and what in Maker’s name did you expect? A declaration? An about-face? As if a Mandalorian could let the beskar from his blood. As if Din could reanimate the cadaver of his past—could slip into that old snakeskin he’d shed cycles before.

It paralyzes you. Immobile, you are chambered flat on your back in the resin of your embarrassment, bereft of your vision as you stare sightless into the steel. You’ve separated—your mind and your body disjointed like oil and water, and you don’t hear it. You don’t hear the tread of Din’s feet, you don’t register his aura, Illuminous in the archway; you don’t see the stray towel fisted in his grip, you don’t feel the clench of a frozen hand around your heart as he does his. For he sees you there—a tick in your jaw; eyes distanced, fogged—and he knows he’s done this to you. The scarring of how he derelicted you then tarnishing the new-leaf flesh of the present.

He steps towards you, closer now, and your alerted gaze pins to him. A surprised expression makes a home there, astoundment freckling your face— and although he hasn’t earned the right, it strikes him bullseyed between his plated ribs because it hurts— the obvious shock of him returning for you hurts. Din is not a good man— not all of him. Sometimes, you and all your heaven-lit gleam, you make him forget that.

But sometimes, you make him remember.

And Maker, if you don’t look good like this. Streaked with his seed, creamy white pearling the maps of your body, the shine of it catching in the cannistered shafts of filtered light.

There’s a word for this—for you, for how you look, splayed and painted with his cum—with him. It puffs up like petals would, there in the square of his center. He’s never said it. His mouth doesn’t know the feel of it, his lips don’t know its shape. It’s scribed in Mando’a, and as native as the language is to him—as fundamental as Basic, if not more so—the word itself is foreign. Gawky. The thought of it alone hobbles through his mind on foaled legs. Din keeps this word barred, its essence clinging to the iron partitions of his skull, its perfume clouding his senses, his better judgement, his confounded rationality dangling precarious by a string.

Beautiful. Mesh’la.

You shift under his watchful eye, knees steepling mousy, and gingerly, he prizes the two apart and you let him.

You let him you let him of course you let him.

Din runs a damp cloth up your seam, up those hypersensitive folds, towards the expanse of flesh leading to your belly, and you hiss—a startled chill icing through your body.

“It’s cold,” he informs you, well after the fact, and you chortle a note in response. He continues to lave you clean, the drag of the material smoothing over your stippled planes and it’s intimate—how he takes you under his care, how he unmakes his mess.

Your heart, silly flustered thing it is, it tells you the act feels worshipful—reverent, maybe—but your head convinces you to look away, to cower, to do anything but address the blaze left in the wake of the rag he’s swiping over you. It’s too much. You feel vase-like— fragile and dainty, for the bounty hunter to either fill with wildflowers or crush under the heel of his boot— and it’s too unbearable. Bringing a hand to your sweat-sheened face, you shadow your eyes, ostriching shyly— if I can’t see him, he can’t see me.

A clipped tone escapes his helmet and it’s a sound you can’t place— it’s short, a blip—and you presume he’ll remain mum until he speaks. “You don’t have to hide from me.”

You don’t have to hide from me. I don’t want you to hide from me.

You nearly whimper at that. There’s something endearing and bronzed about how he says it, something torn, too—and you peak through the curtain of your fingers to watch him perform his ministrations. Almost begrudginly, you remove your hand from it’s shelf, resting it on the swell of your breast while he passes the cloth along your inner thighs, erasing the sticky traces of himself. There’s a quiet pause, a moment of distilled nothing before—

“I didn’t think you were coming back,” you admit, small.

He soothes his thumb into the crook of your hip, voice blunt with guilt. “I know.”

Sighing, you nod a little thing, a half-gesture, practically creeping under the Mandalorian's radar undetectable. Thunder shouts, lightning cracks— the bombastic storm outside apathetic to the lull within. Din clears his throat, rasping. “Was that okay?”

You resist the temptation to snort. Din is such a juxtaposition—one you don’t imagine you’ll tire from any time soon. He’s dangerous and protective and clever and strong and kind, despite his best efforts to snuff his compassion to ash like the butt of a dead cigarette. Lifting your palm from its perch, you extend to him, measuredly sliding your fingers against the crate— stretching stretching until he meets you, dubious and toddling like a child’s first steps, orange-dipped digits touching nude flesh. Your everbright grin brightens all the more— bewitching, back-breaking—as you entwine your hands to mesh.

“More than okay,” you say coyly. “Was that-was that good for you?”

Din huffs out an airy chuckle rich with disbelief, like he can’t fathom you’re even asking him—like you’d even have to ask at all. “That was—that was good. Very good,” he confesses gruffly, never a man for poetry, breathlessness still apparent in the bleed of his vocoder. “Even better than I imagined.”

A feline grin unfurls your lips, boldly quirking the droll corners of your mouth. “You imagine this often, Mando?”

Smirking wry and devastating, Din ushers you up by your woven hands, your body pliable and easy to his will; uprighted, his hips slot between your pretty knees, and he expertly twists your arm behind your back, snaring it there. Spine swooped, breasts brushing against his beskar, your nipples pebble cold. “Don’t let it go to your head, dala,” he gravels, visor tilted down at your dwarfed form, tenting you.

“Well," you tease lightly, "I’ll try my best.”

And you look at each other with all the tender awkwardness of two people standing on the edge of a brave new unknown.

Nervous, girlish, you smile.

Fluttering, pussy-drunk, he smiles back.

///

Nested in the pronged branch of a tall tree spindling up from the graveled soil, Din— a man, a boy too— reclines supine against the bark. His feet dangle like they did then, back when he wasn’t so afraid, and the air is dusted with a rosy haze as dusk settles upon the tired day.

The sun sets. The world twinkles a midnight blue, winking starshine as she spins.

Somewhere, behind him, his mother calls him home for supper.

tags: @girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @pedros-mustache @miranhas-art @djarrex @djarinsbeskar @bookloverfilmoholic @keeper0fthestars @misguidedandbeguiled @bookishofalder @helmet-comes-off @grumpymuffinmama @niiight-dreamerrrr @spideysimpossiblegirl @janebby @greatcircle79 @gracie7209 @thatonedindjarinfan @altered-delta @email2ash @stevie75 @shegatsby @onebrownoneblue @uniquebiscuitmongerdonkey @severinsnape @kirsteng42 @justanothersadperson93 @mrsbentalmadge @radiowallet @librariantothejedi @whataperfectwasteoftime @babydarkstar @punkremus @mandobloggin @alma-rt1 @not-the-droids @pedrostories @kylieann0716 @jk7789

#King of Cups #din djarin x reader #din djarin x fem!reader #din djarin x you #din djarin x ofc #din djarin #the mandalorian #mando x you #mando x reader #mando x fem!reader #din djarin fanfic #din Djarin smut #the mandalorian fanfic #star wars fandom

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greenninjagal-blog · 4 years

Text

Roman Prince, Psychic pt1

Hello, I’m back with another au!

Summary: Roman reads minds, loses his job and makes it his mission to get his brother a boyfriend.

Pairings: Anxceit, (future) Logince, and brotherly Prinxiety

Word Count: 6014

Quick Taglist: @chelsvans @faithfulcat111 @holliberries @jemthebookworm @killerfangirl3 @stricken-with-clairvoyancy @treasureofpriam

Read on AO3 || My General Writing List

Roman has lost twenty two jobs in the past three years, which is offensive on many levels. First of all, twenty two was a number that could only be divided by two and eleven, which is much worse than twenty eight minutes ago when he had lost only a total of twenty one jobs in the past three years.

Twenty two only ever brought bad luck.

Additionally, he had been fired from all of his previous jobs so that meant that he had technically failed twenty two times before. Roman was not a fan of failure, not a fan of other people (Virgil) knowing about said failure and lording it over him.

And, of course, there was also the fact that Roman was a grown adult and suddenly money was an issue when he wanted to not be evicted from his apartment. Or, you know, eat.

So when his brother picks up on the third ring, Roman knows that Virgil already is aware what he’s gonna ask.

“Again?” Virgil says instead of the usual “hello”. He sounds tired, worn out, but Roman gets the feeling its not really directed at him.

“It was an accident,” Roman whines, slumped over steering wheel of his car. “I swear!”

“That’s the second this month.”

“I can’t help it, Emo Undertaker.”

Which is a lie, because he definitely can help it and has helped it before. Roman is just bad at helping it. He thought he was doing well! He was really trying this time! He had managed to snag an editing job for a newspaper that required barely any talking to other people! He could make it through the day without actually talking to people and then there would be no issues other than his crippling desire to hold a conversation which was easily overlooked in the grand scheme of things--

But really, he should have guessed. No one, not even his absolute idiot of a(n ex) boss said “I’m gonna schedule you because you’re the only one stupid enough to say yes” to someone’s face.

Perhaps on his next resume he should title it Roman Prince, Psychic.

On the other side of the phone, Virgil huffs distantly, “No its my brother, Pat. He got fired again.”

“Patton is there?” Roman asks.

He can almost see Virgil cringe on the other end of the phone, “Uh yeah.”

Roman’s lips twist downward on his already not-great mood. “Virge, it’s been months--”

“I know!” Virgil says, “I know! There’s just some stuff we have to do first.”

“We?” The word is short on his tongue, bitter, leaving Roman’s tongue chasing down syllables for the empty space.

“Hey weren’t we talking about your lack of a job?” Virgil says suddenly.

“I do not want that creeper using you, Virgil.”

“Hey, Pat’s not a creeper.” Virgil says sounding more annoyed than Roman’s sure he has a right to be. “New rule, I don’t tell you to stop reading minds, and you don’t tell me to stop seeing dead people.”

“There’s a difference between seeing dead people, and seeing dead people Virgil.”

“Hey have you considered shutting up?”

“Look, he may be cute, but he’s been dead for twenty years--”

“Roman.”

“I’m just saying! He is old enough to be our dad, dude!”

“I’m hanging up.”

He does before Roman can say anything else. Roman flips his phone in his hand three times (a good number, Roman’s favorite) and senses the on coming text before it arrives. He twists his keys in the ignition of his car and listens as it rumbles to life with a story of the previous owner (Harold Johnston, who purchased it new, drove it for a while, hit two deer, and got four speeding tickets on before passing it on to his son who crashed it once in a drowsy driving accident that resulted in it being sent in a reused car dealership where Molly Keller bought it----).

By the time Roman makes it through the seven stop lights (three of which he squeezes through because Carl Smith is out jogging and pressed the crosswalk button at just the right time), there’s a message from Virgil in his inbox with a list of new places that were hiring.

It wasn’t that Roman has never thought about starting his own business, because he has. Many times, all the time. Every time he fell asleep. He imagined a cute little office off mainstreet: A psychic shop with charms in the windows that glowed at all hours, colorful draperies and scented candles that would make the shop float on mystery and otherworldness. He’d emerge from the back of the store in elegant clothes, like an ethereal being to startle any customers who dropped in, and he’d whip up a facade of a crystal ball, hide fans around the shop, and electrify the table in the middle of the room to sell the bit.

Roman has thought about starting his own psychic business before. But unfortunately, no one wants to be told things they already knew.

Which of course was the only psychic thing Roman can do. Read minds and see inner dreams with absolutely no ability to confirm them happening and-or not happening.

(And you only tell a person once that they’re getting a puppy for Christmas before you learn your lesson.)

To be perfectly honest, which Roman tries to be as he flicks on the lights to his apartment three times, Virgil would have much more luck maintaining a psychic shop. They’re almost opposites, if true opposites were a thing that exists.

Instead of reading thoughts, Roman’s younger brother hears murder stories. Instead of seeing dreams, Virgil sees dead people wandering the streets.

It made growing up and having friends a real challenge. If Roman had a nickel for every time Virgil had grabbed his arm with his cold fingers and looked him in the eye before asking if Roman could see the person in front of them, he’d have three nickels. Which wasn’t a lot, but there was something upsetting about hearing the complete terror in his little brother’s voice when he couldn’t tell the living from the dead.

The dead also like to talk to Virgil, like to hover around him because he gives off a shadowy aura that works like a drug on ghosts. It makes them feel a bit more alive, makes them more corporal, makes them more dangerous. And once they’ve had a taste, they come back for more, and more, and more.

Ghosts are good for getting information, but rarely good for anything else.

(Roman does not trust Patton. Not since Virgil told him the ghost had shown up, not since the last guy had whispered all the things he would do to Virgil if Virgil tried to leave or cut him off, not since Roman had put a hole in the hospital waiting room wall because that was his brother and he should have been there.)

Roman calls Virgil back just before dinner time after he had gone over the list (seven places, another good number) and it rings only twice before his brother picked up.

“Hey Ro, I’m kinda busy right now--”

“Busy?” Roman asks, “On Tuesday?”

“Yes!” Virgil hisses, “Very busy-- ow! Don’t touch that!-- I’ll call you later, Ro.”

“Are you raising the dead again?”

“What? No! I’m, uh,” There was a shuffling, a swear word, and a distant, “at the movies?”

“Right, I’ll pretend I believe that.” Roman says, “I was just checking the list. Your coffee shop is on here.”

“Yes, it is.” Virgil shifts the phone, “Remy fired a guy last week for purposely giving people regular coffee instead of decaf. I thought Remy was gonna kill the guy.”

“Are you sure you want me to apply there?”

There is a swatch and the telltale sound of a match lighting, and the phone shifts again, “I had an idea.”

Roman traces his fingers over the edge of his counter top, absently counting the corners, and grating his skin when it comes up even numbered. “Oh?”

(wrong wrong wrong. Its too short)

“Yeah, maybe you’ve been going about this all wrong. Instead of cutting yourself off from people, maybe you should embrace them-- ow!” Virgil makes a hiss and Roman guesses plops his fingers in his mouth quickly, “Fucking candles. I hate lighting matches.”

“Stop trying to raise the dead for a second and help your dearest brother understand,” Roman says. “What do you mean “embrace them”?”

His fingers slice the edge of the counter, four four four isn’t enough, is too much, its wrong.

“A customer came up to me yesterday and demanded a refund because I didn’t put whip cream her latte.” Virgil explains. “I was angry because she didn’t tell me that she wanted whip cream and its not like I can read minds-- and then I remembered my brother can read minds.” The phone shifts again, “Besides you love talking to people and don’t even try to deny it. That editing job was slowly killing you.”

Roman is quiet for a moment, because, really what is he supposed to say to that? Reading minds isn’t all that great, the same way as seeing their childhood cat that died seven years ago wasn’t all that great. But Virgil was also right: Roman missed talking to people, missed the days when he could show up without having to study for the “pop” quizzes and when he could do little magic tricks to wow his friends in between the classes.

And even if everyone thought his psychic abilities were just parlor tricks, Roman still misses the attention.

“I’ve gotta go, Ro,” Virgil says, “McDonalds nuggets get cold fast, and the dead don’t like cold food.”

“Picky, are they?”

“Very much so.” Virgil agrees, “Just send in an application. I’ll put in a good word to Remy, and if it doesn’t work out, we’ll figure something else out.”

Roman’s fingers hit the corner of the counter again, for the seventh time and he flings them back like they were burning. “Right, yeah. Sure.”

“Bye, Ro.”

“Yeah, thanks, Casper.” Roman says and means it deeply.

Virgil ends the call.

Roman twists the phone in his hand three times as the call screen closes. The puzzle game on his phone is about two minutes 120 seconds from reminding him his game hasn’t been played yet today and wouldn’t play at all today if he ended up in the hospital waiting room because something his brother got food poisoning from McDonald’s--

Roman fingers tap the call button again.

First ring, “Ro?”

“Sorry,” Roman blurts out, “I-- am? Damnit! I really am sorry, Virge.”

Virgil’s quiet for a moment, but then he says softly, “I get it. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Roman’s mouth snaps close. He ends the call and lets his brother go back to raising the dead on his Tuesday night where he is not going to get food poisoning. He leaves his phone on the counter and flicks the switch three times before leaving the room to go find his computer and fill out the online application.

***

Roman enjoys his twenty third job interview much less than Remy Dormire does. It lasts slightly less than twelve minutes, and by the end of it Roman is ushered behind the counter and given a brown apron (with a single hole at the bottom) and a nametag with his name on it.

(First name only, and it makes the back of his mouth taste like bitter oranges.)

Virgil gives him a rare smile on his way back out, and finishes making two drinks at once, and ships them off to the customers waiting patiently at the end of the counter.

It wasn’t quite the calm Roman was used too, but it wasn’t unpleasant. Thoughts flowed over Roman like a river, dangerous but exciting. He felt a type of connection to everyone in the store, a type of connection that came from understanding the blurbs and fragments that made up a consciousness.

It was strange to think that no one else felt like this, felt like they were touching and being touched in a way that was closer than physical contact. How could anyone not want to feel like this?

But how could anyone know what they were missing when they had never had such a feeling before in their lives?

He had tried explaining it to Virgil once, twice, thrice before. He wishes he could send thoughts the way he read them.

Roman leans over the other side of the counter watching Virgil pour coffee into a styrofoam cup, “You’re off in a minute right?” He taps the the dividing wall, “Wanna grab lunch?”

Virgil hums, his eyes flicking to the side just enough for Roman to guess who might be standing in the empty space.

Roman taps again, “Unless you and Ghost McGee already have fun plans.”

“They can be changed.” Virgil says, and slides the drink over the counter, “Logan!”

Roman shuffles to the side so a guy with glasses and a plaid button up can get his drink. “I don’t want to get in the way of your ghost time. And I definitely don’t want you bringing undead dilemmas to our lunch.”

“I don’t have--” Virgil huffs, “Patton has things to do this afternoon anyway.”

Roman frowned. “Things to do? The guy’s dead.”

Virgil scowls darker than usual. Actually now that Roman is looking, he notices that Virgil’s eyeshadow is a shade lighter than normal: as if he’s trying to make his skin look less pale by comparison. His fingers tap the dividing wall again as Roman narrows his eyes at his brother and tries to remember if he’s ever looked his drained after a night of summoning the dead for a ghost party.

“Five minutes,” Virgil says abruptly, “I’ll see you then.” He wipes the counter with a purple rag and then uses it to slide right away from Roman entirely.

Its a cheap tactic. Roman’s almost offended. The buzz of the cafe hums around him, through him, and causing goosebumps right down his spine. Its exciting, being close to people, almost exciting enough to distract Roman from the predicament of Virgil being cagey-er than before (which he hadn’t thought was possible). His knuckles tap the wall three times and he turns on his heel to settle into a chair for the next five minutes.

(Five was an okay number, Roman supposed. Seven was better, and Three was the best. But Five wasn’t an even number so it was something. At least, no one ever got cancer when he counted to five.)

Roman’s never been good at singling out thoughts in a busy location: too little practice, not enough reason to need to. The process itself required a lot of focus and will power and it felt a lot like pulling out teeth (something he had done when he was seven and Virgil was five and he had lost two teeth in a row and it was wrong, and he couldn’t figure out how to explain it to his parents when they came to figure out why the doors kept slamming). Cutting out the thoughts that weren’t even in order, had no logical reasoning: in the span of a minute a person could go from thinking about a TV show, to thinking about the color of the tile floor, to the scent in the air, to a birthday present for a friend, to, to, to. And with multiple people? In a small space like this coffee shop? It was easier to stop a mountain slide than cut off one person from himself.

Roman’s never been good at singling out thoughts in a busy location, but just this once he’s makes an attempt.

Roman’s never been good at singling out thoughts in a busy location--

Virgil is his brother, and so that means that Roman is obligated to figure out why he’s being cagey. Especially if he’s going to bring the moping to their lunch. And Roman’s absolutely not patient enough to wait five minutes to figure out what is causing him distress.

Virgil's thoughts feel exactly like him, Roman thinks. He's a little cold, a little clammy, a little crafty. His presence is like a cat evading capture by any means and when Roman was particularly bored as a child he used to chase after them, chase the feelings, and the scraps of emotions and impressions that sped by like he was actively running out of time to think them.

Virgil is thinking about coffee. He’s thinking about how to punch buttons into the computer they use for the register and how the person currently ordering is an actual idiot because they don’t serve a “Vanilla Chai Tea Latte” because this store is not a freaking Starbucks, its either a “Vanilla Chai Tea” or a “Vanilla Latte” and fuck, Roman get out of my head before I send a Zombie after you.

So Roman blinks back seeing his brother at the counter, using that customer service smile to please the middle aged woman digging through her purse, but his eyes are dark when he shoots Roman his patented don’t-mess-with-me glare.

I said five minutes, fucking wait will you.

And Roman debates for a moment, less than a minute, just 21 seconds staying there in Virgil's mind that feels a lot like a sweater in the middle of the winter. But in the end Virgil’s mind moves on to the ingredients in a Vanilla Chai Tea and someone else and the girl in the corner has the top third song of the week stuck in her head on a loop and Roman is ever so easily distracted by the repetition of the three lines--

He falls out of his brother’s mind and back into the connective conscious of humans as a whole. There's nothing jarring about it. It's just simple acceptance, like the course of a river gently rolling over him.

If he closes his eyes it feels like safety and warmth and calmness.

The next thing he knows there's a shove as his shoulder that nearly nearly knocks him off the chair. Virgil's standing there, his hair sticking up from where he yanked off his visor and his mysterious purple eyes glowing with annoyance and irritation and a bit of worry.

"I've been calling you," He says, "Are you alright?"

Roman offers him a blinding smile, that most likely comes across dopey, "Absolutely, Graveyard ghoul!”

Virgil stares at him for a moment longer, mouth curled downwards. “Holy shit, just how socially starved are you? You look like you’re on drugs.”

Roman’s vision is a little blurry. He rubs his eye to clear it, and is surprised when it comes back with tears. Was he crying? “I’m perfectly fine!” He flicks away the tears, because honestly they’re happy tears, and they mean so much and absolutely nothing at the same time.

He gathers his stuff and stands up, (tall enough that he can count the three inch difference between him and Virgil), “Are we going to lunch now?”

Virgil keeps staring at him for a moment, and Roman can only glimpse fractions of impressions from him before his eyes narrow with suspicion.

“Fine. Yeah.” Virgil says, “I know just the place.”

****

“Really, this place?” Roman asks and almost can’t quite believe it.

Virgil, in all his brother loving glory, does not give him a response. Since he was the one driving he puts the car in park (“not this spot! Use that one!” “Is this necessary?” “Do you like your current car insurance number, Virge?”) and then kicks the door open with more force than necessary. In the car is a lot quieter than in the cafe, but Virgil spends the entire drive thinking of musical numbers rather than what is bothering him.

The only things that Roman learns from the twenty minute drive to a sandwich shop in the middle of the city is that, Virgil is really into The Guy Who Doesn’t Like Musicals for someone who doesn’t like musicals, and that he’s three times a better driver than Roman can ever hope to be.

“Why here, Virge?” Roman asks getting out of the car and stumbling around the edge of the trunk. His brother is already across the parking lot by that time. “We passed nine other shops on the way here!”

Virgil’s hand goes flying up and snaps close in a silencing motion. Roman thinks that its way more effective on ghosts than on living being that he can’t control, but he goes quiet anyway. Virgil huddles by the storefront glass doors turning his around with his hand to his ear-- is he seriously pretending to be on the phone right now?-- and is peering into the shop as inconspicuously as he can.

Roman is beyond confused.

Virgil takes a deep breath, and nods to himself apparently seeing whatever he was looking for. He grabs the door and then waves Roman inside quickly like he’s embarrassed to be seen with him.

“What is happening?” Roman asks.

“Just shut up and follow my lead.” Virgil says.

And proceeds to go up to the counter and order a sandwich like a normal person. Roman frowns at the implication that he doesn’t know how to order a sandwich from a shop. His fingers knock the counter (Ew the last customer did not wash their hands after using the restroom, ew, ew!) and he gives the tired sandwich maker a dazzling smile.

He looks a little old to be working in food retail in honesty. Much more Virgil and Roman’s age than the high school teenagers that are manning the cash register a few feet over. His eyes are gold and brown and very interesting to look at, along with with the dusting of concealer that is all over his cheek covering up something. His name tag is strategically missing in the moment but Roman doesn’t think it matters too much in the grand scheme of things.

The guys name is Dante Ethan Ekans. He’s tired. Overworked. Not paid enough.

He got a nice voice though. He keeps glancing between Virgil and Roman and Virgil, Virgil, Virgil. So much so that he puts way too much mayo on Roman’s sandwich.

Roman grabs a thing of chips and throws them on the counter at the same time as Dante the sandwich maker puts his carefully wrapped flatbread sandwich next to the register to be rung up. Instead of sliding to the back, Dante leans on the counter next to the sandwiches ignoring the high schooler ringing them up and grins at (a blushing????) Virgil.

“Back again, Raccoon?” Dante the sandwich maker says flicking his tongue out just enough to show off a tongue piercing. Its not something Roman thought could be attractive, but somehow he makes it attractive.

And if Roman can tell that from two feet away, Virgil’s hopeless as the target of such an action.

“Yeah,” Virgil says, “I mean- I just-- I wanted lunch.”

“I can see,” Dante says with a smile. “You’ve made a habit out of coming here for lunch. A guy has to wonder if thats the only reason you keep coming back.”

Roman looks at him, and then Dante the sandwich maker, and thinks he almost understands what is going on.

“Virgil, quick question….”

“I’ll buy you a cookie if you can hold your fucking tongue for three more seconds.” Virgil snaps out loud and then thinks so horrifically loud in his head that Roman resists the urge grimace.

Say it out loud. I dare you.

Virgil is glaring at him again. Dante is staring at him like he’s just now noticing that Virgil came with someone, despite the fact that the man made his sandwich. He pushes off the counter suddenly, with his eyes darting between Virgil and Roman and his thoughts becoming clouded with a sudden flurry of unhappy impressions then he clears his throat and hums a self dismissal.

“And Ice cream from the parlor on First Street.” Roman whispers quickly.

“Roman!” Virgil snaps.

“Deal or no?”

“I hate you.”

“What type of brother would I be if you didn’t hate me?” Roman says loudly without even looking at Virgil. Dante stumbles his steps towards the back. Roman thinks he glances back, but its so quick that Roman really only has the unraveling of the sandwich makers shoulders to take as assurance he was heard.

Roman leans towards his brother in a much, much lower voice, “is this why you’ve been distracted? Because boy troubles?”

“Shut up!” Virgil hisses back and elbows him.

“That will be $23.36.” The cashier says effectively keeping them from breaking into a brawl at the counter.

Roman taps his foot in a series of three while Virgil pays with a debt card and takes their sandwiches and drink cups to a table.

“He’s flipping amazing,” Roman says once they’re sitting and Virgil’s stopped blushing through his concealer. “What’s the problem?”

“Can you read his thoughts right now?” Virgil hisses back. He does a great job of flicking a piece of lettuce off his sandwich.

“Can I-- YES!” Roman presses a hand to his chest in mock offense. “I am insulted you had to ask at all--”

“Just do it.” Virgil snaps and then folds his arms on the table and burrows his head into them without even attempting to eat his sandwich at all.

Roman imagines that Patton is floating over Virgil’s shoulder even if he can’t see the ghost. He hopes the ghost is as confused as he is, but he seriously doubts it.

“It shouldn’t be that hard.” Virgil mumbles, “He’s probably always thinking about him.”

Roman’s stomach drops for his brother, “A boy friend?” (He frowns at the needless separation of the words)

Virgil moans, “Worse.”

“He’s not straight,” Roman mumbles, because at least that much is obvious.

Virgil doesn’t give him a response, so Roman goes deeper. Dante’s thoughts are at odds with his actions, which throws Roman off when he goes to single them out from Virgil’s and the other workers and the small family that was eating across the dining area. Where he comes off as smooth and suave and absolutely sure of himself….

HOLY FUCK BROTHER DOES HOT RUN IN THE FAMILY WHAT THE FUCK--

...His thoughts are not. Roman chases the screaming through the astral plane with mild amusement. Even when the man is cleaning dishes in the back or checking bread or pacing the back, his thoughts are shouting with panic and he keeps coming back to the snapshot of Virgil at the counter. There’s fragments of emotions with it too, amusement, happiness, self embarrassment, as if he can’t believe he really called Virgil a Raccoon and Virgil let him.

Honestly with how much Virgil comes up in his mind, Roman can’t see why his brother isn't launching himself over the counter and dragging the sandwich maker to the freezer for an impromptu make out session.

Or at least he couldn’t.

Then Dante’s thoughts take a leap to the cook time on the last batch of bread, and then the clock, and then the current time and then--

“Dad!”

Roman’s head jerks as he lets go of the isolated thought process and comes back to reality. Virgil does not look up but half his sandwich is gone. Its looks very much like Virgil is throwing himself a pity party while Dante rounds the counter to catch a small child in a hug.

Its undeniably adorable. Roman’s own heart is melting at the sight. The kid can only be four at max, and he’s wearing a backpack almost as big as he is, with a spiderman theme. When the kid talks, he prattles on, and Dante listens to each word with adoration in his eyes.

“So he has got a kid,” Roman comments. He taps Virgil’s foot under the table, “Don’t tell me a kid is a turn off.”

“Roman, you know how I am with kids,” Virgil says. “I’m worse with kids than I am with adults! Which is saying something! The last living person I talked casually to called me a freak and threw a kickball at my face.”

“That was middle school, Miserable Mortuary.” Roman points out, and taps Virgil's foot again, “And if you remember, I beat the snot out of Alfred Hitchcockopolous for saying that. Not to mention, we are talking right this second.”

Virgil grunts sullenly, “Whatever. I’m still bad with kids. I give off that dark energy aura, remember? Give it an hour and Thomas will be running for the hills! There’s no way I could court his dad if he hates me. I’m not gonna drive that wedge between them.”

“You don’t know that yet! Have you talked to this Thomas?”

“And get labeled as a pedophile? No way, not happening.”

“Virgil,” Roman says pointedly (and taps Virgil's foot again), “I’m not saying approach the kid and offer him a joy ride in your crappy used silver Scion. You don’t have to even wait until Dante is out of earshot. Ask him about his favorite color.”

Virgil makes a rather pathetic noise in response. “It’s Dee. He hates being called Dante.”

Roman glances back at Dante the sandwich maker and Thomas the kid. Dante was getting him set up at a table by the counter where he could color in a cheap Star Wars coloring book. He hadn’t come in with anyone. Which was odd. It wasn’t like anyone would let a four year old ride the buses around town either. But surely if there was another parent in the mix they would have at least come in to see that Dante had received the kid, right?

Roman chews on his sandwich for a moment. His eyes are narrowed at his brother as the melody of thoughts roll over him. He’s seeing, feeling glimpses of something else from his brother something that’s making him even more upset than the whole Dad issue.

“What is it?” Roman says, because he’s terribly impatient for his brothers cryptic dance around thoughts.

“You know how I was busy last night?”

“Summoning the dead on a Tuesday?” Roman nods three times.

“Yeah,” Virgil says and drops his head again like a moody teenager. “Yeah that.”

Roman gets flashes of flash night from Virgil’s point of view: Patton kneeling beside him, McDonalds kids meals, too many melted candles, too many slight variations to the chalk circle, a long night. There’s an unsatisfied tinged to them, an unhappiness, a frustration and a nervousness.

It takes Roman a moment to work out what it means.

“Oh,” Roman says, “oh no.”

“Yeah,” Virgil bounces his head on his arms staring into his lap, “Thomas’s mother, Dee’s girlfriend, died in childbirth.”

The sandwich tastes foul in Romans mouth. Too much mayo and bad feelings from it. Virgil stuffs a chip in his mouth and crunches on it sadly.

Overall, it's not how Roman was expecting the lunch out to go.

"It's been four years though, right?" Roman tries, because even if Virgil and him give each other grief all the time, he never wants to see his brother unhappy. "He's definitely in to you, Vee. I have proof. He's moved on."

"That's not the issue," Virgil whines. His eyes flick over Romans shoulder where there's absolutely nothing there, which means that Patton the ghost is witnessing this exchange at least. "Ghosts are tricky businesses. For all I know, me dating Dee will cause a tremor in the afterlife and will bring a vengeful ghost down on the three of us."

"Isn't that an extremely rare occurrence?" Roman says.

Virgil huffs glaring to the side, "Not helping, Pat. And to answer your question, Ro, it is a rare occurrence. But I'm also a magical fucking beacon of dark energy that draws ghosts to myself. Do you really think that the odds are in my favor for this one?"

Roman squints at his brother, "Yes, I do? That is why I'm telling you to go talk to the kid?"

"I'm not going to talk to the kid," Virgil says stubbornly, "Not until I know I'm not gonna endanger him or Dee or… myself." He rubs the insides of his arms, and Roman gets flashes of an emergency room and his own fist in the walls. Neither of them say anything for a moment, and from the glassy look in Virgil's eyes, Patton chooses to be quiet too.

Then Virgil shakes his head and wards off the thoughts. "It's fine. Or whatever. Patton and I are going to do some deep research and I'll find a way to contact Marissa. If she gives me permission, I'll go ahead and talk to Dee again."

He wraps up the rest of his sandwich neatly and leans back in his chair facing the counter where Dante is replacing the produce selection. As if sensing him watching Dante's head tilts up and he winks towards Virgil with another snake like flick of his tongue piercing.

Virgil goes red in the face and stands up. "You know what, I'll be outside!"

Roman catches a glimpse of a dopey, stupid, lovesick smile on his brothers face and cant believe that hes not in a Hallmark movie. Really it's insulting now. This is drama gold and no ones even writing it down.

Dante frowns as Virgil flees the scene, and head to the back again with the clear intention to mope in his thoughts. Roman is left alone at a table, with half a sandwich. Which is fine! All fine!

Roman packs up their combined trash and saves the second half of Virgil's sandwich before he gets up and strolls across the restaurant to the trashcan near where Thomas is sitting. Once he throws his stuff away he stops by the table where the kid is sitting.

"Oh my lord!" Roman says, "Look at this magnificent art work! The colors, the lines, the texture! How very bold! Tell me artist, are you the one who crafted such intricate works?"

Thomas grins up at him bursting with joviality. "I am, mister! Who are you?"

"My name's Roman Prince, young artist!" Roman says, "I am trying to solve a problem that I think you can help me with."

"Me?" Thomas says, "What is it?"

Roman thinks that this kid would be very easy to kidnap.

"Well you see, my brother comes here quite often and he thinks your dad is very super nice." Roman explains the best he can, "He wants to be your dad's friend but my brother is very shy around people."

Thomas taps a red crayon to his lip, "He's that scary man that was over there, right? Dad talks about him a lot."

Roman smiles, "My brother talks about your dad a lot, too!" It's a lie, but really it's for a good cause. "I want them to be friends because they seem very happy together. How about I write down my brothers phone number and you give it to your dad for me?"

Thomas nods easily at the words, and then excitedly, "Then they can set up a playdate! Even if Mr. Purple is really scary, I think he makes dad laugh a lot. And Uncle Emile says laughing is good!"

Roman laughs at that. He scribbles out the numbers for Virgil's personal phone in red crayon on a napkin and gives Thomas a fist bump for teamwork. By the time Dante appears in the front again (with a cloud of suspicion and terror that a stranger is near his son) Roman gives him a cheery wave goodbye and is out the door.

(Virgil is lying in the middle of the parking lot just behind his car and asks Roman to run him over and put him out of his misery.)

(Roman does not run him over.)

(It does take twelve minutes to convince his hopeless brother to get off the asphalt and into the car for the ride back to Virgil's apartment.)

#psychic au #thomas sanders #sanders sides #roman sanders #virgil sanders #symapthetic deceit #deceit sanders #dadceit #patton sanders #Psychic!Roman #Necromancer!Virgil #kid!Thomas #coffee shops #anxceit #future logince #brotherly prinxiety #Number counting OCD #ghost!patton #sorry pat

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drunklander · 4 years

Text

Drunj!Der Yells About Outlander

Thoughts on Ep. 506

STAY AT HOOOOOOOME!!!!!

Ok, now that that’s out of the way... I kind of liked this episode. Which surprised me. Because usually I find myself neutral at best. But, considering how much I’ve hated disliked the last few seasons, I guess that feeling mostly neutral means this season has been better? The bar is low, y’all.

Could 1000% still use more Claire though. And more Jamie and Claire. And yes I know I’m saying that in the recap for an episode where the two of them bang.

I said what I said.

The title card’s powder blocker thingy looks like a plague doctor mask. We should bring those back. I found a box that had a bunch of them in it in the closet at my office once. That was weird. Also, stay the fuck at home and 6′ away from people if you have to go out on a supply run or take a walk.

Ooo, a flashback! I miss Scotland.

“Whom do I address, sir?” “I am Samuel Torrington,” said the guy who is most def *not* Samuel Torrington.

I know I shouldn’t laugh because of what’s about to happen, but looool at the girl for stepping in the literal one spot of mud.

Well that was dumb. Why the fuck would you run in between your dad and the guy he’s clearly gonna shoot?

I mean, it’s super sad, I guess. But also hella dumb.

Ah, a lavender pillow. Yes, I know it’s from the book. But between this and the BJR stuff, it’s like, do they know other smells exist?

But yeah, guess I shouldn’t talk since I have lavender hand soap, lavender lotion, lavender tea and a lavender candle.

It’s the best smell.

Ok, I get why Murcasta can’t be endgame. That was a good decision. But including Innes BeCaUsE tHe BoOk is dumb af. They got to the right decision to break up Murcasta, but for the wrong fucking reason.

Like, seriously though, can we please take a moment to appreciate how dumb this is? Like, book!Innes is from Ardsmuir. He’s been part of the squad. He’s basically one of Jamie’s most trusted friends. And he marries Jocasta. Show!Innes is literally some dude we’ve never heard of until last week because the fucking writers were like oh, Jocasta has to marry someone named Duncan Innes. Guess we should make that happen, out of the blue, for no other reason. Lazy idiots...

Jocasta has better handwriting than I do and I can fucking see what I’m doing.

Also lol at her straight up ignoring Roger saying that Jemmy won’t take her money.

Cut to Jemmy crying about the fact that he is now a participant in chattel slavery. I feel you, Jem.

Oh, it’s a cold? Ok fine, but also the whole chattel slavery thing.

ADSOOOOO! Such a good lil floofer! Look how nice he is, bringing them that excellent bug! WHO’S A GOOD KITTY? YOUUU ARE!

I really like Claire’s necklace. Also Claire’s neck. Also Claire’s collarbones. Also Claire. Can we have more Claire please? And less manpain in general?

D’awww, Lord John Grey the awkward gay. GIVE HIM AN APPROPRIATE BOYFRIEND ALREADY, YOU COWARDS.

Tryon is such a fucking douche. So is Quincy Arbuckle.

Well, it might not prevent tumultuous and riotous assembly, but not hanging out in groups larger than 10 sounds like a greAT FUCKING IDEA RIGHT NOW.

STAY AT HOOOOOOOOOOOOME. (If you are able to, and if you have to go to work, WASH YOUR HAAAAAAAAAAAANDS.)

Fergus, Marsali and Bree standing around this room being disappointed with Roger is A Mood™.

Team Give Fergus and Marsali More to Do

Oh, you’ve never been comfortable in your big fancy mansion? Poor you. *plays the world’s smallest violin*

News spreads slowly in/from the backcountry except, apparently, Claire’s medical advice.

Claire Fraser said reproductive rights!!! *ups monthly donation to Planned Parenthood*

The casting for Wylie is fucking perfect. Like kudos to the casting folks again.

I cared more about the Regulator shit in the show than the book because Murtz, but all the “Oh it’s happening! JK, it’s not! JK, it is!” that they took from the book is making me care less about it. Just happen already or fuck off.

Yes, I know it’s gonna happen next week.

Roger shoveling shit makes me happy. Because it’s gross and I do not like Roger.

“You keep shoveling your shit.” -- The Fandom Bree

Wylie should be a caricature with how fucking terrible he is, but let’s be real. We've all run into a guy like that.

Oh, Claire’s rings.

I did some mental gymnastics years ago to try to wrap my brain around why Claire would still wear an emotionally abusive piece of shit’s Fred’s ring. And the fact that the books and the show are like nope, she just likes Fred, drives me up a fucking wall every time.

“He must have been quite the man to inspire such devotion after all these years.” “Nah, he was an asshole. A complete and utter piece of shit. And instead of going with that and all the complexities it brings, we continue to gaslight the audience that he was a Good Dude. Instead of using the ring as a symbol of something more than fucking Fred, we just keep on pretending he didn’t suck.”

I hate everyone involved with refusing to acknowledge how shitty Fred was.

There is literally only one smuggler in the Carolinas.

DO NOT GO WITH THE CREEPY MAN TO A SECOND LOCATION. CLAIRE, THIS IS BEING A WOMAN 101. NEVER GO WITH A CREEP TO A SECOND LOCATION.

“I get a biblical plague.” You get what you deserve, Rog.

Jamie, chill with the extra testosterone. Just punch the bro or something.

Also don’t fucking blame the victim, asshole.

Literalol at Bree showing the women her like stick and sheet fan thing and then cut to all the people with just little squares, barely doing anything.

“Don’t stop! Keep your fires going!” *everyone stops and just stares at the bugs*

Gonna go ahead and take this time to remind folks that’s it’s fucking gross to get married on a plantation. Don’t do that thing.

I know a guy who is like proud of the fact that he’s an asshole. He talks about it like it’s one of his defining traits. This scene with Wylie being like “buddy, I love my shitty reputation” reminds he of that guy. I cannot fucking stand that guy.

*ignores Claire’s feelings about Fred’s dumb ring and headcanons in my own reasons instead because I cannot even with this nonsense anymore*

Ah, the Lindsays like Roger now. I still do not like Roger.

I fucking love this whole Murcasta scene. Can we get one of these for Jamie and Claire? I miss them having big sweeping scenes that have time to breathe and unfold and all the good shit like Murcasta gets here.

The show keeps trying to deny it, but scenes like this are where it’s strongest. But it refuses to accept that this is its lane and keeps trying to go elsewhere.

I miss Jamie and Claire.

I miss the MacKenzies.

I wanna give Jocasta a hug. She’s still trash for enslaving people, though.

Maria Doyle Kennedy is a goddamn treasure. Seriously, her casting was the best choice the show made in years.

That and saving Murtz, of course.

So fucking glad they cut the creepy-ass foot thing.

Jamie, you’re drunk, but read the fucking room. Claire’s right. Just because she says shit from the future all the time doesn’t negate the fact that she’s right about you right now. Also, seriously? You’re taking *this* opportunity to call her out?

Buddy deserved that slap.

Look, I’m always down for the Frasers to fuck. More Fraser fucking, I say. But this is just another instance like their fight at Lallybroch where the fight itself is never actually resolved like it should be. They just fuck about it and magically everything is ok again. Le sigh.

Murcasta gets a big long scene with time to breathe and talk through everything and it’s riveting af. But Jamie and Claire never get that anymore and it pisses me off tbh.

Stop shoehorning in book lines! She can’t see shit through all the skirts and stuff!

I miss the Lallybroch ring. What did they ever end up doing with it? It’s floating around somewhere.

Bonnet is so evil to 11 about fucking everything that it makes him boring. We get it. You’re a bad guy. Do you also have a tiny dick or something that you’re overcompensating for?

Can we please wrap this Bonnet shit up this season? I swear if they drag it out as long as they do in the books I’m gonna be rull annoyed.

Ok so now the war is actually gonna for real happen and I’m like legit out of fucks to give about it because Murtz aside, they’ve done the “it’s coming, jk!” fake out too many times...

Can they try to hang Murtz instead? Because I swear spending half a season with emo!Roger is cruel and unusual punishment.

#*#outlander starz #outlander 5x06 #drunj!der yells about outlander

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megs-writing · 4 years

Text

Summary: Virgil takes the light sides to a haunted house to prove Halloween can be fun, but they find the horror ride was a bit scarier than they thought. The ride is enchanted by one of the dark sides to force each side to face their personal fears and try to escape with everyone unharmed. Ships: Prinxiety, Logicality, Warnings: Hallucinations Word count: 1541 *This is based off a dream I had a few nights ago so some of this is dream logic just roll with it.*

The four friends have been waiting in line for almost an hour, watching the haunted house get closer and closer to them every minute. All of this was Virgil’s idea- a sort of way to say I’m sorry for trying to scare you out of your pants but I still wanna show you how cool Halloween can be when the scaring is done right. Out of everyone, Patton was the one that was the most scared about coming. He still agreed to it since everyone else was, and spending time with friends was just as special as anything else. Logan worked as a distraction for him as they got closer to the building and more spiderwebs could be seen in the bushes. The two had eventually run out of games to play to pass time and turned to letting Patton ramble about something that happened in a dream. From what Virgil picked up from their conversation there was a dog, and Patton took him from the owner and kept picking up random people’s dogs until he had like ten.

Most of Virgil’s attention had been on Roman, who had been trying his hardest not to complain about how long the line was and talked to Virgil about the endless cool decorations that filled the line (the same spooky decorations Logan and Patton were trying not to talk about). Many of them were motion detectors that made the machine jump out and light up at whoever was walking by, and Roman got a good laugh when the first one went off and made Virgil jump a mile almost into his arms. He saw them coming after that and tried his hardest not to flinch whenever one suddenly screamed at him. A few of the decorations held baskets of candy meant for the guests to take but both Logan and Virgil mentioned it wouldn’t be a good idea to take them. Most of them were empty from the line in front of them, and you don’t know if people had messed with the open candy in the baskets. It wasn’t worth the risk.

As the line ahead of them started to go down Patton had snapped out of his own world and began to notice the decorations surrounding them, but he was quiet unlike what Logan expected. He got closer to him and eventually decided to rest is hand on Logan’s arm to help calm down. There wasn’t anything to be scared of, yet at least. Maybe that’s what he was telling himself. It was hard to tell from standing behind the two.

After a moment they could see the inside of the building, which sort of looked like a haunted mansion in a vampire world, but better lit. The walls were lined with gold diamond-patterned wallpaper with lanterns hooked to the walls and fake candles flickering inside of them. The people in front of them were being lowered into moving carts below the ground that traveled into the house on their own, two at a time. It was obvious Logan and Patton didn’t want to be separated at the time so the last two mentally agreed they would go together. Getting closer you could see the carts sort of looked like a Halloween pumpkin carriage that had giant windows with no glass and brown stains on the walls making the pumpkin look like it was rotting. When the two were lowered in they could see only a few feet of space between them, and no seats or handles inside of the plastic carriage.

Three giant windows let them see the dirt walls of the tunnel and the back of the pumpkin Logan and Patton were in front of them. Speakers were set up in each corner of their space, drowning out all of the talking with loud sounds of rustling trees and howls. Virgil reached out and brushed his hand against the dirt. No glass. Meaning anything can and will get inside to attack. Roman must have been paying attention to his reaction.

“You know anything that gets in here I can protect you from. I’m not going to let anything hurt you.” Roman hovered his hand over his sword, showing he was ready to draw it any second if he had to.

“You know it’s all fake right? It’s all lights and paid workers. You can’t use that here.” Roman’s first instinct was to flinch when Virgil moved his hand away from the handle. After taking a breath he started to fidget with the ends of his sash not knowing what else to do with his hands.

“No, it’s… Something’s not right. It feels like I’m in your room again.” Virgil was quiet waiting for him to continue. “You don’t feel it? The moment we stepped in here it was like- Like a mountain of bricks dropped in your head. No that’s not right- I don’t know.” He looked at the moving walls outside the window, pushing forward. “Yeah. It’s all pretend. I’ll protect you from whatever it is though. I promise.”

Just when it was almost pitch black the dirt wall turned into an open room, with glowing projections of ghosts and flashing lights and echoes of screams in the speakers. Virgil instantly moved to the window to see. On the opposite side was the same mess, but Roman wasn’t as excited to see the monsters floating dangerously close to their cart. He gripped his hand on the handle of his sword, ready to pull it out in case any of them actually started to attack. The thing Virgil couldn’t see while focused on taking in the rest of the haunted house made it way through the window and into their cart. It’s pretend. It’s pretend, right? It’s now inside the car.

Roman could never describe what it was. It was a sort of, thing. A slimy creature with thin arms and large sharp claws on each hand, glowing dark green to be seen in the darkness. The darkness only Roman could see and he assumed everyone else could too. He slowly brought his sword out of his sash, pointing it at the creature slowly getting closer to him. He wouldn’t use it unless it jumped, he promised. Maybe it was only meant to scare him and it would go away in a moment. But he didn’t dare move until then.

“See Ro? It’s just… lights…” When Virgil turned he saw Roman with his sword drawn, pointed at the faint outline of a ghoul. A projection, Virgil had assumed, but it was hard to tell where it was coming from. It looked real to him. Slowly Virgil moved towards him and brushed his hand through the lights to help Roman relax a little. “It’s a projection, I think. It’s all lights.”

Virgil still had to project his voice to be heard over the speakers, and even then it was hard to tell if the prince actually heard what he said. It was hard to hear anything instead of ghostly screams and howling. Roman backs up until he hits the wall, thinking nothing could sneak up behind him if he did.

“I-it’s fake.”

“What?”

“It’s-” Roman suddenly screams, dropping the weapon falling to his knees with his hands shielding his head. Dark shadows swirled above him, with glowing eyes and sharp looking claws, reminding him of the Shadowman’s friends. What had to be at least 20 of them were surrounding him, moving too fast to look at one before it gets lost with the rest of it’s friends. After a second the shadows completely block his view of the prince and stop him from being able to help.

Roman felt like he was trapped in a storm. He managed to sit up again after being pushed down the second time, by what was probably the same ghoul that struck him first. Pain still stung in his shoulders and back from the attacks. He reached his sword again, which this time made a loud screeching sound when it brushed against the concrete floor. The weapon wouldn’t be useful against imaginary ghosts, but the false security helped him. One thing for sure, the creatures didn’t look or sound imaginary. His emo friend was nowhere to be seen now, not that he would be much help in fighting if he wasn’t. He may have been trying, but it wouldn’t matter unless he was successful.

A painful shock struck Virgil’s hand when he reached into the storm to help. For just a second, one of the shadows held onto his hand and dug what felt like real claws into his skin, leaving a scratch behind once it finally let go. That was real. A fake projection couldn’t leave a real wound, even if it was really light. He couldn’t imagine how much of it Roman felt.

In a wave of panic he pushed himself into the storm and the same shock pierced through his arm, and left his hoodie torn when he managed to get out of it. The force made his stumble to the ground after letting go, and slowly getting up again he watched them. Despite the pain, it was really impressive for a haunted house. Or it was real, which wasn’t possible.

Taglist: @winterrs-child @remusthedukeofdeodorant @thecatchat @stop-it-anxiety @znikitrash @awkwardandanxiousfander @nowletmeseeyourkezzhands @prox-xima @hela-daughter-of-loki @arcticfrostdoesthings @yalltookmyurlideas @id-rather-go-live-in-a-trash-can @soupgromlin

#this is an awkward ending #oof #megan's writing #prinxiety #logicallity #this was supposed to have a part 2

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the-duke-of-deodorant · 5 years

Text

I Don’t Know What To Name This Yet Part 1/? Summary: Virgil takes the light sides to a haunted house to prove Halloween can be fun, but they find the horror ride was a bit scarier than they thought. The ride is enchanted by one of the dark sides to force each side to face their personal fears and try to escape with everyone unharmed. Ships: Prinxiety, Logicality, Warnings: (it’s a spooky writing but not super violent. Just spooky) Whole fic- Unsympathetic Remus (Virgil’s fear), Horror illusions/hallucinations, mind-reading, sort of Unsympathetic Deceit? This part- Hallucinations, Word count: 1541 *This is based off a dream I had a few nights ago so some of this is dream logic just roll with it.*

“I-it’s fake.”

“What?”

Taglist: @winterrs-child @remusthedukeofdeodorant @thecatchat @stop-it-anxiety @znikitrash @awkwardandanxiousfander @nowletmeseeyourkezzhands

*this is sort of an awkward ending but there’s another part coming soon/eventually*

#i know i said i'd do y'allsehood first but this one happened to be finished first and i wanted to post something today #prinxiety #halloween writing #spooky

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sheeple · 5 years

Text

Supernatural!housemates

GIFS NOT MINE. THIS IS ALL FICTION. Genre(s): bullet point / supernatural!au / humour Group(s): NCT Pairing(s): None Summary: Just a bullet point my friends and I made one evening Warning(s): None [Masterlist]

Okay, first of all

this household consists of all supernatural guys

they have a coffin-shaped shoe rack, bags of blood lying in the fridge, floating books

they try to hide the blood in plain sight

like a clear pitcher with blood labelled ‘strawberry juice, do not touch’

blood sausage but it’s more clotted blood shaped like a sausage

popsicles and ice cubes made out of blood

there lives this really pale guy that works at day and goes to night school and never seems to sleep

that’s vampire!Taeyong

he’s not the ‘I’m a thousand years old emo vampire without feeling’ kind

more the ‘I turned 40 years ago. I’m still learning and soft’

he has a fascination with lava lamps

nobody knows why

there’s also merman!Johnny

he’s a freshy, so they build a pond in their backyard to not raise suspicion

it bubbles and has steam and johnny just enjoys being outside

but he prefers the bathtub in the bathroom right next to his and wizard!Kun’s room

him flooding the bathroom floor and the rest always complain about it

they bang the door so Johnny can hear them bc he has the speaker on full volume

Ghost!Haechan just pops his head through the door to tell Johnny to hurry tf UP

ugh Johnny man, idk if you hear them but you need to get outta here quick bc Kun needs the bathroom to pee

Even tho there are like five other bathrooms in the house, he needs to use that one because the seat is charmed to be heated

and johnny likes the tub there bc it's the biggest so they always fight about it

Haechan pulling a moaning Myrtle in hp 4 and getting in with him. He just shimmies his shoulders and gives Johnny a smug smirk

hey fishy fishy / Mr fish / Mr fishyyy

then vampire!Taeyong would just stare at them, shrug, and goes to his room to sleep

let’s move on to Ghost!Haechan

he died just three days before he turned 18 so he’s stuck at 17

he likes to wear white duvet covers with a pair of sunglasses or a hat

annoys the living shit out of everybody

just walks through walls, invading their privacy

wizard!Kun and sorcerer!Ten always shake their head when Haechan moonwalks through their room

wizard!Kun and his cousin sorcerer!Ten don’t know how they got wrapped up in this mess

they both own a black cat named Eleven

Kun’s more into potions and Ten into spells

Kun owns a small potion shop on the supernatural part of town

he also makes scented candles in his cauldron and putting it in smaller cauldrons to sell

Ten sometimes helps in the shop but prefers not to

he rather flies around on his broom and casts small spells on unsuspected pedestrians

it’s nothing big, just childish fart spells and other kinds of silly spells

he only hexes people who hurt him or his loved ones

werebunny!Doyoung was once the victim of one of those spells of Ten

he couldn’t take one step without farting rainbows

even when he was in bunny form, he let out these really small nuggets of rainbows

he owns an English bulldog to protect him once he’s in bunny mode

even though that dog wouldn’t hurt a fly

Haechan wanted to name him Poopy but Doyoung named him Harry

Haechan still calls him Poopy, and the pup listens to it

Friday evening is cocktail evening

they would so totally have a bar

otherwise, the spellcasters won’t survive

Taeyong and Doyoung sitting outside under a pitch-black parasol with shades on their nose sipping bloody marries

only Tae’s is made from real blood

Doyoung accidentally taking Tae’s drink and takes a sip

Taeyong how many times do I have to tell you to LABEL YOUR DRINK

Doyoung, we’re outside! And it’s in a wine glass AND I DON’T BRING MARKERS WITH ME

I DON’T CARE. GO TO KUN AND ASK FOR A POTION YOU CAN PUT IN YOUR GLASS SO I CAN DIFFERENTIATE IT FROM MINE

the whole time snarky remarks

it’s a chaos

but they love each other, some way or another

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dnpdudes · 4 years

Text

Phil liveshow #9

Let's try this week :)

Mines is a bit laggy sorry if I miss anything

General chat and news

•He looks so nice today

•aw Christmas background

-clock on the mantel, he hates clocks, reminds him of the passage of time and he cant sleep if theres a clock.

-He likes the tree,good color scheme

•He hasn't gotten new Wish ads

-hes wearing the Nick cage joggers.....

-everyones telling him to prove it

-JSEJJEJE THE LEG SHOT

-The incense smelled and seeped into everything

•God Phil's a nerd

-GOD THE SLOW FLOAT BACK DOWN DJDJJD

•exam advice- dont look at the people around you to not sike yourself out.

•Norman cam,

-he built a bubble nest

-"He wants some fish loving"....

-the tank decor

-he brings Phil joy whenever hes in the room

•Got candles on black friday

-Festive candle:

-Alpine mint

-It's like throwing a mint milkshake up your nose

-3 1/2 stars

-Candle lit cabin

-a bit smokey

(They'd lit their fireplace in the old phlat with the door closed until they were dizzy...idiots)

• pretty snowy background

•He just finished Sheild

•I too do not like Sobbles final evolution

-overall it was alright he loved the new pokemon

•He hasnt watched rewind 2019

(I dont like it :/ it's boring just stats)

-He liked the ones he was in lmao

•Glitch tweet talk

-lmao tweeted the same thing between 4 years 5 minutes on the same day

•Fursona is a rabbit

-RABBIT FURSUIT

-someone said maybe he's allergic to his Christmas tree

-Voldemort

•Looking for Christmas presents

-Big potato sent him a bunch if board games on being What Came First?

-Game chip asmr

-Become a asmr channel Phil

-Head to game time

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

•PINOF Animated 2

-legends supporting LEGENDS

•Broke a box in the new vid

•no festive codex this year

-He and Dan are using the mince pie codex this year eye

•Please don't bring the spaghetti back up phil

•Yamper is his fav pokemon

-he got sent a gigantic pokemon advent calander!!! Wtf!

•PHIL DNDNDN

-basically roasted us with a pokemon

-He's a lurantis

-We're defense

-he has nice looking cards

-a shiny audio

-Phil.... crochet.....CROCH ET ED IM

•Lmao someone asked what was in his browsing history he said dont go there

•He wants a xbox game and Turkish delight for Christmas and Percy pigs?

-wtf is a percy pig

•Lol he did a buzzfeed quiz

-Fav part of holiday: spending time with family

-when should stores start playing Christmas music: dec 1

-Give or recieve presents: both

-choose cute holiday animal: dog with Santa hat

-Hes mulled wine lmao

•Hes been watching Demon slayer

•-GOOD PLACE YEA!!

-love that show

•Nicolas cage knees....

•He sunk out lol

Future fashion trends

•Annalise: predicts that clothes made with tiny mirrors will catch on

•Cam: Bra covered in teeth to hang on their wall

•Zoe: a nose scarf to keep their nose warm

-Phil has a icy beak lol

-a velvet clown nose

-nose heater airpods

•Nightfury: Colored eyebrows

-mentioning jenna marvels twice legends

-Gay eyebrows

-GAYBROWS

•Dania: emo hair lmao

-he'll stick to the quiff

-He doesn't suit long hair according to him

-News story of the week-

-In milton a rabbit has been discovered a rabbit with a ear coming out of its forehead its named Wonky

(Narwal has been adopted)

~Gaming time~

What came first

•Tamogochi or Furby

-Tamogichi?

I was right!!

•Netflix or milly bibby brown

-Netflix def

I was right!

•lazer tag or paintball

-Paintball?

I was right 3 for 3!!

No Props chest time this week

#amazing phil #phil lester #phil liveshow #phil liveshow 9 #12/8/19

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justyncase · 6 years

Text

How I Gay Died- Chapter One

Previous Next

Prologue Chapter One (you are here), Chapter Two (to be added),

Plot: The long lost Prince Virgil and the renowned thief Prince Creativity embark on an adventure to find Virgil’s true home.

Word Count: 928

Many years passed and the Prince became seventeen. Virgil’s hair had become long and evermore vibrant. Strangely enough, Deceit seemed to never age. He kept himself young and healthy. The tower became a home to the prince. He painted the walls and every single inch of the tower.

Virgil laid in his dark purple bed. His room was dark covered in paints and notebooks. He had a very busy schedule every day. For now he would just lay in bed and sleep until Patton woke him up. Patton was a chameleon. A blue chameleon at that. He was a present from Deceit years ago and Virgil’s best friend.

Every morning, Patton would crawl into bed with Virgil and sit on his face. Virgil was a light sleeper so it woke him right up. This morning was no different.

Virgil got up, shooing Patton off of his face. He changed into different set of clothes (not that there were many to choose from). Today’s choice: was a dark purple tie-up shirt and black capri pants. He also had a black and purple sweater that he just restitched every few years.

Anyways, it was 6:45 when Patton woke him up. By the time he was done getting up it was seven and time to start on his chores. His chores were as follows: sweeping the floor, polishing things, waxing things, laundry, and mopping. Virgil did all of that in about 45 minutes. Today, he was feeling productive, but also like painting (which isn’t all that productive). But he knew there were other things for him to do.

Virgil began to read his school books, learning the content he had been given. Reading a few fiction books that he kept inside his room. Reading was the second hour of his day. After reading he would paint a canvas.

The canvas began with a turquoise background over the entire thing. Virgil then added grey-purple clouds. While waiting for the clouds and background to dry, he worked on his scarf, cooked some lunch, and played the guitar. After all that, Virgil added a golden lightning bolt to the painting. and a dark purple flower to the bottom of the painting. The flower was outlined in gold, making it pop.

After lunch, Virgil began on a puzzle of the night sky. He did that while baking one two (five) batches of cookies. After he was done both of those (the puzzle took longer), he did some paper-mache of a volcano. That took about 2.5 hours. He then put some music on the record player and danced a bit. He and Patton also did a few games of chess.

Next in the day’s plan was to make candles. He could only make a few. But they smelled good when you burned them, so it was worth it. After candles, he sketched some random things. Like flowers and storms. Virgil afterwords sewed Patton a light blue dress (of which the chameleon was indifferent about). After that, a plain spot on the wall caught his attention.

With that new space, Virgil started with a dark blue paint. He covered the entire area. Once that dried, he painted a field of green, meant to be trees. While that dried, he painted golden rectangles, the floating lights that appeared on his birthday. The green had finally dried and he painted himself on top. The full long purple hair and all.

~-~

A young man with brown hair ran with another young man. They were on top of a castle. The first man, was called ‘Prince Creativity. He wore a tattered red shirt, brown pants, brown boots, and a black belt. His hair was on the longer side.

The second man was called Remy Lethargy. He wore a white shirt with a black leather vest and black pants. He had a scar over his right eye and always wore sunglasses. Princey, stopped for a second at the top to take in the view.

“Wow. I could get used to a view like this. It’s absolutely magnificent.” Prince said, a grin upon his face.

Remy was more than fed up with the taller man. “C, come on!”

“Hold on, Leth. Wait. Yep, I’m used to it. Remy, I want a castle.” Princey called out to the other.

“Listen, we’ll do this job and then you can buy a castle. But now we do this.”

Prince rolled his eyes and turned around. Remy tied a rope around the other’s waist and let him down the roof. Slowly, Prince was sent down the hole. He eventually stopped.

The bottom was a throne room with a cloud and lightning clearly as an insignia of some sort. There were a line of guards in front of a dark purple and gold crown. Luckily, Prince was sent down a whole behind the guards. One of them, almost directly in front Prince, sneezed.

“Hay fever?” Prince responded.

The guard slightly looked back as he replied, “Yeah.” and then the guard looked back in front, not realizing who spoke. A split second later, the guard looked back at Prince, who had the crown and was being pulled back up to the top. “Wait! Creativity get back here!” the guard called at him.

Remy and Princey were quickly running away from the castle. They ran in silence until they got to the footbridge.

“Can’t you picture me in a castle of my own? Cause I certainly can. All the things we’ve seen and it’s only eight in the morning. My good sir, this is a very big day!” Creativity exclaimed.

“Hey Princey, shut up!” Remy replied.

Tag List: @slytherinhippie, @we-are-all-lost-boys, @notjustaterran, @sanderssides, @rougeoisie, @tonxed @thegayestpotatochip, @the-angel-of-death-and-donuts, @changeling-ash, @annoying-slytherin, @its-jambi-baby, @slxrredwords, @sylveon-lover-crazyfangirl1415, @romanhottopic, @delightfulzdazedmoon, @xosabrinayo, @my-emo-nightmare, @not-solange-lol, @music-is-my-suicide, @homxcomxcmm

#prinxiety #prinxiety fic #virgil sanders #roman sanders #creativity sanders #anxiety sanders #sander sides #how i gay died #fic: how i gay died #not hp #not rp

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hermitologist · 6 years

Text

My 17 Favorite Records of 2017

Hello, Internet. Yet another year has passed, and because I’ve made a habit of making year-end lists, this old man has gone and done it again.

I listened to a veritable buttload of music this year on my morning runs, which I decided to post about on Instagram most days in a concerted effort to keep myself accountable bore every last one of my followers to death. I think it’s working.

What follows, is my list of favorites. Not “best”. “Favorite”. *My* favorite. So, spare me the “Your list sucks. WTF. I can’t believe “A Vest For Jerome” by Turd Circus isn’t on there!” comments. I’m sorry we don’t have the exact same taste in music. :)

As usual, I feel like the top 5 or 6 here are pretty carved in stone, but the last 12 and some of the honorable mentions could totally be flip-flopped depending on which side of the bed I woke up on. I actually fiddled with a few spots five minutes before posting this, which is either a testament to that or Exhibit 4,923 in my undiagnosed OCD case.

Anyways ... TL;DR. Here’s what I was into this year. I hope you find something you enjoy.

IMPORTANT: Please let me know what I might missed out on (as I’m sure there’s a ton of it), and share some of your favorites in the comments below. Thanks!

17) Japandroids - Near To The Wild Heart Of Life

This didn’t quite grab me the way Celebration Rock did, but it’s got a good number of super infectious earworms that got stuck in my brain at the top of the year.

Listen here.

16) Sorority Noise - You’re Not As ____ You Think

Excellent “emo”with that feels like it could very easily fit into Brand New’s discography (and I mean that in a very complimentary way). Highly recommended if you’re looking for something to fill that void.

Listen here.

15) Queens of the Stone Age - Villains

This took a little while for this record to sink its teeth into me, but once it did, it didn’t let go. The arrangements are so nuanced that I’ve found little bits of ear candy each time I’ve listened to it, and while the mix is not my favorite, the songs are so brilliantly catchy and drumming so monstrous, I’m hooked. And Jon Theodore is the best drummer on Earth. That’s not debatable either. It’s fact.

Listen here.

14) David Bazan - Care

It’s no secret that I’m a sucker for anything and everything Bazan. His lyrics and the timbre of his voice cut to my core, and the songs on Care are no exception -- even when they’re delivered over minimalist electronica (which is not my favorite vehicle by any stretch). Another Bazan masterpiece.

Listen here.

13) Glassjaw - Material Control

This record is perfect in that it is exactly what it needs to be. It’s Glassjaw doing what they do best -- intense, vibey, groovy, heavy post-hardcore that is a logical follow-up to Worship & Tribute, while flexing and pushing enough to make it feel fresh. A tremendous return to form, and a record that was well worth the wait.

Listen here.

12) Julien Baker - Turn Out The Lights

Sprained Ankle blew me away and knocked me on my ass, and somehow, some way, Baker has leveled up and topped that. The stripped-down “artist + guitar” intimacy is still there, but the heavy moments hit even harder because of the additional orchestration on this record. Such a promising future for her.

Listen here.

11) The Life & Times - S/T

Another excellent record from some of one of Kansas City’s best bands. There are few who do airy, melancholic, spacey, dynamic rock better than these guys. And Chris Metcalf is one of the best drummers on the planet right now -- so pockety, tasteful, and effortless. Highly recommended if you dig Failure, Shiner, Hum, Antenna-era Cave In, et al.

Listen here.

10) METZ - Strange Peace

This beast is 36 minutes of noisy, nasty, heavy post-punk with stellar guitar and bass tones, and badass drumming that sounds like the best parts of Nirvana and Young Widows had a perfect lovechild. I dare you to listen to this record and not have an overwhelming urge to play it as loud as you possibly can and headbang until your eyes fall out of your skull.

Listen here.

9) CHON - Homey

I really enjoyed this when it came out, but it wasn’t until we spent five weeks on tour with them and got to see them shred a handful of these songs on a nightly basis that it really grabbed ahold of me. This record is stellar. Sure there are a ton of notes, but they’re all tasteful, never bogged down in painfully long prog opuses, and there’s so much feel here ... which is so rare in the new world of insanely chopped, gridded and sampled prog. The splashes of hip-hop and glitchy Prefuse 73 style electronica are a killer addition to the mix as well. This is the feel good record of the year for me.

Listen here.

8) Kendrick Lamar - DAMN.

There really isn’t another rapper who holds a candle to Kendrick at the moment, and this might be the best work of his career. I haven’t had a hip-hop record hit me like this in at least a decade. I was hooked from the second the beat dropped in DNA., got roped in even more by the slow jam LOVE., and HUMBLE. sealed the deal. What a beast.

Listen here.

7) Cloud Nothings - Life Without Sound

This record rules, but I’m not sure I can put my finger on exactly why I like it so much. It’s got tiny elements of so many bands I love or used to love without being overly referential. It’s got a melancholic vibe but never lacks energy. And it is packed with really, really well written and catchy songs without full-blown pop circus. You know you’re listening to a great record when you’re playing a deep cut and uncontrollably blurt, “Fuck, this song is good.”

Listen here.

6) Converge - The Dusk In Us

Nobody does it better than these dudes, and it’s been that way for the better part of two decades. The Dusk In Us is yet another record a discography full of bar-setting hardcore/metal/noise records that elevate the ceiling of the genre and make everyone else sound/look bland in comparison. This one slides right into the #3 or #4 spot in that storied discography. So great.

Listen here.

5) Manchester Orchestra - A Black Mile To The Surface

This is one of those rare records that blows you away on first listen, and gets better with each subsequent listen. The former happens when the songs --stripped to their bones -- are stellar, and the latter happens when the arrangements and mix are somehow even more stellar. ABMTTS checks the shit outta both of those boxes and then some. Aaaand it was made with multiple producers, but doesn’t sound disjointed in the slightest, which seems damn near impossible. It’s the perfect Manchester Orchestra record ... “The Gold” was stuck pleasantly in my head for a majority of the year.

Listen here.

4) Pile - A Hairshirt Of Purpose

Disclaimer: I am a late adopter of the majesty of Pile, but I am happy to announce that I am hopelessly hooked on their soulful, noisy, schizophrenic, (occasionally) dreamy, fusion of post-punk, blues, and all sorts of other good things. My entry point was Dripping, but A Hairshirt ... cemented my love for this band. It’s weird, it’s beautiful, it’s energetic, it’s heavy, it’s ethereal, and the musicianship is frustratingly good. If you know, you know ... if you don’t, just trust me. Spin it with an open mind and meet one of your new favorite bands.

Listen here.

3) Propagandhi - Victory Lap

I grew up on Epitaph and Fat Wreck Chords punk rock in the 90s, and these guys (and gal) are legitimately the only band of that era that continue to excite and inspire me. I look forward to every release, and they manage to deliver every. single. time. It’s not a nostalgia thing with Propagandhi. Chris Hannah’s lyrics, melodies, and guitar playing continue to push the boundaries of what can be done in that genre. You might expect a group of 40-year-old punks to decline or at least plateau, but they’re still on an upward trajectory and it’s inspiring as hell. Bonus points if you’re a parent and can listen to “Adventures In Zoochosis” without tearing up. Victory Lap is outstanding -- one of their three best records without question.

Listen here.

2) Cloakroom - Time Well

If you’ve been following me here, on Twitter, or Instagram, it’s no secret that I’ve got a massive soft spot in my heart for bummer jams -- especially bummer jams of the heavy variety. Time Well is a damn near perfect in those regards. It’s shoegazey without being tired or overly jangly, mildly doomy without being mind-numbingly boring, and fuzzy without sounding like it was recorded inside a sleeping bag. I’m pretty sure I listened to this record more than anything else this year, and after probably a hundred spins, it hasn’t lost any of its luster. It’s outstanding (and it’s got some damn tasty drumming on it too).

Listen here.

1) Elder - Reflections Of A Floating World

My buddy Scott Evans (Kowloon Walled City vocalist/guitarist, Antisleep recording engineer/producer, multi-talented human, generally outstanding dude, recommender of many amazing bands) turned me on to these guys earlier this year by sharing 2015′s Lore with me. That record f-ing floored me. Riffs for days. Heaviness. Prog vibes. Stoner rock goodness. Dynamics. Space. Sabbath-y vocals. It checked all of the boxes. Needless to say, I couldn’t wait to hear Reflections Of A Floating World.

ROAFW dropped in June, and it’s even better than I could have imagined. I’d wager that there are more sick riffs on this record than your favorite band has in their entire discography. I dare you to listen to this and not get a twitch to start a play air guitar. Also: How the shit do you write 15-minute songs that don’t bore people into catatonia? This is how. Just like this. Parts never drag, parts never feel like they’re just filler, and there isn’t a wasted moment in 64 minutes of music. That’s a remarkable feat in and of itself. This is a goddamn timeless record, and there’s no doubt I’ll have it in heavy rotation for the rest of my life.

Listen here.

HONORABLE MENTIONS

The Effects - Eyes To The Light

Brutus - Burst

Nate Smith - KINFOLK: Postcards From The Edge

Employed To Serve - Warmth of A Dying Sun

God Mother - Vilseledd

Slowdive - Sugar For The Pill

Hundredth - RARE

Mutoid Man - War Moans

Grizzly Bear - Painted Ruins

Quicksand - Interiors

Death From Above - Outrage! Is Now

Power Trip - Nightmare Logic

Health - DISCO3

Vince Staples - Big Fish Theory

All Them Witches - Sleeping Through The War

Code Orange - Forever

Blis - No One Likes You

Bjork - Utopia

Less Art - Strangled Light ;)

MY FAVORITE RECORD OF 2015 THAT I DIDN’T HEAR UNTIL 2017

Town Portal - The Occident

MY FAVORITE RECORD OF 2004 THAT I DIDN’T HEAR UNTIL 2017

The Stella Link - Mystic Jaguar... Attack!!!

CURRENT PODCAST QUEUE

Chapo Trap House (Grey Wolf Feed)

The Trap Set

Song Exploder

Slate’s The Gist

Slate’s Hang Up & Listen

INTERCEPTED

The FilmDrunk Frotcast

Deadcast

How I Built This

Freakonomics Radio

Radiolab

This American Life

#music #musician #year end lists #top 17 #thrice #riley breckenridge #hermitology

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demonphannie · 7 years

Text

dan and phil - july 2017

7/12

first week (1-7): crash bandicoot review from dan. wow phil tweets about crash bandicoot. more crash bandicoot tweets (when will they play for the gaming channel?!?!?!). thomas sanders is a darling and loves dan and phil. phil ordered pizza to the old phlat. dan and phil in YOUTUBERS REACT TO BTS (K-Pop). phil liked baby driver. new gaming video: DIL GIVES BIRTH! - Dan and Phil Play: Sims 4 #42. dan enjoys sharing with the internet that phil finds it stupid that dan wears a hoodie and his boxer briefs around the house. fourth of july pancake tweet #content. dan liveshow! (highlights: missing the america flight, people were doing shots on the plane, he pet a lot of dogs in la, cool fka twigs merch, dan basically just took a facebook pillow from vidcon without consent, dogs and babies make him happy, also asparagus, he doesn’t wanna give dalien to the aliens, lorde is good, also vince staples, he was nervous curling phil’s hair, dan is dumb and thinks yoi is queerbaiting, dan wants a grand piano). phil hates grapefruit. dan loves it when you call him danyul howul. phil bought a v v tall houseplant and also they have round walls. phil liveshow! (highlights: he thought it would be a smaller plant, jetlaggy, he feels a sore throat coming on, phil is not an iron man supporter, get on the right team, iron man is overrated, stop living in the past, fruity juggler, cat’s dog sigma is v v good, the next sims is a house decorating, baby driver was good, phil is a finger guns kinda guy, scary spider means it’s time to move, he took a quiz and he is a humanitarian, hamsters are my city). anthony padilla series pt i: Stop saying we look alike! (ft. Daniel Howell). marshmallow drinks from phil.

second week (8-14): london pride tweets from dan and phil ❤️💛💚💙💜. also dan is there in spirit and if i’m not mf crying right now??????? wow. new gaming video: STOP SEARCHING FOR THIS! - Dan and Phil Play: HIGHER OR LOWER. dan is the mom friend as confirmed by anthony. phil loved spiderman homecoming. “Does it count as half a press-up if I just lie on the floor?” inspirational quotes from phil lester. watch dan and phil play ddr it’s good. the rain is god peeing on you. new daniel howell video: Would you date THE REAL Dan? (what a loser honestly). phil gets emotional over undercover boss. dan realized that he was flirting with all his neighbors on tinder. phil liveshow! (highlights: he placed a plant behind him but it doesn’t usually go there phil lester is a fake, he isn’t sick as he thought, fruity boye, crash bandicoot playing with dan, it’s not vodka it’s water, going to wimbledon on sunday!!!!, appreciating tennis face, voting for what shirt he’s going to wear, dan thinks he looks like a white science teacher, the pug shirt wins, he’s happy dan is taking care of the houseplants, excited for game of thrones, ice cream floats are good, the lesters used to go to lagos every summer in the same house, portugal with the lesters stories, excited for stranger things, get someone that knows law to check your renting contract, phil is a unicorn hipster, he does a buzzfeed quiz, anthony uploading bloopers with dan is an excuse to leave). anthony padilla series pt ii: Stop saying we look alike! [BLOOPERS] (ft. Daniel Howell). dan and phil raised a lot of money for the red cross with the manchester shirts good job boyes! new amazingphil video/anthony padilla series pt iii: Anthony, Dan or a RAT? NATHAN ZED POSTS A PIC OF THEM TOGETHER WOW THANK YOU GOD.

third week (15-21): dan is back in his hometown acting like a fucking ninja. dan posts a really good pic of colin (the howells’ dog) and i would not only like to thank god but jesus as well. time isn’t real (source: AmazingPhil). dan and phil in YOUTUBERS REACT TO ODDLY SATISFYING COMPILATION #2. day in the life at wimbledon: dan posts a really genuinely super nice selfie thank you god, strawberries and cream selfie, selfie from the court, some nice shots of dnp at the game, also spotted in this video. phil is blocking out the GoT spoilers (and i guess dan is too). phil asks what the next season of dan and phil plushies should be and pastel wins (what the fuck guys why didn’t pajamas win i’ve literally be screaming). phil has laryngitis and dan weighs in for honestly no reason why does he keep trying to be noticed by phil. dan liveshow! (highlights: dan has social anxiety but he’s plenty confident, dan likes his youtube comments, big ant, he flirted with everyone in a kilometer radius so he literally was just flirting with his neighbors, that’s why he can’t leave the house, dan watched back phil’s liveshow to hear him say anal tampon, being back in wokingham was scury, wimbledon talks, they got there in a taxi in the special entrance and almost got arrested, dan loves pimms, jim and tanya were there, filmed a tomska sketch, dunkirk talks, philly is still sicky). phil’s voice is coming back! PHIL HITS FIVE MIL!….on twitter :/. fdjknvxc someone received merch that’s not released yet. phil liveshow! (highlights: it’ll be short because he was told not to talk, he went to the dentist, vocal range testing, hah what merch that leaked, fruit flies but no fruit, phil is the fruit). dan is a heckler. anthony padilla series pt iv: wtf am i doing (ft. Phil). new merch! backpacks and pastel edits poster.

fourth week (22-31): happy coaster via phil lester photography. dan is just stupid and thought he was stuck in a lift. new gaming video: ‘Stormy Ascent’ - THE HARDEST CRASH BANDICOOT LEVEL EVER (this is god tier gaming). twitter games with phil. dan is in a tomska vlog: Last Week I Got A Gun. new daniel howell video/anthony padilla series pt v: PSA: Stop Emo Shaming. guilty pup phil knocked down soundproof boards in the gaming room with his thicc ass. dan liveshow! (highlights: in the moon room, he doesn’t want to share the room with the internet because it’s not aesthetically appealing, mirror themed items, he wrote the emo shaming video in the car on the way to anthony’s house, dan waxes poetic about emo culture, phil cursing, he got rejected from mark and spencer’s, they are trying to do livestream gaming, unironic candle haul maybe, make a wish tomorrow, guild wars two things, myspace talks, he likes tyler the creators new album and i agree, likes new louis tomlinson, he’s a shorn sheep, they will get evicted like jake paul, diss track one of this best videos). cute make a wish pic. slime floor via phil lester photography. phil liveshow! (highlights: glasses, pupils dilated, floater in his eye, voice is back, shorn sheep, goth phil, drinking glasses are iridescent, he can hear his neighbor sneeze so they can probably hear dan screaming, nicole from make a wish beat phil at mariokart, parents are going to be in london next week to celebrate his mum’s birth, he doesn’t know london that much, phil has a clean sheet fetish, phil has an afternoon cookie and coffee fetish, he likes his red bomber jacket the best, also his nice suit for weddings, he hasn’t used his new red glasses frames at all, phil tried really hard to get the g note for dan’s video, he has a good visual memory). dan and phil appear in DARKIPLIER vs ANTISEPTICEYE (and accompanying bloopers). dan in tomska sketch First Contact (feat. Daniel Howell) (and accompanying bloopers). new gaming video: SOLVE THIS CRIME - Dan and Phil play: Layton’s Mystery Journey! phil’s review of dunkirk is good. hint to a sleepless night. new amazingphil video: A HUNGRY Sleepless Night With Phil. dan has to go to a meeting and not be in pajamas?! heresy. dan is a woman from olden times.

#phan #dan and phil #amazingphil #daniel howell #danisnotonfire #2017 timeline

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surveys-at-your-service · 6 years

Text

Survey #114

“oh yeah, i’m a reaper man; every good thing, i kill it dead.”

What kind of makeup do you think is appropriate for church? Who cares. Wear what you want; I don't see how your makeup affects God's opinion on you while in His house. What would you wear to church? I don't dress up for the same reason as above. I just wear my usual. Would/do you like having brown eyes? I like having blue eyes. It's not that brown isn't pretty, it's just so common. What kind of gift would you appreciate for your birthday? I'm just asking for money again. Can already go see Sara, time to work towards the tattoo. What do you use Facebook for? My main reason is legit funny pictures lmao. There's few people I'm actually actively interested in keeping up with. Would you rather be called a geek, a nerd or a dork? A geek is 100% a compliment lol. Do you like pretzels? Soft ones, yes. Especially the ones from those little shops at malls, omgggg. I'd prefer to not eat hard ones. You want your next pet to be what? A bearded dragon. Or two rats. Would you spend 20 dollars on a candle? Ha. No. What is the goriest thing you’ve seen in real life? There was a deer that died directly beside the road leading to our old house and it was decaying. I still remember all the maggots squirming around in its side. @_@ Do you take any meds? If so which and why? Mood stabilizers, anxiety med, something for nausea if one of my mood stabilizers causes it, Melatonin, something for heartburn, and birth control unless I want my uterus to tear me apart from the inside. Is "no glove, no love" your STRICT policy? If I actually was to have sex, yes. Even with me on the pill, I'm not taking any risks. Not getting pregnant. If someone breaks a law, should they be punished if they did not know it was a law? Depends on the law. Name a band you sort of like: What a thing to admit, but Blood on the Dance Floor. I like some of their songs, while others are just too repulsive. In your head do you call yourself 'I’ or 'you’ or both? Usually "you," and always when I'm trying to calm or reassure myself, because it's like hearing validation of something from another person. Someone tells you 'well there are black people, and then there are (removed term bc fuck that word)’. What do you think? My former friend used to say that and I fucking hated it. Who REALLY has a higher sex drive, girls or guys? How can you tell? I might be mistaken, but I'm pretty sure there's science behind men having more of a libido. Do you enjoy wild parties? I literally could never. Have you ever been stereotyped? As what? I was called both emo and goth in high school. It wasn't offensive to me personally, but I don't think I totally fit any stereotype. Who do you know that you believe does not masturbate? I don't for a number of reasons, and I can name a few others I'm pretty sure don't. Does a cloned human being have a soul? Why or why not? explosion.gif Who looks better naked, men or woman? Women. I'm bi, yes, but penises look fucking disgusting to me personally. Is there anything you won’t say unless someone else says it first? Nothing immediately comes to mind. What’s your favorite type of doughnut? Either glazed or cake (the totally plain ones). Do you have any candles in your bedroom? Do you light them often? No, I have an incense burner. I use it often enough. What is your least favorite thing about your full name? I just don't like my last name, and my middle name's too common, but at least I like the name itself. What’s your favorite kind of Poptart? Probably the chocolate sundae one. But I don't like Poptarts much. Do you think you look good with a hat on? I can't remember the last time I wore a hat. Are there some songs you can’t listen to because they remind you of something? "The Mortician's Daughter" and "Stairway to Heaven." Do you live near a street light? No. Do you wear any rings? A red gem one I got from Mom, then a "bitch/jerk" friendship ring (Supernatural reference) with my girlfriend. Do you put collars on your cats? When we had cats, yeah. Do you like celery? Ew no. Did you cry while watching the Notebook? I've never sobbed at a movie, but I cried, yeah. I've cried in subsequent watches too lmao. I think I've always teared up, actually. Do you have a protective mom and dad? Mom's extremely protective of me. I'd say Dad's pretty normal. What field trip did you last go on? Probably for a band competition in high school. Five ways to win your heart: Uhhh. Show compassion, patience, generosity, wisdom, and maturity. Your views on mainstream music: It's getting too vulgar to be on the radio. I firmly believe children don't need to hear profanity (they don't know when it's inappropriate to use) or talk of sex, and songs just have so much censorship yet lack thereof now. If you're going to censor almost an entire song, why the hell play it? Then some songs are so clearly about sex or just openly say the word that it bothers me. I wouldn't wanna explain what sex is to say my like five-year-old if they heard some of the shit on the radio and asked questions. Put your iPod on shuffle and write that 10 first songs that play: 1.) "Clocks" by Coldplay, 2.) "Paradise City" by Guns N' Roses, 3.) "Blessed With a Curse" by Bring Me the Horizon, 4.) "Let It Die" by Starset, 5.) "I Don't Love You" by My Chemical Romance, 6.) "Animals" by Nickelback, 7.) "Shoots and Ladders" by Korn, 8.) "Divinity Statue" from DMC3, 9.) "Float On" by Modest Mouse, 10.) "This Is Gospel" by Panic! at the Disco. A quote you try to live by: "Life's hard. Shouldn't you be, too?" ... It's not meant to be an innuendo. How do you know when someone thinks you’re attractive? I would literally have to be told lmao. Which one of your relationships was the shortest? Two weeks and it was fucking stupid. Which was the longest? Almost four years. If you want to get married, what age? I don't have a set age in mind. Just whenever my s/o and I are ready. What did you end up getting for Christmas? A PS2 after mine broke years ago ahhhh, way too much money from my dad, his wife, and my grandpa, a "meerkat lover" street sign, a meerkat puzzle I'mma do and frame for my room, some pajama pants, an iHome for my iPod, Pikachu and Grumpy Cat plushies that're too cute, among other things that aren't coming to mind rn. Do you think buying underwear/bras at Victoria’s Secret is a waste? Meh, mixed feelings. Like they are way too expensive for some damn bras and underwear, but if they make you feel more confident or pretty in your body, buy them. Do you like glittery things? Usually. Do you like Red Lobster? It used to be my favorite restaurant, but after I got sick after eating there, I haven't gone since. Even though I was feeling sick before we went, it's just an association thing. What are you most scared of? Relapse, losing certain people. Favorite video game? "Silent Hill 2" Do you believe that leaving a significant other for someone else is ever a good idea? YUP. because if you loved the first person, you wouldnt even consider the second. <<<< This. Do you have any possessions that you’re very attached to, and you’d be absolutely devastated if you damaged or lost them? Absolutely devastated... the little rock I got from my partial hospitalization at Holly Hill. When someone "graduates," you pick a shiny rock from a jar that gets passed around the room for your "classmates" to wish you well and say anything they'd like to say about you while they hold it. I cherish that thing so much. What’s the naughtiest thing you’ve ever done, and you got away with it? I guess have oral entirely naked on the old chaise in the living room. But we were home alone. How much do you want to weigh? I was totally happy at 120, but I was fine at 140. Supposedly I should be like 130-something. If you HAD to do your holiday shopping for EVERYONE in only ONE store what store would you pick? Uh probably Walmart lmao. Do you believe that guns don’t kill people and that people kill people? Why? People kill people, and that's coming from someone afraid of guns. You have a choice where you're pointing that thing. What is the difference between a good poem and a bad one? I don't like ones that are virtually impossible to understand. Which do you need more: sugar, caffeine, alcohol, drugs, sex, sleep? I'm addicted to caffeine, I can't go two days without it. @_@ Who is someone you know should deserve more respect? Ha, my Dad from my mom. What movie would you like to see again, that you haven’t watched since you were a kid? The first movie that came to mind was "Shiloh." Are birds happy in cages? Are pets happy indoors? I truly doubt birds are happy in cages, but maybe if they have enough entertainment and it's big enough? But I'm sure like dogs and cats are fine indoors considering a whole house is much bigger. Though I think bigger dogs especially need to be let out to run around sometimes. Hula hoops or jump ropes? Jump ropes. Loved it as a kid. Now my knees would murder me. Can you understand sign language? No. But I remember learning this song in elementary school that we had to sing and do sign language to, but I don't remember any of it. Does anyone in your family hunt? Nicole, my little sister. How about fish? Me and Dad, maybe his dad. Do you pronounce the "l" in salmon? No. Have you ever gotten stuck on an amusement park ride? Thank Christ no. Have you ever seen an albino animal? Maybe? I've seen a white alligator, but it technically wasn't albino. Have you ever tried summoning Bloody Mary? No. When is the last time you consumed alcohol? New Year's Eve. I drank a margarita way too fast but felt nothing because my alcohol tolerance is God-Tier. ᕙ(⇀‸↼‶)ᕗ (Though I like never drink.) Do you ever judge people based on if they believe in God or not? No. Are you sometimes scared to express your opinions in fear of what others might think? Y U P Do you ‘bless’ strangers when they sneeze? Sometimes. Would you rather go to a University or a community college? The latter if they offered good classes. It's cheaper, and you can still get a worthy degree. What’s your favorite kind of bread? Pumpernickel. What toppings do you like on your pizza? Only jalapenos or pepperoni. What color or design does your shower curtain have? It's just white. What color is your microwave? Black. Could you ever give yourself a shot? If I had to, yeah. Have you ever been so embarrassed that you cried? Story of my life. How many people have told you they were in love with you? One. Would you ever have sex with the last person you texted? Well, we're both girls, so actual sex would be psychically impossible, but I'd do as close as we could to it if she made it very clear she wanted to. Does it bother you when people don’t answer questions with exact answers? Yes, especially if I'm asking them a question about needing validation for something. Don't be vague. Have you ever watched a needle go into your own skin? I usually do so I know exactly when it's coming. And if I'm getting my blood drawn, I watch it for whatever reason. @_@ Have you ever seen someone get a piercing/tattoo? Yes. Do you like strawberry and banana smoothies? Strawberry. I doubt I'd like banana. Do you know someone that is mute, deaf or blind? My sister Ashley is literally blind in one eye, I think her right? For the other two, idk. What’s your favorite horror movie? I really like both "Blair Witch Project"s, as well as "The Crazies." Is it true that people with depression CAN’T function in society? Sometimes, absolutely. Can you think of any person or group you cannot empathise with? Pedophiles, rapists, racists, abusive people, homophobes, the list goes on. Do you want to get married? If so, what color will your dress be? It'll be either black, white, or ivory, idk. Do you like peanut butter and fluff sandwiches? NO. Do you play video games? If so, what kind? Yes, just about exclusively story-based ones that usually involve horror. But I like many others, so long there's actually plot to it. How old is your oldest and youngest friend? Oldest is like... 32, youngest is 17, I think. How weight conscious are you? Only extremely. Stripes or polka dots? Polka dots. What was your first word? "Dada" What's a show that you absolutely refuse to watch? "13 Reasons Why" Do you remember how old you were when you started swearing? 7th grade. Have you ever been involved in a custody battle before? I'm actually not sure. I don't think so. If it did, Mom never told us. Did your parents ever let you play in the pits of those multicolored balls? Yes, until I think a dirty needle was found in one of McDonald's ball pits. Do you think biting is weird or sexy? I like it so long you don't leave a mark in an obvious spot. Do you have a class ring? No. What type of internet browser are you using? Chrome. How long do your showers typically last? Not even ten minutes. Can you cry on cue? No. Were you a Nancy Drew reader when you were younger? No. Are you the kind of person that takes pictures with a drink in your hand? No, and quite frankly, it's obnoxious. You're getting intoxicated. Congrats. Do either of your parents have a mental illness? Mom has depression, and she says Dad's bipolar, but I absolutely don't see it now that they're divorced. When you were growing up, did your family rent or own your home? Own. When was the last time you wore a full face of makeup? I couldn't tell you. The most I ever wear is eye liner, shadow, mascara, and lipstick, but I don't consider that a "full face of makeup." Do you own an iPad? No. Have you ever experienced sleep paralysis? No, thank goodness. Do you think it’s wrong for people to say 'retard/retarded’ as an insult? I FUCKING HATE IT. How many people of the opposite sex have made you cry? I think two. Would you eat a live tarantula for $1,000? No, I just wouldn't be able to. If it didn't have its fangs, maybe? What’s one health problem you wish you didn’t have? Anxiety. Shit would be so much better without it. Is your mom or dad the older parent? Mom by one year. Do you have any close friends that were adopted? No. Do you believe that people can be psychics? No. List these apple types from greatest to worst: green, red, yellow. Red, green, yellow. Does your house have more than one fireplace? We don't have even one. When it rains does it leave a lake in your front yard? No. My original home was like that, though. It ALWAYS flooded. Do you dread when people ask you to sign their yearbooks? No, I actually found it flattering to know they wanted me to sign it. Where is one place that you’d never be caught dead in? A strip club, to name one. Do you have a favorite Scooby-Doo movie? I loved the Phantom Virus one. Even had the game. Do you dislike when people ruin the endings of anything for you? Yes, unless I ask to just be told. You are holding onto your grandmother’s hand and the hand of a newborn that you do not know as they hang over the edge of a cliff. You have to let one go to save the other. Who do you let fall to their death? What was your rationale for making the decision? ... Whoa. I'd feel fucking godawful, but I'd save my grandmother. I'm not calling the baby less human, but my grandmother is more conscious of life and everything, I guess? Which would you choose: true love with a guarantee of a broken heart, or never loved at all? Why? Never love at all. Heartbreak is fucking awful. Have you ever seen the movie "A Walk to Remember?" Cliche or worth watching? I think it's worth watching. Very sweet movie. Do you know how to sew? What’s your favorite thing to sew? No. Do you own many pairs of shorts? I don't own any. Do you ever have movie nights with your significant other? Ye<3 Do you like fiction or non-fiction books more? What’s your favorite? Fiction. "Johnny Got His Gun" and "The Outsiders." Have you ever slept in the same bed as your friend? Yeah. How many tattoos would you get? I want LOADS. What brand of toothpaste do you use? Crest. Would you ever tattoo the name of a bf/gf or spouse on yourself? No. I'd get a matching tattoo relatively deep into marriage, but name, nah. What’s your least favorite season? Summer. D: What’s your favorite dessert? Red velvet cake. Do you like cotton candy? Meh, I can have a couple bites. Do you have any shirts signed by famous people? No. Where do you normally get your hair cut? A family friend's salon. What would your dream engagement ring look like? I really like dragon's breath opal rings or rose gold ones but idk how expensive either are. @_@ What’s the longest your hair has ever been? Like to the small of my back. How do you feel about bleach blonde hair? Gorgeous on some people, not for me. Do you know anyone who has been arrested? Yes. Name 2 questions that you will most likely never say ‘no’ to: 1.) "Do you wanna go get a tattoo?", 2.) "Do you wanna Skype?" if it's Sara. Imagine someone has a great personality, sense or humor, family and job. they also really really like you a lot. Would you consider dating them if they: Were fat? Yes. Limped? Yes. Were a midget? Yes. Had HIV? No, because I'm too scared to put myself at risk. Were paralyzed in one arm? Yes. Had a glass eye? Yes. Had only 6 months to live? No, that would destroy me. Would you get married on TV? No. I don't want people I don't care about watching. Do you own a metal detector? No. I did as a kid, though.

#survey #quiz #questions

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wannawrite · 7 years

Text

I Miss You

Monsta X’s I.M X Reader Angst, angsty til the end Word count: 2025 • based off their song ‘Miss You’ ( i almost cried im so sensitive ) but from reader’s POV • sAD VERY SAD • buT I LOVE IT JDSHSKD CONFLICTED im emo don’t touch me but thank you for requesting anon, i suppose a little angst never hurt anyone ;) hope you like it ITS A crINGY MESS BTW GOODNESS - admin L __________ //We need time, in a maze trapped with emotions.// When was the last time you saw Changkyun’s face? You didn’t know. How many nights have you spent alone, longing for your boyfriend? You had lost count. Was there an incident where he had called you after he arrived? Yes, once. It was a hurricane of emotions, all tossed and turned, intertwined. Wrapped up in sorrows, they clouded your head, blurring your vision and trapping your thoughts. It was like a jigsaw puzzle that refused to be fixed, you seemed like a blind man searching for sticks. How much time had you given him? Maybe he needed more. //You’re unable to escape, and only comfort me.// Some days, you found yourself worrying for him. You wondered how he was fairing, how he was being treated. Whether he was eating and sleeping well. You forced yourself back into the past, reminiscing about the times he was a source of hope, a source of happiness, a source of comfort for you. He was your pillar of support. Did he crumble and fall? //Leave behind all the words about it being our last, I’m more persistent than you think.// “Y/N, we never say goodbye okay? It’s always see you soon,” Changkyun had declared, locking his pinky with yours in a promise. “How could I ever leave you? I’d never let you go, jagi.” He leaned forward a pressed a kiss to your forehead, embracing you close to his chest at the same time. Then, you smiled. Promises are the lies you want to keep. ( this is for dramatisation purposes only ) You learned that the hard way. It hurt your heart to think about it. To think about all the promises you made, the promises he made. What were they to you now? Did he even fight for your relationship? Then again, did you? //Girl, I’m standing in this post, I miss you and thank you, I want to kiss you// You chuckled in disbelief, shaking your head at all the empty words and silly pledges. Changkyun always insisted his success was because of his constant support, partially true but you knew it was due to his hard work. He was living his dream, doing what he wanted to do, it would be selfish of you if you stopped him yet a part of you wished you did. Missing him was inevitable, you couldn’t avoid that one no matter how hard you tried. //Where are you right now? Do you know that I’m looking for you like this?// Your gaze met the clear blue sky dotted with fluffy white clouds, not a single storm cloud in sight. The mild sunlight danced on your skin, kissing it tenderly as you basked in the sun. Your back resting on the blanket that covered the lush green grass, it brought you great sense of tranquility. Where could he be? You pondered, eyes closed in a relaxed mode. We used to do this all the time, could we be looking up at the same sky? Changkyun, if only I could tell you how much I miss you but I’d never be able to put it in words. Do you sense me? I’m still waiting for you as much as my heart wants me to. //When I miss you. When I’m sick, you already know, baby.// Not even the universe could keep secrets from the two of you. It was like it was meant to be, knowing even those notes in bottles thrown into the sea. Not meant for anyone in particular but someone floated to you. In your heart - you guessed - there it grew. The relationship was built on trust and knowledge, both could sense if the other had an aura of trouble or discomfort. To an extent it was invading and rude, but it was a factor that helped set the mood. //Where you at right now? Leaving behind my face that waits for you.// Rain or shine, snow or fall, he’d be there, waiting for you. Changkyun was there without fail, standing by your school gate still in his own uniform. On occasion, he held onto a fancy bouquet of flowers or a paper bag containing a small gift for you. You could recall his lips curving into an excited grin and if he was too impatient for you to exit the school, he’d walk up to you despite how different his uniform looked. The exact angle of his jaw, how his hair flopped and covered half his face when he laughed at a stupid joke. Changkyun let you trace his face before, you remembered every curve or indent of his features, how smooth and flawless his skin was. You reassured him that you loved him even with his flaws. It had been a year. Where was that all now? It was just a distant memory of the past. Where was he now? You couldn’t answer. Who was he waiting for now? That thought plagued your mind for there was no definite answer. //How could you leave me, baby? My baby, I miss you// There was no denying at a point in time, he was your boyfriend. There was no lying that you thought he would be your last. How could you leave all you had built up over a span of four years? It seemed impossible. But nothing ever is. You ended on good terms, you would tell yourself. There was a mutual agreement. It was a big lie. No one wanted the split but you forced it to happen. It was for the best, you told yourself. We could have celebrated our fifth year together today but no, it’s only me blowing out candles on the cake. Why do I still miss you even though my head tells me not to? It doesn’t make sense how it tricks me into loving you. I hope you have moved on and I know I should too but I don’t think I will ever stop missing you. … //Whenever I close my eyes, I think of you. Even stars in the night sky seem like you.// Sleep could not be an easy feat. Tossing restlessly in the sheets, I told myself that I was fine, that you were not worth the whine. When I couldn’t sleep, I looked at the stars, wondering how they shone from so far. They made me think of you, contrasting a blue. Then sometimes, I’d admire them until the sun awoke, a constant beckoning not to mope. Still, maybe once or probably twice, my pillow would be damp with tears and I’d wake up to one cold side of the bed, the sense of longing stabbing at my heart, glaring in my face like a tasty strawberry tart. I guess as much as stars seemed like you, there were some differences too. They kept me company on long lonely nights. //I’m missing you like crazy. Like a young child who had lost their mum// It drove you mad. You were confused, lost in the twisted web with no exit in sight. You supposed it was life and you had to learn but it seemed harder to let go the more you yearned. You closed your eyes and took a deep breath, trying to calm yourself down but to no avail. The tears still fell, in sync with the raindrops that pattered outside. You were glad you decided to spend the remainder of the day at home, your sobbing was an unforgiving sight. However, Changkyun always cradled you each time you cried, dashing away your tears and whispering soft lullabies. He said you were gorgeous no matter how appalling your exterior looked when you wailed. Who knew he was such a good fibber? You hated his lies and his reassuring words but if you could hear them once more, you would do so in a heartbeat. //You who shined on me and gave warmth like a sun. I can’t see anything ahead, where are you?// Your road was blocked. You weren’t sure why. Perhaps it was the same reason for that sigh. He always complimented your skin, blessed by the sunlight and shining within. It made you feel like you were the light in his life. But it couldn’t be, for there were always things more meaningful than thee. This tangled mess of emotions left you dazed so you prayed and prayed, God, please take them away. Where are you? How far have you run? Are you just a fragment of my imagination? Those thoughts hurt but they couldn’t kill. It would be over soon, you reassured. //Stepping on all those painful memories, please light up those glittering days again// The memories in one jar were cheerful and bright, leaving no room for darkness or obstruction of sight. The other contained upsetting and dismal things, those swept under the carpet for good reason. You wanted to relive good all days when everything was all horseplay. No rules, no rights, no fear of being left behind. He’s chasing his dream, you wanted that too but you wanted his dream to be you. Changkyun morphed from your dream to your nightmare. He was like the rain during sunshine, bittersweet. You missed him. You just wondered if you had even crossed his mind. A tear fell from your glossy eyes, it rolled down your cheek and landed on the sleeve of your shirt. You wanted those days back but they were gone forever. Still, those memories were engrained in your memory forever. Everything around you still screamed his presence, it was like an insult you would love you receive. Changkyun, you hated when we argued and I’m sorry i offended you. Let’s not live in this tangled web of emotions, I can’t keep living like this. You stripped your wall of polaroids, those with smiles, kisses and love. His hoodies were shoved to the very back of the closet, you promised you would send them back to him one day but for now, they would have to bite the dust. After you had rid your room with the obvious traces of him, you stepped outside your house. The fresh scent of freedom welcomed you, accompanied by the feeling of wind brushing through your hair. It was blissful, it was calm. So, you wandered along the edges of the neighbourhood near the park. You felt someone glaring lasers into your back but refused to turn around. It wasn’t Changkyun. Why? Because he stood in front of you, with a group of boys you had never seen in your life before. They were well dressed and had prettily dyed hair, assistants and stylists rushing to attend to their every need. Changkyun was living his dream. As much as you wanted to turn and run into his arms, the force you applied was much stronger. You ignored him, ignored his stare, oblivious to the world around you. You walked away. All this time when you wondered where he was, he was right by you. Every time you called for him, he nearly reached your side. Without knowing where to go, you would have sunk down but this time, your mind was clear. As much as you missed him and even though you still loved him, you had to let him go. I.M, I’m sorry. I miss you but will let you go. The polaroid that you once treasured and kept in your wallet bent and floated with the wind as it left your grasp, tears raining down your cheeks. A part of you hurt to let it go but missing him anymore was a big no-no. … “Hyung, wait! I think I stepped on-” I.M couldn’t finish his sentence, he picked up the polaroid with shaking hands. His eyebrows narrowed in confusion, guilt and sadness stabbed at his conscience. Sighing, he tucked it into the pocket of his jeans, running after his hyungs as if nothing had happened. He bit back tears which only fell onto his pillow much later at night, holding on to an ex love with all his might. Y/N, I miss you too but I will let you go.

#screams #I.M #lim changkyun #shownu #sohn hyunwoo #shin hoseok #wonho #minhyuk #lee minhyuk #kihyun #yoo kihyun #hyungwon #chae hyungwon #jooheon #lee jooheon #monsta x #monsta x scenarios #monbebes

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dawncleyne-blog · 7 years

Text

Hallow’s Eve Engagement Part 3

The card player is luca

This is elias

This is Klaus’s costume minus the weird arm

This is vampire randy

(These are Tiva’s and Ania’s Costumes for the party,Tiva has the additions of hellhounds to spruce up her costume, whilst ania has her grandfather's Demon crossbow)

(This is Ania in her demon form , she’s a white and black demon, equipped with the very first grim reaper's scythe (Undertakers scythe), and once she comes of age she’ll be a full fledged Devil and take over the rule of the underworld.)

Summary: After scaring students to the point of shitting themselves, Klaus takes Ania to her favorite graveyard and finally proposes to her under the crescent moon. As the hellhounds call to the sky, Klaus receives his long-awaited answer.

Tiva’s POV

“If anyone messes up in any way, I will personally take you to Hades myself, understand?” I warned Zach.

“Yeah yeah. Whatever.” The brown-haired teen walked away, disappearing into the shadow of a wall as Ania and Klaus came around the corner. I gave the thumbs up to show that everything was in place. I hope my temporary... ‘assistants’ don’t go too far out of control tonight. There was no doubt that someone would enjoy terrorizing the students, namely Zach. However, I’m positive Ania would give him a run for his money before the night is over. Zach and Ania will be competing for the most screams tonight….

Klaus kissed Ania gently before silently leaving the two of us in the halls of the haunted mansion. “Ready to go get our costumes on?” Ania asked. I gave her a look that said, Do you even have to ask? With a evil laugh, she teleported us to the dorm where our costumes laid out on the beds. As we started to change, Ania suddenly threw me off a little bit by asking, “Will Klaus ever propose, or will he eventually leave me for another girl? It’s not that I don’t trust him, but waiting so long makes you wonder.” She doesn’t suspect anything tonight. Good.

Taking a deep sigh, I said, “If he knows what’s good for him, he won’t make the mistake of leaving you for a mere mortal. And if it turns out that he isn’t who you thought he was, I’ll make sure that I beat your grandfather to the punch. Assuming that there is anything left of his soul.” Ania laughed.

Ania’s costume was a badass dark-angelic assassin, which would soon take on a demonic persona. I was trying to not imagine Klaus’s reaction when he saw her in her outfit. She summoned two wolf-like hellhounds to join me in my assassin costume before we made our way to the main dance area. Once we got there, there was many students wearing costumes either dancing or complaining about the no-alcohol rule this year. If only they knew what awaited them…

Suddenly, a dark-haired Klaus walked up to us with a semi-unhappy and semi-mischievous look on his face. He decided to darken his hair and wear a demon costume with wings, some unusual weapon held by one of his hand, an eye patch over the right eye, and a faint red eye contact to make his eyes appear a mix of demonic red and purple. It took Ania a good five seconds to realize he was her boyfriend.

*Time skip brought to you by Joel trying to get Tiva’s trust despite having failed a lifetime ago*

Ania’s POV

“Are you sure Klaus isn't possessed, Tiva?” Joel nagged Tiva, finally realizing that Klaus had been with us for an half-hour.

“Would you rather he was possessed by Death herself and trying to hunt you down while I stand here saying, 'I told you so?'” Tiva stared at Joel with an evil look in her eye and a mischievous slight grin. Joel took a gulp, turned around, and bolted for the door. Before he made it, the door magically slammed, locking all students of the academy in the dance room. Looks like everything is in working order. Here come a night of fun…

Tiva, Klaus, and I looked at each other, acknowledging the fact that the haunted house was about to begin. We made our way to the door, where Randy, Elias, and Luca waited excitedly while Joel looked perfectly miserable. Suddenly, an automated deep voice, similar to Klaus’s, echoed out throughout the room with an evil laugh. After a few seconds of screaming died down, the room was in dead silence as Tiva and I fought against our urge to laugh.

The automated voice spoke, “Welcome to the 107th annual Gendonlune Ball. Unfortunately for you poor... innocent students, this Hallow’s Eve is the night of your death. There is no escape from your inevitable fate tonight. At the stroke of midnight, you’ll suddenly find yourself in a haunted mansion with ghosts, booby traps, and worst of all, a demoness. You could stay in the room with your group and pathetically attempt to stay alive, or you could try to escape with your team. The odds that you will make it out alive is slim, but possible. (evil laugh) And did I mention that your magic is completely useless as of right now? May Death favor your end.” It laughed again, fading away into silence.

Students left and right glanced at each other, trying to figure out if the voice was genuine or a practical joke skillfully crafted.

Random Student’s POV

My friends and I were whispering to each other fearfully, debating whether Luca had successfully pulled off the ultimate prank on the whole school when all of the sudden, only darkness can be seen. A grandfather clock could be heard in the distance, signaling midnight. Light slowly fades in, and my group of friends plus some other students were still around me, but we were now in a smaller room that appears to be a locked Victorian bedroom. A high-pitched screech echoed from the door just before the door suddenly opened wide.

We glanced at each other, terrified of what could potentially happen. A figure clothed in black gripped a long slender item I couldn't make out. Twisted around the item were silver thorns weaved into a crown laying atop the head of a legless skeletal figure. The hooded figure turned around and walked away, and a minute later, a black-haired, purple-eyed girl in an assassin outfit stuck her head in the door. “The demoness is coming soon. Let’s go!”

We followed the mysterious girl down the corridor where the hooded being previously disappeared into. One guy had the guts to actually ask the girl if following the grim reaper was a good idea. She answered, “One, that was no grim reaper. Two, who ever said anything about following him?” Instead of turning right and following the figure, she led us down the left corridor into a humongous library. A crack of thunder and a flash of light startled us, but does not seem to bother the assassin girl. Darkness swallowed the room, and numerous howls echoed from every direction.

Where the assassin girl stood, a candle was lit, revealing the face of the famous Elias Goldstein, reading a book as usual. He wore a badass male witch librarian costume, and sheathed on the table in front of him was a sword, known for its playfully dangerous personality. It was none other than Excalibur. As Elias looked up from his book towards the temperamental sword, there was a warning chime of the grandfather clock. Suddenly, the ground shook, almost like an earthquake or an explosion from a distance.

Standing on the edge of the balcony was a long haired male with a glowing burned and aged six of spades card in his long artisan fingers. His green eyes glazed over my group and stared straight at Elias, preparing to throw his now burning card. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Joel over by the table, about to touch the infamous Excalibur. Elias noticed too late, but he was unable to do anything about it, now in a magical duel with the mysterious guy. The Excalibur floated up, unsheathing itself as Joel slowly backed up.

I yelled at my group to run just as the enchanted blade turned its point towards us. We were scrambling into the corridor and tried to go back to the room we originated at. Blocking our path was a brown-haired male with head trauma and an evil grin. He started bolting for us as we kept running down the corridor where a feminine figure stood at the very end. By the time one of us noticed that we were trapped, the ground collapsed from under our feet. We were in complete darkness with a slight odor of garlic and iron. Right above us was faint bickering between a male named Zach and a female who sounds familiar, but it was suddenly drowned out by a loud screech in the distance.

Klaus Goldstein, wearing a vampire hunter costume, walked up to us with a torch in one hand and a lethal crossbow in the other. He lit a torch that was on the wall behind us, then said, “Grab the torch. You’ll need it to defend yourself.”

“From what?” one of the girls asked at her own risk.

“Don’t you mean who? Randy has been transformed into a vampire by the demoness herself, and he’s now roaming around the dungeons. The headmaster has asked me to hunt him down to protect any students that may actually have a chance of surviving.” A metallic clang echoed from the direction Klaus approached from. “Get ready to run in case I fall.”

Adorkable Randy walked out of the darkness, batting his eyes in reaction to the torch. At first, he appeared to be perfectly normal, besides the lack of costume. Then, he grinned madly, revealing his bloody fangs. With a quick motion, Klaus shoved us past the blood sucker and fired his silver crossbow at Randy, saying, “In the name of God, impure souls of the living dead shall be banished into eternal damnation!”

Before we could do anything, Randy leapt up, narrowly missed by the arrows, and pounced upon Klaus, nailing him down. We hurried away into the darkness with a single torch, not knowing where to go. Turning the corner, we nearly ran into Excalibur, still persistently hunting for us. “Go go go!”

We bolted up some random stairs and through a series of corridors, not paying attention to our surroundings except for the fact that there was a magical emo sword chasing us. Pretty soon, we found ourselves cornered at a dead end, about to meet our Creator. Out of nowhere, the assassin female from earlier dropped down from the ceiling, facing the infamous emotional-teen weapon with hands on her hips. It was almost like Excalibur was terrified of her. It turned itself right around and went flying off to its owner, whoever that may be.

She turned to face our group and said, “You guys want to get out of here? We have to confront the demoness, the ruler of this tormented mansion. It’s the only way we’ll ever get out.”

“What?!?! Isn’t she just going to kill us anyways?!?!” Joel stupidly protested.

“You’re right. She will kill us, whether it’s in these corridors and rooms or as we walk right out the main door that is cursed. If we can keep her busy long enough, then there is a chance that we’ll be able to walk out alive. Who’s coming with?” Everyone stood in silence, unsure of whether to listen to her or try to make it out by themselves. The black-haired female started walking away, and we followed behind.

Eventually, we stopped walking right outside the throne room, with the doors casted wide open. Standing in the center of the room was a girl with blonde hair with red tips wearing thick assassin armor. What the heck? That’s no demoness. That’s a student.

Ania’s POV

Tiva led a group of confused and terrified students, including Joel, into the throne room. The fright of their life was about to begin.

“Karma, I demand you to reveal yourself!” Tiva yelled. With a sinister voice, I answered with a little magic to make it sound as though I was elsewhere, “Which mere mortal dare to command Karma, demoness and granddaughter of Hades himself, to appear before mere humans?” Tiva stepped forward while the terrified students tried to run out the door. With a wave of the hand, the doors slammed in their faces. They watched in horror as I morphed into my demon form before their eye.

My white, red-tipped wings extended from my shoulder blades and out to its full span as my skin shimmered into a pale silver-white tone. My assassin armor shifted into my demon armor, as elegant and invincible as ever, and my long-missed scythe, thorns wrapped around a metal skull, rose into my hands from the ground. My hair faded into pure white while retaining its vibrant, blood-like red tips, and my fangs grew just slightly longer and sharper while remaining human-like. My demonic aura yearned to take control and consume all creatures in the throne room while my humanity fought against it.

In the back of my mind, I couldn’t help but think, I always forget how hard it is to hold down my power when in the human world. It’s never been this strong before, but again, it is Hallow’s Eve, the second most dreaded night for superstitious people of the year, not to mention the fact that I literally have not been in my demon form since before I started coming to this academy.

Before I knew it, I found my demonic side saying, “Well, looks like you get your wish. Not for long, though.” My demon form let out a demonic, evil laugh as Tiva only raised an eyebrow. Well, Tiva definitely knows something is up. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Joel trying to sneak past me. Unfortunately, so did my dark side. With no control over myself whatsoever, I glided over to Joel in a blink of an eye, nailing him to the wall by the throat. My eyes darkened as I stared into his soul, withering in fear.

Next thing I knew, I was raising my scythe, preparing to finish him off. WHAT THE HELL AM I DOING?!?! I CAN'T TAKE HIS SOUL! Another part of me started to whisper enchantingly, Come on, Ania, you know he deserves to die. Especially after what he have done to you, or even better, your bestie. Nearly giving in, I prepared myself to swing the scythe, when all of the sudden… “KARMA NOX!” I morphed back into my normal form unarmed, collapsing onto the ground as I heard Tiva tell the mortified students to make a run for it now while the demoness was powerless.

Almost immediately, footsteps faded away into the silent distance. Glancing up, I watched Tiva jog towards me with a concerned look in her eyes. “Are you okay, Ania?”

“No. I nearly- no, I lost complete control over myself when my demon form appeared. I was on the verge of just letting myself do the deed. I let Klaus down. I told him that I’d never lose control of my dark side, and tonight, I failed.”

Tiva looked me straight in the eye and flat out said, “You may have lost control of your demon side, but you most certainly did not fail Klaus. You entrusted me with the safe word to ensure that tonight would not end tragically. By doing so, you have gained the ultimate control over yourself.” I was completely confused on what she meant. The truth is, the fact that I felt like I failed Klaus was the least of my worries…

I still had to face my greatest fear involving my demonic side: my grandfather.

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