#but GOD was I inspired by that singular page

[king-shango-the-great]

Shango's Thoughts:

Stop mixing & matching spiritual ideas (New Age Nonsense is Still Nonsense)

So, can we talking about how this is NOT a 3rd Eye?

Just because you see a singular eye, does not make it a 3rd Eye by default.

This is actually the Eye of Ra & it's actually the right eye. It's paired (pair = 2) with the Eye of Heru which is the left Eye.

The Eyes are actually Falcon eyes, because both the deities to whom these eyes belong are sky deities, both represented by the falcon. That is because the falcon not only has excellent eyesight, but it soars far above any & everything else, which allowed them to see farther than any other living creature..

One eye represents divine insight, the other represents divine foresight.

As an African society, Ancient Kemet (Egypt) was a nature-based society.

This is important, because, like all African societies (ancient & modern), they did not deviate from the divine principles of nature. In fact, they revered, & was greatly inspired & empowered by it. This was greatly reflected in their symbology.

As such, they understood that there neither was, nor is, any creature in nature that possesses an odd number of eyes. Every creature has an amount of eyes that are divisible by 2.

The idea of 3 eyes in African culture & Spirituality would therefore be seen as unnatural.

So where does the idea of the 3rd Eye come from?

It comes from Hinduism & Buddhism.

I've mentioned this a few times on my page, but whenever I see people (especially Black people, as that's essentially all I care about 🤷🏿‍♂️) talking about 3rd Eyes, & especially using the All-Seeing eye(s) as a visual representation of the 3rd Eye, I automatically know it's being done out of ignorance.

The reality is, most Black people don't know enough about Hindu beliefs, the nuances of their culture, nor their language to glean any real spiritual benefit from this concept. The proof of this lies in 2 points:

1) If they did, they wouldn't be mixing & blending it with African Spiritual concepts, &

2) They'd know that India is a very anti-African culture & society.

Not to mention, the meanings of the "Eye" in both cultures do not run congruent. Their meanings are not remotely similar.

So, how did Black folks get this notion of the 3rd Eye in the first place?

The answer is both complex & simple.

Hindus don't teach it, because A) they are very insular about their culture, & B) they wouldn't teach it to black people, because Hindus are extremely anti-Black.

I know Black folks like to make the false Pseudo claim that India & Africa are culturally linked, but nothing could be further from the truth (I've spoken many times on here about this; refer to my posts under "#Shango's Thoughts").

The simplest answer is, it came from white people.

Without going into great detail (at least, not at this time): The New Age Movements that were sparked by white people from Europe, as early as the 1930's.

These white people were seld proclaimed "mystics" that dabbled in all sorts of spiritual ideas, that made their way to the US when these same Crackas migrated to the US.

Many of them were affiliated with the Nazis, which is where they got their hatred of Black people. As an example of the correlation, that's why you see the swastika as the symbol of Nazism.

One such white "mystic" was Helena Blavastky:

This is the "mother" of New Age Spirituality (along with a few others of her ilk).

What's sad, is that alot of her ideas influenced everyone from Hitler to many of the Black spiritual movements in Amerikkka, from. The NOI, to 5% Nation of God's & Earth's, to the Nuwaubians, to the Moors, & a few others. Most of them don't even realize it, because they are not academic enough to make the connections.

I could go deeper into this now, but I won't (again, not at this time). The bottom line is, you can talk about how terrible these people are all you want, but the truth is, yall get all your "info" from them.

Suffice it to say, most Black people have been convinced to take part in ideas like Chakras & 3rd Eyes (& other related concepts, such as "Pineal glands"; again, not an African concept) because they've been influenced by white people.

Ideas like chakras, 3rd Eyes, Angel numbers, tarot cards, & a host of other concepts that have caught on in the past 50yrs are nothing but recycled racist notions. They have nothing to do with African culture or Spirituality.

Europe, France, Italty, Austria, Germany.... You haven't seen a Black face or name yet. 🙄

I cannot tell anyone not to hold fast to these ideas; you are free to do whatever you wish. But I can tell you one thing....

Whites & Hindus are laughing at us when we regurgitate these ideas.

I can also tell you why I do not adhere to them..... They are not from our Ancestors. They are from our enemies. Any religion that comes from your enemy (be it directly or indirectly) has no spiritual power for you. It is a weapon against you.

The proof of this, lies in the fact that none of these ideas have done NOTHING for us. That's because they're not meant to. It's like a white person buying a pick for their hair.

It was designed FOR the people it was designed BY.

I look to my Ancestors, & the traditions that they created. And 3rd Eyes & Chakras were not one of them.

Asé 🙏🏿

#Shango's Thoughts

[00127am]

signed with love and forever yours, mark

postage. lee mark & gn! reader, mentions of death in the context of greek mythos cost to ship. 712 words

growing up, i never understood the tragedy of orpheus and eurydice. how, upon achieving the opportunity to bring back his beloved, orpheus squandered it all with a single look. it frustrated me, that after all that effort--every song he had written and preformed, compositions which moved all, even gods-- he abandoned all success with a single glimpse backwards. a second of a stare that only captured the whisper of eurydice's figure before she was dragged back to the depths of the underworld. i never understood why he looked back, why he had to fail when he was so close to the edge of triumph.

though i suppose that after meeting you, if i took the place of poor orpheus and you, my eurydice, i'm afraid that i would also lose you for a second time. that i would risk everything i had worked towards, everything that i had done just to see your face in that fraction of a second. to look at you, no matter the consequences. no matter what what i had sacrificed to get to you, no matter if i too would be punished for this singular stare. i would do so, even so close to escape, so close to having you in my arms again without a moment of hesitation. i, not only as orpheus but as mark--your mark--would do anything to spare even the slightest of glances in your direction. even if they would only forfeit half of a second of being captured in the reflection of your eyes and nothing more. for that half of a second, that split sliver in time, would be worth more to me than any hours of gazing upon anything else.

i find us to be more likened to paris and helen of troy. a story i've always understood, at any and all basic fundamentals of its core, though doubted. for how could anyone be so beautiful that others would begin wars over them? that their beauty would be more fair, more compelling than that of the gods? that men would be reduced to nothing more than spurned infatuation, fighting battles--killing-- for any brief moment spent within helen's gaze.

i wasn't sure that any such person could exist. but with you, i find myself to be playing the part of poor paris--destined, perhaps, to starting wars over the mere thought of you.

about mark's love letters.

mark's handwriting is rough and scribbled. oftentimes jotted down with whatever pen he has lying around, series of swirls and scratches at the top margins of the page where he attempts to get the ink to flow. his words, in a stark difference to the somewhat chaotic state of his slanted, all-caps writing, are carefully chosen. hand-picked with the utmost care, the upmost emphasis to ensure the quickening of your heartbeat. though short, his letters are poetic and always very true to himself. you can almost picture the look on his face when he writes them, a fantasy that does nothing but conjure heat into the full of your cheeks.

he first writes these down in his notes app of all places. thumbs frantically typing with every out of the blue strike of inspiration (something that happens rather often, both for songs and for you, though mark could argue that these two things are nearly synonymous). and when he does get the time (something he seems to be always running out of) he transfers these pretty proses to the whitened canvas of card stock. a firm choice, made to last. each one of his letters are signed with less-than-perfect stars and a drawing of whichever thing has recently caught of your fancy (usually him).

mark often sends them in the mail to you but prefers to give his letters to you in person. something he often finds himself regretting when you choose to read them outloud, burying his face in his hands as he begs you to stop. you don't and mark often finds himself begrudgingly thinking that you're much too like haechan for your own good (or his). it's not all bad though, not when the reward for withstanding such utter humiliation on his part is all of your affection. and mark would take anything in the world if it met just receiving one shred of your heart.

your mailbox

taglist. @evilsailorsenshi @222brainrot @chriscentric @trourevaille @firstdonutllamafarm @jenaisnte thank you for supporting me! ♡

🧾 © 00127am 2024

#⏱ wake up! it's 00127am! #💌 letters of my love #📋 - nct dream #📋 - nct 127 #📋 - mark #🖇️ love letters #nct 127 #nct imagines #nct scenarios #nct dream #nct 127 x reader #nct dream x reader #nct dream scenarios #nct dream fanfic #nct dream imagines #nct timestamps #nct dream timestamps #nct dream fluff #nct 127 fluff #nct 127 imagines #mark x reader #mark lee #mark lee x reader #mark fluff #mark lee fluff #mark lee imagines #mark lee scenarios #mark lee drabbles

[moralesmilesanhour]

what you're searching for.

summary: Margo goes to a shitty poetry slam and gets more out of it than she expects. wc: 4.9k warnings: alcohol consumption, and it's like very VERY lightly implied that they had an Adult Sleepover if you get my meaning. Nothing really too suggestive in here I promise. One singular reference to a tiktok. a/n: this took me a whole ass week but I'm very proud of where my writing style is going! somewhat inspired by the film 'Love Jones'. If you enjoyed this pls feel free to leave your thoughts or your favorite line if you have one! EDIT: OH MY GOD I FORGOT TO ADD: the first poem is actually taken from the Junior novel 'Miles Morales: Suspended' by Jason Reynolds! The poem at the end is mine though lmao I'm not the best poet

Margo can’t stand poetry.

Someone gets up in front of you with a piece of paper clutched in their hands, and recites what is simultaneously the most vague and the most painfully obvious string of fragmented sentences you’ve ever heard as if they’d just touched your soul.

It’s not rapping, not preaching, but the ugly middle child standing between them. Some odd bastardization of music for people who thought they were too smart for either of the first two, but weren't brave enough to just give speeches.

Speeches, at least, are coherent, specific, and can be scrutinized.

So far, sitting in the front row of the bar that her classmate Zoe had invited her to for poetry night, no one has changed her mind. 

Tonight’s performances consisted of an assembly line of men (and a couple of women) in vintage sweaters ranting about their exes to the rhythm of bongo drums, or some mildly relevant social issue that none had the lexicon to really say anything in stanzas that hasn’t already been said. She had heard nothing yet that sounded much more profound than an Instagram post.

Although, one girl had come up and recited a short poem about her late mother that Margo thought was quite sweet, and the least tortuous to sit through.

The crowd erupted in snaps again for a poet with long braided dreads and an ankh tattoo whose words she had tuned out. The host took the mic and announced the final (thank god) participant:

“Now this next one I had to practically drag over here to get him to share his beautiful poetry with us tonight. Everyone, please give a warm welcome to one of my close friends and colleagues, Miles Morales!”

A lanky young man–Margo suspects about six feet even, given the way he’s towering over the host–awkwardly shuffles over to the center of the stage, offering the crowd a tight-lipped smile. 

He’s in a plain green sweater with the sleeves hastily rolled up to his elbows and a bomber jacket tied around his waist. As soon as he’s handed the microphone, it seems to dawn on him that there’s no turning back, and his body visibly tenses. 

He clearly just got here, and for once Margo doesn’t know what to expect.

Squinting beneath the bright spotlight, he clears his throat and speaks into the mic. 

“Um, hi.”

A few scattered ‘hi’s from the crowd.

There’s something bright and sweet in the tone of his voice that makes him sound a little boyish, and she wonders what he could possibly have under his sleeve that warranted him getting dragged up here last minute.

He takes a deep breath.

“It’s said

That nobody

Is ever more

Than ten feet

From a spider.”

Miles began the poem carefully, like he was confessing something. 

“They be everywhere you and me are.”

A few members of the crowd laugh, others shudder at the thought and frown. 

“And even though

We see them only

When they big enough to see, or when

They move,

Like a cursor

Across the blank white

Page of a wall…”

His voice loses some of its airiness in exchange for confidence as he recites the rest of the poem, and Margo realizes that he isn’t reading off of anything. 

Either he’s improvising, or he has it entirely memorized.

“Or when we trip

The web-like wire

Of a booby trap

Or when they

Fang our flesh

We should probably

Assume most

Just be right there…”

Miles paused and looked somewhere far beyond the crowd, lifting his arm to point to the back of the room. Then he repeated:

“Right there,

Right here,”

He gestures toward the front row, where his eyes land directly on Margo. It’s not so close to the stage that she can tell for sure, but she thinks she sees a hint of a smile cross his lips.

“Looking at us,

Looking over them.”

Silence. 

His arm falls limply to his side as his eyes frantically scan the audience, searching for some kind of response. 

Then, someone begins to clap. Then another. Then another. WIthin moments, the entire room erupts in applause, causing a shy smile to spread across the young man’s face.

“Uh, thank you!” he says, surprised at the positive reception, before shrinking into himself again and leaving the stage the same way he came.

The host returns and takes the mic from him.

“Miles Morales, everybody!”

-

After the poetry slam, Margo insisted that Zoe take her to the sushi place across the street. It had a bar sitting off to the side, one with significantly less poets. The decorative lights hung directly above the shelf filled with glass bottles and shrouded them in cherry red.

Zoe takes a sip of her sherry and leans in.

“Sooo, how was it?”

“It was a’ight.”

The light-skinned girl’s lips pull into a pout. “Seriously?”

“Hey, I told you poetry wasn’t my thing,” Margo pauses, then amends, “I liked the last guy, though. Breath of fuckin’ fresh air.”

“Right? His style really caught my attention, subtle.”

“Glad you liked it.”

Zoe’s eyes widened as she glanced just beyond Margo’s shoulder.

When Margo turned towards the familiar voice and froze. 

The poet in question was standing just inches away, a friendly smile gracing his features. His jacket is no longer around his waist, neatly folded over his arm like an expensive coat. He is with the excitable darker-skinned man who’d just hosted the event, and a man the shade of sandalwood standing just behind him.

They’re both wearing the same type of muted cardigan as Miles, but they’ve got actual coats.

“Y’all were in the front, right?” Miles asks the both of them, though he’s only looking at Margo.

She nods wordlessly. Zoe picks up the slack.

“M-hm, you were great up there! You’ve really never shown anyone your work ‘till tonight?”

Miles snorts at the wording of the phrase. ‘His work’.

“I wrote that poem in high school,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“Wasn’t supposed to be anything serious, but my roommate…” 

He gives the dark-skinned man a dirty look. 

“...swiped my journal and found it. Told me I should read it out loud somewhere.”

Margo examines Miles’ face and imagines him as a baby-faced high-schooler, sitting in the back of the classroom with a protective arm around the beat-up red composition notebook he’s writing in. He stuffs it in his bag as soon as he’s done, because he has just poured his heart out onto that page, and his crush’s name is in there. Maybe there are tiny doodles of her in the margins.

“Yo,” the sandalwood-colored man claps Miles on the shoulder. “We about to hit up Tiff’s place, you coming?”

“Yeah, in a minute,” Miles nods dismissively. “I’ll catch up with y’all.”

The two other men give each other a knowing look before brushing past him.

“Alright man, catch you later then.”

Once she finally regains the ability to speak, Margo remarks, “You were the only performance I really liked, if I’m being honest.”

“Is that so?” 

“Oh yeah, this one hates poetry,” Zoe places a hand on Margo’s shoulder and laughs. “Tried to change her mind by bringing her over here, but no dice.”

Miles raised an eyebrow. “What made mine so different?”

“Hm, I dunno…” Margo’s eyes float over his form before making their way back up to his face. “Your delivery, I guess.”

Safe to say, he looks amusedly unconvinced.

“My…delivery.”

She catches herself and quickly adds, “I-I mean, it also kinda felt like everyone else was trying too hard. So.”

He tilts his head at the remark.

“Are you just saying that to flatter me?”

.“I don’t flatter people. Too close to lying.”

“That sounds like half a poem already. Maybe you should go up there next week.”

She gives him a lopsided smile.

“Only if you’re there. I need something to actually look forward to.”

His tongue darts out and passes over his lips.

“What’s your name?”

“Margo.”

Miles hums, softly repeating the name before inching his way over to the counter where he leans his hip on it.

“Pretty. Can I buy you a drink, Margo?”

She doesn’t think her name is all that pretty, but he makes it sound that way.

“Knock yourself out.”

“I’ll leave you two alone,” Zoe teases as she rises from her seat. “I’m gonna go order us some sushi.”

Miles takes the stool to Margo’s left as he waits on their drinks, his long legs never needing to leave the ground to do so.

He has a funny way of sitting, hands folded neatly in front of him with his back just a few degrees off from being perfectly straight. As if you needed to look distinguished at a sushi bar.

Church boy, Margo guessed. That, or his daddy’s a military man.

It’s adorable either way.

“You in school?” she asked.

“Yup. Princeton.”

Her eyes lit up.

“Oh shit, me too! I’ve never seen you on campus, though. What’s your major?”

“Physics. You?”

“Comp Sci. Been coding since I was in middle school, so…”

Margo remembers the echoing ‘click-clack’ of her keyboard as she sat in an empty computer lab for hours on end after school because she preferred it to her parents’ house.

The bartender hands Miles two glasses of white wine, and he sets the second glass in front of Margo, his warm eyes still focused on her. 

She’s intrigued by how clear they are - no trace of suspicion or calculation behind them. Just the warmth.

“So, where you from? My folks are over in Brooklyn.”

“Georgia.”

Miles’ brows jump to his hairline.

“Damn. What brought you all the way up here?”

To get as far away as possible. 

“Well, it’s Princeton,” she says beneath a forced laugh.

“Yeah, but you got, like, eight different HBCUs over there. How’d Princeton win you over?”

Margo breaks eye contact to stare into her drink.

“Needed a change of pace.”

When she looks up to gauge Miles’ reaction, skepticism is written all over his face. But he doesn’t push it further.

“That’s fair. Princeton’s got a cutting-edge quantum physics program that I’m aiming for. Had to beg my parents to come here,” he grins proudly, “but here I am.”

Margo is silent for a moment.

“Can I tell you something?” she asks suddenly, beckoning Miles to lean in.

“Yeah?”

Grinning, she half-whispers, “I’m actually here on a scholarship.”

He gives her an odd look. 

“Why’d you say it like that? Nothin’ wrong with getting a full ride. The opposite, actually.”

“Some people might feel otherwise. You’re like, the second person I’ve told other than my parents.”

“And why me?” Miles chuckles. “My poetry was just that good?”

“I just…Hm.”

Margo leans back and takes a contemplative sip of her wine, watching him over the rim of her glass. 

Why did she just tell him that?

“I guess I just sorta felt like telling you.”

Margo cautiously sets the wine back down. She figures if she’s not careful, he’ll have her full government name and social security number by the end of the night.

“Y’know, I actually get that a lot,” Miles laughs. “One time, I had this lady I was standing in line with at Target turn around and just start telling me stories about her dead son and how much she misses him. And it’s like, I’m sorry for your loss, but we’re in Target right now and I literally do not know you.”

“Wait, people just go up to you and…tell you shit?”

“Yup. There was this other time at church, too. Just as service ends and I’m about to get up and leave, this short old dude–Dominican, I think–stops me and starts telling me about his entire life. I’m talking start to finish! Apparently I reminded him of his nephew that died in the military or something.”

“Jesus.”

A crease forms between Margo’s brows. She wishes she could say she didn’t understand the old man at church or the lady at Target, but she does. No, it’s not the poetry. It’s got nothing to do with words. 

It’s the way that Miles looks at people. 

Like he already knows all of your secrets, but you’re not worried because they’re safe with him, so might as well tell them. It’s a merciful sort of gaze; you get the impression that he won’t judge you. You might even tell him more after his friendly ‘boy-next-door’ voice coaxes them out of you. The thought unsettles her because she had done just that.

“You ever had a girlfriend before?” She asks, all of a sudden.

Miles shrugs, “Yeah, in tenth grade, then again freshman year. Didn’t really work out.”

“Why not?”

His brows furrow gently for just a second, as if he’s still trying to figure out the answer to that.

“I…don’t know, actually. It goes well the first few months and then…”

“It fizzles out?”

“I get ghosted. Something about how they’re ‘not ready’. Understandable, I guess, but you don’t have to ghost me, y’know?”

He awkwardly examines his fingers, then his glass. 

Margo feels a bit guilty for suddenly bringing up his exes when they’d just met. Would they end up the same way? She saw herself there too, being in a relationship for six months before his weird pastor’s eyes get to be a bit too much and she takes off.

“Yikes, sorry I asked.”

“It’s no problem,” a smile starts to return to his face. “Onto better things, right?”

“Right.”

“And you?”

“Huh?”

“You ever been in a relationship before?”

Margo smiles awkwardly and messes with one of her fingernails.

“Well…not exactly.”

Miles’ eyes widen.

“Never?”

“I mean, guys offer, and then we talk for a little bit, but then…”

“They flake out on you.”

“Pretty much.”

“Damn shame,” he says with a bit of sharpness to his voice. “Not even a first date?”

“Nope, just ‘Read at 4:15’.”

“You know what I think it is?”

Just as he asks this, his knee brushes against her thigh. Margo isn’t sure if it’s an accident, but it distracts her nonetheless.

“What?”

“You’re too smart for them, I can tell. It scares ‘em.” But it doesn’t scare me, is the suggestion.

He smiles then, the kind that shows the whiteness of his teeth on every vowel. It’s wide enough that a dimple comes out of hiding on his left cheek, and she suddenly wants to tell him everything again. She takes another sip of wine.

“So! What’d I miss?”

Zoe finally returns from ordering their sushi at the front with an expectant grin. Miles still hasn’t taken his eyes off of her friend, while she is staring at him like a string of code, which, if you know Margo, is better than nothing.

“You didn’t miss much,” says Margo. “We were just talkin’ about our majors. School stuff.”

Miles checks his phone and lets out a low whistle.

“Well, it was lovely meeting y’all, but I gotta bounce. After getting dragged onstage, I get to be dragged over to a house party, too.”

Just as he rises from his seat, he stops and points at her.

“Before I go, though, d’you mind giving me your digits? I’d love to talk about, uh…computer science…over lunch.”

She snorts, “Who still says ‘digits’?” but hands him her phone anyway. 

It couldn’t hurt to try. 

“Sure.”

His eyes light up as if he wasn’t expecting her to say yes as he saves his number as ‘poetry slam guy’ in her phone, then hands it back.

“Cool,” Miles begins his walk towards the entrance backwards, holding eye contact for just a little longer before turning around. “G’night!”

“Goodnight!” the two women call out in unison as he leaves.

Margo looks to her left at the now-empty bar stool. The glass of wine Miles left on the counter is full, completely untouched.

It’s still on her mind as she's sitting in her single dorm room, re-writing her lecture notes on cyber security in a meticulous neat print that could almost pass for a font.

Every few minutes her pen stops because she’s distracted by the sound of clinking glass in boxes downstairs, or because she pauses to stare at the white wall in front of her that brings to mind one of the lines of Miles’ poem. 

There might be a spider that I can’t see sitting ten feet away from me right this second, she muses to herself. The thought gives her an idea, and the perfect excuse to call him without seeming too desperate.

Margo unlocks her phone and scrolls through her contacts. She smiles to herself at the contact name Miles chose. Did he think she’d forget his name that easily? 

His voice soon filters through the speaker.

“Hey, you didn’t throw out my number!”

“Yup, lucky you.” she replies. “I wanted to ask you a question? About your poem the other night.”

“What about it?”

“See, I was thinking about that first line. Are we really never more than ten feet away from a spider? Like, at any given moment?”

There’s a moment of silence from Miles before he asks:

“You…called me just to ask me that?”

“What? It’s a very pressing issue! There’s probably one in the corner  of my room as we speak!”

“Alright, I’ll humor you,” Miles laughs. “That’s actually a myth from the 90s. Your distance from the nearest spider really depends on where you’re at, so if you’re in a spot with hella bugs, you’re more likely to see one. You’re probably fine.”

“Now wait just a minute!” Margo gasps dramatically. “So you lied to all those poor folks in there?”

“Sure did. Played ‘em all like a fiddle.”

“Terrible.”

“So, why’d you really call? You don’t sound as concerned about spiders as you say you are, if I’m being honest.”

So much for an excuse.

“Don’t nothing get past you, huh?”

This earns a burst of laughter from Miles’ end.

“You’re a worse liar than me, I wouldn’t recommend making it a habit.”

“Ugh, fine,” Margo admits,  “I just wanted to hear your voice.”

“You could hear my voice in real life, you know. Offer’s still on the table, and I’m free today.”

Their second conversation, and already a lunch date? But as she’s reminded of what his voice sounds like, she quickly realizes that just the voice is not enough. 

Still, she tries to sound casual and makes a non-committal noise.

“Better than being cooped up in my room all day.”

“Great! Where you wanna go?”

Margo shrugs as if he can see her on the other end.

“Wherever you wanna go.”

“Ah, the ‘wherever you wanna go’ paradox,” he chuckles. “Okay, well–lemme ask you this then. Do you like eating with or without music?”

There’s a beat of silence as she considers.

“Hm…is the music good?”

“I’d never subject anyone to a place that plays shit music. Promise.”

“Music, then.”

“Cool, what time works for you?”

“How does two sound? I’ll catch you in front of the Engineering Library.”

“Bet. See you in an hour, then!”

-

The place Miles chose had a live band playing at the front.

A bass player, a keyboard pianist, a saxophonist, and a few background vocalists on occasion. All are propelled forward by the rapid-fire snare of the drummer. It’s jazz - the easy, conversational kind you hear in the background of 90s romantic comedies where the love interest wears nothing but dark lip liner and filled-in brows with a bit of smokey eyeshadow in the crease.

This is the look that Margo has decided to go for as she sits across from Miles at a mahogany table positioned ideally by the window.

It was all she could do other than frantically adjust the braided 'fro-hawk sitting atop her head and spin around in a mist of ‘Champagne Toast’ before bolting out the door.

She doubts he can even smell it right now through the curry and garlic.

“Figured out what you want yet?” Miles asks as he looks over his menu at Margo.

“Eh, I dunno,” she replies, running her index finger down her own menu. “I’m tryin’ not to blow half my paycheck on pasta right now.”

Miles gives her a strange look, then it clicks.

“Oh! Lunch is on me,” he laughs. “Your bank account’s safe for now.”

Her head snaps up.

“You should’ve mentioned that! I thought we were going half and half this whole time, I had my whole budget for the week planned out.”

Margo has to hold back an ugly cackle at the look of horror on Miles’ face right after she says this.

“I’m gonna pretend you didn’t just say that.”

With this new information in mind, she orders a bowl of chicken alfredo with a glass of lemonade that she sips on as the band seamlessly transitions into a cover of Solange’s ‘Cranes in the Sky’.

“So, Margo,” Miles rests his chin on his knuckles and squints his eyes comically. 

“If that is your real name.”

Margo giggles, and plays along.

“It’s not, it’s my alter-ego for when I go on top-secret missions.”

“Is it short for something? Or just Margo?”

“Hm,” she puts on an affected, ‘action movie’ voice, “If I tell you, I might have to kill you.”

“It’s worse ways to die out there.”

Margo looks around her as if to make sure no one’s listening, then leans in.

“It’s short for Marguerite.”

Miles snaps his fingers.

“I knew it!”

“What? You think I look like a Marguerite? Seriously?”

“No, but you got a lil’ country twang in your voice. Ain’t no way in hell Margo wasn’t short for something.”

“Man, alright,” she laughed. 

“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with that,” he winked, “I like ‘em country.”

“Boy, don’t give me that! You look like you’d pass out at the sight of a jar of pig’s feet.”

“Hey now, I got family in South Carolina. I used to go down there and see about ten of those every summer.”

“Fine, but you were still raised a Northerner. I could hear the Brooklyn from a mile away.”

Miles removed his hand from under his chin to clutch his chest.

“Ugh, I feel like I’m caught between two worlds!”

The reference to one of the more choice lines from the poetry slam makes Margo snort and let out a loud guffaw, which she quickly muffles with the palm of her hand.

“Why would you remind me of that!”

Miles is soon infected by the fit of laughter and has to put all his strength into not doubling over at the table and drawing attention.

“This nigga said,” he wheezed, “ ‘I keep doing the Achy Breaky to Suavemente!’ “

“I thought I was the only one who thought that shit sucked,” Margo sighed as she wiped a tear from her eye. “But I didn’t wanna be mean ‘cuz I’m not like, half Puerto Rican, or anything like that.”

“Well I am, and that whole poem felt like a microaggression. And I knew that guy!” He starts gesturing wildly with his hands at the outrage, which Margo finds hilarious. 

“He's like, one-eighth Boricua. His last name is fuckin’ Schwartz!” Miles scoffs, “He don’t know shit about no damn ‘Suavemente’. Bet he looked it up.”

“You should write your own poem, then. ‘Take up space’, as they say.”

“Hell no,” he said. “I left that behind in high school. The other night was an exception, remember?”

“Look, I’m not one to encourage more people to become poets, but you never know. Something might inspire you.”

Miles calms down and gives her a meaningful look.

“Maybe.”

The rest of the conversation saw Miles slyly gathering intel through bites of roasted chicken. He’d quickly learned from their meeting at the bar that his line of questioning with Margo ought to be less direct.

He even hit her with the ‘what’s your sign’ question, though Biggie would’ve advised against it (Margo was a Libra, he was a Leo). He didn’t actually care for astrology, but Margo wasted no time in proclaiming that she couldn’t stand Scorpios because they were ‘too nosy’. 

Miles’ only error was asking if she’d ever dated–correction–spoken to one, and her eyes hardened with suspicion again. He quickly elected to change the subject.

“Okay, totally random question, but humor me. How do you like your eggs?”

Margo blinks twice.

“What?”

“You heard me. You can tell a lot about a person by what kinda eggs they like, true shit.”

“Alright, fine. I like ‘em fried, with the crispy edges. What that say about me?”

“I dunno, but when I find out it’ll all make sense.”

Margo laughs.

“Okay, well, how do you like your eggs?”

“Scrambled, fluffy,” A childish grin spread across Miles’ lips. “And seasoned with Adobo to make ‘em all orange.”

“Never had ‘em like that before.”

“Maybe I could make some for you sometime, if you’d let me.”

“Maybe.”

She remembers his promise a month later when she wakes up to the aroma of the seasoning and hears the pop of frying oil, letting out a sigh of relief at the realization that Miles is still there.

His back is facing her when she enters the kitchen, the morning light illuminating a tattoo she had never seen before. 

It’s a spider with sprawling legs that cascade all the way down the expanse of skin, the movement of his shoulder blades bringing them partially to life. She hadn’t noticed it in the dark, and he was not one to walk around in anything revealing enough for it to have ever seen daylight. It’s faded, which means he’s likely had it for years.

He’s only twenty-one, she thinks. Did he get it in high school?

Amusement creeps onto Margo’s face at the image of Miles sneaking around the house, darting in and out of the bathroom to clean it without his hawk-eyed mother or straight-edged father taking notice. Picturing this, it’s suddenly much easier to believe that their son would have to beg and plead for them to send him a measly forty-six miles away for school, even for an Ivy League. 

Miles doesn’t turn around yet, but Margo catches the way he stops, tilting his head playfully and placing a hand on his hip.

“Man, I can’t believe I’mma have to eat this whole thing of scrambled eggs all by myself, with the ones I just fried! How sad.” “You’re not very funny,” Margo says with a smile, pulling out a chair from beneath the dining table.

He switches the stove off, then does a dramatic spin to face her with fake surprise on his face.

“Oh! Where’d you come from? I didn’t see you there.”

He turns back around to grab two plates–ceramic ones, not the stack of styrofoam ones–from one of the cupboards to serve the eggs in, starting with fried.

Margo watches him silently. The tiny, squint-or-you-might-miss-it gold chain around his neck catches the light as he moves, and she remembers feeling the cold metal brush across her lips.

“The fried ones, are they–”

“Crispy at the edges?” he finishes, with a smile in his voice. “Yes ma’am!”

“You could really be a detective, can’t get nothing past you.”

“You’ve said that before.”

“See?”

The two burst into laughter, and the ink on Miles’ back does also. His poem was accurate, in a way. For the past five weeks, Margo has been no more than ten feet away from a spider.

They have a brief and quiet breakfast, wherein Margo finally asks to try the scrambled eggs and is delighted by the burst of flavor added by the Adobo. They aren’t too dry or too soggy the way they tend to be in restaurants - just fluffy, as promised. She thinks it might be time to finally start taking Miles at his word as she watches his back again while he’s washing dishes.

Once he is fully dressed and about to leave, Miles stops suddenly, as if he’s forgotten something. He reaches into the left pocket of his jacket and pulls out a neatly-folded sheet of paper, nervously running his other hand through the short dreads sitting atop his head.

“Before I leave, I, uh…I took your advice and wrote a lil’ something.”

He hands it to Margo, who takes it gingerly. 

“Well, good for you.”

“It’s been a while, so it’s kinda rough, but hopefully the sentiment is there.”

Miles plants a quick kiss on her cheek, and she smiles easily for once as opposed to the usual raised eyebrow.

“I’ll be sure to let you know if it is.”

Some time after he leaves, she finally sits down to read it while sipping on a cup of tea, because coffee wreaks havoc on her nerves. His handwriting is strange, overly graphic as if it’s the title card of a cartoon, but she reads it.

I know you don't like poetry 

but you said you liked mine,

and the way you sip your wine

has set my pen to paper,

so I hope 

you'll make another exception. 

You've already claimed

half of my sketchbook 

because I just can't get your eyes right.

I always make ‘em too soft,

or too round.

They don't pierce through me,

like they did when

you stared at me over your glass,

eyes narrowed.

When you search my face

and pick me apart,

I'd like to know what it is 

you're always searching for.

#miles morales fic #margo kess #flowerbyte #cybershock #cyberflower #atsv fic #atsv fanfiction #moralesanhour

[bonesblubs]

I LOVE your tags on those recent asks/sketches, please tell us more about everyone's social media presence

Oh god ok

So like I said, Xie Lian has an Instagram only, that only a handful of people know is his since he’s never posted his face. He posts extremely vague pics of trash/scraps on the street that look interesting to him, he has one singular follower that looks like a bot and probably is one but they like every single one of his posts so XL doesn’t report the account or block it. The bot always comments one relevant emoji and Xie lian always comments one back. It feels more like a conversation between two people than an actual blog (which is perfectly alright with him).

Hua Cheng is on Reddit ironically, he spends a lot of time correcting people in very specific subreddits, he’s become somewhat of a legend and his username is well known. He pops up in strange corners of the internet to absolutely flame someone and disappears again at his leisure.

Mu Qing is on every social media platform there is except Facebook (he had it for a week before he got tired of seeing pictures of people’s babies). He schedules his posts, mostly selfies. He’s extremely meticulous about his image so one would think he uses Instagram the most, but actually he’s been most active on Pinterest, where he can quietly create/organize boards for inspiration. He spends less time on his own social media pages and more stalking the accounts of his peers.

Feng Xin is on twitter and TikTok, he yells at trolls on the former and posts instructional archery videos to the latter that he doesn’t know are actually thirst traps. He has a huge following that consists 70% of women, and much of the comments are (mostly) respectfully thirsty. Mu Qing has a secret TikTok account just to follow (for reconnaissance).

Both Feng Xin and Mu Qing have open tabs on Xie Lians Instagram but have not followed him.

#ask box #not art #bones rants #y’all asked and I must deliver #no one is on tumblr besides Qi Rong #tgcf #(these are the only social media platforms I’m familiar with I’m sorry my phone is a barren wasteland)

[justforbooks]

The Stand – the original version of it, something I'll talk about later – was published in 1978. I read it 16 years after that. I can remember the time and place: on holiday in Turkey with my family. I can remember that the copy I had was already falling apart, because it was enormous, and the binding wasn't made to be opened, I don't think. The glue melted as I read the thing; page by page, it fell apart. While I knew I loved King before that holiday, afterwards I'd have followed him to hell and back. It's because of The Stand that I've read all his work, and that I embarked on this series; it's because of The Stand that I'm a writer at all. And because of all this, I don't really know where to start writing about it.

Maybe with Captain Trips. Prior to 1978, King had published three novels under his name that focused on ordinary people ruined or damaged by extraordinary (and inexplicably paranormal) situations. The Stand looked at those ordinary people – the readers of his book – and said: let's damage you all. Rather than the threat being ghosts or vampires, it was a sickness, nicknamed, in the novel, Captain Trips. The sickness was a flu that killed 99.4% of the world's population, and it's terrifying, because we all get the flu. Even as you read the novel, you feel a chill coming over you. (Trust me: I reread this partly on my morning commute, sitting next to somebody with a cough that sounded like death. It's still scary.) Because it's plausible, it affects people in a lasting way. When swine flu broke out in 2009, I lost track of the number of tweets referring to it as Captain Trips. When we're scared we joke; and we joke because of the bubonic plague, because of Spanish flu, and because it feels so wholly reasonable to imagine a virus decimating the world. Worse still? Captain Trips was made in a lab, just like those biological weapons we're all slightly terrified of. The bad guy in The Stand was made by us, and it killed us. That's hubris for you.

I call it the bad guy, but Captain Trips isn't the bad guy. Not really. That honour falls to Randall Flagg. I've mentioned him before but here's where he makes his grand entrance. He's a man of many names: The Walking Dude, The Ageless Stranger, He Who Walks Behind The Rows, The Man In Black, Walter O'Dim, The Dark Man. In The Stand, one character calls him The Antagonist, vague and present and inexplicable. He's bigger than the novel, than the world that's collapsed and torn itself apart; and he only appears when it's done, walking from nowhere, only hazily able to remember who he was before (but that he killed policemen, fought for the KKK, and helped to kidnap Patty Hearst).

Where King's previous antagonists were small fry (or protagonists flipped on their heads), Randall Flagg is never less than pure evil. He has a counterpart, as all evils should: Mother Abigail, 108 years old, who communes with God, and who is the frail good to Flagg's evil. Both have the ability to inspire those around them, but Flagg has an advantage: evil is inherently stronger. It's easier. He's able to gather an army from the weak-minded, the stragglers, finding the darkness that's in us all and using it. He brings out everything awful in those susceptible to him: in his lackey Lloyd, and Trashcan Man, and The Kid, and Harold.

Harold. Poor Harold Emery Lauder, the weakest of the weak. A boy only a couple of years older than I was when I read the book for the first time, and who – like me, as I was discovering – wanted nothing more than to be a writer. And he knew about the same things that I did: being in love with girls who didn't know he existed; wanting to be somebody that he was hopelessly ill-prepared to be; and (the bane of all teenagers) feeling singular, alone. Harold was the crux for me; he presented me with the question that makes the novel so powerful and affecting to so many people. What would I do? If I was suddenly completely alone, if I was given the ability to do anything I wanted with no consequences, would I retain my morality? Or would I, like Harold, naturally skew towards evil because of my baser – albeit human – desires? Do we all have that potential inside us?

As the novel progresses and the survivors of the flu are forced to pick sides – drawn through their dreams to the darkness or the light, to Randall Flagg or Mother Abigail – Harold shows his true colours. In the novel's early stages he is a confused, angry, horny teenager; through Flagg's influence, he loses himself. He becomes a killer, a cold-blooded mess of rage when Flagg persuades him (using sexy schoolteacher Nadine, and the promise of Harold finally getting laid) to detonate a bomb and kill his friends. After succeeding and running away, he ends his life alone, his own hands on the gun, the only time in the novel he's actually offered anything resembling control. I remember thinking how terribly sad this was, because when the book starts he's just a kid. That's easy to forget. Stu Redman feels sad for him as well, and if I most associated with Harold at times, Stu was who I wanted to become.

Why? He's noble. He's quiet and moral and even passionate, and he manages to help inspire the gang of good guys to carry on, despite Randall Flagg's dark temptations. He's the one whom Mother Abigail entrusts to go to Flagg and fight back. He's an authority figure, respected and clever, and he's willing to die for the good of the world and his friends. He doesn't: he breaks his leg, almost as if he's spared, and he watches Las Vegas explode at the novel's close; the threat eliminated, the world ready to rebuild itself. He is able to be the father to Frannie's child.

That's not an accident. Nothing in The Stand is an accident. As much as it's a novel about the battle between good and evil, it's also a novel about fate. These people – the American contingent of the 0.6% of the world's population who survived Captain Trips – manage to meet up in Las Vegas, called from all around by dreams. Did they choose to find each other, or was it chosen for them? Mother Abigail's dreams come courtesy of God; she is his prophet, and she assembles her own biblical-type followers. Pregnant Franny, whose child can assert the human race's survival; the forgiving and ailing Glen; deaf-mute Nick; mentally challenged Tom Cullen, who will save Stu Redman; Larry Underwood, who starts the novel dreaming of Flagg, and is filled with darkness, but somehow finds the light. All the cast are put upon and challenged.

I read once that The Stand was essentially the Book of Job, with the survivors in Job's place: tested by good and evil both; pushed and challenged to see how much they could endure, as if their suffering were a game. There's a little more epic fantasy here than in the Bible, maybe, and it ends not with a war, but with an accident; with the chaos of Trashcan Man finding a weapon, and with Flagg's showing off going to far. But I can still see it. Good wins by default, because evil cannot. Those were the rules in the Old Testament, and they're the rules now.

I've read this book five times in adulthood, by my reckoning, and more when I was a teenager. I know some people read books over and over, but I don't; I'm a once-round-then-shelve-it reader, unless a book really stands out to me. This is my most reread book. I can't think of one that has affected me so much. It scared me and excited me; but more than that, it was the first time I noticed the textures of a novel. The Stand is dense and rich. Every character is full and alive, and they're all in the book with a purpose. They cover every shade of human morality, and that astonished me: the deftness of King's writing in making no two feel alike, and making their deaths – because a lot of the cast die, heroes and villains both, something that almost feels inevitable from the outset – mean something. Everything in the book means something, and nothing is accidental. I can still read it and see the narrative threads, set up to be exploited, revealed or knocked down: and the hints in the subtle stylistic touches (Mother Abigail's side drawn into longer, more florid descriptions of their actions; Flagg's side blunter, more bullish, more exposed).

I don't think I can talk objectively, really.

The Stand is a masterpiece, and I don't use that word lightly. King says in the novel's introduction that he "wanted to write a fantasy epic like The Lord of the Rings, only with an American setting", and that's absolutely what he did.

Important to note, this: there are two versions of The Stand. One was published in 1978, and it's about 800 pages long, and it's set in the 1980s. Another was published in 1991, and it's about 1,200 pages long, and it's set in the 90s. The books are the same story, the same characters; content cut from the early version was put back and the book slightly remastered, as it were, for King's later, more-receptive-to-giant-novels audience. Whichever one you read it's the same book, but for the finality of a single scene at the end of the remaster: where Randall Flagg has survived the novel's endgame, reborn somewhere else entirely, new memories and a new identity, and with a new group of people to try and lead.

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at http://justforbooks.tumblr.com

#JUST FOR BOOKS #stephen king #the stand #book review

[houseofzoey]

Writing:

Looking back through the writing in Redeemed makes me wish I had tallied typos for the previous books, because my god are there a lot in this book.

Like, here's a non-exhaustive list:

Chapter 3: so instead of do

Chapter 5: checks instead of cheeks, "hit the each"

Chapter 7: Mogan le Fay

Chapter 9: "sat stared at", sooths instead of soothes, globs instead of globes

Chapter 12: secrete instead of secret, Priestess instead of priestesses

Chapter 16: "focused them on her will", "raised in battle stance"

Chapter 18: posses instead of possess

Chapter 21: "a bright as"

Chapter 22: Suzanne becoming Suzanna

Chapter 24: finale instead of final, lose instead of loose

Chapter 26: arch instead of arc, merefolk, inhumane instead of inhuman

And that's still not including all the examples of the author just... not knowing what words mean. Again, the best way to convey the scale of this problem is with a list:

Chapter 4: Dressing gown is compared to an outfit befitting a silver screen diva

Chapter 5: Circular drive for a drop-off zone by the curb

Chapter 7: cordially when Lenobia is more likely just being polite

Chapter 9: thee (singular) used in place of you (plural)

Chapter 11: politically correct. Specifically, saying it's not politically correct for religious leaders to guide humans on seeking sanctuary at the HoN.

Chapter 16: The sun just set, but it's not dark yet

Chapter 17: Damocles is the name of the king, not the sword

Chapter 17: gloaming is not a verb

Chapter 18: Superconductor does not describe something that amplifies fire/heat

Chapter 19: coitus interruptus means pulling out, not interrupting someone having sex

Chapter 20: impending thunderstorm when the storm is already very much present and active

Chapter 21: "Behind the ground"

Chapter 22: crawled to describe the movement of snakes

Chapter 23: awe-inspiring and awesome mean the same thing

Chapter 23: politically correct. Specifically, saying it is politically correct to want white men to broaden their horizons by dating black women, especially if they look hot together

Chapter 26: the end means the book is over, not 16 pages left to go

Afterward vs afterword

Afterward: North America is a continent, not a country

Afterward: fledge means "capable of flight", not "mature enough to leave the nest"

There's also just a ton of scattered little problems. PC Cast continues to struggle with punctuation. Use of italics and formatting for flashbacks, internal monologue, and dialogue with dead/non-Earthly entities is wildly inconsistent. There are multiple instances of Earth not being capitalized when referring to the planet, and at least one instance where it is capitalized when talking about the element. One of Zoey's sections inexplicably starts in third person POV before shifting to the usual first person, and one of Aphrodite's sections briefly switches to Zoey's POV.

And there are so many poems. So, so many poems, almost all of them terribly constructed. This includes a haiku that is 7-5-7 instead of 5-7-5, a couplet with uneven meter, and one poem where the final line is just as long the entire first stanza. I honestly think PC Cast gets worse at poetry the more she writes it.

The only real growth we've seen in the writing for this twelve book series is fewer pointless parenthetical asides, and Zoey being less bigoted/judgemental in her narration. Otherwise? P.C. Cast replicates the same issues in her writing again and again and again.

#house of zoey #redeemed #final thoughts

[whoiwanttoday]

I am posting some Demi Lovato who has changed her pronouns to She/They thank god. I say that not because of any issue with her being non binary but because it caused me a lot of stress thinking that I might fuck them up. I spent a childhood having using They as a singular pronoun hammered out of me by teachers. I hated inaccuracies as a kid so when I wrote if I did not know a gender I would use they instead of she or he because who wants to be wrong about that? Keep it vague. Of course, when I didn't want others to know the gender of someone I'd use They as well to keep things vague there too because inter gender communication could be social suicide in 3rd grade. Anyway, it means my brain is wired a way and when I went to type They often I could feel my body tense up, it felt wrong. Not because of politics but because Ms. Seymore was really mean and not nice about it at all. Anyway, that's my issue, not hers but the fact that I can use hers is a security blanket because it means I don't have this fear when I post her now, which is that I write quickly and 4 hours later realize I mispronouned her, which is frankly a dick move. Not that I think Demi Lovato would care about an honest mistake but I have been on tumblr long enough to know some people would be brutal. One fucking time I typoed Charli XCC instead of Charli XCX because the keys are right next to each other and guys, I got so many shitty messages and reblogs of, "Ummmm... you know her name is Charli XCX, right?" Which was wild because it was like the 10th time I had posted her and I had written it Charli XCX 4 other times in that post, so yeah, I probably knew. Anyway, I can avoid that now and even bounce back and forth if I want. Not why she is here, just the preamble. She is here cause she appeared in Inked Magazine in a very Bettie Page inspired shoot and it gets a big thumbs up from me. Using Bettie Page as an inspiration is a time honored tradition and she did it well and she looked good. So they are here. Today I went to fuck Demi Lovato.

#Demi Lovato #brunette #Singer #whoiwanttofucktoday

[aquiescentraconteur]

My darling love, 

I realized something about myself today: I fall in with history. Confused? I’ll explain. 

I just realized that I tend to love places, people and things that have a long-lasting past of character – it’s like there’s magic in those old records at grandma’s house, or the narrative behind my favorite coffee shop. I have internalized rose-colored glasses with which I see the world unravel. I’ll have to remember that next time I expect only the good part of life. 

Your mom is an idiot, I know. She’s goofy and delusional most days – ‘so call me up and tell me a joke’. But she’s also someone who truly believes in genuine, good-faithed people. I’ve met a few these last few years; they hold me heart dearly. 

I realize now that all my favorites have this sort of ‘ethereal’ vibe to things – my favorite book is a non-traditional, singularly-exceptional period piece. There’s a whimsical character to Austen pages I never grasped until now. My most beloved places on Earth? Historical landmarks with a continuous position in today’s society – from the vintage building aesthetic to the gold-plated silverware displayed in the windows and the crystal chandeliers hanging around the café. The number one way to my heart? A good-old classic piano piece – it’s no news Fur Elise amazes me. Okay, I admit it’s a strong tie between her and Sakura’s’ inspiration. I hope to God you understand this reference!

Point is, I love the feeling of being surrounded by history. It warms my heart to imagine the remarkable, well-known, sides of that earlier history – from the people to the moments. However, the unknown part is my favorite. The charming and unique singularities inside each of those places only I notice are what keeps me coming back. 

I hope I can take you to every single one of those my love. I hope I can tell you all the stories, the rumors, that made me fascinated with it the first place. But what I can’t wait to see is you, building your own unknow parts on why and how you love those places. 

Love, 

Mom,

January, 16th 2024

[cotgar2]

Realizing you have things called feelings is quite a ride, huh

#I do ask that you don’t tag this as the ship; thank you! #this is solely based on that ONE manga page that wasn’t in brotherhood #but GOD was I inspired by that singular page #I’m not kidding you when I say I’ve only drawn actual comics three times; and they were all one page #this was such a fucking ride but I hope it comes across well lmaoo #my art #my comic #fanart #fma #fmab #fullmetal alchemist #fullmetal alchemist brotherhood #fma greed #greed the avaricious #ling yao #fma ling #greedling #hurt/comfort #ASK TO TAG!!! #idk what stuff triggers y’all with this but please lmk!!

[ghost-ghost-baby]

Narcissist (alpha!readerxOmega!Bakugo soulmate au)

An: this is heavily inspired by the song narcissist by younger hunger definitely recommend listening to it!

An: BIG TY TO MY BETA FOR EDITING THIS ABSOLUTE MONSTER OF A FIC WE STAN!

Word count: 3.2k (ur welcome)

Summary: Bakugo being a little shit basically- Mina and Denki r sick of him- reader runs out of scent blockers-

Warnings: omegaverse, swearing, Bakugo being a dick, reader just thinks he’s hot, gets a bit spicy but nothing graphic, non traditional dynamics (subby alphas) drug use (weed)

You were in a familiar room, one you’d come to love since you’d started dreaming of it, and you sat on the bed and waited… any moment now.

“Oi, are you here, shithead?” The voice of your omega was dreamier than it was in real life; his harsh words unable to punctuate the tranquility of your dream.

“I always am, Katsuki!” You chirped, grinning as he slowly faded into existence. The black tank top and jeans he wears make him look far too good, and your brain short-circuited for a few seconds.

“I told you not to fucking call me that!” He growled, but you only laughed. Reaching out to grab his hands before he could stop you, you pull him down so you could kiss him. Any anger he had quickly melted away, and Katsuki had pulled one hand away to rest on your shoulder and pushed back. You got the point, you pulled away for air and leaned back on your elbows as you did. Katsuki followed and straddled you without a moment of hesitation. His mouth latched onto your neck and you let out a hum. With one hand gravitating to tangle in his hair, he gave you another push that had you lying flat on your back.

“Hey-”

“Shut the fuck up, don’t ruin this.” Katsuki bit down on your throat and you squeaked, although he licked over the mark seconds later to soothe it, and only pulled away to kiss you when you tried to talk again. You melted, let your hands wander down to his thighs, and had your thumbs rubbing absent-minded circles. Then, Katsuki was unbuttoning the shirt you had on, hands quickly trailing lower to-

“Y/N! Did you hear what Mr. Aizawa said?” Mina’s voice brought you back from the dream you had the night before, and you blinked at her as you blanked.

“No way I'm working with their dumbass!” Katsuki snarled as Kiri forced him into a seat at your table, and you turned your head to Sero with a questioning look. He usually knew what was going on in class.

“We have a group project for a presentation, Mr. Aizawa picked the groups-”

“Oh hell yeah, all my best bro’s working together? Sounds like fun to me!” Denki leaned over to hug you and Mina, and the pieces started to click together. You were working on an art project, with your mate, who hate-

“How could anything be fun with Y/n around, they fucking ruin everything.” Katsuki grumbled to himself, refusing to meet your eyes despite sitting opposite you. Kiri mouthed an apology to you from his seat next to Katsuki. Honestly, you had no idea why he’d decided to act like… such a brat really, but it was just an act, however annoying it was. The two of you were soulmates, he’d come around, eventually.

“Oh hush, Bakugo, Y/n’s a riot and we all know it! You’re the one who goes to sleep at like, 8pm” Denki came to your aid. The electric blonde then pressed a kiss to your cheek that had Katsuki gritting his teeth.

“So, what's the project, guys?” You flipped through your book to a fresh page, resting your chin on your hand as you waited for the others to speak.

“We have to show the versatility of styles and composition under a singular theme!” Kiri was the one that answered you, and the group immediately started throwing around ideas.

“I think we could do horror, a lot of horror artists have different composition styles and still manage to convey the-”

“Tch, that’s the best you could come up with? I’m not surprised, an alpha as shitty as you can’t be capable of any decent ideas.” Katsuki sneered, but you only smiled at him as the group agreed with your idea. Your omega merely grumbled and hunched over in his seat as the group discussed the different artists you could use as examples.

You’d stayed late to double-check something with a professor, and you were still flipping through your notebook as you walked through the unusually empty halls. You weren’t paying attention to where you were going, and before you knew it you ran into someone, the same someone who shoved you against a wall seconds later, but your fear subsided when you realised it was just Katsuki.

“Watch where you’re fucking going, dipshit.” Katsuki wasn’t even sure why he’d pushed you up against the wall, but being this close to you, touching you… it was..nice…

“Tch, god your scent is so weak, you smell like a fucking beta, how’d I get stuck with such a runt, huh? Some sick kind of joke.” Katsuki’s tone didn't match what he was saying. The way he leaned forward to rub his cheek over your scent gland definitely said otherwise, but you stayed quiet, he always found some excuse to scent you, but he’d usually get embarrassed and storm off if you dared to say anything.

“You’re pathetic, you know? Being this submissive for an omega, are you sure you’re not a beta? It’d make more sense.” You bit your lip when Bakugo pressed a kiss to your neck, only hesitating a moment before he started sucking a mark onto your skin. His words bounced right off of you because all you could focus on was how hot he was and how he’d subconsciously put his thigh between your legs and thank fuck you were on scent blockers, or you’d never hear the end of it.

“Really, you aren’t even going to try and defend yourself? You’re even weaker than I thought.” A growl next to your ear made you shiver, and Katsuki pushed away with a snarl when he was satisfied. He cursed at you again and warned you ‘not to tell anyone or he’d kick your ass’ (he wouldn’t) before he walked away, leaving you to walk home with your head completely in the clouds.

“What took you so fucking long, huh idiot?” Katsuki was on you the second you appeared in the dream, pulling you down into a rather ferocious kiss before you could say anything. He bit your lip when you didn’t open your mouth fast enough, swallowing any protests you would have made, and continued to kiss you until you were dizzy. “I’ve been waiting two hours…” He pulled away to kiss under your jaw, and if you didn’t know him so well you’d miss the insecure tone in his voice.

“Sorry, Midoriya wanted-” You stopped when Katsuki growled, biting down so hard you were surprised he didn't draw blood.

“Why the fuck are you saying his name here, huh? Are you tryna piss me off?” He pulled away to sneer at you. You opened your mouth to explain, but the words died in your throat when he unzipped your hoodie, and any coherent thought you had went out the window when he started to kiss your neck.

Everything was ready. The lounge room was set up, complete with snacks, drinks, and stationery for you and your friends to work on the project. They were meant to be here any second, and you couldn’t help but hover near the door to your apartment. You weren’t used to having people over and it still put you on edge having others in your space. But that thought left your head when a knock sounded on your door. You quickly opened it and were almost knocked over by Denki and Mina engulfing you in a hug.

“Thanks so much for hosting bro!”

“Awww you laid out all these snacks and stuff too! An omega’s gonna be really lucky to have you one day Y/n!” They pushed inside. Denki closed the door as Mina oohed and aahed over the setup, their praise had a slight blush rising to your face as you sheepishly rubbed your neck. Sero was next, quickly hugging you before he joined Denki and Mina, then Katsuki and Kirishima last. The blonde pushed past you without saying hello, but Kiri pulled you into a hug so tight you couldn’t breathe for a second, and was complimenting the setup as you took a seat. You tried to sit next to Mina, but Denki let out a whine and the pair was pulling you down between them before you had time to protest. Denki immediately leaned on you once you were settled. Katsuki couldn’t focus on the project, how could he, when his two dipshit friends were all over his mate. And you weren’t even doing anything to stop them! In fact, you were leaning into their hugs and giggling at every stupid joke they made! It had Katsuki fuming. Kirishima was the only one close enough to smell the angry shift in his scent, and he glanced between his friend and you, slowly putting the pieces together. You really had no idea what was happening, but Denki’s head was on your shoulder, and Mina’s arm around your waist as she asked questions about the project, giggling and pressing a kiss to your cheek whenever you got confused, which happened more than you’d like to admit. The blonde gritted his teeth when Mina’s hand went to your thigh, you were his! Nobody else should ever be touching you like that! You should know better! So when you excused yourself to grab something from your room, of course he made up some excuse about needing the bathroom so he could follow you.

The door to your room closed with a click, and you quickly spun around, expecting to see Mina or Denki, anyone except Katsuki to be honest.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” He was seeing red at this point. He cornered you and made you stumble back until your waist hit your desk.

“Uh- getting more pens-?” You held out the pack of pens with a confused look on your face that only made Katsuki angrier. How were you so stupid? And so fucking cute when you were- he cut off that thought, he needed to focus on yelling at you. Not the way your brows furrowed and how you nervously bite your lip as you waited for him to say something. Wait- were you blushing? Fuck, maybe he should-

“Katsuki? Are you oka-“

“Shut the fuck up, dipshit.” He snarled. Then, catching you both off guard, he leaned forward and kissed you. Your eyes fluttered closed immediately. He’d only kissed you in your dreams, which was nothing compared to this, and you hesitantly placed your hands on his waist. His hands went to your hair to pull you closer, tugging it until you got the message and parted your lips for him. Katsuki let out a hum of approval as he deepened the kiss, why hadn’t he done this sooner? You couldn’t focus on anything other than how much Katsuki tasted like caramel, he didn’t taste like caramel in the dreams. You couldn’t help but whine when he pulled back. Another insistent tug on your hair had you tilting your head back, and Katsuki didn’t waste any time kissing over your neck. You were so lost in the feeling you almost missed the words he growled against your skin.

“You should know better, you’re mine. Other people shouldn’t be fucking touching you like that.”

“Do you think they’re like…. Finally-” Mina made a hand gesture that had Denki cackling, even Kiri cracked a smile.

“I hope so, it’s getting hard to watch all the back and forth.” Sero sighed, dropped his pen, and stretched.

“Yeah, have you seen how mad Bakubro gets though? It’s pretty fun to push his buttons like this!” Denki grinned as he leaned his head on Mina’s shoulder, and she wrapped her arm around his waist.

“I don’t know… Bakugo’s uh… stubborn, to put it nicely.”

“Your scent is weird… are you wearing a different perfume?” Mina leaned her head on your shoulder, arms wrapped around your waist as you glanced at Katsuki. After whatever the fuck had happened in your room, he’d gone back to acting like he hated you, so, you’d kept letting Denki and Mina do whatever they wanted. He had his eyes fixated on the work, and you turned back to Mina with a smile.

“Oh, sorry about that! I forgot to refill my scent blockers and my doctor’s not available until next week.”

“Don’t be sorry, bro! It’s nice, like really, really nice!” Denki came up behind you, throwing a quick glance at Katsuki before he leaned forward, crooning and rubbing his cheek over your scent gland, Mina doing the same a moment later. The pen Katsuki was holding snapped, his angry scent pumping out in waves as he glared daggers into the book in front of him, all too aware of you laughing.

You were hyper-aware of how strong your scent was, this was the longest you’d gone without scent blockers since you’d presented, and you’d lit a scented candle to try and cover it up. It hadn’t really worked, maybe you should light some incense-

“Y/n! Sorry we’re early!” Mina’s hand on your shoulder broke you from your thoughts, and you shook your head before you smiled. Denki cut you off before you could apologize about your scent.

“Damn Y/n! It smells like you baked cookies- oh my god did you bake-”

“Don’t be stupid, babe, it’s just their scent.” Mina shoved him inside, shaking her head as she followed and closed the door behind her.

“Oh! Of course!” Denki nodded, and he and Mina linked arms with you. They walked you over to the couch and sat you all down with grins on their faces.

“Uh… guys-?” You didn’t trust that look, it never leads to anything good.

“Well, since the project is like, 99.5% done-” Mina started, hand coming up to play with your hair.

“We thought we deserved a reward!” Denki interrupted, reaching into his bag and producing a blunt. You felt your own grin forming.

“Oh my god- is that from-”

“Shinso! You know he sells the best stuff on campus, I decided to splurge for my bros!” Denki looked incredibly pleased with himself, and you couldn’t help but tackle the blonde in a hug.

“Oh my god Denki, you’re the best!”

The three of you were blazed by the time the others got there. Sero happily bounced over to share the blunt, while Katsuki and Kiri just sighed and sat down with you. Katsuki’s eyes instantly zoned in on where you were lying on Mina and Denki on the couch. He was oddly silent as he tried to keep his cool, the nagging thoughts that had always been there slowly got stronger. He’d always had to be strong, people perceived him as weak just because of his dynamic, so he’d rejected the thought of being with an alpha, hoping for a beta or omega. Or you. You never made a big deal out of your dynamic, and always treated him as an equal. Then the dreams started. He loved you, he really did! But his whole reputation would go down the drain if he was claimed by an alpha, especially one with such a weak scent and mild presence. So…. he pretended to hate you in public because the two of you had your dreams, where nobody could judge him! Even if they did pale in comparison to real life. But lately… he couldn’t stop wondering… were you getting tired of waiting? With the way you were acting… the thought made his stomach turn and his canines come out. Especially since you had run out of blockers. Your scent getting stronger and stronger as the days went by. You were his alpha! You shouldn’t be scenting other people! Especially omegas! And you certainly shouldn’t be laying on them while you were ignoring him! You hadn’t even said hello to him! You were too busy getting high with those assholes like you didn't belong to him! You were his, it wasn’t fair!

Mina was the last out of the apartment. She kissed your cheek and winked at you as the door closed. The exhaustion set in as you leaned against the door.

“What the fuck was that?” Katsuki growled and made you startled when you saw him by the table. You only shrugged as you went to pack up the stuff on the couch.

“Denki got us some weed because the project was done-”

“Not that, dickhead! They were all over you!” He marched over to you, trying to ignore how good you smelled up close.

“And? We’re not-” You responded, and Katsuki was shoving you before he realized, ignoring the way you yelped as you fell on the couch. You sprawled on your back and glaring up at him.

“Katsuki! What the fuck!” Katsuki didn’t reply, eyes traveling over your vulnerable form. Flush rose to his face as he realized how provocative the position was, causing warmth to pool in his tummy. If kissing was so much better in reality, what would it be like to be inside you? Feel you clench around him and pull his hair when he hit your sweet spot? Would your thighs shake the same in real life when he just kept going? The omega didn’t even realize his scent had changed, he just licked his lips and stared at you with hooded eyes, fuck he wanted-

“Are you okay? You zoned out.” Fuck, when had you gotten up? You were so close now, your scent overwhelming. He never wanted you to go on blockers again.

“Fuck, Katsuki! Katsuki! Are you in heat?” It finally dawned on you. Katsuki’s scent had taken on a sweeter tone it didn’t usually have, and with the way he kept zoning out, it was obvious. Plus thoughts of him on top of you that wouldn’t leave your brain alone. Your question snapped him out of his daze, and the omega snarled at you, stepping back and stumbling when a jolt of pain went through him.

“Fuck off, like you could trigger-” His voice cut off as another wave of pain went through him, causing you to reached out to steady him without thinking. The omega was going to let out a growl but it quickly changed to a whine as it escaped his mouth. You pulled your hand back like it had burned, although your mate’s temperature was so high it wasn’t out of the question. You took two steps back and froze when a feral snarl ripped through the room, dark red eyes pinning you in your place.

“He-hey Katsuki…” Your voice stopped his growling, and it took every ounce of self-control you had to stay coherent as he advanced, your rut already trying to cloud your judgment. Your eyes darted around the room, maybe you could make it to the bathroom? Then Katsuki could ride out his heat and you could talk about it? yeah. Katsuki was only a foot away from you now, the grin he had on was somehow more unsettling than the snarl, and you shook your head to get some of your resolve back. Okay, three, two, one-

You made it maybe ten centimeters before Katuski caught you, and pushed you back down on the couch. He wasted no time sitting on your lap and tilting your face up to look into his eyes.

“You’re not getting away from me, Alpha. I know you want this. I should have done this months ago.” Sincerity shone through your omega’s lidded eyes, and you felt your small shred of resolve shrink away even more. Your hands flew to his chest to push him away.

“Ka-Katsuki it’s just- just your heat, you don’t mean-“

“Don’t tell me what I do and don’t mean, alpha.” Katsuki was back to growling at you. His hands grabbed your wrists, pinned them down, and used his knees to keep them in place. He went back to cupping your face, red eyes boring into yours as he thought of what to say and a growl leaving him whenever you dared to look away. You were so, so obnoxiously pretty, it made it even harder to focus. Katsuki kept getting distracted by little details, like how your eyes shone and you kept biting your lip.

“You’re so fuckin stupid, ya know that? Of course, I fuckin want you, you’re my alpha- I don’t… I don’t care what other people think anymore, I just want you.” Katsuki’s tone was softer than you expected, and you could only gape at him as a blush quickly rose to your face. You knew he didn’t hate you, but hearing him say that lifted a weight off your shoulders you’d been carrying for who knows how long. The moment passed, all the softness went away as Katsuki leaned down to kiss you, and this time you kissed him back without any reservations.

#bnha #Bakugo x reader #omegaverse #bnha omegaverse #bnha x reader #omega Bakugo #alpha reader #reader insert #omegaverse imagine #bnha imagine

[sweetchup]

Bi•valve

Noun

an aquatic mollusk that has a compressed body enclosed within a hinged shell, such as oysters, clams, mussels, and scallops.

AKA

The Most Common Seashell in the Ocean

————————

Vol. 1: Just Keep Swimming // Ch. 2

Type: Poseidon x reader

Word Count: 4,000+

Masterlist

————————

Sounds of horns and shouting filled the air outside as you stood on the packed bus. Cramped in from every side, it was hard for you to tell where you were going. Not as if you were paying much attention anyways.

“Okay, you left fish and pasta in the fridge… he could use the tv or read a book for entertainment while you are gone…what about…” You ramble incoherently to yourself.

Even though the storm hit Athens hard yesterday, your studio art professor was still having classes today. Forcing you to leave Triton alone at home. You shouldn’t be nervous. There was no reason to. After all, Triton is a god, he was hundreds of years old.

But…, he was still a child. No matter how old or what type of being he is. He could still possibly injure himself or get into trouble. And that single fact alone made you feel sick to your stomach.

“Is this how parents feel leaving their child alone for the first time…?” You groan to yourself, leaning your head forward so it hits the window in front of you.

“Now Approaching *Athens International School of Art*. I repeat, Now—“ The robotic voice announces over the intercom. At the familiar name of your college, you squeeze your way through the other patrons on the bus to make your way to the doors.

Sweet, sweet air, you think to yourself as soon as you exit the bus. It was starting to get way too cramped in there. So much so, you wondered if it was a safety hazard. Though it wasn’t as if you were one to talk, you left a little boy alone—

“Argh!” You scream out, slapping the cheeks of your face. You needed to stop thinking of Triton. He was going to be completely fine. But, what if…

“I’m getting too attached already…” You groan to yourself. It had only been a day. One singular Day. But you were already smitten by the blonde haired child. “It doesn’t help that he's absolutely adorable as well…”

“Who’s adorable?” A voice calls out from behind you, making you jump in surprise. Whipping around, you let out a sigh once you identify who it was.

“Bryce… how many times have I told you not to sneak up on me like that…”

Bryce Kroger. He was studying abroad at Athens International School of Art for a year just like you except he was instead an architecture major. You met him by coincidence while taking art history so you didn’t know much about the guy, the only thing being the few stories he told you about his home country of Australia.

“Oi! It’s not my fault you're so skittish!” Bryce banters back with a huff.

“Whatever…”

“Eh? Wait, where you heading?” Bryce questions as he watches you walk away, “I thought you had Studio Art on Fridays?”

“I do. I’m heading to the library first though.” You yell back to the tall male who stayed put where he was standing. Not even bothering to follow you.

“You need to stop studying so much!”

“Shut up!”

“IT’S THE TRUTH!”

“SHUT UP!” You scream back with one final huff before storming off. So what if you studied so much. You just wanted to get good grades in the classes that counted. It’s how you got here in the first place. By working your ass off.

Unconsciously, you feel your hand twitch as you open the library door. So what if you spent hours studying. So what if you didn’t go out with friends that often. So what if you didn’t have a social life. So what—

You feel yourself pause, your expression turning sour. Lonely. That’s what you were. You were lonely. A miserable lonely girl.

“Miss!”

Startled out of your thoughts by the sudden call, you realize you were no longer standing at the front door but instead standing in front of one of the librarians. You must have unconsciously walked up to the front desk while you were lost in thought.

“A-Ah. Sorry, I was just looking for books on Leonar—“

You feel your voice trail off at the end as a book on the counter catches your eye. It wasn’t the gold detailing nor the leather texture. No. It was the simple words of “Greek Mythology: Tales of Zeus” printed neatly on the front.

“…Actually, Do you perhaps have any books about Poseidon?”

You just found something better to do with your time.

—.—.—.—.—

“Damn… this is extremely confusing…” You mumble to yourself as you glare at the pages of notes in front of you. Each book seemed to be a little bit different from the last. “Perhaps I should recap…”

Okay, so what makes sense to you is that Poseidon is the second eldest of three brothers and is the ruler of the seas. The things that don’t make sense are… practically everything else…

You weren’t sure if you wanted to cry or scream out of frustration right now.

According to the books, Poseidon has had many consorts over the years. One of them being Triton’s mother, Amphitrite…

“My mother… can be quite mean to other women. Even to some of the female servants around the palace. She believes that they are trying to seduce my father…”

…but that doesn’t match up with what Triton mentioned last night. According to him, it sounds like Amphitrite scared away any women that would even come near Poseidon. This also leads to another flaw in the mythology books. You doubted that Poseidon would be able to have an affair with any other women with Amphitrite antics, nevertheless have 10 other children with them.

“Triton also never mentioned having any other siblings…”

Letting out a groan, which you seemed to be doing a lot today, you banged your head against the table. It seems like these mythology books weren’t going to be of any help after all. Though…. you couldn’t help but wonder why the books were so off in the first place.

Lifting yourself back up from the table, you glare down at one of the book covers. It was blue, almost silvery in a way, with a giant black silhouette of Poseidon right smack dab in the middle. Or, at least, what Poseidon might look like…

“Well, my father is extremely strong and handsome. All the sea nymphs stare at him with big heart eyes half the time. Oh! B-but, father doesn’t pay any attention to them. Father is not a cheater like uncle Zeus…”

“…Is Father…? Oh. He’s alright… He’s nowhere as bad as my mother. He’s never hit me or anything. He’s just… cold. Extremely cold. He really just ignores me half the time…”

“…I do love my father…I just wished he would at least spare me a glance…you know?…Acknowledge his own son…”

“God damn jerk!” You hiss out in anger as you push the book aside. Your blood practically boiling at even the slightest thought of Triton’s father, Poseidon. He doesn’t deserve to have such a good and nice son like Triton.

However, as much as you want to curse out Poseidon more, you realized class would be starting soon and you really had to get a move on.

“Shit. I can’t afford to be late again.”

—.—.—

“Ugh. Why did the professor have to assign me this type of painter…?!” You whined to Yuri. Class had already ended by then with the professor long gone. The only people left were students that were conversing with others or trying to get a head start on their paintings.

“Well, it didn’t help that you barged into class late for the second time this week, (y/n).” Yuri explained with a sigh as she continued to set up her palette, not even sparing you a glance.

Yuri Saito, Or rather Saito Yuri, was an abroad student from Japan. She was the closest person you knew at the college as you both were similar in many ways. Especially since you were both homebodies.

“I get that but at least I showed up in the fir—“

“(Y/n)!” A voice shouts out interrupting your talk with Yuri. You turn around to see Bella Woods, a student apart of your major, approaching you. “(Y/n). You were part of your student council back in high school right?”

“Uh, Yeah. Why?” You answered hesitantly. You weren’t sure why, perhaps instincts, but you were already having a bad feeling about this situation.

“Well I need your help on something…” Bella explains, her voice trailing off at the end as she grabs something from her bag. It’s a piece of paper, a flier to be exact.

“A…A Cultural Festival?”

Bella nods her head at your words, “Yeah. The college wanted to put something on for the public to show what our art school is all about and Mrs. Yamamoto suggested this. A-Apparently, it’s something schools and colleges do back in Japan.”

“B-But how can I help? Wouldn’t it make sense for someone like Yuri to do this? Since she’s from Japan and all.”

It was the truth. You didn’t know a single thing about japanese culture festivals.

“Hey don’t drag me into this, I’m busy.” Yuri counterbacks with a glare before returning back to her painting.

“Well… you see… The school wanted to change Mrs. Yamamoto’s idea a bit since they really didn’t know anything about Japanese Cultural festivals either. So it’s like a Cultural festival, kind of not.” Bella rambled. You could tell all this information was scrambling her brain as well. “Basically, it’s like a Greek version of a Cultural festival where each major picks a Greek god and plans an event or booth around it.”

“…Okay… So it’s just like a school festival in a way?” You questioned cautiously. This was a lot for you to take in at once.

“Yes. Precisely. We are just taking inspiration from Cultural festivals.”

“Okay. Okay…” You answer as you rub the back of your neck, “I still don’t understand why you need me though?”

“Well, I kind of… kind of saw you reading the mythology books in the library today and we need more people on the planning committee…” Oh, god. It seems like everything is coming back to bite you in the ass, “…Just. Please (y/n), We need your help!”

You let out a small sigh as you watch Bella give you a pleading look, “Fine…”

“Yay—!“

“But…“ You start cutting off Bella’s cheers, “But I’m taking care of something really important right now at home so I can’t always make meetings and things like that. I can help with planning but that’s it. Okay?”

That was correct. As much as you wanted to help Bella and your department out with this festival, Triton was your top priority right now. His care and needs were above all else right now, even your own. So if this would get in the way of that then you would drop this project instantly. Instantly.

“Of course! Oh, thank you (y/n)!” Bella cheers, her body visibly relaxing now that a stress has been taken off your shoulder, “Well, I’m not sure if you're busy right now but… the committee is currently planning two classrooms down… so if you could…”

“I’ll go…” You sighed out. Damn, what’s with you lately. Less than two days ago, people hardly approached you. Now you are as busy as a bee. A person magnetic… Well, more like god magnetic as wel—

Wait, a minute. You feel yourself tense up as a thought flies into your brain. If Gods could travel and spend time on earth, could they live here as well? Just like how Triton wants to?

Shit. What if some that live here are able to identify Triton? You could be in big troub—

“(Y/n)? Are you coming?” Bella calls, snapping you out of your thoughts.

“Y-yes.”

It seemed you would have to worry about that later. Not that it mattered right now, you could always just ask Triton when you got home. And even if he didn’t know the answer you would just have to be careful bringing him out of the house. Yeah… you would just do that.

“Guys, I would like to introduce you to (y/n). She’s a fine arts major just like us and knows about mythology. I think she would make a great addition to our group.” Bella introduces you as you enter the room. As you looked around the group of only 4 other people, you realized you really didn’t know anyone.

That is until everyone started to introduce themselves. You never heard of the first three—Brian, James and Kyle—but you found the last name, Marissa Samudra, quite familiar. You wonder if she was that Marissa.

Who you were talking about was Marissa, the hottest girl in school Marissa. Well, at least that’s what all the boys in your major told you. The girl in front of you at least seemed to fit the part. With white silk like skin, light green eyes and dyed coral pink hair, she truly was a sight to see.

“Okay. So shall we get started.” James suddenly spoke up, seeming to want to get the meeting started. You nodded your head in agreement before taking a seat next to Holly. As well as across from Marissa. “Well, I think we should first decide which god we should do. Culinary, Music, Visual performing arts and architecture already have chosen Aphrodite, Hades, Ares and Zeus. (Y/n)…”

You lift your head up at the call of your name.

“…as you know the most about Mythology, who do you think we should pick?”

“Well,…” You feel yourself pause, your palms growing sweaty out of nervousness. You really didn’t know that much about Greek Gods, only the class you took last year and the books you skimmed this morning. You also didn’t expect so many of the main gods to be taken already.

“…How about…”

You needed to think of someone fast. Someone that would satisfy all parties here. Someone that would bedazzle people coming to the festival.

“…Poseidon…?”

Why… Why was that what your brain had come up with? Poseidon? The very god that you were cursing out this morning. Wishing near death upon.

“Fish man?” Brian questioned, letting out a small chuckle at his own joke, “You really want to go with Fish man as our god? Isn’t there anyone better?”

“I think Poseidon is pretty…cool.” You feel a shiver go up your spine as you compliment the man. It was official, you might actually puke. “…He’s the king of the seas. It gives us a lot to work with for his character. Especially since most Fine Arts students are good at realistic elements, we could really do well on painting or using sea life.”

“True… but—“

“I think it’s a wonderful idea.”

You are shocked as you hear Marissa cut Brian off. When you first sat down, she seemed totally uninterested in the topic at hand. Caring more about her hair and nails than anything else. But now, now, she was paying attention to every little thing. You couldn’t help but wonder why. “Oh sorry. I really like the sea. It holds a special place in my heart… you know?”

Oh, that makes sense. You totally forgot Marissa’s paintings were mostly about the ocean and sea. Never drifting off to other topics.

“N-no. That’s actually pretty cool. You know what, we should totally do Posedin… or whatever the dude’s name is. He sounds really cool.” Bryan agrees as he bashfully rubs the back of his neck. Gross, could he make it any less obvious that he was smitten by her. And not in a nice way either.

You feel yourself shiver as you watch him sneak small glances down at Marissa’s chest area. Disgusting pervert…

“Well, with that decided let’s move on…”

…Great… You could already tell this was going to be a long meeting…

—.—.—.—.—

Again, for what felt like the hundredth time today, you banged your head against the wall. This time however it was against the door of your apartment.

“Seriously… a Café…?”

Yes, a Café. That’s the brilliant idea your group came up with. An under the sea type themed café.

In hindsight it didn’t sound all that bad. You could have a couple of students paint some props and decorations. Then another couple of students who know how to cook plan out the menu. Maybe even borrow some culinary students if you were lucky.

But,… there’s that.

Outnumbered three to two, the boys of your group insisted the girls that are serving customers should wear togas. Togas. They stated it was to bring in more customers but it was pretty obvious they had other intentions behind it. Especially since they didn’t even bother waiting a couple of minutes afterwards to ask if Marissa wanted to be part of the waiting staff.

“Poor girl… I feel bad for her.” You mumble to yourself as you pull out your keys, finally unlocking the door to your apartment. You wished you could just beat all those men senseless with a baseball bat. “That’s actually not a bad idea… Could I bring a wooden club and say that it's part of the character? They seem to not know that much about—“

“Miss (y/n)!” You hear shouted as something comes barreling into you. Knocking you onto the ground right as you enter your apartment. “O-oops I meant to only say (y/n)…”

Even though you got the air literally knocked out of you, you still let out a small chuckle as you reached up to run a hand through the perpetrator’s locks. Triton’s blonde locks. “It’s okay. I only told you this morning to stop referring to me so formally. It will take time for you to get used to it.”

Suddenly, you wince at a feeling of pain as you move slightly. Triton sure was strong. You, honestly, wondered if he held back some strength when he jumped at you. If so, you wondered how strong Triton was nonetheless an adult god.

Speaking of an adult god…

“Hey Triton.” The boy lifts his head up at your call, “Do any gods live on earth?”

The boy seemed to take a moment to think, “Well kind of? Not really Greek Gods though. Most of them are too proud to live with humans.”

“Oh well that’s goo— Wait, a minute! Other gods are real as well!?”

Triton nods his head furiously, “Yeah pretty much all gods. As long as it is considered as one, it exists. There’s Nordic gods…, Indian gods…, Oh! Even Buddha. I like Buddha, even though I’ve only met him once. He introduced me to salt water taffy! It’s delicious.”

“I-I see…I’ll try to get you some then. Another time.” As much as you wanted to hide your surprise you couldn’t. Learning that Greek Gods actually existed was one situation but learning that All Gods existed was a whole nother ball game. Did that mean demons existed as well?

“Hey (y/n). Could I ask you a question?” Triton asks, suddenly seeming bashful all of a sudden.

“Sure. What’s up?”

“Could I…” Triton pauses for a moment, “Could I call you…”

You leaned closer to Triton as his voice slowly got softer and softer at the end. His ears and cheeks were bright red as he waited for you to answer. However, you couldn’t answer him as you didn’t hear the last part of what he said.

“I apologize. Could you repeat what you said, Triton? I couldn’t hear the end of it.” You felt bad for asking him to repeat it as his face only seemed to get even more red when you asked.

“I-I… Could I call you… Mom?”

It was silent as his question, or rather request, fell upon your ears. You thought about it for a moment. Especially whether it was morally right for you to have him call you ‘mom’. Even if his true mother was a terrible person, she was still his mother.

Though, then again, She really didn’t act like his mother. Especially in all her hundreds of years of existence of having him. At least from what you’ve heard from Triton. She’s had plenty of chances to show her love for him and she never did.

“Of…Of course you can.”

You feel yourself smile as Triton’s face lit up. And you knew, Deep down inside, that you did the right thing. You would show this boy the love he deserved.

“Hey (Y— Mom.” You giggle at how Triton seemed to practically beam with happiness once the title left his lips.

“Yes, Triton?”

“Could we have dinner right now?”

You feel yourself jump up a little in surprise. Since you stayed later than what you usually would, due to the meeting, you didn’t have anything prepared ahead of time for dinner.

“Ah, yes. Do you think you could wait in the living room while I prepare it?”

“Of course!” Triton answers as he scrambles up off of you. As you make your way to the kitchen—which was technically in the same room as the living room—to start dinner, you find yourself drifting off into your thoughts.

You realized you really hadn’t thought this through. Taking care of Triton and all. Your apartment was small, he didn’t have his own room, he seemed to eat a lot more than a human boy his physical age and so much more.

You wouldn’t be able to buy a bigger apartment right now. Going through college and all. But you could take more shifts at work. After all, it was literally down the street. You were also good friends with the owner of the toy shop next door. You bet he would allow Triton to play with a couple of toys while you worked.

As you continue to list things you would need to take care of Triton especially if it was long term, Triton was watching cartoons on the couch.

“…Wonder cats will be right back!…”

As the show goes to commercial break, Triton feels himself let out a sigh. Television sure was awesome and all, much better than the plays and coliseum matches used to entertain gods, but he despised ads more than anything.

“Who in the world created such a malicious thing…”

Triton’s voice trails off at the end as the ad changes to another. As he stares at the screen, he feels a shiver shoot down his spine. As quickly as he could, Triton changes the channel to another before shakily dropping the television remote. A cold sheen of sweat breaks out all over his skin as he collapses back onto the couch.

To anyone else, the commercial before looked like any normal hair dye commercial seen on Tv. But not to Triton. Especially when he saw something oh so familiar.

“T-that hair color…” Triton feels himself shiver at the thought, “L-looked too much like Aunties. Mom’s…No…

…Amphitrite’s Sister.”

Author Note: Ahhh this chapter contained so much but I knew I couldn’t split it up. Especially if I was doing posting Tuesdays and Thursdays. I was worried that the time frame in between would mess my readers up. Anyways, I hope you enjoyed this Chapter. I know there wasn’t a lot of Triton moments but I wanted to get the ball rolling on the plot so that things and certain characters (*cough* Poseidon *cough*) will appear soon. Well that’s it for now, see you next time :)))

Taglist: @angeli-fucking-cat @marixxhq

#shuumatsu no valkyrie #shuumatsu no valkyrie x reader #snv poseidon x reader #snv poseidon #snv #bivalve

[jesuisgourde]

Mentions of Carl in Books Of Albion

Here is a list of various mentions of Carl in Peter’s journals. I figured these were of specific interest so I thought I’d make a compilation post. I’ve probably missed some since I went through the transcript fairly quickly, but these are most of them. Some are definite references, some are just things written by Carl in Peter’s journals. Some are very likely indirect references to Carl, but they may be references to others; I’ve made the assumption due to the context of surrounding pages. Also, Tumblr has ruined my fancy formatting from the doc, so I’m sorry if some of it looks weird.

Books Of Albion (physical book)

The Albion is still on course, though the route is annoyingly prone to be more akin to a Sid James Mystery Tour than a plain-sailing maiden voyage. Tension on the ship as ever, but more body mass to absorb & ease it. Steve sings. Justin plays bass. Carlos & I stoke the furnace. For now this is the format.

Without any clue as to the basics of self-sufficiency, Carlos is a slight burden - but still a richly talented and quite noble old stick who goes well out of his way not to prise anything out of my weak grasp.

Kellijean, Carlos, Francesca & myself all slept upstairs. Made my way home with a hoover, carrying it around my neck like the arm of a drunk friend.

9/3/1999 4....3 days to see out before my 20th birthday. I have asked Carlos to cancel my surprise party. He is a concern, I noted before: 'MY FRIEND IS RISING, PACKING HIS GUITAR, LEAVING ME. HE IS A GHOST AT THE MOMENT HE WALKS AWAY. DOES HIS SOUL CARRY THIS TORTURE FOR PAST MISDEEDS UNPUNISHED? DOES HE EXIST IN THE SINGULAR? MY FRIEND, A PROUD AND LONELY YOUNG MAN. FIGHTING GODS AND DEMONS. RUNNING ALWAYS FROM DEATH."

Strangely, I brought my guitar with me. Perhaps I can busk across. How foolish, naive or impracticle am I? How adventurous, capricious or inspired am I? where am I.... Through the peephole on the moving train, all I can see is that the place is quite long in letters and begins with an S. I think of Lorraine, Carlos, Francesca not at all....not of anything. I am conscious only of the desire to live.

First night of the club tonight. Justin, [illegible], Carlos & I are doing it. Came home from work & all my records are gone. stormed to the cambridge and berated the pigman, after a brief and bitter little exchange with his boss.

Francesca appeared before me outside the Prince Charles Cinema. She raced to me and kissed Carl.

Sometime close to the day that Carlos & I watched 'Love And Death on Long Island' (and afterwards paraded through the tea rooms of Picadilly) we both filled in application forms and were tres excited to be invited to the same group 'interview' - twas more like an audition though. I got the part. Carlos never. This did not bring any animosity - we both know that success for either of us is magnified a million times if it is shared by us both. But hey ho and never you mind the acute psychological burdens this most splendid and dark relationship heaps upon me.

I put the sick pig to bed. am out stalking... singing to meself & walking on me heels. your Love has made misery distant. to London quantum ille canis est in fenastra?

The new Albion rooms careworn & glamorous as any before.  Already the Arcadian dream feels the pinch. Rough trade visitations... today is that day that we longed for & what of it? Piggle sleeps on the cradle-rocking central line.

But we do find ourself in reflective mood this cold christmas 23rd day of december, 2002. One ragged roaring hell of a year wherein The Libertines made good friends & had some right old knees ups to boot. & they can't take that away from us. I wonder where Carlos is this night. Perhaps he has fled to the wilds of Hampshire to be with his family. So long Marianne, it's time that we began.... the Albion rooms has spent the last three weeks being skag & boned up to the nines, and what tales I might tell.

day one in the Arcadian retreat, I awoke congealed & unhealed on the on the sprawling soft leather of the couch where Alan, Carl, Goatee, & I my last awake self watched headhunters awhile, I slept.... Wales greets me, we are in the hem of the Brecon Beacons' shirt Day 2 I come into myself for the very first time, not liking my appearance but aware of evolution & forever changes. Loathe to write & line even. Cherez Some Friday and the black hills surround us. Carl has gone under the knife today, after smashing his own face in on the glass sink shelf, after a harsh night of drinking, smoking and rowing.... "'ere what about us?" take an easy graceful sideways position.

Autumn barricading itself in subtlety in colours mixed and matched, steady days like a yawn, the nights silent stillborn cry for the very dawn. Bales of hay strapped up on the M4 broken bones on the roadside, weathered by the years cars crossing lanes like crabs. Biggles stirs in his sleep coughing. Again: a time for valour. A time of whispered events. Now faded with the passing years.

Christmas 2003 comes and goes in sweeping highs & unfamiliar agonies. Think back to the 23rd & the christmas do at the Rhythm factory, Carl at the end of the 3-man show in his jeans conducting the crackers crowd in some beagled ritual. spurring them on to further

"I was thinking of you..." he says "I always think of you..." we natter awhile on matters trivial and terrifyingly important alike. He wanders in and out from room to room. A wolf in his rooftop cave, elongated lair, wild hair and unfathomable eyes. I am begging him for words...longing for the exaltation & infinite glorious morning that comes like a shadow hot on the heels of a new song.

Image, bottom left: a torn out magazine photo of Carl with the title "Carl Barat: 'I'll love Pete 'til my dying day'.”

when you talk about your brother lover since you walked out on each other I know I'm a mess me, and that how when you but when you test me & why kiss and carress me and then I need for nothing more than maybe some wine the taste of my beloved is vodka & ciggies

Through The Looking Glass

You and I my love - we shall set off together very soon. A voyage unto the unknown - away from here, this wonderful place, these horrors..... "the waltz of the snowflakes" from the nutcracker suite Bones Bill has listened to nothing else but since QPR were sponsored by Classic FM. In his blind allegiance to west Londons finest, the logical hooligan was enraptured by the surprising soothes of this new music. Carlos you distressing little bug. Walking out like that. What can the title be for that odd little track Steve, Tom & I knocked up last night. Whitechapel Wonderland? Certainly I need to pay tribute to this wonderful place. This is my perfect summer....hidden away here.

As it stands or slouches The Libertines consists of Steve Bedlow, Bill Bones, Carl Barât & myself.

Let's get beagled & play pacman & read to me of the countess of Pembroke's Arcadia "D'yknow what pisses me off?" "What?" "You"

Image: a yellow post-it note. In Carl's handwriting in biro, a scribble in the top left corner and then "? shut eyes" in the centre.

NEVER NEVER sucking on a cigarette - where did that crowd come from. All money for the slot machines, to sell you back your dreams that's fine in hell so & I'm going with you that's fine with you we'll try it again, but my heart wont sing if my stomachs all untold cause she buckelled my spine [Written in Carl's handwriting] tattered [Written in Peter's handwriting] & tattooed my soul will soul old oh some wonder didn't you always say we gonna see better days so why we building them up & knocking them down it's always living them up & shooting them down with you knocking back [Written in Carl's handwriting] I believe everything you say I believe there'll be A Brighter Day

shit moosic at de foundary - until Spaniel & spaniel take over of course. Then commenceth the grand cabaret & oh what a night.

Let me on / let me off that fucking train. I cant stand the pain & the strain all over a gain c'mon a rush & a push & the land that we lie dead on is all ours. My friend loathes & despises the hammersmith & city line & all those other routes to false fame.

[Written in Carl's handwriting] Pity the fool you made like fear trod all over his sandwiches put grass down his back but here he comes again with the girls in tow what a horrorshow! [Written in Peter's handwriting] A protestant with the housekeeping? A catholic in the bedroom? A satanist in the bedroom?

[Written in Carl's handwriting] In cold silence She was silhouetted Her backdrop the twilight thames and this verdigris rail she reminded me the world was going to end fire in the west to have lived and to have loved to die arm in arm our bodies destroyed we'd come to no harm Do you hear the slurred whisper rising on the wind? Good-bye - love forever

Skint & Minted

feeling revolutionary? or consumed with self pity? dose yourself I remember you you're the one who filled my nose with glue so many kisses ago

sometimes your hard faced, makes me wanna hold you tight & kiss you till you're at least pretending to smile. At least pretending that the smallest ever thing can even be made right. Not living in a pantomime. fragile thing Cigarettes appear out of thin air

I you loved him when he was on the dole & when he was the king of rock n roll & you'll love him when he's buried in a hole. now here's a tale, a tale I will tell of blood & theft & oh sweet love & all the things we do so well

I cant believe how you spoke to me earlier you meanie. Anyway happen fuckin new year you fickle heartless rogue. Ex. I love you you sweet silly thing! flageolet. heres to 2002...hip hip

Albion 47

Drove up to the palace at night with Carl, perched on the kerb as pre-dawn mist spread thick over London, clouding the lights. The only the we have in common anymore, apart from the band, is that we both wear safety pins in our ears.

Campaign Of Hate

Carl, Gary & John... ha. Carl mumbles very quietly about it needing a little more dirt or aggression. Talk about a contradiction in terms. Shuffling about, mumbling, talking about spark! I drifted off into soho, old border. Saw sailer, bought some weed. Guinness. Do I wake or sleep, creaking door. Oh Stella! Don't worry her.

'The Making of the Libertines' Tax Exiles The irresistable rise of The Libertines' 'The Rise & fall of the Roman Empire' Where's Carlos? (the brackle)

my twin he pretends to be me walks abroad lies to broads locks me in at home tied to a like burrowed in a hole smoke & choke alone at home    rocks to rocks chewing on my bone, smashed up into little dont need no pretty face stones dont need no human race..... slash the cushions I read every review velvet on the even though noone's got a fucking clue throne all your heroes sold their soles and brought brand new shoes, born to cant help those in need today lose cant get any speed today if you never the my lifes got no real meaning or control choose write some crappy catchy song you know try & get out of this hole couldnt we write some crappy snappy dont want to stay where you say I belong

At least I can come here now, to you, my blessed book. Confidante & forgiver. Holy book of all sordid scribbling & petty grievancy. & what's this I hear? the clanging melodia of Breck Rd Lover. Carlos & John doing their old school harmonies.

[Written in Carl's handwriting] cognac in the bedroom, sunami of polaroids & you are the fool Peter. Hold your tongue or someone may lop it off.

Another punch up at Leeds now biggles wrongly accused me of starting on him which I never did the opposite if anything. I got him a good crack in the face so this weekend he's had smacks in the face from Rabbi, Bani & myself That Boy he's mania they gave him a chance & he gave it right back he doesnt need it a good soundtrack

[Written in Peter's handwriting] So how did it go from EMI/Toshiba to Sony dinner? & in an hour? [Written in Carl's handwriting] We realised she had passion - they emitosh were good at their job BUT she had passion for music... we wanted you to meet her... we/you need to get on with these people⸺ but the food & conversation will be good ⸺⸺ xx

Fine moments at RAK. Mick Jones looks at Carl & smiles fondly, fatherly as the rock n roll star stumbles into the studio can in hand very late in the afternoon (Carlos that is). Oh love my friend, he drags me out to meet Abraham (formerly 'Phil' which he has tattooed on his knuckles).

[Written in Carl's handwriting] Spickio GQ Inter-view 1) The Libertines started in the dusty embryonic pages of of 17th century renaissance literature. The band started in 1997 in Mortlake. Another renaissance blah blah, ask Peter... 2) Hype? Comes from journalists and nosy noisy unfulfilled types. People got & get excited about songs. 3) the songs on our album might sound like

Albion 34

The wandering troubadours the black sheep boys the unowned sous dweller in purgatory in transitory transition the bustle and the hubbub of the old cinema has had a profound effect in my mind - the music heals and entrances the rapture of the exited boys and girls is so wonderfully new and so inherently old. [Written in Carl's handwriting in black ink pen.] Well, let me wright my dreams.

Will you take us with you when you go? Will you call us when you get there? When youve seen how the other half live Let us know Your song will fill the air..... [Written in Carl's handwriting] What a shame my steps were out of sync on that cold and rainy morning. I knew if I fell, dear friend, then we all would. how was I to hold that bulk of legend in order. that's the order of the day. Skinny wag from whitchurch. In these two hands, & my so beloved home town. Only tears now that well up & teater on the edges of my leathery sunken red eyes. Still it doesnt change. on & on & on. I hear Manchester groan under the weight of its self knowing industrial cosmopolitan north south skally gun toting soul chip on the shoulders. Says Imran anyhow. "We all shat ourselves down the wetland estate?" Another timeless tale from the subjects of Albion. Met Johnny Marr last night.

[Written in Carl's handwriting, cont.] Did it for you really. When I shook his hand, I gingerly probed his callouses & thought of you. Never make me swear on the soul of my twin. He was kind but jaded. told me where to score. told me to be ware. He gave up smoking yesterday his wife (who's name escapes me) Mrs Marr, told me from behind her hand. I didn't score. flesh, bone, myth, legend. 2 hands. no more heroes. go through them all like cigarettes & what you got left? Is t really worth it? Thou shalt not worship false idols. Idyl idle eye doll. I hear lou Reeds a right old spaz these days. I don't know when to die. Some go too soon. Nietzsche says.... then died too old, babbling mad with syphilis. There is no other half. not unless you see it as those who do & those who don't. those who show it & those who won't. those that choose to live, or ? candy coated sinners. Always alone. Mental note. Dont get killed crossing road in rain.

couldnt hide my excitement when Carlos said he met Johnny Marr & that he's coming to the gig & likes the album. Or is he winding me up?

All At Sea

what words scyth the heads of my loves poppies. a creeping, cautious shadow that hates my reckless intent. To hold you, to heal you, to kill you yes & roll over you in Teesdale st. Loyal and jealous the night, play a record. If you will I will anyway feel this hollow or sick. loyal and sick to the back teeth of that awful taste. You're the model of my love, hardened in the fire, so soft to touch, so warm to the blade, you hurt me & I hear you cry out in pain

F#m → E & change rhythm intro "what do you know about me? All you know is all that you see, wish you would listen to reason baby - wish you'd been listening to me. So.. so you tell me I'm not alone, and that you'll soon be coming home but the way that you left me drives my mind insane"... check with biggles...

'look out for the Daley Thompson lookalike tanned trim toned and ready to get superstoned, a thousand kissywishes to you and a thousand more and one more for Carl from the bum at the corner. here's lookingatcha hugs of love wolfy'

Novella

Is a book of Albion lost now and forever. Grand tales of scandanavian adventure wherein we realized one of our early dreams of absolute pandemonium on stage, encouraging the gyrating immaculate kids to take to the boards & swarm all over the stage they did & what wonder ensues. Some of them are so surprised I'm taller or shorter than them. Chucked out of the venue we played at in Bergen for beating up the dj when he wouldn't play the Smiths & was rude to Carlos. Burly vikings escorted us to the door.

I suppose I must begin now, to record these last four months, to reflect on the 'absolute' - the sights I never thought I'd see & the meagre miserly destruction which I held so dear. My long talk with Carlos today is the green light for this trawling into the dim & near past. (Afore the smoke addled brain loses it entirely to loss)

Now I must tell you a tale of great splendour & horror, the tale of the last few sacred months, and their unfathomable events. sketches of scandanavia, lost forever in a mislaid leather bound book of Albion. Remember Carlos being awoken by the Norwegian customs guard, light shining in his sleeping face. "Fuck off" "It's Norwegian customs" said the uniformed guard "I dont care about your local traditions" He sat up and saw the officer - fell out of his bunk & cracked his head on the wooden bar.

Come 'ead Biggles, eight days a week. I heard it was a competition, do I look like I care? I suppose that I must I wrestled the infinite & mastered the lonesome day. Making & breaking friends.

A friend one respects when you get on the gear. The universality of culture. A personal poem that hundreds more relate to, and then a life and a love is shared. More than a tatoo,

Lonely Villein

Can it be true that you after so long you're strolling into view I've missed you but you know I can be stoical and struggle on with lost limbs a plenty

Stealing from a thief was I that day in Harley Street, booking down a door and strolling off in the rain. They never mentioned - in court, in the press - the one object that I truly, completely singlemindedly stole. Not trust, not friendship: a burberry umbrella.

Bilo & Biggles go together like a couple of cup of Earl Grey & Giggles

Fragility Of Openness [There are loads of photos of Carl scattered throughout Fragility, so the only non-text put in are the documents that weren't photos, or the whole pages of images that were Carl related.]

Image, top left: Carl's jobseekers allowance claim from January 2002.

Image, top right: a torn piece of paper with Carl's address on it.

[Written on lined paper in Carl's handwriting, sideways at the bottom of the page.] Helium Casino Blanks trenchcoats Racketeers Buckaneers the streets you never have to walk alone cowslick in your eye greets us through the lonely ranks on the rails and up to Bank

Image, top right: Carl's visitor pass to the BBC for visiting Tina Turner.

Image: Peter's court summons for burgling Carl's flat.

Image, upside down, bottom of page: a typewritten caution to Carl for stealing a moped on 16 August 1998.

Image: a large photo of Carl, shirtless, playing guitar and singing.

[Image, top left: a fragment of lyrics and chords to Jail Guitar Doors by The Clash. Image, bottom right: a black and white photo of Carl in the original Albion Rooms, he is wearing a dark jumper and is looking down. There's a framed collage and a small gun or gun-prop on the wall behind him.] [Written in Peter's handwriting on white paper held in with silver tape.] 'Carlos Ashley Raphael Barât' snap of Biggles, that most photogenic of Libertines... The photograph you can see here on this page is from around 1998, t'was taken in the basement flat of 236 Camden Rd, the original 'Albion Rooms' Enjoy my friends (I'm sure the lad himself will...)

[Image, top left: a polaroid of Carl placing a cigarette in his mouth. Image, bottom left: a photo of Carl sitting on a couch with a cigarette in his hand, gesturing as he talks. There is a rifle leaning against the couch beside him and trash all over the floor. Image, bottom right, sideways: a photo of Carl onstage, singing. He's shirtless except for a tie.] [Written in Peter's handwriting on white paper taped in with silver tape, top right.] 3.00 am Paris 6th Jan 2004 Carlos... you came back to the hotel room. said you were gettin lonely. I was getting a familiar old feeling... when you go a'strollin' & a'drinkin' and dont come back for a week . . . .

[Image, top left: a photo of Carl in the doorway at Rough Trade, mostly in shadow. Image, centre left: a photo of Carl holding an infant Astile, posing with one hand behind his back. Image, bottom left: a photo of Carl in a white vest and a hat, looking over the edge of a balcony] [Written in Carl's handwriting, sideways on the right side of the page.] If you knew where id been, could feel what i'd seen you'd have been beside me, but no bother, all the same.

[Image, top left: a torn printout of the poem “For That He Looked Not Upon Her” by George Gascoigne. Image, top middle: a photo of fans jumping onstage at a Libertines gig. Image, top right: a photo of Carl standing in an alley. Image, centre left: a photo of Peter, Car, and others posing. Carl is in front, making an exaggerated smouldering expression at the camera. Peter is peering round his head. The other two people in the photo are obscured by other images. Image, centre middle: a photo of Carl onstage, shirtless, singing. Image, centre right: a torn photo of Carl. He is looking at the camera, possibly mid-speech; his hair is in his eyes. Image, bottom left: a torn photo of Carl onstage, shirtless and singing. Image, bottom middle: a photo of four men. Three of them are sitting on the stairs; one has on a black cap and has his head in his hand, one has dyed red hair and sunglasses, and one is not looking towards the camera. Carl is standing beside the stairs, looking at some papers in his hand. Image, bottom right: a fragment of a photo of Carl onstage, shirtless.] [The text of the poem by George Gascoigne, top left.] You must not wonder, though you think it strange, To see me hold my lowring head so low; And that mine eyes take no delight to range About the gleams which on your face do grow. The mouse which once hath broken out of trap Is seldom teased with the trustless bait, But lies aloof for fear of more mishap, And feedeth still in doubt of deep deceit. The scorched fly which once hath 'scap'd the flame Will hardly come to play again with fire. Whereby I learn that grievous is the game Which follows fancy dazzled by desire. So that I wink or else hold down my head, Because your blazing eyes my bale have bred.

[Image, top left: a photo of Carl wearing a grey shirt with "Playboy" written on it in reverse in white, red, and blue. He is looking at the camera with a neutral expression. Image, top right, sideways: a black and white photo of Carl in the original Albion Rooms. He is looking at the camera with an unfocused or mid-blink expression. Image, bottom left: a photo of Carl in front of a blue wall, talking to someone with a smile on his face and a cigarette in his hand. Image, bottom right: a photo of Carl onstage, playing guitar, wearing his red military jacket.]

[Image, top middle: a torn title of an article, reading “A devine Original”. Image, top left: a photo of Carl standing in an alley. Image, top right: a dim photo of Carl onstage, playing guitar. Image, centre right: a black and white photo of Carl wearing a hat, a white vest, and an unbuttoned collared shirt, looking to the right. Image, bottom left: a photo of Carl in a sleeveless collared shirt, posing, flexing his right arm and making a face. Image, bottom left: a torn piece of paper with a fragment of a poem from Order And Disorder by Lucy Hutchinson. Image, bottom right: a photo of a young Carl in a white collared shirt and dark tie, with the sleeves rolled up. He has a slight smile on his face.] [The text of the poem by Lucy Hutchinson, bottom left.] if I on thee a private glance reflect, confusion does my shamefull eyes deject Seeing ye man I Love by me betrayed by me who for his mutual help was made. Who to preserve thy life ought to have dyed & I have kill'd thee by my foolish pride, defiled thy Glory and pull'd down thy Throne oh! y! I had but sind & dyed alone, Then had my torture, & my woe been lesse I yet had Florished in thy happyness.

[Image, top left: a black and white photo of Carl peering at the camera. He is wearing a hat and looking at the camera with a neutral expression. Image, top right: a photo of Carl onstage, shirtless, singing and playing guitar. Image, centre left: a black and white photo of Carl in a hat, a white vest, and a dark unbuttoned shirt, posing and looking off to the right. Image, centre right: a photo of Carl in a grey shirt and a hoodie, looking off camera with a neutral expression. Image, bottom middle: a photo of Carl in the studio with headphones on and a flushed face. Image, bottom right: a polaroid of Carl, shirtless, making a face, seemingly in the middle of playing around. The photo has been damage around Carl's waist and the top of his head.]

[Image, top middle: a torn photo of something unidentifiable, perhaps a fireplace. Image, top middle: a sexy playing card, the three of hearts, featuring a woman in a red dress and red feather boa posing. Image, top right: a black and white photo of Carl sitting at a table with his head in his hand and his eyes closed. Image, centre right: a torn piece of a letter addressed to “Mr C Barat & Mr P Doherty Partners     The Libertines”. Image, bottom left: a photo of Carl sitting on a couch, half-lit. Peter is sitting on a nearby chair or table mostly in shadow and is reaching over to hand Carl a card. Smoke from his cigarette hazes the image. Image, bottom right: a photo of Peter standing in an alley.]

[Image, bottom: a photo of a white and black stove. A small bucket or rubbish bin sits to the left of it.] [Written beside the photo] Agar stove Bilo & Biggles sat around writing Good old days in the not so good old days

Some mysterious devil plays us of against each other at opposite ends of hell. It is so hard to make amends. [Written on a white square of paper taped into the page.] a pare of mournful rebukes of her eyes and bruised dark lips. The girl cant help it

Paris Montmartre

Arthur there with a beard as all camera following me & my family around the Albion rooms and then...... "remember leeds, so giving us hell even when we've done our best interest to accomodate her" Carlos sits at the end of the double bed I share with the sleeping Alan Voss crammed all 3 are we in the 'Formula One' motel on the outskirts of Nantes. A french music video plays on the tele on the perch. It is Kate Ryan singing 'Libertine'! A wee burn of the brown stuff. Its crappy 'uplifting' housy-pop, euro pop. Alan whistles sleep through his nose. [Image: a drawing of random parts of a face in random order.] [Written in Carl's handwriting] spamagotcha #?*¡?=@! smakinamouth repertoi revue act 1 somewhere brown, cracks in the walls and stones. pigman ferretting around for bone in a dirty little matchbox. No joy there. [Written in Peter's handwriting] five a side goals, metal bars, punching school friends in the face. A rap on the door, tis Dialektik and the spectacled Stephan avec le van. Alan & Carl need more sleep so I venture to the studio, alone but full of good feeling for le day & the the boys. Nantes is village like in aspect, in the age of mechanisation it retains a rural air. coiffure Bernard Homeopathic. college petite laude.  Le virginia

Arrive at the studio in the freezing cold to the strains of 'through the looking glass' with beelzebub playing fender rhodes over the ragged & beautiful version with myself on guitar, Alan on drums & Carlos on bass guitar.

[Written in Carl's handwriting.] Humdrum song of the sad rain EDC#B/ A /D piano G /A /D Bm A-Gm7 f# guitar Gmaj7 though shalt not kill

That was I you know who come up to my room & someone else - it was looking beautiful but someone commented on heroin. Then a party & everyone was there including my mum as her younger self with curly blond hair & a funny do it was all piled out like famous me duty. Tabith! remained tidying up? Before that festive house cards on the door looking to the darkly street. Woke up a wee restless all the french about Carlos commenting on everyones lack of joie de vivre. That would be that then wouldn't it. Alan calling in the troops who are all feeling groovy and we all listen to the final mixes of the 4 tracks we recorded two days previous. ta to dialektik and now 'ta ta' and adieu as we are to head to Holland. Alan, wunderkind, stalks the room, leaning up against the door, whistling. Carlos talks in hushed tones to a sweet girl skinny like her sister. I've spent the whole day on the sofa pretty much. Taking it in, mind. Carlos says 'Its only a short life.' - Is he trying to persuade her something? old Hollywood lover man. Torments in the night. sex pest. I wish someone would ruffle my hair or something give us a kiss an that. Narcissist is pretty fucking amazing - the best vocals I've ever heard Carlos sing actually. It is fucking good. Jesus it's a fine song... le monde,  ha ha wall makes me cry.

It's cold on the motorway we're all freezing in the colder climes & [illegible] flight connect neglect. Ah and then golden brown on the stereo, soothes my aching belly defrosting lights like sparkles and all flashing before me Carlos silenced like a parrot coat over his head "Is it dark in there?" 'I dunno I cant see a fuckin thing man." Ice scrapings on the window, soul was frozen over for a while back then and a severe bout of wolf sickness. Barricade of bales and through the gaps stretch of iced fields. Not a good morning to be a French farmer if there ever was one... this handsome face multiplied by the presses from the depths of my 426 (I'm already beyond that) This story may not always seem artificial, and in spite of me you may recognize in it the call of the blood: the reason is that within my night I shall have happened to strike my forehead at some door, freeing an anguished memory that had been haunting me since the world began. Forgive me for it. This book aims to be only a small fragment of my inner life. she was so proud to make the pimp come.

February 2002 Montmartre Table shakes - the soul of the wine. Columbia on the stereo. The rattle of pans in the sink. Carlos is cooking dinner & I was flat on my back, silhouette. Recall the Rabbi stumbling for a drink in some backstreet pub near a motorway/railway bridge. Befriended a load of hardliners he did, whilst I ducked beneath the lilipads of a hotel boy. I am to have a son then it was scanned, a Lisa in tears awhile for my not contacting. 'candy gram for Mongo' Peter looked out of the Brassierie window 'I feel strange' he said 'You are strange' Carl added helpfully

[Written in Carl's handwriting] New Motion don't look back into the sun [Written in Peter's handwriting] you know as well as I it will never come [Written in Carl's handwriting] into nos tal gee [Written in Peter's handwriting] oh my friend you haven't changed your usual ways I thought we'd lost you You can be jonny & I'll be june stop fucking around with death at the disco (how queer) time will come coy with nostalgia can go jogging to die healthy

Merry Go Round

Innit funny, Biggles ventures to join me in the studio & even deigns to visit me in my home... on the eve of the tour How cynical has my heart become? Miss Hayley Kenneth has joined me in the fiercely overcrowded one room tenement flat. Evidently she has jacked in college & all else up north & for this... a candlewax model of Arcadia. Unfathomable is her countenance & unproven her power over me. Now even she pats the space beside her & beckons me - Carl lies sleeping on the sofa & I scribble here at the little

sensible studios. Trying to get a straight simple drumbeat never seemed so difficult Poor engineer or cruel engineer? To pity or be pain? Tis the question of the day the day as ever itself nearly 4 and where's Biggles?.. I may aswell to bed

Another day another pretty much perfect squalor of heart and profile upon the Bristol stage this very eventide past. Off the stage to soothing tides of comradeship & the very core of what was altogether a head fuck of a setup & Biggles knows and how keenly he feels the pinch too on these occasions: no other can.

It was the first one of the day it was the last one of the night hold me tight They said 'oh he's a wrong'un' but I could see in your eyes how you were gentle & wise (and you had the good stuff)

I know you better than that lad if you pack in the cracks & smack I'll be your might find me waiting for you with a love that's truer than true you cap my heart [illegible] a love the too many fools that are queuing up to be with you I write a song just to sing it darling I, really mean I gave my heart I know I'm a mess but I'll do my best to prove my love to you

This Charming Man

[Written in Carl's handwriting] Master for the Man the likely lads It was a jelly situation in the yellow heart of mine took some time to tell my belly with the milk of human kind? Now my lip it curls not my kind of world back on knees to the foily ruler

Consumption

The Likely Lads Doherty / Barât [Image: a drawing of an angry pig's face with breath coming out the nostrils. Image: a drawing of French Dog, facing away from the pig.] please dont get me wrong see I forgive you in a song they call the likely lads but if it's left to you I know exactly what you'd do with all the dreams we had blood runs thicker - we're thick as thieves you know please (if that's important to you) it's important to me pipe all summer long I tried to make you then get forgiven in see - but you a song dont wanna know that's a touch my lad oh what became           but they sold the rights to of the Likely Lads?            all my wrongs What became of and        but when they needed the dreams we had?         my new songs What became of forever?    it's 'welcome back' (how sad) (we'll never know) [Written in Carl's handwriting] We all bought the one's we took. we toured we taught the world and wrote the songs there's the the dream we have, but wrap up all the wrongs and I will hold you for a song/so long you know you're not so bad. x

Arise in good spirits... well rested after yesterdays palava. I had come out of the live room to be greeted by the newly arrived Alan Magee bearing certain long-awaited gifts - the mythical digital recorder that all uses n robotic melody translate obsolete recording device which is not that which I described to swap cop this Biggles expressing a certain huffy sense of rivalry - inky like I leap back in time from here late at night in the silken canopied room of Lucie all gypsy like the occurrences. We made acquaintance in arcady and with ease conversation amidst all wild adventure fatigued, in Camden Frontline but'd look alright in a clash video, rudeboy with a Libertines soul. You know who, you know the sort - the one. The one you love, more than forever desire. oh you wanna be with them, now, reading this page aloud to you or bath or kissy kissy or so

Image, top left: a photo of Carl's bare back with “Libertine” in Japanese painted on it in black. The image has been brushed with white paint on the edges.

[Written in Carl's handwriting in gold gel pen.] Although I sit here on a vital page of my own potted history, sometimes lonely, sometimes not, I feel I write from afar. Just where or how I came to be here, I couldn't explain. Sometimes I dont know why, or maybe thats what I kid myself? However, the studio is sunny, the music is dulcet, my friends are here sharing a timeless pride. Mick is dancing [Image: a drawing of Mick Jones from behind, dancing with his hands up.] [Written in Peter's handwriting] How can you make us understand how Carl sounds like Jim Morrison but better when the penny drops

[Written in Carl's handwriting] NO → E dont dont be coy cuz I'm too clever I wont follow you down to the darkest stormy weather the bracket is wider now whats your pleasure ill see you on the other side but please....

[Written in Carl's handwriting on a piece of lined paper pasted into the journal.] I hear the things u say watched friendship fall away And it only leads to sorrow so lets be it as it may I meet people every day with thinking something they wont say I hear what all the bullies say lays on the grit hair turns grey and its such a sunny day oh its not any an easy game to play

[Written in Peter's handwriting] Dont look back into the sun Doherty/Barat [Image, top left: a drawing of a sun.] verses G / D / Em / D / C / D chorus C / G / C / D Dont look back into the sun now you know that your time is come and they said it would never come for you oh oh oh they'll never forgive you bit they won't let you go she'll never forgive you but she won't let you go [Written in Carl's handwriting] Don't look back into the sun you cast your pearls, but you're on the run & all the lies you said, who did you save? But then they played that song @ the death disco it started fast, but then ends so slow, and all the time just reminded me of you. they'll never forgive you but they won't let you go Barât / Carl

Stix & Stones

My fingertips filthy, blistered burnt and sliced... a tatty crossfire of plasters hold the end of my right index finger together. I slit it open by accident when I was pulling the razor blade out the razor to slice my chest up with t'other night. Ended up doin' one of the geetars over a monitor on the last night of Brixton, kicking Carl's amp over, showing 5,000 people my chest, blood fury, legging it through Brixton... was caught up with by my tour 'shadow' minder (Jeff) decided, topless & freezing in the street, to head back in. Cut myself a bit more and then rejoined the boys half-way through the Good Ol' Days. Heartless swines had done time 4 heroes without me!

you dont show your face no more I miss you man pal I miss you bad I miss this and I miss all the good times we had was digging out some old tapes we done winding melodies & reparties France writing general smuts & dont look back into the sun

Libertine

I showed no decorum I saw the photo you left on the forum hell had furys warning the photo was the happiest way that was today now they dont think I'm o.k now to them if I'm happy then I can't be o.k. I gave fair warning just to relieve your boredom you showed no decorum in my harem that day when I get round to si who will buy my beautiful roses who will buy my beautiful song?

in a bangkok bizarre 'no... you call each other Mr Spaniel'

You smile like a sickly child & with grace & guile You steal the shows embrace your foes keep your nose crystal clean & re-live the dream Your beautiful for an awkward second hot tin metal scars white pink petals all debts to the soul settled more or less.... could the gods care less? cruel motherfuckers they'll never stop us cant touch this

do you know me? I dont think so romanticize a dark & gloomy past trying to escape from the underclass Gm / Gm / Gm / A Bb / Dm / Bb / Dm you darken the bright & beautiful day your breakin' my heart in everyway don't tell me everything's dandy & fine you're no friend of mine I took you in & you stole from me but you still got everything I need you walkin' so tall & lookin so mean walkin so tall & lookin so mean.. don't tell me everything's dandy & fine...

The vehicle we travel in is soundproofed... the old siren manages to [obscured, water-stained] the eerie silence. If your ears were mine right now you'd imagine yourself to be in a country yard not an inner city. We head up the Camden Road now and past Delaney Mansions, where Carl & I once top n' tailed in our formative years of being absolute fucking disasters legends.

Befuddled

[Image, top right: a torn magazine photo of Peter and Carl onstage, sharing a mic. Peter is on the left and Carl on the right.] That partner- ship now otherworldly in its inception and left to fight another day is it aye I'm open to suggestion but the rules suggest it cannot be how many envision it to be or so

It is hard to measure how different I feel, another week will be even madder... strange new worlds of purity and clean living, ha! rock and roll! I feel sad now about Carl and his apparent heartache at the Sun article. It's his birthday today and I know I won't see him again for a while.It is hard to measure how different I feel, another week will be even madder... strange new worlds of purity and clean living, ha! rock and roll! I feel sad now about Carl and his apparent heartache at the Sun article. It's his birthday today and I know I won't see him again for a while. He whirls himself away somewhere into his mind, away from me and the hateful hurtful worlds he can imagine. I love him and wish I could tell him so, and wish him to believe it to be so.

Transparent

I showed no decorum saw the post you left on the forum was like a photograph of a happier way that was today now everythings o.k now but to them if I'm happy then things just cant be o.k but I gave fair warning just to relieve the boredom I went & spoke to Gordon he was a goalkeeper from Feltham oh I show no decorum                L.A saw the post you left on the forum it was a photograph of our happiest day...

I've been running after you too long your trying not to see how you dont see me how you dont need me

people who just look a nasty way of biting your back- talk to me about the way you thought. The importance of not being too earnest. There is a, always will be a natural, incomparable chemistry between the Spaniels. Sidelong glances that evolved over centuries of late night riff sculpturing and misgiving, petty grievance & synchronized handshakes. All the strength one can muster, even to open the door. The words rattle out of her boney face, ramming at my ears, [illegible] me through of tears & fears such is the numbing effect of the incessant Babble. At least if it's too the face one can defend oneself. Sometimes if it appears that you dont care... apparently I cant see it. so devious? underneath it all so cold blooded & nasty? The reason being that I 'don't express myself that much' This do indeed get misunderstood

PD

Words, long ago building a dream what's worthless to the past is priceless to the last

they meant it and so, so it was meant to be ... they've all got it in for me so someone'll have to pay someone'll have to... great save me from what I want "————" need saw the face it's gone it's gone and wont given [illegible] gone and won't be coming back undone the whole shebang, a plan planned it out on a towel all the guys are going back oh & aye plan A not goin for intimacy riffle and I know what it meant to be all got it in for me oh they call 'em the Libertine oh they aint Libertines

A' Rebours

[Written in the margin of a very cluttered page] (Aye, Carlos) (I, Carlos) ([Image: a doodle of an eye and a car.])

Remember Banni sitting us down in a Notting Hill bar, on comfy sofa, and with some urgency rattling off a spiel about how we must project an impeccable image as a band suits she said suits!

The Libertines carry on without me it seems - even to Australia! christ... how to carry this weight? what's he up to that troubled man? There's having the [illegible] & proving something (whatever that is [illegible]) and then... then there's fucked up torture techniques cruelty and amputation. If I do get not guilty on the 10th of August for the flick knife palava then I'll end up inside anyway for strangling Biggles. I jest of course... his accursed brains would serve my peace of mind well if all over a monitor speaker they were mashed. given that he does not seem to offer me any of the love & friendship & loyalty that he tells the world of in these NMEs nearby. Then again, I would rather he could retain his giant pink [illegible] in that coked up paranoid 'sexiest rock star' head of his, and just stop this Libertines-without-Peter charade that for some reason breaks my heart all lately. If he will not open the door to me then stop playing my songs. It's hideous, hideous, tenuous? A flash then of a [illegible] hanging on my final words.

From Albion To Shangri-La

Oddly enough, I am back at the hotel with Stef of original 'Alf and Stephanie' fame. Their friendship disintegrated quicker than you can say 'Pete + Carl' a couple of years ago, after hemlock escorted the pair of them aboard the good ship Albion one oblivion-dashed New Years Eve

I'm on the balcony at Adelphi Terrace, just off the Strand. I think of Embankment Gardens, down there below me and the river Thames, a stone's throw beyond. I do not feel sentimental. I just fondly recall times when Carlos and I would loiter about these side-streets. Acting out for each other in the mini amphitheatre round. Our ever present guitars rattling out new compositions. We believed them to be masterpieces. It would turn out to be accurate – innocently arrogant and brimming over with belief in each other and in our unseen allies out there in the city.

Typecast

[...] flashy flashy all the while as it fat stub speaker raises its wireless voice and tickles the beagled morning with aplate of the geetar from me new tune - Hell to pay at the gates of Heaven. Carl reckons its yet to be written and that he is the man with the middle 8 and the je ne sais qua to put this lil' kontry armaggedon balled to bed for the winter. Bursting with all the joys of spring it'll be come harvest festival etc etc.

Doing this thing with John Cale – which I Haven't as yet actually done as I'm a day late for rehearsals.. He himself – Carl I mean, not John, I say he himself like that because I was just picturing him akipp' upstairs in the spare room, me dear Ol' mucker and one of the few who knows me from when I was meself alright then let8s get straight to the heart of the matter

“I think it's time for bed, ” says Carl, “I think it's time for your loves and hates ..” says Peter Carl takes a slash. Hates.. 1 Hatred “how I loathe it” 2 Injustice 3 Crass idiocy 4 Fear 5 Helplessness 6 “myself” …. 7 a great hatred for complicity and blinker'dness to beauty 8 The sound of a glass being filled 9 cardashians and sundry false idols 10 the darkside Carloves 1 Intoxication 2 Orgasm 3 liberty 4 bakewell Tart with tea, builders tea 5 Escape 6 the pay-off 7 p pokey 8 melancholia 9 self-betterment 10 family 

Miscellaneous

Seen Dean on the save at the bar / had a jar / Carl is away with the famous Libertines in Brazil it would seem. As ever now The Libertines is run-off my radar screen. I know nothing about it I am left no choice but to give all my life & living breath to Babyshambles and the great push for infinity

My dearest Jiggle down dawson. This is Catalonia. You get them all down here. I only really want to see one man though, My dearest old bejiggled soul.Tender is this nightt, and hyde parkey beckoneth. Strange town and-affect and that's a northern soul drum intro and a half.... bum da bum bum bum indeedy diddily doo

Carl alone in the room, talking intimately with Missus we butt into the conversation and hear Carl say, off handedly “yeah I know what you mean its like when people ask you how you are are...” Peter enters “Carl whispers goodbyes etc I'll call you back”... Carl looks at flash new wtch “[illegible] oand P: “I just been to get some dog food “How are you?holds up tripe cut to music hall pupple Carl “Its like.. imagine seeing life in a spectrum at the top is clear crystalline glass and blue sky hashtag no filter (stops, emphasizes..) NO filter” continues in a reverie “tilt your head a little, and start seeing [illegible] of a sunset -kodak moment.. a glass of chardonnay, but it's getting hazy “ Silence Carl: “can you see it?” P thinks “what a wise person” Internal dialogue of Peter : “I dont want a baby that Carl: looks like that Carl continues “can you see it it's getting darker it's the kerb, blood teeth , dog meat piss, kebab darker and you know the hammer is about to fall a reebok classic on the back of your skull do you get it...?  

#the libertines #peter doherty #carl barat #pete doherty

[theolsentimes]

Mary-Kate Olsen's Singular Style

She came to fame as a twin, but the actress's cultish look is entirely her own. Here, with Lauren Hutton, she pays homage to another fashion inspiration, Grey Gardens. Written by Laura Brown, with photography by Peter Lindbergh (Harper's Bazaar, 2007)

VIEW GALLERY

Mary-Kate Olsen may be the only young actress who breezes into her local Starbucks wearing towering, fashion-fierce Balenciaga boots, who arrives at her latest premiere (in Mary-Kate's case, for the new season of Showtime's Weeds, in which she plays a devout Christian with a pot fetish) sporting an oversize cross, and whose favorite band is Led Zeppelin. She may, in fact, be the only young actress who knows who Led Zeppelin is. MK, as she is known to her friends and family, is also a punctual and professional sort. She arrives for a poolside tea in Los Angeles 10 minutes early, ordering a hot chocolate while explaining her fetish for all things sweet — "I'm a candy girl, like Tootsie Rolls and Swedish Fish" — and objecting when the waiter tries to take the sugar bowl away. She is wearing a nautical striped T-shirt (her mom's, from the '70s), tucked into two black Wolford slips rolled down and turned into a tight, Robert-Palmer-video-style mini, and multicolored sparkly Christian Louboutin stilettos. She's just had her hair colored, returning to a sunnier shade after some experiments with both peroxide ("I woke up one morning and was like, I want white-trash hair today") and the dark side (an auburn-haired near-Goth moment last year). She's carrying a large black fringed leather Prada tote — she doesn't do small bags — and her fingers are covered with rings, most notably two vintage coiled gold snakes stacked on top of each other. ("They remind me of twins, sort of double headed.") Altogether, the effect is less her famed "bag-lady chic" than an edgy, body-conscious, and, yes, sexy silhouette. If she weren't 21, she could be 40. And French.

Few people need reminding that Mary-Kate — with her twin sister, Ashley — literally crawled into celebrity aged nine months (courtesy of Full House) and has not been out of the spotlight ever since. She has been a celebrity for more than two decades. Perhaps that's one reason she seems as if she came out of the womb worldly, the textbook old soul. "Yeah," she says with a small shrug. "I get that a lot." With all of that attention and all of the money (her and Ashley's company, Dualstar, has famously become a "billion-dollar business"), Mary-Kate could easily have ended up the type who wears pink terry cloth and carries a variety of small dogs. "Could you imagine?" she says with the politest version of a snort. "No way." She credits her exceptionally close-knit family (she has five siblings) and, interestingly, early stardom with helping her keep her perspective. "I think it helped that I started in front of the camera, so it didn't come as a shock. If I was a teenager and was thrown into the spotlight, I don't know how I would react, to be honest." Though the tabloids are all too keen to brand her a skinny, nervous deer in the headlights, in person Mary-Kate is easy in her skin, confident and surprisingly tactile, curling up in her seat and touching you on the arm to make a point. She laments the generic style of most actresses and cites only men as style inspirations: "Heath Ledger, Johnny Depp. Men, they just dress the way they want, and they don't think about Who Wore It Best." She doesn't much care for Who Wore It Best, noting she avoids those pages by "wearing vintage so often. I just dress the way I feel instead of looking for what's the new handbag." If Mary-Kate and Ashley have their way, more people will be wearing clothes and carrying bags the way they do. They have just shown the fifth collection of their ready-to-wear line, the Row, and recently launched a contemporary label, Elizabeth and James, named after a sister and a brother. The Row's holiday collection (in stores next month) is a slick mix of skinny leather pants, razor-cut blazers, butter-soft, slouchy tees, and a destined-to-be-cultish pullover fur. Lauren Hutton, who stars in the Row's Spring '08 look book, says, "The clothes are extraordinary. A man I was with just loved them. The pieces are just so genius, soft like a baby's skin. Simple minimalist stuff, but really spectacular." Mary-Kate, designer, faces an interesting challenge. She has to marry Dualstar — which has made its fortune selling tween-tastic DVDs and pastel Mary-Kate and Ashley T-shirts at Wal-Mart — with her increasingly edgy and subversive taste. Dualstar executives, some of whom have worked with her since she was a child, often nag her, mom-style, about pulling her hair back "or wearing a color," she says with a laugh. "I had this event recently, and I was like, They're going to be so happy that I'm wearing ... purple. I actually have to think about those things, though, you know, so I don't get trashed." Get trashed sometimes she does. Hutton says, "Once in a while, she'll wear something and I'll think, Oh, baby doll, take another look. But to have the bravery, to take the chance to do that, is pretty wonderful. She is making her own way, which is hardly ever done in Hollywood." Of Mary-Kate's penchant for gigantic Balenciaga heels, Jenji Kohan, the creator of Weeds, says, laughing, "I'd be like, 'It's Tuesday. Do you really want to be wearing those shoes?' But she pulls it off." Designer Giambattista Valli, a friend, says, "She likes to take risks, but because she has such strong personal style, she always manages to make it work. Even if she had nothing on, she'd have style." And MK chic is spreading. "Sometimes I'll look at people or at a magazine and I'll do a double take because I'm like, Oh, my God, that's my outfit, but that's not me," Mary-Kate says. Playing with her wire-rimmed aviators, she jokes wryly that she should have bought shares in Ray-Ban. (She and Chloë Sevigny pretty much brought back white '80s Wayfarers.) She tends to fall in love with a look, then wear it until she's done. "If I put together a good outfit, I'll wear it for three days and then switch it up with a blazer," she says. "I still love my vintage jeans, my tights, and my pants, though." She didn't start wearing heels, in fact, until a couple of years ago: "I kept watching Ashley walk around in them so gracefully, and I'm such a klutz. But I ended up loving heels, and I don't usually take them off." She wears precisely one pair of flat shoes: Chanel's knee-high patent-leather gladiator sandals. This season, it's Balenciaga's fall collection — all of it — that has Mary-Kate obsessed. She is close to designer Nicolas Ghesquière and says, "He is so talented, but he's the nicest, most down-to-earth guy, and that makes everything he does more brilliant. I bought everything, but I haven't got anything yet," she says like a girl impatiently waiting for Christmas. Will she wear the new pieces with her infamous clodhopper boots? "Uh-huh. Wore them the other day, actually." Mary-Kate always goes with her gut, even if some people (back to those tabloids) don't quite get it. "The tabloids say things about me? What do they say?" she asks archly. "People are going to write what they want, and everyone's going to have their own idea of who I am. But I'm not trying to be friends with the people who are reading them, really." After a rough couple of years filled with near-forensic scrutiny of her weight, she'll have you know that she does eat. "This is not going to sound good," she laughs, "but I like making crispy tofu sticks with peanut sauce. I love my sashimi and my salmon and my vegetables." She observes, "Stress plays a big role in how I look day-to-day. I've always been very active — Pilates, yoga. I grew up horseback riding every day for hours. I love dancing. I usually last longer than anyone on the dance floor." A common image of Mary-Kate has her emerging from a coffee joint with an oversize cup. "I always get creamed for having my Starbucks cup," she says, sighing. "But the only time people get photos of me is when I'm getting coffee, when I can't sneak away from the camera." She also resents the pictorial implication that she and Ashley are dilettantes. "They take photos of us going into our offices, and it's 'Mary-Kate and Ashley shopping again.' But I'm going to work for eight hours, and we're working so hard. ..." She trails off. "It just shows how people want to think of you." Mary-Kate is not above celeb watching herself, however. Newly obsessed with Victoria Beckham, she notes she avidly watched Beckham's Coming to America documentary: "She's running around in a bikini and heels, and I'm like, Oh, my God! I do that, too!" How positively Grey Gardens. "I run around my house naked with heels all the time. It's so funny. All my friends will tell you I love running around in kimonos and jewelry or naked with jewelry." More people will be watching Mary-Kate soon, thanks to her role in the Emmy-nominated Weeds. "I am a very good Christian girl," she says with a wink. "She has her moral beliefs — and she happens to smoke pot." Of her newest cast member, Kohan adds, "Mary-Kate is complicated. She's a big celebrity, a huge media icon, but you have to separate the media images from someone who has the same issues, the same desires, as anyone else." Of course, Mary-Kate's image, in all its incarnations — from high fashion to small screen — is her strongest asset. And she has yet to settle on one. "I feel like I've lived 10 different lives already and I'm only 21," she says, almost as a reminder to herself. "But I also feel like I'm entering a new chapter." One thing on which she is clear, though: She doesn't need to be looked at all the time. What would she do for a day if she were invisible? "I would probably go to a restaurant with my friends, who would be able to see me, of course," she adds pragmatically, "and I would sit outside and enjoy a nice lunch with them. Then I would walk down the street." The old soul takes a sip of her little-girl-sweet hot chocolate. "That's what I would do."

#Mary Kate Olsen #mary kate and ashley #Ashley Olsen #harper's bazaar #magazines #articles #photoshoot

[quindolyn]

Closed Quinn's 2.5k Celebration

I never thought I would hit this milestone and I can't begin to thank you all enough. You have no clue how much you and your support means to me and I love each and everyone of you so so much.

Please celebrate with me!

fandoms: Harry Potter, shadow and bone, shameless, Bridgeton, Criminal Minds, I can't think of anything else but if you have a fandom that you'd like me to use for this celebration just ask and if it works it works if it doesn't it doesn't

don't ask for maze runner I haven't read the books yet but I'm on it I promise

or marvel, I've seen like one movie

🍓 - CLOSED baby blurbs: send in an idea and I'll write a little blurb on it

👛 - headcanons: send in a character and specify nsfw or sfw and I'll give you a headcanon for them

💃 - dialogue: similar to baby blurbs I'll give you a small excerpt of dialogue using that character and scenario

🦆 - fic insert: send in a little bit about yourself and using that information I'll tell you which of my pics I think you best fit in

🦒 - CLOSED no context ships: give me a singular fact about yourself and using that I'll ship you with a character, please specify fandom

🥡 - cast your mutuals: send me a category and I'll cast my mutuals as things inside that category

🎷 - fmk: send me three characters and I'll assign them either fuck, marry, or kill. They don't need to be from the same fandom

Mutual appreciation below the cut:

Thank you for 2.5k but a special thank you all of my lovely mutuals:

@pinkandblueblurbs Gili, baby, you mean so much to me that I'm struggling to put it into words. Never would I have expected you to greet me with such kindness nor tolerate me for as long as you have. I feel like I can come to you with anything because when I have had something I need to talk about you're always empathetic and helpful and I always walk away feeling infinitely better. You were one of my main inspirations when I decided to start posting my writing, I can only hope to have half your talent. Not only are you sweet but you're downright adorable and getting to know you and the people in your life is something I hope I will never take for granted. Your grandma's a gilf and Madison's hot but I love you most, I guess.

@randomoutsiders you're my favorite milf in the making. Your son(s) are going to get bullied for having a milf for a mom and I will lay my life on thatThe characters you write for come alive at your fingertips and I am in awe of how you write. Talking to you is a pleasure I could've never imagined, sweet and personable conversation always seems to flow with us and I can't thank you enough for not only listening to me when I need to talk about something but coming to me when you feel it necessary. It is my crowning achievement in life to know that through James I was able to bring out the Dom in you and if I accomplish nothing else I will always have that.

@st0nesnglitter you managed to turn me against an entire ocean. Every drop of water in that stupid fucking sea keeps us much too far from each other and because of that I can't help but loathe it. 4 months, give or take, and you have yet to grow of me, after talking with you about everything from our boys to what we had for dinner. I didn't know there were people as beautiful as you, I love the little shorthands you use when words are too long for you to want to type them out in their entirety, your resilience is astounding to me as you've battled through so many hard things and you're that much stronger for them. The thought that you like me enough to speak to me is still something I can't wrap my head around but I'm incredibly thankful for it.

@luci-n-lyssa big sister type beat. Your energy is immaculate, you always manage to make me laugh even if we're talking about the most mundane things. I'm not sure how to describe it because as soon as I try to my brain goes to mush and I become the least eloquent person ever. You just make me feel comfy, you radiate cool wine aunt energy and I feel like I could show up at your dorm room sobbing and you'd let me in without question. Tell that little bitch of a brother to stop being a fucking loser and get social media, god. I love you Lyssa, my main bitch.

@shadesofvelma the way I'm literally in love with you. You're absolutely breathtaking, everything about you is just enchanting and leaves me in awe of you time after time. I remember the first time we spoke and you had me take a look at your writing and I was shocked that on your first attempt you'd written something so beautiful. Don't get me started on your accent, it's so fucking pretty and even if you were a bitch I could fall in love with you with that voice alone.

@philocxlyy Jennn, baby. It's so crazy how you started as an anon on my page and now we speak every day. I'm really thankful for our relationship, being around you just makes me happy and lightens my day. Thank you so much for opening up to me and talking about what's on your mind because I feel like it's taken our friendship to a higher level. No matter how much Anthony and I talk remember that you're always my favorite, at least until he cuts the mullet.

more mutuals who I love and adore but simply can't write more paragraphs for: @acosmis-t @arcaneslut @just-a-smol-spoon @mullthingsoverinthehotwater @itsmentalillness @maybanksslut @daisyyy2516 @inureflower @amourtentiaa @thatvenusbabe @illiicitarts @lillsthoughts @lillsthoughts @earlgreydream @i-cant-stfu @gothboutique @thotbutpurple @crystal-dee @ashesandstars @hellounicorn

#2.5k celebration

[themuseandantarctica]

* 𝒒𝒖𝒐𝒕𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝒑𝒕. 4

change however necessary.

❝ no man ever believes that the bible means what it says ; he is always convinced that it says what he means. ❞

❝ the bible is a wonderful source of inspiration for those who don’t understand it. ❞

❝ it ain’t those parts of the bible that i can’t understand that bother me , it’s the parts that i do understand. ❞

❝ whenever we read the obscene stories , the voluptuous debaucheries , the cruel and tortuous executions , the unrelenting vindictiveness with which more than half the bible is filled , it would be more consistent that we call it the word of a demon than the word of god.  it is a history of wickedness that has served to corrupt and brutalize mankind. ❞

❝ it’s absolutely blood amazing to thing that anyone could have believed that  —  absolute balls. ❞

❝ the total absence of humor from the bible is one of the most singular things in all literature. ❞

❝ ye are the children of the lord your god : ye shall not cut yourselves , nor make an baldness between the eyes for the dead. ❞

❝ a man shall not take his father’s wife , nor discover his father’s skirt. ❞

❝ cursed be he that lieth with his mother in law. ❞

❝ the driving is like the driving of jehu son of nimshi ; for he driveth furiously. ❞

❝ if i were reincarnated , i’d want to come back a buzzard.  nothing hates him or envies him or wants him or needs him.  he is never bothered or in danger , and he can eat anything. ❞

❝ it is to be regretted that domestication has seriously deteriorated that moral character of the duck.  in a wild state , he is a faithful husband , but no sooner is he domesticated that he becomes polygamous , and makes nothing of owning ten or a dozen wives at a time. ❞

❝ a sparrow fluttering about the church is an antagonist which the most profound theologian in europe is wholly unable to overcome. ❞

❝ swallows certainly sleep all winter.  a number of them conglobulate together , by flying round and round , and then all in a heap throw themselves under water , and lye in the bed of a river. ❞

❝ swans have an air of being proud , stupid , and mischievous  —  three qualities that go well together. ❞

❝ if only i were a bird !  ah , but eating caterpillars ? ❞

❝ the mosquito is the state bird of new jersey. ❞

❝ a book should serve as an axe for the frozen sea within us. ❞

❝ there are more books on books than on any other subject. ❞

❝ never lend books ; no one ever returns them.  the only books i have in my library are books other people have lent me. ❞

❝ outside of a dog , a book is man’s best friend.  inside of a dog , it’s too dark to read. ❞

❝ to be well informed , one must read quickly a great number of merely instructive books.  to be cultivated , one must read slowly and with a lingering appreciation the comparatively few books that have been written by men who lived , thought , and felt with style. ❞

❝ the reason why so few good books are written is that so few people who can write know anything. ❞

❝ i don’t think any good book is based on factual experience.  bad books are about things the writer already knew before he wrote them. ❞

❝ how long most people would look at the best book before they would give the price of a large turbot for it ? ❞

❝ some books are undeservedly forgotten , none are undeservedly remembered. ❞

❝ a classic is something that everybody wants to have read and nobody wants to read. ❞

❝ the worst thing about new books is that they keep us from reading the old ones. ❞

❝ all of the books in the world contain no more information than is broadcast as video in a single large american city in a single year.  not all bits have equal value. ❞

❝ the most difficult book i have ever read was a manual on the use of iron mangles by a. j. thompson. ❞

❝ there are only two kinds of math books.  those you cannot read beyond the first sentence , and those you cannot read beyond the first page. ❞

❝ one is never obligated to write a book. ❞

❝ everyone has a book in them and that , in most cases , is where it should stay. ❞

❝ there are books in which the footnotes , or the comments scrawled by some reader’s hand in the margin , are more interesting than the test.  the world is one of those books. ❞

❝ and there are also many other things which jesus did , the which , if they should be written every one , i suppose that even the world itself could not contain the books that should be written. ❞

❝ a book worth reading is worth buying. ❞

❝ the covers of this book are too far apart. ❞

❝ big book , big bore. ❞

❝ we have a world of pleasures to win , and nothing to lose but boredom. ❞

❝ a tremendous number of people in america work very hard at something that bores them.  even a rich man thinks he has to go down to the office every day.  not because he likes it but because he can’t think of anything else to do. ❞

❝ boredom is the root of all evil. ❞

❝ is not life a hundred times too short for us to bore ourselves ? ❞

❝ the cure for boredom is curiosity.  there is no cure for curiosity. ❞

❝ boredom is a vital problem for the moralist since half the sins of humanity are caused by fear of it. ❞

❝ boredom is rage spread thin. ❞

❝ entertainment is , in fact , the biggest cause of boredom in the modern world.  the more man is entertained , the more bored he grows. ❞

❝ when i bore people at a party , they think it is their fault. ❞

❝ in zen they say : if it is boring after two minutes listen to it for four.  if still boring , listen for eight or sixteen or thirty-two , and so on.  soon we discover that it is not boring at all but actually very interesting. ❞

❝ boxing isn’t a metaphor : it’s the thing itself. ❞

❝ to me , boxing is like a ballet , except there’s no music , no choreography , and the dancers hit each other. ❞

❝ it’s just a job.  grass grows , birds fly , waves pound the sand.  i beat people up. ❞

❝ this boxer is doing what is expected of him , bleeding from the nose. ❞

❝ [name] , have you looked in the mirror lately and seen the state of your nose ? ❞

❝ well , madam , have you looked in the mirror and seen the state of your nose ?  boxing is my excuse.  what’s yours ? ❞

❝ sure , there have been injuries and deaths in boxing  —  but none of them serious. ❞

❝ the brain is a wonderful organ.  it starts working the moment you get up in the morning , and does not stop until you get into the office. ❞

❝ if the human brain were so simple that we could understand it , we would be so simple that we wouldn’t. ❞

❝ the evolution of the brain not only overshot the needs of prehistoric man , it is the only example of evolution providing a species with an organ which it does not know how to use. ❞

❝ your brain , doctor , is a culture medium for question marks ! ❞

❝ if little else , the brain is an educational toy. ❞

❝ every revolution evaporates and leaves behind only the slime of a new bureaucracy. ❞

❝ bureaucracy is a giant mechanism operated by pygmies. ❞

❝ britain has invented a new missile.  it’s called the civil servant  —  it doesn’t work and it can’t be fired. ❞

❝ bureaucrats : they are dead at thirty and buried at sixty.  they are like custard pies ; you can’t nail them to a wall. ❞

❝ beware the barrenness of a busy life. ❞

❝ it is not enough to stay busy.  so , too , are the ants.  the question is what you are busy about. ❞

❝ the law does not pretend to punish everything that is dishonest.  that would seriously interfere with business. ❞

❝ i found in running businesses that the best results come from letting high-grade people work unencumbered. ❞

❝ the salary of the chief executive of the large corporation is not a market award for achievement.  it is frequently in the nature of a warm personal gesture to the individual to himself. ❞

❝ thought , not money , is the real business capital , and if you know absolutely that what you are doing is right , then you are bound to accomplish it in due season. ❞

❝ the successful man is the one who finds out what is the matter with his business before his competitors do. ❞

❝ a lasting relationship with a woman is only possible if you’re a business failure. ❞

❝ they intoxicate themselves with work so they won’t see how they really are. ❞

❝ i understand small business growth.  i was one. ❞

❝ butterflies are creatures of little importance and have never played much part in international commerce , either of goods or ideas. ❞

❝ what the caterpillar calls the end of the world , the master calls a butterfly. ❞

❝ the butterfly counts not months but moments , and has time enough. ❞

❝ the caterpillar does all the work but the butterfly gets all the publicity. ❞

❝ the butterfly often forgets it once was a caterpillar. ❞

❝ cabbage served twice is death. ❞

❝ boiled cabbage a l’anglaise is something compared with which steamed coarse newsprint brought from bankrupt finnish salvage dealers and heated over smoky oil stoves is an exquisite delicacy. ❞

❝ a louse in the cabbage is better than no meat at all. ❞

❝ cauliflower is nothing but a cabbage with a college education. ❞

❝ the state of california has no business subsidizing intellectual curiosity. ❞

❝ california is a place where they shoot too many pictures and not enough actors. ❞

❝ hollywood is a place where people from iowa mistake each other for stars. ❞

❝ i love california : i practically grew up in phoneix. ❞

❝ there is science , logic , reason ; there is thought verified by experience.  and then there is california. ❞

❝ california is a fine place to live  —  if you happen to be an orange. ❞

❝ nothing is wrong with california that a rise in the ocean level wouldn’t cure. ❞

❝ when i’m in canada , i feel this is what the world should be like. ❞

❝ when columbus made his well-remembered voyage to the caribbean , canada had been known to europeans for more than five hundred years. ❞

❝ very little is known of the canadian country since it is rarely visited by anyone but the queen and illiterate sport fishermen. ❞

❝ it’s going to be a great country when they finish unpacking it. ❞

❝ canada is not so much a country as a clothesline nearly four thousand miles long.  st. john’s in newfoundland is closer to milan , italy , than it is to vancouver. ❞

❝ i don’t even know what street canada is on. ❞

❝ canada is the essence of not being.  not english , not american , it is the mathematic of not being.  and a subtle flavor  —  we’re more like celery as a flavor. ❞

❝ in any world menu , canada must be considered the vichyssoise of nations  —  it’s cold , half-french , and difficult to stir. ❞

❝ we have never been a melting pot.  the fact is we are more like a tossed salad.  we are green , some of us are oily , and there’s a little vinegar injected when you get up to ottawa. ❞

❝ the beaver , which has come to represent canada as the eagle does the united states and the lion britain , is a flat-tailed , slow-witted , toothy rodent known to bite off its own testicles or to stand under its own falling trees. ❞

#rp meme #rp starters #sentence meme #sentence starters #prompts #rp prompts #writing prompts

[kagrenacs]

Explaining the Iceberg #4

I covered most things in this, but not everything. Every previous post I’ve made describing the tes iceberg I found on google image search can be found here x

Lorkhan’s purposeful failure: Lorkhan was the first spirit to go beyond the universe to see the tower, but didn’t achieve CHIM. He likely did this on purpose to show others how not to do it, and to demonstrate that it was difficult for et’ada to achieve this state because they simply don’t have the boundaries (such as death) that mortals do.

The World-Egg: The universe and the 12 previous Kalpas, everything within existence

The Khajiit Tower: this reddit thread https://www.reddit.com/r/teslore/comments/3oh7wf/the_khajiit_tower/ for everyone’s sake i’ll spare you the details of Jungian psychology, TL;DR the khajiit are a ‘tower’ made to hold up the universe and aspects of this

The Grabbers: Mentioned in the 36 lessons, a race of people in Lyg who are said to ‘have never built a city of their own’ there are theories that these are in fact Magne-Ge, due to their connection to Lyg by Mehrunes Dagon

AE: ‘is’ in ehlnofex, can be interpreted as a state of being

Shezzar became Akatosh: The only solid reference i could find was this thread, that immediately discusses how this is probably incorrect http://www.gamesas.com/could-lorkhan-have-jyggalag-t74581-25.html

The Monkey-Truth: Markuth’s teachings, also a website of tes fanfiction writers and roleplayers 

Red Moment: The potential Dragon Break at Red Mountain

The Provisional House: Mentioned in the 36 Lessons, called ‘a space that is not a space’ that Vivec observes the events of Nirn from. It may possibly protect Vivec from dangers associated with this.

Alandro Sul: The Shield-Companion to Nerevar. Sometimes called ‘the immortal-son of Azura’. After being blinded by Wulfharth, he went to live with the Ashlanders of Vvardenfell and is credited with spreading the idea that the Tribunal killed Nerevar

CHIM: To put simply, the process and state where a person realizes their place within the universe and is able to manipulate the laws of the universe as they see fit. Often associated with the concept of ‘Love’

Skaal Secrets: Discussed in the Dragonborn DLC, it’s unknown what their secrets are, but the Skaal report that they’ve kept them a secret from Hermaeus Mora for generations

The World’s Teeth: Mentioned in the 36 lessons of Vivec, sermon 17. Vivec takes Nerevar to the edge of the world, where they see ‘the bottom row of the world’s teeth’ as Vivec states. This may possibly reference a glitch in Redguard. (as a side note: The Legend of Zelda Breath of the Wild, a game that’s confirmed to have taken inspiration from the Elder Scrolls, has an area on the map, near the edge of the world with a row of spikes similar to what’s described here. This might be just coincidence, but I sure enjoy it)

Dagoth Ur’s Endgame: Speculation on what Dagoth Ur’s final plans actually are. He speaks of his desire to remove the Empire from Morrowind, and unite the Dunmer under the 6th House, but beyond that there’s little to go off of.  Ultimately this is just speculation and theories, mostly on what he plans to do with the Anumidium, and how that could possibly have adverse affects on reality.

Pelinal Cyborg from the Future: Another bit of obscure MK lore that’s not implemented in-game. This derives from the description of Pelinal having a ‘left hand made of a killing light’  ‘PELIN-EL [which is] "The Star-Made Knight" [and he] was arrayed in armor [from the future time].’ and his survival of being decapitated. While the text directly states he is from the future, there’s no ingame canon text stating he is a cyborg.

Reymon Ebonarm is Reman: The thought that Ebonarm, a God of War is the same person as Reman, emperor of Cyrodiil. There’s several theories dedicated to this, with different variants on the specifics.

The Enantiomorph: Directly tied to the concept of mantling and the Fourth Walking Way. Put simply, there are three participants in this. Two combatants who are very much alike and trying to become the ‘Ruling King’ and an observer who determines who wins, this observer usually becomes maimed as a result of this. 

The Third Moon: Two different things, a metaphorical or literal secret moon important to the Khajiit that only appears when Masser and Secunda are aligned, preceding the birth of a Mane. The second option is the Necromancer’s Moon, the godly form of Mannimarco.

The Walkabout: A concept in Yokudan religion. The process of spirits surviving one Kalpa to the next, facilitated by Tall Papa

White-Gold Doomsday device: I remember reading this theory a few years back, unfortunately I cannot find the exact page for the life of me. The Tl;DR on this is the White-Gold Tower is a weapon of mass destruction, either literally or in metaphysical terms (being connected to Akatosh and it’s status as a Tower). The closest thing I can find to it is this thread which describes the motives of Umbra in the novels, and how it could potentially take over Tamriel using the White-Gold Tower http://www.gamesas.com/doomsday-scenario-t69430.html

Jiub was the Nerevarine: Self explanatory, headcanon that Jiub was the Nerevarine, similar to a headcanon on tumblr that stated Teldryn Sero was the Nerevarine

House Dwemer: Mentioned as a House within The War of the First Council (which is written by an Imperial for Western Scholars) and The Lost Prophecy (written by a Dunmer) This could be interpreted in a couple different ways. A) The first book was certainly written for western readers, while there is no evidence for this being the case for the latter, it can’t be ruled out. ‘House’ is used as a simplification B) The Dwemer were considered a house, but perhaps not in the way we would initially think (being on the Great House Council)  They were grouped into a singular entity, rather than distinct clans within a cultural group (either during the First Council or posthumously) 

When Dead Gods Dream: https://www.imperial-library.info/content/when-dead-gods-dream referencing this thread. Discusses the mechanisms of Dagoth Ur’s godhood, the thread explains it better than I can here, TL;DR Dagoth Ur is not alive, but he is within the realms of gods and therefor is able to ‘project’ himself onto Tamriel and the minds of his followers.

Khajiit ended the Metheric Era: Nothing found for this

Parabolic Kalpa: A parabola is a symmetrical U-shaped curve. This theory essentially tries to explain why Skyrim is so low magic, compared to it’s history or even ESO. The thought is that as time goes on, the world becomes less connected to Divinity. Towers are destroyed and the gods are gone, but eventually things will begin to kick off again, and there will be a rise in magic, technology and the connection to these beings. Essentially tries to explain why C0da and Loveletter from the 5th era are more high magic compared to the actual games. 

Sithis: Secret Lesson from Vivec: Connects the both Sithis with the 36 lessons by terminology (The Sharmat, false dreamer ect.) and proposes Vivec may have written the book

Bendu Olo: Colovian King, may have been related to Olaj Olo, nordic demigod of mead. Also used as a placeholder name for the player character in Oblivion and the name of the dev’s test character in Skyrim

Trinimac still lives: An ESO lorebook states the Ashpit, realm of Malacath, extends into Aetherius. Some orcs also believe Malacath is nothing more than a demon presenting himself as the remnants of Trinimac. A r/teslore theory states that Malacath wears two faces. While I assume this is the Iceberg author’s sole reference, I propose this could (should) refer to another theory. (Another theory is similar to this on teslore, proposed around the same time, but this one connects the dots)  https://boethiah.tumblr.com/post/621058598373588993/tsun-is-the-shield-brother-of-shor-and-trinimac 

The Aedra are Dead: Seemingly a common topic on teslore. A basic concept in tes, the Aedra gave most of their powers to Mundus to stabilize it.  Their bodies remain as planets, and they can only have limited interactions with Nirn. 

Divayth Fyr was the Hero of Battlespire: An old theory that looks at artifacts in Divayth Fyr’s possession and ties them back to the tes spinoff Battlespire. There are holes in this theory (Divayth Fyr was a seasoned mage at the time the hero was an apprentice)

Three Talin’s: The default name given to the Eternal Champion is Talin, a character creation scenario proposes that their father was also named Talin, and finally Uriel Septim VII’s general was named Talin Warhaft.

Pelagius I was killed by the Underking: The Arcturian Heresy states that the Underking appeared as an advisor to Pelagius I, who was assassinated by the Dark Brotherhood. This theory is a possibility considering the amminosity between Tiber Septim and both components of the Underking. 

Tsaesci Goa’uld: Goa’uld are a species from Stargate that are parasites towards humans. This theory proposes that the Tsaesci are similar, explaining the inconsistencies of their appearance within the lore.

Lunar currency: The thought that the Aedra and Daedra use mortal souls like currency

Historic Star Inconsistencies: Possibly referring to the variations of the number of days within the year in Arena, not sure about this one

Mnemoli/Star Orphans:Mnemoli is either a specific Magne-Ge (spirits that fled the creation of Mundus after Magnus), or a group of them that only appears during a Dragon Break (often nicknamed the ‘Blue Star’) MK states that they’re the writers and distributors of the physical Elder Scrolls (however this contradicts ingame books, so take it with a grain of salt). Star Orphans may or may not refer to Magne-Ge as a whole. Vehk’s book of hours state's them as a ‘group or tribe’ regardless, Mnemoli falls under this secondary classification (along with Merid-Nuda and Xero-Lyg, I have my own thoughts on this which would be better explained in another post) 

Bosmer Hircine worship: Seemingly referring to a thread on 4pleb, I will not be summarizing this theory here because I’m smart and not going onto 4pleb of all places. But from canon content, Bosmer do not worship Hircine, and consider him a force that goes against Y’ffre and wants to return everything to it’s original state of chaos before the earthbones (Y’ffre being among them) stabilized things 

Septimus Signus Zero Sum: The theory that the aforementioned zero-summed at the end of Discerning the Transmundane in Skyrim. Essentially Septimus is in a fragile state, delving into the secrets of the universe and is being pushed by Hermaeus Mora, who may see him as a lab rat, into discovering things he isn’t meant to handle as a mortal, and consequently Zero-Sums. There’s holes in this, namely Zero-Summing supposedly removes all trace of existence. 

The Soft Doctrines of Magnus Invisible: A very obscure text by Douglas Goodall, discusses the binding of various gods

Abnegaurbic creed: An overly fancy word basically meaning religious beliefs, seen in Nu-Hattia Exerpt 

Dunmereth: A Nordic term for the area of Morrowind, during their occupation of it

Fifteen-and-One Golden Tones: A Dwemer term, possibly referring to the spheres of the Daedra, counting Sheo/Jyggalag as a singular entity. Also, the Dwemer swear by these 

Ideal Masters are God of Worms remnants: As Mannimarco is often said to be the first Lich, the existence of the ideal masters seems to contradict this (similar story with Azidal) this tries to rectify this by proposing that the Soul Carin is the Necromancer’s Moon, and the ideal masters are remnants of Mannimarco. This theory doesn’t hold up when examined, but is cool nonetheless. 

Sermon 37: Found in ESO, an extra sermon to the 36 lessons, ties in concepts present in c0da like amaranth. (interestingly on this list Sermon Zero is never mentioned, despite it being older and more interesting imo, but to discuss that would require lots of work)

Flying Whales: Mentioned in Aldudagga. A now extinct species. The bone bridge of Sovngarde could potentially be a reference to this.

Joy-Snow: It’s cocaine 

Mankar=Tharn: A theory that Mankar Cameron is Jagar Tharn, doesn’t hold much weight and relies mostly on the connection of Mehrunes Dagon

Sharmat: A term used to describe Dagoth Ur, an opposite to the Hortator, a force uniting people for evil. Implied to mean or be associated with ‘the False Dreamer’ a person whose view of the universe is similar to someone whose achieved CHIM, but sees themself as the center of it all, rather than a droplet in the ocean of the universe.

Pankratosword: A forbidden Yokudan sword technique that could ‘cut atoms’ similar to our modern day Nuclear Fission. A bit of etymology here, ‘Pankrato’ seems to refer to the word ‘Pankrator’ meaning all-powerful or almighty. 

Landfall: A concept from MK, a future event where Nirn is destroyed by the Numidium, and the people remaining relocate to the moons. 

Cylarne: The oldest ruin in the Shivering Isles, rumored to be the original capital. Home to the Cold Flame of Agnon

#long post #tes iceberg #that picture of vivec is how i'm feeling after 12 hours of studying for my final and writing this