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rosyrosethings · 6 months

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Y/n returns after missing

This story is a rewrite/edit. I posted this story a while ago. But I'm doing over my master list. So i rewrote this. It inspired by the tv show manifest which is a about a plan that goes missing and they return a few years later

Four years had slipped away since the passengers aboard flight N-47 vanished into thin air, presumed to have tragically succumbed to some unfathomable fate. Yet, in a twist befitting a miracle, three souls previously lost had reemerged. Y/n Y/L/N, James Carter, and Sus-... The screen went blank as she snapped off the TV, cutting the newscaster off mid-sentence. For Y/n, those four years encapsulated an epoch of isolation, an overwhelming void where time seemed inconsequential. The world had marched on, relentless and indifferent, leaving behind a cascade of changes she could scarcely begin to absorb.

Memories of her life before the ill-fated flight were vivid and achingly sweet. She had been on the cusp of a new chapter, her dreams tangibly close. A blossoming fashion designer, Y/n was set to weave her creativity and passion into the very fabric of the industry. Her return from Rio was supposed to be a celebratory milestone, marking her transition into a life shared with Harry and the thrilling prospect of seeing her best friend Kendall, potentially the next supermodel sensation, flaunt her designs down the runway.

The reality she returned to, however, was starkly different. Expectations of a warm welcome, of falling back into the comfortable embrace of her old life with Harry, were shattered. Hours turned into an eternity at her mother’s house, each passing moment amplifying her confusion and heartache. Where was Harry? Why was he submerged in a new life where he was a solo artist, a far cry from the hiatus he'd taken from his band in 2015?

Trepidation gripped her heart, preventing her from delving too deep into the life Harry led now. The fear of discovering him entwined with someone else was paralyzing. With a resigned sigh, she closed her laptop, a barrier against the torrent of information that threatened to drown her.

“Y/N? Honey,” the gentle voice of her mother broke through her reverie. The joy in her eyes was unmistakable, yet it carried the weight of years filled with mourning a daughter lost. They had even held a funeral for her, Y/n realized with a start. The profound relief and elation of having her back were palpable in every hug, every tearful smile her mother gave her.

“Yes, mom?”

“Umm, someone is here to see you.”

***

Contrastingly, Harry's life had been a portrait of attempting to move on while being anchored in the past. His home, once a sanctuary of memories shared with Y/n, now housed his new relationship. Kendall, her head resting on his chest, was a constant presence, offering solace in a reality where Y/n existed only in echoes. She was 'Kenny' to him, a pillar during his darkest times, understanding the depth of losing Y/n as she, too, had lost a dear friend.

But the past clung to Harry with stubborn tendrils. His routine, for three long years, involved calling Y/n’s voicemail, a one-sided conversation where he'd spill the day's trivialities and monumental changes alike, seeking solace in the sound of her recorded voice. It wasn’t until the pain dulled into a quiet ache, and with Kenny’s unwavering support, that he ceased this ritual. Yet, he never truly let go, with monthly visits to Y/n's mother becoming a testament to his undying connection to her.

Their bond had been forged in the innocence of childhood, blossoming from neighborly acquaintances to an unbreakable union of soulmates. It was a love story initiated when two eight-year-olds found friendship and grew seamlessly into love as they reached sixteen. It was a story abruptly paused, until an unexpected phone call threatened to turn the page once again.

Harry’s phone shattered the comfortable silence, Mrs. Y/L/N’s number on display. Kendall, sensing the shift in the atmosphere, sat up, her own complex emotions swirling as she watched Harry answer the call.

“Yes, Mrs. Y/L/N, how are you?” Harry’s voice was cautious, unprepared for the emotional maelstrom the conversation would incite.

Kendall battled with her feelings, a mix of jealousy and self-reproach. She loved Harry, but standing in Y/n’s shadow was a constant reminder of what she lacked. She was never going to ignite in Harry the passionate love he held for Y/n. She was a balm, she realized, not the cure to his heartache.

“Harry.. she’s home. My baby is here, Harry. She came back to us.” The words, heavy with emotional gravity, froze Harry in place. Confusion, hope, and sheer disbelief warred within him.

“Okay, I’ll be there shortly, Mrs. Rose,” he managed, his mind racing.

“What is it, Harry? Who was it?” Kendall queried, apprehension lacing her words.

“Y/n’s mom...”

“Are we going to dinner with her tonight?” she attempted lightness, a stark contrast to the situation’s gravity.

“She’s alive, Kenny.”

The words hung in the air, a fragile truth that threatened to change everything. Once again, life’s unpredictable tide was pulling them in a direction they never anticipated. The lost was found, and with her return, the threads of their lives were irrevocably entwined once more.

Y/n felt the soft give of her childhood mattress beneath her as she rose, each muscle groaning, still remembering the harshness of the ground she'd slept on for years on the island. The air around her buzzed with a mixture of familiarity and foreignness, a sensation that had enveloped her since her return. She was home yet felt like a stranger in a place woven into the fabric of her earliest memories. Her room, though untouched, seemed to belong to another era, one before her life had fractured into a before and after.

Since her unexpected return, her home had turned into a pilgrimage site. Relatives she hadn’t seen in years, cousins whose names she struggled to remember, and a throng of others had paraded through the living room. She had hoped, with every knock, that she would see Harry’s face, hear his voice, touch his hand. But as hours turned into days, her hope waned.

Dragging herself to her feet, she moved through the hallway, each step echoing the pounding in her heart. Her feet, moving of their own accord, carried her towards the living room, the epicenter of the constant, suffocating stream of visitors.

And then, she saw him.

It was as if the world contracted in that moment, every sound, every color, every breath funneling into this singularity. Harry stood there, a portrait of the years gone by. His hair, shorter than she remembered, framed his face, and those green eyes, which had haunted her dreams, seemed to glow. Dressed in the simplest of clothes — black jeans and a white t-shirt — he was a sight for her sore eyes. He was her beacon during the darkest nights on the island, the memory of him, a silent prayer, a sacred chant that wove through the solitude of her survival.

For Harry, the sight of Y/n wasn't just a balm; it was a resurrection. She was here, alive and so achingly present that his heart faltered in its rhythm. The past years had been a cacophony of grief, confusion, and a numbness that seeped into his bones. And here she was, her skin glowing with a vitality that seemed impossible. He had always adored her skin, the richness of her complexion; it reminded him of the sweetest chocolates he'd ever tasted. He had spent years bolstering her against the world, against the harshness of critics and fans alike, reminding her of her beauty, her worth.

He was captivated by the woman before him, who had been tempered by survival, her spirit burnished but unbroken. How could it be that she stood before him even more breathtaking than he remembered? In that instant, Harry understood the depth of the void her absence had carved into his life. She wasn't just a missing piece; she was the very foundation that his reality had been built upon.

Without a word, he closed the distance between them, his arms enveloping her in a hug that felt like a collision of every unsaid word, every unshed tear, every unfulfilled longing of the past four years. His emotions breached the dam he had painstakingly built, tears wetting the crown of her head as he nestled his face there. "God, I've missed you so much," he breathed, his voice a hoarse whisper laden with every nuance of pain, relief, and overwhelming love he felt.

Y/n, ensconced in Harry's arms, felt a sense of returning. Here, in the circle of his arms, the world righted itself. His scent, the solidness of his chest, the timber of his voice — they were her lighthouse. "I never stopped thinking about you, not even for a moment," she confessed, her voice muffled against him.

Their reunion, however, was shadowed by an unspoken acknowledgment of the time lost and the reality that had marched on relentlessly in her absence. Y/n detected subtle shifts in him, intangible but unmistakable. As they sat on the couch, a chasm of unsaid words stretched between them. Harry's affectionate term, 'kitten,' once a playful endearment, now seemed to echo across a vast distance, a reminder of a shared past that was both their bridge and barrier.

Their conversation meandered, a tentative dance around the elephant in the room. Y/n's fatigue, both emotional and physical, soon became too cumbersome to carry. Her eyelids grew heavy, her body demanded respite. "I need to close my eyes, just for a little while," she whispered, her words a mix of exhaustion and a quiet plea for things to be simple again.

Harry, understanding her unvoiced request, smoothed her hair back, his touch a promise. "Rest, love. When you wake, we'll grab some lunch, maybe even see Kendall. It'll be like old times," he murmured, the ache in his voice belying the casualness of his words.

Y/n's smile, before she succumbed to sleep, was a fragile thing, a tentative hope. And as she drifted off, nestled against Harry, she clung to the sound of his heartbeat — a lullaby that spoke of shared pasts, present uncertainties, and the uncharted future that lay ahead of them.

Harry and Kendall sat in the subtle ambiance of the café, the murmur of conversations blending with the soft clinking of cutlery. The tension between them was palpable, like a silent storm brewing. Harry's fingers drummed nervously on the tabletop, betraying the calm facade he attempted to portray.

"Did you tell her?" Kendall's voice sliced through the tension, her agitation evident in the rhythmic tapping of her perfectly manicured nails against the wooden surface.

He hesitated, the truth weighing heavily on his chest. "No... I couldn't," Harry admitted, his voice barely above a whisper as he averted his gaze, finding sudden interest in the patterns of the wood grain. The confession felt like a betrayal, a stark deviation from the promise he made to himself about honesty.

Kendall's sigh was a mixture of frustration and understanding. "We can tell her together," she offered, extending her hand to provide solace. Her fingers were warm, a contrast to the cold dread filling his stomach.

As he intertwined his fingers with hers, seeking comfort in the touch, his eyes caught a familiar figure approaching. It was Y/n, a sight that made his heart leap into his throat. Instinctively, he retracted his hand from Kendall's, a subtle but unmistakable reaction.

Y/n's energy was like a breath of fresh air as she arrived. "Kenny!" she exclaimed with genuine affection, stretching her arms out for a heartfelt embrace. Kendall rose to return the gesture, her own emotions a complex web of happiness, relief, and an underlying sense of conflict she wasn't ready to face.

The warmth of their hug was short-lived for Kendall, overshadowed by a realization that Y/n's presence might change everything, including her own newly discovered hopes. As they separated, Y/n slid into the seat across from them, her presence filling the void but also reminding them of the intricate dynamics of their past.

"Harry, my mom told me what you did for her while I was...gone. I can't thank you enough," Y/n's voice held a mix of gratitude and sorrow, referencing the home Harry had bought for her mother after the accident — a gesture of kindness in the face of tragedy.

Kendall, feigning ignorance, asked, "What did you do, Harry?"

He hesitated, swallowing hard before explaining. "After Y/n's accident, I...I bought a house for her mom. She was devastated, thought she'd lost her only child." His voice was laced with past pain, the memories visibly haunting him.

"And you never mentioned this because...?" Kendall prodded, a hint of hurt in her tone.

Harry's response was evasive, his discomfort evident. "It wasn't about publicity or gratitude. And you were away, busy with your modeling." He tried to downplay his act, but the hurt it caused was unmistakable.

The conversation took a sharp turn when Y/n's eyes fell upon the sparkling diamond on Kendall's finger. "Kendall, you're engaged?!" she exclaimed, joy in her voice. But the excitement dissolved as realization dawned. Her eyes darted between Harry and Kendall, the implications clear and heart-wrenching. "Oh... I see," she murmured, her voice a fragile whisper.

The atmosphere turned heavy, the weight of unspoken words and unacknowledged feelings pressing down on them. "Y/n, please, let's talk about this," Harry pleaded, desperation seeping into his voice. But Y/n was retreating, her defenses coming up.

The meal that followed was a symphony of discomfort, punctuated by stilted conversation and Y/n's increasing detachment. Harry recognized her coping mechanism as she ordered more food than she could possibly consume. It was her refuge, her way of finding control in a situation where she felt she had none.

Her breaking point arrived with silent tears streaming down her face as she attempted to keep eating. "Kitten," Harry whispered, an endearment slipping out as he moved to comfort her. But she recoiled, the nickname a reminder of what they had and what seemed lost now.

"I need a to-go tray," she announced abruptly, her voice strained. She stood up, her movements robotic as she packed her food, her exit a clear signal of her emotional state.

"Kitten, please, can't we just talk?" Harry implored, but his plea fell on deaf ears.

With a sad smile, she replied, "That's the thing, Harry. I'm not your kitten anymore, am I?" And with that, she walked away, leaving behind a table laden with uneaten food, unspoken words, and unresolved futures.

#harry styles #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles imagine #harry styles smut #harry styles fluff #fine line #watermelon sugar #harrys house #manifest

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petewentzisblack1312 · 28 days

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a little update because i was doing really bad a little while ago, i am doing better. my dad has agreed to pay half of my ticket, which isnt ideal but does make it possible for me to go to jamaica for my grandfathers funeral, which is a huge relief. it also gives me an opportunity to meet my mothers family, and to finally interact with my jamaican heritage, both of which are things ive wanted to do for a very long time. i wish i could have done this with him, but i also hope to look through my grandfathers record collection. i really hope ill learn a little bit about him that way. all in all, im hanging in there.

#dils declares #dils is depressed

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swangtup6 · 1 month

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Demo Review: Fenriz - A Funeral of Light (1996)

Ok so there's like no info on this band online that I've found, I have a policy of not reviewing NSBM (for the record) and the Polish scene (where this band comes from) is a minefield of sketchy politics but as far as I know they're clean. If im wrong abt this lmk n ill look further into it. all ik is that this demo goes hard as fuck

The first thing I want to talk about is the production, actually. This is DEFINITELY raw black metal. Everything sounds muffled, like it was recorded under water, you can barely hear the snare drum, you can't hear the cymbals at all, and the vocals are completely drowned out by everything else. All in all, it's lovely. I think the minimalistic sound makes for pretty perfect kvlt black metal, and this band is a huge inspiration for my own project, actually.

Next up has to be the guitar work. The guitar playing on this demo is phenomenal, with plenty of menacing riffs, eerie melodies, etc etc. I think the production serves the guitar particularly well as it gives it a kinda otherworldly feeling (like on Burzum's first demo) and the minimalistic songwriting let's the guitars stand out as the driving force behind this demo.

The drums are the only other instrument audible, so we're gonna talk about them next because we have to. The drumming is great, whoever drummed on this (metal archives says all of the instruments were played by one person named Thorn) can play with the best of them in this genre. The drumming is written well too, with plenty of blasts and a healthy dose of slower bits. It all feels natural and fluid, and only being able to hear the kick and the lower freqs of the snare drums is honestly a pretty cool effect. It's like the drum production on Transylvanian Hunger turned up to 11, with only the pieces of the kit absolutely necessary to get the rhythms audible.

The vocals are also fantastic. Thorn utilizes a somewhat-pained sounding high rasp that sounds totally sick and manages to cut through the thick guitar pretty easily. It almost sounds like the vocals are sitting on top of the instruments but in a cool way not a shitty production way.

Overall, this is one of my favorite black metal demos ever. I'm not going to give it as high of a rating as I think it deserves because I have to stick to my principles on how I rate these things or I'll rate everything 10/10, but it's easily like a 9/10 in my heart. I wouldn't recommend this to a newcomer to the genre, I don't think it's an essential listen even for experienced black metal fans, but it has a special place in my heart for being ridiculously raw, well played, well written, and all around dope as hell.

7/10

standout track: The Blaze Mountain

youtube

#youtube #music #music review #metal review #metal music #dungeon synth #black metal

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cadmium-free · 4 months

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Funeral Parade of Roses (1969) - Watched on August 5, 2023

It spirals to its inevitable conclusion. We revisit a moment, a scene. A little more plays out, we step back or step forward. We live transfixed in a moment. Sometimes a scene mirrors another, it's all the same but with different details. There is no escaping fate, we can only be sucked closer and closer to our inevitable conclusion.

Stop Making Sense (1984) - Watched on October 5, 2023

I genuinely don’t think this needs any explanation or justification at all. I could watch it over and over and over and over and over.

Possession (1981) - Watched on October 17, 2023

It took me three sittings to get through this film and I wasn’t sure I liked it immediately after I finished it. And then it just simmered in my mind for days and weeks after until it finally clicked into place. I love the way Sam Neill moves in this. Everyone comments on the haunting way Isabelle Adjani looks directly into the camera, and yea. Yeah. Ok. Yeah. Yeah.

The Devils (1971) - Watched on June 26, 2023

I thought going into it with the full knowledge of Urbain Grandier would defang it, and perhaps this did soften the blow a bit, but it's audacious, frenzied, sensual. You get tangled up in its themes, its sensations, its torture.

Dog Day Afternoon (1975) - Watched on January 13, 2023

This set off a brief and ferocious obsession with Al Pacino. I have a strained relationship with films based on true crimes, but this slides past my qualms, perhaps just on the strength of the fact John Wojtowicz himself did write a review of it.

Bound (1996) - Watched on April 5 and August 19, 2023

The way Corky and Violet can come together with genuine trust so quickly. The way Ceaser can misunderstand Violet so fundamentally. The literal betrayal in realising who someone is.

Häxan (1922) - Watched on October 27, 2023

The 1922 equivalent of a Youtube video essay where a guy is like, "Guys, I just learned a bunch of fucked up facts about witches and witch trials. I think maybe we just execute women for being poor and mentally ill. Also aren't mental institutions a bit fucked up?" but like, a bit hornier than you would expect for the subject.

Cruising (1980) - Watched on January 17, 2023

It’s all about looking and being noticed. The camera is looking. Al Pacino is looking. The men are looking. And the ambiguity of the gaze and the plot.

Pontypool (2008) - Watched on October 4, 2023

It's a film about words. It's a film about broadcasting from a radio station and seeing nothing. Our imagination fills in the visual gaps. It's so much more horrifying to be piecing everything together from the safety of a recording booth.

The Lair of the White Worm (1988) - Watched on February 1, 2023

Hugh Grant—looking like a lesbian—who is a freaky little rich boy who believes in cryptids, Peter Capaldi—looking like a lesbian—sucking snake venom from a neck bite, an incredibly sexy snake woman with a house full of snake stuff, a giant snake puppet, surreal dream sequences, the coolest game of snakes and ladders ever made, snake dicks, weaponised bagpipe music, homoeroticism, and giant strap-ons.

Ravenous (1999) - Watched on October 19, 2023

This film is so offbeat and strange. It has the strange feel of a comedy, while being a really understandably grim depiction of cannibalism as manifestation of greed, expansionism, and colonization. I kept having these moments of shock that this was a studio movie, that studios were willing to make this film that so thoroughly deconstructs the American mythology.

Penda's Fen (1974) - Watched on July 6, 2023

The first movie in a long time that has made me feel as though I need to pick it apart like an essay, to rewatch multiple times and take notes and repeat sentences until I’ve done a thorough analysis. I've never had a film hit me in quite this way before.

#film #recs #long post #basically just making my letterboxd list here #i normally don't do a movie best of list for the year but i don't have ten non movies #station eleven and star trek are the only nonfilm things i would list i think

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sweetdreamsjeff · 4 months

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Jeff Buckley: Grace under fire

Dave Simpson, The Guardian, 1 May 1998

Singer Jeff Buckley lived in the shadow of his father Tim's death. Dave Simpson remembers meeting the visionary of pain and loss, and hears the demo recordings of Buckley's planned second album

WHEN JEFF Buckley walked fully clothed and singing into a Memphis marina on the Mississippi river last year he closed one of the briefest, brightest chapters in rock. Bernard Butler, the former Suede guitarist, recently said: "If it wasn't for Jeff Buckley I wouldn't be doing any of this. Seeing him restored my faith in music." High praise, matched only by Led Zeppelin's high priest, Jimmy Page: "Jeff Buckley was one of the greatest losses of all."

Buckley left just one completed album, Grace, rightly hailed as a masterpiece. But the demos for what would have been his second, planned to be called My Sweetheart The Drunk, are released by Columbia this month.

Demos, because apparently Buckley was dissatisfied with the sessions (with former Television mainman Tom Verlaine) and planned to burn the recordings and start again, beginning with a rehearsal planned for the very night he died. Sketches contains some of the most stunning and intriguing rock performances ever committed to tape. It's impossible to decide which are the more affecting: the staggering soulful beauty of a song like 'Everybody Wants You', or the references to funerals, cemeteries and suicide that shadow the album; the fragile magnificence of 'Opened Once', or the album's pervasive sense of loneliness.

That Buckley could have even contemplated trashing this music is the mark either of an acute perfectionist or of an extremely disturbed mind. And is it just hindsight that gives lines like 'Witches Rave''s "I'll never make it out alive" such an eerie psychological pull?

Equally bizarrely, Buckley's mysterious demise aged 30 on May 29 1997 (he told a friend he was "going for a swim", although many have speculated it was suicide) appeared a curious twist of destiny. His natural father, sixties singer Tim Buckley, had died tragically (from a drug overdose on June 29 1975) at 28, and his son was forever stalked by the Buckley legend. "Eternal life is on my trail," Jeff once sang, knowing full well that he was carving his own myth.

I first met him in 1994, in the first flush of critical fanfare for Grace. I was sent along to get a handful of quotes for a music paper, and we ended up talking for over an hour. This was typical of Jeff. If he liked you, you were in. It didn't concern him that he had other, more important interviews scheduled and that his press officer was frantically trying to get his attention. Just as in his music, Jeff Buckley knew all the rules but routinely bent them to suit his own purposes. In conversation as on stage, he'd play up to the image he'd created — the moody, magnificent James Dean of rock — and shatter it in an instant. Expecting a tortured artist, I was surprised by his mischievous humour.

He was a bag of contradictions, someone who shaped his surroundings (as we talked, he selected Duke Ellington to play in his portable CD), whilst simultaneously claiming to be ill at ease, both with people and daily situations.

He could be remarkably, even suspiciously eloquent. He said of his voice: "I feel it and I wanna go there. Every feeling has an articulation. It's like when you get drunk or you try Ecstasy for the first time and all your secrets come tumbling out, and you say things you've never said before."

His music, he insisted, was equally natural. "Do you think about what you're doing when you're making love?" he asked, using a favourite metaphor. He was the sort of person who would flirt with a bathchair. His entire arsenal of vocal mannerisms seemed to be filched from Dean's simmering vocabulary. But it became obvious that Jeff Buckley was carrying around a set of troubles for which there were no easy answers.

Buckley's early life around California was fairly blissful, even though he was brought up by his Panamanian mother and two successive stepfathers. He picked up his grandmother's guitar aged six and learned about harmonies by singing along with his mom to the radio as it blared out tunes by Stevie Wonder and Sly Stone. His favourite record was Terry Jacks' premature-death anthem 'Seasons In The Sun'.

When Buckley was 12, his stepfather gave him a copy of Led Zeppelin's Physical Graffiti (later influences included Nina Simone, Sex Pistols and the Cocteau Twins), and Jeff began writing songs. His first, he remembered, was "something stupid about a break-up." In his teens at college in Los Angeles he penned 'Eternal Life', which included the lines: "Got my red glitter coffin, man, just need one more nail", about the rock-death myth.

Buckley moved to New York, building up a fearsome reputation as a live performer in and around East Village. By the time a reworked 'Eternal Life' and other equally harrowing but strangely beautiful songs such as 'Dream Brother' appeared in his set, many in the audiences (which often included the likes of Nick Cave) would scream in rapture. Others would find the outpourings of naked emotion so disquieting they'd leave the room.

"I'm used to being hated," he told me. "It's something I've had ever since I was a kid. It hurts, but there's nothing I can do. I'm not lying." Neither did he pull his punches. At almost the exact time as he secured a record deal, Jeff managed the potentially career-threatening feat of being seen to "diss" labelmate Bob Dylan.

"I was at A Hole In the Wall in New York, and I'd seen Dylan the night before," he revealed. "So I did an impression of him singing 'I Want You'. I did an impression of him singing 'Grace'. I talked about how he sailed through some songs and was really brilliant on others. People were shouting 'But he's still got it, right?' And I'm going: 'No. This is not Blonde On Blonde. This is him now. You guys are living in the past'."

In the audience were Bob Dylan's manager, his assistant manager, and his best friend. "Man, the next day I was in Tompkins Square Park, staring at the ground with the snow falling, wishing I was never born. My A&R man saying, 'Well, Bob feels dissed.' But I really didn't... I just... loved him so much I sent him up." Buckley wrote a personal apology — and then when Grace came out, critics hailed the "new Bob Dylan".

Around this time people began making the inevitable, if misleading musical comparisons between Jeff and Tim Buckley. Both were singer-songwriters with distinctive voices. Jeff never knew his father (he vaguely remembered their one meeting "on a beach somewhere"). He wouldn't accept that even his smouldering looks came from his father.

"I look like my mother," he insisted. "I have my own choices, and I have my own life. All I know is that the guy's dead. I had a very musical environment growing up, that didn't involve him. Maybe I was imbued with the same things, the same parts. But it ain't his voice, and it ain't my voice, and it wasn't his father's voice or his father's father before. It's just the voice that's passed down. My grandfather sang, apparently. And my grandfather on my mother's side sang! I come from a line of singers. But my choices are my choices."

Buckley's resentment was palpable. Was he angry because his father abandoned him? "It's private," he mumbled, "but I went through, and am still going through a period of trying to figure out... why? The main question you wanna answer is did he love you or not, and if so, why didn't he love you enough to..."

Stick around. He didn't need to finish the sentence. The force driving Jeff Buckley was that he never recovered from the rejection.

He clung on to other people. "All I want to do is love everyone," he sang. There was a scarcely publicised affair with Cocteau Twin Elizabeth Fraser (who once recorded his father's 'Song To The Siren'), even curious rumours concerning Marianne Faithfull. His idealism was mirrored by a profound hatred of everything he deemed false, from colonialism to MTV and supermodels. But his chief obsession was that he would somehow "fail the music".

But what if Jeff wasn't involved in music? His answer came in instalments. "I think... that I... would be... a corpse."

We met again, but the last time I saw him he seemed exhausted by the road, itching to get back into the studio. There were narcotic rumours, but his body was found clean. When the news of his death came through it seemed like a dark joke, the kind of macabre prank Buckley would have dreamt up. It wasn't.

During his life, people talked of "Tim Buckley's son", but from now on it could easily be "Jeff Buckley's father". Jeff would have laughed at that. But his powerful musical legacy will be his final vengeance.

#jeff buckley #dave simpson #1998 #grace under fire #the guardian

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waltwhitmansbeard · 8 months

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Prom with Vaxleth?

26. Prom setting this in grow with the flow! buckle the FUCK UP

It starts with a social media post—Vex's, to be specific. Vax groans, his phone hovering just a few inches above his face, and Keyleth turns her head away from the business email she's been writing and rewriting for the last half hour to ask, "What is it?"

"Look." And then the phone is shoved in her face, and she's looking at—

"Is that you?"

All limbs and sharp angles, a teenage Vax in an ill-fitting tuxedo, his hair slicked back with what must be an entire container of hair gel, gives a sultry look to the camera. He's back to back with his sister, who's wearing a shimmering blue strapless gown that makes her legs look a million miles long. They each wear a snowdrop, him on his boutonniere and her on her corsage.

"Is this your prom photo?" Keyleth snatches the phone, grinning from ear to ear, to look even closer. "You two look so good!"

"We look so dorky." Vax tries to grab the phone back, but Keyleth keeps it deftly out of reach. "Apparently, today's the tenth anniversary, and Vex decided to air our dirty laundry on social media."

Keyleth scrolls down to read the comments, and since Vax is tagged, the Grow with the Flow audience is having a field day. "Oh yeah, this is fun. It's half bullying you, half asking to have a threesome with you and Vex."

"Disgusting."

Keyleth finally returns the phone. "Did you guys at least have fun?"

"Well, I hooked up with both the prom queen and the theatre teacher, so...yes."

Keyleth's jaw drops. "At the same time?"

"No." That prompts more questions than it answers, but then Vax asks, "What about you? I wanna see sexy prom photos."

She snorts. "Good luck. I didn't have a prom."

Vax sits up in bed. "For real? Why not?"

"I wasn't kidding when I said Zephrah is small. My graduating class had eleven kids in it. We just had a bonfire instead. That was the first time I successfully shotgunned a beer. There may be pictures of that somewhere!"

Vax pouts, hooking his chin on your shoulder. "So you've never gotten to dress up all pretty, make all the boys and girls go oooooh?"

"Um, well, I got a pretty nice dress for my mom's funeral."

"Oh fucking hell." Vax swings his legs out of bed and snags up his phone. He paces a line in the kitchen, dialing someone and pressing the phone to his ear.

"Who are you calling?"

"My sister. We are fixing this."

Honestly, Keyleth forgets about it. The podcast is really taking off, and pretty much any time not spent researching and scripting and recording and editing is spent coordinating sponsorships and doing the annoying paperwork that comes with owning a business. Vax has some project that he's working on, but he won't tell her what it is, which is fine, because she has more than enough projects on her own plate right now.

She doesn't think to question it when Vex tells her they're going shopping one weekend. Vex likes to shop—well, no. Vex likes to window-shop. Vex rarely spends actual money. Except this time, they go to a little corner boutique, one that sells gowns for weddings and galas. She doesn't know why, but Vex is insistent that she get this long-sleeved emerald green dress that hugs her curves. She tries to argue that it's a ridiculous expense, but Vex promises her they'll do a photoshoot with it for the podcast, and hey, they've been making some pretty good ad revenue these days, so she caves. It's especially hard to say no when Vex buys a dress herself, a slinky black number that makes her look like danger.

She definitely doesn't connect the dots when Vex and Pike burst in unannounced one afternoon when Vax is out, each laden with bags of makeup and hair products. Keyleth's tugged away from her editing to get dolled up, for fun, they insist. The next thing she knows, they're all dressed up, each in their own beautiful gown—Pike's poofy golden dress makes her look like the sun incarnate—and Keyleth's being shoved out the door.

She probably should have figured it out before Vex pulled her car up in front of the botanical garden, where a red carpet lined with silver and gold balloons leads inside the building, but no, it takes Vax, dressed in a sharp black suit that fits like a glove with a slim green tie that matches her dress perfectly, stepping out holding a homemade sign that reads Will you go to prom with me? that she finally fucking gets it.

Crying, she throws her arms around his neck, chastising him for keeping such a momentous secret from her, but Vex is there to scold her for ruining her hair and makeup. Her friends lead her inside, where she's shocked to find the gardens filled with people, most of whom she does not know. Vax explains that he put the call out for anyone in the city who missed out on their high school prom and wants a second chance, with all profits from ticket sales being donated to Keyleth's favorite conservation organization. Keyleth dissolves into a mess again, but Vex and Pike get her cleaned up enough for the evening to begin.

And oh, what an evening. Scanlan's band plays them through a night of dancing, drinking, and all around fun. Keyleth has never spent so much time on a dance floor in her life, but even though she takes plenty of spins with Percy and Grog and the girls, she is happy to have so many with Vax, who can go from an elegant waltz to a shockingly gymnastic twerk with a simple key change.

Some of the other prom attendees are podcast listeners, and Keyleth is so grateful to get to put faces to the numbers she spends more time than she likes to admit obsessing over. Everyone takes thousands of pictures, and she is so excited to see the #growwiththeflow hashtag come morning. The gardens are filled to the brim with people just loving life and enjoying each other's company, and Keyleth, who had never put much thought into what it meant to miss out on such an adolescent right of passage, is beyond grateful to experience this night with these people.

When the evening is winding down, and most of the revelers have either gone home or gone to another location to continue the party, Vax tugs her by the hand deeper into the gardens, far from the area set aside for the event. He boldly strides past a sign forbidding entry, saying "This is not even in the top ten most interesting places I've trespassed" when she stutters in protest.

He stops when they're surrounded by the most beautiful blossoming cherry trees Keyleth has seen since she left Zephrah. The glass ceilings of the botanical gardens let in the light of the stars above, and the entire scene is so fragrant and beautiful. "Vax...this is lovely."

"So are you." She wrinkles her nose at him, and he kisses it. "Did you have fun?"

"I don't think I've ever had so much fun in my life. I can't believe you kept this a surprise from me for so long."

"I can't believe you didn't catch on. I mean honestly, Keyleth, don't tell me I have to be the brains in this relationship, because if that's the case, we're screwed."

She punches his arm. "Jerk."

"Yeah, well, this jerk has one more surprise for you. Look over there." He points over her shoulder and she turns. She squints in the low light, but she sees nothing beyond the cherry trees except more plants.

"I don't understand, is there supposed to be—" She cuts herself off as she turns around to see Vax on one knee, a small box in hand. Her hands fly to her mouth, her eyes instantly watery.

"Keyleth, I am not a man of the gods." His voice is cracked, strained, like he's choking back tears of his own. "There is little that I have ever had faith in in this life. Until you. Until I fell in love with a girl I'd follow to the ends of the earth. Until I learned that fate did not mean that my life was a cart on a track, hurtling toward an uncertain future I couldn't avoid, but rather a certainty, a knowing that in this life, in any life, I am yours until I die and long after. And now my faith is in how much I love you, in how much I know you love me. And I may be a lovesick fool, but I have every faith that love will carry us through whatever the gods have in store for us." Keyleth is openly weeping, her breaths coming fast and sharp. "So, then, Keyleth..." He opens the ring box, revealing a pair of rings, one with a gorgeous smokey gray stone. "Will you marry me?"

She doesn't answer him, choosing instead to tackle him into a kiss that knocks him pack onto the stone pathway of the gardens. She kisses him until she can't breath, until the crying and the laughing and the hyperventilating has him sitting her upright before she passes out. Her hand trembles as he slides the rings onto her finger, and it isn't until he closes the ring box again that he pauses and asks, "Uh, wait, was that a yes?"

"Oh, you are definitely not the brains in this relationship." And she kisses her fiancé again, beneath the stars and the cherry blossoms and the eyes of the gods.

#ask #ravendruid #critical role #critical role fic #cr fic #my fic #vox machina #vox machina fic #grow with the flow au #critical role au #cr au #tlovm au #vox machina au #vaxleth au

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siconetribal · 2 years

Text

You're My Everything

Pairing: Jason Todd x Fem!reader

Tag: @vbecker10

Warning: Verbal Abuse, undiagnosed mental illness, and mild mentioning of childhood trauma

Author Note:

PLEASE READ WARNING.

And here is another attempt at my portraying a supportive relationship with Jason Todd. Please let me know what you think.

“What the hell do you even know? What good are you if you don’t know anything, huh? Why are you even there?” He shouted at the top of his lungs from the balcony that overlooked the double ceiling family room. “I don’t know, I don’t know!” His voice boomed overhead, sarcasm pouring from every syllable as he mockingly repeated her simple answer. It was a surprise there was no vein protruding from his neck from how angry he looked, his eyes bulging from their sockets as he glared down at her. “What good are you? All you do is sit on your cellphone anyway! Wasting my time! They told you they didn’t get the files, that means they didn’t get the files! You’re a liar! A good for nothing! What do I even pay you for, goddammit! You can’t even do a simple task of transferring files to the cloud storage at the end of the day?”

“We were out of town for uncle’s funeral.” She reminded her father, her voice nearly quivered, but she held her ground. This was nothing new, and it was certainly not the last of his explosive outbursts. Ignore it, don’t argue back. It’s the same stupid thing and he’s not going to listen. Why waste your breath? What more am I supposed to do when all of them use me as a means to get away with everything? I’m supposed to do the files, confirm the appointments, deal with the billers, do medical records, answer the phone calls, make sure they all come in on time, make sure they all message him when they aren’t coming into the office but don’t use the phone too much so he isn’t bothered, coordinate with the adult daycare facility, work on the RPM, work on the CCM, make sure the telehealths are done, make sure the copay is collected, make sure the MAs are in the rooms with him when he’s with patients, make his tea, make sure he has his lunch, and do the scanning! I’m on the stupid phone because I’m sending messages to the NP and the other RPM staff! They complain about the scanning being done only by her but when I try to take it she says it’s fine and that she’ll do it! Am I supposed to snatch it from her?! What the hell do you even want from me? I don’t know why they didn’t get anything, I made sure to send every stupid file again the day we came back! The corners of her eyes stung as her father continues to berate her in English and Urdu.

Her mother silently sat with her, unable to assist her in any way. What could she do? He would just tell her to shut up and start the blame game of how she and her siblings were all corrupted by their mother, who intentionally poisoned their minds against him. It would only prolong this situation and she wanted nothing more to do with it. Was it a continuous toxic cycle? Yes. Was there a potential to fix it? Yes. Would it ever be fixed? No, because he failed to see his own shortcomings. Though a dedicated and loving father at heart, he was a man with many ignored childhood traumas and a very likely case of undiagnosed bipolarity. They held countless family meetings trying to change and better the dynamics, but in the end his issues would be triggered, and his poor defense mechanisms would kick in with guilting, emotional blackmailing, and self-victimization.

This is nothing new. Just sit quietly and listen. Let him say wherever he wants to say and it’ll be over. He’ll forget about it and act like he didn’t just start world war fifty. She refrained from rolling her eyes as she took the rapid fire insults came ripping through her mentally and emotionally like cannonballs ripping through an enemy ship. She glanced at her smartwatch at the nudge of a vibration.

<Hey, is everything ok? Do I need to come over there?> The text appeared under a name: Jay Jay the Jet Bird.

Shiitake mushrooms, I forgot I was texting him! Her heart dropped to her gut. Him coming will definitely make all hell break loose! She gritted her teeth and quickly replied from the circular screen; <one sec, busy.>

<Let me know when you’re free.> The reply quickly came back. The small distraction was more than enough to help keep her quiet long enough for her father to return to his home office. As he walked away, he continued to loudly complain about her as if she were not there, but he knew his words were heard by her. She glanced at her mother who looked hurt and lost, just like she always did in these situations. What could she do? Any attempt of her trying to push back was met with greater aggression, and her mother was not the fighting type. Not wanting to talk about it, she shook her head and pointed to the basement door.

“I’m gonna head down to my room and just stay there, the longer I’m out of sight, the faster this will blow over like usual.”

“You can’t just stay in the basement, there are household chores to do.” Her mother frowned, ready to reprimand her for shirking her eldest daughter duties.

Are you kidding me? The last thing I wanna do is even breathe in his general direction, you want to just stay here and do dishes that aren’t even done yet? A bunch of us haven’t even eaten dinner yet, if I do them now, I’ll need to come back again. “I’ll do them later. Plus, what are your other kids for?” Gosh darnit Napa, I shouldn’t have said that!

“So, just because they don’t do it, you won’t? I’m the only one who’s supposed to do the work around here? What am I, everyone’s maid? What are you going to do when I’m dead?”

And round 500 with the maternal unit! She internally groaned. “Mom, mom, I’ll do it! Ok, I’ll do it! Just wait until all the dishes are in the sink!” She quickly cut in, looking at the balcony to make sure he had not heard them.

“Finish them before 10. We need to clean the kitchen before 10. I don’t want to go upstairs with a dirty kitchen and I don’t want to come back down eleven or twelve o’clock just to clean! I can’t go to sleep with a messy house.”

“I know, I know! Mom, I know!” She insisted. “Now, I’m going down!” She quickly went through the doorway and shut the door as she took the flight of steps down to the spacious basement and plopped onto one of the menu plush sofas with a heavy sigh. Her head was pounding and her chest was throbbing but she pushed through, pulling her phone out of her pocket. <Sorry, I’m free now.> She lay back across the love seat, her legs dangling over one of the arms when her phone and smartwatch both begin to light up and buzz continuously. She glanced at the screen to see the handsome face of her secret boyfriend and sat up, swiping the green phone button after slipping in her earbuds.

“Hey,” she managed the simple greeting, but sounded utterly exhausted. She hated how she sounded, knowing he went through so much worse and was always risking his life. He was fond of the tone. He preferred her happy and upbeat, or going off on some tangent about something she was really into at the moment.

“Damn, you sound horrible. What happened this time?”

“It’s nothing,” she insisted. He was silent and she knew it meant he was not budging. “Really, Jason, it’s nothing new. I’ve been through this sorta thing hundreds of times already, there’s no point talking about it.” She flopped back onto the sofa.

“That doesn’t make it “nothing”. Aren’t you the one who’s always on my ass about how, regardless of how many times, you’re always going to listen and be there? Let me be there for you, too. I’ll listen,” his promise made her smile.

“No rushing over and causing a scene?” He fell silent again. “Jason, you have to promise you are going to just listen.”

“Fine, fine! I’ll just listen! I’m not going to threaten, maim, or harass anyone!”

“Nor are you allowed to tell anyone else to do it.” She added, and he clicked his tongue in annoyance.

“Goddammit, fine! You win, just listening!” He begrudgingly agreed. “But that means you’re not glazing over anything! I get to know everything.” It was her turn to fall silent, debating if this was a good idea.

“Yeah, ok, I’ll tell you everything.” Her voice came out a lot softer, weaker, than he anticipated. He definitely was not a fan of this.

What the fuck happened? He didn’t hit or something, right? He frowned as he moved further away from his friends. They had just finished a mission and were passing the time doing their own things, so he thought about texting her to let her know he would be back home soon. The delays in her responses was not out of the ordinary, it was not always easy for her to text him back when her family was around. It was the short responses that quickly became no response for a lengthy time that clues him in that she was not in a good situation. “Hey, pumpkin butt, is everything ok? You don’t,” he stopped speaking the moment she began telling him about her day.

It started out just like any other day, in fact it was one of the better ones, with praised from patients and sincere gratitude from her father for all the help she was giving him at his private practice. It confused him a bit on how things could have taken such a drastic turn, but he was not surprised since it happened so suddenly more often than not with her father. And just like always, nothing parked a raging fire of vitriol and insults. What threw him was the quiet sobs he heard from the other side. They have talked about her home life many times, and she has cried about it before, but never has she ever just broke down crying so quickly and painfully like this. He gripped his chest at the heart-wrenching sound of her tears.

“Why aren’t I good enough? Why would I lie to him? Why can’t he just believe me? I’m always trying so hard! I do everything he asks as best I can, I even gave up my own career to come back and help out! He was just going on about how grateful he was this afternoon, and now suddenly I’m even worse than Satan! What did I do? Why am I always such a failure? How much more can I do when I’m already doing so much? Am I ever going to be good enough? Maybe if I wasn’t born, he’d be happier.”

“No,” he snapped. She instantly went silent. Crap, calm down! He took a few deep breaths, running a hand through his hair, when he felt a few pairs of eyes on him. He turned and shook his head, waving them off as he moved further away. “Baby, you aren’t a failure. You’re one of the brightest, dorkiest, and greatest people I know. And I know some pretty badass people. Actually, scratch that, you are the best person I know. Never say you shouldn’t have been born. If it weren’t for you, I’d be lost doing even dumber, more reckless shit than usual. I’d never met my book-nerd buddy and best friend. I’d be living off of microwaved pop-tarts and takeout. If we never met, I wouldn’t have known what love is. You are my everything, so please, don’t every say things like you shouldn’t have been born.”

“Really?” Her voice was a little hoarse from the sobs. She knew he would never just say things like that, but she felt so vulnerable and fragile right now that it was too good to be true.

“Of course, really. You’re the girl that’s made my bad days better. I can say without a doubt that my life has changed since I met you. You gave me a gift I never thought possible, you loved me when I couldn’t love myself. I wish I could find the words to describe your eyes that share your warmth, and how the sound of your voice gives me butterflies. How your smiles makes my heart skip a beat, I just, fuck! I wanna just hug you right now!” He grumbled, wishing he was somewhere nearby to take her back to his place.

“Thank you, Jay Jay, I love you too.” She smiled, rubbing at her sore eyes. “Gosh, I feel like such a big baby! You’re out there risking your life, and I’m here having a breakdown over words.”

“Not all of us can be superheroes.” He chuckled. “Getting beat up physically is way easier than mentally. Speaking of my line of work, we actually ended up finishing a little early and will be heading out early tomorrow.”

“Wait, really?!” She sat up at this exciting news.

“Yeah, I should be back in like two or three days. Think you can pencil me in between dealing with billers and scanning a bajillion documents?”

“Well, if it was a bajillion plus one, there would be no way. Since it’s just a bajillion, I can work something out.”

“Dork,” he snorted.

“Excuse you, I am not a whale’s penis!”

“What the fuck?!”

“You heard me! If you don’t believe me, look it up!” Hearing her laugh was music to his ears, regardless of how utterly strange the conversation was right now.

“Yeah, yeah, hold on.” He pulled his phone away from his ear and tapped on the search bar. “You’re totally making this up thou-what the fuck?! Why do you know this!?”

“Cause I do? And that note, sweet dreams pop-tart! I’ll see you when you get back.”

“How the hell am I supposed to have any sweet dreams when you’ve ruined my innocence like that?! I’m not going to get a wink of sleep!”

“Oh, you’ll be fine! I’ll make it up to you when you get back, ok? Also, thanks for listening.”

“Anytime, baby doll, anytime. Good night, I’ll see you soon.” He ended the call just as he heard someone walking over, turning and walking back to the group with a slight pep in his step at the promise of holding his lady love once again.

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msfcatlover · 1 year

Text

@alycat76 : Can you give me the low urban fantasy AU?

YES! YES I ABSOLUTELY CAN!!! Ah, you have no idea how much I love this one!!!

Okay, so! This AU was actually born directly from my frustration with a bunch of Urban Fantasy AUs (and original stories, if we’re being real here.) Namely, that those stories will so often be like, “These magical beings are very, very rare,” and then the entire cast will be mystical beings of one sort or another. And I was like, “You can totally tell an engaging story in a world like this with an almost entirely human cast. You don’t even have to cut out the magic element or fun world building!” (And yes, that first part does accurately describe my Monster!Kids AU. Shhhhh, let me have my hypocrisy.)

I wanted to do that, and my brain is 90% Batfam brainrot right now, so here’s what I came up with.

(CW for minor mentions of sickness, canon character death, and child abuse. Bruce is not the abuser, for the record. But mentions are there. Also, Jason’s body is not restored to its pre-death state, and I do describe some of the things that would’ve been done to prep him for his funeral.)

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Very first point: Bruce’s tie to Gotham is more than just his love & dedication to his city. The Wayne family are supposedly one of the oldest families in the city, and of those old families they’re possibly (I’m still a little unclear here) the only one not tied to the Court of Owls? They’re the ones most dedicated to improving Gotham and ending its corruption, anyway. So let’s do something with that, shall we?

The Wayne bloodline has a bond with the city. Some might call it a blessing, some might call it a curse. The eldest member of the family is a Fisher King; the health of the Lord is tied directly to that of the city. When the Lord is sick, the city suffers; when the city suffers, the Lord feels its pain. And for generations, the head of the family has near-always been ill. Bruce has vivid memories of his father retching over the toilet, or calling in sick because the trembling was too much for Thomas to risk operating on patients (they are, depressingly, some of the most vivid memories Bruce has of his father.) As a member of the family, Bruce could see the marks just under his father’s skin, from ink-black to bruise-yellow and every sickly color in between, that nobody else seemed to see (Zatanna did, and she was the only outsider to assure Bruce he wasn’t crazy over it, but there’s only so much she could do for him.) It was terrifying for a young boy to see his father so ill, but Thomas promised Bruce that even though it was a “family condition,” Thomas & Martha were working on it; Thomas promised his son that by the time Bruce had to worry about it, they’d have made enough progress that Bruce would hardly even notice it.

Of course, that’s not what happened. Thomas was actually feeling well that night, better than he had in months, and wanted to go out to celebrate. Martha chose the restaurant and Bruce chose the movie. And maybe, if Thomas had kept feeling well, if he hadn’t had to stop to catch his breath, if the family hadn’t stepped into that specific alley to avoid blocking the sidewalk... maybe things would’ve been different.

When Thomas Wayne breathed his last, his son collapsed under the weight of Gotham’s rot & suffering. Joe Chill assumed the bullet must’ve passed through one of the parents to hit the child, and fled in a panic.

The hospital could find nothing wrong with Bruce, but he saw the understanding in Alfred’s eyes when he arrived and the first thing Bruce said to Alfred was, “I think I’m dying.”

(In most legends, Fisher Kings cannot leave their homelands. The Waynes are slightly luckier, but the longer they are away, the more they... fade. Energy seeps out of them slowly, color leaves their skin, no amount of sleep is ever enough, and they eventually need to return to Gotham to recharge. Bruce’s record is 3yrs, and the doctors shipped him home basically in a coma.)

(Bruce swore he would never have children, never pass down his bloodline’s curse to an innocent child who should not have to carry it. He got a vasectomy as soon as he legally could. Needless to say, he was furious Talia would go so far as to create a clone-son for the two of them, violating both Bruce’s right to choose and cursing Damian to carry on that line of suffering.)

Bruce learned his city & body well enough that he can use it as a map. Not a map that would make sense to anyone else (street corners that are directly adjacent to eachother might be on completely different parts of him, like one on his ribs and the other behind his knee.) During the day, he uses his resources to try to treat Gotham’s suffering preventatively, going after unjust rules & systems, weaving a new security net for Gotham’s underclass, etc. At night, his methods are more surgical, cutting out the tumors & rot, while also taking the time to help as many individual citizens as he possibly can.

As the legend of the Batman grows, reality starts to bend ever so slightly under the weight of it. He jumps further & more accurately than a man of his bulk should be able to, can always find the perfect corner to hide in, always has something to grab when he falls off a building.

Despite all the suffering Gotham causes Bruce Wayne, he still loves his city. And the city loves him back.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Second point: Dick Grayson is human, and he doesn’t exactly have any magic of his own. It’s... I’m calling it “being a conduit.” Basically, Dick resonates with any magic in his vicinity. He’s very sensitive to the presence of magic, to the point of it being basically a sixth sense, and on an instinctive level he attunes himself to any natural or environmental magic around him. To a very limited degree, he can even take on a few traits of what that magic is, but not... he can’t tune into a fire spell and burn you with a touch, but when he’s resonating with Gotham, he is slightly more resistant to poisoning.

It’s much, much rarer than being a magic user (though many magic users do eventually become conduits through sheer exposure,) but in the same way having perfect pitch is different from being able to sing.

...I’m making it sound so much more powerful than it actually is here. The main benefit Dick gets out of it is that when he attunes himself to any given city, the city will treat him as a native and most citizens just passing him in the street will assume he is too (this does not affect his ability to, say, speak the language or change his accent, it’s just his “vibes,” if that makes sense.)

As far as story goes, this means Dick can see Bruce’s curse-marks despite not being a member of his bloodline; if they’re in contact with eachother, Dick can even very faintly feel what the city is inflicting on Bruce at any given time. (This scares the absolute bejeezus out of Bruce when he realizes, as he immediately assumes he misinterpreted the curse, and “bloodline” just means “family,” or even “household,” and he’s cursed Dick as well just by offering him a home!) It also means that as soon as Robin becomes part of Batman’s legend, Dick can benefit from the city’s protections just like Bruce does.

It is, in fact, Dick who causes Bruce to realize there’s something more than just good luck happening, when Robin is thrown off a roof but fortunately finds a pole of some sort hidden by the building’s shadow to kick off from and make it to the next one over (this also triggers a rumor that Robin can fly, something Dick is more than happy to lean into with some tailoring on his cape, and yes, he does move even better & faster as a result.) The thing is, Bruce is certain there was no pole there, because he would’ve incorporated it into potential escape plans. And when he finally has the time to go back & check, after the fight is over, after Robin is safe... he’s right. The alley is empty. There’s no pole, no pipe, no nothing. But Dick definitely kicked off of something in mid-air, Dick’s not a metahuman or a magic user, he can’t double-jump or anything. Dick himself insists his foot just caught the top of a thin, flat cylinder, no more than two inches wide, just barely enough to jump from; Dick’s even pretty sure he saw the pole when he glanced behind him, sticking up out of the shadows. Nothing weird at all, except for how it doesn’t exist.

(When Jason dies, Gotham’s grief is strong enough to feel it all the way out in space. Dick doesn’t understand the heavy feeling in his heart, nor the sudden urgency to get home. He tells the other Titans to just drop him off in Gotham, but the closer they get, the worse Dick feels. When they actually break the city limits, Dick just melts into tears as Gotham’s pain howls through every inch of his body. Donna calls ahead, more than a little panicked, and nearly gives Alfred a heart attack with how worried & hesitant Donna is to just straight up say what’s wrong with Dick. She offers Dick the communicator, saying it’s Alfred on the line, and Dick snatches it out of her hand to ask the only coherent word any of them will hear from him for the rest of the day: “Who?”

When Alfred answers, Dick just... breaks. Right there in front of them. He’s trying to say something, something about that being wrong, something about having plans, but he can’t deny what he’s feeling, and he can’t seem to get the words out.

The Titans land in the Batcave, and refuse to leave. Fuck Batman’s rules, they’re not abandoning Dick... and Dick isn’t the only one who didn’t get to say goodbye.)

(Bruce & Dick still fight about it terribly once they’re finally alone. Bruce never once raises his hand to his son, but Dick tries to reach out to him, to touch Bruce’s hand and resonate, to literally share his pain, and Bruce jerks away saying, “Don’t, it’s not---”

Dick stares in shock & horror as both of them silently complete that sentence: It’s not real. If you asked Dick right in that moment, he’d say striking him would have hurt less.)

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Jason was human, fully human, with nothing special about him at all. Well, except for how Gotham loved him even more than Batman. The resonance Dick needs to wrap himself up in for Gotham to accept him, Jason has it echoing in his bones. He’s one of Gotham’s truest sons, he’s part of that city, and the city is part of him.

It’s not Superboy Prime’s reality breaking punch that brought Jason back from the dead. I... Look, I wrote a little nursery rhyme to explain it, and I’ve no idea if it’s any good (but it can’t be any worse than the Court of Owls’ rhyme, which has just a few too many syllables in certain lines for me to find whatever rhythm it’s supposed to have.)

Take me home to Gotham If I die far away Put me in her soil In a shallow grave

I don’t belong in Paris Or under London Town Don’t bury me in Tokyo Put me in Gotham ground

If you lose me out at sea In storm or dark of night I’ll swim back home to Gotham I’ll just follow the lights

Don’t send me off to Moscow Or drag me down to Rome I’m Gotham born and bred, my friend I only rest at home

Oh, take me home to Gotham If I die far away Put me in her soil In a shallow grave

I don’t need no tears or funerals Don’t miss me every day For I’ve come home to Gotham And right at home I’ll stay

(As far as most people are concerned, that’s where the rhyme ends. This next part is less well known, in-universe.)

I don’t want no fancy coffin Just put me in the ground Dig a hole on old Park Row And don’t let me be found

My soul belongs in Gotham She knows me blood and bone There is nowhere else that I may rest I’ll only toss and moan

But I’ll rest well in Gotham For two years and a day And if I’m feeling up to it I might even awake

So take me home to Gotham If I die far away You know I’ll only rest in peace In my shallow grave

...Yeah. This actually leads to a few traditions very specific to Gotham, like lighting a candle on someone’s grave on the anniversary of their death to help “lead them home,” or sitting vigil by their grave for the first 2-3 anniversaries. Lots of people don’t even know it has anything to do with this rhyme, it’s just part of Gotham’s culture.

Bruce & Dick of course know the whole rhyme and fight not to get their hopes up on the 2nd anniversary (have you seen that one post where Dick goes to smoke a cigarette for Jason on his grave, chokes on the smoke, and then Bruce shows up and they just silently share it? Yeah. Those vibes. Big those vibes.)

They made one crucial miscalculation, though: they calculated when Jason’s return would theoretically be from the time he died, not from when he was buried. Jason claws his way out of the ground just a day or two after they leave.

Now Jason’s a full-on undead revenant. In exactly the same condition they put him in the ground. He has embalming fluid in his veins, and wires holding his broken bones together. His mouth was sewn shut. But he’s not braindead, he’s fully aware, so enjoy that nightmare fuel for your near future! Additionally, people can’t seem to recognize him as being out of place; he’s walking around in his funeral suit, covered in dirt, and hardly anyone gives him a second glance. He doesn’t register to people, just a face in the crowd, just another part of Gotham, and it’s... Look, Jason’s not complaining that he’s not being arrested or having people run screaming at the sight of him. He can’t even say they’re ignoring him because people will still look up, say their greetings, whatever when he walks through a door, or grunt when they walk into him. But something about the way people brush past him, the certainty nobody will remember him after their interaction is finished, hurts.

(The only way for Jason to be remembered, to leave an impression on the people around him, is to become part of a legend once again.)

Revenants come back for a reason, and Jason’s is to kill his murderer. But he’s part of Gotham proper now, and unlike Bruce, Jason can’t leave. He tries to, he drives all the way to Arkham in a hot-wired car, but he’s still a good half mile away before the pain becomes too much and Jason’s forced to turn the car around or risk crashing when he inevitably passes out. This Jason never trains with the League of Assassins, but he doesn’t need to; no Lazarus Pit needed to fix his mind, and his undead body can take a lot more punishment than any living human could.

(I have this mental image of Jason going back to Wayne Manor, right on the edge of discomfort-not-pain outside of the city proper, and needing to spill so many identifying secrets to Alfred to get Alfred to even let him through the door. Bruce is out of the country, so Alfred calls Dick to please come help him verify their visitor’s identity. Dick has no idea who this stranger in their living room is, until he closes his eyes and focuses on the magic. Dives in deep, letting the resonance of Gotham’s soul wrap around him, and is surprised to find it so much clearer & louder than it should be this far from the city’s heart. Louder than it’s ever been since Jason---

Dick opens his eyes, and his breath catches in his throat as he finally recognizes the face staring at him with so much raw hope.)

Anyway, Bruce refuses to kill the Joker even harder when he finds out Jason is back, because he’s terrified that the moment Jason’s unfinished business is done, Jason will go back to being properly dead.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Okay, last stop: Tim! The only member of the family to be fully supernatural, non-human from the start.

Tim is a changeling. Specifically, he’s a fae who was born without the spellcasting abilities most fae have, so he was traded for a human child. Tim has no memory of the fae courts or his home mound, but he’s a smart cookie and it wasn’t hard to do the math.

Tim can’t lie. He has to keep his promises and he can’t help but keep track of debts (the kindest people in his life will give him quick, easy ways to repay them; a cool rock Tim found, or an interesting bit of information. Tim doesn’t like to hold debts over others most of the time, and will offer similar outs or just tell himself the next nice thing they do for him makes them even.)

Tim can’t cross salt lines or thresholds with horseshoes above them.

Tim can’t touch iron or silver without burning his skin.

Eating non-iodized salt makes Tim sick.

If Tim speaks someone’s full name as part of a command, they will do what he tells them to (other people don’t usually realize this, because they aren’t forced violently; their own minds usually try to find ways to justify what they’re doing.)

If someone has a piece of Tim’s body (like hair, blood, or nail-clippings) Tim’s brain goes into panic mode as quickly as if they held a knife to his throat.

Those are the obvious giveaways that point straight to fae. Tim’s inhumanity can also be found in minute details of his physicality.

Tim’s eyes glow in the dark.

The tips of Tim’s ears are pointed.

Tim has never lost a tooth (but his parents had his eye-teeth removed when he was eight.)

Tim’s nails grow in tough & black as pitch. (He’s gotten in trouble many times at school for painting them, despite the doctor’s note explaining it.)

Hidden under Tim’s hair, his scalp grows thick, curved thorns like a rosebush. (His mother sits him down in the bathroom the day before company comes over, and meticulously removes them with a pair of nail clippers. It hurts. They bleed. Tim’s learned not to squirm or show how much he hate it. It hurts worse if anyone messes with Tim’s hair afterwards, but he’s learned not to show that either.)

And, of course, there’s the biggest giveaway of all:

In all Tim’s pictures before the single trip his parents ever took him on (a whirlwind tour of Europe just before his 2nd birthday,) Tim’s eyes were hazel-brown.

They’re blue now.

(Tim tells himself his parents leave him behind and push him away because they can sense something is off about him, but that they don’t know what. He tells himself they didn’t notice when the fae stole their son away, that the real Timothy Drake would’ve grown up doted on & treasured, traveling the world with them, seeing the sights. Tim tries not to think about how Drake Industries was spiraling before they took that trip, or how it stabilized before they even made it home.)

Tim still becomes Robin, barely resisting Name-commanding his way into the role (it wouldn’t be right, it wouldn’t be honest, he needs Bruce to trust Tim if Bruce is ever going to get better.)

Gotham itself sees Tim as an interloper, but when Tim is Robin it can’t do anything about that. When Jason comes back, Tim sets off all his red-flag alarms, and all he can see is an alien parasite trying to worm its way into his family. It won’t be until Jason saves Tim from supernatural poachers who try to torture Tim’s Name out of him (fruitless in the first place, Tim doesn’t know his own Name,) that they’ll be able to move past that. Gotham can project its suspicions & paranoia through Jason, but how Jason chooses to see Tim will also affect Gotham.

(Someday, Damian will find Tim’s eye-teeth and return them to him as a birthday gift. It will be the kindest single act anyone has ever done for him, as Tim feels safe & whole for the first time since they were taken. Nevermind that they’re in a jewelry box and not Tim’s body, he has his teeth back, and nobody can take them ever again.

Tim will struggle to tell Damian that Tim can’t even begin to express how much this means to him. In the end, Tim just tells Damian, “Thank you. I owe you.”

Dangerous words, with no limit on the debt.

Damian will blink, realize what Tim’s answer really means, and scoff. “Don’t be stupid. It’s a gift. You don’t owe me anything, that’s how gifts work.”)

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Basically everyone else has the same stories they do in canon, but with a little less dying. I’ve given dying so much more weight in this AU, so like, Steph doesn’t die, Damian doesn’t die, etc.

Damian does inherit Bruce’s curse/burden when Bruce is lost in time, though. Dick helps him learn to manage it, on top of everything else.

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stories-of-the-nrm · 4 months

Text

King of the North

Narrator: It was a solemn spring day in 1941. On top of hearing the daily news about the bombings throughout the UK, the LNER engines have learned that Sir Nigel Gresley had died at the age of 64. Sir Nigel Gresley was not only the Chief Mechanical Engineer of the railway, but also someone who many of the engines called their father.

(We cut to Sir Nigel Gresley's funeral.)

Narrator: Since the railway still needed to operate only a select number of engines were able to attend the service. Gordon, Scott, Mallard, and Great Northern were there.

(Mallard is crying while Great Northern comforts him while they remain in their engines.)

Mallard: He was so good to, to me.

Great Northern: I know, young one. I know. He was good to all of us.

(Gordon and Scott are standing by his casket. Scott's tearing up to while holding onto Gordon.)

Scott: I can't believe he's gone, brother. I never thought it would happen like this.

Gordon: That illness seemed to be worse than we thought. Humans are after all very fragile compared to us.

Scott: I know but still. He's our father! He made us. We wouldn't exist if he didn't create us.

(Gordon sighs.)

Gordon: At the end of the day, he was a business man. He always wanted us to compete for his favor. You saw how he praised Mallard. He only did it because Mallard broke the speed record.

(Scott looks at his brother feeling even more dejected.)

Scott: Gordon how can you say that? He loved us!

(Gordon backs away.)

Gordon: No. He loved you.

(Before Scott could say anything, Gordon goes back to his engine.)

Narrator: Scott wants to go after Gordon. He knows something is bothering his brother.

Great Northern: I suggest you leave him be, Scott. Gordon clearly needs to have some time alone.

(Scott turns his head.)

Scott: How can you be so cold, North? Gordon's our brother. He's the oldest out of all of us and would've known Sir Nigel Gresley the longest.

Great Northern: Scott you need to understand that not all of us were cared for by him the way you and Mallard were. Gordon has a lot of feelings about him that need to be processed alone.

(Scott looks confused and dejected.)

Mallard: North what's going to happen to us now? Are we going to be scraped?

Great Northern: No Mallard. We're in the middle of a war and are very vital to the evacuation program. We are at our top forms and can't be scrapped. While most of us are only given numbers, all of us are important. The railway can't afford to scrap us now.

(Mallard settles down.)

Mallard: I understand. So why are you not crying like myself and Scott?

Great Northern (sighing): I admit that I have similar feelings to Gordon. Our creator has not always been so kind. He might have been akin to a father figure, but we are still machines. He simply can not care for us the same way he would his own children.

Scott: Not you too, North. I've never seen him bad mouth a single engine in my life. How could you say that our creator was so cruel?

(Great Northern says nothing.)

Scott: I don't know what you and Gordon have been through, but our creator is still our father. No matter what happens, Sir Nigel Gresley would have never been so awful.

Time Skip

Narrator: Four years have passed as WWII ended. Great Northern had just been selected to be rebuilt by the new CME, Edward Thompson. It was the night before work began and the engines were allowed to have a party.

(Everyone is in their human form.)

Mallard: My word you look wonderful North.

Scott: Indeed. You look like a member of the royal army in that uniform.

(Great Northern stands in the middle of the room with pride.)

Great Northern: Why thank you. This is something that I will never forget. If only Sir Nigel Gresley was alive to be here.

Gordon (huffing): You wouldn't be in this position if he was alive. Sir Nigel Gresley would have never approved of your rebuild. Why you're still in fine condition just the way you are.

(Great Northern smiles solemnly.)

Great Northern: I understand your concern, brother. But for tonight, I simply want to enjoy myself. This is my first time out of my engine and I wanted to look my absolute best. I had heard that Scott brought a camera courtesy of his driver. Would you mind taking my picture in this uniform?

(Despite his bad mood, Gordon accepts.)

Gordon: Why of course I will. It wasn't my intention to try to spoil your evening. I will need Scott's help with the camera though.

Narrator: The brothers and Mallard all help with setting up the camera. Great Northern stands in front of the wall looking like a royal officer.

Mallard: This is an amazing pose.

Gordon: Just move a little to the left.

(Great Northern moves over a step.)

Great Northern: Is this better?

Mallard: Yes I think you have the right spot.

(Scott finishes setting up the camera.)

Scott: Ok so just stand still. I'm going to take the picture... now.

(There's a bright flash as the picture is taken.)

Gordon: Done.

Great Northern: Excellent. Now when will we know what the picture looks like?

(Scott thinks.)

Scott: I have no idea. I'll have to ask my driver in the morning.

Great Northern: I see. Either way, thank you all so much for making this night special. I hope to continue working alongside you once my rebuild is completed.

(They all hug.)

Mallard: You will always be our King of the North.

Great Northern: Thank you, Mallard. Thank you.

Narrator: As the night goes on, everyone enjoys themselves. When they were asked to go back to their engines, they all had hope that things would get better. Little did they know, a plan to make nation wide changes to British Rail affecting thousands of engines would be implemented just three years later.

AN: Shout out to @nlliah for requesting this interaction. If anyone wants to request a story feel free to send it in. The next chapters of The Great Race Rewrite and Time Doesn't Heal All Wounds will be my next releases.

Tagging: @pxmun2, @klein-sodor-bahn, @jayde-jots, @bluy1206, @sketalya, @ladychandraofthemoone, @fabianvalencia561, @eyesinspaceisgone, @ethereal-capricorns-blog, and @itsonlyprogrammed.

#flying scotsman #ttte fandom #ttte gordon #mallard #great northern #nrm fanfiction #fan requests

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langernameohnebedeutung · 8 months

Text

My Well Essay Part 2

Aka: I get to use pictures again, isn't that great! Maybe this should be a video essay.

Anyway, we left off with Blaine slowly losing his humanity. Or what little humanity he has_

The murder of his grandfather also already puts Blaine back on the path to the well and everything it represents: He finds out that his father excluded him from his will, so he forces him to change it. He keeps his father as a (frozen) prisoner. By playing his amnesia game, he loses Don E who immediately turns to Angus to get back at Blaine - and eventually, Blaine again takes what he considers his by attacking the Scratching Post and feeding his father to the well. This coincides with him sacrificing another big part of his humanity

Because interestingly, before he attacked the Scratching Post and threw his father into a well, Blaine had actually left Angus alone for quite a while. He even signed the family fortune back over to him, that he had gotten his hands on and abandoned all his other ill-earned fortunes in favour of pursuing a relationship with Peyton (which is also ill-earned fortune because it was under a false pretext). But the point is: This was a genuine stab at building a life for himself. For once, this was Blaine defining himself by something other than his father's values. Now, ultimately it failed (because obviously, it failed) and Blaine immediately returns to his old trajectory: He kills a bunch of people, and he even abandons the semi-honest trade of selling funeral home brains in favour of getting into the big business of international brain smuggling and he throws his father into the well - from his own perspective, for good, but still maintaining the satisfaction of eternal torture AND being able to have dinner and talk to him and mocksimile a father-son relationship, aka perfectly illustrating his conflict between these two extremes. (except the well obviously gives him what he wants, in the shape of Brother Love)

There is something else very interesting that happens at this point: Blaine slowly loses one of his biggest, most central and most important (and most human) interests: Music. The thing that Blaine has left of his grandfather. Blaine's love for music featured very prominently in season 2 and at the beginning of season 3, where he was a lounge singer while he had amnesia - until his break-up with Peyton, the person who he believed was his last shot at a life of his own and outside of his father's paradigm of the world. After that, this slowly fades away. We see his grandfather's record player in the Scratching Post basement but we don't really see him play it a lot. I think the last time we actually see Blaine sing and play the piano is when he sings Amazing Grace at one of his father's services - and this too is very interesting because one of the more human aspects of Blaine in the later season is that tentative relationship he manages to build with his father - and Amazing Grace is very much about the saving grace of love and hope - the love and hope, he places in his reconciliation with his father at that point.

Obviously, the whole thing with his father also falls apart once again because of Blaine's lies and because Angus is still a horrible person.

And now to turn back to our Narcissus-withering-away parallel for a moment - we already catch a glimpse of how little is left of Blaine at this point:

(also: crucifixion pose)

While Blaine, at this point, isn't actively trying to kill himself - he also doesn't seem to see any reason to stay alive now that his money is gone. (which brings us back to the "what they say they want" vs "what they want" vs "what they really want" vs "what they need" debate) We know that this is not just about money - we have seen Blaine lose everything several times now. And one of his incredibly cockroach-y character traits is that he usually gets right back on his feet and tries to do something new (and usually worse). In fact, even Don E points out that this has very little to do with money:

meanwhile, Blaine is on an entirely different page:

He lost his father.

And once again, Don E points out that very reasonable fact that-

Because...for all accounts of purposes it is true. Blaine never liked his father as a person. He wanted a father because he was a lonely neglected boy and because he had notions of masculinity instilled into him that emphasised the importance of a father figure - but Angus as a person, he hated. He wanted him dead. From the perspective of someone who is more familiar with the darker side of Blaine (which is most of him so it's kind of hard to get familiar with any other sides, but let's be real, Don E is particularly close up and personal with that part of Blaine, even if he's also self-destructively unconcerned about it) - Don E knows there is no reason for Blaine to be sad about this. But we can also tell from the reaction of Don E that he can already tell that things are a bit more complicated than that: Because the well actually gave Blaine what he always wanted. A father who loved him and that whom he had a close relationship. This is the big conflict Blaine has.

This is another aspect of Blaine's humanity, one that the well specifically brought out in him. And then, in the end, he also loses that:

For most of season 5, until very end of the show (and Blaine), Angus' death doesn't play much of a role anymore. It's not like Blaine is consumed by grief or his death - in fact, by the time we meet him again in season 5 (and even the moment Major offers him a new brain deal), Blaine is once again in best spirits - which is another human aspect of him taken away: The very complex relationship he had with his father. Now, really his entire life seems to be about wealth, power and publicity. A lot of his interior life, of his soul and self, has disappeared.

As I said, I've seen a lot of people say that season 5 was kind of a breaking point for them when it came to having genuine sympathy for Blaine and his antics. That this was the point where they were no longer interested in seeing a Blaine redemption arc.

And I'm first to admit that season 5 Blaine isn't the strongest Blaine arc we see. But I'm actually not willing to concede that Blaine is the most evil version of himself in season 5. Sure, in the second half (which is very different to the first half of season 5 Blaine) he's back to killing children. But this is something that he already did in season 1. Surely, his plan doesn't really hold a candle to the madness that was his plan in season 4 where he really swung up to super-villain proportions:

Like, my dude here was willing to sacrifice the planet - but most of what he does in that season is spend time with Don E and try to connect with his father. Like, I joked about this before but honestly, my sense of the season was always that Blaine's obligatory evil plan was really secondary (it barely even affects the season finale at all, it might as well not have happened, Angus could have just done that on his own at some point). The focus on his more human qualities still:

His messed-up family situation

His funny little evil friendship with Don E being closer than ever

(We also briefly touch upon the fact that he still has feelings for Peyton, but chooses to be weird about it from a distance)

The first one immediately seems to cease to be relevant to him in season 5 (or, perhaps, it is so relevant to him that it requires suppressing a lot of what little humanity Blaine has to actually avoid dealing with it).

His relationship with Don E is still a thing, they still seem to be evil besties, though we also get a bit of sense that due to Blaine being very absorbed with being rich, Don E feels a bit side-lined (the first time they talk on that season, Blaine is just back from a several days bender and hasn't kept up with brain business relevant news and Don E is kind of catty about it.)

In fact, this season also, for the first time, puts a real emphasis obnt he fact that Blaine has no friends (something he did as a kid). Usually, when a bad character becomes rich, there is this trope where he is suddenly surrounded by a bunch of at least fake friends - but Blaine remains fundamentally lonely other than Don E. He pretends he has friends to impress Al but she quickly finds out that it is all fake and he had to invite a bunch randomers to his soirée.

And to get back to the whole "wishing well" and "Be Careful What You Wish For" trope and the "selling his soul" thing - Blaine, at this point, has everything. Everything he ever worked towards, that he invested into. He is richer than his father ever was. He is beloved by the public. Angus is dead, Frau Bader is dead, he is one of the most powerful people in New Seattle, he can do whatever he wants.

That's all he ever worked towards!

And.

...

That's all he ever worked towards. And now it's all he has.

Because Blaine, very clearly is simultaneously happier than ever - and still fundamentally sad. We see that in the way he throws himself at Al - despite getting everything he worked for, he still isn't it happy. And this is something that has been coming a long time because he was never happy, no matter what progress we saw him make over the course of the show. Because he very rarely built towards anything meaningful - and the few times when he did, he either ruined by trying to get it by underhanded means (his entire relationship with Peyton) or by abandoning it in favour of working towards "bad" goals, aka goals that were only valuable in the world-view his dad installed in him - like sacrificing his grandfather (who he took care of selflessly in favour of revenge and getting his business back). Even things like his friendship with Don E (something his father very clearly didn't value because when he was working with Don E, he basically delegated him down to errand boy) has to compete with his business and success: Like Ravi called Blaine about Don E having been abducted by the conspiracy theorists and Blaine literally cannot decide between locking Mr Boss into a coffin and going to rescue Don E OR first closing his latest business deal.

And this is where we get back to my well-takes:

I mentioned how wishing-devices in stories are often about finding out what you really want and what your priorities really are - but Blaine is too much like Narcissos to be able to achieve that. He has placed his entire energy into chasing after something that he cannot have, that he cannot identify with what he truly needs. In fact, I'd argue that all the energy that Blaine spends on his defensiveness and of chasing of safety and power - are symbolised by the coins and things he throws into the well. And like Narcissus, the more he invests into the well, the more he withers away and loses himself.

Something I enjoy a lot about the well-symbolism is that the whole "throwing a coin inside" is not a one-off thing. Blaine didn't do this one time, out of frustration. He did it every time he was hurt or watched his mother be hurt (which, in turn, also hurt him). I don't think it is excusing his actions to say that the childhood he had and the things he saw and experienced also created the foundation for all the choices he made in the future - I don't think the show argues that he was born evil. And it's also not saying that his wishing his father would die was a sign that he was bad or so inherently (or at all) sinful that it condemned him to become a monster. To make this clear: I don't think this reading punishes Blaine for wanting his abusive father to "drop dead". It punishes him for a) never investing any energy into all the positive sides of himself or trying to build a life of his own and b) using every bit of agency and power he carved out for himself in this world into living up to his father's ideas of power and success.

It is about the part of himself that Blaine fed and nurtured and paid into - and this is why it is important that he kept throwing coins in there because it is a continuous nurturing and a continuous loss of humanity he suffered. He didn't become evil because of one slip up or because he had a tendency to be evil or because the fact that he experienced a lot of physical and psychological violence as a child and that made him vulnerable to this stuff - it did make him vulnerable, which is something that happens when a child is exposed to abuse like this - but the fact that again and again, he chose to invest in that part of him that denied himself healing and instead, chased a false sense of safety from power and violence and mistreating others and never building genuine ties to others and because he indulged his father's world-view and his paradigm of success for so long - in fact, in many ways he also emulated his father: Blaine did end up hurting kids, he did end up hurting his romantic partners, he did end up exploiting people, he did end up hurting his grandfather - because that is the part of him he nurtured. And mirroring that, he lots all the other aspects of himself because he never nurtured them or he eventually neglected them in favour of pursuing money and power and (indirectly) his father's approval.

In fact, we even see him kill pieces of himself:

He kills homeless, drug-addicted youth

He sets up young drug-dealers (one of whom literally looks like a younger version of himself) to be killed by Mr Boss

He kills his grandfather who had a big influence on all of the positive sides of him

He killed Baracus, an ambitious hedonist (but not a monster)

and even his last important kill:

He sold his soul to the well. And the money and the brains and his father and everything he dropped into the well and told the well symbolises that. And that's also what Narcissus did - he neglected everything around him in favour of these pointless visions he had. Narcissus thought he saw a lover down there. Blaine as a child saw safety from that well, later he used it as a stand-in for a father he can have dinner with from time to time - as well as revenge, finally. But those were the things Blaine imposed on the well. He never wished for anything genuinely constructive.

Just like Narcissus died because he forgot to eat and drink or do anything other than stare at that vision of what he wants and thinks he's entitled to, the genuinely good and human side of Blaine withers away because it is ignored and at times, basically pushed aside and cut away in favour of the cynic and selfish mindset he needs to live the life he does. In fact, Narcissus last words are him telling his mirror-self not to flee - not because he genuinely thinks they can ever be united but because he wants to stare at his reflection to "add fuel to my miserable passions". And much in the same way, Blaine neglects to nurture anything good and genuinely meaningful and authentic within himself even though he knows that he cannot reach happiness on the path he is on. He knows it's just a pointless illusion he has - but also, he loves to indulge his self-pity for being denied a family or a good childhood. He loves to use that as an excuse.

One big change that happens in season 5 is that Blaine, starting with The Scratchmaker, eventually concedes that he is a monster (I made a post where I talk about this in detail) - in season 5, after his grandfather, and after Peyton and after music and all the other thing that made him, the one thing Blaine has left to cling to his humanity was that...now a lot of people saw that aspect of him and acknowledged him as a good person. So he leant into that, tried to adopt that persona of the saviour of Seattle, put himself in commercials and everything. It can easily look like the high time for Blaine and like he's now better than before - but at that point, when it comes to his humanity and sanity, the ground under his floor has really begun to crumble. And when that last pillar - public opinion - falls away, there is nothing left anymore for him. He just does whatever he feels like now. There is no humanity in him left to speak of anymore.

He treats his staff (even Candy, a woman who loved him and supported him with more loyalty than anyone ever and only abandoned him once for neglecting her, long after Don E already left) worse than ever, he kidnaps Peyton and tries to force her to live with him (IN HIS FATHER'S OLD MANSION) and eventually, the last thing human thing about him that remains: He destroys his friendship with Don E by killing Darcy.

(I think it is very central that he only in the finale returns to the family estate. He could have done that far earlier. But the point really is that at that point, now that he's really become his father's heir and become the head of the McDonough family (what is left of it) and legacy, that's the final stage. Soul fully sold out.

We even see this in his final speech:

You know where you went wrong, pop? You started to believe in big ideas. More than wealth. More than pleasure. It's a short ride, life. You got to get what you can, while you can. Someone's gonna come up on you, put a gun to your head and pull the trigger. Some army is going to line you up and gun you down. It's okay by me. You heard that? It's okay by me! Cause I filled my life with wine, women, song. At least I wasn't bored. I'd rather be dead……

"At least I wasn't bored" is kind of the lowest expectation you can have of your life. Trying to fill your life with literally ANYTHING just not to be bored is the total absence of meaning - and that's what he says, that it is a fatal error to want your life to mean anything. And it's also very interesting that at this point, he's speaking of his life in the past tense - "I filled my life..." I actually sometimes wonder whether he was about to kill himself at that point or throw himself in the well on purpose because -

why the hell are you sitting like this anyway?

All that time we've seen him obsess over the well, we've never actually seen him go so far as to dangle himself over it. Even if Don E hadn't pushed him in at that point, this would still be an important bit of symbolism - he is not outside of the well anymore (the well that is hell) - he's no longer even standing on the ground next to it. At this point, with his soul or humanity or whatever fully sold out and Blaine fully reaching the fall-out point of what it meant that he spent his entire life investing his energies and nurturing in the darkest side of himself - symbolically by feeding the well - there is more of Blaine inside that well than outside of it anyway.

At this point, he's actually already consumed by the well - because he fed so much of his humanity into it.

His falling in the end is really just the same ending we see in a lot of mythology:

He really just finally becomes one with the well (and he goes to hell. Because that's what the well is and where he was always going and that's also what is happening to him down there: Endless suffering and torture as punishment for his crimes)

Which is what I mentioned earlier, the usual outcome of selling your soul to get ahead in these stories: Even if you get what you want in life (usually not the way you imagined it), these stories also often have a comeuppance in the afterlife. (And to symbolise how foregone the conclusion of Blaine's damnation was, the entire show takes place in his afterlife, he's undead. The entire premise is that he died in the very first episode)

...anyway. Those were my well-thoughts. I affirm that I composed the previous text with a clear and sound state of mind, fully aware of my mental capacities and sanity.

#izombie #fandom #blaine debeers

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gryfflepuffinthetardis · 4 months

Text

Creep (Sweet Jane Part Five) — Campbell Bain x Reader

Sweet Jane Episode One: Hey Jude

Sweet Jane Episode Two: Fly Like an Eagle

Sweet Jane Episode Three: You Always Hurt the One You Love

Sweet Jane Episode Four: Fool on the Hill

Sweet Jane Episode Five: Rainy Day in Georgia (But not Georgia Tennant.)

“You are not the darkness you endured, you are the light that refused to surrender.”

Warning: Mature — Mentions and Descriptions of underaged rape (mid to late teens) and descriptions of stalking. (I’m not sure if this counts as explicit.); Funeral

youtube

Fergus’ funeral had finished and the mourners whom none of them had ever seen in their lives were leaving while the loonies—Eddie, Rosalie, Francine, Y/N, and a very, very drunk Campbell—stayed at his grave.

“Some wake, huh?” Campbell asked.

“We can go on back to the house with the others. His da invited us.” Eddie said.

“Did he hell! An invitation is when you say, ‘Would you like to come back to the house for a wee whisky?’ No ‘I s'pose you can come back t'the house if ye want.’ I mean, who were all those folk? Rental mourners? Never saw any ae them come to visit Fergus in hospital.”

“Right enough.” Francine said.

“And that minister! Don't think he'd even met the guy. Talking about "the tragic death of a young man of only thirty years". Fergus was twenty-seven! Getting us up to sing Fergus's favorite hymn! Fergus was a rabid, card-carrying atheist! And that bit about "the terrible illness that eventually killed him". Fergus didnae have cancer, he was a loony!” He started to fail his arms about, drunkenly, “A bam, crazy, mental, out tae lunch, of another planet...!” He fell against Eddie and Y/N who caught him.

“Babe.” Y/N said, taking the drink from her boyfriend before taking a swig herself.

Campbell snatched it back, “I’ll give this to you when you tell me who that boy you beat was.”

Y/N’s eyes became cold and she shook herself away from him.

“You are pished, my friend.” Eddie said and took the bottle of whiskey from him.

Campbell seemed insulted and affronted and said, his words slurred with alcohol, “That's rich comin fae you.

“Aye, but I'm no an amateur.” Eddie said.

Campbell looked back down at the coffin, “He was a genius. He could have done anything.”

“Aye. So he could.”

Campbell’s face screwed up with pained grief and he made his drunken exit. Y/N didn’t notice her exe, fresh from the hospital after a month of treatments for the injuries she had inflicted upon him limping his way over to Campbell.

“You Campbell Bain?” He asked.

“Who are you?” Campbell asked.

"The real love of your girlfriend's life." Campbell glared as her exe got closer to him, realizing “She will never love you like she loved me and you could never love her like I love her. The harlot.) And then Campbell saw red.

Y/N looked up when she heard a thud and saw Campbell standing over a boy on the ground.

Y/N ran over and stopped her exe from hitting Campbell back but her exe threw a punch aimed at her and Campbell pushed her out of the way… the next thing she knew her exe was being arrested with a bloody nose again.

Eddie, Francine, Rosalie, Campbell, and Y/N reentered Saint Jude’s hospital and they approached the radio station where they heard Rainy Night in Georgia playing and they found an electrician in the studio.

“Who the hell are you?” Eddie asked.

“I could ask you the same thing.” The electrician said.

“I'm the guy who owns that record.”

“Some collector. That's an original Brook Benton version fae nineteen-seventy-eight.

“Nineteen-sixty-nine.” Eddie corrected, “How did you get in here? Naebody's supposed to be in here except authorized staff.”

“I'm the electrician.”

Eddie’s glare hardened, “Right, that's it.” And he started to stuff the electrician's tools in his case.

“What? They don't go in like that!”

“They do the night!” Eddie snapped and he grabbed the electrician by his collar and pushed him out.

“What are you on, pal?” The electrician complained.

“Eddie, Eddie!” Isabel yelled, coming up to them.

“Daft bastard!” The electrician cursed.

“What's the problem?” Isabel asked.

“‘What's the problem’?! Why is he no sedated?”

“He's not a patient!”

“Well, he should be!” The electrician said and then he stormed off.

Isabel turned to Eddie, “It doesn't matter to Fergus now. You're only storing up trouble for yourself!”

“Aye? Well, IT'S EASILY DONE ROUND HERE!”

Y/N took Campbell’s hand and tugged on it, Campbell followed her to her room as she started to take buckled boots off as he awkwardly stood there with his hands stuffed into his pockets.

"So… who is he?”

“Electrician that, I wager.” She said, though she knew he wasn’t referring to the electrician.

“Y/N.” Campbell said as Y/N struggled to reach her zipper behind her back. “I get he’s your exe but there’s more to it , isn’t there?” He gently took her zipper and started to pull it down but then she stepped away, hugging her arms across her chest in a defensive manner to keep them from shaking.

She thought about her transition from the incident, how she stopped talking for nearly a year and after only two months of knowing Campbell she started to talk again, she became more… like her but not like she was before. Campbell was the only person who made her feel like her while EX/N tried to make her into someone else. She knew she could trust him; everyone did tell her how utterly smitten he was with her.

She squeezed her eyes shut and took a deep breath. She didn’t turn around she just stared her copy of How To Kill a Mockingbird.

(IF YOU ARE SENSITIVE OR DON’T WANT TO READ DESCRIPTION OF UNDERAGED RAPE, SKIP)

"He was my best friend... or more like… he was my only friend. He was nearly four years older than me and for some reason he was my babysitter because my parents didn't trust me. Looking back—I-I should've seen the signs, the red flags. He never knocked even when he knew I would be changing, not even when he would hear me in the shower. He would just stare at me sometimes. He would touch me in inappropriate places but I thought they were innocent. As we got older, it became more sexual, it wasn't just him being a hormonal teenager but him being perverted and actively interested in performing sexual activities with me.”

Campbell dug his nails into his palm with outrage. He had a feeling he knew where this was going and he hated it.

“Then he became obsessed with me when I got into high school and started wearing bras. I was fourteen when he started doing things with me, never over second base but still... I wasn't at the consent age yet. He told me that it was for science and sometimes I woke up to find him... doing things. He pushed my limits, even when I begged him to stop. Sometimes, he brought his friends and whoever they'd invite over, the oldest had to be in his thirties, twice my age and he took pictures of me. He threatened to tell everyone that I had forced myself upon him, if I told anyone. My parents already didn't like me."

"Jesus..." Campbell breathed in horror.

"If I did something he didn't like... he would..." she shuddered, "When he would go too far. He would apologize the next day, and I would always forgive him. Because I was so kind..." She laughed, bitterly with tears in her eyes. "He told me that no one else would ever love me like he did. No one would do things that we did. I hated myself for my compassion but even when I managed to numb myself of my emotions, it was still there."

Campbell both wanted her to stop talking yet keep talking at the same time.

"It wasn't until I was eighteen when he first... on my eighteenth birthday. Coming on a year ago. He promised that things would be different, that he loved me and would show that he loves me. He... he got me drunk but when I still wouldn't consent and fought back, he pretended to sustain and got me some more alcohol, I didn't see him slip in the drug."

Campbell wished he had done something worse than just punch him in the face.

"I was conscious the whole time. He must've cut the pill or something. But I couldn't do anything. I couldn't move. I pleaded for him to stop but he wouldn't, insisting that I wanted it and when I tried to scream for help, he choked me as hard as he could and banged my head against the floor, and I blacked out but I know he continued. When I woke up, I ached so much and there was so much blood. I was so horrified by what he did to me. I stopped talking. Eight months later, they sent me here. That's why I was so scared when you crashed into me when we first me, why I was so scared of you long after, why I scream whenever any man, especially Stuart would get too close to me. And I was so scared because he found me. I thought he was going to do it again." She started to sob and Campbell pulled her into his lap and she sobbed into the crook of his neck.

"No, he won't. I won't let him. I won't let him near you."

(END OF SKIP. THIS WAS THE MOST HORRIBLE THING I HAVE EVER WRITTEN AND I’M DISGUSTED THAT MY MIND CAN GO SO DARK.)

“I don’t think that’s what he wants. He worked with Hollis, he called Fergus’ job and he painted him in a bad light. He drove Fergus to suicide…” She broke into sobs, “What if he goes after Rosalie or Eddie or Francine… or you. I can’t let him hurt you.”

“He won’t. He got arrested for assault. And if you want, you can go and tell the police what he did to you and Fergus and he’ll be in jail, and then I can hire a bodyguard for you when I become a famous DJ.” He said, gently, “do you… do you think you can do that?”

Y/N pulled back and looked at him, her irises several shades of E/C lighter than usual and she nodded and kissed him gently before saying, “You do look good in a suit. Very James Bond.”

“James Bond?” He laughed and then straightened his tie, “Really?”

About a week later, Eddie was sitting rather morosely still as a record spun.

Campbell and Y/N exchanged looks and Campbell grabbed a blindfold and covered Eddie’s eyes with it.

“Freeze! Don't look. What was the name of that record?

“Dream Lover.” Eddie and Y/N said in unison.

“Which was in the British charts for?”

“Nineteen weeks.” They said.

“In?”

“Nineteen-fifty-nine.”

“See? Told you they could do it. Did I not tell you?

“They’re geniuses, they are.”

“Of course, Y/N is. I’m dating her!” Campbell said and kissed Y/N, grinning into the kiss.

“You're still here?” Eddie asked, turning away from the kissing teens.

“Oh aye. If they want to get rid of me, they'll have to catch me first.” Rosalie as the teens parted with Campbell’s arm around her and her head, resting on his shoulder.

“Rosalie's got us all organized for the pilot tomorrow,” Campbell said, “Eddie; it's gonna be brilliant, and I have just come up with the perfect angle.”

“Which is?”

“We are going to be playing a number one hit fae every year from nineteen-fifty-six to nineteen-seventy, aye?”

“And I've got a list here of every number one hit in every one of those years, Eddie.” Rosalie said.

“So at the end of the hour, we invite our listeners to phone in and,” Campbell put on a cheesy American accent, “pit their wits against the master of hits, Doctor Boogie!”

“Who's Doctor Boogie?” Eddie asked.

“You! That's the angle!” Campbell said, enthusiastically, “So, if they can ask a question about any of the hits we've played that you cannae answer, they win a major prize.”

“He's a genius.” Rosalie said.

“Yeah, he is.” Y/N pecked Campbell on the cheek.

“Campbell, this is a recording we're doing. The only folk who are gonna be listening are Paula and a couple of bored guys on their dinner break.”

“Then we'll get them to phone in.” Campbell said.

“What's the major prize?” Eddie asked.

“We just kid on there's a prize. So it can be anything we want! A trip to Graceland by time machine to meet Elvis.”

“Tardis.” Y/N said.

“Lunch with the Archbishop of Canterbury. I don't have to conform to the vagaries of time and space. I'm a loony, for God's sake! Look, a full moon!” He unwrapped his arm from his girlfriend and leapt to the window and imitated the howl of a wolf.

“Get back in here, Doctor Who.” Y/N said, pulling him back in. “You know you do look Gallifreyan.”

“Thought you wanted to keep quiet about that.” Eddie said, referring to Campbell’s pride on being a loony.

“They're no gonnae do to me what they did to Fergus, Eddie. Nobody's gonna find me in a heap on the pavement. I'm gonna flaunt it. I'm gonna exploit it for all it's worth. Because we are loonies and we are proud!”

He started to chant as he exited with Rosalie and Y/N following and chanting along with him, “We are loonies and we are proud! We are loonies and we are proud!”

Then Y/N spotted Rosalie’s social worker down the hall through the doors, “Rosalie, get back in!” Y/N said, backtracking so fast her boots squeaked against the floor. Social worker! Quick! Social worker!”

The three of them ran back into the radio station and helped hide Rosalie in the cupboard, taking the boxes out.

“I shouldn't have tidied the boxes!” Rosalie stressed before they got the boxes out and Rosalie crawled inside the cupboard and Campbell and Y/N closed the doors.

“Act casual!” Y/N said and then Campbell pulled her into his chest and kissed her slowly, gently, and passionately.

Eddie rolled his eyes, though this was accurate with Campbell being outgoing and deeply affectionate to the antisocial and detached Y/N. They some how helped each other. Campbell helped Y/N heal, be more social, and begin to trust again and Y/N helped calm Campbell down and helped him focus on being in the moment… as long as that moment was him being with her and looking at her like she was his whole universe.

Isabel then entered with Stuart and the social worker.

“Ahem.” Isabel said, politely as Campbell made no move to part from Y/N.

“Break it up, you two.” Stuart said, harshly and was about to physically break them apart when Isabel stopped him and wisely Y/N broke the kiss.

Campbell, licking his lips slightly as Y/N fidgeted with her semicolon open bracelet that Campbell had given her a few days ago for their three-month anniversary.

“Have you seen Rosalie? The social worker's here.” Isabel asked.

Campbell briefly puckered his lips out in an innocent fashion as he shook his head, “She's no been in tonight.”

“Haven’t seen her.” Y/N lied, looking at them.

“She came in at half past seven; I saw her.” Stuart said, sharply.

“Well, she's not here now.” Campbell said pointedly.

“Did you not notice?” Y/N snarked, innocently, looking around the rather small space and giving Stuart a pitying look.

“Are you calling me a liar?” Stuart challenged.

“No, Stuart, I'm calling you stupid!” Campbell shot back.

“That’s an understatement.” Y/N said.

“Eddie, what are those boxes doing out?” Isabel asked, referring to the boxes they had taken out.

“Ehm,” Eddie said, hesitantly, “Campbell, Y/N, and I have been doing some organizing.” Campbell and Y/N nodded.

“Well, could you put them back in the cupboard now? They could be a fire hazard.” Isabel asked.

“Uh... we're still working with them.

“Nurse said tae put them back in the cupboard!” Stuart demanded.

“It's all right, Stuart.” Isabel tried to push him back but he moved forth towards the boxes.

But Campbell moved in front of Stuart and defiantly said, “But we're still working with them. How low an IQ do you need for your job?” He pushed Stuart in the chest

Stuart then seized Campbell, shouting, “I'll break you like a matchstick—!”

Isabel, Eddie, and Y/N tried to wrestle them apart until Y/N voice thundered above the rest.

“DON’T FUCKING TOUCH HIM!” Y/N roared, grabbing Stuart’s arm and then kneeing him in the stomach, kung fu-style.

“OOF!” He stumbled back as Isabel pushed him back as Eddie pulled Y/N back before she committed her third act of physical assault.

“All right! No one's going to break anyone else like a match!” Isabel said and then went to the cupboard where Rosalie was hiding and knocked, “Rosalie? Do you want to come out now before we end up with blood all over the floor?

Rosalie conceded and emerged from the cupboard as Campbell took Y/N from Eddie, glaring at Stuart.

“Rosalie, this is Linda Foster, the psychiatric social worker; she'd like to have a word.” Isabel introduced.

Rosalie nodded without enthusiasm and left with the social worker, Isabel, and Stuart.

At night, Campbell was on Y/n's bed and was strumming his guitar before stopping as he noticed Y/N starting to get tired.

“Hey, come here.” He pulled her into his chest and pulled the blanket over the both of them. It was quiet as he pondered something, ““Where’d you learn to do that? What you did to Stuart?”

“After EX/N, I took some classes.” She mumbled and he pulled her closer against him.

“Come with me to Radio Scotland. I want you there. Please.”

Y/N looked up at him and nodded before snuggling into his neck. “Mmm-hmm.”

Soon he felt her breathing get deeper and slower.

“Y/N? Y/N?” He said, softly but nothing. “I love you.” He kissed her forehead and closed his eyes to sleep.

Y/N stood with Campbell stacking a box of Uncle Ben's rice, an alarm clock, a box of beans, and a fire extinguisher on the mixing desk while Eddie was in the bathroom.

Then Eddie came back and Y/N turned to Campbell, “Good luck.” She smiled and kissed his cheek before turning but Campbell pulled her back for a loving and soft kiss. He broke the kiss and she turned to leave, entering the control room with Paula as Paula’s assistant handed her a cup of hot chocolate like she asked.

“Thank you, um, what was it?”

“Um, River.” He said in an American accent.

“River, thank you.” She said and sat next to Paula.

Paula pushed the button and spoke into the microphone to them, “You ready, boys?”

Campbell looked at her and nodded, grinning before his eyes going to River, making his smile falter and his eyes narrow but he forced himself to brush it off.

“Is it me or does Eddie look like he died ten minutes ago?” Y/N asked in a rather sardonic tone.

“Eddie, you okay?”

Eddie turned to look at them, “Aye, yeah.”

“Then let's do it. Four, three, two, one, go.” Paula said.

Campbell started the intro in a confident voice, “This is Campbell Bain and this is my alarm clock. It's also a clue. Doctor Boogie has just ten seconds to guess our first number one hit. The year is nineteen-fifty-six.” He set off the alarm clock.

When they got back to Saint Jude’s hospital, Campbell and Eddie sang loudly as they entered.

“WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS! BECAUSE WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS! WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS! WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS! WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS! ‘CAUSE WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS!” They passed Francine and Rosalie, “OF THE WORLD!”

“You got on okay, I take it?” Francine asked.

“Okay?! We practically set fire to the place!” Campbell exclaimed.

“Which explains the fire extinguisher.”

“And you'll never believe what happened.”

“They sectioned the both of youse.” Rosalie teased and laughed.

“Sectioned? You don't section a genius! You say,” Then he imitated Paula, ‘You did really well.’ You say, ‘Come see me on Thursday, Eddie.’ Because you know what I learned today? That the only difference between lunacy and genius is timing! Set off a fire extinguisher in a shrink's office and he'll have you locked up. Do it in front of an audience and it's high farce!” He grabbed Rosalie’s notebook. “It's time to start making lists full of the great things you're going to do, Rosalie. Instead of, ‘twelve bottles of disinfectant spray’, put” He punched his fist in the air, ‘climb the highest mountain’! Instead of ‘large box of scourers’, put ‘cross the deepest ocean’! Instead of ‘one case of Dettol’.” He had kept looking down to read what she had written before pausing to ask in an incredulous tone, “—what the hell are you planning here, Rosalie?”

“It's just my discharge.” Rosalie said.

Campbell’s smile faded and he exchanged looks with Eddie, Y/N, and Francine.

“When?” Eddie asked.

“Friday. They've found me a place in a bed and breakfast.” Rosalie said with false brightness.

“What about the supported accommodation?” Francine asked.

“I'm still on the waiting list.” Rosalie said and then she got a reminiscing look in her eyes.“There used to be this bed and breakfast in Bundoran, where Jim and me used to take Robbie every summer. It was all whitewashed, with wee brass ornaments in the hallway. I don't suppose this place'll be like that, though.”

“You'll still be station manager. You know that.” Eddie told her.

“Aye. It's nice to belong somewhere.” Rosalie said, trying not to cry. and then she looked at Y/N, “Oh, and Y/N, Isabel said there was someone here for you.”

“Oh. O-okay.” Y/N stuttered and she looked at Campbell who nodded at the door like, go. We got this.

Y/N walked down the hall before Stuart grabbed her arm, “You, loony. Come with me.” He jerked her along with him and pushed her into Isabel’s office.

“Ah, Y/N. I would like to speak to you about your section.”

On Thursday, Campbell was badgering Eddie so he turned to him and said, “I told you, I'm just going to go and find out what they thought of the pilot.”

“But what if they make us an offer on the spot?” Campbell asked.

“Then I'll take it on the spot!”

“On what terms? We've gotta be clear on this!”

“Aye, I've written it all down for you, so I have.” Rosalie agreed.

“I've got to go!” Eddie exclaimed and walked down the hall with them following, Y/N staying silent.

“Number one: what exactly is our offer? Number two: will there be a trial period?” Rosalie said.

“I'm telling you, Campbell, there's no gonna be an offer at this meeting.” Eddie sighed.

“Number three, if so, for how long?” Rosalie continued.

“And do you have to wear that jacket?” Campbell complained.

“What's wrong with it?” Eddie asked.

“Number four, if there is a trial period, will the contract be non-exclusive during that time?

“It makes you look like a double-glazing salesman!” Campbell answered.

"Number five, what will the format of the show be?”

“This is gonna be it, Eddie—"

“Look, is nobody listening to me? I took the trouble to make this list and I don't want you going out of here without it, all right?” Rosalie complained.

Eddie then grabbed the list out of Rosalie’s hands, “I'll treasure it always.” He kissed the paper, “See you tonight.” Then he left.

Campbell smiled, he looked at Rosalie and then Y/N, raking a hand through his hair before seeing the blank look on Y/N’s face.

“You alright? You’ve been quiet all morning.”

“I have to make a phone call.” She said and turned around towards the phones but Isabel stopped her.

“Y/N, it’s time for your appointment.”

“Y/N L/N.” A man’s voice called thirty minutes later.

Y/N got up and walked towards the voice, “Hello, I’m Doctor Cairns.” He held out his hand to shake her and she hesitantly did so before going to sit down as he went to the other side of the desk.

“How long have you been with us? Fifteen weeks?”

“About so yes.”

“And until about two weeks ago, you finally told the therapists why you went silent. Because your ex-boyfriend…”

“Boyfriend’s a bit of a reach. More I was constantly taken advantage of and blackmailed into being silent.” She said, bluntly.

“Y-yes. But you’ve been talking for over two months now and I hear you’ve been dating another patient, the manic depressive, Campbell Bain in that time.”

“Yes."

"And your... your ex was recently imprisoned and he’s being sent back to (H/T/N) to be tried.”

“Yes, that is correct.” She nodded, staring determinedly at her semicolon bracelet.

“We’ve decided that you’re ready to go back in the outside world.” Y/N didn’t react, her heart just jumped into her throat. “Unfortunately, your parents… they don’t want you to move back in with them.”

“Because their daughter was raped by a family friend’s son who they let babysit her and they had publically defended him?” Y/N smiled with sardonicism. “Yeah, I expected that.”

“Something along those lines. But we can set up living accommodations with you somewhere else.” Cairns said. “Perhaps one in Glasgow.

“I have some family money that I became eligible to use when I turned eighteen. Maybe I could buy a house.”

“The thing is, I would prefer you to live with someone else in case there’s an incident.”

“An incident in which I punch someone.”

“You hospitalized two people.”

“Doctor Hollis killed Fergus!” She snapped and leaned back into her chair. “I have some cousins living in Edinburgh, one of them knew what had happened, I could ask her.”

“Babe, are you okay? You’ve been quiet all day.” Campbell asked that night. “Is it because Rosalie’s being discharged tomorrow.”

“I’m being discharged.” She said, quietly and prepared to watch his reactions but they were anything but subtle.

He dropped his guitar with a series of discord notes as his jaw dropped too.

“You’re… you’re leaving? Back to H/T/N?” He sounded heartbroken.

“Yes. Um… this week. They decided since I had started talking and because EX/N was sent back to H/T/N, so there’s no reason for me to be scared anymore. Because I’m better. You made me better, Campbell.”

“But I don’t want you to go…” His voice trembled.

“Here’s the thing. Sit down.” She patted her bed but he didn’t move. “My parents don’t want me back in H/T/N. They don’t want to be judged as the parents who let their friend’s son rape and blackmail their daughter.” He furrowed his eyebrows out of judgement for her parents and confusion and wonder for where she was going with this as he sat down on the bed next to her. “And when I turned eighteen, I was eligible to some family money and I called my cousin and she agreed to come down and transfer to Glasgow University and we could share a house. So I could be close to you… and-and the radio station.”

“You-you’d do that for me?” He asked, uncharacteristically shyly.

“Yeah. I mean, I know it’s only been two months but I like you. Unless you don’t… if you think that’s too much…”

He quieted her with a kiss, “I’d love it. I don’t want to lose you. We have passes tomorrow, we can go look at houses together after Rosalie leaves.”

She smiled and he kissed her sweetly, “Just don’t leave me.” He said, pulling back, “Before you… no girl would even look at me twice, and barely once. But then I met this impossibly shy and beautifully broken girl. And I knew she was just the kindest soul because I would talk constantly and she would listen. Not hear me, but actually listen. And it was the best day of my life. Because that girl was you.”

The next morning, Campbell and Y/N were helping Rosalie make sure she had everything, reading off her list.

“Dettol.” Campbell read.

“Check.” Y/N confirmed.

“Scourers.”

“Check.”

“Toilet bleach.”

“What does toilet bleach look like?” Y/N asked.

Campbell reached for pick it up from beside the suitcase when Rosalie appeared and snapped sternly, “Don't touch it! I'll get it. Check.”

“Toothbrush, toothpaste, soap, and hairbrush.” Campbell finished.

“Check, check, check, check.” She started to close the suitcase as Campbell tossed the notebook into the case, “Well. Suppose this is cheerio.”

Then she held out her hand to Francine who then shook it, then she did the same to Campbell, Y/N, and Eddie.

“Good luck, huh?” Eddie asked.

“Now, I want youse to notice that I shook hands with you lot without the use of major tranquilizers, which just goes to show how well I am these days.”

“Come on. I'm going tae work. I'll give you a lift in.” Eddie said and he left with Rosalie.

Isabel came in and said, “Y/N, your cousin’s here.”

“Great, let’s go!” Campbell grabbed Y/N’s hand and pulled her along.

“Well. That place was depressing.” C/N declared, driving away from the place the obvious drug dealer had up for rent.

“I liked that first house. The blue one with the two rooms.” Campbell said, “It was only like a fifteen-minute drive from the hospital.”

“Yeah, I did too but could we stop at the first spot on the list.”

“Oh, Y/N even with our family money, that’s a bit pricey.”

“I-I know but it might be within our price limit someday.”

C/N drove them to a house—well, it was more of a mansion. A rather quirky mansion.

“This cannot be within your price limit.” Campbell shook his head, “Unless are you rich?”

“I, uh, actually found this house while I was researching real estate a few weeks into our relationship. For when you become a famous DJ and if we make it.”

Campbell looked at her, “We? As in you and me as a couple?”

“I know that’s freaky as we’ve been dating two months and I’ve hospitalized two people and my ex harassed you. And I’m probably messing it up now but…”

“Hey.” Campbell said, taking her hand, “I love it. I mean you’ve met me right, I’m a total loon. I bugged you for a month and a half until you talked to me.”

Eddie entered the studio later where he had been heatedly discussing something with Y/N when he spotted Eddie approaching the studio and pushed him into the studio, “Eddie! Jesus! Where have you been?”

“Working. What's up?”

“How did you no tell me about this? How'd you not warn me?” Campbell demanded.

“About what?”

“Paula has been on the phone to me today.”

“Oh.” Eddie said,

Campbell started to pace back and forth, while gesturing, “She seemed to think I knew all about it. ‘Aye,’ I said, ‘He told me all about your meeting.’ But it seems there was a few wee details you left out.” He put his hands on his hips.

“I'm sorry. I—” Eddie stammered.

“I know what you thought. You thought, I'd just get agitated. I'm a manic-depressive, so how no?”

“That's not what I thought.” Eddie defended himself.

“But did you never stop to consider that one day a fish bone might get stuck in the throat of history, and that we'd be standing here, like we are now, at the door of destiny, and totally unprepared for it?

“What are you talking about?” Eddie asked.

“The fish bone? The one that got stuck in David Thompson's throat?” Campbell clarified.

“Who?”

“Their Sunday afternoon DJ! He got a fish bone stuck in his throat last night, was rushed to Casualty, and they've asked us to take his Gold Show! Today!” Campbell said, excitedly.

Eddie swallowed nervously, “...I'm no ready.”

“Well neither am I, but we're gonna have to go for it!” Campbell said, his voice squeaking with excitement.

“No, no, I'm really no ready!” Eddie refused.

“Paula said we could use David's running order, but if we leave now, we can choose some stuff ourselves.” Campbell said.

“I'm no ready.

“She said she'll be there to take us through everything. And you don't have to worry about here; Francine's gonna taking our show straight off the air. Y/N’s coming with us, of course.”

“I'm no ready, Campbell!”

“Eddie, you've been waiting for this moment most of your life. When exactly did you think you'd be ready? Now let's go!” Campbell exclaimed and grabbed his jacket and then Y/N’s hand and they rushed out of the station.

Campbell left Y/N to thrust records into Eddie’s arms.

“Eddie! Come on!” Campbell complained.

Campbell looked up at Y/N through the glass, seeing her give her an encouraging smile that melted his insides.

He pushed the fader up and spoke with his usual insane enthusiasm, “Kicking off the Gold Show and standing in for David Thompson is me, Campbell Bain, and Doctor Boogie, professor of pop, soul, and rock and roll! In today's competition we invite you to pit your wits against the master of hits himself!

"If you can ask me any verifiable question on any of the titles that we play today that I cannae answer, you win... the grand prize!" Eddie said.

"What is the grand prize, you ask? I am holding in my hand a rare copy of 'Mandolins in the Moonlight' by Perry Como, from nineteen-fifty -eight. And unless you can stump Doctor Boogie,” Then he imitated a scary gravelly voice, “we're actually going to play it! How about it, Gold-Diggers? Just phone 041-357-9719 to try and stop me!”

He put on Don’t Play That Song For Me (You Lied) by Aretha Franklin and started the challenge.

“Uh, no, caller, I'm afraid Jim Morrison couldnae have written Bright Side of the Road—” Eddie told the caller.

“Because he was dead at the time, right, Doctor Boogie?” Campbell finished.

“Aye, a definite liability, but it did give Van Morrison a chance to write it instead.” Eddie added.

At another caller called with something and Campbell responded with,“Well, unless you can prove that Wilson Pickett had a boa constrictor called Hugo, I'm gonna have to disqualify that!”

Another caller asked about an Elvis song and Eddie said, “And it's become one of the most covered songs in rock 'n' roll since Elvis' death.” Eddie said and apparently the caller questioned Elvis’ death because Eddie then said as Paula laughed while on the phone and Y/N laughed along with her, “Aye! 1977! It was in all the papers!”

He looked at Campbell who made an incredulous face to both Eddie and Y/N.

At some point, Eddie looked at the clock and said, “And it's 3:47—

“Still thirteen minutes left to try and stump Doctor Boogie,” Campbell declared and put on the gravely voice again, “if you cannn!”

Y/N looked at Paula who seemed to be making quite a few phone calls and she turned to tugged on River’s vest and said something to him while nodding at Campbell and Eddie and then to Paula.

Thirteen minutes later in which both River and Y/N spoke to Paula which Eddie kept glancing nervously at, before Paula gave Campbell and Eddie a cut-off signal.

They had Eddie drive them back as Campbell kept eyeing Y/N suspiciously after seeing how she was with River and couldn’t help but be jealous.

“So, Y/N… getting cozy with the cute assistant.”

She looked at him as he preteneded not to care.

“River?”

“Oh, he has a name?” He grumbled.

“I’m just meeting him for lunch tomorrow…”

Campbell turned to her, now getting a bit agitated and definitely jealous, “You’re going on a date with him.”

“No. We’re going to talk about you two. They wanted an opinion by someone that wasn’t either of you but close enough to you two to get the full scoop.” Y/N said, “Besides he has a girlfriend. She’s planning on being true crime radio dramatist. She’s going to have her own station where she talks about true crimes.”

“Oh.” Campbell seemed a lot happier by now as Eddie turned up the radio to drown them out.

It was awkward before Campbell said loudly, “So, Y/N’s being discharged this week!”

The brakes screeched as Eddie stopped the car in shock.

Once they reentered Saint Jude’s, they were greeted with applause and cheers.

“Friends, loonies: as Neil Armstrong said on that fateful day when he first put his foot on the moon...” He announced and then shouted, “WE ARE LOONIES, AND WE ARE PROUD!”

The crowd and Y/N chanted along with Campbell, “We are loonies, and we are proud!”

Y/N spotted Stuart who didn’t try to restrain anyone and that’s when she realized something was wrong. Stuart wasn’t being violent towards innocent mental health patients.

The door opened and a Scottish Society for Prevention of Cruelty to Animals (or SSPCA) officer entered. Y/N’s smile fell.

Francine’s kittens.

Francine spotted it too and cried out, “NOOO!”

She tried to stop him but Stuart restrained her as she screamed and the chanting stopped.

“NO! LEAVE THEM ALONE! STOP! YOU CAN’T TAKE THEM! NO! YOU CANNAE TAKE THEM!” Francine screamed while Y/N picked the lock to Stuart’s office.

Eddie tried to help her but some of the patients held him back, “Easy, easy!”

The SSPCA officer carried the kittens out in a cage as Y/N emerged from Stuart’s office with a belt—one for particularly violent patients that he hasn’t used as much as he thought he would. Not even close.

Y/N whipped Stuart’s back, making him shout in pain and release Francine as Campbell grabbed Y/N’s hand and pulled her away from Stuart before he realized what it was her who had done it as she dropped the belt.

Francine didn’t get far before Stuart grabbed her again.

"Let her go, will ya!” Eddie shouted, “Let her go!”

Campbell’s pride and happiness had faded into terrified worry.

Eddie managed to push Stuart off of Francine and onto the ground, but then he got up and grabbed Eddie by the lapels and snarled out, “I've waited ages to do this!” Then he headbutted Eddie in the face, cracking his nose, Eddie collapsed, smearing blood on the doorframe as Francine kept screaming.

Y/N was by Eddie’s side as Isabel was the only other person to show sympathy, asking gently, “Do you want me to do something for that?”

“Do you no realize what you've done?” Eddie demanded before shouting, “DOES NAEBODY REALIZE WHAT THEY'VE DONE?!”

“What are you going to do about that, princess?” Stuart sneered at Y/N as she calmly examined Eddie and the patients drifted away.

She looked at him. He wanted her to be violent so her section would be renewed so he could torture her longer. But she didn’t.

She stood up with fury in her eyes, it was hard to tell whether it was more ice-cold or fiery hot.

“You’re pathetic. You’re not helping, you don’t try to help. All you do and every ‘sane’ person does is crush our hopes and dreams by destroying the very things that help us heal. You give us no chance to show that we’ve gotten better and declare us as violent when you’re the violent one. I only hurt people who hurt people I love. Hollis only saw Fergus as a guinea pig and he fucking died because of it. You took those kittens from Francine because they made her happy. They started to heal what was broken unlike you because you will never be able to heal what has been broken in you. Because you don’t care. You don’t care for the patients and you ignore our needs and feelings and are completely and utterly blind to our skills.”

“Skills?” Stuart scoffed like it was the most ludicrous thing he had ever heard, “What skills?”

“Remember Campbell’s first broadcast? You doubted that Fergus could fix the mixer. What was it you said? ‘He couldn’t get his brain going again’? And it turns out he had a master’s degree and was a genius. Because he was a loony, you assumed he was stupid. But he wasn’t you’re the one who can’t get his brain working. You shouldn’t be restraining loonies, you should be locked up in your own solitary room in a straightjacket.”

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