#it’s a disgusting institution that needs burned down

[jewishbarbies]

yes, let’s invite the white racist popstar to be part of our secret awards club so she can help us exclude deserving minorities from getting awards!!

#g talks #this makes no sense #she’s not an actress #the only thing she does well with movies #is making songs for them #she’s not an actress and she’s not a director #she’s a musician #WHY tf would they want her other than to say she’s there #like bc of popularity #it’s a disgusting institution that needs burned down #and if she accepts she’s further proving all our point #*our #mine #/mobile #/okay to reblog #anti taylor swift #swifties dni

[inkskinned]

one of the things that's so frustrating is how often the arguments against us are actually happening to us. we said - you need to watch out, this will evolve into allowing fascism into legal statute. and we were told: you're a sensitive snowflake. you're annoying and stupid and have no concept of reality. nobody really believes that stuff.

but it's indoctrination for kids to even see queer people. it's grooming for kids to even be around queer people. it's disgusting to even put rainbows on kids clothes. it's inappropriate, shameful, still-an-argument. like any of this is new - we know already. for you, even seeing someone unashamed is the same thing as "forcing" it onto you. because god-forbid you confront any internal thought you have. because god-forbid you practice empathy. rage is better, i guess. it keeps you pretty.

this has always been the way of some people - a while ago, it would have been "sinful" for my white mom to marry my hispanic dad. once, in the year of our lord 2015, someone told me that "mutts" deserve a woodchipper. that one particular insult stayed with me - not because it was the first or last, but because there was something so unbelievably violent about it that i couldn't figure out how to hold it. the idea that someone is so assured of their bigotry and rage that they would paint this kind of a picture. even jokingly, even with the anonymity of the internet, it kind of centered things for me. a sense that, for some people, their rage burned so unimaginably large that it blocked even the basic fact of my humanity.

at one point, while i still had enough fire in me to get into long arguments, one of the bigots i was "debating" (being harassed by) said: to be honest, it's about the sex, not the love. between you, me, and the four walls of this blue hellsite, i actually didn't really care for "love is love" as the slogan of our community. it seemed so placid, so gentle, so ally-focused. where was the vitriol? where was the hours i spent agonizing over myself? where was the quiet moments of my life, filled with the sound of other people's hatred? this static that settles over everything; even for the action of holding her hand.

the world is unfair. i am an adult, and without the veneer and small-pond syndrome of my teenage years, the slogan has started sounding more desperate. the more places i went, the more people i met. love is love. love is defending him on a rooftop bar. the drink she throws at me goes down into my shoes while i stand there, wishing i had a better retort than what the fuck. love is both of us, keeping our heads down, the black SUV full of frat boys (?) pulled up next to us, howling, for five whole blocks, until we both gave up and had to stick our bare legs into the thicket by the side of the road, giving over into tick country rather than let it go on any longer. love is a lazy spring afternoon, my hand on her belly, the fan spinning overhead. did you hear the whole thing about target?

did you hear about being the target? that's a fun little parallel, isn't it. it almost feels like the game that-is-about-me is being played without-my-participation. someone wants to set fire to my life, and i have to wait for a response from a capitalist institution. i am watching a tiktok where a white woman under white lights complains about adult swimsuits, even though i think a lot of people would benefit from having swimming options that are not "instagram-inspired bikini" or "impossible to move in but otherwise pretty".

sometimes it just seems so fucking stupid. like, just to check, the rage you feel and the hatred - you could really just avoid all of that by minding your fucking business. sometimes (and this is true): it's not about you, and people don't need your permission. like, i don't understand any obsession with sports, but it seems to make other people happy. american football literally results in grievous bodily injury - and yet there are onesies for babies that say future quarterback. i personally don't love it, so i just don't buy that stuff. i walk by it, and don't let it bother me. there have been so, so, so many times that i was told - "so what if he's a little bit homophobic, if you don't like him, don't watch his movies." "so what if they fired her. don't buy their product." "so what if they wouldn't make a rainbow cake. just don't support them."

sometimes i feel the meaning of it scud against my body, an orca whale inside of me, threatening the boat. it is too large to see from my place; this shadow of a thing that dwarfs my petty other-concerns. i need to find a dress for an event, and florida is passing more anti-gay legislation. i need to text my friend back and confirm our plans, and someone is throwing beer bottles to the floor in a walmart because a different case had rainbows on them. it is a long fall, if i look down into it; this sense like the bottom doesn't exist. like i have only ever dipped my toes in.

sometimes i am unbelievably tired of talking about it. it feels like it has become too trite in my own poetry - queer writer complains about the state of the world! how original! - and then something else happens, and i am here again. i remember that it isn't a moment. i remember it isn't a scattered population of cartoon evil-doers, intent on world domination from behind handlebar mustaches. it is a concerted effort of real people with real power who really-do want to see my end. it is a lifetime of dodging the beercan as it sails out of the back of the van. it is a lifetime of not-kissing once we leave the apartment. it is a lifetime of watching someone protest our existence and then, very slowly, giving them the finger. it is a lifetime of holding my friends' hands and hearing the same agony in their life that i lived through. it is us, together, our faces turned upwards, the night sky so vast, milky way overhead like a lacework zipper.

it is a lifetime of staring down woodchippers.

#writeblr #this got away from me #i love you #whereever you are. u are mine. i am yours. i am sorry this is happening

[gatheringbones]

[“In the autumn of 2016, the two of us and a colleague attended a feminist conference in Glasgow. A somewhat hostile but curious woman came over to speak with us. She ran an NGO, it turned out, that defended the rights of migrant women across Europe, and she wanted to talk to us about the men – the punters. Weren’t they disgusting, she wanted to know. How could we disagree that they should be punished? We agreed that clients are often bad, but explained that punishing them produces harms for people who sell sex. We mentioned the evictions of sex workers in Nordic countries. Our interlocutor agreed that these evictions are real; women are thrown out of their houses in Scandinavia, yes. In fact, she told us, migrant women come to her NGO complaining that they have been thrown out of flats or hotels in Sweden, sometimes in the middle of the night. She continued, a note of derision entering her voice: ‘When that happens, I just think to myself’, she told us, mimicking her interactions with these evicted women, ‘I just think, lucky you: at least you’re not murdered’. She rolled her eyes at us.

We aren’t asking you to love the sex industry. We certainly don’t. We are asking that your disgust with the sex industry and with the men – the punters – doesn’t overtake your ability to empathise with people who sell sex. A key struggle that sex workers face in feminist spaces is trying to move people past their sense of what prostitution symbolises, to grapple with what the criminalisation of prostitution materially does to people who sell sex. People in these spaces see abstractions like ‘objectification’ and ‘sexualisation’ as universally relatable everywoman concerns. When we point out that the policies which flow from such discussions often lead to sex workers being evicted or deported, we are seen as raising ‘niche’ issues – or as obtusely unable to understand the ‘bigger picture’. We need to push our sisters to grapple with the ‘niche’ questions. Nobody can build a better, more feminist world by treating sex workers’ current material needs – for income, for safety from eviction, for safety from immigration enforcement – as trivial.

Both carceral and liberal forms of feminism are attractive because they offer seemingly easy answers to complex problems. Women’s work is underpaid and undervalued? Ask for that raise! Sexual violence is endemic? Fund more cops! There’s commercial sex online? Pass legislation to kick sex workers off the internet! Carceral feminism even styles itself as radical in doing so: radically uncompromising with male sexual entitlement, radically seeking to ‘burn down’ the sex industry. Such radicalism evaporates on closer examination: cops are not feminist. The mainstream feminist movement is correct in identifying prostitution as a patriarchal institution; they conveniently miss that policing is, too. Attempting to eradicate commercial sex through policing does not tackle patriarchy; instead, it continues to produce harassment, arrest, prosecution, eviction, violence, and poverty for those who sell sex.”]

molly smith, juno mac, from revolting prostitutes: the fight for sex workers’ rights, 2018

#molly smith #juno mac #currently reading #history stuff

[latenightsimping]

THE EDGE

“...There is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who’ve gone over.” - Hunter S. Thompson, Hell’s Angels

Summary: A part of the deal to freedom included a stay at Pennhurst. It’ll take everything to keep the hope that one day the locked doors will open, the windows will no longer have bars that block the view, and that one day, the name Eddie Munson will be synonymous with the word ‘innocent’. The hope, he never realised, would also come to be synonymous with your name.

Chapter: 1 / 2 / 3 / 4

Pairing: Eddie Munson x reader

Word count: 3.1k

Warnings: angst, heavy themes of inpatient treatment/hospitalisation, heavy themes of mental health, institutional deprivation of liberties, body injuries, mentions of suicidal ideation, themes of institutional abuse, can be a dark read (continue with that in mind, look after yourselves), canon divergence, Eddie survives the demobat attack, post-S4 timeline, slow burn romance, eventual smut, 18+, eventual fluff

AN: This was an idea that I’ve had for a little while, and finally getting around to writing it. There will be multiple chapters, and we’ll get to meet the reader in chapter 2. I’m pulling on many references, some of it being my own experiences of being in an inpatient facility a couple of times in my teenage years. Write what you know, and get some catharsis through angst relating to it, innit. I will say though, look after yourselves, and seek help if you need it. Inpatient sucked, but it’s what I needed to keep myself healthy and alive. There’s light at the end of the tunnel, I promise. And if you think it needs extra tags, please lemme know. I can see replies but cannot answer due to this being a sideblog, so keep that in mind. Anyway. Hope you enjoy.

Taglist: (lemme know if you wanna be added): @edsforehead​

Eleven vertical steel bars, five horizontal. eighty-seven bricks on the wall just past them. Sixty-four pinstripes on the pillowcase. One hundred and twenty one days since the last breath of fresh air. 

There’s only so much counting to be done, before you go as insane as they report you to be. 

Eddie had prided himself in independence, before everything went to shit. He could get up when he wanted, go to bed at a time of his choosing. Choose what clothes to wear, when he wanted to shower, what food he ate. But that had all been stripped away. A uniform of white was given to him on arrival. White undershirt, white button down and pants, white vans, white socks. A colour that he typically hated, now forced upon him with no room for argument. The food was shit, the attitude of the staff even worse. Bed so uncomfortable that what little sleep he could manage with the screams and yelps of the damned ringing in his ears, he would always wake up with a soreness that could never be taken away. 

He thought he’d witnessed hell. Skies of red and thunder, twisted vines and flapping of wings and razor sharp teeth. But this? 

This was worse.

He had woken up bathed in bright light, and for a second he wondered if this was Heaven. Only took a couple of seconds to realise that it was likely that the promised paradise wouldn’t smell of disinfectant and have incessant beepings of heart monitors. A couple of times in his life, he had been in handcuffs. Drug related charges that Hopper had conveniently lost the paperwork for, letting him go with a stern talking to and a slap on the wrist. But this time? This time, the steel that connected him to the bedframe of the hospital bed felt permanent. He was lucky to be alive, according to the doctors, who told him with disgust evident in their features. It should have been you who died, was clear to translate from furrowed brows and the thin press of their lips. Eddie couldn’t help but agree with them sometimes. Nurses would often ‘forget’ to give him the pain medication prescribed, leaving him in a near constant state of agony. 

The demobats had really done a number on him; lacerations and chunks of flesh torn from the left hand side of his body, trailing up his neck and ending on his jawline and cheek. More on the right pectoral muscles, the backs of his hands, forearms and upper bicep. If he wasn’t facing the barrel of the death penalty, he would have cracked a joke about losing his nipple. Each and every wound was a constant ache, his jaw near permanently set to grinding his teeth to bear with it. Only when Wayne was finally allowed to visit, hollering his lungs out about how much pain his boy was in, was he finally given those syringes of relief that he so desperately craved for. Not for long, only until they decided to neglect him again. But those moments were the reprieve that were sorely needed.

It had been Hopper’s idea to turn himself in and feign insanity, when he had visited his bedside. Something about a plan, and that he would just need to hang tight for someone high in the food chain to be contacted to fix the mess. He was promised that the chief of police would make sure he wouldn’t go to jail. Just to have trust, have faith, and repeat the words told to him to plead insanity. He couldn’t remember anything past the point of letting Chrissy into the trailer. He couldn’t remember killing Fred Benson or Patrick McKinney. Couldn’t remember attacking Max Mayfield, putting her in the hospital. Couldn’t remember how he got hurt. Deny, deny, deny. It had been easy to convince the cops that he’d lost his mind; easy enough that it was borderline insulting. The last of Vecna’s victims had wounded him to find out about, and had nearly caused him to lose face. He didn’t know Red well, but he’d seen her around the trailer park, looking as lost and broken as he did at that age. Got to know her better over the time they spent together, and had admired the strength and tenacity that was in her, too much of those qualities for a fifteen year-old to carry. He just prayed to a God that he didn’t believe in that she’d pull through. 

Many years ago, he had made a promise to himself not to ever turn out like his father. That waste of space that chose drugs over his own flesh and blood. But getting processed in what remained of Hawkins police station, ink still damp on his fingertips as he clutched the name board while his picture was taken, that’s exactly how it felt. The hospital booted him as soon as he was medically stable, no doubt not wanting to harbour a serial killer in the halls that were meant for healing. At least he could be thankful that the station was only a detour, a short stop to what would be his home for God knows how long. 

Pennhurst Mental Hospital. 

In four months, life had blurred into a monotony that was barely endurable, with no end in sight. He was afforded no luxuries; the cell he was kept in made up of nothing more than necessities. Bed, sink and toilet, desk and a chair. No windows, and the only view past his bars being a dirty grey brick wall.He’d counted the cracks in it the first week in. Counted the ones on the ceilings in the second week. The rest of the time had been spent packing back and forth, like that tiger he’d once seen at some shit zoo. The lack of fresh air had suffocated him long ago. He could swear that he hadn’t taken a deep breath since Chrissy’s body flung itself to the ceiling.

It was the boredom that was the thing that was slowly poisoning him the fastest. The unending, unyielding, mind numbing boredom. Where all he had was his thoughts, and no possible escape from them. Thoughts of the past and the future threatening to pull him under, to drown him in regrets and missed opportunities. He was going to finally graduate from high school. Corroded coffin could have gone somewhere. He was going to start a new campaign for Hellfire. He was planning to finally move out of the trailer, and into a place of his own. Back and forth, the rumination so intense it made his head spin. Made him pace even harder, until he was near the point of over exertion. The only outlet for a man that barely ever stood still in his life.

 A nurse that must have had a shred of humanity left passed a book through his bars the first couple of weeks in, evidently having enough sense to realise there was no possible way for him to do damage to himself or others with it, and most likely sick of the sound of rubber soles against cement. The Count of Monte Christo was a book that he vaguely remembered from school, no doubt an essay that he didn’t hand in considering he’d never read it in his life. But by this point? He could have recited it in his fucking sleep. 

It was during another countless repeat of reading it that his attention was caught by the calling of his last name, a loud bang of a fist hitting metal that snapped him out of whatever dissociation he found himself lost in. Snapping his head towards the sound, he was met with the unkind face of one of the orderlies, one that seemed to have it in for him since getting here. Eddie had heard him be called Bradford before. He must have caught the confusion on Eddie’s face, considering he followed it up with an eye roll. 

“Get your ass over here,” was the gruff response he got, the jingling of keys audible as the one to his cell drove home into the cylinder. “Must be your lucky day.” 

Though there were multiple questions ruminating in Eddie’s mind, he knew better to push his luck. Gift horse in the mouth, and all that. The steps he took towards the door were methodical; slow and steady, as if it was all one sick prank, getting him into trouble and thrown into the solitary confinement cells that he’d been borderline threatened with multiple times. 

A firm hand planted to his chest stopped him in his tracks, the contact to the still healing scars making him wince and take a sharp breath. It was instinct to lower his eye contact upward, though it quickly dropped to the floor as the man loomed over him. “Any trouble, so much as one foot out of step, and I’ll make it my fucking mission to put you back in here. Do I make myself clear?” the man warned under his breath. The smell of stale coffee and cigarettes hitting him square in the face, making his stomach churn. 

Swallow down the disgust and agony, as much as it hurts, the reasonable voice inside him whispered. Don’t do anything stupid. In another life, he would have given this figure of authority hell. A sarcastic quip heavy on his tongue, a middle finger to those who wanted him under their boot. 

But this wasn’t that life. And he needed to play it smart. 

“Crystal, sir,” he mumbled, fight well and truly snuffed out from the system that wanted him locked up and the key thrown away. 

It seemed to have appeased the orderly, for now. The man took sure steps towards the exit, Eddie following his heels at a close yet respectable distance. Head lowered, frizzy curls now wild and unruly falling like a curtain in front of his face. It was near laughable to him that the ability to walk in a straight line further than ten feet was now a luxury. Could finally properly stretch his legs, though the destination was still a mystery. 

The shift from dim lighting to sunshine with the ascension of a set of stairs that he’d only travelled down once made his eyes screw near closed on instinct, turning his head away from the windows that let it in. Once upon a time, he enjoyed sunny days. Like the feeling of sun on his skin, and the wind in his hair. Nowadays he didn’t even know what season it was. 

Being led through winding corridors, for the first time he saw other patients, all eyeing him with paranoid looks. He couldn’t blame them. But he could feel the tendrils of fear beginning to grip at his gut. Would he end up like these people eventually? How long would it take? A couple of months? Years? A subtle shake of his head as he tried to dislodge the thoughts. He couldn’t think like that. Hopper promised he’d be out of here soon. He just had to have hope. 

The orderly came to a stop in front of a door, deep green and paint chipping off with age. The nameplate on the front gave him pause, when he finally spared a glance at it. DR. EDITH MILLER, etched onto the brass. He’d had meetings with Dr. Miller since he got here. Once a week, the nosey bitch would try and get information that didn’t even seem relevant. He’d managed to evade some of the questions, embellished the truth on others. But if he was being summoned to her office? This couldn’t be good. 

The orderly’s knuckles rapped on the door three times, a call of “enter,” being audible seconds later. Eddie was ushered inside, the homely looking woman with already greying hair barely looking up at him from her paperwork as she motioned with the pen in her hand towards the chair nearest to them. At least in his cell, he was somewhere that he knew back to front. This was completely different, completely new, and his nerves were already on edge as he shuffled inside. 

“Need me to stay?” Bradford asked, hand still grasping the door handle as his eyes flickered around the room. No doubt his mind was already thinking of possibilities of what could happen with a suspected murderer left alone in a room with a defenceless woman. The thought of people thinking that he was capable of atrocities weren’t new, but it still made Eddie sick to the core. 

“That won’t be necessary,” she replied, hazel eyes finally shifting upwards to look at the two men. Her monotone voice gave nothing away, face devoid of any emotion either. Bradford faltered for only a second, before Eddie finally heard the door close behind him. Only then was he given the barest hint of a polite smile as she motioned her hand towards the chair again, to which he obliged out of the need to be polite. “How are you feeling this week, Eddie?” she asked, head slightly tilted. 

She was the only one to call him the name he preferred. Everyone else just called him Munson. He wasn’t stupid; he knew it was a ploy to get him to trust her. Make him comfortable with small signs of respect, though it was likely she didn’t in the slightest. His hands settled on his lap as he fidgeted with his fingers, eyes glued to the worn tiles of the linoleum and absentmindedly counting the cracks. “Fine,” he replied, the word devoid of any emotion or energy. 

The truth would be sharing too much; the fear of being honest bringing the risk of even more restrictions under the guise of safety. There wasn’t a delicate way of saying “I want to close my eyes and never wake up some days.” 

He heard scrawls of the pen, no doubt more notes that would dig him a grave of pills and cell bars. A pregnant pause before she spoke again, and an intake of breath. “And how are you feeling with the medication changes? Is your mood still low?”

He had to bite his tongue, to stop his lips turning up into an incredulous smile. The truth again being evaded in the answer. “Fine,” he repeated, this time with a slight shrug of his shoulders. “The pills make me feel sick every hour of the day, make me into more of a ghost than I already am.” 

Another scratch of ink on paper. “Your case was brought forward to the panel this morning. We’ve decided that we should ease your restrictions, given that there’s been no record of violent tendencies to yourself or others since the time you’ve been with us.” 

That made his ears perk up, the sparks of hope threatening to ignite in his chest. Head snapping up to finally make eye contact with the good doctor, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “What does that mean?” 

Her eyes studied his face for a few heartbeats, a small smile gracing her features, one that seemed to be an attempt at easing anxieties. “It means we’ve decided to move you to a medium security wing. It comes with certain privileges, but also with expectations, Eddie.” 

The words coming out of her mouth seemed to blur together, becoming a background noise to his rapidly beating heart. He was finally getting out of the damnation he had been trapped in, perhaps finally allowed into the light. To be able to breathe lungfuls of outside air from a crack in a window, to not have to sleep just to evade the hollow boredom. It was relief; as if the hand of an angel had reached into the pits of hell, to bring him to salvation. And if that hand was one of the likes of Miller, he’d clasp it with both hands and not let go until the end was in sight.

“-we’ll still need to see improvement to give you certain privileges, but we can play it by ear. How does that sound?” Her voice finally tuned back in, a little hazy at the edges, tears of joy and relief threatening to fall from his eyes. 

“When can I go? When do I move?” he blurted, the only question that mattered. Fuck, if she’d asked him to crawl through broken glass right now, he’d do it with a fucking smile on his face. 

Her eyes flickered downwards as her wrist came up, a brief glance to her wristwatch as she pulled herself to a stand. “You’re just in time for recreation, and there’s no time like the present.” She rounded the desk, taking sure steps to the door and looking back. “Shall we?”

It was instinct to move as fast as his legs could take him, quickly snuffed out with the realisation of where he was. Slow, sure movements, make yourself as least threatening as possible. Keep hands visible at all times, open and by his sides. Three steps away from the doctor, passing many twists and turns of the corridor and being led through multiple sets of steel doors, until one was finally opened for him that he was expected to step through alone. 

It wasn’t until the door slammed behind him that he finally looked up to take in his surroundings. Chipped and scuffed beige linoleum tiles, walls in just as sorry a state. Large windows that bathed the room in natural sunlight, though the bars on the windows were a reminder of where he truly was. A couple of tables and chairs dotted around the room, most occupied with other patients. Who seemed to be in various stages of lucidity. A couple of benches, some more chairs crowded around an ancient TV. 

In any other situation, he would call this place what it was; an abject shithole. Somewhere he wouldn’t be if you paid him. But recent events had changed his mindset, had lowered his expectations until the bar was practically on the floor. This was a damn palace, compared to his last recent address. It had the lack of staleness in the air, albeit now replaced with bleach and something he couldn’t place. It had space, and light. 

It had hope. 

But with the luxury of choice, came the immobilising aspect to it. What the hell was he supposed to do now? Where was he going to sit, or do? Strike up conversation and hope that the person didn’t know about what had put him here in the first place? 

He was still making his choice when he heard a voice. A woman, tone bored yet slight amusement playing on the words. 

“Are you just going to stand there? You’re making the place look untidy.”

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fanfiction #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things imagine #stranger things x you #stranger things x reader #cw: angst

[existentialcrisisadded]

My Nice and (hopefully) Accurate Good Omens Theories

Alright, here are some conclusions I have come to upon my third full watch of Good Omens. I hear all this talk about the coffee theory, and even the threat theory, but I think that the Metatron didn't have to do much to tear them apart.

We all saw the look the Metatron gave Crowley as he turned to walk out of the book shop with Aziraphale. He cast Crowley out of heaven. That was a look of pure disgust as he looked at a fallen angel, tempting another angel. There is glaring evidence that the Metatron remembers Crowley's questions/suggestions at the Beginning. He remembers Crowley as a threat, thus he wishes to take away the things that Crowley loves. Crowley loves Aziraphale and the Earth, so what better punishment than to have Aziraphale be the one to destroy the Earth with the second coming.

As for how he manipulated Aziraphale, he capitalized upon Aziraphale's desperate need to make a difference, and his love for Crowley. He knew that Crowley would never return to Heaven as an angel. So, he made Aziraphale think that was an option. Aziraphale, like Crowley, loves the Earth. He loves the Earth and everything on the Earth. He knows that Heaven is corrupt, but he is determined that he can make it better for the things he loves. If he were to see it as an institutional problem he would become fallen. His greatest fear is that he will fall from Her grace. I haven't quite determined why I think he got in the elevator after the Metatron said that they were planning the second coming, but I imagine it stems from a point of pride. Like, how can he turn around now that he has burned that bridge? Can he face Crowley again after hurting him so much?

The kiss was a kiss derived from desperation, not love. It was a last ditch effort made by Crowley to get Aziraphale to admit his feelings and stay. It didn't work because Aziraphale is very set in his ways most of the time. He didn't see any love in that kiss, he saw the temptation to fall so that he could live out the rest of his eternity with Crowley. However, as stated previously, he fears falling so much that he won't take the temptation. He won't leave Heaven until he finally realizes that the problems are, in fact, institutional. That, in order to make a difference, he will have to join Crowley to completely tear down and rebuild the system.

#neil gaiman #aziraphale good omens #crowley #good omens season two #good omens #The Metatron can bite my ass #No seriously I will fight him with Aziraphale's flaming sword if I have to

[cyb3rscoups]

The Glory AU (pt 2)

Warnings: Mentions of suicide, blood, gore, fight clubs, burn wounds and scars

Our fated lovers finally meet 🤧 Full collection

If you want to be added to the taglist please lmk

She hated going to school that year. From the day she transferred into the private institution, she knew it would be something ingrained in her memories forever.

From the start it seemed like her fate was inevitable. Her first day was when Valentina had chosen her.

Okoye had sat in the only seat left in the classroom, blissful and unknowing as the other students would turn to their friends and whisper about her; where she came from and why she was there.

The first day, she found out she had chosen her previous victim's seat. The same girl that drowned herself the night before.

From the first day, Okoye had no choice and everyday would be a cycle of agony.

“Ko-Ko!” Valentina’s shrill tone would call to Okoye from across the empty gymnasium as soon as the doors creaked open and she walked through. “I missed you girl!”

Okoye would curse in her head as she dragged her feet across the polished floor to where the trio stood. Valentina would always look her over in disgust before giving W'Kabi permission to do what he pleased.

“Oh come on, Okoye. Why the long face?” He would tease as he reached forward to grab her jacket and yanked her flush against him.

She would yelp and squeeze her eyes shut when he dipped his head to kiss her.

“You are disgusting.” Valentina would scoff at his vile attempts as she twirled a strand of fiery red hair around her finger, watching as Erik bounced and threw a basketball he had found. The dull and incessant thudding always irritating her quickly.

“Erik! Quit throwing that ball before I bash it through your skull!”

He caught the basketball as it bounced off the concrete wall and held it to his hip.

“Fuck you, white girl.” He rolled his eyes.

Erik always loved to hate Valentina. It was baffling to Okoye. How someone like Erik could put up with the girl, let alone allow himself to love her as deeply as he did. Nobody knew that back then, nobody but him.

Dogs both the boys were. Her dogs. She had trained the mutts and she controlled them well. They managed to drop everything to be at her beck and call. Carrying out all her dirty work so she wouldn't be tied to anything that happened back then. To hell for how they would end up.

“Ko-Ko! I need your help with something today.” She skipped over to her book bag. “I bought a new flat iron last night but I really need to make sure it works good.”

Out of her peripheral, she could see Erik roll his eyes. “Good luck getting it through.” He snickered, side eyeing the puff of curls atop Okoye’s head.

Right. The boys hadn’t been present to witness how Valentina got her last time. They'd actually gone to class for once and no one was able to smell her burning skin or hear her shrieks of pain.

So no. A failed press out was hardly what she intended to do with the new tool and Okoye knew it. As soon as the iron was plugged in and set to the highest heat, she could feel her heart plunge.

“No..Please! Not again!” Okoye broke W’Kabi’s lethal hold and dropped to her knees

“Oh come on!” Valentina stooped down, a lively glimmer dancing in her eyes. “Don’t be a bitch about it!”

“Please..Valentina. I swear I’ll do anything!”

The teen just stared at her, watching her break down and cry. Tears streaming down her cheeks as she mumbled incoherently. Valentina could feel a tingle in her finger tips as a crude smile found its way on her lips.

“You know what you can do for me, Okoye?” She reached for the girl, wiping her tears on the back of her hand before gripping her chin up and digging her stiletto nails into Okoye’s cheeks. “Kill yourself.”

A chill covered the room. Erik and W’Kabi felt it too. The basketball fell from Erik’s hold as he took a step towards the pair, his shoes squeaking against the hardwood.

“Val…it’s not that deep. Calm-“

“Don’t tell me what to do!” She shrieked.

Valentina released Okoye’s face, opting to yank off her cardigan instead. The material piled to the floor as she marched to the iron and yanked it from its plug. “Neither one of you are shit! She's nothing and neither was Aneka, god rest her pathetic soul!"

Erik hadn’t been able to tear his eyes away from Okoye and her exposed arms, her previous burns still fresh and blistering.

“Don't get soft on me now Erik. Hold her down!”

———

After getting out of the hospital, Attuma was back in the gym making up for the days he’d missed while stuck to a hospital bed thanks to Namora.

“Take it easy.” She had said and let him go with an unauthorized prescription for his migraines.

Well, he wouldn’t be doing that for sure. He was in the underground fight club a week later, taking a shot of tequila with a wince as people crowded around the going fight inside the cage behind him. Curses and dollar bills were thrown at the amateurs as they barely stood to each other in the bloody match. He couldn't wait to get back in the mix.

“Warrior! You are fighting tonight!” A hand was smacked across his back followed by a hearty chuckle.

“M’Baku! Of course I am!” Attuma delivered an equally harsh punch to the man's bicep.

“Good. I want a rematch.” The burly 6'7" human shook the bar ledge as he slammed his fist against it in a fit of excitement.

“Nah. Not you.” Attuma scoffed. “You won fair and square. Accept it.”

“Fuck no! You passed out so it doesn't count. If I'm winning, it's because I knocked you out my self." M'Baku gave him a shove that would've sent the average man to his ass but Attuma, given his matching build to M'baku, stood firm and shook his head.

"Fine. You'll get your rematch tonight. 30 minutes. Get us on the list." Attuma watched the bartender as he replaced his shot glass.

"10 minutes and we already are!" M'Baku laughed as he left his comrade to down his drink at the bar.

It took a total of 30 seconds for word to spread through the club that Attuma was back in the cage. It took another minute for the pair to be moved up thanks to the flood of bets towards the fight.

In no time, the cage was crowded with spectators around as M'Baku and Attuma entered its bloody space with the top half of their bodies bare, bruises from their last fight still purple and blue.

"Alright, alright, alright." The announcer started as they strapped their gloves and adjusted their mouthpieces.

"We got the notorious M'Baku and the indestructible Attuma going head to head once again! The betting window closes in 5, 4, 3, 2, 1! Gentlemen! Touch gloves and say a prayer!"

Attuma scoffed as M'Baku forced his gloves against his. "Don't hit me in the fucking face. I'll kill you."

"Okay pretty boy. Want me to call your mommy and tell her you love her too?" M'Baku laughed as the deafening bell rang through the club and their first round commenced.

Just like that, the crowd was in uproar and Okoye could barely muddle her way to the bar without colliding with men twice her size, yelling obscene profanities at each other.

Once she managed to get to the bar, she yelled her order to the bartender and settled. From where she was, she could clearly see the fight. Two substantial men connecting every punch and hit that was thrown til they were both a bloody mess. Yet neither of them seemed to grow weak.

The bell rung out a minute later and the two men parted with a shove. Attuma chuckled before gathering the blood in his mouth and spitting it into a bucket.

"The fuck did I say about my face?!" He growled out as a cut to his eyebrow began to split.

"Calm down, pretty boy. You ain't getting any uglier." M'baku stuck his tongue out in a childish sneer. Okoye let her self smile at the interaction as she went to sip her drink.

"Tired yet?" Attuma provoked with bloodstained smile as he fixed the bun on the back of his neck.

"Yeah you fucking wish." M'baku scoffed as the bell rang again. As if a switch had flipped, the two were done with friendly banter and back at each others throats.

Quite literally at that. M'baku managed to move faster than Attuma and get behind him, locking his thick arm around the other mans neck. Attuma yelled spit fire at his friend as the other laughed in amusement.

"Let go you asshole!"

"Tap out, pussy!" M'Baku tightened his grip and kicked his foot to the back of Attuma's legs, sending him to his knees as he gasped. "Tap out!"

"Fuck you!"

Okoye was entranced. Maybe because she didn't see cage matches often. Maybe because she found herself craving Attuma's victory. Maybe because if he won, that meant she could too.

The anxiety caused her arms to itch and she scratched at them mindlessly. Attuma's eyes started to water as his air flow was constricted to the arm around his neck. Through his tears, he spotted Okoye, her eyes focused on his withering physique, her eyes darting as her body shifted in the small bar stool.

Their eyes locked into each other and he swore he could see her mouth form around the words. "Get up."

"Shit.." He gasped as the strength in his body returned and he jabbed his arm to M'Baku's side, the hold on his neck loosening with every hit he sent to the other.

Once he was free, he punched his way to the finish line and M'Baku surrendered with a roll of his eyes and a roar from the crowd.

Attuma suddenly had no interest in the money he would win or the popularity it would gain him. He just needed to see this woman up close. She stayed put in her spot, finally being able to tend to her alcoholic desires now that the apprehensive match was over and the energy in the club had died down.

He kept his eyes trained on her figure as he weeded through the crowd, patting his back and shouting their congratulations. He saw her ready to depart and get up from the bar, setting down a 20 and shrugging her jacket on.

Attuma's strides got longer as he tried to catch her before she disperse and he lost her in the chaos. "Oh shit! Wait a minute!" He pushed past the last person in his way, grabbing her arm roughly so she wouldn't slip from him too soon.

"Ow! What the hell?!" She pulled at her limb until he released it with apologetic eyes contrasting her deep frown.

"I'm sorry! I really didn't mean to grab you so hard. I just saw you from the cage and-"

"You fight good. Congrats." Okoye rubbed her arm soothing the ache Attuma had unintentionally caused. Her compliment sent a boyish blush across his cheeks.

"Thanks. I'm Attuma."

"Cool." Okoye gave him a tight lipped smile before she attempted to walk away again. His hand, with a much softer force, was on her shoulder before she could turn.

"Well I mean- I- Will you tell me your name? I mean, that is how you get to know someone isn't it?" Attuma stuttered as he snatched his hand back before she could scowl at him again.

"Maybe you should worry more about not getting choked out within an inch of your life during a fight. Then you can know my name." Okoye smirked.

"Damn you're harsh." He sighed, only finding the fact that more enticing.

"I practice."

Okoye turned away again, maneuvering herself away from the bar.

"I'll see you around?" Attuma yelled after her.

"No thank you!"

@xblackreader @loeysaeri @hottie-hotch @faatxma

#alex livinalli #attuma #attoye #attuma x okoye #attoye fanfic #black panther #wakanda forever #danai gurira #mcu okoye #okoye x attuma #the glory #kdrama #alternate universe

[cinewhore]

The Take Over - chapter two

Pairing: Marcus Pike x fem!reader

Rating: mature

word count: 2.5k

read the first chapter

warnings: mentions of body horror - peeling skin, sticking fingers down someone’s mouth, general angst

Summary: You investigate the body in Danny’s house and pay a visit to an old friend. 

A/N: This is an Invasion of the Body Snatchers AU. You don’t need to watch the film to understand what’s going on. Credit to the gif maker(s). No beta.

You regard the body with immense disgust and a slight intrigue. You were one hundred percent sure that Danny had called to fuck you, yapping your ear off about a body in his house that happened to look like him. Didn’t seem at all possible. Until you dragged Marcus out of the house with you, all the way to Danny’s and Sydney’s place, just to start at this thing on his floor.

“So, can you tell me what it is?” Danny prompts, scratching at his face. You frown, cocking a head toward him.

“I’m a fucking doctor, not a forensic expert.”

Danny shrugs. “Same thing, isn’t it?”

“Is it going to kill us?” Sydney rambles on, body shaking nonstop.

You breathe out slowly through your nose, pinching the bridge of it with two fingers. Marcus reads your gesture clearly, grabbing Sydney lightly by the elbow.

“Let’s go make some tea, that should help us calm down. Give them some room to work.”

Sydney agrees and follows Marcus to the kitchen. You shed your coat, pushing the coffee table back to create something semblance of a workspace. The body looked like Danny but there was no indication of it having any sort of sentience.

“Was it always lying here?”

“As far as I know. Sydney got up to get some water and then I heard her scream. Came running with the fucking bat and she’s cowering in the corner, pointing at this.” Danny lowers himself down into a squat. “I can’t believe this. It’s like a wax figure.”

An idea sparks.

“Dan, get me a paper and some ink, please.”

It takes a moment to find loose ink but Danny returns with the items faithfully, catching onto your scheme. He’s careful as he lifts the arm of the body, observing as you wet the fingertips, pressing them down on the paper.

“Huh, no fingerprints.”

“Freaky.” Then, “what does that mean?”

“If you ever really wanted to leave no traces, you’d burn your fingertips. Old school but it’ll do the trick. Unless, there were no fingertips to burn.”

Sydney and Marcus return, Sydney more at peace. Marcus offers you a cup of tea but you deny it, too keyed up to get distracted. To be honest, your stomach had been doing flips since you had gotten the phone call and you didn’t plan on vomiting anytime soon.

“What do we know so far?” Marcus asks you.

“I don’t know.”

You didn’t like giving that answer but it was the truth. Quickly glancing at Sydney, you change your tone.

“I don’t think it’ll cause any harm, though. At most it seems that it's still growing.”

“Can you move it?” Danny pipes up, holding the cup near his mouth to take a sip.

“I wouldn’t want to, im not sure if this is an active crime scene I’m fucking with and i don’t think the cops will be appreciative of me tampering with evidence.”

“The cops?” Sydney tightens the robe around her body. “Why would you call the cops? They’ll take one look at this and send us straight to the mental institute, I'm sure of it.”

Your annoyance flairs. “Well what else am I supposed to do? Listen, here’s what’s going to happen: my husband and I are going to go back home. You two are gonna sit here and monitor it, see if anything changes. If it does, call the cops. If it doesn’t, call the morgue.”

“So I just call the hospital and tell them that I have a dead body in my living room that looks like me but isn’t? C’mon, there has to be another way we can handle this.”

You glance at Marcus then back at Danny.

“Fine. Move it someplace more isolated but where you can keep a good look at it. If it wakes up or moves, call me or Marcus. We’ll deal with it, all of us, together.”

Sleeping didn’t come easy afterwards. You popped a few melatonins against Marcus’s judgment, not caring about the time but just wanting a solid sleep. You slip into unconsciousness an hour later, Marcus curled up near your back. You awake a little later, absolutely still in the throws of the heavy weight of slumber. It takes you a minute but you drag yourself out of the bed, your bladder screaming for attention. Trudging to the bathroom, you stop when you notice a light on in the kitchen downstairs.

You hadn’t remembered leaving a light on and even though it was out of your eyesight, the thought of a light being on made your teeth rattle. Taking it step by step, you make your way down the stairs, rubbing your eyes with the hope that it would make you more alert. For all you know there could be a thief in the house and you’d have no willpower to stop them in this state.

You halt in your steps, eyebrows drawing tight together upon noticing Marcus’s figure on the couch. He was asleep, some book long forgotten in his lap. You open your mouth to wake him but no sound comes out. Out of the corner of your eye, you detect a slight hint of movement. A figure emerges from the darkness of the adjacent hallway, you.

It was you and it wasn’t you. You were you, half asleep and dressed in an old t-shirt. The other you was completely nude. You stare in horror as she slips gracefully into the light fully, grinning at your expression. You don’t dare move an inch as she saddles up to you, taking a hand and delicately ghosting it over your face.

“You’re not real.” you barely mutter, voice hoarse.

“And you are?” she retorts.

It even laughed like you.

“What do you want?”

She scrunches her face in faux thought, humming. “Better. For you.” She tilts her head back at Marcus. “For him.”

“Please,” you beg. “Don’t involve him in this.”

You swear you see her face morph into something damn near demonic as she slinks towards your husband. She places herself on his lap, shushing him as he fidgets.

“He deserves so much more than what you have to offer. After all, he did give up his life so that you could have your dream.”

You shake your head. “No, this – this was our dream.”

“A silly little thing you keep telling yourself to make it through the day. With me, with us,” she fans her hand out to you. “We can have unimaginable things. You just have to let me in.”

“No.”

“Is that so?”

Your heart rattles in your chest as she advances upon you again, your feet finally cooperating with the rest of your body, allowing you to take a small step back.

She studies your face - her face - with a softness you had never experienced before. Is this how you actually looked to other people?

“Don’t be scared, it won’t hurt. We’ll start slow, ok?”

She pecks your lips, admiring the string of silvia that hangs from both of your mouths. She comes back in for another kiss and this time, you let her in further, parting your lips. Her tongue dances across yours, eliciting a tiny moan from you. She smiles as she pulls back, satisfied.

Her thumb rubs your bottom lip, teasing you as it slips in and out of your mouth. She pushes it further down, what started out as genuine curiosity turning into panic as she sticks more fingers in, her hand other ripping at your skin and tugging pieces of it off, the slight slap sound vibrating off of the kitchen floor, body fluids squelching and-

“Baby?”

You lurch forward, eyes flying open and lungs working overtime to push out more oxygen as you dry heave. Marcus sits in the bed next to you, the dark sky now replaced with sunlight streaking through the blinds.

You claw at your chest, mouth and face before lowering your head into your hands, a sob escaping your lips.

Marcus pulls you into his arms, leaving kisses in your hair.

“It’s ok, it’s ok, you were just dreaming. You’re ok.”

You take a few more deep breaths, extracting yourself from Marcus. Glancing at the nightstand, you snatch your phone off the charger.

“Did Syd or Danny call?”

Marcus shakes his head, clearly troubled by your behavior. “Are you alright?”

You know you should tell him what you saw, what you felt but figured there was no use in scaring him as well. You were going to get down to the bottom of whatever the fuck was going on but first you had some business you needed to handle.

Hitting 3 on your speed dial, you bite at the skin around your index finger. Janie picks up on the second ring.

“Where the hell are you? You promised coffee and I purposely skipped making any this morning.”

“I’m not coming in today, feeling a little under the weather. Have Shannon and Peter pick up any extra patients.”

“Of course.” a pause. “What’s going on? Really?”

You sigh. “Did Linda call?”

Janie pulls the phone away from her ear, blowing out an aggravated huff. She hated when you left her in the dark, especially when it concerned your work. You agree that she has a right to know but only when you’re absolutely sure of everything yourself.

“Yeah, she did, actually. Said she was being dramatic and that Joe is just fine.”

“Anything else?”

“Nope, she just canceled her appointment after and hung up. Sounded pretty chipper about it.”

“Fuck.”

Janie grunts. “Will you just tell me what in the hell is going on? I will show up to your doorstep, so help me-”

“Janie! I need you to shut up and listen to me for a second, ok?”

She settles down. You continue.

“There’s something strange happening in this town and I’m trying to understand it. When I know more, you’ll know more. For now, I just need you to promise to keep your mouth shut and eyes open. Can you do that for me?”

Janie swallows harshly, poking her tongue out to lick her lips. Usually she had some sort of snarky comment on her lips but the waver in your voice let her know that this was serious business.

“Yeah, yeah I can do that for you.”

“Good. Call me if you notice anything.”

Click.

You avoid Marcus’s glare boring a hole in your back, moving from the bed and into your closet.

“Where are you going?”

You nearly chuckle at your own response. “To see a doctor.”

Dr. Narduzzi’s office was situated near the edge of town, partially hidden by the overgrown greenery. Despite his shy exterior, Jean was quite the socialite, known to frequent many of the bars and taverns. Upon meeting the scrawny gentleman, you were unsure of what to make of him. He rubbed you in all the wrong ways, his loud and boastful personality clashed with yours directly.  Over time you began to see beneath the surface and learned to appreciate his eccentric methods.

Honestly, he had become one of your closest confidants.

As you entered his office, you noticed his secretary, Margot, was not present. The entire place was empty, except for a repeating thud sound coming from Jean’s study near the back of the building.

The door was open and that’s where you find the psychiatrist, launching darts at a board.

He flicks his wrist and sends a dart flying, narrowly missing the bullseye.

“You’re a very busy man, I see.” you remark, sitting down in an armchair. You applauded him for the velvet material, you would purchase something like this for your own office but loathed the cleaning process that came with it.

“As always, my dear. As I remember, we have not scheduled our regular tête a tête, so this is a business meeting,” he throws another dart and misses, landing in the outer right corner. “What can I help you with today?”

“I think I’m losing my mind.”

Jean’s toothy gap smile almost covered his whole face. He haphazardly throws the remaining darts in his hand all at the same time, not caring where they end up as he sits at his desk. “Tell me more.”

“Last night, I had this dream where I was antagonized by..myself. I was looking at my reflection except it wasn’t in a mirror, she was standing right in front of me.”

Narduzzi squints his eyes as he nods, hanging onto every word you said. You don’t spend much longer describing the dream, the recounting of the story sending chills down your spine.

“That’s very interesting.” Jean thinks, rocking himself back and forth in his chair.

“I don’t need interesting, I need a solution.”

Jeans tsks. “A solution only comes when there’s something to be fixed.”

“Oh, don’t give me this metaphorical bullshit now, Jean. What does this mean? I haven’t mentioned it before, not even to Marcus but I’ve been having hallucinations and dreams like this prior to last night. I just assumed I was dehydrated, stressed or whatever but this is clearly something.”

“Mhm. Well, I know that the mirror and our reflection show us our true selves.” He rubs at his jaw.

“Are you saying that a part of me wants what she wants?”

“Potentially,” Jean gets up from his chair, coming to stoop in front of you. He grabs your hands, rubbing them in between his own. “While I do think there are some clear signs of stress and exhaustion, I think you should listen to your body. Give in. You may be surprised to see what you discover.”

The smile on your face fades as Jean squeeze’s your hands tighter, his grip pinching at your skin.

“Jean-”

You struggle in his hold, unsure of what to make of this.

“Jean, please, let go. You’re hurting me.” you breath out a panicked laugh, mustering up all of your body strength to throw him off of you.

“Don’t you get it? All the signs, practically handed to you on a silver platter. Let her in and all will be well. You can be one of us.”

Your fight or flight instincts kick in and you tackle Jean, the both of you tumbling around on the ground until you manage to escape him. You scoop up your keys and cellphone, dashing out of the door.

You don’t dare look behind you as you enter your car, skirting out of the parking lot and onto the main road. You barely let your feet up off the gas until you reach home, throwing your car in park and making a run for the front door.

You were in such a state that you didn’t notice the extra car in your driveway.

“Marcus? Marcus!” you yell, tearing through the kitchen and living room. Marcus emerges from his office, Sydney and Danny in tow.

“We have a problem.” you pant, short-winded.

Marcus looks grim. “Yeah, we do. That thing, it woke up.”

#marcus pike x you #marcus pike x female reader #Marcus pike #fic: the take over #cinewhore

[fuzzydreamin]

What The Companions Say About... Synths! (gen 1-2)

I'm posting these just because I find the companions in-game reactions to things rather interesting. You might be surprised by what some of them have to say about certain things.

These are just their dialogues for during combat and after combat or walking through areas inhabited by this enemy type. It does not include anything from specific areas, quests, or other dialogue.

⌨ Ada

⌨: The technology these synths utilise is quite sophisticated. ⌨: Advanced CPUs, streamlined power systems… why didn't you build me like this? ⌨: Advanced CPUs, streamlined power systems… I often wish their hardware was compatible with my own. ⌨: Now I know what it feels like to be obsolete. ⌨: {Neutral} Synths have a way of making me feel obsolete. ⌨: I'm detecting high levels of jealousy and envy… oh, wait… that's me. ⌨: It's a shame you can't fit one or two of their limbs onto my chassis. It would make a wonderful upgrade. ⌨: {pause for effect between lines} Synths truly inspire me to be a better robot. Did that sound strange?

☘ Cait

☘: I'm gonna rip out your goddamn battery! ☘: Synths! Take 'em out!

☘: Synths are nothing but Institute lackies in sheep's clothin'. ☘: Careful, synths are bristlin' with Institute tech. No tellin' what they might have up their sleeve. ☘: Spare robot parts are worth their weight in gold. I'm just sayin'. ☘: Wonders of science, eh? Slag the same as robots if you ask me. ☘: Mindless lunatics. Where's the off switch?

⚙ Codsworth

⚙: Synths!

⚙: {Curious and thoughtful / Thinking} Imagine the good these synths could do if only programmed with the inclination. ⚙: {Nervous} There's something unnerving about synths. You never know if one's going to spring to life. ⚙: {Sympathetic at first, then more defiant, with attitude / Thinking} I almost feel sorry for synths. Institute fodder, really… But try to kill me, and I'm afraid sympathy goes right out the window. ⚙: {Slight disgust / Neutral} The Institute sure is frivolous with their toys. ⚙: {Concerned} Careful not to trip over any loose parts, mum.

⚕ Curie

⚕: RobCo did not make robots such as this. ⚕: The technology to make this. Incredible. ⚕: Is this what is called… a "synth"?

⚕: What a technological marvel these synths are. ⚕: Madame Fowler posited the idea that robotic evolution could surpass that of their creators. The synths prove this quite neatly. ⚕: To talk with the Institute would be a dream. So many marvels they have created. ⚕: Do synths have a psychology? Or are they merely sophisticated machines? ⚕: I dislike the idea of destroying such works of engineering and science.

♞ Danse

♞: Melt them down to slag! ♞: Blow those things to bits! ♞: Institute vermin! ♞: Synths! Destroy them! ♞: Burn them down!

♞: {Muttered to self… you hate the synths.} Abominations, the lot of them. ♞: The Institute must not be allowed to create these freaks any longer. ♞: Synths are nothing but technology run amok. ♞: Free-thinking machines are an insult to our way of life. They need to be destroyed. ♞: I refuse to rest until every one of these nightmares is eliminated.

🕶 Deacon

🕶: Killing these old synths always… Well, if we gotta do it. 🕶: Glory's going to lecture me when I get home. Sorry, pal.

🕶: I understand why Glory hates wasting Gen 1s and 2s. A very fuzzy line. 🕶: I'm alright if we have to take out the Gen 1s and 2s. Barely, but alright. 🕶: Tinker records every place we find the early gen synths. He says it'll reveal the Institute's "Master Plan". Yeah, right. 🕶: More synths. Great. 🕶: EMP works well against synths. Well, the early models.

☠ Gage

☠: I got your "sensor anomaly" right here! ☠: Ain't no way you're replacing me!

☠: God, I hate synths. They ain't robots, they ain't people… the worst of both worlds, wrapped up in one. ☠: Seems to me, if you're worried about someone being a synth, you shoot 'em. Problem solved. ☠: It's not bad enough that the Institute had to go and make robots to do their dirty work. They went one step worse and made 'em look human. Ugh. ☠: Ever feel the tiniest bit hurt that the Institute hasn't tried to replace you with a synth? I mean, c'mon, I'm important… I'm worth replacing. ☠: Their robots may be creepy shit, but Institute tech sure is fun to play with. ☠: All the lights and clicking don't mean shit against a man with a good head on his shoulders.

☣ Hancock

☣: {Neutral} You ever wonder if maybe you're a synth and don't know it? I got a lot of time I can't account for… ☣: {Stern} If the Institute has its way, they'll replace us all with these damn things. ☣: {Amused} Institute gives its lackeys some fun toys. ☣: {Question} These things are the future? So far, not impressed.

☸ Longfellow

☸: {Wary, uneasy} Robots lookin' like people… that don't sit right with me. ☸: {Wary, uneasy} I ain't fond of fightin' any kind of robot, but that goes double for synths. ☸: {Wary, uneasy} You can pull some good salvage off these bots, if you can stomach lookin' at 'em. ☸: {Wary, uneasy} Synths are downright disturbin'. No other way to say it. ☸: {Wary, uneasy} Makin' a machine that looks like a man… if that ain't madness, I don't know what is.

⨁ MacCready

⨁: Institute toasters! ⨁: Synths! Blow 'em back to hell!

⨁: Institute synths carry some valuable tech. Don't leave anything behind. ⨁: Damn synths are worse than rodents. Kill one and two more take its place. ⨁: If the synths know we're here, the whole Institute knows we're here. ⨁: I don't know how these things get around so fast. ⨁: Don't underestimate Institute synths. They're lethal killing machines.

♥ Nick

♥: {Stern} Sorry, friends. Don't start what ya can't finish. ♥: {Stern} Hate to put you down.

♥: {Neutral} Institute treats synths like tools, tossed away without a thought. ♥: {Sombre} Wish we could just make these things see reason. ♥: {Neutral} Goodness. Do I really look as bad as these models? ♥: {Neutral} Never did understand why the hell they programmed us to feel pain.

✉ Piper

✉: {Neutral} Institute scrapheaps. ✉: {Stern} Back to the scrapheap for you.

✉: {Stern} Sure, the Institute made these things killing machines, but they're still killing machines. ✉: {Stern} If the Institute and its synths think we're going down without a fight, they're in for a damn big surprise. ✉: {Neutral} The Institute sure gives its lackeys some serious firepower. ✉: {Neutral} Nick's the only synth I've met that didn't seem to have a screw loose. Wonder if that's why they got rid of him? ✉: {Question} Wonder what the Institute's looking for in a place like this?

☀ Preston

☀: It's the Institute! ☀: Synths! Hit them hard!

☀: Why can't the Institute just leave us alone? ☀: One of these days we're going to have to put a stop to the Institute. ☀: It's uncanny. They're not robots, but not exactly human either. ☀: I wish I knew what the Institute really wanted up here. ☀: Talk about science run amok. ☀: Hmm. Usually aren't so aggressive.

☢ Strong

☢: False men should fear Strong. ☢: Robot try to be humans. Stupid robots. ☢: Why fight false men. Can't eat them. ☢: Institute fighters. Strong will destroy you. ☢: Super mutants smash all false men.

☾ X6-88

☾: Some of the older model synths were built over a century ago. ☾: I should get a team up here to retrieve these units. ☾: {Gen-1 is short for "generation 1"} The gen-1 synths you see out here are usually part of a work crew that got hit by raiders. ☾: The synths won't see us as a threat. Their programming prevents it. ☾: {Disgust} I hate the idea of Institute tech in the hands of surface-dwellers. What a waste.

-----

My Notes:

Ada is jealous of synths for their advanced design. (On a flip side, Nick has tried fitting robot parts on himself - it didn't work.)

"No tellin' what they might have up their sleeve." It's nothing. I wish the synths had more going on than just shooting or beating us with a baton. It is a stun baton, but maybe it would've been cooler if the synths themselves let off an electical charge at close-range.

Much like her feelings on the Brotherhood, Curie really wants to talk with the Institute on an academic level. Unfortunately, just like the Brotherhood, they would only ever see her as a lesser being.

The first time Deacon mentions Glory's dislike of killing early gen synths, the directors note indicates that he disagrees with her. Here he's more on the fence.

Considering Gage's position with the bosses of Nuka World, having influence but not being the boss, he probably would actually be a target for replacement if the Institute haad any interest in that place.

Longfellow is friendly towards the synths of Acadia, but I guess he really doesn't like looking at DiMA. No wonder he stays outside.

Early gen synths, including Nick, feel pain. 🙃

Preston's "Usually aren't so aggressive." line implies that it's possible for people to wander past an area being scavenged by the Institute and not get shot up, so long as they leave it be. Most people probably hightail it anyway, to be safe.

"Some of the older model synths were built over a century ago." implies that early gen's continued to be, and perhaps still are, built well after Nick and DiMA got free, since the two are about a century old themselves.

X6's dialogue implies that early gen synths go of-course when met with hostility, causing them to stop performing their jobs and not return to the Institute on their own, thus needing to be collected manually.

#fallout #fallout 4 #fallout 4 companions #fallout 4 dialogue #synths #the institute #fuzzy.post

[h-aknight5384]

Desdemona x fem!Sole Survivor

I did it. I-I betrayed my own son, blew him up, him and his whole Institute. The explosion took out all of the remaining parts of the CIT building. The building where he admitted I was nothing but an experiment. I should be happy, right? Everyone else is.  “Nora. That was so cool, we finally won, all because of you. You should be proud of yourself. You freed the Commonwealth, saved all those synths.” Tom excitedly chatters, the slight pink in his cheeks showing how much he drank already. Or maybe he’s just a lightweight.

Nora starts feeling sick, the weight of what she did finally beginning to set in. “Yeah, sure. Uh, I don’t feel well, I think I’m just gonna go to bed. Goodnight, Tinker.” The other agents happily talked and drank, celebrating their victory, not noticing the vault dweller sneaking off into the tunnel leading to Old North Church. “I swear, everytime I walk through this path, it gets more disgusting.” she mutters to herself, kicking a ghoul body to the side.

Her steps slowed more as she went up the staircase into the church, the majority of it was already destroyed, but some of the pews were still intact. I may not be religious, but it’s all I can think to do. She sat on the end of the nearest seat, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees and her forehead touching her clasped hands. “Lord, if you’re there, and I have my doubts,” I start, sniffling slightly as I realise I’m starting to cry. “I’m more than lost on how to move forward. Do I even deserve to? I murdered the last of my family without a second thought. He may have become a monster, but maybe I could have changed him. He was my son and I just abandoned him, what kind of mother am I?”

“The good kind.” A voice interrupts and her head jolts up. God?! Desdemona stepped out of the shadows of the basement doorway, cigarette burning in her right hand, leaning her hip against the wall next to her, casually. “The kind that understands what needs to be done and does it. You do deserve to move forward and be happy, if anything, you deserve it more than anyone else.”

The tears stream down faster now, as Nora tries to stop them, failing miserably. “I’m not so sure about that. I just wish I could have done something, anything, to change him. I hardly even tried.” I know, I know I shouldn’t be feeling sorry for myself and bringing down the mood of our victory today, but for the first time since I came out of that vault, I’ve slowed down enough for everything to catch up to me. She sits up, cleaning her face with the bottom of her shirt. “He was an accident, I never wanted kids, especially so young. It was a dumb, drunk mistake with another student. We were friends at the time, I guess, but Nate and I never loved each other.”

Des pushed herself off the wall and walked over to where Nora was sitting, kneeling as best she could in front of her. “This is gonna hurt like Hell when I get up. Look at me, Nora.” She tipped her girlfriend's chin up to make eye contact. “You are a good person, even if you don’t believe it. Ask anyone in HQ, at Sanctuary, The Castle, all of those settlements you helped. Deacon told me the extent of what you did, how many people you helped even after everything you lost. I never thought to help people, but you, you evacuated all of those people, most of whom probably didn’t deserve it. So if you’re a bad person, then what does that make everyone else in the Commonwealth?”

Nora slowly nods, she lips slightly upturned into a smile. “Thank you, Des. What would I do without you?” She leans forward to hug Desdemona.

“You wouldn’t have gotten that code to create the teleporter.” Des jokes, making Nora pull back to stick her tongue out at her.

“I think I would have, I just probably wouldn’t have been as scared as I was when I first found HQ. You were the only one that pulled a gun, while Glory had a bloody minigun, and somehow you were more intimidating.” She laughs before she even finishes her sentence, making the last few words almost indiscernible. Sniffling a little, she looks down at her hands, now sitting in her lap. “I have Preston looking after Shaun at the Castle, I was um, hoping you’d be a mum to him? No pressure, only if you want to-”

“Yes!” Des cuts her off, quickly, almost shouting her answer in her excitement. “I mean, yeah, I would like that.” Nora moves over on the chair and stands up, reaching her hand down to help Des off the floor.

A year ago I thought my life was all, watching my husband get shot and my son taken from me, and waking up in a strange new world. Who would have thought that I’d meet such an amazing woman and have a synth child? I wouldn’t trade it for anything though, the Railroad’s definitely crazy, but they’re my crazy family now.

#Desdemona #Fallout 4 #Desdemona x Sosu #Railroad #FO4

[wjforever]

Shatter me again. Chapter 88

I used to think I knew what fear meant. Animal terror. I thought I was afraid before. When I was arrested for murder. When I was transferred from institution to institution. When I got to the headquarters. When we were running under a hail of bullets…

Even back then I wasn't as scared as I'm now. Because then I had a faint hope, it seemed to me that something could still be done. But now I'm facing the danger itself. I'm in the hands of someone who can really trample me. He can destroy me. Morally. Physically. He's able to leave no one stone of my temple upon another. Just because he can. And there's nothing I can do about it. Nothing at all. He has already outlined his position to me. He won't let me escape from this. He'll be cruel. He'll be ruthless.

He lets go of my wrists, his hands are on me again, but now on my shoulders. He holds me through the fabric of Adam's T-shirt. And I close my eyes, waiting for my destruction. I wish my gift would come back now. All my life I've dreamed of getting rid of it, but now I need it more than ever. But this power is no longer able to protect me. This is my payment for all the ruined lives.

I press myself against the wall, I can barely stand on my feet. It's too much for me. It's too much. Tears begin to form in my eyes. I'm breaking down. Something inside me snaps in half, crunches. Guilt, pain, fear, shame overflow and run down my cheeks. 

I can't take it anymore. I want all this to be over. I want this to be a terrible dream, just a nightmare. I shrink all over, my throat constricts, screams and cries get stuck somewhere in the depths of my chest, and I sob soundlessly. The trembling becomes so strong that I feel myself hitting the wall behind me.

All that remains of me is a pitiful, shameful lump. I feel disgusted. With myself. I hate myself. I despise my weakness. I so want to be strong again. I want to fight and struggle. But there is nothing decent or noble left in me. I don't accept my fate with my head held high, I don't look boldly in the face of impending tragedy, like a heroine. I am a shattered nothingness, a pathetic semblance of a human, a mess of tears and snot. I have only myself to blame. I'm paying for my own sins. Miserable, worthless…

If he saw me as the ruler of the world, deserving to stand next to him, then he was very much mistaken. I didn't pass his test. I'm just the leftovers remain after his bloody feast.

"Look at me."

His voice is so confident, insistent. He knows what he wants. He wants to see how my fall will change my eyes. He wants to see. He won't defer to me. He wants to watch my suffering, my pain. But I don't look. Not out of pride or audacity. I just can't. I'm too scared, too weak, too confused about where I am and what's going on. There are only emotions left that paralyze my entire being.

"Juliette, look at me."

I'm getting a feeling of déjà vu. This happened before. At the headquarters. The morning after he killed Fletcher. I cried the same way, and he asked me to look at him. I was also terribly afraid back then, I thought he would kill me. He didn't hurt me then. He was kind to me. For a while. It's all a lie. It's all a game. He just planned to keep using me to torture people for him. And at that moment he couldn't touch me. He couldn't touch me… But now…

I shouldn't look at him, because I'll turn to stone. I'm counting the buttons on his coat. One, two, three, four… It's not calming me, but I shouldn't look at him. Because I will see the cruel eyes of a smug monster reveling in his power. 

But his voice… along with his persistence, there is some… sincerity in it. 

You can't trust a voice. 

I need to see his eyes.

And I let his green gems burn through me.

Shriveling, pulling my head into my shoulders, pressing against the wall, I'm looking into the eyes of my own demons, that have tormented me all my life. I can barely see his face because of the tears blurring my eyes. He's so close. His lips are so close. He'll carry out his threat. I know that. And I'm waiting for this kiss, practically losing consciousness. I almost want it already. So that it ends faster.

He's frowning, serious, focused. But those eyes… There is nothing calm about them. They're rushing from side to side, are hypnotizing me like a pendulum. And I shift my gaze to my bloodied guillotine. To his lips. I tried to escape from it, I thought I could. But I couldn't. I made a circle and returned to the starting point. I'm not ready to die, I'm not ready to lose my head, but I know that there is no other fate for me. Maybe I should just accept it. Maybe I even deserve such torture. I suddenly relax in his arms, lose all will, humble before my destiny. I give myself up, I surrender without a fight. There is no sense of struggle or resistance left in me. Nothing. Everything is burned out. Only a hollow shell remained, filled with emptiness.

I can see his lips parting as he leans a little closer. I feel his breath on my face. I close my eyes and inhale through my mouth…

"I won't hurt you, you hear?" I'm not sure that I hear. I blink, open my eyes wider, trying to see something behind the tears. "Hush, calm down."

Now he's the one who closes his eyes, inhales, licks and then bites his injured lower lip. And I can't take my eyes off this action. I'm watching him like he was watching me just now. It's like I'm stunned. It seems to me that I'm in a intoxicating fog that prevents me from soberly perceiving the world around me.

"It doesn't matter, okay? It doesn't matter right now. We're talking about the wrong things." He exhales sharply. His fingers rub my shoulders lightly, as if to cheer me up. "We have to think about other, more important issues. Good? I know you're scared.… I understand… Really… We parted on a bad note. And now… I was disturbed by all these events… I didn't control myself well. My fault. But I won't hurt you. I swear. Let's try to pull ourselves together. We said a lot to each other. But now we can talk calmly, sensibly, reasoning like rational people, right?"

Talk calmly? After he killed Adam? I don't think so. I don't think it's possible. But I don't have the strength to answer him.

"Juliette. I'm not your enemy… I'm not the one who's your enemy… Please hear me. Listen to what I'm telling you. Do you have any plan? Have you thought about the consequences of all this? You're all alone…"

Yes, I think, I'm all alone. Because he killed Adam. 

"You have nowhere to go, you see? Wherever you go…"

His persuasive tone eases the tension slightly and some dam breaks inside me. All the pain, all the fear, all the resentment suddenly return, filling me to the brim again and it all spills out. I remember everything he said to me when Adam and I were running away. He told me that I had no place in this world. And even though I know he's right, it's driving me crazy. I'm used to always digesting everything inside myself, but now, next to him… I want to throw out all this bitterness on him. Like it's his fault. Although it's not. But it's much easier to blame him than to admit my worthlessness over and over again. Or maybe I just need someone to share this pain with.

"I know! I know I'm no better than you! I remember that I'm a freak! That I have no place in this world, that no one will ever accept me. That I would be hated. I know that people suffer and die because of me, because I'm a monster, because I do everything wrong. I remember. I remember that I belong to you, that I have no rights, no choice. I'm your thing, your property. I know that if I don't obey you, you'll still get to me and turn my life into hell. You'll force me be near you whether I want it or not. Will make me do whatever you want. I know all this, but I… I don't want to be like you! It'll be better for everyone if I'm alone… will die of hunger and cold…" Tears flow uncontrollably in a stream. I can't go on, my voice breaks, and I avoid his gaze again.

He's silent for too long.

We're honoring the memory of dozens of seconds buried by us.

"Juliette…" he breathes.

An insidious snake wrapped around its mouse. His whisper hypnotizes, makes you forget all precautions. Forcing you to make a fatal mistake.

I blink up at him.

It was a trap.

A cruel, evil trap.

My eyes are full of tears, and his, suddenly, disarming sympathy. And he shouldn't look at me like that. With these eyes the color of grass warmed by the sunshine. The same eyes that I've been deceived by so many times. But I'm so hurt, and scared, and mournful. And I want to get away from it all. I want to hide from the horror that I feel. I'm looking for safety.

There's nowhere to hide here. There's no dark corner I could huddle in. But I remember that he can give it to me. He's done it before and more than once. Even when I hated him and was afraid of him. Somehow he could snap me out of my worries. Somehow he managed to calm me down. For some reason I know I'm safe with him, that he won't hurt me. And I know I have to forget about it.

Warner opens his mouth, shakes his head, but, it seems, can't find the words. 

"Ju… just… leave me… here…" sob. "Please…"sob. "I... let me… die…"

"Juliette… let me explain everything. Please. Will you listen to me?"

I nod, because I have no other options.

"I'm sorry… I'm sorry that I put so much pressure on you. I know it was difficult for you… But I have… I had to. I couldn't… I didn't know what else to do. I didn't have much time to get through to you, and you were so alarmed…"

It seems to me that his impeccable oratorical skills are suddenly failing him. He exhales, bites his lips, looks up somewhere. And I'm just waiting for what he wants to tell me without taking my eyes off him.

"Listen… everything I said… I should have phrased that differently. That's not what I meant… I just didn't know how to stop you. But that's not what I was trying to tell you…   Understand, wherever you go, you would remain in the territory of The Reestablishment. Everything is not limited to the headquarters and the regulated territory. Wherever you run, even if you managed to leave the sector, they would still find you. With or without Adam… You wouldn't be able to hide forever. The Reestablishment is everywhere. And this world wouldn't show you mercy or understanding, you know that.

If you ran away now, they would find you anyway, sooner or later. You would be discovered wherever you go and brought back to the headquarters. If they didn't immediately understand who you are, then you would be sent to another asylum, and from there you would still return to the headquarters. But next time I might not be able to help you. Things could get much worse, you have no idea…"

His voice is soft. Easy. Slow. Deceptively convincing. And I'm suddenly amazed at how deftly he changes the subject. Brings us back to the starting position again. And his voice varies accordingly. But I understand what he's doing. He shapeshifts once again. He's playing with me again. Changes tactics, trying to give me what I need. He's done it before and many times. He could lie to me. He is The Reestablishment. He says all this just to intimidate me, so that I agree to anything. Voluntarily, of course. It's just such a game for him. Everything is a game for him. By playing, he's driven me here like an animal, I remind myself.

"Juliette. Come with me… please. You don't know how far The Reestablishment could go to to get you back. And if you left now, you would be considered a traitor. And then you wouldn't have a chance. Do you understand? Please don't make this any worse for you. Trust me. I'll fix everything. They'll think it was all part of the plan, that you were on my side. That you helped me find criminals. I can handle it. I can protect you."

He's like a feral dog, crazed and wild, thirsty for chaos, simultaneously aching for recognition and acceptance.

Love.

"Criminals?" I ask surprisingly calmly, as far as it's possible under the circumstances.

He nods. 

"I'm a criminal too…"

"Juliette… there's no sense sacrificing yourself…" His voice is so gentle, velvety. And all of a sudden, I'm quite inappropriately paying attention to how attractive his voice is. I like to listen to this chest sound, I like how it lulls me. He has a very pleasant timbre. And very enjoyable, unusual intonations, as if he speaks with a slight, unknown accent.

"You'll never understand!" I say with a little more desperation.

"I understand. I know what you're afraid of. But you're not a monster… Do you hear? You're not a monster. It's not about you. It's just that people are afraid of what they don't understand. And when they are afraid of something, they try to destroy it. People always strive to ruin what's better, to suppress those who are weaker. Because all humans are selfish. They act only in their own interests. And when you find yourself among the others, and you can't always be alone, they'll try to eliminate you or use you for their own purposes."

"Like you do?" I look up sharply at him, but I don't raise my voice. My eyes are boring into his.

I see the pain. In his eyes, in his expression. Such sincere, genuine pain. Like he's really sorry that I'm not letting him help, that I can't and don't want to believe him. As if it causes him physical torment. As if my opinion and attitude towards him really mean something to him.

"All I want is to help you. Believe me. Please. I want to help you."

His words are just a sweet lie, another manipulation and nothing more. But I'm too tired to look for a catch in every word. I suddenly want to believe him for some reason. I want to believe his words, I want to believe in his sincerity. I'm suddenly ready to believe that he really wants to help me, that he's been trying for me all this time, that I don't know everything. He's already helped me, hasn't he? I don't know if he did it for his own benefit, but he helped me. And he has shown me a different, softer side of himself so many times. He took care of me. He was gentle and attentive to me. And I saw how he had to change, to adapt to circumstances. And I want to believe in "what if".

I'm really frightened, actually. I have no one else and nothing. Warner destroyed it all. I have nowhere to run. I don't know what to do. And I'm afraid to be all alone in this huge, crazy, scary world that I've never been in. I'm afraid of being caught. I'm afraid to experience all this horror again. And I know for sure that Warner can help me, get me back into my usual routine. He can comfort me. Like no one ever could. I already know this feeling, and I unconsciously reach out to it like a moth to a flame.

I want him to hug me. Because his hands are always able to save me from my own fears. I want to hide in him from reality. I want him to become my refuge, to protect me from the fierce storm that's hitting me from all sides. I shouldn't feel like this, I have to fight this irrationality. But he has already managed to accustom me to this, and I so need to grab onto something familiar, something that gives peace and hope. Because everything that's happening right now is not real. It can't be this way. I couldn't lose Adam. I couldn't let his brother die because of me. I couldn't drag Kenji into this. I don't want this to be true. And I'm looking for ways to get away from it all.

Tears are scudding down my face inexorably again, and my trembling is only getting stronger, because I'm losing the remnants of control over myself.

I'll never tell him this in my life. Never. I won't tell him I need him. I'll never say that I want him to comfort me.

He doesn't wait for any request or approval from me. He just pulls me to him and hugs me. Presses me to his body, stroking my back, my head.

"It's okay. Everything is fine. You hear me? Everything will be fine. Come with me, come home. It's okay. You're safe now. You're safe. I won't let anything happen to you."

I didn't ask my hands to go up and wrap around his neck. I didn't ask my body to cling to his. But I hug him back.

He exhales sharply, stands for a few moments in indecision, and then continues stroking me again as he's whispering in my ear.

"We'll fix everything, do you hear? Everything will be fine. Nobody else gets hurt. I'll think of something. I'll rectify it."

I want to believe that we'll fix everything and that everything will be fine. We could rewind time. Go back to the past. I want him to promise me this. I want him to save me. Pulled out of this cage of my own emotions. And I want to stay in these arms. It's like I've spent my whole life in these arms.

We're not here anymore. We're back at the base. And everything is fine. And James lives alone in his cozy untouched apartment and goes to Benny every day, and she swears bad words. And Kenji continues to serve, throwing his ridiculous jokes at everyone and getting slaps on the back of the head and discontented looks. And Adam waits for the moment to sneak into my bedroom again, to hug me, to hold me close to him and to promise me salvation. And Warner…

"Jesus… Juliette, please… Don't be afraid. You hear? No one will hurt you. I won't hurt you." Warner pulls away from me slightly, looks into my eyes. My brain is on fire, ready to explode from at the impossibility of this moment. "Everything will be fine. Please don't cry. Your tears break my heart."

I only now realize that I allowed myself to cry for real, not restraining myself anymore. His clothes are wet with my tears, my sobs drown out my own mind, my face is contorted with a grimace of sorrow. But the tenderness in his gaze makes this storm subside for a moment, along with a sigh comes a calm. He smiles weakly at me, a small sad smile. And his thumbs brush my cheeks, wiping away my tears. And his eyes… There's such genuine kindness in them, and care, and sympathy, and…

"It's unbearable to see you cry. Please… I can't stand to see you suffer." His voice is just a whisper, barely audible, comforting. He leans closer to me again, strokes me soothingly, presses his cheek to my temple, speaks against my hair. "Your torment breaks my heart… Please… I can't bear it… I can't… I love you so much…"

Two stars collide in space, creating a new black hole. I can't understand what he's saying. I can't tell if I misheard it or if he actually said it. How can he say something like that? I guess it just seemed to me in this stream of his incoherent whispers and my own thoughts, drowned out by the beats of my heart in my ears. It's like nonsense, delirium. Because in reality, this just can't be.

I lean away from him, look into his eyes in disbelief.

"No, you don't."

"I do. I love you so much. Madly. You have no idea."

He seems intoxicated. His half-lidded eyes close. It seems he can no longer hold his head, and he touches my forehead with his.

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Read my notes and more chapters here AO3

#aaron warner #juliette ferrars #shatter me #shatter me series #warnette #ella sommers #ao3 fanfic #fanfic #fanfiction #shatter me again

[technicallymellowrebel]

I’m not at peace

Certainly not happy

I’m sad, sorrowful

I’ve become unhinged

I think the word is melancholic, certainly

If I were fat I’d hit the gym, go on a diet or try the Greek juice cleanse that’s all the fad right now

If I were sick I’d go to the hospital, mentally unstable I’d check myself into an institution or see a shrink if the stress became unbearable

They say nothing picks you up like a new pair of louboutins, splurge on Swarovski crystals, finest cashmere from Harold’s or pamper yourself with Victoria’s secret lingerie but still I felt bereft of elation

No, frozen yogurt did not thaw my sadness neither did that spicy chicken that scorched my colon and left me tethered to the toilet seat

Tried to drown my sorrows with Jack Daniels but I puked my insides and felt like the scum I really was

Music has become deafening tuneless noise that doesn’t sooth my troubled soul

I’ve tried Netflix but I end up flipping series instead of chill

Someone said take a walk it clears the head and lightens the spirit, I’m afraid it’s the heart that is anchored in misery

I wake up feeling hollow

Engulfed in a blanket of grief, who died and stole my bliss , I ponder

The emptiness I feel can only be filled with Nirvana, says the online Buddha

How do I achieve that?

Cleanse the soul and free the spirit

How?

Fasting, meditation, deprive yourself of worldly pleasures

I’ve done all the yoga poses, fasted for a month, became the ambassador of wellness and wholeness and given away all the comforts

Well there’s change alright

Sunken cheeks, gaunt haunted eyes, skin so thin that it hurts bending my elbows and knees

Thin, emaciated, ghostly silhouette and still troubled

I see the gawking stares of neighbors, whispered mockery laced with concern and laughable halfhearted offers of help

I’m on my last lap of my existence

I no longer feel the need to hold on,

That angel of death might as well come thru

I have detached myself and severed all that ties me to humanity

I’ve burn bridges, shut out and I’m now shutting down

I have no bearing of nightfall to daytime

As I lay down on my mat heavy with self loathe and disgust at my failure to fix my broken will

I can only hope that when it comes it’s swift and quiet just like my life

Uneventful, mundane but adequately sanguine to placate a wounded heart but not glamorous enough to merit envy

For what have I to hold on to if my despondent spirit devoid of life has already departed from this torturous sojourn leaving a shell morbidly reeking of death

#writers and poets #writers block #poetry #my words #female writers #mentalheathawareness

[thatforgottenbasilisk]

To the Dogs

Words: 2463 (AO3)

Summary:

Case #0151001: Statement of Tim Stoker, regarding plastic that refuses to bleed. Original Statement given 10th January, 2015. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London. Statement begins.

For Whumptober 2023 Day 23, Prompt #2: Stalking

The tape recorder is clicked on.

Statement of Tim Stoker, regarding plastic that refuses to bleed. Original Statement given 10th January, 2015. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London. Statement begins.

It's not right. Nothing about this is right, of course, but this... this isn't right. It's not fair.

I should get to make those damned things suffer, and yet they don't even have the decency to feel it. They don't breathe, they don't bleed, they don't fall or crash or burn and I am sick of it.

I am so fucking sick of it.

They fear me, of course. Everything does, when I feel that it needs to, but fear isn't enough. It will never be enough.

You don't know what I'm talking about, though. You don't know why I'm angry. You don't know what they are. That's alright, though, because you will. In due time.

There are monsters in this world, but you knew that. You're not that stupid. You might even be one of them, but don't worry- I don't have a grudge against you. You're safe from me, so long as you don't piss me off, but I can promise you that there is nothing that you can possibly do that can top what they've already done.

I used to be human, see. Normal. I also used to have a brother. Neither of those are true anymore, and that's because of them.

His name was Danny. He was my little brother, and I- I loved him more than anything. He'd been there as long as I could remember, the age gap between us small enough that to me, I had always had a little brother.

Then they took him. Technically you could say he went wandering in on his own, a lamb walking into a lion's den, but they are abominations. They were never mean to exist. They were never meant to be alive. A better comparison would be a person walking into a pit of demons- demons aren't real, never have been, never will be, as they shouldn't be. A child crawling under his bed, to find that there really is a monster there- moments before he is devoured by a thing that does not care that it is an aberration.

Danny went wandering into a performance hall, long abandoned by humanity and long under the control of I Do Not Know You. The Strangers.

They killed him. I don't think they even hesitated, like a pack of hyenas, filthy opportunists, no honor and no sense of fairness and that's not the point but something about it grates at me.

He never had a chance. He never would've had a chance if he'd wandered into a pack of my own kind, I know that, I know that, he'd be dead no matter what he'd run into, but I- I am still angry. I am still seeking revenge.

I hate them. The Strangers. The Circus. They disgust me.

It doesn't matter what I do, not to them. No matter how many I make sure stay down, they always come back with more numbers, more extras, more mannequins, more understudies ready to take the place of whatever so-called "performer" I managed to put down. They don't even mourn their dead.

Even animals mourn their dead.

Are they too stupid for it? Is there nothing more to them than the masks and the costumes they bear? Just made-up faces and base instincts, nothing going on behind their painted eyes?

I don't care what they are. I don't care if they have any kind of real awareness of their actions. I'll make them suffer as well as I know how, and whether that means what I do is just an inconvenience in the end, then so be it. There's nothing more than that I care about anymore.

I used to care, of course. I used to be so bitter, so angry, and that's what molded me into this. I won't pretend I'm any better than they are, now, because there's too much blood on my hands to deny it, but the difference is everything I kill deserves it. They kill whatever's new and shiny and catches their attention for more than a fraction of a second.

After they killed Danny is when I was the angriest. I was lost and confused, with nothing and no one to take it out on, or to explain a goddamned thing to me. I didn't know why Danny was gone, not really, just that he went into the wrong place at the wrong time and got what he never deserved. I didn't know what that anger, that bitterness, could turn me into, but I don't regret it. I just wish I'd been able to do it earlier, so maybe, just maybe, I could have gone in with him. Gave Danny a fighting chance.

I know it's not realistic. I know it wouldn't have happened that way, but I can still imagine it. Danny can still be alive in a fantastical other world that exists only in my head.

Enough about that, though. You want a story, right? That's what these things are for, not my ranting and raving about the fucking mannequins.

How about the first time I killed one of them?

It was barely a month after Danny died. It wasn't a full-on mannequin, barely even a children's doll on the scale of things. It was a pathetic, pitiful thing, and I was just as much killing it as putting it out of its misery. Maybe it was young, new, freshly not-all-there anymore, and it just had enough of itself left to know that something was wrong but not have the faintest idea what. That didn't stop it from trying to prey on people, though, so it received the dubious honor of being the first.

It was the end of my first week back at work, I remember that clearly. I'd had to take time off, for the funeral and the arrangements and things, as well as the police deciding to question me about it, insisting that I had had something to do with it, insisting that I was jealous, or- or angry at him. I still don't like any of the police because of that, no matter how similar some of them may be to me now.

It was the very first Friday I'd been back, and I'd gone to a pub- not quite to celebrate, more to mark off a little milestone for myself. To end that part of my life, the part where everything is all about how Danny's gone. Yeah, I was drinking alone, but it wasn't all that much and I wanted to get a little closer to normalcy without doing my usual interacting with coworkers and having a whole night out. I wasn't up for that.

I was walking back home in the dark, only a little tipsy, when I heard something in the alleyway nearby. It wasn't very well lit in that part of the street, so I assumed it was either something I had no business in or would only make worse by stepping in, so I decided to ignore it and keep walking. I nearly succeeded, I nearly just went about my night and ended up remaining the same man I was before, getting over the grief and the anger like almost everybody else, but something stopped me.

"Help me."

It was a faint whisper coming from the alleyway, clearly a woman's voice, high and broken in a way that somehow reminded me of a recording inside of one of those baby dolls that talks. Something about it felt like a broken music box, an antique made of porcelain, a cracked piece of delicate finery that has long since passed its time.

I wasn't so far gone to ignore it at that point. I pivoted over to the alleyway, hesitating only in judging if there was anything in my way, and walked inside with caution to the wind. It took a few moments for my eyes to adjust, but I eventually saw the human-shaped lump sitting on the filthy concrete and leaning against the brick wall. I crouched down near her, waiting for my eyes to adjust a bit more to see what was wrong.

Her skin was very pale, almost bone white. She looked delicate, with very thin bone structure, though her hair was thin and lank and her eyes were sunken and dull. She wasn't quite looking at me, more watching the mouth of the alleyway, and she didn't move a muscle. I didn't think it strange, how still she was, and it wasn't until later that I realized she wasn't breathing at all.

I didn't know what her kind was responsible for, not yet. I hadn't gone wandering into Danny's tomb until much, much later.

I waited, for a moment, before asking, "How can I help?" It was basic, but sincere- I'd still cared, back then. Danny was gone, everything I'd had was gone, but I still somehow had hope in the world.

She didn't respond immediately. Instead, she turned her head to me, remaining perfectly level, like she was slowly moving it on a swivel. Her face didn't move, not even when she spoke, in that same high whisper, "I don't know what's wrong with me. Something's gone missing."

Her tone was so flat, and yet at the same time it was desperate. I didn't know how to respond, I didn't know how to try to help, but then she kept talking.

"Maybe you have it. Maybe I can get it back by taking it from you."

All of a sudden, she moved. She started attacking me, her fingernails turned to something clawlike and plastic, trying to swipe at my chest, just above my heart. Is that what she was looking for? Was it a beating heart that she was missing, or was it just her human soul?

I don't know, and I guess I never will. I fought her off, despite the fact that I overbalanced and nearly fell over right when she caught me by surprise, but I did fight her off. I started beating her face in, making sure that she would stay down and not try to kill anybody else, and it took more than a few moments to realize that I'd smashed her head right open.

She wasn't even human enough to bleed anymore. Her skull was completely empty, completely white, and whatever it was made of couldn't have possibly still been bone. It broke too cleanly, too neatly, like safety glass that smashes into little cubed pieces that don't cut anyone.

I didn't really register what I did until the morning. In the moment, I stood up and backed away, resuming my walk home. In the morning, I went back to that same alleyway to find absolutely nothing there.

There were more, after that. They're usually plastic, so they usually don't even have the decency to be anything approaching satisfying. Half the time they just let me kill them- it's not like they even care anymore. There's no identity to cling onto, so they know that they'll live on in the next thing that decides to take their face.

Statement ends.

- ... Well. This was... certainly interesting.

- I'd wager quite a bit that this Tim Stoker would get along quite well with Trevor Herbert, the so-called 'vampire hunter,' were he still alive. First vampires and now talking dolls, how many more delusional serial killers am I going to find Statements from in here? They really do just let anyone in here, don't they...

- Ahem. Anyway. Sasha's been doing the follow-up for this one, and though she did find police records regarding the disappearance of Danny Stoker, only vague details were available no matter where she looked or who she may have impersonated. Apparently, it's extremely restricted access, and is tied to an ongoing case, likely that of Tim Stoker himself. I would wager that he was telling the truth on one thing- he wouldn't have murdered his brother, not if that's what he's citing as the event that caused him to go off the deep end. Of course, I may be wrong, and Mr. Stoker may simply be deluding himself on the actual origin of his obvious psychosis, but I'll give the man at least a little bit of the benefit of the doubt.

- As for current records on Mr. Stoker, he apparently quit his job at a publishing company towards the end of 2013, and he has not been able to be reliably contacted since. In the time since he left his job, he has become the prime suspect for the murders of...

- [Muffled] Sasha? Can you come in here for a moment?

- [Muffled, distant] In a minute, I'm a little busy right now!

[Footsteps]

- Yes, Jon?

- Are these- is this correct? The legal names of all of Tim Stoker's alleged victims, is this the final list or are these placeholder names?

- Oh, they're all real. Believe me, I checked. Apparently their real names are John Doe, Jane Doe, and Max Mustermann, which would be...

- John Doe, but in German this time. Of course it is. So are there any bodies or anything attached to these names, or are they just pinning crimes on this random man?

- Well, see, that's the weird thing. There were three bodies, with identification cards on them and everything, except all three of their IDs are fake. Also, all three of them were suffering from some kind of skin condition, because apparently they didn't have any body hair and their dermal tissue was practically plastic. No DNA could be extracted from any of them, either, because they'd been completely drained of blood. Somehow. Just... no DNA, no body hair, and skin made of plastic. With those names.

- So- bear with me here- is it possible that this man is being held responsible for the murders of three dolls? Test dummies, perhaps?

- I think he might've been going around stabbing those animatronic things, like they've got in Disneyland? Except murder makes a better headline than property damage, so they've labeled him a murderer when he's really just a man who hasn't hurt anyone and just needs help.

- I wouldn't say he's harmless.

- Well, he hasn't killed anyone, then. At least, nobody that they can connect him to. Honestly, don't tell me you believe any of those are real people.

- Of course not.

- There we go! Anyway, is that all you needed?

- I believe so. Thank you.

- No problem!

[Footsteps]

- Right. Well. That answers that, then. There's not much information available on Mr. Stoker other than that, so... end recording, I suppose.

The tape recorder is clicked off.

#tma #tma fic #my writing #To the Dogs #To the Dogs fic

[the-firebird69]

Her son had a brush with Tommy favino in the Publix grocery store he gave an order over the phone to someone to go after the big birds that we have taken and there are a few but not that many and he said to burn them and we know why they're an example to others and we have other hardware too and it works very well and it's motivating people they claim we're doing it on purpose no so we're going after him hard.

Another news two or three clones going the opposite direction opposite side of the road towards our son's apartment on a similar bicycles as John remillard's cruiser implying they want to take over the apartment and harass our son in place of John remillard and Dan it could be the max but we believe it's Tommy f it's time we started shutting him down and others son has bug bites all over his head and their fleas and it's itchy and irritating and they're not healing rapidly and actually a bug bites on his arm still recur it's worrisome it's not that much bacteria in there but it's still a pain

We have several programs they're initializing and they're huge and they're here too gigantic programs and we need our son for the entire duration for all of them to work well and we have people annoying him mildly here today is a huge day all of Tommy faces are on fire people considered it a win then they heard the figures and did not think too much of it they're going in after them so they can't rebuild or reload or simply pop up somewhere and start firing or drive out and fire worse which is much worse they said or fly out and take over areas that's why they've been lucky. We're going to use caution and stopping forces from going near our base but we going to use excessive lethal Force just as Tommy favino has used excess force in her son his entire life forcing him into mental institutions which are really prisons this whole lifetime it is a disgusting thing that he does and he's going to pay daily for it you know right to in the beginning claiming a boy for his incarceration it's ridiculous.

What kind of seven in fractions by Tommy f upon her son this morning thus far and we are penalizing for them and we are bringing soup he doesn't like it he can leave his skin like John remillard did last night for his completely absolutely absurd behavior seven more to be executed and if others insist on doing the same thing they shall be as well it's an uncomfortable place to live to begin with for him it didn't have to be amped up to absolutely ridiculous like it was and is it was ridiculous last night was terrible many people are morons okay

Almost the entire Warhammer fleet has been taken from Tommy f it's about 300 million ships and it's significant and the rebels feel a little better I saw the numbers and don't feel that great but they need to have a presence in the sky and about 3/8 of those ships are there and they finally got something they said and they knew who was responsible for helping and BG is a great warrior they say it's having a tough time with his mind because Trump was doing so much work he said he was not doing well he's ripping us off he was violating all our rules and the law and her rules are important so we will help out and we are now breaching the starcraft ships they say and they're cool genre so they dig it there's all sorts of methods to breach her son has one for you you simply go underwater in the bottom with whatever you can and your eyes quickly to the ship most of the time they can't see you below and they don't have defenses if they do their man and they have to spend their personnel it'll make it easier.

Just about 350 million starcraft ships and those ships look like Warhammer no they look like ships but real old ones and strange looking ones with like a plow on the front and they're really awesome those ships are awesome they're smaller than ours and their armor is not ours and they're slower but they are decent ships up against the Empire ships the win every time they're just a lot less of them the Empire has about 1 trillion chips but it's a start and what will come down next to Star blazers now those have significant numbers and those can knock out huge chunks of the empire so getting to know this technique our son has come up with this important lasers and the comet Empire ships number in about 5 billion each and although the Empire has about two trillion ships up these hips are formidable one of them can take out a 100-mile black ship with one hit because of the blaster do you have to fire several times because of shields but five or six ships can take one down now it's important to say that the Black ships are up and Tommy f has them I know you have run out of time it's time to fight and they're fighting below as well as top side huge numbers of troops went into the tunnels this morning once our sun was paid they let loose a massive force of rebels it was gigantic so they are starting to get this

The blockade is reforming with starcraft and the ships are out there and they're going to breach and they're bringing weapons to bear as well it it looks pretty good for this round they have brought only half the starcraft ships and they will probably be out in 1 hour and then the the rest of them and one hour again and then they will bring the Star blazers and comet Empire at the same time ships are unique a lot of those ships fly directly into the comet Empire of Master ships which are moons and they're not death stars remind you that the firepower of a comet Empire moon ship is about 100 times out of the same size death star or more has real armor is not full of fuel or it's compartmentalized properly as compared to a death star which just explodes now duster is like a very early version of the comet Empire ships and they've been building those and they have a terrifying amount of firepower so it's going to be a problem and it's going to have to be strategy and you guys going to have to meet in strategize you're going to have to get along unlike John remillard and Trump's people they were horrendous in a meeting you couldn't get anything done they're blocking everybody and they do they do nothing the copying George's look and that's all they were copying it was horrendous it is horrendous they're still around making pitiful noises yelling things at her son and I think they're awesome because of it no they're just stupid and they're wrong

He's about 500,000 people trying to get into punta Gorda right now and about 10 million to Charlotte county and 500 million into Florida which isn't bad and it's mixed and they're letting some in and this place is a hell hole it really is it needs to be repaired there's a lot of s*** everywhere there needs to be dredging done there's any large crews down because we were freed up from other areas we do need them in other areas too but this is going to be a place where we're going to man up not down so we need to have things functioning so we don't spend time doing it cuz I'm run to the work is pretty big there are contracts for dredging and we're going to go retrieve them today and usually we get them right away they see where the fourth guy and usually it's true and we have a lot of treasures big ones small ones just a giant number of them and he says send as many as you can and we're doing it now cuz it stinks around here and it's gross and his death the aquifers getting polluted and we need to dredge all over plus the cages are coming out so they're letting out all such a crap literally it flows much better with it not in the way and our son says after mid September or s down the lock because it's going to slow down and raining it's true too so we need to get it out now as in right now so I'm going to start dredging and we've got about five contracts and punta Gorda and it's for canals and channels and the people love it they just can't stand the bugs it brings but they love it so we're going to spray some bug stuff down got to get approved cuz it's not for contract but we do that and they use the same bug stuff.

We have 450 million people who've applied for our son's new program and that is to imitate Dr evil they all want an island and so our son said we're going to make artificial Islands and we agree with that and we know where to do it and it can be off of Florida and other areas where they approve it and rebels want to do it and they want to fool the clones cuz he has an island like that or two he has many of them and they're like outposts so these people are getting signed cuz there's a few already and they monitor for crabs and fish and whales and all sorts of things corners but kouju too. It's an intense program there's a lot of people who want it right here in punta Gorda and Port Charlotte he thought it was this poor boy they're finding out he can move tons of men and machine very fast Mac has a program doing it it's not very big

We sincerely hope they hear us because we're doing hospital work now on all the hospitals they're handing us contracts left and right we get it done in like 10 minutes and we're in and out and we do have a lot of information we needed they're a bunch of bastards to our son and we're going to make sure they hear it correctly

There's a huge number of people just bothering our son and doing nothing else he's activities and he needs some funding and he needs places to go right now he's just going to the park everyday like you did when he was in Korea it's a very bad sign it's a sign that nobody's doing anything and nobody can do anything it's good that he did it and he did it over and over but he's still doing it and we have to step in some people suggested immokalee casino so he has to figure out what day it is again but today is out of Tampa or immokalee he's going to call up and figure it out ask him so on but he really doesn't have enough money to do that he says and we agree it's 20 for the bus you got to eat and Gamble in other words like $100 or $150 he doesn't have so we hate the car wash it but that's what we're doing and he says it too I only have a small cushion of funds and that's about it

We're going around the block and we're making sure who's who is what they say and finding out that clones are moving in and we're fighting them now it's a huge fight Max are fighting them too everybody is deservative and striking because they're trying to arrest our son and bring him there there's still trying both parties and they're both evil and stupid for it and we're going to make them pay but we have to stop them and with the Advent of the starcraft and Warhammer ships we are attacking with ours and we come on land with tons of troops and we are decimating the ranks to the tune of approximately 500 octillion total in the past two days of theirs it is an intense War too everybody's into the genre and they're screaming and yelling and horrible tones they're using pig Latin they're bowing and they're offering each other's fingers to each other it's the most crude gross thing you've ever seen and they're enjoying themselves too it's well over the top.

Will starcraft in Warcraft are coming actual work goblin hobgoblin vampire and werewolf and more and they're all aboard and they're hissing and yelling and screaming at the max like no tomorrow and lambasting them they taking a bunch of chips and they're rating like madness and we're doing it too and using his cover anything they're huge but they're pretty big but they're not huge

Other battles are brewing and are about to happen the whole story about Argo and Fargo is beginning and I ran and it will be on shortly it's starting up and it's beginning because everybody's going after ships and they need them because they have to fight off a huge fleet and the foreigners won't be able to hold them off for too much longer without help everybody said it too the furnace will be wiped out and will be sitting here at defenseless so they're working like madness and foreigners appreciated they needed to help and didn't need all the flack and the Yap and the nasty s*** it's all subsiding to a degree but it will shortly too they find out that Tommy f is coming up and they're finding out in certain locations but really it's more widespread

Thor Freya

[notifyage98]

Common Mistakes Made To The Funeral Program

funeral pamphlet online funeral program the funeral site

funeral program templates Toussaint entertains with "Murder in the Buff," a cozy crime-mystery. Molly Darter is having careless day. She's busted her husband kissing her sister unveiled she's chasing an obituary at the nudist colony for her day job. When the naturalists suggest their friend, Barbara Jean, has been murdered, Molly doesn't know what's worse - searching for a murderer or together with her dysfunctional residence. Some people write an obituary promote it lengthy. I am not big on reading lists of accomplishments however i do like to read a tale or two about lifestyle of anyone. It gives me an image of who they were being. Too much information however makes me sense that the writer doesn't be aware difference between writing a eulogy and writing an obituary. It makes me think the writer needs take a look at a course on how to write an obit. Why does such a discrepancy can be? It's because of society. Society tells us that approach to recognize accomplishment any kind of field-sports, entertainment, business, etc. - is to these outrageously high earnings. It is disgusting when a CEO in the large corporation can be paid millions of dollars 12 months and socialize with the elite of society, when all of the workers tend to be really the cause of his or her success are paid far less that what they have to are worth-and in many cases, much less expensive than have to have to live through.

The key I've found to the procedure is to carry out the autopsy from the failed sales call gone. The sooner you can do it, place your changes you can put on what you've learned yet another sales conversation. We didn't think this kind of storm this would definately be as devastating as features. We didn't think that 111 homes in Breezy Point, NY would be burned down. We never considered that over 30 people on Staten Island alone would lose their lives to this terrible surprise. But we saw grace; nobility and true character emerge that solemn day. Meg Dunn, President/CEO of A particular.A.M.I. (American Academy McAllister Institute of Funeral Service) in NY was the first one to answer the plea for help. 18 A.A.M.I. alumni followed suit as well as funeral vendors for example ASD, a highly regarded funeral home answering service. Is it possible stay away from Alzheimer's conditions? At this point there is no known preventative, we dwell longer along with age comes the undiscovered. Our look into the disease to date has been baby steps, at first it was thought that aluminum might be the cause, but extensive have got failed to nail that as at fault.

Finally, turn to the funeral home itself. Being that you have anxiety when funeral parlors you in a position to unaware that the directors of funeral homes are often licensed to give grief offering their advice to. As such, they can help you with your fear; especially on account of your fear evolves around their workplace. Stay away from that you are having issue and additionally that you will need to plan out a burial. They can help you both to together with your fear and read additional information on funeral homes so that you will not feel so troubled.

#funeral program

[journalofimprobablethings]

Thinking about Tim and Jon's friendship and what it would have been like if Tim accompanied Jon on his trip to America, and how Tim would have reacted then to the whole "statement dependence thing" and...well my hand slipped and here we are.

[A MOTEL, SOMEWHERE IN AMERICA]

[CLICK]

(Background noise of a distant road, the rattle and cough of an old air conditioning unit. The sound of a door closing.)

TIM Welcome back. Any news from the outside world?

(A shaky sigh, then a short, sudden exclamation from the Archivist. The creak of bed springs as Tim jumps up to steady him.)

TIM Whoa, hey now. Easy there. You all right?

ARCHIVIST (hoarse, a bit strained) Yes. Just...got dizzy is all.

TIM That’s been happening a lot. You sure you’re all right?

ARCHIVIST I’m fine, Tim. Stop fussing. You sound like Martin.

TIM Martin usually has the right of it.

(The Archivist makes a grumpy noise. Tim sighs.)

What’s that? A letter?

ARCHIVIST Yes, um..the man at the...at the front desk had it for us. I don’t...I don’t know how anyone even knows where we are to send us post, but..

TIM We're on the great American road trip to find a dead man who might tell us how to stop a circus from ending the world, and mystery post is what gets you?

ARCHIVIST Fair enough.

(a pause, intake of breath)

It's from Elias.

TIM (immediate) Burn it.

ARCHIVIST What?

TIM You've got that spooky lighter. Burn it and be done.

ARCHIVIST Spooky lighter...?

TIM Come on. The spiderweb one. You always have it on you.

ARCHIVIST (distracted) Mm, yes… I-I think I need to open it.

TIM Why? Who cares what the fuck Elias has to say?

ARCHIVIST I do. I'm sorry, Tim, I don't like it either, but Elias is...the only person right now who I know has some answers.

TIM Yeah, answers he refuses to give you until it's convenient for him. You can't trust him, Jon.

ARCHIVIST I know. I don't trust him. I don't. But I...if he can tell me anything about what's going on... isn't it better to know? 

TIM Fine. Open the damn thing. I can't stop you. Just sit down before you keel over.

(Bed springs squeak again, then tearing paper as the Archivist opens the envelope)

ARCHIVIST It's a statement.

TIM Joy.

ARCHIVIST "To tide you over." H-how does he...?

TIM (a bitter laugh) Right. Of course. Of course it's not just a regular illness. It's something spooky, some creepy eldritch bullshit--

ARCHIVIST Tim--

TIM

How can you be so calm about this? You're away from your regularly scheduled diet of trauma for a few days and you what, start to go into withdrawal? And Elias knew, he knew this would happen, he probably posted that before we even left, that bastard--

ARCHIVIST Tim, please...I need...god, my head.

TIM All right, all right. Sorry. Read it. I'll just... Be over here with my fingers in my ears. Poke me when you're done.

ARCHIVIST Right. R-right. Um...

Statement of Howard Ewing, regarding his interview with an unidentified member of British Transport Police. Original statement given February 1st, 2010. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of hte Magnus Institute, London.

Statement begins….

--

[LATER.]

TIM Done?

ARCHIVIST Yes. Yes, I...

TIM Feeling any better?

ARCHIVIST I...I think so, but I'm just...tired. I'm going to go to bed. 

TIM Jon--

ARCHIVIST Tomorrow, Tim. Please.

TIM Okay, fine. Tomorrow.

[CLICK]

--

[THE NEXT MORNING.]

[CLICK]

(The sound of the door opening and closing, then the slide and rattle of curtains being drawn. An inarticulate groan from Tim at the light.)

ARCHIVIST (his voice much stronger, almost chipper) Good morning.

TIM Nrggh. 

ARCHIVIST They had breakfast out in the lobby. The coffee’s foul, but it might wake you up.

(Tim makes another inarticulate noise He takes a sip of coffee, and the Archivist laughs at his noise of disgust.)

TIM Feeling better, then?

ARCHIVIST Much.

TIM Hmph.

ARCHIVIST Tim…

TIM I know. I know. I'm glad you're feeling better, I am. It's just...I hate this. This whole thing. 

ARCHIVIST I’m not exactly thrilled about it myself.

(Pause for a sip of coffee. The silence is heavy.)

TIM So. Are we going to talk about it?

ARCHIVIST What is there to talk about?

TIM I mean...what does this mean for you? Do you need statements to survive now? What happens if you stop?

ARCHIVIST I don't know. And I don't particularly want to find out. At least not right now.

TIM Really? You're just going to lean into the eldritch bullshit?

ARCHIVIST You saw how I got. Dizzy, vague--sometimes it felt like I could barely string a coherent sentence together. I can't afford to get that bad again, not while we're here.

TIM But there has to be some other way--

ARCHIVIST I don't think there is. If Elias sends more, I have to keep reading them.

(A sigh.)

I don't like it any more than you do.  But I don't think I have a choice. We need to keep going, to follow Gertrude's trail, and I can't do that if I'm ill. Maybe...maybe once we get back, once we stop the Unknowing we can...experiment. But right now, I need my wits about me. We both do.

TIM I just...what happens to you if you keep going? Will you keep becoming more dependent on them? What does that look like? Will the written statements be enough? How do we--

ARCHIVIST

I don't know! (a pause.) I don't know.

TIM It scares me.

ARCHIVIST (softly) I know. It scares me too. I don't want this, Tim. But we don't have a lot of other options.

(A long, long pause.)

TIM Okay. But when we get home, we’re going to figure out a way around this. Elias isn't getting any more of you without a fight.

ARCHIVIST (tired, but smiling) You promise?

TIM I promise.

[CLICK]

#tma #the mangus archives #tim stoker #tma jonathan sims #jontim #tma fanfic #tma au #tim and jon's excellent american adventure #not me getting feelings about jon and tim and what could have been #i just want them to talk to each other and support each other D: #fanfic #scribblings #in my head it's platonic but you could see it as a ship thing if you want #tma season 3 spoilers

[unohanadaydreams]

👉👈 angry, potentially violent, confession from mayuri cursing you for "making" him develop feelings for you? There's a few lines of inner dialouge you wrote once where mayuri recieves oral for the first time and he's terrified and livid that someone has seen/made him vulnerable and it lives RENT FREE in my head

sometimes i go back to read that and am like ‘wow i really catered to myself as hard as possible’. here’s me getting back to my excessively self indulgent roots for the man who has his weird fingernails embedded in my fucking brain.

also since i mentioned what thirst i was working on, this isn’t even the mayuri thirst. lka;jsdflkasjdf

ALSO sorry this is not edited. i’ll probably clean it up later on but my time is so limited lately.

Features: very toxic relationship. physical violence (choking). verbally mean man syndrome. mentions of gore. mentions of murder. mentions of mayuri being a creep.

                                        The Forced Hand:

The charm of technology has never outweighed the need for tradition. Why request with an email what he can demand from a shinigami? 

Maintaining the Research and Development Department as a true institution by and for the Seireitei requires such commitments. Mayuri, himself, enjoys the confirmation of power.

Usually.

Face paint stark in its fall, Mayuri frowns, focus falling to the organic wheeze inhaling and exhaling air. At the top left of the computer before him, above the screen, a stretched face breaths in hoarse gasps. Frown cutting deeper, he wills himself to be unmoved by the automated ventilation system.

A functioning part of a viable creation should be left to work.

Unwelcome, his mind’s eye summons the lilt of your smile. Left at work, you create with such masterful understanding of what he demands. Every suggestion you bring forward, if not functioning, is viable in its horrible aesthetic or application.

The last had been a glossy coating for zanpakuto, an accelerant that transferred a being into flames before the throat could produce screams. Your smile then, lit by glow of a suffering fool, had quickened his heart as it turned to him.

“Kurotsuchi-sama,” you’d said, eyes glittering as the begging of the subject began. “Imagine a field of this! Hollows gone before the flame burns out.”

He’d imagined the tongue smoothing over your lips being forced to wet his instead.

Before that had been, perhaps, his favorite of your endeavors. An attempt rather than an accomplishment. Hell butterflies unlocked from their limitations of mimicry, able to speak and think and act as true servants. Evolution.

You’d bowed so, so low when reporting your failure at progress, voice dull with emotion he hated to hear.

Softer than he was with anyone, Mayuri had played at focusing on his terminal, one long fingernail pressing against your forehead, “Of course the task of evolution has not been accomplished. Such ego, to think you could do it in less than 100 years. Before me, even. Did this project steal your ability to think?”

“No, Kurotsuchi-sama!”

Rising, you had continued to deny any thoughts of grandeur. But you had not moved away from his finger, which had trailed down your chest and rested at your stomach, your inhales pressing your flesh further against it.

That moment consumed him still. Had you not noticed? Were you toying with him--seducing him? How could you stay, unflinching from his touch, if not because you wanted it?

Mayuri had done something foolish, mouth open as he dared to flick his hand back up, nail applying pressure from your stomach to your nose, which he pressed hardest at, until you backed away.

“Enough,” he’d said in a great sneer, disgusted with the unseemly lust bubbling in his groin. “Continue, under my instruction, while bringing forth new projects each quarter. Your incompetence has been only temporary, yes?”

“Yes,” you’d said, light and smiling. “Thank you, Kurotsuchi-sama.”

“Thank your peers for being lesser if you must thank anyone. And leave me to work. Now.”

You’d left with a bow, a springing step, and his attentions curled tight around you.

Everyday since saw Mayuri dip his hands further in the boiling waters of insanity. Always, one of the various monitors at his terminal was taken by you, the security footage that captured you zoomed in until you filled the screen.

He filled his hand with shameful loads of seed time after time, to your easy smile or the occasional flick of your eyes to the camera. Each time was followed by the burning of the cleaning supplies as well as his hands, which regrew bone, to muscle, to skin. A painful lesson that went unlearned no matter how repeated.

The attention you payed him blew larger in his mind than it sat in reality. Mayuri was cognizant enough to know few in his division would dare back away from his touch, should he dole it out.

But, the projects you nurture broadcast your analytic mind. You must know. You must want him this way. Your smile must be so warm because you’re watching him burn for you.

Yes.

Mayuri has always enjoyed the confirmation of power in-person reports give, until you.

Until his sense of control lay tilted on an axis of explicit lust for you and wondering why refused to relent his torture.

There is weakness leaking in his stomach as you enter with a bow, your eyes crinkled with pleasure at seeing his black and white face painted with pain at your presence.

A sliver of hard plastic the size of a coin is settled in the folds of your intestinal tract, where the large and small are tied loosely to contain it. Someday, he’ll feel a clarity of mind and leave you to broil alive with the poison inside. Or perhaps tear your limbs with the force of the bomb snug between your lungs, your pretty parts arcing like flesh fireworks for his amusement.

Someday fizzles to never when you address him not as captain, but as master, like always, the manila folder tucked in your arms flush against your chest. He finds it so attractive, how your body is tensed toward him, face eager and open, waiting to accept whatever Mayuri gives. He wants to peel the folder and uniform and flesh from you. To burrow between your muscle and bone, unseen by everyone, even you.

Unphased by the strange, prolonged silence, you dive into the newest project proposal after skimming his hand with yours, and Mayuri snaps. Because you’ve done the right thing. The thing he wanted.

And he must act in one way before he gives into the thought of the other act, where you are shoved against the terminal, smile moving against his mouth until he’s able to consume its shape.

“Stop,” he says, breathe coming in a pathetic pant.

You obey, calling his name and Mayuri forces his auditory systems to distort your voice before he can fling himself upon you like a sailor to rock.

But, the ever insistent siren, your fingers trace his hand, and Mayuri can not resist. He takes your neck to hold and his lips crush yours in one long press.

Again, he kisses you. And once more after that. Until his other hand, where one nail is over-long, is tilting your head. Until your lips part for him to chase your tongue, coaxing it to fill his mouth. Until Jizo, hanging over the crotch his tightened hakama, pokes painfully into your body, the yip you release deepening the kiss.

Your hand at his jaw brings the sting of reality to surge through Mayuri’s brain. A frail string of spit connects his lips to yours before it is broken. And so, too, is his tender touch about your neck. Replaced by a rough shake that forces you against the wall, where his hand wrings tighter to keep you from speaking.

“You’ve forced this from me,” he says in a hiss. “You’ve orchestrated every moment.”

Nothing comes from your lips but a wheeze and Mayuri laughs. “You wish to be a functioning part in the creation of my ruin, don’t you? Tell me why you’ve done this to me before I toss you in the maggot’s nest.”

Mayuri shook you with each word, increasingly frustrated at your thumbs stroking the hand that fucking choked you.

One last squeeze was applied before he released you to splutter, the computer left to wheeze alone once more.

“K-Kurotsuchi-sama, I don’t understand,” you say eventually. “I’ve only done what you wanted.”

“What I wanted?” He laughs again, high in his register.

To let you know him as a man of weakness for anything, least of all flesh...Mayuri wants end you before burning himself up and regenerating clean, untouched by you.

He can’t bear to be without you, nor stand to be with you, balanced on an edge of his own design.

Fear turns him to action. Desperately, he tries to force you away. He thinks to choke you again. And he does, squeezing for every part of him that wants to stop, for every part that wants to kiss you while your hands pet at him again.

“You’ve been so calculating and exact,” he says after letting you go, your body falling to the ground, doubling over in desperation for air. “But I’m your better in everything and my vulnerability is only the one--mortality.”

And how mortal he is too, leaving you there so he can run and hide in his room like a little boy, his hands shaking with...something. You could tell everyone. Let anyone know that Mayuri Kurotsuchi kissed you, wants you, perhaps loves you for all the things he punishes you far.

How horrible. How fucking repugnant that only a tranquilizer offers him peace from the looping memory of your lips on his.

Worse, still, your small smile as you pass him in the hallway days after, that stops him enough to be noticed.

“Ah,” you turn, pouncing on the opportunity his pause gives. “Kurotsuchi-sama. I apologize for...mishandling our last meeting. Of course, I’ll reschedule at your convenience.”

Mayuri’s over long fingernail brushed against the fabric of your hakama, his wrist barely moving to accomplish the touch.

“Yes, you will. Do present yourself with more decorum when I see you next. Your manners are becoming inexcusable.”

“Kurtosuchi-sama,” you said in acknowledgement, punctuated by a bow.

Yet, you walked away with your hold on him tight as ever, seemingly pleased to play a game you were always going to win.

#i feel like i post so little mayuri bc im like 'damn is this Too self indulgent and Too for me and me alone' #but like. here we go anyway #sorry to everyone who is not like one of 3 ppl ;laksjdf;lkajsdf #mayuri kurotsuchi x reader #mayuri kurotsuchi #choking.tw #toxic relationship.tw #gore.tw #violence.tw