#knows pure unchallenged peace though’

[spacesurfing]

Bullet Shells in My Brain

Anakin Skywalker x Reader Fluff/Angst

Summary: This war has taken it's toll on your mind and body, though it's almost like nobody has noticed. And you assumed that as a good thing. But Anakin noticed, Anakin loved you too much to not notice.

Warnings: Severe mental illness, depression, mentioning of war and death, do not read if any of these warnings make you uncomfortable

Requested!

•--•

The war. You blamed everything on the war now. Because as much as you shouldn't, it was the war. It was the war that ruined your life. It was the war that tore the galaxy apart with pure white gloves. Pure white gloves that had everyone else do it's bidding for them. Everyday started to feel pointless.

As a Jedi, you knew that your well-being was supposed to hold up. You were supposed to be better than this. You were supposed to be more stable than you are now. You weren't supposed to feel so numb.

We weren't getting to the core of the problem. If there was anything you knew, it was that we were so far from the solution. We were so lost. It felt like everyday, we almost got farther and farther from the solution to this war. You can't even remember why it had started. Can't remember the events that led for it to be so harsh.

But you knew someone that did. And when you told him those same words that echoed through your mind, he didn't see that chew marks in your mind, he didn't see how badly this war was eating at you. He offered up explanations to how it started. But you didn't wanna know anymore. Cause you knew it would make you throw up.

Anakin was everything to you. He was your best friend, the person you had clung to as a padawan. He was someone you admired for his unchallenged talent. You might've said that you both were something more, but you had never spoken about it, knowing the code and the rules you both had to abide to. But you could feel it - the spark people always spoke about when speaking of love.

You couldn't feel anything at all if it wasn't with him though. You went back to your dorm, to your room with blank walls and shelves with few trinkets that were of beauty to you. Or from Ani. And you laid in your bed and stared at your ceiling.

You used to lay down after missions or a long day and cry. When the war started, you used to cry. Cry till the muscles in your core felt like they were being separated, pulled apart like strings and crushed. You would cry until your face hurt and your eyes couldn't squeeze out tears. Till the only way you knew you were crying was by the choked out wails leaving your throat. And then like a wave, everything would crash. That last tear would slip down your cheek and curve under your chin. And your eyes would stay open, eyelashes soaking and eyebags growing fast. Your face would go still, as if you had died. Maybe you had in a way.

Like the last night you cried. You died that day. Some part of you was rotting from the inside out. You were a zombie walking, one with armor and a weapon. Like a bad fruit, you spoiled the others and killed their cells. It seemed like everyone died around you. It seemed like you weren't the only zombie, too.

But now, as you punched in a 4-digit code on the panel to the right side of your door, it opened to reveal the same room that bled you dry.

Every night this room killed you more.

You unhooked your lightsaber from your belt, placing it down on a console table that was next to the door. The plant centered on it gave you peace, a living thing that you were able to make thrive.

You couldn't have shed your armor faster, boots kicked to the floor, one laying perpendicular to the hard wood and the other parallel. The least you could do was hang your clothes the correct way, smoothing them out and slipping into baggy pants and a comfortable sweater.

Your eyes traveled to a mat sitting in the corner of your room, waiting for you, but no calling. You felt no draw to meditation anymore. Something you used to enjoy now felt like a mere memory. Ani liked forcing you to meditate, but he wouldn't allow you into your room when he prompted you to.

He knew how the cream walls eroded you.

You hesitated, feeling your heart clawing at itself and crying. It weeped for some magical fix to the way you felt. But there was no fixing this, nothing that could make you smile again, and nothing that could make you form bonds with the poor younglings that were only walking into death by being at the temple.

You sat down on your bed, the mattress dipping at your weight.

Civilians were been bombed during your last mission. The separatists killed children. You couldn't save them.

You stared at the crease of your wall, the wash of emotions forcing your eye bags heavier. They were getting too much to carry. You were drowning, them dragging you down to the bottom of the disorienting ocean.

A knock on your door made you flinch. It had been firm, enough to scare you out of your skin, standing up in a panic response. Your hands grasped your arms in a way to try to ground yourself before walking towards the door.

You didn't have to open it, really. But in your mind, you felt that this was a must moment.

You stood in front of it and pressed the grey button to open it with little hesitation. The mechanical noise made you look up at your visitor, and the sight of him made a tsunami of emotions flood you.

"Ani," you croaked, voice barely sturdy.

You cleared your throat, seeing the concern on his face. Anakin cared a lot, for you and for the people that surrounded him closely. But you didn't often see his eyebrows furrow in the way they did, looking at you like you were lost.

Maybe you were lost, void of anything that was true.

Anakin invited himself in, stepping towards you so you would, in turn, step back. The door closed behind him and it left you in a breathless silence. You felt a pang in your chest, Anakin looking around your room the same way you had when you entered earlier that night.

Anakin spoke your name softly, drawing your eyes to his own. They coated over with sadness. Maybe he was starting to hate the color cream as well.

"What's happening to you?" he asked, lips not even closing fully as he felt the mood in the room darken to a hazy gloom.

You shook your head, fingertips digging into your sweater sleeves, "What do you mean?"

"You know exactly what mean," Anakin retorted. His voiced lacked the sternness it should've had, given that sentence. Instead, it was steady, "This isn't the first time I've felt this. I... Your mind has changed so much. This room used to be so bright, what's wrong?"

You felt yourself break. Out of the numbing feeling you felt in your bones, came a sudden sadness, one you would much rather have than no feeling at all.

Your arms went rigid where they hugged each other but your legs felt weak. Your eyes heated and glistened over with feeling and your chin pushed at your bottom lip. Your head already started to ache from the way the muscles in your face shifted so drastically.

Anakin knew when he was needed. And he knew that all you could've asked for in this vulnerable moment was him. So, Anakin did what he did best in these moments and he grabbed onto you by your arms and held you in his own. His biceps pressed against the sides of your arms while his elbows bent to hug you, hands placed flat on your back. One hand pressed itself against the back of your head, fingers spread through your hair and held you to his chest, cheek ironed to him. His chin rested over your head, allowing you to fit into the slots of his body where you belonged.

When you wrapped your arms around his waist instead of clawing at the cloth covering you, it felt like you were made to cry in his arms in some weird, corrupt thought. You were perfect against him, and the way your tears stained his Jedi attire, you felt a connection you had never felt, one that woke you up from your depression.

You seemed to press tighter into him, grounding yourself to the Coruscant planet through the means of his torso. Your whole body shook with sobs and your cheeks were stained with the time having passed from grappling onto him. He was so steady for you, and you admired him as being your rock. You could never thank him, you could never.

"Please don't leave me," you babbled, words mindlessly leaving you as you sharply inhaled a lung-full of air, your chest letting out a broken wail.

Anakin smoothed out your hair, petting it down to your back as he listened to the words slip from your mouth. In a heart-broken response, he said your name, "I'm not leaving you. I'm staying right here, I promise. There's nowhere I'd rather be."

He placed his hand on the hair over your neck and held you steady to him. You pressed your nose into his clothes, taking in the distinct smell he had and the feeling of his warmth against your face.

"Just.. Just don't leave... I can't..." you hiccuped, "I can't do this without you."

The aura of the room finally made sense. The corners that seemed to dark for the way you used to smile. The objects that would constantly shift due to you picking them up to reminisce, now were always in the same place and tended to collect dust. Your meditation mat that always seemed cold made sense. Even the paint set you kept, gifted from Ani, sat dormant - the exact activity you called out to when you were upset.

It all made sense now, now that you were clinging to Anakin Skywalker like he was the only thing keeping your joints from splitting and your body from cracking in two.

Anakin knew the pressure that was holding you down; it wasn't something they had taught you as a naïve padawan. They never taught you about the way something like a war would destroy you wholly.

"I need you," you cried, sobs matching the wracking of your body, a sort of cry that only came from pure hurt, "I can't do this alone... you're all I have."

Anakin leaned his head down, feeling his own head become fuzzy from the words that you spoke into his chest. He pressed his lips to the top of your head in a kiss that made your body warm and tired, but the crying seemed endless. He broke you out of your trance, guiding your body to your bed before he sat down. Your arms were tore from him, and you almost felt like a helpless child when you looked at him. But Anakin scooted up to the pillows near the headboard, holding your arms to drag you onto the bed softly.

Your knees hit the bed, only seconds before your body did. You latched onto him again, hugging around his torso. You did never want him to leave, you didn't want to come to, to realize you couldn't hold onto him forever. He couldn't always be your anchor.

But he would try like maker to be that for you. He held you gently, one hand on your head, pressing so meaningfully against your face. Your leg hooked his waist, pressing your body to his side as he cuddled you a sweetheart would his lover.

But it stopped your sobbing, and it made you feel tender love. Tender love that you returned.

"I'm right here," he spoke in a mere whisper, words travelling through the air and echoing like a firefly light.

You knew he was telling the truth. Yes, of course you should know he was here, but the words meant more. The words meant he would be here, that as much as he could be away on a different planet or stuck in a meeting he couldn't leave, he was here for you.

His hand rubbed at your cheeks, letting your tears soak into the skin of his thumb. You stared into his distracted eyes, finding yourself captivated by him.

"Don't tell Obi-Wan," you mumbled.

Anakin finally connected his eyes with your own, "Why would I tell him?"

"So you can get help for me. I don't... I don't want him to worry about me."

The dirty blonde breathed smoothly, contrasting your own quick, quivering breaths. His mind seemed to wander, latching onto a few thoughts before responding, "What if you need it? I don't like seeing you this way, I hate watching you cry."

"Just..." you reasoned without thought, "Ani, will you stay with me?"

Anakin let his lips crack into a pacific smile, rubbing over your soft cheek with his lightsaber-roughed thumb.

"I'll stay with you," your name slipped from his mouth with ease, allowing your mind to relax and fall in the solace his presence gave you.

I'll stay with you.

•--•

#star wars x reader #star wars angst #star wars fluff #anakin skywalker x reader #anakin skywalker angst #anakin skywalker fluff #anakin x reader #anakin fluff #anakin angst #paula writes

[demonboyhalo]

i think Techno has such Old Soul Energy that Philza absolutely could have mistaken him for a traumatized twenty-something when he was actually like...16. Techno wears a glasses chain and calls his glasses "bifocals" unironically. he has monster scars that look years old bc of a slight healing factor. Techno's speech patterns and thought process are so Wise Old Man that he constantly sparks accidental existential crisis. Techno casually quotes philosophers, has a battle tactic for every situation, and knows far too much about deities to be a mere mortal. it's to the point that Philza is not the first to think Techno has traveled the world twice over to study the art of war.

puberty hit Techno at 15, so by 16, it has enough gravel from disuse that Techno sounds like a chain smoker. he reaches 6'1 naturally, with 3 inches from his heeled boots, and another one from his crown. inevitably, Techno TOWERS over Philza whenever they cross paths. the half piglin is fucking intimidating from stature and demeanor alone, and adding the fact that Techno's insatiable blood lust has the pure practiced skill to back it up...if he was all bark the immortal facade would mean nothing, and Techno would have been taught a lesson years ago. but the fact that Techno's arrogant act is unchallenged bc of his sheer combat ability? the cloak of crimson and gold accessories become much less gaudy and much more impressive when you are aware of how many warriors Technoblade has slaughtered in such a decorated outfit.

(there's also the fact that all Techno wants to do is retire and live a peaceful life of farming potatoes. is that not something you only hear from long lived warriors that have seen as much of the world as they could bear, and now only long for quiet after their adventurous youth?)

so Philza strikes up the Antarctic Empire with a weary but competent fighter who doubles as an incredible strategist, and they succeed terrifically in their conquest. they manipulate political affairs, crack down on hybrid experimentation, and slaughter battalions of enemies who'd oppose their reign. eventually though, the duo has had their fun, and they know their glory days are through. Techno and Phil might have separate paths ahead, but they never could forget the friendship they've made. Phil says his sentimental parting words, he tears up a little even, and then Techno hits Phil with "it'd be nice to share my first drink with you, i'll see you in a few years for my 21st birthday"

#this was very fun to write #inspired by that spider man noir post where Peter B is like 'it's so hard being the oldest' #and Noir responds in his deep nicholas cage voice 'actually i'm 19' #mcyt #dream smp #philza #ph1lza #technoblade #antarctic empire #headcanon #sbi

[poptod]

Cambridge Ghouls pt. 3 (Ahkmenrah x Reader)

Description: Your friend’s antics has pulled you and Ahk out of your comfortable library and into Scotland.

Notes: been a hot minute since i updated this so renewal on what is going on here: you are a zombie named crayon who lives on the grounds of cambridge university. your friends are ahk, a revived mummy; amy, a ghost; phillip, a vampire; rose, a corpse; and benjamin, a human. i wrote and came up w this while high and i feel like im following in the footsteps of shawn, the writer of natm. enjoy the story i tacked onto the one drawing i made WC: 6.8k

+

The pressure of your head on his shoulder, face hidden in the beaded cloth of his collar, was the only sensation he cared to feel. Early hours of night often lead to this position––cradled in blankets, trying to learn English, and trying to cope with the new world the both of you were vomited into. Tonight was much the same, though the familiar warmth of the hearth was cold in the dusty dark of the library room.

Your friends had yet to join you, a fact that had Ahk glancing at the door every five minutes. It was unlike them to take so long. If he had to guess, he'd surmise they'd gotten into a spot of mischief, and were held up with their own problems. That happened an unfortunate amount of times, but Ahk didn't mind much, as it often left the two of you in peace and quiet. While the four of them cavorted off on school grounds, he kissed the top of your head.

"- and did I ever tell you where I got that from?" came from behind the door, muffled but growing steadily closer. The footfalls of several people followed, and Ahk assumed it was his friends finally visiting you and him.

The door slamming open startled you into a jump that pushed your cat off your lap, knocking Ahk's jaw as you frantically scanned the room. His lower teeth clashed with his upper, sending a sharp wave of pain through his skull, one that quickly dissipated upon seeing his friends. Phillip, leading the pack, was talking loud and fast with wildly fast hand movements, and was clearly not being understood by anyone present. Amy followed close behind, floating above the heads of the others for ease. Then came a very distressed-looking Ben, whose usual soft features were contorted into panic.

Phillip continued talking for a minute, unchallenged for attention, until Ahk, who grew easily irritated at times, finally stopped him.

"Phil!" He said, his accent still twisting his words. "None of us can understand you."

"Wh -" he paused at last, looking to each of them, "I – Ben lost my violin!"

"A what?" Ahk said, taken aback.

"I'm sorry!" said Ben in a fluster.

"He did what?!" said Amy.

You stumbled over quietly, hanging off of Ahk's arm as you attempted to listen.

"I got that violin from my grandfather, crafted out of this beautiful wood and enchanted, and... ohh! You are so irritating sometimes," Phillip whined, growing into a growl as he pointed a finger at Ben.

"Enchanted? What, like a magic violin?" Amy asked.

"Precisely like a magic violin," Phillip said with a sigh, looking dramatically morose. What else could you expect of a vampire from the 1600's?

"Can someone please tell me what a violin is?" Ahk said, glancing between Ben, Amy, and Phillip.

"It's an instrument like the harp or lyre," Amy quickly explained. "Ben borrowed a 'special' violin from Phil after almost failing music class."

"I can't afford to fail another class," Ben moaned, "I'm already two classes over the limit, and my parents can only do so much."

"Mein Gott," Phil said under his breath.

"Is your grandfather going to be mad?" Ben asked nervously, turning to Phil.

"No, they're not hard for him to make. He's just the only one who's capable of making them, and the wood is very specific. It's the only kind that can channel pure magic."

"So... the Tree of Life," Ahk said. He had his hands folded beneath his chin, eyes concentrated on the vampire.

"Something like that. It's just – look, I need that violin, too. We can go and try to find that tree and ask my grandfather to make another, and you can use it to pass the class, but after that it comes back to me. Don't take music next year," Phillip said, turning to face Ben.

"Damn it," Ben cursed. "Fine. Deal."

"Wonderful," Phillip said with a curt smile, shaking Ben's hand firmly.

Once he let go, Phillip went straight to the bookcase, supernaturally fast eyes scanning the many titles. Ahkmenrah watched on for a moment in mild confusion before his attention was diverted to you, your weight falling onto him as you leaned.

"Careful there," he murmured, helping to rebalance you. You wouldn't understand him, but the sentiment was there, and you stayed close-by.

Ben, being a tall lad, looked over Phillip's shoulder every time he pulled a book down. While he did that you got distracted by your cat Winchester purring at your feet, kneeling down to gather him in your clumsy arms. The undead cat––much like you––didn't weigh much after the rot.

"Amy, are these books up-to-date on their information?" Phillip asked, ignoring Ben's breathing in his ear.

"Why should I know that?"

"Because you know an absurd amount of things that don't really matter except for in certain, usually odd instances," Phillip replied without looking up.

"... most of them are up to date," she mumbled. Phillip thanked her before promptly returning to his search.

You tugged on Ahk's sleeve again, opening your mouth to say something but only a soft whine leaving you. He took your hand, facing you with concerned eyes, but said nothing. Instead he scanned your expression, waiting to see if you would motion or signify anything. You wouldn't understand his words, anyway.

"Hunngryy.." you suddenly breathed out, your fingers coming to rest on high on his cheek, dragging down to the end of his jaw. His eyes widened.

"Hungry?" He repeated.

Ahk turned to the others, contemplating how he would get you something to eat. There was no food in the library, and very little food in the whole of the school, what with the winter break nearing. Best choice would be to keep with the others, he decided.

"You'll be alright for a little bit, right?" He asked you. You showed no signs of any reaction, only staring at your fingers touching his face.

"Ahk, we need to go to Scotland," Phillip said, snapping a book shut and sliding it back into its' place on the bookshelf.

"What? Why?"

"Because of the British," he seethed, promptly whipping around and walking out the door.

Ahk watched on in his usual state of confusion, but knew better than to ask questions. As much of a leader as he was born and bred to be, he was happy to follow the vampire's lead, to look after you as the others panicked about their petty things.

So he took your hand––followed only when everyone else was out the door, and locked the library behind him, fingers still entwined with yours. Though your hands were in a constant clumsy blunder, you tried your best to keep still in his touch. He never minded. Your fingers, while a little cool, had a forgiving magic that calmed him easily.

Brisk night air hit his face the moment he exited the school, following his friends through the grassy fields growing outside the brick and mortar building. Disappointing as it was unavoidable, none of the stars showed in the sky, blurred by the bright streetlamps lining the puddle-filled roads. The distinct scent of rain––petrichor––intoxicated the air he breathed, a leftover of the rains plaguing the city all day. Cars passed by, though luckily not often, as the sound of a roaring engine followed by rainwater splashing up his leg was not something Ahk enjoyed. His beautiful, golden robes never fared well in dreary English weather.

You showed no aversion to the cold or the wet. He had never seen you shiver, or wipe rain off yourself, or avoid stepping in puddles. You tried to stay out of mud, yes, but that was about it.

Phillip paused at the roadside, glancing out at the street with wide, searching eyes. Ben joined him on his right, and the two of them began to look for a cab, a fact that Ahk only knew because it was how they always got around. Once you caught up to Ahk halting, you bumped into his shoulder. Winchester followed you in a quick strut, ever loyal to his owner. For a second you stumbled back, but with a tug from him you were centered, once again resting part of your weight on him. Without him, you slouched in a noticeably-undead way.

"Can I ask what we're doing?" Ahk asked Amy, though he kept his eyes on the two men trying to hail a cab.

"One moment," she said.

A second later and he noticed the car driving up, rolling wheels flicking water onto the shined ends of Ben's tailored shoes. He stepped back with a gasp, backing into Phillip, who quickly pushed him away. Once the cab came to a full stop, Phillip made his way to the front window to speak with the driver. After a quick conversation, the five of you crammed into the back of the cab, your knees held up high to your chests with each of your hands in your respective laps.

"Now can I ask what we're doing?" Ahk asked again.

"We're going to Scotland to get the tree," Amy said.

"It's a specific strain that doesn't exist in England, but there should be a few up in the highlands," Phillip further explained.

"Are we taking a cab all the time?"

His slip-up in english was overlooked as Phillip said, "we're getting to the train station. Won't be a comfy car but we should get there in time."

"We'll need you two to get the tickets for us. They see Ahkmenrah, or Crayon, they're going to ask questions. If they see me, well... um.. I suppose I could just act like a ghost," Amy said, trailing off as she thought strategically.

"Good point. And we need an excuse for when they come to check our tickets," Phillip said as he leaned inward into the group, his right leg bouncing up and down.

"Movies! Or – or a musical, how's that work?" Ben suggested in a sudden moment of brilliance, a wide smile matching his sporting tone.

"Good idea, for once. And – wait," Phillip paused, "is the screen between us and the driver...?"

"It's there," Amy said, sparking a sigh of relief out of Phil.

"Gott sei Dank," Phil mumbled.

For the next 10 minutes of driving that should've been six without traffic, the three of them discussed the technicalities, the lies they would have to formulate in order to achieve their goal. In that time you began to gnaw on your fingers, hunger tearing at your already shoddy intestines. Ahk scolded you twice, though it never worked, and the third time he did so you whined and hid your face in him. He sighed quietly, leaning in to kiss the top of your head.

As the cab began to slow to a halt, Benjamin pulled out his wallet, handing several notes to the driver through the tray given. With that the five of you stumbled out of the tiny black automobile, watching it speed off only to stop at the next hailing woman.

"Alright, you guys wait out here. Benjamin and I will be back in a couple minutes," Phillip said, halting you, Ahk, and Amy beside a bench near the entrance.

Though clearly irritated by the command, Amy took the invisible seat beside the bench. Ahk took a seat as well, and you easily followed, fidgeting with the skin on your hands.

"How long will they take do you think?" Ahk asked.

"Ten minutes maybe? Neither of them have great... people skills," Amy said hesitantly, her eyes never leaving the doors of the station.

A tug on his head stopped him from asking for clarification, and instead he turned back to you, patiently but quietly asking what you were doing. You hummed something unintelligible, continuing to pull at his crown. To spare himself the headache he took it off for you, handing the heavy gold to you, and chuckling softly when you couldn't quite carry it.

To your side sat Winchester, who gingerly sniffed the shining metal before shrinking away in disdain. You mumbled something again before landing a kiss on top of the cat's head.

"I'm going to need that back, you know," Ahk said with a chuckle, bringing your attention back to him.

You just tilted your head and smiled, slightly spaced out but eyes filled with a warmth. Every now and then he glimpsed this, this spirit that had nothing to give but kindness, who shone from the best center a human can have; honest adoration for another. You raised your hand, tangling your fingers in his dark hair and ruffling the curls there.

For a moment you tried to say something, but as it continually didn't come out right, you instead attempted bopping his nose with your fingertip. Attempted meaning not successfully; you missed and almost poked him in the eye, but Ahk flinched and you just poked him on his cheek. He chuckled, took your hand, and kissed the back of it.

A blush of sorts took to your cheeks. Like most times, you had little idea why you were feeling strangely, and thus pulled away from his touch. He knew not to mind by now.

"Amy?"

"Mm?"

"Do you think they have any food in there?"

"Nothing that's open. Might have a coffee place still up, but... well, they might have some croissants. Bread," she said, taking a moment to think before she spoke.

"I don't think Crayon would eat it," Ahk said.

"Probably not." Amy looked past Ahk to you, watching you for a moment before continuing. "The dinner car might be open, though. Depends on how expensive the tickets are."

"Hmm," he sighed. "Thank you."

She nodded with a smile before turning back to the train station, the warm light of lamps both indoor and outdoor illuminating the empty waiting lines and streetsides. Those still outside were dressed in coats and scarves, though weren't piled up in different layers––those would have to wait for colder months, which would not come until the warmer ones came and went.

Most people ignored the three of you. Close to no light shone on the bench shadowed by the overhang, and since you kept quiet, no one bothered to spare an extra glance. In the dark, Amy was mostly invisible. You and Ahk didn't have that power, but you mostly looked like a homeless person, and Ahk... well, he wrapped himself up in his cape, and that was about the best disguise he could manage.

The door of the station clicked open, drawing all eyes to the approaching figure of Phillip, silhouetted against the lights of the station inside.

"Ben's inside, we booked a room and we're leaving in five minutes," Phillip said, almost out of breath as he stopped in front of you.

"Five minutes?" Amy asked as the three of you stood. "Rather last minute, isn't it?"

"It's a night train, no one's got tickets anyway," Phillip said, tapping the backs of each of you as you passed him, coralling you all into the building.

It wasn't warmer inside as Ahk expected, leading him to thoughtlessly tuck his arms into himself. He'd been looking forward to some warmth. Hopefully he'd find that on the train. Just as Amy surmised, most of the restaurants inside the building were closed, iron grates pulled over once-colorful shops. Ahk paused to take in what little architecture he could see in the dark, but was soon pulled away by Phillip leading the group onwards.

Once again he tapped your backs, counting each of you as you entered the halted train. You reached for Ahk's hand as you walked down the long hallway, searching for the right room number, which only Benjamin and Phillip knew. Most of the lights outside the train were dimmed by the darkened windows, and instead the way was shown by tiny lamps lining the hallways and rooms.

"Here," Ben said, stopping those ahead of him. You and Ahk turned, and the five of you piled into the little room, whose velvet seats were soon covered up by your group.

As usual, you took your seat beside Ahk, who had claimed a window seat that happened to be near the table as well. On the other side of the train car, there was nothing but empty tracks and the eerie darkness of cities at evening. You sniffed and leaned back against the Pharaoh.

"Mmm," you mumbled, turning to press your face into his side, "hunngryy."

"I know," he said softly. "Do we have a food car?"

"I don't know if they'll have any real food, but they probably have snacks," Phillip said, still situating himself in the crowded room.

Ahk looked to Amy, who shrugged.

"Might as well try," she said, and with no reason to refute her, Ahk clumsily led you past the seated legs and back into the hallway.

The train began to rumble forward as the two of you walked. You bumped into Ahk's back when it happened, but you regained balance easily, and two train cars down you found the dining car. Only one light was on, sat upon the bartop beside a single bowl of nuts. The windows, lined by red and gold curtains, showed nothing but speeding darkness outside.

You moaned uneasily, tugging on Ahk's sleeve as your eyes remained entranced upon the flickering buildings outside.

"Fast, isn't it?" He said softly, glancing to you before looking back outside. "You'll be alright?"

Of course you didn't understand his words, but seeing as he wasn't upset by the high speeds, you calmed down. He then glanced over the bar counter, searching for any food besides the bowl of nuts. Upon finding nothing his face screwed up in dissatisfaction.

"Will you eat nuts?" He asked as he took the bowl, handing it to you.

You fingered through them, pushing aside the ones you deemed inedible. He watched you for a little while––and you did take a while to sort the whole bowl––but in the end you only ate about three. It might tide you for a little while, but you would have to eat again later.

After thoroughly searching the train car, the two of you returned to the rest of your friends, who had made busy discussing the fickle state of Phillip's teeth. Phillip himself wasn't engaging much considering he didn't find the topic an agreeable conversation point, and his stubbornness had led way to Ben and Amy getting once more embroiled in debate.

"I honestly think his teeth grow. I'm pretty sure I've heard of that being a condition, and I mean, it happens to rabbits. It could happen to humans," Ben said, crossing his arms but keeping a polite tone. Amy, however, had no consideration for such niceties.

"I... I don't care to unpack all that, but we've told you this before. He's a vampire. He can retract his teeth, and that's why they have different sizes at different times," she explained in a seething voice, her teeth clearly gritted behind her lips.

"Where would someone store a retracted tooth? It's not like claws, there's no space in the skull," Ben said, completely passing over the very clear indicator of something he had yet to figure out; Phillip was a vampire.

"Tiny bit of food over there, but I'm still going to be looking," Ahk said halfheartedly to Amy, crawling in beside her on the bench. "How long's this ride supposed to be?"

"Ten hours," Phillip replied gruffly, his half-lidded eyes staring vacantly out the window. He slouched against the wall, balancing his cheek on his palm, elbow rested on the tiny desk beneath the glass.

"Oh dear," Ahk said, his voice suddenly small.

"Yes, well," Phillip sniffed, shifting in his seat, "we'll have to be quick once we get there. Our ticket back is for the coming morning."

"Wait, morning?! Have you forgotten Crayon and I can't see the sun?"

"Oh, shit, my apologies," he said, eyes wide as he remembered your unfortunate curse. He stood, smoothing out the wrinkles in his suit. "I'll, um, I'll go see the director. I'm sure I can get something sorted, trade in your tickets for, um... tomorrow night. We can get you a hotel room or something."

He left quick after that, scooting past all your legs before pushing himself out the door. A deep uneasiness settled itself inside Ahk, appearing in the form of a racing heart, and paranoid thoughts. To die, to risk seeing the dawn just for a violin, seemed to him a strange way for his story to end. He had a feeling––one that would never go away––that he would not die to the sun. Not him, the undead King of a sunkissed land. Still, just because he was somewhat-certain about himself not dying, he had you to worry about. You didn't understand the whole 'sun will kill you' thing all that well, and you had no fear regarding the morning. He would have to keep an eye on you the later into the night it got.

The stars, once clogged by streetlamps and busy restaurant lights, shone brighter in the suburbia sprawling out across the land. Very slowly the tall buildings began to fade, and the homes grew less and less frequent till each one had a personality of its' own. Grass and overgrowing flora took the place of wide, car-lined streets, and eventually the short brick walls flanking either side of the train tracks fell away to show the whole of the land.

Ahk didn't need sleep. You didn't either, but the two of you nonetheless curled into one another, dozing in the warm light as the others conversed quietly. He overheard little (considering he didn't care to listen), but the others seemed to be in good spirits despite the loss of an apparently valuable violin.

Brakes screeching outside brought him to stir, dazed eyes landing first on the pale sky, and then to you, completely zonked out. He chuckled but had no time to comment on it before Phillip was rushing the five of you out, grabbing the few coats you kept in the top rack and coralling you down the hall.

The air here had a certain taste; that was what Ahk first noticed upon exiting the train. Although the sky was already beginning to lighten, it was clear the sun would not come for a good several hours, as the stars still shone in the darker pockets of space. Rolling hills and jagged mountains surrounded him, framing the tiny train station that remained entirely unoccupied save for him and his friends. Down the grass-filled valley lay a town whose houses consisted of wood, painted dull colors but decorated with flowers, petals of red, yellow, and purple lining the brick roads. Very little light from the horizon reached the town.

Phillip hit Amy on the side. "There," he said, eyes trained on the distance as he pointed across the outdoor station, "tree groves. Looks like pine."

"Indeed it is," she said with a smile.

"Is that what we need then? A pine tree?" Ben asked.

"Well... sort of," Phillip said, shrugging.

He scanned the train stop, and in less than a second he began to go in the right direction, headed for the tall bridges that crowned the railroad. The others followed quick behind, though Ahk had to grab your hand and pull you away from the alluring lights of the town.

"Hunng..gry," you whined, stumbling over your feet as you tried in vain to escape Ahk's grasp.

"Crayon, you can't go down there," he said, feeling more and more as though he was taking care of a child. "Come now."

You whined again but made no more attempts to refuse. Once you caught up to the rest of the group, the sudden loss of speed in Ahk's step had you bumping into him again, but once your head rested on the back of his shoulder you stayed put. Each time you rested yourself on him in any way, a fluttering light would suddenly overtake him with a blush. This was only strange because you did that a lot––each night, multiple times, you would put your head on his shoulder, lean on his chest, rest your hands in his lap. Another charm of yours.

Freezing damp surrounded his feet, open to the coming breezes since he never wore anything but sandals. His state of being mostly-undead kept him from feeling a good deal of the cold, there was still a tingling numbness, apparent in all of his fingers and the tip of his nose. For the first time he shivered, helpless to the vibrations pulsing through him.

"Ah, careful here," Phillip said, slowing the pace to make way for a long, stone fence ranging all the way down into the village. "The rocks are still very wet, so..."

Amy floated on over the wall, materializing her hand to help Phillip step over. He took it with a thank you, balancing himself on her, and soon helping Ben and Ahk over as well. Even Winchester got over, his large paws landing on the stones before jumping back down into the mud and grass. Unfortunately, you were still on the other side and incredibly confused. Your head tilted to the side, brows furrowed deeply as your mouth hung half-open.

"Take my hand, dear," Ahk said as he held out his own hand, which you gingerly took.

Your grip remained as gentle as you could manage, a habit you grew after accidentally hurting Ahk, but the habit had you nearly slipping and cracking your skull further.

"Woah there," Phillip said, instinctually zipping over to catch you. "Just – sit on the rocks."

Although you didn't understand, Ahk made sure to motion to you, and you reluctantly sat on the rocks. Your face scrunched up as your pant soaked from waist to ankles. With a little help, you swung your legs over.

"Alright, good?" Phillip asked the group at large, looking to each of you. When he received all nods, he continued onwards to the nearing grove of trees, searching carefully for any dips in the terrain.

"How are you, my dear?" Ahk asked to only you, his voice a murmur in your ear. He leant in to speak more secretively, an action that made you giggle, which in turn brought a smile to his face. Of course you couldn't verbally respond, so instead you gently headbumped him in the shoulder.

The same questions as always rang in his head as he watched you, wondering if you understood any part of him at all. It was clear by now there was something in your head––you had learned the word for hunger, and you showed affection to him specifically. Was that because he was a safe space, or because you loved him? He tried to never contemplate it, as it was likely he would never get answers, even if he wanted nothing more than that.

"Alright, so, we're looking for trees that can support magic. It's relatively easy to test it," Phillip said, ducking beneath the unavoidable branches to continue through the grove. "Just concentrate your magic into the tip of your finger and put it to the tree. If it leaves a burn mark, it isn't magic, but if the light flows through the bark, it works with magic. It'll look a bit like glowing veins."

"You'd know all about that," Amy mumbled beneath her breath.

"What was that?"

"Nothing," she said, and he didn't pry further.

"Um, Phillip?" Ahk said slowly, raising a single brow as he scanned the forest. "How do we, um, consecrate magic?"

"Concentrate," Amy corrected.

"What? I thought you could. You're a cursed mummy, why wouldn't you have magic?" Phillip said with a frown.

"I don't have it either," Amy said, raising her hand slowly, reluctant to meet his eye.

"You're – okay, alright, it's fine. I suppose I'll... just have to check myself," he grumbled, cursing under his breath as he turned back to the woods.

"So how do we do the magic?" Ben asked quietly once Phillip had left earshot.

"Unless you come from sorcerers, we don't," said Amy.

"What's sorcerers?" Ahk asked, and although he hadn't meant to, Amy began to grow irritated.

"A type of person who uses magic. Come on, let's catch back up," she said, expertly pulling the conversation off of her, and onto the path ahead.

He didn't remember when you stopped touching him, or when Winchester had disappeared from sight, but as he looked behind him panic filled his lungs. You were not there. Actually, you weren't anywhere in sight––you, and your cat, had run off.

"Amy!" Ahk said, eyes widening as his face paled. "We've got to find Crayon!"

"Wh- you let them run off?!"

"I thought they were still with me!" Ahk cried, holding his head in his hands as dread dripped from his eyes like tears.

"Ben, go find Phillip. We have to find Crayon," Amy said, and with that Ben sped off, and Amy floated above the trees. "I'll try and find them in this direction. Go fifty paces that way and then come directly back, it won't work if you get lost as well."

"Um – what's paces?"

"Fifty steps or something," she said.

"I'm.. really sorry, what's fifty?"

She sighed but floated back to the ground, patiently taking the time to write it out in Egyptian numerals in the dirt.

"Ohhh," he mumbled. "Thank you."

"Of course. Now go," she said, pushing him back to it.

Paranoia pounded in his heart as he walked, carefully counting the number of steps he took, and carefully keeping in the right direction. Much of his concentration stayed in keeping the right path, but the good rest of it was absorbed in looking for you. He was easy to spot in both day and night with his golden robes. You, on the other hand, blended in nearly everywhere. Perhaps your cat would give you away, but he didn't rely on that happenstance.

Throughout his search he remained in high alert, paying special attention to each of his senses. As much as he wanted to run through the forest, looking for you at every turn, it would do no more than waste his energy and get him as lost as you. So he kept to his pace no matter what his instincts told him, and retraced his steps once he hit 50.

"Any sight of them?" Ahk asked once Amy appeared from among the twisting branches.

"No," she said with a curt sigh. "No sign of the cat, either."

"Damn," he cursed. "Where would they have gone?"

"I don't –"

"AMY??!"

Phillip's voice nearly echoed with the strength of it. Amy just sighed, again, but took off in the direction of the yell. He followed quick after, following her ethereal form through the pines. The two of them soon came to find Phillip and Ben standing beside a tree that, as expected, had glowing tangles of string lining up and down the bark, much like veins.

"Find it?" Ahk asked, panting slightly from the exertion of running.

"Yes, but we've run into a horrible problem," he spluttered, clearly overwhelmed by the whole of the night.

"What's that?" said Amy.

"We forgot the ax," Ben said, hiding his face in his hands in such a way that his voice came out muffled.

"Oh... fuck," she said.

Muffled grumbling dragged him out of the conversation, though seeing as no one else turned, Ahk assumed he was the sole listener. For a moment it sounded like a wild animal, and his heart began preemptively racing in its' cage. Then came movement––the rustling of bushes and trees, footsteps sloshing in the mud as though something was being dragged.

Thick, clotted blood ran down from your mouth, streaking down your shirt and staining both of your hands. Flecks of it had landed all across your torso, coloring the dull mud caked onto the shirt. Winchester stood at your side, looking lovingly up at you, and on your other side you clutched the leg of a creature long-dead.

"Crayon," Ahk whispered out, and the conversation behind him fell silent, all eyes turning to you. No one moved, entranced in the strained breaths heaving your chest up and down.

You made your way forward, passing Phillip and coming to the tree, whose veins still held the eerie glow. Ignoring the sharp needles and branches, you grabbed the trunk. With a mighty shout and a horrible cracking that likened far too much to bones for anyone's comfort, the tree came crumbling down, a victim to the uncontrolled strength of the aggravated undead.

The four watched on in great surprise and mild horror as you turned back around, looking as though you'd done no more than picked up your cat.

"Ahhk..m," you mumbled past blood-soaked lips, shuffling forward. Halfway to him you dropped the leg of what was now clearly a sheep, and soon you bumped into him, leaning part of your frail weight on him.

He didn't react, too flabbergasted to do so. A number of things had him petrified, and all together it was too much––you going missing and then returning, covered in blood no less, and then the part he didn't know what to think of.

You said his name. Out of all the words you could have learned, you decided his name was most important; second to hunger, of course.

"Ummm..."

You hummed, satisfied, and wrapped your arms around Ahk, squeezing him. As much as he wanted to return the affection, you were still covered in blood that was now painting his stomach. Another horrid part was the smell––the raw meat you'd torn into and the half-dry blood beneath your fingernails, paired with the corpse of the sheep, whose white coat was now soaked in both blood and clotted sludge.

"Well... at least Crayon's back," Amy said, gesturing vaguely when Phillip raised his brow. Both were at a loss.

"Sun will rise soon, we need to get the tree back. Ahk," Phillip said, motioning the Pharaoh over, who quickly obeyed.

Phillip stood near the trunk end, split open to expose the raw wood, and Ahk stood at the tip on the other side. Once both were situated, they heaved upwards to balance the weight on each man.

Rain began to pour as the five of you made your way back to the train station, you remaining adamantly at Ahk's side despite his pace being a little too fast. After your massive splurge of strength, your muscles ached, and your mind was beginning to slow. Amy suggested that perhaps you got stronger––both physically and mentally––when you had a decent diet of raw meat.

"Do you think we could get food to them more often, then? Obviously it makes them feel better, so long as you don't exert too much of it at once," Ahk said, eyes narrowing playfully as they fell upon you. You made no sign that you understood but giggled from his expression.

"I don't know, raw meat can –"

"Crayon can just eat my leftovers," Phillip said, grunting as he adjusted the tree beneath his arm.

"Leftovers?" questioned Ahk.

"I get most of my blood from raw meat that you can get from a butcher. The meat'll be a tad pale, but it should work. Might even be less messy," he said.

"/Anything/ would be less messy than that," Ben said as he gestured to you.

"Don't bother about him," Ahk said, swiftly kissing your forehead. "He's just jealous you're stronger than him."

While Ben and Amy stood right outside the train station, guarding the tree, Phillip took you and Ahk down to the town down in the valley. The walk down was long and rainy eough that by the end of it, there was no need to go wash off in the river. Most of the mud and all of the blood had washed away. The only problem left was Ahk's clothes––to remedy that, Phillip gave him his long, sunproof coat, just for the morning.

Warmth finally enveloped him as the three of you entered the tiny hotel, glowing with yellow light but occupied by only a ticking clock and a woman behind the counter. Much of the rainy streets outside were blocked by the overgrowing flowers lining the windowsills. Phillip, using his human skills and human money, booked one of the five rooms available in the whole of the small hotel.

"Don't get much business here, do you?" Phillip asked as he rooted around in his wallet.

"Do, actually," the woman said with a sigh. "Ever since the castle got refurnished, that's the only place people want to stay. Plenty of customers, no business. Been here 50 years and that hasn't changed."

"... my apologies, ma'am."

The cheaper room happened to be the one with no windows which, for Ahk and Phillip, was a win-win. While Phillip could make do in the sunlight, wearing long coats, gloves, and bearing umbrellas, Ahk would not have that freedom. The two of you would have to stay in the little town with your tickets back until the next evening. Phillip left you there to rejoin Amy and Ben, hopefully to find Phil's grandfather and recarve that special violin.

"Nice enough room," Ahk commented once the two of you were left alone.

It wasn't anything grand––of course it wasn't, but it had that certain charm that made it feel quite cozy. An electric heater sat behind the door, and beside it stood a table, two chairs tucked into it and a small clock atop it.

He sat on the bed and you followed, fingering the scratchy blanket placed above soft, worn sheets.

"Don't wander off like that again," he said softly in his native tongue, concern in his tone as he raised your head to look him in the eye. "I get horribly worried about you."

Slowly you raised your hand, coming to rest your palm against his cheek. Your dull eyes, rimmed with red, told him of a sadness you couldn't quite articulate. In its' place you gave what would best substitute the words––a kiss on the forehead so carefully gentle he barely felt it. The way you moved, slow and cautious, made him feel as though he were made of porcelain.

"I feel as though we are the only sane people in the world," he admitted with a smile, blushing from your affection. "That's silly of me, isn't it? For the undead Pharaoh to think he and his undead friend are the sane ones. My old self would find this hilarious."

"Ahhk," you mumbled out, moving attentively till your arms wrapped around his shoulders and neck, your cheek squished against his head. You kept moving, moved to your knees, and soon you were pulling him down to lay on the bed. He laughed and held you back, keeping your fragile form comfortably on top of his chest.

"You are, undoubtedly, one of the kindest creatures I've met," he said, whispered against your temple. Energy was beginning to leave him––/life/ was beginning to leave him, as the sun rose hidden behind the hotel walls.

Since you couldn't manage any more strength for words, you kissed the top of his head once more. As numbness filled his limbs, he tried not to think of the coming hours, how the two of you would be no more than corpses in a bed.

You were the first to stop breathing.

In the next evening the two of you snuck back onto the train, enjoying 10 hours to yourself before you were racing back to Cambridge. The sun would rise soon enough, and neither of you had money for a cab home, thus leaving only one option: sprinting.

The two of you collapsed with laughter as you slammed the door of the library shut behind you, the light of the sun already peering over the horizon.

"Gott sei Dank, you're safe," Phillip said, greeting the both of you with a smile and outstretched arms.

"Phillip, my friend," Ahk said, laughing, "thank you for your jacket. I don't think they would've let me without it."

"Of course!"

"And of the filing?"

"The what?"

Soft violin came from around the hallways of bookcases, filling the room with music just as the fireplace filled the room with warm light. Ahk took your hand, and the three of you made your way to the hearth, Ahk taking his seat on the floor with you, cradled in a swath of blankets. Above the two of you Ben played, dressed in a fitted black and white suit that accentuated the strength of his chest and his lean waist.

"You two have a fun evening?" Amy asked, careful to keep her voice below the volume of the violin.

"Wonderful," he answered for both of you. You nuzzled further into him, and with your head tucked below his chin, the two of you finally relaxed back in your home.

#ahkmenrah x reader #Ahkmenrah #Night at the Museum #rami malek #ahkmenrah x male reader #ahkmenrah x female reader #rami malek character

[ask-the-tempest-king]

//Wow! I *Really* love the thought and effort you put into the last answer! (About what was wrong with Faerghus) And while I *Definitely* agree with you 100%! Especially when it comes to poor Dima. (That poor baby... if it were modern day? He'd need Therapy and pretty serious meds for all the trauma he's been through!) I will warn you now? That some people will probably say "Well it was different back then in the Medieval times-" (Which is *True* but you still weren't sending 13 year olds in to slaughter people wholesale, *Especially* when he'd lost all his family not very long before.

Also, I have to question just how "great" of a King Dimitri's father was if his people were always doing so poorly and constantly living in fear of attack? To me, a Good King should either be strong enough to hold his borders, either by making peace with his neighbors or by enough of a show of force and reputation that he is unchallenged. Obviously Dimitri's father could do neither.

Even now it seems Faerghus is in a precarious position. I don't pity Dimitri the headache he'll have trying to make something workable out of the disaster he's been left with. But it *is* his birthright and his home, and he *does* truly care about both the land and it's people so I can see him doing everything he can to make it better.

In my perfect world I'd love to see him find someone who could accept him, flaws, scars, demons and all and love him perfectly for all his imperfections. Know what he did, and love him regardless and hopefully through that love and acceptance, help *him* make peace with his past, and accept that it *wasn't* all his fault and that he *Can* and *Does* deserve to Feel... to grieve, to cry, to show weakness... to be *Human* That to be a Prince, or a King, doesn't mean to be an unattainable inhuman ideal, but instead to be very much a very real flesh and blood human being. They'll have to be a Bloody Saint, because we *All* know how stubborn and pig headed our beautiful, but oh so broken, blue eyed blonde can be. And they have to be willing to stand up to him too, unafraid to face the Tempest King with a fury all their own. But just as quickly, be able to read him and know when to back off so you don't shatter what Precious little he may have left. But if they can manage it? If they can balance on the crest of the Storm? The rewards will be worth *all* the effort, everytime he looks at them with nothing but pure happiness and love in his eye.

(Sorry, I rambled too!)

-Socially Awkward Anon

// Thank you for liking my analysis! (if you could call it that, I just rambled for 20 minutes.) I’m very aware of the ‘but it was medieval times! it was different back then!’ argument, and I’m very prepared for it, but I fully agree. There’s no reason why anyone should send someone as young as Dimitri off to suppress a rebellion after a terrible accident like the Tragedy. I can’t say for sure how good of a king Lambert was, there simply isn’t enough about him besides the headcanons have for people, but I wonder too. Faerghus is most definitely in a very delicate position, it’s been that way for a while and both the Tragedy and the five-year war only made that worse. Someone like Dimitri definitely needs all the help and support that he can have, and I wish there was a way to because he absolutely deserves to be happy and cared for. It’s okay for rambling! We can ramble together. (though I’m now wondering if there’s a character limit for asks anymore, that’s quite impressive that you’re willing to type out such a well thought out response to me ranting about a fictional country;;)

#not an ask #fe3h spoilers #fire emblem three houses spoilers #// mod azure rambles a lot #// man i should’ve tagged the other one as fe3h spoilers huh #// ill add the tags in the other one

[sally-mun]

The extra detail actually makes me dislike Jenna-Lu more, because while outing his illness would be unforgivable, omitting it removes the context behind his actions and paints him as a 1D villain to the unknowing public. And yet, I completely understand why she'd think it was the kinder thing to do, why she'd think of herself as righteous, and why other readers would cheer. You've done some amazing things with these characters.

Now this, in my opinion, is where the issue gets particularly interesting.

First and foremost, I think it’s also important to keep in mind that this is all information that SHOULD have been on the public record all along, and the only reason it hasn’t been is because Locke enjoys an absurd level of privilege. It’s not purely the fact that he’s a Guardian; in this case, the real privilege is the fact that his mother is a member of the group that’s supposed to be recording and publishing his behavior. It’s a huuuge conflict of interest. Having her on the inside has allowed the scales to tip in his favor for years. Had Jenna not been in the picture (or had some other profession), all of the information that was in her article would’ve still been reported, but it’d have been in real time rather than all at once after the fact.

It’s also worth considering that the article in question isn’t just Jenna writing an editorial or something, it’s an interview with Lara. If it hadn’t been Jenna telling her story, it probably would’ve still happened regardless, just via another journalist. This information was always going to finally come out one way or another; Jenna just happened to have a personal stake in the matter, so she did it herself. She wanted to rectify having personally buried these stories over the years, which she views as a transgression on her part. It not only cheats the public of information that they’re owed, but it cheats Locke as well. By not having to deal with the consequence of negative public feedback over his actions, he was never even given the opportunity to learn and grow from each incident.

With that said, I absolutely agree with you that Locke’s illnesses go a long way toward explaining why he behaves so irrationally, and that without that context he comes across even worse. (That’s honestly one of the main reasons I started writing The Brotherhood in the first place, because that’s essentially what we get in the comics.) Unfortunately, though, the lack of complete context is Locke’s problem, not the press’s. Public figures, by nature, have their lives under a microscope, and the public is going to judge them, especially if their actions are perceived as a threat. Even though we as readers know that Locke’s view is distorted and he does these things because he believes they’re right, it doesn’t change the fact that in reality his behavior IS dangerous, and the public is going to judge it as so. The ball is in his court as to whether or not they get the context of his struggle with mental illness. He can either choose to disclose that and possibly receive a little more compassion from his critics, or he can keep it his personal business and let the negative perception stand unchallenged. It’s a shitty situation to even have to make that decision, and both paths have their own potential risks and payoffs, but unfortunately it comes with the territory when you’re a public figure (especially one in a massive position of power).

Does the exposure of Locke’s actions paint him as monstrous? Yes, I’m sure for most people it probably does -- but is that Jenna’s fault, or is that simply an objective evaluation of his behavior? Is he monstrous because the presentation is unfair, or is he monstrous because it’s accurate? If it were widely known that he has undiagnosed mental illnesses, would that make the things he’s done any less monstrous? Should someone be shielded from any and all scrutiny or criticism on the basis of having an undisclosed medical condition? Like I keep saying, it’s a very, very complicated issue.

I still don’t know whether or not the way Jenna went about things was the right thing to do; I’d like to think that there may have been another solution entirely that none of the characters ever landed on, but I have no idea what that solution is. As far as the solution we DID get, there are both pros and cons to her approach -- and I’m sorry, I know you probably don’t want to hear this, but Jenna reporting on the things Locke’s been getting away with over the years isn’t a pro OR a con. It’s just a statement of facts, which is literally the most neutral part of the entire article. Facts themselves are neutral; they aren’t inherently good or bad, they just... are.

I don’t expect any of this to have changed your mind, but I hope it can at least bring you a little peace on the matter. I appreciate your feedback either way.

#Sallymun RPs #The Brotherhood #Anonymous

[vicweasley]

I was born with a HURRICANE HEART with wild rains and unchallenged rogue winds;           I am constantly fighting, fighting to keep those dear to me within its eye.

DICHEN LACHMAN? No, that’s actually VICTOIRE WEASLEY from the NEXT GEN ERA. You know, the child of FLEUR WEASLEY ( NEÉ DELACOUR ) and BILL WEASLEY? Only 27 years old, this SLYTHERIN alumni works as a DRAGONOLOGIST and is sided with THE ORDER OF THE PHOENIX. SHE identifies as GENDERQUEER and is a 1/8TH VEELA who is known to be MERCURIAL, SELF-DESTRUCTIVE, and STUBBORN but also LOYAL, PASSIONATE, and STRATEGIC. — &&. ( JINX, PST, SHE/THEY, 24. ) Note: Victoire is adopted.

PLAYLIST • PINTEREST 

CHARACTER INSPIRATIONS: Mercutio ( Romeo and Juliet ), Kady Orloff Diaz ( The Magicians ), Bellamy Blake ( The 100 ), Kara Thrace ( Battlestar Galatica ), Sara Lance ( Legends of Tomorrow )

HEADCANON ONE:

Character Name: Victoire Apolline Delacour-Weasley

VICTOIRE: Seventeen years of hearing stories about those who died on her ‘birthday’ before her. Over a decade of not celebrating it when she realized what it meant to others. Of course, she understands that this is the burden she carries – while her cousins bear namesakes of those who had fallen before them, she is the painful reminder of the day they lost people – so they could win freedom. She is the h e l l f i r e that is left after a victory, scorching technicolor brutal memories into the minds of those who were left behind. Still, she is a Victory none the less, and her family adopted her the day of a horrible day when she was a baby. They chose her instead of the pain, they named her after the good instead of seeing the bad.   APOLLINE: The french derivative of the name Apollonia which comes from the Greek god, Apollo. Apollo, the god of the sun, prophecy, music, beauty, healing, poetry, plague and so much more. It could be said that Victoire is her own brand of beautiful – of course the Veela genes help ( or do they? ) but if there’s anything she’s gotten from this namesake it’s the love of music. She’s sure that if she wasn’t going to work with dragons when she was older it would be with music – something she practically speaks as a language. The name might sound too flowery or too soft for Victoire – but her grandmother from which she was given this name was still a Veela. She still had the siren song that was deadly to almost associated with her name. Still, just because Victoire is comparable to a constantly raging storm – she has times where parts of her mother and grandmother comes out.   DELACOUR: While she embraces the Weasley, Victoire also embraces her mother’s French heritage. If there’s anything of her mother, of this side of the family that comes out – it’s when she speaks French. She refuses to call her mother anything but maman, and will quickly switch to French around her during Weasley-Potter-Lupin gatherings at the burrow to make her feel even a little more comfortable. For Victoire, the Delacour name embodies softness and embodies femininity that she’s not always connected to. It reminds her that she’s not been alone in being discriminated against or objectified, that others understand what it’s like to be in her place to some extent. It’s then that she’s able to embrace the girl, that she’s able to feel like one and not always so at war with her body and herself. WEASLEY: If the other parts of her name didn’t already come with enough precedence – perhaps the name ‘Weasley’ was the icing on the cake. She couldn’t be prouder to be a Weasley, no matter how much fussing her grandmother does or how everyone is in everyone’s business – Victoire knows she is lucky. Vic is well aware of how privileged she is & how her infamous family of blood traitors are lucky to have the life they do. Even though she looked different from some of her family, so did so many of her other extended family members. She took comfort in the fact that Weasley-Potters were a mixed bunch, in personality, in races, in ideals, and her being different was celebrated. There may have been a thirst to know her heritage the older she got, one that would later be quenched, but her real family were the Weasley’s. They chose her, they were better than her blood family ever was, not that she could remember them.

Pronouns & Gender:   She/Her. Victoire identifies as Genderqueer.

HEADCANON TWO:

gender dysphoria tw

C h a n g i n g. From the minute Victoire was born, she was always fidgeting, always moving and her first display of magic was at 4 years old, when she tried to change her hair blue like Teddy’s. Instead, it changed her beautiful crop of dark brown into a dirty blonde. Often, she’d find herself envying Teddy’s abilities to change, feeling uncomfortable in her skin and angry that it wasn’t as easy for her. As she grew older, she came to understand  what her body was, what it would be and that she’d never be able to change herself like Teddy or change herself at all. Any change that she’d make would be permanent and she found herself not wanting that in the slightest. Not wanting to limit herself because while Victoire loved her feminine side – there was something she felt growing in her soul that was just … something else. It didn’t have a label but it became her, it was her, and it was confusing but it was who she was. Victoire did research and after a while the closest thing she could find to what she felt her gender was the term: genderqueer. Of course, after she realized this she told her parents, getting nothing but support from them. A reason they’ve let Victoire dye her hair so much and wear clothes that some parents would have heart attacks at, is so she feels like she has an option to be who she is. Even though they know that their child will be who she is with or without their permission, they figure helping her along the way in a world where there are many people who are against what her gender is & think it’s unnatural. They are Vic’s parents after all and after a war where they lost family and friends who gave their lives so their children could have freedom  – it seems trivial to ever fuss over something like gender. At twenty seven, Vic is more comfortable in herself but still struggles. She keeps it to herself instead of talking about her own dysphoria because it seems trivial compared the war going on around her, compared to so much else.

HEADCANON THREE:

About: ( SELF HARM MENTION, VIOLENCE MENTION, MISOGYNY MENTION )

Storm with skin. The performer. { Secret Strategist }. Masochistic with sadistic tendencies because she is just so filled with A N G E R ( being sexualized at a young age, her ass pinched on her first Hogsmeade trip, and so so much more that she doesn’t have a language to explain it in — only violent actions ). N o t that she’d let you know.  Warrior, no,VALKYRIE more of a DRAGON than a girl ( if she ever was a g i r l in the first place ), fiercely protective of the people she loves — and if you dare mess with her family, friends, or any of the sort, you better run for oblivion.  V I C T O R Y in her veins that she will hold onto until her dying breath.

Victoire Weasley is more than just a simple human being, she’s the true embodiment of what it means to be a storm with skin. Enigmatic even.

Victoire is quite sure of who she is, what she wants in life & what she will get, she’s quite sure of everything that she is —-

                …but in those moments she blacks out in pure rage — she’s not so sure.

She’s h o r r i f i e d. In those moments where she looks for pain like she’s a drug addict and it’s her next fix, she mortified. She can’t remember how it quite started – a punch to the wall there after a fight, a purpose slap in the face, anything that released the rage she had. Victoire didn’t dare release it on the people she loved because she’d never be able to forgive herself for that, but it grew. The feeling grew and soon she had to hurt herself. But she can remember when she knew. When she needed reminders, when she needed blood and big bruises to litter her body. It’s something she’s so ashamed of, that she hasn’t let on to anyone. A reason Victoire craves fights and sometimes throws them is because of this masochistic need to hurt herself – just letting people beat her to unconsciousness. Her anger is so great, so c o n s u m i n g, there’s the small hope if she finds a way to release it somehow – it’ll go away.

              “I will always scare; and more than anyone else — myself.”

It was in House of Serpents that she learned there is grey. There is moral grey, and it’s where she lives. With a heart so big, so W I D E, that even she doesn’t realize it’s part of the reason her anger can consume her. Feeling things for Victoire Weasley is never half arsed, it’s full arsed, and her passion, her ambition, could be the death of her. Her ambition to save the ones she loves, to protect her family. F a m i l y. A word redefined by Victoire fucking Weasley.

But when you meet her, she’ll s m i l e. She’ll laugh, she’ll charm you most likely and she’ll talk about the fact that Freddie Mercury is much more interesting than John Lennon, thank you very much. How Johnny Cash, Jeff Buckley, Arctic Monkeys, HAIM, and Aerosmith should be listened to at least once a day and how if she wanted anyone’s singing voice besides Freddie’s, it would be Hayley Williams, no doubt. She’d take off her shirt to show you the tattoos that run down her back, tell you about the ones that s n a k e down shoulders, arms, legs and how they’re ones dedicated to each and every one of her family members. For her best friends. For past people she loved. With child like w o n d e r m e n t and pure genuine glee, she’ll talk about her dragon, Mercury, and how her and Hagrid planned to try to start a campaign to get real dragons at Hogwarts — or at least they had. Never has she doubted being a Dragonologist and never has she had so much peace.

THOUGHTS ON THE TIMECLASH: Victoire thinks it’s amazing, sure she’s worried about the world as a whole, but she thinks this timeclash is kind of lit! It’s like a big party to her in a way, she’s never been more excited to learn about history than through the actual people she actually read about in the history books. If anything, she’s trying to learn from the new people around her, often sparking up random conversations with absolutely anyone she can to try to understand where they all come from. 

#quantum intro #ugh we love recycling! #but vic is real excited about the timeclash

[romancatholicreflections]

20th September >> Daily Reflection/Commentary on Today’s Gospel Reading for Roman Catholics on Thursday of the Twenty-Fourth Week in Ordinary Time (Luke 7:36-50).

Today’s passage is one of the most striking scenes in the whole of the Gospel. It is a story only found in Luke and, in a way it is strange that it is not otherwise recorded. It is not the same as the anointing of Jesus at Bethany, described by Matthew (26:6-13). Perhaps to some, especially Jewish readers, it was a little too daring and close to the edge. Because it is a highly sexual story in which Jesus is deeply involved.

We are told that a Pharisee – his name is Simon – was keen to have Jesus eat at his house. The word ‘Pharisee’ means ‘separated one’ and they numbered about 6,000 throughout Palestine. They taught in synagogues and, as their name implies, they saw themselves on a higher level of religious observance. They believed that interpretations and rules handed down by tradition had virtually the same authority as Scripture (cf. Mark 7:8-13). As a result, they were constantly bothered by Jesus’ behaviour.

Jesus accepted the invitation and he joined Simon and others at the table. We should notice that Jesus accepted invitations from both Pharisees and tax collectors. Both were equally deserving of his love and service. The diners would be reclining on couches, rather than sitting, as was the fashion of the day. This helps to explain what is going to happen.

It is not clear whether what happened next was totally spontaneous or whether it was part of a conspiracy to put Jesus in a compromising position where he could be denounced (not unlike his being presented with an adulterous woman – John 8:1ff). In one sense it was strange that a woman such as this could burst into a Pharisee’s house unchallenged (there must have been servants); on the other hand, houses were not bolted and barred as they are in our more civilised(?) times.

What is clear is that the woman’s own intentions were sincere. We are told she was a sinner. “Sinner” here can only refer to some public immorality and very likely she was a “woman of the street”, a prostitute or at least a woman known for her promiscuous behaviour.

She was eager to meet with Jesus and heard that he was dining at Simon’s house. So she burst in, bringing an alabaster box of ointment (probably quite expensive – the gift of an appreciative client?) and came up to Jesus from behind. She immediately began crying and her abundant tears bathed Jesus’ feet. She then began to dry his feet with her long hair. The fact that she wore her hair down or let it down in public itself indicates that she was a “loose” woman. She kissed the feet of Jesus and poured the ointment over them.

Simon, whether he had planned the intrusion or not, was deeply shocked at the extraordinary scene that was playing out before his eyes and in his house. If Jesus was really a prophet, he thought to himself, he would know what kind of a woman this was who was touching him. She was a sinner and no good person, least of all a rabbi, should allow anything remotely like that to take place.

Jesus, fully aware of what was going on in Simon’s mind, tells him a story about two debtors. One owed a large amount and other a smaller amount. However, the creditor wrote off both debts. Which of the two, Jesus asked, would be more grateful and appreciative? Obviously the one who had been remitted the larger debt, said Simon.

“Well said,” replied Jesus and then went on to apply the parable to the present situation. In the process he indicates something that Simon had probably not thought of – that he, too, was a sinner, even though to a lesser degree. Because Simon had been guilty of not extending even the ordinary courtesies of hospitality to his guest.

Simon had not had Jesus’ feet washed when he came into the house but the woman had washed his feet with her tears and dried them with her hair. Simon had not given a kiss of greeting but the woman had not stopped kissing his feet since she came into the house. Simon had not put oil on his guest’s head but the woman had poured an expensive flask of ointment over his feet.

And therefore – now comes the point of the story: “Her many sins have been forgiven; hence she has shown great love.” The one who has less forgiven loves less. And, turning to the woman at his feet, Jesus says, “Your sins are forgiven.” And the guests at table begin to ask each other: “Who is this that he forgives sin?” Again Jesus says to the woman, “Your faith has made you whole again. Go in peace.”

This is a really extraordinary story. To appreciate this one has to enter into it visually and be really present with all one’s senses active. What comes across is the amazing composure and inner security and freedom of Jesus during the whole episode. He shows absolutely no signs of being uncomfortable or embarrassed. He does not pull away or tell the woman to stop what she is doing.

Here is this woman, known to be a public sinner, who comes in and weeps over him, wipes his feet with her hair and keeps kissing them passionately. The guests are highly disturbed, shocked and probably embarrassed but Jesus remains perfectly at ease. The reason is that he knows what the woman is doing and is not worried about what others might think she is doing.

Let us admire his ability to focus totally on the woman and not be self-conscious about the other people around. Can one imagine what a tabloid publication might have made of this scene?! What if something like that were to happen today with a bishop or a priest? Or some other prominent person? How would most clergy – or other public people react in such a situation?

Jesus can see that the woman is expressing both sincere repentance and a great affection for Jesus. She is expressing her repentance in the only way that she knows. She is a highly tactile person; it is part of her way of life. To the sexually immature, what she is doing and Jesus’ acceptance of it seems at the very least unbecoming and at the worst bordering on the obscene.

But Jesus says her sins are now forgiven. It was really the passionate love she was showing which indicated that had won forgiveness. Love and sin are incompatible; they cannot co-exist in the same person. She was loving Jesus so much at that moment that she could not be a sinner. Simon could not see this. His concept of sin was purely legalistic. For Jesus it is relational.

At this point her immoral past was totally irrelevant. In our society wrongdoers can be stuck with labels often for the rest of their lives irrespective of how they have changed. God does not work that way. He deals with persons as they are here and now. What I did yesterday does not matter. All that matters is what I am doing now, how I am relating to God and those around me right now.

We remember the man who died beside Jesus on the cross. He had led a terrible life and was now being executed for his crimes. Yet he appeals to Jesus and is promised that he will go to God hand in hand with Jesus. Unfair? Fortunately God’s ideas of fairness are not ours. Otherwise we might be in trouble because of our past.

Once again we see how God, in Jesus, always tries to rehabilitate and not to punish. Punishment destroys. God’s desire is that we be all made whole and experience inner peace and harmony.

[madewithonerib]

Inside Out: Real Change Is Possible If You're Willing to Start from The INSIDE OUT  by Larry Crabb

      You don't have to pretend you've got it all together ...       when you don't. You don't have to pretend your best       relationship deeply satisfies ... when it doesn't.

      You don't have to pretend your struggle with sin is a       thing of the past ... when it isn't.

      "Only Christians have the capacity to never pretend",       says Larry Crabb. That's because real change is only       possible when you face the realities of your internal life       & let GOD mold you into a person who is free to be       honest, courageous, & loving.

      If you want a more vital union with GOD, a richer       relationship with others, & a deeper sense of personal       wholeness, let Larry Crabb help you look inside yourself.

      And discover how GOD works real, liberating change       when you live from the inside out.

      This expanded anniversary edition includes a new preface       & new chapter from the author & celebrates more than       400,000 copies of "Inside Out" in print.

      SYNOPSIS on goodreads.com

25th Anniversary Preface

      I DIDN'T SEE it 25 years ago when I wrote Inside Out, but       I see it now with welcome clarity:

            Inside Out describes what life is like when             Christians walk the narrow road that

            JESUS said would lead us to relate             to others the way HE does.

      Something else, though, has become disturbingly clear,       something that seems more true now than when I first       wrote this book:

            WIth few exceptions, today's Christians prefer a             broad road. And we walk a broad road, thinking             we're following JESUS on the narrow road.

      A comfortable journey matters more to us than a holy       journey, yet because we're Christians, we know that       holiness is supposed to matter.

      Our solution to the tension is to redefine what it means       to be holy in a way that allows us to feel warmly       connected to GOD while we continue to live lives       dedicated to our felt well-being.

            GOD becomes someone to use for our sake,             not someone to worship for HIS.

      The problem is not new.

      In Isaiah's day, GOD's people insisted that their spiritual       leaders not disrupt their self-serving understanding       of the spiritual life.

      Confirm our view, they said. Let us hear from you, GOD,       the message we want to hear.

            Be done with all this talk about hardship & difficulties             that will only get worse throughout life.

            We don't want to hear gloomy sermons about living             life on the narrow road that will only make us better             people. We want a better life.

      Now we do want to follow GOD, & we are willing to be       good, but on two conditions:

            That the goodness our holy GOD requires must not             get in the way of the good life of comfort that we want,

            & that our goodness must guarantee from GOD the             blessings we need to feel good about ourselves &             our life [see Isaiah 30:10-11]

      Paul faced that same attitude in the early Church.

      And he realized that if left unchallenged & unchecked,       such an attitude would produce a Church overflowing       with shallow passion that Christians would mistake for       worship, a Church emptied of spiritual power that people       would not recognize as a significant loss, perhaps not       even recognize at all.

      I see it on the horizon, Paul said,

                     "for the time is coming when people will                     not endure sound doctrine/teachings, but                       having itching ears will accumulate for                       themselves teachers to suit their own                              passions." [2 Timothy 4:3]

      That time has come.

      I thought it had come 25 years ago. It had.

      But today it's worse. 2000 years ago, Paul worried that we       were turning to a different GOSPEL.

            2 Corinthians 11:2-4 | Devotion to JESUS

            ² I am jealous for you with a godly jealousy. For I             promised you to one husband, to present you as             a pure virgin to CHRIST.             ³ I am afraid, however, that just as Eve was deceived             by the serpent’s cunning, your minds may be led astray             from your simple & pure devotion to CHRIST.             ⁴ For if someone comes & proclaims a JESUS other             than the ONE we proclaimed, or if you receive a             different spirit than the ONE you received, or a             different GOSPEL than the one you accepted,             you put up with it way too easily.

      Today we've already turned to a very different GOSPEL,       a false GOSPEL that perhaps is not blatantly wrong, but       effectively masquerades as the good news       JESUS came to bring.

      Scores of JESUS followers are following HIM to get what       they want to believe HE provides.

      Even the healthy renewed focus on spiritual formation in       the evangelical Church sometimes centers on the promise       that we can enjoy spiritual experience with little concern       for spiritual relating.

      The reference point can easily shift from us to me.

      In what follows, I will try to concisely state what I believe       is the problem.

      Though the scheme I see at work is expressed in compressed       language, I urge you to see if you recognize the problem.

      Pulpits all across the country distort the GOSPEL of       a crucified SAVIOR & resurrected LORD who pours       HIS other-centered life into us.

      They insist that a certain kind of moral behaviour will lead       to blessings, & they do so by encouraging followers of       JESUS to lead The Managed Life, an ethical but       self-centered life that will persuade GOD to open the       windows of Heaven & shower our life & our culture with       everything we need to live The Blessed Life.

      Vending-machine Christianity:       Insert a dollar of ethical living, & out comes $1K of personal       well-being in an improved world.

            Managing our way to the life we want is the first leg             on the broad road we blindly & proudly assume is             the road that will lead to life as we define it.

      The illusion can seem to be reality.

      Life sometimes works that way. Life right & life might go right,       for a season, perhaps a long one.

      Faithfully tithe & bills get paid, with money left over.

      GOD is good. Lovingly discipline your children & they turn       out well. GOD is good. Pray for good health & no serious       disease interrupts your life.

      The Managed Life works.       The Blessed Life can be yours to enjoy. Preach it in Church.       Lead a seminar highlighting the good news that a good life       is available. Write a book promising that every trial will soon       become a blessing. Get the message out: GOD is good!

      For many of us, the illusion has shattered.

      Life doesn't always work that way.

      Faithful tithers, sometimes lose their jobs.       Good parents may suffer heartbreak over their kids.

      Christians who trust GOD to keep them upbeat & cheerful       might plunge into dark nights. The formula is not reliable.

      Christians whose best efforts to manage their blessings       fail to produce the expected results, find themselves living       the Wounded Life.

      This stage is the failure of The Blessed Life.

      We lose touch with GOD.

      Prayer seems pointless.       We feel angry/frustrated/alone/fearful.

      We see ourselves relating poorly to people, indifferent to their       problems, irritated with their insensitivity to us, feeling       indignantly entitled to better treatment from others.

      Nothing seems more necessary than relieving our pain, filling       the empty void that demands attention.

      Overwork, sulking, compulsive ministry, a few drinks, divorce,       sexual enjoyment in ways that we know are wrong but feel so       right—whatever soothes our soul seems justified.

      The Wounded Life convincingly warrants our demand for relief.

      Perhaps we seek relief in "better" ways:

      Recovery groups or Christian counseling or spiritual retreats,       or spiritual disciplines, all good things that we sometimes use       for no greater goal than a restored sense of personal well-being.

            The notion escapes us that a restored soul             is the by-product of a relationally holy life             —a life of learning to love like JESUS.

      The Wounded Life drives us to find The Healed Life,       through whatever means numbs our pain & lets us       feel close to GOD & alive with peace.

      Seeking the relief we need to enjoy the healing we want is       the 2nd leg on the broad road, a road that we mistake for       the spiritual journey that lead to life.

      Travelers on the broad road fail to realize that even as they       enjoy blessings, & celebrate healing,

      they lose the SPIRIT-granted ability to love.

           They become fixated on religiously disguised            self-centeredness with little thought that they            are missing the mark that would make them            recognizable as Christians.

     With renewed conviction, I offer INSIDE OUT on its 25th      anniversary as a call to relational holiness, to finding our      way to the narrow road, to leaving behind The Managed Life

     (which values nothing higher than The Blessed Life),

     to welcoming The Wounded Life without demanding relief      that lets us rest in The Healed Life.

    INSIDE OUT invites us to enter The Forming Life, to walk     the only road that brings us into the joy of The Abundant Life     of living & loving like JESUS in any circumstance of life or     in any condition of soul.

    The message of INSIDE OUT is radical, but only because     our Christian culture is lukewarm to relational holiness.

    Its message is not complicated, but it will prove unappealing     as long as we wrongly believe that the abundance JESUS     promised is an abundance of blessings in this world.

#Christian deepfakes #pretend #pretense #CHRISTlike #narrow road #love like JESUS

[parabellum-rpg-archive]

Congratulations, Polly! You’ve been accepted to play Violet Costello. Please make your page and send it in within 24 hours.

Admin note: I LOVED the part where Violet sort of scoffs at the idea of a marriage between Luca and Paisley because, in her experience, it did not work out. This was some seriously good writing. I’m gonna go cry over Violet and Leon’s failed marriage, brb. - Admin V

CHARACTER DESIRED

Violet Costello

DESCRIBE THE CHARACTER IN YOUR OWN WORDS

For a long time Violet Moore went along with the narrative that had been written for her. Beautiful, successful, admirable parents had a charming, lovely little thing of a daughter, one that had the fire of her enigmatic father along with water from the force of nature that was her mother. Special, they said, when the dark eyed baby was born. Gifted, they told her, when she could spell nearly every word in the English dictionary by the age of ten. A real talent, they admired when she mastered the fouette by the age of fourteen. Destined for great things, they prophesied when she scored a 1580 on the SAT and guaranteed her acceptance into Juilliard. There was a collection of words: brilliant, ambitious, lovely, well spoken, promising… Throughout her youth it felt as though each of those words were written into her skin, cutting into her flesh to create the young woman they all expected her to be. She’d pushed, and shoved, and twisted, and contorted until she fit the mold that had been formed for her. She was good at pretending, good at smiling, and nodding, and excelling. At playing the part and making those around her proud. It came with ease, and perhaps that was why she eventually gave up on it. She despised how unchallenging it was. Violet was bored with the role, tired of the image, and altogether uninterested in where that particular path led.

She’d been told what to do, and who to be her whole life that Violet had never taken the time to explore what she wanted and needed from this fateful miscalculation called life. She craved the adventure of her father, and the importance of her mother. She yearned for the unruliness of her father, and the lethal nature that her mother carried into the courtroom. She wanted calamity, and exhilaration, and the chance of failure. And she knew it wouldn’t come at Julliard, she knew it wouldn’t come at any college, or any alternative plan her parents provided in a panic when she announced she wouldn’t be attending. Whatever it was she was looking for would be found beyond the confines of the words that had been written for her, and in an attempt to capture her desires Violet left everything behind.

It turns out the real world is only exciting if you know the right people. Working odd hours at dive bars and diners was only exciting for so long. Lewd comments, and wandering hands could only be excused a number of times, and with nothing to apply herself to, Violet found she had very little drive. Why show up for the graveyard shift if there was an underground concert she’d heard about from her dealer? Why wake up before noon if she’d stayed out until four in the morning in pursuance of a thrill. She struggled to hold down a job, and her savings account was growing emptier and emptier as months turned into a year, and a year turned into two. She’d succeeded in finding that discord she’d been searching for, but Violet would be lying if she said something wasn’t missing. And she hadn’t known what exactly that was until Leon Costello walked into the doors of The Alibi Room, bringing with him the smell of gunpowder and money. She watched him, noticed the way the room resettled to accommodate the man, and when he sat down at the bar, glancing her way, eyes dark with the promise of proper exhilaration, her mother’s warning rang through Violet’s head like a bell. “You steer clear of those Costello boys Violet Cynthia Moore, do you understand me? They will tear you limb from limb.” And she was counting on it as she made her way to where he sat, and leaned over the bar to ask what it was he wanted. And as they say, the rest was history.

She’d never known life until him. She’d never known the pure ecstasy with which moments could pass until he was pulling her in tight as she joined him on the roller coaster of his existence. He was dangerous, yes, but it was the world that he introduced her to that really drew her in. He lit a fire between her ribs, stoked it with oxygen that he pumped into her lungs until she was consumed by the flames. Being with him was breathless, and only then did she understand what she had been searching for. He opened the door to endless excitement, and she threw herself past the threshold with abandon, falling into him and his reality with a readiness that could only end in chaos. But she didn’t care, and at the beginning Violet only wanted to know and understand every aspect of this new and thrilling world she found herself in. And she did what she does best– excelled. Again, she found something to attach herself to, something to work for and obtain except this time it was what she wanted, a mold that shaped to fit her form instead.

She was so blindly infatuated, and so thoroughly invested in achieving her need to thrive that it was alarmingly easy for the woman to strip away the ethics society had readily equipped her with. Violet shed yet another expectation with a frivolity that combined the recklessness of her father, and the moral ambiguity of her mother; it was easy for her to accept the ruthlessness when the stimulation left her with an addicting buzz. It wasn’t easy to learn, to train, to master the skills of a killer, but when the time came to pull the trigger she did it with ease. Perhaps the heartlessness had always been there, lying dormant or going unnoticed, or maybe it was forged out of pure will, either way, Violet embraced it along with the Costello name.

If they’d taken the time to pump the breaks they might have seen the glaring faults, and the wide spread cracks that riddled the foundation of their relationship. She might have been able to recognize how jealousy had seeped beneath her skin, how her possessiveness was out of bounds. But it was all speed, all delerium, and it didn’t take long for their ride to reach the end of the tracks, and with it’s halt the pair descended into a toxicity that poisoned everything that had once been so alluring. The very attributes that had kept them bound together, clawed and tore at them until their relationship with a mangled mess of what it had once been. They were hot and cold, on and off, screaming or hardly speaking, fighting or fucking, and when there was nothing left, and nowhere left to turn, they finally called it quits. But even then, Violet had formed a deep seeded loyalty to the family whose name she still bore, and like hell if Leon would change that. She had accepted a position among them years ago, and though she had relinquished her claim to the crown, Violet Costello was as dedicated to the blood as she had ever been.

As for this wedding, Violet has absolutely no hope of it working out. This bright idea of using marriage as a form of peace was enough to make Violet laugh. From her experience, it would only expedite the unraveling and they’d have a war on their hands faster than anyone could have predicted. But she’s counting on it, hoping for it really. After all the Sinclair’s don’t stand a chance, and some high stakes, and proper danger would be exciting. If only she didn’t have to see her ex-husband at the wedding, Violet might have even considered it a happy occasion.

WRITING SAMPLE

The steam filled her lungs as the water pounded into Violet’s skin in a gentle massage against her tired limbs. She dipped her head back, eyes closed, and breathed deeply, slowly, calmly. The water slid down her body in rivulets, falling pink against the white tiled floor. With her eyes shut the darkness gave way to memory, and the night’s events played against her eyelids as vivid as the moment they happened. She saw it clearly, even felt the moment of panic again, the moment where she knew she’d screwed up, that she’d miscalculated, assumed too much. He’d reached under his desk, for a gun no doubt, and she remembered something Leon had told her: if she hesitates, if she freezes, if she allows unexpected circumstances to stall her, then she would die. It was as simple and vastly complicated as that. She knew it was true, she remembered it the way he said it with such easy conviction, but that didn’t really matter in the moment. It was just a reflex, and whether or not her muscle memory responded with a quick enough reflex could only be determined in the moment. As it turned out, it did. She leapt behind the door, and slid towards the wall.

Water filled her mouth and Violet ran her hands through her hair, tugging at the braids. She remembered the brief pause, her deep breath, before one, two, three, four, five shots were fired, riddling the door with holes. She waited, holding her breath, gun drawn. The water rushed over her face, softly drowning her.After the fifth shot there was silence, and she swiftly dropped to the floor, lying flat on her back, pistol aimed at the approximate location of his head. It would only buy her a split second, and when he came around the door, gun raised, he wasn’t looking at the ground, of course he wasn’t, and that moment was all she needed. She released her breath, and her trigger finger twitched. The warm spray of blood on her face, the lifeless crumple, like the strings of a puppet had been cut. Violet threw her head forward, out of the water and sucked in the steam laden air.

It was too thick to breathe, and the woman reached turn the shower cold. The coolness cut through the humidity, and the sudden rush of cold water riddled her skin with goosebumps. Her heart leapt into action, and she remembered the moment of thrill, the wave of adrenaline, the challenge to turn on a dime, to make a choice in an instant, and to reap the rewards of winning. A sudden laugh escaped her, brought forward from the lingering exhilaration. The job was done. And Violet was reminded that greed was no man’s ally, and that you never get away with it, not with the Costello’s.

#accepted

[moteloleander]

@radar-one - [transcribed from notes ages ago sorry you probably don't even care anymore] ...[you] also wanted to know more about Francesca, though I always found Francesca self-explanatory - Heather Chandler, had she lived and swollen.  Liberal arts degree, never any intention of working, always intended to marry money.  Had her eye on Ted for years, even ebfore Maggie appeared (out of nowhere, the bitch) and stole that bachelor heart in short order.  Ted and Maggie rubbed along beautifully and Francesca faded back.  So life goes on, right up until it doesn't anymore; Maggie died due to labour complications.  It's okay, parenthood would have killed her anyway.  Maggie was a very cool sort of woman.  Not cruel, even affectionate, but Lee grew up a lot like her - very hard, very capable and straight-edged.  Lee was not a planned child.  Maggie would have coped, she was very good at that, but it's not what she was designed for.  Off topic.  Anyway.  After a reasonable period (the briefest possible decent period) Francesca started to insinuate herself again.  Big pillowy shadow at the edge of baby Lee's vision.  Lee seven, maybe eight.  And Ted does work an awful lot.  And Grandma's really not able anymore, all those school holidays and evenings.  And so it came to pass that My Ted made a terrible decision for a very good reason.  Same decision and reason as Cinderella's father and with the same effect - a girl needs a mother after all and here's this hyperfeminine, hyperavailable stalwart who has never gone anywhere or done anything unbefitting her station and has been just safe and bland and is so very grateful for everything she can get.  St Frankie.  It's that maneating sister of hers you have to look out for, but St Frankie just wanted a warm stable home.  Every pick of attention she's got goes to her husband or that darling little dolls he gave her for a stepdaughter, why, no child ever had parents that were so good to it as little Lee Petrova.  (Secretly, private whispers, and this is between you me and the wall, locals around East Borden far prefer doting helicopter Francesca to cool, removed Maggie.  They prefer the little princess Francesca made to the independent little bitch we all know Margaret Easter would have turned her into (A further point - nobody could ever get out of the habit of using Maggie's maiden name)  But Ted does work a lot.  I'm not sure Francesca ever realized just how often he's away, how many nights and even weekends he stays in the city.  Just how much time she'd end up spending on her own in an isolated hourse with an increasingly resentful child she had no experience managing.  Lee hit the 'you're not my real mom' phase and it never seemed to end.  And Francesca's response was just to pour more and more of her love and self over Lee, smothering and fussing and dressing and petting until, finally, she woke up one morning and found the balance had shifted.  THe contents of the sack were no longer struggling.  St Frankie was in control.   And then it was just a case of gradually pushing and pushing and seeing where the edges were

@snow, get a frickin tumblr so i can tag you in actual things you're so high-maintenance ugh Evelyn H Fairchild would have been one half of the villainy for B:B had it ever lived.  Which it hasn't, and it won't.  But i still dont' want to spoil it because the plot was okay so suffer.  Former U.S. military liaison.  Evie was one of those impossibly scary creatures who walk around bases unchallenged, who never wear a uniform, who are on first name terms with congressmen and every aide in Washington.  Not a power broker, not somebody who makes things happen - somebody who goes and tells people that things are going to happen and assists them in getting the fuck over it so we can all get along with our lives.  Why she was no longer thus engaged at the time of the tale, i can't tell you.  Suffice to say she wasn't, and was perfectly free to insinuate herself with Our James.  Her presence in London just so happened to coincide with a protracted and unexplained absence on Dani's part.  This absence might not have gone unexplained for so long if Evie hadn't made herself so bloody useful.  With the exception of theft and seduction - and there are plenty you can hire for such work - she provided every service Dani ever had, and was much more agreeable about it.  She could spot the flaws in a plan without being sarcastic about them, she was well-connected without being secretive.  And she almost *never* disagreed.  Evie also had some very strong ideas of her own, and was not shy about putting them forward.  Naturally, given this introduction was begun by naming her a villain, these did not end well for Our James.  But she really did have him.  In all the years to follow, he doens't even like to think of her.  They use her name, collectively, as a curse.  Because he can't even argue, can't hide it, can't cover up and refuse to accept, she had him.  Sort of a turning point for his character, towards the utter professionalism that characterised later work.  She was a crystallising factor for his talents, but for his cold as well.  Evie knocked him for six, she knocked him out of the world, because he really, honestly trusted her.  She had him simply through his vanity, simply because she never laughed at him like a certain bolshy Brit we're more familiar with.

@ misc anons who are probably long gone becaus ei never addressed this at the time - the steampunk Robot AU works by extrapolating code as machinery.  Giant, nightmarish, Moloch machinery.  But all machines have weak spots - valves, breakable pipes etc - or 'exploits'.  Something like a logic bomb operates by rigging a small prt of the machinery so that, under certain conditions, it will throw the whole thing off.  Really the Steambot Au exists purely because of an improbable desire on my part to see Edward in tiny smoked glass Dracula pince-nez, opium den visits instead of lines of morphine and weeks at sea on our way to visit Rose in Shanghai

@residentbunburyist  ...  -_-  trust you to chip in with a late one i didn't already have all figured out, lol.  Well, Jamie is obvious, Jamie can talk to spirits (upcoming version changes may or may not take this more seriously).  I have to figure on some kind of lycanthropy for Cal - my heart associates him very much with dogs and wolves, with packs and hunting and that sort of kinship.  I am trying to hook up George and fire but my inner Dessie won't stop screaming.  Given that, in later years after the world ends, his ghost shows up piggybacking Nora Pepper to torment his siblings afresh, I'ma make the sneaky bastard invisible.  Sunny's another obvious one, she's an energy vampire.  And Dessie... Maybe I'm cheating because this is what she is normally, but Dessie divides.  Dessie has a perfectly peaceful, zen-master side which is charming and sensual and merciful and compassionate and understanding and at a moments notice can drop the latch on a creature of untold violence, beyond reason, beyond intelligence, knowing only honour and blood.  And then she can put it away again on another heartbeat and never even know it happened.

Thus concludeth the attic-clearance of my brainspace.  Hopefully now I shall be able to do some work.