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judyfromfinance · 1 year

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Nymphology

The Homelander/Reader

Nymphology by Melanie Martinez

Summary: He was fucked in the head. You knew that.

You were fucked in the head. He knew that now.

God, you were perfect for each other.

Warnings: Homelander being kinda outta character, he’s more “I’ll kill for you” Yandere than a “I’ll kill you” Yandere. So the reader will not get hurt in this, at least not by Homelander. Violence, Shouting, Swearing. Death. Lying. Manipulation. NSFW themes. (If there’s anything I’m missing please let me know and I’ll add it, thank you)

Look, imma be straight up… I’ve never seen the show. Nor have I read the comics. I don’t know what’s happening or going on. I don’t really know the plot. Everything I know is second hand that I’ve read through the 20 fics I’ve read so far of this man. So take that into consideration when reading my fic. Out of character moments and plot points being misused, forgotten or just totally made up in my mind will happen. And if that’s something you don’t like that’s ok and I understand.

I blame tumblr for suggesting a fic by @blindmagdalena This man wasn’t even on my radar and then I read her fic Say It, chapters 1,2 and 3. Boy howdy, did that fic change my psyche forever. Like I don’t plan to watch the show at all, yet here I am consuming (and now producing) content for this man that truly doesn’t deserve it because he’s awful.

Also, the lyrics from the song I am using will not be in order. I cherry picked the ones I wanted to use for this fic. Now with everything off my chest. Let’s go.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Everything was different now. You were different now. Moving to New York from California was a risky move. But you wanted to take that risk. You wanted a better life. No more fear. No more anguish. Well, the universe had other plans and gave it all right back to you and then some. And it was packaged in bright patriotic colors. He flew into your life the same way he flew through the air, elegantly but fast.

You were never one to blindly idolize supes. You didn’t hate them either. You just… you treated them like you treated every other celebrity in your radar. You thanked them for their service of either saving you or entertaining you and then you went on your merry way. That’s how you met. That’s what got his attention. You being so normal. So unremarkable, it made you remarkable in his eyes. How that works, you’ll never know. But it’s not like you can question it now. You’re trapped within his prickly vines. You move an inch out of place and you’ll get stabbed by his thorns. And he does it all while he looks at you with the utmost love in his oceanic eyes. The rose. The National flower of the USA. Symbolizing love and devotion. Beauty and eternity. But for you, it only symbolized death and destruction. But you must’ve forgotten that death can also mean change. A new beginning. Were you changing for the better?

Or for the worst?

~Damaged oddity, bought by Sotheby’s

Auctioned to a selfish man who thinks that he’s the prophecy~

“You can’t wear that.” John said, his back to you as you hear him fix his gloves. The squeak of the leather irritating to your ears.

“Why not?” You asked as he turns around. You smooth out the black expanse of your dress. You don’t understand why he wouldn’t like it. He’s the one that bought it.

“Because it doesn’t match my suit.” He said it so matter factly that it almost made you feel stupid for not putting on something else. Almost. You shook your head in disbelief.

“Nothing really goes with your suit.” You back track. “Because it’s so unique, ya know? How am I supposed to find a dress that matches?” He smiles that pearly white smile. Every time he opens his mouth you’re shocked to not find blood staining his teeth. He lifts a glove up before pointing towards you.

“You should have just asked me hun? I have just the thing.” He then briskly turns to his side of the closet and pulls out a black box you haven’t seen before. His cape bristles behind him, almost as if it’s trying to escape. You tried that before. It didn’t end well. You feel for the cape, you truly do. He hands you the box before ushering you to the bathroom.

“Go on. It was specially made by Vought’s finest tailors. Obviously to complement yours truly.” Ah, Vought. What wouldn’t those selfish pricks do for their golden goose? You nod along as you enter the bathroom. You know he’s watching you through the walls. You don’t care anymore. He’s seen everything there is to see when it comes to you. Inside and out. He likes to pretend you guys are a normal couple. When he tells you to change in the bathroom, like he’s a gentleman. When in fact he’s everything but. You lift the dress out of the box. It’s the same shade of navy blue as his suit with slight red highlights on the v-neck of the dress. It’s a mix of sexy and modest. Showcasing just a bit of your chest but a lot of your back. The heels were a matching red. Same as his boots. And underneath it all were golden accessories. Earrings, a necklace and a bracelet. To match his golden eagle shoulder applications. You put everything on as you fixed your slightly tousled hair from changing. You turned in the mirror and examined yourself. You didn’t look half bad. You run your hands over your body before finally leaving the bathroom.

“Is this better?” Before he could even ask you did a slow twirl in front of him so he could see it all. His shark like smile softens as he sees you parading around in his colors. And no, the colors didn’t belong to America. They belonged to him. He opened his palm towards you and you took it. He brought you in as close as he could, his breath brushing past your ear.

“You look perfect.” You can feel yourself start to flush at the compliment. Little tiny butterflies banging around your stomach. Threatening to eat you from the inside out. You don’t know when a bug laid eggs in your brain or when those said eggs hatched into the destructive, carnivorous butterflies that they were. But you don’t seem to mind it much. In fact, it feels kind of nice.

“Now everyone will be able to see that you belong to me.”

~Call me your muse

A sprite or an elf you cry to, then use~

Bright lights. Bright people. Shining words that mean nothing to the speaker but everything to the audience. False hope. False promises. Spilled from the lips of the people that you were supposed to trust with your life, like milk from a toddlers lips. Messy. Uncouth. But only behind the scenes. In front of the cameras, they were nothing but America’s little darlings. And if they weren’t, if they happened to slip? Vought would clean up their mess like the good mother it was.

You sat on the sidelines as each Supe went up to say something into the mic that’ll help boost their image. You sat quietly. You sat gracefully. The man next to you however, wasn’t supposed to be there. But you didn’t know that. Your back was to the table, eyes on Starlight as she spun golden promises to the media hounds. Your drink sat quietly behind you. Your drink sat gracefully as it bubbled with whatever drug that the man sitting next you put into it, before finally stilling. Appearing as nothing more than normal champagne. You turned to grab your drink. A quite excuse me leaving your lips before taking a few sips. Homelander would be coming up next.

He said he had planned his entire speech around you. It was his idea but one that Vought approved of. Telling people of his beautiful none-supe girlfriend. Spinning a tale similar to that of Superman and Louis Lane. You were his muse. You were his everything. Plainly and simply, you were his. And the world needed to know. Because the world was also his. He wanted you there for his speech because after all was said and done, he’d pull you up on the stage with him and show you off as his one and only darling.

You started to feel queasy. At first you thought it might be stage fright. The fear of so many eyes on you. Always watching. Watching you forever and ever until the day that you die. If you die. If he lets you die. You’re not sure if he’s capable of letting you go. But then your heart rate picked up. Pounding in your ears to the point that you didn’t hear the familiar clack of boots that you know oh so well. Sweat started to pour from your face as you started to shake. What the hell was wrong with you? You tried to get up to go to the restroom but your legs gave out before you could fully stand up. Luckily you were caught by arms that held the strength of a god within them. Your eyesight started to blur as your hearing came back tenfold. You could hear every minuscule little sound in the room. It brought on a terrible headache.

Homelander’s eyes scanned your vitals and can see what was wrong with you immediately. You begged him to take you home as you cried. You apologized for ruining his speech. For ruining his night. As you sputtered out apology after apology you didn’t notice the blood that started to ooze from your nose and your mouth. He grabbed you face as he told you to kindly “Shut up.” He noticed some of your organs on the brink of starting to fail as he rushed you behind the curtains. He barked for Vought security to take you back to the tower. His penthouse as he called some of the best Vought paid physicians. He warned them that if they weren’t there before you were they’d have to answer to him. Sadly he couldn’t go with you. This was an important event and if he left now, not only would it damage his numbers but it would make the company look bad. Honestly, he was going to be angry at you for being stupid enough to be drugged at an event filled to the brim with Superhero’s and high level security. He would have gripped your face till you offered up a real apology. He would have, if it wasn’t for the fact that you finally… finally referred to his penthouse as your home.

Your home. He immediately felt a surge of pride fill his entire being. His penthouse was an extension of himself. It was home. He was home. He immediately felt himself stiffen in his pants as he almost creamed them. But he held it off. His cum was only for you. Plus, you were dying, so he supposed he could wait to fuck your brains out till you weren’t. And once the doctors gave him the all clear, you’re fucked. But until then he can play the thoughtful boyfriend, only caring about his girl’s safety.

~You’re in a spell and it worked, and I’m returning the hurt

Cut you off, watch you die, just a fairy with a knife~

As you were rushed into an all black car your vision returned. Your hearing also went back to normal but you can still feel your body dying. Everything in you was twisting and turning in ways that it shouldn’t. Or at least that’s what it felt like. Your mind was going, going, then gone. Paranoia started to creep in on the sides. It’s shriveled hands gripping your heart and refusing to let go. Who did this to you? Were they trying to kill you to get to Homelander? And why… why did you care? Why was one of your first thoughts about him and not about yourself? The car came to an abrupt stop as 2 men and 1 woman immediately pulled you out. They shoved you onto a cot as they made a beeline for the elevator. You assumed they were doctors despite them not wearing anything remotely professional. They talked back and forth as they poked and prodded at you. The elevator ticked closer, up and up. You tried to answer their questions to the best of your abilities.

Sadly they were limited on what they could do since they didn’t dare take you to the medical ward in the tower. Homelander gave them specific instructions and they will follow them to the letter. One doctor was constantly making trips back and forth, bringing all of their materials to them. They eventually made a makeshift hospital room in the living area. They flushed the drugs out of your system as well as they could. The EKG hooked up to you was showcasing good results. You could be better but you weren’t going to die. Which is what they were tasked to do. An air of relief resided in the atmosphere amongst the doctors. They asked if you needed anything before making their leave. John probably didn’t want them in here longer than they needed to be.

Your body felt sluggish. Like every time you tried to move you felt like you were in water. So cold and dark. Your mind was at war. You knew you were safe now but you felt in your heart that you weren’t. What kind of drugs were pumped into you? It was having a field day with your mind and you body. Like a caged animal finally let loose. You guessed that the only thing you could do was fall asleep, let your mind and body rest and heal while you wait for John to get back home. Hopefully he wasn’t upset. You close your eyes and try to even your breathing. In. Out. You shift to get more comfortable. In. Out. In. Out. Your breathing became slower and slower until you heard footsteps come from the bedroom. You opened your eyes and stared at the hallway waiting for the hero to walk in. He never did. Was this a test? Was he mad?

“John? John is that you?” You got up out of the bed, still in your dress minus the shoes and accessories. You grabbed the IV drip connected to your arm as you continue to walk forward. Maybe he was waiting on you to get to him. You try to call his name once more before your cut off by a hand around your mouth and an arm around your throat. You swing the heavy duty pole around in hopes to dissuade your attacker. This wasn’t John. There was no squeaky obnoxious leather. No smell of iron that permeated from the palm of his hand. This was not your John. You hit him and he lets go of you with a small yelp.

“You fucking bitch.” He grips the IV pole and you struggle to keep a hold on it. Your weak as he jostles it out of your grip and you tumble to the floor. The needles in your arms being pulled out by the force of it all. You stumble to your feet as you head to kitchen through the living room. The heavy footsteps follow you as the unknown man tackles you to the floor. Your nose banging against the cool tile of the kitchen. A sharp pang radiates from your nose as blood gushes down and out. The irony taste in your mouth is spat back out as you scream in terror and in anger. The burly man flips you over and you finally get a good look at him. He’s heavy set. Unruly scruff covering his chin and cheeks. Brown eyes stared at you in anger as he held you down with his body weight. You don’t know him. But you’ve seen him before.

Yeah. You’ve seen him before. That day you tried to leave. It didn’t end well. And not just for you but for a lot of others as well. You remember holding onto John for dear life as he forced you to watch first hand as he lasered the building down that you were hiding in. Including everyone in it. Their screams of pain and terror. Begging for someone, anyone… for Homelander to save them. No one would come. You saw as people tried to drag their loved ones out of the debris. They looked like tiny ants scattering away as a mean kid knocked down their hill. You thought you’d remember those cries of agony forever but they’ve gotten quieter over the past few months. Why is that? You’re brought back to the present as you’re slapped harshly across the face. The blood from your nose spreading droplets across the bottom of the kitchen counters.

“You useless fucking bitch.” His spit flying everywhere as he tried to contain all the hatred in his body. He was shaking as badly as you were earlier last night. But unlike you, he was shaking from pure unadulterated anger.

“You think you’re above everyone else? Huh?! Even if you aren’t a fucking supe! You’re just like them. Helping them cover up their fucking crimes!” You tried to wiggle out of his grip but he kneed you in the gut. You gasped for air as you tried not spill your stomach contents onto the floor.

“Stop squirming. You deserve everything that’s gonna happen tonight.” He straddles your legs to keep them from moving as he sits up. He looks down at you in disgust.

“He took something from me. So I’ll take something from him. This is for Marie.” Before he could say or do anything else you use your entire body weight to knock him off balance. His head ricocheted off the marble counter as you scrambled away to the knife block. You grab the biggest one you could find before turning around. He was gone. You spin around and try to locate the intruder. You walk around the center island, your breath coming out short and staggered.

“Where the fuck are you?” You mumble to yourself. The question wasn’t only meant for the man in your home. But the man you were waiting on to come home. The Gala should be over by now. How has no one heard you struggling yet? Was the building really that empty? Or maybe it was John’s penthouse specifically that was sound proof? You could believe that. You walk closer to your makeshift hospital bed as you keep your eyes wide open. The scruffy man pops up out of nowhere as he pushes your cot over and knocks you down, your knife skittering away. He hops on top of you and you see blood pouring from a cut on his head. His hands are around your throat as he presses down.

“I hope you know just how much I’m enjoying this.” He squeezes tighter as you arms start to flail.

“Don’t worry, I’m not gonna kill you just yet. I need you in order to get to him. You’re my leverage.” What a fucking dumb piece of shit. Did he really think he could take on Homelander. Your fucking John. He could see the questioning look in your eyes. He kept one hand around your throat threateningly as his other found it’s way into his coat pocket. A syringe was pulled out. You struggled but all he did was click his tongue.

“It’s not for you dumbass. It’s for me. A few buddies of mine helped me get this uh, this shit called Compound V. Heard it’s very useful.” He smiles down at you. A sickly deranged smile. And although you knew that there was no one like Homelander. No one that could even think of beating him. Your heart started to race in fear. Not just for your safety but for his as well. Why? He pinched your broken nose as you screamed in pain.

“Don’t fucking move this time.” He rolls up his sleeve as he gets ready to inject himself. With all the strength that’s left in your body, which isn’t much, you grab at the handle of the knife and aim straight for his head. The wet squelch of flesh and the sick crunch of bone was all you could hear. The man above you gasped as he slowly brought his hands up to his head. The syringe laying forgotten on the ground. You push him onto his back as you grab the knife out of his head. Blood pooling on the pristine rug. You lift the blade up as you plunged it back down into his chest. Over and over and over and over and over and… you didn’t stop. You kept going. His chest. His face. You were covered in blood. As red as the roses that John gave you on your supposed first date. If he could see you now, he’d think you were beautiful. You just know it. You eventually slowed down. Leaving the man underneath you nothing more than ground meat. You dropped the knife in shock as you stood on shaky legs. You threw up all over the decimated body before you. A mixture of the drugs leaving your system and just pure utter disgust at what you’ve just done. You ran out onto the balcony as you screamed into the night, begging for him to get home.

“John!!!”

~Call me your nymph

Praise me for martyr, praise me for sin~

Homelander was finally flying home to his girl. The doctors called him a couple of hours ago telling him everything in detail about what was wrong with you and how they fixed it. You were doing fine now. Safe and secure in your shared home. He didn’t thank them as he hung up the phone, he sadly had some more shmoozing to do amongst the fucking filthy pigsty that they called a ballroom. But that was all behind him now. He could head home. Maybe get a few kisses from you for saving your life. He’s not even halfway towards the tower before he hears a blood curdling scream in the night. If it was just a random person, he wouldn’t have stopped. Well… maybe, just to satiate his curiosity before he up and left. But he could tell by the sweet lilt in their voice that it wasn’t some fucking rando on the street. It was you. You were screaming his name.

In just a few seconds flat he was back in his penthouse. Everything was fucking destroyed. He stepped in a pool of blood before he quietly listened for your heartbeat. He let out a sigh of relief as he heard your distinctive heart. Beating only for him.

“(Y/n). Where are you? Come on out, I’m here now.” He rounded the corner of his couch and stood over a disgusting mangled corpse. Did you do all that? Wow. Who knew you had that in you? He stood in the blood and guts and waited for you to come to him.

You opened the terrace doors. John’s voice a soothing balm for your wounded mind. You entered the bloody crime scene but refused to look at anything other than his smile. So devastatingly handsome. You ignored to the best of you abilities the blood and flesh on the floor as ran to him for comfort. He wrapped his arms around you and squeezed, a small gesture to let you know that he’s here now. Your hero is here. You sobbed as you told him about the dumb cocksucker that you killed. He just nodded his head and rubbed your back. He picked you up and cradled you in his arms, not caring about the blood smearing all over his suit. You finally open your eyes to notice that you were in the bathroom. John starts to get a bath going.

“Come on. Strip. You reek of blood.” You do as he says.

“Will you stay with me?” He looks towards you and chuckles.

“You’re covered in blood hun. You want me to stay in the bathroom and watch you wash up?” He shakes his head before he checks the temperature of the water. You don’t understand where this confidence came from but you don’t question it as you walk closer to him and start to help him undress as well. He looks down towards you in confusion.

“You’re staying with me. You’re not leaving me.” You stare back up into his eyes and he can tell that there’s no room for questioning you. So he doesn’t. He undressed and hops into the tub first. It was huge, so it was perfect for this. You follow after him. He helps wash the blood and brain matter out of your hair as you just gaze a hole into the wall. Usually he’d be complaining that you should be doing this for him, but he’ll let it slide. After all, you were such a good girl today. As he finishes washing out your hair he moves onto your body. He turns you around towards him, wash cloth in hand as he gently swipes the blood off your face. The water around you two growing murkier and murkier.

“You know it’s fine right? You’re not gonna get into any trouble.” You look up into his eyes as he continues.

“That fucker was going to kill you. You had no other choice.” You slowly start to shake your head as your eyebrows furrow.

“No.”

“No?” He questions.

“No. He wasn’t. He was gonna keep me alive till you got home. He wanted to get to you through me. And I…” you look down at your hands. The ones you used to kill for him. The man you’re sitting in the lap of.

“I know that he had no chance of even touching you.” You brought your hand up, scrubbing at your eye in desperation. You look back up towards John. A fire in your eyes he hasn’t seen before.

“I know you’re stronger than anything on this fucking planet but I just got so…” you clench and unclench your fists. Heavy, laden breaths escaping you.

“I just got so fucking angry. You know? I didn’t… I just… All I was thinking about was you.” You laugh a little. Feeling hysteria building within you. You wanted to cry. You wanted to laugh. You wanted to scream. And you wanted to do it all for the man in front of you. John just looked at you as he felt a wave a pure love wash over him. You did that for him. You killed the piece of shit for him. And he wanted to prove that he’d do the same for you. A whole block of civilians meant nothing to him. He sits up straighter as he grabs your sides and pulls you closer. His lips hovering over yours. Petal soft lips brush his.

“I fucking love you.” And for the first time in this tumultuous relationship that you both had, you finally said the words that he’s wanted to hear his whole goddamn life.

“I love you too.” You both kiss as the moonlight filters in through the window. Groping and touching as you rip your souls out of each other, as if to say yours is mine and mine is yours. Your mind briefly flickers to the syringe of Compound V that was hidden underneath the couch before the love of your life enters you and your whole world shatters away, and all you can think about is him. But don’t worry, all he’s thinking about is you too.

~I won’t be ashamed, yeah

For lovin’ you so honestly~

#the homelander #the Homelander/reader #homelander #homelander x you #welp #that’s it I guess lol

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anon-e-miss · 1 year

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A Touch of Sight - 8

Jazz had never heard a song as beautiful as the one the crystals sang for Prowl. The Praxian stepped amongst the crystals, doorwings and arms raising and falling as he elegantly twisted and dipped. Some steps were so slow, so soft Jazz could hardly hear them through the vibrant song of the crystals. Other times his steps were quick and sharp and the song of the crystals rose with them. Prowl trilled and as he did, the crystals shown brighter all around him. He dipped, plucked a crystal from the field and stepped backwards, doorwings dancing on his back as his arms dipped and turned. There was no hesitation in Prowl’s movements, just grace. Jazz would never have imagined a blind mechanism could dance among crystals without crushing even one; he was in complete and utter awe. Drawn by Prowl’s hypnotic movements, Jazz stepped towards him. As Prowl dipped, twisting and extending his arm, Jazz took his servo.

“Oh!” Prowl stumbled. Despite his empty optic sockets, Jazz could see the start in his face. Around them, the crystals’ glow dimmed. “Lord Inquisitor.”

“Just Jazz,” he said. “I think I interrupted somethin’.”

“I tried to stop you,” Smokescreen declared.

“My harvest,” Prowl replied, there was just the hint of breathlessness in his voice and it stirred Jazz in a manor he was not prepared for.

“Yer harvest,” Jazz echoed.

“My harvest,” Prowl repeated.

He pulled a crystal from his bag, a stunning specimen of Alexandrite and turned his doorwings and helm as he clicked his glossa. Stepping with the confidence of the sure sighted, Prowl walked a few steps and from among the emerald ground cover, plucked a crystal. Prowl returned to Jazz, doorwings tilting and swaying as he walked and held the crystals out to them. At first, Jazz thought the second crystal was just an emerald but when he held it up, he realized it was Alexandrite, a far duller specimen the first, but Alexandrite all the same. Jazz looked out at the sea of emeralds and tried to imagine how he could even spot the rare Alexandrite hidden among them and could not imagine how it could be done. He stared at Prowl and wondered how a blind mech could tell the crystals apart just by touch and how he had made them glow and then capture that power when he had picked that first crystal.

“I don’t understand,” Jazz said. “How ya can do this. Ya made the field glow when ya danced ‘n ya picked Alexandrite from emerald. I can’t... see a difference lookin’ down ‘n I got... well typical Polyhexian vision.”

“I coud not have seen a difference either,” Prowl replied, unbothered by the implication of his blindness. “They sound different. Their vibrations feel different. This is how Praxians have harvest crystals for millions of vorns. Dance and sing to them in the right harmonic and they glow from within.”

“Ain’t e’er seen anythin’ so beautiful,” Jazz declared. Prowl flushed. The horrific burns might have blinded other mecha to the truth but in Jazz’s clear vision, Prowl was a truly stunning mech.

“Thank you,” Prowl replied. “I have a long list from your friend... You may watch but, I need quiet to hear the crystals.”

“Ya got it.”

Smokescreen elbowed Jazz just under his chestplate and smirked. He was an absolute scamp. Jazz looked around and spotted Bluestreak sitting in the branches of the tree next to them. The mechling wave a hello with his digits. Could anything be done for Bluestreak? There was no injury Jazz could see which would explain the mechling’s mutism. That did not mean there was not damage hidden under his plating, or a wound to his psyche. Having walked among Praxian refugees since he had first taken the post of Lord High Inquisitor, Jazz had seen not only physical scars of all kinds but also the haunted optics of traumatized sparks. He knew Ratchet did his best for them but some wounds went too deep for even a miracle worker like him to heal and when there were so many despairing, so many damaged beyond the skills of any other medic in the land, Ratchet could only do so much.

Prowl sang without glyphs, standing still in the field of crystals, varying his pitch as his doorwings dipped and waved. He felt something, heard something that Jazz could not or just did not understand and he canted his helm right and slowly turned in that direction, dancing on flat peds. Heel, toe. Heel, toe. Twist, bend. Dip. Tilt. It was a dance like nothing Jazz had scene. Flick, flick, flick, Prowl waved his left doorwing like a fan as he held the right still and he danced in small steps, knees ever so slightly bent. Jazz realized, as time passed, that Prowl changed his pitch as he sought different crystals and moved from the field into the woodline. Jazz straightened, ready to help him navigated the thick woods but Smokescreen caught his wrist and shook his helm. Prowl reappeared, stepping from around the tree Bluestreak was perched in. There was a sparkling blue stone in his servo.

“Sapphire?” Jazz asked.

“Benitoite,” Prowl replied. “Considerably rarer and like Alexandrite, often overlook among similar coloured stones.”

“Y’re a real master,” Jazz said. “I can’t counter the number o’ mechanism that walk through these woods ‘n fields ‘n got no idea what they might step on.”

“It is not so terrible a thing sometimes to be overlooked,” Prowl replied. “Alexandrite and Benitoite do poorly in greenhouses and gardens. They thrive out in the wild where their camouflage protects them from over harvesting.”

“Ya ne’er take more than ya need,” Jazz guessed.

“I will take none if I believe it I feel the crop may collapse if I do,” Prowl replied. “I harvest from many fields and forests so no one is depleted of its resources.”

“It’s brilliantly done,” Jazz said. “‘N hungry work, I figure.”

“I packed snacks,” Prowl said.

“How ‘bout I treat ya to lunch?” Jazz offered.

“The market is close of Primus’ Cycle,” Prowl reminded him.

“Ain’t a stall or pub,” Jazz replied. “My ori’s got a place tucked away on the west side.”

“You originator?” Prowl asked, taking a sharp intake. “But... is he not at services?”

“No,” Jazz shook his helm. “He ain’t much for temples. We usually have lunch when the market’s closed ‘n quiet. When ‘m in town anyways.”

“Why would you bring us?” Prowl asked.

“No reason not to,” Jazz replied.

“We are almost beggars,” Prowl argued, exasperated.

“‘N I was one once,” Jazz countered, jovially. “Not sure how ya missed it, Prowler but ya ‘n yer mechlings got ten times that class I do. Not that ‘m gonna hold that against ya, ‘n Ori won’t either.”

“You are... persistent,” Prowl sighed.

“‘M a pain in the aft,” Jazz corrected him, grinning as the Praxian shook his helm. Jazz could imagine him rolling his optics.

“I think he has you beat, Creator,” Smokescreen piped up.

“Bluestreak is shy,” Prowl argued, servos outstretched.

“Ori likes sparklings,” Jazz countered. “‘N cheeky younglings.”

“A pain in the aft indeed,” Prowl groused. He stretched out his arms to the tree where Bluestreak was perched and the mechling climbed easily into his arms. The blind mech hugged his creation. “We will leave if Bluestreak or Smokescreen even slightly uncomfortable.”

“Deal,” Jazz said.

It might have been more gentlemechly to allow Prowl to decline without argument but Jazz was not a gentlemech. So far as he was concerned, it was kinder to introduced the trio to his originator than note. Prowl and his creations would benefit from a watchmecha. Having Swindle on notice was no small thing. The mech’s business practices were questionable at best but as much as Swindle cared for coin, he care significantly more for his own helm. He would make certain that none of his underlings, allies or enemies meddled with Prowl for fear Jazz might blame him. Between Swindle and Ori though, Jazz would always choose his originator. Knowing Punch as Jazz did, he knew his originator would not need to be asked to do this favour for his creation. One look and the mechlings and Punch would be besotted and he would not take much longer to adopted Prowl as his kin.

“Just o’er here,” Jazz said as he led the trio of Praxians through the empty market streets.

All the shop fronts were shuttered up, their keepers on their knees in front of monks or priest in any number of the temples in the city. Even after the services over, many of them would go home to rest, not even sweeping the floors of their homes or businesses as this mega-cycle was decreed by many of the faiths as the mega-cycle of rest. Mechanisms like Punch and Prowl were looked down upon for failing to attend worship or rest. Rest was a luxury mechanisms like Prowl did not have and Punch had spent all Jazz’s life and longer still working his digits to the struts to keep his family alive and that habit was not about to die just because Jazz had gotten a fancy title.

“Ori?” Jazz called to his originator as he pushed the folding door away from the shop’s entrance.

“Bitlet,” Punch called to him from behind his loom. “I was thinkin’ ya wasn’t comin’.”

“I got preoccupied,” Jazz explained. “I brought friends to join us for lunch.”

“Oh?” Punch asked as he peered from the side of of the loom. Next to Jazz, Prowl stood rigid and coiled, a spring prepared to burst. Jazz ever so slightly cupped his elbow, reassuring him with light taps of his digits, chirolinguistics. “Lemme lest my spools down. I got myself in a bit o’ a tangle.”

“If we have come at a poor time,” Prowl offered Punch a polite escape and Jazz smiled as he saw his orginator cant his helm at the Praxian and then smile down at Bluestreak who was standing very closely to one of the weavings Punch had display near the door. Though he was clearly captivated by it, the mechling had the good manners not to touch; Jazz could not have said the same for himself at that age.

“Not at all,” Punch replied. “Ya can touch it, Sweetspark. It’s sheepacron wool. A lil touch ain’t gonna hurt it none.”

“Thank you,” Prowl murmured. He did not so much look at the direction of his youngest creation but tilted his helm and doorwing to him. Jazz watched the silent mechling pet the soft, colourful panel. Bluestreak clamoured over to Prowl and moved his digits quickly against his procreator’s palm. “He says it is very pretty.”

“Thank ya, Darlin’,” Punch said. “Jazz, show’em to the nook. When I free myself from theses strings, I’ll serve some soup.”

“Lemme help ya,” Jazz said, taking Prowl’s arm in his. “I know ya get ‘round well but Ori’s place is... full.”

“It is that,” Punch agreed.

“You made all of this, Sir?” Smokescreen asked.

“Not all at once, or nothin’,” Punch replied. “Somethings don’t take so long as others.”

“It’s amazing,” Smokescreen said.

“Why thank ya,” Punch said.

“Are you sure there enough fuel?” Prowl asked. “There are three of us...”

“There’s fuel enough,” Jazz assured him, guiding Prowl to the long bench on the closest side of the table. “Ori’s always got a pot of soup on.”

“Ne’er know when some poor hungry spark might come by,” Punch declared. Free of his spoon, he joined them in the nook that served as the kitchen where a cauldron simmered on the fire. “Temple’ll only fuel ya if ya let’em preach at ya. That don’t suit a lot o’ mechanisms.”

“Ori’s always fuellin’ mechanisms passin’ through,” Jazz explained. “My Ori, Punch is a weaver, Prowl. Among other things. He knits some too. Ori, Punch sells crystals in his slot on the east side. Ya mighta heard talk o’m.”

“I have,” Punch declared. “That was clever o’ ya teachin’ yerself the feel o’ different coin. Very clever.”

“Prowl’s pretty brilliant,” Jazz declared. “The way he finds his crystals is a work o’ magic.”

“It is not,” Prowl argued. “It is only a little skill.”

“It’s pretty magical,” Smokescreen interjected.

“My creations are Smokescreen and Bluestreak,” Prowl said. “Bluestreak is mute, If he wishes to speak, he will use me or his brother as translator, unless you speak some chirolinguistics, as Jazz does.”

“Happens I taught the miscreant,” Punch declared. He set a bowl down in front of Bluestreak first, his wriggled his digits in the air and wrote a compliment to Bluestreak. The mechling snuggled into Prowl’s side and shyly answered with the careful wiggle of his own digits.

“I wish it was more commonly known,” Prowl sighed.

“I agree,” Punch said, setting bowls in front of Prowl and then Smokescreen before fill bowls for himself and his creation. “So many mechanisms get hung up on Neocybex or Primal Vernacular ‘n sneer at every other tongue.”

“Thanks, Ori,” Jazz said. He smiled as he ate a spoonful of soup, as the mechs and mechlings with him spoke. It was exactly as he had planned.

#a touch of sight #tf prowl #tf jazz #tf punch #tf smokescreen #tf bluestreak #blind prowl #maccadams #valveplug #anon-e-miss writes

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the-cult-of-riley · 3 months

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Sleeping With Ghosts (Act One: Chapter Twenty Seven)

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Female OC

[[Masterlist]]

A/N: Oh, baby, this is it!!!

The last chapter of Act One. I hope you guys are ready for the hell I’m gonna bestow on you all lmaooo

I just wanted to say, while I have a bunch of shit written for Act Two and a boat load of ideas, I am up for suggestions. If there's something you'd like to see in the fic, don't be a stranger. I can't guarantee I’ll do it, if it doesn't mesh with the ideas I have, but as a free writer, my work is always evolving and taking on a life of its own. So hit me up if there's some specific shit you wanna see.

Also this chapter is a little rough so… re-read the tags and take care of your mental health.

Placebo - A Million Little Pieces

There wasn't much I used to need

A smile would blow a summer breeze through my heart

Now my mistakes are haunting me

Like winter came and put a freeze on my heart

I've lost the power to understand

What it takes to be a man with my heart

I saw you wanted this to end

You tried your best to be a friend to my heart

But I'm leaving this worry town

Please no grieving, my love, understand?

Whenever I was feeling wrong

I used to go and write a song from my heart

But now I feel I've lost my spark

No more glowing in the dark for my heart

So I'm leaving this worry town

Please no grieving, my love, understand?

Understand?

Understand? (Can't you see I'm sick of fighting?)

Understand? (Can't you tell I've lost my way?)

Understand? (Look at me there's no denying)

Understand? (I won't last another day)

So I'm leaving this worry town

Please no grieving, my love, understand?

Then I'm leaving this worry town

Please no grieving, my love, understand?

All my dreaming torn in pieces

All my dreaming torn in pieces now

A burst pipe was dripping, the nose echoing in the desolate concrete room. Sounded like a bullet ricocheting off the walls. Simon fucking wished it was, wished it ricocheted right into his brain. How long had he been here? It all bled together, felt like forever at this point. His body was well and truly broken, had so much done to him that he’d been sure he was a goner multiple times, yet somehow he was still clinging on. His mind though, that he was trying to clutch with all of his might, bloodied fingers and all.

He wasn't sure just where it all went wrong, to be betrayed by his superior like he had, to wind up in the hands of a monster. Roba wanted him to join their side, thought he’d make a great soldier for him. Wanted him a mindless drone to follow his brutal orders. An unstoppable machine. He wouldn’t do it, wouldn’t ever fucking do it but boy was Roba determined to try and break him.

It had been your run of the mill torture at first but Simon was prepared for that, fucking passed his RTI training with flying colours for a reason. But when that didn't work it got meaner, more brutal, until Simon’s body was littered with scars, so many he was sure he looked like mincemeat. The one that sliced through his top lip into his cheek had been the most painful. It was still trying to heal.

When Roba realised he wasn't getting anywhere to break his new favourite toy, he resorted to tactics that Simon hadn’t been prepared for, ones that had damaged his psyche beyond repair. He’d been confused when the first prostitute had been brought to him and he’d been horrified at what they wanted him to do. He was married and he wasn’t about to fuck a hooker. Roba hadn't liked that though and as the poor girl hit the floor with a thud, bullet hole in her head, Simon had felt bile clawing its way up his throat. He might not have pulled the trigger but he damn well killed her, and that was the fucking point wasn’t it? The mind games.

Roba knew he'd play along more if innocent lives were threatened and so that's what he did. He kept bringing him women that if he was honest, might not have even been willing participants and they forced him to be touched against his will. And if he didn’t get hard, didn’t fucking finish as they watched like the sick perverts they were, the girls wound up beaten or dead. He wasn't sure he’d ever be right in the head again if he ever got out of here, especially not when it got even worse when even that hadn’t broken him completely.

Then it turned into the men taking turns with him, being used in a way he’d never even considered. He felt dirty, like he’d never wash clean, like he was tarnished from the inside out and all he could think about was her. Could she still love him after he’d been with other people? No, that wasn't right was it? Hadn’t been voluntary, hadn’t been willing. He knew exactly what it was he went through, the R word that burned in the back of his mind like vitriol. He’d been defiled.

Would she think of him differently or would she open her arms out to him, wrap them around him in a tender embrace and tell him it would all be okay? Simon’s eyes closed, tears leaking down the sides as he lay on the hard concrete floor, the cold biting into his broken and naked body. He could just about hear her, the delicate voice floating through the peripheries of his shattered mind.

I’ve got you, Si. I love you.

A deep and aching sob wracked his bruised chest, his heart yearning so fiercely for her that it caused him more physical pain than the beatings. She was the only thing keeping his sanity in check, the only thing he was clinging onto so desperately. He needed to get back to her, needed to be in her arms, needed to feel like he was still a man, still worthy of love.

He felt so disconnected from everything, disjointed and wrong. Nothing felt like it made sense anymore other than her. He’d never allow them to break him because he couldn't leave her all alone. He’d promised her that years ago, made it solid with his vows to her. He wouldn't die here, wouldn't leave her grieving and alone. He’d get back to her no matter what it took.

His whole body tensed up as he heard the door down the hall rattle, the key in the lock turning. A cold, creeping fear trickled through his veins like ice and his chest felt like it caved in. He knew what was coming for him, knew what time it was. And so, he allowed himself to float away somewhere else. Somewhere it was warm, somewhere with blue soft eyes gazing at him, a bright smile just for him, small hands smoothing through his hair and telling him it was all okay. He'd be okay as long as he was with her.

He’d been through a lot of horrible things in his life but nothing could top the last three months. Nothing could top being hung by his ribs with a meat hook or being buried alive with his dead, treacherous CO. But even then, he hadn't given up. Even bloody and gasping and retching and fractured. He’d dug his way out of that grave with the jaw bone of his bastard of a Major, got himself right out. Finally. He could go back to her. She was all he ached for, all he wanted.

Getting out of Mexico had been a blur, wound up being picked up by a Captain called John Price that he’d briefly worked with before. He wasn’t sure how he fucking found him, wasn’t sure of anything anymore and then weeks were spent in hospital as he recovered. His brain was fuzzy, his mind trying to erase the horrors he’d endured, trying to stuff them into a box so deep in his mind he’d never be able to find them. Didn't work though, did it? His body recovered, leaving awful scars that covered every part of him. His face made him sick, a scar along his cheek and lip and one that curved around his left temple. Would she flinch when she looked at him? Would she feel as sick as he did? Would she still look at him the same? His body might have healed but his mind sure hadn't. He had this hope, that once he was home, once he was back with her that it would all be okay. She’d make it okay.

“You thought any more about what I said?” John asked him, watching as Simon slid a hoodie on. The man had been kind enough, slowly earning his trust after not leaving his side.

“We both know I wouldn't pass a psych eval… not anymore,” he bit out. He tried not to think of the nightmares or the crippling panic attacks he kept getting out of nowhere. Tried not to think about the dreams where he was hurting people, hurting innocent women and enjoying it. Tried to tell himself that Roba hadn't won, he hadn't.

“Doesn't really matter about that, does it? You've got potential, Simon. A bit of therapy and I think you’d be good to go. I’d love to have you on my team,” the man murmured, giving him a sympathetic look. He felt honoured that after all he went through, this man, a seemingly good man, had decided he was worth something. Decided that he wanted him on board. He felt like a fragile piece of porcelain, cracked and waiting to fall to pieces. He was nothing like the brave soldier he’d thought he was.

“I appreciate it but… I’m done. I want out. Just wanna get home, back to my wife. Wanna… settle down, get better, have kids. I don't want this life anymore,” he admitted hoarsely.

His hand moved to his tags, the pendant she got him still there. A tether to her. He couldn't do this life anymore, not after all he’d been through. He just wanted a normal life, wanted to just be with Charlotte. John nodded, moving at a snail's pace to tap him on the shoulder. He still flinched anyway but he was getting better. He hoped to god he wouldn't flinch at Lottie’s touch, he knew it would break her. Her soft heart would already hurt for him when she found out what he’d endured.

“Alright, well… Here's my number anyway. Call me if you change your mind or… if you just need a chat,” he smiled and Simon nodded, grateful for the man who just appeared in his life when he needed him. He’d never forget his help.

“Thanks, John,” he murmured.

He got the special treatment of a private military plane back to Manchester and he looked around at the pitiful smattering of snow and the twinkling lights people had up. It was Christmas day. Even after everything he’d been through, he was excited to see her, his stomach twisting in knots at the prospect. She’d be so surprised to see him and he just needed to feel her, needed to take in her comforting scent and to hear her beating heart.

A thought occurred to him then and he decided to go to his mum’s first and he knew Tommy, Beth and Jo would be there after spending Christmas day there. Not really to see them as he knew his current scarred state would cause quite a stir but because Lottie’s present was there so she wouldn't see it. His mum had helped him with it. He’d been so excited about giving it to her. While he knew it was wrong, he decided he wouldn't tell his family what happened to him, they didn't need to know those horrors. He’d come up with some bullshit about a bomb or something to cover for his scars. He would tell Lottie though, she deserved to know the truth and why he’d come back different.

He was glad the houses weren’t too far apart, his steps picking up as he saw his mum’s house. The lights outside blinked rapidly and he smiled at the stupid inflated snowman in the front garden. It wasn't lost on him how close to death he’d been not too long ago and all these little things he’s taken for granted meant so much more to him now. He moved through the front gate, approaching the door and frowning when he saw it was open a crack.

“Mum! You’ve left the door open!” he called out, pushing it open as he stepped inside. For a house full of people on Christmas day, it was eerily silent and Simon felt a chill sweep up his spine, his military alertness taking over.

“Mum! Tommy!” he called out warily, moving inside the house fully.

As he walked into the living room, the world stopped turning and he couldn't breathe. Mum. She was lying on the floor in front of the Christmas tree and his first thought had been that she’d had a fall or a heart attack or stroke. But as he rushed to her, turning her over to her back, blood pounded in his ears at the bullet hole in her head. No, no, no.

He jumped up, hands clutching the sides of his head as he shut his eyes, frantically shaking his head. He’d had dreams like this before. It was a dream, it had to be. Yet when he opened his eyes again, the lifeless body of his mum stared back at him. He looked to his left seeing Beth slumped on the couch, bullet wound to the head. He couldn't hear the wounded noises he was making with the pulse blaring in his ears but his cheeks were wet and he clawed at his chest as he tried to breathe. Joseph was in the armchair, body half falling off with blood dripping from his small head.

“No…” he wailed, swaying on his feet as he stumbled over. His hands shook, hovering over the boy before he carefully lifted him so he didn't fall, leaning him against the chair. Tears fell in rivulets, loud and gut wrenching sobs tearing at his throat as he cradled the boy's bloody head.

Tommy, where's Tommy? His lower lip quivered as he released Joseph, looking around with blurry eyes as he tried to make sense of what happened. He needed to find Tommy. Tommy had to be okay. He moved around the room before going into the kitchen and something broke in him completely at the sight of his baby brother laying on the floor in a pool of blood. An agonised noise left his lips as he fell to his knees on the floor, arms going around his brother uncaring of the blood. He was cold, so cold and he sobbed, clutching Tommy as if it would breathe life back into him. Bad dream, had to be a bad dream, need to wake up, wake up.

“Was hoping you’d show up.”

The voice made him whip around, eyes widening to see Washington, one his squad mates who had also been taken. He’d thought he’d died. The man looked at him with cold eyes, devoid of the life he’d known them to be and it all clicked in his head. He’d been turned, been sent here to dole out Simon’s punishment for getting away, for not bending to Roba’s will. They’d died because of him.

He set his brother's body down, standing up to his full height. He towered over Washington but the man was unflinching, gun dangling in his hand. Big mistake. So much pain and rage swept through him that he could hardly contain it. He lunged at him and the fucker wasn’t prepared for it. The gun clattered to the ground but Simon didn't care about that, didn’t need a fucking weapon because he was one.

He knocked him onto the floor and Washington tried to scramble away, shocked when Simon’s fist collided with his temple and stunned him. But he didn't stop there, couldn't stop there. His fist hit and hit and hit and hit until the man's head was nothing but a pile of broken bones and mush. Until there was brain matter dangling out of his useless split open skull. Until there was no noise coming from the man other than the sick squelching of his head. His rage knew no bounds, ragged breaths ripping in and out of his lungs violently. He couldn't make sense of how he got here, couldn't make sense of anything. Charlotte. Oh god no.

He took off with his heart in his throat, tearing out of the house and running down the street at inhuman speed. The fear he felt was like nothing else he’d ever experienced as he kept running until he felt sick. He pushed himself until their house came into view, Christmas lights up in the window. He came to a screeching halt at the living room window, seeing Lottie folding up washing and putting it on the couch to sort out.

The relief he felt made him crumple to his knees, vomit projecting out of him at a painful speed and onto the driveway. She was alive, she was okay. She wouldn't be though. Roba would come for her, he’d get her because she was all Simon had left and his heart ran cold at the notion. His family were dead. Gone completely. He’d never see his mum's warm smile, see Beth’s kind eyes or hear sweet Joseph's laugh again. And Tommy… he’d never hear his stupid jokes again, never roll his eyes at him, never give him big brotherly advice, never hear him poke fun at him for anything and everything. His baby brother who he’d fought so hard to protect his entire life and he’d failed him. He was dead because of him, he’d killed him.

He wished he’d died back in Mexico so he didn't have to endure the searing pain ripping through his soul. And if he lost Lottie… no, he couldn’t, he fucking refused. He quickly left before she saw him, a plan forming in his mind. He needed to kill Roba, she’d never be safe if he didn’t. Would she be safe even if he did? This proved his line of work was dangerous and he’d made many enemies over the years. He'd never really thought it would bleed into his personal life and now look what happened.

He couldn't do that to her. Having her alive was better than having her with him temporarily just to die because of him. The idea of leaving her like that was painful, he knew just what he was doing by breaking his promise of leaving her alone, but he had no choice. He couldn't have her die because of him. He had to make this right somehow, how to get justice and revenge for his family, had to keep his wife safe even if he had to hurt her in order to do that. He made his way back to his mum's house, a sick feeling festering in his stomach like an infected wound.

There was this eerie emptiness that suddenly wrapped around him like a blanket and he welcomed it. Something shifted within himself and he felt it deep in his core. Simon Riley didn't exist anymore, there was nothing left but an empty shell of a man. A ghost, doomed to haunt the earth as his penance. And so, he did the only thing that made sense, setting fire to the house in some kind of funeral pyre for his family, leaving his tags on that murdering cunts neck so he could finally kill himself once and for all.

The one thing he grabbed before he left was the gift he’d made for Charlotte. He didn't have much left of her now, this was it. He’d left his tags behind as much as it wounded him, but he could keep this. Remind himself he was doing this for her.

When he was far enough away from the house, he made the trek into the city centre, head down and avoiding everyone. He finally got to his destination, chest heavy with grief as he eyed the bus stop in front of him. He could almost envision himself sitting there as if he was a spectator, watch Lottie stroll up in that little dress, watch her pluck his cold heart right out of his chest and warm it up.

He blinked rapidly, tears falling down his miserable and marred face, moving over to sit down, clutching the gift tightly. He wished so badly he could say goodbye to her, to feel her embrace, to feel her soft kiss just one more time, but in a way he knew he’d never be able to leave her if he saw her tearful face. He rummaged in his pockets, reaching out the two gifts off John. A pocket knife and a burner phone. He flicked the knife out, scratching into the metal seat at his side carefully.

S.R

C.R

Maybe she’d see that one day, maybe she’d see it and know it was him, maybe it would comfort her. His lower lip wobbled horribly and he wiped at his eyes, pressing call on the only contact in his phone.

“Hello?” he answered after two rings.

“Price… I need help,” he choked out, unable to stay strong under the unbreakable weight of his pain.

He willed that coldness to come back to him, that emptiness was much easier to handle than all of this emotion. He needed to bury himself, needed to become nothing but a ghost so he could carry out his revenge and keep Charlotte safe. He didn't deserve to have a happy life with her like he’d longed for, was stupid for ever thinking it was possible really, wasn't he? He was nothing but bad luck, cursing everyone he loved to a painful death. He’d never be able to make up for what he’d caused but he’d spend the rest of his miserable life making sure Charlotte wouldn't suffer the same fate.

#simon riley x oc #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x oc #ghost x oc

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bisexual-yuri · 29 days

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Talent and Blessings Don’t Matter in the Hospital (Lessons from ECMC)

There is only so much process you can reasonably expect someone to do

I feel like I’ve hit my limit

Shit’s got me feeling bored and stupid like the village idiot

Need my creativity need a job

I’m all full of all sort of needs to sort out this agony of idleness

They say it’s a kindness to myself to take so much time to myself but what do I do all by myself except circle a drain I don’t want to drain out of?

Can I take a plane or a train off this cliff of boredom without alarming me and everyone that loves me?

Still processing neuropathy and dark shit discussed in therapy

Like the fact that the nurses sedated me against my will needlessly because they were scared of me

Don’t care that they’re the real scary she’s, the real scary ones

The ones keeping me locked away from the sun and the fan

It felt like nobody cared that the son of God sees all including patient abuse, including how if you scary enough they’ll take your fuckin’ shoes

They don’t got a clue the trauma they causer with the drama and gel/powder painted claws, damaging psych mentality, my prayer is done so more it be

Amanda and JD, were they manic or just anxious?

Why did Corey have to take all this?

Why won’t Fawzi just get all the words out?

Why wouldn’t they just let Jaxem the fuck out?

People no danger to themselves or me

Still in lockup, docs give no fucks you see

False profits and false prophets get out easy

Druggin’ the fun out of Aggie

You ain’t fun no more, that’s how you get free

Behavior in the health, good behavior in hell

And it doesn’t even come with Mercy

Quitting’ Cymbalta cold turkey

Can’t see color, can’t smell nothin’, feelin’ wonky

Temperature a mess, cold water on hot hands

No one cares to listen, no one really understands that big emotions are not themselves a disease

Drug’ll fuck your mind up till you can’t even see

I’m Eliza spitting’ rhymes now, not lies now, no I’m no fucking donkey

It’s a song but I wrote it in the wrong key

Singin’ red teeth, spitting truth through the nose bleed

Now I got time to kill but no blood to spill

You can’t take anything further away from me

Robbed of all my autonomy, my work and my loves all a trifecta of purgatory

Abuse and sex crimes by blonde bitches who look at me and see witches

Plural

I’m just one person, big feelings on a fleshly mural

Trying to make sense of the senseless violence done to me

Trying to make sense of the senseless violence done period

I’m deadly serious

This shit needs to get a hard look at it

A world full of angels seeking their halos and wings, instead get shot down with syringes and bans that take wedding rings

No wedding ring for me, no wedding ring for Sarah not even a tattoo

In the hospital they treat you like a damn fool and then wonder why you behave any differently

Sorry ECMC but the truth you saw in there ain’t the real me, it’s the me you brought out of me

It’s the eagle you carved out of a hummingbird that was trying to rest on a dead tree

I’m not a dead me, I’m just me, so why did you try killing me to make me whole again?

I’ll tell you doc, you have cost me all sorts of friends by locking me up in this shit

Made some new ones too, but the anger and the loss are harder pills to swallow than anything you gave me in follow up

Divorce the PTSD, divorce from real me, you people never trusted me to take care of me

It’s scary

I know in a moment I had lost my mind, but damn is that license to be so fucking unkind?

How am I supposed to find peace in the belly of the beast?

How is anyone supposed to heal when you hit them hard with rules about what is and isn’t real?

Makes you wonder who’s the delusional one, the patients or the system

All I know is the needle toothed fucker takes everyone as a victim and doesn’t care if we scream or we cry

More fuel for the fire, more reasons to make people want to die to escape this

I know Al, you’re still here and you can’t take this

Neither can I, knowing people suffer every day in this hellfire of some hospital’s fucked up design

But what can I do, I’m just one person and I don’t even have a second shoe to drop because of what the hospital took from me

I have a lot of friends, lot of family

Most people ain’t so lucky

Screaming on the wind “why did you do this to me and him and her and them and everybody?”

I wish I knew an answer, I wish I had a better answer than just to scream

Maybe someday when I am healed I will have energy to dream of a better future for this

But for now, all I can do is sleep

#poetry #poem #not hetalia #original poem #the tortured poets department #poets on tumblr #edgar allan poe #ranpo #port mafia #suegiku #ranpo edogawa #nh #places #q

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twilightarc-gm · 9 months

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tag someone you want to get to know better

🧡Very honored and loved to be tagged by @iri-vail and @incarnadinedreams 🧡

Favorite color/s: In nature; orange. In clothing and personal style; purple. In general or for the vibes; red. Color combo; orange and purple, followed close second of purple and red.

Last song: Punching Bag by Set it Off is so catchy I have been listening to it alot. 🎶So say goodbye / to your mister nice guy / you got your wish / he's rotting in hell🎵

Last movie: The second spiderverse movie. It was too fast for me, but it seemed cool. Good vibes. I do enjoy animation and stylized cg over live action, so I am glad these movies are doing so well, but I think this is it for me on watching any more.

Currently watching: Just finished binge watching The Good Place. An extremely solid show. Well rounded, funny, great acting. Cathartic ending. Cried about it a lot thinking of the message it's trying to convey. Eleanor and Michael were my favorites, but that's no surprise that I like the Arizona trashbag and the fire squid demon in a Ted Dansen suit.

Currently reading: Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio, by Pu Songling. And as always, Modao Zushi every time I have to check something for my donghua rewatch. And slowly catching up with The road to reunion by Onomatopoetikon (prequel movie xmen ff)

Currently working on: Still in the process of my Extensive Note Taking rewatch of the Founder of Diabolism (mdzs) donghua. I am mostly done with notes up to s2, but I binged s3 again because I wanted to write instead of take notes (WIP doc available on the CX Heaven discord). s3 continues to make me so angry I am not sure how I'll convince myself to do the full note taking. Comparing each episode to relevant novel sections is also emotionally taxing, in the sheer damage that the donghua does to the Twin Heroes relationship... so! This will be a while... but this an underlying project for my fem-mxy!wwx fic which ... may... take the place of "mainfic" for ever getting published? Jury is still out on that.

Current obsession: MDZS themed brainrot continues to make a marshy bog of my psyche. Chengxian, Twin Heroes, and Jiang Cheng in that order, but surprisingly I seem to be writing and thinking more about WWX in all my WIPs and I just noticed? Predominately, I have been writing these stories from his perspective 😅 Zoids au, naga!jc au, majority of fem!mxy au, jc wolfcurse post-canon, White Hair Wuxian smutty oneshot... Maybe it's just easier to write him because the novel is a baseline but also I think I understand and respect his multiverse shidivision.

As always, ignore me if you already did this and no worries if you're not up for sharing 😘 Tagging @ohmybookshelves @fanfictiongreenirises @sonik-kun @limonath @thestarlitrose @elliekayy @ruthlesscalculuss @miss-fiery @sailuncharted

#tag game #so-relatable #twi posts

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yekkiz · 6 months

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it’s that time of year again… 🎄🎅🎉🎊 no. the highlights of your 2023 media consumption of course! just like last year, i want to know your top 5 films, books, tv shows, songs/albums, pop culture moments if that’s your thing, and as a bonus: any favourite personal moment/achievement in the last year? new to you, new in release, either works! can’t wait to see your response and wishing you a happy new year! 😁🩷

HEY!!! I'm adding media I've loved this year wether it was released this year or not if thats ok but most of these did in fact release during 2023

long paragraph..,,

top 5 films

Beau is afraid - absolute favorite 2023 movie, Ari Aster will never fail to get into the depths of my brain in such beautiful and traumatising ways...it was truly a ride - watched it twice in the span of a week because the itch inside couldn't stop itching god it was so good, it felt like a dream and a nightmare and god knows how bad i love things that feel like dreams and nightmares, the mystery of what it means to "dream"

Talk to me - YES!!!! great horror!!!!! BEST montage scene of the year (yes. that scene with Le Monde song) great great great rhythm it felt like 2000s horror. simple main plot doesn't always mean its gonna be predictable or boring, LOVE a good "not so original" idea when its greatly made and this is the perfect example! classic horror is so back

Infinity pool - insane. loved every second of this. original premise, critic message, GREAT cast, sick visuals...Mia Goth the actress that you are

M3GAN - camp! not much else to say really. watched it a couple times during the year it's just become a personal comfort movie i just love that doll shes everything to me

Pearl - yeah I watched this way too late.........for an A24 horror enjoyer.... sorry father for i have sinned. Rewired my brain chemistry, changed my life forever, did irreversible damage on my psyche etc. Beautiful splendind wonderful i CAN'T wait for maxxxine

top ¿? shows

haven't watched many remarkable shows but there we go with my little ranking...

Severance - incredible visuals, incredible storyline, amazing concept overall, can't wait for season 2

Better Call Saul - this show is all I breathe and Im genuinely worried that I won't be able to like a show as much as I like bcs - fav show i've ever watched, genuinely

La Mesías - best 2023 spanish show.............i love shows i love media i love art. when i watch things like this i feel so honored i'm able to witness such things for so little payment like. this isnt worth a suscription i feel like i owe more for letting me see such thing. i feel like im a voyeur when i encounter media that's so carefully made, with so much taste and eye for detail...like i shouldn't be allowed to watch through my laptop screen in my bedroom . just wow if you have the chance and find a sub version i can't recommend it enough

that was my top 2023, other shows ive watched...just rewatched the office, currently rewatching breaking bad, I think you should leave...

top 5 albums/songs

Desire, I want to turn into you - Caroline Polachek - so ethereal, so dreamy, feels like a movie and like when you fall in love and start noticing things you usually never paid attention to - the beauty of your hometown, your lover's hands or how their smile folds in certain ways when they see you, even how you perceive yourself differently

fav track - either I believe or butterfly net

Fanfare - Dorian Electra - from one extreme to the other..complete chaos and noise and I'm soooooo seated for it! such a complete album with 0 skips, always gonna love a fame themed record that talks about things that aren't relatable at all and gotta love the pop culture moments aswell, they're always so campy yet manage to be deep at times i love an unserious but self aware king what can i say!

fav track - wanna be a star

American Gurl - Kilo Kish - oh i love love this album i love the sound of it, the videogame vibe...every single song is so addictive I'll be minding my business and a random song from this album will pop into my head

fav track - no apology!

Preacher's Daughter - Ethel Cain - well this was certainly something it literally felt like a horror movie and of course I'm so here for it. terrifying, disgusting, sent shivers down my spine the first time I heard it on full length...and still does when I do. such a great album and def one of the best ones ive ever heard, top 5 for sure

fav track - family tree

Ultraviolence - Lana del Rey - yeah i'm 10 years late and thank god I am bc only god knows the irreversible damage this would have done to teenager me

fav track - florida kilos

2023 personal highlights

started the year doing a really nice trip that somehow helped me clear thoughts about my future

I got accepted into the masters degree I wanted which also gave me the chance to meet so many cool people and make so many good friends <3

I've been able to draw soooooooo much - my arm is doing sooo much better

got a tattoo I really wanted! got that flash design in my mind for a while and it's finally on me

this year was so hard for me and my family and it was such a challenge. I'm so proud we could manage through it all, and hopefully this year is easier on us

thanks so much for the ask Imo! sorry I wrote a lot and half of it it's just nonsense though!! I wish you a happy new year <333

#non sims #cheesehair #2023

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plutoprophecy · 1 year

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9 people you would like to know better

This sounded really fun so i did this as soon as i could :))

Thank you for the tag @xyrnys !! 💖

Three ships: had a hard time deciding bc i used to read/watch a lot of stuff when i was younger, so i had a lot of favourite pairings...and then forgot most of them. My top favourites are Bagginshield (i hyperfixated on the for like. A whole year. It was insane), Dinluke (i just. have So Many Thoughts about them) and Seirei (aka Serizawa and Reigen, my favourite pathetic office men <3)

First ship ever: ok i am showing my ass here but listen. Cringe is dead. I am on tumblr the weirdo app I don't care anymore. My first ever ship was. Germany and Italy from Hetalia. I read so many hetalia fics on wattpad it has caused irreparable damage to my psyche </3

Last song listened to: Exeunt by The Oh Hellos, it's such a good song!! I recently started going through all of their discography and my god, i love The Oh Hellos so much they're incredible

Last movie watched: Rosencrantz & Guildenstern Are Dead from 1990 bc my best friend recommended it to me. Didn't like it that much, tho, it was a bit too boring for me :(

Currently reading: Deadhouse Gates by Steven Erikson (still haven't finished it rip)

Currently watching: the Mandalorian s3. Watched the first episode and based on what i heard about the rest....idk if i want to continue watching :///

Currently consuming: hyperfixating super hard on Star Wars (and also crying about how good it could be if it was actually good lmaooo), Mass Effect: Andromeda (it's a really fun game, even if it has some big faults lol) and The Adventure Zone: Steeplechase (Justin is SO good at worldbuilding holy shit. Montrose has me in a chokehold tbh he's such a fun character)

Currently craving: hot cocoa and long, uninterrupted sleep

I tag (no pressure tho!!): @mertensia @melodyshmelody @havent-the-foggiest-mate @highonairtm @gayteensupreme @capitalistboyfriend @bastardraccooon @dpurut @sansxfuckyou

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blooming-violets · 5 months

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hi! just finished reading Dancing On My Own and the sequel, and i wanted to say your writing is superb! it felt like my heart was breaking right alongside the characters, and the way you write is so captivating and heart-wrenching. I lowkey thought peter got away too easy, though, the man caused so much emotional damage i couldn’t forgive him as easily as reader did lol 😭 was wondering if you have ever or would consider writing a crazy angsty alternate ending where she ends up with gabe and peter has to watch on the sidelines?

I think it's so funny that I managed to write a Peter Parker fic for the Peter Parker fandom where Peter is one of the most hated characters I've ever written and a made up random dude I threw in to push the plot along is more beloved then the star of the show. I did that boy so dirty. People hate Peter's ass in these two fics. If I learned anything from writing those two stories, it's that I know how to villainize and fuck up a typically very loveable character.

I'm gonna ramble about it under the cut and explain why I don't feel up for writing an alternate version but (long story short) it's because the og ending fits too perfectly with their characters for me to even think about writing it a different way.

Originally what I intended to do was capture the heartbreak and pain of unrequited love from Robyn's Dancing On My Own song and translate that same hurt into a story. When I try to mold that into a tasm plot, it was fairly easy, because I always like to make sure that Gwen/her death is a big part of Peter's story when I write anyway so it kind of fit in perfectly for this. What is never explored in tasm canon world is exactly how Gwen's death affected Peter. Prior to No Way Home, all we get is him giving up Spider-Man for a while, clearly depressed, and then going back to it at the end. Since there was no third movie, those critical years after her death are up for the audience to decide. In No Way Home, we get the wonderful line of him not pulling his punches. That implies he went to a dark place, wasn't afraid of seriously hurting people, and sort of gave up on life. As a writer, that excites me, because I love a ruthless, angry, depressed Peter Parker and getting to explore that side of a character is like a wet dream for me. I love dark, morally corrupt characters. How does the sudden, untimely death of someone he loves break his psyche? How does watching his lover fall to her death and holding her dead body in his arms break a person? How does the guilt of not saving her in time eat away at his soul? He's supposed to be a hero. How can he not save the one person he's supposed to protect? How bitter and mean can a person become when all they feel is a stinging, numb sense of guilt and a constant, lingering dread? How far can a hero fall before they become the villain of their story?

Throw in a character to play opposite him who lived a life of abuse, guilt, and heartache herself and you've got the plot of Dancing On My Own! She doesn't know what it means to be loved without added conditions. Her unstable upbringing, lack of love, and abuse lead to a character who makes poor choices. From the outside, of course she should pick Gabe. He's smart, kind, funny, and caring...everything Peter used to be. He has all the qualities her old friend used to have but he doesn't have the lifetime of history with her. The only person she has ever been truly loyal to is Peter, regardless of how he treats her, because that's all she knows. How do you write a young woman who experiences a life of abuse, who has not received an ounce of decent therapy, and has been trauma bonded to her childhood friend? You write her to make questionable choices BUT choices that fit within her character's mindset at the time she is making them.

She's been waiting her entire life for Peter to show her romantic love. When she finally gets it, she's going to take it, regardless of how it looks from an outside point of view. She needs this. She needs to know what it feels like for Peter show romantic interest in her because she's been obsessed with that fantasy since middle school. Right now, she can't see it from the outside because she's so deep in it. It's the point of the story where you yell at your screen that these characters need therapy and a good slap to shake some sense into them. Unfortunately it's also where I chose to end the story as well haha. If this was an actual book, I'd let them explore this relationships for a few chapters, let them witness it first hand as it crashes and burns and slowly destroys them until they figure out themselves that maybe things were rushed. Peter needs some help. Reader needs some help. They both need friends outside of each other. They need to process their trauma. They both need time apart to understand how to be their own person without their unhealthy dependency on each other. But that's not going to happen. Yet. I think that a kiss and confession of love does not mean that two people are destined for each other in that exact moment.

While I don't consider this story to have the happiest of endings (I love me some angst), I do think it's fairly realistic for the way these two characters have been crafted. If she just rejected Peter and went to the hospital with Gabe, it wouldn't have been true to anything her character has show us prior to that moment. She drops everything for Peter. Always. That's all she knows how to do. She puts Peter before anyone else, including herself. It can sometimes be a positive character trait but it can also be the most negative one she has. A good therapist would help her figure that out. Or just a good, close friend other than Peter. But at the moment of the story end, she doesn't have either of those. So she choses Peter. It just makes sense to me in what her character would do.

Do I think she still visited Gabe in the hospital the next day? Yes. Do I think that Gabe would still be willing to be her friend? Yes. I don't think he holds grudges and genuinely likes her (even not in a romantic sense). Do I think that he can slowly become a voice of reason in her life? Yes.

But not yet.

Because I ended the story at the kiss instead of writing further. Because I like angsty depressed people and characters who make bad life choices. They make me feel more at home ;)

Side note, I very much enjoyed this question and since reading it, I've started writing again. Idk if anything will make it on to tumblr but I haven't written in a long time and it was nice to work that part of my brain again. Sooo thank you, my dear.

#asks

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infectedpaul · 7 months

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Yo! It was interesting hearing a take from someone who doesn't like the heathers musical. I was a big fan of the movie with Christain Slater growing up. One thing that always rubbed me wrong was how people was how it was always viewed as a teen romance. I think one thing I like about the musical is their approach to JD, we get to see how actually unhinged and dangerous he is. I think it was nice to remove him from the cool guy persona and actually delve into the damaged destructive psyche. However, I understand where you are coming from on the music. There were some songs I liked right away. Dead Girl Walking (and especially reprise) and Freeze your Brain. But the rest took me some time to warm up to. I don't trust any production that uses "You make my balls so blue" instead of "You're welcome" during the cow pasture scene. And with that stated I am going to FOREVER be angry that we didn't get a Que Sera Sera cover at any point, and WHY DID I NOT GET A FULL "TENAGE SUICIDE, DON'T DO IT" SONG, IM GONNA DIE FUCKING MAD ABOUT IT AND SHOOT MY TELEVISION

yya i see where ur comin from, i do like the movie a lot better tbh. i personally think its just a lot of influences from real world experiences ( a lot that are just personal and specific to Me) that i just grew out of it and some stuff just makes Me uncomfortable

#i did USED to like it a lot i think i just grew up lol . my tastes in musicals hasnt #it hasnt Matured but its shifted

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minglana · 6 months

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just like last year, i made a spreadsheet with my spotify wrapped songs and an extra bit of interesting (to me) stats (aka languages):

Spanish: 29 songs, 2 more than last year

most songs (17 of them) were aragon related (this is my way of excusing why so many songs in spanish LMAO)

2. and 3. Italian: 17 songs, 8 more than last year, and Neapolitan (also 17 songs)

sanremo did a lot of damage to my psyche this year. i also had a BLAST listening to la niña (everyone go listen to her!!)

4. Catalan: 13 songs, 9 more than last year!

ive had mushkaa brainrot ever since my friend introduced me to her in september. also, as any average catalan person, i listened to coti x coti a few too many times.

5. English: 8 songs, A LOT less than last year lol

a very random mix of songs, including johnny cash, hozier, bruce springsteen, mika, and onedee of course

6. Aragonese: 6 songs, 2 more than last year <3

mostly au d'astí, but a special mention goes to ixo rai for carta d'amor, which they translated and recorded this year <3

7. French: 4 songs

the best songs from stromae's last album (mainly mon amour) + a random song from racine carreé

8. Euskera: 2 songs (new on the list this year!)

just itzulera and another song from a very obscure band that i discovered thanks to a tumblr mutual!

9. 10. 11. and 12. Asturian, Finnish, Croatian and Portuguese

rodrigo cuevas my beloved is for asturian, finnish and croatian for this past year's songs, and portuguese is a song by pedro mafama

like last year, if anyone else wants to do this id looove to see it!

#love to see that ive diversified the languages a bit more lol #also fun fact i discovered pedro mafama thanks to a tumblr mutual (at the time) who has now blocked me.#why? idk i barely spoke to them in the first place😔but ill forever be grateful to them <3 #wrapped23 #musica #z puya cosetas

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id-rather-be-an-outsider · 1 year

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My Ex

summary: Mikaela Reid reflects on a past relationship that damaged her psyche.

word count: 620

a/n: this was a very fun challenge suggested by one of our amazing group members! the song I picked is called Trust, listen here! Without further ado, enjoy!

“not only that, but you fucked with her head // you broke her trust and she wish she was dead”

I trudge through the woods and reflect on the words of a fellow survivor. He’d said, “You don’t trust people, yet you’re so eager to please people and teach.” It was Adam who’d said it. He was right, I suppose. I don’t trust people. But how can I? I can’t even trust myself.

Imposter syndrome practically lives in me. Before I came to the Fog, I told my best friend, Julian, that I felt like a hack. That I wasn’t the storyteller I thought I was. That my interest for all things strange, and the beauty I found in the darkness was just me overcompensating. Even now, with the physical evidence right in front of me, I still can’t trust if teaching the other survivors my methods is me wanting to share just to help, or if somehow, I’m secretly being selfish. How? I don’t know how. But it feels like it.

The self-doubt had started when I was younger, and worsened when I lost my dad, but as time heals all wounds, so too does it heal a broken spirit. Except mine didn’t. Not until I moved in with Julian after a bad breakup. He nursed me back to health. Not physically. Emotionally. My ex was… a scumbag, to say the least. He cheated on me more times than I can count on my own two hands, and even when I had the evidence right there, he could convince me otherwise.

Convince me I was just jealous, that I was crazy, that I was insecure and didn’t want him to leave me because my dad was the only person who loved me and he was gone. The fights were full of him screaming at me, me crying, me begging him to please stop lying to me, that we could work through things if he’d just be honest and work on himself, and he’d tell me that everyone thought I was crazy and I should’ve realized that I was the problem when nobody came to help me. That I must be the one cheating, otherwise why would I be so paranoid about him? And somehow, I always found myself in the guilty position, even when I knew I’d done nothing wrong. I found myself apologizing for being upset with his actions. One day, I couldn’t take it anymore.

I started having… thoughts. Scary thoughts. Not thoughts like the stories I would tell in high school, but… really dark ones. About how easy it would be to disappear. That no one would notice, or even care. It terrified me. But Julian was my light at the end of the tunnel. He sent me a text, and all it said was, “Are u ok? I’m worried abt u. Luv u bestie, please text me back <3” Something told me to call him. So I did, when my ex wasn’t home to hear. He was always jealous of Julian, no matter the fact that me and Julian were like siblings. “Hello? Mik? Is that you?” Julian had said. I broke down in tears, telling him everything, and he said we would come get me.

I miss Julian. Adam reminds me of him, in a way. Nothing physical, they look very different from each other. But the tenderness they use to talk about life lessons and hard truths is the same. I’m not so standoffish as to never speak to anyone, like Najma is. She only has one friend here. But I probably don’t interact with people as much as I should. Nevertheless, I’m glad I can call Adam a friend. He reminds me of home, and I need that here. Even if I can’t trust myself, I can at least trust him.

#outsider writes #dbd fanfic #dbd survivor #mikaela reid #adam francis #OC!Najma Ali #dbd mikaela #dbd adam #dbd oc survivor

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modgirlyreposts-revamped · 2 years

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millie, maurice and michael headcanons-

- in actuality, michael and maurice aren't too far apart in age, maurice was born in 1962 in my au, and michael in 1968. however, michael being permanently trapped in the rotting husk of a 22 year old changes that quite a bit as despite michael only having been born 6 years later he is dramatically younger than maurice.

- maurice had seen michael once or twice in the original fredbear's family diner, but michael was only about six at the time, and maurice was twelve. they saw each other once in a while, but they never really interacted. he was 21 in 1983 when he heard about the bite, and he recognized michael's face in the paper.

- when he actually meets michael, it's way later in the timeline. michael has practically fallen off the deep end. in his adult years he's narrowly evaded- and sometimes not evaded- charges for possession and use of drugs (just weed lol), arson, aggravated assault, identity fraud, theft, motor vehicle theft, property damage, vandalism, resisting arrest and peace disturbance, plus barely avoiding manslaughter and assault charges (as well as underage smoking) from his teen years due to his dad literally not caring about cassidy at all and not pursuing any legal justice. and maurice looks at this psychologically and physically ruined, mangled husk of a man who really and truly believes he's beyond redemption and unworthy of love and goes "do you want to come over for dinner? :)"

- as soon as maurice connects the dots that michael was the kid who lost his brother in the bite, he decides two things: one, he is going to be as kind as he can to this poor boy, and two, he's going to very, very carefully monitor his interactions with millie and freddy.

- but michael, despite his literal criminal record and tendency to smoke weed on their porch at 3am, is kind and surprisingly mellow despite how he's broken to the point of just being unhinged. his heart is in the right place. when maurice asks him to be more subtle about the weed so the cops don't get suspicious he complies. (i think mike smoking weed is funny as fuck.) so maurice chooses to trust him. he's clearly learned from his mistakes, and he doesn't need them rubbed in his face. he needs someone to be kind.

- michael admires millie's bravery in facing freddy constantly despite what he did to her (my main ctw au millie is just dead fr and michael definitely knows given his experiences with the undead) and in trying to hold afton robotics' abhorrent deeds back without losing herself in the process, all in spite of her age. but he actually keeps a close eye on her and keeps her reckless, angry, spiteful and outright criminal behaviors in check (though her worst crime is really property damage and vandalism) because he knows the dangers of death and surviving after it and what it does to your psyche.

- maurice sees a lot of himself in michael, even in the worst of his regrets (namely the bite). he sees michael reflect a lot of his behaviors from when maurice was his age around the early 80s, which was his life's lowest point. he sees michael was a troubled, angry alt teen just like him who acted out and made a lot of mistakes, even if michael's biggest mistake was more heinous than anything maurice did, and is now in the horrible low where he has to do nothing but see the aftermath of his traumatic teen years. maurice really wants to help mike move forward, but michael doesn't really think that's possible until he atones for his father's sins, which he is ready to accept will likely lead to his demise.

- millie introduces michael to penelope scott. he refuses to listen to any song ever again but rät, moonsickness, sweet hibiscus tea, and soap. /hj

- millie sees michael as a cool almost older brother figure. cool being used very loosely. perhaps a more accurate description would be she sees michael as her cringe fail uncle. she tells him that to make fun of him. michael's view on millie is more "this is the feral dumpster rat i babysit on thursdays."

- also, millie in my au is associated with cats and michael with possums. cats are known to kill and eat possums. this tells you everything that "cringe fail uncle" and "feral dumpster rat i babysit on thursdays" does not about their dynamic.

- they're buddies tho, they're just both menaces

- maurice doesn't really see michael as his son, per se, not totally. rather, more like a kindred spirit in need of support maurice is glad to give now that he's older and able to do so. though that definitely translates to a parental sense of care for him. michael sees maurice as close to a father figure.

- michael is at first really upset at the idea of seeing maurice as a parental figure due to his trauma from william. but maurice is kind and patient, and doesn't force mike's trust. he tells him the same thing he tells millie- "all i want from you is for you to be happy here. no more, no less."

- is now a bad time to point out that when their timelines would collide would be like 2017, which in this au is the time of pizzeria simulator? where michael burns to death. just like caleb (who ik it's been a hot sec since i talked about, michael's partner, the mechanic) maurice wants him to reconsider sacrificing his life to end his father's crimes, but he up and refuses. he sees no out, no end where he survives. no matter how much maurice tries to connect with him, his efforts are in vain and michael's days are numbered.

- while it took michael a short time to determine millie's supernatural nature, it took much longer for him to actually discuss it with her. he tries to pry subtly one night while she's working on homework, as he watches her write like there's no reason she shouldn't be able to:

- "i'm impressed at your fluency."

- millie raises an eyebrow. "in what? i'm fourteen, y'know. most kids my age can write."

- "not that. the way you can carry and control things so easily despite being incorporeal. if i didn't know better, heh... i may mistake you for a living girl."

- though she tries to play it off, her confused expression forcibly deepening, he sees her tense and go pale when he says it. "what... what the heck are you talking about?"

- mike sighs, then glances out the window.

- "i take it i'm the only one who's found your body in the workshop?"

- she freezes, unable to even try to deflect.

- "i knew from the moment we met eyes. the window to the soul... unfortunately they're a pretty dead ringer for when a soul is all you are."

- knowing millie is dead and clinging to life, he feels bad for leaving her without closure, and for no longer being there to guide and ground her despite being able to, but she insisted she wasn't going to go, she was happy here and she wasn't ready for "closure" like the other children's spirits were.

- he actually does discuss this with her and tries to convince her she has to let go, but she refuses, until he points out that someday someone will find her dead in the workshop, or eventually people will notice she hasn't aged a day since fourteen, and she can feasibly only keep up the facade for so long, even without accounting for the mental and spiritual damage such a feat would cause her, eventually reducing her to nothing but her pain and suffering and traumatic memory of being brutally decapitated.

- millie cried when he told her that. things had only started to get better for her once she was dead, and it felt cruel that even then she wasn't allowed happiness. she didn't want to let go, not now, not ever, not now that she knew what she'd taken for granted climbing into funtime freddy's chest cavity. she wanted to stay until she could see her parents again. she wanted to spend time with her friends and do normal teenage things and stay with her dear grandpa so he wasn't so alone with no young children who needed his care and no pets and no wife and no frequent visits from grandkids. she wasn't ready to accept that she would never get to stay like that, even though michael tried to help her reach that point.

- only afterward did millie think to question why michael "mental illness" afton was trying to basically give her therapy.

- she went to point this out to him only to find out he had died and her reaction was a mix of bittersweet mourning and "oh you motherfucker"

- then a few years later millie goes to the pizzaplex, now supposedly 19, still contemplating trying to let go, and when she goes to see glamrock freddy, maybe for reassurance that it's okay to let go, she's surprised when his eyes light up silver- weren't they blue in the promo material?- and he gives her a familiar smile, waves, and makes some sassy comment about how much she's grown since he last saw her.

- as soon as she realizes it's michael she sucker punches him not only for the sassy remark but also for leaving everything he could have had behind and leaving her like that. michael is surprised at first, but then realizes millie was hurt by his death, and has taken his concerns about her form to heart. he's far less surprised when he realizes this as millie is becoming more volatile and emotional as she spends more and more time as nothing but a product of her agony and is starting to resent her ghostly form, even though her maturity grants her more mental fortitude against that, but he opts not to point that out. he instead says it's good to see her again, and she grumbles something about how she missed him.

- when he sees brooke, sarah and dylan with her a moment later he realizes he may have lowballed how long she could keep up the facade despite visibly not aging, since despite all of them being 19 now, dylan, brooke and sarah are all shorter than her.

- they make a pact that when michael finally leaves glamrock freddy, millie will rest her own soul.

- they both know that ain't really happening until michael drags her to the afterlife by her ankles.

Millie being dead, but staying as a spirit because she doesn’t want to let go is a really cool idea with a lot of angst potential that I am not ready for lol-

And Maurice looking at Michael and simply being all “do you want to come over for dinner? :)” is such a Maurice move I love him ghfsgjjnfxvjkgdsjhdd-

#asks #answered #valleyfthdolls

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