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astriefer · 3 years

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Please have this messy, badly written scenario as a humble gift to you, because I wanted to do something since I reached 200 followers!

Bits of Truth

They stood in front of the Carstairs' townhouse in Cornwall Gardens. Christopher seemed mildly confused about what they were doing there as if he had not been paying attention. James shared one last glance with Thomas before he knocked on the door.

A few bits of silence flew by, in which they had held their breaths. Then footsteps tapped on the floor, and the door cracked open.

A wave of relief passed through James that not Sona nor Risa or any other maid came to open the door. Then he thought what a peculiar thought it was for him to be relieved by. Alastair looked at them, frozen in place, blinking a few times as if he didn't believe they were truly there. He rejoined his composure hastily. He didn't let them in - he stood in the front door and his eyes searched theirs for an explanation. It was like a weird staring contest. Eventually, Alastair spoke first. "Cordelia is not here. You know it fairly well."

He moved to close the door. "We haven't come for Cordelia," he said quickly, which received another incredulous glance from Alastair. "Well, we have. But not because we thought she'd show up here. We came to talk to you."

Alastair narrowed his eyes, expressionless, and considered James. Then he glanced at Christopher and Thomas, noting their desperate eyes. "About my sister?"

"We won't take long," promised James, despite he wasn't sure it's true. Alastair studied him, and James felt himself going rigid. He leveled Alastair with his indecipherable gaze.

Then Alastair had stepped back from the door and ushered them in. "My mother is in her bedroom, resting, and Risa went shopping for supper. So, you have to be quiet. Make it quick.'

~~~~

Alastair took their coats and tilted his head towered the parlor. A kettle whiselted in the kitchen. As he gestured them inside he turned the other way. A fire burned in the chimney, and a book rested peacefully on the armchair. When James examined closer he discovered it was written in Persian. Thomas mumbled something about Persian poetry.

Alastair came inside with a tray and James thought he was, for a change, being hospitable, but he ignored them and disappeared up the stairs. When he got back, empty-handed, James assumed the tea was for his mother. Alastair placed the book on the table as he sat down in front of them. Thomas and Christopher set on a love sofa and James set stoned on another armchair. He didn't waste time being the kind host, James presumed. "What it is about my sister?"

The golden-eyed boy decided the best tactic was started from what he knew. That wasn't much, but it was the most important thing, and he was certain about it, at the very least. "I love your sister."

Alastair raised his eyebrows, amused. "Yes, that's something that tends to happen between married couples, I've been told."

James shook his head. "This marriage, of Cordelia and I," just saying her name on his lips made a treacherous skip of his heartbeat, full of hurt and love. "It was a sham marriage."

Alastair pools of dark marble were fixed on James when he explained, rather awkwardly, the events that led to their marriage. And then events that led to Cordelia leaving the country. He prospected Alastair would be outraged, throw spears at them, maybe even recite some very angry poetry phrases in Persian. Instead, Alastair was very still for very long. When he did speak, the words weren't the James expected them to be. "I knew the marriage wasn't out of love," Alastair said calmly. "But I didn't expect you to tell all that rubbish."

James blinked. "It's the truth."

"Oh, I know," Alastair returned with a dismissive wave of his hand. "I doubt you would come up with such a ludicrous idea on your own, even if just to spite me. and I also know Cordelia wouldn't have slept with you unwedded, no matter how much she loved you."

All the thieves caught their breath when Alastair leaned forward, his month curving in an odd angle. "I also know being married to you was a wish she never thought would come true, and that you cared for her. You claimed her as yours and you defended her. It was good for Cordelia, and so I said nothing."

James snorted, although he hadn't found the conversation funny. Not the least. "I thought I loved Grace at that time. I felt bad when the thought of living with Cordelia was more appealing than I expected." The thought of Grace made his features harden. "And because of Grace, for years I've been blind. Manipulated. I lost my wife and Parabatai. She played with me like a doll; messed with my feelings, messed with my life. This is unforgivable."

He did not notice Christopher who tensed up and fixed his spectacles on his nose. "She did some bad things," he said, surprising them all. "But I don't think she's evil."

James furrowed his brow. "She's like a siren: beautiful and compelling, but going after her will only end in you being drowned."

"I see," Alastair said, turning back to James. "But why? Why did she do it?"

"Does it matter?" James asked. "She hurt so many people. She doesn't even deserve to apologize. It won't matter anyhow - the damage is done. After all she has done...sorry will never be enough. Nothing will."

"It matters," Alastair said. "Because you don't know her side of the tale. You don't know what she thinks. What she feels. You don't know if she had to do what she did."

He was tempted to say Grace has no feelings at all. "I believe I'm allowed to be angry."

"I do agree that what she had done to you is far above a jest or a play with hearts," there was a strange flame burning in the deep ponds of Alastair's dark eyes. "And you have no obligation to forgive her. But why not hear what she has to say? You are the one with the power. You know the truth. She can not affect you any longer."

James shook his head. "You don't know Grace," he said coldly, gravely. "She will try to use me. She will try and make me do as she wishes. I will not be a pawn in her game again. She controlled my life long enough."

Alastair glanced away, pondering over something. Thomas turned his head nervously between James and Alastair. For the first time since the beginning of their conversation, Thomas inquired, "Why do you insist James will hear her out?"

"You have no idea of her motives," Alastair retorted. "What she's done - she must know it's wrong. And she will have to live with this knowledge for the rest of her days. You are allowed to be angry, James, and rightfully so. But don't let it blind you. That you have been kept from certain kinds of evil doesn't mean everyone else had. You have no clue what led her to those decisions." Alastair looked distanced. James managed to guess he's not been talking only about Grace. "You should talk to her. You may not forgive her, but you deserve to understand, to know why to hear the plain truth. And you should let her mourn what she could have had and lost."

James wasn't sure he fully comprehended. "I wouldn't have loved her. Even without the bracelet issue - my heart belongs to Cordelia."

"What do you mean?" Christopher asked. "That not everyone had been kept from evil."

Alastair shrugged. "I met Tatiana Blackthorn only once. She's a madwoman. She doesn't seem like the kind of caring, kind mother to pet her daughter's shoulder. Besides, Grace seemed to be controlled by Tatiana, rather than working alone or alongside her."

"She took the love of my life away from me," James growled. "Nothing can atone for that."

"The love of your life is my sister," he reminded James. "I can hardly find the idea of her being heartbroken a good thing. And the one who caused this pain is not much liked, as well. But you shouldn't think that just because you would've done it otherwise, it was an option for her. You can't know what are the options in front of people. You can't know how they feel unless you talk to them. So talk to Grace, James. Then seek out my sister. If you love her like you claim you do, will you give up on her so easily?"

"No," James stood up, "I will not."

Alastair nodded. "why did you come and tell me about your little schemes? Why now?"

Now, after so much time of lying, why tell the truth? Why not keep it in its cage of delicately made lies?

James cut his gaze to the book on the table. Thomas answered instead in a quiet voice. "She is your sister. You must have been worried about her. We wanted to tell you because - because you deserve to know the truth and understand why things happened the way they did."

What Thomas did not say was what none of them wanted to admit. Cordelia ran away to Paris with Matthew. Even if she'll be back in only two weeks - they all were worried sick. James couldn't blame her, he was awful and blind. All of this was a mess. If she needed time to calm down in Paris, he couldn't deny it of her, even if he had a say in this choice.

Alastair studied Thomas, and James felt the half-Persian hadn't quite believed them. It was true - they needed his help in the future. But it was a start. "Anything else? A ghost friend? Another evil aunt?"

"No," Christopher affirmed.

"Good," Alastair said. James might have imagined it but he thought he saw Alastair sneak a glance at Thomas before standing up. "Now get out of my house. Risa will be here any minute."

~~~~

I- how?? Thank you so much, everyone!! 🙈 Thank you, you can't understand how much it means to me. 🥺

This is mind-blowing. Truly. For whatever reason you follow me, know that I love you <3

Tagging some of my mutuals, you are all wonderful and make my time here so much better (not all of them because my brain is all wonky, but I mean all of you): @kit-12 @littlx-songbxrd @pink-party-dino @shadowhuntertrash @gummybears-4u @itsdaughterofthemoon @mcrrythievcs @fictionally-fantastic @reyna-herondale I'll tag more but I don't want to bother anyone so... thank you!! I don't know what people find in my blog, but I am grateful, and I appreciate all of you endlessly.

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sparklesphobia · 3 years

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Pre-Cadou / Human!Moreau Headcanons

I'm a little busy writing my fix-it fanfic (its called Coup against God on ao3 if your curious) So as much as I'd like to draw my Human!Moreau I don't have the time or energy so I'll write down some of my headcanons!

!!Caution This is quite Long!!

Salvatore and his brother Dante were really close as kids and often got themselves in trouble because they liked to go and mess around with people and pull pranks

They eventually grew out of this and made it up to the others.

Salvatore was always an extrovert/sociable. Many of the people at the reservoir knew him and enjoyed his company

He is French-Italian, but the Moreau family line has been in the village for generations.

His family has connections with the Beneviento family as personal doctors. which meant he had met Donna when he was 15 yrs (she was 5)

He has always been a romantic at heart. He spends a lot of his personal time reading poetry/romance novels. His friends never let him live this down once they find out, often calling him “Lover boy~” as a joke. He hates it.

His Mother was always helping around the Village, which inspired Salvatore to do the same. This helped repair his image and soon the villagers found him to be a blessing.

Salvatore had saved a young woman from drowning in the reservoir. She was eternally grateful to him, meeting him a year later in the clinic while picking up medicine for her mother. He found out her name was Elise and promptly asked her out on a date after much insisting from Dante.

Salvatore's family all die pretty tragically, leaving him as the last Moreau at the age of 35.

Salvatore had to quit his job as a teacher so he could take over the Clinic for his Father and late brother. He also had to take care of his Father and the important paperwork/responsibilities of the reservoir until his Father passed away.

He got really depressed and started drinking and smoking pretty heavily and started socializing less which became concerning for Elise. She was his rock throughout the grieving process and he fell even more in love with her.

He found it hard for him to express that but he got better over time.

By the time he met Miranda he was 45. He met her in the clinic and she told him he had great potential and offered to help him with the reservoir as long as he does what she asks. Moreau took her up on her offer, feeling that his luck was finally turning around.

He worked for her for 5 years, developing romantic feelings for her which helped her manipulate him further, but created a rift in his relationship with Elise. Miranda went as far as pretending to reciprocate his feelings for a short time.

He had cheated on her with Miranda while he was intoxicated, they broke up for a short time but got back together after realizing that they still loved each other. He asked Elise to marry him at the spring festival, feeling that his luck was finally turning around.

Moreau grew terribly ill which made him more lenient to take Miranda up on her offer to make him “better”. He put his faith in her.

Moreau’s mutation made it hard for him to function, he ended up staying in his home for most of it due to the extreme pain and nausea. The only people who took care of him at that time were his assistant, Leon, who promised to stay by his side no matter what, and Elise.

Moreau's mutation was unpredictable and once he tried to handle it on his own in his room. Elise had heard the ruckus and went to check up on him despite his protests. What she saw was horrifying, Moreau looked like a monster and she didn't recognize him. She thought he had killed her fiancé, he tried to convince her otherwise but she just kept backing away from him until she tripped on the staircase and fell down, snapping her neck

Moreau rushed Elise to Miranda to save her but in the end it didn't work, Moreau felt broken and lost his only solace being the "love" from Miranda and the undying support from Leon.

Moreau had gotten spotted by some of the locals and was immediately attacked for being a monster. After realizing who he was, they planned on getting rid of out of fear. So they went to his house at night and set it ablaze. Moreau barely escaped the madness and got hit a few times. He was forced to go to the abandoned mine for safety.

Moreau was vengeful, feeling furious for how he was treated despite everything he did for them. So whenever people got near his territory he would attack them, taking some of their bones to make a crown as a way to show that he is not someone to mess with.

Moreau felt terrible for how he reacted, seeing that the people were right, that he was a monster. He secluded himself away, using his mucus to keep him safe.

Moreau grieved deeply when Leon was killed by the Varcolac. This caused him to seclude himself further from society to make sure no one else got hurt by him.

#moreau #salvatore moreau #human salvatore moreau #human!moreau #headcanons #text post #resident evil 8 #resident evil village

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qqueenofhades · 3 years

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... Remember the Russian Revolution au? Which ended with Fedyor's sister very sick and Fedyor searching for Ivan in hopes of getting help for her from him? Fedyor finding Ivan and offering to do "anything" in exchange for his sister's medical treatment? Ivan secretly wanting Fedyor, but refusing to take what he wants like that? Soooo... I would also like the big the big 3 of your coming projects to happen, but... y'know... just.... wanted to bring this au up again... ;)

Behold, the oft-requested follow-up to the first two Russian Revolution au ficlets. Ahem.

Fedyor does not sleep that night. He does not even think about sleeping. He only leaves the army headquarters long enough to think hard about what he is proposing to do, wonder if it is worth it, and decide that it is. Katya needs the medicine, he has no other recourse, and he is categorically unwilling to return home to his family as a failure, when they have placed all their trust and hope in him. Ivan has hinted that he might be able to obtain it, and so that, no matter what it takes, is what Fedyor will have to get him to do. And for that…

He knows that he is not unattractive. He has dark eyes, dark hair, a dimpled smile, a personable and friendly manner that, in happier times, attracted the attention of many an eligible young lady who wished to ice skate or promenade around the park or take a carriage ride, as courting Russian couples are wont to do. However, while Fedyor was perfectly happy to chat with ladies, or escort them to a ball, or fulfill his essential chivalric duty, he was not otherwise interested in wooing them. It was partly for that reason that he signed up to the military, where an enterprising young man can have other opportunities in the darkness of the barracks. So long as his family was kept conveniently unaware.

For all that the Bolsheviks have overthrown the government without a clear plan as to what to do next, and accordingly plunged them all into this miserable civil war, Fedyor does secretly sympathize with certain of their beliefs on the remaking of family life. They say that marriage is outdated and bourgeoisie, that monogamy is unnatural, that women should not be subject to patriarchal systems, and that homosexuality is an equally valid state of nature. Such a possibility of sexual classification and divergence is much discussed in Europe these days, and there is even a small but growing scholarly literature, written by eminent scientists. Sexual Inversion by Havelock Ellis, published in 1896, argues that the man-loving man is indeed even a possibly improved form of human, associated with superior intellectual and artistic achievement, and that nothing about his attachment is wrong or abnormal. Two years before that, Edward Carpenter wrote Homogenic Love, and in 1900, the German Elisar von Kupffer published an anthology of homosexual poetry, Lieblingminne und Freundesliebe in der Weltliteratur. Such texts are relatively easy for an educated, French- and English- speaking young Russian intellectual, such as Fedyor Mikhailovich Kaminsky, to lay his hands on. He is not sure what can come of it, but at least he knows that he is not alone.

The question remains as to Ivan Ivanovich Sakharov’s proclivities. Unless Fedyor is very much mistaken, Ivan was at least considering the possibility of accepting his offer, and turned it down for honorable, moral reasons, feeling it unjust to sexually extort a young gentleman in exchange for his sister’s care, rather than physical horror at the idea of such a coupling. If he’s a Bolshevik, he’s probably acceptably tolerant of their philosophy on an abstract level, but it’s less clear as to whether that extends to its personal practice. If Fedyor turns up in his bunkhouse – which, come to think of it, is probably shared, curse these Bolsheviks and their dratted communality, highly inconvenient for a midnight seduction attempt – scantily clad and willing, will Ivan’s objections hold out then? Or… or what?

Fedyor doesn’t know, but the uncertainty adds to the frisson of shameful excitement, rather than detracting from it. He searches through the streets of Chelyabinsk for some bread (it does not seem in much greater supply than in Nizhny Novgorod) and waits for the sun to go down. In March, the days, though getting steadily longer, are still short and chilly, and it’s bitingly cold when it gets dark. Then he pulls up his muffler, tells himself not to be unduly precious about it, and heads for the makeshift army quarters on Kirovka Street.

The buildings in downtown are beautiful, built in the Russian Revival style of neo-Byzantinian splendor, though the onion-domed Orthodox churches have all been converted into stables and armories, and anything that whiffs of an ideology contrary to the Red one has been economically discarded. Fedyor reaches the door, knocks, and when a disgruntled sergeant comes to answer it, expecting him to be a soldier out too late and in line for a ticking-off, Fedyor raises his hands apologetically. “I’ve come to join up,” he says. “The great socialist cause of the world’s workers is the only true one for a patriotic Russian man, and I vow it my full allegiance, if you will have me. I was speaking to my friend earlier, Ivan Ivanovich, and he suggested it. Is he still here?”

The sergeant eyes him squiggle-eyed, but they cannot afford to look gift horses too closely in the mouth, or turn aside willing recruits. It takes a while, but he shouts for someone who shouts for someone else, and this finally produces the startled personage of Ivan Sakharov, who clearly thought it was for the last time when they parted several hours ago. Upon sight of Fedyor, he stops short, looking alarmed, angry, and wary all at once. “What are you – ?”

“Can we talk?” Fedyor is resolved to do this, he truly is, but he feels it best to get it over with before that wavers in any degree. Whether he wants it too little does not seem like the problem; on the contrary, he fears that he wants it too much, and if he stops to reflect on it or delude himself with any nonsensical notions of it being more than once, that can only hurt the cause. “Somewhere… private?”

Ivan hesitates, as if asking to commune out of sight of the others is tantamount to heresy (though it’s not as if these damn hypocrites didn’t plot in secret, away from their own countrymen, for months and months, Fedyor thinks angrily). Then he jerks his head. “Fine. Five minutes. This way.”

He leads Fedyor up a few narrow, creaking staircases, past closed doors that echo with snorting and snoring and coughing, the cacophony of his comrades, none of whom seem to be enjoying their glorious victory quite as much as they thought. Ivan, however, appears to be sufficiently high-ranking in the Red Guards that the room they finally arrive at, though not much larger than a closet, is at least private. It reminds Fedyor forcibly of Ivan’s room back in St. Petersburg, the one they slept in together, that first night after the Winter Palace. It sounds more intimate in his recollections than it actually was. Nothing happened, of course. But Ivan was kind to offer it, kind when he did not need to be, when a young tsarist soldier alone in the ferment of riot and revolution, such as Fedyor was, would not be likely to see the new red dawn. It is that which Fedyor keeps in mind as he shuts the door with assumed casualness, then turns around, meets Ivan’s eye in a significant fashion, and shrugs off his coat, cap, and muffler. Then, unmistakably, starts to unbutton his shirt.

He has almost gotten to the bottom by the time Ivan, who is staring at him as if he’s lost his marbles (it is unclear if this is an encouraging fashion or not) finally recovers his sense. He strides forward and covers Fedyor’s hands with his own large, callused rifleman’s fingers, sending a shock of attraction burning through Fedyor from head to toe, along with the death of any more illusion that he could continue to be casual about this. “What are you doing?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Fedyor’s throat is as dry as a bone, but he forces himself to speak. “I said that I would do anything for my sister’s care, if you would help.”

He lingers suggestively on the word anything, just as he did before, in case there was any doubt (as if the undressing wasn’t enough) what he means here. Ivan looks like a cornered bear, but as his eyes catch Fedyor’s and flick across the lean, muscled torso thus revealed beneath the shirt, he swallows hard and has to glance away. The attraction trembles silently in the air between them, tense as a piano string, tuned to snapping. In the old days, that is, when people played pianos, and did not burn them for firewood, as Fedyor’s parents were preparing to do with theirs when he left home. It chokes raw and painful in his throat. He is attracted to Ivan – desperately attracted, in fact – and yet he still hates what the Bolsheviks have done, even if the Romanovs and the Provisional Government were no better. The deposed Tsar Nicholas II is under house arrest with his wife and five children, the four tsarevnas and the tsarevich, in Yekaterinburg. Little sick Alexei Romanov, whose hemophilia opened the door for Grigori Rasputin to control the queen, the royal household, the government of Russia, and so bring about the end of their house. He was like something from a fairytale monster, that Grisha. The rumors of his death, not quite two years ago in December 1916, is that it almost did not happen, he was so hard to kill. A demon. A beast.

“You cannot do this,” Ivan says, his voice too rough, his eyes still struggling to remain decorously averted. “It is not – it is not right.”

“Not right?” Fedyor flares. “So a little spot of armed treason and overthrowing the man who, however deficient he might be, was the heir of one of the oldest and greatest empires in the world? That part was entirely aboveboard, but this, when you want this – don’t lie to me, I’m well aware you do – to help my sister? That would be a sin?!”

Ivan backs up a step, glancing around shiftily. These walls are thin, and he clearly does not want his beloved brothers-in-arms to hear this. “Fedyor Mikhailovich – ”

“Have me.” Fedyor is done playing games. “I’m here, I’m yours for the taking. You can do whatever you want to me, as long as you give me the medicine at the end.”

For a long, spellbound moment, he thinks Ivan is on the brink of agreeing. Then once again, he shakes his head. “No,” he says. “I could not in good conscience consent to this. But I will fetch you the medicine. You do not have to give me anything in return.”

Fedyor gawks at him, shocked – and, it must be confessed, more than a little disappointed. “I thought it was fair trade,” he says. “Tit for tat.”

“It is…” Ivan shakes his head, eyes once more straying to Fedyor’s bare chest. “Button your shirt up,” he says, half-laughing, not angry, breathless and soft. “It is very distracting.”

“Good.” Fedyor takes another step. “I think you deserve it, you obnoxious bastard.”

“Be that as it may.” At least Ivan has the good sense not to dispute it. “I cannot do this,” he repeats, more gently. “You are a fine young man, Fedyor Mikhailovich. Perhaps in another life… but it would not be honorable to trade your virtue for this.”

“My virtue?” Fedyor has to laugh. “What makes you think I have that?”

Once again, Ivan wavers. But to give him (loathing) credit, he will not be swayed. “Button it,” he repeats. “I will arrange to have the money and medicine sent by your lodging by tomorrow, if you give me an address in the city.”

“I don’t have one.” Fedyor folds his arms. “Only here.”

Ivan looks even more startled. His lips part, he takes a step forward, and for a brief, wild, exquisite yearning of an instant, Fedyor thinks he is actually going to kiss him. They’re almost close enough – not quite, but almost – for it to happen. Then Ivan says, “Your family must be very proud of you.”

“I…” It catches in his throat. “I don’t know. I hope.”

“I would,” Ivan says. “I would be.”

And that, somehow, is all that seems to matter. Even as Fedyor spends a night in Ivan’s narrow camp cot of a bed, Ivan insisting on taking the hard floor out of an excess of gallantry, an echo of their first night in St. Petersburg. Ivan does as ordered, gives Fedyor some rubles and some medicine and a train ticket back home to Nizhny Novgorod. He personally escorts Fedyor to the train station to make sure he does not come to grief, then stands on the platform, staring after him like Vronsky watching Anna leave one more time. The train begins to huff and puff, spitting soot and embers, and Fedyor keeps his nose pressed to the glass, leaving a smudge, until long after, as it seems he is never destined to do anything but, Ivan Ivanovich Sakharov has vanished into the mist.

#heartrender husbands #fivan #fivan ff #ivan x fedyor #russian revolution au

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unmaskedagain · 4 years

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Rock Star

I was feeling a bit of writer’s block this morning. So I went through my prompts and found this awesome one. It has a bit of angst.

She lost her friends. The boy she was in love with broke her heart. No one in class apart from Chloe would even speak to her anymore. Lila’s lies had taken root in class, leaving Marinette in the back alone and abandoned. The worst part was that Marinette didn’t even know if she could be friends with any of her classmates again after the truth was exposed. In the effort to cling tighter to the coattails of someone who promised them the world, they had abandoned a childhood friend as if the friendship meant nothing; as if Marinette meant nothing. And as if that wasn’t enough, Akumas were getting stronger every day. Chat Noir was pushier than ever before. Most days it was all too much.

Most days Marinette didn’t want to get out of bed. She rarely smiled anymore. She couldn’t find it in her to design. It was like the life force had been drained from her. It didn’t take long for her parents to notice. However, after weeks of trying, when it became clear that Marinette wasn’t going to talk to them and that she wasn’t getting better, they sent her to a therapist. After they managed to get her to promise to at least try.

Dr. Vanderbilt was a kind woman with greying red hair and a Scottish accent. It took multiple sessions before Marinette started to open up about her problems at school; about feeling overwhelmed. One day after a session, the doctor gave Marinette a notebook.

“What’s this for?” Marinette asked taking the black notebook. The front of it said it had a 1000 pages.

“Whenever you’re feeling overwhelmed, I want you to write.”

“Write what?”

“Whatever you want,” Vanderbilt smiled. “What you’re feeling. Poetry. Songs. Quotes you know. Write a story. Whatever helps you get what you’re feeling out, lessen the load you’re carrying a bit.”

So Marinette did.

It was a struggle at first. She never thought of herself as much of a writer. Then she started writing random quotes she knew. Then Marinette started writing a bit of poetry just to try to express herself in a way she could understand. However, during a particularly troublesome day, when Alya accused her of being lazy and not being a good class president, Marinette resigned her position much to the shock of the class and started writing song lyrics.

One of the recommendation from Vanderbilt was to always stop doing things she didn’t want to do just because it made other people happy; especially if it was at harm to herself.

The doctor made Marinette write 100 times: I will not set myself on fire to keep you warm.

Marinette always hated being class president; the stress alone could kill a dozen elephants. She hated doing free commissions so she stopped that too. She hated doing the whole birthday celebrations, when everyone was quick to forget her that year. Or plan parties and fundraisers for trips that class made sure to make clear they didn’t want to her go to or on. So she stopped that too.

It was freeing.

Writing lyrics to songs were freeing. Soon she was writing them during class, lunch, after school, when there a moment of free time when helping out at the bakery.

And Vanderbilt was right. It did help her.

Marinette to smile a lot more. The pep in her step was back. She started hanging out with Chloe and Luka more and more. She made friends with others kids in class. She created a website and started selling custom designs.

One Friday, after school, Marinette found herself in Jagged’s Hotel room with Chloe and Luka. Jagged had asked Marinette to bring his new concert wardrobe that he had commission from her. He had and Clara Nightingale were going on tour together.

After Jagged had reviewed the clothes and approved them, proclaimed each outfit to be, “Rockin!”

Marinette found herself writing a song in her notebook while Luka and Jagged discussed musical influences. Chloe and Penny discussed a potential internships.

She was so invested in writing that she didn’t notice when the talking stopped. Or when Jagged asked her if she wanted Pizza.

Marinette jumped back when a hand suddenly waved in her face. “Wait! What!” She looked around and saw the amused faces of Jagged, Penny, Chloe, and Luka. Even Fang had a long grin on his face.

“What’s this love?” Jagged asked pointing to her notebook. “I’ve been trying to get your attention for ages.”

The bluenette blushed and tried not to hide her notebook; it would only make them more curious, “Nothing; just a notebook for ideas.” Technically that was true.

“Right on, can I see?” Jagged asked.

Marinette instantly pulled the notebook to her chest and her blushed turned a dark red. She was not going to show a Rock Star the song she wrote. She’d rather die. “Nope! Nah ah, nothing to see here.”

Chloe rolled her eyes, “Yes, because that’s totally what someone with nothing to hide does.” The blond looked at Penny. “She writes song lyrics. They’re pretty good.”

Marinette glared at the blond, “Traitor.”

Luka looked a bit curious. Jagged had a full blown grin on his face, “I knew it!” he shouted. “I knew there was a rocker in you. I had just had to wait a bit, love. Come on. Let me see then! Show Uncle jagged your songs.”

It took about twenty minutes to get Marinette to agree and then another ten to pry the notebook out of her hands. She watched with a pit in her stomach growing bigger and bigger as she watched Luka, Chloe, Jagged, and Penny flip through her notebook. Reading the lyrics that came straight from her heart.

What if they hated them? What if they thought she had no talent? What if they thought she was a freak? What if! What If!

“This is good, mate,” Jagged suddenly said. An impressed look on his face. “These are really good.”

“Told ya,” Chloe said smugly.

Penny nodded, “I wouldn’t mind commissioning some songs from you.”

“I’d like to jam together,” Luka said. “Maybe we can do a duet.”

Jagged suddenly shot up, “Penny! Call the guys. We need a band! Marinette’s gonna sing for us!” He ran for his guitar.

“Marinette’s going to do what now?” Marinette shouted.

Marinette was going to sing.

She sat on a dark brown wooden stool, in front of Jagged’s backup band, with Jagged and Luka on guitar. Chloe and Penny watched in the background. An assistant help up a camera.

Jagged had decided to give Marinette a rockstar makeover; well as much as she would let him. Her hair was pulled back in a faux hawk with a few curls framing her face, her makeup was flawless, her face was painted to look like she had been crying and her mascara had gotten everywhere.

It took a while for Jagged, Luka, and she to work out the music would be good for her songs and what songs she’d use. She decided to let the four: Jagged, Penny, Luka, and Chloe decide on the best ones. Marinette was too bias, she knew.

They had practiced. Everyone assured her she had an amazing voice but Marinette thought they were a bit biased too. They loved her too much to hurt her by saying anything mean.

“Hey fans watching!” Jagged said into the mic. “Today, I got a special guest here. My honorary niece and personal fashion designer; Marinette. She’s written some kick ass songs and agreed to prove that she’s a rockstar like her Uncle. Give her some love!”

Marinette got up and waked to the mic.

The drum beat started slowly. Marinette took a deep breath. The guitars and piano started.

Marinette opened her mouth to sing,

“Someday I won't be afraid of my head

Someday I will not be chained to my bed

Someday I'll forget the day he left

But surely not today.”

The beat picked up a bit.

She fought not to close her eyes as she sang. Instead, she thought of why she wrote the song; all the pain, all the mess going on inside. Her blue eyes got a faraway look to them.

“One day I won't need a PhD

To sit me down and tell me what it all means

Maybe one day it'll be a breeze

But surely not today

But surely not today”

Admitting she was in therapy was hard. Penny comforted her and admitted she went a lot too. Jagged hadn’t been happy when Chloe told the two adults just what was happening in Marinette’s class.

“Oh you don't know what sadness means

'Till you're too sad to fall asleep

One day I'll be snoozing peacefully

But surely not today

Surely not today.”

Marinette voice carried across the room. She let herself get lost in the music. Otherwise, she’d be too panicky over the fact that she more or less admitted to being depressed.

“One day I'll swear the pain will be a blip

I'll have the hardest time recalling it

I'll be the king of misery management

But surely not today.”

This song was a promise to herself. That she would move on. She would get better. Somehow, someway, Marinette would conquer all that she was going through and be better for it.

“One day that song won't make me cry anymore (oh no no)

One day I'll get up off the bathroom floor (hey yeah)

Oh, piece by piece I'll be restored

But surely not today (surely not)

Eh, not today”

Marinette swayed to the music, dancing in place. The other people in the room watched, entranced by her voice.

“oh you don't know what happy means

If it's only in your dreams

I'll be acquainted with my jollities

But surely not today

Yeah, surely not today.”

There were days when Marinette swore she forgot what it meant to be happy; questioned if she had ever been really happy. Or if she had just fooled herself into thinking she was. She knew better now. And Marinette refused to let the dark thoughts win.

“Surely not, surely, surely not

Surely not (surely not today)”

Marinette sang that part softly. She knew she wasn’t going to get completely better right away. But she would… One day.

“One day the thought of him won't hurt the same

Won't need distractions to get through the day

I guess I hope I'm gonna be okay

'Cause I'm not today.”

The song slowly died down. Silence filled the room. Then there were claps and cheers. Jagged’s new manager Harvey Boyd looked ready to wet his pants from excitement.

“Yes!” jagged yelled. “That’s how you do it!”

Marinette blushed again and ran off stage as Luka readied himself to perform. Penny and Chloe both assured her that she had been amazing but Marinette couldn’t stop her heart from racing in her chest.

Chloe helped prepare her for her next song as they watched Luka perform.

He had gotten used to being Solo since Kitty Section kicked him out the band. Luka sang a called, She will be loved. A sad melody that was fit him to a T.

“I don't mind spendin' everyday

Out on your corner in the pourin' rain

Look for the girl with the broken smile

Ask her if she wants to stay awhile

And she will be loved, and she will be loved”

When he was done, once again Harvey Boyd had that hungry look on his face.

Then Jagged performed one of his hits. After that he brought Marinette up on their makeshift stage again.

Marinette didn’t feel any better performing the second time. She’d be singing the song Jagged chose.

“Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh

So much for my happy ending

Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh

So much for my happy ending

Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh”

The song was definitely more Rock than her last one. And she wrote it most about Adrien, some of it geared toward Alya and the rest of her friends.

“Let's talk this over

It's not like we're dead

Was it something I did?

Was it something you said?”

Marinette had wondered for months what she had wrong. Why it was so easy for them to just ignore her; disregard her, end their friendships.

“Don't leave me hanging

In a city so dead

Held up so high

On such a breakable thread”

They left her alone. Adrien left her alone. She trust them, and just left her.

“You were all the things I thought I knew

And I thought we could be…”

Marinette closed her eyes for just a moment as the beat of the music changed.

You were everything, everything that I wanted

“We were meant to be, supposed to be, but we lost it

All of the memories, so close to me, just fade away

All this time you were pretending

So much for my happy ending

So much for my happy ending.”

The song went on for a few more minutes. She had let the music as the guitar solo slowly died down. The song was met with applause.

Marinette performed a few more songs, along with Luka. After one of them, Harvey had come directly up to her and Luka and offered to be their manager. Apparently, Jagged’s label had been watching them and wanted to give each of them a record deal. If Penny and Chloe hadn’t been there, both Luka and Marinette wouldn’t fallen her their butts in shock.

Jagged called Boyd away to discuss something.

Luka gripped his guitar so tightly Marinette feared it would break, “That didn’t just happen, did it?”

“Nope,” Marinette shook her head, earnestly. “It’s the fumes from all their hairspray. It must have knocked us out. We’re in coma right now.”

Chloe glared at them. “Oh. Shut. UP! You were amazing. You both were. Marinette you screamed Girl power. And Luka, there’s probably a million girls planning on marry you right now.”

“I have to call my mom!” Luka and Marinette said at the same time.

Her parents were excited about the news. But they made it clear as long as it didn’t interfere with her school work, she could do whatever she wanted. Sabine and Tom were just happy their little girl was back.

Luka said his mom was the safe. School first, hall of fame second.

Jagged pulled Marinette on stage for one last song. The song was chosen by Chloe. It was the song Marinette wrote once she realized she was done. She was done with the drama in class, done with fake friends. Done with game and lies. Done with mean comments and ice cold glares. She was over it. And Marinette didn’t care anymore.

“You wanna play, you wanna stay, you wanna have it all

You started messing with my head until I hit a wall

Maybe I shoulda known, maybe I shoulda known

That you would walk, you would walk out the door.”

Marinette watched Penny smile as she turned on the big fans pointed at her.

Said we were done, you met someone and rubbed it in my face

Cut to the punch, she broke your heart, and then she ran away

I guess you shoulda known, I guess you shoulda known

That I would talk, I would talk

She remembered Alya standing in class renouncing their friendship, and nearly everyone joining her. The look on Lila’s face as she finally fulfilled her promise. Adrien not doing anything, and avoiding contact. He never stood up for her; not once. He blocked her calls, stopped answering her texts, until finally he let Nino and who else in class convince him to end his friendship with Marinette outright.

But when got over the loss, the heartbreak; she decided it was for the best. Marinette didn’t need them. She didn’t want them. Marinette swore she’d never be friends with them again.

“But even if the stars and moon collide

I never want you back into my life

You can take your words and all your lies.”

The fire in Marinette’s eyes caused a few people to step back; including Luka. Then a wide smile spread over her face and

“Oh I really don't care

Even if the stars and moon collide

I never want you back into my life

You can take your words and all your lies

Oh oh I really don't care

Oh oh oh I really don't care?”

When the song ended, everyone cheered.

Jagged grabbed the mic, “Wasn’t she pure Rock and Roll, or what?” He picked up Fang. “What do you think, Fang? You loved it! For those of you who don’t know; this is my pet,” He told the camera. “Totally coolest guy ever. I’d never do anything mainstream like get a cat or anything.” He said with a wink. “For those of you who loved today’s acts; I’ve got some good news. All songs are going to be on itunes. Just look them up! In Addition; my label wants to offer both Luka and Marinette records deals. Who knows, maybe I’ll reach out to Clara about them coming on tour with us; we could use a couple of awesome opening acts.”

Marinette went home with the biggest smile on her face. She didn’t think much what happened. She figured the record deal wouldn’t go anywhere; someone would realize just how lame she was and stop it dead in her tracks. Marinette also figured that Chloe had exaggerated about how many watched; no one wanted to see some Amateur sing, even if it was on Jagged Stone streamed it.

It wasn’t a big deal, Marinette thought when she went to bed, tomorrow no one would even remember her. Still, it was a pretty fun.

By Monday morning, Marinette would learn just how big of deal it really was. Little did she know that, overnight, her song ‘Not Today’ was downloaded over 2 million times? Her song ‘Happy ending’ sold over 3 million. But ‘Really Don’t Care’ broke records. The rest of the songs had had performs sold well too; each selling over a million copies. The world was listening to her music, and she had no clue. Luka did pretty well too; his songs were just trailing after Marinette’s in sells.

Marinette had been helping her parents in the bakery’s kitchen, listening to the radio, when a new song started to play. Marinette turned white as a sheet, “M-Mom! Dad!” She said, her voice trembling.

“What’s up, honey?” Tom asked, worry clear in his eyes.

She pointed at the radio with a shaky hand, “That’s mine.”

“What?” Sabine asked confused.

“That’s mine,” Marinette repeated. “That’s my song!”

Her parents looked even more confused. Until they listened closer to the song and recognized their daughter’s voice.

Sabine dropped the pans she was holding, “You’re on the radio,” She whispered. “You’re on the radio.” She yelled, cheering.

Tom pulled his daughter into a giant bear hug, “My sugarplum’s a Superstar!”

After Marinette’s song

Once, she finished in the bakery, Marinette ran to Chloe’s. When she was let into the penthouse, she rushed to Chloe’s room, and as soon as she saw the blond, she yelled, “I’m on the radio!” And screamed. Chloe screamed with her.

Then Luka called and screamed, “I’m on the radio!” The sound of his mother cheering the background. As far as he was concerned it was the best day of his life. The year had sucked so hard; first his sister became one of Lila’s groupies, then he got kicked out of his own band, he realized he and the girl (Marinette) he had a crush on were better off as friends, and he broke his lucky guitar and had to fork over his savings to buy a new one.

But getting a record deal, being on the radio, nearly made all of it worth it. Luka still really wanted his sister back though.

The three friends spent the rest of the weekend hanging out and being amazed at their luck. Chloe got the internship she was after in the PR department. Thanks to Penny, she’d be Luka and Marinette’s promotor. Or least learning firsthand how everything works.

When Monday morning came, Marinette was still oblivious to just much had changed in so little time… Until she got to school, and some random girl asked for her autograph. Marinette stuttered out a, “Sure.” And signed the girl’s notebook. While she was doing it, four other kids lined up behind her. She signed each one with a smile.

“I really like your song: Not today,” One guy told her. “It’s nice to know I’m not the only one that gets that way sometimes.”

Marinette was so touched, she nearly started crying right there. She would’ve if Chloe hadn’t dragged her away, with a hiss about not crying in front on fans.

On the way to class, a few kids stopped and asked her for a picture. She agreed. But when more and more kids tried to get her attention, Marinette, once again, had to be saved by Chloe.

“You are not getting mauled on my watch,” Chloe tossed her hair over her shoulder. “I’d never get to work in PR again.”

Marinette giggled. Chloe rolled her eyes with a fund smile.

The smiles died when they reached class. They had gotten there early. Marinette was rarely ever late anymore sense she had lighted her work load. Only a few kid were there. Max, Nathaniel, and Mylene; they all looked at Marinette with wide eyes.

Marinette ignored them as Chloe and she went to their seats. They made light talk and ignored the looks of the other students as more and more arrived. Most didn’t say a word to her; not knowing what to do or say.

When Rose arrived, she immediately rushed over to Marinette, “I love your music. I didn’t know you could sing!” She chirped. “I can’t believe you performed with Jagged Stone. You’re so lucky.”

The bluenette gave the other girl a small smile, “Yeah it was amazing. Luka was great too,” She added. “He’s ecstatic about the record deal. He was so bummed when Kitty Section kicked him out; something about him holding you guys back. Did you guys ever find a new singer and lead guitarist? It’s been months, right?” It was spiteful. It was the meanest thing Marinette had ever done. And they deserved it.

Rose visibly wilted. So did Ivan and Juleka. Every member of Kitty Section regretted kicking Luka out of the band the moment they saw him performing with Jagged Stone; getting the break of a lifetime. And when they heard about a potential record deal… well, let’s say regret didn’t begin to cover it.

“Oh, we’re working on it,” Rose smiled, a big fake smile on her face. “We got a lot of people we’re considering.” The truth was, and it was hard for Kitty section to learn, that most people who had a fraction of Luka’s talent didn’t want to work with a bunch of teenagers. And without Luka there, no one was reminding them to practice or book gigs.

Rose returned to a seat, feeling more bummed than she had when she got to the class. She had been happy for Marinette, and for Luka. But she had so many dreams for Kitty Section and herself that just because she was happy for them, didn’t mean she wasn’t unhappy for herself.

Chloe pulled Marinette back into the conversation, just as the last of the students arrived, “So, once you sign the record deal, are you going to go on tour with Jagged and Clara. Luka said he’s going.”

Marinette frowned. She hadn’t really considered it much. Clara had reached out to her congratulate her on the record deal and tell her how much she loved Marinette’s songs. Clara had hinted hard that she’d love Marinette to come on tour with her. But Marinette didn’t know. Being a rock star wasn’t ever one of her goals in life.

“I still want to design,” Marinette admitted.

Chloe shrugged, “So do that too.” She suddenly gripped Marinette’s arm. “You can wear design your own dress to the Teen Choice Awards, and the MTV music Awards. You can design my dress!”

Marinette laughed, “My song came out like three days ago, and you’re practically writing my acceptance speech; I might not get nominated.”

The blond scoffed, “Oh you’re getting nominated. Do you know how many people downloaded your songs? Records were broken. Even my mother played ‘Really don’t care’ whenever she wants someone to stop talking to her now. Go on tour!”

“I’d need more songs,” Marinette said. “I’ll need to release like an actual album.”

“Penny went through all yours songs, remember?” Chloe said. “She sent me a list of all ones that she think would top the charts. She wants to record, ‘Fight Song’ as soon as you sign with the label. And she swears, ‘I kissed a Girl’ is going make people lose their minds.”

Marinette sent her a smirk, “That song’s half yours remember; we wrote it after you and Kagami got closer.”

“Won’t even hide the body, Dupain-Cheng,” Chloe growled.

Marinette laughed, “Fine! If I go on tour, I want you there with me. I couldn’t do it with you! You’re only one I’d trust me my social media accounts.”

“How could you invite Chloe,” Alya asked hearing the end of the conversation as she arrived just after the bell rang. “I’d be a much better social media influencer than her!”

Chloe raised an eyebrow, “Uh huh, and how’s the traffic for the Ladyblog?” She asked.

Alya flushed with anger. It was bad. They all knew it was bad. Ladyblog had died dramatically after Ladybug vocally for the other press to hear told Alya she didn’t work with reporters who didn’t fact check. “Marinette’s my bestie; I should be going with her.”

Marinette snorted, “Last I check your bestie was Lila. Or don’t you remember ending our friendship?”

“Well, I, uh,” Alya stuttered out. She had completely forgotten disowning the bluenette. She had been so excited when her mother told her friend’s name was trending, thinking she’d see Lila Rossi, only to see Marinette Dupain-Cheng on the top search list of the day. Then she watched the video of her performing, when Jagged mentioned the record deal, Alya lost her mind. Her mind was filled with images of her and Marinette at music awards shows and on tours; movie premieres. It was all going to be amazing.

Except it wasn’t. She and Marinette weren’t friends anymore. A balloon popped inside Alya.

Marinette gave her a sad smile, “What did you think I forgot? Or you must have.”

“The chances of that happening or as likely as Jagged Stone owning a cat,” Chloe smirked as Lila walked into the door. “Or did you forget that part too? Wonder how Lila saved something he never owned?”

To her credit, Lila didn’t bat an eye. “He doesn’t own one now. He must have forgotten the poor thing once he got really famous and they went out of style. I wonder what happened to it.” It was good performance. Lila even got teary eyed.

Still, Lila was met with suspicious looks. The class started to wonder if she was really their golden ticket. Or if the pissed of the real one instead.

“Congratulations, Marinette,” Lila simpered, jealously flaring in her eyes. “Who knew Jagged Stone was your Uncle?”

“Shouldn’t you?” Chloe poked yet another hole in her story. “You said you were oh so very close.”

Marinette smirked, “I had get my rock and roll genes from somewhere.”

#ml fic #ml salt #marinette dupen chang #luka couffaine #chloe bourgeois #Marinette deserves better #adrien salt

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inkandpen22 · 3 years

Text

Shared Minds and Shared Souls (5/?)

Pairing: Spike x Female!Reader

Warnings: angst, swearing, depression, trauma, PTSD, some fluff

Word Count: 2.3k

Part Summary: After the hospital with Glory, Y/N falls into despair, unsure of whether or not the world around is real or Glory’s doing. Days go by and Spike grows frustrated as the Scooby Gang is lost on how to fix Y/N. So, he takes matters into his hands, doing everything in his power to bring her.

Masterlist

"Bloody fix her!" I hear Spike yell at the others in the kitchen.

I lay on the couch in the allusion version of the Summers's living room. All I can do is wait. Wait for the most-evil-big-bad to show up and take me away. I wait for this vision to end. Glory is messing with my head. I just know it. I'm still in her memories or worse, she dragged me down to Hell with her.

"We can't, not yet at least," the imaginary Willow explains, sounding defeated.

"We don't know the right spell, but we're not going to stop until we find it!" Tara assures, her tone carries a bit of hope in it.

"What exactly did Y/N see when she entered Glory's mind?" Giles questions. "Perhaps that will help us figure out a solution."

"Did she tell you anything, Spike?" The pretend Buffy inquires, her voice optimistic.

"No!" The vampire shouts again. "You saw her! She won't even look at me, at any of us, and you think she told me everything?!"

"Spike, we're just trying to help..." Willow mumbles, sounding mousey.

“Yeah, since when do you care about Y/N or anyone of us for that matter?” Xander insults.

“I don’t… ” Spike grumbles defensively. Then, he releases a deep sigh of frustration, “okay, look! The sooner Y/N is better, the sooner she can help with destroying Glory. Let’s pick up the pace here!”

There's a prolonged pause and the allusion of Dawnie appears entering the room from the kitchen. She approaches me cautiously. Starring blankly ahead at the distant wall, the allusion of Dawn kneels beside me on the floor.

"Hi Y/N," she mumbles, fiddling with the edge of her shirt nervously. "Do... Do you need anything? A glass of water? Some food? I... I can make anything you like!" She tells me with forced enthusiasm. "Oh, here!" She rises from her spot swiftly and reaches over me.

Startled, I scream and fly up from my laid position. She's going to hurt me! She's a demon! She's going to kill me! She's going to drag me back to that place! All of the fire, the screaming, the pain! The others comes running into the room, the vision of Spike leading them.

"I didn't mean to!" The fake Dawn urgently tells me, running to safety by Buffy. "I was just going to give her blanket!"

The allusion of Buffy comforts her, "I know, you're okay! It's not you're fault. Y/N's just really fragile at the moment. We can't touch her or get too close, otherwise we'll scare her."

Panicked, I shuffle my sight between all of them, waiting for one of them to charge at me. I curl up, bringing my legs close to my chest on the couch. Shaking, I can't find the words to speak. I'm afraid if I do they're retaliate and I'll be send back to the fiery place. The figure disguised as Spike approaches me steadily, his hands up as a sign of peace. I don't believe it, not for a second. He's trying to trick me!

He shushes softly, "it's okay Y/N. I'm not going to hurt you."

I cower away, scooting to the farthest side of the couch from him.

"You can also see people's energy. You can also see into people's minds, right?” He calmly moves closer until he's sat on the coffee table. “I want you to look into mine,” he instructs boldly, holding out his hand to me.

I shake my head rapidly in a panic. No, I can’t do it again, not after what happened! Beside, my magic doesn't work in Hell. No, I saw it before. When the roots were attacking me, nothing worked. He's testing me. He wants an excuse to damn me to Hell.

"I’ll focus only on the good memories! You told me that I can control what you see, right? If I remember that it’s all in my head and try hard enough! Let me prove to you that I’m really me and I’m not a threat to you!" The spirit disguised as Spike reasons. "Come on, use your powers, Love. Show yourself that I won't hurt you," he says in almost a plea.

I hesitate, afraid of the repercussion if I do as he asks. He could show me more traumatizing images. I want to believe he's the real, do more than anything! If it were really him, it would mean I'm safe and truly out of Glory's nightmare.

Buffy quietly steps forward to protest the idea. “Spike, I don’t think-”

“Just let her try for Christ’s sake!” He snaps, standing up to face everyone. Clearly, he’s hit his boiling point with all the bickering. “You all bloody act like she’s a goddamn porcelain baby and you’re afraid of dropping her. She’s the most powerful whatever-the-hell she is I’ve seen in my hundred and forty-eight years on this planet! Now, shut up!” He finishes, sitting back down on the table with a dramatic huff.

Calmly, he looks at me and requests again, “try it, Pet. I know you can do it,” he encourages softly.

Slowly, I meet him gaze. It’s the first time since the hospital I’ve look at anyone in the eye. I’ve been afraid that if I look, I’ll see the red eyes that frighten me more than I can bare to say. Instead, I’m meet with the familiar emeralds. They’re fake. They must be fake. They’re a part of the allusion.

“Please…” Spike adds almost inaudibly. He eyes peer at me, filled with what appears to be despair. Reaching out his hand again, he waits for me to take it.

I don’t feel threatening energy radiating from him, at least not directly. Then again, I don’t know how well the demons mask their intentions. My chest rises and plummets as my nerves and mind warn me not to do it. Yet, my gut is telling me to at least try. My heart is telling me to give him, the allusion, a chance.

Steadily I ease my shaky hand out to interlock with his own. Our hands meet and our fingers glides between each other. Gently, Spike rubs his thumb over my hand, doing his best to ease the shaking by squeezing it. He stares into my eyes and gives me a sharp nod of confidence. His features, however, express uncertainty and worry. I feel a surge of energy, the warning before the storm. I blink rapidly as the sensation of falling consumes me. Then, my vision goes black…

I’m sat in my mother’s old parlor on the rug as I read her my newest poem. She rests on the loveseat behind me, petting my head gently. I worry for her. Her health hasn’t been ideal in recent weeks. I read to her, knowing how much it makes her feel better. All I do when I can find a free moment, usually when she’s asleep during the daylight hours, is write more poetry in hopes that it heals her ailments.

“William, my love,” she groans, moving to sit up. She holds out her hand and swiftly I assist her. She mutters a ‘thank you,’ expressing a weak smile.

I peer up at my mother admiringly. I feel the fierce duty to protect her. She’s my whole world, I love no one more than her.

She caress my cheek, “you, my William, are my angel on this Earth. All I want, as my dying wish, is for you to be happy and settled.”

“I am happy, Mother,” I tell her, truly content. “There’s no other woman I need in my life than you.”

She grins, releasing a soft giggle. Oh how I long to hear her laugh. It reminds me of when she was healthy and thriving. Gently, she guides me to rest my head in her laps as I did when I was a child. Steadily, she brushes her fingers through my hair comfortingly. “Early one morning…” She starts to sing her lullaby to me. It’s our song. She’s been singing it to me since infancy. It’s brings me unparalleled peace. I adore her voice. I adore her. There’s no one else in the world I need but her.

With a jolt, like bringing dragged out to see by a strong wave, I’m back in the Summers’s living room. I gasp for air as I settle back into my body, my senses returning to me. The energy surge slowly leaving my bloodstream. Everyone’s eyes are on me, waiting for my words or at least a reaction in someway.

Spike looks at me eagerly, a faint bit of hope in his eyes. “Did it work?”

Silently, I slowly move off the couch, standing to my feet. Spike leaps up from his position, causing me to jump a little. He frowns, disappointment returning to his face. Wrapping my arms around my body safely, I turn and walk out of the room. As I head up the stairs, discussion erupts in the living room.

“What does this mean?” Xander questions urgently.

“Well, did it work?” Anya adds.

“Clearly it fucking didn’t!” Spike barks, followed by a thud and the sound of the coffee table dragging across the hardwood floor with a screech.

“Spike!” Buffy shouts, “that’s not going to help Y/N!”

“Screw this,” he curses, storming around downstairs. “I’m out of here! You lot aren’t going to do anything to help her! I’m going to find a way myself!” I hear the front door slam shut moments after.

_______________________

Days later and I continue to lay in my bed as I have since fake Spike’s attempted to fix me. Alone and silently, I wait for the black smoke-like figures to come haunt me. Sleep is nonexistent because every time I try all I see are those red eyes starring back at me. They wish to drain me cold and consume my soul. The allusions of Buffy, Joyce, and Dawn take turns checking on me. Joyce worries and Buffy tries to get me to eat. Dawnie begs for me to return to normal. What is normal? I can’t remember what I was like before. There’s nothing waiting for me but the Hell I saw. I’m not okay. I’m slipping into an abyss of darkness.

As night falls, the door to my room creaks open behind me, revealing a strip of light from the hall. Distant voices from downstairs linger in and I see someone cross in front of the light as they enter the room. I remain emotionless on my bed, facing the opposite wall. As a figure appears in my peripheral vision, I focus ahead blankly.

“Hello there, Love,” Spike whispers, squatting at my bedside.

I don’t react to his presence physically. Inside, I’m reaching out to him. I’m in a prison made up by my own mind.

Spike hasn’t seen me since the day after the hospital. When I left the living room and he stormed out, he never came back to be exact. Fake Buffy told me in passing while she was bringing me food that he went away for a few days. I didn’t ask, she just told me. She went by his crypt after he hadn’t come around, he wasn’t there. He left a note saying he’d be back.

“I won’t touch you, promise! Yo don’t have to worry about that,” he assures with a frown. “They say you haven’t eaten since…” he shakes his head, refusing to speak of that faithful day. “You need to eat Y/N. You look like you haven’t slept in days.”

He worries, they all worry. What will worrying get them? Why don’t they just put me out of my misery? When will this vision end?!

“Y/N!” He whispers my name harshly, not to alert the others downstairs. “Come on, Love, I know you’re in there somewhere! I don’t know exactly what Glory did to you or what you saw, but you have to fight this! It was another vision! It was only in your head! Dawnie, Buffy, Joyce, they need you…. I need you….” He barely says the last part, looking down at his hands.

I process his words, but everything is delayed. Time has been off since I awoke in the hospital or at least changed visions. In my head, time moves slower and the agony is more intense. I’ve missed Spike more than I care to admit, even if he’s not really here with me and it’s all in my head. I welcome the allusion.

Spike rises from his position with a sigh upon receiving no sort of reaction from me. “I heard of a guru in India who’s apparently dealt with this sort of things before while I was looking for help amongst the covens in New Orleans. I only came back to see if you’ve improved at all...” He moves to step away toward the door. “I’ll check back in before I leave for India,” he informs over his shoulder.

No, no he can’t leave me, not again! Please, don’t leave me. On impulse, I break free of my mental prison and grab Spike’s wrist. His head whips around as his attention lands on my hand. His eyes meet mine wide-eyed with amazement.

“Stay,” I struggle to speak for the first time in nearly over a week.

Spike places his hand over mine. He lowers to my level, knelling beside my bed. A bright smile of glee spreads across his face as relief relishes in his emerald eyes. He cautiously reaches up, cupping my face and I don’t cower away. I ponder the feeling of his touch, leaning into his palm. It makes me feel more alive than I have in days. When I don’t flinch away, he releases a soft chuckle of joy. Before we have the chance to talk, my vision goes black.

____________________________________________________

Masterlist

Tags: @it-was-all-a-beautiful-dream

@hexmancia

#spike #btvs #fanfic #spike x reader #dawn summers #buffy #buffy summers #buffy s5 #spike fanfic #spuffy #spike x buffy #btvs imgaine #btvs fanfic #william the bloody #buffy the vampire slayer #buffy the vampire slayer imagine

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aethelflaedladyofmercia · 4 years

Text

Hey, everyone! I’ve been saying for a bit I want to get some fics from prompts I’ve written onto AO3 but...it’s so hard...ok it’s not hard, Executive Dysfunction is just kicking my butt. I’m going to post some of them to Tumblr today. If you want to help these babies get on AO3, they need: titles, tags, you pestering me in the comments. If you don’t think they’re good enough for AO3 - fair enough, just hit the little heart if they make you smile!

Prompt: Aziraphale reading to Crowley

(Requested by @zadusk and @lyricwritesprose)

“Sorry, can’t help you,” the innkeeper said, “just rented out our last room.”

“What?” Crowley crossed his arms, huffing through his nose. This was Bethlehem all over again. “This town is in the middle of nowhere, it has three inns, how can they all be sold out?”

“I don’t know what to tell you.” The innkeeper shut the ledger. “Everyone’s headed down to London, and we’re on the way. Now. I can offer you a hot meal, and for, let’s say, half the price of a room you can sleep in the stables. The hay loft is clean, apart from the mice—”

“Stablesss!” Crowley hissed, slapping his hand on the counter. “Do I look like someone who sleeps in stables?”

The innkeeper didn’t appear remotely impressed. “You look like someone who is going to be sleeping in a hedge. Looks like a storm tonight. Good evening.” And he spun away, calling out to the cook in the back room.

“Oi!” Crowley shouted. “Get back here, you—!”

“Crowley! Whatever are you doing here?” The familiar voice was half delighted, half scolding. Aziraphale appeared beside him, same white suit as the last time they’d met, top hat tucked under his arm. “I thought I made it clear we shouldn’t see each other so often. Since I opened the shop, it’s been—”

“Yes, I know.” Crowley waved a hand and turned away. “I’m not here for you, Angel, I have actual business in York.”

“Really?” Despite his words, Aziraphale trailed behind him. “How interesting. I’m just returning from York – oh, no, you don’t think they’ve sent you to undo all my work again, do you?”

Crowley snorted. “No bet.” He dropped his voice into a low whisper. “This is why we need to meet up more often. Look at all this time we’re wasting! And now I have to march through the bloody night in the rain because there’s no place to sleep—”

“Oh! Well, I wouldn’t dream of it. You can share my room.”

“Ngk?!” Crowley’s brain crashed into his skull with all the speed and grace of a train wreck. “Mf. Yk. No I can’t – Aziraphale!”

“Oh, my word – obviously, I’m not planning – that!” His voice dropped even lower and he tugged on Crowley’s elbow. “Don’t be crude, dear fellow. I have a room with a bed that I’m not intending to use. You can have it. I just need a chair to sit in while I read.”

“Jgk.” Crowley turned away, taking a deep breath through his nose. It made sense. He could sleep. Aziraphale could read. No getting soaked, or lost in the dark, or needing to fight off highwaymen or anything of the sort. “Fffine. We can. Er. Do that.”

“Jolly good.” He could practically hear the angel straightening his waistcoat. “Now that’s settled. I’ve already had my supper and was about to head up. Unless you’re hungry—”

“No, no, now is fine.” He still couldn’t quite meet Aziraphale’s eyes. “Lead the way.”

The room, it turned out, was nearly as advertised.

A double-sized bed with a straw-tick and a quilt. A little stand with a pitcher of water and bowl for washing up. Windows that could be tightly shuttered to block out some of the city noise.

The only thing missing, really, was the chair.

“Oh.” Aziraphale’s fingers tapped on his book and he glanced around, as if a seat might be hiding in the corner. “Well, er…”

“It’s fine. I can leave.” Crowley turned on his heel and reached for the latch.

“Absolutely not! I won’t hear of it. You get settled and I’ll – ah – I’ll miracle in a chair.” He peered around the narrow room. “Somewhere.”

“Look, I can—”

“No. Miracle yourself a nightgown or whatever it is you need.”

“I—”

“Hush!”

Resigning himself, Crowley waved his clothes into something more comfortable for sleeping and crawled under the blanket. It was…slightly better than sleeping in the stables, he supposed. The straw was lumpy and the sheet covering it coarse, but the pillow was well-stuffed with goose-down, a luxury he could get used to. He shifted onto his back, trying to find a comfortable angle.

Instead, he found Aziraphale, standing beside the bed, staring blankly at the wall. “There…well…it would appear there isn’t room for a chair,” he confessed. “Not one that will fit my, er…my current corporation comfortably, that is.”

Crowley looked at the ceiling. He could sleep up there, but it would mean abandoning the pillow. Or. Or.

“Look, Angel,” he said as casually as he could. You can, um, you can sit on the bed. I’m not going to be offended or anything. It’s fine.”

“No, I couldn’t – couldn’t possibly—”

“Aziraphale. It’s really fine.”

The quilt tugged, folded back, and with a rustle of straw Aziraphale settled into the mattress. He sat straight, stiff, and so close to the edge he might topple off.

Even so, he was alarmingly close.

“You, um. You need the candle?”

“No, my own light will be sufficient, thank you.”

“Yeah. Obviously.” Crowley tossed his glasses onto the little table and waved a finger at the candle, which immediately snuffed out, leaving the room dark except for the soft glow of Aziraphale, gently illuminating his book.

Crowley closed his eyes and prepared to fall asleep.

He turned onto one side. No good, too close to the edge.

He turned the other way, or started to, freezing when he felt how close the angel’s warmth was.

Then he lay on his back again. The whole room fell very, very still.

“Bless it, Aziraphale, will you relax?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I can practically hear your muscles creaking. How am I supposed to all asleep with all that – that tension barely six inches away!”

“I don’t know what you might be referring to. I am – am perfectly relaxed here, reading my book and you – you interrupt with these – these pointless accusations.”

Crowley gave up and turned on his side, facing Aziraphale, giving him as hard a stare as he could manage. “Your book is upside down, Angel.”

“Is it?” He swallowed. “I mean, of course it is. I am training myself to read upside-down text, a highly useful skill, which I’m sure—”

Crowley shut his eyes. “This was a terrible idea.” He sat up, swinging his legs off the bed.

“Where are you going?”

“Look, Aziraphale, neither of us is actually comfortable with this. So I’m just going to head out. If I leave now, I might make it to the next town before the rain starts, and maybe they’ll have a room. You can have this one and—”

“Crowley,” he said, voice much softer than expected. “My dear fellow. I won’t be able to relax knowing you’re out there. I know you won’t be in – in any real danger but…I would rather know that you’re safe.”

He stared ahead, sitting perfectly still in the way that only beings who aren’t really alive can – no breath, no heartbeat, no tiny motions.

Then, slowly, Crowley pulled his legs back under the quilt and lay on his back.

“What’s this book about, anyway?” he asked.

“Aren’t you supposed to be sleeping?”

“It’ll help. Trust me. What is it – poetry? Ancient epics about glorious wars? Not Hamlet again, I hope, that play is a gloomy mess of—”

“No, nothing of the sort. It’s…well, it’s a sort of love story.”

That didn’t sound too bad. “Sort of?”

“Well, yes, it’s more a – a study of the manners and traditions of courtship. Our heroine is the second of five sisters, and there’s a great deal riding on finding them suitable husbands, but her choices are, well…not especially appealing.”

“Does she tell them to go jump in a lake?”

“Not in so many words,” Aziraphale said disapprovingly. “But yes, she has so far turned down two proposals quite bitingly. Although I think she was a bit hasty in her judgement of one of the young men.”

“I like it.” Crowley turned to look at Aziraphale, and found the angel had relaxed, and moved just a little closer. “What’s it called, anyway?”

“Pride and Prejudice.” His fingers tapped against it. “Just released last year. I must try and find the author’s other work when I finish.”

“Well, you’ll have to tell me how it ends.”

“Oh, are you…interested?”

“Hmm,” Crowley settled his head a little further into the pillow. “I do like a good drawing room drama. Perhaps I should pick out a few dresses and spend a year or two back in those circles.”

“As I recall, you were always deceitful and wicked and caused many a scandal.”

“I should hope so. Otherwise, what’s the point?”

Aziraphale smiled down at him, and it made Crowley feel light-headed in a way that had nothing to do with sleep. “Then I imagine you’ll be brilliant at it.” He suddenly turned away, looking at the shuttered window. “Oh! Do you hear that? The rain has started.” The first drops were tapping against the shutters fitfully.

“Good thing I didn’t go out.”

“Yes.” Aziraphale looked at the book again. “Er, would you like me to…to read it to you? Just the first part, until you fall asleep.”

“I…” Crowley cleared his throat. “Yeah. I mean, your voice puts me to sleep half the time anyway, so…”

“Oh, yes, absolutely wonderful. Let me just get the first volume.” He hopped out of bed and hurried over to his jacket, rummaging in the pocket to pull out another hardcover book. When he returned to the bed, it was with almost no self-consciousness, wriggling comfortably against his pillow only a few inches away from Crowley.

“Now, let’s see…yes, here. ‘It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife…’”

It was strange, seeing the angel from this angle, round face slightly lit by his own glow, little smile curving up his lips as the words bubbled out excitedly. His voice rose and fell as he read, trying to paint a picture of Longbourne and Netherfield and the lives of the Bennet sisters. Crowley could get used to it, the look, the sound, the soft familiarity of it all. Not that he was likely to have an opportunity.

He didn’t close his eyes. Not yet.

“‘But I can assure you,’ she added,” Aziraphale was quite enjoying the voice he had chosen for Mrs. Bennet, raising it now in slightly erratic excitement. “‘that Lizzy does not lose much by not suiting his fancy; for he is a most disagreeable, horrid man, not at all worth pleasing.’” He shifted again, raising his arm to better articulate the dialogue. “‘So high and so conceited that there was no enduring him! He walked here, and he walked there, fancying himself so very great! Not handsome enough to dance with!’” He dropped his voice into a vicious hiss. “‘I wish you had been there, my dear, to have given him one of your set downs. I quite detest the man.’”

He glanced to his left, grinning, hoping to see Crowley’s reaction to his bit of acting, but the demon had at some point fallen asleep. He lay half on his back, still facing Aziraphale, shock of red hair across the white pillow. His mouth hung slightly open and something emerged that was almost a snore, but rather too small to really qualify. It was drowned out by the wind and rain outside, rattling the shutters. Now and then, in the distance, thunder rumbled.

“Well. I suppose…yes, you sleep now.” Aziraphale turned to put the book down, thinking to find the second volume and pick up where he’d left off.

“Nf.” Crowley turned onto his side, one arm flinging out towards Aziraphale’s waist. “D’n stp,” he mumbled. “Jus’ gettn gud.”

“Er, are you…awake?” The arm tightened slightly, and Crowley pulled closer, pressing himself against Aziraphale’s side. “Crowley, er, dear…you’re…”

“M’fine.” He sighed, not seeming aware of the world at all. “S’nice.”

For a long moment, Aziraphale stared at the demon who had – had invaded his space. Had settled against him in a most – most awkward and undignified way.

Well. There was really only one thing to do.

Aziraphale slid a little lower against the pillow, until he’d surrounded Crowley in the crook of his arm. “Is that better, dear?”

“St’ry.” But he settled into that space between Aziraphale’s side and his arm with a content sigh, arm now draped across the angel’s chest.

Oh, dear. This is not going to be easy to explain when he wakes up. But that wouldn’t be for several hours, at least, and right now, there was a very small smile on Crowley’s lips.

“Well. Chapter four. ‘When Jane and Elizabeth were alone, the former, who had been cautious in her praise of Mr. Bingley before, expressed to her sister how very much she admired him…’”

Thanks for reading! Pride and Prejudice was initially published in three volumes, in 1813, attributed simply to “The Author of Sense and Sensibility.” I have no idea what was going on in York in 1814 - I mostly needed someplace they could walk to but would take several days - so feel free to attribute whatever historical events you can think of to these dummies!

#good omens fanfiction #good omens fic #ineffable husbands #aziraphale and crowley #there's only one bed #aziraphale and his books #sleepy cuddles #sleepy snusband #short and sweet #fluff #good omens fluff #my writing #writing prompt #good omens prompts

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peanutxparker · 4 years

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A (very long) list of all of my favorite AJJ lyrics because why not

Candy Cigarettes and Cap Guns (2005)

“Well my great grand-dad he died of cancer, from smoking too many cigarettes. But I must confess that he did quite profess to being the coolest motherfucker I ever met.”

“And cocaine is essentially vegan and they don't give a fuck anyway.”

“And I can't help but miss him even though he hit me everyday.”

“So fuck white people! (fuck white people!)”

“Heaven is a special place in hell where you can watch the people you hate get hurt.”

“You find me quite charming and I find it quite alarming ‘cause I'm gonna take your life. You find me quite charming and I find it quite alarming and I'm sad you won't be my wife.”

“What makes you think you can be so pretty? And what makes you think you can be so great? And what makes you think you can be so intelligent? And what makes you think you can be so far away?”

“What makes you think you can be so wonderful? And what makes you think you can be so keen? And what makes me think I can be so hurtful? And what makes me think I can be so mean?”

“Sometimes I feel like a cigarette, I'm wrapped in paper and I'm suffocating to death.”

“I don't want to be a cigarette anymore. I'll go to hell in my self death all day and night, so please just put me out.”

People Who Can Eat People Are The Luckiest People In The World (2007)

“Rejoice despite the fact this world will hurt you. Rejoice despite the fact this world will kill you. Rejoice despite the fact this world will tear you to shreds. Rejoice because you’re trying your best”

“I'm afraid to leave the house. I'm as timid as a mouse. I'm afraid if I go out I'll outwear my welcome. I'm not a courageous man. I don't have any big lasting plans. I'm too cowardly to take a stand, I want to keep my nose clean. And it's sad to know that we're not alone in this and it's sad to know that there's no honest way out. In this life we lead, we could conquer everything if we could just get the brave to get out of bed in the morning.”

“And I give a thank-you to my father for not raising me, and I give a finger to my step-father for beating me, and I give props to myself for achieving, and god damn I’m glad that I survived, and god damn I’m surprised that I survived.”

“So I looked into your eyes and I saw the reflection of a coward you and I both hate very much and then I grabbed the knife and I let the blood out of your throat and I smashed those tiny mirrors inside of your skull.”

“If I don’t go to hell when I die I might go to heaven, might go to heaven. But probably not.”

“Just happy times and half assed rhymes and mimes because mimes are dears, but most of all I want no more tears.”

“No more racism. No more discrimination. No more fat dumb fucks keeping people out of our nation.”

“We’re all one big band across this land and we should sing in tune. Let us grow the balls to break the walls, we’ve got to do it soon.”

“And I hope our candles flicker and die so that our hearts don’t burn to the ground.”

“First we were babies, we're birthing and dying. Then we were children, we're playing and crying. And then we're teenagers and smoking and fucking. But now we're all grown up and we're sadly sighing.”

“And your manic depression, it comes and it goes. Your parasympathetic nervous system reacts and you're in fight or flight mode.”

“How's the world so small when the world is so large? And what made the world? Could I please speak to who's in charge? Everything is real but it's also just as fake. From your daughter's birthday party to your grandmother's wake.”

“I've tried to know which words to sing so many times. I tried to know which chord to play and I tried to make it rhyme. And I tried to find the key that all good songs are in. And I tried to find that notes to make that great, resounding din.”

“There's someone in your head waiting to fucking strangle you.”

“I've got essays, I've got finals due. I have got lots and lots of problems.”

“Welcome to this world, have as much fun as you would like while helping others have as much fun as you're having. Be kind to those you love and be kind to those you don't but for God's sake you gotta be kind.”

Can’t Maintain (2009)

“I wanna pick up the pieces and plant them in the ground. When a tree grows there I want to chop that tree down. Build it into a boat and float it in a lake. And with dynamite I will explode the thing that makes me make mistakes.”

“Sometimes I get so lonesome I can't breathe. Sometimes I get so scared that I can't speak. Sometimes I get so worried I can't hear my heartbeat. Anyway…”

“I wanna tear out my heart and give it away to a person more deserving one day. If all I see is the worst in everything that's all I'm gonna get, that's all I'm gonna get, that's all I'm gonna get.”

“And people freak me out. People make me scared. People make me so damn self-aware.”

“I get bronchitis twice a year at least. My lungs aren't the way they should be. And I smoke more than a mother fuckin chimney. I declare war on my body.”

“You will cough up crows that peck my eyes and I will do nothing but go blind.”

“We could live there together or I'll live alone, less happy but I'll live... unfortunately.”

“And no one will know how I truly feel ‘cause I can no longer differentiate between what is fake and what is real. I don't know how I feel.”

“And I will always appreciate bad days like this because they grant me a point of reference in regards to my happiness.”

“If the bridge that I was driving over collapsed while I was driving over it that may not be such a bad thing. I would finally meet my maker, I could meet the great creator, and I'd punch him for teaching me how to sing.”

“Don't know if I believe in god but sometimes I pray because the way I was raised keeps me afraid.”

“I hope I can forgive me for having the nerve to exist. I hope someone can help me make some sense of this.”

“Sense and sensibility and peaceful productivity, a pretty girl with broken wings is all that I desire. But there's so much hostility in all the things surrounding me. The awful glow of enmity is trying to stop my shine. So I try to look inwardly at all the things inside of me but sodomy and buggery keep bubbling to the top.”

“I met you once over the phone, you sounded sad and you seemed alone. You left me but I never left you. I never had the chance to.”

“If you spend all your heart on something that has died you are not alive and that can't be your life.”

Knife Man (2011)

“There's no one to blame. People are just fucking mean.”

“So if I see a penny on the ground, I leave it alone or fucking flip it. I'm a straight white male in America. I've got all the luck I need.”

“I've got a pile of broken mirrors and I'm walking under ladders and I'll spill a ton of salt because to me that doesn't matter.”

“You were dead by the time that I had found you. Your blood was spilled on the couch where we had first kissed. So I carried you west to the sea so I could wash you. Your body felt just like a back pack.”

“I hate whiny, fucking songs like this but I can't afford a therapist. Sorry guys, here's a solo.”

“Some days I feel like I'm the weakest and others the strongest. These days are the longest and I've got the weirdest feeling about this and I wanna go away for a while.”

“I wish I had a bullet big enough to fucking kill the sun. I'm sick of songs about the summer.”

“When you have no one, you are no one. Like I said, I used to work at the people pound. All these no ones clumped together, just like a human lost and found. If they left them all be someones there wouldn't be enough to go around. It's better for us all us if there are no ones. And I knew a lot of no ones round that time. They used to all be someones until something took their life and all their someones disappeared while they're stuck there waiting in a line. And for them now, no one seems to have the time.”

“They say ambition is an enemy of weakness and greatness is an enemy of fame.When I pick up my guitar and I try to write a song, I think of what my mentor used to say… “Who fucking gives a rat's ass Steve, just write a love song. Cus they'll keep your belly full and your wallet lined. Don't bother these nice people with your sad sack songs. If you ask me I think they're just a waste of time.””

“Inspiration is the best friend of my sorrow and sorrow is the best friend of my drink. Well I want to look myself in the eye tomorrow but I'm too worried of what other folk's will think.”

“And the troubles in my heart need to get let out. And the troubles in my heart need to escape. And I never liked writing poetry and I never liked doing pottery and God knows that I never learned to paint. So every now and then, I'll sing sad songs. Cus it keeps my spirit light and my conscience clean. And if you don't care to hear I don't mind if you go out for some air. Cus I'm happy that you're happier than me.”

“So I wish I had a cigarette for every time a perfect stranger asked me for a cigarette but I wonder what a cigarette will really do to help that person out. I wish to God I had some spare change for every time a perfect stranger asked me for some spare change but there's not enough spare change in the world to make such an empty gesture count.”

“You can hope it gets better and you can follow your dreams but hope is for presidents and dreams are for people who are sleeping.”

“You don't have it any better and you don't have it any worse. You're an irreplaceable human soul with your own understanding of what it means to suffer and that’s a huge bummer.”

“I'm afraid of the way I live my life. I'm afraid of the way I don't. I'm afraid of the things that I want to do but I won't. I'm afraid of God. I'm afraid to believe and I'm afraid of all the loved ones that I've made leave. I'm afraid that my dog doesn't love me anymore. I'm afraid of the social laziness that let Kitty Genovese die. And I'm afraid of the mob mentality that makes otherwise normal people go blind. I'm afraid of the way that the world works and I'm afraid of the words in my notebooks. I'm afraid that you all know that I am a pervert.”

“It's harder to be yourself than it is to be anybody else. I wish I were a little less of a coward but the big red bird that lives under the city doesn't give a damn about me and it dies every night. So I bought a knife. I am a knife.”

Rompilation (2012)

“I used to be a spiderman, I used to be a cowboy from hell, but not anymore. Now I'm just a clam and I live inside this shell inside this shell I am. God damn I hate my brain.”

“I'll dip my brain in medicine so that you can stand to be with me.”

“Give me your tired, give me your tired, give me your poor. When our government acts like this, I wonder what World War II was for and the rest of the country hates us more and more. Lady Liberty is not a whore.”

“This is not a protest, it's a tortoise slowly pushing through a race. I hope the tortoise keeps its patience while the hare continues to pepper-spray its face.”

“There is no enemy, there's only people that also love their families and they're scared that they won't have enough long after they are deceased. But how much money do they need? Love turns into fear, and fear turns into greed. There is no enemy, there's only dummies that also love their families.”

“And this is not a phase, it's just a matter of time, with diligence and peacefulness, you will reach them and you will change their minds. If you stay there long enough, they'll start to see you.”

“And when you pushed my face in shit how could that have made you feel like a man or like a monster. It's your fault that I can't tell the difference.”

“In the evening I try songwriting. I'm self loathing, but I love singing. I'll try escaping these evil feelings but they keep coming, they keep coming…”

“So the baby's gonna have a daddy, that's wonderful news. He won't be the greatest parent but neither will you! Gotta get out while you can, otherwise you're screwed. Your legs are broken and your eyes are black and blue.”

“And smoking is like hiring a hitman for five dollars a day, and as cool as that is, I don't wanna keep dying this way.”

Christmas Island (2014)

“Shoot him again ‘cause I can see his soul dancing.”

“If you give it to me I’ll give it back much harder. If you treat me like a son, then I’ll treat you like a daughter. Everyone has a future, everyone has a soul, everyone has a heart, they have a mind, they have control.”

“The Coffin Dancer dances like he has something the prove because he does. He sleeps a couple hours in the morning, hates the morning when he wakes up.”

“The Coffin Dancer dances like he wants to make a friend, but he does not.”

“Getting naked and playing with guns. There's a gerbil in the microwave, a baseball bat in everyone. Sharing kisses and building a bomb. We'll set it off like Microsoft in '94.”

“McDonald's PlayPlace before the Xbox, cake frosting, sweet talking, bedroom wall, covered in knives, touching God, burning shit. We'll make a wish and take a trip to Future Town like our daddy did.”

“Have you ever wanted to be, have you ever wanted to see someone better in the mirror? Have you ever wanted to go, have you ever wanted to know somewhere greener, somewhere cleaner. I bet you got something beautiful in mind.”

“I can’t handle astounding works of beauty. I think I like my pretty pretty ugly but the beautiful soul I witnessed in that movie was an entirely different kind of overwhelming. It was a dog that won’t stop barking. Like a cut that never stops bleeding. Arizona sunsets in the early evening. Or a grown man inconsolably weeping.”

“I am the Kool-Aid stains on the mouth of a kid whose name is most likely Cody. He had a juice box for breakfast and he carries a stick that he most likely found in the alley. Cody doesn't have friends and his parents hate each other and he wants to find a better way to love his family and after school he hangs out in the abandoned house behind the Arby's.”

The Bible 2 (2016)

“Oh, I love you cause I love you cause I can.”

“On your last night at Saint Mary's you were way too intoxicated to breathe. So I used your ribs as ladders and I climbed up on your chest and I jumped up and down just like a trampoline.”

“Confused and rude. Such a special kind of way to be cruel.”

“If I were one of the things, I'd be american garbage. The most beautiful thing. The most beautiful american garbage you have ever seen.”

“No more shame, no more fear, no more dread.”

“And if you don't want to feel the feeling, no one should ever make you feel the feeling.”

“I thought I saw you before I knew who you were.”

“I just wanted to rage but all I got was tired”

“I showed him all the books that I was raised on. Your Madeleine L'Engle(s) and D'Aulaires' Mythologies.”

“And his eyes became a beacon, an LCD projector, broadcasting all my memories in a clear and vivid picture. His tongue became a staircase, his uvula - The knocker of an ornate wooden door that lead me straight into my future. His throat became a hallway with a thousand baby pictures and I became forgiveness, I transformed into the closure that I lost when I learned about the tragedy of all of us. I lost it when I learned about the tragedy of all of us.”

Good Luck Everybody (2019)

“If you don't give it to them they'll starve to death and that's alright.”

“I've got the normalization blues, this isn't normal, this isn't good.”

“I'm detached and I'm distracted, all keyed up but unproductive, vacillating between being all excited and disgusted and then dozing lackadaisically in this bubble where I've made my mental home. Connection's more important now than it ever was, but I'd rather be alone.”

“And when we talk about the president, we're either pissed off or we're giggling about an atrocity he's committing or some stupid shit he's tweeting. He's a symptom and a weapon of the evil men who really run the show. The ones who melt down human beings into money like a cruel Sorcerer's Stone.”

“This is the golden age of dickotry, probably the last golden age of anything, and the ugliest word in the English language is anthropocene. Good luck, everybody. Good luck.”

“But before that, you'll be a doormat, for every vicious narcissist in the world. Oh how they'll screw you, all up and over, then feed you silence for dessert.”

“I'm sorry that you have to have a body, filled with infection, one hundred scabs singing in unison, eyes and hands, sometimes bullets, uninvited, passing through us.”

“Oh to be awake for such a shitty dream. A bullet in the head of every decent thing.”

“The lake of dead black children that America created is getting fuller than the founding Fathers even wanted. The ghost of great America was underestimated and now it rages like a cold sore on the lip of this dumb nation. Again we've slipped inside a pit of absolute despair. That's where we live.”

“Rewarding our worst cruelty, they destroyed our shared reality, and now they upsell us our dignity like some fucked VIP package.”

“There is no absolute, these days there's no such thing as truth and you don't need to be a dick about it.”

“I'm a burnout and a fool, oblivious to all I do. I move my lips when I read and breathe with my mouth open, wide open. Timid, meek, and cruel, this is the best that I can do. I need to speak my truth, yet here I'm broken wide, wide open. My resentment, big and strong, and all the things that I can't change. They'll buckle me beneath the weight. I will drive myself insane with all the things that I can't change. I hate all the things that I can't change.”

“You're a loudmouth and a tool, and as it turns out I am too, and you don't need to be a dick about it.”

“Because I know that you know what I need more than me and I know that you need me more than that.”

“For all the pussies you grab and the children you lock up in prison, for all the rights you roll back and your constant stream of racism, for all the poison you drip in my ear, for all your ugly American fear. I wrote you this beautiful song called Psychic Warfare.”

“I hate you with all of my heart. I hate you with all of my art.”

“I went back to the desert, little Midwest in me, and now I am colder than I used to be. I live in a fortress the shape of my body, and now there's a coldness, and it's shaped like me. Now I don't suffer any more bullshit gladly. Even though everything's bullshit now, here in 2019 and you can bet it's gonna be a bunch of bullshit too out in sweet 2020 or whenever this album's released.”

#ajj band #ajj #andrew jackson jihad

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spirit-shroud · 3 years

Note

what are some roles that have been largely changed for cityrune? since you said queen was an influencer now :]

hi ty for asking me im vibrating. havent gotten to talk about this au now for three years and now that chapter 2 is like real and this time i can like........draw occasionally and i have more understanding of nuance...... [grips table] [screams]

this isnt quite what you asked but heres what's everyone from chapter 1 has been Up To with a little bit of context (and under a read more bc it got LENGTHY):

kris - professional stay at home teen (they live w/ asgore n help run the flower shop sometimes. this decision was entirely bc i dont like toriel). was wrongly diagnosed w Sudden Soul Rejection when they were incredibly young and given an experimental transplanted soul as a replacement. it works for them fine, give or take having to see gaster once a month for checkups. but sometimes the soul makes them skittish n decides they're going to sit in front of the pc and play 30 consecutive hours of a certain simulation game and not even let them drown people in the pool. if it were entirely up to them, they'd be like. passing out on the sofa to documentaries about bigfoot. or practicing cool knife tricks to impress their friends at their next tabletop meetup

- EDITED IN: the soul is kind of their friend. they are wearing a hypothetical get along shirt. most of the time, they agree on actions and things to do. tends to refer to themself + their soul as we/us which originally was just something they did in their head but they kept slipping in speech/text n just became a Thing of how they talk. switches to 'I/Me' whenever smth is wrong.

- also edited in: they believe the soul they have is their original soul bc nobody has told them otherwise. whenever theyre like 'oh yeah we think about our soul n view it as a separate entity to us like. all the time. it likes to hurt if we make too many choices it doesn't seem to like and kind of forces us to be a toned down version of what we want to be but thats just how souls are haha' and everyone is like.... 'Hey Kris That's Really Not How It Is.' theyre like. 'huh. gonna ignore that for now' - this was going to be a plot point

toriel - head of H0MEWOR1D (H01)'s department of education; kind of lost her roots as a simple math teacher as she was pushed into a lot of power she didn't even really seek out. divorced asgore over some miscommunications in their relationship; also loosely as a result of grief from asriel's death

asgore - the same. runs a lil flower/gift shop. people come in more to talk with him than to buy flowers most of the time, though

asriel Flowey - he's back in flower form, thanks to the government an accident. causes a lot of technology glitches wherever he goes, and wants revenge. isn't sure how to go about it. asriel "died" around 8 years before the story takes place and kris still misses him and refuses to even THINK about even the IDEA of calling someone their sibling after what happened, just in case it somehow happens a second time

susie - more of the same really. she spends most of her time either at grillby's (she's sort of become his assistant n helps with opening/closing. it just happened) or getting into low-stakes trouble w/ kris

noelle - she's in the city's equivalent of college and shes so tired. shes So Abysmally Tired n got kinda pushed 2 follow in her mom's footsteps. she's rarely around anymore except through text or on monsters & mages (dnd) night. (however.........she will come back w/ a long break n hang out w everyone again)

berdly - tbh i didnt even consider berdly when i made the au initially. idk what he's doing. probably in a similar situation to noelle??? canonically got kicked out of the M&M group due to clashes w/ other players but lurks in their group chat to posts memes sometimes

didnt rly think of any other of kris' classmates (+ their families) after ch1 and probably will continue to not, until chs 3-5 come out and i gotta whip up roles and histories for like. a lotta guys all of a sudden. i also forgot about noelle's parents

sans - runs a convenience store that everyone kind of thinks is a front, but also it has really cheap snacks and the local teens make a point of stopping there after school. so essentially, more of the same papyrus - similar to ut. is a very polite and sweet boy but you'll know when he's coming

grillby - he's back. he runs a bar like back in ut but the cozy vibes and weird-for-a-bar hours keep attracting kids who need parents, so half of his menu is comprised of overly sweet mocktails. usually only frequented by monsters

QC - same as usual. has a "rivalry" with grillbz but, theyre besties and have a book club

mettaton - he's real and he's back. he's similar to how he is back in ut w/ his EX body. likes to hang out at grillby's and talk to unsuspecting fans. has a show for everything

napstablook - similar to how they are in ut. helps mtt with making music sometimes. doesn't leave the house too often, but spends a lot of time posting on undernet

undyne - unfortunately. more of the same. she is a cop in the monster district. i am also upset by this but couldn't think of anything better for her

alphys - a doctor studying under dr. gaster in the hopes she'll one day take over his research. she spends most of her time as a nurse with a bigger title, though, and blocks out the weirdness of her job with anime.

gaster - weird guy. H01's top soul researcher and resident House wannabe. trying to manufacture the ultimate soul that can be controlled with simple internal switches, but so far he's only had 1 (very limited) success with a certain human. monsters just melt, and darkners just sorta......get weird... he's onto Something, though.

ralsei - lonely boy with some very strange hobbies. popular on UnderNet for poetry, baking videos, and general cryptid vibe. is the DM for the monsters & mages group (also seems to think everything is actually very fine in H01 when it is very much not)

lancer - about the same. professional Round Boy. lives w/ rouxls full time. follows susie around like a lost puppy and calls himself her "underling."

rouxls - runs a hotel/casino kind of deal where the objective Bad Guys hang out, and usually ends up doing any of the spade king's paperwork.

spade king - mafia godfather. kind of a dick. don't play cards with him

seam - works with the spade king as his right hand cat more or less because they have for a lot of years and are in that 'sunk cost fallacy' zone. thinks of retiring to a quiet life in the monster section of town like, daily

jevil - used to work with the spade king, but got imprisoned for Crimes. got weird after The Accident (separate from asriel's accident)

temmies (all) - dont really get mentioned except offhandedly but they run the monster space station. so far, are the only monsters who have ever been to space.

as far as chapter 2 goes:

yeah i dont have much so far for characters. in the original version of the au i accidentally made darkners as a whole just kinda..... not great? like all sorts of weird organized crime ties n sort of going out of their way to be A Problem to the city (not even in like. a revolution way. in a working against them but with the same goals kinda way). with the whole context it worked At The Time, bc i just had the spade king to look to as a villain, and also in this au the darkners are just trying to survive a world that ultimately was not built for them (that humans think they own, and monsters sort of... seeing this and wondering what it'll mean for them whichever one wins), but w/ new info abt how the dark world works n more guys to work with i want to kind of. edit the vibe a bit. like yea darkners will ultimately do whatever it takes to take over H01, but maybe in a better way than like. idk. all this. it doesnt have to be peaceful or anything it just has to be more adaptable as we meet more kinds of darkners

however yeah i thought up 'queen as some sort of childless mommy blogger/influencer' and that completely revived all memory i had of this au. she should be on mtt's talkshow. also she sells collectible wine glasses w/ her likeness

spamton is another one of gaster's failed soul experiments, but he hasn't melted yet, and seems............fine? sort of. so he hasn't gotten decommissioned yet. he does want to give you malware tho. hot monster singles in your area n all that

im blanking on the rest of the guys but i hope any of this was comprehensible

#kc takes questions #cityrune au #idk if tumblr still autotags things but if it does i am SORRY

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land-of-classpects-and-analysis · 4 years

Text

Seer of Void

A Seer of Void can become quite the interesting case when one tries to wrap their head around it. While Seers are all about inviting knowledge, or inviting through it, the Void Aspect is one shrouded in mystery and obscurity, much like those bound to it. How would, or even could, one go about inviting knowledge of nothing? Considering that its opposite Aspect, Light, is about that ravenous, constant hunger for knowledge, Void is one where those bound to it are fine not having all the answers and instead being fine living without knowing all the answers to their questions. As the Extended Zodiac puts it: those bound to the Aspect of Void are the universe’s secret-keepers. This is why a Seer of Void can be quite the interesting case.

A Seer of Void would not invite knowledge of nothing, but rather invite knowledge of secrets, mysteries, things that people may not be keen on putting in the spotlight. Where does this leave the Seer of Void in terms of the world around them and the people in their life? What does a Seer of Void look like, and how do they act? Let’s try to start off with the Seer of Void themself and how they would act.

Considering those bound to Void do not fear the unknown, but rather find it to be an opportunity for something new and beautiful to be built, it could be argued that a Seer of Void may be incredibly creative. Due to the nature of Seers, though, and how they create their own rules, a Seer of Void’s creativity may take on rather obscure and unique twists. Maybe the Seer of Void has their own indie folk rock band (or at least that is a large part of their musical taste), they do a lot of DIY charms, jewelry, and more to sell online, or maybe even partake in some secret Slam Poetry Club that meets twice a month. Whatever it is, as long as the Seer of Void does not view it as something lost to the mainstream, the Seer of Void will happily dive into it and relish in the obscurity. Some may argue that this would make a Seer of Void your typical hipster, and to an extent, that wouldn’t be entirely wrong. Since some Seers are prone to believing they know what is best, a Seer of Void may believe that the more obscure something is, the better quality it will be.

Among other interests for a Seer of Void may be hidden or lost media, indie movies, books that either don’t have the best ratings or seem to have been left untouched by other people for years. Chances are a Seer of Void’s room and maybe even home is full and covered in multiple items connected to their interests. A guilty pleasure of the Seer of Void may even be the mystery genre, whether it be movies, books, TV shows, or otherwise, if there is a puzzle to be put together and plots to be twisted, the Seer of Void will most likely be there and eager to see how it all plays out. However, even if these mysteries prove to not be all that fulfilling, or even downright disappointing to others, the Seer of Void could either see potential for something more, something bigger and more thrilling, or they could simply be fine with the mystery/mysteries not all being neatly tied up at the end. A Seer of Void rarely would see faults in the things they enjoy, even if it is riddled with plot holes, unimportant characters, or in general is considered “not that good” by the massive public. This is because, once again, the Seer of Void enjoys things not typically liked by the majority of people.

To look at the slightly bigger picture, the world to the Seer of Void is one where they may exactly care for what is presented to them. Those bound to the Void Aspect often don’t care for what has been established as fact, as the truth, and so they cast doubt on many things they see in their life. At some point in their life, perhaps the Seer of Void did believe in these things and follow them perfectly. However, as all Seers do, they would eventually come to the decision to invite knowledge of their Aspect and become attuned with it, or they can continue living a life of ignorance and falsehoods. If the Seer of Void does so wish to gain this knowledge of secrets, obscurity, and more, then they may come to their own conclusions and realizations of the world presented to them. Whether it be learning the dark secrets of their family and friends, or the systematic and deeply ingrained issues with the society they live in, the Seer of Void could become aware of all of these things, thus causing them to throw more doubt on everything and everyone around them. This could become a slippery slope, though, as the Aspect of Void and the knowledge it promises is not warm and light. It’s cold and hard, and to the Seer of Void, if they do not take caution in inviting all of these forbidden truths, it could feel as though they are trapped beneath a rockslide or the remnants of an avalanche. If the Seer of Void is not careful, they could become cynical and pessimistic - apathetic and dismissive.

In closing, the Seer of Void is someone who could become a valuable ally to have. People may go to them and easily reveal some secret about their life, or the Seer of Void will be the first one to notice the double standards of another person and thus call them out on it, or maybe they’ll simply have wonderfully obscure music and trinkets to show off to those they trust well enough. The Seer of Void would most likely be one to step into some type of rebellion, whether it be a simple sit-in or actively marching the streets and partaking in protests. They wouldn’t allow themself to remain under the oppressive boot of a leader, especially a leader who thinks they know what is best for the Seer of Void and what rules they should follow. With how the Seer of Void sees the world around them, there is no doubt that they will try to find ways to make a better, more fair and equal world. A Seer of Void has the most potential to be wise and intuitive to the world and people around them, as well as, at least once they come out of their shell, possibly being one of the smartest and cheeriest people in the world.

#Seer #Seer of Void #Homestuck #Hiveswap #Seer of Void Analysis #Void Aspect #Seer September #Void

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lovemesomesurveys · 3 years

Text

Serious question, peanut butter or nutella? Peanut butter. I don’t get the Nutella hype to be honest.

Do you prefer baked potatoes or mashed potatoes? I refuse to choose cause I love both.

What is your oldest sibling’s middle name? I’m not sharing that.

Do you like breadsticks? Yes. The more cheesy-garlicky, the better. <<< Yesss. With marinara or some kind of olive oil sauce for dipping.

What are your favorite things to spend money on? Food and clothes.

Which would you rather have a new puppy or kitten? Puppy.

How old will you be on your next birthday? 33.

Do you ever feel self-conscious when you eat around other people? Yes. I’m a picky and particular eater, even when it comes to how I eat. Plus, I take forever to finish my food, so I’ll still be eating longgg after everyone else and I just feel awkward and rushed cause I don’t want to keep anyone waiting.

When you opened your eyes this morning, what were your first thoughts? What time it is is generally my first thought.

What is one thing in the room you’re in that reminds you of somebody? A framed photo of my dog, Brandie, who passed away December 26, 2016.

Would you ever want to be a supermodel, or date one? I have no desire to be one. Not like I’d be cut out to be one anyway, so it works out. As far as dating one... I don’t know if I’d want to date anyone in the spotlight like that. That kind of life is not for me.

Honestly, have you ever made fun of somebody so bad they cried? Nooo. I don’t make fun of people or purposely try to hurt someone.

Honestly, would you rather be complimented on your looks or intelligence? Intelligence.

Have you ever purchased a pregnancy test, for yourself or otherwise? No.

You can get one thing, anything, for free right now. What do you pick? Why? All expenses paid vacation.

Honestly, have you ever danced naked? No.

What was the first illegal thing that you did? Did you get caught? Take candy from the candy bins at the grocery store when I was a kid. I was a big rebel, I know.

What is the home page on the computer you’re on? Google.

Do you like to write poetry? I don’t write poetry. I’m not a poet and I do know it.

Are your ears pierced? Yeah, my earlobes.

If so, were they pierced with a piercing gun, or with a sterile needle? I’m not sure, since my mom had them pierced when I was a baby. I would guess piercing gun, though. <<<

Do you wear makeup regularly? No. Prior to my brother’s grad party back in May it had been like 4 years since I wore any makeup. I haven’t worn any since then.

Did you eat cereal for breakfast today? No, I made a microwave breakfast egg scramble thing with these microwave mini pancakes.

When was the last time you tripped over something? My doggo likes to leave her toys right in the way so it’s not such a rare occurrence.

Who was the last person you yelled at? Not yell, but had to get stern with my doggo earlier when my aunt brought her doggo over. Mine was getting too hyper and excitable and wanted to play of course, but her dog is a tiny chihuahua and was scared. My dog forgets how big she is sometimes lol. To be fair, she hasn’t had a lot of interaction with other dogs, which is something we should have tried to do more.

Why did you yell at them? ^ That.

Favorite type of apple? The brand, ha.

Ever seen live horse racing? No.

How about live greyhound racing? No.

What’s one thing, besides the obvious, that you couldn’t live without? I need my coffee, ha.

Have you ever touched a giraffe? No, I wish!

What does your mom call you? She often calls me “Sis.” What stresses you out the most in life? My health.

Do you play any PC games? What is your favorite? Yeah, The Sims 4. I’ve been obsessed again lately. I go through phases with it.

If you were pregnant, how would you tell the father? Well, that would depend on the circumstances. Did we want a baby? Was it a bad surprise, a happy surprise? I can't answer this with just one idea. < Yeah. <<<

What’s the hardest level you can play on Guitar Hero? I rocked out hard on easy mode, ha.

What ever happened with you and your first boyfriend? I realized I wasn’t ready for a relationship and he was moving too fast for me so I ended it.

What’s your favorite country song? I like several, but the first that just randomly popped into my head is “Rainbow” by Kacey Musgraves.

What is the worst thing a former boyfriend/girlfriend has done to you? Use and play me.

What were you for Halloween last year? I stopped dressing up a few years ago.

Are you feeling guilty for something? Yes, a few things.

Are you usually quiet or loud? Most definitely quiet. No one would describe me as loud.

How many hours do you spend on the computer a day? It really varies. Some days definitely more than others.

What is the show that you watched when you were little, and you still do? Rugrats, Hey Arnold, and Doug to name a few.

Do your siblings text you? My younger brother does.

Do you want a small or big wedding? I don’t plan to ever get married.

Have you ever searched for your own house on Google Earth? Of course. That was like the first thing everyone did when it came out, which is quite funny because you could search anywhere and we chose our own house haha.

Who is your ex dating/talking to? I have no idea nor do I care to be honest.

Ever kissed someone who smokes? No.

Does it take a lot for someone to annoy you? No, especially not nowadays. I’m so moody and irritable.

Do you own your own computer? I do.

Did you ever have to share a room with one of your siblings? No.

What noises in the room you’re in, do you hear at the moment? The ASMR video I’m listening to, my fans, and myself typing.

Have you ever dated someone with longer hair than yours? No.

What’s the biggest upcoming event for you? I don’t have any.

What do you typically order from Wendy’s? Meh, I rarely go to Wendy’s but if I did I’d just get a cheeseburger, fries, and a frosty.

Have you ever been given a lapdance by an actual stripper? No.

What do you love most about yourself? :/

Have you ever received a hickey from the last person you kissed? No.

What are you doing right now? This and listening to an ASMR video.

What’s bothering you right now? My stomach.

What was the last thing you drank? Water.

Be honest, do you like people in general? I’m not a people person.

Do you want your tongue pierced? No.

Do you change your phone background a lot? I change it for the season or holiday. Have you ever made someone so mad that they broke something? Not that I know of.

Have you ever been strip searched? No.

Do you have a funny last name? Does anyone make fun of it? No, a lot of people have said they like it.

Ever have a drug overdose? What did you OD on exactly? No.

Do you get sick of people who call themselves bipolar all the time? People do throw that term around too loosely. That one and OCD.

Describe your day so far in three words: My stomach hurts.

What was the most stressful project you had so far/while in school? There had been many.

Choose one- Butterfinger, Milky Way, Snickers: Butterfinger.

Have you ever stepped in dog poop? Ugh, yes.

What was the last thing you spent money on? Food.Yeah.

Have you ever slept in the same bed with the last person you kissed? No.

Is there a guy that knows a lot about you? Yeah.

Is there someone you just can’t imagine your life without? My parents and brother.

Do you prefer Starbucks coffee or small cafe coffee? Ooooh, both. I love coffee. <<<

Would you ever consider getting a piercing in your septum? No.

Do you enjoy being outdoors? At the beach, yes.

Do people tell you that you have an accent? No.

Do you enjoy watching fireworks on the 4th of July? I wish they weren’t so damn loud.

What’re some unspeakable subjects for you? Meh.

Is there anyone you would take a bullet for? My parents and brother.

Do you enjoy tanning? I don’t mind if I get one while I’m at the beach, but I don’t actively go tanning or get tanned.

Are you a virgin? Yes.

Who’s your celebrity crush? Alexander Skarsgard.

Did or do you get good grades in English class? Yep. English was always my best and favorite subject.

What part of your body are you self-conscious about? All of it.

Are you expected to help fix Thanksgiving dinner? No. I like doing the appetizers, though.

Have you ever lost anyone close to cancer? No.

Do you personally know anyone who is transgender? No.

When was the last time you got a shot? It’s been many years.

#personal #text #survey #surveys

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dontshootmespence · 4 years

Text

Savior in a Strange Land

Summary: King Samel of Copros and Queen Y/N of Ashela were married off to broker a peace between two feuding nations. Though she didn’t love him, she did what was demanded of her for the sake of her people, marrying the King and attempting to get pregnant with his child. After many miscarriages, the already rocky marriage takes a dark turn and forces the Queen to make an extremely difficult choice.

Words: 1,597

Warnings: This will be darker than my normal Criminal Minds fics. Please heed the warnings, including miscarriage, implied physical abuse and rape (no graphic descriptions).

A/N: My next entry for @cmbingo 2020! This fulfills my royal AU square and a request from @queenanneslace4 for an angsty, hurt/comfort with eventual Spencer x Reader.

How she dreamed of her home. In Ashela, she had the most perfect view, snow-capped mountains and clear blue skies serving as the backdrop for the quaint towns below. Just a short walk away, her favorite place - a field of pink tulips - would welcome her with open arms, soft scents and tranquility. At least before the war between Copros and Ashela began and destroyed nearly all that she held dear.

To broker a peace between her war-torn country, she married the loathsome King Samel of Copros with the promise that if she did, he would call his soldiers back home. Though contemptible at best, he kept his promise upon their union, leaving the people of Ashela, the people she loved more than herself, to rebuild and return their beautiful country to its former glory.

Though it wasn’t her home, Y/N carved out a small space for herself in Copros; a place where she could escape her husband’s vacillating mood. In the horse stables with the gentle creatures, she could bring herself back to that place in Ashela, where she would ride the countryside on her mare, Raya.

As she had back home, she made a point of learning the names of all those that served her. Most were confused at first, having been treated with nothing but contempt by their king, but they soon came to learn that she was the complete opposite of their despicable monarch.

Samel could not understand her desire to be among the common folk, to get her hands dirty doing such ‘menial’ work, but she did it regardless and he didn’t seem to care much either way. He called on her when she had to fulfill royal duties of any kind, but otherwise he left her to wander the grounds as she pleased.

She had no desire to have children with Samel, but given he was her husband she had no other choice, retiring to their shared room every night and allowing him to do what he must to provide the country with an heir. Three times she had been with child, only to lose them shortly after. The doctor and midwife assured the King that it was pure bad luck that took their children, fearing his wrath, but behind closed doors they informed her it was likely due to his roughness with her.

Although she was covered head to toe in some of the most beautiful garments to ever grace the kingdom, hiding the marks and bruises that adorned her skin, it was obvious to most how Y/N suffered at Samel’s hands. Most perceptive of them all was a stable boy, or man rather, of nearly 30 whose name was Spencer, who also doubled as a riding partner and guide when she wanted to explore the countryside.

Overworked and exhausted, his eyes softened in her presence, concern flowing through them every time he would catch sight of her mottled skin. Without words, he would know her distress and allow her to ask him questions about his life and what brought him to his place in Copros.

At first, he'd taken the role in the King’s regime to help his ailing mother, Diana, who’d since passed away of what the doctors called ‘madness.’ Spencer disliked the term and its implication on his mother’s personality, which caused him to say she passed away from a ‘sickness of the head.’

He was more intelligent than anyone she’d ever met before, drowning himself in books whenever he wasn’t tending to the horses. “Why are you not working in the castle?” She asked one day, wondering why his intelligence was seemingly going to waste.

“I don’t think the King wants anyone more intelligent than he in his employ,” he said, without realizing he’d spoken aloud. “I d-didn’t mean..I-”

“There is no need to be nervous with me, Spencer,” Y/N replied. “You are probably right. If you’d like, you can share all that you learn with me. I would make an excellent student.”

Spencer smiled softly, a blush spreading across his cheeks. From that day forward, he would regale her with facts about the local flora and fauna, literature and anything else that tickled his fancy as they rode their horses. She especially enjoyed when he would recite poetry from memory.

As time continued, and her home country began to recover from the war, she lost another two children. Only the last one was identifiable as a girl. The wrong kind of heir to the throne.

The cold corridors became even colder amidst the harsh wrath of the king. His voice bellowed through the halls, anger overcoming him at the news that his last child had been a girl. He needed a male heir.

“I cannot control if the child is a boy or a girl!” She screamed back at him, nearly three years of pain bubbling up to the surface. “I wouldn’t be losing our children if you weren’t so rough with me.”

Samel stormed across the hallway, pushing her into the bedroom with a firm hand. “It is not my fault you keep losing our children,” he seethed, his anger visibly coursing within him. “You will do as you are meant to do and give me a male heir.” A crack resounded across the room, her cheek blooming red and heated.

With tears in her eyes, she attempted to escape his grasp, only to be pulled back and slammed down onto the bed. Silencing herself, she lay back as he tore at her clothes and forced himself on her once again.

-----

After Samel fell asleep that night, Y/N slipped from the four-poster bed and removed the torn clothing, pulling on a nightgown, robe and slippers before descending the staircase toward the stables. A light mist coated her face as she ran into the dark night in search of some comfort from her new horse, Rowena.

Opening the doors, she walked up to Rowena’s stable and watched her sleeping peacefully, her reddish mane shining dark under the light of the moon and the stars. “My Queen?”

“Spencer!” She exclaimed softly, pulling her robe tighter against her.

He held his hands up and apologized for scaring her. “My Queen-”

“Spencer, what have I told you before? Please call me, Y/N.”

“I’m sorry, Y/N. May I speak my mind?”

Nodding, she allowed a tear to fall from her eye.

“The King is not worthy of you.” His hand grazed over the new mark forming along her wrist. “With each new bruise, I find myself furious at his actions. They are not the mark of true man.”

“I know,” she replied softly, unsure of how much longer she would be able to keep up the facade of the willing wife.

Spencer swallowed hard and dared to place his finger under her chin, tipping her head up to meet his gaze. “Allow me to take you away from here,” he pleaded. “I no longer have ties here. What I live for is our time together. With no expectations, please allow me to save you from this life.”

“I couldn’t ask you to do such a thing,” she replied as she wistfully looked out the stable’s windows. “The King would hunt us down and I couldn’t bear it if you got hurt because of my actions.”

“It kills me to see you so wilted. You deserve to bloom.”

A sad smile painted its way across her features. She wanted to leave, to bid the King farewell forever and never return, but she was scared. For herself, for her country, and for Spencer, but he sensed her hesitation. “I know these lands,” he assured her. “With a head start, we could go a distance before the King even noticed you were gone.”

“But he would notice,” she said worriedly.

“The King is out of touch with everything outside his walls. I know this place better than he does. And I don’t have much. We could leave this place within the hour. You, me, Rowena and Clemens.”

A warmth flooded through her at the thought of being away from the King, living along the countryside with Spencer and their horses. “I am not a fighter,” she said.

“Neither am I,” he responded. “But I do have a weapon, and more importantly I have the wits to keep you safe from harm.”

Expectantly, he awaited her response, breathing a sigh of relief as she slipped her hands in his. He guided her back to his quarters, insisting she change into a spare pair of his clothes. Ever the gentleman, he turned to allow her privacy as she slipped into the pants and shirt that were much too big for her. But they would do.

As he promised, they were ready to leave within the hour. The horses were stirred awake. Food for themselves and the horses packed tightly into the horse-drawn wagon, along with wood, flint, extra clothing, a few books Spencer kept from his days with his mother, and anything else he could think of that they might need. “Do you need anything from the castle before we leave?” He asked.

Y/N glanced back toward the place that served as a poor substitute for home and shook her head. “There is nothing I need here.”

“Are you ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

With a soft ‘ya,’ Spencer spurred the horses on, leading Y/N into the depths of the forest. Even though there was a chill in the air, her soft-spoken savior and the clear, starry night ahead gave her hope for a better tomorrow.

#cmbingo #cmbingo2020 #spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid angst #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #dontshootmespence #savior in a strange land

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always-and-forever-a-killjoy · 4 years

Text

Good morning fuckers, after a brief fluffy break, I’m back on my angsty bullshit. This time, I’m tormenting...guess who...

Yeah, it’s Cherri Cola.

Anyways! Please pay careful attention to the warnings this time, this is incredibly dark and I want you all to be safe. Also Newsie and him have a sibling dynamic because fuck you (no, really because I want fun sibling dynamics.)

Title: all the smiles that are ever gonna haunt me

Wordcount: 2910

Summary: Cherri Cola has seen too much to want to survive this world. Luckily for him, his family wants him to live, and so do a snarky bird deity and a trio of teenagers.

Aka the story of how Cherri Cola met the Fabulous Four before there were even four of them, and learned a few valuable lessons along the way.

Warnings: Suicidal thoughts, a suicide attempt, hospitals, blood, flashbacks, self-harm, injury, mentions of addiction, (very brief) mentions of needles.

Taglist: @wishiwasthemoon-tonight @sleevesareforlosers @stressed-depressed-emo-mess @tasteofamnesia (message me, send an ask, or reblog/reply to one of my posts if you want to be added or removed)

AO3 Link

(Actual fic under the cut)

Cherri Cola stared at the door of the radio station, hyperaware of the sunlight that filtered through the cracks even as he tuned out the rest of the world, slumped on the floor of the station. Darkness, it was always darkness. He was always trapped in the dark somehow. But the sunlight was worse. Sunlight was worse.

He didn’t know who or what he was trying to convince as his nails sunk into his arms. It felt like suffocating; the darkness was endless and filled with thorns that kept him in. The memories never left and the deeds he had done could never be paid for. Not if he lived a hundred years or a thousand. He didn’t deserve to live that long anyways.

He stared at the door, the faint beams of sunlight filtering around the edges. Maybe he should get up and walk out that door. Let the sunlight take him, see how long it took him to die in the desert heat. Maybe he didn’t deserve to live at all.

No. You promised D you wouldn’t. He ranked his nails down his arms, digging deeply enough to leave welts. You. Promised. A promise was a promise. He couldn’t leave Dr. Death Defying. He couldn’t leave NewsAGoGo.

Cherri didn’t realize how deeply he had been digging his nails until the scratches on his wrists started to bleed. Blood. It always came back to blood, didn’t it? Blood of someone he had called sister, pooling around her as he sobbed. Blood of his friends, lying too still on the battlefield and in the sand and on beds in the hospital in Zone 2. Blood of the dracs he had killed, splattered all over him. His own blood, running down his forearms and coating his hands just like the blood of all the innocents who fell to his ray gun.

Suddenly filled with a new surge of energy, he climbed to his feet. Almost mechanically, he went through the motions of putting the poem he had been working on before this all away, knowing how much it bothered D when he left his poetry everywhere. It took longer than it normally would have, his movements slowed by the pain on his wrists and his general lethargy, but it felt like only a second before everything was neatly stowed away.

Cherri Cola looked at the door, squared his shoulders, and walked out into the light.

He walked. And walked. And walked and walked. (And walked.) To his surprise, the sunlight didn’t promise relief like it had always seemed to. All it promised was a harsh death.

Not that Cherri minded that much either.

He lost track of the hours, lost track of the days after far too little. There was no change in the landscape, not once he got far enough that the radio station was out of sight. The sunlight never seemed to let up, only briefly pausing while he slept. Summertime was the worst time of the year in the desert, it was universally agreed, but the only difference it made to him was more hours of daylight. More scorching sun as his throat grew dry and the desert started to warp around him. Heatstroke, he had the capacity to think still, even as he staggered and fell. Well, this is the end.

He wondered if the Phoenix Witch would come to claim him. Probably not, unless someone put his mask in the mailbox. He knew Newsie knew where it was; she was the only one who knew where his mask and ray gun were stashed. Newsie. His mind could conjure up all too vividly the image of his friend holding the pink mask in her hands, placing it in the mailbox with a whisper of a prayer. Would Newsie cry for him? A tiny, selfish part of him hoped so, hoped he would be missed, but the logical, ruthless side of his mind pointed out that he was just…Cola. Just an old wavehead who could never escape his own mind. A killer, a Ritalin rat, nothing but a worthless excuse for a sibling and a friend. That part hoped Newsie wouldn’t shed a tear. He didn’t deserve her grief. He had abandoned her.

He had abandoned her. Newsie had been almost more of a sister to Cherri than the one he had fought on the battlefields of the Analog Wars, and he had abandoned her. He had left her just like his older sibling had left him, all those many years ago. He was as bad- no, he was worse. His sister had never had a choice. Better Living Industries had taken her and turned her into a weapon, and it had never been her choice at all. It had always been his choice. It had been his choice to fight, to kill and maim and seek vengeance at all costs, his choice to turn to the relief of sunlight and run from what plagued him, and now his choice to leave behind the people he loved.

Cherri scrabbled at the sand, suddenly filled with renewed determination. He owned it to Newsie to try and get back alive, at the very least. He couldn’t just lay here. He had to go, go home to the people he had grown to love.

Getting up didn’t seem to be an option, the shifting sand throwing off what little balance he had and easily overwhelming his spent muscles. Crawling wasn’t any better, that took strength that he didn’t have any longer. So he reached out a hand and inched himself along, slowly and painfully rolling what he thought was back the way he came.

He hardly made it two feet before he collapsed fully again, unable to move himself another inch. No! Get home, I have to get home-

His eyes fell on taloned(??) feet as he lay in the scorching sand, and he looked up to see a crow-like figure almost crouched above him, tilting her head further than any human should be able to. The Phoenix Witch?

“Am- am I dead?” He croaked.

“Not yet.” His heart surged in hope, despite his earlier wishes, only to be squashed again by her next words. “You’re dying, though.”

“No! I can’t- I- Newsie.”

The Witch’s smile was not kind. “Why are you so upset, huh? Isn’t this what you wanted? Or,” she went on mercilessly, “have you realized there is a point to staying alive after all?”

Cherri shoved down his pride. “There’s a point and-“ he coughed, sand getting into his mouth. “-that point is my sister.”

“Your sister is dead, hon.” She let out a small cackle of amusement as he tried to speak again, finding it even harder than before. “I know who you meant, Cherri Cola. And I know exactly where she is right now, and what she’s doing.”

“What- what is she-“

“Looking for you, sugar. They all are. You’ve got the radio crew in a stir, as people say, all ‘cause you couldn’t blow your brains out like a normal person. Lucky for you though, and them, seeing as you’re not dead yet.”

“Well I’m not dying. Not-“ cough “-not until I can see my sister again.”

“You’ll see one of your sisters if you’re dead,” The Phoenix Witch shrugged.

“I’m still-“ cough “-not dying.”

“Stubborn one, aren’t you? Especially for someone who didn’t care if he lived or not just hours ago.” She tapped him on the forehead. “I’ll let you in on a secret, Cherri Cola. You don’t want to die. You want to not be in pain any longer. And to you, those seem like the same thing. But this isn’t the only route out of your grief, and it’s certainly not a painless one for the people around you. They care, you know.”

“Really?”

“Of course they do. Dumbass. NewsAGoGo cried when she realized you were gone, and so did your beloved Dr. Death Defying. They’ll be hurt worse once they realize you really are dead.”

Guilt swirled in his stomach. “I’m not dead. And-“ cough “-I’m not going to be.”

“Honey, you’re on death’s doorstep. Otherwise you wouldn’t be able to see me.” She seemed to take pity on him, kneeling next to him and brushing some of the sand away so he could speak better. “I’ll make you a deal, though, a one-time sort of offer. I won’t take you yet, and I’ll make sure you live, on one condition: you have to give me something.”

“What?”

“Anything. I want something that means something to you, though. A piece of your soul, as it were.”

It took him a moment, but “Would a bracelet do?”

“Only if it means something to you.”

“Newsie made it for me.”

She seemed to consider his offer for a moment before swiping the bracelet from his wrist. “Very well, Cherri Cola. Enjoy however many more years of life this will buy you.”

The last thing he saw was a swirl of crow feathers before the world went dark.

He woke up briefly who knew how long later to a redhead teen leaning over him, tilting their head.

“Nah, I think he’s dead, Jet.”

“He looks pretty dead to me.”

“No, shh, Kobes, Party. I swear I saw him move.”

“Nah, he’s gotta be dead.”

“I swear! He was moving, and look, I think he’s breathing!”

Cherri did his best to move his head and hoped they caught on, but even that small movement sent a surge of dizziness through him, and he blacked out again before he could hear any more of the teenagers’ conversation.

When he woke up for the second time, he was lying on a somewhat uncomfortable bed in a room he had never seen before, and everything on his entire body hurt. There was an IV stabbed into his arm, and his forearms were neatly bandaged, which made him think this must be a hospital. It certainly wasn’t the radio station.

The person who poked his head into the room a few minutes later confirmed Cherri’s suspicions, as he was quite clearly a medic. “Oh, you’re awake!”

Cherri managed a tired nod as the medic came fully into the room.

“How are you feeling?”

“In a fair bit of pain, but I’ll live.”

“Hmm. Anything in particular, or no?”

Cherri shook his head, and the medic offered a grin.

“You’re not going to be having a great time of it, sorry about that. Almost dying of heatstroke will do that to you. You’re pretty lucky your friends got you here in time. Oh, and I’m Max, by the way. Your name is?”

“Cherri Cola. My friends brought me in?”

“Well, I’m assuming they’re your friends, anyways. Redhead kid with a smirk like the devil, tall blond kid, and that guy with a really nice smile?” Cherri was reasonably certain he had never met those kids in his life. “No?”

“Huh. Well, anyways, I’ll send them in once I finish my checks, they might be able to explain more than I can.”

True to Max’s word, a few minutes later, a redhead with a smirk like the devil, a tall blond kid, and a brown-haired kid with a friendly smile walked in.

He felt like he should probably say hello or something, but the redhead spoke before he could. “So who the fuck are you, anyways?”

“That’s a good question. Haven’t quite worked out the answer to that one yet, but my name is Cherri Cola if that’s what you’re asking. He/him.”

“Fucking fantastic. So we picked up a random stranger and waited at the hospital for him to wake up.”

The tallest one, the one with a friendly smile, sighed. “Sorry about Poison, they’re mad that the medics made us wait here because there would be no one else to visit you and pick you up when you were healed. I’m Jet Star, by the way. They/them or he/him.”

“Kobra Kid,” The blonde said. “He/him.”

“And I’m Party Poison,” declared the one who had demanded to know who Cherri was. “They/them.”

“Well, uh, nice to meet you. Thank you for taking me to the hospital, I suppose.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever, not even us would leave some guy lying there.”

“We almost did, but that’s because we thought you were dead,” Kobra Kid chimed in. He bore a distinct resemblance to Party Poison, both in face and voice, and Cherri was starting to wonder if they were related.

He shook that thought off, trying to focus on what was most important right now. “How long until I can leave the hospital?”

Jet Star was the one to answer that. “Probably another two days or so, you were in pretty bad shape from what I hear.”

“And you’re going to have some badass scars, apparently,” Kobra Kid agreed.

“And do my friends know I’m here?”

Party Poison snorted. “How should we know? We don’t even know who your friends are.”

“D and Newsie- sorry, Dr. Death Defying and NewsAGoGo?”

“Radio DJs, right? We know of them, but we’ve got no real way to contact them,” Party Poison told him.

“We can drive you where you need to go, though, once they release you,” Jet Star offered kindly.

“That would be great, thank you guys so much.”

So two days later, Cherri Cola was being bustled into the back of an old trans am by three teenagers. Party Poison was driving, and Kobra Kid had claimed shotgun, leaving Jet Star to sit in the back with Cherri. He didn’t mind that, as they seemed the most friendly. He even found himself chatting a bit with them as the siblings (turned out they were, in fact, related) laughed and debated in the front.

“So how long have you been out here?” Cherri asked. That tended to be a fairly safe question- killjoys didn’t talk about their past in Battery City, typically, but how long someone had been out in the Zones was a much safer topic.

“Maybe…fifteen years? I was born out here,” Jet Star explained. “So I don’t quite know, but I think I’m fifteen or sixteen.”

“Ah.” He felt rather old, suddenly. “I’ve been out here since soon after the Helium Wars ended.”

“Wow,” Jet breathed. “You must have seen a lot.”

Cherri stared at the scars on his hands. “Yeah.”

Jet’s hands were nearly equally scarred, although not the same wavehead scars, as they reached out a hand in understanding. “The Zones aren’t always kind.”

He offered them a wane smile. “No, they’re not.”

That was the end of their conversation, as at that moment, the car screeched to a stop in front of the radio station.

Party Poison hopped out of the drivers seat and knocked loudly on the door as the rest followed behind.

Said door was opened by Show Pony, looking mildly frazzled. “Hey, sugar! Whatcha need?”

“I think we’ve got your friend.”

Ey looked puzzled for a second, and then eir gaze fell on Cherri, standing behind Party Poison with Jet and Kobra Kid. “Cola! Holy- Destroya, Cola!” Ey pushed past the red-haired teen with ease, skating down to throw eir arms around him. “We thought you’d gotten yourself dusted!”

“Not dusted, I’m afraid,” Cherri mumbled.

“Well, good!” Ey turned to holler back into the radio station. “Newsie! Dr. D! Get out here!”

Newsie’s hurried footsteps echoed from within the radio station, and Cherri’s words stuck in his throat as she froze in the doorway.

“Hey,” He managed.

“Cherri FUCKING Cola, you complete and utter BASTARD!”

He winced as Newise hugged him tightly, still swearing at him. “You fucker, you little dipshit, you absolute dumbass, we thought you were dead! We thought you were fucking dead, fuckwad!”

“I’m sorry, Newsie.”

“You better fucking be! Rat bastard!”

That was when Dr. Death Defying arrived, with a lot less swearing and fierce hugging, but certainly some scolding. “You scared all of us half to death, Cherri.”

“I know, I’m sorry.”

“He was half to death too, but of heatstroke, not of fright,” Kobra Kid contributed (very unhelpfully, in Cherri’s opinion).

“That doesn’t make me feel any fucking better,” Newsie muttered.

“Also, infection and dehydration,” Party Poison added.

Cherri sighed. “Not helping, guys.”

“Who are these fine ‘joys?” Pony asked.

“The Terrific Trio!” Jet cheered. “Well, the name is a work in progress. I’m Jet Star. He/him and they/them.”

“Party Poison. They/them. And I’m in charge.”

Kobra Kid snorted. “Kobra Kid. He/him.”

“They saved my life,” Cherri chimed in.

D offered the three young killjoys a warm smile. “Well, we’re very glad you did. I’m Dr. Death Defying, he/him.”

“NewsAGoGo, she/they.”

“An’ I’m Show Pony. Ey/em.”

Eventually, they all headed inside the radio station, where the trio was given some power pup for their trouble, and Cherri was given a lot of lectures and hugging for his. He would have a lot of explaining to do later, he knew, but he preferred to wait as long as possible to see the worry and fear on his friend’s faces. So just for tonight, he was going to revel in the fact that he was alive and here with his friends. That was the most important thing.

Cherri glanced down at his wrist, which felt strangely empty despite the bandages covering it, and smiled quietly to himself. “Hey, Newsie, what do you think about making another bracelet?”

#suicide tw #mentions of addiction #self harm tw #blood tw #hospitals tw #suicidal thoughts tw #auri writes #cherri cola #newsagogo #phoenix witch #jet star #party poison #kobra kid #ttlofk #danger days #the true lives of the fabulous killjoys #danger days fic #newsie uses 'fucker' as a term of affection #i wrote this listening to the ghost of you

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neuxue · 4 years

Text

Wheel of Time liveblogging: Towers of Midnight prologue (part 3)

Levelling up and last stands

Graendal to Galad, and now Galad to Padan Fain. It’s like alignment whiplash.

The sky was black. A tempest. He liked that, though he hated the one who caused it.

This is great because there’s just a hint of ambiguity to who that actually may be. Rand? Or the Dark One? And when you have to ask, even for a second…well, that’s sort of the point, isn’t it.

Hatred. It was the proof that he still lived, the one emotion left.

Well, that’s one more than Rand at any rate.

(Pre-Dragonmount, I mean).

Padan Fain exists to chew scenery and you know what buddy? Chew away. Live your dreams.

Did his hatred cause that storm? It must be so. Yes.

Sorry Fain; pretty sure Rand has first claim on I am the storm. He just carries it better, you see. It’s a good look on him and we don’t mess with that.

I typo-ed that as ‘it’s a god look on him’ and really… either way.

When you accepted madness into yourself – embraced it and drank it in as if it were sunlight or water or the air itself – it became another part of you.

I’m mostly amused by how similar this sounds to the wording of Egwene thinking of how the Aiel handle pain. In this case I don’t think it’s particularly intentional or meaningful or anything, but it amuses me.

Another part of you. Like a hand or an eye.

Not sure those are the best examples, given Rand and also very likely at some point Mat, but sure.

He was finally free.

Has something changed? Oh, wait. Is this the first we’ve seen of him since saidin was cleansed? And Shadar Logoth destroyed? I think it is, in which case… interesting. Particularly interesting since it doesn’t seem to have affected the dagger’s power – Fain’s still obsessed with his precious, at any rate – and last we heard Rand’s wound(s) hadn’t healed. But Shadar Logoth was destroyed, and its power seemingly with it, more or less, and so now Fain or Mordeth or Smeagol or whoever he is these days is free, in a manner of speaking. That’ll end well for everyone involved, I’m sure.

Oh he killed a worm. And he’s in the Blight so that’s a Worm. Im…pressive?

Mist had begun to trail him, creeping up from the ground. Was that mist his madness, or was it his hatred? It was so familiar. It twisted around his ankles and liked at his heels.

Like a yellow fog, that rubs its back upon the window panes, a yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window panes, licks its tongue into the corners of the evening…

No? Or perhaps like, say, Mashadar? I mean, maybe it’s nothing, but if it’s not nothing, that’s… concerning. Were more things freed than Fain, in the ruination of Shadar Logoth? Open to give the world hope but did it also release some element of despair?

The mist struck.

And unless we’ve transported into one of Sanderson’s original works, that means I’m right and the cleansing of saidin did indeed have some… unintended consequences. Which is fitting, in a grander sense of balance, but still kind of… well, sad.

So Fain has levelled up again, it would seem, which is the outcome absolutely no one needed.

That said, he played enough of a part early on, and enough has been made of him from time to time afterwards, that it would be kind of weird to leave him out of the ending. Personally I wouldn’t particularly mind; watching him chew scenery is fun enough from time to time but the rest of the time I sort of tend to forget about him, and I’m not particularly invested in anything to do with him, and the slightly more critical side of me wonders if he was ever truly necessary as a character… but at this point in a series, once you have a character like that, dropping them now would feel untidy. It would feel like an oversight, or like lazy plotting.

Which is hard, when everything about him suggests that his entire purpose is to be a wildcard character. He doesn’t have a clear fated role to play in all of this, unless it’s something to do with his link to the dagger and, via that, to Mat somehow.

Instead, he’s a powerful entity on a third side in a two-sided war. Yes, there are far more factions than that within each of those sides, and so much of the point of the last several books has been that lack of unity, and the tragedy but perhaps inevitability of fighting against those who should be your allies, of losing sight of the larger conflict in favour of the smaller and more immediate ones, and of trying to forge some kind of alliance despite that, and the ways in which that can succeed or fail.

But Fain is less a part of that and more a completely outside element. Not, in a way, unlike Aridhol itself was, as it became Shadar Logoth. A darkness and an evil that came from a form of the Light and its hatred of the Shadow and, over time, twisted. And therefore was an evil that was not truly of the Shadow, but was no longer an ally of the Light. Instead it was its own poison.

That’s kind of what Fain is. Which certainly has potential, as a story element, but I am curious to see how that’s played, and how well it’s played, given the sheer volume of characters we’re dealing with, and the size of this conflict, and the many other themes already at play. Can his role, whatever it is, end up feeling satisfying? I guess we’ll read and find out on that one.

Anyway, that was a bit of a tangent, but the point of it was: yes, he’s levelled up, because I think he has to in order to have a hope of having his part in the ending being interesting or satisfying.

Red below, black above. Red and black, red and black, so much red and black.

See, the thing is, I know for a fact that Brandon Sanderson is a fan of Les Miserables, so I am fully justified in humming ‘red, the blood of angry men; black, the dark of ages past….’

Also, Moridin would approve. Of the colour scheme, if nothing else.

And also of the chaos. Some say the world will end in (bale)fire, some say in ice, and Padan Fain says fuck it why not evil killer mist. Less poetic but sure.

(Let’s play a little game called: over the course of the liveblog, how much of an English Literature syllabus do we think I’ve referenced? …on second thought let’s not play that game)

Oh, the Trollocs didn’t die, they just got a Mashadar Makeover and now they’re competing for Malkier’s Blight’s Next Top Abomination.

He left the Myrddraal. It would not rise, as rumours said they did. His touch now brought instant death to one of its kind. Pity. He had a few nails he might have otherwise put to good use.

Perhaps he should get some gloves. But if he did, he couldn’t cut his hand. What a problem.

The thing is, while the style here is very Sanderson, for a character like Fain it actually works pretty well. Which is mainly, I think, because I have long suspected Sanderson has a soft spot for writing characters who are utterly batshit and having the time of their lives with it. Pass the scenery, and the salt. Yum.

Like an old friend. A dear, beloved old friend that you were going to stab through the eye, open up at the gut and consume by handfuls while drinking his blood. That was the proper way to treat friends.

Sure, it lacks the undertone of beautiful horror, and the poetry of Machin Shin whispering about braiding flayed skin, which is in a way a shame. But it conveys the essential message and character, and at least for me, this works well as an example of Sanderson’s approach of not trying to imitate style because that could go so badly, but instead emulating the feel of the story itself. Sometimes it doesn’t work, but here, at least for me, it does.

It's ironic in a way that it’s a similar thing to what he’s done with Mat, but it has the opposite effect. With Mat – I’ve written about this elsewhere, but tl;dr is that I think he read Mat as funny and so tried to write Mat as funny, using his own methods rather than Jordan’s because imitating style exactly is a lost cause, but something very essential was lost in the translation (like the fact that Mat himself isn’t really humorous; it more comes from the contrast of his thoughts with his actions, and his character against the world around him, but I digress again). So he went for ‘convey the same idea through my own methods rather than trying to imitate Jordan’s’ – consciously or subconsciously – and it backfired. But with Fain, he’s taken the same approach – ‘convey a scenery-chewing wildcard who has lost every mind he’s possessed, which is several’ – and this time the same-idea-different-style still gets that across in a way that feels true to character.

Obviously mileage can and will vary on whether or not this works, but for me it’s just an interesting study in how a certain approach or method can succeed or fail depending on exactly how and where it’s applied, and what the cause of that success or failure may be – why it works in one place but not another, and what went right or wrong.

It is, I think, something of a writing exercise if you want to turn it into one. A bit like reverse-engineering an outline from a book you’ve read (I do this often; I realised at some point that I was doing it and then I made a point of doing it deliberately, and it’s super interesting, and for me at least it’s helped me think more deliberately about the structure of a story, and how that can be leveraged for different effects). But thinking about the specifics of what does or doesn’t work for you about the authorship switch – a particular character, or a scene, or the pacing, or the handling of a certain theme, or anything else – and then digging into the specifics of why it works, or doesn’t.

That, for me, has been more interesting than just picking out the differences. Sure, I’ll nitpick, but I prefer not to focus on it, because ‘this is different’ feels… kind of pointless. Of course it’s different. Figuring out exactly what is different, or why it’s different is interesting sometimes. But also figuring out where and how that difference matters or doesn’t is more what I’m trying to get at here. Because some of the differences, I don’t mind. Some, I do. And trying to understand why I mind some and not others has been helpful at least for me in, again, understanding all of those elements of a story or piece of writing better, and thinking about how they could be used or changed or recombined.

But then, I’m the kind of person who likes to take things apart to figure out how they work. And also to overthink every goddamn text I consume.

Still, it’s a fun one if you’re in the market for writing exercises to try whilst in quarantine.

Malenarin Rai. Bold of you to introduce a new POV character in the penultimate book of a series that already has dozens if not hundreds, but that’s WoT for you.

Also it’s a prologue so the rules are different.

Heeth Tower is a weird name. Heeth. But then, I don’t think Sanderson has ever been quite as good with names as Jordan was. And that’s the sort of change I’m not going to get too worked up over. (Also, it was Jordan who gave us Mountains of Dhoom, so I rest my case).

The whistling wind rattled the wooden shutter.

It’s not time for the wind yet; we’re still in the prologue! Wait your turn, wind; chapter one should be here any day now.

Using a Trolloc horn as a paperweight is pretty badass, Malenarin, but Furyk Karede and his human skull wineglass might offer some competition.

I don’t think we’ve spent much – any, depending on where exactly the scene in TPoD’s prologue takes place – time in Kandor outside of New Spring. I guess we’ve got to finish filling in the map now; we’ve only got one book left!

Malenarin’s son is turning fourteen soon, so he might just be lucky enough to get Tarmon Gai’don as a birthday party.

He smiled, setting the Trolloc horn on the note, in case that shutter broke open again. He’d slain the Trolloc who had borne that horn himself. Then he walked over to the side of his office and opened his battered oak trunk. Among the other effects inside was a cloth-wrapped sword, the brown scabbard kept well oiled and maintained, but faded with time.

Typing it out, it’s not even that similar, but reading this my first thought was of Tam al’Thor, pulling out his old trunk and his old sword at the beginning of The Eye of the World, before giving it to Rand as he sets off on his coming-of-age story.

To have a duty was to have pride – just as to bear a burden was to gain strength.

In moderation, though. *Looks pointedly at Rand al’Thor*

I still don’t understand how turning their backs on the Blight to go find the Dragon Reborn to tell him to pay attention to the Blight is a good idea for the Borderland rulers. I must be missing something here and I hope it is eventually revealed to me, because otherwise that is terrible strategy on so many counts.

The only way to go to the fourth level was to climb a narrow, collapsible ramp on the outside of the tower

What could possibly go wrong? I mean, last time we were in Kandor a kid was thrown off a balcony, so…

[Jargen] wore a cord looped around the shoulder of his brown uniform; it bore a knot for each Trolloc he’d killed. There had to be approaching fifty knots in the thing by now.

That’s cute, Rand says, flicking dust off his shoulder Luke-Skywalker-in-The-Last-Jedi style, and flicking some Arrows of Fire off with it to torch another thousand or so Trollocs without breaking a sweat.

But okay, yes, for an ordinary non-protagonist non-Lan in a random guard tower in Kandor, I suppose that qualifies as pretty badass.

The beacons have been lit! Gondor Rena Tower calls for aid!

Pretty sure that’s your cue, Lan.

Or not; Malenarin seems to think it’s his cue to confirm the SOS and start preparing the tower for… bad things, probably.

Seriously, wind, wait your turn.

Of course his son is next on the list of messenger boys to be sent out. Well, it’s a better fate than being thrown off a balcony at least. Maybe.

‘No, we need to send several messengers. Double up. Just in case the towers fall.’

Do you have any uncrowned infant kings you want to send as well? Just checking.

Malenarin let himself feel a hint of relief that his son was one of those riding to safety. There was no dishonour in that; the messages needed to be delivered, and Keemlin was next on the roster.

There is a kind of parallel here – less a parallel, perhaps, than an echo – to Lan. A son sent to safety as a Borderland hold prepares to fall, the sense of a last stand. Because in the Borderlands perhaps that is not so unusual a story, in its way. The Wheel of Time turns.

It was time for Tarmon Gai’don. And looking out into the storm, Malenarin thought he could see to the very edge of time itself. An edge that was not so far distant.

Maybe you should have a dream-chat with Moridin, Malenarin. Maybe it’s just the air in the Blight: gives you nihilist thoughts.

Oh oops, his son wasn’t one of the messengers to go. Because he decided to be all noble and let another boy go in his place, whose mother had already lost four sons. That’s sweet, kid, and it’ll probably get you killed.

Tian, Sanderson? Named after another ill-fated messenger boy in your own works, perhaps?

‘Run down to my office,’ Malenarin said. ‘There is a sword in my oaken trunk. Fetch it for me.’

Aw. Because his son has proven himself a man, three whole days early. Because we’re approaching the end now, and it’s time for everyone to take their last steps into their roles, become who they must be to face that end – whether they’re a protagonist or just some poor doomed kid in a tower in the Blight.

It's something these kinds of snapshot one-off scenes are good for: to show the scope of the story, that it touches everyone, no matter that they’ve never even met Rand or any of the others. And to give this sense of those final steps happening in snapshots like this across the land. The sense of an entire world taking a last deep breath. And so we pause for brief close-ups on the faces of some of the extras stepping onto the battlefield, to illustrate that.

Keemlin’s swearing his version of the ‘kill the bad things until we die or they do’ that every Borderland (and Aiel) nation seems to have, each with its own slight semantic variations.

‘Rise as a man, my son!’

This is no place, or time, for children. Ergo, he can no longer be a child, by simple virtue of being here. Which makes this a rather bittersweet moment; Malenarin’s proud of his son but there’s also this sense that far too many children are having to grow up far too fast in these last moments (and others will never grow up at all – in today’s theme of referencing poetry I like, go check out The Lads in their Hundreds).

They yelled defiance of the Shadow. For a moment, their voices rang louder than the thunder.

I don’t have a lot to say about this except that it’s a lovely image.

Together they turned to face the oncoming Shadow.

Nice knowing you.

Draghkar overhead and Trollocs oncoming, and they’re just a lonely tower waiting to die. I do love a doomed last stand, even if it’s characters I’ve never met before and likely will never see again.

Malenarin was a man of the Borderlands, same as his father, same as his son beside him. They knew their task. You held until you were relieved.

THAT’S YOUR CUE, LAN.

Next (ToM ch 1) Previous (ToM prologue pt.2)

#i definitely did not split up this prologue correctly #oh well it's done now #Wheel of Time #neuxue liveblogs WoT #Towers of Midnight

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