#they had a formula for suffering and it worked like a damn charm so they kept going and going

[simpsonsnight]

Episode #336

WHAT THIS?

Treehouse of Horror XV Season 16 - Episode 1 | November 7, 2004 Hey hey it’s a treehouse show. In this one they do a Dead Zone one, a From Hell one, and a Fantastic Voyage one. It starts off with an opening where Kang and Kodos are imagined as an insipid sitcom. It’s not particularly inspired. It uses the Perfect Strangers theme song and I recall somebody on a message board I posted on giving it a glowing review based on that, but I think he was just pandering to us because everyone else on that board were big TGIF-heads growing up. They also lampoon the Mark VII production logo, which they shoulda done with Treehouse of Horror VII if you think about it. Damn. In the Dead Zone one, Ned can see the future and sees that he’s gonna ice Homer. This one might be the only truly decent one and it’s not even that good. Then there’s a Jack the Ripper one that I guess is a parody of From Hell. I saw that online. I never read or saw From Hell. I remember being very charmed by a small video store in my city that had a cool seating area where you could presumably watch a film and they had the graphic novel of FROM HELL just sitting out. I used to think to myself “wouldn’t it be fun to just read FROM HELL at the little video store”. Anyway, this one is bad, and for some reason even though there’s murders and stuff, I can’t shake that this one shouldn’t actually be in the halloween show. I don’t like this segment really at all. Then the Fantastic Voyage one is alright. Not that good, though. They have to get Maggie out of Mr. Burn’s stomach cuz she was mistakenly shrunken down inside a capsule he swallowed, so they shrink down and do that. The ending kinda evokes the halloween one from years ago that ends with Mr. Burns’ head being stitched to Homer’s body, and the one where they do a dance number after being turned inside out. This is a poor showing for Treehouse of Horror, honestly. THE B-SODE(S):

Aqua Teen Hunger Force: “The Meat Zone” Season 2 - Episode 9 | September 14, 2003

This one has Meatwad seeing the future in the manner of Dead Zone but maybe not. This isn’t that good of an episode but it has nice moments. This is from an era of ATHF where the show was on fucking fire but if they strayed from the formula of having a weirdo monster guy just show up for no reason then the show would suffer for it. This one has no monster and is a lesser episode. But this show is still great so whatever.

Family Guy: “Peter’s Progress” Season 7 - Episode 16 | May 17, 2009 This one is pretty fun. The period spoof is a bit of a lost art. Like remember when Judd Apatow tried to make one it was like “bitch this is corny”. Anyway, I kinda made a mistake because I came up with this by searching keywords and such but it turns out the jack-the-ripper connection was just one little tossed-off gag. But this is uh historical and stuff so I guess it works. 

Futurama: “Parasites Lost” Season 3 - Episode 4 | January 21, 2001 This is a real nice one. Fry eats some worms and they start controlling his body in only beneficial ways (making him smarter, stronger, causing him to heal faster, etc). The crew shrinks/avatars down to go inside his body to fight the parasites, but Leela starts falling for the new improved Fry. A pretty great episode, and the ending made me go “aww”.

#simpsons #treehouse of horror #season 16 #aqua teen hunger force #family guy #futurama

[leviosarpg]

Congratulations, SNOOZE! You have been accepted for the role of AMADEUS AVERY! Snooze, where do I begin with this app? When I created Amadeus I knew I wanted depth, but Snooze, you gave me so much more depth than I could have ever dreamed, I mean for goodness sake, you gave me an entire diagram! Your app genuinely captured me from beginning to end. From Amadeus’s relationship with his sister, Isolda, to his fascination with Ancient Runes, I was beyond blown away with how you managed to flesh Amadeus out into a fully actualized person--a living, breathing wizard. But what put this incredible app over-the-top, was your incredible second para sample. Despite bringing so much depth to Amadeus, you still manged to highlight his cruelty in a way so gut-wrenchingly perfect, know I will remain in complete awe for the rest of the night.

Your faceclaim change to: Keith Powers has been accepted. Don’t forget to send in your account to the main and complete the items listed on the CHECKLIST!

THE PLAYER

name/age/pronouns/timezone: Susan (though I prefer Snooze); 18; she/her; PST

THE CHARACTER

desired role: Funny story! Amadeus was actually not my first choice. I was trying to figure out who to apply between Bishop, Odin, and Silvanus. I got my Amadeus inspiration from brainstorming for Bishop, because I was asking myself, what kind of dude is Bishop listening to? Then I got into a rabbit hole and tada! Amadeus app.

Here’s the thing: Amadeus is nothing like any character I’ve played/written before. I tend to be attracted to characters who stand in the middle, who are struggling with a decision, torn between two sides, who don’t want to check the option boxes presented to them and who seek to make their own paths. But Amadeus grabs my attention. He grows up with a solid foundation and he’s sure of himself. He knows exactly what he’s doing. What happens if things deviate from his plans? He may be smart but he’s only eighteen. There are things he doesn’t know and situations he hasn’t experienced. His relationship with Seneca is so, so intriguing because how in Merlin’s name can a person like him has feelings? I’m also a sucker for secret/forbidden romance, so there’s that. I want to let him suffer and make mistakes — I want to see his growth and how the war and certain secrets will change him. He’s a volatile little guy. Anyway, read on!

gender/pronouns: he/him; cis-male

extracurriculars: In addition to the pre-selected ones, Amadeus is also in Astronomy Club, Charms Club, and Dueling Club,

para sample:

Note: The first sample I have no specific year in mind — it could be Amadeus’ fifth, sixth, or seventh year. The second one takes place in the summer of Amadeus’ fifth year.

Also! To prevent any confusion, since I wrote the app non-chronologically, Isolda is Amadeus’ little sister. They are eight years apart. Isolda was kidnapped in the summer of Amadeus’ fifth year, and he was the one who tortured and killed her kidnapper afterward.

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Amadeus dressed in the dark, glancing at a mirror that only outlined the dark silhouette of his body, as the sun has yet to rise this early in the day, and he broke the unbearable silence by humming quietly a tune whose origin he could not recall. His mind was still groggy from the ten-hour sleep he’d indulged in yesterday. Stifling a yawn, he snatched his wand from the nightstand and whispered a Reducio to his trunk.

When he was about to leave, the door to his room cracked open, letting in a sliver of darkness against the grey carpet of the floor — the hallways had always had a tendency to cloak itself in pitch-black shadows, even darker than his room. A small figure entered.

“Where ar’ya goin’,” Isolda muttered, her words slurred together because she certainly shouldn’t be up at this time. Amadeus frowned, turned on the chandelier light with a wandless wave, and kneeled down to see her face-to-face.

“Hogwarts, of course,” he replied. “I would’ve stopped by your room before I leave, you know that?”

She nodded, though she didn’t seem convinced. “Papa said the same when he was going to Turkey, but he didn’t.”

Amadeus sighed; his father may be a great man, but he never remembered his promises. He hoisted Isolda up and tucked his left arm underneath her legs so that her face was buried in his neck, then he walked to her room. His nerves tingled while going upstairs, but his parents, he thought, were still deeply asleep and thus unlikely to appear and shake their heads at his physical display of care. It was a shame that Isolda was born into a culture of rigidity. She was too emotional for her own good.

She was already sleeping when they arrived, so Amadeus laid her gently on her bed and pulled the blanket over her. He fished from his pocket a small set of papers, upon which he’d copied numerous alchemical formulas from Hogwarts’ library. Surely she would have a grand time looking through them until Christmas.

After that, he called for Milsy, their house-elf, to make sure that his notes to his parents would be delivered when they breakfasted later. Shrugging on a suit jacket and a hat, he left the Averys’ premises with his miniaturized trunk and apparated away.

Amadeus stopped by Hogsmeade Post Office to drop off several contract packages for his father, then he headed to Borgin and Burkes. The air was so foggy and saturated that he felt as if he’d just swam the Thames.

“The Tome of Cleopatra,” he demanded upon entering. The man working behind the faux-wood table pursed his lips and sniffed his rat-like nose twice, but Amadeus only needed to lift his eyebrows to kick the man into gear. Anyone who didn’t recognize him may as well sign a death warrant — a social one if he was in a good mood or a literal one if he wasn’t.  While waiting, he eyed a pair of gilded cufflinks sitting in a glass box on a shelf. Diamonds decorated their surface, glittering brightly despite the dust that had settled on the box. They were certainly expensive and a fitting gift for someone he knew. He may have to lift some curses, but that shouldn’t be too hard. Small, probably unnoticeable, easily excusable price, perhaps …

No, no. Amadeus let the temptation slide. He should not be so careless — nor should he, for that matter, assume that the action would be appreciated. The man returned, slamming the thick book on the counter, and Amadeus felt dread creeping up his spine.

Merlin helps me, how can I go through this whole thing?

He slid the pouch of Galleon over and left with the tome. Seeing a beggar on the side of the road, he spat on the old woman’s face, then, for good measure, kicked her can of coins as far as possible. He wanted to make other people feel as miserable as he suddenly was.

The damn book. These damn feelings. This bloody muggy weather. What rights do they have to make him feel like a failure? Nothing! He was fucking Amadeus Avery! His throne sat on a wealth of power and money and he knew how to keep and better them. The economy of Wizarding Britain lay in his palm. The rich magic of this planet was his to command. He was not a failure.

Platform 9 ¾ was, as expected, empty, with only a couple of stragglers here and there and two shady individuals whispering near the ticket station. The Hogwarts train was here though, and its doors were unlocked, so Amadeus entered and claimed a cabin for himself. On the cabins of the Gryffindors he carved a mild curse of bad vision, created a few weeks ago, and hoped that it would kick in at opportune times during Quidditch matches, though there was a large chance that he guessed the cabin wrong or that the curse would have already petered out by then.

Satisfied with his task, he returned to his cabin and lay down on the bench, drifting off to a quick nap.

————————————

Trigger warning: Violence, gore, death, vomiting, torture

Money changed hands, and Amadeus stepped inside the cell where Isolda’s kidnapper was sleeping, resting, so peacefully that Amadeus felt his hatred burst out like a cobra springing to tear apart its prey. The man shifted on the stone floor. Amadeus gripped his wand tighter and thought, if you know what’s good for you, you will wake up now, a clumsy attempt at Legilimency, but he didn’t care for it had succeeded. The man’s eyes snapped open, deranged and red, and a half-smile tugged on the corner of his chapped, bloody lips.

“What’s this?” he spoke, voice hoarse and tinged with amusement. “Come to kill me?”

He stared down at the wretched piece of shit that didn’t deserve the mercy of the Dementors with his back straight, his voice steady, and he said, “Yes.”

The man mustn’t have expected a direct answer, as his expression faltered for a moment, but he went on, “Yeah, let’s do it then.”

“Not yet. Petrificus Totalus.”

The spell hit true. Amadeus shrugged off his suit jacket and set it on the floor; then he rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt, unhurried, for he had all the time in the world, all the while he flickered brief glances at the kidnapper to gauge his emotions, which had become more muted, more cautious, and, to Amadeus’ pleasure, more frightened.

Amadeus placed his wand on top of his rumpled suit, popped a collar button open, and kicked the man’s stomach hard. The man’s back slammed into the wall with a satisfying crack. Amadeus kicked again, this time to the man’s chest, and heard the pleasant sound of ribs breaking. He went on, and on, and on, lost in the vesuvian rage, in the rhythm of grunts and the thudding of soft flesh. At one point Amadeus straddled the man’s body and started punching his face, aiming everywhere he could—cheeks, nose, mouth, forehead.

“You think you can insult an Avery and leave unscathed?” Amadeus shouted, panting from the physical exertion. “You touched my sister, filthy mudblood, and I will make you fucking beg to be killed by the end of this.”

He stood up and backed away a few steps, grabbing his wand.

“Petrificus Totalus, Petrificus Totalus, Petrificus Totalus,” Amadeus intoned.

The man’s muscles seized tighter, tighter, until he was shaking and sweating and the veins in his neck were bulging, until several loud snaps rang loud, the sounds of ruptured muscles and tendons, and Amadeus felt the delicious, ugly glee in him morph into a grin. He released the spell, but the man remained in the same position, cursing, pleading, tearing up.

“Crucio.” A roar of pain; the man’s body arched up.

“Crucio.” Nonsensical babbling for mercy; empty promises to do whatever the Averys wanted. Too late.

“Crucio.” Eyes rolled up; a drooling mess; broken whimpers.

Amadeus paused. He breathed. He calmed his pounding heart. He’d gone further than he had ever been, and his fingers were trembling, maybe from the magical drain, maybe from the bleeding knuckles, maybe from the horror that was beginning to overcome his fury. But—Isolda, he thought. The rational part of his mind was yelling at him to stop, retreat, recalculate, for he, frankly, didn’t know where this was heading toward, didn’t know if he would jump off that cliff of indecision and into the chasm of immorality, passing the point of no return, staining his hand with the blood of another.

So Amadeus delayed. He transfigured all his buttons to thin needles, then he crouched down and held up the man’s hand. The hand that dared take away Isolda.

“Ennervate.”

This was the part he would not remember, the part that would appear blank were he to search for it:

Amadeus lined a needle to the tip of the man’s index finger and pushed it in steadily, watching life, awakened by pain, returning to the man’s dull eyes. The man screamed, wildly, uncontrollably, all his self-control gone. Amadeus kept on going: middle finger, ring finger, pinky. Deaf to the howling, he repeated the procedure to the other hand, half of his mind a far distance from reality while the other half drew on courage from hatred. Afterward, Amadeus stabbed the man in the stomach with the knife in his pants’ pocket, once for every hour Isolda was missing, methodically, as if hypnotized. He switched to the thighs once he ran out of space.

Finished, Amadeus moved back and took stock of his handiwork. The darkness of night hid the worst parts, but somehow he could still make out every bruise, every cut, and every bit of blood that littered the man’s body. The man yet lived.

“Merlin,” he murmured.

He pointed his wand to the man again.

You’ve got to mean it.

He’d done this before, a dozen times, but only to kill insects or to pretend to kill Isolda’s monster in the closet, never to a human.

You’ve got to be calm. I don’t care if you’re in the middle of a five-way duel, find that moment of silence in your head.

He reminded himself that this—this was worth it. For Isolda. For the Averys name. Or, if not, to end the man’s suffering.

Aim, draw on your willingness to kill, and be swift. Like snapping your fingers.

“Avada Kedavra.”

A flash of green, and then, the end.

He put on his suit jacket and cast an illusion over himself. Money changed hands, from a quivering grip to a hesitant palm, and Amadeus apparated back home. All of the lights were off, and he stumbled down the hallway, noisily, but only one elf appeared. She asked what he needed, but he didn’t reply, so she followed him as he opened the door to his room, crossed the bed, pushed forward the bathroom’s door, planted his hands on the sides of the sink, looked at himself in the mirror, and saw, as reality closed down on him like a strangling noose, the wretched face of a murderer and the wide, panicked eyes of a teenager yet to be of age.

He threw up. For a while.

“Milsy,” he called after his stomach stopped churning, throat still burning from the acid and nose thick with the scent of vomit.

“Yes, Master?”

“Get me some warm milk.”

“With three spoons of honey, Master?”

“Yeah.”

The house elf went away.

Now facing his reflection alone, Amadeus glared at himself, as if disgusted with his inability to contain the appearance of shock, and he said, “It was a good kill.”

Then, again, with more bravo, “It was a good kill. Your first one too.” He paused. “You need to learn that sooner or later, so it doesn’t matter either way. Father did it when he was eighteen. Mother when she was twenty. Everyone does it.” Not to mention it was a befitting punishment for taking away Isolda for thirty six hours.

And so he kept on going, muttering to himself, repeating what he’d said, making it a mantra, making it his truth, a truth that he, perhaps, could live with.

OTHERS & EXTRA (OPTIONAL)

FC: Keith Powers!

Extra Content!

Disclaimer: I’m 100% down to change some details of what I wrote below, since a lot of them involve my cursory interpretation of the rest of the characters. Also, I try to explore his relationship with Seneca as much as possible, but I don’t want to delve too deep until I talk to Seneca’s writer & discuss some details.

BIOGRAPHY (Intro, Hogwarts, Tom Riddle): An imaginary piece of writing by Amadeus, briefly exploring his past and his years at Hogwarts. Note that this represents his perception of the world around him and does not necessarily reflect reality, especially when he boasts about his accomplishments. This is how he wants people to remember him.

LETTERS I WILL NOT SEND, WORDS I WILL NEVER SAY: Short, non-chronological pieces that Amadeus “writes” (the exact mechanics are explained in PERSONALITY section) and burns as an outlet for his emotions for Seneca. Amadeus only pens these when he’s overwhelmed with feelings, so they may seem excessively sentimental.  

PERSONALITY: Self-explanatory.

HEADCANONS: Things that I can’t fit into other categories. This part may seem really messy because I was jotting down thoughts as I go, so I apologize in advance!

THE DIAGRAM: Because I got lost in Amadeus’ complexity. It’s in a separate photo submission.

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BIOGRAPHY

Introduction

August 15, 1942

As the heir of the Illustrious and Ancient House of Avery, it is traditional that I record the events in my life for future generations to peruse. For this is merely the first draft, I shall save the typical long-winded introduction for later and get started on the story.

My parents are a good match, perhaps the best there has ever been in the Avery line. My mother is Calista Avery, the Averys’ Matriarch, and my father Sivert Solberg, heir to the prominent Solberg line in Norway. They met during the Autumn Ball of Marseilles and was engaged three years later, in 1925. Their marriage was a winter one, brilliant and luxurious with six hundred and eighty two guests from Britain and Norway. Sivert adopted our name as per traditions of marrying a Head of a family, and I was born about two years later in the summer solstice of 1928. I should have had two sisters, but my mother miscarried once, so now it is only me and little Isolda, who is eight years younger than me. She will be attending Beauxbaton three years from now, and we are, naturally, very excited, for our private tutors have affirmed that she has talents in Alchemy. I was jealous of her for a while — Alchemy, after all, is the field of famous wizards such as Nicholas Flamel and Albus Dumbledore. But I later realized that her work would bring her to the shadows, to the edge of the crowd, while I, heir and a genius myself of the Dark Arts, would have the spotlight. I have stopped my unwarranted competition with her since and have fully devoted to train her to be worthy of the Avery name.

But enough about my sister. My name is Amadeus Avery. I have no middle name, for I am in the shadow of no one but myself. The Avery name is powerful, the Avery blood more so, and I plan to be the greatest Avery to have ever lived. I was born June 22, 1928, a day brimming with magic and, coincidentally, also the birthdate of the 5th Head of the Averys. My birth was a hard one, for I was my mother’s first child, twelve hours in total, a sign, apparently, for my stubbornness and determination. I grew up in a household of emotional detachment — not apathy, I must clarify, as I always know that my parents love and want the best for me. Public and private gestures of affection are much frowned upon, and we show our care through indirect means — material goods and gifts, the sharing of secrets and inner thoughts, criticisms and advice (how else could we maintain the image of a perfect family?).

My parents have had rough times — the aftermath of the first miscarriage when I was six, for example. My mother shut herself from my father, and he, frustrated with the isolation, left the country for two weeks, during which he had a tryst with some Ukranian lover. My mother, too, went out more frequently to meet with, I had guessed, her own lover, and sometimes my tutors and I would be the only inhabitants of the house. The Lestranges and the Rowles had had a grand time with the gossip then, I remember. At some point, I’m not sure when, my parents properly talked with each other (thanks to my uncle’s insistent; I have mentioned, of course, that my family does not explicitly express emotions) and the issue was resolved. Their connection and loyalty, strangely, only grew stronger. Perhaps the bad streak in their history motivated them to shine even brighter than before. Isolda’s birth when I was eight smoothed over the last of the scars, though I knew they could never forget their first daughter, Leona Avery.

Up until six I was showered with toys and magical trinkets, with bedtime stories of the founding of the Dark Arts and the beginnings of the Averys in the Fertile Crescent. We are part of the Sacred Twenty Eight, but such title is inconsequential, for the Avery name has, for the better part of the Wizarding World’s history, though not without ups and downs, garnered much reverence from the general populace due to our natural inclination to the Arts of Old Magic, recently defined as the Dark Arts by the more ignorant. My first accidental magic occurred when I was seven months old — hunger had compelled me to call upon all the chocolate cakes reserved for a party later — and after I learned to speak, my paternal granduncle, the former Norwegian Head of Law Enforcement, came down to teach me the basics of manipulating magic. Afterward tutors taught me, only the best in London, among which are a former assistant to Nicholas Flamel, Vice Chief of the Auror Department (my maternal aunt), a descendant of the Gamp family,  and the reigning Champion of European Dueling Tournament (though she only started when I got into Hogwarts).

I mastered the curriculum of Hogwarts’ first year when I was nine, and after that I branch sideways instead of forward (it was later explained that my physical body needed to catch up with my magical prowess; balance and harmony are important in the making of a strong wizard like me). We possess two libraries worth of tomes — one in the current Averys mansion and one in our ancestral home in Babylon (formerly known as the Babylonian Society of Ancient Magic). Books are not my forte, as I learned better with practical demonstration, but they nonetheless are an incredible source of knowledge. I delve into the arts of occlumency, legilimency, necromancy, ritual magic, blood magic, bone magic, runic magic, demonology (rather too obscure and unstable to be feasible, sadly), various branches of hex- and spellcrafting, ancient Egyptian and Roman curses (those people have a fascinating imagination, I must admit), and the lighter sides of magic such as arithmancy and charms. When I entered Hogwarts, I was not a master in any of those fields, but I knew enough to be one of the top students, and my sheer power was often enough to overwhelm my opponents.

Hogwarts

I have been aware of pureblood politics since I could read, but to be thrown into such a large body of students was a nasty surprise. Slytherin, the microcosm of pureblood society, was filled with intricate schemes and power plays between noble houses, a network that I at first found it hard to engage in, for the Averys had never been terribly friendly or popular. We stand above everyone else — because we are, indeed, better than most — and the purebloods, with their fragile egos, often take offense to our supposed arrogance. It is the Lestranges, the Rowles, the Malfoys, the Blacks, among many others, whose voices are heard and frequently recited. I struggled for two years to gain a footing in their network to no avail until I realized that I did not have to do so. I am Amadeus Avery, and I need not their acknowledgement. As soon as I stopped participating in their games, I became respected. They value me because they understand my importance, because they see my influence despite not being the top of their food chain. And so I gained my footing in pureblood society by refusing to acknowledge its presence. My parents were proud, and that Christmas they gifted me a brilliant case of jewelry stones for me to practice my blood curses on.

In school I focus on the Dark Arts, Charms, and Ancient Runes — the rest are unimportant to me, though I maintain respectable grades. I am far too busy with my projects nfor silly creatures or, Merlin forbid, divination. Astronomy is decent, but the subject is impossible to enjoy because the Blacks are so disgustingly vocal about their naming traditions. The teachers are merely satisfactory — none of them seemed to appreciate my talents in Dark Magic. Their responses typically fall into two camps, wariness or jealousy. Horace Slughorn is slightly better than most, as his Slug Club provides immense networking opportunities for like-minded individuals. It is where I developed a friendship with Tom Riddle — rest assured that I shall expand upon this remarkable person later.

I discovered the joy of inter-house rivalry in my second year when I became Beater for Slytherin’s Quidditch Team. Ivon Blaine was particularly entertaining. He’d always been weaker than me in all aspects — save for some lucky instances on the Quidditch field, of course — and I wholeheartedly enjoyed taunting him. He’d always been so easy to rile up, so easy to manipulate, and I, who had recently discovered my sharp tongue, was only too thrilled to test it on him. Gryffindors have always been so embarrassingly brash and physical — it is absolutely nauseating how they publicly display their affections and weaknesses out in the open air, as if they are desperate to be hurt. The duels were mere exercises to me, though they had the side benefit of elevating my reputation. Ivon became predictable as time passed, however, and I stopped enjoying our little games. I had better things to worry about — Grindelwald, for instance, and Tom Riddle’s vision. Though riling up Ivon no longer brought me as much joy as it did before, I am still rather entertained by his reaction whenever I speak to him.

Bishop Vermeer is a Ravenclaw that I respect. I met him during my fourth year while preparing for my OWLs and was impressed with his intelligence, which rivaled mine. He listens more than he speaks, but his interjections are always insightful and helpful to me, and so I come back to him as a friend, always, for his ears. We work on projects too, mine more often than his. I think he is too smart for his own good — he is never swayed by my honey sweet words, even though he sometimes pretends he does, and I am both disappointed and pleased by that. Had he been more weak-willed, I doubt I would have respected him as much as I am now. It is a shame that he is not more zealous about Riddle’s cause, but when the time comes, I have faith that he will side with us. If not — well, I would not wish to face him, out of respect for our companionship.

Tom Riddle

He was a bit of an underdog, I must admit, and him being quite mum about his origins except when absolutely necessary (at least during his first year at Hogwarts) hinted at his blood status, though now I dare not think about it, for his legilimency skills far outstrip my occlumency. His cause gripped my attention the moment he mentioned it in the Slytherin common room, and I remember being vocally supportive of it, for, with the current politics surrounding Grindelwald, I recognized immediately that his ideas would bring us far. Tom Riddle is a revolutionary who will usher in an era of greatness, of pureblood culture and appreciation for real magic, not the childish stuff that Hogwarts teaches. I intend to be at the forefront of this movement alongside Riddle. I will make a name for myself.

You may wonder why I am not the leader. First of all, I have no wish to make an enemy of Riddle — we may match in dueling prowess, but he is, I am reluctant to admit, hard to outwit. Furthermore, he has a better hold on the purebloods than I do — as I have said before, the Avery name is respectable, not popular. Riddle has a way with words that is gently persuasive and malleable. He knows how to push buttons. Let him lead the movement and I be his loyal soldier. The position is prestigious enough that I can contend with not being the top. His ego and mine sometimes clash, but I try to keep to his good side more often than not. We share details of our projects, though he tends to work alone rather than in a group, and he absolutely detests me offering help.

I suppose I shall mark this as the temporary end of this biography. I intend to update this as frequently as possible.

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LETTERS I WILL NOT SEND,

WORDS I WILL NEVER SAY

My grandmother, a famous jewelry collector in her nineties, gave my father a ring of blue zircon, who, in turn, passed it down to me. It sat in a drawer back in my room, only to be worn during Christmas balls. The ring was thick and ostentatiously ornamental, heavy on my middle finger every time I wore it, and I complained all the time until I was five and learnt the art of formal presentation. The ring is a sign of power and a reminder that my parents are of two famous lines, and it often sat next to the Avery heirloom ring on my index finger, glinting, mesmerizingly blue, always distracting me when light shines at the right angle. Tonight, when I saw you, when I looked into your eyes, I thought of my ring, and I wished, for but a brief millisecond, that we were better, that I was better, so that I might, perhaps, be brave enough to —

[ … ]

I did not see you today, but I was frightened for you, for us. Charms class ended early, so I was traversing the hallway, sketching in my head a new design of some anti-apparition wards, when thoughts of you filled my mind. I remembered our kiss yesterday even though I tried not to — at least, not until I was safe in my dorm. I couldn’t help smiling. Then, Tom Riddle rounded the corner, and I froze. My heart dropped, my mind emptied, and I willed my face to express something close to pleasant surprise. You cannot imagine how fearful I was. It isn’t close to my fright for Isolda when she was kidnapped, but it is certainly high up the list. Had he been searching in my mind, we would have been discovered, and the fallout, though may seem inconsequential at first, could only be catastrophic to me. Everything would have been ruined, and the choices I would have to make were unimaginable. But he wasn’t searching, thank Merlin, and I would have known if he was. I am entertaining the thought of avoiding you for a while until I could calm down. I know I may hurt you, but you must understand that I have to control myself, I have to set boundaries, or else I —

[ … ]

You were worried today, and I am not sure why. Had you been anyone else, I would have attempted to persuade an answer out of you, but strangely I complied with your request not to pry. You have no idea how much control you have over me, and I am frightened. I cannot see our future, though I must admit that I always strived not to think about our future; there are too many complications there that I cannot resolve, and I cannot bear the thought of you absent from my life, much as I loathe to admit such weakness in myself. I want to enjoy the present and only the present. Sometimes, you are the only outlet for my emotions. Sometimes, we are strangers. Sometimes, you scare me to death with your glances and your smiles and your kisses. I have thought about breaking things cleanly between us, because the stakes are becoming higher and higher, and yet I never manage to do so, because to break cleanly is to admit that there is something to break, and because I simply —  

[ … ]

Sometimes I believe my parents are clay figurines carved with human features and charmed to be alive. Their expressions are stiff, their emotions strained, and they always seem most at ease with blank countenances and frigid glances, with careless words and calculated touches. I remember vividly that they barely touched Isolda when she was returned to us, a mess of a child, eyes red and dress muddied. My mother touched her hair, and I could not tell if she was too frightened to do more or if she simply detested public displays of affections so much that she would ignore her own child’s trauma. I was the one who scooped Isolda up in my arms and soothed her cries. I tried my best anyway. No one has ever done such things to me. You may wonder why I am telling this story, and here is why: I noticed that you were distraught today. You were hurt, and I hurt for you, but I could do nothing to alleviate whatever burden you were shouldering. I was too busy struggling with my confusion toward you. I do not know what to do. I do not know what we are. I asked myself how I could grow to care for you when I was not built for such emotions, how I could be in —

[ … ]

For a moment I feared that our secret was exposed, but we both performed well the role of casual acquaintances in class today, don’t you think? I am relieved that despite certain progress in our … companionship, we are still capable of maintaining a facade of normality in front of the masses. Tom Riddle, I think, suspects I am hiding something, but he cares far too much for his pet project to figure out. He’s never been too invested in our personal lives. If worse comes to worst, I could still tell him about my projects on developing possible resistance to the Killing Curse and mass-producing Inferi through a variant of a demonic rune design, neither of which, unfortunately, are straightforward enough for practical use, but they certainly will satisfy his curiosity. On a side note, I wish so fervently that I could buy you a better gift for your birthday, but alas, I could only lie about my expenses for so much, and the size of your gift could not be too large. My wish manifested in my dream three nights ago. In it we were happy, had been for months, and I, on that brilliant winter day, like a bloody muggle, horrifyingly, was on my knees —  

————————————

PERSONALITY:

Amadeus is …

Arrogant: He believes himself to be better than everyone else due to his magical might and his bloodline tracing back to the beginning of civilization.

His arrogance doesn’t quite manifest in speech (like, say, Draco Malfoy) but in his body language, his stance, the way he looks at people, the inflections of his tone. Taken alone, his words may seem casual and respectful, but coming from him they could be the worst insults.

He doesn’t care that people are weaker because of their circumstances. He cares that people are weaker than him, period.

Hypocritical: He criticizes the actions and personalities of other people but does not admit to himself that he sometimes shares those characteristics and does similar things.

For example: He thinks displays of affection are a weakness, yet he treasures his moments with Seneca and loves Isolda. He claims that he doesn’t care about Venus’ (or Odette’s) popularity, but he is actually jealous that they, along with the Lestranges and Rowles, have the ability to influence a crowd. He preaches that you reap what you sow, but when confronted with the consequences of his actions, he will never admit his faults. He believes Olive Hornby ridiculous for being contradictory in her actions (a guilt-ridden bully), but he is a creature of dichotomy also.

Judgemental: The number of people he respects or gets along with is small due to his tendency to either be critical of their differences (compared to him) or be jealous of what they have that he doesn’t.

Obstinate & Ambitious: Once he has a goal, he will never budge from it — for instance, nothing can shake him from his desire to be the best Avery there ever has been. It is difficult to change his mind about anything, including first impressions of people and ideologies.

Cruel: He is cruel not because he wishes to hurt (unless under certain circumstances) but because he is naturally unsympathetic to most.

But he is also …

Passionate: Though he is raised and tries to be otherwise, Amadeus is a passion-driven individual.

He loves magic and the Dark Arts, loves its instability and its potential for good and bad, and he delves into research with a furious fervor, never stopping, always wanting to have more, know more, always wishing to break the limits and go beyond what is known.

His jealousy comes easily. Amadeus grows up thinking he has the world in his palm, so he’s jealous of anyone who seems to be better than he.

He absolutely adores Isolda, at least once he gets over his jealousy, and he showers her with love and affection to a level that would be frowned upon by his parents had they known. He thinks she is too soft to be an Avery — she was born to be compassionate, and the rigidity of his parents hurts her, so he will lessen that pain for her in any way possible.

As an unintentional consequence of his love for Isolda, he also comes to like her pet hippogriff (a species of smaller size, fitting to live in a mansion) despite his vocal denouncement of anything creature-related.

He has deep affections for Seneca Montague — love, perhaps, though he’d never admit it — and despite his best efforts to contain these feelings, they are too much to keep inside, always threatening to spill out, and he has to compartmentalize his feelings, sometimes unsuccessfully.

Clever: He has a different brand of intelligence, but his mind, full of knowledge, always proves to be useful.

He may not be the best strategist, but he can process information incredibly fast and skip to a conclusion in lightning-speed. He works best under pressure and during duels.

He has an instinctive grasp on spellcrafting and runic magic, though he tends to lean toward the latter. He’s like a genius computer programmer or an engineer. He knows the pieces and he knows how to put them together; when they don’t work, he could easily tweak a bit here and fix a bit there to craft better rune diagrams for long-term curses and charms.

He cannot, for the life of him, read theories, but after a single demonstration, he can understand even the most complex alchemical concept

He figures out a way to compartmentalize his feelings for Seneca so he will not have to acknowledge them:

In the moments he shares with Seneca, he will not think of the repercussions. When he is not with Seneca, he will try to put him out of mind.

Sometimes when he feels too much, he would put his feelings on paper — using a quill charmed to inscribe his thoughts — and then he’d burn it. The reasoning is that if he makes it physical and then destroys it, whatever that is bothering him would stop existing. He doesn’t read these paragraphs, nor does he physically write them, so it’s easier for him to deny his feelings.

A downside to this compartmentalizing method is that his mood can swing widely from hour to hour, and often he wonders if it would someday break him. It works for now, so he doesn’t care much.

He is proud of …

His dueling skills: He has lost to no one except Tom Riddle and occasionally some members of the Harbingers & Liberation.

His runic diagrams: They are his own creations, and he is proud and thrilled to see them in action, no matter how destructive they could be.

His knowledge: He is well-versed in the rules of Wizarding economy and pureblood politics, and he was taught to keep up the prominence of the Avery name. Magically, his knowledge is shallow but extensive, and he frequently reads (or tries to read) to gain more information.

The murder of Isolda’s kidnapper: He tortured her kidnapper before finally killing him. It was his first kill and first usage of the Killing Curse on a human at the age of fifteen. Deep down, he’s horrified at his actions, but he successfully convinces himself to be proud because he could never admit that he feels guilty — a feeling that does not exist in the Avery household.

And he hates …

Nothing, which is what he would’ve said to himself, but in reality:

The isolation of the Averys: He envies those who can participate in pureblood politics and loathes that he is often pushed to the sides. He may pretend that he doesn’t need them, that the Averys doesn’t need to be a participant, but he is, nonetheless, lonely, because he doesn’t belong properly in any community.

The rigidity of his parents: He thinks his parents are too stringent with their emotions and believes Isolda is harmed because of that. Subconsciously, he blames his parents for his cruel nature and doesn’t want Isolda to live through his loveless childhood.

A subject that belongs in neither categories is his relationship with Seneca, which he loves and hates at the same time. He likes Seneca beyond the boundaries of friendship, but he hates defining what they are. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he’s aware that he’s making a mistake, perhaps the best mistake in his life, and he’s waiting for the inescapable fallout.

HEADCANONS

What’s his attitude toward muggles?

He believes in all of the stereotypes: they are dirty, primitive, stupid, and ignorant of the true beauty of magic.

He’s actually really into classical music (once he finds out about it through William Brown, unintentionally) but he wasn’t aware that most of the composers are muggles

What does he do in his free time?

Runic projects; finance planning/investment with his father; whatever Riddle wants him to do at that time;

His relationship with Ogden:

Good relationship until the end of 6th year when Ogden approaches Amadeus about an apprenticeship in Ancient Runes. Anyone would’ve been ecstatic, as it’s a rare occasion that a sixth year would be offered such opportunity, but Amadeus was angry. He couldn’t believe Ogden would offer him such a lowly career option, and he has a sneaking suspicion that Ogden wants to supervise his work more closely to prevent him from “falling” to the darker (and purer, in his opinion) forms of magic. Their relationship has been tentative since then.

His runic experimental room arguably shows more aspects of him than his dorm, which is often under the scrutiny of his dorm mates

Amadeus stopped bullying Ivon in the aftermath of Isolda’s kidnap. The taste of real violence and death has dulled the entertaining value of sharp words and silly duels. Amadeus turns his focus to bigger targets: necromancy, darker runes, deeper & more ruthless manipulations using money that will keep him in power. He’s also more focused on Riddle’s cause, and his runes projects also take up more of his times.

Wisdom and Power, to Amadeus, go so hand-in-hand that he’s never thought that it is more Ravenclaw than Slytherin. A trait he shares with Gryffindor is how passionate he can be, though no one really knows this except Bishop & Seneca. People do know that he hates easily though.

Motto for anything too sentimental is: React first, break down later

He was taught that “Power amazes, but money drives the world.” Despite this, he’s more attracted to raw power than wealth.

Doesn’t do well with criticism, especially from people he doesn’t care about.

Will initiate duels when called for.

He can convince himself to believe in false things.

Physical marking:

A horizontal scar on the side of his neck: A kitchen house-elf once went insane and injured him as a kid with a knife; said house-elf was killed but the knife was cursed so the scar doesn’t go away. Amadeus always illusioned it or wear clothes with collars.

Amadeus doesn’t quite remember this, but the incident is one of the few times that both of his parents touch him — keeping the wound close, healing, using salve, but he was too out of it to recall properly. He was seven.

Doesn’t have a fear of knives, but if someone is to lay the blade of one on his skin, that will kick in his fight-or-flight response and (depending on the situation) he will react.

Fashion:

He’s big on fashion

Style: Expensive, trendy but not gaudy, wear accessories to show off wealth (cufflinks, rings, modified ties, shoes, etc.)

Boggart:

Its form varies; but the two forms he’s faced is the burning of the Averys mansion (signifying the end of the line, which would be his fault) and the body of Isolda (recalling the kidnap incident).

Wand: spruce wood, 12-inch, dragon heartstring core

His spells are powerful and flamboyant, often attracting the attention of other people.

Amadeus has a sweet tooth.

He also cannot hold his liquor. He’s a touchy drunk.

He produced a Patronus once, during his fifth year, a hippogriff, unsurprisingly, but he hasn’t tried again since he killed Isolda’s kidnapper, telling himself it is unnecessary while actually thinking that he can’t do light magic now that he’s killed a wizard.

House Elf Treatment:

The Averys aren’t cruel but they do think that the elves are beneath their notice. The Averys, powerful as they are, does know that house-elf betrayals can be destructive, so they strive to inspire loyalty

He’s got no sense of self-preservation:

Because he thinks he’s invincible. Also he gets excited when faced with a challenge.

Likes to write but dislikes reading:

He actually doesn’t hate reading. He just has a very specific taste for a writing style & anything that doesn’t fit the bill makes him bored. He especially hates translations because they’re so dry.

He’s bad at defense magic - he likes to be on the offense & doesn’t guard himself much

The three P’s of Amadeus: Proud, Powerful, Private

He loves to low-key taunt people he dislikes, especially back when he was still harassing Ivon, and he lets his tongue lose when he’s angry. He also speaks his mind when he’s in the company of people he trusts.

He’s very ignorant when it comes to his emotions. This is by choice, not because he’s dense.

He (lowkey) admires Dumbledore because of how powerful the man is, and he secretly wishes that they are on better terms. Their ideologies, unfortunately, create a barrier between them.

To him, wisdom is …

Tom Riddle: knowing how to play the field, how to manipulate, how to be in the spotlight and claim it for yourself

Knowing everything - hence his attempt to branch out laterally

Naively, he also thinks being wise means never makes a mistake

Amadeus is verbose in writing but succinct in speech, touch-starved yet would never initiate body contact:

The Averys household is emotionally distant but not apathetic. Amadeus grows up understanding that display of affection is a bad thing, but sometimes he mistakes this with emotions are bad. His parents’ love for him is measured with material goods—their meanings, their quantities, their qualities—though of course, their meanings are exceedingly easy to misinterpret. Writing is an outlet of emotions in the Averys household—letters to their parents when they are abroad & when Amadeus is in school, notes delivered by house-elves (their mansion is very big)—thus, Amadeus shows himself more in writing, though it always seems to be otherwise. He masks his sentiments with pureblood politeness on paper, and only those close to him (his family) could read between the lines and understand.

He was taught the concept of formal presentation when he was six and learned how to check his speech. He became more succinct and direct or persuasive and round-about when needed.

Half of the time what he says isn’t really what he thinks/feels, but he has a habit of convincing himself that what he says is always the truth, so it becomes a falsehood in him that he never notices, and from this born his hypocrisy.

The Averys household frowns upon body contact except when absolutely necessary, and so Amadeus grows up, without noticing, touch-starved. He’s hyper-aware of the distance he puts between him and other people and the casual touches he received. He, therefore, treasures his moments with Seneca, but also are scared of them, of the body contact, of physical displays of affection that he knows nothing about. He’s always hesitant, testing the boundaries, reading the signs (sometimes over-analyzing them), always so scared that he’ll fuck up somehow.

His Runes Experiment Room:

Same wing that houses the Ancient Runes classrooms.

Approximately U-shaped

Left room is for the actual experiment, connected by a hallway to a sort of “office” on the right where all the theories/writings occurred.

Office:

Big blackboard filled with maths & diagrams

Big wooden desks filled with papers, very messy, on top of which sat …

Letters sent by Isolda

A pot of talking cactus, sent by Isolda

Lots of candy boxes ordered from Hogsmeade or sent by his mother

Two bookshelves overfilled with books; papers; chalks of different materials; boxes of preserved animal blood; rulers & measurement devices; bowls of different parts of different animals scattered around; a locked metal chest of rarer materials

When there are visitors, he puts everything personal to him in a trunk in the corner of the room

Two sofas for guests

Experimental room:

Kept clean & in pristine condition

Two Parts

A square part of the room in the middle, sectioned off by magic & physical means (eg: salt, powdered thestral fur, etc.):

This is where the floor diagrams occur, for more complex projects. Experiments here are frequently unstable.

The rest: There’s a trunk of gemstones + other objects for blood curses; there’s a long desk lining the wall with tools for carving, burning, melting, writing, and holding on top

He usually levitates the object or holds them by physical means as he carves runes on it

The long table is also used to deconstruct runes done by other people

People who have seen this room: Riddle, Bishop, Seneca, Ogden  

Attitude toward teachers:

Ogden: already mentioned

Dumbledore: professional admiration. Amadeus secretly idolizes him because Dumbledore is too Badass not to, though he thinks Dumbledore is too soft on Muggleborns.

Rakepick: doesn’t like since she likes the Gryffs

Edgecomb: likes her tattoos; on good terms because Isolda will be going to Beauxbatons; tries too hard not to ask her questions about schooling & dorming over there

Dippet: nice man, not useful but it helps that he likes Riddle

Fairbanks: likes her for various reasons. She went to Durmstrang is number one. She’s intense and, to him, she has a real appreciation for the true nature of magic. That she’s a Herbology professor irks him — he wishes she was teaching Dark Arts instead. Imagine the kind of spells she would’ve taught!

Isadora: annoying because of the homework

William Brown: muggle lover, ew

Sylvia: doesn’t care

Astrid: doesn’t like divination because he’s not a seer, but on good terms with Astrid because of her views

Binns: doesn’t care, except when his lessons mentions something related to the Averys

In summary: Amadeus is an ambitious individual who grew up in a distant household. He experiences lots of emotions despite being groomed not to. He is smart about many things except himself. He has the ability to rationalize his feelings but chooses to ignore them. He can exert great control over himself and he chooses his words carefully. He is proud and powerful and knows exactly what he wants — but what he wants may not be what he needs in the end.

Playlist: here

#rp #rpg #roleplay #harry potter rp #literate roleplay #accepted #amadeus

[artemisegeria]

A Formula, A Phrase Remains (6/7)

Title: A Formula, A Phrase Remains (6/7)

Rating: T

Word count: 1393

Warnings: None

Summary: Endgame spoilers. Wanda Maximoff has known so much grief in her life that it moves with her like a second skin. But she is a survivor. Moving on is what she does. So she tries to put the latest tragedy behind her by putting all her focus into Avenging and forming a new family for herself.

Meanwhile, Princess Shuri is gathering her own team to bring back someone who was lost far too soon.

Available from the beginning here.

 A/N: This quick update is brought to you by my renewed anger over Endgame. This chapter is one of the reasons I used the “Shameless Wish Fulfillment” tag. I think we were robbed of a conversation like this in Endgame, so I made it myself, time travel mechanics aside. I wrote this with the assumption that Old Steve did not stick around in the main timeline after giving the shield to Sam.

There is a brief reference to Spider-Man: Far From Home spoilers, but this story is not compliant with the movie and ignores the timeline.

 Wanda sat in Central Park on a warm summer afternoon, as she was wont to do. Golden light flowed through the leafy shade like syrup. She let the peaceful atmosphere and warbling of nearby birds wash over her when her solitude was interrupted by an old man joining her on her bench.

It took her a moment to recognize who it was, but she could feel the familiar mind without using her powers. “I never expected to see you again, Steve.”

“I didn’t expect to come back, but I regret not speaking to you before I left.” He smiled at her, something tentative in the same boyishly charming expression he’d always had. “How are you, Wanda?”

“I am well, as much as can be expected.” It was not a lie, precisely. She had a home. She had those she considered friends and those she considered family. Very few people hated her, at least openly. She had a purpose. It was a good life, far better than most were granted. But she could not escape the holes in her soul that were the deaths of her parents and brother, her lost teammates, and Vision.

“I read the newspaper before I came to meet you. I read about how you and Bucky brought down that group of former SI employees that was trying to fool people into believing they were heroes. Good work.”

“Thank you.” She did smirk a bit at Steve’s obvious pride; she did consider it one of her finest achievements as an Avenger. She and Bucky had worked as a great sleuthing team and discovered the entire network on their own. Untold damage was saved when Wanda and Bucky stopped them before their plan could come to fruition.

A new thought came to her, and she crossed her arms, staring Steve down. “How did you even know to find me here?”

“Oh, a little birdie told me.” Wanda groaned at the old pun. That was one of the great joys of the new team, they had moved onto other teasing insults. Steve immediately turned more serious. “I’m glad you’re alright.”

“You too.” She was glad to see her old friend, even though she could feel resentment bubbling up within her. “Where are you going next?”

“I don’t know myself. I was more worried about finding you now that I built up the courage to face you.”

Wanda bit her lip. She never expected to be able to ask Steve about this. With Tony and Natasha gone, there was no one she felt she could talk to. She could interact with Bruce and Rhodey, but she couldn’t face them with this. Besides, it was all over, but Steve, who had fought almost as hard as she had, was now right here. She just had to ask him. “Why didn’t you even try?” Her voice broke into a sob and he handed her a cloth handkerchief.

Steve looked down at his hands before meeting her stare directly. He clearly knew exactly what she was talking about, judging by the pain in his eyes. “I don’t know what to tell you, Wanda. That’s part of the reason I avoided you after everyone came back. At first, we talked about trying to bring him back, but Bruce was shaken after his fight with the Hulk. Shuri was gone and we thought Tony was dead; he just didn’t think he could do it without them.” He paused at that, clearly lost in the memories of the aftermath of the first fight with Thanos.

Wanda wanted to urge him to continue. Now that the answers were so close, she needed to know. But she waited for him to go on. With a deep breath, he finally pressed on. “Then, we came back to New York. Everything was a mess and we were trying to put out as many fires as we could. When Tony came back a few weeks later, he wanted nothing to do with any of us, except Bruce. Eventually, Tony asked about Vision, and Bruce told him that the body was still in Wakanda. They argued a little bit about trying to bring him back, but Bruce wouldn’t do it. He retreated to his new lab and started working on his Hulk problem.”

Steve paused again. Wanda felt for what they had all suffered, she truly did, but something still didn’t sit right with her. “That explains why you didn’t try to bring him back immediately, but what about the next few years?” Steve looked away from her. She followed his gaze to where he was studying some children who were playing with a frisbee nearby.

“I was a coward. I couldn’t face the constant reminder of all the people we lost. I guess I was relieved when Tony and Bruce didn’t try to revive him. I left the Avengers to Nat and retreated into leading my group sessions. It just seemed more manageable trying to comfort people than trying to put the world back together. I failed, completely and utterly.”

Wanda felt torn between reassuring him that it must have been a difficult time and confirming that he was a terrible friend and a betrayal of his Captain America ideals. So she said nothing. The words stopped in her throat. She had worked so hard to move on over the last year and a half. When she finally accepted that Vision was not coming back ever, she renewed her efforts to move forward. Wanda built new relationships with her friends, did her best to mentor the younger would-be Avengers, and fought to rebuild the world. She did not think she would ever have room in her heart for romantic love again, but she had a rich life. Enduring this conversation revealed how fragile her healing was.

“I’m sorry, Wanda.”

Wanda still struggled to speak. She went through several quick meditation exercises that Stephen had shown while Steve sat silently by her side. After several minutes, she was finally able to get the words out. “I accept your apology for not talking to me, for just leaving to live your own alternate life, but I’m not the one you really owe an apology.”

Steve sighed. “I know.” He pulled out an envelope from his jacket pocket. “It doesn’t do much good now, but I wanted to go some way to make amends. This is a letter I wrote to Vision.” She accepted it with shaking hands.

“I’ll send it on to Shuri.” She considered that this would give her an excuse to travel to Wakanda to see Vision’s memorial. However, her careful façade of recovery was already compromised. She couldn’t think of going to see his grave right now. She had attempted to make her peace with him when she had visited Wakanda soon after she returned. She knew revisiting that wound would only make it bleed anew.

“Thank you.” They fell into a brief, contemplative silence until Steve cleared his throat. “Would it be alright if I stayed for dinner?”

Wanda brought out her most polite smile that Natasha had taught her for dealing with the press. “Of course.” She knew the others would want to see him. She tamped down her lingering negative feelings in the name of harmony.

When they arrived back at the mansion, Bucky hugged Steve and Carol clapped him on the shoulder. Dinner was spent with everyone talking over each other to explain their latest exploits. Bucky teased Steve about missing modern conveniences all those years. Carol compared basic training stories with him. Sam joked that Steve should take Bucky off his hands. Wanda excused herself as soon as she was able. Fortunately, they all let her go without complaint or question.

She spent the rest of the evening wrapped in a blanket in her room, despite the muggy late summer air. She listened to Vision’s favorite soft jazz to drown out the laughter from downstairs. Wanda decided that if she was going to wallow, which she had not allowed herself to do in months, she might as well do it properly. She pulled out a book that Vision had recommended to her from her drawer and enveloped herself in his sweater, one of his few pieces of actual clothing that she had stolen from him during one of their visits.

She let the tears pour down her face.

 A/N2: Ah, catharsis! I don’t hold it against the team for not mentioning Vision. I hold it against the writers who ignored the actions the team likely would have at least attempted based on their attitudes in IW and earlier movies, but damn it, everyone will acknowledge how they failed Vision in my stories.

This also turned a little angstier than I intended, but Wanda is going through a tough time.

Only one chapter left in the first part! I’m excited to move on to the next part of the story.  

#fanfiction #fix-it #endgame fix-it #wanda maximoff

[wheatbeats]

Finished season 8 of Voltron.

There are a lot of things I could say, but if I had to boil down my emotions I’d say I’m just exhausted. There are character writing choices I didn’t enjoy, romances that I didn’t care about, but ultimately I’m just wiped out. A lot of the people I’ve talked to have said the same.

As charming as I found the cast of Voltron, their depth or complexity or character arcs were never why I kept watching. I watched Voltron for the intensity, the stakes and the lightning fast pacing. Voltron was exciting, and only got more exciting as it went along. But eventually, it got to be too much.

These past few seasons have been nonstop action, intensity, screaming and smashing sound effects and aggressive action music utilizing the same dozen synth and drum patches over and over and over and over. The stakes have been shoved so high that I can’t even understand what’s going on anymore, much less care. There’s never a moment to stop and understand and ruminate on what’s happening, and what it means. This season I had to pause almost every episode and ask aloud what the hell just happened, because nothing was making sense anymore. 

The two episodes I found the most engaging in this whole season were right in the middle: “Day Forty-Seven” and “Clear Day”. “Day Forty-Seven” was the first Voltron episode in a long time that I’d felt had changed up its tone and structure- we got to follow 2 characters we didn’t know very well and get to know them, and got to see both some action and some downtime played with a new style of presentation and pacing. It was the breath of fresh air the series needed, and it got me really excited for the series again before it dove headfirst into the confusing magic bullshit that dominated “Knights of Light” parts 1 and 2.

“Clear Day” felt like a return to form, another healthy dose of filler the likes of which Voltron hasn’t seen since its earliest seasons. It was the same formula that made “Space Mall” so enjoyable for me; Paladins pairing off in new combinations and running into funny alien weirdness, put against a darker B-plot that still kept the larger arc of the series running in the background. Filler is something an intensely serialized show like Voltron desperately needs to break up the tension and give the cast some development and breathing room, but the show’s running policy of one filler installment per 13 episodes led to neck-breaking tonal shifts like “The Feud!” and “The Voltron Show!” Voltron needed more episodes like “Clear Day”, and I think it suffered for the lack of them.

But ultimately, Voltron feels too bloated. The sheer crushing scope of the season 7 finale led me to wonder what on earth the series could pull to raise the stakes for the series finale. I remember going into the first fight with Honerva in episode 6 of season 8, “Genesis”, and being intensely worried that they were going to make the final fight last 8 episodes. Instead, they raised the stakes to the point where every timeline and every universe is at stake, a concept so huge that I can’t possibly care. In the end, I don’t understand how quintessence works, I don’t know what it did to Zarkon or Honerva or how, and I don’t know why Allura was able to fuse with the void bug thing, and why that was such a problem until suddenly it wasn’t. I don’t have any clue what happened to Lotor or if his corpse was just sitting in that robot for an entire season, or if it was his ghost who visited Allura during “Clear Day”. I don’t understand why Allura had to die, other than that it was the end of the story and that means you kill off a character, because you won’t have to deal with any narrative fallout afterwards. Kill someone off. Raise those damn stakes even higher. 

Perhaps there are answers to some of these questions hidden in the show, but at this point I don’t care. If a casual watcher like me can go through every minute of a 78 episode show and have this many floating questions about its basic worldbuilding and lore, there’s been a failure of delivery somewhere on the show’s part. If we’d spent a bit less time screaming and fighting and fighting and spouting techno-babble and fighting and screaming, and a bit more time to settle and breathe and make things clear, things would have been different. But for now I just feel exhausted.

Voltron is far from the worst series I’ve seen, and has far from the worst ending. I’ll always appreciate it for being a surprisingly dark, complex, intense western animated action series with an extended serialized storyline and gorgeous animation. But it’s probably not a watching experience I’m going to look to revisit any time soon.

#this isn't all of my thoughts but it's a start #trust me I've got Ship Opinions like everyone else but this is the main thing that was bothering me this season #long post #voltron #vld #voltron season 8 #voltron spoilers #voltron meta

[varun-krishnan]

In Response to Zach

@the-real-tarzan  

What a great post Zach, and I totally see where you are coming from. Hopefully, I can paint the other side of the picture as well.

“Mathematics is the purest of the arts, as well as the most misunderstood…The mathematician’s art [is] asking simple and elegant questions about our imaginary creations, and crafting satisfying and beautiful explanations.” - Paul Lockhart(math professor)

Weird as it is, me and my father connected through the study of mathematics. My dad had a burning passion for math, and he sought to demonstrate to me the elegance and beauty of the subject. I still remember late nights where we stayed up exploring all the wonder that math had to offer. From the ability to predict the future with statistics to the remarkable simplicity of Euler's identity, the cleverness of graphs to the apparent paradoxes in calculus math to us was like a sandbox where you could always keep digging. A mathematician named G. H. Hardy said: “A mathematician, like a painter or a poet, is a maker of patterns.” And I wholeheartedly agree. Just like how a filmmaker is taught certain patterns to study and employ in their films, math is centered on patterns as well(mathematical formulas) just in a different language. And there lies the root of misconception with mathematics: the language. Just like how some people don't understand the beauty in some films, people also don't realize the magnificence of math because they don't understand the language. I have a friend in the music school who loves heavy metal for its technical skill and complex composition. And yet a layman would never realize the musical intricacies that tie a heavy metal piece together, for all they hear is loud noises and shouting. Similarly, the charm of math is only revealed through its language, or else it will seem like a boring mass of symbols seemingly acting randomly.    

My dad not only had a passion for math but he was constantly amazed by the amazing technologic feats around us. If you just stop to think about it, it's downright unbelievable that we can talk to someone halfway around the world or virtualize reality. And as I grew older, I realized that these achievements were all grounded in applying the principles we learn in areas like physics, or chemistry, or math. And furthermore, if you read into these subjects, you start to realize that they are more alike then you think. After all, chemistry is simply the study of the physics of molecules, and biology is simply the study of the relationships of chemicals. On the first day of statistics, our professor told us that statistics is simply a branch of physics. For example the formula for calculating the average of a set of data? It's the same as calculating the center of mass for an object! Like what the hell?!? There's an amazing commonality that all fields share, as Hardy would say a type of pattern, and each field is simply trying to express that pattern through their own unique language. And that, to me, is why not only math, but physics, chemistry, music, cinematography are all fascinating because they all seek to understand, or at least explore, the how and whys of what we call life. Just like there's a stigma over art, I think there's a stigma against the sciences too. Namely, people view those studying it as drones who are suffering now so that they can reap the rewards in the future. And they're not wrong. There are people who study biology just to get the money or status associated with being a doctor. But there are also people who study it because they are fascinated with the elegance of the human body. They are amazed how, like a jazz troupe, all the actors work and play off each other so seamlessly to create a whole that is far greater than its parts. I won't lie, my goal is to become a doctor. And it's a long, grueling process that makes you question if you really want to continue on your seemingly mistaken path. Many people, halfway through, realize that their answer to that question is no, and some simply ignore that question and miserably focus on how incredible life will be when they finally become a doctor. But for me, I love the process. I love all learning about physiology, nutrition, biochemistry, anatomy, etc. that comes with being a premed. And frankly, if I didn't love the process, no matter how great being a doctor would be, I don't think I could motivate myself to do it. Why would I spend 10 or more years of my life miserable? So I guess the point of this response is that you're right there are people who have no love for what they're learning and do it for its security of lucrativeness, and that really is a damn shame. But I would contend that there are many people, including mathematicians, who truly find beauty in their subjects. The elegance of numbers and grids touched the core of my father just like it does many others. And so people who explore these areas wouldn't stop just because there's no money or no safety. I don't think its a byproduct of society but simply just another way to explore life. Instead of using video, or piano notes, a mathematician, or physicist, or doctor seeks to understand the incredible simplicity of complexity of life using their own language. There's a reason we consider the first scientists as early philosophers Plato and Aristotle(Aristotle, after all, was the first to propose what is now the modern atomic theory). Its because science and philosophy are really one of the same. They are hopelessly intertwined, and hence, math and science will always be around no matter its place in society or money associated with it because humans will never stop questioning the wonders of life.

[wang-yeon]

Chewing gum (Park Jimin X reader)

Warning: cursing, sexual themes, smut I guess, raunchy language, mentions of alcohol, slight mention of drugs but not really, fluffy fluff

Summary: y/n has enough piled on her plate being a full time college student and began a virgin is added to the list. In seek to ridden her purity  she attempts to find the right guy. Little does she know that the right guy is more interested in something else rather than her purity.

college is a stressful time for any young adult struggling with their inner bullshit. Each day you are faced with a new face on campus. A new story. Friendships bond over simple conversations that start from  inconsequential talk to a mind bending relationship. Just the simple thought is to send anyone into over drive. The simple crave to have a relationship was enough to impassion or have great value to someone resulting in a great impact in there lives. enough to last a life time.

Out of all the faces in the crowd that including mine, I was the only sad bastard that desired this feeling while everyone else establish it without minding a blink. If only they knew how lucky they truly were to have a lucky someone. It doesn't even have to be someone, anyone. Sometimes we just need anyone. It doesn't matter who it is. Just anyone to remind us what's it like to live in the moment, and feel something before its over completely.

Sure I did have that one person that attempted to pursue these unrealistic goals. His name was Jeon Jungkook , but he often went by the name of Jungcock. I remember that specific moment he tried to be that anyone, making me live in the moment but very poorly.

I had came to the conclusion that it was a brilliant idea to lose my virginity the night me and jungkook had attended a forced religious study brought to you by my ever so 'loving' parents. This making it the perfect setting to fuck, sorry to put it bluntly but these were the thoughts that once surfaced my sick teenage brain. Of course the mood hadn't been set, while I was completely ignoring it jungkook was soaking in the awkwardness.

Many attempts later trying to get jungkook off he finally lets out a cry, which I totally took the wrong way. Thinking it was a cry from pleasure I began jerking him off faster making his face  contort into a painful expression. I evidently got the hint once he busted out into tears. I had planned the night out to the brim but what I didn't imagine was to have a crying jungkook, patting him awkwardly as he poured out his gay fantasies.

Safe to say ever since that night I had reminded a virgin. Which isn't wrong I just didn't want to live this depriving life anymore. yes there was always porn but that never works out for me. see before the porn even started I would already find myself turned on, just like any horny virgin stuck in college.

As soon as I would click on the 'adult entertainment' the plot beings instantly killing my lady boner. it doesn't add up to me, I come on the site for one thing to simple pleasure myself by seeing a 7-10 minute film filled with satisfying moans but instead I'm faced with a full on movie with a real plot as if they are gonna win a Oscar.

I had been convinced that my vagina had been broken. so I hide myself from the world. Surviving from ramen noodles and red bulls I was all set. I was to afraid that the world would perceive me differently because of this. People would often use my virginity to their advantage, seeing my purity as a prize. My only source being able to hide. until my roommate told me other wise. she had brought up how I wasn't being social that being one of the reasons my vagina had magically stopped working. It just gave up.

My vagina wants convinced no one wanted it because it was untouched and pure. Like a flower, if that flower was all fucked up suffering from her dumbass roommate.     

Hours passed as she attempted to revamp my whole being. almost to the point of looking like a stripper. not to insult the strippers out there, I'm sure your definitely doing better off then me. the only reason why I decided to try and go to this party was not because of my new found appearance or because my roommates boyfriend namjoon would be getting the alcohol but because I was simply promised food.

nothing more nothing less.

there wasn't even food.

nothing but alcohol.

My roommate had left me by the time we got through the door leaving me to awkwardly pretend like I'm having an intimate fake conversation on the phone. "whos the lucky guy?" my attention was cut sort as I turned around being faced with a cheeky brunette who I must say had an award winning smile. His face was sure enough to kick start my broken vagina

(I am so sorry, I wrote this at 2am and I am now realizing what the fuck is wrong with me)

"the guy on the phone, or is it a girl. It is the 21st century and all." the overly handsome boy said pointing to my phone.

He must had heard the conversation between me and...well nobody sensing I had no one to talk to besides myself.

"Oh it was nobody." I say waving him off a with a slight smile, one that couldn't compete to his. it was weird that I was feeling such fondness to someone I haven't properly met, but damn was he good to look at.

"Oh well if it was nobody then I guess they wouldn't mind if I introduced myself." I never nodded my head as fast I did  in that moment, I swear I almost broke my neck. I was still in the process of trying to figure out what he wanted to do with me. if only he knew what lied beneath all this stripper exterior. again no disrespect to strippers.

"My name is park jimin, but you can just call me jimin I don't mind. what about you? a beautiful girl like you must have a name."

He had me wrapped around his finger

"Oh my names Y/N, you can call me Y/N noting special I'm sorry." I played off my awkwardness with a quick deprived laugh.

"woah."

"what?" I began to panic searching my face for any minor detail on my face as his small statement worried me.

"Oh nothing, its just I cant believe someone as perfect as you could also share the name of a goddess." Jimin held a sweet exterior and I wanted nothing more than to see what he could actually be capable of when he gets the upper hand. it took everything in me to not rip his clothes off.

a small tug on my dress brought me out of my 'I need to fuck jimin' phase, as I turned around a complete bored expression painted my face. my roommate had come in at the most imperfect time. she had been the one to come up with the idea to get my broken vagina back in the works. I haven't even seen her this entire party and she pops up now. this must mean that I wasn't meant to have sex with jimin.

ha lets be honest I'm still gonna have sex with jimin.

but before I could take any sort of action my oh so lovely roommate decided to tug me off with her to a beer pong table. Jimin still sported his loving smile while I was being tugged away but soon deflated as I grew further away. well looks like I lost the only chance of sex tonight. I was placed at the head of the table, the horizon filled with seas of solo red cups with what I assumed were filled with beer.a happy roommate by my side wishing I could share the same expression but remained the unamused expression. That was until I found out who we were playing against.

"Hey jimin get over here, I cant lose to my girlfriend and her roommate." my head immediately shot up at namjoons mention of jimin. my head fully coming up from its previous stances as I face jimin.

He flashes me a smirk and bites his lips as he made eye contact with me. I noticed that he had gained more confidence due to his kill worthy actions and as I look over at the cups in my view and cant help but eagerly wonder how much more confidence jimin can gain by the simple sip of a cup. or two. the couple of rounds were spent by many laughs and the splashes of the ball hitting the intoxicating beer. as the rounds went on we saw the game as nothing but a blur enjoining each others company.

namjoon and roommate had been all over each other while me and jimin oh so subtlety flirted and shared affectionate glances. these actions were enough to send me into over drive.

I began to completely forget about the game as the sound of the ball hitting the rim clinked in my ears every chance I got. jimin retrieved the ball before sparing me a glance.

"This shot goes out to my lucky lady!" Jimin said clearly intoxicated but so was everyone at that party including myself. he still managed to make my heart swell even in his drunken oblivion.

"Go ahead kiss the ball baby, your my little good luck charm." jimin said shoving the ball in my face.

This situation already was weird by his choice of words but grew weirder as he shoved the ball in my face. none of the less I kissed the ball still remaining eye contact with him which he found oddly sexy.

"Maybe one on the lips for extra good luck." Oh park jimin was gonna be the death of me. I had to be a complete idiot to deny this. I placed my arms around his neck as he placed his around my waist. our lips were centimenairs apart, thesecual tensions driving us to close the gap.

"Hey don't give him all of your luck, we don't want them to win!" my roommate said as she proceeded to pull me and jimin apart. we both let out a loud sigh going back in our previous position. remind me to get a new roommate. eventfully jimin made the cup earning a satisfying splashing victory fill his teams ears.

I quickly reached for the cup noticing it being different from the cups, it being marked as 'the krusty krab secret formula'. Of course I drank it but as everyones face twisted into a scared expression I went quiet.

"Woah, whats wrong with you guys?"

"Joon, she took the special one...The dru-"

"I fucking know, cant you see me freaking out. maybe she'll be okay."

"WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN SHELL BE OKAY?! She just took a few grams of-"

"Lets go to the pool!"

Those had to be the most awkward moments for me. I stood there silently observing as namjoon and roommate attempted to have a quiet conversation about something I couldn't catch on to. I could tell jimin was just as confused as I was, but couldn't really focus on anything as I began to see pretty shapes and colors I could distinguish.

I somehow managed to make my way to the pool, in a very unstable fashion do to the liquids in my system. Everyone in the pool had took the liberty to swim in their underwear, so I followed along.

I felt a small tap on my shoulders turning around being faced with a the shit eating smirk that was painted on his face ever since the alcohol began lurking in his system. this was certainly a good thing as it was directing us to have a more direct conversation rather than sober.

"I thought I lost you for a second, couldn't lose someone as beautiful as you." To jimin he may have been saying the most simplest of things to me it was as if he was reciting a poem deep from his heart. For all I know he probably says this to countless amount of girls, what made me so special?

I quickly covered it up with a laugh and splashing water in his face which wasn't the best idea. The water had gotten trapped in his hair causing the once straight hair to become wet and stick to his forehead. Making him grow hotter.

Jimin responded by grabbing me by the waist and placing me on his shoulder, letting a yelp fall from my mouth.

"Jimin let me down." I protested but secretly knew that I didn't want him to let go. "Alright." Jimin obliged as he let go of me, a loud splash filled the atmosphere as both our bodies fell underneath the pools surface. I closed my eyes attempting to reach the surface of the pool before feeling a body collide with mine. I quickly came up to the surface with a dazed expression as my arms were locked around jimins neck and his on my waist.

It was sure enough to shock the both of us being in that position but was it a bad thing. "Look at that, I think I saved your life."

"I think you deserve an award due to such braver." I knew that my comment was risky but my actions were enough to diagnose me as borderline crazy. I had managed to easily wrap my legs around jimins waist bringing us at a closer proximity.

"Oh? I was hopping for just a kiss." Of course he was. Jimin didn't want me. He was far better then any of the guys I had ever thought of losing my virginity to. I took my legs off from around him. Looks like I was shit out of luck.

"I mean it certainly isn't a bad thing. I'm sure every part of you looks good...taste good." Jimin said seductively licking his lips as he brought my legs back around his waist. My cheeks began to flame a crimson color at his statement.

"Is this what you say to all of your girls?"

"I'm flattered that you think I have girls lined up but when will you notice it's only you. Your so beautiful. Every aspect of you. Your personality. Your beautiful body. Your perfect baby." Jimin finished his heartfelt sentence with a firm squeeze on my ass making it the icing on the cake.

I carefully brought my lips to his needing the feel of our lips together. The kiss started off slow almost as afraid it would end at any moment but as it progressed we began to become intoxicated by he kiss. The alcohol already consuming our system has added to the ecstasy flowing through as intensifying the feeling. Jimin backed slowly to the pool wall his hands beginning to wander to my core. My stomach tightened at his gesture letting a low moan fall from my lips. Encouraging his confidence.

"I wanna feel you baby, is that okay?" I nodded eagerly as his hands guided his way to my heat. His hands began to circle around my clit as he began kissing my neck leaving his love bites. Truth be told was I never had an orgasm, well no guy had ever gave me an organism. It was usually always my sex deprived self left alone to take care of my business making this a completely different experience. It had gotten so intense to the point that I couldn't control my moans. Jimin attempted to silence them with his lips only making me crave the moment even more. 

He began to tease my opening, the euphoria coming in contact with my body once again. I couldn't take it anymore the feeling of the euphoria running through my body sending it into overdrive. I quickly grabbed jimins hands signaling him to stop. After all the setting we were in was a pool. Surrounded by people. Clearly Jimin couldn't help it. Somehow he did manage to extract his hands from my heat.

"Sorry, you were just so wet I couldn't help myself." It's like he wanted to take me right then and there which I would have obliged to but due to the scene sadly the circumstances couldn't have been the same.

"Jimin, it's like your trying to kill me!" I said hitting Jimin lightly on the arm embarrassed by his abrupt statement. Jimin thought nothing of it as he smiled into my neck giggling lightly.

"Don't hide your smile, it makes me insides melt." maybe the alcohol lurking in my system wasn't as good as his. I couldn't stop the flow of words leaving my mouth. each coming out after the next, each word more dirtier than the next. Even though jimin had the chance to swim away from me he didn't, choosing to stay. I had came to the conclusion that he was absoultuly insane, lucky for him I am to. obviously.

"Well I have to say seeing you in such minimal clothing really makes me want me take you here right now." Jimin said going along with conversation but his dirty talk was far better than mine, it also having a greater affect.

"And seeing you in this pool,water all over your body. Oh baby I'm sure you can be wetter than this." By this point I was dripping and ready for my virginity to be gracefully taken by park jimin.

We had managed to stumble up the steps with drunken kisses in  search of the nearest bedroom in need to relieve the tension. Panic began to roll through my body as we entered the room, jimin quickly closing the door pushing me into the wall where he continued to kiss me. His hands soon diverted to the inside of my thighs growing closer to my heat. This simple action caused a loud moan to escape from my lips surprising jimin before a dark expression rolled over his face.

Jimin quickly picked me up placing me on the bed where he got in between my thighs ever so slightly and gently grinding against my core. At an agonizing rate. I wanted more lifting my hips meeting his thrusting making him let a deep groan but silencing it as his lips connected to my neck, me responding constantly to each mark he made.

"Hey can we try something?" I said in a quiet voice, not trusting myself to speak to loud afraid I would let out a loud moan. Jimin nodded his head but still continued his journey on leaving soft purple marks on my neck.  I pushed him back a little before taking my shirt off causing jimins heart to quicken and his eyes to widen.

"Um may...May touch..Your um." I laughed at the new jimin before me. One who was stuttering due to nervousness. It was as if the confidence drained from him as I gided his hands to my clothed boobs. it was cute to see him venerable. His hands remained stiff before he squeezed them slightly making a quiet moan leave my lips.

 This obviously encouraging him he continued his actions before I reached to updo my bra to which he stopped me. "Hey its okay, we don't have to do any drastic."

"Oh, um okay." I took my hand away from my bra straps bringing them to my side.

I had never gone this far with a guy and when I almost had they were never as indering as jimin was. I looked over his features before placing his face in my hands connecting our lips together. I climbed on his lap enjoying the sounds falling from his lips and I'm sure he felt the same as for me. I slowly grinded my hips feeling his member poke my thigh.

I proceeded to take off his shirt feeling over his muscles liking the skin to skin contact.  our tonuges began to battle for dominance, I gided my ran to his member causing me to win the battle.  I quickly reached for his zipper bringing it down before he stopped me.

"Hey calm down, we don't have to go this fast. We don't even have to have sex if you want to?" It cared that he worried about me and my thoughts but in reality I wanted nothing more but to fuck him and finally be ridden rom my virginity. "sorry I'm just really nervous."

"hey its okay like I said we don't have to do anything, I still think your a cool girl." a cool girl? I wanted be so much more than a cool girl, but I didn't protest instead just silently accepting.

"Yeah, we can still hang out, without doing anything major."

"Yeah, I would love to keep on talking to the beautiful girl I met tonight. Well I guess I should take you home." And just like that my virginity dreams were crushed. 

jimin had managed to drive me back to my dorm room with the help of making sure I was in the right state of mind. I invited him into the dorm with open arms as he excepted it insisting he needed to nurse me back to health. aka he wanted to have sex with me. at least I think I sat fidgeting on my bed as jimin retrieved some water for me, and then proceeding to sit on the bed with me crossing his fingers. as we both sat in silence.

filling the air with tension.

"I'm sorry." I say as my lips quivered realizing my idiotic behavior that occurred throughout the night.

"Oh baby you don't need to be sorry, sure the night didn't go as we planned but one thing for sure is that I met a beautiful girl through it."

Their he goes again saying romantic things making my heart swoon. why did he have to be so perfect. to perfect. someone I couldn't get no matter how hard I longed for.

"Oh please, I'm not beautiful. sure with the makeup I look descent but besides that, I look identical to a trashcan." Jimin had a bored expression playing on his face as these words left my mouth not beliving a word that flowed from my mouth.

"Okay you want me to be honest? You remind me of a flower, a flower that is anything but beautiful and worthy, at least that's what people may think. but when you bloom and open up to the people around you that's when your beauty shows. You need to open up to people more instead of opening your legs to get to the source, because that doesn't matter like your personality ."

Sure the beginning of the sentence didn't begin off oh so glamorous but it was the message that he proclaimed that caused his statement to come off sincere. In that moment I realized that I was looking for something when something else had already found me. what I'm trying to say is that I was seeking to lose my virginity something that means a lot to a person, that's all I was focused on.

While jimin was focused on the likeability, he didn't care about my sex appeal just about my heart. That's all he was seeking  for, just someone he could care for. He found me. I was to naïve to realize it. I was lost in my head. He was lost in his heart. He wasn't as lost as I was, I was far beyond lost that I couldn't make sense of it or why it was meant for me but yet I began to be drawn to it all. 

Now as we lay in my bed mindlessly kissing Id like to think after all the tragic events that occurred that somehow he feels the same. So perhaps being connected to someone and not in a sexual  derogatory manor but rather as a close relationship. This being something I had craved all along. The need to need someone, anyone.

Jimins hands carefully holding my waist making me feel like I am as fragile and delicate as a doll. His care makes me feel as if I was his main priority. Its crazy after one night how quick a connection can occur between two people. weather it be a friendship or sexual encounter.

I had thought about what the world thinks of me. My appearance. my personality. My virginity. every aspect of me. I have thought about this for so long that some parts of me have changed to fit the life of others I achieved to once be. I can see now that virginity has nothing to do with these aspects.Just some sorry excuses i used, blocking out the real problem. I longed for a human connection.

His soft snores filled my ears his arms wrapping tighter around me as if he's afraid that ill leave. I had someone who cares about me and shows open affection, and if at least one person can see my true self/ beauty instead of seeing my virginity as a title. then I can have the will power to show my true self and actually open up to the people I care for the most.

A/n I wanted to post this story sometime sooner but turns out a special person was giving birth and I had to go witnesses it and I saw EVERYTHING but I manage to finish the writing while she gave birth. also I'm thinking about a part two

#park jimin x reader #park jimin smut #park jimin imagines #jimin x reader #jimin smut #jimin imagine #bts scenarios #bts jimin #bts jimin x reader #imagines #bts #jimin fanfic #park jimin fanfic

[lainiebeauchemin]

Why I’ll Never Be Over The Mountain Goats (current obsession, prompt choice B)

“This is a song with the same four chords I use most of the time, when I’ve got something on my mind and I don’t want to squander the moment trying to come up with a better way to say what I want to say.”

We all have moments when we just want to be heard, and not be restrained by limits of artistic merit or poetic language. This is one of those moments for me. I’m gonna bust out the same four chords I use most of the time and tell you about something that's been on my mind for about four years, something that, once you get me going, I’ll gladly talk about for hours: the Mountain Goats.

The opening lyrics to the song “You Were Cool”, reproduced above, are sort of a nightmare, if you give a shit about, like, what a song is “supposed” to sound like. They’re sort of sing-spoken in lead singer John Darnielle’s shaky and sometimes grating vocals, and they’re pretty honest with the listener right up front: if you’re looking for something that sounds pretty, this isn’t the song (or band) for you. That’s not to say that the Mountain Goats haven’t proved themselves capable of creating some beautiful sounds -- the hauntingly pretty piano part in “Lakeside View Apartments Suite” and the jovial, damn-it-all-to-hell trumpet wails in “Cry for Judas” come to mind -- but the heart of the Mountain Goats, at least for me, does not beat through their vocals or instrumentals, but rather through their poetry. Every song tells a story, and that story always feels vital, as though the words effortlessly bust through the Darnielle’s heart, brain, and mouth in that order: they arise from some deep necessity in his heart, are refined into words in his brain, and sail through his mouth unhindered by regard to tone or “prettiness”. It’s a formula that’s kept the Mountain Goats’ following small but enduringly loyal throughout their 27 years and 16 studio albums, and one that’s kept me coming back to their music whenever I need to feel rage, sorrow, glee, or just understood.

John Darnielle’s lyrics manage to charm and excite with their originality while landing so precisely that the listener is left wondering why no one's ever thought to use the words that way before. Even “You Were Cool,” whose charm lies in its bluntness and simplicity, upon first listen resonated with parts of me that no other song had ever touched. True to his word, Darnielle comes right out to say exactly what he wants to say:

“People were mean to you. But I always thought you were cool.”

It’s such an earnest sentiment that the authenticity is there in every note. “You Were Cool” is a testament to all survivors of bullying and abuse, but it comes in the form of a personal address so tender and intimate that listening almost feels like eavesdropping. Darnielle, who struggled with abuse and mental illness in his youth, has emerged from the battle of his adolescence bearing the scars. In “You Were Cool,” he’s reaching out to a fellow veteran, but he’s speaking loud enough for everyone who needs to hear it, to hear it: “We held on to hope of better days coming, and when we did, we were right.”

Here are other quotes from the song that have made me a little bit stronger and braver:

“It’s good to be young, but let’s not kid ourselves, it’s better to pass on through those years and come out the other side with our hearts still beating, having stared down demons and come back breathing.”

“You deserved better than you got. Someone’s gotta say it some time, cause it’s true.”

“I hope you love your life now, like I love mine. I hope the painful memories only flex their power over you a little of the time.”

There is so much more to say about John Darnielle: what he went through as a child, how the pain he endured in his youth comes spilling through the songs of his largely autobiographical albums The Sunset Tree and We Shall All Be Healed, how he has come to renounce some of his most beloved work in the spirit of feminism, and how freaking weird he is <3.  Even scratching the surface of the Mountain Goat’s leading man (and solitary constant member in an ever-changing cast of instrumentalists) adds all the more depth and dimension to the stories he tells. But to break down and explore every song’s relationship to its creator would be impossible (or at least a very lengthy endeavor), so I’ll just leave you a list of some of the Mountain Goats’ best and most representative pieces and a little bit about what they mean to me, as well as the links above to give you a taste of the man behind the band.

Best,

Lainie <3

Mountain Goats Essentials

Your Belgian Things (We Shall All Be Healed)  - a tender, melodic funeral hymn for a friend who simply lost control, and the crashing come-down song of a tragic album. In my opinion, the most well-written Goats song of all time.

Color In Your Cheeks (All Hail West Texas) - quite simply, a heartwarming little song about making new friends. 

The Mess Inside (All Hail West Texas) - like “You Were Cool,” this song is heart-rending in its simplicity. It chronicles a couple traveling all over the western hemisphere looking for the love they lost years ago, only to find that it’s gone for good. Their exploits are framed by a wistful refrain: “I wanted you to love me like you used to.”

Damn These Vampires (All Eternals Deck) - for when you’ve reached a point where your life has gone to shit and the toxic people around you keep trying to drain you of what little happiness you have left inside you. This is a song about renouncing those who’ve wronged you and clawing your way back to where you want to be.

Palmcorder Yajna (We Shall All Be Healed) - the second track on an album about opioid addiction, this song captures the manic highs and “aw fuck it” attitude that goeth before the fall.

This Year (The Sunset Tree) - a battle cry for the troubled and the downtrodden everywhere, this song is about maintaining tenacity and grit through the toughest times in life. It’s a teenage Darnielle acknowledging that things are going to get worse before they get better, but god damn it, they will get better, and he is going to make it through this year if it kills him.

Up The Wolves (The Sunset Tree) - this song is for anyone staring into the face of adversity and trying to find the courage to overcome it. I still have no idea what the hell he’s talking about in the refrain of this song,  but I fell like my heart does, you know?

Source Decay (All Hail West Texas) - another of my favorite songs of all time. It masterfully eludes its central conflict by vaguely referencing it but never indulging the reader with the full story, only the fallout. Darnielle’s description of the moment when your heart breaks and the desperate lengths you go to to make sense of the tragedy rings so true that it never fails to make me tear up.

No Children (Tallahassee) - a pessimistic depiction of a marriage gone from broken to downright poisonous in, the style of something like a rousing sea shanty. Great for when you’re mad and hurting and need to scream-sing the phrase “I hope you die” at the top of your lungs.

Tallahassee (Tallahassee) - two tethered souls make their way down to a sleepy neighborhood in Tallahassee, Florida to drink away their sorrows. An album ensues.

Have to Explode (Tallahassee) - a rather sweet and subdued testament to the bond formed by two suffering souls hitting rock bottom together.

Old College Try (Tallahassee) - this song is like a pessimist’s wedding vows set to music: heartfelt, even romantic, but laced with dread for what’s to come. Basically “I can already tell this is doomed for failure, but there’s no one with whom I’d rather walk this path to eventual divorce.”

Amy aka Spent Gladiator 1 (Transcendental Youth) - awesome for when you want to find your inner “tortured soul,” engage in reckless behaviors, and also mourn the death of Amy Winehouse.

Lakeside View Apartments Suite (Transcendental Youth) - this song contains some of the most haunting lines in the entire Mountain Goat’s discography. The eerie sadness and ambiguity of this song are what make it so effective.

The Best Ever Death Metal Band Out of Denton (All Hail West Texas) - tells the story of two troubled teenage boys and their untitled death metal band. What more do you want?

#current obsession

[omega-al]

The Last Rebellion - First hit of Death

Continued from

http://polychromaticat-blog.tumblr.com/post/161783493179/the-last-rebellion-bronx-runs

When the door closed, Meryl set a few small charges on the locks and around the door, assuring no one was coming through that way. 

This tunnel was huge, bigger than I thought it’d be. Old media had always shown tightly packed cars or people sitting near each other in a space less than five feet across. This tunnel had to be twenty feet high. It had four sets of rails running parallel, some crossed over each other and ran off down another smaller tunnel. The old subway system, the B-line according to the yellowed paint on the walls of the tube.

Meryl displayed our path through a shared virtual experience he sent through direct link to me so know one could know our route, and in case we got separated I could still find my way. It was a five kilometer walk with some back and forth crossing because of collapsed tunnels and dead ends. We would pass under, the undercity.

“Do you think we can breath again for a while?” I said nervously.

“I sure as fuck hope so, but we don't have time for anymore, we gotta keep moving.” With that Meryl started off down the tunnel.

There was more light in this tunnel, but the grime that had built up on the covers gave everything and eerie red glow. It was wetter here, there were puddles that were so big and dark you couldn't tell how deep they were. You could step in and go in up to your knee, or maybe fall forever into oblivion. We avoided the water where we could and followed our path. Down in this darkness and quiet I couldn’t avoid my sorrow as it crept back into in my mind. Paris was dead. The woman I loved, is dead.

“Do you think she suffered Meryl?”

“No, I saw the shot, it was fatal, or at least would be quickly.”

“I don’t want to think about her bleeding out, I’m sorry I shouldn’t have brought it up.” Meryl said nothing. “You know, I think she was working for them.” Meryl said nothing. “I mean, maybe it started out that way at least.” Meryl, nodded his head, confirming what I had been purposely blinding myself to. “It was something she said a week ago, something about the rally being a bad idea, she had been so supportive until then, gung-ho even. But she got a weird call late at night and seemed distant and sad the entire next day.” I was unloading now, I had been holding this in since she was shot. “The more I think about it, there were so many signs, things I ignored because I’m so in love with her… was, so in love with her.” Meryl said nothing. “Jeez Meryl, I am pouring my heart out here, ain’t you got any words of encouragement? Or condolences or something?” I had stopped moving and was raising my voice now.

“Would it have helped to tell you I knew she was an informant? Would you have believed me if I told you she would betray you?”

“No probably not, I think Brooklyn tried to tell me a few times, but I always avoided her words, denied Paris could do anything like that, she loved me.” I thought she loved me, she must’ve loved me at the end, she dove in front of the bullet for me, she died to protect me.

“So would it help now to tell you I am sorry the woman who tricked you into loving her, that you let her, you let her put all of us at risk because you loved her?” Meryl sounded angry, actually angry with me. He hasn’t been angry with me since the first days of school before he got all zen and focused.

“I am so sorry Meryl, I really fucked this up for everyone and here I am wallowing in my own sadness” Meryl said nothing. “Meryl I am trying to apologise here, could you at least”

“Shut up Bronx, did you see that?”

“See what?”

“There, in the water up ahead, something just moved.”

I could see the tiny ripples hitting the edges of a small lake about eight feet in front of me.

“Maybe some water just dripped down from the ceiling?” As I said this something long and black moved across the surface for a moment before disappearing beneath the waters again. Meryl put his arm across my chest and pushed me slowly backwards away from the not so still waters. When we stepped away a big black slimey tentacle came shooting out of the water and grabbed Meryl by the leg, he screamed in agony and bits of steam started rising where the tentacle was gripping him. It was burning through his pants and melting his skin, I could smell it cooking. The thing began to drag him towards the pool, so I grabbed my pistol and fired a few rounds into the giant black arm, causing it to lose it’s grip on Meryl. I grabbed him under his arms and dragged him as far away as I could before the thing I had only managed to make angry, spewed out five more black viscous tentacles towards us, I could see a green goo oozing from its suckers and a terrifying maw full of teeth just under the surface where the tentacles met. I avoided the first attempt to grab me and jumping over and rolling past it, when I came up I fired two shots into what I think might have been an eye, it was a white sacklike thing on it’s back that seemed to move and follow me as I jumped and rolled. When the sack exploded and the monster made a noise that can only be described as a pipe organ on fire. I didn’t see the tentacle come up and grab me from behind. It wrapped around my torso and gave me a searing pain that wracked my whole body and paralyzed me from the waist down. That’s when Meryl threw one of his little tech-toys at one of the tentacles that was coming in for my head, it exploded with a force that blew me backwards and blew off the tentacle it had landed on. Dark green blood and guts splashed everywhere, but I was still not free. Another one of his bombs blew near another tentacle but it was less direct and only inflicted minor damage. I fired my guns into the things disgusting fucking head and it still did not die or release me for that matter, and now I could see one of the tentacles had found Meryl and was dragging him towards the gnashing bloody mound where the mouth was. It was desperate, we were going to die and that’s when we heard... “YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAS QWEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEN!”

A gang of low-tech humans with swords swung in from the darkness and attacked the thing, cut it limb from limb, laughing and screaming “YOLO” while throwing fire bombs, and yelling “MUCH WOW!” as battle cries, neither of us understood what the fuck any of this meant, but we were glad to see them. They killed the thing, eviscerated it, the pool had become a bloodbath and smelled like salty pussy.

Picking myself up as best I could, most of the feeling had returned to my legs. I had to overcoming my disgust as I removed the tentacle that was still wrapped around me, then I said boldly, “Oh wow! Thanks so much guys! You sure saved our asses there!”

The gang had been ignoring us and high-fiving before I spoke, then a few laughed and looked towards the big dude who had led the fight with the ‘yas qween’ he was cleaning his sword off on a younger gang members shirt. He didn’t stop or turn to face me. “Who are you people? And what are you doing here?” his voice was deep and gritty.

“My name is Bronx Zingaro, and we, are trying to avoid being caught by the bots.”

“Are you some of the many that have come to join our fight?”

“Umm well, no, but I am sure if you told me what your fight was, I could return the favor of you ending this one, by helping you with yours?” I was really pulling out all the charm here, I knew this gang, I knew who they might be, the MMG. The Mean Meme Gang, known terrorists and killers. They were anti-tech, most I could see didn’t have techports anywhere. Home grown humans by the looks of em, and maybe not grown with freshest material, if you get my drift.

“You fuckers are Omega, you carry your trap with you. She is in your head now.” He was damn near religious in his tone.

“We’re cut off, I made sure of that when we came down here.” Meryl offered in assurance.

“Lies, I will not trust you, but I can’t kill you, and I would very much like to kill you Omegatech scum,” He said turning to face me and sheathing his sword, “but these days you gotta see our leader first before we kill you. So I guess you’re lucky.” There was no attempt to hide his spite.

The gang members were on all sides of us with weapons drawn and we were in no shape to argue, “Ok, take us to your leader.” I said this with a jokey alien voice. Which I immediately learned was a mistake when the leader stuck me with the back of his hand, hard across my face.

“It’s not that easy, boyo, we still don’t trust you. So here’s what’s going to happen.” the gang members shoved a small plastic inhaler into our mouths and pushed down on the button, “Breath deep or we’re gonna have to insert it rectally,” he laughed. “This is Formula N, it’s gonna make you stop thinking about anything outside of yourself, you’re not gonna care what we do to you, you’re not gonna care where we’re going, and depending on what kinda person you are, you’re gonna wanna die, or you’re gonna ask me for more.” It tasted like burning chrome and made me see trails. I could hear him and the gang laughing at us as the world got dark around the edges and the emptiness set in.

“First hit of death is free!”

Then everything went black.

#earth 3077 #antitech drugs #tentacles #monsters #gangs #meme #the last rebellion #Formula N #guns #bombs #nihilism