#IN ANOTHER LIFE HE SEES HIMSELF WITH THEM WRITING HEAVY METAL POETRY!!!!!

[daddy-ul]

It's not that I don't know it, it's my brain that refuse to compute the information

[rebrandedbard]

could I get 49 for the prompts pleaseeee? (:

*weeping* Em, I love you, defending my honour, giving me a way out. You’ve spared me my dignity.

49. “Well this is awkward ...”

WC:  2106

Tidings and Tarradiddles

Jaskier returns to Posada and his path crosses with Geralt’s once more after the unfortunate affair on The Mountain™

-

How was it? Truly, how was it that of all places on the great, wide Continent, Geralt should come to take a contract in Posada, at the farthest of reaches, after months and months of separation, on the one day Jaskier should be in town? And how was it that he’d come the only hour Jaskier had lingered for a drink? It was too great a coincidence, and Jaskier would not give Destiny the credit. She’d not earned the right to claim it. Jaskier scorned her and had stripped her of the right to interfere in any of his further adventures. After all, Geralt had blamed him for her follies—follies which, by rights, Geralt had brought upon himself in the first place.

Even so, he could feel Destiny’s audaciously long and twitchy nose poking about his business the moment Geralt walked through the tavern door. Jaskier huddled in his corner, hoping the shadows were darker than they had been the day he’d found Geralt hunched beneath them. He ought to have known better than to come in the first place. There had been a whole flock of magpies in the middle of the bridge leading into town—a tiding of magpies. Detestable harbinger of tidings, foul and fair. They’d startled at the sight of him and alighted once more on the tavern roof. But he’d ignored their superstitious warning.

Of course the shadows were of no use to him. The moment Geralt stepped inside, Jaskier saw him twitch, cocking an ear his direction. Probably heard the familiar grinding of his teeth: an annoying habit he so often complained of. Jaskier curled up against the wall, trying to make himself smaller to blend in with his surroundings.

For once, it was not so difficult. He’d grown out his hair, had even maintained a healthy bit of scruff on his face in keeping with the stylings of his fellow tavern-goers. He was tired and worn, but above all, he was plain. He no longer wore bright colors, standing out like a beacon in the dark of night. He wore his linen dyed a plain, sensible, muted green. The jerkin on his back was brown and of a practical fit. Altogether, it did not so much scream of sensibility as it mumbled. If he kept his head low enough, he might pass as just another local come in for a pint.

But he was not just another local.

Geralt stopped before his table, standing at Jaskier’s elbow. The click of metal upon the table made Jaskier look up from his drink. It was a coin, spinning round and round. It wobbled and fell on its face, the etching of a worn coat of arms before him.

“Will … will you sing for us, bard?” Geralt asked.

Jaskier stared at the coin. His ears began to fill with cotton, a faint ringing in them. A flash of hot blood coursed through him and he ground his teeth to a halt. He knew this was Geralt’s way of easing into things, working towards something, whether or not an apology was waiting at the end. He knew this was Geralt offering him an out. It was distant. Impersonal. But even in the depths of his rage, Geralt had called him by name. To call him bard and toss a coin to him like some stranger now … it flamed something red and barbaric to life under his skin. He was so deafened by the blood in his ears, he did not hear the approach of the figure standing at Geralt’s side.

“Well, this is awkward,” Jaskier sneered. He picked up the coin, twiddling it between his fingers. Putting up an impassive mask, he juggled the coin over his knuckles in his best impressive manner, as if it were nothing but a worthless toy. “You see,” he said, “I’m not a bard.”

Geralt was quiet a moment. Jaskier could feel his eyes roaming over him. It raised his hackles to know what Geralt must see: the dark circles under his eyes, the lines of age now more pronounced with exhaustion, crow’s feet so defined they might as well have been dug by the claws of vultures. And then, Geralt must have taken notice at last. Gone were the bold silhouettes and blinding colors, gone were the perfumes and oils—but there was one thing more important than all the rest that was missing.

“Your lute,” Geralt said.

There it was. “Gave it up this very afternoon,” Jaskier replied. He slapped the coin down on the table and leaned back, snatching up his half-empty mug. “I travelled a long way to return it home; Filavandrel has it now.”

He took a drink, still avoiding eyes contact. He continued, mumbling over the rim of his mug. “Had a visit. They’re doing better than they were when last we met. I helped them dig rocks from their crop fields for an hour or two. Figured as long as I was shovelling things, I might as well master the art. Use it productively.”

He was being petty. He knew he was, but by the gods, he’d earned it.

When at last he looked up, he did so because he saw a hint of blue beside the table. The potmaid had been wearing a blue dress, and he thought he now saw his escape. He slid his mug to the edge of the table and lifted his head to ask for it to be taken away when he saw a familiar pair of green eyes looking back at him.

“Cirilla?” he asked, surprised. He blinked at the princess, who looked down at the table as his eyes fell upon her. He remembered her as someone taller, regal head held high, smiling, her hair half up in decorative braids and twists. This was not a princess before him, but a girl: her hood casting shadows upon her hollow face. It seemed wrong. She had always been a girl, but a girl with a name. This creature before him stood as a reflection of himself, a thing wishing to hide away, nothing more than a shell.

She glanced up at him, then down once more. Slowly she raised her hand to the table and placed it over the coin. She pushed it towards him with a quiet slide, then dropped her hand once more. “He said you sing wonderful,” she muttered, as if she had not heard him singing in Cintra’s court nearly every midsummer since birth.

Jaskier’s voice stuck in his throat. The memory of a song sat heavy on his tongue. “I … I don’t sing anymore,” he grit out. He turned to look away again, staring at the crack between his bench and the wall. “Can’t sing without music anyway. Might as well be poetry.”

Having no music left him exposed. There was nothing to lift him up, nor anything to hide behind. He could sing among the crowd and raise his voice to join a drinking song, but there was something vulnerable about singing alone. Who sang among bar patrons without some barrier? Even the drunks had their drink to shield them.

He saw Geralt shift out of the corner of his eye. Something new slid across the table, stopping just short of his hand. He looked and saw one of his old notebooks.

“You write good poetry,” Geralt said.

Jaskier scoffed and picked up the notebook. “If there were anything in this worth keeping, I would have remembered to bring it with me when I went down the mountain.” He flipped through the pages, then let the notebook flop back on the table. “You obviously have poor taste,” he huffed.

Without warning, Geralt picked up the notebook and thwacked him on top of his head with the cover.

“Gah! Hey!” Jaskier shouted. He stood up and snatched the book back, smacking Geralt’s arm with it. “What in fuck’s name did you do that for, you brute!”

But he’d looked at Geralt, forgetting to snub him if only a moment. And Geralt plucked the book from his hand with an upward quirk of the lips. “It’s worth keeping,” he said. He handed the book to Ciri, who clutched it tight to her chest in agreement, but still, she looked at Geralt with a stern expression.

“That wasn’t what you were supposed to say,” she scolded.

Geralt’s eyes rolled back and he pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

“Not to me.”

Geralt opened his eyes. He looked at Jaskier, opening his mouth to speak once more. But the look on Jaskier’s face stopped him. Instead, he turned to the door, stalking quickly across the room, words aborted on his tongue.

Jaskier gaped.

“Geralt!” Ciri called. “Where are you going?”

“Just wait here.”

“Geralt!”

“Dinner. I’ll be back in the hour.”

Ciri threw up her hands and dropped onto the opposite bench. She slammed Jaskier’s notebook down on the table and crossed her arms over it. She groaned in frustration, then turned her head to look out at the tavern floor.

“Have you had dinner yet?” she grumbled.

Jaskier looked between her and the door, feeling quite at a loss. “No,” he replied.

“Then you can eat Geralt’s share.” She rummaged in her cloak and pushed a little drawstring bag into his hands. “Here, he left me his purse.”

“And left you from the look of things. Shall I charge him for babysitting?”

“Do. And order another drink.”

Jaskier snorted. “Trying to get me to stay?” He wasn’t so irresponsible as to leave a child alone, even with the threat of Geralt’s return. He didn’t need to be persuaded.

“No. Punishing him for running out; you get his drink into the bargain. Think of it as sending him to bed without supper.”

“I’ll drink to that. It’s the least of the punishments I could inflict.”

They both chuckled mildly at that. A bit of the dense atmosphere lifted and they shared a look. Jaskier cleared his throat and waved for the potmaid. He ordered fare for the two of them, a mug of ale for himself, and a cup of small beer for Ciri. Once they’d both had a bite, they began talking. They traded stories: how Ciri came to Geralt’s care, and what Jaskier had been doing since the separation. Though the conversation was tense, it felt … good … to have a bit of company. He’d been worried since word of the fall of Cintra had reached him. At least Destiny had brought Ciri to Geralt safely. He hoped Destiny would be kind to her where it had failed him.

Jaskier startled when Geralt returned. He’d crept up so silently. Jaskier had been listening to Ciri describe her most recent success in outdoor cooking and hadn’t noticed the movement beside him. Geralt set the lute on the table in front of Jaskier’s empty plate with a sudden thunk, not a word of explanation. He stood there silently, holding the lute upright by its neck.

No one spoke.

Jaskier simply stared at it, felt Geralt stare at him. But this time, he refused to look up. Slowly, Geralt lay the lute down on the table, then slipped away. A minute passed, everything still and quiet. Then, Jaskier peeked out of the corner of his eye and saw Geralt nudge Ciri, nodding his head toward the door.

Ciri looked at Jaskier, her brow anxious and furrowed. She clutched her cup, nearly finished, her plate barren. He could see her mind at work, trying to find an excuse to stay. But she set her cup down obediently. As she turned to stand, she left the notebook behind. Eyes downcast, she slumped to her feet. Geralt held out his hand for her, no longer looking at Jaskier. The moment Geralt’s back was turned, Jaskier felt a cold panic run through him.

“Wait!” he said, fumbling to his feet.

Geralt froze, turning his head back slightly to listen.

But for what? Jaskier reached out, hesitating. He picked up his lute, finding the coin beneath it. The noise made Geralt turn back and Jaskier met his eye. He’d never seen Geralt look so blank, completely unreadable.

Jaskier slung the strap of the lute over his head. He pushed the coin deliberately into his pocket and braced his hands on the strings. When he looked at Geralt again, there was the barest crack in his armour, and hope shined dimly through. Jaskier smiled. It was a timid thing, but he still remembered how it was done.

“You asked for a song,” he said.

-

Send me a drabble prompt!

[vaire-gwir]

I’ve run out of my words

Post-mountain incident, Jaskier is a heart broken mess. The last thing he needs is an unexpected visit from Geralt. 

I have accepted that it’s never going to be the same amount of words as I Find you all Unwoven, cause I re-wrote this three times and it just doesn’t happen.

Again, I was sad, that’s my excuse. English is not my first language, hope it doesn’t terribly suck! 

***

It hurt a great deal when Jaskier sold his lute. He was attached to it for more than just sentimental reasons. Sometimes he felt like his life truly started the day he got that lute.

He was used to pain by now though, pain was just another thing creeping under the surface, it came and went in waves like the ocean, sometimes threatening to overwhelm him with memories and sometimes resting among the broken pieces of his heart, hissing like a snake waiting to strike.

It was always there, he just perceived it in different ways: some days it was like being on the edge of an empty abyss of nothingness, about to fall but never really tipping over, just going through the motion. Other times, there were the long nights when sleep refused to visit him and he'd get this urge under his skin, to move, to do something, anything to not feel trapped in his own flesh, caged by his own mind.

He tried to fight insomnia with the ink, but he proved a terrible fighter. He couldn't write anything anymore. When he tried to play, his fingers seemed to have a mind of their own, and he'd get even the simplest of melody wrong, resulting in endless frustration that kept him up until dawn.

As much as he tried to outrun his ghost, he always ended up running right into it, and if he managed to keep his waking hours relatively Geralt-free, the dreams were always there. His journals paid the price of waking up for the hundredth time, after a nightmare that leaves him choking and incapable to stop the tears from falling down his cheeks.

He thought he'd feel relieved after watching it crackle and burn to ashes, as if destroying the evidence of his time with the Witcher could also destroy the heartache that came with it, but it doesn't work like that. Nothing he ever does stops him from being hollow.

Jaskier walks around the Academy like a shadow, trying to keep himself busy between lessons or at least trying to keep Geralt out of his thoughts. This simple task proved to be more complicated than he anticipated. He doesn't want to be here, he's not made for teaching and his students get on his nerves all the time. To be fair, most things get on his nerves since the mountain incident, but he doesn't have many options.

Sure, he could go home to his family, beg their forgiveness and implore his father to allow him back into court. That sounded as promising as jumping off a bridge.

Compared to that, even the room Madame M. offered him at the brothel looked like a golden palace. At least he had some talent for sex, he managed to convince even a Witcher to sleep with him, that hadn't been easy.

Jaskier stirs his mind in a safer direction, cause thinking about those nights will not do him any good. He still blames and curses himself for coming up with that stupid arrangement, cause why not Geralt, I'm here all the time, and I'm obviously very willing, besides you don't have to pay me, looks like a win-win situation to me. Looks like you're a special kind of idiot, Jaskier, that's what you are. Why did Geralt even accept anyway?

Jaskier blinks the memories away and focuses on trying to have lunch, cause that's what sane, normal people do. He's still struggling with normal though.

His plan flew out of the window when someone started to sing. Jaskier froze in his spot when he recognized the song. He wrote that. He should be pleased to hear it, but it's not pride he feels when he glances in the direction of the curly-haired boy in green velvet.

He will never play or sing another song again, and people will forget him sooner than Geralt did. The folks in this tavern don't know him, they don't know he wrote those lyrics to distract himself the first night Geralt didn't come back from a hunt and he feared for him every second of that dreadful night.

He spent hours cursing the Gods for making him so useless and prayed to them in the same breath, begging for their mercy. He felt stupid later, when Geralt showed up at dawn saying it took him longer than expected to break a curse. Jaskier told the Witcher how scared he had been and Geralt dismissed him as the fool he was.

He's scared of being forgotten, of being meaningless and unimportant. No one is going to remember Jaskier, the bard that traveled the continent with the White Wolf and shared his adventures.

He left Jaskier on top of that mountain, he's just Julian now, just a teacher, just another idiot that got his heart broken. Geralt left him like everyone else. That's what people do, they just leave and move on with their lives. So why couldn't he move on too?

There's a small shift in the air, and while he tries to regain control of his thoughts, for some unknown reason, destiny, the universe, life or the Gods, make him turn his head toward the entrance.

There is no mistaking the white hair he sees, or the dark armour. Jaskier knows he has to leave before Geralt sees him. The sole idea of Geralt being here is enough to leave him shaking.

What are the chances of meeting the Witcher outside Oxenfurt? There were no contracts in town, why was fate trying his best to mess with his life today, was the song not enough? He feels like his head is swimming and he knows he doesn't have time to panic cause his heart beats so loudly he fears Geralt will spot it in a second.

He puts some coins in the maid's hand and stumbles out of the place.  

He can't face him. Not today. Probably not ever, cause he can't imagine he'll ever be ready to face the one that broke his heart without holding any anger or resentment towards him. Why must he feel like this, Geralt never cared for him, so why is he still drowning in his feelings for the idiot?

Jaskier is a poet, he should know a thing or two about heartache. He should also know that he's out of luck today.

"Why did you follow me, Witcher?" Jaskier feels his presence a few paces behind him, still so painfully familiar to him even after all these months.

"How did you know..." There's a puzzled expression on Geralt's face. Jaskier knows he's not prepared for this.

It takes him a second to realize that no matter how angry he is at the Witcher, how deep his sorrow runs and how broken his heart is, a small part of him is almost glad to see him. It's the same small part that decided to talk to a stranger and follow him on a dangerous journey, the one that figured out first that what he was feeling was more than a crush, and that accepted every scrap of affection Geralt showed him like he was being handed the world on a silver plate.

Geralt is exactly how he remembers him, and his betrayer heart jumps in his chest when their eyes meet.

"I saw you at the tavern. I spent so long searching for your face in every crowd I started to think I was seeing things, but apparently I was right this time." I love you, I'd recognize your steps everywhere, the cracking of the leather in your gloves and the click of the metal of that buckle in your armor you always forget to fix after a hunt, I know them as if they were my own. I love you, and you broke my heart. That's what he wants to say, but the words get stuck in his throat, they're no use now.

"I... You were not singing." Jaskier knows it's not surprise he sees on Geralt's face when he answers "I don't do that anymore." but he can't figure out what it is.

It hurt when he realized he couldn't bring himself to sing or play anymore, it left him feeling even emptier than before, cause he always thought he'd have his music to console him, to defend him from the things life was throwing at him, to build a wall around himself and protect whatever was left of him. How wrong he was.

"Why not?" Jaskier wishes he could explain that when they parted on top of the mountain, when he forced himself to say "See you around Geralt" knowing he'll never see him again, when he tried to process those heavy words that rolled off the Witcher's tongue, his love for music, for poetry, for life, rolled off too and hid somewhere he couldn't reach anymore. But Geralt never cared for his music.

"Don't act like you care. I'm not the same person I was ten months ago. Besides, you hate my singing, you can barely stand my voice, what difference does it make to you?" Keeping his tone even and preventing his voice from breaking is hard, harder than any performance he ever had to do. Ten months ago feel like a lifetime away now, it doesn't even seem real. The ache in his chest is always there to remind him that it is.

"That's not true." Jaskier sees how he clenches his hands as if those words meant a great effort for him. The Gods know how many times he looked into Geralt's eyes after singing, desperately seeking his approval and finding only a mild annoyance, like this was just another thing he had to endure.

"It's like ordering a pie and finding it has no filling. There's a word for that, in case you didn't know, and it's called disappointment. Now, why did you follow me out here? I don't think it was to tell me you suddenly like my voice cause we both know you don't and honestly, bit late for that, don't you think?" Jaskier wants to be annoyed, he should be furious for what Geralt did to him, for leaving him like he meant nothing, but these days being mad is a lot of effort. He doesn't have it in him anymore, it's easier to let go of the anger. It doesn't make him feel less empty or less broken anyway.

"I just thought...we could maybe....talk?" Jaskier laughs bitterly.

"Really Geralt? That's rich coming from you. Now you want to talk? You know what, no. No, you don't get to come here and tell me you want to talk after I spent ten gods forsaken months trying to forget you. Don't you fucking dare. Not like this. Now if there's something I can help you with, do say so. If not, spare us both this conversation, I'm not sure I'm in the mood to have my heart broken again." Jaskier is not even sure there is something left to break.

He'll never admit it but deep down he knows there's no forgetting Geralt. And he curses that small part of him that wants to listen to him, to let him talk and explain, cause he knows that he'd go back to traveling with the Witcher right this second if he so much as says he'd take him back. Stupid, stupid Jaskier. A Witcher apologizing, as if.

"I'll leave you to your things then. Goodbye, Jaskier."  Saying goodbye, even knowing that it's for the best, doesn't make it any less painful.

"You were right." Geralt looks at him in a way he has never seen before, for a second he thinks it's hurt that he sees flickering in those golden eyes, but it lasts a second. He should know Geralt doesn't care about him enough to be hurt by something he says or does.

"You spent so much time trying to convince me to leave you alone and stop following you around and I never fucking listened. I realized you were right. Cause you, you got what you wanted, life, destiny, whatever, you had your sorceress and I'm finally off your hands. But what about me? That is why I wish...I wish I would have listened to you. Left. Before it was too late. Before having my heart broken."

His voice breaks at the end, he feels the tears stinging his eyes and he turns to walk away before Geralt notices it. Pain comes in waves, and today he's drowning.

[boogiewrites]

Never Break the Chain Pt. 2

Part 2 of 5

Characters: Javier Peña x OFC

Summary:  Javier and Esme's first time seeing each other in almost twenty years. A photograph leads to an obsessive hunt for the woman he thought was dead. They both find they got where they wanted. But is it what they want now?

Warnings/Tags: Tension. Big reunited kiss. 

Click on my icon then go to my Mobile Masterlist in my bio for my other works and chapters. (Had to do this since Tumblr killed links, sorry.) Please like, comment and reblog if you enjoyed it! It helps out us writers A LOT!

Time passes, as it always has and always will. It stopped for no man, not even Javier. Seeing his first love fade into nothing had left him a different man. Walls came up, barriers were built that his enemies would even be impressed by. She’d done him a favor, snapping him out of the young man’s dream, but he felt he had nothing left but trying to help once she was gone. So he threw himself into his work.

Sure there were other women. He thought he loved some, but would always leave them. He always hurt them and that wasn’t his intention precisely but they would thank him years later. He was what they would refer to in close company as “a dodged bullet”. He’d been called far worse.

He despised his cliche reactions to his trauma sometimes. Drinking, smoking, being a general pain in the ass, renowned and proud asshole was easier. Burying yourself in prostitutes and let them take away the thoughts for a little while was the easiest. He would fantasize he could help them, even save some of them. He surely wasn’t getting his hero complex stroked when it came to his work. He had a soft spot for women, he had learned the hard way the shit deal they’d landed when they were born. He couldn’t do much...but he could try to help. So he did. Loss after loss he kept trying. This was that bit of good Esme had always believed in. He wasn’t sure how much longer he would have it so he made the best of it while he could.

The night before was nothing knew, an old habit at this point for him. He went out and got a woman, he’d pour every bit of good in him into her, convincing himself he still had it. He’d make them feel good, listen to them, things that were in short supply in their lives from men. He could be that good guy exception, if only for a short while. It felt nice to not be looked at with disgust or fear. The slivers of affection kept him going after dark. He’d leave them breathless, moans turning to laughs as they dressed, joking they might not make him pay. But they always took the money. And he offered it with no judgment, pulling his jeans on and halfway through a highball glass as his lean outstretched arm offer up their compensation for making him feel something good and push out the bad thoughts for a short while. He could be making worse decisions.

He rubs his temple, suppressing a groan as he slid his way into the uncomfortable chair at the beaten-up metal table. The chatter of his coworkers all making their way into the room was grating but nothing he couldn’t ignore. Morning debriefing, something he gave a shit about. Well, work was the one thing he gave a shit about right now, hyper-focused on the clock and trying to drown out the obsession off the clock. It was a dynamic that he was still trying to perfect. He downs the hot black coffee in his hand and nods at the secretary just outside the doorway, “Get me another, sugar. No sugar.” he winks and sends her off. She side-eyed him and went on her way, that was just Pena to her, horny but harmless. He cracks his back, a grunt before landing his elbows on the table to focus, the overblown commander coming in with a handful of photos, spreading them on the table as they talked about what they always did, the cartel.

Pena tries to approach everything individually, but there was only so much range these guys had, and not seeing them all as one giant collection of piss ants with assault rifles was something getting harder and harder to do. So as new and old names were said, he watched the board fill out, the line attaching known connections and new ones. There had been a new wave of intel, something Pena and his partner Murphy were used to being the ones doing, but he wouldn’t complain if someone else finally wanted to sack up and their fucking job like they were supposed to.

“So we have our old friends,” a slap of photos to the board. “Then there’s a new round of boys coming in.” he taps the newest addition to the board. “Seems we’re getting inbred with the other families, the jewel smugglers, the miners...seems we’re trying to venture out and expand our already impressive portfolio.” he snorts.

“They can never just be fucking satisfied with their millions.” someone groans and complains.

“It’s a good chance try to take them down too.” Murphy shrugs.

“Eyes on the prize, kiss ass,” Pena says quietly, accepting his coffee without a second glance. “Do we know these women?” he asks with a nod in the direction.

“Typical.” Murphy rolls his eyes.

“No. Our assumption is prostitutes. Nothing new there.” the commander goes on, but he quickly becomes background noise as Pena stands and moves toward the board. He stood, hips jutted forward, eyes scanning, hand over his mouth in thought. Once he saw the new pictures he hadn’t heard another word the men had said. “PENA!” barked his way grabs his attention as he casually shifts his attention.

“Mmmph. Yeah.” he mutters, eyes moving back to the board.

“I was informing you, you’d be doing street intel on these newcomers.”

“Yeah,” he says disinterested, thumbing his lip before placing his hands on his hips. “Do we have these photos in color?”

The question catches the room off guard. “Why?” he’s met with annoyed opposition.

“This woman…” he taps the photo of a woman with a sly smile on the arm of a very powerful man. Dark waves teased and a heart-shaped face buried in a fur coat collar worth more than he made in a year. He clears his throat. “I’ve seen her before…”

“They’re whores Javi, of course, you have.” Murphy leads the room in a wave of amused hums and chuckles.

“No I’m serious,” he says with no inflection, catching his partner’s attention. “Do we have a location on them if there’s no color?”

“Why’s color important?”

He’s quiet for a moment, jaw tense and eyes blinking, baffled at what he was allowing himself to think. “Her eyes… were green.” MUrphy readjusts himself in his seat, watching Pena’s eyes carefully. He could swear they looked sad.

“What information we’ve got is here.” the commander points at the table with its thick manilla envelopes.

Javier nods with no spoken response, staying in place until the room is empty except for a hesitant Murphy who approaches him. “Who is she?” he asks quietly.

He shakes his head in response. “It can’t be her,” there’s a heavy pause, “But it...fuck it looks like her…” his voice trails off and Murphy is left with more questions.

“Well, are you gonna answer me or just write poetry about her Javi?”

“She’s…” he sighs and sucks his teeth. “She’s supposed to be dead.”

“Did you-?”

“No… no… nothing like that.” his voice still quiet. “I knew her… fuck...over a decade ago now.”

“So we can add hunting ghosts to our agenda now too. Great.” Murphy takes it lightly and presses his lips together. He stares at Javi, his eyes dark and focused. He was left with more questions than answers. His money was still on it being a hooker. It’s not as if Pena had even talked about Esme since the investigation when he was young. His partner may have his back in life or death situations, and they may have been close, but no one knew about her. Pena had hoped to keep it that way. He hoped he was wrong. He hoped it wasn’t her. Because if it was… well he didn’t know what he’d do.

---------------------------------------------------

Esme didn’t know it but with every minute that passed, she was being proven right about her belief in her first love, that if he knew she was alive, that he would find her.

Esme had ran, a bug out bag down the river and no trace left behind. She made her way south over the years, learning her craft and making friends in the right places. She’d started with rich men, especially rich white men trying to make a living off exploiting her fellow man in Mexico. It had been almost too easy. They thought nothing of her and wore her as if she were a watch; on their arm and shiny and proof of their wealth. She would gain access, gather intel and then sweep in and take the goods and ghost out.

Esme had been legally declared dead and was now living as Estelle. She had so many names over the years but her current incarnation was Estelle. And she was a star. She’d become what she wanted, she was rich and self-reliant. She needed no one and had her fun as she craved it. There were men and women and drugs and jewels and for so long it had been a pleasant hazy dream. But the novelty of it wore off, she grew bored,  a witness to her hypocrisy, growing soft and lazy with her indulgence. When she emerged from her haze and saw the state of the world around her she knew things had changed. Narcos now ruled the world. The government bowed to them, the poor worshipped them. She saw they were the future, the new leaders. And for her, that meant that’s where she had to be.

She found herself once again sharp and full of adrenaline. Her new role took real savvy and cunning. Otherwise, she’d end up dead for real. She cozied up, working for Narcos to steal for them. It wasn’t hard in skill, but it was in the amount of sexist shit she had to deal with. She’d killed men for laying hands on her, and worse. She’d pulled knives and guns and made frown men piss themselves as she threatened them with words they’d never heard women utter up to that point. Most of the leaders would laugh until they cried after the fact, seeing a woman act in such away. She entertained them. They underestimated her, saw her as some novelty pet that fetched things and entertained them. She could handle that. As long as she got paid.

Following the groups, making her way around it made sense she found herself in Columbia. She knew it was dangerous, but she was addicted to it. It filled the void of sex and drugs for her for the most part, although she did partake among her peers from time to time. She thought it made her admirable, independent, and a shining example of what a woman could be if she had the nerve to do it. She was, to a degree, but she was also wrong. She lacked the softness in her life anyone, not just a woman needed. A void where no love or trust or intimacy was in her life she filled with material things and lists of her accomplishments. if she kept busy and looking ahead she wouldn’t be still king enough to face her demons.

Except she was about to come face to face with her biggest one.

—

As was his way, Javier had become a bit obsessed. He had to know if this woman was Esme. He’d been tracking her and was able to have DEA level observation to do it. It was a personal mission he’d been able to spin to look like a cartel one. There was a connection, she was seen with them, but little was known outside of that. After he’d put the word out for the beautiful woman with green eyes it hadn't taken long before someone scorned by her leaked information on her next job. The informant knew what his boss wanted to be stolen and when she’d be there. Normally no agent or cop would care to pay attention to her, or some jewels being stolen,  she was just some woman to them. But serendipitous timing made sure she became THE woman for one of them.

She practically waltzed into the store. She scaled a fence, a wall and came through a window but for her, that was practically begging her to steal from them. The rooms were dark, silent except for the sounds of her feet as she made her way into the back, unseen and unbothered. It wasn’t until she’d stopped to admire her score before snatching it they the clicking of a gun behind her caught her attention.

He’d waited in the shadows, and none too patiently. With the aim set to intimidate, not kill, he Easter no more time. “Who are you?” It came out as an order.

Her head snapped up, back still to the faceless voice she felt was all too familiar. She blinks, the former goal now removed and replaced with a flood of emotion. She remains silent, her turn to be shocked like he was when he saw her face in the photos.

“Turn around.” Another order. The voice was deeper, darker now but still made her feel the same way.

She turns, and painfully slow. She doesn’t meet his intense gaze immediately, reading his body language first and calming her racing mind. There’s no way it was him.

There’s no way it’s her, his mind reassures him. But as soon as her eyes raise to meet his his stomach drops. He was right.

“Javi?” It was almost a whisper, for the first time in she couldn’t remember when she didn’t hide her emotions in her face.

The gun falls first, his sense falling to the wayside as it slipped into its place in the back waist of his jeans. His frame was broader, still lean moves towards her with an earned confidence now. He doesn’t speak, staring at her as if she might not be real. She gives him his time. He’d earned it. “It really is you.” It was his turn to let the veil fall, dark eyes shining in the low, cool light.

She nods. “Javi I can explain.” She begins, prepared to apologize and ask forgiveness before asking him why the hell he was there at all. They were a long way from home.

“You’re alive.” A rather obvious statement that made her smile. It was all he could handle.

“I can explai-“ a quick burst of words before they’re cut off by his mouth landing against hers. She hadn’t expected this. She was prepared for many things last but not this, at least not for him to be kissing her. “Javi my-“ she tries to get out but his hands are already on her cheeks, hot and damp and certain. She lets her concern fade for a moment, it would all be fine. She gives in to it, lets him take the lead, and pull her against him roughly. The anger and hurt coming through in his grip on her back and face as they kissed breathlessly. He stole her focus without trying, there was the signature huff from his nose, the nuzzle into her between separating to catch his breath but he felt different. But so did she.

Where they once held differences in certainty they now held the opposite. He kissed her like he just found out his first love was alive after decades of vices to cover the loss. Because he had. Every woman and experience he’d had between her and now, every skill and thus gained confidence was clear and apparent. This was not a boy handling a girl. He was a man handling his woman.

And there she was, blindsided and touch starved, passion and intimacy starved being devoured by the only man she’d ever truly loved. The only man she’d ever let in and see her for what she was. The only man that knew Esmeralda. It was a raw and painful ache that emanated from her chest as she clutched her hand around his wrist and the other gripped his shirt in her hand. She gave in because she knew it wouldn’t last long, and after it was over she’d miss it.

With eyes squeezed shut, his forehead pressed to hers, his statuesque nose gently rubbing against hers he exhales hot against her face. “Esme…” he pulls back and holds her face, demanding her focus.

“It’s been so very long since someone’s called me that.” she sighs and puts her hands on his forearms.

“Since I called you that?”

She nods and smiles, face pressed into his hand.

“Maybe it’s about time people called you that again.” he pauses and looks her over with a hard brow, he couldn't hide his simmering anger underneath the confusion, relief, and affection. “Where the fuck have you been?” She sighs in response. “Why the hell are you HERE?”

“Same as you. Work.”

“Why are you with those men? Don’t you know who they are? What they do?”

“Why do you ask questions you already know the answer to?”

“Why Esme?” his eyes water and his hands squeeze her face a bit too tightly before a wave of dizziness hit him.

“Same reason now as then,” she whispers, his grip loosening and not hearing her response, she slicks his dark hair back as his eyes start to roll around in their sockets. “You're fine, Javi. Seems you fell for my defense mechanism.” she smiles and he looks at her, starting to slump. “To be fair I didn’t know to expect you. You’ll wake up soon enough. It’s only temporary.” she wipes the culprit of the sudden wave of forced unconsciousness he was going through, her lipstick off his mouth. He was out quickly, and she spent some long moments exploring the now aged face of her once wide-eyed companion. “You are even more handsome than I thought you’d be.” she coos and kisses him after dragging him into a chair and pushing it into a corner so he wouldn’t fall. “It now inevitable we’ll meet again. My old hound dog.” She chuckles, a kiss to take in the scent of his hair before she parted ways. “See you later, mi amor.”

-----------

Peña awoke to a boot knocking against his knee and an odd headache. It was pitch black outside by now, people on the streets outside none the wiser to the life-altering experience he’d just had.

“Are we blacking out in stores now?” Murphy snarks and shakes his head, leaning against a door frame.

“That’s not...I’m not…” Javier shakes his head, rubbing and tapping at the pulse in his skull.

“Then what the hell is it?” He can hear the judgment in his partner's voice.

“If I told you you would think I was crazy.” he groans and sits up with his back straight in the chair, one cocked brow looking over to the man staring him down.

“And I don’t now?”

Peña huffs out a laugh. That was a fair assessment. He’d think the same thing. He looked across the room, the glass case he’d found her standing in front of now empty. “She took the jewels.” he switches the subject, an arm raised lazily and collapsing against his lap after.

“Were they made of cocaine? Why do we give a shit?”

“It’s not the jewels that are important. It’s the woman that did it.”

“A woman? Huh. That’s something you don’t see every day. That is… a little bit crazy I guess.”

“That’s not what’s crazy.”

“Am I gonna have to fuckin’ waterboard you man, just tell me.” he groans.

“That woman I told you about... that stole those... she's been declared legally dead for almost twenty years.” he finally says with a defensive tone and a face that said don’t fucking try me to the man still assessing his sanity with no attempt at hiding his negative prognosis.

“Oh.” Murphy contemplates looking away to the empty case. “That... yeah okay that is crazy.”

@jaegeeeeer​ @likedovesinthewnd​ @inkededucatednnerdy​  @biharryjames @ladamari68​ @past-romantic​ @weliketomoveit

[paigerambles]

A happy belated birthday to my darling Gemma <3

(( four little drabbles based on some of our pairings )) @gemmamakeslists

A Dangerous Affair with Faith and Antonin

The door had closed much too loudly behind him. It mirrored the finality of this moment. Antonin had never pretended and that perhaps was what had made him so uniquely cruel. When he’d chosen her, when he’d decided to ‘see what happened’, he’d been open to feel whatever he might have. After all, the more open you were, the easier you were trusted. The more receptive you were to the little things she did, the more you noticed and became intrigued by. It was a dangerous tightrope he walked but Antonin hadn’t lost sleep about it. After all, he would always finish the job.

He was supposed to finish the job.

His hands never shook, not ever but tonight they betrayed him. If she had suspected, if she had been worried, it didn’t show. Instead, concern flashed across that almost unreadable face. That alone was a punch to the gut. Of course he didn’t exactly look his best. He was about to make the single most impactful decision of his life - his hair had not taken it well. Neither had the dark circles under his eyes, the palpable anxiety he felt causing a trickle of sweat to make its way down his neck.

If he made it quick, it could be a mercy. She was a target now and even if he let her go... It would be a life of looking over her shoulder. Faith may have been tougher than most but she wouldn’t survive, not now. Loneliness was easier to accept, to live with, when you hadn’t tasted the alternative. He knew that all too well now. This was just supposed to be another job. Another name scratched off a list. Another day.

What did it matter if he loved her? What did it matter that his father would kill him himself if he didn’t see this through? What did anything matter when she was looking at him like that, eyes hopeful and trusting and all too familiar with disappointment and pain?

The loaded gun felt impossibly heavy in his hands as he watched the colour slowly drain from her face as that trust started to falter. Surely not...? He couldn’t, he wouldn’t-

“Antonin-,” but he’d made his decision long before she breathed his name. In truth, he had made his decision long before even now. He had been interested every time she spoke, dizzied by her rare laugh and moved by the way she saw the world and all its dark, terrible corners. She’d danced with the devil and never known, until now. He took a step towards her and to her credit, to her grit, she barely flinched and did not move.

The cold touch of the metal ran up his spine as he put the gun away. Of course he put the gun away.

“We have to leave. Tonight. There’s no time to explain-,” his mind was moving faster now, catching up, calming down. This he could do. This he could manage without shaking. “They want you dead. My father, his organization. I won’t let that happen to you, do you understand?” Usually she would argue, questions, rage until she was blue or purple or red in the face. There was an ache in his chest as he saw the tears in her eyes, too stubborn to fall. Convincing her that his feelings were real would take time and maybe she’d never believe him which she was well within her right not to but that didn’t matter now. Now his only thought, his only goal, was to keep her safe.

Antonin stopped moving for long enough to look her in those burning blue eyes. It had to boil down to one thing now and it wasn’t love, it wasn’t longing or truth. It was this: “Do you trust me?”

And perhaps against her every better judgement, in that moment she nodded, gripping tightly onto his outstretched hand.

“Yes.”

A Reckless Serenade with Krystal and Luke

The pub was probably the dullest, stickiest, faintly rancid place in town but it let his band play and paid them in free drinks. So, really, who’s to complain? Luke was usually nervous before a show, anxious right up until he was bouncing around the stage and even then. Tonight he was especially nervous. Tonight, he’d asked the prettiest, coolest, sassiest girl from the record store to come to his show. He’d made some big song and dance about putting his homemade poster up in the store to which she’d said ‘nah, pal’. Luke had just been pleased as punch to chat with her anyway.

The likelihood of her actually showing up tonight... He wasn’t sure what made him more nervous. Would she? Wouldn’t she? He couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was about Krystal Mercury but he thought an awful lot about holding her hand. That was enough to inspire screeds and screeds of poppy poetry, some of it beautiful even. When it came to writing a song, he could say it all. When it came to talking to her? Forget about it.

Now, all he had to do was convince himself that he wouldn’t be perfectly miserable if he didn’t see her tonight. It was a decent crowd, anyway. At least fifteen people. If you counted the bartender (which he always did). It was all peachy.

Except, he really wanted her to be in the crowd.

“Come on, mate.” Luke blinked at his band-mate, as if suddenly remembering the fact that the whole point of tonight was to play a show. Right, here we go. No matter what happ---

For half a beat, he held his breath entirely. After all, it wasn’t terribly well lit in here and he might have been mistaken. Although, wasn’t she quite unmistakable?

Krystal’s hair was down, hanging by the shoulders of her denim jacket with what he thought might have been sewn on patches for a splash of colour. She was here. When he met her eye, he reckoned he caught a smile and time might have slowed down. He’d always been hopeless and maybe even romantic but he never thought he’d get himself quite this tongue tied over someone. Not a very handy thing when you were the lead singer, mind.

Then just like that reality return and he opened his mouth at last, the sound of rip roaring guitar and faster-than-your-racing-heart drum beats filled the air, and his head. Luke felt giddy, elated and it wasn’t just from the adrenaline of playing a show. It wasn’t that at all.

“And truth be told, I’d be terribly content to hold your hand.”

Funny how much effort it took to make it seem like you were very cool and casual around someone you definitely didn’t feel cool or casual around. Luke gave it his best once he’d exited the stage.

“Alright, Songbird.”

“Well, you weren’t shite, then.”

Luke let out a laugh, still clad in his leather jacket despite the stage lights.

“Do you want to see backstage?” Luke took the world’s longest breath, holding out his hand.

“Backstage,” he shot her a grin at that comment. Fair enough, this was hardly the Grammy’s. Still, she took his hand.

A Brighter Day with Olivia and Ian

Ian Morrison had just been some guy on vacation when he noticed her. A totally normal, very stylish and slightly drunk guy on vacation. Olivia Winters had just been some girl working her part-time job and going to classes. Sometimes she remembered to text back her annoying BFF Samson too. She was perfectly normal, happy and a little bit no-nonsense especially when it come to guys on vacation who thought they were stylish.

It was perfect.

The first time Ian noticed her, she was sitting outside of a café with a stack of books and a black coffee. Her bangs threatened to cover her eyes, her brow was furrowed in concentration and she was about to lose one of her papers to a summer’s breeze. Now, being a perfectly normal, perfectly human guy, Ian had to run like a fool to catch it for her. Did he expect to be showered in thanks? No but a compliment on his Hawaiian shirt would have been nice.

Olivia didn’t even give him that.

The next time Ian sees her, she’s wearing dungarees and eating an overly shiny apple. He smells strongly of daytime tequila (it was vacation, after all) and was just on the way to meet his brother for a late lunch. Ian doesn’t have a good excuse this time but damn it all, he goes for it anyway.

“You know, an apple a day keeps the doctor away.”

“And what exactly would keep you away?”

“Pineapples. They freak me out.”

“There are at least seven pineapples on your shirt right now.”

“It’s a power play, I’m letting them know who’s boss so they don’t smell my fear. I’m playing the long game here. I’m Ian, BTW.”

“Right... Olivia, BTW.” She wasn’t nearly as accustomed to using the acronym out loud, hence the sarcasm.

“Well, I’ll see you around O-L-I-V-I-A,” he grinned, shooting her a wink. She rolled her eyes. She smiled. What a weirdo.

The next time again that Ian sees Olivia, the sun is setting over waves and he’s wearing shorter shorts than you might think appropriate for a Sunday evening. He was just giving the people something to smile about. He has his sunglasses on, sitting under one of those absurdly large beach umbrellas, half-asleep, when she sits herself down without even a ‘hello’. How rude. He didn’t mind.

“Here.” Ian opened his eyes lazily, glancing down at the apple in his palm. A smile tugged at his lips. What a weirdo. “For the doctor,” she added, as if that made sense. Ian let out a laugh. She felt funny but not in a bad way.

“Thank you, O,” he said around a crunch, peaking over at her before nudging his sunglasses down his nose. “So, you planning on sticking around or are you actually a mermaid en route to the sea? Either one is cool with me.”

“Not a mermaid. A sea-witch and if you’re not careful, you won’t leave here with all your fingers and toes still attached.” He was only almost certain it was a joke which only made Ian Morrison grin wider.

“Only one way to find out then.” Olivia stayed beside him long after the sun had set, telling herself it was fine because he was just some boy on vacation with a nice smile and a ridiculously warming laugh.

The last time Ian sees Olivia is when he’s on the bus, feeling a keen hangover as he presses his face against the cool glass. Mark Morrison is putting their luggage under the bus, making sure Ian has plenty of water and crackers for the uneasy ride back home.

Ian doesn’t know why or how he opened his eyes at exact, perfect moment to see her but he did. He was so glad he did. An easy smile came to his face and the same happened for her.

Olivia lifted her hand up in a wave, minimum effort and very meaningful all the same.

Ian pressed his palm to the window, dramatic and very meaningful all the same.

Mark made his way onto the bus, backpack in tow and Ian turned to shoot his best bro a grin and by the time he looked back around, Olivia was gone.

A Little Hope with Autumn and Oliver

There was only one bed in the motel and the bath tub was abysmal. Oliver would have taken the chair- it’s not as if he slept much these days anyway but Autumn had insisted. Well, perhaps that was the wrong word. She said he would be no good to her if he was exhausted and hadn’t he been the one who had dragged her into this mess? That he could not argue with.

Still, he couldn’t sleep.

Oliver wasn’t proud of the weakness, of the cruelty he had inflicted by having Autumn conjure up the soul of his beloved. He couldn’t pretend he didn’t know just how Angel had died, the fire, the explosion... The way that Autumn had to feel that just so he could have a scrap, a false echo of the woman he had loved more than anything in this wretched world. What’s worse is that he needed her to do it again.

Autumn needed the money. She needed to start over so if that meant sticking with Oliver DiLaurentis a little longer then fine. He shouldn’t have lied to her, shouldn’t have left out the part where there was a price on his head. They’d been on the run for weeks now and he had begged her to leave him to perish more than once. Autumn refused, for whatever reason.

Well, it was the money, wasn’t it? Of course it was. They had a deal. Had his father not taught him how to be a good businessman? He couldn’t back out of a deal. That would be dishonorable. How goddamn backwards his family had been. Were. Oliver turned on his side.

He owed Autumn his life, whatever was left of it. He would see this through. He’d protect her the way that he hadn’t been able to protect... To protect Angel. A haggard breath left his lungs as he looked over to her lying beside him. He felt his chest ache. Then-

Autumn turned, turned too far in fact and now she was leaning against his chest. Oliver stopped breathing. He hadn’t felt a moment of peace since the fire. Since he’d... Just, since. He doubted he’d ever feel a moment of peace again but for the briefest of moments, as he let out his breath, he felt the first real glimmer of hope that he might. It was a foolish, frivolous thought but he had it nonetheless.

Her breathing was even, her sleep yet to be interrupted. For reasons entirely beyond him, he gently touched her shoulder and felt the real weight of exhaustion he had been fighting off until now. He was bone tired, desperate for sleep but too scared to close his eyes. Autumn wasn’t though. From what he had seen of her, from what he had seen her do, he thought she was fearless. A survivor. Beautiful, in her own special way. He fought the thought off but still it whispered in the back of his mind- not like her though, not like Angel.

Oliver closed his eyes, a tear falling down his cheek. He didn’t move his hand from her shoulder and she didn’t move her head from his chest.

For the first time, he slept.

[wwyimdln-again]

extended bio and character bios!

General Bio:  This comic centers around a bunch of characters living in the same huge house together and all chipping in towards rent. The house originally belonged to Allium's dad, who's hella rich. Allium and his distant cousin and close friend Randi moved in, and over the course of the next 4 or 5 years, the amount of residents grew and grew, and now they're all living in harmony together inside this huge house.

Cold Pear Species: Pear-dog (or Pog) Gender: ♀ Age: 22 Bio: Cold Pear moved into the house after meeting Randi at a local poetry slam- Cold Pear was there for the free cucumber water, and Randi was there to... actually listen to the poets. They hit it off immediately, and one thing led to another, and Cold Pear moved in the next month. Cold Pear is close friends with everyone in the house now, although she's a bit strange- she eats specific and often disgusting food (such as dog treats, pudding with vinegar, and toothpaste sandwiches) and never seems to smile. Ask her about anything- she has a huge mental database of fun facts and her bookshelves are crammed with fun fact books. She spends a lot of time surfing the web, just to learn... fun facts... And very little is known about her life before moving into the house. She's also constantly cold and shivering, even in summer. Everyone in the house loves her, because even though she has her quirks, she always has a listening ear and will hang out with you when nobody else will. Her and Avocado are twins, and Avocado is older by 2 minutes.

Avocado Species: Avocado-Cat (Avogato) Gender: ♂ Age: 22 Bio: Avocado moved in after he was kicked out of his old apartment for being sloppy and loud- it didn't seem to phase him, though. Cold Pear offered him a place in the house, and he just sleeps on the couch (although there's a free room, he refuses because he says he'll "Move out soon"). His ultra-relaxed nature and go-with-the-flow attitude gets on some people's nerves, but he became close friends with Allium almost immediately- mostly because of their shared love of Wii Sports Resort and microwave pizza rolls. He spends most of his time playing video games well into the night and eating snacks with his mouth open, but he somehow always has money... I wonder why? Avocado loves his sister, although they tease each other sometimes- He did the sleeping whipped cream prank on Cold Pear so many times that she trained herself to wake up whenever she heard whipped cream can noises. Despite this fact, he's her number one cheerleader and advocate.

Allium Species: Onion Creature (Yellow onion with a spring onion tail) Gender: ♂ Age: 25 Bio: Allium was the original owner of the house after his wealthy dad let him live there- It was originally his "summer home", but since Allium couldn't find anywhere to stay, his father passed it down to him. He invited his distant cousin Randi to come and live there too, and one thing led to another, and the house became a home for many many creatures. He's relaxed and has a "chill" attitude, but he's still responsible- he has a strong "older brother" vibe. He still has a hard time getting up in the morning, and you can often see him with dark circles around his eyes- and sometimes he takes care of others before he takes care of himself. He loves relaxing but still fulfilling activities, like gardening and cooking, and he often makes meals to share with his friends (which are actually always really good). He's close friends with everyone in the house and checks up on them to see what they're up to- he likes to hang out. His favorite game is Animal Crossing.

Randi Species: Kangaroo Gender: ♀ Age: 23 Bio: Randi was one of the first residents of the house, and she moved there because she was trying to escape a less-than-perfect living situation with her parents- and she jumped at the opportunity to finally move away. She likes heavy metal music, horror movies, and gruesome prose- she dresses goth whenever possible. Despite this, she's still somewhat timid- she's often times worried about what others would think of her. Once you get to know her a bit more, she'll open up to you more- and you'll find that she's very understanding, accepting and kind, but she's also sometimes tough love. She likes to write poetry but she keeps it mostly to herself. She has just about the world's biggest crush on Cold Pear.

Riptide Species: Fishbowl Gender: ♂ Age: 46 Bio: Riptide is the oldest resident of the house by a long shot, although he doesn't look it- He moved in after he heard about the house from Allium posting about social media. He got in touch because he was finding that his studio apartment wasn't big enough for him and his young friend George, and once they moved in life got a lot easier. He's sporty, active, and energetic- He loves surfing and swimming. He's an outspoken advocate of animal conservation and social justice, and he has a big heart. The story about how he and George met is quite interesting- He found her as a tadpole, dried up in a small puddle, and brought her home because he felt bad for her- She lived in his bathtub until she turned into a frog. Ever since then, she's lived with Riptide.

George Species: Frog Gender: ♀ Age: 15 Bio: George isn't in the house very often. She likes to go outside and find the nearest park, forest, or body of water and explore there, and because of that she knows a lot about nature (but doesn't really know any of the correct terminology). She often comes home covered in dirt and mud with some kind of strange souvenir- like a newt in a jar or a 10 foot long stick. She doesn't really like to watch TV or read books- she'd prefer to run around outside. She sleeps in the bathtub, because otherwise she'd get dried out. She also started out without a name- She picked the name "George" herself. She also goes by "Georgie".

Tara Species: Tar Creature Gender: ? Age: ? Bio: Nobody knows what Tara is or where they came from- Or even exactly what they're made of. Tara showed up late one night when Allium noticed a thick black liquid dripping from one of the vents- He disregarded it and figured he'd call someone to come and fix it in the morning. The next morning, It had vanished, and Allium shrugged it off as just his mind playing tricks on him. For the next few weeks, there was black residue scattered randomly throughout the house, missing food and items, banging noises in the vents and the attic- when Allium investigated, he found Tara living in a toy chest in the attic. He was afraid at first, but he saw that Tara wasn't malicious, just afraid. He eventually lured them out of the attic with a trail of fruit snacks, and slowly befriended them. Now, Tara is living as a friend and strange otherworldly entity to everyone living in the house.

[inmyownlittlecorner5]

libera nos a malo chapter 9: At St Patrick’s Purgatory

A fanfic Novel by la-topolina Rated for Mature Audiences Warnings: Language, Violence, Sexual Content Chapter 9/21

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chapter 10+ >>

libera nos a malo masterpost+

This was quickly becoming an adventure that Miranda had no intention of recounting to her pious mother. As she coaxed her boat, the patient Molly Brown, through the moonlit waters of Lough Derg, intent on excavation and theft, she was almost ashamed of herself. If her mother ever found out that she’d come to the holy site on Station Island as little better than a cat burglar, she wasn’t sure she would ever live down the shame of having disappointed Monica Rose so severely.

The bitter night wind whipped through her cloak, and she pulled the traveling blanket more closely around her shivering body, pushing all questions of morality aside for another day. She’d been hired to do a job. She’d see it through to the end—and let the priest sort it out in confession for her later.

“No perfume tonight, Topolina?” Dante Sanguini asked. The pale moonlight made his face shine with an unearthly glow, and his constant shifting in his seat bespoke his discomfort on the water.

“Not while I’m working.” Miranda’s attention was divided between her companion and keeping the little boat upright with all his squirming. “I don’t guess you could hold still until we get to the island, could you?”

“Over this lake? No. And if I liked you less I would not have agreed to pass over this cursed water in the first place. Let alone twice in one evening.”

“Sorry about that. But I think you’ll find that I kept that difficulty in mind when I set your fee for tonight.”

“Si, you were more than generous. But I will be happy to leave this place behind.”

“Agreed.”

The water was choppy, and by the time she landed the boat ashore, even her usually stalwart stomach was queasy. Dante stumbled as his feet hit dry land, and he shuddered visibly, apparently as uncomfortable on the island as he’d been on the water. Miranda flattened and folded the boat as quickly as her numb fingers would allow, and by the time she had it stowed in a tunic pocket, the vampire had recovered himself.

She braced her feet on the frozen ground to cast her disillusionment charm. An unpleasant, fuzzy feeling began in her toes and crept up her spine, where it settled at the base of her skull. It was disorienting to be unable to see her arms or legs as the charm caused her body to effectively disappear, but invisibility cloaks were as expensive as they were unreliable.

“May we proceed?” Dante asked impatiently, his voice emitting from a shapeless fog that hovered around her.

“Let’s get this over with,” Miranda replied.

In spite of the wind, there was a silence covering the island that felt accusatory to Miranda’s guilty conscience. As she trod over the dead grass, the soles of her feet pricked inside her boots. Over the tops of the barren trees, the cloister and the church gleamed in the moonlight; their modern renovations a sharp contrast to the feel of the ancient earth on which they stood. The arched sign emblazoned with St Patrick’s Purgatory reminded Miranda more of the entrance to a theme park than a hell-mouth. As they went under the sign, the stinging in her feet became impossible to ignore. Acting on some impulse she did not understand, she paused beneath the arch and pulled off her boots and socks. The earth froze to her skin, but at least the damned pricking stopped as she spread out her bare toes in the frosty dirt.

“What are you doing?” the vampiric fog demanded softly.

“I don’t know,” she whispered back.

She could sense Dante’s disapproval, but they did not waste time arguing. As they moved over the well-kept path, she stuffed her boots into her knapsack. The lake lashed at the shore behind them, and even though she knew they were invisible to any mortal inhabitants, she could not shake the feeling that they were being watched. Soon her feet were numb, but she could not bring herself to put her boots back on, as though her pain might make up for some of her sacrilegious intentions.

As they drew closer to the interior of the island, the lurking church and the surrounding trees blocked some of the wind. Miranda trotted silently over the path towards the curved labyrinth that was their destination. The vampiric fog kept pace with her easily, pricking her skin where it brushed her, even under the cover of the disillusionment charm. When they reached the edge of the maze, the fog solidified, Dante’s polished shoes crunching the brittle gravel into dust. Miranda released her charm, shaking off the magical invisibility and numbness as they darted through the twisting path towards its heart.

“Do you feel any better?” Miranda asked.

“No. Worse,” Dante replied.

They reached the center of the maze, and Miranda took the compass that Octavius Pepper had given her from her pocket. It was made of heavy brass, and etched with markings she’d been unable to decipher in the short amount of time it had been in her possession. Its arrow started to swing back and forth, moving languidly but showing no indication of settling anywhere. While they waited, Dante scuffed his shoe in the gravel, and his lip curled to reveal a single, pointed canine.

“Well?” he prompted.

Miranda opened her mouth to tell him to relax when the ground split open. Cursing, she reached blindly for Dante as she clung to the compass, even as the metal began to burn her hand. One of the vampire’s sinewy arms wrapped around her waist, hauling her roughly against his wiry frame. She put her arms around his neck, and though the rubble crashed over them, they glided slowly down into the darkness. The memory of the cave under the One Wood Church and its vengeful Spirit was at the fore of her mind, taunting her with its horrors. She buried her face in Dante’s shoulder and forced herself to breathe.

They landed lightly on a rocky floor. The moonlight filtered down through the gravel and dust that had been kicked up by the cave in, sickly and obscured by the depths. A tremor went through Miranda’s body as she realized how deep they must be, but she was determined to keep control of her mind tonight. Dante pressed his cool lips to her temple, and gave her shoulders a reassuring squeeze before releasing her. She dusted herself off quickly, and pulled her wand from her sleeve.

“Lumos,” she cast.

Dante hissed and flinched back from the light. “Must you?”

“We can’t all see in the dark like you.”

“Figlio di puttana,” he muttered.

“What was that?” she asked archly as she watched the wildly spinning needle of the compass.

“I said, which way do we go now?”

“I’m working on it.” The needle stopped all at once, pointing into the darkness. Miranda lifted her wand to see a narrow cleft in the rock, barely wide enough for them to pass through. “Fuck. Why do I keep taking these underground gigs?”

He laughed and took her hand, tucking it into the crook of his arm as though they were going for a stroll in the park. “For the money. And the company.”

His good humor was contagious in spite of her discomfort with the enclosed space and the gravely dirt that cut into the soles of her feet. “Excellent points. Tell me one of your yarns so that I won’t think about being trapped in this pit for all eternity.”

“Nothing would please me more. Have I told you about the first time I was in France?”

“Not that I recall.”

“Excellent.” Dante let go of her arm to enter the passage before her, but his calm, melodious voice betrayed no concern about the danger inherent in their current situation. “It was in 1389. I remember, because it was the year I turned fourteen, and we were escorting La Contessa Valentina Visconti to finally be wed to Louis de Valois. She was as kind as she was beautiful, and whatever part of my heart that was not full of my path to knighthood was full of her.”

“You rogue. Did you steal her from Louis?”

“No. Everyone loved Louis, especially Valentina. It was enough to love them both from a distance, and to serve them. Life in Melun was good for a long time. I learned to ride, to fight, to write poetry, and to make love to the ladies of the court. I was quick at my studies and unimportant enough that I could slip away to explore on my own.”

“That sounds ideal.” The blue light from her wand cast dancing shadows on the wall, and there was a dread curling in the corner of her mind that one of those shadows would turn into a cat like the Spirit of the Mine. She pushed it down the best she could and listened to Dante’s voice. “Then what happened?”

“I saw battle and earned my knighthood five years later, in the year that Charles was born. I also met two men who were to change the course of my life, each in his own way.”

“Who were they?”

“One was a minstrel, a servant of Louis. His name was Herbelin, and I could have listened to him sing forever. We met in secret of course, but I was good at keeping secrets, even then. And it was amusing to watch the ladies swooning over his dark curls and merry laugh, knowing who it was he moaned for when there was none but the moon to see.”

“How delicious. And the other?”

“Was Nicolas Flamel, and of course his good wife Perenelle.”

“The man who made the Philosopher’s Stone?”

“The very one. A knight off the battlefield is little more than an errand boy, and there were many messages and manuscripts that flew back and forth between Nicolas and the royalty of France.”

“Did you ever get to see the stone?”

“I did. In fact…Cazzo!”

Dante disappeared, and Miranda had not taken a full step before she fell into the dank pit after him. She flailed once, but when she could not find the vampire in the darkness, she changed tactics, gathering her magic to cushion her fall and relaxing her body to be ready to roll when she hit bottom. The impact with the dirt floor knocked the wind out of her, and she coughed as she rolled into a crouch. Nothing leapt out of the darkness to pounce on her, except for a courtly vampire who graciously helped her to her feet.

“Are you in one piece, Topolina?” he asked with a dashing smile.

“I’m fine.” She wiped the dirt out of her eyes, and her hand came away bloody. “Mostly fine. Do you want to take care of that?”

His eyes turned completely black, glowing with an unearthly fire. “Ho un debole per te.”

He ran his tongue over the wound on her forehead, a feral growl rumbling from his throat as he lapped at her blood. The gash tingled, healing under his Undead magic. A familiar thrill went down her spine as he nuzzled the side of her neck, grazing her flesh with the cold pressure of his lips, followed by a single, teasing canine. Guilt and desire tangled together inside her, and she stepped back a few paces to give herself space to breathe. She and Dante had been skirting the line of what even her flexible morality would call decent since they’d arrived in Ireland the night before, and angry as she was with Severus, she still wasn’t certain she wanted to cross it.

“We should keep going. There’s no telling what all is down here,” she said.

He extended his canines to their full length, and lisped like an actor in a melodrama, “I think you know exactly what is down here. Children of the night. My friends.”

As if in answer, a swarm of bats swooped down from the ceiling, chittering as they buzzed their new companions. Miranda ducked as they passed close to her head, hoping they would not tangle themselves in her hair, while Dante lifted his arms, welcoming his familiars. The bats danced around the vampire until Miranda started to laugh, and then flew off into the darkness beyond.

“Va bene, there is the smile I like to see,” Dante said.

“It’s good to have something to smile about,” Miranda admitted, turning her attention back to the compass. The arrow was pointing firmly in the direction the bats had taken. “It looks like your friends know the way.”

“As they should. Andiamo.”

The path was rough with brittle rock that crunched and snapped under them as they followed its twisting progress. Miranda knew without looking that her feet would be bruised and bloodied when they made it back to the surface, but some instinctive part of her brain insisted that she continue as she was. The longer they walked, the rougher the terrain became, snaking upwards at a sharp incline. Pacing her breathing became more difficult, and her fears were ever at the edge of her consciousness, tempting her to panic.

“I think you were telling me about the Philosopher’s Stone?” she panted when the imaginings became too much to bear.

“Allora, the stone. I only saw it once, when I was assisting Nicolas and Perenelle with their travel preparations. There were many who would have liked to claim the stone for themselves, and it required both an Obscuro and to be tucked into Perenelle’s petticoats in order for them to slip away with it.”

“Where were they going in such a rush?”

“It was not the where that was the trouble, it was the who. Madama Bonne had a taste for the stone, and she was less than pleased when she was unable to put her hands on it.”

Miranda had met Bonne de Valois once. It had not been a pleasant experience. “I can imagine. How is madama these days?”

He laughed. “I would steer clear of Italy for another decade or so, were I in your shoes.”

“Thanks for the warning. What happened to Herbelin? Did he become a vampire too?”

“No. He did not.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Not as sorry as I was. But I should go back to Louis. He was the beginning of the end.”

All at once they found themselves in a tiny room of packed dirt, the ceiling of which was so low that both of them had to stoop. A flickering green flame coming from an unknown source lit the space, revealing a mattress of rotting straw, a decaying bowl and spoon on a sagging shelf, and little else. The walls were painted with faded pictures in the ancient Celtic style, and between the crosses and saints were letters spelling out texts too worn to read.

“This is the place,” Miranda said, sliding the compass into a pocket.

Dante’s canines were showing. “I was afraid of that.”

“We’d better work fast.”

She chanted the incantation that Mr Pepper had drilled into her a few days earlier, singing through its chromatic tones in a clear, silvery voice. A white light burst out of the tip of her wand, wrapped itself around the straw mattress, and lifted it off the floor. Another light joined the first, piercing the floor under the mattress until a thin crack appeared. Dante flexed his fingers as they stretched into evil looking claws, and crouched over the crack in the floor to dig into the dry dirt. Miranda’s body flashed hot and cold as she struggled to keep the bed aloft, sweat rolling down her face and neck. The green light began to spin, causing her stomach to lurch. A buzzing chatter droned in the room, and she felt fingers curling around her ankles. She looked down in horror, but saw nothing. Then she blinked, and saw the gnarled hands pulling on her legs; but when she blinked again—there was nothing.

She fought down the urge to scream as Dante jerked a heavy length of rusted chain from the hole he’d dug. He stumbled backwards, grunting as he landed on his backside. Miranda waved a shaking hand, sending a spell to push the dirt back into the hole, then she lowered the bed with a thunk. Still trembling, she opened her bag for Dante to shove the chain into. His teeth were bared with the effort, a red-tinted sweat covered his brow, and his hands look like they’d been burned.

“Are you alright?” Miranda asked as she closed the bag tightly around the chain.

“Never better,” he snarled.

“Are you going to need a drink before we go back over the water?”

He his eyes flashed with a black, hungry fire. “I appreciate the offer, but if I were to start drinking from you now I doubt I would be able to stop. The sooner we get off this island, the better.”

“No shit.”

Miranda took out the compass, stamping her feet in an attempt to shake off the feeling of ghostly fingers. The needle started spinning again, and showed no signs of stopping.

“You don’t think we have to go all the way back down, do we?” she asked.

“We are close to the surface now,” Dante replied. “I can dig us out if need be.”

She paced towards the far wall, unable to remain still any longer. A spiral drawn in a dull red caught her attention, undulating in the flickering light. She traced a careless finger over it, and the spectral flames engulfed her. A scream welled up in her throat, but when she opened her mouth she could only choke on the sulfurous smoke. Hands grabbed at her ankles and wrists; and there was a wailing and gnashing of teeth.

And then there was darkness.

*****

Miranda’s body was terribly sore when she opened her eyes again. She was lying on a narrow bed with clean, coarse sheets and a warm, quilted blanket; and she could feel that someone had taken the trouble to wrap her feet in bandages. The small room was plain, with a crucifix on the facing wall and a little window letting in bright, welcome sunlight. A desk with a lamp and chair completed the space, and her arsenal of pistol, knife, and wand was laid out neatly on top of the desk. Her knapsack sat safely beside the bed, apparently untouched. Wincing, she pushed herself up, meaning to check the bag for their night’s work, when the door to the room opened.

A man in a rough brown robe and worn sandals entered. His curly brown hair was tinged with gray, and his lined face wore a friendly smile. She guessed he was about her father’s age, and his green eyes were bright and kind. He carried a tray set with a teapot and cup, brown bread, and a steaming bowl of soup. Her mouth started to water and her stomach to growl at the homey aroma.

“Good morning, lass,” he said, placing the tray on her lap. “Welcome to Station Island. I think you’ve had quite a time of it.”

She gave him a bland smile. “Good morning, Father. It was about what I expected it to be.”

“I’m no priest, only a simple friar. Brother Ronan, at your service.”

“Thank you.”

Brother Ronan turned to pull the chair out from the desk and bring it to her bedside. While he was busy with his task, she quickly cast a silent revelio venenum, musing that she’d been spending so much time with Severus his habits were rubbing off on her. Her instincts told her that Brother Ronan was trustworthy enough, but his casual acceptance of her magical artifacts—along with her missing vampire—were enough to give her pause.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she said between grateful bites of the hearty soup. “I’m Miranda Rose.”

“Rose you say? You aren’t from County Cork by chance, are you?” he asked as he sat down in the chair to keep her company while she ate.

“Originally, yes. But my line of the family has been in America for four generations now.”

“America? I was there once. It’s a fine country. I wouldn’t want to live there, but I’d not be sorry to visit again someday.”

His easy manner prompted her to be more direct.

“May I ask you how I came to be…wherever it is we are?” she asked.

“This is the pilgrim’s dormitory. I found you and your friend on my way in from Matins. There aren’t many of us here in the off months, but we like to say the hours together in the main church even so.”

“What happened to my friend?”

“I thought it best to give him a room in the basement.”

She raised her eyebrows, but kept her tone even, wondering if she was going to have to Obliviate the friendly friar. “Are you a wizard, Brother Ronan?”

He laughed as though she’d told a fine joke. “Me? No, not at all. But your friend is not the first vampire I’ve seen in my life, nor are you the first witch. He helped me bring you here, and I gave him a bottle of the sort of drink he needs, and a room in the cellar for the day. It was too close to dawn to risk taking you both off the island.”

“Why are you helping us?”

“It’s my duty to help those who need it. I suggest you eat and rest as much as you can for now.”

“Will we be allowed to leave tonight?”

“You’re not a prisoner, Miss Rose. You and your friend may leave at any time.”

His kindness prompted a new wave of guilt, but she carefully concealed her shame.

“Thank you Brother Ronan. We appreciate your help.”

“I’m glad I was here to give it. Is this your first time to Station Island?”

“It is. My first time to Ireland at all, actually.”

His voice took on a note of pride like a fond parent. “You should come back in the summer. Everything is green and you could do the actual pilgrimage then. I suspect you’re hearty enough.”

“The pilgrimage?”

“Three days of fasting and prayer, and the pilgrims visit all the old hermitages of the saints.”

“That sounds grueling.”

“It is. But people come by the thousands to do it. Have since the old days.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.”

She finished her tray, and Brother Ronan took it, wishing her a good day on his way out. She forced herself to wait to a count of fifty before opening her bag, where she found the rusted chains lying, unharmed. After she’d resealed the sack and warded the door for good measure, she slept again. Her dreams were strange and troublesome, but she could not remember them when she awoke later that afternoon.

Gathering her wand, she went down the hall in search of the loo, taking advantage of the communal showers when she found it. She managed to heal the scrapes on her feet with a few quick spells, and the hot water did wonders for the aches in her muscles. A quick Scourgify made her clothes once again fit for company, and she padded back to her room, refreshed.

Her fingers itched for a cigarette, but she decided she would rather find Dante before indulging in a smoke. After pulling on her boots, she gathered her things from the desk, made her bed, and left a generous tithe in Irish pounds on top of the pillow. The empty dormitory was as simple as her room had been, decorated with candles, crucifixes, and saints painted in the Celtic style. When she reached the cellar, she cast another revelio, which illuminated a door at the end of the hall in a faint blue light. She knew better than to startle Dante when he was sleeping, and she let her feet fall heavily on the floor as she approached. When she reached the door she rapped on it sharply.

“Come in,” came Dante’s voice from within.

The windowless cell was in total darkness, though she could feel Dante’s eyes on her. He flicked on the desk lamp in deference to her mortal vision as she closed the door. An empty bottle and a bloodstained cup sat on the desk near the lamp. Dante was lounging on the bed like a lazy cat, apparently none the worse for wear after their mishap. His clothes and person were clean, and the burn marks on his hands were gone. He rose as she came into the room, putting his hands on her shoulders when they met.

“You are well?” he asked earnestly. “When the hell-mouth overwhelmed you I feared you would be more permanently injured.

“I feel alright,” she replied, shivering at his touch. “A little sore, but alright. What happened?”

He was running the fingers of one hand up the side of her neck, and his eyes were turning black with vampiric lust. “You didn’t expect the chains to go without a struggle did you? Generally hell-mouths dislike being robbed.”

“That’s why they pay me the big money.”

“I’ve always admired your durability.”

His hand tightened on the back of her head, and he crashed his cold lips into hers. She returned his kiss with guilty fury, her body thrilling with the way that his lips turned from ice to fire as they absorbed her warmth. The tingling chill from his touch crept over her skin, causing her to tremble, and she clung to his shirt as he seared a trail of savage kisses down to her neck, where her pulse was beating wildly.

“Does your offer of a drink still stand, Bellissima?” he purred.

“Yes,” she gasped before she could think better of it.

There was a pair of sharp pricks, and then a heady rush of ecstasy as he drank from her. It was as intoxicating as she remembered it—but even as her body sang with pleasure, it was Severus’s name on the tip of her tongue, Severus’s arms she wanted to be holding her, Severus’s lips she craved on her skin.

Dante, ever the gentleman, brought her down carefully, ending the vampiric kiss and healing the wounds on her throat with his agile tongue. Her mental protections were useless against Legilimency of the blood, and she had no doubt that the vampire was well aware of the man whose name was lodged in her heart. He guided her to sit on the bed, and rummaged in her knapsack until he procured a bottle of Blood Replenisher, the contents of which he tipped into her mouth. She nearly choked at the taste of the elderflower and lemon—Severus had created this variant of the potion to suit her personally, and his care for her was yet another lash of guilt.

When she’d gotten it down, she sagged against the wall, wishing she could cry that she might gain some relief from the feelings balled up in her chest. Dante pulled out a pair of cigarettes for the two of them, lighting them with the touch of an elegant finger.

“Perhaps it is time for you to tell me about Severus,” he said wryly after they’d both taken a bracing drag.

She let out a dry laugh. “What can I say? He’s an ass. He’s good at chess, potions, and dark magic. He likes to read and has a voice like sin.”

“No wonder you like him. What’s the problem then?”

“The problem is he’s sunk so deep in the war that’s coming that it’d take a miracle for him to come through it alive. I don’t think I can stand to lose someone like that. Not after David and Isaac.”

“The war is already here. Why don’t you convince him to run?”

She shook her head. “No. I think leaving would kill him, or at least his spirit. He has to see this thing through to the end.”

“That’s a shame. You might have wished for a more sensible partner.”

“I might have wished for a lot of things. I’m sorry to disappoint  you.”

He took her hand and pressed his lips to it. “No, Topolina. No apologies are necessary between us. Allora, I was telling you about Louis.”

She was grateful for the change of subject. “Yes. Please finish the story.”

“Louis came to a bitter end,” he said, a sad smile spreading over his shapely lips. “His enemies in the Burgundian court sent assassins after him, attacking him in the middle of the street one November night. Valentina never recovered. She died of a broken heart not a year afterwards. Herbelin and I stayed with young Charles, intent on helping the boy regain some order and beauty in his court. And we were successful, for a time, until a fever took my Herbelin from me.”

She laid her head on his shoulder, and he wrapped an arm around her. “I’m so sorry.”

“Life was bitter to me then, but I feared death too much to seek it from my own hands. And as Charles started to play at war, I believed that my time would come soon enough. I thought that it had after the battle at Agincourt. But there are scavengers on a battlefield, and one of them found me.”

“Was he the one who made you a vampire?”

“Yes, but not, I think, on purpose. As he drained me, I latched onto his wrist, biting him in my frenzy. He left me for dead, but enough of his blood had entered my veins for me to rise again.”

“Fuck. What did you do?”

He laughed and kissed the top of her head. “Just what you’d expect. I wandered the countryside in a rage until I found my way to Nicolas’s door. I might have killed him, and Perenelle too. But he tucked a bunch of mistletoe behind my ear, and it brought me back to my senses long enough for him to take me to Madama Bonne.”

“I wish he’d led you to a better Mistress.”

He shrugged. “There are worse, believe me.”

There was a light knocking at the door, and Miranda and Dante vanished their cigarettes before opening it to admit Brother Ronan. If the friar was at all surprised to find them together, he did not show it, for which Miranda was grateful.

“The sun’s down,” Brother Ronan said briskly as he handed each of them a dark bottle. “Best if we get the both of you on your way before anyone starts asking questions.”

“Thank you for your help,” Miranda replied. “I owe you one.”

“You don’t owe me anything, lass. But if you’ll remember me in your prayers now and then I’d be grateful to you.”

“That I can promise you.”

He led them through a winding hallway that opened at last near the shore. The wind was quiet tonight, and the lake was like a mirror of black glass. Miranda pulled the Molly Brown from her pocket and murmured the spell to make her seaworthy. Brother Ronan whistled appreciatively.

“That’s a nice bit of magic,” the friar said.

“I’m fond of it myself,” Miranda replied.

“And if I never saw a boat again, it would be too soon,” Dante laughed.

Brother Ronan held the boat steady while the witch and the vampire climbed into it. When they were ready, he gave it a firm push, and his sandaled feet splashed into the lake as the boat began to cut through dark waters.

“God bless you both!” he called, giving them a final wave before turning and hurrying back towards the church and his brothers.

“As if I didn’t feel guilty enough,” Miranda sighed.

“You must learn to overcome such frailty,” Dante chided, opening his bottle and drinking deeply of its contents.

“You’re probably right.”

Miranda tugged the cork from her bottle and gulped down the cold water inside, parched from the effects of the Blood Replenisher. They were quiet for a time as the Molly Brown made quick progress over the calm lake. Every inch away from Station Island was bringing her home to the problems she’d left behind, and she felt no closer to solving them.

“Did you ever love anyone after Herbelin?” she asked suddenly.

The vampire gazed up at the clear, star-filled sky. “Oh. Many times, Topolina. Some I have left. Some have left me. Some I have laid in the grave.”

“But how can you stand it? Or does it stop hurting after the tenth or the twentieth or the hundredth time?”

He took her hands and his, and the expression on his face made her wonder if he knew her heart better than she did herself.

“It always hurts,” he said. “Every time.”

“But is it worth it?” she persisted.

His dark eyes were wise in his youthful face, and they sparked with a mirth that all his centuries of loss could not dim

“Yes,” he replied. “Every time.”

*****

Station Island is the location of St Patrick’s Purgatory, which has been a pilgrimage site from the middle ages. It is also supposedly and entrance to Purgatory or Hell, depending on the legend. The pilgrimage is as grueling as Brother Ronan describes, and continues to this day. It is performed barefoot, which is why I have the magic of the place prompting Miranda to take of her boots and socks in this chapter.

The adventure of the One Wood Church and the Spirit of the Mine is told in chapter 24 of Moonlight: The Tale of the Three Miners.

Dante is telling Miranda the brief history of Louis, duc d’Orléans (1372-1407) , and his wife Valentine of Milan (1371-1408). Their son Charles, duc d’Orléans (1394-1465) is the author of the Valentine’s Day poem that Severus was musing over back in chapter seven.

Matins is one of the hours of prayer, traditionally said in the middle of the night. It’s the longest of the hours.

Figlio di puttana: Son of a bitch (Dante is cursing at the light, not Miranda) Cazzo: Fuck Ho un debole per te: I’m weak for you Va bene: Good, okay, alright Andiamo: Let’s go Bellissima: Gorgeous Allora: So, then, well

*****

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libera nos a malo masterpost+

[mediioxumate]

i was listening to mal blum the other night, and got slammed with the urge to write about the night of the assassination. cw for heavy grief, dysphoria, disordered eating, passive self harm, vomiting, the works. ~2k words.

alternatively titled, goro akechi and the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad night.. 

Your body looks to me A way it never has before And is this what's making you so sad, And what you did this for?

Shooting Akira - no - murdering Akira, does not feel like a victory. It doesn’t feel like a step towards his revenge and salvation.

It feels empty and repulsive. It feels like the burn of the acid in his throat as he dry heaves into the shitty toilet in his tiny bathroom in his cramped apartment. Every space is too small - it’s like he can’t get out of the interrogation room. He can’t, he can’t, he can’t. Another violent shudder racks his body as he gags again. 

His hair is stringy with sweat, sticking to his forehead, and the fingers white knuckling the porcelain edge don’t bother to pull it away or back, and he isn’t sure they can. This shouldn’t have been this hard, he’s never been this bad - not even after his first mission for Shido. But killing someone in the metaverse, they just… disappear. Palace rulers and Mementos denizens simply evaporate. Just an hour ago, he’d seen Akira- Kurusu’s eyes go dead, saw the blood drip, drip, drip down his face before his head dropped with a wet thud on the table. 

Fuck. Fuck.

Eventually, he can finally stand on wobbly legs, wandering towards his bedroom and stripping everything from his body. He’s already disposed of his gloves on his way home, for the first time finding them itchy and restrictive and claustrophobic. Now, his palms are littered with indents from the way his nails fiercely dug into them, grounding himself with the sting. 

Akechi means to take a shower. But for the time being, he can’t seem to move back to the bathroom, another wave of nausea passing through him just at the thought. Instead, he turns slowly, cautiously towards the mirror in his room. 

Strange. It’s like looking at a picture - maybe some kind of abstract film. He’s looking through his eyes, but he can’t seem to place the boy in the mirror. Their scars match, and the hair is right enough, he supposes. With his make up sweated off, his complexion is uneven, and the bags under his eyes are so intense they could be some kind of weird fashion trend. The boy looking back at him feels so removed from what he’s crafted and built up. It’s the most intense dysphoria and dysmorphia he’s had since he was still being passed foster home to foster home. This body is not his. It looks different - and yet exactly the same. 

The hand in the reflection mirrors the movements of his own, drawing over the pallid skin of his torso, fingers lingering over the scars on his chest. His posture has deteriorated, hunching as he hopes to curl in, in, inward until he swallows himself whole. 

His hip bones and ribs jut out just slightly, just muscles on bone. It’s laughable. Strip away layer after layer, turn them into walls, and this is what’s left. Some sad excuse for a person. 

His eyes scan the frame in the mirror one more time before he resolves to shower. He needs to turn the stream on as hot as it will go, and scrub every inch of skin until it’s raw. It still won’t be enough - he’s never going to feel clean again and he knows it. How had he ever thought the clip of Okumura kicking it on national television prepared him for murdering Aki- no - Kurusu?

Beaten and broken enough, under the stream his thoughts wander to where he’s been avoiding all night. Akira is the only one who’s… gotten through to him, in so long. Of course he had to go and be the fucking leader of the Phantom Thieves. That really is just the way of Goro’s life, huh? He doesn’t want Akira to be dead, and doesn’t want to have it be at his hand. His apartment feels hollow and empty, and the thoughts he’d had, that maybe one day - one day he could bring A- Kurusu here. 

It was a stupid thought, he knew it was a stupid thought, and yet here he is, skin pink and stinging under the water, body racked with sobs bubbling out of his chest. He doesn’t know how to deal with regret, the new wave of nausea. He’s never questioned himself, ever since he saw the pale, lifeless form of his mother, he’s never questioned his drive to get back at the pitiful man that is his father. It’s always been worth it, always about him, damn whoever gets in his way, damn the collateral damage. Then he’d met Kurusu, and then Sakura-chan and Okumura-san and suddenly, his actions became a painful, stark reality. 

Until then, he’d always considered his targets collateral. Stupid elites and researchers who don’t know how to stay out of the way. Each one just another disposable pawn. But, suddenly, he goes from knowing unsettling details about Wakaba Isshiki’s daughter, to seeing her. Seeing her struggling to acclimate still, but also bouncing back because she has a support system - and the Okumura girl too. 

Goro Akechi thinks he might be fucking jealous. 

Jealous! After all he’s done, and all he’s been through, he’s fucking jealous. 

There’s no surface in the world abrasive enough to scrub himself of these feelings. Instead, in some kind of weird absurdity, he shaves every inch of his body from the neck down, leaving countless slips and nicks in the way. Nothing intentional - never intentional - but certainly not being cautious with his movements by any means. He runs the razor over his skin again and again, until there’s nothing else he could possibly scrape away, even if he wanted to. 

At some point, he realizes the water is running cold. And he’s shivering.

The steam against the cold water is a strange sensation. Some kind of awful, mocking poetry about his life he supposes, meshing things that simply should not be together. Hollow, cracking laughter fills his ears, and belatedly it registers that the sound is coming from him. Perhaps it’s him that’s lost it this time. Wouldn’t that be funny? Maybe one of the little thieves have finally caved, maybe that’s why he’s reacting - he’s been bested by his own trick! That must be it, right? That he’s having some kind of mental shutdown. It’s the only explanation. 

Why is that more comforting to him than accepting that he may have been attached to Kurusu? The thought is jarring, out of left field. He doesn’t need to accept that - doesn’t need to accept anything. Damn it- damn it.

He shuts the water off. 

For a moment, he considers sitting right there on the shower floor, considers sitting on the cold, hard ground until he dries off, dries up, shrivels away. Instead, he steps out of the shower, standing on his sorry excuse for a bath mat that’s just a dish towel, feeling the rivulets of water drip from his hair and travel down his raw, oversensitive skin. What’s your secret, Detective Prince? How do you exfoliate, Akechi? How do you stay so slim? How is your skin so clear? You have such a soft, young face! Do you even wear makeup Akechi?

He towels off. 

One more moment as he considers retching into the toilet again, it’s right there after all. His stomach is still churning despite being as empty as it possibly could be. But he’s exhausted, he doesn’t think he has the energy even for that, though he’s fairly certain sleep will not come either. Not that he deserves it. 

Quietly, he moisturizes his raw skin, despite the sting. Tomorrow, he has another TV appearance, where the capture and suicide of the leader of the Phantom Thieves will have just been announced. And he will make a statement against him, call him a coward. He will flaunt his assumptions about the age of the vigilantes, and he will call the death a cowardly tragedy. Desperately, he works to rebuild that walls that have crumbled tonight. The interviewers will rip him apart without his mask. 

All he can manage to put on are some soft, worn boxers before collapsing into the bed in the corner of his room. 

Idly, he wonders, now that Kurusu is out of the way, when Shido will dispose of him. How. It’s bound to happen, he can only simply hope that he gets there first. But even now, the fire is burning low. He’s tired - so, so fucking tired. This is all that’s been powering him for so long, but after tonight, he doesn’t want to do this anymore. Idly, his fingers trace the scars on his chest again. It feels dirty, and wrong, and attached to Shido. Seems he traded dysphoria for complete alienation from his body. But at least his chest is flat, right? At least his jaw is sharper, his voice deeper, his hips slimmer. At least, at least, at least. 

The affirmations are tired. It gets harder, each day to believe them, to justify any of this. He’s so angry at the world, he’s always been angry, and this has always been the only way. But each stumbling, criminal confession sits heavy on his doubt. And now it’s snapped and collapsing under the weight of Kurusu’s head hitting the metal table. 

His mind wanders, now, to the bruises and cuts on every visible inch of skin. The way Akir- Kurusu flinched when he moved, the hazy look in his eyes, no doubt from the drugs. He hadn’t even said a word, simply stared back at… back at Goro. Looked him in the eyes, lips forming a small, surprised ‘o’ as Akechi tried to monologue, to justify, to convince Kurusu and himself that this was the only way. He hadn’t flinched, hadn’t moved a muscle, even with a gun to his forehead, he’d simply let it happen. 

That brilliant boy, with so much fight in him, had just sat there. Just fucking sat there.

And Akechi, ever weak, almost thought about shooting the handcuffs off instead, defying Shido, taking him into hiding. They weren’t going to examine the body anyway, he could hide Akira at his apartment maybe, maybe he could still switch sides. Maybe it wasn’t too late for him. But as blood pooled around the guard on the floor, there was no coming back from it. He’s a murderer. Plain, clear as day. So he simply did as he was taught, did as he should have. And he shot the leader of the Phantom Thieves. 

Another laugh leaves him, weaker this time, quieter. And before long, the laughter twists and changes over to sobs. They’re rough, and his face feels gaunt and empty, like he’s taken all of the moisture out of it. 

He’s so worthless. He’s always known it, and now he can’t even muster the strength for his one cause, the one thing he’s dedicated himself to. Pathetic. All because of a stupid boy with messy hair, who was never afraid to disagree with him, who made Akechi believe, fleetingly, that he could have better, that there wasn’t just Akechi inside him, but Goro too. Akira with his stupid plush lips, stupid fake glasses, stupid competitive grin, the way he would bump his foot into Goro’s under the table at the jazz club, the way he danced his way into Goro’s life, attached there like a fucking parasite. The way he still invited Goro out, even after he said he hated him. 

And now, Akira is...gone. 

More laughter bubbles up in his chest, but this time he can’t stop. Hysterical laughter and sobs become one in the same, wracking his entire body until sleep finally, finally wins. 

[ohnohetaliasues]

Stones to Abbigale {Ch. 1}

(Kat)

This is going to be the worst thing I’ve ever read, isn’t it?

Am I going to actively want to die? Yes, most likely. But apparently, because I run a blog like this, I can endure suffering.

Flashbacks to Blood Raining Night.

Here we go. We will start with the introduction, written by the onion lord himself.

I want to be direct, my name is Greg. I go by “Onision” online.

Okay, I dunno what it is, but something feels off about this sentence.

This book is made up of events that occurred in my own life mixed with fiction from the made up life of James. James is essentially a better version of myself.

I can’t imagine how good that could be, seeing as the man who wrote this is a child predator and is just an overall piece of hot garbage.

His home, his school & his life all resemble my own at his age.

Don’t ever use a fucking ampersand instead of the word ‘and.’ It’s just bad grammar.

The people James analyzes and is surrounded by are not so unlike those I’ve known as well.

Analyzes?

Why?

I have experienced much of the loss James has however his happier moments are more often than not also mine.

Then write a memoir. Not this.

I want to share my story without it being purely non-fiction.

I mean, some people do this with books about their lives, but this feels... Odd?

I simply felt this approach would make for a far better book. At points I cried while writing this, at others I laughed.

Congratulations.

I don’t care.

Stones To Abbigale is not just a book I wrote, it is a piece of who I am.

That’s a given for all writers, but I still don’t care. 

I’m going to rip this book to shreds.

Okay here we go.

I was asleep until I met her, but when I woke, I learned the meaning of "perfect imperfection."

Is this Onion boy trying to be poetic?

It actually made me want to die.

I've always been the type of person to focus on stars as we spin beneath them, the cool breeze on a sunny day, scattered patches of grass under my feet, the world around me, often forgetting to even glance at the one within.

‘The one within.’

Okay so the way this is written makes those three things seem disconnected. I often do stuff like this when I write, but I’d write it like ‘as we spin beneath them, focus on the breeze on a sunny day, on the scattered patches of grass, etc.’

You couldn’t pay me all the money in the world to rewrite that garbage sentence. This is all very waxing poetic and not in a good well structured way.

I had remained emotionally unexplored for so much of my life.

That must’ve been boring, not experiencing human emotions like the rest of us.

You sociopath, you.

It's painful knowing some can go an entire lifetime without understanding their own heart, an internal lock waiting for the right key to change everything.

Yeah, whatever, shut the hell up, you whiny idiot.

This is like an introduction by a teenager who just opened a poetry book and was like ‘yup. I wanna write like that.’

Except you aren’t William Blake or Walt Whitman and you never will be.

Sorry, Onion boy.

Except I’m not.

Die mad about it, grease ball.

It was the first Monday of November. I opened my eyes, blinded by my recently painted wall-to-wall white room. Even my bed frame, constructed of purely metal, was painted white.

Okay, cool. I’m a descriptive writer and I take every chance I can get to mention details, but even I find this description awkward. It feels irrelevant in this situation.

It bounced off the walls causing my eyelids to desperately clamp together. Painting my room like this was a clear act of subtle self-inflicted psychological torture.

Then why in the sweet hell did you do it? Do you enjoy suffering?

Actually, he probably does.

Because this is edgy as hell.

I was going through another phase, from darkness to light, and repeat. Seemed like the story of my life.

This is so edgy I am in physical pain.

You know your symbolism is good when it’s so random that you have to point it out and explain it to your audience.

My mom could see the darker colors were depressing me, I felt comforted by them, but found there were good aspects of both extremes. I was happy to visit either side, they are both so simple. But right now the intense light bouncing from wall to wall felt like it was ripping my mind in two.

Am I an idiot or is that just... word salad?

My mom didn't wake me. My alarm clock sat on my dresser with no explanation for it's failure to function. The clock only illuminated a blank stare with 8:17 written all over it's face. While entirely robotic, I imagined the clock to have the dumbest possible expression, one complementing its failure to behave any way outside its random glitch-infested nature.

That was the worst way to write a personification ever, but okay.

In the reflection of it's plastic face I could see myself unconsciously making the dumb expression I was imaging the clock to have. I laughed in my casual dorky tone and began to get ready to leave home.

I’m not laughing, idiot.

Without breakfast, I left for school with a bogus note in hand to idealistically explain my tardiness.

You... You wrote a fake note?

Do you realize you could get in trouble for that?

You’re an idiot.

I think most of my teachers were too exhausted to worry about small variances in our appearance from time to time. With how low their pay likely was, I imagined there were very few rules most teachers cared about.

That isn’t true at all. Teachers have to pay attention to rules unless they want to get, I dunno, fired.

It was another cold day in Lakewood. The wind hit my eyes forcing tears to form in the corners as I sped along the sidewalk at a no-doubt unreasonable speed.

I cannot imagine any good imagery for this scene. I’m just imagining this gif:

I passed Lauren and Raymon walking the opposite direction, no doubt headed toward the nearby church where all the students go to smoke, make out and hide out till school ends.

Um okay. Does this guy know that if characters don’t have relivance to the story, if they have no reason to be named, than they don’t have to be?

No.

Because he’s a 34 year old man baby.

They seemed so childish as they held hands and smiled excitedly as if they had gotten away with some tremendous crime.

That sentence seems so robotic I genuinely can’t.

Mr. Hanson, my heavy-set, middle-aged history teacher, rolled his eyes as I walked into class. "James, talk to me after class" he said quickly, looking away from me as if I were an undervalued employee who was barely important enough to make eye contact with let alone deliver a full sentence to.

It bothers me so deeply that a new paragraph wasn’t started when this character talked.

"I have a note," I said. He ignored me, and continued his lecture on yet another topic that would not only be completely useless later in life, but wasn't even relevant for even a few seconds after the words left his mouth.

Why is this teacher acting like a petty teenager?

I’m deeply annoyed by this.

And yeah, it’s relevant. You have tests, you idiot. Take notes. And it’s also history, which is, again, relevant.

In conclusion, shut your mouth and stop bitching.

There was only 15 minutes left in the class, but I felt it would be more stimulating to integrate myself into the room to yet again study my classmates' behavior than to sit in a hall watching the rows of scum covered tiles inevitably slide off the decaying walls.

That’s a health code violation, friends.

Or Onion is an awful writer and he thinks describing a school like this is a good idea. My money is on that.

For as long as I remember I've enjoyed seeing how people move around and talk to each other, like they're all animals at the zoo.

Something is wrong with you, friend. Liking to people watch is one thing, but doing shit like this is something else entirely.

Uh, try sociopath-like?

Creepy as hell?

We’ll go with both.

I would try to deliver a more accurate analogy if I felt there was one

Bitch, there is. I can’t name one off the top of my head because reading this makes me feel like my brain is melting out of my ears, but I’m 100% sure there is a better analogy. Even though this feels more like a simile.

but so many of them seemed incredibly unaware of themselves, just living life as if it were some generic predefined routine.

Oh, and you’re so much better obviously, you pretentious bastard.

Sometimes I felt like an alien who had a VIP pass to submerge myself in primitive human culture just for entertainment.

Congratulations, that’s also what you sound like.

I sense everything I can take in around me. The seemingly limitless audible tones, tremors in the voices of growing children rang in my ears. In studying people, I found myself gradually learning to literally feel the various personality types I encountered.

Do you... Do you have psychic powers?

If not, shut your damn mouth.

I hyper analyzed every inconsistent smell, the seemingly random clothing styles, freckles, and assorted hairstyles filled my mind with questions. Trying to rationalize and understand what sequence of events led them to decide who they would become.

You are the most pretentious protagonist I have ever read. I’m half a chapter in and I already fucking hate you.

This character is so poorly written and immediately unlikable. i cannot relate to him at all and if someone does, I suggest you go get some help because how this asshole is behaving doesn’t sound human.

I took favor of categorizing most everyone around me. The socially inept know-it-all, the dumb attention-seeking drama kid

On behalf of all drama kids, go fuck yourself.

and the bleach blonde bimbo who gets overly defensive at the slightest hint of criticism.

Do you mean you?

Onion obviously didn’t let anyone edit this garbage.

Then there were the kids who just hoped no one noticed them at all. There was so much to be seen, to be considered and organized in my mind.

Mhm.

I don’t care.

Class had just ended so I walked over to Mr. Hanson's' desk &

And*

placed the tardy note down in passing. As I walked out with the rest of my class, he called after me. "James! We still need to talk!" I responded but continued to walk outside the room. "I have to be early to my next class! Let's talk tomorrow!"

You’re an asshole.

And I hate you.

I walked quickly down the hall towards my art class, which was awkwardly placed in a trailer outside my clearly poorly funded high school.

Um.

Okay.

On my way to the class a fight had already broken out between two jocks who, no doubt, both had controlling, iron-fisted fathers who brainwashed them into believing conflicts between men are best resolved with the bloodying of their fists.

That’s a bold thing to assume, dear Onion.

These kinds of men plagued my mind with wonder. I could not conceive a scenario in which they could justify their primitive & pointless mentalities yet they would always continue to perpetuate their self-destructive attitudes as if it offered the slightest legitimate benefit.

Oh, shut your pretentious mouth.

Most everyone nearby crowded around the fight. None of them likely cared who was winning, what it was about or how far it went. All they ever seemed to show concern for was their own amusement, always excited to see violence without having to pull out their wallets to pay for it.

Are you joking?

Where are the teachers?

This is complete bullshit.

This is high school, not a fucking fight club.

Does Onion even try to make this believable? Or is he just vomiting all over his keyboard and just accepting whatever nonsense that makes?

As the sounds of flesh collided fist to cheek & chest quickly followed the howls from the surrounding students. They would scream "Oooohhhh!" as if it were sincerely delightful to witness creatures like themselves suffer & fall apart before their eyes.

The use of ampersands is making me lose my goddamn mind.

Even if I had time to stop, I never really took pleasure in seeing strangers hurt each other. Most all fights seemed avoidable and were often initiated for a senseless reason.

Go choke on air. This protagonist annoys me more than any protagonist has. I’m not joking. Fuck this dickwad.

I know, you could say it's more complicated than that, I would like to think it were as well, but reality trumps the way I wish things would be. There's no sense in fighting it when doing so rarely helps anyone.

While this is true, this is worded in a way that’s so pretentious it’s painful and also in a way that paints this protagonist in such a white knight-y way that it makes me want to die.

As I approached my next class the image of Abbi's face illuminated the neon walls of my mind like a projector teasing a theatre screen with fleeting moments of depth & purpose.

That is complete and utter word salad. Stop immediately.

Ever since I met her, she had occupied a part of my consciousness; whenever I wasn't near her I missed her to an unrealistic extent. You could call my longing sad especially considering we had barely talked; she just had a strange effect on me, one no doubt similar to a willful addiction.

That’s called a crush, but the way that was just described is so creepy.

There are people in life which we pass by on a daily basis, barely aware of their existence, but on an exceptionally rare occasion you can find a person who fills an area inside your little world you didn't even realize needed filling.

While that’s technically not untrue, it feels like a lizard person is trying to tell me what having a crush on someone is like.

As I walked up the creaking stairs into my art class trailer I could see Abbi was sitting at her shared-desk, alone, same makeup, hairstyle & general appearance I had thought about repeatedly over the last couple days. She was drawing pictures on her blue-lined paper, distracting herself from the cold that filled the oddly glowing room.

This... This imagery is so fucking weird.

I smiled slightly trying not to be too obvious and sat down on my chilled metal chair positioned a few seats to the left in front of her. Glancing over, I could see she hadn't moved at all, I felt like she didn't even notice me come in.

You aren’t the center of her world, so yeah, she’s focused on something else. That’s just how it is, asshat.

I wanted to inspire some acknowledgment of my existence from Abbi so I opened my mouth to greet her when my fingers brushed up against freshly smeared gum under my desk. "Eeew!" I shouted out on impulse. She looked up at me with a blank expression.

I’ve accidentally touched gum on the bottom of my desk before, as I can imagine everyone has, but I’ve never shouted about it like a lunatic.

Bursting into the room came a group of boys. "Dude I think John's done bro!" one of the other boys laughed, saying "Won't see them for a week at least."

Nobody talks like this. Have you ever spoke to another human?

I looked back at Abbi to see she also didn't react to their outburst. Strangely knowing that her apathy was generalized and impersonal gave me comfort.

There needs to be a comma after ‘strangely,’ but whatever.

Her influence on how I felt was obviously dangerous but I didn't care as no matter how fond I was of the idea that I was not of the world, I knew my place and had no real interest in pretending otherwise.

Explain to me how in the hell that’s dangerous.

Jason, one of the boys energetically praising the fight they had just seen, sat in his seat next to Abbi. I smirked watching her shoulders shift away from him. Her body language sent a loud message that she had the same impression of Jason as I did. He was just another moron, placed on this Earth to live his life completely unexamined,

That word is not used properly in that sentence.

a pawn that had no awareness of its own role let alone that it was just another tiny component within a massive unstoppably twisted game.

Shut your pretentious mouth because that doesn’t make any goddamn fucking sense.

I know it sounds morbid and condescending but my attitude was just something that naturally developed the more I studied human behavior.

Bullshit.

I would be more optimistic but I find doing so would be like walking into a room with no windows and turning out the light. If you refuse to see the world around you for what it is you're just wasting your eyes.

Being optimistic means looking on the good side of things. You’ve heard the glass half empty or half full thing. it’s that. And as someone who jumps between optimism and pessimism, being optimistic isn’t like this at all.

Don’t try to be poetic or funny, Onion. Those are two things that you aren’t.

Art class was about to begin. My teacher, Mrs. Stanley, who looked like she should have retired a ridiculous thirty years ago, approached the front of the room talking about how art is sacred. She also discussed the random object she had us all draw the previous school day and ironically graded it by using her own narrow-minded definition of art.

That isn’t ironic.

I always wondered how teachers could even attempt objectively grading art. Is there any logic behind validating a form of self-expression using a cold black and white mathematical system?

It’s a class where you have to follow the curricula. Shut your damn mouth.

And this is coming from someone who hated her art teacher. But this art teacher was so utterly closed minded that she didn’t accept anyone else’s creative process. She basically told us that if we didn’t follow her process, we weren’t real artists.

"Today I'm going to place you with partners" Mrs. Stanley said as she pulled out sheets of paper outlining our activities to come. "To keep this simple, I'm going to partner you with the person you are currently assigned to share a desk with" she said. I sighed knowing I was bound to be paired up with Alex, a guy I had specifically asked to be seated away from ever since he peed in a jar literally right next to me under our desk, acting like he was so cool for publicly exposing himself while simultaneously urinating.

That... He expected to be treated like he was cool for this?

That’s fucking disgusting.

It happened weeks ago and I still can't figure out what kind of crazy it takes for you to, in the presence of people you barely know but have to see nearly on a daily basis, pee in a jar held in your hand just beneath your desk in the middle of a classroom.

At first when I read this, I thought that the wayit was worded made it sound like Alex forced James to hold the jar while he peed in it, but okay, whatever.

What then? You show it off like you will be praised and accepted as if it were an accomplishment? Alex, despite being borderline mental, was one of my least favorite people to study.

It is actually physically exhausting to read this shit. James is a pretentious asshole.

I couldn't help but feel there was some defect in his mind that invalidated the point of conducting a thorough analysis of him.

This just makes it seem like James has mind reading powers.

He was completely irrelevant when considering the realities of normal human behavior.

Behavior you don’t act according to, you lizard person sociopath.

As I was off on a tangent in my own mind I heard a familiar voice ring out, one that inspired the very same emotion you experience when a song you had forgotten you loved, randomly plays in the background of your daily life. "Can I be paired up with James?" her voice was just as I remembered.

Is this Abbi?

I have a friend who spells her name like this, so I really hate that there’s a character in this shitty book who shares a name with her.

Despite her having not spoken in class in some time, she hadn't changed a note. Abbi had interrupted the teacher just to partner with me, but I asked myself if was it really just to work with me or just to get away from Jason.

Um. Okay.

The teacher, looking irritated but understanding Abbi's discomfort with Jason responded "Alex and Jason, you'll be partners. James, switch seats with Jason" "Thank you!" Abbi said with a slight smile. With a cocky grin Jason stood up and in a comedic fashion smelled his armpit. "Wow, I didn't know I smelled that bad" Jason said as he walked over to sit by Alex.

That isn’t funny and Onion boy isn’t funny.

Approaching Abbi was no doubt a way scarier act in my mind than it was to everyone around me, I felt like my head was burning from the inside out.

That’s a little extreme.

Nevertheless I continued to remind myself that her public outcry to partner with me could have meant nothing. I sat down next to her and did all I could not to turn into a complete dork on her. She reached out and grabbed the project outline that was being passed out. Mrs. Stanley began to read the description of the assignment. "Today you will both be taking something meaningful, but expendable, from your own homes."

If something is meaningful it isn’t expendable. Stop.

Mrs. Stanley looked up and emphasized, "That you own!" then looked back down at her paper. "You will tear those items apart here in class. You will then take those items and, using the adhesives, staples and the strings available in class, find a way to create something new out of those possessions."

That’s actually kind of an interesting idea. But like. Maybe with a cup? I don’t wanna rip apart something I care about.

She looked up and said in a low voice sounding somewhat like Dracula "Two, will become one."

That is unnecessarily creepy. It reads like an innuendo.

Also, what in fresh hell does Dracula’s voice sound like?

Did she say it with a Transylvanian accent? I’m confused.

Jason raised his hand objecting, "All due respect Mrs. Stanley I'm not breaking something of mine for this class."

Jason has the right idea.

She replied putting her hands on her hips, "That's fine Jason. We'll supply you with a toilet paper rolls, we have plenty of extras around here." Jason suddenly looked disturbed and sarcastically spouted "Freaking great!"

Why???

That’s better than ripping apart a t-shirt.

Mrs. Stanley asked, "Are you sure? Your grade shouldn't suffer that much if you two just take Alex's piss jar and tape it to a toilet paper roll. You're already failing this class."

What in the literal fuck?!

You cannot say that to students. No, you can’t say that to anyone.

Jason couldn't believe what she had just said

Same.

and Alex maintained an awkward frozen facial expression with his mouth slightly open in his normal weirdo somewhat robotic fashion.

"Oh my god" Abbi whispered under her breath with a slight smirk. I grinned uncontrollably; just seeing her amused was amazing to me.

That wasn’t really funny, it was just shocking.

I could hear a scream in the back of my mind reminding me my dorkiness and borderline obsession was escaping through my face.

It's not that I couldn't help being in awe of Abbi and basically every little thing she did, I simply didn't want to change how I felt. In a way, she was like your favorite song or book, you could pretend not to like it and in time with the right mental coaching maybe you would sincerely dislike it, but life just felt so much better embracing your condition entirely, letting all your nerdy admiration flow freely.

This just reads like an obsession. I don’t have the energy to actually express how romantic feelings actually feel, but this is terrifying.

Mrs. Stanley continued, "If there's anyone else who has an issue, please take it up with my 1800 number which is?" She put her hand up to the air signaling the students to react but only a couple kids replied aloud with her catch phrase. "1-800-BOO-HOOO" they mumbled.

Sweet Jesus.

So this is what it feels like to lose my mind.

She continued, "Good, now for the rest of class please work with your partner on what you plan to bring and draw up a prototype sketch of what you feel your final piece of art will look like." Mrs. Stanley walked to the back of her room and sat down at her 1950's looking rust-infested desk.

Is this school just a giant health code violation? And what the hell do you mean by ‘1950′s desk?’ All I got when I googled that were pictures of wooden desks.

I would always laugh internally when I looked at the old thing. Maybe it was my way of coping with the fact I attended one of the most run down schools in the state.

I have nothing that isn’t full of curse words and fact checking to say here.

"What are you going to bring James?" Abbi asked.

This sentence is put so Abbi looks like she’s asking if James is going to bring himself without the comma after the word ‘bring.’ Did Onion really not edit his book at all? These are simple and fixable grammatical mistakes.

It was amazing hearing my name pass her lips but I had no time to think, if I didn't respond right away she would think I was totally awkward. "I... have no idea..." I responded. Smiling she said, "I'm going to bring my hamster cage", I asked, "Did he die or something?" she laughed, "No, I never got one, the cage was just a gift from my dad."

But you’re supposed to cut it up.

Hamster cages are made of metal.

Does Abbi just have superhuman strength? Is she going to bring a pair of bolt cutters?

"Your dad didn't get you a hamster... for the cage?" I asked.

My question exactly.

Sometimes you just...

You just gotta give your daughter a hamster cage but no hamster.

She paused and started to lose her smile.

Oh fabulous, she’s one of those characters.

At the first sign of her smile fading I felt a crushing pressure in my chest. "Hopefully you can find something that will work with that," she said. I couldn't help but feel like a total jerk despite not even knowing what I did wrong.

That interaction was so... Weird? Robotic? i don’t know. Something felt wrong about it.

I had the overwhelming urge to fix how she felt so I took a gamble, "Well, I could always bring that weird vibrating thing my mom hides in her drawers all wrapped up in a cloth" I said.

What is wrong with you?

I cannot fathom what made Onion think this joke was funny.

She busted out laughing hysterically as a huge grinned filled my face. I was so happy I could get her to smile again. "Eeew! James!" she continued to laugh as the extent of my grin began to stress my cheeks. I couldn't remember a time when I was this obvious about how I felt.

This... Something is wrong with just... all the dialogue.

And with the formatting. You make a new paragraph when someone starts talking. A 34 year old man should know this. He writes like me when I first started writing, and while this probably means he just started writing, I was 11 years old when I wrote like this.

He is a 34 year old adult. There is no excuse for how bad this formatting and how generally terribly written these interactions are.

Abbi's laughing trailed off and she paused. Turning to me she said, "You... you didn't actu- ally... your moms?"

*Pained groaning.*

I responded, "No, I wouldn't know about that, but I'm glad it made you laugh." She responded, returning to a soft laugh "You're more goofy than I thought James." I sat next to her looking at my fingers interlaced in front of me; my wide smile relaxed but still filled my cheeks with warmth.

This entire chapter, everything here, is so awkwardly written.

As class came to a close Abbi patted me on my arm. I turned and she handed me a note. Instinctively I put it in my pocket and said "See ya tomorrow", she just smiled and walked away.

????

On my way to my next class, I opened the note. I didn't understand why, but it read "NISEONE."

Not knowing what to make of it and with little time, I stuffed it back in my pocket to look over later.

Yeah, that’s cryptic as hell.

Not feeling like skating home,

Oh, we’re really getting into edgy 2000′s shit now.

I got on the bus to see all the normal rejects and misfits waiting. Davis, a short and scrawny kid who had been my best friend since middle school despite being one grade behind me excitedly waved me over.

Oh, good, more terrible characters.

"James! Nice to seeeee you!"

Oh, this bitch needs to die.

he said in seemingly the dorkiest way possible. I smiled as he stood up giving me the window seat, knowing very well by then that I preferred it.

Um. Okay.

As I sat down I began looking out the window, analyzing the little humans running left and right to get on their busses.

Buses*

And I am going to eventually kick your ass for this pretentious bullshit.

Something reached out and caught the corner of my eye. I immediately shifted my head to see what it was and quickly realized it was Abbi standing in the parking lot by some beat-up sedan.

"What'cha looking at James?" Davis asked. Without hesitation I began to respond, "Oh, it's Abbi, she's in my art..." my heart sank as I witnessed a boy I barely knew, named Seth, walk up and kiss Abbi on the lips.

Oh, boo fucking hoo. Get over the fact that she has a life outside of your crush on her.

"James?" Davis said, but by that point his voice was a faint echo in the darkness my mind instantaneously lost itself in. I felt like after a life of numbness I was finally about to truly feel warmth for the first time only to have it all taken away in an instant, leaving me hopeless in the shadows, alone once again.

Cry me a goddamn river.

You angsty pretentious idiot.

Don’t give me angsty word salad about how sad this makes you, I don’t actually care at all.

I looked down at my knees feeling as if I lost all muscle control in my neck.

That isn’t a thing that happens ever when someone is upset.

"Are... you ok?" Davis asked. I responded with hesitation "...I'm... just stupid."

You spoke to her once, you fucking dumbass.

"No you're not. You're one of the coolest guys I know!" Davis replied. I continued my silence as he offered words of encouragement. "Okie dokie, well, you're awesome and should be super happy so if you want to talk, I'm your buddy so... so I'm here to talk."

That’s uh, nice of him.

But the way he’s talking sounds like... almost mechanical? All he’s done since he was introduced has been compliment James.

I was too focused on the con- flict raging in my mind to hear anyone at that point. I couldn't think about anything but Seth kissing Abbi the entire trip home.

Oh, get the fuck over it.

That night my mom was literally just serving lentil beans she prepared on her crock-pot for the billionth time, a fair exaggeration but still, it was excessive to say the least. My sister was behaving as she usually did at the dinner table, talking about how stupid she thought school was and how she couldn't wait for college. "How was work mom?"

I mean, I’m also tired of high school. I’m really done with judge-y teenagers.

I asked trying to keep my mind off the haunting images looping in my mind.

YOU HAVE HAD ONE FUCKING CONVERSATION WITH HER. CRY ME A FUCKING RIVER, YOU BITCH.

Any normal person would express disappointment over the fact that a person they like has a boyfriend or girlfriend or partner in general, not go into a damn depression about it.

"Well, no one at work respects me or listens to me and I generally can't stand it, but you know, we still have food on the table" she said in a stern tone.

That

That is weirdly passive aggressive and mechanical.

My sister barked as food flew out of her mouth, "Well at least it's not high school. I'm learning how to be a successful person from a bunch of low-income losers."

Oh, I guess bitching runs in the family.

My mom replied "Whatever your teachers are, they have full-time jobs, which is more than a lot of people can say." My mom gave my sister Lisa a disap- pointed look. Lisa was well known for showing little respect for hard-working people. To her it didn't matter how much you gave back to society, it only mattered how much money you made.

That’s a very black and white way to look at things.

After the rerun of lentil soup I washed the dishes per my mom's orders and headed to the shower. I sat on the floor of the tub thinking about Abbi, barely feeling the water as it hit my chest.

Sat on the floor... while water hits your chest? Are you like sitting with your back arched so the water can hit your chest?

This imagery is so odd.

I was so consumed with what I had seen that I had completely forgotten the note until that moment. I quickly reached over to my pants resting on the toilette.

Why the fuck did you spell toilet like that?

That’s literally the word for ‘toilet’ but in French. It isn’t a spelling used in English. It just makes you sound even more pretentious.

Also, he reached over to the toilet to grab the note from his pants while he’s in the shower?

It’s gonna get wet, you idiot.

I had hoped I read it wrong the first time and that it would make sense with a second look only to see it read exactly what I gathered in my initial passing glance. "NISEONE"

I fucking hate you, Onion.

This literally looks like you scrambled your screen name up.

Die.

In a fire.

I mumbled to myself. I joked with the idea in my head that she handed me the wrong note but still assumed it wasn't a failed attempt to say "Nice one," which could be taken as a compliment if you were desperate enough.

That joke, while just a little funnier, is still fucking lame.

Seconds into looking at the note my eyes widened, having figured out what it meant, I jumped up slipping to my feet and screamed "YEAH!!!" I had cracked it, only to immediately after feel completely stupid for not having figured it out sooner.

I’m just done functioning.

My mom screamed through the door from her bedroom "WHAT?" I responded "Sorry! Nothing!" I hurried to finish showering.

I’d just assume he got really into jerking off.

I’ll see myself out.

Staring at my phone wearing only a towel, I smiled as I typed in "NISEONE" or "647-3663" into the number keys.

That is the most cryptic and strange way to give someone your phone number.

I assumed we shared the same area code otherwise she likely would have given me a longer sequence of letters and I was right. After two rings I got an answer.
"What do you want?" a disgruntled man's voice asked.

This... This girl gave this guy a home phone number?

I guess that’s fine since this is probably set in the early 2000′s, but it’s still odd.

Like a bad engine struggling to start in a monster movie I clumsily belted out a response "I... uh... I was looking for..." An unenthusiastic female voice in the background said, "Give me the phone." "Whatever" he said dropping phone in front of her.

James can apparently see through the phone, or he wouldn’t know that probably Abbi’s dad did this.

"Hello?" I could recognize the voice now it was Abbi.

Trying to hide my excitement by maintaining a normal tone I said, "This is James." Abbi excitedly screamed

Like how girls screamed in Disney Channel shows?

That’s ridiculous.

and responded "Oh my god you figured it out!" Hearing her optimistic tone I laughed saying, "So... why..." She interrupted. "I was hoping to find out if you figured out what you're bringing to art class."

Why the hell didn’t you just fucking ask? Or give him your regular phone number? This is just unnecessarily complicated.

I said "Oh!" and looked quickly around my room. I couldn't see anything immediately so I just said, "I'll... surprise you!" She then replied "Oh come on, tell me." My eyes locked on to a plausible item for the project. "How about my... bear... I'll bring my bear!"

You’re okay with destroying a teddy bear? Okay, I guess.

I said. She replied "Oh, ok, oh! I have an idea. Instead of the cage, I'll bring in a stuffed animal of mine and we'll make like, a zombie bear."

Sounds fine.

I don’t care.

You guys are fucking boring.

I laughed "Awesome" I said. "Ok, I'll see you tomorrow ok?" she replied happily. I answered "Ok, byeee."

I would appreciate it if you would fuck off.

I can’t believe this shit is on GoodReads.

Just before she hung up I could still hear her laughing, leaving me with a sense of accomplishment and a lasting smile as if it were painted across my face.

That’s the end of chapter one?

Oh god, okay.

That was.

Terrible.

The characters are bland and flavorless and I cannot get attached to any of them. I can already tell I’m going to completely despise this.

I’ll see you next time. I need to go think about my life.

~Kat

[bapydemonprincess]

ALL HEADCANONS FOR AMBROSE!!

☾ - sleep headcanon

Ambrose is definitely an insomniac, and that doesn’t just magically change cause he has a boyfriend :( But when he does finally sleep, he feels much safer now in Eddie’s arms than when he was alone for years and years.

★ - sad headcanon

There were times when Ambrose has almost reached a point of wanting to see if becoming a reaper might just be better than being stuck here struggling as a human the rest of his life. :( It’s a good thing he found that book when he did cause who knows..

☆ - happy headcanon

Despite hating being a human himself, Ambrose enjoys people-watching and observing human life in general. (Much like how a demon would likely be) it kind of strangely soothes him to see the world revolve around him.

☠ - angry/violent headcanon

Ambrose is usually too uncaring to get TOO riled up, but when challenged to a fight by reapers Grelle or Knox, Ambrose may sometimes do the opposite and get TOO riled up, to the point of needing to be dragged away and calmed down before he gets himSELF hurt.

✿ - Sex headcanon

At the point of meeting and getting together with Eddie, Ambrose is VERY experienced sexually, even for his age. He knows a few rather kinky moves that he knows he can’t quite do with Eddie yet. And some hobbies with rope binding and handcuffs, as well as sometimes liking to be dominated and hurt in various ways (like with knives or a whip) by said dominator. >:) So yes, you could say raven boy is a switch, if you will. ;)

■ -  Bedroom/house/living quarters headcanon

Ambrose may have seemed like he was good at keeping things tidy at home with his family, but once he got his own place, he really started slacking off to the point of almost uncaring... :( The only place that does stay clean is his bedroom mostly, out of pride for not wanting to get all his possessions dirty! However, thankfully, Eddie helps him clean house when the two are living together now!

♡ - romantic headcanon

Ambrose is entirely an amateur when it comes to romance compared to his sexual finesse. He’s so used to only keeping things strictly business that it’s hard! But there is some romantic notions that do shine through, such as reciting poetry to Eddie and taking them on long walks, being more patient and gentle with the sweet demon, and instantly and instinctively gravitating towards whispering sweet nothings, complimenting them, and giving them ALL THE PET NAMES HE KNOWS. 🖤🖤🖤

♥ - family headcanon

Obviously with most of Ambrose’s family he seems completely cold and uninterested most times, however... somehow... Hannah of all people, is a favorite to go to when he needs to escape and talk about how he feels, DESPITE the fact that she was the one to take his demon powers..

☮ - friendship headcanon

Before Eddie, Ambrose’s only friends were either cats or... surprisingly.. RONALD KNOX. The older male picked on him a lot as a child and never really relented, however at some point, Ambrose grew strong and bold enough to FIGHT BACK, and the two started getting into all out BRAWLS. Just with fists! Of course, at first this lead to Sebastian wishing to intervene, but low and behold the demon mother discovered something baffling. These fights actually helped Ambrose feel BETTER. He would actually start grinning as he and Ronald threw blows, and the reaper himself wasn’t REALLY actually giving it HIS ALL in the fight. Not really. Sebastian would know, after all. So it became clear that the two had found.. something akin to a friendship, Sebastian supposed. 

♦ - quirks/hobbies headcanon

Reading ALL THE BOOKS, observing, writing in journals and trying occasionally sketch things too. Playing the piano (at his own place its a keyboard but still), and just getting lost in his own mind..

☯ - likes/dislikes headcanon

Likes peace and quiet, rainy days or snow days, losing himself in music that ranges from classical to heavy metal. Dislikes crowds and lots of people talking over each other, having to wait in lines, when people stare at him. (He WILL STARE BACK)

▼ - childhood headcanon

Ambrose was very reclusive as a child. He would stay in his room on hours on end, avoiding everyone and everything, sometimes even ignoring the need to eat. :( If he was forced to come out he would cause a ruckus in most cases and have a tantrum, or go silent and refuse to answer anything. It was definitely difficult for his short tempered mum, but Agni had the patience of a saint, of course, and if it hadn’t been for Agni being there all those times, things would’ve certainly become disastrous. 

∇ -. old age/aging headcanon

Knowing now that he will be able to turn into a demon at the end of his natural lifespan, Ambrose learns to really calm down and find peace, being okay with aging now. 

♒ - cooking/food headcanon

Ambrose just CAN’T COOK. XD before Eddie while living on his own, he’d usually order out, go to a bar and not really eat just DRINK, or just not eat at all. :(

☼ - appearance headcanon

As he ages, Ambrose loves just letting his hair keep growing! He loves having long hair and he honestly doesn’t mind putting it up or having it played with as well. He always wears the same kinda attire. Snazzy long black coats or short dress jackets, sometimes black turtlenecks, sometimes black button up shirts. He likes simple black dress shoes and black pants, though sometimes when trying to actually impress (ahem with his physique 👀 ) he’ll wear TIGHTER black pants.~

ൠ - random headcanon

Despite enjoying the company of all of the family’s cats, one puny little black beauty caught Ambrose’s eyes the most. Sebastian explained she was very malnourished and it was a brief time of understanding where both mum and son worked together to revive the poor thing’s health. This little beauty became Ambrose’s “Lenore”.. and she lived a very long time, happily, though sometimes a bit lonely as her boy would go out and leave her... and one day she simply passed on. It was a very very dark day, and Ambrose never really took in another cat again after that. Not wanting the same thing to ever happen again. He always mourns his lovely lost Lenore. 🖤

[happymetalgirl]

Lindemann - F & M

The surprising part is not Rammstein’s Till Lindemann and Swedish Renaissance man Peter Tätgren releasing another album together after the two minds met on 2015’s debaucherous Skills in Pills; it’s that the duo’s sophomore collaboration together coincided with Rammstein’s return from their ten-year silence this year. It’s not the wildest thing in the world for the two releases to come out the same year, but I just wasn’t expecting it with how much Rammstein was clearly putting into their self-titled album this year. And I don’t just bring this up for the mere statistical content; it will come up later.

While this project (Lindemann) is a duo on paper, and while Per Tätgren’s instrumental talents drive that front of the duo’s music, Lindemann, as its being named only after the Rammstein frontman, is more of a solo project in spirit, with Tätgren serving his usual purpose as a hired gun to help Till Lindemann achieve his artistic vision. Much like how his Rammstein compatriot Richard Kruspe had chosen to do on his side project, Emmigrate, Till Lindemann sang entirely in English on his solo project’s debut record, Skills in Pills, for which the Rammstein frontman had clear artistic reasons. While not shy about taboo or uneasy topics in Rammstein’s music, Till Lindemann’s poetic talent has given extra artistic depth and creativity to the band’s approach to such challenging subjects, their fearlessness to write songs about the most uncomfortable of topics becoming a big part of their notoriety and identity, and their singer’s astute wordsmithery allowing them to do so beyond mere shock value. With Skills in Pills though, the Rammstein singer wanted to express himself and his promiscuous side more personally and in primal honesty. The songs on the album generally revolve around sex and Till Lindemann’s personal experiences and fantasies. And the readily understandable and more upfront English lyricism (in comparison to his German lyricism) really highlights the primal lust within the various songs, with songs like “Fat”, “Ladyboy”, and “Golden Shower” being pretty self-explanatory by their titles alone. It’s an album that really captures that overwhelming urge of being really horny for something and just being like “ugggggghhhh, I just wanna fuckin’ get pissed on right now! AAAAGGGHH!!!”. While that’s not my thing, I get the feeling. There’s no song about eating ass, though, which is a travesty. But I’m sure someday we’ll get a Rammstein song about eating ass. The highlight of the album though, is probably the morbidly comical “Praise Abort”, on which Lindemann complains about having too many damn children because he only has sex without a condom and is jealous of all his friends who can indulge themselves rather than some thankless offspring. Musically, the album isn’t too far off from the industrial metal the German’s main band makes, though with a focus more on rocking grooves rather than crushing metallic power.

On F & M, standing for “Frau und Mann” (man and woman), Lindemann returns to writing in German, which does see a return in lyrical complexity and creativity, but not as consistently as it was on Rammstein’s album earlier this year. The album starts out with the invigorated arena chugging of “Steh auf” (Stand up), whose chorus’ emboldened call to get up out of bed is given some foreboding eight-string treatment by Tätgren. The speaker of the song is eventually revealed to be not just Lindemann urging us to get off our asses, but a character in a much darker tale, a child begging their wasted or perhaps even fatally overdosed mother to get up and take them to the circus. It’s a fucking grim piece of poetry in the same vein as “Puppe” off the self-titled Rammstein album, another testament to Till Lindemann’s ability as a compelling poetic storyteller of the most ghastly variety.

At its best, the album is full of the kind of poetically insightful and captivating writing that Rammstein is known for, and with the powerful instrumentation to back it up. And while it peaks early with “Steh auf”, there are plenty of worthy tracks on F & M that seem to have been written in a similar mindest to what much of Rammstein seemed to have been written in. “Allesfresser” (German for omnivore) is another synthy, dancy, and unsettling banger about insatiable consumption that at first seems to just be about plain old indiscriminate gluttony, but the song seems to be about relating that to overconsumption on a larger scale, humankind eating up everything in the world carelessly and to the sound of music as a representation of our distracted obliviousness to the effects of it.

The industrial metal banger “Gummi” (rubber), about a latex suit fetish, both sounds and reads like something that would have been right at home on Skills in Pills, while the similarly BDSM-motifed song “Knebel” (meaning “gag”) is this kind of comedically pathetic, poetic, woeful, and intentionally surface-level meditation on the general struggles of life (by a speaker who seems like the archetype of a frustrated disenfranchised man with ample privilege) over some bare acoustic folk instrumentation interspersed with this expression of loving “you” with a gag in mouth, which seems more about this kind of person actively silencing anyone wanting to interject their own perspective into his masturbatory meditations on destiny and the hardness of life, which explodes suddenly into a metallic tantrum of “I hate you.” All in all, pretty funny (or maddening) song depending on how you look at it. In a similar vein, “Ach so gern” is another accordion-laced, campy, café-folky ballad about a womanizer recounting in seemingly increasing insecurity his pushy sexual conquests. The kitschy tone of the song leads me to believe that this character is being made fun of, but it is hard to read that in the lyrics’ portrait alone.

Another tongue-in-cheek cut, the choir-backed industrial rocker “Platz Einz” seems to be a similarly silly portrait of deluded overcompensation about the egotistical, autofelatiolic attitude of a bigtime music star. The cleverness of the song is in the tone of course, and the bombastic production certainly helps out with that, though it’s such a closely performed piece of acting that it’s uncanny distastefulness makes it a not so fun song to listen to, which might be kind of the point.

The song the album’s title is derived from “Frau & Mann” simply lists a whole bunch of opposites as if to point out how silly the reductiveness of everything into binaries is, leaving the inclusion of man and woman in that list to be, well... I don’t think I need to spell it out. While I appreciate the lyrical concept of breaking down gender binaries, the song musically is kind of bland and features this kooky “ay ay ay!” sort of chant that I just can’t take seriously, but maybe that’s also part of the point.

The album is not without its flatter moments though, songs that feels like they might have been odds and ends or unfinished projects from Rammstein’s most recent recording sessions, as they sound similar in tone and structure despite Peter Tätgren’s embellishments. The second track “Ich Weiß es Nicht” is a more industrially heavy, yet also dancy, track about the confusing haze of amnesia, not the most lyrically or musically creative track on the album. The song “Blut” is a big choir-backed lament seemingly about self-harm in the form of cutting or even suicide. The lyrics are kind of vague and romantic, but it’s possible there’s something I’m missing in the tone of it all since I’m not a native speaker. “Schlaf ein” is probably the most underwhelming song on the album, a kind of cheesy orchestral piano lullaby, not really doing anything at all musically exciting or lyrically interesting. It sounds like a generic part of a kid’s movie soundtrack and the flowery imagery is nothing new for Till Lindemann, who is punching quite below his weight on this one.

On a more mixed note, while the shoulder-shrugging lyrics of the closing string-laden ballad don’t really do much for me, the gradual swells of the instrumentation and Till Lindemann’s vocal performance over it are enough to make up for it.

It can’t be said for certain, but for better and for worse, much of F & M seems to be made up of leftovers from the latest cranking of Rammstein’s creative mill, tracks that might have been made into B-sides on that album. There are some bright highlights that would have sounded great on that album in place of other tracks, but perhaps deemed too thematically redundant, like Till Lindemann had the choice to include either “Puppe” or “Steh auf” on Rammstein’s seventh album and ultimately went with “Puppe”. And despite its several eccentric moments and arguably more consistent composition, F & M lacks that flamboyant character that Skills in Pills had, and it seems more like a decent Rammstein leftovers album than a Lindemann solo album.

I’ll still take it/10

[oldhector]

a big sad drabble!

word count: 3378 content: it’s amazing what one can find in london’s museums, but the surprises aren’t always pleasant ones. an esteemed author is forced to remember a time he’d almost forgotten, many years ago.

Matthew Purcell was an English professor in Washington DC. He’d just published a suddenly successful paper on language in poetry, creating ripples in the literature circles just as the turn of the century was taking place. Innovations in all fields were taking place, and the 19th century promised to be a good one. In both human ingenuity, and his own disposition. Matthew finally felt like he was doing something worthwhile again.

Matthew’s paper, however, didn’t fit into the grand innovations category as far as he was concerned. It was formatted to excellence and painstakingly written, but fairly empty, in his opinion. It really wasn’t particularly profound, simply citing other authors making valid points on the subject, and furthering (or questioning) their discussions. His central argument was how language and the proper use of it could make or break an aspiring author (in any profession), and that sometimes the content didn’t even matter. Perhaps the fact that it had done so well was an experiment in itself.  How amusing. 

Nevertheless, he was contacted by several universities in England to come and give a talk on it. Who was he to refuse an expenses paid holiday? Matthew was due for a change of character anyway, his colleagues and friends had started to notice that he really wasn’t ageing. He’d do these talks, then die in a traffic accident, bribe a morgue owner, and start afresh somewhere new. It was a shame, he’d loved the writing. Maybe he could continue under a new alias and put his paper’s idea to the test. Could he go back to being Hector yet? He didn’t mind new names, but he preferred keeping his original, given name. It felt more like he was still himself that way.

The journey was as enjoyable as it could have been, given the cooler time of year, and he spent three days on arrival sleeping. He’d lost his sea legs, it seemed. On the third day, after a sound breakfast, Matthew decided to take a stroll down to the museum. It wasn’t four blocks away, and the weather was fine. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Birds sung as they always had, the clouds hurried by as they always had.

Matthew always liked to visit the ancient Greek section first. He’d do the exhibits in chronological order if he could, and take time looking at the bits and pieces from everyday life that modern historians found interesting. There would always be something new to appreciate about things he’d taken for granted when they were contemporary. While he enjoyed that aspect of it, looking at remnants of the past often brought memories back. Sometimes they’d flicker behind his eyes and be gone in an instant, he’d need only blink to forget the face of the dying friend once relying on a helmet like the one behind glass. Other times he’d see a toy and imagine that he’d given something similar to a daughter of his at some point in time. He’d imagine the face of someone who looked too specific to have been made up, but the names escaped him. People and scenes would appear in a mist that dissipated if he focused on it. Any memory recall stronger than that would create an ache he could only wait out.

However much he liked them, museums gave him a headache more often than not, but he knew it was important to remember the past. To remember who he’d been in the lifetimes before. He hadn’t always had the wealth he had now, nor the opportunities. It was important to stay humble. That much, he had learnt the hard way. And people really were wonderful, weren’t they? Idolising simple objects from the past as something glorious simply because it had survived through the years. Matthew should have felt proud to stand on the other side of the glass, despite very much deserving being encased.

Pottery. Beads. Rusted sword fragments. Statuettes. Funerary offerings, which still felt a little dirty to have been removed. Matthew tried to distance himself from his old religion once again because it haunted him with a little worry, a little voice saying that Hades would be pissed. It had been nearly two-thousand years since he’d worshipped those gods, after all. But he passed with polite interest. Occasionally his brow would draw closer as another flash of memory showed its face, but he tried to stay relaxed. It wasn’t unpleasant to remember.

That was when he noticed it, out of the corner of his eye. Maybe Matthew had been searching for it all along, and subconsciously inspected every funerary monument in the hopes that he’d see the one he’d lost. This one was the lowest on display - metal rods gripped the marble and held it in place right at the bottom. No glass sheltered this one. The marble had worn a little around the edges, but the faces looked remarkable given the stele’s age. Matthew had been wrong before -- found himself almost convinced that he was looking at the funerary monument that he’d made for his family after their death, but... this was something else. Matthew crumbled to his knees, stinging eyes taking in as many details as they could. He tried to remember what he’d had made all those years ago, but it was still hazy. Three men and a woman occupied the allotted space. All adults. One of the men had his arm wrapped around the woman, another stood behind her, and the last on her left.

And just like that, Matthew wasn’t Matthew anymore, he was Hector. He wasn’t some American author, but a man with more stitches than substance on that old heart of his. A man who couldn’t die, cursed with longevity. If only his life had been as simple as the story cooked up this time around. If only he’d spent his 45 years with his nose in the books, a widower with no children to show for the marriage. Alas, this wasn’t the case. He felt all his years accumulate in a fist that punched him in the gut. This funerary stele was too familiar. The suit felt tight on his thighs, tight on his shoulders and back, it felt strange all of a sudden. Constricting. Untrue to himself. He wanted his bow and arrow, he wanted his tunic and his robes. 

Desperate eyes read a faded, and fragmentary in parts inscription. As he read, he made sense of the missing letters. The Greek translated instantly without a moment’s falter. This was his family’s monument. It had been recovered. The words read in full:

TO STRONG DIOKLES, KIND MATEO, BRAVE SONS TO HECTOR OF SPARTA, YOU LIGHT THE WAY THOUGH YOU ARE GONE.

Thank the gods that he was by himself in this gallery, not that Hector was in the least aware of his surroundings, but he was crying. The building could be falling to pieces and he’d still be stuck in this void. Breathlessness. Amazement. Sorrow. Pure, untainted grief. His body felt heavy and slow. He couldn’t recall the last time he felt such strong emotion. It was awful, but humanising. Hector felt real. He was flooded by memories of the loved ones he’d lost long ago, and flashes of memory were brought to his mind in such fresh, quick succession that they might have died two years ago, not two thousand. The rest of the inscription came to mind, but he had to pause before he could finish it. His chest might split if he didn’t. So he bowed his head, scrunching his eyes shut. Was he happy that he’d found it, or grieved to remember? When he could, he read on:

TO ACHELOIS. MY LOVE, I WILL MISS YOU FOR ETERNITY.

Hector couldn’t take it anymore. Though his hand clasped firmly across his mouth, strangled sobs still echoed in the lonely gallery. He tried to contain himself. He tried to recover, but the longer he stared -- and he couldn’t look away -- the quicker tears sprung to his eyes. Within moments, he was sobbing. His throat closed up, trying to weep a little quieter, but anyone would be able to hear him now. He didn’t care. He reached out with his free hand to brush shaking fingers across the words, the faces. He wouldn’t touch any old monument, but this was HIS property. HIS, by RIGHT. God, he couldn’t believe that he was able to touch it again.

His hands guided the way from words to the figures. He’d almost been afraid to look at them too closely lest the memories take him away. He couldn’t see. He brushed the tears away roughly but more poured. Hector pulled the collar of his jacket up to press into his face and he took a moment to breathe. Unsurprisingly, the peace wasn’t strong enough to withstand setting eyes on his grave marker again. He’d included himself, he remembered vividly thinking, because the true Hector of Sparta died with his immediate family. The man who lived beyond that was a ghost.

Attention drew to man at the right of the funerary stele. He was only fractionally shorter than the other men, with a ground-touching cloak wrapped around his person. He held a staff, or was it a spear, with the top so badly scratched that he couldn’t tell? His expression was softer, with short curly hair and a short curly beard. Mateo. He used to talk about how incredible politics were in Athens, even though he was Spartan. He never believed in the Spartan way, and though Hector wasn’t present for it, Mateo had apparently kicked up a fuss at being called to fight against Athens in the war. Hector lived with Mateo until he too died, but he was older then. They’d talk for hours about the heaviest subjects, never fearing to offend the other because every argument could be talked through. True intellectual equals, but Hector would always say that Mateo was cleverer than his father. He’d made him so proud.

The man who stood in the back was the tallest. Diokles, the first-born son. He wore armour, standing proudly and protectively over his family. Diokles had been such a good child, the most obedient and strong son anyone could ask for. The man calling himself Matthew could remember a scene in a soul-encasing memory. He’d walked into his house to find his mother telling Diokles false accounts. He couldn’t remember the details, but Gaia was trying to paint the image of Diokles’ doting father as some kind of violent killer. Whatever had been said, Diokles looked terrified when Hector returned. Infuriated, he had packed her things and sent her away. He’d kicked his own mother out of the house. Not before, if he could remember correctly, she’d smacked him across the face. But she’d done it outside, away from view. It didn’t matter. When he got back inside, Diokles was practically cowering. He had to be coaxed from the corner, like some kind of frightened kitten. Was he really so threatening? 

Diokles was never scared after that. Hector never struck his family, and barely ever raised his voice. Certainly not in the way Gaia had been suggesting - cruel woman! Had she believed that Spartan boys ought to fear their fathers? Yes... thinking about it, that would make sense to her. The memory ended with his son kissing his cheek. Hector was a killer, but the world was different then. Still swept away in himself, he reached shaking fingers out to stroke the marble carved into his son’s face. Cold, unmoving. Hector had almost been expecting soft warmth. Diokles was fair, and trustworthy. Hector wasn’t able to get to know him much as an adult as he had died fairly young, but he was level-headed in the most necessary of times. The memory subsided, and before he could picture the colour of his son’s eyes, they were lost once again to history.

The woman was smaller than the others, and the sharp angle of her diamond chin was perfectly shown in her front-facing angle. Her stare was regal and controlling, and to coin a phrase not yet known in the Greek world at this time, she was truly the mater familias. She ran the household. She gave the orders. Better suited to be a queen than a mercenary’s wife, Achelois was intelligent as Athene, sneaky as Hera, and far more beautiful than Aphrodite herself. Her curly hair fell to her shoulders, partially tied up at the back, with a band around her forehead. She had a sharp nose, perfectly distanced eyes, and a joke always on her lips. Her draping dress was clasped at both collar-bones, though Hector tended to prefer to on the floor. She still looked beautiful, if lifeless now. Of course she was lifeless now. 

Seeing her face again just about broke his heart. His hands dropped to his lap. Tears stole his vision. Hector couldn’t help the loud sobs now, lungs gasping for air. He longed for something that they’d touched, for them to feel close again. He wrapped his arms around his middle. 

They’d all held him. 

Diokles had been a boy, it was before Hector had come into contact with what turned him immortal. This was the last time he’d hugged his father, before Hector left to fight in the war. He’d been just a man and his son, bidding each other farewell. When they met as adults, Diokles never believed that Hector was his father. He was too young to be, so he’d said. There was no convincing him. Though it made his chest ache, Hector had always been impressed at his unwavering loyalty. How sad that he’d never been able to hold his first born child again. They never even got to say goodbye. Did Diokles know how much he was loved?

Achelois had wrapped her arms around him first when they were children; she was his first true friend. She’d always been a firm believer in hugs -- but she’d never hold the other boys close. It was always Hector, even when he wasn’t there. Hector had been so lucky to have known such a woman. He cried ever harder at the thought of her death. She was so old, and tired, and she’d told him not to weep. But he had been. He couldn’t help it. The world had never quite looked the same since she died. How he’d prayed that he could die with her! How he’d cursed the gods!

Mateo had been there for Hector after Achelois died. He’d welcomed him into his house at first not quite believing it, but he eventually came round. It would have been wretched if Mateo had abandoned him too. But he hadn’t. In fact, Mateo let Hector live with him until he was nothing more than ashes himself. How he’d loved his boys and his best friend. It was difficult to feel grateful to have known them when faced with the tragedy of out-living them.

It was only a matter of time until someone found him. Footsteps. Hector untangled from around himself and pressed one hand against the floor. He was trying to stand, but no muscle in his body would cooperate. Voices. It was a man’s -- deep and unsettling -- in his ear as he felt himself hoisted up off the ground. Hector had almost been calm now, save for the face drenched in sorrow, but the touch startled him. He tore himself free once he found his footing and put distance between them. He heard himself shouting, but couldn’t tell what he was saying. Was he even speaking English? It was like the present was a distant memory that he couldn’t quite locate.

Another pair of hands gripped his right bicep, and the first man lunged forward to take his left arm. Voices were muffled. He could feel his throat tense and strain as if he was screaming. Maybe he was.

Suddenly, a man started speaking in Greek. Hector’s painful eyes scanned for where it was coming from, and for a second, he thought he saw Mateo standing nearby. A man of average build with a cloak around his shoulders, short hair, and a beard, was asking him what was wrong. In Greek. The vision of Mateo faded, and the hair atop this man’s head faded too. He was much older than Mateo ever was, but he looked kind and fair. He motioned to an open door. Hector’s throat relaxed. He hung his head, dragging his feet behind him. Exhausted.

They took him to one of the offices attached to the classics division. Brandy was poured, a cigarette was lit, and a doctor was called. Hector could only sit stock still on the sofa with a shawl around his shoulders. The old man continued speaking Greek to him, but as Hector came round, he finally was able to tell him that English was fine too. Preferable, even.

“Please cancel the doctor, sir,” Hector pleaded once he’d finished his drink. “I’m-- I’m alright. I just received some news that took me by surprise.”

“Whatever could it have been, my boy, to put you in such a state?” He replied gruffly. “And the Greek? You sound American to me. Are you quite well?”

“Greek-- it’s my first language, but I studied in America. I, uh...” he sat back in his seat. This had drained him, he wanted to sleep for another few days. Letting the shawl slip from his shoulders, he raised his hands to rub down his face. God, his eyes ached. “My family-- they’re dead. Please don’t have me explain, I don’t trust that I won’t return to my hysteria.”

The professor nodded, but Hector had his hands over his eyes at the time and missed it. “The doctor shall come. A respectable man doesn’t lose himself like that in public, even in the face of loss. Stiff upper lip.”

Hector’s hands lifted from his face only to send a venomous glare to his company. What a ridiculous thing to say. Imagine if he had recently been bereaved; his whole family stolen from him in one fateful morning. If that had been the case, Hector didn’t count on being able to control his anger. But as it was, he knew there was distance between him and his loss. This loss, anyway. The professor had more of a point than he realised. So his fury dissipated and he let out a sigh, pushing himself off the couch and onto his feet.

“Thank you for your hospitality.” Hector let the old soldier in him take over. He stood tall, chin high, with a voice as strong (if croaky) as any. “I’ll shoulder any embarrassment this may have caused you, and donate accordingly. I let my emotions get the better of me, and I sincerely apologise.”

The professor insisted that he stay at least for the doctor, so out of respect, Hector did. The doctor didn’t have anything revolutionary to say when he did finally arrive. Simply ordered an early night and asked if he’d had a stiff drink yet. He had, so the doctor was satisfied. 

Hector left as soon as he could. He was glad for the old man’s kindness, but also his bluntness. Had he not been curt, Hector might still be stuck in his head. But now, as overwhelmed by pain as he still felt, he knew he could make it back to his hotel without a scene. Sturdy as he seemed now, he still couldn’t bring himself to pass through the gallery again. He felt nauseous, hollow. Alone. His jacket couldn’t protect him against the bleak cold he now felt, but the warmth he longed for was Achelois’ smile. Nothing else would do.

He met the men who had helped him earlier, and shook their hands. It felt easier than letting awkwardness fester between them. These three gentlemen were much kinder than they had any need to be, as was his opinion of them. Perhaps things were different in actuality, but Hector was grasping at every single good thing that came his way in order to regain just an ounce of his former mood. Truthfully, he felt like he’d just been shattered.

[bushybeardedbear]

Lance Birthday Week!! - 3/7

@mcclainetwork‘s Birthday Week for our favourite Blue Paladin, more than just a boy from Cuba to us all, continues! So does my contribution spanning the full seven days. A series of Fan Fictions covering each of the daily prompts. This one seems to have gone a little off the rails in a good way. Never thought I’d be writing from a Lion’s Pov. A part was also inspired by this post from the lovely @anchoredtether. Be sure to check on the previous parts because, like Voltron, it’s all connected.

DAY 3 - Red Those Whom I Have Homed

Running his hand over the almost impossibly smooth metal, Sam Holt smiled, his lips and grey beard curling to an awed smile. Somewhere between reverence and fear, the elder Holt looked cautiously into the gently glowing eyes of the Red Lion, finding only unexpected kindness therein. Amid the vast hangar, retrofitted hurriedly into the Pit-Stop of Lions, Sam sat. Machinery of coalition worlds without number were scattered, stacked and partially unpacked around his seat beside the Red Lion. Today alone had shown Sam such miraculous little wonders as the Olkari Echo Cube, Reiphodian gravitation webbing and the subtle nuance of pre-imperial Galra poetry as translated by an Altean linguistic scanner. He was sat amongst the kind of technology that most humans had only dreamed of, himself included. Cataloguing them as if they were mere odds and ends to be later used simply as tools, no more incredible than a pencil. Proof positive of alien life and of whole new branches of scientific enquiry were already gathering dust. Any one item would have been enough to make a career out of in any other context. Now though, the cerebral had to give way to practical. Still, when he had a spare moment, such as this, he took the chance to examine the most incredible of all the technology here. The Lions. Today, if only for not previously having tried, he had chosen to sit alongside Red.

“I still find it remarkable...” Sam's tone was peaceful, “The nature of this metal. The warmth of it, the sensation. It feels almost as though I'm holding my newborn children again. Like a heartbeat from the universe...” “That's great and all, Sam!” Hunk called back, “But I'm about to...” His voice was drowned out by a loud clattering of boxes, their heaving mass bashing into the floor. Mercifully, none burst open. Though one was resting quite painfully upon Hunk's toes. The protection of his usual civilian garb offering not much in the way of defence. “Ok, just a tick too late there... Little help...?” Hunk asked with a heaving squeak of repressed pain.

Sam stood himself slowly, shaking his head, “Let the work set aside for a while, Hunk.” He smiled, even as Hunk busied himself tidying the boxes aside. “I know you've been trying to balance getting things ready here and organizing that party for your friend. Really, you should take a break for a little while.” Sam sat himself again beside Hunk on an overturned container.  

Hunk sighed, setting himself heavy on nearby a box, “Well, you're not wrong. Between Coran and Pidge, I feel like I've been put through a marathon. Throw in building Earth's defences and I just want to sleep...” He made a grab for a small plastic tub, cracking open the pliable blue lid and offering it to Sam, “Free sample. Not my best work. New recipe I'm trying out with ingredients from across the coalition. I think the Nemdari Cinnamon is touch a touch too fizzy...”

Biting into the iced roll, Sam's response was a pleased hum, “It adds a little character.” He laughed softly, “Honestly these are superb. No need to be such a perfectionist, is there? Take the risk, bake something great!” He parodied his own favourite saying with a self congratulating laugh. “Alright, if you say so...” Hunk smirked, glancing to a large array of hanging cables and cobbled together boxy looking devices. The entire odd assembly hung over the Red Lion's head, set upon a large set of mechanised rails. “Is that ready Commander Holt...? Still looks a little on the hodge-podge side...” “Sam is fine, Hunk. You know that.” Commander Holt chastised just a touch, “And yes, Cadet Garret...” He teased, “I've just now put the last few touches on the scanning array. Had a little trouble getting the Galra and the Olkari systems talking first to each other and then to the Taujeerian systems.” He sighed, “But, in the end and now owing a favour, I got it working after all. Which reminds me, you know Harris from Tech? He needs a batch of muffins. I'll owe you instead.” Hunk grumbled to himself, “Fine. I guess I'll be opening a Yellow Lion bakery when all this is over... If it's ever over...” Sam nodded sadly, “If indeed.” He agreed. “Now, all that aside. I think it's time we set this scanner here in motion, don't you? See if we can't just possibly find something fascinating eh? Bound to be a little something within a part magic part science sentient being with a body made of a comet from outside the universe, right?”

Hunk agreed, following Sam to a nearby workstation with nothing but a laptop. “You sure this is going to cut it...?” “One nano-millimetre of Red's structure. Just a proof of concept really. It may not do it superbly quickly, but it will certainly give us something to work with.” Sam looked to the scanner and nodded, “Alright!” He smiled, striking a key. “Here goes nothing.” 

Strange energies awaken ancient memory. “They are remarkable, my husband.” Her soft tone lost to the millennia, in my mind she speaks again. Beside her, unknowing what shall pass and hopeful for the future, My Paladin. “Even standing near them, it is as though... Reality bends to them...” “It's not far from the truth.” My Paladin agrees. My Paladin knows. “Maybe it bends to them and recoils from them all at once.” His young eyes regard my young chassis. Much is yet to pass. Much is yet to be known. My Paladin, in my mind, lives once more. His absence is never far from me. His was a will that binds and guides. His was the power of hope and unity. His was the heart of the Five of Us. My Paladin. My Creator. My Lost Friend. He places a gentle palm to his queen and beloved. So often have I known My Paladin's mind, I feel their bond of quintessence as if we three were one. They have created another. “The Lions of Voltron will serve as the hope of the Universe. I want to give our son...” “...or our daughter.” She corrects My Paladin.

“Our child.” My Paladin agrees. “The best possible future.” My Paladin shall never forge this future. I am saddened that it is so. My mind moves. As it moves again it stays in motion. Yes! The thrill of battle fills me! I am among the stars. Cold metal shears beneath my might! A blade in the darkness cuts deep into the fray! I am pounced upon and spin, I fire forth such fury!! Another reduced to nothing and still, he calls out within. My Paladin. That he has rage I know well, that he focuses that anger I know well. That when I am wielded by him and he by me, there is nothing in this reality to stand before us. And the memory is good. The satisfaction at each fresh enemy reduced to atoms. The hunger for the battle, it always burns within him and so too in me. My Paladin is uncomplicated. Yet, he is guarded. My Paladin seeks simplicity. In truth, much is hidden. In battle, he understands. In battle, there is nothing but his instincts to rely upon. Something perhaps of his other side that no other yet knows. Yet they shall in time. When he is my guide and I his champion, it is a deadly dance we weave and cleave upon the stars. My Paladin, he has so far to grow and yet so much skill already. Again my mind moves. We are as One. Our Paladins and Our Selves. One. Here in the moment, I feel him. Once my own, now Paladin to Black. A sword. Fresh forged. That was My Paladin. He is tempered now. Wisdom and time have quenched him. Raw power now a strong weapon. My Paladin. I trust you unto Black now. I know that you are ready. We are as One. And we charge. My mind moves on again. He stands. So meek before me and unsure. My Paladin? This? It seems a joke at first. Then, I truly see. Even in my thousands of years, I trust too easily the surface. The mind of this boy is doubt and fear. But the spirit? Yes. The spirit, the quintessence. He is My Paladin. When we fly it is not always smooth. He always apologises for every bump. When we fight, it is not always elegant. But his heart is always in the right place. His motivation. His mind. His quintessence, pure. He has such love within him. Love enough to sacrifice his very self. I feel him pass again. My Creator's Last gift to the universe. She keeps giving still. She returns My Paladin to me. I feel him rise again. Deep within him, unknown even to himself, he guides and inspires. There is greatness. Bound greatness, shackled only by self doubt. And then, there are such dreams. Across the gulf of space, as we journey to his home, his dreams fill me. Strange and wonderful. Family and Friends. Hope for a future free of war. The many faces and smiles he has loved and longed for and lost. My Paladin, Lance. He reminds me so much of My Paladin, Alfor. Neither of them acted in rage nor anger. They act in defiance of darkness. They act at the behest of the universe. They are not men of war, but guardians of peace. Such nobility and courage in them both. I am honoured to be and have been their Lion. My mind moves and we are as One again. We call upon the sword. She is nature's wrath and wielder of the shield. I am fire, creation and destruction alike, who bears the weight of the sword. Each of us have our place. We draw together. Closer. I feel her quintessence as if it were my own. Or it is perhaps my focus is only upon her. If feel her Paladin as though she were my own as she feels mine. My quintessence seeps into hers and hers to mine. We are One, yet we are distinct. We touch. For a moment, we are truly One. Or so it seems to me. As we draw apart, the blade ignites. I feel the ties of our quintessence grow taut and strained, yet always present. And for a moment, weaker, growing, reaching, threads tying ever closer, Our Paladins. I have no time to think on this. The Battle must be won once more. We are One and again we charge. My mind moves to the now. Yellow's Paladin is concerned. The creator of dear Green's Paladin stands expectantly. Another war approaches. Another front to ever more defend against the darkness. Somewhere else upon this world, I feel his quintessence. What he calls, his soul. His soul reaches out to mine and to one other strongest of all. Yet, it spreads further, like a web of threads combined. Such love to give and to share. So many to protect. And also, I feel it. The power to do so. Perhaps, My Paladins and I will yet forge the future they dreamed for...?

The sound of the clicked key had barely faded. “Well.” Sam waved his arm furiously, trying to waft away the smoke from the sparking laptop. Not long after the scan had begun, the poor quantum processors he had assumed fit to the task were now, to use the newest technical term, QUBAR. Quiznaked Utterly; Beyond Any Repair. “I was not expecting that. More than it could handle I suppose” Hunk pulled a nearby extinguisher free, smothering the laptop in flame proof foam. “There wasn't even enough time to upload the data...” He ruminated, “I don't suppose Iverson would let us jack into something with a little more oomph, would he?”  “Most likely not.” Sam considered the base computer reduced to wreckage, “Most likely not...”  It was then that the older man's expression subtly changed in a way Hunk was not familiar with. As the two of them cleared away the remnants of the laptop, Hunk awaited something. Though he had no idea what. “So Hunk, could you perhaps tell me a little about this friend of yours, Lance?” Sam asked in a very fatherly way. The kind of tone that suggested he was very concerned really, but wanted to appear unconcerned, “Didn't really get a lot of chance to talk with him back on the castle, you see. But ever since my little girl came home, well, his name seems to keep cropping up a lot. Excited about a party for Lance, wanting to meet Lance's family. Deciding who gets to keep her and Lance's adopted child she said... Thankfully she was just talking about Kaltenecker. Gave me a little fright, honestly... There was talk about who keeps the games console and on what alternating days they'd trade, who'd host game nights. Talking with Colleen about picking out the right dress for the evening. Things like that. Gets the old noggin joggin' as they used to say.” Hunk could feel his stomach squirm as he nodded, offering only a nervous, “Mmmhmmm...” In response.  “They must be very good friends, is what I would assume.” Sam nodded, “Though, I wonder... As a concerned parent might, you know? I'm probably being over analytical aren't I? But is he a good man? Good head on his shoulders? I'm sure he must be, right?” Hunk fell into silence as he carefully considered his next words. He could already see himself setting hours aside for baking, this was going to be an even worse interrogation than Iverson's debriefing. “Could my favour be not having this conversation...?” Sam smiled kindly. Then shook his head. Red, sat silent and ever patient, returned to his thoughts once again.

[niallsstainedcoffeecup]

The Muses

           The bus traveled across town, humming down the street.  Harry silently drew on a recently bought sketchbook. People filtered in and out of the rickety bus.  Men and women trudged down the aisle, passing the quiet man.  Harry once hid behind his long, chocolate brown curly locks, but during his winter break, he decided to chop off his curls.  Harry lifted his head, eyeing the nearing campus.  The heavy clouds hung above the town, mimicking Harry’s inner turmoil.  Harry’s passion was art.  Harry enjoyed the art courses, but he despised the whispers around him. Classmates created hurtful jabs toward Harry’s silence, mocking his shy exterior.  Harry survived until Christmas break.  Harry traveled home, coming back to life with his family.  Harry wasn’t always quiet, but in most social situations, Harry chose to sit and watch rather than partake in conversations. Harry slinked down the bus stairs, stepping foot on the harsh campus concrete.  Harry breathed in, prepping himself for the long day.  Harry shuffled across campus, keeping his eyes locked on his boots.  Harry opened the heavy glass door, shivering in the rush of cold air that met him.  The art building constantly felt like a tundra. Harry cursed, wishing he brought the sweater his mom bought him for Christmas.  Harry climbed the stairs toward his first class.  Harry chose a seat in the first row since most college students avoided the first two rows of desks.  Harry opened his worn leather satchel, tugging out his sketchbook. Students dragged themselves through the door, hissing at the bright fluorescent lights.  Harry chuckled, tracing another outline of a bluebird he saw on his windowsill this morning.  The professor strolled in, sipping a large cup of coffee.  He faced the board, huffing as he scribbled his name across the chalkboard.   “Good morning, my name is Dr. Reed.  I will not answer to anything but Dr. Reed. You are currently in painting 2301. If you are not supposed to be in this room, then I suggest you leave now.”  The man smirked as two young students ran out of the room.  Dr. Reed passed out the largest syllabus that Harry had ever seen.  Harry flipped through the pages, regretting his choice of professors.  “This class will focus on many artistic elements.  I found a student willing to model for certain pieces we will paint.  If you are not good at drawing people, then I suggest you start practicing.”  Harry gulped, glancing down at his bird. Harry focused on the abstract rather than drawing humans and detailed objects.  Harry’s sweaty palms gripped his pencil, wondering if it was too early to drop the class.  Professor Reed stopped at Harry’s desk, smiling evilly at the nervous student.   “The model should be here any minute.  I asked her to meet the class before we draw her. Some of you may know the model since she is a student on campus,” Professor Reed continued his spiel, waiting impatiently for the model.   A loud, abrupt knock on the wooden door jolted the entire class.  Dr. Reed grumbled, stomping toward the door.  The door swung open, revealing the most beautiful woman that Harry had ever seen. Her wide eyes shined like stars, her blushed cheeks were like soft rose petals, and her hair cascaded down in soft waves like a goddess.  Harry held his breath, watching the woman follow Dr. Reed toward the front of the classroom.  “I asked that you be here fifteen minutes earlier,” Dr. Reed complained.  She blushed, fidgeting with nerves and embarrassment, “I understand.  My car broke down, and I had to run across campus.  It will never happen again.”  Dr. Reed nodded, “Class, this is our model.”  “My name is Y/N.  I am a biology major.  I am excited to be the class model,” She stated, cracking the widest smile.   Harry grinned, admiring the inviting warmth that Y/N carried with her.  Her eyes landed on Harry, causing his eyes to widen like saucers.  Y/N giggled, watching Harry’s cheeks burn under her gaze. Harry would have assumed that she laughed at his shyness, but Harry knew that wasn’t the case.  Harry knew that Y/N was not the type to laugh at someone’s differences.  Dr. Reed allowed the class to end early.  Harry packed his sketchbook in his satchel, waiting until everyone left the room.  Harry stood up, stretching his sore muscles. Who built classroom chairs, and why did they use the hardest plastic?   “I liked your bird,” Y/N spoke up, scaring Harry.  Harry thought everyone left the room, but Y/N’s small figure proved Harry wrong.  Harry flipped around, smiling sheepishly.   “Thank you.  I’m Harry,” Harry held out a shaking hand.  Y/N grinned, shaking Harry’s sweaty hand, “I’m Y/N.  You already know that though.  I’m sorry if I seem like a creep.  I couldn’t help but notice the bird when I walked in the room.  You are talented.  I wish I could draw like that.”  Harry shrugged, “I’m sure you could.”  Y/N snorted, “I draw like a five-year-old.”  Harry chuckled, shifting awkwardly on his feet, “Well, I look forward to seeing you in class.”  Y/N smiled warmly, “Me too.  I’m glad that I made a friend.  I worried that people wouldn’t talk to me, but now I have you.”  Harry’s stomach flipped at her words, but Harry rolled his eyes at his eager heart.  Why would a beautiful girl find an awkward guy attractive?  Harry’s phone beeped with a reminder about his next class. Harry groaned, realizing his conversation with Y/N had to end.  “Well, I have class.  I’ll see you around.”  Y/N waved, “I’ll see you, Harry.” Harry waved, tripping over his large feet. Y/N covered her laugh with a cough, acting as if she hadn’t seen Harry nearly fall.  Harry blushed, leaving the room before he embarrassed himself even more. Harry’s heart fluttered at the thought of Y/N.  Perhaps Harry found his muse.  

           Three weeks passed without seeing Y/N.  Dr. Reed lectured about style and accurate supplies.  Dr. Reed started off easy, presenting the class with a bowl of fruit.  The weeks progressed, but still no model.  Harry’s daydreams included Y/N.  Her eyes imprinted on Harry’s mind.  Harry practiced drawing people around campus.  A tired, young student in line at the coffee shop.  An overweight, angry professor, yelling at a class.  A bright-eyed student, strumming her guitar at the quad. Harry’s portrayal of people became better with practice, but there was something off.  Harry ached to draw Y/N’s eyes; however, Harry felt strange drawing a woman’s eyes after meeting her only once.  Would that classify Harry as a creep?  Harry walked down the dingy hallway, avoiding the creaky floorboards. The stained metal door read Dr. Reed’s office, sending chills down Harry’s spine.  Harry breathed in, knocking quietly on Dr. Reed’s door.   “Come in,” The older man grumbled. Harry twisted the knob slowly, opening the door to hell.  Dr. Reed’s office contained multiple paintings to cover the boring beige walls, overflowing boxes of past student’s failings, and one silk, red chair.  Harry stood near the door, waiting for the perfect time to escape.  Dr. Reed faked a smile, pushing his lunch to the side.   “What can I do for you?” Harry cleared his throat, “Dr. Reed, I have practiced drawing people.  Could you look over my art?  I feel like something is missing.” Dr. Reed nodded, dropping the smile.  Harry passed his beloved sketchbook to the grumpy man.  Dr. Reed flipped through the pages, humming and sighing with disapproval.  Dr. Reed shut the book, eyeing Harry’s fidgety figure. “Harry, you are talented.  I have seen your other work, and you are right. Something is missing.  You lack the passion.  I see the passion in your abstract work, but when it comes to people, you only draw them for a grade.  I do not pass people who do not create art with passion.  Find someone or something that sparks that passion for you.” Harry swallowed the lump in his throat, “Thank you.” Dr. Reed nodded, waving Harry out of his office.  Harry shut the door, wiping a tear that slipped down his cheek.  How could Dr. Reed accuse Harry of not having a passion for art?  All Harry wanted was to be the best artist he could be.  Was Harry meant to be an artist?  Was all of his art terrible?  Harry sighed, controlling his emotions.  Where would Harry find inspiration?

           Harry walked into a diner, cringing at the loud clang that sounded when he released the door.  Harry shuffled past elderly couples eating an early dinner.  Harry chose a barstool, eyeing the mint colored menu. Harry squinted his eyes, reading over the items.  Harry’s stomach growled once he read onion rings.  Harry decided a side of onion rings and a chocolate milkshake would settle his cravings for something greasy.  Harry pulled his satchel onto his lap, yanking his sketchbook out and onto the counter.  Harry grabbed his colored pencils, flipping to his favorite piece.  Yesterday,  Harry attended a local poetry reading.  Harry chose a messy red table, sitting alone in the crowded bookstore.  Harry enjoyed poetry, spending his summers reading poets like Charles Bukowski, Sylvia Plath, and W.B. Yeats.  Harry scrolled through random apps, waiting until some brave soul took the stage.  His head shot up upon hearing Y/N’s honey-sweet voice.  She sat a few tables ahead with a group of girls.  She sipped on the mug, causing Harry to wonder what coffee she drank.  Did she order extra drizzles and sugar?  Maybe she only drank black coffee.  Harry’s thoughts were interrupted by her melodic giggle that forced Harry’s stomach to flip.  Harry cursed to himself, finding it ridiculous that he was crushing on this woman this badly.  Harry noticed her long locks were pinned up with a shiny blue clip.  Harry’s hands ached to draw out her beautiful features. Was it weird to draw someone that Harry found attractive?  No, he was simply people watching.  Y/N silently watched each performer, wiping away tears after one sorrowful poem.  Her friends tugged on her arms, begging her to read something.  Harry raised his eyebrows in amazement.  What couldn’t she do?  What poetry did she write?  Did it rhyme? Was it slam poetry?  Was it about heartbreak?  Harry raced home after the reading, focusing on his art.  Now, Harry waited for a waitress to take his order. Harry tapped his feet to the beat of an older song that happened to be popular during the fifties.  Harry switched between pastel pencils, filling in the details on her hair.  Instead of drawing Y/N’s normal complexion and hair, Harry decided to keep an abstract element with this portrait.  Harry’s mint green pencil pressed lightly onto the paper, digging deeper when the older woman popped up in front of Harry.  Her hot pink dress burned Harry’s eyes.  Her short gray hair spiked up in every direction.   “Good evening sugar, how may I help you?” The woman asked, voice scratchy from years of smoking.   Harry smiled, “Hello Josie, I’ll take one chocolate milkshake and a small order of onion rings.” Josie nodded, scribbling Harry’s order down on a pad.  Josie darted toward the kitchen, leaving Harry to fix his mistake.  Harry hummed along with the music, erasing the darker mark of pastel green.   “Y/N, how are you?” An older man spoke up, causing Harry’s heart rate to increase.   Harry spun around, catching sight of Y/N adorned in a similar hot pink dress that Josie wore.  Her wide smile lit up the room.  The elderly couple acted as if they had known Y/N forever.   “I’m doing well, Mike.  How were the grandkids?”  She asked, placing their order on the white table. The older woman next to Mike giggled, “They were amazing.  Little Mikey learned how to ride his bike.” “That’s great.  I still have not learned how to ride a bike,” Y/N laughed, crossing her arms. Mike chuckled, “That’s fine.  How is the boyfriend?” Y/N rolled her eyes playfully, “I don’t have time for a boyfriend.  Between school, this job, and my second job, no one is willing to date me.” Harry gasped, how could no one want to date her?  Harry dreamed of spoiling her with gifts that he bought with his art money.  Mike scoffed, looking over at his wife. "There are plenty of handsome men around you, waiting for their chance with you.  There's a handsome man behind you," The older lady pointed at Harry. Harry’s eyes widened the minute Y/N turned to find Harry watching the conversation.  Harry’s face burned red like a rose.  Y/N’s pale cheeks pinkened with embarrassment.  She assumed that Harry only caught the end of that conversation, which made her want to run and hide.  Y/N found Harry very attractive, but why would someone with his level of god-like looks want to date her?  Last night, she swallowed down the rising panic attack she nearly had when she saw Harry at the poetry reading.  She wrote a poem about finding a new love, and planned to read it that night but decided against it in case she fainted in front of Harry.  Now he sat in the diner she worked at, drawing a beautiful girl. She wondered if the girl happened to be his girlfriend. “Harry, hey, I’m sorry about Lucy and Mike. They constantly try to set me up,” Y/N rushed out. Harry smiled sheepishly, “It’s fine.  How are you?” Y/N smiled, “I’m well.  How are you?” Harry nodded, “I’m well.  The class has been rough.  When will you model for us?” She giggled, “I think I’m set to go in next week.  Why?  Do you miss me?” Harry’s blush darkened, as he choked out an awkward laugh.  Y/N cursed in her mind, noting Harry’s tense reaction.  Had she pushed it too far?  Of course, he wouldn’t miss her, he barely knew her.   “I better get back to work.  I love the art.  She is stunning,” Y/N grinned, racing toward the kitchen. Harry leaned forward, opening his mouth to speak, but sighed whenever she disappeared before his eyes.   “It’s you,” Harry mumbled. Harry groaned, covering his face with his hands.  Harry wondered when he became so pathetic.

           Harry carried the canvas across campus.  The large blank canvas attracted more attention than Harry desired. Students stared him down, searching for an answer as to why he had such a large canvas.  People on the bus ride over complained about the size.  Harry entered the classroom, choosing an easel closer to the stool where Y/N would pose.  Harry practiced drawing her face, covering page after page with different interpretations of her beauty.  Harry decided to use watercolors for his portrait since the delicate paint would fit her personality.  Students piled into the classroom, some running back to the bookstore to purchase a canvas.  Dr. Reed arrived five minutes early, discussing the recent news with a student. Harry’s heartbeat quickened, his palms gathered sweat, and his cheeks felt warm with the idea of seeing Y/N.  The clock ticked down until Harry heard an exasperated sigh fill the room.  Harry turned to find Y/N jogging through the door.  She apologized to a glaring Dr. Reed, avoiding eye contact with Harry.  Harry’s heart fluttered at her outfit choice. Her long hair sat neatly in a bun atop her head, a baby blue short sleeve dress covered her fit figure, and a pair of eggshell white flats sat on her feet.  Dr. Reed positioned her on the stool, advising her not to move.  Y/N nodded, taking one last deep breath.  She glanced at Harry, smiling at him.  Harry grinned back, but not without somehow tangling his teeth and lips together.  Y/N giggled, blushing whenever Dr. Reed yelled at her laughter.  Y/N winced, but her smile never fell from her face. Everyone began drawing the beautiful model.  Harry focused on every detail, taking his time with the portrait.  Harry barely finished whenever Dr. Reed dismissed everyone. Harry packed his supplies in his satchel, ignoring the students that awed over his work.   “Harry, hey, how did I do?” Y/N’s nervous voice broke out against the rest. Harry spun around, nearly knocking over his easel.  Y/N squealed, helping Harry catch the easel.  Harry blushed while Y/N chuckled lightly. “You did very well.  You are one beautiful model,” Harry stuttered out. Y/N blushed, “Thank you.  Can I see what you painted?” Harry froze up.  What if she recognized the resemblance between this portrait and the one at the diner?  Would she call him a freak?  Would she even know it was her?  Harry couldn’t say no the beautiful girl batting her eyelashes at him.   “Sure,” Harry mumbled. Y/N cheered, scooting closer to Harry. Her eyes widened once she saw the painting.  Tears pricked her eyes as she noticed the extra detail that Harry put into the portrait.  Harry painted her as if she were a goddess. “Harry, I’m beautiful.  Thank you,  this is the nicest thing that anyone has ever created for me,” Y/N gushed. Harry blushed, smiling as she bounced with joy, “Thank you.  I am terrible with portraits, but ever since you showed up…you made it easier for me to draw people.” Y/N giggled, “I guess you can say I am your muse.” Harry laughed, “I guess you could say that. That portrait you saw in the diner was you.  I hope that isn’t creepy.” She shook her head, “No, why would it be? I thought it was your girlfriend. I am flattered.” Harry blushed, toeing at the ground, “I don’t have a girlfriend.” “Well, whenever you find one, she’ll be lucky.” Harry breathed in, “What if I asked you on a date?” Y/N’s eyes widened because she didn’t expect Harry to ask her out.  She figured that Harry was out of her league. “I would say yes,” Y/N grinned. Harry nodded, rubbing the back of his neck, “Well, what are you doing Friday night?” Y/N hummed, “I think I am free.  Would you like to grab dinner?  Or we can watch a movie.  Everyone is talking about the new Chris Pratt movie.” Harry chuckled, “I would love to grab dinner and movie.” Y/N blushed, “I can’t wait.” Harry walked out of the room with Y/N. Harry might not talk a lot, but it was okay.  Y/N tripped into Harry’s life and changed it for the better.  

[adminpoetryclub13-blog]

MEMBERS

Member count: 22

Giuls (president): Lover of everything pink and sparkly, I am the mom friend who makes sure everyone is well-fed and having a good time. I am the founder along with Amber and was elected president. You can find her @giulswrites.

Mira (vice president): 16 years old, from the Netherlands. She is a wanderer with dreams. Poetry to her is a way to express her imagination and experiences into words. Meanwhile, she is still figuring out her place on this planet. Also, she likes to draw illustrations now and then. She is an assistant for PC13. You can find her @blacknwh1te-cray0ns.

Lexi (secretary): 19 years old; from Germany. She is the secretary and keeps everyone informed. Also, she is in charge of reblogging your poems, so if you don’t see your writing reblogged please contact her. For her poetry is a way to experience long-forgotten feelings, but also get her current feelings in order and understand herself better by expressing them in poetry. You can find her @lexiklecksi.

Asa: I'm a 23 year old author with 6 published books, at least two more to publish by the end of 2018, and many more to come. Writing, poetry included, is a way of life to me. It's using words to create an identity. It's showcasing your affection, the things in your head, the light and darkness. It's observation, knowledge, curiosity, and so much more. You can find me @racksley.

Ash: Hey! My name is Asawari. I am 20 years old. I love to engage in craft work, and always challenge myself to do new things. Poetry for me is being in the moment and conversing with it , from messy hair to heavy downpour , chirping of birds to pillow fights , I just capture these in my words to relive it. I crave for peace and chocolates and believe in free flowing of emotions. You can find me at @beboundless.

Dani Sweets: I'm a writer committed to sharing and improving my craft. I love seeing what I can create and what I can learn to do and not to do from other writers. To me, poetry means release. You can find me at @unedited-emotions.

Dolores: A lost soul batlling rhymes and emotions one by one. Inspire and be inspired. You can find me @allisbullshit.

Estevão Fernando: I'm 20 years old, I'm a Law student and I just love writing and deep self-thinking. Poetry for me is like magic through words. There's no other way to explain it. It saved my life in the past and it keeps saving it whenever I have a meltdown, a breakdown or simply want to enjoy reading quality content. I don't consider myself a poet (even though I was told before that I am), just a writer, what for me is already enough to be who I am. You can find me @stoic-words.

Gina K. Judy: 57 years old; from the USA. She is a Chief Operations Officer of a large not for profit social service organization. Her pop wisdom style of writing is filled with experiences of personal great loves, humorous life moments, and more pain than Billy Holiday. You can find her @cocktailnapkinmusings.

Haseeb:  I am, what they would call, a child conflicted by terrible instances of the past, and monotonous noises of the present. Like all poets, I was able to learn how to channel this unfortunate circumstance into an amazing literary art; poetry.You can find me @darkenallhope

Hyuri: 22, black, and I'm a graduate student. Food, great tv shows(especially anything Shonda Rhimes related), and traveling, and are all things that bring me joy. Poetry is the way I express the truths, emotions, and feelings i'm not otherwise able to share. I write to distress and to introspect. It allows me to feel, process, and turn my pain into something beautiful. You can find me @invoked-emotion.

Isorosa: Night owl, city crawler, book lover, poetry is the only way I can speak to the world. You can find me @iso-rosa.

Kelly:  I am a mother of two teen girls. Newly hella gay lol have a beautiful girlfriend whom most of my poetry is about. Work at a soup kitchen and love helping people. Some say im a healer or an empath but i think im just kind 😘🤘🍑 I am 25 years old; constantly learning to cope with life while finding the joy in it. I love my mom and daughter. I love my cats even though they are stuck up. Poetry is an outlet, it helps keep me sane.You can find me @brnbabe

Linda:  I am 25 years old; constantly learning to cope with life while finding the joy in it. I love my mom and daughter. I love my cats even though they are stuck up. Poetry is an outlet, it helps keep me sane. You can find me @zestygingersoda

M’leigh: Hello I'm M'Leigh, I'm currently a freelance writer, author, and blogger. I love the arts; music, making art in different ways painting, drawing etc, but my main love is writing. In particular poetry to me is an outlet, "its like breathing for the soul" (from the show recess). Its were folks like myself can share their hearts and minds in a special way. My hope, my goal is to use my writings to spread Much Love and understanding to others as well as share my thoughts and feelings that may otherwise not have a voice. You can find me @mleighsquickspot

Manya Saxena: Poetry is a way of expressing my feelings. The lack of which has always been my major concern. It had improved a lot on my personal being and has added successfully to my personality. I love nature and everything that comes along with it. From human interactions to listening to their stories is what I love for.  You can find me @manyasaxenawrites

Marisca:  I am a very average human being that enjoys anime and movies in general. I am a massive Marvel fan! I like a wide variety of music (literally from classic to metal). My Saturdays start with horse riding and I also like running (horse riding and running both calms me down a lot). For me poetry is my way to show people what is going on in my cluttered head since I am not very good with talking about what I feel. In my poetry I usually show pieces of myself to the reader, whether it is a pessimistic out look on life (which is common for me) or the fact that I think love is very sweet. I nearly always show a true part of myself. You can find me @1blackwhiteblue1

Maya: I am a Tamil born American living in Mozambique and working in the health sector of foreign aid. Writing is my way of connecting with the world around me as well as the world inside. You can find me at @maya-doolali.

Rameshwar: For me poetry means the Expression of feelings through words. You can find me @ramschavan.

Sara: I'm an emotionally closed off person, unless I'm writing. It helps me feel and clear my mind, and it makes my feelings feel real and valid. You can find me @sacchareen.

Talha Nadeem:  I'm talha and I'm 15. I've been passionate about literature since the age of 13 and I've been writing since then. Poetry's a way through which I escape everyday turmoil. I use poetry to find out who I am, I'd call it my path to self discovery. I think every person has a way he expresses himself. For me, it's poetry. You can find me @talhas-thoughts.

Zashes:  I'm someone with a heart that feels a lot, I'm someone who loves to dwell in another world. People have turned cold and harsh in this world so poetry keeps me alive and warm. Poetry sounds to me like that cup of tea without which one cannot commence their day. It's special. I do not write to merely write, I write to exhale, to express and to set free all the thoughts that keep imprisoning me. Overthinking and overfeeling probably turned me into a writer. I may not write perfectly but I try to express myself so that I continue to breathe! You can find me @sparkandashes

Former admins: 3

Alexander (vice president): Ancient, godless, countryless heathen that writes poetry for the joy of magic. He shares the vice president position with Amber. You can find him @arcane-ethereality.

Amber (vice president): 17 years old; from the Netherlands. She shares the vice president position with Alexander. You can find her @a-holy-mind.

Rae (vice president): 19 years old; from the USA. She is an audiology (ear doctor) student living on coffee, chocolate, and hugs. Writing is her way of discovering, connecting, sharing, and releasing. She wants to change the world and doesn’t quite know how, but she’s on her way. You can find her @universalmemoir.

[yourviewfromtheriverbed-blog]

Candelabra, or Eight Curses

The following curses were inspired by the doom metal titans Candlemass. The name of each curse is taken from the song that directly or indirectly inspired the curse. These were written to be severe and consequential. Many have different sides to explore, and effect the world around or beyond the cursed. The game master is encouraged to use these as they will, and fill in the gaps. Lastly, these curses may offend or trouble the sensitive.

•     Black Leathery Wing – The character has been cursed with a single wing (the wing may be located on or between the shoulder blades, and may be askew, per dungeon master discretion). The wing is black as moonless night, and resembles stitched together leather. The wing will sprout suddenly and mercilessly from the character’s back after three long rests, and cause one point of damage for 1d6 minutes as it thrashes and flaps about – throwing the them wherever it may. The character may gain control of the wing after a few Constitution checks. Charisma checks with Disadvantage in the company all respectable people.

•     If I Ever Die – At dusk, a strange and invisible burden weighs on the character’s weary shoulders. As night sets in, ethereal light, from high above and past the stars, follows and illuminates them dimly. During the waking day they have the irresistible urge to sleep as they are relieved from his heavy burden. If and when the character dies, a celestial body of considerable size will come crashing down from the dark heavens – the daylight granting a delayed incineration of everyone around them.

•     A cult may surface, their numbers secretive but persistent on capturing the character for their ritual. They will begin slyly offering their hospitality to the character on weary nights; when the character is tired from adventures and carousing, their holy men will entice the character with spices and blessings from their god, and they will sing the character gut warming praise. If the character rebukes them, and their offerings, the cultists will do their best to bring the character unwillingly into their grasp. The sacrifice to bring their god into the immortal flesh need not be willing. Only dead.

•     A cleric, witch hunter, or whatever flavor of the religious extreme is fancied, hunts the character. The religious agent or order knows of the character, and the power that they hold – whether or not the character does. The religious order or agent knows of the cultist’s plans, of the great devastation the character will bring, and will not allow it. The only cure is a quickly granted immortal life. Ideally; the religious agent would capture the character alive, to slowly embalm him, cover his withered corpse in clay, and leave him prostrate before the idols of their god.

•     A black dog may follow the character, and will not stop. If the character makes him know that his presence is not welcome he will simply keep his distance. Outside of any inn visited, he will sleep at the doorstep. As sure as the sun sets he will be in the shadows. If he is welcomed into the character’s company, it will be seen that his eyes are mulberries, and the flies whisper secretive words into his ears. He bleats as a goat, and does not eat. At night, starlight pours into his mouth, viscous and rancid.

•     Strange creatures and stranger people may be drawn to the character. The three eyed toad of cloven foot. The small boy who speaks in a dead language, and stamps his foot in rhythm. A rat with flesh continually sloughing away, but smells, tastes delicious as butter. The strong elderly man who carries on his back a massive and hollow ball of iron – inside flowers pop.

•     The Bleeding Baroness – A warning, a prophecy – to abstain from love, or at least, do not consummate. The Bleeding Baroness has marked the character’s name on her list, and will come for them in their bed chambers. The warm embrace of their lover will be hers. There is no telling what form the Bleeding Baroness will take and when. Only that she will come, be it a drunken night, or their partner of many years. The heart will slowly begin to bleed – a drip – into their chest, a cough, and their blood drops on her lips. She will consume the character’s flesh so that the streams of blood that river from her pores may continue. She is pale, slender, and gracefully light – her loving throes as gentle as ocean waves to and fro – her kiss sealing. The final thoughts of any man or woman are the acts of passion committed in the flesh or heart, the frown of their mother; who is gifted visions of their lusts in searing detail, whether she is of the living or not – the Bleeding Baron reaches her.

•     Hammer of Doom – Before the next dawn, the character must seek out a Fury of Fate, and bow to her. She will write their name in starlight and web – the act of which will burn heavy in the front of their mind. Her heavy shears – the very shears used daily on the Empty Goat, dropping his hair, and clogging the day with darkness – will cut the the character’s name into hundreds of little pieces, and the character will shatter much as a mirror does. Their body will reform the following morning as hundreds of shadows in varying gray pooling together. The character will have a distant stare and heightened hearing. They will now be able to hear the poetry spiders weave in their webs as the morning dew gathers on it. The poetry of the webs will often guide them, but it is not clear where to. The character will feel compelled to follow the wisdom of the web. The quickest path to a Fury of Fate is through fire started with uncut hair, lit by a young hairless boy, bathed in the blood of a goat sacrificed in the name of the Empty Goat who was fed a steady diet of blackberries since the last Solar Menses. To ignore the Fury of Fate is to feel the bite of the Empty Goat, who will consume the character in three consecutive bites, from their feet to their head. Where the character once stood will remain an obsidian epitaph shining as a mirror of foreign stars.

•     Dead Angel – The character never should have been born. There was another. Better than them, better than anything they could have ever been. The parents knew in their hearts something was wrong as the character was born in secret and came the wrong way out. As this news flashes through the character’s mind, as they see vague images of an alien child not yet born, as they taste acidic smoke in their mouth, searing their tongue – their father drinks himself to death in a quick act of self-loathing – breaking the bottle and scraping it against his chest, his wrists, his neck. Their mother calmly and repeatedly knits clothing befitting a small child into her body, leaving no bare flesh, before walking into the woods. The character feels themselves splitting – their skull, their chest, their extremities. The elbows and knees become grotesquely double jointed, their back grows another chest from their spine, and their skull bares a face on the back – the cap of their skull elongated and beautifully smooth. Seamless. Their genitals split into more of their own sex or that of the other. The other child is born – slow for now, but promised to surpass the player character in every way possible.

•     House of a Thousand Voices – The character is given the key to a lodge only spoken of in whispers. The key is a stone shaped much like a human heart that beats and pumps out a black vileness which coats their skin – thickening, hardening and irremovable. It counts as armor for anywhere it covers. At twilight; if they lift this stone heart above their head while facing the clear northern sky, and drip the black deep into their chest, the character will find themselves outside of the House of a Thousand Voices. If they walk up the short dirt path and enter the wooden lodge, they will stand on the ashen floor, and hear absolutely nothing. They may ask a question and gain the truth. There is a one-in-six chance of instant insanity as a thousand voices scream. The voices will stop, and a foul wind throws the character out of the door. They will awake the next morning where they stood, either sane or not, but absolutely knowing one truth. Any who waited and watched the events would simply see them there and gone. The observers will not recall the passage of time upon their return.

•     Clouds of Dementia – For the rest of their mortal life, without warning and without regard to climate, a sudden downpour of rain may erupt from heavy blackened gray clouds which spontaneously gather above the character. The size of the storm varies in size, but averages around a city block. Any who are caught in this rain feel their memories ripped away from them and thunder resounds within their skull. Memories of love, family, hunger, whatever most vitally relevant information they may have for the character – is ripped and blown away like dead leaves in the wind. All of the collective memories come pouring into you. One-in-six chances of remembering anything at all, or the thoughts being lost forever.

•     Death Thy Lover – The character has been marked, they fouled the wrong wise woman, or was she a witch? A pig or a shaman. It does not matter. The character’s genitals are gone, their buttocks are gone, their waist is nothing but intimate white bone. Their flesh is exposed where it meets the bone – the abdomen, their powerful thighs – they do not bleed much, but the pain is constant. Fat black flies who laugh with each bite are drawn to the character. The character would likely end their life if they were not so aroused. They can taste the scent of them as the breeze dies. The character’s nothingness longs to consummate with them. Somewhere, where idle waters run foul, in a mud hut surrounded by heavily multi-horned goats, is the lover – a mess of bone, sacks of gut and flesh, corn yellow teeth, and loose eyes under even more loose scraps of hair. The character dreams of the lover as they moan their name. The character tastes the sweetness of their lips every morning. The lover’s image rests in the every morning’s dew. The character will stop at nothing to be with their lover.