#and never seen the van gogh either

[moki-dokie]

I saw the works of Masters today without the intention of doing so. We just popped into a random museum and they were just There. Just. Right there. Not even behind glass. Out in the open to take in completely. I never in my life thought I'd see actual Monets or Picassos or Van Goghs in person. Sure as fuck never in my wildest dreams thought I'd be anywhere near a Botticelli. I think this might've been the closest thing to a religious experience I've ever had tbh I was getting teary being able to get mere inches away from the Monet and see the brush strokes and textures and real life colors. Like. What the fuck. I'm still reeling a little. A lot. And it was fucking free admission????????? Hello I love England??? So much???????

Today was a good fucking day

[uglypastels]

Not Wholly Evil |VII| pirate!Eddie au

a/n - ok, so first of all, i cannot thank everyone enough for the support on this fic. i am just in awe at the love its been getting recently. so i think it times out perfectly that this chapter is the one i have been the most excited to write and had been waiting to write since probably chapter 3 or something. I really hope you like it. Be sure to reblog and/or comment (and remember asks are also always welcome!)💗

Series Masterlist

word count: 5.4k

"semi dark fic" - READ the warnings:. (gun/sword)violence. blood. mention of severe wounds. minor character death. allusions to suicide. kidnapping. imprisonment. alcohol. open and deep sea. near death experiences in water. pirates are pigs: mentions of non-con, but it does not actually occur. malnourishment and weight loss. paranoia. mention of poisoning. abuse. manhandling. lying.

Chapter 7: Four Corners of Heaven

“The heart of man is very much like the sea; it has its storms, it has its tides, and in its depths it has its pearls too."

- Vincent van Gogh

The ship swayed from side to side, taking you along with it, stumbling from one leg onto the other as you struggled to find your balance. Wardrobe doors flung open, banging against their hinges. Papers flew all over the ground as the desk shifted from its secured position.

A banging noise sank deep into you, pulling you back to the Red Tail. The panic lasted until you realised you heard waves crashing against the window. How tall would they have to be to reach the glass? How strong to be able to open the hinges? 

It smashed against the wall, nearly cracking, but the damage was still done as water spilt inside with vicious attacks. Cursing, you made your way over, trying to close it before the entire floor would be under water. The spurts hit you in your face, shoving it down your throat. The icy feeling froze your skin as the heavy salt taste burned your tongue. By the time you closed the window, you had been drenched. You heaved for air, bend over with your arms on your knees. 

There was shouting outside the room. Incoherent behind the wood and rain layers, but the sense of emergency remained. 

You let yourself fall to the ground, back against the wall. All the commotion was now accompanied by your heartbeat drumming in your ears. When you calmed down, you realised you had still been holding the letter, scrunched into a wet roll between your fist, the water dripping off it came down in dark grey tears. Quickly, you dropped it into one of the desk's drawers and shut it. 

The ship also began to halt its tilt, regaining its composure, and so slowly, your anxiety faded. It allowed you to think; look around. Two longswords were hanging up on the wall, so you grabbed one and did your best to block the mechanics that opened the window. It should hold the water for some time, but you could only hope. You ignored the metal's clanking sound against the glass as the force pushed against it. 

As more shouting erupted from outside, the smaller the room felt. Suddenly you were back on the Red Tail, under the desk, hiding from these men. That was how it had all started, wasn’t it? They hid you away to keep you safe… and yet. The walls closed in on you. The water seemed to rise, but only in your mind, drowning in helplessness. 

If something did happen to this ship, you thought you would die either way, and you might not know many things, but one thing was certain: you would not die in Munson’s cabin.  

When you walked out of the room the past days, you were greeted with plush warm air, as if you had fallen gently atop a pillow. Now, it was more like a hard fall. The wind slapped your entire body, and the harsh rain cut at your cheeks. Each step felt as if you had been anchored to the ground. 

All around you was chaos. Water was everywhere. Rain poured harshly, a million icy bullets coming down your skin, soaking through your clothes. The waves reached a height as you had never seen, coming in closer by the second, threatening to spill over the railings. Some already did, drowning the wooden panelling of the deck, leaving nothing untouched as barrels rolled around. Crew members ran behind them, with meters of ropes, hoping to steady the load, but it was in poor attempts when their feet could barely remain steady. Munson threw around commands, but in these circumstances, his beloved ship had a mind of her own, and it was protesting her captain. 

The rest, in the meantime, did their best to keep up with what the captain had to say. Pulling the sails, ensuring a hold on all the loose cargo on the deck from slipping away. With buckets, they threw out water that splashed onto the ship, but with each wave, the amount only doubled. The men stumbled over themselves, knocking eachother over as the boat swayed immensely. 

You heard your name being called from the side and saw Harrington at the helm. Seeing him in the rain, you could not help but think of a dog. How the animals shrink in size when met with water, shaking and whimpering, just wanting to escape the cold. All of them, in fact, everyone around you, reminded you of it. They were all simply fighting for their life against the elements. 

Harrington looked at you sternly, and you could tell what he was saying with his expression alone. Go inside. But you stared blankly back, with no intention of listening.

That is when the wind picked up, pushing the ship off course. The helm began spinning in circles, and Harrington held onto its spurs for dear life, turning it back with all his remaining power. You could tell he wouldn’t be able to hold it much longer. His grip kept slipping. He cursed loudly, but there was no one there to help. No one except you. It took you one quick glance to realise it, and once that occurred, you immediately stepped up to him and pulled at the spurs.

Harrington looked taken aback, for a second forgetting the task at hand, and that one second had been enough for him to fall back a few steps and the helm to begin to unfold again, resulting in another loud curse.

‘What are you doing?’ 

‘Helping you!’ you called out; both of you were sputtering as the water of both sea and sky engulfed you. 

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ He yelled out moments before another wave hit the vessel's side, and he got knocked off his feet. For a brief moment, until he had regained his stance, you were the only one holding the helm. The weight of the entire ship fell upon you for those brief seconds, which was overwhelming. It was too much, too heavy. You couldn’t carry on on your own. 

Harrington coughed out as he regained a grip on the wheel. He glanced at you with another expression of displeasure at your presence, but there was no longer time for him to argue. You could barely hold the wheel together. Your feet were slipping on the wet floor. 

‘Pull!’ he shouted almost directly into your ear, but he could have been miles away with the thunder roaring over your heads.

‘I am!’ you shouted right back, but clearly, it was not enough.

‘Pull harder than!’ 

I can’t, you wanted to shout back, but that would have been worthless. You were putting in every inch of power you had left in this, yet it would still take much more for the ship to cooperate. By the time you released the helm with certainty, your arms were burning with exhaustion, and your skin was numb from the thousands of pinpricks of the harsh downpour.  

Not that this mattered much. The rest of the ship was still in turmoil. If you didn’t know any better, you would have thought a mist had set in from how dense the water came down, covering everything in a grey mass. The wind blew you back three steps for each that you attempted to make. 

You were both breathing heavily, which was hard as it was combined with trying not to swallow the loads of water that came down upon you with each breath you took. Was there even air to breathe at this point? Or had you already sunk into the ocean? Everything felt on top of its head, spinning around. You barely heard what Harrington said as you pulled yourself out of the nausea.

‘What?’ you asked, shouting everything out to come out above the noise. 

‘I’m sorry,’ he repeated. Now, what was he apologising for? And why now, as the storm was only growing stronger, it seemed. The two of you still stood side by side at the helm, holding it tightly, but now more for your own sake, anchoring yourself from the wind. Across the ship, you saw the rest of the crew battling with the weather. Munson had stopped shouting out commands and was part of a group trying to keep the mizzenmast up. He had discarded his jacket somewhere along the way, leaving him to let the water soak into his shirt, which stuck to him meticulously. 

‘That are you apologising for,’ you turned quickly to Harrington. Facing his direction only caused the rain to directly attack your face. 

‘For listening to him,’ he shouted. As the storm raged on, you doubted anyone could hear the two of you anymore, no matter how loud you spoke. ‘I thought I was doing what was best for everyone, it was stupid.’

‘But why—why did he tell you to do that?’ 

To your surprise, Harrington laughed. ‘I’ve realised long ago it is better not to understand how his mind works.’ 

You wanted to reply that, no, you did want to understand exactly how his mind worked because it was making you insane when suddenly, a crash sounded over the vessel. All heads turned to starboard, where something must have just crashed bast the railing beams. A large whole gaped at the rest of you; a crate had already fallen out, but it was the least of your worries as you saw an arm hanging on for dear life from one of the broken wood beams. 

Munson was the first person to reach the crewman in peril. He reached for him just in time as the man’s grip slipped off the wood. The captain lay flat on his stomach across the deck. Some more men reached him and tried to pull him in, but the ship shifted again on the waves; nothing was in their favour. 

‘Harrington!’ the captain yelled, but when his voice reached you, it was less than a murmur against the wind. ‘HARRINGTON!’ He looked over toward the helm, and that is when he noticed you. 

You didn’t give him the same amount of attention, for you had a better view of everything around. You could see the stack of men that had now gathered at the broken ship’s side, pulling their mate back to safety, but you also saw the barrel that was lopsiding, threatening to fall over with each hit of the waves. They must have missed it when securing everything in haste. From its position, it seemed that if it would topple over, the barrel would roll directly into the panicked rescue operation. 

Harrington, who had been trying to steer the ship as best as he could in the circumstances, must have seen it too, as you had only taken a step to the side, and he had already grabbed your arm. 

‘Let go off me, or I will give you another black eye!’ You threatened. 

‘Have you gone mad!’ He shouted over the yelling below you. 

‘Yes!’ You couldn’t help but smile and possibly not even far from any truth. The last few weeks were maddening in every possible way. Whatever had or would have happened, there was no denying that you had changed, and the most evident proof was right there as you ran down the stairs in an attempt to save the men that you had thought would lead you to your death. Just as you thought you had reached it in time, the barrel tipped over entirely, hitting the ground and immediately started to roll. It rolled in your direction, the only obstruction in its way.

Without thinking, you let yourself crush against it, shoulder to wood. The pain was intense but passed quickly, and though you had let your feet slip and there was nothing to mask the fall, you had still managed to stop the large piece of refuse from hurting the others. 

You could see them pulling the fallen crewmate back onto the deck when you got up. Shuffling through your memories of what you had encountered and heard the past few days, his name didn’t come up, and yet you felt a huge relief fall off you. 

‘You’re welcome!’ you said, tired and feeling heavy. 

Someone helped Munson get up. His hair was stuck all over his face, but when he brushed it aside, you saw his face—full of anger. He stormed over to you or tried to, considering how the ship had thrown him off-balance. 

‘What should I be thanking you for?’ He spat out, primarily due to all the rain that had soaked into him. 

‘For saving your life!’ You had not expected him to be thankful, that was not who Munson was, but you had not imagined him to be angry. Yet, his eyes were rageful, his jaw tense as he looked at you silently and turned to his men to yell out: 

‘Someone secure that damn wall.’ 

Aye. There were already three men on it, trying to block the wrecked piece of the ship. Any proper reparations would have to wait until the storm had run its course. There was no way for them to sit there with the waves splashing into their faces at such speed and force and nowhere to stand without a risk of falling. 

The captain turned back to you. ‘I told you to stay inside.’

‘If I had, you would have been in the water now!’ You shouted back, ‘clearly, you need as many hands on deck as possible.’

‘Not yours.’ He wiped his face off from the rain, but it poured over him with even more strength. ‘Go back to my quarters. Now.’

‘No.’ You stood your ground, pushing back against Munson’s and the wind’s will.  You would not let yourself be stowed away. He could not take this away from you. He could not take you away. You wouldn’t let him. Not again.

‘That is an order.’ He snapped. 

‘I do not take orders from you.' You may not have been much help, but you had already kept Harrington from losing complete control over the helm and practically saved the captain from falling into the ocean's depths. Still, it was not enough to convince the captain, as his reply was clear and straightforward, despite all the noise that muffled your voices from eachother.

‘You’ll die out here!’ A wave pushed you forward, stumbling into his chest. He held you up by your wrist before you both fell. 

‘So will you!’ You looked him in the eyes, pleading. Unsure for what. Something. Anything.

For a moment, you thought you had won him over, but then he looked around, shouting out names of his crewmen, anyone who could hear him or get close enough to you. But they were all too occupied. Finally, one of the coopers, who was already tying up the barrel you had so swiftly taken care of with the rest of the cargo, ran up at the sound of his name.

‘Take care of her before I do,’ Munson told him. The boy—as he seemed younger than most men on this ship—nodded, but you saw in his face he had nothing over you. Before he could reach for you, you pushed past him towards the captain. 

‘I’m not leaving you.’ Perhaps that were not the words you had meant to say. Maybe you simply wanted to say that you were not about to leave this deck, but those were the words to come out of your mouth.

As a response, he asked the same question that crossed your mind as soon as those words had left your mouth. ‘Why?’ 

‘Because–’ but before you could answer, a pair of arms grabbed you and pulled you away. You screamed out, demanding to be let go, but it was all washed out in the storm. It couldn’t have been the boyish cooper that had taken you; his hold was too firm and strong. Whoever they were, they dragged you back toward the cabin on the captain's orders, towards alleged safety. What would happen if they opened the door to reveal a waterfall streaming past their feet because those bloody windows broke open once more? What then? 

But you felt a pinch of pride in your heart because you knew that some days ago, you would not have dared to stand up to the captain with such defiance. You certainly would not have dared to kick and scratch at the man holding you until he let you go. You would have been shoved into that room and locked away, and maybe it would have been for the better because just moments after you freed yourself, you locked eyes with Munson. He was ready to speak, yell, and so were you, but all of that was washed out by a wave. One larger than you had ever seen before. It towered over the ship, dampening everything in its shadow. And then it crashed down. You had just about managed to take one final breath and heard a scream of your name. 

There was a push, and something hit your head, or was it your head that hit something. Either way—

Everything went black. 

That must be what death feels like. Floating, weightlessly numb. There is darkness, and then there is light. It grows and grows, overcoming the chasm and suddenly, all the pain from before is gone.

It is disorienting at first as you try to understand where you are. It all feels familiar and yet impossible at the same time. You do not know how you got there but know the way perfectly well. You remember it all exactly—that day—like no time had ever passed. It must have been years ago. Long before the wreckage and the fire and the storm and chaos. Long before him. And yet… 

As you come to, but not exactly, you hear the mewing of seagulls. A flock hovers over your head. The sun shines brightly. As you move your hand, blades of grass tickle your fingertips and that smell… the sweet scent of summer. 

There’s a weight on your stomach. A book. You had been reading it for hours under the tree. The large lime tree in the garden, but to call it a garden is an understatement. The branches rock gently in the breeze, shaking their leaves in a greeting. 

You sit up, letting your back rest against the tree bark. In the distance are voices, children playing, merchants selling their produce, and animals roaming freely over the streets like any other day. 

Then you hear it. 

‘Gentlemen, I think we have an agreement then,’ your father says as he emerges from a corridor. You want to jump into his arms, tears already welling up in the corner of your eyes, but that is not how that day had gone. 

Besides, he has company. 

‘Yes, sir,’ a second man replies. ‘The troops are all ready to go.’ 

‘Brilliant,’ your father says. None of them have realised that you were sat there yet, able to hear every word they said. If they had, they would have sent you away. Not because any of their matters are private or a secret, it is just some light conversation between commanders. They would have sent you away because you, as a lady, have no reason to be bothered by such topics. 

You dare to peek a glance at the men accompanying your father. Like all the others before, they must be some kind of officer; their appearance told you as much. You had seen plenty of these types of men. Your father often invited those who harboured their ships in town. No matter where they were from. Although, they seemed to be wearing similar colours to what the soldiers around your house wore. 

You didn’t know either of the two men’s names that day. Why would you? It was the first time you had seen them in a lifetime full of new faces. And it would be several years until you would see them again. Years that would barely change admiral Carver’s appearance. He had maintained his boyish young looks until the day he died. 

By now, you knew you had fallen deep into a dream, but how much of it was fantasy? It felt like a memory, but why were you haunted by demons? Maybe it was your brain filling in gaps, playing tricks on you, covering up a face you had entirely erased from your memory by one you could never forget. That did not seem right, however. The pieces fell too perfectly into place. Just not in any way, you had expected them to. 

It was a trick. It must be. That was, could, not him, after all. His hair was neatly tied back and much shorter, to begin with. Though mostly covered with the shadow of his brimmed hat, his face was fuller, happier, and clean-shaven. His fingers were clean, and light without the weight of those large silver rings, and his clothes were the pristine uniform of the navy, which could not possibly hide a lifetime of scars and tattoos underneath them. It simply could not be.

And yet, when he catches your eye, that same pair of warm brown eyes catch you off guard. He smiles your way, tipping his hat, saying ‘ma’am’ with a smile before catching up to the rest of his entourage.

You awoke in a sheen of cold sweat, but it might have been the storm's remnants. The gentle feeling of grass blades against your fingers was exchanged into a harch grip on the bedsheets you lay upon. The only thing you could hear was your breathing, but behind that was the tap-tap-tapping of rain against the window. That’s where he stood, leaning against the glass by his side, arms crossed as he looked at you. No expression that you could make out in any sense, not because of the lack thereof, but because the emotions came in abundance.

‘What happened?’ Speaking felt like you had inhaled a bucket of sand instead of water; your throat had wholly dried out. 

‘What do you remember?’ the captain walked over to the bed with a cup of water to hand you, which you took with a shaky hand. 

‘Everything… I think.’ One sip had been enough to heal your drought. ‘There was a storm and a wave—’ 

‘Nearly washed us out,’ Munson filled in the gaps. His voice was steady, emotionless. Somehow, that felt worse than if he had been angry. He was holding back on you. ‘You hit your head and been asleep—we assumed you were sleeping—for six hours. More or less.’ But the longer he kept on talking, the more of a shake you felt in him. How he was holding back the rage that had exploded out of the both of you during the storm.

He continued talking. ‘We should be arriving at the harbour of Saint Claire shortly.’

‘I don’t understand,’ you let your fingers ghost over your forehead, which was wrapped in bandages, and a flash of pain blinded you momentarily. 

‘It’s a small island, not far off course. Safer for the night than the waters.’ The storm had calmed down but had not found its rest just yet. 

‘No, I don’t mean that,’ you said, standing up. 

‘Don’t get up,’ He tried to push you back but decided against making contact, which you took as an opportunity to defy his wishes. 

‘Do not tell me what to do, Munson.’ You were tired of it, and his constant commands made you sick…. Or was it the dizziness you felt as you got up too fast? Munson caught you just in time before you would hit your head again. Only then you realised that his shirt was still wet. It stuck to you like it stuck to him. His hair was a mess too. He must have come out of the rain moments ago.

He set you back up on your feet just to bring you back onto the bed. Once your head stopped spinning, you weakly asked: ‘Is everyone okay?’

‘You seem to have gotten the worst of it.’ 

‘Of course,’ you laughed at your own fortune. ‘Look,’ you made a second attempt to get up, hitting the last of the captain’s nerves.

‘Why won’t you ever listen?’ He grunted as he held you up. 

‘Because I don’t want to.’ You swatted away his hands, letting go of him entirely. ‘Will you stop that!’

‘Stop what?’

‘Pretending like you give a damn about me while we both know that I am not worth a dime of your time..’ 

He sighed, pivoting your tangent. 

‘No, sorry, you have your bounty to look forward to, of course, but don’t worry, I will personally write a letter to my father to tell him to just give you all his money, no matter in what state I return home if you will just leave me alone!’

‘Will you please stop yelling.’ He had his head rolled back, looking up at the ceiling. His fists clenched, and he walked around the room to calm down.

‘No! I am tired of this. All of this. I am tired of being treated like vermin.’

‘Vermin?’ He scoffed this time, turning his head to you in disbelief. ‘I’ve given you my clothes, my bed and two perfectly fine meals every day, and that’s what you think this is?’

‘Yes, and I’m very thankful for that, just as I am for being locked in a cage for days and now—what, you’re isolating me from your entire crew like I have the pest?’

‘I did no such thing!’ He was quick to defend himself from the accusation.

‘So, just Harrington then? Do not lie to me, Munson; I saw how he avoided me the whole time, then tried to not sound as if you had not commanded him to not speak to me.’

‘It was his own will that followed that order. I gave him a choice.’ 

‘What was it, listen or die?’ That sounded about right for you. 

‘We do not kill on this ship,’ he said sternly, seriously, almost more severe than you had ever heard him speak. 

‘Only on every other ship?’ With a snap, the window burst open again, letting in the whistling wind and the last drops of rain into the room, but it went unnoticed by the two of you as all the focus lay in the vicious words you threw back and forth.

‘Only those who deserve it. Yes.’ His face was set in anger, and you backed away, not because of his appearance but what he had admitted to. 

‘What did my men deserve? They were innocent!’’ Everyone on the ship must have heard you if they had not already been listening to the rest of the conversation.

‘Of course, we’re all just innocent men, aren’t we?’ He regained his need for theatrics as he spread his arms invitingly, laughing hysterically. ‘Everyone except for me, that is. I am the big scary monster at the bottom of the sea that you should fear. That’s what I am, right, darling? I’m the monster.’ He also began to get louder with each word, his words slurred with exhaustion. That is when you noticed the bottle on the edge of the desk. The rest of the room lay in disarray, but the bottle stood pristinely on the corner of the oaken desktop, uncorked without anything spilt it, but nonetheless half empty. 

‘Are you drunk?’ You reached for the bottle.

‘You wish, princess.’ He laughed. ‘Then maybe I wouldn’t remember any of this tomorrow. But please, be my guest, drink–’ he pointed at the bottle you were holding, ‘eat, take my clothes, my bed, men, maybe go through all of my belongings once more, read my personal correspondence like its a bloody periodical. Jump of the ship if you please. I do not care.’ He threw his arms up, and something in you tightened. Of course, he knew about you, having read the letter. But should you feel guilty about it now? When he just admitted to targeting your friends? So many things were going through your head, and words you wanted to say to him, but only one question truly encapsulated it all.

‘What is your problem?’ 

‘You.’ He pointed sternly, so there was no confusion on the matter, ‘You are my problem. Have been since the very first day.’

‘Well, if only there had been a solution to that,’ you threw your arms up in faux-surrender, ‘Like maybe, not kidnapping me, or you could have left me to die on my ship or, even better, not ambushing my ship!’ 

‘You were never meant to be on that ship!’ He yelled out, letting out all his frustrations while all of yours disintegrated at that moment, too, as you let his words go through you. The next word you spoke was too overcrowded by confusion to be heard from a distance. 

‘What?’

‘You know you weren’t supposed to be there.’ He blinked, and something in him cracked. A part of him you had never seen before that had come out by mistake and was now vulnerable against everything. ‘It was supposed to be them—him—’ 

‘How do you know that?’ 

‘Because I know them. You speak of what a monster I am, but I know what kind of monsters they are and what they do, and I know you’re not one of them.’ 

‘You don’t know anything about me!’ You gritted your teeth as tears pricked the corners of your eyes. With each sentence spoken between you, unbeknownst to either, utterly subconsciously, you had both pulled at an invisible string. Pulling each other closer and closer until there was nowhere left to pull; the knot tied you down. Inseparable.

Munson looked down at you, the angles of his features suddenly softer, eyes flickering over all the corners of your face. ‘Well, what do you know about me?’

If he had asked you this any other day, any other minute, even if it had been ten seconds before, you would have been able to answer him directly with no hesitation. But, unfortunately, he had asked it right at this moment, as you stood only inches apart. Breathing the same air in and out. Everything around you dampened. It was just you and him. No sound, no light, no touch. Time sped up and slowed down at the same time. You could have stood there for an hour or a second, which would not have mattered.

You were still fighting to find the words when he touched your cheek and pulled you in. His lips practically crashed into yours with the force of a burning sun, and that is what must have burst inside you as he did. All thoughts fizzled away from your mind to the point that the only thing you could think of was his body on yours. The touch between the two of you. His lips on yours, hand on cheek, chest to chest. 

But as smoothly as those thoughts had dissolved, as quickly they rematerialised when he pulled away. And with the moment of clarity, you let your body speak for itself as now your hand met his cheek.

Harshly. 

The impact ghosted your palm as the red mark across his jawline began to form. Following your hand’s movement, he turned his face away but slowly came back to you, and nothing had changed about him. You could not read anything of him. He was a closed book. A tall wall between two cursed lands.

But that is when you realised that something had changed in you. Deep within.

A fracture.

It must have been there for ages, shattering away small pieces here and there as time passed. Each day, no matter how hard you tried to keep them under control, the cracks would grow and grow, ready to burst out whatever it was hiding on the other side. This thing that was hungry for something. Something you had never known you wanted, even needed, but now could not live another second without. As your chest still rose with anger, and the final crack formed, breaking the foundations apart, you leaned in and let your lips meet his for a second time. Without letting another second go to waste, he grabbed you tightly and pulled you in, closing any possible gaps. Bursting through the walls. 

Like a cannon, 

straight through the heart.

The damage was done. 

Chapter 8

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[zot3-flopped]

might sing about knowing Aristotle, but she never talks about reading or mentions favourite authors and poets.

i feel like she just heard the story of aristotle and the name but doesn‘t know all that. Because most people who really delve into those types of topics would make sure to make references towards whatever they read. I know somebody who sings and writes about dante and the nine circles of hell to describe his latest heartbreak and how he got better after this. I feel like the easiet slam dunk that you can do as an artist to show that you are knowledgable and care about the deeper meaning to your music in that sense is if you explain icarus. She could easily do this or talk about a greek mythology character, hm maybe hades or others that could easily be compared either to her situation or the characteristics of her exes. But she didn‘t even do that which shows to me she knows about words or sayings like achilles heel in a red song but clearly doesn‘t know anything deeper that would not be brpught up in random conversations and could just come from books, poetry or interest in art outside of charts. (I have also never seen her in an art gallery, where a lot of artists get their ideas from, how as it was from harry styles was based on a performance art in a museum, he also is often seen in galleries. She could also easily just recreate a van gogh painting, easy slam dunk to show you are looking outside of your bubble a tiny bit)

The only reason Aristotle was mentioned in So High School is because his name rhymes with 'throttle.'

[lestatslestits]

Day 3 of TOTA Takeover, dedicated to Eddie McKenna. He’s such a perfect avatar for the overarching theme of the show: the fine line between being seen as “mad” or “sane” by society, and he brilliantly subverts so many uncomfortable tropes in which characters have to spend their whole arcs learning to treat mentally ill people like human beings.

As a note: I am not Scottish, or even British, and my familiarity with Scottish English as a dialect is passing. I’ve tried very hard to do my research regarding word choice and phrasing, as well as trying to synthesize the show’s dialogue style as effectively as possible. I hope it comes across alright.

Warning: this ficlet contains brief references to suicide, as well as ableism/some ableist language.

“You really mean what you said earlier?” Eddie Mckenna asks in the half-second silence where Campbell pauses for breath for the first time in what feels like twenty minutes. He’s expounding on some bizarre theory about musical genres that Eddie doesn’t quite follow, but that’s either brilliance or lunacy. Or maybe it’s both. Probably it’s both.

“Mean what?” The kid looks half-stunned at being interrupted, as if the question has jarred him out of a trance of some kind.

“That I’m not a patient, but I ought to be.” He keeps his tone purposefully light, but it’s hard not to over-analyze the statement. Sure, he likes the occupants of St. Jude’s well enough, but he’s not sure how to take the statement that he ought to be one.

“Oh, aye!” Campbell’s expression changes to a familiar thousand-watt grin, and his head bobs on his slender shoulders.

“Right, thanks for that.”

“I didnae say it was a bad thing. Non-loonies are boring, but not Ready Eddie Mckenna!” He says the name with such a flourish, waving his hands as though conducting a silent orchestra, that it manages to make Eddie crack a grin in spite of himself.

“Still, it’s no what everyone wants to be told, Campbell.”

“And why not? History’s greats were all loonies!”

“Not all—”

“Ernest Hemingway.”

“Aye—”

“Sylvia Plath—”

“Aye, but—“

Warming to his topic now, the lad crows, “Vincent Van Gogh!”

“Campbell, all of those people topped themselves.”

“Well,” he says as if it’s a minor quibble, “alright, but you’ve got to admit they’re remembered.”

“For topping themselves.”

“Look, I’m no saying to top yourself, just saying that loonies have got home team advantage when it comes to self-expression and making ourselves heard.”

“So you’re calling me a loony for wanting to be a DJ?”

“I’m calling you a loony for selling double-glazing when you’ve got what it takes to be a brilliant DJ!”

“What, insanity?”

“Exactly!” Campbell punches the air in triumph.

“Only clearly I’m no a loony, because I’m no a patient.” He knows it is the wrong thing to say as soon as he says it, but at least when Campbell’s eyebrows arch upwards, it’s in amusement and not offense.

“You’ve met Stuart and you still think all loonies are inside?” He asks, giggling at his own joke. “Apparently I was a loony before I got banged up here, and for certain I’ll be one by the time they decide to let me go. You’re just as mad as me, Eddie.” It’s said with genuine appreciation for the craft of being a stark raving lunatic.

“And you told me once that Nana was as sane as you.” Eddie doesn’t like to think of Nana too much. He still sees her about town, huddled under overhangs, drinking vodka or whiskey to keep warm. He always tries to give her whatever extra cash he’s got in his pockets (never much), and he’s tracked down an English to Latvian dictionary, but it’s slow going.

“Well, she is. She’s just as sane as me and you’re just as loony.”

“That disnae make any sense.”

“I haven’t got to make sense, Eddie. I’m off my head.”

On the topic of madness, Campbell’s been wearing a Cheshire Cat grin throughout the whole conversation, and it makes it impossible for Eddie to tell if he’s joking. He has the uncomfortable feeling that he isn’t. He has the uncomfortable feeling that while he may not be right, he isn’t wrong, either. The lad seems to read his thoughts.

“For what it’s worth, Eddie: I like you as a loony.”

And, because it’s one thing he does know for certain: “I like you too, Campbell.”

[quillsareswords]

omg for #QFWW with a vampire reader bc spooky season never ends, like a date gone wrong or something like that pls

A/N: I really know I've found my people when half of these were for my supernatural reader-characters. More vampire reader in my That Which Bleeds collection! WARNINGS: mentions of blood but no descriptions of consumption, mentions of food, language

MASTER LIST in BIO

   “For the record, this was not originally how I intended the night to end.”

   He glances down at the massive bloodstain on the front of his once crisp green button down for emphasis. “No? Were you aiming to have this stain a little higher up? My collar, perhaps?”

   You glare at him dejectedly. “Not funny.”

   He’s smiling anyway. He’s sitting on the curb outside of some swanky restaurant, with this huge dark blotch on his shirt, and he’s smiling at you like you’re finer than every piece of art in the gallery you took him to earlier in the afternoon.

   You bury your face in your hands. “I’m sorry.”

   "What ever for?" he chuckles.

   You glare again. "You're joking, right?"

   Against the cold night air, the warmth of his arm wrapping around your shoulders feels more like a space heater kicking on next to you. “You don’t have to apologize,” he chuckles. “It was a good day.”

   Well, it had been. You'd spent most of the day flitting around the apartment, finding things to keep you busy while you waited for him to finish with his classes. You'd gotten ready together, and he went down and started the car before sunset so it would be warm for you.

   It was all downhill from there. When you finally got to the gallery venue, there was nowhere to park and the valet was nowhere to be seen. There was no choice but to park elsewhere and walk three blocks in your slightly uncomfortable fancy clothes. He'd insisted it was nice to be able to stretch his legs after being stuck in his home office all day, but you know he's still sore from his showdown with Riddler's biggest, baddest goon last week.

   Inside, none of the trays walking around were vegetarian friendly. It was all meat, or very obviously coss-contaminated. On top of that, none of the refreshments were to either of your liking. So, two hours of meandering around a winding exposition with nothing to eat and no drink—because why on earth would they offer water?

   When you finally finished, with a new piece under Damian's arm (a delightful reimagining of a lesser-known Van Gogh, apparently), it was raining. You'd checked the forecast every hour, on the hour all day and there hadn't been a cloud in sight until tomorrow night. So, just this once, you hadn't brought your umbrella. 

   Luckily, the artist he'd purchased from was more than happy to hold it for you until one of you could come back and safely pick it up. And neither of you wanted to walk in the rain, so you called over a cab and left the car to sit in a business lot for awhile longer.

   Finally, you'd thought things were looking up.

   And then the restaurant couldn't find your reservation. The reservation you made weeks ago, because The Stranger is the only nice restaurant in all of Gotham that caters to both vegetarians and vampires.

   Fortunately, they happened to have an open table, and because you had the foresight to bring along some proof of reservation (ensuring the entire mess was their fault), drinks were free.

   Finally, all was well. Damian loved his mushroom risotto, you were thrilled with your AB+ blend, and it really looked like you'd be able to pull this off.

   The whole night was your doing. He'd been so busy with his degree and his heroism and his internship, and you'd been finding a delicate balance between your own school work and playing mediator between any decent vampires in the city and privy law enforcement, while also making yourself a threat against any indecent vampires that didn't care for humanity anymore. You hadn't been able to do much of anything together, especially when he slept for six or so hours most nights and you didn't.

   You sat with him while he ate breakfast. You'd sit in his office while you both worked. He'd sit in the living room to work while you chipped away at hobbies or watched something. You'd sit closeby while he painted. You'd lie in bed and read while he slept, because he always sleeps better if you're around. If you're lucky, you may even doze off while you're there. You found ways to spend time together whenever you could, but it wasn't quite the same as getting out and going somewhere.

   Valentine's Day was the best excuse to do so. Two whole days cleared on both schedules. One night to stay out as late as he could bare. You'll make breakfast for him tomorrow, and whenever he decides to get up, you'll talk him into watching some ridiculous romance movie he'll roll his eyes at but end up teary-eyed by the end of.

   You can practically taste victory, despite all the mishaps leading up to dinner. The waiter is bringing over your second glass. Damian's almost finished. You're almost done with the artichoke dip he didn't like as much.

   And then, in a wretched turn of events that you swear only belong in shitty television dramas, the waiter trips. Over thin air or his shoelaces or your hopes and dreams, it doesn't matter. He falters, squeals, and the glass he's carrying goes flying like a targeted drone strike.

   Thinned red blood splatters against the wall behind your table and then—all over the front of Damian's shirt.

   You could have burst into tears right then and there. Instead, you waited patiently for Damian to assure the sputtering waiter that it was fine, he wasn't angry, he wouldn't have the poor kid fired. Then, you took Damian to the family bathroom and tried your best to rinse out as much of the blood as you could in the sink. 

   "A good night?" you ask incredulously. "Where have you been all night?"

   He raises one hand, the one not touching you, in mock-defense. "I didn't say it went perfectly, my love. Could things have gone a little smoother? Of course. But they didn't ruin the evening."

   You finally pull your face from your hands. "Yeah, they kind of did. Case in point," you grumble, gesturing to his shirt.

   "I don't care about the shirt," he tells you seriously. "I have dozens of them. I'll buy another one if I miss it. Look at me." His hand skims up the round of your back to the base of your neck to get you attention. It's pointless, because you never turn down an opportunity to look upon him. "I don't care about the shirt. Or the shoes."

   "What happened to your shoes?" you cry suddenly.

   He laughs tiredly and shakes his head. "Nothing important. Will you let me finish?"

   You bite down on your lip as your hand absently passes over your mouth, as if you're subconsciously trying to keep yourself quiet.

   "I was going to say, that I don't care about all these little things that happened." He rubs his thumb across the cool skin of your neck, mere inches away from a scar that's never quite going to heal. "All I wanted to do tonight was spend time with you. I didn't care what we did. I did enjoy the gallery, and dinner, and I do appreciate all the time and effort you put into planning all this: but you really didn't have to. I would have been perfectly content to sit at home and stare at you all night. I wanted to be with you tonight, and you gave me that. Everything else was secondary."

   The way he looks at you now almost brings tears to your eyes. He looks at you like you're the prettiest thing on Earth. Like you're the only thing worth looking at. Like he really would have been happy to do nothing but look at you until the world ended.

   "I just wanted it to be perfect," you tell him honestly, voice as wilted at you feel. "We don't get the chance to do this very often, so I wanted it to be special." You laugh wetly despite yourself. You're quick to wipe away one rogue tear. "Guess I should have known better. We do live in Gotham, afterall."

   "That's true," he chuckles. "On the bright side, it still wasn't as terrible as our New Year's dinner last year."

   You laugh just thinking about it, like you always do. He knows you always laugh about it. It's a trick he keeps tucked in his back pocket for just these occasions. "That was pretty awful," you agree. "Your brother tumbling through the window covered in blood wasn't exactly how I thought that night would end, either."

   He gently pulls you closer to him. Tucks you into his side while you wait for a cab to take you back to the car. "Well, to be fair, I expect most nights to end with at least a little blood. I am in love with a vampire, afterall."

   You rest your head on his shoulder and watch slow traffic pass. "I love you, too," you hum. "Even though you are the one who spilled my drink last night, and now you're trying to blame me."

   He rolls his eyes."I am not–"

   "Oh you so are–"

[welcome-to-ratterrock]

if these characters were humans in like another universe 😭

would they be religious and what religion? do they already have a religion?

The characters definitely have relationships with religion in the comic, so I’m going to address what happens in the canon verse since it applies to their human selves (with the exception of the Nightshades). Long post ahoy!

The majority of the rodent population/society in this story is very much a reflection of human society. Because mice and rats live beneath the human world and very much live off of it, their society is essentially an echo of it. As Baji once said, “It reflects our world, but on a smaller scale.”

So man made creations are utilized by the mice/rat population for their own purposes, with their own unique takes on them. Rodents borrow/make copies of artwork and literature and music that humans have created - there’s no Mouse Vincent Van Gogh or Mouse Charlotte Brontë, but there’s mouse made copies of “Starry Night” and “Jane Eyre”, if that helps explain it. They take what they want from human society and either copy it as closely as they can, or they refashion it to suit their purposes.

This includes religion. Rodents are aware of the concept of God, a figure named Jesus, how Christianity and Judaism and other major religions work/influence the world of humans because the human world directly affects their own. They are influenced the most by the humans they had the closest contact to. The family that lives above them is Catholic? They follow Catholic traditions. If a Jewish human family had to move because of a pogrom, the mouse family under them would have to leave too.

Now, like I said, there are some twists/adaptions made. Rodents revere food above all else, and that has influenced how they view certain religious beliefs. In regards to Christianity, mice take this particular passage very literally:

And he took bread, and gave thanks, and brake it, and gave unto them, saying, This is my body which is given for you: this do in remembrance of me.

So there’s this idea in Rodent Christianity (a term I never thought I would write) that Christ is akin to bread, or even that he literally is bread, nourishing and sustaining. So they’ve gotten “Christ” and “crust” mixed up a bit - they’ll say things like “Holy Crust!” or “Sweet Crust!”

NOW, having gotten all of that established…let’s see where our crew of characters fall in this scheme…

Regal is a staunch atheist. The Regal’s were raised Catholic, but he doesn’t have any inclination or interest towards religion of any sort - he has come to see it as a way to control people, shame them into behaving themselves so they’re easier for people in power to control. Honestly, I can’t see any of the remaining Regal family members being religious. They attended mass as children but it never was something they really connected with - Sorcha enjoyed the music, but she hates being lectured and that’s what sermons felt like for her. None of them are fans of the hypocrisy that the church holds, either, nor that their sexual preferences are seen as sinful…so yeah, I can’t see any of them wanting to go back to mass.

Locke has faith in science and justice, in facts and data, and that’s it - he and Regal definitely connected over both of them being atheists. His family went to church because it was the “proper and respectable thing to do”, but Little Locke would constantly question the pastor and freaked everyone in his Sunday school out when he told them the science behind crucifying.

Levi is Jewish, and he keeps kosher and takes part in major holidays. He’s very proud of being Jewish and I think he genuinely believes in a loving God, but I don’t think he attends temple all that often if at all since he’s never hidden that he’s a sex worker and the people there would definitely shun him because of his profession. Abraham is also very proud of being Jewish, and is very much an atheist.

Rilla attends church with her father because it’s expected of a wealthy, blue blood, but struggles with faith after her mother died. She believes in kindness and compassion and generosity, and doesn’t feel like those are solely Christian things.

Brig is also an atheist, she’s had way too much experience about the cruelty done in the name of religion. Her mother believed very strongly in the lore of fairies, the ways of the old country, and Brig still keeps that alive in her own way by celebrating Beltane and Samhain and Yule.

Luella was raised Christian and I think she identifies as one still, but she struggles with it very much. She’s very conscious of the hypocrisy and cruelty done in the name of religion, and constantly reflects on how there’s so much cruelty and unkindness and tragedy in the world…why would a loving God allow that? But at the same time, she prays almost daily and believes so deeply in giving grace and practicing selflessness and kindness. She has faith, but she struggles.

As for Bogdan and Casimir and their mother, they’re unique in that they have the only purely rodent born religion in that they revere the stars and the moon. They believe that when a bat dies, their soul sheds its mortal body to ascend as a star, safe in the eternal night with the maternal moon to watch over them. Charting the stars is not just pragmatic, but deeply spiritual. They have many fables and tales about the moon and the stars and bats who now look down on them from the sky…as humans, I think that would translate into considering astrology akin to spirituality. But that’s something we’re still exploring!

As more characters enter the story we’ll be touching on their relationship to their respective religion! Thank you so much for this question, it really let me deep sea dive into the lore of our world!

[pandasmagorica]

This or that

@telomeke thank you for the tag - here's Telemeke's This or That post - I needed some diversion

coffee or tea: Tea. I don't even like being in the same room with coffee.

early bird or night owl: Night owl. All my life.

chocolate or vanilla: Chocolate, no contest. Although it's not like coffee. I will occasionally stoop to eat vanilla.

spring or fall: What are spring and fall? Kidding. Well, half kidding. When I lived back east it was fall, because I loved the leaves turning. Now, I live in San Francisco where we barely have seasons and our warm spells are in February and October. So seasons aren't really in my consciousness. I know they exist, but I don't think about them.

silver or gold: Not actually into either.

pop or alternative: Alternative, although I listen to both.

freckles or dimples: I didn't even know what dimples were until Pat made a big deal out of Pran's dimples on Bad Buddy. I guess freckles, because I tend to notice them, while I don't even generally notice dimples.

snakes or sharks: Ladders.

mountains or fields: I enjoy looking at mountains. I love it when I climb a hill in San Francisco and it's a clear day and I can spot Mount Diablo 40 or 50 miles away. But I can enjoy looking at a nice field as well, especially if there are animals on it.

thunder or lightning: Not a big fan of either one.

egyptian mythology or greek mythology: Greek

ivory or scarlet: Scarlet.

flute or lyre: I enjoy both. I've probably heard more flute than lyre, so I guess flute?

opal or diamond: Not into either.

butterflies or honeybees: I love seeing butterflies. I remember going to a state park in Santa Cruz that was just covered in Monarchs and I was in heaven. But I know we also need honeybees and I use honey as a sweetener when baking, so they're pretty good, too.

macarons or éclairs: I don't eat either of them very often, but probably macarons. I like macaroons even better, but that wasn't one of the choices unless I made a copy and paste error.

typewritten or handwritten: Typewritten.

secret garden or secret library: While I love the idea of a secret library, I don't read books anywhere near as much as I used to, not even close, and I do like flowers, so I'll go with secret garden.

rooftop or balcony: Rooftop, especially if Ohm and Nanon come with it (and I'll take Ohm and Singto or Off and Gun as seconds).

spicy or mild: Mostly mild, with occasional spicy so I don't get bored.

opera or ballet: Opera. While I do like watching dance, I tend to nod off. I've actually never seen ballet.

london or paris: Haven't been to either one, but I fantasize more about London.

vincent van gogh or claude monet: Monet.

denim or leather: Denim. Have worn both. Haven't worn either for years.

potions or spells: Spells. Potions are icky.

ocean or desert: Ocean. I love to go to Ocean Beach here in San Francisco and walk in the wet area just out of the waves' reach.

mermaids or sirens: Mermaids.

masquerade ball or cocktail party: Not into either.

Tagging:

@lurkingteapot

@lurkingshan

@thegalwhorants

@hyeoni-comb

(quoting @telomeke) No pressure if you don't want to play. And if I didn't tag you but you do want to play, please do so! Please tag me so I can read your responses as well!

Here's a clean version if you're going to play:

coffee or tea | early bird or night owl | chocolate or vanilla | spring or fall | silver or gold | pop or alternative | freckles or dimples | snakes or sharks | mountains or fields | thunder or lightning | egyptian mythology or greek mythology | ivory or scarlet | flute or lyre | opal or diamond | butterflies or honeybees | macarons or éclairs | typewritten or handwritten | secret garden or secret library | rooftop or balcony | spicy or mild | opera or ballet | london or paris | vincent van gogh or claude monet | denim or leather | potions or spells | ocean or desert | mermaids or sirens | masquerade ball or cocktail party

[mikaela-granger]

The Long Wait (Season 2) Chapter 17

Kiss of the Muse

Fandom: Grimm

Pairing: Sean Renard/OFC

The Long Wait Masterlist

A/N: Lorelei realises she’ll have to start telling people soon, while the gang tries to find a way to help Nick who has been bewitched by a wesen’s addictive kiss.

Lorelei’s pregnancy was progressing, and she knew she was running out of time before it would start becoming obvious to the people around her. Rosalee seemed to be suspicious and kept trying to get Lorelei to meet up with her, however Lorelei kept stalling. One morning, around the twelve-week mark was when Lorelei knew that time was running out. While trying to put on her favourite jeans, she found that the button wouldn’t do up. She groaned and moved over to the mirror, standing side on, running her hands over her belly. Her stomach wasn’t very big, it looked like she was a little bloated. For now, she could hide it, with looser clothes, but that wouldn’t work forever. Especially with the weather starting to warm up.

Apart from the complicatedness of the situation, Lorelei also knew that helping Nick out would stop once everyone knew. No way in hell would any of them let her go up against dangerous wesen. She had a feeling that, if he could, Sean would lock her up for the duration of her pregnancy in a bid to keep her safe. Lorelei sighed, and moved over to her closet looking for some clothes that would hide her little bump.

Lorelei was distracted when later that night Hank asked her, Monroe and Rosalee to meet him to discuss Nick’s recent change in behaviour. “I’ve never seen one.” Monroe said, when Hank showed them the drawing Nick had made.

“Me neither.” Rosalee added.

“And Nick really hit someone in a bar over it?” Lorelei asked.

“I didn’t believe it either.” Hank said. “I mean, the guy was drunk, and Nick told him to back off, but still it was a little over the top.”

“That’s the way he was here – over the top.”

“So, if none of you know what this is, how do we find out what we’re dealing with?” Hank asked.

Monroe seemed to think about it, before giving Lorelei and Hank a knowing look. Rosalee noticed. “What?”

“So, this is Aunt Marie’s trailer.” Rosalee said, as she stepped inside.

“Yep, this is it.” Lorelei confirmed.

“Wow.” Rosalee said, slowly walking around, taking everything in in awe. “This is some really rare stuff.”

“Yeah, there’s some pretty rare stuff, but we need to begin with these.” Monroe said, grabbing a couple of books.

Rosalee looked at the book Monroe offered her. “Is this where the books come from?”

“Among other things.” Hank said, as Rosalee opened the weapons cabinet.

“Yeah, it’s a veritable museum of wesen-ology.” Monroe said, trying to close the cabinet door. Lorelei couldn’t help but smile slightly at Monroe’s behaviour. “Chronicling the Grimms proud tradition of hunting and beheading people like us.”

Rosalee stepped back, recognition flooding her features. “Oh. Right. Nice to know.” She said, allowing Monroe to finish closing the cabinet.  “So…” Rosalee said, accepting a book from Monroe. “We are looking for…”

“Somebody who looks like this.” Hank finished, holding out Nick’s drawing.

The four of them, now holding a book each, started their search.

“Oh my god, this is awful.” Lorelei heard Rosalee say.

Lorelei sat up, stretching, she must have fallen asleep. “Sorry guys.” She said.

“It’s fine sweetie.” Rosalee told her.

“Musai.” Monroe said.

They all looked at him. “What?” Hank asked.

“That’s what she is.” Monroe turned the book around so they could see what he was referring to, before holding Nick’s drawing up to show the comparison. “Right?” The other three agreed with him. Monroe put the book down and chuckled slightly. “It’s all in German, of course, but listen to this. This was written in 1888.” He started reading the entry. “I was called in by an artist acquaintance of mine, whose name is Gauguin. The night before he had accosted with a razor blade by another artist friend of his by the name of Van Gogh.”

“No way.” Lorelei interjected and Monroe nodded, clearly surprised as well.

“Gauguin is worried that his friend is under the pernicious influence of a prostitute.” He continued. “He asked me the task of discovering what kind of witch this Rachel was. I was loathed to discover that this trollop was no hexenbiest but a Musai and although she may have been Van Gogh’s greatest inspiration for some time, her influence was starting to take its toll. Huh, causing him to cut off his own ear.” Monroe looked up at them. “I returned the favour and instead of taking off her clothes, of course I took off her head.”

There was a moment of silence. “Van Gogh?” Hank asked, seeming a little sceptical.

“I mean, I’m just reading what’s here. But…” He let out a slight laugh before returning to the book. “The kiss of musai is as euphoric and addictive as any…um…narcotic known to man…and once begun the relationship…always ends in madness, destruction, and death.”

“Oh god.” Lorelei said, rubbing her forehead, as Monroe turned the page.

“Hold on, hold on. Ok. It may not be that bad after all. None of this will happen as long as she hasn’t kissed him.” Monroe said, sounding a little more optimistic.

Rosalee and Lorelei appeared to be a little more optimistic as well, however Hank did not. “What?”

“I saw her kiss his hand, and man, I don’t know what happened when he went over there tonight.”

There was a moment of silence before Rosalee asked if anyone knew where Nick was. From the looks on everyone’s faces, no one did.

The next morning Lorelei, Rosalee, and Monroe headed to the spice shop, while Hank headed off to work, hoping Nick would show up.

“A musai’s lips secrete a kind of psychotropic substance.” Rosalee read from the book she had. “Of which there is no medicinal antidote.”

“What?” Monroe asked in surprise. “There’s gotta be something, right?”

“I got an antidote…” Lorelei started to say but Monroe cut her off.

“You’re not cutting her head off.” He said in annoyance, for the fourth time in as many hours. “Besides, there is no guarantee that it will break the spell on Nick.”

“Oh wait, wait.” Rosalee said, still reading before sighing in disappointment. “No, nothing.”

“So what? It’s the proverbial kiss of death?” Monroe asked.

“Obsessive desire can be defused with love.” Rosalee told them.

“Whatever this is, it ain’t love.”

“No, but it probably feels like it.” Rosalee said. She took a breath. “I think the only way to break an obsession like this is with the real thing.”

In the main shop, the front door opened, and the bell rang as Juliette walked in. Speak of the devil. “Oh hey, I was hoping I would find you here.” She said, approaching them looking worried.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Rosalee asked her.

Juliette looked at them all for a moment. “I need to go back to the trailer.” She finally admitted.

“Really? The trailer, again?” Monroe asked, looking sceptical. He glanced at Rosalee and Lorelei. “After the last time, you sure that’s such a good idea?”

“Good or not, I need to go.” Juliette said, looking at Monroe with a pleading expression.

“Ok. Uh, we’re sort busy right now, but I could…”

Juliette cut him off. “No. I just need the key Monroe. I need to go alone.” She said. “Whatever happened the night Nick brought me there is clearly really important, and in order for me to understand what’s going on right now I have to try to…reconnect with what happened then.”

“She’s right.” Lorelei said. Monroe and Rosalee looked at her in surprise. “We need to let her do this. And hey, that’s my trailer too. And I say, Juliette can go. So, give her the key or I’ll give her mine.”

Monroe clearly didn’t think this was a good idea, but one look from Rosalee led him to caving in. He handed the key over to Juliette, who looked happy. She must have really thought this visit to trailer was going to help. Lorelei hoped it would. These past months had been hard, watching Nick and Juliette suffer. It was heartbreaking.

After she had left, Rosalee and Monroe exchanged a look. Lorelei looked between them. “Hopefully the visit helps the real thing remember.”

Eventually Juliette returned. She remembered Nick, she remembered what he had told her. Juliette believed him now. She had wanted to see him straight away, to apologise. That was when they explained to her what was happening to Nick and that she may be the key to helping him. The four of them headed down to the station, looking for Nick. Nick was found in the holding cells, gun pointed at a man in one of the cells. Thankfully Juliette was able to break the spell the musai had on Nick. Before it had been too late. As Monroe, Rosalee and Lorelei were leaving the station; Rosalee leant in close and whispered “You and I are having a chat. Tonight.”

A/N: Sorry I rushed it at the end there. I wanted to get to the good stuff. What do we think Rosalee wants to talk about?

Next Part

Taglist: @zoexme, @nu1freakshow, @star-yawnznn, @bella250

Banner by @cafekitsune

[raw-law]

What I actually meant in my previous question about art and mental health issues did not exactly pertain to the positive ways in which art can influence one's state of mind, although I love it that you thought of that. I was actually more in the lines of noticing how a slightly less than optimal mental state often fuels high quality art. Depression often fuels amazing literary pieces...not to mention Van Gogh...

And I was thinking, why does either grief or mental illness unlocks creativity? Or is it the other way around, sanity and happiness lead to a more logically controlled, more inhibited behaviour?...

-- Anon 🍰

L:

ahh, that does make a lot more sense now. i remember contemplating involving that in my last answer, but i suppose i forgot about it in trying to organize my jumble of thoughts. i'm glad i get another chance to go in more depth about it now.

i think mental illness and grief don't necessarily unlock creativity, but creativity provides another outlet to express this internal hurt. i think the same goes for sanity and happiness, except you tend to see less art motivated by those emotions simply because the coping mechanism is no longer needed. if an artist solely used art to cope and nothing more, most likely you will only find art from them that was motivated by their grief. if they were perfectly content with life, they would have no reason to keep creating.

not only that, but many people latch onto art that speaks to them specifically. and if there's anything almost every person in the world has experienced to some extent, that's grief. or anger. or depression. or anxiety. it's sad to say, but stress-induced emotions are a universal language. people are going to latch onto grief-stricken pieces much more easily than art fueled through an artist's pure content for life because of that universal sadness. and when people latch onto these, those end up being the pieces that are most commonly seen. bob ross was an amazing artist, but you certainly don't hear people analyzing his art as much as van gogh. if anything, people liked bob ross for bob ross, it was never about his art. if i asked people to tell me one thing about the guy, most would probably say they remember his lines like "happy little trees" or "mistakes are just happy little accidents."

grief and mental illness can absolutely add onto creativity, but it's never what unlocks it. what "unlocks" the creativity based around this type of art are the coping mechanisms that are fueling its motivation. and even then, our audience attention skews what gets pushed more in the media, which just adds onto the cycle of art created through grief. at least that's what i think based on observing people. i'm not any actual artist, so who knows.

Light:

Ooh. Yes, I think I did want to talk about that in my answer to your last ask, but I think I only touched on it briefly?

Certainly, many artists ars famously known to be either 'tortured' or 'mad'. As you mentioned, Van Gogh is one example, whereas Sylvia Plath (author of the Bell Jar, among other works) is another.

Personally, I believe that it can go both ways, like you've detailed in your ask:

Mental disorders, such as bipolar disorder, can indeed lead to bouts of manic creativity. On the other hand, the highly stressful and packed lifestyle of an artist can also lead them to develop mental disorders as a result of that. Or, sadly, a preexisting mental disorder can lead to an artist creating works that are welcomed almost overwhelmingly by the public (as Ryuzaki goes into in more detail in his answer), which then leads to a tight, demanding schedule, which then presses down suffocatingly on the artist, creating a tightening gyre, a cycle that never seems to have any end.

And when an artist works on their work, it can possibly get to the point where they're compulsively churning out one work after the other---the 'flow' state, as it's known to some people. This can also, I suppose, be interpreted as a sort of 'mental disorder' by onlookers.

I guess art often springs out of a kind of 'flaw', though---whether it be a flaw in your mental state, or something else. Art often focuses more on emotions (which can't really be said for other things like the sciences), so it would make sense that people who feel too much, who sometimes can't stop themselves from feeling so much all the time, would turn to art to express their feelings. It similarly also makes sense that the creation of art would possibly lead to further sinking in those feelings as the artist enters a state of 'flow'.

I'm not sure if I've really provided the answers to your question, Anon. But my view is that art and mental illness go hand-in-hand. You can't really find any cause-and-effect relationship between the two. Though, yes, you can create art without having any kind of mental disorder at all---art is borne out of simple feelings, after all. And I don't really think that happy people can't create art, either---isn't happiness a kind of emotion, after all? And you can choose to create art for the simple reason that it's beautiful. And that's the beauty of it all, I guess---that there are different kinds of art, that you don't exactly have to feel a certain kind of way to create. As Ryuzaki so suggested, Bob Ross. You don't have to be a 'tortured artist' to create wonderful art.

Well, I'm not very satisfied with my answer, but this is all I've got for you, Anon. Feel free to ask more questions if you're not satisfied, too.

[thechasmsurveys]

3.

Do you sleep with just a sheet in summer when it's hot? No, I have to have my weighted blanket or else I can’t sleep.

Are you one of those people who needs to have at least some blanket on you when you sleep so the monsters don't get you? Hahaha, yes, actually.

Will anyone be visiting your house any time soon? Not that I’m aware of. We need to clean the house before we both have to go back to work and we don’t feel like it lol.

What was the last museum you went to? The Van Gogh one. It was amazing.

Scroll through your camera roll quickly without looking, then stop it with your finger. What's the first picture your eye lands on? My phone is all the way across the room and I’m feeling lazy. I’m sure it would just be a picture of Dusty, though.

Do you get bursts of creative energy or is it more consistent? Honestly I never really feel creative, ever,

Have you ever been chased by a dog? Yeah, I had to go to animal court over it and everything lol.

What's your favourite kind of soda? I’m not a soda person at all. I like sweet tea and water.

Are you a visual learner? Very much so.

Do you have a drink with you right now? What is it? Just some water in my Stanley.

What was the last science fiction movie you watched? Annihilation. I didn't love the movie per se, but the cinematography and the CGI was gorgeous. I've never seen anything like it. <--This movie lives rent free in my head lol. The bear scene makes me die a little every time I imagine it. But uhmmmmm, no idea. I’m not a movie person.

How far away from your home is the nearest train station? Probably 30-45 minutes.

Do you listen to music every day? Yeah, either on the way to work or on the way home and then just whenever on weekends.

If you have a passport, when does it expire? Oh, I’m sure it’s been expired for like 10 years.

Have you ever smoked a cigar? No.

What was the last app you opened on your phone? Messenger. Someone was messaging me about monopoly go cards lollllllll.

Is your voice high, low, or somewhere in the middle? I think it’s middle to low.

Are you wearing any rings right now? Yes just my two silicone ones for my wedding bands.

Have you ever been to a baby shower? Plenty.

Do you have any cash stashed away anywhere? I have some in my wallet because I just don’t put it in the bank lol.

What are your neighbours like? I live in townhouses so I have tons of them lol. My immediate one on the left is super nice. I love her. She’s super sweet. The neighbor on the right is not my favorite at ALL. And my dog hates her so that means something lol.

What month is your birthday? How far away is that from now? June. 6 months.

What's the next friend or family birthday coming up? Will you buy them a present Lauren’s in February. I will, but I’m not sure what present.

What was the last book you read? I got an advanced reader copy of The Fury by Alex Michaelides and it’s so freaking good.

Have you ever spend a long period of time in a country you weren't born in? Not really. I went to Europe and stayed in Italy for like 5 days and France for about the same but that’s it.

Do you make your own surveys on Bzoink? Hahaha I used to.

What colour are the bottoms you're wearing today? I’m currently wearing Colton’s boxers and they’re plaid lol.

How many beds are in your home? Two.

Do you wear face masks in public? No.

What are your plans for tomorrow? Oooooh, so we’re going with my sister and her family and my mom and us and our dog Dusty, to a park like an hour away and we’re going to walk around. It’s a huuuuuuuuuuuge park and it has like a café and a coffee shop and a tram and everything. It sounds insane. Then dinner with my boss and her husband at her house.

[fang-and-feather]

Fandom: Ikemen Vampire

Rating: G

Category: F/M, Multi

Relationship: Leonardo da Vinci/MC/Theodorus van Gogh (can be seen as a V or Triad)

Prompt(s): Inspiration from @polyamships

Summary: Leonardo hasn't created anything for a long time, but his family might be the change he was waiting for.

This was supposed to be a test drive for a pairing I was suggested but ended being a undefined polyamorous fic, short and done last minute, without any direct character interaction. Not much of a test drive. Maybe next month... Also my poor attempt at an event banner...

IkeVamp Masterlist / General Masterlist

Leonardo hadn’t really been able to paint for ages, or do much of anything that went beyond the drafting stage, but, as time went by with his new family, he often found himself more inspired, especially after the baby was born.

In fact, his most detailed sketches were either of his girlfriend when their relationship was beginning and whenever he saw something new in her, or of her or Theo with the baby, sometimes the three of them together, and a few only of the baby.

Maybe it was the novelty of it all that inspired him the most. Or maybe it was about having proof these fleeting moments were real and not just a dream in the future. When his wife was gone, the child had grown, and he had no idea what his relationship to Theo would be by then.

Or, worse yet, when so much time had passed that he was left alone with his feelings and memories.

As a pureblood vampire, he was eternal. Everyone else’s lives were so fleeting compared to his, even of the other vampires.

But the idea of keeping physical proof of these moments sounded both tempting and scary. Being surrounded by these memories would be a blessing or a curse?

Leonardo didn’t know, so he refrained from giving in to these bouts of inspiration, even when Theo caught him sketching and practically begged him to try painting again.

But one late afternoon, after coming back from the town and not finding his wife, Leonardo walked into the baby’s room, to find her and Theo huddled together on the sofa, the baby secure in their arms, all three of them fast asleep, bathed into the orange glow of the setting sun.

It was such a warm scene. Even Theo looked so peaceful and soft instead of his usual rough and tense, always working and always in a hurry. A moment Theo would try to deny or downplay when he woke up.

The painting was done slowly and in secret, with borrowed materials and Leonardo considered abandoning it many times, questioning the use of his rare moments alone, but for once, he saw it to the end.

Maybe it was because he never considered sharing it with anyone else but his family. He had no intention of creating for the public ever again, but Leonardo realized it didn’t mean never creating again.

Using his inspiration to please his family wasn’t so bad. Maybe not as often as inspiration struck or he wouldn’t have the space, but making something special every once in a while was good enough to pass time and show what his family and the memories he had of them were important for him.

After all, they were the ones who inspired him to enjoy the moment instead of just letting everything for later, or thinking that nothing mattered much because he had all the time in the world. And even for the rest of eternity, they would be his inspiration for how he would live his life, to watch his family continue to grow and change and he would continue creating for them.

IkeVamp Masterlist / General Masterlist

[invisibleraven]

15. A is torn between making fun of B’s ugly Christmas sweater and admiring how good they look in it for Reggie and Julie, because either way that's going to be gold.

"Honey I'm home!" Julie calls as she kicks off her boots, sighing when she finally regains feeling in her toes. Winter sucks, and even though her boots keep her feet warm, they pinch and she's seriously considering just giving in and buying the more comfortable looking ones that she hates because she's always thought of them as oversized slippers.

"In the kitchen!" Reggie calls back, and that's when Julie smells the house; cinnamon, nutmeg, and vanilla.

"Whatcha makin'?" she asks as she approaches the kitchen.

"Homemade egg nog!" Reggie exclaims. "I saw this TikTok on how to do it, figured I would try."

"You putting rum in it?" Julie asks as she enters the room.

"Psssh, of course!"

That's when Reggie turns around, smiling wide at her, and Julie has to stifle her horrified gasp turned giggle. "What on earth are you wearing?"

Reggie looks down at the bright green sweater, covered in pom poms, scraps of ribbon, a few felt shapes, a metric ton of glitter and the errant glob of hot glue. "Ugly Christmas sweater," he replies with a shrug. Julie shoots him a look, urging him to explain with a wave of her hand.

"We were doing an ugly sweater craft today, with paper and supplies. Only the kids wanted to make a real sweater, and I had this one lying around from St. Patrick's Day-didn't wanna get pinched you know-and the next thing I knew it was becoming a masterpiece."

"It's certainly a piece of something," Julie snarks.

Reggie gives a mock affronted sound. "My kids are geniuses and I will not hear slander against them!" Then he chuckles. "Come on Jules, they're seven, not Van Gogh, cut them some slack. Besides, you should have seen their faces when I modelled it for them."

Julie softened at that, just imagining the proud looks that Reggie's second graders gave him when they presented their work, pleading with him to try it on. And well, Reggie is a sucker for kids, especially if they pull out the puppy dog eyes. She figures that means she'll have to play bad cop more often than not should they ever have kids, but that's okay, Reggie's already agreed to a lifetime of diaper duty in exchange.

"Well, I hope you liked through your teeth and told them they did a good job," Julie replied.

"D'uh. They... they also made you one. And I kinda promised them a picture," Reggie said, giving her a full pouty look, and well, Julie could withstand it from kids, but not from Reggie, so she sighed and held out her hand. The sweater was bright red and covered much the same as Reggie's was, and Julie was certain that neither would survive in the washing machine, but she wasn't telling Reggie that.

He gathered her to his side, pulling up his phone and struck a happy pose, his smile blinding. Julie looked up at him, and her whole expression softened. For as terrible as the sweaters were, Reggie had never looked handsome, because he was wearing this thing made of love with pride. To Julie, it was his giant heart that made him attractive, not what he wore (even if she would admit that he was devastatingly good looking on the worst of days).

With that in mind she leaned her head onto his shoulder, smiled at the camera, her ugly sweater on full display. Once the shot was taken, she popped up on her toes, pressing a kiss to his cheek. "Tell the kids I love and appreciate their hard work." She then pulled the sweater off, tossing it towards the table. "Now finish off that nog so I can take yours off upstairs."

Reggie looks at the bowl, full of things that would surely spoil if he left them out, and decidedly shoved them in the fridge, pulling a giggling Julie with him towards their bedroom.

And later, she didn't even complain about the trail of glitter leading up the stairs. But that was mainly because Reggie cleaned it up while she was too blissed out to move, and brought her the finished nog with breakfast for supper in bed afterwards.

Julie hummed as the taste of cream and rum touched her tongue, appreciating Reggie sitting beside her, and wondered how fast Reggie would try to ditch those sweaters if she suggested another round.

It turns out he didn't need much convincing.

[rottenbrainstuff]

Haha I just saw an Instagram post complaining about how we went from beautiful masterful renaissance paintings to Jackson pollock paint splatters.

You know what guys, I don’t even LIKE a lot of contemporary art that much ok? I don’t, yet I still find myself defending it all the time and that makes me mad, don’t make me have to defend this stuff I don’t even like.

To boil it down extremely, extremely, extremely simply:

1) once cameras were invented and became widely accessible, art was no longer stuck having to be strictly representational, and artists began to get more and more experimental with how art could be used to express feelings and ideas, instead of just a strict representation of reality. Artists like to explore boundaries and limitations. Every new movement was shocking when it was first a thing. Those impressionist water lilies that are so popular everyone knows them nowadays: people hated that when it was new. Van Gogh? The art movement he was a part of was literally called “the wild beasts” (fauvism) because people thought it was so ugly and crude.

2) the old masters you are probably thinking about learned painting as a trade, like a guy going to a technical school to become a mechanic, and most of them started learning it as children. Most of those paintings you admire so much were never created to be the artist’s personal expression, they were mostly hired by wealthy people to paint something that showed off the wealthy person’s wealth, either “look, I can afford to hire someone to paint this giant ass painting” or literally “look, I hired someone to paint this giant ass painting of myself standing in front of my massive land and wearing all my expensive accessories”. Those were the first vanity selfies! Back in the day you had to pay someone and wait three years for it. Lol. As that one popular post going around tumblr says: if we had people quitting highschool and going to painting school as teenagers, then having every one of their expenses paid by rich people so they can just sit and work on a painting for three years, you’d have beautiful stuff like that.

3) there ARE still beautiful representational paintings being made, actually! You just aren’t seeing them because you’re not going out to a variety of shows, you’re only seeing the famous controversial works that everyone likes to complain about. For instance JUST off the very top of my head, every year my city has a big western uh festival I guess and there is a showing of western artists and sculptors making art with western Canadian themes. I have never seen so many beautiful paintings of landscapes or horses. Tons of them. Probably at least 50 artists. Just in my small area of Canada. They’re still there. Why aren’t you trying to go out and see it? Why are you just looking for the weird avant-garde stuff to complain about?

4) perhaps most importantly: it’s not being made for you. That sounds rude maybe or overly simplistic but like that’s the best I can explain it and do try to wrap your head around it: the weird-ass art that’s a banana duct-taped to the wall: that’s not being made for you, you’re not the audience. You know, those old portraits, they were meant to be looked at and admired by a large audience of people, but this new stuff, it’s really not going for the same thing at all, it’s not made to be appealing to the general public as a pretty object of decoration. It’s got a WHOLE different thing it’s trying to do. I’m not defending the weird stuff and saying it’s all awesome and you’re just too stupid to understand it, trust me I went to college with some of the most insufferable artistes you can imagine and I know exactly the process and the intent behind all of this and guys I don’t necessarily like it either! I don’t. I’m just trying to explain. It’s different, it’s a whole different animal, it’s like complaining that you don’t like action movies when you went to see an action movie: you’re just not the audience. I know action movies are dumb and loud, they’re supposed to be like that, that’s how people like them, and it’s not a tragedy that we don’t have people making black and white silent movies anymore… it’s just different.

Whether you think this stuff is worthy of being displayed in large museums and having tax dollars spent on it, my friends that’s a totally different conversation that I’m not having here, and I don’t necessarily disagree with you there: I just, look, I spend four years and a lot of money learning art history and I took an honest to god class about how to look at contemporary art, and it just makes me feel tired when people make these dumb “kids these days” posts about why we don’t have renaissance paintings these days, implying it’s some sort of fault of degenerate or lazy artists who just don’t want to paint good anymore. That’s all I’m saying.

Ok?

[thenightlymirror]

When I traveled out west, I was spoiled with the most amazing skies anyone could ever imagine. In Iowa, the gray clouds swirled in tight spirals like Van Gogh’s brushstrokes. In the Nebraska panhandle, we stopped where the grass first turns sun-bleached yellow and watched a cloud cast its affable shadow over a gigantic field with a single cow. Slow as love. In Wyoming, as soon as the Laramie Mountains, we happened upon 4 days of rain. The land is so grandiose, you can see an entire weather system sitting above the land. It is here where I had one of the most profound experiences of my entire life. The sky was turning pink, and we were on one of the longest straightest roads I had ever seen. Just a single barbwire fence stretched along the road and giganticism on either side. Hail was beginning to fall, and I was only hoping that we would speed through and find a safe place to stay. My best friend pulls over the car and says, “Wait, Tone, you have to look at this.” I get out and see the night on the horizon, the cold wind, the drizzle of rain and the light sound of hail falling on the prairie. And then I look up back to the direction from which we were driving and saw it. Some sort of light was coming from the center of the cloud, maybe the sun was still behind there somewhere, but it was something closer to a Nebula than a cloud. It was glowing pink and yellow and violet and blue and green and every color in a holy tower of light and fluff. It was the hail storm. I laughed and looked back and Dan and his face without belief, and out to the pink twilight of American West and back to the sky. He somehow got me back in the car. Part of me must have been terrified of it. It looked like the creation of the world. The next few days were an ecstasy of clouds. Soft portals of rain on the far off mountains swallowing us whole. The grace of blue skies battling the storm always fighting for its part of the sky. The mountains turned golden, then dissolved into a sea of white sand. White sand and purple skies. In Utah, we forget to get gas in Salt Lake City and did not realize there were no more towns anywhere until the Nevada border. We saw abandoned vehicles, names written in stones. We knew we would join them but somehow made it. In Nevada, the desert raged, and outside the Volvo I caught sight of a dream object. Not object, maybe a cyclone is a kind of god. Dust devil. Little tornados, silent like in my dreams. Following alongside the car, dissolving and coming into being spontaneously, sometimes crossing the road. Haunting but never dangerous. Truly thrilling. We went to San Francisco, travelled north among the cliffs and yellow hills to the Rainwood Forest, home of the largest oldest trees on earth where curtains of green moss hang everywhere. Up to Seattle and into the deserts of Washington. In Montana, we thought it was raining, but it was only the mosquitos. The insects were so thick we had to keep the windshield wipers on. At night the black sky played host to towers of flame, cities of light, as we passed by the oil refineries. We got lost in Butte and ended up at the dead end of a street where a church sat lit-up on a mountain like a castle. In South Dakota we stopped at a novelty drug store called Wall Drug, which advertised for hundreds of miles. “SEE A SIX FOOT TALL RABBIT AT WALL DRUG.” We made jokes about the billboards for so long by the time we got there we HAD to go in. It was just a little amusement park mall. We ate dinner. Saw the six foot tall rabbit and decided to make our way home. Outside the sky was black. Black on one side, day on the other. Dan drove all night through the terror, and I fell asleep despite all the thunder which was so dangerously close. When I awoke, the South Dakota morning was soft and colorful like a pale bruise. The traffic accumulated, the fog of car exhaust and concrete, the water towers marked our place and we came home.

[fatymah]

Grocery Store :

I am puzzled, okay. I am standing here second-guessing every grocery item. i can't trust my life choices anymore.

*antihero plays in the background*

I should not be left to my own devices

They come with prices and vices

I end up in crisis (tale as old as time)

Art Gallery:

It's time I should accept the denial of my will, suffer my neglect, give up that arrogance, and accept the truth that I am damaged. An art damaged in every possible way. It's like I had this journey from Van Gogh's starry night to his suicide letter. It's time to gather all that colossal wreck.

Damaged People:

I was damaged and I once begged a person to not damage me more. What do you think happened? I was even more damaged. But there's this thing I love about damaged people, they will love you like you will be the end of them, and they will fight the universe for you, I may sound sadist but it's so beautiful to feel damaged. it's like you have seen hell and what worse can you do with my life?

"I can't save us, my Atlantis we fall"

Attachment :

Where do I start? How do I start?

Context:

I am sorry, don't leave me, I can't do this without you, don't say this, don't give up, I am sorry and then you find yourself unconscious in your room your father looking at you and promising to give you the world but you are no more than little kid who will sob over things suddenly you are grown up, you don't need anything now, your friends want you to be that stubborn kid again, they want to go out with you but ..... fuck it!

" Once upon a bad bitch and a narcissistic guy she liked"

it was not love, it isn't anything else either. it was just my delusional world that i thought was my only shelter in this whole domain. Perhaps it is feeling detached no matter wherever you are, when your heart skips a beat when you hear their name your tongue shivers when you try to say their name even in silence. Maybe it is you turning your ringtone on at night knowing they will never call you. Maybe it's them watching you give up on your life and cheering because they think they won in life.

Maybe it's the universe shouting at you it's over and then you shouting back

"IT'S NOT, I WILL WAIT"

What a shit show! You loved those delusions no? Were you happy with that fakeness around you? will you ever heal from that trauma? Do you really want to go back and think so low of yourself again? Will you ever forgive yourself?

*anxiety triggers*

To God,

I am here folding thousand paper cranes so you will grant me a wish. you know the wish. No, you don't it's my sanity this time. This time it's me before anything!

[ladyday3065]

rage against the Pieta: a conversation.

Either a clone from the scientology building was let out or my ex appeared at a cafe I went to last night, from out of state. He approached me as I was doing my research from a Time author's novel, and listening to a briefing on emergency preparedness. I remained completely calm, drank Angel's Envy neat, and told him I have fought a 7ft tall man by causing him to trip over his own strength.

The ex told me he was unsuccessful on dates and his potential partners thought he was disabled, due to him admitting he had a personality disorder: where he had a fetish for maiming defenseless animals. He said he thought everyone had this trait. Then he asked me why I was making such a strange face. I suddenly remember he once told me he enjoyed the look of fear in my eyes. Emotional and harmful are not the same mentality.

Maybe I'm not afraid anymore. It's more of a look of total bewilderment that he's such a psychopath, and nonchalant relief that I have nothing to do with him.

In fact, I think this time he said he was embarrassed that he's a bad person because of how intensely I looked him dead in the eye.

(Why would he have a discussion with me after I told him never to approach me, or my children, for the rest of our lives? I couldn't be sure it was him, though his phone had texts I recognized, so I treated him like a bizarre stranger.)

I regret having naturally expressive eyes. The bartender had seen me before, and looked at me longingly as I told him he was a living embodied spirit vision of the Irises painting.

Due to an original impasto ochre glory by my favorite place to read, of barley sans promesse (adjacent to the Mrs. PAC man where all the lesbians congregate) there is a man whose name is derivative of Van Gogh with golden eyes.

My heavy heart was glad to have a new friend.