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taeyohonic · 4 years

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the trophy wife (m)

summary: the proposal doesn’t go as planned (established relationship, idol au, fluff and angst) pairing: min yoongi x fem!reader rating: explicit (18+) warnings (containing spoilers): swearing, robbery, pandemic, vomit, description of injuries and blood (very abstract), mentions of depression, insomina and periods, a hella lot ugly crying info: when i tell you that this is a super-duper fluffy piece, i’m not lying! it was 99% sweetness, so i added a little... angst (but like... only 10%) related work: the stalker | baby, what’s wrong? | favoritism (m) | the trophy wife words: 5.7k

“would you still love me if i became your trophy wife?”

yoongi snorts into his iphone, your grimace too adorable to be taken seriously.

“how bad are these papers?”, he asks. jungkook next to him is stealing curious glances at his hyung’s screen. to hear your voice so distressed makes him worry. you’re the best thing that ever happened to his member – your well-being comes right after his need for homemade kimchi.

“how… can they not know which products contain dairy? how yoongs?”, you vent eyeing the ungraded test in front of you.

“i ate… so much yogurt. the whole class did. we tested so much dairy products… like… so much. we drank all of the banana milk… how can they get this wrong?”, you continue. unbeknown to you, the maknae is now furrowing his brows at your words. wait a minute…

“noona, did you steal my banana milk last week?”, jungkook questions and moves closer to yoongi. before you can hide you see his big eyes joining your boyfriend on the screen.

“wow, jungkookie – your undercut looks so good. damn!”, you say. it’s not a total deflection; he does look extremely handsome after his haircut.

“noona, i thought i sleepwalked”, he whines, not caring for your compliment… right now.

“taehyung even made a meme out of it”, he complaints and you have the audacity to coo at him. yoongi tries to hide his smile, but he can see his reflection grinning on the screen.

“it was oppa’s idea!”

and now his smile freezes as jungkook moves his accusing glare to him. you don’t usually call yoongi by this name. and he’d be all too happy to shut you up in your shared bedroom. but now he and the boys are in the outskirts of seoul to film the newest music video, far away from you and your treacherous mouth.

“hyung?”, jungkook asks with the voice of a cheated wife ready to sign the divorce papers.

“it’s for the kids, maknae”, your boyfriend defends himself to which jungkook only huffs in irritation.

“there was a time when i was the kid – what happened? am i not cute enough anymore? noona? am i not the most adorable?”

his deer eyes stare at you – big, brown and full. you can’t help but to take a screenshot of these two – your rapper visibly done with his member and jungkook in the middle of a banana milk breakdown. you’ll have to frame this picture.

“you’re the most adorable thing there is, jungkookie”, you reassure him. yoongi just snorts when he sees the faintest flush on his bandmate’s face.

“that’s enough praise for him, baby. save it for your students.” there is no humor in the smile you send him. after a beat of silence in which you burry all your frustration deep inside the pits of your stomach, you try to change the subject.

“how is nature?” they’ve been in the woods for weeks, completely closed off from all the city drama. you’ve never seen jimin so excited to drive – while namjoon’s sour face reflected how much the latest failed drivers test bothered him.

“jin-hyung nearly died in the water today. it was epic”, your friend instead of your boyfriend answers and you have to shift a giggle at yoongi’s eyeroll.

“be gone, maknae”

rudely blunt – just how you liked your partner. jungkook just winks at you in a silent goodbye and gets up. he’s nearly out of the picture before his upper body shoves against the rapper. his nose is way too close to the screen and you’d be worried about his eyes – if you didn’t know how often the singer spends his nights in front of his computer.

“noona, you’ll replace the milk, right?”

“jungkook”, yoongi growls in responds. the boy is not acknowledging his colleague, so you give in and nod.

“of course, kookie. it’s already waiting in the fridge for you to come back”, you tell him. as soon as these words leave your mouth, the maknae is satisfied and gone.

“you don’t have to baby him that much, ____”, yoongi says while moving the phone closer to his face. you can see the dark circles under his eyes better now.

“what’s keeping you up at night, yoongs?”, you ask instead of answering his complaint. the rapper smiles faintly at the screen.

“you, baby, always you” yu snort and let yourself lie down on the couch – the papers can wait another day, or a lifetime.

“i wish”, you say truthfully. you’d sell one of your kidneys to relax with the boys far away from the pandemic madness. after having yoongi to yourself for two weeks non-stop, you are way too spoiled. even though your legs are deeply grateful for this recovery time, you miss the constant calm radiating off of your boyfriend.

“i’ll be back soon, baby”, he reassures you and draws lines across the screen. your cheeks look colorless and it worries him just as much as his lack of sleep bothers you.

“make it sooner”, you mutter and close your eyes when you hear his chuckle in responds.

“have you had dinner yet?”, yoongi asks but you don’t want to open your eyes, not ready to face his criticism.

“nah, i’ll wait till sungho gets here.” you don’t need your eyesight to feel his disapproval.

“that’s not very socially distance of you, ____.” yeah, no baby anymore. still, you remain shut off.

“he’s just a friend. one friend. one work friend. one work friend that needs help with the new school cloud. the online grading program is a pain in the ass.”

“and why do you have to do that at six on a friday night in our home?”, yoongi notices the tiniest of smiles on your lips as he mentions your shared home. he, too, loves your little flat with a pandora of memories.

“because i am a loner and don’t have anything better planed for the weekend and my boyfriend is camping in the woods and oh – there is a global pandemic”, you snort and open your eyes to watch your boyfriend’s tensed expression.

“if you’re a loner – what am i then? a stone?”, yoongi asks sarcastically.

“maybe a boulder��, you shoot back with a soft smile that melts his jealousy away… nearly.

“just… don’t let him touch my stuff”, yoongi orders. he’d trade his own maknae to be the one at the other side of your door when he hears a distant knocking sound.

“that’ll be him, yoongs”, you say and move off the couch with as much dignity as one can muster after a whole work week and no motivation left in the bones.

“promise to call me back when you’re in bed?”, your boyfriend pleads, reluctant to let you go. with him going on world tours this phone conversation isn’t your first and it won’t be the last. still, his small request fills you with yearning.

“of course”, you promise, eyes still on him as you open the door without a second thought.

a fist connects with your skull while your eyes widen at the sight of two ski-masked men. the pain is instantly blinding your senses and you start to scream with tears clouding your vision. you fall to the floor before they push their way inside your home. one of them, muscle clad with wide shoulders kicks you in the stomach just to move you out of their way. the other, smaller in statue, crushes your phone with his shoe, the cracked screen frozen with your boyfriend starring at you in horror.

namjoon will never forget the bone chilling scream waking him this evening from his nap. he’s never heard yoongi’s voice filled to the brim with pain. not even registering his movements, he tumbles into the living room where is friend is still yelling your name, his face a mask of panic.

“hyung, what’s wrong?”, namjoon asks as footsteps behind him signal the arrival of his bandmates.

yoongi’s hands shake as his eyes stay fixed on the screen of his form. the leader moves first, not able to watch his friend losing himself. when joon steps behind yoongi’s figure to calm him down, a cold shower travels through his body. the screen shows you lying on the floor with red dripping from your mouth. your eyes are closed, but namjoon notices the uneven rise and fall of your chest – you’re breathing.

“jin, call the police”, the leader orders without turning around. his hands try to pry the phone out of yoongi’s fingers, but they are white with pressure and unforgiving. his lungs are still screaming and namjoon’s heart breaks at the scene.

“hyung, - just… calm down”, he says, not quite believing in his own words. he wouldn’t calm down either in yoongi’s position.

“what am i reporting?”, seokjin asks, close enough that the question answers itself as soon as he peaks over yoongi’s shoulder.

“i’d like to report a break-in – there is a person, hurt. the address is-“

yoongi can’t hear his oldest colleague, the voice drowned by his worry for you. at first, he doesn’t register namjoon’s chest pressing behind his back, but then his body shudders when the fellow rapper hugs him from behind.

“hyung, we – sh – it’s gonna be okay. it’ll be okay, she’s okay… we… you have to calm down, yoongi”, namjoon sooths his friend of ten years and rocks them both from side to side.

“taehyung, call the building manager – there should be security in the foyer”, seokjin commands the young man who watches the scene in front of him passively. as soon as he hears his name though, the singer moves to grab his iphone with shaky fingers.

“look, hyung, she’s awake”, joon points out and yoongi shakes his head to move these stupid tears out of his vision. indeed, your eyes are open as you try to even your breathing. it looks like you are crying as well and yoongi has never felt this kind of searing pain before. to see the love of his life in tears and burglars destroying your home while he is in the middle of fucking nowhere, makes him sick. when he sees you trying to get up, only to drop back onto the floor, his stomach turns. yoongi vomits onto his lap and namjoon has to hold his friend upright as he loses consciousness.

you’ve never been this glad for the heavy painkillers your boyfriend has tugged away in the bathroom due to his immense shoulder problems. the icepack pressed to your forehead cools for body down; still, you are shaking with adrenaline as you watch the security guard pace in front of you.

“yes, sir, yes – no, of course sir, negative sir”, he looks at your shaking form and grimaces before answering. “minor injuries”, the guard holds his phone further away when his caller answers a few decibels too loud.

“the paramedics are on their way”, he responds, not daring to look you directly in the eye. after another game of “yes and no”, the security ends his call.

“how are you, ma’am?”, the man in uniform asks, but remains standing a few feet away. when he first got here after receiving a hectic message from his boss, you were crying on the floor – alone. his colleague is already checking the floors, while another is combing through the surveillance footage. it’s been five minutes and you still look like a ghost.

his instructions were crystal clear – don’t touch the subject. but his heart clenches when he sees your trembling form trying to calm yourself down.

before you can answer him, two paramedics arrive through the door. they zero in on the blood drying across your forehead. their hands press gently against your skin and ask you questions you try to answer. soon, they move you to a standing position, with your head wound dressed and your vitals checked.

“we’ll take you to the hospital, ma’am”, the older woman explains. with a few steps you are at the door – there, right on the threshold where your nightmare began half an hour ago, stands sungho, chinese take-out and laptop in hand. your fellow teacher looks at you with widened eyes.

“_____ - what the hell?”, he curses and nearly drops his food when you smile at him – your teeth unbeknown to you still tinted red.

“are you her partner?”, the paramedic asks.

“just a friend”, he answers, not letting you out of his sight.

“we have to get her to the hospital – will you accompany us?”, the medic questions and sungho nods. your little crowd moves to the elevator and the security guard closes your door with a soft click. the police will be here soon, he thinks as he watches your beaten figure step onto the elevator.

“this cannot be the way to do this, ___”, sungho exclaims while you are staring at the iv-drip connected to your arm in distress. you hate needles.

the hospital’s v.i.p room is normally reserved for celebrities, but they made an exception for you, the girlfriend of min yoongi. sejin’s hunched form outside the room might have played a role in that. bangtan’s manager arrived half an hour ago, worried and disheveled. his posture calmed when the doctors reassured him, you’d be okay. now, he’s waiting for seven idols in various stages of panic to arrive.

“it’s the way this works – just… do as i say, okay?”, you huff. there is a part of you not willing to let the last hours crash into you; not without your partner here. so, you’ve spent the last sixty minutes showing him how to use your new school cloud – the easy way, not the right one.

“but the course still doesn’t show in my settings”, he whines, and you roll your eyes while pushing cold pad thai in your mouth. the rich flavor appeases your hungry stomach and you swallow the take-out down in one breathe. songho is a godsend for bringing the ordered food with him to the hospital. it’s a much-needed distraction from the horror of your cracked rib and light concussion.

“you have to set the course to ‘official’ – it’s still private”, you explain with another mouthful of oily noodles slurring your speech.

sungho’s brows furrow in concentration when you hear heavy footsteps in the hall. the boys are there – and they are not slowing down.

before sejin can even try to greet the idols, yoongi pushes through the door – all six of them only a breath behind.

the second you see him, the tears start without your consent. yoongi looks crazy – his eyes gleam with insanity – as he sucks in the hospital air through his mask.

you’re here. you’re alive. you’re safe. you’re here. he’s here. you are both here. his thoughts are running in circles – not ready to slow down, not ready to expand.

your boyfriend resembles a statue; just standing in front of the hospital bed. his face screams for help and it breaks you as the first cry leaves your throat. in a flash yoongi is moving to you, bumping into a shocked sungho. his finger brush against your wet cheeks like you’d break under his touch, while your body collapses.

“baby”, he whispers – the first word his members have heard since he regained consciousness.

“yoongs”, you answer and throw your arms around his neck. the smell of vomit and sweat makes your nose crunch up, but your boyfriend hugs it all away. his forearms rest on each side of your head – supporting his weight – as he lets you hold on to him, the boyfriend who was playing idol life in the woods instead of being at home with his girlfriend. even through his mask he can breathe in your unique smell, clouded by disinfectant.

“noona”, the youngest whimpers from the doorway. jungkook is silently crying, his mask discolored from the tears. every member looks at you with sorrow, the younger ones visibly not as professional at keeping their emotions together. namjoon looks like he’s aged a decade, but there is a small smile pressing his eyes together behind his mask. you try to reciprocate his smile, but yoongi’s head his pressing against your cheeks with vigor.

“why don’t we give them some space?”, sejin says to which your coworker nods instantly. he’s your friend for sure – but this is a level of intimacy he’s not willing to share with you.

the members need more convincing as hoseok tries to gently pull jungkook back. the maknae vehemently shakes his head, not ready to leave you and yoongi alone.

“we’ll wait right outside, kookie”, seokjin coax him out of the room. he’s still reluctant so go, but jimin’s small body pushes against his back. soon, namjoon closes the door, leaving you alone.

your tears won’t stop and you try to move closer to your boyfriend – you want to feel him all around you. without words yoongi understands your need and presses his body down on yours. there is a sharp pain when his stomach meets your fractured rib.

“ah”, you breathe, hurting. yoongi extracts himself from you in a flash; every fiber of his being furious at your injury.

“baby”, he calls out as his fingers ghost across your ribcage.

“it’ll… it’ll heal soon”, you say timidly.

“how could this happen, baby?”, he asks, still more interested in your upper body than your eyes.

“i-i i should-d have che-checked the door before, ah before answering”, you whimper, ready to face the blame.

with yoongi’s lifestyle comes a certain level of danger. you’ve been trained to be more cautious with everyday things like grocery shopping, inviting new friends over, answering the door without checking the cam.

“no, no, no, no – baby – no…”, he hushes you. “they should have never been able to pass the foyer, nor should they have been able to move to the penthouse level.”

“i-i was so scared”, you admit, linking your fingers with his and pressing them close to your still beating heart.

“i know, baby, me too”, yoongi soothes you and flexes his fingertips against your warm skin.

“i’ve never felt this worthless… you got hurt… right in front of me… and i … i couldn’t do anything.” his voice shakes with emotions and slowly his stare moves to your bruised face. the madness has nearly died in his eyes – but there is still so much pain hidden behind his brown iris.

“i- i could have lost you”, he whispers darkly, speaking a truth into reality he is not ready to face. your crying has stopped now that the both of you are calmer and connected.

“nah, never, remember?”, you say with some form of humor behind your words. “i’m your trophy wife. trophy wives don’t die. first, they’d kill their rich husband”, you remind your boyfriend of your conversation half a lifetime ago.

“it’d be an honor getting murdered by you, baby.” his mask is gone in a flash and then you feel the warmth of his lips against your temple. “just let me finish my third mixtape first.”

“don’t move, noona”, jungkook pleads as the warm sunlight irritates your skin. the fresh air is caressing your body while the youngest tries to finish his painting. trees surround the both of you, resting on a soft picnic blanket. it’s the first time since your release from the hospital that yoongi has left you out of his sight. granted, you’re still not totally alone with the strongest bangtan member watching over you like a hawk. but it’s definitely a much-needed break from yoongi’s fretting.

after nearly throwing a tantrum in front of his manager und some staff members who wanted to continue the filming of their new “in the soop” show, all the members knew they’d have to handle their rapper with care. leaving you alone wasn’t an option, so taehyung and seokjin packed your suitcase with essentials and after your doctors determined you ready to rest at home, all eight of you moved back to the chill vacation home in the middle of nowhere.

the last few days have been difficult – the filming staff getting more and more irritated because the members flocked around you 24/7. sejin had to come up with a different schedule allowing every bandmate time to reconnect with you as well as time to do their work. only yoongi was allowed to not leave your side most of the day – him working on the new music being the cover for his absence.

but after days of your boyfriend breathing down your neck, you’ve had enough. so, now yoongi is out on the water with seokjin fishing, while you’re spending time with jungkook.

“when did the police say they are coming?”, you ask the painter. his nose is crunched in concentration as he tries to outline your hipbone.

“they should be here before lunch – if your boyfriend even manages to catch some lunch”, he answers. you snort, messing up his grasp of your proportions.

“i do have faith in seokjin’s ability.” jungkook chuckles but keeps his eyes on your drawing. you look so delicate, so soft, he can’t believe they nearly lost you.

“i got robbed – i didn’t die, kookie”, you read his mind as his eyes darken.

“you got hurt”, he responds through clenched teeth.

“and they’ll pay for that”, you vow. the police had called this morning with the news of your robbers being captured during another crime. you’re still not sure how the officers can be so sure they’re the same criminals, but you’re eager to close this chapter with your statement later that day.

your painting session gets interrupted by namjoon. “the detectives are already here, ____.”

jungkook is by your side in a flash and together with the leader the both of them help you up. the rib is healing and harsh movements still hurt. yoongi had a near meltdown when you tried to ride him yesterday morning only to topple over in pain.

“yoongi and jin don’t have a signal out in the water – but they won’t be long”, namjoon explains and guides you indoors to meet the two officers.

“ms. ______, a pleasure to meet you”, the older policeman says in greeting. the younger one only shifts uncomfortable when he sees you flanked by two famous idols.

“thanks for coming all this way”, you respond and bow slowly, not to put extra pressure on your rib.

“is there somewhere we could talk – uhm- privately?”, the old man asks and you show them to one of the office rooms in the back. jungkook reluctantly leaves your side and joon only squeezes your hand in passing.

“just holler when you need us, _____”, he says before ordering the maknae to clean the art supplies.

with both officers sitting across from you, you nervously fiddle in your chair.

“the two intruders were caught this morning while pawning off their haul”, the younger policeman states and shows you a surveillance picture of two familiar men. their figures alone invoke iced fear in your heart, and you push the picture out of your sight. after a moment of silence, you collect yourself enough to absorb the information.

“what did they steal? i – i didn’t report anything missing, sir”, you question. sure, they trashed the painting yoongi brought for you during your last vacation in italy. and some cloths were thrown across the bedroom – but there was nothing stolen. you even signed your statement last week before leaving for the woods.

the officers look at you like you’ve grown a second head.

“miss, you reported the item missing days ago. there is even a harsh voicemail left with your fiancé demanding a swift investigation.” you shake your head at their words – no, you didn’t.

“which item?”, you ask the men with narrowed eyes. you’d been off the pain meds for days now. but to call yoongi your fiancé? clearly, they’d switched up cases. the older officer opens his briefcase to retrieve a plastic bag with a… ring in it.

“in my days, my wife would have never forgotten about her engagement ring”, the man snickers as you watch the cold metal in front of you. it’s beautiful – it’s so yoongi, you wouldn’t be surprised if he himself crafted the asymmetric diamond set on roughened silver.

you’d dreamed of this moment for over a year – to lay eyes on the ring cementing your future in stone – or diamonds.

never would you have imagined it to be this tainted with two officers starring you down and the jewelry wrapped carelessly in plastic – a piece of evidence – while your boyfriend is fishing with kim seokjin.

“uhm”, you hesitate as emotions swirl around your brain. he was going to propose? to you?

“i had half a panic attack carrying it around with me the whole day – that thing could pay off all my debt, as well as my kid’s college fees”, the officer jokes, still not recognizing your surprise as genuine.

“uhm”, you try again to form words.

“we’ve all the papers here for you to sign; after that we’ll be ready to get out of your hair… for now”, the youngest states and moves different documents across the table. they lie next to yoongi’s engagement ring – your engagement ring.

“uhm”

giving up on forming a coherent sentence, you move along and sign your name on the different protocols. the paper from your insurance company makes your heart still – reading all the zeros on the price of your ring.

this… is by far the worst engagement set up you’ve ever heard of. your hands shack and your signature looks just terrible, but it’s enough for the two detectives. they still don’t seem to find your reaction odd as they collect their stuff and bid you fare well. like a zombie you get up and follow them to the front door, your ring clutched between your fingertips.

jungkook and jimin are waiting for you next to the foyer and jump at the sight of your pale face.

“everything alright?”, jimin asks and places a protective hand on your back. your slow nod does not convince them and their eyes sour at the policemen.

while the younger officer takes a step back, the oldest just chuckles at your idol friends.

“all is well, kids”, he sooths them. then both bow to you and you can only muster an awkward smile, the jewelry heavy in your hand.

“happy wedding planning, ms. ____”, he winks at you before they leave. the soft click of the closing door is the only sound in the hallway. you’re not even sure you’re breathing.

after a beat of silence you flinch at the sound of jimin’s high-pitched squeal.

“weeeedding”, he asks, way too loud and way too joyful. the mochi-cheeked idol excitedly jumps up and down, not really caring that you remain silent.

jungkook on the other hand looks … really upset. “you told the police but not me?”, he whispers betrayed.

you could cry as you feel the headache from your concussion clouding your mind. this is… too much.

“uhm”, you’ve decided to stick with your running-gag answer and push both idols out of your way.

your feet carry you out of the house, through the terrace door and before you know it, you’re running across the green gras. the smell of the lake invades your nose while you search for you boyfriend. yoongi’s boat is still on the water and you spot both men resting against each other with their rods, ready to catch your lunch. sunshine shimmers on the lake’s surface as you run onto the dock. your bare feet press against the wood while your hair rushes around you – the wind breezing through the unkempt strands.

“is… is that _____, yoongi?”, seokjin asks his fishing buddy who’s more focused watching the water for prey than his surroundings.

“huh?”, he hums, not really listening to his friend.

“i- i think your girlfriend wants to talk to you, yoongi”, the old singer says hesitantly as he sees you jumping up and down on the wooden dock. this can’t be good for your health.

swiftly, the rapper turns to the spot seokjin is pointing at. and there you stand – beautiful and barefoot, dressed in his t-shirt and some old leggings. your hair is a mess and the sun dances across your skin like the tiniest firework.

“MIN YOONGI”, you shout at the top of your lungs. your boyfriend flinches hearing your loud voice across the water.

“she sounds angry”, seokjin whispers.

“YOU FOOL”, you continue to yell and see seokjin’s shoulders shake with silent laughter.

“oh, i hope the crew gets this on tape”, he says with glee while yoongi really, truly tries to find a reason for your anger. he’s left you alone today, at your request. maybe you didn’t really want him to go? was it a test to see how much he wanted to stay with you? did he fail?

“I GOT YOUR RING!”, you shout and flash the evidence bag high in the air.

immediately, the rapper shoots up from his sitting position, rocking the boat dangerously form side to side.

“yah, yoongi, what the hell?”, seokjin swears but your boyfriend’s eyes rest on you, holding your engagement ring in a plastic bag. there is no air in his lungs – he’s been thinking about this moment for the last two years. he dreamed of your joyful tears, how soft your hands would feel while pushing the silver banner on your finger.

and now… he’s an ocean away from you holding on to the jewelry that got you hurt weeks ago.

“DO YOU WANT TO ASK ME SOMETHING, MIN YOONGI?”, you scream and your boyfriend’s eyes widen when they see the smile on your lips; do you – do you find this funny?

without thinking, he takes a step forward.

You can only watch seokjin’s helpless grimace as yoongi brings the boat out of balance. both idols topple over and splash into the cold sea.

the icy water doesn’t bother the rapper as he pushes to the surface. the sun shines high up while he speeds to the dock. you’ve never seen your boyfriend this determent – his laps forceful and quick, leaving a still shocked seokjin behind.

your fingers shake as you watch him come closer and closer to you. in mere moments he’s close enough for you to hear his heavy breathing.

yoongi heaves himself out of the cold, his shoulder screaming in pain, and then he is dripping in front of you. your boyfriend looks like a wet dog, the black hair plastered to his forehead as he steps forward. you can smell the sea salt across his drenched clothes.

the engagement ring screams from the bag to be acknowledged and yoongi is just… staring at you deeply.

“i had it all planned”, he whispers wringing his sweater. the gush of water drops on the deck, but the idol only looks at you. “weeks ago.” his fingers wrap around your writs, a silent plea to give the ring to its rightful owner – for now.

“i wanted to take you to the restaurant where we had our first date”, he admits and opens the bag. your first date had been a disaster – you’re still vividly remembering the food poisoning.

“then all the restaurants closed down; we were both so stressed… and… life went on”, yoongi continues as the ring dances between his fingertips. it looks like art without the plastic cheapening its presence.

“i... wanted it to be perfect.” his whispered words fall to the floor as he kneels in front of you. warmth is coloring your face, seeing your idol submitting to you.

“baby… you know how much i love you… how much you inspire me every day to become the best version of myself”, yoongi’s voice cracks against his words and you can’t help the softest coo from leaving your lips.

“i promise i’ll make you the best trophy wife of south korea.”

you snort as you hear boyish snicker from behind you at yoongi’s joke.

“will you spend the rest of my life with this ring on your hand?”, he asks and without waiting for an answer, he pushes the silver band on your finger. it fits perfectly.

“am i not supposed to agree first?”, you respond as your eyes stay on your future husband.

“oh baby, you agreed the moment you ate my burned pasta.” yoongi gets up and pushes a lose strand of hair behind your ears.

“you agreed the moment you moved in with me, a struggling insomniac.” his hands cradle your face, framing the expression of love between his palms.

“you agreed the moment you let me change your tampon because you were too drunk to move.” he gives you airy butterfly kisses.

“you agreed the moment you didn’t kill me for stealing your favorite ice cream from the freezer.”

“that actually was a close call”, you chime in, only to hear his soft chuckle.

“you agreed all those nights staying with holly in our shared bed while i traveled across the globe.”

a kiss is planted on the fresh scar across your temple. “you agreed all these moments where my depression was too much, where i was trapped in my own misery.”

a line of kisses travels to your mouth. mere millimeters from your lips he stills. “you do, right?”

under all the layers of love, confidence and familiarity, there is still a shy boy unsure of his worth. your smile is infused with giddiness as you close the gap, pressing your lips together in the softest kiss.

“i do”, you whisper in his mouth, only to meet his tongue with your own in a joyful dance. the boys around you are cheering, while the soft waves of the lake clash against the dock. you’re in pure bliss, kissing your wet fiancé fiercely.

and then you hear a loud thud, a wet slash on the wood. surprised, you both jump away a step – only to see a heaving seokjin lying flat on the deck, chest rising at a fast pace.

“i near- i nearly died for th-this engagement, ____. if – if i’m am not the be-best man, i’ll… will cast a spell on all- all yo-ur children.”

____

ah, this fic is crazy and totally not what i imagined it to become. i hope you enjoyed the read! there is only one chapter left (the stalker) – who’s excited for it? i hope you are doing well! to you, your family and/or loved ones i wish only the most festive time this week! love, dana

#btswriterscollective #bangtanuniversity #yoongi x reader #yoongi x you #bts x reader #bts established relationship #yoongi idol au #bts idol au #yoongi fluff #yoongi angst #min yoongi

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libermachinae · 3 years

Text

Cradle

Available on AO3 Summary: Post-battle roll call. Notes: For @soundwaveweek, prompt was ‘poetry.’

---

The MTOs were stressed. He could understand that, and in fact had little choice but to. Coming online in a crashing shuttle was a less than ideal way to begin life, and the hours of listening to gunfire and artillery going off just outside their prison-slash-shelter almost guaranteed the sorts of injuries no tool could fix. Soundwave had no idea whether the silence that followed the Decepticon victory would have been a welcome reprieve or the most hellish stretch of the experience, but his torch cutting through the crumpled hatch had broken its hold on them, and now they were frantic.

Their thoughts cut him like millions of grains of sand caught up in the exhaust of a shuttle launch. There were questions, the standard Who is that?, Am I going to die?, and Is that supposed to happen? Then the observations, It’s dark, It’s light, He’s blue, He has a gun, and I have a gun.

Mostly, though, they were giving off impressions that could not be condensed so neatly into words, not without at least a few days’ practice to understand the ebb and flow of language. Without it, Soundwave could feel the crush of the darkness, the burning slice of the light. When he announced himself on arrival, his voice came back to him thirteen different ways, shivering or sliding or in boxes, an impressive feat for a group whose sum total life experiences were the inside of a dead shuttle and each other.

The volume increased as he approached them, both due to proximity and their own increasing anxieties. Their thoughts were loud enough to be knocking against his helm, adding to the cacophony the echo of his own internals, but he soldiered on, approaching the first cradle, its occupant staring at him with a mouthless expression that nevertheless seemed to snarl.

“Designation,” Soundwave demanded.

“Megatron.”

Hisses and whispers and flares. Soundwave wished he could turn down his sensitivity, but with all the cassettes investigating other casualty reports, he couldn’t risk making himself that vulnerable, even if it meant he would be taking a splitting processor ache to berth with him that night instead of recharge.

“Your designation,” he said, with no patience to start with.

The MTO stared at Soundwave, optics glancing first over his face and then the length of his frame. He started to speak, aborted the effort, attention straying to his comrades before snapping back to the officer. His thoughts were bright, sour, and runny, becoming more disorganized the longer Soundwave stood waiting for an answer. Now he was tearing through his data packs, the disorganized folders spilling open with instructions on how to shoot, who to shoot, which way to run—

“No designation,” Soundwave concluded, feeling a part of his psyche slump with resignation. “Serial code.”

The uncomprehending stare slid again to the other MTOs, whose own thoughts echoed the globular confusion. A few of them were in the same process of upending their entire storage libraries, and although any one of them could have accurately pinpointed the coordinates where their plummeting ship had disappeared off the edge of the battle map, not one of them could provide him the very basic information he needed to complete this task and leave these soldiers for the recovery teams to salvage.

Soundwave made a quick visual inspection of the MTO, who tried to lean away—not far, given that he was still suspended in the cradle—now that his defensive bluster had dried up. No printed serial code, nor was there on the MTO beside him, a quiet mech who barely glanced at Soundwave as he came close. No serial codes, either printed or coded.

“Any identification markers?” Soundwave asked the room at large. A flicker of movement: Soundwave looked down to the mech at the end of the starboard row, the one installed opposite the sole casualty, aside from the ship itself. His thoughts had been quieter than the rest, colorless and inflexible in a way that had suggested a concussion, but Soundwave’s question had provoked a brief flare. He was looking up: on the ceiling above his squadmate was painted the number 2.

That, unfortunately, was something that could be plugged into a database, checked against the shuttle manifest and production logs, and be used to reverse engineer a serial number. Success, though, depended on this being a legitimate deployment, and certain signs were suggesting the opposite, though none so definitively as to trigger a full investigation. Soundwave put out a recall signal to Frenzy and Ravage, wary of how isolated the shuttle’s final resting place was, and tuned his sensors up higher…

Only to immediately turn them down again as the minutiae of the newbuilds’ thoughts flowed like acid rain through fresh gaps in a roof. He could read the rudimentary threat assessments they were running on him and taste the swell of emotions too new to differentiate yet; the bravest among them had started to free curiosity from the mass, and they plugged it into every observation they made, building questions on top of each other until the thoughts were heavy enough to bend under their own weight. Within the shuttle, everything felt compressed and heavy on top of him.

“Calm down,” he commanded, and winced at spikes of anxiety impaling him from multiple directions.

What a waste, he thought as he recovered from the burst, of his time and their lives. Nova Point was captured, the Autobot base overrun, and Starscream’s choice to put him on recovery meant vital logistics standards were being delayed. The already lengthy identification process would easily be doubled if this much of his processor remained dedicated to his hypersensitivity sensors, and he was vulnerable as long as the soldiers’ thoughts were filling his audio feed. Soldier was even a generous word for the mechs he’d been tasked with risking his life for. Their minimal data packs and emotional instability would make them ill-suited to the promotions occasionally offered to MTOs. They would be getting hauled out of one wreck only to be pressed into another, one that would more likely than not reach its intended destination.

Soundwave did not fault Megatron for leading a chunk of their forces off to the distant front lines on other worlds, but he did long for his leader at times. Megatron would know what was best, whether to forge ahead with the recovery efforts or leave them here to—

“A new row of unlit lanterns is marched in, And I can’t remember what my world looks like In the dark.”

The recording was poor quality, torn from a processor moments before it went offline. Soundwave kept hoping to find the rest of the poem, but bots who survived that time were few and far between, and they guarded their secrets fiercely. Because it was short, he let it play out, and when it finished the attention of the MTOs had narrowed.

“What was that?” the first one asked.

“Untitled,” Soundwave said, which wasn’t entirely accurate. He had a recording of a secondhand account that referred to the poem as ‘The Chain Runners,’ but had never been able to confirm it. He could have asked, but then he would have to tell Megatron he kept the old poem, and that wasn’t a conversation he was ready to have yet.

“But what was it?” The MTO jerked in his cradle; despite the clatter of plating, it did nothing to free him.

“Identification: a poem.”

The complete absence of understanding was a hole Soundwave could have fallen into. A couple accepted that as an answer—a poem must have been another form of marching order, the only communication style they had been brought online to understand—but the others prodded him with their curiosity, audials straining to catch another blip of that strange voice.

“That wasn’t you,” one of the others said.

“Negative,” Soundwave said. “Speaker…” He stopped, remembering how the first MTO, now gazing at him with useful curiosity, had snarled the poet’s name. Had that been out of a sense of pride? A desperation to answer the question, using the only scrap of information they had? Or had it been in worship, choosing his lord’s name to be his first word to the real world? The clashing, violent thoughts did not readily bear an answer to Soundwave, but they did give him pause as he considered his response, long enough that the MTOs’ anxiety rose up once more in a wave.

“What’s it mean?” one of them asked.

“Definition subjective,” Soundwave said. He still had so much work to do. “Silence requested.”

“It’s a code.”

“Negative.”

“Then it’s gotta mean something.”

Soundwave grasped uselessly for words, wishing Ravage were there already. He was better at this. Soundwave wasn’t good at conversation, but most of the time he could get out of it by virtue of the fact that the people he ran into were either his subordinates and afraid of him, or at about equal level and jealous of his proximity to Megatron. It was so rare for him to enter a room without his reputation having already made the rounds for him, he had no basis for navigating this.

He couldn’t come up with anything, and the longer he let the silence drag out the louder the background of thoughts grew to compensate. At a loss and desperate for relief, Soundwave dove into his archives and pulled a file at random, plugging it into his speakers without even scanning the contents.

“The revolution failed because the lords were unamused. The smoke that rose from the burning corpses of their clerks Soured their palmful drinks, And the chants which rose to their balconies, Calling for their heads, Were out of tune with the afternoon symphony.

(The first chair would be tossed out at intermission, And the crowd would suck closed empty fuel lines While inside, the lords sipped in peace.)”

Even with his speakers playing at a high volume, the relative noise inside the shuttle dropped instantly. Their minds were still working, turning over each word like they could find the meaning hidden underneath, but without the fear of the unknown it was quieter and reflective.

“If you still say your knuckles ache, Lay them here, on my knee. I cannot take from you That pain, But I will map the seams of your palm. I will memorize you, Memorialize. I will chart your construction And between your seams find…”

Crunching data while listening to Megatron’s voice was second nature by now. Soundwave stood in the center of the wrecked shuttle, seeking out the identity of the MTOs, while around him they leaned and twisted in their cradles, hunting down the poems like the twinkle of an enemy across a battlefield.

#maccadam #transformers #soundwave #soundwave week #my writing #oneshot #cradle

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findingjoynweirdstuff · 4 years

Text

Dream SMP Recap (March 4/2021) - Life and Death

Foolish has found signs of the Egg’s intrusion on his land near the Temple of Undying, and wonders if it’s finally time to step in... What is this new foe, with remarkable control over people’s minds?

And what does it mean to play god?

---

VOD LINKS:

Ponk

Tubbo

HBomb

Foolish

Tommy

Karl

Antfrost

Ranboo

---

- One thing leads to another, Tubbo visits HBomb’s savannah mansion, puts him on house arrest, revokes it because H put on a suit, and forms an AA board.

- Foolish sails in a boat wonders whether he’s been living...a little naively.

“You would think after so many years, that I wouldn’t misunderstand things. That I would’ve learned lessons, that I would know everything, but...I guess there’s some meaning behind my name. I think it applies not just to me though, either...I think it applies to most creatures. I think everyone’s perhaps a little foolish.”

- He reaches the shore and shows that his statue has been covered in Blood Vines.

“And boy was I foolish...I thought I was safe here.”

- He doesn’t fear the Egg, but it does bother him. He thought he didn’t need to pay much attention to it, that it was just a pest. But the Egg might require more attention than he assumed. He thought his statue, his cats, they would protect this place.

- How far is this thing willing to spread? What is it? An old foe, or a new one? Foolish gathers his full set of Netherite. He wonders who they could seek for help. Tommy? Technoblade?

"But then...it gets me thinking...other, perhaps, risky ideas...what about Dream? If Dream was not in prison right now, would he let it spread -- or maybe he’s in favor of the Egg! That’s what we don’t know."

- Foolish heads to the Egg Room. What makes the Egg special?

- He doesn’t hold any grudge against Bad or Ant or Punz or anyone else whose mind has been corrupted by the Egg. Mind control is an interesting thing. Not many creatures can do it.

- He meets eyes with Ponk, whose eyes are red. Foolish talks about how it’s unwise to think that one can tread the line and not become corrupted. Ponk tells him to come look.

- The Egg starts to make noises...a laugh?

“Have we ever met before?”

- There’s a rattling noise.

“Do you have a name?”

The Crimson speaks, but for the first time, it’s not in reverse:

“LEAVE...”

“I don’t believe we’ve met before. You’re a new foe, something I’ve not quite seen in all my years...”

“You think you’re more powerful? Be careful...careful being naive.”

“Maybe so, maybe so, but we will see. ‘Cause you might have fucked up dragging me into this.”

- The Egg laughs.

“Laugh. Laugh if you want, we’ll see.”

“TIME WILL TELL.”

“Time...will...tell...in-deed!”

“Well, it was nice getting to know you. It was nice talking with you. And thank you for intruding!”

“BYE...BYE...”

- Foolish goes to leave, as the Egg continues to laugh. Someone will figure this out.

“What has the power to control minds? Witches, warlocks, perhaps could maybe influence one...Demons, Dreamons? Even they, I have seen, have the power to tinker with someone’s mind, but not control and twist so many at one time."

- Foolish returns to the Temple of Undying, a peaceful place.

“And that is what I’m trying to explain...that be careful! Be careful when you think you’re all high and mighty, ‘cause little do you know until it’s too late...that maybe there is something above you...”

“If the Egg was really so powerful, let me see it here. I want to see its vines right here.”

- He thought the Egg was a pest, that it would just die on its own. It looks like he might need to start talking with more people.

“I like to build...and there’s still...a room that I have up my sleeve. A room that, as far as I know, no one knows about...it’s still a last resort. I don’t think we’re quite needing this yet, but...it’s still something to keep in mind.”

- There’s a room in Foolish’s basement under the statue, a special staircase down. He hesitates, but does not go down there yet.

“Tinkering with life and death, it’s...very profound. It shouldn’t just be toyed with lightly.”

“But this...this is something I’ll no longer take lightly.”

---

Tommy’s Resurrection

(Again, this part of the recap will be more detailed)

---

- Tommy’s before-stream screen starts with “Undertale” playing. There’s nothing but a black screen.

“Am I dead?”

“Hello, Tommy.”

- Tommy asks Wilbur how long is left. Wilbur goes to check, saying there are eight more eons to go.

- Wilbur offers Tommy competitive solitaire.

- Schlatt and Mexican Dream are also there, though Wilbur thinks Schlatt’s been asleep for around three months.

- Wilbur is happy that Tommy’s there.

“Me and you were never good for that server...you can look at the entire history, and it all falls in our laps...”

“I genuinely think if it weren’t for me and you dying, the server would be in shambles. I know for a fact that if I’m brought back in some way it’s definitely just gonna go to shit again. I know what I’m like, that’s the issue.”

- Tommy says he hates it here. Wilbur says his plan is, in a couple months, they can set up a competitive solitaire arena.

- Wilbur’s voice disappears.

“Tommy...Tommy? Wake up.”

- Tommy wakes up in the cell with Dream.

- Dream asks what it was like. Tommy says it was dark. Dream asks if there were others there, Tommy says there was Schlatt, Mexican Dream -- Dream sounds excited about Tommy talking with Schlatt.

- Dream asks...what did it feel like? Death? No one has ever been dead and been back before.

Dream: “I was kind of scared it wouldn’t work...”

Tommy: “You were scared it wouldn’t work?”

Dream: “I mean I never tried it...”

- Tommy explains that death felt like being pulled apart and put back together again.

- Dream asks what was Wilbur like.

Tommy: “Do you remember what Wilbur was like? Here?”

Dream: “Yeah! Wilbur was awesome!”

- Dream tells Tommy everyone thinks he’s still dead.

Dream: “Tell me one more time, what was it like. When you die, what does it feel like?”

Tommy: “I felt like I was shredded to dust--”

Dream: “Did it feel good?”

Tommy: “No, no, it didn’t feel good, it felt like I was put through a shredder. There was no blood, there was no flesh, there was just essence.”

Tommy: “A tunnel of black and void, not even black just colorless.”

- Dream said he tried to give Tommy time. Tommy says he was in there for months. He asks where Tubbo, Jack and Phil are. Dream asks how long he was in there. Tommy says a month or so.

Dream: “Tommy, you were there for two days, Tommy.”

- They lost count when “Schlatt started doing the thing,” but they were counting. Tommy says that was just the first “round,” and Schlatt insisted they count like that...they kept count up until about a month and 20 days.

Tommy: “He always liked the number 18...”

- Dream says he only did it to prove that the revive book was real. Tommy remembers the book...it’s real. It’s actually real.

Dream: “I...I’m a god! I can bring people back to life, I didn’t even know for sure that I could, but I can! I’m actually a god! I -- this -- I could kill people and just bring them back if I wanted to!”

- Tommy asks how long Wilbur’s been dead. Dream says he’s not sure...maybe six months?

- Tommy says that the things Wilbur talked about, said he would do...

Tommy: “Promise me, never, EVER -- Dream look at me, LOOK AT ME! -- NEVER bring back Wilbur...please, please, please. Dream, I thought he was like my brother, alright, even before, I wasn’t sure, I tried going to his revival...Dream, I’ve been there for so long now, I take every ounce of doubt I had back. Do not. Bring back. Wilbur. EVER.”

“Dream, you are NOTHING. You are FINE, we can be friends if you don’t bring him back, all the tragedies you’ve done--”

- Dream says it’s up to him. Maybe he’ll flip a coin!

“Dream...why did you keep asking me how it was?”

Dream: “I just -- I wanna know! It’s interesting!”

- Dream wonders if they could send him back to figure out more.

Tommy: “You’re too powerful -- you’re too powerful! ...Dream? Burn the book. Burn the book, now, Dream! You think you understand -- you don’t understand this, this is so much bigger than that. The TRAUMA, everything -- you couldn’t even comprehend what I’ve gone through, alright? Burn the book now, please.”

- Dream says he doesn’t have the book, just the information, the knowledge inside of it, and he can’t burn knowledge.

Dream: “I wanna know about death, you know? We can study it! We can study it together! We can become IMMORTAL together! By studying it!”

- Tommy tells Dream to burn the book again, but Dream insists that it’s in his mind, he can’t get rid of that. He goes over to the lava and throws one of his books in.

Dream: “I can burn every book that I have and it will do nothing.”

...

Dream: “How am I even gonna die? I’m in this--”

Tommy: “Dream? I have to kill you. This isn’t even a matter of disliking you or not, disregard all of our previous entaglements -- you have to die.”

Dream: “Okay...go on then. Kill me.”

- Dream simply goes to the corner, waiting.

Dream: “Go ahead. Do it.”

Tommy: “This is where you die, in the prison...and you’re fine with this?”

Dream: “Here, use some potatoes, just like with you.”

Tommy: “And you’re fine with this? You’re fine with me just beating you to -- you die, and revival goes down with you, and I’ll kill you in the fuckin’ prison! The prison you would’ve never fucking get out of, if only I hadn’t come here, and I wouldn’t have been trapped in here, I would’ve been fucking fine, so now I’m gonna kill you, and I’m gonna be trapped alone. I’m gonna...and I’m gonna be in here...”

- Tommy starts, but then stops.

Tommy: “And if I kill you now, then I’ll be in here...then I’ll be stuck in here. And I know the book I signed. I can’t...so if I kill you in here, what happens if I kill you in here?”

- Dream says that Awesam is mad with him so no one would even realize Tommy was in there for a while. Tommy wonders about the conditions of the waivers -- the books meant breaking in, not trying to kill, right?

- Dream says it could be a couple months before Awesam checks again, he might assume Dream had gotten out.

Dream: “Kill me if you want, I’m fine! I’ll stand right by the lava, you could punch me into it, I’ll set myself on fire.”

He steps into the lava, lighting himself on fire.

“Come on. Go ahead.”

- Tommy knows that Sam takes his job as warden seriously, he knows what he signed.

Tommy: “I can’t kill you in here, because then I’ll be in here forever myself, and then...and then it’ll be worse than down there! Or up there -- I don’t know where it was -- but it will be worse than...it will be worse than death. And then I’ll have to die in here, and then I’ll go back there...with no more memories, no more anything, just suffering.”

- Dream says that now that Tommy knows, though once Tommy gets out of the prison, he can go and tell everyone that Dream has the book, that he wasn’t lying. Tommy can tell everyone that Dream was telling the truth.

Tommy: “I can’t kill you...I can’t kill you...I need to kill you, and I can’t.”

- Dream realizes that he could kill Tommy, kill Tubbo, and just bring them back!

Dream: “Everyone...is my puppets.”

- Tommy is horrified that Dream would kill him just to prove a point.

Tommy: “With this much power...you killed me.”

Dream: “You wouldn’t believe me! What else am I gonna do?”

Tommy: “You killed me to prove your own point -- you could’ve just showed me, you could’ve just -- this is so evil, this isn’t like before -- you put me through torture, through pain, to prove a POINT, Dream! That’s fucked! You can’t do that to me, to any --”

Dream: “Why? I can, Tommy! You didn’t believe me! You were calling me a liar, how else am I supposed to prove it?”

...

Tommy: “You’re. nothing, Dream, you don’t know what it’s like. You’re not just evil now, you are fuckin’ demented. Fuck you. Fuck you, man. Seriously, more than before -- you’re not just a villain, you’re not just the villain in the history books -- you are the fuckin’ Devil, man.”

- Dream says he has to let Tommy out of there alive

Dream: “Otherwise Sam will cut off my visitors, he’ll feed me less, he’ll do all these things -- but what I will do -- I’ll let you free, I’ll let you free, we’ll call for Sam, we’ll get him in here, he’ll let you out. But...I’m gonna bring back Wilbur...and (laughs) Wilbur’s gonna help me escape. He will owe me his life! And he’s been there for how many years? He’s probably the smartest man on the entire planet!”

“I’m bringing back Wilbur.”

---

- Back at his summer home, Foolish speaks with Bad, telling him that while he was at first neutral about the Egg, he’s starting to hate it.

- Bad arrives at the Temple. Foolish tells him that he feels a bit bad for Bad, he used to be good! And deep down, Foolish thinks Bad needs to be freed.

- Bad replies that even so far out here, Foolish is still vulnerable.

- Foolish tells Bad to leave. Bad does so.

Afterwards, he thinks to himself.

“This is a spit in the face of everything that this summer home stands for...This Temple of the Undying? It’s life, happiness, not whatever this is. Absolutely not. You know, I haven’t spilled any blood, I’m a peaceful man, I don’t like death. I don’t like death at all.”

(He shows his stats -- “Players killed: 0″)

“And I’m going to do my best to keep it that way.”

- He says he’ll do his best to resolve things peacefully, but when it comes down to it, he may have to kill for the greater good. Doing things peacefully might lead to his downfall. Is he being naive, thinking that things can be resolved without violence?

“Thinking that this could be fixed peacefully -- maybe that’s my problem, maybe that’s why I’m still searching for answers, ‘cause I think peaceful -- the peaceful approach is the right way -- maybe it’s not! Maybe it’s not...”

“But I’m still gonna maintain the hope that it is.”

---

It’s time for Tales From the SMP: “The Haunted Mansion!”

This episode takes place a bit into the future.

---

The Cast:

- Connor plays Connor

- Karl plays Karl

- Sapnap plays Rash

- Dream plays Francis

- Punz plays Joey

- George plays Greg

- Tubbo and Ranboo play the twins, Ash (Tubbo) and Zachary (Ranboo)

- Techno plays Porkums, who has a very silly hat

- Bad plays Gump

---

- Karl meets Connor, who introduces Karl to his friends. They’ve rented an AirBNB at the mansion.

- Connor introduces Karl to everyone. Ash and Zachary have lots of milk.

- Karl has them sit in a circle to play Duck-Duck-Goose

- Somebody’s at the door...Schlatt?

- Connor introduces him. He’s been completely dead for a couple months. According to Schlatt, he spent some time reflecting on his time as President and decided to become a landlord and rent out some places for AirBNBs.

- Schlatt shows them the million-dollars-a-night property.

- Connor questions the logic of Schlatt having this massive property in a server whose economy has been characterized by numerous governments collapsing. Schlatt explains they invested in cryptocurrency.

- Schlatt shows them My Castle and tells Connor to press his very special button. Nothing happens, so Schlatt fishes him out of view and Connor disappears.

- Schlatt explains that he built this castle as a fun game! There are three beacons, and they all need items to be activated. If they find all the nether stars, they can see Schlatt’s lair, where Connor is trapped!

- Everyone wonders what if they don’t really want Connor that much? Could they have something else, like Haribos?

- They go down the first hall of trials. Schlatt leaves them.

- They retrieve the Nether Star and debate who should be the one to put it in. Porkums is selected. Schlatt fishes him behind a wall and disappears him and his silly hat.

- They go through the next trials as Schlatt plays Trance Music for Racing Game.

- They get the second Nether Star and return to pick the next person. Karl brings up how he was on Schlatt’s side the whole time in Manberg, and Schlatt talks about how he’s changed since then and become a landlord.

- Francis puts the next star in and gets teleported to the lair.

- Glatt tries to take Ash as well so that he can teach him about real estate but accidentally gets the wrong twin and sends Zachary down instead.

- They go through the last hall, the red one, and retrieve the Nether Star. Greg puts it in.

- They pull a lever and a pathway appears leading down into the basement. They find everyone down there chilling in a pool. Connor greets them.

- Schlatt and Connor used to run a business together on another server...

(SMPLive canon?)

- Karl goes to the Inbetween and starts reading.

“Welcome back :]”

- He reads some more and finds a Nether Portal with a book labelled “STOP” warning him to not stray from the path.

- The Inbetween is a hot destination for time travelers to return to! :]

- He finds another book:

“GO UNDER THE TREE. YOU CAN’T AFFORD NOT TO.”

“THANK GOD YOU FOUND IT. IT CAN’T SEE YOU DOWN HERE.”

- Another book, again in all-caps, tells him that the castle isn’t what it seems, and he doesn’t want to learn the truth about those other forms of him. He needs to find a way to the portal.

- A line of books tells him to stick to the path.

:] writes another book telling him that the Inbetween is gorgeous! What more is there to ask for?

“It’s a time traveller’s dream.”

- Karl will return to his library. The stories need to be preserved.

“The SMP needs you, and you need me. We make a good team! See you soon! :]”

---

#dream smp #dream smp recaps #long posts #sorry for taking a while on this one it was a lot #i think the second screenshot is the best one i've ever taken

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aquaticstyles · 4 years

Text

unchained

A while ago I was asked for a “Have You Ever Been In Love” sequel, and while this is probably not the direction you guys were expecting, this is what I came up with. Also, this one’s (loosely) inspired by the song “Scott Street” by the lovely Phoebe Bridgers (highly recommend listening to the spotify sessions version while listening). Fun fact, for forever I misheard the lyrics, thinking she was saying “unchained” instead of “ashamed.” After noticing that I have, in fact, been wrong this entire time, I realized I kinda liked my version better (sorry Phoebe). And, me being me, I ran with it and it spun into this quick, 1.4k part two. Reblogs + feedback help so much! Enjoy!! xx, Jane

“Have you ever been in love?”

Harry’s heart stops.

The question catches him off guard, and not just because he’s not used to interviewers asking such personal ones (he guesses this is what he signed up for when he agreed to be the first male flying solo on the cover of Vogue). It makes his heart stop because of his answer, because of the woman that had once asked him the same exact question.

Harry has never been one to linger in his sadness; he finds it unproductive, and quite honestly, completely depressing. After a break up, one can find the caramel-colored curls belonging to the world’s latest phenomenon sweating out his sorrow, or frustration, at the gym, pounding the boxing bag again and again and again. “Nothing another set can’t fix,” his trainer, Mike, would often tease the man in denial, knowing good and well by his posture upon entering the ring, slumped shoulders and an ever-present crease between his eyebrows, that another one had bit the dust the night prior. Mike had learned fairly quickly to never ask questions, to simply let Harry work out his emotions as he pleases, even if that means letting him walk out with wrapped fists masking throbbing, crimson knuckles.

Harry has never been one to talk about his sadness either; he finds it prolongs the pain rather than diminishing it, an annoying gnat swarming around an abnormally large bite from a crisp apple, halting his progression in enjoying his afternoon snack because he just can’t catch the bloody thing. His sister has tried to break him from his stubborn ways, even resulting to getting the lanky man drunk off tequila in hopes of him finally opening up about his incessant missed targets; however, that only ever ends up with Gemma’s arms holding up the giggling teddy bear and folding his bulky body into a taxi, mimicking cramming a cotton ball into a straw. Therapy was suggested and waved off with an inked palm, because if he doesn’t want to talk to his sister about it, how on earth is he supposed to talk to a stranger?

Never-ending claims of “I’m fine,” and “It just didn’t work out,” and “Don’t worry ‘bout me,” and “It wasn’t even that serious.” Sure, each breakup took a little something out of the man that insisted he was “fine,” but eventually, a couple dozen inked journal pages later, Harry would be back to his normal, happy-go-lucky, perfectly-kind self.

All of these rang true for most of Harry’s young adulthood.

All of these were common occurrences, that is, until Harry met you.

You were unlike anyone he had ever met. Selfless, but not in an over-bearing, walk-all-over-me kind of way. Funny, but not in an underlying-hatred, fake-laugh kind of way. Genuine, but not in a look-at-me, fake kind of way. Honest, in a I-want-to-know-everything-that-makes-you-you, ask-you-questions-until-the-sun-rises kind of way. Drop-dead-gorgeous in the most unbelievable, glowing, ethereal, kind of way that he constantly reminded you of. You were the perfect balance, the missing diamond to even out the coal on the other end of the scale.

Loving you felt like the ocean.

In the morning when there’s a hazy screen covering your lenses, clouding the soft sunlight in a muted, white-washed filter. It’s more gray, yet still golden as the shining mass of fire lazily rises from its slumber. It’s calm, clouds stretched apart like cobwebs in the faded blue sky above, waves leisurely, almost too relaxed, crashing along the bleached shore then disappearing back into the horizon. Still sleepy, still new, an entire day ahead of you.

In the afternoon when the sun is at its highest and hottest, radiating down ultraviolet rays that burn your skin, causing alarmingly red shoulders in need of aloe that soon progressively heal and turn into a bronzed exterior. Speckles of light dancing upon excited waves, similar to a neighborhood of children dressed in pink polka dots and orange overalls running towards the ice cream truck filled to the brim with dreams of sugary stomachaches. It’s saturated, every color its brightest and loudest, pops of cerulean and coral. It’s a blanket of comfort, a suffocating scarf. It’s sweet. It’s sour. A cool glass of lemonade sinking into a bed of quicksand. Annoying and astonishing.

In the night, when the yellowing presence is long gone in the awakening of the moon, the deepest indigo swirling in between pockets of stars dotted and flecked into the atmosphere like freckles. It’s black and blue. You don’t know where the earth stopss and the water begins, familiarity lost as the waves erase each new footprint in the sand. The tide is an abuser, sweet as it sings you in, terrifying as it pulls you under. Skinny dipping, vulnerable, exciting, adrenaline, heart thumping, diving, sinking, drowning.

The morning, the afternoon, the night. The happening, the honeymoon, the heartbreak.

Ever since it ended, everything Harry had ever known was cast aside, thrown out like a Gucci jumper from last season. For the first time in his twenty-six years of living, fourteen of those juggling the obstacles that relationships can and will bring, Harry was irreversibly numb, a pair of frozen, gloveless fingertips blue from the icy wind. Not only did he linger in the gut-wrenching grief, he was absorbed by it. Instead of waking up each morning tucked into the bare side of your body diffusing innocent warmth, sipping a steaming cup of black coffee received by hands much smaller than his own, he woke up with a stranger laying on his chest, cold, with a pounding headache the bottle of whiskey had gladly supplied from the night before. The days felt as if they lasted an eternity, time stuck in slow-motion, tick, tick, ticking, one second, one and a half, one and three quarters, two. He watched the seasons pass, the grass dying and regenerating into its natural emerald shade from his bedroom, dust pocketing in the corners of a picture frame containing two pairs of sparkling eyes and genuine, toothy grins sitting on the windowsill. Nights consisted of him lying sleepless on his back, eyes wide awake, thumbs twiddling as the echoes of helicopters overhead drone in and out. Dozens of missed calls remained unanswered: Mum, Gem, Mitch, Mike, Adam, Sarah, Mum, Mum, Gem, Mum, Mike, Mitch, Gem, Mitch, Mum…

He was stuck, a pancake glued to an ungreased pan, charred. It was when this melancholy had prolonged for nearly its sixth month, and all at home remedies (which included drinking, writing, drinking because he was writing, and writing because he was drinking) failed to provide any peace that he decided to give in to the recommendations from almost every single one of his friends: therapy. After the first session, he was ready to book it and sprint off to a deserted island with nothing but a coconut filled with rum to accompany his solitude. Turns out that one session was the mento to his coca cola of bottled-up emotions, exploding months’ worth of buried feelings and memories in an hour. It took the will of God (and Gemma purposefully lying and telling him they were going to get lunch) to get Harry back in the baby-pink-painted interior of his therapist’s office. After months of talking, sorting, compartmentalizing, yelling, crying, healing, unpacking, and reflecting, Harry tackled down the closure he had been chasing. A year and an album later, when he heard your name, he no longer felt trapped, heart beating rapidly, trying desperately to break apart his ribcage, he felt unchained—a prisoner uncaged, pounds and pounds of metal unlocked from his wrists, free.

Before, your name was paired with a colorless photo album, snapshots of vibrancy draining into black and white, frozen, lifeless, still.

Now, your name resembled a film reel of the best moments, your sweater hanging in his closet, your arm thrown around his mother’s shoulder in a polaroid candid, your laugh echoing in the acoustics of his shower after you nearly slipped on the lavender bubbles coating sudsy toes, your hands massaging his scalp, twisting curls into detailed plaits, your foamy lips smushing against a stubbled cheek, leaving remnants of peppermint mocha in the winter air, your satin skirt contrasting from his purple flares in his backyard, playing thumb war and whispering confessions in the moonlight. The good memories built a brick wall to block out the bad, dimming the light of your downfall.

“Have you ever been in love?” The question echoes again in Harry’s ears, causing a grin and a dimple to pop into his cheek. The fuzzies. Once, twice, three times. Click, shake, tape.

“Yeah, I have.”

279 notes · View notes

inventors-fair · 3 years

Text

From Text to Title Commentary

This contest went a little haywire, and I’m not super certain why.

The basics of this contest were simple: make a card based on a mechanic. I said mechanic instead of ability or keyword because some stuff isn’t quite either. Devotion and Party are just sort of counting tools, and ability words aren’t even rules text. But some people took it a very strange direction. I thought it was pretty clear what counted, and there were plenty of things that very obviously counted, but people just kept asking about other things. While I understand that that is part of the brainstorming process, and you might come up with a cool idea and then not know if it works or not, I really wish you would have just assumed the answer was no and work on something you know would have counted. Why make a card called “Hybrid Mana” when you could just make a card out of any of the dozens of existing mechanics? It felt like you were trying to be unique at best, and purposely trying to mess with me at worst. But how uniquely you answer the prompt isn't important. What’s more important is that the card itself is good, or even clever. The prompt are just that: prompts. I am not challenging you to answer the prompt most creatively, I’m asking you to make a creative card that fits within the prompt. That was the important part.

Which gets me to the next thing. I specifically didn’t want players using the ability on the card. Part of that was just because it would be too easy, but part of that was because I wanted to see you guys get creative. What are some other ways to represent trampling? What else can life be linked to? I didn’t want to say that they could have nothing to do with it, because that’s hard. Would a metalcraft card that mentions artifacts at all count? But I think the point was still clear: I wanted to see cards that had nothing to do with their originator. Sadly, I got a lot of those. Some spelled out the ability. A lot were enablers: a bloodthirst card that dealt damage once a turn for creatures, a card named constellation that makes enchantment tokens, etc. I really wanted to see stuff completely different, and I don’t think I got that across. For that, I apologize. I should have been clearer about that, or put it in the mandatory section instead of the encouraged section.

Sorry for the downer. This was a rough week. Hopefully my commentary form here on out doesn’t sound too bitter. But here it is:

@azathoth-the-bored - Decayed

So while I specifically said that you’re not allowed to use the mechanic on the card, I also said I didn’t want you to just spell it out, as you did here. This gives the enchanted creature decayed, just not literally. If you had removed that and just had the last ability, I think this maybe would have been a fine uncommon as a slow removal spell.

@bread-into-toast - Daybound

Alright, you got me. Technically, this does not have the ability daybound. It just interacts with the day and night cycle, just like daybound does. While that’s allowed, it’s not really what I was asking for. I wanted to see a new interpretation of the ability, completely unconstrained from the originator. So, faire-wise, I’m disappointed with it. As for the card itself, I think it coils use work. The fact that it can’t transform no matter what feels like a strange restriction. A lot of the creatures are better on their night side, including abilities, so you might end up sealing a creature on their more powerful side, and when it turns to day, they will end up buffing their team better, even though they can’t attack. If you seal them on their day side, then they just attack worse at night, which I guess is fine. The fact that it can hit planeswalkers is just so weird. There’s only about 10 planeswalkers that can attack, only 2 that can transform, and only 1 that does both. Why even put it on there? It’s just going to confuse players who might expect it to stop them from activating. If it just said “permanent” I’d be fine, because then it could hit Westvale Abbey, or Poppet Factory, stuff where the transforming is a bigger deal than the attacking. What you ended up with is a card that is just trying too hard to fit a very specific role, and I think you’re worse off for it.

@decayingbooks - Fortify

I don’t think this card is as good as you think this is. I do like that it can be used defensively and “offensively,” but both of those options aren’t particularly good. If you target yourself, that’s a very small amount of benefit for four mana. To Arms does the same thing for two mana and draws you a card. If you target your opponent, it’s a fog that leaves your opponents creatures untapped. The utility of a card that does both is not worth the mana cost. This card could be one mana, and I still don’t know how often it would be played. I love the flavor though, and it’s a good way to make a card using the name fortify. NOTE: I wrote that all before you updated your submission to change it to a sorcery. Yes, it makes more sense, but it loses half of its utility, and becomes a far worse card. I think you needed to look at cards that already exist to get an idea for how to cost your cards or what players would want to play. Flavor is good, but it’s more important to make a well-designed card.

@deg99 - Dethrone

This card has a lot going on, and I think you could have toned it down a touch. The center ability is the main thing here: kill something and its controller loses life. A time-old tradition, and probably fitting at 5 mana. The fact that it gets super cheap targeting something the monarch owns is also cool! It fits the theme, and now you get their best blocker out of the way, amking it even easier to get the monarchy from them! Except then you become the monarch anyway. I think the top and bottom ability are detracting from each other. The top part punishes a player for sitting on the monarchy by making it easier for you to target them, which is good! The bottom part is just sort of insult to injury. It removes the coolest part about the monarch: the interaction among players. Most cards that grant monarchy in some way protect you, giving your opponents something they have to team up to fight through. This one sort of protects you, but is clearly made to be more aggressive, which doesn’t work well with the monarchy mechanic. Lastly, the flavor text I think kind of goes against the rest of the card. Regicide kills a creature, despite in theory killing a king. Queen Marchesa makes you the monarch, even though she is technically one. When I read this card without flavor text,I completely understood that I was killing a monarch, then becoming one. The flavor text muddies that by claming the thing you killed isn’t the monarch, and while that is technically true, it doesn’t match the flavor as well.

@demimonde-semigoddess - Escalate

What a weird little card! The name fits the first ability, that’s for sure. At first I wasn’t sure if that was just worse than a copy spell, but the second ability changes that for sure. It goes from a weird combo card to something you can just sort of play for free that maybe has a bonus bit of text. While I get the desire there, since it feels bad to have such a narrow card, I think the player playing this card WANTS it to be bad. If you see this card as a johnny or a timmy, you think of how cool that first ability is and just kind of ignore the last part. Other players will play it as just a normal tormenting voice with maybe some utility if you happen to have an X somewhere. The fact that there’s two completely different abilities means I can’t figure out which is the reason to play this and which is the extra part. That first ability does have some issues in and of itself, though. I don’t like that it’s a flat bonus. I wish it either doubled or reduced the cost or added mana. Currently, you can just cast a spell with X=0 and get three free bonus out of it. While that is sort of the point of this card, it’s freeness is a little scary. Mostly when you get to things with multiple Xs. This lets you deal 15 damage for two mana with Crackle with Power, or make a bunch of hydras with Hydra Broodmaster for 1 mana. If this card was more clearly focused on the X part, maybe just being a cantrip at one mana, I think I’d be more okay with it. If it doubled X, then at least you’d have to sink something into it. Also, I’m not sure if it’s just a typo, but so far as I know, this works with X costs that are not mana. I believe that it would affect cards like Chatterfang and Storage Lands, which could cause some problems. I also don’t know if it would affect things like Devastating Summons or Firecat Blitz’s flashback, where there’s an X in the cost, sort of. Last thing I’ll point out is you don’t need to phrase it like you did. Unbound Flourishing does almost exactly what you want, just with doubling instead of adding, but it still makes it clear you can change X with the spell or ability on the stack, not “as it resolves.” Sorry if I sound harsh, I just wish you would have committed to this being a combo card so it would feel like a fair trade-off for the amount of power it offered, or that you reduced its impact so that the X part can feel more like a bonus than the focus.

@dimestoretajic - Living Weapon

This is a strange one. First, it’s got a triple colorless mana cost. We’ve never seen a card with one of those, even 2 is reserved only for a 10 mana spell, therefore being only a fifth of its cost. But I can see why, mostly. Artifact creatures can be dumped onto the board extremely quickly, so you want a fairly restrictive cost. Even so, it being such a small creature kind of makes the restrictive cost feel even less worth it. You really need a board of creatures in play for this to be good, and it’s hard to know if this is ever better than just a chief of the foundry, who pumps toughness as well and is always castable. In eternal formats, though, this card could be a beast. The legendary clause is kind of what holds it back there, though. Again, you normally want to dump your hand, so the fact that you can’t play two of these if you have them in hand is a bit aggravating. Lastly, there’s that tap ability. Why is it there? Thematically it doesn’t seem to fit at all with the concept of a living weapon. Mechanically, it doesn’t seem to fit with the type of deck you’d want to pay this in. If you want to give your entire board of creatures double strike, you’re usually doing it because you have a lot of small creatures that want to attack. Having to tap them and him for mana goes against that strategy, and what are you even casting with that mana in a deck like that? The other thing it does is give a spell or two pseudo-affinity, which just seems unnecessary. Would a deck play this for just that ability and ignore the double-strike stuff? It all just seems so odd.Still, this is one of the better entries this week. It’s got some issues, but I like how it knows exactly what it’s here for and is very good at it, as well as working with the name. It’s just tacking a bit too much on top of that.

@fractured-infinity - Constellation

I think you’re overestimating this card. This is a 5 mana card that requires an extra three mana to do anything. Yes, it doubles itself every turn, but those copies don’t do anything other than trigger constellation. That’s good in a constellation deck, but this is a card that’s ONLY good in a constellation deck. If I play this and survive three turns and have 8 of these in play, there’s no way I’ll be able to activate them reasonably effectively. The flavor of this card is also tied too closely to the mechanic. None of this quite feels space like, or like I’m connecting things like constellations connect stars. I would suggest trying to find some other way to make it useful without the ability, or limit the number of tokens it makes but make the whole card cheaper. Right now it’s just too narrow and hard to use, and even the deck that wants it may be dead by the time it really starts being useful.

@ghoulcalculator64 - Banding

Ah, I see. It’s a rubber band joke. Fair enough. I think this card is not good. Four mana is a lot for this small of an effect. Yes, icy manipulator is a famously strong card, but Pacification array was not (though it had a lot of utility because of improvise being in the set). Two mana to tap each turn is a lot, and the fact that this doesn’t have a body like Fan Bearer or Gavony Trapper is a heavy cost already. I think you needed to do a little more research into what other cards of this type existed when making this.

@gollumni - Grandeur

Well this is a bit of a dud. It’s very hard to find a good way to use this card. It’s a fog, but what isn’t? It lets you get in one hit with one creature for sure, but at the cost of not getting to hit with anything else, and not being able to block anything for a while. The exact templating of this card has some minor issue, but I do want to point out you were clever not to make it target, so they can’t kill the targetted creature in response. Instead, you choose upon resolution. It’s a bit of a shame you HAVE to choose something, meaning you can’t just use this as a fog when you’ve got nothing in play, but maybe that’s for the best. Better to avoid turbo-fog making a resurgence. The last sentence also sounds a little off. Looking at Duneblast, I might just say “tap the rest.” I also really wish there were some way to not make this rare, but this would probably be an annoyance even at uncommon, so maybe it’s necessary.

@helloijustreadyourpost - Fateseal

Cool idea, execution is a bit off. One mana removal spells, even slow ones like this, are probably too good, especially at common. I could maybe see a card like this being pushed in a set where they really want playable enchantments, like a set with delirium or constellation. I know the big downside is that they still get a chance to swing with the creature before it dies, but I don’t think that offsets the massive upside of being an unconditional one mana kill spell. Conceptually, I like it. It’s definitely the complexity level of an uncommon, and the flavor is spot on. I think the fact that it triggers on your upkeep is mechanically a good idea, but a little awkward because a lot of people will assume it cares about the creature’s controller’s upkeep, like most similar cards. That’s not really on you, though, and if the rest of the set doesn’t do that, it’s fine. I could almost see changing it to grant the creature “sac this in your end step” instead. However, if the set has death synergies, that might matter, too. I guess this card is hard to judge because I could see it doing a lot of work in a theoretical set, but outside of any set, it’s just way too good. I like it, though, and it’s a great fit for this week, it’s just too strong.

@hiygamer - Hidden Agenda

I like the concept here, but I think you maybe underestimated it. The most obvious comparison here is Profane Tutor and Wishclaw Talisman. Both get you your cards a little later, but with some downsides compared to this Hidden Agenda. Being better than the two most recently printed tutors is a pretty big sign you’re maybe too strong. The exact phrasing also lets you pay the one during your opponents turn, so you can have the card in hand by the time you untap. Flavor-wise, I think it works. It does feel like you’re up to something, and you’ve got it hidden away, but I kind of wish it could be MORE hidden some way. Right now it feels a lot less like its hidden and more like it’s just in your hand but costs 1 more. But that’s getting nitpicky. It still feels like a good fit of card and name, which is the focus of this contest. I just think you could have pumped the brakes a little more, either making a more expensive tutor or a more hidden card.

@hypexion - Will of the Council

I was certain someone would do this. William of the Council. Bravo. But why does he have to do with voting? Surely there are other councils than Paliano’s. For this week specifically, I would have really wished you kept further away form voting. Yes, this doesn’t have Will of the Council, but it cares about it. Anyway, the card itself? I like it. I think the last ability is really cool, and adds some wrinkles to time when everybody is already agreeing on how they’re going to vote. You can also do some silly things where you purposely vote a certain way to get a bunch of treasures or get the result you actually wanted. I also like how playing him encourages you to be t he good guy: you want to make sure other people want what you want. That’s a cool way to build a deck. The first ability messes with all of that, though. First, there’s a lot of math. There 5 permanent types you’d have to count every time you vote, with the number of artifacts changing after each one. Lands would be the tough one, but creatures would be annoying, too. In a conspiracy draft, there’s also probably be some confusion to if conspiracies count, or Tribal, or Snow. Then there’s how it messes with the second ability. As soon as you get one extra vote, all of the fun of the second ability goes away. Most votes only have two options, so you just get to pick both. You were clever with the name and clever with the ability, but maybe a little too ambitious with the card itself.

@i-am-the-one-who-wololoes - Haunt

This card is a little weird. Flavor wise, I mostly like it. I like that the spirit is the same size but behaves differently than its originator. The name feels a bit mismatched, since this is less haunting something and more letting something else do the haunting. I would expect some sort of spirit to haunt the creature, not for it to die and come back to haunt others. As for the card itself, it’s not as good as it looks. For reference, Undying Evil, Supernatural Stamina, and malakir rebirth are all one mana. This is three mana to make a token that is almost strictly worse. It loses abilities, has to attack and block, but at least it has vigilance? I don’t understand the flavor of those abilities, either. Is it just an aggressive spirit? I would have expected it to have gained flying, but without it I don’t understand what exactly this spirit is. I keep thinking I’m missing something, but as I see it, this card is just not quite there on mechanics or flavor.

@kellylogs - Vigilance

It’s been a while since we’ve seen a card like this, but I remember the time when Mardu Ascendency, launch the fleet, and similar effects were all the rage. I like how this one specifically doesn’t create the token tapped and attacking. It sort of sells the flavor that they are leaving someone back in order to stay vigilant. I think this card is fine, but I have one giant issue: why did you specify “taps to attack?” All that does is make this card say “whenever a creature without vigilance attacks, make a token.” I know I said you’re not allowed to use the ability on the card, but specifically not using it feels even weirder. If it didn’t say that, I would feel perfectly fine with this card, maybe even make it a runner-up, but the “taps” part in there makes it clear that you didn’t feel confident enough in the design, and though you needed some way to tie the card back into the ability, something I specifically said I wasn’t looking for.

@loreholdlesbian - Encore

What a show this is. I like this card, but it’s very hard to judge. In some formats, this would be a powerhouse. Four mana for an extra turn with some extra cards is a great rate, and the lose clause is not nothing, but might be ignorable. Otherwise, though, this card could be a bulk mythic. We’ve seen two similar cards in the last few years, it’s hard to know what the rate on this card would be in this day and age. I’ll say what I can: this is a really cool concept and a really great way to answer the prompt. I just am so scared of extra turns in this day and age, what with the prevalence of them in recent years. Yes, this loses you the game, but is that enough? I just don’t know. I’m sorry, I wish I could help more. I like this card, I just am failing a bit as a judge right now.

@maispace - Bloodthirst

I think you came at this challenge from the wrong direction. It seems like you started by thinking of the ability of bloodthirst, then made a card around it. This is an enchantment that basically makes it so you always get your bloodthirst triggers. I don’t really understand how the card itself is bloodthirst. Is the idea that the creature spells are bloodthirsty? And so when you cast them, they’re “going for blood,” dealing damage? I don’t quite get the flavor. What the card does, though seems cool. It’s effectively damage that ramps up every turn. I like how it messes with strategies. Normally in aggressive red decks where you want to be playing burn like this, you also want to be playing a lot of low-cost creatures. But this card wants you to just play one creature a turn in order to get max value from it. I like that this sort of encourages a different type of aggro deck: one where you’re trying to tap out for big creatures every turn. Or maybe playing flash creatures? Or maybe you have a lot of activated abilities, so you can still use your mana? There’s a lot of cool, unique ways to take advantage of this card, and it might be worth it. If you trigger it at least three times, you get 6 points of burn for 3 mana, which is good! Feels a little odd at uncommon, but I could see this being a lame rare. I would just hope there’s enough enchantment removal in the set that this wouldn’t just be that oppressive. Even one damage a turn can add up in limited.

@mardu-lesbian - Improvise

Oh my. First, the flavor mostly works. I get that you’re sort of doing what you can with what you have, regardless of its utility. It’s a little odd that it doesn’t do things with your hand and is stead almost sort of reanimatey, but I think that’s a fine stretch to make the mechanics work without being too wordy. As for the ability, oh boy! It is very easy for this card to kill someone. I could easily see a combo deck forming from this. The random part I both like and dislike. I like it because it gives you a need to build around: you can’t just put the one big card you need in there to combo off, you’d need some way to partially empty your own graveyard to ensure it works. I also don’t like it because if you don’t keep your graveyard clean, you still have a chance of it woking anyway, meaning whether you win or lose is basically decided randomly, which is not super fun. Another strange quirk of this card is that it can actually be used relatively fairly. In a modern blitz deck, you probably won’t get more than one or two power out of it (maybe three if you’re playing those spectacle cards), but just being a spell that grants trample and maybe a bit of power is really all they need. This card being at common feels really strange as well. It’s a little bit complex of a card, in that it requires paying very close attention to the board state and also your graveyard, and needing to randomize it. While that might be fine, the swinginess of it would get tiresome in limited. It’d be pretty easy to get to the point where you have every mana value from 1 to 5 in your graveyard and your opponent is at 4 and, again, whether you win or lose the game comes down to randomness. I really like the idea of this card, but I wish it was a little less randomized.

@martianjune - Evolve

Evolving is the idea of growing and adapting to circumstances, and this catches that flavor, but maybe has one too many effects. Adding a counter is a nice base line, and growing when dealt damage is great flavor, and fighting works with the damage part and kind of works to represent evolving to adapt. But as a whole the card gets a little messy. The biggest issue is it’s not clear whether you fight when it’s dealt damage or when you cast the spell. I think you’d want to grant the creature the ability. Perhaps: “Put a +1/+1 counter on target creature you control. Until end of turn, that creature gains ‘whenever this creature is dealt damage, put a +1/+1 counter on it.’ Then it fights target creature you don’t control.” That would be less confusing. Unless you do want it to keep fighting infinitely. There’s also some weirdness in that this does the same effect twice back to back, putting counter on it before and after, which is a little weird, but hardened scales decks prefer it that way. As an instant pump spell removal spell with extra utility, I think this is maybe too complex even for uncommon. It also doesn’t really have a great way to include the reminder text that the creature needs to still be alive to put the +1/+1 counter on it, which confuses some new players. For the most part I like the design of this card, but it’s just too complex.

@misterstingyjack - Threshold

You’re playing with fire, here. A tutor on a land is incredibly powerful, even one as weak and slow and narrow as this. We’ve seen the incredible power of Urza’s Saga, and while this is weaker, it may fall into the same trap of assuming that cheap is the same as weak. I also don’t get the flavor at all. A threshold is like a barrier, so I kind of get that it’s a land, but is this supposed to represent specifically the barrier between the rest of the world and presumably the legendary land you’re tutoring? Okay, now that I write it out I kind of get that. But why is it legendary? Normally that wouldn’t bug me that much but A) on lands its a big deal and B) the card itself cares about legends, so it’s kind of relevant. I think if this specifically stated lands this might be fine, but this card seems specifically made to try and be broken, which I think is not a great idea.

@nicolbolas96 - Eternalize

Well that’s quite the removal spell. It even removed the oxford comma from the reminder text! Seriously, though, this card is pretty scary. While it can be used fairly as a removal spell, it also has some random combo potential, like magus of the abyss or leonin abunas, or other stuff I’m probably not thinking of. It also seems absolutely devastating in commander, where it’s entirely possible you completely remove their commander from relevance, or protect yours somehow? This is a really hard card to evaluate, because we’ve only seen one other card similar to it, one with the stars, but this is also an instant with a permanent effect. I’m not a huge fan of the latter aspect, though I appreciate that the name at least clues people in to the fact that it lasts indefinitely. I’m very glad it’s at rare to make up for the many confusions that will come from this card. Lastly, this is pretty cheap for this effect. It’s basically two mana instant speed removal in white that can’t be protected by indestructible or even reanimation. This kills things that shouldn’t be able to die. Maybe that’s fine? Like I said, hard to evaluate, but I think I come out on the side of positive. Not great, I think it’s more trouble than it’s worth, but it’s at least something new and exciting.

@nine-effing-hells - Planeswalk

There’s some templating issues with this card that makes it unclear to me what it’s trying to do. Let’s say I have eight lands in play when I play this. I shuffle them into my deck, then each player reveals cards until they reveal 8 lands. Then I may put any number of those lands onto the battlefield. I’m going to assume under my control? It would need to says so, because right now they would just go under their owner’s control. Next, players shuffle “the rest” into their library. The rest of what? As written, it implies the lands, but I’m also shuffling the other cards revealed, right? Though they never left the library, so either way they’d get shuffled. I think you’d want to say “You may put any number of land cards revealed this way onto the battlefield under your control, then each player shuffles the rest of the revealed cards into their library.” Mas polymorph is the closest I could find to this. Anyway, the card’s mechanics: I think this is a little underwhelming. It’s a lot of counting and shuffling and stealing for very little gain. You’re doubling your mana for 8 mana, which is actually one above boundless realms or nyxbloom ancient and two above mana reflection. But with this you get to steal your opponents’ lands! That’s kind of just worse than your own lands, since they won’t tap for the right colors of mana all the time. You’re also thinning their deck by a pretty significant amount, meaning your opponent is actually getting some amount of benefit out of this (unless they’re mana screwed, in which case you were winning anyway). I think this only really has any use in commander, where the “each player” part means you’re more likely quadrupling your mana. I guess that’s pretty good for eight mana. This is also insanely good in landfall decks, obviously. I think I like this card, but there’s a lot of things pulling me from it. It’s a cool mix of scapeshift, oblivion sower, and boundless realms, but kind of feels bloated. It’s just trying to do so much, and because of that it’s got a massive mana cost and a lot of annoying to deal with shuffling and counting, nto to mention the amount of confusion that stealing lands usually leads to. Lastly, and I almost missed this, all the lands come into play untapped, which feels excessive. Eight mana to double your mana permanently that also doubles your mana the turn you play it is just begging for trouble. I think this would be a card everyone at the table would groan when they see, potentially even the player playing it. From a purely mechanical angle it seems like a good idea, but there’s just so many little issues that add up to make it a hassle of a card.

@Partlycloudy-partlyfuckoff - Dash

I think this card doesn’t do enough. I tink the “if” part is unnecessary. +2/+0 and haste is easily something worth 1 mana, even at common. The fact that it rewards targeting a creature that actually needs hast feels redundant, and I feel like it’s an attempt to get this card closer to it’s ability, which goes against the goals of this contest. I think you might have needed to step back and think about another interpretation of the word dash to try and come up with something more original.

@pocketvikings - Amass

I have one very important question about this card: why would you cast this for X anything more than 0? There’s reasons too, of course, but the card doesn’t really encourage it in any way. I can see this being played in a Rosheen Meanderer deck, but just a mana filterer, which seems weird. You can play it in a mizzix deck or other mana value matters decks, but that also feels really narrow. I think the most common use for X is cost reduction, like if you have a Baral and a Goblin Electromancer. Then that mana really is free, and it does feel like you’re amassing it. Sadly, those are the exact kinds of decks where you really don’t want to be limited to one more spell. So you have a card here that doesn’t really know where it wants to go. I think you either really needed to encourage big mana some way (like by doubling outright instead of adding), or by encouraging small mana (like just adding X mana alone, but allowing multiple casts, so you just get to double dip on mana reductions). As is, there’s just not a place for this card.

@reaperfromtheabyss - Threshold

I don’t quite get the reference with vampires. Is it a reference to them not being able to enter a house without being welcomed? Is that a threshold? Anyhoo, card seems fine. I don’t think it needed to be an artifact: plenty of walls in magic aren’t artifacts, and I don’t think they need to be. The last ability is just Baird. This is a wall that makes it hard to attack you. That’s all, folks! It hink it does a fine job of that, but it feels hard to feel that this card is necessary when Baird is already out there and has power and vigilance and only 1 more mana. I don’t think this card is bad, I just think it’s the most literal interpretation of the name.

@shakeszx - Bury

Spooky. Love the art, and kill spells are great places for one-name cards. The flavor really comes together. As with any creature-type based removal spells, you get some nitpicky things like “can you bury an elemental? Can you bury an ooze?” But that’s just what I expect pedantic players would say. I think non-spirit is fine trinket text. My biggest issue with this is that it’s very clearly a reference to the original ability. Bury got changed to “kill it and it can’t be regenerated,” and you swapped out the regeneration for indestructible, it’s current substitute. I wish I could have seen a card further from its source for this challenge, but I can’t argue against how solid of a card this is. I do wish it had found a way to stray further from terminate, which is almost exactly a reflection of this card. Also this is kind of going to be a boring rare (I say as someone who opened multiple dreadbores).

@snugz - Eternalize

Love me some gold counters! I remember putting aurification in my old defender decks. This really fits the theme. I like how you put the counter on it even though it wasn’t “technically” necessary: you could have just had it gain all those things. But the counter is a very useful tool for remembering, and the fact that it can be interacted with, unlikely as it is that you can remove the counter, it still technically gives you something you can do about it. The defender and can’t activate abilities is neat, but the other two parts seem odd. Turning it into a treasure doesn’t really do anything other than random stuff like counting towards Revel in Riches. I think you wanted to grant it the treasure ability. The fact that it can still activate mana abilities is what tipped me off to that, since that seems incredibly narrow otherwise. I also think this is closer to a white card than a black card. It’s extremely similar to both Guard Duty and Minimus Containment, both white cards. Black would be much closer to just outright killing the creature, especially for a 3 mana uncommon. Still, I like the flavor of it.

@starch255 - Extort

Well this is not something I was expecting. I can really respect the attempt to make something new with what you’ve got. You may be pushing the boundary a bit harder than I liked, but at least you had fun with it. The card is strange, but I think I like it. Haste is a weird ability because it doesn’t scale evenly, so 5 mana for 4 power haste is kind of in line. The “flying when attacking” is a nice way to power it up and down a bit, and the one toughness makes this really fragile. It also sort of helps with the flavor: high toughness is the one thing most commonly associated with turtles. Still, something about this card feels off. Even with haste, 5 mana for a 1 toughness creature is a hard sell. In the right format, this would be a beating and a half, and in the wrong format, this would be last pick every draft. Ravnica, where this card seems to be from, is famous for its many 1/1 flyers. Especially with conditional flying, you could probably have pumped up the toughness at least to two. But hey, funny card, okay in some formats probably, and a cool two color design.

@stellarlight - Encore

Visual: A magic show. Three identical magicians jump through the air with happy smiles on their faces, an outfit identical to theirs is on the floor. The audience is mesmerized.

Now this is a strange card. First off, I think this card is a little close to the original ability, which I tried to discourage, but not so close that I’m disqualifying it. I just think you maybe played it a little safe. As for the ability, how strange! At first it just seems like an incredibly overcosted Kaya’s Ghostform, but the fact that it hits opponents things means it’s a little closer to Minion’s Return. The fact that it makes a token instead of reanimating the creature has upsides and downsides: it means you can still do graveyard things with the creature card in the yard, but it means that bounce spells are kill spells. If you’re taking your opponents cards, it’s the opposite. The bonus ability on this is pretty cool, though. It makes this card really cool in blink decks, since you can enchant your guy at the end of their turn, untap, then blink it on your turn with a charming prince or something. The tokens stick around, too, so you’ll end up getting three ETB triggers in addition to the one you already were going to get from blinking it in the first place. Still, I think this card is a mana too much, maybe more. Minion’s return is the closest basis to this card, and it was an uncommon that almost never got played. This requires setup to ge the most benefit from, and still costs two more, including another color! Aura’s are already so easy to mess with, sinking 5 mana into one just to get blown out with a removal spell on the stack, or having someone mess with your blink effect before you untap is very likely. I think just four mana, or even 3 might be fine. I think it’s a really cool idea, though, and other than the cost (and the similarity to the ability), I like this card.

@wilsonosgoodmcman - Fateseal

They’ve been trying to design a card like this for years I feel, and you got a pretty good version of it. It’s a bit like spell queller and a bit like Oblivion Ring. I think the name fits pretty well, and I like how you reinterpreted the “seal” from meaning “decide” to meaning “trap.” The templating on the bottom is a bit off: you could probably steal it whole from Spell Queller. The cost also seems right on the money: just a touch more expensive than O-Ring, same price as Cast Out or Ashiok’s Erasure but with comparable downsides to both. I think this would se play in a lot of blue white control decks. Part of me wants to complain and say that this card is boring and too close to things that have been done before, but I think I’m wrong on both accounts. This is a role-player in the format, not a headliner. A good card, and a good answer to the prompt.

@wolkemesser - Grandeur

Making a Lorwyn style incarnation is a really clever way to get that name to work. Your reworking of the shuffle clause is pretty interesting, and is a clever way to set up that last ability. And that last ability sure is something. It gives this creature basically a permanent on-death effect. It still needs to be cast and die, but after it does, you’re good. Your opponent has to 20 you in one turn. But as a mythic that needs to be set up is that fine? If you play a temple garden into avacyn’s pilgrim or bird of paradise, you can get this out by turn three or so. If you play a sacrifice outlet before then, you can set up this combo nearly immediately. Even so, graveyard hate can hit it, just not all graveyard hate (many players use grafdiggers cage in historic, for example). If I were in charge of deciding if this card sees print, I would be terrified. It’s a really cool and maybe balanced ability, but I’m worried it would turn quite a few games into do-you-have-it games of combos vs. graveyard hate. It’s probably fine though. I like this card.

And that’s everybody. If you want to talk to me about anything in particular, feel free to contact me at our discord.

-Mod Mr. ShinyObject

#commentary #mtg #magic the gathering #text to title #custom magic card #inventor's fair

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sunshineandbnha · 4 years

Text

It’s On Me, Just Don’t Go (Part 2 of It’s My Bad) - Bakugou x reader

Word count: 1,951 Warnings: angst in beginning, slight language from Bakugou A/n: Here’s part two. I hope it’s good, I did my best to make this semi realistic. If you don’t like it or think this isn’t what they deserve you can always pretend this doesn’t exist. And sorry if you temporarily saw this yesterday. I made an edit and it got posted a day early

“Chemistry ‘til it blows up, ‘til there’s no us.” – Afterglow, Taylor Swift.

It had been a few days since the whole ordeal. You were still shaken up. How did that amazing relationship with Bakugou break so spectacularly?

Kirishima had knocked on your door shortly after he left to make sure you were alright. Apparently he hung around the apartment the whole time just in case. You assured him that you were, and he assured you that his arm was fine. According to him, he just needed to put some ice on it for a while and he would be all better. It was good to hear, but you only wished that what you had with Bakugou could heal as quickly.

He was really hurt after what you did. And you knew he was the kind of person who stayed a long way from anyone when he was emotionally hurt. Especially if it was that very same person who hurt him. Someone he trusted so much.

The worst thing was that it was all your fault. You were the one who misinterpreted the argument so that you thought he had broken up with you. You were the one who didn’t think about his side, getting upset at him for being so distant when it was all because he was stressing about his proposal to you. And you were the one who was stupid enough that you made the split second decision of kissing Kirishima… Your only excuse for that was that you weren’t thinking straight and that you were upset and needed someone, all of which sounded stupid when you said them out loud.

Being without him had to be one of the worst forms of torture in existence. Everything was so cold and lonely, like the walls had grown spikes and enclosed you in a cage. You were constantly hugging yourself. You couldn’t be bothered to turn the lights on. Your mind seemed to block out or blur old memories. When you did clearly think about a memory, your mind snagged on it and wouldn’t let go until you completely relived it. Then it would cause a spiral of thoughts and memories that would last an hour or more.

You tried to watch some TV, attempting to distract yourself. It didn’t work. You would only end up spacing out and missing the whole episode. Your mind seemed to be stuck in an endless loop of replaying the event that haunted you. With a frustrated sigh, you snatched up the remote to switch it off, then tossed it aside. You stood up and got a light jacket, wallet, and shopping list. Maybe going out for some fresh air would clear your thoughts. After all, you had to get some groceries anyway.

You quickly made your way outside. The crisp air was refreshing. Clouds filled the sky and evened out the somewhat dim lighting. There was no defined shadow or light, all in a gray area. It almost enhanced the colors or mood in a way you couldn’t describe. You kept your head down most of the way.

For whatever reason, you felt the sudden urge to look up. When you did, your heart jumped and hit itself on the non-existent ceiling. It was him… Bakugou, on the other side of the street. He was wearing everyday clothing. He was probably just at the gym. It could have just been your imagination, but his eyes seemed more red than usual, and distant like he didn’t get much sleep. He walked slowly with his hands in his pockets.

You believed it was called a hero instinct, when you moved without even thinking about it. That was what happened when you ran towards him. A part of you weren’t sure what you were doing, but you couldn’t stop yourself.

“Katsuki!” you called for him.

That may have not been the best decision. The second he looked up and saw it was you, he immediately turned into the alleyway nearby and pretended like he never heard you.

“Wait!” you called again, running faster.

He sped up, though never breaking into a run. You turned into the alley. You couldn’t lose him. You had to make it up to him here and now. You didn’t know the next time you’d work up the courage to talk to him.

“Please,” you added softly as you came to a stop.

“What do you want?” he huffed, his voice growing louder. However, he did stop.

It suddenly occurred to you that you had no idea what you were going to say to him. What words could ever make him feel better or accept your apology? You said the first thing that to came to your mind.

“I miss you.”

“So?” he looked back at you, the way you would look at someone if they wouldn’t shut up when you wanted to just leave and go home.

“I’m sorry. I know it was stupid.” You bit your lip and faced downward.

“YOU’RE DAMN RIGHT IT WAS!”

“I just don’t want to lose you. I miss you and I’m sorry,” you blurted out.

“WELL, SO DO I!!” He burst out. “But that isn’t going to change anything! And useless words like that aren’t going to do anything either.”

“Then what do I need to do to prove it to you?” Your hands trembled. You were desperate. You prayed for the right words that would save this. This was a chance you couldn’t let pass you.

At that moment your phone started ringing. It cut through the tension and bounced off the hard, colorless walls on either side of you. You really didn’t feel like answering it, but it seemed to distract either of you from saying anything.

He lifted an eyebrow. His anger appeared to subside for a minute. “You gonna answer that?”

With a huff, you pulled out your phone. You really didn’t want to deal with this. You examined the name on the screen.

He glanced at it and read who was calling you. "The agency. Looks like they might finally have something for you."

You stared at it, but quickly clicked the reject button.

"What are you doing, dummy!?!!" Bakugou screamed so loud you were sure everyone within a five mile radius heard. "That was your chance! You were waiting so long!"

"But that's not important to me right now. There will always be other heroes, and there will always be other chances, but there will never be another you." You stared at him, a sweet smile growing on your face. “You matter to me the most out of everything.”

Bakugou seemed to drop his guard. His body loosened as he took a step back in surprise. His eyes were wide and staring right at you. After the initial reaction faded away, he bit his lip and pink dusted his cheek as he turned his head away slightly. It was a look you hadn't quite seen since before you were dating.

You continued. "I can’t let this go. I can’t let you go. You were the best thing that ever happened to me. I'm so sorry I got so upset. I just felt bad because you weren't spending as much time with me. And instead of talking it out with you, I held it in until I just exploded at you. I had no idea you were working so hard for me or why you were so stressed. It wasn't until I looked at that bunch of flowers that I realized."

You looked down a second, tears streaming down your face, trying to gather your courage. "I know it might be too late, and I may be too dumb for it, but..." you trembled as you held out the box and opened it to him, "Will you marry me?"

You had kept that box with the ring in your pocket ever since you found it, even holding it close to you in your sleep. It had pained you to look or simply think about it, but you couldn't bring yourself to part with it.

His entire face turned red. He stumbled on his words for what felt like an eternity. "I-I'm supposed to be asking that, idiot! And that ring is meant for you."

You almost laughed, but decided to continue. "I know I made a stupid mistake. I'm sorry that I kissed Kirishima. I thought I lost you and I so upset and I wasn't thinking straight. But after a lot of thinking, I know now, more than anything, that the thing I want the most is to stay with you. Yes, I did like him at some point, back in U.A. But that was how I ended up getting close to you. And in almost no time I came to love you. So much that I chose you. And I would choose you over and over again." You looked at the ground again to cope with the strangling fear of rejection. "I want you for worse or for better. I want to go wherever you go. You’re everything I ever wanted. So… please?”

“Tch Do you even need to ask?" Before you could process it, he put his hand on your back. He pulled you close and propelled his lips onto yours.

You froze a moment, your mind not able to comprehend that he actually forgave you. Slowly you were pulled out of it by the sweet sensation. In your experience, you found his kisses were either rough or sweet, and this one was sweet, but it was different somehow. His lips were tentative against yours, as if he were afraid you simply an illusion. You savored every moment of it, feeling his warmth against you. It chased away every ounce of loneliness and negativity out of you.

The pull out of it was slow, lips still brushing against the others. You still held each other close. It was like your arms were glue around his neck. It was a secure and comfortable position, one you wanted to stay in forever. You were praying with every atom of your being that this wasn’t just a dream. And if it was, you didn’t want to wake up.

You pulled him into a hug with your head on his chest. “Thank you. Thank you for being mine and staying.”

He rested his chin on your head. “You’re mine too, and I wouldn’t want it any other way… I’m glad you chose me.” His placed a gentle kiss on the top of you head.

“Why wouldn’t I? I’m sorry if I made you think any different. I want this to make us stronger, not tear us apart. I’ll definitely make sure to be better from now on.”

“And you can be sure as hell that I’ll try my hardest to be the best husband ever.” His hold ever-so-slightly tightened.

“I believe you.”

You melted around him and pulled him even closer to you, if that were still possible. You both held onto each other, gripping onto the loose fabric in your shirts. It felt like heaven. A warm, comforting embrace you never wanted to leave.

"Thank you," Bakugou sniffed out, his hand on the back of your head, gently gripping onto your hair. He took in a deep breath of your scent. "I... never want to lose you... I'm sorry... that I got so busy that I forgot the point of paying for that ring and making all those plans for a perfect proposal." His voice was quiet. A rare, but welcomed, feat.

"And you never have to lose me," you whispered back.

His smile grew. A small chuckle escaped his lips. He pulled away slightly to look you in the eyes. “So, are you ready for your name to become Bakugou?”

#bnha bakugo x reader #bakugou x reader #katsuki bakugou x reader #bakugou katuski x reader #katsuki bakugou #bakugou katsuki #bnha bakugou #mha bakugou #bnha #mha #boku no hero academia #my hero academia #bnha x reader #mha x reader #angst #fluff

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thanekrios · 3 years

Text

The way fall smells

SUMMARY: Tommy always loved the distinctive scent of fall. After a day patrolling with Joel, he remembers why.

The leaves had grown old and begun falling, laying carpets of warm hues on every trail surrounding Jackson. Tommy took a deep breath, taking in the unique sharpness in the air that came with the last months of the year.

It had been a good day. They had patrolled until noon, everything clear – no signs of Hunters or infected– and after checking in, left for the rest of the day to hunt and walk, to talk and have a snack under the orange light of the late afternoon just like they did when they were young.

Joel was having a good day too; Tommy could see it. For the whole afternoon, his shoulders had been relaxed, arms resting at his sides; every now and then, he stopped to take in the shushing of the leaves or the landscape. He was at peace.

Over the course of two years, Tommy had seen how his brother’s sharp edges had begun to dull and a smile would come to him easier than a frown. He talked more, about Sarah and Tess and sometimes even about himself; he hummed around Tommy, sang around Ellie. For a long time, Joel’s hatred for everything was like an all-consuming fire. But Tommy knew that as catastrophic as fires could be, they could also restore – he had seen it with grasslands, entire fields cleansed by the flames, making way for new vegetation to thrive. And now, he had seen it with Joel.

“We should head back.” Joel said as he got up and brushed breadcrumbs off his jacket. “We don’t want it getting too late.”

“Yeah,” Tommy agreed as they began walking in Jackson’s direction. “Got any plans for tonight?”

“Watchin’ a movie with Ellie.”

‘You’re both welcome to join us for dinner if you like.”

Tommy made a pause and considered his words.

Whenever they had them over, it wasn’t just dinner. It was a series of stories from any period of their lives. The brothers grew more excited with each anecdote, Maria would bid them goodnight long after their plates had been cleared; and as their laughter turned loud like thunderclaps, Ellie began knocking down every miserable object in her proximity as she became overexcited while shouting No fucking way! Then came the guitars. More laughter and clatter. And before they knew it, Maria was walking out the door for an early patrol.

So, Tommy added:

“Before your movie.”

“Thanks, but we don’t wanna interrupt Maria’s sleep two nights in a row.” Joel’s eyes ran across the golden foliage, the corners of his mouth curving.

“Well, I’m sure Ellie would appreciate some leftovers.” Tommy found himself smiling as well. “I can leave’em by the porch.”

“Usual place?”

“Usual place,” he confirmed.

“Appreciate it.”

They walked in silence for a while, enjoying the brittle sound of falling leaves and with each step, they walked into memories.

Tommy loved fall.

He first became enchanted with it as a child. He craved the crunching of a dry leaf under his booted feet, having a hot drink when his lips were chapped, listening to Joel play soft melodies as the sun set fire to the clouds. But above all, he looked forward to the unmistakable scent of summer’s perishing.

Tommy knew he came across as simple, devoid of imagination. Even before the outbreak people had assumed there wasn't much to him, that he never dreamt of anything other than a job in construction, blindly following Joel’s steps. He knew why it was easy to believe he had chosen an uncomplicated life rather than having settled for it. He didn’t make any effort to correct anyone. His dreams had been his own. Truth was, Tommy had wanted to be a storyteller in his youth.

During his childhood, he imagined the playful winds that came with fall were whispering stories, travelling through the rattling orange and yellow leafed trees, there for anyone who was willing to listen. Tommy imagined, to escape the empty rooms, the absent parents. He opened his mind and closed his eyes to craft tales of floating homes in the sky and flying whales and homemade dinners.

Fall shaped each story and realm that sprang in his heart and imagination. He didn’t speak of any of them, for whenever he had attempted to put it into words, the intricacy of each story, the vibrance of every world, the heartbreak experienced by each character became colorless.

"All imagination and zero talent," he confessed to Joel in his early teens.

Joel, who wasn't the wordy type either, comforted him the only way he knew how: by handing him his treasured guitar.

"You can tell stories with this, too."

By trading words for melodies, Tommy had compromised. If that was to be the only way to set his stories out into the world, it was enough.

Joel stopped and took in a deep breath, catching Tommy’s attention. His older brother let out a pleased sigh:

“I like the way it smells.” He didn’t need to say more, Tommy knew what he meant, but he continued, “Y’know, fall.”

He took in the words and allowed them to travel the usual road, back into his heart.

“Yeah,” Tommy agreed. He buried his hands deep in his jacket pockets and filled his lungs with fresh air. He had heard that many times before but never from Joel. “Y’know, Sarah used to say the same thing.”

Something softened in Joel’s eyes, the look on his face echoing the one Tommy had seen on him countless times, whenever he had braided Sarah’s hair with so much care and tenderness it made it difficult to think of him as anything other than a loving father.

“Did she now?”

Tommy nodded:

“She said she liked the way fall smelled and then, uh, asked me what the smell was.”

“What did ya say?”

“I dunno, somethin’ dumb, like dust from a dirt road or somethin’.”

“That…that’s pretty accurate. Why’d you say it’s dumb? Was Sarah disappointed or somethin’?” Joel asked after a moment.

Tommy quirked a brow:

“Sarah? Our Sarah? That girl didn’t act disappointed a day in her life.”

“Yeah” Joel agreed in a whisper.

“But she asked me again the year after that. And then the one after that. And it kinda became a game we played. I gave her the thickest answers and she took’em. Then she started havin’ answers of her own.”

“Oh, yeah? What’d she say?”

“Well, a bunch of stuff. Good stuff. I think one time she said, uh, sharpened pencil. Yeah, that was it. Sharpened pencil. She also came up with…”

In recent years, Tommy had become an active forgetter, a problem that had triggered countless arguments with Maria. But those moments with Sarah, he remembered better than entire years.

“Apples, yeah. Refreshin’ and sweet and sour. There was, uh, wet soil after rain and hot hay dryin’ in the sun.”

“That’s…that’s a good one” Joel chuckled before kneeling to tie his shoelace. Tommy was certain his brother was only pretending to do it to shield his face. Then, as he stood up, he held his gaze. His smile was wide, eyes gleaming. “What else?”

Tommy didn’t have to think too hard. He knew just the one.

It had been a late afternoon, two days before the outbreak. Orange tinted the town as if the moment already belonged to a memory. Sarah had a plan; she would go to Tannhaus Watches & Jewellery to get Joel’s birthday present and he would go to the bakery next to it and place an order for a cake.

“Divide and conquer!” Sarah had repeated on their way to town.

The breeze carried the earthy sweet scent of the piles of leaves, tickling his nose. For once, he had decided, he would ask the question first:

“What does fall smell like?”

It had taken her but a few seconds to whip up an answer, taking Tommy by surprise:

“Fall smells like you, Uncle Tommy.”

Tommy’s words had died in his throat. He looked down, speechless still, and rested his eyes on her smile, equal parts sweet and smug. The realization of never having felt more loved dawned on him—it was a similar sensation to floating downstream. He felt weightless. Tommy remembered how when Sarah was little, they spent most of their time lying on golden grass, looking for shapes in the clouds or loudly singing along in his car. Sometimes they sat on the porch and drank extra sweet hot cocoa and he told her – in his own convoluted way – the stories he had told himself as a child to feel less alone. Tommy had reminded her, through his stories and his terrible mac and cheese dinners, that he would always be there for her – just like Joel had been for him.

“Alright. You win, sweetheart,” he said when he meant to say Thank you, I love you too.

Sarah had wrapped her skinny arms around his waist. She would never do that again.

They made their way down the street, their sneakers brushing against the asphalt, the musky fragrance of wisterias faint in the air.

“I wasn’t tryin’ to win but I’m glad I did.” And she had meant I love you more.

Jackson peered through the trees, lights dotted across the county. The temperature had dropped, the chill bit at Tommy’s ears, pink shading his cheeks. A big lump had formed in his throat — there was no way he would be able to speak without his voice breaking. It didn’t matter, he wanted to share it with Joel. The words poured out of his lips as tears ran down his cheeks. He stopped. He half laughed; half cried. Then explained, in vivid detail, how Sarah had made him feel. He apologized. Hell, he didn’t even know what he was apologizing for. Talking about Sarah? Crying? He had grown so used to getting burned whenever he had brought her up, it was still easy to forget just how much Joel had changed.

After Sarah’s death, for the first part of the nightmarish years they spent together, barely scraping by, surviving at the cost of their own humanity, he dreamt of her almost every night. Waking up in sobs, the light dissolving into grey shadows. Joel had refused to look at him, splintering Tommy’s heart. They never spoke of the past. They never spoke of her. They took. They survived. And their hollowness deepened with every wretched day.

Time moved forward; the changing of the seasons serving as the last remaining proof of it. He found comfort in the breeze that came as the year was about to end, revisiting memories and his old stories. Sometimes, as he patrolled, he ventured back into his worlds and again greeted the heroes of his childhood. He knew that there was no room for dreams or stories and his heart ached as he gave them up all over again. And then, he watched how the seams of Joel’s humanity continued ripping one after the other. He had believed he would never get his brother back. But now, Joel’s eyes glistened, a combination of longing and joy. He told him there wasn’t a thing to be sorry for. He listened and placed a hand on his little brother’s shoulder.

“Thank you,” Joel said softly once Tommy hung his head and fell quiet.

Tommy nodded, letting out a trembling vaporous exhalation.

“I’ve always wanted to tell you about that,” Tommy said as the knot in his throat loosened and he looked back up at Joel “I just didn’t know how.”

“I’m glad you finally did.” Joel gave Tommy’s shoulder a little squeeze before letting go.

Tommy watched him walk ahead, his silhouette against the sinking sun. He couldn’t see it, but he knew Joel was smiling. He was smiling too. The wind blew. It smelled like fall. It smelled like home.

#the last of us #tommy miller #joel miller #sarah miller #ellie williams #galifreyas writes #this was supposed to be the first chapter of a big thing #but things went sideways in my personal life and i abandoned everything to pursue crying in the shower #anyway! i have healed since #i know the fandom has kinda died out but like whatever #here i wrote it

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wonda-cat · 3 years

Note

You mentioned rewriting that one analysis post on Tommy’s revival stream and I’d really look forward to it! I never got to read the full og post and that’s the only place I saw these takes. Especially the one about the afterlife being too depressing. It’s not even just about Tommy, the implication that even if every character is safe and happy by the end, this is their inevitable fate is messed up. It’s not “a neat subversion” it’s just depressing and doesn’t add anything.

Hey, anon!

I sorta decided to not rewrite it? I feel a bit differently about the essay in the end, although I still believe in most of my points. I’m also just not nearly as passionate about it as I was when I wrote it (I finished it in a single sitting, which was... interesting.) However, yes, the afterlife stuff still bothers me just the same, as well as the odd changes to Wilbur’s characterization... post mortem.

But—just for you, anon—here’s the entire meta-analysis essay anyway, with some minor edits to the stuff I don’t agree with anymore!

My Many Narrative Issues with Tommyinnit’s Revival Stream

I want to preface this by saying that I dearly love the Dream SMP and understand it isn’t exactly comparable to other mediums like TV and film. With this being the case, most criticism against it is generally in bad faith or strange in foundation. Complaining about streamers for bad acting is the best example that comes to mind.

These aren’t professional actors. Most have never acted in this sort of setting, or even at all. Quite a few have admitted to never roleplaying before. Which is why it’s warranted to praise Tommy, Dream, Wilbur, Ranboo, and others when they deliver stellar performances. The same applies to criticism of music choice, dialogue delivery, focus, tone, etc.

However, one such category I cannot overlook is in regards to its writing. The writing of a story is its entire foundation. It encompasses many things—conflict choice, character development, themes, and morals. The author creates the blueprints for the architect, who then expresses the story with light, sound, color, pacing, and music. It is in its execution that we see if this connection is made or broken.

The reason I find poor writing mostly inexcusable is because it is one of the most available skills to practice and perfect. I don’t mean to say that it’s easy, I mean to say it is something anyone can attempt to cultivate. Whether they do it well or not depends on their methods and experience. If anyone can self-publish a novel and be criticized online for its quality—and even compared to the works of Mark Twain—then I find critiquing the writing of the Dream SMP to be perfectly reasonable.

However, since the Dream SMP script is a set of loose bullet points, tearing apart dialogue and scene continuity—which is nearly all improv—is rather useless. It doesn’t exactly have a clear focus as the plot plays out. The characters talk in circles until they hit the story beat required, and then they move onto the next. Thus, when criticizing it, one should generally critique grand events and narrative-specific shifts, more so than small-scale character interactions.

Which brings me to my main point: The broad narrative choices taken in Tommyinnit’s most recent livestream, ‘Am I dead?’ may lead to disastrous writing pitfalls in the future.

I’ll be outlining each of my issues below, in hopes of creating a better understanding as to why I feel this way.

This might become quite lengthy, so please bear with me for a bit.

Tommy’s relationship to Wilbur has flipped. This change is jarring and seems out of character.

Tommy and Wilbur’s friendship is rather complicated. While Wilbur does care for Tommy immensely, especially during the L’Manburg Revolution and the Election Arc, his mental spiral during exile put a massive strain on their relationship as a whole. Wilbur brushed off Tommy’s feelings and wants, while clinging to him and pushing everyone else away. He was simultaneously distant and suffocating.

Tommy, on the other hand, has an unclear view of his mentor. Since the beginning, and even long after Wilbur’s death, Tommy held him in especially high regard. He saw him as a brother-figure and a wise leader. He followed what he said and did everything he could to impress him. Yet, Wilbur still hurt him while the two were together in exile.

When speaking of him, Tommy tends to flip infrequently between remembering Wilbur the way he was before his mental decline and thinking of him as a monster. Both of these images conflict with each other, but they weren’t nearly as extreme as what Tommy described Wilbur as when he was revived from death. The fear Tommy displays to Wilbur is beyond intense—it feels as if the audience may have missed a month’s worth of character development.

This can make sense, especially since it was stated that he’d spent what felt like two months in the void. However, this shift is still deeply at odds with Tommy’s previous impressions of Wilbur, which is both disheartening and confusing. The fact that Tommy would agree to stay with Dream—his abuser and murderer—over his past mentor is simply head-reeling. It paints a very different picture of Wilbur’s character, somewhat conforming to the fandom’s ableist impression of him—the idea that Wilbur is insane and irredeemable, and always will be.

It also ignores Dream being the driving factor in Wilbur’s downfall, as well as the double-bind deal with Dream which required him to push the button, no matter the outcome. Others have pointed out that Tommy may be lying to get Dream to bring Wilbur back, and there’s compelling evidence for that. For one, Tommy and Wilbur’s conversation seemed uncomfortable, but it was certainly nothing like Tommy implied. (Unless this fear comes from something Wilbur said off-screen.)

Tommy also begged Dream to not bring him back multiple times over, which he should know would make Dream even more tempted to, simply because he likes seeing Tommy in pain. Tommy is also a known unreliable narrator. He may be making Wilbur out to be worse than he is by accident (even still, I’d argue this is a bit of a stretch.)

However, there are some issues with this theory. Tommy offered himself as payment to Dream if he chose to let Wilbur rest. This is a deal Tommy knows Dream is extremely unlikely to refuse. Tommy is what Dream has coveted all this time. If Tommy genuinely wanted Wilbur back, he would not offer this. This sort of compromise is Tommy’s greatest nightmare—something he would only do in response to his friends being threatened or his home being destroyed.

To add, Tommy is not great at lying. Unless he was taught by Wilbur for those two months* in the afterlife, there’s no chance Tommy would be this good at it. Thirdly, Tommy is terrible under pressure. He uses humor to cope. When he can’t, he cries and shouts and spills his heart out. While cornered, Tommy will tell the truth about anything, especially if Dream casually debates killing him again, just for fun.

For now, it’s too early to tell how the relationship shift will play out. In the grand scheme of things, this issue is rather minor.

Season three’s writing is needlessly bleak. The portrayal of the afterlife is a nightmare. There is no rest, not even in death.

I adore the Dream SMP storyline in its entirety. I believe the first season is fantastic, and while the second season has some narrative clarity issues, I enjoyed it just as much. Although, I would argue season one had a more concrete understanding of its Hope-Conflict balance.

To briefly explain, the Hope in stories are its ‘highs’ and good moments. These appear when a character the audience is rooting for is narratively rewarded. They happen during character building in the text—it’s the downtime and peace that allows for connection and relatability. It’s a moment for the viewer to breathe easy.

The other half is Conflict, an obstacle in the story that gets in the way of the main characters’ goals, beliefs, and motives. These are the ‘lows.’ They give the narrative focus and weight. They make the highs feel even higher. They establish consequences and force the characters in the story to change in order to adapt and overcome them.

I bring up the Hope-Conflict balance because a traditional hero’s journey would have an appropriate amount of both. Their highs and lows are generally equalized, as the name suggests. However, this balance has been awkwardly skewed in the latter half of season two and in the current plot of season three. To clarify, it is perfectly reasonable, and even common, for some stories to tip the scale more to one side.

But a common mistake for amateur writers is to create their stories as either hopelessly dark to cause the audience continuous distress for the sake of distress, or to keep everything entirely conflict-free for most of the plot. What do these both have in common? They each make the story boring and predictable.

Season three has taken this concept and thrown a monstrously heavy weight onto the Conflict side and flipped the scale so hard it has crashed through the ceiling. The viewers are hardly given time to find any joy in Tommy’s character, as he’s thrown into yet another abusive situation, just barely after his first narrative reward. The world is painted as relentlessly violent and traumatic.

Every person Tommy meets is morally grey, unhinged, or out to hurt him. Everything most of the characters love is taken from them by those in positions of power. Ranboo cannot even grieve properly because it scars his face. Puffy, Sam, Ranboo, and Tubbo all blame themselves for what happened to Tommy.

The audience watches lore stream after lore stream with the same depressing tone (with the exception of Tubbo’s, but I assume that’s unintentional.) Tommy is revived after being brutally beaten to death by his abuser, surrounded by all of his greatest fears. The afterlife is revealed to be akin to inescapable torture. It’s a colorless void that wraps the individual like fabric.

Time moves thirty times slower within. There’s nothing—nothing but the voices of others who’ve passed on before him. Dying in a world already devoid of happiness takes the characters to a place worse than hell. When a narrative delivers unfair suffering to the entire cast without a moment of joy to speak of, the story will feel simultaneously overwhelming and pointless.

Why watch characters suffer when there’s no light at the end of the tunnel? What happiness could they strive for when we know they’ll never get to keep it? How can I be satisfied with a good ending, if I know that an afterlife too terrible to name is what awaits them, truly, at the end of their story? Death isn’t even a white void that offers rest—it is eternal torment.

Obviously, it isn’t a good message to send by making the afterlife seem like a quiet, perfect place or an escape from pain. But making it an unspeakable anguish which awaits, assumedly, every character who will die in the future? I deeply hope Tommy was only being an extremely unreliable narrator.

More likely, I hope the place Tommy was taken to was a Limbo of sorts, not an end-all-be-all destination for everyone.

The degree of Tommy’s narrative punishment continues to escalate, to an almost absurd degree.

Tommy is one of the most tragic characters to exist in the storyline. He was sent into war at a young age and experienced two traumatic events during it. He was exiled by the newly elected leader and witnessed his mentor Wilbur spiral and break down with paranoia. Tubbo is executed publicly in front of him. When expressing rightful anger at the person who murdered him, he’s beaten nearly to death and never receives an apology.

Schlatt dies right in front of Tommy, after his initial refusal to hurt the ex-president. His brother-figure and mentor is killed in assisted suicide on the same day his nation is blown up. His best friend exiles him from his home for the second time. He routinely self-sacrifices to protect his country and those who live there. His most treasured possessions were taken from him and he was called selfish for trying to retrieve them (although his methods were self-destructive and volatile.)

He was pushed to the brink of suicide after being relentlessly abused and isolated in his exile. He was horrified when he thought he was responsible for drowning Fundy. After making an objectively good decision to stand by his old friends and change for the better, his country was obliterated by the man he once idolized, his father-figure, and his abuser.

He was left scattered and without purpose for many days. Then he fights against Dream and loses, while also reliving his trauma. He watches Tubbo almost die at the hands of someone he once thought was his friend. He doesn’t tell a single person about what happened to him in exile. The day he tries to sever his connection to Dream and heal, he’s trapped with him for a week, surrounded by everything that terrifies him.

He threatens to kill himself, speaking about his own life as if it were an object—something to hold over Dream’s head. He blames himself for everything bad that’s ever happened to L’Manburg and his friends—internalizing a mentality as a scapegoat for everyone around him. He is forced into the role of ‘hero’ despite the title being unfair and distressing to him.

As if that weren’t enough, he’s then beaten to death by his abuser and spends what feels like two months in an afterlife that is worse than hell. When he returns, his senses are excessively heightened. Dream can cause him excruciating pain, just by pinching him. He can send Tommy into an instant panic attack, just by raising his voice.

The punishment Tommy’s character receives is a thousand times worse than everyone he has ever met, or ever will meet. And it shows no signs of stopping, as Dream now has control over Tommy’s very mortality. Tommy now fears the slightest damage and feels as if he’s losing his best friend all over again. He is also forced into a position where he has to kill Dream out of necessity, to protect everyone he cares about.

Characters need fitting punishments in relation to their actions. Not always, but in order to be satisfying? Yes, they do. It is preferred that a main character deal with unfair situations and difficult conflicts, but this is borderline torture p*rn. Putting Tommy in these distressing and abusive situations on repeat and punishing him for doing objectively moral or healthy things is exhausting to watch.

To quickly add, I find the general insinuation of Tommy going to hell distasteful, especially considering the contents of his storyline. I know this may be hard to believe, but Tommy is one of the most moral characters in the plot, besides Puffy and Ghostbur. He’s also the only character, followed by Ranboo, to recognize that they can be wrong and make mistakes. He changed himself in order to heal and be a better person. He was in the process of paying people back for the things he’d stolen.

He’s learned to be hard-working and less violent through the guidance of Sam. He has apologized to everyone he’s ever hurt (with the exception of Jack Manifold, because that man is allergic to communication.) He puts himself in harm's way to protect others. He doesn’t set out to purposely hurt anyone. He goes out of his way to make connections with people and maintain them, even if others don’t reciprocate.

He’s hopelessly optimistic, despite his outwardly bitter façade. He loved so much and put meaning into the smallest things. The thought that a person like him—a suicide and abuse survivor—would go to hell after being beaten to death by the man who took everything from him; it makes me sick to my stomach.

The only thing more morbid than Tommy’s afterlife being different than everyone else’s, is the concept that everyone will end up in this same eternal torture, no matter what they do. Take your pick: Tommy is sentenced to anguish until the end of time for no reason, or everyone will receive the same disturbing ending, regardless of their actions.

The narrative weight of Ranboo’s character is potentially out the window.

For the past few months, I’ve watched all of Ranboo’s lore streams faithfully, curious to see what role he would play in the future. His ‘hallucinations’ of Dream seemed to be sowing the seeds for a plot that has Ranboo taking the fall for every single insidious thing Dream has done. It would also be a tragic parallel to Tommy’s trial.

Ranboo being convinced he was the one who blew up the community house, when Dream himself admitted to doing it, was one of the bigger indicators for me. This is just one of many other unexplained occurrences. Dream seemed to be making an effort to trigger and control Ranboo, especially after Sapnap’s prison visit. It appeared, from the way he went about this, that Dream had some grand use for Ranboo as part of his plan to be freed from Pandora’s Vault.

However, after Tommy’s stream, the way Dream explains himself makes it seem like there was no plan besides seeing if the book worked on people. And if he didn’t after all, then what was Ranboo for? Was Ranboo unimportant? Was Ranboo just some weirdo who happened to phase out when seeing smiley faces and imagined conversations that may or may not have happened?

I bring this up more as a worry, and much less so as an active problem in the narrative. They haven’t actually thrown Ranboo to the way-side or written themselves into a corner yet. In future streams, this could very easily be explained away or developed as more information is revealed.

Only time will tell.

The potential for Wilbur’s future development and importance to the plot is unfeasible.

I feel as if I am the only person on earth who doesn’t want Wilbur Soot or Schlatt revived. There are many reasons for this, but one of them is not a dislike for these characters. I especially adore Wilbur, as he’s one of my all-time favorites. I don’t want either of them resurrected because their stories have already been told. They each had a fitting conclusion that ended their involvement perfectly.

Bringing Wilbur back would especially cheapen the impact of the War of the 16th. It’s the end of a man who was brought to the absolute edge and out of desperation, shame, and self-hatred, he destroyed himself alongside his creation. Bringing him back would leave the climax of the previous story hollow. My biggest issue, however, is that a lack of story importance would likely follow his return.

The only real impact I’d like to see is through a healing arc with Tommy, an apology to Fundy, or a confrontation with Phil/Niki. But that’s really all the potential I can realistically see. While I don’t doubt Wilbur as an agent of chaos, able to create plot out of thin air; what is he going to do now? His country is gone, his friends and family are scattered about, and his mission from the 16th is already accomplished.

What is a well-educated, charismatic politician supposed to do in a world already broken and without nations? Read poetry to himself and cry evilly? However, this is working off the assumption that Wilbur would be returning as his old self.

If Wilbur is resurrected as a ‘villain’ of sorts, then what? He’s not good at fighting in the slightest. He would have no materials. There are no real allies he can make, other than the arctic group. On top of that, there are already more than enough villains to last a lifetime.

We don’t need any more, I promise. Quackity seems to already be shaping up as another antagonist, alongside Sam’s slip into darker and darker shades of moral ambiguity. We also have Philza and Techno, which are already overkill. But then we have Dream who, despite being in a prison, has the ability of selective revival. This is mercilessly overpowered, especially if he makes many allies. The dude could just bring his dead friends back so they can keep fighting forever.

Then there’s Jack Manifold and the Crimson followers; Antfrost, Bad, and Punz. That’s not even including characters who are refusing to get involved. How are Tommy, Tubbo, and Puffy expected to do literally anything to fight back?

Dream’s experiment on Tommy implies he had no backup plan to begin with. This makes his character seem both short-sighted and foolish.

When Tommy woke up after being brought back to life, Dream sounded surprised that the revival worked at all. This instantly shatters the perception that Dream was highly intelligent and thought ahead. With just a few lines of dialogue, it’s implied that Dream killed Tommy, unsure of if the resurrection would even be possible on humans.

Which, to risk something that important, seems unbelievably stupid. Dream needs Tommy, from his perspective. Tommy is his ‘toy,’ the one who makes everything fun. If he lost him and couldn’t get him back, what then? Oh well, everything Dream was doing was all for nothing, I guess.

Why not attempt this experiment on literally anyone else first? Like Sapnap or Bad or, hell, even Ranboo. I suppose it could be that, as soon as Dream got the book, he experimented with it after the 16th. This appears to be insinuated with Friend and Hendry’s revival, although this is uncertain. But even then, he was still unsure of the book’s effect on a human being.

Also, this means, hypothetically, Dream’s entire plan of escape hinged on the experiment working, to begin with, and also on bringing back Wilbur if it somehow did. I find this even more ridiculous. Why Wilbur? That man couldn’t find his way out of a paper bag, let alone get through the traps in Pandora’s Vault. Even if he is intelligent after years* in the afterlife, that’s also a strange assumption.

How do people learn things in the void? Where do they even get this knowledge? I’d honestly argue Techno is a far more competent choice than Wilbur. And even if Dream did bring him back and tell him he owed him his life, what’s to stop Wilbur from just killing him permanently? Or killing himself, continuously?

No way would Wilbur want to be controlled by anyone, ever. The dude would sooner fuck off into the mountains and become a nomad than help a neon green bodysuit cosplay as Light Yagami.

Dream’s discussion about Sam implies that he wasn't playing any part in Dream’s plan, making Sam appear entirely incompetent and neglectful of Tommy.

Dream talked about Sam in a way that seems detached and unaffiliated. He also mentioned him being broken up about Tommy’s fate and not being aware he’s still alive. Dream not being partnered with, or not using Sam in his plan leaves many plot holes. I’ll go through each one. The initial incident was an explosion, coming from the roof of Pandora’s Vault. This did not affect the Redstone mechanism for the doors or dispensers.

Meaning, Sam could’ve had Tommy leave the way that was expected for visitors after he investigated and found no issues. This likely couldn’t have been done in less than a day, but it would be better than an entire week. If Tommy was required to stay for longer, due to protocol, he could’ve gotten Tommy out and then placed him in one of the minor cells for the remainder of the time.

Also, no one else lost a canon life for leaving via the splash potion of harming and returning outside the maximum-security cell; why would Tommy? To add, Sam being uninvolved means that the explosion could have only been caused by Ranboo or Foolish. That, or it was placed long before and timed for the moment Tommy entered the main cell. (I’m going to ignore how ludicrous it is that someone would know the exact time Tommy would’ve entered the room with Dream.)

If Ranboo was the person behind the detonation, this implies he was necessary for Dream to kill Tommy to test the book. But that makes it even stranger. If this was Dream’s goal all along, why not kill Tommy the instant he was trapped with him? It makes no sense for him to wait so long.

Sam is also directly at fault for not letting Tommy out, even after the week was up. There was no reason not to. He already knew there were no issues with the prison at that point. Although, to be fair to Sam, his character may have been paranoid and checking everything more than necessary, just in case. But this still isn’t a good excuse for him ignoring protocol in this one instance, and yet, not in any of the others.

All of these plot holes or inconsistencies would be removed if it was revealed that Dream was blackmailing Sam in some way, or Sam had been working with him since the get-go. That Sam was the person who set off the explosion in the first place to trap Tommy inside. It would also explain Sam’s refusal to let Tommy out and by keeping him in there for longer than necessary.

This can also coexist with Sam’s attachment and care for Tommy. He probably wasn’t told about Dream’s plan to test the book and genuinely believed Dream wouldn’t hurt him. On top of that, Dream is known to be a pathological liar, so his statements about Ranboo and Sam could be entire fabrications.

Who knows?

The Book of Revival invalidates death entirely. The narrative now lacks both tension and consequence.

Another way the Dream SMP differs from other storytelling media is in the way it goes about its character deaths. In a TV show, for example, there will be characters who die just because, or when it’s important to the plot. However, it seems as if the Dream SMP is hesitant to commit to killing its characters. And there are many reasons for that.

The most important one being, killing someone’s character excludes them from the story and some of their livelihoods depend on them regularly streaming on the server. There is also the issue of the cast becoming extremely sparse if characters keep dying. Typically, in stories, when you kill a character, you should introduce another.

This keeps the cast from dwindling as the storyline goes on. This means the writers would have to find new streamers to join, who will develop their own characters and relationships with the plot’s continued momentum. This can be stressful and daunting to those who may be newly added in the future.

Keeping this in mind, the Book of Revival is annoying from a writer’s perspective. When death is no longer an issue for a story hinged on its characters’ mortality, then what do you have as a consequence anymore? We’ve explored every kind under the sun; from abuse, to betrayal, to loss, to destruction.

In stories, traditionally, death is a finality. It’s a conclusion. Whether it’s good or not depends on the character’s actions, its build-up, and the event’s execution. Without this lingering sense of danger, tension evaporates from the story.

Why should I care if Tommy loses in a fight to someone, if he’ll just come back a day later? Why should I care about what happened to Wilbur, if he just returns as if nothing happened? The answer is simple: I won’t. I will no longer care if Tubbo or Ranboo or Sam die in the story, because the idea of revival even being a possible outcome leaves me unenthused and uncaring.

The Dream SMP likes to flirt with death. It teases the demise of its main characters many, many times. More so Tommy’s than anyone else’s. Wilbur’s failed resurrection, which had unforeseen and unfortunate outcomes, is now strange in comparison to Tommy’s, which happened without a hitch.

To be fair, we actually don’t see how many attempts it took. But here’s the problem; Dream could do it without the book being physically present. He’s trapped in a prison with nothing on him, meaning he doesn’t need any materials either. It’s also implied he could do this as many times as he feels, for anyone he wants. This would be exceedingly overpowered, if not for one thing—Dream himself is mortal (at least, I fucking hope he’s mortal.)

If someone kills him one last time, that knowledge is gone forever. And I’m glad they’ve established at least some way for Tommy to win. Because at this point, I was losing faith.

There is also the bare minimum establishment that Dream can refuse to bring back those he doesn’t care for. He can also use it as a shield, holding this power over other people. If Dream is gone, death is permanent. But isn’t that how death is supposed to be, anyway?

What a bleak premise—the afterlife is pure eternal torture while life is cheapened by a lack of consequences.

Conclusion

All this to say, I am cautiously optimistic for the future. I hope dearly that every single one of these can be disproven or developed in the coming livestreams. Obviously, there’s not enough information to really determine what the end result will be, or how everything will fall into place.

Every time I have theorized about the story, it has done something completely different and pleasantly surprised me. I want this trend to continue.

Surprise me again—I’ll be here to see where it goes.

#answered asks #long post #tommyinnit #dream smp meta #dream smp #dsmp #dsmp analysis #this is slightly outdated still but whatever #hope this was helpful anon #tw abuse #tw suicide

33 notes · View notes

eagehaunting · 4 years

Text

Mystery March 2021 day 8: Home

I used today as an excuse to write out a little something on how Lewis took possession of the mansion! I hope you guys enjoy!

Lewis wasn’t sure how long he had been in this mansion. If he could focus enough to estimate, probably a few days, if worse came to worse, probably months.

And yet, he still hadn’t cleaned... Lewis turns a corner and takes in the long, dusty corridor. The many rickety doors stared back at him mockingly. The rugs hissed as they crunch under his shoes. The peeling wall paper threatened him with every step that he took.

“Lewis, what are you doing?” Comes a voice to his left, shocking Lewis out of his exhausted stupor and bringing him to look at the wall- more appropriately, the portrait. The woman with fine purple curls- Faust- stares back at him pointedly. “Well?”

“I... I wanted to get out of my room,” he admits, before his eyes wander to the mildew forming beside the portraits golden frame. “But now I remember why I didn’t want to come out.”

“Oh, don’t be like that. I know it seems difficult now, but it’ll become easier. I promise.”

His frown deepens, and Lewis sighs miserably while leaning against the wall across from her. “I know.. I just don’t think I’m ready.”

“Why’s that?”

“I haven’t gotten a hand on my powers. Not yet, ” Lewis admits, chewing on his lip. Faust rolls her eyes, but props her elbows on her frame. Even though she couldn’t poke her head out far enough, Lewis understood the sentiment.

“Lewis, look at me.” He drags his gaze to meet hers. Faust’s eyebrows soften, and she heaves a gentle sigh and leans out a bit more, letting her curls fall out and touch the dirtied ground. “Being dead is tough, trust me, I know. Being in your shoes is also hard, and I can’t imagine how much it’s hurting you to deal with what happened.” The almost condescending tone- something Lewis knew he was imagining - made him flinch, averting his gaze to the painted tree in Faust’s background. He almost regrets sharing all of his backstory with her, and if he knew she would have this tone most days, he would have kept his mouth shut.

“The house is ready to accept you, and so are all the occupants. We will stand behind you every step of the way.”

Lewis grimaces, but nods. There wasn’t a point in fighting her right now. He had a good feeling all of the other portrait ghosts would be on her side too. It only makes sense. Lewis did accept the role as the new owner... he just had to take control, let his power manifest.

Now if only it wasn’t so hard.

Clicking her tongue, Faust straightens up. “Worry not, Lewis. You don’t have to do it this instant, the moon is still out and clearly you aren’t in the right state of mind. Now...”

A distant familiar clacking of metal grew nearer. As two suits of armor step into the entrance of the hall, they cast Lewis a worried look. One that Lewis doesn’t return, instead opting to glare at the stained rug.

Faust continues, “I think it’s time for you to go back to sleep. We will figure your abilities out tomorrow.”

Lewis follows the guards up the steps, and then up another. The wall paper, bricks, and windows full of moonlight blurs together until it accumulates into one door. His door. Leading to the single highest room in the entire mansion.

The guards take their stand on either side of it, nodding to Lewis carefully and not waiting for him to nod back before stilling.

“Thank you, sir Clive, sir Ranveer.” Lewis murmurs, pushing open the door and stepping in.

The room is simple, despite the elegant state one may expect. An old, wooden bed frame, scratchy wool blankets and a silk top sheet. Light pink curtains that flutter in the open window. Lamps on either side of the bed that didn’t actually turn on.

His room, and yet far from it.

Pulling the blankets aside, Lewis crawls into the bed, nestling his face against the pillow and pretending like he couldn’t smell the light stench coming from it.

Tomorrow he will take hold of his power, and he will make this mansion his home.

His home, for him and all the spirits already residing within it.

Lewis’s eyes moisten as he falls into his ‘slumber’. Praying for no nightmares.

“Im going to take the lower path, why don’t you two take the other... don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine! I have Mystery.”

“Dont cling to Lewis too much Ar...”

The moss and slimy green walls reflected like a million eyes. All watching. All staring.

Even as Lewis peered up at his own hand, clutching his torch, knowing what was to happen... he wished more than anything that he could simply turn around.

His stomach drops, his blood runs cold. The sudden halt broke his fall, his spine bent oddly and digging behind his bellybutton.

Cold. Cold. Yet so hot.

Empty. Yet rushing. A river, but still. There was so much light at first, and then it was so dark. Growls, howls, screams of every kind...

Loneliness.

All he wanted... was for them to come back. Save him.

Of all the memories Lewis had to revisit, why did it always have to be this one?

There was still gaps, such as the moment when he hit the spike, and when he forced himself up. How he even did it, Lewis wasn’t sure, but he couldn’t focus on that when the gaping wounds in his chest filled with with and stung from the cold.

His legs still ached from the stillness and the fatigue, and from the exhaustion of being awake despite dying. He wobbled far, tracing his dead fingers along slimy walls and against currents of chittering laughs. Then the constant thought. A mantra. Over and over. Come back for me. Come back, please.

Wake him up from this bad dream.

If only he accepted that it wasn’t going to happen...

He didn’t know where he was going, nor how long he was going to walk, but Lewis didn’t stop until he was face to face with a tall metal gate that shined unlike the eyes in the walls.

The rusted lock doesn’t break, but Lewis pushes through like jelly.

The staircase was a nightmare. Transitioning from cave stone to proper granite the higher he ascended. All while the prickling sensation of being watched crept up his back and urged his weak and heavy body to move faster.

Lewis ‘wakes up’ up with a shallow gasp. Eyes wide, he pants. Slowly turning his head, a layer of sticky sweat clings to Lewis’s face. He wipes it away and peels back the blanket, crawling out of the bed as the lingers of his ‘dream’ fights to hold the forefront of his mind.

His friends... they still haven’t come back for him. The guards would have alerted him if they returned to the cave, and Lewis would have been rushing out the doors if he heard the familiar engine.

They weren’t here. Lewis isn’t sure why he kept expecting them to suddenly show up.

Pushing himself to move, Lewis hops into a float and drifts to the door. Figuring that he may as well show that he has a grasp on some of his new abilities, now he just needed to realize what his main skillset was.

The guards lead him down the flight of stairs, past the library, and the office, and to the largest room in the mansion.

The living room was filled with an air of elegance, even if covered in dust and mildew. Several portraits line the walls beside the mighty fireplace, and leading to it was two long couches and an even longer coffee table. Book cases sat in between the tall windows, and smaller spaces left unused seemed to act as their own mini lounge, with a smaller bookcase, chair, table, and lamp.

Lewis compared it to a community center before, but now it felt like a stage.

More guards file in behind Lewis, with Sir Clive and Ranveer taking their positions behind him. He could feel a heavy, although gentle pat on his back from Ranveer.

After that, the dozen or so smaller, formless and colorless ghosts fly in and take their seats on the cushions.

The fireplace before him seemed to smile at him. With its decorations acting as its wise and considering eyes.

A line of sweat slides down Lewis’s cheek. Now wasn’t the time for stage fright, but his legs lock up in their floating position. He inhaled slowly.

“Psst.”

Glancing over, Lewis catches the soft, affectionate smile on Faust’s face. She tilts her head. “You got this.”

Lewis balls his fists, ”Do I? I really didn’t expect everyone to gather for this...” he admits.

“We know.” The portrait of the priest, Father Zachariah, responds. He gives Lewis a stern look, reminding Lewis to stand straight. “We didn’t want this to be a private affair. If you are really taking over this mansion like you said you would, then we have to right to partake in your awakening.”

“Aw jeez, give the man a break, will ya?” Another portrait, Terri to wrestler reaches out and fists some of Zachariahs robe, glaring at him. “Can’t you see he’s nervous?” He then says, throwing out his hand in a grand gesture toward Lewis, who shrinks back slightly.

Tamaki, the attorney, rolls his eyes dramatically and pinches his brow. “Lewis, I can assure you this isn’t a judgment, quite the contrary. We knew that it would have been hard for you to do this on your own, so we are providing an ample amount of support throughout the activities. Do you understand?”

He nods, unsure how else to respond, although the exhaustion made Lewis want to join the spirits on the couch and take a long nap.

The two portraits of shadows, Haseeb and Ameena, also nod in tandem. “Yes, Lewis. Infact, since you enjoyed music, we wanted to bring out the excitement.... I hope you’re okay with that.”

“Speaking of which,” Faust pipes up, leaning out of her frame and narrowing her eyes at the spirits sat on the couch. “Weren’t you all supposed to grab your instruments? Where are they!”

The colorless ghosts jump and flash past Lewis in one synchronized movement, before rushing back just as quickly. Returning with old violins, cellos, flutes, clarinets, and trumpets. Two more lag behind, with a cymbals, and one final one dragging something heavy. He turns, eyes widening as a singular spirit drags a *piano* from a closet he didn’t remember being there.

”Hold on, I’ll help you.” he says before realizing he was moving, that is until he floats past to the other side of the piano and bracing itself underside. Only for the spirit to send him an anxious look.

Oh.. it’s probably too heavy for them to also lift. Lewis spots the mini orchestra and waves them over. ”We need more hands, come over here and help up.”

Abandoning their instruments, several more spirits rush and brace the other side, allowing the piano to be lifted and carried earlier.

“Yeah you deadbeats! Why do you need his command to get a move on?” Terri calls, anything but cruel however. Deadbeats... that’s an interesting term. Lewis faintly ponders as he sets the piano down, before going to retreat the stool.

At the same time, the living rooms doors open, and the puny skeletal gardener drags in the painter spirit.

“Rye! Thank you for fetching Elora.” Tamaki says.

“Oh eff off,” Rye responds, plopping down on one of the chairs and sinking down. “I was busy trying to save up my energy for tonight’s show. You want there to be flowers, right?”

Flowers?

“Yep, thats why the windows are open. Let’s wait until Lewis is prepared however.”

”N-no need to wait, I’m ready now,” Lewis squeaks out, clearing his throat as he turns and takes in the grumpy strawberry looking gardener.

Rye bobs their skull and spins away from him, “Fantastic.”

She raises her arms, and in a swift motion, glows the same ripe red color as her dress. All at once, the windows are swarmed with vines. Green foliage spilling in, connecting across the ceiling, draping and tangling amongst the curtains, and wrapping around the stone busts on the bookcases. It happened so fast that Lewis couldn’t react. Instead he gaps up at the magnificent display, watching as floral arrangements burst, forming meticulously designed patterns along the entire room.

When he finally tears his gaze away from the display, Lewis is met with calm, expectant smiles.

“Ready whenever you are, bucko.” Rye pats his arm and reclaims her seat, leaving him in the center of his imaginary stage.

Now, his anchor beats twice as fast, almost overwhelmed by all of the effort, all the eyes sim directly at him.

Pressing his finger tips together, Lewis wets his lips. Several heads tilt as they wait.

Clearing his throat, Lewis lowers his head,”... I’m sorry. What am I supposed to do first?”

Faust gasps lightly, the first to realize their crucial mistake. Ignoring Terri’s chiding, she clears her throat.

“Of course, Lewis, the first thing we need you to do, is concentrate on your internal thoughts. As you do, try to figure out which emotion or feeling is more prominent.”

A single note plays from the deadbeat sat at the piano, followed by the violin, and a growing hum from the others who hadn’t begun to playing. Lewis’s heart skips a beat, and he bites his lip as he closes his eyes. The piano continues, the notes floating through his mind and striking chords that were far from forgotten.

A new set of voices fill in the emptiness between notes, running alone side the piano and dancing along with the violin. A flute begins, and Lewis sharply inhales.

He loves music, he always has, it always made him want to dance. Grab the first person in arms length and pull them close, whether it be the waltz or a swing, it filled him with warm laughs that always spread across his face in a smile. A familiar tingle fills his arms, and Lewis is sure that he can feel Vivi in front of him, swaying as they listened to the music. The warmth grows as she fills his minds eye. Her soft scarf tangled in between them, how her skirt swirled and swished as she spun and dance, leaving him warm in the face and his chest full of bubbling warmth.

Warmth. He felt warm.

That certain warmth fills his hands, tingling at his finger tips and running along his scalp.

The room smelt faintly of decay and staleness, but a memory envelopes him, and Lewis is in his families kitchen. Dancing in place and singing at the top of his lungs with his sisters twirling around him. Cinnamon, garlic, sugars and herb fills his nostrils. The lavender and sweet floral in the air elevating the smells of their garden which he pranced through many times during the warm summer nights. The bonfires, the flare of heat from the oven, the thick humidity in a late evening as Lewis arm wrestles with his much scrawnier friend.

The warm spreads up his elbow and all along his back. Before Lewis knew it, the singing, the music grew loud, amplifying as more instruments add to the mix, and as his own voice joins them. A crash of the cymbals becomes the splash of the beach, and the laughter chittering along with it.

His heart races, and the warmth becomes hot and exhilarating as he recalls the endless nights of fondness. Of redness in his cheeks from drinking alongside his friends, on his tongue as he taste tests his fathers latest recipe, and the swell of pride upon seeing Cayennes first ballet recital.

Pride, love, happiness.

Spastic notes become fireworks. Blasting, rocketing, exploding across the night sky. It becomes the crash and crackle of buildings as he and his friends rush from burning buildings, away from spirits whose voice booms too loud. The warmth spreads to his legs, in the ache of running, carrying his friends over his shoulders in a desperate need to escape. As his heart burns in the terror of thinking they were hurt. In wanting to slam his fist into the fiends face for daring to threaten his loved ones.

The guards dance with him, metal clacking and sparking. Lights spot the area as Lewis shoots out his arms and pulls one in against his chest to spin in tandem, before releasing them in a dramatic flourish.

Anger, fear, the need to protect.

His friends, his family.

The loves of his life-

Lewis opens his eyes, and the passion fueling his movements die in an instant.

His hand glows, his arm flaring. A line of fire burns away from him, pink and flaming and just as excited as he was. Gasping, Lewis tears himself away, slipping and hitting the ground. The music screeches to a halt all at once. Everyone freezing.

“Lewis, are you okay?” Faust calls out, gripping her frame as if she were going to rip herself out of it. Concern warping her face, along with the other portraits, the ghosts, everyone.

“You were doing good!” Terri says, “don’t tell me you got cold feet!”

Tamaki nods in agreement, “it’s truly delightful to see you smile for once. I was worried we would never see it.”

Shoulders tense, Lewis’s eyebrows furrow.

That... was him?

Baffled, Lewis holds his hand in front of him, and sure enough his palm was glowing. He tenses the muscles, and he jumps as a small flame puffs out at him.

”I- wait, seriously? I did it?”

“Yes, you did. Marvelous work, Lewis.” Zachariah hums approvingly. The warmth- embarrassment and concern- floods his chest, before Lewis is smothered by smiling deadbeats swarming him in a hug. Curling around him and nuzzling their formless heads against his.

His legs twitch as Lewis rises, floating naturally instead of jumping this time, and becoming upright.

Everyone is smiling at him, faces warm and bright with delight. Warm with the same sentiment, that it was time to make this his home...

He knew it, they knew it, that had to be the entire point of everyone gathering. Not to help him, but to watch him accept them as his new family... leaving his old.

Leaving his family, and his friends...

Faust is the first to speak, eyes crinkling. “Are you ready?”

What about Vivi? Arthur? How is he going to be there for his sisters? How can he keep his friends safe if he can’t be there for them. He can’t abandon them. Because they won’t abandon him. They wouldn’t. They’re coming back for him.

”No. I’m not.”

The disappoint was clear by the stilted air. But no one argued with him. The deadbeats had sunk, their instruments hitting the ground in shock, before being lifted up and taken back to their proper places. The vines retreat and retract, and quietly, the spirits all left the living space. Even the first place seemed to grow cold, if that was even possible.

Lewis didn’t say anything to the portraits when he left the room and raced upstairs to his tower of solitude. The same thought racing through his head again and again.

They’re coming. They will.

Soon. Soon...

Soon...?

Feeling trapped and terribly homesick, Lewis crawls under his blankets. His eyes sting from moisture that shouldn’t accumulate in the sockets, but he wipes them away anyway. Pulling the blanket over his head, Lewis curls into a ball.

Why did it hurt so much reject them? Why did it hurt so much to hold off for so long?

What was he expecting? For Arthur and Vivi to pull up in their bright Orange van and pull him out of the bed, pull him into an embrace, and into the van. Whisk him away so he can embrace his mami and papi, kiss his sisters and tell them how much he missed them.

Why was he even holding out hope? They arent coming back! Why would they...

Arthur killed him... Lewis’s arms shake and he grips the blankets. Arthur shoved him off that fucking cliff with a smile on his face. He should be grateful for anyone to accept him into their family.

He wanted to slam his fist into his gut, to direct the pain from his aching chest. Lewis wanted his eyes to stop stinging.

But he couldn’t. Home was where they were, and he has been thrown away.

Lewis fell into a half sleep, living through the same memory of his death again and again. Watching as his nightmare loops with his life being torn from his grasp with a single push.

That one moment of inaction, the one second of trust. And now?

Lewis is dead.

The memory looped for a fifth time, with Lewis desperately searching for an escape from the grip of reality, when the universe finally gives him one.

An engine. It’s not loud, and it rattles lightly. Lewis pops awake, disoriented from the jarring switch from the cave to his bed, but he disregards it.

Tearing the blankets, an adrenaline thrashes through him. Warmth, heat, rocketing through him. It burns his soles as the impossible dangles right in front of him.

It can’t be, is it really them?

Are they here for him?

Lewis’s anchor skips a beat as he almost falls down the first set of steps. Before he hits the steps face first, his body vanishes in a burst of flame and reappears with a running start at the bottom. The halls wake up with the pound of his feet and his heart, and Lewis forgets that others lived on this decrepit mansion as he races to the main stairway, leading to the front door.

He expects specks of blue, yellow, and white to meet him there. For smiles to spread across their face as they run to swallow him in a hug.

Lewis freezes. Heart going still. Heat draining as he takes it in...

There’s four people, who he hardly recognizes, except for the role they were trying to play as they whisper amongst themselves.

”This place wasn’t here a few days ago.” “do you think it’s a trap?” “Do you think anyone’s here?”

Paranormal investigators...

They start to wander, poking at the busts and pushing open doors, unaware of Lewis staring at them.

It’s not them, his friends aren’t coming.

Now strangers are in ... in this mansion, disturbing the people who have been nothing but kind to Lewis.

The need to protect returns, strong and lashing as his fists ball up, tears stinging his eyes.

Teeth grinding, heat pools into his hands, and fire spits out like sparks of electricity. Finally grabbing the investigators attention as he stomps on the first step. The fire crackles, leaving a singed footprint in its place, but Lewis doesn’t care. Focusing on the bug eyed look of the four intruders who back away in mounting terror as the flames rise.

Breath coming out in hisses, Lewis growls. ”Get out.”

It was enough to send the four scrambling for the door, the engine roaring again as they undoubtedly piled in. Just in time for the suits of armor to clamber behind him, looking around in shock until they see him.

The furious gaze didn’t die upon seeing them. No. Except Lewis turns away from them and floats to the bottom step, theres a strain on his body that extinguishes the fire in his hands, but that didn’t matter.

Lewis rounds the corner, leaving a trail of smoking fire pits in his wake.

Until he’s stood in front of the fireplace, the hearth that he was instructed to simply light it to accept his place as the homes new owner and protector.

His first family protected him, but his loved ones ended his life. Now it’s his turn to ensure the safety of the only family he may have left.

Lewis’s arm wavers as he lifts it up, a ball of fire burning his palm and spitting in every which direction as he glares at the fireplace, whose glass doors open wide.

The flame shoots out, and upon making contact with the bricks and wood, the entire mansion lights up in a magical blast. Transforming peeling wallpaper to freshly striped, strewing chandeliers in every room it could fit, burning away the rot and leaving the floors warm and spotless.

Everything around him changed in an instant, but Lewis doesn’t see it.

His anchor hits the ground with a soft clink, hot to the touch and wet with tears.

#lewis pepper #msa #mystery skulls animated #mystery march 2021 #eage fanfic #does any of this makes sense? beats me #I’m lowkey out of spoons lolll #Portrait ghosts #ocs

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frodonsam · 4 years

Text

I Don’t Care

(based on this Tumblr post)

Their pitiful fire had finally winked out of existence, reduced to nothing but faintly smouldering coals that offered no real heat unless one was to shove their hands straight into the ashes. The barren lands around them were just as devoid of heat, jagged rock and unyielding stone laying exposed to the unfriendly sky like bleached bones, merely the echo of a land once living.

The night had grown bitterly cold, the ground offering no comfort nor promise of lingering warmth from the day. Not a ray of precious sunlight had touched these lands to heat the hard rock and gritty soil in a long age, leaving only oily weeds and the rare skeleton of an ancient tree, all signs of life long since leached from their weathered trunks. All that was left was an empty husk of what had once been good and full of all manner of creatures.

Frodo could feel the light being squeezed from within him, just as it had been from the land. With every heavy step they took towards Mordor, the Ring whispered to him. Frodo had begun to feel like a beast carrying a great load, marching knowingly onwards to his own slaughter. A bitter taste arose in Frodo’s mouth, anger and fear and desire clouding his thoughts the closer they came to Mordor’s black lands. He wanted to be free of the yolk that the Ring had become. Not for the first nor last time, Frodo wished more than anything that the Ring had not come to him, yet he knew now that he would never be able to part from it while there was strength yet in his limbs.

It was like two sides to a coin, the desire to own the One Ring of power, to keep it as his and hurt anyone who were to try and take it from him. And yet, at the same time he wished just as violently that it would be cast away from him, into the hands of some other poor unlucky soul who could march it to the fires of Mount Doom while he and Sam could go home. Home, to the green fields and bright brooks of the Shire, far from the smoke and ash of Mordor.

A violent shiver wracked Frodo’s body at the mere thought of the dark lands they were all too steadily approaching. Or, that they hoped to approach. It had been nearly two days, or as near to two days as one could figure in the sunless land, and the two hobbits had been travelling in circles.

“Mr. Frodo?” Frodo started at the familiar voice, sitting up to turn towards his companion. “What is it Sam?” he answered, swallowing down the bitter taste as best he could, the feeling laying coiled in his chest like a snake ready to rear its ugly head.

“You’re shivering something awful. I’ve got plenty a’ warmth left in my limbs yet, you take my cloak an’ layer it up there.” Frodo smiled at the hobbit, a gentler look in his eyes than had been there but a moment ago. The stout hobbit had been shivering himself, but hastily had put on the guise of warmth for the sake of his friend.

“Oh Sam,” Frodo said softly, gazing at Sam with a warm sort of affection in his eyes. “And what will you use to keep you warm then? You keep your cloak, I’ll be alright.” he wrapped the elvish fabric around himself tighter, as if to prove his point. They had faced worse than the threat of a long, cold night in the wilderness. Surely he could endure one night.

It doesn’t have to be so cold though, a little voice told him, Frodo’s eyes flicking towards the place where Sam lay. Sam wouldn’t mind it. Frodo was horrified by his own train of thought. He knew Sam would do anything for him, had done everything for him without a word of complaint. How could Frodo ask something like that of him knowing no matter what Sam truly felt, he would say yes? He closed his eyes forcefully, hand reaching to his neck to clutch the heavy weight of the Ring as was his habit. It was cool to touch, and weighed heavily in his grasp. An icy cloud began to form in his thoughts as he held it.

He was startled from his daze by the voice of Sam, its tone tentative and uncertain. “There’d be no right sense in letting us both freeze Mr. Frodo. We could… well we could share our cloaks, if you’d be alright with it.” The gardener blushed red as a beet, warm brown eyes darting anywhere around the pitiful campsite but Frodo’s face. “I- I hope I’m not crossin’ no line there sir, it’s just that you look so cold an’-”

Frodo cut him off there, nodding silently while unpinning his cloak to hide his own steadily reddening face. It was just to stay warm. They had done the same during the cold nights braving the mountains, this was no different. Except it felt different. More intimate in a way, just the two of them huddled together against the long dark of the night. Intimacy with Sam (his Sam, as his mind wanted to say) was something he found himself… craving. And it made him feel dirtier than he felt after long months trudging through the wilds of the world.

They awkwardly moved close together, layering their cloaks and curling into each other to keep all appendages underneath the fabric as best they could.

There was silence for a good long while, neither of their breathing slowing down into sleep. Sam had tentatively wrapped his arms around Frodo’s thin frame, pulling him close to his body, like the dark-haired hobbit was something precious and fragile. In the space where the Ring occupied Frodo’s chest, Sam’s heart beat steadily, the reassuring thrum a welcome change of background noise from the constant ill-whisperings of the Ring. And then a realization struck him, a thought so out of place in those dark lands that it caught him by surprise.

Frodo felt safe.

Even here in the very shadow of Mordor, where they were separated from the Fellowship in unknown and hostile lands, without even a path to follow. Even here, he felt safe, so long as Sam was near. At the realization, unexpected tears sprung to his eyes, his shoulders shaking with a sudden emotion that he could not explain nor control.

“Frodo?” Sam adjusted his arms, loosening his warm hold to prop himself up on an elbow, his other arm resting lightly on Frodo’s side. “Is it the Ring?”

Frodo sat up for the second time that night, tears so dangerously close to spilling that he was afraid to blink should they fall. “No Sam it… it’s nothing.” How could he explain to Sam what he was feeling? Here he was, so close to Frodo, so good and pure and whole. Frodo was broken, already he could feel the conflict inside of himself. He was not the carefree hobbit that had left Bag End, nor did he expect that he ever would be again. There was something dark inside of himself now. Something that came from the Ring, yes… but perhaps something that was all his, and only just now starting to come to light. It was a fear that plagued Frodo’s thoughts in the shadows of the night. Sam did not deserve a friend such as himself, far less something- something more.

And Frodo would never be something more. Would never let himself be something more, would never initiate something with Sam that he knew the gardener might not turn down only because he loved Frodo enough to do anything for him- despite a lack of truly reciprocating the feelings.

“Pardon me for prying sir but it doesn’t seem like nothin’ to me now.” Sam’s face was stricken with concern. He pushed himself off of his forearm, coming to sit up so that he was eye to eye with Frodo. The gentlehobbit had been quiet for too long a pause, his normally pale skin flushed even more colorless in the scattered moonlight. Frodo’s side of the double-cloak had slipped from his shoulders when he had sat up, and he was now once more shivering.

Sam reached out to touch him, to bring him back down to the warmth of their shared makeshift bed, but the other hobbit flinched. At this Sam pulled back, a crescendo of emotions passing over his face before his features settled on just one: hurt.

“I’m sorry Mr. Frodo, if I said something out of line. I weren’t trying to pry or nothin’ I ‘as only worried about you.”

There was a heavy pause, before Frodo began to answer. “I’m sorry too, Sam. I know you were only worried about me, you- you’re honorable, and loyal.” He paused, taking a shuddering breath before he continued. “And I don’t deserve to have a companion such as you.” Much less, something more. His heart ached, or perhaps it was only the wound in his chest, it was hard to separate the pains that he had sustained on this quest. “And you deserve far better than me, Sam. I’m sorry to have brought you so far from home, from the Shire. It was selfish.”

How could he ever forgive himself, if he ruined Sam? If the other hobbit never got the chance to return to the Shire, to marry Rosie or some other like her, to start a life of his own away from Bag End and Frodo and everything to do with the Ring? He could not. Frodo had begun to understand that he would not be returning from this quest, that either the Ring or Mordor would consume him in the end. He could perhaps accept that fate, however dark it might be, if he knew that his friends- his Sam- would live their own lives happily.

He might be leading Sam to his death. Dear, sweet Sam, swallowed by the Black Gates, never to return to the green hills and cozy holes of their homeland. And at this, at last, the tears began to fall, hot in contrast to his cool cheeks.

“No, no Mr. Frodo. How could you be sayin’ something like that?” Sam reached for Frodo once again, this time his rough hands encompassing Frodo’s smaller ones. His thumbs rubbed gentle circles into the dirt-smudged skin, Sam’s eyes alight with a depth of feeling that still startled Frodo from time to time. He was reminded how much this gentle gardener from Hobbiton had hidden underneath the surface. Frodo had not known it, had not had the chance to know it, before this quest. Now he wondered how foolish he had been, to not have seen it before.

“You are the bravest, the most selfless hobbit I know. There ain’t hardly anyone else that’d come this far, Mr. Frodo. Carryin’ that thing you have around your neck. The rest ‘a the Fellowship couldn’t do it, couldn’t even be around it.” Sam’s words were strong, full of certainty and something else that Frodo couldn’t quite make out. He let go of one of Frodo’s hands, reaching up to rest his palm on Frodo’s cheek, pushing past dark curls to cup his face gently. Frodo found himself leaning into the touch despite himself, still shaking from a combination of the cold and repressed tears

Gently , Sam guided them both down, covering them back up with their makeshift blankets. His hand still held Frodo’s face, brushing away the tears as fast as they came. The two hobbits faced each other in the night, eyes blown wide to see in the darkness.

“Sam, you don’t understand what I’ve become. I’m not the same hobbit I was when I left the Shire, and I don’t think I can ever go back. I’ve changed, Sam. I-I have thoughts… feelings that I shouldn't.” The admittance weighed heavily in the air between them.

Sam’s expression was near unreadable, his eyes searching Frodo’s face for something that Frodo did not know if he wanted the gardener to find or not. Finally, he spoke.

“I don’t care, Mr. Frodo. I love you scars or no.” He said softly, shyly, his face flushing red beyond what could be explained away by the harsh cold. “Different or no.” He continued haltingly. “I don’t care if you’re changed now. You’re still my Mr. Frodo, an’ I’d still follow you till the end willingly.” Sam murmured, gaze falling from Frodo’s eyes while his ears burned a brighter red than Frodo thought possible for a hobbit.

Frodo’s heart beat fast enough to burst in his chest, his eyes fixated on Sam’s lips, chapped and red and right there. He wondered what they would feel like against his own, then immediately shut the thought away, along with his eyes.

This was Sam he was thinking about like that, Sam. Sam the sweet, gentle gardener who tended to his flowers and offered Frodo the news of the Shire, who loved Rosie Cotton, who had wanted to settle down with a family of his own and had followed Frodo because he was just like that, loyal and brave and steadfast. When he opened his eyes, he found Sam staring intently at him with a look on his face that he had never seen the gentle hobbit give anyone before.

“Frodo…” he breathed, leaning in to touch their foreheads together. Their lips were so close now, unbearably close. “I meant it. I don’t care. I love you, whether or no.”

And with that, Sam bridged the gap between their lips. The kiss was gentle, Sam’s hand cupping Frodo’s face still while the other searched for Frodo’s in the dark under the cloaks, finding it and lacing their fingers together. When they parted, Frodo breathless and hungry for more, Sam’s cheeks were as wet as Frodo’s own had been moments before.

“Oh Sam,” Frodo’s voice broke, barely above a whisper. He surged forwards and crushed their lips together with far more urgency.

They continued in the dark, kissing and feeling and hungering until they finally came to rest under the starless sky. Frodo lay curled into Sam’s chest, an arm wrapped around his waist, the other clutching the front of Sam’s shirt loosely. Sam held the pale hobbit close, chin resting in a crown of dark curls as his eyelids fluttered shut. There they slept till morning, warm in the others’ embrace.

Safe in each others’ arms, even while under the shadow of Mordor.

And that night, the Ring was quiet.

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darkpoisonouslove · 4 years

Text

Until Color

Summary: An encounter with the most dangerous creature of all bled color into Faragonda’s world. Now temptation calls her away from the limited existence of an angel. Is there a choice between goodness and happiness or are things not at all the way an angel perceives them?

I wrote this about a month ago and I thought it would be on time for Femslash February. Hehe! Funny, funny. My brain vetoed that so it only comes now. The first three sentences are a prompt I got from tumblr and saw lying around in my notes. I thought of subverting every damn concept in them, though. Enjoy this torrid love affair!

"Mine," the siren murmured, dragging her lover into the ocean and ever deeper.

That was the day the angels learned their own could be tempted. Tempted and devoured like any other creature the sirens got their claws into. That was the day the full story got thrown down in the dark depths of the sirens' minds for only them to remember it once heaven turned away from the two writing it and history never bothered to even learn their names.

"Are you sure you want to come down with me?" Griffin didn't offer a hand along with the words to let Faragonda relax in the undisturbed waves around them. She couldn't have taken it when she knew what came flooding in with the touch of the siren's skin. She'd seen enough of it.

She nodded before looking up to the sky, more to make sure it wasn't descending upon her to snatch her out of the ocean and keep her suspended in a cold trap midair rather than to catch a last glimpse of it. It looked just like the sea. Colorless. Just like Griffin. All the difference came from the siren swimming in the excited waters while the weightless mass above remained silent and unmoved.

"You're sure no one will suffer from my choice?" Her insides lurched in all possible directions as if to rip themselves apart at the idea.

"I am sure all of the angels you left behind won't be pleased," Griffin's lips curled in the shape of a fishhook to pierce through her willingness to be the bait for the rest of her kind to follow her downfall, "but since angels can't suffer..." Griffin drove a finger through her own hair brutally but the only drops of water on her skin still carried just the salt of the sea. "You can't feel much at all, can you?"

"No humans will be sacrificed in this, you promised." The calmness of her voice was like bile bubbling up from inside her but nothing came out. Was there even anything inside her or was she hollow? Yet another question without answer when she couldn't let herself ask the creature in front of her. She'd already asked enough of her.

Griffin rolled her eyes, a huff falling from her lips to steer the water around them. "There's only one soul I can give you."

The sweetness of her voice lured Faragonda closer to taste it from her lips unlike all the fruit the flavor of which was lost on her tongue in her ethereal nature. Sirens didn't have that problem but she'd seen Griffin turn erratic at the smell of blood at the other end of the ocean.

"Mine," the word dripped more power than that of the sea from all the defiance packed into the meaning of it being uttered. "Follow me."

The waves swirled around them into a funnel to hide them from the world above and open a passage to the depths. Faragonda was caught in the water pressing against her in a way her own magic never touched her when she used it to help others. Her wings fluttered weakly like a folded leaf twirled by a hurricane and she felt no lighter. No heavier either. Always the same. Her old self.

She let her imagination run free further than she could reach into the abyss she'd avoided despite her immunity to most of its threats. With no drowning soul to rescue there was only colorless vastness in her sight to tint in the only blue she'd ever seen at the brush of Griffin's hand against hers. It had been a moment that had never died, her immortality along with Griffin's taking them through centuries at an arm's length. She didn't know the precise amount of time for it to be revealed to her if she opened her mouth and asked Griffin. Just the thought of the action caused pain deep inside her and not in her jaw with her limited knowledge of the world and her limited feelings on the paradox Griffin was.

She'd plunged in the ocean after the screams of a drowning man only to be hit with silence on the way there. She'd been late. She'd barely had the words, or the feelings, for the unprecedented occurrence. That had been before she'd seen the siren.

No human carried themselves like that in the water despite the lack of differences Faragonda's eyes could spot in the forms of the two species. The fast pace and unmistakable intent in the shape approaching her had gripped her mind and body with opposing impulses. The heavens had hissed in her head to remove herself from danger's path but the calm waters around had lulled her reflexes to sleep as she'd watched the familiar body of an unfamiliar but infamous creature close in on her. Just as colorless as all the rest of existence to raise no alarm. Until she'd opened her mouth to see Faragonda bolting towards the surface, her wings struggling against the density of the foreign realm.

The siren hadn't caught her but she'd caught a feel of her hand, the warmth of skin ripping through her like fire in a way it never did with humans through whom her fingers almost passed. Color had bled in to plunge her world in blue–like she'd heard people call the sea–as she'd shot out of the water. And underneath her – two eyes in faint gold–the color of a dying sunset–and a whiff of the purple Griffin's hair was woven from. Wisteria.

She'd crossed a line when she'd lingered behind after her job had been done, the powder from her wings already having healed the stab wound gaping in the wholeness of the body in front of her. The color had risen in her mind again stinging her eyes with the inability to see it and she'd let it wash the blood out of the head of the man she'd helped and drown out any other thought. He'd walked for miles until he'd found the answer to the impulse she'd infected him with. A tree with blossoms still appearing colorless to her but the shape of which had seared into her mind for her to color them in the shade she remembered every time she saw them. Or Griffin. Wisteria. The name of her ache.

It had been at first, when she'd blamed the siren for planting temptation in her heart. Until she'd touched her again and more color had bled in – an angry sun and dark amethyst. Griffin wasn't the source of the yearning in the center of her being. It was the ability to see colors that she didn't have, the nature of being something other than an angel that wasn't hers to have. Griffin was the solution. And the betrayal to her self and all her kind was all hers.

They reached a bottom that was supposed to be dark but to her was all the same. To any angel it would be if they dared enter the sirens' domain. It was almost an instinct–much like rushing to a suffering soul they couldn't avoid hearing scream for help–to evade sirens. Saving drowning people was done with swiftness and caution – not just for the person, but also for minimizing the chances of contact. The chances of a siren's voice latching on to them like a trap springing.

"After the kiss is over, we'll both be human," Griffin explained, her voice as alluring as it'd been the first time and during any other interaction, normal. Faragonda couldn't help the pull of the knowledge Griffin shared freely. And to think a kiss held such power. "We won't be able to breathe underwater and I'll have to get us back to the surface as soon as possible. You have to hold on all the way through. Especially at the end. Understand?"

Faragonda nodded, her lips moving of their own will. "Why me?" Was she after Griffin's voice or her own? They had both agreed to sacrifice everything they were so why stall now? "Was it because I am the only angel you could tempt down here?"

Griffin looked at her with emotion she couldn't decipher when all she saw were the contours of it, not the colors and intricacies. "I haven't done a thing to tempt you. I couldn't." The words came out forceful, like they always did when Faragonda asked questions about the world. Yet, Griffin answered them anyway. She was the only one who did. "Sirens can't tempt angels. We don't have that kind of power."

The wings fluttered on Faragonda's back like an angry wasp's in demand of an explanation. Not from Griffin, but Griffin was the only one that would give it to her. If it were all lies, heaven sure was putting her to the test. She couldn't blame herself for falling.

"In the beginning of the world there were no angels or sirens," Griffin filled the void her silence had carved in the water around them. "There were just people and some of them were blessed with magic by the Great Dragon. There were different kinda of magic users but the most prominent one were fairies. Their fairy dust could heal wounds and abolish darkness." Like the powder of her wings.

She'd heard fairies were the human equivalent of angels. They had magic and wings and while their fairy dust was a weaker version of her powder, they were tangible beings. They could touch and see in color, and be seen, the warmth of a smile not unfamiliar to them just like the warmth of a hand. Of happiness.

"Then the fairies rebelled against the exploitation of their abilities to cleanse everyone's souls from darkness while people put little to no effort in doing it for themselves. Their fairy dust had limits. It was bound to their life force and they had only so much of it." An unfamiliar concept when her powder was as plentiful as the colorless horizon in front of her was vast every time she looked at the world. "Seven fairies who became known as the Ancestral Fairies gathered resources and magic to create a safe haven for all fairies like them who had had enough of being exploited."

"Did they make it?" It was her own voice she was looking for. To make sure she hadn't lost it. Hadn't had it stolen by just a story of the pain and horror of what had transpired... and lived in Griffin's mind.

"They were captured," Griffin's voice didn't tempt but burned now – through her eyes as if to burn the images in them. "And so were all of their followers, to be brought to a place called Light Rock where the darkness was drained out of them via the shine of the Water Stars to leave behind only the bright flames of the Dragon Fire. Their essence was reduced until they lost their tangibility and any sight as they themselves were made of light."

Faragonda clenched her eyes shut. "Angels." They'd lost their ability to cry as well. To feel anything but positive emotions. But how are you to tell you're happy when that's all you've ever been? To her it was all the same – every day and every feeling. Until the yearning for wisteria had exploded in her to leave her aching.

"The Water Stars were obscured in darkness and cast away into the ocean they'd created." The harshness of the words stood out even more in contrast with Griffin's melodic voice making Faragonda look to make sure it hadn't cut her in half. "As if they weren't the opposite of the Dragon Fire in power and element. They shed the darkness for it to spread over the bottom of the ocean that had once been lit by the stars in the sky and make it impossible to see in the deep instead. That was where the sirens were born from the stardust of the Water Stars mixing with the darkness." Griffin blinked as if the abyss staring right at her had won. "The colors we see are so intense. They stab through our minds and burrow themselves there to never be washed away. So do smells and tastes, touch, all sorts of information we can never forget. We hold it inside our minds like the darkness of space holds the stars and the planets, and all the life on them."

Her questions. They reminded Griffin of the vessel she'd been made. "What about sounds?" She had to know. She couldn't stay blind anymore.

"Sounds are the worst," Griffin's voice trembled like a string pulled too hard and wailing for mercy. Faragonda had always heard similar cries from musical instruments and nature – not human souls but touched by them and left with more than just fingerprints smudged over them. She was there to listen at least if not offer the power to grant the plea. "Sounds always remind us of our own screams that everyone not only ignores but calls beautiful."

No!

"Hypnotizing even."

She couldn't have missed it.

"Tempting."

"Your song." How had she not heard it? Had she been so wrapped up in herself that she'd missed the suffering of another soul? Had she gone rogue because she'd always been a bad angel? "I'm sorry. I didn't know."

"Sorry is no good coming from an angel." Griffin swallowed as if the words were harder to say than to hear. "Tell me again when you're no longer one."

Faragonda nodded. The first promise she was giving. It dug inside her mind like no blessing had ever stayed with her. She always forgot the faces, never even knew the lives she saved. This time she knew the colors of the future she breathed life into.

"Siren voices don't work on angels because the species used to be one. Sirens were the darkness of the soul of which angels were the light. Light that was forced to shine. It will never hear the cries of the darkness it was made to obliterate." Yet, the words were coming out in a downpour now. "That's why sirens sing to humans. We couldn't leave the depths of the ocean but even the darkness pierces our perception with excessive details and the blood of killed fish makes us sick. Ships are a moving hell bustling with life that offers a chance at escape."

Griffin's eyes were looking through her and for the first time it hurt in a different way. It hurt that she couldn't block the pain from clouding Griffin's gaze.

"When we touch someone, they feel what we feel, and when we kiss them, all our feelings and the sensations we experience pass into them."

Bright blue. Deep gold and dripping purple. A warm hand. Salt in the air making its way down her lungs. Griffin's life had flown in her and she'd been jealous. Now all she wanted was to give her some of her calm.

"Humans provide but a brief relief as they're already a mix of light and darkness and don't live nearly as long as we do. The only way to complete the process is for an angel to mix their light with a siren's darkness."

A kiss. Soft lips. Warm lips. Red she hadn't seen and couldn't imagine. A taste of fullness. A taste of peace. A promise to keep.

"Siren's don't go after angels, though," Griffin wasn't finished unburdening her heart yet. "Humans jump off of ships lured by the bountifulness our voices let them touch themselves to. But angels are too pure. All an angel cares about is goodness and a siren has none of that, only the self-serving interest of relief, peace, calmness. You can't hear our song so no siren bothers luring what is out of reach to break their own heart." Griffin looked down at her, a deep crease running through her forehead like a crack.

Sinking? She was sinking. Another thing an angel couldn't do. She had to be the worst of them and gold bled into the thought to elicit a smile. "Will you try it for me?" her wings shuddered as she forced them to line her up with Griffin once again. "Maybe we were meant to meet if you never tried to lure me closer." It wasn't that she hadn't heard her. Griffin had never sang. "Maybe I can hear you."

Griffin looked right into her this time carving deeper than Faragonda had ever managed to reach inside herself. Carving through something inside her. She had to be. Otherwise, how could she feel the path of Griffin's gaze in her being?

Whatever was filling out the hollowness inside her she'd feared was enough for Griffin. She opened her mouth and what came out of there was less a song and more a single sound of bubbling intensity. There was so much of it, in it, that Faragonda could drown in it herself as it filled her up to overflowing, to sensation, to... pain. There was a sharp pulsing inside her caught in the rhythm of Griffin's anguish. Perhaps not a heart–not in the traditional sense–but she wasn't empty. She wasn't cold. She could feel for someone else.

Griffin's mouth hung open even as the sound died. "You can hear it." No question. Just rapid blinking. Tears, from a siren. Impact of a positive emotion slicing through all of her pain.

"Do you know why I looked for you?" No pause for thinking. "Not because of all the things I could see and feel with you." A temptation like none before but she could have resisted if it came from outside. Just some colors she would've gotten used to the same way she no longer noticed her colorless existence. Smells and tastes she would've familiarized herself with until they only ever evoked memories inside her instead of creating new ones. Feelings as constant in duration and content that she would've confused them with her own after a certain point. But it had been Griffin's outside world that had resonated with her inner one to bring it to life. "You never told me what I could and couldn't do." It was the first time the words formed in front of her eyes without her mind sweeping them away like dust before she could say them. She'd become a complementary part–not a missing one, for any other siren could give her what Griffin could, yet, she had been the only one who had approached her–and together they'd done the impossible. An angel hurting and a siren crying.

"I was always close by when you were at sea or near the shore," the huskier sound of Griffin's voice stabbed her with the rawness of the words, of speaking at all after their miracle had cut through who they were down to the bone. "Not because of the limited touches we shared. I could get more relief from a human drowned in my kiss." All those humans Faragonda hadn't saved in her fear of corruption as temptation had lingered under her skin long after Griffin had been out of reach. "I hadn't had many close encounters with angels before–you're all conditioned to run from sirens–but you were different. A good soul instead of a good angel."

What did Griffin know of goodness as she killed for a drop of relief that only left her yearning for more? "I've thrown away everything that makes an angel."

"Exactly!" Griffin grabbed fistfuls of the water around them in her fieriness. "You're not just good because it is all you can be. There's at least a touch of darkness inside you, a free will, but your first thought is always protecting people."

People. She'd be a human but how much could she do for them?

"Trust me, they'll be safer with a siren out of the way," Griffin said as if reading her thoughts. Unless they were written over her–still impossible to read in her own colorlessness–then Griffin understood. She had good in her, too. "And you can still help even if you do it through other means. We both can."

"Kiss me."

The siren's lips on hers were starved for the contact as if she was the one who couldn't taste and her fervor only grew as her perception flowed into Faragonda. There was the salt again, already familiar but much stronger now, almost burning her taste buds after the drought they'd been subjected to. The warmth of Griffin's body pressed into her sent shivers swimming over her spine like a school of fish making the water tingle as it splashed over her skin, but that was the heat spilling over her. Purple imbued her vision–violet, the word popping into her mind from another flow she'd almost missed–as Griffin's hair was the first thing she saw sprawling around like the threads of a net.

She ran a hand through it to absorb the intense shade while the siren's–was she still clinging to her previous self?–eyes were closed. The color of her own skin caught her eye as it grew richer and in her wonder she tugged on the purple strands. A bursting moan flooded her senses to break through her fascination with the process but Griffin's grip on her tightened. Her tongue was more insistent in Faragonda's mouth to explore every corner of it.

A pleasant heaviness set inside her as her heart pounded in her ears overshadowing the gentle whimpers leaving Griffin's throat. They were weaker in volume but grew steady in consistency as Griffin's skin glowed with blinding lightness. A sight to die for had Faragonda gotten to see the gold of her eyes as well. But without it the burning in her lungs unsettled the magical atmosphere to send her kicking her feet, her wings not responding.

Her fingers dug into Griffin's shoulders to bruising but she didn't let go until they were swimming towards the light above. All the blue flooding her vision relaxed her grip but she held on. She wasn't letting go of Griffin unless she asked her to. She herself had no more questions for... the other woman.

They were human. The stinging in her lungs as the first gulps of breath pierced through them when the liplock broke and the vibrant colors she was squinting at told her that much. But there was more. There was a breeze on her face and water drops sliding down her skin, cold and warmth enveloping her from the water and Griffin, wet hair sticking to her back and swollen lips to scream of the kiss that had fogged her mind.

"I'm sorry." The kept promise tasted even sweeter than when she'd given it to leave her senses overwhelmed and craving the salt on Griffin's breath once again.

Griffin's eyes shined on her with a mellow light in the sun's stead as it had yet to climb on the sky and blind her with its rays. But for now she was met with wisteria and rich honey while Griffin's even breaths brushed over her wet skin.

She reached out to stroke the purple strands, the feeling of them between her fingers perfectly new. She missed the golden brown when Griffin closed her eyes but the purring that filled its absence occupied her attention as well. Right until she remembered Griffin's hair wasn't the one she was seeing or touching for the first time.

She ran a hand through her own hair, the same softness startling when it came from herself, before gingerly catching a lock to look at. "Chestnut."

"Chestnut," Griffin repeated while consuming the sight in front of her, a small smile stretching her lips in recognition as she reached out to touch the brown strands herself.

She ran her fingers through them gently, never once tugging on the tangled wet mess. What stroked a shudder over Faragonda's spine was the meaning attached to the gesture. They were both free of their longing for what the other could give them, yet touching was even more natural now. Like they longed for each other.

Her stomach fluttered with countless butterflies to cut her with the stillness from her back. Her wings weren't responding, only bending slightly under the rule of the breeze. They were dead on her back. Reaching behind, she couldn't even touch them. All she could ever feel in them again was the elements. Why leave them strapped to her back then?

A finger traced over them in tact with Griffin's chest pressing against hers to set her whole body alive with sensation. A ticklish touch on her wings that pulled a gasp out of her as she flung herself forward and further into Griffin's warm, naked body against her.

"I'm afraid they'll never move with your will again," Griffin's voice was higher, lighter, unburdened and even more alluring than before. "They are transparent now, no powder in them anymore. That is all in me. But they can still bring you sensation. You should be careful with them. It could be a very painful experience." So that was what they were for. To remind her she had wanted to feel it all.

"I wish I could look at my eyes," the sentence slipped from her lips so easily. No strings for it to get tangled into now that she was free of her duty as angel. Only the somber realization that she still didn't know the color of her own eyes.

"You are," Griffin pointed to the far end of the sky where black was just making room for the deepest blue. Blue that got to touch wisteria.

"I most certainly am not," she locked eyes with Griffin, the honey enveloping her mind plentiful and sweet. And so were Griffin's lips when she met her for a kiss.

That was the day two people learned what happiness was and changed the world refusing to acknowledge them.

#winx club #winx griffin #winx faragonda #griffin x faragonda #siren!griffin #angel faragonda #yet another siren au #s x a au #fanfiction #my fanfiction #my writing

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sour-heart-treats · 4 years

Note

Timekeeper being Croissant Cookie’s split personality? Can do a headcanon short fic of that?

It wasn't a very pleasant feeling, having to deal with another voice prodding at her own, poking at her mind to let this other part of herself through. It was vague, but she could tell there was a playful tone in whatever was being spoken. It sounded so much like her, but knowing what's been going on the past few weeks, that was the self-named Timekeeper going on about... Something or other. Wanting to cause a few minor troubles for her brother, that's probably what was being said. As fun as it would be, Croissant gave a sigh, desiring to keep a hold on the front for just a while longer. Besides, it's not like anyone but her knew of this situation, and... How the Hell would she explain it?

'Hey, yea, there's this person named Timekeeper that's been with me for the past month or so and they like to cause problems when I'm not entirely aware of myself.' That's something a perfectly normal person says, yea. There's nothing weird about realizing that one's disassociative tendencies have become more fine-tuned into another person. It probably wasn't, in all honesty. Maybe this wasn't as odd as she was making it out to be, but she wasn't even sure if this was something that was actually occurring or if this was some self-influenced ruse, but it's not like there was... Uh... Oh, guess it's time to lay on the floor, then. The ceiling looks pretty nice today, anyway. There's a bunch of neat little spiral patterns on it and...

Huh. Normally the mechanic didn't care much for such a pattern and kinda feared it in all honesty. 'Maybe this is from you, right, Timey?' She thought to herself, not expecting a response. After all, there wasn't any real communication to be established. It's all weird and unexplained to her, not to mention confusing. There was a huff, followed by Croissant's eyes just... unfocusing while staring. She hoped that her consciousness wouldn't be nudged back in any way, but it wasn't like it was all there to begin with. There wasn't anything sensory to keep her in the 'now' either, no scents or temperature that would alert her. Just... The same room with the same lighting and the same ceiling. The only different feeling, really, was internal.

"I wish this was easier..." Croissant spoke, voice distant from herself. Still her, but not all there. Quiet, tired... Lost, really. "Here you are, some... Imaginary friend of mine that I doodled on my blueprints that's actually in my head! In... in my body..." Oough here it comes, the mechanic knew this all too well. Silence crept over the room as she laid upon the floor that she no longer felt, the processing that she had slowing to a halt- or at least close to it- as nothing around her really made it through her head. The only thing that really ran through was the doubt of reality. With nothing around her, Croissant wondered if she was even here. If she even existed. Perhaps she herself was just some kind of self-made ruse? Nothing more than a covering- a display of some sort. Even with these questions, everything felt dull and slow for a time... Colorless, just in some mass of being barely conscious.

It felt far longer than a few hours before Croissant could recognize anything around her. The first thing that really brought her back was the scent of maple, butter, and... Vanilla? Were these pancakes before her? Blinking, Croissant pulled her vision together as best as she could. The kitchen. She recognized this, at least. It's late in the afternoon, yet she was making breakfast. Either time really does fly, or...

"Uh, hey TK, I found the eggs you wanted."

"TK?" Croissant barely registered the voice that spoke, but most certainly recognized who came in with a carton of those aforementioned eggs. Hero, Caramel, whichever alias fit here was the one that walked in. Without anyone else in the room aside from Caramel and herself, there was really only one assumption to be made about this 'TK'. "When did I...?" When did she ask for eggs? She didn't, but they probably did. Well... She was kinda hungry, anyway. Maybe it was some leftover influence, but... Croissant sure could go for some eggs and pancakes. This Timekeeper that stayed with her had some good tastes. "Ah, nevermind, get over here and start crackin' those eggs."

"Should we make some toast, too, TK?"

"Uh... It's Croissant again. And no, I think we'll be just fine with this."

"O-oh! Well, if... If you say so!"

#croissant cookie #timekeeper cookie #hero cookie #bittersweet section #dissociative warning #disassociation warning #unreality warning #depersonalization warning #// special thanks to my pal the other kris for reading this through and making sure this was at least mostly accurate to DID!!#derealization warning #depersonalisation warning

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ghost-in-the-hella · 4 years

Note

51. “You make me feel alive.” with PriceMarsh.

My apologies for taking so long to finish this! For whatever reason, Kate POV seems to take me extra long to get my head around. Better late than never, I hope!

CW for implied cutting, implied suicidality, referenced canon drugging and sexual assault (the Vortex Club incident), and referenced homophobic and emotionally abusive parenting.

---

“I’m a bad influence on you,” Chloe says, and for a moment she’s so beautiful in the moonlight that Kate doesn’t catch the sadness in her voice.

“What?” Kate says when it registers. “No, you aren’t.”

Chloe stares at her unblinkingly, cigarette raised so that her face is wreathed with smoke, and gives her a look like she’s somehow proving her point simply by existing.

“You aren’t,” Kate repeats more firmly. “What, you think nobody’s ever smoked in front of me before? I do all kinds of community service. Plenty of people have smoked in front of me.”

“Okay, but did they smoke in front of you after sneaking you out of the dorms past curfew, and did they commit petty crimes before they lit up?”

Kate rolls her eyes and shakes her head softly. “I still say you’re not a bad influence on me. I didn’t vandalize anything.”

“Mm. You did let a persona non grata delinquent into the dorms and then sneak out with her so she could tag public property, though.”

“True, but…” Kate kicks her feet gently in the air as she thinks. The metal of Chloe’s truck bed is cold and hard beneath her thighs, but right now it’s more comfortable than her own dorm bed. She hasn’t felt safe sleeping there since she woke up on the floor after the Vortex Club party she can’t remember. The gross comments that keep popping up on her whiteboard don’t exactly make it feel like home, either. “I asked you. I don’t think you’re the bad influence there.”

Chloe mock-gasps. “Kate Beverly Marsh! Are you suggesting that you were a bad influence on me??”

“Maybe,” Kate teases, and this feels better. Chloe’s moods tend to turn on a dime, and Kate’s never quite sure how to handle them. They’ve only been hanging out for a couple of weeks, and although Kate’s learned to recognize Chloe’s sorrow she hasn’t learned how to comfort her. Chloe wears that hard, tough, punk persona so proudly; offering her a hug feels like it would be a transgression. But when Chloe’s joking around, Kate feels much less out of her depth. Most people don’t expect Kate to have a sense of humor - “good little church girl” that she is - but Chloe’s proven herself to be an exception. Chloe’s an exception to a lot of things. “I did ask you to help me break the rules.”

“Because you wouldn’t know how to break them on your own, goody-two-shoes,” Chloe teases with a chuckle.

“I’ll have you know I was a rule-breaker before I met you, thank you very much!”

Chloe flicks the ash from the end of her cigarette onto the damp, sandy asphalt of the beach parking lot. “Really,” she deadpans. “Kate Marsh, rule-breaker.”

“Yes.”

“Sure we’re talking about the same Kate Marsh?” She holds a hand over Kate’s head (mercifully, it’s not the one holding her still-smoldering cigarette). “‘Bout this tall? Literal human marshmallow? Goes to church every Sunday and volunteers at the soup kitchen?”

“Yes!” Kate laughs.

“Okay.” Chloe shifts her position abruptly, reclining with her shoulders propped against the wall of the truck bed and dangling one leg off the edge of the tailgate while the toes of her other dirty boot stop just shy of touching Kate’s thigh. Kate wishes she were as comfortable anywhere as Chloe seems to make herself everywhere. “There’s obviously a story here.” She gestures melodramatically with her cigarette, luminous red embers and pale blue smoke - almost the color of her eyes - against the colorless dark of the night sky. “So spill, Katydid. Illuminate me.”

In her head, Kate scrambles frantically to find something suitably rebellious to tell Chloe. She’s sure she must have done something interesting at some point in her life, but with Chloe’s eyes on her and the way that Chloe’s biting her lip as she waits she’s having a very hard time thinking about anything else. “I… Sometimes I stay up really late. All night, even.”

Chloe looks like she’s trying not to laugh. “That’s it? Kate, that’s… That’s not even breaking any rules! You’re eighteen; you can stay up as late as you want!”

“My parents are really strict about bedtimes,” Kate says a little defensively. “Right up until I moved into the dorms, they would do room checks every night to make sure my sisters and I had our lights out and were sound asleep.” A sneaky little smile tugs at her lips and she drops her voice into a conspiratorial tone. “But there was a creaky floorboard between their room and mine, so I would listen for it and then I’d pretend to be sleeping when they’d check on me. And once they were gone, I’d stay up reading or texting my friends or watching movies.” Kate can hear how boring this sounds, so she hurries to add, “Movies my parents wouldn’t let me watch. I would sneak them. Horror movies, violent stuff. Things like that.” Not only horror movies, Kate doesn’t add because she doesn’t want to tip her hand even though she knows - she knows - that Chloe likes girls, too; she hasn’t forgotten how Chloe used to look at Rachel Amber. But she suspects that Chloe never had to sneak around her mother to watch Imagine Me and You or Saving Face or - God forbid - But I’m a Cheerleader, and she’s not sure that Chloe would understand how incredibly criminal it had felt.

“Pfft! I’ve been doing that shit since I was a kid. With my old friend Max, even, and she was almost as much of a goody-two-shoes as you. Man, after we sneak-watched Jaws she wouldn’t so much as stick a toe in the bay for the rest of the summer. Total chicken.” She grins wickedly. “Nice try, though. And I’ll definitely have to remember about the horror movies. I’ve got some that’ll knock your socks off, guaranteed. So what else you got, Cup-Kate?”

Kate chews on her lower lip for a moment before blurting, “I cursed at my mother.”

Chloe actually laughs at that. “I did that this morning. And again this afternoon. I do that literally every day.”

“I called her a…” She balks. She knows that Chloe curses all the time, but somehow she just can’t make herself repeat the word even though it felt so good to say it and watch her mother’s face turn livid. “A bad name. She grounded me for a week.” Grounded is an understatement. But Chloe doesn’t need to know about Kate getting her mouth washed out with soap at the ripe age of seventeen. She doesn’t need to know that Kate’s mother took away her phone and computer as punishment and proceeded to read her most personal texts and emails before grilling her relentlessly about them until her father came home and put a stop to it. She definitely doesn’t need to know how much Kate cried and begged for forgiveness that week.

Something in Chloe’s face makes Kate feel like she knows it all anyway. “Sounds like she probably deserved whatever you called her.” Chloe nudges Kate’s thigh gently with her boot. “And hey, if you ever want someone to go call her names so vile you’ve never even dreamed of them, much less let them soil your lips, just lemme know. I’ll do it for free.”

Kate can’t hold in a giggle at Chloe’s offer. It shouldn’t be funny, she knows. But it is. She shouldn’t think Chloe’s offer is sweet, but she does.

Chloe smiles and stubs out her cigarette, which is by then burned down to the filter. She hauls herself back up into a sitting position, the toe of her boot still pressed lightly against Kate’s thigh. “Okay, so we’ve got cursing at your mother what I’m assuming is a whopping one time in your life despite the fact that she probably deserves it way more than that, and you staying up to watch horror movies past your bedtime. Not exactly sounding like a hardened criminal, there, Kate. Sounding more like a complete and utter cinnamon bun, if I’m honest.”

“I, um. I drink wine every week?” It’s a weak stab and Kate knows it, but it’s all she’s got left unless she wants to delve into much more personal territory that she’s in no way ready to talk about.

Chloe rolls her eyes. “Doesn’t count as breaking the rules if it’s literally part of church.” She wags a scolding finger. “That’s cheating.”

Kate seizes the opportunity with both hands, a victorious grin spreading across her face. “Which is breaking the rules! Ha, got you!”

Chloe scoffs. “Uh-huh. Very clever, Marsh. Still not disproving my cinnamon bun theory, though. You’re going to have to try harder to scandalize me.” There’s a lift to Chloe’s eyebrow that feels like a dare. Or maybe it only feels like a dare because Kate really, really wants it to be one.

Both of Chloe’s eyebrows shoot much higher when Kate answers her challenge by leaning in and kissing her.

Kate wants to do this forever. She wants to press harder, dig deeper. But she’s never kissed anybody before and she suspects she’d do it terribly if it were much more than a peck, and if this isn’t something Chloe actually wants then pressing would only make it worse. So she holds her lips against Chloe’s for a couple of incredible, terrifying seconds, and then she pulls away.

Chloe blinks slowly, looking dazed. Kate isn’t sure whether that’s a good sign or a bad one. “Okay, wow, that… Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

“...Does that mean I can do it again?”

Chloe lets out a laugh, fragile and amazed. “Holy shit, Kate.”

Kate wants to kiss her again, but Chloe hasn’t answered her question. Her stomach twists suddenly. “Oh my God, I’m such an idiot; I’m so sorry.” She puts her palms on her flushed cheeks. They feel impossibly hot; she can’t even imagine how red they must look. “I should have asked first. I’m so sorry.”

“It… yeah, that was definitely breaking the rules. I’ll give you credit for that one.” Chloe laughs a little shakily. “Kate Marsh, rule-breaker.”

“I shouldn’t have done it; not like that. Oh, Lord, I’m no better than those… those creeps who--” Kate can feel the warm feeling kissing Chloe gave her slipping into a cold spiral that seizes her chest and pumps ice water through her veins.

“Don’t even.”

“I didn’t even ask, or warn you, or anything; I just--”

“Dude, chill. It’s fine. I liked it.”

“You’re probably still-- I shouldn’t’ve just--” Kate blinks as Chloe’s words sink in. “You liked it?”

Chloe nods. “Yeah, I mean… It took me off-guard, for sure. Asking first would’ve been better, no doubt, but it’s not like I haven’t been wanting you to kiss me for, like… a week, at least.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. It was nice.” Chloe rubs the back of her neck, frowning. Her face slips back into that space Kate hasn’t learned how to navigate, the one that shows she’s thinking too hard and feeling too much. “Uncharacteristic, though.”

Kate's heart sinks. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means… Hell, I don’t know. It means maybe I really am a bad influence on you. It means maybe my step-dick is right and I’m just a no good delinquent dragging you down with me.”

“Chloe Price, you are not a bad influence on me!” Kate touches her shoulder. Chloe won’t turn and look at her, so Kate touches her chin and turns her head until she has to meet her eyes. The look in Chloe’s eyes makes Kate’s heart hurt. “You’re the best possible influence on me.”

Chloe laughs again, but it’s a broken sound. Kate never wants to hear her laugh like that again. “Not fucking possible,” Chloe tells her. “You’re, like… the best person I’ve ever met. And I’m…” She waves a hand to gesture at the whole of herself.

“You’re a good person,” Kate insists. “You’ve lived through bad things, and they’ve hurt you. But you’re a good person.”

“I’m a high school dropout with no job and no prospects. I smoke, I drink, I do drugs, I swear, I spit on sidewalks, I--”

“You don’t judge me. Why should I judge you?”

“I’ve sold drugs,” Chloe plows on, “I’ve hurt people, I’ve started fights just because I was angry and I wanted to hurt someone…”

“I’m not saying that you’re perfect. I don’t expect you to be perfect. But you are a good person. And you’re a good…” Kate takes a steadying breath. “You’re a good friend. You don’t treat me like I’m some fragile little flower that’s been sheltered from the world, or like someone who needs to be sheltered from it. All my life, people have tried to control me.” Kate clasps her hands in her lap, fingers wrestling with each other anxiously. “My family, my neighbors, my church, my friends… They all expect me to act a certain way, to talk and think and feel and believe exactly the same way that they do, and they don’t care what I want. They don’t care what I think or feel or believe. But when I’m with you…” Kate feels something wet slip down her cheek and wipes at it absently. “Chloe, when I’m with you, I can be who I want to be. I can be me. I can break the rules I want to break and follow the rules I want to follow and you don’t judge me either way. You make me feel alive. You make me want to be alive.”

Kate’s fully crying now, so it takes her a minute to realize that Chloe’s crying, too.

“Shit,” Chloe says, and she’s half-laughing as she cries. “Shit, shit.” She mops at her face. “You, I… Fuck, I can’t even… Shit, Kate! You’re… you’re fucking perfect. Jesus.”

Kate wants to correct her: Chloe is the one who’s perfect. She’s a perfect mess with her tangled blue hair and the dark circles beneath her eyes, her chipped nail polish and chapped lips and bony elbows and scarred forearms. Her stained clothes, her dirty boots, her bra strap slipping down her shoulder, the stink of cigarettes hanging around her in a constant fug. Her mascara running with her tears, the way she’s smiling through them and looking at Kate like she’s some kind of miracle. She’s perfect, and Kate wants to kiss her again. She wants to press the knowledge of how perfect Chloe is into her flesh with her lips so that she believes it.

But they’re both still crying, and the moment just doesn’t feel right. So instead Kate asks a question she’s been wanting to ask since they met: “May I give you a hug?”

Chloe nods rapidly, and her smile brightens. “You’d fucking better.” She opens her arms, and she welcomes Kate home.

#prompt fic #prompt fill #this prompt was not so prompt #fanfic #my writing #ghost writes #prompt ghost #life is strange #pricemarsh #chloe price #kate marsh

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