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bemusedlybespectacled · 7 months ago

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what's happening with James Somerton right now: a probably-incomplete primer

TW: suicide, including suicide as a threat and a manipulation tactic.

The short version:

James Somerton is a former Youtube essayist who focused entirely on queer history, queer media criticism, and queer issues in general. He is also a flagrant grifter who has made tens of thousands of dollars via fraud, both directly (lying about his finances to beg for money and getting donations for films he never even started making) and indirectly (stealing whole essays and articles and books, reading them out loud verbatim for his videos without indicating they were anything other than his own work, and then using the prestige he gained from using their work to get Patrons and sponsorships).

The story as told James and James apologists was that James attempted to apologize twice, was hounded mercilessly on the internet for weeks, and then, driven to the end of his rope, he posted a suicide note on Twitter, was MIA for several days, and from then on has been avoiding the internet.

The actual story, as revealed yesterday, was that James used two sockpuppet accounts to defend himself and parrot his talking points (again, while publicly claiming to be trying to take responsibility for his actions), using one to try to rebrand the con under a different name and another to deliberately stoke the panic caused by his suicide note. He was not only aware of the pain and anxiety he was causing people, but he encouraged it on one alt while hornyposting about his favorite movies on the other.

He is an unrepentant con artist who successfully used a suicide threat to prevent further interference with future cons. The only reason he was caught is because he is apparently incapable of going more than a couple of weeks without trying to get back in the internet spotlight, allowing people to tie his alts back to him. He lies for fun and profit and he should not be taken seriously, ever.

The long version:

In December 2023, Youtube essayist Hbomberguy (Harry Brewis) put out a four-hour-long video about plagiarism on the internet, and devoted two hours to addressing as much of JS's plagiarism as he could. I strongly recommend watching the entire thing, as the first two hours build on the concepts that he uses later in the video.

He also blew the whistle on James' fraud surrounding Telos, a studio James founded using thousands of dollars of IndieGoGo money that never actually produced any films despite him definitely working on them! Any day now they'll be released! Don't you worry!

A day later, Todd in the Shadows, a guy whose entire thing is music reviews, posted his own video debunking multiple outright lies that James had told about history, especially queer history. A few more days later, The Ace Couple, who run a podcast about asexuality, released an episode detailing how they'd lost $1.5k donating to Telos.

I have put the videos, Twitter threads, Patreon posts, and Reddit posts by other people discussing different aspects of James' fraud under the cut.

Every other time James was caught plagiarizing, prior to Harry's video, he would lie about it. Either he'd have some excuse (easily proven to be a lie) or he'd retreat to his favorite deflection: "I'm just being harassed because I'm gay."

This last lie was one he'd use not only to deflect accusations of plagiarism, but all criticism in general, no matter how trivial. Every time, the critic or someone associated with them would somehow dox him, or harass him, or send him death threats, or threaten to falsely accuse him of sexual assault.

This happened to The Ace Couple (who'd tried to correct him on something extremely acephobic in one of his videos), Jessie Gender (who'd tried to correct him when he claimed that there were no queer content creators on Nebula, given that she and a bunch of other queer creators were definitely on that platform), and the person who first blew the whistle on him stealing from Tinker Belles and Evil Queens by Sean Griffin (who was accused of being behind death threats he'd received, and hounded so harshly they had to leave Twitter).

It is important to note that every time James faced potentially damaging criticism, or even just a threat to his ego, suddenly he would claim to be harassed by people connected to the critic, including threats to his life. There has never been any proof of any threats being directed at him, nor evidence that, if the threats were real, that they are actually from people connected to the critic.

In the original video by Hbomberguy, Harry makes a compelling argument that James brought on a friend of his, Nick, as a co-writer specifically as a shield against accusations of plagiarism. "How dare you accuse me of plagiarism! Nick would NEVER do that!" This is even more apparent given subsequent developments which I will get into.

When evidence started dropping about different aspects of his fraud (not only Harry's video, but Todd in the Shadows' video debunking his misinfo, The Ace Couple's podcast about their experience donating to his fraudulent film studio, and Dan Olson's tweet thread about James' obvious lies about his finances), he went into hiding for two weeks, and then put out the first of two apologies. He then deleted that one and put out another one a few weeks later. And then he immediately deleted that one.

While his first apology was rambling, vague, and dramatic (lots of sniffing/crying), and his second was more measured, thought-out, and totally batshit (lots of hilariously and bizarrely implausible excuses for why he'd done what he'd done), they had roughly the same points:

Not ALL of his stuff was plagiarized! Actually, a lot of it wasn't! No specifics as to what, though!

Most of the stuff that was plagiarized was just a failure to properly cite sources, as he had no idea that putting someone's name in your end credits or video description (without specifying what parts are attributable to that person or disclosing that you are using their words verbatim) is not sufficient credit,

Also, he totally had permission, in some cases, to use their work verbatim prior to publishing the video (this is not true, and is disproven both in Harry's video and his own screenshots);

He definitely didn't commit fraud with Telos and would soon have a good explanation for where the money went! (he did not)

He was going to keep the videos up so that he could either donate the funds from any monetization to the fund Harry had set up for his victims or to "help Nick's portfolio" by showcasing his work;

He lost his best friend (i.e. Nick) over these allegations, who absolutely definitely wasn't a scapegoat, except Nick was also responsible for a lot of the stuff James was being criticized for;

He was going to keep the videos up so he could either donate the advertising proceeds to Harry's fund for his victims (first apology) or to "help Nick's portfolio" by showcasing the work he'd done; and

As a result of this entire ordeal, he had attempted either self-harm or suicide (he merely alluded to "doing something stupid").

Again, his response was to 1) downplay the severity of his actions or flat out ignore allegations against him, 2) come up with ridiculous excuses for his behavior, 3) throw Nick under the bus, and 4) claim to be in mortal danger. As far as I am aware, he has never taken any concrete action to make amends to any person, not even donating money to charity.

This was coupled with some kind of attempt to profit: monetizing his apology videos, closing and then reopening his Patreon right before the monthly charge cycle happened (totally to let people unfollow him, not at all as a grab for that money), creating a new Patreon under a different name, and changing his Twitter and Youtube handles to distance himself from the controversy while gathering new followers.

At one point (I forget if this was on Twitter or Instagram), he also said that someone had broken into his apartment due to the notoriety he'd received from Harry's video. I believe that was after his first apology, when people started to point out that he'd just changed the name of his Twitter and Youtube channel and had restarted a new Patreon under a pseudonym. (BTW, the pseudonym he used for his new Patreon was "The Gay Raconteur"; this will be important later).

It had what I think was the desired effect: any attempt at pointing out that he was rebranding his grift now came across as weirdly fixated on minor things he was doing, which certainly wasn't worth putting him in physical danger. (Again, he has never provided any proof of this happening, nor provided any evidence that these people allegedly threatening him were, in fact, in some way inspired by Hbomb).

So along comes March 5, 2024, and James posts a suicide note on his Twitter, saying that he is going to set up his videos to automatically publish (for Nick's portfolio), provide in some way for the ad revenue to go to a suicide prevention nonprofit, and then kill himself.

The immediate response from the internet was compassion and totally chilling any further criticism, since you might be callously criticizing a dead person. Harry and Kat worked for a couple of days to get a wellness check for him while a substantial section of the internet called them murderers.

On March 6, a day after the note was published, Nick tweeted that that he had cause to believe James was fine. Kat confirmed that James was safe on March 11. Due to the drama of the "suicide attempt," however, the chill on criticizing James stayed in place for months.

And then yesterday Lady Emily, one of the cowriters for Sarah Z., drops two more bombs:

James has not one but two alt accounts that he was using to rebrand and start over.

The first one was created between his first and second apologies, and originally was for "The Gay Raconteur" until he changed it to "Will"/"thatgayyouknow" and, later, "The Achillean Boy."

The second one was much older, under the pseudonym "Mikey JB," and used stolen pictures from Grindr instead of his own face. However, it is pretty obvious that it is, in fact, a sockpuppet account and not just some other person who happens to like James, as detailed below.

Both accounts, both between apologies and after his "suicide," talked about how criticism of James was unfair because the plagiarized stuff was "like a decade old" and repeating the same excuses that James had also made.

The "Mikey JB" account not only supported James, but actively threw Nick under the bus, saying that a criticized part of a video "reeks of his co-writer."

On March 6, the day after James' main Twitter posted the suicide note, The Achillean Boy account was hornyposting about Ryan Phillipe. James didn't even take a day or two off of Twitter. If he had been completely off Twitter for a couple of days, that could have been an indication that he really had hurt himself and was unable to access his phone, or at the very least unaware of the panic. But he wasn't. He was aware of it and did nothing. Actually, no! Worse than nothing!

On the same day (March 6), the Mikey JB account was actively contradicting Nick saying he was okay (they "haven't spoken in months" so there's no way Nick could know if he was alive) and saying that "people like you" i.e. his critics, "drove him to it." Not only did he ignore the panic he'd intentionally created, he actively drove it.

He saw people going emotionally through the wringer over the idea that they might have somehow caused his death, and intentionally made them keep thinking it. He say people calling his critics "murderers" for "driving him to his death," and he joined in.

Why am I explaining all of this? I want to make a couple of things extremely clear, and the context is necessary to my ultimate points, namely:

James Somerton didn't merely "credit people improperly;" he conned his followers out of more money than some people make in a year with the Telos con, while raking in thousands more per month on Patreon and buying expensive equipment, while claiming to be near insolvency and in desperate need of money.

James Somerton has never taken full responsibility for his actions or attempted to make amends. He has only ever tried to dodge responsibility, particularly by throwing Nick under the bus.

Every time he has ever been criticized, for any reason, he has lied about threats to his life to gain sympathy and quell criticism. This is a standard part of his MO. He has done this over and over and over again. At this point, I think if he says the sky is blue, someone should go out and check first before doing anything.

"But BB, what if he really is getting harassed/threatened or really is suicidal?"

So, okay: people who are attempting to manipulate you may use legitimate problems as a tool. It doesn't need to be fake to be effective - in fact, it might be more effective if it it's true. An abusive ex who says "if you leave me, I'll kill myself" and genuinely means it and actually attempts it (and possibly even succeeds!) is a lot harder to leave than someone who says the same thing but is clearly just bluffing, because the threat is real.

My rule of thumb in these cases is to treat the threat like it's real, without caving to the intended manipulation. Whether your ex is lying or telling the truth when they say, "I'll kill myself if you leave me," the appropriate response in both cases is to immediately call a mental health service or supportive family member. If it's fake, it's inconvenient for them; if it's real, you reacted appropriately. Your response needs to be the same regardless.

You don't get back together with them because it's a real threat (presumably you wouldn't do that if you knew it was fake and they were never in any danger), and you don't tell them that they're a piece of shit who should be dead (HOPEFULLY you wouldn't do that if you knew for a fact that they were telling the truth).

In this case, I am extremely confident in saying that he was coldbloodedly lying the entire time and was never once threatened, and certainly not to the degree he claimed to be. But even if he wasn't, that does not and should not change anyone's behavior in terms of holding him accountable.

And I mean actually holding him accountable: making sure he doesn't try to start a new con on new people, continuing to point out that he hasn't paid anyone back for his previous con (so long as it's still true), that sort of thing. It doesn't mean people should tell him he should go die for real or, I don't know, try to get him fired if he gets a job at Tim Horton's or Target or something else that's not fraud. That would be wrong regardless of whether he's actually in danger or not. The point is to avoid being cruel without negotiating with terrorists.

Video sources and links under the cut:

youtube

Links:

It's like Breaking Bad, but backwards: a brief history of how Somerton successfully screwed himself Dan Olson's Twitter thread about the financial fraud My Year With James: Todd's post explaining the backstory of his video (Patreon-locked) DJSO#: Dan Olson's breakdown of James' second apology (Patreon-locked) Lady Emily's Twitter threads revealing James' alt accounts, part 1 and part 2

#hbomberguy #internet drama #personal #james somerton

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florencemtrash · 1 year ago

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The Ballad of the Shadowsinger

Azriel x Reader Oneshot

“Because I’m waiting for my mate to call me home.” The Shadowsinger said, “Because I’m waiting to die.”

Warnings: ANGST with a happy ending, mentions of attempted SA and suicidal ideation (they're very brief, but please do read with caution)

Author's note: I finished this at 3am last night and I think it's pretty apparent... buuuuuut I'm going to post it anyway. Enjoy...

The Shadowsinger arrived one winter night, curling into existence on the border of town like cream through coffee. Jadhan was only a boy at the time - painfully human with a broken leg that had never healed properly. The Midlands were a terrible place for a child to grow up - a place where the only thing more unstable than the ground was its sense of safety.

But things changed when the Shadowsinger arrived, bringing with him gold and the brutal violence required to scare off the bandits and murders that slipped in from the nearby Lordship. And when the Lord came for the Shadowsinger’s head, it was the fae male was the one who walked away from the fight. Except it wasn’t a fight. It was a slaughter.

Jadhan was thirty-seven now with three young boys that had come in a cluster, forcing their way into the world one after another. Sasha had never been quite pleased with him for that, but her love for her sons and her husband outweighed the pain and hardship in the end.

The boys - Mikhail, Alzhar, and Zhik - ran around the tavern, ducking beneath tables and barstools while their height still allowed it. The Shadowsinger watched them with the faintest of smiles as they clambered about, begging for more attention from his shadows.

There was little known about the Shadowsinger this deep into the Continent, but whispers still passed through the mouths of travelers at the inn. The most common piece of gossip was that he was a Prythian outlaw - banished to the Continent after attempting to kill his Lord. Jadhan didn’t know - and he figured he would never find out.

The Shadowsinger was so quiet that no one even knew his real name. They all called him Shadowsinger - Shadow for short. He disappeared into the woods at night and stalked into town come morning, but give a shout at any time and he would be there, flying overhead like a black stormcloud.

“On the house, Shadow.” Jadhan said, dropping the glass onto the sticky counter. Whisky neat, two fingers - just the way he liked it.

The Shadowsinger picked it up, swirling the amber liquid around like he hoped it would start talking to him, “You say that every night.”

“That’s because a free drink is the least I could get you.” Jadhan tipped his head towards the rickety stage where the local songbirds were setting up. The singer, Phaedra, had her eyes on Shadow, sending love and gratitude his way like a flood, “Phaedra’s been telling everyone what you did for her. You know, with the Morois boy.”

Shadow grimaced, taking his first sip. He grimaced again. The whiskey was home-brewed and tasted like it. Everyone in town said a shot of the stuff could kill a man, but Shadow was hardly a man, and more shadow than fae.

Lev Morois had had his eyes on Phaedra for a while now. And he didn’t like to be denied anything, especially women. Normally he traveled to the Lordship for his fill, and he would have been better off going there last night. Instead he’d forced his way into Phaedra’s home… and Shadow had made sure he’d never be able to hurt a woman like that ever again.

“How old are your boys now, Jadhan?” His voice was deep and smoky.

The trio neared closer, as if they knew they’d been summoned. The eldest, Mikhail, nearly crashed into the countertop, forgetting he had to bend down now. A tendril of black shadow shot out, muffling the blow and corralling him back out onto the open dancefloor with the rest of the children.

Jadhan sighed and rubbed at a burned spot on the counter, “Too old, and growing faster than weeds.”

It was a sweet pain for Azriel to see the three brothers romping around. It was almost winter and soon enough they’d be wrestling in the frosted fields, shoving snow down each other’s shirts, and hurling it at each other's heads.

When was the last time he’d seen his brothers? Cassian had stopped by twenty-five years ago, shocked and scared to see Azriel looking so wretched. The next time Azriel’s shadows had warned him, and they’d sent Cassian away.

Rhysand was a different story… he’d never forgiven Azriel for what he’d done - and rightfully so - but that didn’t make the pain any easier to swallow. That didn’t make Azriel miss them any less.

He tossed the rest back and, to Jadhan’s surprise, he let the barkeep refill it.

Again.

And again.

Phaedra’s voice crooned over the crowd, settling over drunk men and women like a warm blanket until it was time for their sober partners to drag them home. Those who were alone either settled into the hard booths for a nap or resigned themselves to a stumble home in the dark. They’d all make it to their beds in the end - The Shadowsinger would see to that.

He dropped a gold coin onto the counter - triple what the night’s libations actually cost. It was the briefest of stumbles that had Jadhan gripping onto the male’s shoulder and forcing him back into his seat.

Azriel wasn’t drunk. It would take an ocean of human liquor to get a fae drunk and then some. But he was starting to feel something.

“I got a pinch of ambrose from a merchant passing through.” Shadow’s eyes snapped up to Jadhan, who only raised his hands in surrender, “Hey, hey, hey, I know you don’t drink my whiskey for the taste, so I thought I'd put something in there to remind you of home. Something to loosen you up like liquor is supposed to.”

The Shadowsinger winced at that word: Home.

“Very well.” He said.

The boys had gone home with Sasha hours ago, and without them running about with their usual compatriots, the tavern seemed dull. Now was no longer the time for dancing and riotous laughter. Now was the time for the sad drunks and those who didn’t want to go home.

But Azriel wasn’t drunk and he desperately wanted to go home.

It was the shame that kept him rooted to the stool like a stubborn weed… that and Rhysand’s promise that if he ever laid eyes on Azriel again, he’d rip the wings off his back.

Jadhan seemed to understand that about him, leaning over the counter on sturdy arms thick as tree trunks. His leg was still lame, always had been and always would be, but that had never held him back much.

“What’re you doing here, Shadow?”

His hazel eyes flickered up.

“What’s it been? Twenty-five years you’ve been in town now?”

“Thirty. Exactly.”

So that was why the Shadowsinger had drank so much that night. It was to commemorate the sad, terrible anniversary of his banishment to the Midlands.

“Don't you think that's long enough? I don’t mean any offense, but don't you have anywhere else to go? Friends? Family?”

The male gritted his teeth and Jadhan had the sinking feeling he'd just poked the bear.

“I thought I was wanted here.”

“Of course you are. Hell, we’d all be dead or piss poor if it weren’t for you.” Jadhan shook his head, “I don’t know what you’re running from - if you’re a thief, a murderer, a treasonous bastard or all of the above-”

Shadow flinched, actually flinched, and Jadhan knew it was all of the above.

“But whatever it is,” He continued, “I think you’ve made up for it.”

Azriel stilled, shadows continuing to swirl around the wet, empty glass in front of him.

How he wished those words were true, but only a human would think thirty years was a long time. They were nothing if not optimistic.

“No. I haven’t.” Shadow said flatly. Silence stretched between them, thick and heavy, until Jadhan finally sighed and went to clear the glass.

“I had a mate.” He whispered the words so quietly, Jadhan almost didn’t hear him.

His thick eyebrows disappeared into his receding hairline. He didn’t know much about fae customs and the ones he did know about were often violent, strange, or both… usually both. But he had a great deal of respect for mating bonds and understood they were prized above all else to fae.

“Had?”

Shadow’s lips flattened into a thin line and Jadhan could have sworn his eyes began to brim with years.

The Shadowsinger nodded stiffly.

“Dead?”

Shadow gritted his teeth and nodded once more, wings drooping low enough to brush against the sawdust packed floor.

Jadhan sighed so deeply he seemed to shrink into himself, and Azriel was once again struck by how quickly humans aged.

Silver streaks were already beginning to color his temples and his leg was getting stiffer and stiffer each day. It wouldn't be long until he was forced to swallow his pride and buy a cane like Sasha had been suggesting.

It seemed like just yesterday Jadhan had limped his way into the woods, calling out for the Shadowsinger with a copper coin clenched in his fist and a bargain to make.

Kill my father, and I will do anything you ask of me. Anything at all.

There had been such determination in the little boy’s body that Azriel hadn’t hesitated to fold his small fingers back over the coin and then do what he had been told… to do what he’d always been told to do.

“I’m sorry, Shadow.” He shook his graying hair, “I’m so sorry.”

Azriel grimaced, fists tightening until they turned pale, “Don’t feel sorry for me. Don’t you dare.”

He frowned, “And why not?”

The Shadowsinger stilled and got quiet again, “Because it was my fault. I killed her.”

Jadhan, for all his mortal naivete, didn’t look surprised at his answer. He only twisted his mouth to the side in thought before asking once again, "Why are you here, Shadow? Why don't you leave?"

Azriel looked at him, hazel eyes filled with despair.

He would never tell Jadhan this, but he’d always been envious of humans for one thing - they could die of old age. They could be killed easily. So easily that all it would take was one flick of Azriel's wrist and Jadhan would be no more.

Fae were not so easy to kill, and their only end was a violent one. Maybe that was why Rhys had banished him to the middle of the Continent where life was harsh but simple, and fae were nowhere to be found.

No one here was strong enough to kill him. Azriel would know - he’d spent the first five years on the Continent searching for a way to die and getting into so many bloodbaths it had lost its luster.

“Because I’m waiting for my mate to call me home.” The Shadowsinger said, “Because I’m waiting to die.”

___

There were many reasons Azriel built his house in the woods. Firstly, he liked the privacy Secondly, when the nightmares came, there was no telling the damage he could do.

Tonight’s dreams were especially violent and cruel to him.

Elain appeared before him, sweet and delicate as a dove and despite knowing better, he couldn’t help but follow her into the darkness like a fly to a carnivorous flower. It wasn’t her fault - he should have known better than to drag them both into this mess. She’d been reckless, hungry for some semblance of control in this new and strange world, and he had been all too willing to play the role of the selfless knight.

When she kissed him it felt wrong, but like every other night, he was too powerless to push away. This was how it had happened, and there was no changing that.

She whispered against his lips, “Thank you for coming for me.”

Azriel’s stomach twisted, because two people had gone on the mission into Beron’s lair, and two people had come out. Azriel had wrapped his arms around Elain’s silky body after saving her, and left you behind.

He followed Elain further, chasing her shimmering pink skirts onto the Autumn Court battlefield where she dove into the grasses and disappeared.

This was where it truly went wrong.

He caught sight of you on the hill, blood blooming like roses from where the ash arrows pierced your flesh. Your wings were gone and you leaned too far backward, still feeling their phantom weight against your back. That was what it had taken to bring you down. That was what it had taken for Beron to break you.

It was like a bolt of lightning running through his body when the bond snapped into place. Your bruised eyes shot open and you fought against the chains, horror freezing your heart.

Azriel would know, because he felt it all.

“AZ! NO!”

Beron’s ax caught the light as it came down on your neck and this wonderful thing he’d dreamt about for over five hundred years was snatched away from him.

Azriel shot up in bed, skin slick and suffocating under the blankets. He kicked them off his body, taking big, desperate gulps of air as his stomach and shadows settled down.

He rubbed his chest, feeling that hollow space where the bond used to be.

He’d had you for less than a minute… he should have had an eternity with you. You should have had an eternity with all of them.

On the day you died, Rhys and Cassian had also lost a sister. Feyre and Nesta had lost a best friend. Cassian may have been quick to forgive him, but Rhys could never. He’d already lost one sister. Nothing could have prepared him to lose you too.

Shadows swarmed around him and he already knew his powers had wrecked the roof once again. Moonlight streamed through the newly made hole in the ceiling, pooling around his shaking form. He imagined it was the Mother staring down at him with her unblinking eye. Disappointed. Angry.

The mating bond had been utterly wasted on him.

“I’m-I’m sorry, Y/n.” He gasped out, trembling. He wrapped his wings around his shaking shoulders, as if that would be enough to shield him from what he’d done.

Once again he was that little boy trapped in the cellar. Abandoned. Unloved. Alone. But this time he deserved it.

“Please. Please.” He begged. He begged for the madness to take him. He begged for an end to his eternal life.

“I want to come home.” He sobbed. “Please. I want to come home.”

You stood before him at the foot of the bed - a vision that had arrived three days after coming to the Midlands and never left. You looked at him sadly, your white dress hanging still despite the breeze that flowed through the room. But you didn’t say a word. You didn’t say anything at all.

___

Jadhan was fifty-five now. The Shadowsinger still came to the tavern every night, drank his whiskey on the house, and left once the songs were over.

Mikhail had left at eighteen, chasing after opportunities on the edge of the Continent. Zhik had died the year before - the youngest and the weakest of the trio. Not even the Shadowsinger could fight the cold that came for him in the Winter and stole him away before Spring.

Now it was Alzhar and Jadhan that ran the tavern. Alzhar who poured the Shadowsinger his drinks.

“On the house.” He said, sliding the glass along the countertop. Whiskey. Two fingers. Just how the Shadowsinger liked it.

“Thanks, Alzhar.” He raised the glass in the air before tossing it back in one shot, grimacing. Either he was getting older, or the whiskey had gotten worse.

Snow flurried past the windows, more rain than anything else.

“Happy Solstice day.” The Shadowsinger said with the faintest of smiles.

“Happy Solstice day.”

It was no grand holiday in the Midlands, and it certainly could never hold a candle to the festivities that were going on in Velaris, but still, Azriel would take whatever comfort he could get.

Phaedra had quietly retired from singing, opting to strum along with her guitar in the background. But her daughter led the band now, a vibrant star in the midst of these quiet lands with a smoky voice that was only rivaled by her mother.

“Happy Solstice day, everyone!” The tavern-goers cheered and a new generation of children shrieked from their spots closest to the stage. “Now I know it’s not looking too great outside, but we all know what dear old, Phaedra says.”

“Are you calling me old, Miss Devra?” Phaedra hollered, red painted lips turned down in a frown.

“I’m calling you a dear, Mama. You’re still as young as a rosebud in April.”

“That’s right!” Alzhar whooped. Phaedra winked and blew her future son-in-law a kiss.

Devra’s smile was positively radiant, “Alright, alright well whatever. She says daisies look brightest when they’re down in the shits, but that’s not really the most appetizing turn of phrase now is it?”

Everyone erupted in a mixture of laughter and cheer.

“Come on now, Dev.” Alzhar called out, “You’ve kept us waiting long enough. Sing!”

She rolled her eyes playfully, “Well since you asked so kindly,” She cleared her throat and began to croon,

“When my mama first warned me you’ve got trouble on your tail, I told her foxes are quick runners and my heart ain’t just for sale. I won’t be wooed by sweet flowers or sugar tea on ice, I just want someone who’ll love me and who’ll never think twice. I’ve-”

The tavern door burst open, letting in a howling blast of night-chilled air tinged with rain and frost. Everyone cringed back except Shadow, clutching at their thick coats and gasping at the sight of the being that came in from the darkness.

The female was anything but cold with her shining, warm eyes and radiant skin. She glowed like she'd been brushed with an otherworldly glimmer. She was sunlight shooting through crystal.

Dev stopped singing immediately, her hands slipping from the worn out strings with a strangled thrum.

The Shadowsinger stumbled, actually stumbled, to his feet, and the world seemed to fall silent.

Shadows shot out towards her, curling around her legs and licking the hem of her midnight blue coat. She was the moonlit darkness given form, delicate and fierce at the same time.

“Azriel.” She breathed out, finally giving a name to the nameless fae. “Azriel.” She repeated, still in disbelief.

The Shadowsinger - Azriel - walked forward without a sound, his scarred hands shaking at his sides.

She looked ready to throw her arms around him. Whether it was to embrace him or strangle him was yet to be seen.

Before she could make a move or say anything further, he dropped to his knees, head bowed and trembling. He swallowed thickly, keeping his eyes trained on the floor between her feet like he was scared to even look at her straight on.

If he had been looking at her, he would have seen the horrified shock that parted her lips and widened her eyes.

He pulled out that sleek obsidian blade he carried with him everywhere. The knife seemed to hum, the silent sound reverberating through the room and causing the air above it to warp.

Everyone knew that that knife was as much a part of him as his wings. But he held it out to her now like an offering, wings stretching open so that everyone could see the orange glow of the fire through the thin membrane, and the tendons that flowed through them like rivers.

Alzhar looked to his father in confusion. Was this some fae custom he wasn't aware of? Should they all be bowing to her? Perhaps she was their queen.

But his father only let out a slow breath, shoulders sinking down.

The Shadowsinger was the picture of reverent misery, and he would let her take whatever she wanted for her revenge.

His wings.

His life.

Anything...

Because I’m waiting for my mate to call me home.

That was what the Shadowsinger had revealed to him years ago, and Jadhan had never forgotten it.

Because I’m waiting to die.

Her beautiful face crumpled, then turned resolute. She ignored the blade, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt and hauling him up to his feet. Azriel’s eyes blew open in surprise.

“You bastard. You absolute bastard.” She said, her silky voice shaking, “I’ve been looking for you for years.”

“Y/n,” Azriel whispered reverently, “I-”

She slammed her lips against his, swallowing whatever desperate apology had been about to escape his mouth.

The Shadowsinger froze, then slowly melted into her touch, wrapping his arms around her waist so tightly it was a miracle her ribs didn’t snap. Shadows swirled around the pair in a perfect mixture of light and dark - like moonlight bleeding through winter clouds.

No one in the tavern could stand to look away. They were absolutely transfixed. Some great power was moving in the world and they could feel it. Magic or not, it demanded to be felt.

When the two fae finally pulled away from each other, gasping for breath, something in the earth seemed to crack open and shake the ground, releasing pressure that had been building for hundreds and hundreds of years.

Tears slipped out of her eyes, salty and not entirely unwelcome.

“Oh, Az.” She whispered, cradling his face with one hand and clutching her chest with the other. The Shadowsinger was weeping now, curling into her like a vine seeking sunlight, “How could I have forgotten this?”

He buried his face in her neck, breathing in the scent of elderflower and mountain pine like a man starved. His shadows grew around him, thick and powerful. And before anyone could even let out a strangled gasp, they disappeared with a whisper of smoke and shadow.

You reappeared in darkness, holding Azriel’s shaking body against you like an anchor to a ship.

“I’m here, Az. I’m here.” You gently shushed him, tangling your fingers through his hair.

You scanned the room finding nothing but a rickety bed and a dresser in the corner by way of furniture, and a small pile of firewood against the wall.

Moonlight streamed in through the roof and you held out a hand, latching onto the rays and weaving them together so tightly they filled the room with a silver glow.

“Az.” You whispered, all your attention turned back on him, on your mate. "Az." You gently shook him, pressing fervent kisses to his temple until he finally lifted his eyes.

Azriel looked exhausted, purple bruises shading the hollows beneath his gorgeous eyes.

“How-” Azriel gasped, “How is this-”

“Bryaxis brought my body to the Cauldron.” You finished, equally out of breath, “It took him years to put me back together but… he did it. He did it, Az.”

Azriel closed his eyes, sinking to his knees. This time you let him fall. And you fell with him, climbing into his lap so he could bury his face in your wind-swept hair.

Home.

You smelled like home to him.

“Promise me." He begged, "Promise me you’re real, Y/n. Please, promise me. I’ll-I'll do anything." He could feel you on the other end of the bond, your heart pulsing and alive. But… he didn’t know if he'd be able to survive if he woke in the morning to find that this was all some terribly perfect dream.

“I’m here, Az. I’m here.” You replied thickly, “I’m here and I’m whole.” You tugged off your coat, throwing it somewhere behind you, and pulled down the neck of your sweater. A thick line of scar tissue wrapped around your throat, one of the many physical reminders of the horrors Beron had put you through.

Azriel stilled, one hand daring to trace the pale flesh with a feather-light touch. “I… I did this.”

“No...No.” You whispered, brushing away the moisture that had collected on his cheeks, “You didn’t do this, Az.”

“I left you behind.” His voice broke. “I took Elain and I left you behind. Y/n, I’m so sorry. Please, I’m so sorry.”

You flinched and closed your eyes. It was one of your worst memories to date - the sight of Azriel’s broken face as the first ash arrow caught you in the back and brought you to the ground. The second was what had done you in, piercing through the membrane of your wings and digging into the ground, pinning you there.

Azriel had only gripped Elain’s golden form closer to his body. He could only fly one of you out, and in that moment he had made his choice and leapt into the sky.

Azriel felt your emotion through the bond and desperation flooded his system once again.

He couldn’t lose you. Not again. Not like this. Not when he had so much to make up for.

“I know what I did, Y/n. I know it was unforgivable, but I swear to you I will do anything you ask. Whatever it takes. If you’ll just give me a chance, I- ”

“Shhhhhhh.” You shook your head, pressing your finger to his lips and silencing him. “I forgive you, Az.” You said, cupping his face.

He immediately leaned into your touch, craving the feeling of your soft skin against his.

“I don’t-I don't want to think about that anymore. Trust me, I’ve spent the last half a century agonizing over it.” You said, smiling without humor.

His hands rubbed up and down your back, tracing the ruined remnants of your wings and silently begging you to explain.

You hesitated, collecting your words and speaking them carefully, “I would have come sooner but… I was so scared and confused about everything. My body didn’t feel like mine anymore without my wings with-'' Your hand flew up to your throat on instinct.

Azriel gently pulled your fingers away, kissing the pads of your fingertips all the way to your palm, and then your wrist. His lips brushed against the pulsing vein as soft as a feather. It was such a small point of contact, but it grounded you to reality.

“I couldn’t remember anything. It was like… like I was starting from scratch. Building my life from the ground up.”

Azriel repeated the gesture with your other hand, soft lips skimming over your skin until you shivered, “I’m sorry I wasn’t there.” He whispered softly, “I should have been there.”

“You didn’t know.”

“I should have known.”

You looked at him for a long time, drinking in the sight of him and refamiliarizing yourself with his face. He did the same with you.

He looked tired and thinner than you remembered, the elegant planes of his face now harsh and sharp. But buried beneath all those years of loneliness, he was still there - your Azriel. The male who never did anything in half-measures. The male who couldn’t help but make some of the most impulsive decisions you’d ever seen in your life, and also some of the most careful.

Gods, you’d missed him.

You'd missed talking to him and laughing with him. You'd missed the simple joy of being in his presence and the way that the world seemed to fall with hush whenever he entered a room.

“I came for you as soon as I remembered.” You brushed a strand of inky black hair from his forehead, and then flicked him. Hard. “But you just had to go and disappear on the Continent without a trace.”

That wasn’t completely true. He’d left bloody, brutal footprints for a while, but those had dried up too quickly.

The smile Azriel gave was weak and dull, but it was a start, “I’m sorry I kept you waiting, Y/n.”

“That’s alright." You murmured against his lips before kissing him, "You can make it up to me.”

Azriel’s heart leapt in his chest, and the bond responded in kind, singing louder than a choir of a thousand songbirds. Even after all this time, even after everything, the Shadowsinger hoped.

“Y/n-” That light began to dim, hateful voices whispering in his ear that he was unworthy of you, that he would destroy this chance at happiness just as swiftly as he’d done the first time, that he would ruin it all, “I don’t deserve-”

“Stop it, Az.” Your words were soft but commanding, “I don’t care about what you think you deserve or don’t deserve. I want you. I want my best friend back. I want you back.” You wiped the tears from your cheeks, “I want you back in Velaris, and if it turns out I’m still pissed at you for everything, we’ll figure it out, ok?”

You took a shaky breath and Azriel looked up at you in awe. He gathered you in his arms and captured your lips in a softer, more gentle kiss. A kiss that said, I’m tired. I’m so so tired and for the first time in my life I’m going to force the voices that tell me terrible things to be silent.

And it worked for a spell, but Azriel was pulling away again, looking guilty.

“Rhys-”

“I’ve already handled Rhys.”

His brow arched up every so slightly. Your guilty eyes flitted to the side.

You loved Rhys like a brother, and you fought with him like siblings do. That was why the last thing you'd done before leaving Velaris was force him to lift the banishment... and then you'd punched him in the face.

“I wasn’t exactly happy with him when I found out he banished you to the Continent. And to the Midlands too. I’ve heard it’s terribly boring here.”

Azriel smiled, and this time it was a genuine one full of love and relief, “Everywhere is terribly boring without you. And terribly painful.”

“That’s a very good answer.” You replied, feeling that a great weight had been lifted off your chest.

He held you in a gentle caress, tracing your brow bone and the curve of your lips and committing the feeling of you to memory.

This was real. This was real. This was real.

You both folded in on each other like paper houses laid to rest, until you were tangled up on the floor. There was a perfectly functional bed not even four feet away, but even that seemed like too much effort after everything that had happened.

Azriel wrapped his wings protectively around you, settling down with his head against your chest so he could hear your heartbeat. You hummed in tired contentment, peppering his forehead with kisses as your eyelids began to droop.

“I want to go home, Azriel,” You murmured, “I want to go home with you.”

Home.

Azriel swallowed thickly, “We’ll leave tomorrow first thing in the morning. I promise.”

You opened a bleary eye, examining your mate quietly, “Do you not want to say goodbye?”

Azriel kissed your chest, right over your heart. Thirty years ago he would have said yes. He would have taken time to get his affairs in order and to make sure Jadhan and his sons, Phaedra and Devra, and the rest were taken care of. But things had changed, and he knew that no matter what, they would be alright. They would live and travel and fall in love. If they were lucky, they’d experience the joy of dying in their sleep surrounded by loved ones at the end of a long and eventful road.

“No. No, I don’t think so.”

You pressed one final kiss to his forehead, absorbing him in the warmth of your arms. Azriel sighed, hanging onto the golden thread in his chest that wrapped around his soul and bound him to you.

“They’ll be ok, my love.” You murmured.

And so will we. You whispered the promise down the bond, soft and gentle.

He closed his eyes, pressing the words I love you into your skin.

“I know.” He whispered to the night sky once your breathing had evened out, “I know.”

That night at the tavern felt like a dream - the kind that left you groggy and awestruck when you initially awoke, and then slipped away like water cupped in a child’s hands.

Everything seemed louder than before, even though the townspeople walked about in a contemplative daze. It was the forest. That’s what it was. It hummed more brightly. The blanket of power that had rested over the treetops for decades had lifted overnight.

No one spoke of the events aloud - they were too aware of the enormity of what they’d witnessed - but they all knew the truth.

The Shadowsinger had finally been called home.

___

“Quick!” Alzhar’s eldest son, Samu, called out to the twins. They hobbled over as quickly as their stout legs could carry them.

“Samu,” Niran whined, “I’m tired.”

“Papa said to be back by dark.” Rhaan reminded them all. The only trademark that separated him from his twin brother was the flash of blond through his ruddy brown hair. White-tailed deer they called him.

“I want dinner.”

“Me too.”

Samu looked over the hills where the sun was sliding down the sky like rain on a window.

“But we haven’t found the house yet!” He protested.

“We’ve been searching for days.”

“Yeah, we’ve been searching for days.” Niran parroted.

“Of course we have!” He threw his hands up in the air, “Did you really think the Shadowhouse would be easy to find?” He clicked his tongue in disappointment, shaking his head, “Go back if you’re so scared. I’ll look for it myself.”

Niran and Rhaan looked at each other, identical frowns pulling at their lips. They wanted to prove their worth, but they were still younger than Samu, and their hunger mattered more.

“We’re telling Mama you didn’t listen.”

“I want your dessert.”

“Wait, no. I want it. Can we share?”

“I’m not sharing!”

Samu smiled triumphantly and stomped further into the woods, leaving the twins to their usual bickering.

The little boy sprinted back home hours later, a gleeful kick in his step. The sky was already turned pitch black, but the Mother had sprinkled out the stars like salt to guide him home.

Devra stood in the doorway with her hands on her hips, swollen belly blocking out the roaring firelight like an eclipse.

“Where have you been?” She gasped out, grabbing Samu’s head and holding him close to her stomach. Samu loved when she did this, convinced that his newest sibling would talk to him first.

Niran and Rhaan wanted another brother to tussle with, but Samu was hoping for a sister. She could tussle with them too, he was sure.

He ignored her question, grabbing her hand and hauling her back inside, “Papa! BaBa! I found it! I found the Shadowhouse.”

Niran and Rhaan popped out from their bedroom, clambering after their older brother as he dragged their mother along.

Jadhan and Alzhar looked up with relief. Jadhan’s hair had turned white as snow in his old age and hints of gray were beginning to sprout from Alzhar’s temples.

“Papa!”

“Samu, what have we told you about staying out past-”

“The Shadowsinger left something for you and Baba.”

“What?!” Jadhan sat up straighter, grimacing at the painful twist of his leg. He motioned his grandson closer, helping him climb onto the bed.

The little boy dropped the blue-velvet bag into his outstretched hands, leaning back on his heels with rapt attention. Samu, being the boy that he was, hadn’t opened it on the whole journey over and was now buzzing to learn what secrets it held within.

Jadhan was immediately startled by the weight of the parcel.

“Open it!”

“Wait! I want to see!”

“Help me up!”

Alzhar and Devra relented, picking up the twins and leaning close. Their own curiosity was itching to be satisfied.

Jadhan opened the bag and tipped it over spilling dozens of gold coins onto the quilt. Devra gasped, her hands flying up to her mouth. Alzhar didn’t bother hiding his shock, his mouth agape.

It was more money than they’d ever seen in their lives, Jadhan didn’t concern himself with it - he hadn’t had to worry about money in a long while. Instead, he picked up the slip of paper that had also fallen out, carefully unfolding it with trembling, wrinkled fingers.

For all the drinks “on the house” and for your son, Mikhail, who traveled to the edges of the Continent and made it possible for my mate to find me and bring me home.

Scrawled on the lower edge of the paper were more words, cramped and small like they’d been jotted down as an after-thought.

Also, your whiskey is absolutely disgusting. Never let anyone else drink it.

Everyone stilled, watching Jadhan carefully.

Without warning, the old man tipped his head back and roared with laughter.

Samu leaned back in surprise. His grandfather was a naturally solemn man, and he'd never heard him laugh so loudly and so fiercely.

Alzhar reached for the slip of paper, skimming the words quickly.

"No!" He cried out in disbelief, "Stop! This can't be. Devra, look-"

One by one the adults fell into fits of roaring laughter, collapsing onto Jadhan's bed or onto the floor. Even the boys cheered - confused but happy to be part of whatever story had just finished unfolding.

Jadhan was seventy-one years old when he died, and he died laughing, surrounded by his family at the end of a long road.

Down the street in the tavern, the band was still playing the same old songs, although they were being performed by yet another generation of songbirds. But, there was one new addition to the repertoire.

A song penned by Phaedra and aptly named The Ballad of the Shadowsinger years before her quiet passing.

It was always the last song of the night. Always. And it ended like this:

Come Solstice day

Come wind or rain

Now calls the heather

The Midlands will have no reason to dismay

For the Shadowsinger has been called home again

___________

Another author's note:

I feel like I threw in so many new human characters so I made a family tree. Ha!

Also, please enjoy the small essay I wrote last night after writing this oneshot...

From last night:

Listen, some red flags are just pale orange scraps of fabric when you’re an immortal non-human being who’s been alive for hundreds of years. Don’t come for me. I’m so tired. It’s 3am. I should sleep.

Ok, note from Florence B at 3:16am because I am making CONNECTIONS. Not all of this was intentional, but maybe it was? Maybe I’m just stringing connections after the fact. Maybe I’m a genius. Probably not, but still. I’m so tired, guys. Why am I doing this right now? I should be sleeping but I can’t sleep so I’m going to do this instead.

Buckle down folks for the essay I am about to write:

I have my qualms about the ACOTAR books, as I’m sure most people do. Don’t get me wrong, they’re wonderful reads and it’s the series that got me back into reading after college, but they’re not perfect by any means.

One thing I think that gets brushed under the rug (especially given how ALL the batboys fall for girls who are literally in their late teens/mid-twenties - it’s a major red flag but we forgive because it’s fiction) is how DIFFERENTLY fae experience time. LIke, these fuckers live hundreds, if not THOUSANDS of years. The only way they die is if they get killed, like purposely poisoned or stabbed or whatever have you. I tried to write this/touch upon this when Azriel describes how he’s jealous of Jadhan for his humanity and how no matter what, Azriel is stuck potentially living an ETERNITY with the reality of what he’s done. It’s why for me - personally - all the stuff about the mate bond driving males mad or the choice that Rhysand and Feyre make to bind their lives to one another kind of makes sense. Like, if I was faced with an eternal life sentence in a world that was as brutal and cruel as the ACOTAR universe is, HECK YEAH I MIGHT BIND MY LIFE TO SOMETHING/SOMEONE I CARED ABOUT! I’M NOT DOING THIS SHIT ALONE! You’ve gotta retire from the game at SOME point.

I know I probably made things really confusing by introducing a whole host of human characters spanning several generations (re: the family tree up above), but as I previously mentioned, I thought it was important to do this to contextualize/compare the lifespan of a fae to a normal human. While Jadhan is growing up, getting a job, getting married, having kids, Azriel is still struggling with his banishment to the Midlands and his own sense of self-worth. The line about Jadhan approaching Azriel and offering him money to kill his abusive father who broke his leg was thrown in there later on around the 1am mark. And I didn’t think of it much - I just wanted a reason for Azriel to know Jadhan personally throughout his life from childhood to old age. BUT! Now that I think I’m thinking about it more, it makes sense that Azriel would be able to accept Y/n’s forgiveness so quickly. He sees a lot of himself in young Jadhan and by helping him escape his abusive father(albeit by violent means) and watching him grow up into a strong man and a good father, Azriel’s helping heal his own inner child.

The kids! Oh my goodness I love the kids so much. Once I threw the first kid into the story I thought - fuck it, we’re going to make the parallelism painfully obvious with Azriel seeing himself, Rhys, and Cassian mirrored in Mikhail, Alzhar, and Zhik. Then of course I had to bring things around full circle and give Alzhar three boys and a girl on the way (yes, Devra is pregnant with a girl and Samu is going to shower her with all the love that Rhys gave his own sister).

Finally, I’m going to address any comments about Y/n forgiving Azriel too quickly. 1) I feel like it is a universally acknowledged/unacknowledged truth that no one hates Azriel as much as he hates himself. And no punishment could ever be worse than the self-loathing he feels for himself (NOTE: people, if a partner/romantic love interest/friend/crush/whatever EVER says this kind of stuff to you, drop them like a two-ton boulder. That’s a major red flag, but once again this is a fictional man/fae so we can let it slide). 2) Once again, these fae are literally HUNDREDS OF YEARS OLD. I can only speak for myself when I say this, but I feel like if I had known and loved someone for that long, I would be willing to forgive a lot and trust that time might be able to heal deeper wounds than humans are used to. Time is precious to us humans, we can’t always afford to wait and hope for things to get better on their own, but fae can.

Are those all my thoughts? I think those are all my thoughts. It’s 3:47am now. Oh jeez. To future me: I’m so sorry if you have to read this and it’s bad and you have a coffee-fueled headache all day because I fucked things up for us.

#azriel x reader #azriel x y/n #azriel x you #azriel x mate reader #azriel shadowsinger #azriel acotar #azriel angst #azriel x reader angst #ANNNNGGGSSSTTTT #angst #angst with a happy ending

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girlleon · 2 months ago

Text

BUSY BOY

fuckboy!leon x fem reader

warnings: suicide jokes, some slight secondhand embarrassment, unwanted advances, drinking. lots and lots of pining. everyone left fboy leon alone but I’m still here unfortunately. title taken from busy boy by chloe x halle.

Bright sunlight filtering through the blinds of someone’s unfamiliar dorm room wakes you up, red coloring your eyelids. Oh, fuck. You hit the vodka and rum and wine coolers a little too hard last night.

God, you should just bar yourself up in your room whenever you drink. You always make bad decisions when you’re blasted.

One time, you woke up in a ditch wearing someone else’s clothes.

Another time, you got arrested for biking home blasted out of your mind because that apparently counts as drunk driving.

This is the stupidest of all the decisions you made.

Leon snores in the bed next to you, one arm extended over his head and the other across his freckled chest.

He’s kinda cute when he’s not fucking with you, pink mouth parted and bangs falling into his eyes.

Like when you guys were in the same communications-slash-effective speech class and he made a persuasive presentation on why you should go out with him as part of one of the units. You don’t know how, but he actually got a good grade on it.

Maybe that criminal justice major is a perfect fit for him.

You, however, knew better, and made sure to keep away from him. Two words: community dick. Until yesterday.

Last night flashes through your mind—

Dancing. Grinding. Bright lights. Vodka. Making out so messy spit drips down your chin. Stumbling into his dorm room. Your back hits the door, then he hauls you into his arms and throws you onto the bed. More kissing. Oral. Sex three different ways before you both pass out.

—and you groan before you can stop yourself.

He shifts next to you, his snoring stopping.

You freeze and go deathly quiet, hoping against hope that he’ll stay asleep, changing a glance backwards.

Your prayers are answered because he goes right back to sawing logs, nearly crowding you out of bed because he starfishes when he sleeps. Fuckin’ figures. You know he’s not a selfish lover, but he’s gotta make up for it in other ways.

Fuck.

You gather up your clothes—all except your underwear, you couldn’t find that without turning his room upside down and waking him up.

Whatever, going commando’s better for you or some other hippie bullshit your mom texts you about.

You manage to make it out of his dorm without waking him up and hightail it to your own a couple minutes away, exchanging your clothes after a quick shower and brushing your teeth.

On your way to class—that you have with him somehow—you snag an energy drink and down half of it in the three minute walk to your class.

You look like you got dragged backward through a row of hedges, but at least you’re on time.

Leon, king of hearts, shows up five minutes late with a wave to the professor and parks his happy hungover ass on the other side of the room from you.

Good, you were hoping this would be one and done.

Class ends after an hour and you grab your things, getting up to flee before he has a chance to talk to you.

It’s too late, he’d already sauntered up to you while you were putting your notes away.

“Think you forgot something.” Leon says nonchalantly, then digs into his pocket and dangles your underwear from a finger, tongue poked between his teeth with a smile.

You might just hit him. You’re gonna knock his ass out and go to jail.

You snag the underwear from him with a scowl and he huffs a laugh, tucking his hands back into his sweatpant pockets as you shove your underwear into your own pockets.

Never mind, you might have to find a hole and crawl in it and never come out. Actually, campus has a pond that you could reasonably try to drown in like some sort of dark academia aesthetic post that’s a little too on the nose. But it seems like it’d be painful and take a long while.

You stomp out of the classroom and don’t look anyone in the eye, stopping to refill your water bottle and to find a corner to catch up on your work in, trying to put your embarrassing hookup out of your mind.

You fucking feel like everyone’s eyes are on you. Logically, you know they’re not. You know that they’re not and that people are too damn busy to stare at you.

You groan, rubbing your eyes after throwing down your pencil on your work.

Leon slides into the seat next to you. “Been avoiding me?” He asks, muscled arm sneaking over the back of your chair.

“We only had one class together.” You reply measuredly, a headache building in your temples and pressure behind your eyes.

“Two, since we count the speech class.” He replies easily, setting the back of his knee on the opposite foot.

“You’re such a fucking lawyer.” You mutter, picking up your homework pointedly. There’s no point, you’re no good at math, but hopefully, it irritates him that your attention isn’t on him.

Leon gives you a catlike smile, head tilting to the side. “That’s what I pay tuition for. I’d say it serves me well, since I got that A in the persuasive speech about why you should go out with me.”

Your eyes roll to the ceiling, an annoyed and unamused look on your face. “What the hell do you want?”

“To fuck you again.”

You actually look around when he says that, your face heating up. It’s ten in the morning, mind you. Thankfully, nobody gives a shit. His laugh catches your attention and you glare at him.

“Jesus. You’re acting like it’s such a big thing.” Leon rubs the back of his neck, then looks around disinterestedly. Since when has he had that tattoo of a lion? That’s a little on the nose.

“Shut the fuck up.”

He kisses his teeth, unable to fight a grin. “Harsh words.” He remains grinning when you smack him on the arm. “Ouch, that really hurt. Can you kiss it better?”

“Ew.” You enunciate each syllable in the word, brows raising as you lean slightly forward for emphasis.

That grin of his is implacable. Unstoppable force (your irritation) meets immovable object (his smile).

“You know you want me.”

Scratch that. Unstoppable force (your irritation) meets immovable object (his self-confidence).

When you only stare at him, Leon leans forward, pushing hair behind your ear, a far softer look in his eye than you’ve seen on him before.

Any stomach fluttering you may have felt is immediately undone by him smirking at you, that smug perma-smile on his face again. “I knew it.”

“No, you fucking didn’t.” You reply incredulously, that same feeling written all over your face. Your face heats all the way up, rivaling the sun itself, compounding your embarrassment.

“Mm-mm.” He pokes your cheek, leaning back in his seat, one corded forearm settling on the shared armchair.

He needs his ass beat, preferably by someone bigger than both of you so you can have the satisfaction of seeing him black and blue.

You get your wish a few days afterward, watching him waltz into class with a bruise on his cheek and split knuckles. This time, you walk up to him afterward. “You look like someone dragged you backward through a bush.” You say bluntly, sipping your coffee.

Leon smiles, pulling his bag over his shoulder and stepping away from the desk. “You’re a ray of sunshine this early in the morning.”

You take a step back so he can get out of the row. “Just saying. What’d you do?”

He shrugs blithely, pushing a hand into his pocket. “Barfight.”

Your eyebrow twitches up. “You lost?”

His head tilts to the side, a sly smile pulling at his mouth as he blatantly stares at your mouth. “You should see the other guy.”

Jesus Christ. Yeah, okay, now you kinda see why he pulls as many bitches as he does.

He steps a little closer. “Were you worried about me?”

Other kids filter into the classroom, so you walk away. This time, Leon follows you. “Remind me why you don’t want us to hook up again?” He says casually, grinning when you scowl at him.

You roll your eyes. “Because I don’t.”

“Disappointed?” He asks innocently, following you into the library building.

“No.” You say quickly, then scowl. “Yes.” Trick question, either way he’s going to try and argue that into his favor. Fucking lawyers.

He hisses through his teeth, that implacable grin on his face again. “Ouch. How can I make it up to you?”

“By leaving me alone.”

He pouts at you and you almost laugh. That’s probably what he wants, he wants you to laugh so he can worm his way into your good graces. He’s not a bad looking guy—and probably not so bad a guy—you just think he’s a hoe. Good for him, but he’s not for you.

He shrugs after staring at you for a bit, then walks away, whistling tunelessly.

That’s it?

That was not fucking it.

Since your little mishap with Leon, you’ve made it your mission to go for a party once every business month.

You had a good streak of not seeing him until you went to his frat. You figured, ‘Hey, what are the odds? The place will be packed. Needle in a haystack odds of seeing him.’

No such luck. He’s going shot for shot with a brother of his, face pleasantly flushed and blond hair tousled, an impish grin across his face and dimples out in full force.

You immediately turn the other way to avoid him, wandering back to your friends and dancing with them, going back in for shots whenever your drinks are too low.

What happens next is about Shakespearean levels of drama. The beginning scene is this: your friend has a guy grinding on her even though she’s told him to stop and is currently trying to get the hell away from him, you and your other mutual friend trying to bodily block him.

He calls her a stupid, ungrateful bitch, trying to step up to her as if he doesn’t have a head and at least thirty pounds on her.

She calls him a cunt and that makes everything worse.

“Bro.” Leon says, tapping his brother on the shoulder from the side. “Leave her alone, man,” He hiccups mid-sentence, turning his head away and hiccuping into the back of his hand. “she said no.”

Said brother slaps Leon’s hand away, a sneer on his face. “Fuck off, Leon.”

Leon shrugs and seems like he’s about to walk away until he bodily blocks the brother from your friend when he tries to step up again. “Dude, leave her alone. Go find some other girl.” He sounds a little like he’s sobering up.

The brother shoves Leon away, sending him back a step. Leon responds by clocking him in the jaw and knocking his ass to the floor, shaking out his hand and jumping headfirst into the scuffle less than a second later.

They break apart in about five minutes, Leon sporting a bloody lip and a butterfly bruise on his jaw and the brother with a lot more wear and tear.

Leon keeps himself between the brother and your cluster of girls until the brother spits at his feet and storms off to lick his wounds.

“Are you fucking stupid?” you ask immediately, silently amazed that he’s not more hurt. You saw the other guy he got in a bar fight with about a month ago and he looked like he lost a fight with a deer, so you should maybe not be so surprised.

He chuckles, wiping a streak of blood from his lip on the meaty side of his thumb. “I’m drunk.”

You look at him as if he grew two heads. “Yeah?” Obviously, you mean.

You never would’ve taken him for a bloodthirsty son of a bitch. He just seems so unassuming, frat boy antics aside. Maybe that’s his cover. Maybe all his criminal justice classes taught him how to be a better criminal.

The fight somehow didn’t sour the night, everyone as they were once Leon’s frat brother walks away to cool off, bass shaking the floor.

When Leon goes to the kitchen, you follow him and stop him from taking a swig of gin straight from the bottle and using it as antiseptic.

When you look around, you realize there’s no rubbing alcohol or peroxide or anything. That’s what you get for assuming the best in a group of men brought together by binge drinking and pack behavior.

Leon smirks at you, then takes a swig of straight gin, making sure to get his split lip soaked in it and grimacing when he’s done. “Damn.” He swipes his tongue over his lower lip and watches you pretend like you weren’t watching him.

“That’s the least of what you get.” You grumble, turning his face this way and that to assess the damage.

“It’s cute that you’re worried for me.” He licks a little blood off his teeth and takes another swig of gin.

“What if you get arrested? What happens then?” You prod at a bruise to see him wince. “Does it look good for a prospective law enforcer to be dinged with a drunk and disorderly?”

“A few d’n’ds aren’t enough to get me kicked from the program.” He muses, rubbing at the furrow between your brows with his thumb. “I think it’ll make me more relatable, personally.”

“So you’re going to be a defense attorney.”

That pulls a genuine laugh from him, surprisingly.

Maybe the vodka you’ve had is making you feel a little too warm. You take one step back.

“Thanks for stepping in.” You say after a stilted moment, looking around the rather unpopulated kitchen.

“That guy’s an asshole.” He sounds a little tipsy again, blame the gin and lack of rubbing alcohol. “Nobody—nobody wants him around, he’s such a little bitch.”

You watch amusedly as he gestures a little as he talks, one hand cutting through the air. “It’s like, the third time he’s done that, I’m gonna—g’na talk to the president to… about kicking his sorry ass out. You can’t do that to girls, man, it’s not cool.”

“What if he tries to jump you?” You lean a hip against the counter, folding your arms over your chest and watching his eyes wander. Damn, you were right to peg him for a spring coloring, that alcohol blush makes his eyes pop.

Leon laughs, taking another swig of gin. “He can try.”

This time, Leon wakes up before you do, morning sun in his eyes this time around. He rolls over, pressing his face against the back of your neck and snaking a corded forearm around your waist, pulling you closer to him.

He hopes you stay this time, you’re not so bad when you’re pretending like you’re immune to his charms.

#leon kennedy x reader #mine #leon kennedy x you #resident evil #leon s kennedy x reader

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pippin-katz · 8 months ago

Text

The Awardist - Nicholas Galitzine & Taylor Zakhar Perez

I have to write down the best bits and record my thoughts while listening to this because I am completely losing my mind over what is our first real interview with the boys that was recorded in real time.

27:55 - right off the bat we got a great inside joke/reference from the host that had me cackle

28:19 - taylor being happy to see their faces and nicholas immediately shutting him down like "well i'm not happy to see taylor's face"

28:40 - taylor joking about putting a post-in note over nick's face lmfao

29:30 - the way they don't want to talk over each other, it's giving alex's bedroom flashbacks

29:40 - nick being like "oh! oh, it's good!" when dipping into the online response when the movie released lmfao 😆

30:33 - the silence following the social media question where they were apparently nodding followed by taylor saying they were texting each other like "mate" "mate" back and forth

31:20 - THEY TALKED ABOUT THE SIGNING WARS

31:44 - nicholas calling taylor "this little fucker" had me dying cause me and @meraki-yao were literally referring to him as that in our conversation on ig yesterday

32:00 - nicholas genuinely asking taylor "what possessed you to do this?"; it's giving storage closet in the children's hospital vibes when henry's like "why do you dislike me?"

33:04 - "take it nick" immediately upon being asked the dense question regarding fans reacting to their portrayals of henry and alex, and the way that nicholas laughs and stutters makes me think that taylor totally did that on purpose to mess with him lmfao

34:00 - taylor stopping to talk to fans regardless of where he is or where he's going and specfically mentioning how meaningful it was that people have said *TW* they were contemplating suicide when they read the book/watched the movie and that it helped them 🥺

35:40 - the host referred to the film as "a coming out story", which i don't really agree with as a label because the coming out portion is an added piece of their relationship as two public figures, but their love is the actual story

36:40 - nicholas referring to the film as "wholesome and funny" made me smile so much because it truly is wholesome

37:18 - not the host making the "top to bottom" joke 😭

37:58 - nicholas and taylor have talked about their friendship with each other and how they instantly clicked; nick knew within a few minutes of rehearsal that taylor was "his buddy" 🥺

38:41 - catch me squaring up with everyone who has made nicholas self conscious and self deprecating about doing so much intimacy work on the screen that he refers to it as "basically his thing" like that's all he's recognized for; i am so ready to punch some motherfuckers 😡

39:10 - "it's so fun now, seeing my mate at all these awards and stuff"; catch me fucking crying

39:24 - not taylor misremembering the "nicholas or joey" question as "who was the better kisser"; he totally combined the "is nicholas a good kisser" question with the "who has your heart tonight" question

40:05 - taylor talking about matthew's background in theatre and how they got to actually rehearse with each other; i will never stop being insanely grateful that matthew is a theatre guy

40:55 - the way i said "oh my god" out loud because i was so excited by the question

41:14 - improvised the "physicality" of the store room; i.e. they just fell on top of each other and clamored around 😂

41:32 - the way i literally gasped so hard that i started coughing when nicholas called taylor "tay", i am not even fucking joking, that was so fucking cute 😭

43:42 - fucking wheezed upon realizing where the question going

44:02 - the knowing way taylor was like "i will take this one" lmfao

45:10 - not me going so red from second hand embarrassment 🫣

45:44 - taylor bringing the jockstrap that nicholas wears in bottoms, and nicholas immediately adding "i won't even go into mary & george" 😂

47:51 - taylor finishing nicholas' sentence about matthew's direction for the cake scene; sharing a braincell lol

48:36 - taylor's dog passed away the night of the first day of filming like wow, that fucking sucks 🥺😭

49:05 - "everyone's looking at me with these sad eyes" made me so sad but then taylor said "do you want some tea?" in a terrible british accent lmfao

49:50 - nicholas complimenting and boosting taylor's performance while having such a hard time emotionally 🥺

50:49 - taylor bringing up running through the museum; i can hear the smile in his voice while talking about it 😭

51:28 - they filmed the kensington palace fight and the red room the week after nicholas got covid

52:40 - oh my god, the way you can hear nick grinning as he throws taylor under the bus for the sequel question 😂

53:30 - taylor wants a second book to base the sequel off of

54:03 - taylor used they/them pronouns for casey!! see? he knows, it was totally nerves

55:20 - it felt like it was over too soon, i desperately need more of them PLEASE 😭

This is the greatest thing that's happened in like, a month for me lmfao I am literally begging for more people to interview the boys about RWRB, I am so fucking desperate for more content of the two of them together. They are everything to me 🥺

Thanks for reading!! If you enjoyed this essay & would like to support me, you can give me a tip on my Ko-Fi! ☺️

#red white and royal blue #rwrb #rwrb movie #matthew lópez #rwrb book #casey mcquiston #rwrb interview #alex claremont-diaz #taylor zakhar perez #henry hanover-stuart fox #henry fox mountchristen-windsor #nicholas galitzine #firstprince #spotify #the awardist

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juniperskye · 7 months ago

Text

Why are you in my head? Pt. 3

Sneak Peek: Eddie and you are soulmates. The legend of soulmates is that you start to hear one another’s thoughts around age 16 – not all the time, but when you’re feeling a strong emotion. It simply flows out of you and into the other, the legend also states that the closer you are, the more you can hear them. **The events of season 4 did NOT happen** I did also use some of the dialogue

Bold are Eddie’s thoughts; Italics are reader’s thoughts. (mind you, they are essentially hearing both sets of thoughts)

Eddie Munson x Fem Sunshine! Reader (Soulmate AU)

Fluff/Angst - Part 1 Part 2 Part 4** Part 5

Word count: 2583

REQUESTS ARE OPEN - not edited - please be kind. Feedback is welcome if it's constructive!

Warnings: READ AT YOUR OWN RISK!!! My blog is 18+, minors DNI, explicit language, no use of y/n, fem reader, mentions of drugs/sale of drugs/drug use, arguing, mentions of Eddie’s drug addict parents, mention of post-partum depression, mention of child endangerment, mention of child death, mention of murder, mention of suicide, mention of foster care, let me know if I missed any!

That being said I do not own the characters portrayed in this story

I miss you so fucking much. How could you think so little of me. I’m sorry. You just don’t understand what it’s like. You don’t even know me. We’re soulmates, of course I know you. Our thoughts weren’t shared until we were both teenagers, you know nothing about how I was brought up. Can I see you? Please.

Thoughts between soulmates were shared more frequently when experiencing high levels of stress, primarily during long periods of separation after meeting, or fighting.

“Hey bug, Eddie’s on the phone for you.” Your dad knocked lightly on your door.

“Tell him I don’t want to talk to him!” You hollered up to your dad.

Since your fight with Eddie, one week ago, your parents had noticed your very apparent, sour mood. You really had no choice but to tell them that you had in fact met your soulmate and had been hanging out with him non-stop. Your mom had been thrilled for you; she had wanted to know everything about Eddie. Your dad on the other hand, he was furious. He clocked the tear tracks that ran down your cheeks the second you walked in the door, and he wanted Eddie’s address so he could kick his ass. You had assured him that it wouldn’t be necessary, that no matter how upset you were in the moment, in your heart you knew the two of you would be able to work things out.

“Sweetie, maybe you should take his call.” Your mom suggested.

“Maybe you should butt out!” You shouted back.

You were immediately filled with regret. Quickly making your way up the stairs you threw open your door to come face to face with your parents.

“Mom, I am so sorry.”

She pulled you into a tight hug, her hand gently brushing at the hair on the back of your head. She always did this when you hugged, and it always brought a warm comfort throughout your body.

“It’s okay. I know that you are upset. Maybe you should try talking to him sweetie, it might make you feel better.” She suggested once more.

“Okay, I guess you’re probably right.” You nodded.

“Well, that’s good because he is on his way right now.” Your dad informed you.

“What? Dad! A little warning would be nice! He doesn’t live that far, and I have to get ready!” You started scrambling down the stairs into your room to get ready.

Your parents chuckled, remembering what it was like to be that young and new in love.

A knock at the door had you sprinting up the stairs and practically shoving your dad out of the way so you could get there first. You weren’t quite ready to have Eddie meet your parents, especially since you aren’t currently on the best of terms.

You opened the door with just enough room to slide out of the house. You took note of Eddie’s disheveled appearance, he had bags under his eyes, his hair looked especially frizzy, and his skin didn’t have its usual glow.

“Hey.” He said sheepishly.

“Hi.” You replied.

“Did you uh, did you want to go sit in the van and talk?” Eddie said gesturing to where it was parked at the end of your driveway.

You nodded and the two of you made your way to the vehicle. He wanted so badly to pull you into his arms and kiss all this pain away, but he knew that it wouldn’t be that simple, he had made some snap judgements and said some hurtful things to you. He knew he needed to apologize and that the two of you still had a lot to learn about one another.

“Baby, I am so sorry. I said some awful shit to you, and I shouldn’t have. I just, I am so used to having people judge me. For how I look, for where I live, who I live with, the people I hang out with, the music I listen to, the field of work I’m in. And I know that you weren’t judging me, that you were just looking out for me because you care, but baby I couldn’t help but let those past feelings eat me alive when you were talking to me.” Eddie explained.

“Eddie, I appreciate you apologizing. I’ve had time to think about things too and I can understand how my reaction could have come across as judgmental. Eddie, my dad is a cop, I have heard what happens to people when they’re caught with a little bit of weed in their possession, but if you were caught selling it, or something worse. Eddie I can’t lose you. Not when I have only just found you.” Tears were running down your face at this point.

Eddie scooted closer to you on the bench of the van, he brought his hand up to cup your cheek, gently brushing away your tears with his thumb. He leaned in and pressed a sweet kiss to your lips. When you two broke apart, he leaned his forehead against your own, his hand brushing a strand of hair behind your ear.

“I am so sorry baby. Please forgive me?”

“Eddie, before I can forgive you, I need to know that you don’t really think of me like that. I may come from a well-off family now, but there is a lot you don’t know about me and I just – I need to know that you don’t see me as some privileged brat.” You begged.

“Sweetheart, no! I don’t think of you that way. I am so sorry! I don’t even know why I said that. It’s like a defense mechanism. I know that there’s so much I don’t know about you, and I hope that you will trust me enough to tell me everything there is to know about you.” He rushed.

You were both startled by a knock on the window. Looking over at the passenger window, you were mortified to see your dad standing there, giving you and Eddie a small wave. He then gestured for you to roll the window down. You visibly cringed as you began cranking the window open, mouthing an embarrassed apology to Eddie.

“Dadddd…what do you want?” You whined.

“Your mother sent me out here to let you know that dinner is ready. She also wanted me to ask if your friend here would be joining us.” He explained.

Your eyes darted over to Eddie. You were trying to decipher his expression, was he as horrified as you were? Was he intrigued by the idea of meeting your parents.? Was he ready to flee and never return?

Would you want me to stay?

You couldn’t help but smile. His thought was timed perfectly, this soulmate thing definitely had its perks.

Of course I want you to stay! I just don’t want them to scare you off.

“If it’s alright with you sir, I’d like to stay for dinner.” Eddie looked at your dad, who replied with a curt nod.

“I can’t believe you’re a Metallica fan! I just finished learning Master of Puppets on my guitar!” Eddie gushed.

“That’s a tough song, I bet you had to practice for weeks!” Your dad indulged Eddie.

This is so embarrassing! Your dad is so cool!

Your mom laughed at the exchange between the two men and she and you cleared the table. She gave you a knowing look and nodded towards your room.

“Why don’t you two go watch a movie, your dad and I can clear the rest of this up.” She suggested.

“Only if you’re sure.” You asked, gaze shifting from your mom to your dad.

“Door stays open.” Your dad pointed towards you.

With that you grabbed Eddie’s hand and led him down to your room, being sure to leave your door open, per your dad’s request. As you descended the stairs, Eddie’s jaw made its way to the floor. He was amazed by your room, you had records hung on the walls and ceiling, one of your walls had an incredible photo collage, with photos of you, your friends and family throughout the years, and below that were stacks of books next to a small desk. He’d have to ask you about who all these people were. You also had a projector screen that you clearly used for movies.

“This is amazing! You read J.R.R. Tolkien and Stephen King? And these records, this is so cool, I would never want to leave if this was my room!” Eddie exclaimed.

God, like you could get any hotter.

“Yeah, my parents are pretty cool about letting me express my creative freedoms or whatever.” You shrugged.

You couldn’t ignore the sinking feeling in your stomach, Eddie had talked about how you got everything you’d ever wanted, and this made that seem true. If only he knew.

Things had continued on pretty well with you and Eddie over the next few months. You guys had grown closer, trusting one another with the heavier secrets of your lives. Eddie had told more in depth about his parents. His mom had gotten hooked on drugs thanks to his dad, who was quick to put hands on Eddie and his mom when he was under the influence – which seemed to be more often than not.

You had wanted to tell Eddie about your past too, but the timing just didn’t seem right. Every time you went to share, something came up, or you were trying to avoid it coming across as you are one-upping him and his trauma.

Things aren’t always what they seem.

Eddie had dinner at your house once a week, and you’d traded off whose house you’d go to after school each day. Nothing physical had transpired between the two of you other than a few heavy make out sessions. At each other’s houses you had fallen into a routine, at yours you would either watch a movie or read, at his you’d either watch a movie, listen to music, or help him with his campaigns.

Tonight happened to be dinner at your house, your parents had suggested ordering a pizza tonight and playing Monopoly. Eddie had enjoyed nights like this, your parents had been extremely welcoming of him. He had appreciated that they didn’t judge him, not once in all the time he has known them. They had been warm and kind and accepting.

Your dad had bonded with him about his taste in music and had shown an interest in Dungeons and Dragons. Your mom talked to him about his future and his dreams of being in a band, but the reality of him probably becoming a mechanic. Your mom had told him that he should pursue music as long as he had something he could fall back on should it not work out. She told him that he could achieve his dreams as long as he worked hard at it.

These conversations, these dinners, these nights with your family had been amazing, they had also been painful for Eddie. He couldn’t help but feel hurt that he didn’t get to have a childhood like this, that he had to get his ass beat by his dad while his mom was strung out on the couch. He hadn’t been removed from their custody until he was about 10 years old, that’s when child services pulled him from their care and moved him in with Wayne.

Wayne had grown fond of you immediately; he had seen how Eddie had changed immediately after meeting you. He had been happier, which meant the world to Wayne. All Wayne had ever wanted was for Eddie to have something good in his life and here you were. You and Wayne were buds and it filled Eddie with a sense of pride that his uncle approved of you.

Now if only things could stay simple like that forever.

Eddie and you had finished dinner and a game of Monopoly at your house. You were planning to go to Eddie’s after to watch Texas Chainsaw Massacre 2. After pulling up in front of the trailer, Eddie made his way to your side of the van and pulled you out of the car. You giggled as he kissed you and the two of you stumbled into the living room.

He made his way to the kitchen to grab drinks for you both and he began popping some popcorn.

“Sorry about my parents tonight. I know they can be super lame.” You huffed out a laugh.

“What do you mean? Your parents are great!” Eddie said.

“No, I know, but they act so goofy. It’s embarrassing.” You shook your head.

At least you have parents.

“Jesus Eddie.”

“What? I didn’t…oh shit. Babe I’m sorry. It’s just, you should be thankful that you have parents who care about you. Not all of us are that lucky.”

“I’m not that lucky Eddie! Fuck! How many times do I have to tell you that you don’t know me! You don’t know anything about me!” You sighed.

“Then tell me! Please, enlighten me as to how your two wonderful parents can be so bad!” Eddie egged you on.

“THEY'RE NOT MY PARENTS!” You shouted at him, then took a deep breath. “Eddie, they’re not my real parents.”

Eddie sat a looked at you, mouth agape, speechless. You could tell that he was waiting for you to continue, but you needed a moment to collect your thoughts. You had to explain everything, this conversation could change everything.

“My parents, Eddie, they did some horrible shit. Neither of them had any other family, my mom she uh, she had post-partum depression, she wasn’t doing well, for a long time after my little sister was born. I guess that had caused my dad to seek comfort elsewhere, I was only six when all this happened. But uh, my mom she uh she left my sister in the bath alone, my sister slid down into the water and drowned, she was only 8 weeks old. When my dad came home and found her, he was furious. Eddie he killed my mom, and then he killed himself. I ended up in foster care and bounced from home to home until I was twelve, until they took me in.”

“Sweetheart. I, I am so sorry. I don’t, I’m not sure what to say.” Eddie whispered. “But uh, you said. You had mentioned that your mom told you bedtime stories about how her and your dad met.”

“My mom now, she would tell me how her and my dad met, every night until I finally started sleeping.” You explained.

The nightmares made it impossible. I couldn’t stop seeing the blood.

Eddie crossed the room and pulled you into his arms. He couldn’t believe that he had been so stupid this whole time. You had been silently telling him that your life wasn’t all that perfect, that though now, it seemed good, it hadn’t always been. He needed you to know that he was here for you, no matter what.

I’ve got you. I will always have you baby.

A sob escaped your throat, ripping through the silence. Eddie held you; he laid you with him in his bed, his hand brushing through your hair gently, whispering sweet nothings to you.

I haven’t told anyone that story. Nobody, ever. Not even my parents. Your secret is safe with me. You are safe with me. I love you sweetheart. I love you Eds.

Tag List: @sashaphantomhive

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elexaria · 9 months ago

Text

TW — mentions of suicidal ideation and suicide attempt

simon is out on sick leave, his mental health has gotten worse since johnny died. “can’t have you in service if you’re not 100%, riley.” price gruffly remarks as he signs simon’s papers, eyes looking up through thick eyebrows at si, who is angrily glancing away.

sick leave is torture. simon feels lost, no anchor to tether him down to earth. without work, he is nothing. without johnny, he’s ….. nothing.

he spends all day rotting away in bed, his thumb rasping against a battered old photograph of him and johnny on holiday in mallorca. johnny with a gorgeous tan, and simon all pink. no, he doesn’t get an impeccable bronze. that man BURNS.

the corners of simon’s lips twitch as he glances at johnny in the photo, admiring how handsome he truly was. he would give anything to see him again.

and then it gets hard to get anything but dying out of his head. if he dies, then maybe he can see johnny again. they can finally be together again. right?

the capt drops off a small bundle of johnny’s stuff at simon’s apartment, and then a small package is delivered in the post from mrs mactavish, johnny’s mom. various bits and bobs, some of johnny’s tshirts, his favourite cap, some sketchbooks.

his dog tags.

simon’s surprised to find them; he thought that they would be put in johnny’s urn or something. but clearly his mom thought otherwise, she must’ve known how much johnny adored simon. he would have moved heaven and earth for that mancunian.

still, suicide ghosts every waking moment of simon’s life. he glances at johnny’s dog tags besides his bed, chewing his chapped lips as he entertains the idea more. and again when he’s walking around the shops, glancing at various means of killing himself. his thumb rasps against the cold metal of johnny’s tags from within his jacket pocket as his free hand extends to read the packet of rat poison. might be a bit too painful, and apparently it stinks to the high heavens.

simon puts the box of rat poison back, continuing to walk around the shop, thumb still stroking against the dog tags as he continues to glance around the store. he can’t take painkillers, there’s a limit to two boxes per person. so, he settles on visiting the hardware store, and buys a bundle of sturdy rope. even grabs some plywood and metal brackets. “makin’ a swing for the little’un.” he mumbles to the cashier, flashing an uneasy yet somewhat believable smile to her as he fishes out some loose bank notes from his jean pockets. he’s not big on wallets.

for almost a week, simon sits on the edge of his bed staring at the bundle of rope next to a chair from his kitchen. he knows its the only way out, so why is it so terrifying? just do it, riley. do it.

he scrawls out demented ramblings on some loose leaf paper, barely readable chicken scratch to captain price, gaz and to mrs mactavish. “i’ll always be grateful for you for bringing my johnny boy into the world.” is somewhat legible in the letter written to her.

he neatly leaves the letters at the foot of his bed, taking a deep breath as he reaches into his pocket for johnny’s dog tags. for a moment, simon admires them in the dim lighting of his bedroom, watching as the thin metal clinks together. sergeant john mactavish.

as the tags slowly slip over simon’s head, the ball chain momentarily getting caught on a wry piece of scruffy blonde hair, they finally join with simon’s own tags on his chest as he stands on the kitchen chair. for a moment, his hand reaches out against his wardrobe to steady his balance. he slips the noose around his neck, heart thumping against his rib cage ferociously. do it, simon. do it.

simon’s trying his best to still his breathing, taking deep breaths as he tries to dull the nagging thoughts, against his instincts to not do this.

“tae fuck d’yae ‘hink yer daein?!”

simon falls back against his wardrobe out of shock, eyes wide with horror as he glances in the direction of that all too familar voice, that voice that immediately drowns out every single thought that was screaming at simon to kill himself.

it’s johnny.

he’s effervescent, an angelic silhouette of his mortal self. a halo of warm light, blue, ghosts around his form.

simon’s mouth is agape, eyes still wide as his body freezes. immediately, he tears the noose off of his head, damn near stumbling off the chair to get a closer look of the spectacle in front of him.

“johnny? but… you’re…”

“dead? aye, sherlock. i am.” the silhouette retorts sarcastically, flashing ghostly pearly whites in a lopsided grin, one that’s terrifying just like johnny’s signature grin. simon backs against the wardrobe, his breathing uneven and scant as he begins to panic. this isn’t normal, this isn’t right.

the mass of energy and light shaped like johnny notices this panic in simon, and seems to frown. it slowly moves towards him, a hand reaching out to touch simon’s shoulder. it’s hauntingly cold, and it makes simon recoil with horror. the spectre frowns even more, retracting its hand.

this can’t be johnny.

because johnny’s dead.

#elexaria writes #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #simon riley #soap mactavish #ghoap #ghoap au #ghoap angst

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tobiasdrake · 28 days ago

Note

I know you haven't done your deep-dive fighting style posts in a while, but I was curious if you'd want to do one for Cell? I think his whole deal as a composite of multiple powerful fighters could be interesting to consider...

Oh, sure. Let's talk about Cell.

Cell is a complicated creature. The surface level is just that he's a regenerating bio-android who can use everybody's attacks, but we're gonna go a bit deeper than that. The first thing to note about Cell is that he, very unusually, does not have a ki signature. Rather, he has five ki signatures; One for each of his five genetic donors.

There is no distinct "Cell" ki the way there is for "Yamcha" ki or "Gohan" ki. Cell reads like Goku, Vegeta, Piccolo, Frieza, and King Cold are all standing in a circle holding hands or something. But this isn't just a neat detail; It also informs on his fighting ability.

Cell is able to use moves like the Kamehameha because he has their wielders' ki. Which has wild implications for how ki and martial arts works, if we're being honest. Apparently your techniques are stored in your ki like genetic muscle memory. He can also perform the Taiyoken/Solar Flare because that, too, is stored in Goku's ki.

Cell taps into one of his five wells of ki to call on that person's moves. But that comes with drawbacks. Cell's Kamehameha against Piccolo was weak and unimpressive because the well of Goku ki he has inside of him was taken from the fight with Vegeta, and we're a long way past that.

Cell-Goku's ki just isn't strong enough to power a very impressive attack, compared to the Nameless Namekian.

Further, because these abilities are stored like genetic memory, Cell himself doesn't fully understand what he's capable of.

He knows what these abilities are on a conscious level. He knows that he can do them. But he lacks experience. He has a wealth of technical knowledge without practical understanding of how to apply it.

He has a good laugh at Trunks over this shit.

But when it's his back against the wall, he's no better than Trunks.

Cell may have Goku's, Piccolo's, and Vegeta's ki, but he is no Goku nor Piccolo nor even Vegeta. He doesn't know how to fight when he's on the backfoot. He doesn't know how to turn things around when the tide shifts against him. How to plan his moves out in advance and then execute that plan to overcome a superior foe.

Because for all his advanced knowledge, he's still green.

He's sitting in an engineering workshop with the best tools that billions of dollars of wealth can buy and a middle-school education. He only knows how to dominate.

Which frequently bites him in the ass.

Likely as a consequence of how many raging egomaniacs are packed inside of him, Cell has a severe overconfidence problem. He conducts himself as if he were invincible, at one point even going so far as to let Vegeta hit him with his best shot and very nearly paying the ultimate price for his foolishness.

Sometimes it's only Piccolo's regeneration that keeps him from losing fights that, with his power, he should be winning handily. He coasts a lot on being very hard to put down.

Cell's comfort zone is when he can step out onto the field, having leveled up so far that nobody can touch him. He's not playing a fighting game. He's playing an RPG. If the fight turns against him, if he can't overwhelm his opponents, he turns his tail and runs for his life so he can grind some XP and try again.

And when he can't do that, he turns to more desperate measure like crying about the unfairness or trying to nuke the planet to murder-suicide his opponents. Thought, admittedly, the former was a ploy to manipulate Vegeta.

Cell's an extremely sore loser, is basically what I'm getting at here. He has a hard time figuring out ways to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat, instead preferring to simply ragequit when fights turn against him. While also going out of his way to help his opponents power up, secure in the misguided belief that he's untouchable.

Cell has two modes: "I am invincible!" and "Oh no I'm vincible what do I do!?" The latter of which is a problem Goku, Piccolo, and Vegeta have all faced over their lives and come up with a variety of answers to, but for which Cell mostly falls back on "I need a level-up so I can be invincible again."

Cell's fight with Goku is his best. It's the one fight he has that genuinely feels like he and his opponent are both giving as well as they get.

It's this fight, keeping pace with Goku, that pushes Cell to his most interesting places as a fighter. Though, conspicuously, he's sandbagging and secretly this is yet another fight in Cell's comfort zone, where the true threat to him is minimal.

Uh, except when Goku outplays him.

See above, re: Cell nearly losing fights he should be winning handily.

Nonetheless, we get to see Cell at his best here. Which still pretty much consists of the basics: Punch, kick, Kamehameha here or there. And at one point pulling 17's force field out from desperation.

Cell's inexperience leads him to have difficulty anticipating his opponents' moves or gauging their strength.

And, fitting for a copycat fighter, he also has seemingly no capacity to innovate new ideas, strategies, or techniques for himself. Over the course of the Cell Games, he pulls "My Kamehameha will destroy the Earth if you don't stop it!" three separate times.

He really has no better ideas than this one. Which he stole from Vegeta.

But he also doesn't make a lot of use of his copycat abilities either. He mainly relies on the easy ones: The Kamehameha and Taiyoken, both of which are described as pretty simple and easy to perform. Though this isn't because he can't do more complex moves, as we see him break out Frieza's Death Beam in his fight with Gohan.

He has other moves. He just doesn't use them much.

(This is not the case in the anime, where he not only makes far more use of his technique pool but also they increased his number of donors to give him a wider pool of moves to copycat.)

I would be loathe to describe Cell as lazy. He puts a lot of effort into grinding XP in his own special way so that his Android manhunt can go off successfully. But his art is lazy. His style. His technique.

Out of all the major Dragon Ball characters, Cell is the most complacent. He was born already knowing everything he thinks he needs to know, and demonstrates little to no desire to refine his abilities on a technical level the way Goku, Piccolo, Vegeta, and even Frieza do.

He has a built-in roadmap of shortcuts to power, and so far as he's concerned, that's all he needs to become unstoppable.

#dragon ball #dragon ball z #cell

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thecoleopterawithana · 1 year ago

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youtube

Suicide

If when she tries to run away / And he calls her back, she comes / If there's a next time, he's okay / Cause she's under both his thumbs She'll limp along to his side / Singing a song of ruin, I'd / Bet he says nothin' doin' / I'd, I'd call it suicide

This is likely one of the first songs Paul ever wrote. It predates Rock 'n Roll washing up onto the Mersey shores and the tingles that started going up and down Paul's spine. Not yet acquainted with his "confidante", Paul's earliest compositions were done instead on his home piano.

This particular tune seems to have come about around Paul's fourteenth birthday, in mid-1956. It is not known how this song sounded at its genesis: did it already have the lyrics, or was it like the contemporaneous "When I'm Sixty-Four", for which he originally had only the tune?

We hear "Suicide" for the first time in the Get Back sessions, with complete lyrics and John joining in right from the first verse. From Paul's comments on the song, it does seem like he had the lyrics in mind from the get-go:

That was a song I’d had forever, since I was about 16. I had my Dad’s old piano at home, that I used to tinker about on when there was no-one in the house. And my feelings were, then, that if you were ever going to be a songwriter, the height of it all was Sinatra. That would be the greatest stuff that you could do, really a little bit before rock ‘n’ roll, so you were thinking of standards and things. So around that time I wrote “When I’m 64” and this other thing. I thought it would be a bit of a Rat Pack, smoochy, with words like “When she tries to, run away, uh-huh…” Boom! And stabs from the band, you know.

— Paul McCartney, in the McCartney - Archive Collection (2011) liner notes.

I'm curious about the timing because, in usual McCartney fashion, we have quite dark lyrics being camouflaged by a jaunty little tune (à la "Maxwell Silver Hammer", "Another Day", etc.) And they are made even darker if they were written by a fourteen-year-old boy.

When I first heard of this song, I assumed, based on the title, that it'd been written after Mary's death. So I was quite surprised when I saw its origin dated to potentially even earlier than that (although I don't really know what information these estimations are based on).

Regardless of the exact date of origin, this song had been on my mind since I heard it brought up in @anotherkindofmindpod's Fine Tuning: Ep 2 Shoulder to Shoulder. Together with Ep 4 Shells & Barriers and the wonderful analyses that emerged from it, I've been wondering about what influenced teenage Paul to write a song about a woman trying (and failing) to escape an abusive marriage. From @bidisasterhawkeye's contribution to the aforementioned post:

For those unaware, Paul's mother had a quite tragic background. The second of four children, her younger sister Agnes died at age two (cause unknown) when Mary was around eight years old. When Mary was ten, her mother died giving birth to another baby girl (who also died). At that point, Mary's older brother left their home in Liverpool to join the army and Mary's father took Mary and her toddler brother, Bill, back to his home country of Ireland. In Ireland, they apparently lived in extreme poverty as Mary's father tried and failed to become a farmer. Ten year old Mary was apparently not enrolled in school there because she was given the role of homemaker and mother to her baby brother. When Mary was around 13, her father went to Liverpool and acquired a second wife with children of her own, and this new stepmother was apparently "cruel" enough that Mary ran away at age 14 (as did Bill later).

I might have seen it mentioned somewhere around here recently (please let me know if you know where!), but it's curious that Paul wrote about women running away in "Suicide" and "She's Leaving Home", when his own teenage mother went through the same. The latter song seems to apply better to Mary's situation at fourteen. Whose story is Paul telling in "Suicide"?

Maybe it's not that deep, and "Suicide" is indeed only a joke song. Paul certainly seems to want us to believe that:

It was a real early song of mine, and I used to do it as a joke, really. […] So I never did anything with it but around the time of McCartney, I was just goofing around on piano and at the end of one of the takes there was a little bit of tape left, so I just did it and didn’t think to use it because it was Rat Pack, tongue in cheek. But I used that little fragment at the end of one of the tracks, ‘Glasses’.

Haha, good ol' Paul, goofing around with a meaningless little tune called "Suicide" right around the same time stuff like this was happening:

I was going through a bad time, what I suspect was almost a nervous breakdown. I remember lying awake at night shaking, which has not happened to me since. One night I'd been asleep and awoke and I couldn't lift my head off the pillow. My head was down in the pillow, I thought, Jesus, if I don't do this I'll suffocate. I remember hardly having the energy to pull myself up, but with a great struggle I pulled my head up and lay on my back and thought, That was a bit near! I just couldn't do anything. I had so much in me that I couldn't express and it was just very nervy times, very very difficult.

— Paul McCartney, in Barry Miles' Many Years From Now (1997).

I'll leave further ruminations on the emotional implications of "Suicide" to your discretion. Or we can take a page out of Lewisohn's book and simply conclude:

But though the words wanted work (and didn’t get it), ["Suicide"] was a charming little tune, a dance-band piece with a dash of modernity, light, engaging and original … quite exceptional for a first attempt by a boy on the cusp of 14.

#Suicide #Paul McCartney #The Beatles #Mother Mary McCartney #jim mccartney #when you were young and your heart was an open book #every day I don't want to get up get out of my bed #1956 #1969 #1970 #meta #my stuff

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rum-and-shattered-dreams · 22 days ago

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Chapter 82 - Fun

Since my dumb ass accidentally deleted the original post, here it is again >_<

ALT

Update - November 2, 2024

Overall synopsis (for anyone who is newly interested):

A Gravity Falls AU idea where, in 1982, Stan threw a rope to Ford as he was being pulled into the portal. He let go of his journal in favor of grabbing the rope and it was lost to Bill’s dimension. Stan had saved him and for that, he was grateful. They talked and forgave each other for the past and all seemed well for as much as a day. That was when Bill’s ruthless anger became apparent and he took full advantage of his deal with Ford. Thirty years later, the demon is still punishing them for their refusal to rebuild the portal.

Chapter Summary:

Fiddleford and his team reach a breakthrough in their project and the Pines put together a small and early celebration for Dipper and Mabel's birthdays in case things get rough by the actual date.

Notes:

~Warnings - Conversation about past suicide attempt, anxiety/panic attack (but more well-managed than past ones), and discussion (nothing graphic) about eye surgery/recovery

~There's some lovely art for chapter 81 by @inkyrainstorms here!

A03 link:

(If anyone is interested in some Fiddauthor art or writing, I just went through a hyperfocus fugue-state and churned some out. Check out the fiddauthor tag on @shattereddreams-gravityfallsfics.)

#gravity falls #gravity falls fanfiction #stanford pines #stanley pines #grunkle ford #ford pines #stan pines #grunkle stan #dipper pines #mabel pines #the man downstairs au #the man downstairs #the man downstairs fic #mo's writing and such

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inevitably-johnlocked · 3 months ago

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stephy bephy baby baby girl, um

any list noone asked for yet but you have?

ASFSADF I LOVE when y'all use silly names for me!

You KNOW I do!! Here's today's that been in my drafts for a few months! Enjoy!!

Please note that because so many of these fics are from my old lists, they will be FFNet links, so if you have them on AO3, let me know, but otherwise let me know if any links don't work.

POV SHERLOCK 3rd PERSON Pt. 4: ANGST / ANGSTY FLUFF or BAMF FICS Pt. 2