#but for me I think the scarred vocal chords are important

[lovelynim]

Take 9, recording!

ALIEN STAGE/Actors!AU - Ivan x Till

A/N: Really, really self-indulgent fic because I NEEDED to get some fluff after the damage Round 6 did to me. Also, I added a little hc that TIll is an experience actor while Ivan is still a newbie, etc, etc, you know the drill

Also, tagging @blobbirobbi, @norieoncrack and @vash-yuu because you three gave me the boost to do it this afternoon. Also tagging @tiredleekaz because i feel you'll like this (hopefully)

Summary: Round 6's recording site. Stage scene. Take... 9, sigh. Lights, camera... action!

Word count: 1305 words.

“Alright, let’s do it, guys!” The director shouted and the rest of the team promptly took their places. The camera pointed towards Till and Ivan as the studio was quickly engulfed by silence.

“Here we go… ‘Cure’, stage scene, take 9. Action,” the director commanded and the first beats of the song began to play right after. The spotlight turned to Till and, so, it began.

“Allow me, to the tip of your fingers. Allow me, to the ends of your feet.”

Ivan quietly hummed the song along while the cameras tilted around the other man, capturing the crowd’s motion in the background while Till’s voice took all the room in the studio. Ivan knew the team was tired and probably beginning to feel a little frustrated after a couple of mistakes, but he couldn’t help but enjoy every moment of it.

“Dissolve me in your gaze. I don’t want to let you go.”

‘Damn, he looks so cool right now’, Ivan thought as a smirk took place in his lips. The song went on and Ivan knew he had to focus. This was supposed to be a dramatic, emotional, tragic scene. He couldn’t be booping to the song they spent hours recording. Focus, Ivan, focus!

As Till continued to sing, Ivan decided it was a good time to rehearsal his lines. Maybe this would put him back in the right mood for this scene and, after all, he didn’t want to start the 10th take because he made the same mistake from 4 takes ago.

“Let me drown in you, until these falling stars are buried in the blur of time!”

Wait, was he at that part already?

Ivan opened his eyes and looked at the other guy with a slightly shocked expression. Gulping, he clenched his hands as he heard the piano keys starting to play in the background again. Time to shine, Ivan.

With heavy steps, Ivan walked towards his microphone. The camera was tilting right above him and it was a bit hard to keep a straight face, but he had to!

“Even if your cold words carve scars beneath my eyes.”

Carefully and gently, Ivan took his hands up and wrapped his fingers around the microphone. Holding it tightly, one word after the other left his lips and, as scripted, he was singing.

“May they linger on your tongue. You can break me apart.”

Narrowed eyes stared back at the camera in front of him. To the ones looking from the outside, Ivan seemed like the most confident actor in history, literally living up to his character. But on the inside, he couldn’t help but feel some nervousness stirring up. What if he sang the wrong line? What if he looked ugly on the recording? What if his voice cracked?!

No, it wasn’t time to think about those things. He managed to look at Till with the corner of his eyes and, even when he was idling, the sorrowful, tired look continued to stick to his face. So professional!

“Sick of those nights to come, to be engulfed by silence in your gaze where I’m seen. Consume me! Yes, me, oh oh!! ~”

Ivan would only be sure once they were done recording this scene, but he was almost 100% he nailed this part. He could feel his vocal chords slightly tiring, but nowhere near enough to make him stop.

And above anything else, the most important scene of this episode was coming up. The kiss.

“To this everlasting moment.”

“Face to face we dance.”

Ivan let out a small sigh as his last line was sung. Just as the words left his lips, the pages of the script started playing inside his head. ‘With a decisive move, you throw your microphone aside and walk to him’, he remembered the director explaining, detailing how it should be done.

“With our story lost in forever’s embrace!! ~”

Ivan felt literally chills running up his back when his eyes met Till’s. As a newbie actor, starring with someone as experienced as him was always an emotional rollercoaster, full of surprising moments that he would treasure forever. But not now. Now, he needed to focus.

Gently reaching for the other guy’s cheek, Ivan moved his hand to the back of Till’s head and pulled him into a kiss.

Part of himself questioned if he was supposed to enjoy recording this part over and over as much as he was doing, but knowing how annoyed the rest of the studio’s staff was at his mistakes, he would never voice such thoughts.

The instrumental played along with the flashing lights above them. Ivan only remembered the instructions that he should make the kiss last while Till would try to shove him away, but the director never said how, so there shouldn’t be much harm in improvising a little, right?

Ivan wrapped his free hand around Till’s slim torso, resting his fingers just below the other’s ribcage. Till pressed both hands against his chest, trying to push him away like the script told him to, but Ivan knew this wasn’t the lead to let him go, so he pulled the other man for another kiss.

However, there was something off. 

He was told that, yes, Till was going to try to break their kiss and free himself, but it shouldn’t be… this effective, Ivan thought. Deciding that it would be better to just play along, Ivan moved his hand down to Till’s neck while the other pressed a little harder against his side, hoping this would be enough to keep him still to the end of the scene.

But with barely seconds before the time for the score to pop up above their heads and show his character’s demise, Ivan noticed that Till… was laughing?

“Pfft- d-duhuhude!” TIll giggled, elbowing his arm in another attempt to free himself from his embrace. “Q-quit tihihickling, ahaha!”

“H-huh?” Ivan blinked, looking down to the little space between their bodies and taking a few seconds to realize what the other guy meant. “Wait, you mean this?”

“GyAHah, y-yes! Thahat, d-don’t dohohoh it! I’m tihihicklish there!” Till laughed, throwing his head back (and maybe trusting a little too much in Ivan’s strength to hold him in place).

A fuzzy, warm feeling spread over Ivan’s chest as he heard those words. What a wonderful discovery! How could he not notice this before?! “Ahah, sorry… I mean, I didn’t expect this or this to be enough to tickle you, Till, ~” Ivan teased, carelessly spidering his fingers against Till’s side and ribs.

Before he realized, there were them again: fooling in the middle of the set. Till laughing, desperately trying to escape his hug while the only worry inside Ivan’s mind was to find where else his senior would be ticklish.

“Ivan! C’mohohon!” Till laughed while the lights of the studio turned back on, illuminating the whole scene again as this take was already beyond salvation. “I cahahan’t breheheathe!”

“Oh? But you are-”

“Guys!” The director protested, making the duo stop in the middle of the scene with a surprised look on their faces. Right, they were recording. And with people around them. A lot of people. “Sigh, let’s take a break, yeah? Five minutes, everybody.”

Despite the feeling of animosity towards them that seemed to spread across the rest of the staff, Ivan couldn’t stop himself from smiling and, much to his delight, the same seemed to go for Till.

“S-sorry, ahah, this one is my fault,” Till giggled as he got back into his own feet, rubbing his side where Ivan just tickled him. “Try to just, hmm… Hold my face?”

“Got it, I will keep that in mind,” Ivan hummed happily while walking off the stage by TIll’s side. Well, guess they couldn’t do much but wait for the next take now, right?

[iloveundertaesooomuch]

!!THIS IS NOT CALEB!!

This is my version of the FTF Grimwalker that got possessed by Belos and then was resurected on GrimIsles!

His name is Cheese! ...Bear with me here-

His grimwalker siblings let him to choose his own name, because they didn't want to force something so important onto him. Especially when this "newcomer" was lucky enough to not be named by Belos. So the freedom of choice felt pretty important to consider for his ability to built his own identity and carve his own destiny.

But.. Cheese was litteraly "born yesterday" and he didnt understand the language yet. At all. So, of course, when he started to learn some words, he chose to identify himself with something he really really likes. And.. this thing he related to happened to be a block of yellow dairy product with holes in it and a funny taste. He is too much of a cheese lover.

Later on he often "changed his name" from Cheese to Onion to Gerald to Boot to Nike... Uhhh..., it was difficult to say the least. But the name Cheese stuck with others, so now it is how he is called. Although many end up pronouncing it as "Chez", which is valid too.

As you can see on my art, Cheese doesn't have his legs rotting like the body in the s3 ep2. Thats because it was part of his "mortal wound". In otherwords, Chez wouldn't be able to live with parts damaged like that. Usually all that left after the person's "mortal wound" after the resurection in the temple is a small light scar. But, even if Cheese got his body fully in tact now, the bottom part of his body nonetheless seems to be paralised. Thats why he requires a wheelchair to move around the Isles. (I wont deny the possibility of him getting a jetpack or something like that so he could move thought the air on his "loyal carriage". Imagine that vine video but with Cheese. He would be very enthusiastic about creating and building shit like that.) Chez also happens to be mute due to his damaged throat and vocal chords also from Belos'es possession. Thats why he has that little oracle stone on his hair-clip that helps him speak his thoughts out loud! He wasn't always able to use it, so he was also taught how to use sign language. His siblings were glad to learn it along with Cheese so they could finally chat.

I was initially imagining Cheese to be enthusiastic about sports. Especially since the grimwalker body in FTF looked quite buff weirdly enough XD. But he slowly grows to be much more than "CHEESE IS SPEED". Perharps our discovery of him as a character reflects his own journey of getting to know himself. Chez came to be as a blank slate. I guess he is technocally the happiest grimwalker in this AU, since he never experience any kind of abuse and has a loving family that treats him with respect even if he doesn't understand everything yet.

It was my first time drawing a wheelchair I think. So I really heavily referenced just to get its structure right. Maybe when I draw Chez again I will decorate it to his liking. He would probably enjoy some stickers on it. Especially of space and ships. Or Cheese could have a Starwars (or however that franchise is called in TOH universe) merch on it! He likes spaces, because it is full of infinite possibilities.

Thank you, @crypticpara and @talisman975 for inspiration!

[walldwellereater]

*The door opened, as an Urbanshade soldier exited the security room, greeting the man outside*

*He was covered in small scars, and his left arm was covered in bandages, with tiny gaps in the wrapping revealing the inhuman arm underneath. One of his eyes was purely mechanical, red and displaying a fake pupil*

"Glad you came, Dr. C."

"What is so important to disturb my work?"

"It's Z-919, he displayed unusual behavior."

"What did it do?"

"He was talking with Z-907, when Z-206 approached and attacked Z-907. When Z-919 saw this, his behavior notably changed, and he began ruthlessly attacking Z-206."

"How is that out of the ordinary?"

"His attacks were notably similar to Z-910-P, and his voice afterwards sounded like Z-919 was attempting to speak with nonhuman vocal chords."

"The protector... Perhaps it sees Z-907 as part of it's 'pack,' so to speak. And this talking? Send me the recording later."

"Yes sir. It also confirms another suspicion of yours."

"Which one?"

"Following this encounter, the two retreated to Z-919's hideout. When Z-919 eventually returned into view of the cameras, and went to talk with Z-578, his hands had retained the claws grown during the battle with Z-206."

"Like how it's blood has remained the same as Z-910-S."

"Dr. C, If I may. What do you think would happen if the Z-910-A behavior was triggered?"

"Two possibilities. Either it takes the behavior of Z-910-A, and looks for someone to use as a host; or it takes the behavior of Z-910-A-2."

"What then?"

"We will find a way to contain it. Electric shocks stop the regeneration of all of the Z-910 specimens, report to me if it has a notable effect on Z-919."

"Yes sir."

*The doctor turns to leave, before pausing*

"And send Ward down to my lab when he comes back."

"Of course, sir."

"Good."

*The doctor leaves*

[unicornsaures]

talk. about whatever’s on your mind. aaaanything and everything just in case u needed an invitation to yap today 😻😻

taking this as a excuse to have a yap session about my nonhuman aus because there are SO. many things that are included for very specific reasons(mainly elf laurens cause its my main nonhuman au, but the divinity AU isnt exempt from secret meanings either >:3c) but i just never elaborate on any deeper meanings because technically theyre supposed to be up for interpretation but screw that things are included for very. very specific reasons

OKAY STARTING WITH ELF LAURENS !! Im starting off with his design itself because while its not necessarily a secret, his markings are extremely important to the story because obviously its a massive focus with the whole insecurity thing and attempting to scratch them off so!! In his early design it isnt included, but theres two things i added to either foreshadow things or that make more sense because certain things previously didnt have reasoning. For starters, his voice! I make it *very* clear that Laurens absolutely hates his voice - yknow, with that high pitched nonhuman growl? Theres a reason for that! In my AU, elves arent supposed to have markings on their throat; it fucks with their vocal chords. Yknow who does have a marking on their throat? Thats right, John does! So not only does he have 'two' voices, he also has a big reminder of that just straight in the middle of his throat - so rven if he didnt talk people would know why. Then theres the dots on his head. Thats foreshadowing. Cant tell you what its foreshadowing, but take that information how you will.

Also would like to elaborate on his relationship with Kinloch in the fic because no, Kinloch is not evil or bad or abusive. I try and make it clear that their relationship isnt necessarily healthy, but thats also not Kinloch's fault either way. Its Johns own inability to stabilize his emotions surrounding someone he cares about(ex. begging him to run away with him - when rejected, he runs away himself.) This is a massive mischaracterization of Laurens on my part but like I said in the fic itself, its just me projecting for 4k words. Oh, and he gets that scar on his lip when he's 20 in what i call a 'drinking accident.' Dont ask me to elaborate on that either, John is just a reckless drunk.

Obviously theres the whole art thing, but i think its pretty self explanatory on why hes drawing. I think i stated explicitly it was a coping device but if not i think thats obvious but i never elaborated on his medium of choice; graphite :3!! Its messy. Thats it. He uses the powdered graphite, which i think he would find it was a representation of process rather than product. The point of using graphite is the limited choice of color that only leaves an artist with shades. It also just goes with the theme of his art because idk, hes out here drawing the idea and/or image of death itself in a way its gorey but also gorgeous, so take that as you will.

Also I have had many yap sessions on why exactly John draws the gorey and grotesque but ill save you on insane details and simplify it down to; after his mothers death, he was naturally drawn to the beauty found within something so vile and horrifying.

Okay ive talked all too long aboute the elf laurens thing, so now the divinity AU! There isnt much meaning inside of this other than the very very clear toxic relationship between Alex and John; but its toxic for a reason. As dysfunctional as they may be, they are better of together than apart. Like mentioned in the fic itself, Alex was cruel to his devotees and followers before John came along. I wont go into specifics or anything, he was just cruel. John, on the other hand, was also cruel. Thats why hes a fallen angel, obviously. He fell due to others actions but the reason he followed this other person in the first place is because they were holding something he did over his head, threatening to tell higher deity's and whatnot. But instead, John is a fucking idiot and ended up doing what this person wanted which ultimately ended up in him falling and losing everything. Obviously, this leaves someone scarred because ill just say it, in this AU at least, falling from wherever they may be is not a painless experience.

In turn, he hasn't physically fallen anywhere, but there are physical signs and overall, you can tell by how they act. So, upon finding Alexander - a god, basically - the only other purpose he has in life is to peldge devotion to someone. Hes basically shunned from other angels, and so finding a deity to pledge devotion to is the only thing he can do. Their relationship is not at all healthy. Ive described it as a worshiped/worshiper dynamic because thats what it is. No matter if Alex views John as an equal, Laurens will always view alex as a higher being than he is and in short its a massive power imbalance with how willing John is to bend over backwards for him(ex. ripping off his wings ! Never happens, alex wont physically let him, but like i said, John is willing.) The only reason I say that they should stay together is that other deity's wouldnt stop him from doing this kind of thing. 'Offering your wings to prove your devotion? Yeah, hand em over.' is basically what would happen and it would be 10x more of a corrupted relationship than john and alex have. Alex keeps him in line basically, and John worships him like..well, like the god he is i guess.

Again, this AU is me majorly projecting so take it as you will. But Alex is also completely unaware to why John is a fallen angel anyway. Even being a god, he cant just see peoples sins. He only knows when someone has sinned.

"A shame Alexander may not know his transgressions, he’s sure he couldn't have done much wrong with how much of a pleasure he’s been."

Pulling out the quotes for this story because i personally think its just easier to explain things if its been read.

AND THE BIGGEST THING!!

John nods absentmindedly, leaning into the heat of his palms that make his face contort in a painful type of love.

Its mentioned a few times, but being touched by Alex at all brings physical pain. Mostly because he's not supposed to be touched by a higher being while being a fallen angel, but it also has something to do with the fact he 'swore on his ability to love to prove his devotion.' In short, John didnt think he had the ability to love, much less deserve it. So, being touched by one he fell for brings him physical pain because he shouldnt be supposed to! The love he spoke of when he exempted Alex from this was love a devotee has for their god, not love like as romantic love. Obviously, in a way, he broke his own promise. This is also why the pain goes away after alexander admits he loves him because at that point, 'his god' basically just excused the fact he broke his pledge by announcing any feelings he may have are returned. So yeah! Thats fun.

Anyway, that was my yap session. I talked for way too long uhm..oops! Im not normal about nonhumans :(

[sciderman]

Sci we all know Ryan Reynolds sounds like a four and a half year old child trying (and failing) to sound like a grown adult human man but. I feel like it's about as annoying as Wade Wilson, beloved, would always purposefully be, which is why it's a good fit. Thoughts?

it’s not wade’s voice thats annoying it’s his content

[howdon-aldi-death-queue]

NEW SAM FENDER INTERVIEW FOR NME

THE BIG READ

Sam Fender: “This album is probably the best thing I’ve done in my life”

The hometown hero has distanced himself from the ‘Geordie Springsteen’ tag, but there’s no shortage of rites-of-passage yarns and colossal tunes on the upcoming ‘Seventeen Going Under’

“You can see the ghost of Thatcherism over there…” says Sam Fender, pointing across the water to a vacant shipyard, where once the shipbuilding industry was so healthy that vessels towered higher than the rows of houses on the shore. We’re on the waterfront in North Shields, just outside Newcastle, and our photographer is snapping away for Sam’s first NME cover shoot.

The singer-songwriter stares stonily into the lens as wafts of seaweed and fishing trawlers are carried by the northern coastal breeze. He’s already been stopped for a few pictures with fans, but remains eager to point out the impact that Tory leadership has had on his working-class town over the last few decades. “It’s been closed since the ’80s, from the ghost wasteland of the shipyards. You’ve got all the scars of Thatcherism from The Tyne all over to the pit villages in Durham.”

It’s as good an introduction as any to the outspoken musician, whose 2019 debut album ‘Hypersonic Missiles’ was a record for his sleepy hometown to be proud of – tackling themes that range from male suicide (the heartbreaking ‘Dead Boys’) to world tensions (and the “kids in Gaza” he eulogised on its soaring title track). He set weighty topics against blisteringly well-executed Americana with the fist-in-the-air euphoria of Bruce Springsteen’s colossal choruses and sax solos. Much like his hero, Sam smartly weaves his own political standpoint and personal circumstance into gripping anthems of a generation, which earned him the ‘Geordie Springsteen’ tag.

“I can’t exactly bat off those comparisons, can I?” he says back in his cosy recording studio nearby. “At the same time, I don’t feel worthy of that tag. The first time I heard it, I was like, ‘That’s fucking sick’, but you don’t want to be riding off the coattails of The Boss for the rest of your life. I can write my own songs, they’re different and my voice doesn’t sound anything like Springsteen’s. I don’t have his growl; I’m a little fairy when I sing.”

He may have toned down the Springsteen vibes slightly on his highly anticipated second album ‘Seventeen Going Under’, due later this year, but there are still plenty of chest-pounding anthems capable of making your hairs stand on end: “I much prefer Americana to the music we have in our country at the moment. I love the leftfield indie stuff like Fontaines D.C, Squid and Black Midi, but I love a chorus and melodic songs. I think the American alternative scene has that down with Pinegrove, Big Thief, The War On Drugs.”

‘Hypersonic Missiles’ thrummed with a small town frustration almost that every suburban teenager could surely relate to. This was most notable on ‘Leave Fast’, where he sang about the “boarded up windows on the promenade / The shells of old nightclubs” and “intoxicated people battling on the regular in a lazy Low Lights bar”, a reference to his beloved local. But album two sees him fully embrace North Shields, an ever-present backdrop to cherished memories and harrowing life events of his youth and surroundings.

It’s no coincidence that the 27-year-old has turned inwards and penned a record about his hometown while being stuck at home like the rest of the country: “I didn’t have anything to point at and I didn’t want to talk about the pandemic because nobody wants that – I never want to hear about it again. It was such a stagnant time that I had to go inwards and find something, because I was so uninspired by the lifetime we we’re living in.

“I’ve made my coming-of-age record and that was important for me – as I get older, these stories keep appearing; I’ve got so much to talk about. I wrote about growing up here. It’s about mental health and how things that happen as a child impact your self-esteem in later life. On the first record, I was pointing at stuff angrily, but the further I’ve gotten into my 20s, the more I’ve realised how little I know about anything. When you hit 25, you’re like: ‘I’m fucking clueless! I know nothing about the world.’ It was a humbling experience, growing up.”

Early last year, before the pandemic hit, Sam was set to jet off to New York pre-pandemic to record in the city’s infamous Electric Lady studios founded by Jimi Hendrix. “Looking back, I’m thankful that it happened,” he says. “If I went off to New York and did my second album there… it wouldn’t have been the same record. I will go and do the third one in NYC, come hell or high water – I’m fucking out of here!

“The forced return home really informed the direction [of the record]. I was on the crest of this insane wave; we’d sold out 84,000 tickets for the [‘Hypersonic Missiles] arena tour that we still haven’t played yet. I’m still waiting to hear when it’s going to be rescheduled. It’s incredibly frustrating; I’ve got loads of frustrated fans. That was all cancelled on the day of the lockdown. I thought it was only going to be a couple of months and that it would be another swine flu thing, but fool me – I was stuck in the house like everybody else.”

It’s not the first setback that Sam has dealt with in his career. In the summer of 2019, he was ready to make his Glastonbury Festival debut with a Friday afternoon set on the legendary John Peel Stage, a rite of passage for any emerging artist, but had to pull out due to a serious health issue with his vocal chords. The mood in the room shifts dramatically at the mention of this devastating period: “I don’t want to focus on that, to be honest, because it’s just negative news and it’s in the past.”

“The further I’ve gotten into my 20s, the more I’ve realised how little I know”

Looking back now, he says, it was a tough decision, but ultimately the right thing to do: “We were doing so much at the time and I just burnt out. If you damage your vocal cords, you can’t take it lightly. If something happens like that and you keep going, you’ll fucking lose your career forever. I never want to end up behind the knife; I just refuse to put myself in that situation.”

The fact that his 2019 breakthrough ground to a halt again in COVID-decimated 2020 “was frustrating as fuck”, he says, “but I took solace in the fact that everyone was stopped in their tracks that time; it wasn’t just me.” This was in stark contrast to the singer’s experience of pulling the biggest moment of his music career in order to rest his vocal cords: “I didn’t talk for three weeks; I had to be silent and just watch Glastonbury on the TV, going, ‘This is completely dogshit’. But you can’t even say that out loud – you’re just saying it over in your head like a psycho. I’d take a pandemic over that any day.”

There was a brief flash of light when he headlined the opening night at the world’s first socially distanced arena, Newcastle’s Virgin Money Unity venue, to an audience of 2,500. Yet Sam’s not in the mood to wax lyrical about that, either. “It was amazing,” he says, “but it didn’t happen again.” A local lockdown in the North East brought the following shows – which would have featured Kaiser Chiefs and Declan McKenna – to a premature end in September: “It was another false start. We thought everything was going to get moving again but then we were just sat around [again].”

As for this reaction to the Government’s handling of the pandemic? It perhaps says it all that he’s selling face masks emblazoned with the words ‘2020 Shit Show’ and ‘Dystopian Nightmare Festival’ on his website. “I think everyone has said enough haven’t they?” Sam suggests. “I never want to see Boris Johnson’s or Matt Hancock’s face ever again. As soon as they come on the TV, I just turn it off.”

Political tension bubbles through ‘Seventeen Going Under’. Its second half boasts tracks such as ‘Long Way Off’, a brooding but colossal festival anthem brimming with angst and unease. “Standing on the side I never was the silent type,” Fender roars, “I heard a hundred million voices / sound the same both left and right / we’re still alone we are.” It’s gripping stuff; a Gallagher-level anthem ripe for pyro and pints held aloft.

Sam says the song is about feeling stranded amid political divisiveness here and in the US, epitomised when Donald Trump supporters stormed the Capitol in Washington back in January: “You’ve either got right-wing, racist idiots or you’ve got this elitist, upper-middle-class section of the left-wing, which completely alienates people like myself and people from my hometown.”

“The polarity between the left and the right has me feeling like I have no identity”

Closer to home, the last UK election, in 2019, saw the so-called ‘Red Wall’ crumble as working-class voters in the north defected from Labour to Tory. “The polarity between the left and the right has me feeling like I have no identity,” Sam says. “I’m obviously left-wing, but you lose hope don’t you? Left-wing politics has lost its main votership; it doesn’t look after working-class people the way that it used to. Blyth Valley voted Tory just north of here. Now, that is saying something! We’re in dire straits when a fucking shipbuilding town is voting for the Tories – it’s like foxes voting for the hunter.”

He’s even seen his own working-class friends peel to the blue side: “I’m like, ‘What the fuck is going on?’ I understand it, though. I’d never vote for the bastards because I fucking hate them and I know what they’re up to, but I get why people don’t feel any alliegiance to left-wing politics when they’re working-class.”

As ever though, Sam isn’t masquerading as an expert: “I’m not fucking Noam Chomsky, you know what I mean? I’m not going to dissect the whole political agenda of the Tories and figure it all out because I can’t. All I see is a big fucking shit sandwich – every day through my news feed – and it’s just, ‘Well: that’s what your dealing with.”

The singer is fond of describing North Shields as “a drinking town with a fishing problem”. Today he adds: “That’s been the backdrop of my life: all of these displaced working-class people. It’s a town that’s resilient that still has a strong sense of community. In a lot of big cities that’s dead. In London everything changes from postcode to postcode, but everything is quite uniform up here.”

When NME was awaiting Sam’s arrival outside the studio before the interview, a passerby clocked our photographer’s gear and asked, “Oh aye – are you waiting for Sam? We all know Sam – a good lad; very accommodating with nae airs or graces about him.” Another pointed to The Low Lights Tavern down the road, where Fender used to pull pints on the weekends: “He was a terrible barman, and he’ll be the first to tell you that. I think he got sacked about six times during his time there.”

Sam (who confesses of his bartending know-how: “He’s totally right!”) hit the local to celebrate when ‘Hypersonic Missiles’ won him a Critics’ Choice gong at the BRIT Awards in 2019, placing the trophy on the bar. “I owed The Low Lights one for being such a shit barman,” he says. “I wanted them to be proud of us because they fucking certainly wasn’t proud of us when I was around working there!”

“Celebrity stuff freaks me out. I’d rather just live my life”

He’s clearly a key member of the local community, then. How did he see the pandemic impact on his family and friends – especially when the North East faced the toughest Tier Four lockdown restrictions last December? Sam pauses before bluntly saying: “I lost more mates; there was suicides again. Mental health was the biggest thing. We lost friends who had drunk too much.”

A track on the new record, ‘The Dying Light‘, is an epic sequel to ‘Dead Boys’, with the poignant last line of the album ringing out “for all the ones who didn’t make the night”. Sam, unable to truly distance himself from The Boss after all, explains: “It’s very Springsteen. It’s my ‘Jungleland’ or ‘Thunder Road’ – it’s got that ‘Born To Run’ feel; there’s strings and brass [and] it’s fucking massive. It’s a celebration. It’s a triumph over adversity.”

He stresses that it was vital for him to be in regular contact with his friendship circle through that traumatic time: “It becomes important when you lose friends to suicide… You realise it’s always the unlikely folks. We lost a friend to suicide at the beginning of last year and it was someone you’d never expect. It really hits home; it’s important to check in on your mates.”

Sam has alluded in previous interviews to a health condition that he’s not yet ready to fully disclose, and tells NME that he spent three months shielding at the beginning of the pandemic: “I was alone for three months and that was very tough… When you’re completely alone and isolated, it’s impossible. I spent a lot of time drinking and not really looking after myself and eating shit food, but I wrote a lot of good lyrics.”

There’s a certain resulting bleakness to some of his new songs, but Sam also wanted light to shine through. “It’s a darker record, but it’s a celebration of surviving and coming out the other end,” he explains. “It’s upbeat but the lyrics can be quite honest. It’s the most honest thing I’ve done.”

You might expect a young hometown hero to rail at having been denied the chance to capitalise on his burgeoning fame in the last year or so, but Sam insists, “I still have imposter syndrome,” adding: “I don’t feel like it’s happened… I’m walking around the street and people ask for photos and it just feels bizarre. I’m like, really? I feel like I haven’t come out of my shell yet.”

Sam has rarely been one to court celebrity, and revealed in 2019 that he’d turned down the chance to appear in an Ariana Grande video. “It was an honour but I would have just been known as that guy in the video,” he tells NME. “All of my mates would have been flipping their heads off, but I don’t think she would really want an out-of-shape, pale Geordie. I’d rather just live my life, because all of this celebrity stuff freaks [me] out, you know?”

He might have to get used to it: things can only get bigger with the arrival of the new album. “As a record I think this one is leagues ahead [of ‘Hypersonic Missiles’],” he says, “I’m more proud of this than anything I’ve ever done. It’s probably the best thing I’ve done in my life. I just hope people love it as much as I do. With the first album, a lot of those songs were written when I was 19, so I was over half of it [by the time it was released]. Whereas this one is where I’m at now.”

“This is a dark record, but it’s a celebration of surviving and coming out the other end”

Still, he adds: “At the same time, this record is probably going to piss a lot of people off.” He’s referring to a line in one of the more political tracks, ‘Aye’, where he returns to his most enduring bugbear, divisiveness, and claims that “the woke kids are just dickheads”. Sam’s no less forthcoming in person: “They fucking are, though! Some 22-year-old kid from Goldsmiths University sitting on his fucking high horse arguing with some working-class person on some comments section calling them an ‘idiot’ and a ‘bigot’? Nobody engages each other in a normal discussion [online] without calling each other a ‘thick cunt’.”

He’s eager to make this statement, though, come what may: “I don’t fucking care any more. I’m not really sure how the reaction is going to be. People used to say things online about me and I used to get quite hurt about it, but now I’m like, ‘Well, they’re not coming to my house’… [But] I get so angry. In Newcastle we say ‘pet’ and someone was trying to tell me that was fucking offensive towards women. You’re not going to delete my fucking colloquial identity. It’s not even gender-specific; we say it to men and women. My Grandma calls me ‘pet’! That brand of liberalism is fucking destroying the country. We could be getting Boris Johnson and all them pricks out of office if we stopped sweating over shit like that”.

Sam might be outspoken, but he’s self-aware, too. When we were talking politics earlier, he said: “I didn’t want to start on ‘cancel culture’ because I don’t want to sound like Piers Morgan [and] I fucking hate that cunt. But there is a degree of it which lacks redemption; people fuck up. Everyone is a flawed character. If you’re not admitting that you have flaws, then you’re a fucking psychopath. The left-wing seem to be that way and the right-wing are fucking worse than they’ve ever been. Politically I have just lost my shit.”

In all of this uncertainty, though, it seems a sure thing that Sam Fender will take his rightful crown – as soon as the world lets him – with the colossal ‘Seventeen Going Under’. “It’s going to be a hell of a return,” he insists. “I know the fans are still there, you know? So I’m not really worried – I’m ready to go out there and do my thing. Finally!”

[felidaefighter]

Fears To Ease And Flesh To Mend

Ranboo and Tubbo find out that unzombifying a piglin is a bit different from unzombifying a villager, and they start off parenthood with quite a few complications and in a little over their heads. For the sake of their child, they may need to put awkwardness aside and ask for help.

[Sick fic, canon divergence, Phil and Techno meet Michael, lots and lots of piglin lore headcanons] ~20,000 words per chapter

Chapter One of Four

     The process of unzombifying anyone was a lot more difficult than the two ingredients required seemed to suggest. First, of course, was the issue of regular village-folk who had been zombified being entirely aggressive and difficult to wrangle into a place to properly heal them. Then you had to make sure they properly inhaled the potion vapors, and then you had to make sure they actually chomped on the golden apple instead of your hand. Not to mention that you’re dealing with magic instead of science, so unknown variables came into play a distressing amount. With zombified piglins, however, it was even more complicated.

    There was something in the air of the overworld itself that was infectious and dangerous to a species that had come directly from a place of magic, such as the Nether. Because their natural home was so oversaturated with magic, it made them altogether a little more resistant to the simple magic that a typical practitioner could use; meaning their rotten flesh didn’t heal properly, and if they were left exposed to the wet climate and varied elements of the overworld-- which was something that the Nether altogether lacked for obvious reasons-- before they were unzombified, they ran the risk of never healing properly at all. Ultimately, attempting to heal a zombie piglin was a gamble, and required some actual medical knowledge.

     Which is why Tubbo and Ranboo were left perplexed and a little bit distressed after successfully unzombifying their newly-adopted son, Michael.

    “Ranboo,” Tubbo said, drawing out the name in a bit of a worried pout, “I think something’s wrong. I think we did it wrong. Did we break him? Oh god, I think we might’ve broke him.” Ranboo wore a furrowed brow and a look of deep concern. Michael, who earlier had been running fervently around the baby-proofed room when they had started the healing process, was now just sitting on the soft carpet, his usual piglish groans sounding a lot more like whines of distress and pain.

    Ranboo gently crouched down and looked deep into the young piglin’s eyes. His left eye had become unclouded, and he was looking around the room with a clarity that only living creatures had. Reflexively, he said “Hi, Michael,” in a soft, loving voice, and for the first time ever, the piglin actually seemed to respond. He was far too young to actually say anything, of course, but he looked at Ranboo when it was said. “He’s definitely not a zombie anymore,” Ranboo told Tubbo, assuring him that the process had actually worked, “But uh,” He inhaled a bit through his teeth. Michael’s eye socket was still completely exposed, along with some of the bone. The flesh on the other side of his face seemed healthy enough, but there were bits along the edges that seemed infected at best and gangrenous at worst. “He didn’t automatically heal the rotten bits the way villagers do.” 

     “Ohhhh god we broke him! We hurt him, we messed it up and now he’s going to diiiie. We’re horrible parents. We broke him, Ranboo,” Tubbo moaned dramatically.

    “No, no, I don’t think it’s that,” said Ranboo, thinking it might be just that, “I just think that maybe uh. Hm. Maybe the magic couldn’t fix everything? We might have to do the rest without magic.” Ranboo, still crouching in front of Michael, cooed at the toddler, who seemed to relax a little. “That sounds haaaard,” Tubbo said, whining despite both of them knowing the lengths they’d go to for him, but Ranboo decided to reply in a goading way. He stood up, looming (to no effect) over his husband, and raising an eyebrow. “Did you think it would be easy to raise a child?” Tubbo grinned a little, always happy to pester Ranboo-- though it didn’t fully mask the worry still present in both of them. “No. I’ll go get some bandages from downstairs.” Ranboo sighed lovingly at his intentionally difficult husband. “Thank you, Tubbo.” After thinking a moment, he called down, “Get some ointment too! And see if you can find something to stop an infection!” 

    As Tubbo got busy getting the proper materials to care for Michael-- something that relieved Ranboo, if he was being honest, because Tubbo was nothing if not thorough, smart, and loving for their child-- Ranboo tried to see the extent of the damage. He talked Michael through the process and hoped that the child was at least able to understand his intent, even if he couldn’t understand his words. “Okay Michael, I’m gonna set you on the bed, nice and easy. It’s a lot more comfy, I promise.” As Ranboo lifted Michael into the air, the piglin let out a small almost giggly snort, which was immediately followed by a wince and a whine at his own sound. 

    “I’m Ranboo, I’m gonna be your new dad,” Ranboo explained as the little piglin listened intently. “I don’t know if you remember me or not but that’s okay. I gotta check you to see where it hurts so we can fix it up and make it all better, okay?” Surprisingly enough, there wasn’t any sort of grunt or squeal of protest as Ranboo gently touched the skin of Michael’s arms, so he took that as a sign to continue. It seemed like, aside from the initial shock of coming back to life, Michael was mostly fine. The damage didn’t seem to be too extensive aside from the right half of his face and a chunk near his ribs, and a small bit on his upper back and ankle, while the rest of his openings, though infected-- “Yup, deeefinitely infected,” Ranboo muttered, drawing out the word with a bit of a wince-- would still heal fairly quickly with minimal scarring.

    Michael’s eyes shifted to the ladder before Ranboo’s did, caught up as he was in making sure his son was okay. “What’s the verdict, Big Man?” Tubbo asked, arms overflowing with bandages and ointments and apparently anything else he could get his hands on. “Ooh, that’s a lot-- that’s okay though ‘cause we’re definitely gonna need most of it. Uh, okay so, altogether he’s… mostly okay? He’s gonna need a lot of ointment and a lot of bandages ‘cause he’s definitely got an infection everywhere there’s an opening, but the smaller ones should heal up fine. Really what we have to worry about most is the right side of his face and his ribs, since there’s exposed bone-- though luckily it doesn’t seem to have affected any of his internal organs or anything. It seems like most of the reason he was acting strange when he first came back to life was because he was dazed and confused. I think. I hope,” Ranboo half-rambled, half-explained to Tubbo, who had dumped the items on the bed beside Michael and was now attempting to organize them all.

    “He seems to be listening and actually hearing us and what we’re saying at least,” Tubbo chimed in as Ranboo helped him sort. “Oh yeah! He’s a great listener. Aren’t’cha Michael?” Michael, seemingly starting to understand that that was his name, gave them both a small smile. After a solid moment of Ranboo and Tubbo trying not to bawl from being proud parents, Tubbo straightened up. “Right. I’ve decided that I’d die for Michael. I would’ve before but now I’ll kill for him too.” Ranboo nodded in agreement. “Hey Big Man,” Tubbo said to Michael, “I’m Tubbo. I am also your new dad. We gotta do a bit of prodding but it’ll heal you up.”

    After they had disinfected to the best of their abilities and applied ointment and bandages on every open sore they could find, Micahel looked half-mummy instead of half-dead. But ultimately, he did look a lot better. And he was alive. That was what was important. The piglin toddler had fallen asleep almost as soon as they were done, his grip on Tubbo’s hand growing gentler and gentler until he drifted off and they were able to pry him away and tuck him into bed. Downstairs, the two husbands sat next to eachother and discussed what to do next.

    “Man. We didn’t even get to get him into clean pants. Mans is naked.” Tubbo muttered once they were both certain that Michael wouldn’t hear them and wake up. Ranboo shrugged. “I mean, the pants he wore as a zombie? Way too nasty. It’s better to let him rest after his long day than to try and fit him into new ones.” Tubbo looked almost as weary as Michael had. “True.” They sat for a minute in thoughtful silence. “I’m worried about… his vocal chords,” Tubbo confessed, and Ranboo nodded solemnly. “And his brain. I think it’s only his eye that’s got issues but, god, what if there’s something we can’t fix in his brain? Or-- what organs are under the ribs? What if they’re affected too?” He let out a shuttering breath.

    Ranboo placed his hand gently on Tubbo’s shoulder. “He’s okay now though, Tubbo. I think it’s gonna be okay. He’s got clean bandages, the infection isn’t as deep as it first seemed to be, and we can ask for help in making sure he’s okay if anything happens. He’s responding too, and he couldn’t do that when he was undead. We’ll need to get him a prosthetic eye though,” Ranboo added, trying to cheer his husband up. It was true-- Michael, for all his anxiety-inducing sores, was likely going to be okay. Mostly, the issue was his skin, and he was going to have extensive scarring. “And a prosthetic ear maybe. Oh god, he’s probably got an ear infection too!” Tubbo quietly wailed, putting his head in his hands. Ranboo winced; he was probably right. This was all definitely a lot more than they had initially expected. That’s probably what they got for just assuming the process would be the same for piglins as it was for villagers.

    “Do you… regret taking on this responsibility?” Ranboo asked hesitantly, and Tubbo immediately straightened. “No. Never. I love Michael and I wouldn’t trade him for the world. You?” Ranboo breathed a sigh of relief. “Same. Same. It’s going to be a lot more work than we thought but-- hey I mean nobody ever said parenthood would be easy.” They both chuckled a bit, at that. Tubbo hummed in agreement. “Mmh. I reckon we’ve got some reading up to do, huh big man. If he’s got any of his language skills back they’re probably piglin. We’ll have to try and learn a little, and then get him to learn english, sorta ‘meet him halfway’ type of deal.”

    “That way it’ll be easier to know if something actually is wrong, too,” Ranboo agreed. He stood up and stretched as Tubbo looked at him tiredly. He could tell that Tubbo wanted to complain about him flexing his height but was just too tired to do that, and chuckled a bit at the thought. “Going somewhere tonight? You aren’t staying here?” Tubbo asked, curious. Ranboo paused for a moment. “I can stay if you want me to. But honestly, I was thinking you could stay here to make sure Michael is okay, and I could go back to my place.” He hesitated before continuing. “I was thinking that if anybody would know how to help with this, it’d be Techno and probably Phil too. I just kinda wanna get a second opinion so we make sure his skin grows back and there’s no exposed bone y’know?” 

    Tubbo seemed reluctant towards the idea, but he sighed. “You’re probably right. As much as I don’t really want anyone to know about Michael yet, I don’t wanna risk it and lose him. Better to get a second opinion.” Ranboo nodded. “I’ll do that, then. Hey, get some rest, yeah? And tomorrow we should also look into setting up an enderpearl stasis chamber so we can get back to Michael in an emergency. That way too it’ll be easier to switch off if one of us needs a break.” 

[ollieofthebeholder]

leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall): a TMA fanfic

Tumblr tag || Also on AO3.

Chapter 37: Martin Prime

It was weird hearing his fiancé arguing with someone who sounded like him but wasn’t, Martin mused idly. Like listening to a tape he didn’t remember recording.

It was also weird, and would probably always be weird, that he could tell the difference between Jon’s voice and Past Jon’s voice, at least when he was paying attention and not overly upset. Theoretically they were the same person. Practically, they were very different, just because of what they’d both been through. Jon’s voice had just the faintest rasp to it, the lightest bit of scarring on his vocal chords from both Daisy’s knife and Jane Prentiss’ worms, and Past Jon’s voice was a tad softer, less hardened by time and circumstance. The distinction in their voices was subtle, but it was enough.

“You knew about the bullet. You should have said something to her,” Jon said, for what was at least the fifteenth time in the last week. Martin could imagine him waving his arms as he did so. “If she gets shot because she didn’t know to avoid it—”

“It wasn’t like I had an opportunity in the conversation,” Past Martin protested. “I did tell her to be careful.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Jon demanded.

From the stress on you, Martin guessed he’d turned the argument on someone else, and it was Past Jon who answered. “What was I supposed to say? ‘Oh, don’t worry, you’ll come back alive but with a ghost’s bullet in your leg that’s going to make you irrationally angry’? I did the best I could. We were recording.”

“I’ve told you before, the recorders aren’t the Eye—”

“Uh, I need to take this back to the library before it closes for the weekend,” Tim said, but it didn’t seem to make an impression on the argument that Sasha was now chiming in to.

“He’s right, you should have told her. Should have warned her against joining the Institute, too.”

“I can do that when she gets back,” Past Martin pointed out.

“I told Basira what was going on,” Sasha said.

“But not in relation to herself,” Past Jon said. Martin could imagine that being accompanied by an accusing jab of the finger,  but he wasn’t going to make assumptions. “Besides, that’s different. Basira is the type to weigh all evidence and theories against her options when making a decision. Melanie’s more the type to give in to emotion, especially anger. It’s impossible to tell which way she’d go if you gave her that kind of information first. It’s very likely to make things worse.”

“Don’t you Know at me, Jonathan Sims.”

Tim made a noise imitative of a supermarket’s tannoy crackling to life. “Manager to Mr. Kettle, manager to Mr. Kettle, there’s a Ms. Pot for you on line two.”

“Would that be the pot calling the kettle back?” Martin asked. He was rewarded with a choked-off laugh from Tim’s direction, but he was pretty sure nobody else in the room heard either one of them. With a sigh, he heaved himself out of the armchair. “Want me to come with you to take that book back? This is going to take a while.”

“Sure. We’ll be back, guys.” Tim evidently directed this at the others, but again, no reaction from anyone. He sighed. “Here, give me your arm. Bringing your cane?”

“Better not, just in case we run into someone. Get me to the stairs and I should be okay.”

The sound of the argument faded into the background as they made it to the steps; Martin let go of Tim’s arm and gripped the railing instead. By leaning forward, he could anticipate when they hit a landing. “Thanks. What’s the book on, by the way?”

“Oh, it’s one of the circus books. I—I know I’m obsessing a little about it. I know the circus itself isn’t the important bit, but…I don’t know. Forewarned is forearmed, I guess.” Tim was silent for a moment. “Unless it is something about circuses that are important.”

“No, not really. Just…an excuse, I guess.” Martin tried to put into words what even Jon had never asked his opinion on; there hadn’t been much of a chance before the Unknowing, and after it there hadn’t been much of a point. “I’ve noticed that’s one of the places the Stranger is drawn to, is the entertainment industry. Not just the circus, but the theater. I-I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s not the only one drawn to it. You know as well as I do the damn things overlap, like the bleed on the edge of colors.”

“Mm…hang on, I have a question, but we’re hitting the main floor. I’m gonna throw my arm around your shoulders like I’m telling you a bad joke, okay?”

“Thanks. And thanks for the warning.” Martin braced himself against the railing.

Tim’s arm came down heavily over Martin’s shoulders, and he turned his face towards him, hoping anyone passing them would assume he was engrossed in Tim’s extremely skewed sense of humor. True to his word, Tim picked up in the middle of a joke as they left the stairwell. “…the Brother Superior stands up as usual and sings, ‘Good morning, broooo-theeers.’ And all the brothers sing back, ‘Good moooor-niiiiiiing,’ except for the one little brother who’s rebelling. He sings out—”

“’Night, Martin,” a sweet, young-sounding voice called.

“Night,” Martin called back. It sounded like Manal, but he didn’t want to risk saying the wrong name and drawing attention to himself.

“Oh, hey, are you heading upstairs?” The voice got closer, and Martin and Tim drew to a halt. “This came in the mail drop for Mr. Bouchard. I meant to bring it up right away, but we got slammed with students and I forgot. Must be the first paper of the term coming up due. Can you give it to Rosie, please?”

“Sure, no problem.” Martin reached out uncertainly and—fortunately—touched a cardboard packet; he was able to grab it before it became obvious that was luck. He hoped. “Have a good night, Manal.”

“You too.”

Tim got them started walking again, continuing as he did, “Anyway, so the brother who’s rebelling sings, ‘Good eeeeeeve-niiiiiiing.’ A hush falls over the whole refectory. Brother Superior stands up, looks around the room, looks each brother in the eye, and then sings, ‘Someone chanted eveniiiiiiing…’”

Martin let out a long, protracted groan. “God, Tim, how long have you been sitting on that one?”

“Years,” Tim admitted sheepishly. “You’ve got to have the right audience for it, you know? Someone who both appreciate puns and knows enough about music to catch the reference.”

“If I could see you, I would hit you.”

“Must be my lucky day. Mind the steps.”

Martin switched the cardboard packet to his other hand in favor of the railing, and was surprised when someone tugged it away from his fingers. “Hey—”

“Sorry, should’ve warned you I was doing that,” Tim said. “I just figured it’d probably be better if I hand it off to Rosie, since…” He trailed off.

Since Martin couldn’t see her, wouldn’t know where to find her, and the last time he’d been in her office it had been…somewhat different. He tried to push the image of the top of the Panopticon out of his mind. “Yeah, probably for the best. If she’s still there.”

“She will be. Always one of the last ones out the door. Not sure how much of it is Elias keeping her to the last minute and how much of it is she doesn’t want to miss anything.” Tim paused. “Speaking of being unbearably nosy, wonder what Elias is getting from one of the Lukases that can’t be delivered in person?”

“They don’t like doing anything in person if they can help it, Tim. It’s kind of their whole…deal.” That close to Elias’ office, it didn’t feel safe to mention the Lonely out loud, or any of the fears, really. “I very much doubt we’ll find out, though.”

The railing didn’t level out—it just stopped, something Martin discovered when he almost pitched forward from abruptly not having something to lean on. He caught himself against the wall with a rather loud slap and thanked his lucky stars he’d always had a (mostly undeserved, to be honest) reputation as a klutz. Assuming anyone was still around, they’d probably just think oh, Martin tripped over his own two feet again, insofar as they thought about it at all. Rosie was probably watching, though.

That was confirmed—more or less—when Tim said in a bright, jovial voice, “Rosie! Good to see you. Can you give this to Elias? Manal asked us to bring it up.”

“Of course.” Rosie’s voice sounded just like Martin remembered it, and he curled one hand into a fist to stave off the memory of her staring up at them, face perfectly blank except for her eyes, somewhere between dazed and terrified, as she blandly asked if they had an appointment…

Not for the first time, Martin wished there had been any other way of protecting him from the Eye than by destroying his vision. Setting aside the usual, mundane difficulties that came with total blindness—difficulties any person faced with complete loss of sight would have to deal with—there was the simple fact that the last thing Martin had seen, live and in person, had been a post-apocalyptic hellscape. The last time he had seen the Institute, it had been a tower of black glass and twisted steel looming up into the stratosphere; the last time he had seen London, it had been swarming with very interested cameras and monitors and paintings of eyes; the last time he had seen the sky, it had seen him back. He could remember the way things had been before, but those last impressions were awfully powerful, and it hurt.

“Was there anything else, Tim?” Rosie asked. Martin frowned slightly. Under her voice was something eager, something…hungry. She wanted something, and he wondered what it was. He remembered Jon’s unwilling statement, where he’d talked about her constant desire for secrets—she could probably give Sasha a run for her money in terms of snooping, and no wonder Gertrude had always talked to her as if she was in the know. Was that all it was? Was she prying for secrets? Or—Martin bit his lip—was it possible she’d been taken over by the Not-Them, that she was drawn to Tim because of his Stranger mark? She sounded like he remembered, but if she were replaced in this past, would it replace his memories of the future, too?

He bit back a groan. Douglas Adams was wrong about the biggest problem to time-travel being grammatical tenses; clearly, the biggest problem was making sense out of the recursive nature of body-stealing, memory-altering creatures.

“Nope, that ought to do it. Gotta get to the library before they lock it up for the night. Have a good weekend, Rosie.” Tim knocked twice on something wooden, probably her desk, then came over and touched Martin’s arm. “Let’s go, Freckles.”

“Night, Rosie,” Martin called, because he would have before and Past Martin would too and there was no sense in making Rosie—or Elias, if he was still there—suspicious. He could imagine the false, charming smile she flashed in his direction, but there was no audible response and he didn’t expect one. Instead, he simply linked arms with Tim, let him lead him down the corridor, and prayed nobody had left a door open for him to run into.

The sensation of stepping into the library was instantly a familiar one to Martin—the feeling of stepping into a soaring, open space, but an oddly safe one—odd because of the sheer number of truly dangerous and terrifying works contained there. Any book with Jurgen Leitner’s bookplate on it was destroyed long before it got this far, of course, but even before he’d gone to the Archives, Martin had wondered if someone would be able to tell one of Leitner’s books if the bookplate was papered over or removed. Once he’d learned the truth, that Leitner had been a collector rather than the author or even the commissioner, he’d wondered how many books of power were actually in the Institute’s library. On the one hand, it didn’t seem likely that Jonah Magnus would allow any genuinely powerful books to get this far; on the other hand, it would certainly explain the library’s asinine and borderline ludicrous lending procedures.

Martin hung back by the door, sliding his hands into his pockets and hoping he was sufficiently out of the way of everyone bustling to get their assigned tasks completed so they could be out the door on time. Idly, he wondered who was on the desk. He’d usually ended up working it on Friday afternoons; everybody else hated it because, as Rebecca had once complained, there was always one person who came back with an enormous stack to return with ten minutes to go before they were supposed to clock out. Every book had to be checked against three different lists, certain inspections had to be made, and the identity of the person returning the book had to be checked twice. And it all had to be done by hand; every attempt to automate and bring in a computer had been met with catastrophic failure. Martin had actually kind of enjoyed it, especially since it usually meant he was left alone at the end of the week and could take his time, lingering over shelves and experimenting with the acoustics. If he thought he could get away with it, he might creep up here some evening after the Institute was closed and throw a few more songs into the darkness. It was different in the Archives.

“Well, hello there, Martin!”

Martin almost leapt out of his skin and whirled around, his heart pounding. “Jesus!”

“Sorry, didn’t mean to sneak up on you.” The voice was coming from roughly Martin’s height, but that was about all he could tell, that and that it was female. It had no distinctive characteristics, nothing to trigger a name in his mind. And yet, whoever owned it knew his name, which meant it was someone he should know. He’d have to bluff. “Haven’t seen you up here in a while.”

“Yeah, just—been busy,” Martin said lamely. He waved in the direction of the desk. “Kind of figured you’d be glad to see the back of me, to be honest.”

“Oh, now, why would you think that?” The woman, or at least Martin presumed it was the woman, patted him on the cheek with a soft, fleshy hand; he tried not to flinch at the unexpected touch, or the unpleasantly dry feel of her palm. “You’re such a hard worker, and always so cheerful. You’ve been missed, but I’m sure Jon appreciates having you in the Archives.”

If this was a joke, Martin didn’t think it was very funny, but he managed a smile anyway. “Well, we all had a settling-in period, but that’s in the past now. I do miss it up here sometimes, but I like being down there, too.”

“And we’re very glad to have him,” Tim said, suddenly right next to Martin. “C’mon, buddy, we’ve got a weekend to catch before it slips away…have a good one.”

“You, too, Tim. And you, Martin. Don’t be such a stranger—come back and visit us more often. We’d love to see you again.”

“Sure,” Martin said softly. “’Night.”

Tim didn’t say anything the rest of the way back down to the Archives, which Martin appreciated. Going down stairs was a hell of a lot more complicated than going up; he couldn’t lean as safely, and the kick-and-drag method was a bit less effective. It took concentration to keep from pitching forward and tumbling down the entire flight, and if he tried to spare any braincells for conversation, Martin was pretty sure he’d end up missing his footing. Tim’s hand at his elbow helped, especially since the main floor was crowded with people leaving for the day. A few called greetings to Tim, but they all ignored Martin, which was fine by him.

There was a sense, when they re-entered the Archives, of an argument put on hold, something that was confirmed when the first thing Martin heard anyone say was Jon’s voice. “What do you think, Martin?”

“Gender is a social construct, Shakespeare is overrated, and paisley is horrendously tacky no matter what color it is,” Martin replied promptly. Someone hastily turned a snigger into a cough.

“I mean, about whether or not you would have told Melanie more about what to expect in India.”

Martin felt around until he located a chair. “I think my opinion doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters,” Past Jon protested.

“Not in this.” Martin met Jon’s hand coming towards him and squeezed it gently. “What I would have done doesn’t have a lot of relevance here. It’s not our story anymore.”

“What?” Past Martin sounded genuinely confused. “Of course it’s—”

“I mean,” Martin said quickly, “that you’re not us and we’re not you. What I was like at this point in things isn’t anywhere near where you are, and vice versa. Same with Jon and your Jon. To be honest, I don’t even know if I would have made the effort to be friends. But at this point, things are different enough that telling you how we would do it isn’t very…efficient, I guess? It’s your story, your lives. You’re the ones shaping it. Trying to do things the way we wish we’d done it…well, if the circumstances aren’t the same, it won’t have the same outcome necessarily. You’ve got to do what you think is best.”

“That’s…a good point, actually,” Jon admitted. He sighed. “I apologize for lecturing.”

“’S all right,” Past Martin said. “Gave me a chance to stand my ground and all.”

“Which you need to do more often,” Tim said cheerfully. “Anything to boost your self-esteem.”

“Ouch, Tim, really?” The effectiveness of Sasha’s reproof was lessened by the obvious smirk in her voice.

“Yeah, okay, I probably shouldn’t have said it like that, but it’s true. I’m not completely oblivious, you know. I can put the pieces together, and from the little you’ve said about working in the library, I got the impression you thought they hated you up there. Especially Diana.”

“They did,” Past Martin protested. “The only one who ever even spoke to me directly was Diana, and even that was just to give me orders. It’s hard not to know someone hates you when their method of asking you for help is to wait until you’re in earshot and then tell someone else to ‘just leave that for Martin, he’ll fumble his way through it eventually’.”

“Did they really do that?” Jon asked quietly.

“Constantly,” Martin affirmed. “Speaking of, Tim, who the hell was that who was talking to me while you were checking that book back in? I didn’t recognize the voice.”

“Wait, seriously?” Tim said with an audible frown.

Martin sighed. “Look. Down here it’s pretty easy to tell who’s talking. You’ve all got pretty distinct voices from one another. It’s hard to tell my Jon and your Jon apart if I’m not concentrating, but there’s enough of a difference and I know you well enough to be able to figure it out, usually. But out there? If it’s not someone with a distinctive pitch or accent or speech pattern or whatever, it’s hard to tell. And something like ninety percent of the people who work here speak with the exact same voice. About all I could tell was that I was talking to a woman.”

“I guess that makes sense. Just figured you’d recognize Diana’s voice when you heard it.”

“Pretty sure I would. So who was that?”

There was a half-second’s pause before Tim said, “Diana.”

“Diana?” Martin repeated incredulously.

“You’re sure you didn’t recognize her?”

“No, and it’s not just the accent. I didn’t think the ladders got that close to where I was standing.” Martin rubbed his forehead. “God, my mental map of the library is all off now.”

Jon wrapped an arm around his shoulder and pulled him close. Tim sounded bewildered. “What do ladders have to do with anything?”

“It sounded like whoever was talking to me was around my height. I mean, that could’ve been the way sound bounces in the library, but—”

“No, that’s—she is around your height. She always intimidated the hell out of me.”

Martin sighed. “Okay, I think we’re talking about two different Dianas here. Which Diana was this I was talking to?”

“Diana—what the hell is her last name? The head librarian?”

“Caxton,” Past Jon supplied.

Something cold trickled down Martin’s spine. “Describe her.”

“Uh—tall, broad-shouldered, dark hair that she usually wears piled up on top of her head, looks like a Quentin Blake illustration come to life—?”

“That’s who the artist is! I can never remember his name,” Sasha said, punctuating the remark by—from the sound of it—slamming her open hand against the desk.

“That’s not Diana Caxton,” Past Martin said decidedly. “I don’t know who you’re talking about, or why she would have told you she was, but—”

“It’s the Diana Caxton I know,” Past Jon said. “And you should, too. She was there when I took Melanie up the first time, said they missed seeing your smiling face up there.”

“Look, that’s not Diana,” Past Martin insisted. “I should know. I worked there for ten years, Jon. She’s shorter than five feet tall, her hair’s been completely silver for a while now, and she has a Korean accent. I don’t know who this woman is you’re describing, but it’s not Diana Caxton.”

Jon tensed, his arm tightening around Martin’s shoulders. Softly, he said, “I think it is now.”

There was a moment of horrible silence as that sank in. Martin had to admit that the idea of the Not-Them taking over Diana hadn’t even occurred to him. He’d just…assumed that if it was anyone, either it would be someone in Artifact Storage foolish enough to disregard the warnings or it would be Rosie. And, okay, maybe there’d been a foolish little part of him that had hoped it wouldn’t take over anyone. But somehow, the idea of it being Diana Caxton just felt wrong. It was true that she hadn’t liked him all that much when he’d worked for her, but then, he’d been unqualified and incompetent, bluffing his way along, and she’d likely had to pick up a lot of his messes. And he knew for a fact that the twice-widowed bookworm had a flock of grandchildren who adored her—he still remembered the day her youngest had come to visit, just before he’d been transferred to the Archives, and attached herself to Martin with a thousand innocent questions and bragging stories about “my Nana”. It wasn’t fair for anyone to be taken by that thing, but especially not someone like Diana.

There was a banging noise, like the Archives doors had just blown open, and Martin jumped, clutching at Jon’s arm. His first thought was that it was the Not-Diana, having realized they knew, coming to take them out. His second was that it was Elias, the jig would be up, and they would have to try and implement their plan now, and what if Jon wasn’t strong enough to do what had to be done and—

“Basira?” Sasha said, sounding somewhere between shocked and relieved. “What are you doing here?”

Oh. Martin relaxed, but not much. There was absolutely no hiding his or Jon’s presence. Past Jon sounded nervous as he said, “I can explain about—”

“Save it. I don’t care.” There was a thump and a rattle as Basira—her voice was unmistakable, too—dropped something on the desk in front of them. “Here.”

“Are those the tapes?” Past Jon asked.

“As many of them as I could get,” Basira replied.

“What happened, Basira?” Sasha’s voice was gentle, but—surprisingly—there was no static in it, even though Martin could almost feel it building in the room. It hit him, suddenly, that Sasha’s ability from the Eye didn’t enable her to ask for secrets. Only to take them. He decided to keep that particular unpleasant realization to himself for the moment. “I thought you said you were done with the Institute.”

Basira let out one of those frustrated noises Martin, unfortunately, knew all too well. “They’re covering it up. Altman’s death. Saying he was dirty. That he got stabbed in a drug deal gone wrong.”

“Wait, so the operation you went on—” Past Jon began.

“Doesn’t exist. I mean, I didn’t know Leo well, but…it’s not right. And they seemed happy enough to get me out the door.”

Someone poked at the box, if the rattle was any indication; Martin guessed it was Sasha, since she spoke again. “So why bring us the tapes?”

“Well, they’re sure as hell not going to solve Gertrude’s murder,” Basira said. “And from what you said the last time I was here, they’re probably of more use to you anyway, even if her death’s not in here. Before, I guess I had enough police in me not to steal evidence, but…”

“They’ve rather lost your loyalty,” Jon supplied softly. Martin slipped his arm around his waist and pulled him close.

“You won’t get in trouble for this, will you?” Tim asked, actually sounding concerned.

“Don’t think so. Daisy knows I’m bringing them to you. They won’t know they’re missing until they do inventory, and then only if they check the sectioned stuff.”

“Thanks, Basira,” Sasha said. “I owe you a drink or two. Just say the word.”

“Long as you promise not to talk shop,” Basira replied. “If I never hear another thing about this place…that’ll be enough for me.”

Martin heard footsteps starting to retreat across the Archives floor. Impulsively, he called out, “Basira.”

The footsteps stopped. “What?”

Martin looked in what he hoped was the right direction to look her in the eyes. “Keep her close. You’re her tether, and excuses only carry you so far.”

It was the same thing he’d said to her, once upon a time and simultaneously in a nonexistent future, loitering in the hallway of an abattoir outside an instrument room. She hadn’t wanted to listen then, and if he was honest, he hadn’t really taken his own advice all that well. He could only pray she would listen now, and that she would understand what he was talking about—and what he wasn’t saying. Don’t let your partner turn into a monster because it’s easier than saying stop.

After a moment, Basira said, her voice so soft it almost wasn’t audible, “Right.” With that, evidently, she left the Archives.

Jon pulled Martin around and wrapped him in a tight hug; Martin could feel his face pressing into his shoulder as he hugged him back. He, at least, had understood. They held each other for a moment, both hoping—despite what she’d done to them months ago—that Daisy could still be saved.

There was another rattle as someone poked at the tapes. “Where do we start?” Sasha asked.

“We go home,” Tim said firmly. “It’s Friday, and it’s past quitting time. Let’s just—let’s just go home, take the weekend to regroup, and we can come back and look through these on Monday. Maybe, um, maybe you two can go through and pick a few you think we ought to listen to.”

“Or,” Jon suggested, “we can sort them out. Gertrude labeled some but not others. If I set the blank ones aside, that might be good practice for you to sort out the color muddle. If that’s all right.”

“Either way, Tim’s right,” Past Jon said softly. “It’s late and we’re all tired. Especially…now. Let’s just go home. We’ll see you on Monday.”

Everyone wished one another goodnight, and the team departed, leaving Jon and Martin alone in the Archives. Martin waited a moment, then asked, “Do you want to start looking through them now?”

To Martin’s surprise, Jon hesitated for a minute, then said, “No. I think I want to put these in the Archivist’s office, and then I want to take a walk with my fiancé and maybe go out to dinner. What do you think of that?”

Martin smiled. He could feel himself blushing a little, but he didn’t care. “I think that sounds like an excellent idea.”

[alloftimeandspacetosee]

Pokemon get; Aria

So the original like... main Plot Filled Story Doc for Jay is written in journal entries bc I wanted to try something new with it all, which mean like a lot of this stuff is just glossed over? So I wrote up all the pokemon she receives as separate things (I also did the gym battles, but a lot of them get samey so I’m not putting most of them up (I also only ever actually finished the Sinnoh league)).

 This one’s still ok to put up haha

 pls forgive my French! I was relying heavily on google translate.

~

We stand in the atrium of the professor’s building, waiting. His assistant has informed us that he will be with us shortly, but… that was a while back. Even Birch wasn’t this lax about timing, and I expected it of him.

“I’d ask if you want to go wait in a cafe, but I’m going to need you to translate,” I say to Jayden, who laughs.

“I’m fine waiting.” He smiles.

“Some of us don’t seem to be,” Brith mutters, then barks.

I turn to see Soise, caught mid illusion over the desk of a shivering intern. “Soise.”

She laughs and jumps away, shades of possessed ghosts falling from existence after her.

Vulp, at my feet, yaps something at her, to which Soise replies in kind. Vulp bounces forward, ducking down on her forelegs as if begging. Soise tumbles her over and they go racing around the room.

Sesser cheeps and huddles into my neck, keeping out of view as best she can. Between her and Vulp with her nine tails, we’ve caused quite a stir. Soise is hardly helping, her illusions breaking the way in rarer and rarer pokemon. But at least her… latias child had the sense to stay behind, on the ship. I think, anyway. Who knows what Soise’s hiding.

I’d return her, but she seems to like being out all the time.

“Mes excuses, mes amis!” The door slams open behind us.

We turn to see a man in a lab coat with the sleeves rolled up enter the building. This is presumably the professor. I raise an eyebrow at his assistant, who had informed us that he was upstairs engaged in important work.

She had the decency to duck her head, looking intensely busy.

“Hi.” I stepped forward. “I was hoping to register for the league challenge.”

“Ma beauté, anything for you.” He takes my proffered hand and dips over it, kissing the back.

Holy shit. Again with these guys.

I try not to roll my eyes too much.

“Come, come!” He beckons us to follow. “This way, to my office.”

I exchange a glance with Jayden and we follow him. Brith barks at Soise and Vulp once more, and they run to my side, scrabbling at the stairs. Brith grabs up Vulp and leaves Soise to fend for herself.

I almost turn back for her, but actually she seems to be handling them fairly well, so I let her be.

Brith glances back at her, smirking, and I can’t help but feel like they’re definitely hiding something. Maybe Lairisse, maybe something else. Who knows!

“So, you wish to challenge?” The professor turns as we reach his office, leaning back against the desk. “The two of you or…?”

“Just me.” I hold out my trainer card.

He reaches to take it and leans back on his desk, reaching for the card reader there. “And you’ll take a starter, of course.”

“What? I – no.” I shake my head. “I don’t need any more pokemon.” Far more than enough, really.

“Are you sure?”

Soise paws at my leg, whining.

I glance across at Brith.

“She’s pointing out you haven’t trained anyone new in a while,” Brith replies.

Sycamore blinks and stares at her, fingers tapping at the machine in his hand.

“So? I’m fine with everyone I’ve got.”

“They are all very powerful pokemon,” Jayden says.

I tilt my head, looking at him.

He gestures at the card reader. “It’s supposed to be a challenge, right? If your pokemon are all as powerful as yours are, then… there isn’t much challenge.”

I shrug. “I just ask them to use stronger teams.”

“Oh, I see, you have many badges!” Sycamore exclaims. “What is that, four… five leagues?”

“Six,” I correct. “I did the Orange Archipelago challenge as well.”

“I… actually agree with Soise, here,” Brith says. “You should take another pokemon on.”

I sigh, rolling my eyes. “What’s the starter choice here?”

Sycamore brightens and places the card reader – still with my card in it – back on his desk as he stands, striding across to a glass fronted cabinet to take out a display case of three pokeballs. “Fire, water and grass, of course. Feunnec, which becomes the fire/psychic type goupelin.” He taps the first of them. “Grenousse, which becomes the water/dark type amphinobi.” The second one. “And Marisson, which becomes the grass/fighting type blindépique.”

I consider the choices. I don’t have any grass types at all, but then most of my team is fire-based so I can’t imagine it’d fit in too well. That cut out Marisson… even if training a type I was unfamiliar with would be interesting.

The water type would be interesting. “Can you tell me more about the… grenousse?”

Soise flattens her ears and hisses. Apparently she doesn’t like that prospect.

Sycamore smiles. “They are fast, good at speed and dodging and sneaky attacks. Not so much on defence, I think?”

I nod. Fast and sneaky would be an interesting change, since currently… ok, I dealt in quick attacks and evasion and occasionally stalling. A grenousse would actually fit in with that.

And it wasn’t like I couldn’t cancel out any weaknesses already. Glace could use someone in her corner for the ground types.

Which I could say of the Marisson, for helping Ray with water types.

Ugh.

“Why are you making me take this decision?” I narrow my eyes at Brith.

She laughs. “Because it would be good for you.”

Sycamore glances at her again and sets down the tray on his desk. “Sorry, you are not… you are a pokemon?”

Brith nods. “I spent a long time listening, and then forced my vocal chords to cooperate when I evolved.” She flicks an ear. “That’s what you were going to ask? How I can speak?”

Huh. The more you know.

Sycamore walks towards her, gesturing with his hands.

Brith rolls her eyes and tilts her head up, allowing him to examine her throat. Faint burn scars still gleam through her fur, but they’re not half as bad as when she was a riolu.

Soise growls and leaps up onto the desk – she’s definitely hiding something, there’s no way she should be able to make that jump – and pats at the first pokeball, the feunnec. Then she points a paw down at Vulp, sitting quiet at my feet.

“What?”

“The – ah, the feunnec is something like your vulpix,” Sycamore says, looking around. “Perhaps she thinks they will be good friends?”

“But that’s another fire type.” I frown.

Brith shakes her head and backs away from Sycamore. “That does seem to be your area, fire types.”

“So I might as well specialise?” I laugh. “Oh… good a reason as any. I’ll take the feunnec.”

Soise leaps down from the desk with an excited yip, bowling Vulp over.

Sycamore takes up the card reader again and the feunnec’s pokeball, and registers it to my account. “There you go.” He hands them both over with a smile. “The first gym is south, in Santalune.”

“Is there a specific order to take them in?” I pocket my card, rolling the ball in my hand.

“Santalune, Cyllage, Shalour, Coumarine, Lumiose, Laverre, Anistar, then Snowbelle.”

I nod slowly. “Thank you.”

Sycamore smiles and bows extravagantly. “Mon plaisir,” he replies, “Ma beauté.”

I raise a hand, then point a finger at him. “Don’t start.”

His laughter follows us from his office.

[alexius-fr]

Chapter 4 - Decay

Click the link for the AO3 version or read below the cut ^^ 

“How dare he.”

She was furious, raging like a fire. A beautiful, spirited fire, her eyes ablaze.

“He talked down to you like you are not his equal, no- his superior. You are younger, more able, more open minded. More fit to lead.” she spoke with a voice like a crackle of lightning, rough, sharp.

Khadiyah. She stood proud as she faced him, unwilling to back down. Proud, strong. The very embodiment of what a dragon should be. Her muted red hide carried the markings of a warrior, scars, but also her natural markings that made her look ruptured, light red and very dark red mixing in an aggressively striped pattern on her body and wings. Silas had been instantly smitten with her when they met for the first time, only a few months ago. She'd joined the clan and had initially not attracted much attention to herself, but she'd made silent friendships with a lot of the dragons over those few months, asserting herself as a reliable companion, if sometimes harsh. Firm but fair, she was a fearsome fighter, strong willed and stubborn.

“You saw what happened.” Silas said. “I was foolish to think they would betray him. I should have prepared better, but in the heat of the moment I thought I could pull it off.”

“The old bastard's been their leader for a long time, it won't be easy to convince them. We need to talk to them, one on one. Be subtle about it. Bring up the argument, apologize. Win their sympathy. Speak to their imagination. So many of them want to return home, I saw it in their eyes.”

“I know. I saw it too. And I don't want our daughter to grow up here, in this throwaway lair, this land plagued by cutting winds. What if she gets it into her head that she wants to make kites?” Silas shuddered. “No, she deserves to grow up in a territory suited to her needs. If we cannot convince them, I promise you we will leave together, my love.”

“So we shall. But we must try. There is strenght in numbers, and we need those numbers if we are to establish a presence in the Scarred Wasteland.” Khadiyah stated.

“Do you think Seth could make the trip?” Silas wondered. Their firstborn was sleeping on her nest behind them. She was only a month old, but young dragons grew quickly, and she stood to about half of their size already.

“If she cannot, she was never meant to make it.” Khadiyah said. “Such is the way of the Plaguebringer. We must not coddle her.”

“Of course.” Silas agreed. “I would never.” He, in fact, would. But best to not bring that up right now.

“Besides, she shows signs of your blood already. If it persists, she will easily make it.” Khadiyah said, not worried in the slightest, Silas smirking at the compliment.

“But she has your pride and determination.” Silas said, in an attempt to flatter his mate, who smiled coquettishly.

“Of course she does.” Khadiyah stated, matter-of-factly. “She's a combination of the best of us both.”

“You are the best part of me.” Silas said, still as smitten as the day they met. For the smallest moment, Khadiyah's face softened, and she rubbed her head against Silas' neck lovingly. He loved her always, but even more in these very rare moments where she allowed herself to be vulnerable. Silas returned the gesture, but froze when he saw noticed they were being watched.

“Gross!”

Seth had woken up and was obviously displeased with her parents' show of affection towards eachother, her nose wrinkled as she stuck out her tongue. Silas smiled at Khadiyah, who rolled her eyes, the last of her smile disappearing. She headed over to the nest to berate Seth for listening in on them, Silas watching them with a feeling of strange melancholy. Once, all that had mattered to him was his brother. He'd looked up to him, did everything for him, forgetting himself in the process. Khadiyah had reminded him of his worth. Supported him as he learned to re-assert himself. She gave him a goal. A family. They were his priority now. And if Sanguine wouldn't accept that.. a part of him hoped he would. But he knew better. No, his course was already set, despite a part of his old self wanting to return to the way things were before. But he had a responsibility now, and he had to rise to it.

It was time to put their plan into motion.

-

Sanguine did not feel good about leaving the lair unattended for a longer time, especially after that argument. But something pulled him northwards, called him towards the border of his old homeland. Something primal, something mystical that tugged at his very core. He wouldn't call it his heart, but it was something ancient, something that he had always known and yet didn't.

The bamboo forests and cliffs gradually turned more orange and yellow, the domain of the Plaguebringer slowly but surely advancing over the borders. Dead, dried out bamboo lined the very edge where the ground turned to dry, ashy brown sinew. It was on this edge that his calling lay. From the skies, he searched, circling the area. For hours, he skirted the border, drifting on the sickly warm winds that blew into the Wastelands.

He didn't know if it was exhaustion, but it seemed like the very land beneath him was starting to move. He looked closer, seeing that oval puddle he'd seen a few times now shift and boil. The very thin green liquid was hardly as toxic as what you'd find near the wyrmwound, this looked more like water with a flim layer of algae on top.

And then it blinked.

Sanguine nearly fell out of the sky when he saw it, doing a double take to be sure. But yes, it actually had blinked. And it did it again, it's dry fleshy edges pulling shut in an almost cringing motion before opening again, this time releasing it's contents as it did so. He'd never seen a puddle blink before, so he had to quell his curiousity, flying down to investigate. He had forgotten how alive the land itself could feel, the ground groaning as he approached the large puddle. It was boiling hot with pestilence, even this close to the border. Like a miniature wyrmwound, almost.

“You have come at last.”

A bombastic voice shook the ground and Sanguine froze, eyes quickly scanning the environment. There was nobody around, he was certain of it.

“The answers are not always in plain view, Sanguine.”

“Who are you? How do you know my name?” Sanguine said, looking around, ready to defend himself.

“You are known to this land, and the land whispers to me. It's been a very long time, child of the Blood.”

“Reveal yourself. I have no time for games.” Sanguine snapped, impatient. For a long moment, nothing happened, green puffs of poisonous air releasing from a gheyser far away. Sanguine was not concerned, a child of Plague could withstand the lands' natural defenses. He was more concerned about where this voice was coming from, staying alert to signs of danger.

Then, with a great heave, the pool opened, parting to reveal the entrance to an underground lair. The liquid bubbled and spattered, sloshing into an invisible barrier. Powerful magic filled the air, the taste of metal on Sanguine's tongue.

“Enter, friend.”

Sanguine warily looked at the putrid liquid as he passed through the entrance that had just appeared, ready to jump up and fly off if it turned out to be a trap, but nothing happened. He entered a narrow tunnel where the floor squished under his feet as he walked along. The smell of the lair might have put off anyone not of the Blood, but Sanguine found himself nostalgic. It smelled of decay, of damp rotted leaves, and the sickly sweet smell of the pools of acid. The smell of home.

Inside, the lair's walls were covered in sinew, that seemed to breathe and move as he passed. He felt like a hundred eyes were upon him, but he saw none of them when he turned his head to check behind him. Still, he cast a warning frown at whatever was watching him.

“Be welcome, Sanguine.” the voice was closer now, Sanguine focusing his attention on it, ready to strike if need be.

“So you have answered the call at last.” Sanguine looked around to see the source of the voice, stepping onto something warm and soft, which grabbed his attention. He inched back and saw two pale white eyes blink up at him, like they had just woken up. With a groan that shook the lair, a large serpentine body started to unravel from the very floor itself, sinew breaking apart to reveal an imperial dragon, face scarred over, their blood red mane long and unmaintained, their wings and body tattooed with mystical drawings of eyes and bones.

“Were you..merged with the cave?” Sanguine wondered, seeing bits of sinew still stuck in the imperial's wild mane.

“I was. I have been for so long it feels strange to be confined into this body again. But I suppose it would be rude not to face the first guest I have had in years.” the imperials voice was deep, bombastic, but with a rawness to it. This might have been the first time in all those years it had to use it's vocal chords.

“Years?” Sanguine frowned. “Wait, how does that work?”

“I spent years alone, communing with the land. Eventually I became so adept at it I simply.. merged with it. Now I can do it at will, but it takes a lot of concentration. But that's not what is important. You're here.” the imperial spread out their wings, the crudely inscribed magical markings blinking as they watched. The 'eyes' didn't even really look like eyes, more like crudely carved spiked circles with a dot in the middle, but they did send a shiver up Sanguine's spine as they focused on him. The imperials face was not quite directed at him, and Sanguine realized only now that the dragon was blind.

“Yes. I see.” the imperial spoke.”You have suffered great pain.” “Doesn't take a genius to conclude that.” Sanguine frowned. “Was that supposed to impress me?” “You are impressed, Blooded One.” the imperial spoke without a doubt. “You were wary as you entered my lair. Every muscle in your body is tense, ready to fight. Rest assured, I would not be much of a match for the firstborn son of Wretch.” Sanguine froze at her name. There was no way the imperial could have known that without-

“I see not who you have pretended to be all these years. Rather, I see who you are. I see your blood.” the imperial said. “But I suppose it is rude to read your blood without first introducing myself. I am Rowan, seer of the land of the Plaguebringer. Pleased to meet you.”

“Who..what are you?” Sanguine adjusted his question. Rowans blind eyes darted for a moment.

“I am ancient. A wanderer. A seer. A soothsayer. A witch. I am all these things, and more. Only The Plaguebringer knows what I truly am. I no longer remember which of the previous is true.” Rowan said, his wings closing themselves. “You have come because you heard my call. Because the land called you.” “Well, something called me, yes.” Sanguine reluctantly admitted.

“You can not deny the call of your blood, child of Wretch.” “Don't call me that.” Sanguine snapped.

“Why do you deny it? All these years you spent looking for power that was greater than hers, when you already had it inside you in the first place.”

“You see much.” Sanguine said, quietly. He no longer hid the fact that he was impressed, but even if he had, there was probably no point. Whatever this imperial was, he was wise far beyond Sanguine's comprehension. It had been a long time since someone's presence had humbled him, but surprisingly he found the experience refreshing rather than annoying. Rowan was a wild spirit, a hermit, but he felt a strange kind of kinship with him. Rowan intrigued him, the runes engraved in his dull red hide radiated power, even under the mess of his long mane. Sanguine was no longer tense, instead finding a strange comfort in the fact that Rowan would see through any front he put up. A slow smile crept onto larger dragons' face.

“Excellent. You have decided to trust me. Very good.” Rowan rubbed his claws together, Sanguine seeing long, unkempt nails scrape past eachother. “Then let's prepare everything for a proper reading. Please, sit.”

[oosizins]

Get to know me tag game

I got tagged by @renhyucks thank you sweetheart (≧▽≦)

I tag @zhongwrld @alicanta77 @neocuddlytechnology

What day is your birthday: 2/06/05 (I'm 16 y/o)

What's you're favorite color: I really like green nowadays like every shade of green

What's your lucky number: 5 (for absolutely no reason)

How tall are you: it's been a year sins I'm 5.7 ft (~170cm)

How many pair of shoes do you own: 2 lol

Favorite song: it's always changing but Horizon by wayV is really nice

Favorite movie: ... I can't watch movie cuz everytime I'm watching a movie or series my anxiety 📈🛑 so ye

What would be you're ideal partner: someone who truly love me for who i am, someone who can listen to me when I'm overthinking and can help me to deal with some of my problem but can sometimes can be a little crazy. (Oof I got into some romantic shit)

Do you want children: I dream of having them but I can't cuz of my health (like I don't have everything)

Have you got in trouble with the law: me no but someone already got because he did something to me (understand if you want)

Bath or shower: shower

What color socks are you wearing: I don't wear socks now but have some really pretty pairs like with things drawn on them

Favorite type of music: actually I really like calm music with deep meaning

How many pillows do you sleep with: 2

What position do you sleep in: I sleep rarely But when I lay I lay in the little spoon position but I just don't have the big spoon lol

What you don't like when you sleep: when I do sleep and there is no more blood in my arm

What did you had for you're breakfast: I actually had my lunch instead of my breakfast so I ate an egg👍

Have you ever try archery: no..

Favorite fruit: I really like cherries and peaches

Favorite swear word: In english I like shit I don't know it sound cute but I like ukrainian swear words they are fun

Do you have scars: to much

Are you a good liar: no absolutely not cuz when I try to lie I laugh or I start talking to much

What is you're personality type: ENFP-T

What's you type of girl: like physically?-> maybe someone that is not to skinny not to round ( I think that girls little chubby are cute ╮(. ❛ ᴗ ❛.)╭) like I want to hug them so bad ) with a curvy body but for me the most important is the personality

Innie or outie : I like both

Left haded or right handed: actually both but it depends on what

Favorite food: I don't know how it's called in english but in russian it's called пельмени

And it look like that

Now you want to eat right 😂

Favorite foreign food: I don't know maybe sushi 🍣

Are you clean or messy: messy ¯\_(-_-)_/¯

Most used phrase: "how the hell"

How long it takes you to get ready: I'm always ready (｡•̀ᴗ-)✧

Do you talk to yourself: ow hell yeah

Do you sing to yourself: ow yeah

Are you a good singer: I have a issue with my vocal chords and it make me have a airy voice but it's deep and I (personally) like it.

Biggest fear: lose someone who belived and helped me and I believe, and be alone (and I don't know it it's in this question but I have practically a post tromatic stress disorder 👍)

Are you a gossip: no and I don't want to

Do you like long or short hair: it depends on the person

Favorite school subject: philosophy (cuz I over think lmao)

Extrovert or introvert: it depends with who

What makes you nervous: absolutely everything

Who was you first real crush: one of my besties of that time (born to be gay lol)

How many persons do you have: 2 on my ears

How fast can you run: again my health don't allows me to run if you want me to see I'll go run but I'll die (when I run I can't breath)so I'm gonna say that I run as fast as I walk

What color is my hair: light brown with dark orange

What color is you eyes: dark brown

What makes you angry: I'm never angry it's not in my vocabulary

Do you like you're own name: my full name no but my surname is cute

Do you want a boy or a girl as a child? I remember that when I didn't knew that I had all of those problems I wanted 2 boy and a girl but now I don't care.

What are you're strengths: I'm creative i'm open minded I can communicate (even if it's hard ) I'm a multi-lingual beech

What are you're weaknesses: I'm shy, I have tho worst health ( mental and physical) in the galaxy (or not and then I'm really sorry for you) Anxiety and a lot more

What is the color of you're bedspread: (this question is so cute like wth) btw they are light blue with butterflies

Color of you're room: I'm sleeping in my mom and grandmas room so in there room the walls are yellow

[telltheworld-phff]

Part II, chapter I: Althorp

Pain.

That’s all she could feel.

The sort of pain that would irradiate from her body and made her wonder if anyone could see it, as its force was undeniably present.

She felt nothing but pain.

She could deal with the soreness on her body. It felt as if she had run a marathon.

She could also deal with the heavy cramps that she was feeling ever since she woke up. As if she needed any reminder of what had just happened. She hadn’t asked for any medication to relieve her pain because she wanted to feel it. She wanted to be punished for what she had done.

What she couldn’t deal with was the emotional pain that had destroyed her and its relentless waves that kept shaking every single thought that crossed her mind. The waves were like a tsunami that with its violence and fast approach took away and destroyed everything it touched and she was drowning. Completely and willingly.

The waves made her remember everything that had happened a few hours ago.

The waves brought an emotional pain that shattered her dreams and hopes and wishes. Mocking her, showing the failure she had been. This earth-shattering feeling turned her world, mind, life and body upside down. She didn’t even have more tears to cry as they had dried somewhere in the middle of the night.

She was alone as she had wanted to be and surrounded only by sounds. Sound of the machine she was hooked to, sounds of the clock that showed her that time was going to pass whether or not she was ready for it, the sirens of the ambulances coming in and out of the emergency ward and the cries of a new baby that was born just down the corridor from her room. She longed to have had the chance to at least listen to her child cry. To have carried her pregnancy to term and to taste the happiness this new mom was probably feeling at the moment. And yet, here she was. Empty-handed, alone, bleeding and miserable.

She wanted to get up and run, possibly hide from everyone. Should she had the strength for it, she would have. But she could barely move a finger, let alone run.

She placed one hand on her belly. The same one she caressed the growing baby just the morning before, praying with all her might and force that everyone was lying to her. Wishing this all was a very bad joke, a tasteless prank. Everyone must be wrong.

But deep inside she knew it was true.

She knew that her body had been giving signs and she didn’t pay attention to it. She worked and travelled as if she wasn’t growing a tiny human inside her and now, funny enough, she really wasn’t anymore.

Maybe it would be for the best? If she couldn’t take proper care of a baby inside her, what would happen once the baby was born?

She would be better off alone and childless as she couldn’t bear to be responsible for anyone else’s death. She took a deep breath and felt every muscle hurt, her head was about to explode. She knew she couldn't speak as she had yelled until she scarred all of her vocal cords.

Her hands and arms were purple and swollen as she had tried to unhook herself from the blood transfer bag a nurse had hooked her to close to 2 in the morning. Her hair was in knots and her hospital gown was still bloodied.

Another proof of her failure and another brutal reminder that she had just lost her child.

She had lost her everything. She had lost her will to live because nothing else made sense anymore. Her unborn baby had become the centre of her life, her strength, her reason and her motivation.

Well, not really – her malicious mind reminded her, - if this baby was that important you wouldn’t have let it die. You didn’t even fight for it, you simply passed out and almost bled yourself to death.

Pathetic.

She would never know if the baby was a boy or a girl. She would never know if he or she would have her green eyes or Harry’s blue. If its complexion would be pale as Harry, chocolate as hers or a nice mix in the between. She didn’t know if he or she would be ginger. Could she even have a ginger baby?

She wouldn’t know its face. If it would have dimples, curly or straight hair. If it’d have the unmistakable Windsor genes or it’d be a Nogueira through and through. She wouldn’t know how is it like to feel the baby moving inside her. She wouldn’t know how labour would be or if she’d chicken out from the pain and ask for a c-section straight away. She wouldn’t know if she’d be able to breastfeed – if she’d like it or if she’d prefer to buy formulas.

She wouldn’t make her mum a grandmother.

And she wouldn’t give her man a child. The child he was expecting and dreaming about. The child he had built plans for. The child he was searching for a house to transform into a home for them.

The child he was willing to give up his title for.

Everything she got now was pain and shame and guilt and grief.

Why was it happening to her? Was she that bad of a person that this would be some sort of payback?

What makes you so important that you can’t go through something like this? Her evil-filled mind asked her.

She heard footsteps on the corridor and saw her door opening. Agnes was there, smiling. The pain she felt blinded her from seeing the truth in Agnes’ eyes. She was devastated. She knew that miscarriages were a common thing between women, but she hated every time it happened to one of her patients. With Carol, it seemed she had lost her grandchild such was the esteem she held for the brunette in front of her.

She took a tentative step towards the bed and Carol noticed it was way past nine in the morning. She had been awake the whole night.

“Good morning, Carolina.” Agnes asked, getting her file and reading the notes the other nurses had written. “How are you physically feeling?” she worded her question carefully.

Carol didn’t respond. She kept staring at the clock. Fixated on it. Hearing its tic, toc. It was comforting to know that time wouldn’t wait for her to get her shit together. And time was the only thing that she wanted now.

She would give everything she had for a moment in time to stop before she lost her child. She would give everything to have more time with the baby that even though was unplanned wasn’t not even by a single second unwanted.

She wanted to rewind time and do things differently and save her baby.

She always heard that mothers fight for their children and if need be, even give their lives for them. That was what Carol wanted to do. Be a mother to this child. Give her life in exchange for his or hers. She knew Harry would take good care of their baby even if she wasn’t around.

“Carolina?” Agnes called her, firmer this time. Carol had shut her out and not even remembered that she was in the room. She didn’t blink, she just stared at the damn clock and knew that it was laughing at her expense.

“I need you to please talk to me.” Agnes said, sitting by her side on the bed.

Carol didn’t move. She couldn’t, she was paralysed watching the clock.

“I know what you must be feeling...” Agnes said.

There it was. Pity and sympathy. Two things Carol didn’t need at that moment.

“And I want you to know that I did everything that I could to save your baby.” the doctor said, grabbing one of Carol’s hands gently.

Did she really? Her brain asked.

“I want you to tell me what you want.” Agnes tried again and Carol almost laughed. She wanted her child. Alive and well. There was nothing anyone could possibly give her at the moment that would make her feel better.

“I will give you space, then.” Agnes sighed. “A nurse will come to help you take a shower and change clothes.” she got up and stared at the girl she treated like a daughter. She seemed like a shell of the woman she once was. Staring at the clock and shutting everyone out. Agnes gently left the room and took a deep breath. She could only hope that Carol would bounce back from this. If she kept giving herself into the pain for too long, she wouldn’t make it.

(…)

Harry had spent the night awake. He sat by the window of his living room with a bottle of scotch beside him. He stared at the entrance of his house for the whole night and saw when the sun rose. He had drunk half of the bottle by that time and was irritated that it didn’t give him a buzz nor lessened the pain. He thought about compartmentalising it and go out and about on his day, as he had two engagements to be at but he knew he couldn’t do it. He wanted to feel the pain and go through it while it all was still fresh. If he bottled up everything it was bound to come back exploding in the future. He also knew that Carol wouldn’t forgive him if she saw that he was smiling for the cameras and hugging kids mere hours after theirs had died.

If she speaks to you again. His mind remembered.

He had been hurt by Carol’s outburst the night before. He tried to understand where she was coming from, but he didn’t think that she’d kick him out of the room that way. He had called the hospital and Agnes informed him Carol wasn’t speaking to anyone, or eating. She had tried to rip off the IVs from her arms and hands in the middle of the night.

He took a deep breath and texted Edward to let him know that he wanted all his engagements of that damn week cancelled and rescheduled. He also wanted to reschedule all engagements that had children involved for the upcoming months as farther away as possible. He couldn’t bear to be around children when his hadn’t made it.

Agnes had talked to him after they left Carol’s room and she was confident that Carol’s case fell under the more frequently than expected, she didn’t believe Carol had any sort of condition that would make things harder to have a child in the future. Miscarriage is something very common and sometimes it might be related to other complicating issues, but in other cases, it's simply nature being faithful to its course of only the strongest and most adaptable survives.

Edward replied asking lots of questions as to why those changes were needed and Harry simply ignored him. He wouldn’t come back to work until he felt at least a little bit better.

If you feel better at any point.

He felt like a black cloud was above his head numbing his senses and at the same time swallowing him whole.

He got up and went to his room without really thinking or registering what he was doing. He took a shower, got dressed and dried the tears that kept coming every time he thought about what had happened. He had drunk the night before trying to erase from his mind the scene of the woman of his life bleeding and losing their child.

What if he had asked her to go to Kensington, where Gerard and Martha would have kept an eye on her? What if he hadn’t offered to accompany his grandmother to the engagement, therefore, arriving earlier at her place? Why didn’t she tell him anything about blood pressure problems and migraines?

He knew that “what ifs” wouldn’t bring him any closer to changing the outcome of the events. And decided he needed to keep himself busy. Getting his car keys and without letting anyone from his security team know, he drove outside Kensington Palace straight to Carol’s apartment. He let himself in and he dreaded entering her bedroom but he knew he had to get things done and if her reaction last night was any indicator, she wouldn’t deal well if she saw all that blood.

He emailed her boss letting him know that she was in the hospital and that she would keep him posted. He grabbed all the sheets and duvet, almost ripping them off the mattress with rage and threw them inside the washing machine. He cleaned the floor, the furniture and searched inch by inch of the apartment for any spot of blood. When he found none, he made her bed with new sheets and packed her an overnight bag.

He then drove straight to the back entrance of St. Mary’s, getting out of the car and ignoring all the calls on his phone. Edward, Bill, his father… he didn’t really want to talk to anyone right now.

He went straight to the private wing where half a floor had been cleared after Harry was made aware someone had just given birth a few doors down the corridor from Carol’s room. He immediately demanded they were transferred to another wing.

He knocked on her door and opened it to find only a shadow of the woman he once had met.

She had her hair wet, soft curls forming around her face. She was half-sitting on the hospital bed and she was staring at a fixed point on the wall above the door. Harry closed the door after coming in and left the bag on the chair by the bed.

“Hey...” he said approaching her. She didn’t even move or acknowledge his presence. “I brought you a change of clothes and a few personal items. I emailed your boss saying that you’re at the hospital and that we will keep him posted.”

He waited for a reply but didn’t receive one. He tried to caress her head but she dodged his hand. Just another pain to feel. He saw she didn’t touch breakfast and that it was laying on the table across from them.

“Do you want any help to eat?” Harry tried again, looking at her. She didn’t look or talk to him. He noticed that she was staring at a clock and one could cut the tension inside that room with a knife.

“Carol, please…. Talk to me. We need to communicate to be able to grieve properly.” Harry said, sitting on the bed. “I haven’t slept the other night and for what I heard, neither have you.”

Tic, toc. Tic, toc. Tic, toc.

Only the sound of the clock could be heard there.

“Carol? I know what you’re feeling, but please, let me know what I can do to help.”

“Nothing.” her voice was cracked and hoarse and only above a whisper. But that was progress.

“I know I can’t bring our child back...” he started.

“All I want is time to go back.” She replied, looking at the clock and Harry was starting to feel irritated by that damn thing.

“I’m sorry about what happened.” Harry said, trying to grab her hand but she fiercely snatched it out from his hold.

“Don’t touch me. Why is everyone touching me now? Why is everyone bothering me with empty words of sympathy and promises when no one knows what really happened and no one can fucking give me time.” She said and he struggled to hear her well and understand what she was saying.

Both Agnes and him had stayed just outside Carol’s door for more than an hour listening to her screams, almost entering the room again every now and then to try and calm her but deciding against it.

“At least you’re talking now.” Harry said, looking at her. She looked frail and broken. Just like he was.

“I told you to get out. Just leave me the fuck alone.” She finally looked at him and he saw so much pain and hatred in her gaze that his heart broke into a million pieces yet again.

“If that’s what you want.” he got up and opened the door. “I will be back tomorrow.” he said leaving the room.

“Don’t bother” she replied not sure if he heard her.

He did.

(…)

Once inside his car, he thought about going back home to try and sleep a bit but his heart wanted him elsewhere. He wanted to grieve with Carol. He wanted her support to go through this and he wanted to support her as well.

He knew that she had taken the heavier blow on this, as she was the one carrying the baby, but she should also know that he was hurt. He was scared of losing both of them. If she was up to it, they’d start trying to have another child as soon as possible. And he knew that any child he could have with her or anyone else would never replace the one they lost.

His life had gained so much more meaning and purpose when he knew he had to be a role model for someone. That he’d get to parent his child and make him or her the best version of him and Carol together.

He just kept driving and trying to calm his shattered heart. He didn’t know where he was going or how he was driving. He turned off his phone. He didn’t want to see anybody. He didn’t want to talk to anybody. He just wanted his child alive and well.

He was startled when he recognised the black iron gates of the property. He had driven for an hour and a half without noticing where he was headed but it somehow made sense. He knew who he needed the most at the moment and unfortunately, she also wasn’t around to embrace him and promise that everything would be OK.

The guards promptly opened the gates and greeted him. For the first time, he didn’t reply and simply kept driving until he reached the stables on the background of the imposing Estate. He killed the engine and got off his car and walked the long gravel path until he approached the lake.

It was a sunny day and he put his shades on. He walked and was taken by emotion when he was right in front of it. He opened the shed, took out the small boat and pushed it until it was on the water, getting in and rowing his way to the island in the middle of the oval lake. He got out of the boat and when on land, his knees almost gave away and with trembling lips and heavy tears he approached the centre of the island where he could see, engraved in marble, the words “Loving mother”.

“Mummy,” Harry said, kneeling before her grave. “I’ve failed mummy. I couldn’t protect the people that I love and now I’ve lost them.”

He cried. Each tear made his body tremble and his lips quiver. He out-poured all the emotions held inside feeling safe to do so in that place. Feeling safe that his heart had unconsciously brought him where his mum was eternally resting.

“How do I make this pain go again, Mummy?” he cleaned his face with his palm. “It hurts so fucking much. I’ve lost my child. Your grandchild. And I think I’ve lost my girl too.”

The peaceful scenery only made it worse to balance the turmoil inside Harry’s heart and mind.

“I need you here with me.” he whispered. “But you’ve also been taken away from me too soon. Why?”

He cried his tears and his sobs were cutting through his body and shaking it. He thought he would never be able to recover from this. Never. He was a different man and now he had nothing. Absolutely nothing.

“I don’t think I can get through this.” Harry said, looking at Diana’s grave and embracing his bent knees.

He stayed there the whole afternoon. If his uncle and cousins knew that he was there, thankfully no one approached the oval island. He cried and opened his heart to his mother, knowing that she’d listen to him. Knowing that she’d be taking care of him.

When the sun began to set he knew it was time to come back.

“Mummy, could you please take care of my baby with you in heaven? I don’t know if its a boy or a girl but I don’t care. Please tell him or her that we love him so much it hurts and we wish things could’ve been different. I don’t know how his mother and I will survive this searing pain.”

Harry cleaned the tears again and spoke just above a whisper.

“We did our very best but unfortunately that wasn’t God’s wish for us. Please cuddle our child in your arms the way you did with me and Wills. Love on him as you did on us. Both of you are greatly missed. And I love you both with all my being. I know that my baby is now with his grandmother and nothing bad can happen if he’s under your watch. I love you, mummy. And I love you, baby.”

[breakingsomething]

“shh, that’s okay, get everything out.” with Jackie and marv maybe 🥺 or literally anyone else idc go wild -ethan

big brains think alike!

trigger warnings: vomiting

he wasn't sure how long he'd been there, shivering in jackie's arms. marvin was so tired, but he couldn't sleep; if he slept, anti would come back. anti would take him away, he would make him kitten again, anti would- he closed his eyes for a moment, collecting his thoughts. everything was too much, and even lying down he felt dizzy. bile rose up from his stomach again.

don't throw up on jackie, don't throw up on jackie, don't throw up on-

"jackie?" marvin croaked. it's the first few words he'd managed to get out in hours that weren't panicked screaming, and jackie is immediately sitting up on hearing him. "jackie- i think i'm- i'm gonna-"

jackie couldn't move quickly enough. marvin retched and everything came up, making his chest heave with the effort. he gagged and coughed wildly as he was sick right onto jackie's chest. his cheeks burned, but he couldn't even manage an apology- he was too busy rolling off the couch in an effort to get away, his throat burning with pain. he heard jackie cursing above him and he sobbed, not even having the strength to hide from the storm he was sure was coming. this is it, he thought. jackie's going to send me away and i'm going to go back to anti and i can't breathe i'm going to die i'm going to die i'm going to-

marvin felt a hand on his shoulder and he flinched, gasping, barely registering the sour aftertaste lingering in his mouth. jackie rubbed his back gently, so gently, fingertips brushing the base of his neck. "shh, shh," he murmured soothingly. "that's ok, you're ok, get it out, get it all out."

marvin was shaking so bad he couldn't see straight. he knew there was a demon in the room. he could see it sitting on chase's armchair, grinning wildly with far too many neon green teeth, unnatural red blood pouring from a wound on a neck and eyes that changed from blue to green to brown. don't take your eyes off it, it'll kill you, it'll make you his again, his. he coughed, doubling over. 

"get away, demon," he hissed in a hoarse voice, his vocal chords screaming from too much use too quickly. "b-back off, i'll kill you…"

"marvin," jackie whispered. marvin didn't turn to look at him, but he could see he'd taken off his vomit stained shirt. marvin had forgotten he'd gotten top surgery while he was away. just another important occasion the demon took from him. "marvin, you're running a high temperature, there's nobody there, ok? let's get ourselves cleaned up, and then we can go to bed, we-"

"komma undan, onda sak," marvin choked out. his eyes burned with magic, and his throat burned with sickness. "jag hatar dig, snälla, komma undan!"

then jackie was in front of him. blocking his view of the demon. he placed his cool hands on marvin's cheeks, softly pushing sweaty hair from his face, stroking the white scar on marvin's lip. "nothing there," he said quietly, and knocked his head against marvin's. he closed his eyes, savoring the gentle contact. "nothing there anymore."

marvin nodded slowly. he didn't open his eyes.

too afraid he'd find a demon standing where his brother had been.

[creative-poptart]

So the fells are impressed with tattoos? Then how about the fell's and sf's reaction to finding out a 'sweat little bean' instead of a tough looking person has tattoos? Not anything tough looking, but like... A thumb sized ; for suicide prevention and another tattoo just under the size of their hand? (That one had a lot of details and it probably freaking hurt ಥ_ಥ) but they usually hide them? They put up with the pain because they both stand for important things 💖!

I actually have a tattoo like that on my ankle for suicide awareness! And yes, it hurt like crazy. (Pro tip for anyone getting tattoos later, they hurt so much worse if they’re on a bone/tendon that’s close to the surface of the skin) 

UF Sans/Red: Sure he’s all up for having a tattooed person being tough, but this is actually kind of adorable??? You only have a few small tattoos and you’re just the cutest little thing and he’s living for it. At first, you’re probably really reluctant to show him the tattoos you do have, but Red is insistent that you need to let him see. When you do show him them and explain what they mean, his gaze grows a little softer and he’ll touch them tenderly if they’re in appropriate spots. The fact that you got these just so that people could be more aware of some very real issues is heartfelt and for some reason that strikes a chord in him.

“i gotta say, these ‘re pretty cool. y’think a skeleton like me could ever get somethin’ like that done?”

UF Papyrus/Fell: At first, he may be disappointed that you’re really just a marshmallow wrapped up in a tougher skin, but the tattoos are still pretty cool to him. Fell really admires that you’ve decided to mark up your skin in a mostly permanent way to bring light to a just cause. He’ll want to see them fairly often, though if you choose to cover them up he’s okay with that as well. There’s not really much that changes for him except that he has a newfound respect for you in going to get those tattoos. You’re going to see that he’s going to do a little bit extra for you as a show of his respect as well.

“YOU WENT OUT JUST TO GET THESE FOR A NOBLE CAUSE! THAT ALONE IS DESERVING OF SOME DISPLAY OF RESPECT!”

SF Sans/Black: With the other skeletons, there’s a much more vocal display of admiration for tattoos in general, but with Black he’s pretty quiet about them. It’s not that he doesn’t like tattoos, but he does think that there is more to the story. If you tell him what your tattoos mean, he’s definitely got more respect for you, but it’s still subtle. Don’t let that fool you, because he’s totally in awe of the fact that you’ve essentially scarred your body with art. As a general rule, he just is much quieter about it in general to keep up with his appearances and to not show extreme favoritism.

“IT IS CERTAINLY MOST IMPRESSIVE THAT YOU’VE MANAGED TO DO SUCH A THING. HOWEVER, YOU ARE STILL YOURSELF, THAT’S UNCHANGED.”

SF Papyrus/Rus: With this skeleton in particular, he really likes to see artwork in all forms, and to him, tattoos are just another form of art! That being said, your artwork is very much something that he likes to look at because it has meaning set behind it for a very good cause too. For the most part, he just likes to look at them, but if you’ll let him touch them, then by all means, Rus is going to touch these tattoos with an odd reverence. For that matter, he’ll start drawing up tattoo designs for you, showing you them with pride and asking for your opinion on how they might look, even if you’ve sworn off getting another tattoo.

“lookit this one, i made it just for you in this case! i didn’t know if you’d want color, but i got it in color and black an’ white, just to be safe.”

Thanks for the ask anon!

[jeonjagia]

Dancing For Yoongi- Chapter 15 Savior

I sit on the couch watching Jungkook as he flips through his book, contemplating bringing up the issue or not. "Why are you staring at me?" He asks not looking up from his book. He noticed. "I," I start as he sits up, closing the book. "I have a question for you," "Shoot," He says blinking. "Why," I start tucking hair behind my ear, "did you make Deric move away?" I finish in a small voice, not knowing how he will react. His face hardens. "Because," he states. I wait. When there is no more answer I prod, "because why?" "Because he was between you and me," "Jungkook I don't need a body guard, and he only asked me out, and I said no. Jungkook, I said no," I repeat trying to get him to understand. "But he got close," Jungkook mutters opening the book again. "Are you jealous?" I ask. He looks up. "No," he says thoughtfully. I don't believe him. "You are jealous," I whisper. His eyes flick to mine and we hold eye contact. Jungkook jealous, I think to myself, that's why he got rid of Deric. ~~~

We have entered the city now. It seems so pretty at night with all this lights and dark colors. "Are we going to like a safe house?" I ask into the silence. "Somewhat," is Jhopes reply. "Then what is it?" "A, um, yeah, a safe house," I smile into the dark as we pull up into an abandoned building garage. "But this is abandoned." I state. "Is it Chandry?" Sighing I wait to see the inside of it. As the car turns off, everyone gets ready to get out. Stepping out, I wait for Suga to lead me. An arm takes mine suddenly and I try to pull away. The grip gets tighter and I turn to the person. It's Jhope. "Relax Chandry," I won't let Jungkook near you," Linking his arm into mine he leads me into the building. Stepping through a rusty beaten door, the whole demeanor of the building changes. Instead of thinking I would enter falling apart unfinished things, instead I enter a neatly furnished, state of the art HQ. computers in one corner along with laptops, tablets, and phones. Next to the electronics is a metal table with weapons neatly organized on it. From assault rifles, to handguns. Knives to poisons. "Welcome to HQ Chandry," Suga says spinning around with his arms outstretched. "But-how?" I stammer. "Exactly," Jhope says pointing a finger at me smiling. "No one would know, the perfect hiding spot," "But what about the people, won't they wonder sooner or later?" "No," I hear Jungkook say from behind me. "Why," I ask lowly, watching him as he comes to the front. "Because, I own the building," he says walking over to the computers and sitting down at the chair. "So, now, let me tell you who is who," Suga says. "First, as you know Jungkook, he is head of electronics. I and Jhope are head of weapons. Though Jhope is usually the one to be the sniper," "Sniper?" I question not really wanting to know. "Yes," suga continues, "and namjoon is head of intelligence , finding out dirt on people and reporting back. While Jimin is poisons expert," "What?!" I say turning to Jimin. He smiles as he points finger guns at me. "Then lastly, Jin is healer, like at the Elements Building," Suga finishes. "Oh, wait, we forgot tae. He is, the seducer, if you will," "The what now?" "Deceives people, then we get them," "What exactly have I walked into?" "The Five Elements," "What?" I say still not understanding. "The mafia, you're in the mafia now," Suga bluntly replies pinching the bridge of his nose. All I can respond is a small, "oh," Then I realize how much in trouble I am.

~~~

"You will marry him, Chandry, no questions asked," he tells me. "No, dad, I can marry who I want, not some forty year old! I'm only 19!" I yell back. "Chandry!" My father yells at me. "You will marry him even if I have to force you to!" He says walking toward me. "But I don't want to!" "I don't care!" "You should Dad, this is my husband we're talking about!" "Chandry," He says lowly pinching the bridge of his nose. I stare up at him, not believing he is really making me do this. Ever since I was little, I always dreamed of finding my man, but now, I am forced to a man. "Please don't make me do this daddy," I whisper. The name causing him to open his eyes. I can see him breaking in there. But then, he suddenly hardens, "I'm sorry," he says before nodding toward the door, and there he is, the man I am to marry. "No, please!"  I beg as the man advances. "Just take her, forget the wedding," my father tells the man turning his back against me. "No!" I scream, but the man clamps his hand over my mouth. "Shut up," He says. I struggle against him. "Daddy, please don't do this," I cry in the mans arms. Sitting down at his desk, my father waves his hand for us to leave.

*

The next four months are hell. Moved from place to place. Men all around me, it's too much. The man, oh yes. I grew up a lot during the four months. Not by much though. I hate him. He's abusive, physically, sexually, emotionally. I'm restricted to only three rooms: the bedroom, where way too much sex, beatings and torchers, happen; the bathroom, where I can find solace sometimes unless he finds me, and the kitchen, where I'm expected to cook for 20 men. Cook, clean, have sex, be beaten, the works. It's terrible, until about halfway through the fifth month. Then things changed.

It was when I had my usual beating when he came home drunk. Expecting this, I prepared dinner for him. I had the table set and everything. And that's when the door opened. "Chandry!" Where the fuck are you?!" He roared. "I-in here, the kitchen," I reply shaking. He storms into the kitchen beer bottle in hand. "Did you do this?" He asks holding up a white shirt stained red. Shit. I forgot to throw that out. "I-um, yes," I rely not making eye contact. "Get over here," he says pointing to his shoes. Slowly I walk over there and stand before him. Suddenly, he slaps me across the face. "You, bitch," he slurs through his drunken rage grabbing my hair and yanking my head back, forcing me to look at him. "I-I-," "Shut the fuck up," he growls yanking at my shirt. "Take it off," he commands. I pull it off as he pulls a knife from his belt. "Turn around," I turn and feel his hands on my back feeling the scars already there. Suddenly cold metal touches my skin causing me to flinch. "Please," I whimper holding onto the dinner chair in front of me. "No," he says before cutting the skin on my back. Biting my lip I try not to cry. I should be used to it by now. Again, and again he cuts. Then, he walks to the kitchen and grabs a lemon. Realizing what he will do I back away, "no, thats too much," I whimper. "Who are you to say what I can do to you? Get. Over. Here. Now," I return dreading the pain to come. What happens next all happened so fast. As the man was cutting the lemon, there was a knock on the front door. "Come in," he grunts. The door opens as he pours lemon juice on my cuts. I scream. "WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING YOU BASTARD?!!" A voice roars. It sounds familiar. I hold on to the chair for dear life as my back burns. With what little strength I look behind me to see Jungkook, gun in hand, furious, squaring up to my "husband". "So this is what you were doing all those nights you told me to go away?!" Jungkook yells into the mans face. "She's my bitch, what you expect?" Is his reply. "I'm taking her, and you will never see her again, do you hear me?" Jungkook says to the man in a deadly tone. He laughs. "You arnt taking what's mine, boy," With that Jungkook suddenly brings the man to his knees, gun to his head. "You think so?" Jungkook asks. "Beg," he orders. "What?"The man asks. "I said beg for your life before I shoot you right here, in front of her," he growls into the mans ear. "I'm not begging for shit," the man growls struggling in jungkooks grasp. "Fine," is jungkooks short reply before the bang. The man that tormented me for four and a half months, is dead. I look at his body in the floor. Red circle paints his head. Eyes never going to blink again. He's dead. He's gone. Jungkook looks up to me, and removes himself from the dead mans limbs before letting him fall to the floor. Stepping over him, Jungkook approaches me. "He's gone," is his statement looking me over. I realize I don't have a shirt on. And Jungkook can see all that the man has done to me. Scars, bruises, hickeys. "I'm taking you," he says picking up my shirt from the floor. He doesn't hand it to me yet. Walking to to the kitchen, Jungkook grabs a washcloth and soaks it in warm water. He then grabs peroxide from under the counter. "I'm sorry, but this is going to hurt," he says not really sounding apologetic. He leads me to the couch and helps me lay stomach down. Unhooking my bra clasp, Jungkook first wipes the blood away with the warm washcloth. It stings. But I know it won't sting as much as the peroxide will burn. "Here," He says handing me my shirt. "Open," He says as he stuffs the shirt into my mouth. I'll need it. And then he pours. I feel like I'm going to die. At first I can't say anything it hurts like hell. Then I scream. I scream until I can't anymore, then bite the shirt as hard as I can until I though my jaw would break. Then blackness.

~~~

I wake up not in the house, but the back seat of a car. I try to move, then cry out as the pain comes back. "Holy shit you scared me," I hear jungkooks voice from the front seat. "Don't move," he says looking over his shoulder as he drives, "we're almost there," "Where are we going?" I croak out, my vocal chords shredded. "A safe place, away from all this," is his reply. "Jungkook?" I ask. "Yes?" "Why did you have a gun?" He doesn't answer. I can't really focus on what he's saying as sleep pulls me back and I succumb to it. He must have said something important, but I can't remember. ~~~

[xellandria]

A friend of mine is running a D&D one-shot this weekend which meant creating another character.  I was sort of grasping at straws (I don’t want to use the tabaxi rogue I’ve got waiting in the wings for if/when my character in the campaign game we’re in dies for a one-shot) but then I was like “wait, what if I just played another character that sort of exists already?

In BA, Alex is an incubus who falls in love with a human woman who is killed by a covetous evil vampire (warning, art at that link is from 2002-2004 and is *real* bad).  When I was writing out Alexus’ backstory to fit the old character into the new world, I was like “phew, let’s be real—this backstory is like 20 years old and it is showing the hell out of its age; this woman was created and immediately fridged explicitly to fuel some manpain” but there wasn’t much point in going into detail since backstory is basically irrelevant in that game so I just was like “yeah she disappeared one day and nobody knew why and he eventually kept traveling but still keeps half an ear to the ground for news.”

Anyway so instead of being a character that exists solely to be fridged, now Mephala gets to exist on her own for a bit!  She, uh... well she’s more of a person now but the covetous evil vampire is still there to some degree  Also since Alex turned into a half-elf, Mephala gets to be the demon(-like creature) instead.  Good trade.

Mephala - level 5 Tiefling Sorcerer (Divine Soul) Str: 8 (-1) Dex: 10 (0) Con: 12 (+1) Int: 14 (+2) Wis: 14  (+2) Cha: 18 (+4)

In the D&D universe, she was apprenticed to a goldsmith(/guild artisan: jeweler, in D&D background terms) who was sort of also a kind of parental figure (cos she didn’t have those for some reason I guess?) when she and Alexus met and became close, but one of the dudes in her town was all Frollo from Hunchback of Notre Dame up in here and was like “yo you’re an evil hellspawn but also I want your body?” and she wasn’t super into him.  At one point he cornered her and she straight up told him to get bent and he got real mad about it (as whiny pissbabies are wont to do) and yo! turns out he was some sort of creature in disguise or something?  I am slightly unclear on that part cos I’m not super familiar with D&D monster lore and stuff but anyway in the encounter he cut the shit out of her shoulders and throat but at some point her innate magic sorcerer powers kicked in (because the player’s handbook tells me this is how sorcerers work) and either massively fucked him up or killed him (again, unclear and at this point irrelevant).  She also kinda fucked up herself at the same time (did he have like, acidic blood or something? did she just fireball herself in the face? I DON’T KNOW, MAN!).

She ended up staggering off into the woods and fleeing her town because the whiny pissbaby dude/monster was like, the D&D sheriff or something (Viktor, the OG covetous vampire dude, was the chief of police in her town in BA) and she was pretty sure she wasn’t gonna be able to get a fair trial or anything there.  She desperately wants to return, but hasn’t quite worked up the nerve yet.  Reason for being an adventurer TBD, but apparently the one-shot is going to be a heist so I guess she’s trying to save up funds to get protection or a better shot at biasing the law in her favour or something? idk man, lol.

Aside from the obvious ones on her face, neck, and torso, Mephala’s got lots of little scars on her fingers from learning her trade, which she is actually pretty good at (I guess she was less an apprentice and more of an established/senior journeyman when The Incident happened, really).  Most of the jewelry and metalwork she wears is her own work, as is the pendant that Alexus still carries around for luck.  She was never super outgoing but is extra wary of strangers nowadays, and makes liberal use of Thaumaturgy’s “change your eyes for a minute” ability (in conjunction with her cloak) when in crowds or unknown situations.  When she does, the right eye typically ends up kind of cataract-clouded; she can still mostly see out of it but it did get damaged somewhat when she took that hit.  She avoids speaking whenever possible because her vocal chords also never quite recovered from that day (aka I don’t want to be the face of this game’s party, I mean what).

Design-wise, I really wanted her horns to be something that wouldn’t interfere too badly with a hood but that isn’t the curled ram-ish horns I used for Delenda; with a big and drapey enough hood, these seem to work for that.  The scarf was important for covering her neck because she doesn’t want to show off the claw/handprint on her neck, but leaving off the left sleeve displays the clawmarks on her shoulder, and basically nothing below the waist got refined at all.  I’d like to keep working on it, but the game is on Sunday and I have a commission in the queue, so I had to stop myself at some point, lol.

Alexus’ pendant is a wire-wrapped fluorite heart; I’m not sure what sort of stone Mephala’s arcane focus is (the smaller teardrops and oval cabochons and such are probably enamel and coloured glass).  I was thinking labradorite cos those can look super sweet and reasonably magical, but I couldn’t find any that were big enough when I went looking through ebay and etsy earlier.

She’s a divine soul sorcerer instead of some other kind of sorcerer largely because I don’t actually know what anybody else in this one-shot is playing (well, I know we have two rogues but) and I wanted to make sure we had at least one healing spell available, lol :x