#ch: robyn

[demonidoodles]

per aspera ad astra

[chrswlls]

another day another piece of government claptrap :/

[endless-oc-creations]

Mimi's Endless Ocs

↳Re-Introducing Marvel Oc: Robyn Hammer Series: The Merc and The Knight

Summary: Robyn works alongside her brother at Sister Margaret's School for Wayward Children. She's busy ensuring things run as smoothly as they can and supplies are in stock. Just a normal life for a mercenary and weapons dealer.

Sister Margaret's School for Wayward Children was a bar, but also a place where mercenaries accept and cash in on private jobs, this life was normal for her at least. It was a place run by Robyn and her brother Weasel. Over the years, Robyn has met a lot of fun and fascinating people but no one was more fascinating than Wade Wilson.

From the start Wade and Robyn had hit it off, even referring to each other as husband and wife as their nicknames and banter with each other. The two quickly began a friends-with-benefits and maybe something more relationship.

Then, Wade met the one and only Vanessa Carlysle, an escort and friend/occasional fling of Robyn's. The two hit it off instantly and began their relationship with each other.

Robyn was happy for them, those two were honestly the only closest friends Robyn had ever had. But, she also couldn't help but feel lonely and lost since she had grown feelings for both of them.

However, not long after Vanessa and Wade got together as an official couple, they decided to ask Robyn to be with them two. Since they both loved her as well. Robyn was more than happy to say yes.

The three then enjoyed each other's company and only grew closer. Everything was great, Robyn felt like she could finally be happy. But then everything changed when one day Wade fainted and they all found out that he was diagnosed with cancer. He was dying.

Everything was turned upside down, Robyn did her best to support both her lovers while trying to accept the fact that Wade would most likely die.

Then one night Wade disappeared, seemingly without a trace. Robyn saw firsthand how devastated Vanessa became. She then found out from her brother about a Grim Reaper type of character wanting to recruit Wade for something.

Robyn became worried about Wade's safety and wanting to help get Vanessa to truly smile and be happy again she decided to do something extreme.

She would use her skills as a mercenary and go deep undercover, becoming an anti-hero known as The Black Knight. But as the years ran on, Robyn figured that at this point it was most likely that Wade was dead. His cancer was already terminal by the time he left, so after a few years and adding onto the fact he left with sketchy people, Robyn would never see him again.

So, Robyn decided to hide her recent activities from Vanessa, even though her lover could see that she was coming home with more cuts and bruises, and continue on the search for the people whom Wade left with and find out what they did to him.

Robyn was determined to find these people and make them talk, so she was going to take out whoever she needed to that stood in her way. One of those people who constantly got in her way, killing most of the people she was after, was another mercenary wearing a red suit that reminded her entirely of Wade. But it couldn't be him though...could it?

💕 Everything Taglist: @bravelittleflower​ @sunlitscribe​​​ @eddysocs​​​​ ​​​@decennia​​ @hiddenqveendom​

@aaronhotchstuff​ @foxesandmagic​ @booty-boggins​​  @asirensrage​​  @connietheecunning​​ 

@lucys-chen @arrthurpendragon @daughter-of-melpomene @thatmagickjuju @ginevrastilinski 💕 

[razoreesharpe]

quirky main cast

[that-one-light]

Lost in thought (In which Eclipser is dense and Lottie and Ivy are Multi-shippers)

This is basically me not being able to ship my MC with just on person even after deciding to make Eclipser end up with Daniel and obsessing over jealousy fics. I think I have a problem...

"You look like a stalker." Ivy mused watching Lottie sketch Eclipser from a distance.

The subject of Lottie's current portrait was busy sitting on a windowsill reading a book, pen in hand occasionally writing things down, hair braided back, while baby hairs and smaller strands framed her face, leaning on her glasses.

"You'd be surprised how often I get that." Lottie replied hatching the space that was meant to be Eclipser's hair. Ivy plopped down beside her artist friend leaning onto her shoulder.

"You ever make couple art?" Ivy asked placing her chin in her hand. Lottie paused looking up and glancing at Ivy.

"Of who...?' She asked raising a suspicious brow.

Lottie recognized the smirk on the shorter girls face immediately. The one which always showed up when she was in a mischievous mood. "Oh you know...the seventh years, the kids who get into a new relationship every year...friends."

"I don't draw people in relationships Ivy, it's not right to put people together, when one might not be comfortable, the only couple art I make is of people in proper relationships and fictional characters." She said sternly.

Ivy let out a huff at Lottie's words, "Okay but that doesn't mean we can't talk about it right?"

Lottie closed her eyes, whether she was frustrated or she was considering it, Ivy couldn't tell, only giving a beaming smile when the artist begrudgingly agreed. Quickly becoming enthusiastic with their gossip until the topic came to their dear friends.

"Kevin and Robyn are hopeless, it's been four years and all they've done is hold hands!" Ivy groaned

"Well, I'm pretty sure their hiding something, no way Kev's suddenly started taking hints." Lottie shrugged continuing her sketch of Eclipser who still hadn't noticed her friends across the room.

Ivy blew hair out of her face looking down at the drawing. "What about Eclipser?"

"What about her?"

"I mean, who do you think she likes!" She grinned.

"I dunno..." Lottie hummed, "I don't think she's really into anyone, I mean she's pretty friendly to everyone, except of course Fischer and Cassandra, have you noticed the way she's extra hostile to her recently, it's like she has something personal against her now."

"Meh, Cassandra's a bi-" Ivy cut herself off as a group of first years passed. "Ehem, she's not someone I prefer to waste my time on but Winne keeps insisting that's she's a good friend so I suppose I can keep my mouth shut...for now..." She shook her head. "But that's not the point, I was talking to Miss Flume while buying some caramels, and when we were talking about Valentines chocolate she mentioned that one time she saw Eclipser zoning out staring at the heart candy boxes mumbling about what she should get."

Lottie tilted her head. "And that proves what exactly...?"

Ivy rolled her eyes. "That she likes someone! She obviously wanted to get chocolate for someone!"

"Mmmm she could have been getting it for herself. Like you always do." Lottie teased

"Really Eclipser? Getting HERSELF sweets?" Ivy shook her head with a snort. "Eclipser hates sweets, she hasn't even been able to enjoy chocolate since the whole Dementor incident. She had to have been getting them for someone!"

Lottie considered Ivy's words, darkening the lips on her drawing. "I suppose you could be onto something. Who though..."

Ivy's eyes shinned, "I thought you'd never ask!" Lottie had always wondered what was in the giant book bag Ivy carried around was for, she didn't exactly take notes in class with it, none that she knew of at least. It seemed she was finally given the answer as Ivy opened up the book spreading it across from them.

"A gossip journal?' Lottie giggled.

"You have your poison I have mine." She grinned flipping to a whole chapter seemingly dedicated to Eclipser.

"Why is there a chart...." She started glancing at a full page dedicated to a chart titled. 'Likeliness of Succeeding', with a leaderboard at the top.

Ivy cleared her throat. "Here we have a chart with all of Eclipser's possible suitors-"

"Suitors?" Lottie burst out laughing covering her mouth attempting to stifle her giggles when people looked their way.

"Yes! Suitors," Ivy huffed. "I made a column to document every chemistry igniting interactions, closeness on a scale from 1-10, and finally likeliness of Eclipser liking them back, the leaderboard shows who's most likely to end up with her with the current information!"

"How...much free time do you have..." Lottie asked scooting away slightly with a concerned stare.

"Not important!" The silver haired gremlin cheered.

Shaking her head Lottie read the names in order of the leaderboard. "Daniel...Abigail...Colby?' She shot a glance at Ivy before continuing, "Kenji...? Really?" She tilted her head "The fox one?"

"Her patronus is a fox!" Ivy giggled.

"This is...detailed." Lottie noted adding in Eclipsers patronus to her drawing, a magical touch in her opinion.

"Unless I've missed something, this is everyone our lovely friend has chemistry with."

"Ivy why am I on there-"

"EHEM!!! So far Daniel is in the lead for obvious reasons that everyone but them can see. Coming in strong in second place....ABIGAIL!"

For what seemed to be the third time everyone glanced at them, this time Eclipser raised her head as well in their direction, lifting and eyebrow with a half smile and a wave before going back to her book.

Ivy continued sheepishly. "It's obvious that Abigail has a crush on Eclipser, I mean, remember when they made strawberry cake for dessert and she gave Abigail her slice instead of me...COUGH totally not mad about that, the poor girl turned super red!"

"I can understand Colby I suppose, Eclipser's always nice to him at least, and he's been putting in extra effort to stop Fischer from annoying her, I saw them geeking out over poetry in the library last week.

Lottie paused for a moment. "And Kenji...?"

"Thought you'd never ask. Ok I'll be honest...there isn't exactly much here, he just kinda trusts her I suppose and he's always happy to talk to her, if anything he's more likely to end up with Kevin."

Leaning over to the side table, Lottie sipped her tea, "What were we talking about again...?"

Ivy paused. "Uhhhh...OH! Who Eclipser was buying chocolates for."

"Right...and based off all this data you've collected who did you think it was?"

"Oh well obviously-"

"None of your business" Eclipser huffed grabbing the pages from Ivy's notebook. With a hand on her hip holding the ripped paper, her book in the other.

Lottie and Ivy squeaked in response, Ivy's face falling at her hard work now removed from her journal. "We were just um-" Lottie stuttered.

"For the record, It's not Abigail or Kenji, Abby's sweet I don't really see her that way, and I barley know Kenji. This is a lot of information though...most of it just regular interactions..." Eclipser hummed reading over the paper before walking off,

"My notebook!" Ivy mourned running a hand over the ripped bit still in her book.

"Oh..." Lottie breathed.

"What?" Ivy leaned her head over to look at Lottie's drawing.

"I drew a cat instead of a fox...didn't even realize."

And just like that, floating around a sitting Eclipser in the drawing was a black cat playing with a nonexistent ball of yarn.

"Huh...maybe your leaderboard was right..."

(Ohhhh boy, this one was long...and kinda rambled off at the end, let me know if there are any mistakes, trying to improve my writing while rambling over HPMA OC lore...speaking off...should probably stop making so much ship stuff and get to writing her backstory) @desert-rotten-soul Have fun ^^

[larissa-the-scribe]

tagged by @meadow-roses (thankee kindly)

Rules: in a new post, post the names of all the files in your wip folder regardless of how non descriptive or ridiculous. Let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them and then post a little snippet and tell us about it!

I have so many wips folders, to say nothing of wips asdfasdfasd. These are from my Google Docs files, which I do not (often) write in. I'm not sure how many to do? But here goes.

WIPS:

First Meetings (Draft 1)

I'm Not Here to Make Friends >:(

Rone and Robyn vs Shadow Pajemba

Zo vs Tabarin Round 1

Letters for Absent Friends Infodump

(Galaytha) 'Gal' Journal Exerpt

Untitled Document

Dungeon Scene Sequel (Roleswap AU)

Benn Asks Kathryn to Undercover Date

Lyn Wants to Go Home

Tail End of the Dungeon Scene (Roleswap AU)

The Witch in the Woods (Assasin AU)

Wrong Paths (Cursed AU)

Ice Cream Shop (Bethaz Family)

Trying to Hide

Various Unorganized Early Day Shenanigans

Jarryd and Ashley Hurt/Comfort

E/scape Ch.2

Scene Draft: Aftermath

Scene Draft: Robyn Gets Shot

May and Red Try to Describe Things

I Don't Sleep Much

Muscle Memory

Liar Reveal

Puddle Girl

Diplomatic Disaster

Pendragon

The Adventurer: Forest Mishap

FireClan Draft 1

O Desafio - História

No pressure tagging: @enjoliquej (or preferred tag--I can change it if you want), @lady-merian, @tzarina-alexandra, @kanerallels or anyone else who wants!

[wizardofgoodfortune]

good times, for a change (ch. 7)

Rating: Mature Chapter: 7/?  Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Slow Burn, Single Parents, POV Alternating, Dream is a sculptor, Grief/Mourning, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, Bullying, Descriptions of Violence, Smoking, Drinking

As he slowly drove his Gen 1 Fiat Panda around the driveway, Hob was almost afraid he’d stain the cobblestone with his tires.

“It’s Orpheus and Mr. Murphy,” Robyn exclaimed, pointing to the front of the castle.

Orpheus was waving at them, with a huge smile on his face. He already had his sleepover attire on: fluffy bunny slippers and dark blue pajamas, decorated with stars, clouds, and moons. Behind him stood Morpheus, like the black and regal night sky. Only this time, he didn’t have his coat on. And actually, now that Hob looked closer, he actually had an honest-to-goodness t-shirt on, in the middle of autumn.

(read on ao3)

[avelera]

for the fic writer questions: 17 and/or 25?

17. What’s something you’ve learned about while doing research for a fic?

God, I learned so much while writing historical inspired or informed fics. Like while writing "Lights Out" for the Old Guard I basically did a deep dive into the First Crusade and was introduced to just how truly alien the High Middle Ages were to our modern world within the context of Nicky having amnesia which effectively made him a time traveler from the day he died in 1099 to our era. Literally, writing a character from Ancient Rome waking up in the modern world would be less of a strain to write for me than writing a Medieval Crusader. I learned a lot about the Crusades, about Medieval hygiene (about which there are many misunderstandings in modern pop culture), wine making, religion, international politics, etc etc. It was one of the hardest fics I ever wrote (and still need to finish, aghghghghh) in terms of research.

I also learned a lot when writing Hob as another immortal! Certainly for my historically informed stories like Giving Sanctuary or Come live with me, I did a bunch of research for the late 1600s and the early 1800s, two era I previously didn't know much about, so that was also a fun challenge!

25. Have you ever upset yourself with your own writing?

I've mentioned it before, but in Giving Sanctuary Ch. 6 "Robyn" I made myself cry while writing Hob and Robyn's last day together. That surprised even me. I tend to be the orchestra conductor or director of what I write, I rule it, it doesn't rule me except insofar as I try to imagine and empathize with the emotions portrayed enough to convey them deeply. But that farewell scene gutted me and took me by surprise when actual tears started forming. I was emotionally worn out after writing that chapter as a result, in a mostly cathartic way, but it took a bit to recover. I'm just a complete sucker for characters giving emotional, final goodbyes, and really set myself up with that scene lol.

[demonidoodles]

Working on something Robyn lore related so have this

[chrswlls]

not for broadcast x pokemon doodles of the main 5 from the national nightly news 😁 (please fill my notifs with questions about this au i got a lot 2 say)

[artificialgrinder]

THE DARK SEEPING IN (BRATZ FASHION PIXIEZ REIMAGINING) CH. 3

After Cymbeline and Melvino's argument, Breeana approaches her sister and tries to calm the situation.

AN: Should I make a Spotify playlist for this?

Each knock on Cymbeline's bedroom door was a trial on Breeana's sanity. Even though she wasn't screamed at to go away, she was ignored. And that made her heart pound.

Why was she so afraid anyway? Yes, they had had their fair share of arguments. But with no real explanation as to why Cymbeline was so heated, Breeana was scared.

So when she knocked again, she debated on turning around and calling it a day. Maybe the bitch just needed her space.

But…

"What?"

Breeana stood there, her breath caught in her throat. Instead of asking permission, she turned the doorknob and entered the dim room. The main light was turned off as usual, lava lamps and fairy lights being the only things providing Breeana the ability to see.

Cymbeline was sitting at her desk, her wrist flicking back and forth as she worked the charcoal on her next art piece. Robyn sang at a low volume, the sound coming from the Mac computer, something that would usually soothe her in times of stress. 

But Cymbeline was anything but soothed.

"What do you want?" The older girl asked, not even lifting her head.

Breeana played with her hands, daring herself to step further into the room. "Uh, hey," she uttered, tucking a strand of red hair behind her ear. "I just…I wanted to see if you were okay."

"Uh, yeah," Cymbeline still didn't look at her sister. Yet there was a shift in tone there, almost like growing annoyance.

“It’s…I…” Breeana sighed. She couldn't do this. "Wh-What's the best way…to ask a guy to the Magnolia Ball?"

And only now did Cymbeline lift her head. "Are you for real?"

Fuck. "Uh, yeah. There's this guy, and…you know…I kind of want to - -"

"Breeana." Cymbeline held up the charcoal, bringing her sister to stop talking. "Why are you bothering me with this? Wh-What would I know," she laughed sarcastically, holding her hands by her sides, "about asking a fucking guy to a stupid ball?"

A red glow tainted Breeana's cheeks, unable to look at her sister for a moment. "Sorry, I just didn't know who else to talk to. I mean," she giggled sheepishly, "I'm not really gonna ask Daddy, am I?"

"Ask your friends."

What friends? Breeana didn't say it. Anything to save herself from the humiliation further. 

Cymbeline wasn't entertained by her anymore, instead focused on her charcoal drawing again. Hitting the keyboard, Robyn sang slightly louder.

Breeana pursed her lips, teeth slightly clenched. This wasn't fair. Whatever she had done to deserve such an attitude was uncalled for. She breathed in deeply before saying, "Okay, what was that about?"

"That?"

"Downstairs. With Dad," Breeana pointed at the door as if their Father was standing right there, listening to every word. "Why did you snap at him like that?"

"It's really none of your business, Breeana," Cymbeline answered nonchalantly.

"Well, you're my big sister. We vent to each other all the time. So why not now?"

But Cymbeline didn't answer.

The fairy lights flickered slightly.

But Breeana didn't let it hinder her. "Come on, what's going on?" 

"Nothing."

"Let's just talk about it," Breeana stepped closer yet again, getting a better glimpse of the art – a woman glancing over her shoulder, looking right at Breeana. No…through Breeana. And from her back, the part Cymbeline was working on in the current moment, a pair of brilliant wings rested. "I'm sure I'll understand. I'll always have your back, Cymb'. I mean, us sisters have got to stick together. You know? Just like Mo- -"

"Breeana!" Cymbeline stood up abruptly, slamming the charcoal stick down on her sketch pad, the piece shattering. "I don't want to talk about it!" She clapped in between words. "It doesn't fucking concern you. Fuck, it doesn't concern fucking children, as a matter of fact! I am a fucking adult, and I can deal with it myself. Now can you, please," she paused, holding up her now shaking hands, eyes wide with fury, "can you please stop bothering me?!"

That feeling, that fear that burrowed itself deep inside Breeana's belly before even entering the room…It now made sense. She should have trusted her instincts and left her sister alone.

“I-I’m sorry,” Breeana stammered, her heart hammering.

Cymbeline just stood there, eyes still wide, body shaking. And she lifted her arm, pointing at her door. "Get out," she said gravely.

Breeana didn't need to be told twice.

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"And what gives my skin that extra healthy glow is this night balm by Beauty Bay. This is it right here."

Despite what Breeana had previously heard about the "Tweevils", Breeana had gotten into watching their YouTube channel, particularly the skincare routines. It was never really something she gave a shit about. But she needed a change.

No, this wasn't for Dylan. This wasn't to catch his attention. This was for herself.

Fuck, she needed a distraction from what happened earlier in the evening.

No, Bree'. Don't think about it.

She forced her gaze away from her phone. Her reflection showed she was still there standing in her bathroom, smearing moisturiser into her face – nothing out of the ordinary. 

Everything was fine. Everything was going to be okay.

Ping.

Instagram: DylanFreeStylesSometimes has made a new post.

Yes. She had his notifications on. And, yes. She clicked that notif so fast she  wanted to be the first to like it. Breeana wasn't afraid to look desperate as she was pretty sure she made it obvious she liked him.

Of course, the first thing that caught her attention was his eyes. God, the butterflies inside her stomach were going wild already. 

He was in a car, another guy in the driver's seat bopping his head to the radio. It was nighttime, and Dylan was wearing what he wore the night he and Breeana spoke.

This was most likely before Nevra's party.

"So, some guy - I don't fucking know his name - has made the bold decision to talk some shit about me. Thinks it's weird that my friend group is a bunch of girls. Bro, I may not know your name, but I see your picture. Go touch some grass."

The driver chuckled.

So did Breeana. Her knuckle found its way into her mouth. God, he was so bizarre. Yet so - so cute.

And now she was getting carried away. She clicked into his profile, watching his entire story. 

Things she learned about Dylan:

He watched Love Island (and shamelessly enjoyed it).

His favourite song currently was Earfquake by Tyler, the Creator (well, Breeana guessed, judging how many times he used it in the background of each post)

He believed, "there ain't nothing wrong with kissing your homies," and provided evidence – a quick clip of him and Cameron exchanging a small kiss.

His Mom made the best cornbread.

He was already pumped for another party.

And most importantly, he was single.

Well, Breeana guessed as much. That one magazine did say that if a man posted a pic of a tea cup in a dimly lit room, making something very mundane into something grim, it was a cry for help, a wish to not be single.

"... Don't be so ridiculous," Breeana sighed.

Her mind was getting carried away, so she clicked out of Instagram and...sitting her phone down on the counter; the light caught her charm bracelet, then catching her attention.

Her brows connected. Three charms…

That wasn't right. 

"What?" She whispered, placing her hands on the sink and inspecting the counter. Maybe it had just disconnected from the chain while she was scrubbing her skin with the exfoliator.

Breeana tried to ignore the small amount of panic within, searching for just a glimmer of the missing charm, looking under the spare towels, behind the bottled products she had just smeared on her face, on the floor.

Nothing.

The sinkhole.

No. It wouldn't have. Surely, she would have heard it teetering around in the sink before falling down the hole.

So, where the fuck was it?

Breeana examined her bracelet – one bronze charm for herself, gold for her Father, Silver for her Mother…

But no champagne for Cymbeline.

Breeana's heart stopped, fingers clenched around the edge of the sink.

She wasn't the type to look this deep into things, but…

No. It had to be a coincidence. It had to be. This wasn't some sort of…some sort of warning. Just a weirdly timed coincidence, that was all.

She took a deep breath in. Her missing charm was probably in the garden or Cymbeline's room. 

Lifting her lavender eyes up from the plug hole, Breeana inspected her reflection. Her skin had paled drastically. For a moment, she told herself to relax. Everything was fine still. Nothing freaky was going on.

But then…she just stared…and stared…

She was looking right at the image of herself in the mirror. But she wasn't seeing herself.

Behind her eyes, a thousand images flashed all at once.

Trees. Darkness. The moon. Butterfly wings. Bright colours. Flashing lights. Talons. 

A wicked smile.

Cymbeline.

Gasping, Breeana snapped out of it. She could see her reflection again. 

Once again, everything was fine. She was safe, just standing there in her bathroom.

So, why was she shaking?

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Staring up at her ceiling, Breeana knew she wouldn't get much sleep. 

She couldn't stop thinking about it – the vision.

That's what it was, right? The young girl couldn't be too sure. Never had she experienced anything like this.

A quick Google search earlier in the night stated she either had bipolar disorder or schizophrenia. Although she couldn't really dismiss these possibilities, they were very hard to believe.

Now, her mind was restless. She tossed and turned, trying to think of anything but the things she saw. But no matter how many sheep she counted, how much she reminisced about school the last few weeks, her brain always managed to lead her right back to the visions.

They had to be related to Cymbeline or the missing charm. Fuck, maybe it was  mental illness, Breeana's fear and anxiety messing with her.

Then again, she saw shit that had nothing to do with either her sister or the bracelet.

Amongst the images of blackened tree branches and multicoloured lights flashing too brightly, Breeana was sure she saw them…

A pair of green eyes…circled by the darkest eyeshadow…contrasting greatly…striking almost.

Just as she was getting carried away in her thoughts, her gaze drew to her bedroom door, which was wide open.

Cymbeline scampered by, not even looking into her baby sister's room. 

Her footsteps were soft, creating no sound on the carpeted hallway ground. For how fast she moved past, Breeana still noted her sister's appearance.

The older Devlin sister wore her favourite gym shorts and baseball top, a look that could pass off as pyjamas. But draped over her arm was a leather jacket and, in her hand, her sneakers.

It was 11PM.

Breeana couldn't help it. She flung her covers back and raced to her door. "Cymbeline!" She whispered.

The girl didn't stop. It was almost as if she hadn't heard Breeana at all. She quickly made her way down the stairs.

But Breeana followed out of her room, goosebumps rising on her skin. She followed her sister downstairs into the darkness. Their Father had retreated to his own room hours before, exhausted from travelling. So it was just the two of them, alone together.

"Cymbeline!" Breeana whispered harsher.

Finally, stopping before the front door, Cymbeline turned to look at her sister. Her face was a mix of two emotions – frustration and guilt. "What?" She spat.

"Where are you going?" Breeana held her hands out by her sides in questioning. "It's late."

"Relax. I'm going for a cigarette." Cymbeline rolled her eyes, turning back to the front door and unlocking it. 

Breeana's brows connected. Strange. Cymbeline had never smoked in her life, as far as her sister was concerned. 

As if reading her mind, "Don't even think about telling Dad either. Or I'll tell Dylan about your little crush on him." Turning the doorknob, Cymbeline looked over her shoulder once more, this time smiling wickedly.

"Wha…How did you know - -"

"Come on, Bree. It's obvious." Cymbeline teased. "Now, hurry on back to bed. And, again, no word of this to Dad. Or by tomorrow, Dylan will know you as a stalker."

There was only one reason Breeana could think of as to why Dylan would never believe her – Cymbeline was her sister and would never make such an accusation. Even if she did, Dylan would only take it as a joke.

However, reasons why he would believe it – Breeana liked his Instagram post too quick, she watched his entire story, she had done both of these things having only spoken to him once, and, just as Cymbeline said, it was obvious.

All she could do was be obedient. She remained silent, watching her sister smirk and turn to walk out the front door.

And Breeana turned and made for the stairs…

But as soon as the front door clicked shut, she stopped, not by choice. 

The temperature in the room had dropped drastically, or maybe…

Maybe it hadn't. For it almost felt as if something stood in her way. Someone.

They stopped her from moving further.

Go, a voice said internally.

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Breeana's heart was hammering in her chest. The cold was beginning to tear her up, just navigating the forest. She wasn't totally blind in the dark of the woods, but it was a miracle she could even see anything at all. 

Her sister was right up ahead, not too far, not too close.

Why would Cymbeline choose to come all the way out here just to smoke a stupid cigarette? Surely she wasn't that worried about Melvino catching her.

The younger Devlin girl knew she needed to remain undetected if she was going to figure out where the fuck Cymbeline was sneaking off to. And yet, she wanted to call out to her, ask if she could come along under the false pretence that she was interested in this secret.

That's even if there is a secret. Breeana let out a breath of cold air as she stepped over a fallen tree log.

Cymbeline was still up ahead. Good.

Taking another step - -

Snap.

Her heart sank.

Cymbeline stopped. And she turned.

Breeana ducked for the nearest tree. No. She couldn't get caught now. Not when they were this far out.

With her back pressed firmly against the wood of the tree trunk, she covered her mouth with her palm. God, why was she scared? This was Cymbeline. Her sister.

Yet, she could already hear the roars of protest…of broken trust…of betrayal. She didn't want that, not after the exchange in Cymbeline's bedroom. Who knew what the girl would do when she was already so fired up.

A moment passed, and nothing happened. Breeana removed her hand from her mouth, curving her body around the tree. Cymbeline would be standing there, arms crossed and fire in her eyes. 

She'd pounce. 

She'd attack.

…But looking around the tree, Cymbeline was nowhere to be seen.

"What…?" Breeana's eyes widened. She moved out from behind the tree to where she had last seen her sister. Her lavender eyes darted all around, now desperate to find Cymbeline.

And when she couldn't see her, she began to run. 

"Cymbeline?" She called out into the dark quietly.

No response. She honestly expected it at this stage.

"Cymb'?" Breeana was becoming more desperate.

When it was clear she had lost her sister, she stopped. There was no way she could search this entire forest and find Cymbeline anytime soon.

Well, part of her brain told her she could if she really tried, while the other half told her that…

This was Cymbeline. The girl was strong, once taking down the star football player for being a "homophobic little bitch”. Breeana watched her throw him into a locker, slamming the door on his head.

It was crazy, but in Cymbeline's words; gay rights.

So if she could do that to a tank of a boy, she could fight off any possible danger in this forest.

She felt bad, her stomach twisting, but Breeana turned, giving up her search. If anything, Cymbeline had finished her cigarette and was already on her way back to the Devlin house.

Yes. That was it.

She was probably already home.

[fadeintoyou1993]

what are your top 5 female and top 5 male characters ever?

this is hard bc ive been consuming media in an obsessive way since i was literally 5 so im gonna try to narrow 5 female characters down and try to come up w 5 men i actually care aboutksksksk

female ch:

lizzie saltzman

nancy wheeler

santana lopez

nadia vulvokov

robyn brooks (iykyk)

male ch:

stefan salvatore

landon kirby

kaleb hawkins

steve harrington

archie andrews

[ev-bell-logbook]

Voice // Skills // Sem 1 // Week 6

06/11/24

The session started with a quick discussion on how our reading week went. I have started to read 'The Alchemy of Voice' by Stewart Pearce to help with my voice journey. As a transgender person I often feel a disconnect from my body and voice as I don't believe they belong to me. The techniques in that book are to help people uncover their true note. Furthermore, the techniques and training I have been receiving in Robyn's lesson are also helping me to achieve a gender affirming sound for my voice.

We looked into how the voice works with our vocal folds and larynx. The muscles in our throat vibrate to create sound. Sound is made of waves. As we speak we should be able to feel vibrations from our centres depending on how thick or thin our vocal chords are vibrating. We practiced with creating sound that came with three different qualities. The first was an open opera singer kind of sound. Most people naturally gravitated towards a more upper class sound as the southern British accent is a lot more open compared to it's northern 'cousin.' The second was one that resonated in our throats. This became quite closed off as it is unhealthy to speak from our throats because of all the tension it creates. Naturally though people within the class were dipping into northern accents, which this kind of tension is common in people with northern accents. The final one required a lot of air, it used either fry or essentially a whisper. This kind of voice is extremely difficult to sustain healthily because it creates much more tension. Very few people can relax enough to create a healthy fry sound. Although with practice anything is possible. Hence fry screaming as a metal vocal technique. We played around with creating sound inspired by images. The sound could be anything, from hums to vowels to speech. Then the final task was to create a soundscape as a group based on some images. My group's was a forest and I tried to emanate the sound of leaves crunching under your feet with a "ch" sound. However it may have been too breathy still to create the right effect. I'm sure the more I exercise my voice the stronger my vocal range will become.

[sseanettles]

nothing grows in corpses (in the earth of me)

dream x hob gadling | mature | Finally cross-posting my take on the fandom classic of the show progresses as the comics do, even to The Wake. Until Death resurrects Morpheus and forces the choice of "redemption" upon him instead of suicide. It goes...horribly. No good. Very bad. Instead of learning the lesson, Morpheus (in his infinite wisdom) opts instead for a highly effective existence strike until one day Hob Gadling stumbles upon his ghastly handiwork and immediately decides that this just won't do. Man Who Refuses To Die vs. Man Who Refuses To Live: fight.

Dead Dove, Do Not Eat for the following: graphic depictions of starvation, illness, suicidal ideation, self-harm, blood and gore, loss of autonomy, etc. etc. This is some classic old world whump, folks! But I promise it's also supremely healing in the end.

CH. 19: hope | 4.8 k | AO3 link | prev part | final part

(or: the one where the lesson is finally, finally learned.)

“Jim!” he yelled and tried to drag himself forward as his husband reached back for him with fingers that tugged weakly at the earth before giving up. “Come on,” he grunted but knew it was in vain. “Come on!”

It was always in vain. The ice box had landed atop the back of his knees, robbing him of the leverage he needed to kick it off; the weight of the rubble across his shoulders was heavy enough to prevent him from turning at the hips to push himself free. In fact, it was heavy enough that in about thirty minutes, his thrashing attempts to free himself would bring more debris tumbling down upon him in a brutal avalanche, and it would crush him into the earth until his heart ran out of room to beat.

He knew this. He always knew this, every time.

“It’s okay,” Jim whimpered and gave him a watery, reassuring smile with lips that were steadily turning red as he watched Hob fight to no avail. “It’s okay, love….”

“No! I can—I can do this, just—gaAAHH!”

He knew he would dislocate his joints trying to break free instead of listening to what his husband had to say to him in these final moments. He knew he would claw at the earth until he drove stones and metal deep beneath his nails trying to get closer.

“It’s…it’s all okay…”

“No, Jim, look at me! Look at me, love, come on! Stay with me!”

He knew, no matter how he strained, he would never be able to grab hold of Jim’s outstretched, sailing-calloused hand. He knew that the last thing Jim would see, smiling at him through his own fearful tears all the while in an attempt to make this okay—it was not okay, it would never be okay—was Hob’s sobbing, anguished face as he stretched as far as he could and came up just a finger’s width short.

“I…I love you,” Jim had sobbed in the end, trying valiantly to hold that smile, to hold that love in his eyes even as they darkened.

“Don’t. Don’t, don’t you dare, don’t you dare!”

The sobs turned to bloody chokes and then finally to those dreaded gasps…and Jim’s weakly reaching hand went slack.

Why didn’t I say I love you back?

WHY DIDN’T I SAY I LOVE YOU BACK?

“Gadling,” a voice distantly called, a voice that did not belong. “Come away from here.”

It’s okay, he returned, even as he let out a heart-rending cry and screamed for help that would not come for hours. Let them come. Let me see them all over again…one last time.

He rocked on a resplendent bed—the finest one money could buy with the softest sheets and mattress (even if it was hell on his back, because Eleanor loved soft things, and he had all of time to have the kind of bed he liked)—now covered in the blood of failed childbirth. He wailed into his wife’s cooling neck with his hand fisted in the back of her dark, sweaty curls, her pregnant belly still and heavy between them. Robyn, Robyn was outside, he knew, and he should not be hearing his father like this. He should be stoic and solemn and bear the loss with a stiff upper lip.

“Gadling…” Morpheus said.

Let me have them. Let me love them.

“Ellie,” he sobbed, pulling her as close as he could, pulling them both as close as he could, trying to make them safe within himself. “Oh, Ellie, no, no, no—”

Something tugged at him, Morpheus’ distant voice pleading, and he slammed into the edge of a physician’s table, catching himself as his knees gave out beneath the wracking force of redoubled sobs.

“Not this one,” Morpheus pressed from where he watched the scene in the corner of the room. “You need not relive this one—”

Allow me my grief, Stranger! I need my grief!

Robyn. Robyn, his boy—his brave, loving, stupid boy—lied before him, run through the heart in what the doctor promised had been a quick death. The last of his family, the last of his Eleanor, gone, and not of the old age he had prepared himself to witness but of something so stupid, so juvenile, so wasteful. A duel: what had he been thinking, did he not understand that life was precious, Hob wanted to throttle him, he….

He picked up his son as he had once picked up his mother and cried and cried and cried as the physician bowed from the room.

Morpheus had gone gray, gaunt with the empathy of a father who knew this pain well.

“How do you live with this?” he asked, unable to look away from the horrid memory. “How do you live with these pains?"

 Grief is human, Hob’s voice murmured, permeating the air around them even as he continued to sob and cry over his son. Necessary.

Morpheus watched Sir Robert Gadlen rock his child, watched him ease him back to the table and follow him down. His head rested atop the still chest and listened for a heart that would never beat again as he brushed his fingers through his boy’s hair and cried.

Hob stood behind his own self, watching.

My grief is the proof that I loved. Hob met Morpheus’ eyes without speaking aloud from over his own quaking shoulders. And that I love, still.

And when Morpheus still stared at him in disbelief, he gave a small, marveling huff.

“These aren’t nightmares to me, friend,” he said aloud with a tired, faint smile. “They’re just the memory of dreams.”

He stepped back, pulling Morpheus in his wake like an undertow, and the once-Endless fell to his knees, his mouth parting in a wounded gasp as he saw where they now stood.

It was the Dreaming. And it was a funeral…the one funeral he could never attend.

Hob Gadling stood among beings older and more powerful than he, turning about in bewilderment and mounting grief.

“Hang on,” he was saying, dressed in his ragged fare of their first meeting, so ill-suited for a proceeding so grand. He looked to all of them, begging someone to tell him otherwise. “The Dream-King. He’s dead?”

Bast closed her eyes rather than meet his beseeching gaze and bowed her head.

“He’s dead,” Chiron confirmed as he solemnly descended the stairs. “Yes.”

Gadling could only watch the centaur as he walked slowly to meet him, the great mentor of the Greek heroes, figure of legend and tales for eons past and eons to come: a being nearly twice Hob’s height and certainly twice as broad. And as Chiron arrived before him, Hob saw the truth. In his ancient eyes, there rang no lie.

And so, he did the only thing he knew how to do as the helplessness and despair welled within him to bursting. He charged Chiron with a grief-stricken roar, fists swinging, and Morpheus rushed into the dream himself as Hob struck and hit with all the effectiveness of a child to a towering tree.

“He can’t be dead! You’re LYING!” Chiron grabbed the insolent human by the wrist and then the shoulder, hauling him clear off the ground as he continued to yell and kick and hit. “It’s not TRUE!”

Powerful arms locked around him, pinning him in place as easily as if he were an infant, and the air filled with rain as he sobbed and hung from Chiron’s embrace.

“I’ll tell you what!” his voice echoed through the storm, chasing after a man who would not be caught. “I’ll be here in a hundred years, and if you’re here, too, it’ll be because we’re friends! And no other reason, right?!”

Rain turned to sleet turned to snow, and a shadowy visage of himself and Morpheus took shape amid the flurries around them, speaking words that made sense now far too late.

“—learned to pick up on, it’s the smell of death. I mean, it’s almost like a real smell. You sniff it on a bloke and two weeks later he gets his throat cut in an alley,” Hob was saying, so close to truth and missing it all the same. “And mate, you stink of it. I worry. You take care of yourself.”

Morpheus had smiled at him. He’d smiled at Hob, and Hob bared his teeth and redoubled his struggle against Chiron’s arms as he allowed himself to fall to the nightmare’s pull and hurt transformed to rage.

“Thank you, Hob,” Dream had lied, that smile on his face. “I shall.”

“You LIAR!”

The mighty arms gripping him from behind thinned and grew familiar. The ground returned beneath his feet. 

“YOU GAVE UP!” Hob bellowed, bucking against Morpheus’ embrace as the other man held him close, hiding his face in the meeting of his neck and shoulder. “HOW COULD YOU GIVE UP?!”

He grabbed Morpheus with all intent to rip himself free, but as soon as he felt him, real and warm beneath his touch, his temper cooled. Fawney Rig’s influence withdrew like curtains from a window until only the grief remained. Only the displaced love that now finally, finally had somewhere to go. Hob pressed his head to his friend’s with a quaking breath as his knees began to buckle, and Morpheus followed him down like a shroud.

“I never gave up,” he whispered with a sob and clung tighter to his friend as he felt Morpheus’ still-living breath on his skin. “I never…how could you? How could you give up on me?”

The black of Morpheus’ robes swept around them in a consuming swirl, and they pitched into drifting nothing.

“Because I destroyed worlds,” Morpheus murmured, his voice reverberating through the void of himself. “I coveted their hope and happiness for myself without a thought for those I robbed to attain it.”

The screams of a universe going mad rent the air. Planets burned, systems imploded, stars went nova far before their time, and at the center of it all stood the little girl with the blue skin and the red triangle upon her forehead, smiling so kindly and sweetly and reaching her hand to them. Her visage burned and folded in on itself, and the old woman with the graying hair and the lovely smile stood in her place. A golden annulet glinted upon her finger as she held her own bloody heart out to them with a kind, understanding smile. Crimson poured down her chest from the ragged wound her own wrenching hands had made in sacrifice, until she too, disappeared. In her place was left the girl with the rainbow locs and eyes that were so much more somber than her age, old and hard with a righteous anger.

Calliope and Hippolyta’s screams as they fell amid the eviscerated remains of their children, their shrieks of Oneiros both damning and begging, echoed behind the triumvirate. And as Nada plummeted to the only freedom left to her from a mountainside, doomed to reformation and violation at the Endless’ uncaring hand all the same, Morpheus moved to pull them away, to hide in shame.

Gadling held him firm. And as Nada hit the ground, Morpheus found himself drifting deep beneath the surface of a lake, watching as a dim figure thrashed in its dark depths and screamed until there was no air left to scream and yet wailed still. He was bound hand and foot with shackles that refused to break and fastened to a heavy stone that must have required multiple men to move. But around him, there floated hundreds more dead, all of them African, and they stared with vindicated eyes as Hob Gadling drowned in an eternal hell. Far above him, past the distantly glittering surface, Gwen watched him suffer from the sunlit world, damning, hardened. And though he screamed and fought for life because he could not keep his body from its instincts, his eyes as he beheld them all were accepting. 

Deserved, their calm said. This was deserved.

The water drained through the silky lakebed in a smashing slam, and Morpheus landed upon a gruesome battlefield. The bodies slain beneath his feet belonged to no single era or walk of life. They were anyone and everyone, spanning even ages.

A solitary, surviving figure walked toward him across the butchering ground that drowned in blood and the dead, a claymore that dripped in kind drawn at his side as he went.

…A grim, selfish reaper clad in Hadean armor who walked with Gadling’s step and stature.

“Haven’t we all?” he returned.

“I let down those in my care,” Morpheus pushed back, “I failed to protect them. All because I was tired.”

The Dreaming’s carnage at the Furies’ and Hippolyta’s avenging hands razed Hob’s battlefield into one Morpheus knew deeply. His Dreams and Nightmares alike laid dead and dismembered around them, and he tried not to look at the butchered mass he knew to be Fiddler’s Green.

The eldritch beasts frolicked about the kingdom while Morpheus rotted away in his own dungeons, and little Delight’s mind fractured under their irreverence until only Delirium remained.

Nuala stood before him, crying as she held her boon aloft, begging to know why…why did he make her play this role in his death? How could he, didn’t he know that she loved him?

Of course, he did. That was, after all, why he had done it.

The final moments of countless dreamers filled the space around the little fae in a unified moment of finality, flickering out atop each other like candles at their ends, and Morpheus struggled to understand what was happening until he caught sight of a common soul through them all. The altar from Gadling’s home loomed large in the form of a mausoleum wreathed in ivy and shadows, crafted this time of bones, of cairn stones and pyre wood and time-weathered tombstones.

“You are not alone in that my friend.” 

The doors creaked open on a dying breath, and upon its central tomb, at the heart of Gadling’s house of grief, lay the stone effigy of Lord Morpheus.

“How could you give up on me?” 

“Because I needed to change,” Morpheus whispered. “I could not be one who wrought all that pain anymore.”

“And you couldn’t do that yourself?”

“I am immutable,” Morpheus snapped, the weight of hot, self-loathing tears lacing every syllable. “I am Endless, what I am is what I shall always be, there is no changing my facet—”

“Bullshit,” Gadling spoke. “I just saw it myself—your kid sister changed. Heard talk at the funeral that you had a brother walk away from it all. I’ve seen enough faces of Death to know she has multitudes.” He paused, damning and sure. The black about them, about this temple of homeless love, sparked with color and lights that flickered away, and the scent of blade oil and the unknowable followed in their fading wakes. “So, I ask you again: how could you give up?”

And there, standing in the face of Gadling’s blistering honesty and the heart of his loss, of their two souls fully bared, Morpheus found he could not summon forth a worthy answer.

“You are not alone in what you’ve done,” Hob promised again as the monument to undying love rippled away into blackness. “You are not unworthy of change, and dress it up however you like but suicide is not self-love.”

The writhing dark fluttered back like great wings, like a passing shroud, and deposited them once more upon the cliffs of Naxos without ceremony, grace, or warning. Hob stumbled through his sprawl, only just keeping his feet under him, and spun in a sharp circle as he hunted for any sign of the dreaded temple. He found none, but the Dreaming was not happy around them, or at least, Fawney Rig was not. The skies were dark and roiling with a banshee-like wind kicking up, and the Nightmare’s borders seemed closer than they had been at the start, distorted and losing their shape as they collapsed steadily inward.

Seconds behind him, Morpheus arrived only to let out an anguished cry.

“If I am not alone in it, if I am not unworthy, then tell me why I always end back here!”

Hob turned and found his Stranger once more braced like a wild, drunken man at the end of his rope.

The prison of Orpheus’ head again claimed his hands like Gadling’s drowning stone.

Hob pressed his palms over his face with a groan, and he crouched down with his weight sat back on his heels and tried to think. 

With nothing else left to him, Morpheus fell to his never-ending cycle for the innumerable time, pulling with the little strength he had left and only growing more tired the longer he struggled in vain. The storm worsened by the minute until Fawney Rig groaned and screamed around them, the territory shrinking down and cannibalizing itself beyond the borders of this one cliff rise. They were all that was left now: just Robert Gadling, Fawney Rig, and the one Dreamer they could not seem to get to confront his demons. Hob squinted through the border winds as he saw the outline of Dream of the Endless, his robes whipping around him in a frenzy as he stood in observation without raising a hand to preserve the Nightmare’s fabric. They held each other’s eye through the chaos, and he heard the Dream Lord’s intention as clearly in his head as if they were speaking face to face.

This must happen. It was always written so, and he would do nothing to intervene.

“Please,” Morpheus begged his son’s mangled head as he collapsed in surrender, utterly exhausted. “Please, not this. Not again, I cannot do this again.”

Hob stumbled against the twisting winds that buffeted him in seemingly every direction to drop to his knees before his friend. He planted his hands on Morpheus’ lap, pinning him in place much to the other’s alarm.

“Stop running!” he called over the storm.

Morpheus shook his head, wild. “I cannot.”

“Yes,” Hob nodded, just as exaggerated back to him. “Yes, you stubborn prick, you can!” And without asking for permission or giving chance for argument, Hob gripped Orpheus’ head alongside him and guided him to look up at his father. “I know you’re tired, I know,” he said as Morpheus tried to pull away, and he held him fast by his hands. “So, stop running. Dig deep, come on.” He waited until the man looked back to him…and, finally, to his son. “At the very core of it all, what is there?”

For a time, Morpheus said nothing, refusing to dive into those two little words that had haunted them since they began.

“…So live,” he finally whispered.

“Yes,” Hob said. “What did that mean?”

Morpheus gritted his teeth. His expression screwed into one of disgust, of hate and pain that wrenched cruelly back around into gnawing, relentless grief.

“When…when Eurydice died on their wedding day…Orpheus came to me. Afterward. He asked….” Morpheus closed his eyes, tugging against Gadling’s hold in a gentle, persistent back and forth that settled into a twisted sort of self-soothing sway. “…He asked me to approach Hades on his behalf. To reclaim his wife’s soul.” He forced himself to bear his son’s unblinking stare. “I refused. That refusal led him to seek his own way to Hades, and…” He stopped, and Hob watched him breathe his way through the pain of memory until he could once more speak. “And what is told in myth came to pass.”

The winds howled and screamed.

“They tore him apart,” he managed, and his voice shook apart into sobs of the deepest empathy, “and still he lived.” 

Christ. Hob held him tighter, gripped Orpheus’ curls and his father’s hands in the same sickened seize that left all three of them melded into one. Christ, Christ, bloody Christ—

“Until…” The tears began to stay, his breaths steadying, and Hob’s heart skipped at the numbness he saw settling into the other man’s eyes, the cold lead of it that filled his bones and sank him down to the ocean floor within him.

…that despair that drove so deep that little remained to feel at all but its bite. 

“...until I ensured he lived no longer.” 

Hob’s eyes flinched shut, and he leaned to meet Morpheus, catching his heavy head upon his collarbone as he stared with that mounting numbness into his boy’s dead, mutilated face. Hob kept his hands fixed to the lad’s skull, refusing to leave his father to bear its weight alone.

They stayed that way for a time, their heads pressed to each other’s in steadying comfort amid the maelstrom. But as the winds continued to mount, screaming all the while with voices long gone, Hob forced himself to withdraw. He nuzzled his Stranger’s head as he went to guide their eyes to meet, and Morpheus followed him readily, longingly—seeking after him for any contact he could. Hob gave him a moment, let him come back to his senses and himself, before pushing on.

“What is so live?” he gently pressed.

Morpheus swallowed a few times and conjured his final confession.

“It was what I told him…when he came to me to ask the favor. I told him that he was mortal, and as such, mortal lives ended.” Hob’s eyes glistened, and Morpheus tried to unfocus his eyes, tried not to see his child in his hands. “The only thing he could do was to mourn his wife, to attend her funeral…love her and release her and know that her loss would linger with him always, though it would lessen as the time passed.” He paused. Hob’s hands squeezed his in steady comfort against Orpheus’ skull. “At the end, I told him, she is dead. You are alive. So live.”

Hob swallowed and barely found his voice once more beyond the lump in his throat.

“That was uncommonly kind of you, my friend.” He moved one hand to Morpheus’ shoulder, squeezed as tightly as he dared, and smiled softly through the grief. “I am sorry your son didn’t know how to hear you.”

“No,” Morpheus shook his head in sharp denial, his voice gumming in his throat. “No, it was not what he needed to hear—”

Hob switched his grip to the back of Morpheus’ neck, wincing as he painted him in Orpheus’ blood, and guided him to meet his earnest eyes.

“Yes,” he insisted. “It was. It just wasn’t what he wanted to hear.”

Morpheus looked into Hob’s eyes, those graveside shots of whiskey, and let his solemnly spoken truth sit in him like a stone.

So live. So live, so live, so live, so live.

The man who killed himself beheld the man who refused to die, and he recalled their final meeting in a previous life. For a moment, he imagined a world in which Gadling had truly confronted him on the stench of death that followed him, on the premonition he had that his Stranger was about to do something stupid and that this was the last time they would see one another. He imagined Gadling trying to extol him on the wonders of life, trying to talk him out of his pain and grief with platitudes and greeting cards and vague poetic nonsense that did nothing to address his very real and present anguish.

So live would have been laughable.

And he realized in a sickening jolt that he could relate to Orpheus’ struggle…to not wanting to hear his own words.

And he realized why his son haunted him so.

Redemption or death, the Kindly Ones had offered him. And he…he had chosen. Despite the wisdom, the philosophy, the truth of existence he claimed to espouse, he had chosen.

“I…” He stopped, afraid, and Hob carefully released him.

“That’s it, Stranger,” he said and shuffled back, keeping on his knees, until he was sure the man had enough space. “Stick with it. Come on.”

Morpheus looked from Hob to his son with a level of anxiety that would have been comical in any other circumstance, and Hob nodded to him in encouragement as he struggled to articulate the answer he had found. His chest rose and fell in unsteady cadence, and he swallowed as he met his son’s lifeless eyes where they watched him above his hand’s imprisoned strike. He now knew the words. But to speak them….

Hob Gadling watched him with all his heart’s love glistening in his eyes, and Morpheus stepped off the edge of a towering pillar of earth into free-falling nothing.

“I am sorry I did not live,” he whispered, and something in his chest cracked wide open, flooding his lungs with an almighty hurt. “I am sorry I am refusing to live still.” His voice wavered, and he spoke the final truth, the words biting out of him in self-hatred for their admittance, in hatred of everything that had come to pass, of everything that had led to this moment, and especially of his own folly at the center of it all.

“I am sorry I did not choose to live.”

In an almighty release, Morpheus’ hand pulled free. He tumbled back with the force of it, his child’s head toppling from his grasp as he went, and he clutched his arm to his chest as he landed in a breath-starving bang. It dripped with viscera and brain matter that oozed through his fingers and spattered him like rain, and…

…and slowly turned to golden ichor and stardust.

Orpheus sat before him where his head had fallen: whole and well and watching his father with loving, pain-stricken eyes.

After a time, he stood, and he paused with a sad, sympathetic smile as Morpheus flinched from him. And with the same grace his father possessed, with the same quiet intensity and his mother’s love in his eyes, he approached the man who killed him.

Morpheus watched him come: hardly daring to breathe, his chin quivering, his eyes shining. And he closed his eyes with a spilling of tears as his son reached wordlessly for his bowing head. He was okay with this ending. He could end like this, knelt before his child, in perfect symmetry. It was okay. It was all….

Orpheus caressed his father’s face with a touch as gentle as a little boy’s, and Morpheus’ eyes flew open, his breath paralyzing in his chest. His son’s fingers passed to cradle the angle of his jaw, and he tipped his father’s tear-tracked face up with a cautious delicateness until their eyes met. Morpheus reached for the folds of his himation, uncertain at first, and then gripped the white silk as tightly as he possibly could, not daring to let him go.

Not again.

There came a moment of silence, of quiet beholding.

Then, Orpheus began to hum. He hummed the melody that led Eurydice from the Underworld, the melody he performed at their wedding, the melody impossible to hear and live to recall. And as Morpheus gazed upon his child and silently wept beneath his serenade, Hob Gadling sank back on his heels, unaware of the tears falling from his own eyes. The sound…stars above, Orpheus was the most beautiful thing he had ever heard, and he almost cried out in relief as two hands slipped over his ears from behind him, turning the song distant and muffled. And now, the trance gone, he wept harder to see his Stranger, his dear friend, in such rapture at the end of it all. He reached for the hands and gripped their wrists in vicious comfort, and he smiled through his tears as he recognized the wrapped, gem-embroidered gauntlets as Dream’s.

As he recognized the salt-kissed skin as Jim’s.

As he recognized the embroidered hems of heavy, billowing sleeves as Eleanor’s.

As he recognized the small wrists of his littlest Robyn.

He leaned back into Dream’s legs, surrounded by the little ghosts he let walk on with him, his heart lighter than it had been in an age. The Endless took a step closer and caught him as he came.

Orpheus bowed to kiss his father’s head, his hummed song accompanying him all the while even though he had stopped singing himself. Morpheus still clung to his robes, crying in earnest, and Hob wept for him still, the hands of all his past loves and past shames upon him in well-loved company as he watched. Fawney Rig was unfurling from the beast it had twisted itself into, restoring its crater to a valley in a cathartic maelstrom of a release that tore and pulled and pushed, and Hob raised his hand to shield his eyes as he felt himself caught in the riptide. The father and son stood untouched at the center of it all, and this was the eye of the storm—

Morpheus gazed into his child’s face as the blessed kiss withdrew on an ending world.

And Orpheus, with his beautiful voice and godly face and his gentle musician’s hands still cradling his father’s head, gave his parting command, his final sagacity.

“So live.” 

[cyarskj1899]

Of course. It looks like team light skin against darker skin. So disgusting 😪. I’m pissed for light skin and dark skin black women everywhere

“The Real Housewives of Potomac” Fans Accuse Franchise Of Colorism Following Latest Episode [Video]

Caché Roberts

If you were tuned in to The Real Housewives of Potomac’s latest episode, “Beef is Served,” then you would know there is a huge uproar on social media right now, accusing the show of colorism, calling out housewives, and trying to figure out what just happened.

Last night’s episode saw a repeat in the DC area from season 5– violence. However, the “green-eyed” bandits, Gizelle and Robyn, had different opinions from six years ago in which they actually supported the violence and encouraged Wendy Osefo to fight all simply because the housewife read both of them for filth during her sophomore season. Now, the audience sees Gizelle Bryant and Robyn Dixon actually “antagonizing” Wendy, including Mia Thorton.

It all started when Mia cornered RHOA’s alum, Peter Thomas, about his “beef” with Wendy in a deal where he was waiting on Wendy to get back to him. When in actuality, Wendy showed the receipts, she was waiting on a response from Peter about when she could see the site of the location. Either way, the episode is filled with Mia gaslighting Wendy the whole dinner, in which Mia decides to bring up the drama with Peter at the table. Wendy wasn’t having it and checked Mia real quick, saying, “I don’t have beef with men,” which set the whole argument off.

Not only did Mia throw a drink at Wendy, but she attempted to hit her with her purse and broke her own nails, which were bleeding. Not once did Wendy engage physically–only verbally, yet Mia was comforted by Robyn and Gizelle. When in fact, in season 5, Gizelle felt so threatened by Monique Samuels after her altercation with Candiace Dillard that she hired security guards. Robyn and Gizelle both intentionally iced out Monique. And as Karen Huger says, “two wrongs don’t make a right,” which is why she stayed very neutral in both physical altercations. Anyways, the show (excluding the Grand Dame) has a long history of standing with light-skinned women and turning on brown and dark-skinned women, i.e. Monique, Candiace, and now Wendy.

And fans are noticing quickly:

Bravo is NEVER beating the colorism accusations. All of y’all sat up there and watched her throw a drink, and Robyn is calling Wendy the antagonist?? That’s so weird. #RHOP — all these moniezzzz (@_abrea) November 21, 2022

This entire season is unimpressive to me. Blatant colorism, this whole overly forced and disrespectful storyline towards Chris, like… we need a recast stat. #rhop — The Grande Ginger (@shes_rADIAnt) November 21, 2022

I can’t believe they’re blaming Wendy when Mia was yelling and lunging at Wendy like wtf?!? Again blaming her when she’s defending herself!!! Colorism is the 8th Housewife! #rhoppic.twitter.com/acKVFucZUs — Mihrimah| FS | Xanaxyra Targaryen🪬🤲(@Mihrimah_FS) November 21, 2022

Potomac is NEVER beating those colorism allegations #rhop — dj0nes (@dj0nes) November 21, 2022

Mia throws a drink on Wendy and then calls Wendy ghetto  Robyn calls Wendy “antagonizing” after a drink was THROWN IN HER FACE Gizelle tells Karen she needs to defend Mia after Mia was the one who threw the drink.  the colorism on this show is so LOUD #RHOP — caliphornia QING (@caliphorniaqing) November 21, 2022

Ok colorism was definitely proved on this show tonight #RHOP — jasmine ♡ (@MsJasG) November 21, 2022

Wait… Robyn says that Dr. Wendy is antagonistic and Mia just threw a drink at WENDY. Whew Chile… you will have A LOT to explain at the reunion regarding the colorism conversation bc it’s overt at this point. #RHOPpic.twitter.com/lMLOd9Mvx2 — K E M P I R E 🐘 (@TheKempire) November 21, 2022

Robyn recording Wendy is literally baiting and being antagonistic yet this what she’s calling Wendy. I’m really disgusted at the obvious colorism #rhop — ImBlueDabaDeeDabaDie💜✨🌈🦄(@BluDabaDeDabaDi) November 21, 2022

BOOM there it is. Hypocrites and colorism #RHOP pic.twitter.com/sbsEpuFx7I — chanel🧚🏽‍♀️🫧 (@ceceInterIude) November 21, 2022

What’s most shocking about last night’s episode is Robyn’s constant narrative that Wendy is “antagonizing” Mia when Robyn whipped out her phone to record the altercation (she was only zooming in on Wendy, though).

Mia showed her true colors in the episode and faced backlash as she responded back to a now-deleted comment saying she started the fight. She backpedals yet again, she backpedaled a couple of weeks ago after cameras caught Candiace’s husband, Chris, not staring at her–but on his phone. She said he was staring at her sexually on the show, then tweeted that same night that she was insecure.

On the bright side, Wendy has been receiving an outpour of love from fans, viewers, celebrities, and other housewives.

“Words cannot even begin to describe how grateful I am for the outpouring of love, support, and kind words of affirmation I have received over the past 24hours. Always keep your head high and your crown straight 👑. Sending you all my deepest gratitude and biggest hug!🤍🤍#RHOP”

The Real Housewives of Potomac comes on Sundays on Bravo at 8 pm ET.

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