#it is exhausting and terrible but i know it will be glorious if i can just PUSH. and not freeze in fear anymore

[upgradebitch]

this project is going to kill me

[brabblesblog]

Louder.

Centuries before the circumstances of his ascension, Astarion watches the sunrise. Inspired by this artwork by pickled0ctopus For @glorious-void

TW: Torture, implied SA, Non-con elements, Suicidal Ideation Read on AO3.

Louder.

He tries, gods, he really tries. But he doesn’t have much voice left; today’s session with Godey had all but scratched his larynx raw.

He feels the chafe of the manacles on his wrists. He knows better than to fight against them, knows there’s no winning that, but Cazador liked having him do it anyway - for the theatrics of it, he had said.

That voice in his head, incontestable. 

So he had fought, tugging and pulling and yanking with a desperation that was not his, no, if it were up to him he’d just hold his hands slack but he has to fight, has to pull until his wrists are broken bloody weeping everywhere -

A loud crack behind him, and he screams as the whip lands, as requested. However the only thing that comes out of his mouth is a broken, hoarse groan. He despairs, knowing he’s failed his master yet again.

“The master said louder.” Godey cracks the whip again, and Astarion manages a louder sound this time, halfway between a shout and a moan. 

Please, he thinks, let that be enough.

He knows it is anything but.

He’s on a bed, the sheets white and clean in one of the guestrooms; a small comfort, one that he knows won’t last.

He eyes the window warily. The curtains are peeled back just far enough for a sliver of moonlight to land across him; Astarion arches his neck. The moonlight falls across his Adam’s apple, his hair falling back in silvery waves. 

Whatever new thing Cazador has thought up, Astarion thinks, might be preferable to the horrors Godey does. He had run out of sounds to make, of screams to titillate his master’s ears. 

And so Cazador had instructed him to clean up, boy, and lay down on the guest bed. 

Open the windows a fraction. Let the moonlight touch you. 

Do not move a muscle and watch the dawn arrive. 

Astarion had done just so. He wonders if the master intended to kill him this way, hopes for that to be the case. Likelier than not, however, he knows that this is yet another sort of cruel punishment that he just can’t see yet. 

The question of being able to die… well, he supposes not die die, as he’s dead - 

Of not existing, then, is something that has been plaguing him ever since he dug his way out of his grave. 

His master’s rules have so far prevented it. Not that Astarion hasn’t tried to find a loophole; years of his training as a magistrate have been put into exhausting, terrible use, trying to find some way he could circumvent Cazador’s words, twist them, and allow himself peace. 

No matter what type of logic he’d use in his head it never worked; he’d always find his own body betraying him, seeking safety when push came to shove. He’d scream at himself, to just please, please, stay put and die, but his body acted of its own accord, in accordance with his master’s will.

His body. Not his anymore. 

Astarion’s eyes, the only thing he feels allowed to move, keeps staring at the window. He watches the moonlight slowly wane. The hope is still there: perhaps this time with Cazador asking him to stay put he can last long enough to end; he could twist his interpretation enough to finally free himself.

Highly unlikely, he knows, but the embers of hope in his heart cannot be so easily tamped down.

All too soon the sun begins to rise. Astarion has not seen it in what seems like forever; his eyes widen to take it all in. Beautiful, the way those gentle rays illuminate everything; the small glimpse of color in a world so full of darkness makes his breath catch.

There are worse ways to end, he figures. This is positively divine.

The thought is unfortunately cut short by the sound of footsteps approaching him. His footsteps.

Cazador stares down at him, hidden in the safety of the shadows.

“Not exactly how I imagined you would execute this, but satisfactory,” he says. “A rare accomplishment, boy.” Despite himself, despite the gnawing hatred for his master, Astarion feels the swelling of pride at these words and immediately curses himself. Was he so wretched now that he craved even praise from him?

“Thank you, master,” he croaks out automatically.

Fuck.

Cazador smiles, as if hearing the thought. “One more thing.”

Astarion sees that gleam in Cazador’s eyes; in an instant what little hope he has dissolves and his undead heart begins to speed up. 

Of course there was to be no freedom. His master knew better, wanted him by his side forever, of course he did, who else brought the most beautiful victims, who else had the most exquisite screams -

“You want… to live,” Cazador says, eyes glowing a faint crimson as he taps into his power over him. “You’ll want to beg me to spare you from the sun.” Long, thin fingers, fingers that have touched him in so many ways and in so many places, all of them horrible, rest against his thigh. 

He feels the magic slowly take, the calm resignation and expectation of finally being allowed repose slowly morphing into panic that wasn’t his own, an alien feeling taking over him, ruling his heart and his mind.

His heart races, breathing quickens, whimpers, even as he tries to tell himself this isn’t what he wants. Betrayed yet again by his body and mind, trapped within the confines of Cazador’s will. He should be used to this by now; it’s been years of this, of endless waking nightmares of neverending bodies of dead-end hallways and pure shit -

The stream of sunlight begins to creep towards him, and Astarion struggles. He needs to keep still as commanded, but cannot stop his mouth.

“Master, please, I - I don’t want to die here,” he begins to say, his voice a wreck still. Cazador, still above him, watches with wry amusement, the hand on his thigh moving higher.

Astarion cannot help the whine that escapes him. “Please. Please.”

I’ll do anything say anything be anything just please don’t let me die here.

Never mind that those words, those thoughts, are not his; that he will never mean them in his deepest heart. He says them anyway, feels them anyway. 

“I think I’d rather you be quiet, child,” Cazador replies. 

Immediately his mouth snaps shut. His eyes shift over to look at Cazador, the defiance in them slowly ebbing away as the sunlight finally touches him.

Blistering, sizzling pain erupts from that line on his throat. He can hear his skin begin to burn, the crackling sound loud in the near-silent room. He doesn’t scream, doesn’t speak. Instead he watches his master, gaze conveying those traitorous feelings Cazador forces him to possess.

The pain increases, incrementally at first, and then worse as time passes. However it isn’t worse than any other pain he’s felt before, especially in Godey’s sessions.

He stares at Cazador and then at the sunlight, feeling freedom slip away from his fingers. So close to escape, to peace, and he is reminded that he can never have that. That this is it for eternity, to be Cazador’s, to spend day after day reliving the same waking nightmare without end.

A single tear falls. A different kind of pain.

If he could scream, he thinks, he could have been louder now. 

  

Taglist: @elora-the-slutty-songstress @tragedybunny @spacebarbarianweird @ayselluna @enterthedreams @coltaire @qiific3 @misscrissfemmefatale @vixstarria @eatyourheartoutmylove @linllewellyn @ battisonsgf @micropoe10 @thegoodwitchs-blog @akirahime @velcyrptrr @i-cant-get-into-my-other-account @babblebrain-blog @asterordinary @last-but-not-the-least @artist4theworld @gracemisconduct @decadentcoffeewizard @rootin-tootin-n-kind@pursuitseternal@youngtacobanana @krispeenuggiez @girlygmer-blog @cheezits4lyfe @vinegarjello @the0ldmann

[germhammy]

“Fencing Practice”

Xavier: so where is Wednesday? She’s late

Bianca: she’s meeting with the directors and executive producers in Jericho

Xavier: the Netflix show is getting to her head. Hanging out with Harley and Pippa. What do you think of that, Enid?

Enid: I’m excited for Wednesday. This show. Her first novel. And she’s actually made a friend on her own!

Xavier: you’re just saying that to hide your disappointment that you’re replaceable

Granny Frump: who is replacing my granddaughter’s ray of sunshine?

Xavier: what are these two old ladies doing at our fencing practice? Bianca, are you going to tell them to leave? Shall I see them out?

Grandmama Addams: now that is no way to speak to your elders

Bianca: ah! Hester, Esmeralda! Thank you for coming. Wednesday should be here soon

Granny Frump: yes. My daughter informed me that Wednesday is having quite the argument with Mr Waipapa

Grandmama Addams: for now, please introduce us to the the squad

Bianca: of course. We won’t finalize the squad until closer to the actual day of the event. But I can at least introduce the team you helped when we visited Ilvermorny

Granny Frump: I remember coming here, to the fencing room with my girls. Ophelia started dancing. Morticia was so angry at her disrespecting the room

Grandmama: I was disappointed that Gomez had no interest in fencing despite his love for it.

Bianca called up the squad that traveled to Ilvermorny. Xavier tried to come up

Bianca: Xavier you were not part of the squad. -turning to the two witches- Ilvermorny uses a unique form other than them cheating with magic.

Xavier: I should have been on the team! You know it! Just because you’re afraid of Wednesday! Mrs Frump, tell Wednesday I should be on the squad!

Entering the room Morticia spoke

Morticia: ahh. The fencing room. I haven’t set foot in here since my days at Nevermore. Hasn’t changed much. I see your grandmothers are here already Wednesday

Enid ran towards the exhausted looking Wednesday and gave her a big hug

Enid: was it that bad? -not letting go-

Wednesday: it was terrible. Mr Waipapa made everything a farce. He signed off on Mr Johnson’s ideas of bigger and more bigger. Agreed to all of Ms Rowling’s rainbow friendship is magic ideas

Enid: oh no. So what happened?

Morticia: Hunter was on Wednesday’s side stating that all the changes made less stunt work and more CGI. Harley was on Wednesday’s side stating that Mr Burton gave her a copy of Wednesday’s original story and went out on a limb by stating that Ms Rowling’s script was a travesty turning what was a glorious macabre story of a group of uneasy friends forming a strong bond into a happy go lucky outing of friends

Enid: oh wow. Go Harley

Morticia: Mr Johnson and Ms Rowling called for Harley to be fired. Mr Burton ordered Ms Rowling to leave the set. Asked Wednesday if she had the time to rewrite the scripts. She said she does not enjoy screenwriting but Frankie does so Mr Burton gave him a copy of Wednesday’s story to read.

Enid: sounds like a mess.

Morticia: it is. Again Mr Johnson and Ms Rowling not wanting to believe that my Wednesday is a shy socially awkward 17 year old

Grandmama: -having walked over to her daughter in law and granddaughter- shall I cast a spell on them? I could whip up a couple of potions

Wednesday: -reluctantly pulling herself out of her girlfriend’s embrace- that will not be necessary, Grandmama but I will keep it in mind

Enid: so are Ms Rowling and Mr Johnson off the project? What about Mr Waipapa?

Wednesday: nothing set yet. We found the best dress for La Llorona. The makeup crew is working on the makeup look. And Pippi Longstocking. The costume department has a perfect wig. But let us get this meeting about Ilvermorny started

Xavier: can you please get me in? I want to be a part of the show

Morticia: about using the town’s people as extras? Mr Burton has come up with a scenario. He gave me the script pages

Wednesday: -taking the pages from her mother and reading- oh? A Halloween version the town square instead of a party? That makes sense. I approve. Costumes don’t have to be provided. Everyone can come up with their own.

Morticia: just what Mr Burton said

There was an explosion sound. Bianca and Xavier panicked

Wednesday: oh bother. What does Pugsley want? -she opened her text from her brother to see drone footage of him walking down the block with Phineas, Bianca and Flower in line behind him. Their neighbor Mrs Bucket outside planting flowers way too early in the season. Shrieking seeing the skunks. Shooing Pugsley away and swiping at the furry trio with a nearby rake and promptly getting sprayed. She showed the video to Enid-

Enid: oh dear! Go skunkies! Wait?! Do you think Pugsley can bring the skunkies when he comes for Parents Day? I miss them

Wednesday: we would have to ask Principal Thropp

Morticia: I will ask Elphaba

Xavier: wait what? Skunks?

Wednesday: yes. Pugsley, Enid and I adopted three baby skunks. We named them Phineas, Flower and Bianca

Bianca: you named your skunk after me? Why am I not surprised?

[brainrockets]

I wrote a thing you guys.

Evan reads the damn book. In a moment of exhausted despair, he just plops on the ground and starts reading it. He's so tired. He sometimes thinks he's been tired his whole life. The moments of ease and respite stark in their contrast to his every day existing. The moments of respite sometimes hurt more he thinks, a window into a life he can never truly possess-just able to look at in stolen glimpses through smudged glass. 

And he wants to be stronger, stronger for his friends, who he loves fiercely and wildly, but HE DIED the other day. And they got him back, but more than ever he feels like he's haunting his own life and his unforgiving cut glass mind keeps throwing out possible connotations around the method of resurrection. What does it really mean to be here in this goat tatted body? Is it his body? Is it a new body? Some other horrifying thing he will find out right before some hideous consequences arrive? 

He deeply envies his friends. Their ability to get swept up in the fantasy of St. Dotto’s is equal parts terrifying, infuriating and enviable. That island couldn't bend to provide him a fantasy he'd be able to accept and he'd found himself unable and unwilling to bend to accept what it could do. The way K just threw themselves into it was as charming as it was absolutely aggravating. A great strength and a terrible weakness. This was how they approached anything and anyone they loved. Like a space laser. And frankly the absence of the spotlight of that laser focus made him feel like a kicked dog. He had to stop thinking in terms of dogs damnit. The glory of standing at the center of it was intense and glorious, but it wasn't something to count on. At least not for him. And he'd, towards the end, stopped feeling it as warmth and wonder and started feeling it like the ray of light of a bug under a magnifying glass. Focused on but not entirely seen or cared for. And K fell further into their web trying to fix what they broke the best way they knew how, Jammer had fled the entire country, declining to be drafted into something he didn't sign up for, Sam floated gloriously to a future of fame and adoration and he tried to remember how to survive the way he always had, on the edges, mostly alone. With nicer shoes.

On the walk back to the Hoopty, as the charm Sam had cast wore off of him, he felt the slow dark curl of shame start its insidious roiling through him like a wave or a worm. It's funny how you never know where the bottom is. How you can think you fell as far as it is possible to fall and keep on going. Jammer was slowly flying at his side looking fuzzy as he also threw off the charm offensive. Evan couldn't tell if he felt it as deeply as he did or at all. Jammer being infinitely cooler than anyone he'd ever known. He should ask. That'd be the right thing to do, but he worries if in the asking he'd be giving away too much of his own particular baggage and he doesn't want to strain the already fragile bonds they've just really started repairing with his Evan-Ness. 

Evan had taken back his backpack to once again set up his mattress up against the awkward and dubious shelter of their magical ride. Jammer hadn't put up a fuss, had just folded into himself on the mattress and seemingly drifted, not sleeping as such but not fully present. His back pressed against Evan for comfort like the animals they'd been begging to be so recently, like the animals that humans like to pretend not to be. And that's when Evan lost the fight. He felt the fight leave like his shadow, just float away from his grasp between one breath and the next. He looked up, he looked down. The Book was in his hands. He allowed himself a little lie, that he was just going to read it. He opened the cover. He started to read. 

------

Sam and K were arguing, they’d blown straight past banter and bicker and jumped straight to a full on huff fest. They were arguing without arguing, in the way of lifelong friends where so much has already been said that the silences and sighs are far louder and more pointed than words. Once the boys had left, a tidal wave of words had started spilling out of K as they made their way into the center of the caldera. Sam made the appropriate sounds, they'd been doing this dance since they'd first met on the forums so she didn't have to put too much effort into her side of things, trying instead to push down the dread she felt about how her friends had been affected by her Magnetism. She'd been certain it was the right choice, the least risky Magic to lean into on this island of amplification. And then her dear sweet boys had also been hit with the full force of her whammy. Horrifying. Embarrassing. K was insisting that it was fine, that amplification meant that they'd already had that desire in them, but Sam knows in ways that she also knows she’ll absolutely NEVER disclose to her friends probably, (especially Evan, unless she is sure that she wants the perpetrator dead and in the ground), that just because you have some desire inside you deep and buried doesn't mean that having it forced out of you non consensually isn't awfully damaging. Sam’s gift is people and charm so sharp she wields it like a sword. She knows profoundly the ways that people can get it twisted and she’s gotten real good at making them regret their choices. 

She loves K so SO MUCH, but she also wants her to get outside and touch some grass… once there is some grass. Or stay inside and eat regular meals, hang out, maybe shower a bit more frequently. To connect with the people that love them as well as they connect with all of the people out there on the internet. It’s not that what K is doing is not important, but she worries that they’re losing themselves, losing their sense of self in the depths of the network. But she would never force those things on them. Use her power to make them want to take care of themselves, make them be in the moment if they didn’t want to be. Grosser than gross.

She'd been looking forward to seeing her friends again, had dropped everything to follow the fraying threads and reconnect. She'd been in various levels of shock and horror at the reality she'd been confronted with. And a little bit pissed off. Weugan (and her boys, god but she loved those boys) were taking the brunt of that built up fury she hadn't been wanting to acknowledge. Sam is a happy person. She likes to be happy. It's a state that works for her. It's her first and best defense against the ugly sharp bits of reality that she just does not make the time for. Happiness and her teacup pig are all a girl really needs most of the time. It takes a lot for her to lose her happy. And she guesses that they officially passed a lot when she found herself standing in a hot spring with the corpse of her best friend covered in his exploded arm goo.

And then just kept on moving past that line like rockets. She's trying to figure out the secret of this fucking place, trying to execute their plan to try and make this situation at least not completely fruitless. She’s trying to forgive K for killing Evan, because she KNOWS that they were just trying their best to express how much they care. In the most impulsive and ambitious way possible. Sam sees the logic K was following, feels like she SHOULD have seen the danger coming. She knows K, she knows K cannot let things be. And that K needs a goddamned win. She should have asked better questions, noticed more. Intervened before she was wearing pieces of EVAN. Lord let the trauma not be in vain. She thinks, scanning for danger and wanting to just grab her friends and get the hell out of here. Take them to her flat and order a takeaway and do karaoke in her state of the art media room. If they still can look her in the eye after all of this. 

They find something promising in the maw, and ever brilliant K jury rigs something she doesn't fully understand past the basic gist of and is heartened by how K seems pleased with themselves. She wishes she'd been able to help more but she's more than willing to nod and hold wires and lend bits of her magic to K while they weave an impressive web of magic and networking and Sam distracts herself with possible new last names and set lists for her next musical episode. 

As they get things moving, Magic seems to shudder and hum in a promising fashion, there’s a light weaving through the gross magic fog and Sam feels something like hope just moments before she hears a sound like thunder and feels the earth moving under her feet. She loses her balance and crashes into K landing Awkwardly in a little K and Sam heap. From the heap they both look up to see black wings rush overhead and a loud cry of agony that they unfortunately are far too familiar with. They both push up from the ground and hop on their brooms. Something has gone horribly wrong with Evan. They just got him back. Lord help whoever hurt their boy.

----

K has been in constant motion, trying to outrun their guilt since well since they broke magic. They have also been running literally from hostile anti magic government goons as well, but some days that just feels like a metaphor for the emotions they're running from. If they stand still, who knows what will catch up to them, yanno? 

They know that they aren’t really doing okay. And maybe they haven’t been for a while. They had stopped paying attention to that when it had gotten in their way. Like they’d stopped paying attention to most things that had gotten in their way, like eating or sleeping or bathing or other people. They stick their tongue out at the uselessness of things that are in their way. Magic is real, so why does everyone keep insisting on things like rules and reality. What even does that mean, really in the face of MAGIC!? They’re still talking, covering the eerie silence with nonsense patter about how fucking hot it was for Sam to just make people roll over for her. What could K do with that kind of power, probably a lot. Probably too much. They know they are a lot. They miss being a lot in a group, when they stop too long and the thoughts catch up with them. They try not to ever let that happen. They think everyone is probably pretty pissed at them at the moment, they’re, if they’re honest with themselves, they’re pissed at themselves too. But they still can’t let themselves get caught out, not with so much on the line, not with their biggest mistakes still hurting so many people. They don’t know why their friends don’t see what’s driving them, why they aren’t as invested in things. Once they all went their separate ways, they’d floundered, just a little bit. What happens next!? And then they’d found a way to keep helping, to try and fix what they broke and they patched over the hurt of separations, the uncertainty of transitions and poured them into their missions. 

In the maw of Weugan, they find a place to plant their feet and a glimpse of a real actual fix for this whole ridiculous situation. They turn their considerable skills towards building something, they have a crochet needle in one hand and their tiny rose glasses perched on their nose to help them see where to jam the needle. They're built for this, and they cannot dream even a little small. They feel the rightness of it all surround them in a golden hum, like a melody they’d known their whole life. They set it off. And then they hear Evan scream in agony and they fall. Neither friend says a single thing. They pick themselves up and dash forward on their brooms towards the Hoopty and their boys. 

----

At the Hoopty, Jammer had been trying to get back to anywhere in the neighborhood of good. The dog thing wasn't like the last straw, he knew he had a bit of that dog in him, and he was at peace with it in general. You can only get compared to various friendly dog breeds by drunk folks and drunk teammates so many times without taking something away about the way you are in the world. And he has already had to confront how deeply he carries the weight of responsibility for the people he collects around him. So, yeah, he loves his friends and he’d be their dog, so what? He’s a big enough man that he can be a man and a dog, no problem. 

What was eating away at him was the weight, the weight of magic. The weight of all of these problems. He expects A lot of himself, always has. The world was always gonna ask more of him anyways, he likes to be ahead of that demand when he can, even when the world keeps moving the damn line and expecting even more. He keeps pushing himself so he can avoid pushes from others towards ends he doesn't want to achieve. He's trying to get himself right in his head space, distracting himself with building out training regimens for the season and wondering If his pals from school are having more fun than him. He really hopes so. He definitely doesn’t have it in him to fix magic AND mundane messes in just the one Spring Break. He’s trying some of those breathing exercises he learned at a workshop he volunteered for at LEEP, trying to get centered, so he can get back in the game. Evan’s still far too bony form at his back reminding him that they got him back. That he’s fine. He’s here. He’s fine. It’s going to be fine. 

He wonders when he’ll have time to fall apart for real, and if he’ll let himself take that time and if they’ll even have the time to take. And he doesn’t linger too long on that train of thought because he’s got shit to handle and that kind of thinking isn’t great for team morale. He tries to think of a sports metaphor to use later, knowing that his friends generally don’t have the framework to appreciate it, but frankly sometimes that’s half the fun. He thinks the breathing exercises are starting to work, he’s feeling more clear headed, regaining more of himself, more of the self he wants to be when he starts to notice the quiet sound of pages turning. As soon as he notices the rustle of the pages, he starts to hear quieter things, a hiss of whispers, a small wind cutting through the fog of this place, a growl from nowhere and everywhere. The heat at his back starts to increase slowly and then quicker. He is up like a shot, his reflexes fast as ever, only for an explosion of magic and force to shove him like 20 feet away, nearly into a rock, which he dodges at the last second. Evan is hovering in the air surrounded by swirling debris. 

Jammer, not really understanding what the FUCK is happening, absently notices the air mattress has shot out past the edge of the island and nearly to the ocean and the storm. He shakes himself off and raises his wand, ready to fucking end whatever is threatening them, but also frustratingly aware of how badly doing Magic has gone on this weird ass upside down wolf island. Dark lights are surrounding Evan, and he looks wrong and wrong for Evan is a real high bar. Jammer huffs his frustration and tries to find some angle to fix this. Sam and K are still not here and it’s all on him and he’s gotta figure it out. Evan’s not dying on his watch, not again. He looks towards where Sam and K are, looks for the familiars, looks for the damn wolf. He sees a golden light in the direction of his other friends and in that moment something changes. Out of nowhere, that weird snake motherfucker comes flying low, its mouth open and full of sharp fangs. It’s on a collision course for Evan, because of fuckin course it is. He shakes off his indecision and throws Magic at it, fiery and way bigger than he expected. The snake screams and flies away towards his other friends. He launches himself towards his friend, thinking to grab him out of the air like a basketball. Something even more wrong twists Evan just out of his grasp and Evan’s whole body goes pretzel-y. A horrific scream of agony pierces the sky, echoing out from the whirling mass of Magic and man. He cannot see Evan anymore. All he sees is a mass of whirling red and darkness deeper than his creepy ass shadow. He’s helpless and he hates it. 

He breaks his fucking wand and throws all he’s got at what he hopes is still his best friend. A wash of gold light covers the screaming ball as an echoing golden hum of magic washes over the world and everything goes quiet and almost still for what feels like forever. Something changes and a sense of gravity reasserts itself and something is falling. Jammer instinctively reaches to catch whatever it is, to save something from this fucked up bullshit situation. He looks down and finds himself at a total loss for words.

----

Sam and K fly like the devil is after them, even though the snake thing went the other way. They’re chased by the hum of magic they set off and their fears for their friends. They ride the wave of amplified magic and anguish. The quality of light changes from red to golden. The world is quiet, like the dawn right before the world wakes. They get to where they left their friends. They don’t see Evan. They just see Jammer. He’s facing away from them, cradling something in his arms. His shoulders curled inward. His body language gives them less than nothing. They must make some sound, because he slowly turns towards them, an unreadable look on his face. They move towards him, trying to make sense of what’s happened. No one says a word. Their brains are trying to catch up with their eyes. The silence is broken, again, by a cry. Only this time it’s smaller and is not a cry of agony. And it originates in Jammer’s arms, a tiny wriggling bundle, all big eyes and black hair. A baby. 

They all look at each other. Look at the baby. Look around for their tall and spooky friend. Look back at the baby. K is the first to break the stalemate. They straighten up and hold out their arms for the baby. Jammer hands the baby to K. They hold the baby and look at it closely, which makes the baby laugh even though no one else is anywhere close to laughing. K addresses the baby directly. 

“Evan, what the hell, man!”

[velvet-paradox]

Heartstrings (Part One)

Fandom: Sleep Token (Band) Pairing: eventual Vessel x Female reader Length: Medium Summary: Memories haunt our beloved frontman, some he'd like to forget and some he's been hiding. Warnings: eventual NSFW, 18 + ONLY, strong language, tobacco use, alcohol consumption, supernatural (no, not the show) element, a twisted little game. Tagging: @synnersaint as always, @megangovier20 

NOTES: I’ll be reposting to @roman-is-a-horse as well as that’s my little hole in the wall for all things masked men and Sleep Token

ENJOY!!!

He's exhausted. He's all sweat and grit, dirt beneath his fingernails, mud on his boots. 

He could care less. 

What he needed was sleep. Glorious, pillow soft sleep. And the deity let him. 

He dreamt of monkey bars, chipped green paint, orange creme popsicles, a dizzy tire swing blurring in the distance, a familiar face hanging upside down from a wound up swing set. The air is light and the sun is high. He learned why ancient Egyptians rimmed their eyes with kohl. Learned the proper pronunciation for Persephone. Had his first kiss. Got into his first of many, fist fights and tasted blood and why you don't pick at knuckle scabs. The taste of woodchips. 

And then he met you.

Vessel woke with a jolt, restless leg syndrome, jerking him at the worst of times but helpful on the stage. 

"You're pretty when you cry." That silky voice that lulled him to the dreamworld sang down to him. Above his head, resting oh so carefully upon his pillow was Sleep, taking the form of a smoky red cat with six black slits for eyes. The deity grinned sharp, bone white fangs before leaping into the air at Vessel's recognition that he was indeed crying, his cheeks and lips streaked with salt. Sleep hung in the air above him, wagging its tail.

"Bad dream?" Sleep asked, resting its face on its paws like some teenager, coiling the phone cord, awaiting the latest hallway gossip.

"I'm fine," Vessel sniffled and turned on his side, an attempt to ignore his maker.

Sleep rolled onto its' back, little red paws pointing up to the ceiling before floating in front of his face and purred. "That's not what I asked."

Vessel blamed it on his uncomfortableness, the bed was cold and the sheets icy against his bare legs. Sleep wasn't buying it, squinting all six eyes at him as he tossed and turned for the rest of the night. ....

"That's not fair!"

"Life isn't fair, brother, get used to it."

"You big troll, that's the last can!"

"Watch it you little gremlin or I'll step on you and put you out like a light."

Brotherly threats floated up stairs along with the smell of someone cooking breakfast. Cinnamon butter, scrambled eggs, no doubt since his heathen brothers refused to eat them any other way. Roasted earthy mushrooms, peppered bacon.

Vessel clung to the staircase watching three others maneuver around someone's rented home in the highlands. Through a large bay window he could make out the silky green grass and sparkling yellow daffodils dancing in the wind.

SpaghettiOs. 

III and IV were giving II shit in between grabbing plates, poor thing was jumping up and missing terribly the can of the tomato sauced rings. Vessel shook his head and jumped down the last two steps before they all stuttered to a stop, III hid the can behind his back as if he were about to be scolded.

"Never gets old, huh?" He asked and snagged a piece of less burnt bacon.

"Not a chance." III resumed his taunts until II gave up, growling low in his throat and angrily shut off the stovetop, marching outside into the daylight.

"Package came for you this morning." IV mumbled through a mouthful of eggs as he found him out on the porch swing. Vessel took the box with more questions than answers.

"Who knows we're here?"

IV shrugged and joined him on the bench, crossing his legs as the wooden slats swayed.

Vessel looked it over. Just a standard brown box, wrapped in a weeks worth of clear packing tape. Just several stamps -international corners, a beating or two in a mail office dented one of the boxes sides. He took the switchblade IV handed him, scoring the edged until it came loose.

He shook whatever was hidden, another box came tumbling out into his lap along with a folded piece of cardstock. He handed it over. Though as he dug around inside, he should've looked at the note first because IV's eyes, already on the large spectrum, had bloomed into bright blue saucers.

"What? What is it?"

"Look and see."

Vessel dropped the note to the ground as it were on fire. Explosive. A grenade of nostalgia and pain, if not sudden death.

ARE YOU GAME?

No.

No no no no no.

He could feel IV's eyes on him as he fumbled with the spare box, careful with the folds, peeling back the layers on carefully placed and wrapped tissue paper. His fingers ghosted over the jewelry or what was left of it before holding it up in the afternoon sun.

Vessel began to panic, anxiety was never far from him as he thumbed over one of the personally laid coins like a treasured rosary and if he were totally honest; it was just that. ....

Vessel had recently gotten into a band called Immortal the previous summer, expressing himself in a similar manner of covering his face (still experimenting with paint on his hands, he was always on the look out for the best greasepaint his first high school job could afford), in black and white paint, cut off jackets and ripped denim. Had attempted to look as cool as possible with a cigarette behind his ear. He never smoked it, just toyed with his mothers' addiction. The girls dug it so there was always that.

His friends chased squirrels until the popular girls noticed them, could've been a dare, could've been a prank but that didn't stop them from turning and chasing them instead. Their shrills squeals of laughter sang through the halls, tickled pink for attention in the back of classrooms.

The boys had ditched him once again as they left him at the playground, holding on to his bullet belt as he made his way, by foot, across town towards his job. He was going to be late, but the owner of the coffee shop couldn't care less; he was probably a few beers in as it was only three that Saturday afternoon. 

Louie could really pound them down.

He was almost there when he stopped short. There on a park bench were a pair of shapely legs. Just sitting there in the air. Torn fishnets with shin high striped socks and boots, scuffed and beat up, much like his own when he looked down.

He crept by slowly, curious if they were a mannequin's legs or if they were real or, God forbid they were just that. No body attached! How scandalous! 

A murderer on the loose and Vessel would be the first witness to the crime. His stomach had flipped at that.

But still, the young man proceeded forward, cautiously now as he left his usual path and got closer, squinting when he saw one of the ankles twitch. 

Vessel made calculated steps around he bench and saw- gratefully of course, that the legs were indeed attached to a body, the body of a girl his age that he'd never seen before. She was laying upside down with her eyes closed, arms bent and on the ground beneath her head so she wouldn't roll off and crack her skull. An opened can of SpaghettiOs sat next to her, along with a sad looking purse.

"What are you doing?" 

"What's it look like I'm doing, smart guy? 'm thinkin'." Was her response. She didn't even bother to open her eyes and acknowledged him. Foreigner for sure, he thought.

"Upside down?"

"I get all the cobwebs out better this way," then she cracked one eyes open, searching for him in this state and she smiled, the brightest smile he'd ever seen on a person. Stunning. Absolutely fucking stellar. "You should try it."

"Doesn't all the blood rush to your head like that?" Vessel turned his head to see her face better.

"That's the point, silly! When my brain talks to much the best way to shut her up is to rush her out, let her out. Come on, try it. There's plenty of room." She quipped and wiggled over in the bench, using her hands for leverage.

Vessel looked at his watch; twenty minutes until his shift started and he'd need to be there and get his apron on and punch in his timecard and Louie might not be drunk and waiting for him patently at the doors with a pained expression and angry, uncaffeinated patron waiting to get their fix.

He had trouble moving his body and wincing when one of the bullets jabbed his hip bone, but all in all he managed her similar position. Fucking wild. His jacket creaked when he moved his hands to the earth below, mimicking her position.

"Good job. Now watch me. Just breathe in and out like this, don't think about anything other than that and you'll be clear as a Koi fish pond."

He frowned but went along with it, looking at her as instructed he slowly shut his eyes, long legs growing tired he let them hang over the back of the bench instead and controlled his breathing.

He wasn't thinking about school or work, his thesis he had yet to start that was due in two weeks time. Not what he was going to have for dinner or which skirt II was trying to get under this week. Probably Jessica. II was always after Jessica.

"See. How do you feel now?" She asked. 

Vessel couldn't even answer her at first, too caught up in the sensations, more aware of her perfume when his senses kicked into overdrive with his heartbeat pounding in his ears like this.

"Weightless. Clear." He mumbled.

"Exactly."

Then her hand was on his, carefully he opened his eyes and his world felt like his house of cards were about to tumble down if he breathed too loudly. 

"I'm Y/N." ....

He thought about you as he ran the rest of the way to coffee shop, the little blue and white striped awning coming into view as his boots pounded pavement. He was just seconds away from being late, clocking in just in time and wrapping a brown apron around his jacket in the backroom.

He thought about as he rang up a pretty dark skinned girl, fresh faced and smiling at him.

He thought about you when a crotchety old woman barked her order and waited too close to the counter until he could brew it, which she made him do it twice. He thought about you when a regular by the name of Johnny Two-Step came in, grooving to the beat of whatever song which was playing softly in the background. 

He thought about you on the walk home, every park bench he passed by, with his hands in his pockets were shockingly empty.

Would he ever see you again?

Where you from? What were you doing here in this small seaside town? And why were you eating cold SpaghettiOs right from the can like a cat with a tin of tuna? ....

"Straight from the can?!" III asked the following day, sitting on his roof with an open notebook, ready for some action along with a stolen can of his father's beer. It would go unnoticed. They always went unnoticed.

III's dad would give a shrug and mumble about needing to slow down though he never did, he just went out and bought more, stocking the fridge in the garage for the next day.

"Never seen anything like it."

"I would hope not! Sounds like she's a screw or two loose."

"Maybe."

Maybe you did. Maybe you were what his mother would call 'quirky' or carefree, the possibility of being a hellion might be written in the stars for you too. Either way Vessel was into it.

"No no no, that's not how you do it. Here, you're just gonna' make a mess of it. Now look, you take the can like this..."

Vessel couldn't help be drawn into the kitchen of a house party a few weeks later, he'd toyed with the cigarette again, holding between his two front teeth as some girl in an obscenely short dress chatted him up outside. He told her to hold that thought and maneuvered through the bodies. Sweat and beer lingered on the air, music pulsed and couples and a possible throuple but Vessel's standards were making out in a dim corner.

The snap of a beer can had him joining the little circle around the sink. A few guys cheered. A few girls made noises, he couldn't decipher whether it was a good or a bad thing at the moment.

Vessel towered over the group, watching II wipe his mouth over the sink before slipping his trusty balaclava back up over his nose. He saw someone and when he looked, his eyebrows shot up to his hairline in an instant.

It was you.

It was really you!

You cheered in delight, gave him a high five and grinned.

"Whose next? How about you pretty lady?" You waved Jessica over, who was shy at first but followed your lead in her pink and yellow bellbottoms and halter top.

After your next shotgun you hugged Jessica who looked worse for wear and slumped against II who was more than happy to help her stand and move out out of the kitchen. II passed him in the doorway, giving him a fist bump to the shoulder, talking to his love interest, lost in the haze of beer and clouds of weed smoke.

"You! There you are you big tall drink of water."

Vessel turned just in time to see you, focused and barreling straight towards him, a look of drunken excitement on your face. You weren't stopping and then you were lunging at him, embracing him in a hug that should feel all sorts of foreign and wrong but... was welcomed and warm and you smell like floral perfume and beer foam.

You looked up at him with silly grin. "Hi."

"Hi yourself. Having a bit of fun I see."

"Wanna' shotgun a beer with me?"

"Maybe later. How many have you had already?"

You made a goofy sound in your throat, released his waist and took his wrist in your hands, dragging him outside. Something made of glass shattered somewhere inside the house as you two ducked out and sat down in a little gazebo on the property. Vines and little white flowers coiled up and around the lattice.

"You gonna' smoke that?" You asked, digging those same weathered boots into the dirt.

"You want it?"

"Can I share it with you?"

"You can have it. I actually don't smoke."

Your expressions ranged and rivaled those of a comic strip as you looked at him. "What the what?! You don't smoke, yet you just casually have a cigarette behind your ear?"

Vessel shrugged. "It's just an accessory at this point."

"Next thing you'll be telling me is you're not a real jester!"

"A jester?"

"The makeup! You're not a clown either? Some practicing mime? Although if you were a mime you wouldn't be talking, would you?" You drunkenly mused and Vessel wondered how many beers you’d already rushed into your bloodstream.

Vessel snorted and shook his head. "Afraid not. I'm just a guy."

"A handsome guy." You huffed and lit up the cigarette, leaning back on your elbows as you smoked.

Vessel snorted, unaffected by the tobacco hanging around your heads as you both looked up at the moon. Tethered to it's soft glow over the treetops. "I've been called a lot of things, but handsome ain't one of them."

You bolted upright, cigarette renting space between your teeth and burning his eyes as you grabbed his face like you were old friends. 

"That's a damn shame. I'm going to make it my mission to tell you everyday I see you how good you look. Even if you are talking mime!"

Part Two Part Three

[crimeronan]

Wsg. I love you. Platonic style.

Do you know how many hours I have spent tracking down the very few codependent Luz & Hunter fics out there.

Do you know how few are good, or if good, long-running.

Do you know how few have plot and outside POV.

Do you know how MANY are so anti-Lunter (even if it's platonic or misunderstood not romantic) that they Erase so much fun storyline those misunderstandings may have created.

You.

You beautiful fucking DIVINE ENTITY sent from FUCKING HEAVEN OR WHATEVER to write THE FIC OF MY(AND MANY OTHER'S) FUCKING DREAMS.

Holy Shit.

And you interact with your audience. And you post so much on Tumblr. And you answer world building questions and post bits of brainrot causing junk.

LORF SLL MIFGTY.

You, my dear fellow, are going to FUCKING SLAUGHTER ME YOU GODDAMN GENIUS YOU BRAINROT INDUCING MOTHER FUCKER.

I want to marry you and then cry. I Am Going To Eat Your Fanfiction.

GRARARSRSRAFHFZAEEAESYGU GEARRAEAAEAEAR *BITES YOU* GYUINYCRXYBINKVUCYYCSAEEAEERARR

Also, quick question, are we getting some lavender winter in the far far future (I Will Cry) (Platonic Or Romantic, I Will Cry)

fjsjdjdjsj this is so sweet thank u. i fully believe you on how hard it is to find good luz & hunter fic. i only look at sibling fic for them (which is the vast majority of content) when i've exhausted All My Other Options & the number i've read where they're like ew gross!!! liking each other would be INCEST!!!!

.....head in hands.

i have Vague plans in the works to write willow into the AU as terra's apprentice with a lot of baggage... and for there to be Complex Feelings about how hunter and luz seem to have allied with amity. especially given that all three of them are hot and amity was probably willow's first kiss and willow is still So Fucking Angry at her.

gay rights! i love lavender winter With All My Heart.

IN THE MEANTIME, can i VERY ENTHUSIASTICALLY rec @halcyonhue's "you're a far cry from an empire at peace"? it's set in the princess AU (fanfic of it!!! oh my god!!!) with a slightly different take on willow that's fucking GLORIOUS and has been on my mind for WEEKS. willow as a high school dropout and eda's gardener who takes no shit -- the fic is Mainly huntlow cautiously getting to know each other, but there are hints of Very Fraught willuz and terrible terrible amillow backstory. and the interactions and clever politics and internal narration are all so good i KICK MY FEET FOREVERRR....

[mybeautifulchristianjourney]

Devotional Hours Within the Bible by J.R. Miller

"When therefore Jesus had received the vinegar, he said, It is finished; and having bowed his head, he delivered up his spirit." – John 19:30

The three hours of darkness was ending. The light was breaking. The Scripture tells us that Jesus then cried out in a loud, strong voice. It was not the cry of exhaustion and faintness; it was the shout of a victor. The cross seemed like defeat. Those who understood nothing of the meaning of the life and death of Christ, would think of Him as a man who had failed, all of whose dreams and hopes had perished. But we who understand something at least of the meaning of His mission and of the great purpose of His life, know that nothing failed. “It is finished,” was the shout of a victor in the hour of His glorious success. It told of the completion of His work. All had been accomplished that He set out to do. His work was done. He had nothing more to do. There was no reason why He should live an hour longer, for the last task had now been done. A little while before, He said in His prayer in the upper room, “I have glorified you on the earth: I have finished the work which you gave me to do.” When He said in dying, “It is finished!” He meant that there was nothing whatever left now for Him to do.

His friends did not think so. They thought His work was only beginning. He was but thirty-three years old, and at thirty-three we regard life as no more than just begun. He had been only three years in His public ministry. Think, too, what years these had been, how full of blessing to those whom He had touched with His life. We can imagine Joseph and Nicodemus as they reverently took His body down from the cross and prepared it for burial, lamenting His early death, talking of what He might have done if only He had been spared longer. His disciples, too, in their anguish and their loss would speak together of the terrible bereavement they had suffered. He had just begun to live. He had gone about through the towns and villages, doing good for three years, healing, comforting, helping, blessing. What would fifty years of such ministry have meant to the world!

We talk the same way of our human friends who are taken away in early years. Their lives were full of promise. They had just begun to do beautiful things. They had shown a little of the power that was in them, to be a strength to others, to be a comfort to those who were in sorrow, to be inspirers of noble things. Our dreams for them were just beginning to be realized. Then, suddenly, they slipped away and all was ended. We say that they could not be spared, that the world needed them longer. Over their graves we set up the broken shaft, symbol of incompleteness. It is a great comfort, then, to remember that life is not counted by the number of its years but by what it puts into the years, few or many, that are lived.

We live in thoughts not breaths. We live in deeds not years.

We should count time by heart-throbs. He most lives who thinks most, feels the noblest, and acts the best.

A millionaire recently, when dying, sent for a clergyman and said to him, “Doctor, I have failed, for I have groveled .” He had not lived dishonestly; he had not made his money by unjust treatment of others, by the oppression of the poor, or in any way that men called wrong. Men said he had lived well. He had failed, according to his own thought, because he had groveled, lived as if he were a worm. Eighty years of such life, with God and heaven and love left out, however stupendous the earthly success, will not count so much in eternity as much as one day of self-denying life of love, such as Jesus lived. Jesus, dying at thirty-three, had lived longer than any man who had reached fourscore years of selfishness, of groveling, of fame-seeking. When a friend dies early, with only a few years of life but with those years filled with usefulness, helpfulness, unselfishness, and faithful doing of duty do not say he had not done his work.

Another comforting truth started by the dying words of Jesus, is that God allots to us our work, little or much, and the time in which it must be done. Jesus spoke often of His hour. Again and again we read that His hour had not yet come, meaning the hour when His work would be finished, His earthly life ended. “His hour was not yet come.” Then, at last, He said His hour had come. The time of His death was not accidental. Then He spoke also of His work as what His Father had given Him to do. It was not a haphazard matter how much work He should do, or what particular work it should be. It was all given Him by His Father. When He said in His last moments, “It is finished!” He meant that everything He had come into the world to do, all that the Father had given Him to do He had done, and that now He had only to yield up His life into the hands of Him who gave it.

What was true of Him is true also of us. There is an appointed time to man on earth, and each one has his mission, his work to do. Whether it is a brief time or many years, it matters not; our only care should be to do what has been given us to do, and to fill our appointed days, short or long, with duty well done. We need not fret, then, if our time is short, if we have only a few years given us to work. Faithfulness while the day lasts is all that we need to concern ourselves with. The things we wanted to do and longed to do but could not do, were not part of our work at all; they belonged to some other one coming after us.

“It is finished!” He meant fully accomplished, done perfectly. Not a word was unspoken which it was His to speak. Nothing, however small, was left undone which the Father had given Him to do. This never can be true of us. We do nothing perfectly. Our best work is marred and flawed by imperfections. We get the white pages from God day by day and return them blotted and stained. Our lives are full of blanks, neglects, duties not performed, things left undone which we ought to have done. But all Christ’s work was complete. He never omitted a kindness that was His to do, never passed by on the other side, to escape doing a service of love. We are never quite sure of the purity of our motives, even for the most sacred and worthy deeds we do. “Who of you convicts Me of sin?” Jesus could say as He looked into men’s faces. But can we always say it? Why do we do our good things, our holy things? Is it really from love to God, and so for love to men, or is it sometimes from desire for praise? Everything in our lives is flecked and imperfect. We have to ask divine forgiveness on our best acts and words and thoughts.

But when Jesus said, “It is finished!” He looked back upon a life work without a flaw, without an omission, without the slightest failure in thought or motive or deed. His life was brought under most searching light by the rulers in their eagerness to find something to accuse Him of when they sought justification for crucifying Him. But with all efforts to find a flaw, in the blaze of the most dazzling light they found nothing! Herod sent Him back to Pilate with the testimony that he had found no fault in Him. Pilate declared the same of Him when he had examined Him. Then we have the witness of the Father, as He looked down upon Him and said out of the clouds of glory, “This is my beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased.” Christ’s work was not merely ended when He bowed His head on the cross and said, “It is finished!” it was completed. His life was perfect.

“It is finished!” In a sense nothing He had done was finished; all His work was only begun. Luke spoke of the treatise he had made as narrating only “all that Jesus began both to do and to teach.” All would go on forever. This is true of everything we ourselves do. They tell us that every word spoken into the air goes quivering on through time forever; that if you throw a pebble into the sea it starts wavelets which will ripple on and on until they break on every shore. Thus it is with every word we speak, with everything we do, with every influence that goes forth from our lives. We are starting things each day which will continue into eternity. Nothing we do is ever finished. We cannot know the end of any act, of any word.

The same was true of the life and work of Christ. He only began the world’s redemption. He ever lives at God’s right hand, interceding for His church, blessing and saving man. His life seemed a failure the day He said this word. He had made but a slight impression upon the great world. He had gathered only a few friends, and they were men of no distinction, of no power or rank among men. He had been teaching for three years, speaking words of divine wisdom but they had not been written down, and seemed now to be utterly lost. There were thousands of beginnings of blessing but they were only merest beginnings, like seeds dropped into the soil.

We know what Christianity is today. The words Jesus spoke, which seemed altogether lost the day He died, have been filling the world with their blessings. The influence of His life, which then had touched only a few lowly lives, has since touched nations and generations, and has changed all the world, has transformed millions of lives, and is bringing the nations up out of heathenism into holiness and happiness! The beginnings of the first Good Friday, have developed into a glorious kingdom of light and love!

“It is finished!” When Jesus said this, He had reached the end of His sufferings. All His life He had been a sufferer. He came into the world to redeem the world, by pain and suffering. He was the Man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief. Perhaps we are in danger these days of losing sight of the place of the wounding of Christ in the redemption of the world. In G. Campbell Morgan’s book, ‘The Crises of the Christ,’ there is a chapter called “The Wounded God.” The title is startling. Dr. Morgan reminds us that it is impossible to omit from the ascended and reigning One, the wounds He bears. They are part of His personality. In glory He appears as a lamb that has been slain. He was our suffering Savior .

You remember how vividly this is pictured even in the Old Testament. He was wounded for our transgressions, He was bruised for our iniquities. When He said, “It is finished!” He had just passed through the three awful hours of darkness. What took place in His experience during those hours no mortal can ever know. We know only this, that in the mysterious depths of those hours, human redemption was accomplished. It was then, that He redeemed us from the curse of the law by being made a curse for us. It was then that He who knew no sin was made sin for us, that we might be made the righteousness of God in Him.

As we hear His word of relief, “It is finished!” we know that the work of redeeming love had been accomplished. The infinite meaning of the sufferings He endured in those hours we cannot fathom; earth has no line long enough to sound those holy depths ; but we know that out of what was done on Calvary those hours come all the hopes of our lives. Every one of us had a share in those pains of His. In some mysterious way our sins were imputed to Him, part of the awful blackness that obscured the sun, and also for a time hid the Father’s face from the holy Sufferer. In some way, what took place there set us free from the curse of sin.

“It is finished!” was the first announcement of the completion of redemption. It was the first proclamation of the gospel after the price had been paid. The Redeemer Himself made the announcement. Let us hear it today. Redemption is finished. We can be sure of eternal life if we receive this Savior as our Savior. There was nothing left undone in those hours, that needed to be done to open the way for us to God, to put away sin, to provide eternal salvation for everyone who will accept it.

“It is finished!” Think of the words a moment as words that we ourselves must speak, each of us. We are always finishing something. One by one duties come to us, and we must finish them quickly and leave them. How are we finishing them? Are we doing them as well as we can, or negligently? One by one the days come to us, white and beautiful, from God. What are we doing with them? What are we writing on the fair pages? One by one, in quick succession, opportunities come to us, opportunities to be kind, to be patient, to be forgiving, to help others, to honor Christ, to witness for Him, to plant a seed of truth in a heart and we must meet them promptly, for a moment later they will be gone. What are we doing with our opportunities?

We are finishing a hundred things every day. What are we finishing? How are we finishing the things we do? Soon we shall come to the end of all our living, doing our last task, saying our last word. When we come to the end of all our living and doing what will be finished? What will we leave behind? Will it be something that will make the world forever better, purer, holier? When you and I say, “It is finished,” what will be finished?

[cherry-velvet-skies]

It's time for more Beatle Era Ratings! (I fixed the title 😌)

Episode 3: Johnny Boy 🥰

Moon Dog (Pre-Beatles Era)

Teddy Boy John somehow looks older than when John was actually older

He gives the vibe of a teenage boy who dresses to look older in order to get into an adult rated movie lmao

Formed a band and felt like the coolest guy in the world (and you know what he unknowingly created one of the greatest bands in the world so he's allowed to feel that way)

6/10 because he looks great but the look is not really for me

Twist and Shout (1962-63)

And just like I thought, he looks younger here than the previous era

John Lennon if he were an android in Detroit Become Human

He looks so uncomfortable dressed like this PLEASE 😂 someone help him

4.5/10 and I know the second they walked off stage he would rip this jacket right off lmao

Cuddle Bug (1964-66)

One of John's best eras and that's a fact

He's so friend-shaped I'm gonna cry

This haircut suited him so well and gave him an all-around adorable vibe

100/10 and I have a personal vendetta against anyone who ever made him feel bad about his appearance 😤

Blue Meanie Defender 3000 (1967)

If you ever wanna know what the people in the late 60s who experimented with any drug they could find looked like, just picture this mf

Bro saw God at some point and God was a walrus apparently

But this was when he actually got glasses instead of just being fucking blind all the time so I guess that's good

7/10 although I can't tell if being around him when he's high would've been nonstop laughs or literal hell on earth

AnD nOw YoUr hOsTs fOr tHiS eVeNinG (1968-69)

An absolute gremlin of a man

But I mean if I was in his shoes I would just randomly scream for no reason too so I get it

If Get Back taught us anything it was that mans hardly showered

6.5/10 the vibes are hella confusing but not terrible. Sense of humor was off the charts though

Bigger Than Jesus (1970)

So far John's Jesus era was the fanciest

The fur coat and wool cap are giving Bratz doll

Speaking of Bratz dolls John would've loved early 2000s fashion I JUST KNOW IT

9/10 he would've worn Juicy tracksuits religiously and ate us all up

I Sleep Well, Thanks (1971-72)

Exhausted dude at his office job who just wants to go home and get high

You know what scratch that he shows up high and has the nerve to act surprised when he can barely function

Survives purely off of spite

6.5/10 he wants to cause problems on purpose

I Am the Egg Man (1973)

I'm not even sure I have the certification to comment on this

Seeing John almost bald feels sacrilegious

He looks like one of those unhinged yoga instructors

2/10 I am very uncomfortable with the energy we've created in the studio today

Freelance Artist (1974-77)

In his academia era

His aura feels like one of those people who you go to their apartment and it's full of giant canvases with art that deserves way more recognition

That Elvis pin is iconic

10/10 and this entire photoshoot is honestly so beautiful I wish I could've included all the photos

Sexy Valet Driver (1978-79)

I absolutely adore the tie and waistcoat combo

It gives me an immense level of gender envy, and John is not immune to that lol I wanna look the way he does in this photo so bad

He looks both cute and handsome but I can't decide which one tips the balance

20/10 if I saw him dressed like this I would definitely compliment him (and maybe ask him out if I was feeling brave 🤭)

Eccentrically Reserved Fashion Designer (1980-∞)

Are we gonna pretend that he didn't look absolutely GLORIOUS this year

I think I have to say this one is a dilf era because oh my god

I secretly think John would've been a great fashion designer idk he seems like he has the correct amount of insanity to pull it off

542/10 and it's a shame we never got to see how he would've evolved physically, and even personality-wise, as the years went on. I feel like he would've been a better person as he got older and I wish we would've gotten to see it 🥺💕

[cruelfeline]

Now I'm just sitting here, thinking about the first time Susurrus lost.

If he truly was created for the sole purpose of Athia's destruction, as he seems to remember, then it's logical to assume that his attack on Athia is among his first life experiences. And so is his loss to the first Athian Tanta.

And I just... can y'all conceive of the trauma?

Like, if Cuff was anything like he is now, then I can only imagine the confidence and pride he felt, going into battle. The self-assurance that he was fulfilling a righteous duty, and that he'd win. Because he was Susurrus: mighty demon of Rheddah. Created for one glorious task, perfected for it. He had only that firm sense of self and purpose, unmarred by any memory of loss, of defeat.

And then he lost.

After six days and nights of what I'm sure was absolutely exhausting, agonizing battle, he lost, and he was torn apart, and he was shut away deep down under the ground where the sun and the wind couldn't reach. And in all of this, he was alone. If his first attack was anything like his second, then he was all alone, fighting on his own, with no one to help him or support him should the battle go poorly. No flock to come to his aid when things went so terribly wrong.

I don't know for sure, canonically, if it affected him. But if it did, then I can easily see it doing so terribly, in a way that will stay with him forever.

...

...

...

yes this post is @flyingwide's fault

[raining-anonymously]

infodump to me please.

ok but as you may know i am hyperfixating on a dnd series that none of tumblr cares about. it’s 1 For All DND by Deerstalker Pictures on Youtube and it is so funny and chaotic and well-made. i think i saw in a behind the scenes video that they film with a black magic camera (which i have seen in practice before and it’s. like. very good and expensive) and edit with adobe premiere (my beloved).

anyway series concept is that there are four Guys—Patrick the DM and his three players Eva, Antonio, and Nicole. Eva plays a half-elf fighter called Evandra who is tough and cool and scary and also bisexual. she has a sword and armor. sometimes she’s the common sense and sometimes she is Not. is that not top-notch character design? also her hair gets progressively cooler throughout the series which is very amazing of her.

Antonio plays a human bard named Antrius, who is incredibly full of himself, flirts with everyone (including a villain he successfully seduced, two paladins, evandra, his rival bard, a vampire, a random knight, a dwarven couple whose child evandra murdered, himself, etc), carries a lute but also plays everything from a kazoo to an accordion. he once said, “There’s no I in team. There’s an A, though—which stands for Antrius!” before doing a silly dance.

then there’s Nicole’s character, a tiefling sorcerer named Nixie. she can be a bit on the oblivious side—her intelligence score is zero—but she makes up for it with FIRE. like. literal fire. she’s adorable and pink but also she has one plan ever and it’s FIREBALL. also she likes women. when she was a kid she accidentally burnt her whole family to a crisp, probably due to wild magic and repression. disaster.

then there’s Pat the DM. who just wants a nice campaign. he also plays Every NPC (excluding a few roles later on) regardless of species and gender. he has to put up with the party’s shenanigans, which are exhausting, but he clearly does enjoy what he does, which is nice.

of course, this alone is great potential for a series—but what really brings it in for me are the side characters. aka guest players. over the course of the series, there have been a LOT of those: Vlithryn the triton cleric who’s tired of the party, Annandale the warlock who everybody hates, Dargle-Bark the… eccentric druid, Lorienne the paladin (who eva and antonio flirt with both in and out of character), the catlike Rogue who Nixie flirts with and Evandra hates, Mogdar the pacifist half-orc barbarian artist, Godfreya the incredibly amazing paladin, and my personal favorite—Zephyr the air genasi bard, who a) is Antrius’s ex, b) is Antrius’s rival, c) flirts with Antrius despite all this, d) is a bit (read: a lot) of a prick actually, and e) is crushingly insecure and cries himself to sleep.

that last character appears in a one-shot and one full episode, but that doesn’t stop him from being my blorbo. i have also watched the episode and gone over each shot and frame so many times that yesterday i realized that there’s a mistake towards the end where his flute switches hands in the very last shot of him. because i’m at that point where i have to see every facial expression from every character in that (musical!) episode, including nixie and evandra’s glorious background actions.

there’s also another earlier musical episode, which happens to be the best-rated episode of the series. the party’s been captured, and antrius (mis)uses bardic inspiration to get them out of it—and it’s beautiful. it’s just beautiful. wonderful cinematography, wonderful singing, wonderful lyrics, wonderful acting, wonderful script, just wonderful.

the episodes are short which is great if you have a wildly fluctuating attention span like me. the characters are often terrible people but they’re somehow still likable and hilarious. tw for extreme fantasy violence and sex jokes, but it’s a great series with great humor and the rest of tumblr needs to watch it so i can see fanart and fanfic without having to make it myself. you guys would love annandale

[clochanamarc]

i'm gonna keep talking abt the 2012 vibes tho bc i want to and i think it might be a healing moment for us all, so feel free to contribute to this list!

first of all, the endless fics where the entire cast of ANY show/movie/universe were living under the same roof. like it didn't matter who it was, they all lived under the same roof and had breakfast together and saved the world while arguing over who ate the last of the chicken curry. it was a glorious era in which we gave no fucks at all about realistic content or logic, we just wanted the avengers and the cast of doctor who to somehow be living together in the avenger tower.

following this up with the delightful array of hc posts that can STILL be found where it's like, lists of the avengers' starbucks orders, or the cast of merlin's ideal breakfast, or how the characters in doctor who or supernatural or sherlock spend their days off, and they were so lovely to read bc it was simple and effective and displayed a perfect amount of understanding of the characters??

the shipping??? the SHIPPING. nobody gave two shites about what was reasonable nor canon, and the shipping landscape proved that. i remember reading this incredible fic of oneshots where maria and pepper got married and the next morning tony proposed to thor. it was SUBLIME and there was no angst, sb just wanted to write about thor and his designer cape and tony using the cape the next morning to wear while he made pancakes.

i wanna go back to the "living under the same roof" bc i remember reading SO MANY fics that described in exceptional detail the interiors and layouts of each of the individual floors (not rooms, FLOORS) of the tower that each of the avengers occupied, and they were always different but they always made sense, and lately i feel like there's this very incorrect belief that if something is different from another thing, one of those versions MUST be wrong, and like. no. i have five mugs that are very different but i love them each equally. idk when we started giving into this weird idea that "i know X says that tony likes black coffee, but i feel like he prefers macchiatos, and i worry that i might be wrong--" BESTIES IT'S FICTION WHY ARE WE DOING THIS TO OURSELVES

basically yeah that says it all

it's all fiction! like that's the point of it all, i feel like the reason it's so exhausting to watch movies from a franchise is because everyone immediately attacks it and says "oh it's terrible bc it doesn't follow THIS portrayal and lmao what a stupid line why did poe say "somehow palpatine returned" how stupid--" like, that isn't aimed at anyone here, but i see it in yt and insta and twitter and it's just like. it's so exhausting to LOVE a movie/series anymore, isn't it? since when did i start giving a feck about what some stranger in los angeles had to say about a movie that i actually really enjoyed?

i say that we should just start enjoying stuff again without the brutality of other opinions making us question our own tastes. i loved the eternals movie, so why does it matter what the straight white fanboys say? it doesn't! the eternals was an EXCELLENT movie! that wasn't what i wanted to end this post on but i feel it's important nevertheless.

[fly-underground]

six hundred and seventy nine: 2022

i didn’t know if i wanted to write this—and i didn’t know if i could write this. that’s the metaphor for 2022. one must imagine sisyphus happy. i don’t know if i was happy this year. if i’m honest, i spent a lot of this year feeling lost, overwhelmed, very out of control. i started sleeping with my laptop again, some show blaring me to sleep. at one point, i couldn’t sleep. it took five days for me to become so exhausted that i finally, finally passed out.

i guess the point is, i did eventually sleep. it’s that way with everything. that’s the good news. listen, in january, my heart was crushed again. it didn’t feel like a blessing, but it was. last year, when the clock struck midnight, i was praying a text message would appear. i hate what i’m like when a man is disappointing me. i know i should feel more rage, but really i feel terror. so when it ended, on the coldest weekend of old january, i sobbed, i starved, i survived. it was over.

i didn’t have sex at all this year. i did go to the doctor. i cried at the doctor’s. i went to the dentist. i cried outside the dentist, for my terrible teeth, that became glorious teeth. my dentist tells me i have beautiful teeth and i know it’s true.

i saw my family more this year. my mother and brother and cory. they are everything to me. i can’t believe all the times i take them for granted. we’re all so mortal. i thought so much about endings this year, and how even when i’m exhausted, hopeless, scared, i don’t want it to. i don’t want things to end.

i traveled to los angeles, costa rica, philadelphia. all those plane rides. i used to be so scared of flying. i used to look out the window and think what if we fall? it’s silly because we don’t. we never do.

the biggest thing of my year was the release of two new books. two books in two years was tough, incredible, a fucking joy. for so long, i just wanted to write these books, these different, hard, haunting poems. and then when i did, i wanted them to get published. i wanted people to read them. i can hardly believe it happened, that they both made their way into the world in the same year. OUR SYNONYMS: An Epic came out in july, and just this month, VIRAHA, was released. 

there’s less than half an hour until 2023, so i just want to say that i hope next year is better. i hope i’m better too. that i feel better, do better, live better. whoever you are, wherever you are reading this, thank you for spending any time at all with me in this space. it is still one of my favorite places, this corner of the internet. it brings me great peace, and i hope you have that. and, if you ever lose it, i hope you find it again, in spades.

[honorhearted]

"Oh yes, only a little irritating," Ben agreed, his tone sardonic as he sneered. "Father, you should know that Miss Bridgerton tried to pair me up with every loathsome, untoward woman in the United Kingdom. Had it not been for my sheer willpower, you might have at least three grandchildren by now."

"And that would be so terrible why?" Nathaniel fired back. "Benjamin, I know you are trying to shock me, but Miss Bridgerton won me over the moment she set foot on my property. Besides..." He smiled warmly. "I am a minister. We hear far worse in our day than what you are proposing. There is a little practice we preach called forgiveness, you know."

Ben snorted. "Tell that to seven-year-old me when I nearly set the stockade on fire." Sighing, he muttered, "How good to know that my own father is affecting favoritism, and towards someone not even of his own flesh and blood." He looked to Francesca. "You're lucky you're so charming. Even if you do have Father fooled."

"Well! I'd like to think I can recognize a good soul when I see it," Nathaniel volleyed. Pleased, he added, "I am delighted to hear you wish to sing with us, Miss Bridgerton. Do you have a favorite hymn, or shall I select one for you?"

"I've always been partial to 'Glorious Things of Thee are Spoken,'" Ben offered. "But then, perhaps that's because it's a hymn I can sing without completely mucking it up."

Ignoring his son's self-deprecation, Nathaniel brightened at the prospect of playing. "I must confess, I haven't had much inspiration to play in quite some time," he said, "but I do believe now would be the perfect occasion...a little reprieve from the darkness, if you will. Because you're right. There is something about the violin that speaks to the heart."

A heart that has long since been guarded, Ben thought, a momentary melancholia blitzing across his eyes. In truth, he couldn't recall the last time his father had been so jovial...

Francesca's jeers drew him back to attention, and with a scoff, his eyes snapped abruptly back to her face.

"If you thought me so poor, why did you dance with me at all? Nobody was forcing you to.”

Ben faltered at that, his expression pensive as he regarded her from across the table. Perhaps because I loved you even then. Perhaps because I continue to love you, silent and afflicted.

Clearing his throat, he forced a huff and retorted, "You needed help finding suitors, remember? I felt it my duty to partake."

Rising from the table, Nathaniel started gathering up his bowl and cup. "I suppose we should retire," he said. "I will oversee clean-up, and then you two can go to your respective rooms. If I am not overstepping in my assumption that you are exhausted from travel, Miss Bridgerton?"

At Nathaniel’s admonishment of Ben’s behaviour, Francesca raised a sly brow at him across the table, a smile dancing across her lips at somebody taking her side in the situation for once. It had always been her painted as the instigator when Violet had become aware of such behaviours, family loyalty seeming to mean very little when it came to such debates.

"I will admit that I could perhaps be a little irritating at the best of times, but I certainly did not provoke every jape you made at my expense,” she argued back, gaze alight with mirth at the mere suggestion. “Perhaps you are too easily provoked.”

“No woman wishes to be teased and harangued like one of the boys.”

Although there was a shred of truth to those words, Francesca could not help but think of her sisters and how the four of them had grown used to such teasing. Daphne’s entire marriage was built upon a friendship, one which involved witty japes and taunting until they realised their love for each other. Eloise and Hyacinth, though unwed, would never fall for a man if he did not treat them as he would his friends, Francesca was certain of it. She, herself, could not imagine being with somebody who she could not laugh with.

Such thoughts were interrupted by talks of her singing in church, the reverend’s grin infectious as she nodded. “Yes, of course. Although I fear that if I am keeping you in suspense, you will be severely disappointed – My voice is hardly anything special.” Francesca could hold a tune, yes, but her voice could not carry in the way of many other women she knew – It was more suited to soft lullabies than that of a stage performance.

The mention of a violin perked her attentions, a smile curving her lips as she thought of the scene described – Such a perfect little family, she could almost see it in her mind’s eye. “I should like to hear you play one day, if you would permit it? I do love listening to a violin. There is a certain soul to them, I find, that cannot be replicated with any other instrument.”

Of course, Ben had to punctuate the moment with his own jape, earning a sarcastic glance from Francesca. “I was a fine dancer, thank you very much. If you thought me so poor, why did you dance with me at all? Nobody was forcing you to.”

[give-soup-please]

Rest (out of context comfort)

(When you try and write headcanons and then something else pops out. OOPSIE DOOPSIE!

Quick note. The problems presented in this fic are no one's fault. I have several issues due to my upbringing that I'm working on fixing. I don't want anyone to feel guilty for participating in what this blog does. Most days are fine, but sometimes I am more nerves than man. This is just a ventish hurt/comfort fic, not directed at anyone in particular. It's a long one, you may wish to open it in a new tab. Okay have fun!)

(Also I'll be taking tomorrow off, for personal reasons.)

“You need to rest, writer.”

I glared at him.

“This isn’t the time for stubbornness. You’ve been packing boxes for the move all day. You injured your hand because you wouldn’t stop writing. And your thoughts- your head is in such a scramble I can’t make anything out.”

I was not in the mood to hear this. I was not in the mood for gentleness, or the soft call out of someone who cared.

“Stay out of it. This isn’t your problem, it’s mine. Just- leave me alone.”

“It very much is my problem. Do you really think any of us want to stand by while someone we- when someone refuses to be kind to themselves?”

I felt my anger towards him grow. Fury boiled through me. I don’t even know why I was so upset, I just was.

“You’re a fiction. A concept.” I hissed. “You don’t belong in this world, and you have no idea what you’re talking about. Stay in your own goddamn lane.”

His voice was sharp. “Writer. Now, I can’t pretend to know what this is all about, but I do know that I won’t stand idly by and let you do this to yourself. Do you hear me? I will step in, in any way I see fit. That was part of the agreement we made. You write my words, I-”

“This is bullshit! Our agreement is over in two weeks! Why are you still here? What possible reason could you have to still stick around- when-” My breath hitched. “It’s going to end. Everything, I-”

I leaned against a box, exhausted. Sweat poured down my face, having spent most of the afternoon lifting heavy things. 

“It’s all going to end. Why are you still trying to help me?”

His voice was soft. “Because you asked me to. Your request was so earnest, so polite- In the beginning- A few months ago, you wanted someone to step in. Someone who could talk to you when everyone else couldn’t, in the privacy of your own mind. We drafted that first script together, remember? It was glorious, reader-”

“I can’t keep writing for you past the deadline. I just- I can’t. The strain is so much, to be producing for others. It hurts.”

He looked at me as if I was missing something obvious. “Then write for yourself.”

“It’s not that simple! This is my job, to produce content for others. It’s why I exist, it’s what I mean to this world.”

“That’s a lie you’ve been told by people who were meant to be kinder to you. And for as many times as you ask, I’ll be here to reassure you-”

“I’m not asking! You just appeared, like you always do-”

“-Some part of you is crying out for help. This is what comfort characters do, we respond to the pain of the people who love us so dearly.”

I snarled and paced. “Even now, even now, while I’m writing to self-soothe because I can’t comfortably ask anyone to share the burden, I’m wondering if the audience will like this. I’m wondering if this will break the twenty notes mark. I am agonizing over word choice and description. I am broken, narrator. I am a machine that produces, and nothing more. You can’t fix me, no one can.”

He lurched forward, and held me tightly. I snarled again, and struggled, trying to shove him away. I pounded my fists weakly against him, trying to push back against someone I cared so much about. He took every hit, and I hated and loved him for it in equal measure.

“Listen to me. You are not broken. You have been terribly hurt, but it’s not the same thing at all. You don’t have to carry the burden alone anymore. Your friends are here for you, and when they can’t be, I will stand in their stead.”

“Shut up.”

“I mean every word of it. You are so- Completely and utterly loved. We love you because of who you are, not what you can do for us. We always did.”

“Shut up!” 

“No. I will not. You need to hear this tonight, writer. I’m going to hold you close and tell you as many times as it takes.”

“Please- You can’t- I won’t let you.” My strength was starting to fail, and I leaned against him more and more. “You can’t- You can’t-”

“I can. You must be so tired. You don’t have to fight anymore. Let me carry you, until you’re ready to stand on your own again. You’ve done similarly with other characters in the past. It’s okay to ask us for help. The burden of being alive in your reality is so much-”

He leaned back a little, so I could see his face. “Did you really think we cared for you so little? Oh, writer… strong is the bond between a character and their fans. Didn't you know? You give us life, meaning… It’s only fair to return the favor and lend a hand. We would much rather you be alive and cling to us than not. It’s okay to need us, there’s nothing wrong with it at all.”

He wiped my tears away. I hadn’t even noticed I’d been shedding them. 

“I’m deeply grateful to the other characters who helped you stay alive long enough to make it here. Their turn is over, and now the guardianship is mine. I will not fail you.”

“What am I going to do?” I asked. “I don’t want to give you up, but I've forgotten how to write for myself. I don’t know where to go after the end date.”

“...There are no easy answers, I’m afraid. I suggest that you take a break, a few weeks at the minimum. Then, when you’re ready, I’ll be there as your narrative guide. Honestly, I can wait. I’m sure there’s a technique to it, we just have to try and find out what it is.”

“And if I never write for you again?”

He smiled. “Really now, what do you think the chances of that are?”

I looked away, clearing my throat. “Well- you know- uh-” I shuffled my feet to ward off the excess energy.

“I meant it when I said- though I don’t remember exactly when- I’ll be here for as long as you need. My dedication to the story, to Stanley, is unwavering. It will be the same with you.”

“I don’t want to post what I write anymore, after that date.”

“That’s perfectly alright, and honestly, it might be a decent start. You’ve brought joy to others, and soon it will be time to give yourself the same. You deserve it.”

“I wish I could believe you.”

“You will, in time.”

“I’m tired.”

“Rest, dearheart.”

“...Fine. But I won’t enjoy it!” It was the last minor protest of a stubborn person.

“Oh, I intend on making you enjoy it. My narrative powers are too great for there to be any other outcome. Now…”

He cleared his throat.

“Writer then proceeded to take a shower to get the sweat off, ate a late dinner, watched an episode of his favorite television show, and went to bed after having some chamomile tea.”

I spluttered for a bit, but the grin was overtaking my face. I was caught between snarking at him and thanking him sincerely. 

“You’re the best.” I said, followed by, “How dare you.”

He hummed a pleasant note. “I know I’m the best. And I dare quite easily. This is your health we’re talking about, after all. Now- Stop writing already and get to it!”

The writer snorted and wrenched himself away from his keyboard.

[magicalyaku]

Finally the month of summer I've been waiting to have: Just sit back and read. That's all I've done. Or all I remember. I'm pretty sure I was kinda exhausted inbetween but I'm opting to ignore that.

Because I read so many gay boys the month prior, I started off with a YA fantasy adventure, The Song that moves the Sun by Anna Bright and it reminded me why I started reading gay boys in the first place. I have no patience for these girls! 8D Throughout the book I kept wondering "Is it just me or is it the book?" I'm not even sure why. One girl was smart after all, the other one overcame her trauma. Nice! But why do the two girls have to fall for the boys who happen to be two as well? I can see one pair, but why both? Also the pacing was terrible, especially towards the end. The chapters switched viewpoints each and were so short later on I had hardly time to adjust to the scene. How are you supposed to get emotionally invested when you don't even get a minute with these guys before being thrown somewhere else? I hate that in movies too. D: Also this:

He smells like the beach somehow, like sweat and boy.

(Emphasis as in original.) What. Who thought this would be a good thing to write? I'm aware that not every sweat smells bad and I assume not every boy does either. But sorry, that line just does not sound good! What is boy-smell anyway? Is there girl-smell too? (The one distinct smell that comes to mind is not a good one ...) They also cuddle a few chapters later after explicitely telling me that they washed their clothes but not themselves. Why would you tell me?! I don't want to knowww!! I don't think the book is a bad one. I just got frustrated. 8D

The next bunch was more fun: Icebreaker (R.L. Graziadei): Not quite what I expected but in a good way! 40 pages to the end I wondered whether they would really wrap it up or need another volume. Thinking about it now I would not mind a 2nd book. uAu Thanks a lot, Universe (Chad Lucas): The wildest Middle grade book I read so far! You know that when the first episode of an anime series is all nice and dandy and then there's that insane after-credits-scene? The beginning of this felt a little bit like that. And it just continued! And it was so nice. The Loophole (Kaz Kutub): I liked it. Felt a bit different from usual. Reggie was a handful and is was glorious. But f*** that "I thought about it for months but I'm upset with you because you cannot decide within three seconds"-Farouk. uAu Boyfriend Material (Alexis Hall): Good characters and that humour that actually reminded me of Earnest by Oscar Wilde (must be because both involve British nobility). 8D Looking forward to volume 2! (I read the German edition, so vol2 will be in January!) Der Heilige Fisch (Dia Lane): A detective novel by a German selfpublishing author with illustrations by Livanya. I bought the book at her artist alley table at Dokomi this year. :D I usually don't read mystery and I could never write any, so my respect to the author. A solid read, I'd say. uAu Small Town Pride (Phil Stamper): More Middle grade! Nice and sweet. I believe this would be a good read for parents as well, because the adults in this have just as much growing up to do as the kids and it'd probably provide a good insight into the perspective of a queer kid. A Little Bit Country (Brian D. Kennedy): I know nothing about country music and I would never have listenend to it by my own free will before but the nice thing about good books is how they can give you a reason to like something you never knew before, right? Not that I actually went and listened to single song but I did open my mind and will be benevolent when I ever come across one. uAub The book was solid and I liked how it all came together (and yes, I bought it for the cover). The Past and Other Things that Should Stay Buried (Shaun David Hutchinson): The Past was my SDH book of the month and it was that book about friendship I've been screaming to read these past months. That's why I feel a little bad I didn't like it as much as some of his other works. 8D But I did like July. Much like Jenny from A Complicated Love Story. They are probably not girls I would like to engage in real life but reading about them is so much better than these boring whiny emotional soft girls. /D I probably said it before, but I just like how Mr. Hutchinson wraps his serious thoughts in these weird ideas and just goes with them. Last was another one by SDH, The State of Us, which I borrowed from the library. I was hesistant about this because the “Red White & Royal Blue” comparison and such, but as you can figure I like the author's other books so I gave him the benefit of the doubt. I don't care about US politics so that might've made it easier for me to enjoy. It was far from groundbreaking, but I had fun. I also liked that Dean was on the ace spectrum. uAub

And ... I guess tumblr does do brainwashing after all. I just borrowed The Foxhole Court from the library. We'll be going to Seoul in a few days and it will be a very long flight, sooo ... uAu~ (I also have “A Far Wilder Magic” und “A Taste of Gold and Iron”.)

[corditeheart]

As far as welcome-home parties go, this one is very quiet, and exactly what she needs. The movie continues to suck; the coffee is excellent.

Eventually, Ellone takes her leave, and they are left alone in her apartment, in a stretch of silence that feels strangely comfortable, that she breaks long enough to get up, take a shower while someone is there.

Even if she's still half-expecting an army of nurses to come barreling through the door any minute now, it's a relief to stand under the spray for several glorious minutes, rinsing off two weeks' worth of hospital stink, scrubbing shampoo through her hair with one hand and generally trying to ignore the plastic garbage bag they'd tied around her bicep to protect her cast from the water.

Bag aside, it's probably the best shower she's ever had. Even if she has to carefully apply a layer of paramagical cream to the furiously angry wound across her chest, held taut with a row of neat black stitches, stretching about eight inches diagonally across one breast and down. It's physical, terrible proof that people had had their hands inside of her, scrambling to save her life.

Xu stares at it for a while, processing it. Accepting it. It's there, and there's not much she can do about it now. Not unless she suddenly turns into a time witch or something.

God forbid.

She applies the cream, and smooths over a bandage as best she can, discarding the wrapper into the trash. It only sticks to itself a little, but it's good enough.

Xu emerges slowly from the bathroom, exhausted but clean. She has foregone the robe in favor of sticking with the towel-- the towel is easy, and there's no point in trying to wrestle a sleeve over her cast just to take it off and replace it with a nightgown that isn't made of the worst fabric known to man.

Squall's approximately where she left him. Or, at least, he hasn't left.

"Well, I don't know about you, but I can't wait to sleep in a bed that doesn't have buttons within easy reach," she says with a yawn, rolling her shoulders lightly (immediately regretting it, one hand coming to press against the bandages across her chest). "Are you staying, or going back up to Garden?"

The real question hanging in the air between them-- she had invited him to stop by. Staying the night was a whole other thing.

"You can stay. If you want to."

And one day, he might sprout wings.

Squall abandoned the awkwardness of drinking under the lid in favor of a paper-wrapped straw he found hidden in the plastic bag. Sure, it was flat. And watered down. He wasn't going to argue. Especially since the scent of reheated pasta was hitting him like a starved man.

Okay, maybe he did need to start looking after himself a little better.

When Xu spoke up, he paused the microwave so it wouldn't shriek at him. It was only a few seconds, anyway.

"Good. Grumbling that he's going to be forgotten and left in a nursing home, but good." It had been a joke. Mostly. Squall knew very well how distant he seemed from his father. How that would, likely, only change for the worse if it meant the distance between them kept Laguna safer.

The coffeepot sputtered and perked to life after two weeks of neglect. It would be good coffee. None of that medium-light roast nonsense from the hospital. They were adults, after all, damn it.

But she did it herself. Two weeks ago, she wouldn't have even tried. He was proud of her progress.

He leaned in, kissed the top of her head, then freed his portion of pasta from its prison. It was probably still stone-cold in the center. He didn't care.

"Welcome home."