#it is songs I think could be related to seer NOT what he listens to | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hana-the-ghostieee · 1 year ago

Text

hey hey heyyy! not your typical yorushika post here but does involve them. as in elmy and ojisuma. anyways

sometimes i feel like my interests just bleed and blend into each other, unless they can't. (like i literally don't know how the same person that draws a butt ton of cats and likes to radiate positivity and enjoys kawaii culture and decora and happiness listens to songs about literally just living for music, and having no purpose once you literally can't create anymore, or about losing someone close to you and just having this hole. this hole in my heart they left behind. they used to be the one that could fill the void but now that they're gone i can't fill it, it's this hole that keeps spreading and spreading in the middle of my chest)

i mean let's be real i physically, mentally, emotionally or spiritually can't connect Perfume and this like danish pastel aesthetic. or Kyary Pamyu Pamyu with 8/31, the day Amy ran out of ink and oofed himself with the one gay ship i show my support on in the back of my notebooks. (those men. they can break up in front of my gravestone. and my spirit will float around. forever haunting this land. edit: i read The Moon That Breaks by TheHufflebean on AO3 and when i got to the breakup scene i lied on the floor and held my breath for like 5 minutes because well. i don't have a gravestone just lying around. but then i reread the tags and there was a make up scene (which WAS there thank whoever you'd like) and continued reading)

and before any of you people on the wolfstar tag yell at me for not putting any content related to them um click/tap Keep reading please thank you

thanks for wasting your time trying to read this! anyways

there's going to be so many more edits and tweaks and finetunes i can FEEL it

lemme take wolfstar for an example (though yorushika hasn't been bled through, thank whoever you'd like, i will list it as an example. edit: yorushika may have been bled through.)

edit: feel more than free to steal these ideas =w= i'd be a terrible writer, art is my strong suit (tho credit me i guess? idk do what you want i won't be mad if you just yoink it from wherever you see this)

japan? poof. modern au. they move to shinjuku niichome. (japan's lgbt city)

um what else what else what elseeeeeee (sorry brain is scrambled rn)

cats? poof. they adopt more cats than any reasonable person should have. (with minor disinterest from sirius but remus is just INTO IT LIKE HECK YES CATS OR I'M JUST PROJECTING IDK) bonus points if they end up running a cat cafe/cat library

yorushika?

poof.

(okay don't steal any ideas from this point on i'm working on a fic for this)

(go read Letters to Elma and Elma's Diary if you want to make sense of what's going on here! i'd recommend you listen to the full albums That's Why I Gave Up On Music and Elma first though. also trigger warning - the protag for Letters/That's Why oofs himself.)

(also please don't yell at me for making them not sound like themselves, i wrote this at like 1am, i probably suck at writing and i modeled them after the original elma and amy okay thankth)

elmy au, sirius is amy and remus is elma. both are also music creators, sirius suffers from depression, gets told by a seer (idk why. oh maybe remus has a seer friend he'd like sirius to see?? *shrugs*) he'd have less than a year left to live because of a "chronic issue", loses it and [insert Letters to Elma here]

so i'm thinking it's kind of a poa grim situation here, where a bunch of symbols saying he'd die within the year just appear out of nowhere, more frequent than before and then he gets a diagnosis for some heart disease and then above scene plays out

edit: don't know how i forgot this buttttt um in Diary 5/15 Elma says "Life surely has an expiration date. Those were the words I let leak out to him, a long time ago." (him being amy ofc) and im just imagining remus saying a bunch of poetic stuff cuz even though he doesn't do it often, he's a freaking good songwriter then this comes up and sirius just internalizes those words like no other

also i think i've moved on from my Kamisama no Dansu (dance of the gods) phase, on to Ame Haruru (after the rain) and i want to mention a few lines. "another summer without you is on it's way" - i'm assuming this is remus going welp. i guess no boyfriend. it's been a while. (back when they were in school they had summers apart but then they moved in together so they also spent the summers together but ofc now that sirius is somewhere in gotland/farosund/idk remus is just. i guess you won't be there this summer) "finally, the rain fell" - a reference as to how amy/sirius left town before writing what it's like after the rain. and it's counterpart, "finally, the rain stopped" - remus/elma experiencing what it's like, knowing he didn't

more edit: uhm completely forgot about the lycanthropy so assume remus found a forest or something (you know what. it's the forest referenced in the instrumental mori no kyoukai/church in the forest) all the while sirius is in the back (or well lord knows where in gotland) cursing himself for forgetting the thing he does w/ bf every. single month

back to 12am me :P

oh but instead of writing down all the letters and whatever and then getting a box and mailing it off, sirius sends remus letters like individually and consistently so remus also goes to sweden and hunts him down but remus doesn't have any spare paper on him so he can't respond in any way

don't ask me how he sends the letters and how he receives the letters

oh wait i got it nvm! um sirius sends the letters by owl (how could i forget) and remus has a diary (because Elma's Diary) but you know. he's not one of those people that rips pages out of their books (at least in this au that exists in the void that is my mind)

and then he chases after him. literally looking freaking everywhere. sometimes they're 3 days apart. sometimes they're so close you'd be sure they have dora the explorer eyesight but no they JUST miss each other like BARELY by a MILLISECOND like seriously remus can freaking SMELL him but thinks it's like a hallucination (cuz he has been getting those recently, see Diary 8/27) or yk becuz he stole some of sirius' clothes (though on 5/15 Elma also says she can't taste anything so rem can't either. also smell & taste are connected so he essentially just loses the function to smell anything. sign of severe depression =w=)

and then comes 8/31. (machIGAUTTERUNDAYO WAKATTERUNDA ANTARA NINGEN MO--)

sirius is on the pier, opening the bottle of Flower Verdigris/Paris Green/Emerald Green/take your pick.

remus stands at the base (?) (what do you call that part on a dock/pier where you just get on) of the pier. he could recognize that black hair anywhere.

okay googled it

oh wait no that's for a floating dock

i googled it again

...found nothing. anyways

he stands at the base of the pier, at the silhouette sitting on the edge. he could recognize that curly, dark hair from 50 miles away.

"SIRIUS ORION BLACK!!!"

sirius' head turns. he seems to be crying.

"re...?"

anyways remus runs up to him and [insert nautilus mv epic outro here but instead of the guitar it's sirius and instead of elma crying the liquid water out of her... being it's remus who is also crying the liquid water out of his being][...also nautilus is a wip until they get home][to clarify things remus does not pick sirius up like the guitar. they're hugging so hard you'd think a spine would break and they're maybe kissing and definitely crying]

edit: i sat down and thought about it so um sirius is sitting on the docks like one would sit on a bench (legs dangling off of the surface) and remus just runs to him and drops on the floor, kneeling position similar to the epic guitar/piano outro in the nautilus mv with the thrown papers and they're still crying and the sun is rising because even though amy oofed himself on the dock around the evening on 8/31 here sirius tries to oof himself at dawn, cuz the line "someday, the dawn will break, so try and open your sleepy eyes, because i've pictured them so many times" and then they stand up face each other and then collapse onto each other (like lean onto each other) and then cue passionate kissing (finally) (ooh as the sun rises and parts through the clouds. someday i will try my best to draw it. and um put it here. be prepared for the ultimate pathetic. something idk.)

and right now they're just gay sobbing messes :P

yet another edit: i'm thinking i can find a way to incorporate the lily/remus friendship. so you know the old lady that first appears in Diary 7/5, right? i'm thinking she's at least a representation of lily, though of course in this au she's swedish (along with the other peeps. yk james and peter and severus mhm) so remus understands. nothing. in this au they first meet because lily needed help w/ baggage ig? it's on the ferry to gotland and well her first husband/bf passed on (shown in Diary 7/22, elderly woman says "Man" and smiles, implying she looks back on the memories fondly, and we're expected to believe this was her husband. i'm thinking in this au maybe??? snape/lily was a thing. not sure. write some ship in the comments/rbs i guess) also i'm pretty sure she thought remus was straight and that he lost his gf/wife and is trying to move on too (in case you forgot, he's looking for a certain sirius, which is in fact alive, who is his bf) and on the ship home on 9/25 (i like to think they as in r/s stayed in sweden for a bit longer, taking more pics together and enjoying whatever they missed while looking for each other) they see lily/elderly woman again with her child harry supported by the man she loves, james (aww that would be sweet tho. fluffy jily and wolfstar stuff at the end) (in canon Diary, the elderly woman with her children and the new husband is kind of a symbol for Elma, saying she'll move on and heal and potentially find someone else)

okay i thought about it and sat a bit more. and. remember 8/27? (the blend of fantasy/reality whatever where Elma finds Amy's stuff?) uhm i'm thinking something like that would happen here on 8/31, but ofc with more intervention from miss nice old lady (represented by lily). so she's moved on from her grief and found another love (james) right? well turns out james is still an animagus in this au (how helpful =w=) and lily is just. unsure of what the heck happened. (tho she does get some "help i'm looking for my boyfriend" vibes) until she connects the dots. they're fronking looking for each other before sirius' life reaches it's "expiration date" (though let's be real. throwing away that life would be like yeeting a loaf of freshly baked bread into the bin) so she tells james the master plan. she thinks on the last day of his life, remus would go out and look for him again, unaware of the fact that his boyfriend is literally at the lowest point of his life. so she'd sent out james for remus to follow (under the pretense that that was sirius' shadow, before leading him to the docks where sirius would go like once every like two weeks since coming to gotland to regret whatever he did) and then cue the scene from "and then comes 8/31. (maCHIGAUTTERUNDAYO WAKATTERUNDA ANTARA NINGEN MO--)" it's basically just saaaaaaaaaaaayonaaaaaaaaaaaaaaraa no haYASA DE KAOO WO AGETE. ITSUKA YATTO YORU GA AKETARA, MOU, ME WO SAMASHITEEEEE, MITEEEEEEEE, NEBOKE MANAKO NO KIMI WO, NANDEDATTE EGAITEIRU KARA (yeah i put some lines from nautilus, your point is?) all the while jily are just watching the gay sobbing messes™ from afar, in the forest or hiding in a bush near the base, high-fiving and cheering or something idk

ohkayee back again to me from 1am

oh also remus does write the responses to the songs sirius sent him, and they show each other freakin all the songs they wrote (so sirius shows him the summer grass gets in my way and a loser doesn't need an encore in the "original" notebook Elma finds on 8/27 but again this is wolfstar. so rem runs to siri and then they go back and take all the other stuff. and then remus shows him the pre-8/27 but in this case pre-8/31 songs and then writes ame to kapuchiino/rain and cappucino, kokoro ni ana ga aita/a hole opened up in my heart, yuu ichijou/only sorrow and the wolfstar version of amy because well. he wrote responses to almost the entire album. so close yet so far. and sirius is in the back reading the lyrics remus wrote and is just crying the liquid water out of his body because did he really cause his boyfriend that much pain? IM SORRYBDJSJSBDB DJSJSHEHDHDHDHEVRHFIKSJSJSJEGEUDHSHRJRIDJX DNDJE DDKAJWBBDJDISJABSDN9W72URIROAQHENNSOAOWIWKSKSKWKWKKAAAALSOWKMRRFIUY)

also sirius moves to the inn/room where remus stays in while doing the looketh for boyfriend and songwriting thing. remus doesn't realize how salty his pillow smells until now. (one of the downsides of crying yourself to sleep =w=)

i do realize there are some continuity errors in the way the songs are written, like in this au everything's supposed to happen within the same year, whereas in canon elmy everything happens assumably in two consecutive years (it doesn't explicitly state) and because it's written under two consecutive years assumably the songs would have to be written and sent at different times (especially august, a certain place, moonlight and evening calm, a certain place, fireworks.)

edit: so i'm thinking before the events of any of these. sorry if this ruins continuity in this au or something but like before the events of this remus co-wrote the summer grass gets in my way and a loser doesn't need a encore's songs (the first two eps by yorushika), specifically the ones with music videos except for The Clouds and The Ghost (for the summer grass - Say It. & Fireworks Beneath My Shoes and for a loser doesn't need - Hitchcock, Just a Sunny Day For You & Semi-Transparent Boy) and then when he finds the notebook they sit down and review the non-mv vocal songs thus far (Cattleya, Blooming In That Summer, A Loser Doesn't Need An Encore, Compulsive Bomber & Hibernation and they're all bops)

alrighty back again to 12am me :|

moreeee editttttt: so about the song Dance of the Gods. (because i've been freaking obsessed with it since like August) um there are a bunch of lines i want to include so. in the song at the end of the choruses, there are variations of the line "I don't care, I'll go even further, to a place no one's ever heard of, searching for the moonlight" (being "I don't care, I'll go even further, to a place no one can see, and put up an imitation of living" and "That's right, I'll go even further, to a place no one knows of, searching for the moonlight") and i think that's Elma giving up on creating music to give it "value" and "a life of it's own", and creating music because well it's fun but in this au i think that's remus going I WILL FOLLOW BEEF TO THE ENDS OF THE EARTH IF THAT'S WHERE HE IS (not sure why remus would call sirius moonlight tho cuz well he's moony) (okay you know what. sirius looks down upon his ability to compose while calling remus' songs his moonlight and that he was jealous of his skills. remus, being the self loathing person he is thinks it's like a light hearted joke or something. now that his boyfriend is gone he's trying to find this "moonlight" boyfriend saw that he couldn't see, wanting to live out his ideals)

and another edit: so the August, A Certain Place, Moonlight and Evening Calm, A Certain Place, Fireworks problem. the thing about the Elmy story is Elma's story takes place a year, i think, after Amy's, so all the songs would be written at completely different times, not necessarily within a few days of each other. i'm thinking sirius wrote August and sent it out to remus and then remus wrote Evening Calm because they sound similar and at first canon Elma imitated Amy before slowly moving on to her own style so these gay messes do too

same issue between Let's Dance and Dance of the Gods - but this time i think Dance of the Gods was written shortly after Let's Dance

and then they go back home which is in Sekimachi i guess (that's the town Elma met Amy so ??? i guess r/s lives there now??? they (elma and amy) met in the cafe (that has since closed down) shown in the rain and cappuccino mv which is allegedly in sekimachi) and live long enough for me not to be able to think about how their lives end because now that i ship them so bad, reading ootp and tdh again would practically (and effectively) traumatize me. i'd be scarred for life. it's like that one scene in nakineko where Kento says he hates Miyo and rejects her in front of the whole class and then she starts tearing up and runs out of the class and Yori follows her and then Miyo is just numb to the pain. she got hurt so bad she can't feel anything. flash forward to when she gets home. *face buried in pillow* [LOUD SOBBING NOISES]

more edit: i just realized. okay so on the last Letter (from 8/31, when Amy runs out of ink) Amy states he quit music once, but Elma brought him back into it, after she showed him some songs she wrote and sung and he described it as (wait lemme pull up the doc) "unerring, faultless light that can only illuminate the night. unimaginably soft, dazzling beyond my wildest dreams, pale moonlight" (ink fades away at the word moonlight) and um now i feel like that's what sirius would sometimes call remus (besides moons or moony)

like no. honey we're gon kill no one today. thank yu. (maybe this is why i read fanfics)

another edit: so you know how i listed here they go home and share the songs they wrote and whatevers?? um now im thinking. remus finishes writing the last 4 songs that in Elma's Diary were written after 8/27 (rain and cappuccino, a hole opened up in my heart, only sorrow and the wolfstar version of amy in case you forgot) and sirius shares his thoughts

so um here

(also i feel like the "still grieving" thing would be remus. just being scared about the fact that bf might just run out the door and disappear again? and feels a lot safer when he wakes up with bf in his arms)

rain and cappuccino:

[first verse] pretty innocent

[chorus] *voice shaking* wow, keeping in track with the theme i see

remus: to be fair, what i responded to had a similar message. ...as if i could let memories of you fade away (no literally like i can't even if i wanted to)

a hole opened up in my heart:

[first three lines] MOONLIGHT BABE STOP IT PLEASE I SWEAR ON THE EXISTENCE OF EVERYTHING I WILL NEVER HURT YOU AGAIN

(for context, the song sirius would've written is false night, whose main line is "I want to open a hole in you", and this song is the response to that, with the main (and first) line "That's why a hole has opened up in my heart")

[end of the song] *lying on the floor, indistinct but very loud sobbing noises*

remus: well i did have to capture what i felt then. more grieving and crying up ahead

(this is by far the most painful song ever it's like a knife stuck in your chest and you take the handle and keep twisting it deeper into yourself just AAAAAAAAA LET ME CRYYYYYYY)

only sorrow:

[reads title] do i bring out the tissues or...?

[first verse] okay wow this sounds nothing like the song i wrote pretty ironic since you tried to literally "live" my life but okay

remus: wait for it

[chorus] okay i sound about ready to cry

amy (or the wolfstar ver):

(before reading/listening) if this is another song about grief i swear im going to go cry alone for the next 5 hours

(after reading and/or listening) *5 second delay* *goes and hugs remus*

(amy as in the song is one of the sweetest songs yorushika has made like ever in their 8-ish years of existence. it responds to the song elma and was written when elma (the person) finally moves on from her grief and now looks fondly back to those days. when her lover oofed himself and she went through sweden crying and looking for him. ...yeah not that sweet but idk)

all the while remus is just writing this and showing it to him like how i do with my art when talking about it with my friends. just "alrightyyyyyyy i did a thing. here. *smacks paper down on table* any thoughts???"

and then [insert healing and fluffy romantic stuff here]

okay thats all for the edit continue reading the thing 12am me wrote

oh shoot now i can't unthink this why T^T

um oh well i guess? i'll probably forget this was a thing anyways

oh but since we're already hereeeeeeeeeee

poof.

ojisuma au

(okay you can steal this one)

(read the novel Plagiarism for context here! the album isn't as important here, it kind of serves as a background noise and also expresses oji-san's experience. oh also yes, the album takes melodies, beats and rhythms from actual songs (as well as their own, in the song plagiarism) so yeah go listen to the album too i guess :D)

sirius is oji-san and remus is tsuma but tsuma doesn't die and they also work together to produce music but what rem doesn't know is siri has been stealing???? all of these sounds??? for the songs he thought was original??? and eventually siri comes to the conclusion that the only original thing he can create is his downfall as a musical artist (essentially just goes through what oji-san does but no dead wife but this is a wolfstar au so no dead husband.) so he does. this is my pathetic replacement for the prank and them not trusting each other. and rem is not happy. (he no trust him no more) but siri then goes and creates the two songs night journey and ghost in a flower because i think oji-san wrote those songs after he destroyed his reputation cuz they sound so different from all the other songs in tousaku (or maybe it was because of nakineko. not complaining it is still my fav movie. there's CATS. there's drama. there's CATS. there's romance. there's CATS. there's magical island with cats. there's CATS. did i say CATS. anyways)

um society as a whole just hates on siri. honestly can't blame society as a whole.

and then he releases sousaku/creation without stealing a thing (applaud for him please. i cant hear you clapping CLAP HARDER) and then *cue redemption arc*

yet. another. edit. : um i feel like adding some stuff so sirius would've written the songs Ghost in a Flower and Spring Thief to celebrate the relationship he had (and will get back) with remus, Night Journey and The Lying Moon as the break-up (but not the like "I'M DONE GOODBYE D:<" kinda songs, more like the "I'll remain here, as you go to the other side" or the "Rain has fallen, flowers have scattered/I still think about your rosy cheeks/as I keep drinking love from a bottomless ladle/It's true, it's tasteless, this thirst that's never satisfied, but you can laugh all you want and say "Is that so?/but I'll be here, just waiting for you") um and the instrumental creation would be a filler, and Robbery and Bouquet would be an allusion to his past self with the plagiarism and the sound stealing and i'm not sure what Eat the Wind would be

and then they get back together ^.^

(ooh but hold on. i feel like making a plagiarist remus and a tsuma sirius)

if the ojisuma au didn't sound as in depth or something know that Dakara Boku wa Ongaku wo Yameta (basically elmy) is like the most iconic yorushika lore

therefore more people are more interested in that (and i am part of more people :P) (also there's more context in elmy than ojisuma)

wow how the hekk did i connect wolfstar. a fanon (that deserves to be canon) gay ship about two friends in a group at a wizarding school that end up being more with... yorushika. a band that constantly hurts me. as in it hurts GOOD. like go listen to yoru magai and then kokoro ni ana ga aita. (with translations cuz im pretty sure barely any of you guys on the wolfstar or sirius x remus tag know japanese) LIKE STOPPPPPP THAT SONG IS THE DEFINITION OF GRIEF AND PAIN AND I DON'T KNOW HOW N-BUNA, A PERSON THAT SAID HE WROTE SONGS LIKE THESE TO EXPRESS HIS VIEWS ON LIKE LIFE AND DEATH CREATE A SONG THIS PAINFUL. LIKE HOW DO YOU WRITE SONGS LIKE THESE???

edit: i didn't connect them i practically forced another universe onto them (also i may be one of the first people to do this idk i have no idea who else is a big yorushika fan and a wolfstar shipper)

okay that is all i think have a nice dayyyyyy/nighttttttt/timezoneeeeeeeee

wait WHAAA

okay im typing this on mobile and??? you can freaking DRAG PARAGRAPHS???

...why don't they make this with tags i had to use little asterisks when i posted that apparently bots keep following me thing

wow this is like the LONGEST post i've made ever what the hell

wow the amount of times i've edited this GOSH

uhm anyways *hand on hip* *thumbs up* woo! *collapses face-down on floor*

#wolfstar #sirius x remus #remus x sirius #okay it's been a few days??? and um the wolfstar elmy au is???? peacefully coexisting with the canon elmy in my head????#i got scared about the fact that whenever i think of something that stems from canon but becomes something else my viewpoint changes #and suddenly i start hating canon #well when canon is something you love/done by people you love or care about/both #it has been a few more days and i think it's safe to say that the wolstar elmy au can peacefully coexist with the elmy story??? lore??? idk #it has been about a few more days and it is defo safe to say they can co-exist #though i have been thinking about them in this au more than the original elmy #maybe cuz like there's more content about wolfstar idk #my interests. they just blend into each other like the sunset does into the deep indigo that is the night

1 note · View note

socketz · 4 years ago

Text

Spencer Reid x Reader

Talking To The Moon.

Inspired by the Bruno Mars song, because it’s the one I listen to when I come up with my Spencer Reid fantasies😃.

Type : Angst (It’s just so fuckin’ sad, man)

Warnings : A LOT. Detailed mentions of r*pe / sexual assault, child m*lestation / assault / r*pe, physical abuse, physical fighting, broken bones, dislocated joints (Replacing them! Which is so disgusting, the thought makes me cringe), trauma, the usual Criminal Minds terminology (in terms of describing an UnSub), emotional breakdown, a lot of Death Talk™️ (which could somehow be perceived as suicidal, I guess?), and actual death, there is one (1) kiss. It is a PECK, crude language (profanity), and I think that’s it.

Word Count : 16.3K (this was NOT supposed to be that long, ohmygod)

Request : Not Requested. (This idea came to me in a really horrifying dream that I had, a few weeks ago. I always document my dreams, and this was... Well, it was more of a nightmare. I won’t share, but from the tone of the Fanfic I’m sure you can gather the terror that it endured.)

Summary : There’s a lot of plot for this one. The reader takes on a case (an unauthorised case, you understand), that she relates to on a very personal level. Determined to take on this UnSub, after observing his crimes within the media, and finding thelselves enraged by the Police’s futile attempts to make progress in his arrest, they search for him themselves, and they happen to forget every ounce of Federal Safety training they have ever experienced. Uh, Oh! Do I smell kidnapping? Yes, I do! The reader is kidnapped by the Unsub, and tortured for four days straight. The team are searching for them, but are they fast enough? Either way, Spencer will never forgive himself, and the reader isn’t sure they’ll make it out the other side, alive.

Authors Note : First of all, Baby Spence🥺🤚 the way he was RIDDLED with trauma?? PLEASE?? Got me out here trying to shift realities just to give this man a hug- like he really needs some love, y’know? I have other one shots in the works where he IS receiving his well deserved affection, but it’s not really this one (though he is comforting the reader. Well deserved, methinks)😭 this is perhaps the most graphic and depressing one shot I have ever written😃 I mean, enjoy??? I don’t know if that is the right word. Make sure you read the warning, man, the topics at hand are dealt with in depth and I do not want to trigger anyone!!!!!

Talking To The Moon, Spencer Reid x Reader

They say that the barrel of a gun is cold; that it seeps into the precipitation of your complexion, and the steel aches a circular coolness. They say that your life flashes before your eyes, and that your fight, flight, or freeze, kicks in, when the initial shock of fatality flashes, and blinds you for a defining split second. They say that in your final moments, you show who you truly are.

They are wrong.

The metal is warm, upon my forehead, as I blink slowly, a thousand thoughts - words, and probabilities; numbers, and statistics, and the thumping of my heart (thump, thump, thump; thump, thump, thump) everything, and anything; anything, and nothing - all find themselves meandering their way throughout my congested conscience. I think not of my childhood, the warm touch of my mother’s embrace, and neither the pride in my chest as I received my first ‘100%’, with a wonky smiley face, feedback for my very first official essay in school; not the swarm of flying insects, rampant within my stomach, as I first walked into the Behavioural Analysis Unit, of the Federal Investigations Bureau. I think not of Spencer, not of Morgan, or Penelope, Hotch, and Emily. I am… I am not…

The barrel of the gun is warm.

I blink slowly.

A sheen of smeared colour - like the pretense of a dull oil painting, perceived too close to the canvas - washes over my vision, steals the breath from my aching throat - thump, thump, thump, my heart cries; lodged beneath my tongue, thump, thump, thump - I swallow it back. Thickly, like treacle, and I… There- There is-

The barrel of the gun is warm.

I blink slowly.

I collect myself, in my throat, and I gulp with a softness that simply does not suffice. The flavour of something- of something burned, something charred, lies upon the dry thrum of my tongue, and I allow myself to taste it. Just for a- just for a moment. Just for a moment, I taste it, and it is charred- charred and metallic. The burned flavour of my chest, thumping iambically beneath my heavy-set jaw, wafts up, up, up, throughout my trachea, and it coils between my teeth. From the back, to the front, around, and around, does it crawl, and my heart thunders on in my thoughts; thump-thump-thump, thump-thump-thump.

The barrel of the gun is warm.

I blink slowly.

The same ache rolls around my motionless joints; it burrows beneath my stained complexion, and I do not flinch as something pop’s, and another bone crack’s. It is not- I am warm. An uncomfortable sense of warmth, that settles upon my grimy skin, and collects itself among my wounded figure, and- and it’s- and it’s hot. It’s hot, and it aches-

But the barrel of the gun is warm, and I blink slowly.

I blink slowly, and the barrel of the gun is warm.

I yearn to think, to obtain coherency, but the barrel of the gun is warm, and it hurts. Oh, it aches, and I- a shuddered breath falls from my unnaturally moistened mouth, tainted by the spill of internally displaced fluid, and I force my eyes to peel open. To unveil beneath their thick hoods, to dismiss the burning heat that flares from my slow blinking, to show him no weakness. I force my eyes to peel open, because, by God, if it’s the last thing I’ll ever do, I will look him in the eyes, and I will silently congratulate myself on my victory. I will not lose; I will not surrender.

And so I peel back my lids, and I ignore the sweltering ache that rushes upon my discoloured, broken, cheek, and I observe him with a gaze of (what I pray to be) great indifference. I slack my features, and I spare myself the wince, as the temptation of heat, licking away the wet droop of my bruised face, engulfs the structure of my poised, blank, expression. Dark, dark, circles; the kind of spherical matter that the mariana trench may find envy within, roam me. Thoughtlessly. Not a thing behind those eyes - no feeling, no rage, no pain. There is no tremble to his digits, as he holds the trigger of the sleek revolver, cherry-wood-handled, and there is no twitch within the muscular construction of his nonchalance, as it fades between four-a-piece, and a regular, blurred, arrangement.

This is it, I think, at last, and the silence between my irrevocably untelling orbs infiltrates its way through my subconscious. Soon - a mere matter of seconds, that spirals to the incoherent detailing of a slurry construct - there is nought but the mulling tone of my heart, thumping endlessly beneath my burning sternum, and I force myself to breathe evenly. In, my chest rises softly, and out, I exhale something shaken through my nostrils.

By God, I think; this really is it.

And the barrel of the gun is warm, as I blink up at him slowly, and I do not regard the noiseless sobbing of the child, to the darkest corner of the room.

This is it. It pounds within my ears, morphed upon the rhythm of my steady heartbeat; this is it, this is it, this is it.

This is it, and the barrel of the gun is warm, and I blink up at him slowly, and the breath on my tongue tastes like the charred meat of my steadily thumping heart, and I think of nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing, at all - nothing but the silent shake of a tear-stricken expression, caught beneath the dim lighting, as her circular, little, face, enlarges. Enlarges, and morphes, by shadows, and yellow light; approaching. I do not regard her, as she nears in my peripheral, and the curve of her small, fragile, shoulders tremble, and the flush of her moistened cheeks glimmer among the bulb’s reflection, but the burned flavour on my tongue ceases its subtlety, and there is a taught capture about the breath in my lungs. It is reeled back, and stored deeply beneath my broken bones.

And, suddenly, my heartbeat lurches into my throat.

I miss the warmth of the metal, as it flinches away from my bloodied forehead, and I miss the dark discs of his thoughtless eyes, as they leave me, and the ache of my tongue dissipates to a resolve of bitter dryness.

There she stands, beneath the weight of the revolver, with a violent shake to her thin figure, and a harsh, bruised, red, to her cheeks; puffy eyed, and traumatized. She breathes not a word, she expresses not a sound, and still his finger curls. Curls subtly, ever-so-gently, and my heart tumbles into my mouth, before I can drag it back down. “Coward.” It spits, unbearably rasped upon the echo of my dry, naked, throat; like wood upon sandpaper, it grits, and it grits, and the shavings collapse in my lungs, as they heave; in, I rasp; and out. “You’ll-” I gather my cheek between my jaw, and I nibble it tearsly, a deep, seering, heat erupting- erupting, and sprouting; multiplying, between my very cells. “You’re gonna shoot a- a little-” Another pained, hollow, heave; I clamber for steady footing. “Shoot a little girl?” Dark, dark, circles… no feeling, no rage, no pain. They catch within the light, and never before have I observed a shadow exposed by the sun, and still obtaining its darkness. But there they are, as they gaze unto my own, and I level our stare with ease. “Impotent son of a bitch.” I murmur, a mere breath upon the quiet.

Antagonize him, my conscious crows; rile him up, give him reason for distraction.

“That is-” I stutter in my respiration, and the wheeze of a wet cough finds the depth of my chest. It rumbles through the rasp of my throat, and a slick, metallic, moisture coils upon the flesh of my lower lip. The coppery taste ravishes my mouth, and I allow the liquid to spit between my words. “That is why you do it, isn’t it?” I say, no more than a whisper, gargled by the congestion of the red fluid pool, congregated about my tongue. “You couldn’t-” Another ragged breath, “Couldn’t perform. Not for the-” I swallow the metallic, warm, liquid, and it burns my aching throat. “Not for the pretty women. Hm?” He regards me, motionlessly, and the discs of irrevocable blackness roam my hot, burning, features. “So you too-” I gulp back the rise of blood in my throat, unsettled and naturally rejected. “So you took to little girls, instead, didn’t-” A softer, shallower, inhale, “Didn’t you?”

Silence. The iambic thrum of my heartbeat interrupts the depth of the quiet, but I push it down - down, down, down, beneath the crushing weight of my charred sternum, and I force myself to continue.

“Yeah.” I say, quietly, “You did.” I harden my gaze. “You do.” You take them, their vulnerable, defenseless, innocent, selves, and you steal their childhood; you steal their youth like the dawn to the night, and you rip the world from beneath their fucking feet. “They’re small.” I rasp. “Young.” I try not to think of the dry red, that - the dry, dark, blood, that stains her little thighs, and I try not to picture the tears on her cheeks, and the seeping crimson that cakes the lower quarter of her sweet, white, dress. I try not to entangle her contorted features with a familiar reflection, try to ignore the burning ache of my sweltering chest, as it burns, and it binds, and contracts so ferociously, and I swallow back the lump, riddled with- with- with something. (Bile, blood, bitten down sobs, does it matter? Does it matter?).

There she stands, with a violent shake to her thin figure, and a harsh, bruised, red, to her cheeks; puffy eyed, and traumatized.

“They’re small enough to-” I nibble my inner cheek, and the rasp engulfing my tone threatens to tinge with a bespoken darkness. “They’re small enough to feel you, aren’t they?” I say, and there’s something- there’s something that flashes, be it only a split moment, behind those unforgiving holes he deems the window to his soul. Black, and inhumane. Fitting. “They feel you enough to react.” The muscle to the corner of his left eye contracts, a mere millimeter, or so, but I catch it. Oh, do I catch it. “They cry.” I say, softly, and I hope that the girl holds any kind of oblivion she once may have obtained. “They scream. They bleed.” They die. “But, hey,” I murmur, “any liquid is liquid, right?”

It burns, and it aches, and I nibble the eroded flesh of my inner cheek, and I blink up at him slowly, but at least he is here. At least he is here, at least her blood is dry, at least she can walk. At least I can buy her some extent of recovery time. “You’re sick.” I spit, tone lowered significantly, but still strong. Somehow, I obtain my strength, and I continue. “You’re twisted, and you’re useless.” I say. “You’re nothing but a freak, a shrimpy coward with no sexual capability.” Twitch, twitch; the muscle of his left eye contracts, once more, with more force; more concealed rage, bubbling away beneath the surface. “Pathetic.” I continue, a mere grumble upon the thickening silence. “You couldn’t satisfy a woman if you tried-” The barrel of the gun is colder, now, as he forcefully presses it’s rim upon my forehead, but the steel soon begins to warm. I blink up at him slowly, and I prod. I prod, and I prod, and I wait for the sleeping lion to snap and bite. A breathy chuckle falls from my dry tongue. “There it is.” I whisper. “There it is- you’re an embarrassment, aren’t you?” I mock, tone thick with some kind of congealed, faux, amusement. I swallow back the uprising liquid, lodged thickly amongst my throat, and I offer him a blank, condescending, smile. Bloody-toothed, and bitter. “Tell me, Ben, can you even get it up, properly, anymore?”

SMACK.

I hear it, and then- then I feel it, and before I know what has hit me, he has. The tang of warm liquid, filling my mouth, is entirely indifferent to the coppery flavour I have grown to know, as of late, and I bite back the bubbling groan, a flare of burning heat traveling through the very cells in my ruptured cheekbone. Bruised, and tender; the flourish of agonizing heat pulsates, like the steady beat of my burning chest, and I regain my sturdy posture, gazing back unto the deep, dark, discs. Lifeless, enraged. I ignore the pulse in my features, and the thump of my circulation, gushing rampantly through my senses, as I adjust my blaring joints, and I maneuver my strung limbs. Wrists confined to the sufficient, tight, expertise of Benjamin’s personal experience, they hang perpendicular to my sides; expanded, outstretched, like the span of a bird in flight.

I hang from them, there, upon the wall, and I ignore the raging fire, engulfing my (dislocated) damaged shoulders. Slumped upon my knees, bruised and discoloured for all their worth, I tilt my head up, and I blink at him slowly. My eyes water, a natural reaction, and the sting in my cheekbone echoes with the afterthought of his gun, freshly stricken, throbbing. But still, I bore my gaze unto his own, and I force my jaw to loosen. “Touchy.” I grumble, bitterly. “What’s the-” I swallow the consistently uprising clump of blood, and of rejected bile, and I try again. “What’s the matter, Benny?” I press. “You insecure?” I say. “Ashamed?” Of course he isn’t, he’s furious. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. “Challenged?” The muscle of his left eye twitches, again, and I force a crooked, toothy, smile. “Yeah.” I say, “That’s it. You’re afraid.” Another twitch. “Out of your dep- out of your depth.”

“Shut up.” He snaps, “Shut up.”

My eyebrows raise, and I allow another breathy, rasped, chuckle to fall from my cracked mouth. “Raping little girls is one thing,” I continue, “But kidnapping, and torturing an Official Officer?” Another fleeting, thin, laugh. “Jesus. Who knows what they’ll do to you in there?”

“They worship Pig killers in that place.” Benjamin snarls, and, for once, I find myself smiling with an unmissable genuinity.

“Yeah.” I say, with a grin. “They do.” And I allow my humour to dance within my gaze, as I motion the man closer, with a subtle toss of my head. He follows, nose aligned with the warm barrel of the revolver, and I ignore the throb of my cheek, and the iambic scream of my heart. “But, see, Benny-Boy,” I whisper, my breath fanning his thin lips, “I ain’t no Pig.” I tongue the soft mutilation of my inner cheek. “I’m a Federal Fucking Agent.”

The breeze is not calming, as it brushes upon my face, and I throw myself forward, crashing my forehead upon the smooth curve of his foolishly close expression. A barbaric crack rips though the disturbed quiet, and the sudden splat of warm liquid dignifies itself upon my sopping complexion, as the muffled tumble of retreating, unsteady, footsteps echo clumsily around the room. I think I got his nose, as I fall back against the wall, arms useless, and I connect with the concrete behind me, dragging my bruised and bloodied limbs out, as they abandon their position of lying beneath me. I sit aloft the ground, and my legs roar with a thousand shallow wounds; pins and needles scattering hoarsely about the flesh of my weak anatomy. “Fuck,” I murmur, as I ignore the dizzying, blurred, contortion that warps my unsturdy vision. From a multiple of four, to adjacent and blurred, but singular, Ben scurries to his feet, displaced to an enclosing distance.

Thump-thump-thump, my heart cries in my ears, and the white noise of the blurred silence seems to hum along to it’s rhythm, thump-thump-thump, but I can’t leave her behind. I cannot bring myself to let her down - not again. Not again. Not again.

I can’t let her down - thump-thump-thump, thump-thump-thump - as the pins run up my limbs, and the needles pivot their course around, and around the flesh of my legs. Thump-thump-thump, thump-thump-thump, he draws closer. One stumbled step at a time; one step, two steps, three steps, four, I use the wall and bend my knees, groaning beneath the weight of my fucking agony, and I tear myself from the concrete ground, allowing the yell to rip from my moistened, raspy, throat. Thump-thump-thump, thump-thump-thump, he tumbles; closer, closer, closer, closer.

The cry that rips from my throat, as I throw my leg to his side, it bounces upon the thick walls. It mocks me, in my dizzy breathing, and it laughs along with his soft, quiet, grunt. I strike at his chest, with the ball of my foot, and I pray that my quivering muscles suffice. Ignoring the ambush of sweltering heat, coursing throughout my ankle, and the damaged joint of my knee, I tear up to his throat (his frame hunched, and breathless) with the inner curve of my ankle. SLAM. I revel in the slap of skin, upon skin, as his betrayed choking engulfs my rugged, teary, silence. Oh, how it burns, it aches, and I cry- I cry with such volume, as I draw down upon his cheek, as he falls to the ground, and I crush it beneath my aching heel.

His parted lips heave with an airy groan, and I force myself to repeat. To repeat, to repeat, to repeat, until the blood beneath my throbbing heel all but retracts my complexion’s grip. The flesh of my foot slips upon his motionless expression, the curl of his digits slowly unravelling, and I slam my limb down upon his broken, bloodied, face, again, and again, and I ignore the warmth of the tears upon my cheek, as they dribble their way down. I notice the first, and then the rest seem to follow, uncontainable and relentless, and still I pummel the structure.

Bruised, and toughened, the sopping entrapment of my wounded heel draws down upon his fractured features, and I release a withheld, shuddered, breath. It is warm, as it fans my chin, and I allow my legs to feather themselves unstably upon the ground. I stop. I pause, and I gather myself with brief collection. The tight stinging behind my eyes seems to worsen, as I force the lump in my throat to dissect, and to surrender to the flames of my burning, charred, sternum, but I swallow it all back, and I shake my legs loose, slowly dropping my frame back down upon the concrete below.

There he lies; still, and unmoving. Not dead, but not quite alive.

The girl. It rings in my ears, as my heartbeat settles to something familiar; the girl, the girl, the girl. The girl who’s name I have yet to learn, the girl I have failed to protect - the girl I must save. The girl I refuse to let down, again. “Hey,” I call, quietly, and I soften my tone with significance, just enough (I hope) to eliminate the threat of the glimmering, red, blood, that begins to dry upon my body. “Hey, sweetheart.” I shake back my hair, and I turn to face her, ignoring the glassy shein that warps upon my vision, as my body entraps in a wave of unforgiving warmth, and the hot, burning, sensation engulfes my entirety; running up, and down, from left, to right, in and out of my limbs, from my eye sockets, to the tips of my bloodied toes. It aches, and it burns, and I plaster on a kind, gentle, smile, and I observe the tears upon her scarlet cheeks. “What’s your-” I nibble the ruined flesh of my inner cheek, as a flare of something (something like agony) curls around the joint of my displaced shoulder, and runs sharply through my arm, “What’s your name?” I ask, quietly, and I try to bereft the strain from my tone.

But, oh, it aches, and oh, it burns.

“Alyssa.” She replies, quietly.

“Alyssa?” I try the name on my tongue. “Alyssa, Okay.” I say. “Alyssa, I need you to do something for me.” I tell her, “I need you to do something for me, is that Okay?” Her nimble, sad, face, nods, and I feel something shift in my chest. The burning increases, and the blood on my tongue tastes more like heartache, than of copper. “Okay.” I say, “Can you try to untie these ropes?” I nod gently to the strong grip of my wrists, entrapped within the beige confinement, and I hope - oh, how I hope - that her little fingers are good for something.

“Okay.” Alyssa says, softly, as she teeters a step closer, and she approaches the still figure of the bloodied, unconscious, man. “Is it-” She steps over his arm, “Is it painful?”

She reaches up to the knot, be it just above her head, and she works at the painfully tightened enigma. I hiss, softly, at a gentle jolt of my shoulder, and I ignore the loud pop of its agonizing displacement, pulsating with heat, as I murmur my quiet reply. “Only a little.” I lie. “Are you feeling okay?” I ask, tenderly, “Does anything hurt, down-” Another hiss, I swallow it back audibly, “down there?”

“Only a little.” She mimics, not at all unkindly, as she works at the knot, and she straightens her small, tear-slick, mouth. There is mulled silence, for a passing moment, and I tongue the rough complexion of my inner cheek. “I didn’t cry.” She admits, as though I should be one to offer my congratulations. “I didn’t fight him.” She says. “I’m a good girl.” I swallow the lump in my throat, and I blink slowly, as to diminish the sting of my eyes, and I allow my breath to fall shaky, and uneven, as I regard the girl with a furrow to my brow. I didn’t cry. I didn’t fight him. I’m a good girl.

“Alyssa, I-” I meet the sharp blue of her cerulean, glossy, gaze, and I observe the seeking ache behind them - the dull rim that seeps upon the light’s reflection. “Alyssa,” I whisper, “listen to me.” Her hands work at the knot, and the curl of it all begins to shuffle loose. “That man is a bad man.” I say. “He’s a monster. You know the kind you read about? In- In the- In the books?” She nods, softly, and I reciprocate her action. “Well, he’s one of ‘em.” I say, and her gentle expression of repressed agony crumples; dissolves to the pinch of a furrow.

“He looks normal to me.” She says.

“They always do.” I reply, with something like sympathy curled among my smile. “The monster lives inside them.”

“Like a house?”

“Sure.” I say, “Like a house.”

“I don’t like that house.” She whispers, hardly that of a breath upon the laboured quiet, and I feel the subtle breeze of freedom beginning to slither around my aching wrist.

The strong simmer behind my eyes seems to ignite a stronger burn, and the blur of colours coaxing my vision adheres to engulfing my senses entirely, a clamp in my jaw to withhold the overwhelming urge to burst out with some kind of vocal sob. I bite it back, gnawing softly upon the mauled flesh of my inner cheek, and I offer Alyssa a gentle, toothy, smile. “Good.” I say. “Good. You don’t have to worry-” A scream tears from my throat, and the barricade of blurring moisture spills over with ease. “Fuck!” I hiss, “Fuck- Shit-” My arm audibly slaps down upon my side, the wrist an awkwardly angled bend, as it cracks aloft the harsh concrete below, and the mocking double-act-popping makes its merry way through, the joint finding itself inverted and ajar, and, oh, it aches, it burns. It fucking burns, and I- “Do the other one.” I murmur, strained by the bite of irrevocable pain, as a teary eyed Alyssa forces herself to overstep Benjamin’s right arm, and to meet the limp hang of my dislodged limb, and her nimble little fingers get to work on the opposing knot.

I try to grind my teeth, try to swallow back the uprising sob that teeters thickly among my taught throat, and I try to focus solely upon the unmoving man upon the floor, as my arm hangs loosely at my side, and the pulsating ache rivets throughout my entirety; it swirls behind my eyes, and up, up, up, up around the iambic thrum of my cold, incandescent, mind, and down to the very tips of my sharp collarbones; to the steady rise of my chest; in, and out, in, and out, and I listen to the thump of my heartbeat, as it sings it’s hellish chorus in my ears, and it rings true for yet another second - thump, thump, thump; thump, thump, thump - and I pay attention to the melody, the sporadic pulse, the rhythmic reminder that: Here I Am. Living. Breathing (Barely?). With The Life Of A Little Girl In My Hands. There it is. There it is. The truth. There it is. And I listen to it, again. I listen to it again, and I look at her.

I look at Alyssa, with a violent shake to her thin figure, and a harsh, bruised, red, to her cheeks; puffy eyed, and traumatized, as she works at the knot, and she sniffles to herself quietly. I look at Alyssa, and she isn’t crying. I didn’t cry. I didn’t fight him. I’m a good girl. She is a good girl. I look at Alyssa, and I see nothing but a girl that deserves the world, and I know that she is a good girl, but why should she have to learn her worth in such an earth-shattering way? I nibble my inner cheek, and I digest the uprising urge to allow my eyes to water (excessively, for they have already washed the blood of my bruised, and broken, features, and they lay wet upon my cheeks), as I call out to her gently, and I watch her glimmering gaze remove itself from her concentrated scowl.

“Lissy?” I call, softly, with a furrow to my eyebrows. I meet her cerulean stare, and I observe the reserved redness that circles her glassy orbs, as she draws back her own impulse to cry, and I speak again. Quietly. Always quietly. “Can I call you Lissy?” I ask.

Alyssa nods. “Mommy calls me Lissy Doll.” She says, and the burning flavour flares up, again, upon the back of my dry tongue. I concentrate on it, as the heat of my dislocated shoulder begins to fade, and I suppose that the taste of charred flesh is better than the agony of broken bones.

I offer her a smile, though I feel it comes across more as a grimace than that of any reassurance, and I nod gingerly. “Alright.” I say. “Lissy, it is.” There is something like heartache, and like the dullness of doubt, that clouds the brightness of her young, infantile, orbs, and I force my lower limbs to shuffle, to face the readily repressing girl before me, as she holds back her upcoming wave of cries, and she swallows back her sorrow. “It’s Okay to cry, you know.” I say, gently, and she shifts her gaze to engulf my warm, piercing, stare, within her own, and the glassy shein begins to thicken. “It doesn’t make you weak.” I whisper. “I know it-” I force down the uprising lump in my throat, a sudden lodge beneath the muscle of my tongue, and I try again, with a tone somehow softer than before. “I know that it hurts, Lissy.” I say, “I know that you want to be strong, and that you- that you want to be a good girl,” A shaken exhale falls from my lips, “but, sweetheart, you don’t need to go through something like that to prove it.”

She nods, softly, and she purses her lips together, trembling and shaken by her trauma.

“Lissy, if you can-” I swallow back an audible groan, as I shuffle my injured frame, and the pulse of reconciling heat flares violently within the loose hinge of my displaced shoulder. “If you can untie me, Okay, we can get out of here.” I assure, attempting to convey something like promise with the stern stare of my unwavering eyes. I pray that Alyssa does not notice the tremble of my limbs, or the shudder in my ribs, as something crawls, and winds, its way between my shattered bones, and I pray that she does not notice the exhaustion behind my determination, that she does not catch wind of my growing fatigue, and the difficulty I face in trying to suppress my growing agony.

“Okay.” She murmurs, and I find myself deflating with a soft exhale, shoulders falling, and dismissing the grave pulsation of fiery heat that depicts its bitter eruption throughout the damaged nerves of my bloody anatomy.

“Okay.” I nod, attempting to compile any form of reassurance, as I tilt my head back, gentle as I can possibly muster, and I let the crown loll back upon the brickwork. It aches, and it burns, but we’re almost there. By God, we are almost there. “Alright.” I repeat, breathless in my movement, as her small digits begin to unwind the tight knotting of the rope. “I need you to-” A subtle jolt, as the rope loosens, sends a great flare of agonized heat throughout my limb, and the rumble of a deep-routed groan falls from the hollow of my throat; low, and honest. “Fuck.” I murmur, softly, as Alyssa wraps her grip upon the burning ache of my wrist, and she removes the restraint entirely, supporting the arm with minimal (though violently painful) adjustment. A roar of unavoidable flames engulfs the limb, as she lowers it gently, and she drapes the limp wrist upon the concrete. I suppress the bubbling hiss that threatens to fall from between my gritted teeth, and I gulp back the wave of nausea that grips me suddenly.

A swirl of something bitter, something terrible, begins its sultry dance among my stomach - empty, by a four day solitude - and I feel the burl of air, and of ingested blood, of salivation, gargle nastily toward the very pit of my protesting stomach. Still, I ignore it.

“Lissy, you need to-” I swallow the uprising concoction, warm and smooth in my throat, and I try again, forcing my words through a clenched jaw. “I need you to fix my arm, Okay?” I need you to re-locate my fucking shoulder, and I need you to do it now, before Benjamin wakes up. If he wakes up, I suppose. The slow, unstable, rise and fall of his darkly clothed back is difficult to judge, among my dizzied vision, and the blurred contortion of the world. I do not dwell on this. I do not have to tear my eyes away, they drift naturally, and there she stands; wide-eyed, traumatized, silently begging me to let out a sudden laugh, and to declare my insinuation a practical joke. “Now, Alyssa.” I say, with a sternness that I suppose she is not used to. Not from me, at least, as the glossy depiction of her wide orbs returns, and, again, I find myself unable to dwell on it, as I turn to where her hands hesitantly hover about my sagging limb. “Just-” I exhale a shuddered breath, because, Jesus, this was never in the job description, and I allow my head to fall back upon the wall behind it, as my eyes flutter shut, and I open my mouth to continue. “Just grab onto it - gently, for the love of God - at the upper- at the upper arm.” A small hand wraps around my bicep, and I flinch involuntarily. Oh Fuck, my mind chants, pulsing throughout my body; Oh Fuck, Oh Fuck, Oh Fuck. “Put your other hand-” I swallow back the bile concoction, “Put your other hand next to my shoulde- Shit!” She rips away the palm of her small hand, explicit with a short cry, as I yell out my curse, and the pulse of agony spreads upon the damn wound she placed pressure upon. Be specific, Y/N, my conscience scolds; she’s a fucking child.

It’s not her fault - not her fault, not her fault - but fuck, if that didn’t hurt. I let out a shaky breath, and I force the erratic respiration of my rising chest to calm the fuck down; in, and out, in, and out, and I offer her a tight-lipped grimace, as she regards me with wide, cautious, eyes.

“Sorry.” I breathe. “I didn’t-” Another groan; the pulse of my pain continues to mock me, to taunt me violently within the unsteady strum of my gushing ears. Thump, thump, thump, it cries; Oh Fuck, Oh Fuck, Oh Fuck. “I didn’t mean to yell at you.” I say, softly. “It just, uh-” I bite back another cry. “It hurts. That’s all.” She nods, timidly, and I observe the aggressive tremble of her hand, as she begins to re-insinuate her previous positioning. “Not there!” I splutter, abruptly, and she halts in her movement, “Not there, Lissy,” I murmur, as my head rolls back against the brickwork behind me, and I tilt it away from her. “Closer to my- closer to my neck, alright? Not on the shoulder, itself.” She murmurs a noise that sounds similar to some kind of agreement, and I clench my jaw. I clench my jaw, and the nausea bubbling within my stomach seems to heighten. Fuck. And I-

Oh Fuck. It pulses around my aching body; Oh Fuck, Oh Fuck, Oh Fuck, Oh Fuck, Oh- “FUCK!”

A loud, excruciating, crack, snaps out within the laboured silence, and I am submerged in (what feels like) the damned flames of Hell, licking and biting upon the sore flesh of my battered body, devouring my arm in sharp, agonized, nibbles; ripping chunks of my consciousness with them. “Jesu- Fuck. Holy fuck.” I murmur, slurred and messy, as a hot bout of drunken agony spouts throughout that damned joint. Up, and down, does it stumble; here, there, and everywhere, and I find myself unable to bite back the wave of tears, as they force themselves to grapple my attention, and to erode the bloodied concoction of fresh coating about my features, and I can hardly process the weight of their thickening moisture, as it gathers upon my cheeks, because - Oh, God, holy fuck - oh, I can hardly- It burns. It aches, and it burns, and it devours my limb entirely.

“Do the other one.” I demand, lowly, tone riddled with a rasp of violent agony, as the heat springs forth to my complexion in a tuft of dampening precipitation, and the salty layer begins to seep the red wash of my skin. “Alyssa.” I say, with a grave harshness to my tone, as she remains unmoving (sobbing silently, to herself) beside me. “Do the other one.” I do not dwell on her quiet crying, as she makes her way before me, and she nestles down at my opposing side, and I do not dwell on the ever-burning fire that seems to corrupt every living cell within me, swirling, biting, licking, ruining, me; running circles upon my exhausted frame. Exhausted. It paints the inner lids of my eyes, and the thought of rest seems so entirely delightful, that I have to peel them open. Exhausted. Exhausted. Exhausted. Exhausted. I resent myself for protesting my bodily wishes, and I heave the silent cry of my sobbing frame, denatured and entirely unaware. Unaware. Oblivious. Unfeeling, as another riveting POP echoes throughout the subtly disturbed volume of the room.

I feel it.

Oh, do I feel it.

But it does not register.

I am so alight, I am so wholly consumed, as the flames lick, and they engulf my frame; they wind brutally throughout the broken possession of my bone marrow, and they curve within the bruise of my jutting spine, my fractured rib; they grapple the cranium of my mind so violently, that I feel my slow blinking may rupture me an explosive head, at any given moment; they rip, and they tear, at the flesh of my muscles, running laps around, and around, my pain threshold; daring me, taunting me. Still think you’re winning? They laugh. Still think you’re winning?

But Alyssa is still here. Alyssa is still here, and Benjamin is still unmoving, at my feet, and I am still breathing. Alyssa is still here, and I am still breathing, and-

And soft, small, fingers wind through the matted knots of my bloodied, stained, hair, at the base of my neck.

I shift my watery gaze upon the girl beside me, stricken with a glaze of unforgettable, lurching, fear, as her blue eyes blubber silently, and she cries, and she cries, and she does her best to offer me comfort. She does her best to offer me comfort, and she smiles with closed, tear-tousled, lips, as I furrow my eyebrows, and I find myself bubbling with a warm determination.

Still winning, my heart thuds, still winning, still winning, still winning. Still winning, and I force my limbs to shift. To move an inch, or perhaps a mere centimeter, as that damned fire engulfs my arms, and it wraps them up, up, up; up, and down, spiraling throughout the system of my nerves. From the depth of the crook in my elbow, to the muscles hung loosely amongst my shoulders. Around, and around, but still, I try. “Come here,” I whisper, softly, and I motion with a nod of the head for Lissy to approach. She follows, a stumble or so trodden, and then she stands before me. I lift my arm - jaw clenched, swallowing back the rise of that bile concoction, and ignoring the violent flare of heat that deems eruption amongst the joint of my fucking shoulder - and I run my thumb along the red flush of her tear-stricken cheek. Trembling, though it is, I hold her face with soft assertion. “We’re gonna be just fine,” I say, almost inaudible beneath my bitten down cries, and I offer her a tight-lipped smile. “I promise, Lissy.” I say. “I promise.”

Alyssa doesn’t nod, she doesn’t offer me one of those (non)comforting, teary, smiles, that find my chest clenching with some sort of heartache, rather than warmth, and, instead, the girl furrows her eyebrows. “Does it hurt?” She asks, again, and I know that she is looking for honesty. That she wants the truth, despite her youth; that her innocence is gone. That whatever spark she once attained no longer resides within her cerulean orbs, and that they are darker beneath the dim yellow lighting. That they are darker beneath her trauma.

“Yeah.” I say, softly. “It does.”

“Can you move?”

No. “Yeah.” I smile, nodding gently, as I lower my arm, and I open my mouth to offer another white lie. “Just a little sore, that’s all.” I say. “Why don’t you-” I swallow the uprising bile that congregates within the over-salivation of my glands, and it scratches upon the ache of my tired throat. “Uh, why don’t you check- Check that, uhm-” I gulp back down my words, rearranging them upon my tongue, as the flaring pulse throughout my entirety finds itself momentarily blinding. Still think you’re winning? Still think you’re winning? “Check the door, Okay?” I say, quietly, and I do not dwell upon the observational quirk of her eyebrow, as Alyssa regards me cautiously, and she retreats her silent footwork. “Try and open it.” I offer her a reassuring (?) kind of smile, crooked, and bloody, but she does not seem to acknowledge it - not anymore - as she approaches the darkened corner of the room; the shadow of the great, steel, door. “Can you do it?” I call, tone impossibly rasped upon the echoing silence around.

There is the distinct sound of struggling metal, as the door jutts back and forth, stuck strictly within its positioning; locked. “It won’t open.” Alyssa says, quietly, and I wonder just how the little girl remains so consistently composed. Of course, her cheeks are littered with unforgiving layers of drying, and thickly moistened, tears, and her eyes are red raw, wide, and traumatized, but not yet has she… broken. Still, she speaks calmly; still, she bites back her loud sobs, and she contains the shudder of her frame. I can only assume that this gravely resolve will crack very suddenly, one day, and, much the same as the floodgates to an overflowing river, everything will come crashing down upon her city of composure. I do not allow myself to dwell upon this thought, however, as the pressing matter of escaping (preferably before Benjamin regains consciousness) thumps iambically throughout my bodily matter.

“Try the bolts.” I offer. “Are there any bolts?”

“No.” She says, distantly, with subtle strain, as though she is poised upon the tips of her toes, attempting to grapple the top of the door frame. “Nothing.” She says.

“Is there a keyhole?” I try, again, as I bite back a subtle groan. Fire. Fire. Heat, coursing throughout my motionless frame. Can you move? No. No. I cannot. I can hardly breathe, and I-

“Yeah.” She hums. “Right here.”

In, and out. In, and out. “Okay.” I say, “Keys in the door?”

“No.”

Fuck. There is no need for an IQ of 187 to figure out quite where the missing puzzle piece resides. Benjamin’s belt. The very same belt that he rather enjoyed wrapping around my throat, and observing the silent purple that flared upon the taint of my bloodied, fractured, face, just the evening before. Perhaps it was not evening - the concept of time has evaded me entirely, and I rely solely upon the scent of his breath, to know which meal he has likely devoured, before roaming his way within the… the room. Coffee, and something else particularly sweet (often a pastry, I like to believe) linger upon his words when he speaks, some days, and I know that it is morning. Sometimes the scent of seafood, or a cold sandwich filling, wafts upon my face, and the potent stench of a carbonated drink, with the distant flavour of a cheap beer, and I know that it is midday, or just after the fact. Warm, meaty, scents, with cheap red wine tend to find him delighted, by the time that dinner rolls around, and, I realise, that must mean that it is currently night.

Hours have since passed, from when he first entered the room, smelling strongly of a meat pie, and a three quarter bottle of cheap, red, wine, and, now, around twenty-five (or so) minutes have slipped through my fingers. Time flies when you’re in agony. Abiding by my own, personally devised, day clock, I might assume that I have been submerged within this room for four days. Almost five, I do suppose, should we not escape before the morning sun rises. Not that we may find out when that is, of course. There are no windows.

My capture had been no fault other than my own. The ‘case’ (Benjamin Fackle, a serial Child Molester, and Rapist, whom the media deemed the ‘Baby Raper’, and a creature the Police Department have been desperately searching for, for many a month) was not official. His name had not crossed my desk. The team knew of him - of course we did, he was a monster in disguise, and we ached for an invitation to work on the case - but, alas, our company was not beckoned for. I spoke to no one of my private research, my geographical profile, and neither my personal profile, but, with the aid of an unsuspecting Garcia (whom did not know the details of my expertly worded, and secretive, request) I had delved upon the narrowed depiction of three addresses.

The first, an Orphanage, which had since been demolished, and held not a single occupant, was futile. An easy occupation to discard from my list. And, then, came the second. In possession of my gun (and only my gun, my naivety be damned), with no vest, and no back-up-protection, I entered the grounds. That, among a conundrum of other things, was my first mistake.

There, waiting for me, among the looming shadows of night, was Benjamin Fackle. Crouched behind the door of an easily concealable blind-spot, I disregarded my Federal training, and I dismissed that damned corner. Always check your blindspots, Agent. I could hear the drilling tone bouncing around my mind, mocking me, much the same as that pulsating heat that continued to rivet around my conscience. You don’t check your blindspots, you’re as good as dead. You hear me? I heard him, alright, but that doesn’t matter, now. Not when it didn’t fall into practice, and I failed to do so when it mattered the most.

But I simply couldn’t resist it. Not this case. Not this kind of UnSub.

Not when he has been ripping the innocence from seventy-nine children (and counting), and disregarding them so heart wrenchingly. Not when he has been putting them through the same damned trauma I experienced, as a child. Not this case. Not this UnSub.

And so I force myself back, upon the brickwork behind me, and I ignore my burning frame with a foolish ignorance, engulfing the movement with stuttered fluidity, as the fragile joint of my wounded, bruised, knees, bend, and they shakingly heave my weakening body from the cold compress of the concrete floor. Up, and down, do the sharp pins flow; around, and around, do the needles pivot, but still, I force myself to stand. I force myself to stand, and my arms hang loosely at my sides; not dislodged, but still not quite intact, still burning violently, still thickly riddled with agony.

I stand, and I rest back upon the brickwork, and I heave my ragged breaths. In, and out, I stutter; in, and out. In, and out, but it aches, and it burns, and I blink slowly. I blink slowly, and I swallow back the protest of my uneasy stomach, that crawls within the salivation of my tight throat, and I force my stuttering frame to take a stumbled step forth.

Pushing from the wall, I tumble with heavy feet. Mulling within my agony; sharp, shallow, wounds, find themselves imprinting mercilessly about the trembling flesh, inflicting detrimentally upon the complexion, and I almost wish - just for a moment, just for a passing second - that I could halt my breathing. As my legs give out beneath me, and I crumble beside the shallow respire of Benjamin’s still frame, and I swallow down the loud cry that threatens to break through the tight catch of my teeth, as I bite down upon my lips, and I force it down - down, down, down - and I blink back the wave of tears (slowly), and I ignore the heat - God, the fucking heat - that dances, and grips, my aching muscles with piercing ferocity.

I crumble beside Benjamin, and I reach, with trembling, not quite numb, and paling, limbs, for his belt. The clink of the metal upon the stone seems to- it seems to- Alyssa. She lets out a quiet sob, from the corner, and I know what the indication sounds like, as a lump forms in my throat, and I can’t swallow it down, and I fumble with the buckle, and I hope, oh, I pray, that I can find those fucking keys, and I-

Jingle. I drag the metal back, and- Jingle, Jingle.

A soft, breathy, laugh falls from my mouth, as it contorts to the prologue of a violent sob, and I contort my features, I pinch them as tightly as I suppose that they may allow, and I hold it back- I hold it back, and I swallow the lump, and I press the cool metal of the keys to my chest, and I allow it to vibrate with the shudder of a hollow, dishonest, laugh. A laugh, to fulfil the urge of overwhelming moroseness, and exhaustion, that grapples me so aggressively, I find it difficult to breathe, with my head tipped back, and a glassy shein to my eyes, and I force myself to pull it together. I collect myself, there, upon the concrete, and I call out to the crying girl in the corner.

“Lissy.” I say, all too quietly for my liking. “Lissy, I’ve-” I swallow my words, as they threaten to exit in a jumbled mess. Oh Fuck, my heart thrums, with lesser the all-consuming fear, and more of the elation, the adrenaline, as the burning heat begins to dissipate, and I suppose that the adrenaline will not last forever. Oh Fuck, Oh Fuck, Oh Fuck. “I’ve got them.” I whisper. “Lissy, I’ve- They’re here, look, I’ve got them-” I stumble to my feet, riddled with the deafening thump of my heart, Oh Fuck, Oh Fuck, Oh Fuck, as it laughs within my ears, and it mocks my auditory joy. It doesn’t burn. It doesn’t ache. I can’t feel a damned thing - nothing but the dizzying beat of my heart, that pumps wildly in my ears. It won’t last long, I think, as I stumble unsteadily on my footing, and I make my way to Alyssa.

It won’t last long.

And so I do not bother to comfort the girl, as she cradles her head in her hands, and she ducks it between her bent knees, curled desperately upon the ground, beneath the door, and I do not bother to grow frustrated, as I try the first key of four, and it doesn’t fit. I try the second, and it jams within the lock - not that one - and then the third. The third - oh, the beautiful third - that twists, with jutted prosperity, and it signals the sequence of unlocking metal.

It doesn’t burn. It doesn’t ache. I can’t feel a damned thing, as I lower myself with unsteadying speed, and I scoop the light girl, trembling, and sobbing, within my arms. My bruised, broken, mangled limbs, and I clutch her to my chest. It doesn’t burn. It doesn’t ache. I can’t feel a damned thing, but I’m winning.

I’m winning.

I’m winning, as I stumble incoherently through the doorway, and I disregard the nauseating crack, when something collides with the steel of the door, as it chases me through, and I’m winning as I find myself shoving the damned key in the lock, and twisting, and twisting, and leaving it there to rot, and I trap that bastard within those damned, yellow-lit, walls, and I’m winning as I am tumbling through the misleading path of the unfamiliar home. Unfamiliar corners, unfamiliar rooms, unfamiliar sights. But I’m winning. I’m winning. By God, am I winning.

And I am still winning, as I collide with the front door, and I throw it open, thoughtless for the dutiful ache that is silenced by the thudding in my ears, and I make my way upon the pavement, concealed by the evading darkness that is night, and I begin to stutter my rugged footsteps - bare feet bloodied, and slapping down upon the walkway beneath me - and I hold the girl to my chest. I hold her, and I hold her, and I hold her, and I open my mouth to speak.

“We’re free, Lissy.” I say, quietly. “Look,” I point above her head, as I glance down upon her whimpering expression, “Look at the stars, baby.” I whisper. “We’re free.” And I know that we are not truly free, that, should my adrenaline, thrumming throughout my entirety, and consuming my conscience in a consistent hum of evading hope, ware off, should the pain settle back in, and the wind stop cooling the persistent burning that peppers moisture aloft my forehead, should everything fall to nothing, and should the morning sun mark the fifth day of my absence, we will not be free. That we will be, perhaps, as good as dead - Always check your blindspots, Agent - within the confinement of unfamiliar roads, and unfamiliar geography, and a town full of unfamiliar people.

After Benjamin had struck me over the head, a wound that soon sobered up, when he first began the beatings, he had locked me within the boot of his car. I was unconscious for most of the journey, and the back tail light seemed too difficult to kick through, at the time. He had weakened me, considerably, and I found myself unsure as to whereabouts it was that we were going. And, thus, I do not know our current location, either.

The low hang of the moon does little to console me, as the gush of my blood within my ears begins to slowly dwindle - thump-thump-thump; thump, thump; thump-thump-thump - but, with her cheek rested softly aloft my weightless chest, Alyssa stares up at it; bleary eyed, and consumed. Her stare of wonder gives little away, and I find myself praying, with whatever religion I have left in me, that she may recover. That this traumatic experience may dissipate beneath the life she has yet to live, and that, when the time comes, she will be able to face her trauma, and heal the wound indefinitely. That, one day, she may look up at the moon, and she may not be reminded of what Benjamin Fackle has done to her, and that she may capture the light of the stars within her blue stare, again. That she will regain a form of innocence, and that recovery comes quickly.

I know that it does not. I know that the pain never truly leaves you, but one can hope. One can hope, and while I am breathing, I hold on to that.

Just as I hold on to the girl, cradled to my chest, as the thinning beat within my ears begins to fade, and, with every passing second, I find my footing faltering ever-so-slightly. A dreadful kind of suspense begins to well in the pit of my stomach, as a creeping fire begins to erupt, deep within the soles of my bloody feet. It begins in my toes; travels up, up, up, to the uneasy curl of my ankle, the joint bitter in its inevitable damage, and I clench my jaw. I clench my jaw tightly, because I- because I knew that it wouldn’t last long, I knew that it wouldn’t last long, and still, I find myself surprised, frustrated, that the adrenaline is wearing. That, soon enough, I will find myself imobile, constricted by the worst level of pain I will ever endure. Bone, upon bone; fracture, upon fracture; the make-up of my anatomy begs for more adrenaline.

I push forth. Through the dim lighting of the streetlight - contorting to that of my aggressive dizziness, as the scene frame binds back and forth between the figure of four, and the singular, blurred, picture - I am able to… I can see a-

I sway in my footing, caught by the ferocious burn as it runs up, and it runs down, the joint of my knee; echoing around like the mocking laugh of my slow, steady, heartbeat. Still think you’re winning? It taunts, diving from one ear, circling my head, and protruding through the other, with a sickening giggle to warp it all in between. I grit my teeth, and I ignore it, inhaling shakily through my nostrils. In, I try, and out. But the burning ache has returned, and it drawls its slow, merciless, crawl, up, and up, and up, and up, my entirety; locking in the very cells of my biology, and taunting a dangerous song.

Oh, how it burns, I swallow thickly; how it aches.

It burns, and it aches, and I blink slowly, and I raise my foot - up, up, up - and I force it forward. A gentle connection with the floor holds no matter, I comprehend, as a thousand pins scatter about the marrow of my damaged skeleton, and a thousand needles pierce the tranquil complexion of a broken cohesion. It burns, and it aches, but I parry on. I parry on, and I delve myself yet another great number of unsteady stumbles; one foot, then the next, and then another few. I catch myself roughly as I groan out aloud, because, oh, it aches, and oh, it burns, and I blink slowly, and I entice myself to breathe, as I pause. In, my throat rasps upon the cool temperature of the night, and out.

“Alyssa.” I murmur, gently, as it fills the light air that surrounds us. The girl adjusts her attention, shuffling softly among my grip, and I am unable to swallow the cry that forces its way out, as she regards me with wide, watering, eyes, and I lower her (incautiously) to the ground. She lands with a thud, as her bare feet slap the concrete, and a subtle stumble, as I bend my frame, slightly, and I adhere to an unsteady lumber; contorted by the sheer ferocity of the flames, engulfing my arms with an unforgiving depiction. “Fuck,” I whisper, moreso for the expression, than for any natural effect, and I attempt to regain my posture. In, I rise to my full height, and I ignore the blasphemous heat that licks upon every morsel, every joint, and out. In, I ignore the blissful call of exhaustion’s lesion, as it beckons me slowly, and I flutter my eyes shut, arms hung limp at my sides, and out. I breathe, and I breathe, and I remain swaying in my place, silently wishing that the damned payphone was not fifteen feet away.

Still think you’re winning?

Fuck you, am I losing, I spit, internally, and I’m not quite sure who I am fighting, anymore. Benjamin Fackle? My pain? Myself? My exhaustion? Death? It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter.

I take another step, and I force myself to contain my expression of pain. I swallow it back, as the salivating gland to the inner corner of my throat begins to over-work, and the sleek bile concoction begins to trail its way up, up, up, through my esophagus, once more, and I feel it beginning to crawl through the burn of my throat. But the payphone is ten feet away, and fuck you, am I losing.

A rough swallow, and a softly hidden gip; I trudge another few feet upon the cold pathway bellow me, and I pledge my attention solely upon the approaching, smooth, steel of the payphone, enlarging, and imposing, as it draws nearer, and nearer, and nearer; one step, two steps, three steps, four, do I stumble, stuttering gracelessly in my stride as I go, and, oh, the phone is almost here. I reach for it, the sweet, sweet, plastic of bitter salvation, and a gentle cry escapes my mouth as I curl my digits upon it. I’ve got it. I’ve got it. I’ve got it. I’ve got it.

I’ve got it, and I draw it up, ignoring the flaring heat that roars throughout my entirety, and I allow my trembling grip to pale upon the device; gripping it, gripping it, gripping it, because Holy Fuck, I’ve got it. I’ve got it, but I- I swallow thickly, and I drag my burning frame that little bit closer. I’ve got the phone, and there’s- I check the credit, faintly projected beneath the dim light of the street, and another breathless laugh falls from my mouth, perhaps the first genuine smile gracing my lips, as an unnoticed trail of warm tears track their salty trace down my cheeks.

One Call Remaining.

One call remaining, I hover my hand above the metal keypad. I only know one number. I only know one number, but, as I smile, and I sniffle gently to myself, I know that it’s the only number I need, and I dial it - with shaking, aching, fingers, I dial the number, and I clutch upon the rim of the metal compartment with a wavering grip.

It rings once, twice, three times, and I pray, oh, to any God that may here me, do I pray that he picks up, as the echo of the ringing begins to sound less like the bells of a church, and more like the mocking laugh of someone poking me, prodding: Still think you’re winning? Still think you’re winning? Come on, pick up. Pick up. Pick up. Pick u-

“Hello?” There he is. Tone thick with sleep, groggy, and deep - down, I notice, but it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. He picked up. He picked up. “Hello?”

“Spence.” I breathe, as another humourless, teary, laugh trickles from my throat. “Oh, my God, Spencer.”

There is immediate shuffling, across the line, and I can only assume that he is sitting upright, frowning into the dark before him. Perhaps he has switched on his bedside lamp. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. “Y/N?” He rasps, softly, with such a gentleness, I fear that something else hides behind his tone. “Is that you?”

I pause, for a moment, as my expression pinches, and the crumble of agony descends upon my shoulders like the tide upon the shore, and the edge of my eroded cliff begins to fall. “It’s me, Pretty Boy.” I whisper, tone riddled by the repressed lather of edging tears; the misery that threatens to spill. I bite it back, and I relax my contorted expression. I hold it down, and my chest begins to burn, again. It burns, and it aches, and my body is on fire. But he’s here - my Spencer, my Pretty Boy - he’s here, and I am still breathing, and Alyssa is still here, and Benjamin Fackle is not.

I blink slowly, and I swallow down my silent cries, as the warm moisture of irrevocable tears fall solemnly upon my cheeks, and I sniffle it back, as the shuffling continues through the rough auditory of the responding end.

“Where are you?” He asks, a certain heaviness to his tone that has not been invoked by the influence of exhaustion. He sniffles, and I wipe my moistened mouth with the back of my wrist, ignoring the sudden flare of pain that engulfs my arm, my body, as a soft sound falls from my lips. I could hope that he did not hear it, that my quiet whimper slipped through the cracks of the terrible connection, but I know Spencer. Oh, do I know him, and so, when he gulps audibly, and he stutters over his words, I know that he is entirely aware of my pain. “I- I couldn’t, I’m-” He takes a shaken, deep, breath, and he tries again. “Where, uh- where are you, Y/N?” He asks, quietly, as the explicit ruffle of a breeze picks up on his end, and the distant slam of a door alerts me that he is on the move. I almost smile. Almost, if it were not for the grave buck of my knee, as it gives out, and I half-collapse, and an audible yell falls from my lips, the phone slipping from my weak grip, and tumbling to clatter with the metal of the side panel.

The sudden glare of invading heat, rupturing between this cell, and that cell, and every damned muscle in between, catches my body in a crampating hold; forcing me down upon a half-crouch, half-bend, as a forty-five degree angle courses through my hot, hot, agonized, frame. “Fuck,” I groan, as I slowly - oh-so-slowly, with a hiss here, and a quiet moan there - drag myself back up, and I place the phone back to my ear. Fuck. The incessant flourish of heat warps my limbs, carries them upon a throne of daggers, and of bruising pellets, and I find myself stifling back a sob, as he immediately interrupts my discomforted quiet.

“Y/N?” Spencer calls, no less a shout, than an urgent call. “Y/N, what’s going on?” He pleads, not quite bothering to mask the teary tone that he displays. I suppose that Spencer has always been like that - with me, at least - whereby his emotions are so raw, so pretty, that one cannot help being entirely enamoured by the way his tone thickens, and his lower lip trembles, as he forces back his tears, and I cannot help but allow my eyes to flutter shut; to envision his large, brown, eyes, so pretty beneath the glassy shein, and, for the second time, tonight, I allow a thumping thought to re-iterate itself among my pulse.

This is it, it says, and I am not sure if I am winning, anymore.

It just- Oh, Oh it hurts, and it aches, and it burns, and I- and I can’t tell if the moisture on my cheeks is from my silent tears, or the precipitation from my hot sweat, but it doesn’t seem to matter. It doesn’t seem to matter, because the urgent calls of Spencer’s thickening concern seem to fade - drifting, drifting, drifting away - and I lose myself within that certain void of semi-consciousness. Slumped upright, against the payphone booth, it pulses in my ears, and it aches, and it burns, and it hurts, and this is it. This is it. This is it. This is how I die, and I’m not sure if I am winning anymore, and I can’t hear my Pretty Boy, and I can’t picture his pretty brown eyes, or his pretty little face, or the soft embrace I could dare to call home, and I can’t think of anything. I can’t- it won’t- it aches, and it burns, and it hurts, and this is it. This is it. This is it. This is it. And I’m not winning anymore. I’m not losing, I’ve gained some sort of victory, along the way, but I can’t see the finish line, and I’m slowing down. I’m slowing down. I’m slowing down. I’m slowing down, and this is it. This is it. This is it. This is it.

This is it, and small, nimble, fingers, approach my peripheral. Like that slow-motion scene, with distant classical music echoing from the depth of another, airy, room; I watch it take ahold of the phone; watch it disappear, again, and the muffled tone of a child - Lissy Doll, little, little, Lissy Doll - soaks within my senses, devoured like the sweet scent of honey to a sore throat. I hear her, as I slide down the metal of the payphone, and I succumb to the desperate flames; I hear her, but I cannot bring myself to listen. Not as she speaks, with tears - I assume this is what I notice, glimmering upon her pink cheeks, as she cries beneath the moonlight - trailing her face, and she sniffles, and stutters, and she tries to reply as informatively to Spencer as she possibly can. I want to call out to her - want to inform her that this is why she is a good girl, that her unrelenting ability to do the right thing is what makes her good, not her lack of protest, and neither her silence, or her previously dry cheeks. I want to tell her that I am proud of her, as I lower my cranium upon the cold pathway below me, but I am tired.

I am tired, and this is it.

This is it. This is it. This is it.

This is it, and I know that Spencer will save her, now. That, although I am not winning, although I have not won, Alyssa is safe. Alyssa will grow to learn her recovery, and she will regain her aforementioned youth. And, as I roll upon my back, my body aroar with flames that ache, and that burn, and that taunt me desperately within my ear, that thank me, profusely, for my sacrifice, I stare up at the sky, and I smile, softly. Benjamin Fackle will be caught, should he catch his breath, and regain his consciousness, and Alyssa will recover. Her mother will hold her little Lissy Doll, once more, and she will be able to watch her child grow old, and she will know that in my death, her daughter found life. I suppose that death is not quite as morbid, when I think of it like this.

When I ignore the persistent nagging, in the forefront of my mind, as my eyelids droop, and exhaustion overwhelms me, and I pretend that in dying, I would not tear Spencer apart. I pretend, and I pretend, as I attempt to count the stars above me, for I know that I would shred him, limb from limb, and he would never recover. I am not so arrogant as to believe that I hold such power over any other, but Spencer is not just ‘any other’. Spencer - my Spencer - devotes himself, entirely, to the concept of love. He has never told me this - not in words - but- but I know. Love is not something you should ever find yourself questioning, and, if you are, it is not true love. I have never found myself questioning Spencer’s muse of adoration, despite his reluctance to openly admit it (all those months ago), and I know that I am lucky. That Spencer has known far too much pain for someone of such a golden declaration, and that his soul must be woven of the finest silk. There is not a single part of me - not a fraction, not a section - that does not know this, is not consumed by this. But here, as I lie upon the concrete, and Alyssa’s quiet crying forms a background serenade for my slow, painful, death, I wonder if my Pretty Boy would be alright.

I wonder if Spencer would recover, in time, much the same as Alyssa will, and I wonder if he will accept that it was my fault. That, ultimately, had I not imposed myself upon this unofficial case, and attempted to take matters into my own, foolish, hands, I would not be here, at this moment, dying. And he would not be awoken in the middle of the night, to an Unknown Number, and he would not be met with the pained cry of his tortured partner - a tortured partner that stares up to the stars, as they lay dying, and smiles because they are beneath the same sky as the love of their life, and, well, nothing seems to matter, anymore.

My body tingles - the kind of tingle that curls, and crawls, throughout your broken skeleton - and I let it dance, drunkenly, through the course of my very being. For when I remain motionless, it doesn’t quite hurt, anymore. Quite, because I am unsure as to whether the tingling is a symptom of forthcoming death - if I am numb, and unable to feel anything, anymore, but it doesn’t matter.

This is it, and it doesn’t matter, as I stare up at the night sky, and I sketch my Pretty Boy’s face among the stars, and I know that he fits right in, up there, with his soft chocolate hair, that swoops upon the right side of his face, and curls behind his ear; with his perfect little nose, that buttons, and finds itself entirely symmetrical, and the round, gently crinkled, expression of adoration within his wonderfully dark eyes - creased to the edge, as he smiles at me, and I lose myself in his adoration. And I think that if I am to die tonight, beneath the stars, with the vision of Spencer glancing down upon me with nothing but pure love, and affectionate warmth, I think that I am to die happy.

“Lissy,” I call, softly, and I hear her murmur something to my Spencer. I am unsure as to how long the credit will remain, though I assume it will not be forever, as Alyssa turns to face me, and I offer her a genuine, toothy, smile. “Can I speak to him?” I ask, quietly, and I can hardly recognize my own voice, beneath the rasp of my naked throat, and the relief that courses through my frame from the numbness that dying provides. “Please?” Please, may I bid my farewell?

Alyssa doesn’t say anything, with yet another sniffle, and she speaks another bundle of words that I do not quite catch, as she lowers herself to kneel beside me, the chord of the phone almost entirely outstretched, and she places the receiver to my ear, and the speaker to my chapped, smiling, lips. “Y/N?” I hear, as I see him amongst the stars, and my eyes crinkle at the notion, bewitched by a toothy, genuine, grin. The phone is cold, and I blink slowly up at the sky.

“Hey, Pretty Boy.” I say, quietly. “I miss you.”

There is hardly a pause, though I notice that the wind is no longer present upon the static of his end. “I don’t- I’m-” He catches his words, and he rearranges them. He doesn’t know what to say, but I let him take his time. “Why would you do that?” He hisses, softly, after a moment and there is a returning thickness that bubbles in his throat. I hear him swallow, but it doesn’t quite seem to do anything, at all, as he continues, and he sniffles back his tears, slightly. “Why wouldn’t you tell anyone?” He asks. Not scolding, not angrily, more of the bitter mourning, and the grief, that wraps upon his tone, and I find myself swallowing my honesty, for the moment.

“Can you see the sky, Spencie?” I evade, staring up at the constellations that form before me, as he shuffles, and his silence echoes back to me. “Can you see the stars?”

“Y/N-” His voice trembles, but I cut him off.

“I’m not winning, anymore, Spence.” I say, a mere whisper upon the silent street around us. “I’m not losing.” I continue. “But I’m- I’m not winning, either.”

“What?” He mumbles, voice thick with tears, and I envision them tumbling down his face. Another shuffle breaks forth, and I assume that he has wiped his cheeks. My chest begins to ache, again, as I picture the subtle furrow of his eyebrows, and the way his tongue will run over the pout of his trembling lower lip, as he exhales through his cheeks, and he sniffles with his pretty nose, and I smile, softly, into the night, and, despite the dense knowledge that I will not, I hope that I will make it. That this isn’t it. But, deep down, I know that it is, and thus, I continue.

“I want you to-” I swallow back the uprising hiss, as I move my jaw somewhat to animatedly, and a flare of heat erupts in my throat, and I speak quieter, as I try again, and I know that Spencer’s expression is pinched. “I want you to take care of Lissy, alright?” I say.

Silence.

“Spencer, promise me.” I whisper. “I need you to do that for me.”

“Why would-” He delves a shaky inhale, “Why would I have to do it?” He says. “You’re gonna be fine, Y/N.” He continues, a tremble to his tone, “You’re gonna be Okay. You’re gonna walk away from this, just fine, and Alyssa’s gonna have access to as much help as she needs, and we- and we’re gonna be just fine, Okay?” I want to shake my head, I want to interrupt his self indulged, dishonest, ramble, and I want to stop him - want to reach out, and hold him, and to assure him that he will recover - but this is it, and time is simply not on my side.

“Spencer.” I call, softly, and he falls to immediate silence; his breathing inconsistent, and shaken. “I’m not winning, anymore.” I repeat, and I know that he has gathered together the missing pieces. “I’m not.” I say. “And- and it hurts.” I whisper. “It hurts, and I’m tired-”

“I know, baby,” He says, gently, as he gulps in a trembled lungful of air, and he swallows down the lump in his throat, and he tries to speak again. “I know you’re tired, and I know that you’re in pain, but you can hold on. I know you can, Y/N, come on.” He says. “Fight.” And a quiet, almost silent, whimper leaves my lips, until the stars are all a blanket of ill-lit darkness, and I can hardly comprehend his grief as he speaks again. “Please.” He whispers. “You’ve gotten through the worst of it, and if you- if you don’t move, and you stop talking, and you preserve your energy, you’ll be fine. You can survive another three minutes, and twenty four seconds, can’t you?”

A breathless, teary, laugh falls from me, then, and I ignore the blistering fire that erupts throughout my body. “Calculated to the second.” I tease, softly, “How ingenious of you, Doctor.”

He reciprocates my watery laugh, though riddled with far less enthusiasm than I, and he mutters his quiet response: “I do have an IQ of 187, and an-”

“And an eidetic memory.” I finish, smiling toothily to myself, despite the chorus of flames that attempts to swallow me whole. “I know, Spencer.” I say. “And I know that you don’t think intelligence can be quantitatively measured.”

“No.” He says, “I don’t.”

“And I know that you-” I gulp back the concoction of bile, and I try it again, a certain hoarseness about my tone. “I know that you can read twenty-thousand words per minute, and that you don’t much like the taste of coffee, so you- you pour the whole bag of sugar in there-”

“I do not-”

“You do, Pretty Boy.” I smile, and, beneath the soft crackle of the reception, I hear a low rumble of agreement.

“She’s right.” They say, a grin to their tone, and I know that voice. Oh, I know it well.

“Is that Morgan?” I rasp, softly, and I smile up at the sky, as the man in question offers his greeting.

“Hey, Babygirl.” He says, with that same kind of warmth that Derek seems to consistently radiate. My chest aches, again, and I realise that I do not want this to be it. It aches, and the charred flavour of my burning sternum crawls back upon my tongue, and it nestles there, as he offers a question of less-than-casual-conversation. “How you holdin’ up?” He asks.

“Great, actually.” I joke, as I offer a kind smile to Alyssa, and she runs her nimble, small, fingers through my hair, and she reciprocates the gesture, ascending her gaze back to the stars, as she goes. “If you consider two-” I let out a low cough, as the concoction of bile seeps beneath my tongue, and it- I heave, abruptly, and I force myself to twist to the side, unloading whatever the fuck was left, rejected, amongst my stomach. The wet splatter of blood, and of bile, of mucus, and salivation, coaxes the pavement, a mere few inches away, as I retreat, slowly, back to the receiver of the phone, and I dismiss the neverending roar of flames, engulfing my body, still, as I sink back into my vertical position, and I return to the conversation.

“Y/N?” Spencer calls, a thickened tone of worry conveying about his voice.

“I’m fine.” I lie. “Just a little, uh-” I swallow back the coppery aftertaste, and I offer Alyssa another gentle smile. “Nauseous.” I murmur.

“Nauseous?” Spencer repeats. “Do you have a fever?”

“I don’t have the flu, Spence,” I dare to jest, “It’s probably just something to do with my two dislocated, and relocated, shoulders. Or, maybe my- maybe my (probably broken) ankle, and the-” Another strained groan falls from me, as Alyssa slumps herself down upon the pathway, and she (accidentally) knocks the jolt of my displaced shoulder, a great POP echoing out from such a sudden movement. Fire. Heat. Hot, hot, hot; it licks away at the joint, and I let out a great, stifled cry, as she attempts to place her palm upon it, and I- “Fuck!” I cry, “Don’t touch it, Lissy, don’t-” I swallow down another yell, as the fire runs up, and down, up, and down, the length of my arm; pins and needles carouselling their way about the wounded flesh. “Don’t touch it. Please.” I implore, quietly, as I attempt to return to the phone, and I retrain my gaze upon the stars, slurry, and unfocused, for all its worth, as I find myself woozy beneath the beckon of exhaustion, once more.

“What was that?” Spencer pleads, as he holds the speaker somewhat too close to his mouth, and my head naturally jerks away from the volume of his cry. Another rip of gravely flames engulf my figure, as I strain myself to lower the extent of my groan, but it- Fuck, does it hurt. It aches, and it burns, and it licks up the fruit of my torture. “Y/N?” He calls, again, “What was that popping? Was that a joint?”

I grit my teeth, and I exhale through them roughly. In, I breathe, and out. “My shoulder, Spence.” I murmur, “Fuck- Please-” I do not want this to be it. I do not want this to be it. I do not want this to be it. The thump of my heart begins to pick up, and I withhold the uprising sob that threatens to break through. I do not want this to be it. “Please tell me you’re bringing an ambulance.” I murmur, and I hope that my insinuation is correct.

“They’re on the way.” He says. “We all are.”

“All?” I mutter, quietly.

“All of us, Babycakes.” Morgan says. “Don’t tell me you thought we’d be able to sleep, with your face on the news, like that.”

“I was on the news?”

“Headlining.”

“Great.” I scoff, “My big media break, and it’s the one thing that’ll have me fired.”

“It was a preposterous idea!” Spencer cuts in. “Going in alone, like that. You know that above ninety-seven percent of women are sexually assaulted? In their day-to-day lives? Why would you purposely search for a rapist? Why would you do that without back-up? I- I bet, I bet with every fibre of my being, that you didn’t check your blind spot.” He says, and I feel a certified something stir within the depth of my stomach, and pool deep within, for, oh, he knows me so well, and, and I- “You never check your blindspot. I do it for you, because I know that you’ll forget, but Y/N- fuck.” He says, and his breath shakes as he releases it. “And you know, you know that you are required, by law, to wait for back-up, when you do not have your vest, or any other form of protection. Y/N, we didn’t even know that you had worked on this case, never mind that you had gone to visit the UnSub by yourself-”

“He was out of his depth, Spencer.” I defend, quietly. I say it quietly, because it aches, and it burns, and it hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts, and he listens to me, anyway, and he lets out a shaky inhale, as I speak. “It wasn’t in the Profile for him to do something that ballsy-”

“Well, clearly your profile was inaccurate.” He snaps, a certain edge to his tone that I find myself unfamiliar with, as I recoil, slightly, and I ignore the flare of heat that congregates about my body. “If you hadn’t-” He pauses, and another trembled breath is to follow: In, and out. “Y/N, I just- I’m- I’m scared, alright? I’m worried. I don’t know your physiological, or psychological, condition, right now, and I’m- it’s just-” Another stuttered inhale. “This isn’t easy, Okay?”

“I know, Spence.”

“I don’t hear from you for four days, twenty-two hours, and thirty-nine minutes, roughly fourteen seconds, and you’re the headline for the news. MISSING: Federal Agent, Y/N Y/L/N, Last Seen in Quantico Virginia, at the Behavioural Analysis Unit Headquarters.” He recites, and I know that it has plagued the back of his eyelids like a lingering, bad, smell, ever since. “You know where you were last seen, Y/N? You were last seen with me, that’s where. And I can’t forget what that headline says, it is biologically impossible, and I can’t stop seeing it every time I close my eyes, and I- and I can’t stop thinking about how, should I have stayed with you for another four hours, or so, you wouldn’t have chased this UnSub, and you would be here, right now, and I wouldn’t be turning down the street, to find you sprawled out on the floor - because I know that’s what you’re doing - in agony, and feeling as though death is knocking at your door, and-”

“Breathe, Pretty Boy,” Morgan cuts in, “Breathe.”

But he doesn’t pause long enough to listen. “And I can’t-” His voice cracks, slightly, and my chest burns, it aches, as the subtlety of silent tears stream down the sides of my face, and they pool within the roots of my hair. “And I can’t listen to you, here, talking to me like you’ll-” He grapples a broken inhale, and he stutters amongst his breathing, and I hear the tears on his tongue. I hear them. I hear them. “-like you’ll never see me again. Like this call is some sort of goodbye.”

“I don’t want this to be it.” I say, gentler than I feel I have ever spoken, before, and Spencer offers his words of protest.

“It isn’t!” He exclaims, with a thick bitterness to his tone. Not quite directed at me, though the agony to his own constricting chest is evident. I find myself accustomed to the flavour of my burned sternum, as it rests upon my tongue, and I do not attempt to protest amongst his continuation, as he cries, and he parries on. “Fuck,” He whispers, and I envision him wiping away the fresh moisture of his expression, once again, as a quiet shuffling invokes upon the line. “This isn’t it. We’re-” He lets out a breath. “Can you hear us?” He asks. “We’re almost there.”

The distant wail of crying sirens engulfs my senses, paired with the static white noise of Spencer's anticipation, and I find my mouth up-tilting, ever so slightly. “Yeah.” I say. “I can hear you.” And maybe, just maybe, this isn’t it. Maybe Spencer - maybe my Pretty Boy Spence - is right. He is rarely wrong, that much may I agree, but he is not always accurate in his future depictions. For once, I find myself thinking, I hope that he is right.

“Good.” He says, perhaps more so to himself, than to me, as he repeats the notion, and he steadies his erratic breathing. “Good, Okay. We’re turning onto your street, now.” He says. “Can you see us?” The wailing sirens approach, they engulf the silence of the night, as they blare, and they scream, and they fall louder, and closer, and louder, and closer, and the stars all morph together, into one illuminated band of darkness, and the sirens blare on, growing louder, and closer, and louder, and closer, and- “Y/N?” Spencer calls.

“The sirens.” I murmur, distractedly, as they ricochet around my mind, and they bounce from one fragment of my inner skull, to the other, and they roll impotently about the curve of the bone. “They’re-” Louder, and closer, and louder, and closer. “They’re noisy.” I say, and I doubt that he can comprehend the gentle tone to which I depict, as the wail of the siren cry calls out, and a sudden screech falls present upon their hellish song.

Spencer does not reply, and I listen to the white noise - the white noise that grows distant, as the wailing aubade of the ambulance approaches - and, then, a chorus of footsteps consume my auditory senses.

I know my lover not by his footfall, but by the way in which he collapses, immediately, at my side, and his large, warm, hand, cusps at my broken cheek, and he observes me closely. And it aches, and it burns, but, oh, there he is. There he is, with a furrow to his straightened eyebrows, and a glassy film aloft his beautiful, warm, orbs - reduced to circles of worry, of anguish, as he observes my… my state of being - and I measure the map of his features, I blister them among the roof of my mind, as though I have not looked upon them fondly a thousand times before, and I offer my lover a soft, closed-mouth, smile. I offer him a smile, and I ache to run my fingers across his parted lips, to recall the feel of his skin, his perfect, perfect, complexion, and the symmetrical span of his face. In this moment, I want nothing more than to feel the weight of his body, sprawled out upon me, as my arms wind around his neck, and I embrace my Spencer, and we pretend that all the trauma of the world does not exist, and we love, and we love, and we love.

I watch the rapid descent of his features, and I gather that he wishes he knew nothing of my physiological well-being, if the subtlety of my pained cries aloft the phone were quite enough to reduce him to tears, and my fingers itch. They itch, they itch, and they itch, to run through the smooth flow of his hair, to brush it away from his pretty little features, and to assure him that: Hey, Pretty Boy, it’s alright. I’m alright. It’s going to be fine. Just fine, Okay? This isn’t it, I was wrong. I was wrong, Okay? This isn’t it, Pretty Boy. Come on. Come on, Pretty Boy, wipe those cheeks. It’s going to be just fine. It’s alright. It’s going to be fine, Pretty Boy. Okay? Okay.

But eyes, red raw, and leaking, stare down at me, and I know that to speak such words would be nought but a cruel spell of dishonesty. I’m not winning, anymore.

Trembling fingers work their way through the matted knots of my hair, brushing back the locks from my face, as they flail out upon the pathway beneath me, and Spencer shudders a quiet sigh. “Hey,” He greets, simply, as though he is not attempting to swallow his raging heart, that threatens to break through the lump in his throat. As though he is not on fire, with burning self-hatred (just like I know that he is), and gritting his teeth to prevent any upcoming sobs. As though I am not destroying him, as we speak. As though I am Okay, as though I am still winning. “Can-” Another shaken, stuttered, inhale, “Can you move?” He asks, and I gulp back the remainder of the bile concoction that has yet to bid me farewell. Can you move? No. No. I cannot. I can hardly breathe, and I-

I shake my head, gently, and I attempt to ignore the corrupting fire that, still, nibbles away at the aching flesh of my body, and I- “It hurts.” I repeat, no less than a whimper upon the business of the night. Blue light carousels around the darkness, illuminating the scene in an azure of flashing cerulean, but I see nothing other than the glassy brown of his wide, fearful, eyes. “It hurts, Spencer.” I say, and I am not quite sure just what it is that hurts, anymore, as my vision blurs, and the warmth of something hot, something wet, trails upon my broken cheeks.

“Shh,” He whispers, tone thickened by the tally of his own violent tear-shed, as he strokes the pad of his calloused thumb aloft my moistened complexion. “Shh,” He says, “I know.” But it aches, and it burns, and I can hardly breathe, once again. “I know, baby, it’s alright.” He says. “I’m here. I’m right here, Okay? Ri- right here.”

But that- it doesn’t- it doesn’t seem to matter, as he trails the dampness of my sopping cheeks, and his salty tears trickle down his throat. It doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter, because this is it. And, as a certain warmth begins to sprinkle upon the curve of my toes, and the quiet patter of uniformed feet scurry upon the pathway, and the roll of a- of the- stretcher? Of the stretcher. Oh, the stretcher. It aches, and it burns, and Spencer seems awfully beautiful, beneath the gaze of the moon, and my eyes- they ache, and they burn.

The angel that hangs above me, my very own offering from heaven (an offering, a fraction, like the stars, from the sun) and I think he has never looked more bittersweet in his beauty, than he does tonight, displayed beneath the moonlight. Displayed beneath the moonlight, as though he is carved, sculpted, so effortlessly, by the most callous, talented, hands that the Gods ever did have to offer. I swallow back my prosperity, as the shein upon my eyes begins to dwindle, and I consider whatever religion I have left, inside of me. I consider it, and I come to realise, as my adoration for this angel, for this sweet, sweet, lover of mine, paints itself in poetry upon my tongue, that all of my religion is made up of him. That he tastes like the body of Christ, or whomever my heart has decided is unworthy of worship in the presence of my Spencer, and he has stained my lungs with the scent of his forgiveness.

He is the religion that I have left, and I fall to my knees before him. As he furrows his eyebrows, and everything seems to dim, and the stars lose their spark, and I am wrapped- wrapped up, up, up, in a tingling sensation, that crawls around, and around, my entirety, and dissolves the fire, relishes the flames; that runs its hand through my hair, and threatens to succumb me to exhaustion.

This is it, I think, and I bore my stare into the warmth of Spencer’s darkening expression. His mouth, that hangs open, and shapes the body of words I cannot hear, but look a lot like my name, and the sirens of the world around, they all fall to nothing.

This is it, and I am consumed entirely in something that feels a lot like him. A lot like my Pretty Boy. A lot like Spencer. For it is warm, and it runs a steady hand through my hair, and it caresses my cheek, and I am- I am Okay. Just for this moment, I decide, I am Okay. The dull shadow of my gaze seems to darken, and the world around collapses, and I hear nothing. But I am Okay. I hear nothing; no buzz, no fuzz of the white noise, but I am Okay, and, in a strangely comforting anonymity, I allow myself to sway along with it’s somber aubade. For what, in life, is more beautiful than the transition? Than the end?

This is it, and I am Okay, and it does not hurt, as I indulge a final glance upon my lover, before me, and I strain my arm - my somewhat re-located joint, that doesn’t ache, and doesn’t burn, beneath the symphony that is my love - and I raise it up, up, up, and I cup at the curve of his trembled, tear-stricken, cheek. I hear him not, as he whispers to me, softly, and I do not dispel the announcement of my adoration, as I draw him closer to me, and he follows without question. Without question, because my Pretty Boy is not naive. Because my Pretty Boy knows, all to well, the prologue of agony, and, as he leans in to the heart of my hand, and his sopping wet features pinch with the repression of bitten back sobs, and he approaches, and he nears, and his warm, trembled, breath fans my lips, as it all takes place, and the world falls away, my Pretty Boy knows that this is it. That I am not winning, anymore.

He knows, he knows, he knows.

He knows, and his mouth is warm, is familiar, as it peppers its soft affection upon the wounded pout of my lips, and he cries his salted tears, that melt upon my damaged complexion with anger, and with poorly consumed rage, and he damns the cruel taste of fate, as it settles within his lungs. He knows, as he withdraws his fragile expression, and a gust of cold, frigid, air, wraps upon the flesh of my parted mouth, and his tongue darts upon his lower lip, and catches a bout full of tears. He knows. He knows. Oh, how he knows. And, as those very same lips bless the blood of my forehead with a ginger, angelic, kiss, and they press upon the skin with shaken certainty, our notion of adoration feels more like a goodbye, than an ‘I Love You’. But there doesn’t seem to be much of a difference, anymore, as I watch, through hooded eyes, and a numb, drifting, body, and I observe the violent tremble of his frame, his hunched shoulders, as he looms above me, and he cradles my face within his large hands.

There isn’t any difference, because this is it.

This is it, and I stutter through my final breath, and my half-lidded eyes absorb the dark nothingness before them for one final time.

This is it.

This is it, and I’m not winning, anymore.

#spencer reid #baby spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x reader fanfic #spencer reid x you fanfic #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x reader fanfiction #spencer reid x you fanfiction #fanfiction #fanfic #oneshot #criminal minds

121 notes · View notes

drjackandmissjo · 5 years ago

Text

firewhisky on ice, sunset and vine

you’ve ruined my life by not being mine

Chapter 6— previous chapter — next chapter

Harry Potter fics Masterlist

They were once again in their original compartment, the one they shared all the way back during their first ever ride on the Express.

In the past few years, under Pansy’s suggestion, they had moved to more populated carriages, not remaining locked in their little booth, to have the opportunity to mingle with other students, yet after the incident between Draco and Saint Potter, they had decided a more secluded area was in order.

And there they were, Draco and Theo and Pansy and him, just as old time. Crabble and Goyle were in the nearby compartment, as if they were guard dogs waiting to be fetched, which wasn’t a far approximation of both their use and bestial nature, considering how they behaved. The rest of their housemates were scattered all over the Express, but in that little moment of time and space they were alone, far away from prying eyes and from tall Gryffindor idiots.

He had managed to avoid seeing him, back at the station, but Blaise had failed miserably at keeping him out of his mind during the holidays: his mother had bombarded him with thousand different questions about the ‘mysterious boy’ that had snagged his heart and hadn’t stopped meddling during their entire stay at his grandparents’; each one of his aunts and uncles and distant cousins kept on asking about his relationship status, twisting their noses whenever he replied, disapproving of the lack of a ‘nice pureblood girl in his life’, to which he simply had to politely smile to prevent himself from doing something irrational and idiotic; he had found himself asking his grandmother suggestions on how to tend plants, with the sole purpose of using them to then impress the useless plant-head.

At King’s Cross, he had sprinted as soon as he saw his friends, ignoring everyone else and focusing on Pansy, who was in the midst of telling Theo about her newest achievement, in the form of a freshly out of Beauxbatons boy who was doing an internship at the Ministry.

He didn’t know why, but he dreaded his next encounter with Longbottom. He had brought a plant from his grandmother’s garden and was planning on giving it to him during their next study session together, alone and in the privacy of the empty classroom they used, and he had already rehearsed several times in his mind the speech he was going to give to the Gryffindor, to excuse his foolishly romantic behaviour and masquerade his uncharacteristic affection and attachment. Yet he feared immensely an unscripted encounter, conscious that his brain didn’t work at his maximum potential around the tall idiot.

It had been quite an effort, the one he constantly had to make to concentrate in Transfiguration class whenever he decided to tap his fingers over the desk or whenever he bit his thumb when he focused on something he didn’t understand. During their private sessions, it was even worse: Longbottom would usually loosen his tie, roll up his sleeves and put a pencil behind his ear whenever it was his turn to explain something, and Blaise’s brain immediately went blank and dead for several moments, his only thought being incomprehensible blabber about biceps and forearms.

Overall, Blaise Zabini was whipped, not entirely in a bad way, but couldn’t be seen acting smitten. Especially not over a boy. Clearly not over a Gryffindor.

He focused his attention once more to his small group of friends: Theo was reading a trashy wizarding romance novel about a witch and a half-blood that, based on the plot, sounded too much like a wizarding version of Wuthering Heights, yet Theo entranced and captivated by the story, unaware of the Muggle origin of it, based on the time of release; Draco was poetically staring off the window into the vast [ic1] and immeasurable space that could be seen from the window, lost in his problems, mostly Death Eater related; Pansy was filing her nails, mindlessly nodding her head to a song that was playing in her head and remained stuck there for the foreseeable future.

“I gotta tell you something” he blurted out, without really thinking about the course of action he wanted to follow. He knew, deep down, that they would accept him no matter what, but the little anxious voice in the back of his head still whispered frightened.

They all turned to him, each with a puzzled look, stopping whatever they were doing to give him the attention he deserved.

It was an unofficial rule, never once discussed yet always respected, between the four of them to constantly listen to each other’s rambles and problems. It had been done when Theo’s father pressured him into learning Divination, when Pansy’s first time happened in a dark corner of the Slytherin dungeons with a sixth year boy while she was still in her third, and, of course, when Draco came back from the Summer vacations with a new tattoo and a burden on his shoulders. While he never truly admitted what he’d have to do for the Dark Lord, the other three still leant their ears to the blonde’s panicked whispers.

And they were all returning the favour now.

“No turning back, brace yourself and do it” his mind told him. He was a Pure-blooded Slytherin, on top of his classes and better than any of them, and if they had a problem with him being himself they could’ve shoved their heads up their arses even further than they already were.

“I don’t know if you’ve ever wondered or not, about why I don’t keep girls around for more than a public appearance or just for a couple of weeks” he began, hoping for once to be able to fulfil his speech as he had imagined it in his head.

As it could’ve been predicted, he was immediately interrupted by the monotonous voice of Theo, who simply went back to his book while saying: “Not our place if you wanna shag one different chick each week.” Then as if in an afterthought, he raised his head once again, staring into the distance with clouded eyes, and whispered: “They sure as hell about to fall over you, the wee girls chasing your attention as Nifflers with gold.” He had been reading one too many trashy romance novels for Blaise’s likings and now imagined love stories and escapades everywhere. Just before leaving for the holidays he had admitted of ‘having a feeling with his seer powers’ that Thomas and the Fire Kid were snogging on a daily basis, which left Blaise speechless while the others laughed.

“Are you trying to say that Blaise’s a heartthrob?” asked Draco, almost offended at the idea that he was less desirable than his friend. Pansy then intervened in the situation, leaning in before conspiratorially claiming: “Girls in the bathrooms talk, you know? Many do when they think no one’s there to listen, but Millicent heard that Romilda Vane, that hideous bitch, might be trying to sneak some Amortensia into either Saint Potter’s or Blaise’s cup!” That was an interesting news indeed, that side-tracked the conversation and also derailed Blaise from his train of thought; “Rule number seven: a possible poisoning should always be avoided, unless it was planned.” “Might be a miracle if she even knew how to brew tea, let alone perform correctly all the steps to properly do the potion” commented Draco, tilting back on his seat and folding his arms while sporting an insufferable smirk on his lips. “How’d you know? You never pay attention to classes anymore!” asked an affronted Theo, who was constantly complaining about the lack of response from the blonde prefect, but rarely mentioned it whenever Draco was near: Blaise had a feeling he partially knew what their friend had to do, since his parents were once again on the previous path, but he also never confirmed nor commented the situation.

“So does Pansy!” yelled outragedly the blonde, trying futilely to defend himself, despite the true words that just had been spoken. In the past few months, his attention span had drastically declined and now even teachers had started to realize it, which meant fewer House Points than intended. Which gave Blaise constant headaches[ic2] . The she-devil then turned to his friend, a dissatisfied expression on her face: “That’s different, I never paid attention to anything other than Charms, cause everything else’s boring and useless to me, you on the other hand…”. That was a trite topic that could go on and on for weeks. Blaise had his out, his one chance to have them forget he even started the discussion, which would last the remaining train ride for certain.

Yet he didn’t want to go back in hiding his true nature with them and, since he desperately wanted thing to move and work with Longbottom, if he turned out to be a fellow as well, he might’ve used Pansy’s help to woo finally the Gryffindor and Theo and Draco’s discretion if thing really got going.

It most definitely was a ‘Now or never’ type of situation.

“I’m into boys” he admitted quietly, partially drowned by the sounds of his friend’s argument, yet they all perfectly heard him.

The following silence was morbid and sickening, with Blaise looking out of the window with his wand in position to cast a protecting charm over himself. “Rule number five: better safe than sorry.”

Tentatively, as if handling a porcelain doll, Pansy moved forward, placing softly a hand on his and whispering: “Are you certain?”

“Sweet Salazar, Pansy, of course he’s certain, what kind of fudged up question is that?!” Theo exploded, throwing his hands in the air and watching the girl as if she had grown two extra heads, and now looked like the dog their current Professor of Care had during their first year.

Blaise had always been curious about how they had managed to fit such a large creature inside the third floor corridor, but still had no explanation. His most quoted guess would be a shrinking spell firstly and then a second enlarging one, probably performed by either Dumbledore or Flitwick, for sure. Hagrid, although he was a great and passionate professor, didn’t strike as the master of form changing and fitting charms, although he could clearly impress and surprise.

His overturning trail of thoughts was once again shifted back into the conversation at hand, instead of being let to free float in a very Pindaric [ic3] style, by the curious voice of Draco Malfoy: “Why you’re not cursing?” he asked, tone dripping disbelief, that now Blaise shared as well. Pansy was also looking at their fellow housemate as if she intended to solve the mystery before her, clearly having forgotten what spun their conversation in the first place.

Theo, on his own, merely shrugged, “Gave it up until the Spring break in a bet with my cousin, she’s from Durmstrang and won’t drink alcohol, the loser gets kicked of the Easter feast and doesn’t get the food.” The explanation was short and concise, typically in Nott style: “If it can’t be said in one sentence only, it’s not worth it” was his life motto, which was an interesting perspective in life, yet became complicated when asked to write a three feet parchment long essay, while the Slytherin in question could only master a very poetic “The Wound-Cleaning Potion is a potion used to clean cuts and other open wounds.” Needless to say, many nights were spent begging Theodore Nott to just write four more sentences cause Professor Snape wanted more than a simple “It’s used by healers.”

They all managed to convince him to be marginally less crisp only after reading out loud the works of Crabble or Goyle, which sounded too much like his own for his liking, which lead to the domino effect of a two and a half feet piece.

“Weird shit you pulled, you started it?” asked Pansy, incredibly suspicious and folding her legs under her body, a cat ready to pounce. “Grandma’s work, she casted a spell on us to check it and if we remove it we lose” he admitted, sounding excited and vengeful at the same time. While his grandmother had probably meant it as a meaning to have a peaceful evening, she did not keep in count the sheer ambition her grandchild had. Knowing Theo, this little challenge would keep on going until the last day, or until he won. He was too headstrong not to finish it with first place, whichever prize might be coming, it was the pure conscience of being first that would keep him warm during cold nights. “So, you rash-holes gotta keep your fudging mouths clean around me or I’ll lose my shirt” he then added, pointing his finger at all the three remaining people and throwing his best glance their way.

“That fucking sucks ass, Theo. So fucking sorry” exclaimed Pansy, fretting hurt and exaggeration, mocking him with every breath she took. “You’re a bench, Parkinson, and you should definitely caramelize yourself!” “Theo! You kiss your grandma with that mouth?” intervened Draco, placing a hand over his heart and pulling an incredulous face, scandalized and amused.

Once again, for the billionth time, the topic had switched and Blaise could feel his newly headache spread. He had a half thought of leaving the compartment to jump over the train and simply lay there, but decided to try one more time to get on top of the issue: “GUYS! Can we please focus here for once? I just told you I’m gay and I’m slightly uncomfortable not knowing whether you’ll hex me or I’ll have to kill you first” he said, staring at each of his friends dead and emotionless in the eyes.

“You would never kill us, Blaise” commented a very relaxed Draco, comfortable in his position. He was so dead wrong, or plain dead, depending on which came first. “Try me bitch. I had to study bloody herbs on my own cause of you so I’m already murderous.” He seemed visibly shocked by that, “Oh, yeah, sorry mate, how’s it going?” he asked, probably genuinely curious. “Pretty well actually, turns out it’s actually fun and…. Hey, back to the main side, what’s it gonna be, stronzetti?” Blaise all but yelled, losing his patience. It was an actual miracle that he had managed to keep up with them for that long: screw Potter, he should be assigned holiness, or at least a martyrdom, for his years spent in suffering.

“Well, that’s easy: I personally don’t care and as long as nobody” Theo began, pointedly looking at all his friends in the eye and not just at Blaise, “trickles nobody on my bed I’m chill with whatever.” Blaise took a breath of relief, his shoulders sagging a little as he felt all his tension leave his body. “One down, two more to go.”

“When you say trickles you actually mean fucking or a general shagging?” asked Draco, tilting his head forward with an unreadable expression he always used when playing with his friends. Not many saw this side of the blonde, the joyous and rascal version, reserved to his closest circle only. He had the best one liners, for certain, and used sarcasm and humour at every possible occasion.

More than once, Blaine had to hex him whenever he started punning, cause once it had begun, he never stopped willingly.

Theo leant forward as well, eye to eye with the blonde with a murderous look on his face: “Malfoy, you keep your hands off my property or I’ll chop them off clean, but as a general rule don’t get on my bed or I’ll burn our dormitory down.”

Pyromania was a serious issue of Theo’s, which was the main reason why he was on speaking terms with the Fire Kid from Gryffindor, which as a downside meant endless teasing from the rest of his house. Despite it all, their unlikely friendship was solid and dangerous, with one accidentally sending things on fire and the other purposefully letting it all burn. “I’d do it if I was you, mate. Who knows who did whom before you took the room” Pansy intervened, reclining back into her seat and picking up her nail filer once again, starting back to where she got interrupted. “THANK YOU FOR THE IMAGERY PARKINSON!” Theo yelled, bolting up on his feet and thundering over the compartment. Raising a hand to pass through his hair, he gave out a huffed breath and opened the door to the corridor, “Imma go and claw my eyes out excuse me” he proclaimed, before hastily exiting and loudly closing the door with a sound that reverberated the entire train, probably.

The remaining trio burst out laughing immediately, Pansy and Draco falling onto each other as Blaise wiped tears off of his eyes. “Merlin, He’s so sensitive!” he commented once his chuckles had quieted down and as his breathing returned evenly. He then closed his eyes, savouring the moment as an eventual calm before a tumultuous storm: “What about you two?” he asked, returning to seriousness.

Pansy looked at him softly, before shrugging and returning back to her task, “I’ve had my suspicions but kept quiet cause.” Then, in an afterthought, she pointed her filer at Blaise’s chest and conspiratorially added: “Hope you know we’re gonna talk about it in private, just the two of us, also just cause I may have already someone to set you up with.”

Blaise chuckled at that, already conscious that the action might be immensely futile but touched by the feeling nevertheless. “Draco?” he asked boldly, turning fully toward the friend that had been keeping silent about the matter. Despite Blaise’s suspicions, it was not his place to say anything about the other boy, but an acceptance would’ve been gladly welcomed still.

“I’ve have too much on my own plate to deal with this as well but” he began, messing up his non-gelled hair as if to pull the words out of his brain directly, “I’m cool, mate. As Theo said, don’t fuck anyone on my bed” he finished with a wicked smile and a wink. What was the wink for, Blaise had no idea, but he warmed up at the sentiment nonetheless. “Not gonna be a problem, trust me” he admitted smirking: even if things were smooth with a certain boy, he still would be extremely hesitant of bringing anyone of the same species further than the common room, and even then he couldn’t exactly bring a Gryffindor there! “Why not? Are you ashamed of us or something?” asked Draco, offended and wounded at the idea, at which Blaise could only reply with a huffed out laugh and a shake of his head, “That’s one way of putting it.”

Draco turned expectantly at Pansy, who just looked him sternly in the eyes before deadpanning: “Your room smells like flowers and douche deodorant, no one with an ounce of self-respect will ever bring a date to shag there” she claimed, with great reasons, before returning to her nails. Crabble and Goyle had an unhealthy lack of familiarity with personal hygiene, which meant that the remaining occupants of the dormitory had to constantly keep the windows open or, during the winter, spray the room with whatever substance strong enough to hide the odour of musk. “Speak for yourself, Millicent’s cat’s always stinks worse than death itself!” outragedly cried Malfoy, desperately trying to defend his wounded honour for some reason unknown to Blaise, who simply stood back and enjoyed the scene. “Which is why he’s not allowed in the room, we keep him on the doormat, asshole” venomously rebutted Pansy, raising her filer in the air and vehemently threatening the blonde.

“Isn’t that poor creature already been through enough?” “Quiet Zabini, he chewed on my favourite pair of shoes and they were expensive” she replied immediately through gritted teeth, without lowering her makeshift weapon nor detaching her eyes from her prey. “We all come from powerful and rich Pure-blood families and are talented wizards, couldn’t you just use reparo?” snorted Draco, slowly and unperceptively leaning backwards and far away from the witch. Pansy simply drew closer, fury in her eyes, “First of all, that’s not the point. Second, they were bloody Louboutin and even with the spell they still had something missing and I’m still salty about it” she said, punctuating each word with a blow with her bludgeon, which caused the blonde to wince in pain.

The scene was comedic and truly heart-warming, but it was interrupted by Theo’s head, which poked from the newly opened door: “We’re there, guys, move your sugar plum behinds” he said entering, shifting the pair of bickering idiots to take out his coat.

Blaise felt better than he had in weeks as he fixed his tie on the window reflection. Holidays had been great, the quick chat with his friends freeing and fantastic and he was finally ready to set his plan in motion.

With his heart infinitely lighter, he grabbed his suitcase and exited the train, secretly hoping to be able to peak a certain Gryffindor before the meal in the Great Hall.

GLOSSARY:

“Stronzetti” means “Little pieces of shit/Little Assholes”

4 notes · View notes

voskhozhdeniye · 5 years ago

Text

When I typed out my Musical Obsessions list for 2010 - 2019 I didn’t add any thoughts like I do on my yearly ones. So....

Wild Nothing - Nocturne: I am so in love with that album. It just, I don’t know how to describe it. The songs are perfect. It is just a really good summer time album. I think I wish I related to the subject matter on the album more than I actually do. Soundtrack to my imaginary relationships. Fitting my last concert of the decade was a Wild Nothing show.

Gas - Narkopop: This along with those assholes at the Slowdive concert are what inspired me to start making my own music. I am in debt to this album.

Danny Brown - Atrocity Exhibition: I had been a fan of Danny before this album, but this is the album for him where it all comes together. Danny’s albums had felt like fucked up carnival rides before, but this is where he perfected it. Listening to “Ain't it Funny” for the first time I immediately tagged @knightofleo and said listen to this! After “Ain't it Funny“ the whole album musically and lyrically spirals out of control. It’s a joy to listen to.

Tim Hecker and The Field: Inspiration.

PJ Harvey - Let England Shake: I really enjoyed PJ’s “White Chalk”, listening to “Let England Shake“ for the first time was amazing because you could hear the evolution from “White Chalk”. The textures of her previous work merging with the ideas that made up “White Chalk”.

Kendrick Lamar: I had stopped fucking with rap for a while before Kendrick. 2008 to 2012 when “good kid, m.A.A.d city“ came out I was listening to very little rap. I had been burned by too many rappers, dudes who made music I liked, but would open their mouths and have the most disgusting shit come out. “good kid, m.A.A.d city” changed all of that, I had heard “Swimming Pools” a few times before I really listened to it and realized it was about alcoholism. I love how that whole album tells one extended story from start to finish. “DAMN.” is the one though. When I did my musical obsession list in 2017 I called Kendrick a contemporary Curtis Mayfield. “FEAR.” on “DAMN.” is what really inspired me to do my Lazarus writings. How Kendrick points out his fears at various points in his life. Aesop Rock’s “Gopher Guts” had a hand in this too, but “FEAR.” and the whole album to be honest really cemented the direction I’m personally going in.

Solange - A Seat at the Table: “A Seat at the Table”, Blood Orange’s “Freetown Sound” and Beyoncé‘s “Lemonade“ all coming out in 2016 was amazing. Each are so unapologetically black, and “Freetown Sound” adds unapologetically queer to the equation. Each take root in different areas of black music and showcase just how wide-ranging black music is.

Swans: I saw Swans live four time in the past decade. The best concert I’ve been to was my first Swans show. I always rolled my eyes when people described something as an out of body experience. I learned exactly what that meant in 2012. Physically I know I was there, but mentally I checked out. I’m looking at the set list as I type this, and I don’t remember them playing “She Loves Us” at all. Apparently they played it after “Avatar” which explains why I don’t remember it. The ending to “Avatar” live can only be described as crushing. I just remember the rush of heat I felt during the end of “Avatar”. I think they did “Bring The Sun” and “Toussaint L'ouverture“ mashed up with “The Seer” like on “Not Here/Not Now“, but I seriously can’t remember. “Avatar” killed me. It’s fucked up because I became addicted to this feeling. Every concert I’ve been to since has paled in comparison. Closest I’ve come to that feeling again was the third time I saw them, and drugs.

r beny: r beny is literally a just guy on the other side of the country who post videos on YouTube every now and then. His 2016 videos and Soundcloud uploads guided me when I first started putting together my modular.

Giles Corey - Hinterkaifeck: I was so obsessed with this when it came out. “Guilt Is My Boyfriend” is too close. I’ll come back to Dan in a moment.

Brian Eno - The Ship: @dad-of-war suggested I record myself reading my writings, and put them to music. I dabbled a little with that this year, but will be doing much more of it next year. I’m not Eno, but this is the framework for what I might do. This is just an incredible album.

Nine Inch Nails - Add Violence EP: This game me a similar feeling as PJ’s “Let England Shake”. Listing to an artist I’ve listen to for years release new material that sounds like a culmination of everything they’ve done before. It’s exciting to hear.

The Weeknd - Trilogy: That shit is so fucked up. “House of Balloons” and “Initiation“ still blow my mind.

Giles Corey and Black Wing: I’m a member of Dan’s Patreon. He’s posted multiple videos of him recording music for Black Wing and showing his process. Where Gas gave me the desire to start making my own music, watching Dan fumble around with Logic and VST’s gave me the confidence to do it myself. Watching someone who has put out some of my favorite albums constantly explain that they have no clue what the fuck they’re doing really helps.

Gil Scott-Heron - I’m New Here: I wish I had learned about Gil before this album. I wish he had lived long enough to put more out. More inspiration.

Beyoncé - Lemonade: Yo I like “Lemonade“, and think it’s a better album than “Beyoncé“, but “Lemonade“ doesn’t have a moment like hearing “Haunted” for the first time. Maybe “Don’t Hurt Yourself”, but “Haunted” is next level shit.

Kanye West - Yeezus: I don’t fuck with Kanye, haven’t for years now, but I read something recently that really angered me. I was reading some comments other people had written about the new album. One guy said Kanye hasn’t been the same since he did “Yeezus“. This man said Kanye has been on a steady decline since that album. That “Yeezus“ was made for white people and Kanye has never recovered from that. This pissed me of in multiple ways. 1. At the time I had been heavy into Death Grips, and completely got what the album was going for. I was familiar with many of the collaborators Kanye had on the album, and the album felt tailor-made for me at the time. The only problem I have with the album now is the fact that it’s a Kanye album. 2. I’m black. I post my music on here. Is my music not black music? This is one of the reasons I stopped fucking with rap in 2008. Because the conversations around it are always dominated by people like that who gate keep what is and isn’t “black enough.” Is FKA Twigs black music, Moor Mother, A.R. Kane, Toro Y Moi, TV On The Radio, Kele Okereke and so on???? It’s such a raw subject matter for me, and brings back memories of bullying bullshit from my childhood. I was watching David Oyelowo‘s episode of Inside The Actor’s Studio, and he talked about coming back to the UK after his parents sent him to visit family in Nigeria during the summer. When he returned for school the other kids would refer to him as a coconut, brown on the outside, white on the inside. He was like I just came back from Africa! I was raised with a lot of anti-blackness and homophobia. The past decade has been me slowly undoing a lot of that shit, but the limits that are placed upon black people by other blacks is paralyzing at times. I cannot for the life of me remember this man’s name, but I heard an interview in 2017 or 2018 that really summed up my feelings on this. It was so freeing to hear someone older than me understand and realize the problem. He was asked why white creatives have more success compared to creative people of color, especially black artists. His answer was racism obviously, but also that for generations black people have stymied and beaten the curiosity and creativeness out of our children. We get so happy when a black person is the first black to do something, but at the same time before it happens we’ll tell ourselves and our children “that’s not a black thing!” Those who don’t fall pry to that thinking get drowned in racism. I mean last year when Pusha T was beefing with Drake what did Pusha say about him? Something like Drake was afraid he wasn’t black enough, that his hair didn’t nap enough. I hate that Kanye, the current king of anti-blackness started this conversation, but what constitutes something being black music?

I love listening to artists change, grow and add new things to their art. Sometimes artists I love change in ways that I no longer connect with, but watching them expand their art is always a great thing.

Choir Boy and DIIV are gonna be talked about on my 2019 yearly list.

4 notes · View notes

blackaquokat · 6 years ago

Text

The World Runs to Chaos (Epilogue)

A/N: Link to Main Story can be found here .

“Time is passing, but we’re still drinking

Life is passing us by

We’re drinking last week’s alcohol…”

Maybe if Abe dumps enough vodka down his throat, he can forget that he’s lost in some nonsensical dimension where he can obsessively pursue a case for years (supposedly) and know little-to-no actual details about said case.

Dancing can only help for so long.

How long has it been since that day his false world had been exposed?

Then again, does it matter? Time in this place apparently doesn’t play by the rules. He can’t even count the years…

Abe downs another shot of vodka and turns to observe the crowd underneath the pulsating lights. Wilford is back onstage, leading the dancers as if he has no care in the world.

But Abe has learned now that that’s definitely not the case.

He’s learned a lot of things, yet he still has more questions than ever.

Abe’s questions vary in importance, but one in particular is a priority for him.

Wilford’s lucid moments come and go at rather sporadic intervals, and after figuring this out, Abe usually tries to time his question during those lucid moments.

Where is my partner?

No matter when he asks these things, however, Abe can tell there’s something in Wilford’s head that just doesn’t…click.

He’ll talk about the Mayor, the Butler, the Chef, and, with particular fondness, the Seer. But every time Abe asks where the District Attorney is, it’s like there’s a blank spot. Wilford’s eyes lose what little focus they have and minutes later, he says, “What were we just talking about?”

It took Abe longer than he’s proud of to realize that Wilford wasn’t joking.

Something else is going on there.

In the meantime, while he stews in his confusion, his partner consumes his waking thoughts.

Not that they weren’t on his mind when he had been hunting the Colonel back when the world was black and white, when vengeance and justice were the only thing keeping him from falling to pieces.

(“You wouldn't want the person who killed you to pay for his crime?”

“I'll be dead. What will I care?”)

Before the Colonel brought him back to reality, or whatever the hell this place is, any thought of his partner had been related to their association with the case. Just a never-ending loop of watching them die, and hating the Colonel with every fiber of his being.

It didn’t occur to him until recently: he hadn’t thought of just the DA as a person in so long. Only their death and its effect on him.

Now that’s he sees color again…he remembers other things:

The way they bit off the ends of their words when they were frustrated.

How rare and blinding their dimpled smiles were.

Their determination to win cases with arguments that cut to the heart of the matter like a scalpel.

The bright, if exhausted, shine in their ancient eyes.

How their lips tasted like the lime they stuck in their drink that last night.

That last memory hits him like a freight train, knocking the air out of him.

“Bartender,” he chokes out, and before he can think better of it, he asks, “A gin and tonic with lime, please.”

Moments later, the bartender slides the drink to him. Abe takes a moment to breathe in the scent before taking a sip.

“I’ll have what he’s having.”

Someone approaches the bar next to him. Abe barely spares the woman a glance out of the corner of his eye.

She steps closer to him. “And what’s your name, stranger?” she says in an enticing tone. Another peripheral glance allows him a better look: chestnut brown curls, hazel eyes framed with shimmering gray eyeshadow, a button nose, and a rather sweet smile.

Abe spends all of five seconds considering his options.

A beautiful person is acting like he’s worth talking to. He should be feeling something, shouldn’t he?

But there’s just…nothing. He can’t take his eyes off the damn drink in his hand and his mind keeps returning to memories of the only person who made him think there could be more to his life than constant death.

(Fat lot of good it did the both of them.)

“Sorry, but I’m not in the mood for any company,” he tries to say gently. He downs the rest of the gin (he’ll regret that later, he’s sure) and takes the slice of lime from the glass. He then throws several bills onto the counter. “Matter of fact…I think I’m gonna head home.”

Abe doesn’t stick around to see her reaction. He approaches the stage and shouts, “I’m leaving, Wilford.”

Wilford blinks down at him, mid-dance move, and leaps from the platform. “Well, my friend, I may as well make sure you get there in one piece! Don’t want any nasty crashes happening to our beloved detective!”

“Hey, if you hadn’t dug into my head, we wouldn’t have nearly crashed in the first place,” Abe argues as they leave the club.

Thankfully, there should be a bottle of something alcoholic at his place.

And later, when the lime slice tastes like lost chances and regret and everything he should have had, well, no one needs to know that but him.

And still through it all, the same question runs through his head:

Where are you, Partner?

A/N: The song lyrics from the main story and the epilogue are from Kerrigan-Lowdermilk’s amazing song Last Week’s Alcohol written for their musical Tales from the Bad Years. Here’s a link to a live performance of the song. I’m linking the live performance because I think this guy in particular captures the emotions the song is supposed to embody, but there is a studio version available on youtube too if you guys are so interested. I’m always trying to get people to listen to Kerrigan-Lowdermilk Broadway songs, they’re all so relatable and sad and beautiful.

Anyway, hope you guys enjoyed!

Please reblog/comment! If you would like to be tagged/untagged, please leave a message in my inbox!

@starcrossedforever87 , @dontworryaboutanything , @beereblogsstuff , @silver-owl413 , @sassy-in-glasses , @chelseareferenced , @sketchy-scribs-n-doods , @falseroar , @intemperantiae , @ren-mon , @memetoyoko , @soul-wolf , @marki-dumb , @withjust-a-bite , @skidspace , @peaceiplier , @wkm-detective-abe-squad , @veryobsessivefan , @lizard-in-a-skinsuit , @babymadz , @rainbowkittens97 , @statictay

#wkm #who killed markiplier #datective #abe the detective #y/n district attorney #kat writes #law and disorder

27 notes · View notes

theinvisiblespoon · 6 years ago

Text

Front of a Building - Chapter 5: You Waited Smiling For This

First Prev Next

Yeah, I know, I know, it’s been five-ever. And it’s 1:30am EST. But here’s the thing; I made an outline. That’s when you know you’re screwed. Have fun! :) Chapter title is from the song “burned out” by dodie. It’s cool. She’s cool.

Word count: 1938

Trigger warnings: insanity, manipulation, alcohol mention, fear, anger, surgery and gunshot mention, gun mention, discussion of murder (wkm), brief allusion to violence. It’s gonna be bad in the next one, too.

Ego Manor had three floors. The top floor only held Dark and Wilford. The second floor held the kitchen, storage closets, bathrooms, and the rooms of Bing, the Jims, King of the Squirrels, Bim Trimmer, Dr. Iplier, Chef Iplier, and Silver Shepherd. The first floor held a living room, a library, a recording studio, a clinic, bathrooms and the rooms of Host, Google, Ed Edger, and Yandereplier. It was less of a “manor” and more of a “really big house”, but everyone, if not lived together, existed together.

Dr. Iplier was helping Wilford Warfstache up the stairs to his room after the incident that had just occurred in the kitchen. It left him with more questions than answers, but at least he knew not to ask Wilford about this “William” guy again. He couldn’t say that he didn’t want to try again, however. He needed to know what was happening. And if the cost was the rest of Wilford’s sanity…Dr. Iplier glanced at his charge, who was mumbling softly, barely conscious. The doctor shook his head; what was he thinking? He couldn't do that to another ego, much less one of the oldest. But there was the thing — according to the Host, Wilford and Dark weren't the oldest. According to the Host, it was the Jims, of all people. How much did the Host know? That weirdo seemed to understand more than he was letting on.

"No, hey there, we're going this way, Wilford," he urged, turning the ego away from the banister.

"…it's my fault…" he stumbled, but Dr. Iplier caught him before anything else could happen. "…didn't mean to, I swear…"

The doctor searched Wilford's eyes, but they remained as unfocused as ever. "It's…okay, Wilford. It's okay. Just come with me, alright?"

He said something indistinguishable, and Dr. Iplier took that as a confirmation. As they struggled down the hallway and into Wilford's room, the doctor couldn't help but peek at the door to Dark's room. Three weeks had passed since, for lack of better words, his surgery. Wilford lurched forward before the doctor could get a longer look.

"Alright, alright, come on, in bed, let's go…" The Host had really outdone himself; Warfstache was utterly out of it. With one last push, Wilford fell into his bed, dazed and confused. He muttered something again, but it was barely audible.

"What was that?" Dr. Iplier asked, leaning in.

"…don't leave me here. Don't…" Wilford's face scrunched up at some unseen torment.

"Wilford, it's fine. I'll stay if you need—"

"…please, you're all I have left. I'm sorry, don't leave me, don't…" Wilford finally trailed off, sound asleep.

The doctor straightened up, confusion evident. Who was Wilford talking to? Who was William? What the hell was going on?

He leaned back, rubbing his face and calming his breathing. He needed…he needed coffee, he thought. He needed a drink, he tried not to think. Intent on making his way to the kitchen, he stepped out of Wilford's room, but then stopped in the middle of the hallway. Slowly, he turned to the next door down. Did he dare check on Dark? Everyone avoided the top floor when possible, and no one ever went within five feet of Dark's bedroom.

There were three steps between him and the door. Reluctantly, but fueled by curiosity and obligation, he took one of them. What are you so afraid of? He took the second. It's just a door. Don't be so paranoid. He took the last and raised his hand, but before he could knock, he heard a sharp ringing noise coming from directly behind him. Whirling around, he locked eyes with Dark himself.

"D-dark! I didn't see—"

"Clearly."

"I was j-just, uh, bringing Wilford up, and—"

Dark rolled his eyes and pushed past the doctor, reaching for the handle.

"Wait!" Dr. Iplier caught Dark's arm, who stilled. Slowly, Dark turned to stare at the doctor. He said nothing, but the ringing grew and his eyes flashed dangerously. Dr. Iplier let go and took a reflexive step back.

"What?" Dark asked through gritted teeth.

Dr. Iplier paused. Get out, his mind screamed at him. He ignored it. "Dark, are you okay?"

"What do you mean?"

"It's been three weeks since anyone's seen you, and well, you were shot—"

Dark's aura cracked, and he muttered something under his breath as he turned the handle. "Leave me the hell alone," he warned over his shoulder, and then the door slammed shut in Dr. Iplier's face.

He let out a breath he didn't realize he had been holding, but he was still on edge. Before the door had shut, he had gotten a glimpse of the room beyond. It was completely torn apart; splintered wood from some type of furniture was scattered in a corner, the bed was overturned, the mirror was broken, and the lamp was laying on the ground. However, there was one thing left untouched. Not only was it intact, it was covered in dust — completely undisturbed. The doctor shut his eyes, trying to remember.

A pipe? No, something else. Long, with a handle…a silver handle. Not a pipe. A cane.

-oOo-

The Jims were an odd pair. They were always out and about, reporting on one thing or another. No one disturbed them — the Jims were best left to their own devices, doing…whatever they did. As a result of their constant absence, their room was more often than not empty. So, the next day, Dr. Iplier found it easy to slip into their shared bedroom when no one was looking.

The oldest egos, huh?

He had reasoned that there was no extracting any helpful or reliable information from the pair, but as they recorded nearly every event remotely interesting in their lives, their tapes might tell a different story. Looking at the boxes upon boxes of VHS tapes spilling out from the open closet, however, Dr. Iplier wished he could go back to his office and drop this entire thing. Groaning, he settled himself onto the floor and pulled a box towards him.

Title after title previewed nothing but useless footage. He pushed aside a saga of sand castle related film to find a tape labeled "JELLY BEANS?!" An entire box told the thrilling tale of buying furniture at IKEA, and another revealed the secret conspiracy of oceans. After an agonizing two hours later, he was still finding nothing. Each title was more stupid than the last: "WRAPPING PAPER FIASCO!", "BOOKS: THE MOVIE", "CRAYON CANON!!", "CORPSE ABDUCTION?", "BIRDS IN TREES!" — wait. Corpse abduction? Since when was there a death? Dr. Iplier picked up a stack of VHS tapes held together by string and reread the first one again. No, that definitely said "corpse abduction". He sat up straighter and turned the stack to see the rest of the titles. They read "SUSPECT WITH A SHOOTY?!", "DEMONS JIM, DEMONS!!" and "DUMMY JIM REENACTS GRISLY SCENE!" This had to be what he was looking for. Excitement flooded through him, and he eagerly undid the string, pulling out the first tape. He stood up (ow, that did not feel good), stepped over his haphazardly made piles, and slid the tape into the TV next to the closet.

The scene opened up on a shot of a manor. Words flashed across the screen: "Breaking News: Markiplier Manor."

Mark has never owned a manor.

Someone was shouting.

"Jim! Jim!" The camera panned to a shot of Jim, gesturing at his the cameraman — his brother. "Jim, come on! I've got the shot!"

When was this made? Even for a VHS, this thing was old. He glanced down at the other tapes in his hand, but the date was either not marked or faded completely. He frowned and went back to watching the TV. A detective had just come into view.

The Jims had been spotted. The detective was now yelling from out of frame. "Hey! Who the hell are you? You listen, this is a crime scene!"

Crime scene? Not only was there a manor that had never been known to exist, but a crime had been committed there?

The Jims were sneaking into the room. The reporter gestured at an outline of a body, and soon after he held up a gun.

"This is profound, in the least," He was saying.

You got that right.

The tape ended in static. The excitement of success was gone, and Dr. Iplier was once again left with more questions than answers.

In went the second tape; except for more of the detective being shown, nothing helpful. In went the third; nothing helpful was in this tape either. He had begun to give up hope when the fourth tape came into view. The Jims were making their way into a room full of evidence. Dr. Iplier fumbled for the remote but finally managed to hit the pause button.

"Don't trust the Seer," he read aloud. The Seer? Who is the Seer?

He continued the tape, starting and stopping to read parts of the scraps of paper littered across the walls and on the desk.

"…safari hunt gone wrong…mayor in legal trouble…" There were (what he guessed to be) names beneath pictures of people, but he couldn't read them. "Fallen movie star…police remain clueless following celebrity death…celebrity actor in cahoots with beloved mayor…" So the movie star — the celebrity — died, and this guy was involved with a corrupt mayor? "…the colonel did it. The colonel did it, the colonel did it, the colonel…"

He should feel excited for knowing more now, shouldn't he? Why, then, did it feel like being in the eye of a storm?

He let his mind wander over the evidence he just been given, the tape falling into static. Dr. Iplier was lost in thought when he heard the pounding of footsteps in the hall.

"We got it, Jim! We got the shot! Jim is going to be so—" Jim skidded to a halt, his brother nearly running straight into him camera-first. "What are you doing here?"

The doctor was about to retort back when he realized this wasn't his own room. "Uh," is what he settled on instead.

"Hey! Those are our tapes!"

"Oh, I was just—" he clumsily hid the ones he was holding behind his back, but he was saved the trouble of finishing his statement by the cameraman gesturing at the other Jim. He was hovering over a half-empty box Dr. Iplier had stopped looking through. Reporter Jim peered over his brother's shoulder. "Jim, look at that!"

The camera was already pointing at the box, so the Jim holding said camera compensated by zooming in further.

"Have you ever seen those tapes before, Jim?" Jim held up his mic to the box as if expecting it to answer.

"Tapes? What tapes?" Dr. Iplier stood and gazed into the box, too. Four tapes stood out from the rest, the black cover contrasting against its white title. The doctor reached in and picked them up. "Who Killed Markiplier?" he spoke aloud. He hadn't seen these before. Why didn't he see these before?

"Hey!" Jim protested. "Those are ours!"

"You just said you had never seen—"

CRASH!

All three of them froze, staring at each other in the tense silence. The silence broke, and Reporter Jim was the first out of the room, followed by his brother with Dr. Iplier close at his heels. They burst into the kitchen together, looking wildly around for the source of the noise. Their eyes locked onto the Host.

He was on the floor, clutching his throat, with Google towering above him.

First Prev Next

Taglists:

Everything: @abbaquiche @ironwoman359 @lemme-talk-to-ya-plants @pain-in-my-aesthetic @princessbelix @punknerdmusings @virgil-loves-princey

Front of a Building: @darkfixation @forgottenbehindtheinternet @inarticulate-screaming @i-am-not-anon @logicalfixation @nammies @pleaseletthisjimbetaken@readeatfightlove13 @sweetsweetfanfics @theashofwkm @the-asexual-reaper

As always, if you want to be taken on or off a taglist, just let me know!

#front of a building #my fics #chapter 5 #you waited smiling for this #burned out #dodie #markiplier #markiplier egos #who killed markiplier #dr. iplier #wilford warfstache #darkiplier #jim #the jims #the host #googliplier #I KNOW IT'S BEEN A WHILE #SHUT UP

27 notes · View notes

evangelineartemiasamos · 8 years ago

Text

Red Queen Fan Fiction Black Storm Extra: Harvest Moon part I

as I’ve mentioned in this post, this is the continuation of The Fitter.

Find this on wattpad

info dump on original characters you will need this I guess.

part I

part II

part III

part IV

part V

part VI

part VII

part VIII

part IX

part X

part XI

part XII

part XIII

part XIV

part XV

part XVI

part XVII

part XVIII

part XIX

part XX

I've put this piece together finally. I've tried to include some canon characters to make it make relatable, but it's mostly about my original characters. I'll write a second part that will go to the really dark places of Cassie’s heart. A great literary classic is referred to at some points and if you know the book, you might guess which one.

I promise you, no King’s Cage spoilers in here.

Cassandra POV

I've been called many names. I prefer Queen of Limbs, for the sheer audacity of it, but I remember the other ones very well too.

Commoner. Bastard. Bitch. Sometimes even worse names.

There are still people who call me those names, but I smile and shrug them off nowadays, gestures I've learned form my Mother early on. Be stoic or smile. I know better than to be offended by things that are true, I remind myself. I don't have to be ashamed. The power is with me, not them. They can't hurt me, they can't make me scared, and I've been beyond fear and intimidation for a long time.

I am afraid of nothing.

The reason for this is simple: Shit has happened to me, too often and too bad, and yet I have survived and persisted. Most of these unsavoury experiences were my own damn faults, rooted in several bad decisions I've made again and again. Besides that one event, of course, but that's an entirely different story.

Now I look at Mare Barrow, fractured and taking all the blame in the world on herself and I wonder if we should share our stories to determine the not-winner in making bad decisions. I waive the thought with a smirk. That would be just another dangerous idea of mine. "Give her some chance of socializing, Miss Griffey," the king has told me, adressing me like commoner and not as an officer of his, as usual. But the longer I spend time with her, the harder it becomes not to see myself in her. Our wounds may be different, but they are still present. Invisible to those who've never felt them, but festering if ignored and untreated.

She has given me other names - Monster, beast, dog. I'm not injured, as those are other true facts, and I prefer people to be scared of me.

I can't hate such a person as Mare Barrow. I can't bring myself to hate any Reds, not when it's Silvers who have marginalized and ridiculed me half my life. Though one Red was just like them, or even worse.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Samson Merandus waits a day before he storms into my room at night, grinning. I only turn my head on his entry, saying nothing. "You've promised me a bout, Cassandra," he drones eventually.

"In here?" I tease. "Hmm, what kind of bout do you have in mind, I wonder?" I know he's angry about me dragging him out of Barrow's cage, despite the royal order to keep him out of her head. But he doesn't admit it. Instead, he takes it out on me who has defeated him numerous times at our First Friday duels. It's a good training, for both of us, but I'm not sure the audience can gather much from our matches that take place mostly in out minds. Who gains control? Who strikes first? Who can block the opponent better? Samson can't make me use my ability according to his wishes which gives me an advantage, but he can make me freeze nonetheless, hoping to use my weapons against me and letting me sink into my own nightmares.

But I don't have nightmares, not anymore. And I won't ever me afraid of myself.

"Interesting that you bring this up, Cassandra," Samson says, coming closer. He touches a tress of my hair and I shudder in disgust. That's not his place. I spin around, shoving him back so fast that he almost drops on his butt.

I tilt my head. "If you insist."

Our minds clash like rain in a storm, spiralling in my head, searching for my fears and wishes. I show him what he wants to see, facts that he's known for a long time, that make him believe his toxic desire for me has any hope for fulfillment. I don't try to use my ability on him, that close to my mind he would probably notice it. Instead, I kick into his stomach and sent him flying. But I've been too slow tonight. He manages to gain control of my body as I rotate, erasing the next seconds from my memory. I hear myself groan and I find myself beneath him, pinned on my bed. He laughs.

"What about another kind of bout?" he sneers.

My eyes narrow. "No."

"But Cassandra, I know -"

"You don't want me. Not for real. You're ashamed of desiring me, because the whole court would laugh at you if you were to 'love' the barren commoner girl. Instead you want to vanquish me, making me your puppet and your harlot, to show that all your prior losses were intentional. You can't stop seeking me out, not while I am the better of the two of us, not when I've shared a bed with so many other men, who you deem lesser that yourself."

"I dare you," he threatens, but it means nothing to me.

"I could kill you in a second, and you know it." I manage to shrug despite my fixed position. My mind attacks his body, stinging into five different, sensitive places. He grimaces, and I cackle. "What? Don't tell you are afraid of me? You know what that means." His grip lessens, and with another wave of power and a shove with my knee, he gets off me, even taking a few steps back.

"Oh my," I purr, "How can you ever defeat me if you fear me? All you have against me are my own fears, and well. I don't have any." I shake my head as he regains his composure.

"Too bad the king has so much use for you. I'd love to see your dying face," I gloat.

I see a vein twitching on his brow. "I will get to Barrow, sooner or later. Don't think you can command me," he exclaims, trying to dodge the discussion we've had a moment ago. He slams the door even louder than upon entering.

I sigh, sinking to my knees. I brush over the new wrinkles in my dress. No reason not to go to the party as planned. Even though they always feel lonely and boring, with Firebird away at Corvium, and no boyfriend to attend it with me. Lucas Samos has been the last one. I broke up with him in June, and now he is dead. I mourn his demise. At least he shouldn't have died with heartache, even though my feelings for him never equaled his for me. And maybe I would've been able to protect him from the dangerous company of Mare Barrow. But I'm not any better, am I? I cannot but feel impressed my her.

I command the Lightning Girl out of my head and look at Mother's portrait on the wall, painted by my brother Roman. He's better than all those jerks at court, myself included. He has an artist's soul, and he uses his seer ability to create things. Such as this picture, capturing our mother not in her beautiful youth, or her arrogant glory, but in her frustration, sinking down in her chair behind her desk, her face fallen and frowning. It's one of the truest and most beautiful things I've ever seen, at least in Whitefire Palace.

I shake my head and rise. I walk to the mirror, combing though my disheveled hair and look into my mismatched eyes, black and silver, contemplating my features. Cattish, angular, and pale, so unlike anyone else in my family. They remind everyone that I am not like my mother and brothers, that I'm not a noble but a mistake with mud-coloured hair. I've heard a lot of gossip and insults directed at me, some people have even made up the dirtiest rumours about who might be my father, although our similar appearance belies all those ideas instantly. Naturally, those Silvers have never laid eyes on my father, a commoner musician. Even though we meet rarely, I listen to his songs, to forget those nonsense I hear from the courtiers, which I will certainly encounter on this evening.

Before I turn away, I throw a glance at the sentinel's masklike helmet resting on my vanity. It reflects my features almost as clearly as the mirror. I smile grimly. I've realized my decision to join the sentinels wasn't a good idea the moment I've held the helmet in my hands for the first time. I have to wear that mask to turn myself into a faceless, anonymous threat. I've guessed that made sense, but I've learned better quickly. It's not about being a terror to eventual enemies to the throne, this is about the sentinels themselves, about me and my very own existence.

The mask is to hide my face and my true identity. It is to veil my birth and who I am. A sentinel is a puppet on strings and the idea fills me disgust, now and then. I've swallowed my resentment time and time again, to become the soldier the king wants, since I've been thirteen. My ability was developing quicker than usual, and the training as a royal guard seemed like the most logical way to lift me up from my commoner status.

My powers had shown themselves early, when I was five years old. That might have been the nail in my coffin. Despite the Arven diviner, an old man able the determine a Silver's ability, who had proclaimed me a telky as a baby, my mother must have continued to hope that I'd be like her, a shadow. Inheritance of the maternal talent wasn't that rare in her bloodline. I would still have been a bastard, but a noble one, a daughter bearing the name of House Haven. But I was a commoner telky like my dad, to be forever belittled for that. So be it. That didn't make me a failure by itself. I noticed that though I was weaker than the noble telkies, I was the better fighter in all other aspects. Because they were all idiots. While I developed the most subtle control of my ability and learned everything about the human body to kill and hurt with few strikes, the scions of House Provos had no fucking idea how to employ their ability in the most effective way. They made a huge show out of it instead. I could still laugh at them. They didn't use weapons, or the objects around them, but their minds alone. They heaved their oppenents into the air, expecting the confusing lack of gravity to be startling enough to make them yield. As if.

I've honed my mind and my body into fatal weapons. Any matter owned allegiance to me. I am the Queen of Limbs and I've obtained that nom du guerre with sweat, blood and more broken bones than I can count. Bones of me and others. I've faced the goddess of death and survived.

Though my military career would have been only part of the plan. The easiest way would have been to get some noble to marry me, so I'd give birth to his heir, and possibly have a child with my own ability. My mother would go begging to the king to legitimate me and I would become the foundress of the High House Griffey.

What an awfully naive dream.

By now, I appreciate the impossibility of that ever happening, of being barren instead of a broodmare. I had to find my worth within myself, in my strength, my ability and my perseverance. Through my compassion and blatant ignorance of the opinion of others. I am the better me this way. And the man I love can't have children with me anyway. A Red and a Silver can't have children together, so it's said, and it isn't like such relationships are accepted in the Nortan court. That's what I've thought, at least.

But honestly, I don't give a damn about that. I've done that once, and look where that has gotten me. I excel at making bad decisions.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This is the story of Cassandra Griffey who wants her boyfriend back but who doesn't dare to tell him that as she was the one to break up with him because her mum has told her to and she has obliged - what a fool - and either way, he has been dating her cousin in the meantime - five years - while she, Cassandra, has, well, been fucking around with enough guys to be known as a harlot.

This sums it up quite accurately, It's what I tell myself when I doubtand wish. Not that it helps. Reminding myself of those facts only binds me tighter in an unbearable situation. While this also means to disregard numerous other, beautiful memories. Like love. Like talking to the person who knows your secrets because you don't have to hide them from him like from everyone else. Like not even needing to talk in some moments because our intimacy is bigger than our rifts. Breaking up with Sorata Ives left me in a abyss. But he's always, always on my mind. I am him, and I cannot live without my life. I cannot live without my soul.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I've known Sorata Ives for as long as I can remember. Meaning, I saw him for the first time when I was about three years old, as were he and Lacey. She was still "Lacey" at that time, not "Firebird". Sorata was the one who came up with that. Back then, Mother and her brother Jin Ventos, Lacey's father, had brought Sorata's mother Mrs. Ives to Jin's mansion. Jin and Mother have spent a lot of time together in our childhoods, as Jin's wife had just died and the idea of letting their daughters grow up together seemed more than merely practical. Which is was, as my cousin and I were fast friends, as we are until now, despite all the strains challenging our connection.

When she was little, Lacey looked even more like a bird, with her aquiline nose, her delicate limbs, and her black hair shimmering like unruly feathers in flight. Of course she sang back then, too, as she always had. Her father thought music was the right way to distract her from her mother's demise, and he and Mother recognized Mrs. Ives, whom they had seen performing in a high class etablishment, to be the perfect teacher. I guess that was true, but after a few years, Mrs. Ives gave less and less of her time to the Ventos', and started to cling to my mother. Something dark and strange connected them and they saw it in each other. Nowadays, Mrs. Ives follows Mother like a living shadow, a beautiful flower blooming at night. She appears like the most loyal servant and I wonder if there's more to that, as it's certainly not love.

But, back to the beginning. Soon, Mrs. Ives started to live with us in the Ventos country home, a Silver vacation far off from the cities but frequented by the high-and-mighty. The Red had brought her son along, of course.

He was just as little as Lacey and me. He should have stayed with the servants, for a ton of reasons. But he didn't. He looked at Lacey and me and smiled. Where we went, he came with us. He played what we played and we didn't ask questions, not as long as nobody else did. And they did not, which might have been to their chagrin in hindsight. Naturally, our nannies Ellen and Laura were more occupied with my disabled brother Hagen, unless we had any lessons of which Sorata didn't stay away either. Mother spent most of ther quality time with Roman, her eldest and obvious favourite, while giving me my cuddlings on an almost regular schedule. Not that I felt unloved by her. But I was still the outsider, like Sorata who clinged to me just like Lacey who had a desperate need for a friend.

I couldn't leave either to their own devices, I never could. And Sorata didn't let go of either of us. There were barely any other children, apart from my much older brothers, and those brought along by their Silver parents were usually way too old to bother with girls in our age. They probably didn't even notice, in their smugness of being deemed reasonable enough to accompany their parents to the conferences in Jin's hotel, that the daughters of the house were best friends with a Red boy.

But we had no idea that this wasn't the way for Silver children to grow up. We were cuddled and spoilt, and encouraged to seek hobbies and education instead of being broken like horses. I know now that neither my mother nor my uncle could stand harshness, even though they were strict in their own ways. Until I was nine years old, I saw Mother only on weekends or whenever she found the time to visit the country home. Much less I'd seen my father, removed from our home when I was six months old.

But my mother and my uncle were different nonetheless. They'd grown up with a mother suffering from manic-depression, and they were well aware of the difference between having power and feeling powerless, and the truth that you could be both at the same time. Even more so after my aunt had died.

People say that I'm just a mistake of my mother. But she has never made me feel that way. Whenever I've thought myself worthless, it's been my own insecurity, a state my mother is loath to encourage. She wants me to be happy. Thus, she merely smiled, an honest amusement for instance, when she observed us kids.

One day, I threw foliage into the air for Lacey to incite. I kept the fiery leaves afloat, surrounding her, so she truly looked like a burning bird in flight as she either sang or laughed, until Sorata stated the obvious.

"You're the Firebird," he said, in awe of our abilities, and the name stuck. Sorata and I called Lacey nothing else for a week, until our servants and single parents noticed this and agreed with smiles in their eyes.

Hagen had known of the name before, of course. That evening, he whispered to me to come closer. He brushed my arm as he said, "I could barely wait to start calling her Firebird, too." He was unable to see my bafflement, but he must have guessed. He shrugged and the amusement fell from his face. He was 14 then, and frustration ruled him. Still does. Some Silvers regarded him as less than a commoner, like a different kind of Red, but they still craved his ability, gazing into the dreams of people that showed him the past, present and, if he wished, the future. Only our mother gathered intelligence from him, apart from what he chose to tell us, his family and friends. As far as I knew, he didn't resent his ability itself. But it was what made him blind. Some part of his brain was different, the healers had claimed, the same part that created the visions of the usual Eagrie eyes. It was nothing they could handle, and I wasn't not sure that Hagen even wanted that on most days, as blindness was all he knew. Sometimes Mother blamed herself and Edward, Hagen's deceased father. It was known that shadows and eyes were complementary powers, like burners and nymphs. Powers that clashed, and their union created something new, though not to Hagen's benefit. But Mother would ruin anyone who dared to accuse her or insult her son.

He had to deal with his disabilty by himself, still. And he was loath to be treated like anyone less than we were. He laughed when he thought of his sister and cousin being best friends with a Red boy. Silver attitudes meant nothing to him, and I guessed his dreams revealed to him enough secrets to realize the cesspit the Nortan court truly was.

In hindsight, we lived in our very own paradise of rocks and valleys, of heath and hot springs. There was a wilderness inside of us that always craved for more, a yearning that could not be stilled by anything other that the purity and peace of nature itself and the lights we saw in each other.

That's nostalgia, of course. But I didn't forget the face of my visting uncle Henry when he saw Sorata and me, covered in dirt and scratches all over our bodies. Distaste. I forgot what we had done, not after my uncle scolded his brother and sister for their neglect of their daughters. His apprehension had to be based in fear, I think now, as Henry, a gay man, wasn't himself the epitome of Silver conformity. Jin and Mother just shrugged, in the end. No one told Mother what to do.

Yet soon came the time that Lacey, my brothers and I were required to accompany her to court, to gather the useful connections, that meant potential spouses, and proper friends in the meantime. As if those courtiers could be called friends. They never treated me as such, of course, and Firebird would not be friends with anyone but me or Sorata. To her, being a lady and the heir to her house meant turning her debut a fashion show. If the others nobles were superficial, she would be even more so, giving away nothing of herself. She was even better than Mother in that game of pretending and fake smiles.

Though it wasn't a game for Sorata and his mother. They worked as Mother's assistants in the secret service which she leaded in all but name as the department was naturally headed by the mindfucker Merandus Queen. They were lackeys, wearing a livery and Red fabrics to display their status. Any close contact with Sorata turned both him and me into targets. Me for sneers, him for punishments. I would've liked to distribute some punishments on my own, but that was for later.

I endured the pretends, the taunts and the lies for a few years, slowly realizing my ability was the only attribute I had to offer to promote myself. I saw other Silver children dragged of to the Lakelands war, the same arrogant little boys and girls who had hit me just a days ago, or the crown prince who was just a week older than me. Their bragging vanished from their faces the moment they recognized the significance of becoming soldiers. They would represent their familes, they would gather medals and victories and they were truly and utterly horrified by that prospect. They tried to hide it, but it was undeniable upon their return that they weren't children any longer. They had tasted blood for the first time. And so did I, in my twelth summer. It was Mother's glorious idea, a thrust far off from the known battle lines at the choke to stab the Lakelanders in their heartland.

"We could end this," she declared to me proudly and I knew what she meant. I hated it at court, yet I would not leave like a coward, or start living my estranged father. To be honest, I wanted power and strength, like all Silvers, if only to live by my own rules. I was twelve years old and promises of changing the world for good were all I wanted to hear.

"Then I will do as you command, Mum. I'll fight your battle."

What a fool I was.

Commentary:

These two gif capture Cassandra just perfectly.

That is the first part. The book I'm referring to is "Wuthering Heights". At first, I went for a fairy tale retelling with Lacey as Snow White and Cassandra as Cinderella falling in love with a stable boy instead of the prince, but after watching another terrible film adaptation of "Wuthering Heights", I realized that, verdammte Axt, Catherine, Heathcliff and Isabella are my own babies Cassie, Sorata and Firebird - to a part of course. Firebird is as Isabella should have been. Thus I started to make the references more obvious. And savage. I think I've stayed to true to a first person narrator by giving Cassandra such a unique voice shifting between elaborate and foul-mouthed expressions.

I hope you understand the story. Ask me if you don't get something, I love to talk. I struggled a lot with putting the parts together and finding the right tense at the right moments. Sorry that I use Lucas like that, but it helps me to insert canon characters instead of making everyone up.

@maudthebookeater @queenmareena @dewydrael @lilyharvord @redqueenfandom @the-little-lightning-queen

#red queen #red queen fan fiction #red queen fanfiction #black storm #cassandra griffey #original character #wuthering heights #harvest moon #king's cage fan fiction #queen of limbs #sorata ives #charlotte haven #lacey ventos #my fan fiction #angst #samson merandus

12 notes · View notes

theeternalsun · 8 years ago

Text

VERY LONG CHARACTER SURVEY.

RULES. repost —— don’t reblog. tag ten people. TAGGED BY. @crownviper ( thank you <3 ) TAGGING. @uthnan @doomedfist @arsuledin @banalvhen @scoiakrol @poenitentium

BASICS.

FULL NAME: she gives none. Main verse: before joining Falon’din she was called Elgara’uthaan, which means eternal sun. Modern and all verses like it: Ehinonmen, a nigerian name which means ‘messenger of god’. NICKNAME/S: priestess, though I would not call it a nickname per se and more like a title which she has had many. AGE: Looks like she is in her mid 40ties. Main verse: late 8000. Modern and all verses like it: mid 40ties. BIRTHDAY: Main verse: not even she knows, back in her day people did not celebrate birthdays. Modern and all verses like it: 28th of December ( the year depends on the verse ) ETHNIC GROUP: Main verse: Ancient Elvhen ( back then she would have been identified as a Western one and considering those lands were controlled by Elgar’nan, that would also be taken into account ). Modern and all verses like it: Yoruba. NATIONALITY: Main verse: Her land had no name and she refuses to use the modern name. Modern and all verses like it: Nigerian.

LANGUAGE/S: Main verse: Common, Elvhen, Ancient Tevene Modern and all verses like it: English, Hausa, Yoruba and a small bit of portuguese. SEXUAL ORIENTATION: Hetero-flexible. ROMANTIC ORIENTATION: Biromantic ( this is so rare to happen in general but it’s even more towards women, so if there is even a word for that let me know rip ) RELATIONSHIP STATUS: Widow. CLASS: Low-class. HOMETOWN / AREA: Main verse: Nowadays it would be called Seere in Rivain. Modern and all verses like it: Lagos. CURRENT HOME: Main verse: different elvhen temples spread out across Thedas. Modern and all verses like it: New Orleans PROFESSION: General, priestess, just put whatever name she needs to be in order to get shit done here.

PHYSICAL.

HAIR: Black and extremely curly. EYES: Black ( boy don’t get me started on her eyes, I will never shut up ) NOSE: I don’t know how to describe noses rip. It’s scarred like most of her body really. FACE: Oval, though extremely sunken due to the years of abuse, self harm and lack of care towards her own self. LIPS: Full, all things considered, though nothing that you will see described as seductive. The skin is mostly broken either due to the scarring or the bite marks that have been left. Wounds from the cold and wind. COMPLEXION: She constantly looks like she is fighting some sort of illness, mostly due to how skinny she is. BLEMISHES: Nope. SCARS and TATTOOS: Her full body and face are covered in vallas’lin ( blood writing ) ( also here ), they once were all black with a few details of white and gold. Those same details are mostly gone, like most of the details in general on her vallas’lin. They resemble now random lines over her skin than anything else considering that her body is completely covered in scars. She doesn’t have a single piece of skin that is not torn either by her own hand or at the hand of others ( she does have 8000 years of experience in either war or fighting to survive in the streets ). She has three that she hides under golden bands ( on her neck and wrists ) which will never fully heal. On particularly ugly one going from her right temple down to her chin and circling her face. There are also multiple burn marks though they are very very old and barely noticeable. HEIGHT: 5′0″ / 150 centimeters. WEIGHT: she spends most of all o her current verses as underweight, regaining muscle and mass as they go. BUILD: After long stages of being locked up or sleeping her muscles have suffered with the inactivity and the abuse, she is incredibly skeletal and it’s something that still causes her skin to crawl. She had a very muscular build before all of the unfortunate events that followed the fall of the Elvhen empire and she aims to regain it. ALLERGIES: N/A. USUAL HAIRSTYLE: Depends, when her hair is long she either wears dreadlocks or thin braids, if the hair is short then it’s basically non-existent. USUAL EXPRESSION: Serious and quick to turn to snarky from its neutral tone ( with heavy tendencies to just roll her eyes ) USUAL CLOTHING: Unless sleeping ( which happens once in a blue moon ) she uses heavy armour beneath heavy robes ( or light ones, depending of the weather of the area around the temple that she is around ). No shoes unless it’s for an actual job ( like ambushes or actual pushes with armies. She is not stupid and she will not be caught dead fighting bare feet unless there’s a very good reason for it ). If she is a relaxed mood she might use clothing that is more traditional when it comes to rivaini clothing ( colourful, loose ) but those are very rare occasions and only reserved to people that spend some time in the temple and in festivities with her.

PSYCHOLOGY.

FEAR/S: Failing her people again, loosing control of her own self, madness. ASPIRATION/S: *slams fists* BRING BACK THE ELVHEN GLORY. POSITIVE TRAITS: Loyal, caring, idealistic, too smart for her own good, a good listener. NEGATIVE TRAITS: She is....... well, no point in beating around the bush, racist as fuck towards humans most of the time, unless they show that they deserve her respect she is just very: well, you all are just not worth the air you are breathing. Zealot, bigot, violent when her buttons are even slightly pressed about certain subjects... MBTI: INTJ. ZODIAC: Capricorn. TEMPERAMENT: Choleric. SOUL TYPE/S: The Warrior and The King. ( sorry for copy pasting but it is the same rip ) ANIMAL: Owl. VICE/S: Violence. FAITH: Main verse: The elvhen religion towards the Creators. Modern and verses like it: always variations of it. GHOSTS? Yes. AFTERLIFE? Yes, but not quite like people think of it. REINCARNATION? Yes, but not quite like people think of it. ALIENS? shrugs off to infinity. POLITICAL ALIGNMENT: To keep herself as far away from politics as possible. She doesn’t care as long as one does not dare to speak against the Gods. ECONOMIC PREFERENCE: Poverty when she was young, now she is lower class by choice. SOCIOPOLITICAL POSITION: To keep herself as far away from politics as possible.x2 EDUCATION LEVEL: In all verses she drops out of school ( or she never had it until she was an adult already ). Main verse: she only obtains formal education when she is a young adult after joining Falon’din’s temple. She still can’t read well, she was much better at physical classes and that was why she rose so quickly onto their military ranks. Modern and verses like it: Dropout, she is joined the army as soon as she could and it was then that she got more education.

FAMILY.

FATHER: Despite being caring he was very much so around her mother’s thumb. Dedicated to Elgar’nan more because of his wife’s desires than himself. Hardworking, she still remembers how his hands were completely torn from working in the fields and how he snuck some grapes for her before delivering them to the temples. She remembers his face clearly, especially his smile, that is the image that she holds onto considering that the last time that the priestess saw her father or mother they were both dead. He was hanged over a tree in front of her village alongside her mother after she was discovered to be one of Falon’din’s Generals. MOTHER: Strick and a fanatic, she is the reason why the priestess still knows all the prayers to Elgar’nan, why she participated in all the festivals in His honour and how she still could do all the dances with her eyes closed. Their relationship was extremely tense, the priests often accused her of stealing and the punishments were harsh. She denied that she was her daughter after Elgara ran from home at 8 years of age ( which is basically a baby in elvhen years really ). SIBLING/S: N/A. EXTENDED FAMILY: She didn’t have any, single daughter and disavowed when she was really, really young when she refused to join Elgar’nan’s temple and fled. NAME MEANING/S: already explained *finger guns* HISTORICAL CONNECTION: N/A.

FAVORITES.

BOOK: She has a very hard time reading, I doubt she would read much other than technical books related to fighting. MOVIE: Not really a movie person. 5 SONGS: All of them would be elvhen songs and prayer songs. DEITY: Falon’din. MONTH: She doesn’t care. SEASON: Summer. PLACE: Rivain. WEATHER: Blazing heat that leaves people wanting to have their heads down towards the floor. Give her incredibly uncomfortable summer. SOUND: Silence. SCENT/S: Spicy food, grapes, wild flowers. TASTE/S: *SLAMS FISTS* SPICY CHICKEN OR FISH. FEEL/S: Mindfulness and control over herself and others. ANIMAL/S: Owls and ravens. NUMBER: ?? fuck your numbers. COLOR: Gold.

EXTRA.

TALENTS: Manipulating people into her little death cult. killing people, extracting information, mothering people ( or so I’ve heard ), terrifying people without even opening her mouth. Having a mad side eye glare. It’s a beautiful talent. BAD AT: Trying to explain how the elvhen slavery was different than the Tevinter one ( lol what is even htis??? comparing elves to humans?? ge - ge t out of my face u heathen ), remaining calm when anyone talks shit about the Twins and actually doesn’t lay off after she tries to explain the situation, knowing when to stop, resisting temptation when it comes to the people around her and what she should or should not keep them so closely. She does terrible and selfish choices even when she knows that things are going to end up badly. I MEAN, IF SHIT IS GOING TO END IN FIRE, FUCK IT AMIRITE. TURN-ONS: Having the ability to kick ass, age ( yes, she really just.... most of you are kiddies but if at least some of you look like you have passed your first century then it might be acceptable. Maybe ), experience, ability to defend one self and others, courage, dutifulness. jUST if you have ever lead a successful battle she is probably: what a wonderful being right here *good shit meme right here* TURN-OFFS: I will never leave this place *stares at the sun* She hates smartmouthed humans, people that make themselves be scarier or more powerful than they are, people that think that being in a war and being edgy just to look cool, being from Tevinter in general, talking shit about religion or beliefs even if it’s not her own ( though her own will probably get you a punch ). A lot of complaining a little doing. The list is long..... HOBBIES: Drawing and kick people’s butts. TROPES: this would probably be a good time to say that I don’t watch series and that I have never..... really..... went into tropes so I have..... no idea. AESTHETIC TAGS: you’ll no longer fear when your heart’s turned to gold ( about )

FC INFO.

MAIN FC/S: Tracy Ifeachor. ALT FC/S: Maria Borges, Julia Noni, Grace Bol. OLDER FC/S: She doesn’t age :’) and I don’t think she will reach old age rip. YOUNGER FC/S: Little Simz. VOICE CLAIM/S: Ahh I don’t know, I never thought about this! GENDERBENT FC/S: Nope.

#you'll no longer fear when your heart's turned to gold ( about )#she holds each shattered fragment of them ( headcanon )#send a raven ( memes )#( THIS WAS GREAT YES )

6 notes · View notes

kennethmullins · 7 years ago

Text

Popehat Goes To The Opera: Un ballo in maschera

It's time once again for Popehat Goes To The Opera, the feature in which I demonstrate that opera is more bizarre, ridiculous, and wonderful than you had realized.

Previously I defiled Mozart's Cosi Fan Tutte and Wagner's Tannhauser. Let's give the Germans a rest and abuse an Italian, shall we? The prolific and talented Giuseppe Verdi — good old Joe Green himself — is as good a candidate as any. This edition's opera is Verdi's mid-career work Un Ballo In Maschera, or "A Masked Ball." No, there will be no testicular jokes. Opera is Serious Business.

Un Ballo has many things to recommend it: catchy tunes, excellent ensemble harmony, good opportunities for scenery-chewing, witches, unbridled pages, prophecies, and so on. Best of all, it is relatively short. Verdi had either self-control or an astute grasp of his audience's limitations; the duration is tolerable even to people who are only pretending to like opera for purposes of social convention, business development, or the dogged pursuit of coitus.

As before, my guide is Sir Denis Forman's sublimely witty and fond review of opera. My preferred version is this remastered 1956 recording with a stellar cast led by Maria Callas. Nobody does "tormented" like Maria Callas. She could sing "These Are A Few of My Favorite Things" and make it sound so harrowing that the Von Trapp kids start wearing black and cutting themselves in the Hot Topic bathroom.

A Kingkiller Chronicle

Ballo is based on a true story — the 1792 assassination of Gustav III of Sweden at a masquerade ball. Verdi undertook the work on a commission from a Naples opera house. He planned to use the libretto Gustav III by playwright Antonio Somma, but Neopolitan censors were unhappy with the initial draft. They apparently felt that the murder of a king, the presence of fortunetellers, and other dramatic flourishes were a threat to the famous stability and good order of the Italian government. After fits and starts Verdi very begrudgingly changed the name a few times — eventually to Un ballo in maschera — and changed the characters and setting.1

Nobody is certain whether Verdi's censor-pleasing changes were deliberately ridiculous.2 Verdi initially attempted to change the king to a duke and Sweden to Pomerania3, but this wasn't good enough. As Sir Denis Forman points out, the censors may have been agitated by the attempted assassination of Napoleon III in 1858, particularly because he was on his way to an opera at the time.4 Verdi eventually transformed the lead character from the King of Sweden to the colonial "Governor of Boston." The scene changed from 18th-century Sweden to 17th-century colonial America. Notwithstanding that 17th-century colonial America was characterized by famine, disease, religious extremism, and extremely uncomfortable shoes, the opera portrays it as featuring royal courts, pages, masked balls, and assorted Euro-frippery. The result is dramatically awkward. Fortunately Verdi's music is good enough to carry it.

There Are Ways Of Telling Whether She Is A Witch!

Verdi opens with a prelude that previews some of the main melodies of the opera, an increasingly popular practice that made opera somewhat more accessible and survives in musical theater to this day. It's tuneful. Listen to the main theme starting at 1:30 – 2:08.5

The curtain opens upon the court of Riccardo — let's call him Rick — the Governor of Boston, Earl of Warwick, and snappy dresser. Rick's various sycophants are serenading him as he wakes, telling him he's simply the cat's ass. As they do so, schemers and would-be assassins Sam and Tom — surely the most useless conspirators in the operatic canon — are muttering about how they want revenge upon him for some disappointments related to real estate. Listen to the two groups harmonize at about 6:00 – 6:30..

Rick enters and proclaims his desire to do right by his subjects. The following exchange is probably not intended to be an ironic comment on governance:

RICCARDO (entering and greeting them) Friends – soldiers – (then to the deputies, as he receives their petitions) And you who are equally dear to me! Give them to me; You may count on me. I must protect my children, satisfying every just desire. Power has no beauty unless it dry its subjects’ tears and strive for uncorrupted glory.

OSCAR (to Riccardo) Please read the list of invitations to the ball.

Rick grabs the list, intending to make sure there are plenty of eligible women, and twitches when he sees the name Amelia, with whom he is desperately in love. The problem is that Amelia is married to Rick's best friend and top adviser, Renato. Angst ensues for the rest of the opera. Rick sings of Amelia, reprising the main theme. (8:18) and eventually the court joins in, singing about how wonderful Rick is as Rick sings about wanting to bone his best friend's wife (9:30).

Enter Renato, the friend and counselor in question, who observes that Rick is in a bad mood. Renato, who is not overburdened by what we now call emotional intelligence, tries to divert Rick from his obvious mopery by warning that there is a plot to kill him. Before Renato can convince Rick, a judge arrives seeking approval for the banishment of a witch. Traditionally the punishment of witches had been a matter for local governments but now apparently it's been centralized in the Governor's hands. Thanks Obama! Rick quizzes the judge about what the witch, Ulrica, has done to warrant banishment from Boston, which normally is something that must be earned. Oscar, Rick's page, leaps to Ulrica's defense with spirited praise for her soothsaying abilities and productive relationship with Lucifer. Oscar, though dramatically a boy, is played by a soprano; Verdi follows operatic tradition regarding pages by writing Oscar to sound extremely enthusiastic about everything, like a dog who wets on the hall carpet from sheer joy when you get home from work. Oscar gets a nice virtuosic song about Ulrica (16:41).

Rick didn't get to be a Governor and an Earl because of his attention span. He announces happily that he's decided to disguise himself as a fisherman and observe Ulrica to see what's she's about and laugh at her gullible customers. Oscar is delighted, the conspirators Sam and Tom think it's a great opportunity to stand around and mutter ineffectually some more, the court is game for it because cocaine hasn't been invented yet, and Renato is concerned for Rick's safety. They voice their respective views in turn in a terrific rollicking ensemble piece. (19:28).

Witchy Woman

The scene shifts to Ulrica's cave, usually dressed up with smoking cauldrons and what-have-you. There is a suitably ominous orchestral introduction (:12) and Ulrica invites Satan6 to join her. She gets Rick instead; he has shown up before his gigantic entourage, who can't find parking. Ulrica's attendants rebuke Rick as she thrashes around pretending to be in the ecstasy of demonic possession for a bit. Eventually a sailor pushes in front of Rick and demands his fortune. Verdi is very good at musical characterization; listen to the sailor's entry music and his blustery introduction (28:00). Gold and rank are in your future, Ulrica tells him. Rick — who has this morning gone from enthusiasm about being Governor, to anguish about unrequited love, to enthusiasm about putting on a costume to make fun of a witch, now decides that it is absolutely crucial that everyone take the witch seriously. These days Rick would be medicated7 and the opera would have no plot whatsoever. Rick hastily writes an officer's commission and slips it into the sailor's bag with some gold. The sailor joyfully discovers these items, the crowd praises Ulrica's powers, and the theme of self-fulfilling prophecies is unsubtly waved like a flaming Cliff Notes.

Enter a discreet servant, who begs a private audience with his mistress. Ulrica sends her fans away, but Rick — who recognizes the servant as working for his crush Amelia — hides behind a tapestry or arras or alcove or rock or something. Amelia enters, and sorrowfully reveals what she wants from Ulrica — a magical means of falling out of love with Rick. Rather than consult a sorceress Amelia would have been better served to consult English poet Wendy Cope:

Two Cures for Love

1. Don’t see him. Don’t phone or write a letter.

2. The easy way: get to know him better.

But Amelia's looking for something more straightforward and operatically appropriate like a potion or possibly an unguent. Ulrica tells her that the cure to love can be found in an herb that can only be picked by hand at midnight at a lonely gallows. When you're a seer you have to sell it; nobody ever got a good tip by telling a client to pick up something at Whole Foods. Amelia resolves to go that very night. There is a sublime trio as Amelia prays for strength, Rick vows to follow her, and Ulrica promises peace — listen to a snippet at 34:01 to 35:45.

Amelia departs, and Rick — still dressed as a fisherman — re-enters, this time with his full posse. Without explaining why a fisherman has courtiers, he launches into a florid but tuneful request for his fortune (38:17) couched in maritime imagery. Apparently, since he's now trying to trick Ulrica into giving him a fisherman's fortune, he's switched back to wanting to make fun of her. Or maybe now he really thinks he's really a fisherman, it's not clear.

Eventually he presents his hand to Ulrica to learn his future. Shan't, she says. I insist, says he. Oh very well, you're gonna die soon, she says. Rick is brave. If I die bravely in battle, that's fine, he says. No, says Ulrica — you'll die at the hand of a friend.

Consternation! Tumult! Rhubarb! (41:45). Everybody freaks, and launches into a catchy ensemble: Rick trying manfully to scoff at the prophecy, his entourage horrified, and Sam and Tom worried that their pointless failure of a conspiracy has been found out, Ulrica saying she just reads hands like they're written. It's odd but man does it work. (42:17-45:19)

Tell me who shall kill me, demands Rick. The first person to touch your hand today, says Ulrica. Swell! Says Rick, and wanders about trying to shake people's hands as they recoil. Nobody will shake — until Renato wanders in, and Rick vigorously shakes his hand, proclaiming him his most trusted friend. Rick is genre blind and doesn't get what this means. Ulrica, realizing that Rick is not a fisherman after all, asks for mercy; Rick is magnanimous and gives her cash. Thanks, she says, but you're still a dead man. Sir.

Since maybe a half hour has passed without anyone fluffing Rick, the chorus shows up to proclaim his awesomeness as governor, and the act ends with a skillful polyphony of chorus praising, the conspirators grumbling, Ulrica warning, and Rick saying that everything will turn out swell (49:22). SPOILER: naw.

This is the Most Awkward Cosplay EVER.

The second act opens at midnight by the gallows with an almost cartoonishly turbulent prelude (50:32) that resolves into one of Amelia's main themes (51:22). Amelia appears, looking for the magic stop-loving-inappropriate-men weed which, as modern history would suggest, does not exist. Before she can find it, but after an operatically appropriate interval of angst, Rick shows up. They exchange an entire junior-high-schooler-mix-tape full of romantic sentiment: I belong to another, I am consumed by love, you must forget me, what we feel is wrong, and so and and so forth, at length. It's not the best part of the opera, frankly. Rick eventually convinces Amelia to admit she loves him, saying this is all he wants of her (spoiler: naw), and they break into a decent tune about how they love each other and maybe everything will work out if they give into it (1:30:32) (Spoiler: eh, you know.)

Enter, abruptly, Renato, who is justifiably worried that his flighty facing-several-assassination-plots employer is wandering around graveyards in the dark. Amelia swiftly puts on her veil and Rick composes himself. Is it cockblocking if the interrupter is her husband? Verdi doesn't say. Renato explains he has narrowly escaped the conspirators, who are even now seeking Rick, hoping for some stabby-stabby. Rick agrees to flee but asks Renato to escort his, erm, "friend" and to respect her privacy and anonymity and absolutely not to think "hey, my wife has that dress" or anything. They trio in a grim key (1:11:18).

Rick leaves. Renato rather disapprovingly tells Amelia to follow him, and is preparing to escort her to the city gates when the conspirators show up for a bit of u-wot-mate. They taunt and threaten, demanding to see what secret lover Renato is out with. Renato is defiant, swords are drawn, death is imminent, and rather than see her husband killed, Amelia throws herself between them, dropping her veil. Renato is thunderstruck. (1:15:10.) The conspirators are dumbfounded. Wait. Wait. His wife? His wife? What follows shows Verdi's facility with ensemble and harmony and mixing different tones and emotions: the conspirators laugh and mock Renato for indulging in costume play with his own wife in a graveyard, Rick seethes in humiliation, Amelia weeps in torment. Utterly brilliant and tuneful. (1:17:31).

Every Unhappy Family Is Unhappy In Its Own Way.

Act Three opens in Renato's house, with Renato deciding when, how, and possibly whether to kill Amelia. Operas are not woke; this is not presented as much of a moral dilemma, and it's fairly traditional for Amelia to spend a substantial part of this scene groveling on the ground, which is generally not easy for male OR female opera singers without the use of hoists. Renato tells Amelia, more or less, to go pick out the outfit you want to die in. Amelia pleads with him to let her embrace their son one last time8.) Renato relents. Alone, he sings of his humiliation, of his betrayal by Rick, and of his rising realization that Rick should die. Listen to him sing about his determination to end his former friend (1:29:15.)

Useless conspirators Sam and Tom show up, invited by Rick and heralded by their theme music from the overture. They cower as Rick tells them he knows of their plans to kill Renato, and are puzzled when he agrees to join in. Renato leads them in a catchy, twangy "we're in this together" song (1:39:08). It's clear Renato is going to be the brains in this operation. But who will be the brawn? Who's going to swing the blade? Renato demands the right, Sam and Tom rather unconvincingly protest, and they agree to draw lots. They are preparing to do so when Amelia wanders back in, all "look, its not like I'm wanting to die or anything, but how long is this business meeting going to take? It's the weekend and you promised some us time." Renato is perfectly happy to have Amelia draw the piece of paper from the hat to determine, unknowingly, who kills her would-be lover. Verdi, like the producer of a reality tv show, draws out the tension shamelessly, but in the end Amelia draws the lot, Sam and Tom pretend to be disappointed that it's Renato's name., and they burst into a quite nice quartet (1:41:12).

The tension's high, so it's time for comic relief — Oscar the page arrives to invite everyone (including, for some reason, known conspirators) to the big masked ball with a completely insufferable level of enthusiasm. Renato thinks. Big crowds? Everyone in disguise? Lots of alcohol? This is the perfect opportunity to kill someone. Oscar launches into a really quite delightful song about how off the hook this party is going to be (1:49:08) as Amelia despairs and Renato and the conspirators chortle over the imminent death of Rick — once again, showcasing Verdi's ability to harmonize not only different voices but completely different moods and emotions.

You Stabbed Me All Night Long

We find Rick preparing for the ball, in most stagings sitting in front of the curtain. He has decided to send Renato and Amelia as envoys to England to put Amelia beyond temptation and suspicion and Rick out of glowering-and-constantly-nagging range. He dwells on how painful it will be to lose Amelia, but is interrupted by Oscar, who excels at interrupting emotional moments with snail-mail. Rick reads the note Oscar has delivered – a woman warns him someone will try to kill him that very night at the ball. Apparently Amelia feels guilty — but not guilty enough to tell him that it's her husband Renato who plans to kill him, or to use her own name. Of course, Rick ought to be able to puzzle that out for himself. But Rick is an opera hero, flighty, and not particularly bright, as opera convention requires. He proclaims that he is a man and nobody stops a man from going to a fancy dress party in a cape and a domino mask. Then — in my favorite musical bit of the opera – hearing the musicians begin to play at the ball, he reprises the main love theme, saying he will see Amelia one last time and things will be swell (spoiler: naw), and the curtain parts dramatically to reveal the magnificent party. It's silly and overwrought and utterly operatic (1:52:31 – 1:53:10)

Everyone at the party is having a hell of a time. It's a costume party, but a lame tiny-mask-on-a-stick costume party. Nobody's got a bitchin' Boba Fett rig or anything. Renato, searching for Rick, annoys Oscar by recognizing Oscar immediately, but begs Oscar to spill how Rick is dressed so Renato can find him. He's dressed exactly like Rick except with a tiny stupid mask, Oscar doesn't say. Instead, Oscar launches into a nice virtuoso "I know but I'm not telling and also these are extremely strong wine spritzers" number.

Meanwhile, in front of stately dancers, Rick and Amelia reunite. The following scene — in which we know that Renato's about to leap out and off Rick at any moment — unfolds with the guests dancing in the background to what Sir Denis Forman aptly calls "mincingly irrelevant dance music." Rick tells Amelia that he's sending them to England, and they sing a pained goodbye (2:00:48.) Goodbye! Farewell! And here's my goodbye motherfucker, quoth Renato, springing from behind a plant or a chair or a column or something, and either stabbing or shooting Rick depending upon the production budget. Renato throws off his mask triumphantly and the crowd, horrified and outraged, energetically denounces him. Rick — dying, chastened, and finally remembering that he is not actually a fisherman — takes responsibility, pardons Renato with his last breaths, assuring Renato that even though he and Amelia were deeply in love and would have totally done it, repeatedly, across 2 – 4 different sets, they technically hadn't yet, so, you know, Renato has that going for him, which is nice. There's a very nice ensemble harmony as everyone reflects on how great Rick is (2:06:36), and Rick expires quite swiftly (in opera terms, meaning in about eight minutes, with three reprises) to the horror of all.

Nominally a story of doomed love, Un ballo in maschera works much better as an intrigue and character study. The love duets are not the highlight of the opera. Instead, Verdi's skill at moving the plot along briskly with the music, clever and multi-faceted ensemble work, and musical characterization are. In the opera, you can see the steady march from the time when operas were just vocal concerts in costume to genuine drama set to good music. The inexorable power of fate, tragic flaws, pride and humiliation — all the ingredients of high opera are there. It's a keeper.

Next time on Popehat Goes To The Opera: Tuberculosis, the rent-control-landlord's little friend.

0 notes

nancydhooper · 7 years ago

Text

Popehat Goes To The Opera: Un ballo in maschera

It's time once again for Popehat Goes To The Opera, the feature in which I demonstrate that opera is more bizarre, ridiculous, and wonderful than you had realized.

A Kingkiller Chronicle

There Are Ways Of Telling Whether She Is A Witch!

Rick enters and proclaims his desire to do right by his subjects. The following exchange is probably not intended to be an ironic comment on governance:

OSCAR (to Riccardo) Please read the list of invitations to the ball.

Witchy Woman

Two Cures for Love

1. Don’t see him. Don’t phone or write a letter.

2. The easy way: get to know him better.

This is the Most Awkward Cosplay EVER.

Every Unhappy Family Is Unhappy In Its Own Way.

You Stabbed Me All Night Long

Next time on Popehat Goes To The Opera: Tuberculosis, the rent-control-landlord's little friend.

0 notes