#it sounds like hippie nonsense but it's good shit i promise

[erasedcitizen2]

i think adults need to play more in general. like when we had snow the other day I went for a walk and I made snow angels. and I picked up some snow and just held it in my bare hand for a little bit just to experience the cold. and I stepped slowly on a frozen puddle to feel the crunch under my boot and watch the water slowly come through the ice.

and it gave me so many serotonins

[anonbeadraws]

So I caved and with @spacespectres help made an avatarsona! With a big chunky statement to go with it!    (Trigger warnings for homophobia/transphobia, conversion therapy, death and parental abuse. Everyone gets just desserts though.)

‘I’m, actually not sure why I’m here. You can’t help me, my son is gone and the police arn't saying it but - I’m sorry, my ears are- It’s like- You know those alarms, the ones that are made to disperse kids at shopping centres, keep them from causing trouble- not that i think they work. you see more of them these days, scruffy and dirty, what their parents doing, i don’t-  Anyway, it’s like that noise, that high buzz. it’s meant to be that, as you get older, your brain tunes it out, adults aren’t meant to hear it anymore, just keep on shopping without hoodlums hanging about outside smoking and throwing shit at the elderly.   I don’t miss that, Ben’s smoking, i’ll say that. That’s awful to say, i bet you’re thinking, god how terrible, her child’s missing and she’s moaning about a few nicotine stains on the ceiling.

I know theres plenty that would call me a terrible mother anyway, i know the neighbours didn’t agree with my decision, the decision of a single mother, who struggled enough just to keep her child fed and watered and out of trouble, to then struggle to keep him from wearing my lipstick when i was out of the house-!   I have no problem with the gays. I want to say that, have that clear. I just know, what he was doing, that wasn’t my Ben, that wasn’t my son and, the Helping House was what he needed.   I’m his mum, i know what he needed, don’t care what his dad says. he wasn’t here, he wasn’t here to raise Ben, so he doesn’t-

The pamphlet was so nice, so professional and i checked it out online, all 5 stars, apart from the odd protester sticking his oar in, and it was- reassuring to know he’d be looked after, helped! Get what he needed. And he was fine when i left him there, with his old school backpack with all his bits in, the Helping staff there to welcome him. Reminded me a little of when he started primary school, he looked so small, all big eyes…  They promised it’d be a couple of weeks, maybe a month, and then he could come home, all better.

  I got to visit every weekend, which was nice! Sometimes brought him biscuits, can't beat home made, chatted a little. He still had that, that look from when i left, like he was little again, when i could tell he didn’t really want to leave me at the gates, he didn’t want to go in all alone, couldn’t we just go home instead mum?  But i was strong. For him. I resisted.

I think, it was when that look started to go, that little boy look, replaced with something, i don’t really want to think about even now, that i really noticed the other patients. One in particular. He looked different from the others. Props to the Helping House, they keep, kept the kids tidy. it was actually lovely, real treat to see Ben all combed and neat, not smelling like his trash dump of a room. And not a whiff of smoke! i’d honestly not have been surprised if he’d snuck in some ciggies in but if he had, they must have confiscated em quick.    No fags in the Helping House! I mean-! oh you know, what i mean!

But this one,.. they all dressed in clothes from home, apparently they worked out its better for the process, this one was a mess. Half shaved hair, no knees in the jeans and honestly, sunglasses indoors? who did He think he was!? Mick Jagger?  He just slouched in the corner of the visiting room, looking out into the gardens, like he belonged there in that clean good place.  They were nice gardens, well looked after, like the kids. I remember it was coming up summer, lots of lovely flowers. lots of happy bees.

Anyway, i did Not like how Ben looked over at, him, while we had our cups of tea. it was this, gooey soft look i’d never seen on him. later i remembered it. it was how his dad looked when we started courting. That cloying honey sweet love that turned sickly and choking far too quick. God, that look, on my boys face? You bet I had words with the staff before i went. I did not bring my boy here to get help and it be ruined by some hooligan with warped intentions. I made sure they understood. They didn't seem to know what i meant by the Sunglasses kid but it’s a big facility, probably get a lot of patients. Their success rate was incredible really, always seemed to be spaces open. Whatever they did, didn’t do a lot though. Cause i kept seeing him, every time i visited. And he drew a crowd.       At first it was the ones who didn’t have family to come, poor dears. They’d be sat, close as they could to him. They had rules about touching in the Helping House, and rightly so, helps with, the temptation, but they’d sit there, close as they could to him, just listening, sun on their faces from the big glass window.  Now that i’m thinking about it, I don’t think i remember ‘em blinking?    Anyway, Could never hear what was said, what venom that creeper was pouring into their ears, whenever i tried to hear him over the other visitors, it just came over as a low buzz. Well, whatever it was, those kids were hooked.  I didn't like it. And the next weekend, there more of ‘em! You’d have kids that’d be crying one week that their family hadn't come, who didn't give two shits the next, pardon my french. They’d be sat in the corner, happy sappy faces, listening to whatever nonsense that kid was murmuring to his little flock. They didn’t touch, not then, but it was a close thing, i remember being so shocked that nothing was being done about it. It was obviously a problem. that weirdo was the problem.

But my boy didn’t stray. He might’ve looked over at that hive of idiots who worked against what these good people were trying to do for them, with that… look. But he stayed and drank his tea with me like he should. He looked tired, but i knew that’s cause he was working hard, getting better.  i got the reports.

But the last couple of visits, i come in and it’s just my boy in the visitors room.   The rest were outside in the garden, in the flowers. All those kids, twenty or so of em, tangled in each other, touching and so close. I don’t think they were, Doing things but, it was against regulation for sure,  and I stood up, to go do something, anything, even just yell at them to stop it, ask what they thought they were doing!? That’s when the Buzzing started. For a second i thought it was just a bee come in from the garden, poor little bumble trapped indoors but it was in my ears, in my head. It was nothing i’d ever felt before and I’ve had Tinitus and that’s a nasty bugger but it was more than that.

Been to the doctors since. Apparently they can’t work it out, whats causing it. All they can say was it wasn’t Tinitus.

I think it was, Sunglasses looking at me. I remember when i got up, to tell ‘em off, i remember light in the corner of my eye, like a reflection off glass. I think he turned, he knew i was going to stop em and he-

Last sunday was the last time, the last visit. Had a big tin of biscuits, gingerbread, Ben’s favourite, had some nice news about his cousin getting into uni, first in the family! Always had hopes Ben would be the second, but-  Ben wasn’t waiting for me. He was outside. With Them.

Him.

There he was, holding the hand of that freak and the staff were just stood round like numpty’s doing nothing! Dumb faces and vacant as their patients were outside rolling about in the sun like it was the 60’s! And smoking! I thought, they must’ve found a stash cause i could see the smoke, swirling dark against the sky, dark against their smiling, stupid faces.

I was furious. i was, so angry.

I think thats why i did it. I was so angry that i couldn’t think of anything else to do but grab that sunglasses wearing freak who was corrupting my boy, who was holding his hand and steering him wrong and undoing all my work and love, and shake my anger out of him. I was yelling all that, yelling at him. I remember he was light, not as heavy as he should be, not for a kid his age and that he didn’t flinch. And he spoke to me, in that low drone that I thought had been just distance and space distorting his voice, but was just him, god it was just him.

I cant remember exactly what he said, something about love, real love, some hippy nonsense. No, i remember one thing. The little shit asked if i thought i was ‘my child’s real Family.” ‘Of course, i said, ‘i’m his mother’ Then he smiled, like i was wrong and i hated him. And I could see myself, in that dark reflection, in those stupid shades and i couldn’t stand it.   I wish i hadn’t, done what i did. i just didn’t want to see myself in that black mirror anymore, all twisted and hateful.   Turns out it was far nicer than what was behind them.

I let go, dropped it, that thing in ripped jeans and stripes and it fell into the flowers. There were so many happy bees. Thats when i heard the other kids. They had it’s voice, shared it’s voice, that drone. That buzz. i didn’t dare look at them. My ears, started up again, like before but, that sound, their sound, it made it louder and i honestly thought my head might explode and I turn to Ben, my boy, who had dropped to his knees in front of that thing, holding it’s hand and for a second, I thought he was smoking again, dark wisps coming from his downturned face and, I just, my fear turned to anger, for just a second, that he would do that here and now.

But I begged him to come away, to leave it alone, to get better, to just be my little boy again, to come home with mummy. Then he looked up, my Ben, and his face-   it wasn’t smoke, it had never been smoke. it was the same as whatever had been bumbling around in the creature that still lay in the flowers but Ben smiled all the same. I, feel crazy, crazy saying it but- as the bees poured out of my little boy’s smiling mouth in that choking swarm, their buzzing droning out his words, my boys last-

My name is Sarah

i’d never seen him happier.

Apparently I fainted. Never fainted in my life, i’ll tell you, too tough for that sort of thing, but i must’ve. Police think it’s what saved me. I like to think otherwise.   Officially, what happened was that the patients turned on the staff, killed em and left. Simple, explainable. Some sicko’s like to use what happened as an argument against conversion therapy, old hippy dykes that don’t have enough to picket over, idiots.  They didn’t see the bodies, they didn’t see what those ‘helpless victims’ did- They dragged them outside after they killed em, into the sun, into the flowers. I remember waking up once, amongst all the dead. Happy bees, dipping their beaks into the blood of the doctors. Plenty of sugar in blood, I read.

Ben was all i had left, my only family. I don’t have no one left. You don’t get many visitor when the papers insist you made your kid a killer. Don’t even get phone calls from Dave anymore, but i call that blessing. He was barely Ben’s dad anyway. I’ve gotten used to the quiet. i go to work, i come home, watch a bit of telly. the buzz from the old tv only scares me a little. I know i did my best for him. i believe that, after everything. I wouldn’t be here though, if, there wasn’t, something else.

 I had a visitor the yesterday. Wasn’t expecting it, thought it was a missionary, Jehovah’s or something. Was ready to tell them to piss off, i tell you. It was a girl. Said she was my daughter. she looked like my Ben, same smile, same funny little knees he used to scrape up, ones i used to kiss better. It wasn’t Ben. My Ben had eyes. My daughters words buzzed, like there was something in her throat. Perhaps the same things that crawled where her eyes would be, round and yellow and bumbling, i thought, and my head starting hurting again. She only stayed at the door, didn’t come in. She said she just wanted to say hello.

She said she’ll visit again.

That she’ll bring her family.

i don’t think she means me anymore.’ The magnus archives belongs to Rusty Quill, the above belongs to me!

[chalabrun]

busker street, chapter 1

Word Count: 1,583 Pairing: Ignoct, Ignis/Noctis Rating: T Warnings: None Summary: The mainstream music scene is one of the most demanding, carnivorous industries on the planet. When Ignis, a secretary at his uncle’s record label, meets the multi-talented street musician Noctis, it’s in him that he’ll fight for the right for this young man to be his muse.

                                               READ ON AO3

It was in routine that he found security and familiarity, warm and wonderful in the moments before a brew when the air was captivated by his favorite roasts as he prepared himself for the day. Making coffee was like a timer, in a way. Each day was a slightly different brew, sometimes with shots for an Espresso, sometimes not. Variety in an otherwise predictable, placid routine.

Emerging from the swanky apartment complex he lived in, SoCal weather seldom disappointed with its breezy warmth hailed from the Pacific, not yet baring the high heat of noon that often came with the summer season. Late winter by US standards, the temperature was mild but still warmer than other places, such as his native England that had been his childhood home until six years of age. London had its age, yes, but Los Angelos had its vibrancy. Enough color to make the world go ‘round, one might say.

It was fortunate Ignis’ residence was but a short walk from Hollywood, where his workplace proper was located at the border of Hollywood—not very far from the luxuriant Beverly Hills, either. Ignis’ commutes were often interesting, as spying the occasional celebrity and their throngs of devotees and paparazzi was seldom a rarity. But, commonplace in his business.

“Pardon me. I’m afraid I didn’t see you,” he apologized as he almost ran into an elderly Hispanic woman who only chuckled kindly, waving off the indiscretion and his apparent distracted walk. No matter. They’d be able to cross soon enough.

Dappled shade saved his sight from the worst of a gradually looming sun, the softness of the morning fading away into harsh daylight. Well, perhaps not so harsh. Busker Street was a pleasant, idyllic road compared to others in the contemporary, flashy sector of LA. A beatnik’s paradise, stuffed with short, squat, few-story buildings nevertheless full of centennial charm was an artistic epicenter in the city, lined with old trees that took away from the inevitability of the city.

Ignis couldn’t help but cease moving when the twang of a warm-up guitarist caught his periphery, fellow pedestrians moving past him as though he were a stone in the river. Politely did he move from the line of traffic and deviated from the morning commute, walking beneath the shade until he came before a small crowd blocking half of the wide sidewalk.

Street musicians weren’t rare. Far from it, especially here. However, as he peeked over the shoulders of a particularly short man, he couldn’t help but be enraptured. Ignis saw an electric guitarist surrounded by a keyboard, live microphone, as he was establishing the harmony and melody as Ignis had seen several times before at the recording sessions at the record company. Lord knew he’d seen his fair share of acoustic guitarists, but nothing this complicated before. And when he saw the man beatboxing, Ignis’ brows admittedly shot up.

What ensued was nothing short of entrancing. A jazzy baseline, a funky guitar riff; mingling sounds that logically shouldn’t work together did, and brilliantly. Like accidental genius. At times, the musician’s vocals switched between double reverb and normal, a mystical quality to the lyrics. Not conscious of his own staring, when the musician himself turned his gaze over the crowd, their eyes met. Not having seen his face before, it was like electricity when they matched gazes. Undeniably attractive, even beneath the shade of a baseball cap, Ignis felt himself fluster when he remembered himself. Excusing himself from the throng, he continued again on his way to work.

“If I have to listen to another fucking auto-tune pop princess or some greasy hippie boy on an acoustic guitar, I might as well call it quits.”

It was 9 by the time Ignis came to his uncle’s office on the top floor, Citadel Records something of a sheer trek to ascend even by elevator. A major powerhouse in the music industry, it wasn’t without reason. With two mugs of piping hot coffee in hand, Ignis smiled in some odd amusement. “Auto-tune pop princess? I don’t think I’ve heard that one before,” he admitted mirthfully as the mugs were set on coasters before the older man’s desk, the elder Scientia raking his fingers through thinning blond hair.

“Yes, Ignis, auto-tune pop princess. You ever hear them without it? They sound like shit, most of them. Get the rare talent, but by God are they rare,” Markus Scientia groused as he snatched for his coffee, face half buried in his other hand while he nursed the Espresso. Looking thoughtful and grim, he seemed to brighten some once he’d drunk the coffee proper, a wily smile spanning. “Least the coffee keeps us sane. The hell do you put in it, anyways?”

“Magic, perhaps. Fairy dust,” Ignis replied with a soft smirk as he sat in one of two chairs before the executive’s desk, crossing his legs and sipping quietly at his own.

Markus snorted. “Fucking hairy dust. Long as it works, I suppose.”

They were thoughtful for a long moment, until Ignis was the one who broke the pregnant pause. “None of the applicants were promising?” he broached, glancing over the rim of his mug before setting it on its coaster.

His uncle sighed, doing more or less the same. “Much as we’ve got enough talent as it is, you know how it is, Ignis. People always crave something new. Familiar only lasts so long, and if we’re going to break into the damn indie scene, we need new. Really crash in and set a flag in like it’s the damn moon landing. Real different, you know?”

Ignis couldn’t help but reflect on the musician he encountered that morning, it still feeling like he’d walked from a dream. Considering he passed Busker Street every day weather-permitting, it was his first time hearing this one. Those deep sapphire eyes stuck on him like glue, stamped on his memory like the sound he’d made. New.

“Have you considered looking in the actual scene itself? There are many indie artists in the area, as I’ve been made aware,” he suggested, emerald eyes flicking towards his uncle’s.

Markus snorted, nearly spewing some of his drink indecorously. “I want new, Igs! Never before heard, unknown, not fucking bottom feeders everyone’s heard of. Good ones, of course.”

With each passing moment, this mystery musician was becoming more and more appealing a prospect. Though, just as Ignis opened his mouth to speak, Markus waved off the subject. “What about this whole lyricist business? Come up with anything good? Much as we’re about fostering talent and all that shit, I can’t have you dawdling from your duties for some artsy-fartsy nonsense. You’re the best secretary I’ve got, kid.”

Ah, that.

Ignis straightened his glasses on the bridge of his nose, remembering he’d left his briefcase by his desk outside. “One moment, uncle,” Ignis said distractedly as he left his mug of coffee at the desk, his uncle’s eyes expectantly boring into his back. Outside, the managing division in all its business yawned before him, hard at work even so early in the morning.

“Anythin’ excitin’ goin’ on in there, Igs?” Cindy ventured in her southern drawl, leaning back in her office chair with a sunny smile.

Ignis regarded the blond with a faint scoff, but smiled warmly back. “I suppose we’ll just have to wait and see. Perhaps I’ll have news by lunch break, Miss Aurum.”

Finding the right shief of papers and a notebook with ideas, Ignis stepped back into his uncle’s office who clapped his hands once whilst Ignis slid the papers on the older Scientia’s desk. Rumpling some of the documents in hand, he leaned back with a creak in his seat and propped both feet commandingly on his desk, Ignis taking his seat again and waiting quietly as he read through what material he’d brought.

Markus made no articulation of an opinion that Ignis could discern, leafing through before he lifted those similarly green eyes to his nephew. “It’s not bad, Igs, but it sure as hell wouldn’t sell on a mainstream market,” the older man began, sliding the documents across his desk, then smiling puckishly, “but I like it. Think once we found our flagship act, you could be the one who wrote their songs. Guess it’s not such a bad thing your old man made you take all those Honors and AP classes back in high school.”

Ignis’ composure became disarmed by the praise, admittedly first worrying that he’d found some of the songs he’d written to be too esoteric for a common audience. Not that he was incapable of producing for the pop genre, but it simply felt unsuitable. “Thank you, uncle,” Ignis beamed back, Markus laughing heartily.

Just as he moved to collect his things to begin work at his own desk, Markus stopped him. “Oh, once you’re all done with this shit, two things: I need you to go to that exhibit opening party or whatever downtown for me. That’s this weekend. And, uh, tomorrow—I was thinking I could give you a sort-of day off. Do some scouting for raw talent, y’know? Pass out business cards, network and shit like that. Got it, Igs?”

Ignis nodded, papers rolled in his hand and half-drunk coffee in the other, looking a little flustered to begin the day’s work. “I think that should be doable, uncle. I’ll be certain to clear my schedule.”

“Glad I can count on you, Igs!”