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she-walks-on-starlight · 3 months ago

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If I Can't Hold You

a/n: I've had this idea floating around my head for DAYS and finally managed to write something out of it, enjoy - ✨

Pairing: Agatha x Rio (mentioned)

Warnings: grief, some slight flirting, angst, mentions of murder/harm (past)

Summary: Agatha hears Lorna's version of The Ballad for the very first time. It awakens a lot of memories and feelings. Angst. All the angst.

Word Count: 1.7k

The record store was busy, the Saturday afternoon bringing a crowd of eager teenagers, lovestruck couples on dates and hungry music fans chasing their next album to obsess over.

Agatha ran her thumb over several covers, none of them grabbing her attention. She, as always, pointedly ignored the store clerk's clumsy attempts to flirt with her and recommend which records to purchase. Rolling her eyes as he tried to catch her eye, she pushed further into the store.

As she examined a copy of Talking Heads:77, perusing the slightly worn record cover and wondering if the record inside was scratched, she could hear the telltale sound of a record being loaded onto a turntable. She glanced up to the other store clerk smiling gently at her as she changed the records over. This one was cute, and a nice distraction for Agatha whenever she was working. Agatha made a mental note to ask her out when she checked out, it had been too long since she'd entertained herself.

The music filtered pleasantly through the air, some patrons glancing up, others tapping their feet along to the beat and some nodding in approval towards the young store clerk. It took a while for Agatha to recognise the band, but soon enough the female voice wandered to her and it was unmistakable: Lorna Wu.

She rolled her eyes as she overheard two teen girls nearby gushing about Lorna's music and her rising stardom with her band the Coral Shore.

She'd tried to entice Lorna down the ‘Witches Road’ before, quite a few years ago now, briefly remembering the dimly lit, grungy dive bar and the smell of stale beer that clung to her skin as she'd staggered into the cramped bathroom. Reapplying her lipstick until she looked as breathtaking as she should, she'd heard a low humming coming from that bathroom stall, the unmistakable tune that always wrapped around her heart like barbed wire.

“Down, down, down the road…”

It was melodic, lilting, Lorna's voice almost teasing as she sang softly under her breath. Agatha recalled freezing, staring at the pretty, young Asian woman that left the stall and washed her hands next to her. She was still humming the damn tune of the Witches' Ballad when she finally noticed Agatha's eyes on her, piercing and analytical.

Wiping her hands on her flared jeans, she'd arched an eyebrow at Agatha.

“Something I can help you with?”

Agatha remembered grinning, wide like the Cheshire Cat, as she relaxed into her role. She'd sidled up to Lorna, complimenting her beauty and her singing ability.

“I'm something of a-” She'd lowered her voice conspiratorially “student of the…ballad”

To emphasise her point, she allowed some of her purple to flicker between her fingers, making sure Lorna saw. She’d watched with glee as Lorna's fingers had subconsciously mimicked Agatha's movement, a fiery yellow twine of magic sparking there.

Lorna's voice pulled her focus back to her. “You've been down the Road?”

Agatha smirked, flicking her hair dramatically. “Why, of course! I'm one of the oldest and most powerful witches around, honey.”

Oh, how Lorna's eyes had shone. It was clear she'd wanted to see the Road, to fulfil the song that she clearly knew well and Agatha could practically taste the heat of her magic as it would fill her veins. Her fingers had itched, anticipation thrumming under her skin as she thought of the two other witches she had ready on standby, eager for her to return with the rest of their ‘coven’.

They'd exited the bathroom together, with Agatha spinning more tall tales about her time on the Road, and the spoils that could await them all. As Lorna straightened her top, and fluffed up her hair, Agatha had been so sure that it was a done deal.

But Lorna had apparently not been so easy to sway, gently caressing her belly with a fond, faraway look in her eye. She'd glanced back at a young man at the bar who waved at her goofily and smiled at them both warmly as he beckoned them to join him.

“Sorry, but…not this time. But hey, find me in a couple years maybe?”

Agatha’s eyes had fallen to Lorna's stomach again, her own twisting with familiarity as she cottoned on to Lorna's circumstances. She'd merely nodded, unable to summon words, and watched as Lorna joined her boyfriend at the bar, accepting a glass of orange juice from him as he kissed her sweetly.

Fuck.

Had she really been so far gone that she'd been willing to drag a pregnant woman down for her power?

Agatha shook herself out of the memory. No. Agatha Harkness held little to no morals but she'd been better that day. She'd been careful since, too, making sure none of the witches she lured away were with child or had them waiting for her to come home. With Agatha Harkness, there was no coming home.

She approached the counter, making sure to hold eye contact with the female store clerk, ignoring the wounded puppy eyes the male store clerk made at her before skulking off to restock something, muttering under his breath. As the girl rang up her purchase, Agatha flicked her head towards the turntable.

“Lorna Wu and the Coral Shore, huh?’

The girl blushed, the freckles on her nose somehow even more pronounced. “Yeah, I think she's really neat. Plus their new song, like, speaks to me.”

Agatha raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? What song would that be, sweet girl?”

She watched as the girl squeezed her thighs together at her attention, pleased she could still fluster with the slightest comment.

“Y-yeah…oh, it's playing now!”

Agatha strained her hearing, something old and ugly seeping into her gut as the familiar lyrics paired with a more upbeat tune trilled from the record. She felt cold, perhaps shocked. How could Lorna do this? Turn something that was supposed to speak of legend, of a tradition held close by witches all around, something that tethered them all together by hope and ambition. She didn't pause to consider her own hypocrisy.

“Can I purchase that record?”

The girl faltered at Agatha's abrupt tone, but relaxed when Agatha managed a smile at her.

“Sure, let me wrap it up for you.”

Agatha left the store in a hurry, with two records in tow and no phone number. There was always next time, she told herself.

Reaching the apartment she was currently renting, she went straight to her turntable and pulled out the record with shaking hands. Lorna's face on the record's cover, so serene and poised, almost made her blood boil. Using the Witches Road for selfish gain was her game, not Lorna's.

The music started again, light guitar and piano accompanying the song that Agatha had bonded to her very soul.

“Down, down, down the Road, down the Witches’ Road…”

She sat down, letting the song wash over her, determined for once to listen and allow it to fill her heart with its pure intention, just as when the song had first come to be. As the song, faster paced than she was used to, continued to play, she closed her eyes and, for the first time in a long time, allowed herself to think of Nicky.

She imagined that he would like this version, dancing around with quickened steps as the guitar and drums picked up. She could see his tawny, brown hair, she could remember how it smelled of crushed autumn leaves and sweet summer grass from his many escapades into the woods. She could hear his melodic laughter, see the way his soft brown eyes, so like that of the gentle deer he liked to track and chase, would sparkle with mischief when they played together or when he'd gotten away with something.

The music began to swell, a crescendo building as the drums and piano demanded her attention.

“If I can't reach you,

let my song teach you,

all you need to keep our love alive!”

Lorna's voice, strong, powerful and maternal. It broke through Agatha's reverie, and seemed to hit her with force, a thousand memories of Nicky, her and Nicky, Nicky and Rio all flooding through her mind at once. A choked sob escaped from Agatha's throat, a sound that had been trapped deep within for an age. The words seeped into her skin, a forlorn wish that her love had been enough to keep Nicky with her always clawing itself from her heart and settling into her chest.

“If I can't hold you,

remember what I told you,

it's the only way we survive!”

More tears flowed as Agatha sank to the floor. She rubbed at her chest, the feeling overwhelming her. Surviving had been everything to her, once. The drive to win against all odds. Was she surviving, truly surviving? Did surviving mean anything without Nicky?

She could feel Nicky against her, his little chest rising and falling as he'd sleep in her arms, his ponytail tickling her nose when she pulled him close. His rough, calloused hands that he'd always somehow find an excuse to place in hers, swinging them as they sang together.

She'd give anything, everything, to hold him again, to hear him sing the song she'd tainted into a lie. She dared not to sing it as he once had, refusing to ruin the purest thing he had been able to leave in this world. Now, thanks to Lorna, Nicky's song would be known all over the world.

The record scratched, the song over. Agatha bowed her head, almost begging for a note or a whisper of her son's voice to be somehow hidden within the silence that now enveloped her. Rising, she reverently took the record and placed it back in the sleeve, before putting it away at the back of her large collection. She was certain that she would not be listening to it again anytime soon. If she wanted a painful rehashing of the past, she'd find a way to summon Rio.

It was a lie, to herself more than anything.

Whenever she'd managed to destroy yet another coven, there would always be the high of their stolen power coursing through her body and emboldening her magic. However, with every high, there must be a low and Agatha Harkness was no stranger to the darkness, the worthlessness, the hopelessness that always shadowed her following a siphoning. Those were the moments that she tortured herself with thoughts of her lost son, disappointed and ashamed, his face twisted in disgust with her.

It was those moments that Lorna Wu and the Coral Shore’s ‘Ballad of the Witches Road’ would find itself on the turntable, playing softly next to the sobbing remnant of the witch that was Agatha Harkness.

#agatha all along #agatha harkness #lesbian #agatha x rio #rio vidal #nicky scratch #nicholas scratch #kathryn hahn #sad fanfic #fanfic #agatha fanfic #my writing #angst #tw grief

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elvisabutler · 1 year ago

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fandom: elvis 2022 | elvis presley rating: m pairing: elvis presley ( big daddy flavor ) x female reader word count: 2100 you didn't see any other word count. warnings: cockwarming! p in v sex ( unprotected ). public play. mildly excessive baby talk. use of buntyn and nungen and princess as nicknames. mild embarrassment kink? author’s note: welcome to day 11 of ally’s wet hot smut summer, public play with big daddy elvis presley x reader. sorry this took a minute, i've been incredibly exhausted lately and so it's made finishing things a bit of an adventure. quick notes for this fic, this is a sort of au, in that i placed it in a mythical place where elvis doesn't die in 77 and is free of his vegas residency in the 70s. so maybe call it a nebulous 78 to 80? reader is implied to have been with him for years and you can read it as having an age difference but it's in my head as not having one. basically this is secretly a reader version of quiet on the set's future and i'm not sorry for it. beyond that if y'all have left me a comment on any of my fics or anything i'm going to get back to them. when i tell you i've been exhausted it's been a lot. without further ado, i hope y'all like this. also pick if you want austin elvis or real elvis the end.

There's something funny about how Elvis would prefer the two of you to be private. There is something truly and genuinely hilarious to you about the fact that he preferred the two of you to be private. His argument has always been that the happiest he ever is in his life is during those private moments with the people he loves. You always argue that he can't show you off like you know he wants to if you're being private and yet he'll flash that little twinkle in his eye and ignore your protests. So much of his life isn't private but the love he has for you— the love between the two of you is supposed to be private. An oasis for him to relax in as much as he does in Hawai‘i.

Despite all of this you know so very well how much he cares for you and how much he loves you. And if you were being entirely honest, the privacy makes the times he does want to show you off all the more special. Indeed it makes the times he does feel like delightful surprises.

Maybe that's why you had agreed to come play poker with him and the boys. It's been a long time since you've enjoyed that sort of thing and you've missed it. Truthfully it's been a while since Elvis has even been in Vegas, memories of how he almost was stuck in a revolving door of engagements here cluttering his mind and giving him a nightmare or two. So having him enjoying time with friends and you seems like a perfect recipe for a night. Of course, you should know better by now, know how Elvis always has something up his sleeve. A playful little trick he can play with that glint in his eye.

"Where's my chair, Mr. Presley?" You ask, not bothering with his nickname or his first name. There always was something fun about how he acted a bit like an admonished schoolboy when you called him Mr. Presley. "Can't very well play poker if I don't have a chair."

Elvis looks at you and gives you that sly smile you know so very well by now as he pats his lap, thigh jiggling just a tad as he does. There's that glint in his eyes that spells trouble of the best and worst kind. "Ya got a chair right here, Princess. Nice 'n plush too."

You'd think after all these years and after seeing his body through so many changes that you wouldn't be affected by the jiggle of his thigh and the open v of his legs. Yet, you're a woman who knows what she wants and you're the woman he put a ring on all those years ago. Most of the things he does get you more hot under the collar than they have any right to. This is one of those things. You feel your pussy clench around nothing and despite yourself you rub your thighs together even as you're standing.

"Are we playing as a team, then? Us against the boys?" The questions roll off your lips with an ease and familiarity only you manage when it comes to him. "Otherwise I think you'd be able to cheat."

As you speak, you've started to walk closer to him and finally find yourself at arm's length. Elvis wastes no time in grabbing your arm and pulling you flush against his lap, his thighs cushioning your behind and his cock stirring ever so slightly under his stomach. A gasp leaves your lips unexpectedly.

His arm wraps around your waist, making sure you don't move too much while he talks. "My wife accusin' me of cheatin' at cards. I could take ya thinkin' I'd step out on ya but I would never cheat at poker."

The soft rumble of a laugh courses through your body and has you following suit as you shift in his lap. "I let you step out and you let me as a present. But I know you're a sore loser who can't focus when I'm here."

You turn your head just slightly, watching as Elvis's eyes practically dance with mirth. He's mercurial as all get out when he wants to be but he can take some good-natured teasing when it comes from you. It's why you've worked well all these years.

"Now honey, my yittle nungen, I know you're still smartin' from that game ya lost against me 'bout a week ago but that ain't no reason to be tellin' lies about my sportsmanship."

A defense is on the tip of your tongue when you feel Elvis's warm hand against your thigh, slipping under your dress that you decided to wear today. That warmth does away with the words in such a quick fashion that you find yourself biting your lip to keep from sighing. "Elvis."

You say his name in a feather soft whisper as his friends start to trickle into the room. You've been in a situation like this before, when you were younger and somehow just as randy as you were now but Elvis hadn't done something like this in ages. He hadn't even thought to tease you like this in ages.

As if he isn't paying attention, he merely hums at your whisper of his name and uses his arm to maneuver your crotch against his cock, the flowing fabric of your dress hiding his actions from prying eyes. You don't know when or how he managed to free his cock from the confines of his pants and yet he has. That hand that innocently is burning against your thigh has crept up to your panties and with the ease of someone who knows your body like the back of their hand, he moves them just enough to the side to slide inside of you.

"Goddamn. Didn't expect ya to be so wet. Was hopin' but— Lord almighty, ya gonna stain my pants if ya move." Ironically you choose just that moment to move, attempting to get off of him for a moment before his grip on your waist stops you. "Nungen, you be a good girl for yer Buntyn and stay put. Can't have 'em seein' Lil Elvis, now can we?"

You feel the heat of mild embarrassment and excitement flush through your body as a shiver racks it. A shake of your head is the only answer you can manage for a moment. "You want me to sit like this for the whole game, baby?"

Elvis nuzzles his lips against your neck, his eyes taking in his friends pulling out their seats and sitting down, none the wiser to what was happening in his lap. They wave at you and you, ever the courteous host wave back and even smile, saying hello as Elvis mumbles words into your neck. He doesn't need to greet everyone, not while he's buried inside of you, his cock leaking precum like he's ready to fuck you on the table instead of just letting you sit on his cock. Besides, they know better than to disturb him when the two of you are wrapped up in one another.

The chair isn't close enough to the table and you move to drag it a little closer, or drag both you and Elvis a little closer only to have what feels like the world's loudest squelch come from between your thighs. No one looks at the pair of you as if they heard it but to Elvis and you it might as well have been a shout. You let out a shaky breath as you shift to try and make yourself comfortable. Elvis's legs open up just a bit more to make sure you're where you need to be, even as he thrusts just a tad. "Gotta stay still. Gonna, if ya move— I might just take ya on this table, damn the game."

You can't help but swallow at the idea, your mouth filling with saliva at the mere idea of being flipped thrown onto the table, pussy exposed to people you and him call friends. It's primal and practically voyeuristic and the sort of thing both you and Elvis aren't incredibly fond of with your relationship and yet. Yet it fills you with such arousal you feel it actually dampening his pants as the game starts.

Elvis isn't the worst of poker players but in combination with you, he's nigh unstoppable. Of course, maybe that's because everyone else's eyes are on you, wondering why you haven't moved to the empty chair next to Elvis. Jerry— who's there on a surprise visit is closest to the two of you and raises an eyebrow as he looks at his cards and then at you. You clench around Elvis's cock in a bit of worry.

"Is it a little warm in here?" A simple question to everyone but from the way he's staring both of you down it's not meant to be one. Both you and Elvis open your mouth before you kiss Elvis to stop whatever one liner is about to leave his lips.

"With how cold he keeps it in here? The only reason I don't need a jacket is because of his body heat," you practically titter out a laugh, the fear of being caught heightening your arousal even further. You feel your clit throbbing as everyone laughs at your joke.

Jerry rolls his eyes and shakes his head looking down at your lap. Still, the game is going nicely, with Elvis winning more hands than not and you trying to grab at a free hand to get some form of relief. After what feels like an eternity Elvis finally has his hand move between your legs, his calloused fingers brushing up against your aching little clit.

"Haven't teased ya like this in years, have I, Princess?" Elvis murmurs against your ear, feeling your vagina clench around him. "Haven't shown everyone how good ya are for me for a long time, have I? Haven't made 'em realize why I couldn't forget 'bout ya."

Your answer is a hum caused by you biting your lip to keep the cry that threatens to escape your lips at the pressure of his fingers against you. It's not enough for Elvis though, he knows you can control yourself better than he ever can. "Darlin' use ya words."

"It's been too long," you choke out the words, one of your hands moving to grip his meaty thigh and the other to grip at the table. You can feel your walls fluttering around Elvis, feel your body tensing up as it chasing something you know he won't give you in public. The face you make when he pulls an orgasm from you is one that's strictly between the two of you. Yet you're so wound up that you fear you'll be leaning over the table for support as soon as he says the word. In an attempt to alleviate something, anything you try and bounce only to have him nip at your ear.

"Ask me nicely, Nungen. Ask me nicely. Give 'em their game and their show. Remind 'em I caught ya jus' the same as ya caught me." His voice is more of a grunt as he slides a set of chips into the pot wordlessly. "Show 'em what I get in bed every night. What 'm wakin' up to every night 'less ya let me stray. Show 'em what I see after I've eaten my dessert.

Despite the way you're biting your lips so hard they're practically bleeding a noise that sounds like a scream forces its way out of your lungs and mouth as you clench around Elvis. You feel a gush that you only identify with times you've been played with so much by Elvis that you make a mess of every sheet you have. His pants are ruined but they'd be anyway from how you feel a warm rush of his cum follow yours. Through the grace of God himself you don't fall onto the table, instead stabilizing yourself using Elvis's thigh and somehow his lap in general. Your breath takes a few minutes to even out, even as everyone watches you and Elvis panting as if you've run a marathon. There's a knowing look that crosses everyone's face but everyone is too scared to speak until finally you smile and smooth out your dress as if you plan on standing up.

"This is why you're losing boys, you can't pay attention the game."

You make no effort to get off of Elvis's lap.

taglist: @ab4eva , @blurredcolour, @butlersxbirdy, @precious-little-scoundrel, @eliseinmemphis, @prompted-wordsmith, @missmaywemeetagain, @lookingforrainbows, @araxw, @thatbanditqueen, @ellie-24, @austinbutlersgirl67, @heartbrake-hotel, @ccab, @18lkpeters, @slutforsomegoodlettuce, @dkayfixates, @kendralavon7 @chasingwildflowers, @notstefaniepresley, @wanderingelvis, @kxnnxy, @powerofelvis, @stylespresleyhearted @be-my-ally, @mooodyblue, @pixiedustcosmos, @jessicarcates, @amydarcimarie, @flwrs4aust @myradiaz, @adaydreamaway08, @arabellalightning505, @doll-elvis guarantee i'm missing someone. i tried the end. also i clearly added this originally. also you want to be added just ask me. i keep forgetting people or losing people in these and just it's a mess.

#elvis presley #ally writes #elvis presley x reader #elvis presley x you #elvis presley x y/n #big daddy elvis #ally's wet hot smut summer #elvis presley fanfiction #elvis presley smut #austin elvis smut #austin elvis x reader

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critter-genfic-events · 6 months ago

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This time, we have eight fics focused on The Meat Man himself, Scanlan Shorthalt!

It’s the funny man, so these fics will all be filled with nothing but slapstick comedy and fluff right? Right?! WRONG! Come get your heartfelt angst and found family goodness!

Check them out behind the cut, and as always - comment and kudos if you like them!

Learn Me Right by KiaraSayre (39219,Mature) Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death Pairings: Kaylie & Scanlan Shorthalt, Scanlan Shorthalt & Vox Machina, Kent Plucker/Scanlan Shorthalt

Scanlan and Kaylie after the Bard's Lament.

Reccer says: I reread this story every time I rewatch the end of the Chroma Conclave. It's such a fantastic story that explores both the characters and their relationships. They change and evolve and make sense, and it hurts and it's beautiful. One of my favourites ever.

A Pirate's Life For Me by amberwoods (18558,Mature) Warnings: N/A Pairings: Scanlan Shorthalt/Pike Trickfoot, Grog Strongjaw & Pike Trickfoot, Scanlan Shorthalt & Vox Machina

Scanlan Shorthalt ends up in the small cell of a pirate ship with about 60% of a plan and an unexpected companion in Pike Trickfoot. Together, they devise a plan to escape their predicament. But Scanlan is keeping secrets, and Pike is quickly hammering away at his defenses. Neither of them will get what they were looking for, but so much more than they could have dreamed of.

Reccer says: Great Scanlan, great Pike, and great use of an interesting AU!

Off Beat Decision by Enderon (3367,General) Warnings: None Pairings: Scanlan & vox machina

If scanlan took the parties suggestion to become a spy on the chroma conclave.

Reccer says: Good scanlan angst.

Otherwise by Erisette (13783,Not Rated) Warnings: Adult content warning Pairings: Kaylie & Scanlan, Scanlan & Vox Machina

A story based on Scanlan’s line to Kaylie, “Every year you've been alive is a year I could have been a better person."

Reccer says: It’s a cute story about Scanlan, Kaylie, and Vox Machina

The Small Things by Erisette (2694,Not Rated) Warnings: Character death, Revivify, blood and injuries, accidental echo to real-life medical issues (ie. throat wounds) Pairings: Scanlan Shorthalt & Vox Machina

"What is—oh, no." Pike's voice holds all the devastation Vex feels as Grog lowers her gently beside the mangled body in the snow. "I can't heal for shit," Kima says tensely, "I tried but—well. I can't raise the dead." (an AU of CR1E71, where the fight against Vorugal doesn't end quite the same way. Still got a happy ending, though.)

Reccer says: This fic was written between episodes 76 and 77 of CR1 and the number of things it gets right about VM reacting to Scanlan's death is uncanny. (seriously. You'd think the author borrowed from The Deceiver's Stand when #83 happened over 2 months after the fic was published.) The story is as heartwarming as it is heartbreaking and every character voice is perfect. A real kick in the feels (but also fluff).

Everything (Anything) True by eponymous_rose (3193,Teen) Warnings: None Pairings:

Scanlan's a master of deception. Turns out reality is a moving target when the words you sing keep changing it.

Reccer says: Fantastic character study in a couple of story beats interspersed by truths that might be lies (but not quite).

a bruise is only your body trying to keep you intact by KiaraSayre (10968,Not Rated) Warnings: None Pairings: Scanlan & Vox Machina

If Bards Lament happened differently.

Reccer says: I like the emotional processing that this author details for Scanlan. It feels in character and feels a bit like closure for what is originally a very tumultuous event.

And then we have two recs for:

The One Moment by Chesari (19630,Teen) Warnings: None Pairings: Scanlan/pike, vax/keyleth, vex/percy

Scanlan gets to cast wish and save vax after the veccna fight. This is the story of how and what happened after.

Reccer #1 says: I love their interpretation and descriptions of the characters and what they were going through at that time and how things could have been different. Reccer #2 says: THE "what if Scanlan had been able to use his 9th level spell for a Wish?" fic. You'll hear the voices when the characters speak (and also "the one true god of Exandria" and "the players", who have a few short scenes as they play out what's happening). My personal go-to fic when I'm sad about CR1E114 and 115. Fantastic.

This is one of our weekly communally-generated gen rec lists. Every week we announce a new theme and allow anyone to submit a fic recommendation. Please note that the summary and content notes are provided by the reccer, and may be different than what the author has provided. Please assume good intentions all around. <3

And hey, anyone includes you!

We'll be back on the fifthteenth with Dreams fic Recs - then on the first with fics focusing on Orym!

Any fics coming to mind? Well, then use this form to submit! If you're looking for some more, check out some fics written in the critter genfic bingo tag, or the older rec lists! Or you can request your own card and join in on the fun!

#critter genfic rec lists #gen fic #scanlan shorthalt #vox machina #cr fan fic #critical role #critical role scanlan

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thatswhatsushesaid · 8 months ago

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more salty commentary about.... salty fandom commentary, but for a fandom i'm not really involved with

ftr this is about the gay-ass (affectionate) vampire show

squinting at some of super vitriolic anti-armand commentary that tumblr's algorithm keeps throwing at me like 'this? you want this one bestie? no? what about this one instead?' when in fact i want none of these takes, actually. "i don't believe a word that comes out of that lying liar's mouth!!" "of course he could have stopped claudia and madeleine's murders, he's the most powerful vampire in the world!!" (uh, i'll come back to that one later. maybe. if i feel like it) "he was onboard the 'let's murder claudia!' train from the very beginning!!!" etc. if you're even peripherally keeping your finger on the pulse of this fandom's discourse, you've probably seen some of this, too.

and... okay. bearing in mind two things:

it's been about 20+ years since i read the original novels, and

the show's relationship to the original novels, as well as the 1994 movie, is both conversational and subversive,

two seasons into this delicious mess, how are we still collectively failing to recognize that the central conceit of amc's retelling is that, intentional or not, all recollection of louis' past is both catharsis (for louis) and performance (for ???)? that all of louis' recollection of his own actions, as well as the actions of the other vampires in his orbit, is filtered through the lens of his own feelings about those vampires in that moment? like this isn't a subtle storytelling device, this is something the show is repeatedly bashing us over the head with again and again and again: louis' reliability as a narrator of his own experiences can't be trusted even when he isn't so consumed with rage that he tries to drain twenty year old daniel molloy dry for the unforgivable crime of /checks my notes, mouthing off at him like a dumbass, or goes into vulgar detail describing to lestat precisely how he is going to kill him, cut his head off, and then feed his decapitated head to lions at the zoo. which, it bears mentioning, is not the version of events that we were presented with during s1, but it is the version of events that louis himself comes to reluctantly believe is the more accurate recollection of the past.

does that make lestat into The Real Victim™️ who did nothing wrong to louis or claudia, ever? please tell me you're not actually asking me this question. be serious.

the point is that louis is right in the thick of feeling his intensely passionate vampire feelings about armand in real time, in the present day, while looking backwards through time at the 77 years they have spent together, and he is questioning everything. justifiably so, for the record! why wouldn't he question the actions and motivations of the supposed love of his life after discovering that such an important memory from his and daniel molloy's shared past was erased from his mind? but seriously, if you have reached this point in the story and your takeaway from the last episode boils down to "THIS TIME louis' recollection of the past is definitely 100% accurate! the rose-tinted glasses are OFF and we can see the TRUTH about you now armand!!!" then i just. i don't know what to say to you. lmfao.

anyway rather than getting into the weeds with anyone actually in the fandom about which of these diva vampire daddies is right, actually, find me hanging out with claudia and madeleine's ashes giving all of them the proverbial finger. because honestly, fuck all these vampires (affectionate).

#ray.txt #gay-ass vampire show #not dropping this one in the tags either. nope.#tl;dr louis is an unreliable narrator about EVERYONE. including armand!! including the bad things!!!#coming back this to edit and add:#i find it very interesting and telling that armand has been. rather quiet. during the last couple of episodes #i'm going to revisit and rewatch them to take some notes but i don't think this is accidental #from a narrative or framing perspective #this isn't to say he's been totally silent just to be clear. just in case someone decides to interpret that too literally #but i have been thinking about and mulling over something armand said in s1 #when he was still pretending to be rashid #to paraphrase i think he said something like #'you're chronicling a suicide mr. molloy'#i think there are layers of meaning and motivation at work behind that statement

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lolashifts · 1 month ago

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🧸 🦌 & 🦨 for the little friends ask game!!

AAAAA thank u for the ask love <3 i adore your ask game (and just know that i’ve followed you with my main) !!!!

(answering for my hogwarts dr)

🦌 : DELICATE DEER . . . what fantasy media inspired your desired reality? does your desired reality follow the same rules as it? if not what are some of the changes you've made?

i’ll answer to this first so that it’s more organized (?)

obviously, this dr is inspired by the harry potter universe created by j.k. r*wling (unfortunately)

it’s based on both the books and the movies - and it follows the same rules - so i just scripted some specific things from one or the other to happen or not and leave everything else up to my subconscious since it knows perfectly well what i want

for example: the death eaters coming to the burrow and setting it on fire in the half-blood prince movie is a scene i never really understood and which i think doesn’t make sense to even exist, so i scripted it out and replaced it with whatever canonically happens in the books !

🧸 : BROTHERLY BEAR . . . who is your family in your desired reality, blood or chosen? what are your relationships with them like?

so, my family by blood in this reality are the potters !! (yes, i’m harry’s twin. yes, it’s cheesy i know), but of course, besides harry whom i only met in our first year i have very few memories of our actual parents and many more with the couple i like to call “adoptive parents”.

they’re jack and gwendolyn smith, respectively a gryffindor and ravenclaw from the class of ‘77, very good friends of james and lily’s. gwen is actually my godmother, a strong woman who swore to take care of me in case anything happened in a time where safety was never to be taken for granted.

when remus, my godfather, refused to take me in because of his furry condition and fear of possibly harm me in any way she and her husband welcomed me with open arms and treated me like their own daughter from the beginning. i owe them a lot :(

when speaking of chosen family i’m sure harry would agree in saying ron and hermione are everything to us, and cassie too for me. they’re our best friends, and for him also the first true ones he ever had in his life so i cannot view them as anything other than a family.

-> honorable mention: the entire weasley family <3

🦨 : SOFT SKUNK . . . what are a few of your favorite memories in your desired reality? what kind of emotion to these memories bring about? who else is in these memories?

this question comes at the perfect moment bc today i asked for the universe to show me memories from this specific dr (didn’t get them still but anywho-)

one i always think about when laying down to shift, and that i know is definitely a core memory of mine, is seeing my brother for the first time !! it brings me so much comfort and warms my heart because after years of waiting for school to start in order to be together again it was all so simple and kind of awkward, something completely normal for two eleven year olds that are learning how to act like siblings.

another one HAS to be doing magic for the first time. it’s something you never get over, especially when you’re fully conscious of doing it and it’s not just a random event that happens when your abilities first start to show as a child !

last but not least: knowing your friends are alive and safe. i just know my dr-self was crying of happiness when she saw ron and hermione doing well and smiling after what they’ve been through. the relief you get when someone close to you sacrifices themselves for you and comes back doing fine just feels different :(

psa: with this i obviously don’t meant to say that i don’t care when harry does it. he always gives everyone heart attacks and i’m gonna be worrying for him all the time, i’m his twin after all 😞

#ask game #shiftblr #shifting realities #shifting to hogwarts #golden trio dr #shifting to harry potter #harry potter dr #lola’s realities ✮

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himehikoshrine · 1 year ago

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The Central Nation of Kielce - a History

[I/D : Screenshot for Sissia of the Central Nation showing Levi, Adra, and Crowley on the wall. Crowley is saying "Hahaha! How have you been, little wall?! It’s like you’re a part of our origins!"]

Having now read through every route's game script of the Central Nation of Sissia, I figured I'd tried to put together all the Kielce lore across the different routes into one. If you want to read them yourself, you can do so either on the game menu if you've finished the game, or [here]. This will contain details unique to most of the routes, so technically, there are spoilers, but they are discussed entirely within the world of the play. I will edit in a few minor clarifying details with no route plot information from routes as I find them now that I'm going through things with a finer tooth comb. It will spoil some things that are in the stage script only epilogues too, so please read at least one of them before reading this, or you'll be really confused. Two, ideally, especially if the first one you picked was Crowley's.

Don't ask me why a rather big piece of character information, that is kind of a twist, is hidden within epilogues only on the stage script in the menu. We're nearly the full year into Havenna Lore drops, apparently this is just how Neji writes. (And given all the lore hidden in weird bonus material, also how Ishida and Towada write.)

The Nation of Arbine and the Republic of Quatra, which is to its east, were at war for 77 years. Many lives were lost on both sides, and there were plenty of children made orphans in the process. We know little about Quatra before the end of the war, but Levi describes it as having "warmth" and Crowley says it had a very strong culture in the arts, including song and dance. After Arbine wins the war, 20 years before Sissia joins the troupe, Arbine begins calling the 77-year-war the 'War of Joy.'

They force the people of Quatra into servitude, build a wall around the country, and mark them with a tattoo of a horse on their shin. The hostility gets so bad in the upper military ranks of Arbine, that they begin calling Quatra "the nameless country" or "the nameless servant country." The culture of Quatra is stamped out within the nation, possibly beyond simply forcing everyone into labor for the sake of Arbine, and anyone in Arbine who even discusses it with anything but scorn is suspected of treason.

Arbine is ruled by its "commander and king" (always said together like that) who has the surname "Arbine" like the nation he rules. His top advisor, confidant and strategist is Major Azur Hybird. The military elite make up the aristocracy of Arbine, and their positions are expected to be passed down.

Arbine is a strict military state, with border patrols and street patrols in addition to a standing military that citizens are quite acquainted with. They are able to freely interrogate and detain anyone, but murder seems to be considered a crime in Arbine, regardless of the nationality of the person killed, even, seemingly, for low ranking patrol officers. (We only have Crowley's potentially joking word here, though). The high ranks can order and carry out death sentences sans trial of any kind, of course.

The military aristocracy is also the high society of Arbine, and they attend parties and engage with what they consider 'high culture' including national dances - Arbine does have a national dance troupe.

Arbine's language is called "Arbine". It appears to be different than the language of Quatra or at least a different dialect, though one suspects they have some degree of mutual intelligibility. Carlo says the further east one goes in Arbine, the simpler the pronunciation of its language gets. Accents are shared to some extent in the border region, as well as words. Carlo says Arbine has 'a certain roundness' and that the first letter of Carlo is pronounced 'more elegantly' than Sissia's accent usually does.

Carlo illustrates the linguistic drift with the word Kielce - which is the Arbine term for Circus, a word used in Quatra. Carlo says no one but a historian or a suspected traitor would know that word these days, so maybe once it was also used in Arbine, or maybe a historian would merely be more familiar with the arts from Quatra.

So, 20 years ago, the war ends. As for the future members of Kielce at this time, Chance, at least, wasn't born yet.

Levi Caineman, who was born to Arbine parents, was orphaned by the war and was taken in across the then-wall-less border when he traveled there in search of food. Once the war ended, he was taken into an orphanage on the Arbine side of the wall, while his foster mother, a Quatra, was left behind it.

At some point, Levi will meet Crowley. Crowley is, though it's unclear who knows this but him, an illegitimate son of the 'commander and king' of Arbine, so his full name is, in fact, Crowley Arbine. It's never explicitly stated in the play if Crowley creates Kielce as a troupe or not, or the origin of its name "The Central Nation of--" but in the practice dialogue it is confirmed that Crowley and Levi are the founding members of the troupe.

As for when it was founded, Crowley considers the first Border Performance, which takes place ten years before the present of the play, and thus ten years after the end of the war "part of our origins." It is likely the name, too, partially a form of protest. Given the troupe's founders - an openly avowed revolutionary with a personal connection to the throne, and a fascination with Quatran arts, and an Arbine boy raised for a time by a Quatran foster mother, I'm sure this was very much part of their motivations.

Crowley is, after all, enthusiastically a traitor. (He maintains everyone in Kielce knows this, and no ones statements fully discredit that assertion in other routes. No one ever quite says the first performance WASN'T an act of rebellion or treason.)

Crowley says he's the one who brought Levi in and raised him up to be ringleader. At some point, Kielce, including Crowley and Levi, ends up performing at a party for military aristocrats. How this happened or how it went down, we don't know, other than apparently everyone was thoroughly amused. At this point, they aren't suspected of anything treasonous, but are considered 'low' entertainment.

In attendance is Major Azur Hybird's son, Adra Hybird. At this point, Adra has already been dancing for most of his life. It is unclear how old he is. But he decides that this is the kind of dancing he wants to do. He leaves the life of a Military Aristocrats son behind and runs away to join the circus -- Kielce.

(It is not implied Adra is younger than the other two - on Levi's route, Adra remarks that Levi has grown into quite the man, which, if anything, implies Adra may be a bit older than Levi.)

By the time of the first Border Performance, which is ten years before the present, Adra is a well established member of the troupe, enough that he is involved with choosing to do it. He seems to be one of the senior members in the troupe.

Fan Carlo Albus, on the other hand, is a newcomer to the troupe ten years ago. It seems she joined enough after Adra that she's talked about as another sort of 'generation' - when talking about Kielce's style being a talent showcase, Crowley says its more pronounced now that Carlo and Chance have joined.

Carlo watches the border performance from the side, not on the wall. Also watching that day is Isaac Bazmaz, an Arbine child from the border region who lives near the wall. He is watching with a friend of his. On Isaac's route this friend is explicitly Sissia, a girl from Quatra who he met through a crack in the wall. Isaac talks about the wall as having always been near his house, suggesting that he is under 20 years old, or at least, not much older. Chance Orlando, as stated, is under 20. He doesn't watch the border performance, but hears rumors about it as a kid in Arbine that later inspire him to join.

Crowley is one of the leads in the performance, which he also wrote. This is, to him, intentionally an act of rebellion and revolution. The fact that it doesn't overthrow the nation makes it kind of a failure in his book. Adra says his motivation is sort of to stick it to the military aristocracy and their backwards ideas, both about Quatra and discrimination and their authority and control in general. Adra is also quite annoyed at their elitism. Levi doesn't give an explicit reason for it the first time, but when asking to do it again, he mentions love of theater and love of freedom as absolute principles he leads Kielce by. One imagines his foster mother on the other side is a motivation, as well.

The performance is seen as treasonous and puts the entire troupe on a watch list. According to Major Azur, the 'commander and king' of Arbine has pushed to imprison everyone in the troupe since that day. (It is completely unclear if either the Major or even the 'commander and king' himself have any idea who Crowley is.) Every member who was around at the time tells Sissia that it was quite the controversy and ordeal, and caused a lot of trouble.

Isaac makes a promise to his friend to one day stand on the wall with Kielce together. Sissia, watching from the Quatra side, is already being forced into labor, despite seemingly being a child. Sissia dreams of one day standing on that stage, too. Both Isaac and Sissia will eventually follow that dream to Kielce.

It seems that despite the displeasure of the ruling elite, Kielce continues to operate and have many fans. Their popularity is seen both as a threat, and, one assumes, a bit protective, as it's quite clear that Arbine is aware of the precarity of it's absolute control.

Adra notes that even members of the military attend the shows. Not all the fans share their ideals, of course, and will report things to the authorities.

Kielce has a standing theater within Arbine, but their base seems to keep a very 'traveling circus' aesthetic. It is possible they are both a traveling company and one with a home base. It's unclear when this was built.

Chance and Isaac are recruited the same day by Crowley. Isaac says that if it weren't for Kielce, he'd 'still be working at a factory'. They are still considered relative newbies by Carlo by the time Sissia is recruited, but they seem to have been around long enough to be pretty established as staples of the troupe.

#sissia of the central nation #jack jeanne #jack jeanne meta #lore hunting #kielce #i told you i have kielce brain rot #yeah the characters are based on quartz and its a love letter to quartz but its not slacking on the worldbuilding or messaging #like the characters may feel less inspired since they're taken from their actors but damn if this play doesn't have a MESSAGE and LORE #if we get an isaac character poem for sou's next birthday i will be digging a grave #i have so many more thoughts to share but lets get the history down first #so many. thoughts.

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betabiograft33 · 7 months ago

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![CRITICAL BATTERY FAILURE]: [BATTERY IS RAPIDLY DEPLETING.]

![ABNORMAL BATTERY STATUS MAY EFFECT PERFORMANCE. SEEK MAINTENANCE IMMEDIATELY.]

[BATTERY: 25%]

[the biograft pushes the warnings away and quickly crouches on the ground to get a closer look at Screens, who stares back with a mortified face.]

SCREENS? ARE YOU OKAY?

(the demon trembles, still shaken up from everything. Blood from her wounds drips a little on the floor.)

a-a-am I OKAY? WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU? What just... Shattered?

DO NOT WORRY ABOUT ME. LET ME SEE YOUR WOUNDS.

[33 checks her wounds, and while they are bleeding they aren't anything to worry about right now. It's not like they have access to supplies anyway.]

[LED ERROR.]

I-i think I will worry. 33... I think your lights are fading.

[BATTERY: 20%]

![CRITICAL BATTERY FAILURE.]

[VOICE MODULATION ERROR.]

...

IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII-SAID DONT WORRY ABOUT IT. WE NEED TO GET OOOOUUUT OF HEEERE.

Yeah, but first let's- (the demon stops, as a drop of lavender liquid coming from 33's wound drips on her, she covers her mouth.) ...O-H MY SWORDS.

WHAT? I SAID DDDDDDONT WORRRRY.

....S-something's wrong. 33... that's your battery's acid.

(Screen's eyes dart to the small shards of crystal littering the floor around B-33, as they reflect the little light in the room.)

...How bad were you hurt?

...

MY BATTERY ISSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS-DAMAGED. CRITICAL FAILURE.

[BATTERY: 10%]

[33 sits down, realizing that standing is going to drain their battery faster.]

Shit... Ok let's get you a charger-

No.

(Screens turns to the sound. It's Bodyswap standing in the doorway across the room. She hasn't seen him in years... and now he just looks and sounds so different...)

Battery will explode. Do not charge them.

[B-33 does not meet Bodyswap's gaze. They feel... guilty. They've never felt this way before... They've also never actually had to stare into the very alive eyes of someone they thought they murdered...]

(the man approaches, all of his face besides his glowing eyes covered by a roughly smashed together scrap metal mask. He looks at the shards on the floor and the wound in 33's chest and shakes his head.)

Not good. I will be right back.

(the room goes silent as Bodyswap leaves.)

(and tears begin to well up in Screen's eyes again.)

33...Why did you stay...? I tried to save you... why didn't you just leave me? Why does everyone ALWAYS get hurt when they try to save ME!?

PLEASEEEEE-CALM DOWN.

[BATTERY 8%]

[33 begins to finally feel the dread set in.]

...THISSSS ISNT YYYYYYYOUR FAAAULT. I ALREADYYYY LOST ONE FRIEND, MAAAAYBE EVEN TWOOOO. I CANTTT LOOSE YOU TOOOOO.

IF I MUST DIE FFFOR YOUUU, THEN SO BE IT.

[BATTERY 5%]

(Screens just stares back at them. She's crying uncontrollably.)

No...

SHAME IIIIII-NEVER FFFFFFOUND FRIIIEND. IF YOU EEEEVER SEE THEM. TELL THEMMM-I TRIED MY BESTTTT.

Why are you talking like you're g-gonna die? I-I'll fix you! Well I can't... but I-I will find a way to fix you! I'm not letting you die... not after e-everything you've been through...

[33 starts to get hysterical. It's an overwhelming feeling that they have barely felt before and it's coming all out at full force.]

WHO. WHOOOOOO WILL FIX ME!? I WILL BE DISMAAAAAAAAAAANTLED ON SIGHT BY ANY BLACKROCK SCIENTIST! W

[BATTERY 3%]

[the just stare at eachother. Screens doesn't have an answer for that question.)

[As Screens grabs 33 by the hand, 33 thinks back on everything they've done, everyone they've met... Blaster... The Subspace from another timeline... 77... Tablet... What would they all think of them now? Lying on the floor in defeat like this? Where are they all now? 33's been gone for so long...]

[But their mind refuses to stop thinking about their friend.]

[they never even got to know their name.........]

[they recall hearing them sing a specific song often... ever since, whenever days got dark... 33 would try too. It wasn't good singing and they barely remembered the song, but it calmed them down... Maybe it would help them in this situation... and Screens too...]

...

[BATTERY 2%]

~LOOKING FOR A SIIIIIIIGNAL IN THE NOISEEEEE...

A SIGNAL TOOOOOOOOOO SING ALOOONG WITH MY DIIGITAL VOOOICE...~

[BATTERY 1%]

(Screens looks up at their suddenly noise making. She doesn't seem that comforted as her face is still stained with tears.)

...This isn't the end for you, 33. I promise... I PROMISE I WILL FIND A WAY TO FIX YOU.

[33 begins to relax slightly after singing, they've accepted their fate by now. They want so badly to be fixed after all of this... but they just couldn't see it happening.]

...I HOOOOPE SO. SENTIENCE IS HAAARD, ITS A CUUUUURSE SOMETIMES. BUT NOW I WANTTTT-TTTTOO LIIIVE.

AAAND I WAAAANT YOU TO LIVE TOO. PLEASE, GETTTTT- OUT OF HEREEE- ALIVE.

[BATTERY 0%]

[SYSTEM SHUTDOWN.]

[33's hand releases from Screens'. Their entire body just goes as limp as deactivated CROSS nearby.]

(Screens taps them a couple times. No response. She is now audibly sobbing.)

(Bodyswap stands in the doorway behind Screens, clutching something in his hands. He's shocked. He didn't expect all of that to happen so quickly... He isn't sure what to do now...)

(He knew Screens back when he had a more normal life, and now his heart breaks for her.)

(His entire body aches, but he manages to put the object down and drag himself over to her. She's his honorary niece anyway, he isn't going to let her suffer alone like this...)

...

(Bodyswap hugs Hologram Screens tightly, just like he did all the way back when he was a normal demon... And she hugs back, sobbing into his shoulder.)

#this is not the end of the blog I REPEAT ITS NOT OVER

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astromechs · 1 year ago

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20 questions for fic writers

tagged by @thecasualauthor18 ; thank you!

1. How many works do you have on ao3?

it looks like i've got 77 right now

2. What's your total AO3 word count?

180,976

3. What fandoms do you write for?

most of it is marvel and star wars, have a modest collection for the peacemaker tv series, and then side trips into other things!

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

this might be all i ever wanted (all i ever wanted to happen to me) — 226 kudos

whatever happens (happens to the both of us) — 172 kudos

we've come a long, long way together — 171 kudos

why don't you close your eyes and reinvent me — 170 kudos

feeling's running straight to my bones — 132 kudos

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

i really need to get better about this, because i have been slacking bad lol; i love each and every one and appreciate them so, so much, but i get flustered and then i forget to reply and i'm a hot mess ghfdjks

6. What's the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

i think i tend to favor open/ambiguous endings, more than outright angsty ones? probably almost paradise, though; the one time i acknowledged mcu gamora died and she was still dead at the end of this, so that was depressing by my standards. also my two canon compliant rogue one fics because i mean... gestures to what canon compliant means.

7. What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

obviously that time rick astley saved the world in that fic of mine from 2009.

8. Do you get hate on fics?

shoutout to that one weirdo who left me anon hate over... checks notes... carol danvers and jessica drew kissing. i even had to report that to ao3 because it was legit harassment, and for what.

9. Do you write smut. If so, what kind?

i did a calculation recently and like 2/3 of the fics i've published in the past two years have been smut. oops.

10. Do you write crossovers? What's the craziest one you've written?

i do love inventing ships out of nothing and making you all see my vision — so while a lot of what i've published on that front has been confined to comic characters who've never interacted before, i do have more in my head.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

not that i'm aware of......

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

yes! anything that's worth my love (is worth the fight) was translated into chinese, and that's still, like, the neatest thing that's ever happened to me.

13. Have you ever cowritten a fic before?

i've played around with sharing universes with friends and swapping ideas! and a couple of co-written series we dabbled in.

14. What's your all-time favorite ship?

honestly? yeah, it's rebelcaptain. straight up. what you've all witnessed this year is the culmination of 1) my pandemic character arc of having zero shame of what i fling to my ao3 account anymore, and 2) that particular pandora's box getting reopened thanks to andor getting released at the end of last year because being insane about them has lived in me like a sleeper agent since 2016.

15. What's a WIP you want to finish, but doubt you ever will?

ugh unfortunately the marvel cosmic star wars au will probably never get done

16. What are your writing strengths?

getting into character's heads and having the reader experience their emotions, maybe? idk maybe tension between characters, sexual or otherwise? maybe smut? maybe humor?

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

i hate titles so much. hate hate HATE. song lyrics are my life hack for that.

also what is a plot

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic?

if i don't know the language, i'm not confident i'm going to get it right, so i usually just take the comics approach of < words go here > if this ever comes up.

19. First Fandom you wrote for?

i wrote some unhinged star wars prequels (specifically anidala) fics in high school, and i also started writing unhinged matrix fics around that time. no, none of you will see any of those.

20. Favorite fic you've ever written?

keep whatever it is (that's compelling you on) — because it's the culmination of a story that had lived in my head for years but i didn't think i was skilled enough to carry out, so i was proud i finally wrote it

Going On An Adventure 🧜‍♂️ by peaceluvr69 — is my comedic magnum opus tbh and i made myself laugh stupid the entire time i was writing it, so that has to count for something

here's hoping we collide — i really do genuinely love how this story turned out 🥹 to the point that i actually keep thinking about making a branch universe off of this to give that jyn and that cassian from five years prior to rogue one more chances to know each other and also be... prickly little assholes in a funny way, because they're funny. i imagine the hell they'd raise together and it warms my heart.

tagging (no pressure!): @quarantineddreamer ; @frostbitepandaaaaa ; @sgtjamesrogers ; @ezracomehome ; @luciechat ; @rebelrainfall

#tag game #* fic #i'll throw that in my tag. wow it took me a while to answer these questions ghfdjks

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allsassnoclass · 2 years ago

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hazel!! hi!! i'm def going to have to rb your fanfic ask game soon, you've got some great questions on there 👀 some questions for you: 4, 41, 57, 62 & 66 both for pas de deux, 69, & 77? (feel free to talk about non-5sos fic stuff as well!) hope you're doing well -megs 💙

hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii megs!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! thanks for asking!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! and for giving me permission to talk about non-5sos fics lol

4. How do you choose which fics to write? it's either something I have a deadline for (self-imposed or not) or something that I have inspiration/motivation for! for example: right now I'm spending most of my writing time on a fic i'm writing for a minibang. I have a deadline for that, so I need to get it going, and this idea is the one that I have for this pairing that lends itself best to that type of event format. i've got quite a few prompts that i'm still trying to chug along on, because some of them are almost 3 years old at this point. i have a 5sos fic that i'd love to get done for summer because the summer setting is very important to it and i love the story idea. but otherwise i just go with what i feel like writing! whatever idea i'm vibing with!

41. Who’s your favorite character you’ve written? ooooooooooo. mr. michael in puzzle pieces is up there i love him. i have an oc named mason who i love a lot (his fic is not yet posted). i think i'll go with those two right now!

57. How conscious are you about including symbolism or foreshadowing in your fics? In longer fics, it's something that I try to catch and add in as i'm editing. in short things i'm not necessarily looking for it, but with longer ones i feel like it's important in maintaining continuity and ensuring that there's a good arc to the story, because that's something that i really worry about with my longer fics. most of it happens on accident and i flesh it out more in editing as i catch the potential for it.

62. In pas de deux, is there a deleted scene/idea you wish you could have included? Why did it get cut? ooooo let me try to remember my process for that fic lol. initially michael was going to call harry styles on the phone and ask for insight on ashton. michael and harry danced together at abt and used to date, gemma partnered with ashton at nycb back in the day. the scene just didn't fit, was unecessary, and would've been more of a distraction than anything, especially because realistically harry wouldn't have anything substantial to tell michael if his sister is the one who danced with ashton and it was years ago.

66. What’s a fun fact about pas de deux? mmmmmm i believe every name that is dropped is the name of a semi-famous person somewhat associated with 5sos, with the exception of my high school theater tech director :)

69. What are your favorite fics at the moment? ooooo very difficult question! at this exact moment (so these aren't my favorites of all time or anything like that) I'm thinking fondly of:

With Absolute Splendor by veliseraptor (it's about!!!! rebuilding a broken brother relationship via planning a wedding!!! and also it made me cry!!!! and also it has jiang cheng tell lan wangji (very seriously) "you may not have noticed that we live in a society" which my sister and i laugh about)

Run Away to Mars by almost-a-class-act (this one ROCKED MY WORLD it's so well done. it's a luztoye space au. it's so so so so good)

Leave the Light On (I'll Be Coming Home) by hmslusitania (my favorite buddie fic! grief and parenting and addressing the will reveal!!!)

yeah i'll leave you with those right now. i feel like, for all the fic i've been reading lately (because i've been reading a lot, i haven't really found ones that have fully gripped me.

77. Why do you enjoy writing fanfiction? i enjoy getting to create worlds and write very character-focused stories and i like getting to post them for other people to see and i like exploring canon or throwing away canon or just in general thinking of stories more in-depth. idk it's just fun! and it's a nice creative thing that i can do!

Fanfiction writing asks

#ask #megs #SPEAKING OF THE MINIBANG FIC. i should go work on that #can i be honest with you. i feel like out of all of my ideas for the un/tamed #my minibang fic idea is arguably the worst #it's still going to be a banger of a fic it's just a little basic compared to all of the other ideas i have #it's not the orpheus and eurydice au. it's not the getaway car fic. it's not the one commenting on non-nuclear family structures and #communally raising a child #but it'll be good i just need to get going on it yknow #anyway megs thanks for asking!!!!

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00katrinka00 · 1 month ago

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Landcaster Legacy Gen 7 Update #77

As the term break drew to a close, Leo decided to book a small weekend trip for him and Nat to Tartosa. He used the excuse that it was to celebrate Nat's first professional teaching job, but really Leo had much bigger plans for the weekend. While Nat got ready, Leo did his best to prepare breakfast.

"So," began Nat. "What are your plans for this weekend?" "Today is the only full day we have, so I was thinking we could head down to the beach in the morning, and then in the afternoon do some souvenir shopping. I did book us a dinner reservation later tonight, though." "That all sounds fantastic!"

"I want to try to find a stuffie for Sawyer," Nat told him. "I want her to have something from our trip, and maybe something for my mom as well since she's being so kind to watch Sawyer this weekend." "That sounds like a great idea," Leo smiled. "We'll have plenty of time to look around.

After breakfast, Nat and Leo headed down to the beach. They spent some time just relaxing on the lounge chairs. Nat couldn't remember the last time she had this much down time. It was difficult to get any sort of peace and quiet with a toddler around. Despite this, she still missed Sawyer terribly.

After a while Leo and Nat decided to make a sand sculpture together. Mostly because Nat knew it's something Sawyer would have wanted to do had she been there. Afterwards Leo and Nat took a few photos with their sand sculpture so they could remember it once they went back home.

"Race you to the water," Nat challenged, a large grin spreading across her face. "You're going down," joked Leo as the duo took off towards the water. With it still being summer in Tartosa, the temperature was still quite warm, so the water helped cool Leo and Nat down.

"All of this reminds me of when your family lived in Sulani," Nat reminisced. "Me and my mom's would come to visit, and you and I would build sand sculptures." Leo laughed, "then Violet and Gianna would come barreling through to ruin them." "Whatever happened to Gianna?" "I'm not entirely sure."

"I think us moving to Copperdale was just too much for Violet and Gianna's friendship," Leo admitted. "Then they stopped talking." "That's sad, I always liked Gianna," Nat said. "Me too," Leo agreed before splashing water into Nat's face. "Oh, you're going to pay for that," she teased.

After drying off, and spending the afternoon souvenir shopping, Leo and Nat made it just in the nick of time for their dinner reservation. "What's name the reservation is under?" asked the hostess. "It should be Landcaster," Leo explained. "I see it, right here, follow me," said the hostess.

"This place is beautiful," Nat commented pulling out her menu. "I heard the food is supposed to be amazing," added Leo. "This whole weekend has been great." "I wanted to do something special for you. You've worked so hard with school and taking care of Sawyer these last few years, you deserve it."

"Well, this is all very sweet of you," smiled Nat. "I wanted to ask how the coparenting thing is going with Noah?" "Surprisingly not bad. He does seem to be taking this seriously. Maybe he has matured a bit since high school." "That's good, Sawyer deserves to have a relationship with her dad."

"I think the whole Dad thing is confusing for her, considering he hasn't been around for the last 5 years," Nat continued. "But she seems to enjoy her supervised visits with Noah, and he's actually pretty good with her. Her birthday is coming up soon and I was thinking of inviting him to the party."

"Really?" asked Leo. "Well, yeah. I mean he's her dad and if he's serious about being in her life now then she should be there," Nat explained. "That makes sense," agreed Leo. "Have you started making plans for her birthday yet?" "No, it's been kind of overwhelming with the move and everything."

"I'm always here if you need anything," Leo said as their food was brought out. "I know I've been busy setting up my veterinary practice and everything, but don't hesitate to ask if you need anything." "I know, I'm just so used to doing everything on my own. It'll be fine once this move is over."

After their meal, Leo and Nat went up to the bar area of the restaurant when they were playing some romantic music. It didn't take long before Nat was pulling Leo towards the dance floor.

After their dance, Leo and Nat decided to take a walk around the property. "You know, Nat," Leo said as they came to a stop. "I've loved you ever since we were kids. You've been in my life since we were Sawyer's age, and I can't even imagine what my future would look like without you in it."

"I guess what I'm trying to ask you is, will you marry me?" Leo asked as he got down on one knee Nat had known a proposal was coming this weekend, there was a reason she'd booked a nail appointment before they left. Despite this, she was still beyond happy. "Yes!" she exclaimed slipping the ring on.

Nat held her hand out to admire the ring, "You know," she began. "Sawyer totally told me you were planning to propose." Leo just sighed, "I had a feeling she'd do that." "She's 5, can you blame her?" "No," Leo smiled. "You can't" Before anymore words could be exchanged, Leo pulled Nat in for a kiss.

#thesims4 #thesims4gameplay #thesims4community #thesims #thesimscommunity #landcasterlegacy #the sims 4 #the sims community #the sims #the sims gameplay

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drsorrell · 6 months ago

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Reading Short Fiction, Wed. 7.31.24

Announcements & Reminders Grading - I had forgotten to include some grading information on the syllabus. - The 4 CR RDs (Close Reading Rough Drafts) are worth 5 points each. - The 4 CR FDs (Close Reading Final Drafts) are worth 10 points each. - The only truly graded assignments are the CR FDs; the rest work on the "contract grading" we discussed on the first day of class. - The SVC grading scale goes like this: A 93-100, A- 90-92, B+ 87-89, B 83-86, B- 80-82, C+ 77-79, C 73-76, C- 70-72, D+ 67-69, D 60-66, F 0-59. Schoology - I've started adding everything to Schoology, so you get more practice using it at SVC. - CR RD is up on Schoology if you want to try it out. - Review how Schoology rubrics work with CR RD/FD (mainly for school year prep).

A Brief Introduction to Close Reading: mini-lecture, then practice together! Think about our categories and how this relates to the rest of the story you've read.

Movie Clip :) 40:06-46:50

Practice: Opening paragraph of "Emergency": I’d been working in the emergency room for about three weeks, I guess. This was in 1973, before the summer ended. With nothing to do on the overnight shift but batch the insurance reports from the daytime shifts, I just started wandering around, over to the coronary-care unit, down to the cafeteria, et cetera, looking for Georgie, the orderly, a pretty good friend of mine. He often stole pills from the cabinets.

He was running over the tiled floor of the operating room with a mop. “Are you still doing that?” I said.

“Jesus, there’s a lot of blood here,” he complained.

“Where?” The floor looked clean enough to me.

“What the hell were they doing in here?” he asked me.

“They were performing surgery, Georgie,” I told him.

“There’s so much goop inside of us, man,” he said, “and it all wants to get out.” He leaned his mop against a cabinet.

Work on CR1 together.

Homework - Finish reading Johnson, “Emergency” (1991). - Keep working on CR1.

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safewayimmigrationconsultants · 1 year ago

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yunhsuanhuang · 1 year ago

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Bone Of My Bone | Y.H. Huang

In some ways, even before you first decided to put pen to page, you've always been a storyteller. You've always had the gift for spinning a web around yourself, weaving together the strands of truth and lies and maybe so's, until no one could possibly tell them apart. You thought, maybe this way you could protect yourself. Maybe this way you could protect Charlie. As long as you maintained the charade until you got the hell out of this city for good-

You couldn't have been more wrong.

England, 1983. A university student gets a mysterious prank-call by someone who claims she's his sister-- but he's always been an only child. On Cambridge, the cold, and storytelling.

Inspired by Child 74 (Fair Margaret). A companion piece to Blood Of My Blood, inspired by Child 77 (Sweet William's Ghost), but can be read separately.

It was all lately in the night When they were fast asleep Lady Margaret appeared all dressed in white Standing at their bed feet How do you like your pillow, says she How do you like your sheet? And how do you like that fair young lady Lying in your arms asleep Very well do I like my pillow, says he Very well do I like my sheet But better do I like that fair young maiden Standing at my bed feet

Pete Seeger, Fair Margaret and Sweet William

Frances Millwood (nee White) passed away [...] in her home of natural causes on the 7th of January, 1984, at the age of fifty-two. She is survived by her ex-husband, Albert, who resides in New York with his family, and her [...], [...] and [...]. Flowers can be left at 17 Green Street, [...], England.

—

When Arthur wakes, he's alone.

The last fragments of a dream still linger in the air, surreal and disjointed: Night in the city, neon reflected in puddles on the pavement. A girl with empty river-dark eyes stains the cement crimson. He might know her, he might not— but soon enough the memory's gone, and he's thrown back into his body, his long limbs tangled in the sheets, the unmistakable taste of blood in his mouth.

Arthur glances at his wall clock with bleary, half-open eyes. 6.30– the sun won't rise for another two or three hours. Rain pounds against the duct-taped window, the streetlamps casting yellow pools of light on the glass. Why is he up?

In response, the PA system crackles to life, repeating: "A. Millwood, Room 205. You've got a call."

Right. A call. There's no time to think about the who and why. He springs out of bed, throws a jumper on over his pyjamas, and hurries out of his room and down the creaky stairs, almost colliding into a drunken huddle of partiers on the way. The hall is absolutely deserted. The only person there is Ms Polly, a tiny old Glaswegian lady who fixes him with a disapproving glare as he approaches the phone desk, still adorned with Christmas decorations. She sighs, longsuffering, as she hands the receiver over.

Arthur leans against the peeling wall, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "Hullo. Arthur here. Who's this?"

"Your baby sis." The voice on the other end is high-pitched, tinged with an East London accent, and resolutely unfamiliar.

"Did you wake me up at six in the morning to prank-call me?" Bloody seventh-years. Irritating little things– he'd know, he used to be one of them. He'd find it funnier if he hadn't had a grand total of two hours of sleep last night. "What's the punchline here?"

"I'm not– I don't–" The voice splutters. "You don't remember me?" He's got to give it to her, she really does sound heartbroken. It makes him soften a bit.

Arthur scratches the back of his neck. "As far as I know, I'm an only child. Unless my father has yet another family he didn't tell me about–" He winces a little, surprised at what he's saying. He doesn't like to speak of his parents to anyone, let alone strange teenagers who've somehow found his number. What is he doing?

The voice turns steelier, speaking quicker. "He didn't have anyone else. Just me and you and Mum and Pa in that house on Green Street."

His blood runs cold. "That isn't my home," he lies, trying to not let the tremor in his voice give him away. How did she find that? There must be so many Green Streets in England– and yet– and yet–

"Then what is?"

Arthur slams the receiver down, hands shaking. Ms Polly looks up from her magazine, taken aback at the uncharacteristic display of aggression, but he doesn't say a word to her. He only turns away.

Back in his dorm room, he's lying on his bed, staring at the cracks in the ceiling. He knows he's always been an only child. He knows he grew up alone in that sullen house on Green Street. So why does it feel so wrong? For a moment he's seized with the irrational conviction that if he unburnt his childhood pictures and unwiped the videotapes, peals of high-pitched laughter would accompany his voice, his shoulder the resting place for a shadow made flesh.

A prank call, he tells himself. A prank call's all it is. Damned seventh years.

He drifts off into an uneasy sleep.

–

Later, as he tries to finish up his paper on the role of religion in Anglo-Saxon poetry, he finds he's too wound up to study–jumping at every shifting shadow, crossing out his words so hard he tears the page in half. So in the late afternoon, when the rain's mostly cleared, he puts on his coat and heads out of the building. The university grounds are beautiful in early January, anyway: the skeletal trees, the clear crisp air, and the ancient sandstone buildings casting long shadows across the grass.

He's crossing one of the many bridges that give this town its name when he feels a tap on his shoulder.

"Excuse me, but are you Millwood?"

Arthur's heart skips a beat in his chest. He turns slowly and carefully, for some reason afraid of what he'll find. But the girl just looks like every fresher in the city—messy red hair tied back with a velvet ribbon, pale hands clutching a patent-leather satchel. The tension drains from the moment.

"Yeah," Arthur replies, easily. "What's the occasion?"

The girl's eyes light up. "It is you! I've just finished your book, and I wanted to tell you I really loved how you balanced the whimsy of the genre elements and the restrained prose—sorry, I'm rambling. Point is, I think it's brilliant."

"High praise," Arthur laughs, both flattered and taken aback. He submitted Margaret on a whim, never expecting the publisher to actually take it, never expecting people to actually recognise its name. "Thank you, but I must ask— how'd you recognise me?"

"I saw you in the Varsity. I'm trying to publish too, so that article really stood out to me."

"Ah, thank my friend Alex for that piece." He rubs the back of his neck. "I can't believe I'm famous now. Want me to sign anything? Your book? Your shoe?"

"No, only a question: how'd you come up with the story? I don't think I've read anything like it before. It must've been inspired by something—or someone—right?"

Arthur pauses. He casts his memory back, back, back, and finds nothing but blankness, his past lying just beyond his reach. It's like trying to peer through frosted glass: there are only impressions left, only vague lighted forms.

"I don't know," says Arthur sheepishly. "It just came to me one day, I suppose. I wish I could give you a better answer."

"Oh, that's no problem," she replies, too polite to be real. She smiles, her bared teeth blindingly white. "No problem at all. Thank you so much for indulging me."

The slight hint of her accent, the fine bones of her face—it sparks a nagging sense of familiarity at the back of Arthur's throat, like a puzzle piece in the wrong box. Before he can ask her if he knows her, she tosses the end of her scarf over her shoulder and walks briskly off in the opposite direction. Arthur remains on the bridge, water rushing underneath his feet, and wonders if there's something that he's missed.

–

"Tell me more," the girl pleads. She's perched her chin on her hands, her small face lit by only a flickering torch. The air is thick with the scent of mothballs and dust, tinted by the vaguest hint of copper.

If they had more space, Arthur would lean forward to ruffle her hair. But the bed above him pins his long limbs down, and he can't do anything but smile. "It's late," he reminds her. "Time to get some sleep. You've got class in the morning, remember?"

"It is not late," she insists. Then she yawns, small and quiet, and Arthur laughs. "And you've got class too."

"I'll be fine, baby sis. You won't."

"Please?" The girl's eyes go wide, down-turned.

Outside— a shout, a swear, the familiar crack of flesh against flesh. Inside— the glow of a torch, so much like fire light. A small but cosy cavern, hidden away from the storm. A bard with a story on his lips, and a druid willing to listen.

To Arthur, the telling of a story has always felt like a kind of magic— like he's reaching through the cracks of the world, fumbling in the dark, then pulling. Like he's a conduit for something far older and greater than himself.

"Okay, okay." He takes a breath. Settles in. The words come easy as rain: "Brave Margaret, knowing that her sweet William was in peril, pushed her steed on. If she had not yet breached the walls of Castle Avalon by the time two moons had passed, his captors would surely strike him down. But as she rode through the forest, she slowly realised that the path was turning and twisting away from her, the sun retreating behind the dark trees..."

"And what happened next?' Her voice is high-pitched and breathy. She's hanging on his every word.

"She—" Arthur begins, then pauses, fumbling for words. He never fumbles for words. "Margaret—"

The girl tenses. "What's going on? Where's the story?"

"I—" The bed's suddenly too low and too heavy for his liking. What is he doing here? Where is he? What does he think he's doing? He's not small and lithe like the girl. His foot is sticking out the side, and his head awkwardly bumps against the wooden slats. He's not a child anymore. He hasn't belonged here in a very long time. The shouting reaches a fever pitch, then breaks suddenly off with the familiar crash of glass. Boots stomp up the stairs. A low, slurred voice screams his name, yelling at him to get the fuck out here, right this moment, or else, or else— it's a sound that sets every nerve in his body alight. Like a siren, like a prophecy, the air already hums with blood.

"Hello? Hello?"

He can't see the girl anymore. He can't see anything anymore. His face is pressed to their old wood-grain floor, the whorls and bends in it melting, melting, and slowly he realises it isn't wood but earth—soil and leaves and rot—and he tries to run, to turn, to raise his head, his fingers, anything. He can't, he can't, he can't. There's no way for him to even gasp for air. The world presses in. There's dirt in the folds of his clothes, between his fingers, in his nostrils, his mouth, and even his throat, which stings, contracts, seizes wildly and desperately. He needs to breathe. Why can't he breathe? His vision blurs, darkens, fades–

When Arthur wakes, he's alone.

He stumbles out of bed like Lazarus from the grave and drags himself to the bathroom. The porcelain sink is cold beneath his grip, the water on his face even colder. In the mirror, he's too pale even for winter. His brown hair's unkempt, curling in odd directions. There are red veins in the whites of his eyes, weighed down with tiredness—even though he's sure he must've slept ten hours last night. He splashes water on his face again.

"Get it together, Millwood," he tells the boy in the mirror. His own voice sounds so foreign: deep, raspy, Etonian. Damn this city. It's infected him like a disease, reshaped him from the inside out. "You bloody idiot. It's just a dream—"

He chokes, then. At first, he thinks it's on nothing but air, but he keeps coughing, coughing, his throat rough with what feels like gravel. He crumples forward, his nails digging into the sink.

He coughs one last time. Coarse, rough dirt spills from his mouth. It doesn't emerge all at once, but instead in an agonisingly long series of splurts and sputters and spit. The stench of wet decay hangs heavy in the air, seeping into everything.

Once he's done, he stares at the basin for a long time. It's not only dirt in there, he realises, but also blackened autumn leaves, sharp flints of stone, and—most surprisingly, but again what about this isn't surprising?—small, white flowers, untouched and unmarked, in sharp contrast to the dark earth.

Daisies. Their meaning springs unbidden to his mind: innocence, loyalty, love. They were her favourite, he thinks—at this point, there's no question about who she is.

Arthur knows hauntings. He's written them, he's read about them, he's watched them larger-than-life on the silver screen.

So this he can say with confidence: this is not a haunting, or, at least, no haunting that he knows. Hauntings are doors slamming, vases toppling, and lights flickering. They're ethereal, gothic dreams, shadows of something that once was alive. Whatever this is, though, it's more real than anything Arthur's ever felt. It's as if his whole world has been flayed, deboned, like the cushioning layer of flesh has been stripped apart, and nothing but the bare skeleton remains. Whatever this might be, he knows–he knows– it's not a dream, it's not a prank, it's not a trick of the light. The blood between the bathroom tiles still shines that horrible, familiar crimson, and no amount of Dettol or delusion will ever be able to get it out.

He needs a bloody drink.

The Keeper and Tiller is posher than a pub has any right to be. There are ebony-framed oil paintings on the walls, plaster detailing on the balustrade, and hundred-pound bottles of wine. Still, his friends are going to be there, so he makes his way to town with an irrepressible sense of cheer.

When Arthur enters, he sees that they're already seated at a table near the window, Alex and Priya on one side, Jake and Darcy on the other. When did all his friends start falling in love? he wonders.

"Well, you might dislike her, but you just can't deny Thatcher's done the economy well–" Alex's rant breaks off in the middle as he spots Arthur. "Oi!" he shouts, halfway across the pub. "Over here!"

"Haven't seen you in ages, bro." A grinning Jake slaps Arthur's back in greeting. Although this must be the thousandth time he's done this, Arthur's never quite gotten used to it. Forcing a smile, he drags a chair over and collapses into it. "Good god, you look half-dead. The New Year not treating you well, huh?

For a moment, Arthur almost tells them about everything that's happened to him over the last few days but discards the notion. They wouldn't understand. How could they? Instead, he just laughs, "Collections're doing a number on me." It's not technically untrue– the start-of-term exams are around the corner, and they are infamously gruelling, but it's only that wading through Old English grammar feels so far removed from what his life's turned into.

The table sighs in agreement. "Ugh, exams," groans Priya, tossing her glossy black hair over her shoulder. Her golden bracelets glimmer in the lamplight. "But don't worry your head off about it, eh? We've still got a whole weekend before the term begins. For now, I reckon we should just relax and look forward to the Winter Ball."

Arthur rubs the back of his neck. "That's tomorrow, right? I completely forgot about it," he admits. "Honestly, I might not go."

Darcy gasps, hand flying up over her pink-lipsticked mouth. "No way. You were so excited about it last term. What's got into you? Is it Lizzie? She's a great girl. I know you two aren't that close, but you'll get on like a house on fire."

"I don't know." Try as he might, Arthur can't picture himself in a rented suit, sipping champagne with the sons and daughters of politicians and noblemen, twirling awkwardly on the ballroom floor with a girl he only knows from lectures. "Just tired."

"Come on, Mills. It'll be great fun. We're all going," Darcy coaxes. She's always been good at persuasion, her bright voice brooking no hint of dissent. "Don't want to be left out, do you, now?"

Arthur pauses. On the surface, he and his friends seem so similar: all reading Anglo-Saxon, Norse and Celtic Studies, all interested in bad films and classic books. But as the only scholarship student, the only one who has to turn down nights out to save cash, the only one who doesn't slip seamlessly into the peculiar norms and customs of university life—there's a gap between them he'll never be able to bridge, and Heaven knows he doesn't want that gap to widen any further. He takes a gulp of his whiskey. "I guess it'll be fun."

"Brilliant!" Alex claps, then launches back into his story. "So, as I was saying, I was back at the country house for Christmas–"

The night dissolves into a golden haze of drink and laughter, slipping from reality to dream as smooth as running water.

–

He's in a train cabin. It's full of people– businessmen, tourists, families with children– but the noise is dull and dimmed, as though it's coming through a very long tunnel. Even the clack-clack-clack of the rails is quiet. The girl's next to him. She's a little bit older than in the last dream, but even still she can't be more than thirteen. She's wearing a crumpled secondary school uniform and her head's practically in his lap, curly hair spilling over his jeans. Her face, fond and serene, is almost the same as his own—the straight Roman nose, the ruddy cheeks dusted with freckles, the endless, enigmatic green eyes.

"I don't understand," Arthur says out loud. Outside the train window, the landscape is completely dark.

She smiles, showing off a mouth full of braces. "You're not meant to."

"Who the hell are you?" He tries to move, but he can't. The girl keeps pinning him down.

"I told you. Your little sister."

"You know, I think I would remember if I had a sister," he insists, although the words grow sour in his mouth. "And what about the dirt? What about the dreams?"

The girl sits up. "Is it so bad for a girl to want to spend the holidays at home with her family?"

He spins towards her, grabbing her by the shoulders. She flinches. He doesn't care. "Listen. That house is not my home. I have no family there. I am not stepping a foot back in that place, long as I live. Understand?"

He never used to be this angry. What happened to him?

The fluorescent lamps above flicker and extinguish, one by one replaced with the red glow of emergency lights. The train grinds to a stop. Parents hold their children close. Businessman rise from their seats, demanding to see the conductor. Shouts in all languages rise above the muffled clamour.

The girl pries his hands into her small but calloused hands, gripping them harder than he could imagine. "Do you remember me?" she pleads, on the brink of tears.

"What? I–" The train ceiling cries out in a terrible, mechanic roar. With horror, Arthur realises it's splitting, tearing itself apart to reveal innards of wire and steel. Chunks of metal rain down, denting chairs and striking down commuters. Behind the crack, dark earth looms. A child somewhere is crying for his mother. He sounds a lot like Arthur. His throat constricts. Her nails dig into his skin. Not again. Not again. "I don't–"

"Don't you remember your own sister's name?"

It comes to him all at once. He spits it out instantly, desperately, a dying man's last gasp. "Charlie! Charlotte Millwood! Now let me go!"

In the dark, he can't see her face, but he knows she's grinning. "Bang on."

The ceiling comes down.

–

When Arthur wakes, he's alone.

What he notices first is the chill. He's still in yesterday's clothes, and the cold seeps right through them all the way down to his bones, jolting him into wakefulness. He's not in his bed, he realises. He's not even anywhere near his dorm. Barren, snow-dusted pines loom over him on all sides. The sky's a heavy, oppressive grey. The birds are silent. The cold earth in which he's kneeling is fresher than the rest, scored with deep gouges—at first, he thinks these were made by animals. But when he raises his hands, he finds that they're sore and reddened, and blood's caked in his nails and in the lines of his frostbitten palms. There's blood on his sleeves, too, as well as splashed across his chest, soaking through the cuffs of his slacks.

He gets to his feet, looking around. His head stings and swirls, somewhat like a hangover but a thousand times worse. It takes him a while to recognise where he is— the forest just outside of the university grounds, where his friends occasionally attempt to drag him out for hikes, claiming that no, the walk from the lecture theatre to the dorm isn't near enough exercise. He remembers it as a pleasant, easy trail, fringed with leafy golden trees and thronged with students decked in tweed. But in the winter it turns austere and lifeless, the whole forest nothing but a grave.

How the hell did he get out here? Did he sleepwalk? Did his sister–did Charlotte–bring him here?

A gust tears through the forest. It makes his teeth chatter and his bones rattle underneath his skin. When he gasps, it's shallow, frosted-over. If he doesn't get indoors now, he realises, he's going to die. Blindly, desperately, he starts to tear his way through the forest, hardly aware of where he's going. Each step trembles. His legs nearly buckle underneath his weight. Branches tear through the soles of his best shoes. He feels none of it.

He runs, runs, runs until he can almost see the spires of the university in the distance. Encouraged, he quickens his pace–then takes just one wrong step. His shoe comes up against a small, unassuming rock. On any other day, he could steady himself and keep going like nothing's ever happened. But this isn't any other day. Numb, weak and cold–he doesn't fight the fall, and the darkness rushes up to meet him like a friend.

Arthur wakes again, cocooned in the warmth of his dorm room. His posters are right where he tacked them up, his textbooks are all slotted neatly in the shelves, and the sun filters through the unbroken dorm room window, filling the room with golden light. It looks normal--why wouldn't it look normal? Pulling off his sheets, he notices his clothes are only slightly crumpled, free of dirt and snow and blood. The bathroom is similarly spotless. He brushes his teeth, shaves, and washes his face without anything leaping out at him from the mirror or ambushing him from behind.

Not knowing what else to do, he makes a cup of tea. As he sips his English Breakfast, thoughts whirl in his head: What was that all about? It couldn't have been a dream. It was too long, too solid. The calendar still reads 9th of January, 1983. And yet– And yet–

The day passes by in a mundane, grey blur. He finishes up an essay, does his reading, and picks up his rented suit (a size too big, but it's too late to change). All the while, he can't shake the feeling he's being watched: as if he's a character in the play, and the audience is holding their breath, waiting for the climax.

Later in the evening, before the ball begins, Arthur calls Darcy, but she doesn't pick up. Probably doing her makeup, he thinks. No big deal. He decides to head to Lizzie's dorm to pick her up first.

When he gets there, it's almost sunset. The evening paints the town a deep sapphire blue, punctuated with golden light spilling from windows and open doors. Lizzie–in a neon pink polka-dot dress, her dark skin brushed with glitter–stands outside her dorm with a few other people he knows from their Viking Age module, conversing under their breath.

"You look brill," Arthur tells her.

"You too." She smiles, tucking a curl behind her ear. "Hey, weren't you supposed to come with your other friends tonight? Alexander, Priya, Jonathan and–was it Doreen?"

"Darcy," Arthur corrects, then furrows his brow. "I don't think I've seen them yet. I've no idea where they are."

"They're probably just running late," Lizzie reasons. Her high heels click against the cobblestone. "There was a bit of a commotion at one of the other dorms earlier. St. Julian, I think." St. Julian was the biggest, newest dorm in the university, with a beautiful view over the nearby woodland.

"Yes, that's their dorm. I guess they're just tied up. I'll meet them when they arrive."

As Arthur and Lizzie duck into the event hall, he can't help but be amazed. A great, vaulted ceiling pulls the eye up, up, up. At the apex, a chandelier dangles, dripping with crystals. Seemingly the entire university has packed itself into the hall. Men in tailcoats and women in glittering gowns chatter about royal scandals or drift across the crowded dance floor to the strains of a string quartet playing an ABBA song.

Lizzie pulls him to the side and hands him a glass of wine. She thanks him for agreeing to accompany her on such short notice after she broke up with her boyfriend. Arthur nods, only half-listening, and takes a sip of the wine. A powerful stench of rot hits the back of his throat, and he can't choke it out fast enough. Lizzie glances at him out of the corner of her eye. The taste lingers, impossible to remove. Glancing down at the glass, he discovers it's coagulated, dark and thick. Small white dots float in it, fighting to keep themselves from drowning. Maggots.

He blinks, and they're gone. He takes another sip. It just tastes like wine.

They mingle around for a while before he hears a shout in the distance. The chatter shifts in cadence, becoming quicker, and more nervous. Even though the string band plays on, some dancers are coming to a halt, drifting to the sides. "What's going on?" Lizzie hisses. Barely five feet tall with heels, she cranes her neck futilely upwards.

The PPE major in the sharp suit, whom Arthur and Lizzie were just speaking to, turns back to them. "My friend told me they found bodies outside one of the dorms."

"Bodies?" A woman wearing neon-blue eyeshadow shudders. "Surely not."

"I'm afraid it is." The PPE major's voice lowers, conspiratorially, as if he's sharing nothing more than a particularly interesting piece of gossip. "I've heard the police are treating it as a homicide. Poor things. They were just students."

"Who?" Lizzie demands. Terror dawns on her face, her hand clasping around Arthur's. He doesn't move to take it. He doesn't move at all. He doesn't even breathe.

"They're ASNCers," an unfamiliar voice interjects. "All five. You know 'em?"

—

I didn't mean it, you will tell yourself, after the fact. I didn't mean to hurt them. But this, like so much of your life, will be a lie.

You would be familiar with lies, wouldn't you? In some ways, even before you first decided to put pen to page, you've always been a storyteller. You've always had the gift for spinning a web around yourself, weaving together the strands of truth and lies and maybe so's, until no one could possibly tell them apart, not even you. You thought, maybe this way you could protect yourself. Maybe this way you could protect Charlie. As long as you maintained the charade until you got the hell out of London for good—

You couldn't have been more wrong.

You, aged twelve, swimming in an oversized jumper that still reeked slightly of cigarette smoke. Your teacher pulled you aside and asked you if anything was wrong. You laughed, No, Miss. Just cold, is all. She fixed you with a strange look, then let you go.

You, aged seventeen, sitting at your desk in the low lamplight, forging that scholarship recommendation letter with a shaking hand. When Charlie came over to ask you what you were doing, you angled the paper away from her, giving some half-baked excuse about calculus homework. She poked your arm and called you a swot, and you'd tried so hard to smile, knowing that in a week you'd be gone forever.

You, aged nineteen, on the way to the Winter Ball, straightening your tie with scrubbed-raw hands, telling Lizzie I've no idea where they are.

Don't you remember, dear brother?

Yes, Arthur thinks. Yes, he does.

All of a sudden, the crowd seems too loud, too close, pushing at him from every angle. He needs air, needs space. He needs to breathe. He runs.

As he collides into tables, handbags, and glasses of wine, some people curse at him, but most couldn't care less. They have much bigger things to worry about, after all. Snatches of chatter fill the air—this can't be real, can it? That could've been us. What's going to happen to the Ball now? Someone shouts after him. Probably Lizzie, or the PPE major. He ignores them.

For one frantic, blessed moment, there's nothing else in the world but putting one foot in front of the other—until he finally bursts out the back door, panting as if he's run a marathon. As the door slams shut behind him, the music and the chatter cuts off, leaving Arthur alone with nothing but birdsong and the weight of what he's done.

The memory sifts through his hands, impossible to catch. What remains is this:

As the rest of that night dissolved into glittering broken glass, a voice began to chime in his head. Initially, it was quiet, but then it grew louder and more insistent until he couldn't spend a second longer ignoring it, until it merged, almost seamlessly, with his own thoughts: You don't belong here. Not in this university, not amongst these people. This place has never been built for you.

In the early hours of the morning, they tumbled out of the pub, blinking in the low light and huddling together. Their footsteps were uneasy on the cobblestones. The warmth of the streetlamps was suddenly dimmed and the bare elm trees seemed to reach skeletal hands down to them. I know a shortcut back to the dorm, he'd suggested, in a voice that wasn't his own, and his friends—brilliant, trusting, so, so stupid—his friends agreed.

He led them down twisting backroads, cutting in and out amidst gothic churches, medieval libraries, and modern shops. Above everything, the familiar spires and the turrets loomed, but in that dark-deep night even they had been transformed into something fantastic and strange. Finally, he and his friends emerged from the edges of the city into the woodlands. Y'sure you know where you're going? Alex slurred, and Arthur only smiled back at him, a smile that was too wide and blindingly white to be real, to be his. The words forced their way out of his throat. Just wait and see.

By then, the warmth of drink had evaporated. They stood, shivering, for a long suspended second, before there was a rustling in the trees, and a figure stepped out. Arthur couldn't see their face, but he already knew who they were. He would've known them if they were hurrying past in a bustling crowd, made-up in the halls of Buckingham, bleeding out in a sodden, rubbish-strewn alleyway in London. In a dream. At the end of the world.

Hello, Charlie, he said, the first real words he'd said all night. Charlie nodded, faintly.

His friends murmured under their breath, confused, tired, terrified: Who are you talking to? Can we go back now? We're all going to catch a cold if we stay out for much longer.

Arthur wanted to grab his friends and run. He wanted to jump in front of them, insist she takes him, not them, never them. He wanted to scream until he was hoarse. Until even the rocks and the trees took notice. Instead, he only turned away. It was as if he was trapped inside a marble statue, so frozen was his face.

Arthur? asked Darcy. What's going on?

His eyes slowly, slowly, shut. That movement seemed to him to be nothing less than final, as irrevocable as a coffin slamming shut. As hard as he tried, there was nothing he could do to pull them apart. There was a long period of sounds that he couldn't place: too wild to be human, too human to be anything else, punctuated with the desperate sobs of his friends. Then there was only silence.

When he opened his eyes again, it was almost dawn. A heady, metallic smell filled the air. In the fresh light, he could see clearly what was left: Ivory ribcages; weeping, severed arms and legs. Rivers of scarlet winding through the snow. All unfamiliar carrion, except for the few last touches of human life: A shred of Alex's houndstooth blazer. Priya's broken necklace, its pearls scattered amongst the dirt. Jake and Darcy's engagement rings, with the engraving still intact: Ful oft wit beotedan / þæt unc ne gedælde nemne deað ana / owiht elles. Very often we two vowed that we would not be parted except by death alone, nothing else.

Arthur knew what he had to do. He knelt down and began to dig.

Look at you, now. Collapsed in the street, your best suit ruined. Blubbering over four people whom you barely knew, who barely knew you. Four strangers. Four Tories, for God's sake.

Don't worry, dear brother. You couldn't save them. You could never have saved them. Margaret would know that, wouldn't she?

Margaret, spurring her horse on. Margaret, a second too late. Margaret, at the gallows, just in time to scream--

When we were small, you never told me that part. In the story you told me, the road to Avalon stretched on as far as the eye could see, and Margaret herself was as good as immortal--forever frozen in motion, Avalon forever just beyond the bend, William forever trapped in the tower.

Do you remember that lazy summer afternoon at the Keeper and Tiller, a tape-recorder whirring on the table between you and Alex? Pushing up his glasses, he'd asked you: Why did you decide to end the story the way you did?

I didn't see that there was any other way it could've ended, you said. I intended it from the start. There wasn't anything Margaret could have possibly done to save William.

The story of Margaret isn't something you can confine between two covers, something you can trap in a page. Her story has always been inextricably ours. Like how Margaret fought so hard, for so long, and still wasn't able to save William--no matter how much you beat the walls and gasp for air, no one's coming to save you. In this university, in this city, you'll always be alone. So you can do only what Arthur Millwood would do: open your eyes, pick yourself up and begin the long walk to the station. If you're lucky, you can catch the last train home tonight.

—

Upon disembarking, Arthur's struck by how different the air is. Although it's wet and weighted down with soot and car exhaust, he's never tasted anything quite so clear. This, after all, was the scent of his childhood, wasn't it? The long winter night's not yet over, and the suburban streets are still near-deserted. Yellowed streetlamps shine upon nothing but empty pavements, crushed beer cans, and knocked-over skips. Here's the spot of patchy grass where he used to make witches' cauldrons out of sticks. There's the red-brick library he used to hide in when being at home was particularly bad—seems they still haven't gotten around to fixing the roof.

In university, this place was nothing but a dream, but now that he's back here, it's those two years spent amongst the spires that are now half-formed, hardly real. When he tries to recall the people he knew and loved there, he can only see them as inscrutable strangers, as those storybook villains in monocles and tweed that he'd envied and detested in equal parts in his youth. It seems so stupid that he'd ever thought he could belong amongst them, that he could claw his way into love and acceptance. He grew up in this town, and he'll die here, too. That much he's sure of.

His legs move of their own volition, sweeping him down familiar crossings. He doesn't panic, doesn't protest. It's not like last night, not really—more like one of the ancient rituals he'd spent those lost years poring over. He's written his own fate. All that's left to do is carry it out.

Eventually, he arrives at a narrow cul-de-sac. Not for the first time, he wonders what gave this place its name. There's nothing green to be seen here, not except for the moss creeping up the fences. The boxy terraced houses stretch upwards and inwards, pressing into the street. As he walks between them, the windows glare down at him over their half-moon glasses. The starless sky shrinks back. It's just like how he remembers it, except for one thing: in his childhood, the street was always level, but he notices now that it's actually built on a gradual slope. He's never been a scientist, but he's reminded of his seventh-year Physics tutor's lessons on black holes, how they're so large and heavy that they dent the fabric of the universe, dragging any unfortunate comet or asteroid into their embrace through the unthinking, unstoppable pull of gravity.

The door—his door—now looms before him. It's indiscernible from every other door on the street apart from the fact that the bronzed plate reads No. 17. It swings open with a sigh, as easy as rotten wood giving out beneath an axe.

The rest of the world falls away.

—

After I visited you last, dear brother, I thought about what you said for a long time, and I realised that—don't laugh— that perhaps you were right after all. This place—the bedroom with the upended beds, the living room with the plastic-wrapped couches, the kitchen with the long-mouldy pie on the counter with the rusted knife next to it—this place was never our home. Belonging, for us, can't be found in our parents, in the halls of an ancient university, or even on Green Street. You and I know we don't belong to this world at all.

The walls hug close to you, whispering your name in glee, whispering Home, home, home. This time, though, you and I both know it's a lie.

You move through the rooms, impervious and uninterested, except to take a single thing from the shelves before moving on. The current carries you to the back door. You fling it open, cold air hitting your face.

I'm waiting for you in the garden. My smile's split open, and I'm wearing my favourite clothes—your jumper, my overalls, my stained ripped stockings. You stop when you see me. The enchantment breaks, and for once real emotion shines on your face: the irrepressible, unconfused joy of reunion. How could you have ever forgotten me? How could you ever have thought that there was a world outside of me and you?

"Charlotte!" you yell, running towards me. I've missed your voice—not the voice you used at university, but your old voice, your real voice. My arms wrap tight around you, and you sweep me up and off my feet like we're characters in a movie, like we're Sweet Margaret and Fair William, like we're still Arthur, still Charlotte, still human.

That night after you went back up to university, the house felt too big, too empty. Mother had dozed off at the kitchen table again, not even caring that you'd left, that my world had broken clean in half. I did the only thing I could think of—I went down into the city, where the crush of the crowd was the only place I could feel really free. That was where I met the woman: she'd pulled me aside and told me I looked awfully young. Her red hair was greying at the edges, her smile soft and lipsticked.

She asked if I was lost. She asked if I wanted anything. What else could I answer but you?

I hadn't trusted anyone but you in so long, but I figured I could take my chances. She took my hand, leading me to where she said her car was parked. But the alleyways we walked through turned narrower and narrower. By the time I noticed her too-pale skin and saw the pointed edge of her teeth, there was no way to run. When I finally woke, I was alone, and I was someone I no longer recognised.

But that's not important. What's important is this: you and me in the garden. The loose soil between our toes. My face pressed into your jacket, your whisper against my heart.

"I'm sorry, baby sis," you say.

"Don't be sorry."

We both know what comes next. When the knife slips between my ribs, I don't cry out or scream or flinch. I don't find myself angry at you for betraying me, or at our parents for driving you away, or at the woman for remaking me in her image. There's only an overwhelming sense of belonging, of self, of home, clear as the chime of a church bell.

My arms still tight around you, I pull us both into the dirt.

—

"It's a lovely location," the property agent assures them, as he shows off the done-up kitchen. "Some older folks will still have the perception that it's unsafe, of course, but it's cleaned up a fair bit in the past few years."

"There's a character to it." Lizzie's husband smiles down at her behind his circular frames. She can't help but smile back. The two of them have always been a little bit of a sucker for things with character: the offbeat, the slightly worn, and this town, with its cleaned-up tenement blocks and twee coffeeshops great for writing doctorate theses in, certainly fits the bill.

The agent leads them out the back door, and Lizzie gasps when she sees what lies beyond it— a beautiful, wild garden, exploding with multicoloured flowers and vines scrambling over the fences. Dappled light falls through the shade of an ancient elm. It's nearly Easter. The whole world sings. She recalls a line of poetry from her university days: these men know God the Father in a tree.

They squelch through the grass—a violent, emerald green. The property agent points out the exceptionally fertile land and the garden's prime direction: facing the sun. He apologises for the overgrowth. "We're trying to clear it, but it just keeps growing back."

As Lizzie's husband and the agent fall into a discussion about optimising the house's feng-shui, Lizzie spots a glimmer in the bushes. She kneels down, tossing her braids back behind her shoulder, and pushes the leaves and branches away. In the darkness behind, impossibly, incredibly, two flowers are growing, taller and higher than she could ever have imagined they'd be able to. Although Lizzie's always been a city girl, even she knows the smaller one is a briar, the taller one a wild rose. Both their petals are a deep, true red, their stems twisting over and around each other as they reach futilely towards the light.

Almost as if in a trance, Lizzie reaches forward. Just to make sure they're real, she tells herself. To make sure they're not fragments of a dream. She sees ghosts every day of her life—in the faces of the freshers she teaches, in the dress she wore that night and could never wear again, in the cordoned-off space behind the dorm that's turned into nothing more than another campus legend—what's to say this isn't another one?

A sharp pain pricks her little finger and she starts, pulling her hand out into the midday sun.

The dream is real. She bleeds.

#writing #child ballads #writeblr #beasts of blood and bone #featured

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