#ramshackle allay

[small-world-au]

Screenshots of my “Small world au” notes!

✨Sora’s POV✨

(And for those confused about the au’s timeline in general.)

Here they are!

😅😅😅

✨Updated events✨

Tags: @baileythebean @thesilliestofallqueers @wakatoshi-main @weirdassartist @schnozzlebozzle @averagetmntfan @rebootgrimm @bioexorcismss @cherrythepuppet @lilacquintet @allay-j11no

[allay-j11no]

Ramshackle AU

This is gonna be a bit headcannon-ish TW: Mentions of Alcohol, Weed..

Stone: - Eldest (hes 17 in this AU) - Father-figure to Skipp and Vinnie - Came from a rich background - Ran away from his family at a young age (think 6-7) - In this AU he actually drinks but also drinks their version of monster (I find it funky hes allergic to monster) and smokes cigs, sometimes taking puffs off Allay's blunts. - Pebble, His (candy trip) black out drunk demon, still terrorizes him. - Knew Allay from childhood, they were neighbors - Since im guessing what time period this is, he was promised to Allay as a future husband, but the two never knew, being the goofy six year olds they were, promised under the giant oak tree when they were old enough they would marry. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- Allay: - Second eldest, like two months younger then Stone - Mother-figure to Skipp and Vinnie - Also came from a rich background - Also drinks, doesnt smoke cigs, strongly against cigs, but all for pot, has 10 pre-rolls in her inside jacket pocket. - also ran away at a young age (6-7) - Really good with writing poetry - Still has the lil wooden ring Stone gave her. - Skipp call's her "mom" --------------------------------------------------------------------------- Vinnie: - 3rd eldest (14 years old) - First child Stone and Allay adopted - Protective of Skipp - Never knew who her biological mother was - Since shes getting to that "I dont like my parents" phase, she acts like she hates Stone and Allay, but when she things everyone is asleep at nigh, she cuddles up to Stone, deep down she loves her two parental figures, she thinks shes keeping them safe this way - Always cheats in a game of cards with Skipp - Brought home a dog once, it became the family dog because stone said so - Enjoys terrorizing lil kids ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Skipp: - Youngest (12 years old) - Second adopted - Enjoys playing the violin Stone gave him (Stone is also teachin him to play it) - Allay found him when he was still a toddler - He's def a mama's boy - Sweetest kid ya could meet - His biological mom died of a disease - Cant sleep peacefully at night if Allay or Stone aint beside him ---------------------------------------------------------------------------

[divineordiabolical]

Once Allay and her family slept profoundly, Sora stood up from his resting place to grab a pencil and paper.

Once he was done writing, he left it on top of the stove, grabbed his newly washed cloak, and disappeared into the night.

He was walking around for a while, thinking about the events that’ll take place as soon as he would be found…he dreaded it….it made him nauseous to even think about them.

It was until he stumbled upon a church, he returned from his thoughts into the real world again.

“A…a church???? I don’t remember ramshackle having a church…”

He decided one little peek wouldn’t hurt.

He stepped inside, careful not to make any sounds.

He was AMAZED at the church’s interior…it felt…peaceful and a bit…creepy.

But he also felt guilt and disgust…for he remembered his aunt telling him about the time they went to a church, the pastor humiliated his mother when she was pregnant with him. Her aunt defended her tho and they never stepped foot inside a church ever again.

He sat down in the front row as he was lost in thought. He started to cry, unaware that someone was watching him.

The church was overcome with utter stillness upon the stroke of midnight hour, bathed in the silver glow of the moonlight streaming through the stained glass windows. The air was heavy with the scent of incense and candle wax, lingering from the evening service. Anastasia, clad in her chemise nightgown, stood before the altar, lost in contemplation. The flickering candles cast dancing shadows on her serene face, reflecting the myriad thoughts running through her mind in unholy hours of the night.

Her aching solitude was interrupted by the sound of quiet sobs, echoing through the hollowed halls of the empty church. Turning her gaze towards the source, she saw a boy, around her Asya's age, knelt upon the pews. His shoulders shook with the weight of his sorrow, each tear glistening in the dim light like fallen stars. Intrigued and moved by his evident pain, Anastasia hesitated for a moment, then slowly approached him, her bare feet making no sound on the cold stone floor.

As she neared him, she could see the depth of his anguish, the rawness of his emotion laid bare in the silent sanctuary. The boy seemed to be a fragment of something larger, a piece of a story yet untold, his presence here in the dead of night a mystery. He wore simple, worn clothes, his hair disheveled, as if he had wandered in from tumult fought.

Anastasia felt for him profoundly, their sorrow mirroring her own— this stranger who had somehow found his way to this sacred place, seeking solace or perhaps merely a refuge from the world outside. She knew the feeling well, the desire to escape, to find a moment of peace amidst the chaos of life. She had often stood in this very spot, letting the sacred divinity of the holy establishment wash over her, hoping it would absolve her mortal sorrow.

Although, it scarcely ever worked that way.

"A-are you alright?"

[seb-owns-these-tatas]

Witcher of the Night (Chapter 23.1)

I KNOW MY EDIT SUCKED. HEH. That’s my book cover in Wattpad. Couldn’t post CHAPTER 23.2 there because the application is glitching and I’m annoyed af. Anyway, enjoy this chapter for WOTN. 

CHAPTER 23

WOTN MASTERLIST

Characters: Geralt of Rivia x small!Naive!Reader

Summary: Maybe a witch isn't the key for your getaway because it could be deeper than that.

Warnings: The summary sucked. I couldn't write anything to avoid spoilers. LMAO. Curses. Tybalt and Geralt banter/hate for each other? 😂 Rohesia is my OC, not connected to any of the games or books. The witcher character named Gerd (AHA. I'VE INTENTIONALLY DID THIS. Surprised to see a stomach sickness used as a name lmao jk 😂) from the Bear school has been used. Bethleheigm is also a made up kingdom from moi. 😂 (Pronounced as Beth-le-haym)

Words: 4.3k

A/N: I know Kaer Morhen is located in Kaedwen. Damn it. I lately knew it when I was already half way through this fic and I can't change it anymore. Let's just say...oof. They'll eventually go there. Don't worry. Oop. Is it a spoiler? 😭

TAGLIST IS STILL OPEN FOR THIS ONE! Heehee! Don’t forget to REBLOG, COMMENT OR GIVE FEEDBACK IF YOU DID LOVE THIS CHAPTER! IT’LL MAKE ME SMILE! Sorry for the grammatical errors and such because English isn’t my mother tongue! PLEASE LEAVE FEEDBACK AFTER READING, BB! I apologize for errors!

Disclaimer: PNG's and pictures used in edits are not mine even the GIF's too. (Credits to the rightful owners of the gifs, it’s written in the lower part of their gifs. Though, some don’t. Still, credits to them. If you want it to be removed, just kindly message me) The edits and this fanfic is definitely from moi. Character development and personalities are based from my understanding and how I want them to be. This has no connection towards the books or games.

MY WORKS ARE NOT NOT NOT NOT NOOOOOOT TO BE POSTED ON ANY OTHER WEBSITES. My official username in Wattpad is “TATATHEPOTATO” and that’s the only other site I have for writing aside from Tumblr. Thank you, Tater tots!

DAY THREE CAME QUICKLY THAN WHAT WAS EXPECTED. Taking the shorter route to keep the proximity of hours easier for traveling back faster to Kaedwen. Geralt and Tybalt had an allayed journey towards the outskirts of Bethleheigm.

If a narrator was utterly dramatic, he or she could say that the witcher was beyond exhausted over being with the higher vampire because he only knew how to gall him over and over---a deathless cycle through out their travel, side by side with their own horses and vexation over each other. Yet, Geralt rarely has given him his energy for a battle that was pathetic as it ends.

They've both shared a night somehow. Their backs meters away from each other. With Geralt and his sarcasm never shutting one's eye until Tybalt was cursing him out under the moon light because the white wolf warned him not to think about hunting people to quench his thirst for blood. The higher vampire was left throwing him a pebble on his back and muttering how the full moon won't be until the day of the feast in the castle where he would technically celebrate over being a vampire but this choice could also be eradicated since blood was not in the highest scale in his pyramid law of needs.

Nights weren't the only thing shared between the two. Unbeknownst to them till Geralt was humming in displeasure, they've actually shared a drink of your home made ale. Tybalt commented how it was as good as Kaedwenian stout---perhaps, even better. Mentioning that the beer was probably made of your love for him which made the witcher scrunch his nose for how cheesy it sounded. Tybalt even declared numerical reasons as to why he kept you with him until today because you knew how to make his drunkard self swoon over your culinary skills.

Your cookery abilities were still different and utmost impressive than Geralt's regardless of how he has been used to embellishing his own food alone before. His midget's skills were technically amazing, add up the peculiar recipes that only you know---but, actually existed in earth---your earth. Those recipes that could get his family and him included, humming in deliciousness because it was new for their taste buds.

They were ought to arrive at the abandoned house today. Side by side, Tybalt and Geralt silently rode on their horses. Both of them fed up at the opposite of every presence that galled them to the brim. The witcher blurting out his opinions very frankly at the scowling vampire who was acting like he wasn't there along the hunt.

"You should've just stayed in the castle and played with your army stocks," Geralt grumbled as he held onto Roach's reigns. Tybalt's advancements for what he has done to you never leaving his memories when he clearly remembered the causes about why he was hating him more than to drown in a monster's stinking guts.

"I should've stabbed yer' horse while we were travelling---or feed off to er' horse blood," Tybalt clapped back, sending the remark in the nonchalant way as possible with a sarcastic raise of his brows.

"Leave Roach out of this,"

"Gods, yer' such a strange one, Witcha'!"

The witcher's scowl was as nasty as an Alghoul's bum. Tybalt seemed to be thoroughly embittered for even tagging along with a cold heart that was grudging to even join his hunt. If it weren't for the queen's request, he would never even be within Geralt's area of personal space. Howbeit, people have been trying to frustrate him even more with their sudden decisions erupting from either sides, like a dormant volcano that no one expects to explode.

Grey undertoned house. Ramshackled from the roof till the decaying roots of stones stuck in between their spaces. Close enough to be dilapidated if a wolf would've tried blowing the house down---though, the three little pigs weren't inside for it to hunt. They were closing in towards their destination, Geralt was anticipating this point of their journey; to immediately seek for the witch and to come back sooner than expected.

Yet, his anticipation burned in disappointment by the familiar look of the house rooted in front of them.

He'd heard stories about this abandoned home in Bethleheigm through drunk men in the Inns. They were having a tete-a-tete that it was a boobey trap made by homeless pirates who hadn't gotten back to shore, concealing the home as a place for them to steal one's belongings until they were ripped off their coins. Some tattled that the house was a dragon's nest where a woman lived in and disguised as one that Geralt knew entirely as a bullshit rumor because no dragons would dare pick to stay in the middle of a forest where the house was the only home built through out the map.

The witcher jumped off his horse, hushing Roach down with a soft caress to her mane because she'd begun to neigh.

Tybalt couldn't help but cackle from how he was affectionately eyeing the horse as if she was his other half, "---I wouldn't be surprised if ye' bring yer' horse with ye' while you bed yer' little woman!" he outlaughed and had a hand on his clothed stomach, shaking his head from the witcher's strange gestures with everything.

"Hmm."

Geralt gave him the side eye, endlessly shooting daggers since the moment they bonded together. His comment receiving a lour from the brooding white wolf because of the baldy judgement said.

"Yer' grumpier than usual---like ye' have been in a fight with yer' current flame---is it the tiny lass, anotha' one of your sorceresses or princess?" the Upir quipped with a smirk, hopping off his own horse before giving the house a look. He seemed to waver with a clear of his throat.

Geralt disregarded his ridicule and question with a blessed silence, his mood turning sour from even mentioning you. The weccan's golden eyes scanned all over the tumbledown house, his amber narrowing as he examined what was expected to be a necromage's hideout that he has heard from one of the drunk men's gossips in the inns.

"This abandoned house," he gruffly started beneath his baritone, harsh breathing as Geralt huffed for his disappointment over the founded location. The bind he had with you turning heavier as days go by like he knew you were turning into a melancholic person due to his faults. Hence, it was keeping him more insane than he can ever be because he always seem to offer only mistakes towards his people---where they end up getting hurt because of him.

Which wasn't new in his life.

"---There is no hag in here. Only a Necromage I presume."

Tybalt walked several steps to stop beside Geralt, shrugging his fur-coated shoulders with a curl of his upper lip, "I told ye' to take the longer route. Right path, Witcha'."

"And I told that you are bringing us both in an early demise because Golems and Downers are bound to get in our way,"

The higher vampire kept his mouth shut after that, his foot tapping on the ground before he received a subtle warning of Geralt's glare. The witcher was right about it. Basically, Tybalt was trying to stall over their journey because he knew what exactly was the stratagem kept for a clandestine truth bound never to be known.

Geralt pushed his peculiar fidgets away as it was still sounding so loud with his heightened hearing. He narrowed his eyes upon the engraved words carved inside the four corners of a mettalic flattened surface stuck on the grimy, stoned walls.

"Thou who shall take a step, requires a fee for entrance and something valuable to heart in order to talk with death,"

He silently read the words inside his head. Considering the requests before slightly pursing his lips, the ends looking like a frown but was actually just irrespective of what he was currently thinking. The ramshackle home being surrounded by an invisible strong force field shielded for not any normal man could trespass in without the rules asked. Another form of magic that he knew---though, this wasn't just any simple sign. It was created by sorceresses or wizards to safeguard the whole home for decades end, not risking anyone to touch whoever was inside, like it was keeping something from entering the place.

Geralt gave Tybalt a look while the vampire continued to whistle along the winds, his arms crossed in front of his chest whilst checking his awfully long nails, intentionally ignoring his companion until the witcher tried to grab onto a rock, strongly throwing the stone towards his head until Tybalt used his abnormal abilities, instantly dodging the stone coming forth and sprinting beside Geralt in just a second to see him nodding his head for his crackerjack skills that he seldomly uses.

"Coins." the white haired weccan roughly stated before he heard Tybalt huff and grumble from his demands, giving his palm to him and expecting for a bag of coins to be placed on his hands.

"You have your own, Witcher."

Geralt cocked his head to the side with a feigned smile, shaking his head, "My coins will remain untouched. I'm not risking mine for favors asked."

"Fuck you and yer' coins. I hope you feckin' go slow and die as soon as you're done with us,"

In the end, Tybalt eventually had to fish out a bag of crowns inside his coat, begrudgingly dropping them off on the witcher's awaiting palm who has shrugged his broad shoulders for his easy submission. The words to the engraved poster switching to dust, swirling through the air, changing into an arrow pointing at a brick where Geralt had to slightly touch for it to be pushed back.

Thorny, earthy tone colored vines snaked their way out of the hole. The brick of the old house never being seen as the roots formed a symbol of two palms sticking together like it was asking for alms. Geralt placed the coins on the makeshift hand, slowly slithering its way back to its home.

The house was alive. He was sure of that when he felt the aegis slowly fading away. Its stone doors cracking to slide open for them to enter.

Tybalt hasn't moved a step from his side. He returned to crossing his fairly muscled arms, hearing hasty pads of footsteps shuffling from behind as Geralt halfly turned to see a Hirrika panting on his side, yelping as a way of his bark towards the witcher who had his eyebrows furrowed in curiosity and stupefaction; stunned to see the familiar beast who has impressively found him despite of his long travel.

"Kolby."

"Your whore's feral pet," The Upir deadpanned, chuckling nasally like a sarcasm.

Tybalt heard a low growl coming the monster, his fangs shown to the vampire who he could sense and remember, his scent awfully making him remember how he'd hurt his master.

"Watch it." Geralt gruffly mumbled, giving Tybalt the side-eye as he tried monotonely hushing the rare beast like how he'd seen you soothe his annoyance or anger whenever Jaskier irritates Kolby.

"Down, Kolby. No teeth." he gruffly scolded with a raise of his palm.

The Hirikka chattered like a cat as he glared at Geralt's temporary companion, spinning on his own place before howling, his snout tilted at the sky as he yowled, the sound making him wince from how loud it was---too sensitive for his heightened hearing. Though, that didn't stop him from judging his gestures, noticing how he was jumping in his own spot whilst doe eyes stared back.

"He's saying something," the white wolf frankly stated, exhaling a languid breath through his nose because he couldn't understand what he wanted, "---Stay here and don't touch Roach or my Hirikka." he mentioned for Tybalt who appeared to be mentally finding their whole interaction as comedic. Geralt took a step forth, subtly leaving a pat on Kolby's head that eventually calmed him down, making him skip his paws to the side.

The Hirikka jumped to sit on his short tail, his knees bent and close to his chest as he silently watched Tybalt and Geralt conversing together with snarls and insensitive jests until the witcher finally moved away from him, bravefully entering the threshold.

"Where ye' going?" Tybalt called out and made him cease his steps, promptly giving the growling Hirikka his heed to see Geralt judging with his slightly entertained peepers, fighting off the curl of his lips because of how his Hirikka was making the higher vampire uneasy. He was agile but lacked knowledge over the beastiality of the continent. Probably, because of how he has been confined in the castle in an early age and known more politics and schemes more than the lore of monsters.

"To ask the Necromage about that witch,"

"Just like that?"

"She might know her whereabouts. Stay here if you don't want to get your vampire nails grimy,"

Tybalt cocked his head to the side, effusive of cursing out the witcher who had a smirk as he turned his back away from him, continuing his path around and ignoring his cavils.

"Why am I even following ye' around, Mutant?"

Geralt of Rivia entered the perimeters. His newly sharpened swords latched on his wide, broad back. Every step had his chest heavier than usual; bred-in-the-bone like he knew there was something happening to you back in the castle that he couldn't decipher and it made him scowl. The energy in the house even adding more of that deep-seated feeling---the home being cursed as well like some sort of magic was ceasing his advancements from talking to this person living inside.

The place wasn't ruined after all. It was all charmed and just a mere visionary trap or distraction that won't let people fall for even staying close to whoever was inside. Clean and utterly fixed, furnitures sat on their proper rooms which held up a second floor that Geralt didn't plan on exploring for as a presence could be felt while he stood in the middle of the kitchen.

"Hmm. Necromage,"

This person was a woman, Geralt silently stated the obvious inside his head. Her voice was tremulous and surprised to see a gigantuan man standing in the middle of her kitchen which she has never seen before in all her life.

"I am no Necromage," Rohesia calmly informed him, her heed turning distant from the mention, "She...has already died. Cristabell, My lady of the rarest in Bethleheigm---the only necromancer in this kingdom. May her soul rest in peace,"

"---You're the witcher." she paused, taking a gander and examining the white wolf before her. White hair falling on the tips of his shoulder blades. Gold eyes. A scowl prominent on his face. This was the witcher she has been warned about from both parties.

Geralt attempted a cynical smile, seeing that she held more lies and have been doing so for a lifetime, "There's no use of lying."

She was feeble. As old as Eanraig in terms of physical appearance but not his actual age since he was a scholar of the forest. The witcher held onto his medallion, seeming to feel no vibrations over his necklace that he strongly felt before the doors have been opened. His white and black spotted eyebrows furrowed for what singularity was happening.

This was supposed to be the Necromage. Yet, why does she felt human who had no magic to offer?

The hoary, old woman was not lying after all.

Rohesia forced to give him a small smile, walking past him to sit on one of the wooden, dining chairs. Gesturing her palm outwards for Geralt to take a seat that he simply answered with silence as he stood rooted on his spot, assessing what she truly was.

"I offer you no lies of secrecy. My mouth speaks nothing but the truth for I am just a mortal who thrives to live peacefully in the continent," she honestly answered his curiosity and judgements which made him nod at her uprightness---making his job easier for him.

The woman really was no necromage at all.

"A mortal who stands for her virtues. Hmm."

"Why are you here, Witcher?"

His glower was permanent even as he sauntered to where she was, standing upright and leaning a hand on the top portion of her dining chairs whilst he patiently explained.

"To find the hag who has cursed prince Althalos of Kaedwen."

Rohesia only offered a small, genuine smile. Her shaky laugh erupting through her chest because she knew this was the man who her former witcher and lover give fair warning to when the Kaedweni started their murdering plots upon fellow weccans who fall for their crimes. Vesemir never wanted to be involved with their delinquencies, explains his periodic leave in the kingdom---his constant visits for the woman seldomly occurring since Nilfgaard has attacked and conquered another domain after Cintra.

"Are you doing this because Vesemir has told you so?"

Geralt went on with his speechless talk, low humming followed suit for the flabbergast he felt over hearing his senior mentor in the art of their kind. The end of his lips subtly turning the opposite of a lour, relieved to suddenly hear his name through another person's mouth---a woman he probably had a relationship with; a former flame and mortal that Geralt least expect for Vesemir to entertain because of the conducts he had told him prior into becoming one skilled witcher.

It is that being involved with mortals and even having a soft spot in the job won't make them any better.

"Does he visit often?"

She ignored his question with a simple, wholehearted feeble laugh. Her circumvent obvious that Rohesia wanted not to talk about Vesemir after he has chosen to leave her for coins and another woman---another mortal years ago, thinking that because she aged badly was one of the reasons why he chose something better than to be with her. Hence, they were even known to be monsters of their own kind. Monsters who slay other beasts in exchange for coins. It was what she believed them to be---yet, she knew to herself that if Vesemir would come back to her, she would still accept him with all her mortal heart.

She dryly coughed, avoiding his eyes and covering her mouth with a tightened fist that Geralt quickly knew she was physically sick just by the looks of it.

"If you...still want to live and take your coin, turn back around and forget that you have stumbled upon this place forever."

The latter shook his head. Determined to find answers from this elderly human who knew his mentor and a fatherly figure he had been to his life. He believed Rohesia knew more than just Vesemir based on how she was trying to push him away.

"Where's the hag?"

"You cannot find the witch anywhere even out in Kaedwen, Geralt."

He was impressed. Geralt raised both of his eyebrows, pursing his lips with a tilt of his head that she knew his name regardless of not introducing himself yet.

"Vesemir has obviously told you more about me,"

She ignored his statement again, grabbing onto the ends of her dirty Tunic as she stood, saying her words firmly and with finality. Never knowing if her decision over dropping out hints would be good for her isolation from everyone---isolation and somehow imprisoned inside a house. The necromage being her sentinel, a guard given orders that she wouldn't escape and try to spill secrets that will ruin such plans. Howbeit, she still had high respects for Cristabell who had been too kind for her that she has brought Rohesia with her whenever she was out for some business.

"The witch you have been finding has been around the castle for decades."

Perhaps, it was time for the truth to set out free because Rohesia knew she had only weeks to live in the continent. Revenge pushing her through the decision she wanted for trying to keep her contained, watching her every move; ruining more of her wrecked life.

"I have been the queen's loyal servant. After she has given birth to Prince Althalos, he has already been cursed when he was a bairn." Pause. "---Sorceress Ingrith has managed to sneak into their quarters and cast the curse by whispering such spell and gaining a tiny drop of his blood. I've all seen her cantrips and heard them as I came back to guard the prince in his sleep. The wail of an offspring shall bring despair for the royal family,"

The sorceress' name felt like a crime to be told. Heaviness in her chest finally unleashing after decades of being caught up with the lies she was telling people who asked or went to gather information as to who has cursed the prince; finding the witch and ending up dying from the hands of her womanly guard. Cristabell recently died from the hands of the last witcher who she knew as Gerd, the necromage dying after their battle whilst she tried to fight for her cousin's trangression---continuing doing so for the sake of her selfish reasons.

"---She...she was also the king's mistress before the queen has given birth to Prince Althalos while she also gained her position. I may never know if it was made from jealousy over the queen's position. Though, it is their life that I promised to stay away from. Only sorceress Ingrith may reverse the curse or happen to know how,"

A beat of silence wrapped them both after Rohesia's candor. Geralt's mouth forming a deeper scowl than ever as he loudly sighed, languidly blinking in weary for being tricked by the sorceress and her right hand, Tybalt of Touissant. His jaw began to clench for who stood outside of the house, the higher vampire making him mad for leading him on circles---the cycle wouldn't have ended if he chose to go forth with his suggested path. It was why he was trying to lead him towards a swamp filled with monsters than the shorter route because the truth was with this rumored woman.

"Should've known."

He deeply grumbled begrudgingly, blaming himself for not thinking it through. His time wasted for you to be saved and taken out of the palace. If only he wasn't as pale as Ivory, his face would've been empurpled with fury for what they've made him appear to be---an idiot or for whatever bullshit they can call him.

"You're coming with me..." Geralt deeply said before he was cut off to her introduction of name.

"The name's Rohesia, Witcher."

He nodded back to the lady, going on with his ceased sentence with solicit, "---Back to the castle,"

Rohesia saw him walk closer to her, face to face with the infamous butcher she has heard tales about. The butcher of Blaviken who has managed to slaughter goons of Princess Renfri's hooligans and also earning another moniker of being a butcher of Ard Carraigh. Kaedwen's capital. The name would eventually spread throughout his kind because of how Kaer Morhen was close by. Her eyes catching onto the badge latched on the rain-guard of his sword.

"I have been told to never step foot again or I shall be put into death,"

"Do I need to beg for your compliance and offer protection?"

"What's in it for you and me?"

The witcher deeply sighed, shifting his amber away from her as Geralt looked withdrawn, his next words sounding like a mumble, dubious of his own bluntness. Disbelieving that he could hear his own voice say the words like an echo of his consciousness.

"You get to save the castle from anguish," pause. "---and you get to save the life of someone dear to me,"

"A woman I assume---your woman," Rohesia sounded so surprised, staring him down in incredulity, "---Is she royal? another sorceress too? a mutant?"

"A mere...mortal," he hesitated to honestly say, his eyes filled with a memory he truly can't forget. Your skeptical voice stuck inside his head when he remembered the first time he met you till the moment you told him how you suited to be a queen.

Geralt clearly remembered his reaction and teasing reply. Telling you how you suited more to be called a midget. His midget. Yet, now you were being treated like his queen where he would kiss the ground you walk on no matter how in denial he gets.

"---Perhaps...a queen to her kingdom in her rightful dimension," he was caught in his train of thoughts, never seeing the stupefaction in Rohesia's eyes over what dimension he meant---having no clue for his words. She could see what Vesemir once was like until life has ruined everything for her, including the sorceress corrupting and controlling the people and castle of Kaedwen.

"Learning to love doesn't suit your kind, Witcher."

"It's because it isn't what you think it is."

Rohesia shook her head for his lies, he was thoroughly unaware of the feelings sipping through his words once he mentioned you. This witcher believed that he wasn't capable to love nor emit feelings just like how her previous lover have been. A typical characteristic of his own kind. Denial and the feeling of being unworthy of recognizing such emotion was making him sound insensitive. But, people who could read others can see through him regardless of how he tries not to, "Deny it all you want. To us humans, it is. Love as many people assume."

"---you're still human after all. As far as I believe for your kind, Geralt of Rivia. Sorceress Ingrith might be glad to see me again soon---I hope."

Don’t hesitate to message me if you don’t want to be included in the taglist anymore, bb’s. I won’t be mad. Thank you. 

Taglist for WOTN: (Strikethrough means your blog can’t be tagged. Please check your settings) @alyxkbrl​​ @himarisolace​​ @barkingbullfrog​​ @ayamenimthiriel​​ @hellodevilslittlesister @turkish276​ @spookypeachx @grungelovebug @fangirl-inthe-us​​ @nympeth​ @amirahiddleston​​ @gabethelobster​​ @dreaming-about-fanfictions​​ @uncoolcloudyhead​​ @melaninstylezz​​ @psychosupernaturalhero​​ @missjenniferb @dance-dreamer​​​​ @marvelousell​​​​​ @kingniazx​​​​​ @angelias134​​​​​ @tapismyforte​​​​​ @chook007​​​​​ @butterpumpkinscotch​​​​ @deadlydemon​​​​ @cheesecakeisapie​​​​ @angelofthor​​​​​ @carrieannewaywardson, @plantingmum, @stuckupstucky​​​​, @shesthelastjedi​​​​, @a–1–1–3​​, @gutfucks​​​​, @raynosaurus-rex​​​​, @britty443​​​​, @suhke3​​​​, @shadowclawstudio88​​​​, @ruthoakenshield​​​​, @just-a-sad-donut​​​​, @gxrdenr0se, @singeramg​​​​  @friendlyneighbourhoodweirdo​​​, @alexwinchester23​​​, @naturalthrone22​​ @supernaturallover2002​, @tellmesomethinggud​

Overall witcher taglist: @pizza-eater-i-ate-the-pizza​​​, @crazybutconfidentaf​​​​

General taglist for any Henry Cavill fics: @agniavateira​, @iloveyouyen​, @rahdaleigh​, @silverkitten547​, @henrythickcavill​, @kaatelyyynn​, @marvelousell​, @madelinelina​, @summersong69​, @raynosaurus-rex​, @fckdeusername​, @evansislife​  @nothinggoesunpunished

[driftwork]

on a small island having useless thoughts in summer

Some things are in our power,others are not in our power. In our power are opinion, sentiment, aversion... (E...)

The world was smaller and the borders were liberatory when we were more active.  But we are decades after those years.. I think the diameter of this small small island is about five or ten  miles at most. A narrow coast road runs alI the way round it, often with sheer drops into the sea off the steep cliffs to the south. But mostly it runs level along the coastline to the north and east. With slopes down to the beaches which alternate between sandy coves and shingle beaches. Occasionally I have stopped and explored these lovely beaches.  On the western end of the island there are concrete groynes  placed to slow the inevitable  erosion of the island. On the south concrete tetrapods are placed to protect the cliffs, gradually becoming a reef as the sea level rises. There are three or four towns, two of which have harbours for small boats and the regular ferries  from the mainland which is five to ten  kilometres to the north.  And its on one of these beaches that I am sitting eating an ice cream, with a cappucino in a takeaway cup, speaking to you.  I am speaking quietly to you because you are lying in the  sunlight, the sea and the sound of the wind on the yachts moored out to sea has made you close your eyes. You are beside me , your body is rising and falling with the rhythm of a sleeping person,  to the rhythmanalysis of a sleeping person. I don't want to wake you so I talk to you quietly about the place. Spacetime perhaps.  your soft brown leather bag is beneath your head. A violent pillow.   Some writers we know would be entranced by this island,  with its seagulls, terns, cormorants, crows, songbirds, trees, hills and rare  insects. The photographs of the bunker archaeology�� collated by the council. Perhaps its the island he told us about over cocktails in the snow, before he died, killed by the leviathan. We exist in the net, captured by its almost visible lines, drawn out in the... I can hear you laugh "no no stop this is a lovely day, forget these things just now..." But when I look down I see you are still asleep, I sip coffee and wonder what time it is.  I am phoneless and watchless on this beach. Only you a pen and a notebook, Children run into the water... splash splash splash. I watch.

I found out by chance that he is still alive. The bookseller in the allay behind the town hall, next door to the hairdressers and adjacent  to the ice cream parlour, who likes to pretend that he is still ukrainian even  though he was born on the mainland 80 kilometres up the coast. Do you speak russian well I asked him.  Not at all, hardly at all he replied. A ukrainian  russian newspaper is delivered to the shop a few days after publication, perhaps he reads it? most likely he simply wraps up the books he must post in the pages.   Once a week, once a month in the newspaper, they run a provincial section  of news of the place where he was  born, before his parents took him, that is you  to america.  I remember when you, she and I went there for a  week, staying at the ramshackle dacha that you had inherited and still owned.  I remember the treelined roads, that we rode along on the bikes,  and the open top german car... and sometimes as we drove down the long intricate road into the river valley we would drive through the shadows of the cork oaks. In the village, mostly emptied of people who had deserted this place for the cities and a better  life. And there looking up at me from the opened out pages, on which a book rests which is about to be wrapped for posting, I can see a picture of your smiling face. The face of a man who supposedly died on the other side of the world,  but is now looking at me, not looking at me, as I look at him from a two day old newspaper. It's the same smile I remember from the hospital club, and  the hotel off wardour street from your last trip to london. "Bye S...  see you next year in april" you'd said. Before dying they said in A...  But there you are.  Big, alive, unable to avoid the photograph in a local paper  that ended up here on this small island. This invisible island.

Here we are later,  I wonder if it's him she said, again. What should we do if it is ?  Nothing she said.  It's nearly sunset the sun is setting in the west, the east.  The cypress  trees are lit by the deep yellow of the setting sun.  They were  deep green earlier, now they are yellow and black.  Down the hill on the plauteax leading to the beach there is a cafe,  the smell of Greek food. We walk down the slope. There is a row of houses facing the sea, northwards,  just down the road. The end house,  a short distance away was once Susan Kant's house, she'd landed there from Germany and spent a decade praying they would never find her,  they didn't. Only she was left there, here.  Her husband and mother had never returned even years after the nightmare ended. She never knew what camp they had ended up in, and now was still trying not to talk about them, survivors guilt perhaps.  But we left Susan in peace, we would visit her tomorrow we said,  and went  down to eat moussaka and to drink cheap retsina,  though we ended up drinking Chablis.  Thinking about how he was still alive, how his being alive threatened us, how he'd escaped from the south, travelled across the world to hide out there, there of all places... Was there a trail of bodies and ruined lives behind him enbaling his escape? she wondered quietly between mouthfuls of food.  Probably, I said. Thinking of the monsters he'd spent too much time with,  hiding in plain sight.  THINKing that he could hide  in their culture, traditions and earn money supplying them with the tools of oppression that...  but no it all disappeared.  He (must have) thought, i'll go in, take what's needed, supply them, be valuable,  I will become them,  I'll go when...   as if the monsters he served were harmless. Then they began to come for you.  for you.

I hope he has forgiven me for the way we spoke at the end. If I'd been more reasonable perhaps he'd be here rather than there or dead,  after these few years. I sighed and poured more wine. I wonder what he is called now. She said, tapping the table. How should you address  the man you loved who said see you in April and who vanished half a year later, presumed dead and yet has now appeared in a monochrome image in an un-understandable newspaper... Was he loved down there in exile? Is he loved now? floating down the lines in the liquid modern.   Were you with a man, a lover or friend, perhaps betrayed by them with the inevitable quick exit or was it a slow exit, the run across the face of the earth.  Or was it just furtive moments for the gratification of the body.  Were you mostly alone at night,  in your bed alone. Did anyone say "my love" in the way of the  liquid modern , holding you in their arms.  Did you remember the first night of your escape in Lyon? in the small hotel, the small room with its paisley cloth wallpaper, that was the first night in the run away from Italy. You unable to sleep from fear,  me and the other carriers still awake in the adrenaline rush of the drive north, eventually sleeping in the chair or sofa. How did it feel for you as we paused in our northward trajectory?  From Lyon we dispersed northwards, you by train with a courier who took you to London and your new identity.  Me to Amsterdam, then Belgium and the yacht across the channel and southwards along the coast.  We were never innocent, just smugglers of people.

So seeing the picture of you again,  all the time and memories I had suppressed returned again.  The years returned, tectonic plates shifted. The long recovery into this stable place after the final disastrous runs across europe, losing people on the way, time falling away as the police searched for the few who escaped, me hiding in the alps. Meeting her in the mountains and then in late summer traveling north with her by train, leaving the car in Avignon. A few photographs and unreliable memories are all that remain of that summer.  How did they find us? I spent the summer wondering.    The photograph of her is beautiful,  she is young, recovering from her divorce, a picture of her in profile, reading a book outside a building, a cafe or school perhaps, I don't remember.  There is a second photograph, the book laying open on your stomach, half asleep in the sun, eyes closed, relaxed. Weeks passed.  She took me out of my life,  took me home with her.  I thought she was saving me but really it was mutual.  We changed trains at Lyon, traveling on the fast trains north, in first class, looking like the young couple that we were becoming.  "Come with me, to my house" she said, "In case he is there..."  Her flat was empty,  half the furniture, books, music, all his clothes gone.  I never left.  Time passed. Eventually we left together.  We were both surprised that we stayed together.  Then later after I felt safe to go to my old flat again, to collect some belongings. The shock on your face when you saw me loading hastily packed suitcases, a few books.  "How are you here? " You said,   the look of betrayal on your face.  I shrugged and said i escaped.  And so the photograph reminded me of the betrayal that was the cost of your building a life.  I understood your life and knew you would never understand mine. "How did you have a life?" is the question you never asked me. Did you also betray them ?  The subtext of the utterance. One that I never answered as I never told you about the alps, about how she and i met as I hid waiting for the police to arrive.  The fear I suppressed as we boarded the train and traveled north.  How could you understand a life that wasn't founded on the betrayal of your rescuers ? Did you ever understand why I never spoke of it. Looking at the photograph I got the idea that this time someone had tried to  betray you.  You were building systems you told me, us.  That do what?  I asked.  It was clear that you couldn't tell me, us. Perhaps you thought that it was a step too far, to tell us about your relations to the leviathan. Did you think we were about to take some form of vengeance on you ?

It's a little later,  we are in Y.  A small town or village on the island.  It's not particularly beautiful but in the summer its always full of happy people. The section of the port that you can see from the  dockside is full of pleasure craft, yachts and motorboats,  behind you is a street of restaurants that leads to the square and other shops, tourists and working people pass through, a few fishermen,  sailors,  laborers travelers,  upper class figures imagining... Perhaps its still beautiful because we can be scarcely visible here.  And that's what we did, changed my name to hers.  Adopted new numbers, identities. Pretended I only spoke english.  Becoming english,  learnt how to be monocultural. More interestingly we became monosexual only facing each other.  From the small house we are staying in you can see the sea and further on you can see the hills that run along the centre of the island before sloping down to become cliffs to the south. We spent days and nights looking out to sea. So since we are about to leave this place and travel  back to our home north of london we look at the hills for the last time. The walls of the house are covered with tongue and groove planking,  painted a pale blue colour.  The bedroom had a painting of yachts on the light blue sea.  There was a wardrobe to the right of the bed, in which we had kept clothes and pillows. One of the sliding doors had a long dressing mirror hanging off it. On the walls of the living room,  small paintings and photographs hang.  Two small sofas and an easy chair are lined up together, a bookcase with a a flat screen monitor standing on the top.  This is where I am sitting, waiting for her to return from the local cooperative with food for the night, and a full tank of petrol.  I thought of you in your flat in Shoreditch with your parrot, cats and guilt.  And for the first time since you vanished I thought that something  needed to be done about you, to prevent you from acting again.  What is the point of this life if we don't stop you this time ?  We are catching the last ferry from the island, driving north for three or four hours, she will sleep in the passenger seat. I will be contacting my old friends in the group...  So whilst I wait, i write this note to you.  We know your location and your address will be found soon.  There will be no more trips for you, no more waiting at airports to fly to moscow, madrid or dayton. No more boarding of ships, yachts or driving across the  country searching for a broken down byzantium church. No more betrayed bodies. The mirror of your old age is approaching. The newspaper that brought you back to me, says you may travel to brussels soon. It is a tribute to your life that they admire you, describing you as a man of peace and progress. This letter which is in your hands now, either in brussels or wherever,  is timed   to arrive in your post box the day before the woman from shanghai delivers the heart attack, arriving to see you off, will you see her approaching you? [...] Before this decision is finalized we are on the beach, I drink more coffee. She moves in the sun, her head tilted to one side to get the sun out of her eyes. she mutters something in her sleep. I put my hand on her warm shoulder. She sighs contentedly.

[bonesandblood-sunandmoon]

Article from The Atlantic “This Is Not a Normal Mental Health Disaster” (posted July 7th, 2020). Excerpt:

In any case, the full extent of the fallout will not come into focus for some time. Psychological disorders can be slow to develop, and as a result, the Textbook of Disaster Psychiatry, which Morganstein helped write, warns that demand for mental-health care may spike even as a pandemic subsides. “If history is any indicator,” Morganstein says of COVID-19, “we should expect a significant tail of mental-health effects, and those could be extraordinary.” Taylor worries that the virus will cause significant upticks in obsessive-compulsive disorder, agoraphobia, and germaphobia, not to mention possible neuropsychiatric effects, such as chronic fatigue syndrome.

The coronavirus may also change the way we think about mental health more broadly. Perhaps, Schoch-Spana says, the prevalence of pandemic-related psychological conditions will have a destigmatizing effect. Or perhaps it will further ingrain that stigma: We’re all suffering, so can’t we all just get over it? Perhaps the current crisis will prompt a rethinking of the American mental-health-care system. Or perhaps it will simply decimate it.

Shared in entirety under the cut for those who can’t access it:

This Is Not a Normal Mental Health Disaster by Jacob Stern

If SARS is any lesson, the psychological effects of the novel coronavirus will long outlast the pandemic itself. 

The SARS pandemic tore through Hong Kong like a summer thunderstorm. It arrived abruptly, hit hard, and then was gone. Just three months separated the first infection, in March 2003, from the last, in June.

But the suffering did not end when the case count hit zero. Over the next four years, scientists at the Chinese University of Hong Kong discovered something worrisome. More than 40 percent of SARS survivors had an active psychiatric illness, most commonly PTSD or depression. Some felt frequent psychosomatic pain. Others were obsessive-compulsive. The findings, the researchers said, were “alarming.”

The novel coronavirus’s devastating hopscotch across the United States has long surpassed the three-month mark, and by all indications, it will not end anytime soon. If SARS is any lesson, the secondary health effects will long outlast the pandemic itself.

Already, a third of Americans are feeling severe anxiety, according to Census Bureau data, and nearly a quarter show signs of depression. A recent poll by the Kaiser Family Foundation found that the pandemic had negatively affected the mental health of 56 percent of adults. In April, texts to a federal emergency mental-health line were up 1,000 percent from the year before. The situation is particularly dire for certain vulnerable groups—health-care workers, COVID-19 patients with severe cases, people who have lost loved ones—who face a significant risk of post-traumatic stress disorder. In overburdened intensive-care units, delirious patients are seeing chilling hallucinations. At least two overwhelmed emergency medical workers have taken their own life.

To some extent, this was to be expected. Depression, anxiety, PTSD, substance abuse, child abuse, and domestic violence almost always surge after natural disasters. And the coronavirus is every bit as much a disaster as any wildfire or flood. But it is also something unlike any wildfire or flood. “The sorts of mental-health challenges associated with COVID-19 are not necessarily the same as, say, generic stress management or the interventions from wildfires,” says Steven Taylor, a psychiatrist at the University of British Columbia and the author of The Psychology of Pandemics (published, fortuitously, in October 2019). “It’s very different in important ways.”

Most people are resilient after disasters, and only a small percentage develop chronic conditions. But in a nation of 328 million, small percentages become large numbers when translated into absolute terms. And in a nation where, even under ordinary circumstances, fewer than half of the millions of adults with a mental illness receive treatment, those large numbers are a serious problem. A wave of psychological stress unique in its nature and proportions is bearing down on an already-ramshackle American mental-health-care system, and at the moment, Taylor told me, “I don’t think we’re very well prepared at all.”

Most disasters affect cities or states, occasionally regions. Even after a catastrophic hurricane, for example, normalcy resumes a few hundred miles away. Not so in a pandemic, says Joe Ruzek, a longtime PTSD researcher at Stanford University and Palo Alto University: “In essence, there are no safe zones any more.”

As a result, Ruzek told me, certain key tenets of disaster response no longer hold up. People cannot congregate at a central location to get help. Psychological first-aid workers cannot seek out strangers on street corners. To be sure, telemedicine has its advantages—it eliminates the logistical and financial burdens of transportation, and some people simply find it more comfortable—but it complicates outreach and can pose problems for older people, who have borne the brunt of the coronavirus.

A pandemic, unlike an earthquake or a fire, is invisible, and that makes it all the more anxiety-inducing. “You can’t see it, you can’t taste it, you just don’t know,” says Charles Benight, a psychology professor at the University of Colorado at Colorado Springs who specializes in post-disaster recovery. “You look outside, and it seems fine.”

From spatial uncertainty comes temporal uncertainty. If we can’t know where we are safe, then we can’t know when we are safe. When a wildfire ends, the flames subside and the smoke clears. “You have an event, and then you have the rebuild process that’s really demarcated,” Benight told me. “It’s not like a hurricane goes on for a year.” But pandemics do not respect neat boundaries: They come in waves, ebbing and flowing, blurring crisis into recovery. One month, New York flares up and Arizona is calm. The next, the opposite.

That ambiguity could make it harder for people to be resilient. “It’s sort of like running down a field to score a goal, and every 10 yards they move the goal,” Benight said. “You don’t know what you’re targeting.” In this sense, Ruzek said, someone struggling with the psychological effects of the pandemic is less like a fire survivor than a domestic-violence victim still living with her abuser, or a traumatized soldier still deployed overseas. Mental-health professionals can’t reassure them that the danger has passed, because the danger has not passed. One can understand why, in a May survey by researchers at the University of Chicago, 42 percent of respondents reported feeling hopeless at least one day in the past week.  

A good deal of this uncertainty was inevitable. Pandemics, after all, are confusing. But coordinated, cool-headed, honest messaging from government officials and public-health experts would have gone a long way toward allaying undue anxiety. The World Health Organization, for all the good it has done to contain the virus, has repeatedly bungled the communications side of the crisis. Last month, a WHO official claimed that asymptomatic spread of the virus is “very rare”—only to clarify the next day, after a barrage of criticism from outside public-health experts, that “we don’t actually have that answer yet.” In February, officials from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention told Americans to prepare for “disruption to everyday life that may be severe,” then, just days later, said, “The American public needs to go on with their normal lives,” then went mostly dark for the next three months. Health experts are not without blame either: Their early advice about masks was “a case study in how not to communicate with the public,” wrote Zeynep Tufekci, an information-science professor at the University of North Carolina and an Atlantic contributing writer.

The White House, for its part, has repeatedly contradicted the states, the CDC, and itself. The president has used his platform to spread misinformation. In a moment when public health—which is to say, tens of thousands of lives—depends on national unity and clear messaging, the pandemic has become a new front in the partisan culture wars. Monica Schoch-Spana, a medical anthropologist at the Johns Hopkins Center for Health Security, told me that “political and social marginalization can exacerbate the psychological impacts of the pandemic.”

Schoch-Spana has previously written about the 1918 influenza pandemic. Lately, she says, people have been asking her how the coronavirus compares. She is always quick to point out a crucial difference: When the flu emerged in America at the end of a brutal winter, the nation was mobilized for war. Relative unity prevailed, and a spirit of collective self-sacrifice was in the air. At the time, the U.S. was reckoning with its enemies. Now we are reckoning with ourselves.

One thing that is certain about the current pandemic is that we are not doing enough to address its mental-health effects. Usually, says Joshua Morganstein, the chair of the American Psychiatric Association’s Committee on the Psychiatric Dimensions of Disaster, the damage a disaster does to mental health ends up costing more than the damage it does to physical health. Yet of the $2 trillion that Congress allocated for pandemic relief through the CARES Act, roughly one-50th of 1 percent—or $425 million—was earmarked for mental health. In April, more than a dozen mental-health organizations called on Congress to apportion $38.5 billion in emergency funding to protect the nation’s existing treatment infrastructure, plus an additional $10 billion for pandemic response.

Without broad, systematic studies to gauge the scope of the problem, though, it will be hard to determine with any precision either the appropriate amount of funding or where that funding is needed. Taylor told me that “governments are throwing money at this problem at the moment without really knowing how big a problem it will be.”

In addition to studies assessing the scope of the problem, which demographics most need help, and what kind of help they need, Ruzek told me researchers should assess how well intervention efforts are working. Even in ordinary times, he said, we don’t do enough of that. Such studies are especially important now because, until recently, disaster mental-health protocols for pandemics were an afterthought. By necessity, researchers are designing and implementing them all at once.

“Disaster mental-health workers have never been trained in anything about this,” Ruzek said. “They don’t know what to say.”

Even so, the basic principles will be the same. Disaster mental-health specialists often talk about the five core elements of intervention—calming, self-efficacy, connectedness, hope, and a sense of safety—and those apply now as much as ever. At an organizational level, the response will depend on extensive screening, which is to the mental-health side of the pandemic roughly what testing is to the physical-health side. In disaster situations—and especially in this one—the people in need of mental-health support vastly outnumber the people who can supply it. So disaster psychologists train armies of volunteers to provide basic support and identify people at greater risk of developing long-term problems.

“There are certain things that we can still put into place for people based on what we’ve learned about what’s helpful for PTSD and for depression and for anxiety, but we have to adjust it a bit,” says Patricia Watson, a psychologist at the National Center for PTSD. “This is a different dance than the dance that we’ve had for other types of disasters.”

Some states have moved quickly to learn the new steps. In Colorado, Benight is helping to train volunteer resilience coaches to support members of their community and, when necessary, refer them to formal crisis-counseling programs. His team has also worked with volunteers in 31 states, the United Kingdom, and Australia.

Colorado’s approach is not the sort of rigorously tested, evidence-based model to which Ruzek said disaster psychologists should aspire. Then again, “we’re sitting here with not a lot of options,” says Matthew Boden, a research scientist in the Veterans Health Administration’s mental-health and suicide-prevention unit. “Something is better than nothing.”

In any case, the full extent of the fallout will not come into focus for some time. Psychological disorders can be slow to develop, and as a result, the Textbook of Disaster Psychiatry, which Morganstein helped write, warns that demand for mental-health care may spike even as a pandemic subsides. “If history is any indicator,” Morganstein says of COVID-19, “we should expect a significant tail of mental-health effects, and those could be extraordinary.” Taylor worries that the virus will cause significant upticks in obsessive-compulsive disorder, agoraphobia, and germaphobia, not to mention possible neuropsychiatric effects, such as chronic fatigue syndrome.

The coronavirus may also change the way we think about mental health more broadly. Perhaps, Schoch-Spana says, the prevalence of pandemic-related psychological conditions will have a destigmatizing effect. Or perhaps it will further ingrain that stigma: We’re all suffering, so can’t we all just get over it? Perhaps the current crisis will prompt a rethinking of the American mental-health-care system. Or perhaps it will simply decimate it.

In 2013, reflecting on the tenth anniversary of the SARS pandemic, newspapers in Hong Kong described a city scarred by plague. When COVID-19 arrived there seven years later, they did so again. SARS had traumatized that city, but it had also prepared it. Face masks had become commonplace. People used tissues to press elevator buttons. Public spaces were sanitized and resanitized. In New York City, COVID-19 has killed more than 22,600 people; in Hong Kong, a metropolis of nearly the same size, it has killed seven. The city has learned from its scars.

America, too, will bear the scars of plague. Maybe next time, we will be the ones who have learned.

[ash-and-rowan]

One Night in Athens

“I am having second thoughts, Raoul.” Alphonse’s sophisticated Parisian accent modulated oddly with the tones of his fear.

             “Scared? But I know you can be so brave, Alfie. Why ruin our streak?” Raoul’s words had the effect of calming Alphonse, at least superficially. The streets of Krakow, no doubt charming and lined by townhouse gardens in the day time, grew twisting and claustrophobic in the dark. The great beauty of the city had weathered a century of stagnation and royal favor being shown to Warsaw with surprising grace; even so, Alphonse still felt nervous about the task before them that night.

             “Try not to shake in your boots so much, Alfonso. A quien madruga, Dios lo ayuda.” The remark was as bitterly sarcastic as Carlos’ admonishments always were. Before Alphonse could retort, however, the Lasombra held up a fist for silence. “The house is ahead. Tienes la estaca? Raoul?”

             “Obviamente. Alphonse, are you ready? Not having second thoughts?” Raoul turned his shining hazel eyes on Alphonse. The moonlight glinted off that gaze just so, as though there were an explosion of silver flame that flashed briefly within the eye itself.

             “Yes.” Alphonse responded almost without intending to. The house in question, the object of trepidation, rose abruptly from a courtyard that broke the normal flow of this causeway. Its simple construction, timber and cheap masonry, belied its size; it easily dwarfed its nearest neighbors, and the high tower that rose from the back end of the property speared the moon on its conical roof.  Truncated vines hung from the window casements in mock domestic vitality, but even they could not hide the fact that the building was intended for two things: standing tall and imposing over the neighborhood, and keeping potential intruders out.

             To the plan, then. Carlos, all in black riding leathers and brocade, no doubt cut a threatening figure as he seemed to glide across the open yard to the house, his inky black shadow spreading out, around, and over him as he did so. Raoul strolled along as though it were a charming trip to the park; though Alphonse’s gifted eyes strained to see him as he seemed to blend and blur into the ambience of the night.

             For Alphonse’s part, the next step was simple, but to the naked eye so overwhelmingly complex. So, Alphonse stepped. Once; it was enough. And with a twitch of his wrist and the feeling of the power coursing through his veins, distance blurred, and for a moment space stretched taut like a rubber band. When the tension broke, Alphonse stood in the shadow of the second floor’s overhang, staring up at the vines that hung like the broken limbs of penitents from the planter mounted on the window sill. Alphonse felt pity for them; they had been so mistreated, and for what?

             But speed was of essence now. Alphonse spoke to the vines, crooning softly in the language only they knew, and they wove and stretched themselves to form a ladder for his ascent. In short order Alphonse was to the second floor. He took a brief conspiratorial look around for his companions, pushed the window open and stepped inside.

             Immediately Alhponse felt the sensation of standing within the belly of the beast. The old floorboards creaked under unexpected weight, as though in greeting. His momentary fear was not allayed when an inky black claw laid suddenly across his shoulder. Stifling a shout, Alphonse turned to gaze upon the claw’s owner: Carlos.

             “So jumpy, Alphonse. Try to stay focused.” When the Lasombra wished to be silent, he moved with a grace that at all other times would’ve been uncharacteristic. Alphonse silently cursed his nerves for not having adapted to Carlos’ tricks, decades into their partnership. Quickly, he scanned the dingy study for Raoul; nowhere to be seen, as of yet. Not that that was abnormal. As much as he loved to be the center of attention, Raoul’s ability to go unnoticed, even by Alphonse’s keen senses, was disconcerting.

             Carlos had already taken up a position by the door. “Quick and quiet, bookworm. You know the plan.” With a cocked grin, he pushed open the old door and began to wind his way down the curving stairs, reaching the ground floor with a cloak of writhing black shadows behind him. Alphonse followed as quietly as he could, careful of squeaking boards and the poor maintenance of the whole place. They took a left through a disused dining room, and on into the darkened scullery; between two pantries stuffed with goods, they found the lever they had been told about. Carlos gave a nonplussed glance to his Tremere companion, before ratcheting down the lever and watching as a trap door that had been concealed nearby swung open slowly. Just as the ywere about to begin their descent, a loud cackle followed by a scream echoed from down the passage.

             “That was Raoul’s laugh. You don’t think he…?” The trepidation in Alphonse’s voice was obvious.

             “You know him as well as I do. Of course he did.” With a muttered mierda and a roll of his eyes, Carlos’ sabre was drawn and the duo charged through the ill-lit subterranean passage, coming shortly upon the cavernous dwelling of their target.

             Alphonse wondered if the elder Nosferatu had bought up all the land around this old ramshackle place just to keep the local yokels from digging into his basement. The dank smell of the place was little aided by the rotting bones and torn, bloodied clothing that lined the walls. More jarring, however, was the fight that had already begun over the stone sarcophagus that dominated the center of the chamber.

             “You simply must be quicker than that, viejo!” Raoul gave a puckish giggle as the hissing mutant missed his left forearm by centimeters, the distended claws only seeming to sharpen with the creature’s rage.

             “Skurwysyn! Zabije cię!” It was more like a roar than real speech, but even Alphonse’s elementary Polish could grasp the intention. The situation was less than ideal: Raoul, with his gift for vanishing, was distracting the elder, but couldn’t get close enough to plant the stake. Carlos, as menacing as ever, dashed forward and swung with reckless abandon, but the thing only lurched out of the way, barely missing its retaliatory strike thanks to the veil of shadows that cloaked the Lasombra’s movements.

             It had reach. It had speed. It had cunning. Enough to threaten the two old friends working in tandem; not enough to ward off all three. Summoning the geometries and the incantations now so familiar to his mind, Alphonse felt the surge of arcane energy through his blood. Just as the Nosferatu lunged viciously for Carlos’ gut, Alphonse focused his gaze upon the elder.

             A telekinetic grasp seemed at once able to invalidate reach, speed, and cunning. The Nosferatu struggled vainly against invisible fetters in a picture of fury at once horrid and romantic; even more breathtaking was Raoul’s reappearance in the split second afterwards, triumphant glee in his eyes and his bared teeth as the stake at last landed in the left side of the creature’s breast.

             A kind of gasping quiet settled over the trio as the elder slumped to the ground, now ready to meet the sun. Alphonse looked over his friends: unhurt, the both of them. Carlos stooped low as he sheathed his weapon, hauling the gaunt and wiry form of the Nosferatu over one shoulder. “Nice work, Alfonso. If only you were that put together throughout the whole mission.” With a laugh and a swagger in his step, Carlos passed Alphonse and continued on towards the exit passage.

             Alphonse was so busy inventing a clever retort that he didn’t notice Raoul looming over him, beaming, until the Malkavian had begun speaking in a cheery, if somewhat frantic voice. “Call that another one in our streak. You’ve come so far, Alfie.” Before Alphonse could muster the words to express his thanks, he felt a cool hand clasp the side of his neck and then ride up to gently but firmly grasp a handful of his light golden hair. As chill as Raoul’s touch was, his face seemed like the sun to Alphonse; the tension and emotion of the gesture, as well as the words that came next, could’ve set his dead heart aflutter.

             “You are so endlessly fascinating in these things you do. As complex as those tomes you scan so feverishly.” The gentle purr of Raoul’s baritone sent a charge through Alphonse’s veins; the firm hand on his hip and the light tracing of Raoul’s lips and fangs against the side of his neck begged a pathetic whine from his lips.

             “Raoul- it hasn’t even been a week since you last drank. You will- we’ll be-“ The defense was a shadow puppet show; the last gasp of propriety dying in a silent void.

             “I want it. You, and your blood.”

             And before Alphonse could say yes, whatever you want, the world melted into a symphony as Raoul’s fangs found purchase.

[underachievers-please-try-harder]

Live review // Primavera Sound 2019 - Day One

For NME.com. Read online.

By this point surely everyone’s seen the all-but blanked out festival posters, with the names of three female artists suspended in mid-air: most festivals are a total sausage-fest, we get it. But what in the year of our lord 2019 are people actually doing to tackle the issue?

Well, while some festivals tentatively commit to a 50:50 gender split by 2020 – as part of PRS’ excellent Keychange initiative – and others don their tin hats and refute the need for any balance at all, Primavera Sound have stolen a march on their competitors by programming a bill that truly promotes equality. It’s about more than men vs women, too: the 19th edition of the Barcelona festival accurately reflects a post-genre industry in all its fecundity, showcasing reggaeton and post-rock, heritage acts and emerging artists side by side.

And guess what? Equality doesn’t have to be a scary thing, either. You can still invite festival-bill mainstay Mac DeMarco along. On the first full day of Primavera programming, he and his ragtag gang of japesters warm up one of the two main stages with their breezy surf-pop, slacker blues and ramshackle psychedelia. Ever the crowd pleaser, Mac priotises classics tracks ahead of material from recent album ‘Here Comes The Cowboy’, the winsome melodies of ‘Viceroy’ and ‘Salad Days’ mingling pleasingly with the balmy early evening rays.

In direct contrast to Mac’s nonchalant schtick, the ever-excellent Christine and the Queens clearly cares deeply about – and has thought through – every element of her show. There are pyrotechnics and confetti cannons, there’s tough yet expressive choreography, there’s a gorgeous a capella rendition of David Bowie’s ‘Heroes’. With a rallying cry of, “Fuck the norm”, Chris provides a voice for the outliers and escapism for the festival goer bored of static boys brandishing guitars.

Controlling a beachy outcrop on the far end of the festival site is part-time Essai-Pas singer, full-time techno maven, Marie Davidson. Like ‘Losing My Edge’ for generation gig economy, the brutal beats of ‘Work It’ act as a cattle prod to anyone still lethargic. Back over at the SEAT Village, Brighton-based singer Celeste shimmers in silver sequins to jazz-tinged soul, and makes a compelling claim to Jorja Smith’s throne in the process.

“Barcelona, keep in mind I’m an artist and I’m sensitive about my shit,” Erykah Badu tells the audience assembled at the Pull&Bear Stage, a feather-flecked diamante chain stretched across the bridge of her nose, and bulbous hat perched atop her braids. Any fears that this might be one of the Dallas diva’s more temperamental outings are allayed by a set rich in velvety melisma and cosmic vibes.

Songs from ‘Baduizm’ are dedicated to all the “90s babies”, and 22 years since the record’s release, her renditions are as limber and light as ever. Sure, there’s some pointless drum machine noodling between songs, and for some reason she keeps pulling Usain Bolt’s victory pose, but let’s chalk that up to artistic idiosyncrasies rather than someone losing the plot. All in all, it’s a shamanistic performance from an enduring talent.

Cutting a sharp contrast with the earthiness of Erykah Badu, Charli XCX bounds about in luxe workout gear on a stage decorated with two giant fluorescent perspex cubes, and drops a set of fantastically wonky synth-pop. Songs from ‘Sucker’ and ‘True Romance’ are eschewed entirely, in favour of the PC Music-inspired cuts from her last two mixtapes, with ‘Girls Night Out’ even dedicated to SOPHIE. A blast through Icona Pop co-write ‘I Love It’ is the only concession to the past that Charli makes tonight, and it prompts mass pogoing.

Charli XCX tells us about her “experimental” new album: “I didn’t go small on this, I really went all in” As future focused as ever, it’s the freshest cuts that clearly excite Charli most, be it ‘Blame It On Your Love’ – tonight performed sans Lizzo – or ‘Wannabe’ rewrite ‘Spicy’. Best of all, Christine and the Queens bounds back onto the stage, and the pair perform brand new collaboration ‘Gone’, taken from Charli’s as-yet unfinished third album. A midtempo bop featuring the hook, “I feel so unstable / Fucking hate these people,” it’s an instant classic.

Ending her lean, 40-minute set with a confetti cannon-powered romp through ‘1999’, Charli is there for a good time, not a long time. It’s an invigorating end to a day that proves if you actually give female artists a platform they’re more than capable of delivering the goods. Primavera Sound one, everyone else nil.

[small-world-au]

an adultish looking scrap was trugging through an alley way, she kept bumping into stuff, mutterung curses under her breath, fiddling with a blunt Between her fingers.

"Fuckin' hell..."

She looked to be lookin for someone.

Sora noticed an older scrap outside his shelter.

She seemed lost, so Sora decided to go and help her.

He approached her cautiously, keeping a safe distance from the stranger to not startled her.

“Um…excuse miss, are you lost???”

[allay-j11no]

Incorrect quotes 2 (ramshackle AU)

Stone: I WOULD DESTROY THE WORLD FOR YOU! Allay: Okay, can you do the dishes? Stone: No! ------------------------------------------------- Skipp: Stone- Stone: *sighs* Allay used to call me Stone... Skipp: ...Because it's your fucking name. ------------------------------------------------- Allay is cleaning the house and they find an empty bottle of orange juice Allay: Clear orange juice? Allay: Oh, it's empty. Stone, who has been watching the entire time: I live with an idiot. I live with an idiot. I live with an idiot. --------------------------------------------------- Vinnie, reading a recipe: Beat three eggs? Allay: It means like in hand-to-hand combat. Vinnie: Ohhhh- Stone: Both of you get out of this kitchen. ---------------------------------------------------- Allay: I hate to tell you this, but one of you was adopted. Vinnie & Skipp: Vinnie: Only one...? ---------------------------------------------------- Stone: I'm at a loss for words! Vinnie: Despite being ‘at a loss for words’, Stone yelled at me for the next 45 minutes. ---------------------------------------------------- Kidnapper: We have your child Stone: I don’t have a child? Kidnapper: Then who just asked for warm milk and made us cut the crusts off their sandwich? Stone: Oh god, you have Allay ---------------------------------------------------- The gang responding to being stabbed by a sword Allay: Rude. Skipp: That's fair. Stone: Not again. Vinnie: Are you gonna want this back or can I keep it? ---------------------------------------------------- Vinnie: Uh, I think I got your lunch. *Holds up a note that reads: ‘I am very proud of you. Love, Stone’* Skipp: Oh yeah. I didn’t think this was for me. *Holds up a note that reads: ‘Be good. For the love of God, Please be good.’ ---------------------------------------------------- Vinnie: Hey, Allay? Can I get some dating advice? Allay: Just because I'm with Stone doesn't mean I know how I did it.

[tinymixtapes]

Music Review: Liars - TFCF

Liars TFCF [Mute; 2017] Rating: 4/5 I There’s been an ominous proliferation of talking points surrounding TFCF, its whole existence haunted from the start by things people ought to know or think about the album, about the circumstances of its creation, about Liars, etc. Perhaps this has always been the case, but it looks to me as though TFCF comes with even more of that, that it’s more easily drawn out and affixed than usual, even for an artist of the comparative status (i.e., relatively long-lived and well-respected), and that it might very well be slightly more interesting than average. That remains to be seen. But before we get too much further in, something should really be clarified: TFCF is ominous and haunted, yes, but in a way that’s mostly harmless — in an aesthetic-promotional way — and the weight is only the weight of what should be thought or said. A brief summary of things to be said, then: (a) unlike previous Liars albums, there’s a heavy reliance here on acoustic instrumentation, as well as the use of samples and field recordings, (b) which are signs, more concrete now than before, of yet another move to a different country, to a different environment — to the bush, to a national park north of Sydney, (c) and Angus Andrew (now the only remaining Liar after an apparently amicable if not easy separation) lives there. Still, compelling as a story’s neat arrangement of the facts can be, there are limits to what they can really tell us in any/every case. Not that this is surprising or constitutes an entire philosophical viewpoint. II Liars have been allotted something that’s both an obligation and a burden: perpetual reinvention — which is not quite the same as a drive to novelty as such, bearing more on the previous output of the artist in question than a more general or absolute conception of invention as it does. It’s a burden that they might have brought on themselves by so cruelly springing their second album (They Were Wrong, So We Drowned) on the hapless, baffled critics/populace, a feat whose subsequent repetition has turned into an expectation. But it’s an expectation that has been pretty well lived up to on albums since, even to the point where the risk of perpetual reinvention — that it will eventually undermine itself and become its own form of stagnation — has been allayed. TFCF fits in well enough with that part of the story. It has sufficient new features, sweepingly introduced so as to constitute a more-than-satisfying reinvention. So acoustic instrumentation, something Liars had hitherto generally eschewed, can be found here and found in diverse forms. There are times when it appears under the aspect of melancholy, with loops of sampled guitars plucked and echoing, but there are also times when stringed instruments of some sort are strummed, like on the two jaunty-sad tracks “No Help Pamphlet” and “No Tree No Branch.” And yet, such things (novelty, reinvention) should not be exaggerated. There are a number of ways TFCF will not feel so wholly alien to someone familiar with the rest of Liars’ output. Angus’s aforementioned voice, for example, has always been a constant, and here it pre-emptively undercuts the threat of indie-folk blandness that a recourse to acoustic instruments might have had, and it does so in the same way that Liars have always pulled off seemingly earnest, even tender songs without becoming trite or obvious. Likewise, in whatever form it has taken, whether driven by man or machine, there has almost always been the presence of a tribal percussive throb with an air of menace or bewilderment still humming just beneath the surface, occasionally spluttering out onto the unfolding scene. Or take the first song from the album made available to the general public, “Cred Woes,” with its lyrics of workplace bad faith and synth arpeggios that wouldn’t have been the slightest bit out of place on one of Liars’ more recent albums; nor would the pulsing noise-techno morass of “Face to Face with My Face” — and these aren’t the only ones. Perhaps these songs take on a more chaotic, messier, and a little dirtier appearance than they might have in another possible incarnation, but they’re still clearly of the same extraction as what came before. As striking as the presence of an acoustic guitar or two might be, it would be a stretch to make instrumentation itself what the album is all about. III Discussing where a Liars album is made is unavoidable. Location is big (on the scale these things take place in) for Liars, because a move to Berlin preceded Drum’s Not Dead , a move to L.A. preceded Sisterworld, and with this, there’s the possibility of a comparative history. So here’s a new move — a new move, as mentioned, to Australia, and not just that to a man-in-nature location provides. But for the first time, it’s a move that has immediate, rather than indirect, implications for the album. No doubt with Liars’ previous albums there has been some truth in the thought that geography — or the idea of a place, an overall impression — has played a role, that by some kind of osmosis or inspiration it filtered into what was happening on a given album, that Angus sang “Why did you pass that bum on the street” specifically because he was in L.A., etc. But Australia is on this album: recordings from the bush, from a place about an hour north of Sydney, reachable only by boat, are incorporated or interspersed throughout, sometimes more discretely, sometimes less, with the seams left showing, for the sake of artifice. Microphones pointed into the wilderness also pick up traces of the ramshackle constructions of human habitation on the edge of it all, an incursion into a new kind of patterning. There are patterns in both rural and urban settings, but the patterns look different. “Natural rhythms” might be mentioned, a complexity of its own kind, but this isn’t pure nature, not at all. Too many marks of interference. The place, then — the source of the sounds — is buried by the human hands and mechanical tools that have fashioned it into something other than what it might have been. One of the more intriguing things Angus mentioned in interviews before the album was the fact that he’d been listening to a lot of vaporwave; I’ll leave it to someone with a stronger urge to do so to catalogue every trace or dismiss it as a red herring, but you could begin with the pitched-down peculiarities that figure here and there, or perhaps less superficially (but then what else is there?), there’s a kind of cut-up-and-juxtapose method at play; the songs have distorted edges, choppy sonic intrusions with no business being there easing transitions from song to song, overlaying or underlying in unexpected ways. Even on the sensory surface, then, in the manifold there are determinations that, like every object presented to the senses, must be presented only partially. This leaves gaps in TFCF, a leftover feeling, one of seepage and spillage. But no projection of images or words from the listener’s corrupted mind is necessary, no requirement to add a layer or narrative to supplement the music. It’s all in how the whole is assembled, in the actual existing parts — in their diversity, their succession, their not just being outside one another, side by side, but infinitely contained in one another — and in how the facts are folded in with the lot. Because while something might be a vestigial appendage from one angle, it’s just the body’s organs from another. http://j.mp/2vOVJEa

[small-world-au]

Allay was walking towards Sora as he was walking up to Shino's house. "Ain't goin' home now lad.." She sounded calm.

Shino's door was open.

"Lets get back to the others, yeah?"

GOING HOME

(Night before the dinner!)

*btw, he was taken to Rowan’s mansion! Shino doesn’t have a shelter!*

*Time-skip is 4 months after Sora was taken home*

Sora was fast asleep until he heard a familiar voice at the right side of the bed.

Sora opened his eye groggily to see an familiar figure gently shaking him awake.

“Mmm…mamá???…”

His good eye adjusted to the light bit by bit. He sat up intensely until he got a better view of the figure.

“Miss Allay???”, He asked astonishingly.

“Wha…what are you doing here?!”

Sora got up from bed and ran towards Allay, embracing her.

“Did…did you come to rescue me???…”

Sora softly cried…he REALLY was being rescued.

He REALLY wanted to see EVERYONE again.

He missed his lover, brothers, sisters, children, and close friends.

He wanted to see them all…so bad.

“Take me home…please…”

@allay-j11no @baileythebean @averagetmntfan @thesilliestofallqueers @schnozzlebozzle @rebootgrimm @lilacquintet @weirdassartist @trimalchiooframshackle @cherrythepuppet @piigeonss @cz3rqv @metal-mage @grandselfmythologizing @seabunnyprincess @c4ll0ie

HE’S GOING HOME YALL!!!!

[small-world-au]

Sora Aguilar

———INCOMING BIG ASS POST———

Actual name: ???? Aguilar Yuki

Age: Same as the main trio

Personality type: ISFP

Ethnicity: Asian (Japanese) & Hispanic (Mexican) <- updated

Hair color/type: Dark purple (tho it looks like dark brown.) straight-curly

Eye color: light blue (beta) brown (officially)

Skin color: super light tan/dark pink

Gender: Male

Family: Natalia Aguilar (maternal grandmother)

Gabriela Aguilar (Mother 🪦)

Shino Yuuki (Father 🪦)

Dante (Stepfather)

Noelia Aguilar (Maternal aunt🪦)

Unknown (Maternal uncle)

Rowena Pagonis (Older half sister🪦)

Kip (therapy dog)

Stone (childhood sweetheart/husband)

Friends: Bailey, Jasper, Finn, Skipp, Zaria, Vinnie, pebble, maggot, Bailey’s kittens, Finn’s rat babies, old man Howard, Maroon, Olive, Ray, Rui, Maple, Chris, Zaria, Charlie, and Allay

Neutral: Tre, Rigel & cen, karma, Doña Mari, and Ivan Franzwick

Enemies: Fritz (the butler), ditch, Nadia (personal reasons), Jay, arrogant lootbags, street gangs, and AVRILLE!!!!

LIKES

Books

Sewing

Baking

Poetry

Cute animals

Stone

Spending time with friends/family

Exploring

Springtime

Food!!!

Caring for the young

DISLIKES

SHOESSSSS!!!!

Rude/whiny scraps & loot-bag

Leaving kip behind

Being treated as a 🏆

Discrimination

Art/writing block

Not being good enough

Disappointing his family

Leaving Stone and friends

Obsessive creeps

His dad and avrille

His beloved ones getting hurt

Being unable to help/being useless

Thunderstorms

Arguments

Street fights

Being cooped inside for too long

Sora Aguilar is one of the main character of my au. A sweet, gentle, and kindhearted young man filled with curiosity, who would do anything for the sake of his friends and family, even if it means sacrificing his own needs and wants.

He is Rowena’s younger half-brother, Gabriela’s and Shino’s only son, Natalia’s grandson, and Noelia’s nephew.

He’s a close friend to the scraps and a mom-friend who cherishes his own group dearly. He is also Stone’s childhood best friend/sweetheart.

He and his puppy (Kip) lived happily (???) in their mansion, until they wake up one night inside a big bag that was left on the streets of ramshackle.

Edit: ABOUT DAMN TIME I DID THIS SHIT!!!!!!!

Update 2: Sora’s now half Mexican!

Why? Cuz am Mexican.

Update 3: references and other ocs from “small world” au!

More facts below!!!!

[allay-j11no]

incorrect quotes 1 (ramshackle AU)

Vinnie: Can you PLEASE peer pressure me into doing my project? Stone: Do it or you're straight. Vinnie: I said peer pressure, NOT THREATEN! --------------------------------------------------- Allay: What do you call disobeying the law? The Squad: A hobby. Allay: *crosses their arms* The Squad: That we do not engage in. --------------------------------------------------- Stone: That was so hot, Allay. Allay: I literally called the person who just flirted with you a degenterate dog and told them I hope they get dragged through the streets. Stone: I'm so in love with you. ---------------------------------------------------- Vinnie: That’s a crazy idea. Insane. It doesn’t make sense. Stone: You’ll do it? Vinnie: Of course. ---------------------------------------------------- Skipp: Do you think different paints have different tastes? Vinnie: They do. Stone: ...Why did you say that with such certainty? ---------------------------------------------------- Skipp: It’s Pride Month, you know what that means! Stone: I get to eat as many Skittles as I want? Skipp: What? No! What has Allay been telling you? Allay, walking in, pouring Skittles into their mouth: Taste the rainbow, bitch.

[allay-j11no]

𝒮𝓀𝒾𝓅𝓅𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒮𝓉𝑜𝓃𝑒𝓈

!!NOT A SHIP POST!! ----------------------------------- TW: Blood, Weapons, cussing. CW: Olderbrother!Stone and Youngerbrother!Skipp, my own AU/my OC for Ramshackle is used in this ------------------------------------ "ɪ'ᴍ ᴘʟᴀɴɴɪɴ' ᴛʜᴇ ɴᴇxᴛ ꜱᴄᴀᴍ…" ------------------------------------- A scam gone wrong causes Skipp to be injured for the time being and Stone to care for his younger sibling.

Using promps in @promptsbytaurie injury prompt list! (Prompts 11, 6, 29 are used!) --------------------------------------- Photo board by me!

----------------------------------------------------------------------------- Vinnie had a scam planned out, a failure of one I may add, she never thought things through like this, Skipp was injured, being carried by Allay, Allay was missing her bandana scarf, Vinnie was missing one of her earrings. "Stone wheres ya cigs?" Allay stated, "dunno, not too worried now luv..." I muttered, "kay, Skipp I’m goin' to lift you up now, 'kay? Tell me if it hurts." Skipp nodded as I slowly lifted him into my arms, he kept quiet as Allay ruffled his hair around his hat, he smiled up at her. Vinnie seemed worried with finding her earring more then us escaping, Allay kept comforting Skipp as Vinnie finally found the earring as we were running past the people we failed to scam. "hey bud, your gonna be ok, just keep pressure on that cut yeah? We’re gonna fix you up, brand new when we get home. I promise, Skipp" Skipp nodded at Allay's words, she ruffled his hair again before telling Vinnie to hurry up. No matter what though, we still look out for one another, no scrap left behind, Vinnie and Allay would say. Once we got back to our little alley, I put Skipp in mine and Allay's tent so she could patch him up. "alright, Skipp, Tell me where it hurts, and be specific." she said softly to him, he pointed out to his cuts and bruises, she would patch them up as gently and as fast as she could, giving Skipp a lil forehead kiss, "There ya go!" "Thanks Allay!" Skipp beamed, hugging her, "alright scram lil goober" she chuckled. I watched as she went to the back of our tent, walking back to the front and sitting with me, resting her head on my shoulder. "I found these on the ground on out way back, s'just sittin' there all lonesome." she handed me a pack of cigs, "I found this in a scrap's back pocket." I handed her a red bandana scarf, we both smiled, she put the scarf on and Iit a cig. she rested her head on my forehead a bit before going to sleep in our tent. Heres to hoping she wakes up early enough to change Skipps bandages. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- 1609 words! I'd gladly write more Ramshackle things due to there being a lack of it!

[allay-j11no]

𝙱𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐

this is for @metal-mage and anybody else who wanted to see more of my ramshackle AU ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- CW/TW: fluff, flash warning with the gif!!

I was sitting on a stone wall with skipp, we were watching the duck at the pond. "Mum! look at those ducks! they kinda look like our family!" Skipp smiled, leaning onto me, "yer right Skippy, what lil' ducklin' looks like you lad?" I asked him as he pointed to a wee lil' duckling, "that one!" I chuckled at him, side huggin him, "s'adorable just like you wee lad" ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ I was with Vinnie scamin' some people, I was going along with one of her plans today. "ey! why dont you wanna help a single mother!" Vinnie yelped at a pudgy rich man, "Maybe if she didn't sleep around she wouldn't be on the streets with a child." the man bluntly stated, Vinnie quieted down before screaming at the man, grabbing my hand and walking to an alley. "You ok mom?" she asked, I ruffled her hair, "m'fine Vin's, proud of you for not attacking somebody this time!" I smiled, side hugging her, "Yer dad's gonna be proud too" ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- I was with stone, helping make dinner for tonight. "m'still suprised you and Skipp got all this food for the week" Stone chuckled, "its good though, the kids go sumin to eat now for a bit" I hugged him from behind, resting my head on his shoulder, "I love you stone..." I kissed his cheek, he chuckled, turning around and hugging me, "I love you too, Allay..." he kissed me. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- They were with Allay, setting up for dinner. "Here mom! here's some plates!" Vinnie handed Allay some plates for her to set about, "Careful with the food Skipp!" Stone called out as he handed Vinnie some more food to put on the table, "Thanks for the help Vinnie!" Skipp said to her as he went to go sit down to eat, Allay was watching, them all, ruffling Skipps hair as she sat down beside Stone. All finally quiet and eating. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- 318 words