#rue ugly cries

[sunnydayjackass]

Not a request or anything but, I hope that you've been doing OK despite being busy deal with stuff, take as much time as you need to recuperate! While I do enjoy your writing and interpretations of these characters and story, your mental wellness is much more preferred than that.

I hope this Lil message helped u or cheered u up in some way :)

Scrolling through these and coming back two years later haha (I'm so sorry) has really brightened me up and made me want to try jumping back in and give this fandom another go.

I am so appreciative of you & your kind words and support, if you're still here and see this- thank you with all my heart. The past two years were a lot of ups and downs (the downs were what got me) that I had to focus on life around me and my loved ones. So reading support, still seeing notifications, really warms my heart.

While I'm in a low (again) it's kind of fitting to come back on almost the anniversary of this blog and first getting into this fandom and trying to write for it again.

I'll try to deep dive back in but if anyone wants to be my training wheels on what I've missed for this, please- feel free to hop in my dms or ask box if you're shy. I love to chat.

While I've been gone, if you're still here, moved into other fandoms and hyperfixations (I know I have but a bitch can juggle - or try to), or if you've written me off, anything- my thanks to you all is very real. I hope you've all been well, I hope you're all in better spots than two years ago. All the sunshines deserve sunshine in their lives. ❤️☀️

[star-girl69]

Because Of You

Clarisse La Rue x Fem!AphroditeCabin!Reader

—-

synopsis: years after your rite of passage, the boy who’s heart you broke just won’t leave you alone. clarisse, your girlfriend, quickly decides she’s not a fan.

a/n: should i stop procrastinating and then forcing myself to write shitty fics quickly? probably. but not today!! this is kinda just like an au of dont delete the kisses but… you guessed it… IDC!!!!!!!! from this ask

thank you all so much for patiently waiting i love y’all soooooo muuccchhhhhh 🫶🫶💋 as i mentioned on my acc i have the next week off from school, pls expect more content then!!

Because Of You - Lana Del Rey (Unreleased)

warnings: NOT PROOFREAD, this sucks so bad y’all sorry lolllll, y/n is a year round camper!, starts out very background heavy but i really don’t care 😭, creepy men UGH, ugly bitches not being able to let shit go, im gonna say sexual harassment just incase, swearing, usual demigod stuff y’all know what you’re getting into, jealous!clarisse YESSS, possessive!clarisse ik i screamed!!, protective!clarisse too, slightly graphic makeout scene, i think that’s all, tell me if i missed anything!!

—-

When you were young, you were thrilled by the thought of love.

The idea of belonging not only with someone- bodies fitting together like puzzles pieces- but belonging to someone- wrapping around you like a warm blanket.

Later, your half-siblings would describe mostly similar experiences to yours- an overwhelming desire to be loved, wanted, needed. Ever since you ran into camp with a monster hot on your heels and satyr shouting encouragement next to you- everyone’s stared at you. They poke and prod, they act like they’ve never seen a daughter of Aphrodite before.

It’s annoying, but it makes you feel good- but not quite.

Until Alek came along.

You were both 13, you still believed in soulmates, and you wanted nothing more than to be with each other for the rest of your lives.

You were 13, and he felt like the only one for you.

And when you had to break up with him to fulfill your rite of passage- it felt like the world was ending. You cried for days and begged your sister Phoebe to say it wasn’t a true, it was just a mean, mean prank.

But she couldn’t tell you that, and there were more types of love that romantic.

While you longed to hold someone, to be held- you also craved your mother’s approval like you were starving. You wanted her love, you wanted her to visit you in your dreams, you wanted gifts from her, you wanted everything and anything she could give you.

So, it hurt like you had never known hurt before, but you did it. Alek seemed entirely indifferent to it, almost ignoring you and pretending you hadn’t said it- but you felt a warmness around you, a dove flew between trees, you knew your mother was there and she approved.

Breaking up with Alek felt like the sun had exploded on top of you.

Being with Clarisse felt like the sun was wrapped around you.

—-

After Alek’s initial denial, he went through all the other stages of grief, mourned your relationship like you did, and you came out on the other side with a one-sided agreement to forget it ever happened.

Alek got stuck. Or went back. He started to believe that you were still meant to be, that much you could tell.

Until that day at the training fields when your hand slipped at archery and you almost shot Clarisse in the head- and she had glared at you so harshly while you ran over and examined her head, gushing out apologies and fretting over her.

She pushed you away, hand lingering for a second, eyes softening before she quickly looked away.

“Just… be more careful,” she had said, almost like a question, like she wasn’t sure the words were coming out of her mouth.

And, Gods, were you terrified it was all some secret plan. Make you think it was alright only to corner you in the woods and probably kill you, or something.

And when she asked the next day to teach you how to shoot a bow, you agreed with tears in your eyes, knowing of her reputation, and it took a lot of trust and a lot of swapped secrets for her to prove to you it wasn’t all some elaborate plan.

But even if her plan was to kill you the entire time, you fell in love over her fixing your stance, hands brushing as you accidentally grabbed the same arrow, stolen looks across the pavilion.

It wasn’t until a random kid bumped into you, making you fall and twist your ankle. Clarisse had this look in her eyes that was so genuine, so full of love and care for you, softly caressing your leg after she had punched the other kid in the face.

And you realize as she said you were doing great, limping while she helped you to the infirmary, that this was something.

And as much as you hated the violence being committed over you, it was the hottest thing you’ve ever seen, and the warmth in your chest was all you had ever wanted. This was what it was like to belong with someone, to someone, with her, to her.

This was what it was like to be admired. Loved. Wanted. Needed.

And when she softly told you goodbye, you had kissed the corner of her lips and thanked her- turning to walk into your cabin, ankle already feeling better thanks to the ambrosia.

She grabbed you by the wrist and turned you around, pulling you against her tightly and kissing you so harshly like she had just found the secret to the world in her lips on yours, her hands on your hips.

And when she finally pulled away, embarrassing strings of spit connecting your lips, she said she was sorry. Probably the first time she had ever said that to someone, and you smiled.

“Sorry. It’s just… once your lips were on mine, I don’t think I can ever stop. I don’t wanna stop.”

And she kissed you again and it was all you ever wanted out of this life- to love and be loved, to hold and to be held, and it was all because of her.

—-

The welcome back campfire is your favorite time of year.

It’s when the camp comes alive, when the Gods themselves seem to return to this place- even Mr. D is a bit more lively with all the pure infectious energy running through the first few days of camp. Everyone’s getting settled, classes haven’t started quite yet, and the year round campers get a much needed break.

As much as you and Clarisse wanted to keep things private, when she punches someone in the middle of the pavilion for accidentally bumping into you, it’s not hard to figure out Clarisse cares for you more than she does anyone else.

And after one of your younger siblings, Cara, a 12-year-old notorious for staying up late, saw you and Clarisse kissing that first night- it spread like wildfire.

But it was the winter, so it still felt secret, until summer rolled around and Clarisse kept getting more and more annoyed by every camper who entered the gates. She would grab at you in the middle of meals, drag you into her bed, even kiss you in public- do all these things that seemed so out of character for her, but she was a different person when she was with you.

Everyone had been looking at you oddly all night, shocked, confused, even Clarisse has cracked a genuine smile at someone who dropped their drink- squeezing your hand.

Maybe they had all heard the rumors. Maybe they didn’t believe them.

But it’s all cleared up when Clarisse leads you to the best seat, the log not too far from the fire but not too close, wrapping her arms around you and kissing your temple.

Your cheeks heat up, only because Clarisse is never this touchy in public, and never around this many people before.

All of the eyes on you feel weird- they feel so judging.

And you’re not used to that, however vain it may be.

“Everyone’s staring at us,” you mumble, shuffling closer to Clarisse so your legs are pressed together.

She leans her head against your shoulder. “‘S okay. Don’t worry about ‘em, baby.”

You huff. “Did no one ever teach them it’s rude to stare, though? Like… c’mon.”

She sighs dramatically, lifting her head from your shoulder.

“Stop fuckin’ staring,” she says. Not quiet shouting, but her voice is loud and forceful. Her voice carries weight.

And eventually, at the risk of Clarisse’s wrath, all the wandering eyes stop.

A few of Clarisse’s siblings laugh from around you, commenting that the stares were getting a bit ridiculous, everyone just grateful that you all might get a little reprieve from the overwhelming stares and whispers.

But, you still feel uneasy. Clarisse kisses your shoulder.

And while you look around at the faces very pointedly not staring at you, there’s one person who still is. You roll your eyes, open your mouth to comment on it- but your mouth quickly snaps close at the sight of Alek.

—-

You don’t mention it to Clarisse. Maybe because breaking his heart haunts you, maybe what could have been haunts you.

You try not to think of Alek or that night, you try not to think of the entire age of 13. You always knew that Alek never quite let you go. He still sort of believed that the two of you would come back together- subscribing to some abstract belief soulmates.

You don’t think about Alek. Everything you do is because of her, because of Clarisse.

Sometimes, knowing you have secret admirers makes you feel all happy, but now that Clarisse sneaks you into her cabin every night- it makes you feel weird. You really don’t want anyone except for Clarisse, the idea of even being near someone else kinda disgusts you.

But, you choose to believe that maybe he was just shocked, and he’ll get over it in a few days.

You spend your days in the summer sun with Clarisse, holding her hand on walks through the strawberry fields, still using your archery lessons to spend time together, staring at each other from across the pavilion at meals, dreaming about a future together when it gets dark and you’re forced to whisper softly.

Alek is just always lurking. Is it coincidence? Is he stalking you? Every time you’re with Clarisse, trying to enjoy a nice date, he’s there- staring at you like a lovesick puppy.

And if it wasn’t because of her, you would probably be flattered. But you have Clarisse, you’ve moved on, you’re in love and happy.

It’s the late afternoon, you’re trying to enjoy a long moment with her, breathe in the sweet smell and just feel how happy you are, know it’s because of her.

The fields are still crowded with kids who pushed off their chores until the end of the day, so you and Clarisse stay on the outskirts. Not too far into the woods that’s filled with satyrs and nymphs who have grown very hostile towards any two campers who make their way into the woods. But not too close.

You don’t even register that other people are there. You’re going on about your annoying half-brother, she’s pretending to listen intently- but it’s just enough to be here with her, and at least she’s listening to the sound of your voice. At least that brings her some comfort, and that makes you feel good.

“And then, he said-” you trail off, feeling like something’s crawling all over you, practically being able to feel the anger in the air.

“Hm, what?” Clarisse asks, snapping out of her reverie at your silence.

Alek is glaring at you, of course. It just feels so juvenile. You had received letters from him for years- ones that he didn’t sign- but you knew. He said that the two of you had so much more to give together, that a second chance was all he needed to make you forget about the rite of passage, about pleasing your mother.

Clarisse squeezes your hand, leaning closer to you.

You used to like the feeling of getting those letters, of knowing you were loved and wanted. But now, with Clarisse, because of her- it feels wrong.

She follows your eye line and Alek quickly looks away, back down at the strawberries he’s supposed to be picking.

Clarisse’s hand tightens around yours.

“Who the hell is that?” she huffs.

You suck in a breath. “Alek.”

“Al-huh?”

You smile, despite how uneasy you feel.

“Alek, Clarisse. From my rite of passage?”

“Oh,” she nods, nose scrunching ever so slightly. “The one who left you those creepy letters? Has he left anymore?”

“No, no,” you say, risking one more glance at his back- just to assure yourself. Maybe you’re just making it all up. “Not since last summer. I mean, he was staring at us the night of the bonfire too, he’s always around on all our dates- it’s just creepy, at this point.”

“Sounds like the fucker has a death wish,” she drawls. “I’d be happy to help him with it.”

You bump her shoulder with yours. “Yeah, yeah Miss Violence.”

She smiles back, but she searches her eyes and you can tell she doesn’t like what she sees.

“Hey, c’mon. I’ll kill him if he pulls some shit again.”

“Clarisse.”

“Beat him up?”

“Clarisse.”

“Physically threaten him?”

“Clar-”

She smacks her hand over your mouth. “Shhh,” she smiles. “Don’t stress. I’ll take care of it.”

“Clarisse!” you shout, laughing, but her hand is still pressed tight over your moth.

“Oh, sorry, baby, I can’t hear you!”

“Bitch,” you hiss, and she frowns.

“Mean.”

—-

Clarisse, unfortunately, is true to her word.

Alek finally leaves you a note. It’s simple, unsigned, but obviously him. You recognize his chicken scratch scrawl.

All it says is:

I miss you, we could be something

She writes him a note back, a long one- first talking about all of her accomplishments as a daughter of Ares, then detailing all the ways she’ll make him regret thinking about you.

She tells you now, whispers in her bed, she laughs and your mouth hangs open.

“Clarisse!” you gasp, scolding her with a soft hit to her shoulder.

She rolls her eyes and moves closer to you.

“What else was I supposed to do? Ignore it? You don’t know me if you think I could just ignore some random dude flirting with my girlfriend. He’s a fuckin’ weirdo, and hopefully that note will teach him somethin’.”

“I mean. I doubt it will,” you mumble after a moment.

She smiles, your heart squeezes- because her smile is so beautiful- and because Clarisse never smiles like this. It’s bloodthirsty. It’s almost inhuman. It’s Godly.

“Then I’ll have to teach him in… other terms.”

—-

Dinner this evening is slow and relaxed. It’s Friday, so you’ve all made it to the end of the first official week of camp. Chiron let’s the rules fade away tonight, cabin tables have been abandoned and everyone sits where they want.

A few Hermes kids volunteered to start a fire, Mr D is busy trying to get the new kids to sneak him some alcohol- but he’s hard pressed to find ones who haven’t already been warned not to.

The energy in the air is infectious. The promise of a late wake up tomorrow, a fun night, the feeling of the moon and the fire, warmth on your skin- it’s a recipe for lowered inhibitions, for everything to come a little easier.

Clarisse sits next to you a table in the pavilion. You’re surrounded by Silena and Beckendorf, a few Hermes kids, a few Ares kids- a big mosh of random campers squeezed together at this one table- but it works, for whatever reason.

There’s nothing like laughing at someone’s shitty joke and feeling Clarisse laugh with you, pressed close to her so you can feel her chest rumble, feel her arm squeeze around you.

“He did what?!” Silena screeches, looking at you with wide eyes.

You laugh at her shock, at the audacity of Alek.

She sneaks a quick glance at Clarisse, who seems entirely engrossed in her siblings’ arm wresting tournament at the next table over.

“Yeah,” you sigh, feeling sort of complacent with it now. It’s not like anything will change. You’re here because of her, because of Clarisse. Everything you do is because of her.

Breathing, eating, sleeping. Basic human functions and the need to survive has only strengthened with the motivation of staying alive for her.

“Anyways,” you smile. “Clarisse left him back this big, long note. All about how she’s the strongest girl at camp,” you roll your eyes, but you’re smiling too big to be anything but joking. Besides, everyone knows she’s probably right. “And then threatened him a whole bunch. So, hopefully, he’ll just get his head out of his ass and then everything will be good again.”

You breathe out at the end of your small rant, and Silena smiles sympathetically.

“Hopefully,” she echoes.

But, because of Clarisse, because of her arms around you, you don’t feel anything but peace.

—-

Of course, life is not straightforward for demigods.

At the end of the day, you’re doomed to fall in your parents footsteps- except there is no immortality for you to fall back on. You’re vain and you’re proud, just like your parents, and you step too far, jump too high, and you’re as left dust on the floor.

Even though the same path had been left out for you to repeat, doomed footsteps to follow in, you step where they stepped and expect a different end.

The night is pitch black, besides for the brilliant stars and the bright, bright moon. It makes everything feel so private and secret. It makes Clarisse relax, makes her hold you closer but looser.

It feels good to feel her arm loose around you. She’s not afraid of you disappearing, because she knows of someone dragged you away you would rise up from the waves and straight back into her, into her arms.

The Apollo kids are playing music, voices hum along, the night is on fire with the crackles and the rising smoke, on fire with the peace, the content.

It feels like nothing can hurt you here.

But you’re a demigod, and life is not that easy.

The seat next to you is abandoned, and you barely even take notice as it’s quickly filled again- but you take notice of the eyes on you, of the body leaning forward to speak softly to you.

The fact that he’s here, the fact that he blatantly didn’t listen- you suppose you could have felt some sympathy for before, craving a life that wasn’t his anymore. Living off of memories made him too hungry.

Your mouth presses into a thin line as you recognize the voice in your ear.

“Y/N, I jus’ wanna talk.”

The rest of the table has fallen silent, and you realize everyone had almost immediately taken notice of his entrance- and you could tell by the way Clarisse’s body was tense against yours- he would regret ever coming over here.

“Clarisse,” you mumble, shifting closer to her.

She hooks her head over her shoulder, shifting completely so she’s straddling the bench, pressed up against your back.

Her tone is genuinely confused.

“Are you, like, okay in the head?”

The table, previously silent with fear, now bubbles with forced laughter.

“It’s not of your business,” Alek says, staring directly into your eyes. You feel like a deer caught in headlights, just completely shocked, too scared to move like it will all become real.

Clarisse puts her hand on your forehead and floats it down across your face, and your eyes voluntarily flutter shut.

“You’re not even worthy of being looked at by her,” and you can hear the smile on her voice. She confidence seeping from her pores- you can feel it all with the way she’s protectively wrapped around you.

“Y/N,” he says again, ignoring her through gritted teeth. “I just want to talk.”

“If you say one more fuckin’ word to my girlfriend I’m gonna kill you.”

There’s no smile on her voice, no edge of a joke. Not even angry. She’s deathly calm. She’s focused, like a 20 pound weight sinking to the bottom of the sea. She cuts through whatever she has to and everything else knows to avoid her.

You don’t know why the hell Alek just can’t let the 13 year old version of you go, why he’s looking something where there’s nothing, and you’re just so done with all of this.

You open your eyes, sitting up, letting Clarisse’s arms fall around you in confusion.

“Alek,” you start, softly. “We dated for a month when we were 13. That’s all it was, that’s all it’s ever gonna be. It’s over, okay?”

“Exactly,” he breathes. “A month when we were 13- and we were that good together? We could do so much more now, I wanna show you.”

“Okay, I’m done,” you mumble, standing up.

And without you in between, Alek finally gets a good look at the daughter of war. She’s pure, streamlined muscle. Every inch of her body has been meticulously trained to kill monsters- Alek knows that killing him would be easy.

Clarisse cracks her knuckles and you almost laugh at how cinematic it is.

—-

You hum as you run the alcohol pad over her split knuckles. Clarisse likes to leave the scars like this, the small ones, let them heal on her own. Even though she winces at the feeling, you know she’ll be walking around, proudly showing off her scabs until they finally fade away. She’ll cross her fingers and hope they scar, probably.

Clarisse watches you with admiration, admiring your movements, your voice, even though you’re really not doing anything special. But, to her, everything you do is special.

“Did you see how bad his face was?” she asks, trying to remain calm, but eagerness slips into her voice.

“I did,” you laugh. “It was real bad, baby. Good job.”

She huffs, as if it’s common knowledge.

“I always do a good job, just matters what level of good I’m on. I think this was one of my best works though, huh?”

She admires her split knuckles and you roll your eyes, finally starting to put some bandaids on the clean wounds.

“You’re crazy,” you mutter.

She shrugs. “You’re the one who let me. You’re the one who loves me.”

“Yeah,” you mumble after a moment, not really wanting to lie to her, tease her right now. She smiles soft and sweet, placing her fingertips against your jawline and leaning forward.

“Did you like watching me?” she breathes, her low voice hitting you right in the stomach, breath against your lips.

You circle her biceps with your hands and run them up and down the tense muscle.

“You know I did.”

“Three months no dessert,” she smiles.

“Three months of sharing with you,” you laugh. She smiles wider before finally, mercifully, putting her lips on yours.

Everything you do is because of Clarisse. It feels so good to be close to her like this- practically in her lap- fo feel how strong she is, to know what she did for you today.

It feels so good to know she loves you.

When you pull away, trying to chase her, she dodges you and kisses your jawline, your neck, and you throw your head back and release the most unladylike sounds as she leaves hickies on your neck, seemingly determined to make them as dark as possible, as easy to see. And a lot of them.

“Jealous?” you say, biting your lip to keep in a moan.

“Just want everyone to know you’re my girl. Want everyone to know who makes you feel good, feel loved, huh?”

You stomach twists and your mind goes blank.

“Huh?” she repeats, sticking her face in your neck to breathe in and out, catching her breath. “Why you feelin’ like this, baby?”

“Because of you,” you breathe. “Because of you, Clarisse.”

—-

y/n walking around the next day looking like she got attacked by a vampire

silena trying to be happy for y’all but also concerned for your health

clarisse just being proud as hell

—-

this was small so idk if y’all picked it up but clarisse was jealous before alek even came along- jealous that there were more campers coming! like? she just doesn’t like unworthy losers looking at her girl 🙄

—-

possessive!clarisse i love you so much baby

—-

taglist:

@lvrue @t-wylia @laughingcheese037 @kroumi @urdeadpoet @colezb @rey26 @harmzilla @elliewilliamsbae @amberfreemansburntface @kyuupidwrites @neverwaakeme-up @shark1008 @liballer @heyimadison @nvirskies @pnsteblnme @mar2ss @restellsss @ravisinghs-wife @marsconer @evangelinexo @randomhoex @luvrrish @rebecca37 @saltair-and-palemoonlight @ace-spades-1

[thebrickinbrick]

The Agony of Death After the Agony of Life

A peculiarity of this species of war is, that the attack of the barricades is almost always made from the front, and that the assailants generally abstain from turning the position, either because they fear ambushes, or because they are afraid of getting entangled in the tortuous streets. The insurgents’ whole attention had been directed, therefore, to the grand barricade, which was, evidently, the spot always menaced, and there the struggle would infallibly recommence. But Marius thought of the little barricade, and went thither. It was deserted and guarded only by the fire-pot which trembled between the paving-stones. Moreover, the Mondétour alley, and the branches of the Rue de la Petite Truanderie and the Rue du Cygne were profoundly calm.

As Marius was withdrawing, after concluding his inspection, he heard his name pronounced feebly in the darkness.

“Monsieur Marius!”

He started, for he recognized the voice which had called to him two hours before through the gate in the Rue Plumet.

Only, the voice now seemed to be nothing more than a breath.

He looked about him, but saw no one.

Marius thought he had been mistaken, that it was an illusion added by his mind to the extraordinary realities which were clashing around him. He advanced a step, in order to quit the distant recess where the barricade lay.

“Monsieur Marius!” repeated the voice.

This time he could not doubt that he had heard it distinctly; he looked and saw nothing.

“At your feet,” said the voice.

He bent down, and saw in the darkness a form which was dragging itself towards him.

It was crawling along the pavement. It was this that had spoken to him.

The fire-pot allowed him to distinguish a blouse, torn trousers of coarse velvet, bare feet, and something which resembled a pool of blood. Marius indistinctly made out a pale head which was lifted towards him and which was saying to him:—

“You do not recognize me?”

“No.”

“Éponine.”

Marius bent hastily down. It was, in fact, that unhappy child. She was dressed in men’s clothes.

“How come you here? What are you doing here?”

“I am dying,” said she.

There are words and incidents which arouse dejected beings. Marius cried out with a start:—

“You are wounded! Wait, I will carry you into the room! They will attend to you there. Is it serious? How must I take hold of you in order not to hurt you? Where do you suffer? Help! My God! But why did you come hither?”

And he tried to pass his arm under her, in order to raise her.

She uttered a feeble cry.

“Have I hurt you?” asked Marius.

“A little.”

“But I only touched your hand.”

She raised her hand to Marius, and in the middle of that hand Marius saw a black hole.

“What is the matter with your hand?” said he.

“It is pierced.”

“Pierced?”

“Yes.”

“What with?”

“A bullet.”

“How?”

“Did you see a gun aimed at you?”

“Yes, and a hand stopping it.”

“It was mine.”

Marius was seized with a shudder.

“What madness! Poor child! But so much the better, if that is all, it is nothing, let me carry you to a bed. They will dress your wound; one does not die of a pierced hand.”

She murmured:—

“The bullet traversed my hand, but it came out through my back. It is useless to remove me from this spot. I will tell you how you can care for me better than any surgeon. Sit down near me on this stone.”

He obeyed; she laid her head on Marius’ knees, and, without looking at him, she said:—

“Oh! How good this is! How comfortable this is! There; I no longer suffer.”

She remained silent for a moment, then she turned her face with an effort, and looked at Marius.

“Do you know what, Monsieur Marius? It puzzled me because you entered that garden; it was stupid, because it was I who showed you that house; and then, I ought to have said to myself that a young man like you—”

She paused, and overstepping the sombre transitions that undoubtedly existed in her mind, she resumed with a heartrending smile:—

“You thought me ugly, didn’t you?”

She continued:—

“You see, you are lost! Now, no one can get out of the barricade. It was I who led you here, by the way! You are going to die, I count upon that. And yet, when I saw them taking aim at you, I put my hand on the muzzle of the gun. How queer it is! But it was because I wanted to die before you. When I received that bullet, I dragged myself here, no one saw me, no one picked me up, I was waiting for you, I said: ‘So he is not coming!’ Oh, if you only knew. I bit my blouse, I suffered so! Now I am well. Do you remember the day I entered your chamber and when I looked at myself in your mirror, and the day when I came to you on the boulevard near the washerwomen? How the birds sang! That was a long time ago. You gave me a hundred sous, and I said to you: ‘I don’t want your money.’ I hope you picked up your coin? You are not rich. I did not think to tell you to pick it up. The sun was shining bright, and it was not cold. Do you remember, Monsieur Marius? Oh! How happy I am! Every one is going to die.”

She had a mad, grave, and heart-breaking air. Her torn blouse disclosed her bare throat.

As she talked, she pressed her pierced hand to her breast, where there was another hole, and whence there spurted from moment to moment a stream of blood, like a jet of wine from an open bung-hole.

Marius gazed at this unfortunate creature with profound compassion.

“Oh!” she resumed, “it is coming again, I am stifling!”

She caught up her blouse and bit it, and her limbs stiffened on the pavement.

At that moment the young cock’s crow executed by little Gavroche resounded through the barricade.

The child had mounted a table to load his gun, and was singing gayly the song then so popular:—

“En voyant Lafayette, Le gendarme répète:— Sauvons nous! sauvons nous!     sauvons nous!” “On beholding Lafayette, The gendarme repeats:— Let us flee! let us flee!     let us flee!

Éponine raised herself and listened; then she murmured:—

“It is he.”

And turning to Marius:—

“My brother is here. He must not see me. He would scold me.”

“Your brother?” inquired Marius, who was meditating in the most bitter and sorrowful depths of his heart on the duties to the Thénardiers which his father had bequeathed to him; “who is your brother?”

“That little fellow.”

“The one who is singing?”

“Yes.”

Marius made a movement.

“Oh! don’t go away,” said she, “it will not be long now.”

She was sitting almost upright, but her voice was very low and broken by hiccoughs.

At intervals, the death rattle interrupted her. She put her face as near that of Marius as possible. She added with a strange expression:—

“Listen, I do not wish to play you a trick. I have a letter in my pocket for you. I was told to put it in the post. I kept it. I did not want to have it reach you. But perhaps you will be angry with me for it when we meet again presently? Take your letter.”

She grasped Marius’ hand convulsively with her pierced hand, but she no longer seemed to feel her sufferings. She put Marius’ hand in the pocket of her blouse. There, in fact, Marius felt a paper.

“Take it,” said she.

Marius took the letter.

She made a sign of satisfaction and contentment.

“Now, for my trouble, promise me—”

And she stopped.

“What?” asked Marius.

“Promise me!”

“I promise.”

“Promise to give me a kiss on my brow when I am dead.—I shall feel it.”

She dropped her head again on Marius’ knees, and her eyelids closed. He thought the poor soul had departed. Éponine remained motionless. All at once, at the very moment when Marius fancied her asleep forever, she slowly opened her eyes in which appeared the sombre profundity of death, and said to him in a tone whose sweetness seemed already to proceed from another world:—

“And by the way, Monsieur Marius, I believe that I was a little bit in love with you.”

She tried to smile once more and expired.

[kitnjon]

Jon Snow & Sansa Stark + ASOIAF

A Game of Thrones - Sansa VI

Frog-faced Lord Slynt sat at the end of the council table wearing a black velvet doublet and a shiny cloth-of-gold cape, nodding with approval every time the king pronounced a sentence. Sansa stared hard at his ugly face, remembering how he had thrown down her father for Ser Ilyn to behead, wishing she could hurt him, wishing that some hero would throw him down and cut off his head. But a voice inside her whispered, There are no heroes, and she remembered what Lord Petyr had said to her, here in this very hall. "Life is not a song, sweetling," he'd told her. "You may learn that one day to your sorrow." In life, the monsters win, she told herself.

A Dance with Dragons - Jon II

"If the boy thinks that he can frighten me, he is mistaken," they heard Lord Janos said. "He would not dare to hang me. Janos Slynt has friends, important friends, you'll see …" The wind whipped away the rest of his words.

This is wrong, Jon thought. "Stop."

"Oh, Seven save us," he heard Bowen Marsh cry out.

The smile that Lord Janos Slynt smiled then had all the sweetness of rancid butter. Until Jon said, "Edd, fetch me a block," and unsheathed Longclaw.

By the time a suitable chopping block was found, Lord Janos had retreated into the winch cage, but Iron Emmett went in after him and dragged him out. "No," Slynt cried, as Emmett half-shoved and halfpulled him across the yard. "Unhand me … you cannot … when Tywin Lannister hears of this, you will all rue—"

Emmett kicked his legs out from under him. Dolorous Edd planted a foot on his back to keep him on his knees as Emmett shoved the block beneath his head. "This will go easier if you stay still," Jon Snow promised him. "Move to avoid the cut, and you will still die, but your dying will be uglier. Stretch out your neck, my lord." The pale morning sunlight ran up and down his blade as Jon clasped the hilt of the bastard sword with both hands and raised it high. "If you have any last words, now is the time to speak them," he said, expecting one last curse.

Janos Slynt twisted his neck around to stare up at him. "Please, my lord. Mercy. I'll … I'll go, I will, I …"

No, thought Jon. You closed that door. Longclaw descended.  

[kummittelemaanninja]

'Frog-faced Lord Slynt sat at the end of the council table wearing a black velvet doublet and a shiny cloth-of-gold cape, nodding with approval every time the king pronounced a sentence. Sansa stared hard at his ugly face, remembering how he had thrown down her father for Ser Ilyn to behead, wishing she could hurt him, wishing that some hero would throw him down and cut off his head. But a voice inside her whispered, There are no heroes, and she remembered what Lord Petyr had said to her, here in this very hall. “Life is not a song, sweetling,” he'd told her. “You may learn that one day to your sorrow.” In life, the monsters win.' -Sansa VI, (A Game of Thrones)

“If the boy thinks that he can frighten me, he is mistaken,” they heard Lord Janos said. “He would not dare to hang me. Janos Slynt has friends, important friends, you’ll see …” The wind whipped away the rest of his words.

This is wrong, Jon thought. “Stop.”

Emmett turned back, frowning. “My lord?”

“I will not hang him,” said Jon. “Bring him here.”

“Oh, Seven save us,” he heard Bowen Marsh cry out. The smile that Lord Janos Slynt smiled then had all the sweetness of rancid butter. Until Jon said, “Edd, fetch me a block,” and unsheathed Longclaw.

By the time a suitable chopping block was found, Lord Janos had retreated into the winch cage, but Iron Emmett went in after him and dragged him out. “No,” Slynt cried, as Emmett half-shoved and halfpulled him across the yard. “Unhand me … you cannot … when Tywin Lannister hears of this, you will all rue—”

Emmett kicked his legs out from under him. Dolorous Edd planted a foot on his back to keep him on his knees as Emmett shoved the block beneath his head. “This will go easier if you stay still,” Jon Snow promised him. “Move to avoid the cut, and you will still die, but your dying will be uglier. Stretch out your neck, my lord.” The pale morning sunlight ran up and down his blade as Jon clasped the hilt of the bastard sword with both hands and raised it high. “If you have any last words, now is the time to speak them,” he said, expecting one last curse.

Janos Slynt twisted his neck around to stare up at him. “Please, my lord. Mercy. I’ll … I’ll go, I will, I …”

No, thought Jon. You closed that door. Longclaw descended.' -Jon II, (A Dance With Dragons)

[lesbianfakir]

Hear me out: fakir n rue childhood friend au, where, crucially, he does not learn she’s related to the raven until roughly the point in the show where she reveals herself as Kraehe.

Instead of hating each other they bond over their shared devotion to mytho and miserable fucking childhoods. The raven allows it in this au because a. he thinks it’s funny and b. he knows it will all come crashing down on her and complete her despair. Fakir and Rue spend pretty much every day together and both look after Mytho, which alleviates some of fakir’s stress about being his sole protector.

However, this friendship constantly overshadowed by their roles in the story. Rue doesn’t know the specifics but she knows that Fakir hates crows, and his role as the knight makes him her enemy. If her only friend in the world found out the truth about her he’d want to kill her. Beyond that she lives with the guilt of knowing her best friend is going to be gruesomely killed by her father, or maybe even herself. She shouldn’t feel guilty she should want to hurt him—he’s the enemy after all—but she must be a bad daughter because the thought makes her sick.

At the beginning of the show rue and fakir team up to get tutu away from mytho, but it all begins to fall apart as rue suspects she may be a crow. She can’t talk to fakir about it, she knows he’d never forgive her if it were true. So she fiercely tries to crush that part of herself down. Her turning point is the same as in the show: Fakir tries to kill Kraehe and calls her an ugly crow. Through their friendship she’d built a sense of self outside of the raven, and in an instant she recognizes that other, happier self as a sad illusion. She decides she never had a friend, she was only keeping the enemy close, and she commits fully to becoming Kraehe.

Fakir, of course, fells horribly betrayed. He will not forgive himself for allowing an avatar of the raven so close to mytho for so many years, for trusting her, for caring about her. He shuts down. In this phase of the story the two hate each other, to the point where they’re less preoccupied with tutu than killing the other. Despite how hard she’s trying to be nothing but crow, Rue cries when she thinks she’s killed him.

And yeah that’s the au! Angst and drama all the way down. Duck is trying to mediate their friendship which usually only upsets the two, but I like to think it works eventually. Then they get to be real friends, with no guilt and secrets between them.

[oscconfessions]

ive never really ugly cried while watching a movie/show, expect in the first hunger games movie when rue died (sorry for the spoilers if you haven’t watched it) but in ii15 when taco cracked, it honestly broke my heart 😭😭😭 like i cried so much.. ESPECIALLY WHEN MEPHONE SWIPED AWAY THE REMINDER LIKE WHAT, if i told my younger self that I was crying over a talking taco then she would look at me in disgust

.

[wylanzahn]

The Gift,

This is a poem I wrote for my friend's birthday, so here's this- "The Gift."

I recount when summer cooled,

The leaves began to burn away their verdant color,

Long roads I unraveled from northeast sanction, 

Alone to slow rolling, quickly emptied country,

Lands my family had called home-away-from-home,

Long since before I was born,

I remember the longing I felt in my heart,

To be so far away from everyone I knew,

Calling at someone I now rue,

But to my family I beckoned to their call,

And so I arrived in farthest shores.

It wasn’t long after I had arrived that my boredom crept in,

I should have brought more books I told myself,

When in dungeon darkest I felt no sovereign,

To this ugly place where there was no bookshelf.

But it was around the third day of my miasma,

That I met the postman, a charming fellow, if not a bit queer,

Of this small little beach town my family resided,

He was the hap-happiest and always filled with cheer,

To lie to you now would be for me to say I enjoyed his presence,

Although in my lonely set and unfit sear I was full of drear,

And at first I found him kooky, wacky, and loopy.

It was during one of his routine visits,

When of course he was at his most cheerful,

And I, having not woken up but thirty minutes before,

Was ay my gloomiest.

He smiled and greeted in his unusually festive tone,

For it was not later than mid-October,

Yet he had the cheer and pizazz of someone in the midst of Yuletide,

I beckoned him off and told him I was merely admiring the mid-day sky,

He asked if I had seen any crows sailing on the celestine side,

I looked at him most curiously,

I retorted back I had indeed seen crows that morning,

He smiled and told me something most incredible,

For in these months when the cool air begins to rush in like the tide,

These few months the crows that have yet too leave their roost,

Those few who chirp and sing are compelled to speak,

And those who hear such speech of crows are said to find true bond,

Man’s true best friend, he said matter-o-factly,

And with a chuckle he turned away, straying back to his original path.

A strange fellow, a strange fellow indeed,

I wandered on the ideas that he penned, 

Was it lunacy indeed, I contemplated to myself,

Perhaps, but there is no way in knowing until one does truly know.

In the evening hours I wandered out of bed,

I walked around the grounds of this hollow home,

I heard something rustling in the tall grass of this marshy place,

Not only that but something seemed to shine in the grass,

Shimmering in the light of the overhung moon,

And as I approached I heard sweet chirping,

It was a crow indeed, and in it’s beak a silver spoon.

At first it was startled and began to scamper off,

But as I waited and tried to coo it back,

It slowly turned, eyeing me up and down,

And whilst I was undoubtedly tired from the day previous,

I could unmistakably tell you now what I heard it sing:

Friend?

Friend?

Friend?

Friend?

Friend?

Friend?

A tear began to swell up in my eye,

As silly as it is to believe,

As pajammed as I was,

As sad and alone as I was,

Here was someone who needed a friend,

Here was someone who just wanted to be seen.

I reached in my coat pocket, 

As it was chilly out that night,

I felt a small thing graze my finger,

I felt it’s cool metallic surface,

I took it in my palm,

And I tossed it into the air,

Where it landed in the tall grass,

And for a moment all stood still,

Only the wind moved,

Rocking the weeping willow,

Before the crow snatched at the coin,

Feeling it in it’s beak,

It almost seemed to smile,

Dancing back and forth,

In joyous chorus did it sing:

Friend!

Friend!

Friend!

Friend!

Friend!

Friend!

I think often of the time I was there,

Of my little crow friend who spoke to me,

Of it’s joyful cries,

It’s little rocking back and forth,

And how for a moment I had a true friend once again.

I sadly had to leave not long after that chance encounter,

Driving back, all six hours by my lonesome,

But I will never forget the gift,

The gift of the crow’s friendship, 

Which meant the world to me.

La Fin.

[anotherhumaninthisworld]

Raillerie du sort — Mademoiselle de Robespierre

I found this (very long) anecdote regarding Charlotte Robespierre published on May 20 1849 in number 776 of the paper L’Écho de la Loire. Considering it gets so much right about Charlotte (her having a portrait of her older brother, her adress, her pseudonym, just her behaviour in general), I’m actually inclined to give it some credability.

—

Doctor H… Fr… gave us one evening the following story:

Around the middle of the summer of 1833, one rainy morning, I strode along one of the saddest streets that can be found in Paris — the Rue de la Fontaine-Saint-Marcel. I was in a hurry to without melancholy escape from this dark district of harsh poverty, and to sadden my mind as little as possible, I carefully kept my eyes lowered so as not to see these mud colored houses, at the windows of which never fail to appear a few heads of women with yellow faces wrapped in linens whose color keps hidden under the oily filth of uncleanliness. The ugliness, the rags of misery cause me at first a repugnance freed from any movement of charity; it is only after this first impression, that my thought probes, under the hideous livery, the depth of the evil, and brings forward the emotion of the heart.

I am a doctor, and to the dryness of the soul of my profession is added the barbarous selfishness of the artist. The ugly makes me mean. I sourly affect myself with the annoying faces of men or objects. If I pass by some old woman chanting a stupid song in a false voice, I find myself wishing that a tile would fall on her head. If chance takes me to a narrow, dark, characterless street with dirty, plain facades, I hope that a fire will destroy the houses and bury the architects and owners who built them under their rubble.

Like I said, I was following the rue de la Fontaine Saint-Marcel when behind me discordant cries arose; I turned around and saw a man stopping a carriage whose driver was talking very loudly and gesticulating a lot, at the same time as a group of a dozen people formed in the middle of the street. I approached the group, and my eyes, slipping between the heads of two ragpickers, were fixed on an old lady in a faint whom an athletic woman supported with her arms and knees; another woman squeezed some of the black water from the stream in her hand and threw it in the face of the old woman.

— I said beware! exclaimed the coachman; why didn't she withdraw?

— Perhaps she is deaf! said the colossal woman.

— Then why didn’t she say so? This coachman’s joke did not have great success.

— My good people, I said, let me approach, I beg you, I'm a doctor. They moved away, I entered the center of the circle.

— Coachman, I said, after looking at the patient, your carriage shall help me transport this lady to her home.

—Bah ! he replied, these old people never leave their lodgings. And as he insisted on slipping away, he took advantage of a moment when his horse was no longer restrained, to artistically lash the end of its ears with a whiplash; the intelligent animal did not have to be told twice and left, to the great detriment.

The coachman had spoken the truth. A fruiterer, standing in front of her lethal, pointed out to me, with a hand green and knotty like the bark of an oak tree, a house less puny in appearance than those which neighbored it. This is where Mademoiselle Delaroche lives, she said.

Mademoiselle Delaroche was very thin. A ragpicker took her in his arms, reached the house, climbed two flights of stairs, and deposited his burden in a small apartment which a servant came to open to us.

I found that Mademoiselle Delaroche was in no serious ailment, and after prescribing some minor medication, I recommended that, despite the slightness of the accident, they should not neglect to call a doctor.

— Mademoiselle, Delaroche since settling in this district, has never called a doctor, said the servant. I don't know where to find any in the neighborhood. If monsieur wanted to come back…

I live, like I said, on the rue du Faubourg Poissonnière; rue de la Fontaine-Saint Marcel was far from my house; moreover, it was very disagreeable to me; nevertheless I promised to return in the evening and went out. At nightfall I kept my word. The woman who had opened the door for us in the morning received me again. She made me sit down in a very hard old armchair, saying to me in a low voice:

— Mademoiselle Delaroche is finishing her prayers. She is there, in this cabinet; her accident had no unfortunate consequences.

While Mademoiselle Delaroche was praying to God, my eyes fell mechanically first on the shabby furniture of the room, then they stopped on an object which excited my curiosity. On one side of a rococo mirror hung a bad engraving representing an Ecce Homo; on the other side hung a painting covered with a black cape. Placed as a pendant to the image of Christ at the height of his sublime suffering, this frame was to have an emblematic meaning of great pain. It gave to the old woman's little room a character of gloomy mystery, and was to be the ever-precise memory of some great family event. This demoiselle Delaroche must be, I thought, of a robust character, since she feels in her isolation the need to always have before her eyes an object which brings her thoughts back to the pain which is the culminating point of her life.

I had my eye fixed on the covered portrait, when Mademoiselle Delaroche opened the door of the neighboring room. My attentive attitude seemed to make her reflect. She stopped after taking a step towards me, and although darkness was already creeping into the room, I saw her eyes come alive under her gray eyebrows.

I rose and greeted her with the thought that I probably had before my eyes the heroine of some bloody family drama.

— Monsieur, she said in a dry, biting, though weak, voice, you know who I am, don't you?

— I was told you were Mademoiselle Delaroche.

— Monsieur, you saw after the little accident this morning that my health had not been impaired, and I assure you that I no longer need a doctor. You have rendered me some care for which it is right that you should be paid.

Saying these words, she went and opened the writing desk and took out a five-franc pincer.

- Monsieur, she continued, I am not rich, please be satisfied with this and do not even ask me medical questions, because I feel good. I will not insist on the reasons which determined you to take advantage of the service you have rendered me to return this evening. She handed me the coin.

— Mademoiselle, I replied spitefully, the thanks you give me sound very much like reproaches. I don't accept them any more than your money. The reasons which have induced me to render to you the minimal aid I swear to you are simple reasons of humanity. I live in another end of Paris, and I have decided to come to this suburb, to this house, to a person whom I do not know, and towards whom I can only be attracted by this commiseration that one carries towards his fellows.

I bowed and walked towards the door, convinced that this woman was one of those touchy beings like Rousseau, who believe themselves to be persecuted as much by their services as by their opposites. I had my finger on the door knob, eager to leave this gloomy dwelling and not caring the least in the world about the secret which had a moment before so keenly excited my curiosity, when Mademoiselle who had followed me said to me:

— I was no doubt mistaken, monsieur; Alas! misfortune makes one suspicious and unjust; and I have been so often the object of the most hateful curiosity, that I must distrust anyone who crosses this poor threshold. Would you forgive me for the harsh words I addressed to you?

She spoke these words with a sincere expression of pain that touched me. At the same time, the thought of ​​the covered portrait reappeared in my mind, and it was with a little selfishness and with the hope that Mademoiselle Delaroche would raise this mystery that I said to her:

— I am a doctor, Mademoiselle, I observe the ills of the body, but those of the mind I understand too. I have many moments of injustice, although I do not complain about the fate that has been fixed for me, and I must forgive others for the faults that I am the first to commit without having as excuses the causes that you have without a doubt.

— You have just assured me, she resumed, that you did not know who I was; I believe in your honor and your sincerity! My God, after all, I should be used to this scrutiny I am being subjected to, and I am sorry now for expressing my displeasure to you. If you knew my real name this morning, what harm would there really have been? One more person whose gaze would have sought on my wrinkled forehead to read things that are not there, what would that matter? I some times tell myself that I have too little time to live to worry about other people's attention; but most often the name I bear brings me the presence of hateful thoughts.

— I don't know your name, mademoiselle, as I didn't know this morning, if the one by which you were designated to me is not yours. I respect the reasons that made you adopt it, and despite what you have told me, I swear to you that I will not take any steps to become them.

— Would you be sure, she said with a certain delicacy of emphasis and a good-naturedness which contrasted with her first mood, would you be sure tomorrow of keeping your word? I see very well that I have told you too much for me to remain a mystery to you; besides, we will be strangers to each other, no relation can be established between us, and I would as much like to tell you myself before leaving you that I am Robespierre's sister.

Surprise silenced me. This name confusedly awakened so many ideas in me that I could not formulate the most banal phrase.

— You see, monsieur, said Mademoiselle Robespierre sadly, if I weren't used to it, the shock you feel would be very painful to me. My poor brother, grandiose enigma of which contemporaries, no more than relatives and posterity, have been able to discover the true meaning, you produce on those who meet his name the same rejection: that of stupefaction!

I took a few steps back into the apartment.

— I have never thought too much about your brother's frightful work, I said to her.

— If you haven't thought about it, she resumed, you must have adopted the idea one has settled on for this work. But the idea is horrible.

— In any case, Mademoiselle, your brother's enemies are not yours.

— I have endeavored to live with God; but, in spite of the greatest efforts, I could not believe myself detached from the cause of Maximilien, a cause, I repeat to you, which is more obscure for me than it is for you. I have tried, I have often succeeded in withdrawing myself into a corner, far from the public attention which the terrible name that I bear always keeps awake; it is for me above all that this word is important. Hide your life; but I have never been able, despite my fervor in God, not to feel the fibers of family and affection stir in me, when a word collected in passing or a few pages of a book show me how way the figure of Maximilian rose above posterity. In vain I closed my ears to the noise outside, I succeeded no more than in closing my soul to all the echoes of the past. But Alas! Isolation, even as severe as a poor old spinster can create for herself, was no defense against the role I so dreaded and which always fell on me.

While speaking, Mademoiselle Robespierre threw herself onto a chair beside the window. I approached, seeing with pleasure that her savagery had dissipated and that her mind was embarking, by a return familiar to old people, on a path that led her to a distant time, a time that she, despite what she’d just said, preoccupied herself with all living moments.

— I knew, she went on, when I was young and my brother was powerful, that the approval of others was a dangerous pleasure; but what harm is the imprecation of our neighbor? If the heart succumbs to flattery, it cannot resist the disdain of our fellow men either, and I believe that, in default of strength, habit cannot suffice. Having a taste for obscurity, not being able to bear a big name, and having been hounded by public curiosity, this has been my ordeal.

— I thought, mademoiselle, that your existence was only known to a few people.

— For a long time, monsieur, I have been dogged by the reprobation which attaches itself to the name I bear. This name detached me from everything. From the first years, what torments, miseries, deprivations this name caused me! I steeled myself against public judgment. I lived for a long time supported I don't know how and I don't know by who. Misfortune ends up making you indifferent to everything, and this indifference goes so far that we only accept with apathy any improvement that happens to us, like any worsening that your bad fortune brings you. The day when they came to tell me that Bonaparte had granted me a pension of 8600 francs gave me no more happiness than the day when it was reduced to me under the Restoration, and when it was suspended altogether. Another thing, I admit, bothered me, it was my name. I decided to leave it; and, changing my residence, I came to settle in the Faubourg Saint-Marceau, and live under the name of Mademoiselle Delaroche, in a house in the Rue Gracieuse. But this alias soon ceased to veil my real name, and I had to secretly flee from the intelligent curiosity which again surrounded me. Since I came to this sad retreat, rue de la Fontaine-Saint-Marcel, I have been a little calmer; I see only two old ladies whom a community of tastes have engaged to see me regularly. They know me by my false name: and although our intimacy dates back a long time, it would doubtless not resist disclosure. When I saw you, only a moment ago, your eyes so ardently fixed on the portrait of my brother, I felt my past uneasiness revive.

— Why, I continued, did you cover it with a cape?

The ending in the next number.

—

Unfortunately, it would appear like the following number hasn’t been digitalised, at least not by the BNF… Therefore, I can’t give you the rest of the anecdote. :(

[sunlitmcgee]

There have been 2 times in my life where I have well and truly Ugly Cried to the point of throwing up due to how distraught I was over a child's death(or supposed death) in a piece of media

First was Rue's death scene in the first hunger games movie

and then with the dsmp finale when i thought they blew mikey b up w everything else

[ztegozauruz]

I just saw girl in red in Indianapolis and she was absolutely amazing. She sang, talked, and danced. She talked about life and love. It felt like she was speaking directly to me.

I cried many times during the concert, and I will many times again while listening to her music.

I can confidently say that she is awesome.

Though all of her music is perfect, these are my favorites: (see under cut)

- girls

- dead girl in the pool.

- A Night To Remember

- bad idea!

- Serotonin

- We Fell In Love In October

- i need to be alone.

- You Stupid Bitch

- Phantom Pain

- i wanna be your girlfriend

- I’ll Call You Mine

- Two Queens In A King Sized Bed

- DOING IT AGAIN BABY

- You Need Me Now?

- say anything

- Midnight Love

- I’m Back

- Rue

- Too Much

- New Love

- Ugly Side

- Body And Mind

- .

- Apartment 402

[sunnydayjackass]

Hi Hi! I just wanted you to know that I love you work! And your the reason why I started my own little writing blog! Thank you so much and keep up the amazing work! ❤️💙💛

-vivi

Y'all killin me with kindness. As always, feel free to tag me or share your work as I VORACIOUSLY consume any content regarding this game.

Your writing, your OCS, your theories--I'm always down to talk anything and everything and love just chattin with y'all 🖤

[yns-world]

golden boy

part iii of the euphoria au!outer banks series

part i part ii part iv

title: golden boy

pairing: euphoria au!jj maybank x reader

word count: 1.3k

warnings: mentions of domestic abuse, toxic relationship, emotional cheating

a/n: this fic is kinda depressing so i had to use a slutty gif to balance things out 🙏🙏🙏 IN JJ WE TRUST 🙏🙏🙏

italics = rue narrating

fem reader, racially ambiguous, any size reader

JJ Maybank. The sweet, Golden Retriever boy. Nothing but laughs, because if he stopped laughing, he’ll start crying. He’s had a hard life, hasn’t he? No mother, no real father— just some stupid asshole that he lives with. 

In a way, he’s a lot like Y/N. They both grew up with the worst kind of abuse, yet they turned into rays of sunlight— of course, that was before Y/N snapped. Speaking of which, why did she snap? She looked perfectly normal to us. 

She snapped because they all ignored her when she cried, begged, and pleaded to be saved. 

She became a monster in order to survive.

JJ remembers a time when Y/N used to be so cheerful, so full of light. But back then, they were still from two different worlds; and a sun doesn’t intrude on another sun’s galaxy. He would watch her from afar, taking her in glances, and he was content with that. 

But he wasn’t content when Rafe came in and sucked all that sunshine out of her. The change was so sudden that it gave people whiplash, but JJ most of all. You see, to him, Y/N was another beacon, a buoy, that made him feel sane. So to watch her change like that killed him. 

It hurt even more when he realized just how violent and aggressive she became; Y/N became a projection of all of Rafe’s insecurities, she became a mirror of all his flaws. 

Or that’s what JJ thought. 

Deep down, JJ knew that this was just a side of Y/N that Rafe had brought out— this ugly, bitter, revengeful side had always been there, buried deep inside her. And JJ had this exact same side inside him, always there, always hiding in the shadows. 

Because of this, JJ could never hate her. If anything, it only pushed him to want to reach out to her, to let her know that there is at least one person that cares, someone that understands her pain. 

It was lunch and Y/N had been standing outside in the courtyard for the past hour. The warning winds of winter surrounded the school but it didn’t come close to bitterness inside Y/N. The cold that nipped at her face and skin didn’t measure to the boiling rage she held. 

Y/N enjoyed the bitter cold because no one was stupid enough to join her outside and bother her. The cool, thinning air was able to clear her thoughts, it brought silence to her screaming mind. 

She was alone, truly alone, for the first time in days. The fresh air was whisking Rafe’s cologne off her, the wind was whipping at the 14 carat chains around her. She didn’t even feel the tears on her face until someone pointed them out. 

“Y/N? What’s wrong?”

JJ was walking past the courtyard, taking part in his friends’ meaningless conversation, when he saw a lone figure standing and looking straight at a tree. 

He could recognize that mink coat anywhere. But why was she alone? That’s what JJ couldn’t figure out. 

JJ isn’t one to get into people’s businesses, but his soul ached for her. His brain and heart both decided that he needed to see her. 

He didn’t feel his legs move, he didn’t remember how he got there, all he remembers were the silent tears on Y/N’s face— her stoic, unmoving, perfect face. 

But her eyes gave her away. They were swarming with so much agony and hate. If he didn’t know her, it would’ve scared JJ. 

“Y/N? What’s wrong?”

His voice broke her thoughts, bringing her back to the surface. He could see it in her eyes; how she blinked back into the presence; how that cold, hard anger melted as she realized that JJ stood directly in front of her. 

In a matter of seconds, her face contorted into the most emotion that JJ has ever seen from her— she looked like a child in misery, and she lunged into his arms, sobbing into his shoulder.

Instead of pushing her off, JJ just brought her closer, nearly crushing her to his chest, but that was all she wanted. 

She wanted somebody to care. She wanted somebody to see her as a real person and not just as some 2D antagonist.

That day in the courtyard bonded the two in ways that Rafe and Y/N never could. JJ was someone that Y/N could rely on, he was always in her corner. 

That same night, JJ went over to Y/N’s house.

They didn’t kiss, they didn’t fuck, they just laid side by side and JJ listened to Y/N spend the whole night talking about all the people (primarily men, but her mother gets a nice feature, too) that fucked her over. 

JJ listened to every word with his whole heart, and wrapped his arms around her when she began crying again. 

Unlike Rafe, JJ never left her that night— or any night that he was over. 

During the day, they would have to pretend that they never knew each other, but as soon as the school bell dismisses them, they go back to their soulmate-like relationship. 

Their relationship seemed complicated, but to them, it wasn’t. They didn’t put a label on what they had, but that didn’t stop the rumors from festering. 

People were quick to notice the mutual eye contact between JJ and Y/N. 

People noticed all the times that Y/N would acknowledge him in the halls, even while she had a rabid dog on her arms. 

People used to think that Y/N was cheating on Rafe with the dead football player, but she wasn't cheating at all. If anything, you could argue that she’s emotionally cheating with JJ, but could you blame her? 

It's not like Rafe was offering her any emotional support. The longer that Y/N went out with Rafe, the more she felt like a trophy for him to brag about. 

No, she was more like a doll for him to dress up in pretty clothes and expensive jewelry, but he would throw her to the side as soon as he saw snow. 

People mistake his possessiveness for love. Rafe was possessive of his toys, no one was able to play with them. But he wouldn’t play with his toys, either. He would just throw Y/N to the back of the closet to rot, making sure to lock the door so she could never escape.

JJ wasn’t like that at all. He saw her. He saw past the facade that Y/N so desperately tries to keep alive. He knows exactly where she’s coming from, he understands her and makes her feel normal. 

JJ makes her feel desired, he makes her feel seen and accepted. 

With JJ, she felt the most comfortable.

It’s been months since JJ started coming over to Y/N’s place. He’s always over when Rafe isn’t there. 

Like so many other countless times, Y/N was sitting in between JJ’s legs, his hands running up and down her arms as he listened to Y/N.

“Am I a monster?” Y/N choked out, tears stinging her eyes.

JJ turned her head so she could look at him. “You’re not a monster.” There was so much conviction in his voice that Y/N nearly believed him. “You’re just a product of your environment. Plus, a monster wouldn’t worry about being a monster.” He tried to lighten the mood with his last sentence, but Y/N didn’t care. His words were what she needed to hear.

His words calmed the storm inside her but fed another flame in her heart. 

Mere centimeters separated their faces and Y/N could feel his breath on her lips. 

“JJ…” Y/N whispered, but he didn’t let her finish. He pressed his lips against hers, attempting to suck all the pain from her. And she let him. She also let him fuck all the problems away. 

For a night, she was free. 

For a night, she felt loved for who she was. 

a/n: DON’T BE A GHOST READER!!!!! let me know your thoughts, opinions, ideas, etc in the comments!!! i love talking with y’all <3

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[raisin-gran]

Bouh! I've just swallowed a bad oyster. Now hypochondria is taking possession of me again. The oysters are spoiled, the servants are ugly. I hate the human race. I just passed through the Rue Richelieu, in front of the big public library. That pile of oyster-shells which is called a library is disgusting even to think of. What paper! What ink! What scrawling! And all that has been written! What rascal was it who said that man was a featherless biped?[51] And then, I met a pretty girl of my acquaintance, who is as beautiful as the spring, worthy to be called Floreal, and who is delighted, enraptured, as happy as the angels, because a wretch yesterday, a frightful banker all spotted with small-pox, deigned to take a fancy to her! Alas! woman keeps on the watch for a protector as much as for a lover; cats chase mice as well as birds. Two months ago that young woman was virtuous in an attic, she adjusted little brass rings in the eyelet-holes of corsets, what do you call it? She sewed, she had a camp bed, she dwelt beside a pot of flowers, she was contented. Now here she is a bankeress. This transformation took place last night. I met the victim this morning in high spirits. The hideous point about it is, that the jade is as pretty to-day as she was yesterday. Her financier did not show in her face. Roses have this advantage or disadvantage over women, that the traces left upon them by caterpillars are visible. Ah! there is no morality on earth. I call to witness the myrtle, the symbol of love, the laurel, the symbol of air, the olive, that ninny, the symbol of peace, the apple-tree which came nearest rangling Adam with its pips, and the fig-tree, the grandfather of petticoats. As for right, do you know what right is? The Gauls covet Clusium, Rome protects Clusium, and demands what wrong Clusium has done to them. Brennus answers: `The wrong that Alba did to you, the wrong that Fidenae did to you, the wrong that the Eques, the Volsci, and the Sabines have done to you. They were your neighbors. The Clusians are ours. We understand neighborliness just as you do. You have stolen Alba, we shall take Clusium.' Rome said: `You shall not take Clusium.' Brennus took Rome. Then he cried: `Vae victis!' That is what right is. Ah! what beasts of prey there are in this world! What eagles! It makes my flesh creep.

Brennus, who takes Rome, is an eagle; the banker who takes the grisette is an eagle. There is no more modesty in the one case than in the other. So we believe in nothing. There is but one reality: drink. Whatever your opinion may be in favor of the lean cock, like the Canton of Uri, or in favor of the fat cock, like the Canton of Glaris, it matters little, drink. You talk to me of the boulevard, of that procession, et caetera, et caetera. Come now, is there going to be another revolution? This poverty of means on the part of the good God astounds me. He has to keep greasing the groove of events every moment. There is a hitch, it won't work. Quick, a revolution! The good God has his hands perpetually black with that cart-grease. If I were in his place, I'd be perfectly simple about it, I would not wind up my mechanism every minute, I'd lead the human race in a straightforward way, I'd weave matters mesh by mesh, without breaking the thread, I would have no provisional arrangements, I would have no extraordinary repertory. What the rest of you call progress advances by means of two motors, men and events. But, sad to say, from time to time, the exceptional becomes necessary. The ordinary troupe suffices neither for event nor for men: among men geniuses are required, among events revolutions. Great accidents are the law; the order of things cannot do without them; and, judging from the apparition of comets, one would be tempted to think that Heaven itself finds actors needed for its performance. At the moment when one expects it the least, God placards a meteor on the wall of the firmament. Some queer star turns up, underlined by an enormous tail. And that causes the death of Caesar. Brutus deals him a blow with a knife, and God a blow with a comet. Crac, and behold an aurora borealis, behold a revolution, behold a great man; '93 in big letters, Napoleon on guard, the comet of 1811 at the head of the poster. Ah! what a beautiful blue theatre all studded with unexpected flashes! Boum! Boum! extraordinary show! Raise your eyes, boobies. Everything is in disorder, the star as well as the drama. Good God, it is too much and not enough. These resources, gathered from exception, seem magnificence and poverty. My friends, Providence has come down to expedients. What does a revolution prove? That God is in a quandry. He effects a coup d'etat because he, God, has not been able to make both ends meet. In fact, this confirms me in my conjectures as to Jehovah's fortune; and when I see so much distress in heaven and on earth, from the bird who has not a grain of millet to myself without a hundred thousand livres of income, when I see human destiny, which is very badly worn, and even royal destiny, which is threadbare, witness the Prince de Conde hung, when I see winter, which is nothing but a rent in the zenith through which the wind blows, when I see so many rags even in the perfectly new purple of the morning on the crests of hills, when I see the drops of dew, those mock pearls, when I see the frost, that paste, when I see humanity ripped apart and events patched up, and so many spots on the sun and so many holes in the moon, when I see so much misery everywhere, I suspect that God is not rich. The appearance exists, it is true, but I feel that he is hard up. He gives a revolution as a tradesman whose money-box is empty gives a ball. God must not be judged from appearances. Beneath the gilding of heaven I perceive a poverty-stricken universe. Creation is bankrupt. That is why I am discontented. Here it is the 4th of June, it is almost night; ever since this morning I have been waiting for daylight to come; it has not come, and I bet that it won't come all day. This is the inexactness of an ill-paid clerk. Yes, everything is badly arranged, nothing fits anything else, this old world is all warped, I take my stand on the opposition, everything goes awry; the universe is a tease. It's like children, those who want them have none, and those who don't want them have them. Total: I'm vexed. Besides, Laigle de Meaux, that bald-head, offend

gonna try my grantaire themed tea!! i’ll give you all my thoughts

[dontbipanicjonsa]

ok so i wanted to put this out there, as noted in @istumpysk 's reread. Behold:

Sansa wishes for someone to cut off Janos Slynt's head-

Frog-faced Lord Slynt sat at the end of the council table wearing a black velvet doublet and a shiny cloth-of-gold cape, nodding with approval every time the king pronounced a sentence. Sansa stared hard at his ugly face, remembering how he had thrown down her father for Ser Ilyn to behead, wishing she could hurt him, wishing that some hero would throw him down and cut off his head.

Janos Slynt, who is a hollow suit of armor sent by Tywin to become LC of the NW-

Tyrion's anger flashed. "Lord Janos is a hollow suit of armor who will sell himself to the highest bidder."

But Sansa says the hollow knights are turning into dragons-

Along the walls stood empty suits of armor, dark and dusty, their helms crested with rows of scales that continued down their backs. As they hurried past, the taper's light made the shadows of each scale stretch and twist. The hollow knights are turning into dragons, she thought.

And they do-

The smile that Lord Janos Slynt smiled then had all the sweetness of rancid butter. Until Jon said, "Edd, fetch me a block," and unsheathed Longclaw.

By the time a suitable chopping block was found, Lord Janos had retreated into the winch cage, but Iron Emmett went in after him and dragged him out. "No," Slynt cried, as Emmett half-shoved and half pulled him across the yard. "Unhand me … you cannot … when Tywin Lannister hears of this, you will all rue—"

Jon Snow becomes LC and cuts off Janos Slynt's head.

(The Tywin name-drop really ties it together.)

The hollow knight who was meant to be the LC turns into a dragon, and the hero defeats frog-faced Slynt. Two birds, one stone. Very neat. Definitely not a coincidence. Sometimes you just have to bask in the meant-to-be vibes of Jonsa.

[kurowrites]

Five Times Lan Zhan (Kind Of) Proposed to Wei Ying

There is a lot of bad language in this one, so be warned. Also contemplated murder, but like in a funny way.

Find the earlier posts here.

---

IV: The Fourth Time

Wei Ying was going to kill Jin Zixun. It would be terrible because he was going to get arrested and locked up, and then Jiang Yanli was going to cry, but he didn’t care about that right now. He was going to kill Jin Zixun. Maybe throw him out of the window and try to pass it as an accident.

“You fucking asshole!” he shouted as he burst into the room where Jin Zixun was currently drinking with some friends.

Jin Zixun looked up, and Wei Ying could see that he was trying to look as nonchalant as possible, though he didn’t quite manage to do it. Wei Ying knew that Jin Zixun was afraid of him, because he thought that Wei Ying was crazy. And he better be. Because Wei Ying was crazy, and he was angry, and Jin Zixun deserved no mercy.

“What do you want?” Jin Zixun asked sourly.

“You tricked Lan Zhan into getting drunk, you piece of shit,” Wei Ying hissed. “You know Lan Zhan doesn’t drink! And I knew you were a sleaze, but getting people drunk by deceiving them is a new low even for you.”

Jin Zixun’s face quickly shifted from hesitant annoyance to anger. The corners of his mouth shifted downwards, and his ugly mug became even uglier in the process.

“Your little prince only has himself to blame,” he hissed. “So self-righteous –  always pretending to be noble. What’s wrong with a little prank? He deserves being taken down a notch or two.”

Wei Ying was going to take Jin Zixun down a notch or two. Or maybe a storey or two.

“Just when I thought you couldn’t get any worse, Jin Zixun, you prove yet again that rock bottom, for you, is somewhere deep underground.”

“Oh yeah?” Jin Zixun returned, apparently feeling safe because Wei Ying was alone, and he was with four people that would back him up. “Tell me, Wei Ying, is he at least paying you well for the services you render? You filthy whore!”

Wei Ying jerked back, taken aback by the sudden onslaught.

What the hell?

Did Jin Zixun think…

But he never got any farther than that, because the next moment, someone had reached for Jin Zixun’s arm and twisted once, hard. Jin Zixun cried out and went down with the movement, trying to relieve the pressure on his joints. The only thing he did end up doing, however, was ending up as a neat little package on the floor.

“If you use such language again,” Lan Zhan said, “I will break your arm.”

Lan Zhan. Of course it was Lan Zhan.

Wei Ying had no idea how Lan Zhan had managed to find Wei Ying, and how he had managed to walk all the way to this place, as drunk as he had been when Wei Ying had left him just a little while ago.

“Lan Zhan,” he said, trying to sound calming. He stepped in between Lan Zhan and Jin Zixun, putting a hand onto Lan Zhan’s arm in order to encourage him to let go of Jin Zixuan. “He’s not worth it, Lan Zhan.”

Lan Zhan’s jaw flexed with anger and stubbornness.

“He called you names.”

“And he’s a stupid little worm, Lan Zhan, so don’t worry about it. Everything that leaves his mouth is garbage.”

And then Lan Zhan let, thankfully, go of Jin Zixun’s arm.

Jin Zixun gasped and clutched his arm to his chest.

“You fucking freaks,” he cursed. “Either of you is as bad as the other.”

Wei Ying grinned, because honestly, it sounded rather like a compliment. To be compared to Lan Zhan certainly was a compliment.

“Do anything to Lan Zhan again and I will make you rue the day you were born,” he warned Jin Zixun, and then he herded Lan Zhan out of the room, leaving Jin Zixun to wallow in his self-inflicted misery.

If he were honest, he still felt like hurting Jin Zixun a little more, but now that Lan Zhan was here with him, Wei Ying had other priorities. Not getting Lan Zhan in trouble being the first of them, probably. Getting him back to his room unscathed being the second.

“Lan Zhan,” he sighed. “I have no idea how you even found me.”

“I know Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan said, a little petulantly.

“Mh,” Wei Ying agreed, patting Lan Zhan’s shoulder lightly. “It looks that way.”

He looked over at Lan Zhan and smiled, and Lan Zhan looked back at him, all serious with his beautiful, stupid, earnest eyes.

Damn, Wei Ying thought to himself. Lan Zhan really was an extremely handsome man, and Wei Ying wished he was anything like him.

“Anyway,” he said, turning his gaze away from Lan Zhan and coughing a little. What the hell had gotten into him? “Time to bring you back to your room. All good little Lan Zhans should be asleep by now.”

Lan Zhan did not object, and so Wei Ying led Lan Zhan back to his room with the thought that this had become a new kind of routine, lately.

He wasn’t quite sure if that was good or bad.

---

“Ah, Lan Zhan, what am I going to do with you,” Wei Ying tiredly mused once he had tucked Lan Zhan into bed.

Lan Zhan had gracefully allowed the treatment, though he didn’t look quite as tired as he usually tended to be when he got drunk, and gave no sign that he was close to falling asleep. He just continued to look at Wei Ying with a steady, unreadable gaze.

“You know you shouldn’t get close to someone like Jin Zixun, he’s bad news,” Wei Ying continued with a sigh. “You don’t even like him, why are you talking to him?”

Lan Zhan looked up at Wei Ying with the mulish expression that he usually wore when he wasn’t willing to listen to any of Wei Ying’s frankly very rational opinions.

“He was mean,” Lan Zhan declared.

“Lan Zhan, Jin Zixun is always mean, I don’t think he knows how to be anything else.”

“He was mean about Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan elaborated. “I will not let him badmouth Wei Ying.”

“Ah, Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying sighed, and he tried to will away the blush that he felt spreading across his face. To distract himself, he patted Lan Zhan’s hands, properly folded over his chest like the proper young master that he was. (He doubted he would be successful to will away the squirming feeling in his chest, so he didn’t even try.) “You don’t need to feel responsible for my reputation. Everyone knows I’m bad.”

“It is wrong,” Lan Zhan insisted with vehemence. “Wei Ying is a good person.”

Wei Ying laughed.

“Aw, Lan Zhan, I’m happy that you think so, but you really don’t need to defend my virtue to people like Jin Zixun. I’ll be fine either way.”

Lan Zhan, however, didn’t seem to be happy with that solution.

“Everyone should know that Wei Ying is good,” he said. “And they should know that they cannot have you.”

“Aw, because I’m already besties with Lan Zhan?” Wei Ying teased. Then he leaned in and told Lan Zhan conspiratorially, “For what it’s worth, I like Lan Zhan the best, and I would never even want to have anything to do with someone like Jin Zixun. He can think about me whatever he wants, as long as Lan Zhan likes me.”

“I do like you,” Lan Zhan informed him seriously.

Goodness gracious, this man was bad for Wei Ying’s blood pressure.

“You flirt!” he accused Lan Zhan playfully. “You just want to get into my pants!”

“No,” Lan Zhan replied, invariably serious. “Marry you first.”

Then he turned around, smushed his face into his pillow rather ungracefully, and fell asleep.

Apparently, he was quite satisfied with himself after dropping such a massive bomb onto Wei Ying.

Wei Ying, on the other hand, just sat there, on the corner of Lan Zhan’s bed, staring at Lan Zhan’s asleep profile and not knowing what to think or do next.

Marry him?

First?