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irrlicht-writes · 3 years

Text

of Rex Lapis and a young boy

“Do you love her?” “What do you want me to say?”

Say yes. Say yes so I can tell myself to stop. If you love her still, then there is no way that there’s place for me in you. Say yes so I can stop thinking, stop pretending. Say yes so I know that you don’t care for me. Say yes so that I know, once and for all, that mortals and gods are not supposed to be next to each other. Say yes so I can try to forget that you are my friend. Say yes so I can forget that you are my only friend. Say yes so I can slap myself and laugh and make a joke about how stupid I am. Say yes so I know that anytime you looked at me, you didn’t look at me at all. Say yes so I know that I’ll never be curious or kind enough. Say yes, so that I know I never mattered at all. | Zhongli would never love him. Zhongli could only love things that were long past, and Childe walked ever toward the future.

Ao3

Azhdaha.

Zhongli-xiansheng and the Traveller had left the Harbour for a while to go look at some stones – or something, Childe didn’t ask – and now they’ve returned.

It had stung, just a little bit, when he realised Xiansheng had just dumped him for their meal but that was okay. That was perfectly, absolutely fine. He hadn’t sat there for hours upon end, waiting for him and then heading to the Funeral Parlour just to learn that Zhongli had left the Harbour entirely. That was cool. It wasn’t like they told each other everything, right?

It’s not like Zhongli knew everything Childe was up to in Liyue.

But now they were back, sitting at the Storyteller’s. Zhongli-xiansheng looked great, even. Like he hadn’t missed Childe at all. Yeah. That was cool. Perfectly cool.

He wasn’t even interested in rocks, so no wonder they didn’t ask him to come along. Yeah. Right.

Zhongli told him about Azhdaha in a quiet tone, and Childe knew he wasn’t getting the whole story. The Traveller sat beside them, silent as ever. It was cool. Childe got the picture. He wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t as dumb as they thought him to be. Childe had heard that tone in Zhongli’s voice many times. For some reason, that tone had always struck him, but he had never been sure why.

He thought he knew, now.

It sounded like Zhongli was talking about something incredibly dear to him.

Not long after, Zhongli left, the Traveller close behind. They barely said good-bye and Childe smiled at them. He was acutely aware of the fact that they left without paying their tab. Yeah. That was fine, he’d just cover it.

“Storyteller,” he requested as he ordered himself the strongest drink this bar had, “can you tell me of Rex Lapis and the Mountain-Dragon?”

And so the Storyteller did.

The next day, Childe ventured into Nantianmen. He had seen the tree there before, but had thought little of it. Now, it was different. This is where Azhdaha had been sealed away, right beneath his feet. Zhongli’s friend.

Zhongli’s lover, even.

Back then, hearing about the Goddess of Dust had felt weird, like a mortal Zhongli pining for a Goddess dead way before his time. Now, after everything, it made more sense. When he talked about Azhdaha, Zhongli-xiansheng had the same look in his eyes. A soft, far-away look in his eyes that had always made Childe feel small and unimportant. Which was why, whenever he’d catch that look, he’d crack a joke, or point out a merchant stall.

He stepped closer to the tree and put his hand on the bark.

Did Zhongli come here, to be close to his old friend?

Zhongli never came to him, just to get him.

Always, it had been a matter Childe would have to settle with Mora somehow.

Had he ever been Zhongli’s friend, at all?

“What makes you so special?”

The tree, and the dragon hereby-under, don’t answer.

“Zhongli-xiansheng is rather busy, I apologise.”

To her credit, the Ferry lady did actually look sorry. It did little to stifle Childe’s mood, but he appreciated the gesture nonetheless. He wondered, idly, why it’s always him that reached out to Zhongli. Why was he the one clinging to a God that lied to him?

Well, maybe he was stupid after all.

He smiled at the Ferry lady and left her. He didn’t tell her to inform Zhongli that he’d been here. Somehow, he doubted that Zhongli would care either way. He pretended it didn’t hurt something in his chest, and returned to Northland Bank.

At least Ekaterina and the others there were forced to care about him. Oh, the luxury of being a Harbinger.

Despite him talking about her all the time, Childe knew next to nothing about Guizhong. There also wasn’t that much to find in books. Despite what people might think, Childe actually was a vivid reader. Granted, it tended to be adventure stories, not dry history, but he could expand.

But she had been Morax’ best friend.

And while the dry history books didn’t say it outright, it was clear as day: they all suspected the two to have been lovers in some capacity. The all-powerful Morax, and the sweet, gentle-hearted Guizhong. The perfect pair, even. He was strong where she was weak, and she was wise where he was not.

Childe wasn’t a romantic where it counted, but even he could see the potential in writing stories about a couple like that.

And she died, leaving Rex Lapis behind.

Childe looked out the window.

To be fair, he wasn’t sure why he read about Guizhong in the first place. What was he hoping to achieve? All the books he consumed about Rex Lapis have had a clear goal in mind: stealing the God’s Gnosis.

Not that that had worked, but semantics. Maybe Childe just wasn’t meant to steal someone’s heart.

He went to Guili Plains the next chance he got. He wasn’t sure why, but this place had been named after Guizhong and Zhongli. For all its historic worth, it look desolate. Rationally, Childe knew that a war has taken place here, but still, he had expected more, somehow. He had expected Rex Lapis to try and restore this place that he and his lost lover shared.

He was also a bit disappointed that there were no Glaze Lilies here. The books hadn’t shut up about Guizhong and Glaze Lilies. So much in fact that Childe had had his doubts on whether or not she’d really been the Goddess of Dust or Glaze Lilies.

He wondered what kind of man Zhongli would be today if Guizhong had not died. What kind of man he’d be if he hadn’t needed to seal the dragon away.

If that had been the case, then he probably wouldn’t have cared about Childe at all.

The hole in his chest hurt and he didn’t like it.

With his past dead, Zhongli’s eyes would glance across Childe.

If they had been alive, he wouldn’t have looked at Childe at all.

Wanting to stop, he killed the abyss mages.

There were Glaze Lilies blooming in the Harbour. He’s heard that they were cultured there artificially, because they were dying out. Zhongli must hate that fact. But that also meant that Childe of all people would probably not be able to actually approach the stupid flowers.

It had been days since they’ve last met, and Zhongli hadn’t come to him.

Childe felt like a broken tool. He wondered how long it would take him to get used to that feeling.

He wanted to see the flowers, so he snuck out at night. He knew there were some blooming behind the house on the Terrace, so he hoped he wouldn’t be spotted by the Millelith. It’d be hard to explain himself to Lady Ningguang for this, so he’d rather not.

Childe climbed the wall easily and quietly and sure enough, there they were – two Glaze Lilies, blooming under the moonlight. Truth be told, he wasn’t sure what he had been expecting. Did he want to pick them to present them to Zhongli? Probably not.

He reached out with one finger, gently touching one of the petals. Somehow, he was afraid they’d wilt under his touch and die. But nothing happened. Childe sighed and lied down beside the flowers. The sky was clear and bright. When he closed his eyes, he could hear a soft humming in his ears and it filled him with longing for... something. Not a fight, not a victory, not even a loss, just – something. Something he couldn’t have.

“How did you do it?” He asked the flowers.

How did you make Zhongli fall in love with you? How did you make him look at you proper? How did you make him see you? How do you put that tone in his voice and how do you put that look in his eyes?

Childe sighed.

The flowers didn’t respond.

He thought of Azhdaha, who had looked upon the world with curiosity and had learned to love it through Morax.

He thought of Guizhong, who had looked upon her people with endless kindness and had taught Rex Lapis to do the same.

He was neither curious nor kind.

No wonder that Zhongli didn’t care to look at him.

Why had the Tsaritsa sent him here? Why couldn’t he have been in on the plan? He could’ve caused a havoc even knowing where Morax was. Why couldn’t he have taken the Gnosis after a done deed? Why did it have to be Signora?

He was Her Majesty’s vanguard, was he not?

Didn’t she think him capable enough?

Why couldn’t Signora have wrecked the city?

Why him?

Was he really only good for front-line mayhem, and nothing else?

The God he had spent so much time with hadn’t even looked at him when he handed his heart away.

The God Childe had believed to be his friend.

He had no friends, now.

Childe put his report away and left the Bank.

It was late, and everything in him yearned for his home.

His home, where his parents would watch him with wary eyes.

Maybe he shouldn’t have come back, when he’d fallen.

When will he hurt Tonia? When will he take Anthon and Teucer, and turn them into monsters too? When will he reveal that our son has never come back at all? How long will this facade last?

He would smile at them, and pretend he didn’t know. He’d pretend that these months had never happened and that they still loved him unconditionally.

He reached the pier and sat down. He wanted to go fishing again.

The water gently dipped at the stone and Childe sighed. He wondered, did Morax laugh at him? Each time Childe had thought he’d been sleek, getting more information from Zhongli, had the God laughed at his ignorance?

But Zhongli had seemed so content, so willing to answer all of Childe’s questions.

It’s an important part of Liyuean’s cuisine, Childe. Please use the chopsticks.

Had Morax been making fun of him?

He’d never hear the end of it, back home in Snezhnaya. He could already hear Scaramouche’s snicker in his ear.

His mark had been right there next to him, ever-correcting the Harbinger’s grip on the chopsticks, and Childe had never known.

A one-way tool of war was probably the best thing he could ever be.

He could neither be curious or kind.

How would a guy like him ever gain the affection of the divine?

“You cannot sleep?”

Childe didn’t turn around.

What did it matter, anyway?

Zhongli sat down beside him with a small sound, reminding Childe how old this man truly was. He’d been a fool. How could Zhongli ever be his friend, with all their differences?

“Tell me a story.”

“What do you want to hear?”

Childe was silent for a moment.

Tell me how I can make you look at me. How can I be kind, or curious enough for you to gain your affection? Tell me how I can make myself significant to you. Tell me how I can be a friend that you’ll remember. Tell me, please. Tell me how to be important to you.

“I don’t know.”

Childe was staring at the water down below. Zhongli’s contract was fulfilled. There was nothing more they had to talk about. Why did Zhongli even acknowledge him? He should’ve just kept walking.

“You have gone to Guili Plains.”

“...yes.”

“Why?”

“I wanted to see,” Childe replied in a hushed voice.

Truth was, he didn’t know. Maybe he had expected the ghost of Guizhong to descend upon him and tell him everything he’d need to know. A stupid, childish thought. She hadn’t come, and his questions have been left unanswered. A god would never descend for him, anyway.

“What did you find?”

“Nothing,” Childe said. “Why didn’t you restore the Plains?”

“Why would I?”

“Because of Guizhong.”

“It’s the place I lost her in. It is difficult to go there, even after all these centuries.”

What did it feel like, making such an impact on an immortal being?

Every time he returned home, he ventured out into the woods again. Some part of him wanted to find the crack in the earth again, where he lost himself and found himself at the same time. Maybe he also hoped he’d find a little Ajax lost in the woods. He didn’t know.

“Do you love her?”

“What do you want me to say?”

Say yes, so that I know I never mattered at all.

“...say yes, then.”

Childe didn’t remember when he drew his legs in and hugged his knees. He felt smaller and younger than he had in years. Skirk would kill him for this position but she’d never know.

“You’re in pain,” Zhongli said instead and Childe almost wanted to laugh.

“No,” he responded, “I haven’t been in a fight in days.”

“Not all pain is physical, Childe.”

What did he care? Childe wished he’d stop. It was these sorts of talks that put Childe in this situation. If Zhongli would just stop pretending he cared, it’d be all so much easier.

“Kun Jun gave this to me,” Zhongli said and held out his hand, a pretty rock upon it.

For the first time, Childe turned his head. It was a pretty thing, he thought.

“Kun Jun?”

“One aspect of Azhdaha.”

Ah. Yes, the other lost lover. Childe tensed his jaw. Why was Zhongli showing this to him? Was he mocking Childe?

Look, all these pretty things you bought me, and still I value the rock my old lover gave to me more.

There it was again, the pang in his chest. Zhongli never carried around the things he made Childe buy. And now here he was, carrying around some rocks this Kun Jun picked up from the ground?

“It’s pretty,” Childe said then. He didn’t know what else to say and Zhongli clearly cherished this rock.

Mora couldn’t buy someone’s affection. It could buy him any favour he’d ever wanted, but he could never buy genuine feelings. Their friendship had been a farce from the start. Zhongli had used him, just like Her Majesty and Signora had used him.

“It was good, seeing him again,” Zhongli sat, gently holding the stone in his hand. “But it hurt, as well, knowing I’d have to seal him away once more.”

“I’m sorry,” Childe said and he wanted to take the rock and throw it in the ocean.

He bought Zhongli so many things, and he valued none of them. For all he knew, Zhongli had thrown them aside the second Childe had turned his back. He’d never be important enough to Zhongli, so why did he even try? Why did he ever bother? He had wanted to invite Zhongli to his home, to meet his family. He had wanted to show his parents that he was still good, still their son, and that he made a genuine friend.

He couldn’t do that now. At best, Zhongli was a former business associate. Not his friend. Never his friend.

Zhongli didn’t say anything and Childe suspected he was deep in memories. He wanted to stand up and leave but he couldn’t.

“Liyue Harbour exists today because of Guizhong,” he said then and Childe curled up in himself. Just rub it in. How would Childe ever compete?

A curious dragon with pretty eyes and pretty rocks, and a gentle soul of a Goddess with beautiful, humming flowers next to her, an entire city dedicated to her?

What was he against them?

A reckless, arrogant toy soldier. The only thing he was good at was fighting and even then, Morax would be able to beat him blind-folded.

“Without her, I would have never been able to appreciate humans. To me, they were barely a duty, a responsibility, not something worthy of love. But she walked among them, empathised with them and through her and for her, I was able to do the same.”

Childe was a human. But he wasn’t part of the humans Zhongli spoke about. He wished he could take that part out of himself; the part that made his chest hurt. He’d rather endure the pain of his transformation.

“When she died, I was devastated and I wrecked havoc on my enemies. They had killed the gentlest soul I would ever know and they did not deserve mercy for it. But I knew, I knew that that wasn’t what she’d want. She’d want me to protect our people, to become the leader she never got the chance to be. So I taught them to build houses, I taught them to make stoves. And these days, I believe she would be proud of what I achieved.”

He was saying yes, and it hurt. Everything Zhongli had done had been for her. But maybe – maybe that was a good thing. He could let go now, right? He knew know, he had audible confirmation that Zhongli would never look at him, would never care for him. He wasn’t good enough. Nobody would ever build a city for him.

He had to go. He had to leave. He couldn’t see Zhongli again. His feet itched, but he couldn’t move. Zhongli would never love him. Zhongli could only love things that were long past, and Childe walked ever toward the future.

“Why are there no Glaze Lilies in Guili Plains?”

“They are a delicate flower, and Guili Plains turning desolate was too much for them to handle. But if you want to get poetic, then Guizhong’s demise surely had something to do with it.”

Childe wondered. If he died, would – would something wither for him? The seashells he was so fond of, would they crack?

“You miss her.”

“Yes.”

Will you miss me is a question left unasked.

Childe took a deep breath. He would fill the gaping hole inside his chest with blood and glory.

“I have something for you.”

Childe blinked. He didn’t remember buying something. He looked over to Zhongli, who held a sword out to him.

“I have been meaning to give it to you for a while but ah, things got in the way.”

Childe reached for the handle and held the sword up against the moonlight. The blade was green. He’d never seen a weapon like that before.

“I crafted it myself long ago. The blade is cut from the purest jade. I made it for a friend, but sadly, they never got to use it.”

“I...” Childe didn’t know what to say. He didn’t use a sword much these days, but he could appreciate good craftsmanship. And really, he could never have enough weapons.

“Thank you,” was what he settled on and Zhongli smiled at him.

“You wished to hear a story,” Rex Lapis said and Childe nodded, holding his new gift close.

“Once, a long time ago, Rex Lapis encountered a boy. The boy would never learn to fear the God he met and instead, would always smile brightly at him. Some might say the boy was ignorant of who he met, but Rex Lapis greatly enjoyed the company of the boy, unburdened by the past. It’s the tale of Rex Lapis, a god feared for his wrath, and a young boy with kind eyes and a gentle soul, ever ready to overtake the world and unafraid to walk in front of a god he ought to fear.

Once, a long time ago, Rex Lapis encountered a young boy who showed him the light of the sun again.”

Perhaps this was alright. Maybe Rex Lapis would always be stuck in the past and Childe would always walk ahead into the future. As Childe listened to Rex Lapis tell him an ancient tale, he fell asleep next to his friend Zhongli, a green sword tightly hugged to his chest.

He dreamed of a field full of flowers and a god and a boy, holding hands, walking towards the gentle brushing of the sea at the shore.

#genshin impact #zhongchi #tartali #genshin childe #genshin zhongli #hurt/comfort #angst #pining #unrequited love #maybe #fanfiction #irrlicht writes #genshin tartagalia #be gentle okay I can't write still

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aerequets · 3 years

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can you give me some webtoon recommendations? name some of your favorites! :)

i am here to answer folks 😎

all of these webtoons can be found on webtoons.com! I'm not sure about the whole daily pass thing they've got going on (which sucks tbh) but like,,, you could probably find it online illegally. NOT THAT I CONDONE ILLEGAL ACTIVITY HAHAHAHA ᵖˢˢᵗ ⁱᶠ ʸᵒᵘ ˡᵒᵒᵏ ⁱᵗ'ˢ ᵗʰᵉʳᵉ

I'll split these up between completed and in progress :) most are still in progress though

COMPLETED

1) Gourmet Hound (166 chapters)

this is like, my all time favorite webtoon. it follows Lucy and her quest to find all the chefs that left her favorite restaurant, Dimanche! it’s a really heartfelt story and the food illustrations make you really hungry, so make sure you have a snack before you sit down to read it. each character’s name is also food-related, so that’s pretty cool too! and the diversity in this webtoon is AMAZING. it’s the only webtoon i’ve ever read that has a hijabi character in the main cast. the development is done really well and it explores themes of loving and letting go. all in all, it has a bit of everything. i personally love food-related things, and this centers around it, so i was set LOL

(also a bonus is that this webtoon has NOT succumbed to daily pass hell, so you can binge read the whole thing. legally.)

2) Hooky (200 chapters)

if you like stories of witches, this is the one! the summary and beginning chapters are deceptively lighthearted. DO NOT BE FOOLED! the story really develops further on and explores numerous conflicts, a big one being (if i remember correctly) witch vs. nonwitch. if you like to see struggles between two sides, not a good-and-evil but just people-who-want-the-best-for-themselves-and-their-loved-ones type of thing, this is good for that. also, sibling love! the two main characters are Dani and Dorian, and while there is someee romance, i like how this story centers around the siblings first and foremost. ALSO THE ART??? I LOVE HOW THE AUTHOR DRAWS SETTINGS SO MUCH and am unabashedly jealous because i am completely incapable of doing so just like,,,, even if the story doesn’t pull you in, you can at least stare at each panel for long stretches of time.

(unfortunately succumbed to daily pass, but you can read it on mangaowl or manganelo!)

3) Spirit Fingers (167 chapters)

aww, this one is cute. Amy is 18 and lacking in self confidence (her family definitely doesn’t help). but HEY she joins a wacky art club!! without her parents knowing!! HECK YEAH!! unfortunately it takes more than joining an art club for her to learn to love herself (it is a long journey after all!). i love this webtoon because it explores the problems of multiple people, not just amy: her high achieving brothers, her mother who had to give up her dream, the different members in the art club, Amy’s girl friends. the art is unique and has a cool watercolor-y texture! and the main couple is just adorable, too. if you’re an artist especially, i recommend this because that’s a big theme and you get to see these characters expand their art styles! which is very cool!

(you can read this one fully on 1stkissmanga)

now here’s where the majority of my recs are:

IN PROGRESS (all can be read on webtoon.com)

1) The Makeup Remover (currently 71 chapters)

i look forward to this every tuesday and friday because oh man!!!!!!!!! idk about you guys, but i am thinking about beauty standards A Large Amount of the time, especially when i consume media. and this webtoon is all about beauty standards (specifically in Korea, but still applicable like. everywhere). Main character Yeseul ends up having to partake in this beauty competition and, with her experiences through it, she begins seeing makeup and beauty standards for the huge role they play in society. i said it already but i LOVE LOVE LOVE this webtoon because it really challenges you as a reader to think about your own perspectives. why do we find the things/people beautiful that we do? what shapes our perception? how much of it is marketing, and how much of it shows in our daily lives? what assumptions do you make about people based on how they look? AGHH im sounding like an essay prompt instead of a reviewer but man. if you like webtoons that examine society through a critical lens (gosh i sound like an english teacher), this is the one.

2) Odd Girl out (currently 261 chapters; on season 2)

okay, first and foremost: if you’re NOT into long winded drama, this probably isn’t it for you. i will admit im not a fan of long problems that get dragged out, especially in a school setting, but i did keep reading this webtoon and i am glad that i did! the character development here is amazing and ONE CRUCIAL THING is that the whole first season (which is many, many chapters. at least over 100) focuses on the friendship between our main 4 girls. if you don’t wanna wait for a romance storyline (which comes in season 2), then you’ve gotta have the patience of a saint. i loved this though because lots of romance webtoons cast friendships aside or use them to further the romantic plot. platonic relationships are great to read about and this one does it masterfully! main character nari is resilient and emotionally strong, and it’s great to see her ruin her enemies

3) Cursed Princess Club (currently 110 chapters; on break before the final season)

this is another one about beauty and societal expectations, but in a fantasy setting! it’s really funny and the cast of characters is heartwarming. Gwen is a princess, but she doesn’t look like the typical princess. she accidentally stumbles upon the Cursed Princess Club, which is exactly what it sounds like: a club for princesses that have been cursed and are trying to find their self worth despite not being conventional princesses! now that i think about it, this is like a lighthearted mixture of Makeup Remover and Spirit Fingers. although while i do say “lighthearted”, this webtoon has its fair share of mysteries and exploration of deeper topics. but its funny throughout

4) Brass & Sass (currently 83 chapters)

ahh this one is really cute and the art is cute, too! i also like how this has a diverse cast. high schooler Camilla kinda sucks at band, but dangit if she’s not passionate. Victor is some type of musical prodigy but he’s a brass-hole (hahaha get it. no that’s not original i ripped it from the summary). now i KNOW I KNOW, the whole “perky girl and asshole guy” is so overplayed BUT DON’T FRET! this isn’t the type of story where the girl “fixes” the guy, or where the guy is an asshole to everyone except the girl. believe me, the character development and relationship development in this story is SPLENDID. there’s no real antagonist. it’s just a bunch of high schoolers trying their best to make themselves and everyone else happy, and that’s hard! the story is carried more by the characters than by the plot, but it works well in this case since the characters are strong and each one has a presence.

5) Surviving Romance (currently 10 chapters)

this one is relatively new compared to my other recs but it’s by the author of the Makeup Remover so yaknow i had to hop on it. BUT IT IS VERY DIFFERENT! first off, it’s a horror, so keep that in mind. the best way i can describe it is a mixture of the standard “girl falls into a story” genre, Groundhog Day, and zombies. Yeah. Bascially, Chaerin is our main girl and she’s in a romance story that’s she’s read a bajillion times, so she knows the day has come for her male lead to confess his love! except he doesn’t! because he becomes a zombie instead! hahaha well that sucks! it’s only got 10 chapters but i am very into it, and it seems to be taking an emphasis on platonic relationships, so i am very closely watching 👁👁

6) The Witch and the Bull (currently 60 chapters)

another witch story! and the art is GORGEOUS. more witch + nonwitch conflict, too! our main dude, Tan, is the royal advisor and he’s hella bigoted against witches. our main girl, Aro, happens to be a witch. and Tan needs her help to make him into a human again (because he got turned into a bull. that is worth mentioning). this is a very barebones summary and there’s a lot more that goes on, but that’s the general gist of the beginning!

ANYWAYS. this got very long, predictably, and i rambled for each title, predictably. i’ve got more that i’m reading, but i really like these 9! i also made comments on the art for a lot of them, which might not matter to some people, but i feel like my art was very impacted by each webtoon i read. if you’re an artist i recommend finding a webtoon you like and studying the art; try implementing parts you like into your own style!

anyways, i am FINALLY done talking. bye yall

#webtoons #my recs

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sabalith · 3 years

Text

Satanic Devotionals

Prayer of acknowledgment of Satan’s rulership

O mighty Lord Satan, God of this world, God of my flesh, God of my mind, God of my innermost Will! Every part of this world is within Your power. You are within every part of this world. Every part of me is within Your power. You are within every part of me. I am Yours, whether I serve You willingly or not, for I am myself, whether I am true to myself or not. Of my own free will, I now acknowledge Your power. Of my own free will, I now present myself to You.

Invocation to Satan

AVE SATANA! Hail, Satan, Lord of Darkness, King of Hell, Ruler of the Earth, God of this World! God Who invites us to become as gods! Muse of our civilization, Dread Enemy of its tyrant god! Satan, mighty Liberator, Bearer of true Light! God of our flesh, God of our minds, God of our innermost Will! O mighty Lord Satan, teach us to become strong and wise! Teach us to vanquish the enemies of our freedom and well-being! REGE SATANA!

Satanic Chant Of Alucarda And this what the devil does. He grants us virtues to expand his kingdom. The only valid one. God with his lack of knowledge does not understand this Truth, and oposes it with false thoughts and prayers. Satan! Satan! Satan! Our lord and master. I acknowledge thee as my God and Prince. I promise to serve and obey thee as long as I shall live. I renounce the other God and all the saints. Satan! Satan! Satan! Our lord and master. I acknowledge thee as my God and Prince. I promise to serve and obey thee as long as I shall live. Satan! Satan! I promise to do all the evil, as much as i can. I will draw everyone else to evil. I will declare your name to all, and will not cease to serve the Lord of Darkness. My body, my soul and my life belong to you. In Satan’s name Amen

PRAYER FOR GUIDANCE Teach me, Lord Satan, the knowledge of the ages Guide me in thy wisdom Let me feel thy presence and experience what you have for me Don’t let me be bound by irrefutable doctrines But lead me to true freedom Give me the strength to leave my comfort zone To explore that which is forbidden by those who believe they are wise Take away the fear that binds me Set me on my true path But if you don’t think I am ready, let it be as a sunrise Allow me to see your light as well as your darkness The fullness of who you are Satan, Melek Taus, Lucifer, Azazel If I could have anything, it would be to know your truth To believe in what is real Not in someone else’s insanity So as I walk down this narrow road Don’t let me be discouraged As it is you who have placed me upon it

BESTOW UPON ME SATAN Bestow upon me, Satan, the characteristics of the Dragon Overwhelming strength, vanquishing all weakness Uncompromising power, to manifest my will A fierce presence, in the face of my enemies Dreadfully protective, a shield for those I care about May its fire burn in my spirit, keeping the black flame bright Bestow upon me, Satan, the characteristics of the Serpent Possessing ancient wisdom, creative in my solitude Believably cunning, so I can make my way in life Extremely ruthless, when people attack In constant renewal, rising each day prepared to do your work May its venom run through my soul, till it consumes me Bestow upon me, Satan, the characteristics of the Peacock Prideful in appearance, always showing off my beauty Immortal spirit, living on throughout the ages Steadfast in everything, willing to go anywhere necessary Regal in stature, a presence to be reckoned with May its essence fill my body, making every step one of confidence Bestow upon me, Satan, the characteristics of the Raven Forever watchful, never ceasing to observe those around me Highly intelligent, knowing what to do in every situation A spiritual figure, so I can teach others about you Master of death, embracing it when my time has come May its darkness surround me, where every living being will feel you with me Bestow upon me, Satan, the characteristics of the Goat Stubborn in the face of adversary, never thwarted in my goals Fearless in the face of fear, doing what others dare not Courageous without limits, climbing every mountain in my way Wild to the point of abandon, free to be who I am meant to be May its energy ignite my faith and desire, forever holding high the horns of Baphomet

Satan’s Temple I have given you, Satan, my life force My blood spilt for your victory Come into me as I open myself Your essence consumes my soul I am yours… forever and eternally How could I love anyone more than you… it is not possible I live for you My body is yours to make your will manifest My mind I have given for you to create what you desire us to know My spirit declares your glory My soul is my ultimate sacrifice to you, my Master Satan, you fill my mind and transform me Darkness overcomes me, and I bask in its infernal pleasures Your presence surrounds me, therefore I am never alone With bended knee before your altar I have made eternal oaths that can never be broken May you always be glorified in everything I do Foundations have been shifted as you work in my life Where there once was light… there is darkness Where there was stagnation… now there is chaos Where there once was love… is hatred Satan, I am your temple I feel your presence increasing within me When people look at me, they see you As they feel me, they feel you I anoint them with my blood And when they drink of me, they drink of you I praise you eternally, Lord Satan Prince of Darkness, Ancient Serpent You are great and majestic With a beauty that shines more than the sun And darker than the deepest hole in the universe I embrace your darkness, I embrace your light With you, I have all I need Ave Satani!

PRAYER FOR SATANIST LEADERS Lord Satan Mighty One Wisdom Incarnate, Speaker of Knowledge I ask that you bestow upon us your blessings. Guide us, so we will serve you in the ways that you desire Give us strength, to keep us going when things get tough Bestow upon us wisdom, so we will know what to do in all situations Inspire us to encourage one another, instead of tear each other down So we will use our words to bless instead of curse Yet push us to stand tall when we face things that are wrong To fight if we have to, yet strive for peace Help us, Father, to be there for your children-both the adept and the new To guide them in learning what you have for them To encourage them not to follow anyone but you and to find their own path Let us not forget what it was like when we first came to you How you were gentle, kind and patient May we follow in your footsteps To love as you love, teach as you teach We are happy to be your servant; reveal to us the hidden things Try us; so we may be worthy of your affairs that you place in our hands Bestow on us your covenant as we trust in you Let us receive your counsel, not acting unless it is your will It is an honour to serve you, Lord Satan Thank you for choosing us May our lives be devoted to you; may we be a reflection of who you are to the world Watch over us and bless your people Lord and Mighty Satan, may it be done according to your will

PRAYER OF THANKS Satan For all the things you mean to me, I thank you For the joy in my heart, the life in my spirit, I give you thanks Satan, Father, you give me a reason to live You give my life meaning Every day is a treasure in which you encourage me to grow You nudge me to enjoy every minute The signs you give me, I treasure The dreams you send, they guide me Your presence reassures me I am not alone, for that there are no words Energy you give when I am weak Strength you pour into my being when I must walk the difficult walk When I am sad, you comfort me When people hurt me, you let me know you are on my side You are everything I will ever need You’re my Father, who I go to with everything My Teacher, who guides me in all knowledge My Protector, when I am in danger My Creator, who made me who I am And above all, Satan, you are my God with whom I will spend eternity Thank you, with all my heart Thank you, from the depths of my spirit Thank you, with all that I am

Prayer of the Satanic Warrior Oh Satan, you give us the power to trample the remnants of Christianity that is left in this world Fill us with your essence Let it run through our veins, our souls, our minds… our entire being We trample on the cross… we spit upon the book of lies… we desecrate the virgin whore Forever standing proud against the Abrahamic ‘god’ We blaspheme his holy spirit and laugh at his suffering Inspiring those in shackles to break free from his tyrant ways Entice them to take that precious bite, where they will be delivered forevermore You are the mighty one, Lord Satan And have bestowed upon us the knowledge that has made us what we are today We hail your name and stand strong with you for all eternity Inspire us even further to do the work you have for us To be warriors for you in this world and beyond Standing up to our enemies and yours alike We honour you through our words, our actions, our thoughts Each day that we live upon this earth, may we grow stronger in wisdom and in our love for you You are our Father, our Teacher, our Muse, our Everything We have taken your mark in dedication And the universe will know that we are yours Place your mighty hand upon us and lead us further down your infernal path Hail Satan!

PRAYER FOR EMOTIONAL HEALING When insecurity hits me like a raging wind Be with me, Father Satan When doubt strikes me like lightning Remind me of truth When fear over powers me Hold me in your wing, Great Dragon If pain grabs me like a claw Heal me, with your mighty power When depression fills me as water in a well Shower my soul with joy, Beautiful Peacock Angel Anxiety creeps through my mind, taking over my thoughts Place me on solid ground When I feel I am not good enough, Make my spirit shine as a star, Wise Serpent And if I feel that it is too hard to go on Give me strength

Prayer Upon Waking At the start of this new day, Lord Lucifer My thoughts are of you and I know you are with me I give this day to you Lead me to walk your path without hesitation To places where I will gain wisdom To sources where I will gain knowledge And where I can make a difference for you Push me so that no minute will be lost to laziness, inactivity or boredom So I will be the best that I can be in all areas of my life Watch over me this day Protect me from my enemies Wherever I am, may people see you in me And in everything I do, may you be honoured

Prayer Before Sleep At the end of this day, Lord Satan I thank you for each gift that you have bestowed upon me For teaching me ancient ways For experiences both good and bad that has made me stronger For the people you have taught me through For the pleasures in which I have partaken As I sleep, I ask that I may enter your dark realm So that I may be in your unholy presence Guide me, Satan, unto yourself And may I be forever grasped in your mighty wings.

A General prayer

Father Satan, I call to you from the deepst parts of my heart, I praise your name with every breath of my body, I worship you with every fibre of my being. You shown me what true strength is. you have shown me what true love is. Out of the darkness you came to show, me the true light. My master, my father and my friend what a great gift that is. Hail to the King! A PRAYER FOR DIRECTION Lord Satan sometimes life is hard, and now and then we get lost down the path of love and hate, Not sure of which direction to take. we ask that you always be our compass to guide us in the right direction. A prayer for a death Father Satan, This life has ended but the journey has only just begun. I ask you to guide my friend to the next stage of existance. May their soul forever retain the joy and love it once knew.

Thou Art Thou art the storm in the sky which brings the thunder of old, worshipped and coveted by Man Thou art the force of desire which enters the flesh, and that which enraptures the spirit more than the Christ ever could Thou art the eternal seed by which you propagate yourself again and again Thou art the wild bronco that never bends to anyone’s will, the deviant troublemaker that will always pervert the establishment Thou art competition, lust, greed, wrath, envy, pride, desire, love and all the glories of human nature Thou art the figure in black who is pleased to meet you Thou art Sathanas Thou art the highest of lords Thou art force pitted against force Thou art the one who unlocks the freedom of mankind Thou art the sword by which the tyrants are destroyed, the slaves are freed, the weak becomes strong and the servile becomes the master Thou art the demiurge and the devil, matter and spirit, the master of this world and the Lucifer frees the minds of its inhabitants Thou art the deities rebuked by the Christians, the Jews and the Muslims Thou art that which some might describe as the will to power, to ascend above all others and to take what is yours Thou art Sathanas Thou art the highest of lords Thou art the exalted goat of Mendes, the rebel chief, the lord of this world and the prince of the powers of the air Thou art the one whose magicians honour your name with their spells, their signs, their deeds and their egos Thou art the timeless meme of the force of beast and man, of that which shapes life, matter and spirit – that force which shapes us Thou art the natural superior to both the religions of old and the religions of new, all of which demand the sublimation of the individual Thou art the noblest inspiration of the artist, the creator and even the righteous who try in vain to rebuke thee Thou art the one to whom I commit myself, from the summer of 2013 until the end of time, as the ideal that I strive to follow Thou art Sathanas Thou art the highest of lords Devotional

“I believe in the Holy God, the Lord God Satan, the creator and giver of life. I acknowledge that in all the Universe there is nothing as beautiful and perfect as Satan. I come into your Holy presence and bow before your Magnificent Satanic Splendor. I open my heart and I ask that you come into my life and be my Lord and Master. From this day forward I renounce the God of the Bible and I worship only you, for you are the one true god. I accept you into my heart as my Lord and Savior. In Satan I am a new creation, born again, not of corruptible seed, but of the incorruptible seed of Satan. I open my soul and humbly receive the Sacred Satanic Seed into my mouth. I open my soul and humbly receive the Sacred Satanic Seed into my ass. From this day forward I am free from the bondage of guilt and shame, for there is nothing I may do in dedication to the glory of Satan that is forbidden. All that I am and all that I have I offer as gifts given freely to You. Accept my body and my soul a living sacrifice for Your glory. You are my life-source, and I am your sacrifice. Consume my every thought. Fuel my every desire. Create in me a Satanic-mind, that my thoughts may be of You and only You. I give all my love to You, for there is no other God worthy of my love. I devote my life to You, for there is no other God worthy of my life. I worship You with all my heart and soul, for there is no other God worthy of my worship. I lift my voice in praise to You, for there is no other God worthy of my praise. I offer my body a living sacrifice for your glory, for there is no other God worthy of my sacrificial offering. I surrender my eternal soul to You, for there is no other God worthy of my soul. This is, and will forever be, my eternal covenant. I will bow down and worship no other God but Satan.

Praise Satan. Hail Satan.”

Goddess we also worship. Blessed Whore of Babylon Goddess Jezabel Goddess Lilith

Hail Satan

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onlytaylor · 4 years

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Drarry + Facing Demons and Finding Family

Tw: mentions of symptoms of depression, anxiety, ptsd, and child abuse. All are resolved with a happy ending.

Draco Malfoy walks the cobblestone streets of Diagon Alley, and it’s different now. The way it had bustled with a vibrant vivacity in his younger years is long gone now, replaced by the mediocrities that come with running errands and making stops for work. It had been repaired, for the most part, after the war, but something about the shadows of buildings that used to be constructed just a little bit different haunts Malfoy in his steps.

He turns to glance over his shoulder when the sound of a child laughing fills the spaces between bustling bodies and adult feet. A familiar tuft of blue hair comes dashing forward, and Draco feels a momentary reprieve from his own hollow dissonance. His face lights up as the boy throws his arms around his neck, crying “Cousin Draco! What are you doing here?”

And behind the vivacious grin is the humble one of Harry Potter, the boy who really did end up saving the world. Draco doesn’t hate him; how could he? If it weren’t for the testimony of the man standing there now casually in his Muggle plaid shirt and ripped-up jeans, Draco wouldn’t be walking these streets.

“Malfoy,” he puts his hands in his pockets, rocking back and forth a bit on his feet. “What sort of business are you up to these days?”

“Oh, just... dropping off a package for the boss. You know.” He shrugs, suddenly vacant. His momentary reprieve shrinks into a daunting reality.

“Wanna come get ice cream with us?” Teddy’s toothy grin eats at the edges of his impending monotony.

“Oh, well, I wasn’t-“ he starts, but Harry Potter has stepped his foot forward.

“No, please. If you’re not too busy, we’d love to catch up. Teddy misses you.” And, allowing the package to feel a bit lighter in his coat pocket, Draco turns on one heel and heads to the parlor with them both.

***

Having Teddy Lupin run through his life is like chasing a tiny piece of dynamite. You never know just when it will explode, and when you’ve got it in your fingers it seems to roll invariably to the floor. Draco’s been waiting now for quite some time for his own destruction, but his regularly timed meetings with Harry (wow- really on a first name basis now) and his cousin had brightened his steps countably.

It seemed that the sparking fire may just never come.

***

Draco Malfoy doesn’t visit Malfoy manor, and its empty rooms are surely hung with cob webs and dust mites and other small creatures that have made it home. The stone exterior is beginning to succumb to a green vine that twists its way up the foundation, and apparently small children dare each other to knock on the door of the “Death Eater House.”

Draco doesn’t have to visit Malfoy Manor to know which ghosts roam its halls, apparitions of tortured souls and the results of his own mistakes. If only he’d stood up to his father. If only he’d run. If only...

Draco swallows, once, then twice, before straightening his stare ahead. Harry’s coming over soon, and this time Teddy is at the Burrow. They’ve never hung out like this, quite alone and unsupervised by Teddy’s string of home-made knock knock jokes. He’s not sure why, but he’s nervous.

***

After the war, Draco had considered himself a work-in-progress. He’d ventured through the stages of grief, mourning his losses and wishing he could change the past. He’d also picked himself up off of the floor, vowing to start new. None of this was easy. Panic followed him around every corner, but around every corner was the reassuring laugh of Teddy; smile of Harry. If he’s honest with himself, he’ll admit their great assistance in his own healing.

But that doesn’t stop the nightmares. Or the constant feeling of dread. And when Draco Malfoy is alone, his guilt consumes him. Why hadn’t he done the right thing? Why hadn’t he stood up to his father?

***

When Draco was eight, he’d drawn a portrait of his family. It was an assignment by his private tutor, a sort of busy-work while she prepared more practice for magical theory. He’d drawn them, stoic and cold, using shades of gray and black to fill in the spaces between them. They didn’t touch, didn’t love. Lucius told him that artists didn’t make any money in the Wizarding World. Draco ripped up the drawing and threw it in the rubbish bin.

***

When Draco’s lease on his London apartment is near its end, Harry finds him with a nervous twitch of his lips.

“You know, Draco, you don’t have to move into another building. I know you hate your neighbors because they remind you of your family. Our flat is large enough for a third member.”

Draco had almost immediately rejected- his first instinct was to scoff at any such attempts at pity. But Teddy’s eyes had met his, bright and foretelling- and his pleas almost melted Draco’s shoes to the asphalt.

“If you really want me to,” Draco smiles, “I’m sure that can be arranged.”

***

Draco hadn’t realized that his ghosts would follow him here. But as he watches the shadows dance upon the walls of his very own room, he knows he’s not dreaming. It’s his father, reminding him that he will never be good enough.

It’s his mother, watching with irrefutable silence.

It’s himself, pointing a wand at Dumbledore. Leaving with Snape. And abandoning his dreams to follow in his father’s foot steps.

It’s a portrait of Draco’s family, stone cold and frozen against the frosted window pane.

He doesn’t realize he’s screaming.

Not until the door is thrown open, and Harry’s there, sporting nothing but a pair of boxer shorts and a concerned purse of his lips.

He’s on the bed, and now Draco is crying. Yelling. Laughing hysterically. Because he’s fucking insane, sitting in a bed half-naked with Harry Potter and telling himself to shut his fucking mouth before Teddy wakes up.

But Harry is gentle. He wraps his arms around his shoulders and whispers “I know. But it’s not true. None of it is real.”

And Draco sobs, without really knowing how to stop, and Harry’s skin is warm against his own. It’s the first time he’s ever really felt whole.

Hours pass, though the clock reads otherwise. And Draco tells him that he needs to go back to bed. That they’ve both got work in the morning, and Teddy is visiting Andromeda...

But, no, Harry whispers, this is more important. You are more important. When had their relationship morphed into this... whatever this is?

Draco Malfoy allows himself to be held, and it is surprisingly wonderful.

***

Working for the ministry is like working in one of those Muggle cubicles. He should be grateful for the opportunity, but Draco hates his job. His boss is monstrous, a poised figure that reminds him far too much of his father.

He gets a bit panicky when requests are made, unable to say no. Draco Malfoy never thought he’d become a push over, but his inherent desire to please, to win, to have a second chance is tumultuous.

He doesn’t know how to live without it.

***

Teddy is spending the night at the Burrow, and Draco and Harry are doing their usual dance of washing and putting away the dishes.

“Fancy a movie?” Harry asks, and something soft flutters in Draco’s chest.

“Sure.”

***

It’s midnight when Draco feels the gentle presence of Harry slumped against his shoulder, his quiet snores a rhythm that he begins to memorize.

He doesn’t move, and the stillness is what allows him to feel the sporadic twitches that begin to ripple through Harry’s body.

“No, no,” he murmurs, “Please, no. Hermione... Cruciatus...”

Draco freezes, and he immediately understands the inner workings of Harry’s psyche.

He was there when his aunt Bella inflicted near irreparable damage to Hermione Granger. He didn’t stand up. He didn’t stop her.

There’s a tightness in his chest, and it fluctuates with his heart rate. Harry is having a nightmare, and it’s all his fault.

“You’ll never make up for what you’ve done,” he hears his father say, and the words are a gun to his head.

“Harry,” he whispers, desperately running his fingers along the side of his arm to calm him. If he couldn’t go back, the least he could do is aid his sleep.

Harry settles, and Draco breathes a sigh of relief. His father is laughing at him.

Ghostly shadows dance along the walls, flickering in the dim light of the TV. The world seems to grow around him, and he is infintismal.

His palms are sweaty as the guilt settles, rotting a hole in his stomach. And then there’s a whisper, a subtle word that shifts everything: “Draco.”

He glances at Harry’s face twice to make sure he’s not imagining the slight tug at the corner of his mouth. He said Draco’s name. And, from the depths of his slumber, he’s smiling.

Draco’s eyes are prickly, and he’s not sure why there are tears surfacing at such an inopportune moment. Perhaps he’s gone completely insane... or maybe...

“Not your father, Draco... amazing... need you... love you...”

A light seems to dissipate the shadows, which morph and expand into unidentifiable shapes before they slowly vanish. Draco’s hands are still clammy, but his mind is on overdrive.

The Savior of the Wizarding World is dreaming about him. Believes in him. Maybe, even...loves him?

And the remaining shadows come crashing down, spirits that find rest in redemption. If Harry Potter, with his stupid scar, and his stupid broomstick, could think highly of Draco Malfoy, the ex-death eater... maybe he could forgive himself.

Maybe... and then there are images flashing through his mind. Of stone family drawings and cruel and unjust punishment.

Of the desire to please, so much, that if his father pointed a wand at his throat he’d beg for forgiveness. Of pretending to have dignity for so long that he’d lost his own along the way.

And then, another sleepy rasp from Potter: “not your fault...”

And something snaps inside him.

“Not my fault,” he repeats, barely audible, yet it rattles an earthquake that cracks the floor. The ground faults, and everything he’s ever know crumbles before him.

“You are pathetic.” The voice of his father shakes the walls, breaks the foundation. Rips open the fortress of his solitude, jagged lines coursing through his very being and down to his core.

There’s a wand at his throat.

Harry isn’t here. Here, it’s a Malfoy’s paradise, and Draco’s skin crawls at the realistic image of his father before him. He’s so fucking life-like, the drawl of his criticism dripping with the poison of a basilisk. He’s smiling, and that hurts. It’s malicious.

But then, another whisper. A distant proclamation that rings through the periphery of his hearing. “Draco... always... good enough...”

Fuck. Harry?

“Good enough,” he repeats, the syllables a solid reality, just like the man before him. And, in a sudden fit of realization, Draco realizes the epitome of his salvation.

“You’re not real,” he says, and the words are a bit shaky as they permeate the air. His father’s face twists into something unreadable, a cross between a scowl and utter shock.

“You’re not real.” The wand lowers. His brow narrows.

“You were never real. My father is in Azkaban. You are just the ghost of what he did to me.”

His hands are drifting into the atmosphere, like grains of sand dissipating toward the floor. His expression morphs into utter fear, and, for once, Draco feels powerful.

It was never about defeating him. He could have dualed his fractured subconscious for years, constantly bettering himself, only to fall again. And the wand would always be pointed at his throat

But Harry, Harry said he was good enough. And he can hear the distant titter of Teddy’s amusement, the padding of his socks as they bounce along the hardwood floor of their flat. Of their home.

Harry cares. Loves. And so Draco must love himself.

“You could never kill me,” he says to the air, as the whisp of Lucius Malfoy’s presence fades into nothing. “It was just me, all along. Hurting myself because you trained me to. It wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t my fucking fault.”

There’s a sudden whoosh, and the room is spinning. And then it’s not. And Draco Malfoy is sitting next to a blissfully sleeping Harry Potter in a London flat.

The movie is over, and all that remains of the last few minutes is a line of scrolling credits.

The shadows, they’re gone. And somehow, Draco is no longer haunted. The house is peaceful, and a serenity seems to fill it’s every crevice, binding the cracks that once cleaved the walls. He pulls Harry closer, wrapping an arm around his shoulder. Taking a risk he’d never had the confidence to execute.

Harry smiles, stirring a bit before turning his green gaze upward. “That’s nice,” he says, and Draco chuckles.

“Yeah, it is, hm?”

“Hey Draco?”

He doesn’t reply, but meets that vibrant stare of his with irrefutable honesty.

“Thanks for being a part of our family.”

“Family?” The word nervously slips his lips. He’s never done this before.

Harry nods. “You, me, and Teddy.”

His eyes are prickly again, and he swallows a hard lump in the back of his throat. “I love the sound of that. Of family.”

“Good. Because I’ll hex you if you go anywhere. Old habits do die hard, you know.”

Draco laughs, hearty. Whole. Harry snuggles into his shoulder, falling asleep lightly as he thoughtfully plans his next project.

***

The next day, Teddy enters to find Draco drawing a picture of his family at the kitchen table.

“Whatcha doin’?” He asks curiously, hopping onto Draco’s lap as he sketches.

The picture before them is a family, a blonde, a brunette, and a tuft or blue hair between them. There are no spaces, no empty holes between their bodies, and the sky is a vibrant array of purples and oranges.

“Let’s hang it on the fridge!” Teddy exclaims, grasping it and running to attach it to the front of the surface.

Draco eyes the picture smiling, and it is the best he’s ever felt.

#drarry #draco malfoy #harry potter #teddy lupin #lucius malfoy #narcissa malfoy #draco x harry #drarry squad #draco malfoy x harry potter #dad! draco and harry #facing your inner demons #post war #draco malfoy will forever be my muse for kicking daddy issues to the curb #this was therapy for me

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greaterlandscapes · 3 years

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My Dean Blunt Rotation aka High Fidelity Left A Bad Taste in My Mouth

For the past 2 to 3 months, my listening habits were teetering to an end; mostly via burnout by spontaneously listening to local artists daily and less likely of a musical discovery drought, whereas my interests of a certain artist or genre hasn't found its, sort of, "eureka", moment per se. I've been feeling less enthusiastic over the things i listen to since my friends have gradually lost their flare when it comes to discovering/exploring untapped parts of the music realm. Thus, in return, my enthusiasm not being reciprocated. It leaves an empty feeling from someone who has been yearning social interaction, may it be media being latched on the topic - it's a feeling that's been guilt-tripping me ever since I was stranded in the other end of the metro. I feel closed off, exposed to the crippling loneliness the lockdown has punished us: a defacto solitary confinement in a national level. Our act of staying online is also an act of staying alive outside.

To be fair though, it's a valid move to not boomerang compliments/gripes over an art you haven't consumed due to someone's autonomy. Your able body being to consume the art you wish to finish with free time is a luxury in of itself. The art is then failed to serve its purpose to reach its goal: You have squiggly lines heading straight to oblivion rather than swirling in the earlobes of a wandering cyber nomad. We, eventually, need to find something that could help us exit, rather than escape, from capital. We, in return, do not shut ourselves from the outside. Instead, we then tend to avoid the stress of protocols and outdoor fascism; Not avoid the indoor liberalism that is eating us alive and online. It's a capital punishment we never knew we signed up for ever since the onslaught of the virus and the state. Art for art's sake is nonexistent now, always has been, it seizes to ever since we went inside. Feeding off of a holographic meatloaf coming from a glowing screen. We have a real-life Karen acting as a nightlight in our rooms.

The COVID lockdown made us listen to music — both for better, for worse. For one, it made us pass most days. You could say the same for any sort of media: film, mixed media art, or whatever pre-Covid activity that sprung up during our time in isolation. For music, however, there was an uptick of new listeners that made others Wheel-of-Fortune the fuck out of their music discoveries in sites like RateYourMusic, Bandcamp, or even Sophie's Floorboard. We've continued to expand and became more open change of opinions and be less of a jackass towards someone else's opinions. On second thought, our opinions have been catalogued, leaving more notes than actual footprints of our previous listens. Our new discoveries made new bands and re-emerging bands, bands who faded to obscurity, crawl back in the surface with newfound interest from younger listeners (ie Panchiko, Jai Paul, and Dean Blunt) and this glowing, previously unseen and unexpected overwhelming support from fans of departed artists (ie SOPHIE, MF DOOM)

For the other, we've hogged gratuitous amounts of media, resulting into losing our primary direction as to how we want to consume our media based on the preconceived notions of what we want in our art. There is goodness in becoming directionless when you think about it, but there comes a cost to our identity as music listeners. Instead, we end up widening our tangents, falling in endless rabbit holes, having zero chances to emerge from the surface. In fact, i refuse to call it a "rabbit hole" instead i'd rather call it a "pipeline" of sorts — transitioning casual music fans into a full on, different, unique versions of themselves that would define them when laws and protocols have eased in the outside world. Our act of staying online has either made most of us break our character or enliven our past selves. The music pipeline is now more apparent, stretching the norms of what was once alienated by a silent majority, but now accepted as an acceptable form of expression. The more music we are exposed to has made casual listeners stranged out or react in ways that our personality have betrayed us or deemed not as acceptable to them. Still, not changing anything that was prominent pre-pandemic. Liberal cop behavior is stronger, now more dangerous than it ever was once perceived by the outside world.

HIGH FIDELITY? NO, THANK YOU.

Imagine a situation inside of a record, pre-pandemic of course, where you do not feel like lifting a record out from the shelf, instead, you window shop just for the sake of windowshopping. Capital and media made us think that going to record shops is a semi-productive activity. The age of discovery has died ever since High Fidelity romanticized and normalized the incelage of horny record diggers. Does this movie age well, yeah sure it does, for old 90s nerds at least. But did it translate well over in the past 20 or more years of events and tragedies that unfolded in pre-9/11 America? No it didn't. It was an age of free expression, only liberals would dream of whenever they take a sip of Guinness beer in their favorite dive bar.

Mind you, over a couple of months ago, it was my only chance in seeing why this movie was the talk of the town back when it was released. There's music, yeah, and attractive leading leadies, yeah, it has everything a 90s kid would love to salivate and drop their gonads over while they watch this movie. I obviously did not live to see the movie on opening day but i could imagine the scent that came out of that movie theater with attendees donning windbreakers and The Who shirts with popcorn dressing stains on their plastic cups. If there was a Filipino counterpart to this movie, i'd bet corporate champions Eraserheads and Rivermaya would soundtrack their music over and have either Tado or have Boy 2 Quizon, but i sense it to age like milk more than it could age like fine wine due to the senseless jokes one can execute in a Cubao or Cartimar record store.

John Cusack is obviously the incel in question here: a damaged, vengeful ex who constantly fails to live his partner's expectations and weaponizes his personality over the situations that has nothing to do with his interests. I spent the entire time being absolutely disgusted over the spineless responses of John Cusack's leading character. The movie then treads on flashbacks with John Cusack's failed relationships and what he could do to move on from each and one of them. If i could stand a SONA for 3 hours then I can't stand John Cusack being the dull entry point to incel, making more reasons why you should hate record store clerks who don't give an iota of shits to someone's inviting rapport. High Fidelity is opium for massive music circle jerks who can't take a single breathe of fresh air or a single quota of touching grass. There's more targeting weak and inferior guys and hot women who dump dumb overconfident dudebros more than the actual "music recs" in the entire movie. The more I think about this movie, the more I realize how our personality is in line towards Dick, the record store being unmercifully dunked on by the movie's two leading characters. He's an angel in the world of cynical bastards, witnessing both demons pitchforking record store customers in the ass while they're purchasing the latest Sonic Youth album.

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I believe that Jack Black, the dark horse of High Fidelity, has a pleasing personality more than an irritating demeanor due to this behavior in the record store. In fact, outside of the record store, Jack Black doesn't seem to take the business is your pleasure act pretty seriously. Unlike John Cusack's character he brought his obsession over involving a record in an important memory/point of his life. There is so much stuff that has happened outside of the record store, so much for Rolling Stone and NME being the bible of music at the time, endlessly christening and shilling artists that believe to become the second coming of the Beatles. The music references here however are treated as fluff than it is a mechanism that would drive the senseless plot forward. If anything, there are events pointed out in the event that doesn't have anything to do with the life of the characters.

If anything, this movie did a great job at capturing the feeling of music bros being dumped on the wayside by a mature set of characters and how their current conditions aren't perfumed by the studios' liking of having to Cinderella story the shit out of a bunch of normal record store owners. The reality is in the reaction of one's social capital being invaded and we're here to witness how those reactions panned out in 2021. This is a villainous depiction of music nerds being the salt of the earth, the bane of all media discussion, still reflective of the insufferable salt of cyberspace found in music forums like 4chan and RYM. High Fidelity is a pipeline of 90s musicology, a dreaded fever dream of an owner waiting for the decade to end, trends ossifying and re-emerged by the hands of nostalgia-savvy individuals. It was, at its time, every music-movie nerd's excuse equivalent of Scott Pilgrim VS. The World. There are memories worth remembering and cherishing, and this movie isn't one of them.

DEAN BLUNT, WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK

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In the past two weeks I've been fancying myself into sitting down and listening to different projects from the ever elusive, UK-based sound artist Dean Blunt. The first time i chanced upon his music wasn't too long ago - albeit a recent one in the time of COVID - was when I randomly stumbled upon his records at a Spotify recommendations section under John Maus (yeah lol i know the implications whenever his name is mentioned) - but then i was enamored by his online presence so quickly I put everything down and dedicated an hour or two researching about this man's music.

Other than the fact that his album "The Redeemer" wasn't the best record to start off in journeying through his discography: ending up disgusted and borderline bored even and I was more likely to lambast this record's aimless, pretentious art-pop inflections. By the end of the day, it was a preference long solidified by his undying fanbase. According to his hardcore fans, the music isn't really music, evaluating it as a free form of sound art, rather than sticking to a structured and conventional cues; the genre is nullified by most analysts of the arts. The growing interest of the general public towards Dean Blunt's pranks and antics have long appealed to my tastes as a chaotic neutral individual. Pranks that are well executed to piss off UK gallery connoisseurs and entertain ironic attendees who'd shit on the art piece rather than participate in it.

More of the resources I've found about Dean Blunt online: numerous aliases and collaborations that lasted around almost 2 decades. The most notable of all them, at least for my money, are either Hype Williams, a duo consisting of Dean and frequent collaborator Inga Copeland, and Babyfather, an art performance parodizing the pirate radio culture in the UK. I have not delved enough in Blunt's body of work to evaluate everything and what i could synthesize from it. For now, I enjoyed it as a form of entertainment. Well, color me impressed because Dean Blunt isn't clowning around, he, in fact, makes blissful and transcendental music from left to right.

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Dean Blunt was the only few artists that made me want to binge on their discography. His movements in his music has attracted this pesky listener who thinks that being mysterious is a plus. I mean, look at me who thinks The Paul Institute, Panchiko, and Burial are the greatest artists that have walked the face of the earth.

The most I've enjoyed from Dean Blunt's discography are his mixtapes and collaborations: preferably his Soul Fire and ZUSHI, both of which were packaged as B-sides or supplemental releases rather than major releases such as the Babyfather project or the Black Metal releases. His knack for blurring the lines between genres still fascinate me as of this writing, and it continues to amaze me how he doesn't seize to compromise his art, he's here to prove a point and it sells quite well despite the lack of direction in his music. Blunt's music has more aggressive and hazy texture than the hollow, wide, soulless structure of art-pop/hypnagogic pop released today. He creates terrains from the rubble of his country's current shortcomings. The music overlaps the actual intentions with abstract concepts, becoming deconstructed down the line. In Babyfather, noise music coincides with Blunt's amateurish rapping. In Black Metal, Blunt isolates himself along with the assisted skeletal guitar playing. Both projects throwing all tropes in a vaccum alongside Blunt, who he himself would sought to become a personification of a musical void.

(Excerpt from the Babyfather album review in TinyMixtapes)

Dean Blunt is an entity that wishes to become one person, but no, this isn't a figure in a specific art form; this isn't Banksy, this isn't Bob Ong, this is made by one person, clearly it is if you listen closely, and it's been entrancing me ever since his presence was felt on the horizons of the internet. Dean Blunt, what the actual fuck.

#dean blunt #high fidelity #music #film #music review #2021 #hype williams #Youtube

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lee-at-the-movies · 3 years

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Powder

(1995)

Director: Victor Salva

*Spoilers*

I’m not sure I've ever seen a movie that insists upon itself to the degree 1995′s Powder does. Director Victor Salva is relentless in his campaign to tell the audience they are being moved. There is not a solitary element of this film that isn’t contrived to the point of parody. The average Lifetime channel flick is more confident letting its audience process emotions without being steered, groomed if you will, at every moment. Powder uses its score to evoke sympathy and warmth the way sitcoms use laugh tracks to let you know something funny is happening. Had the filmmakers given the audience more room to freely interpret the events taking on place screen, they would have ran the risk of having people see Powder for the ludicrous freak show that it is.

To quickly run through the plot of Powder - a pregnant lady gets struck by lightning and dies, but the baby lives. The father rejects the baby at the hospital and it’s raised by some hick grandparents. Sixteenish years later a the grandparents die and a social worker discovers the then teenaged boy living in a dank, book-filled basement out in the country. His name is Jeremy, AKA Powder. He’s albino, hairless and agoraphobic, but he’s read Moby Dick, so the social worker knows he must be a gifted kid. She takes him to a boys home, enrolls him in the local high school, he displays misunderstood powers, hearts are allegedly warmed, minds are expanded, yada yada yada....

It’s all tone deaf. The first act seems like it should be leading up to Powder turning on society and hurting people. That would have been more compelling! The people in town are actually a little nicer to Jeremy than you would think. There is obviously the one implausibly vicious bully and his bitchboys who instantly target him, but Jeremy is literally some kind of Nosferatu-lookin, bald-headed ass, cellar dwelling, electrical warlock monster. Upon going to school for the first time, he is only bullied for 30 seconds before he opts to use fucking psycho-electric telekinesis on the whole cafeteria in what would, in real life, be a TERRIFYING display. People SHOULD other him for that! Instead, he doesn’t even get detention and a hot girl suddenly has eyes for him - the chalk white, hairless MONSTER that recently crawled out of a dilapidated basement on the outskirts of town!

His persecution is:

A) not as extensive as a movie like this calls for

B) warranted, for the most part

Sakes! I’m not in favor of hunting, but I’m also not in favor of mind rape! There is a crucial scene in this movie where Powder is disgusted to witness one of the sheriff deputies hunting deer with bully kids. His response is to grab the guy by the arm and TRANSPORT HIS FUCKING CONSCIOUSNESS into the body of the dying animal! Since when is it okay to brain swap people without their permission? Two wrongs don’t make a right, Powder. He’s supposed to be perfect! That is the text of the movie. The movie explicitly tells you that Powder IS better than you. This kid is literally an ascended being.

I rented this movie because I wanted to see something featuring 90s Jeff Goldblum. He plays the physics teacher at Jeremy’s high school. After being accidentally electrocuted by the dangerous monster child Goldblum apparently feels smarter and fucks better. This causes him to postulate to powdery ole Jeremy that he must being living proof of some misappropriated Einstein theory about humans being able to become light energy. In the movie, Goldblum is presenting it to Powder as a theory, but as a viewer you know the film is basically declaring that is how we are to understand Powder from that point on. Jeff Goldblum touches him inappropriately in this scene. He begins to stroke Jeremy’s body and head, caressing him sensually. There is a justification given for this, but it is false and Goldblum is still his fucking physics teacher! Sick!

The whole time this dusty little ghoul has been seeing the social worker played by Mary Steenbergen - the one who pulled him out his wet book-hole. Jeremy has one last blowup with the jock kids after randomly walking into a gym and staring at one of the “bullies” taking a shower. The jocks get rightfully weirded out. He is, after all, a dangerous Magneto-esque goblin who can steal their minds and electrify their bodies. They pull his pants down and push him in a puddle of mud. You would think that being covered in mud might limit Powder’s ability to extoll psycho-electric violence, but you’d be wrong. He fucking KILLS one of them for this, but he brings them back to life so it’s still Powder being perfect and too good for this world. It’s not dark at all.

This last kerfuffle is the last straw for Jeremy, his social worker and his physics professor. They decide that Powder will have an easier time finding acceptance in a different environment. (They were probably going to move to Austin or something. I think this movie took place in Texas.) Jeremy seems onboard with this plan. He has his neighborhood watch logo rapist costume on, his briefcase at his side, but then it begins to storm. So instead of getting in the car waiting for him, Jeremy sprints wildly into a field. Nobody knows what the fuck he’s doing, but they do not give much chase. A bolt of lightning strikes the bald teenager, either vaporizing and or consuming him. This is all a good thing. Everybody instantly intuits that Jeremy had decided to become light energy. They felt him in their loins or something after he was zapped. Nobody entertains the possibility that he was simply exploded and killed dead by a giant lightning bolt. That’s what their eyes observed, but they’re all going with the random hypothesis of a high school science teacher and choosing to believe the ashy kid in the fedora was some kind of Akira like god being.

How did Powder even decide that was a possibility? Was Jeff Goldblum telling him he had 100% usage of his brain before molesting him all he needed to hear to figure out that he had the option of becoming lightning? I choose to believe that he didn’t ascend to a higher state at all. In my mental canon, Powder commits suicide via lightning storm and everybody looking on is fine with it, because he is a dangerous little creep. They all knew he would eventually turn on humanity, so they put it in his head that he could become electricity by letting lightning strike his body. By the way, if that’s NOT the case, then did Jeff Goldblum discover that superhumans can be made by electrocuting pregnant women? That’s how Powder got his freak abilities. His fucking mom was struck by lightning while he was in the womb. Nothing about this movie was okay. None of it made emotional sense, sci-fi sense or basic common sense. I have so much more to say about Powder, but I’m cutting myself off. Life needn’t be so Powdery.

Verdict - it’s bad

I’m glad to have seen Powder. It’s fun to hate and pick apart, but it’s insultingly pushy. Speaking of which, apparently this director is a pervert. He abused some kid on the set of a movie called Clownhouse. Imagine that. Maybe that scene with Jeff Goldblum fondling Powder’s dome was exactly as problematic as it felt. If you are not a jaded individual or somebody that enjoys picking apart shitty movies, there is no reason you should ever subject yourself to this movie. It’s a bizarrely bad movie made by a sick child abuser.

Note: I did not know the stuff about the director going into this viewing. As I said, I was looking for a 90s Goldblum movie and this is what I settled on. I only learned the director was a pervert afterwards. Same guy directed Jeepers Creepers. What’s up with him and abandoned country basements? I wonder if there’s something worth investigating there.

#Sean Patrick Flannery #Jeff Goldblum #Mary Steenbergen #Lance Henrikson #1995 #Victor Salva #90s movies #sci-fi #fantasy #drama #bad movies #movie reviews #review #outcast movies #gifted people

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youllallriseintheink · 3 years

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Audrey and the Dark Revival, chapter 2: Open Loop

Audrey and the Dark Revival is intended as a sequel series for Bendy and the Ink Machine. May the actual sequel come out soon and completely blow mine out of the water.

This one is where the plot gets real.

Also, I’m using a few of @mwolf0epsilon‘s fantastic monster designs, and plan on using more of them in the future.

---

When Allison removed Audrey’s blindfold, they are on separate sides of a metal door. The door had once been for a now-defunct meat freezer in an industrial kitchen, but it was now defunct, as the lack of cold and the massive, albeit boarded-up, hole in the door told her.

“Sorry about that,” Allison said, “It’s hard to trust anyone around here. I’d normally have just kept an eye on you and let you be, but you have no idea how valuable humans are down here. I really couldn’t just let you go. If you could help us, I would owe you the world. Of course, the fact that you’re on Nathan’s side could cause some challenges... but let’s at least try to work something out.”

“Woah, wait...” Audrey said, “I’m not on Nathan’s side. I’ve been here half an hour and I already regret coming. Nathan and I aren’t on good terms... Anyhow, what I really want is information. What is this place? What are you? And why are humans so valuable?”

“For a long time, I didn’t know what this place was either. Then, a few years ago, I found an audio log from Nathan Arch explaining it. A man named Joey Drew made this place. It’s a representation of how he feels about his failures as an animation visionary- that’s what most of this place is, anyhow. He didn’t create the people. They’re people he murdered, or who got poisoned. Part of the reason this place exists is as a storage device for them. A lot of the space isn’t his creation, either. This place used to be a lot smaller, and after it had been around a few years, Joey Drew put it in a time loop. The only reason I escaped it is because the ink demon chased me into one of Nathan’s areas. The new areas- they aren’t affected by the loop!” Allison’s face brightened considerably. “For a while I thought that the spell was breaking. That it was the world opening up to us! Tom told me otherwise, but I was sure.” Allison darkened again, and Tom laid a hand over her shoulder. “Then, over time, Tom and I kept running into worse and worse monsters. The world has expanded... but it’s also gotten darker, and more crowded. So, Tom and I took to doing what we’ve always done- survive, and look for solutions. We found your father’s lair, complete with new monsters coming out of it. But no toon could ever get into it- it’s defended by ink canons made to melt any other creature of this realm who comes close. And since there were no humans around who were up for the task... since then we’ve just been surviving. Waiting on a hero. Audrey, will you help us to get your father out of here before he makes this place any more of a nightmare?”

Audrey was overwhelmed. “I- I’d love to. But I’m just a random civilian. I don’t know how to fight monsters. I don’t know the lay of the land.”

“Well, you’ll have to learn that if you want to survive here, whether you want to be a saviour or not. I can teach you to fight, and the names of monsters.” Tom whispered something in Allison’s ear. “And there is another human in this realm. If you won’t be our hero, maybe you can convince him to be. He’s proficient at combat and knows the place like the back of his hand!”

Audrey was silent for a while, weighing her options. A part of her didn’t see much other choice. While she had no reason to believe these strangers, they were clearly strong, and the world was clearly dangerous, and she wanted them on her side. And if they were telling the truth and could lead her to Nathan, all the better. “I’ll do it,” she decided.

“Excellent,” Allison beamed, smiling excitedly, and they let her out. After gearing up in the industrial kitchen that they’d made into a base (complete with cots and even a fish tank, Audrey noticed), they headed out. Allison led- she clearly knew the lay of the land. Along the way, she pointed out a number of monsters. She pulled Audrey away from a ledge, warning of the balls of wool, horns, and hooves that might ram her over the edge. From a safe distance, they witnessed a huge, quasi-canine abomination with hooks for hands dragging an exhausted, monkey-looking abomination into a puddle of ink, in which it dissolved. Allison called these creatures “rammers,” “catchers,” and “pipers” respectively. Along the way, there were also opportunities for Audrey to practice using her shock powers with Tom and Allison as back-up. She was getting quite proficient.

Finally, they arrived at what appeared to be a storage area for amusement park equipment- “Bendyland,” as Audrey learned about it from tapes. Just past a roller coaster ride was some sort of ethereal boundary. Their side of the boundary was the some dark, gloomy blue-toned white that everything in this realm had been. The other side of the boundary was somewhat better lit and sepia-toned. “That’s the area affected by the loops,” Allison explained. “And Henry- the other human- will be passing through there.”

“Great,” Audrey replied, clicking the button of a tape recorder that she’d found sitting on a workbench.

The death of the Great Bertrum Piedmont was a tragedy, truly. He was a great boss. But I’m not so sure about sticking around. Seems like there’s been an awful lot of murders among the Bendyland staff since then... and yet the rides keep gettin’ made faster than ever. It’s like they build themselves after the lights go out. I have half a mind to go pokin’ around... but I don’t have that much of a death wish.

Suddenly the roller coaster began to rattle. A piece of the tracks disconnected and swiveled towards the trio, and a duck-shaped cart hurtled towards them, sending them scattering to avoid being crushed. The duck carts- approximately a dozen of them- split off in different directions, going to various spaces in the vast, area-consuming roller coaster. Tom found a round, foundational bolt, and barked to get Allison’s attention before smashing it with his metal first. Allison turned to Audrey, who was attempting to shock a duck to little effect. “Audrey!” she shouted, “find the foundational bolts!”

“What?” Audrey yelled back, dodging out of the way of a duck.

“These!” Allison yelled, stabbing one opposite to the one Tom had destroyed. The entire section of roller coaster collapsed, falling onto another and taking it out with it like dominoes.

“Okay!” Audrey called out, before returning to the weave of dodging ducks, never staying in any one place too long, and finding foundational bots to takeout with her lightening powers. Her power’s range was very useful, but she still needed to constantly be on the move. When the carnival music finally stopped, Audrey looked around her to assure that there were no more pieces of roller coaster left to destroy. Then, she collapsed, first sitting, and then sprawling out on the floor.

Allison rushed over. “You okay?” she asked.

Audrey nodded. “Tired.” She wasn’t used to this kind of activity, but took solace in the fact that even Allison and Tom seemed pretty worn out.

“Well, you’re in luck. A break is the next thing on our to-do list.” Allison helped Audrey up, and they went over to a little selection of carnival games. “Henry will come over here. It’s a part of his loops. It could be five minutes or days. In the meantime, this room has no monsters, so we might as well relax. Wanna see if you can beat me at this shooting game?”

With that, the three of them spent the next couple hours playing games and hanging out. “Wait-” Allison said after Audrey had shared a little story, “You have memories of the outside. You can tell us about the outside!”

Audrey reached for Allison’s wrist. “Well, sure, I-”

As soon as Audrey made skin contact with Allison, Allison’s face went into blank shock. Audrey’s first instinct was to look behind her, but there was nothing there.

“Allison? Allison?”

“Give me a moment. Oh my God. I remember everything.”

“Sorry. Nathan gives me powers like this. He’s probably trying to sabotage us somehow.”

“How could this possibly be sabotage?” Allison beamed, smiling widely. “I don’t know anything about Nathan. Maybe he’s stuck and wants to escape. But this is great. You could work your magic on Henry this way! Speaking of which- over there!” Allison pointed to the entrance of Bendyland.

Through it, a man emerged. It wasn’t the hero that Allison had promised. The man looked to be in his mid-fifties, and was fairly athletic but nothing special. More notably, he was stained head to toe in ink, and had an extremely bored, weary expression on his face. He saw the trio, but ignored their presence entirely and plodded over to one of the games.

“You first, Audrey" Allison whispered, “He’ll think that we’re a hallucination, but he’s never seen you before. I guess I should tell you now, though- he’s not the man he once was. These time loops have damaged him greatly.”

Audrey headed over to him and the other two followed. Allison grabbed his arm, which Henry still didn’t react to, simply trying to play the game despite Allison hanging off of him. Audrey touched him, and he spasmed out, gasping, but afterwards went right back to his game.

“Henry, this is not a hallucination. Come with us,” Audrey said.

“Yes you are, Allison,” Henry sighed, still looking at the game, “you aren’t from this part of the loop.”

“Henry. You’ve never seen me before,” Audrey said.

Henry turned to her. “You’re right. I haven’t seen you. Sorry, my memory’s a little... spotty, although after what you just did to me...” Henry drifted off into space. “Maybe you aren’t a hallucination. So... what do you want?”

Considering the revelation he’d just had, the man’s voice conveyed considerably little emotion. Audrey chose her next words carefully.

“Henry, we can’t get you out of the studio- not yet, anyhow. But we can get you out of this time loop if you come with us. And we need your help.”

“Henry, come with us and we’ll save Boris" Allison added, “We know a way into chamber he’s being kept in.”

Henry’s eyes immediately lit up. “I’ll come!,” he said, showing the first signs of hope and life that Audrey had seen in him. “If we can do that, then I’ll know this is real!”

#Bendy and the Ink Machine #Audrey Arch #Henry Stein #Allison Angel #tom boris #Audrey and the Dark Revival #my fanfiction

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kae-karo · 4 years

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6&8 with bakushima maybe...?

i see how it is. y’all want me to suffer huh. if that’s how it is then i guess i gotta drag y’all with me good fuckin luck lmao (no but seriously thank u for this lmao i wanted to expand on this (x) prompt i did before and this is a great opportunity for it although i am so so sorry with how intense this got that was not my intent but here we are)

6. “You broke me and now you expect me to follow you out onto the battlefield? No. The answer is no.”

8. “You take me instead, do you hear me? Give her back and take me instead.”

[read on ao3]

–

Katsuki can’t sleep, no matter how hard he tries. He should be resting, he needs to be ready for tomorrow, he needs to be alert when they arrive. He can’t be exhausted, but he’s too damn wired right now to even close his eyes.

Kirishima had actually answered, had asked if Katsuki was okay. His hand shakes as it brushes against the dried blood on his arm - is he okay? He hadn’t meant for any of this to happen. He didn’t think it’d take this long - this much - to earn their trust. He didn’t think he’d be dragged this deep. Can he even really call himself a hero? Heroes don’t kill people, they save them.

But that’s what this whole mission was for, to save people. To prevent something horrible and devastating from taking innocent lives. To put the League out of commission for good.

So why does he feel like a villain?

---------

Dawn paints the sky all shades of red, and Katsuki drops his gaze from the horizon to his shoes. He can’t let himself get distracted now, can’t spend time thinking about anything other than the plan. He refuses to think about Kirishima now.

Could he ever forgive what Katsuki’s done?

The thought creeps in anyway, demanding his attention, and he stands so fast his head spins. He needs to be somewhere else, somewhere dark and colorless and meaningless, somewhere he can pretend to be the hero playing villain. Where he can pretend he doesn’t feel corruption twisting around his heart and lungs, suffocating him from the inside.

Somewhere he can’t see anything, least of all the red of the sunrise promising a new day.

They should be here soon, he hopes. He can’t do anything else aside from hope at this point. Hope that they haven’t given up on him.

They wouldn’t, would they?

No, he can’t doubt them now. He’s done his job, he’s done what he had to do, and now he needs to trust that they’ll do their part. That they’ll come for him.

His hands find their way into his pockets as he walks back inside.

---------

“Hey, kid.” Katsuki startles at the voice, too on edge with nerves. They can’t have caught him, he’s sure - he’s been so careful. Done everything they asked, no matter the cost. No matter the blackness it tainted him with. They can’t suspect anything, not now, not when he’s so close.

“The hell do you want?” He can play the part for a little longer, just long enough. Just until they come for him. He fixes his expression into something he hopes is just as cold and aloof as Dabi’s.

“You got a little…” Dabi trails off, his thumb brushing his cheekbone just above the scars. Katsuki rubs at the same spot on his own face, doing his best not to let his stomach turn as dried blood scrapes against the back of his hand. Before Dabi can say anything more, he turns and heads toward the bathroom to wipe it away properly.

If this is the first time Kirishima sees him in so many months, Katsuki doesn’t want him to see the villain he’s become.

-----------

Nobody comes for him - neither the League nor his friends, if they still consider themselves his friends. He’s left alone in his room, and the phone he isn’t supposed to have draws his attention like a black hole, sucking him in. He refuses to touch it, though.

His friends, they will come for him, he has to believe that. And he won’t risk messing up the mission now.

But the hours tick by, marked by the shadows that creep steadily across the concrete floor, and there’s hardly a sound beyond his door. Nothing to indicate a sudden attack, nobody bursting into the room and demanding he come and fight.

Nobody bursting through the door to tell him that he’s safe now, that he can come home. That he did his job, took out the League. That he’s a hero.

“I miss you.”

Sometimes Katsuki misses himself, too - the person he was before all this, before he became something he doesn’t recognize. He wonders if Kirishima would recognize him like this.

But he doesn’t get the luxury of losing himself in those thoughts, because the door finally - finally, finally - bursts open, Twice sticking his head in.

“Kid, get your ass out here, we need some backup.” He doesn’t sound nearly as worried as Katsuki would’ve hoped, but he’ll take what he can get right now. His heart thumps wildly in his chest as he sits up, but he only allows himself a single moment of relief before standing.

He hopes there are enough of them to take down the League. He hopes this was all worth it, that this will be a success. That everything he’s done has had a purpose.

Then he shoves all those thoughts down deep in his chest, so deep that he can’t feel them as he stalks toward the half-open door. Twice has long since left, but Katsuki forces a wicked grin to his lips anyway.

Only a few more moments of playing the part, then he can turn against the League. Turn against the assholes that have plagued his existence since he started on his journey to become a hero. Turn against the group that forced his hand, that made him act like a villain.

He wants it to be their fault, but it was still Katsuki’s hand, it was still his decision.

He hopes this will be the end, one way or another.

----------

It’s quiet at first, more like a low rumbling than anything loud and sudden and terrifying, but he follows it through the twisting halls until it grows to discernible sounds - voices shouting, heavy blows landing, things breaking and crumbling and crashing. Around this corner, or maybe the next, he thinks.

And then he’s pulled in another direction, away from the noise through an open door and into an unlit room. A hand clamps over his mouth before he can say anything, not that he’d even know who to call for. If it’s his friends, he shouldn’t draw attention. If it’s the League, would his friends even come for him?

He’s not entirely sure he’s worth saving.

“Todoroki, let him go, it’s Kacchan!” Deku’s voice sends a wave of relief though Katsuki’s veins, not that he’d ever admit it aloud. They did come for him. The hand falls from his mouth, though Katsuki still can’t see in the darkness - he’s not even sure where he’s standing, perhaps in some disused room he’d never bothered to do more than glance into.

“I’m aware, that’s why I grabbed him.” Icyhot’s voice this time, somewhere behind him, and Katsuki turns. He thinks he’s facing them, but it’s not easy to tell. He has half a mind to say something, but his brain refuses to come up with some witty remark and he’ll be damned before he actually thanks them.

“Kacchan, are you okay? We were so-”

“Midoriya, Todoroki, Aizawa needs your help.” Katsuki sucks in a breath - Kirishima’s here too? All three of these idiots?

He shuts down the tiny voice in his head that says Kirishima came for him. Now isn’t the time.

“Right!” Deku whisper-shouts, and the door creaks open behind Katsuki. He turns just in time to catch the slightest glimpse of wild dark green and tufts of red and white before the door drifts shut again. By the time he turns back to where he thinks Kirishima’s standing, it’s too dark to see.

Silence stretches out for what feels like ages, though it’s probably only a few seconds.

“Shitty hair?” He hadn’t just imagined Kirishima was here, had he? Surely not, not if Deku and Icyhot had left at his suggestion? There’s a deep breath, a slow exhale.

“Bakugou.” Kirishima sounds sad, so fucking sad, like he’s...he sounds exactly how Katsuki imagined he’d sound if he knew what Katsuki had done. He wonders if he does know, somehow. Then he shakes his head hard, trying to clear it.

Now isn’t the time. They need to deal with the League first, Katsuki can worry about falling apart later.

“We need to get out there, we need to help them-” he starts, but he stops the moment Kirishima speaks.

“Bakugou…” His voice is too soft, and Katsuki can’t decide if he wishes he could see his face right now or not. “You went dark…” No, no, he wants to shout at Kirishima. Now is not the time, they have to- they have to do this, they have to succeed or this will have all been for nothing, they can’t- Katsuki can’t do this. He can’t hold himself together.

“We thought you were gone, I thought-” a sigh, “I thought you really joined them…”

Katsuki exhales a shaky breath. No, he’d never truly joined them, but he helped them. He killed for them. Does it really matter what side he claims to be on at this point? Actions speak far louder than words.

“We can’t do this now, we-” Katsuki tries, but his words fall flat and he presses his lips together to stop them.

“I thought that you...you played us, made us believe-” Kirishima’s voice pitches low, and his breaths come in a little too quickly in the sudden silence. “But then you called, and...and you...I thought you were gone. How am I supposed to trust you after that?” There’s a shuffling of footsteps, and Katsuki wishes desperately for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. He wishes it weren’t so absolute.

Or maybe he’s just wishing that the darkness in his chest, the one that threatens to swallow up his heart, that it didn’t feel so absolute. So complete, so unavoidable. So all-consuming.

“I thought you betrayed us, betrayed me. I trusted you, but you...you broke me.” Katsuki rubs hard at his face, at the tears spilling over onto his cheeks. But it’s dark, Kirishima can’t see them. Katsuki almost wishes he could. “And now you expect me to just...follow you out onto the battlefield? No. The answer is no.”

Katsuki’s knees go weak under him, and it takes every ounce of effort to hold himself upright, to stop from literally crumbling.

Kirishima’s lost faith in him. Kirishima.

“I have done-” Katsuki clears his throat, angry at the way it breaks. “I have done terrible things, shit I wish I’d never…” he can’t bring himself to say it, but he can’t let this happen, not like this. “I did what I had to do for this mission, so we could bring the League down, and-”

And? And what? He’s still done those terrible things. His actions are that of a villain, and that’s how he deserves to be seen. He doesn’t deserve Kirishima’s forgiveness. He takes a step back, toward the door behind him. He’ll still fight for his friends, even if he can never redeem himself for what he’s done.

“I’m going out there, I’m fighting to put these fuckers behind bars because that’s all I can do right now.” He can feel the razor sharpness of his own words, the way they cut the air and slice up what’s left of his heart. He can’t see Kirishima, but he’s afraid if he could, he wouldn’t have the strength to turn on a heel and pull the door open.

Light blinds him, bright and cold and clinical, but it centers him as well. He needs to be just as emotionless and unfeeling, he can’t afford to let his friends risk their lives when he isn’t doing the same.

“Bakugou, I-” Kirishima starts, and Katsuki’s feet pause. The words stop there, though, and Kirishima makes a muffled sound that Katsuki can’t place. He should keep walking, keep going and find his other friends and fight for them the way a hero would, but the ache in his chest wins out.

He whirls around to catch the edge of the door before it closes, and the pale light from the hall reaches into the depths of the room to cast Kirishima’s face in sharp relief.

Along with the hand clasped tight over Kirishima’s mouth and the glint of a blade held against his throat.

“Oh, little Bakugou.” It’s Toga, her grin bordering on feral as she tilts her head at Katsuki. In spite of the fact that she’s barely tall enough to reach his mouth, Kirishima remains totally still. Katsuki does the same.

For once, for once in his damn life, Katsuki lets himself relax - there’s nothing she can do to Kirishima, not with his quirk. She’s basically harmless against-

Katsuki’s eyes widen as a trickle of blood drips down Kirishima’s neck. He’s never been more terrified to see someone bleed.

“What the hell did you do to him?” Katsuki asks, and Kirishima makes a mumbled sort of growling sound behind Toga’s hand, but she just laughs like she’s told a hilarious joke that nobody else is in on. There’s a tinny sort of sound, then, as something rolls toward Katsuki’s feet.

It’s only once it bumps into his shoe that he recognizes the tip of a needle and the tiny vial attached to it. Katsuki’s gaze flicks up to find Kirishima’s eyes wide, and his neck presses against the edge of the knife as he swallows.

“Shigaraki wouldn’t let us play with the good stuff, so his quirk loss is only temporary.” Toga sounds like a little kid who’s just been told they can’t have what they want, pouting and disappointed. “But!” She bounces a bit on her toes. “I can have a lot of fun in just a couple hours!” Katsuki sucks in a breath as a fresh wave of blood pools over the blade and trickles down Kirishima’s neck.

“You take me instead, do you hear me?” Katsuki steps forward, but Toga just tuts at him and presses the blade harder against Kirishima’s throat. His heart races in his chest, fear bubbling up and demanding he fight, that he win. He may not be worthy of being called a hero, not after everything he’s done, but he refuses to let Kirishima get hurt at his expense. “Give him back and take me instead.”

He can endure whatever torture they’ll inevitably put him through. Hell, he would welcome it if it meant keeping Kirishima safe. Kirishima, who fights hard to protect the people he cares about. Kirishima, who doesn’t deserve the ramifications of what Katsuki’s done, who doesn’t deserve to pay for Katsuki’s mistakes.

Kirishima, who came for him even though Katsuki doesn’t deserve to be saved.

“I don’t wanna keep you, you’re no fun!” Toga whines. “You just kill them, you don’t even cut them up all pretty first!” Katsuki’s ears start ringing, his blood pounding hard enough in his ears to block out whatever words roll off Toga’s tongue next. All he can hear is ‘you just kill them’ on repeat in time with his heart, all he can see are Kirishima’s wide eyes.

No, he doesn’t deserve to be saved.

“He’s useless to us,” Katsuki spits, sneering at Kirishima. “He’s an extra, didn’t you hear they left him behind? He’s not even worth sending in to fight.” Katsuki coughs out a bitter laugh.

“So I can kill him then?” Toga’s bouncing on her toes again, and the knife cuts shallow lines against Kirishima’s throat. Katsuki takes a casual step forward, hoping the wide innocence in Toga’s eyes means she’s no longer seeing him as a threat.

“What’s the point?” God, couldn’t it have been anyone other than Toga, the one with an obsessive bloodlust? Anyone else he might’ve been able to sway with some ease. “Besides, he’s quirkless for now.” Maybe he can shift her attention. “Completely harmless. We should go help the others, they’re still fighting.”

He hopes they’re still fighting, please let them still be fighting. Let his friends, the people he cares about, the heroes be winning. He can give everything over, every part of himself, if it means they’re taking the League down.

“Aww,” she pouts, “I guess you’re right.” Katsuki sighs - although he’s worried at how simple that was. It should’ve been harder, he thinks. His whole body aches with tension as Toga falls back from the balls of her feet.

“I should just kill him now, real quick.” Her grin widens to something manic, and Katsuki sucks in a breath. “Told ya you’re no fun, Bakugou!” She laughs through the words, and her knife twitches, drawing another line of blood. Katsuki’s hands fall to his sides, and he launches himself forward as fast as he can manage with his explosions, but before he can get to Kirishima, everything freezes.

Literally.

Katsuki’s stopped midair, held in place by a belt of ice around his waist as someone shouts something behind him. But all he can see is the knife, frozen where it presses against Kirishima’s neck.

Kirishima’s eyes are squeezed shut, but he opens them wide a moment later, and Katsuki finally exhales a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. His heart hammers fast in his chest, louder than the sudden rush of noise around him, next to him.

There’s a crackling, though, that he feels in his chest, and it’s only once he’s halfway to the ground that he realizes the ice has started melting.

“Kirishima, oh my god!” Deku’s voice, but Katsuki can’t make out anything beyond that - damn Deku and his mumbling. He won’t say he missed it, but...he’d gotten used to it, and it’s been weird not to hear it these past few months.

“M’okay, don’t worry!” Kirishima says, though Katsuki can hear the fear under his bright tone. He can’t take his eyes off the streaks of blood running down his neck.

“We need to get you both out of here, the police have arrived and…” Katsuki can vaguely hear Todoroki speaking, unnervingly calm in spite of what they’ve all just been through. In spite of the fact that he’d only just managed to stop Toga from killing Kirishima right in front of Katsuki’s eyes, while he’d stood there and practically convinced her to do it.

He hadn’t meant to, he’d been trying to talk her out of it, but he can’t imagine how Kirishima must’ve seen it.

“Hey Shitty Hair, can I, uh…” He can’t, he can’t walk out of here and let Kirishima think- think what, though? That he’s a villain? But he is, isn’t he?

“I dunno, Kacchan, I think he needs to see Recovery Girl first, right?” Deku says, but Katsuki’s focused on Kirishima. Wide red eyes watch him, and Katsuki purses his lips and drops his head. He can’t cry, not in front of everyone. He told them all he could handle it, that he was perfect for this job. He can’t let them all see what it’s taken from him.

He can’t let them all know how undeserving he is to be rescued, but Kirishima...Kirishima should understand the truth.

“It’s okay guys, we’ll catch up,” he says, and Katsuki’s eyes flick up to meet Kirishima’s.

Deku and Icyhot must find their way out, a frozen Toga in tow, because silence engulfs him and Kirishima a few moments later. Katsuki’s suddenly at a loss for what to say.

“You killed someone?” Katsuki squeezes his eyes shut. Kirishima’s voice is low, like he’s just as terrified that someone will overhear as Katsuki is.

“I didn’t- I didn’t think I had a choice, okay? I thought...I thought I was doing what I had to do,” Katsuki says to the ground. “I thought I was doing the right thing.” The words barely come out above a whisper.

He waits in the empty silence, waits for Kirishima to rage at him, or to say he’s unforgivable, he’s not a hero, he could never be after that. He waits for the fear, the hatred, all the things Katsuki deserves.

“And what do you think now?” Katsuki lifts his head to find Kirishima watching, waiting. For what, Katsuki isn’t sure. The truth, maybe? He squeezes his eyes shut - Kirishima deserves the truth. Actually, he deserves a hell of a lot more, but the truth is all he can give.

“I can’t undo what I did. I would if I could, but I can’t.” He inhales a deep, shaky breath, and begs the blackness behind his eyes to give him enough strength to say all the things bubbling up in his chest, the things he’s tried to keep buried.

“And I hated it. I hate myself for doing it, I hate myself, it’s- it’s been fucking with my head, and I can’t get it out, I can’t fix it, I can’t- I can’t- I f-fucked it up, I was so wrong, I thought I could handle it but I couldn’t, I-” He startles when arms wrap around him, warm and solid and strong.

“K-Kirishima, stop, I- I killed someone, I’m-” Katsuki can barely get the words out now, lost in a wave of sobs that threaten to overcome him completely, but Kirishima doesn’t let go. Katsuki can feel the wet warmth of blood against his neck from Kirishima’s cuts, the ones he got because of Katsuki, because he-

“Get off!” He shoves at Kirishima’s shoulders, but he can’t put any force into it, and Kirishima’s grip only tightens further. Katsuki’s knees threaten to collapse beneath him, his whole body suddenly weak and exhausted, but Kirishima holds him in place.

“I’m so sorry,” Kirishima whispers in his ear, his head tucked in the crook of Katsuki’s neck. “I’m so sorry we didn’t come for you sooner, I’m so sorry you thought that was your only option.”

Katsuki can feel the fragile pieces of himself splinter apart, shatter and crumble as Kirishima holds him.

-------------

The rest of the day passes in a blur of faces and locations and white walls he’s fairly certain belong to a hospital. He doesn’t have the energy to tell anyone he’s not injured, he shouldn’t be here.

Maybe they can see inside him, the blackness that’s consumed him like a malicious virus, swallowing up every ounce of good he ever had in his body. He wonders if there’s a treatment, a fix.

He doubts it.

They keep him hooked to an IV, though, and doctors and nurses wander in and out. Aizawa comes in at one point, offering his thanks for everything he’s done, but Katsuki can’t look him in the eye. Aizawa doesn’t know what he’s done, and if he did, he’d never speak to Katsuki again.

Todoroki and Deku show up, too, bringing news of their success in taking down the League. Deku heaps on the praise, saying it wouldn’t have been possible without Katsuki, that he’s a hero.

The word makes him sick to his stomach.

It’s Icyhot that finally suggests they leave him alone, and he’s grateful for it. He doesn’t deserve their appreciation, doesn’t deserve their kindness. He deserves to be put behind bars with the rest of the villains, he deserves to be punished for what he’s done, but he can’t even begin to consider telling them. So he’ll punish himself instead.

He doesn’t eat, can barely sleep without waking an hour later in a cold sweat with the feeling of blood coating his body again. Every time he tries to rest, it’s a different person he’s killing as the League members stand around him, their unspoken threat enough to make him act. Sometimes Deku or Todoroki, sometimes one of his other classmates, sometimes All Might or another teacher, or some faceless civilian.

In the early hours of the morning, it’s Kirishima. He refuses to even attempt to sleep after that.

The next time someone dares to walk through the door to Katsuki’s self-made prison cell of a room, he demands to know where Kirishima is, if he’s okay.

“Kirishima Eijirou,” he adds as the nurse frowns at him. “Red Riot, is he okay?” He should’ve asked right away, the moment he’d been lucid enough to realize where he was.

“Oh! Yes, yes, he’s just fine. Sleeping off the effects of that drug a few rooms over.” The guy goes about his business, checking something on Katsuki’s chart before shuffling over to remove the IV needle from his arm. “And you’re clear to leave whenever you feel ready!”

They’ll let him leave, just like that? Don’t they know what he’s capable of, what he’s done?

He stares hard at the white wall across from him, waiting for the nurse to leave. It’s like nobody cares, just cause he’s a hero. How could they not have figured it out by now? The League must’ve told them, or Kirishima had, or they’d found out somehow, right?

He doesn’t deserve to walk out of here unpunished, to be celebrated by his friends and strangers.

If he stayed, would they let him waste away here? Would they let him make this his own prison, since they refuse to put him in a cell themselves?

“Bakugou?” Katsuki startles, then turns to find Kirishima standing at the door. He dips his head, a harsh ‘leave me alone’ on his tongue. “Can we talk?” Kirishima beats him to speaking, and Katsuki’s far too weak to say no to him. Maybe he’ll say all the things Katsuki’s been thinking, tell him how he deserves to rot in prison, how he’s irredeemable and villainous and-

“I don’t know what happened,” Kirishima says, and Katsuki peeks up from behind the strands of hair falling in his face to see Kirishima’s gotten closer. “But what you did…” Katsuki squeezes his eyes shut, waiting for the inevitable. He holds his breath in the silence.

“You did something terrible.” It’s not what he expects Kirishima to say, but it hurts him all the same. It hurts, and he deserves to be in pain. “Something you can’t fix.” Tears prick at the back of Katsuki’s eyes. “And I don’t understand, but I know you didn’t do it because you wanted to.”

Katsuki stares hard at the thin sheet covering his lap, the lines of it blurring behind the water welling up in his eyes.

“It doesn’t matter what I wanted.” His voice cracks as he speaks, along with his resolve. How can Kirishima talk about this like it’s okay? “All that matters is what I did.”

“No.” Kirishima’s tone invites no argument, and Katsuki lifts his head to find Kirishima’s gaze hard as he stares at Katsuki. “I used to think- I mean, it wasn’t the same, but I used to think so too. That one thing, one mistake, it defined who I was forever.”

“This wasn’t a mistake, it was someone’s life,” Katsuki argues - how can Kirishima not see this?

“I’m not saying it was small, I’m just- I’m saying that if you let that be who you are, that’s all you’ll ever be.”

“I’m a murderer, that’s never going to change,” Katsuki growls. Nice words won’t cover up the blood on his hands. He shoves them under the sheets as if that could make what he’s done disappear.

“No, it won’t.” Katsuki blows out a harsh breath - at least he’s not trying to dispute that point. “But it’s not that simple, it’s not black and white-”

“It’s life or death, there’s no in between,” Katsuki interrupts. Why is Kirishima trying to justify this? Why is he trying to tell Katsuki that it’s okay?

“Not for them, but…” Kirishima sighs, and his weight settles on the edge of Katsuki’s bed. “I’m not trying to say it was good, I just meant that…you were in an impossible situation.” Katsuki lifts his gaze just enough to see Kirishima’s hand clenching the sheets.

“We left you in an impossible situation. I left you…” His voice breaks on the words, and Katsuki sucks in a breath.

“I chose my life over someone else’s, a hero doesn’t do that,” he says. He stares hard at the lines of Kirishima’s hand, willing his focus to stay on the present, willing his memories to stay locked in the back of his head. He can’t relive that, not right now.

Kirishima slams his fist into the edge of the mattress, startling Katsuki, and his eyes lift to see Kirishima staring hard at him. Light reflects from the tear tracks on his cheeks.

“Well maybe it’s selfish of me, maybe it’s not very heroic, but I’m glad you chose your life.” His words invite no argument, not that Katsuki can even fathom speaking right now. Kirishima dips his head. “I don’t know what I would’ve done in your place.”

Katsuki doesn’t doubt Kirishima would risk his life to save someone else, but a sudden wave of righteous fear rushes through him at the thought - he wouldn’t let Kirishima sacrifice himself, if he had any way to stop him. He hates that he understands.

Kirishima blows out a breath, then he rubs at his face.

“For what it’s worth, I'm glad you're alive. I don't know what I'd do if-" He stops there and dips his head, and Katsuki clenches his jaw to stop the sob that fights its way up his throat. He might not be a hero, but he’d fight to his dying breath to keep Kirishima safe if the roles had been reversed. "Anyway, I should-"

Katsuki pulls his hand from under the sheet and reaches for Kirishima's, but he stops just short, and his fingers barely brush against Kirishima's wrist. Does he deserve to ask this of Kirishima? Maybe not. But maybe he's selfish too.

"Stay?" he asks anyway, and Kirishima pauses. When he turns back to Katsuki, the corner of his lip ticks up in a small smile. "Please?"

Kirishima blows out a breath, and his hand reaches out to take Katsuki's where it hovers in the air.

"I didn’t know you had manners,” he says, and Katsuki rolls his eyes. But Kirishima squeezes his hand tight. “I’m not going anywhere, Katsuki.”

#bnha #kiribaku angst #jackiewolf #ask #kt

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ask-de-writer · 4 years

Text

FRIEND AND THE IMPERIAL EGGS : Part 3 of 7 : MLP Fan Fiction

Return to the Master Story Index

Return to MLP Fan Fiction

FRIEND AND THE IMPERIAL EGGS

A Daring Do tale

Part 3 of 7

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck)

8927 words

This is a Fan Fiction based on My Little Pony. Canterlot, Princess Luna and the name Daring Do are owned by Hasboro Inc.

//////////////

Users of Tumblr.com are specifically granted the following rights. They may reblog the story. They may use the characters or original characters in my settings for fan fiction, fan art works, cosplay, or fan musical compositions, provided that such things are done without charge. I will allow those who do commission art works to charge for their images.

All sorts of fan art, cosplay, music or fictions is actively encouraged.

///////////////////////

Moreegg entered the Baron’s study in the morning. There were many signs of the Baron having worked on the collection. As he began to tidy up, he found the Baron’s cold tea only half drunk. It was sitting out on a recent newspaper, opened to the celebripony gossip.

The teacup was weighing down a note:

Moreegg: Take good care of the Barony in my absence. I have had a brilliant idea that can expand the collection with some of the rarest eggs ever. I must do this alone, Yoksonu, Baron.

As the mystified Moreegg was straightening the side table, he noticed an item in the Celebripony Gossip.

“The Gryphon Empire takes great pride in announcing that an Imperial Clutch is soon to be expected. In spite of the difficulties caused by the recent civil war, a trustworthy clutch-tender has been found to care for the Imperial Eggs.”

Moreegg gazed sadly at the empty Gryphon egg case and said softly, “Please, dear Celestia, not that.”

////////////

The firing range that had been set up in the Hospital Aerie’s lowest level reverberated to the rapid roar of Daring Do’s beloved Spiderly 13 mm! The powerful buck of the gun in hoof with each round and the smell of powder added to the delightful experience!

“Three bullseyes, the other two within three mm!” exclaimed nurse Grayyk. “It is wonderful how you can maintain such accuracy with recoil like that!” She held the retrieved target up for Daring Do to examine.

Eyes sparkling, Daring Do pointed to another target. The holes in it were not as tightly clustered. “For a so called novice shooter, you are doing really well! That little 8 mm is just perfect for your claws!”

Nurse Grayyk was writing the tallies and times into Daring Do’s chart. She looked up, clipping the pen back to the chart. Her crest set to show how pleased she was, she answered, “If a student does well, it is a reflection on the quality of the teacher. I have the best!

“Now to the pool. I was told by Friend not to let you try laps yet. It may help you to know that the Hellbore poison did a lot of damage to your connective tissues at the joints. You need gentle, low resistance exercise for best recovery. She is very concerned that you recover the best, rather than fastest.”

Daring Do nodded, faking glumness. Actually, as the warm waters closed about her, she relaxed, and began the enjoyable slow exercises that Friend wanted her to do.

////////////

Baron Yoksonu leaned back in the working chair. “You understand how I want this done?”

“Yes, Sir. Our field may be small but we are well known for the quality of our makeups and prosthesis. You want a quality makeup that will be durable for up to a week. Over it, you want a second, basically a mask of your present self. One that will be easily penetrated.”

Shaking her head, the orange mare began applying careful layers of latex like material. “It must be an elaborate practical joke that you are pulling.”

The Baron, considerately trying not to move, agreed, “It is indeed. It should be quite the jest when it is done.”

Hidden within his wallet lay a simple seeming card. It had been MUCH harder to obtain and far more expensive than the make up work, and that was not cheap. The card was an Equestrian Railroad Security Inspector’s card.

The picture on the card was what was being applied to him now, as the quality makeup basic disguise.

////////////

Friend was happily playing with the Eaglets, preening them and cuddling. She was feeding them dangled strips of meat now. They were developing exactly as her Eagle nymphs should.

She was surrounded by that delicate glow of magic that guided and protected her precious eggs and the nymphs that hatched from them. None of these, Eagle or Gryphon, would ever become a changeling, so, she reflected, they were nymphs.

She also considered, far down in a mind more clever and devious than any who knew her but perhaps Matunen, all that she had learned of Gryphon and Pony politics and schemes as she had consumed her prey. Those evil, plotting Gryphons had their share to contribute to her thoughts.

Found in both Grata’s mind and that of Matunen, was the detestable Baron Yoksonu and his collection. Several of the eggs in his collection had been gathered from creatures of intelligence and wisdom. Because of that, even Doctor Do, her Matunen, detested the Baron. Matunen did recognize the scientific value of the collection and that had to be respected.

While serenely preening and feeding the next sweet little Eaglet, she smiled to herself. Grata had gone along with announcing the new Imperial Clutch in Celebripony News.

Just this morning, a far flying Eagle had returned her the news. The Baron, barely home a day, had disappeared. All was proceeding as it should.

////////////

Grata was sharing a nest with her Empress and the Right Wing of the Throne. Their chosen consort had done his part a week ago and it was time. Soon they would produce the Imperial Eggs.

The Empress raised her crest in frankness, “Grata, I cannot help but be worried about announcing our clutch in the Celebripony News. This should be a State Secret. Why is it not?”

Grata replied, “Friend, who will be tending our eggs for us, asked me to do it. She said that it might help to uncover any remaining First Creationists and other undesirable sorts.”

Hisst, the Right Wing of the Imperial Throne, raised her crest in question, “What she is doing won’t put our eggs at risk, will it? I mean, her magic seems so, so gossamer thin.”

Grata, crest rippling with amusement, replied, “Our eggs will be perfectly safe. Remember what happened to the traitor Arrokk, who tried to fly through it? The staff only needed broom and mop to clean him up. There was no shred of him big enough to pick up by claw. The other seven that Friend gathered up and dumped at the foot of the Throne at that same time? None could resist that gossamer.

“Friend can be soft, gentle and loving. Under that gentleness is toughness like I have never seen. She thrives best, not by taking love, but by sharing it. And love is the wrong word for it. There just is not any other. It is a subtle and very complex magic.

“Using that magic to guide the development of chicks in the egg is only one example of it in action. The destruction of the traitor Arrokk while in flight is a different aspect of it. Doctor Do’s healing is another. Our very existence as a species is yet another. All of those things, together with her feelings, is what she means by loving the eggs.”

The Empress finally entered the conversation, crest raised in question, “I have been most carefully reading all of the reports on Doctor Do’s condition. There are actually more reports on what the doctors have observed about Friend.

“They have never found her to be asleep as we understand the term. Is that true?”

Grata, crest spread in honesty, replied, “That is true. Friend does rest but she is always ready for instant action, if needed.”

The Empress nodded, holding her breath and pushing. “There. I do believe that is the last of our clutch.

“Let us take the eggs down to Friend. I want to meet her up close and see her reaction.”

////////////

<==PREVIOUS NEXT==>

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#FRIEND AND THE IMPERIAL EGGS #Part 3 of 7 #MLP Fan Fiction #Written by De Writer

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validatio-n · 4 years

Text

Dying To Live

I first met death when I was very young. I didn’t know what it was, and it never really took a form until I was around 16. I quietened his voice like we all try do to at the start, by ignoring it, partying, or seeking validation from people who don’t deserve you to glance in their direction.

It appeared as though the demons in my head I feebly tried to still had noticed what I tried to do, and they were angry. The thoughts I had of worthlessness, insignificance, unlovability and self-loathing festered from a light, continual hum that I learnt to deal with, to something likened to when you plug your headphones in and the volume is turned up the whole way. You get such a fright and rip the headphones out of your ear. Except with me, I can’t rip them out of my ear. For a long time, I couldn’t even turn the volume down. For 24 hours a day, even in sleep, no matter who I was with or what I was doing, I constantly had this music in my ears telling me I was nothing, I was no one, I was ugly and I deserved everything that had happened to me. Sure, a lot of the time it wasn’t blaring loud and sometimes I barely noticed it, but after years of trying to fight off that voice, you begin to accept it. You begin to believe it, and it becomes a natural part of your everyday life.

Once that’s happened, you’ve successfully opened yourself up for Death to manifest him self in your body. He will creep in and start slow, so you don’t notice him planting seeds in your mind that he watches grow, spreading a thick black toxic throughout your body, turning your blood to poison and your skin to ice. You’re trapped, your body doesn’t feel like your own. You pinch at your skin in disgust and dream of hacking away your non-existent fat with a meat cleaver. Slicing your arms like you’re playing the violin and staring at the blood rushing out even if the mere thought of blood makes you queasy. You’ll wonder, although you’ve gone through some shit, why you are so fucking sad. You’ll wonder why people did what they did to you, how they did what they did to you. You’ll go to the doctors and you’ll get diagnosed and you’ll go through the therapy and you’ll use your support systems and you’ll swear you’re going to beat this sadistic fuck that is depression and anxiety and panic disorder and night terror (Death, in other words), and some days, you believe you will. But when its 3am and its you and Death lying in your tear-soaked bed, Death is the only one there for you.

He’s telling you how you’re going to hurt yourself to feel better. He’s saying it’s going to take the pain away; it’s going to make you have the best sleep ever with no nightmares and no panic attacks. Hurting yourself will make you in control again, he’s saying one scratch won’t do any damage, just try it, see how it feels to inflict physical pain to quash the mental pain. You know the mental pain is your brain playing tricks on you. You know it’s a chemical imbalance. You know the anxiety and the PTSD is from your past relationships. You know Death isn’t actually sitting next to you, but that doesn’t mean that you don’t feel it, because at this time you don’t even know that it’s Death you’re dealing with. Your rational side is gone. You’re sitting in a room where oxygen has turned into a venomous gas that you’re breathing in as you hyperventilate and choke as it constricts your airways.

He watches you as you pull out a shitty pink razor, the crappy ones that you get angry at your mum for buying because you can’t get a good shave with them. Upon looking at it, you’re glad she bought the shit ones because the quality ones would be way too hard to pry open. He’s looking at you, salivating, telling you to pick apart the razor, its easy, just get a knife, wedge it in and flick up the top bit of plastic. Your hands don’t feel like your own. It feels like somebody is controlling your brain making your body move, yet you don’t stop it. Like a puppet on a string. Death doesn’t get angry when you look at yourself in the mirror, sobbing as you can’t even manage to take apart a fucking razor. He watches you throw it across your bedroom full of photos of you and your girlfriends, you and your mum, you and your boyfriends. Your little white cat gets a fright as the razor smashes against the wall and falls behind your dresser. He says in a voice so sweet yet condescending that it’s okay to be so pathetic. He watches you slide the knife under your bed. He holds you in his ice cold arms as you curl up in bed, shaking, crying, nauseous over the fact that you almost cut yourself. Death is with you as the immense loneliness washes over you, suffocating you between sobs. Death rocks you to sleep with a smile on his face, because those seeds he planted are growing, and it’s only a matter of time until they blossom.

You wake up.

You scared yourself.

You reach out to friends, therapists, family. You promise yourself you’re never going to get that close to doing something so stupid again. And you don’t. Death is gone, you’ve beaten him.

For a while.

You haven’t beaten death. You haven’t softened his voice. Sure, he wasn’t prominent in the whole ‘slice your arm into pieces’ front, but rest assured, death was still floating around your room. He’s looking through all your stuff, watching you sleep as he dips in and out of your brain, learning as much about you as he can, feeding toxic sludge to your mind as you’re unaware. Sleep paralysis. Death is smart. He knows he hasn’t worn you down enough to hurt yourself. He knows how to manifest himself in his prey and seep poison into their minds until they have been manipulated and tortured enough to snatch up and take with his mouth wide open, pupils wide, ready to swallow whole as he drags your lifeless body bloody and limp through the realms until he dumps you next to the millions of others who’ve succumbed to the disease. You haven’t gotten away that easily. It’s a waiting game now.

In the orchestral catastrophe that is depression, this was the intermission. The entertainment during this time can be called anorexia.

Death renders you weaker than you know. Anxiety grows so alarmingly fast that your appetite is reduced to practically nothing. You become intolerant to your own body. This is ok, because you’re not cutting yourself. It’s okay, because it isn’t deliberate. You repeat this to yourself over and over as you revel in the bruises that appear on the inside of your knees from trying to sleep on your side; the bones crushing in to each other. You repeat this to yourself as you watch in awe at your ribcage expand and deflate as you inhale and exhale. You can see where your rib was cracked by the hands of those who vowed to never hurt you, by those who vowed to fix you. Your skin stretched tight over protruding bones fascinate you for hours as you trace your fingers over your body in a trance like state of wonder.

You’re hungry, and it’s not for food.

Then, it becomes deliberate.

You’ve always been skinny regardless of what you ate. You’ve loved your body. Never hesitant to run around half naked no matter who was around or where you were. Not provocatively, not attention seeking, just comfortable. Your body was your safeguard. Compliments came naturally, envy was apparent. Then your mind wanders and you think to yourself I wonder what people would say if I lost just a little more weight. And then the floodgates open, and like a tidal wave crashing through an entire city Death whooshes in, appearing in the mirror behind you, his claws on your shoulders, smiling down at you like an old friend you hadn’t seen in years.

If you were just a little bit skinner, you wouldn’t be sad. You’d be beautiful.

Death knew it was time now. He didn’t tell you to say this. You thought this on your own.

30 degree summer nights lying on your side under a European cotton sheet, you feel your thighs touching. Your eyes well up with tears. You are sickened, disgusted. You want to scream, you want to vomit, you want to punch yourself. You sneak out the window of your family home and you run laps of the park you used to walk your golden retriever or smoke weed with your friends, doing cartwheels and rolling around the grass without a care in the world. You run laps until you nearly pass out and limp home at 3am in the fucking morning. The panic attacks return because all your eating is an apple a day with some almonds and a black coffee. You’re jacked up on caffeine that your already shaky hands shake even more. You can’t look people in the eye. You look sick. You want to stop but you can’t. You need your hip bones to poke holes in your lace underwear. You want to be able to hold water in the crevice that appears between your collarbones and shoulders when you shrug.

The results come fast and you love it, you’re an addict who is itching for a little bit more. You’ve never felt the way you feel when you step on the scales and its lower than it was before. The comments people made feed your addiction. The alarm you sense from them as they hug you elates you like getting another fix. You and Death are a team now, he cheers you on and tells you how strong you are for not eating the cake, or saying no to the chips, or making excuses to your friends at dinner as to why you’re not eating. Dinner at home. Already ate. Fasting for a blood test. You knew ‘too poor’ would never work as they’d just pay for you. You have an app on your phone that you log all your calories and exercise in to. 500 a day maximum and you must burn off at least 100 more calories than you consumed that day.

You’re in control of your body. For a short window of time, you were in control of most of your emotions and feelings, too. You felt powerful. You felt happy. You’re never hungry and when you are you know how to burn it off. But then you take it too far. You become so thin that people start to notice. You look like a bobble head with your head too big for your body, your jaw bone looking like it could cut ice. Doctors’ appointments start because your body isn’t working properly. They weigh you and they know the tricks you think you’re a genius for. They know you’d have loaded up on salty food. They’ll know you drank so much water you almost threw up before hand. They’ll check your pockets. Hair down because you can’t hide anything that can contribute to the scale reading. By the end of it you have to strip off completely. Scared parent, scared family, scared friends forcing you to eat, and you would, because they have to believe that this isn’t deliberate. You can’t get admitted. You’d eat to shut them up and you’d become such a good fucking liar. You would laugh and joke and talk about anything while you were eating. You would be having fun. Then you’d be alone again with your hatred for yourself. Hatred that you were too pathetic to be bulimic because of your fear of vomit. Hatred of food. Hatred of yourself.

You weren’t alone though, were you? You know who was sitting right next to you, holding your feet down as you did as many sit ups as you could until your spine was bruised. Then the star jumps until you thought you were going to have a heart attack. Then the push ups. Then the laxatives. Then you felt better.

You were skinny. You were beautiful.

But were you?

Your hair was falling out. Your lips were white. Your skin was yellowing. You’re constantly cold. Your body wasn’t functioning properly. You lost your period. You don’t care. You’re skinny.

Then you’re happy again. You’re hi fiving death. You’ve done it. You felt skinny enough.

But there lies the issue itself, it’s never enough. It’s never ‘done.’

‘You can’t stop now, you have to maintain this or else you’ll put on weight again and you won’t be beautiful,’ death would say, and you know he’s right. Then comes the fear.

Food scares you. Going out to eat scares you. You are so afraid of eating and losing your progress that you don’t realise that Death has crawled back to his original spot in your brain and he’s beginning to untie all his puppet strings, preparing your brain for his next act of torment as the intermission concludes and the music starts again, sinister and slow. His malevolent eyes so eager to consume your soul, fangs salivating with the blood you’re about to draw from your wrists. You’re exercising too much with no food which causes you both physical and mental exhaustion. Couple this with the partying on the weekends and you’ve lost the game. You’re as good as dead, and at this rate you will be soon.

The sadness comes creeping back in as you lie in your bed at night, hunched on your side clutching at your ribs letting out slow sobs as you beg the pain to ease. You cry and you cry and you don’t even know what the fuck you’re crying for. You cry for the father that never loved you and spat such venomous words at you that you didn’t want to exist anymore. You cry for the men that threw beer bottles at your head and bruised your oesophagus choke slamming you against a wall rendering you as good as speechless for a week. You cry for the people you loved most cheating on you with your best friend, cheating on you with everyone. You cry for the lies, the betrayal, the drink spiking, the hitting, the screaming, the drugs taken behind your back, for the fact you can’t trust anyone. Abortion. Abuse. Agony. You cry because you’re confused. You cry because no one knows that you’re feeling this way. You cry because you’ve never felt so alone. You cry because you realise that you just don’t want to be here anymore. You cry because you know you need to hurt yourself. You cry because you know that Death was right, it will make you feel better. It does.

You remembered where the shitty pink razor you threw across the room a year or so back landed and you float to your dresser, reaching behind it and grasp the razor, its handle dethatched from the smash against the wall. You feel for the knife under your bed – you remember the one it was, with a red handle, your mum’s been looking for it for a while. You usher your precious cat out of your room, she doesn’t need to see this, as you sit cross legged on your bed. The crying has stopped. You’re focused. Your fingers feel like they’re being controlled as you pry apart the three blades from the plastic. You slip and get a cut on your thumb but that’s okay, you wipe a tear that’s escaped, and you keep trying. It takes a little while.

Then, the softest, most delicate and angelic metal chime rings in your ears as the plastic flies off and the three blades clink together, falling lightly onto your thigh.

You’ve done it.

Ever so carefully you pick one up and examine it for about half a second before you’re holding it against your left wrist. This is the arm you started on. The world has stopped spinning, there is no sound except for your breathing that went from erratic and irregular to slow and steady. You press down lightly and slide it across your wrist.

It stings. Death is holding you, stroking your hair. He is so proud.

Small bubbles of bright red blood surface. It’s pretty. You feel light. Dizzy, but not sick dizzy. You feel tired, really, really tired. You don’t feel overwhelmed anymore, you feel numb. Disconnected from anything that isn’t the small sting and the red bubbles coming from your wrist. You want that feeling again, so you slice four more little cuts across the plethora of vital veins that run so dangerously close to the surface of your skin. You wrap your arm in a tea towel and put a hair scrunchie over the top of it. Light, superficial cuts that heal quickly. It’s not even bad. You sleep, wrapped up in Deaths’ arms as he rocks you back and forth into dreams that he is controlling. Vivid dreams of your childhood, when you were 6 years old wearing matching floral pyjamas in New Zealand with your entire family. Your mum and dad are together. Your grandma’s there. Your brother is there. Relatives you don’t even know now are there. You dream of the purple and yellow bubble machine you got. The entire dream is you running barefoot on the grass in those pyjamas, making bubbles for everyone. You smile in your sleep.

Flash forward a couple of months and you’re a veteran. No more little scratches. These are scary fucking cuts that will scar your body forever and you don’t give a fuck. Why should you, you deserve this pain. You are so twisted and sick that the only thing that will make you go the fuck to sleep and stop sobbing so goddamn much is playing fruit ninja on your wrists.

Long sleeves no matter the heat.

Broken promises to family, to friends.

Psychologists and Psychiatrists.

Medication upon medication.

You get better, honestly, you do. You go longer and longer between cuts, but every time you cut, its worse. You have your walk of shame to chemist warehouse where the staff look at you and know what you’ve done. You switch chemist warehouse locations from Chapel Street to Glenferrie Road in case they try and ask you if you’re okay. The aisle on the left when you walk in. Gauze. Bandages. Betadine. Friends who don’t yell at you, they help you, they drive you there, but they look down at your arm and cannot shield their disgust of such large and deep gashes that have completely split your skin in half. You can see the veins. When its bad, they get the gauze for you. They wash your arms as you scream from the burning pain. They carry you to the shower and wash your hair as you hold the victim arm in the air so it doesn’t get wet. They change your sheets and sit at a café for hours with you as they try to get you to finish a bowl of porridge. They see the lights gone out in your eyes. They cry. You cry. You don’t want to hurt them. You want to hurt you.

Cutting doesn’t make you sleepy anymore because you have to stay up to apply pressure to your arm to stop the bleeding. The tea towel sticks to your arm. There are bloodstains on your carpet, perfect little circles. There are razors everywhere. Inside your phone case. In your makeup bag. In your schoolbag. You’ve moved up from the shitty plastic ones. Sometimes you can’t even be bothered taking the razor apart - its messier, but its quicker.

You want to stop. You want to stop so badly especially after the time that you went too far and called a friend who couldn’t get to you. You were at home, returned from a night of drinking with your friends. Something triggered you, someone may have just raised their voice and it all comes back to you. Him screaming in your face, smashed tv’s. Violence. Police stations. Restraining orders. Changed phone numbers. Running down the street in underwear and a t-shirt with a dead phone. You might’ve been at a friends’ place and seen their fathers care not only about their daughters and sons, but about you too, and that sets you off. You get home and you’re sad, you are so fucking sad. You know what you’re going to do even before you leave wherever the fuck you were. You know, even though all the razors have been hidden, you know where there MIGHT be one, gathering dust, wedged accidentally between one of the storage cabinets at the base of your inbuilt bookshelf that carried the hundreds of books you read to escape from the reality that is your life. If it’s not there, you’ll just use a knife. You get out of the car and the tears have already started. You hold them in until you open your front door and throw all your shit on the bed. You brush past Death who was ready to welcome you with open arms. You’re in a frenzy to get to where you think that last razor might be. Death is jumping up and down excitedly. He knows it’s there, waiting for you. You find it, grab it, and there is no relief though you expected there to be.

Come on Alian, you’ve got to push down deeper this time. That’s the only way you’ll feel better. Just this one last time, it will be fine. Death said. He was right about everything else, why shouldn’t you believe him about this? It’s your right arm now, the left has way too many scars on it. The right arm has half as many, but they’re big, raised and menacing scars. There’s still room for about 5 more.

You press hard. Too hard. No matter how much pressure you apply, the blood isn’t stopping.

Death is encouraging you to go further. You can’t, you can’t keep your head up and you can’t stop the blood. Death is angry at you now. He’s mean and nasty, he’s not the understanding and supportive demon who ruins your life kindly, he’s completely turned. He’s grabbing at your fat, he’s taunting you with it. He’s making you remember memories you’d rather die than re live. He is making his voice inside your head so fucking loud that you can’t shut it out and it hurts, it hurts, you need it to stop, you reach for your pill box and open your mouth and wash down whatever pills you just took with whatever is left in the Smirnoff Vodka bottle you drank that night.

Darkness.

You’re black out drunk and you don’t know why there’s another one of your friends at your window. You’re asleep on your bedroom floor with the Little Mermaid playing in the background. Valium on the floor. Seroquel on the floor. You are covered in blood you can barely stand up to let him in. You fall asleep again in his arms. He was on the phone.

Darkness

He’s gone.

You don’t know where Death is either.

Red and blue flashing lights.

Sirens.

Banging on the door.

Darkness.

Two ambulance paramedics shaking you.

Your mum in tears.

You’re protesting. You don’t want to go with them. You’re fine. It’s just a cut, it’s not bad. It’s just like the other ones.

They need stitches. You can’t stay awake.

Darkness.

You’re getting carried out of your room like a baby by the male paramedic.

Stop, please, you’re hurting my arm.

Mum

Mum?

She doesn’t come.

Darkness.

You have your soft toy with you. You got her when you first moved to Melbourne when you were 7.

You watch your Mum and Death standing in the doorway as you’re lifted into the ambulance. You hate Death now. You’re not on the same team. You never were. He only wants to kill you.

Darkness.

You’re angry because the paramedics won’t let you sleep. You remember being really angry and really scared. Your arm is so sore. They keep saying how skinny you are. Asking what you took, how much you drank. You don’t know. The male paramedic is holding your hand with one of his and your arm with his other. You say that you want to go home. He can’t take you home, because your friend called them and told them that you’re going to kill yourself. You’re not, you promise, just please take you home. Please let go of your arm. He can’t let go because you need a lot of stitches. You’re lucky that you didn’t move half a millimetre to the left or the right or press down any harder, because they couldn’t save you if you did. Your holding on to your toy cat and he asks what her name is. Her name is Pearls. He asks who got you her and you tell him your mummy got her for you. You cry. Your mum who gave you the world, who loved you more than 50 parents combined. Your mum who would do anything for you. Your mum who told you she’ll stop fighting you if you want to leave this earth so badly. You’re not angry anymore.

You are sad. You are so fucking sad. You bury your head into the paramedics’ lap and you cry. You ask him to please just let you die.

Darkness.

You’re with a nice female doctor and she is interrogating you. You’re used to this. She tells you that if you end up here one more time (it’s not your first), you will be admitted even if you don’t want to be. You know this. You’re done with Death. You want him gone. You want to try and eat. You want to hug your mum. You want your yellow and purple bubble blowing machine. She tells you that you need stitches on the cuts you did tonight. You beg her not to have them, the blood has stopped and they can just heal over like the others. She refuses. It’s either stitches or glue. You’re scared. You’re alone and scared and Pearls the cat isn’t being much comfort. You call your friend and they stay on the phone while you have your arm sewed back together like a broken toy. You want to vomit. You’re thankful for the Valium and the Seroquel and the alcohol because you could not handle this any other way.

You have to stay a little bit longer so they can monitor you. They wanted to pump your stomach.

You’re at home now. There’s a pool of dried blood on the carpet. Lucky its dark grey carpet. That one will be a hard one to clean. Your mum hasn’t spoken to you. Your brother is overseas. You miss him.

You crawl into bed and watch Gossip Girl until you fall asleep.

You see your psychologist after you get your stitches out, and you tell him everything. You tell your doctor everything. You’re ready to get better. You tell them about the eating thing. It’s going to be hard and its not going to be pretty, but you’re going to get better. You enrol in university and you get another job. You do yoga and you go for runs. You eat when you feel like it and you eat a lot of fruit. If you feel like a burger, you get a burger. It takes years for you to have this relationship with food, but you get there. You stop getting black out drunk and you stop doing party drugs. You promise to stop for at least a year. You achieve it. You face your pain head on. You process what happened to you with the ex boyfriends. You know it’s not your fault. You know that what your feeling is a normal reaction, and you move past it. You have bad moments just like everybody else, but yours are a little worse. Yours are dangerous.

You sit on the bathroom floor clutching your head as you hyperventilate. Razors are allowed in the house again and you’ve ripped one apart and you’re rotating it between your thumb and index finger. Your heart is beating out of your chest because fucking hell you want nothing more than to slide that piece of metal over your skin and feel that rush again. You hold it to your wrist and you are uncontrollably crying. You’ve been so good when you’ve had the urgers, you’ve gone to your mum, you’ve called your friends, you’ve gone for a walk, you’ve gone to sleep, but you’re here now and there’s nothing stopping you except for your own willpower. You scream silently as the tears fall down. You’re not filled with stardust, you’re not filled with snowflakes or sparkles, you are filled with blood that has spilled too many times onto the floor. Your insides are spilling onto the fucking floor, your veins splitting at the seams. Your first kiss, your bubble blowing machine, the times you laughed so hard you cry, the year you had Christmas twice is dripping down your arm and rolling out of you. You’re coughing up and sobbing out every memory of getting in trouble with your friends or holding hands with the boy you thought you loved more than anything in the world. All your memories of the beautiful life you’ve lived are melting into the carpet of your bedroom floor staining it, reminding you of how much you hate yourself when you should love yourself. These red bubbles aren’t pretty rubies rushing out of your skin, this isn’t glamorous nor poetic, its not mysterious or romantic, its mutualization, its sickening. It’s death and you are dying. It’s you, everything you have been, everything you are, and everything you are yet to be, if you just give yourself the fucking chance.

And just like that,

You put the razors on your mum’s dresser, wrists intact, and you walk down the stairs. You go to the kitchen and you peel open a banana and you eat it. You put your headphones in, you go outside and you go for a walk around the botanical gardens. You enter through Gate D and you lie in the sun for a while as you throw bread for the ducks. The white ones with the orange beaks are your favourite. You give them nicknames. You know that in all honesty, you’re going to have more shitty boyfriends who might break your heart. You’ll also have good ones that even though it didn’t work, you grew. You know that you and your dad aren’t ever going to have a relationship. You know that you’re going to have trust issues and post-traumatic stress for quite a long time. You’ll fight with girlfriends, you’ll get too drunk and do something stupid like kiss someone you shouldn’t or break your nose at a music festival. You’ll laugh at it. You’ll have days where you hate your body and days where you love it. Days where you want the world to end and days where you never believed you could ever be so happy.

And for the first time in your 21 years of living, you’re okay with this. For the first time in 21 years, you’re at peace. You haven’t touched a razor since.

#mine

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jarienn972 · 4 years

Text

A Simple Spell - Chapter Twelve

A Captain Swan Supernatural Summer Tale

I honestly did not plan for this latest @cssns chapter update to take so long. I had the majority of this finished over Thanksgiving weekend, but then an awful upper respiratory infection started making its way around my household. The past few weeks have been a blur and I feel like I've been completely out of touch. I finally managed to get the haze out of my head and finish up this chapter.

There are two chapters left in my outline so expect some big reveals coming! I really appreciate everyone who has read, shared and commented along the way. Thank you so much for sticking with me with my first AU! Thank you @kmomof4 for being such a great cheerleader and I’m sorry I made you wait so long for the next chapter. And as always, thanks to @lassluna for her beta assistance along the way and to @cocohook38 for her incredible artwork!

Read from the beginning or get a refresher: One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten Eleven Also on AO3 and FF.net

In such a remote area, the process of extricating the unconscious Captain Jones from the root cellar had been a time-consuming challenge. Since the ambulance wasn't off-road equipped, the paramedics had been forced to hitch a ride in Graham's 4x4 and utilize the SUV as an improvised transport vehicle. After a few tense minutes of concern as the team determined the best way to carry the wounded man from the cellar, Emma finally breathed a sigh of relief when she saw her friend loaded safely into the back of Graham's vehicle.

She would have been happier to accompany Killian to Storybrooke Hospital but since space was limited, she remained behind to return the borrowed ATVs and then returned to the Sheriff's station with David. He parked the cruiser in the alley behind the station and they entered through the rear door near the break room. David ducked into the break room to start a pot of coffee brewing, needing a caffeine boost after their busy morning. Emma continued into the squad room, dropping her gear atop her desk as she collapsed her weary body into her chair. She was exhausted, mentally and physically, but she was incredibly relieved as they'd managed to locate Killian quickly and best of all - alive. Of course, the outcome hadn't been entirely perfect as they had no idea who had abducted the captain or why, but at least they had a few leads.

After delivering Killian and the paramedics to the ambulance, Graham returned to the house in the woods to gather evidence. David wanted fresh eyes on the crime scene - to search both the main house and the root cellar, primarily tasking the deputy to find the identity of the current occupant. David would have handled it himself, but he was worried about his little sister and what her state of mind might be after finding the man she was dating unconscious and injured in a hole in the ground. And he became even more concerned when he strolled into the squad room to see her tossing items out of her desk, frantically hunting for something.

"Problem?" he asked quizzically.

"Yeah - my mother's journal… I can't find it…," she replied, emptying what remained of the top drawer onto the floor. "I put it in this drawer before we left - I know I did!"

"You sure? Maybe you put it in the bottom drawer instead?" he suggested, but it only earned him an unpleasant glare from his sister.

"I put everything in here together - the box and both books. The box is still here," she said as she lifted it for him to see. "And so is the other book, but the journal isn't anywhere to be found…"

"Well, I doubt it just vanished. You're absolutely sure it was in your desk?"

"Yes, David - I'm sure. Someone must have taken it off of my desk."

"Emma, come on… Who would break into a Sheriff's station to steal a diary?"

"I don't know. It makes no sense, but then not much that has happened this week has made any sense. What if this was just another part of our so-called warlock's sick game? What if he kidnapped Killian as a diversion so he could get his hands on that journal? He was probably afraid that mom might have left clues."

"Considering she lost, I can't imagine they'd be good clues," David quipped, but she didn't appreciate the sarcasm.

"Maybe she left clues about what not to do?" she retorted, her frustrations nearing the boiling point.

"Maybe… Look, why don't you head over to the hospital and get an update on Captain Jones' condition? I know you're worried… I'll keep searching around here and see if the book might have just been misplaced. The rest of the paperwork can wait until Graham gets back here."

"Fine. Just please, let me know immediately if you find it?"

"I'll bring it right to you. I'm sure it will turn up. Now - go. I'm trusting you to get the Captain's statement when he wakes."

"I will. Thank you, David." Wary of leaving any of her mother's other items behind lest they vanish along with the journal, Emma scooped up the box and the spellbook. She wasn't going anywhere without these now, certain that Gold had hung onto these things for a reason. She hoped David was correct and the journal was around here somewhere, but she wasn't feeling particularly positive right now. She was certain someone had taken it while they were rescuing Killian, but why? The answer to that question would likely be the key to unraveling this entire mystery.

**********

Emma arrived at the main entrance to Storybrooke General hospital a little after 2pm and, after a brief spat with the head nurse, was directed to Killian Jones' room and provided a synopsis of his current condition. He'd needed some minor surgery to repair the damage to his wounded shoulder and he was also being treated for some mild hypothermia after being in the damp, chilly root cellar for an unknown length of time. The staff was baffled by his lingering comatose state as none of his injuries would explain why he remained unresponsive. Dr. Victor Whale, the lead physician overseeing Killian's treatment, suspected that drugs might be involved and and ordered blood samples taken and sent to the laboratory for processing. Until they had those results, everything was pure speculation.

She found herself staring at the shell of a man laying before her on the hospital bed, one who bore little resemblance to the brash Captain she'd first encountered days ago. Maybe it was the flimsy hospital garb he wore in place of his dark leathers, or perhaps it was the silence of his sharp tongue, but either way, she felt as if she were in the presence of an entirely different person. There was a vulnerability to the man in front of her and Emma couldn't help but feel a little bit of sadness for him - both for his ordeal and for the fact he had no family to be here with him.

She had already spoken to his first mate, Mr. Smee, to advise him that the Captain had been located and was currently hospitalized. The skittish little man had stopped by briefly to check in and say thank you, but hadn't stayed. In the Captain's absence, the task of running the Jolly Roger fell upon him so he couldn't stick around long. His crew was likely the closest thing to family that Killian Jones had but there was still distance. It was another bit of kinship that Emma felt with Killian. She'd spent years alone after her mother died, and yet even when she'd found David and the rest of her ever-expanding family, she wasn't as close with them as she'd been with her mother. She and Killian were both essentially orphans and her gut was telling her that she needed to be here for him.

As Killian lay sleeping beneath a pale blue blanket drawn up to his bandaged shoulder, Emma sat quietly in a padded wooden armchair in front of the room's large window, focusing intently on her tablet screen. She may not have her mother's journal, but that wasn't going to stop her research. She was fiercely determined to make sense of all of the week's strange events. Nothing about the things that were happening sat right with her and she needed to figure out why.

She'd received another message from Belle not long ago which fueled her study. The librarian had uncovered a few articles that she believed would be helpful to the deputy, emailing Emma copies of anything she could send electronically. She also advised that she'd located a few books that were pertinent to Emma's interests. After returning Belle's call and arranging to have the books delivered here to the hospital, Emma had started perusing the electronic files immediately. There were quite a few scans and links to look at, but she figured she had some time to read before Killian woke.

But she also had plenty of time to think - maybe too much. All of the week's events seemingly stemmed from her casting the true love spell - the spell that was now mysteriously missing from the book she'd recited it from. How had she seen it in there before when Zelena had recited another from the same book? Had it been visible only to her or had it existed within those vellum pages only to disappear once recited? And then there was that stupid spell itself… She'd felt so compelled to cast it, but had she now drawn innocent bystanders into its mix? Unlike her mother's situation, she knew that both Killian Jones and Walsh Gibbons were real. Unless Killian's entire crew was an elaborate ruse, they'd been sailing with him for years so Captain Jones wasn't imaginary. And Walsh - she'd known him for a while now. They'd dated when she lived in Boston so he was real enough. Now both men's fates were intertwined with hers and for what? So some greedy, needy warlock could cheat her out of her powers if she couldn't figure out which man was her true love?

The whole damned situation irked her. She certainly wasn't the first witch to cast a spell to find love. The very fact that these spells exist was evidence that others had been every bit as hopeful (or maybe desperate) as she'd been. But had she stumbled onto this particular spell by accident or had it been predestined? Had the warlock chosen his victims in advance or was it mere coincidence that both she and her mother had become his victims?

No one had yet mentioned who the warlock's first chosen opponent had been or whether that person had been kin to Emma's family so that had been one of Emma's questions for Belle. There had to be some sort of record as to who that unlucky person had been and fortunately for Emma, Belle had been successful in locating a name. The first opponent had also been a woman - a powerful witch by the name of Ursula who had arrived to Storybrooke from the West Indies in the early 1900s. Belle hadn't been able to uncover any information about what the warlock had used to trick her, but the reports from the time stated that she'd not only lost her powers, but also her voice. A month later, she'd been found floating in the bay, apparently having drowned herself to end her suffering.

What sort of sadistic bastard was she dealing with? He clearly enjoyed preying on women, but why? Were they easier targets or were their powers stronger? Knowing she'd fallen pretty easily for the trap, Emma assumed women might be easier to coerce, although her powers certainly didn't seem to measure up to her mother's or to what she'd read about Ursula's. Had Emma been targeted because of some weakness the warlock had observed? And why did he feel it necessary to resort to so many games?

Magical deals be damned - something wasn't adding up here.

Emma had entirely lost track of time when she heard a faint rap on the room's door. Glancing up, she was somewhat surprised to see David's face peeking around the doorframe. As he passed through the entrance, she could see that he had a stack of books tucked beneath his left arm and a carry-out bag from Granny's clutched in his right hand.

"I figured you'd text me first," she greeted her brother as he deposited the books on a narrow counter beside the sink and dropped the bag of food onto her lap.

"Mary Margaret insisted that I bring you something to eat and as I was leaving Granny's, I ran into Belle who said she was bringing these books over for you. Since I was already on my way over, I figured I'd save her the trip and brought them myself. Unfortunately, I didn't manage to find the journal you were looking for."

"I didn't figure you would," she replied dejectedly. "I'm quite certain that someone took it while we were searching for Killian."

"Pretty bold to steal something from a deputy from inside the station."

"Even bolder if they abducted and stabbed Killian to provide themselves a diversion," Emma added.

"Agreed. How's he doing anyway?" David asked, jabbing a finger in the direction of the slumbering man in the bed behind him. "Any change?"

"No. He's still unconscious, his heart rate is extremely slow and his breathing is unusually shallow. Dr. Whale said that there's no real medical reason for it so he's running some tests to check for drugs or other substances that might be in Killian's system."

"Could be some really strong knockout drugs, but I guess we'll have to wait and see. I really would like to get his statement and get this crime linked to a perp…"

"There's no way to know how long it will be until he wakes, but in the meantime, I've got some reading to do."

"I see that. What's the subject?"

"Some history and some stuff about warlocks and wizards, but without the magical school and British accents… Well, al least no accent until Killian wakes."

David shook his head at the exhausting thought of doing this much reading. "I'll leave you to your studies then but I'll check back in a few hours."

"Sounds good. Thanks, David."

"You're welcome. And I do hope your captain here wakes up soon."

"Me too," she said as David strolled through the doorway and turned out of her line of sight. As she stood, she inhaled the tempting aroma of onion rings as she placed the take-out bag on the windowsill and took a couple of steps over to the counter to retrieve the books. Her eyes were drawn to the figure on the bed and she couldn't help but stare at him while picking up the first book from the stack. Mythology of Supernatural Beings was the title and the book cover was emblazoned with a devil's trap pentagram. This wasn't going to be light reading but she was ready for the challenge. She had a few suspicions about what was really happening in this town but she wasn't yet ready to share her theory - or the choice she'd made. She fully intended to put an end to these silly games permanently but she needed to be sure.

**********

Emma hadn't realized that she'd dozed off until she felt a tap on her shoulder. She woke with an involuntary shudder, stunned for a moment until she recognized the face of the brunette nurse who'd been in and out of the room all afternoon.

"I'm sorry, Deputy Swan. I didn't mean to startle you, but you have a visitor downstairs in the lobby."

"Oh… Alright then… Thank you, Michelle." Emma closed the book on her lap and placed it over onto the windowsill before pushing herself to her feet. Maintaining a vigil at a hospital bedside wasn't the most comfortable way to spend a day. "Would you have Fred keep watch on this room and page me if anything changes while I'm gone?"

"I'll be happy to, Deputy, although any changes in Mr. Jones' condition don't seem likely at this point."

"I know. Wishful thinking on my part. His case is still active and I still need to get his statement." Emma was reluctant to leave Killian's side, especially when they'd yet to identify his abductor but she knew that Fred the security guard wouldn't let anyone past without proper authorization. Killian would be fine for a few minutes while she went downstairs to see who was waiting for her so she stepped into the elevator and took it down to the ground floor. When the doors parted, she made the left turn into the main hallway, strolled past the security checkpoint, gift shop and snack bar into the open space of the entrance lobby, not expecting the person she found standing there.

"Walsh? What are you doing here?" she asked incredulously.

"I hadn't heard back from you all day so I got a little bit worried - especially when the other deputy said you were here."

"I'm fine. It's just been a very hectic day. I've been waiting here all day waiting for a kidnapping victim to wake up so I can get a statement."

"Is that why you had to leave the diner this morning?"

"Partially," she replied, not wanting to divulge too much information. "Just the usual chaos that is the life of a deputy sheriff in Storybrooke."

"I'm sure," he chuckled before sighing with relief. "I'm just glad you're alright and… well, I was going to see if you would like to join me for dinner?"

"I'm sorry, Walsh. I really can't. This is still an open case and David and Graham will really need my help to catch the kidnapper." She was trying to let him down easy, using work as an excuse so she didn't have to reveal that she really just wanted to be here with Killian. "I would love to, but maybe another night?"

"Of course. I understand," he replied in a quiet, dejected tone, his posture now echoing his visible disappointment. "Please, call me tomorrow. I really would like to have one more evening with you before I head back to Boston."

"I'd like that, too," she insisted.

"Well, I hope he wakes up soon so you can close your case."

"Me too," she said as she gave him a quick hug that turned out far more awkward than she'd expected. She'd wanted it to be a nice, friendly gesture, but she wasn't feeling as though her sentiments were being reciprocated. Walsh had wrapped his arms around her back, but she sensed no emotion from the embrace - at least not the sort of emotion one would expect from someone claiming to be concerned about her. "I'll see you later, Walsh."

Then again, perhaps she was reading too much into things after everything she'd been reading. As Walsh vanished out of the hospital's front doors, the little gears inside Emma's head were going into overdrive so she decided to call one person who could help clarify things a bit - Graham.

She yanked her phone out of her jeans pocket and dialed his number, worried that she might get his voicemail, but he finally answered on the fourth ring. "Hey Graham. Turn up anything?"

"Not much," he replied. "The place was pretty bare. I pulled a few fingerprints, but those will only help us if the person is in the system. Oh, I did find some interesting scraps in the fireplace that lead me to believe that those dust voids on the mantle were from photographs. I bagged the scraps as evidence but I want you to have a look at them."

"I'd love to see what you've got. Can you bring them by the hospital?"

"Yeah. I just got back to the station, so give me a little while and I'll be over."

"Sounds good. Oh, Graham - did you happen to talk to someone and mention that I was here at the hospital with Captain Jones?"

"No. Only people I've spoken with were David and the search party, but as I said, I just got back. Any particular reason?"

"No, that's okay. Just had some curious people stopping by and asking questions, you know?"

"Probably just someone trying to get the scoop for tomorrow's paper… Any changes though?"

"'Fraid not. Seems like it's going to be a long night."

"Alright. Well, I'll see you in about an hour or so then."

"See you then," she said as she disconnected the call, strolling over to an unoccupied, quiet alcove off of the entrance hall, needing to make another call with more privacy. Walsh was long out of view, but her conversation with Graham left her ill at ease. Graham hadn't spoken to Walsh so how the hell had Gibbons known she was here? And how had he known that the kidnapping victim was a man? Something smelled rotten here…

She scrolled through her contacts to find the number belonging to Mayor Regina Mills, dialing it even though Regina would be none-too-happy to hear from Emma again today.

"Hello, Emma," Regina's voice greeted her in a flat, disinterested tone.

"Regina, I need your help with something," Emma stated, keeping her voice low in case prying ears were nearby.

"Again? What spell did you cast this time?"

"Yes, again… And I didn't cast another spell. There have been some odd developments in the case."

"Such as? Robin told me that you found Captain Jones. Was there something odd about that?"

"Nothing specifically about finding him, but there are a lot of other things that aren't making sense… Regina, if I'm right, this town is dealing with something more powerful than a warlock…"

"You're probably jumping to conclusions, but just what do you think is going on?"

"I don't want to get into it over the phone. Can you come down to the hospital? I don't really want to leave here until he wakes up."

"Then call me back when he does."

"That's the thing, Regina - no one has any idea when he might wake up. He's been unconscious since we found him, but Dr. Whale can't find any medical reason why."

Regina's ears perked up at those words. "He's not injured?"

"He was stabbed, but not severely enough to be unconscious this long."

"I'll be there in half an hour."

***********

Regina seemed to have a permanent scowl etched onto her face today but at least she showed up promptly. Emma had advised security that Mayor Mills was on her way and to let her pass, not that anyone really would have dared to stop her. Emma wasn't really sure where to begin as Regina pushed open the door and entered the room, taking a side-eyed glance at the dark-haired patient on the bed as she passed.

"Well, at least he's good looking…," Regina quipped. "Now, just what the hell is going on, Emma? What was so secretive that you couldn't say anything over the phone?"

"I'm not sure it's safe to talk here…," Emma said as she pushed herself to her feet. "I'm worried that someone might be watching…"

"Then we make some privacy," Regina stated as she withdrew her ebony wand from inside her pantsuit jacket and waved it with theatrical flourish, producing a force field that sealed the room off from the rest of the world. "There - problem solved. You know how to set up a protective spell. Unless your magic is slipping, you're really distracted by this."

"Look, Regina, let me preface this by saying that this has probably been one of the most overwhelming weeks of my life. I've been here in Storybrooke for a few months, but I've been bombarded with more surprises and secrets this week than I could ever have imagined, so if what I have to say sounds crazy, imagine what has been going through my mind for the past several days."

"Noted," Regina replied without emotion as she sat down in the chair Emma had vacated.

"Okay, so I've been told by everyone this week that my mother was once a powerful witch who was tricked out of those powers by losing a challenge set up by a warlock, but what if that story isn't entirely true?"

"What about the story do you think is false? We've been told for generations that the warlock gave this town it's magic. It's our town's legacy, Emma. You've known that story for a few days and you already think it's wrong?"

"It just doesn't seem like a warlock would be powerful enough, not to mention that he'd have to be immortal to keep coming back here after all these years… I think we're dealing with a far more powerful being…"

"Seriously, Emma? A few months into the study of magic and you're suddenly an expert at identifying warlocks and magical beings?"

"Don't berate me, Regina! I may not be a magical expert, but I'm not an idiot and I'm a good enough detective to know when the clues don't add up. After skimming through my mother's journal and researching some stuff Belle sent me, I think we might be dealing with some sort of trickster."

"A trickster? You think that Loki is running amuck in Storybrooke?" Regina scoffed, rolling her eyes at the deputy.

"Loki is just the Scandinavian name for a trickster," Emma stated firmly, the irritation in her voice increasing. "There are other names for them in other cultures, but whatever you want to call it, a trickster fills in some of the holes in the story. Tricksters like to play games so these ridiculous challenges make more sense. This crazy true love spell… Killian being kidnapped to try to throw off my decision and whatever is affecting him now that's keeping him unconscious…"

Regina stabbed a finger in the direction of the sleeping Killian Jones. "That? That's magic - dark magic."

"What?" Emma wasn't sure she believed what she was hearing. "Magic? What does magic have to do with this?"

"When you called and said that they couldn't find any medical reason, it reminded me of a dark potion I'd only ever heard of before. A sleeping spell."

"Sleeping spell? Those are a thing?"

"We're not talking Sleeping Beauty here. It won't make him immortal and sleep forever. If this is the potion I think it is, he's stuck in perpetual sleep. He can only be awakened with the antidote - assuming whoever cursed him made one - or by a kiss of true love."

"A kiss of true love? So it is like Sleeping Beauty… And if he is my true love, he'll wake up, but if he's not…"

"You lose your powers and he'll stay like this forever," Regina deadpanned the obvious.

"Thanks for not making my decision any easier…," Emma sighed as her eyes drifted over to Killian's peaceful-looking face. She had no idea if he could hear what they were saying. Was he screaming at her on the inside? She hated that so much hinged on a seemingly impossible choice.

"So you haven't determined which one of them is your true love yet?" Regina questioned.

"No, I haven't. Every time I think I have it figured out, my brain thinks up something that changes my mind… It's incredibly frustrating and there's no way to just wave my wand and fix things…"

"If you had asked, I would have told you that matters of the heart generally aren't best served by magical shortcuts," Regina reminded her.

"I know - I screwed up… All the good it does me now…" Emma lamented as she sat down on the bottom corner of the bed. "It's my fault that he's stuck like this…"

"How is this sleeping spell your fault?" Regina chastised her. "You may have cast a spell that brought him into your life, but you didn't make the potion or give it to him. You don't even know for sure that your love spell is related to what happened to him…"

"I'm pretty sure they are," Emma replied defensively as she felt her phone vibrating in her pocket. "Hold on a moment…," she said to Regina as she fished out her phone to see Grahams name on the display. "It's Graham. He has some evidence for me to look at." Regina nodded, uninterested in whatever evidence the two deputies were going to discuss. "Hi Graham… Yeah, room 306… Okay, thanks… See you in a bit."

Emma disconnected the call as Regina stood up brandishing her wand to lower the conjured protective barrier. "Better drop the protection spell so your partner can get in. Was there more you wanted to tell me or can I go now?"

"You're not going to weigh in with an opinion on my theory?" Emma wondered.

"I'm reserving my opinion until there's more evidence," the mayor insisted, seeing Graham's face in the doorway. "I'll talk to you later."

Emma nodded as Regina traded places with Graham, her heels clicking on the tile floor as she strode into the hallway while Graham took a tentative step into the room.

"Why was Regina just here?" Graham inquired quizzically.

"We had some coven business to discuss," Emma told him, which was only a partial lie. The conversation was about magic and spells. Graham didn't need to know more than that. "So - what did you find out there?"

Still hovering next to the door, Graham reached into his coat pocket and removed three sealed evidence baggies that he passed to Emma. "I found these scraps in the fireplace. Somebody tried to burn some photographs and I think you'll find these interesting…"

"Well, let's see…," she replied as she took the plastic bags from his hand. The remnants of the photos weren't very large and they were badly scorched, but Emma could make out some of the detail. The first black and white scrap showed a portion of a woman's face. She appeared to have dark skin and jet black hair, but the photo was so coated with soot that it was difficult to tell. Emma didn't recognize the woman in this photo but her eyes lit up at the familiar face. "This is my mother," she announced, pointing at the burnt image of a blonde haired woman with long, flipped bangs that were vintage 1970s. "It proves Ozmund Welch or whoever was living out there did have a connection to my mother."

"You may want to look at that last one…"

Shifting the two images she'd already seen to the bottom of the pile, Emma's jaw fell slack at the third imagine. "Son of a bitch…" she muttered, yanking out her phone and tapping one of the contacts. "Graham - stay here and don't let anyone through that doorway…" She darted into the corridor with the bag still clutched in her fist, leaving a bewildered Graham behind. She had the phone to her ear awaiting an answer, bypassing the normal greeting when the person on the other end answered. "Regina - are you still in the hospital?"

"I just walked outside. What is it?"

"Meet me in the lobby. There's something I want you to see," Emma implored as she stepped inside the elevator.

"Fine," Regina replied, pivoting on her heels to return to the lobby. "This had better be good…"

"It may answer one of our biggest questions…" Emma explained before her phone lost service inside the elevator.

Regina was waiting for her when the elevator doors parted at the ground floor and as soon as the other passengers came and went, Emma ushered Regina over to the still-unoccupied alcove she'd called from earlier.

"Alright, Emma… what is this about?"

"This," Emma stated as she held up the evidence bag for Regina to view. "Look at this… Graham found it in the fireplace at the house where we found Killian."

"What am I looking at here?" Regina queried, squinting her eyes as she glanced at the scorched photo, trying to make out the image.

"It's a photo of me." Emma said as she showed Regina the other two remnants. "And here's one of my mom and a really old one of a woman I think was the first victim… I understand the possible connection to my mom, but if he's got photographs of all of his opponents?"

"That's a little disturbing, but you said this would help give some answers. I don't understand…"

"Regina - this isn't a recent photograph of me. It was taken in Boston a couple of years ago. The dress I'm wearing was from an undercover sting - the same case I was on when I met Walsh!"

"Could it be a coincidence?" Regina asked, but she already doubted that herself.

"Do you believe in coincidence?" Emma retorted. "If this warlock or trickster, or whatever the hell he is, was stalking me then, he had to have already known who I was. I didn't even know I had magic back then, so how did he? Only someone who knew my mother could possibly have known that which meant they had to be connected to Storybrooke…"

"Which means…?"

"I think it means Walsh is no innocent bystander. I don't think my true love could possibly be someone who was already plotting this game years before I knew I was playing."

"Well, there's only one way to know for sure…"

"And that is?"

"You make the choice that Captain Jones is your true love and then you get back up there and kiss the holy hell out of that man."

#CSSNS #captain swan supernatural summer #cs ff #cs au ff #witch emma #a simple spell #sorry to leave it there but the next chapter had to start with the kiss

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zallano · 5 years

Text

The HereAfter, Chapter 18

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10, Chapter 11, Chapter 12, Chapter 13, Chapter 14, Chapter 16, Chapter 17, read on AO3!

The entire chapter under the cut

It was so dark. There was no air. It was unbearably cold. No land. No world at all. Just darkness.

P̴͙͒lḛ̶̎ase̶͉͘ hẻ̷͜l̶͍̒p̷͖͌ më̴͚́ ̶̓͜ I̶̠͝ ̵͙̽c̶̯̆à̴̱n̷̩͆’̸̱̈t̵͑ͅ ̵̪̓b̵̛̘r̴̗̀e̴̺̍a̷̮̋t̶̤͂h̷̹͊e̷͓̓…

Mumbo rubbed his temples, his head hurt. He didn’t understand why he kept hearing that voice. He didn’t even know who the voice belonged to.

He felt himself shiver slightly as he walked through the grass of a plains biome. He didn’t know why he was suddenly so cold. The plains were usually warm. He felt dizzy and tired. He felt himself sinking into the ground.

Mumbo glanced down at his shoes. The grass was… strange. “What the-“ he stepped back. The grass that was underneath his foot was gone. Void replaced it. The void grew, taking over the biome. Mumbo couldn’t move fast enough- he couldn’t escape the void.

He fell.

He was cold. As cold as ice. Mumbo couldn’t move. He was trapped. He was stuck in the void. He couldn’t do anything about it. He was so cold.

“-Okay we need a name.”

Grian’s voice interrupted Mumbo’s thoughts. Suddenly, Mumbo was back on the surface. He was no longer in the void. It took him a few seconds to pull himself back together and reply as casually as he could. “-No, Grian, we don’t,” he quickly replied. Grian rolled his eyes and sped up to walk alongside Mumbo. “No no, I think we do! We’re a team now. You, Iskall, and I!”

Both Iskall and Mumbo turned to look at Grian. Mumbo sighed “Okay, well, if we’re a team- then you have to actually help us instead of just- petting chickens-” He chuckled. Grian hummed. “I warned you guys that I don’t know redstone,” he stated. “I’m a builder. I’ll do the building.” He continued, smiling.

“Aha! I got it! Since I build, and you two do the redstone- our team name could be- BuildStone! Get it? Build and Stone- like redstone-” He exclaimed. The two redstoners exchanged glances. “Err- Grian,” Iskall began. “Bad name? Okay, yeah- I’ll think of something else.”

The three hermits were out three hundred blocks away from the shopping district and were trying to find the perfect place to build Mumbo’s machine. Mumbo told them that he wanted to make it underground, so they were looking for a cave as a good start; not wanting to manually mine out a large area or use TNT and have the possibility to cause lag- which could cause more disappearances.

“What about this one?” Iskall asked, pushing away a few tree branches and revealing a somewhat large underground hole. “Hm, it’s okay and all, but I think we can find a better place,” Mumbo replied. “What was your original machine built-in?” Grian asked. “I found a large cave entrance into a hidden ravine. I mined it out into quite a large area.” He replied and continued walking, the others followed behind.

The three hermits spent the rest of the day wandering far from spawn. Eventually, Mumbo found a cave he deemed good enough to start and they began to clear out an area in the night.

W̵̦̄͝h̵̬̼̃͂ỷ̵͕̚ ̵̰̗͋a̸̡͓͂m̶͙͝ ̶͔̟̍̍Ĩ̶̝͗ ̵͍̭͛h̷̊ͅḙ̷̈́̾r̵͖͛͌e̷͓͆͝?̸̫̊̉͜

---H̸̥̎̚o̸̻͔̎̐w̶̨̮͐̋ ̷̨̦͛͝d̵̨͒̚i̷̳̾͗ͅd̷́̽��̺ ̴̤̞̄̾I̴͈̍ ̵̜͋g̸͚̀͐e̴̡̘͝ṫ̷̬ ̸̝̈́ḧ̴̯́ê̵̻r̷̰̈́ê̸͖?̴̘̀̉

Mumbo stopped mining and froze. He looked around. Iskall was expanding the area out and Grian was decorating the walls. “Did anyone hear that?” He asked. Iskall turned to him. “Hear what?” He asked. Mumbo frowned slightly. “Never mind, just- thought I heard something,” he explained. Iskall shrugged and went back to mining.

It didn’t take long until the three- two- of them mined out a large area. Mumbo immediately began to work on the machine. Iskall had brought his shulker box of redstone with him.

“Architechs! That’s it! We can be the architechs! Arch- like architecture and tech like technology with redstone!” Grian randomly chimed in. Mumbo stopped what he was doing. “Honestly, that isn’t a bad name. You must've been very bored to come up with that,” he laughed. Grian nodded and laid down on the cold stone floor. “So bored!” He complained. Iskall chuckled. “I like Architech. Seems cool,” he stated. Grian smiled widely. “Yeah, I agree. It’s a lot better than whatever Buildstone was,” Mumbo nodded and continued to get back to work.

Iskall and Mumbo were building a few things similar to noisemakers around a large glass tower Grian had previously built. Mumbo explained that most of the redstone used wouldn’t do much to the actual machine itself.

“It’s only here to overwhelm the clock as much as possible-“ Mumbo fell silent and began to pace around the redstone clocks. The two others watched. Mumbo hummed. “The clock split and consumed both of us-“ he stated. Grian nodded slowly. “Yeah- I think that’s what happened. That’s why we’re blue and yellow,” he explained. “Right.. yes, of course. No worries then,” he shook his head and stopped pacing. “I think I will work on the machine alone tonight. I’ve made a mistake in the design,”

Grian tried to step in but Mumbo shook his head. “- Thank you guys for helping me, but I think it’s for the best. I don’t want anyone to get hurt,” he explained.

“Mumbo, I said that I would help,” Iskall said. “No, it’s okay. You guys can come back in the morning if you’d like. We’re the Architechs after all. Right now I have to fix this design,” he scratched his head and glanced down at the circuits.

“Oh okay... C’mon Iskall,” Grian gestured for Iskall to follow him. “I’ll see you in the morning then!” He waved bye. Mumbo waved back slightly and watched as his two friends left the cave. He sighed. He realized that the blue clock was apart of him. That meant that this machine was extremely deadly now.

—-

Mumbo spent the entire night working on the machine. It wasn’t the most complex machine but he spent hours redesigning it and trying to make it work with the current situation he was in. He knew that he would have to take the place of the blue clock, and it made him nervous. Because of that reason, Mumbo didn’t finish the machine.

In the morning, he decided to leave the cave before Iskall and Grian would arrive. He sat outside the cave’s entrance for a few minutes before covering the hole with red concrete.

“Mumbo?”

Mumbo looked up, expecting to see Grian or Iskall, though- he saw Xisuma flying with his elytra. “Hello X!” He greeted, trying to shake off any nervousness he felt. Xisuma didn’t reply at first. He landed near Mumbo.

“Why did you do it?” Xisuma stared coldly. Mumbo has never seen the man so... angry before. “-do- do what?” Mumbo asked, completely clueless. Xisuma narrowed his eyes. He couldn’t believe Mumbo was playing stupid.

“Why did you ban him?”

“Ban? Ban who?” Mumbo’s shook his head, not understanding. He didn’t ban anyone. He couldn’t ban anyone. “I’m not sure if you know this but here, we have admins, and I just happen to be an admin,” Xisuma explained. He stepped closer to Mumbo. Mumbo stepped back.

“I can check the logs. I know you did it. It’s not worth lying. I’m going to ask you again, why did you ban him?”

Mumbo glanced to the side and back at Xisuma. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” He shouted.

“WHY DID YOU BAN SCAR?”

Mumbo froze. Scar? Banned? He shook his head. “I didn’t ban Scar- you saw it in the T-Chat yourself. He left the world. X, you- you know I wouldn’t do that- right?”

Xisuma didn’t say anything and pulled out his own T-Chat out of his inventory. He clicked a button Mumbo didn’t recognize and a bright green screen with text appeared. Xisuma showed Mumbo the screen.

[GoodTimeWithScar has been banned by MumboJumbo]

[Reason: Unspecified]

“Do you know what it’s like to be banned??” Xisuma shouted, not giving Mumbo any time to respond. “I swore that no one would ever get banned! Not since-“ he paused, rethinking his words.

Mumbo stared at the screen in shock. “I didn’t ban him! I swear I didn’t- I-“ Xisuma cut him off. “How am I supposed to believe you?? Ever since you showed up, Hermits have been disappearing left and right!” He yelled. Mumbo opened his mouth to speak, to defend himself, but Xisuma kept talking. “What is your plan? Do you want everyone gone? Have you done this before to that other world you were in? Is your goal to take people away from their homes?” He pushed Mumbo back. Mumbo was pulled off guard and fell to the floor.

“And- And now you’re building some time machine?! Will the time machine even do what you say it will? Are you just going to take us all at once?”

“I didn’t- I’m not causing the disappearances- they happen on their own- they are caused by glitches- I-“ Mumbo stammered. He wasn’t used to being interrogated and put on the spot. “And how do you know that?”

Mumbo stared at X in disbelief. He knew it because he spent months learning about the clocks in the first future world he was in. Xisuma knew this. Why was he acting so different? X has been nothing but nice to him up until this point. What was wrong with Xisuma?

“What connection do you have with all of this? Why did you change when you came in contact with the blue clock but nothing happened to-“ Xisuma cut himself off from speaking. He took a deep breath, trying to recollect his thoughts. He looked over at Mumbo and shook his head.

“It’s your fault. You’re the reason they’re all gone.”

“..m-my fault? It’s- my fault?” He shook his head. He couldn’t hear it. It wasn’t his fault. He did nothing wrong. He tried to get up but Xisuma pushed him back down. “It isn’t my fault- I didn’t do anything!”

“Yes, you did! I have evidence and I’m going to tell the other hermits what you did!” Xisuma said, his voice cold and had no emotion. “Then they’ll see how bad you actually are.”

Xisuma stepped away. Mumbo lifted himself off the ground. “Xisuma! Wait! Please! -I,”

Xisuma just shook his head and flew off with the help of his elytra and a few rockets. Mumbo was left alone in the grass, just outside the cave entrance to the time machine.

‘It’s my fault-“

#chapter long overdue and im sorry for that sjadakds #got any theories or questions? i wanna know!#The Hereafter #hereafter au #mumbo jumbo #grian #iskall85 #xisumavoid #next chapter all hell breaks loose so get prepared #hermitcraft fanfic #w0ah writes #and ty for 700 followers

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complures-aspiceres-archived · 4 years

Text

More background on Beel + potential ‘influences’

SO, let’s start with pointing out some fun things about the history we know of from snippets of the game, yeah? In one of the chats that we ( the MC ) spies on, Lucifer has come down with a cold and Mammon and Satan are ( more or less ) joking about him being weakened and poisoning his food;

Beel chimes in and says, “Mammon, I’m keeping watch outside Lucifer’s room while he’s sleeping, so you’re not getting in. Satan, I’ll be tasting any food sent in to Lucifer to make sure it isn’t poisoned.” Mammon retaliates by saying, “ Hmph. I figured Lucifer’s bodyguard would show up and ruin everything...” To which Asmodeus pipes up with, “Mmhm. Even during the Great Celestial War, Beel was always there protecting Lucifer.”

From this ALONE, we can assume that Beel and Lucifer have a closer relationship than the small snippets of the game is able to show us. Doing my own research on BEELZEBUB, namely from wikipedia, it is said that Beelzebub ( from either Hebrew or Christian bible I can’t remember ) was a chief lieutenant of Lucifer. ‘Similarly, the 17′th century exorcist Sebastian Michaelis, in his Admirable History, placed Beelzebub among the three most prominent fallen angels, the other two being Lucifer and Leviathan.’ Beelzebub has been associated with the deadly sin of PRIDE by some, gluttony by others, and also a prince of false gods. In texts of the TYPICAL Beelzebub, he has been held responsible for many demonic possessions-- and in the chapter of Luke, the Pharisees disparagingly accused JESUS of using Beelzebub’s demonic power to heal people.

Now, in the Testament of Solomon, Beelzebub ( actually Beelzebul here but w/e ) appears as a prince of demons who was formerly a leading heavenly angel who was associated with the star Hesperus. ( This is the normal Greek name for the planet Venus. ) Beelzebub claims to cause destruction through tyrants, and to cause demons to be worshiped among men, to excite priests to lust-- and several others. The main excluding factor in this case is that Beelzebub is synonymous with Lucifer, which he clearly is not in OM.

Without delving in further down the rabbit hole of demonology essentially, let’s move on to his possible INFLUENCES. ( Aka similar to how Asmodeus, as the avatar of lust, is able to charm most living things into submission. ) Keep in mind that I am far from an EXPERT in any of this and am ignorant in many of the influences demons are said to have canonically ( if you do believe in that. ).

We can go ahead and pass a card on charm because demons are typically seen as beings of temptation, so ( to me ) it would be perfectly reasonable to say all of the brothers have some level of influence attributed to charm. If we were to throw a little classic Beelzebub in there, say he’s able to possess people, and potentially other demons.

It’s also worth mentioning that, while GLUTTONY is usually attributed to ( and especially in Beel’s case here ) the consumption of too much food-- that is only one aspect of the vice. Gluttony basically applies to anything that isn't inherently bad to begin with, but does become inherently wrong and an example of gluttony when you consume/overdo/abuse/use it to the point where it becomes not only wasteful for how much it’s used, but it could also be harmful to your health since it could be a toxicant and harmful to others and since you aren’t keeping a proper balance for which others can use the resource/thing. This expands Beel’s potential reign of influence by...A LOT. One could almost say that his influence with temptation, while different from lust, is actually WORSE if you look at gluttony in that light.

TLDR; Even though Beel is the sixth born ( and Diavolo apparently ranked them by power if I’m not mistaken ), he’s still insanely strong and was/is closer to Lucifer than the game lets on...considering it really doesn’t shed any light on their relationship apart from that one chat. ( At least that I’ve been able to discover. ) His ‘influence’ also probably has a pretty wide scope and it might be used in the way of quietly tempting others into unhealthy habits that fall under the gluttonous category. ( don’t....ask me how that works yet I have ABSOLUTELY NO IDEA. ) Also just regular charm/temptation as a demon and he’s probably able to possess/control people and lower class demons if he ever actually feels like it.

#{ Character; Beelzebub }#Headcanon #.....is this the longest one yet?#I THINK SO #BUT #HERE

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prismabird · 5 years

Text

I’ve been tagged by @ofmemesandbands And oh no, I wrote an essay.

5 things I love about each of the Rammstein members:

Till: (‘m gush on my favorite boy, y’all)

How much anxiety he has overcome to do what he does. I just recently got Gert Hof’s Rammstein book, and according to Richard, Till was so nervous the first time he was recorded singing, he couldn’t make a sound. After some prompting, they finally got him to sing only two words: “Ja” and “Nein.” Think about going from that to performing in front of tens of thousands regularly. Till is my fucking anxiety warrior.

His love of nature and animals. How he seems to take to the woods like they’re a second home, and will wander through them with abandon, like when he went on his impromptu canoe trip in the Yukon. Or how he would wander the woods around his childhood home with a kitten in his coat.

I’m told he has a relatively modest home for a man of his wealth, but he bought a zoo to keep the animals from being stressfully moved and split up, and he financed a bird sanctuary. I respect a man who uses his money for good.

His amazing lyrics. The way he writes about the darkest, nastiest parts of humanity, does not shy away from playing the monster, and does so all through poetry and word play, drawing the listener into the shadows. Somehow are his words both ugly and beautiful at once.

The way he protects people – Flake from his bar fights, and standing by Richard during the Mutter fights, and throwing down with assholes who insult his dates/friends. I wish sometimes he would expand that protective energy to himself, but I also think the pain in his life that took that away from him also gave him great empathy.

Richard:

How he seems perpetually interested in being a good man and never gives up. He can be a bit like a rudderless speedboat at times, because I’m not always sure he’s headed in the right direction, as he wasn’t dealt all the best cards, but I love that he recognizes when he’s wrong and takes steps to improve.

His work ethic. Lord what I could accomplish if I had half his motivation.

His brains. I think he might be the most intelligent member of the band, as well as being a natural leader. I love that he works with his tech and his robots and how proud his is of them. I love that, when he identifies a problem or shortcoming with recording, his response is to build equipment to fix it.

His open mind and connection with the spiritual realm. I love that he believes in past lives and just casually drops that information in an interview without an iota of self-consciousness. I love that he thinks his new York apartment was haunted.

I genuinely get the feeling that he is a good father and very proud/protective of his children.

Paul:

I love that he’s Sonnenschein. Paul always seems to have a big smile for everyone, and likes to make everyone laugh. I love what a goof he is onstage.

He seems to care a lot about the fans. I’ve heard two stories from fans who were standing on Paul’s side during a concert and started having trouble (one was crying, I’m trying to recall the other story) and he noticed and gestured for security to check on them.

How physically affectionate he is with all the band. Most recently, he seemed to be very invested in comforting/reassuring Richard onstage all through the tour, and while they’re all physically affectionate, I’ve noticed it especially with Paul.

How, when he’s asked a stupid question in an interview, he gives a stupid answer. My favorite:

Interviewer: And how did they do the woman’s head on the inside of the cover?

Paul Landers: It was cut off and put on the table

Interviewer: I thought there was a hole in the table and she was sitting underneath?

Paul Landers: By God no, we wouldn’t cut a hole in the table

How excited he seem be a part of Rammstein, and how he mentions in so many interviews how close they are, and how much they are family to him. He’s mentioned before that he has his demons, and though he’s not open about them, he seems genuinely happy with where he is, and where they are as a band.

Flake

I relate to Flake’s humor more than anyone else in the band. I love that because he was born in November, he’s an amphibian, and I love that he wanted to name their third album “Herzeleid” except that there is already an album by that name and unfortunately it is also by them. I love that his favorite thing about America are the urinals. I love his humor.

I also get the impression that Flake uses his dry humor and “don’t care this is boring” attitude as a cover for the fact that he’s somewhat uncomfortable with himself. In that regard, I think he’s quite brave to do what he does.

Speaking of brave, I love how game he is to be so vulnerable on stage. I know he trusts Till deeply, but this year he agreed to take a direct hit from a flamethrower. And I know he suffers sometimes, from burns and injuries, yet doesn’t get half the credit Till does for it.

I love that he’s a communist and has a distaste for the product/consumer worshiping capitalism of the west. I’m not trying to get into a political debate here (lets just say that the issue is complicated and leave it there), but as his friends are all more capitalist, I appreciate a variety of opinion.

He is a man who does his own thing. I have no doubt that the idea for him to be on a treadmill on stage came from him. I don’t know why, but I’m sure it did. Also, his dance moves.

Oli

I respect a quiet soul. Oli has that ‘still waters run deep’ thing happening, and I love it.

He has said before that he doesn’t care what happens to him on stage, but he would never forgive himself if the fans ever got hurt at a concert.

I love that he sometimes perches up on scaffolding and equipment while playing, or will suddenly start crawling around on the stage.

I love that he does yoga and seems to be a calming presence.

I love that he needed time away from everyone while recording Reise Reise, so while they all stayed in a house, he lived in a treehouse out back. I relate to that deeply.

Schneider

I’m about to get shallow here – he’s the most attractive member of the band, and I want him in the worst way. Those eyes. Those cheekbones. *swoons*

I love that he makes THE stupidest faces while playing. Like, sometimes he’ll stick his tongue out and try to make what I can only assume is a scary demon face. It is not scary, it is weird and adorable.

I like that he considers himself to be a bit of a hippy.

I love that he has such a lovely relationship with Ulrike, and beautiful kids and seems like a wonderful dad. And he has the dad dance moves to prove it.

I love that he – and this might just be me, don’t @ me about this – I love that he seems like he kind of doesn’t get Till or his lyrics, but is just so goddamn down to play the drums and spend his life with his second family. There’s something so gorgeous about that to me. I don’t get you. But I love you.

Tagged, if they want to: @atomic-fraulein @ghostlovesc0re @visited-by-the-moon @kruspesdoll

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