Tumgik
#woe is me and i am a fool with weird taste
so it's dad's birthday tomorrow and im gonna draw burgers on a paper for him —
6 notes · View notes
iam-kenough · 4 years
Text
Will  you ever notice me? Arthur Morgan x Original Female Character
Summary:  During they wandering in deep snowstorm, man from van  der Linde gang found odd looking girl and Dutch decides to take her to  camp to see if she can be any use, leading life of outlaw with them.  Quickly, new girl develops feelings towards Arthur, but he sees her just  as a kid...and she won't take that! It's an original character story  that starts in the place where Arthur, Dutch and Micah were supposed to  first meet with Sadie. Instead she's already with them.  
Authors notes: In this chapter I placed big/small (it’s you to decide) crossover, it doesn’t change the plot but I felt like it would be a good wink to others from Witcher’s fandom. If I could give my OC voice it would be this one from quoted song. It’s another chapter and you can find the rest of chapter on my blog if you want to read more of my fanfiction. I decided to post all parts I have at once so the fic could catch more attention. Words count: 2238 Chapter 7 At first he thought Iris is really gonna wait for him. He was telling himself that she just wanted some space and she moved to let himself think. But then, once, when he was lying in his bed it hit him. She told you that just to make it dumping her easier for you, you old fool. She won't wait for you and you let her go. And this realisation made him cry for brief moment. He just hurt another woman in his life. You stole her first kiss, Arthur Morgan. No, he couldn't sleep now. He was the worst. He walked down the stairs and went to the garden to smoke a cigarette and clean his head. And then he noticed that  under his favourite tree Iris is drawing something in her journal. She was singing too, something that sounded like a lullaby. He decided to listen to her before walking at her like that.
Wolves asleep amidst the trees Bats all a swaying in the breeze But one soul lies anxious wide awake Fearing no manner of ghouls, hags and wraiths For your dolly Polly sleep has flown Don't dare let her tremble alone For the witcher, heartless, cold Paid in coin of gold He comes he'll go leave naught behind But heartache and woe Deep, deep woe
- Nice song - he cleared his throat - but who is  a witcher? Iris's heart jumped right to her throat and so did her arms. She looked at him with the coldest manner she had. - It's a bad guy from a tale about himself. He lives in kings and queens times and he slaughters monsters, like...Ghosts and things like that. No one likes witcher's though. They are scary. - Never heard of it. Sounds interesting. - I can borrow you a book. He's in love with a witch with violet eyes and black hair. Really pretty one. - I am not much of a person who likes books - he laughed and then dragged from cigarette - too stupid for that. - If you say so, Mr Morgan - she closed her journal and got up, cleaning her dress from any grass and sand - Anyway, it's you seat. Sorry for taking it, it's free now. - Wait - he grabbed her wrist. He just didn't know what to do next - you have something in your hair - was all he said, using the most awkward manner to pick ''something'' from her hair and throw it away. - Thank you? - she looked at him rather startled. - I-I actually wanted to talk to you? If you have time. - There isn't much to talk about these days. Only Dutch has a lot to say to me, he keeps talking about Tahiti and mangoes. He's crazy, he doesn't even know where freakin' Tahiti is. - Neither do I, sweetheart. - You don't wanna go there without even bare skills of finding it on world's map, Mr Morgan. - I feel like you change the subject and I really need to talk to you, Iris. She sighed and nodded her head. It was just normal courtesy but he couldn't read thru it and started talking. -  I feel like you avoiding me. - Really now? I'm sorry. - You said you are gonna wait to let me think but then ya don't talk much to me. It's not like I am thinking about it constantly and I'm gonna overheat talking to you at the same time - he rambled. That was bad choice of words. - I am not thinking about you, I-I mean I think about you a lot, b-but not this way...- was all he babbled. It was even worse! - I see you could use some sleep, Mr Morgan. You don't make much sense - Iris patted his arm with the friendlier manner she could force herself to and  she left Arthur faster than the light. He was a fool meant to die alone. Arthur started to write a lot in his journal. Whole pages were covered  with words. If he could only speak so swiftly he would win Iris back already but all he could do was watching her from afar. She stopped taking any jobs that meant being with him, she hunted alone and when she needed help with anything she was asking Dutch straight away, even when Arthur was next to her and Dutch sat in his tent. Iris and Arthur were good friends but now they wasn't even strangers. She actually talked more to Micah than to him. And it hurt but he didn't know what to do when he could speak with Iris. It was his lack of communication. All he could think about was Iris's birthday happening today and he decided to go to the city to buy her a gift. But what would she liked? He had actually this much money that if she liked a boat, he could buy one. But boat didn't seem right. She was strong, yet femine. And smart, she knew a lot. Maybe perfumes? Nah, she smelled good enough for him. Then maybe a book? Arthur gulped while thinking how hard it's gonna be to buy a book for Iris. - Good morning, my birthday girl! - Mary- Beth chirped, trying to wake Iris up - I have something what you gonna like! - More hours of sleep and something to eat? - Yes! Kind of. I bought you cookies. But it's not what I really have. She handed Iris small tissue and girl unfolded it. There was silver pendant inside, with small emerald blinking in sunlight. - It's beautiful! You totally stole it, Mary - Beth! - I totally diid - she sang and cuddled her friend - Isn't that romantic? I steal for you, I mend your heart, soon and we gonna be married. - It actually is quite romantic. And to be honest we are free people. I would marry you. - I know you would, I am sweetest one. Ain't I? Tell me I am! - You are dearest to me, Mary-Beth. And this is absolutely the greatest thing I ever got for birthday. - It matches your eyes~!Arthur was gone for the whole day. He was running from shop to shop. After few hours he choosed one dress, but he also saw a beautiful haircomb, with carved elements and subtle. He wasn't sure for what he should settle and decided it's not gonna be a dress when lady in shop looked at him weirdly because when she asked Arthur for size, he told that he could embrace Iris's waist with his arm. He decided to be braver than usually and decided to enter book shop. - Er, g'day sir -Arthur scratched his chin - Do you have some books for person who likes to study...biology? - Biology, sir? - Well, my wife - he quickly noticed how sweet if would sound if was reall - she enrolled to university and she's gonna be a doctor, she's really smart you know and I wanted buy something...proper. - I think I have something just right for you, sir. It was indeed right.-Mary-Beth! - Iris jumped quickly in her direction and dragged her to nearest bush she saw. Her breath was heavy. - What, what? - Look what I had found - she spoken in with deadly serious manner. And the case was serious. She just noticed Arthur's journal left in his room. - Is it...? - Yes and I know we shouldn't but I don't have any decency - she straightened up proudly - so we gonna read it. And so they opened journal and was searching thru it for any appearance of Iri's name. At first it wasn't anything harmful and Arthur wrote about her as ''kid'' or ''new kid'' but right after what happened between them few days ago they could read something very disturbing. It was almost the worst Iris could imagine. In this note Arthur more or less compared her to Eliza and Marry. - ''She seems so similar to Eliza. She is just more nervous and frivolous. I think that maybe there isn't any more woman with Eliza's calm temper. I keep telling myself it's Eliza's ghost'' - quoted Iris and Mary-Beth squeaked with shock. - Look there ''I kissed her today and it was weird feeling. She doesn't seem to know what to do and with Mary it was easier'' son of a bitch, that's harsh. - He's right, you know. I can't kiss. I've got another one - Iris seemed not to be bothered. Yet. She just was in this adrenaline rush that made her laugh at it - ''She moved away from our room. I thought about it a lot, she's just a liar and she won't be back''. - Aren't you sad, Iris? - Mary-Beth looked at her with worry. She didn't know what she would do if she would read her lovers journal and found things like that. -Sad? Never. I expected him to say things like that. More mad...I feel used. Kind of like he tried me but didn't likt the taste after all. In early evening Arthur got back to camp with a gift covered in some fancy paper and heavy heart pounding in chest like bird in cage. He noticed that everyone is gathered. - Ladies and gentelman - Mary-Beth was standing on the log like she was giving a speech, with beer in her hand and Iris under her arm - Can I talk to all of you for a minute? - I guess you can - Micah said grumpily. - Thank you. As you all probably know it's my girlfriend's birtday today - she cuddled Iris to herself. Girl had big flower crown on her head. It was another gift to cheer her up after what they discovered and Arthur had to say he looked like a pixie or like elve from fairy tale - and thank's to Dutch we have a lot of beer... - Thanks, Dutch - Iris chimed in and sent man a kiss. -...and Mr Pearson cooked today something that doesn't taste awful, I think it was a gift for our birthday girl... Everyone bursted into laugh. Except Pearson. - Ya will starve, missy - he snarled. - ...and I totally stole this necklace for her and don't you think it's romantic? Laughs again. - ...and since I think he can, Dutch will gave us marriage today and we gonna be first married couple here... - I don't think I can - Dutch said humorously and dragged from his cigarette. - I think you will have to, she really wants that - Iris said pretending she's whispering. Mary-Beth cuddled her closer. - And I hope everyone is gonna have fun, thank you very much, woohoo! - She said as she kissed Iris in front of everybody, then their bottles clicked and the fun begin. At first it was mainly girls but later almost everyone joined the party. Beer was cold, night was warm and Iris danced a lot, around the campfire, making pirouettes and laughing sweetely. Beer and fun made her forget. And she couldn't care less.But after few hours man 'round there were too drunk, their hands becoming jazzy and she dissapeared under her favourite tree with journal and pencil. - I was thinking you gonna be there - Arthur appeared from god knows where. He seemed in weirdly good mood and she was drunk enough to handle this conversation with class. - And I am. Not many people are loosers enough to sit and watch how other people party. What's wrong? - I-I have something for you. Really broke my back to find something good enough for you. Happy birthday - he said. She unpacked this heavy something from the paper and she was speechless. It was a botanic atlas with drawings drawed by hand. It was mainly about herbs and how to heal with them. It was piece of art to her. But she had her pride. - Thank you, Mr Morgan - she said and he smiled. But only for a second. - I can't accept this gift - she said briefly, placing the book back in Arthur's hands. - Jesus, what? What is that about? I bought if for you to have it. -It's nothing, really. I just...can't have it. Lost interests in all that - she lied quickly. - You lie - it was first time he actually saw thru her fasade - You love things like that, I heard you speaking to Mary-Beth about it few days ago - his voice was harsh. - I am big fat liar, Mr Morgan and you are more than right! - Why you lie to me, then? You were telling all those things but now I think you didn't mean them- - Oh, did you? I know you didn't either. - Y-ya kidding me, kid? There is no day without me thinking about you. - I don't want you to think about me! Know what you really think about me and I am surprised with myself I was stupid enough to think you are normal. You are a weirdo who baths with dogs 'cause they are the only creatures that want to be around you! It was  the worst anybody said to him. Probably because no one was closer to him than her so far, but he didn't saw it that way. He couldn't think straight now, normally he was cold-headed and he would tell himself it's just anger talking through her. But now he decided to believe she hated him. He was glad that at least Iris took a book. 
15 notes · View notes
andrea-lyn · 5 years
Note
Hey! So birthday request 🎂☺️(I am Shameless).So I was thinking since Alex Met Michael ‘s mum,can you please do an Alex taking Michael to meet his(Alex’s) mom fic?and Kyle tagging along because now they are the road trip trio and he says he is Alex’s best man.
(I’m sorry that this is so much of a belated birthday gift, but a bunch came in before, but I hope this works for you even if it is no longer your bday)
**
“I don’t know about this.”
Alex glances to the passenger side of the car, trying to surreptitiously check that the locks of the car are on for the fourth time. After all, the last thing he needs is Michael tucking and rolling out of the car because he’s panicking. “Michael,” he sighs, glancing in the rearview mirror. “How come you’re not helping?” he demands, of Valenti. “What are you even here for?”
“The entertainment, mostly,” Valenti quips.  
Michael is in the middle of what might be an actual panic attack and Valenti is about to eat popcorn. Alex pinches the bridge of his nose and wonders what he did to deserve this, never mind that he’d been the one to actually request this happen.
It’s Mother’s Day and after the disastrous events at Caulfield two years ago and everything that’s happened since, Alex didn’t think it would be smart to leave Michael alone on the day.
Maybe he’s just trying to fool everyone. Maybe it’s because Alex is going to visit his mother in person for the first time in years, because after he’d called her to ask about Jesse’s habits, she’d ended the call saying that he should come see her sometime.
He’d made a promise and now he intends to keep it.
It feels like if he doesn’t, it’s not only him making his mother upset, but somehow undermining Michael as well, who’ll never get a chance to visit his mother again, thanks to Jesse Manes’ legacy. The very least Alex can do is offer him something else, even if it’s second best.
His mother lives out in the middle of nowhere, off the grid. Alex had helped erase her information so that certain people (specifically his father) couldn’t find her once he got old enough and had tracked her down.
She’d explained it wasn’t the boys she wanted to hide from, but Jesse.
They’ve been talking lately and he’d mentioned wanting to introduce her to his boyfriend, which she had eventually come around to. Alex suspects that she’s anticipating another military boy, someone that reminds her of Jesse. She’s going to be so damn surprised.
“Michael,” Alex says, reaching over to squeeze his hand. “It’s okay. She’s gonna love you. You’re nothing like anyone I was around growing up. That’ll do it alone.”
“So, be the anti-Manes?” Kyle quips.
Alex raises both brows and shrugs, because, “Yeah. Kind of.”
That seems to relax Michael a little. Alex isn’t so sure that he’s as relaxed, but he’s burying it down deep. He’s never brought anyone home and it’s for obvious reasons with his father, but with his mother, it almost felt like cowardice. Not bringing Michael or anyone else felt like he could keep his heart safe in the process.
He’s not so sure he wants safe, now.
Pulling into a long, winding driveway, he knows that there’s no turning around at this point. They’re here and his mother is expecting them. To leave now would be an act of cowardice so grand, so awful, so terrifying that he suspects he’d have to go months without speaking to his mother as a consequence.
Besides, he wants her to meet Michael.
The three most important people in the world to him are within a mile of each other right now – mother, boyfriend, best friend – and Alex has never felt safer or more panicked at the same time.
“Okay,” Alex says, and parks the car. “We’re here.”
Here goes nothing.
*
When Alex is making his way to the porch of the little bungalow, Michael weighs the merits of running away. He’d have to live off the land in the desert, sure, but then he won’t have to worry about being a disappointment to anyone’s mother (especially seeing as he doesn’t even have a shot of being with his own).
Of course, there’s one looming doctor-shaped issue in his way.
“Don’t even think about it,” Valenti warns, like somehow he’s learning mind-reading tricks from Isobel.
“What? I was just…” Michael trails off, when he hears low voices at the porch. He straightens up his posture, aware that he’s not going to get out of this, and if that’s the case, then he needs to make sure he doesn’t fuck this up.
Michael Guerin, Earner of Parent’s Trust isn’t a trait that he ever thought he’d possess, but for Alex, he’s got to try.
“You were just debating running away. I’m pretty sure that’s why I’m here. Got to make sure you don’t make a break for it.”
He’s lurking back here because he doesn’t think that he can muster up the courage to get over there until Alex either deliberately drags him or his presence is requested. “I’m not exactly the kind of guy mothers like.” It’s an understatement. Michael’s not the kind of guy any parents like, from his interaction with adults as a kid.
Valenti clearly isn’t impressed by his little ‘woe is me’ parade.
”You know how hard it is for him to come out here and face her. It only happens when something is important,” Valenti says. “He doesn’t like bothering her, but ever since Caulfield, I swear, he brings this up on a weekly basis. He’s always asking me if I think you two should come out here and look. It’s mother’s day and he wants to spend it with you and with her.”
”Also, you,” Michael feels compelled to point out.
”Yeah, notice how I’m the one talking you off the ledge? Alex knew he’d need the backup,” Valenti boasts. “Is this about your Mom?”
They really, really, really don’t talk about this often, but Valenti knows the gist of what happened in that prison. He knows that Michael had lost his family that day and that his mother had been one of them. What’s been weird, honestly, is the fact that Valenti gets it.
After all, they both lost parents to Caulfield.
”I don’t want to think that she can replace her,” Michael admits, feeling feeble for the way he sounds as he speaks, “and at the same time, I don’t wanna be the ingrate boyfriend who doesn’t see how much Alex is doing to make this happen for us. It’s just, how is she supposed to replace my Mom? How can I even think that when I don’t even know my Mom?”
”You won’t find that out standing out here,” Valenti says.
Michael breathes in and out, staring at the daunting bungalow in front of him.
”Do or do not…” Valenti intones.
”Oh, fuck you, I knew showing you Star Wars was a mistake,” Michael groans, but it has the effect of breaking the tension, making him huff out a laugh as he nods his head. “Yeah, I got it. There’s no try.” He’s just gotta do this and he knows it’ll turn out fine.
He still can’t help worrying.
”Michael,” Alex calls, ducking out onto the porch. He’s smiling like the sun is shining on him and he’s waving for the both of them to come inside. He looks so happy and Michael isn’t about to ruin that by running away. “Come inside, lunch is ready.”
Valenti claps him on the shoulder, putting his hands on both of them like he’s intending to steer him inside if Michael doesn’t go on his own volition.
”You can do this,” Valenti encourages.
”I can at least try,” Michael admits. “For Alex.”
”For Alex.”
*
Michael sits in the truck, full of lunch, tea and cookies, still feeling the tightness of Alex’s mother’s embrace as she’d hugged him so tightly to say goodbye, refusing to let him go until he’d relaxed. He hates that he’d tensed, but his experience with the Manes family, outside of Alex, has been resoundingly stressful.
She’d been kind and warm and welcoming. She’d been the complete opposite of Jesse, and he’s starting to understand why she’d run away so early in Alex’s life.
“So, did she…” Michael trails off, hating how small his voice sounds. “Do you think she liked me?”
Alex gives Michael a fond smile. “She did ask when I was going to ask that nice boy to marry me,” is his wry comment. “She’s hard to put off when she knows that I’ve been in love with the same guy for over twelve years, not to mention the part where we live together. As far as she’s concerned, that’s inevitable.”
Michael feels his cheeks go hot, because he’d liked her, too.
It’s not that he’s ever had a mother figure to compare her to, but she’d been sweet and warm with her love, while also having a firmness and a backbone of steel – but then, he supposes you’d have to, in order to leave Jesse Manes, because that takes guts.
”I liked her too,” he mumbles, staring out the window so Alex can’t see the vulnerability on his face. “Do you think we could turn this into a regular thing? I know she doesn’t like coming back to Roswell, but I don’t mind driving out here, if that’s what we’d need to do.”
From the way Alex practically radiates relief and joy, it’s definitely the right thing to say.
”I think we can manage,” he agrees, tugging Michael towards him for a slow kiss that makes
“Come on, let’s hit the road,” Valenti says, interrupting that beautiful moment, hopping in the back of the car, arms piled with leftovers. “I saw a 7-Eleven on the way back and I don’t know about you two, but I’m thinking Big Gulps.”
Okay, thinks Michael. Maybe Valenti has a few decent qualities up his sleeve and his taste in roadside beverages is up there in the plus column.
86 notes · View notes
estelofimladris · 5 years
Text
My Longest Day Ever in Fandom
This has been one of the hardest 48 hours for me as a fan. Really they’ve been pretty bad in the scope of me being a person, but in my fandom experience, this shit takes the cake.
** WARNING: THERE ARE SPOILERS FOR The Magicians as well as some minor spoilers for Pirates of the Caribbean, Harry Potter, Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D., Avengers: Infinity War, Captain America: The Winter Soldier, The Flash, and Supergirl. **
** ALSO: This shit gets super personal. Don’t read if it makes you uncomfortable. **
I get that I’m specifically interested in stories of struggle and triumph. I thrive with stories about how the things worth having aren’t easily obtained. And sometimes people fail and sometimes people lie. There are horrible obstacles and things to conquer.
A bit of my fandom-inflicted past:
Will Turner was my favorite Pirates character. We had tickets not only to the three-movie marathon on opening day, but then the midnight screening. I nearly didn’t go to the second screening.
Sirius Black is why I got into Harry Potter. I got into it at the weird middle place when the books were still coming out and the movies were being made. I had been forced to read the first book when it was first published and it had left a very bad taste for me so the fact that anything could draw me into the fandom was insane. I watched Prisoner of Azkaban entirely by chance while hanging with my cousins and had read all the books by the time Goblet of Fire was released. I lived in and loved a fandom where my favorite character was dead before I even got a chance to know him.
Grant Ward was one of my two my favorite Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. characters. I rushed a Ward cosplay for WonderCon, which happened to be scheduled about a week after the release of Captain America: The Winter Soldier and less than a week after the AoS episode “Turn, Turn, Turn” aired, revealing that Ward was a brainwashed and abused Hydra sleeper agent the whole time. I then nearly scrapped the entirely completed cosplay. Instead I wore it to WonderCon and had people whispering “Hail Hydra” to me all weekend.
I spent at least three years living with a TV curse. Every show that I watched before its renewal for a second season was cancelled. To this day, I struggle to watch new shows because I fear that I will fall in love with a show only for it to be cancelled.
In the past year, I have lost 5 of my favorite characters to sudden deaths/departures:
Bucky Barnes (Avengers: Infinity War)
Harry Wells (The Flash)
Leo Fitz (Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.)
Winn Schott (Supergirl)
And this is about the most recent one, Quentin Coldwater (The Magicians)
I also know that there are more to come:
Avengers: Endgame comes out next week.
Arrow is ending at the end of this year.
There are more stories of woe and uncomfortable spaces in which we want to see our favorites succeed and they fail or lose or die. But this, this is more than just someone failing or losing or dying.
I survived all that other shit. I was a little off for a few days following or weeks or months or even years. But we always come back to Fandom. Maybe not the same fandom, but the big idea of Fandom. Being a fan isn’t something you can really just stop.
I got into The Magicians because of serendipity. Two of my closest friends got into the show at some point last year and had mentioned that I’d liked it, but it was one in a malaise of fandoms that I’d been told that about and I only have so many hours in the day and space in my heart. One of the people I was rooming with at SDCC this last year had freshly gotten into the show and was going to the panel. Another of my friends was going to the panel as well who had freshly gotten into the show. When I asked about it afterwards, the lovely human said they’d met a lovely other new fan. My friends had met entirely by chance at the panel and I got to hear all about how lovely the fandom was and that it was a really great panel with a lot of promise for the new season.
I got home from SDCC and, one day while curious, watched the pilot of The Magicians.
I finished the show in less than three weeks. I watched it again. I’ve probably watched this show more than any other media since August.
A bit of background about me and why this show struck a very deep chord with me:
I met my entire close group of friends, my found family, because of Lord of the Rings. I learned Sindarin (elvish) in high school. Every screen name I have is related to my love and foundation of loving Lord of the Rings. I have a tattoo in elvish.
I grew up around a lot of mental illness. I myself have been diagnosed and treated for adolescent/adult ADD, but members of my family as well as every best friend I’ve ever had, has been depressed and most were suicidal. I had to confront my best friend over suicide attempts at 13. My brother was treated for extremely aggressive childhood depression when I was a kid.
I’m also queer. Still working to unstick myself from some definitions I’ve given myself, but I’m definitely genderqueer and androphilic and exploring my romantic identity in part because of this show.
I’ve delt with death my whole life. My first grandparent (maternal grandfather) died when I was 5 or 6. My last grandparent (paternal grandmother) died when I was 22. I had a dear friend die in a motorcycle accident in 2015. I’ve been there for people who have lost loved ones suddenly and held people’s hands through the deaths of parents, loved ones, and children.
I also am about to complete my third and final year of an insanely rigorous graduate costume design program.
This show felt like it was made for me to love it. It made it so easy.
The fandom was a loving community that welcomed me immediately and I have thrived there. I would come home from a crazy day at school, put on an episode of the show, and get lost in the lovely fandom that I’d found myself in. I mean that both ways. Yes, I tripped and fell and found myself among excellent people. But more importantly, I found myself in ways I didn’t expect through The Magicians.
Through a series of very unfortunate events, I stopped reading Fan Fiction about 7 or 8 years ago. I would occasionally write something, but nothing that I cared about what anyone thought about it. It was only writing that had to be written not writing for an audience in any way.
The Magicians got me reading Fan Fiction again. I drew fan art. I participated in discussions on the meta. I joined in when I don’t really have the free time, but it felt so good.
In Quentin in particular, I found a part of myself that was seldom voiced. This melancholy nerd who was Doing His Very Best™ all the time tapped into the kid who loved something so much it transformed their life. It spoke to the parts of me that I don’t talk about that feel like a fraud and a floundering fool. The Magicians told me that I’m not some pathetic thing. That I’m part of my world and that I belong. That it’s ok to re-think about sexuality and romance as an adult. It spoke to my struggles with school and creating something from absolutely fucking nothing.
Something that I’ve not told many people: I’ve struggled with feeling worthy of love. I’ve had some really big relationships that ended poorly and ever since coming out as genderqueer and living my truth, I’ve been single. Watching Quentin be so worthy of love and struggle with that himself, he really shifted my views on relationships.
So, Wednesday was, needless to say, rough.
The fun twist though, I have a mandatory class on Thursday mornings. I had a lot of anxiety about this finale already because I had a notion that something horrible was going to happen because its a Magicians finale. I really struggled to work on homework for the past week. (I texted a friend on Wednesday “How am I supposed to work under these conditions!?” partway through the day.)
This anxiety resulted in not all of my homework being done by the time I had set aside to cook a delicious dinner and settle in to watch the episode with friends. So at the end, after I had cried, drank, nearly threw up from being upset, and was all-in-all a complete wreck, I then proceeded to work on homework until I couldn’t, then I put myself to bed with an alarm set to wake up early and finish, but woke up with a nearly-vomiting anxiety attack (which I don’t get ever) an hour before my alarm.
I finished my homework on my 1.5 hours of sleep, went to class, tried to be eloquent and not burst into tears. I sorta succeeded at both, thankfully. My work was... sub-par, but present, which was the only real requirement. Despite some close calls, I didn’t cry until I was in my car driving home.
I got home, cried a lot, tried to eat and sleep (and failed at both) and ended up having a second wake with another friend and drinking, which finally made me fall asleep.
Throughout the day, I seriously considered deleting every Magicians post from my queue and even my Tumblr as a whole. I thought about dropping out of fandom entirely, including conventions, cosplay - all of it. I thought about selling or donating all of the considerable amount of Magicians merch and related items (cosplay, decor, fan-made merch) that I’ve accumulated in the past few months. I thought about shaving off the hair that I grew out specifically for Quentin that helped me re-shape my queer identity over the past few months.
I woke up in the middle of the night again with more panic attacks. It took sitting with my best friend to make me really fall asleep and stay asleep.
Today, I’m looking back at this whole experience up to this point and I’m so exhausted. I’m tired of crying over something that just brought me so much deep joy. I miss my fandom. We’re all in mourning and its chilling.
I decided somewhere in my insanity yesterday that I need to reclaim The Magicians that I loved. I posted about how it will take time, but they can’t kill the love that transformed my life.
I’m still not sure how to get out of this horrible raw place, but I know time will help. And actually eating a real meal.
I’m sharing all of this because I’m not the only one in this place. If you’re struggling, you are not alone.
I see you. I feel you.
Thank you for being a part of this fandom that has so heavily enriched my life. You are loved. We will find ourselves again.
11 notes · View notes
Text
Tales of Berseria - Not Every Performance Can Be A Hit
Summary: Magilou and Velvet can try and lie to each other, but for just how long? Warning: The fic contains some nsfw elements, but it’s mostly suggestive at best.
Disclaimer: This fic was made as a part of tales of secret santa for @chelfierambles, I hope you enjoy it!
“Ah!” The self proclaimed witch moaned, as she was slammed up against the door of Velvet’s cabin. “So rough. Hasn’t anyone told you that you need to be delicate with people? Especially now that you’re a daemon and all that.” Velvet rarely had the patience to toy with Magilou, and this time wasn’t any different. With her hands being kept busy holding the squirming woman still, she used her free foot to kick the door open before practically throwing Magilou on top of it. It had been a few days since their last time together, yet the sheets were still stained from their previous encounter. To an inexperienced eye, it could be mistaken as water droplets coming from the ceiling, but the two of them knew the truth. Magilou wasn’t just a loudmouth, but also a real mess to deal with in every meaning of the word. “Will you ever shut up?” Velvet grunted in response; closing the door with a similar kick behind her. With her bandages loosening up almost on their own, the dark and red skin was revealed. It had an aura of its own. Malevolent energies were seeping out of it like it was a fresh wound. It was a part of her Velvet kept hidden for a good reason. However, if there were people who didn’t flinch from seeing it, it was the group she was travelling with. “I’m known to do that on an special occasion. Kinda like a reverse birthday song, you know?” The witch smirked; her attention now jumping from Velvet’s displeased look to her ever glowing arm. Doing her best to act like she was in a real danger, Magilou gulped and backed up a bit until she hit the wooden frame of Velvet’s bed. They had both been through this song and dance many times by now. Neither of them could simply say that they wanted or needed release, or that they wanted to feel intimacy in a world that seemed to be void of any. Instead, it was all donr behind snarky remarks and faked anger. Things to justify their behavior. Simply being honest was too much to ask. Velvet shook her head before climbing on top of her bed. The wood underneath her squeaked and bent from the weight of two women now on top of it. With Magilou already lowering herself, it didn’t take long for her view to be of Velvet towering over her. It was an angle that was both familiar and pleasing, for it often meant that she was in for a good time. Admittedly Velvet was a bit on the quiet side compared to the woman keeping her company, but she knew how to make an evening last in a way Magilou enjoyed. Much like her own bandages, it didn’t take long for other pieces of clothing to be shredded as well. With the way Magilou was dressed, it only took a few pulls to get the witch out of her outfit. Even fewer pulls with a hand like Velvet had. At this point, she was used to precision with those claws being both huge and sharp. She could have pinpoint accuracy when using them. The first to go was the strap keeping her excuse of a skirt and stockings connected. Initially Velvet had ignored the rest of Magilou when they had started to let their relationship turn from one upping each other into a physical one, but now she found herself paying attention to the different expressions she made during it all. Still playing her part of being the poor, helpless victim, Magilou was pulling all the stops in squirming and acting terrified. But with her levels of acting, it didn’t take much for Velvet to see past it all. For someone who was supposed to be trembling, Magilou was far from convincing. Her legs more spread out than shaking; practically begging the daemon on top of her to take her. “You like this, huh? What a poor witch you are. Unable to control a mere daemon,” Of course Velvet wasn’t just any daemon, but THE daemon. The one daemon the entire world was speaking about. Not even Magilou’s title was up to Velvet’s level. Everyone knew what the Lord of Calamity was to some degree. It was all easier this way. To act it out. Velvet found it increasingly hard to be truly mad at the eccentric woman. Initially, she had found it hard to tolerate her, that much was certainly true, but the more the two had spent time together, the easier it was to see eye to eye. Despite being like night and day at first glance, both of them had started to notice similarities in each other. Biting at her lower lip, Magilou did her best to wiggle in an attempt to look like she was trying to free herself from the daemon’s grasp, but it wasn’t really convincing enough to fool either of them. Arching her back, Magilou brought her body more prominently for display; encouraging Velvet to do what she was good at. “Oh, I am indeed! Simply the worst! The number one rule of summoning a succubus is that you shouldn’t be horny when you’re doing so! And of course, I just had to forget that! What a dumb woman I am! Woe is me!” Magilou cried out in an overly dramatic fashion; hitting herself on the forehead a few times before her hand was stopped by another one. Holding onto Magilou’s thin wrist, Velvet pushed that hand next to her head. What looked to Magilou like an act of dominance was really something else entirely. What Velvet wanted the most was for Magilou to stop hurting herself. Once again, she found it hard to say it out loud, as any real feelings would make their relationship that much harder. Of course, that figurative ship had sailed ages ago, with both of them knowing that this supposed ‘no strings attached’ deal was anything but. Not everything needed to be spoken out loud, though. The wordless touches after it was all over spoke, perhaps, more than words ever could. Fingers trailing over each others naked bodies, glancing deep down into each other’s eyes... it was all a different take on their shared song and dance. Magilou’s oversized hat was quickly thrown into some unknown corner, leaving all of Magilou’s long and wild hair to come truly loose. Reaching out for a handful of it, Velvet let her fingers lose themselves in the midst of it all; feeling just how soft it was before gently tugging it. Despite what her inner romantic wanted, she had her part to play. The last thing she wanted was for Magilou to start asking questions. Despite having been a sister to someone who couldn’t even properly leave their home, it was somehow Magilou who had more questions on her mind at any given moment. “Ah!” She moaned again; expressions failing to show just how much in supposed pain she was. “This is going to be the last time I’m gonna attempt an arte like this.” Velvet couldn’t help herself from chuckling dryly. In her head, if Magilou had actually come up with a way to summon a daemon that’d satisfy her, even if it came with a cost of her clothes or possibly her life, she’d take that offer in a heartbeat. “No it’s not,” She snarkily replied. The next of her clothes to be thrown away, or torn apart, in this case, was the chest piece. Trailing her sharp claw right through the middle of it, Velvet exposed the witch’s bare chest and stomach. Not wanting to switch hands just yet, she let that same claw trail to the sides, causing Magilou to squirm in a mixture of laughter and pain. It was weird how something like that could make her laugh, considering it was followed by a mark on her skin and faint bleeding afterwards. Scooping up some of that fresh witchblood, Velvet licked it all clean right in front of Magilou before leaning in closer to her. “The taste of a lying witch… delicious.” For once, Magilou didn’t have to act like she was squirming, as the mere sight of it all was enough to send shivers down her spine. In the heat of it all, Magilou reached out for Velvet’s head, pulling her even closer to her. Opening up her mouth, the two lips met. For a pair that had turned a one-time thing into a regular occurrence, the two of them very rarely kissed. Perhaps it was due to intimacy of it all, as they found themselves mostly enjoying the rougher side of things, but deep down they knew the true reason of it all. They didn’t want to get truly attached. Making love and being in love were two very different things, even if, at times, the difference between them was only minuscule. All things more sensual were left for what little time they spent together after the act, but now, they found themselves locking lips even before the first orgasm. Velvet tried to pull away, knowing deep down that the longer the kiss was held, the harder it would be for her to deny that this is what she wanted. Despite her grunts, she couldn’t bring herself to do it, and instead embraced the woman underneath her; wrapping her arm around her to keep her close. If she had been able to break the kiss, she would have told the witch just how much she hated her… for making her fall in love with her, of all people.
37 notes · View notes
aurora077 · 6 years
Text
Harry Potter and the OMG Hermione is not Ugly Chapter 2
https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12755845/2/Harry-Potter-and-the-OMG-Hermione-is-not-ugly
Chapter 2
Harry could hear his heart pounding in his ears. For a moment there was utter silence in the great hall before Ron's burst of laughter prompted everyone else's. Harry, in an attempt to seem casual and like I-was-just-minding-my-own-business-and-totally-not-staring-at-you, had hastily raised his arm to rub the back of his head (like that was sooo casual at dinner). Except, Harry had completely forgotten he was holding his treacle tart, which slipped out of his hand at his panicked movement. The next moment seemed to move in slow-mo for him as his tart flew across the room.
Xixixixixixixiixixixixixixixixixixixixixiixixixixixixixixixixixixixixixixixixixixix
Hermione was at an utter loss to explain what just happened. One minute she had a question on the tip of her tongue about transfiguration, the next, her best friend's treacle tart was soaring across the room and making it's acquaintance with a certain Slytherin's face (with an audible whap too). Said Slytherin was rapidly turning Gryffindor red as the tart slid down his face and to the floor.
All he had been trying to do was leave the great hall, but Potter had to make him the laughingstock of the evening. He was so angry he couldn't speak. But Potter's attention had finally left his bushy-haired friend and had turned to look at Malfoy with wide, shocked eyes. Draco noticed he wasn't laughing with the rest and so instead of taking points like he should have, he just stomped out of the great hall and made his way back to his dorm. Normally for a feat like that he'd give the prat detention and remove points. But for some reason he didn't, and he really didn't want to think about why. "You know why," a small voice in the back of his head taunted him, "It's because of The Incident." He shook his head to get rid of that thought and flopped down on his bed. The voice was right though. Thanks to those wretched Weasley twins Potter now had something to hold against him. He didn't like the idea of Potter having blackmail material on him so he just stayed out of his way as much as possible. "Right. That's why. Blackmail. You tell yourself whatever helps you sleep at night," the voice said slyly. "Oh shut up!" Draco grunted audibly. Just great. Now he was talking to himself. Darn that Potter! And he couldn't even tell his father about this.
Meanwhile back at the Gryffindor table Hermione was looking at Harry with a thoughtful expression. Earlier on she had thought that Harry was only acting weird towards her but now that she really thought about it, he was acting weird with regard to Malfoy as well. Usually Harry took every opportunity he got to complain about the Slytherin. But lately whenever she or Ron brought up Malfoy he was strangely silent, only grunting in agreement and generally trying to change the topic.
And Malfoy himself was acting weird. Instead of following them around and taking points at every opportunity he appeared to be avoiding them, even going so far as to lead the Inquisitorial Squad away from them. Even when they accidentally caught eyes he would just sneer and walk away as opposed to pelting insults. Something was going on. She didn't know what but she would definitely make it her business to find out. After all what if Harry were in some sort of trouble? Maybe that's why he kept avoiding her gaze and acted so twitchy around her. He probably thought if she found out she'd be mad at him. Well, that was going to have to stop. What kind of best friend would she be if she didn't help her friend out of whatever trouble he was in? He didn't even seem to be thinking about winning over Cho anymore so something really must have been wrong.
Xixixixixixixixixiixixixixixixixixixixixixixixixixixiixixixxixixixixixixixixixiixixix
Ron couldn't hide his amusement at the situation. "Good one mate!" he chuckled, thumping Harry on the back, "Did you see the look on his face?" He ignored the angry murmurs coming from the Slytherin table and the glares some of them shot in their direction. By some really random stroke of luck, none of the teachers had witnessed what happened which was fortunate for them. The incident had completely wiped out all thoughts of finding out what was up with Harry's weird behaviour. All Ron could think about was Malfoy's face with that tart on it. The git had it coming, in his opinion. But somehow, while everyone was enjoying seeing Malfoy get his comeuppance, Harry was just looking melancholy.
"You okay mate?" Ron asked, noticing Harry's lack of enthusiasm.
"Yeah I'm fine," he said, glancing out of the corner of his eye at Hermione and then turning back to Ron, "I think I'm just gonna head in now. I'm full and Malfoy's wearing my dessert after all."
And with that Harry took off like he was being chased, leaving behind two confused best friends.
Xixixixixixixixixixixixixixixixixiixixixixixixixixixixixixixixixixixiixixixixixixix
Just great, thought Harry, as he trudged up to the common room. He'd made a fool out of himself in front of Hermione. And he was lucky Malfoy didn't retaliate, although he didn't count it out just yet. Harry didn't stop to consider why exactly he was bothered that Hermione saw that dinner disaster, especially since it really wasn't the first time she bore witness to him doing something stupid. If she had laughed he would have counted it as a victory but as it was, Hermione had just turned to him with a look of utter bafflement. He assumed that meant she disapproved. Somehow, the thought of Hermione's disapproval left a bad taste in his mouth. Never mind that he did many things she disapproved of before and that it had never bothered him that much.
He plopped down in the very same armchair he sat in when Neville had helped him clear his head of some worries, but introduced some new ones as well. It was starting to become a habit to go to that one. Everyone would start coming back to the common room soon and he didn't feel like being around too many people at the moment. But it was too early to go up to bed and he knew he would only toss and turn anyway. Maybe if he got a head start on his transfiguration essay then Hermione would forget about dinner and start thinking about homework. School could always be counted on to distract her. Besides, something in the back of his head was telling him she'd approve of this, and really, though he didn't quite consciously know it, the thought of her approval left a tingly feeling in his stomach. He merely attributed the feeling to stress though. The poor oblivious dear.
Ron and Hermione came up to the common room together a little while after. As it turned out, Harry was right about homework distracting her. "Hey Hermione could you look over my transfiguration essay for me?" he asked, before she could get a word out.
She looked pleasantly surprised, "You're finished already?"
"I am," he replied, feeling slightly proud of himself. Harry had come to realise that throwing himself into work was a good way to clear his head of other thoughts.
"That's great Harry! Of course I'll check it over for you," she cried, "I'm glad to see you're taking your schoolwork seriously. Unlike some people we know." She shot a glare at Ron, who was busy stuffing his mouth with a Cornish pasty he brought up from dinner.
"What," he mumbled, spewing some crumbs onto his shirt, "Thish ish my pwe-homewoke schnack."
"Ugh, Ronald! How many times have I told you to chew and swallow your food before you speak?" she scolded, sounding remarkably like Mrs. Weasley.
"Showwy," he said, grinning sheepishly with his mouth still full, which allowed a few more crumbs to decorate his clothing.
Hermione just face-palmed and stifled an annoyed groan, muttering about manners and hygiene. Of course, Harry was just glad he wasn't on the receiving end of her displeasure. Better Ron than him.
Xixixixixixiixixixixixixixixixixixixixixixixixixixixixixixixixixixixixixixixixxixixixixixixix
Hermione was surprised but happy at Harry's initiative. In fact she was actually so surprised that she forgot to question him about his recent behaviour. She herself hadn't finished her essay as yet, but that was because she'd ended up writing twice the required amount and was forcing herself to redo it in a more concise manner so Professor McGonagall wouldn't start worrying about her overworking herself again. The irony of this didn't quite strike her.
She sat down in the armchair across from Harry's, head bent, scanning through his essay for any faults. She was absorbed in it, pleased that Harry's quality of work seemed to have improved, for that particular assignment at least. She finished reading it through and moved over to the armrest of his chair to point out a few grammatical errors.
Harry took the parchment from her and corrected them a bit shakily, thanked her for her help, and bid them both a good night. He claimed all that thinking made him exhausted and all but ran up the stairs to his dorm. This odd behaviour reminded Hermione that she was supposed to talk to Harry about whatever was bothering him. But she supposed she would have to wait until tomorrow to do it, and so she set about finishing her own essay with a disgusted look at Ron who had gotten crumbs all over his.
Xixixixxixixixixixixixixxixiixixixixixixixiixixixixixixixixiixixixixixixiixixixixixixiixixix
Harry lay in his bed, glad to be away from the common room. His essay had distracted him from his woes for a while. But then Hermione had smiled at him in that proud manner and his chest felt funny. He didn't know what it was but seeing her so concentrated on his essay was suddenly making him feel strange. And when a lock of hair fell in her face he had the urge to brush it away and tuck it behind her ear.
It was too much then for poor Harry when she sat next to him to point out the few errors he had made. He had barely managed to focus on what she was saying as he found himself thinking what a nice voice she had. Their hands brushing as she returned his parchment made his stomach flip and having had enough sensory overload for one day, he unsteadily corrected his essay and decided, for his sanity, that he should go to bed. His mind didn't know what to make of these new observations about one of his best friends.
Xixixixixixixixixixixiixixixixixixixixixixixixiixixixixixixixixixixixixixixixiix
A/N: Poor Harry. Denial: Not just a river in Egypt.
Reviews help Harry learn to swim.
Thanks to all of you who favorited my story, I'm really glad you like it and I hope you enjoy the rest of it as well :)
0 notes
Text
Wapping (Bollocks)
Pretty poppet, meet me by the chicken cottage. I wants the red head. I wants the red head. Pipe down. Consecrated night of illusions, secret chicken cottage mason lodges. Coven cottage dreams. Breadcrumbs. I had an arguement with my friends. They dish it out but cannot take it. I retreat to an imaginary world. I have pretentious thoughts. I have the Yves Klein Blues. Curling my lips at the moon. Soliciting false hope in the light of long dead stars. I sow language demonically. Reverse word breadcrumbs that lead into a forest. A yard with lunatics. St. George-in-the-East and McDonalds to the south. Gatekeepers of the Highway, Gog and McGog. Old King Ludd. Gunge. A deep fat fryer pariah. Roadkill in chip shops. Battered pigeons, battered hedgehogs, half a battered squirrel, the homeless Heston Blooming-fool, bargin in to boil rats in vats of searing fat. Uncharter’d meats. Pipe down. When was the last time I climbed a wall? I change the tense I write in. I changed the tense I wrote in. I change the tense I write in. I walked along the Highway. Rented out by the French Government. Fleur-de-Leases. Ghost houses. Ancient brasses. The French Disease. Surplus foreground, surplus background, surplus horizon, surplus everything. The entire fucking universe is frivolous. The River Lea is bloody marvellous. Opening ceremony. Bucks fizz, whizz kid, alco-popstar-prick. Staple diet of pork scratchings dipped in Manuka honey. Weaponised almonds. Parrot. You are my foil. My tin man. Parrot. Fake imaginary parrot. Imaginary animatronic parrot. Whatever. We need each other. You need my insane thoughts to exist. And you exist to keep my insane thoughts in check. Come in parrot. Shunned by my pretend talking parrot. Aerosol can man. Smashing a bottle of Captain Morgan over Piers Morgan’s fucking face. Polish man in pub garden telling me about munchkins mix-up. Job interview at the Leftorium. It all went horribly right. Pic-n-mix-up. Pipe down. Sky vaulting, sky vaulting, sky vaulting, sky vaulting, sky vaulting, sky vaulting, sky vaulting, sky vaulting, sky vaulting, sky vaulting, sky vaulting, sky vaulting, sky vaulting, firmament. Pipe down. Breadcrumbs.
One caveat with that cravat, it used to be the Captain’s cat. Token Somalian. Robert Mappelthorpe. Bogmanagers. immobile archaic juts. we call them things headstones. I am universal flotsam. Floating up the River Lea. Kraken! The aberration in the light was not in fact a sea monster. It was Tatlin’s titfuck revenge. An Anish Kapoor play thing. A double clef with a disability. A gigantic demented saxophone fighting itself. A roller coaster delineated by spirograph enthusiast at ayahuasca ceremony. It looked like an ampersand & ampersand one man band & ampersand one man band vomiting steel across what once was hinterland in a jaunty rude solo interlude & I ask the ampersand: Doest thou stand here to fuck time? I wandered the windswept plains. I took refuge in Zaha Hadid’s vagina stadium. I wrote: I am here in the Olympic Park. It looks like a vajazzled Chernobyl. My mind is fertile atomic logic. Objections are simple. Redundant description redundant. Redundant description redundant. Pipe down. 
(Gunge decanting weirdness in the countryside line here) 
Advert for the countryside: Get closer to nature (Get closure on nature). Jerusalem is mine. Holy fucking hell. The Pope spits out his tea. The celebrated celibate. Is an ornate monkey. Order of the Capuchin Capuchins. Cappuccino please. Alpha coffee male. Parrot: “Wovon man nicht sprechen kann, darüber muss man schweigen” Epic Eccie Epping Forest. Hangman’s Pill. This has been communicated to you in a blindfolded waltz. I am not in control of what I say. It unspools, from my mouth, like a yarn, which is why, we call it, a yarn. Yawn, pipe down. Lawns. Castigated dogs on the horizon of washing lines welping in ylang ylang scented beatings. Over the hills, an Auld Pub. Inside. Old man. He had a whole disorderly repertoire of falling over. Backwash of whiskey spit had cauled over his face. Grave-flirting cunt. Sir Osis of the Gelwaz. A bar-stooling throne. A crackling crown of bloody skull fragments. His Kingdom all crashing down. He dusted off his woes. He warned me of the urinals. Do not go in there. Weird piss cult. The constipated conspiracy theorist: It was an inside job! My dream shop, a list of things it sells: A conspiracy running the entire length of the Greenwich Meridian Line, the Holy Grail made out of a Christian's skin, infinite iconoclasm, magnifying glasses for midgets with ivory handles crafted from pygmy elephant tusks, new imagined noses, transformation parables sewn onto a human heart, rare cough syrup, antique ashtray from Nazi Germany, a Unabomber Schott jacket, rare CD of Jim Jones singing the greatest hits of Tom Jones, a limited edition John Wayne Gacy Island, Thunderbirds toy set, the smell of petrichor and tobacco, a cup that overfloweth with witty barm, balloon canisters sold with park bench (this included free of charge) and nineteen frosted bones. It’s very contrived. It is all set up. There was no let up, to unperceivable things. A man looking like Robert Mappelthorpe, drifted into things. From where I do not recall. He told us of the snapping turtles, and catfish of the Lea. Of dreams of being an artist, and his creosote modernist sculptures that littered the flooded gravel pits of Essex. Of his troubled youth and blazing memories of family feuds. Of running away from it all. Time wasted navel gazing in Lower Nazeing, alone but for the ghosts of Odo from Ranulf, brother of Ilger, two free men and half a fishery. The puissant king of Nazeing. Tethered to a tree. Rooted to a dying tree. He thought he broke free. He had it all once but now he is dead. Pissant. Did you see the frog?Missing posters of Gunge: Last seen kicking a Hari Krishna to death in the head shouting Shanti Shanti Shanti Shanti Shanti Shanti. He fled the scene. He lined his pockets with as many jam doughnuts that would fit and waded onto the railway tracks. He was never seen again. There was no body. Could be jam, could be blood. We will never know. On the scene: A wasp, dead, burrowed into a sausage roll sarcophagus. A mystery. What did the Ninth Legion have for dinner? Mange tout, Brute?
The Cereal Vapist. Leaves a bad taste in Shoreditch.
the paranoid weird dreams i used to have of my friends flat in maryland. why is he called gunge? fatbergs. tube of genius cream cream. apply in topical area. if irritation or burning sensation shout at it tell it to pipe down! Chewing on some mugwort that grows by the velodrome. that there thing that came out of that there bigger thing kill it and that thing that came out of the thing of the bigger thing kill it too
a group of women piercing their hearts with daggers
Parrot: “Wovon man nicht sprechen kann, darüber muss man schweigen”
Memory palace Weatherspoons. So many doors.
If a prism, if a forest, do occur, in an image, in your mind, with trees, black and without leaves, it is winter. How do you feel? Stalactites, stalagmites, Ludd-ites. Spiralized styrofoam monsters stylised as tentacled octopi. Redundant description abundant. Synonyms and antonyms mingling in the garbage bins. I have thoughts but no words. I have words but no thoughts. I have vacant images. An industrial swearer. A Henry Ford Production Line of Fuck Lines. An absolute bell-end. Carefully reverse your vehicles over the heads of small minded men. I’m a bum note mate. I’m a dicky heart. I’m an insatiable loss. I’m a fortified wanker. Breadcrumbs. Pipe down. I am Onan the Barbarian. I am the Olympic tosser. Weaponised fucking almonds. Nuts. An EDL man. Dressed as St. George. He says it is all King Vortigern’s fault. He laments Broken Britain. Says imperialism is in, he saw it on his porcelain. I tell him: There are two dragons underground. One is red. One is white. They are fighting each other. This, is why your house is falling down. He tells me to pipe down. Crusade Crusoe! The Man Who Was an Island Mentality Nationalist. The Man Who Was a Complicated Pacifist. Says he likes shitting on Persian rugs. That’s all. I decide to leave. Up chalk streams to the Olympian Palaces of Excess. King Vortigern, leftovers, Brexit mercenaries, athlete villages. The unbecoming of a potentially good thing, now passed, the faint departing music of opportunity denied. A marching band of ideas disappearing forever into an invisible tunnel. The doldrum winds of inertia winding down. Silence, deafening silence, silence, deadening silence. The erection of the pleasure dome, damnation to the libraries, elation at the pleasure dome, death at the grass roots, cessation of the spaceship games and then stagnation of the pleasure dome, a nation full of funeral homes and a country in a come down. The Olympic mirage villages, all lullabies and alibis. Its not a pyramid scheme, its a ziggurat enterprise. My brain is sludgy. Your grotty hands are on the shiny things. Pipe down. Macaroon breadcrumbs. Fennel scented cologne from Damascus. Damaris Page wearing Damask Rose. A glaucous macaw. Chewing on Cicely with whores from Macau. Fighting for gold with gymnasts from Beijing. Born in the trench of fools. Wench for sale, wench for sale! Pieces of silver. Podiums. Ahh, many times laddy, have I sat in the afterglow of a witty remark. Filigree words sopping and charming, unspooling from the mouth in effortlessness. Never diminishing after being spoken, but saturating the past in a gilded ambience that when looked back on radiates like the long dead stars that still twinkle at night in far gone space. A crop of bubbling daisies or whatever those flowers are that pavement sprout. Cockney pagans, kicked out by new religion, that built pristine puritanical palaces atop their old school foundations. For whom the bells toll. Are thoughts real? Waiting for the gold. Waiting for the gold. This reverse solipsism hurts my brain. Phlegmatic Father Thames, spittle banks and morsels of clay. Fuelling mad thoughts, another, again, more, or less, lucid, or unreal, than that hill, that I sit on, than that gold I think up, or the gold, that wanes. Vanishes. Evaporates. That was spunked away. The Road of Excess. A sketch for tomorrow. Drawn yesterday. I was dreaming as a voice, refracted in my pint. It said: Whatever I do, I do not repent, I keep pissing against the moon. Signed, Flea. Niches for imbeciles and alcoves to waste gold. Amusements for Affluenza victims of the 21st century, a quarantine zone, a regeneration scheme, reclaimed land, Chelsea Flower Show doped up like a Russian Olympiad, an East End Genocide, Cockneys blowing bubbles, in the marshy reeds, moved out, moved back in again, a hokey cokey organised by porn barons, the erotomania of starchitect visions, the spaceship landing, soldiers on rooftops, Wind in the Willows, Bobby Moore, a Piper From the Gates of Porn, he is pissed off, Hung Up on a Team. Nine days upside down, from that tree. The cockney dildo draft. In, out, in, out, shake it all about. The Pornographers Phallacy: Iconoclasm in the club shop. Effigies of dry rot. In the board room, they rip flesh off each other, madly. And rip off Dr. Faustus, badly. The shadow of glory. Shadows and floodlit glories. The spectre of Super Sunday. Escape to China with Felix Magath, do not say his name in a stadium, it is considered bad luck, you will get fired. Allusion illusion. Allusion to illusions. Layers upon layers upon layers upon layers up layer upon . . . kaleidoscopic derision. Pipe down. Emulsified shirts, and calcified dirt, and a crucified cat and sewer rats, in a plastic six-pack beer packaging, artificial, multi-straight-jacketed rat king demise, all drowned together, floating amongst the coat hangers, a bicycle, and a myriad of used condoms. God’s bawdy house. Up in the sky, the cloud was full of nihilism. The sun, full of itself. His bad first impression, was his bad last impression. Art is new age alchemy. Transmutation, transmutation. Arthur write this: Handle conspiracy with care. Rheumatoid hands and lizard people. David Icke. Up on the vivisection fable. The garbage vans were hijacked, the LED screen were loaded up with obscene images. Information Jihad in this green and pleasant land of grey.
It looked like a vajazzled Chernobyl.
What a load of pretentious rubbish.
Pipe down.
0 notes