#the chill laid back version of myself...

[ledians]

just got told i sound like a feminine version of cr1tikal

[mothandpidgeon]

Nine Lives (witch's familiar!Ezra x witch!f!reader) - Part 2

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SERIES MASTERLIST

pairing: witch's familiar!Ezra x witch!f!reader

rating: T (evenual E) MDNI

summary: As you came into your powers and your curves filled in, Ezra realized he feelings for you were more than just affection. The only problem? He's a 300 year old cursed witch. Oh, and he's a cat.

contents: age gap (like 300 years), alcohol, jealousy, angst, slow burn, yearning, probably anachronistic witchy stuff, love triangle (quadrangle?), Ezra is a cat, he won't be forever, this isnt a beastiality thing, moth never uses y/n.

wc: 3.4k

a/n: Thank you to everyone that read part 1!! I'm so pleased that you're enjoying it so far! I really would've liked to let this part simmer a little longer but I'm holding myself to this publishing schedule. It's time to yeet this into the world. I'd love to know what you think. Your comments and reblogs give me so much joy!

Thank you @lowlights for the beta and help with witchy stuff. Thank you @moonlitbirdie @schnarfer and @whocaresstillthelouvre for listening to me bitch about this and supporting me always.

“Don’t you look nice,” Aunt Margot says. 

You’re putting the finishing touches on your make up in the Page’s office. Usually you’d go back upstairs but you don’t feel like hearing it from Ezra.  

“Thanks. I have a date,” you say, packing your mascara in your purse. 

“Oh,” she replies, not hiding her disappointment in the slightest. 

You hadn’t intended to see Connor again but when he texted you, you couldn’t think of a good reason not to. He invited you to his place to check out his vinyl collection which sounds like an insufferable version of Netflix and Chill but you have no plans to listen to a single record. You just want to fuck in his bed and avoid any drama with Ezra. 

“Well I hope you’ll put as much effort in for the equinox,” she says. She flips the sign in the door from open to closed then snaps her fingers to turn off the overhead lights. 

You and Margot host the coven for the equinox each year which already means extra preparations in addition to work at the bookshop. 

“Why would I do that?” you ask. You don’t wear make up for moon rituals, don’t wear much of anything at all. 

“Esme is bringing River,” she says with a casual shrug. 

“No” you groan. 

“He’s visiting from Ireland,” she tells you. 

The last time you saw Esme’s grandson you were both in high school. River was built like a string bean, his upper lip dusted with the saddest mustache— if you could even call it that. He reeked of some badly brewed potion that was supposed to attract lovers. You still gagged when you smelled licorice root. 

“Good for him,” you say. “Please do not set me up with River.”

“I’m not a matchmaker, dear. I’m just trying to expand your sexual horizons,” Margot replies. 

Suddenly, Connor’s vinyls don’t sound so bad after all. 

—

Ezra pads through crystals and altar bells. Everything’s been laid out on Aunt Margot’s paisley scarves— scrying bowls and athame blades and jars of rain water all waiting to be charged by the moon of the autumn equinox. 

It’s just after midnight and the witches of your coven are gathered in a small clearing far enough into the woods that stray mortals won’t stumble upon them. The air smells fresh and cold like mountain spring water. A bonfire crackles, layered with herbs and pine needles. 

The waning moon feels heavy and close like it might just fall out of the sky and nick Ezra’s ear. It makes him feel uneasy. Then again, it’s hard to enjoy these rituals when he can’t participate the way he once did. 

Ezra watches you offer mulled wine to Esme and River, steaming cups scented with cinnamon balanced on an antique silver tray. You look beautiful in your simple white dress. It glows in the moonlight and he can see your body silhouetted beneath the fabric of its long skirt by the fire. 

He’s never cared much for Esme but, then again, he doesn’t have many kind words for any of the Elders even if the ones that cursed him are long dead. Even if he deserved that curse. She wears her long hair coiled on top of her head, a jade hair pin perched in its nest the same way her familiar, a tired old owl, watches from the branch of one of the trees. 

Ezra’s attention isn’t with Esme tonight. He’s keeping a close eye on her grandson. 

“He totally sucks. Please don’t leave me alone with him,” you’d implored. 

Ezra would be wary of him whether or not you’d asked. River is nothing like how you’ve remembered him to Ezra. He must’ve done a lot of growing up since your last encounter. Tall and lean with thick waves of auburn hair. He’s the kind of witch that even Ezra would have taken to bed when he was human. 

He sees the way River looks at you, watches him turn the charm on as he smiles. River’s eyes travel down your body and Ezra knows exactly what he sees. Waves of hot jealousy consume Ezra from nose to tail. For a moment, he worries he’ll get another thousand years added on to his sentence. 

After some small talk, Esme wanders away and that's Ezra’s cue. He slinks up between you and River, rubbing up against your legs to let you know he’s ready to bail you out. 

River swallows his drink with a chuckle. 

“That tastes just how I remember it. Me and Moss used to sneak glasses of Ariadne’s mulled wine when we were thirteen,” he explains. 

“Me too. Although I’m pretty sure Margot knew,” you say with a laugh. 

“Little mage, you asked me to fetch you when the oils were ready,” Ezra says. 

“Oh,” you say, throwing a self conscious smile at River. “I’ll go in a minute, Ez.”

“Margot could use your assistance,” Ezra adds. 

“Why don’t you go help her and I’ll be there soon,” you suggest.

Ezra can’t help but glare up at River. 

“Would that I had opposable thumbs,” he responds. 

You laugh. River doesn’t. You crouch down and glide your hand down Ezra’s spine.

“It’s okay, Ez. I’m good,” you tell him and you wink at him.

His blood turns molten as you turn back to River and continue your conversation. He wants to hiss and claw at him, draw blood. It feels like you’re slipping through his fingers not that he ever held a claim. Not that he even has fingers anymore. He’s completely powerless, standing at your feet like the dumb animal he is.

Rather than watch you moony over River, Ezra turns away and slinks off to the edge of the gathering to sulk. The fire’s warmth doesn’t quite reach and he presses back his ears to stave off autumn’s chill. He can’t run off into the woods the way he’d like to, not without raising questions from the other witches, make you look like you can’t control your familiar.

He can’t stop his eyes from wandering back to you. Your head thrown back in laughter, your hand on River’s forearm. Each moment of your joy is like a knife in his heart.

Ezra’s eventually relegated to the circle where the familiars commiserate. River’s is a jet black bird named Rhea who turns her beak up at him. He’s not one of them, not really. He was human himself with a familiar of his own but that’s not the only reason why they scorn him. They all know that he’s the worst kind of witch. 

There are many reasons why a witch might be turned into a cat but there’s only one crime that was punished with 1000 years— murder. And not just any murder. Ezra desecrated the life of another witch and, no matter how loyally he serves you, he’ll always have that stain. 

The rituals are done, the chanting. The embers from the fire float up through the trees towards the fat moon. Then the dancing begins. It’s erratic and joyful, Ezra can remember the ecstasy of it in his bones. Esme lets down her white hair and one by one the witches disrobe. 

He hears your laughter as you spin, shoulders shrugging with the pulse of the magic that swirls around the bonfire. 

He knows he shouldn’t look at you like that. Not you. Not here. You’re not putting on a show, you’re doing your magic. But the way your body moves against the glow of the fire is its own enchantment. He could worship you like the moon. 

The spell is broken just as quickly. River’s right beside you, bare skin radiant, muscles rippling with his own rhythm. His fingers tangle with yours and Ezra feels acid in his throat. 

The whole night becomes an assault on his senses. The sound of chanting rises, the old words frantic and savage. Amber and patchouli mix with the woodsmoke to choke him. Grotesque shadows fall over the faces of the witches like a carnival of horrors. And then there’s you— incandescent and naked and whispering something in River’s ear that has him grinning. Ezra’s hair stands on end.

“Come dance with me!” you giggle as you leave the circle of merriment. Your teeth are stained purple, drunk on wine and magic. 

“I’m quite content here,” Ezra lies. 

“Are you having fun?” You ask but you don’t wait for his answer. “River is…wow. He did not look like that when we were kids.”

You pick Ezra up and whirl around in a circle. He smells the incense of your skin, the alcohol on your breath. 

“You’re going to get your wish. I’m finally going to fuck a proper witch!” you say. 

You toss Ezra in the air and catch him. The bile has come so far up his throat it’s an absolutely nauseating sensation. 

“Enough!” Ezra hisses. He swats at you with his claws bared. 

You yelp and drop him. Before he even hits the ground, he feels it— a searing hot pain that makes his back arch. You’re defending yourself with your powers like a reflex. He lets out a yowl and just as quickly it passes.

Ezra staggers and looks up to find you with tears in your eyes. He’s never seen you looking so hurt, betrayed. Your jaw quivers. Ezra landed on his feet but he feels upside down. He’s realizing what he’s just done, that he tried to hurt you because he’s pathetic. Jealous. 

“Ez,” you say, your voice strangled. 

Like a coward, he takes off, ignoring you as you call after him. 

—

It’s the sound of the cat flap that wakes you sometime after sunrise. You’re sprawled out on your bed, head aching, eyes swollen. You’re still wearing your white dress, you threw it on before going after Ezra but it was no use. He was as black as the shadows in the forest and had slipped away under some bushes.

You abandoned the equinox celebration and went home in hopes he’d be there. You waited. Alone with your guilt and anxiety. 

I’m sorry. Please come home. You were never very good at telepathy but you tried to reach out to him with your thoughts. 

The sound that he made echoed through your mind as you paced the floor. Strangled, terrified. You tried to stop yourself from picturing him out there in the dark shaking with pain. 

You hadn’t meant to hurt him. It was involuntary. As soon as his claw grazed your skin, your powers flared. Maybe if you hadn’t been drunk you could’ve controlled it. It happened so quickly you still can’t be sure of how strong it hit him. 

Even if it was just a momentary shock, you saw just how much damage that moment did. His hair standing on end, his tail rod straight. But what really crushed you was the look in his eye. 

Suddenly you were just as horrible as every other witch that he’d served. You’d used your powers to punish him, to harm him. Every promise you’d ever made to him had broken in that instant. 

You see Ezra’s slim form dart to your doorway. In a flash, he slips under the bed and your heart sinks into your ankles. 

“Ez,” you say, your voice ragged from the night’s festivities. 

He doesn’t answer. You press your eyes shut and swallow hard then crawl to the edge of your mattress. Your stomach lurches as you look over the edge. On top of everything else there’s a hangover churning in your gut. You guess you deserve that, too. 

“Ezra, are you ok?” you ask. Whatever words of atonement you pieced together before you cried yourself to sleep have dissolved. 

He’s in the furthest corner beneath the bed, tucked against the wall with his tail wrapped tight around his body. You think you might burst into tears again seeing him cowering away from you. 

“I hope I didn’t make you fret,” he says. 

You want to scoop him into your arms and hold him as tight as you can but it feels like you’ve lost that privilege. 

“I’m so sorry, Ez,” you say, climbing down to the floor. “I shouldn’t have done that. I'm sick over it.”

“You were well within your rights. You’re my master and I struck you,” he says. “I’m the one that should beg forgiveness.”

To hear him call you his master makes you feel even worse than before. There’s no amount of tuna belly that will make this right.

“No. It was my fault. And I promise I’ll never use my powers on you again. Ever,” you say. 

His gold eyes shift away. 

“Keep your apologies,” he says. “And I see I’ve kept you from your new paramour. Another act to add to my contrition.” 

“I don’t care about that.” If you hadn’t been so caught up in the prospect of taking River to bed, none of this would’ve happened. 

“Nonsense, little mage. You’re a witch. Be with other witches,” Ezra says.  

–

River’s in the bookshop when you arrive, standing opposite Aunt Margot. When you couldn’t convince Ezra to come out from under the bed, you decided to give him space. Maybe you could distract yourself re-alphabetizing the cookbooks. You were hoping for some quiet but you’re confronted by the very attractive witch you’d been flirting shamelessly with the night before.

You know you look a mess, your face still feels puffy. River, on the other hand, looks like the definition of a sight for sore eyes. Freshly showered and dressed in a well pressed shirt that’s rolled up to the elbows, the sun is streaming in the front window outlining his still-damp hair like he’s Prince Charming himself.

“There you are!” Margot calls. 

You smooth your hand across your top nervously as she appraises you. You threw on a more than slightly wrinkled shirt that was languishing on the floor of your bedroom, too preoccupied to put together a real outfit.

“Looks like we had too much of Ariadne’s little potion,” she says. 

“I have a tonic that’s great for that,” River says with a smile. “But coffee’s faster.” 

He hands you a steaming paper cup from the cafe down the street. He and Margot have their own perched on the counter. You take a sip and are surprised to find that it’s your regular order.

”Are you clairvoyant, too?” You ask.

River blushes. “Nah. Margot told me how you take your coffee,” he chuckles.

It's so thoughtful and you’re not feeling very deserving. You swallow down a lump in your throat.

“I wanted to go foraging around here but I really need a local,” he says. 

“That sounds fun,” you say half heartedly in an attempt to demure. You’re not really up for a good time but it feels like a real asshole move to turn River down considering he brought you coffee after you ditched him at the bonfire. Margot is beaming at the register.

“Doesn’t it?” she asks. “Why don’t I get you a basket?”

—

River carries the basket now overflowing with mushrooms and wild herbs. You’re deep in the woods, branches crunching beneath your shoes. Nature’s sounds echo around you, starlings and chipmunks, the constant whoosh of the breeze through the turning leaves. 

This path is overgrown but you know it well. You spent your childhood getting lost in these woods. They have their own magic. 

Your guilt overshadows the date. If it is a date. River seems to think it is if the way the back of his hand keeps brushing against yours is any sign. It’s hard to enjoy it especially when your mind keeps drifting off. He doesn’t seem to notice that you’re only half-listening as he tells you just how mystical the vibes are at Stonehenge. 

You stop at a stream, sitting on a fallen tree that’s overgrown with moss. It’s one of your favorite spots. The water sparkles where the sunlight spills though the branches, peacefully trickling over rocks. You pick up one of the smooth stones and trace its wet surface with your thumb. 

You’ve sat in this very spot before feeling just as shitty. Heartbroken then, too, trying to figure out if you could call it a break up when you hadn’t actually been anything official. She hadn’t wanted anything complicated and you swore your feelings wouldn’t get involved. Unfortunately they had their own plans.

Ezra found you there, sulking by the stream, wondering if anyone would think you were worth breaking their own rules for. 

It struck you how quiet he was. There were no anecdotes about what the witch scene was like in 1924 or tips for mouse hunting, indoor versus outdoor. He just padded into the water and nudged a little stone towards your feet. It was just big enough to fit in your palm and it was cool against your skin as you held it there. 

“A thing of beauty,” he said and he head butted your shins affectionately. 

It was. Round from years, maybe decades under the water’s friction. A dull gray cut through the middle by a wedge of some crystalline mineral like shards of broken glass. You recall exactly what it looks like because it still sits on your night stand. Each time you see it you’re reminded of how Ezra slumped down beside you, his warm body weight like a cozy blanket, a faint purr reverberating through him. 

“You’ve got a big heart, little mage,” he said. 

You choke up at the memory, unsure if Ezra would ever think that again. You certainly wouldn’t say it about yourself today. 

“Either you’re really hungover or something’s bothering you,” River says gently. 

You laugh tearfully and he rubs a circle on your back. You try to shake your head but River doesn’t give it up, looking at you with a soft concern.

“I really fucked things up with Ezra last night,” you admit. Telling him what a cruel witch you are might be a huge turn off but the feeling of his palm through your shirt makes you feel at ease.

“Ezra?” he asks.

“My familiar,” you remind him.

“Oh.”

“He scratched me and —”

“He hurt you?” he asks, face painted with righteous indignation. 

“No. He barely got me. I totally overreacted,” you say. “I used my powers on him. It was just a reflex, you know? But…I just feel awful.”

“Don’t beat yourself up,” he tells you with a relieved chuckle. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

If that’s true then why do you hate yourself?

“If Rhea was out of line I’d do the same,” he goes on.

You wince at the thought.

“You’d hurt her?” you ask.

He shrugs. “I’ve never had to. She knows who’s boss.”

You’ve always considered Ezra a partner. Of course, there are plenty of witches that think of their familiars as nothing more than servants. It’s an old school way of seeing it. You hadn’t expected River to use words that remind you of the way your grandmother used to talk.

“Maybe it’s different,” you say, trying to give him the opportunity to walk it back. Ezra’s not like Rhea. Maybe you’d feel the same way River does if your familiar hadn’t once been as human as you are. Still, it doesn’t feel right.

“You’re a funny little witch,” he says with a grin.

“What does that mean?” you ask. 

“Crying over your familiar. It’s sweet.” He says it as if it’s a compliment but the condescension makes you frown in disgust.

“If you want to make it up to him, why don’t you find him a lady cat that can make him feel good,” he adds with a laugh.

“Is that what you’re into?” you ask with venom.

“What? That was a joke,” River says.

“I don’t think it’s funny. You know, just because Ezra’s a familiar, it doesn’t mean he should be treated like shit. And he’s not a cat. He’s a human,” you tell him.

“He’s a witch killer,” River spits back. “So I’m sorry if I don’t have a lot of sympathy for him.”

Your stomach turns. It’s the truth. Ezra’s served as a familiar in your family for centuries, his history has never been hidden from you and he’s never shied away from it.

But his punishment has never made sense to you. A thousand years, so many lifetimes, watching his friends and family die as he toiled in servitude for witches as backwards as River. It’s cruel, that’s why the Elders changed the laws years ago. And yet Ezra’s remained a cat, a familiar, disdained. 

Suddenly, the anger you’ve been tormenting yourself with turns outwards and you think your powers could set fire to the dry leaves at your feet. It’s all so unfair. The Elders turned him and witches like River scorn him and none of them feel a lick of shame. The back of your neck heats with a protective rage.

“He’s my friend,” you choke. “And you’re a fucking asshole.”

And you leave River speechless in the middle of the woods.  

🐈‍⬛

Part 3

Thanks for reading! Comments and reblogs appreciated! My inbox is always open.

[boredzillenial]

Sir’s Surprise

Poe is off on a mission but has just the thing to fill his pet’s needs

Themes: Dom!Poe, gn!reader, use of honorifics (Commander, Sir ; little porg, pet, honey), voice kink (I tried lol), anal

A.N.: we’re not gonna talk about how long it took me to scroll to find this request or how long it took me to do it lol I’m catching up i swear 🫥

“Please-” they whined “how long is this mission supposed to last…”

“As long as it takes, you know that my little porg.” Poe’s voice teased over the comm.

Their face grew hot “Stop calling me that - those things are so annoying.” Their voice broke on the final word setting embarrassment through their veins. Despite the several parsecs that laid between Poe’s position and theirs he still knew how to work their nerves.

Poe tsked “You think you can catch an attitude when I’m off on a mission? Guess you won’t get your surprise.” He chuckled.

“What?” Their body went stone still. For as strict as Poe could be, he was a fantastic gift-giver.

“Shame too - it would’ve helped with some of this neediness.” He cooed “would’ve filled your needs pretty well I think.”

Heart pounding in their ears they leapt up and began to tear through the shared bunk space. Checking in drawers and under the mattress, with Poe’s laughter echoing from the comm. “You’re not gonna find it.” His singsong tone set their nerves on edge.

Their body begged for some sort of release from the pent up desire. “Come on Poe -”, desperation shifted to frustration.

The comm went deadly silent, “What did you call me?” His voice was icily calm.

“I-I mean Commander. I’m s-“ their blundered apology was cut short with the sound of something opening in the corner of the cramped space.

“You want it so bad?” His voice clipped, they turned to see a secret compartment now open in the wall, “Take it.”

They shifted and peaked into the compartment, laying eyes on the surprise. “S-sir did you…”

“But your gonna take all of it.” Poe’s timbre was stern, with that unmistakable heated tone.

They picked up the heft of the silicone surprise and looked over it with wide eyes. The bulbous tip, the sleek shaft etched with veins down the sides, ending with a flared base and suction cup. The accuracy had them dumbstruck. “S-sir I don’t -“

“You’re lucky I’m not there right now - or I’d stuff that in your throat for talking back.” His voice went icy “And I’d stuff myself in that tight little ass for good measure.”

They froze, body shivered in anticipation now that they could hold him, at least a version of him. “In fact, you’ll need to practice before I’m back.” Poe’s tone shifted with a lilt “suck it, do it well enough for me to hear.”

They brought the tip of the cool silicone to their face, taking a test lick. That ache deep inside them fired at the touch of the tip pressing past their lips.

Slurping and sucking sounds filled the tight space as they got to work. Almost mindless in their ministrations as they took it deeper and deeper. “That’s it, you love my cock filling that wet little mouth don’t you.” Poe growled.

They touched themselves in time with the slide of his girth between their lips, eliciting a broken groan. “Touching yourself already sweetheart?” His sultry tone sent the ache into something primal. “Good, you got it nice and slick?”

They pulled the toy out with a pop “yes sir.” They huffed.

“Good pet. You know where I want it next.” He pressed, they knew exactly where he wanted it. “Go to my chair.”

They adjusted the toy on the nearby desk chair. Fastening the suction cup firmly and taking a moment to admire it glistening, beckoning them closer.

“Lube is where it always is.” Poe’s voice jolted them out of their momentary pause. They scrambled a bit through the usual drawer and popped the tube open. Soft squelching sounded as they covered it from tip to base.

“Talk to me pet.” He cooed.

“I-it’s ready.” They said as they slowly straddled the chair. Cold silicone chilled further with the lube lightly tapped their rear.

“So are you, now, have a seat. Nice and slow.” He encouraged.

They notched the bulbous tip against the tight ring of muscle, a soft gasp escaped as the head made its way in.

“Good, good job.” Poe cooed softly “You sound so cute when the tip pops in.” His voice grew closer to a groan.

“How’d you-“

“Honey, I know the sounds you make to every inch of me.” He chuckled.

Their heart hammered in their chest at his laugh and the stretch of him. Another inch had them gripping onto the back of the chair for dear life. They lifted for a moment of relief before shifting deeper down onto it, a shaky groan passed their lips. “F-fuck.”

Their legs shook a moment, knees threatened to buckle from the pleasure as they sunk further. Their groan twisted to a whimper when his voice growled over the comm “Ugh those sweet little sounds. You’ve got me so hard… Half way there honey you’re doing great.”

“S-sir I don’t think I can -“

“Yes you can-“ his throaty command cut their protest short “touch yourself, you can do it, go all the way.”

They started slowly, stroking and caressing. Between Poe’s praise and their own hand their body relaxed, allowing his replicated girth to ease all the in until they hit the flared base.

“I - I did it.” Their mixture of huffs and groans filled the tight space. “F-feels so g-good sir.” They slowly lifted and sank, a low fire building in their belly. Every nerve felt alight with the stretch of it.

The mixture of noises from the lube, the toy, the creaking chair and Poe’s whimpering pet sent his mind spinning. “You’re taking me so well honey I know it. Shit you sound so good.” Mechanical clicking and whirring sounded over the comm, “I’m cutting my mission short, you stay right there.”

“W-what?” They groaned, another lift up and slow slide down pushed them closer to release.

“I’m only a couple parsecs away. I can’t stay away from you like this.” His tone turned to something hungry, deep.

They sat down fully to give their legs a rest and whimpered at the feel of him deep inside them, “H-how long.” They huffed.

“Not long.” Poe clipped, “stay right where you are, you need to be ready for what I have in store for you.”

————————

Taglist: @melodygatesauthor @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @ominoose @romana-after-dark @lunar-ghoulie @flowercrownonapegion @howellatme @mooksmouse @ahookedheroespureheart @beezusvreeland @auntiegigi @moonkxight-blog @faretheeoscar @queerponcho @for-a-longlongtime @silvernight-m

[ashthewaterghoul]

Everything's Fine - A Copia One Shot

Everything was fine. That’s what Copia told himself at least. Or, I got way too excited about Copia canonically having dissociative issues and wrote this as a more detailed version of his perspective throughout RHRN.

Rating: General Audiences

Relationships: Gen, Copia & Imperator (it's completely platonic mother/son stuff I swear)

Tags: Angst, dissociation, derealisation, Copia needs a hug, author is projecting, author does not care.

Words: 1.8k

A/n: This was definitely better in my head but I couldn't help myself. I have dissociation issues myself (mostly DPDR) and seeing Copia struggle too made yap and ramble and this came about! Any feedback or comments are welcome and appreciated!

~~~

    Everything was fine.

    That’s what Copia told himself at least.

    He’d seen the signs but his mind wouldn’t have it. Everything was fine, apart from his own doom, it felt. But he knew his own mother would never permit that, right?

    It didn’t matter now, he had a Ritual to perform. Adoring fans screaming his name, the crew waiting for him to give the cue to start Imperium. There were a few new things tonight as well. The skeleton dancers, the quartet on the B-Stage, that new lighting rig for Watcher In The Sky, Twenties for the first time and If You Have Ghosts for the first time in a while. Stressful, but it’s fine. Everything was fine.

    Kaisarion was going as amazing as always, an explosive opening to an explosive show. Copia did his usual of running backstage, his Ghouls deserved the spotlight. Sister was back there of course, looking as great as always. Kevin had been keeping a close eye on her recently, wonder what that’s about?

    That didn’t matter, he had to get back on stage. He got to his mark and everything was fine. Rats, Faith, Spillways all went great and his bat wings were waiting for him for Cirice.

    “It’s going great now, innit?” He shouted to Imperator.

    She was on the other side of the backstage area and wasn’t hearing him. So he went over.

    She’s in a wheelchair. She’s getting weaker. Her pills are all laid out for her with water to wash it down. She never could swallow tablets dry.

No, everything was fine. She was comfy in her high-back chair, her favourite tea and biscuits next to her. She had a blanket because she didn’t have the warmth of the stage lights on her like he did.

    Her bones grow weary, the chill seeps in and her heart won’t warm her up.

    He left for the stage and heard something shaking behind him. Was Swiss or Cirrus back here with their shakers? They should be on stage! Yet they were. It wasn’t more pills…

    She’s dying.

Read below the cut or on ao3

No, she’s watching the show. Maybe she just wants to join in in her own little way and borrowed one of the spare shakers.

    He got to his mark for Cirice and everything was fine. He chose a lovely person by the barricade to sing that iconic chorus to. He remembered when Terzo originated the idea, how excited he was. He missed his brothers; it took a long time for the reality of their passings to settle into Copia’s bones.

    Even when their bodies were paraded around for the fans. No, it wasn’t them, they were just dressed up mannequins. They would come back any day soon because this wasn’t real. Everything was fine. It took Copia a long time to draw the line between reality and what he manifested it to be. Even still, he hoped that one of them would interrupt his Mass, walk into the dining hall and lovingly kick him out of the Papa’s seat.

    He went back to take his bat wings off, no doubt Phantom would steal them later when they thought he wasn’t looking, and Ashley fixed his hair for him. Stubborn thing always ended up with a cow-lick. The reflection of the mirror was interesting.

    It’s an IV drip, she needs these infusions now.

Maybe it’s some new cool thing where you drink from a bag. Swiss showed him the bags in those boxes of wine, maybe this was the sober version.

    The first lyrics of the next song almost betrayed how fine everything was.

    “Ever since you were born, you’ve been dying.

    Everyday, a little more, you’ve been dying.”

    But that’s just a song. No one’s dying. Not the Ghouls, not him and not his mother.

    She will.

    Ritual’s chorus also sought to ruin the peace he wanted for the night.

    “Smells of dead human sacrifice.”

    No one’s getting sacrificed, thankfully.

    She sacrificed everything for you. Just be there for her now.

No. No one is dying.

    He went backstage again and donned his sparkling blue robes. Sister helped design these, so proud of her son and bringing him to the spotlight he deserved from his Emeritus blood.

    Her life’s purpose complete.

    He went back to take his mitre off and Sister was fine, everything was fine. He got his thurible and went back out. Con Clavi Con Dio went by perfectly, the lick of incense wormed it’s way through the air. It reminded him of Sister comforting him when he had a nightmare. It never used to make sense to him why she would pick up so many shifts in the orphanage when she had so many duties.

    He changed again for Watcher In The Sky, and Sister tried to tell him something, Nihil too. He thinks anyway. His mind was as foggy as the rig ascending from just above Mountain’s head. He could make out eyes, no words. Nothing. Where was he?

    “Go, go!” Sister urged him.

    Copia snapped back in and left for the stage. Watcher was fine, he gave his hat to Ashley and jumped into the crate to take him to the B-Stage. What was that thing the light was reflecting off by Sister?

    It’s the IV, for those infusions she was just telling you about.

Maybe she finally watched Star Wars and bought a lightsaber, maybe she finally watched the films like he’d told her to do for years now.

    He was being taken away to the B-Stage, and of course his father shows up. Slightly less fine but it’s okay. He’s already dead, there’s nothing to worry about there.

    She’ll join him soon. The Great Beyond calls her.

    “Listen and obey your mother.”

    Say goodbye while you still can.

“You don’t get it. Just listen to her for my sake and try to do it.”

    No. She’s not sick, she’s not dying.

    “For the new guy.”

    You’re going to take over. You inherited a title from your father, now it’s your mother’s turn.

“Right.”

    No! Why did he say that? Everything’s fine. Nothing’s happening.

    If You Have Ghosts went fine. Well, more than fine, those Ghoulettes are amazing. Chills all around from their gorgeously haunting talents. The speech he gave was one he was quite proud of. He didn’t know where it came from, he just knew he needed to assure his fans.

    Listen to what you say. It’s your life. Your ups and downs. You’re allowed to be sad about your mother, you’re allowed to enjoy your show.

    Twenties was amazing, the dancers too. Dewdrop’s solo, everyone hit their marks. And he went back for his black robes. He got to his spot for Ashely to meet him and looked over to Sister Imperator.

    She’s in her wheelchair because her chair that supports her joints is back home. Her IV is there, she’s taking more of her pills. She’s looking paler and paler each song. She wants you to know she’ll be okay but you keep refusing her. Refusing the truth. She loves you, let her be your mother this last time. Be her son while you still can.

Wait, why do his clothes feel different. He’s in his robes? When did that happen? What’s this on his chest? He picks up a cross. And drops it back down. Inverted only please.

    Just like how you invert reality.

The flame mortars were, thankfully, fine and went off on cue, just like he did to hand his Cornette over to Ashley. He looked over and Swiss was switching his guitars, Rain was taking his jacket off. It was fine.

    Sister she was… being seen to by a doctor, in her wheelchair, another IV linked up.

    She’s getting worse, and fast.

No, she was in her nice chair with her tea.

    Look at her doctor’s face, she knows Sister just needs to be comfortable now.

The doctor was rubbing her arm. Sister looks grave, staring at Copia.

    Copia willed the fog in his head to stop. For reality to come forward. He felt like he could feel every fibre of his robes yet none of them at all. He could see Sister clearer than clear and yet there was two of her, blurred and dancing around. What was happening?

    He Is. That’s what’s happening, he can deal with this later.

    Later, she’ll be gone.

    Miasma, he almost dreaded tonight because of course they would choose the middle of the show to have some family intervention. It was too mortal for Copia. He couldn’t bear to listen, yet the fog was gone. Sister in her chair and IV, her pills and wine as clear as day.

    His mind was on autopilot during Mary On A Cross. He wasn’t sure what his body was doing because all his mind could see was how it ended for his parents after that show in the Whiskey-A-Go-Go. In the cartoonish fashion of the shows he would stay up and watch with Sister. She would be scolded for it by the Sister Superior of the Orphanage, but both would promise to do it again.

    At least Mummy Dust went fine. No issues there, not his growls, the canons, nothing. Well, his shoe broke, but that’s easy enough to fix. Just Respite On The Spitalfields to go now.

    You sung it yourself, nothing ever lasts forever. Soon, she will go softly into the night.

He’s not doing an encore. He’s going to have a night out, maybe drink a bit with Sister. She had her wine goblet before, maybe it was a new red she had yet to introduce him to.

    Sister called him over, talking him into it. For a shocking moment of clarity, he saw his mother as she is. Ill, weak, begging for her son’s understanding.

    “Okay.” He told her, grasping her hand for dear life.

    Kiss The Go-Goat, Dance Macabre with the dancers again. It went great. He ran back for his red jacket. And saw his mother and father.

    “Right here, right now.” He said. And he was, high on adrenaline and everything feeling so good. He could see the chair, but he couldn’t focus on it.

    “See you on the other side, son.” Sister told him.

    The other side, when he returned, took him away. They all waved him off as he floated off in his balloon. Safe. Away. Disconnected. He was free. Soaring in a different realm to the others where it was just him, he didn’t need to hurt here. So free, so far. He could see Sister staring at him, something was wrong in her eyes. Maybe she didn’t like heights, Kevin was helping her down the stairs after all.

    It’s funny, Copia would think later, how much of an illusion his mind carefully structured for him to hide from the pain. Yet, it all came crashing back down so quickly.

One shot master list can be found here!

[puzzledemigod]

layton dream!!! as I explained it to my friend like back in july

nick and maya came to help layton and luke to investigate a mystery somewhere, and everything was going great, they were all having fun, it was chill, laid back and not super serious, but then professor said he needed to drop in at home for a second to grab some photographs that might pertain to the case.

luke became visibly worried, saying that he didn't want to go home.

layton repeated, that they needed to get the photographs, and they all went home.

for some reason in this dream Layton lived on the top floor of some tall tall tower with a ton of empty space, that they were rising through on a sort of board that was manipulated by a lever that the professor was operating.

while they were rising, luke started to freak out progressively more and more, he was crying and saying that he didn't want to go there, professor I don't wanna go back I really really don't wanna go back, which layton just. Ignored. Entirely.

so understandably when everyone arrived at the top floor they were all astounded and didn't quite know what to do.

layton told phoenix and maya where to look for the photographs, and said he had some other matters to attend to and that he would be back shortly.

when phoenix went looking for him around the house to tell him that he got the photos, he knocked on the door of the room he guessed that layton would be in and opened it a bit to check if bro was sleeping or something,

to which he found professor layton in front of a closet-looking thing that had some assembly line inside of it, with open doors and a lifeless professor layton hanging in front of professor layton.

"layton twenty three", professor said calmly. "begin testing."

the entire room was filled with laytons, turned off or disassembled, most lying around the floor or in the closet, one sitting on the bed - they all resembled mannequins, dolls or very lifelike looking robots.

the minute layton twenty three was turned on and opened his eyes, he almost immediately started crying and Breaking himself. which was surprisingly easily - he slammed himself in his right shoulder and his entire body started crumbling from there.

layton signed "oh, not again" and turned to face phoenix.

oh, I suppose I have to explain myself now. what you just witnessed.. could be considered a form of suicide. you see, I'm beginning to upload layton's memories into my updated versions, but since they don't have willpower in their algorithm, but have real emotions, the memories are apparently... too much to bear.

nice to meet you. I'm layton number sixteen.

I have highly advanced intelligence and very variable conversational reactions, but no memories or emotions. much less a soul. you should have seen layton five... that glitchy thing had a basic algorithm of how professor layton should act, his mannerisms and catchphrases, but couldn't even actually solve the simplest puzzle. he was terrible at taking care of luke, too.

I have to recreate layton exactly as he was. ...I promise I'll bring your friend back.

he also at some point in the conversation turned on layton five that was sitting on the bed and showed his functionality to phoenix, but phoenix was too creeped out to really watch what looks and acts like professor layton knowing it isn't him

cut to maya talking to luke

after that lift incident luke emotionally crumbled so much he started physically falling apart - the pieces that were previously glued back to him started falling back out, and it was revealed that there was something wrong with him too, not just with layton – luke had entire parts of his face broken out like pieces of glass

he told maya that everything is horribly horribly wrong and that he went out earlier with all of them and solved puzzles and pretended like everything was fine because it's the only way he can survive, but whenever he comes back home he's forced to confront the reality that he no longer has professor layton, he has a soulless robot who can't even pretend to care about him instead.

he also told maya that the actual mystery they called them both here for, the one that this smaller one ties into, is a mystery of a thief the professor earlier told him about – who in his giant bag of stolen goods and jewelry and archeological artifacts also apparently has professor's soul, and they need to get it back.

he says that he knows Something happened that made his face and body broken and to which he lost professor layton as he was before, but he doesn't remember exactly what it was. their only hope is catching the thief to get his soul back.

cut to layton sixteen admitting to phoenix, that the entire mystery that they're solving, yes even the part with the thief is something he orchestrated to give his life a goal and a purpose. so that he could spend time on something else other than trying to make a layton who would survive receiving memories, so that this layton could make another layton and the cycle would continue until they had made a perfect layton – looks like one, acts like one, has actual intelligence, memories of the real professor layton, feelings, empathy, and most importantly, is capable of growing and changing – and for this final version to believe that he's alive, and for luke to believe that this person is finally really alive, they must catch the thief and retrieve the soul of professor layton.

a perfect deception, a perfect replacement, the closest alternative.

it will probably never really be perfect, and it will never be actually real – but I promise I'll get your friend back.

and you have to help me with it.

feat my illustration of it from back in july

Did I read this and not answer?? Did I find a post explaining it instead?? Either way I am so sorry to leave this here for idk how long but this is absolutely fascinating and so so interesting. Terrifying too. And the art is sick as hell too

[heartforsunoo]

INTERVIEW

SUNOO: “I really hope my future is a happy one”

ENHYPEN ROMANCE: UNTOLD -daydream- comeback interview

2024.11.24

In the grand movie that is life, SUNOO is writing his own story—hoping for an ending where he discovers a better version of himself, regardless of any bumps along the way in his journey.

You talked on Weverse about how you got ISTJ (logistician) on an MBTI test, the exact opposite of ENFP (campaigner), the type you usually get.

SUNOO: It feels like that was a brief glitch. I’ve definitely changed, but I don’t think I’m an ISTJ. (laughs) I guess the other members must’ve had an influence on me, since they’re all Ts. (laughs)

Not that MBTI tests are a perfect reflection of personality changes, but have you noticed any?

SUNOO: I used to juggle so many thoughts at once, but now I just focus on what’s right in front of me. When I have places to be, that’s the only thing I’m thinking about. Seems I’ve definitely matured a bit? (laughs) I was already slowly changing before, but now I’ve fully embraced it. And I used to have to try and have a brighter personality, but these days it’s not like that.

Is there a reason you changed like that?

SUNOO: My whole image used to be this really cheerful person, so I felt like I always had to be smiling, but now that I’m so much closer with ENGENE, I feel like it’s okay to show the real me. I talk with ENGENE just like a friend these days, and they seem to like that laid-back version of me, too, so I feel relaxed. (laughs)

I was impressed by the detail you went into for ENGENE on Weverse about recommendations for late-night snacks and how best to enjoy them. (laughs)

SUNOO: I just suggest whatever’s calling me each time—whatever I’m craving in the moment. I’m busy during the day, so if I eat something heavy at night, it can come back to haunt me the next day. I always recommend something tasty for them to eat. I don’t know if they actually follow my recommendations, but I feel so happy whenever ENGENE says, “Thank you, SUNOO!” They say I really know my food, too. (laughs)

That’s real love right there—recommending the best for ENGENE even at times when you can’t eat it yourself.

SUNOO: When you have a job like this, you have no choice but to really take care of yourself, and I’ve found ways that are healthier and better for me. If I eat something spicy, I always make sure to eat light the next day, and I’m extra careful on days when I have something important. I still let myself indulge in cravings from time to time. (laughs)

I noticed from when your room was shown on the MBC show Omniscient Interfering View that you seem to be health-conscious.

SUNOO: I started taking vitamins and supplements somewhere around the end of last year and the start of this year. It hasn’t been that long. I’ve tried taking a number of different things to figure out what’s best for me. I even studied up about the immune system. I want to hold onto my good looks and stay in shape as time goes by, so I figured I’d better start young, and that’s why I’ve been quite diligent in that regard. (laughs) I’ve definitely noticed an improvement to my energy levels and overall health. It never hurts to be consistent with something. (laughs)

What do you usually do when you’re in your room? You mentioned in a Vogue interview that you find motivation in “everyday pleasures.”

SUNOO: When I’m in my room, I usually put on some chill music for starters. Then I sit on my bed or lean back, turn on a lamp, and just stare at it. That’s enough to make me feel really good. I have a nighttime routine, too: I take a shower, put a sheet mask on my face, get my legs in a calf massager, then sit there and watch a drama or movie. (laughs) That’s all it takes to make me really happy. It’s a way of wrapping up the day, you know? I think it’s important for me to discover what the small things that make me happy because I feel I need to be happy before I can make others around me happy. I’d like to find even more things like that.

You got many recommendations on Weverse from ENGENE for movies and TV shows, though you’d already seen a lot of them. One of them was Culinary Class Wars on Netflix, which you have a connection to because it featured “Goddess of Chinese Cuisine” Park Eun-young with whom you’ve appeared on the EBS series The best cooking secrets.

SUNOO: To be honest, I didn’t even put that together at first, since we filmed that quite a long time ago. ENGENE posted clips of me from The best cooking secrets later on, and I was like, “Oh yeah!” I couldn’t believe it. (laughs) Chef Park Eun-young was so kind during that shoot. But even when I didn’t recognize her, I kept rooting for her and chef Jung Ji Sun. When the two went head to head, I thought, I hope at least one of them makes it to the finals. I remember thinking how hard they must’ve worked to get there. At the end of the day, they’re both amazing chefs. Their ideas and the dishes they made were so amazing that I couldn’t help but root for them.

What do you get out of watching so many different TV shows and movies? I recall you related to the way Riley grows up in Inside Out 2, for instance.

SUNOO: I love how I’m living my life now, but I always wonder what it’d be like to live a completely different life, just once. When I’m getting off work for the day, sometimes I look at people and think, I wonder what their life’s like? Inside Out 2 was just like what happened between me and my friends from school when I became a trainee. Riley goes to hockey camp and clashes with her friends, and when I started training, I couldn’t be with my friends every day anymore, and sometimes we fought. I’m on good terms with most of them now, but I lost touch with one. When I look back now, we could’ve gotten along just fine, but we were young back then and didn’t know any better. If I ever had the chance to, I’d like to see them again. I’m really curious how they’re doing.

If you could go back, what would you do instead?

SUNOO: I would respect any differences we had and maintain an appropriate distance to hold onto the friendship. I think that’s better for everyone and makes for a better relationship. I’m really warm up to people easily, so once someone’s on my social radar, I try and make it work with them, even if we’re not a perfect match. The closer you get with someone, though, the easier it is to read too much meaning into their words or become overly sensitive, and that can lead to hurt feelings.

It seems like you’re always trying to take a step back and take a grounded look at yourself.

SUNOO: I’m pretty quick to own up to things. (laughs) I think I’m good at being objective. If I can see something’s off, I mostly just acknowledge it right away. I mean, it’s more beneficial to me to quickly get rid of the bad stuff and latch onto the good stuff.

Do you think that’s made possible by your extremely high standards for yourself?

SUNOO: Probably. (laughs) I didn’t think so at first, but it probably seemed that way to other people. But I really like how things are right now. It was tough getting to this point, honestly. But adversity always leads to growth. It’s the same with practicing. To really master dance moves, you have to practice them, and that’s hard. But it’s how you improve. Things didn’t work out at first a lot of the time. But I still just kept on practicing. If you keep practicing, eventually, it all works out. It’s fascinating. (laughs) And it only seems natural to me. “No pain, no gain.”

I remember at the WALK THE LINE concert in Goyang that you looked a little tired for a moment but then lit up instantly when “XO (Only If You Say Yes)” started.

SUNOO: That was not easy. (laughs) I find it pretty fascinating, too. When I’m onstage, I just get totally immersed in it. I’m only human, and sometimes I get tired before a performance or something makes me feel bad, but I have to be full of energy onstage no matter what. But dealing with the emotions that arise from all the thoughts in my head can actually help me put on a good face sometimes.

When I see you perform “XO (Only If You Say Yes),” the song really brings your bright personality and your talents to light.

SUNOO: I’ve tried a lot of different facial expressions, and I find a real big smile looks better onscreen than just a little one. So my thought is, if I’m going to smile, I’ll really smile. And when I thought of the direction the song could take, I thought how, if I were dating someone, I’d want to show them the bright, positive side of me and be happy together. That’s why I winked and put on that big smile. It felt really good doing that. (laughs)

You have a vocal duet with JAY in the pre-chorus of the repackaged album’s lead single, “No Doubt,” and the way his tough vocals contrast with your delicate ones makes the song even better.

SUNOO: I could’ve sung as tough as JAY, but for that song, I decided to focus on bringing out what I’m good at instead. For the recording, I moved in a direction that was softer, which I consider my specialty. In this line of work, sometimes even the things you think you’re good can come across as nothing special. I think it’s better to play to your strengths. And if you work on what you’re not as good at, it’ll eventually become another one of your strengths.

What was it like rehearsing the choreography for “No Doubt” with the other members of the group? Since the dance is all about feeling the rhythm, it must have been challenging to nail down every little detail together.

SUNOO: It was a little hard. There’s a lot of steps, and perfecting every little detail as a group was a bit challenging. (laughs) But it takes us less and less time to pick up choreo each time we put out a new album. We need to put on better performances the more experience we get, and our performance director agrees, so we upgrade ourselves for each album. And there’s something especially unique about our practice sessions. (laughs) We mess around a lot. The others always goof around when I’m practicing. Then eventually we’re like, Okay, we really need to get serious now, and then we all really get into it together, which ensures we reach a high level of quality. It feels really empty in there if even one person’s missing during practice. We need the group to be all together so we can practice properly and have fun while doing it. We put a lot of effort into getting ready for this album, and ENGENE’s going to be able to see that. I hope they can sense exactly what went into it.

The emotional course “No Doubt” follows, about anxiety acting as a push towards confidence, seems to mirror the relationship that exists between artists and fans.

SUNOO: I think that’s exactly it—finding confidence through anxiety. We can’t always be with ENGENE, and realistically, there could come a day when they won’t be able to be with us either, but I choose not to think about that. When it comes to ENGENE or anyone else I hold dear, having faith in them and in the present is best for me as well as for them, I think. I think that helps us maintain a good connection.

In an interview you had with weverse magazine back in 2021, you seemed to be trying to figure out what kind of person you should be. Do you feel more confident about that now than back then?

SUNOO: I’ve definitely changed. (laughs) I used to be hypersensitive and worrying about too many things, but now I’m focused on myself. I figured out that, when you focus on yourself and work hard, other issues mostly take care of themselves. You can use being sensitive to your advantage in some jobs, and I think this is one of them. It helps me review my work and check over every little detail. And now I know what situations will trigger me, so I’m pretty good at controlling it. For example, other than when I’m not feeling well, nothing really sets me off lately, so I just make sure that I’m feeling well beforehand.

In your fan dedication song “Highway 1009,” you wrote the words, “So I can get back up even when I’m sick and tired.” They seem to echo the way you manage to overcome every challenge.

SUNOO: You’re right. I’ve always been like that. (laughs) I thought about what ENGENE means to me. No matter how tired, or worn down, or how close to collapsing I am, when I see ENGENE, I can’t help but stand back up—that’s what I came up with. When I wrote those lyrics, the image in my head was me rising up on a platform during the FATE tour while ENGENE lit up the venue. That was such a beautiful moment. It made me think about how happy I am to have made it all this way.

It sounds like you’re always dreaming of a better future and of happy times.

SUNOO: Yes. I really hope my future is a happy one. And I’m happy these days. (laughs) I have plenty of concerns, obviously, but when I look at life through a wider lens, everyone faces some kind of issues in life. I doubt they’re a big enough deal to throw my life off track. If I keep trying my best, good things will happen—that’s how I live my life. Most movies and dramas are about imperfect people who finally become complete. Because things are meant to be complete in the end.

[lime-bloods]

Not an Enigma, and Certainly Not a Curse: the "Ultimate Self" in Hussie's Own Words

I've found myself, lately, in several conversations in a row where the other guy and myself weren't on the same page about what the Ultimate Self meant; and though I welcome the opportunity for discussion, explaining my position over and over again has cost me minutes of my screen life that I simply won't win back. So this post is a departure from my usual fare in that it's more for my own benefit than that of anybody else.

I've been over Davepeta's "superceding bodyless and timeless persona that crosses the boundaries of paradox space" enough already, so if you're interested in the Ultimate Self as it is in Homestuck, I recommend you read "Homestuck's Gnosticism: The Conflict", and then, if that piques your attention, you continue with the follow-up "The World/The Wheel". For the purposes of this post, though, I want to keep analysis, interpretation and hypothesising to a minimum. As the title indicates, this is the Ultimate Self not as I describe it, or as characters describe it, but - so to speak - straight from the horse's mouth.

In Andrew Hussie's commentary on Homestuck: Book 6, p. 312:

Oftentimes, when characters lose certain qualities that came to define them, there's this sense of liberation they seem to experience. They become a happier, more relieved, easier-going version of themselves. When Aradia ditches a defining quality we came to know her by (being dead), she becomes a much happier and self-actualized Aradia. Sollux also seems to be chilling out now that his defining properties (bifurcation, etc.) have been KO'd. He had a mouth full of gnarly teeth that gave him a wicked lisp (gone), eyes full of nasty laser beams (gone, along with his eyesight), and a brain full of doomsday visions and bipolar disorder (also gone—well, maybe not the bipolar thing, because that's probably not how that works, but whatever). You get more of this kind of thing in even higher degrees with some of the fusion stuff that happens later (Arquius, Davepeta), where characters become almost euphoric versions of themselves for having been completely liberated from certain self-limitations which previously defined them. The concept of an "ultimate self," which appears much later, probably has its roots way back to stuff like this, which got the ball rolling on the idea that a more complete or fulfilled self is one that becomes free from mortal limitations, or the idiosyncrasies which comprise a specific instance of one version of yourself. Hence an ultimate self is an aggregate of someone's full potential. It's not just doing away with negative traits, but summing up all iterations of yourself, including ones without those traits, allowing you to move beyond them. Or maybe more accurately, to view them as insignificant in the grand totality of what a person really is.

Importantly, what Hussie does here is draw the conceptual line from the themes of Acts 1-5 to what are often interpreted by some as radically different, even left-field themes through Act 6. Think of this as an extension of one of Homestuck's meta-themes, where the comic undergoes a series of escalations that take simple conflicts to their logical extremes: we start the story worried about a Reckoning which might destroy the Earth, then end up with the more pressing concern that a Rapture is about to end reality as we know it. The Ultimate Self is the end result of the exact same kind of escalation; where the God Tiers are a method of becoming a better version of oneself by merging with one's "ideal" dream body, the Ultimate Self is the logical conclusion that one can become the best version by unifying with every body.

To draw my own conceptual line back to Homestuck: Book 5, page 409:

This connects to the basic question of whether to embrace the regimentation of a heroic path conveniently laid out for you (the expectation), or to reject it as the shallow and rigid confinement of personal destiny (the deviation). These issues are expressed through the fundamental language of platonic idealism: perfect ideas of things, and then specific, imperfect instances of those ideas, or varied permutations, evolutions, or hacks of those ideas through alchemy. The way Sburb "should" go is an ideal (expectation), but the disastrous, chaotic way it actually goes is an imperfect instance (deviation). An "idea" of a person, such as Rose, along with her regimented heroic quest for growth, and all the great things she might imagine herself to become if she followed it, is an ideal (expectation). The messy, flawed, yet more genuinely human individual she does become resulting from her errant choices and rejection of formalism, is an imperfect instance of an ideal (deviation). What's the bottom line here? This is a lot. I know it's a lot. Homestuck is, in fact, a lot.

I've added some of my own emphasis there again, but that whole extract is worth reading. The reason I bolded that part is because this "Platonic idealism" is something Hussie talks about a lot in his commentary, and I think that commentary is essential reading for anyone who wants to even get their foot in the door on this topic. Again, this is something I've blogged about extensively already, so there's more than just Hussie's word to take for it if you're really interested; but for the sake of this post, I'll finish off with, again, what Hussie himself has to say on the matter, all the way back in Homestuck: Book 1, page 123:

With things like Athenums and Perfectly Generic Objects locked and loaded, Sburb architecture seems to be circling widely around a game abstraction-based systemization of Platonic idealism. Homestuck deals with what I am going to roughly characterize as THEMES.

[briannysey]

Last night errands took me on a drive for miles along the lake shore. It was a vast, quiet, stillness through a thin line of bare-branched trees, while I drove on a boulevard sparsely lit with guttering warm street lamps.

It was the first truly cold evening of the season, and I was driving to a function where I was gonna re-meet a ton of folks from highschool. A friend had done my makeup in this bold glam look, and I was driving in the cold dark while more myself than I felt I'd ever been, with so much of life unchanged from highschool and so much radically different than things were ten years ago.

It felt like time was knotted up, then flattened, and I was folded up against all the old places I came from but as this new truth that had been hidden for so long.

The reunion was boring, lots of suburban kids who were more interested in salaries and job titles than they were in the wild shapes of each others' lives. But while I was alone for much of the event, I wasn't lonely. Most of the folks who were interesting and I wanted to catch up with either didn't come, or live all over the country (or world). And facing these folks again as this truer more honest version of myself, folded up against all the versions of me that still lived in others' heads, I felt very vindicated in my disconnect from them. Not that there was anything particularly monstrous about these folks. Just... lifeless? Just hollow? Like most of them had rolled down paths laid out for them, and didn't want to open their eyes or minds to just how big and strange the world is?

And so I drove through copses of bristly trees, and then back along the lakeshore, which was a quiet stillness on the right, stretching as far back in the gloam as the eyes could pierce. And the disconnect I felt from the folks at the reunion was not some gap between me and all other people, it was a gap between me and those people in that place. And I don't know how many of them would ever appreciate the warm streetlamp, the dark waters, the chill air that reddened my cheeks and made me grateful for jacket.

[howietheslothful]

The Midnight Pursuit pt 5

>Johnny Slaughter Vampire AU x Reader<

Synopsis: Johnny decides to open up to you, can you trust him?

~~~~~~

The cold chains bit into my wrists, rubbing the skin raw, but the numbness had spread so deep I barely felt the pain anymore. The darkness of the basement seemed to stretch endlessly, wrapping around me like a heavy blanket. The air was damp and frigid, and I could feel the chill seeping into my bones, turning my limbs stiff and unresponsive. I wasn’t sure how long I’d been down there—days, weeks, maybe even longer. Time had lost all meaning in the shadows. My mind drifted, caught in a haze of hunger and exhaustion, and I fought to hold on to even the smallest thread of hope. Every time the heavy door above me creaked open, I flinched, my heart pounding in my chest like a trapped bird. I’d tense, expecting the worst—another visit from Drayton, his eyes gleaming with malice, or Johnny, his rough hands dragging me out of the darkness for whatever twisted purpose he had in mind. But today was different. It wasn’t the dread that clawed at me. It was the silence. The space between the creaks of the old house above, the muffled voices that sometimes drifted down to me, had grown longer, stretching out until I couldn’t hear anything at all. For the first time in what felt like forever, there was no sound of footsteps above me, no whispered arguments slipping through the cracks. The house seemed to hold its breath, and in the silence, my thoughts grew louder, more insistent, demanding answers. I was left alone with my questions, and the one that burned the brightest, the one that twisted in my gut like a knife, was simple: why was Johnny acting so strange? The vampire who had chased me through the woods, his fangs bared and eyes alight with a wild hunger, had become... different. He wasn’t the same relentless predator who’d cornered me that night under the pale light of the moon. There was a softness to him now, a hesitation in his movements that hadn’t been there before. It was like watching a wolf try to pretend it was a dog. He hadn’t laid a hand on me in days, not since that violent clash with Drayton that had echoed through the house like thunder. Instead, he visited the basement with an almost unnerving regularity, sitting on the edge of the stairs, his gaze unreadable as he watched me. Sometimes, he brought food or water, sliding it toward me without a word, his face a mask of something I couldn’t quite place. Other times, he just sat there in the shadows, the weight of his silence pressing down on me, as if he were searching for something in my expression. His eyes held a strange intensity, a quiet struggle that flickered behind the hardened exterior he wore like armor. He never stayed long, never offered explanations, and whenever I tried to ask him why, he would just shake his head, his lips pressing into a thin, frustrated line.

I couldn’t make sense of it. I had been so sure, so certain that he was just another monster like Drayton, that his cruelty was as much a part of him as his fangs. But now, it was like I was seeing cracks in his mask, glimpses of something deeper that left me feeling more unsettled than ever. A few nights ago, when he’d brought me a cup of water, our fingers had brushed for the briefest moment. I had expected the touch to be cold, like ice, but it wasn’t. His skin was warm, almost... human. And the way he’d pulled his hand back, like the contact had startled him as much as it had me, had sent a shiver down my spine that I couldn’t quite shake.

It was like there were two different versions of Johnny—one that still carried the darkness that had chased me through the woods, and another that seemed... conflicted. It was a word that felt strange to associate with him, but there it was, hovering in my mind, refusing to leave me alone. And as much as I wanted to ignore it, to focus on my own survival, I couldn’t stop myself from wondering. Why had he stopped hurting me? Why did he look at me with something almost like regret when he thought I wasn’t paying attention? One evening, when the door finally creaked open, I heard footsteps—heavier and slower than before, dragging against the wooden stairs as if the weight of the world was pressing down on the person climbing them. My pulse quickened, a flicker of fear sparking in my chest, but there was a new sensation tangled with it—curiosity, a need to understand the man who had become my captor. Johnny emerged from the shadows of the stairwell, his expression shadowed and tight, his shoulders hunched forward. He looked exhausted, more human than I had ever seen him, and for a moment, I wondered if I was dreaming. He slumped down against the wall across from me, his usual composure cracked and brittle. His hands fidgeted in his lap, fingers twisting together, and he let out a long, shaky breath that seemed to carry years of unspoken burdens. It was such a stark contrast to the image I had of him—the confident, ruthless creature that had stalked me through the darkness—that I almost couldn’t believe he was the same person.

For a moment, I hesitated, unsure whether to break the silence or let it stretch on. But the need for answers burned in my chest, pushing me past my fear. I shifted slightly, the chains around my wrists clinking softly, and finally, I found my voice. "Why are you doin' this?" I asked, my voice rough from disuse, cracking with the effort of forming the words. They sounded small, fragile in the heavy air of the basement.

Johnny glanced at me, his expression tight and guarded. His eyes flicked over my face, searching for something, but I couldn’t tell if he found it. "Doin’ what?" His drawl wrapped around the words, slow and thick like molasses, slipping through the cracks in the silence.

"Actin' like you care," I said, forcing myself to hold his gaze even as my throat tightened. My mouth was dry, my lips cracked from thirst, but I pressed on. "Why didn’t you kill me like you wanted to before?"

His jaw clenched, the muscles in his neck going taut, and for a long moment, he didn’t answer. The silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating, but I refused to back down. His face twisted, like he was struggling with something too tangled to put into words, and then, with a heavy sigh, he leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. "Ain’t that simple," he muttered, the words barely more than a whisper, but there was a roughness to his voice, like he was scraping against the edges of a wound that had never fully healed.

"Then make it simple," I pressed, desperation creeping into my voice. I knew I was pushing him, maybe more than I should have. But I had nothing left to lose. "Why did you stop? Why are you here, Johnny?"

He stared at the floor, the shadows playing across his face, and for a moment, I thought he’d brush me off again. But something shifted in his posture, like he was fighting some inner battle, and finally, he spoke, his voice low and rough. "It’s ’cause of her," he said, almost as if he were confessing a sin. "’Cause of *Nancy*."

The name hit me like a punch to the gut, the sound of it echoing in my mind. I had heard Drayton mention her before in passing, his casual remarks always tinged with a strange fondness, but I had never met her. From what I could gather, Nancy was Drayton’s partner—or whatever vampires called each other in their twisted version of a relationship. But the way Johnny said her name, there was a sharpness to it, a pain that cut through his otherwise emotionless demeanor.

"Nancy?" I repeated, my voice barely more than a whisper, laced with confusion. "What does she have to do with this?"

Johnny’s lips curled into a bitter smile, though there was no humor in it. His eyes gleamed with a haunted light, like he was seeing something I couldn’t. "Everythin'. She’s the one who turned me."

My breath caught. That was a detail I hadn’t expected. Johnny wasn’t just another vampire made by Drayton; there was more to this twisted family than I’d realized. I stayed silent, waiting for him to continue, my heart pounding in my chest. He was opening up in a way that made my skin tingle with unease, like I was peering into a part of him I was never meant to see. He leaned back against the wall, his gaze distant, as though he was lost in a memory that had been buried for too long. "I wasn’t always like this. I had a life once. A real life. My mama... she was all I had, never knew my daddy. We didn’t have much, but we got by. I was just a kid when she was murdered." His voice cracked slightly, and he cleared his throat, as if trying to push the emotion back down. I blinked, the weight of his words sinking in like stones in my stomach. Johnny had a past. A mother. And then... murder? The image of the ruthless, cold-hearted vampire wavered, replaced by something rawer, more broken.

"Who killed her?" I asked quietly, the question slipping out before I could stop myself.

Johnny’s eyes darkened, the rage in them unmistakable, like a storm brewing just beneath the surface. "Nancy. She killed my mama. Don’t know why—maybe it was just for sport, maybe she was bored. She never explained, and I never got the chance to ask. Afterward, she found me. Turned me. I was too weak to stop her. Too angry to resist. I guess she thought I’d make a better toy than a corpse."

I tried to imagine it—Johnny, young and full of life, maybe just a boy struggling to make sense of his world, and then Nancy, sweeping in like a storm to rip it all away. My stomach churned at the thought, a mix of pity and fear twisting inside me. "And now she’s with Drayton?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper, as if saying it louder would make it more real.

Johnny nodded, the bitterness in his voice deepening, like poison seeping into every word. "Yeah. They’re together. If you can call it that. Drayton… he’s got his own reasons for keepin' her around. But every time I see her, all I can think about is what she did to my mama. What she made me into. All these scars she gave me..." He touched his own chest lightly, where a faint line ran down his collarbone, as if remembering the pain. His confession hung in the air like a dark cloud, filling the space between us with a heaviness I didn’t know how to break. For the first time, I saw Johnny not as the monster who had chased me, but as something more tragic—a man trapped in a nightmare, one created by the very woman who was now his apparent father figure’s partner.

"Why do you stay?" I asked softly, my voice barely more than a whisper. "Why not just leave?"

Johnny’s eyes flickered with something I couldn’t quite name—regret, perhaps, or maybe resignation. "I’ve tried. But Drayton’s got power. And as much as I hate to admit it, I need him. Without him, I’d be hunted. Alone. Least here, I got some kinda... control."

"Control?" I echoed, incredulous. "You call this control? You’re as much a prisoner as I am." He flinched at my words, and I could see the truth in his eyes. He knew I was right.

"I didn’t ask for any of this," he said quietly, his voice thick with the weight of years. "But here I am. And now... now you’re caught up in it, too."

"Why did Nancy turn you?" I asked, the question burning in my mind. "Why not just kill you, like she did with your mom?"

Johnny’s face twisted with frustration. "I’ve asked myself that for years. Maybe she thought I’d be useful. Maybe she enjoyed watchin' me suffer. Or maybe..." He paused, his gaze dropping to the floor, as if the answer he was about to give held a truth too painful to admit. "Maybe she was lonely, in her own twisted way. Like she wanted a companion, but didn’t know how to have one without destroyin' everything they loved first."

He let out a bitter laugh, a sound that sent a shiver down my spine. It was the laugh of a man who had seen too much, lost too much, and didn’t know how to find his way back to anything resembling hope. For the first time since I’d been dragged into this hell, I saw the cracks in the world I thought I understood. Johnny wasn’t just a monster. He was a victim too, trapped in a cycle of violence and betrayal, tied to the very creatures who had ruined his life. And now I was tangled up in their twisted web, caught between the shadows and the secrets that bound them all. We sat there in silence, the weight of his confession settling over us like dust. And as I looked at Johnny, really looked at him, I realized that maybe, just maybe, he was searching for a way out. A way to break the chains that bound him to his past, to Nancy, to Drayton. And maybe, just maybe, I was his only chance. Johnny’s gaze lingered on the shadows that stretched across the basement floor, his face etched with a weariness that seemed to go deeper than any of the scars he carried. For a long moment, neither of us spoke. The weight of his confession hung between us, like a bridge between two people who had never imagined they’d find any common ground. I couldn’t help but wonder if he was thinking about what might have been, about the life he’d lost before the darkness swallowed him whole. When he finally spoke again, his voice was softer, almost fragile—so different from the gruff, rough-edged drawl I’d come to expect. It was like he was letting me in on a secret he had buried so deep even he was afraid of unearthing it. "You ever dream about a life that ain’t this one?" he asked, his tone raw and distant, like he was speaking more to himself than to me. I stayed silent, unsure of where he was going, but I felt the pull of his words, like they were tugging at a part of me I thought I’d forgotten. He let out a breath, and then he spoke again, his voice low and rough, like he was dredging up something painful from deep inside.

"Sometimes, when it’s quiet, when there ain’t nobody around to remind me of all the things I done, I... I dream about a different life. A life where I’m... good." He shook his head, like the idea was so foreign it almost hurt to think about. "I know it sounds stupid, but I see it clear as day sometimes. I see myself with a family, a wife, and kids. The kind of life I thought I’d have back when I was just a kid myself, before all this happened."

His voice grew quieter, as if he was afraid the very walls might judge him for the words he was about to speak. "I see myself sittin’ on a porch somewhere, watchin’ my kids run around in the yard, their laughter fillin’ the air. And I’m there with ’em, holdin’ my little girl in my arms, feelin’ the sun on my face. And there’s this woman... my wife. I don’t even know what she looks like, but she’s got this smile that makes me feel like I ain’t broken, like I could be somethin' better. Like I could take care of ’em, keep ’em safe, make sure they never have to know the things I’ve seen.” He paused, a shaky breath slipping past his lips, and his hands clenched into fists on his knees, as if he was trying to hold onto the dream before it slipped away. "I think about teachin’ my boy how to fish, like my mama tried to teach me before she was taken from me. Makin’ sure he knows how to be strong, how to be kind, how to protect the ones he loves. And I think about my little girl, how I’d tell her she’s got nothin' to be afraid of, ’cause her daddy’s always gonna be there. Ain’t no monsters in the dark when I’m around.”

His voice hitched, and he glanced away, his jaw clenching like he was fighting back emotions he hadn’t let himself feel in a long time. "I think about tellin’ ’em stories, tucking ’em into bed at night, lettin' ’em know they’re safe and loved. That no matter what, I’m gonna be there for ’em. I’d give anything to be that kind of man. To be a father who ain’t full of violence and hate, who’s got somethin’ real to offer."

There was a bitterness in his tone now, a sadness that twisted his features into something almost unrecognizable. "But that’s just a dream, ain’t it? Ain’t no place for a man like me in a world like that. Not after all the blood I got on my hands. Not with Nancy and Drayton holdin’ my leash, remindin' me every day what I am." He let out a harsh, broken laugh that echoed through the basement, filled with more pain than humor. "It’s stupid, thinkin' I could be somethin' better. That I could ever be anythin' but the monster they made me." I watched him, my heart pounding in my chest as his words seeped into me. There was a desperation in his voice that I recognized, a hunger for something better, for a life that wasn’t defined by pain and shadows. And as I looked at him, sitting there in the darkness, I couldn’t help but see a flicker of that dream in his eyes, a fragile hope that refused to die, no matter how much he tried to bury it.

"It ain’t stupid," I said quietly, surprising myself with the softness in my voice. "Wantin’ somethin' better for yourself, for the people you care about—it ain’t stupid, Johnny. Maybe... maybe it’s the only thing keepin' you from bein' the monster they want you to be." He turned to me, his eyes searching mine, as if he was trying to see if I meant what I said. For a moment, I thought I saw a glimmer of something like hope in his expression, a tiny spark that might still have a chance to catch fire. But then, just as quickly, his face hardened again, and he looked away, shaking his head like he was trying to dispel a dream he had no right to hold onto.

"Maybe," he muttered, his voice barely more than a whisper, carrying the weight of a thousand regrets. "But dreams don’t keep the dark away. They don’t change what I’ve done." But as I watched him, sitting there in the shadows, I couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe, just maybe, he wanted to believe otherwise. That there was a part of him that still clung to the idea of that porch, that laughter, that warmth—a future where he wasn’t just another piece of the nightmare he’d been trapped in for so long. Johnny took a deep breath, and the tension in his shoulders seemed to loosen, just for a moment. He turned back toward me, his gaze softer than it had been before, like the weight of his confession had lifted something, even if just a little. The flickering light from the single bulb cast shadows across his face, highlighting the exhaustion in his eyes.

"Thank ya," he said quietly, his Southern drawl laced with a raw sincerity. "For listenin’ to all that. I don’t... I don’t reckon I’ve ever told anyone about those dreams before. Probably sounded like a fool, spillin’ all that to you." He let out a small, humorless chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck.

I shook my head, offering him a small, tentative smile. "You didn’t sound foolish, Johnny." He met my eyes, and for a moment, I saw a flicker of something that almost looked like gratitude. But then, just as quickly, he looked away, his expression hardening once more as he straightened up, like he was putting a mask back on. He glanced toward the stairs, his mouth set in a thin line.

"Sorry if I made ya uncomfortable, talkin’ about all that stuff," he mumbled, the awkwardness creeping back into his voice. "Ain’t what I meant to do. Just... it’s been a long time since anyone’s listened to me like that." He took a step back, the shadows swallowing up the edges of his frame as he moved toward the stairs. "I’ll leave ya be now. Get some rest if ya can. I’ll... I’ll be back later."

With that, Johnny turned and headed up the stairs, his footsteps heavy against the creaking wood. He paused at the top, glancing back at me one last time, his expression caught between regret and something almost like hope. Then, without another word, he slipped through the door, leaving me alone in the cold, dark basement once again. The silence that followed felt heavier than before, pressing in around me, but it wasn’t quite the same as it had been. The darkness still loomed, but Johnny’s words lingered like a distant warmth, a reminder that even in this place, there were cracks where the light could slip through. And as I wrapped my arms around myself, I held onto that small, fragile spark, wondering if it might someday grow into something more.

[Thank you and goodnight, cuties :*]

Part 4

[maditalksmusic]

An Analysis of Jeff Buckley's Grace (1994)

I still remember vividly the first time I listened to Jeff Buckley’s “Lover, You Should've Come Over". It was a rainy winter evening in 2021, and I was in a bit of a music rut. Everything I’d been listening to on repeat for the last month or two had become annoyingly redundant, and in a rather torpid attempt to reinvigorate my consumption of music, I decided to put my Spotify-generated “Discover Weekly” playlist. A few songs went by that, weren’t bad per se, but certainly weren’t all that memorable. When that opening harmonium passage graced my ears, chills washed over me. I stopped my Pinterest scroll, turned up the volume, then laid back in bed and just listened. Six and a half minutes later, I found myself uncontrollably weeping. To this day, “Lover, You Should’ve Come Over” is still my favorite song ever made. 

Jeff Buckley’s charm lies in the fact that, as it was best said by Dominique Leone in her 2004 review of Grace for Pitchfork, he was “a songbird, like the kind that used to receive roses and blown kisses from the debutantes in the balcony after performances.” While technically classified under the extremely broad umbrella that is rock music, Buckley effortlessly blurs the lines of genre on Grace. He incorporates a myriad of sounds characteristic of not only rock, but also jazz, blues, and folk. He got his start in Los Angeles and then moved to New York City and joined guitarist Gary Lucas’ band, Gods & Monsters, prior to entering a record deal as a solo artist. Buckley performed at cafés at tiny venues around Lower Manhattan through 1992 and 1993, most frequently at Sin-é, which inspired the release of his debut solo EP, Live at Sin-é, in 1993. A standout from the EP is “Je N'en Connais Pas La Fin”, which translates to “I do not know the end” is a sort of cover of the original Edith Piaf song, loosely translated to English from the French lyrics. 

Released in August of 1994, Grace is Jeff Buckley’s first and only complete studio album. Since his tragic passing on May 29, 1997, songs from projects titled Sketches for My Sweetheart The Drunk and You and I were released posthumously in 1998 and 2016, respectively. The original version of Grace, distributed by Columbia Records, features ten tracks. However, in 2004, Columbia decided to re-release a “legacy edition” of the album, featuring an eleventh track, "Forget Her", that was never intended to be released. The ethics of that decision are still heavily debated, as Buckley himself stated that he despised the song and did not want it on the album, despite Columbia’s original attempts to convince him to release the track. 

Grace opens with the hauntingly fervent track "Mojo Pin", inspired by a dream of Buckley’s. It’s title is a euphemism for an almost overwhelming sort of addiction to someone, to a point where you have to have them. The term “mojo” originated in the Southern United States in the 1920s, adapted from the Gullah word “moco”, referring to magic, and came to be used as slang for heroin and other drugs in the 1960s. I don’t think this track would have functioned nearly as well anywhere else in the album - it starts off softly, reaching a desperate crescendo by the end of song as Buckley lets his vocals soar with the repetition of “Black beauty, I love you so,” in tandem with an intense snare finish, driving in the sheer emotional power that is held through the duration of the album. 

Following “Mojo Pin” is the album’s title track, "Grace", which sounds completely different, yet still manages to encapsulate the same wretched yet hopeful yearning that is interwoven throughout the whole album. “Grace” was inspired by Buckley’s experience saying goodbye to his girlfriend at the airport. It explores the interplay between the struggle with the passing of time and the ways that love can carry a person through those difficulties. As Buckley croons “it’s my time coming, I’m not afraid / Afraid to die” in the first verse, it’s easy to see death as a sort of beautiful conclusion instead of a violent end. Listening to Grace very closely resembles a religious experience, at least for me. The cover of Leonard Cohen's 1984 "Hallelujah"  featured on the album brings this sentiment to a very literal level. While it isn’t my favorite song on the album, Buckley’s cover is the most beautiful rendition I’ve heard. It remains one of his most popular songs and for many, is a gateway into his music. 

Interestingly, three covers are featured on Grace. “Hallelujah” is known by the vast majority of listeners to be a cover, however "Lilac Wine" was composed by James Shelton in 1950 for the musical Dance Me A Song and "Corpus Christi Carol" is an English hymn written in the sixteenth century. Buckley’s version of “Corpus Christi Carol” is based specifically on an arrangement by Benjamin Britten. Both “Lilac Wine” and “Corpus Christi Carol” have become closely associated with Jeff Buckley as his personal sound still shines brightly through both songs, his unmistakable voice working beautifully with any variety of instrumentation. 

The juxtaposition of “Hallelujah” and “Lover, You Should’ve Come Over” immediately next to each other in the track list is a very clever sort of storytelling. Buckley’s cover of “Hallelujah” differs from others in that it doesn’t feel nearly as hymnal. The production is incredibly minimal, putting the width of Buckley’s vocal range on full display. It doesn’t feel like a church service so much as it is akin to finding yourself alone in a cathedral, reaching out from the depths of your soul to bathe yourself in the elusive notion of God’s love. It’s almost as if the music is trying to achieve some sort of salvation before it plunges into the heartbreaking ballad that is “Lover, You Should’ve Come Over”, a song that begs for forgiveness at the cost of mind, body, and soul. Much of Grace has its roots in Jeff Buckley’s relationship with Rebecca Moore, with some even considering her to be his muse. However, “Lover, You Should’ve Come Over” is most specifically about the end of their relationship. The track holds some of Buckley’s strongest songwriting, and quite frankly some of the best in history. “All my blood for the sweetness of her laughter” and “She’s the tear that hangs inside my soul forever” are some of my favorite lyrics out there. It’s a particularly gorgeous song on the record, but live, even if only seen through a decades-old recording, is soul-crushing. The performance Buckley did for JBTV Chicago in November of 1994 is forever seared into my mind. 

The conclusion of Grace has become a rather controversial topic due to the 2004 addition of “Forget Her” with the release of the Legacy Edition by Columbia Records. I enjoy the song independently, but I never listen to it as a part of the album. If  it was added at an earlier point in the tracklist it could debatably work, either between "Last Goodbye"  and “Lilac Wine” or between "So Real" and “Hallelujah”, though I believe Jeff Buckley’s original thought process on keeping it off the album was absolutely sound. The final two tracks, "Eternal Life" and "Dream Brother" on the other hand, tie up the album perfectly. 

“Eternal Life” is the ‘heaviest’ song on the album instrumentally, more aligned with a traditional rock song than anything else on Grace. It stands out considerably from the sounds on the rest of the album, even while those sounds are so wonderfully varied, but it does so well. Departing from the more autobiographical lyrics of many of the songs on the album, “Eternal Life” is focused on the struggles of being human, written as a product of Buckley’s anger, according to Genius over world events such as the assassination of Martin Luther King Jr, World War II, killings in Guyana, and more. It’s an expression of an anger shared by many at the time of its release, and an anger that many people today continue to feel as we see the horrendous effects of the Israel-Palestine conflict, the ongoing war in Ukraine, and feel the stress of the upcoming presidential election. “Dream Brother” is an ideal conclusion to Grace. The song serves as a warning in a sense, inspired by one of Buckley’s friends who left a pregnant girlfriend, telling him not to be like “the one who made me so old”, referencing his father, Tim Buckley, who only met his own son once and died of a drug overdose at 28. “Dream Brother” can serve as a reminder to us all to be accountable for our actions and allow ourselves to fully experience our emotions. 

The constant sense of raw and unbridled emotional vulnerability is what makes Grace what it is. I always do my best creative work after listening to some Buckley, because he’s an artist that can open you up and force you to dig into the depths of your psyche by means of song. That emotional vulnerability is the driving force behind Jeff Buckley’s ability to craft such enchantingly gut-wrenching music, and ultimately that is what every listener can take away from Grace. 

[acciotherapists]

Far From Home (Chapter 59: The Past)

Loki x Reader

Y/n Y/l/n never thought her past would come back to find her. After all who would look for her on Midgard? But one day in the small town of Puento Antiguo her world is turned upside down when an old friend turns up, threatening everything she has built and the people she’d fought so hard to protect. What happens when the life she left behind finally catches up with her? What happens when the old flame she thought had burned out reignites within her?

There was a lot of arguing over the next several minutes before Loki finally agreed and Wong set up blankets on the couch in the library.

“You’re sure you’re alright with this?” Loki asked. “Especially with an audience.” He looked around the room and I nodded.

“It’ll be fine. They’re just here to make sure nothing happens and so I can tell them everything about the dream as soon as I wake up while it’s still fresh. They don’t want me to forget anything.”

He wrapped his arms around my waist. “I want you to forget everything about this,” he murmured against my hair.

“I know, baby… but forgetting it won’t make it go away. We have to figure this out and the only way I can communicate with them is in my sleep. I have to do this.”

He kissed my forehead. “I’m waking you up at the first sign of trouble.”

I sighed. “It’ll be fine, Loki. I’m perfectly safe here.”

Famous last words.

I laid down on the couch and Loki pulled the blankets up to my chin, pushing my hair behind my ears, as Wong approached.

“I’m going to use a simple spell that will make you tired. It won’t lower any of your normal defenses as I’m not putting you directly to sleep.”

I nodded and he continued.

“You’ll wake as you normally would whenever you’re ready or whenever they wake you.” He placed his hands on my forehead and I slowly felt my eyes drooping. I squeezed Loki’s hand before falling asleep.

I was once again in the crumbling sanctum, the feeling of being watched surrounding me. Goosebumps traveled along my arms as a chill settled in the air and I kept walking, finding myself in the living room.

“Back so soon?” Stephen asked and I turned to face him, seeing Wanda sitting on the sofa across from him.

“I wasn’t feeling well,” I replied. “I just needed a nap.”

Stephen stood, quickly making his way toward me. “You weren’t feeling well?”

I shook my head as he grabbed my arms and Wanda watched us carefully. “No, I just felt a little nauseous earlier… and a little tired. I just needed a nap,” I lied. “I’m sure I’ll feel better when I wake.” My eyes found Wanda’s before returning to Stephen. “Why is she staring like that?”

He chuckled. “She’s simply concerned.”

“Why?”

“She cares about you.”

“It’s just a little nausea. Like I said, I just needed a nap.”

His eyes were sad as he gave a half smile and Wanda muttered under her breath. “We’ve heard that one before.”

“Stephen, what is she talking about?”

He glared at her. “Nothing.”

I pulled away from him. “Does this have to do with this universe’s version of me?”

“Y/n-.”

“Tell me the truth, Stephen!”

He sighed, nodding.

“What happened?”

He tried to move toward me but I took several steps back. “Tell me what happened, Stephen.”

He sighed, dragging a hand across his face. “In this universe you were Wanda’s closest friend… and the love of my life. I always knew you were running from something but I never knew from what… One day they found you and took you away. When you came back a few weeks later you said you’d escaped… but we realized too late that they’d poisoned you. You slowly started getting sicker and we couldn’t figure out why. Wong and I tried everything… but it was too late. It was a slow acting poison and by the time we realized what was going on… it was too late.”

I shook my head. “I don’t understand… you and I didn’t meet at the Sanctum. Wanda and I didn’t know each other when we met.”

He smiled, but it didn’t meet his eyes. “Like I said… different realities. You and I reconnected while I was a student at Kamar-Taj. You’d returned to the Sanctum looking for asylum and stayed there for several weeks. You were looking for answers about who you really are.”

My eyes widened as the realization settled over me. If I hadn’t fought for Loki to stay in the Avengers he never would’ve come to the Sanctum with me. I could've just left on my own. I would’ve ended up at the Sanctum under different circumstances. I tried to clear my head of the thoughts. If I had made one different choice… would Loki and I even be together?

He seemed to read my mind. “In our reality you and the terrorist weren’t close. He died during the attack on New York.”

I swallowed thickly, my mind spinning with this new information.

He brushed his thumb over my cheek and I jumped at the contact. “Darling, there’s no need to be afraid of me. I would never hurt you.”

“What do you want from me?”

“Darling I want nothing from you… other than your simple existence beside me.”

“You realize that’s impossible… right? We’re not from the same universe, Stephen.”

He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “It matters not. I once promised to love you in every universe.”

“But I’m not her, Stephen! Don’t you see that? I’m happy in my universe. I’m in love with someone and I’m happy!”

He smirked. “You’re referring to Loki, yes?” He turned to Wanda and she stood, approaching us as Stephen continued. “He’ll never love you the way I do. I would destroy worlds for you.”

 I scoffed. “You’re insulting the wrong man, Stephen.”

He chuckled darkly. “He’ll never be good enough for you. You know that.”

“Shut up,” I hissed. “You know nothing.”

He chuckled, resting his hands on my waist. “Then why don’t you push me away? Your body knows it wants me, darling.”

“You’re wrong,” I hissed, backing away from him. “I think I’d like to wake up now.”

He sighed, nodding, before turning to Wanda. “Wake her.”

“You sure, Stephen?” she asked and he nodded.

She approached me, her eyes sad. “I wish you could see this is a good thing.” She placed her hands on my head and there was a flash of red. I gasped as I felt pain, though not physical this time, surrounding me, drowning me. 

I fought, trying to breach her mind as the sadness overwhelmed me. There were flashes of faces I recognized and some I didn’t until I saw my own face come into view. I was holding Wanda’s hand, my face pale and dripping with sweat.

“I’m so sorry,” I whispered to her. “I should’ve known they’d never let me escape.”

“Don’t you dare apologize! This is not your fault.” I could see her face reflected in my eyes, dripping with tears, before Stephen approached us, his jaw set in fury.

“Wong has nothing… there’s nothing.”

Wanda shook her head. “There has to be something, Stephen!”

Tears slipped down his cheeks as I reached for his hand. “Stephen… promise me you’ll look out for her. The Avengers will be looking for her now… you’re all she has.”

With a jolt I was pulled from the memory and thrust back into my universe.

******************

Taglist: @nelachu2423 @purplekitten30@lokisprettygirl22 @midnights-ramblings @huntress-artemiss @lokis-little-love @lokis-tigress @the-archangel-in-asgard @crimson25 @thedistractedagglomeration

[intothefairiesland]

Chapter XIII ― illicit affairs

And you wanna scream Don't call me “kid” don't call me “baby” Look at this godforsaken mess that you made me You showed me colors you know I can't see with anyone else Don't call me “kid” don't call me “baby” Look at this idiotic fool that you made me You taught me a secret language I can't speak with anyone else And you know damn well For you, I would ruin myself A million little times

Masterlist

Previous Chapter — Next Chapter 🌙

I'm also on Ao3: "Stop all the world now"

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As she had expected, Emma didn’t sleep a wink that night. How could she, when he lay there, nestled against her, his breath slow and uneven the only sound in the dark? She was afraid that by surrendering to sleep, she might lose even a single moment. And as she had also expected, he didn’t stir when she pulled away from him at dawn. He remained there, heavy with sleep, motionless, as she slipped silently out of the room.

She turned one last time at the threshold. The chaos around them mirrored the storm of the previous night: pillows scattered on the floor, rumpled sheets, the air thick with the acrid scent of sweat and alcohol. With a soft gesture, she drew the curtains to dim the grey morning light. He would sleep for hours still—she was certain, given the mixture he had taken.

In the sitting room, after gently closing the bedroom door behind her, she put her shoes back on. Her eyes landed on the tray laid out for breakfast, a basin of warm water, and clean cloths. Hyst. He had thought of everything. The door creaked slightly, and the butler appeared—punctual and discreet.

“Good morning, Miss. I thought you might need something to regain your strength after... the events of yesterday. And Mister Bridgerton as well.” His tone was calm, as if he were commenting on the weather.

Emma suddenly felt awkward, misplaced in a role she had never played before. She was the one who served, who fetched, who waited—not the one to be looked after. Except for that single suspended day, spent at My Cottage with Benedict.

She lowered her gaze. She understood the gesture. She would have done the same in Hyst’s place. “Thank you, but...” she began, uncertain, “I must go. If Mr. Bridgerton wakes up, tell him that...”

She faltered. What could she possibly have him say? That she had watched over him? That she had wiped the sweat from his brow in silence, listened to his drunken words of love he would likely never remember? That, for one night, she had forgotten the fear of being with him?

She shook her head gently, as if to herself. “Never mind. Thank you for your kindness. His brother shouldn’t be long now.”

Hyst, the perfect servant, gave no indication of emotion. He simply bowed, saying nothing more. Emma offered him a timid smile. It was still very early, and the day had not yet truly begun. But for her, it was already time to leave.

At that hour, London felt fragile and suspended. The damp cobblestones shimmered faintly, reflecting a pale, diffuse light-tinged pearl-grey by the low clouds. The morning fog still clung to the sidewalks, wrapping softly around the extinguished streetlamps like the night’s final sigh.

Emma pulled her coat tighter around her. The early chill slipped beneath the collar of her dress and urged her to walk faster. It was still early when she entered through the servants’ door, but the house was already stirring with the familiar bustle of morning. Voices, hurried footsteps, the clatter of pans—everything was in its place, as if the night had never happened. In the hallway, she ran into her parents. Her father’s questioning look, fixed on her pale, sleep-deprived face, made her falter for a moment. Upon returning from Kent, she had half-confessed what had happened—carefully omitting Benedict’s name. He was, along with Louise, one of the rare people before whom she could lay down her burdens without shame. Yet even to him, she had served a diluted version of the truth, not wanting to worry him further. She had simply said she had a broken heart. Not that her entire being was broken.

She was about to go upstairs and change before joining Louise when she crossed paths with Emily, who was carrying a basin of laundry. “Here, take this upstairs,” Emily said curtly.

Emma obeyed, but Emily held on to the basin a moment longer, her eyes locked on hers. “I believe you owe me some explanations. What was Colin Bridgerton doing here at two in the morning?”

Her voice cut through the suddenly still air. The surrounding noise seemed to pause, as if the whole house were holding its breath. Emma immediately stepped closer. “Shh, I beg you. I’ll explain everything tonight, but please, don’t speak of it to anyone.”

Emily held her gaze darkly, then nodded silently, handing her the basin before striding off, leaving Emma alone, shame-faced and heavy with silence.

The day passed quickly. Louise and Esmée were out, which allowed her to catch up on delayed chores: she helped her mother tidy the pantry, went to the laundress, and mended Louise’s riding gloves. Her sleepless night weighed heavily on her. By dusk, she was sitting cross-legged on her bed, brushing her tangled hair slowly. That evening ritual, once shared with Emily in fits of laughter and whispered secrets, felt different now. She knew things would never be the same again. She thought of Benedict. Of what he was doing, of what he might be feeling. Whether he still thought of her. She had hoped for a word, a sign from Colin to reassure her—but in vain. And when her father had announced that someone was waiting at the door that afternoon, her heart had leapt. For one fleeting moment, she had hoped. But if it had been him, she might have hated him for showing up. She was a paradox even she struggled to understand.

When Emily entered the room, already in her nightdress, she stood silently before Emma’s bed. A part of Emma wondered why she had to answer for anything. She owed nothing to anyone—except perhaps herself. And Benedict.

She loved Emily deeply. But she also knew how uncompromising she could be when it came to rules. Emily, devout and wise, had never known a man. She prayed three times a day, never missed church, and wore virtue like a second skin. She might have been the most prudish maid in all of London. Emma, too, respected tradition, prayed as well—but sometimes her faith slipped through her fingers. Not that she no longer believed, but she doubted.

And she knew Emily would judge her. As William had done before her. Which didn’t take long.

“I knew you didn’t go to a friend’s house in Kent,” Emily burst out, running a hand over her forehead and pacing the room.

“Emma, do you even realize what could happen if this gets out? The Braybrooke family’s reputation? Louise’s?”

She had thought about it—a thousand times. Always alone. Never with Benedict. Because with him, nothing ever felt forbidden. “Of course I’ve thought about it. Do you think I’m reckless?”

“Sleeping with the son of an aristocratic family? Forgive me for doubting your judgment!”

“I didn’t sleep with him!”

“Oh really? What were you doing then, playing cards?” Emily snapped, voice laced with acid.

Anger flared in Emma’s cheeks, making her blush. “I knew you wouldn’t understand...”

Emily crossed her arms, her face closed off. “Maybe I don’t understand, Emma. Maybe I don’t want to understand,” she said, her voice lower, but still harsh. “Because what you did wasn’t just a mistake—it was a risk. A risk for you. For everyone. You’re being selfish and irresponsible just for a another stupid aristocratic man.”

Emma looked down. She wanted to scream, to cry that it wasn’t that simple, that this wasn’t just a foolish lapse or a flirtatious mistake. It was a story. A real one. A deep wound. A crack inside her that she couldn’t quite mend.

A heavy silence fell between them. Emma said nothing—anything she could say would only make things worse. Emily continued to look at her with a hard, questioning gaze, then turned toward the door. Before leaving, she said in a severe tone: “I don’t need to judge you, Emma. Society will do it for me, soon or later.”

Emma lifted her eyes, tears welling up—not just from exhaustion, but from the entire weight of the situation. “Are you going to tell anyone?” she asked, her voice tight.

Emily shook her head and let out a soft, bitter laugh. “Is that all you care about now? That someone might find out?” She paused. “No, I won’t say anything. Good night, Emma.”

Emma gave a faint nod, unable to say a word. She watched Emily leave the room without a sound, closing the door gently behind her. A sob escaped her—brutal, uncontrollable, as if ripped from the deepest part of her. She buried her face in the crook of her knees, wrapping her arms tightly around her legs, curling into herself like a frightened child. Her body trembled with the force of it. The tears came hot, acidic, burning down her already flushed cheeks—burning with shame, with rage, with fatigue.

She wept for everything: for the absence, for the longing, for the memory of Benedict, for Emily’s gaze, and for the crushing loneliness that fell upon her with the coming of night.

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Benedict awoke that morning with the distinct impression that a hammer had been pounding his skull relentlessly through the night. A dull, throbbing pain pulsed behind his temples, as if every beat of his heart echoed inside his head. He tried to open his eyes, but the harsh daylight felt like another lash across his frayed nerves. Everything around him was a blur, a dizzying fog, and it took him long minutes to realise where he was: in his own bed, still dressed in the clothes from the day before — wrinkled, reeking of alcohol, of night and of shame.

He slowly, painfully, pushed himself upright and sat at the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, head cradled in his hands. It wasn’t just his skull that seemed to protest, but every part of him : every strained muscle, every bone weighed down with exhaustion. A sluggish, ancient kind of fatigue had taken hold of him.

He searched his memory. The events of the previous night came back to him in disjointed waves: Colin, insisting on taking him home. The foul, muddy bitterness of whatever he had drunk until it turned his stomach. And Emma... Had she really come? Or was she merely a mirage conjured by his fevered, intoxicated mind? He no longer knew. He no longer knew anything. Everything inside him screamed with the desperation of a man who had fallen too far to still believe in light.

For months, he knew it, his body had been nothing more than a vessel for alcohol. It showed in the way he lived or rather, survived: his only interactions reduced to decadent evenings among bohemian minds, or rare, polite exchanges with his family. It showed in his paintings, now void of soul. It showed on his face — gaunt, weary — and in the very outlines of his body, blurred from prolonged neglect.

A rustle pulled him from his thoughts: Hyst had entered, his eyes alert, and without ceremony, he yanked open the curtains with a brisk motion. Benedict groaned, wounded by the sudden flood of light, raising a hand to shield his eyes.

He got up, somehow, each step an ordeal, and dragged himself into the sitting room. There, he collapsed onto the sofa like a man defeated, breath shallow, eyes drifting over the familiar chaos. Open books, empty glasses, discarded clothes — it was the perfect reflection of his mind, and he had expressly forbidden anyone from tidying it. This mess was his. He saw no reason why anyone else should bear its burden.

Hyst, unfazed, brought in a tray with steaming tea and a few slices of bread. He poured a cup and handed it to Benedict.

“Miss Watts left early this morning,” he said calmly. “Your brother should arrive shortly. Would you like me to prepare a bath?”

But Benedict didn’t reply. He was no longer listening. His gaze was fixed on some invisible point in the room, his mind drifting through the fog of memory. So, Emma had truly come. It hadn’t been some illusion born of opium and drink — those fragments of her tending to him, gently changing the compress on his forehead with such painful tenderness, had been real. The images were returning now, blurred but persistent, assembling like the pieces of a puzzle he had long ignored.

He frowned, trying to untangle the jumbled thread of the hours gone by, when the door suddenly burst open. Colin entered with the calm assurance that was so characteristic of him, impeccably dressed, his shirt collar crisp, his waistcoat fitted, his face freshly shaved — everything about him a stark contrast to the wreck Benedict had become.

“You look far more respectable than you did yesterday, brother,” he remarked in a mock-cheerful tone, a teasing glint in his eyes.

Benedict slowly raised his head but didn’t answer right away. Instead, he gestured silently to Hyst, who bowed discreetly and left the room. With a heavy movement, Benedict stood, swaying slightly.

Colin stepped forward and, without giving him time to protest, pulled him into a firm, masculine embrace as if to check he was still there, still solid, still real.

“I’m relieved you’re still alive,” he said as he released him. “You look dreadful, yes, but alive, nonetheless.”

Benedict grimaced, letting himself fall back onto the sofa, stripped of all dignity but somehow feeling a little less alone in his ruin. A fleeting warmth of gratitude stirred in his chest.

Colin, meanwhile, circled the sofa and threw open the window. The morning air rushed into the room, driving out the staleness of alcohol.

“Forgive me,” he said, turning back with a smile, “but the smell is far from welcoming.”

Benedict offered him a faint smile, almost absent. It wasn’t so much Colin’s words that moved him, but the way he said them — without reproach, without judgment. As always, Colin used humour to mask his worry — and Benedict, tired as he was, recognised it.

“How do you feel?” Colin asked, then immediately corrected himself. “No, let me guess… like you’ve been trampled by a horse, perhaps?”

A weary smile touched Benedict’s lips.

“I’d say that’s fairly accurate,” he murmured, lowering his gaze, embarrassed even in front of his own brother. “I suppose... I may have let myself go a little too far last night.”

He wasn’t sure who those words were for — Colin, or himself. Perhaps he still hoped to minimise the wreckage he felt expanding inside him. But deep down, he knew better. He was lying. What had happened the night before wasn’t an accident, nor a momentary lapse. It was the inevitable breaking point, the painful climax of months spent adrift.

Colin cleared his throat, then, in a slightly awkward tone, said:

“I shouldn’t have made you drink that vile concoction. I’m sorry.”

A faint smile crossed Benedict’s face, quickly erased by a darker shadow in his eyes.

“No, it’s me... I’m...” He didn’t finish. His hands rose to cover his face, as if trying to wipe something away — the shame, the fatigue, or simply the weight of what he couldn’t yet put into words. He exhaled slowly, then shook his head like a man trying to wake a second time. “Argh… I should probably change,” he mumbled, rousing himself as if from a deep fog.

He reached for the cup, drank the now-lukewarm tea, his movements slow but deliberate.

Colin watched him in silence. He didn’t speak, but his eyes did — a mixture of concern, affection, and painful restraint. Only once the cup was empty did he speak again, his voice softer, more serious:

“Benedict… You know you can talk to me, don’t you?”

“I’m fine. Don’t worry,” Benedict replied, glancing away, as if that would be enough to deflect his brother’s concern.

Colin laced his fingers together slowly, with an almost nervous precision. A wry smile played on his lips, but it never reached his eyes.

“Oh, of course. You’re fine,” he repeated, mockingly gentle, as if reciting a line in a play neither of them believed.

His tone, light yet cutting, resonated in the space between them — a familiar tension, full of love, fatigue, and helplessness.

“So who was that young woman I had to drag out of bed at two in the morning?” Colin asked, his voice calm, but his eyes glinting mischievously.

Benedict frowned slightly, his expression muddled with confusion. He searched his memory through the haze, to no avail. He had no idea what his brother was talking about.

Colin sighed and continued, more serious this time:

“Since you clearly don’t remember… You begged me to bring her. You said you wouldn’t leave without her. So I went and knocked on her door, in the dead of night. And she came. She came, Benedict.”

He paused, letting the words hang, then added with a hint of amused exasperation:

“She must really love you, that poor girl, to have put up with your state. Because frankly, I was this close to dousing you with a bucket of ice water.”

Benedict remained silent, eyes fixed on his empty cup. What could he say? That he was sorry? He was, deeply. But the word felt hollow. How could he explain that the very source of his despair had, for one night, become his salvation?

Colin broke the silence with a gentleness laced with irony:

“She seems to care about you. I won’t make any comment on the... unconventional nature of your relationship, but one thing is certain: thank heavens she was there last night.”

He had stood up, hands on his hips, like a father gently scolding a child. His gaze weighed heavily on Benedict.

“I don’t think that’s true,” Benedict murmured after a moment.

“What isn’t?” Colin asked, puzzled.

“That she loves me.” He said it plainly, as though it came straight from his heart.

Silence fell again — thick, unexpected. Colin blinked, caught off guard. Then, in a quieter voice, unsure how to respond:

“Oh…”

He cleared his throat, uncomfortable. He hadn’t realised how deeply this affair ran for his brother. And, as if to comfort him, he added:

“And yet… I’ve never seen anyone even in as pitiful a state as you were look at a woman the way you looked at her. You didn’t take your eyes off her. It was... unmistakable.”

Benedict shrugged, unable to admit what his heart already knew. He didn’t answer. But in the silence that followed, his turmoil spoke louder than words.

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Two days had passed in a heavy, almost unreal silence for Emma. Emily, without drama or explanation, had chosen not to speak to her anymore. A mute absence—far crueller than anger. Emma found herself alone, facing not only the piercing ache of a broken heart, but also the loss of the one she had for so long considered her friend.

Yet, against all odds, that painful conversation with Emily had planted a new conviction deep within her: what she had shared with Benedict was neither illusion nor whim. It was real. On her side, at least, it had always been pure. Nothing—not judgement, not silence—could ever tarnish that or take it away from her.

She hadn’t heard a word from Benedict since that night, just a few days ago. She could have accepted the silence, as she had in the past. Resigned herself. Let distance do its work. After all, she hadn’t heard from him in two whole months. And in the end, she was the one who had walked away. But something inside her resisted that flight. Perhaps it was one final need to understand, or maybe just a reflex of the heart—a last flicker unwilling to give up without a fight. She didn’t really know what she hoped for—a word, a glance, an answer. Or maybe nothing more than peace. She simply wanted to make sure, one last time, that he was alright. After that, she would let him go. She would let herself go too, into the necessary mourning of what they had been.

Emma wrapped herself in her burgundy coat and set out on foot, her heart beating a little faster with each step toward Benedict’s home. She had no idea if he would be there.

When she knocked on the door, it was Hyst—ever courteous—who greeted her. His polished, perfectly practiced smile made her briefly uneasy. He offered to show her to the drawing room, as if she didn’t already know the way.

As she stepped into the room, she noticed immediately how impeccably tidy it was—so much so that it startled her. Nothing remained of the chaos of the previous days. Benedict was seated at his desk, and when Hyst announced her name, she saw his eyes light up—that piercing, blue gaze, burning like fire beneath ice. He looked better. No—more than that. He looked transformed. His still-damp hair betrayed a recent bath, and his appearance… carefully chosen. He wore a silk waistcoat with a subtle floral pattern over a soft-collared beige shirt, tailored dark trousers, and a midnight-blue cravat knotted with an almost effortless elegance. He looked ready to go out.

They stood frozen for a moment. He stared at her with that gaze that, on its own, could have made her believe in the three words whispered in his sleep.

Emma stood upright, almost stiff, her hands tightly clasped in front of her. At last, she found the courage to speak:

“I... I just wanted to know if you were feeling better.”

He flinched ever so slightly. Was he better? Physically, perhaps. Mentally... surely not.

He gave her that tender, familiar smile—the one that seemed to say everything and nothing all at once, the one he used so well to hide behind.

“Yes... I believe I gave quite a performance the other night. I’m sorry.”

“You should probably apologise to Colin,” she replied with a faint, ironic smile.

“I did.” he murmured, awkward.

Their exchange, once fluid and almost instinctive, had grown heavy with a new discomfort. Each of them seemed to be holding something back, suspended between what should be said and what remained unsaid—out of pride, or fear. A tension lingered between their bodies, tangible in every breath of the room.

Still, Emma dared to ask the question that had haunted her since she’d stepped into his house two nights ago:

“Do you remember anything?”

He slowly shook his head.

“Not quite, no...” He furrowed his brow, absently rubbing one eyebrow with his thumb as if the gesture might summon clarity. “I mean... there are fragments—Colin, sounding rather exasperated, and the damp cloth you kept pressing to my face. That, I do recall.”

Even before he answered, Emma’s hand had moved behind her back, her fingers curling into a fist so tightly her knuckles turned white. Her nails dug into her palm, leaving invisible marks—an anchor against the pain threatening to overwhelm her. She would not cry. She needed the physical pain to steady the rest.

“I’m relieved to see you’ve recovered, then,” she said, surprisingly composed. “I should go. Thank you for seeing me.”

She had already turned to leave when his soft voice stopped her:

“Emma...”

He stood up, hesitated. His fingers rubbed together, as if searching for the right words. Then he spoke, almost shyly:

“I submitted a painting to the Salon. It was accepted... I thought you should know.”

She turned around. Her face lit up instantly. In her eyes gleamed a pure, unfiltered admiration, so sincere it was almost painful. He had never seen that look on anyone before—this unshaken belief in him, stronger than any he’d ever had in himself. Her joy made it harder to bear, made everything more confusing. She took a step forward, hesitated, then stopped short.

“That’s wonderful news, Benedict! You should be proud of yourself!”

Her smile was real, tender, almost childlike.

Benedict nervously rummaged through the papers on his desk and pulled out a small card. He stepped closer and handed it to her. Emma caught his scent—familiar, intoxicating. She had to fight the urge to lean into him.

“If you’d like to, of course...” he said as she began reading the card. It was an invitation to the Salon’s opening night, addressed in her name. Emma smiled as she read, the gesture striking her right in the heart.

“I thought you might want to see it. If only for the beauty of the place,” he said, his tone nearly detached.

“And for your work,” she replied, a smile playing at her lips as she met his gaze.

“You don’t have to come, but... I’d be happy if you saw it. Truly.”

“With pleasure, Benedict.”

There was something about the way she said his name—it sent jolts of electricity through his body.

He scratched the back of his head, that awkward gesture she knew so well, the sign he no longer knew what to do with his hands, or his words. She understood she had to break the moment before it became too painful—for him, for both.

“Thank you,” she said. “For the invitation,” she corrected herself. She felt foolish.

Goodbyes are always clumsy. What do you say? What do you do? She longed to embrace him, to hold on, to never leave. Instead, she turned away, almost fleeing, her breath short, her cheeks burning. She closed the door behind her with the distinct sensation that she had left a part of herself in that room.

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ROYAL ACADEMY OF ARTS Burlington House, Piccadilly

The President and Council of the Royal Academy most respectfully request the pleasure of the company of

Miss Emma Watts

at the Grand Opening of the Annual Exhibition of the Royal Academy

to be held at Burlington House on the evening of Monday, the Twenty-Third of October, Eighteen Hundred and Fifteen at six o’clock precisely.

This occasion shall mark the unveiling of select works by the most recent Laureates of the Academy, whose talents have been deemed most worthy by the Council.

Dress: Formal Attire

Emma had read the invitation card a hundred times over, as if each word, each calligraphic flourish, might somehow reveal to her what she ought to do. Should she go?

Her heart harboured no doubt: it burned with the longing to see the painting Benedict had chosen to offer to the gaze of the world. She wondered whether it was a work she already knew, a sketch she might have glimpsed absentmindedly during one of their past encounters. Or perhaps a portrait they had worked on together.

But that longing was laced with a deeper turmoil, a cruel paradox: the unwavering tenderness she still felt for him clashed constantly with a muted bitterness, lodged deep within her wounded heart. She could not choose between the desire to see him again and the fear of losing herself once more—of being swept away.

And then, there was society. Those glittering salons where one is judged with a glance, where names, titles, and alliances matter above all else. She could wear the finest fabrics; the most fashionable colours newly arrived from Paris—yet nothing would erase her feeling of not belonging to that world. The very thought of standing there alone tightened her stomach into knots.

Several paths lay before her, and none felt right. To stay away: a reasonable choice. To arrive late, in the futile hope of slipping unnoticed among the guests: a risky strategy, for the emptier the room, the more closely eyes would fall upon her. Or to arrive precisely at the expected hour, to disappear into the chaos of polite society, approach Benedict’s work, gaze upon it for a few fleeting moments—and slip away before anyone truly saw her.

She was sitting on the edge of her bed, the invitation clutched in her hands. Less than an hour now separated her from the opening of the Salon. When she lifted her head, her gaze met, in the small mirror on her dressing table, a total stranger. An unusual pallor had crept across her features, an imperceptible tension stiffened her neck, and in her eyes floated a doubt she barely recognised. If she kept looking at herself like that, she would no doubt end up disgusted and would find in that discomfort a convenient excuse not to go.

She stood up, opened her modest wardrobe, and inspected the few options available to her. She liked helping Louise get ready and, without being vain, was rather skilled at arranging hair in different styles. But she had never tried anything on herself and owned very few accessories or garments. Most of the time, like the other household staff, she wore a dark, austere dress, designed more for discretion and function than for elegance. And yet, whenever she could, she would change into something else. Not out of a taste for finery, but because her own clothes gave her a fleeting, precious feeling of existing again—for herself, as a free woman.

Her eyes finally settled on the only dress whose fabric and cut could pass, however humbly, for something approaching formality: her wedding dress. She had altered it several times, discreetly reshaped it, adapted it for those rare occasions when a certain attire was expected. The fabric, a faded shade of violet, retained a quiet dignity, subtly enhanced by a few white embroideries details she had sewn herself along the neckline—slightly bolder than her other dresses, but never improper. With it, she had a modest white pelerine, also adorned with silver thread and floral patterns. It wouldn’t be the most dazzling dress at the Salon, nor the most fashionable—but it was the only one in which she might, with some luck, blend into the crowd.

After slipping it on, she noticed she had gained weight—not surprising, really, since the last time she’d worn it. She also realised, with a faint unease, that her state of mind was not so different from what it had been on her wedding day. She looked at herself in the mirror and was transported back several years, wrapped in this same dress, only then with the careless lightness of youth.

But this was no time to torment herself further. She took a few moments to consider the best strategy for arranging her hair, and decided that a chignon might be the wisest option—simple, understated, and perhaps the closest she could come to looking sophisticated. From among her few belongings, she chose a lovely hair clip adorned with small flowers, a gift from family long ago, and pinned it in place.

She then reached for the only pair of lace gloves she owned—delicate, rarely used—and slipped them on. She did not look into the mirror again. She knew that the instant her reflection met her gaze, she would find herself unworthy of the occasion.

—౨ৎ — ౨ৎ —౨ৎ — ౨ৎ —౨ৎ — ౨ৎ —౨ৎ — ౨ৎ —౨ৎ — ౨ৎ —౨ৎ — ౨ৎ —

Emma had never seen anything like it. She thought she knew every corner of the Academy, but she had been wrong. The room where the Salon was held was spectacular—both in beauty and in scale. The light, soft yet precise, poured down from the high skylights and made the gold leaf, the satins, the silks, the massive picture frames shimmer. In less than two hours, night would fall, and the atmosphere would already be transformed. She was almost tempted to stay just to witness the change.

The air shimmered with a constant hum of murmured voices, of laughter stifled behind fans and comments exchanged in hushed tones. To her surprise, she wasn’t stared at, or not entirely. A few glances were cast her way, but she couldn’t tell whether it was because no one knew who she was or because of her childish face set against so much beauty.

Paintings covered the walls from floor to ceiling; every inch of stone seemed to breathe with an artist’s passion. There were biblical scenes beneath torn heavens, ruined landscapes bathed in gold, striking portraits where the eyes still seemed alive. Emma moved slowly, eyes wide. She couldn’t have said what amazed her more: the raw beauty of the works, or the simple fact that someone had thought them worthy of being shown to the world. She even felt a twinge of envy toward those who had managed to be exhibited, and occasionally found herself criticizing certain paintings she didn’t consider technically refined enough to deserve their place.

It was nearly impossible to walk at a normal pace given the crowd, and even harder to locate specific paintings.

She knew Benedict was somewhere in the throng, hidden among elegant silhouettes and bursts of conversation. She hadn’t caught sight of him yet and couldn’t tell if it was the right time for a conversation. And yet, she had crossed paths—or rather, heard from a distance—the Bridgerton family, nearly in full force.

“They must be proud of him,” she thought, though she knew how discreet Benedict had always been about his passion. Inviting tonight’s family must have taken a great deal of courage for him.

Her eyes were drawn to a painting, hanging just a few metres away. From where she stood, she could make out only fragments of colour, the shapes blurred by the constant ebb and flow of visitors. And yet, something about the piece struck her as strangely familiar—though she couldn’t have said why. Intrigued, she stepped forward slowly, almost holding her breath—then, suddenly, she stopped.

Her breath caught in her throat.

She recognized the scene at once.

At first glance, the style did not depart from that of the surrounding works—the same controlled palette, the same measured brushstrokes—but the subject stood apart, with a haunting intensity.

The painting depicted a night steeped in mystery. At the centre, a woman, seen from behind, stood in the still waters of a lake. She wore a simple white shirt, catching the moon’s milky glow. The fabric, heavy with water, clung to the contours of her back, revealing through its translucence an almost sacred fragility. She did not move. She seemed suspended outside of time—a spectral presence, or the echo of a dream. The lake stretched out around her, encircled by untamed nature, by towering trees whose branches seemed to smother every sound. The sky, heavy and ink-blue, was streaked with slow-moving clouds, pierced by a full moon glowing opalescent. Its light scattered across the water’s surface in a constellation of silvery glimmers.

Emma stood frozen. The woman in the lake was her.

Her breath caught somewhere between her lips and her throat. Her eyes, wide open, devoured every detail of the canvas, trying to convince herself that it wasn’t what she thought— Or perhaps that it was. That she wasn’t dreaming.

It was her.

Not just a vague feminine silhouette that could have been anyone. No. She was there, in that lake, brought back into the world by Benedict’s hand.

A strange heat rose to her cheeks, tinged with dizziness. How? Why? For a moment, she thought she might lose her balance.

He had painted her. Not as a fleeting sketch or a memory blurred by pride but with care, with devotion. As though she had haunted his thoughts. As though she had remained, despite everything. Every brushstroke seemed steeped in long nights spent trying to bring her back to life—her, set within the landscape of his home.

And she, who had convinced herself that he had forgotten. That she had been nothing more than a brief chapter.

In that moonlit scene, amidst silver reflections and deep shadows, she felt something shift. She understood, at last: She had mattered. More than she had ever dared believe.

She stood a while longer in front of the painting, as though turning away might cause it to vanish. She wanted to memorise every curve, every shade of colour, every nuance of light. She could have stood before the painting for hours, but she knew that such stillness would soon draw suspicion.

At last, she turned—reluctantly. Her gaze drifted absently across the room: over the canvases, the vibrant silhouettes, the silken whispers of the ladies and the muffled laughter of the gentlemen.

And then, she saw the man who had painted it.

Standing at a distance, surrounded by a few gentlemen in dark frock coats. He looked at ease : elegant, composed, attentive without being deferential, a polite smile on his lips. The others seemed captivated by his words, and he replied with that quiet nonchalance she knew so well.

And yet, Emma knew just how much these social obligations bored him. She recognised the way his shoulders were held a touch too straight, the tension in his jaw masked by a flash of laughter. She knew his eyes—how they sometimes wandered, distracted, in search of an escape beyond the emptiness of conversation.

And in that instant, as if guided by some inexplicable instinct, he looked up—and their eyes met across the crowd.

The room seemed to empty around them. She couldn’t have said whether it lasted a second or an eternity.

A smile, barely perceptible, almost shy, touched her lips. He returned it, simply and sincerely.

The moment lasted only a heartbeat, but it left behind the taste of forever.

Then, the world resumed its motion. Visitors passed between them, breaking the fragile thread of their gaze.

So, she lowered her head and turned away. She had seen enough for today. She wasn’t sure she could bear any more.

Weaving her way through society’s glittering throng, she made for the exit. Her heels clicked against the polished floor. But soon, she heard footsteps behind her—hurried, purposeful—and then, unmistakably, his voice. “Emma… wait.”

She didn’t need to turn around to know it was him. She froze. Slowly, she pivoted on the spot and saw him appear at the end of the corridor; in a few strides, he was in front of her, his figure outlined in the flickering glow of the wall lanterns.

He stood still for a moment, as if words had deserted him now that he was facing her. His gaze swept over her, anxious and burning. Then he spoke, in a low voice, almost pleading: “Wait for me. Please.”

She blinked, caught off guard. “I…” she murmured, uncertain. “I mean… this evening… all of it… it's a whirlwind. But I’ll escape it. Give me a few hours. Go to my house. Wait for me there.”

There was a raw urgency in his voice, a sincere agitation she had never heard from him before. As if he feared this moment might slip through his fingers—that she might vanish once more into the crowd of his life.

Emma stared at him, her heart beating faster though she couldn’t say why. After a brief silence, she gave a barely perceptible nod, her lips parted, unable to speak a word.

Then she took a step back. And another. And turned away, leaving him behind.

[yaya-papayaa]

My personal ranking of the Yellowjackets characters

(Warning: s3 spoilers ahead)

Shauna- my beautiful baby girl with a disorder. Yes she’s crazy and sadistic and self destructive/destructive in general but I love her sm idc. Me and Melissa are twins fr

Taissa- she’s so fiercely loving and loyal to those that she holds close, but sometimes her edges are just a bit too sharp but ughhhh I love <3333 her sm for it! Especially her relationship with Shauna during her pregnancy era (secret taishauna shipper)

Travis- this may be controversial to some to have Trav be so high up on the list but I love trav 🥺 he’s so baby girl (to me) he’s actually one of the softest ones in the group imo and the wilderness keeps on taking from him and tormenting him anyways (and I hc Travis as a transfem character, but that’s for another post)

Jackie- never has there been a better haunter of the narrative.

Natalie- she has never done anything wrong ever and I live in delusion that she went on to have a happy safe life with her wife Travis after they were rescued! No but fr they need to let my bbg catch a break, it’s been so hard to watch her struggle in the role as new queen and having some of the other yj’s rejecting her especially knowing her fate in the adult timeline. She deserves to be loved and protected 4ever 🥺

Akilah- my fave side yj character <333 she’s so sweet and I just get so happy when I see her getting some screen time. But omg this last ep has me scared with all the extra time they spent on her and the berries?!!?!!!! AKILAHHH NOOOO!!! DONT GO TOWARDS THE LIGHT 😭😭😭

Van- my little toasty marshmallow 🥰 lol but fr I love her, her witty comments offer such good tension relief in this crazy ass show, but my favorite version of van is when she’s being a little bitchy tbh (looking at you s1 van), she’s such a chill laid back character but I love seeing her get riled up enough to bring the claws out.

Coach Ben- my poor Benny boy just wants to be left alone but these psycho teenage girls just won’t let him catch a break 😫 I love that canonically multiple of the yj girls had crushes on him lmaoo I fear that would’ve been me too tho 🤭 ugh but even after experiencing and witnessing the horrors he’s still so kind and good hearted (letting Mari go, saving Shauna, akilah, and van from the fumes while they are actively hunting him) and I fear it’s about to be him demise. It seems the wilderness def has a taste for innocence

Mari- she’s a brat, a diva, a hater, a bitch, but she’s 100% real at all times and honestly I find myself admiring her for it. Especially this last episode with her singing little songs while being held hostage, and having no shame in her flirting game lmaoo she’s really growing on me. Although I’m a bit mad at her for not thinking of a better lie while she was making her way back to the girls (rip coach Ben 😔)

Javi- omg my poor baby boy 😭💔 he did nawtttt deserve his fate, but again the wilderness does seem to have a taste for innocence

Misty- her intentions are good most of the times but my god is this girl a disaster. I hate to see her getting bullied/dismissed/used by the other girls, but then she does some crazy outrageous misty bs that I want to reach through the screen and strangle her myself 🤦‍♀️ misty, the most girl of all time

Crystal- my poor little canary 😔 she just wanted to sing her songs and put on little plays in the middle of the woods 💔 but can I be totally honest guys? In this a safe space? I’m still not completely convinced that she was real 👀🫢 especially with this new info about the gas, and she wasn’t mentioned during the mourning ceremony/festival! Idc I’m holding onto this theory with my life

Lottie- up until s3 I was pretty neutral on Lottie, I do think she had pretty pure intentions when she first started the whole wilderness religion thing and she just wanted to give the girls something to believe and hope in that’s bigger than themselves (although I was never a fan of how she would overstep Shauna’s boundaries while she was pregnant) but this season with her coercing Travis to try and connect with it and forcing him into these panic attacks and then putting THAT necklace on Callie??? She’s staring to pmo ngl, Shauna would’ve been completely justified in beating Lottie’s ass a second time for that imo.

[ihopethisendswell]

Was thinking about how my earlier post about Yumi, Ulrich and William and started thinking in how I would write William myself. So here's exactly that. This is so so so long and probably very ooc!!!!!!!!

I think the best way I can describe this version of Will is him really playing up the bad boy persona. He's a loner, he doesn't follow the rules, he's dominant, etc . I know in the show he's pretty laid back, and I promise that's still there, but when we first meet he's. Honestly kind of an ass. He flirts with Yumi unprompted and kinda expects her to immediately fall for her bad boy charms - which she doesn't. But that just makes him all the more curious. No girl has stood him up before, after all. It's pretty clear that early on, William isn't actually interested in Yumi as a person, but rather as a goal he has to achieve. Again, William early on is kinda an ass. Usually, Yumi would ignore someone like this or chew them out, but given how they keep being partners for assignments together, she tries and stays civil and treats William with respect ( she vents about him to her friends afterwards).

It's over this course of being forced to work together where William goes from seeing Yumi as a goal he has to achieve, and more of a person. A person who he deeply admires! She's smart, athletic, and levelheaded ( as much as a teenager can be). William begins to truly admire Yumi as a person and wants to genuinely befriend her. The problem: being The Bad Boy™ is quite literally all he knows. He never really had friends before, not in his old school, not in Kadic. Sure, he has admirers, but there's no real bond there. So in his attempts at befriending Yumi, it just comes off as him being his usual asshole self, and by that point Yumi is just done. She straight up tells him he ain't shit and to fuck off and leave her alone. And that hurts! That hurts a lot. But William is anything but persistent.

But he's not stupid - not much anyway. He knows that if he tries to approach Yumi again, she'll kick him in the face. So he turns his focus to something else: the rest of the Lyoko Warriors. In William's head, if he can befriend the rest of the Warriors, then Yumi would see he's serious about forming a friendship with her.As for the warriors uh. Well. Yumi does vent to them about Will and his antics. Not to mention they have interacted with the guy before and he wasn't. Pleasant. So to say they're apprehensive is an understatement. Especially Ulrich. Especially Ulrich. But again, Will is persistent!

He starts with Odd, of course. I feel like those two would honestly get along insanely well. This is actually where William's softer, more laid back side really starts to shine! Odd isn't fully willing to let Will in on the account that Yumi is his friend and he does want to befriend the guy who's giving her a headache. But, I think because the two happen to vibe with each other well ( sharing creative ideas, William even being really encouraging to Odd's endeavors) that Odd is like " hey. This guy is actually pretty nice and chill. What was the deal before?". He's still wary ( again, he doesn't want to go against Yumi's valid feelings) but his opinion on the guy is much more positive.

Aelita is next, someone who I feel would try to see the best in William? I might be wrong, Aelita fans, correct me if that's the case. She's more willing to be friendly, though, and if Odd is what brings out that laid back aspect of William more, Aelita would be the one to really note that he doesn't need to hide behind that bad boy persona. I mentioned before that the persona that William puts on is all he really has. Odd, now Aelita, are probably the first people to really see this different side of him. And to be clear, William is still going back and forth here. He's softening up but he's also still clinging onto his persona, which makes things difficult for him to be vulnerable and make connections. Aelita rightfully points out that he doesn't need that persona, not if he wants to be their friend. Not if he wants to be Yumi's friend. It's something he really mulls over.

Jeremie is admittedly hard for me to envision since I feel like I wouldn't do him justice. I think Aelita and Odd being on better terms with him would make him just a tiny bit more agreeable in his presence. William would probably be interested in his stuff, genuinely, and I can see him asking Jeremie random questions for fun. I dunno what type of self actualization that William could get here though.

Ulrich is the big one. In fact, of everyone else, William pretty much targeted Ulrich as such. If William can somehow befriend Ulrich, arguably the hardest person to please here, Yumi has to see how serious he is. I already imagine Ulrich and William having beef outside of the Yumi situation. William is the carefree trouble maker, Ulrich is someone more strict and serious. Both are pretty competitive. Needless to say, they get on each other's nerves. I think they tested each other's patience so much during this hgvhvgvgvcg. Williams strategy was simple though: compete with Ulrich! I won't say things don't get messy between the two, cause it does. But the way I imagine it is that, in a weird way, competing with each other makes them able to understand each other more. Ulrich inspires William to get better in some areas, and William inspires Ulrich to maybe not strive for perfection because his dad demands it. What does he want to do? Where's his own freedom? I dunno, this is what I thought about in terms of Will and Ulrich bonding. They still annoy each other though. And have thrown hands once or twice.

Okay to make some very important points

Throughout this whole " become friends with the Lyoko Warriors" thing, the whole point is that the Warriors actually inspire Will to become a better person. It's by their goodness that makes him want to be good too ( and he already is he just doesn't allow himself to show it)

Even with the new friendships William isn't exactly forgiven. The Warriors ( expect Yumi) become more tolerable towards him, yes, but it isn't their place to exactly take him in or not. That's Yumi. And they tell him as such. Basically throughout all of this, they all go " Dude, just apologize to Yumi if you're serious". And while he is, he is afraid of the rejection sooooo.

Despite his initial goal of using the Warriors to get to Yumi, William genuinely started to see them as friends. Their distance despite their bonding was growing to hurt, something he wouldn't have expected going in.

Yumi is on the sidelines watching William suspiciously. She ain't dumb. She knows he's just trying to get to her. If anything, she's worried about her friends being in the crossfire. She doesn't act though - her friends are growing fond of William and William seems to actually be more pleasant to be around. But she doesn't trust him. So she keeps her distance.

^ Going from the second point here, I think by Ulrich was what finally made William realize he was honestly going about everything wrong. He doesn't fully regret it, he grew to love everyone in the team, but they were right. If he really did want to prove himself to Yumi, he would have to apologize for his behavior. And if she still wants nothing to do with him he'll stop for good. When he does apologize, Yumi knows that he means it. She knows that he wants to make things right. But she still doesn't trust them. She tells him she'll think about it ( forgiving him)

I think from here it's a mix of William slowly repairing his relationship with Yumi for real, as well as occasionally hanging out with one of the Warriors. He genuinely starts to feel like he's forming a real group of friends? When was the last time he had that? He's still William™, still impulsive and occasionally immature, but also still very laid back and nice once you get to know him ( at some point it's revealed he's really into poetry and is a bit of a romantic which explains a looooooot). But now there's a new problem: the fact that the Lyoko Warriors are the Lyoko Warriors. Before William kinda just accepted that they all were avoiding him because of what happened with Yumi. Upsetting, but that honestly pushed him more. But as they were seemingly becoming friends? How they kept leaving him without telling him why? He gets that he's new, but he's trying here! He's trying to be good, he's trying to put in the effort, and they just keep leaving him!

Not to make this longer that it already is so basically what happens in canon still applies here: he eventually follows Yumi during a Xana attack, gets involved, helps save the day, but gets rejected from the group during the vote( again, by Yumi). The difference is that while William did get his memory erased( kinda), he's still kinda friends with the group,which results in this....lingering sense of rejection and betrayal that William doesn't know where it comes. It doesn't help that he keeps having dreams about that specific encounter, and that specific feeling of rejection. He doesn't tell Yumi or anyone about that part ( the rejection) though. It just. Festers in him. The second time he helps with a Xana attack ( Double Trouble), is when he officially joins the group. He actually joins more adventures than he does in canon, highlighting his skills yes, but also his hothead nature and not fully taking the job seriously, treating it like a game ( Odd had fun with it too, of course, but there's a difference between Odd joking around vs Williams being kinda dismissive of the actual dangers ahead of him). He isn't a bad Warrior by any means and he does learn to work together with the Warriors better, but the constant critic of his actions, the disapproving looks, all with that knowledge that they first rejected him before.....yeah. There's some resentment growing.

I can see two ways of Xana possessing William. One is pretty much like in canon, though not as jarring bc again, William has been a Lyoko Warrior for a while. Still new, but not " this is my first mission" new. The other option is Xana getting in Will's head. Feeding on his insecurities and his resentment both in and out of Lyoko. Don't worry, William doesn't willingly go to Xana - it's more so Xana chipping down William's defenses to take over ( and maybe get some insight on the Warriors but I wonder if that's a stretch). All of this leads to William getting possessed when his morale is down and is incredibly vulnerable.

The end result is the same in this version: instead of William becoming just this mindless soldier for Xana, he becomes the embodiment of his insecurities that he's been holding in for so long. All of it directed at the Lyoko Warriors. William doesn't have control, of course. I don't think he's even aware of what's happening. Xana is simply using his feelings and body against his will( heh). So when the Warriors are facing William in Lyoko, Williams actually talks and is able to get in their head, unlike in canon. The emotions that exude Xana! William feels so real and raw that it genuinely frightens some of them( and annoys others. I feel like Xana! William would come off as entitled and belittling to his opponents, so it's a flip flop between feeling deep regret and wanting to punch the guy in the face). I feel like this is a much more interesting way of going about a possessed William than we got in canon. Maybe there's some where Xana! William is lucid? Small moments of clarity to remind everyone that the real William is in there.

As for the Clone Will uh. He exists. I didn't really think about him lmao. Maybe it's just like how he is in canon.

And finally, because this post is so long, the way his arc ends: he gets released like he is in canon. He doesn't remember everything, maybe bits and pieces, and just feels a deep sense of shame and regret. I'm not 100% sure if the Warriors all end up treating him poorly like they do in canon. On one end, great drama, it gives William a reason to be outwardly pissed for once, since he genuinely had no control over his actions. On the other end, it might just squander the friendships that were established from before, and feel like Will is just the worst end of the stick continuously. It's something that I'll think on. He doesn't end up getting possessed by Xana again like in canon, because the guy just got out man. I think the healthiest thing for him is to honestly just. Take a step back. He's been through a lot. He felt a lot. And I think some time away would genuinely do him good. But I also think I want him to be there for the final return to the past. I think he gets a say in that as much as anyone else.

One final thing: William and Sissi friendship. I'm too tired to explain but they have PARALLELS and they should be FRIENDS.

Okay! I'm done! I got this out of my system! If you read all of this: are you insane lol. But thanks I hope this was entertaining.

[pbandjesse]

Oh man I am so tired. Today was a pretty excellent day but jeez didn't take it out of me. It didn't help that it was very grey and rainy out. But I still had a really nice day.

I didn't sleep to bad. But I woke up at 7 with a pretty painful nose and even with putting water in it, which usually helps, didn't alleviate the pain. And I wasn't able to fall back asleep.

So I was up through almost 9. I had cereal. And I took a hot shower and felt so incredibly spoiled. But I would get back in bed. Where I did finally fall back asleep.

I woke up around 11. Which was honestly perfect because I wanted to get fries from McDonald's because I had a coupon. I would spend a little time gathering myself. Put Ruby the Roomba to work. Fed Crabcake. Put away the dishes. And soon I was off.

I ordered my food and picked it up. I ate in the parking lot and watched a video. And I was feeling a lot better. More like a person. And more capable of going to target to get my items.

The big thing was to investigate the bottles I've researched. Get a trashcan with a good lid. A few other small things. I had a good podcast to listen to and was enjoying walking around the store.

And I think I did a pretty good job. I got some baskets for bottle storage. And I got 5 bottles that I think will be good. I ended up with plastic instead of glass? That was an accident but I may go back for the glass version as well. See what works better.

I ended up finding more post c section care things. And a cute turtle baby toy. Still no black crew neck for a baby. Which is so frustrating. But it was fine.

I was surprised at how long the line was when there had been none when I got there. But I didn't mind waiting. And when I paid I put everything I got in the new trashcan for safe keeping. Since it was raining a bit.

After I took everything to the car I walked over to the Ulta to look for eyeshadow primer. But no luck?? I also was looking for a round brush but couldn't find what I was imagining. Annoying but bit a huge deal. I didn't buy anything there.

Instead I went to five below and got a bunch of snacks. I also got a new glitter nail polish. I have been enjoying just a clear with glitter for a while now. Keeps them from breaking but even if they chip it doesn't look bad and I don't pick at them. The line there was also really slow but it was fine. I wasn't in a rush. Mostly I was just feeling tired.

I would pay and went home. Where I spent some time putting things away. I would paint my nails and draw for a bit. And eventually laid on the couch and had a little Mac and cheese and chilled.

But eventually it was time to go meet James at the museum. I brought a nice shirt and deodorant for them so they could feel fresh for the holiday party.

And I would have a nice drive over. Listening to music. I was in a good mood. And I would end up having a really nice time this evening.

When I got to the museum I had a good time talking to Meril and Stanley. James was finishing closing up the museum. And soon we would all walk over to Little Havana.

And I had a great time there! We were in the same room that we had had our wedding rehearsal dinner. And the food was excellent. And the staff was super nice. But I mainly just loved talking to my coworkers, especially since I havnt seen some of them in forever.

The best parts were meeting Jessica's new baby, Remi James. Who was such a sweetie. Another great part was seeing Estelle who I love. And she got to learn our baby Sylvia's name. And she told me that her husband's dad has a lady friend named Sylvia that was a wonderful joyful person who lived to be 104 and was apparently just the best. So now our baby has a lot to live up to!!

And the last best part was meeting the new director of marketing! Her name is Chelsea and we hit it off like a house on fire. We talked for almost a solid hour. And it was just awesome. She's around our age, super smart, and we just talked about marketing ideas and she let me tell stories and it was just a blast. I really hope we can work together and collaboration because she was awesome. She also is interesting in pushing for the museum to bring my workshops back! Hopefully when I'm back to work after Sylvia is born we can talk more!

James was getting tired. I had eaten to much but it was all really good. And I was also ready to go home. We said goodbye to everyone. And headed back to the museum where we had left the car.

It was raining but not to bad. I enjoyed just walking and holding James's hand. But I was very very ready to go home.

And that's where we are now! I am ready to get cleaned up and go to sleep. Baby is moving a whole bunch but I am just ready to rest, even if she's not.

Tomorrow I have an event. It's a Hopkins thing, those usually go easy. So fingers crossed. I hope to just rest in the morning and have lots of energy for the evening. Fingers crossed!

Sleep well everyone. Until tomorrow!!

[sublimedefendorartisan]

Comicverse cast-

*mid 2000s

Ambrosius:

-Ambrosius and Ballister get along really well and check up on each other after each take

-Ambrosius uses a posh accent for the series but he actually has more of a California accent as he grew up there for a majority of his life

-He likes playing characters that are nothing like his personality ,he's a chill laid back person and a bit mischievous on set

-Ambrosius is actually older than Ballister by two years (they're 32 and 30 during filming)

-He absolutely adores his interactions with Nimona ,she's like a younger sister to him or his energetic child.

-Has an eight year old son he adopted

[interview]

Interviewer: How does it feel playing your character ?

Ambrosius:Well he's a very posh and prideful person and I can see how it hurts the people around him but also damages himself in the process.That for me really made me think about myself and my awareness with others in a way I never thought of before.I love how confident he can be though and have moments where his vulnerable parts shine through.

Interviewer: I've heard you actually get the hardest stunts out of all the cast members.

Ambrosius: Are you kidding me?! I get beat up by Thomas(Ballister),thrown out a window,beaten up by Thomas again,trapped under rubble,mangled by a dragon;tossed to the side by that dragon and covered in fake blood! *Sighs playfully*

Interviewer:Sounds like you've got your work cut out for you.

Ambrosius:Oh there's this whole thing!

Interviewer:*laughs*What's it like on set with cast members?

Ambrosius: They're a lovely group of people,and so comedic as well!

Interviewer: Could you expand on that please ?

Ambrosius: Everyone is always pumping each other up and keeping up spirits.Thomas(Ballister) actually came up to me on set one day and poured a bucket of water on me after filming the dragon scene in he final episode. I was standing on set looking at myself after being tossed around in a heavy sweaty costume after being tossed around connected to metal wires .

Interviewer: *laughs* the effects are as real as they come for you aren't they.

Ambrosius : I don't like to complaine but that sh*t made me dizzy and nauseaus as.I was literally just standing there trying to screw my conscious back in my brain when Thomas(Ballister) *hands gestures a person sneaking up on another person * creeped up from behind and poured water all over me!

Interviewer: Really? You've got an enthusiastic cast mate there! *laughing*

Ambrosius :I was like; 'Thomas!' ,'I was just going to take a shower you ass!'.I was annoyed but it's all just harmless fun and he apologized afterwards.

Interviewer: Did you get him back?Ambrosius: Oh a hundred percent me and Valerie(Nimona) took left over slime from the dragon scene and put inside his costume on the final day of filming.He laughed it off though

Interviewer:Do you have a favourite cast mate?This is an optional question so you don't have to answer .

Ambrosius: It's alright ,I'd say I don't have a particular favourite but there were days where I'd just go 'alright this one is my number one today '. I love them both equally though.

Interviewer:Is there anything else you'd like to say?

Ambrosius:*looks directly at the camera* go watch Nimona *smiles and gives two thumbs up*

I know I said I was gonna do the Movie version first for the actor au but I wasn't happy with what I did with Ballister for it yet (apologies for my indecisiveness and delay again)