#“ is it worth all the blood and the damage done? would you die under the spotlight just to hear the applause?”

[luxcruor]

" doesn't r.wby have shitty music??" the way i slammed my hands on the nearest table so hard my hands turned RED. diss the writing all you want, DO NOT come for the soundtrack. without half of these songs the emotions going through the volume would be so much harder to materialize. like.. this song was made for a fight scene less than 2 minutes. put some respect on casey lee williams, FOOL !!!!!!!!!!!!!

[xbox-cwtie]

*plays checkmate on loop*

[notmorbid]

the angel of indian lake, pt. 2.

dialogue prompts from the angel of indian lake by stephen graham jones.

i feel there may be unresolved tensions between us.

what do the boy scouts say? 'leave it better than you found it'?

i should probably be vegetarian. maybe next week.

ghosts: nature's air conditioner.

don't look behind. only look ahead.

this isn't exactly the outfit i would have picked.

from the bottom of my chainsaw heart, thanks.

thank you for listening to me all the time.

your past doesn't foretell your future.

you've never tried to survive something like this.

you can't control who you're related to.

you can't be jonesing right now if you want to keep living.

that's not the kind of luck i have.

stay where the people are.

you know who doesn't get beheaded? the one who doesn't put their neck under the machete.

what kills people who are already dead?

we must be reading the signs wrong.

sometimes lies are the only thing that can keep you moving forward.

from what i understand about relationships, they're all about cold shoulders.

if i can be in the past, then i don't have to be here.

you're a survivor, through and through.

killing rages don't always distinguish between 'friend' and 'foe'.

'when'. not 'if'.

i'd rather die from the front than the back.

it's not a good day to die.

is the world going mad, or is it just me?

this really is starting again, isn't it?

the only things worth knowing are the things you're not supposed to know.

not all crying involves tears.

make this make sense.

the new me just wants to live.

what i want is for this to be a nightmare i'm in control of.

horror can save your life, if you let it.

i don't want to hear one single thing you say. ever.

i deserve a good ending, i think.

'the hits just keep on coming'. tagline on the movie poster of my life, right there.

i'm not leaving until you make me. maybe not even then.

if you're not a born final girl, i don't even know what one is.

i need my blood on the inside.

you've done this before, haven't you?

i feel like i'm missing something obvious.

there aren't any good fixes. there's just trying to make it through one moment, then the next.

it's not something you can get used to, but it can lose its surprise.

justice is just another stupid dream. all there is is luck.

all stories end where they begin. at least the good ones do.

i shouldn't have left you. i had a choice.

i'll be holding your hand. i'll keep you here.

i would have made it hurt more, if i'd known.

i get wanting to rip enough holes in the world so that it falls down.

know who you look like?

the land doesn't want you here.

i'm not coming to hang out if there's no nicotine. be serious.

once the limelight's done with you, you're relegated to the shadows to try to deal with it however you can. alone.

i still can't even cuss right.

it's you. it's always been you.

heaven doesn't want me and hell's afraid i'll take over.

you want to fight again, don't you?

you're off your meds, aren't you?

isn't this a dream i had once? a long way back?

there's no time to hide in the past. there never is, around here.

being sorry doesn't mean you can hide from it.

so much of my life is screaming.

giving second chances is inviting your abuser in for coffee so you can talk things through.

you didn't have to believe in me. you shouldn't have.

it doesn't matter. it was a long time ago.

no amount of damage done to someone erases what they've done to you.

you hold onto what you can, and you hold tight.

action. not words.

better to let the past stay back where it is.

dad and daughter stories can be good, too. some of them have to be.

i trained you too well. you're using my logic against me.

you're so beautiful.

you can't get rid of me this easy.

can't i just hate you and let that be that?

it's not about the numbers, it's about the names. the people.

blackmail doesn't work on me.

scars prove you lived.

i remember everything, even the stuff i don't want to.

i've seen all the movies. i know all the rules.

[emblazonet]

Moreta: Dragonlady of Pern

THIS BOOK IS SO GOOD!! It's so good! This is 100% my favourite Pern book so far. The characters are all great. The setting felt alive and interesting. The stakes were fucking high. I knew Moreta was going to die, in the way you know Vanyel is going to die in The Last Herald-Mage trilogy, because we're going back in time to explore the life of a characters from an in-universe ballad, and it made me love her more.

It's also about a pandemic, but in a soothing way? Honestly it was SUCH a relief to read a story about people just fucking doing the work of Dealing With A Contagious Flu without much of the bullshittery we've all had to live through these past three years.

This got long, so more under the cut!

There are no psycho anti-vax cults in Pern. The small population scattered over a continent that's constantly being besieged by Thread does not, generally, have the luxury of either the greed we've gotten to witness IRL nor the misinformation campaigns. Characters that hoard are stolen from; characters who try to prevent vaccination are villains in the narrative and the good guys go into their territory to vaccinate—that's Moreta's final heroic moment! She dies, not from the disease but from exhaustion, to ensure everyone gets vaccinated to PREVENT A SECOND WAVE.

I expected to feel re-traumatized by the pandemic conflict. Instead, it felt healing to read about these characters. It felt affirming. It made me feel better about my choice to continue wearing a mask in public. It felt invigorating: ok, so my world isn't as sensible as Pern's, but it's still worth it to fight disease, to fight the depression and apathy—in short, it did exactly what a fantasy book is supposed to do. Inspire. I don't know that this will be everyone's take away, but it was mine.

This book gets so much right, I can't even believe this is the same author who wrote all those other Pern books I've read so far. (How did we jump from the crap of The White Dragon into this? HOW?) All these things:

Despite there being SO MANY characters, the book largely juggles its cast well, and while I often forgot names, the context usually helped me out. Every character actually felt unique and distinct and like they had different lives they were living.

Moreta and Alessan's relationship was so well done. You know it's not a romance that will go anywhere, so it feels precious when they snatch some time together. Also, Alessan is just an attractive dude character? Unlike any other of the male leads in a Pern book, Alessan appeals to me.

The relationship between Moreta and the older queen rider, Leri—UGH MY HEART. At the beginning of the book I was worried Moreta would have the 'not like other girls' vibe... I needn't worried. Leri as mentor, accomplice and friend is everything I could have asked for in a female friendship. And Moreta has other relationships and positive experiences with women, and it's so good, but what she has with Leri is so special.

The way the book builds this yearning for Moreta to be able to fly Orlith again, and then at the end she's with Leri's exhausted Holth, and they die away from their partners in the line of duty—I CRIED OK. It was so much. It was so good.

Only small bits of time travel, smart avoidance of paradoxes, thank you.

I was super invested in Moreta's healing of the Thread-damaged dragon wings. The whole process of healing dragons was super interesting!

Loved that Threadfall kept on happening throughout, it made the stakes even higher in the best way possible.

There were things I think could have been better:

I didn't enjoy Moreta's introduction and it made me feel like the book was gonna suck lol, she was arguing with Nesso and then talking about her body in a way that just felt dated and weird.

Everyone on Pern must have the same blood type I guess? Because they're just using extracted blood to make the vaccine, and the vaccine appears to have no ill effect. Honestly, the book had so much going on I'm pretty grateful it didn't go into Accurate Medical Science, but it did feel incredibly oversimplified.

Telgar Weyr's Weyrleader just sort of like decides everyone's not allowed into his territory and fuck you guys but I didn't really get a feel for that character at all or where he was coming from? So it undermined Moreta's end sacrifice a bit, because the ending felt rushed.

I really wanted Sh'gall to do something so egregiously annoying that someone yelled at him. Sh'gall was basically the comic relief though, I generally enjoyed how useless he was lol.

Overall? 11/10 and I REALLY hope the rest of the Pern books are this good! I'm going to pick back up in January with Nerilka's Story.

[justmaghookit]

Contractual Obligations

Raphael/OC

SFW

AN: Did you know that in the case of devils one of their almost "signature" abilities is they can summon other devils into combat. I just think that's neat. Takes place in an au where my oc Belladonna has been a devil under Fierna for many years, and an on-again off-again lover of Raphael's

---

The House of Hope was under lockdown. All its entrances and exits were watched over by goat-headed devils who snarled and snorted at any who dared try to get in and take advantage of its Master's absence. Not that there was much worth taking left, the greatest of its treasures had been plundered, the best of its servants slaughtered.

And Hope?

Belladonna had cut her throat himself when he'd arrived in the foyer and seen the scene unfolding. Raphael had called him, summoned him, he'd never done that before. There was a clause in their business deal that allowed them to call upon each other in troubled times, neither of them would ever use it if they could help it, it was embarrassing, a show of weakness, a blow to pride.

This time though, it seemed Raphael's sense of self preservation won against his ego. He had called and Belladonna had been contract bound to answer.

Raphael's triumph had become Raphael's tragedy. Those ithilid infested adventures had smashed through his House with all the grace of a cannon ball and had the cambion cornered. Even his ascended form unleashed upon them had not slowed them down. He was beaten, bloody, leaking hellfire from gashes in his body and drooling from his maw like a rabid dog. He roared and shrieked and lashed at them but to no avail.

Raphael had been losing.

Belladonna had slit Hope's throat open with his claws, her gurgled death peals caught the attention of the adventurers. Belladonna had had just enough time to misty step across the foyer and grab Raphael's armored forearm and teleport them both away. The cambion had fought against the spell for a moment, refusing to leave his House before the fight drained out of him and he let the younger devil spirit him away.

Raphael now lays sprawled out and unconscious in Belladonna's own baths, taking up nearly half of the space with his monstrous form. That he hadn't turned back even after the worst of his injuries had been dealt with was a sign of just how close to death he had been. There was no afterlife for devils, only oblivion, that the man had risked it for his stupid plot and that stupid crown. He couldn't think about it for long or he'd be furious at a half dead man. He hopes those damned adventurers blow themselves up with it.

He sits with Raphael when he can, pulls his three faced head into his lap and strokes his fingers across the lattice of flesh and bone. The older fiend's internal fire did not roar and it was only thanks to the faint rasping of his breath he knew he was alive. With the amount of damage he had taken, not just to his body but to the house that was near an extension of him, it could take him decades to wake. He hoped it didn't take that long, he could only keep Raphael's affairs running for so long before Avernus came knocking and deemed him unfit for his position.

Belladonna did not want to deal with the fallout of that. Better to expedite the healing process and hope he'd only be out for a few weeks.

He tilts Raphael's head in his lap, pries open his maw and cuts into his own forearm with his claws. He lets his blood drip into the other fiends mouth and pool on his tongue, watches as he swallows unconsciously, it was progress. The past few days he'd had to force feed him the power that flowed through his veins. Very few devils would ever go to the trouble to do something like this willingly, nurse another devil back to health. Belladonna would have been better off letting him die and absorbing the other fiends parts of their business deal for himself. But it was Raphael and he was…

Well he was Raphael.

So far it was a good enough answer for his own mind, but he's sure once the other devil was up and about and questioning him he'd need to figure out a better one.

-

Raphael wakes on the third day of the third week, his eyes shoot open as Belladonna cuts into his own arm and the massive fiend has him pinned beneath his claws in seconds. Raphael’s arms shake with the effort of keeping his body up, his fire sputters and sparks and he pants wetly over the slight devil's face. He doesn't seem to know what to do now that he has him. Belladonna reaches for his clawed hand with the arm not pinned and pets over the protruding scales.

“Release me Raphael, then I'll give you what you want.” He orders. The other devil fights himself over it, conflict racing through animal eyes as he stares down at the prey he did not have the strength to kill. He releases him eventually, stumbling to the side with a rolling snarl. It does not intimidate Belladonna, not when the great beast's legs buckle and he crashes to the tiled floor. 

“Poor thing.” Bella coos at him and kneels at his head, offers him his bloodied arm and sighs with pleasure as he opens his mouth and lets his tongue slide out to lap at the blood. He lets the cambion draw his arm into his mouth, he doesn't even bat an eye as his jaws snap shut and his teeth tear through flesh and crush bone. Belladonna wraps his free hand around Raphael's boney neck and rests his head atop Raphael’s own. An arm is an easy fix, worth the loss to see Raphael’s fire flare steady and strong.

-

As much as he gets a perverse thrill from feeding Raphael parts of himself, infecting his very being with his presence, he cannot do it forever. He cannot afford to weaken himself to the point the cambion could overpower him. As much as it would be a fitting end to his own miserable existence to let Raphael devour him, he has too many plans in process to let them all fail. Fierna kept him busy enough to keep the ennui at bay.

He also cannot afford to babysit Raphael for much longer. The older fiend was still in no state to attend his own affairs, half feral as he was and making a nuisance of himself in Belladonna’s private chambers. Many of Raphael’s indebted souls had escaped in the aftermath of the battle in his house and while he has bullied many of the fiends lesser servants into chasing them down, those old wrung out conquests would not be as filling as something new.

Bella could hand him something from his own stocks but with the way infernal contracts worked it wouldn’t be the same. No it had to be a soul from a deal Raphael had struck himself if it was to make any difference. In the meantime he could purchase bulk grubs from the soultrade, though he’s sure the man would turn up his nose at fodder like that, he also knows Raphael does not have much of a choice in the matter.

He hears the click-clack of claws and scrape of his tail on the tiled floors of his bathing chambers, the fiend pacing back and forth, his steps uneven as his left leg still struggles to support him. Belladonna sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. If Haarlep was still here he’d know which contracts to point him to, unfortunately the incubus had met his end to the same adventurers that had nearly destroyed Raphael. If he thinks too long about their mangled corpse he’s sure he’ll throw up from distress.

He had liked Haarlep, they had been friends. Or as close to friends as fiends could get.

There was no use dwelling in what was. Devils did not deal with the past, they toyed with the present and planned for the future. In the present he fixes Raphael and he plans to obliterate those adventurers in the future.

-

Raphael manages to speak on the fourth week, his voice a hissing gurgle from somewhere in his animal throat.

“Why?” Raphael asks him, he lounges half in the revitalizing waters of Belladonna’s bath, trying to look noble but coming off more like a gangly lizard, his breath rattles in his ribs and hellfire flickers weakly down his spine.

“Why what?” He counters, his arms hooked over the edge of the bathing pool where the water was deepest, letting himself half float there. Raphael slams his tail into the water and the younger devil sputters and shakes his head as he’s splashed.

“Do not play Bella.” He wheezes, too large teeth snapping in the air, a growl rumbling in his chest.

He sighs and tips his head back against the edge of the bath, tries to ignore the other fiend but knows it's not possible. He’d brought him here after all. He drops his hooves in the water and stands, walks across to where Raphael lays, the cambion watches him warily as he reaches out to cup under his jaw, thumb rubbing over a protruding tusk.

“What do you want me to say? That I did it for the sake of our ”business”? That it was on a whim? That it was to have you in my debt? You know why Raphael, don’t pretend you don’t.” Belladonna answers.

I love you, I love you, I hate you, you cannot die on me, only I get to kill you, you’re part of the reason I’m like this, I hate you, I love you, you are the ruin of me, I will ruin you, I love you.

“You are a fool.” Raphael growls, he manages to curl a massive clawed hand around his waist, although he lacks the strength to restrain him there. Belladonna finds he has no reason to wiggle free.

“No more a fool than you are, my prince without a crown.” He hums to him, tipping his head forward to press his forehead to Raphael’s. The fiend’s eyes burn, filled with fury and humiliation in equal measure and his claws prickle against his skin, threatening damage he does not have the strength to inflict.

“Do not sulk Raphael, it’s unbecoming of you. Rest, heal, grow stronger for your failures. We’ll punish those adventurers together.” Belladonna promises him, pressing his lips to the center of his twisted face.

Raphael heaves a great breath. “Together then.”

[lewis-winters]

I know I should be working on other WIPs-- and just working in general-- but I watched The Old Guard again yesterday so here, have the Winnix TOG Canon Divergence AU

tw for: depictions of death, the effects of mustard gas, gore, trauma, and angst!

"Stop touching it."

Dick doesn't. In fact, just to be annoying-- though mostly on reflex-- he brushes past the newly formed scar of Lewis's brow one more time, prodding and poking until finally, fed up, Lew waves his hand away with a weak growl. "You'll open it back up."

Ah. That gets Dick to back off, pulling away abruptly like he'd been scalded. And maybe he has. After all, there's blood on his mind, now. A memory both too fresh to do anything but hurt; but a situation too resolved to feel anything but indignation at his own continued terror.

It's been nearly a millennia since the beginning of their renewed existence, and while they know their lot of second chances are bound to run out one day, surely the familiarity with Death should have settled in their old bones by now. Yet, when She comes, She brings with her all the fanfare that accompanies all finality. Almost immortality does not always warrant camaraderie with pain and grief.

They were luckier this time, at least.

They hadn't been as eager to join this war as they had been the last. Not that he'd been eager to join that war, either. But just like all things, Dick's need for a cause called out to Lewis' need to make sure Dick doesn't lose his goddamn mind fighting until he drops. And so, in the midst of the 1910s, they managed to find themselves spending long nights in the deep, damp French trenches, huddled together in the dark. For two and a half years, they lived like that, shaking apart with fear, both real and imagined, as the rats nibbled on their fingers and infections slowly overtook their lungs and toes. Any warrior worth their salt would know that it's not the fighting that fucks you over, but the waiting in between. The rotting wounds left to fester. The fear that threatened to eat you whole from within, if the bullets about you didn't get to you first. Together, they passed days watching their boys die, either from sickness or bullets or both, their corpses stacked around them so high, in the dark they looked like fortress walls, caging them in as they waited for the moment it would all come toppling down.

Then, the gas came pouring in.

Lewis had taken the brunt of it, in the end, ripping his gas mask off in a desperate attempt to save what was left of Dick's face. Neither of them had enough sense at the time to hear him scream in agony, clawing at his eyes until they were nothing but pulp underneath his fingernails; but the echoes of it would have a chance to ring in Dick's ears anyway. The screaming didn't stop in France.

And it took Lew years to regain his old self, in both nerves and sight; and it took even longer than that for Dick to stop dreaming of scar tissue, gnarled and twisted and angry red, in place of dark brown eyes. The damage healed a lot slower than either of them have ever experienced before, and required more outside help than either of them were comfortable with. By the time the last of Lewis' sight had been restored to him, a whole decade and several new identities had gone by, and Dick had done his best to promise: no more fighting.

They made it through another decade before he broke that one. It barely felt like a blink of an eye.

And now, here they are again. Huddled together, blanketed by dark night, with each other's blood once again under their fingernails, a new scar on Lewis' forehead, and the tangible memory of a crater in the back of his head, where the bullet found its exit and his brains had spattered out of his skull.

"Hey," Lewis breathes, sensing the dark turn Dick's thoughts have gone and reaching out for him, touching his face with cold fingertips. "I'm sorry. That was a bad joke."

Yes. It was. But Dick is not going to reprimand him for it. He's learned that jokes are Lew's best defense against the weight of their prolonged existence. Just like drink. Just like nicotine. Or just like Dick himself, his only lone companion in this casually cruel world. How could Dick ever deny him this?

Tilting their heads together, Dick guides his lips to the new scar, and resolutely tries not to think about how much longer Lew bears the marks of his deaths, and what that might mean for him. "It'll be gone tomorrow," he says, more to himself than Lew. "You'll see. Like brand new."

"Like brand new," Lewis echoes. Resigned. Going boneless as he leans all his (dead) weight into Dick's arms and buries his face in his neck. "Always brand new."

Even against the heat of Dick's skin, Lew stays cold. Dick doesn't think he's ever known a time when he was warm.

--

Dick and Lewis were made immortal sometime between 58 and 50BC, when Rome waged war against Gaul, as explained in this deleted line: "Lewis was not made for warrior-hood like Dick had been, having gone from the luxury afforded to him by his roman senator father's fortune to a miserable roman centurion on the back of a single mistake alone. He'd known almost nothing the first time he'd fallen under Dick's Gaulic blade; that his own sword had pierced Dick's chest at the same time was a mere fluke he's since been unable to replicate."

[xaykwolf]

Checkmate Lyrics

Verse 1

Welcome to the show Are you ready to go? With your swords up high, and your guns down low Have you come for the action, come for the sport? There’s a million ways to spill blood in the court

It’s a free-for-all, it’s a dog-eat-dog Don’t be surprised, if when you die, you’re met with rigorous applause You wanna win? You got a chance All you got to do is dance Oh move your feet, and move ‘em fast Who knows how long your limbs will last?

Chorus

Who is your king of the castle now? I am taking control of the board game Show me some strategy You’re in a daze, I can’t complain so Checkmate, move along!

Verse 2

Do your muscles ache? You may need a break It’s a common response for your hands to shake I know it’s not easy, losing a match Especially when it’s a girl kicking your ass

Sit down and relax Cuz I’m the teacher, you’re the class Get your notebooks out, give that note a pass You know no-one is perfect, but I’m pretty close You should’ve seen your face, a right disgrace, when I came in through that door

Bridge

Are you the queen or are you the pawn? Will you master the night or wait for the dawn? Is it worth all the blood and the damage done? Would you die under the spotlight just to hear all the applause?

Are you the queen or are you the pawn? Will you master the night or wait for the dawn? Is it worth all the blood and the damage done? Would you die under the spotlight just to hear all the applause?

Are you the queen or are you the pawn? Will you master the night or wait for the dawn? Is it worth all the blood and the damage done? Would you die under the spotlight just to hear all the applause?

Chorus

Who is your king of the castle now? I am taking control of the board game Show me some strategy You’re in a daze, I can’t complain so Checkmate, move along!

Move along, move along now!

Instrumental Outro

[sparklyeevee]

Sorry I'm still thinking about how the ability to trust and obey a head of state, wholesale take on her priorities as your own, and do what's asked of you even when you don't have the full picture, is a huge part of the First Prince of the Sword's job, is something Gawyn was trained from childhood to do, is probably a big part of why the princes of Andor train with the Warders in the first place, and after what Elaida did to him, what she tried to do to the Younglings, he can't do it anymore. She literally traumatized him into being unable to do his damn job. He can't be Egwene's Warder, not effectively, when his instincts won't let him stop looking for what she isn't telling him. He can't serve Elayne when he sees a trap in her every order, for him and the men under his command.

It's worth noting here that what Elaida did with the Younglings, deliberately sending them into impossible situations because she didn't like them and no longer had a use for them... That's not what you might call a thing, in this setting. My partner remembers Carridin and Valda doing it once each, but Carridin is a darkfriend and Valda is...Valda. They're also both men, and neither is actually the head of an entire government. Other leaders, other heads of state, including Rand, are sometimes careless with their military forces, and the Light knows the Seanchan see people as disposable, but it's a long fucking step from carelessness to malice, and if the Empress, may she live forever, or one of the High Blood, found the continued existence of a specialist unit inconvenient and unaesthetic, they would be ordered to kill themselves, straight out. I don't think Gawyn ever actually tells anyone what she was doing, which suggests to me that either he didn't expect to be believed, even by Elaida's direct adversaries, or he didn't know how, he didn't have the language for it. Certainly Gareth Bryne didn't understand it, but that's no fault of Bryne's - Gawyn didn't even really try to explain, and Gareth Bryne isn't Lan, he can't just intuit what's really bothering someone. I think Rand might have gotten it - he knows a thing or two about not wanting to be used, and about not being able to trust people when they won't tell you what's going on - but circumstances conspire to make it impossible for them to talk to each other.

I'm not trying to blame anyone for not getting where Gawyn's head is at. It was actually kind of narratively important that someone just straight up fall through the cracks. It was kind of important that someone be refused language for what was done to them. It was kind of important that, in a series where the most common way to look after a suicidal person is to offer them a more useful, but also more time consuming, way to kill themselves, and just keep doing that until they stop wanting to die, that someone not get any help with that, and fuck up catastrophically trying to do it for themselves.

And this is kind of the context on Gawyn's desire to like, be more protagonisty than circumstances really allow him to be. There's a completely offhand observation in Eye of the World, when Rand and Mat are on the way to Caemlyn, about how farmers have only themselves to answer to if they sleep late. Gawyn doesn't understand how Rand is so comfortably able to exercise personal agency, to just do things without being told to or even getting permission. His limited understanding of the way the world is ordered, his very hierarchical way of thinking, suggests to him that a random sheepherder, all the way down at the bottom of the social strata, should feel more constrained, be more afraid of acting without external direction, and he can't for the life of him figure out how Rand does it, and he's jealous, which makes him angry, because Gawyn, due to the psychological damage he's taken, is no longer fitted for the life of service to which he was raised, and desperately needs to be able to do what Rand is doing. Not the Dragon Reborn thing, not initial caps Changing the World, but seeing what needs to be done and doing it without the direction or approval of any greater authority. And none of the people he tries to talk to about it even understand what he's asking, partly because they're all a little less clueless about how the world is arranged, and understand without explication that a farmer, who is empowered to just notice that a fence is breaking down and set about repairing it, is not going to face the same challenges in this area as the First Prince of the Sword, who commands armies but is always answerable to the Queen.

[littlestfallenangel]

Are you the queen or are you the pawn?

Will you master the night, or wait for the dawn?

Is it worth all the blood and the damage done?

Would you die under the spotlight just to hear all the applause?

Are you the queen or are you the pawn?

Will you master the night, or wait for the dawn?

Is it worth all the blood and the damage done?

Would you die under the spotlight just to hear all the applause?

Are you the queen or are you the pawn?

Will you master the night, or wait for the dawn?

Is it worth all the blood and the damage done?

Would you die under the spotlight just to hear all the applause?

Who is your king of the castle now?

I am taking control of the board game

Show me some strategy

You're in a daze, I can't complain so

Checkmate, move along!

[burn-with-the-house]

9 Ship Songs

Was tagged by @shivunin for this game! I will also not be doing 9 songs for one ship, but instead splitting them up between a few, lol. I know I haven't been good with tag games lately, i've had the eeby sleeby! Songs and tags will be under the cut :)

In'nan and Solas (#divorcecore)

1. "No Children" The Mountain Goats

I am drowning There is no sign of land You are coming down with me Hand in unlovable hand And I hope you die I hope we both die

2. "That Unwanted Animal" The Amazing Devil

And you, you follow philosophies, but me, I laugh, I choke "Well, hello, my hollow Holofernes" I wink, but you don't get the joke "Hold the hand of the god-child, " they said, "as he falls from the sky" "Be good to me, " I beg of him "Be good to me, " I beg of him Be good, be good, be good, be good, be good, be good, be good And he replies (oh), "No, no, not I"

3. "I Want You to Know That I'm Awake/I Hope that You're Asleep" Car Seat Headrest

It doesn't matter what I say If you don't say anything in response The final phrase of my last sentence Hangs in the air, sounding stupider and stupider ... Two days ago it was really bad I couldn't get my head straight all day And everything you said seemed to have an edge You were disappointed and I didn't know why Eventually it came to a head Over something as stupid as making coffee You said it was a mistake to ever try and help me

Jurian Amell & Fenris

1. "It Could Happen" Dave Matthews Band

Oh, how it happened, blew the lid And got a taste, it's some kind of magic It could happen like it did Like we awoke, we were still dreaming When it happened like it did If I wasn't there, I wouldn't believe it

2. "Dance Macabre" Ghost

You'll soon be hearing the chime Close to midnight If I could turn back the time I'd make all right How can it end like this? There's a sting in the way you kiss me Something within your eyes Said it could be the last time 'Fore it's over!

3. "The Most Beautiful Bitter Fruit" La Dispute

I want to feel it out. I want to know how it works. I want to know if it was worth it to worry, About the ghosts I feared would haunt the memory, About the damage that I’m sure the fear has done to me now. I want to know what it is in me that won’t follow through Those nights the instinct takes a hold of me and pushes too. Maybe it’s only that I’ve never gotten over you. Or am I still scared?

Mahanon Tabris

he just has a lot of ships to me ok

1. "Judas" The Reverent Marigold

I'm upstairs breathing in the scented oil on his skin And exactly as he taught, I take the holy spirit in The body on my tongue and the blood dripping down my mouth Who among us apostles has ever been unclouded, without sin?

2. "The Summoning" Sleep Token

Oh, and my love Did I mistake you for a sign from God? Or are you really here to cut me off? Or maybe just to turn me on ... I've got a river running right into you I've got a blood trail, red in the blue Something you say or something you do The taste of the divine

3. "Touch Tank" Quinnie

He's so pretty when he goes down on me Gold-skinned eager baby, blue shirt out the laundry He tells me he's gentle when he wants to be So I think he wants to be gentle with me

tags!

@amatres @becauseanders @bitchesofostwick @daggerbean @dragonologist-phd @demandthedoodles @ell-vellan @flashhwing @fergus-cousland @greypetrel @gvnseylike @hannahrama @idolsgf @jellydishes @nightmarist @ocean-in-my-rebel-soul @rustythorns @v-arbellanaris

[alullinchaos]

ARE YOU THE QUEEN OR ARE YOU THE PAWN? WILL YOU MASTER THE NIGHT OR WAIT FOR THE DAWN? IS IT WORTH ALL THE BLOOD AND DAMAGE DONE? WOULD YOU DIE UNDER THE SPOTLIGHT JUST TO HEAR ALL THE APPLAUSE?

[i-can-even-burn-salad]

Hope

Glass Shards

Warnings: Aftermath of torture, painful wound cleaning, panic/flashback, amputation, passing out from pain

This one is a fill for my BTHB, taking the prompt a bit loosely, as well as for @whump-of-the-month​​ ‘s August prompt “Wound Irritation Day”. As such, it’s rather boring I fear, just having his wounds cleaned, but at least it can remind him of this :)

It’s Damien’s view of Chapter 4/5. Surprisingly, he’s not having a good time.

Previous (Chapter 5) | Masterlist | Next (Chapter 6)

Waking up was something Damien had learned to dread. Even when he found himself alone, the pain was relentless. The wounds littering his body, pulsing in the rhythm of his heartbeat, turning even the slightest movement of his breaths into agony. His muscles aching and so weak, he didn’t think he’d ever be able to move again. His throat burning, from the damage the leather belt had caused and the lack of water alike. The skin on his temple twinging as something touched his hair.

He was not alone.

Damien’s breath caught as his heart doubled its pace. He fought the instinctive urge to crawl away and even managed to suppress a terrified whimper. Perhaps if whoever it was would think he was still unconscious, they would leave him alone.

On the other hand, that had never worked before, and the more his thoughts cleared, the harder it was for him to stay still. He was lying on something hard, but it was a different kind of hard; smooth, not rough. The air felt warm, and smelled warm, and nothing made sense. He tried to think, to remember, but the touch returned, scattering his thoughts. He had to know, no matter how hard it was to open his eyes, how much the light stung in them.

It was… a room. Not a bleached canvas tent, not hot metal bars under the unrelenting sun, not the rough, dark stones of his cell. Just a painfully normal room, with painfully normal dark furniture lining the walls. And then a face, one that was vaguely familiar.

The girl who had rescued him. In the warm light of glowing crystals and candles, her features were soft, her gaze kind. He couldn’t bring himself to be afraid of her, not as the memories trickled back. How she had brushed her hand through his hair, refusing to leave him behind. How she had begged him to keep walking, his arm around her shoulder, and her arm around his back. Fragmented memories of words telling him that they had made it, that everything would be fine.

Not that there was any hope left for him. But if they were safe, that meant she had made it out, despite having to drag him along. He had to be sure.

“You… sa… safe?”

Trying to speak was a new kind of torture, his words barely audible. They must have been clear enough.

“Yes, we made it. We are safe,” the girl said.

We. Damien closed his eyes. There was no safety for him, no hope, and there never had been. Still, this was certainly a better place to die than in the dungeons, or on the gallows. 

The touch on his hair returned, gentle and soothing, accompanied by words. They barely reached his feverish mind. Something about a healer, and cleaning him up. He should tell her to save her efforts. He wasn’t worth it.

But speaking was too hard; he barely managed to hold on to the thought alone. When the faint smell of lemon reached him, followed by the tingling sensation of soap on his scalp, he gave up trying to think and allowed himself to relax. The promise of being clean, for once, was too tempting to resist. He could barely remember a time when his clothes had been more than dirty rags, and his skin not caked with blood and dust and excrement.

Way too soon she was done washing out the soap. She continued speaking as she cleaned the side of his face and his beard, but the words didn’t reach Damien. The bruises on his face hurt so much more, and he put all his focus into not making any noise. Until suddenly her touch was gone, and then she was gone, her footsteps fading.

Being alone had been his only respite during those last weeks, but now he found that he didn’t want to be alone. It scared him. Luckily, she didn’t stay away for long. Her footsteps returned, and the noise of something being placed down next to whatever it was he was lying on.

“I still have to take off your shirt and wash you,” she said, reaching for the fabric. The touch was almost enough to make him attempt to open his eyes; almost.

“I don’t want to move you, so I’m going to cut it.”

Silence followed, and nothing happened. Faintly, Damien wondered if she had meant it as a question, was waiting for him to agree. He wasn’t sure he’d have the strength to do that. Whatever she would do, there was no way it wouldn’t hurt, and he was so tired of hurting. 

But staying like this was just as bad of an option, so he decided to leave it up to her. Not bothering to reply, he let his mind drift dangerously close to unconsciousness, only to be pulled out by the sharp pain as she touched the first of his wounds. Damien tried his best to lay still, to make no sound. He shouldn’t make this harder for her than it had to be. It hurt, but it was a different kind of pain; one not inflicted on purpose, not made needlessly worse by cutting him open or pouring fire into his wounds. Instead there was a second touch, this one on his shoulder. It was gentle and soft, and it didn’t hurt. Damien focused on it, on the calming circles the finger drew onto his skin. It was the only thing stopping his memories from taking over his mind. Every wound she cleaned, every time the rag wiped over his skin brought back the smell of vinegar, the fire searing through his skin and Gaston’s horrible words, echoing in his mind.

A part of him wanted to tell her, to beg her to stop, if only to test if she would. He didn’t. He wasn’t sure what he was more afraid of; that she wouldn’t, taking away the last illusion of having a choice, or that she would.

He flinched when she touched his side, bruised and burnt and cut, covered in so much dirt it would be a miracle if his flesh wasn’t rotting away already like his arm was. 

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “I know this must hurt.”

It did, and it didn’t; not nearly as much as what Gaston had done to him. Not nearly as much as fearing that in the end, it would all be in vain. He had given up, and now he found himself clinging to each tiny spark of hope. Wishing that her words were true, that everything could be fine, that there was a healer who could save him. 

Damien allowed his tears to fall, because he really didn’t have the strength to fight them. A soft touch on his cheek — his less bruised one — made him shiver, then sob. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had touched him like this. He didn’t deserve hope and kindness, but by Duriath, he wanted it so much.

Not surprisingly, the touch on his cheek vanished, and he allowed his mind to drift again. Trying not to think of hope, and not to think of how much it hurt as she continued to clean him. When the girl left this time, he was glad for the short break.

At first, he didn’t notice how she returned, or how she started to continue her work. He was in too much pain to fall asleep, but too exhausted to truly be awake. 

It was the touch of cold metal on his skin that brought him back; not quite here and not quite there, he was trembling and begging before he even knew what he was doing. Trying to crawl away from the man who was torturing him was hopeless. He had to try anyway. Damien’s hand slid off the table and smacked into the ground. Then it was trapped, because of course it was. He struggled weakly against the chain, and it wasn’t a chain, and it was. As he put some weight on his right arm, pain shot through his body, turning the sick feeling of terror into overwhelming nausea. His whole body shifted, and it wasn’t his doing, couldn’t have been his. He was too weak to even open his eyes.

With his face towards the ground, there was no risk of suffocating, but his stomach failed to bring anything up anyway. The convulsions took the last of his strength, leaving his muscles trembling with weakness and his throat on fire. On his tongue was the bitter taste of bile.

Accompanied by whispered assurances, the girl wiped his mouth and chin. Instead of turning him onto his back again, she kept holding him, running her fingers through his hair as she spoke.

“I’m trying to be careful, but I have to finish this before the healer comes,” she said. “Those wounds need to be taken care of. I got you out, now I’m not letting you die.”

A day ago, he would have considered it a threat. Now he wasn’t so sure anymore. Apparently the tiniest sliver of hope was enough to make him cling to this pathetic excuse of a life. Willing himself to relax, he couldn’t stop the shivers from running through his body. It was still good enough for her to continue her work, removing the rest of his shirt and cleaning his back.

When she helped him lie down again, he forced his eyes to open, to keep watching her. The memories were too close, the terror they brought too real. She kept cleaning him, and talking to him, and looking at him, and it was all a blur. Only when she told him her name did he realize she had asked for his.

“I’m Merridy. Friends call me Merry.”

Thinking of speaking was scary. His throat still hurt, even if he didn’t, and it would make it so much worse. “Damien,” he managed to say anyway. He owed her that much.

“Damien,” she repeated his name, and a smile lit up her face. “The healer will be here soon. I’m almost done.”

The faint, impossible hope of healing faded against the feeling of hearing his own name — his real name — after so long. If he was going to die, perhaps he could die as himself. Not the Nightmare, just Damien.

Overwhelmed by his feelings, he barely registered what she did next, how she cleaned his left arm, then put it down at his side, telling him not to move. As if he could. He allowed his eyes to rest, only listening for her return, feeling strangely lightheaded. When she did, she wrapped something around his wrist, so tightly it hurt. So he was probably bleeding again. That would explain the sudden dizziness. He wondered how much more blood he could even lose. 

Then she was gone, and then she was back, sitting next to him, holding something up to his lips. The water was cool and clean, balm for his sticky tongue and dry throat. He had to drink slowly, but she was patient, holding his head, allowing him small sips and plenty of time to catch his breath. 

When he was done, she set the empty cup aside and settled back on the sofa next to him. Damien was so tired. He wanted to rest, to sleep, as impossible as sleep seemed to be. But he forced his eyes to stay open, to watch her. He had to see her, to know that it was real. That he was here, wherever here was. That he wouldn’t wake up in his cell, with Gaston about to torture him, or the guards coming to take him to his execution.

The moment his eyelids grew too heavy, the fear came crawling back. He wished he could reach for her, but even if he had found the strength for that, he wouldn’t have dared to. Instead he kept blinking, catching a short glimpse of his surroundings to keep the terror at bay.

Until it was her who reached for his hand, grasping it so gently, without moving his wrapped wrist.

“You’re safe now,” she whispered.

Perhaps he was; the safest he could be. The warmth of her fingers made it almost possible to believe it. Damien stopped struggling to keep his eyes open, instead putting all his energy into trying to hold her hand in return. 

By the time the front door opened, he had managed to almost fall asleep. The noise and Merridy’s startled movement shook him awake, his heart pounding in his chest. Damien didn’t bother to look around, looking at her instead. Her expression was hard to make out, worried and relieved at the same time. But she didn’t seem scared, so it was probably her friend coming back. 

Her friend, and a healer, Damien realized after a moment. The man stepped next to him, looking over his injuries, cursing when he saw what was left of his arm. Damien expected for the healer to tell him that there was nothing that could be done, waiting for the words that would declare his inevitable death. They didn’t come — instead the healer bent down to him, touching his arm, and all his thoughts scattered. He screamed, then forced himself not to scream, sobbing and whimpering as quietly as he could. 

Merridy squeezed his hand, but it wasn’t enough to distract him from the overwhelming agony as the healer pressed down on his rotting stump. The pain stayed, even as the healer got up and stepped away. Damien clung to Merridy’s hand, quietly begging her to not leave him alone. He couldn’t do this; even less so without her.

“We have to remove the rest of the arm,” the healer said as soon as he returned. Whatever else he added, Damien didn’t hear, the words ringing in his ears. Remove the arm. Rationally, a part of him had known that this would be the only way, if he was to have a chance to survive. But hearing it, imagining it, remembering it…

In his attempt to fight down the panic, Damien tried to focus on the taste of the brew Merridy put to his lips, and her touch at the back of his head. This time there would be no hands roughly shoving him to the ground, holding him down; no voices cheering and laughing at him. Perhaps he could do it. He had been through so much now, and was somehow still alive.

It wasn’t like he had a choice anyway. It was this or die. A day ago he would have chosen death without hesitation, but he couldn’t; not when she looked at him like this, when she bent down to whisper to him.

“Please don’t give up. I am here for you. Together we can do this, just please, please hold on a little longer.”

He didn’t know why she cared about him, but she did care about him, so much her eyes shimmered with tears when she looked at him. He focused on that as he emptied the cup and his legs and torso were bound to the surface he was lying on — a low table most likely, that much he had figured out by now.

The brew left a strange tingling sensation in his mouth. He wasn’t sure if it was also clouding his thoughts; it had been hard enough to focus before. Something touched his rotting arm, cold and wet. The pain was less bad than he would have expected, but far from gone. Damien tried to turn his head, to figure out what was going on.

“Don’t look,” Merridy said, placing her hand on his cheek to turn his head back towards her. 

He let her guide him, finding her stormy blue eyes once more. Her hand on his cheek and her fingers holding his hand were the only real thing in this nightmare, the only thing keeping him from losing his mind. A shadow fell over his face as someone gave her something. Damien opened his mouth for her to place the piece of rolled up cloth into it, leaving his tongue dry and his jaw aching. He didn’t complain. He faintly remembered almost choking on his own blood, despite the leather shoved into his mouth. He’d rather not repeat that experience.

“Ready?” the healer asked.

He wasn’t. He’d never be ready, not for that. He nodded anyway, his gaze fixed on Merridy, choking down a sob.

Then he couldn’t look at her anymore, his vision fading as the healer started to work on his arm. He screamed, the sound muffled by the fabric in his mouth. It was too much like the rag Gaston had used to gag him, leaving him struggling to breathe. The panic was there, trying to take over him, but his body didn’t listen to it. His heartbeat stayed creepily calm.

There was a touch on his cheek, wiping his tears away, and a touch on his hand, squeezing it hard. Whispered words that got lost in the agony coursing through his body, and the sound of his own desperate sobs. Merridy’s hand, stopping him from looking at what the healer was doing, and her gaze, stopping him from begging them to stop.

He couldn’t have begged anyway; not without breath, not with that thing in his mouth. Not that there was anything to beg for. They couldn’t stop. The only thing he could beg for was death, and he didn’t want to die. Not while she was with him.

“Hold him.”

The barked order sent a new wave of terror through Damien. He remembered the cruel hands, pressing his face into the sand. Now they were putting pressure on his shoulder and chest. No, no, no. He wanted to beg for the hands to let go of him. He wouldn’t struggle, he wouldn’t try to break free.

Then he managed to look to the side, to see the saw the healer was holding, and he knew it wasn’t true. 

“Don’t look,” Merridy said. Her voice was trembling, as were her fingers on his cheek as she turned his head towards her.

Damien whimpered quietly. He couldn’t do this, but there was nothing he could do to stop it. Nothing that could save him. 

When the healer started to saw through the bone, the vibration, the sound, the pain, it all mixed together, taking over his every thought. There was nothing else; not Merridy’s touch on his cheek, not his hope of making it out of this alive, somehow. There was only agony, and he needed it to end, to end.

His body didn’t obey his will anymore. Thrashing against the ropes, he screamed until his voice failed him. He was shaking and sweating, too hot and freezing cold. While he gasped for air, choking on the piece of cloth and his own sobs, his heart was still unnervingly calm in his chest. Perhaps it was finally too much, it would finally give in.

It was his mind that gave in first, though.

Tagging: @teamwhump​ @dont-touch-my-soup @whump-in-the-moonlight @badthingshappenbingo @whump-of-the-month

[blaserables]

Dark Temptation Blood Magic

From The Wonders Of Thedas Podcast

People always need more. The Magisters of Tevinter need more power to keep a leg up on their competition. The runaway apostate needs more to escape the ruthless Templars. The cult master needs more to bring demonic allies to his side. When a Mage needs more, they need only grasp a knife…

Blood Magic carries great power, and that power has done incredible and terrible things. It supposedly opened the Fade for the ancient Magisters of the Imperium to taint the Golden City with their sin, and it helps fuel the Mage-Templar war of the Dragon Age. Blood carries great strength for those willing to take the plunge. You never know what you’ll face in the cruel world, wouldn’t it just be prudent to be ready for it?

This following subsystem is completely optional and not part of the core game, but if you feel it might compliment your campaign, feel free to add it or show it to your GM!

Optional Blood Magic: Blood magic is available as a dark temptation to all Mage PCs. Blood Magic mode is activated just like the Blood Mage Specialization talent, functions as per the talent, and the Blood Magic can be used with the following new rules:

If the PC using Blood Magic does not have the Blood Mage Specialization, the PC must take 2d6 points of penetrating damage while only gaining the extra Mana of one of those dice, chosen by the PC before rolling. Those Mana are then spent to cast the spell as per the Blood Mage Spec

The PC can take 2d6 penetrating damage to increase their Spellpower on their next spell by half the result of one of the dice, chosen by the PC before rolling (note that this does carry the danger that if the PCs rolls a 1 on that die then they simply botched the bloodletting and failed to boost their spell). Mages with the Specialization always gain at least a +1 on their Spellpower.

The PC may choose to, instead, take 3d6 penetrating damage to upgrade the spell to the next spell that lists the original spell as a requirement, even if the PC doesn’t know that spell - For example, a PC that knows Flame Blast could take 3d6 points of penetrating damage to make the spell work as per Flaming Weapons, or Drain Life could function as Death Magic, or Spell Shield would become Dispel Magic (with all the Mana costs, TNs, and casting times of the new spell)

PCs may take more blood by stacking these effects, taking an additional 3d6 penetrating damage to upgrade a spell to the next spell in the tree or an additional 2d6 to boost the Spellpower

PCs who have the Blood Mage Spec have access to all of these abilities as well, but the penetrating damage is reduced by 1d6 to reflect special training or a skilled bloodletting hand.

PCs still need the specialization to take blood from allies or helpless or dying creatures, as per the Journeyman or Master degrees of the Blood Mage spec, but may use the extra effects listed here with those allies/victims if they have the spec.

As a drawback (and balancing factor) to those who use these rules, if you still fail the casting of the spell you are augmenting with the above rules, you treat the spell as having triggered a Mishap as per pages 106-107 in the Core Rulebook. You still get the Willpower (Self-Discipline) test to avoid the mishap. This reflects the power of the magic you are summoning becoming more noticeable to demons from the Fade, and Blood Mages who take the spec have training to use their abilities as per the original talent to avoid these consequences.

It is worth noting that this system does add a lot of potential power to Mage PCs. This can have Rogue and Warrior PCs feeling left out or under-powered compared to mages, but would also be a very good simulation for why Mages are so widely feared.

[houkusu]

@kasouu​​ asked: don't cry for me when i die.

a long bout of silence in the breeze, only the slightest rustle of grass ; distant birds flapping their wings as if they know better than to stick around.

metal glints, dark steel's beveled edge pressed to marred throat - threatening to cut at the very hint of breath.                         ( hawks would've preferred it to be the                            longest of the featherblades ) the largest primaries had yet to return, though they'd begun to try. prosthetics only got him so far and though the appendages had done their best to sheathe the feathers, the very roots had decayed under that extreme heat. hawks had still yet to reach his top speeds since then.

                             「 that made you happy, right? 」

brows twitch, a barely-there movement over an otherwise bored expression. one might think this is a daily occurrence, the hero's katana lingering against the burned flesh of a man only clinging to life's tethers                                          ( and how hawks wishes it were ) for the second time, such a threatening display is made ; though the last, it would've been a clean swipe to the right, decisive, quick, faster than the speed of sound.                                                      ----           this? this would be messy, it would take effort, the sight of changing expression well memorized.

after a while, hawks had stopped making eye contact with the victims.

                                                                             「 is that a joke? 」

closer, closer still, the pressure is on. gloved palm grips the weapon so tightly knuckles blanch under the leather, fabric creaking with the squeeze. fingers dig against the ito braiding, threatening to fray the cord and yet still, quiet, quiet.                                  ( all had been quiet until he said that )

" when you told me your name, "

feathers chitter and shake, their frayed edges clicking against each other with a fear hawks himself does not feel -                                THERE IS NO POINT IN FEAR! anxiety, nerves, all of it is a mere hindrance ; a hiccup in the path, tripping over the means to an end with something as ridiculously simple as ' being human '.

                                                        「 what's the point? 」

dabi - tōya - could've killed hawks in an instant. it didn't matter if tokoyami had saved him or not, but it mattered if endeavor saw the damage, right? it mattered if the only shot they have at ending this stupid war was hurt just a little more, if those burning claws sunk in just a little deeper, it's that same hindrance, that same hiccup                                          ( A DISTRACTION FROM THE END! )

" i was surprised. "

                             「 YOU are so much                                                            more human                                                                        than i could ever be 」

distantly, there's the smell of iron. for all the would-be quaking strength of grip in the world, there's not even a centimeter of give in hawks' steady grasp. everything is controlled, down to the tiniest glint in the eyes ; nothing is without purpose. he learned that long ago, had it forced down his throat under the heel of the commission -                               ( had it shoved into his veins by his father                                 constantly slammed into it by his mother )

                                 『 NOTHING AND NO ONE                                 COULD EVER BE WORTH TEARS 』

" i was surprised by a lot that happened then.    but most of all, that you, of anyone -    let something like that control you.    ' sentiment got to you after all ', right?                           ----           that's what you said. "

steadily the blade is lowered in a fluid gesture, though no other steps are taken. in hawks' wake, nothing more litters flesh than a papercut’s worth of damage ; something terribly unnoticeable in the grand scheme that is tōya. maybe in some other life he would've needed more than a few staples to keep his head attached, but that universe is not this one.

" i was surprised -    by how disappointed i was.    the longer i thought about you,    the more i understood what saying that to me --                                       ----             meant to you.    what it would eventually mean to endeavor.    i didn't tell him.    hearing it from me would have been easier.    he could've processed it.    i could have told him -- but, i didn't. "

with a swipe off to the side, any traces of blood are shirked from the weapon and into the grass. steel slips against the saya, pushing into the sheathe as hilt rests against hawks' thumb -- ' clink '. worn feathers, when angled just right against the breeze, sound off in a chime-like whistle ; blending with the rustling of the trees. it was louder once, at least a crowded rumble. by now it's all dulled, crashing waves reduced to seafoam.

" i thought if i believed you were even a little like me --    that maybe you knowing my name wouldn't be so bad.    maybe someone who understood would know the    significance of it, then.    even for a second, even when i thought it would end there ;                                   ' it could be worse.                                             it could've been someone worse. ' "

                                                                    「 would it have killed you                                                                                  to have lived up                                                                                   to such a thing 」

another long pause, flaxen bangs rustling against tired features. though up to this point gaze remained unbroken, it was only now that the winged hero began to take steps back. space is not something offered, but taken -- if tōya came here to say such a thing, then at least acknowledgement could be given to the cause.                                          ( there is more to say ; always more                                            and all of it ; is wasted breath )

" i can’t let anything blind me now.    and i can't say with certainty that i've ever cried.    but you --    you’re someone who has.                                       ----            aren’t you? "

( his throat burns like he's swallowed sandpaper )

   fire, smoke, harder to breathe than it is    to think of something that should've been    ----                    so much easier than this    and if they were meant to win,                             this is not that                             this is not that

                             『 'cause i know that HEROES                                              must ALWAYS be ready                                                    to save a LIFE 』

                ----              " TODOROKI TŌYA---! "

[nathank77]

5/10/24

5:17 a.m Edited/Added to 5:28 a.m

I think I'm going to end it all soon. I mean yea it's gotten better but I mean I truly cannot sit in silence. Kristen will lose her license if I kill myself. I won't have to obssess over silence anymore and I truly mean it when I say no amount of money will make me feel like it's just that my brain is this broken and it will likely be forever.

I did some research bc I know Mike wasn't wrong about other neurotransmitters being at play and I was looking at the gaba and glutamate theory.

I also looked up benzodiazepines and what neurotransmitters they act on. And they act on gaba the major inhibitory neurotransmitter in the brain... which now it makes sense why when the Xanax half life is active I don't hallucinate as much...... cause I am taking a gaba agonist...

I'm going to ask my doctor if maybe she can perscibe me .25 mg for the day time.. I doubt she will but I'll explain my case and say I've done research and I've noticed for like 12 hours, my hallucination is under control... and then the half life is gone and I hallucinate more.. idk maybe I won't cause then she will say Behavioral health.. and they'll say antipsychotics...

So idk I have to think about it. I'm so bogged down bc bo4 was a crap shoot. Okstupid is so fucking depressing and I'm alone as fuck.

What am i here for? I looked up gaba supplements... if you take straight up gaba it can barely cross the blood brain barrier. Then I investigated supplements that increase gaba...

And I went through the list and I mean a lot of them have major side effects. I found one that seemed pretty safe until I read that it can cause limbic Seizures... when I looked up glutamate antagonist cause that would be the other idea as it's the major excititory neurotransmitter of the brain, I mean it was even less promising...

None of these supplements are truly safe... White mulberries are. But yea I was reading stuff like Seizures, and ataxia... and shit. It isn't worth it to play with my neurons like that despite them being irreparably damaged and my brain legit being broken.

I've noticed that since stopping weed my thoughts aren't as sloppy and my mental pictures are mostly normal. They still have psychosis in them but that was consistently a thing before i tried weed again. And I mean the visuals are still a thing but it's just floaters... prob just that I need glasses... progressives. I just wasn't looking for them before...

Anyways- I don't think I can help myself anymore than I am. I shouldn't ask for more benzodiazepines.. they are addictive and I know my pcp will be like behavioral health...

The supplements seem more like I'm gambling with my life, I can't afford ataxia or Seizures.

And I mean I'm going to be alone forever. At least I'll die looking like this. I can't really live it up- i have had a suicide ritual planned my whole life. It can't really be the way I want it to be bc of my hallucination. Which is sad. I mean I always planned to kill myself when I got diagnosed with something terminal before it got bad....

The ritual was going to be to watch all my trans videos. And cry happy tears over being able to be myself and how strong I am. I can do that but with interruption. Hearing my dead name all the time....

I wanted to watch six feet under one last time. I can't do that too much silence I can't let the hallucination taint it.....

Spend time with everyone I care about one more time doing something that creates a memory. A good one. Like a hike... or something. I mean I can't hike thank you hallucination... but I can do other things..

Sit out in the woods and smoke pot and listen to the wind in the trees. Can't do that.

Buy myself anything I want, any food. Anything.

As well as make a video saying good bye to everyone individually.

Play silent hill 2. One last time.

That basically sums it up. Overdose with music in the background and fall asleep in peace and never wake up.

I can do some of it. I mean it'll be a ritual. It'll take a few weeks. Silent hill 2 is one of the last things I'll do. Between my videos and if I could watch six feet under ever again or anything but garbage cartoons like fucking American dad.

Anyways I can do most of it. But yea I'm about to be a year of my brain breaking thanks to Kristen dew October 10th... and marginal improvement is not enough.

I can't even smoke fucking weed or get drunk with my friends.

I mean when I think about it-psychosis Took weed away from me, drinking for fun, playing video games, watching my favorite stuff, my ability to hear silence, my ability to go hiking something I truly love without someone who is a motor mouth, my ability to just be in nature. My ability to think without hearing it repeat over my fucking TV shows without purposely diverting my attention to the TV which is really fucking hard. It took so much of me away.

And I'll prob hear my deadname with my final breath. But no one will ever think I wasn't proud to be Nathan.

[weaseltotheface]

the way that all the lines in the bridge of checkmate could represent one of the rwby girls at their worst gets me bro

Are you the queen or are you the pawn? Will you master the night or wait for the dawn? Is it worth all the blood and the damage done? Would you die under the spotlight just to hear all the applause?

do i think that's the intent? not necessarily but i do like it