#EDIT I FORGOT THE FINAL POEM FUCK

[reds-skull]

BLOOD||HUNGER

[PREV PART] [AO3]

The finale! Post script will be uploaded right after this, fair warning it's a damn long one lol

Thank you for reading this far, this chapter is called "Where All Permanence Rests". Enjoy!

Edit: I forgot to add the final poem before, it's fixed now!

Page 67 of the “Blooede Starvatfōre-dēde”, parable 18:

The village people, hearing of the hunter’s fall, Find before them, the Blind man and the Beast, Yet they do not look with malice, they do not fear, As the veil has been taken away, their eyes see truth, That this is no Beast, but a man. The Beast, the Cursed Man, He does not rejoice, for the Blind Man has seen him justly, When all saw a monster.

Isla,

I don’t think I’ve ever written an actual letter, like this. Certainly not in circumstances like these. But this is the most secure way to contact you. I shouldn’t talk to you at all, if we’re being honest, but… I couldn’t just leave without a word.

In the following weeks, or days (depending on when this letter will reach you), you will receive news that John MacTavish is dead. And for all intents and purposes, in all ways but physical, I am dead.

I’m writing this to apologize, and to thank you. 

Simon never thought he would return to Mexico by his own volition. Even before Soap, he refused to take jobs anywhere near Central America.

Only Johnny could give him enough strength to be here.

It also doesn’t hurt that they’re not here to fight the cartel.

“déjennos en paz!” a man screams further down the cobbled street. ‘Leave us alone.’ 

From the American-accented shouts that follow, the man’s pleas are ignored, “donte esta el Irani?!”

A woman joins the man, screaming that they don’t know. Simon continues sneaking past dark roofs. They can’t afford to attack just yet - their target has far too many soldiers in their disposal at the moment.

A couple of shots ring out, making his steps falter. The woman screams in anguish. He closes his eyes, attempting to not sink into the familiar embrace of cold indifference, like his instincts tell him to.

Being more than a weapon has its downsides.

“Ghost?”

“Johnny. Solid?” Simon answers on their private comm line, his partner’s voice relieving some of the uncomfortable ache cinching at his guts.

“Aye. Think I can see ye.”

He looks around for a moment, finding the red skull mask across several rooftops, crimson barely visible in the low light, “did you find any sign of the Vaqueros?”

Simon can almost feel Soap’s frustration from here, “negative. Only thing Ah’m seeing are American bastards and fucking corpses.” he grunts, “feels like the Hunter all over again…”

“Focus, Sergeant.”

“I am, LT.” he watches Soap’s form disappear between buildings, “gonna get on the ground, search for anyone we could rescue.”

“Copy, I’ll keep an eye on Graves.” Simon clicks off, knowing they both need the silence. 

I’m sorry I couldn’t be a better brother to you. That I couldn’t take my head out of my arse and simply live a normal life, be normal. I think I never learned how to. But you deserved better. Could you tell maw I’m sorry as well? I don’t think I’ll make it to Christmas in the next… However long I have left to live.

Don’t worry about me (I know you always do, and always will), this is why I wanted to thank you.

After you called, on the day I got the notice of the eviction… I realized I couldn’t do this anymore. Couldn’t pretend I was fine, couldn’t keep this same, soul-crushing monotony, day in, day out.

Laswell contacted them two days ago, asking them to land in Las Almas and keep an eye on an American PMC called “Shadow Company”. They came to Mexico to collaborate with Mexican Special Forces to capture an Iranian and his stolen missiles. On paper, the citizens of Las Almas shouldn’t have been involved at all.

Graves and his Shadows move to another building, where several men have been rounded and lined up against a wall.

Reality never seems to match what’s on paper, when it comes to wars.

The Shadows lift their rifles, and shoot the civilians.

They don’t know what made Graves turn. But that’s not Simon and Soap’s job to figure out. Their only interest is to minimize civilian life loss and rescue the Vaqueros, the Mexican soldiers the Americans betrayed.

A weak voice on the other side of the block catches his attention. Simon makes the split second decision to take his eyes off Graves and investigate.

“No- let her go!” a woman, a mother, screams at a Shadow ripping a child away from her.

The kid in his arms cries, “Mommy! Mommy!”

“What do you think you’re doing, I’m with the police-!”

Simon catches another soldier moving to shoot, and in a flash, he takes hold of two throwing knives, and buries them deep within the Shadows’ throats.

The policeman and his family look at the soldiers fall with horror and confusion. Simon jumps down, revealing himself.

“Find a vehicle, and get out of the city. The Americans are not going to stop until they find what they want.” he grounds, staring at the cop’s eyes.

The mother asks shakily, “what- why are they doing this-?!” but the cop pushes her and the child, nodding grimly to Simon.

He climbs back up not a moment later. A voice in his mind tells him this maneuver might’ve costed him his cover, but alongside it, Simon doesn’t feel regret. He has learned to appreciate any win, no matter how small. And for those people, it is not small.

So I ran. I can’t tell you to where. I can’t tell you what I found there.

But I can tell you who I met. He’s… fuck, how could I describe him?

He was such a cunt at first, you would’ve ripped him a new one. But I learned he was also running away, in his own way. That he’s been running for a long, long time. And when I met him, when we actually started working with each other…

I felt like I was alive for the first time in a year.

“Ghost” Johnny startles him from thought, “found a Vaquero. Yer…?”

“Sergeant Major Rodolfo Parra. Who are you?” a farther voice barely comes through the radio.

“Soap. Laswell sent us.”

“Kate Laswell? Are you with Shepherd?!”

Simon grinds his teeth, “we’re not under anyone’s command, Parra. Not military.”

“You’re… you’re mercenaries?” he can hear Parra curse under his breath, “is it just you two?”

“Aye” Soap answers, “Laswell hasn’t burned ye yet - she asked us to help ye.”

The Sergeant Major seems to sigh in relief, hopelessness coloring his next words, “I’m glad. Though… no.”

He sounds more assured when he speaks again, “my soldiers and Colonel have been captured by Graves. I’ll need any help I can get to rescue them.”

“You got it.” Simon rumbles, “any intel on their location?”

“Negative. Alejandro has a safe house outside the city, I might be able to find out if we get there.”

“Alejandro?” Soap asks.

“My Colonel.” Parra says, noticeably sadder than before.

“We’ll get him back, mate.” Soap attempts to comfort, “Ghost, still got eyes on Graves?”

Simon internally grimaces, “...negative. Had to help some civvies.”

He didn’t expect the pride in Johnny’s voice, but in hindsight he should’ve, “understood. Ye see the church tower from here?”

Simon looks at the far distance, a tall building lit by an orange glow towers over the city, “affirm. Lets RV there.”

“Aye. Keep yerself safe.”

“You too Johnny.”

I don’t know how, but I have the feeling me and him were meant to meet. Not in a soulmate kind of way… I’ve been feeling things like that a lot, since I ran. Like this is where I would’ve always ended up being.

You will not meet me again, most likely. Me and him… Just our presence will put you in danger. There’s a reason they had to kill us both on paper. Can’t tell you what we’re doing that required that, but you know I was never one to stick to things like “rules” and “laws”.

We’re not alone in this, we have allies, people that want to do good, but are stuck in a system that refuses to change to do that good. I wish you never experience the amount of evil truly festering this world, and we are fighting so you never will.

He begins combing the streets for Graves’s trail, mostly tuning out the conversation between Soap and the Sergeant Major. From what he does listen to, Graves’ betrayal seemed to come out of nowhere - they had successfully disarmed a missile not a day prior, having interrogated a cartel lord who aided the Iranian.

They were so close to finishing the mission. Which is why, when the Shadow commander turned around and stabbed them in the back, only Parra managed to shake off the shock and escape.

Graves is still on the hunt for the Iranian, convinced he’s hiding in Las Almas, while also searching for Rodolfo. It won’t look good for business if he can’t wrap up things cleanly, Simon muses darkly. He had enough encounters with PMCs in the past to know how they operate.

He eyes a group of Shadows standing around a couple of fresh bodies, all seemingly focused on their comms. 

After a few moments, one of them answers to whoever is ordering them, “I’m here with a few others, sir, we can go search the area for the Mexican.” the soldier pauses to hear the response, “yessir! Let’s go, they spotted him at the northern plaza!”.

The group instantly starts sprinting, Simon following while radioing to Soap, “Johnny, Shadows heading to the northern plaza, said someone saw Parra!”

He hears the Sergeant Major through Soap’s comms, “mierda!”

Simon has to jump over an alley when the roof he’s been running on ended, “I’m on my way to you, can you hold them?!”

Soap huffs in a way that tells him he has something up his sleeve, “we’ll smoke up the plaza, they don’t know Ah’m here.”

He can just imagine Johnny’s sharp grin under his mask, “going undercover, hm? A man after my own heart.”

“Always, Simon.” Johnny whispers, just for his ears. Simon ignores the way it makes a shiver go down his spine.

Up ahead, a plume of smoke rises between buildings. Soap leaves his comms on, letting Simon hear how Johnny takes hostiles down one by one, going quiet until his cover is blown.

In the streets below, more and more soldiers funnel towards the plaza. Simon grits his teeth, pushing his legs to run faster. He will not let Johnny enter a losing fight, not if he can help it.

The shooting abruptly stops, making his heart still. A few moments pass before he can hear Soap’s voice growling, “let him go.”

He can hear the Shadows laughing, a churning noise grating on his ears. Simon slows, keeping to the swaths of darkness.

A half circle of Shadows formed in the plaza, Parra and Soap facing them. In the center, a shadow holds a pistol to a young boy’s head.

Simon doesn’t even attempt to swallow down the disgust that rises in his throat.

“No can do, pal. Drop your weapon and give us the cowboy, or the kid gets hit.”

He drops behind the Shadows, knife slipping down his sleeve silently. With careful steps, he closes in on the center soldier, while Parra curses at them.

Over the soldier’s shoulder, he meets Johnny’s eyes. With no words, they communicate. He waits for Soap’s signal, watching his Sergeant lower himself. To the Shadows, it seems like he’s bending down to place his SMG on the ground, but Simon can almost feel the tension coiling within Soap’s muscles, readying himself to fight.

“Alright, Alright!” Soap shouts, “I’m dropping my gun, just let the boy go.”

Johnny nods minutely. Simon strikes.

In a motion he’s done a million times before, the knife swings in an arc before burrowing into the Shadow’s neck. Simon doesn’t waste any time pushing the body aside, grabbing the young boy and pulling him back.

Soap snarls, righting his gun and spraying bullets to his left, clearing a path for him to take the kid and shove him into cover.

He swings around, ducking under a hostile’s incoming knife, unsheathing one of his own and easily stabbing it into the underside of his jaw. He throws it at another attacking soldier, noticing Soap and Parra being pushed back into a corner.

One of them gets the jump on Soap, the two falling to the ground in a struggle. His heart leaps to his throat, where it shouts, ‘Johnny!’

Simon takes a rifle off of a body, inhales to steady his breath.

Focuses his rage on the targets and shoots.

He drops the gun, rushing to Soap. The bodies on the ground don’t move.

A fast-paced chant screams in his mind ‘where is Soap is he broken is he dead have you failed him-’ 

“Ngh… Steamin’ Jesus, this fucker’s heavy.” Johnny grumbles, shoving the body covering his off.

Simon stares at him for a moment, before dropping to his knees and pulling him up. He searches for injuries on Soap’s body before two gentle hands stop him.

“Ah’m good, mo chridhe. Solid.” Johnny’s hands don’t let go, instead caressing his bloody palms.

An unexpected wave of emotion crashes into him, filling his lungs with warmth. He doesn’t know if it was the split second moment where he thought Johnny might be dead, or the gentle way he’s now comforting him, somehow always knowing when he’s panicked.

Maybe it’s all of it, that makes Simon blurt out, “I love you.”

And Johnny, despite having the majority of his face covered, looks up at him with so much care, blue eyes almost glowing behind the red mask.

Those eyes crescent with joy, Johnny pushing his forehead to bump against Simon’s in affection.

“I love ye too, Simon.”

And Simon finds himself thinking, that this is what he was meant to be.

Fighter.

Human.

Loved.

I’ll be trying to write as much as possible, but if this is the only letter you’ll ever get…

Just know that if I died, I went down fighting, and I went down with him. And I couldn’t have been happier with the way I lived.

I love you so, so much.

-J.M.

Page 100 of the “Blooede Starvatfōre-dēde”, parable 20:

Where is your destination, now that the curse has been lifted, The Blind Man asks, with nothing but kindness on his tongue. I have no place to belong to, the once-Beast answers, Nowhere, but the path I walk with you, my fallen knight. Then we shall travel together, until we return to the earth, And perhaps, if God is to be so merciful, The paths we take will always, and forevermore, Be only by the side of the other.

[sunny-honeytears]

You can't tell me Herbert wasn't sending letters with stupid word recommendations to Ferenc Kazinczy during the language reforms during 1811-19

Like half of Mondolat is just words he made up in his spare time

For context the hungarian language was very outdated in the 18-19th century, because the official language was still LATIN in the country and even when Joseph II tried to change it to german, it didn't work because "Okay our official language is a dead one but we are NOT gonna speak german no way" so finally everyone recognised that hey we have a language and a culture that needs to be preserved and language reforms begin.

Kazinczy was the main figure of the language reforms in the 19th century because bro was sending letters to about 600 person and basically did everything himself. (Im just summing it up but be honest he is the one who did the most) And he succesfully started a "war" between neologus and ortologus people (i literally cant find a translation for them but basically The neologus guys where the one who wanted reform.)

So then the ortologus dropped Mondolat which honestly is one of my favourite historical books becaude they were shittalking Kazinczy SO HARD

First of all Mondolat is a word that was invented by the neologus and failed and they collected words like that into a book. The cover was a man riding a donkey trying to get up to Parnassus, poking fun at him saying his goal was stupid and inreachable. The place of creation was named as Dicshalom which was a referenc to Széphalom, the place Kazinczy lived and renamed himself, from Bányácska (little mine) to Széphalom (beautiful heap). Also I dont remember the exact name they gave as an author i believe it was Zafír Cenci which was another insult direkted at Kazinczy, switching up the letters of his name. Honestly I fear they ate with Mondolat that shit was FUNNY

Anyways in the end language got reformed everything is good we still speak it👍

Though I have to share some words for you to understand why its so funny

Gőzpöfögészeti tovalöködönc - Train. That would have been train. We call it vonat btw or mozdony to be fancy. Rough translation is

"Steam puffing forward pusher".

And my newest favourite

Megkönnyebülészeti körbeguggolda- WC. We say Wc instead. Rough trandlation is " relief circuit squat" like what the fuck guys what were you on

The only word I feel bad for not making it is "Popont" which was the word for ":" but we call it "Kettőspont -Double point" it sounded so cute why cant we have nice things😭

And now tell me Herbert wouldn't send in shit like that

Edit: forgot to add that Kazinczy wrote multiple poems callin the ortologus movement stupid and that started this whole beef

[golbrocklovely]

Hi!! Just saw a couple of things about Colby's situation with Stas and Shea, and read a post about Shea. But I've always wondered what is the deal with Stas, like is she obsessed with Colby or did something almost happened between them? I kinda get weird vibes from her but if you could explain the situation with her that would really help

i kinda explained it in the one long post here, but to give the briefest of overviews, no. they never dated, never hooked up (from what we know). but my guess is that stas had a crush on colby, kat tried to get them together when the core four became a thing, stas played house a bit too much for colby's liking and then he annexed her.

i think there's a lot more to the story, both literally bc we don't know everything and also bc kat also distanced herself away from stas for a period time, so that screams to me like stas did something and they all backed away from her in the summer of 2022. but by october of 2022, they were okay again. she went to WWWY festival with them, went to their halloween party, hung out with colby and brennen on new years. the only hiccup they seemed to have this year so far is on his bday he didn't hang out with anyone other than shea. but i think that was bc sam and him were going thru some stuff, and she just chose to hang out with him and kat instead.

and as for if she's obsessed, i would say yes but i think she's calmed down a lot (but only one of the few that think that lol). i think bc she had a crush on him for such a long time, it became more and more apparent as time went on. she would comment about colby on ppl's tiktoks. she also would like edits of just him and her. she has posted pics of just the two of them (nothing too crazy, just selfies) behind paywalls. her poem insta seems to be about him for the most part. she also has made some tiktoks that seem to be directed at him. also, when they weren't close for a couple months, she was in vegas with friends and he was out with a girl and she tweeted out a bunch of stuff about "the ppl that you thought cared shock you the most" and "it meant nothing to you" and shit like that.

personally, i don't think they were together at any point, mostly bc he was fucking around with another girl. literally at one point took her with him to hangout with sam, kat, abbey, and STAS so…. that just screams he was never into her, but she thought bc they were close he could be. is it possible something happened between them? yeah, but colby has made it abundently clear for a while now that he's single, even when stas would try to plant seeds that say otherwise.

oh yeah, forgot right after they came home from europe (which is where malishkagate happened and where fans thought they were finally together and congratulated them for it) colby hung out with her one more time before moving to vegas and she told her subscribers that she was going on a date and in reality it was just her and colby hanging out with a bunch of other ppl (aka she tried to make ppl think she was going on date with colby).

he also deleted multiple shipping comments about him and her on a tiktok they did together. which is why i truly believe he was never into her but she was into him.

[rawrmeansilyindinosawr]

Pooperz

every song i listen 2 from now ONN / mo0bin forwarDDt HAZ to hav the redbone tune underneath it (song can b layered a bunch) n Thtz w NO eggceptions n settling . :-] N if u fuk me thru a soundcloud ad Thts how I kno u love me <3 .!!! i wrote a lil poetry zine on “on loving a trans boy” Cuz. like. idk. Not 2 get 222 personal but (Also if 222 is ur angel number i HATE U AND fuck U!!!!) it diff to experience as a queer person whut it lik to giv someone they T shot n lik actually see them grow n change thru it .!

Part of the poem i wrote (it on my poetry Ig account and tumblR) :

“the first time u intertwine ur body with him u will feel the pain it took for him to get here. yet all the strength. the battle the bruises the scars. u change ur semantics. and pay attention to his movements. resonate with the feeling of familiarity in a body torn open but completely soft. and the clothes are off. and we are both nude. but the vagina still remains an open wound. something u can not bandage. only describe as something reclaimed.”

Deezz NUTZ jk i mean Dis Week ish has been sad n i hav been doin 2 much blow n spiraling upwards Alwayzz n finding out u kan txt tha Suicide hotline now instead of Kall <3 *_* :-D !!!!! Also b4 they connect u with somEoNe they Ask if Ur Gay lmao cuz there a specialist Gay Person who knowz how to talk to u in a better way.?! i Tink watching Ded Poet Society triggered meH LOl. wellbutt anywayZzz.!!!! Nyfw w is overrrrr n I had nothing 2 do wiff it :/] but moi bestie dante Had a styling gig n wuz AMWZINGGGGGG.!!! :3 we went to a fashion show n Skipt line while he farted rly loud < im sry im puttin u on blast rn Babezz. > then blamed iT on Meh which bc of swiss army man A24 movie i WilL take tha blame cuz intimacy exists rly in Flatchulance n also sharing toilet 2gether in the backstage models bathroom of tha Fashion show resNorting old K we find our nostrils then Mixing rando drinkz we find on the makeup tablezz n bein surprised Dere r keBoobZ there n Pb n J sammyz. liK oK go OFF n actually b a professhh Fashion Show…!!!! den we fake watched tha superbowl at Hush in midtown N almost lost Praying”Gods FavZ” purse n i was caught littering my almond chocolate soy Milk on a stripper stage . Run!!!!! also dat E pill wuz rly cute it wuz pink n crown shaped but Wuz everything kinda not as happy and super blurry..!!! ?

Dissh week i also Swuirted to clairo nitecore edition :-]] n h8 havin adhd but at least im kNo how 2 eat salami by the Chub. (thts whut google calls it.) Hehehhehehehehe. gettin moi diagnosis finalized Tmrw hopefully n Gettin on Summ medicinez. im v adhd hyper fixated Rn on ice spice who Wuz also suppoSt 2 pull up 2 dat fashion show we were at butt didn’t. 4 now , everything Reminds meh of her</3 ….. Orange cones on tha st , pepper grinderzz/ shakers (spice) , 5 chinese spice , my friends dog “lunch” boXxx cuz his name rhymes w munch n n n n n Yah lik honestly Everything . ?!.?!

WakiNg Up w Negativez in my account cuz my Boss not bossa Nova forgot 2 paY meH ovEr thA course of Tha Last month N i didn’t even kno til i wuz in my Sexy crushes bed listening 2 Imogen heAp N In Tha Clurbb mixx by Sandalz n they wrote poetry 4 ffivee hours straight n My tummy hurteD fuz i was drinkin truffle SoY saUce from the bottle and i wuz manically checking my Bank statements 2 submit to Snapp HRA crackle Pop Rice Krispieeezzz. Also all of dis happened w a singulaR Vegan Taiwanese green onion pAnc@Ke on the floor on a chacoochie board with bulgolgi and kimchi n more truffle soy sauce . Untouched .

alSo found Untouched by the Veronicas on soundcloud but lik sped up n Holy shit i hav loved this song forever but literally lik YO diss is my heart..?!!!!!! “And I don't give a damn what they say, or what they think, think

'Cause you're the only one who's on my mind

I'll never, ever let you leave me

I'll try to stop time forever

Never wanna hear you say goodbye

I feel so untouched and I want you so much

That I just can't resist you

It's not enough to say that I miss you

And I need you so much

See you, breathe you

I want to be you

You can take, take, t-take, take, time, time

To live, live the way you gotta, gotta live your life

Give me, give me, give me all of you, you

Don't be scared, of seeing through the loneliness

I want it more, more, more

Don't even think about what's right or wrong, or wrong or right

'Cause in the end it's only you and me

And no one else is going to be around

To answer all the questions left behind

And you and I are meant to be

So even if the world falls down today

You've still got me to hold you up, up

And I will never let you down, down”

<33333

Y does it feel like moi crush doesnT like me rn. :-[ N Y do lesbians Always hav the MOST unstable Housing situationZ??? then either wanna UHaul with U or move to ASTORIA .?!? Also i hope all of u make assumptions about my sexuality bcuz i Rly rly rly like whipt cream from the Can , and raw . Emphasis on whiPped. n Cream. n RAWr xD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

MEOW MEOW RAWR RAWR GRERRR!!!!!!!!!!!!1 i kant keep rereading the msg i didn’t Send i ended up calling n yelling n Thts whut got meh bLocked. :-[[ Rugratzs .!!! i luv staying up watching movies w my friends ex’s Im tryna get wiff and Accidwntally thinking K is coke and feeling lik SHIT butt watchin every1 giv intense eye contact n cleanin da house n then losing tha dog Lik WHTFFF.?! Then All of a sudden that plug pulls up N everyone is confused N also randomly the guy living upstairs has my iPhone location N pulls downstairs 2 hangs:-]]] i always wonder if I’m popular but in reality i am just breaking oUt on my ForeheAd cuz all i eat is fried Chiggen N moi green haired browneyedd luver looks like invader zimm sometimezz alotta Da time n i think they r SKUTE.!! n i lik their lisp! im SAD sad my 2/2 cis male friend is gOnna print out a sign on his door Dat Says “blood OathinG” with a Red Circle around it n a Line around it basically sayin NOOOOOoooOoOoOoT allowed.!! butt ima blood oath wiffhh invader Jim dish nxt week n it is a PLANZZ.!!

i wrote a poem ab our phone Kall tht has impacted meh m my heart n also this is a snippet of 1 of my poems in my new book i still writing Kalled STRAWBERRY DELIRIUM :-}}”my friends don’t wanna die anymore they wanna live . they don’t wanna slip away to shreds with fentanyl test strips. they still wanna snort k n apologize for being gay but we all r human longing for all of this…” N another poem tht explainzz this blog title. Cuz i luv my fwendz n shared a moment in which we found popperz.

“Felt that rush on my head

as i laid in ur bed

and found a vile hidden

under ur pillow

u laugh and i manically panic

turning bright lite crimson red

And when it spills all over ur arms

drip dropping like tap water

i snort it all off ur arms

and i h a t e the way it makes me feel

similar to the feeling like ill fall

when im in my platform shoes

going up n down ur spiral stair case that looks like slices of cheesecakes

and u sigh scream cuz u never liked them at all

and hate is a strong word but so is love

And i hate the way the poppers make me feel

but i do love you “

okIkkkKkkkKkk i kinda hate that poem but whatever. sooo Vday wuz cute it is n0T only single awareness day but reflecting on ur situationsjips day n feeling sad ab it day but whatev. NormalZe watching cHaterbAte on the subWay n mindIng ur FooOoking Business?..!! my Friends say if i were a sammicH i wuld b a caprese. butt i feel like a ruben. #misunderstood <\3 i hav been watching SM hellokitty n Fwendzz n realized am kuromi and hello kitty is my friend .!!! N i listen to metal N rock w my headphonezz Real Hi n Loud n mak moi own clothes .! N i hav a crush on badtzmaru cuz they look like a penguin dyke n their gender is X.!! <3 <3 🐧 🫶🏻👩🏻‍❤️‍👩🏻 they r epitome of sapphic Desirezz n untoxic uhaul luv<3 :-]

tIL nxt week.?? Carl wheezer luver n Cali King bed listener on Max volume on subway N my big three is adderal sun , ketamine moon , cocaine rising <3 Also no i did NOT clog tha toilet at a house party after party this week N no i did not need help unclogging it N no i don’t even poop or do popperz cuz i’m PERFECT…!!!!!!!<333

Xoxo,

Rennybabycutebabyangel plz buy my clothes n ask ab my story sale / failed depop. :-]

[onecanonlife]

careful son (you got dreamer's plans)

Wilbur gasps back to life with mud between his fingers and rain in his eyes.

Wilbur was dead. Now, he is not. He can't say that he's particularly happy about it.

Unfortunately, the server is still as tumultuous as ever, even with Dream locked away, so it seems that his involvement in things isn't a matter of if, but when.

(Alternatively: the prodigal son returns, and a broken family finally begins to heal. If, that is, the egg doesn't get them all killed first.)

Chapter Word Count: 8,506

Chapter Warnings: swearing, blood, major injury, seizure, character death

Chapter Summary: In which the sun rises.

(masterpost w/ ao3 links)

(first chapter) (previous chapter) (next chapter)

Chapter Twenty-One: morning sun

He has a lot of thoughts on poetry. Poetry, he often finds, is just music without the tune. The rhythm is there already, and the words can be their own melody, if they’re written right, with a shape and a contour and a buildup and a decrescendo. He knows poetry. And poetry can tell stories, too, can tell whole narratives, can show a hero’s journey from the beginning to the bitter, bitter end, because something he noted a long time ago is that in the old stories, the old poems, in the meter and rhyme, there are few heroes who get happy endings. There are few stories that end with the hero growing old and finding peace. The heroes in the stories he was drawn to, the stories that Technoblade told him as they grew from children to lanky teenagers to adults, the heroes in those stories come to tragic ends.

So, he knows poetry.

Is there poetry in death?

Once, he would have said yes. Once, he would have said that death, perhaps, after a long fight, after a struggle lost, after all the world goes caving in and the hero stands alone knowing how far he has fallen, knowing there is only so much further to go, knowing that every cliff has its bottom and every sea its floor, after all of that—once, he might have said that death, after all of that, was the most poetic thing of all.

But he thinks he knows better now. He thinks that death is not poetry at all. He thinks that death is pain and suffering and hurting those who were left behind, and death is an ending that cannot

(is usually not, and perhaps he needs to examine that, too, needs to start considering himself lucky for the second chance that no one else ever gets, because he gasped back to life with mud between his fingers and rain in his eyes and there has been so much pain since then but there has been beauty and now revelation)

be revised once the pen has left the paper, and all the best stories are edited before they are consumed.

But life is not a story, and he is a person, not a role, even if that thought turns everything upside-down, forces him to consider everything he thought he knew about the axis on which the world spins.

And dying cannot be poetry, because he thinks he is dying, and there is nothing lovely about it at all. Not now.

(and not then, either, though you were not ready to know it)

“Shut up, you’re not fucking dying,” Tommy says, and with the words come a wash of cold clarity, focus that he clings to desperately. It might be a mistake, because the pain comes back to the forefront, too, sharp and everywhere and overwhelming and he wants to retreat from it, and he thinks he’s going to retreat from it, if it keeps on like this, so it’s a matter of how long he can manage to hold on.

He’s only just recovered his footing. He’s not going to let himself slip away. Not when he’s only just figured out he wants to keep standing.

And then his heart spasms, sending a burst of hot pain ricocheting in his chest, and he is reminded that he might not have a choice in the matter. He tries to draw in breath, and finds his airways blocked. He tastes iron on his tongue. He tries to draw in breath, and he can’t, and his lungs are burning, burning—

“Turn his head,” Tubbo says sharply, “turn it, he’s choking—”

Someone wrenches his head to the side. He coughs, once, twice, and then he’s wracked with them, curling in on himself as best he can, hands coming up to clutch at his chest, his throat, and he can feel the blood spilling from his mouth, pooling in his cheek and splattering on his lips. Blood. It waters the vines, the vines that are turning to dust. The blood vines are watered, and nothing at all happens, because the vines are dead.

The vines are dead, and he is dying, because he’s pretty sure that his internal organs are all giving out.

“He’s coughing up blood,” Fundy says, near hysterically, “why is he coughing up blood, what’s wrong with him—?”

“The Egg hurts you when you hurt it,” Tommy answers, matching his tone, his high pitch, his fear. “The Egg—and I fucking forgot, oh my god, why did I let him do it, we should’ve figured this would happen—”

“Does anyone have pots?” Tubbo demands. “Does anyone have pots, because I don’t.”

“I didn’t grab any,” Fundy says, “it all happened so fast, I didn’t think to grab any—”

“Wait, shit, I’ve got one,” Tommy says. “Here, c’mon.”

He feels hands on him, gently pushing him out of the position he’s folded himself into. And then, he’s leveraged to sit more upright, and he groans, something in his abdomen screaming in protest at the shift. He doesn’t have the strength to keep his head up, so he lets it fall back, and it hits someone’s chest. He’s propped up against someone, and as his vision clears, just a bit, he sees Fundy crouched to one side, hands hovering over him, and Tommy kneeling right by him, tugging on the cork of a potion, so it’s Tubbo that he’s leaning against.

“Here, Wilbur, just,” Tommy starts, and then the glass is being held to his lips. He parts his lips compliantly, and he feels the liquid slide across his tongue, but there’s too much blood in his throat for it to go down smoothly, and in the next second, he’s coughing again, sputtering, trying to suck air into a throat that’s too clogged and lungs that won’t quite inflate. He jerks, and Tubbo’s arms come up from behind him, grabbing his shoulders and holding him steady even as his body tries to escape the inescapable.

“C’mon, Wil, please,” Tommy says, and his eyes are wide and so very blue, and there’s a sheen across them. Tears. He’s making Tommy cry. “Please, you’ve got to swallow.”

He can’t get in a good enough breath to be able to tell him that he’s trying, that he would very much like to swallow, it’s only that absolutely nothing seems to be cooperating with him at the moment. But surely Tommy knows that, knows that he would if he could, and he’ll keep trying, even though—even though everything hurts, and really, there’s no other way to put it than that. Everything hurts, every inch of him, like his skin is being stretched too tight and he’s boiling from the inside out.

(but then again, Tommy doesn’t know the realization he’s just come to, he just sees his brother limp on the ground and fading away before his eyes and coughing up the potion he’s given him, coughing up what might be the best chance they have to save him, and that is what Tommy sees, so is there any wonder that he automatically assumes that)

No. No, he needs Tommy to know. He needs all of them to know that he doesn’t want this, that he doesn’t want to go, that he’s not giving up.

Tommy presses the potion to his lips again, desperate, insistent. He parts them again, and this time, some of it goes down. A bit goes down the wrong pipe, in fact, setting him to coughing again, but that burn is nothing compared to everything else. He can feel the magic begin to take effect right away, racing inside of him, trying to repair what has been broken and torn apart, and because he can feel it at work, he can feel exactly what’s wrong, can feel it try to patch holes inside of him that the Egg’s death throes ripped open, can feel it surrounding his heart, trying to encourage it to beat in a steady rhythm again, can feel it in his lungs, trying to reopen one that has half-collapsed. He can feel it all, and he knows that even if he managed to down the whole flask, it wouldn’t be enough. Not for this.

Because magic can only do so much. Because magic only goes so far.

Despair pools in his chest along with the fire, but he bucks against it, because he doesn’t want

(he doesn’t want to die and it took him so long to decide as much to understand himself enough to realize it and he doesn’t want to die but his body is giving out even as he fights to stay and this cannot be how it ends, it cannot be, because the world is cruel and the world is unfair but he cannot believe that it would be so unjust as this, so unjust as to take away what he has only just realized he wants to keep)

(but then again, the world does not often listen, does not often care for what is good and what is fair, because the world simply is, and that was a lesson he learned long ago, chased from the podium, the arrow in his back, betrayal and desperation playing a counterpoint melody, and it would never have happened if fairness was something the world at large took into consideration)

(but then again, does the universe not listen, when it well and truly counts? though to say as much would be to imply that it never counted before, when it did, did and still does, still does, because perhaps he can heal if given the chance but he will not forget and neither will anyone else)

to die. He doesn’t want to die. And if ever there was a moment to fight against despair, to fight against despair and win, for once, it is now. It is now.

“I’m trying,” he gasps out, and then immediately has to stop, has to struggle for air again, his chest heaving. He’s shaking, his bones trying to flee his skin.

“I know,” Tommy says. “I know, just come on—” The potion is back, and it’s the last of it, and he manages to force down some more. His vision sharpens, his breathing becoming just ever so slightly easier, but it’s not going to be enough. His heart falters, skips several beats, sends deep pangs shooting through his ribcage, and he knows it’s not going to be enough.

“I am trying,” he insists, as soon as he has enough air for it, “I am, I don’t—I don’t want to go—”

He coughs. Something inside him shifts, grating against other things, and fuck but that hurts, and there’s blood dribbling down his lips again. Hot and sticky. Damning.

“Okay, okay, that’s good, you’re not going anywhere,” Tommy says, “you’re not, we’re not gonna let that happen—”

“Comms are still down,” Fundy says. “I’m not getting through to anyone. Should I—should I go and get someone? I’m a fast runner, I can make it there and back.”

No.

No, no, he—it makes sense, what Fundy is suggesting, but he doesn’t want his son to leave him, because what if he leaves and he—he never gets to tell him all the things he wants to say, all the things he should have said a long, long time ago, what if he leaves and the last that Wilbur sees of him is his retreating back and that’s all, that’s all there is for either of them, what if he dies here and now and he never gets to—

(a scene, imagined: the sun setting over the water, a warm, lazy breeze rustling his hair, and they are sitting side by side, quiet and companionable, and they are fishing, their lures bobbing together in the lake, and all is not fixed and all is not forgotten but there is peace and forgiveness and an opportunity to repair the once-burnt bridge and he wants that he wants he wants)

He moves his arm. The first time, it flops back down uselessly, but he tries again, expends far more effort than he should, and he hooks his fingers into Fundy’s sleeve. Fundy stills, and Wilbur looks at him. Really looks. Meets his eyes and keeps his gaze there. And he doesn’t know what he looks like, doesn’t know how bad he must appear at the moment, but though there is worry on his son’s face, there is something else there, too, something more complicated.

“Wil?” Fundy says softly.

He might not get another chance for this.

“I love you,” he says, and he can feel the words sliding into each other even as they leave his mouth, but he hopes he’s comprehensible. He prays, because he needs Fundy to know this. “I love you, and—I’m so sorry I wasn’t there. I’m so sorry. I wanted to be better this ti—”

His heart squeezes, like it’s doing its level best to collapse in on itself, and he breaks off with a strangled squawking sort of noise. And Fundy makes an odd noise of his own.

“Shut up,” he says. “You’re not—you’re going to be fine. Stop talking like you’re going to—you can’t leave again, okay, you can’t do this to me again, you can’t—”

He’s hurting his son. Hurting his son just like he has all along, and he’s powerless to stop it, powerless once again. And there is some measure of gladness in it, in knowing that Fundy does not want him dead, but he is hurting him, hurting him when he never wanted to do so again. When all he really wanted was a chance to make things better, if he could. If he would be allowed.

He tightens his grip on Fundy’s sleeve. Fundy’s face shutters, and then he reaches over with his other hand and pries his fingers off, and Wilbur thinks that actually he might die right here and now.

Except then, Fundy takes his hand and intertwines their fingers, clutching them tightly. He tries to squeeze back and only manages a flutter, but it’s enough.

(because all is not well between you and perhaps it never will be, but know this, know that your son still loves you)

“I’m so sorry,” Tubbo says suddenly, and he can’t crane his neck to look at him, so he has to settle for listening to the words. “If I hadn’t used the totem, maybe—”

“Oh my god, don’t fucking say that,” Tommy snaps, and Wilbur quite agrees, because if Tubbo hadn’t used the totem, then perhaps this would feel very different, and perhaps he would not be terrified of the sensation of his life slipping away from him, because he would have death’s most effective preventative measure resting in his hand, waiting for his heart to still in order to repair the damage. But if Tubbo hadn’t used the totem—and he didn’t see exactly what happened, occupied as he was, but he can guess well enough from the still-present echoes of terror on Tommy’s face—then Tubbo would be dead. And that is not an acceptable loss.

“It’s the truth,” Tubbo insists.

“No,” he forces out, “no, that wouldn’t—that wouldn’t be any better—”

And then, his muscles seize. His back arches, and he hears himself cry aloud, and then the world goes away for a bit.

When it all returns, it crashes in on him at once, and he feels disoriented, exhausted, like his brain is seeking anything recognizable, anything to help make sense of what’s happening, and coming up with nothing. It takes a moment for him to remember where he is, what’s just happened, and even then, he feels dazed, almost outside of himself. He still hurts, but it’s distant. Like it’s happening to someone else.

He’s lying fully on the ground. There’s something soft under his head. A jacket? There is no one holding his hand, and a low keen rips itself from his throat. But no one’s listening—sound filters back in, and it takes effort to parse the voices from each other, speaking over themselves as they are.

“—going,” Fundy is saying, and Fundy, Fundy, he’d like Fundy to come back and be next to him, but he forces his head to flop to the side and sees that Fundy is standing now, standing with the rest of them. “I’m going, we need help, he’s—he’s literally dying right now—”

“He’s not fucking dying,” Tommy says, “would you stop saying that, he’s not—”

“If you’re gonna go get help, then go and hurry up up about it,” Tubbo is saying at the same time, and—

That’s right. He’s dying. He might have just had a seizure. That’s probably what that was. Caused by—seizures can be caused by traumatic brain things, right? Injuries? Having the Egg fucking around in there probably counts, and even beside that, he felt it die, felt it as the power of the universe flowed through the sword in its hand and tore it apart, even as it took him down with it.

(and there are some things that a mortal mind is not meant for, and surely, surely, the universe in its glory and its infinity is one of them and yet it is in your head always humming always there and it will not leave even when you do not pay it heed)

So that’s that. He’s just had a seizure, and he thinks his body’s gotten to the point where it’s given up on trying to fix anything, because the pain is fading, fading back into numbness, as if all his nerves have collectively decided that this situation is a little too fucked up and there’s nothing they can do, no point in working on it anymore. No point in signaling that anything’s wrong when nothing’s being fixed.

He’s dying.

(he doesn’t want to go)

“No way he gets back in time,” someone says. “You’ve got minutes at most.”

He’s not sure who spoke, but he agrees. Short of a miracle, he’s—he’s dying, and he wants to cry, because he doesn’t want to go. His surroundings blur.

He’s alone. Why isn’t anyone next to him? They’re standing, around him but not with him, talking to each other, voices so frantic and scared, and they’re just kids, and it’s so unfair that any of this is being put on them at all, and he doesn’t blame them for it, of course, but he thinks that if anyone was going to go for help, it should have been done right away. Not now. It’s not going to do any good now.

If he’s going to die, he doesn’t want to be alone.

(he intended to die alone, at the end of it all. he intended for himself to be the only one to be hurt. that’s one of the only reasons why he didn’t blow it all to hell sooner, because people were there, people talked him down, people like Quackity, people like Tommy, and they didn’t talk him out of wanting to do it but their presence reminded him that he didn’t want them to be hurt, he only wanted himself to hurt, because that was what was fair and that was what was right)

(but he didn’t die alone, at the end of it all. Phil held him, and he felt a little less afraid under all that relief, and the last thing he remembers from that day is warmth overwhelming, and if he’s going to die again, he doesn’t want to be cold, alone, alone)

He tries to talk, to say something, but he really is having trouble breathing now. His chest rises and falls in quick, short pants, too shallow to supply enough oxygen, too little to support his voice. He tries to move to get their attention, but his limbs don’t respond to his commands.

And then, Fundy’s taking off, running for the entrance, and no, no, no—

He finally manages to meet Tommy’s gaze. Tommy’s crouched by him again in an instant, and Tubbo is, too, grabbing his hand, and he’s glad of it, glad for the contact, but—

“It’s okay,” Tommy tells him. “You’re gonna be fine, Wilbur, Fundy’s gonna go get someone, and they’ll bring more pots, and, and another totem, too—”

His vision is darkening. He wants Fundy to come back. His heartbeats are growing more erratic, slower, weaker.

“Tommy,” Tubbo says, voice small, and stops. Tommy goes silent for a moment.

“No,” he says, then, and his voice is a sob. Wilbur wants to comfort him. He can’t move. “No, no, this isn’t fair—”

He knows. He knows, and he can’t do a thing about it.

“I—” he manages, pushing the word out with what little air is circulating through his lungs. “I don’t want—”

He can’t finish.

“I know you don’t want to go,” Tommy says, “I know, so, so you won’t, you won’t, you’re going to be fine—”

“We’re here, Wilbur,” Tubbo says. “We’re right here.”

He’s glad. He wants to stay with them.

“Jesus, Wilbur.” There’s that voice again. Not Tommy’s, not Tubbo’s. Soft and exasperated, and perhaps a little bit concerned, but he’s not sure. His ability to think, to reason, is slipping from his grasp, and one some level, that terrifies him, but on another, he can no longer care. “You giving up?”

The peculiar combination of derision and amusement is familiar. He opens his eyes; he hadn’t realized he’d closed them. Above him, a face hovers, upside-down from his vantage point. Dark hair, scruff, chipped horns, a blue sweater. Schlatt.

How long has he been here?

“Is this how you’re gonna go out?” Schlatt asks him. “Taken out by a—whatever the hell this was? You know, I’m still not clear on that. None of you assholes ever explained it to me. Some kind of demon bullshit. But you’re just gonna let this happen?”

Somehow, his voice cuts through the haze that’s filled his mind, cuts through even where Tommy and Tubbo’s voices have blended together, becoming one with the background. Perhaps it’s the sudden burst of annoyance, an energy he thought he no longer had; of course he’s not letting this happen. There’s just not a whole lot he can do to fight against acute organ failure. Does he look as if he planned this?

“You don’t want to go, though,” Schlatt says. “I heard that. Good on you, I guess. Deciding that life’s worth something after all. I’m real proud.”

He tries to glare at him. He has no idea whether his face is doing anything or not. If it is, he hopes that the boys don’t think he’s mad at them.

“Okay,” Schlatt says. “Okay, you know what? Let’s give this a try. You’re a real jackass, though, you know that? I want to make sure you know that. I need you to remember that to the end of your days. I want you to put it on your tombstone when you do finally kick it. Here lies Wilbur Soot, he was a real jackass.”

He doesn’t understand what Schlatt is trying to say. He’s rambling, as if to himself. And the world is sliding away again.

(he’s trying to hold on but there’s only so much he can do if the entire cliff face gives way there’s only so much he can do to fight against it there’s only so much)

But then, he feels it. The tether. The rope that binds them. The trailing connection. It opens up, pulling like gravity on his heart, and there’s that familiar sensation, energy leaving him, flowing down the line, except this is energy that he truly doesn’t have to spare, and the last embers of his panic flare up again, because surely Schlatt can feel it, can feel that he has nothing to give, that this is only going to kill him quicker, within seconds if he keeps this up and he may not have much of a chance here but he doesn’t need Schlatt making it worse—

“Holy shit!” he hears Tubbo say, backed up by, “What the fuck are you doing?” from Tommy an instant later. He can’t see them. He can’t see anything. Their voices are far away, and he’s trying to reach them, but he’s falling, and he can’t stop it, can’t stop himself, and the void is close.

(and he’s scared)

“Hey Tubbo,” he hears Schlatt say. Distantly, from a long way away, and getting quieter. Everything is dim. He’s floating. “You deserved better than me, kid, you really did.” A pause. “Tell Fundy the same thing, would you?”

His heart beats. Once. Twice. And then does not beat again. He’d be in pain if he could still feel it. But it’s all gone. All falling away, and the void is close, the void is reaching out to him, and he is—

And then, the tether reverses.

Energy flows back into him. What Schlatt took, and somehow, inextricably—more.

He slams back into himself all at once, gasping for air, back arching off the ground as he is hit with—everything. Sensation, in his fingers, in his toes. Pain, in every inch of him, every atom. Lungs that inflate, barely at first and then more fully. Ruptured places repairing themselves. A heart that starts again, and beats, beats, beats.

“C’mon,” Schlatt is muttering, over and over, and though Tommy and Tubbo are still talking, it’s the only voice he can latch onto. “C’mon, c’mon.” His hand is splayed across Wilbur’s chest, firm and solid, pressing down. “C’mon.”

He has sight again. Schlatt is still there, is still leaning over him, strain written on every line of his face, and Wilbur doesn’t understand, doesn’t understand what he’s doing, doesn’t understand where this energy is coming from, doesn’t understand how it’s—healing him. It’s healing him. Though—Schlatt is a ghost, is usually intangible, has to rely on Wilbur’s lifeforce if he wants to do anything, but perhaps that doesn’t mean Schlatt has none of his own. Perhaps it’s just not enough to sustain him. Perhaps it’s not enough to form him a body, not enough to create life from death.

But perhaps it’s enough for this.

Just as he works through it, Schlatt loses his solidity. His hand slips down, passing through Wilbur’s chest, and he shudders at the sensation, tingling and cold. But Schlatt doesn’t pull away, and the energy keeps flowing, and then, Schlatt starts to flicker, his form wavering in and out of reality.

And finally, Wilbur thinks he understands.

(reciprocity is something they both know well, and a connection once opened can flow both ways)

“You’re giving too much,” he says, though he’s practically mouthing the words, so thin is his voice.

“Yeah, well,” Schlatt says, his voice echoing and distant and staticky. Like a snowfall. “Maybe I want you to prove me wrong.”

Prove him wrong?

(a sunny day, flowers twisted absently in his hands, blue flowers to match the blue sweater, blue sky above, and Schlatt’s voice saying, people like us don’t change, and he once believed that, believed that his role was set and there was no going back, and he believed that for Schlatt as well, believed that for the both of them there could be no redemption, but now he isn’t so sure, and he looks into Schlatt’s eyes and he thinks that perhaps)

“Schlatt,” he whispers, and Schlatt gives him a long look. Hard, but not cruel, measured, but not mocking, considering, not dismissive. And perhaps, just perhaps, there is a little bit of regret there, too.

(regret for the boys they once were, full of life and ideas and hope, tongues sharp and minds sharper, and what good friends they used to be, in the days of their youths when they were free and unburdened and war was a tale from the past and politics a distant future and betrayal a joke and a game, when they were young, when they were young)

“Prove me wrong, Wilbur,” Schlatt says, and then, he is gone. He winks out of existence, and there is no shimmer of blue in the air, no feeling of being watched, of eyes on him, and the tether breaks, snaps apart, and he lets out a soundless shout as the backlash hits him, like a rubber band snapping back into place. The energy stops, and there is nothing in its place, and he reaches out, instinctively, searching, and finds nothing. Where the ghost was, there is blank space. Only the world, and no hum of the stars.

(the hum of the stars is in your mind and your mind only and you are alone inside of it and there is no other not anymore)

And he is alive.

“What the fuck,” Tommy is saying. His hands paw at his neck, pressing up to find his pulse, and Wilbur can feel it. The touch is warm. “What the hell did he do to you, that fucker—Wilbur? Wilbur, c’mon, answer me, man, are you still—”

“Here,” he says, and Tommy falls silent. “I’m here.”

He is here. He is lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling, and the vines are still turning to dust above him. He is here, and he hurts, still, deeply and acutely, every inch of him aching, but his heart beats steadily, his lungs expand when he breathes, and there is no catch in his throat, no urge to cough, no churning in his stomach, no convulsions wracking him, and his vision is clear.

“Wilbur?” Tubbo asks. His voice shakes.

“I’m here,” he says again. “I’m not going. I’m still here.”

“Oh my god,” Tommy says, and then, Tommy’s all but on top of him, lying on his chest, wrapping his arms around him, knocking the breath right out of him, and Tubbo follows a short second behind, taking up all of the space that Tommy isn’t. He wheezes, but it’s a good sort of wheeze, even if it hurts. It definitely hurts. But he’s hardly about to get them to stop.

They pile on him, grabbing onto him like their lives depend upon it,

(or like his life depends upon it)

and he feels warm, and present, and here. Still here.

(safe)

(alive)

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. That’s about all the volume he can manage; his throat feels shredded. “I’m so sorry I scared you.”

“You’d better be sorry,” Tommy chokes out. “I thought you were gonna die.”

“I thought I was too,” he says. “But I didn’t want to. I fought it, I swear. I don’t want to go. I mean that.” They’re on top of his arms, pinning them. He gives them a nudge, experimentally, but they don’t give an inch, so he’s going to have to settle for not hugging them, apparently. “I’m staying right here. I don’t want to die.”

The words are novel. He thinks he’d like to say them over and over again, just to test them out, to feel the truth in them. He doesn’t want to die, and more than that, he rather thinks he wants to live. What a revolutionary thing it is, to want to live.

“You dickhead,” Tommy mutters, and buries his face in his shirt, which becomes damp in short order. He won’t call him on it.

“Please don’t do that again, though,” Tubbo says. “That was actively terrifying.”

He manages a laugh. The sound of it surprises him. “I’m not planning on it,” he says.

Despite the heavy weight of two teenage boys resting on him, he feels lighter than he has in weeks. Since he woke up in that forest, rain falling on his face, and turned to the arctic, to the snow and the tundra and the promise of family that he didn’t know how to feel about, the promise of a family that was scattered and broken into too many pieces. Since seeing his brother again a scarce day later, standing in the rain, the notes of the guitar fading in the air. Since the Egg, since the prison, since arguments and tentative reconciliations and everything that’s happened between now and then. And the thoughts still lurk. He can sense them in the shadows of his mind, ready to swell forth again, ready to tell him all about what he deserves and how he will be betrayed and how everyone hates him and he hates himself but for now—

For now, in this moment, he wants to live, and he wants to live well, and he pushes aside the whispers of what he deserves and lets himself be, and lets himself love.

(and lets himself be loved)

And then: footsteps. Several pairs, rushing down the corridor. He can’t get a good look, and the boys don’t seem inclined to take much notice, either. But he has a feeling as to who it is, and his suspicion is confirmed a moment later, as Fundy’s voice floats toward him, saying, “—bad, I mean, it’s really bad, I really think he’s literally dying, and I don’t, I just don’t—” He sounds as though he’s been keeping up this litany for some time, perhaps more as something to say than anything else, something to focus on, something to distract him a bit. His voice gets closer, and then stops. “Oh my god, is he dead?” His voice pitches upward, and overlaps with a sharp inhalation—Phil’s, he recognizes.

So there’s only one thing to do.

“Help,” he rasps, “I’m being crushed.”

There is a long moment of silence, and he almost wishes that Tommy and Tubbo would get up so that he could see the looks on their faces. Almost, but not quite. He’s content to stay like this for a good while longer.

“Oh my god, he’s alive,” Fundy says, and there is a sharp exhalation, also from Phil.

“You fucks,” Phil says, relief audible. “Do you know how scared I was?”

“I wasn’t,” Techno says. “I wasn’t worried at all.”

Finally, Tommy stirs, lifting his face from his chest and glaring off in the direction of the entrance. He also lifts a hand and flips them off.

“Fuck off,” he says. “We’ve just had a traumatic experience, we have. Are you going to stand there and be—and be twats, or did you bring anything useful? Like—” He stops, looking back down at him. His face is vaguely tear-stained, though Wilbur’s pretty sure that most of it is in his shirt. “Do you still need some pots? Or did—what the hell did he even do, anyway? How did that—you were definitely dying, and then he was there, all, all like that, and then he disappeared and you were better. What did he do?”

“Changed, I think,” he murmurs, and judging from the expression on Tommy’s face, he doesn’t get it. But that’s alright.

“Okay,” Phil says, and then he’s sweeping toward them and kneeling. His wings are on full display, he notes, no effort at all put toward hiding them, and maybe it doesn’t really mean anything, but he can’t help but feel glad. Phil should never have to hide his wings, no matter what condition they’re in. “Alright—here, Tubbo, could you move over a bit?”

Tubbo shifts off of him, too, his breathing unsteady. His eyes are slightly red-rimmed to match Tommy’s. He doesn’t say anything, just shuffles to the side so that he’s sitting next to Tommy. Phil shoots a quick smile at him, one that’s probably supposed to be reassuring but comes off as strained, and then, his hands are on Wilbur’s shoulders.

“You think you can sit up, Wil?” he asks, and Wilbur tries. He tries, but immediately gives it up as a lost cause as all his core muscles cry out in immediate protest.

“Sitting up ability is currently on strike, I believe,” he says, and Phil’s brow furrows in concern, but he takes it in stride. Behind him, Fundy and Techno are both hovering—though Fundy’s far more obvious about it. It is a bit funny how they’re both doing it, though, and the contrast between them, Techno’s bulk and general everything next to Fundy’s fidgeting. Fundy keeps casting glances at Techno, too, nervous ones.

Phil pulls him into an upright position, and he moans, his head swimming for a second before the lightheadedness abates. He hunches forward, letting gravity pull him back down a little; he thinks he’d flop over like a ragdoll if it weren’t for Phil steadying him.

“Where are you hurt the worst?” Phil asks, voice quiet. “Fundy said you were coughing up blood. And that you had a seizure, I’m guessing, judging from what he told us.”

He can still taste it on his tongue. Sharp iron. And his limbs are all very sore.

“A bit everywhere,” he admits. “I’m pretty sure all my organs were giving out on me at once, so I don’t think there’s one specific area that needs attention.” Phil’s expression widens into open dismay at that, and something very much like fear, and perhaps he shouldn’t have phrased it quite like that. Perhaps he shouldn’t be so blasé about his imminent death in front of the man who he begged to take his third life and definitely emotionally scarred in the process. But he’s still a bit wrapped up in the fact that he’s alive at all, alive and glad to be so.

“Okay,” Phil says, in a way that implies he definitely does not think that it’s okay, but he’s trying to keep it together. “Okay. That’s—okay. Do you think you could get down a regen?”

He pulls a face, but nods. Regen potions have never been his favorite; their magic is rough, unsubtle, far more concerned with function over comfort. But he likely needs one, or two, or several, or as many as his body can keep down, because he is alive, but probably far from alright, still; the continuing ache is evidence enough of that, and he’s fairly certain that if he tried to stand, he would tip over immediately. Phil has no reservations, bringing out a pot from his inventory and holding it up to him, a mirror of Tommy’s actions a minute before. Only this time, he brings up a shaking hand to help support the glass, even if he can’t hold its full weight, and he swallows all of it without coughing.

It gets to work. He winces, and then decides that he’s been on the ground long enough. The energy from the pot is more than enough for him to attempt to get up.

“Whoa,” Phil says, “wait, Wilbur—”

He’s up. His vision blacks out for a second, but when it clears, he’s still up, if woozy. He imagines he might need help to walk any significant distance, but he won’t need to be carried, at least. Which is nice. Being carried is undignified.

“You should absolutely not be standing up,” Tommy snaps, and he raises an eyebrow.

“And yet,” he says, spreading his arms. Once again, he gets the impression that he’s being far more casual about all of this than he should be. He imagines that it will hit him later, the horror of it, seeing Niki’s face twisted in rage, letting the Egg inside his mind once again, almost being unable to pull himself out, almost dying right after he figured out that he didn’t want to. It will all his him, he’s sure, but for now, he would like to walk out of here under his own power, his family by his side, everyone alive and unharmed, the trouble dealt with at last. “I’m alright. I actually mean that. I’m not going to keel over.”

He inhales. Wrinkles his nose. Actually, it doesn’t smell very nice in here.

“Is the rest handled?” he asks, glancing at Phil. Phil is standing very close to him, wings flared, likely ready to catch him if he needs it. He won’t, though he appreciates the gesture.

“We felt the Egg go,” Phil says. “It was like—like the world itself distorted for a second, and then patched itself back up. We were already on our way here when Fundy came to get us. In a nutshell, yes, it’s handled. Dream was still up when we left, but the rest of the Egg people just sort of—stopped. And nobody on our side went down hard. Eret and Puffy got the worst of it, but they’ll both be fine, last I saw.”

“But Dream was still up,” he says. Beside him, Tommy’s shoulders hunch.

“Not for long,” Techno says. His gaze is fixed behind them, on the Egg. “We would’ve stayed if we weren’t sure of it.” His eyes drift to Tommy’s for a second. “The others are handlin’ it. But we can go see.” And then, to Tubbo: “The totem came in handy.” A statement, not a question.

“Yes,” Tubbo says, expression inscrutable. “It did. Thank you, Technoblade.”

Techno shrugs. “I gave it to be used,” he says dryly. “Let’s not make a habit of it.” And that is a Techno way of saying you’re welcome, of burying the hatchet as much as he is able, and it’s not nearly enough, but it’s a first step. And then, Techno literally steps forward, and Wilbur is a little too concerned with the way that Tubbo stiffens to notice exactly what his intent is, which is why it takes him by surprise when Techno takes his head in his hands and presses their foreheads together.

Just for a second. But it’s an old gesture, a familiar gesture, and not one that he ever expected to receive again. His breath catches.

(you were kids the first time he did this, the first time he butted his head against yours, impossibly gentle, tender in a way you hadn’t realized Techno knew how to be, and it wasn’t until later that Phil explained it to you, explained piglin instincts and the concept of a sounder and how Techno always, always feels far more than he lets on, and always, always cares, perhaps too much, and he still does, despite everything, he still does)

And then, Techno walks forward, past them, to the husk of the Egg that lies behind, and the moment is over. But it was there. It was there, when it didn’t have to be, when Techno would still be well within his rights to hold back from them, from him, to keep his distance. But here he is, displaying open affection, and he’s not naive enough to think that means it’s all fixed, but—

Hope is a dangerous thing, but he feels in the mood to indulge. And beside him, Tubbo relaxes, and Tommy, just for a second, wears an expression that suggests a bit of hope of his own.

He turns to watch Techno as he roots through the dust, a crumbling, greyed-out monument that barely holds any shape. A reminder, and nothing more. An empty shell, and that, too, will disintegrate soon enough, leaving a room of dust and lava pools, and statues long abandoned.

Techno huffs. Reaches down. And from the middle of the Egg, he pulls out—

“Is that fucking Skeppy,” Tommy states, flat as a fucking pancake.

He blinks. Because it—is. Somehow. Fucking Skeppy. Though he looks different; parts of him are the same blue, but many patches are discolored, greyish white, and as Techno hoists him up, Wilbur thinks he sees red slipping off of him, like runny paint.

“Oh my god,” Tubbo says. “Was the Egg Skeppy this whole time?”

“I was wonderin’ where this guy got off to,” Techno says, and throws Skeppy across his shoulders in a fireman’s carry, apparently unconcerned. “He hadn’t been by to bother me in a while. And BadBoyHalo kind of just sat down and started cryin’ about him, which, I won’t lie, I had no idea how to handle, not my area, but I thought he might be here. Are we leavin’ these two here, or takin’ them?”

Niki and Jack. Both on the ground, chests rising and falling. Free of the Egg, now, but he’s not sure where that leaves them. Though it would likely be—

“Leave ‘em,” Tommy says, startlingly vehement. “Just, we’ll come back, leave ‘em here for now.”

“I don’t think he meant to,” Tubbo says quietly. “I think it just happened really fast.”

“Don’t care,” Tommy says. “Leave ‘em.”

He looks back and forth between them. Gold still dances across Tubbo’s skin. And he wasn’t turned around, didn’t see what happened, but he thinks he can guess, based on everything, based on Niki’s sword at Tommy’s throat and Jack pinning Tubbo to the ground, based on their desperate, misdirected need for vengeance and the way Jack shouted and a boy who would do just about anything to ensure Tommy’s safety. Hears I don’t think he meant to, and thinks about other times, darker times,

(and meaning does not always matter, because intent is washed away in impact, and he never meant to hurt them)

and he decides not to ask. Not now. Not yet. Though it should be addressed. A lot of things should be addressed, a lot of things that they have not, yet, because there has been no time, because everything has been moving at a breakneck pace, but the pace will be slower now. The pace will be slower, and they will have time.

He looks to Fundy. Fundy stares back, not saying anything at all. His eyes are wet.

“I’m glad you’re not dead,” Fundy murmurs. Quiet enough that he doesn’t think anyone else hears it.

“Me too,” he says. “And I’m glad you’re here.”

A start. A first step. There are so many of those that still need to be taken. For now, Fundy’s lips curl into what might be the ghost of a smile.

They will have time.

***

The scene they return to is this: some are standing, some are sitting, all gathered in the courtyard of the castle. The gates lie wide open. The vines are gone. The sun is rising.

There is Eret, standing tall, though blood still runs down from a wound on their shoulder and another long gash on their arm. Their crown is blood splattered, their glasses still perched on their nose, though slipping down, and Wilbur glances away before he can take in something he’s not meant to see. There is Puffy, kneeling, her blood on the grass around her; it is her leg that is wounded, though it is difficult to tell how badly. There is Sam, shifting, uncertain, a lost look in his eyes as his fingers flex around his trident. There is Purpled, on the outskirts, on guard but perhaps an ally, though he has no reason to be. There is BadBoyHalo, sitting, curled into himself, tears running down his face, which is less ashen. The other members of the Eggpire cluster around him, seemingly in various states of shock. None of them move. They are mostly ignored.

There is Ranboo, also sitting. His eyes are wide. Tears are streaming down his face, too, and a bit of steam rises from his skin. He pays no mind. He’s trembling, occasionally gasping for breath through a sob.

There is Quackity, still standing, hands clutched around an axe like it’s the best protection he knows how to have. He wonders if there’s any truth to that; Quackity has never been one for fighting, though he tries.

(he wonders if Schlatt wanted to say anything to him, too. wonders if it would have done more harm than good)

And then there is Dream, lying on the ground. There is George, crouched by his side. There is Sapnap, kneeling, all his weight on the sword piercing Dream’s chest. Dream’s chest rises and falls, shallow and slow, and nobody moves. Sapnap’s face is flushed, tears in his eyes, and whether they are from anger or grief, he can’t tell.

Dark smoke puffs out from under Dream’s mask and dissipates in the air. Tommy makes a small sound, and Wilbur fits his hand into his. Tommy doesn’t look at him, doesn’t look away from the sight in front of them, but his fingers curl around his.

Sapnap moves as if to draw the sword out. Dream’s hand comes up and wraps around the hilt, stopping him.

“No,” Dream says, voice a reedy whisper, free of shadow. “You need to be sure it’s gone.”

And so they stay. The only sound is crying, and Sapnap’s harsh breaths, hitched and desperate. Both angry and grieving at once. George’s hands inch forward until they’re curled into Dream’s hoodie. It’s like a painting, the three of them. The sun crests the walls of the castle, and the rays fall on them like a caress, and the smoke stops appearing. The sigils carved into the sword dim.

Dream stops breathing. Quietly, and without fanfare. Like a sigh.

As one, more than a dozen communicators chime.

Tommy exhales shakily.

(is this closure? is this what he wanted? he doesn’t know, but there is no going back, no going back to the old days, when they were all still friends and the war was a game)

(and after everything that Dream did perhaps it feels wrong that this should end so abruptly or that he should not shove the sword in his chest himself for what he did to Tommy or that Tommy should have no say in his fate but at the same time perhaps it is right and perhaps this is the way the circle breaks at last)

Techno sighs, walks over to where Bad sits, and dumps Skeppy in front of him. As if a spell has been broken, Tubbo moves, too, crossing to Ranboo and crouching before him, speaking to him in low tones. Several others start moving, like the world was on pause and has only just resumed. Sapnap draws the sword from Dream’s chest, but he remains there, kneeling by the body.

Dream looks peaceful. Though with his mask still on, it’s impossible to tell. No one motions to remove it.

Tommy presses close to him. On the other side, Fundy steps closer. Against his back, he feels one of Phil’s wings brush against all of them, a promise of shelter, of safety. Perhaps this time, it will be kept.

Just like that, it is over. Can it be over?

(is it ever truly over?)

(but in every ending there is a beginning, and the world still spins, and the grass still grows, and the sky is still blue, and finally there is more reason to look forward than back)

The sun rises. Is rising, has risen, will rise again and again and again. And he’s lived to see it.

[sharkselfies]

The Minds Behind The Terror Podcast Transcript - Episode 4

Our journey comes to an end with the transcript for episode 4 of The Minds Behind The Terror Podcast, where Dave Kajganich, Soo Hugh, Dan Simmons, and Adam Nagaitis discuss the last two episodes of the series. Once again, Adam steals the show with his revelations about Mr. Hickey, but we also hear about everyone’s favorite death scenes, the fight to let Mr. Blanky say fuck, the many changes the writers made to the ending that differed from the novel, and the importance of trusting your audience’s intelligence.

The Minds Behind The Terror Podcast - Episode 4

[The Terror opening theme music]

Dave Kajganich: Welcome to the fourth and final installment of The Minds Behind AMC’s The Terror as we discuss our final two episodes of the show! I’m Dave Kajganich, creator and co-showrunner of the series, here with the honorable Dan Simmons, creator of the novel The Terror on which the series is based. Also with us is Soo Hugh, executive producer and co-showrunner of the show, and Adam Nagaitis, who plays a man who plays a man called Cornelius Hickey. Welcome back!

Adam Nagaitis: Hi!

Dan Simmons: Hi Dave. 

DK: So we launch into our final episodes. Now we are in an episode where the show begins to bend time. We cover a lot of ground in episode nine, a lot of distance, we say goodbye to quite a lot of characters, and we start to really bend the tone and the shape of the narrative towards the kind of horrible collision that’s coming between Crozier and Hickey and our Tuunbaq.

Soo Hugh: So in nine we say goodbye to so many of our characters. I mean Dave and I cried so--

[laughter]

SH: The amount of tears that he and I shed editing this show, especially with nine and ten. For you guys, Adam and Dan, which were the deaths--well, what did you think of the deaths?

DS: What’s your favorite death? 

[laughter]

SH: Yeah, what was your favorite death? 

AN: My favorite was probably, the one that really moved me was Fitzjames, it’s such a fantastic story, his character’s so interesting, that transition, discovering, you know, admitting who you are, and the firework at the Tuunbaq being his feat of courage, and then to end up, to embrace death, and to do it in such a beautiful way. And then the line of “there will be poems” that Mr. Bridgens says. 

[show audio]

[sad, eerie music]

Bridgens (through tears): It was an honor serving you, sir. You’re a good man. There will be poems.

AN: It’s a beautiful death, it’s probably the best you can ask for, in that situation, you’re with a friend. Yeah, it’s quite sad. Of course you gotta love Blanky’s death as well, that’s, I’m cheating, now, yeah, but Blanky’s death is the greatest line to go out on, surely.

[show audio]

[Tuunbaq growling, shales crunching underfoot]

Blanky: What in the name of god took you so fuckin’ long? 

[Tuunbaq snorts, Blanky laughs maniacally] 

DK: We weren’t entirely sure whether AMC was going to permit us to use that word, a curse word, because on AMC you’re not meant to. Luckily for us, there are a number of AMC shows that have a precedent of using that word and we argued successfully that, you know, could you ask for a better show, a better scene than a Victorian disaster show to use the F-word, and they finally allowed us to use it, and we’re really grateful.

SH: I think just visually Bridgens’ death was so beautiful, and that pull out. And what was interesting was in our research found, we discovered, there was a corpse they discovered who had rolled over and was found sleeping on a set of papers, and in the show Bridgens takes Peglar’s diary when he chooses to die out there in the cold alone comforted with his memories, we see him roll over, and so that’s just our nod to history. Now it turns out we don't know whether or not it was actually Peglar’s diary, it could have been Armitage’s--

DK: No, I think we know it’s Peglar’s journal, but we don’t know whether the man lying on top of it was Armitage or Bridgens.

SH: Then there’s Goodsir’s death. Oh my God, Goodsir! I can’t believe Hickey! Adam! Goodsir!

AN: Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know. He had it comin’!  

[laughter]

AN: I forgot that death, I forgot all of those deaths, actually, what a--so beautifully acted. I mean, unbelievable. It was perfect. The pure clean images of the coral, and the shell, oh I loved it, and the end, I think it’s an orchid, I just loved it, I absolutely--it’s something that I don’t like talking about, that death, it’s really horrible. 

[show audio]

[the rising music from the scene of Goodsir’s death]

DS: They were all very moving in their own way, saying goodbye to each of the characters, surprisingly powerful, you know, some of ‘em were not major characters, but everything connected for me watching your version. When--earlier, when Fitzjames is out with Crozier alone, and Fitzjames sort of acknowledges that he’s a fake, that he’s just been faking this heroism, you know, the admiralty thought they sent a hero, they sent Fitzjames, he was the man of the moment, but he hadn’t done that much, so he had the courage to say that, and Crozier immediately had the compassion to point out, “No, you’re here, now, and you’re doing fine,” that’s not the dialect but that’s the essence of his message. So all through these scenes with the different characters, I found compassion again. [It] was the way Crozier touched men who were close to the end, the tone of his voice, you know, it wasn’t mawkish, he wouldn’t like being at all sentimental, but it was so supportive. It was like Goodsir helping the poor boy at the beginning of the show, telling him how death could be good, how you see light, you cross over. The kid died in terror; some of these people did. But most of ‘em, they’re like--Fitzjames, when he’s, you know, when he finally has to be carried in the sledge, and he has a sense of humor at the end, he can laugh at himself, somewhat, ‘cause he tells Crozier that that the bullet that went through his arm into his chest, that area is now so gangrene--er, rotten, you know, the bullet is finally going to kill him. Haha. 

[polite awkward laughter]

DK: Well you pointed out a line from the first episode, where Fitzjames is talking to Franklin and he says, “Sometimes I think you love your men more than God loves them,” and Franklin's response is “For all your sakes, let’s hope you’re wrong,” and we brought that line back in a different way in episode nine, which is where the survivors of the Terror Camp attack are about to leave, and they know Hickey’s out there somewhere, and Fitzjames’s impulse is to hide or destroy all of their extra supplies so that Hickey’s group can’t benefit from them, and Crozier has the opposite instinct, which is because he knows some people in Hickey’s group probably made that decision because they were afraid that the alternative was worse to stay with Crozier and so many people, that he wants to offer them the resources in case they can use them and in case they wanna make a different decision in the days ahead.

[show audio] 

Fitzjames: And the supplies we cannot carry? If Hickey’s band are waiting us out to loot the camp?

Crozier: Some of the men with them made their choice out of fear, I’ll not take away any chance they have to survive. We may meet them yet again, and if we do, I want them to make a different choice. Leave our supplies in a tidy pile, as an offering. I want the men with Hickey to know that’s how we meant it. 

[shales crunching underfoot]

Fitzjames: More than God loves them...

DK: Lines like that are a real test, I mean, you struggle with them in the editing room. Did we earn that line? Is it important that an audience remembers that as an index point that line has now been sort of superficially applied to one man, but more sincerely applied to another man, and, you know, that goes back to sort of a close reading of the book, Dan, just sort of scouring through your dialogue trying to figure out how does a master, if I can refer to you that way, approach this idea of a relationship with an audience? And we learned an enormous amount from your book about restraint and indirection, and credit, giving the audience credit. And I will say this, the series is different enough from your novel that I would encourage everyone who has seen the television show but not read your book to seek it out, because they will have just as rewarding--even more so, possibly!--a time of learning about this history through the lens of horror than they did watching the show. So I think they complement one another. I hope they do, and I hope people will seek out both. 

DS: That’s kind of you, Dave. My wife keeps track of the tie-in version of the book, and it’s selling very well, so some people are gonna get that. 

SH: There is this fantastic scene that is in your book, that we had neither money nor time to shoot, but it’s where they discover leads, and they take the boats out going around, and they realize they’re just going around in a circle. We didn’t have the time to shoot that and we re-jiggered our narrative so that the leads ended up being a ploy on one of Hickey’s secret mutineers. Nine is a very quiet episode, and in some ways when you, in television shows--did you miss a set piece, in nine? Did anyone miss having a bigger narrative punch?

DS: Well, I'll answer, then let Adam answer, but for me, who had that boat scene and really liked it a lot, I didn’t miss my stuff too much, because what happened was when the young man, a boy actually, who’s secretly under Hickey’s control tells Crozier and the others he sees open water, and they rush to the rocky beach to see it, and of course that was a lie and a ploy to get them there so Hickey can seize them, but my heart just flew, that, “Open water! Ohh boy!” You know? How would men have felt if they’d heard that, in reality, what was their reaction? ‘Cause the open water could conceivably be their savior, they could get other places, not just cross over and start marching through middle Canada, but they could go anywhere on open water, and to see it all locked in with ice was just stunning to me, it was such a disappointment. So no, I don’t miss my part of it very much.

AN: I never thought of it as something that suggests a quiet narrative like you described it, Soo, to me it sort of links--I see nine and ten as one episode, really. It’s this slow build, the creation of that relationship that these two--the antithesis between these two camps, and between the tactics employed... I just think that the way you guys wrote it and put it together is flawless, I just think it’s so beautifully weighted, between, you know, the deaths that to me they don’t seem to just sort of monotonously pile up, they’re all just so beautifully handled and acted. And the whole time you have this tension building, slowly, slowly, that, you know, that it’s gonna come to a head. I didn’t feel when I watched it that it ever lacked punch. It had such clarity and such patience that made it really beautiful.

DS: And I don’t know if we can say the C-word on podcasts… cannibalism? 

[laughter]

DK: Yes, that one we can. 

SH: Yes.

DS: Oh, ok. You know there was a--if Hickey hadn’t already divided the troop into his people, the anointed, and then Crozier’s group, it would have happened anyway because of the cannibalism. And when you think about it, think of that rugby team or soccer team or whatever that crashed in the Andes. They went back into society. They were cannibals, they admitted it, they got a book deal. And so, presumably, even in England, these people would have been forgiven, or they would have kept it secret like some do. So cannibalism, what it did in this show, I think, divides the people. I didn’t see, until he was forced to imbibe in cannibalism, I didn't see Crozier even considering it. And so that fascinates me, just how far people will go to survive. 

[show audio]

[tense music, tent canvas flapping in the wind]

EC: I’ll give you some advice. Don’t indulge your morals over your practicals. Not now. Don’t you also wanna live? 

SH: Dave, we talked a lot about this, is when you’re in that moment, you’re not Dave Kajganich and I’m not Soo Hugh, in that moment, choosing whether or not we decide to eat someone. Something else will take over, whether it is the Goodsir in us or whether it is the Hickey in us, in that moment. I think that’s why when we shot that scene, you know, after Gibson is cut up, Adam, remember when we shot the reaction shots from each one of you eating your first bite of human flesh meat, and we took so much footage, we shot so much. We shot, you know, closes, mediums, just because Dave and I, you know, at that point, we were very confident of how to shoot everything, that was probably the moment when we were like ugh.

DK: Well we wanted to know how little we could get away with, and what we found, of course, which is typical for the show, the performances were so terrific, that we didn’t need very much. And I remember on the mix stage, the first mix that they did of the show, of that episode, I mean, there was quite a lot of chewing.

[laughter]

And so when I said, no no no, let’s pull all of that out, and use the most minute changes in expression, because all of you at that table were so well in character, that even the slightest muscle movement on your face communicated everything we needed you to. And we were obviously very interested in not overplaying that scene, knowing that audiences had been waiting for it, wondering how, in what kind of taste we would show it, you know, how we would modulate it, and you know a rule throughout the show was to try to present everything with its most practical face, including this. And so, you know, hopefully when that lands for people it will be both satisfying in the sense that they will understand how these characters made that decision but it won’t feel that we have over-articulated it, somehow. 

DS: I’m not religious, but I’m obsessed with religion, and in your story, the way you structured it, you have, in a sense, we’ve already talked, or at least I have, about how Hickey seems to be evolving towards Messiahdom, I think he near the end he thinks he is the Messiah, but it’s Goodsir who provides The Last Supper. How much more powerful a story of Christ is there, than, you know, “Take, eat,” and it’s yourself? And it’s fascinating to me that the man who dedicated his life to helping people and curing people and being empathic at their ending, his last act is to kill as many of Hickey’s people as possible. And, you know, so there’s--that’s where the trial was, it wasn’t when Hickey was gonna be hanged, it was inside Dr. Goodsir when he decided that “These people need to end and I will do it.” 

SH: So should we talk about the big scene at the end--well, it’s not the end, it’s the Tuunbaq sequence in 1.10? 

DK: To set it up, Adam, you know, Hickey--we’ll keep calling him Hickey even though we’ve established he isn’t--you get an important piece of information in episode nine where Tozer, Sergeant Tozer, relays to you a piece of information that he hasn’t shared with anyone, that he watched Collins be killed and he watched Collins’s soul be pulled out of his body. And, you know, for Hickey, suddenly a lot of things make sense. What happened to Private Heather, who was alive for many episodes but no longer sort of present in his body, I mean you even have a scene where you poke his brain hoping to get some kind of reaction out of him, and you take that piece of information and you suddenly realize you’re not longer in a kind of survival story, you’re in kind of a spiritual story, you’re in kind of a mythological story, suddenly. Can you talk about how you decided to play that so it was sort of clear to an audience what that opportunity was? Because we did not devote a lot of dialogue to it, it was going to have to be something an audience felt as much as was described to them. 

AN: I can only describe the way that it--the process--the mind of it, that, you know, you see Hickey has a plan, up until that point, he’s started--the way that I thought about it was that, you know, once he starts to hear things, he starts to have this space of this area, creates this space in his mind and he understands the things that have come before him and his curiosity leads him to, you know--one element in him is still practically engaged in survival, and outmaneuvering the captain, and heading south, and coming up with a plan and, you know, a story as to what happened, but then there are other elements of, you know, consuming human flesh, that there might be an answer there, it might be an enlightening experience. And if it’s not in that, is it something else? And he finds the hill, and he understands when he sees that hill, that he hears something, and then he’s not quite clear on what it is, what’s drawing him, and what’s talking to him, and what he’s feeling, but he’s becoming one with this realm, and, you know, he starts to, once he discovers the supernatural element--not that he hasn’t already established that there is one, but the fact that it’s such a specific--he’s been developing his knowledge of the summoning song that Lady Silence sings to become a Shaman, you know, the rules of this particular realm, this empire. And he’s been gathering this information as we go along, all the way through the series he’s been taking pieces of information, and he pockets it and learns and keeps it for later.

[show audio]

[mysterious music]

Hickey: Tuunbaq… a spirit that dresses as an animal, and yet we shot it with a cannon and drew blood. How do you reconcile that?

Crozier: I can’t. There’s much about this voyage I can’t reconcile. 

Hickey: What mythology is this creature at the center of?

Crozier: About the creature I have no answers, Mr. Hickey. We were not meant to know of it. 

AN: And when he gets this key piece of the puzzle, that the Tuunbaq is taking souls, and that... there’s a hierarchy of what the Tuunbaq wants to eat. You know, a captain, and important people, he realizes that he really is the center of this universe. I suppose the way that I adjusted it was that everybody else became irrelevant. Completely irrelevant. I no longer needed to worry about manipulation, control, fear. Everything was gonna sing for me, everything was gonna work as if I had magic hands, and my voice just dictated what the universe would do.

[show audio]

[mysterious music continued]

Hickey: I didn’t have anywhere near an equal on this expedition. But you. I wanted to thank you for that. On the eve of what is quite an important day. 

AN: Every single conversation was an annoyance because it was getting in the way of me listening to the universe, this world, this empire, this realm that was now speaking to me. And I was talking to the Tuunbaq, you know, from this distance, and we had this dance going, and everything that happened was just getting in my way. It was all gonna work itself out because I’ve been chosen to ascend, to reach this ascension, to, you know, ride the Tuunbaq into my new empire, to take my new throne, and I was finally gonna be given the answers to these questions that I’d been asking.

[show audio]

[rushing wind, men singing weakly in the background, creaking]

Hickey (shouting): Bugger Nelson! Bugger Jesus! Bugger Joseph and Mary! Bugger the Archbishop of Canterbury! None ever wanted nothing from me! 

SH: When you offer the Tuunbaq the tongue, and there’s that pause, what’s gonna happen, and he bites your arm off instead, and that look on your face of just, you know, “You too have failed me.”

DS: Et tu?

[laughter] 

“Et tu, Tuunbaq?”

[laughter]

AN: “Et tu, Tuunbaq,” that’s a great T-shirt. But that scene, I drifted, but that scene in particular, is a slight difference to what his plan was, which was to climb the hill, sacrifice the men, sacrifice the tongue, and to become one with the Tuunbaq and to take my place on the throne in this new realm. And to find the answers and maybe, you know, climb through to a different realm, or who knows what. This empire was now my empire, which was the culmination of all of Hickey through his entire life has been leading to this point, and he’s quietened himself enough to hear it, and then suddenly he gets sick, because somebody poisons him. And so it’s a slightly different feeling, as he’s climbing the hill, and it’s a different--something else is happening inside him. He’s still perfectly capable of executing his plan, he gets carried away in that scene, and then by the time the Tuunbaq appears, he kind of focuses again, and becomes very excited. It’s a relationship with the Tuunbaq, it’s a dance, that everything is for him and the Tuunbaq. Everyone else is irrelevant. 

[show audio]

[Tuunbaq snuffling, boat chain clanking]

[the Tuunbaq roars, sound of chomping flesh, then the screeching sound of the soul being eaten]

SH: And what he gets so wrong about the Tuunbaq, and I think what a lot of the Western characters in our show get wrong about the Tuunbaq, is that the Tuunbaq is not a deity, the Tuunbaq doesn’t ask to be a god, right? All it is is just this arbiter of what is good or what is not good for the land, you know, there’s no sense of the Tuunbaq wanting to be the ultimate creative force here, and I think that’s where Hickey was wrong, right?

AN: I think he sees it as a supernatural creature, and again, because everything comes through him, and the universe revolves around him, that it’s a challenge for him, it’s a question for him, and he deals a lot in questions as opposed to answers, and what his position is in the universe, and by the time he meets this creature that eats souls--and the creature’s sick, and it’s because he hasn’t united with it yet! It’s because of me that it’s sick, it hasn’t, I haven’t been in contact with it, and we haven’t united ourselves and taken over this empire, and he doesn’t see it for what it is. SH: And when you guys see the Tuunbaq’s death in the very end of that sequence, how did you guys feel?

DS: Speaking for the novelist here, I was surprised; and then I got through the surprise and thought yeah. And then I immediately wondered how Lady Silence would have to pay for this death, ‘cause you’d already shown me that she’s in charge of protecting the Tuunbaq, so it was controlling it in some way, and she wasn’t really up to the task, so I liked that in going, when Crozier’s with the Inuit band, learning that she’s been punished and sent out by herself. But the Tuunbaq’s death itself just seemed right at that time. 

[show audio]

[Tuunbaq’s death scene--growling noises, boat chain clinking, Crozier struggling] 

AN: It was a horrible thing to watch, as a viewer, it was so sad, and it spoke to me of this sort of contemporary sort of--to me it was sort of a global warming issue, not to bring it ‘round, but it was sort of like, that’s it, they’ve killed it. 

SH: No, absolutely, yeah! 

AN: They’ve killed it, they’ve killed the Tuunbaq and we’re actually rejoicing at Crozier’s survival. But really, the man deserves death, with the creature that creates balance to this culture should be alive. And we have this upside down world that we are celebrating, which is so, you know, intelligent of you guys to create, and it’s difficult to take, but that creature is gone, and so balance is gone, and here we are. 

DK: The very specific and subtle thing that we put in the show that probably no will decode it ‘til they hear this podcast, but was important to us as a structural element, was Sir John dies, when he’s killed down the fire hole in episode three, he has some flashes of subjective kinds of hallucinations, I suppose, or visions, I don’t know what you would call them. But one of them is of open water, it’s just a vista of the future of the Arctic, that there are going to be these, you know, that there’s going to be a huge melt, and there’s going to be all this open water. And for the final shot we tried to match, as much as we could, the angle, so that all of that frozen water that Crozier is sitting on at that seal hole would maybe possibly evoke that memory, to speak to what you’re saying, Adam, which is that this whole thing is a kind of, from the Netsilik’s point of view, it’s a huge tragedy in which these Europeans are the terrors, in a way. And not to be too reductive about it, but, you know, we wanted the season to have that kind of change of polarity, which is one reason why we couldn’t quite use the sort of the ending of the book, as much as we loved it, Dan, it felt like a lot of things that would feel--that would pull the point of view of the season across that line too much and too late. We wanted to try to modulate it a little bit so that every episode felt like you were giving some room in your point of view for Lady Silence’s perspective, or the Inuit’s perspective, and that that change would sort of happen so slowly you might not even notice that it was happening at all, which is one reason why we made that decision. 

DS: You gave every character I saw room to have his or her own apotheosis, which is a big theme with you guys, I meant, the arcs end and people becoming someone else. Crozier grows into his leadership, I think, beautifully. Maybe he deserved punishment, but I found Crozier and his empathy, as Fitzjames is dying in the boat, it’s Crozier that touches him and lets him know, you know, through physical contact, that he’s not alone. And giving them room is unusual. I just find there’s so many unusual elements to what you three have created, that, I have to warn you, I think it deserves a lot of intelligent attention.

DK: Well I hope we can volley a lot of those right back to the book, Dan. Well we should take some time at the end to--given that after the sequence, this really becomes almost a kind of silent film to deliver the ending to Crozier’s arc--to really sing the praises of Jared Harris in this show, I mean, what he did with this role is remarkable. So, Dan, I would love to know what you thought of Jared Harris’s Francis Crozier? 

DS: After watching the ten episodes of him and all those, and watching what he did with it, I just wanted him to adopt me. 

[laughter]

SH: He would love that! 

DS: But it certainly--leading is the operative word, isn’t it? He just, he didn’t give 100 or 1000 percent, he gave more than that to the character. He became Crozier for me. I’m the one who had to dream up the man, and see what he looked like, and write about him for about 1100 pages, 700 finally in type, and so I had my Crozier, he was pretty solid. But now Jared Harris is Crozier. There’s no doubt in my mind.

DK: The ending of the season is quite different from the ending of the book, Dan, how did you feel watching the ending of the show, and, in all candor, do you feel that it was satisfying? Do you feel that it was at least a good companion piece for the ending of the book? 

DS: Well I’m glad I didn't video record my reaction the first time I saw the different ending, because speaking for two million readers I stood up and shouted, “What's wrong with my ending!”

[laughter]

“Is it chopped liver?” And I realized it would be. I realized that I don’t think you could have taken my ending and made it a sensible finale visually in the way it went. So I tracked--the whole episodes, the last two episodes, were enlightenment to me, because I’m just a viewer now, I’m watching something I didn’t create, these are not my ideas, so I sat back and enjoyed it, as horrible as they were. So when I watch your ending, the only thing I was bothered by was I’m sentimental. And the real Crozier, I believe, and certainly the fictional Crozier that we’ve all created, was so lonely, he was so alone in life, I think he was less alone than Crozier was, and, you know, rejected by Franklin’s niece several times from marriage, a life where he really felt rejection, probably more than Hickey did, and at the end I wanted him to be with someone. So as much as I liked your ending and I really thought it was proper and appropriate for the series, I woulda put a person next to him as he’s fishing out there in, you know, in his Inuit outfit at night waiting by a seal--he’s not fishing, he’s waiting by a seal breathing hole to kill it. So if I’d seen a glimpse of two of them, you wouldn’t even need to see their faces, you know, the sentimental side of me woulda been happy.

SH: But we leave that ambiguous in the ending, in terms of he’s not with Lady Silence, she, you know, had to pay the bill in some ways for the loss of the Tuunbaq and her destiny is to venture forth alone, and in some ways her storyline is the most tragic of all the characters in our show because, I mean, the price she paid is so harsh. But in terms of the last shot, which Dave and I just knew from pretty early on that was gonna be our last shot, and it felt right. We don’t know much about Crozier’s biography, you know? For all we know that child could be his, it may not. We actually didn’t want to fill in too much of the coloring book at that point. It’s up to the audience to describe whether or not that last shot is--it’s interesting ‘cause we had this big argument, lovely argument in the color suite, the grading suite, of how we grade that last shot. Whether we grade it bright and sunny to be optimistic, or we grade it with a lot of contrast and stamp down a lot of the light to make it seem that, you know, there’s a sense--a harshness, to this reality. And in some ways we split the middle, so the audience can decide whether or not the life Crozier has at the end is one of punishment, reckoning, or whether or not he will move on and have something different.

DK: And I think something in that final shot that certainly we couldn’t have planned, that tipped things in a warmer direction was the child that plays that boy in the shot, who’s meant to be sleeping against Crozier as he’s waiting at the seal hole, really fell asleep because he was wrapped up in fur, and Jared’s a very welcoming person, and he fell asleep. And in the middle of that shot he twitches in his sleep, like children do. And I think that if you catch that it’s quite undeniably a warm moment. You don’t know whether that’s Crozier’s son, whether that’s just a friend’s son, someone he’s taking care of, but you do get a sense that there is a community and that it’s a warm one, even though that life will be difficult and he will occupy no position of leadership in that world, he will be--you know, he’s missing a hand at that point, it’s going to be a rough rough road ahead of him, but we decided to sort of be as ambiguous as we could but for that child who twitches in his sleep, which we just loved that, that that’s a part of that final shot of the show.

DS: Now you’ve made me wanna go back watch that scene about ten times. I think you did at the ending essentially what you chose to do throughout the series, which is to trust in the intelligence and the sensibilities of the audience. So in that sense I like it a lot, but I admire it too. It just, I’m just sentimental, I just want Crozier finally to find somebody.

[show audio]

[”The Gates of Paradise” by Robert Fripp, which is the music from that aforementioned final scene of Crozier and the little boy asleep at the seal hole, plays] 

SH: And with episode ten, the story of the Franklin Expedition on AMC is completed. And Dave, you’ve been working on this project now for ten or twelve years, I’ve been on it for two and a half years, Adam you’ve been on this journey for a long time, Dan you’ve probably been--how long has it been for you?

DS: Oh, since about 1994!

SH: Yeah, wow. I mean, what is it about this story that means it’s hard to let go? Even now I feel like there’s a grieving process that I feel like I have.

DS: I know why it’s hard to let go. You created real people, you did something that is incredibly rare I think, for any media, movies, series, anything. They’re real people, and when they suffer the viewer suffers with them. When they try to fight back and survive, that’s the viewer’s impression, and we’re sorry to see each one of them go, including Hickey. So, I think there’s a success in what you set out to do. 

SH: We’re just so thrilled that, you know, you gave us the trust to do your book but also that you love it! We were so nervous that you would hate this adaptation!

[laughter]

DK: Well and now what’s amazing is we all get to sort of take a seat in the theater of real history playing out again, now that they’ve discovered the ships. You know, we’ve been told by Parks Canada and by people we’ve met who are actively on the archeological expeditions now, dives to the ships, that there is a chance that they will find a ship’s log, and that all of the questions that have come up and perplexed us and preoccupied us and fascinated us in the researching of both the writing of the novel and the creating of the television show, that those questions may have answers soon. And so now we are all now back in that position of being riveted by this actual history. And what a treat it will be to have a conversation in a year when we have learned hopefully much more about what actually happened on this expedition. 

[“The Gates of Paradise” begins playing again softly in the background]

DS: If I were on the expedition ship and found the log, the diaries, everything, I would hide them.

[laughter]

DK: Agreed.

AN: Yep, absolutely. 

DS: I mean we’ve all done a lot of work here, who cares about reality? 

[laughter]

DK: Well thank you, Adam, thank you Dan, for joining us, Soo and I have had a fantastic time having this extended conversation that hopefully is interesting to people who have watched and appreciated the show. So thank you for the opportunity to do it, it’s been fantastic to talk to you both, and onwards we go, into the future!

SH: Onwards ho!

DS: Onward.

AN: Onward. Thank you so much guys, it’s been a pleasure.

DK: Thank you, and thank you for everyone who’ve watched the show and thank you for everyone who’ve read the novel, and we can’t wait to hear your feedback!

[“The Gates of Paradise” fades out]

[91percentpynch]

the cut that always bleeds - kevaaron au pt 3

kejerejean stans? this one is for you. no seriously this one is out of jean‘s point of view? cuz honestly i love that hoe so much. as always get your tissues ready guys. this is actually kinda long? and a mess? and no one beta read it so if there are mistakes or it doesn‘t make sense i‘m sorry!! this is not that sad? tw: mention of murder, mention of physically hurting someone, mention of stabbing, mention of the nest, mention of trauma

check this out to find the other parts:)

Jean has always been a light sleeper. He had to be in order to survive the horrors of Evermore.

So naturally the sobs - as silent as they might have been - woke him up. His eyes opened at once, he sat straight up. Almost automatically he got to his feet and left the room to get to Kevin.

After all, comforting Kevin was like breathing to him.

Jeremy followed Jean, because he would always follow Jean. Jeremy was like a moth and Jean was the light. Wherever he went Jer would follow.

So they went to Kevin‘s room. The striker laid in his bed, curled up, phone in his hand, uncontrollable sobs escaping his mouth.

„I see you took the call this time“, Jean said, surprisingly gentle.

„I wanted to end it. I wanted to have a clear cut. So tell me, why does the cut still bleed?“, Kevin whispered, his voice barely audible.

„Because it‘s a cut that always bleeds“, Jeremy told Kevin as he came closer, carefully and ever so gentle placing his hands on the other boy‘s back.

„He said he wants me to come back to him“, Kevin whispered while holding onto himself as if to try to stop himself from falling apart. „He told me he misses me. That he only gets high when he misses me“

It was quiet in the dark room, shadows were dancing, just as Aaron and Kevin used to dance in the dead of night underneath the night sky.

„You did the right thing Kev“, Jean replied in French while he got into the Bed behind Kevin. Just like they used to do in the Nest.

When Kevin was in his arms he began to hum a French lullaby into his ear.

Jeremy joined them after a second of admiring his beautiful boyfriend and the broken boy in his arms.

„Dude, do you want something? Hot coca? A special Knoxian hug? Us to get Andrew to gut that bastard? Wait, hold on. I forgot. Twin brother. Well, I can gut him for you? Andrew and this is a word by word quote told be once ‚You‘re like a little unicorn in a world full of wolfs with razor sharp teeths, learn to gut the wolfs, stay safe‘, so he taught me how to stab someone? Yeah okay that is not the topic right now, I can still gut Aaron though. I mean Andrew would try to hurt me, but then again I‘m his best friend so he does not have the rights to gut me, right?“, Jeremy offered him a toothy grin, while his hand wandred to his neck rubbing it nervously.

„Can you please not gut him? First of all: Andrew already tried to choke me once when Josten was in danger and I told them where he was, cause apparently yOu DoN‘t KeEp ThOsE tHiNgS tO yOuRsElF yOu FuCkInG mOrOn. I think you do keep those things to yourself if the other option is to get fucking murdered by the mafia??? But what do I know, am I right? After all I‘m just a narcistic, Exy-obsessed asshole without a personality. Bonus I have anxiety, panic attacks, probably depression and I‘m unlovable“, Kevin mumbled into his pillow, the voices of the other foxes, of the other teams inside of his head.

„Did they tell you that?“, Jeremy asked, not quite able to hide the sadness and pain in his voice.

„Doesn‘t eveyone think that?“, Kevin asked. „I mean I think they tend to forget that the woman who gave birth to me, the last woman who geniuely loved me besides maybe Abby, invented the job. I think they tend to forget that the fucking mafia killed her when they found out I‘m not theirs by nature, so the only solution was apparently fucking murder. Then they kidnapped me, brainwashed and tortured me to the point where all I knew was Exy. Oh and maybe they also tend to forget that Ravens were only ever allowed to do Exy, if you were privilegded enough sleep, and do more Exy“

„Kevin you are so much more than that“, Jean whispered into Kevin‘s ear while pressing him against his chest. Just as they used to do in the Nest. „I might be mad at you, because you left me alone with those psychopaths. I used to think you didn‘t care about me. But you were just like me, okay with less scars and less you know. However I cannot say I wouldn‘t have done the same. I understand you now, Kevin. And please, please stop saying those things. And now let us cuddle you and let Jer go through his ridiculous post break-up list. We‘re gonna cuddle you and all you have to do is trying to fall asleep. Used to help me when I was alone at USC. Could only sleep properly when someone held me. Well, Jeremy. Tomorrow we‘ll shove unhealthy food down your throat and watch Downton Abbey or whatever those historcial dramas you love so much are called. While stroking your hand or whatever you‘re into big boy. Afterwards we‘ll take the dogs out and force you to watch the fucking sunset. And I‘ll hold your fucking hand“

Kevin supposed the middle of the night was the time of long lost truths. „Okay“, he mumbled while he moved closer to Jean. Replacing his smell with Jean‘s. It took him a while to fall asleep but he managed.

At the same time Jeremy said „Mi amor, I love you, I really do, but that was literally the most romantic thing you said in the past two years? That is way more romantic than ANY date you ever planned for me? Rude? The audacity?“

„Moi soleil, you don‘t have the ‚cult kidnapped me and tortured me‘ card you can pull, you get the bonus treatmeant of any other people. Besides I literally have matching tattoos with you? I drew you like multiply times? I wrote like a dozen poems and at LEAST one short story? I wrote you a fucking lullaby? You have no right to complain right now, or you‘ll loose your kissing privileges and I give them to Kevin“

„Eww gross“, Kevin mumbled.

„I don‘t remeber you saying that back in the Nest“, Jean replied, poking his cheek.

Kevin didn‘t have the energy to answer. It was a long day. Sleep could have him for the day. Death’s little sister might claim him for the night.

This night he dreamed about Aaron. Strong arms around his waist. Golden eyes locking with smaragd ones. They were on some lonely beach, kissing lazily while the water kissed their feet. It was a beautiful day. Not as beautiful as Aaron, but then again nothing would ever be as beautiful as this specific piece of art. Everything was alright. Everything was good. Why couldn‘t it be the real Aaron and the real Kevin on that beach.

At about noon Kevin woke up to a drooling Jeremy on his stomach and the smell of waffles and soft French swearing in the kitchen. Softly Kevin woke Jeremy up.

„Sorry I always end up on weird angles and drooling on random guys. Jean used to get so mad when I fell asleep in his lap. But you can‘t take him serious when he looks with you with heart eyes trying to be Mad, can you? Anyways we should probably go to him and help him? Oh wait hold on a hot second there. I‘m banned from the kitche, so we can sleep? Right? Right?“

„I hate to break this to you Jer, but it‘s noon. So, no we cannot sleep. You can choose my clothes, though. I know you love going through my stuff and playing dress the doll, Kevin Day edition“, Kevin almost smiled at Jeremy, when he looked up at him pouting.

Then he remembered another blonde boy, pouting at him when he told him no. Another constellation of freckles around another, straight, perfect nose. Sinful lips softly turned up, trying to look mad. Hazel eyes instead of ocean blue ones. Messy blonde curles, instead of soft badly dyed ginger ones. Strong arms instead of lean ones covered in flower tattoos. God, Kevin missed his Aaron.

No, not his. Not anymore

„Okay, but you have to wear to fab outfit I‘ll throw in your face“, Jeremy gave him another easy, toothy grin.

Slowly the other boy got out of bed and went over to the cabet. Slowly Jer went through Kevin‘s cloths. After a while he slowly turned around, holding a jersey that is obviously by far too small for Kevin in front of his face. „What is that? Why do you still have his jersey? Babe, you gotta get rid of that, rather sooner than later“

Jeremy had the weird habit of calling his friends babe, baby, dude or bro. Before Jean he called his boyfriends bro or dude as well, but Jean was so confused by it he quickly stopped doing it.

„First of all: I‘m a weak ass bitch, it smelled of it. And secondly maybe I wanna stab it once I‘m over the phase where I‘m like madly missing him?. I‘d just put it into a pillow, stab at it like a maniac and then set it on fire. I didn‘t grow up with a psychopath as my supposed best friend for nothing Jer“

„Okay? Well I got your clothes. And you‘ll look amazing, cause it‘s the FOX ONSIE I GOT YOU!!! I‘ll wear my onsie as well, and I‘ll force Jean to wear his one as well!! Much fun!! Much wholesome!!“

So that‘s how Kevin Day, queen of Exy, landed sandwiched between his childhood crush and long life crush on their couch, watching Downton Abbey with a plate of waffles on his lap. This was nice. He might had actually enjoyed it, if this wasn‘t his and Aaron‘s show. They used to watch it, cry over it together, make out while watching it.

Thank God didn‘t actually touch him while watching Downton Abbey, he was good at daydreaming. Kevin would just had preteneded that it was Aaron and he thought him breathing Aaron‘s name was the last thing any of them needed today.

After their Downton Abbey marathon they ordered pizza, against Kevin‘s better judgement. Another traditon Kevin shared with Aaron. At finals Aaron would often forget to eat and Kevin was too big of a mess to be bothered to cook so he would end up ordering something every single day and feeding it Aaron while he studied on the floor. Occasionally he would earn a soft kiss, growing hungrier when the night grew darker. God Kevin missed the soft lips on his own.

Kevin would have enjoyed the beach, wouldn‘t he be dressed in a fox onsie, holding hands with a 6“5 guy who looked like he both could and would kill you in a unicorn onsie holding two tiny dogs in his other hand and with a 5“4 dude in a matching unicorn onsie with two dogs that were almost bigger than him.

At least this didn‘t remind him on Aaron.

Well, actually. The way the ocean softly kissed the sand, reminded him of his dream. And of the endless trips to the beach, sleeping in the car, Aaron on top of him. Lazy kisses and warm hugs. It was the first place Aaron took Kevin after their rehab. It was the first night they spent together, as sober men. Well, not sober per se. But drunk and high on each others love. It might had been the most painful memory of the day. God he missed those strong arms around his waist.

Nontheless the pain got less, he felt almost numb. Kevin liked feeling numb. Nothing hurt when you feel numb.

The sunset was beautiful. It reminded him of golden hairs, freckles standing against golden skin, soft lips at his ears, his neck, the corner of his lips.

„Aaron you‘re supposed to look at the sunset, you shithead“, Kevin used to smile down at him. „But I‘m already looking at the most beautfiul thing this world has to offer“, Aaron replied smoothly, locking eyes with Kevin.

When the moon took the place of his long lost lover they decided to go back.

It was safe to say that no one dared to think that someone would wait for them there. Especially not the one person they tried to avoid by all means the entire day.

„You said to stop calling. Never mentioned face to face conversations“, a husky voice said. And Kevin‘s world stopped.

[justjstuff]

6, 9, and 26 for the writing asks! Hope you are having a wonderful day, J 💜

hi, hon! sorry for the wait! hehe thanks for the ask <3 Btw, was it you that reblogged something from Zoey smth-smth? lmfao bro you GOTTA watch Zombieland I swear to god I love that movie, it's so ridiculous xD

6. What point of view do you tend to write in? Do all of your pieces use the same POV? Do you have strong opinions on the POV used in novels?

r: Third person, always. I have VERY strong opinions about 1st person POVs lmfao I actually hate every single book I tried to read in 1st person. It feels very off-putting imo bc I never read a book inserting myself into the character (same reason I can't read y/n fics) so it feels wrong to see it "talking" as if it were me. The only two exceptions to that rule are Twilight bc I read it when I was 8/9/10 and it was the shit back then and Ume's fic the Eventual Descent. I don't know what it is about Ume's fic but I barely even notice that it's in first person, the plot is so captivating, the characters so fucking well-written it's just *chef's kiss*. This isn't to say that I don't change POVs while writing. I know some people say it's "bad writing" but I wholeheartedly disagree. A story can be told by just one person and it's even nice to play with the whole unreliable narrator style and the ramifications of it but that's not the only way to tell a story imo. I do think that the way the guy from GoT wrote his books is terrible tho lmfao. Yeah, mad genius that he is, it's very very VERY uncomfortable to me to be reading about smth that's kinda dull and then as soon as it starts to get interesting I'm suddenly reading about a character that is even more terribly boring than the first one. Lol, I'm probably gonna get hate for it but hey, if it's your thing then it's your thing, this is just my opinion.

Another thing that it's definitely a no-no for me is when the POV changes without a proper sign of it changing. No line breaks, no chapter breaks, nuthin'. It absolutely takes me out of the story when you're reading something and then you have to keep reading back to figure out who is now describing the scene to you. Changing POVs is great imo but it requires a bit more care about how the story is written in general, you gotta be mindful of the flow.

To answer the question, yes I do have strong opinions about it lol.

I should point out that these are all my personal opinions, this doesn't mean at all that if whoever is reading this does the things I don't like that they're a bad writer or anything like that. Even if I had tons of degrees in Literature (which I obviously don't) you should never listen to someone who says things like "this is the way you write well" or "if you do this, then your story sucks". Just tell those people to shut the fuck up. There's no right or wrong in writing, okay? Just what you like and what your readers like. Machado de Assis, one of the most famous Brazilian writers of all time wrote his books with TONS of grammatical mistakes. And you know what happened? We made rules about it lol. Now we accept those "mistakes" as something you can do in Portuguese all because this guy wrote books that people liked. So, yeah. To anyone reading this: DO YOUR THING.

9. What scene was the hardest to write for you and why?

r: Kakashi and Sakura kissing. LMFAO. I took around 200k words to get to a point where they would kiss for the mission, right? And it was fine, I kind of freaked out about it when I wrote but it was cool cool cool. Now, their real kiss? OH MY GOD, bro, I had such a hard time. I think I already told you guys this but I wrote like three times how they would get together and then ended up saving those scenes for later lol. I think this story is just an immense buildup to getting them to a point where I would like to see them together that now that they're finally there I'm... scared? I don't really know. It feels like I forgot how to write romance lmfao I'm currently rewriting their first real kiss for the fourth time I think and it's where I stopped with this writer's block :/

26. What do you feel like you need to work on as a growing writer? How can you improve?

r: This is a really great question. When I started writing (in Portuguese) I kind of copied the style from the books that I used to read at the time which is fine, you can't do anything without copying something first. The thing is, brazilian writing is a bit more... descriptive than English writing in general. Actually, let's make a comparison between English and Portuguese first. There are many linguistic reasons for this which I'm not gonna get into but in general, in Portuguese we use more words to speak. That is because of many many reasons but one of them is the fact that in English there's a process called "verbing" or "verbification" I think? Which is basically, you take a noun and you create a verb out of it. For example, to elbow, to distance, to inconvenience. In Portuguese, to say those things, we have to use more words, it takes us longer to get to the end result. Some more modern examples of it is terms like "Google it" or "Tweet it" or I dunno "DM her". We don't have that in PT.

Let me try and get back on track lol. So yeah, that happens because English speakers but mostly USAmericans tend to have a snappier way of speaking. You are direct and straight to the point in general. When I first started writing, my texts were best described as poems in prose form. lol. I was very descriptive, I took my time making sure the emotion was there and not just the basics to get my readers from point A to point B. I still like that type of writing but it gets tiring if it's a long piece. So, after being corrected by many english teachers on how I structured my stories (they were always very long sentences, sometimes a whole paragraph w only one phrase), I started changing the way I write.

Like anything in life, when you want to make a shift, you usually go from one end of the spectrum to the opposite. A full 180 turn. So I started writing shorter phrases, I stopped describing every single thing in the scene. I decided to let my readers fill in some of the blanks, let them figure out for themselves what kind of dress this character is wearing or how did she get from point A to point B, that's not the important part. Now, if you go see the first maybe ten chapters of Daughter of Fire, you'll see that I exaggerated on that end lmfao. Some things are too vague, some paragraphs could have been two or three sentences instead of five or six. It's okay, I don't go back to change those things bc I think it shows the progress I made as a writer.

What I want to do now, is to reach that middle ground, make a 90 degree turn instead lol. I managed to get better by treating first drafts as first drafts, I get my point across, point A to point B, quick, snappy. Then I go back and edit, I add descriptions, I connect the dots better. And that whole poem as prose thing? I save it for important moments. Those emotion heavy moments in the story where I do want to make the reader stop and feel. It's all a work in progress, I'm not even close to a professional writer or anything like that but that's where I'm at rn. I'm trying to find my feet in that middle ground.

[andotherbiases]

deleted scene(s) from “Into the Fall”, vers. 3

I forgot to mention that Into the Fall is rated E so these scenes do contain mature language/situations. 

And now onto another version of a scene that was deleted. This one features a lot of Juri and the fairytale aspect is a little different in this one, but I hope you enjoy. 

note: anything in italics is from the published version.

deleted scene, vers. 1 deleted scene, vers. 2

Version 3: Friendship & Fairytales

“So what, are you and Kang-tae back together again?”

Moon-young nearly chokes on her drink. “What?” she wheezes.

It’s Sunday, and the cafe where they’re having brunch is loud and busy. They’re sitting on the patio, being warmed by a summer breeze, and Moon-young thinks she might need to order another bubbly drink to have this conversation.

“It’s a valid question,” Juri declares as she twirls pasta around her fork.

“Why would Kang-tae and I be back together?”

Juri levels a look at her. “Are you seriously going to try to deny this?”

Moon-young just blinks at her.

Groaning, Juri sets her fork down and begins to count fingers. “First, you spend all your free time with him. Second, you go to him when you’re sad. When you’re happy. When you’re bored, even. Third, you depend on him for a lot more than manuscript edits and orgasms.”

“It’s not like that. It’s casual. We’re friends,” Moon-young stresses.

“No, we’re friends,” Juri retorts. “But you and Kang-tae? Whatever you are, it certainly isn’t friends. Co-workers to friends to lovers to ex's to friends-with-benefits to...what?”

“It’s complicated. There’s history there.”

“You always say that. That it's complicated between you two,” Juri says. “I’ve never quite understood it, because it seems like you could easily uncomplicate things. You don’t want to be with him? Then stop hanging around him. If you want to be with him, then just be with him.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Yes, actually, it is,” Juri counters.

“No, it’s not,” Moon-young counters. “Have you forgotten that we’ve already tried to be a couple? That we already gave it a shot. And where did that lead us? We were miserable when we were together.”

“But will this be enough for you? Enough for him?” Juri presses. “This non-relationship?” 

“Maybe this is just the best we can do.” 

Juri sighs before reaching for her glass. “You know, for two people who are so clearly in love with one another, you two really are the biggest idiots.” 

Moon-young’s fork hits the ground. 

“You know it won’t be enough, right?” Juri  says finally. “That one day he’ll want more. And that the reason why he’s even putting up with this stupid non-relationship is because he’s in love with you.”

“And although you call me your best friend, even I know that title belongs to Moon Kang-tae. But don’t worry, I’ve gotten over it, thanks for asking.”  

Moon-young’s head is spinning, and it has nothing to do with the alcohol she’s consumed.

So it isn’t entirely a surprise when Moon-young ends up on Kang-tae’s doorstep. He lets her in without a word, almost as if he had been expecting her.  

They’re sitting at the kitchen counter, cups of cooling tea before them. They’re just sitting, sometimes exchanging words but mostly just sitting in the moment, sharing the space together. Silence stretches on between them, but it isn’t empty nor is it burdensome. It occurs to Moon-young that he is the only person that she feels comfortable enough with to not have to say anything at all. 

Kang-tae is sitting by her side, nursing his mug and waiting to listen to anything that she might say. His usual suits and coiffed hair are replaced with casual t-shirts and a pair of thick glasses. On the table next to them are notes from some manuscript, the red scrawls from his pen bleed across the page. 

“I’m sorry for interrupting. You were working,” she says, only just piecing together that he might have been busy when she arrived at his door. 

He waves her off. “It’s not important.”

They lapse into silence once more. 

A single thought runs through her mind.

Does he love me does he love me does he love me?

“Moon-young,” Kang-tae says finally, reaching for her hand. And the way that he’s looking at her, all his affection and all his love for her reflecting in his eyes, and she doesn’t need an answer.

She snatches her hand back. 

“I have to go,” she says abruptly, standing from her seat.  

“Don’t do this,” he tells her, trying to hold onto her. “Moon-young!”

“This was just supposed to be sex,” she cries. “You weren’t supposed to fall in love with me!”

“I’ve always been in love with you!” he responds.

“What?”

“I can’t help it,” he holds her by the shoulders, hoping against hope that she’ll stay. “I’ve always loved you.”

She feels the world tilt on its axis and it steals her breath. “I have to go.” 

And she runs, right out of that kitchen, right out of his apartment, and down the block until he’s no longer calling her name, no longer trying to follow her. 

One week passes. 

Then another. 

And Moon-young thinks of Kang-tae every day. 

“What did you do now?” Juri says by way of greeting when Moon-young enters the apartment.  

“I think, something very bad.” 

The smirk falls off Juri’s face. “What happened? Are you okay?”

Moon-young’s face crumples. “No.”

She proceeds to tell Juri everything. About that night at Kang-tae’s apartment. How she had run away. The way he had looked so devastated. Moon-young talks about the regret, the overwhelming guilt, and most of all, the sudden understanding of what she was about. 

She did care about him. 

No, it was more than that. 

Moon-young loved him.

Had always loved him. Was still in love with him. 

And she missed him so much. 

Juri’s advice?

“Grovel,” she states, nodding her head while taking a slice of pizza from the box. “Grovel, beg, apologize.”

Moon-young blinks at her. “That’s it? That’s your advice?”

Juri pauses mid-bite. “And hope like hell that it works.”

“That’s shit advice.”

“It’s solid advice,” Juri counters. “You want some advice? Fine. You and Kang-tae are the biggest idiots I have ever met. It is so obvious that you want to be together, but for some reason, you two keep creating obstacles for yourselves. And then both of you throw tantrums at the first sign of trouble.”

Moon-young opens her mouth, but Juri cuts her off.

“You are so scared that you’ll be too much for him. That one day he’ll find that he can’t deal with you anymore, so you hold him at arm’s reach. You keep him at a distance. You want things to be easy and fun, and take a sign of trouble as a reason to give up before you get hurt. If you want something real with Kang-tae, something that lasts, then you have to have faith that he’ll stay by your side. That he won’t abandon you.”

Her words pierce Moon-young straight through the heart.

“And,” Juri continues, “you have to fight for him.”

“Fight for him?”

She nods. “Yes, fight for him. At this point you’ve broken his heart now not just once, but twice. He needs to know how you feel.”

“How do I do that?”

“I don’t know, you’re the creative one! Write him a poem or something.” 

Now it is Moon-young’s turn to make a face. “I am not going to write some shitty love poem.”

Juri just rolls her eyes. “Fine, write him a freaking book for all I care. But if he is worth it to you, then you have to do something. He has to know that you’ll fight for him. That you’re willing to put in the effort for a fresh start.”

Moon-young doesn’t say anything else, but nods as she considers Juri’s advice. She picks up a pizza slice.

“You two are really annoying, you know that, right?” Juri grumbles between bites. “I swear I think you do this just for the drama of it all.” 

“Juri.” 

“Hm?”

“What if it doesn’t work?”

A pause. A short smile, a small shrug. 

“Well then at least you know you tried.”

Moon-young spends the next few days writing a new story.  

Of a princess with a heart one size too small. And how she kept everyone in the world at a distance, because she was scared that her small heart wouldn’t be able to bear it if anyone got too close. And of a boy, who respected her boundaries and still chose to walk next to her. Over time, the distance between them on these walks grew smaller and smaller, until they were almost touching. But that scared the princess because the closer the boy got to her the faster her too-small heart would beat. The princess would worry that he would hear the rapid flutter of her small heart, and he would know that she was different. And then he wouldn’t walk with her anymore. So she had him kicked out of the kingdom to prevent him from discovering the truth about her. Only the princess realized that she missed the boy. With no one by her side, she was incredibly lonely. She realized that she had made a grave mistake because she had gotten used to her small heart beating in double time whenever he was around. Without him, it felt like her heart was beating too slowly. Everyday the princess waited for the boy to return to her and bring with him the other beat of her heart. And when he did not return, she wondered if she was too late. So she wrote a letter that the boy might hear from her directly, disguised it as a bird song, and sent it off to find him. Then the princess waited for the boy’s response.

It is a fairytale. 

For an audience of one.

It will never be sent to her publisher. Never be sold in any bookstore.

Still, it is the most important book she’s ever written.

She mails the fairytale off and waits. 

The next day, Moon-young receives a call from the agency with some big news. First, Moon Kang-tae is no longer her agent. Effective immediately. Second, she would now be represented by a Lee Sang-in.

“Excuse me,” she interrupts, “could you tell me why the change? What happened to Kang-tae?”

“Oh, right,” the voice on the line hums. “I forgot to mention that.”

“Unfortunately, Moon Kang-tae requested for the contract to be terminated.”

When Juri arrives at Moon-young’s apartment, she comes bearing gifts. Gifts by way of bright green soju bottles. 

“Screw Moon Kang-tae,” Juri slurs.

“Fuck him,” Moon-young agrees. 

Later, Juri holds Moon-young’s hair back when she gets sick and wipes her tears when she can’t hold them in anymore.

[MY to visit KT’s office the next day]

[surveys-at-your-service]

Survey #361

“the world is a vampire, sent to drain”

Have you ever been through a phase of thinking emo guys were hot? A phase? Hunny, they're still hot lmao. Have you ever dated someone that could play an instrument? Yeah. Juan could play guitar, and Girt played I think the tuba in band. What’s so horrible about wearing leggings like pants? I've actually never understood why people freak about this. Like so long as they're not sheer and fit you fine, why exactly is this a problem...? Weirdest picture you’ve ever taken of yourself? Oh dear. When someone claims to be suicidal, do you take them seriously? FUCK you if you don't. Honest to god, fuck you. This is NOT something you just don't even blink at. Even if it's surprising to hear from that person, you take that shit seriously and try to talk to them about it. Ever been kicked out of anywhere? Colleen's house. Ever had Skittles vodka? No, but that shit sounds good. Ever punched someone in the face? No. If you haven’t, do you want to now? Uh, I'll pass. Do you truly HATE anyone? No one I know personally, but people like rapists, pedophiles, etc., I sure as hell do hate them. Most historical/famous landmark/building you’ve been to in your country? No clue. Favorite flavor for most things? Strawberry, watermelon, or blue raspberry, depending on what the thing is. Ever taken pictures in a photobooth? Who with? Yeah: Summer, Jason, and I'm pretty sure Sara and I did? What is the closest book to you? It's a full collection of Poe's poetry that Mom got me. Are you reading it or someone else? I'm not right now. I may eventually. Milkshakes or Sundaes? Hm, I gotta go with milkshakes. Do you like watermelons more or cherries? I'm not a fan of either, but I'd definitely pick watermelons over cherries. Who was the last person you ate with? My family and I went to Ichiban (a Japanese steakhouse that we have here where they cook directly in front of you) yesterday to celebrate Nicole's graduation. Do you prefer broccoli or asparagus? Broccoli. I hate asparagus. Do you have any bug bites? No. Do you have any flowers in your room? No. Do you know anyone that owns horses? Loosely, anyway. It's a family I took pictures for, and I still have the mother on Facebook. When you were little, did you ever go to feed the ducks? Yes, I LOVED doing that. Don't feed ducks bread, by the way. Have you seen any of the seven wonders of the world in person? No. Have you ever won anything out of one of those crane machines? Yeah. Can you remember being taught how to ride a bike? Was it hard for you? Yeah. I don't THINK it was too hard. Did you get carded the last time you ordered an alcoholic drink? No. Do you know anyone who uses medical marijuana? No, it's not legal here. Do you know anyone who’s died in childbirth? No. Which was the worst phase in your life? 2016 was. Towards the end of '15 was the breakup, and through aaaaaaall of 2016, I was just dead inside and totally useless. Every day I wanted to be dead. Can you remember your last dream? I had a nightmare some stupid kids were fucking with my snake Venus, so I was trying to protect her. Do you ever use Snapchat? No, I don't have one. What’s your favorite musical? I don't like musicals. What happened at the last party you went to? Summer prepared some little Halloween treat bags for us guests, we watched a horror movie, and everyone but me smoked some weed. Are you more comfortable sitting or lying down? I would assume everyone is more comfortable lying down... Have you ever been a fan of N*Sync? Yeah, as a kiddo. Favorite kind of cake: Red velvet, yum yum. What is your middle name? Marie. TV shows and anime you watch regularly: None. Do you want to have a big family in the future? Just a big family of pets with a spouse. What was the last thing you did that gave you a rush? Oh boy, I couldn't tell ya. Is Vegas one of your must-see places? No. Pet rat: yay or nay? YAY!! I've had many, but I don't think I'll get any more. I've just had bad luck with them, save for one that died of cancer at an old age. Would you call yourself a writer? Written any stories lately? Yeah. I haven't really written any big RP posts of the late, but I did recently write a poem. Are needles something that you’re afraid of? Okay, so this is super weird. Tattoos and piercings? No problem. Little prick, getting blood drawn, that sorta little stuff, no problem. I am, however, NOT a fan of big needles, which used to not be an issue. It's actually kinda recent, and it's why I'm nervous about my second Covid shot coming up, aha... What was the last unexpected hug you gave/received? I really haven't had an unexpected hug since Jason asked for one before he left my house after our final talk. Who was the last person you held hands with? Either my niece or nephew. Have you ever been in a parade before? If so, was it on TV? No. Do you have a fear of rollercoasters? If so, were you ever forced to go on one? If you don’t, what is your favorite rollercoaster? I have a big fear of them, yeah. Post a picture of you from a recent time. Don't feel like it. Who was the last person to give you some of their food? Miss Tobey let me try one of her dumplings yesterday when we were at Ichiban for dinner. The last person you met, what was your first impression of them? I actually didn't quite like her. Have you ever been to a football game? Yeah, because my sister was a cheerleader. Do you like the snow or rain better? Snowwww. Have you ever faked sick? Yeah. What is your blood-type? A-. Have you ever eaten a bug? Not knowingly. The last time you were in the fridge, what were you looking for? Salsa. Mom got these veggie chips at the store and they apparently taste better with salsa, which it did. They weren't great, though. Are you listening to anything at the moment? It's Gab Smolders' turn for me to watch her Resident Evil 8 upload, haha. I'm literally watching three different people (Mark, John Wolfe, and her) play it. Can you take a bra off with one hand? I haven't tried, I think? I doubt I could, given that I'm not exactly small. Do you have an innie or an outie bellybutton? Innie. Can you crack your neck? NOOOOO AND DO NOT DO IT AROUND ME YOURSELF. Are you donating your organs? Yeah; what am I gonna use 'em for? It just seems like a waste otherwise. They're just gonna decay. When was the last time you talked to you mom? Before she left with Tobey to go to the store. Do you like pumpkin pie? NO. I don't like pie, and I hate pumpkin. Do you own your own computer? Yeah. Did you ever have to share a room with one of your siblings? Yeah; growing up, my little sister and I did. Is there any piece of technology you want to buy? I REALLY want a PS4. Did you ever have a night light when you were a kid? Yeah. What TV show had you hooked from the very first episode? Meerkat Manor, 100%. I had to know that Shakespeare was okay. What is your least favorite Sour Patch Kids color? Orange or red, can't pick. Have you ever seen the movie Matilda? YES! I love that movie. What is the weirdest chant you have ever heard? Uh, idk. How are you feeling? Annoyed and hurt as fuck because shit Miss Tobey says without thinking for a single goddamn second. I'm honestly beyond sick of this woman. Do you know anyone with a unibrow? I don't think so. Doughy or saucy pizza? Doughy. Do you have anything that’s limited edition? Yeah. Do you have an air freshener in your bathroom? If so, what scent? I... think we do? If so though, I just don't notice it. The bathroom doesn't smell like anything in particular. Do you like Jalapeno Cheetos? Oh man, I forgot about those! Love 'em. Are you a fan of salads? Yeah, they're fine. I have to be in the mood for one, though. What’s one random thing that you don’t like? Uhhh carrots. What’s one random thing that you like? Shrimp. Do you like chicken noodle soup? I don't. Is it easy for you to accept loss? NOPE. I'm the absolute worst with it. You just got a free plane ticket to anywhere. You have to depart right now. Where are you gonna go? I really wanna see Sara, so take me to Illinois. Do you know anyone with the same birthday as you? No, but a former best friend had her birthday the day before mine. Is there someone you just can’t imagine your life without? Not anymore, honestly. After Jason, I stopped that "I can't live without you" mindset. Truth is I'm going to lose people through life, and I'm not attaching my ability to happily exist to anyone. Are you wearing a ring? Two. Have your friends ever stopped by your house just to say hi? In the past, yeah. Do you like Chinese food? Not really. I only ever get pork fried rice and eggrolls from Chinese restaurants. Have you done any shopping for something in specific recently? No. Do you still live in your hometown? No. What was the reason behind the last time you stayed up all night? I don't recall, honestly. I haven't done that in a very long time. Have you ever had a UFO sighting or a sighting of strange lights in the sky? A very strange light, yes. Have you ever seen your mom or dad drunk? Yes to both. Seeing Mom drunk is very, very rare though. My dad was an alcoholic when I was growing up, so I saw him drunk plenty. Do your parents vote? Mom does, idk about Dad. Who’s the most romantic person you ever went out with? Jason. What restaurant has the best fries? Nowhere has anything on Bojangle's, y'all. Have you ever had a surprise party thrown for you? No.

[goldencuffs]

ok idk if this has been done before but hear me out. call me by your name au with elio!laurent and hot older oliver!damen 🤤 (happy ending tho bc i’m not a masochist) all this talk of older damen being hot as all hell got me THINKING

!!!!!!!! idek if this is ask is meant for me but as someone who genuinely loves the movie (not so much the book lol) i can get on board with this!!

also......on a completely different note....i actually have a wip that is heavily inspired by call me by your name. it takes place in summer, features postgrad damen who is helping out professor aleron, and laurent who is very smitten with damen and his muscles. here is a snippet from it (aka the only part that is semi edited):

It isn’t until Rochert tells everyone on the football team that Laurent is a desperate, whorish, cock-hungry slut that Damianos finally begins paying attention to him.

Damianos, or Damen, as he insists on being called, is Papa’s latest research assistant. Every year, Papa promises a sedulous student of his free residence in their guest house for an entire year, while cultivating said student’s brilliance. It’s part of Papa’s grand plan to create as many philosophers in a “philosophically unchallenged era”. Usually, the students have to dedicate a certain number of hours a week to help Papa research new material for his classes, grade papers, and translate niche, long poems no one besides patrons in Introduction to Classics reads. Damen himself is an enigma; he’s at the very least 6’ 5”, quite possibly taller, especially when he wears boots, bronzed, dimpled, and he spends nearly all his free time at the gym, on the field, or in the kitchen with Mama, sampling a bizarre new creation of hers.

He has also been the object of Laurent’s fascination and sexual dreams for the last three months. In fact, upon meeting Damen for the first time, Laurent’s first thought had been, I want him on top of me. Since then, his initial inner monologues haven’t deviated much. The only problem is this: despite Laurent’s continuous efforts to get Damen to grunt more than one syllable in his direction, Damen doesn’t seem to ever notice him. Even when Laurent lingers around the guest house doorway wearing his limited-edition Givenchy jacket and jeans that are a size too small, all Damen ever does is give him a polite, mostly uninterested nod.

At the end of the third month of pining with little reciprocation, Laurent decides that pursuing Damen is an unworthy, impossible task. His mind is mostly made up, until one Tuesday afternoon, as Laurent is leaving for his Philology class, Auguste and Damen come barrelling in through the kitchen doors, instead of through the patio doors.

The patio doors offer a direct path to the guest house; after a particularly vigorous training session, Auguste and Damen directly head through there to get high and drink. Auguste can’t do that anywhere besides the guest house; he had insisted on living on campus, with his other football teammates, even though their house is down the road from university, and at most, a five-minute walk.

Laurent is too distracted by the tightness of Damen’s shirt around his biceps to actually notice Auguste, until his brother pushes him to the side in order to get to the freezer.

“Oh my god!” Laurent gasps. Auguste is bleeding heavily. There’s red smeared all over his nose, dripping into his lips as he tries to stop the flow. Wrapping a paper towel around some ice cubes, Auguste tilts his head down. Damen hovers over him, saying something that is too quiet for Laurent to pick up on.

Laurent breathes in sharply through his nose; the dizziness he feels is sudden. He sits down at the dining table, a hand pressed to his forehead, eyes squeezed shut.

“You alright?” Damen calls out from the other side of the kitchen. He’s handing Auguste more ice. Laurent can’t even celebrate the fact that Damen is addressing him because he thinks he might pass out.

“Mmm hmm,” he says, or at least tries to.

“He’s scared of blood,” Auguste says. His voice is muffled around the paper towel.

A moment later, there’s a glass of water being placed down near his elbow. Laurent looks up at Damen, who isn’t quite smiling. He says, “Drink up. It might make you feel better.”

By the time Laurent has finished drinking his water, with shaking hands and a dry mouth, Auguste seems to be in better shape. There’s no more blood all over his face, just a streak of mud on his temple and sweat in his hairline.

“What happened to you?” Laurent asks. “Thanks,” he adds belatedly to Damen, who only nods, already back to his usual stoicism around Laurent.

He’s surprised by the anger twisted in Auguste’s features; Auguste is rarely antagonistic. “Do you know what that motherfucker Rochert has been saying about you?” Auguste’s voice is a brittle, biting sound.

Laurent almost says who? It takes him more than a few seconds for the name to register in his mind. When it does, he blushes, hard. “Um.”

He has a concrete idea of what Rochert could have said to piss Auguste off to this degree. The changing rooms aren’t soundproof, and yesterday, when Laurent had dropped off some papers to Damen as a favour to his father, he had heard Rochert’s booming voice telling Jord and Orlant that Laurent was a slut, always ready for cock.

Damen had stepped out of the changing rooms the moment Rochert had said, “He’s a straight up whore. Seriously. My cock was on fire and he still wasn’t satiated.”

His voice had carried into the space between them. It was as though Rochert was standing next to them; his voice was clear and unbroken.

Damen’s eyebrows had risen. Laurent, face hot, fumbled with the papers. “Here.” He shoved them into Damen’s hand.

Damen, wearing his letterman jacket and smelling like a generic soap brand, took them. For a moment, it looked as though he was going to say something. Then he smirked, and his eyes travelled over Laurent’s body in a leisurely place. It was the kind of once over someone promising a good fuck would do. Laurent had felt like his whole body was on fire, and not just his face.

Damen said, “Thanks,” smirk still firmly locked in place, before he turned around, heading towards the coffee shop.

On his walk to the other side of campus, Laurent had managed to convince himself that he had just been imagining the look. Damen had been staying with them for three months now, and in that span of time, the only thing he had said to Laurent that was longer than two syllables was, Does your dad stock any Patran dictionaries? It wasn’t conceivable that Damen now would suddenly look at him like he was a five-course meal.

Now, however, Laurent swears Damen is giving him the same kind of look, even if his mouth is set tight.

Still, there are more pressing matters right now. Taking in Auguste’s rumpled jersey and his glittering eyes, Laurent makes his conclusion. “Did you hit him?”

“Did I –” Auguste breaks off with a slow, incredulous shake of his head. “Yeah, I hit him! That little shit was saying the most disgusting things about you.”

Laurent recalls the conversation from yesterday. “I mean, it’s not – he isn’t that bad.”

It’s the wrong thing to say. Auguste is getting more incensed. He’s practically vibrating with anger, hopping from one foot to the other. “Look Laurent,” he begins, and Laurent mentally groans; Auguste has gone into his lecturing mode. “It doesn’t matter who you sleep with or what your tendencies are in the bedroom, you never let someone talk about you like that. Alright? Tell me you understand.”

“I understand,” Laurent says dutifully.

“I can’t believe the nerve of that guy,” Auguste says. “Apparently he’s been spouting this bullshit for a while now; he just waits until I’ve left practice. It’s lucky I forgot my wallet in my locker today.”

Laurent hums. Truthfully, he doesn’t care what Rochert – or the other football guys – say about him. Aside from a comment here or there, they don’t ever talk to him anyway.

Regardless, he’s touched by Auguste’s protectiveness.

“Thanks,” he says. “For protecting my honour and all that.”

Auguste throws him a fond, exasperated look. “Don’t thank me. Just… you know.”

“Yes,” says Laurent.

Damen says, “You going to class?” even though he knows Laurent has classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

“Yes,” says Laurent. “Philology.”

“I took that in first year too. If you need any help, let me know.”

“...Thanks,” says Laurent.

[calamity-callie]

The Wrath of Thunder Descends: Part 2 (Wiztober - Trusted Ally)

If you haven’t read the first part yet its not strictly necessary, but it’s right here! Also this entry is a monster hunter crossover bc I adore both games and have wanted to do something like this for ages~

Edited by @spiralcompendium

CW: Strong language, violence. These two wizards have insane potty mouths.

Lamentia sullenly sat on her bed, alone in her dorm room. “I lost?! How is that possible? How could I lose?” She ran the results of her duel with Calamity over and over in her head, replaying every turn and rethinking every possible move. The channeled insane bolt, the medusa, the basilisk: “Maybe if I’d blocked that goddamn stun… Nah, I just needed to hit harder, that’s all.” She got up and went over to her desk, her mind set on one thing - rewriting her off-the-cuff spell to be even stronger. She wrote it down then began examining it line by line. 

O wrath of thunder, I implore, descend

‘This line’s perfect, nothing to fix here,’ she thought as she moved on. Scanning the rest of the lines though, she found multiple places where words could be switched around, rearranged, and made to evoke a wilder, more powerful, almost monstrous energy. “This. Now this is perfect. This’ll blow their fuckin minds.” With her modified spell written down on a scrap, she set out to the forests beyond Unicorn Way to test it out.

Once beyond the boundaries of the Unicorn Park, she began preparing her spell. She found a small clearing where, while still shaded by the thick canopy, there were at least no large trunks to cause a disruption. She pulled out her paper and began to read in a commanding voice.

O wrath of thunder, I implore, descend From portal formed of cold, unearthly spark With speed of wolf and strength of glowbug squall Release thy wild self unto this world

Lamentia held her breath as a breeze began to pick up. Static filled the air as, sure enough, a portal to another forest began to open up. This forest was far more alien though, looking almost as if it were a massive above-ground coral reef. “Alright, come on big lightning bolt! Any second now… come on, come onnn…” Her thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the loudest roar she had ever heard. Just as her poem had suggested, a beast unlike anything she had ever seen lunged out of the portal and directly at her, knocking her onto her back. 

It was an incredibly large four-legged creature with silver and gold scales on its body  and white fur on its back. Two large yellow horns sat atop its electric blue, dragon-like head, with two yellow ridges running down the entire length of its back and tail. The entire beast seemed to glow with a strange, otherworldly energy. Standing over her, it began to howl. As the sound escaped its large maw, she could see glowbugs from all corners of the forest being drawn to its fur, integrating themselves into it. Once they had stopped coming, the beast howled a second time, while its whole body was momentarily enveloped in a blinding flash of electrical energy.

Lamentia scrambled to get up before the beast tried anything and ran off into the underbrush to hide and gather her thoughts. “Well, fuck, that wasn’t supposed to happen. What the fuck do I do now…” She reached for her bowgun - gone. She must have left it in the tower or in her room. “Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck!” she cursed her forgetfulness silently. She hesitantly peered out through the leaves to see the creature pouncing around the area, sniffing the air as it moved. It was only a matter of time before it sniffed her out. She needed a plan, fast. Remembering her old spells, she began to recite a couplet in hopes of getting a surprise attack in.

O king of deep, o lord of ocean’s maw Arise and with thy trident smite this foe

Upon finishing the second stanza, a small portion of the clearing flooded entirely, allowing a triton to emerge. With a fishious roar, it raised its spear to the sky to call the lightning, directed it to rain down on the beast, then departed, taking the water with it. The impact was so bright and loud that for a few moments Lamentia couldn’t even see what sort of damage her spell had caused. “Fuck yeah, there’s no way anything survived that. I’m totally still the strongest wiza-” Her victory speech was stopped in its tracks as the lightning faded and the beast came barrelling out of the residual smoke. It had absorbed the full strength of the strike and seemed absolutely no worse for wear. Even worse, thanks to Lamentia’s ineffective spell and subsequent boast it now knew exactly where she was.

She quickly rolled out of the way, narrowly avoiding the lunge, but the beast wasted no time re-orienting itself. Spinning on a single paw, it attempted to slam its long, wide tail on the ground. While she was able to dodge these attempts, each tail slam dislodged a few now-agitated glowbugs that proceeded to release immense amounts of energy. Though she managed to avoid the initial impacts, one of the insects discharged a bit too close for comfort, sending her flying. Lamentia hit the ground a few meters away and lied there, motionless for a moment. She opened her eyes just in time to see the creature circling her with a menacing glare on its face. She again scrambled to get up, but this time, upon seeing the movement, the beast pounced.

Using the last of her strength, Lamentia pushed against the ground with all her might and just barely escaped being crushed by the full weight of the monster’s back. It laid there for a second before righting itself, and she took the chance to try out the quickest spell she knew.

O fire of the cloud, of fortune’s hand One hundred, ten, or thousand; your command

At this, a single thick bolt of lightning appeared from the sky and struck the beast square in the head. It didn’t even flinch, and Lamentia watched in horror as it simply absorbed all of the energy from the bolt into its already supercharged fur. She could see the beast readying itself for another lunge, and she uttered what she thought would be her last word,

“FUUUUCK!!!”

Suddenly, the ground began to shake violently. Both Lamentia and the beast looked around the clearing to find the source of the shaking. There, across the small field, was a blonde punk girl who looked all too familiar. Her large gauntlets rebounded off the ground, which split apart at the impact point, and swallowed up anything that was small enough to fit. And the fissure was headed directly for the beast. It tried to get out of the way but didn’t have enough time--its back leg got caught in the crack. As it began to flail and whimper, the girl got up and walked over to Lamentia.

“Ugh, Calamity. Why’d it have to be you of all people.”

“I could have just let that thing kill you, but why would I do that? If you die here, I won’t be able to beat your ass in a duel again, will I!?” Calamity reached into her bag. “Here, I think you forgot this,” she said as she pulled out Lamentia’s bowgun and tossed it to her. “I can’t believe you’d just storm out like that and forget your things. By Spider, what an irresponsible rival.”

Lamentia scowled. “Fuck you, I don’t need this shit. Just… Help me get rid of this goddamn thing, okay?”

“Oooooooh, the high and mighty ‘best wizard here’ with the powers of a god needs MY help? Well, I’d be honored.” 

Lamentia scowled even more intensely. “Just shut the fuck up,” she retorted.

“Well, the first thing you should know is that the fissure won’t hold much longer. We’ve already wasted quite a bit of time…” No sooner did her thought end than the beast finally tore itself free. “Looks like it’s go time! Hell yeah, this’ll be good!” Calamity jumped up and down, shaking her arms out as the creature turned its gaze to her. “I’ll keep it busy. Go, like, load your gun or something--whatever it is you do!”

Without saying a word, Lamentia ran back into the underbrush to prepare.

As the monster lunged, Calamity held her hands up and shouted a single phrase.

“BASILISK! LEND ME YOUR STRENGTH!”

Green and yellow energy began to swirl around her gauntlets. She lowered her hands, then squared up and braced herself. She timed her first punch just right to counter the lunge and hit the beast square in the nose. The two danced around each other: the beast lunged and flipped, slamming its tail and swiping its massive claws, while Calamity dodged, rolled, and weaved seamlessly around its every attempt to catch her, throwing punches whenever she had the chance. A hit to the leg, a hit to the face, a hit to the stomach - the location didn’t matter. Every hit not only slowed the beast down, but also infused more and more of the basilisk’s essence into the monster, until finally it fell over on the ground whimpering and writhing, having lost control of its muscles.

She looked over her shoulder and yelled, “You got that thing ready yet?”

“You know it,” came the reply. “Better move out of the way.”

Calamity stepped aside as Lamentia walked back into the clearing. She knelt down, rested the stock on her shoulder, and sent a low, steady pulse of storm magic to the firing chamber. The sound of machine gun fire filled the air as rocks, nuts, berries, seeds, pieces of bark, and whatever other vaguely round materials she could find shot out of the steel barrel at high speed, pelting the beast in multiple locations all over its body. Though the unconventional projectiles seemed ineffective at first, the incessant firing wore away spots of fur, eroded scales, and even broke off one of the majestic golden horns.

Soon, the creature began to regain control of its movements and stumbled to its feet. Calamity shouted, “It’s back, watch out!” as, sure enough, it lunged at Lamentia. Calamity ran after it and landed hit after hit on its legs and tail. Lamentia leapt out of the way and continued firing, reloading with various woodland objects as needed. The beast unleashed its full arsenal on the two, but between the small, repeated blows to its legs and the rain of projectiles on its head and back, it realized it no longer had the upper hand. It fled towards Ravenwood.

“Shit shit shit fuck shit no! We can’t let this thing get to the school!” Calamity yelled. “Lamentia, whatever dumb thing you did to summon this monstrosity, can you send it back?”

“Fucking of course I can, who the fuck do you think I am?” she replied. She indeed did know the way to dispel a summon gone wrong, but the technique was quite difficult - she would have to recite a very complex Counter-Verse, which involved correctly pronouncing many words that didn’t exist in any language. Failing could make the situation even worse, but she knew she had no choice. 

She pulled her written spell out as Calamity shouted, “Hurry the fuck up then! We don’t have any time!”

“Goddamn! Be patient--I’m doing it!”

She slowly began to read.

Dlorw siht otnu fles dliw yht esaeler Llauqs gubwolg fo htgnerts dna flow fo deeps htiw Kraps ylhtraenu, dloc fo demrof latrop morf Dnecsed, erolpmi I, rednuht fo htarw O!

Upon completion of the Counter-Verse, another portal opened up, but this time she was unable to see through it to the other side. The beast stopped in its tracks and turned towards the new opening, drawn to it by the power of the spell. It jumped through, and a voice echoed from the other side as the portal closed. “Wha- a Zinogre? Here?? Where did it even come from? Alright, people, let’s drive this thing out!”

Calamity and Lamentia collapsed in the clearing, exhausted. “We fuckin did it,” Calamity gasped, out of breath. 

“Damn right we did,” came Lamentia’s reply. She paused. “Hey, Calamity.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re alright. I guess.”

“You’re alright, too.”

“Now, now, don’t go thinking I like you or anything like that. I still wanna smash your fuckin ugly face in!”

“Hah, I’d like to see you try!”

The two laid in the field for a few moments before Calamity broke the silence. “Wanna go by Triton on the way home? There’s this cool bar there…”

“Calamity we’re underage, are you fuckin stupid?”

“Nah, I know the owner, It’ll be great!”

“You know what? You’re crazy. Let’s fuckin do it.”

‘Hell yeah.”

They fist bumped each other, then slowly got up and limped their aching bodies to the bar.

[meiwroo]

Can you write something along the lines of Peter being super obsessive over the reader and he sneaks into her room and hides in her closet every day after school, constantly takes pictures of her and has Polaroid’s of her all over his room, she eventually talks to him in class and they agree to do a project together, she insists that they should do it at his place and she comes too early and sees the pictures in his room? ~ what happens after that is up to you ;) -🎱 (can this be my signature?)

Can you tell I didn’t edit this one as much? Also, I think I’m getting into the swing of things? Enjoy

Okay, so there’s one thing that bothers me. Whenever Peter sneaks into your room, he’s wearing his Spider-Man suit—enough to get caught in broad daylight scaling an apartment building by a bystander—or even worse a villain. Do you know how many villains could peep this and start coming after you?? Anyway

When it comes to you, Peter has a one-track mind.

It’s always ‘Do physics homework—Check the camera to see what Y/N is doing; Cook dinner—Check Y/N’s social media and see if she posted anything new.’ 24/7 until something urgent pops up that requires his undivided attention i.e. trying not to die

And the way Peter ends up in your closet is gradual.

At first he happened to swing by as you were on your way home, and he trailed you

Then he swung by when no one happened to be home. Curiosity got the best of him, and before he knew it, he was putting Karen on mute and sliding open your window before dropping down in your room

One thing he loves is that right off the bat your room smells like you

Staring at the knickknacks in your room, noting whether or not your room and desk is orderly, all of it gives him a better gauge of your personality that he’s not able to see when he’s listening to you and your friends talk during lunch or in class

And then it happens again and again, until one day, his Spidey senses start tingling and he can hear you unlocking the front door and heading up to your room. On the spur of the moment, he hid in your closet. Stupid, if you were the type of person to hang up your clothes as soon as you got home. But for hours until you finally fell asleep, he was forced to sit in your cramped closet watching you in your natural habitat. It was truly a wonderful experience…

It made him feel stupid for not thinking of it before. So, every now and then he would treat himself into sneaking into your room. On particular days where he hardly saw you because you either called in sick, ditched class, or had a field trip with another class.

If you were already home, he’d wait and sneak in when you left the room, or if he was feeling particularly brazen, when you had your back turned and earphones in listening to your music at full blast, he would just slide your window open, climb on the ceiling, and gently sneak into your closet.

If you ever wonder where the sudden breeze came from, that’s Peter.

And it continues until every day after school, Peter beats you home by minutes, sneaking into your closet, getting his daily dose of you.

He’s gotten himself a routine, where he would accomplish all of his work at school before the final bell, head to your place and make himself comfortable on your closet floor, leave when you go to grab dinner and go eat dinner himself with May, and then head out for patrols, before coming back home to catch a bit of shut eye

That’s what? Only like 3-4 hours he gets to spend with you every day? Regardless it’s not enough

Peter does record you though. At first through his phone, and then through surveillance cameras he’s placed around your room; One in the smoke detector and then a listening bug in your light switch

It would be small minor things like you talking to yourself, telling yourself a joke, humming to yourself while you browsed the web, watching you rage quit at video games, and even watching you struggle with homework which frustrates Peter to no end.

Listening to you get upset over not being able to solve a problem makes him want to tear his hair out. If he could just pluck the pencil from your hand right quick and show you how it’s done…All he needed was a minute

Another thing that also irked him? You losing points on homework because you left a section blank or didn’t turn it in at all. During those times, Peter just wishes he could turn homework in on your behalf and not get caught. He’d do it in a heartbeat if teachers couldn’t recognize your handwriting and the assignment had no way of getting back to you

When it’s late, and he’s all snuggled in bed, Peter likes to watch the videos and fantasize about would it would be like if he was next to you. How you two would interact, and etc. He feels closer to you whenever he does this.

Sometimes he likes to fall asleep to the sound of your shallow breathing when you’re asleep

Every now and then Peter likes to ease into bed beside you after hard fights that leave him bruised and exhausted

It’s easy to pick your habits and routines like this. eating habits, bathroom habits, what music you tend to steer towards, what content you like to watch the most on the internet; All of your likes and dislikes, favorite food, color, drink, what’s on your wish list right, what’s even got you stressed right—which breaks his heart because he’s not sure what he can do to help

But Peter has this collection, right?  Of odd pictures that he snaps of you every chance he gets.

He has a collage of them—11 or so—on the wall against his bed. Easy to hide with a perfectly propped pillow if May were to ever walk in his room while he’s away. He hangs the ones that are both artistic and articulates your personality the best. It’s his little masterpiece. 

Let’s say he gets beaten up too badly in a fight and he’s forced to stay home while you recover. Those pictures keep him going

But then there’s the scrapbook Peter has (in his desk drawer). Tons of Polaroid snaps—dated and describing what you’re doing—in addition to nonsensical diary entries beside them about how you made him feel in that moment or what he’d love to do to you, or maybe even a little poem

It’s mainly filled with fun memories Peter wasn’t really a part of. Pictures of you hugging your best friend and goofing off during a field trip, you winning a small award and going on stage to receive it, you participating in extracurriculars e.g. track and field

And then there are the nonsensical ones like your face before you’re about to devour your favorite food, or your aloof expression while you sit outside during study hall, or your deeply focused expression while you cram in gym class before a test you have next period. 

In general, Peter takes a lot of pictures of you; And they’re everywhere. All you have to do is look closely and you’ll find a photo under his desk by the foot of his chair, or a more risqué one poking out from under his nightstand—even phots sprinkled between the pile of dirty laundry he’s been throwing in the corner

It’d honestly be bad if May ever decided to spontaneously do spring cleaning in his room

It’d be bad if you came across these photos which—spoiler: you do.

Everything was going great with Peter watching from afar, and then you had to go and talk with him

Don’t get me wrong, Peter was so happy he thought he would puke.

It had been in APES, and the class was doing a lab. Your friend who takes the class with you and had called in sick, so you decided to partner up with Peter, I mean he did sit directly to the left of you

His heart stopped, of course, he was praising the heavens that his voice didn’t crack, everything was great. His day was blessed, and he actually spent time talking with you which rolled smoothly between you to.

There was a report due on Monday, so you two decided y’all would both knock it out today after school at his place. 

Big, fucking, mistake.

Peter was so high on cloud nine, that he forgot about his little hobby littered around his room—the same room which you two planned to do the assignment in since May had her weird project occupying the majority of the surfaces in the living room which she explicitly told him not to move

It didn’t dawn on him until you asked to use his bathroom, and he walked into his room. 

He picked up a shirt, sniffed, and was ready to toss it into the hamper until two photos fluttered out.

And then magically he realizes that he had his scrapbook out with the recently developed 6-7 photos scattered on his desk.

He heard you exit the bathroom and his heart stops.

“Peter, you in here?”

His eyes dart between the door and the scrapbook comically

He could’ve webbed the door shut, climbed out the window, and then crawl in through the bathroom and say something like he needed to go retrieve something from May’s room—which he should’ve did, but instead there you are smiling at him in the doorway casually greeting him before your eyes flicker to all of the Polaroid's and decide to pick one up

“Y/N wait!”

Your brain takes a full minute to fully process what you’re seeing

Let’s say it’s a picture of you changing in your bedroom

When you look Peter in the eyes and see his panicked expression, it tells you everything you need to know.

You should’ve left after the first picture, but you needed to confirm, so you started picking up the nearest pictures, shuffling through them.

You grabbing coffee with MJ, you going shopping with your mom, you trying on dresses and browsing in a local department store, even you propped lazily against your friend’s car while you wait for them to lock their front door.

“Where did you get these?!”

“I—I can explain!”

You try to make a run for it, but Parker’s quicker than you, stronger than you; He pins you against the wall easily, both of your wrists clasped tightly in one hand.

He’s breathing heavily as though a panic attack was soon about to set in

“I can explain…” is all he says, staring into your eyes wildly

Feedback?

[timetrickster]

Living W/ Immortality: Episode 3: Altair & Vega

EXT. FINN’S HOME

It’s been 3 weeks since what happened that night. Ever since LUCIAN had attacked WAN SHI TONG’S Library. FINN sits down at the table for breakfast with his MOM and ERIN’S had gone silent ever since that night. MOM looks at him knowing something’s wrong.

MOM

You’re silent. That’s never a good sign. What happened?

FINN

I’m fine mom.

She sits down next to him and looks him in the eyes.

MOM

No, you’re not.

FINN is silent after the truth in that simple statement cut deeper inside both hearts.

MOM

You boys have been silent for weeks and if there’s anything that I know about my own boys. Your silence means you’re facing something, but you don’t want me to worry.

FINN is silent and looks at his hands. He puts his headphones on then looks through his phone to play the next song. He presses on a song and plays “King Of The Clouds by Panic! At The Disco. FINN decides to leave and MOM doesn’t do anything to stop him. FINN slowly walks far from view from his house.

He murmurs the words to the song.

FINN

Some days I lie wide awake ‘til the sun hits my face. And I fade, elevate from the Earth. Far away to a place…   

He stops in his tracks, as he looks around him for a bit in silence. Suddenly LUCIAN appears in front of him.

LUCIAN

Boo.

He starts to freak out falling backward. Holding his head with both hands and guarding his face.

FINN

It’s not real. It’s not real.

He repeats to himself. Suddenly flash images of LUCIAN appear in his mind. He breathes heavily and tears fall down his face. His head shakes and heats up from the pressure of all the things overwhelming him. He clenches his teeth showing this face of mixed emotion, fear, and anger.

FINN screams in a rage then punches a hole in a random wall. He breathes heavy breaths before realizing what he’s done.

FINN

Crap…

He tries to budge his arm out but it’s stuck. The song stops at “

FINN

Really?! I have super strength and I can get my arm out of a stupid stone wall?!

SERENA shows up all of a sudden and notices FINN.

SERENA

Hey, Finn… uh…  you okay? Did you punch my wall?

FINN still awkwardly having half of his arm through the wall.

FINN

No… I touched a piece of the wall and it made a hole and my arm fell in.

SERENA

Uh… ok…  I’ll believe you for now, but you need help?

FINN

Yes, please.

SERENA laughs and pulls on FINN’S other arm and gets out of the wall. His right arm now covered in stone dust.

FINN

Thank you…

(looks at his right arm covered in dust)

Crap.

SERENA

You’re welcome and are you okay?

FINN

I guess I’m fine. Also, Hey.

SERENA

What do you mean by that? And Hi!

FINN

Just something happened last night that set me off and… I don’t know how to deal with it.

SERENA

Do you want to talk about it?

FINN shows reluctance, fearing that she wouldn’t understand the world of magic and the fact he’s an immortal with a 2nd personality in his head.

SERENA (cont’d)

It’s okay. You don’t have to talk about it. Maybe when you’re ready?

FINN nods ‘yes’.

SERENA

Okay then. Wanna walk to school?

FINN

I’d love that.

FINN smiles and they start walking together.

SERENA

Got any new oldies songs for me to listen too?

FINN

Uh… Yeah, let me… you know what, I’ll let you choose it.

She looks through the playlist labeled “Time”

SERENA

Time?

FINN

It’s a collection of songs that resonate with my vibes. Songs from now to the 50s.

SERENA laughs at him.

SERENA

You’re adorable.

FINN

Ok, no more songs for you.

FINN tries to grab his phone back and struggles with SERENA

SERENA

Please… I’m sorry.

FINN

Fine.

He lets go of the phone.

SERENA

Yay!

She scrolls through his playlist and presses on one song. The song, “Say Say Say” by Paul McCartney plays. The song plays as the two walks together to school and spends the entire day together. The song plays through a slow montage of scenes with them all together. In classes, at lunch, hanging around the campus.

CUT TO:

END OF THE SCHOOL DAY.

The song ends at Hook 2. It’s now the end of school and the two are walking together again.

SERENA

I’m fucking tired dude.

FINN

Same…

SERENA laughs at something.

SERENA

I did love Mr. Braistch’s class today. Best teacher ever.

FINN

Did he make another racist joke? Or did he throw another insult at Waipahu again? Wait… don’t tell me, Chinese or Filipino? Either one it’s fuckin hilarious.

SERENA

He picked on Steven and said “When China takes over America, I’d be the one white guy to help with capturing Americans.” then said, “Steven when you become the general of Ewa Beach, don’t forget about me. I helped.”

FINN laughs at the story.

FINN

Oh god. You know one time, he told the Filipinos in the room that he loves their president.

SERENA

What’s wrong with that?

FINN

The current president of the Philippines started a war on drugs and said anyone would be killed on sight even holding drugs.

SERENA

Wow… yeah, that’s dark.

FINN

I know… I’m probably going to hell for laughing.

SERENA laughs at what he said then touches FINN’S shoulder.

SERENA

Aw. You’re already going to hell.

She breaks into laughter again as well as FINN.

SERENA (cont’d)

I’m kidding, you know I love you girl.

FINN

Fuck you, dude.

He jokingly says. SERENA is still laughing. FINN gets a little bitter and had this angry face. Then keeps walking.

SERENA Aw. I’m sorry. Come here.

She stops him and holds out her arms and FINN was still bitter and shakes his head. He keeps walking. She laughs at him being bitter and still bothers him for a hug.

SERENA (cont’d)

Please…

FINN

No.

SERENA

Please. PLEASE please please please please, please! If you don't give me a hug I'm gonna DIEEEEE. If you don't hug me I'm gonna start crying. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please. (making a song out of it) oh-baby please please PLEASE! Oh-baby, please. That was 'Please' by Serena with Finn on bass.

FINN finally stops being bitter as he finally gives in. Still holding a bitter face but smiles a little after accepting the hug.

SERENA

Yay! Thank you. I’m sorry.

FINN

(He laughs for a bit)

You’re welcome. I forgive you but bass? Really? Bass?

SERENA does an evil laugh. It makes FINN smile.

FINN

You’re weird. I like you, dude. Wanna hang out tonight?

SERENA

I’d love to. What are we doing? Arcade again?

FINN

I was thinking of heading to the park and doing some star gazing… I don’t know why but I’ve wanted to try it out and it doesn’t hurt to try something new.

SERENA

I like that idea. Are we gonna go by the benches?

FINN

Sure… better than laying in the grass. See ya soon.

He waves bye to her as she leaves.

ERIN (V.O)

I’m impressed. You actually didn’t freak out and over think.

FINN

Thanks, Erin. Erin? Hey! Where’d you go? You’ve been silent for weeks.

ERIN (V.O)

Just needed some time to think. After the whole Lucian thing, I just needed some peace. You know?

FINN

Yeah. Good to have you back bud.

ERIN (V.O)

Good to be back. Again, you actually asked Serena out, once again I’m impressed.

FINN

That’s a first.

FINN enters his house and rushes to his room to get ready for his stargazing date with SERENA. Reprise “Just The Two Of Us” by Grover Washington Jr. plays. Picks up 3rd Verse. Shows a montage of both FINN & SERENA getting ready for the stargazing date.

FINN & SERENA

I got to get ready!

CUT TO.

NIGHT. EWA BEACH

The song keeps playing in the background. FINN leaves the house and walks to the park with a bag of food in hand.

ERIN (V.O)

Food? Drinks? Clever.

FINN

Thanks, dude.

ERIN (V.O)

What are you planning Evers?

FINN smiles.

FINN

Nothing, why?

ERIN (V.O)

You have that specific smile on your face. The smile that tells me you have a plan or created something amazing. Come on Evers! TELL ME!

LUCIAN/NARRATOR (V.O)

How adorable… the immortal two faced dumbass finally found love. Well… hopefully, if the author figures out how to do that in the next few scenes when I try to take him and his romance. Along with the other two background immortals. The author’s a bit unpredictable… which I admire.

The song keeps playing. FINN is slowly walking to the park. Other people are out playing by the playground and other sports-related activities. Meanwhile, these two laid out a blanket over a park table and both sit down on the table top. Song finishes.

FINN

I brought us dinner from Chum Wah Kum.

He holds a plastic bag with two plate lunches inside, along with utensils and napkins.

SERENA

Aw, thanks!

She grabs her plate lunch out of the bag and begins to eat and look at stars.

SERENA (cont’d)

They’re really pretty tonight.

FINN

I used to do this from time to time. I’d sit on my roof and use a telescope. Watching the stars glow in the ocean of space. It was beautiful in the silence of the night.

SERENA

Holy shit, that last sentence was poetic as fuck.

He laughs a little.

FINN

I’m not a poetic dude.

SERENA

Stop lying, I know you are! Mr. Artsy!

FINN

Nah…

SERENA

Oh come on, you’ve done so many artsy stuff. I’ve seen you draw, paint, make short films for media club, write stories, take photos and edit them. I heard you wrote a poem for that one girl.

FINN

Uh, she rejected me by the way. But yeah, kinda left that guy behind.

SERENA

Oh damn, my bad. Well, she doesn’t deserve you, if you took the time and patience to write that girl a poem.

FINN

I know… I know.

SERENA

And what made you leave being Mr. Artsy behind?

FINN

Self-Judgement, being hypercritical, literally everything where I worry about myself and what people see come from me.

SERENA

But why?

FINN

Lost myself for a while… fell away from who I used to be.

SERENA Well, whenever you feel ready to come back to Mr. Creative, I’ll be waiting for you.

FINN

Thank you. Can we look at stars now?

SERENA

Yes, please!

They both lie down on the tabletop and look at the stars. The song “Lights Down Low” by MAX plays in the background as the gaze at random stars.

SERENA

What now?

FINN

Just look at the stars. Sorry, haven’t done this in a while. Forgot all the star systems and all that.

SERENA

It’s fine. You can point out whatever and make it up along as we go.

She points to one constellation.

SERENA (cont’d)

What’s that one?

FINN

That’s the constellation of Sagittarius.

SERENA

See you do remember something!

FINN

Yeah but that one’s my zodiac so I remember that one.

SERENA

What’s are those two?

She points to two different constellations. FINN looks at them and instantly recognizes them.

FINN

Altair and Vega…  There’s actually a love story between the two. I don’t know if you want to hear it.

SERENA

Tell me!

FINN

Uh okay.

(He laughs a little then gets into this narration style voice)

I’m trying to remember but Altair and Vega were deeply in love. But we're separated by the celestial river of the Milky Way. But on one special day a year, Vega’s tears would call upon all the magpies in the world and the would form a bridge so they could spend one night of happiness together.

SERENA was astonished by the story. FINN smiles a bit awkwardly.

SERENA

That’s beautiful.

LUCIAN/NARRATOR (V.O)

Uh! Boring!

Both FINN & SERENA hear LUCIAN’S voice. Record scratch sound effect plays and the song stops at 1st Chorus.

LUCIAN/NARRATOR (V.O)(Cont’d)

I will admit, it was a nice romantic story that you gave. But the author really likes to elongate the scenes.

Several shadowy figures appear before them. Only showing red glowing eyes. They grab FINN and attempt to grab SERENA but he manages to free her from their grip before they disappear in a flash.

CUT TO:

INT - ANCIENT TEMPLE

FINN wakes up in some sort of an ancient temple. He looks around, find two monsters guarding a doorway. ATHENA & TAVEN bound and stuck to the walls of this circular dome room. LUCIAN was on the other end doing some weird shit.

FINN

(Intensely worried)

Erin?

ERIN (V.O)

(Intensely worried)

Yeah?

FINN

(Intensely worried)

What do we do?

ERIN (V.O)

(Intensely worried)

I have no fuckin clue.

Tags: @cometworks, @cookiecuttercritter, @coloursintheblur 

[clevercatchphrase]

I notice you have a Patreon. I am considering getting one for my writing. However, all the Patreons I've seen are art-based. Do you have any tips on how a writing-based Patreon might work?

WHOO BOY! If anyone has any advice to add to this post, PLEASE DO because for the next several paragraphs, I’m going to be rambling straight out of my ass with well-meaning-but-probably-unhelpful advice.

First off, what kind of writing are you making? I know a few general catagories are; Poetry, Fan Fiction, Original Fiction, Analysis/Review/Critique. Each one is special and should be approached a little differently, and knowing what type of writing you’re making will help you determine your milestones and tier rewards.

Okay. so, milestones and tier rewards. These two… categories? Utilities??… are going to be the most important aspect for anyone making/running a patreon. 

For teirs, what are things you can feasibly and regularly offer to your patrons? For poets, they may offer their higher tier patrons a short poem on any topic their patron requests, for fiction writers, they may share cut scenes from their books that won’t make it to final print. For analysis writers they may offer a tier where they’ll review something a patron requests. Any of these things might intrest potential patrons, but you should ALWAYS keep in mind what you are willing to write about. Don’t be afraid to put limits on the topics. For example, you might be a fan fic writer and have a tier saying “I’ll write a short story about any pairing you want” but if you do, you may find yourself with a pair you don’t think has chemistry and may struggle to write something you thing is engaging. Also, don’t let your tiers get in the way of the main content you started your patreon for! For example, I know artists with patreons who offer a free sketch as a monthly reward for each of their patrons on top of the fully illustrated pictures they’re making. If they can handle that work load, good for them! I personally know I would never be able to draw that much and still make comic pages in a timely fashion, so I can’t and probably won’t ever be able to offer additional art for individual pledgers as a reward.

some rewards you could consider for writing are;

early access to rough drafts/finished works before public publishing

get your name in the aknowledgements

give me feedback on my writing

exclusive discord/streams/skype/google hangouts (if google hangout is even still a thing. Is it? Is google+ still a thing?)

Get the scripts/outlines as a “behind the scenes” after you’ve published a piece

Now for milestones, they should stay focused on your main content as much as possible. So, like, I personally don’t recomend a milestone that says “If we get to 200$ a month, every patron will get a personalized letter from me, or a character of their choosing”, because that’s probably not what patrons are coming to you in the first place. For me, I have a goal to increase the number of comic pages produced per week if I can make a certain amount of money, because that’s what my patrons are coming to me for, and that is something I can feasibly do if given the financial means. It’s like… a feedback loop but in a good way?? Basically “support me and I’ll give you more of what you want!” (but of course I plan to make content, pledges or not. I’m not gonna hold my content hostage just ‘cause I’m not being paid for it)

Here’s some ideas for milestones that may or may not be good for a writer;

reaching a certain milestone allows lower level, or all tiers to get early access to content 

reach a certain milestone and lower tiers can get access to discords, streams, skypes, etc.

reach a certain milestone and you’ll tackle that one analysis you wanted to do, but have been dreading because you know it’s gonna take a lot of reasearch and time

reach a certain milestone and let all tiers vote on which topic you’re gonna write about next (out of a predetermined list you’ve made)

Now, you can choose all these tiers/milestones if you want, or you could chose none! It’s up to you! It may even help to ask your followers what THEY want to see/get as a reward to help you figure out what to offer. Just be honest with yourself what you’re willing to keep up with. For example, I personally, not very much for conversation online with strangers. I might never make an exclusive discord for my comic because I fear I wouldn’t be active there, and people may feel cheated if they don’t get to talk to me. But if enough people wanted to watch me make the comic pages despite spoilers, I’ll have no problem setting up private streams for them to view as I draw~

Now, real talk? No matter what you do, starting a writing patreon is going to be hard, especially if you don’t have a pre-established following or fan based. Heck, this is true of ANY patreon that doesn’t have an already existing following. But the good thing is, you can’t “lose” at patreon. If you try and nothing really works, well, hey! You’re probably not doing any worse than you were before you started, so long as you haven’t quit any pre-existing job, expecting patreon to suddenly make you rich over night. (please don’t quit any pre-existing job you have by the way). In fact, even if you get just one patron, donating one dollar a month, that’s one more dollar you’ve made than without the patreon, isn’t it? 

Lastly, I wanna say, whatever you do, don’t undercharge for your work. Sadly, writing takes a fuck ton of time, from research to scripting, to revising and editing, and yet it can usually be consumed in a 10th of the time it takes to produce, and most consumers might think being charged a high amount for such “little” return is unfair. Fun Fact, it’s not. You should get paid enough to live off your writing if that’s what you’re doing as a profession. Writing has value, so never sell yourself short!

Edit: one last thing I forgot to mention; Depending on how fast you write, you may benefit from a "charge per update" model instead of a "charge each month" model, but that's entirely up to you!

[sleepybiflinge]

Get to Know Me!

i was tagged by @manggssi (thanks Sarah!!! You’re awesome!!! <3)

Name: Roman

Star sign: Aquarius/Pisces? I’m right on the cusp, born Feb 19th. I’m an Aquarius on the Russian calendar but a Pisces in the North American one? Idk. I consider myself Pisces lately.

Height: 5′8″ I think. I used to think I was 5′10″ (it’s what it says on my license because they asked and didn’t verify lol so I guess I’m 5′10″ legally?)

Put your music on shuffle. What are the first four (4) songs that pop up?

1. Heal Me - Snow Patrol

2. Seagulls! (Stop it Now) - Bad Lip Reading 

3. Big Shot - Kendrick Lamar ft. Travis Scott

4. Antidote - Emily Wells

Ever had a song/poem written about you?

Nah never but I have written poetry about people before. Specifically when I’m heartbroken. Which... God I hadd a good one in my head this past breakup, it sounded good lyrically, I almost wanted to make something out of it but my week was so bad that I literally had no time to do that. Oh well though. 

Last time you played the guitar:

When I was... 5? 6? My ex-father had bought one and I messed with it then (thought I sounded good, but for a 5 or 6 year old anything sounds good lol) but nothing really since then. Which is disappointing of me.

Celebrity crush:

I love Hayley Kiyoko and Keiynan Lonsdale a lot. As well as my bois Josh Dunn and Tyler Joseph. Cos of Trench coming out tbh.

A sound you hate + a sound you love?

I absolutely hate most harsh sounds. Nails on guitar string for example. Like, I cringed typing that that’s how bad it is. I’m easily influenced by sounds. It’s either extremely relaxing or it makes me feel like I’m being electrocuted while astral projecting fifty friggin feet in the air.

Edit: oops, forgot to edit this bit. I love thunderstorms, like I love rain too. I enjoy ASMR so sounds affect me easily.

Believe in ghosts?

Hell yeah! I’ve had a few ghosticle experiences in my life. Would love to go ghost hunting too sometime. Shit sounds dope.

Do you drive?

Nah not yet. I’m gay and driving is terrifying as shit. I mean it’s a literal fucking death machine. That you have control over. Fuck that. I guess it’s still a fear I need to get over lol.

Last book you read?

Percy Jackson: Sea of Monsters. I’m on a (very slow) reread.

Do you like the smell of gasoline?

Nah. Gross-e-roony.

Worst injury you’ve ever had:

Uhhhh... Probably that time that I got my back tore open by an angry bull that decided to ram and drag me up and down a fence? Yeah. That one. Hurt like hell for a 7 year old boy.

Do you have any obsessions right now?

Twenty One Pilots. And MBMBAM cos I finally caved and started listening because I was in a TAZ-less hole.

Do you tend to hold grudges towards people?

Depends on the person but honestly? If the person was a complete asshat, hell yeah I’ll keep that shit up. If I’ve given you several chances that’s... That’s enough innit?

In a relationship?

I just got out of one that I thought was great (but it ended after like 3 weeks cos they wanted to return to being just friends... Ended thru text lol) I’m still recovering but hoLY GOD Do I just... Wanna find my true love soon because this shit is honestly exhausting emotionally to go through constantly.

Tagging @themandalorianwolf @johnboiyega @nakuura @kawohore