desultory-novice · 10 months ago
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Okay, back where we were left off at the Magoland Branch AU Magolor only had his sight partially restored, but in the crossover between the Apologies AU and the Magoland Branch AU his sight was fully restored. So how did that happen anyways?
Also, how long did it take between the conclusion of the Magoland Branch AU and the crossover between the Apologies AU and the Magoland Branch​ AU?
(Double question because I want lore.)
(Also, how long will it be till my other ask is done? I'm not rushing it or anything, (Take your time Dess! (^v^)​) I'm just curious about how long will it take.)
>How long did it take?
It took... X amount of time! XD ...I dunno! Noir SHOULD have been in hell since almost the beginning, since he was the first or second to die also his life has just been hell since the day his parents died....
Like Noir, who acted as "dead" as possible in the hopes of actually dying, the deceased probably stuck to their own personal purgatories and never really did much positive interacting, outside of people who formed odd connections all on their own, like Joronia and Max, who quickly bonded over their love of rich, fancy things. >w<
Max: "01001101 01110101 01110011 01110100 00100000 01110100 01101000 01100101 00100000 01100011 01101111 01100110 01100110 01100101 01100101 00100000 01101000 01100101 01110010 01100101 00100000 01100001 01101100 01110111 01100001 01111001 01110011 00100000 01100010 01100101 00100000 01100010 01110101 01110010 01101110 01110100 00111111"
Joronia: "Oooh, do not even get me started on tea in this place!"(1)
("How does Joronia know binary? Why, she's the smartest, strongest, most beautiful queen ever! Of course she knows binary!" - Taranza)
The paradigm changed when Marx found Magolor's tormented soul and convinced the Crown to give Magolor control of his body back. Magolor, trapped in a series of troubled and confusing hallucinations due to how horrific and constant the pain of having a large, wrathful tree feeding off of and growing inside him was, blindly used the crown's limitless power to create an actual theme park.
"Timeline-wise" I'd say once Elfilin and Adeleine started interacting more, Fecty probably said some off-handed remark to "the human girl" (ie: "...your eyes are the exact same color as that boy in hell...") that clued X-over Adeleine into the location/existence of her X-over brother and they had a big, tearful reunion and here we are!
(1) PS: "Hell" here is not full of demons and pitchforks, but it is uncomfortably *bright* (the sun is ever-burning and the sky goes through a cycle of golden hour-orange to fever-dream dark with shades of electric pink at night) and also, there is a larger than average amount of fire. A whole lake made of it, in fact!
>Why does Magolor have both eyes?
That was an accident on my part because I drew him from memory for the first Apologies x-over, forgetting he’s only supposed to have one eye due to still being half rooted to the crown.
I kept up with it after because, eh~ the souls are supposed to be healing slowly after "A Perfect Circle," so maybe his other eye came back on its own to show he’s reclaiming more of himself...?
(Kind wish I hadn’t made that mistake though because I was weirdly attached to one-eyed Mago Soul’s design. But he can’t just go and lose it again now for no reason. ^^)
Speaking of the first crossover and “continuity errors,” Noir wore his scarf more like an actual scarf in that one to dress in the style of the Hell branch (aka, a mix of alive and dead) but he is back to looking like regular Swordsman in “Again.” That was because I purposefully wanted the first image to fool people as to where/when this was happening, and also make it work as a legitimate visual introduction to the script portion of “Again.” Which it does, btw. That first page fairly accurately fits Noir’s experiences in DL3. ^^
I know it's shallow reasoning, but let's just go with it! If I ever return to the x-over plotline, I’ll try to indicate that properly by giving him the wrapped scarf again. ...While I’m being grilled on Hell-Branch Lore, I’m debating whether Max and Joronia are still around. I’m tempted to say “yes” and they are just healed like Magolor. (Mostly because I don’t have that many characters to work with and I think Max would be ALL IN on the “Hell is a Business Hotspot” storyline(?) we’re in.)
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meenah-chan · 3 years ago
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Safe Haven ~Epilogue~
A Barbatos x GN! MC fanfic
1.98k words
Genre: Angst/Fluff
Trigger warning: None
Requested by: @romaissa Thank you for waiting for this. I apologize for the wait. This turns out the way as I imagined it to be, more or less. I felt so fluffy as I edited this for the last time. I hope you'll like this last part. Enjoy~~ 😚✨💖💖💖
Part 1 (Safe Haven) | Part 2 (Safe Haven ~Another Story~)
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A Barbatos x GN! MC fanfic
1.98k words
Genre: angst
Trigger warning: None
It was the same cliff… trees and breeze... The same dusk… But the voice calling them were not anymore...
… sensitive yet capable... One that withstand pain and hardship yet kept their gentleness.
Despite it being in the middle of the day, the sky enveloping the Devildom is dark. Very unlike that place. A place where the sun would shine so brightly even from the back of their mind. Not the human world where they grew up. Not the Celestial realm they visited once. It was only the Devildom whose light came from the moon and not the sun. Should the moon doesn’t exist in this kingdom, it’ll surely be pitch black.
Yet, in the dimness of the kingdom they’ve suddenly been to... Who would have thought I would meet my sun in such a place? A smile formed on their face as they delved deeper in their thoughts.
As they did so, a strong wind blew past them. It was strong, they didn’t notice someone approaching them.
“Oh!” a pat on their shoulder snapped them back from their deep thoughts.
“Y/N? What are you doing?” They flit their head behind and meet with the same, familiar eyes.
“Lord Diavolo... Nothing. And Queen Rose? Did something happen?” Their surprised demeanor was replaced with a confused one. Why wouldn’t it? Since unless some responsibility on the Kingdom required to, the royal couple is technically attached at the hip. Which is still pretty rare.
“Stop with those formalities. You’re making me sad.” As if he were not such a tall, well-built demon, Diavolo looks at them like a weeping dog.
“Alright, I’m just teasing you... So, what happened?”
“Rose got angry over one of my posts on Devilgram.” His pout becomes more obvious as he complains to them like a child.
“Oh, that picture.” Diavolo didn’t have to elaborate further for them to guess which one it is. It was a picture of Diavolo pecking the Queen on her cheek on their bed chamber.
“Even if I were her, I would be mad. You’re the rulers of Devildom after all. You can’t afford showing any vulnerability to your people.”
“But love is our strength!” He emphasized the last word with his hand gesture and furrowed brows.
Which only received a giggle from the human. “You sound like those princesses in the movie we watched yesterday.”
“Hey, I’m being serious… Since when did you take her side anyway?”
“I’m just speaking with reason.”
“You’re so harsh these days. Where is the angel I knew? Barbatos is rubbing on you a bit too much.”
“I won’t be if you were a bit more reasonable. And remember, Simeon can be scary too sometimes.”
Diavolo paused for a moment to think. “Right.” And let out a sigh. “Why can't I win a debate with you? I'm the King, you know.”
“Then be glad I'm an ally.”
“But Y/N...” Diavolo stared at them for a moment. “I noticed you're becoming more beautiful. More than ever.”
“...Where’s Queen Rose? She needs to know the king’s flirting with his ex—”
“Hey, I don't mean it! I mean, not that way! You're beautiful as a friend.”
“Beautiful more than ever as a friend, yes?”
“I mean it with pure intention! And Rose is the most beautiful! You know that!”
“Most beautiful. Favorite line, huh…” They sassily fiddled with their nails as they stared at it.
“Let's settle this here? I-I'll even grant you a wish.”
They glanced at him from their nails and stared at him. “Pfft— Hahaha!! I'm kidding, I’m kidding, pfft— hahaha! You should have seen your face, hahaha!”
“Are you messing with me again?” He frowned at them.
“I was but, hey. A wish from the King is rather enticing.”
Looking straight in their eyes, “Are you still mad because of our past?” he asked. As if he's been holding this question back for so long. In guilt of what they have been through because of him.
And with a smile, they replied “No.”
It was the truth.
They could never hold anything against Diavolo. They can never hate the man they fell in love with…
“Your face is just so hilarious I can't help it.” Rather, they wanted to see that expression one last time. That expression I adored way too much, as I fell beside the cliff.
“Since when did you become so fickle?” Yet despite his words, a sense of relief emanates from the Royal Demon.
He is now certain. He is finally free from the shackles he created himself. And they...
“Spare Barbatos some slack. Some regular day offs will do too and you’ll be absolved of your offense.” Without Diavolo being able to snap a last glance on their face, they turned their back to him and started walking. Despite it, a smile formed on his face.
“Consider it done...” He said as they wave as a response before disappearing from his sight.
I see you’re finally free from my curse... Diavolo chuckled as he left to return to his queen, ready to ask for another forgiveness.
---------
“Y/N.” It was the same cliff. The same trees and breeze. The same dusk who witnessed everything. But the voice calling them were not the prince’s anymore.
“Barbatos, you’re early.”
“I apologize for always making you wait for me but,” worry was showing on his face as he looked at them. “...do you always wait here this early?”
“Don’t mind it. I love waiting for you.” Barbatos’ heart skipped a beat from their words, a tint of pink forming on both person’s ear tips.
“A-Ah, right. You didn’t tell me you'll plant some flowers here.” They touched the petals of the Forget-me-not flowers as if to avert the butler’s attention.
It was as healthy as the one they took care of or perhaps even healthier.
“Were they not to your liking?”
“No, I… love them.”
“Then I'd be glad if that were the case. I raised them with the thoughts of you after all.” Even though Barbatos’ remarks were always like that, they couldn’t help but feel bashful everytime.
“Seriously, how can you say some cheesy lines so smoothly?”
“Hmm? I don’t recall saying such things.” He lifted a knuckle under his chin while glancing upward as if in thoughts.
“This guy..!” All they could do is shut up and frown. They couldn’t remember a time where they actually won on Barbatos’ wordplays.
“Is there something that displeases my flower?” Barbatos moved towards them when the frown they wore turned into a sad smile when they glanced again at the blue flowers.
“Well...” they sighed, Barbatos now stepping in to caress their face. “I just remembered the poor flowers I destroyed that day. I cared for them for a long time only to die from my own hands.”
Barbatos brushed his thumb to their cheek, fondness reflected in his eyes. “But they didn’t.” It was still like a dream for him to be able to hold them freely as he wished.
“What do you mean? Of course they will. I pulled them all off the ground myself.”
“Would you believe me if I said this plant was your flower’s seedlings and roots?”
“Y-You mean..!?” The human’s eyes snapped back to the Forget-me-nots. That’s probably why the flowers have the exact same shade and size as back then.
“I thought it’ll be a great gift for you.” He let them go to squat and check the flowers closely.
It took a while as they observed and admired the lush flowers. It was a comfortable silence, as Barbatos watched his favorite bud.
“Hey Barbatos.” Finally satisfied from staring at it, they rose on their feet. “I had some silly idle thoughts a while ago.”
“What is it?” He asked. But unlike them, the demon butler’s eyes never left his favorite flower. He could spend another millenia just gazing at them, and still say it’s the best sight he's ever seen.
“Devildom is a dark place no matter how I try to think of it.” He watch their back across the nightfall. The way the cold breeze brush through their locks. Those subtle shivers they give off as chills bites at their sensitive yet capable arms. One that withstand pain and hardship yet kept their gentleness.
“Then how come of all places, I’ll meet my sun there?” He tread beside them, not minding their words.
Not even the fondness in Barbatos’ eyes yields. Not in the slightest.
He knew. It was Diavolo. It will always be his Young Master. “He was so bright. So dazzling yet I couldn’t take my eyes off him. Diavolo will always be my sun.” And he… He already accepted this fact a long time ago. Staying by their side, until they found their happiness, is more than enough for him.
So instead of reacting, he removed his coat and placed it over their shoulder.
“I won’t forget. I will cherish the memories he left, no matter how painful it is. After all, he and the memories,” but they were thinking differently from Barbatos. They spun on their feet, suddenly facing him, who was just a few inches away from them, “...they all led me to my moon.” Their eyes were glistening, with him reflected in it. It took his breath– his words away.
“Shining through my darkest nights. Cradling me with its gentle light. Brushing off the tears from my eyes. My precious moon, who helped me remember that there’s still happiness beyond my sorrow.” They reached for his face. “Nights were supposed to be cold, yet he brings warmth instead. And you know what’s the most amusing thing?”
“In Devildom, whether it is day or night, you can see the moon in its brightest.” He never wants to assume anything, yet the way their thumb runs across his cheek so tenderly… The hope he hid with all his might, surges out wanting to be freed.
“Oh, but there is just one problem with my moon. He was so selfless, he wouldn't take me to himself.” The hand next to his cheek moved and brushed to the tip of his nose.
“Pardon?” He thought he finally sealed it away so perfectly, so why… With just a single touch…?
“I don’t wanna be single forever yet he keeps on ignoring my signs...”
“Wait, you mean…” But his promise… his vow to them...
“I still can’t say I don’t have any more feelings with Diavolo but I swear, I mean it. That’s why I’m already taking this to my hands… Hey–!” The knot within Barbatos’ heart came undone, along with the stream of tears he’s holding back due to their dreamlike words.
“Barbatos. Hey, don’t cry.”
They tried scooping his face with both hands only to stop by his own.“I’m so happy.” He placed one of their hands on his chest. It was warm, with his heart practically drumming crazily fast.
He never knew it’s possible to feel happier than the day they allowed him by their side. Incomparably so. It was at that moment he felt so… alive.
“I thought it’ll be a great gift for you.”
“This is the greatest gift I’ve ever received in my life.” He pulled their other hand and placed a tender kiss on its palm.
“I wonder if I can surpass this next time.”
“Then how about a kiss? Can I kiss you?”
“You don’t have to ask,” They took another step towards him, “I love you, my Luna.”
“I love you more, my Flora.” Barbatos sewed the space between them and soon, two breaths became one. All the words dissolved between their lips. Yet, all the emotions bottled up within poured out.
Of loneliness. Of longing. Of elation. Of attachment and inclination. With a spice of passion and devotion. All swirling together, filling the gaps in their hearts.
They parted just to converge again, like how their threads of fate crossed, unraveled and intertwined together.
The coldness of the night now utterly nonexistent within their moment, as they were embraced by the vivid rays of moonlight.
Part 1 (Safe Haven) | Part 2 (Safe Haven ~Another Story~)
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beerecordings · 5 years ago
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Around Your Wrists
Part 17 of My Brother’s Keeper (Part 1 l Previous l Next)
My taglist is a separate post. Let me know if you’d like to be added or removed, my dude. Sorry this is longer than usual - couldn’t cut it down. I had so many ideas for this chapter I wrote more than 12,000 words worth of draft. I showed Lau a draft to get some feedback and more than half of this will be entirely new to this (ty for your help dude ly :D). But!! I think I’m happy with how it turned out and very excited about the story again. :) Thanks for reading!
Tws for panic attack, PTSD, and mentions of cutting and torture
Edit: @loganandoli made such a cute Jamie drawing based on this chapter!!! I love it so much. You can see it here
Brotherhood is often forged in blood. Jameson and Henrik have shared much of the same suffering. They’re still sharing it. Henrik wonders if it has yet to destroy them both.
There's a moment where he wakes up and isn't afraid at all.
Chase is watching him from a chair next to the bed, his leg bouncing a hundred miles a minute, Schneep stands above him like a guardian, his eyes too wide, and Jackie – Jackie, that's his name, Anti rarely said it, but now he knows – Jackie is holding him.
But Jameson isn't afraid.
A hand, gently glowing, lies on Jameson's chest, above his heart, and Jameson is filled with light, with warmth like he's never felt before. Is this the power Anti warned him about? Nothing about Jackie was ever explained to him. Anti only told him he was dangerous, told him he should hate him, told him he should be afraid – but this feels nice.
This feels safe, safe in a way he's never felt before. His soul is bared, but the hand that holds it isn't clawed. He doesn't know why Jackie's reaching out to him, doesn't know why he's being held, but for a second, it doesn't matter.
“Oh,” says Jackie, startling, and then he sets him back down on the bed and draws away hastily. The light dies down around him as his power retreats and the world is no longer saturated in his warmth and color. “He's awake now.”
Fear creeps up Jameson's throat once again, cold in the darkened room, and he shivers weakly and sinks back into the pillows, licking his dry mouth and trying to bare his teeth.
“Thank God,” cries Chase, rising from his chair so fast he nearly knocks it over. Henrik puts a hand on his shoulder and stops him from touching Jameson, who recoils as a matter of custom. In the doorway, Jackie is already gone.
Good, thinks Jameson, with what little savagery he has the strength for. Good, stay away.
“Hey, are you okay?” asks Henrik, in a voice like a dying wind. His teeth chatter slightly in his tightened jaw. “I thought – you were unconscious for hours – you – you scared me, Jameson.”
Chase glances over at the doctor, alarmed.
Was he really out for so long? Jameson blinks and turns to the window, where the sun has risen cheerfully in the sky, melting at the last of the winter snows, leaving the dead grass to grumble its way out from beneath the cold. Well, he didn't really mean to be gone for so long – or he had, but he hadn't realized his body would just be here, non-responsive. It felt like minutes to him.
“You were just lying there shuddering.” Chase's face is a little grey. Not for the first time, Jameson is taken aback by his concern.
Why do you care? he wants to ask, and then, a little more morbidly, You should be happy to see me die. Don't you know I belong to Anti?
“How are you feeling?” asks Henrik, coming to sit beside him on the bed. “Do you know what happened?”
Jameson just stares and sinks down in his blankets until his mustache is covered. He isn't quite ready to tell them about his power just yet.
Chase draws Henrik away, pulling him just outside the door, whispering soft enough that Jamie can't hear. “Henrik. What happened to him?”
Henrik's eyes are dark and severe, his mouth taut with fear. “Do you remember the first time I came back from being Anti's?” he asks.
“Yes,” says Chase, mournfully. “Obviously. You were really freaked out and you got super sick.”
“Really freaked out” is code for “unraveling so fast we thought you had actually lost your mind” and “you couldn't look at our faces without screaming” and “there were days where you would go so deeply into flashbacks that you would act like you were possessed again,” but Chase doesn't think that needs to be said out loud.
The doctor nods and tilts his head, and he says, “Withdrawal,” softly, as a diagnosis.
An incorrect one, but a good attempt.
“Oh,” says Chase. “Oh.”
There are consequences to being taken away from the demon after too long under his control. Right now, those consequences are the best guess they have for why Jameson, blank-faced and shuddering, was unresponsive for more than four hours.
Henrik sets a hand on Chase's shoulder. Chase isn't sure if it's there to comfort him or keep Henrik from collapsing. It wasn't easy, sitting here for so long, praying to God that their little brother would get up again, undamaged. Chase is beginning to worry this is more than Henrik can handle right now, but he isn't about to stand between the good doctor and a patient.
“We've had a rough time of it for a couple days, haven't we, bud?” Henrik raises his voice back to Jameson's level and re-enters the room, sitting down beside him on the spare bed. “I think it's time to start feeling better. Chase, fetch me my bag and some water for him. It's time for a check-up, don't you think? Yeah. Let's get a check-up.”
“You okay with being touched?” asks Henrik, shoving some spare paper under his clipboard and writing the date at the top.
Jameson stares down at it.
Up at the doctor, waiting for an answer.
“Well?” asks Henrik, frowning. “You know, you can sign if you want. You haven't since we got you back from Anti. Chase and Jackie took classes in BSL as soon as your video was up. And then I – well, I learned a little later. What do you say, you okay with being touched?”
Jameson nods hastily, his hands rising and then falling again without a word.
“Okay.” Henrik looks him over without meeting his eyes and Jameson squirms under his professional gaze. “You tell me if you start to get uncomfy. Is not a problem. I just want to look you over, okay? Just some questions and a glance at you. I want to have you healthy soon.” He strokes a thumb down Jameson's cheek, and his little brother relaxes to be touched. “I'm here. It's going to be okay. Come on, chin up, let me get a look at you.”
Obedient, Jameson holds his head up.
Jameson is five months old. If Henrik didn't know his own face, he would guess that he was no older than twenty-four, perhaps younger. He's gaunt, the way dying flowers are gaunt. His teal-tint hair is stiff and messed into knots and his eyes are hollowed like too much wet blue paint sank into the paper it was put on. The fervent purple bruising around his throat makes him look like a very sorry little woodstar bird, and he is shaking, shaking, shaking, as he always shakes, shakes, shakes.
In the moment, he looks a great deal like Jack. The open first aid kit makes the bathroom smell like a hospital room.
“I'll be quick,” Henrik promises hoarsely, swallowing back a wave of nausea.
Jameson nods, only a little wary, tilting his head and then, trustingly, reaching out to put a hand on Henrik's shoulder, to keep him steady. To keep them both steady.
His eyes are good, his reflexes quick. All his teeth are there. Henrik asks him some questions about his pain, his immune system, allergies, sleep, and more, but Jameson, in nodding and shaking of his head, reports pretty normally, admitting to a few nightmares and frequent colds but little else. There's only a single scar on his face, a short white line high up on his forehead, hidden by his fringe, and then all the other visible cuts are recent and superficial. He has a bad infection in one ear, but his pain tolerance must be high, because he hardly seems bothered by it, only frowning petulantly up at the doctor when he sticks the otoscope in his ear.
“Good,” says Henrik, relieved. “Okay, could be worse.”
Jameson is nigh on content with Henrik's careful hands running over him. He looks warmly up at his brother and shrugs.
Whatever you say, doc.
Henrik laughs, bewildered by the clarity of his expression. “Yeah,” he chuckles, reaching out to pat the side of his neck. “Yeah, we're okay. Alright. Shirt off, Jamie, let's get a look at you.”
Jameson pauses, touching his shirt.
Survival is a game. He's been asked to make a move, a show of vulnerability that might result in increased health and affection. He calculates.
Trust is dangerous, and Anti warned him about the doctor and his friends. But Anti isn't here, and Jameson needs help.
Jameson needs Henrik.
He removes the shirt.
And anger tastes like blood, blood in Henrik's mouth.
He crushes it between his teeth, tasting the panic and the terror it is well-seasoned with, seething, fighting like a drowning man to keep his head above a trauma flashback or a blank-faced panic attack, because Jameson – Jameson –
Jameson is littered like a Jackson Pollock in red and white. He's covered in lines like cracked glass. He's scarred to hell and back.
And, oh, Henrik recognizes some of these scars – shares some of these scars – the thick pink lines of Anti fully ripping skin away, the short, blackish markings from electric plug-ins shoved against the skin and made painful by the demon's own power, the lean, lovely, terrible white carving from the great silver knife, Anti's favorite.
Above all else, he shares the strings.
Henrik's strings were given to him on a day when he was weak, he remembers that.
They were given to him on a day of despair.
He felt like an animal.
The basement was cold.
Even his blood had gone cold against his flesh.
He was freezing to death.
And he gave up.
Anti came downstairs. Henrik didn't look up, but the surrender was tangible, tangible in Anti's mouth.
He sang.
Something very soft and very sweet and very sad.
A song Henrik used to love.
And he carved delicate lines, white and pure, around Henrik's wrists and ankles.
The blood was warm.
Henrik reaches up and draws back, slow, the sleeve of his own shirt, revealing one of the white string scars.
He knows he should ask his little brother when Anti gave him the strings, how much did they bleed, did he cry, did Anti sing, was he grateful, does he still belong to him?
But Henrik cannot make the words appear.
Cannot bear to know the answer.
He stares at the strings on Jameson’s wrist and at a fifth string scar, carved in a circle around his poor little brother’s heart; he is horrified, sick, frightened, humiliated, tormented, weak, and Jameson is –
Oh, wait, hold up. Henrik blinks. Jameson looks... happy.
Jameson looks excited, delighted, overjoyed.
He lifts up his hands and he signs.
“Shared,” he says, with passion, beaming at him. “We are brothers.”
Henrik stares.
“Shared,” says Jameson again, and then he reaches out and touches his hands.
Reaches out, slow, and touches the pads of his fingers to the rough callouses of his knuckles, runs the smooth surface of his nails against the soft insides of his valleys and ridges, lets his skin drift down the flat bruises of his blue-river veins, and finally finds the smooth raised flesh of the old scars, as though they are sacred.
The movement is slow, uncertain, like he expects to be pushed away, but his touch is warm.
“Brothers,” says Henrik, finding his voice the way a colt finds its legs, and then he nearly chokes, breathing so fast it makes his chest hurt. “Ja, ja, ja – oh, yes, we are, we are brothers. We did share this, didn't we? Didn't we share this suffering? Don't we share these scars, and see – they have yet to destroy us.”
Jameson laughs without noise, his eyes shining. Fuck, he looks like Jack, he looks like Chase. Like Marvin, like Jackie. He looks like brotherhood.
Yes, they shared the same suffering, didn't they? He wonders if Jamie bled like he did, begged like he did, screamed like he did. Starved and wept and tried to kill himself like he did, professed love and hatred intermittently, begged God to kill him like he did, wished Sean had never created him like he did, cried out for his brothers to save him –
He chokes again and coughs and pulls out his stethoscope, and he sets it gently to Jameson's chest, and listens to his heartbeat for a very long time.
After a moment, Jameson sets his chin on Henrik's shoulder and closes his eyes.
Henrik can't fucking breathe.
He takes his blood pressure and cleans up a nasty cut in his stomach and weighs him in the bathroom and checks his head for lice and examines his calcium-deprived nails and he can't fucking breathe, he can't breathe at all, but he doesn't care, he just wants Jameson to be okay, he just wants to keep Jameson healthy –
He lets go of his little brother and sits back on the bed, reaching up to clutch at his hair, rough tears coursing down his face, and Jamie's face twists with alarm. Henrik doesn't know why he thought he could handle this. He can hardly even manage looking at his own scars, and Jameson's are barely different – it might even be worse, to know that he was tortured the way Henrik was tortured, to know that he has been through so much of the same, from starvation to the sickly sweet, overwhelming enslavement of Anti's control, the whispered “I love you” that falls from your mouth when you are weaker than you have ever been –
Jameson has wrapped his arms around him, holding his shoulders and trying to make him meet his gaze, but Henrik is already collapsing, dissolving, unwinding with his terror, choking, choking, suffocating on terror old and new. His wrists are cold-chained again, he can't hear anything but a high-pitched static whine, he is hungry, hungry, dying of thirst, and blood seems to seep from every pore of his white flesh, as medicine oozes through the tube of a bottle.
He can't fucking breathe.
Now doctor, this doesn't have to hurt. Close your eyes and repeat after me.
No, no, no, not the possession, he can't bear – he can't bear it – please –
He was doing so much better before Anti took him. He was doing so much better. He enjoyed his therapy sessions, he never freaked out more than once a week, and he was starting to feel like he might actually have some goddamn control over his life again.
Not anymore.
“I can't do this again!” he cries, his voice shattering halfway through. “No, no, no, I can't fucking go through this again, please, God!”
Sooner or later I'll get in. I always get what I want, brother dear.
He can feel Jameson's terror like a visceral thing, but above it all there is a sweet black burn, familiar and horrifying and wonderful, and he is sinking again, sinking, sinking, sick. Somehow the slow drowning of Anti's power is before his eyes again, within his lungs again, within his brain again, and the distinction between doctor and demon is becoming rapidly more blurred in his addled mind, his time of being a prisoner in his own head rising in his struggling throat.
Repeat after me. Give me strings.
Give – give –
He had fought. He had fought. None of it had mattered.
Give me strings.
And Henrik loses himself.
Withdrawal, withdrawal, withdrawal –
Jameson's hands are holding him.
“Dapper,” Henrik whispers, reaching up to touch his face.
His tear-stained face.
“Oh,” murmurs Henrik, his voice sweet and high-pitched. “I didn't mean to make you cry, puppy.”
Jameson's jaw drops and he stiffens like a corpse. His hands shake. He reaches up, up to his throat. He signs, slowly, unbelieving, an “A” drawn across his bruised throat.
“Anti?” he asks.
And Henrik whispers: “Of course, darling.”
And then, a millisecond later, “No, no, no, I'm not him, he's not here, he's gone, and I – I – oh, puppy, I didn't mean to make you cry.”
Jameson is here, beneath his hands; they're sitting on a bed together and nothing else matters, because he remembers, he remembers. Yes, they were here like this before. The after-effects of Anti's poison make him disoriented, but he remembers. They were here like this before. On the bed, at the motel, sitting together, Dapper so trusting, so naively trusting beneath his hands, torn between love and distress, and he laid him down, set his mouth against his ear –
Henrik takes Jameson's head in his hands, staring blank-faced, apathetic, at the fear, at the confusion in his silver-blue eyes, and then he pushes him gently down onto the mattress. Jameson, his eyes wide with terror, nevertheless goes without protest, yielding and compliant beneath his hands, lying down with his throat bared to the light.
“What am I doing?” whispers Henrik, and then, hatefully: “Disobey me and you will find yourself digging the life out of your own fragile heart. You will always belong to me.”
Jameson cries, but he does not move or struggle.
And his eyes are still warm with love and brotherhood.
Henrik places his cold mouth at the base of Dapper's ear. The command has to be issued. The seed has to be planted, and buried, and drowned. His name is Antisepticeye.
Jameson shrinks away from him.
Henrik jolts, his eyes fluttering, reality appearing too bright around him. For a second he can only choke, his heart moving too fast and too painful for him to breathe. He wonders if he's finally dying.
Reaching up, Jameson touches his shoulders and gently, pleadingly, draws him down away from his ear to look him in the eyes again.
“Oh, I'm s-sorry,” Henrik gasps, his chest heaving hard, an agony. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I – ” He stumbles off Jameson and collapses onto the bed beside him, his nails digging at the scars in his wrists.
All this time, all that he's been through. All it took was one week, and suddenly Anti owns him again.
“No, no, no!” shrieks Henrik, spasming and curling in on himself, tearing at his hair. What the hell is happening to him? What the hell happened that night? “No, he gave you an order! I gave you an order! Oh, God, what did he tell you? Jameson, what did he tell you? I gave you an order! Why can't I remember? Why can't I remember? What did he tell you to do?”
“Please,” Jameson is signing, hovering over him. “Please breathe.”
“I can't go through this again,” Henrik sobs, and shame overwhelms him like a wave on the ocean. “Please, God, please, Jack. Jameson, don't.”
Jamie is trying to hold his hands. He's trying to offer comfort the same way it was offered to him. There's no anger in his eyes and Henrik doesn't understand why.
“I'm sorry,” Henrik cries, trying to push him away. “I'm sorry, I didn't know – go to Chase, please, I can't take care of you – I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you. Oh, I can't – can't b-breathe.”
But Jameson does not go.
And he stays for the next half-hour, as Henrik works his way through the worst panic attack he's had in months. He weeps and collapses, shudders and stammers, remembers old words of hatred Anti gave to him and tries to tear out his stitches. He falls into a possession flashback two more times, but does not try and touch or speak to his little brother. Jameson sits with him and holds his hands.
“I'm sorry for scaring you,” whispers Henrik, limp on the bed when the worst of it has passed.
“You didn't scare me,” says Jameson.
“I'm sorry for hurting you.”
“You didn't hurt me.”
Henrik looks up and finds neither fear nor anger in his little brother's face.
Just warmth.
He is warmer than blood. Hateless. Loving.
He turns around and picks up Chase's red sleep shirt, tugging it back over his head. And then – still cautious, like he expects to be rejected – he lays down, carefully, warm, on top of Henrik's chest.
Henrik covers his face with one hand, and rubs Jameson's back with the other, and breathes.
No, Jameson is not angry. No, he's not even scared.
He's made his choice.
He loves Henrik.
This is my brother, Jameson decides, closing his eyes. This is my brother and brothers look out for each other no matter what. Brothers keep each other. Protect each other. Save each other.
Henrik falls asleep.
Jameson strokes his fingers along the scars on his wrists. They're lovely. They're shared.
He doesn't know exactly what happened, doesn't quite remember the night Henrik returned to, but something has changed within him. He never believed he would find someone who had been through the things that he had been through, and came out the other side alive, and softer for it. He never believed he would have the chance to live with him. To be his. He dreamed of it, wished for it, hoped with all his heart for it. But he never thought it would happen. Now this person – his person, his brother – is sick. Is scared. Is hurting. For the first time in his life, someone needs him.
And I, Jameson promises, curling up against his chest, and listening to his heartbeat. I will keep my brother safe.
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androidbrain · 7 years ago
Text
[not a poem; this is a short story i wrote as part of a creative writing portfolio to apply for uni over a year ago. i just read it for the first time since the night i wrote it. i wrote it in about two hours and sent it minutes before the deadline. i was so fucking stressed but it turned out okay and i was offered a place on the course, so it can’t have been terrible. bits of it make me cringe but there’s not much point editing it, i’d rather keep it as it was. cw death, internalised homophobia maybe]
Remembering an Ending
Here’s where my story ends: a car crash.
I’ll elaborate.
I lied.
The car crash was a beginning, too. It’s all about perspective, at least that’s what he kept telling me. I didn’t believe him at first. An end is an end, I kept thinking. I’d had enough endings in my life to know that nothing good comes of them. The good things rot and fester away, and new life won’t grow from it no matter how hard you try. You let them go, you move on. That’s what this story is about: letting go.
It ended, or began, on a cold, wet morning in San Francisco, on the fourth of July twenty twenty-two, when a ‘young man of African American descent’ drew his last breath. Killed instantly, intoned the officer, whose non-descript voice drawled apathetically from television sets around the city. A careless accident, continued the officer, whose pallid skin bore an uncanny resemblance to nothing in particular, whose eyes were emptier than the heart of a ghost.
…Great tragedy…
…Drugs and alcohol…
…No investigation…
“Well, shit,” I said, in response to my own lifeless face, which stared, unseeing, at the heavens from where it lay in the dirt. I remember feeling detached, resigned maybe. I was dead, but I was still here somehow, and I could do nothing to alter either of those two facts. I thought it might have been some kind of scheduling error – they’d overbooked the afterlife and I had to wait around a little until there was an appointment free, something like that.
I saw the police sirens but my ears rang with post-death tinnitus. Police and journalists buzzed around me, managing always to avoid me as though life and death were two opposite ends of a magnet that could never meet, pushed apart by some force I might have understood if I’d listened in science class instead of writing poetry. It didn’t matter now anyway, unless science could explain why my presence lingered on while my body decayed on the side of a road.
It turned out that it wasn’t science who could explain it, but the feral tabby cat that visited my house sometimes when I was younger.
“Rough day, huh?” said a voice. “I always found that my corporeal form was so… Restricting.”
I looked down, and somehow it was the talking cat that made me question whether or not this was all a nightmare, rather than the fact that I was looking at my own corpse just moments prior.
“Jellybean?” The word left my mouth of its own accord, and I stared dumbly at the creature, which returned my bemused gaze with similar fervour.
“Excuse me?” It hadn’t been expecting that. Neither had I. “Oh. The form?” It asked, glancing down at its body. “Alright. A cat. That’s not too bad. That is to say, I’ve had worse.” Jellybean flashed me a row of pearly white feline teeth in a conspiratorial sort of way, which I pointedly ignored in favour of looking back at the wreck. But when I turned my head from the white-and-orange tabby cat, we were no longer on the road side. Instead, we were standing on top of a hill, looking down at the sprawling city from above as the fog rolled over the Golden Gate Bridge like grey waves, and the tourists hurried around like ants on the harbour front. The flashing ambulance lights were replaced by stillness. It was silent except for birdsong and the distant blare of a car horn. It felt like I was floating. I remember wondering: is this how gods feel?
“What kind of name is Jellybean anyway?” asked the Jellybean-bodied creature.
“I was seven,” I answered automatically. “Am I dead?”
“You sure are, kid.”
I nodded then. I felt relieved. “Alright. What now?”
“That’s your call. I’m just here to guide you.”
“So you’re a guide?”
“I guess so.”
“You here to take me to heaven?”
“Not really.”
“You here to take me anywhere?”
“Sort of.”
“You’re not a very helpful guide,” I said, frowning.
“I don’t get paid enough for that.”
I looked down at it, but it wasn’t looking at me anymore, so I seated myself on the wet grass, noting that the water still seeped through my clothes, then stretched out onto my back and stared up at the sky. Death was freeing. I realised that I didn’t have anywhere to be, or any bills to pay, or any more mistakes to make. I began to smile, and then I began to laugh, and then I began to cry. But I couldn’t finish any of my emotions, so I dug the heels of my hands into my eyes as hard as I could, feeling as though I were going to implode at any moment. I don’t know how long I stayed like that, screaming silently at nobody and nothing. It could have been centuries, but when I removed them we were somewhere else again, and a light rain hit my face and obscured the tears that might have formed.
“Where are we?” I asked, but I already knew. Some events have a film-like quality to them that are easy to tell apart from the regular, every day events that fill in the gaps between the truly important scenes.
This was one of them.
It was dawn. The morning was silent and still, as mornings often are. Outside, it rained. Inside, it didn’t, but it might as well have. The kitchen light was still on – the last remnant of the night before, casting a fluorescent glow over our flushed, heated skin. We were both bathed in realisations, keeping us silent because there was too much to say. I lay in the bed, lit half by the fluorescent light that poured from the adjacent room, and half from the bruise-coloured sunrise.
A lot of things scared me that morning. I knew then that I was, and would never be again, one person. I knew I would carry a part of him with me at all times, location and mortality set firmly aside. I also knew that love was no longer a distant, intangible object that eluded me, no longer a story that my mother told me. It was bright, and real, and it settled on my chest with disturbing ease. And from it, terror sprouted in three directions.
The first direction was the fear of unrequited love.
The second was the fear that now I had loved, it stood to reason that I would also lose.
The last fear was mingled with shame. Not at the act. Not at him. Just at myself. I was ashamed to be so cowardly, to have tasted something beautiful and to already be closing my heart to it. I loved him, and I hated myself, and I didn’t think I could reconcile those two emotions. I suppose I was also afraid of him loving me back, and what that would mean.
I watched, an outsider looking in, as I untangled myself from him, exited the apartment, and drove away in my car.
“It’s my fault he died,” I said suddenly, although I had realised it a long time ago. I guess I’d hoped that the cat beside me would correct me, but it didn’t. “Why are you showing me this?” I demanded, suddenly irate that I was being made to relive my bad decisions so soon after I’d died. “Aren’t you supposed to be showing me the best parts? Like, my greatest hits, that kind of thing?”
It turned to look at me with curious emerald eyes, a peculiar expression on its face. “I’ve seen your life, kid – start to finish. I don’t know what best parts you’re talking about, but this is the closest you came.” Its words should have deflated me, but I knew what was coming next, so instead my temper only rose.
“Who the hell are you anyway? You don’t know me! You don’t know anything about me!” I was peripherally aware that I was yelling at a cat in the pouring rain, but once you die, those sorts of things don’t bother you as much as they once might have.
“Sure I do,” it said agreeably, turning away from me to peer into the window again. “Anyway, this is the main event. This is what I’m supposed to show you.”
Three men arrived as if on cue, dressed all in black like pallbearers with guns hidden in their jackets. I turned to the window again, drinking in the sight of him asleep and trying to commit it to memory. It didn’t matter. Soon I would be nothing, with no memories, and no regrets, but my presence was hanging by a thread and I wanted him to the be the last thing that I saw.
The men knocked on the door, and he made a noise in his sleep which could have been my name. They knocked again, impatient, and my heart ached with pre-emptive loneliness. After this, nothing felt whole again, not even myself. I threw myself at the world, a self-destructive semi-person that didn’t care what happened to me. He rose this time, looking confused, and then hurt at the absence my warmth left in the bed, but death’s persistent knocking drove him from his bed and to the door, answering it half-dressed and half asleep. That’s when I started to cry, seeing him so vulnerable and unassuming. I drew my palm across my mouth to stifle the sobs, though I knew it didn’t matter. I knew they couldn’t hear me.
“Can I help you?” he asked, looking them up and down, the seriousness of their manifestation dawning on him.
“Is there a Mr. Jones here?” one of them asked.
“Uh. Thomas? No he—he just left, I…” He swallowed thickly, noticing the way their fingers hovered around the lapel of their jackets.
“Did he?” another replied flatly.
“Thomas?” the first one questioned. “That’s not him. Boss said it’s Michael. Michael Jones – you know him?”
He paused. I’d mentioned my father only once to him, but it was clear that he recalled the name. “No,” he said, sounding unsure. “I don’t. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
“My father,” I said. “They were looking for my father.” I couldn’t tear my eyes from the scene, but Jellybean made a ‘hmm’ of agreement. “I don’t need to watch the rest of it.” I didn’t move though, and neither did the cat. Instead, I began to cry even harder.
One of the men laughed, drew his gun, and shot the only person I’d ever loved. He died almost instantly. I saw the life drain from his eyes. I saw the blood begin to leave his body, and then I turned away. “Is this the end?” I said, pleading.
“Yes,” it said. And then: “It’s also the beginning.”
I wanted to say “he used to say that” but I knew if I started to speak I would sob instead, and never stop sobbing. I wanted to say “they weren’t looking for me” but the way the creature looked at me suggested that it knew I had come to the realisation that it wasn’t my fault, that it wasn’t the mistakes in my past that had killed him.
“Nice meeting you, kid,” said the creature.
Then everything fell away.
Darkness surrounded me, shrouded my surroundings and myself. I was not even sure that I existed any longer, until a familiar, comforting light appeared before me. I could not describe it even if I tried. It was simply comfort. From the light stepped a familiar figure, his features obscured at first but growing clearer and more focused as the light grew: his hair, messy and wild; his freckles, a constellation on his skin; his eyes, filled with kindness and empathy, and his smile, crooked and perfect.
My heart overflowed.
Then he held out his hand, and I took it.
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squipitme-blog · 8 years ago
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Google says its YouTube ad problem
A top Google executive says the company’s YouTube ad controversy — where big brands have discovered that some of their ads have run next to videos promoting hate and terror — is overblown.
But he says Google is making progress at fixing it, anyway.
“It has always been a small problem,” with “very very very small numbers” of ads running against videos that aren’t “brand- safe,” says Google’s chief business officer, Philipp Schindler. “And over the last few weeks, someone has decided to put a bit more of a spotlight on the problem.”
Google has been scrambling to react over the past few weeks, as newspapers like The Times of London, The Guardian and The Wall Street Journal pointed out ads running next to videos from hate groups and other extremists. Those reports prompted big brands like AT&T and Verizon to pull their ads from YouTube.
Now, Schindler says, improved software has been able to track down 5x more videos that it wants to keep clear from advertisers.
He says YouTube has also improved its response time when someone flags an inappropriate video, and is improving its user interface to make it easier for advertisers to steer clear of dodgy videos. Schindler says YouTube will also start letting outside companies like DoubleVerify and comScore audit its efforts to keep ads away from controversial clips.
But in an interview on Sunday, Schindler also described a tricky line for the company to walk: It wants to reassure advertisers who want to know it’s doing something about the problem. But it doesn’t want to say that it has a widespread problem, either — because it doesn’t think it has a widespread problem.
Here’s an edited transcript of my chat with Schindler. At a couple points in our conversation, Schindler and a Google rep discussed whether he could discuss something on the record. In those cases, a Google rep followed up with statements after the interview. I’ve noted those below.
Peter Kafka: You said you’ve increased your detection by 5x. How big was the problem to begin with?
Philipp Schindler: If you look at it from an advertiser perspective, the error rates we’re talking about — I’m careful in saying this, because I don’t want to take away from the importance of the problem, and that we need to get it right — but the numbers are tiny, tiny.
[Update from Google rep: “When we spoke with many of our top brand advertisers, it was clear that the videos they had flagged received less than 1/1000th of a percent of the advertisers’ total impressions. Of course, when we find that ads mistakenly ran against content that doesn’t comply with our policies, we immediately remove those ads.”]
But it’s enough of a problem that we’re talking about it now.
It should always be smaller. It’s our responsibility to make it smaller. Let’s not take away from that. But remember, we’ve had that problem, at scale, for a long time. The whole industry [has], even traditional. The problem comes from the fact that somebody is aggressively putting it onto the front page.
Do you think someone is actively campaigning against Google and YouTube?
That’s not how I would say it. There’s a lot of spotlight on the problem at the moment. And advertisers just don’t like something like this to be dragged out into the public. And they’re unhappy with that, and I can fully understand that they’re unhappy with that.
They’re unhappy with two things. Let’s be honest:
Number one, that the mistake even happens. That’s what we have to get better at. Again, as before, we cannot promise a perfect system. [But] whenever it happens, it’s bad, and it shouldn’t happen.
The second piece is, apart from the mistake happening, that there’s so much focus being put on it publicly. They obviously don’t appreciate that.
(adsbygoogle = window.adsbygoogle || []).push();
What’s changed between now and a year ago? Is there more hate speech on YouTube, or are more people talking about it?
The first thing that changed is that more public attention has been put on what is, percentage-wise, a pretty small problem. Again, not to minimize it.
The second thing that has changed is that the problem has become a bit more multifaceted. It’s relatively easy to [block] clear “hate” — clear, specific words, that are very clearly triggering something. A lot of things historically have been very black or white. And things are becoming more gray-ish. A lot more shades of gray.
Take the N word. If you would just block [videos] when people refer to the black community with N word, you would take out a pretty significant percentage of all rap videos. You would probably take out a lot of pro-black activist groups. But obviously you want to take it out when somebody says “we hate all N words.”
The problem is now, the machines have to start understanding context in a much different way.
YouTube has always had issues with advertisers being uneasy about the content. A few years ago, you addressed this by creating Google Preferred, where advertisers could buy safe stuff, at a premium — which meant you were saying that everything else was riskier. Why not just sell the cleared stuff?
The focus on Google Preferred historically hasn’t been brand safety. It’s “what is the most engaging content that users are using.”
But it was also telling advertisers that they knew what they were getting — videos from people they’ve heard of, like AwesomenessTV or Smosh.
The reason why trying to do what you’re basically suggesting — whitelisting everything [would be difficult is] a couple reasons:
Think about the scale of the problem that we’re dealing with here. The last thing that you want, if you lean back a little bit here — if you asked, the whole digital world, independently of YouTube, to whitelist and review everything going forward, at the scale we’re running at. What you would do is fundamentally disconnect advertisers, brands, companies, from the ability to interact with their audiences. It’s not a world we want. That’s not a world you want.
Think about the problem, in a world where, more or less over time, every interaction will be some sort of digital interaction, and brands and companies want to participate in real-time conversations with their consumers …
But that is how traditional media works. The New York Times knows exactly what’s on a New York Times page. NBC knows what NBC is broadcasting. There’s no question about it, and that’s now a selling point for them: This is brand-safe stuff. We know what we’re doing. This seems like it’s a vulnerability for you.
[A Google rep notes that now advertisers are now, by default, set up to run on only on safe content.]
Have any advertisers who announced they were halting their YouTube ads come back?
[Update from Google rep: “Many advertisers never pulled out and many have decided to come back based on the actions we’ve taken over the past week. Our customers’ confidentiality is paramount to us, and it would’t be appropriate for us to comment on their behalf.”]
Last month, you also said Google would review the standards for the content it allowed on YouTube, and might change its guidelines. What’s the latest on that?
We’re carefully evaluating this. That’s where we are. I can’t say any more about it at the moment.  Source : recode
https://squipitme.com/2017/04/03/google-says-youtube-ad-problem/
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