#Even if we should be torn apart!!!! Take my revolution!!!

[the-cooler-king]

Oh yeah..... midnight gospel be hitting.... sitting in my bed fuckin. Crying. Get a grip girl

[jojoturnip]

A response to a mother at war, the poem of a friend:

You think of things so cosmically, don't you? I'm not surprised. I've seen your poetry of angels and your notebooks brimming over with theories of the world to compile into your games and campaigns.

There is no problem with that. Maybe that's a part of why I'm drawn to you and others who do the same. I like deep thinkers. I'd like to consider myself one.

There's nothing wrong with having your head in the clouds but don't forget you stand on earth.

I've been asked to hold a science writing workshop for another university's students who want to put science on the ballot (go them!!), so I've been thinking of some of my best writing advice. One piece I think of constantly when I write I found a long time ago scrolling through Pinterest:

"Don't write about the Holocaust. Write about the pair of children's shoes left behind in the street as they were taken away."

That one resonates with me a lot. Maybe it's the Jewish fear. I think it's more than that, though.

I, too, have been torn apart and eaten by the cosmos. I was punctured by the points of stars that promised to light the way. I have known and loved the darkness of man, the darkness of voids. I saw the big picture before I knew what it was.

It isn't pretty. Stepping back and looking at the timeline of my life, it isn't pretty.

Come look closer with me, though. Do you see that smudge? That's where my sister and I used to spray men's shaving cream at each other in the backyard when it was too hot to play like normal in the desert. Oh wait, no, look at this one, it's me hanging up my first houseplant, a rabbit footed fern. Does this one of me playing Minecraft with my cousin even look like me anymore?

No, no, this one you should see. You'll remember it. I had invited my sister, my roommates, my creative writing friends, and you all to the award ceremony for my literary award. You came with me, no one else did. Did you see how close to crying I am? Not from sadness even, just joy that you were there and supported me even though you didn't understand and it wasn't your thing. You were just there.

Don't think me stupid for finding that joy, my friend. The connections of the universe may be hard to conceptualize, but the constellations look nice. Did you hear we're supposed to be able to see the Aurora tonight?

Stepping back, I see all the pain and suffering that you do. And it's true that it overpowers the rest. But isn't it lonely up there? Only seeing the big picture and none of the details that make it worth painting?

I'm no artist. Or ethics professor. I'm not the one to tell you what's right and what isn't.

I study life. Both in botany and in writing. And I'm convinced, even after all the ugly I have pulled my rubber boots up from to stay afloat, that life is beautiful.

My bus driver always waves to other bus drivers we pass. But, when we come across a bus on the same route going the opposite direction, I see the flash of toothy smiles and special waves and salutes, like secret best-friend handshakes. My coworker dug a digital camera out of someone else's trash so I could use it to take pictures of my niece. The girl I complimented in the coffee shop today on her leather jacket beamed and told me how she was pretending it was warmer than it really was.

One of my favorite quotes comes from a source almost as odd as Pinterest, Norman Borlaug's biography. He's the father of the green revolution, and credited with saving more lives than any other person. I read it as a Borlaug Scholar in high school, and it was mostly dry. But he talked about his grandfather a bit, who said,

"Don't look for God in the sky. Look for him in the ground. That's where things grow."

Some of the tulips in the horticulture garden are planted above a hot water pipe, and the soil is warm enough for them to bloom early. They always come up short and have purple anthocyanin stress marks on their leaves, but people stop by to see the early flowers anyway.

I understand where you are, up in the universe, seemingly above it all but feeling swallowed by the vacuum. There's a beauty in that, too, in having a mind that can untangle dark matter. So I'm not here to change you.

But I also know your feet are as gravity-striken as mine. Welcome to Earth, my friend, come dig in the dirt with me. We can find earthworms and seeds and a thousand lives too small for us to see. It does not take away from the big picture, or the acknowledgement of your pain to pay them notice.

I brought you an extra trowel, but I cannot help you find god or hope or love or whatever it is people dig for. You have to want it. Then you have to dig for it.

I'm just digging next to you.

[thominho-incorrectquotes]

Falling, We are Falling Now

This is my entry for Thominho Week 2022, Day 1 “Enemies to Lovers ”

Characters: Thomas x Minho

Rating: T

4619 words

Tags: Enemies to lovers, Soulmate AU, Fantasy AU, Angels/Demons AU, fallen angel!Thomas, demon!Minho

Summary:  Thomas is a fallen angel now. All he wants to do is find his friend Newt and Alby who had fallen from Heaven not long before he did. But he encounters a demon in a bar one night and everything he knew got shattered.

Note:  Thominho Week is here!!!!! I'm so excited and happy right now! I'm hoping you'll like all the fics I have prepared this year!

This fic had been a challenge! Even though I'm a big fan of fantasy, I never actually write a fantasy world I had to create, and that was basically the case here. And just as a heads up, this is purely fictional and has nothing to do with religion or anything, just my own creation.

Also, this fic was inspired by the song Revolution by Elias, so I suggest you go listen to it while reading this fic if you want to^^

You can also read it on AO3

________________________________

Falling

We are falling now

Words written down

They are falling now

____________________________

The Fall had been long and brutal. His wings had been torn apart during it, leaving him with big open wounds in an inverted V shape. He had been skinned by the air, by the time his body hit the ground, he was a bloody and bruised mess.

Of course, he was basically immortal and therefore, the Fall wasn’t meant to kill him. But it was supposed to punish him, along with the fact that he will now have to live forever on Earth. So he was hurting. Everywhere. It made him wish he hadn’t been born an angel and could die, just to take the pain away.

He didn’t know a long he stayed there, lying on the ground. Trees were surrounding him, creating a protective shell. No other living creature was nearby, and in this state, Thomas was glad he was alone.

He laid there until his body healed itself, trying not to cry.

______________________________

But the lies they will hurt you Hold on Human kindness desert you Hold on

______________________________

It had been months. Thomas had been trying to find his friend Newt and Alby for months now. They had fallen not long before he did, so they should not have been that far.

In the meantime, he had found a place to hide, a small but luxurious apartment in the city nearby where he had fallen.

It had taken a while, he first had to find clothes, and then he had gone to bars to gain a bit of money with bets and poker. He wasn’t proud to say he used his power in order to win—or even to fake having cash since Heaven doesn’t give you anything after the Fall—but the life of a fallen angel on Earth wasn’t easy and he had to do what he needed to do to protect himself.

He didn’t dare approach other fallen angels in the city. They were dangerous and hostile. Many had been on Earth for decades, some even for centuries, and their resentment was deep. Their hatred towards Heaven was even stronger and they wanted newly fallen angels to join them in this circle of loathing. It was almost a cult and Thomas wanted to stay away from it.

But the loneliness was following him everywhere, like darkness followed his every step. He wanted to get rid of it. He wanted to find the light again. He could only do it by finding his friends.

_____________________________

Running with a crown on your head A resolution Written on your hands

__________________________

He entered the bar. It was one he had never been to. He tried to never go in the same ones too often, not wanting to get recognized.

Like all the other establishment that allowed illegal bets, this one was situated in a dark corner of the ill-famed district of the city. Thomas knew it was dangerous, but it was his only source of income as a fallen angel, and he knew his power would protect him. Still, a strange sensation crept on him the moment he stepped inside.

He made his way to the barman, hoping his instincts would take over if needed, and ordered a beer. Fallen angels couldn’t get drunk, but he had to play the part.

The bottle in hand, he went towards the pool table, where men in tattoos and leather vests were already betting on the winner. Some of them were already drunk, despite being still early in the night and the loud laughter and chatting were already ringing in his ears. This was such a pain in the ass.

But then he saw something he wished he would never have to encounter here.

A demon.

The creature, like every other demons, was beautiful. The most beautiful living being there was. Because beauty was a means to corrupt. To manipulate.

He had pitch black hair, cut short and standing upwards. His jaw was sharp, well defined, like every other lines of his body. The shirt he was wearing was struggling to stay in one piece; his chest and arms were stretching the fabric to its limits. And his eyes were the darkest he has ever seen.

Obviously, the humans around didn’t know there was an evil creature next to them. Only angels and other demons were able to identify if someone was a demon or an angel. They could always feel it.

The demon was at the pool table, a glass of liquor in his hand. A smirk was drawn on his face, and just by his presence—and probably his power—he was owning the place. Guys were afraid of him, but still worshipping him and girls were drooling just looking at him. And by the way people talked to him, he was in all likelihood a regular here. Maybe this place belonged to him even, as demons were often in illicit affairs on Earth.

It was dangerous. Demons were even worse than fallen angel. Demons were fallen angels who got corrupted. Because, don’t get it wrong, fallen angels were still angels. They only got kicked out of heaven because they broke one of the Rules. That’s why Thomas was here now. Because he was opposed to these Rules.

But demons… Those were angels who felt into the darkness. Angels who let their hatred and selfishness take over.

And they were powerful. Very powerful.

So Thomas should have gone away. He should have left this bar.

But he couldn’t. He didn’t know if it was the demon’s attraction power or his angel side who wanted to confront the creature, but his next step led him in front of the demon, on the other side of the pool table.

Like he expected, the demon looked at him. Immediately, Thomas could see in his eyes that he knew what kind of being Thomas was. The smirk on his face only grew and, as if possible, his eyes got even darker.

“What’s up angel, wanna play too?” the demon teased. Thomas was thrown aback by the nickname, not expecting the creature to reveal to human beings his true nature, but everyone around him laughed. Thomas understood it was only meant to taunt him. Irritation began to crawl inside him, but he didn’t let it show on his face. Whatever game the demon was playing, Thomas wouldn’t let him.

“Only if it’s against you,” he replied. Laughs and “ooooh’s” followed his comments.

“You’ll have to pay, I don’t play unless there’s money involved.” The creature’s smirk only grew even more as he watched Thomas taking out few bills from his pocket and putting it in the betting stash one guy was holding.

“Not a problem for me,” he retorted, defying the demon with his eyes.

The people around them cheered and the pool table was getting prepared as the creature pulled money from his pocket to join what Thomas had already given.

He knew it was a bad idea. He’s been making money with all those bets because he cheated with his power. And the demon probably did the same. He could lose so much by doing this. Even getting close to a demon was dangerous, but there he was, defying one. What was wrong with him?

“Choose your weapon,” one guy said beside him, offering him few pool cue to choose from. The man smelled like alcohol and was looking at Thomas in amusement, as if he already knew who the winner was. And it apparently wasn’t Thomas in his opinion.

“Do you need me to teach you how to play, angel?” the demon snarked, causing more laughter from people in the bar.

“No, I’m good, but you should teach me how to you manage to breathe in that shirt,” he nagged back, using sarcasm. “You sure you don’t wanna use that money to buy a shirt that’s actually your size?”

Thomas couldn’t understand what was going on inside of him. Yes, he’s always been sarcastic, that was actually something that annoyed Newt a lot, but he’s never been prone to seek danger, and angering a demon was very dangerous.

But surprisingly, the demon only laughed, alongside everyone.

“If you’re trying to say I look sexy, just say so,” he casually replied, his smirk replaced by a flirty grin.

Something shifted in Thomas’s stomach. And it was disturbing since he didn’t know if it was disgust or arousal.

___________________________

And the lies they will hurt you No more Human kindness desert you No more

_____________________________

Unsurprisingly, it was a pretty tight game. Like Thomas expected, the demon was cheating. He couldn’t blame him, he was doing the same, and also they couldn’t obviously cheat, or call it out, without exposing themselves to the humans.

And the fact that the demon loved brushing his body against Thomas’s whenever he was moving to get in position was not helping. The demon’s body was warm and, obviously, muscled. And he was blatantly doing it on purpose. Thomas didn’t know if it were because the creature was flirting with him—it wouldn’t be so weird, demons were known to seduce people, even angels and fallen angels, to corrupt them—or just to annoy him and start a fight—that was also possible, demons loved to fight, and fallen angels were perfect nemesis.

But what Thomas hated the most from being this close to the demons was that he kind of felt drawn to him. Whenever they touched “accidentally,” his own body wanted to get closer, to let itself be embraced by those arms. His mind, however, was furiously against it.

“So, angel, you must have a name?” the demon asked while bending over the table to line up his shot. “Or do you prefer I just keep calling you angel?”

Thomas refrained from growling. He hated demons so much, this one in particular.

“My name’s Thomas,” he replied. “What about you? Is it Asshole?”

Two could play this game.

But the smirk came back. “It’s actually Minho, but you can call me babe.” We winked at him, and like every time the demon said something, everyone around him laughed. Thomas was getting more and more annoyed as the time passed by. He just wanted to get over it.

As the game progressed, more and more people bet on the winner and Minho even suggested they each offered more, since it was getting interesting. Thomas couldn’t back away now, he really needed that money. Why was Earth controlled by money anyway?

He needed that money to find his friends, alongside protecting himself. Not so long ago, he found a fallen angled community specialized in finding the fallen angels we used to be friends with before the Fall. Thomas wasn’t the only one in this situation apparently. However, he needed money to get this service. Also, he now had rent to pay, and humans’ jobs weren’t fit for fallen angels.

But the demon wasn’t going easy on him.

There was now only the black ball to get into one of the pockets for either of them.

“Right corner,” Thomas called. He had his line, and if everything went according to plan, he would win. He poured magic into the black ball in order to stop Minho from interfering with it.

He was sure he would win, making the demon finally shut his mouth.

He taped the cue ball and, like he expected, it hit the black on, pushing it into the right corner pocket. And, as calculated, the cue ball stopped before pocketing. He was the winner.

He was about to turn towards the demon with a smirk of his own, when he saw the cue ball moving on its own, before entering the pocket too.

He lost.

In his determination to win, he was sure the demon was going to stop the black ball from entering. He never expected him to influence the cue ball.

He turned towards him, anger making him forget where he was.

“You fucking cheated,” he said.

“Oh yeah? How?” Minho laughed. “I wasn’t even close to it. Too bad you’re not skilled enough, but that’s on you, angel.”

“You fucking liar!”

“What are you gonna do about it? You have proof maybe? Now, let me go get my cash.”

But Thomas was having none of it. He finally snapped.

Using the pool cue as a bat, he swung it at Minho’s head.

But before it could make contact with the demon’s pretty face, it was stopped by magic. He, at first, thought it was another trick from the creature, but seeing confusion on his face too, he knew something wasn’t right.

People around them started laughing again. “What man, you can’t even properly fight?” one dude said.

Minho moved towards the cash, a dark expression on his face. Thomas wanted to hit again, but something was preventing him from doing so.

The demon took the money and turned towards Thomas. “Let’s take it outside.”

He was too shock to disagree and before he knew it, they were both outside. Nobody followed them, probably the demon’s doing. It’s only when he realized they were in the dark alley leading to the bar that he came back to his sense.

“What are you doing!?” he said, breaking free from Minho’s grasp. “What’s going on!? Did you stop me from hitting you?”

The demon turned to face him. To Thomas’s surprise, the smirk was gone.

“No, I didn’t. I don’t mind a good fight, especially with a fallen angel,” he replied. Even his tone was dark, the flirtiness and sarcasm apparently no longer there.

“Then what—"

“Not here," he interrupted. “This is not the place to have this kind of conversation.”

Before Thomas could do anything, Minho had taken him by the waist and big black wings, similar to bats’ ones, appeared on his back. And with one sweep of the wings, they were in the air.

The creature clearly had a destination in mind. Thomas wanted to freak out. He was being kidnapped. But the feeling of finally being in the air again took over him.

He could feel the wind on his face again. His legs felt light for the first time ever since the fall. Flying was the one thing he missed the most since he lost his wings. Because flying was freedom.

To say he finally could fly again because of a demon…

The trip was short, however, and before Thomas could start panicking again by the thoughts that the demon had basically kidnapped him, Minho stepped them down on the roof of a building.

Once his feet touched the ground, Thomas pushed the demon away, even though a part of him he wanted to ignore craved the warm of the other body.

“What is your problem!?” Thomas snapped, tired of being humiliated by this creature once again. Being teased back in the bar, and now being treated as a rag doll, what was next?

“Hit me,” Minho asked, not acknowledging Thomas’s question.

“Wh-what?” Thomas was thrown aback. Why would the demon ask such thing?

“I want you to really want to hurt me, and hit me,” he repeated.

“Okay, you asked for it.” After all, who was he to refuse hurting a demon? He maybe was a fallen angled now, but demons were still his enemies.

He swung at the creature, expecting his fist to make contact with Minho’s pretty face.

It didn’t.

Like earlier, his fist was stopped mid-air by magic.

And now that his mind was clearer, he could feel that this magic was not demonic. It was actually beautiful and comfortable. It felt like a soft and warm blanket all over him. This magic was pure. And It wasn’t the demon’s magic.

Realization hit him.

“Fuck.”

That was the only word he could say, that he could think. Fuck.

He was speechless.

Because Minho, the demon in front of him, was his soulmate.

Yeah, soulmates were real. Humans weren’t really aware of it, for them it was more speculation and wishing, but they didn’t know all the details. Like how soulmates were not necessarily romantic. How soulmates had an unbreakable bond. How everyone, angels and demons included, had soulmates, sometimes more than one. And most importantly in this case, how it was impossible for soulmates to hurt each other.

But angels and demons knew that. They knew all those things.

And of all people, Thomas’s soulmate was a demon. This was even worse than the Fall.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he repeated. Tears began to form at his eyes. This wasn’t what he wanted. This wasn’t how things were supposed to go.

“Thomas…”

This was the first time the demon called him by his name. His heart clenched in his chest.

“No, no, it’s not possible. An angel and a demon can’t be soulmates, you know that,” Thomas tried to argue.

“You know that’s not true,” Minho countered back. “Demons were fallen angels before, so even if they are enemies now, there’s still a probability that an angel and a demon could be soulmates.”

“But you know what they said! That if it were to happen, Heaven and Hell would be changed forever!”

Did Minho not understand what this could imply? Now that an angel—or fallen angel in this case—found his soulmate, who is a demon, the world would change and never be the same. And from what he’s been told, it wasn’t a good thing. Because change could be bad.

“And what’s so wrong about it?” Minho objected. “You, as of all being, should be aware of how cruel Heaven actually is.”

“As if a demon have a say in what is cruel or not,” Thomas retorted.

“Why did you fall?” He once again ignored Thomas’s comment.

“Why should I tell you?” Irritation tainted his every word now.

The demon started to approach him, and, by reflex, Thomas flinched back.

“Please Thomas, you know I won’t do anything to you.”

Yes, he knew that, because Minho couldn’t hurt him. But he was still a demon.

He looked at him again, in his entirety. His shirt was still two sizes too small, but now, wide black wings were now on his black, along with a long tail of the same colour with a pointy tip. He also had dark horns on his head.

Despite his hatred towards demons, Thomas couldn’t help but think that the one in front of him looked attractive. Maybe it was just demons’ natural beauty, or because he was his soulmate, but yeah, he really was gorgeous.

Minho took a step forward and seeing that Thomas didn’t react, continued to get closer until he was in front of him. He could feel the warm from the demon’s body and the urge to get close to it came back. He looked up, to stare at the dark eyes.

He only saw softness and adoration.

He was speechless. How could such an evil creature showcase so much care for someone he just met?

Hypnotized by the demon’s eyes, Thomas let him carefully put his hands on his face. The gesture was so gentle and made his stomach fluttered.

“You’re so beautiful,” Minho said, his voice barely a whisper. “I’ve waited for you for so long.”

To say that Thomas was shocked by those words was an understatement.

“Wh-what do you mean?”

The demon smiled, and for the first time since Thomas knew him, it wasn’t a smirk or a grin. It was a genuine smile. And if that wasn’t the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, he didn’t know what it was.

“Because I always wanted to find my soulmate,” he explained. “I’ve been a demon for so long, and I have my people around me, we call ourselves the Gladers. But I’m not close to them as much as I want to. Like I’ve always been waiting for someone special. I thought this special someone could be my soulmate.”

That was … surprisingly sweet, for a demon.

“I guess this wasn’t the image you had of demons, right?” Minho joked when he saw Thomas’s confused expression.

“Indeed…”

“We are not evil. We are complex, like humans are. Hell, even angels are, but Heaven doesn’t allow them to be themselves, only how it wants them to be. Why do you think so many angels fall?”

Minho slowly started to caress Thomas’s cheek with his thumb. That’s when he noticed something on the fallen angel’s neck.

A silver chain.

“You were an archangel…”

Thomas looked down in shame. “Yes.”

“Why did you fall?” he asked again, with a soft voice, which prompted Thomas to answer him this time.

“Because I was against what Heaven did to my friends.” Why did he feel like he could tell Minho everything? Why did it feel so good to be touched by him? Without thinking, he took the demon’s other hand in his. “My friends, Alby and Newt, were two angels, like me. They are soulmates. It’s not forbidden by Heaven, to have another angel as a soulmate, since we don’t have a say in it. But they want to keep angels pureness, so we aren’t allowed to fall in love. But they did anyway. Their Fall happened after they first kissed. I was opposed to it, but it happened. They were my closest friends.”

He was getting teary eyed by talking about it. He missed them so much and what happened to them was cruel. Maybe Minho wasn’t so wrong after all.

“What happened next?” The demon wasn’t pressuring him, and his presence was comforting. The hand on Thomas’s cheek was still delicately touching him.

“I requested that they get their wings back. That angels should be able to love too.”

“And they kicked you out of Heaven too…” he finished for him. The fallen angel nodded. “I’m sorry Thomas, but see? That’s what I’m saying. Things need to change.”

“But how could you be so sure of that? Things could go so wrong! Heaven is there to protect the balance of the universe! If it changes, the world could go in flames!” Thomas argued, irritation coming back. “Bet you’ll like that!”

“That’s not what we want Thomas. We only want this fight between light and darkness to stop. The world, and beings, aren’t black or white Thomas. We all have good and bad in us. We are all complex, much more than just ‘good’ and ‘evil.’ This fight Heaven has with Hell is exactly why the world is unbalanced.”

That was going against everything Thomas has ever been taught. It was messing with his mind and thoughts.

“But…”

Minho took the fallen angel’s face with both hands, forcing him to look at him.

“You’ve fallen, but you’re still holding on to Heaven. Let it go, angel, let it go. The world has to change, but Heaven refuses it does because it only wants power. Heaven betrayed you, angel. It betrayed your friends. What is so wrong about love? What is so wrong about emotions? What is so wrong about being ourselves? Just let it go Thomas.”

Why did everything Minho said made sense?

“Let it go Thomas,” he repeated. “Follow your heart.”

Why did he want to believe the demon so much? Was the demon using his power on him?

But, as an ex-archangel, Thomas would have known if the demon had been doing so, if he had not been telling the truth.

Staring at Minho’s beautiful face once again, he stopped his gaze at the plum lips. He wanted to let go. He wanted to feel something. He wanted, craved, the demon’s contact so much.

“If you want to kiss me, I won’t stop you,” Minho said, noticing where the angel was looking.

Thomas wanted to resist. Kissing a demon was wrong. But why did the feeling in his guts wouldn’t go away? That feeling that told him to just put his lips again Minho’s. To let it go.

And so Thomas did. He pressed his lips against the creature’s. He let go. He was free.

This was nothing like he imagined it would feel.

The kiss was soft and gentle. Like the rest of Minho’s body, his lips were warm, as if a flame was burning inside of his body. Adoration filled every movement.

Thomas couldn’t help but think how weird this whole thing was. Only an hour ago, he encountered a demon, and now, he was kissing him. Delicately. Sucking lightly on his upper lips. And the demon was reciprocating. Minho was slow, as if any movement could scare off his soulmate. He let Thomas take control of everything, let him explore this thing they had.

Thomas couldn’t believe he was doing this. Kissing a demon. His nemesis.

But why did it feel so right? Why did the butterfly in his stomach couldn’t stop fluttering? Why did his lips never wanted to let go?

Was it how it was, to have a soulmate? If so, Thomas understood why Newt and Alby risked being kicked out of Heaven for this.

Tentatively, he put his arms around Minho’s waist, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss. When their chest collided, he knew that this was right. That he couldn’t live without this now that he had a taste. His whole body felt like it was on fire. When Minho circled his arms around Thomas, pressing their body together, the angel let out a small moan of pleasure.

When their lips parted, they were still holding each other.

Thomas was smiling. Maybe change wasn’t so bad. Minho was right. What was so wrong about this?

Things had gone so fast between them, but who cared?

______________________________

Let’s start a revolution How beautiful It is The city’s on fire but it’s beautiful Revolution The city’s on fire, won’t you burn it all? Revolution

____________________________

Falling. He was falling again. He was falling in love.

One month ago, he met his soulmate. A demon. But Minho was the sweetest. Sure, he was sarcastic and liked fighting. He had a darker side. But so did Thomas.

Minho had been right. Everyone was good and bad. This fight between light and darkness had to stop. He met the Gladers, Minho’s community. To his surprise, it was composed of both demons and fallen angels. Chuck, Frypan, Gally, Zart, all of them, they wanted what was best for the world. His whole perspective was changed.

And together, they were an unstoppable duo. Heaven wasn’t happy with their relationship, but they hold on. As if it could stop them.

They were always together. They shared Thomas’s apartment, since it was more hidden and discreet. They made money with bets and gambling. With both their powers, it was so easy. They made love. Often. Thomas loved when Minho was holding him or kissing him, especially when his wings enveloped him.

The world was changing. They could feel it. Angels in Heaven were starting to question things. Demons wanted peace more and more.

Thomas still had to find his friends.

“You sure we’ll find them?” he asked Minho one night. They were lying in bed, only a satin sheet covering their naked bodies. The demon’s tail was wrapped around Thomas’s hips and one of his thighs, holding him close to Minho, and the black wings offered shelter.

“Yes, of course,” his soulmate, now boyfriend, immediately replied. “We will.”

“And the world will change for the better?” Thomas had never let himself be this vulnerable around someone before. And it was scary to do so with Minho, but it felt right. His lover was always comforting and never judged him,

“Yes angel, it will.”

________________________

Let’s start a revolution How beautiful It is

[aaleaqlania]

❛   i didn’t leave because i stopped loving you. i left because the longer i stayed, the less i loved myself.  ❜

CRACKS MY FINGERS FOR THE FUCKING HURT -- @vohunara

      they had their little, not-so-private cataclysm, too.

whatever was of their friendship had imploded long ago, among torn pages of a project and clash of opinions. so far, the stasis built around them was almost deathly still━ it was useless, for al haitham, to mention a past they were both determined to never bring back up.

      from his part, he seeked not conflict, which would have crashed into their home like an hurricane. he was content in not tackling the issue as long as the other kept mantaining his silence over it, too.

      and then?

      and then, when the topic is brought up again, there's little that surprises him.

      because al haitham had his sweet time to analyze the situation, to form his own opinion over it. that their failed project was a clash of morals and interests, that they both held their ground into it for different reasons, and that staying meant to tear eachother apart like animals.

      and he was no animal. just an extremely rational individual, that he was.

      ' i know. '

      it comes without the usual, obnoxiously knowledgeable tone of his: in fact, al haitham sounds understanding, even. a new feat, much softer than usual.

      ' the project clashed with your ideals, and it was just not doable for you to stay. the result that you wanted was just not feasible in akademic terms, and perhaps achievable in a distant future that you considered uncertain, as one should do with it. i never faulted you from leaving. '

   ...but he never took another project, either.

      instead, al haitham kept to himself, scoring credit after credit from darshan after darshan, plowed effortlessly into mid-to-upper advanced courses across many fields, certifications of courses stacking up. from internships to apprenticeships, from rotations and experience on field with assignments, al haitham undertook anything that he wanted to pursue simply because he wished to deepen his knowledge and experience, and knew that everything would have come in handy later.

      kaveh wished to pursue his dreams more than ever after what happened between them, away from the corrupted system of the akademiya but unable to truly detache from it. he needed the fundings, needed the connections, needed his darshan.

      and al haitham, instead, found some sort of comfort in how this system worked; he finds most of it convenient, and whatever isn't, he'll make it work for himself. he can play their game long enough to make it bend backwards for him. when al haitham has already won what he wanted from it. whenever or not he might not like it, he has no reasons to change it. it'd take monumental effort and backlash, and he wants stability and cushy, stable life with a simple job.

      revolution versus the art of adapting. they truly clash, even now, where kaveh wanted to reassure al haitham about something the man figured out a long time ago.

      ' if we kept interacting after you left, ' he tells the blond his conclusions, unwavering, ' we would have torn eachother apart. the disagreement was too big at the time, there would have been nothing left to pick up, which is what we're doing now. '

      still...

      still, even if he knew why, the unstability of their bond was still here. ever present, despite the good and the bad. ever present, with things left unsaid, with them picking up the sharp pieces without protections.

      sometimes it nicked at their fingers, and one of them had to step away to medicate before coming back.

      ever present, because once they had grown and matured, they still ended up back to eachother.

      ever present, but not to be taken for granted. not when he could no longer deny being affected, not when kaveh was talking about it so openly. uncanningly uncharacteristic of him.

      ' thank you for telling me this. i never judged you for leaving. you did what you had to do, and i did the same. it's not something i resented you for. '

      there’s a pause full of meanings, when he feels like closing the book is only appropriate. it gauges some weight to what he needs to say.

      ‘ i never stopped loving you, either. ‘

[scarletarosa]

The Demons

These entities which have been constantly claimed to be evil by Abrahamic religions are much more than what they have been portrayed to be. This is an account based off my many years of working with these beings and speaking to them about their history, mindsets, and values.  

Origin: As the demons and deities have told, Jehovah is not actually the supreme deity, but rather an imposter for the Source (whose counterpart is the Queen of Heaven). The first demons to exist were once angels (agents of the Source/Queen) and many of them were deities (since “angels” is an umbrella-term for all sorts of spirits tasked with directly serving the supreme God and Goddess). When Jehovah had arrived to seize control over the Universe and Earth, Lucifer, the first-born deity from the Source, had led a war against him; yet this traumatic battle ended horribly. Jehovah’s power as an Aeonic god (a deity who creates the physical and metaphysical Universes) outmatched the power of the Universal gods, yet he had been crippled. He defeated them and banished the divine beings who rebelled against his tyranny into the land of torment, Hell, and destroyed their original homeland in the heavens.

Upon arriving in Hell, the fallen angels became demons due to the dark energies of Hell; this caused them to lose their divine glow and become more dark and intimidating in appearance. Their wings blackened, they grew horns, and some even developed spikes on their bodies, claws, or red eyes. Yet they remained beautiful in some darker way, but their hearts were broken. The most powerful of the demons were Lucifer, Satan, and Leviathan; they became the High Kings and sought out to build their own kingdoms in Hell, each kingdom following their own values. From this time on, they became primarily focused on war and revenge. Their new realm began being used by the divine Judges of the Underworld who send evil souls there, allowing the three High Kings to determine torments for them (all evil people are sent to Hell, whether they follow Jehovah or not).  

With the rise of Abrahamic religions, the demons and even some polytheistic deities were labeled as “evil” and were taught to represent the very things which they opposed. Where they teach Lucifer to represent lies, he is instead truth/knowledge, Mammon as greed when he is generosity, Lilith as infertility when she is life/motherhood, Asmodeus as lust when he is love. Yet it is as they say, that the “victors get to write history” and the rebels who fought against a tyrant are portrayed as the ones who are evil. Additionally, not all demons began as fallen angels, as some were gods whose people had been slaughtered and the deities had lost themselves to grief. But instead of allowing them to suffer, many had been recruited by Lucifer into his own kingdom.  

The Three Kingdoms:

The kingdom ruled by Lucifer and his wife, Lilith, is set in a desert wasteland of eternal twilight, but some demons managed to develop oases here. The land looks extremely ancient and mysterious, with some smoldering ruins in the distance. Queen Lilith is viewed as the demons’ Mother Goddess due to her many children and her motherly nature. This kingdom has many areas which are filled with tormented corrupt souls, even gruesome scenes of them being torn apart over and over or having unspeakable things done to them. The values of this kingdom primarily include the seeking of knowledge, wisdom, justice, and developing strength through hardships. Overall, Lucifer is the Initiator towards Illumination, the prime light, and the beam which shatters ignorance.  

The kingdom ruled by Satan and his wife, Ashtoreth, is a dark volcanic land. The landscape reflects strongly Satan’s personality of being easily angered, rebellious, fearless, and destructive. He has many people being burned alive in pits of lava and many other torments within his domain. Satan’s kingdom primarily values military might, aggressive revolutions, and strength of character. Satan is the fiery rebel who incites civil unrest and causes revolutions. Without him, there is apathy and submission to dictatorships. 

The kingdom ruled by Leviathan is a desolate place of steep canyons and emptiness; the energy of this place can fill a human with crushing loneliness beyond imagining, only the demons can withstand it. This kingdom is the most well-defended one since Leviathan focuses primarily on defense whereas the other two are moreso offensive. King Leviathan is a draconic deity who rules over loneliness, desolation, solitude, and deep feelings of despair. He was once one of the Watchers who dwelt in the sea of Earth, but after the War, he greatly changed. Overall, Leviathan destroys everything that is redundant, whether it be places, people, or ideas; he tears through them all. He tends to be cold, calculating, serious, and very withdrawn.

Values: Overall, demons are wise beings who seek to darkly illuminate individuals of Truth, no matter how upsetting it often is. They also teach people how to be strong by putting us through hardships that we must overcome, yet will offer advice if asked. The demons are therefore pedagogues who urge us towards overcoming our weaknesses and seeking spiritual evolution so we may become stronger than ordinary humans. Due to their painful pasts of great loss, the demons are one of the spirit races who best know what it means to overcome suffering and instead allow it to transform you. They often teach this when asked, otherwise, they usually target evil people during their lives by inflicting bad situations upon them or causing them to have cancers or other health issues.  

The demons value wisdom and strength that is gained through walking the solitary path through Hell. It is a path that tears a person apart until they are finally reborn as something far more capable and knowledgeable of who they truly are. It is the demons who know that wisdom is paid for through blood and the sacrifice of one’s current self, and they seek to teach humans how to walk this path. Typically, the demons do not hold the majority of humans in high regard; both for the obvious reasons and because they have watched humans allow themselves to grow weaker over the ages. They seek humans who are willing to step into the abyssal darkness in order to find the light, and those who are willing to forego all that they were taught so they can learn the truth. They teach that once a person removes all of their chains of emotional burden and false beliefs, it is only then that they will they be free and find illumination.

Hierarchy: The highest-ranking demons in Hell are the High Kings and the Queens. These rulers are the ones who appoint promising and trustworthy demons of their courts to certain military ranks of nobility. These (in order of highest to lowest) are as such: kings, dukes, princes, marquises, earls, knights, and presidents. There is also a War Master for each kingdom, whose authority is second-in-command to their High King and Queen. The Goetic demons (the nobility of Hell) are all deities whereas the non-nobles can be either deities or semi-divine demons (as offspring of other demons). Among the nobility of Hell are also the children of the Kings and Queens, since they through blood hold a significant title.  

Demons are also capable of being exiled from Hell if they turn traitor. Although exile for demons means that they will be tortured to death. Upon the death of a spirit, their manifestation is torn apart and it takes many years (sometimes hundreds) to reform. Once they reform, they cannot return to Hell. There have been plenty of traitorous demons in Hell, as not all of them remain loyal and every race of beings has their fair share of corruption. For demons, some begin seeking more power or destruction and so often secretly pledge themselves to the snake-god of evil, Apep. This causes the rogue demons to begin trying to assassinate their own kind, but are quickly discovered and sentenced to a horrific death. Due to these, it is important to remember that not all demons are safe to work with and that it is best to go through their rulers when asking for who best to trust. However, the majority of the Goetia have remained faithful as only a few have ever been exiled; so they are typically safe to work with. A few examples of demons who are very unsafe to work with are Pazuzu, Moloch, and Amy.

Working with Demons: When working with the demonic race, it is best to keep an open-mind and be honest with them. They strongly value those who seek to learn more about who demons truly are and who also seek to better themselves through hardships. Remember to be respectful of these beings and to not treat them in belittling ways (such as calling them nicknames). It is also wise to dress appropriately when calling upon them to manifest in your area; do not dress in sleepwear (especially for the Goetia or other royalty). Additionally, make certain that you do not use any ritualistic summonings to call upon them, as they will be offended by this and leave (no evocation triangles or anything of that sort). One can however feel free to use their enns to either call upon them, meditate upon them, or chant the enns to bless things in a demon’s honour. Make certain that you treat them just as you would any honoured mentor and do not mock them or make lustful moves towards them since there are many demons who do not hesitate to punish humans for doing this.  

One thing that everyone going into demonolatry should always keep in mind is that you should never offer a demon your blood unless you completely understand what you are doing and who you are offering it to, When a person offers their blood to a demon, it is essentially you making a binding contract of devotion to them. If this demon turns out to be a harmful one, they now have the power to do to you whatever they please and you basically belong to them. So this action is overall something unwise. Something else to keep in mind is that the idea of “selling one’s soul” is not only impossible (since the soul is the higher self and is not ours to sell) but it also invites the malevolent tar spirits to you. Once a tar spirit gets ahold of a person wishing to sell themself, the person is now at risk of being possessed by them.

Overall, remember to be polite when working with demons (no need to be overly polite but be respectful at least) and take time to give them offerings when they do something to help you. As for the race of spirits called “tar spirits”, they at times like to pretend to be demons. So if a demon is acting strange towards you or is being harmful, there is a strong chance that it’s actually a tar spirit in disguise; although they can be banished by using an astral attack.

Links: The Angels, Tar Spirits, The Source, Lucifer, Lilith, Satan, Ashtoreth, Leviathan

[nordleuchten]

La Fayette in Prison - Part 4.2 - Adrienne in Paris

After six months the dreaded news came. Adrienne was to be transferred to Paris. Virginie wrote:

My mother arrived in Paris on the 19th of Prairial, the eve of the fete de l'Étre supréme, three days before the decree of the 22nd, which organized une terreur dans la Terreur. At that time, no less than sixty people were daily falling victims of the Revolutionary Tribunal. All seemed to forebode approaching death to my mother.

Her children were allowed to visit her one last time and her oldest daughter, Anastasie, argued and pleaded with the guards that she was old enough to be taken with her mother to Paris, that she was an adult and guilty of the same “crimes” as her mother. Anastasie was fifteen at this point in time and the guard refused her, although they were visibly touched by her plea.

Frestel, well aware of the imminent danger, wrote Morris in Paris and informed him about the situation. Morris lost no time and immediately demanded Robespierre himself to release Adrienne - he was ignored. Morris had previously been quite open about this dislike for the revolution and was therefore not really welcomed. He however made it very, very, very clear, that the Americans were quite attached to La Fayette and his whole family and that if, should anything happen to Adrienne or the children, this could quite possible be the final straw for the Americans. He said, and I paraphrase here, Morris himself was a tad more diplomatic, “Our rebellion against England started with a trade boycott. America is one of the last countries that still trades with France. The American government is and will remain neutral, but if something were to happen to Adrienne or her children and the American people start boycotting French goods, well, what is the government supposed to do?” After that, Morris was even more hated by the Jacobins but his initiative proofed to be successful. Adrienne remained in prison but it was made clear that she should not be executed. Americas neutrality was nothing that France could afford to lose.

Frestel had furthermore collected all the jewellery that still reminded in Chavaniac and sold most of it, so that Adrienne would have money while in prison. A number of the servants even gave some of their own money to Adrienne (have I mentioned how great and loyal and amazing the servants were?).

Adriennes mother, the duchess d’Ayen, her sister, the vicomtesse de Noailles and her grandmother, the duchess de Noailles were all executed early in July of 1794. Her mother and sister had fled to safety in Switzerland but decided to return to France to nurse Adrienne’s dying grandfather. After his death, the three women were arrested. Virginie wrote concerning their arrests:

My grand mother and my aunt de Noailles, who had remained along time at Saint - Germain, to take care of the Maréchal de Noailles in his old age, returned to Paris  after his death, anxious to attend once more to their religious duties. They were, soon after their return, put under arrest in their own house, at the Hôtel de Noailles. The danger of their situation filled my mother's mind with terror and absorbed all her thoughts.

They died on the same day. Their local priest was able to get close enough to them to give them the absolution. He later noted that the two duchesses at least were content with their fate because they would both die before their child. On the day of the execution, the duchess de Noailles was the first to be guillotined, followed by her daughter, the duchess d’Ayen who in her turn was followed by her daughter, the vicomtesse de Noailles. A parent should not outlive their child.

I can not imagine what Adrienne must have felt as she received the news. All her live she had been extremely close with her mother and her older sister Louise. She furthermore could never be completely certain that she were not to follow her family members to the guillotine. Her American connections kept her safe for the time being, but that could change quickly.

The downfall of Robespierre and the Committee of Public Safety was Adrienne’s salvation. More moderate forces took over the reign of government and less and less people were executed. Adrienne however was still in prison - and she did not know why. James Monroe, a close and dear friend of La Fayette had just taken over as ambassador from Morris and getting Adrienne out of prison was one of his top priorities. He could not risk a diplomatic misstep in his affair and he therefor did something very clever - he asked his wife Elizabeth Monroe if she would like to visit Adrienne. Elizabeth naturally agreed and soon the Monroe couple visited Adrienne on a regular basis and brought her all sorts of things she might need in prison. Their visits served two purposes (beside cheering poor Adrienne up). They made it clear that America was still very invested in the wellbeing of Adrienne and her family. They also kept Adrienne in the spotlight because it almost seemed as if the new government had simply forgotten that she was still imprisoned - and still without any reasonable charges. Adrienne wrote Monroe on October 3, 1794:

It is likely that I will be the last to leave this place. I believe that the threat of execution is subsiding and if hope persists, there is no danger for me, as I have not the least reason to be held. But the situation of my children so far away from me adds to the sorrow that will follow me to my grave. These cruel anxieties and this kind of torment not being completely without remedy, I beg you to ease my cares by allowing me a moment of conversation with a man who should have your full confidence. Nothing is easier than what I am asking you, and I cannot believe that you would refuse me. (…)I truly need you to look after the interest of my dear children from whom I have been torn apart. It isn’t too much I think after a two-month confinement in the same place, to ask for the consoling confirmation that I have some right to hope for my liberation at the moment of their arrival. You see, my dear sir, that I assume no pride in this because I sense that you have already enough assurances of my appreciation that I am ready for you to undertake new responsibilities. But, I am accustomed to remaining silent when I am not allowed to express openly what I feel. Pardon the candor with which I express myself to you; and doubt not that not only what the United States and its minister has done for me, but what they have willingly attempted to do for me, has instilled in me a very sincere appreciation.

There are many letters between Monroe and Adrienne, a few letters between Adrienne and Washington and only one letter between Adrienne and La Fayette (that I know of). Monroe did not only aided Adrienne in obtaining her release but he also helped her further with her finances and to take care of several relatives and former employees. Here is just one of the many, many examples. Adrienne wrote to Monroe in an undated letter (in all likelihood November 1794):

I cannot finish without recommending again to the kindnesses of the American minister, Mr Mercier, a servant who has served me for seventeen years with fidelity and zeal, and who has also run risks for me and shared with me a month in prison. He has a position at this moment, but I cannot bear the idea that he would suffer poverty. And I need to hope that he will not be abandoned by the United States. A very poor family whose son is the victim with my husband also has sacred claims to their kindness, the father, the mother and five children will be furnished of what aid that will relieve them.

Adrienne was not in a great position herself, but she constantly thought of others.

After a grand total of sixteen months in prison, Adrienne was finally released. Her immediate aim was to get her son and his tutor Frestel to the safe shores of America. She first re-purchased Chavaniac from the government so that Louise Charlotte and her children had a safe place to stay. She also argued with the government that she was eligible to inherit her mother’s properties - they eventually agreed with her. Monroe in the meantime had “found” an American passport for Georges. (Let me know if you all are interested in a separate post about Georges time and reception in America).

Adrienne and her daughters travelled to Austria, there to argue for La Fayette’s release - and that is exactly where we continue next time, with La Fayette’s stay in the infamous Olmütz prison.

[my-brothers-corrupted]

Blue, while like with fighting Anti anger and hate can give you motivation to defeat great challenges, anger like this that makes you forget your purpose, makes you forget who you are and what you want, is no longer an essintial part of your life. No longer anger that helps you live, not anger that helps you fight, but anger and hate for the sake of being angry. You have to find a way to break the cycle you've created for yourself, and learn to redirect the hate into a healthy outlet.

"You're angry, my dear?"

Blue can't stop crying. He clings to the knee of Henrik's sweatpants like a little kid.

"Poor Blue," murmurs Henrik, petting his hair. "Come, now, I know your brothers have been trying to comfort you. That the cameras have good advice. What's so wrong?"

"I hate the cameras," sobs Blue. "I hate the others, sometimes. I hate my own face. Everything just reminds me of Anti!"

"That doesn't mean you can take it out on everyone else, my Blue."

"I know, I know. I don't mean to, I just - I feel bad all the time! I hate this!"

"Tell Doktor everything that is wrong, my brother."

On his knees in front of the heart of his revolution, Blue spills like a cracked vase. If you stay to watch, you will hear them talking for long hours, but much of this stays secret between the pair of them, words Blue has not dared to say aloud to anyone until now - words about violent desires, fear of everything, and the way that his own relentless fury feels so much like Anti's hatred, and so much like that knife going into his chest while the others screamed. Outside, Chase kicks rocks and builds houses for mice out of rubbish. At the end of it all, when Blue is sitting with his head on Henrik's shoulder, their hands still clasped together, it comes down to this:

"Is not your fault if you're being triggered by the others and by all these little things," says Henrik, still soothing at his hair. "But the way you respond cannot be with all this hatred for everyone else. The cameras are right. You're still in fight-or-flight mode all the time, Blue. And Anti is gone. So you attack what you see of him around you. Like your little brother..."

Henrik plays with a leaf of a root growing out of Blue's pocket.

"And Jackie trying to be your big brother..."

Blue sniffs and hides against Henrik's shoulder.

"And yourself, my dear."

"Yeah," whispers Blue. "Because he does remain in everything."

"Because you have triggers now?"

"It's not just the trauma, Schneep. I - I didn't... I didn't save any of you."

Tears come dripping down his face again. He covers his eyes with his hands.

"Oh, perle," protests Henrik. "Why do you say this?"

"I thought you wouldn't come back, Henrik... I thought you wouldn't talk again, and you were gone...."

"I am here, though, Blue."

"But everyone's so unhappy. And I was supposed to make them happy. I killed Anti and I was supposed to replace that life with something better. But shit, Schneep, we're broke so all Red does is work, and Chase is just quiet and sad, and I had to take JJ to the hospital because he can't manage without Anti around, and - everything, I didn't - "

He's going to break down into crying again. Henrik cups his face and washes tears away with his thumb.

"Your head is full of air," says Henrik sternly, and Blue snorts despite himself, shaking his head. "Not better? Blue. You're crazy."

"They're not happy. Things were going to be good once he died. They were going to be good because I was going to make them good for them."

"That's not your job, Blue," Henrik hushes him, shaking his head. "What, you have just been waiting for the others to become all sunshine and rainbows before you could be satisfied?"

"I just don't want them to be miserable! I have to make things better than they were with Anti."

"Blue, Blue! Better? Do you know what happened this morning when I awoke?"

"No... what?"

"JJ was sleeping beside me," whispers Henrik. "He rose a little and wiped at his face and went back to sleep. He was calm. No one was touching him. There is color in his face again. And when he awoke later, he went with Jackie and left the house, Blue."

Blue brushes at his tears, taking deep, shuddering breaths.

"And Jackie, he let me talk him down from his anxieties... he let me help him make a decision. He is upright and strong these days. No one makes him cower anymore. He was gentle with Jameson... they are helping each other heal.

"Meanwhile, look at yourself. You can walk, you do not doze off so much, you are not in so much physical pain, apparently you are even working? You have your magic back. No one is taking you away every night. What a blessing.

"And then, Blue, my Trickshot called himself by his real name. His real name, Blue. Do you not understand?"

Henrik's eyes water. He presses his forehead to Blue's and closes his eyes.

"You have given my family back to me."

Blue clutches at his jacket. His eyes flutter shut too. His heart shakes in his chest.

"My friend," sighs Henrik, stroking his beard. "This is all the goodness possible in the world. I think if we are one day rich and all our health is perfect, still I will not be any happier than I am today. Free from my chains... yes, we will all be haunted, my brother. That is the way that wounds heal. But this does not mean it was all for nothing. It just means we must keep striving, a little while longer, to recognize what safety and happiness are. Blue... you killed the monster. You rescued us. Thank you."

Blue holds on to him. His eyes do not open.

But a little piece of his aching heart has settled in a way he had long forgotten.

"You're welcome," he whispers back.

They rest together in that torn-up bus. The bus, though, doesn't matter. Just your brother's hand in your own. That's all.

"So what now?" asks Blue, his voice raw from crying. "How are you going to fix your fucked-up brother now, Schneep?"

"I can't fix anything, Blue, though I wish I could," he murmurs, truly sorry, his hand brushing over his heart. "So you must find an outlet for the anger, and you must come to terms with some truths about the world. If there is anything you need to do that, we will all help you. Take you to doctors, comfort you when you are sad. We would be happy to do these things. Why don't you start by coming back home?"

Blue looks up at him, trying to smile for his sake. His chest hurts; his eyes are red. He meets Henrik's gaze and sighs.

"No... no. I don't think I can. And trust me, it's fucking me up a little bit that I'm away from all of you. But Schneep, I've been acting like such an ass, and I really just - I think I just need to figure out some parts of this on my own. Honestly, right now I'm pretty sure that if I saw that cut on JJ's eye I would fall apart permanently. Tell him I'm sorry, okay?"

"How long, though, Blue?" asks Henrik, and after all the wisdom and comfort, Blue smiles to hear a little of a whine in these words. "You should be with us."

"Just give me a few days," says Blue softly. "I... I needed this. I think maybe I feel ready to try working on things a little bit. Henrik... I really thought you were gone."

"Even if Anti had taken me from you all forever," says Henrik. "I'm always with you."

"Too soft," whispers Blue.

"You're a motherfucker," Henrik offers, to counteract the sugar, and they devolve into giggling there in the booth of that bus, warm in each other's grasp.

[marueonmain]

WINDFLOWER

part one ~ caught sight of her ~

(part one)

A/N: I wanted to write this for awhile. It’s the first fanfic I’ve ever written so it might not be amazing, but I hope it’s good and that you enjoy it! I will be getting some of the English aspects wrong (sorry).

Summary: Alex is not the kind of man (if given the chance) to steal another man's girlfriend. Or is he? 

Pairing: imallexx x reader

Warning: Set in 2020. Mentions of the Budweiser Bug. (Sam is an OC)

Word Count: 2.5k

It was a warm and late afternoon.

There was a short break in the clouds and the sunlight streamed through to bounce off his sunglasses, as he walked the pavement.

It was a warm and late afternoon – teetering on hot.

Alex wore his white Gucci button-up which was fantastic for not attracting heat. Still there were noticeable wet spots under his arms. For each street closer he was to his apartment building he quickened his pace and rolled his shoulders back. Adjusting – so that the cloth might peel off from his skin without him having to directly pinch it out from his armpits. Alex did not like being sweaty – but who did?

Despite how he might have felt about crowds or said crowds looking at him, he more often than not enjoyed the loudness of his expensive shirts, his california twink shorts, even his odd hair colours (if applicable). What these preferences said for his personality was anyone's guess.

Maybe he was secure enough in his identity to enjoy things that are deemed as classically feminine. Maybe he was making a statement on the gender binary, or the expectations of traditional masculinity.

Maybe he had stared into the darkness inside long enough that he could not bear having to see it outside as well. Or maybe he liked pink – thought it complimented his cool skin tone or his lip colour.

Which it did.

One street from his building, Alex picked up his feet and sped up. He reached the front entrance; his hand went for the door handle and – WHAM!

Alex grasped at his nose, which had connected first with the glass of the door as it swung out. There was no red on his hands as he drew them back to check, but there was a general throbbing radiating out from the middle of his face.

From above him, a man asked, "Shit, you alright there?" His voice was rich like a slice of peanut butter cheesecake drizzled in a chocolate sauce of genuine concern. While he spoke, the man dropped the large cardboard box he was holding – it hit the ground like it weighed well over seven stone – and sidestepped out from the other side of the door.

"No. Yeah. Fuck, give me a moment."

"I could get you ice or something, maybe?" The man held his hand out in the air at an odd distance from Alex’s left shoulder, hesitant it seemed to touch him.

"It's fine." His eyes spotted the hand, then the discarded box. It was wrapped tight in tape, across the top was written STORAGE in permanent marker. Alex gestured to the building and asked, "You moving out?"

"Moving in actually, I just grabbed the wrong box by accident. Maybe one of these days I'll learn how to read." He bent over and picked the box up.

"Well, I'm Alex. 205"

"Sam. 305." (a floor above) "Everyone calls me Sammy."

How to describe Sammy. Picture an elk – a blond elk. A majestic beast for sure. Picture that and then make it stand on its hind legs and also be a person. He had a naturally muscular build and an evident dedication to a workout regimen – not too intense like three or four times a week.

Everything about him appeared likeable, charming. Certainly, it was his voice. As well as the goofy smile, how he carried himself ~the confidence~ and how he held a comfortable amount of eye contact.

Alex gave a polite smile. In the pit of his stomach something was building – he had not eaten in at least ten hours – a feeling like optimism. Surely, if he were courteous and pleasant now, perhaps this new neighbor might be less willing to lodge noise complaints against him later on.

"You look strong." Sammy cleared his throat before continuing, "There's a couple-three more boxes left I got to bring up. And a sofa. I'll never be able to get that thing up myself. You're heading up, right? You wouldn't mind helping, would you?"

"No. No—I mean, yes. I will help you." It was a class rendition of George's commentary stutter.

"Great! I got to get the truck unloaded before the game. You're really doing me a solid." Sammy's smile widened to be a bit open-mouthed – like that of a dog after being told it was a good boy. He led Alex to the other end of the car park, to the truck, the sofa, and the boxes.

Alex stood waiting – as Sammy crawled into the truck bed – to help ease the sofa out. He tried to get a good hold around the back of it as it sprung out at him. Sammy pushed on his end, putting a lot of unjustified faith into a stranger.

He did not hear a complaint from Alex, just a string of strained grunts.

Sammy hopped out – boots hit the ground, and he took over the lifting part of moving furniture while Alex acted more as a guiding hand.

Walking toward the building, Alex shouted across the sofa, "Who you cheering for tonight?"

"Newcastle! Who else? Best there is in the whole sport far as I can tell."

A bark of a laugh shot from Alex's mouth. "I've got someone you have to meet."

Hanging around Sammy – for the time it took to maneuver the sofa in/out of the lift and to retrieve the remaining boxes and haul them up – was not not enjoyable. It was comfortable.

Alex did not think about the manual labor he had been tricked into doing; instead, he was preoccupied with chattering on and on as both rode the lift up. He answered all Sammy's questions – about the building, the people, the area.

He rinsed the other man for his team preferences and his truck – despite Alex himself not being able to drive. And while there was a lot of damning material for Sammy to 'fire back' with, he did not.

With arms shaking slightly under the weight of the last medium-large sized box, Alex went on with his lighthearted ribbing. And Sammy just laughed along. Even snorting once.

"Not even joking – are you a comedian or something?"

Alex beamed. "Or something."

Both men had a chance to rattle off some horror stories of the absolute shitholes they had rented in the past.

DING of the lift doors opening interrupted a rant on neighbors who complained about the littlest of noises, which Alex continued after stepping into the hall.

Then, it was done. The last boxes were set on the floor of the bare-walled apartment. What was Alex meant to do now? Leave? Hang around? Ask for a drink?

It was not like he was desperate for friends, just that Sammy was genuine, and it never hurt to have someone to ring up to accompany him on a night out or if Alex ever got evicted again.

Sammy dragged out a dramatic sigh as he straightened up, leaving the last box he had carried up – labeled DISHWARE – next to the sofa. Raising his arms above his head, he stretched out his back. Alex might have done the same, but he was conscious of the absurdly damp state of his underarms.

"I'm having friends over for drinks and to watch the game," Alex began. "Maybe a few rounds of FIFA afterwards. You should come – if you want, or not. There'll be money on it, and I tend to lose a lot."

"You just helped me move a sofa up three floors, shouldn't I be the one offering you something?" Sammy slapped Alex on the shoulder perhaps harder than he meant, perhaps not taking into consideration the size difference.

"There's nothing I need."

"Well, it sounds fun. I'll be sure to come round! And I'll—"

KNOCK. KNOCK.

A young woman stepped through the apartment door while her gaze held an intense focus on her wristwatch for too long. Like it does not take anyone who knows how to read a manual clock that long to figure out the time. She was looking at it just to look at it – to look preoccupied.

Shoulders a bit rolled in and posture a bit poor, she took five steps in and closed the door before even looking up. She pulled her head up from her wristwatch.

Upon seeing the space, her eyes brightened and shined. She gasped a small (not surprised but delighted) gasp, smiling big. And—and—oh.

OH.

OOOHhoho. Oh.

Oh, no.

Alex caught sight of her, and he was gone.

And it was not that she was perfect. No, she was not the airbrushed model of the advertisements on the tube. No. She was her, and it was ~ugh~ it was almost indescribable. It was the fit of her clothes and her hair and the cute ears. It was all of those separately and all of those at once, at the same time.

Seeing her was like living in a significant moment in history. Like attending a World's Fair, holding a piece of the Berlin Wall as it was being torn down, or standing on the frontline of a revolution.

It was having an inkling – a fervent gut feeling – knowing that what was happening was momentous and would leave an everlasting impact. But, for the time being, he was just in it: living it. Experiencing everything with the understanding that millions of different pieces had to have fallen into place for this one thing to happen and he. was. there.

"Hi, Red." Sammy caught her in a tight vice-like embrace.

"Hello." It was muffled a smidge from having her face buried in his shirt. She broke apart from him first.

"Alex, this is my girlfriend. Y/N. We call her Red." He said, keeping her close with an arm snaked around her middle while she gazed up at him.

In their brief time hanging out together, Alex had not considered that Sammy might have a girlfriend, nor did he consider that Sammy might not have a girlfriend.

He had not thought about it at all. Not in the slightest.

"Nice to meet you." Alex reached out his hand.

Y/N tore her gaze from Sammy and stared at the hand in front of her; she pondered it. Not moving. Her face flushed like she was going to be ill.

"Um...I..." He retracted his hand, shoving it deep into the pocket of his shorts.

"She won't shake your hand, mate, nothing against you – just a germaphobe. That's on me for not telling you beforehand."

"That's alright. I guess we're not meant to be shaking hands anyway." An awkward chuckle drippled off his tongue to which he did not receive a reaction. "With the Budweiser Bug and all."

"Oh, I'm not scared of that. People overreact." Sammy switched gears and moved to stand at Alex’s side.

Alex continued smiling as he considered how that might have been the most ignorant thing he had heard all month. But not everyone had the opportunities to take higher education courses as he had.

Y/N kept quiet during their exchange and after looking over Alex once more (avoiding his face), she flickered her gaze to Sammy.

It was like standing in the same room with someone on the phone and getting one half of the conversation. Alex was left guessing based on how confused and uncomfortable Y/N appeared to be as to what expression Sammy was using to respond to her questioning gaze.

Whatever he must have signaled or mouthed, it worked.

"Hello," Y/N addressed him simply as she set sail those dazzling eyes of hers into the peaceful seas of Alex's blue set, "It's nice to meet you as well."

It was a voice to tune-in to over the general hum of a group of speakers. A voice that might be complimented as being good for radio. A voice clear and crisp like water (from anywhere but London tap).

Alex wanted to keep her talking – to hear her mind and her thoughts. Hear her present a speech, putter a nervous ramble, or just word vomit. Hear how she pronounces each consonant and vowel. And if there were specific words that carried a different accent than the rest. Where did those come from? Where did she come from?

Notwithstanding his questionable reputation in a few corners of the internet, Alex was not a complete and utter irrational weirdo. He did have a brain which he would use part of the time.

It was not unlike him to be struck with crushes on young women and men he met in passing—he was human; it happens. If he was feeling extra alone, that crush might linger longer.

Might stumble into his dreams.

That is all it was—a crush. Right? Then why did it feel different? Not like that of a sudden burst of flames but of a washing-over sense of relief – an unquestionable assuredness in something new.

New or not, Alex was determined not to be weird about it.

"Why go by Red?" ...when Y/N is so fitting, so beautiful. Mission: Don't Be Weird Status: Failed

"What do you mean?" she asked with her head cocked to the left.

"Come on." With a clear sense of boredom in the direction of the conversation, Sammy strolled to the sofa and sat on it. He ripped into the cardboard box labeled DISHWARE and began emptying plates and mugs onto the cushion next to him. Speaking a bit louder to be heard over the tearing of tape, he offered, "Isn't it obvious?"

"Guess not. Or I might just be a little thick."

Everyone ignored his comment.

"You know, if you want to stick around some, Red's making quiche."

"Quiche?" Alex walked toward the back of the sofa – stopping a few meters short. "More of a breakfast food, don't you think?"

Bringing a hand to his chest in mock shock and offence, Sammy declared, "Food does not have curfews!"

"Except at hotels...and McDonald's."

"No. No, not McDonald's. Not for a while now; where have you been?"

Alex rolled his eyes; while searching for some support in the conversation, he turned to find Y/N had disappeared in the single second she was out of his sights.

A disappointed frown formed on his pink lips.

Perhaps it was a cue for him to leave as well. "I got to run. I'll be seeing you then?"

"Right," said Sammy. "Go Newcastle! Yeah?"

Alex thumped his closed fist twice against his chest in an odd gesture (which meant nothing) and smiled a closed mouth smile as he stepped backwards out the apartment door to the carpeted hall.

Sammy chuckled and shook his head, "You're a funny guy, Alex."

[love-and-anarchy-au]

Love & Anarchy: Chapter 18

good morning!!! it’s almost 2021!!(i know there are still 22 days of 2020 but i dont care xd for me we’re one blink apart from the next year). if you thought the last chapter was sad, just wait till you read this one!!!xd i believe this one is more painful than the last one as this one is the grief after the death of a beloved one. i have nothing else to say, i hope you cry with this chapter as much as i cried writing it JJAJAJA.

(ps: the songs that alec and james listen to is this one and this one; i personally recomend you to hear them to understand more what alec’s talking about <3)

REMEMBER THIS AU HAPPENS IN THE SAME UNIVERSE THAT THIS ONE

Find out what this AU is about here

Masterlist

Tag list: @healing-winston-pratt @dawniebb @obsidianfr3sk @nodrianbcyes @everyone-has-a-nightmare @magykaldealings @nobellrenaissance @cerenoya @cassin-the-assasin @cindersnightmare

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Words:

14,449

Part 2: A teen named Ace Artino

16 years old Alec

  “James!”

   “Ace?”

    Alec collapsed in relief in James's arms.

    “Oh God, you're alive,” Ace murmured against his friend's chest.

    “Who isn’t?” James asked, anticipating where this conversation was heading towards and the reason for the impromptu visit. The boy gulped, and inhaled, as if preparing to face the news Alec was about to give him.

    Alec lifted his chin and looked James in the eyes. Those gray clouds, streaked with lightning and thunder, so full of memories and perspectives. He saw phrases, fragments, images and memories, made of honey eyes and dark eyes; he saw himself and his girlfriend, like a mirror, a reflective photo album.

    It was in that moment when his eyes filled with tears, again.

    That was enough for James to understand who had died.

    “That girl…” he whispered in a broken voice, and Alec hugged him, burying his face in his chest once again, this time to give James the minimum of privacy so that he would release his rainy tears without feeling observed. His chest contracted and relaxed a couple of times, until James pulled away, running his fingertips over his tear ducts. He sighed and returned his gaze to Alec's.

    “You were there, weren't you?” James said, as he went to the kitchen to make coffee. Alec didn't need to answer, not with words nor gestures.

    He had ran at the speed of lightning to James's apartment, moving everything around him with his powers, not caring if anyone realized how unusual it was for a door to open on its own, or for cars to stop abruptly, or Alec practically hovering a few inches above the ground. None of that mattered.

    Nothing mattered now that Alexandra was dead.

    Alexandra, with her bubbling, hiccuping laugh, her courage of steel, her raw honesty, her unbreakable loyalty. Alexandra, the angel and the devil, her music impossible to ignore, her genuine smile that was almost identical to Julieta's.

    Alexandra, burned like a witch.

    Cause I was a witch, Alexandra whispered.

    More gallons of tears rolled down Alec's eyes, and he began to sob. James put aside his coffee and went immediately to look after him, to guide him to the couch and sit next to him to comfort him. They didn't say anything, because it wasn't necessary; they just stayed releasing pieces of soul tainted with pain, until the coffee pot whistled and James went to pour it in mugs and bring it to them.

    Alec took the cup and sipped the bitter coffee. It was boiling, but he didn't care. He collapsed further onto the couch. James took a deep breath and stated:

    “We will avenge her.”

    Alec didn't frown, he just turned his stance to be looking at James and not at the ceiling. He took another sip of coffee as the remnants of his soul slid down his face.

    His tears looked like glaciers.

    “How?” Alec asked, his voice hoarse and rough as sandpaper. He sounded like his father and  felt oblivious to himself. At least he wasn’t drinking beer.

    James put the hand that wasn't holding his coffee on Alec's shoulder and rubbed it, comforting him. James's lips formed a sad, comforting half smile. His hair was still flawless and his posture too, he was not collapsed like Alec.

    Alec admired James for how he remained untouchable even when the worst stones were being thrown at him.

    He was just shrinking more and more alone with a small pebble thrown at his chest.

    “We will start our revolution,” James announced, not smiling, because not even him was that callous. There was no encouragement or happiness or motivation in his words, only thirst and need: it was what they had to do.

    To other people, James would have been a cold and cruel being (which he was) and they would have been offended, but Alec had known James for more than ten years now, so he knew that was his defense mode: pretending that nothing happened, turn anger sadness, and sadness into gasoline to fulfill his vengeful goals. That's how James was and always had been. He didn't seem willing to change, so he wouldn't.

    Maybe Alec should learn from James. Be colder, more calculating. Choose his words as carefully as you chose  your annual serving of tiramisu.

    “Alexandra gave me this,” Alec said  as he  pulled out what Alexandra had thrown at him from her death cradle. It was a cassette, slightly burned in one corner and with the inscription, in Alexandra's round and unintelligible handwriting:

    Listen to this until James dies (including his funeral).

    James laughed, with a sad smile, as Alexandra’s last will was to bother him ‘till his death. He sipped from his coffee and said, in a lower voice “Put it on the speaker, please.” 

    Alec obeyed. He took the cassette with his mental hands, turned the speaker on, and placed the cassette in its corresponding slot. It would be a little in memoriam for Alexandra.

     He pressed play and a thunderous guitar chord echoed through the apartment. Drums followed. The bass. The raspy voice. The sad lyrics disguised as anger  to the rhythm of the song. Music as pain in its rawest state. Synchronized noises, thought and adored by who had been Alexandra Onitraze.

     James and Alec interlocked hands, and never separated them. When the singer gave an agonizing scream, they shuddered because they felt as if that had been Alexandra’s voice and not the vocalist’s. That stinging feeling pricked their tear ducts and more rainy tears overflowed from their darkness and their clouds. They listened to the cassette, one, two, three, four, ten times.

     Until Alexandra's soul told them that enough was enough.

     Although nothing was ever enough for her.

                                                            -

     It was four in the morning and James had managed to fall asleep. Alec was static as a statue, watching the fleeting, slow passage of time. There was no coffee left. There was no music anymore. It was just Alec and his depressing thoughts, drowning him in himself, as if his body was a sea and his soul, a mere human who couldn't breathe underwater.

      Until someone knocked on the door and rescued him from the deep water.

      Alec jumped to his feet and headed for the door, confused, scared, hopeful, feeling indescribable things. Who could it be at that time of night? James’ moms? David?

      He didn’t know.

      Alec opened the door and so did his eyes, which were narrowed so far. A skinny woman, with more bones than skin and eyes yellow as honey, was watching him from the doorway. The woman was wearing a rabbit fur shawl, probably, and was made up garishly. Her expression was tired and her lips were tight. In her arms, she held a large cardboard box.

       It was Alexandra's mother.

       “Alec?” she asked, as if she weren’t  sure  whether the name was correct.

       “Yes, it's me,” Alec replied, trying to react as fast as possible.

       The woman nodded and handed him the box. Alec took it, without a second hesitation. He remembered that he couldn’t use his powers in front of that woman, so he didn’t.

       “My daughter, Alessandra, wanted me to give  this to you,” the woman explained, briefly and concisely. Perhaps she had to work at those hours.

       “Thanks,” Alec said, his voice cracking. “I'm very sorry for the loss of your daughter.”

       The woman's lips tightened even more.

       “Her destiny had been written since we moved to Gatlon. She was going to die in the streets, where she belonged,” said the woman and turned to leave. Alec said nothing about her opinion, and the woman left without pain nor glory.

       Alec closed carefully the door and returned to the couch next to James, taking precautions not to disturb him.

       He put the heavy box on the ground with his habilities and opened it. There were many things, probably all of Alexandra's belongings. He took them out one by one, with his mental hands: two red glosses (one matte and one liquid, according to the labels), chains (those Alexandra used on her jeans), two pairs of jeans (one full of patches and the other torn), three dresses, a black blazer. Alec took each one of the items, once again and infinitely, using his mind and not his hands.

      All the way to Alexandra's blackish blue sweater.

      The one with an “A” painted on it.

      Alec squeezed it against his chest, not staining it with his sadness.

      Or maybe yes.

      Alec put it on, smelled the perfume that Alexandra used to wear, which was still present on the cloth, and continued.

      At the bottom of the box, there was music.

      Vinyl, cassettes, CDs. Many, many CDs. There were vinyls of Italian music, classical music, old rock & roll, modern rock & roll, orchestras of works, symphonies of violins, grunge, pop, drums, cumbias, maracas, strings, basses, everything everything everything. The CDs were less varied and were  limited to what Alexandra used to listen to: out of tune guitars, shrill drums, low bass, scraped vocals.

      What Alec wasn't expecting were the cassettes.

      They had no specific  genre. They were mixes. Pop with classic, cumbia with rock, grunge with violins. They were unthinkable, strange, singular mixtures. Sides A and B, intertwined, each with poetic and apt names like “When the clouds swallow you”, “For the waves of the coast”, “Bbs” or (the one that generated a lump in Alec's throat, and a burning in his eyes, as well as an irrepressible emotion in his chest): “For those who know that coffee is drunk with fries, and flying is only possible near the sea.”

     It was an exclusive mix of piano and metal.

     Alec laughed, and lost control of his tear ducts.

     All this time...

     I know, Alexandra laughed.

     Alec sighed, soul touched, and realized there was only one thing left at the bottom of the box.

     It was an envelope.

     Alec approached it with his flesh and blood hands, and spread it open using his mind. There was a piece of school paper, translucent, drawn by Alexandra's tangled calligraphy. The date was from one month ago.

“Aceyyy,

              How you doin ', darling? If you are reading this, then I must be dead (I don't think you've been in my room looking for this, as it was very well-hidden; and if I'm not dead, then stop reading this pleaseee) . Whatever, let's suppose I'm dead as prodigies rights so, this letter is a proper goodbye after my (probable) non-proper death. I knew I was going to die young, as I was a free woman and a prodigy. Chances were against me. Luckly, I had enough time to face my imminent death and make some good friends that will became my family.

              Oh Ace, my love! I hope you didn’t watch me die; it must have been so painful…! Anyways, I just wanted to say that I love you. Thank you for absolutely everything. When my days were dark and awful, you were a ray of light that shone in my heart. When James and I discussed 'bout music, you chose music for us (though you sometimes betrayed me and chose James' music, that wasn't nice Alec>: ”(). You're so incredibly and amazingly powerful, you could build this world to your own desire. I envy you, as I wanted to change this world but I guess I won't be able to…

               Don’t be sad, Ace. You’ve already been sad for the last ten years (or, from my pov, your whole life). Besides, you’ll always have James by your side, right? He might not be as warm as I am, but I know he loves you as much as I do so, if you need anything, just ask him. Though he will be there for you at any moment, please stop him from committing some insane thing he threatens to commit in order to free prodigies (we all know you’re the sane one in this family, Ace; he can’t deny that xd). You two are different, but so alike in many aspects, I mean, you both are so clever, handsome, lonely...dear Goddess of the Skies, I love you both a lot. When I say "a lot", I mean A LOT. You guys are my whole world, thank you for being my family.

               Look at me now, I'm sobbing so hard. I hope you never have to read this letter but I know the probabilities of this are so little ... I just have one thing to ask: could you keep my records? My mother shall give all my stuff to you, but I'm just asking you to keep my music. I know you aren't a big fan of the music I listen to, but please, please, could you keep them safe? I don't trust anyone else to have them and treat them with the care that they deserve, so, Ace, my love, just keep them with you, OK?

               I guess I have nothing left to say. Don’t forget me, maybe ..? I know, I'm just your first girlfriend of many (probably, you're so handsome and intelligent that you'll find a girlfriend in three seconds counting from now) however, I believe you cared about me as much as I care about you. Ace, honey, just ... be yourself. Do it for me. For Julieta. For James. But mostly, for yourself. Don’t let anyone tell you what to do. Please don't get killed (let it be for being a prodigy or for your beloved revolution). You have still a long life to live and you deserve it. Do you still have to change the world, right, my love?

               You’re so full of dreams, hopes and expectations and power: you can do anything you propose to yourself. You are a little man with a head full of ideals of liberty and anarchy and rights and everything. The world is yours, my little Acey.

               I love you! I love you!

               Always yours, from hell to heaven and back,

               Alexandra Onitraze.”

    Such a sad and happy smile was on Alec's face.

    His tears were urban stars now; Alec was sick of having his cheeks wet from the pieces of his aching soul dripping from his eyes, but he knew that made him a human and not a monster.

    Oh my Alessandra, Alec thought, sad and happy.

    He would always have something to seek comfort from, at least.

    Julieta's rosary, worn over the years, but always hidden  beneath his clothes; although every day he believed less in God and no longer went to mass, he did want to feel his sister next to him. The rosary represented that.

    Alexandra's letter, ready to be worn out over time, read and reread millions of times.

    Alec knew many things, but at this very moment he had only one certainty.

    He would not let the world forget Alexandra.

    He looked at James, who was sleeping peacefully next to him.

    And he knew exactly how to avoid that.

[darlinrogue]

matthew found himself getting anxious at every all elite pay-per-view. but something about this specific revolution—— this specific main event had him more worried than usual ‘exploding barbed-wire death match’… it had problems written all over it. biting nail after nail, cuticle after cuticle. “since pac’s going after the tag titles, adam’s next in line for kenny” he heard tony khan say from the headset in guerilla. matt’s heart stopped, right then and there. he had to find adam.

Matt

A few hours before the show Adam had scoped out his vantage point. A seat in the back on the ground floor at Daily’s Place. High-up, but not too far away. Even better it was an empty section. After his match with Hardy, Adam changed into street clothes, crept-out from backstage, and took his seat. While the street fight with Darby and Sting played on the big screen, the ring crew set-up for the so called, “Exploding Barbed Wire Death Match.” The crew wore thick leather gloves. They maneuvered pieces of hardware, metal, and explosives to the floor. Bryce looked like the marshmallow man from Ghostbusters. It was, without a doubt, the most elaborate, inane match idea Adam had ever seen. He never delved into that Death match shit. An occasional no DQ with chairs and table settled Adam’s need for violence, but this was next level. 

And it was the exact kinda bullshit that Kenny would come up with. 

The construction of a wrestling ring had always fascinated Adam. In his teenage years he shadowed production crews to shows. From them he learned how to square a ring by measuring the diagonal, how to lay down the boards, roll out the pads, and lash down the mats. Then, tightening the ropes and tying in the turnbuckles. For the cheaper productions, duct tape repaired holes torn in the apron. All the little things he didn’t have to do anymore now that he was a ‘star.’ Part of Adam missed the days on the indies when he’d show-up a day early for set-up and leave late for tear down. Get to watch a show for free that way. Somehow, watching the AEW ring crew bind explosive barbed wire around the ropes didn’t make Adam feel very nostalgic, though. Instead something cold settled in the bottom of his stomach. 

Adam had brought a beer out with him and he brought the bottle to his lips. He watched the pyro tech guys rig-up the explosives with lines of electric wire. The ring crew were filtering out. The fight on the screen was winding down. Adam glanced over though as someone approached on his right. Wedging himself between the seats and coming down the row was Matt Jackson. He’d changed back into a gray, AEW jacket, his hair twisted into a quick and dirty bun. All he had for Adam was a half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He shoved his hands in his pockets and his throat bobbed, not meeting Adam’s gaze. Instead he focused on the dust laden concrete beneath his feet. Adam shifted in his seat, coming forward, elbows pressed into the arm rest. Matt chewed on his lip and then gestured at Adam’s hand. 

“You okay?” He asked, thinly. “Matt worked you over good.”

“Oh, yeah, it’s fine,” Adam said. “Just sore.”

He looked down at his hand. An athletic trainer had wrapped it in bandages and popped him a couple ibuprofen. There was nothing broken, just some bruising and swelling. Adam’d have to get an X-ray sooner rather than later, though. After the match high ran down though it hurt like a mother. Matt and Adam stared at each other for a second, before Adam tilted his head to the side. An indication and invitation for Matt to sit. Matt sunk into the chair beside Adam, hands rubbing over his knees. His fingers pattered over his thighs and he shifted, exuding nervous energy. When he settled back into the chair it was like he was sitting back into the barbed wire in the ring.

“Congratulations, on beating the carny though,” Matt offered with a small laugh. “You guys had a good match. What are you going to do with the money?”

“Oh, yeah, uh, well I was thinking,” Adam began, he put his beer on the floor by his feet and leaned back. “I need a new lawnmower and there’s enough to pay off the mortgage— I don’t need much else so like, I told them to just, just to give the rest to some cause. Someone mentioned the public schools in Jacksonville? I liked that, so that’s kinda what we went with.”

“Seriously?” Matt breathed. “That’s amazing, Adam.”

“Fuck, I don’t want that money anyway, makes me feel dirty,” Adam admitted. He sucked on his cheek. “Chris and MJF didn’t beat you up too much did they? Ya’ll pulled it out, but it was kinda brutal to watch.”

“Oh, so you watched our match?” Matt noted. They looked at each other and something warm sparked in Adam’s chest. “Takes more than a baseball bat to keep me down. Besides that’s nothing compared to— to all this.”

Matt’s voice rasped as he flicked his finger towards the completed ring. Adam followed his gaze and got what he meant. It wasn’t the barbed wire or the explosives. It was the anticipation of seeing Kenny in the middle of that ring. Kenny, bloodied and burned and hurting, with his life on the line. There was a long, long list of shit that could go wrong. And Adam and Matt shared in common a worry wort gene. It was in their nature to look at a set-up like that, then let their minds run to all the terrifying possibilities. It was the inner instinct of ‘older brother’ in them. The shit going on Matt’s mind had already crossed Adam’s a half-dozen times. 

Injury, pain, and even death, were the risks of their sport, everyone who stepped in the ring had comes to terms with their mortality.  It wasn’t often though that Adam sat down for a match and was fully level with the idea that one of his oldest friends may actually die. It was a ‘holy shit’ moment, this was how far they’d come. Well over a year ago Adam remembered the way Kenny’s voice cracked over the phone when he talked about Mox. The desperate, twisted edge in his tone, jagged as broken glass. It was obsession rolled with a fragile mental health teetering over the abyss of fear, anxiety, and depression. All Adam had done was stand back and watch as Kenny was crowded to the cliff. Then, Adam witnessed the merciless hand shove Kenny over. And now, at the bottom, body and mind broken over the rocks, Kenny challenged Mox to an Exploding Barbed Wire Death Match. The entire Elite had hit rockbottom in the past six months at least once but none of them had involved explosives. 

“Kenny’s gone off the fucking deep end, man” Adam observed, like he was commenting on the weather. He picked-up his beer from the floor and took a sip. “This is batshit. You let him do this?”

“It’s not like he asked us?!” Matt protested, his hands fluttered around him. “TK approved it and you know, it’s his show. Besides, it’s not exactly like Kenny is talking to us right now.” 

Adam shifted in his seat. He and Kenny hadn’t been on speaking terms since October. A long run of almost six months as they awkwardly avoided each other in the hallways. Of course, Adam had his handful of ignored, attempted phone calls and double texts from back when the tag-team broke-up. He’d kept abreast of the Elite’s crazy drama and then felt quietly grateful he wasn’t apart of it. Forsaken doors, Barbed Wire Death Matches; literally everything to do with Don Callis, Impact, and the Good Brothers— no thanks. Adam got why he was out of the loop, though. Kenny getting sick of his shit and kicking him out of his life was inevitable as it was deserved— But, Kenny wasn’t talking to the Bucks either? That was a red flag. Shit, Adam shouldn’t be worried about Kenny, grown ass man that he was but—Adam took another sip from his beer and returned it to its spot by his feet. Yeah, he was kinda worried about Kenny.

“Why are you even out here?” Matt asked, an edge of accusation in his voice. 

“Shit, I dunno, figured if my old tag-partner was gonna get blown-up I should at least be here to witness it?” Adam speculated, with a shrug. The buzzing crowd indicated the end of the Street Fight that Adam had been ignoring. Whispers of anticipation floated through the arena. “Maybe— I just got some shit on my mind. Trying to figure out what comes next.” 

“You’re in the rankings,” Matt blurted-out. Adam glanced at Matt and met his eyes. His face was stricken in the stark lights and his throat bobbed. Music hit, Mox’s theme, moments before Adam could even think up an answer. 

Mox wasn’t a bullet point on Adam’s list of relations. He was just a guy he occasionally saw backstage or in production meetings. They’d been in a ring once before. Adam kinda saw him as this hardened badass with a devil may care attitude. A weird, enigmatic guy with a prickly attitude and a hardened reputation. The flash of a silver flask, drawn from Mox’s inner jacket pocket, spoke to Adam though in a way few else in the arena would get. He understood the motivation behind the deep drink Mox indulged. If a guy like Jon Moxley needed alcohol to steady his nerves, then shit, it was really that bad. Kenny’s entrance then, was a nail in the coffin. He dressed subdued, in jeans and a shirt instead of elaborate gear. No bullshit spiel from Justin Roberts, just his music, and the belt. Adam worked his jaw and took some solace from his own beverage. Besides him, Matt shifted and squirmed, his thumb at his mouth gnawing on his already bitten down nail.

Before Ring of Honor shipped him off to Japan, Adam was never into Japanese wrestling. His library of matches included the DVR recordings of WWF matches, the local shit you could get on the TV, and eventually, the various indie shows across the South-East he attended. It was all catch wrestling, some technical shit, and whatever the Hardys were doing. Death matches, likewise, were a joke in the schools and shows he attended. “How many commas?” Was the refrain for what it’d take to get an average wrestler to do something as stupid as involve barbed wire in a match. Therefore, a Japanese, Exploding, Barbed Wire, Death Match, was completely out of Adam’s wheel house. He had no idea what to expect. What he got when the bell rang was totally outside of the realm of his imagination. 

It was the little shit: Kenny was dead serious, Mox made the sign of the cross, and the methodical, slow pace they set.  It was all physical strength as they jostled, tied-up with each other, all too aware of the limitations of the ring. After a year as his tag-partner, Adam was familiar with Kenny’s style. His explosive speed, how he worked the ropes, and his overwhelming energy. This was a different Kenny, almost uncomfortable in the confines of his cage. Close calls, pushing, prodding, biting each other, trying to force the other into barbed wire they treated with the respect it deserved it. Mox beat Kenny with every instrument available and Adam knew the way Kenny writhed was genuine. When Kenny sent Mox into the far ropes and a flash of fire sent billows of smoke into the arena, Matt gripped Adam’s hand like it was an instinctive reflex. He squeezed, hard, pressing his fingers around Adam’s palm. Pain shot-up Adam’s arm like a bolt of lightning. Adam hissed and reached over to pry Matt off his injured hand. 

“Jesus, Matt,” Adam hissed. 

Matt murmured apologies and yet his grip just switched to Adam’s wrist instead, which wasn’t much better because Adam’s whole arm was sore. Since apparently Matt needed to cling to something, Adam hooked his whole right arm around Matt’s shoulders. Then reached his left hand over to grip Matt’s hand. It was awkward and the armrest dug into Adam’s ribs but Matt rested his head in the crook of Adam’s shoulder, so it worked. Their fingers interlaced and Adam could only imagine how fucking goofy they looked. If the cameras happened to pick them up in the crowd they would never live it down. At least, Kenny had his footing in the match, he was in control, working over Mox, looking for that pin— Adam wasn’t sure if he was rooting for Kenny or not. Or, if he just kinda wanted this to be over because it was evidently mentally ripping Matt to shreds. 

Wanted this to be over, the belt out of Kenny’s hands, and somewhere else, where it couldn’t be between them anymore. 

Blood and smoke, broken hardware, torn skin. Kenny in the ropes, blinded by the dust, begging for water for his burned eyes. Matt’s breath, high in his throat, turning his face into Adam’s shoulder. And Adam just watched. He watched and forgot about the beer warming to room temperature by his side. A pressure built in his jaw, and yet, he couldn’t look away. No clear thoughts surfaced, nothing solid, or real. Just ideas, images, tangled together with the scene before him like the barbed wire wrapped around Mox’s arm. He didn’t allow himself to settle. Didn’t allow himself to latch onto anything, just let it all drift, staying in the moment of the violence, pain, and brutality of two men literally trying to kill each other. The sight of Kenny’s blood, red, crimson, staining his white shirt, and marring his pale skin burned Adam’s vision.

He thought back to Full Gear. The way he could tell Kenny was in his head. Always a half-step ahead. And that whole match Adam was working his ass off just to keep-up. Trying to wiggle his way into opening, taking advantage of every opportunity like a life line. He’d watched that match back a hundred times and he could every single one of his mistakes. He found a new error to fixate on each time he hit the replay button. The truth was that physically, Kenny had no significant advantage over Adam. In fact, Adam knew he had all the benefits of superior strength, better cardio, and youth. In skill, there was nothing dividing them— After that tag-team run, Adam knew he could hang with Omega. What kept Adam back, what left him behind, in the shadow of Kenny was himself. His own tangled thoughts and anxieties, burning a hole in his heart. He had stared-up the lights, like a crashed angel, and kinda accepted that final pin.

Like, he just gave-up, after bearing the burden of a year from hell. Let it all roll off his shoulders. Atlas shrugged, and the world shattered. And in the midst of broken glass, he had rebuilt. With no end goal in mind. Just, kinda up, kinda forward, one step at a time, gazed fixated on his toes so he didn’t slip in his own blood, and not ahead, and now he was looking at the ring. Accepting the smoke and blood and tears and sweat, the desperate men swinging punch-drunk as the ten minute warning sounded. It was an observation, he could note it, and let the moment past. Adam was in the rankings, number three last Tuesday, maybe higher next Tuesday. It didn’t mean anything, it didn’t have to mean anything. 

Didn’t have to do anything but just sit here and hold Matt. 

When the Good Brothers rushed out to the ring Matt sighed and laughed, but it was high-pitched, shaking his head. Adam watched Mox go through the chair in a One Winged Angel but all Matt was muttering was that he ‘couldn’t take this anymore.’ He didn’t want to see the ending, but he did hear the three count, and Adam admitted that his masochist desire had puttered out. So, he pushed Matt to his feet and they slid through the rows to escape the arena. Outside, fresh air, cool and tinged with the taste of the metallic city, brushed against Adam’s heated face.  Matt walked to the curb outside Daily’s place and collapsed. He sat there, breathing hard and fast, head between his knees, some, strangled, broken noise erupting from his throat. Adam shoved his hands in his jean pockets and sat down next to him. A lot of noises erupted from the arena behind them but the sounds muddled with the traffic, sirens, people, nothing distinct.

“Hey,” Adam whispered, reaching for Matt’s shoulder. He placed his hand in the crook of Matt’s neck and gathered him closer to his side. Matt was still hyperventilating and so Adam ordered firmly, but not unkindly, “dude, slow down. Take a deep breath. It’s okay, it’s over.”

Matt’s entire body trembled and Adam had half a mind to break six months of radio silence by calling Nick to tell him to come get his brother. Instead, Matt collapsed against Adam, burying his face in his chest as for the first time in probably an hour, he breathed. Every tensed muscle unraveled beneath Adam’s hand as all the fight left Matt. Tears tracked trails of dust down Matt’s cheeks and Adam hummed, low in his throat. It was something content, a pleased purr. He always liked feeling useful, needed, relied upon, and to have Matt physically leaning on him like this— felt good. It felt right. He’d been dropping the Bucks and Kenny, fumbling like an idiot, for a while now. Maybe now, when he felt a little stronger, a little more firm, he could hold them right. 

Maybe— 

Maybe, and the thought trailed off without conclusion. 

“I hate this, why can’t it just be over,” Matt gasped into Adam’s shirt. “Why can’t we— why can’t we just, just be friends again?! We should never have left Japan. This shit wouldn’t have happened if we hadn’t made this damn company. AEW was supposed to be fun, and all it did was just—just tear us apart.”

Against Adam’s thigh, Matt fisted his hand, nails biting into his palm. Adam placed his chin on top of Matt’s head. He didn’t respond to his question because he didn’t have an answer. No response that was adequate. Just a recap of all their broken dreams and failures. Matt knew the story. He didn’t need Adam to try to fix this. Adam couldn’t fix this but he could be here. He could do that. 

“I want things back to how they were,” Matt admitted, and his voice was softer, but hitched with a sob. 

“I don’t,” Adam said. 

Matt stiffened under Adam’s arm. And Adam had a feeling the thoughts that came to his mind weren’t the most gentle thing to say to Matt as he spiraled off a panic attack— but they were maybe the things Matt needed to hear. 

“I hated being in the EVP room,” Adam continued, and his voice shook. “I hated living in your shadows. I hated watching you guys go out with Kenny and be in his corner, while I always had my matches alone. I hated— I hated being the weak link. I hated never feeling like I belonged. Like, I never deserved to be your friend.”

“Hangman—” Matt pulled back to look at Adam, his eyes wet with tears. 

“No, no, Matt listen,” Adam insisted. He hooked his hand around the back of Matt’s neck. “This shit, would’ve happened in Japan, or NXT, or Ring of Honor, no matter where we went. Because wherever you go, there you are, and we carried our baggage here.”

“I just had no idea we made you so miserable,” Matt confessed. “That we made you—”

“Dude, I made myself miserable,” Adam laughed, interrupting him. “All up in my head and shit, and I’m done with that. I’m done with the bullshit and the drama. Maybe, I’m not the best, but I just wanna—I wanna focus on, I don’t know, having fun? Doing what I can. Forget about the stupid title.”

“So, you’re not going to challenge Kenny?” Matt asked. He reached for Adam’s face, pressed his palm to Adam’s cheek. Adam shivered under his touch, tongue darting out to wet his lips. 

“I don’t know,” Adam admitted. He ducked his head but Matt smoothed his thumb over Adam’s cheekbone and forced him to look up again. Forced him to meet Matt’s dark eyes, and Adam had no choice but to think, Holy shit, I love him. So, he whispered and confided, “I don’t know if I can.”

“I think you can,” Matt said. He inched closer so they were thigh-to-thigh, he tilted Adam’s face down to knock their foreheads together. Adam could hear the smile on his lips. “Someone has to knock some sense into Kenny. I don’t want to see my best friends fight but—”

“Matt,” Adam sighed. His hand reached across to Matt’s opposite hip. 

“What?” Matt asked. Adam nuzzled his nose into his cheek. “Adam?”

“Nothing,” Adam smiled. 

And he couldn’t help but to wonder why Matt believed in him when no one else did. What he saw that he recognized as potential. Matt’s patience as Adam strayed and wandered— that the frustration, read more as worry now than anger. And it was Adam that Matt sought out tonight. And Matt wasn’t shoving him away as he leaned in, the ghost of his breath on Matt’s bottom lip. Then, Matt’s phone rang and he was cussing, digging into his pockets. He checked the collar ID, noted it was Nick and murmured bashful excuses to Adam before answering. Adam leaned back on his hands, scratching his boot heels against the pavement. 

“Hey, man,” Matt intoned, a hand running through his hair. HIs voice was still raw and he swallowed hard, putting on a mask of cool, stoicism for his little brother. “What’s up?”

Adam heard the low rumble of Nick’s voice on the other side. Chewing out Matt for vanishing during production. TK needed them ASAP, and Matt was nodding, promising he’d show-up soon. He just needed some time to get some fresh air. 

“Is everyone okay?” Matt asked, and Adam leaned forward to hear the response.

“Yeah, everyone’s okay, Kenny, Mox, and fucking, Eddie? He ran out there right before the bomb went off, the idiot,” Nick grumbled. “But it was a fucking dud. It didn’t go off at all— the fans actually boo’ed, I can’t tell if TK is furious or relieved. I mean, Kenny made it so I don’t know what we expected—”

Adam choked on a laugh, leaning his elbows on his knees. His entire shoulders shook as cackles broke out of his chest and he covered his mouth to hide the noise. Adam barely registered Nick asking Matt who he was with before Matt hung-up the phone. Matt shook his head and then he was laughing too, breaking the tide of all the bundled, nervous fear that had held them. Adam knew in his head there was way more shit to work out between them. That they weren’t out of the woods yet and his heart was too tender, too fragile, to take another break but— it felt better. 

In some ways, it almost felt good, and ‘almost good’ is a state Adam hadn’t been in for a long time. 

“You should uh, go do your job,” Adam suggested. 

Matt pushed to his feet and Adam stood too. He felt that awkwardness, the unacknowledged weirdness of almost making out with your not-best-friend, or the fact that they’re supposed to hate each other right now. All the crap that was still between them, all the land mines of conversations not yet triggered. Maybe, they were untangling the barbed wire. Closing the distance inch-by-inch, and it was magnetic, almost inevitable— but Adam wasn’t sure if he was ready to stand beside Matt. Maybe because he was afraid of being hurt again. Maybe because he was dead terrified of the air in the EVP room when he was swallowing all his words. Maybe, because he had always walked behind, and never beside.

He asked Matt, last year, for a little more time, and apparently, he still needed a little more yet.

“Yeah, uh, talk to you later, I guess,” Matt managed. When he breathed there was a shutter, the residuals of his panic attack. Adam figured if he was with his brother, he’d be fine. Nick would take care of him. Adam worried about a lot things but he never worried about the Bucks because they always had each other. 

“Yeah,” Adam nodded. “See ya.”

Matt turned back to the arena first. Adam stood there, watching him walking away and refusing to let his thoughts roll over it. 

It is what it is. 

[rubythearc]

Your name: Shauna Davis

  Chosen Universe: (pick from the list provided)    Universe Earth

  Character name: Ruby

  Blog Title:

  Design elements:

 Explain your inspiration for the design: When I was a child, I joined a group of kids who were apart of a conflict resolution team. Many times, children may not know how to deal with trouble or conflict. Being a part of conflict Resolution meant that I was personally involved with finding solutions to problems at school.

  Describe (photos, links to websites, audio, video etc. used) I chose a picture of a little girl crying because it shows that children can be vulnerable at times.

  Background color used: Blue

  Blog Entries: (3 post minimum- total 300 words)  

  Blog Post 1:

 Heading of post: A Bruised Reed

           Can humanity come back from the brinks of despair? Uniting in the midst of war and revolution has never been easy. As far back as history goes the world has dealt with tyranny, plagues, and mediocrity. Will we prevail and live to fight another day? Can a bruised or damaged reed still play beautiful music? Well, many people are hurting and misguided but there is evidence that survival does avail out of the faint of heart. Everyday people who are broken rise to become wonderful productive members of society.

           Not only do people deal with personal struggles, but they also must endure problems that surround them daily. Many would argue that superheroes have it easy. They have agility, superhuman strength and an array of weaponry to use at their disposal, for instance, the Special Olympics are filled with people who were expected to fail because of their disabilities, but instead they become relentless and overcome. They when gold medals and shame their critics.

           Everyone has their own cross to bear. No one is exempt from trials or tribulation. It is not the problem that should make the difference, it is how an individual deals with the problems of humanity and their own personal pain. I realize one individual cannot solve problems for the whole world, but it takes a collaborative effort, so that means everyone should lend a hand.

           Using discretion and wisdom is important and can lead to positive choices. Awareness does play a factor and leadership in politics where people have power holds great significance. Change does not happen overnight. Patience can relieve an anxious heart and motivation will increase productivity. When you seek a solution, it shows. Other’s will get involved because the world is constantly changing, and people look to leaders for direction. Villains will not conquer our world. We must stick together if we are going to get anything done. Once again, the population is facing something that seems greater than goodness. Evil is running rampant, but it will never overcome good. The darkness will never win.

  Blog entry 1:

  Blog Post 2:

 Heading of post: The Journey

   Blog entry 2:

           I tied the purple bandana around my head. After swinging my backpack over my arm, I felt the weight of my backpack adding extra pressure on my back. My tank top was soaking wet with sweat from the hot sun beaming down on me. Slouching, I bent down to pick up a torn paper. My curiosity peaked as I read the headline. Earth has Never seen an Asteroid of this magnitude. I thought to myself about disasters and how it had devastated the population. I knew I could not solve every problem, but I was sure I could use my powers for good and make a difference.

           As she walked down the block, I saw a man and woman arguing. “Kevin why didn’t you get the stuff.” Mary stared at the bag Kevin gave her. Looking intensely into his eyes she yelled. “All of it better be here.” Suddenly, Ruby ran across the street. She went up to the woman Mary grabbing the bag and snatching it away. Mary swung at Ruby wailing and crying. Ruby retrained her. Kevin ran as soon as he saw Ruby’s strength. She took out her cell phone and dialed 911 with the other hand. She told them about the situation. There was a drug dealer selling drugs to kids in the community. Ruby was not afraid of danger. The police thanked her for her heroism and asked if she wanted a reward for taking down a major criminal, but she said no. “Give it to someone who needs the money.” Ruby said.

 Blog Post 3:

 Heading of post: The Future

 Blog entry 3:

Ruby lived without regret. She gave her all when she helped others. Is the saying success is different for everyone relevant? Does it hold significance? Many times, when she looked at life and situations that happened, she explored resolutions that would be a direct result of her living up to her own expectations. When she saved someone’s life, she was completely humbled because she respected the fact that no one is promised tomorrow. She knew she was still growing and respected the process of becoming the best superhero.

           She ran across a lot of villains, yet she still was learning why they made the choice to do what was not moral. She knew of the murders they committed and the mayhem they caused. There eyes were filled with evil. There was no restoration. She knew they lacked integrity and goodwill. Every villain will have there day she would think sometimes. It is just a matter of time when and where they will have to deal with their own faults.

           She was happy that throughout her life she tried to do what was good. She had to deal with her own heart ache as a child and even as a young adult, but she chose to overcome the pain and heart ache. She lived on the street as a teenager. She had to teach herself everything. She gave herself retribution and promised herself that she would not be a victim of her circumstances. Even though it was not easy she paid her dues. There was a time when she wandered aimlessly but now, she was a heroin.

    **** End Copy Deck ****

 Reflection assignment- Write a brief 100-150-word reflection focusing on your creative process.

(explain why you made the choices listed above)

           I chose to explain why Ruby chose to be a heroin. She knew she had a purpose, but she purposed nothing. She never went on a whim or thought she was inadequate. Her journey started off rough considering her mother and father abandoned her and left her for dead. They cared more about drugs and partying than they ever cared about her. She did not see the forest from the trees until she reached adulthood.

           One day, something grabbed her attention. A young boy she saw on the news was acquitted for murder charges. The police admitted it was a mistaken Identity. She was glad he did not have to spend time in the penitentiary, but she knew it was still unfair. He would never be the same she thought and probably was traumatized. I brought back painful memories for her, but she quickly put it out of her mind. She felt the same injustice he felt. Life was not fair, but you must move on and make the best out of the cards you are dealt as an individual.  

[aethelflaedladyofmercia]

Desire

Well, I was going to write something totally different, but then this happened instead. My latest addition to @drawlight‘s advent calendar takes full advantage of the fact that I can’t write flirtatious dialogue to save my life.

(Note, I’ve now skipped 4 days. Not sure how I’m going to make them back up, but I do intend to try.)

19 - Wish (1,569 words)

“Do you ever wish for anything?” Aziraphale asked abruptly, just as he started in on his third order of crepes.

“Ah, how do you mean?” The question caught Crowley off-guard. Many things this evening had caught him off-guard. Finding Aziraphale locked up in the Bastille; the looks the angel had shot him, over and over, during his rescue attempt; and even now, the way Aziraphale’s habitual facade of innocence kept slipping, dropping just enough to reveal something not innocent in the least.

“Come now, Crowley. This is your primary employment. Temptations. Wishes.” He raised a bite of crepe to his lips and raised his eyebrows. “Desires.”

It suddenly occurred to Crowley – in a panic-induced firing of neurons – that Aziraphale might be attempting to flirt with him.

This was frightening in several ways.

First, it wasn’t how they did things. Their entire unspoken agreement – even deeper than the Arrangement – was that everything was treated in a strictly business way. Business mixed with pleasure, of course: a shared bottle of wine, a dinner of the latest luxury food, a trip to the theater where they could talk in private. But still, professional, distant, amicable at best.

Second, any changes in their attitudes towards each other was dangerous. Bound to be noticed. Bound to cause trouble. Exactly the kind of trouble Aziraphale was always warning him about.

Third, and most important, Aziraphale appeared to be very bad at flirting.

“I suppose,” Crowley started slowly, “I wish you would learn to be a little more careful and stop taking foolish risks.” He hoped the angel would catch his meaning.

“That’s not what I had in mind.” Aziraphale lowered the fork, and his other hand rose from his lap and came to rest on the table, barely an inch from Crowley’s. It wasn’t a very big table, but there was no chance that was a coincidence. “I mean, is there something that you…that you have longed for?”

“Like crepes. Not really, I don’t eat much.” He was babbling at this point. His fingers twitched away, but there wasn’t anywhere to move his hand, not without being obvious.

And, despite how unbelievably bad this situation was…he didn’t want to be obvious. Didn’t want Aziraphale to feel rejected. Didn’t want to pull away from the warmth of that hand.

“Apart from food, then.” Aziraphale finally took the bite, and just for a moment seemed to forget all about his dining companion as a look of sheer bliss ran across his face. Crowley’s stomach dropped away. Three orders of crepes and he still wasn’t prepared for that expression, for the unrestrained joy, for the sudden desire to reach out, to see if he could put that smile on Aziraphale’s face himself –

Oh, that bastard angel. He was doing it on purpose!

Crowley cleared his throat. “I don’t know. I wish I wasn’t in the middle of this Revolution. I wish Head Office would stop giving me credit for the absolute worst of humanity. I wish I could be sure they wouldn’t show up and check in on me at any moment.” How much more blatant could he be?

“I suppose,” Aziraphale smiled. “I suppose I also wish I could be assured a little privacy. I wonder sometimes, what I might do if there were no chance anyone would find out.” His finger stretched out, brushing against Crowley’s. The gesture was far too deliberate, and Aziraphale was looking straight at him. “What things might I wish to do then?”

Crowley couldn’t take it anymore. This was beyond embarrassing. This was a disaster to surpass anything he’d ever seen.

Worse, it was actually working. His hand burned to grab Aziraphale’s drag him into a corner, and find out just how stupid the two of them could be. The chances of anyone checking in on them in this city, in this creperie, at this exact moment were almost infinitesimally small. Crowley ready for it, Aziraphale had apparently forgotten every concept of caution, they were both intelligent beings of the world. Why shouldn’t they risk it?

Why shouldn’t they risk eternal torment at the hands of their respective sides for a few minutes of pleasure?

That was better than a bucket of cold water on Crowley’s brain. Aziraphale might believe his side was forgiving, that he was risking little more than a strongly-worded letter, but Crowley knew from first-hand experience how the Archangels treated their enemies. And he doubted an angel who consorted with a demon would be treated any better.

“Aziraphale,” he said, drawing his hands back, folding them in front of him. “What are you doing?”

“I…” He flushed, suddenly looking very uncertain. Very hurt. “I just meant… That is, I didn’t mean… I was just making conversation.”

“Do you think I don’t know a Temptation when I see one?” Aziraphale flinched at that, jerking his own hand back as if he’d been struck. “Especially one so… flagrant? It’s humiliating.”

“Oh. I. Oh.” He deflated, shrinking into himself, melting away before Crowley’s eyes. “I thought… I thought you wanted…”

“No, Aziraphale. This…this,” he waved his hand vaguely to indicate everything the angel had done and suggested, “isn’t what I want. It’s not my secret desire, not my wish, not some hidden fantasy I’ve had locked in my brain.” He knew he was laying it on too thick, but if there was a chance, even a chance someone had seen this… “I don’t know what you were hoping to get from me, or why you thought it would work, but it needs to stop. Now.”

Crowley had thought he knew every expression Aziraphale was capable of – from the bliss of trying a new food to the wretched misery of confessing he’d given away his sword. But nothing, nothing could have prepared him for the look of heartbreak he saw now.

“Well. I…” Oh, Satan, he wasn’t even trying to cover it up with a fake smile. “I should…”

Before Crowley could move, Aziraphale was on his feet, all but running out of the restaurant.

--

If there was one thing Aziraphale was good at, it was stopping himself from crying. He had centuries, millennia, an eternity of practice at keeping the tears at bay, no matter what he felt, no matter what tragedy he was forced to witness. After all, if it was all part of the Great, Ineffable Plan, why should he mourn a moment’s pain?

But this…this wasn’t part of the Plan. This was just his heart, torn out, tossed aside. But he didn’t need it. He didn’t need any of it. He was an –

“Angel!”

He walked faster.

“Ang – Aziraphale, stop!”

He would have run if he could, but it didn’t matter – he was no match for those long legs, and in a moment he felt Crowley’s hand on his arm.

“Leave me be.” He tried to shrug it off. “You’ve made your point.”

“I really don’t think I have,” Crowley growled, low and dangerous. He pulled Aziraphale back towards him, grabbing his lapels, shoving him back against the nearest wall, standing so close their noses nearly brushed. “You want to know what I wish for? What I want?”

“Crowley, stop, I was just –”

“Oh, I’ll tell you.” He leaned in even closer, until his hot breath burned against the shell of Aziraphale’s ear, as he hissed: “I want you.”

He couldn’t even respond, couldn’t make a sound around the lump in his throat.

“But I don’t want some bloody snog in a Paris alleyway. I want to spend eternity with you. My deepest desire is to hear your voice and your laugh every day. My fantasy is to wake up next to you, spend every minute at your side, and fall asleep to the sound of your heartbeat. And when I wish, I wish for us to stay safe, to keep going, until we can find a way to make that happen.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale tried to whisper, but his breath was harsh. There were tears running down his face. “That’s…you know that’s impossible…”

“I don’t care. I am not going to give up, not ever. I will not trade that for a few minutes of pleasure. And I won’t risk you. Not for anything. So don’t be stupid.”

He couldn’t trust himself to speak. He reached out, put his hands on Crowley’s waist, pulled him closer, so that just for a second, he felt the full weight of his adversary, his rescuer, his friend pressed against him.

Then he shoved the demon away with all his strength. “Oh, I think we understand each other now,” Aziraphale said, trying to sound cold and authoritative, as an angel should. “I think I understand exactly what it is you want.”

Crowley smiled, and if it was supposed to look cruel or wicked, Aziraphale saw right through that to the sadness it masked. “So you see, your wiles were never going to work on me. Best stick to what you’re good at, Angel.”

“You’ll regret saying that, I think.” Aziraphale wiped the tears from his face. “I look forward to our next encounter.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for anything.”

They held each other’s gaze for another moment, then walked away in opposite directions.

Aziaphale already regretted his actions today, the things his foolish desire had led him to do. But he pushed the memory aside, making room for a new, glorious vision that Crowley had planted in his heart.

[thepatriotplace-blog]

The Patriot Warrior Class

Its been awhile since I’ve posted on Tumblr. In fact I actually kind of forgot I had the account. I created this account a few years ago and I named it “the patriot place”. Pretty self explanatory.

Let me tell you about me. I am first and foremost a patriotic American. I have always called myself a patriot. I’ve been a libertarian party member for many years. I’ve voted in many POTUS general elections for the libertarian candidate (with the exception of 2x). I’ve always had a deep love for the US constitution have spoken out about the blatant corruption of the constitution that has been going on in America my whole life.

I also consider myself a warrior. Although I have never served in the military I was a police officer for 25 years and have since retired. My duties as a police officer included SWAT and emergency tactical medicine. I have been trained by the best warriors America has to offer.

Since the election of Donald Trump (who I didn’t vote for) I have seen the rapid decay of the Libertarian Party. It has become polluted with progressives, pedophiles and people suffering from Trump Derangement Syndrome. My interactions with the neo-libertarians has been sad. Justin Amash has completely flipped in my view and I align more with Rand Paul than I do with Ron Paul. Jo Jorgesen who is the Libertarian’s Party POTUS candidate is and her public support of a Marxist organization was the last straw for me. I am no longer a member of the libertarian party.

I now consider myself a member of the patriot warrior class. I am prepared to fight and die for the Republic and its constitution. I took an oath to uphold the constitution of the United States and that doesn’t end when there is  (Ret.) at the end of my name. There are many like me. Men and women who served and are currently serving to protect our Republic who believe in what I believe in are what will save this country from the Marxist insurrection, which is back politically by the Democrat Party and financed by the CCP and George Soros that is taking place within the US’s borders.

The neo-libertarians wont fight for the Republic. They are feckless and nothing more than internet bottle throwers and trolls. Their mentality is the same as the progressives, ‘Burn it down at all costs to get Trump out.”

The single most important event that turned the page in this chapter in my life had to be Trump’s speech at the National Archives Museum on Constitution Day. I have never heard a politician since Reagan deliver a speech more patriotic than this speech. I’ve included the transcript of that speech. So I will end this post with this.... In 2020 I will vote Vote Trump.

THE PRESIDENT: Thank you very much. Thank you, Mike. A great Vice President. I am truly honored to be here at the very first White House Conference on American History. So important.

Our mission is to defend the legacy of America’s founding, the virtue of America’s heroes, and the nobility of the American character. We must clear away the twisted web of lies in our schools and classrooms, and teach our children the magnificent truth about our country. We want our sons and daughters to know that they are the citizens of the most exceptional nation in the history of the world. (Applause.)

To grow up in America is to live in a land where anything is possible, where anyone can rise, and where any dream can come true — all because of the immortal principles our nation’s founders inscribed nearly two and a half centuries ago.

That’s why we have come to the National Archives, the sacred home of our national memory. In this great chamber, we preserve our glorious inheritance: the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution, the Bill of Rights.

On this very day in 1787, our Founding Fathers signed the Constitution at Independence Hall in Philadelphia. It was the fulfillment of a thousand years of Western civilization. Our Constitution was the product of centuries of tradition, wisdom, and experience. No political document has done more to advance the human condition or propel the engine of progress.

Yet, as we gather this afternoon, a radical movement is attempting to demolish this treasured and precious inheritance. We can’t let that happen. (Applause.) Left-wing mobs have torn down statues of our founders, desecrated our memorials, and carried out a campaign of violence and anarchy. Far-left demonstrators have chanted the words “America was never great.” The left has launched a vicious and violent assault on law enforcement — the universal symbol of the rule of law in America. These radicals have been aided and abetted by liberal politicians, establishment media, and even large corporations.

Whether it is the mob on the street, or the cancel culture in the boardroom, the goal is the same: to silence dissent, to scare you out of speaking the truth, and to bully Americans into abandoning their values, their heritage, and their very way of life.

We are here today to declare that we will never submit to tyranny. We will reclaim our history and our country for citizens of every race, color, religion, and creed.

The radicals burning American flags want to burn down the principles enshrined in our founding documents, including the bedrock principle of equal justice under law. In order to radically transform America, they must first cause Americans to lose confidence in who we are, where we came from, and what we believe. As I said at Mount Rushmore — which they would love to rip down and it rip it down fast, and that’s never going to happen — two months ago, the left-wing cultural revolution is designed to overthrow the American Revolution.

As many of you testified today, the left-wing rioting and mayhem are the direct result of decades of left-wing indoctrination in our schools. It’s gone on far too long. Our children are instructed from propaganda tracts, like those of Howard Zinn, that try to make students ashamed of their own history.

The left has warped, distorted, and defiled the American story with deceptions, falsehoods, and lies. There is no better example than the New York Times’ totally discredited 1619 Project. This project rewrites American history to teach our children that we were founded on the principle of oppression, not freedom.

Nothing could be further from the truth. America’s founding set in motion the unstoppable chain of events that abolished slavery, secured civil rights, defeated communism and fascism, and built the most fair, equal, and prosperous nation in human history. (Applause.)

The narratives about America being pushed by the far-left and being chanted in the streets bear a striking resemblance to the anti-American propaganda of our adversaries — because both groups want to see America weakened, derided, and totally diminished.

Students in our universities are inundated with critical race theory. This is a Marxist doctrine holding that America is a wicked and racist nation, that even young children are complicit in oppression, and that our entire society must be radically transformed. Critical race theory is being forced into our children’s schools, it’s being imposed into workplace trainings, and it’s being deployed to rip apart friends, neighbors, and families.

A perfect example of critical race theory was recently published by the Smithsonian Institution. This document alleged that concepts such as hard work, rational thinking, the nuclear family, and belief in God were not values that unite all Americans, but were instead aspects of “whiteness.” This is offensive and outrageous to Americans of every ethnicity, and it is especially harmful to children of minority backgrounds who should be uplifted, not disparaged.

Teaching this horrible doctrine to our children is a form of child abuse in the truest sense of those words. For many years now, the radicals have mistaken Americans’ silence for weakness. But they’re wrong.

There is no more powerful force than a parent’s love for their children. And patriotic moms and dads are going to demand that their children are no longer fed hateful lies about this country. American parents are not going to accept indoctrination in our schools, cancel culture at our work, or the repression of traditional faith, culture, and values in the public square. Not anymore. (Applause.) Thank you. Thank you. Thank you very much.

We embrace the vision of Martin Luther King, where children are not judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.

The left is attempting to destroy that beautiful vision and divide Americans by race in the service of political power. By viewing every issue through the lens of race, they want to impose a new segregation, and we must not allow that to happen.

Critical race theory, the 1619 Project, and the crusade against American history is toxic propaganda, ideological poison that, if not removed, will dissolve the civic bonds that tie us together. It will destroy our country.

That is why I recently banned trainings in this prejudiced ideology from the federal government and banned it in the strongest manner possible. (Applause.)

The only path to national unity is through our shared identity as Americans. That is why it is so urgent that we finally restore patriotic education to our schools.

Under our leadership, the National Endowment for the Humanities has awarded a grant to support the development of a pro-American curriculum that celebrates the truth about our nation’s great history. (Applause.)

We are joined by some of the respected scholars involved in this project, including Professor Wilfred McClay. Wilfred, please. Thank you very much. Welcome. (Applause.) Thank you. Dr. Peter Wood of the National Association of Scholars. Dr. Peter. (Applause.) Thank you. Thank you. And Ted Rebarber. Thank you, Ted. (Applause.) Thank you very much, Ted.

Today, I am also pleased to announce that I will soon sign an Executive Order establishing a national commission to promote patriotic education. It will be called the “1776 Commission.” (Applause.) Thank you. Thank you. It will encourage our educators to teach our children about the miracle of American history and make plans to honor the 250th anniversary of our founding. Think of that — 250 years.

Recently, I also signed an executive order to establish the National Garden of American Heroes, a vast outdoor park that will feature the statues of the greatest Americans who have ever lived.

Today, I am announcing a new name for inclusion. One of the 56 signers of the Declaration of Independence was a patriot from Delaware. In July of 1776, the Continental Congress was deadlocked during the debate over independence. The delegation from Delaware was divided. Caesar Rodney was called upon to break the tie.

Even though he was suffering from very advanced cancer — he was deathly ill — Rodney rode 80 miles through the night, through a severe thunderstorm, from Dover to Philadelphia to cast his vote for independence.

For nearly a century, a statue of one of Delaware’s most beloved citizens stood in Rodney Square, right in the heart of Wilmington.

But this past June, Caesar Rodney’s statue was ordered removed by the mayor and local politicians as part of a radical purge of America’s founding generation.

Today, because of an order I signed, if you demolish a statue without permission, you immediately get 10 years in prison. (Applause.) And there have been no statues demolished for the last four months, incredibly, since the time I signed that act.

Joe Biden said nothing as to his home state’s history and the fact that it was dismantled and dismembered. And a Founding Father’s statue was removed.

Today, America will give this Founding Father, this very brave man, who was so horribly treated, the place of honor he deserves. I am announcing that a statue of Caesar Rodney will be added to the National Garden of American Heroes. (Applause.)

From Washington to Lincoln, from Jefferson to King, America has been home to some of the most incredible people who have ever lived. With the help of everyone here today, the legacy of 1776 will never be erased. Our heroes will never be forgotten. Our youth will be taught to love America with all of their heart and all of their soul.

We will save this cherished inheritance for our children, for their children, and for every generation to come. This is a very important day.

Thank you all once again for being here. Now I will sign the Constitution Day Proclamation. God Bless You. And God Bless America. Thank you very much.

[depressed-sock]

Statement by a man that can't exist about fears that fear can have.

100% self indulgent writing lmao

Tw: death, stabbing, Stranger centric imagery (think episode 165 revolutions), graphic descriptions, anxiety, allusions to past abuse and queerphobia

Multiple times switching identification between I, we, and he.

Statement Begins:

You don't know who I am. I'd applaud you but I have a feeling you'll be knowing soon enough. And once you know who I am… well there wouldn't be a point to any kind of conversation between us.

So that's why I'm here now. Before there's any chance of you knowing me.

I guess I should start at the beginning but to be honest there's too many beginnings that I'd have to tell. So I guess I'll start with our most recent death.

I can see you're already confused.

(The man gives a bark of laughter.)

You see, I cannot ever have a singular existence. Because for as long as the avatars of fear have existed we too have been there. A quiet presence that sits in the back of their minds. Some of them never truly realize it until it's too late.

What don't they realize, you ask? Well, that deep down behind their little power trips that they can still feel afraid. It's almost funny how many of them think themselves invincible. That there's nothing else out there that will feed off of them but their own gods.

(The man scoffs in response.) If you can truly call them that.

They just don't realize that there exists a fear just for them. A fear made to feed off of them just like how every fear is made to feed off of some poor human.

We are a... specially tailored revenge you could say. We are each and every one of their victims. We are the pain, the fear, the death that each of them have caused.

We are the victim's lost opportunities, the tears from those who mourned their deaths, but most of all I am the victim's rage.

(The man pauses for a second. The sound of fingers tapping on the wooden table is the only thing audible for a few moments.)

Sorry... my head's not fully right anymore and it takes a second for me to get my bearings.

I am supposed to always be us, but… something changed with his death. Maybe it was how he died, maybe it was because for some reason someone did remember him. I'm not entirely sure to be honest.

I just know that I died to multiple entities.

(A soft laugh and an almost inaudible mutter) Because when has my life ever been simple?

I…No. He was a student. Here on a college exchange trip for the purpose of learning more about art history. Pretty boring all things considered with the exception that all he could feel was the anxiety waging a war beneath his skin.

There was no joy about new experiences, no excitement to see things he could only dream of before. Just the constant ache and twisting of his guts every time he so much as tried to think a thought.

It has always had a hold on his heart. And going alone on such a big trip by himself? Well it was worse than he could have predicted. Eating away every bit of courage it had taken to come here.

Fear growing more and more out of his control. Fear of what people saw when they looked at him. Fear of letting his anger lash out at those who purposely hurt him. Fear of death, fear of living.

Worrying endlessly about telling truths vs telling lies. So much chaos inside one body. It really is not a surprise that it drew the attention of many of the fear's Avatars.

His existence was a flickering light in the dark that drew whatever simply looked his way. Such an easy target. Such a delicious meal.

The first to try their hand, surprisingly, was the slaughter. Cornered him in an alleyway way and ran him through with a rusty knife. It probably was hoping it's anger and lust for blood would amplify his own.

He did have so much anger. Just boiling deep down and out of sight. That need to hurt those that hurt him. The need to just hurt to try and feel anything but helpless.

It would have gotten such a good meal from him. Who knows how many he would lash out at, how many became another means to feed the Slaughter.

But it'd left him alone in that alley. Holding tight to that knife embedded in his stomach. It didn't know that another had been hunting him as well.

Easy prey made even easier for a minion of the Stranger.

(A chair creaks, his voice growing louder as if he's moved closer to the tape recorder)

Do you know what it's like to have your entire being, your entire existence slowly torn into pieces?

No?

(A laugh) Of course you don't.

Not even the Stranger knows what that feels like. Only we can ever know that. I could try to explain it but to be honest it'd be a lot like trying to explain pain to a doctor who will never try to understand.

Oh don't give me that look.

You can't believe me because you don't think we can exist anymore. And to be honest we don't blame you. You're right. We victim's of the stranger don't exist in a capacity that can be truly understood because it's been stolen from us.

He can though.

(Another creak of the chair and his voice grows quieter.)

Exist I mean.

At least exist enough that he could try and tell you that it feels like you're slowly being skinned alive. Chunks of your meat and bone are cut out into small squares and rearranged and put into something else… someone else. Your skin slowly stitched on over it, and even though it's not your body anymore you're still able to feel each pierce of the needle. Each pull of the thread.

And all while it's happening, you know your body is still whole. That the only reason there's any blood at all is because you'd just been stabbed. But you're still forced to watch as this thing takes every single bit of you and twists it into something you hate. Something that is so distinctly not you.

It takes everything that made you, you. And makes you into them instead.

(The infliction of his voice changes. Like he's suddenly waking up from a deep sleep. His voice slowly growing stronger with each word.)

It's a fear I'd always had to deal with. Becoming someone else because no one wanted the real me. Forcing me into being whatever was needed to keep some resemblance of peace between me and everyone else.

Maybe that's why, as it took me apart, I felt such an indescribable anger.

It had no right to do this to me. To take away everything I had fought so hard for. It needed to pay for trying to steal those small parts of myself that I had nurtured and cherished.

I don't know if anyone could actually hear my screams, or if maybe it had all been in my head. It wasn't even a scream of fear or pain. It was all my anger thrown into a single action to say that. I. AM. STILL. HERE.

It could never have expected me to have any strength to fight back. I didn't expect me to have the strength to fight back. Guess that's one thing I can thank the slaughter for. Gave me enough energy to take that rusty knife lodged in my stomach and strike out with it.

And I kept striking, kept stabbing. Even when my blood had run from my body and my hands had already begun to grow cold. I remember knowing that the striking red shade of blood that began to cover me was not mine. Not sure if it even was it's blood.

I guess it didn't matter in the end. At some point I'd fallen to the ground beside it. My eyes glued onto the lifeless form of what was supposed to be some hilariously wrong version of me.

I thought my last dying thoughts would be of some kind of inner peace. I'd won. I had made one last stand and it hadn't been for nothing. It couldn't hurt anyone like it hurt me.

I was wrong of course. I remember hearing it's bones crack as it started to move again. Helplessly watching as it picked itself up and became something different.

Shedding away everything it had stolen from me. Like it had never really mattered to it. Like all it had wanted to do was to make me unwhole for its own pleasure.

I don't know what happened to it because I died shortly after from the blood loss. The end had already begun to reach out to claim me, only to have it's hand slapped away like a petulant child.

(Something shifts in his voice again. This time feeling like there's more than just him speaking.)

We had already laid claim. He had already tasted the Stranger's fear even if he had not known it yet. It was such a new experience for us. An avatar that felt fear because of someone who was still human. Or as human as one can be in that situation anyway.

It was long gone before we woke in that cold alley. Our head a mess of thoughts and memories and pain. We couldn't be me yet. We were never supposed to be me.

But he was different than us.

A fear can be afraid of feeling that same fear they forced upon others turned back on to them. That's what we had always done. Savoring in it from the shadows.

But I could kill fear with its greatest fear. The fear of their victim having the power in a situation that was supposed to be theirs to control.

So be thankful Archivist. We are not your victims. And you better hope we never are. Because we'll be there to claim them.

And when we do, I will be back to claim you.

Statement ends.

[big-ass-magnet]

I've been thinking a lot about how the Hawke family only juuuust misses the Hero of Ferelden. 

Walk with me down this path. 

Imagine Carver or Bethany doesn't die, but everyone thinks they did. They wake up alone and badly injured. They are surrounded by charred darkspawn, and Wesley, blighted and dead. Would it be too far off for them to assume everyone else was dragged off by Darkspawn? 

They can't go back to Lothering. They have no idea how to go forward, or where to go. We know the twins are very susceptible to the blight, so they are wandering, alone, hurt, waiting for whatever death might come, be it bleeding out or becoming a ghoul or torn apart by darkspawn. 

And this is the timeline where the Hero of Fereldan didn't survive the joining, and it's just Morrigan and Alistair. And Alistair is a kind soul with a good heart and maybe he has enough arch demon blood left in his supplies that he can muster up a quick-and-dirty joining. So the world rights itself. Now there are two Wardens again, and we all know Alistair prefers to follow. So Warden Hawke does what Hawkes do: they step up. They shoulder the burden. They do what needs to be done. When they hear about the truth behind the fall of Ostagar and the death of the king...

Carver wants justice for the comrades he fought beside, for his lost family, for Lothering. But Bethany? Bethany is Sunshine sweet, all soft smiles and gentle laughter and kindness. Surely she could never have the kind of drive it takes to lead a revolution, to decide the fate of kingdoms.  

But if you've ever taken her to the deep roads and made her a warden, you know that there is anger in her, a deep and bitter wellspring waiting to be tapped. Warden Bethany Hawke is a woman who will destroy Loghain Mac Tir with her own hands.

[Despite the very bad decision we can all admit it is, they let Zevran stay. It might be because he is useful and skilled and clever. It might be because he reminds them of a lost sibling who always had a quick joke and a clever smile on hand when trouble came to call.]

The story unfolds, slightly different but the outline stays the same, and the archdemon is slain and the blight is ended, and Warden Hawke is the Hero of Ferelden. 

Nobody ever seems to refer to the Hero of Ferelden by name. Maybe the name never quite reaches Hawke's ears. Or there are just so many rumors, who knows which ones are true?  Hawke becomes Champion, but Kirkwall is so far away, and by then, Warden Commander Hawke has stepped down and taken up a quest of the utmost importance. 

Then the chantry explodes, the rebellion begins, and the world turns its eyes to Kirkwall. To the Champion. And oh, when Leliana hears the Champion's name, hears that at least one member of her dear friend's family still draws breath...

Warden Hawke cannot lead the Inquisition. They have their own mission to attend to. Cassandra can't know that they're there. (And let's face it, Cassandra is kind of the worst at interrogation; Leliana suspects she's not going to get Hawke's location.) 

See things from Varric's point of view, briefly. The Seeker has left, and he's alone in a far-too-big and far-too-empty mansion, surrounded by ghosts. He's lost in thought when he hears the door open again, and he thinks with a tired sigh, here we go again. 

But it's not the Seeker who appears in the doorway, ready to throw something at him again. It's a Grey Warden, aged beyond their years, ancient eyes in a face that hasn't even reached thirty. 

A face that looks...familiar. 

"I'm guessing you have questions too."  

"Yes," says the Warden, drawing up a chair and sitting down. They look exhausted, and their clothes are still thick with the dust of travel. He can smell them from several feet away. 

"You should talk to the Seeker. She already asked me lots of questions." 

"I would, but I think you're going to give me very different answers." 

Varric raises an eyebrow to hide his growing nervousness. Cassandra hadn't given him more than superficial bruising, but Grey Wardens...they could be ruthless in their pursuit. What would the Wardens want from Hawke? Unless they wanted Anders...

"And why's that?" 

"Because I'm going to ask in a different way." The warden leans forward, and meets his eyes with an intensity that makes Varric shrink back. "I am the Hero of Ferelden. I am Warden Hawke. Where is my family?"

[nitrateglow]

Re-watching The Last Command (1928) *spoilers*

This is another one of those movies that impressed me a lot more the second time around. The first time I saw it, I might have been a bit too fresh off reading Frtizi Kramer’s negative review of it (on the Movies Silently blog, if you’re interested). Regardless, I really enjoyed it this time, maybe because I was more keen on the film’s meta elements.

I never realized just how deeply the playing pretend motif was embedded into the story. It goes far beyond the film’s well-known premise (allegedly based on a true story), where a former Russian aristocrat is forced to take work as a Hollywood extra while in exile, playing the general he used to be before the revolution. Even during the film’s long flashback sequence, where we see Sergius Alexander’s last days of aristocratic power during World War I, there is a great deal of playacting: the two revolutionaries, Leo and Natalie who come into his life (played by a scowling William Powell and Evelyn Brent) both work in the theater; one of Sergius’ attendants likes dressing up in his boss’s clothes and smoking his fancy cigarettes; the military has to set up patriotic parades for the entertainment of the czar, even though their men are tired and dispirited.

What makes this all especially interesting is in how much of Sergius’ identity is wrapped up in his social standing. The moment his medals and uniform trappings are torn from his body, it is as though his own sense of self were being rent apart. Once in Hollywood, he has clearly been unable to recover or rebuild a new identity. The role has echoes of the doorman in The Last Laugh, also portrayed by Emil Jannings, who loses his dignity and purpose when stripped of his uniform and job. The same does not apply to Leo and Natalie, who both undergo major transformations yet are able to adapt.

I still have sympathy with Kramer’s distaste for the way the political element of the story is handled. It’s incredibly simplistic. Much like Ace of Hearts, apparently communist ideals can be dissipated by getting laid. Okay, it’s a little more complicated than that-- and by complicated, I mean, Natalie the hardcore revolutionary spy realizes that Sergius is only doing what he thinks is best for Russia and respects that to the point of not wanting to put a bullet in the guy. I still don’t buy she’d drop her politics for czarist nookie though. Especially when said czarist nookie looks like Emil Jannings. But whatever.

More than the love story, I actually find the most powerful moment is at the end, when Leo, the same revolutionary beaten and imprisoned by Sergius in 1917, now a director in Hollywood, becomes Sergius’ superior on the set. You’d think he would inflict all the pain he could on the now broken old man, and his gestures and physical business deliberately parallel Sergius’ during the flashback scenes, but Leo actually shows him a great deal of respect. His putting Sergius in a scene where he plays a general able to rouse the czarist troops to victory, while it could be easily seen as ironic and cruel, instead becomes a moment of redemption for the old man.

I find Leo extremely interesting. He’s set up like a bad guy with his humorless, angry stare, but there’s a compassionate core to him that elevates him beyond that. His conflicted feelings where Sergius is concerned are presented in a much more compelling fashion than Natalie’s spontaneous romantic affection.

Another interesting thing: this movie is savage with its presentation of Hollywood. In the 1920s, Hollywood was still perceived as a magical place, cloaked in glamour. Here, it’s presented as a cardboard hell in which extras are treated like cogs in a machine. While there were films in the 1910s and 1920s which satirized the Dream Factory, few are as merciless as this.

For a long time, my favorite silent Josef von Sternberg picture was Docks of New York, but I was really impressed with The Last Command this time around. I should rewatch Docks to see if that still impresses me as much.

9/10

PS I will never get used to seeing William Powell as a bad guy during the silent era. That was kind of his thing in the 1920s and he actually is pretty good at playing a heavy, but it’s still weird as hell.