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hatsukeii · 4 years

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Fam I needed to just write something to restart my brain and jumpstart some shit so

Just yeah you can ignore this fic if you’d like but I’d say still maybe give it a read because I don’t even know what I’m doing it’s 6am and I was brainstorming and got this

Angst btw, haven’t done that in a while

Okay but before that look at my baby though like he’s so perfect and precious and I love him sm🥺 so let’s make him suffer more on my blog hm🥰

Proud// Tsukishima Kei x Reader

Word count: 1.6k+

Warnings: Depression, self hatred, self harm, dead reader

Summary: I honestly don’t know at this point I just wrote down everything I could think of

All that clouded his mind were thoughts of disappearing. Staring mindlessly over the school’s rooftop, he felt a sense of euphoria. Maybe it was just his suicidal tendencies, or maybe it was more, but at that very moment, Tsukishima was imagining how it would feel to jump right off. It didn’t matter, really, did it? People took it as a joke. They took his attempts as a joke. “You’re just being overdramatic,” they’d say. “There’s no way you’d ever do that.” “Stop chasing attention.” Even with cuts on his bare skin, nobody reached out. “You wanna die? I’ll buy you pills later, yeah?” Well, yes, he did want to die, but the team never realised he was serious about it. Nobody ever realised he was serious about it. High schoolers took mental illness as a joke anyways. A twisted, disgusting, horrid joke that Tsukishima could do nothing about but smile and laugh along in order to hide his pain.

Except you.

He still remembers the way you would smile at him. God, you were the only one that would do that. How you sat with him in an empty classroom every single day, rubbing circles into his back as you told him everything would be okay. All those library weekends and study dates together, and not once did you ever complain about his need to rant. You were there to listen to him when no one was, yet all good things had to end. You were gone, and he wasn’t sure what to make of your death. It hurt. Everything hurt. His mind wasn’t stable enough to process it.

It was when you finally gave your last breath in that stupid, stupid hospital ward, did he realise how much he needed you. All the times he’s stopped himself from overdosing were because of you. He knew how devastated you would be if one day you woke up to the death of him on the news. You’ve done so much for him, he would never let himself cause you pain. Never. Yet now, he was back to square one. He was alone again. He was left on his own to fight through this dull, torturous, cruel world. He had to push on with his life, yet there was no one here to push on for. His one reason for living was gone.

The rooftop was quite chilly. Wind blew across Tsukishima’s, as if it was slapping him across the face. Did he look good at that moment? Tucking his shirt back in properly, he grabbed a jumper from his bag, pulling that over himself. If he was going to mourn, might as well mourn looking at least decent. He didn’t remember the wind being this cold. Was it always this cold? “Hey (Y/n), do you need a sweater...” He turned around, expecting to face you, when another gush of wind sliced across his cheeks. This was going to take a while to get used to. He used to let you wear his sweaters when it got chilly like this. You would always pull the sleeves over your hands to make sweater paws, the one thing that never failed to make Tsukishima smile stupidly. The extra sweater he habitually brought to school now sat in his backpack, with no one here to wear it. Sure, he could give it to someone else, another girl even, but it wouldn’t feel right. It never would.

“Ahh, it really never lasts does it?”

And he would be right. The best relationships never last for him. Was it a curse? Some kind of sick hex on him? He would never know. Two good relationships down the drain. First his brother, now you. Why didn’t he see the signs? How you oftentimes skipped school without a warning, the way your face went paler and paler by the day, it almost made him laugh at how utterly stupid and unsuspecting he was. How could he have let all those little things slide? He hated himself for not noticing earlier. If he knew he would’ve done anything to make you the happiest person he knew. There were so many things he wanted to do with you. He was planning on bringing you on a date someday, before telling you how he had quit the cutting. He wanted to show you all the constellations someday, as per your request to him. He wanted to feel your arms around him, hands stroking his hair and his neck tickly from you mumbling sweet nothings into it. He wanted to one day hold your hand in his, comparing the sizes as he laced his fingers with yours. He was trying so hard not to disappoint you. He made a promise to himself that he would let you be the first to know, yet that won’t work out now that he can’t tell you anything. He was so close to his goal, going from cuts all over his arm to occasionally a cut or two on his wrist. He could imagine the way you would cover your mouth like you do when you cried at the movies out of joy, before lunging forward and holding him tight, not letting go, just like how you usually would when he made you proud. Would someone else ever do that for him? No, that would be over demanding for anyone else. High schoolers didn’t have time for shit like this. Nobody cared enough to sit there for hours on end trying to unravel the puzzle that is his mind.

He could almost hear you next to him, patting his back and whispering into his ear just like the old days.

“Kei, I’m so sorry. I really am. But I... please don’t hate yourself. Hate me. Hate me for leaving you so soon. Hate me all you want, but never, ever hate yourself. You are the best thing I’ve ever com across. Your poor soul needs to heal, and I promise, I’ll be watching you from above.”

The thought of your last words snapped the fragile string in him as tears rolled down his cheeks, the rooftop breeze blowing them into his mouth. He would never hate you, even if you wanted him to. He simply couldn’t and that goes without question. When he heard about you being in a hospital ward, he practically dropped everything he was doing and zoomed over, praying he could see you at least one last time.

“I... fuck- promise..?”

He shakily held out his pinkie, his eyes shut tightly as he tried to stop the tears. For a moment, he felt your pinkie graze against his, before it fell.

“(Y/n)..? (Y/n) wake up, wake up please! Please, you can’t leave me now, I can’t handle it by myself, please... I’m begging you...”

Your parents stared as the unknown blond boy wailed, pouring his tears onto their child’s hospital bed as he refused to accept it.

“(Y/N)! I’M SORRY, I’M SO, SO SORRY! I’M... I’m sorry, I couldn’t make you the happiest person in the world.”

It’s okay, you thought.

You already did, Kei.

He never got a reply to his question.

“Tsukki? Tsukki! Lunch is about to end!”

“Ah, shit”

Rubbing his eyes, he looked down, eyes painful from crying. Was it already the end of lunch? Probably, but it wouldn’t hurt to skip a class or two once in a while.

“It’s fine Yamaguchi.”

His friend was the most concerned after your death. He knew that Tsukishima was bound to have a hard time accepting the death of his anchor. He may not have realised it himself, but Yamaguchi knew Tsukishima well. And from everything that he’s seen, he was absolutely sure that he was in love with you. He was so in love with you to the point where he would probably never recover from losing you. He could see that you were such an important part of his life, that losing you would be equivalent to dying. Yet now, his best friend was alone again. Yamaguchi never fully understood Tsukishima, you were the only one that was able to dig deep into his mind and console him properly. You were the definition of his comfort and vice versa. The two of you were inseparable. Yamaguchi truly didn’t know how to help at this point. Tsukishima was damaged beyond return.

“Tsukki, I know it’s really hard on you, but I promise it’s going to get better. Please don’t do it even if you think it’s worth it because it’s not. I’m not saying this out of pity. You helped me up at my lowest and I want to do the same for you. Losing you would be losing the person I’m the most thankful for.”

Tsukishima would kill himself with no problem. What stopped him was knowing that even if he did, he wouldn’t be able to meet you. He could never see you again no matter how hard he tried. A person like you, who selflessly helped him during his hardest times, greeted everyone with a smile, you were bound to end up somewhere nice, whether it was heaven, or reincarnated into a millionaire. The universe would never accept someone like himself. He hurt himself and others in many ways, he was going to hell for everything he had done, and although that would be okay with him, a promise was a promise.

So he was going to live.

He was going to live on, stop cutting, and be the best person he could, all in honour of you.

He was going to live and make you, watching him from above, proud, even if the two of you were to never meet again.

Tags:

@izzyphantomgamer @sunshines-and-tatertots @tiredgr3mlin @tiger1719 @skyeackermans @macaronnv @ewfilthymundane @samanthaa-leanne @kaylacinderella @inlwlevi @random-fandomlover @majorfangirl37 @itmekisuu @trashcanweeb @sakusasgarbage @eightaces @fandomwriter73 @mariechan123 @iwaigroomi @oyasenpai @sneezefiction @emsvegetables @poppirocks @shoutsukii @bokutokoutarou @artsamber @xonfusedsoul @justachillgirl @just-another-bored-writer

I’M BACK FUCKERS

I’ll do some requests now lmao

#haikyuu #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu imagines #haikyuu scenarios #haikyuu headcanons #haikyuu tsukishima #hq #hq x reader #hq imagines #hq scenarios #hq headcanons #hq tsukishima #hq tsukki #tsukishima #tsukishima kei #tsukishima x reader #haikyuu angst #manga #anime

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havetheavengersdoneanythingwrong · 3 years

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Main Interlude — A Curious Attempt

Watching a tale from afar, in the midst of Carcosa, the Master of Chaldea decided to surprise their friend.

…If only their world wasn’t this… strange.

[Inspired by @hasjalterdoneanythingwrong , @hasmataharidoneanythingwrong (iirc), and others’ Pokémon posting as of late — I wanted to take a shot at this myself and include some neat writing on this topic. Check their works out as well — they’ve got some really neat stuff going on! (I probably missed a few people, but I’m very sleepy and can’t remember jack at the moment, lol)]

—

“Do these things even exist?”

I look in the mirror — fixing my orange hair, breathing a solemn sigh out.

‘Reality’ was already fairly subjective, wasn’t it? As I tried to ignore the buzzing of a fly that desperately wanted to give the flickering light above me a gentle smooch, my mind grew occupied with other things.

“…It’s an interesting pastime. Not to mention, it might do them some good to have something to play around with here.”

That, and a glance out the window told me things were already horrendously off.

The moon hadn’t so much as moved an inch since we landed here — it had to have been hours on end since then, the walk to this apartment itself taking one or two hours. Yet, the faint glow of moonlight still illuminated the outside, and cast a faint light on the bathroom floor where the flickering lightbulb couldn’t reach.

Something wasn’t right here already. As a Singularity, it only made sense — but something really was off.

…Perhaps…

“…It’ll make things a bit better for him, wouldn’t it? He has the others, and me, but… I think something else might be good for him.”

…I looked away from the mirror, and stepped towards the bathroom door. ‘Feeling’ out the mana I did have in reserves, I reckoned I’d have enough for the job.

Even with my mana output, surely creating a Mystic Code wasn’t beyond me.

—

…

…It appears it was beyond me.

The faint light of my desk table warmly illuminated small, spherical object so blatantly not what I had in my mind that it bordered on parody.

It had the bare minimum — a sphere separated into two halves, with a hinge holding the two together — but the latch was utterly broken, unable to keep a grip on the sphere if you so much as rattled it lightly. Even worse, the awkward shades of red and white made its vibes utterly horrendous, as though you left a fishing bob out in the sun for years and gave the whole thing a horrid yellow tint. The warm light, of course, made this atrocity even worse.

“…I didn’t exactly have any apricorns on hand, but… Holy hell.”

I couldn’t even dare look away from it — it was as though I had raised a monstrosity beyond human comprehension, like trying to find a poodle and instead raising a shoggoth. I hadn’t even tried to Mystic-Code-ify the damned thing yet — it still really only was a hastily-carved piece of wood that faintly resembled what an alien might consider a ‘poke ball’ at a passing glance.

…But even so, its appearance didn’t matter as much as if the Mystic Code worked. I could’ve made it into the beautiful visage of a filled mason jar, yet it would still fail if I bungled this next step.

So, the next step was to ‘encode’ this object.

“That which should not happen, yet does regardless -“

…That made sense, didn’t it? ‘Nothingness’ worked best for such an object, that made the impossible possible.

My finger traced its form, one eye closing, the other peering down at the wooden sphere as though trying to see through ‘its soul.’

“…There.”

Like a painter, brushing over an empty canvas, I dug my nail directly into the wood — as it slipped through it, seamlessly, almost akin to a knife into water.

Tracing ‘connections,’ ‘lines,’ ‘circuits,’ all throughout its figure — my eye remained, centred on the sphere, as though even blinking would cost me my life.

To create ‘something,’ that could bind a ‘something’ — a familiar — and even return it to what was a step before ‘nothing,’ swapping this being from ‘nothing’ to ‘something’ at a whim, without even harming the being within.

If it could even function, and work — was beyond me. Crossing one’s fingers, praying for success, was all I could do, tracing these ‘commands’ in the form of lines and connections, now sprawling over the entire sphere in glowing blue ‘cracks.’

In time, the sphere itself seemed as though held together purely from the bonds of its Connections — the ‘commands’ of what it was moved through it, like a ceramic vase broken and put together with enough glue to showcase its cracks. Lifting my nail from it, the cracks faded — turning from blue to a faint yellow, then fading entirely, leaving only the same wooden sphere I was met with.

“…Looks like the only thing left is to try and make it work.”

…I stood from my chair, fighting back a sudden pain in my chest, and lifted up the sphere — turning to the door of my barely-lit hotel room.

All that was left was to try and catch something.

—

…

…Things truly were off, here.

With all my wandering, the only animal I’d seen to date was the crow that ‘Quin’ kept close. Even so, that seemed to me an obvious familiar — something she wouldn’t take kindly to me trying to catch.

By now, I stood at an empty field — not far from the apartments, certainly, as I could still hear its chains rattling — watching the moon that lay just on the horizon, as though watching me right back.

“…Nothing.”

In time, my eyes slipped back down to the wooden sphere I gripped in my hand.

‘A wash, huh?’

…But it’s not as though it made no sense.

Even in a Singularity, the impossible did not suddenly become possible.

The moon may freeze, things may grow strange and scary — but biology, itself, would not bend to the whims of something as weak as a Singularity. Not so easily.

“…But isn’t there something you’re missing, Senpai~?”

…My eyes peered up —

—in front of me, behind me, around me—

—but found nothing.

“…I can’t quite get there now, but I can speak to you. How cute, hm~?”

“…I assume it’s convenient timing you find me aimlessly wandering around a field like a loon.”

A laugh escaped my lips, and I could almost feel BB’s mischievous gaze staring through ne.

“I… think I can help your problem. You want Cadence to have a little animal friend, right~?”

“…Yeah.”

“…Why is that, if I may ask?”

…I breathed out, and had to bite my tongue.

—

“…I don’t think Cadence will live through all of this, Master.”

—

“…I’ve got to make him smile as much as the others. He’s got enough on his plate — I want to help him take it off.”

…It seems she accepted the answer.

“Well, in that case, I have just the solution~! I’ll see if I can’t ‘hack into’ this Singularity and get you exactly what you asked for — since you asked so politely, Senpai~!”

…Even as she said that, something in front of me began to shift — shake, even.

“Didn’t you say you couldn’t come here? How can you do this?!”

“Well, Ritsy, I’ve got to try, right? What could possibly go wrong~!”

…The entire surroundings turned a deep, dark black.

“…That could go wrong!”

“Nonsense! That could, uhm, be a Darkrai! Yeah!”

“—Isn’t that what Cadence would need the least?!”

…A deep red light suddenly engulfed the field in front of me.

“—What the hell?!”

“I tried to make it a Cresselia! I tried!”

“—Are you absolutely sure about that?!”

“It’s something about this place! Everything I’m doing is—“

…Suddenly, her communications ceases.

And I was met with…

“—…—-…”

“..AA—,,,,—AAAUUAAA———AAAHH—-JAA—“

…A piercing, faltering scream.

The kind I could only imagine would come out of a nightmare.

It was this long, red, tetrahedronal thing, that was simultaneously everything and nothing around me. Surrounding me in its endless shade — almost singing, in a voice so cathartic and broken that it shifted between ‘endless pain’ and ‘desperate screaming’ while yet still feeling passionate — enjoyable.

‘Listen.’

My muscles froze.

‘Listen.’

My tongue stopped — calcified.

‘Listen.’

…

Its screaming —

—it became all I could think about.

This being —

—it wouldn’t move. It had me where I could only presume it wanted me, and yet it didn’t move a muscle.

“—AaAaAAaaAaa—“

…

…My calcified muscles —

—I could only move my arm, just that little bit.

Closing my eyes, I gently rolled the wooden sphere across what might’ve been the ground —

—and, after some seconds passed, heard a ‘click’ amongst the screams.

…

A roll—

—Another —

—…

…Another ‘click’ — and I fell to the ground, the pain in my chest feeling unending all at once.

…That sphere… would drain mana. It would drain it every time it were used — and now, just by capturing whatever that was, I found myself sprawled out across the ground of the plains, unable to so much as think about moving.

And that being — whatever BB had created — wasn’t a creature that should exist.

A step beyond even ‘something that shouldn’t exist, and yet does regardless.’

All I could tell, in that short few moments of being held in such a way, was that it were fighting for its right to exist.

Perhaps, in a way, its song was meant to validate itself.

To make it memorable, and ‘confirm’ its existence.

“…It… certainly achieved that.”

…

—

…A writer shifts its brow. A wrench in the schemes — and yet…

[I should have expected/understood as much.]

It only made sense — that beings like these Masters would find beings not unlike themselves.

…

[…It should not interfere. If it does — it could be written out far too easy to fret of.]

The writer, the director, breathes out, and raises a hand to the masked man on their left.

[Prepare yourself. If they attempt to use that… abomination, it will do itself in. Focus on your role.]

…The masked man nodded, and closed a locket on his chest — stepping away, and moving backstage.

—

…New Pokémon Discovered.

Adding to registry…

[♀.]

4 h Pokemon

Height: 80’3’’

Weight: 6099 lbs

Normal/Normal

A being that should not exist.

Outside of combat, it manifests as a red tetrahedron, and appears capable of sending other living creatures into and out of a ‘pocket dimension’ not unlike a Reality Marble. It appears this space is pitch black; and unlike in the real world, where it remains mute, it is capable of speaking here. However, it speaks in broken English only.

In combat, ‘reality’ notices the beast, and begins to try ‘writing it out’ of the world. This causes the being immense pain — with its only ability in this instance being to trap an opponent within its pseudo-Reality Marble, and ‘sing’ endlessly to maintain and validate its existence. Due to this, fighting with it is ill-advised.

If it is able to enter combat normally, however, it’s remarkably speedy for its weight, with decent bulk and strength befitting of its large size. It is weak to magical or special skills. Perhaps due to its unique ‘effect’ that comes with its singing, it lacks an Ability. Notably, this Pokémon inflicts extreme mental strain on its Trainer in combat due to the unique nature of its skillset, and as such, extreme precautions must be taken to ‘use’ the being normally —up to and including dedicated battlefields, with bushes in northeast corners, which seem to prevent some of this Pokémon’s more catastrophic effects.

(It appears that this Pokémon is technically a Noble Phantasm of BB, due to her being responsible for its birth. Due to this, it answers only to Cadence, BB, and BB’s closest ones.)

#l o r e #cadenceloreposting

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calliecat93 · 3 years

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ST: The Next Generation S3 Watchthrough Episodes 22-25

The Most Toys: Dear TNG writers, I know that the show has been over for about 30 years now and this is therefore redundant to say, but… can you please quit doing bad things to Data?! He doesn’t deserve bad things! So Data gets kidnapped by a manchild/lunatic to add to his ‘collection’. Kinda reminds me of that two-parter in Superman: TAS that introduced Lobo… except Fajo somehow pisses me off even more than the bad guy there. Kinda makes me think of the bad guy from The Squire of Gothos in TOS except somehow more detestable. At least that guy was more or less a spoiled child, Fajo has no excuse. Anyways, Fajo’s obsession with Data comes of as… insanely creepy. It gives me very bad vibes and I was thoroughly uncomfortable. Though at least Data, in his Data way, wasn’t at all complacent and remained as inquisitive as ever, so at least he maintained some sense of agency unlike in say The Schizoid Man. That all said, the episode was good. The crew’s reactions to thinking that Data was dead all made sense and scenes like Geordi and Wesley going through his things and Picard giving an order to Data before remembering that he’s not there anymore… those were heavy. And again as painful as it was to watch, Data at least trying to retain any agency was appreciated especially at the end. I’m glad that he didn’t have to kill, but seeing him finally put Fajo in his place was especially after he killed Varria as callously as he did was extremely gratifying. Another solid episode overall… but again, please let Data have happier things up ahead. 3.5/5.

Sarek: You can only imagine how wide my eyes got when I was going down the episode list and saw this one. I know that Sarek has mixed reception due to the issues between him and Spock and IDK if Discovery is going to change my opinion or not, but I find him to be a very interesting character. Journey to Babel kind of had this sense that he’s a hardass not that different from his son tbh, and those similarities and being displeased with Spock’s life choices made things difficult. but Sarek did still care about him, IDT he’d have gone through the effort of going to Kirk in hopes of recovering Spock’s katra when he had no reason to believe that Spock did the transfer and even outright saying at the end that his logic is more or less impaired when Spock is concerned if he didn’t, and The Voyage Home had him outright finally tell him that he made the right choice and that he was wrong in the way only Vulcans can say things. There was just kind of this feeling that he realized that he had been wrong and regretted it and wanted to make amends… but didn’t know how and it took Spock dying to finally do so. He’s not necessarily a good parent, a lot of Spock’s issues are due to him not understanding his struggles, and yeah more or less disowning him for several years was shitty, but he’s not even close to the worst and he at least tried to make it right and I can respect that. If anything though, Sarek was at least shown to be a capable ambassador and genuinely loved and was good to Amanda. So seeing him in TNG and thankfully still played by Mark Lenard, I was interested to see what they’d do with him and how he’d interact with the new cast. The result?

Sarek, did hiding your heart condition in Journey to Babel teaches you nothing about revealing vital medical information?! Is this just a Vulcan thing?! Anyways, the revelations here were… sad. Sarek has essentially the Vulcan version of Alzheimer’s which is causing him to be unable to control his emotions. Which for a Vulcan… that has to be outright horrific. Not to mention it’s causing rising, unprovoked violent responses from the crew like Crusher outright slapping her own son. To no one’s surprise, Sarek’s the reason why, albeit he’s causing it unintentionally. While Mark Lenard has been excellent as Sarek alll across the board especially in the films, he gets to do a lot more here due to Sarek’s unstable emotional control and he is just fantastic. The whole confrontation with Picard was truly excellent acting from both him and Patrick Stewart. Sarek truly feels unhinged and it is both horrifying and just sad to watch especially to how dignified and composed he was in TOS. The mind-meld with Picard may help in the short-term, but... it’s likely inevitable that he won’t last much longer. My only real complaint is that Spock and Amanda are saved as a brief mention and technically not even by Sarek but by Picard enduring the aftereffects of the mind-meld, though it does reflect Sarek’s mindset/emotions. Seriously Picard-as-Sarek reflecting how much he loved them and regretting not being able to ever truly express it or outright say it… it’s just heart-breaking, thoug it does confirm everything I had already thought so that’s good~ Still, this was a great episode! I’m glad to finally have some Vulcans again, Sarek was very well done, and the entire episode is very well acted especially the previously mentioned confrontation and everything involving the mind-meld especially after when Picard loses it. I know that Spock will show up at some point in TNG so I hope that this episode comes back up because Dear Lord please allow Spock that closure before he has to be sent to AOS. Regardless this was excellent~! Thanks for reaching my expectaitons TNG~! 4.5/5.

Menage a Troi: Oh great, another Lwaxana episode… albeit she actually has my sympathy in this one cause a Ferengi is pursuing her. I might find the woman annoying, but considering what we know of how Ferengi treat women, no one deserves that. So… if anything I am fair or at least try to be, so I will say that Lwaxana is better in this episode. She’s still obnoxious, but with the aforementioned horrid way that Ferengi treats women (seriously the nudity part was an utterly unnecessary show), refusing to be treated as property, and her genuine love and concern for Deanna make her much more likable. She certainly didn’t deserve to be treated the way she did. Troi being sick of being talked down to as a child and her mother butting into her romantic life no matter how well-intentioned instead of just letting her take it at her own pace and when she’s content as she is now is very relatable as well. Look I’ve grown to like Riker/Troi and I’m all for them getting back together… but they should do so if and when they’re ready, not be pushed into that direction. Still overall, didn’t care for this one. It’s better than Lwaxana’s first two episodes, but still makes me uncomfortable in other ways that aren’t funny, and the fact that she’s still pursuing Picard and he gets forced to go along with it at the end (albeit Patrick Stewart getting to go full Shakespearian was the funniest part of the whole episode) still doesn’t sit right with me. The Wesley subplot was also utterly wasted, feeling like it was just shoved in there and he did nothing to deserve promotion to Ensign. Yes, he gave up his chance to go to the Academy when he has his aha moment, but he did barely anything all season or the last two seasons to have earned it, or at least shoving it into this episode made it feel undeserved. Wesley himself is fine as a character, he’s nowhere near as bad as some make him out to be, but the concept of his character is just… not suited for ST. But the was funnier than the past two and Lwaxana has her better traits higlighted such as her intelligence and acting skills. If anything she does genuienly love her daughter and is not a helpless victim. Majel Barrett also owns it, I can respect that. 2.5/5.

Transfiguration: Okay, so we have an injured alien known only as John Doe wo is both amnesic and has some impressive regenererative abilities. He also turns out to have mass power such as powerful healing abilities as his body is udnergoign some kind of rapid change,. Meanwhile, Geordi gets some kid of sudden confidence boost and is finally making progress with his love life. If I’m gonna be honest… I don’t have anything to really say on this one. It was fine, but I don’t really have any thoughts regarding it otherwise. There’s this sense of spirituality in there and the ending makes it feel like religious opression. The Zalkonians killing their own kind who undergo the transformation just to maintian their power… yeah that was… yeah. Anyway, it was fine. I felt bad for John Doe and Crusher was good. All I’ve really got to say for this one. 3/5.

Alright, one more to go! Next time I’ll only be covering two episodes, the S3 finale and the S4 premiere. But they’re the same story so…. I’ve heard good things about this one, so we’ll see if it delivers.

#st watchthrough

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addisonacres · 5 years

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Demon!Tony WIP

So, my darling friend Ari sent me this in a message

and we both totally saw it as Demon!Tony appearing in Peter’s kitchen. I promised to write it and I’ve hardly made a start (yeah, my writer’s block is still being horrid) but I thought I’d share this little snippet and maybe the wonderful Starker enthusiam will motivate me a little?

I’m conscious of not clogging up people’s dashes so the snippet is under the cut :)

“Why did you summon me?” Tony demanded, glowering at the frazzled looking young man who was standing in the dingy kitchen. It had been centuries since he’d last been summoned and he honestly thought that all the magic users strong enough to overrule Obidiah’s restraints had long died out. He wasn’t exactly opposed to a summoning - it’s not like he got out much anymore, it was just that he hadn’t been expecting it. That tended to make him grumpier than normal and he’d ended up almost snarling at the poor kid.

Said kid was now flipping hurriedly through a well worn notebook, his wide eyes darting up every now and then as if checking that he wasn’t hallucinating the demon standing in his kitchen.

“Well?” Tony asked, arching one brow, trying to tone down on how menacing he appeared but judging from the yelp the kid gave, he didn’t succeed.��

“I don’t know!” the kid wailed, picking the book up and shaking it in case something fell out. “You were supposed to be chicken noodle soup!”

“Excuse me?” He surely didn’t hear that correctly.

“I was just trying to make dinner,” the kid said, utterly dejected now as he slumped down onto a chair at the table.

Curious, Tony strode over the table and plucked the book from between the kid’s hands. He flipped through it and grunted in surprise. “This is a book of spells,” he announced.

“What?” The kid’s head shot up from the table and he looked up at Tony in surprise. “My aunt May found it in Ben’s things - it was my grandmother’s cookbook so she gave to me when I moved out here for college.”

Tony realised too late just how close he was standing to the boy when he realised that from this angle, looking down on wide, liquid eyes and a pretty pink mouth…well, time to put that thought from his head before he embarrassed himself with a surprise hard on for the first time in centuries. “No, it’s definitely a spell book. Cleverly disguised as a cook book, I’ll grant you, but there’s no denying the power behind it.”

“Are you saying that Grammy was a witch?” the kid yelped.

Tony snorted. “Grammy is a ridiculous name to describe someone with such obviously strong powers.”

The kid rolled his eyes. “Oh, my bad - are you saying that Winifred Edith Parker was a witch?”

Unable to help but grin at the snark, Tony nodded. “Most assuredly.”

There was a deep rumbling noise and the kid’s face went red as he grasped at his stomach. He then grimaced. “Well, that’s good to know and all but it didn’t really help with my dinner situation.” He looked rather hopefully over at Tony. “I don’t suppose you brought any food with you?”

Tony didn’t think that it was a very sophisticated look for a demon to have his jaw drop open like that and so quickly shut his mouth. “Are you being serious right now? You get that I’m a demon, yeah?”

“Well, now I do since you didn’t exactly introduce yourself when you appeared in my kitchen.”

“You summoned me!”

“Well I didn’t mean to! The least you could have done is bring me my chicken noodle soup!”

“I am not hell’s version of Uber Eats!” Tony thundered.

“How the heck does a demon know what Uber Eats is?” the kid snapped.

“We have the internet!” Tony snapped right back.

They both froze for a moment as the ridiculousness of their conversation became apparent and then as one, they burst out laughing. It had been a long, long time since Tony had laughed and he’d forgotten how good it felt. The kid’s stomach grumbled again and that set them off into another gale of laughter until they were both clutching at their stomachs.

“Ow, it hurts,” the kid gasped between guffaws.

It took an effort but Tony finally got his wits about him. “Okay, look - sorry, I don’t know your name.”

“Peter,” the kid wheezed, finally calming down. “Peter Parker.”

“Right, well, Peter Parker, I’m Anthony, but you can call me Tony.”

“Tony? What sort of a demonic name is that?”

It isn’t, he thought, but didn’t say it. “I doubt you could pronounce the name they have for me in the deepest pits of hell,” he offered vaguely instead. “Anyway, that’s besides the point - why don’t we head out somewhere so you can get some food?”

Peter frowned, his cheeks tingeing pink once again. “Oh, well, you see, the thing is…I, um, the reason I was cooking…”

Tony looked around the tiny kitchen and his eyes were then drawn to what appeared to be the rest of the flat beyond the door. It was nothing more than a single room with a bed, a television, and a rickety free standing cupboard. It was certainly not a luxurious space and he realised that the reason that Peter was trying to cook was because he couldn’t afford to eat out. He waved a hand magnanimously. “It’s on me, of course.”

Peter threw him a sceptical look. “What, you have Mastercard in hell?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he scoffed. “We use Amex.”

Peter snorted. “Of course you do.” He then shrugged. “I’m not gonna turn down free food. Where do you wanna go?”

“Oh, I’m not fussed - I’ll leave the details to you.” Tony would never admit it, but he was eager to get outside and look around. He’d been trapped down below for so long now and he’d missed Earth. He hadn’t been lying - they did have the internet (it was hell, not a two star hotel) but it was torture to see the world develop, to learn of the new technology, but not be able to play with it; to be forced to watch from afar. He was itching to discover things for himself and he hoped that Peter wouldn’t discover the spell to send him back for a long time yet.

“There’s a little diner down the road,” Peter said, pushing back the shair and standing up. One of his feet caught on the leg of the chair and he stumbled a little, but he recovered and picked up the coat that was slung over the back of the second chair at the table. “They do awesome coffee.”

Tony made a small, pained noise. “Oh, I haven’t had coffee for ages.”

“How long is ages?” Peter asked, pocketing his phone and keys.

“Oh, let’s see - three hundred and four years I think.”

Peter raised a brow at that. “Man, the double shot peppermint mocha is going to blow your mind.” He glanced around the tiny kitchen, double checked that the stove was off, and then led the way to the front door.

Tony watched him as he followed behind, admiring the juxtapositions that were Peter - lean angles and soft features, an innocent face and biting sarcasm, the body of a dancer and the grace of a baby dodo, the power radiating from him and the complete ignorance regarding its presence.

Yes, this summoning was going to be delicious.

#starker #tony stark #peter parker #demon tony #snark

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mi6-cafe · 8 years

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00Q LDWS Drabbles: First Week!

Here are the drabbles for the first week of the MI6 Cafe’s 00Q Last Drabble Writer Standing competition!

Prompt: Bright Genre: canon Word count: 100 exactly

Voters–after you read, check out this form to vote for your top three drabbles! You can also leave anonymous feedback for the writers! Who can vote? Anyone who’s read the drabbles! Yes, that includes YOU!

Writers–you may also vote, but we do ask that you vote for three drabbles other than your own.

The voting period ends on Monday at 9am PDT / 12pm EDT / 4pm UTC.

Remember, readers--it’s up to you to decide who will wind up on top at the end of the competition!

Drabbles are under the read-more:

Title: Appreciative View Author: @jaimistoryteller Warning: none Summary: Q enjoys the view

How James manages to get himself into these situations he doesn't know, he thinks while entering the building of the health resort in the middle of the bright, frozen mess.

For a moment he pauses just inside the door, taking the rather lovely view presented to him. James is leaning against the counter, weight seeming to rest on his arms, legs braced wide apart. It makes him wonder if James realizes his arse is sticking out in ways that makes him want to pinch.

Shaking his head, he closes the distances between them, ordering a shake and sassing his boyfriend.

Title: In the Afternoon Sun Author: @amottledrose Warnings: MCD Summary: It's early afternoon in some Middle Eastern Country James can't remember the name of. Not that it matter anymore.

The sunlight is bright. No, it's blinding. It sears James's retinas and leaves glowing green afterimages flickering as he glances down. Green gives way to scarlet-stained white fabric, and he wheezes. A small rivulet of blood trickles slowly from the corner of his mouth.

The earwig is remarkably still in place, and James can hear the Quartermaster ordering a status report. He pushes himself to a sitting position and stares unseeing at the landscape around him. Taking a shaky breath, James clears his throat and gets Q's attention.

"Q... I don't think I'll be able to make it to dinner..."

Title: Medical Leave Author: @00qtpie Warnings: none Summary: Q wakes up in a hospital bed.

When Q first opened his eyes, for a moment he thought he must be in heaven. There was nothing but intense, blinding whiteness.

Q tried to raise his arms to shield his eyes, only to find his movement restricted by a collection of IV tubes. Adrenaline shot through his system, and there was a strident beeping from somewhere behind him to the tune of his quickening pulse. The white walls pressed in, sucking away his air. The harsh, fluorescent lights made his headache throb.

“Relax, Q. You’re alright now.” A firm hand intertwined their fingers.

The beeping began to slow.

Title: Quiet Observation Author: @azure7539arts Warnings: None Summary: It's morning, and Bond watches Q sleep in their bed.

Light splattered from window to walls, butter yellow and soft. The slope of Q’s exposed shoulder glowed under it, the effect tittering along his arm that disappeared under the duvet.

In the silence of the room, the sun kissed Q’s skin like a lover, caressing with such gentleness that Bond wondered if it were possible to feel jealous of something he couldn’t even grasp. (Q was horrid when woken up too early, and Bond had learnt this firsthand.)

But somehow, Q stirred, and the nestling sun rays splintered themselves in those fluttering eyes. It left Bond breathless and utterly entranced.

Title: Something New Author: @timetospy Warnings: none Summary: 'Hope Smiles from the threshold of the year to come, Whispering 'it will be happier'... - Alfred Lord Tennyson

Thoughts tumbled over each other as he drove like shirts in a dryer. It was an unfamiliar sensation - he’d never been unsure of himself. It made his feet restless and his fingertips tingle. Usually driving helped.

Driving wasn’t helping.

He couldn’t wait anymore. He pulled the black box from his pocket and tossed it to his passenger. Green eyes frowned, then cleared. A warm hand squeezed his as the sun rose bright orange behind them.

“Obviously,” Q said, and slipped the platinum band onto his finger.

His mind settled. Trees slid past the windows as they left London behind.

Title: Bright Boy Author: Flantastic/@iambid Warnings: None Summary: If only Q knew...

In most ways he’s the most intelligent man that James has ever met, but in one respect he’s clueless.

If he only realised how truly beautiful he is, he would walk with confidence. He wouldn’t skulk. He wouldn’t hide behind old-fashioned clothing. One of these days James is going to seduce him. Take him to dinner and ply him with good food and fine wine before bedding him and showing him how desirable he really is.

Until then Q will continue to be unaware of the effect he has on those around him.

No, he’s not very bright at all.

Title: Smile Author: Venstar/@1amvengeance Warnings: violence/angst Summary: Post-SPECTRE

“Down, Q!”

“Whose bright idea, was this?”

“Yours, if I’m correct.”

“Ah, well, hand me another magazine.”

James dropped the requested item, sparing a glance to see Q’s fingers grip it, before returning fire. “Leave, before SPECTRE catches you.”

“And miss this excitement? No thank you.”

“Q.”

“I’m not leaving an agent behind. Besides, I outrank you.”

James glanced down at the grinning Quartermaster, squinting against the glare of the sun. James spent a precious second not returning fire, pressing a hard kiss to that bright smile, before it was violently torn away, with a pop and surprised grunt. “Q?”

Title: Sputter Author: @gwylliondream Warnings: none Summary: Q loses hope, but then he gets it back, temporarily.

The spark died in Q’s eyes that night.

Twisted helicopter wreckage burned hot, casting light on Bond with Madeleine. Together again.

Head down, Q resumed his work in silence, dismissing his dream.

Eve fretted over his sullenness.

Tanner couldn’t tempt him with an after-hours beer.

The minions worried about their leader’s distance.

Q began another workday in darkness. A mug of fragrant tea promised warmth.

His heart pounded when the elevator doors opened.

“Bond? I thought you’d gone,” Q stammered.

“There’s just one thing I need.”

In the silence when counting for thunder, the spark in Q’s eyes flared bright.

Title: Ignite Author: @beaubete Warnings: none Summary: An explosion, aftermath.

"I can't believe you--I can't. You--"

A small smile, and Bond falls silent when he sees it.

"You can't do this to me again. Do you understand? You can't--I can't--"

There's a flash grenade exploding in his chest, percussive and searing, and there's no way to express the way it burns him from the inside out. It occurs to Bond that he'd never noticed the pin being pulled--he'd have fled the blast radius. It's too late; he's been struck.

Q curls his fingers around Bond's, brings Bond's palm to cover sightless eyes. "I had to protect you. And I'll heal."

From the MI6 Cafe Mod:

Thank you to all of the writers for a brilliant start to the 00Q LDWS competition!

Readers and writers, don’t forget that you can vote and leave anonymous feedback on this week’s drabbles here!

EDIT: The voting form is now closed, and results will be announced shortly!

#00Q #bond/q #james bond #00qldws #drabbles

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aikainkauna · 7 years

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Wait, what? Periods=badfic, now?

So apparently there’s a bit in Fifty Shades where he pulls out her tampon to fuck her, and *that’s* supposed to be an example of the heights of bad writing the work descends into? As in, leaving the literary merits of ELJ’s writing aside, the tampon itself was being made into the crux of the argument, and there are so many problems there that make me grit my cranky old sex-positive feminist teeth.

So. Basically. Are you sure this is still within the realms of “that’s just bad writing”, and whether or not it’s just slid into the good old “stupid woman, she doesn’t know menstrual blood is GROSS!” kind of whining?

Because I have written Jaffar doing something akin to that to Yassamin. He has had menstrual sex with her in at least two fics I can remember, both of which involve mentions of blood and pain, and the means through which they get around it to have sex.

So that makes me a badfic writer, then?

Look. If you think menstruation is gross--and especially if you menstruate yourself--you need to take a long hard look at the hate that’s being imposed onto your mind and onto your body (and all bodies with uteruses) through social conventions like these, and need to jettison that shit stat.

I had some batshit kids fling similar arguments at me ten or so years ago, all surrounding this idea of how “gross” I was for not understanding that saying a NC-17 porn fic got me off was somehow disgusting. Because, to them, I just did not understand that ladies aren’t supposed to talk about sex, (even in the context of what was literally pornography, as in, material made to get someone off). As opposed to me just being fucking honest about sexuality, and often deliberately so because of my aversion to prudishness, which is never not misogynistic, and never not a product of very specific Victorian-Christian cultural ideas. But no! Apparently ladies should not mention they wank, even when they’re wanking, to material other ladies have written for wanking purposes! How much more hypocritical can you get?

So, ELJ’s IQ aside (which is not my point), this accusation of “that poor stupid girl doesn’t realise something is gross!” always combines both the ideas of a) female bodies being icky, especially when it comes to their reproductive organs and sex (when they could just as well be revered as the source of all life and of the greatest pleasure one’s body can ever experience upon this earth, which happens to be my unabashed Pagan view) and b) the good old “women have no agency” thing fandom (and our culture, liberal or conservative) always loves to apply to its criticism of everything women ever do.

Note how this automatic, default idea of “doesn’t she understand what she’s doing?!?” applies to darkfic antis, kinkhaming antis, anti-shaving antis, biphobes/femmephobes who think lipstick queer women just try to pleasure guys, all kinds of antis who are, despite trying to use feminist language, brainwashed into the same old “women have no agency and are doing everything for the guys” POV. (And here I thought I was whacking off to a villain ravishing a heroine because I preferred his looks and his characterisation to the heteronormative beefy hero, my hand feeling wonderful on my pussy because it was super sensitive now that I’d shaved it and because the heroine’s long hair, red lipstick and ample curves appealed to my sexual orientation towards feminine characteristics! I’m glad you informed me that by doing this in the privacy of my bedroom, I’m flinging women and children into the hands of rapists and paedophiles, and am probably somehow stroking not my own bits but the bits of a creepy old man somewhere! Right. I’m so sorry. I’ll stop having pleasure and suffocate my sexuality immediately and admire the clean-cut beefy hero *chastely* from afar as I should, my muff reeking of great justice!)

TL;DR Whenever you apply the argument “bitch doesn’t know what she’s doing” without firm evidence from said bitch, you’re removing agency from that bitch.

One of the reasons I’ve written menstrual sex a couple of times has been exactly because it’s a normal (if annoying) part of life for anyone born with a female body, and the more people read about in a context where it’s handled in a neutral way that portrays it as the normal part of life it is, the better. It’s something everyone of fertile age in a long-term, sexually active relationship will have to address at some point in relation to her sexual life. So I write about it the same way I write about, say, Laura noticing how her having grown breasts completely changes the way people respond to her, or how Yassamin’s ashamed of her big Caesarean scar and slightly sagging belly after she’s had kids, or, indeed, the trouble a 50+ guy might have with maintaining erections.

Also note here that I’m not one of the extreme “but it’s all natural and BEAUTIFUL and wonderful and also we should all paint with our menstrual blood and also if you have cramps it’s just internalised misogyny!1!” hippie squad. *I have endometriosis.* I know what debilitating pain and blood loss are all about; I’ve repeatedly gone into pain shock and lost consciousness and been hospitalised for my contractions, when painkillers have been inadequate or administered too late. And I know very well how--even if I might be at my horniest and my most supermega-orgasmiest at that time of the month--you might really not want to bother with sex then, because of all the mess and pain it will entail. (Also, PMS rage is fuelling this very post this very moment. But sometimes that’s a good thing.) So I completely, utterly agree that periods are, on the whole, not a lot of fun, and whoever invented them should be taken out to the street and shot.

BUT. And this is a big but: this is why I, deliberately, write alternative universes in which things are different, because of how cathartic and how healing that can be. My writing serves a double healing purpose: it’s both active sex-positive feminist work (you could argue that anything that helps women get off is feminist as such), and it also goes out there to comfort the readers where it hurts the most. I write about Jaffar and Yassamin developing a spell to seal her cervix during sex--for both contraception, and to stop a bloodbath, if they want to have sex during her period. I’ve written him comforting her in her pains and being understanding about them; I’ve written him medicating her violent bouts of PMS depression and rage with everything from opium to hard BDSM fucking and cuddles.

But most of all, I write stories in which both the ideas of pollution/shame, and the problems of pain and blood loss are addressed, and *fixed.* I write stories in which the idea of grossness is smashed, and I write stories in which adequate pain relief is administered and the sufferer isn’t belittled for her pains. Because in a world with a shitton of such shaming and misunderstanding of the potential pain going on, and where gynaecology is poorly understood and under-funded to a shocking extent and where its methods involve absolutely horrid hormone treatments and slashing and cutting and burning? Writing about adequate treatments and understandings and compassion for such is *vitally* necessary to a) work against that shame, to lessen it, and to normalise something that’s unnecessarily shamed (as if the pain wasn’t bad enough!) and b) to provide long-overdue hardcore comfort in the absence of said spells and near-nonexistence of guys who Get It.

But, overall, my main point is, *grossness is in the eye of the beholder.* If you apply to this (or anything similar) the good old rule of thumb of “well, does it hurt anyone?” or even “are they in public and frightening the horses/ruining someone’s appetite?”, and the firm answer is “no,” it’s nothing to be worried about. The good old “well, do guys worry about this?” is also worth applying here, just as it is in all aspects of life. (Women bash badfic writers for menstrual sex because it’s “gross.” Guys run sites like Rotten.com and exploit toilet kinks for $$$ with niche porn sites. You know. Bit of a discrepancy there.)

Anyway. Rant over. But outdated, prudish, female-body-bashing ideas of what’s gross=/=badfic.

#i bet someone will completely miss the point and read this as a defense of fsog... which it isn't #meta #writing #menstruation #sex positive #whatever the fuck else to tag this as #fandom #fannishness #idk #literally the only time i have caused another living being harm with my menstrual blood #was the time noki was headbutting my legs when i was on the loo and taking my mooncup out #and i had to yank it out hard because it was stuck #and as a consequence the damned blood flew everywhere but mostly on the terrified cat's face #...yes i am the queen of tmi but it's never not deliberate #there are worse things people behave 'inappropriately' for that just generally makes them asshatty #even some supposed great justice things #but the shaming of female bodies for normal biological things is just fucking ridiculous #there have been pagan rites in which the damned blood has been a sacrament #and it still is in certain pagan and tantric rituals #and as jaffar knows his tantra he would--thank fuck--know about it #which is again another fantastic reason to write about him #but anyway in this day and age we've got ao3 and its tag system #so if you don't want to read about it that's fine #but once someone starts judging fic because of an inclusion of something like this #then it's no longer literary criticism #but something altogether more depressing

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childrenofathoria-rp-blog · 7 years

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◆Out Of Character Information◆

Name/Age: Kat, 19 Preferred Pronouns: She/Her Timezone: EST Desired Character: Graham

◆Character Information◆

(1) What pronouns will your character be using? Would you like to list their sexuality at this time?:

He/Him, and yes, heteroromantic, asexual. I feel that while a romantic connection is possible, not highly probable, he has no interest in physical relationships, never really has, even as a human. He has a certain disconnect from other people, so much so that mental connection alone is unlikely, never mind one to the point where he wants someone else to touch him in any sense of the word. However, that being said, there’s a flexibility to this. He doesn’t desire physical relationships and won’t go out of his way in any sense for them, but if someone’s persistent on it he’ll possibly do it just for the sake of doing it. This could also possibly change with development, but I see this as a loose idea of were he stands currently.

(2) Any changes or comments?

No changes but I did make a playlist for my own muse reasons, if you guys have any interest in that you can find it here!

(3) Why this character?

There’s something compelling about him, there’s something.. Special. I’ve always had a knack for angst, and oh boy is he an angst lord. Originally going through this group and the new biographies I found myself struggling to connect with a character on a personal and on a muse level, that was, until I came across this absolute masterpiece of a man. He has a very armored exterior but a calm and collected disposition, he’s clever and witty but not at all extroverted. He ages like fine wine in an uncorked bottle, bitter as fuck. Okay, jokes aside, I fell in love with this character, hard and fast. Graham has so many layers to him that I’m just dying to get my hands on and explore. He has anger and sadness bottled up and kept inside, and his theory on would most definitely be, in the words of John Mulaney, “I’ll keep all my emotions right here, and then one day, I’ll die.” He’s put together by juxtapositions, never being particularly one way or the other. He’s secretive, and yet he publishes his life, his thoughts, his experiences. He’s a fucking mystery, through and through, and I can’t express enough how intoxicating the idea of getting to play that out is to me. I’m practically addicted, which really explains my ridiculous application length, it wasn’t so much me wanting to impress you or to fill space (I’ve never been one to do that, I was actually cursing at myself to shut up when writing this if I’m honest), but more because I just had so many ideas that I wanted to get down as soon as I possibly could, if not for the application then for me in general. I want to raise this already fully grown and matured boy like my own, really.

(4) Interpret this character:

(This part is low key me rewriting the biography with past headcanons)

Graham, subsequently, cannot stop thinking about death. It’s been said time and time again, and is an obvious trait of his that dates back to his first personal experience; when he lost his parents. It was a time of illness and pain, everyone either being a victim or seeing someone they love be taken by the soul. For most kids, a traumatic experience such as that one makes them fear death, it reveals to them their own mortality and takes them apart like building blocks, but for Graham that was never the case. From the first deaths his eyes witnessed, the first two lives taken that truly impacted his life, he formed an obsession, a fixation, and his own illness at the time seemed almost like a blessing. No child wanted to be an orphan, and no child wanted to be alone. However, what set him apart was that no child wanted to be ill either.

He still, to this day, believes that that was what cursed him, the desire that left a black mark on his soul, because within a month, he was cured. It was an anomaly at the time, very few people who had been infected had survived. The townspeople called him a miracle, told him he was lucky. Oh, how wrong they could be. Since that day he had been completely and utterly, for lack of a better word, fucked, and he knew it, and apparently he wasn’t the only one.

One day, not long after reaching recovery, he had been wandering by himself, something that he wasn’t technically allowed to do, and he had come across a woman, a witch. She had given him a look that he’d never forget with words to go with it. “You have stolen from death, and it shall not let that pass without payment, boy.” The interaction had left Graham with a bad taste in his mouth and a churning in his stomach. It wasn’t a feeling he would soon, nor ever, forget.

Despite that horrid memory that knawed on his mind, he found that his days were spent in a slow build, a life empty, and if he were to be honest about it with anyone, boring. Getting through schooling was a process that he wouldn’t wish upon the most obnoxious of lads, and despite his bountiful, perfect grades, he had hated almost every subject of study with the exception of reading and writing, but even that sort was difficult. Not so much because he didn’t like writing, we all know that’s not the case at all, but because he wanted free reign over his own literature and he only wanted to indulge the works he had picked himself. He and his school teacher had a bit of a power struggle, debates being plentiful, but over all, she had appreciated his enthusiasm, and became somewhat of a contributing factor to his passion for self reflection, in fact, she had given him his first journal, which was more or less a stack of parchment bound together at the edges with a very thin twine.

At the time, neither of them had been entirely positive of what that journal would later mean, what it would build in him or how strong his skill would become, but over time it revealed itself, his talent and natural flair of poetry finding its way onto the battered pages.

Graham was a natural in a way, yes, but he struggled with creativity. He was a master of words and phrases, poetic statements and prose, but he could never come up with stories. That was his literary downfall. When it came to reality, things he knew, his own experiences, the words flowed easily, ink practically dripping onto the paper and writing the sentences themselves, but when he tried to create from his imagination, from things he didn’t know inside and out, he found himself with writers block. He wrote beautiful lines, yes, but lines that didn’t quite mean anything, lines that had plot holes and difficult character development. Graham hated not being good at something.

He hated it so much, in fact, that after a few years of trying to learn the art of creative writing in private he scrapped it, instead sticking to what he knew, what he was good at. This in itself was somewhat problematic, as while he had life experience it certainly wasn’t enough, or perhaps wasn’t quite as interesting, as he needed in order to become successful. In his mortal life, Graham had been a writer for himself more than anyone else.

His school experience, while dull, had had it’s moments. He had sat by, watching as students disappeared from class and never returned, teachers falling ill and never coming back from their leaves. If he hadn’t survived the illness, he knew he wouldn’t have questioned it, but because of not only his morbid nature but his experience, his past, he knew what had happened, he knew they were dead, and the witches words always rang clear in his mind. He found himself believing that their demises where somehow his fault, linked to a curse he knew deep down had to exist. He dragged this guilt through schooling, and carried it on his back into adulthood like an unlit pyre.

When he finished schooling, he traveled to Miervaldis to become an apprentice bookkeeper, this is where he met his mentor. Graham had never found anyone quite like him, even his teacher back in Crescent Grove was repressive compared to his new mentor. No one inspired him as that man had, no one taught him new ways of writing and thinking quite like the wise mentor who showed him the world in series of books and poetry. Graham had always been shut off, self-isolating, and seclusive, but he had found his walls broken down by the man, and for the first time, found himself accepting someone into his life as a proper teacher, friend, and almost as a parent. His influence fed into Graham’s literary heart like wood to a fire, making the passion burn red hot as he continued to log his experiences. To this day, he has every journal he’s ever written packed away in a private library, all the things too boring for publishing, all the things he believes no one would care to hear.

This relationship wasn’t short lived, no, it grew well into Graham’s adult life, but as all things do, it ended in death.

When Graham was teetering on his mid-thirties, considered mid-life for most but either three quarters or one for Graham, depending how you look at it, his mentor had reached a very old age, and he died.. peacefully. You would think that fact would make Graham less bitter, less angry, but it didn’t. He knew the man had lived a long, wonderful life, but his stress, his anger, and bitter self-centered nature made him reclusive, he caved back in. All the progress he had made towards opening up to people depleted, and he cowered back into the corners of his self pity and soaked even further into a pool of research and obsession with death.

Do you notice a reoccurring theme?

With that came Graham’s first published story, a written log of his time spent with his mentor, and a tale of his death. It was dark, and his feelings of life and the afterlife spilled onto the pages in black and white. His first proper story of loss, and it put him on the map. Unfortunately, he wasn’t on it for long because shortly after he died. Or, well, he died then came back, which I suppose didn’t effect his readers as much as it effected him, as much as it brought his perspectives and words to a somehow even darker place.

However, the one good thing to come from it, the one positive he finds in reaping, is that he never runs out of stories.

(This is the more current headcanon heavy section)

Now Graham wanders with a confidence in his work but a broken sense of self, he reaps for stories to tell and for the desperate hope that one of the souls would be the one to quench his life source, the one to dissipate him, to send him off to whatever comes after this existence for his kind. He’s the opposite of many people he comes into contact with, despite not being decidedly poor he dresses in dark colors, as many shades of grays and black as he can, perhaps for obvious reasons. Long sleeved dark garments, and tunics were common, paired with a long black hooded garb, tended to make him stand out in the most unusual of ways. The garb of which has a pocket sown into the inside breast that was created to hold his scythe, which is a letter opener with an elaborate silver handle. Most beings in towns and cities stuck to lighter fabrics and colors, a customary show of wealth, or browns and whites, wools and linens, for the lower and middle class, these were schemes in which he did not blend in easily.

Graham continues to live with a sense of superiority, in fact, it somewhat grows with age. It’s hard for him to not speak with a somewhat condescending tone when he finds people of lesser knowledge attempting conversations with him, usually unable to keep up in mental capacity. He finds it frustrating and tiresome, but always does his best to answer any reasonable questions people may have, although, that being said, he’s not afraid to refuse to respond entirely if he feels its inappropriate or not something he has any desire to entertain. Graham is many things, but a liar has never been one. He sees no need to lie, or to make up stories in a sense, in order to make other people feel either pleased or displeased. He’s always had a complex, an idealization, that lies, when found unsatisfactory, are the liars fault, and the disdain can properly be placed onto them. However, when the truth is deemed unsatisfactory, well, at least they didn’t lie, that would’ve been worse, would it not?

Despite the fact that he knows he isn’t the only reaper, and certainly not the oldest, proof given by Azrael’s existence, he still feels as if he carries a burden no one else quite understands. It could be his own deprecating self-centered nature causing this thought process, but he feels that it’s more because of his own obsession and relationship with death, his reasoning for having died and the build up that lead to it, he believes it sets him apart for the rest. Is he right? Perhaps, but even if it was said otherwise he would most likely continue this order of thinking, just keeping it to himself, as he tends to do anyways.

Graham is an anti-social personality at best, despite sticking out due to his well-known stories and choices in attire, he avoids conversation and social events well. Of course, if the most persistent of people find themselves unaffected by his obvious disdain for casual communication he will indulge them for however long he sees fit, usually taking at least some form of enjoyment from the interactions, despite the fact he would never admit this aloud.

Overall, he is a miserable, lonely creature, a dark and cloudy home nestled into his chest full of cracks and stone. Despite this, he hold a certain swagger and charm that, unfortunately for him, draws others interest to him. He’s found ways to manage over the years, ways to mask his disappointment after a reap when he finds he’s still existing, somehow. He keeps an aloof disposition and a sarcastic tone at his friendliest. Somewhat formal in word choices, and conversational topics, he could easily be seen as sententious, but in actuality, it’s a guard that he’s long since put up, protecting his innermost organs and emotions from anymore harm. He knows with time, that all those he meets are destined for death, and with the way his so called life seems to be going, he has few doubts that he will be gone before they.

He looks upon the letters he’s been receiving with an almost lackluster interest, not because he has any real intention of listening to them, quite the contrary, actually, but because he finds the concept itself curious. He could easily ignore the letters entirely, not finding any cause for reading them but to sate his own curiosity, but he finds the game of letters to be something new, even entertaining, perhaps, so he continues to read them and finds an interest growing somewhere in his mind to find the author.

◆ Interview Questions ◆

How cryptic is your writing when it comes to life on the other side?

I sit back in my chair, legs crossing and eyes narrowing slightly, only for a short moment before I speak. “It seems someone hasn’t read my work.” My voice dripped not venom but satin, not coming across with any emotion and yet I chose my tone so carefully that one wouldn’t feel threatened, maybe even somehow comforted but in a rather patronizing way. As if I were talking to child, and, well, I suppose considering my age, I am. If they had indulged any of my works, they could answer the question themselves. “In my published work? Vague.” I say simply, a sharp look finding its way in their direction. I’ve always been careful of my own words, my choices. Literary freedom only goes as far as you allow it to. Other beings cannot see the other side for a reason. Why? I’ve never been sure. Perhaps it’s because they wouldn’t be able to withstand it, physically and mentally, maybe it was just pure cosmic coincidence. I have my own theory. I believe that mortality, in the simplest sense of the word, is what holds one back from limbo and all that it inhabits. Who am I to break the mystery? How cruel and selfish would it be of me to ruin it, to break the enchantment that a well-kept secret holds in its palms? No, it’s not my place. I’ve always known that. “My personal collection? Much more educational.” I speak as if this information isn’t surprising, because logically, it isn’t. What is an artist without a private gallery? Secrets. Even in thirty nine years of life, death, and four hundred years thereafter, I still have my own secrets. Some call it a link to humanity, I just say its to stay sane. How does a man who desires nothing but death yet cannot die stay sane? Answer: He takes pleasure in knowing things that others do not. It’s one of the only things in eternal life that I find even somewhat bearable. A silver lining, no matter how thin it may be. I almost forget there’s another person in the room, lost in my own thoughts. That happens a lot. I snap myself out of it. “Allow me to put it this way, if you were to ever find out what lies on the other side, you’d find yourself just as cryptic.”

Do you think you would have become a reaper if you hadn’t killed yourself?

My face remains flat, not exactly stoic, but calm. A tension that should be forming in my shoulders at the brass question does not build. I have asked myself the same thing time and time again. It’s redundant to think about, but to speak it out loud would be a new venture. Maybe it will clear my head, maybe it makes more sense to speak my thoughts out loud. Perhaps, another being will have something to say about it that I have not considered. Unlikely. “I cheated death long before I ever faced that carriage. It’s simply achieving it’s revenge.” My voice sounds more sure than I feel, but it’s nearly impossible to tell just by looking at me, I spent my years learning to keep a straight face. “That being said, I believe what was supposed to be my tragic end was doing nothing but taunting Azrael, and maybe even death itself.” I clasp my hands together, back straight with a surprisingly comfortable disposition. I find that after four hundred years I no longer feel stress or anger as much as I experience an eternal craving, a sadness. A jealousy. Reapers who kill themselves, in my experience, tend to want nothing more than to breathe the rest of the breaths they stole from themselves. They have a desire to live again. I do not sympathize, nor do I share the sentiment. “It sounds as if you’re asking me whether or not I regret my actions.” I added, eyes focusing on the person opposite of me, the one with such an open questionnaire. I shared the sentiment, and debated briefly whether or not I should answer the unasked question. I decided not to, instead shifting backwards in my seat, resting against the back of the armchair. If they want to know, they could ask. I wondered how far I could press their brave curiosity. Though I wouldn’t say it, I’m refreshed. Not many people talk to me so openly, not anymore. The older I get the more of a ancient relic I seem to become, the more cautious people are talking to me. I don’t have much to live for, much like an elderly man with a deceased wife. Yes, give me even less with your hesitant silence. This individual doesn’t seem to experience that heavy burden. Oh, to be ignorant again.

◆Writing Sample:◆

Sample Para 1: (Okay so.. trigger warnings, like a lot of them. Suicide (2x), death, blood, low key vomiting, some gore, low key body horror (?)… insects, maybe? There’s probably so much more, you can add any you feel like there should be oh boy.)

Walking home was a casualty as well as a time to rearrange thoughts. Graham always used this time to his leisure, prolonging the span between leaving and arriving, trying to spend as many waking moments as self-involved as possible. He no longer had a desire to share thoughts with words, to speak, even when spoken to. Since the painful loss of his mentor he found himself knit tightly with silence, almost having taken a personal vow. No one really noticed the exceptional quiet, he was never particularly talkative to begin with. The only words people had heard from him in his last living days came in the form of quill to paper, words on parchment. It was the last push he had needed to completely give up on the life he was never supposed to have. So broken heartstrings bled the blues. Graham had never considered himself suicidal, but he had found himself in questionable situations with rather morbid possibilities more and more often recently. Sometimes it was something small, like leaving the candles lit when he went to sleep, not caring if it were knocked over, sending himself up and the house up in flames. Other times, it was something bigger, more obvious, like when he would climb onto the roofs of buildings, claiming he was seeking muse, but secretly fantasizing about an earthquake, or a surprising noise that would knock him from his placement on the high safety to the ground. He wondered whether the noise would be dramatic, like a ’crunch’ or a maybe even a reasonable ’splat,’ or whether it would be a muted noise, a ‘thump,’ the sound of a rock hitting soft underfoot. Rather anticlimactic. Some would say that he always had that mentality, that lack of self preservation and the urge for his life to diminish before his very eyes in a swirl of dust. They would be correct in that sentiment, at least in some way. Graham had never truly cherished his life, he was never thankful for it. There were very few moments, if any, where he found himself thinking he was glad to be alive, not even in passing, not even for a second. He flaunted the Earth in a blissful indifference as a child, an empty shell that held on only by pure coincidence. Then, as he grew older, as more people fell like crumpled sacks of mud around him, his blissful neutrality soon became a dull ache. A throbbing in his chest region, right below the heart, and another, pressed up against his brain and skull, telling him that this life was no longer worth living. His life was a death sentence from the moment it began. He had always known himself to be a beacon for destruction, and he always thought that perhaps that would end if his life did. Death was always a way out, a plan B lurking around every corner. It called to him from sharp objects and tall places, it cooed like a mother to a child, coaxing him to the edge of cliff, the waves offering a sweet caress. He always restrained himself, held back from going out of his way to cause such a messy fate, however, he always found himself in a constant swirl of ’if death barrels in my direction, why should I flinch?’ It was that exact notion that kept his feet planted in the path of an unruly horse.

His eyes found the horse quite quickly, it was hard not to with the commotion surrounding such a thing. A whip, a startled coachman, and quite a bit of screaming. He looked at the scenario unfolding in front of him slowly, as if the clock wasn’t ticking for him to move out of the way, his last moments to save himself from total destruction. He didn’t take it. He felt his fists close in on themselves instinctively, his body’s natural reaction to run being fought with every fiber of his being. He wanted it, actually, he needed it. All he found himself thinking as the carriage barreled towards him was ’so this is what’s it’s like.’ His entire existence was building to the moment he ceased to, that’s what he had always believed, and as the coachman screamed at him, eyes bugging out of his head as he tried to warn Graham, they made eye contact. Then there was a bright burst of light, a noise loud in his right ear, and nothing. The sensation of death is like drowning, even if the cause is nothing to do with water, swallowing mouthful, lung, mouthful, of something that isn’t quite air and then… numbness. It’s painful, and then peaceful. All at once. Once the pain subsided, Graham found that he liked death. Oh, how morbid a thought. He loved it; the feeling of it, the force. He always knew he would, and there was something so pleasurable in finding out he was right. The dull ache that had plagued him through his entire life was gone, empty, it left him with a feeling of pure freedom, of unadulterated nothingness that filled the desecrated void that he believed his humanity had been. They say there are stages of grief when it comes to dying, but what they don’t tell you is that the same stages apply for coming back. The next thing Graham saw was white, but not a light this time. It wasn’t a walkway to heaven, or whatever it is that people say you’re supposed to see when you die. It was smoke, shifting around his face, breathing into his lungs despite the fact he no longer felt as if he required oxygen. Sucking in air, or whatever it was that was corroding his vision, was a comfort. It drifting through his nostrils and lungs, clouding his vision. Cool on his skin. He found his arms, his hands, his legs. He pushed himself up, face searching for something other than white, and he was greeted with just that. Darkness, black. A long empty stretch of field and despite the smoke covering the sky, making him wonder whether there was really a sky at all, he somehow knew it was night time. If it were a time at all, that was. He half expected the clouds to part, to reveal a sky of stars or perhaps for him to jolt out of a dream. Was this this other side? The thought flooded quickly and he felt a gnawing at his stomach as he got his footing. Of course he would be damned to a life of spiritual limbo. He had heard stories, tales, myths, of this place, or of what he assumed this was. Was he a specter? Was this real? He felt a growing frustration, a growing confusion. Where was he? “Hello?” His voice was demanding, saturated with disbelief and vexation, agitated, and maybe even the slightest bit afraid. His voice echoed back to him despite the lack of walls or mountains, there were no barriers, not that he could see. His voice didn’t stop there, it continued it’s bounce, back and forth, back and forth, the volume increasing each time until he was screaming at himself, his voice so loud in his ears he crumpled back to the ground, hands covering his head as the word beat him like a brick. Then it went silent.

He woke up in a field, the same field, gasping for air he still wasn’t sure he needed anymore. His senses were blurry, coming back slowly, one by one as he coughed and spit, blood and God knows what pouring from between his lips as his vision streaked its way into existence. The shine of a bright early morning almost blinding him again as his eyes lids fought to open, his entire body protesting, as if it knew that he should no longer be there. Limbs cracked, trying to bring themselves out of positions they weren’t made to be in. His eyes flickered through the pain, through the light, taking in the surroundings. They were the same, while being entirely different in every way. The smoke was gone, the darkness was missing. That echo dissipated into thin air, as if it had never existed. Maybe it hadn’t, of that he was still unsure. The next thing he noticed was that he was covered in mud. It was caked to his clothes, his skin, his hair. He was drowning in dirt, and more than displeased to find the other inhabitants of his mouth were insects, hands planted on the ground as he struggled to sit up, dry heaving and his brain reeling as memories flooded back. Was the darkness a dream? He was hit by a carriage, that much was painfully obvious, how else would he have gotten into this situation? Another thing he knew, or was almost sure he knew, as he struggled on his hands and knees, still emptying his body of whatever fluids and contents had decided to make a home of it, was that he should’ve died. He should be dead. Did he survive? The question struck like lightening, sending pain down his spine that wasn’t quite physical. It looked, it felt as if he survived, but he died. He knew he died, he had felt it. Confusion and nausea over took his body, a shaking in his hands and arms that was caused entirely by his panic. He took another look at his surroundings, head not much clearer but more desperate and curious now. He was pushed off road, down a hill. Either the horse wasn’t to be stopped at even the collision or the coachman was in a hell of a rush. He stared at his hands with a sort of angry confusion, fists flexing to be sure they were real. Was he dreaming? He couldn’t place the reality for the situation, he couldn’t sense if this was right, if it was what was supposed to happen. He pushed himself off the ground, trying to dust dirt off his pants and matted tunic, both covered in blood that he could only assume was his own, as he struggling with the waves of emotions coursing through his head and chest, almost drowning him all over again. He wiped the blood from his mouth. This felt a lot like survival, a lot like something he wanted no part of. How long had he been in the field? Was he still alive? Had he died? Was this a sick joke? He didn’t know, he didn’t know anything and he felt the overwhelming sense of frustration and confusion from what he could only guess was real returning, and it wasn’t until he was taking slow steps towards the trail ahead that he realize he shouldn’t be able to walk. He was hit by a carriage, his legs should’ve been the first to give, they where bound to be shattered, broken, unusable. He could only feel the frustration and anger mounting at the thought, and suddenly he found himself at the verge of absolutely losing it. There was no way he’d survived that crash, it was completely implausible, unlikely to the brink of absolute insanity. The universe was laughing at him, as if he were some huge cosmic joke, a fluke.

As he found himself trudging up the hill, struggling to make his way back home, he had the thought, his anger and tension piquing. “To cheat death twice is an anomaly, a complete disassembly of the facts to life. No, I’m not cheating death. Death is cheating me.” I. DENIAL & ANGER The thoughts hit like a horse running at him full speed, except impossibly harder, because while that he expected, desired even, this was a page of a novel he hadn’t even known existed. There was an immediate anger that went hand and hand with the idea of being forced to continue living on this plane of existence, of surviving well past what he felt he was reasonable. No, it wasn’t that, it couldn’t be that. He was a smart man but he suddenly found himself opposing logical ideas like a child who couldn’t get his way. This was a mistake, another happenstance were he, for some reason, avoided death. This was a joke, a blip in the universe, an i left undotted and a t uncrossed, a mistake plain and simple. He walked through town, covered in mud and blood, face hard as rock and eyes blazing with an anger that could only belong to someone who was scammed, who was betrayed. His veins were alight with an anger, a complete irrational blazing hot frustration that was driving him home, back straight and fists clenched at his sides as he strode with almost a confidence, a positivity. A woman looked at him with a shock, pulling her child from his path as if he were a monster, and he supposed he looked that way, eyes only meeting her for a moment as he continued his trek, his quick yet agile pace not slowing nor stopping for anything. He was going to finish this. He was tired of being laughed at, being picked on by whatever entity controlled life, whatever controlled him. He wasn’t going to be a play thing, not anymore. He had decided he was going to die today, he refused to accept otherwise. It was a breaking point, waking up in the field not once but twice. Something was messing with him, or maybe trying to save him. It is possible to save someone who has no desire to be saved? No, it isn’t possible, because while you could save them from situations, you cannot save them from themselves. An elderly woman in her rocking chair, she always sat in her upstairs window, looking out over the town in blissful silence. Graham knew her, he had bought apples from her from the market before, she was kind and always gave him a smile, asking him about his writing, but as she looked at him now, her face fell into that of fear. She wasn’t concerned, not like she would be when seeing him under normal circumstances, her face contorted into that of plead, her eyes shining. She would never look at him that way. He felt as if she was no longer looking at him, she was looking at something else entirely, like was gazing upon a man that is no longer Graham. She looked at if she was expecting him, and he felt a growing feeling in his stomach, he didn’t know what it was, but it was telling him no. She wasn’t ready. This was unsettling, it gave him a sense of anxiety, almost like he should turn around, that maybe there was something behind him, something on him. Something riding his back, a part of him that maybe wasn’t there before. He didn’t stop, not even with the concerning thoughts or the shocking look he was greeted with, his face didn’t falter, he didn’t flinch. He was being driven by insistence and anger, all the things he had felt throughout his life, all the loss and pain, all the emptiness, it built itself up like a tower, a castle teetering on the edge of falling over. It all screamed in his ears, only feeding into his determination, his persistence. Death was going to finally knock on his door, he was going to give it no choice. Two full grown men, drunk and making their way home after a long night knocked into each other, faces covered in confusion and alarm as they fumbled out of his way, eyebrows drawn together and eyes betraying a certain fear that could only be evoked by something truly horrid. What has he become? What have the last few hours, days, weeks, of time spans he isn’t sure, but what have they made him? II. BARGAINING Then he’s tying a noose, fingers quick with his anger, fumbling over themselves and only making his ferocity more intense. He undoes and redoes it several times because he couldn’t seem to get it right. His brain still isn’t processing what it is he’s going to do, it’s too overrun with emotion, and even if it had been able to understand, to keep up, it wouldn’t have been able to stop him. He was finished. Graham was no longer going to wait, he wasn’t standing in front of a carriage anymore. Waiting for death wasn’t an option, it was refusing him, it was pushing him away. He had to make it come to him, he had to force it’s hand. He was certain this time, there would be no way, no possibility of survival. He stood on the chair, neck wrung tight with a rope as he took what he felt was going to be his final breath, then he stepped off and the chair fell, he was in midair. First, there was the restraint, his breath being taken from him and pain, his eyes watering and mouth gasping for breath instinctively as his legs flailed. It felt like the first part of dying, that’s what he would tell you. Or, well, it did for the first twenty minutes or so, after that, it was just uncomfortable. He was hanging there, a rope digging into his neck, stopping air from entering his lungs, but he wasn’t losing feeling, not anywhere. His vision was fine, he could move his limbs perfectly. How long had he been hanging there? He looked at his curtains and tried to judge what time it was, tried to guess why the amount of light filtering through. It was only then that he realized that this wasn’t working. He was hanging there, for what felt like ages, and he could still guess the fucking time. He supposed that answered the oxygen question. He brought his hands to the rope and pulled himself up with a surprising ease. He had never been particularly strong or well trained in the physical regions. That fact, however, was taking a back seat, as he had more pressing questions, more upsetting and frustrating things to consider. His feet touched the floor once again and he flung a fist at the wall, punching a hole clean through it, something he had never be able to do before. There wasn’t new blood on his hands, his knuckles weren’t torn. They were fine. This thought brought a new one, of what the rest of him looked like, his clothes torn and matted with blood and dirt. Perhaps a bath was in order, maybe it would clear his head, wake him up. Maybe this is all a dream, a sick, twisted, hyper realistic dream that’s squeezing his mind, made to torture him even further. Looking at himself he knew he’d have to clean up, at least as best he could, before making his way to bathhouse. He couldn’t go back outside in this condition, he had caused enough of a stir in the town, and he couldn’t imagine that his appearance had improved at all since he’d reentered his home. His fingers touched his throat where he felt the rope indents still pressed into the skin. III. DEPRESSION & ACCEPTANCE He stripped off his tunic, face distorting at the sight of it, and the sight of his bare chest covered in earth. He could help but think that he had really had bled a lot, it had to have been more than he contained in his body, the red streaking over all his skin like a morbid oil painting not made for the faint of heart. Then he stepped into the mirror and saw his own face. His eyes were hardened more than he’d ever seen them before, they were harsh and unforgiving. The skin on his cheeks were almost unrecognizable, his face looked different. It looked hollow. Blue eyes gazed into blue eyes, staring with ferocity that didn’t belong to him. He could still see the lines where the rope had dug into his neck, the marks clear and prominent, even when opposing all the other marks and streaks covering his skin. He could remember every time he had done this. When his parents had died, that was the first. He had stared at himself with such a hatred, such a dislike. It was the first time he had really wanted to die, the first time he had gotten that ache in his chest. He saw himself, those same eyes, as a young boy, as a teen, as a young man. He had given himself that same look millions of times before, but now it was different. His eyes weren’t the exactly same. They were still crystalline blue, the pure physicality of them was the same, it was still exact, but there was a new sadness, a new immortality shining back at him like a beacon. It was screaming at him. The way his eyes sat and shone on his face, the line of his mouth, the sharpness of the bones on his cheeks and jaw and the color of the bright red contrasting his light skin. He finally knew, a new feeling running through his bones as disgust took over his features, his eye contact not breaking not even for a moment. All this time, all this fucking time he had been searching for death. Candles, cliffs, roof tops, carriages, rope, he had been searching, seeking, desiring. He had wanted it for so long, and this whole time he had been looking in the wrong place, peering around the wrong corners. Now, as he stared himself dead in the eyes, he finally knew. He had been confused, thinking that death would save him, thinking it would be the end, that it was waiting for him. It wasn’t a reprieve, it wasn’t destined to save him after a life of sadness and regret, he wasn’t meant for a clean ending, he was never designed for a peaceful rest. This whole time he had been looking, searching around him for the answer as if it were hiding when really, it had been here, in his polished metal mirror, this whole time. He shook his head slowly, subtly, lips drawing back to bear his teeth as he narrowed his eyes, his reflection mimicking the action. His gaze didn’t break as his mouth finally spoke the words, the disgust and realization, the displeasure, prevalent, obvious as he spit. “So, I finally found you, you son of a bitch.”

Sample Para 2: (This isn’t third person or past tense, this is an example of a writing I feel that he would’ve done. This is a second para because it doesn’t line up with the actual requirements for a para lmao.)

“Beings go missing. It is not an oddity, not in the slightest. It has always been a simple fact of life. With no traces, no words, no proof, living beings drop off the plain of existence at a bat of an eye. This is a cruel fact of which we are all aware. There are search parties on occasion, for a day, perhaps two or three, but after such a small allotment of time it is to be assumed that they are gone, deceased or otherwise. After that, the families are left to their own devices, given time to mourn however it is deemed necessary. The concept of murder, while not highly considered, is certainly not unheard of. When beings disappear, you, mortals, tend to blame illness, animals, perhaps even bad decisions. Sometimes even death itself, but most commonly, I find myself getting such a blame. It is more often than not that the ‘blame’ you’re so eager to pin on an individual, in actuality, lays on the shoulders of your peers, those closest to you, the humans at your sides that sleep under the same roof as you, they are at fault more than I. Mothers smother their children in the night when they find them too burdensome, men kill their wives when the arguments get too tiresome, and enemies kill enemies over a dinner table with a vial of poison and a sickly sweet smile. I am not to blame for any of these things. These are the truths of which you are not told, the stories you gossip but refuse to believe. I know them, I see them, and while I would tell you I do not judge you, it is my job. The only reason I still exist is to tell you whether or not your decisions feed into my concept of perfect mortality. Of course, this isn’t to say my judgement should go unquestioned, in fact, you are allowed to question my process all you would like, but the simple fact is my word is law. The final decision I make cannot be undone nor bargained with. Do I ever regret a decision? Perhaps. Is there any way to ease such a guilty conscience? I could lie to you, I could tell you there is a reprieve waiting on the other side of such a cold decision, but it would be nothing but a falsehood made to comfort those that have no real interest in what it is I’m articulating. You do not care for my sanity, or my own personal well being. I find more often than not that my books, my writing, only ends up in the hands of those that have experienced loss themselves. I fear that I cannot tell you their fate. I cannot explain nor reason with what is happening in the inner workings of the universe, and I cannot tell you where they are now. I can only tell what I already know, and what I know is this: Predestination is a concept created by the indolent and the insane. There is no way to gain access to one afterlife or the other based entirely on birthright, it’s an outrageous concept defied by my kinds existence entirely. Yes, I cannot speak for all of my specie, but I can speak for myself when I say that I do not look at your bloodline when it comes to deciding whether you are ‘good’ or 'bad.’ I do not look at your clothes, your name, I do not look at your skin. Whether or not you have made what decisions I deem morally fit will be revealed in the span of but a minute. Tough syrup to keep down, I’m sure that’s what you are thinking. Yes, the entire life you are living will come down to a minute, give or take. There is no great destination, and unfortunately, your life does not flash before your eyes. It flashes before mine. How anticlimactic that must be for you to hear. I’d apologize but it is not like I chose for it to be this way. Of course, that brings another question. Who is to say that I am worthy to judge you? How wholesome and honest a query to consider. It is not like I had a pure life, I was never a saint nor was I a righteous man. The answer to that question, according to legend, of course, would have to be Azrael. I’m afraid that is all I can tell you, because it is all I know. I, personally, have always found myself disagreeing with this decision, for many reasons you could imagine, but the most blindingly curious one having to be that my moral compass is not exactly in full service. I have always had my own ideas of what is to be considered 'right’ and 'wrong’ and I have found them somewhat unaligned with those of others. I do not see in black and white, ironically enough, nor do I see shades of grey. There is an entire spectrum of color behind my eyelids, different scenarios and color schemes that fill an empty head. I have struggled with this plethora of observation and consideration for as long as I can now care to remember, over four hundred years of experience and you would assume that I have it down pat, but alas, I was not blessed with the object of caring less with the more experience I have. I will not let my own bitterness overshadow someone else’s eternity. Just because my own seems to be a never ending damnation does not mean that I have the right to inflict a similar experience onto others without fair reason. –”

#athoria accepted

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