#ballad of fallen angels

[spikelovesjulia]

credit: fsx.design

[loveneverfades]

[spike-and-faye]

For real write in your answers in the tags!!!

[neotenous-agency]

[bohemian-rhapsody-in-blue]

Beboptober Day 5: Free Fall

Thanks to @thestarlightsymphony for the prompt list! This takes place right after Spike’s fight with Vicious and fall from the cathedral window in Session 5, “Ballad of Fallen Angels.” TW for description of injury/blood.

Jet reached Spike just in time.

He’d made the trip on the Hammerhead in silence, deftly maneuvering and parking his ship in the place Faye had told him about when he’d begrudgingly called her back. Above him loomed a cathedral that had obviously once been beautiful, but had fallen into disrepair and abandonment; one of the windows was shattered entirely. In conjunction with the bare tree branches grazing the overcast sky as the raindrops fell, the effect was ominous, eerie; it filled Jet with dread. Nothing good could happen here. Spike should have known that. Jet had a sickening surety that he did.

As he exited his ship, he saw Faye run up to him as fast as she could in a long slit dress and high heels, loosely holding a pair of handcuffs that seemed to have rubbed her wrists raw. Her eyes were wide and desperate, her breath ragged, her hair slick and stringy from the falling rain.

Before she could say anything, Jet cut her off with a curt, “Show me where he is.”

It didn’t take long for the two of them to get to him—his body contorted on the hard pavement below the shattered window, surrounded by shards of broken glass, in the clear aftermath of a sudden free fall. His limbs lay bent at odd angles; blood stained the ground below him and gushed even further from wounds at his gut and shoulder, not to mention the innumerable tiny cuts and scratches everywhere on his skin.

But he was alive. His chest rose and fell slowly, shudderingly, with each laborious breath. Barely holding on to life by a single, fragile thread—but undeniably alive.

“Dammit,” Jet said softly, under his breath.

He crouched down and gingerly slipped his hand under Spike’s head. Spike didn’t stir, but Jet thought he could feel him tense up a little. His body was slick with sweat mixed with the falling rain; it ran down his face and mixed with the blood pooling below him.

Spike had gotten into plenty of scrapes before, gotten himself terribly wounded by barreling recklessly into a situation ahead of the game, as was his custom. Jet had always had to save his ass and drag him back to the Bebop, reprimanding him over his complaints. But seeing him like this, unconscious on the pavement, his eyes softly closed—that was different.

“I dunno why he gets himself into these things,” Jet said gruffly, taking Spike’s legs with his other arm and hoisting his unconscious body into his arms, constantly checking to see if he was still breathing. He was. Jet shook his head. “Nothing but trouble.”

For the first time that Jet had ever seen, Faye looked truly anxious. “You’re sure he’ll be okay?”

“You really care that much?” said Jet, raising his eyebrows.

A smile flitted across Faye’s face. Despite everything that had happened, there was a hint of mischief, of her usual confidence, in it. “We’re supposed to be comrades, remember?”

Jet, as he turned back to Spike, couldn’t help but give a rueful grin at this too.

The eyelashes of Spike’s closed eyes rested softly on his cheeks. His face wasn’t twisted with pain; its expression was instead just troubled and tired. It was as if he was just asleep, napping on the couch of the Bebop, plagued by bad dreams.

As reckless as Spike always was, as unafraid as he was to die, it was hard for Jet to imagine him truly gone. He was an incredibly lucky man, even as he ran through the world with no sense of self-preservation, almost as if his whole life were spent in freefall. Jet had begun to indulge the foolish, fantastical belief that nothing could hurt him. Yeah, things could hurt him, but he’d always managed to make an excellent, borderline miraculous, recovery—usually thanks to Jet’s reluctantly nursing him back to health. He could recover from this, too. It was hard to imagine anything felling the man for good.

Jet shook his head. He knew this was just wishful thinking; he shouldn’t give in to it. It wasn’t rational.

But Spike had told him, when they first met, that he’d died already. What were the odds of it happening again?

“Yeah,” Jet said as the two of them walked back to the Hammerhead, with Spike resting in Jet’s muscled arms. “He’ll be fine.”

He gazed down again at Spike, his look tinged with worry and exasperation and something like fondness.

“He’d better be.”

[kassgender]

ANGELBUTCH

[ PT: Angelbutch END PT] For any individuals who are butch & feel connection to angels -- butches who are angels, butches who are angelic, butches who kin angels, butches who like angels, etc! No religious meaning required.

FALLENBUTCH

[ PT: Fallenbutch END PT] For any individuals who are butch & feel connection to fallen angels -- butches who are fallen angels, butches who are angelic in a fallen way, butches who kin fallen angels, butches who like fallen angels, etc! No religious meaning required.

Requested by no one, very self indulgent! All butches may use this flag in good faith. We will not tolerate butch & gatekeeping discourse. [ PT: All butches may use this flag in good faith. We will not tolerate butch & gatekeeping discourse. END PT ]

[urmom-jokes-ceo]

i just found out there's a funko pop of the ballad of the fallen angels??? hello???

[jelly-bebop]

Siblings: Stop asking us to watch more Cowboy Bebop, we don't like Cowboy Bebop >:(

Me: SHUT UP, YOU HAVEN'T EVEN MADE IT TO BALLAD OF FALLEN ANGELS!

[damn-stark]

Sugar

Geto Suguru x Gojo!fem-reader & Choso x Gojo!fem-reader

Summary- Love is a fickle thing isn’t it? Life isn’t so sweet. People are meant to love, lose, and love again; sorcerers like you more than most. You endure pains that non-sorcerers will never experience a speck of in their lifetimes. So much is expected of you not only because you’re a Gojo; a sorcerer from one of the prestigious sorcerer families, but because you were lucky or unlucky to be born special grade as well. All your life you were taught to be one way and follow a path, but remember that pain you get to experience in order to protect the lives of non-sorcerers? Well, that pain gets to you and deviates you down a dark path with Suguru Geto, a man you love, your hope, and the one who stays. Yet that path is dark and twisty, full of surprises that bring life, and loss most of all. When will enough be enough, and will you be able to find that light in a lifetime of darkness you so crave? Will you change your ways after years of defection and thinking you’re right? Do you believe in second chances after what you’ve done?

Moodboard, fighting outfits concepts

Suguru geto x y/n Gojo moodboard, Satoru Gojo x y/n Gojo moodboard, Kento Nanami x y/n Gojo, Choso x Y/N

Chapter 1 Angelfish

Chapter 2 Just a girl

Chapter 3 The first one

Chapter 4 Live for the hope of it all

Chapter 5 Appeasing

Season 2 (Hidden inventory arc)

Chapter 6 Where you are

Chapter 7 The Ballad of a Jujutsu sorcerer

Chapter 8 The world’s a little blurry

Chapter 9 Hearing damage

Chapter 10 I’ll know, I’ll know

Jjk 0 Movie

Chapter 11 It almost worked

Chapter 12 Fallen Angel

Chapter 13 It’s over isn’t it?

Chapter 14 Lost in the darkness

Season 2 (Shibuya Arc)

Chapter 15 The start of something new

Chapter 16 The last supper

Chapter 17 Kill of the night

Chapter 18 Happy birthday, by the way

Chapter 19 I’m sorry for your loss

Chapter 20 Intergalactic

Itadori Execution Arc

Chapter 21 But then I found you

Chapter 22 What never was

Tengen arc

Chapter 23 You’re an angel, I’m a dog

Chapter 24 By saying something stupid like…

Chapter 25 Blood, dragons, curses and black holes

Sukuna v Satoru

Chapter 26 Sweet Gojo

Chapter 27 The sun will shine on us again

Chapter 28 A song for us

Chapter 29 Birthday surprises

Chapter 30 Two can be as bad as one

Chapter 31 All through the night

Chapter 32 Our last goodbye

Chapter 33 Haven’t I given enough?

Chapter 34 Two birds on a wire…

Chapter 35 …One says c’mon and the other says I’m tired

Chapter 36 Be the One Fallen from Grace, be Death

Chapter 37 Strong heart

Chapter 38 Les

Chapter 39 Heart on fire

Chapter 40 once there was a way to get back home

Chapter 41 Thus with a kiss I die

Chapter 42 IFHY

Final chapter The Last ballad of the fallen

Side stories

Wedding bells (takes place in between chapter 10) takes place in 2008 & 2009

Colors of the wind (takes place in between chapter 10) takes place in 2012

Fun trend not so great (before season 2 starts)

The soul (takes place in ch.17)

Satori info page

[katyawriteswhump]

the freak in the penthouse

Eddie became an accidental millionaire, coming up with creative content for a video game for his techy best bud Dustin. It's great at first… but not his dream. He winds up living in a hotel room, depressed he let his music hopes slip.

Steve, meanwhile, works in the hotel, and is desperately in debt for medical bills. When his boss asks him to get a male hooker for the ‘freak in the penthouse,' he can’t really let the ‘chance’ pass. After all, the 'freak' didn't look so bad to him, and he's done this kind of thing before when he had to...

Set in the early 90s with some period-typical homophobia. Shamelessly trope-y! This will probably go up to ‘E’ rated next chapter, but ‘M’ for now as this chapter isn’t too spicy yet ;)

also here on AO3 or search the tumblr tag #thefreakinthepenthouse

Chapter one: the freak

Eddie lingered in that warm, fuzzy twilight zone between sleep and wakefulness. He didn’t want to wake up.

His dream—at least, the parts of it trickling back to him—had been hot, hot, hot. He’d been killing it live to an insane sell-out crowd at the Hollywood Bowl and…

…what the hell?

More of Eddie’s dream filtered back. The part which explained his epic boner. He’d not been thrashing out a nine-minute-long power ballad. On that dream-stage, in front of that sell-out crowd, he’d been fucking a deadly hot, deadly cute guy.

Holy shit! That’s almost as unbelievable as anybody paying to come see me play.

He began to wake up for real. A keening sound escaped his throat. On the other hand, the joys of the night hadn’t quite evaporated.

Possibly because he’d gotten his nose buried in a mass of slightly sticky hair. 

He was spooning ANOTHER GUY.

The reality of last night rushed back. Every muscle in Eddie’s body locked up. Wow, wow, wow! And also, Shiiiiiit! 

Steve. That was the guy’s name. Eddie rubbed his nose in the nape of Steve’s neck, inhaling cheap hair gel.

Steve had been good. He’d kissed like a demon and offered up that to-die-for ass like a fallen angel. Eddie recalled rutting deep into Steve’s tight, pulsating body, till sweat stung his eyes. Yup, pure carnal pleasure was a decent distraction from being rich beyond your wildest dreams and too miserable as fuck to enjoy it.

On the flip-side, Eddie had few gripes about life at this particular moment. Slowly, careful not to wake Steve, Eddie crawled an arm over him, wandering fingers through the tangle of hair on Steve’s chest.

Bleeeeeep.

Steve cried, “Wha—?” and sat bolt upright, whacking Eddie’s arm out of the way. He blinked around, raking soft curls from his eyes. Damn. Steve was even cuter with his hair all natural, no longer slicked back.

Steve glanced at his watch and silenced the bleeps. “Crap! I’m on shift for breakfast. Gotta go.”

Steve was rushing around the room already, butt naked. Eddie sighed longingly at Steve’s ass. When Steve yanked some dark blue uniform pants from his knapsack and pulled them on, Eddie sighed even harder.

His focus drifted to the enormous clock-face painted directly onto the hideous pink paisley walls. 

“It’s 6 o’clock? In the morning?” He flipped his lank-feeling hair from his brow. “Uuuuugh. I’d forgotten there were two 6 o’clocks in the day.”

“Some of us have gotta earn a living.” Steve shoved his arms into a not particularly well-pressed white shirt then fiddled with the buttons at his throat. “Talking of which… Can I have my two-hundred bucks, please?”

…

Twelve hours earlier

“Got a job for you, Harrington,” said Kline, head concierge at the Beverly Hills Yorkshire. “Try not to mess this one up.”

Steve looked up from where he was emptying ashtrays into the trash. His least-loved superior drew close and dropped his usually bark-like voice to an undertone:

“Freak in the penthouse wants a hooker. Tonight. 8pm sharp.”

“Oh. Right.” Steve humoured Kline, answering in an equally conspiratorial tone. “Do I call the usual agency?”

“Hell, no. Freaks a freak! Wants a guy. Goddamn dirty queer.” Steve was still tipping ashtrays—best to always look busy when this sleazebag was around. Unfortunately, this meant Kline stuffed a note into the waistband of Steve’s pants, forcing Steve to suppress a shudder. “Deirdre gave me some numbers to call around. Whatever the dirty dogs quote, triple the number—no, quadruple it—before you tell the freak. We can turn a fat profit here. Reckon you can handle that? Or will the figures be too much for that air-brain little head of yours?”

After Kline departed, Steve pulled out the crumpled note. He stared at the numbers and chewed his lip. Fuck, fuck, FUCK. Could he really afford to pass this over?

He wasn’t allowed to wait tables in the silver-service grill anymore—he’d gotten one too many table orders muddled up. He was really feeling the pinch without those tips.

And the ‘freak’ had to be richer than God.

Dude had been shacked up in the penthouse for nearly three weeks now. That place cost over a thousand bucks a night. On the couple of occasions Steve had taken up room service, the guy had lurked in the gloom and behind a curtain of rocker hair. A pale hand with long, slender fingers offered out a ten-dollar bill.

He had to be a rockstar, right? Thought nobody had figured out what band he was in, and guys like that only buried themselves away to drink too much, do drugs, trash stuff, and… fuck whores.

Steve crumpled Kline’s note in his fist and resigned himself to it.  His medication had doubled in price this year, and he was reduced to sleeping in one of the hotel linen closets.

An extra hundred dollars or so would help a lot.

…

Eddie wished he hadn’t answered the phone. It was goddamn Dustin, berating him as ever:

“Eddie! Do I have to stick a firework up your butt or something? Suzie and I have got all the gameplay coding sorted for ‘Vecna’s Doom Quest II’ ready to rock and roll. All we want is for you to sprinkle your magic over the creative content, and we’ll be home and dry for another monster hit.”

“There’s the rub, Henderson. I’m not feeling wildly creative right now.”

“Then get out of that doily-saturated dumpster! Travel! Meet people! Honestly, what was the point of becoming a millionaire at twenty-four if you can’t enjoy yourself. If you’re still cut up about your music, then hire yourself another studio and—”

“You need to get off my back. After your hour-long lecture about how I needed to get laid, I went and did something stupid and now—”

“You did get a date?”

“No, I… Look, this is really not a good time, Henderson.” 

Eddie hung up. 

He instantly felt bad. Jesus, he spent his whole life feeling bad about something these days. 

He knew Dustin meant well. In his own arrogant-little-shit kinda way. Eddie probably should take his advice, go to a club, meet guys he’d like to date, and he would. If the thought of simply leaving the hotel didn’t shred his nerves ragged.

And there was no way he could tell Dustin he’d gone and ordered a rent boy on room service. After a couple of way-too-early-in-the-day shots of vodka, it’d seemed like a good idea. 

Not anymore.

Eddie picked up one of his many guitars, which lay propped alongside the ornate couch. He struck a miserably dissonant chord. The shady guy who’d sold it claimed it’d once belonged to Hendrix. Eddie hadn’t really fallen for that shit then paid a dumb price for it anyhow. On the off-chance it’d inspire some of that metal magic he’d let slip.

“Magic, Munson? You always sucked balls and you know it.”

Jesus, he was talking to himself now, and he knew he was wallowing. These past three weeks, it was all he’d done. Worse, he knew he was an ungrateful dick, not appreciating the journey he’d made from his uncle’s trailer to this.

Which made him hate himself even more.

He tossed the guitar down on the couch—would’ve smashed it, if not for just the teeniest chance Jimi did once deign to touch it. Instead, he punched one of the penthouse’s many fake-marble pillars, then whimpered, blowing on his damaged knuckles.

He was about to call down for ice—and to cancel his ‘date’—when the knock sounded at the door. He considered ignoring it. Then he noticed the time.

8pm.

Rent-boy o’clock.

He’d not realised the day had slid away so fast. It sure as heck dragged till now. He was still considering ignoring the knock, when it came again.

“Mister Munson?”

Eddie dithered a moment longer then went to the grand double doors and opened one a crack. 

His jaw dropped.

The guy waiting on his doormat was good-looking, for sure. Striking was the word that sprung next into Eddie’s mind. His slicked back hair was a touch too yuppy-frat-boy for Eddie’s taste. Eddie totally dug his eyeliner, though, which set off big chocolate eyes to perfection. A vest top revealed leanly muscled arms and was also cropped at his midriff to display a swatch of trim, lick-able flesh, intersected by a trail of wispy hair. His ripped jeans were so tight they might’ve been spray-painted on, and…

…he was also slightly familiar. Eddie was so busy gawking, he genuinely jumped when the guy spoke again.

“Hey. I’m Steve. You, uh, asked for—”

“Look, I was gonna call down and cancel. This was a friend’s idea.”  Yeah, blame Henderson, you snivelling coward. “I changed my mind, okay?”

“Oh.” Steve’s shoulders slumped, although something shifted in his eyes that might’ve been relief. “I’ll be off then… Oh hey, are you okay? What happened to your hand?”

Eddie had made the mistake of pinching the bridge of his nose with his puffy red fingers. “Oh, I’m fine. I whacked myself.”

“You want me to get you some ice?”

“Uuuuuh, hookers can do that?”

Steve winced slightly. “I actually work in the hotel. I mean, as a day job. Breakfast buffet, elevator, room service, odd jobs, that kinda thing.”

“Right.” That raised more questions that it answered. Eddie opted not to pry. “Thought you looked familiar. You look different out of—”

“Out of the shitty bellboy outfit?” Steve rolled those way too pretty eyes, and dumped a bulging knapsack by the doors. “I’ll grab that ice.”

…

Steve dashed to the nearest ice-dispenser, grabbed a first-aid kit too. He rushed back to the penthouse. His heart raced, and he felt kinda flushed, despite the arctic setting on the air con.

Up close, the ‘freak’ was pretty good-looking, if slightly Goth-y and pale. And Steve had to get out of the nasty-ass habit of thinking of him as ‘the freak.’ Now he’d gotten face-to-face with the guy, it seemed mean and douchy.

One of the doors was ajar when he returned. Eddie sat on one of several luxuriant couches, his head in his hands. The place smelled faintly of weed, but nothing worse. Steve coughed, cleared his throat: “Got the ice, Mister Munson, Sir.”

“Jesus, none of that shit. It’s Eddie.”

“Wow. My favourite name.”

Eddie snorted. “Horseshit.”

Steve wrapped some ice chips in a napkin, sat down beside Eddie, who downed a glass of clear liquid that Steve suspected was vodka. Then, hesitantly, Eddie stretched out an elegant, long-fingered hand. Steve took it one of his and pressed the ice to Eddie’s swollen knuckles. Eddie appeared reluctant to look him in the eye, which made Steve feel dead awkward too.

He noticed a massive crack in one of the pillars. Had to be recent. Plaster dust sprinkled the otherwise immaculate Persian carpet beneath.

“You wanna talk about it?” he said, returning his attention to Eddie’s hand. “Did you have an argument with your girlf… boyfriend.”

“Ain’t got no one, brother. Went and ordered you, didn’t I?”

Steve felt like he’d been slapped. Yeah, he’d been ordered on room service, like a platter of meat. Okay, he’d kinda chosen this but… Choices, real choices, had been out of his league for what felt like forever.

He gritted his teeth. “You want me to bandage this, or should I just leave?”

That got Eddie looking up sharply. “Leave?”

“You said you were gonna cancel? Not in the groove for booty calls, huh?”

Steve watched Eddie’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed hard. He tugged his hand away from Steve, picked up the glass with tips of those delicious fingers and offered it to Steve. “Changed my mind. Drink?”

“I feel I should pour, right?” said Steve, nerves fizzing.

Eddie was finally looking at him again, eyes narrowed to simmering slits: “If you like.”

...

anyone here for this? <3 likes reblogs and comments much appreciated and will feed the bunnies🐰💕🐰💕🐰💕🐰💕

Chapter 2 on tumblr

Chapter 2 on AO3

I've added a hashtag #thefreakinthepenthouse for ease of finding the earlier parts. I can also tag if anybody is interested... please let me know.

zero pressure and one-off tag @sidekick-hero who kindly asked about this one in the WIP tag game and just got a surprised blurble as I'd not typed anything up then...

[scaralvr]

test me. scaramouche x immortal!gn!reader contains :: religious themes, angst, 3.3 archon quest spoilers

synopsis: you have been scaramouche's faithful & loyal assistant since he was graced with the title of balladeer, but your acts of dedication towards his great being go unnoticed by him each time. however, you would never give up on your God. it is him you worship, not the tsaritsa. when he replaces you with haypasia, you refuse to live without another to serve under.

notes :: songfic based off of melanie martinez's song test me! i haven't written in awhile so it may be a little rusty :')

at first, you weren't quite sure what to think of the almighty sixth you would serve for the rest of your life as a fatui recruit. bearing a cryo vision, you found no use for the doctor's delusions, but the sixth himself requested you use one, for whatever reason you aren't aware of. the sixth of the eleven had a temper that you didn't mind, but still didn't deem his behaviour tolerable. he acts like a brat, expecting everything to be handed to him on a silver platter by his pathetic inferiors.

it sickens you to the core. how could you serve someone as cruel and disgusting as him? questions like these flood your mind but a specific one stands out from the rest. why do you serve him? with such joy and enthusiasm, too. you're fully aware that the other fatui have been stirring up some trouble with scandalous rumors they spread around, fixating on how insane you must be to enjoy working under the balladeer's orders.

you're not deranged. a little eccentric, scaramouche would say. he doesn't mind your passion as his assistant, if anything, he prefers to have someone like this rather than a timid and quiet person who has to be told twice to finish things up. you don't even talk his ear off but instead, abide by every single demand of his and choose to stay silent when he says to. he calls you a, 'smart one,' considering the fact that his past assistants had to face the consequences you were avoiding.

you found the happiness you rarely had in serving him, enjoying the way he sadistically looks into nothing while going on and on about his sinister plans to overpower his creator through his birth of a God. he'd been planning this for quite a while and you were there through all of it. you stole for him, risked your life for him, took lives for him, and what did you get in return after years of your service? your knees feel weak and you suppose it's from kneeling to him all of the time.

they grow even weaker and the breath is knocked out of your throat at his words. "your assistance was tolerable and i'll be dismissing you. this is where your job ends, (y/n)." his words pound at your head and repeat like a broken loop, reminding you over and over that you're not needed. the God that you love and cherish is abandoning his divine angel. his fallen angel. you don't know why, but tears spring to your eyes as you step forward with a hand against your chest. you open your mouth to speak in a small voice, "but, my lord, i'm afraid you do need me. who will come along with you on your way through your journey of Godhood?"

scaramouche doesn't spare you a single glance and chooses to look out the window. "a researcher i've come across in sumeru has proven her worth to me. and don't get me twisted, you have proven your worth as well. she is... simply better in terms of everything and if you can't handle that truth, i don't care. do as i say, since you worship me so much," a wide smirk stretches his lips and you catch sight of it in the reflection of the glass window. the light in your eyes go out in sorrow as you percieve the fact that your God replaced you.

hey, God, i'll be the jester. entertain you, to the best of, my ability.

you wander sumeru with a blank expression, still registering the moments that previously occured. you cut ties with your family and loved ones for him and going back there wouldn't do you any good, as they've already deemed you as scum for joining the fatui all those years ago. your immortal state makes it worse, since you figure living without a purpose is much worse than death itself. while walking with your head down, your shoulder hits something. a person. you turn your head and your eyes meet those of a dashing gold. a fairly handsome man with long blonde hair tied in a braid appears astounded. not too far, a fairy with white hair floats next to him.

"sorry, i wasn't looking where i was going."

at that pathetic apology, you narrow your eyes. what type of person puts the blame on themself when they know very well it's the other's fault? curious, you place a hand on your hip and comment, "your attire... it's not from here. may i question you?" the fairy excitedly claps her hands, "oh, we were about to question you, actually!" you raise a brow, "really? whatever for?" the man kindly smiles and explains the situation to you in a tone like he's known you forever. scaramouche has known you forever. he's never shown such kindness like that to you.

you have no one to serve. no one to follow. all of your sacrifices were a waste, for the very man you put everything on the line for, threw you away like a worthless piece of trash. as you listen to the voice of the mysterious traveler, you feel a hope light up within you again. maybe, just maybe, it'll be different. this time, it will. when he finishes his brief explanation, you instantly shoot your shot. "the balladeer, you say?"

in the meanwhile, scaramouche is left to his own gadgets within the solace of his temporary room. temporary, because he knows he'll be on the move again. he always will be, now that he's turned his back on her majesty, the tsaritsa, and ran away with one of her treasured gnoses. he stares out the window, just like he did a few hours ago, and realizes the time. the sun is beginning to set and usually, you would enter the room with a tray of tea for both him and you to share as he discusses his plans.

it's not too long before scaramouche remembers he already removed you from the plan. your company and assistance have brought him this far, huh? he lets out a sigh that makes him realize he was holding in his breath for quite a bit now. he places his elbow atop the window sill and rests his chin in his palm. it's gotten a little boring since you left, hasn't it? it hasn't even been a day. scaramouche grits his teeth and groans in frustration. it seems like he doesn't enjoy the feeling of being alone, either.

but it's whatever! you're his faithful assistant, maybe if you put some thought into that robotic and tiny brain of yours, you'll be smart enough to come back because both you and scaramouche know you could never survive without him. yeah, you'll be back. the moon rises in the sky and scaramouche tightens his clutch on the wood of the sill. you'll definitely be back...

when i suffer, more fragility, when i answer. came here for a reason.

for the next few days, you spend it with aether and his friend, paimon. he easily opened up to you about his lost sister and the nations he previously went to in hopes of finding her but to no avail. you pity the poor male and choose to make his time in sumeru more enjoyable before he goes off to confront the balladeer. ah, it wasn't too hard to tell him that you're the balladeer's assistant. paimon was a little jumpy at first, but he, he was understanding... someone worthy of worshipping.

bit by bit, scaramouche can feel himself breaking. every little thing irritates him. the sound of the wind's harsh currents, the feeling of something rough against the supple skin of his hand, the crippling isolation of his room. with a determined yet firm frown, he remakes a brew of green tea for the several time this week. it doesn't taste right. no matter how much sugar he adds (which he never enjoys in his tea but he's trying), he can't recreate the taste of the way you made it.

little does he know, you're making the same tea, yet it's for another man. "(y/n), this is very well-made!" aether exclaims with a grin and you feel yourself flush red. "is it?... thank you," you mutter, turning away to pour some into a tea cup for paimon. aether chuckles, "you've done alot for me and my traveling companion, (y/n). and i've been wondering about something for sometime." you notice the way he fumbles with the tea cup in his hands from the corner of your eye. "go on," you say, putting aside the tea pot and facing him. aether confidently adds, "i'd like for you to join me on my journeys, if you'll allow it. considering the way the balladeer did all of that to you-"

ah. you uncomfortably shuffle your feet in your position and paimon notices the tense situation. "h-hey, it's alright, (y/n)! aether's a really nice guy, huh? we would never do something like that to you!" paimon says, trying to lighten the mood. you let out a soft sigh, "i... thank you. will you let me think about it?" aether pauses and eagerly nods, "of course. take as much time as you need." and that's how you ended up wandering in the vast forest of sumeru. no matter which way you shift your thoughts, it always ends up drifting back to the indigo haired harbinger.

you delicately hold a sumeru rose in your hands and tilt your head to inspect the flower. suddenly, an anger rises and before you realize it, you're tightly clutching the flower, completely destroying its petals and stem altogether. you loved him. he was your everything. you guess he didn't feel the same for you. because he is a heartless, wretched and brutal — the silent time to yourself was interfered with another person's barely audible gasp. you're quick to whip around and wield your sword, finding the sharp end of it against someone's neck. scaramouche is unfazed, content, even.

"still on guard as ever," he murmurs, using his finger to guide your sword away from his throat, but the pressure of your blade creates a small slit against his flawless skin and you draw blood. you slowly withdraw your weapon as he traces his fingertip along the wound. "what has my little ex-assistant been up to as of late? i don't think you have any business in sumeru, do you?" scaramouche casually asks while impotently wiping the blood on his attire.

you knit your brows together and as much as it hurts to do so, you speak without using your usual endearment, 'my lord,' for him. "you cease to exist to me, balladeer," the way it rolls off of your tongue is foreign to him, it even surprises you. scaramouche has no time for petty feelings, but he lets them get in the way. his pupils are blown with anger as he seethes, "who do you think you are? just because i've abandoned you like the hindrance you are, it doesn't mean you get to treat me with such... inferiority!"

"but you're wrong, balladeer. i can and i will." with those words serving a final blow to his non-existent heart, you turn on your heel to find the blonde traveler with the answer to his question bound to escape your lips that used to say nothing but praises to the sixth.

just stop complaining, all have our seasons, it's not just a joke or a lesson to live through.

scaramouche watches your form disappear in the distance, only then, can he fully consume the fact that you aren't coming back unless he asks. stubborn one, aren't you? always playing hard to get. he deludes himself with this, believing that you still want to serve your one and only God. right, he's owned you from the start. he owned you the moment you agreed to be his assistant. you can't just get up and leave like that, no, your work is far from done. scaramouche agrees that it was rather trivial to dismiss you like that and he sees his mistake. why can't you understand that he needs you back?

but the cherry on top is the way you stand before his godly form, alongside the traveler. you're not supposed to be here. scaramouche is struck with shock when he sees you enter the scene with aether. the moment is swept away just as quick when he laughs. he laughs like a crazed man, hands on his stomach as he catches his breath. "oh, this is rich, (y/n)! you're so worthless, you really had to find another to serve after i ditched you. you're nothing but a weak follower and i plan on making you take that role to the grave," his tone drops to that of a condescending one and various emotions surge through his veins.

the immense adrenaline pumping through his system can't compare to the pain he feels when buer seizes his gnosis. this can't be happening. he's done so much to make it this far, only for all of it to come crashing down before him. his mother, his friend, the child, you. you've left a scar on him that he'll never forget. he hates it. you must be smirking to yourself as he falls from the large mech. he misses when you were still by his side, always smiling even when he ordered you to commit something so atrocious as murder.

he acknowledges it now. scaramouche realizes that you were there from the beginning and despite his cruel doings, he was your God. he never needed to go this far, because he was yours. what is this feeling, he wonders. well, it's too late now. scaramouche can only accept defeat, falling, until... he hits something, but it certainly isn't the ground. his eyes can barely stay open from how visibly exhausted he is yet he manages to make out a figure looking down at him. you steadily hold him in your arms and aether rushes to you. "are you sure you want to do this, (y/n)?" he queries. you nod in response, "i'll look after him."

every which way in second, there's a breakthrough.

scaramouche, now being the wanderer, loiters within sumeru with no purpose whatsoever. with no place to go or stay, he explores and occasionally helps the traveler with some of their needs. but it still hurts. even if he's occupied himself with other things, he keeps on thinking about you. it was always you. yet the searing pain makes him wail at night, recalling the way you looked at him like he was... a stranger.

"(y/n)!" for the first time in forever, he genuinely smiled. he was happy that at least, he still had you through this whole wreck. scaramouche had the guts to apologize. coming to think of it, it was a stupid thing from the beginning. he was thankful that you stayed loyal to him and still were at that time, considering the fact that you took care of him when he was unconscious. when nahida informed him of it, he couldn't be more relieved.

you turn at the exclaimation of your name and instantly back away in confusion. "aether, who is this?" your words put scaramouche's movements to a stop and his smile drops. "wh-what do you mean? traveler, what do they mean?" he hurriedly asked, voice cracking in between some words. you furrow your brows together and aether muttered, "they don't remember you,"

he felt the heaviest weight bring itself onto his chest. it's hard to breathe. that's right, he erased himself from the memories of many people, including you. how could he be so blind back then? all he needed, wanted, was someone that could stay by his side forever and love him unconditionally. he knew very well you were immortal, so he wouldn't have to worry about your lifespan. he also knew how much you worshipped him, so he wouldn't have to worry about the potential chance of betrayal, either.

why did he let such a beautiful and caring little thing like you out of his sight?

© scaralvr.

[spikelovesjulia]

credit: HappyBoyWorld  

[loveneverfades]

[spike-and-faye]

COWBOY BRACKET FINAL FIGHT!!!!

Ladies, my god, we've finally made it. THE LAST POLL OF THE COWBOY BRACKET!

Here are the results from the second to last phase last week:

Honestly kind of surprised Real Folk Blues beat Jupiter Jazz! Jupiter Jazz had a strong lead for a while. I'm actually so excited these two ended up being the finals though! The two biggest Spike/Vicious show downs! Also the two episodes most involved in Spike's back story with Vicious and Julia <3 Both of these are basically tied for my favorite besides Hard Luck Woman.

SO HERE WE ARE: THE FINAL POLL!

(difficulty level: berzerker mode)

HAPPY VOTING!!!!!

[sylvies-chen]

I love the ballad of songbirds and snakes, don’t get me wrong. but the streets are comparing coriolanus snow to anakin skywalker and I just… somebody get me a gun! I need to buy a gun!

and listen, I totally get the idea behind it. they’re both young formerly promising men who spiralled downwards into violence and authoritarianism and, as a result, betrayed their best friends and the women they care for. on a basic level, they have some similarities. but again, it’s like… the most BASIC and SURFACE LEVEL comparison to make!

snow is not a fallen angel or tragic doomed hero. the entire point of the book + film was that he was always prone to thinking manipulatively, to being selfish, to being violent, to liking the system too much, to letting not just anger but genuine hatred inform his decisions. HE IS THE VILLAIN. and vader is a villain too— the most iconic villain of all time— but anakin is a whole other story, and coriolanus doesn’t hold a candle to anakin when you compare some deeper elements of their motivations.

first off, you only need to look at how they treat their ladies to understand what I’m saying. everyone loves the heartbreak of anakin and padme just as they love the heartbreak of lucy and snow, but that love for their tragic story seems to blind people to the absolute insanity that is snow’s thoughts about lucy. he lies to her, thinks she’s trying to kill him, her song doesn’t satisfy or please him, and in the books he even goes so far as to say she isn’t even that good looking??? anakin, on the other hand, delivers a minute-long monologue about how deeply in love he is with padme, how a single kiss from her haunts him, how he is willing to utterly devote himself to her and fulfil her every demand because there’s nothing else he can do. he expresses his love in a very immature way at times, but it is real and genuine. tbosas makes you question at times whether coriolanus really loves lucy, or whether just this idea of “taming” her seems appealing.

even their downward spirals are vastly different in nature. coriolanus snow becomes more paranoid in an attempt to maintain his image, in order to keep lucy under his spell. his ambitions are nuanced, not black and white by any means, but they are selfish. anakin’s spiral, though there’s no denying the horrific acts he commits, begins from a place of fear and love. he is so genuinely scared of losing his wife and his unborn children that he becomes susceptible to an outside force manipulating him towards the dark side. anakin also fulfils that element of the shakesperian tragic hero in that there’s this idea of potential that we see so present in him. he’s introduced as the one who would bring balance to the force, someone powerful beyond comprehension, a saviour of sorts. snow was never shown to have that level of promise. he was just a man who existed in a system and it is about him grappling with that system until eventually that disgusting fascist mindset takes over.

and lastly, of course, you can’t ever mention these two in tandem without remembering the fact that anakin did the right thing in the end! and coriolanus did not! luke fought to bring anakin back when vader had taken over for so many years, and in the end it paid off. anakin does the truly selfless thing in sacrificing himself to save luke. he lets love inform his decisions, as he once did before, only the fear is gone and so that love orients him towards good instead of darkness. anakin is a fallen angel, but he’s also a man who loved too much and didn’t know what to do with it. snow, comparatively, admits he isn’t above killing children and then laughs in the face of the masses he’s worked to oppress for over half a century right before his death.

anakin skywalker’s story is of the destruction and reconstruction of his good heart, of light, of balance, of love. it is cyclical, and it is tragic. coriolanus snow’s story is not. it is a story not of something sinister growing in an otherwise good heart, but a story of something sinister unravelling and revealing itself.

they are not the same.

[six-white-venus]

the mundanity of my grief disgusts me.

i go to class late every day and no one knows i'm rotting inside. the sun burns my skin and all i do is sigh because i forgot to bring money for a cab. a scream is forever stuck in my throat; stuck and never let out because that would be considered a public nuisance. my mom asks me what i want and what i want is a break but what I tell her is "anything but dosa" because that's the answer she wants to hear. your emotions are valid but they must be kept under tight wraps from 9am-5pm, 'cause it's important you stay sane during work hours. i sit cross-legged in my ratty sweatpants and write poetry and the hypocrisy of it sickens me to no end because ultimately i don't care as much as i should about the things i write. no, all i can think of is that i need to stop and start studying plant physiology. you can write odes and ballads about decay and call autumn the season of fallen angels but you still won't spare a glance at the pile of dried leaves on the side of the road because you can't be late to work.

you're sad but it's not hip or cool or pretty or even significant. i keep looking at the clock when i break down because I can't waste more than 30 minutes on this, that's plenty of time to wrap up all my drama and prepare for tomorrow's paper presentation. no one gives a fuck about your day but they should. it should be on the goddamn news, broadcasted on every channel because it's your day. a whole day. a day of your life, your world, your everything. no one cares but they should. but does it really matter, being on the news? no one watches the news anyway. oh look, you're out of groceries. you miss your mom's cooking. you seem to have a permanent headache these days and think of calling your uncle because he's a doctor. was. was a doctor. he's dead now. right. you're still out of groceries. wake, sleep, rinse, repeat.

the mundanity of my grief disgusts me. can someone burn down this world? i'd do it myself, but i have an exam this thursday.