#cw: memory loss

[lynxgriffin]

Eldritchrune - A Visit to Seam's Seap

Story Setup Eldritchrune Masterpost

Sometime after recruiting Berdly, the Fun Gang encounter Seam once again. Seam offers Kris some advice about the future, but nothing comes for free!

[vocesincaput-arc]

@saunteringserpent liked for a starter [x]

He didn't know how, why or when he had appeared, wandering around the streets with nothing to whatever name he was supposed to have. Not even clothes upon his back.

Luckily, someone sympathetic had found him and taken pity. Giving him some clothes and food. Unfortunately, they couldn't keep him under their roof or give him any medical aid for his apparent lack of memory and so took him to a homeless shelter.

He had been living there for some time on and off, sometimes on the streets. Now he was sat on the side of a mostly empty street. Hair unkempt and a short beard upon his jaw. All hope of remembering anything about his past or who he was had left him and he was spending his day as he come to the past week or so.

Staring off into empty space as the world passed him by.

He was so lost in the emptiness that he didn't realised he was being watched.

[shipsgaysfordays]

so, i’ve had the idea for an absolutely heart wrenching story, slightly based on [SPOILERS] both the end of spiderman no way home and based a bit on the fate of donna noble in doctor who, and honestly a little bit based on mary macdonald’s fate as well

this sort of works for the @wolfstarmicrofic prompt forget from a few days ago

it’s hurt and kinda left off with no resolution

cw: talks of forced memory loss, general mental health issues

sirius gets out of azkaban and is just a broken person. is barely able to function anymore because of the amount of time they’ve been tortured and meant to believe that they did a crime that they never did. and remus sees this pain and sense of brokenness in sirius, and remus used to know how to help and how to heal the bits that he could heal, but he doesn’t know what to do anymore.

and one day it’s all so much. sirius is having a major breakdown, and is feeling this overwhelming feeling of rage, screaming and screaming at everything around them. the walls. the tv. the couch. and at remus. yells all through the apartment, silencing spells over and over on the door so their neighbors don’t hear them. for hours on end, switching into being padfoot for a period of time and howling and scratching, until zey’re human voice is healed and can get back to the screams.

and remus doesn’t know what to do, and remus thinks of mary for a moment. how much happier she seemed to not have him in her life anymore, and so remus asks, “would you rather just forget me? forget all of this?”

and that gets zer to stop, staring at zis former lover, “what--what are you talking about? remus, no, no, just because i’m--no moony.”

“but you would be so much happier, can you honestly say that you ever feel happy anymore?”

“happiness isn’t everything.”

“but it’s something, and i can’t leave you like this and i don’t want to leave you, but i don’t know how to help anymore. i just don’t.”

“remus...i couldn’t forget.....i can’t, please moony,” as remus steps closer and closer to them, sirius backs away more and more. “YOU CAN’T TAKE AWAY ALL THAT’S LEFT OF ME!”

“but think of mary, she’s--she’s doing so much better.”

“she’s ignorant to the majority of her life,” the vile in zer words attack remus far more than the screams were ever able to, yet still remus continues.

“but she’s in an ignorant bliss.”

there is a moment of quiet, remus wonders if sirius may be coming around to the idea until:

“would you have done this to yourself...if i didn’t come back, would you have?”

“i don’t know,” remus shrugs.

“then why are you doing it to me?”

“because you deserve to have joy again.”

“and you don’t?”

“i don’t know.”

tears begin to drop from sirius’ eyes, “i will never forgive you for this, any last bit of me that remains, it will hate you.”

“you already do, leaving this idea here won’t change that.”

“yes, but if we just leave this idea here then maybe i can love you again.”

“i can’t take that chance, you deserve to have something.”

“why can’t that something be you? why can’t it be this? why is the best option ‘putting me out of my misery’ and erasing my memory?”

“i don’t know how.”

sirius sighs, “just listen to me, just be here, please. don’t erase all that’s left.”

[gloriousclio]

Visited my Datta today, I thought we had a good visit, her beloved Vikings won, etc. She seemed pretty with it? Her hearing aide was in, she was struggling a bit to hear Grandpa, but that's just the reality. She was in high spirits! She did keep asking me why I was going on my trip alone. But it felt good. She ate some, drank some coffee.

And then I said goodbye, Minnesota long-goodby'd it (Hell will freeze over before Grandpa lets me leave his house empty handed), and then headed home.

I had been home an hour when she called me, "how come you left all of a sudden? You could have stayed for fish!" Datta, I hugged you and kissed you goodbye. Datta, I lingered in your doorway. Datta, Grandpa walked me to my car and slipped me $40.

Datta your memory is failing you.

Anyway, I feel terrible now. She sounded so upset.

"I looked up and you were gone."

[sparkly-key]

To fall for you, to cling to you

"What's it like?" Aziraphale asked one day in 2014, when he and Crowley were plastered beyond belief. "Falling, that is." And because the demon trusted him and was maybe feeling especially vulnerable after the alcohol, Crowley told him.

Content warnings: Memory loss, depictions of serious injury, burns, falling, BAMF Crowley, Demon Aziraphale, Dramatic AF Aziraphale, imprisonment

Written for Whumptober 2023 - Day 30 – “It’s OK just to say ‘I’m not OK’” | Borrowed clothes | Bridal carry | “Not much longer …” Yes, October is over, but the whump remains.

On AO3

Soho, 2014

"What’s it like?” Aziraphale asked, the timbre of his words strange as he spoke them into the bowl of a wine glass – both muffled and reverberating.

“Watsss wat like?” Crowley slurred after he swallowed a mouthful of burgundy nectar. Angel was too drunk to admonish him for not properly tasting the rich, dry notes or savoring the full bouquet but that was the difference between their imbibing. Aziraphale liked the flavor, the complexity of the wine – And Crowley just liked getting drunk.

He leaned forward, seemingly spineless as his chest pressed his knees and he fumbled through the empty bottles littering the coffee table until he found a vessel with wine still in it. He hissed triumphantly and filled his glass to the brim.

“Falling.” Aziraphale spoke the word with such hesitation, such fear that Crowley lifted his gaze to the angel’s face. The blond stared down into his glass, his face flushed from the apples of his cheeks to the tips of his ears.

Normally, Crowley might snap and hiss at the coercion, unwilling to delve into his trauma for mere curiosity. But his head was buzzing with wine, and his tongue was loosened – this was Aziraphale, not some angel or demon seeking to open old wounds. Maybe because he was shitfaced, his brain fuzzy and his body lax. Maybe it was because of the amount of time they were spending together as Warlock’s godfathers, but if there was one being he might be inclined to trust ...

He took another gulp of the wine and slouched back against the divan, his red locks falling away from his face as he stared up at the ceiling.

“’Ts like drowning,” he muttered.

The pair of them had bumped into each other on plenty of ships, when Crowley was a pirate and Aziraphale was an officer in His Majesty’s Royal Navy; when Crowley had stood on the walls of Troy and spied the angel’s brilliant white toga and shining (invisible to mortals) wings on the bow of Greek ship.

“’Cept, ‘stead of water, it’s fire you’re drowning in,” he added, closing his eyes.

They knew what it was like to drown, even if their bodies didn’t comprehend the finality of it.

To this day, Crowley still felt it. Remembered screaming for mercy as Her power burned his tongue and incinerated his Grace from every atom of his soul, scorching him from the inside out. His wings curled around him, embers blackening the feathers down to the quick. His ribs cracked and crumbled with the weight of Her rejection, propelling him further from Her Glory. His eyes burned, Heaven’s light fading to first a pinprick and then nothing, as he plunged into the sulfur pit. Hellfire engulfed him, burning and rotting away at his flesh.

He bolted upright, his jaw clenched to keep from screaming.

Aziraphale was at his side in an instant, hands outstretched to – hold him down? No, Aziraphale would never – heal the bones he was certain had once again split? No no no no n-

Crowley twisted away from the angel, throwing himself off the divan in his desperation to put some distance between them.

“My dear, I-I'm sorry – ” Aziraphale stammered, recoiling. He wrung his hands as the demon scrambled to his feet. “Wait, please- Crowley -”

Crowley waved him off and fled the bookshop, climbing into the Bentley outside. The doors locked behind him, muffling the outside world as Crowley rested his head against the steering wheel and screamed, fury and pain pouring into every decibel. The car quaked as a bolt of lightning struck it, making pedestrians cast worried glances at it as they gave the smoking vehicle a wide berth.

The demon howled until he was hoarse, his throat raw and his chest heaving as he gulped in air. His face contorted as he sobered up, ridding his body of the poison that had convinced him to be vulnerable, and he gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles were white.

WIth a ragged breath, he lifted his head and met Aziraphale’s eyes as the angel watched from the bookshop.

Hissing, Crowley slammed his foot on the gas and sped away from the shop.

Heaven, 2019

Crowley snarled as his knees hit the ground, one of the angel’s hands firmly on his shoulder. His other guard had the tip of his spear at the demon’s back, the miniscule prick he felt when he fidgeted a subtle reminder of its proximity.

He looked up, his golden eyes climbing tiers of angels circling him in the rotunda, and his skin crawled with familiar terror. (The shackles around his wrists and ankles dropping away from him a second before the clouds parted beneath him, plunging him to the Earth.) His head pounded and his mouth felt dry as his heart slammed against his chest.

Where was Aziraphale?

He shifted slightly, ignoring the guard’s threatening jab, and lowered his gaze to focus on the manacles. They were heavy around his wrists, but they didn’t burn or scar like iron would and he could feel their confines on his powers, quelling them.

There was a quiet thunder as the entire Heavenly Host assembled rose to their feet, their attention drawn to the figures entering the room in their pristine white suits – Gabriel and the Metatron.

The pair stepped onto the dais and flanked the ornate gold throne in the center. Crowley’s lips curled at its emptiness.

“Look, I-I-I’m quite sure if I can just … just reach the right people, that I can get this sorted out,” Aziraphale stammered, his eyes wide and pleading for Crowley to …

To do what? Understand? Give him a chance?

How had he not figured it out yet?

Crowley stepped forward, closing the distance between them. “There aren’t any right people,” he bit out, “there’s just God, moving in mysterious ways – and not TALKING to ANY of us!”

“Well, yes, that is why I am going to have a word with the Almighty and then the Almighty will fix this,” the angel tittered, wiggling his fingers out of nervousness. He gave a little nod, as if he’d gotten it all figured out.

But he hadn’t. Because God had turned Her back on Earth centuries ago.

“Zachabiel, Bazariel, bring the prisoner forward,” Gabriel commanded.

 Crowley snarled as the angels grabbed his arms, dragging him to the base of the dais.

“Demon Crowley, you have been charged with and found guilty of interfering with the Great Plan and thwarting the Almighty,” the Supreme Archangel declared, his voice filling the rotunda. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

“Yeah, fuck off,” Crowley spat. “You have no right –“

Gabriel held up a wrinkled piece of paper, Beelzebub’s signature angrily burning on the document. “Arrangements have been made.”

“Hell will receive its pound of flesh,” the Metatron announced with a nod of finality. “It takes a truly terrible crime for us to collaborate with the Opposition, but God’s Will must be obeyed.”

“That’s rich,” the demon snorted, rolling his eyes.

Gabriel pressed his lips together, his mouth disappearing into a thin line. His violet eyes flared in anger.

“For your crimes, you have been sentenced to an eternity in prison,” the brunet intoned, nodding to the angels trapping him.

Crowley threw back his head and cackled, the raucous laugh echoing. “You – you think whatever punishment you can deal out will be worse than what I have suffered at Hell’s hand?” the redhead howled, collapsing against the guard. His belly hurt from laughter.

“Enough!” The Metatron snapped, waving his hand.

The demon gagged on the cloth that filled his mouth, silencing him as his captors dragged him to the side of the dais. They forced him to knees, his body bent so his forehead nearly pressed against the cool marble floor, and crossed their spears over his neck, trapping him.

The great golden doors creaked as they opened. The angelic audiences erupted in whispers and conversation, the noise filling the chamber. Crowley craned his neck as far as he could to see the newcomers.

Aziraphale was dressed in barely light gray robes, like those worn before Eden, flanked by two angels in golden armor.

“Crowley!” he gasped, his gait faltering. The chain threaded between his wrists and ankles pulled taut as he reached out for the demon.

“Mmph!” the demon shouted, struggling. The spears wrenched lower, the wooden shafts biting into his neck.

“Move,” one of Aziraphale’s guards ordered, shoving him closer to the dais.

“Principality Aziraphale,” Gabriel declared, his voice booming to be heard over the cacophony of voices.

The angelic chorus died down, until only a few whispers remained.

“You have been charged with and found guilty of interfering with the Great Plan and thwarting the Almighty,” the Supreme Archangel continued. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

Crowley watched Aziraphale square his shoulders, his chin lifted in defiance.

“Only that it truly is Ineffable,” the Guardian of the Eastern Gate declared, “that you would pass judgement on me when the Almighty Herself has not –“

“I am the Metatron, to speak to me is to speak to God,” the silver-haired angel retorted sharply. “The Almighty –“

 “As the Almighty spoke to Moses on Mount Sinai, ‘thou shall have no gods before me,’” Aziraphale interrupted loudly before giving a thin, chilling smile.

His words fanned the few whispered words into a chorus of shouts and gasps as the angels protested vehemently, damning him.

A chill ran down Crowley’s spine as the pieces fell into place.

Hell would get its pound of flesh.

On the air strip in Tadfield, Aziraphale had uttered the first hint that he had understood Crowley. God wasn’t talking to anyone, the demon had said, and when the angel brought up the Ineffable Plan, Crowley had thought he was grasping at straws, offering any excuse to avert another war.

No. It had been Aziraphale conceding.

Nobody knew what the fuck the Almighty wanted because She had shut herself away from Earth, Heaven and Hell altogether.

“SILENCE!” the Metatron shouted, all of Heaven shaking from the weight of his command. “For your crimes, Aziraphale, you will be cast out of Heaven, to join those who have questioned Her and Her Plan. I sentence you to eternal Damnation.”

Aziraphale’s eyes flicked to him as the demon screamed, trying to twist his body and free himself from his captors. The angel’s smile softened, almost apologetic.

That bastard.

He knew before he had entered the chamber what his fate would be.

Crowley felt it first, the air crackling before the ground split in front of Aziraphale, his feet sliding toward the abyss. He could feel Hell’s power surging as it reached for its latest soldier and Crowley desperately grabbed hold of it, shattering his shackles and knocking his guards back.

“Aziraphale!” he shouted, his gag disappearing but his mouth dry as the desert that surrounded them.

He and Aziraphale were standing on the Wall of Eden, the angel falling backward off the parapet.

Crowley lunged forward, seizing Aziraphale’s hand in both of his own. His feet scraped against stone as Hell pulled, slowly dragging the Falling angel down.

“Wha-“ Aziraphale grasped. His other hand closed over Crowley’s, his grip strong enough to break a normal being’s bones.

His face twisted in agony as his Grace began to wither and burn.

“You can’t … have him, you bastards!” Crowley snarled. His onyx wings unfurled behind him and he beat them furiously against the pull, the gusts whipping through their clothes and hair. His head pounded and his body screamed with effort. Sweat started to bead on his brow, his power draining rapidly. “I won’t LET you!”

His body burned in a way it hadn’t for millennia as he warred against Hell and Heaven’s Might to keep his Angel from falling. He was pulling from his reserves, the effort eating away at his core.

“Crowley … let me … go,” Aziraphale ground out. Centuries of pain was etched into his soft face and his beautiful blue eyes were filled with tears. His hand was still clenched around Crowley’s, his nails digging into the demon’s flesh.

“Never,” Crowley vowed, even as his knees struck the battlement. His grip faltered and he pitched forward slightly as Aziraphale sank further. He felt an odd sort of cold seep into his bones. “You don’t – you shouldn’t be – you don’t deserve this, angel.”

He could feel his strength flagging. Cold sweat drenched his hair and clothes and his breath was escaping in short, labored gasps as his power drained.

Aziraphale choked, his body starting to burn in the demon’s grasp. Or was Crowley freezing from the inside out.

“I … I … can’t … lose you,” Crowley insisted.

In spite of the pain, Aziraphale’s face softened for a second. “Dearest ...”

Crowley, his hands slick with sweat, watched as Aziraphale’s hands slipped from his.

All of Heaven - the multitude of angels standing with their fists raised in condemnation and mouths gaping in shock, Aziraphale’s and his guards stepping back, as if they too would fall into the crevice, Gabriel and Metatron watching in cold smugness – snapped back to motion as Crowley and Aziraphale Fell.

Aziraphale’s tortured shrieks shattered Crowley’s eardrums as they plunged, the wind roaring around them. The demon’s throat was raw from his own screams. No matter how fast the demon rocketed downward, Aziraphale fell faster, just out of Crowley’s reach.

Aziraphale’s pearly white wings burned, embers eating away at the vane and after feather to the shaft. Obsidian flooded his eyes, overtaking the heavenly blue that had once colored his Iris.

His black gaze met Crowley’s, but there was no recognition in them, only pain as the pair plummeted through the atmosphere, down through the rocky layers of the Earth’s surface.

With snarl, Crowley pushed himself further, hands outstretched until they closed around Aziraphale’s. He hissed in pain as his angel’s fingers – nails sharpened into talons – sank into his flesh. He pulled the blond against him, clinging to the writhing form.

Aziraphale screeched as they plunged into the Sulphur pit, the molten liquid filling their lungs. Where Crowley only felt warmth, the lava burned at his angel’s flesh and soul, eating away at the last of his Grace. His thrashing sent them deeper into the pit.

When Aziraphale went limp in his grasp, Crowley dragged their bodies to the surface. It was slow progress, his angel threatening to slip from his grasp at every stroke. He struggled against gravity until his feet found purchase at the edge of the pit.

With a grunt, he shifted Aziraphale’s form until he was cradled against Crowley’s chest, his arms wrapped around the redhead’s neck. His robe was pitch black, matching Crowley’s clothes, as it dragged through the lava.

He staggered out of the pit and deposited his angel on the rocks. Exhausted, he curled protectively around the tortured frame. His chest heaved with each breath he took, but it matched the rhythm of Aziraphale’s shallow gasps and there was an odd sort of comfort.

Hours passed before the sound of somebody approaching forced him upright, his teeth barred threateningly as he shielded Aziraphale’s body.

“Hello Crowley,” Beelzebub greeted as zi perched on top of an outcropping of rocks close enough to confer but still at a distance. “I wazn’t expecting you.”

The snake hadn’t returned to Hell since Aziraphale and his scheme and the Prince regarded him with even more distrust than usual. Zi didn’t know how to deal with Crowley so zi had bartered him away to Heaven.

Crowley didn’t bother to bow. “Either fuck off or I’ll rip your liver out through your throat,” he hissed as he glared at zir.

Beelzebub’s lip twitched.

“My lord,” the snake tacked on mockingly.

“Can’t I welcome Satan’s newez subject?” Zi asked. Zi rested zir elbow on zir knee, the picture of ease. But Crowley could smell zir trepidation. “After all, I gave up one of my best operativezzz to get zem.”

“You can’t have him,” Crowley snarled, rising to his feet. The few hours of respite had done wonders for his strength, but there was still a quiver in his legs as he straightened. “And you didn’t give me up, I retired – Not on your side anymore, am I? Even before you sold me out to those fuckers.”

 “Which still makes you a traitor, Crowley. And currently a weak one.” Beelzebub gave a sharp smile. “Course, I don’t have to be the ones to dirty my hands with you. Zere’s plenty of demonzzz and angelzz who’d like to put you in your place … unless there’s a reason I shouldn’t turn you over to Heaven?”

Crowley’s lips curled and he barred his teeth further, his fists clenched. “I’ll owe you,” he answered, his jaw set. “You let me go and I’ll owe you a favor.”

“And what about him?” Zi jerked zir head toward his angel.

He followed zir gaze, taking in Aziraphale’s prone form. He was still raw from the pit, but there were patches of flesh pink from healing and the start of new growth on his wings.

Crowley was always one for a gamble. Playing the odds was interesting, a way to amuse himself. But he didn’t usually include Aziraphale in his risks.

“I’ll owe you two,” he spat.

“Handy, that,” the Prince mused. Zi seemed to mull it over. “Fine, Crowley, I won’t turn you in, but I won’t stop the demons from looking for you either – that’s as far as I’ll go.”

The redhead struggled not to let his shoulders sag in relief. “What about if Heaven asks?” he pressed.

“Not my fault those winged wankerzz can’t do zeir bloody jobzzz,” Beelzebub replied as zi stood. Zi adjusted the fly on zir head, its multitude of ruby eyes fied on Crowley. “I’d get a move on, Crowley.”

Zi ambled off.

With a curse, Crowley gathered Aziraphale in his arms. His angel whimpered as the demon’s grip brushed against burns and he stiffened against Crowley.

Aziraphale’s still-pearly curls tickled his nose every time he inhaled, filling Crowley’s nostrils with a scent that smelled like nothing, nothing like the cologne the bookkeep preferred.

“I’ll keep you safe, angel,” he promised fervently as he staggered toward the caves nearby. It was a place they could hide while Aziraphale recuperated. Occasionally, he stumbled, falling to his knees as he fought to keep pressed against him. He could feel the blood on his shin and calves, the flesh broken.

With a groan, he laid his angel in the recess of a cavern. Aziraphale’s breathing had evened out, no longer sounding like a death rattle with every exhalation.

Crowley brushed Aziraphale’s locks away from his face, noting the way the white strands had become mottled with gray at the end of the shafts. It was still soft and silky, curling every which way.

Stifling a yawn, the redhead shifted his touch to Aziraphale’s wings. He plucked the burnt feathers carefully, cringing each time a tiny mew escaped his angel’s lips and muttering hushed apologies. The feathers regrew slowly, their coloration mimicking the blond’s hair.

The hours – days passed with intolerable sloth, the minutes filled with Aziraphale’s hushed noises of pain and cries as he healed.

“N-n-no,” the blond cried, curling up on the cave floor as his knees pressed against his chest. “Please … please don’t –“

“Shhhhh,” Crowley soothed, curling around the angel, his arms wrapped around his chest. He’s refused to wince as Aziraphale’s talons claws raked his arms, tearing up strips of flesh.

“Not much longer,” Crowley observed days later, watching as the violent red and black burns decorating Aziraphale’s body metamorphosed into creamy flesh. It was soft under his touch, almost too giving for a demon. But it wasn’t as if his angels was typical, even before his Fall.

The redhead’s fingers trailed over the mark decorating his angel’s neck, following the whirls and swoops of the owl’s form as the bird lifted its wings behind him. The black design flowed behind his ear, into his hair.

“It’s alright,” he soothed as his angel whimpered. Hesitantly, he thought of all the times he’d woken in the aftermath of horrible nightmares and the gentle touches he’d wished for from his angel. How he’d wished for Aziraphale’s warm embrace around him or for those soft hands to caress his cheek.

Trembling, Crowley bent his head to Aziraphale’s and pressed a gentle kiss to his temple.

Aziraphale – shit, he was going to have to get used to a new name, once his angel chose it – woke with a start as Crowley’s lips left his forehead and he screeched, scrambling away from the demon. His black eyes blinked owlishly at Crowley, his gaze intent.

“Who are you?! Where am I?” he stammered, his back pressed against the cave wall.

Crowley’s heart dropped, recalling for the first time, the empty house of memories that plagued the Fallen.

[blueamaranth]

My entry for the 2022 Unsounded fanwork contest, which just ended! (I like to keep these out of the tags until the voting is over.) I went for something structurally very different from last year's piece, but there are some common themes. I got the idea to write a story about memory and the khert from one of my favorite Unsounded fics, A Drop Filled With Memories by Irheh.

[marauders-tiktok-curator]

but I know that I lost you

[vocesincaput]

The thought of that memory loss meme has sent my head into over drive.

Because the idea of members of the crew not remembering others is just.....

so much angst potential. And that is what my head is wanting a ton of today it seems.

[sephir-amy]

coping thoughts below the cut

I find when we talk about cognitive decline, we talk a lot about the difficulty of memory loss, but I don't see a lot that discusses that sometimes it's the juxtaposition of the loss with what is remembered.

every time I see my grandma, currently a few times a week, she asks how our cat Aria is doing. she remembers how soft her fur was, how she used to cuddle up in her lap, she remembers how much she loves this cat. then I have to say, as I do every time, "I'm so sorry grandma, Aria isn't with us, anymore".

Aria passed away 3 years ago.

but all my grandma remembers is that she loves this cat that we owned. she is surprised by the news that I surprised her with on the last visit and the one before that. she cries whenever she learns it, again.

[doublegoblin]

Memory Leak

Jan 1 2045

Dear Diary,

Hello Diary,

Good Morning Diary

Diary Entry 1,

Sorry to waste all this space diary

Screw it I’ll figure this out later. Hello me! Hope when you are reading this things are going good. Just in case you don’t remember (hopefully you fill this out every day but we both know the dumb bitch writing this) you got this journal to kind of keep track of your day to day life. Hurray for new year resolutions!!! So I know the question on your mind ( I mean in my mind right now) why all the different greetings? Well you pretentious bitch because you decided to “keep the integrity of your history” or some dumb shit like that ha ha. Not because you can’t find a pencil with a good enough eraser to not fuck up the paper ;P. So yeah happy journal keeping. This entry is such shit since you drug your ass out of bed at twelve fuckin A.M. and fuck all has happened so far. So sunshine is going back to bed. Fingers crossed for entry two 2. No sign offs yet. Feels kinda cringe.

Jan 2 2045

Attention Captain Shithead,

Congrats you’ve maintained this goal for a second day in a row. You had a pretty nice day at work. Dave stopped by your office for a quick non-work related chat. He must of got a new cologne as a gift since he lingered for a while after his ass left. It was that cheap shit they say is expensive for the holiday. Fuckin motor oil and skunk. Maybe he knew and purposely let his funk diffuse out. Oh well. Overlord Jarod however also stopped by. The fuckin Litch lookin ass was actually quite pleasent. No bonus this new year but can’t expect much. Lunch sucked. Dinner wasn’t any better. Hopefully you’ve gotten that stove fixed by the time you pick this back up. Oh you didn’t say anything last time (and I’m not about to fill it in for you) but you feel like it’s a good sign. This month and year starting on Sunday. Feels nice and orderly. Maybe you’ll actually turn your shit around. Maybe you already have? Alright bed is calling your name. Good night Sam. 

Still cringe

Jan 3 2045

Fucking Tuesdays. Harold was throwing a fit about something in the break room during lunch. You had/have a migraine so rather than risk your head exploding you slunk back to your office. Still stinks like fuckin Dave. Going the bed. Sam out.

Jan 4 2045

Salutations Sam,

Yeah that works I guess.

Humpday baby! Fuckin work was pretty okay today. Your office finally doesn’t smell like Ode’ to cheap douche. A lot of meaningless emails back and forth today. Shipping talking about missing packages this and manufacturing complaining about to many people calling in that. Harold (you remember him right? The blowhard with the suspenders that was unleashing sonic warfare yesterday) wasn’t in today. Dude has had a perfect track record since fuckin-ever ago. Oh right! 4663 Yukon Blvd @ 5p.m. Sat. Jarod is taking us all out for a company outing. A little incentive to keep up with this stuff. You aren’t going to write this down anyway. You’ll have a better chance to remember this way. Wanda said to work on rephrasing. Are you still keeping up on that? I hope so. Mom called today. Dad had another fall. He’s okay this time. Neighbors were home and were able to get to him. I keep telling Mom she needs to retire or at least try working from home. I’ll give them a call tomorow after work. Nah. Lunch. Well after that happy note I’m going to bed.

Jan 5 2045

Fuck all happened today. Maybe keeping a journal every day is too much? I guess I don’t have to write a book each time. Just write down the big stuff or the small fun things? Called mom and dad at lunch. Dad’s a little dizzy after the fall but he’s otherwise fine. Didn’t hit anything this time so that’s good. Mom wants to know when I’ll come out and visit. Think I’ll swing by after work on tomorow. Hell maybe even stay the night. She’d be over the moon. Dave was working from home today. Kept sending me these fuckin videos of pets being idiots. He’s a good friend. Even if he distracts me from doing my job. It feels better to write like I and shit. Wanda had a point about taking ownership. I guess thats what I pay her for ha ha. Damn pencil is almost out of lead. Okay I wrote it on a sticky note. Alright going to start packing some luggage for the sleep over. Took longer than I’d want. How did I misplace such a big ass duffle bag? Bed time.

Jan 6 2045

Salutations Sam,

I was right mom is over the moon. Dad was in good spirits too. Hiding in my old room for a second to write. Still not super comfortable letting people know I’m keeping a feelings journal ha ha. Lots of good memories in these walls. Even found my old stash of cigs. Are you still smoke free? I was. Something about that rush of trying to keep it secret. It was only one cig though. Tasted fuckin moldy. 

Jan 7 2045

Salutations Sam,

Mom was on point this morning with the breakfast spread. Dad took his sweet time getting to the table but can’t really blame him. I told them about the company outing. We had a nice morning of just doing nothing. Dad and I actually went out to the pond to cast some lines. One of the blugills had swallowed the hook. Poor thing. Tasted pretty good though. Anyway I’m all re-packed and ready for this whatever it is. I’ll update after I’m back. Maybe I’ll even make a whole new paragraph.

So the company is moving. And I guess…so am I.

Feb 6 2045

Salutations Sam,

Well it’s been a wild few weeks. So to elaborate just in case your memory is foggy. The company moved to a new location and so did you. I mean. I was either going to move or not have a job and I like having heating and food to eat. This new place is maaaaaassive. I mean fuckin huge. The factory alone is like the size of a small town. Thankfully due to the law the office has an elevator. I was not about to walk up 23 flights of stairs. Jarod also took the time to let us know about some downsizing. I haven’t heard from Dave since the move. Why in the hell did we have to get rid of so many people? Surely if we can afford this massive place we can afford to keep people on staff? I knew I should have gotten his number when I had the chance. Maybe I’ll ask around the office and see if anyone has it. At least the drive is nice. Big place but in the middle of nowhere. I have windows in my office now too!

Feb 7 2045

Dad passed.

Feb 13 2045

Mom passed too.

March 6 2045

Salutations Sam,

I’m not sure if it’s the grief or what but something hasn’t been feeling right at work. It feels like we have less and less people everyday. I mean, it is a huge place so maybe I’m just at the wrong place at the wrong time? Whatever. Work is starting to get too much to handle. I think I’m going to take a break writing in this until either I catch up at work or feel better. Wanda says I’ve been making some good strides. Have you?

July 4 2045

Happy Independence day.

Sep 4 2045

Holy shit. I think the world is ending.

Sep 5 2045

Salutations Sam,

So the world isn’t ending. The last season wasn’t great but not that bad. So to catch up. Jarod sent me an email today letting me know I was being promoted. I mean it’s about time. He and I have been basically running this company since day one (even if he doesn’t want to admit it). To celebrate Dave and I went out for a nice dinner. Oh right. I mean you probably know (being me and all ha ha) but Dave and I got married. The bastard wore that awful cologne during our wedding. Would have been nice to have mom and dad there. I think they would be proud of me. I like to think they were there in spirit though (ha ha no pun intended) what with their urns being there and all. He makes me happy. Does he still make you happy? Do you still make him happy? Wanda was right, this journal has been helping. The new meds also help (even if they make my head feel fuzzy). So first thing tomorow I start as co-owner. Dave says I need to quit. He’s just jealous I think. It does feel strange though. Like we’ve been losing more and more people. It’s a big place though. Maybe I’ve just been stuck in the office for too long.

Sep 6 2045

Who’s Jarod? I’ve seen their name a couple times. Man. Dave is right I think I need to talk to my doctor. I built this company from the ground up. Maybe the years are starting to catch up with me. Maybe the meds aren’t working like they used to.

Nov 20 2045

Everyone is gone. Not dead. No just gone. I can’t believe I found this thing in the breakroom. I need to keep my notes again. Everything is getting hazey more and more each day. How big is this fucking building? When was the last time I saw Dave? He went down to the call center weeks ago. I think he’s gone now too. That’s fine. I’m used to being alone. We had a pretty big fight a while ago, before he left. He kept bringing up my parents. I didn’t know my parents. I didn’t like him teasing me.

Nov 21 2045

I hear footsteps throughout the building. Not my foot steps. I think I can also hear someone calling out. That can’t be possible. I’m alone. I think so at least. I hope so. 

I just killed a man. He smelled horrible. Like Motor oil and skunk.

Nov 23 2045

My name is Sam Ramsfield. My name is Sam Ramsfield. My name is Sam Ramsfield.

Dec 18 2-45

Hello Sam,

You sound like you’ve had a pretty rough time. I’m not sure who or where you are. But I found this notebook. Maybe I’m writing to the dead here but maybe just maybe I’m not really alone here. If you are alive (and also not wanting to eat my face) know that you aren’t alone. I’m sorry for my poor manners. You gave me your name but I can’t do the same. Please forgive me. You have very nice handwriting. It looks a lot like mine. Did we know each other? If you find this and find me (it won’t be hard to mistake me I’m most likely the only person in here besides you) please consider these questions and bring answers to them. 

Where did you come from?

Did we know each other (Are we maybe siblings?)

Do you know a way out?

Do you know where the yellow fog came from?

Can we be friends?

I look forward to speaking with you at some point. I’m going to leave this notebook where I found it. I usually wander around the Stone Temple until the large flood light goes dim. When the dark times are coming I make my way to the Clear Wall. The one with the wooden altar. Maybe we can look at the stars together?

Dec 31 2045

Salutations Sam,

Maybe next year will be different.

Sincerely,

SAM

[tangledinink]

Swanatello question: does Sheldon ever get to visit his dad? Does Donnie remember him okay? How is the little guy coping?

It's OK-- Shelldon is alive! And he does visit Donnie sometimes! Donnie has a pretty good track record in recognizing him! While the rest of the family is focused on Donnie, while they do still do some crimefighting, this has, in fact, mostly been taken over by Team Casey! Casey and Casey Jr. (and sometimes Shelldon) have been watching over NYC in the turtles' absence. Donnie typically isn't able to recognize Casey or Casey Jr; he just doesn't know either of them well enough.

[onejellyfishplease]

SnapDonnie, Confusion, Part 3

lol he forgor

(Prev) (Masterpost) (Next)

[hmtaxidermy]

Got this beautiful baby done today <3

He’ll be going home tomorrow.

Photos shared with permission from the customer.

[amaryllidaceaee]

he forgot

[black-aurora-nora]

Irreplaceable Pt. 2 | Yandere!Avengers x Reader

It'd been about three weeks since you'd had your life taken away from you.

You'd been living in the Avengers Tower seeing as you had no where else to go.

When you tried to call your parents the first week, Natasha was the one that decided to tell you that they'd been arrested by SHEILD for having relations with HYDRA.

You didn't believe her, but she was quick to bring you to their holding cells.

You and your parents both knew that it was the Avengers doing, but had no power or evidence to show it.

You'd wept for days after that.

Your ex-friends had really taken everything that had meaning to you.

And now, you were laying across one of the many luxury couches in one of the many common rooms of the tower.

You would much rather be in your room, but Tony made sure that Jarvis locked you out after 9 o'clock. He believed that forcing you out to hang with everyone would get you back to how you used to be. Or at least somewhere close to it.

Sooner or later, you would realize that all of this was for you.

Natasha was sat beside you, legs crossed with wireless earphones in, watching whatever on her phone.

There was always someone with you once you were forced out of your room. You barely got any time alone when you were awake.

Hell, you couldn't even get any time alone at night anymore. The anxiety from having your life taken from you made it impossible to sleep and Tony was quick to get you medicated to help out with that.

You still felt like shit either way.

Steve came strolling into the living area, bidding you both a good morning.

You gave no kind of response, staring forward at nothing in particular, wrapped up in a light blue, fleece blanket that you'd received as a gift from a friend when you'd first gotten ownership of the library.

"Hey, (Y/N), did you eat this morning?" Steve asked, at your lack of answer, he sighed exasperatingly, "Come on, (Y/N), you know that you have to eat. You'll never feel better if you just lay around all day."

Natasha began to stroke your head, trying to get you to pay attention but you quickly slapped her hand away and pushed yourself up into a sitting position.

"I'll never feel better. You guys can sit here and pretend that we're one big happy family, but I'm not playing." You started, voice shaky with anger and sadness, "You never supported me and abused your power to take away my life and made me dependent on you guys. And now you guys want me to be happy?"

Steve and Natasha only stared. Were they taking in your words? Who knows. You didn't care.

"No. I will not give you my happiness or my willing compliance. None of you deserve that part of me anymore."

"I have brought poptarts for Young (Y/N)!" Thor's boisterous voice boomed, a warm plate of freshly toastered poptarts in his hands for you both to share.

At the sullen atmosphere, Thor looked between his friends, "Am I interrupting something?"

"No, Thor. (Y/N)'s just a little hangry. Thanks for bringing the poptarts." Natasha answered for you, gesturing for the god to come over, "You guys eat while Steve and I go find the guys."

You watched the two leave and pushed the plates of poptarts away from your person, leaving Thor in the dust and hiding away in the bathroom, ignoring his calls for you.

You lowered yourself to the cool tile, gripping fistfuls of your hair.

Why?

Why did this have to happen to you?

Why did they do this to you?

You wished there was some way to get out of this, but... where would you even go?

You couldn't survive homelessness in New York. And it'd be increasingly hard to find a job now that you had a criminal record due to your 'friends' planting confidential information in your library.

And even if you did land a job, it wouldn't provide you with a livable wage. You'd be barely surviving.

And could you ever really escape the Avengers?

Though the better question was, could you survive playing family with them? You doubted they would ever grow tired of you.

They really made sure that you had no other choice.

A knock on the door jolted you from your spiraling mental, "(Y/N), what did I tell you about hiding in the bathroom?!" It was Tony, the one you hated the most.

You could feel something in your mind cracking again, somehow worse than when your library was taken. Everything was really starting to close in on you.

These bastards... these bastards really wanted you to be happy for them... like some kind of fucking dog they found abandoned in the freezing cold.

Tony knocked more and you could hear Bruce telling him to ease up, "You're gonna scare them. They'll open it when they're ready."

Oh, but you'd never be ready.

The knocking stopped and you continued to stay seated on the ground, staring at the tile and hands tightly gripping your hair.

Why couldn't they have just left you alone like you'd asked?

You were left alone to your spiraling thoughts, your breathing growing more and more intense. Your heart beat through your chest, screaming and riving to be let out.

Your vision was starting to go spotty. Nothing else mattered but how angry you were. All you could see was bright red.

A scream ripped from your throat, splattering the confined walls of the bathroom and spilling out through the crevices of the closed door.

Pain began to blossom on your head, but you didn't care. You were too angry to care about physical pain.

Why and what were you being punished for?

Why had these demons, calling themselves angels, from hell do everything they could in their power to knock you down to try and piece you back together?

What gave them the right?

Now you were on the bathroom floor losing your mind when you could've been helping a young woman find a good book to check out or having a bagel from across the street while you read at the counter.

"(Y/N)! Goddamnit! (Y/N), STOP!" Bruce was on your back, desperately trying to grab your hands.

You fought against him, screaming to be left alone but he didn't. He just kept your hands away from your head and instructed you to breathe.

Once your breathing was under control, you noticed that something was in your hands and slowly glanced over, whimpering when you'd noticed what you'd done.

Thick clumps of hair were gripped tightly in both your bloodied fists. And there were plenty more strands and clumps decorating the tiled floor around you accompanied by droplets of blood.

You tried to stand up but Bruce kept you on the ground and you growled, "Get off! Let me see!" You snapped, tears welling in your eyes.

"No!" He snapped back, "It's not bad... there's no need to look."

"You're a fucking liar." You sobbed, "All of you are liars!"

Once you'd wept yourself to sleep and had been put to bed early, the team decided to have a late night meeting.

Tony took a swig of his scotch. He rubbed a hand down his face. Everyone was silent, waiting for someone to speak up.

"Ok, they're not adjusting. I admit it." Tony spoke.

"Yeah, just like I'd warned." Natasha reminded coolly.

"We should've went about this more slowly. (Y/N) could've easily been coaxed to live here." Clint added, arms crossed.

Steve shook his head, "No, they loved that library way too much... worked too hard to get it. They never would've left that library for us."

Bruce tapped a finger against the table impatiently, "We have to do something. We can't carry on like everything's normal," He had a hard frown stuck on his face, "(Y/N) is not ok. We brought them here for their own good and they seem to be doing worse than ever."

They all went silent again. What were they going to do?

Natasha's eyes sparked and she looked over at Clint with a knowing gaze, "Clint, isn't there an agent with memory-altering abilities?"

Clint visibly brightened at that, "Agent Keller."

_______________________________________________

"(Y/N), it's time to wake up. Steve is almost finished making breakfast downstairs." JARVIS spoke calmly.

With a big stretch, you yawned and rolled out of bed. A dull throb throughout your head made it's presence known and you winced slightly, making your way to the common area.

"Hey, everybody!" You called out.

"(Y/N)!" Steve greeted, "You made it just in time. I just finished the banana pancakes, you want any eggs and bacon before they get taken?" He asked.

You shrugged, nodding tiredly, "Yeah, I'll have some."

Everyone began to make their way to the table, plates stacked with food.

Tony was the last to arrive, smiling at you carefully, "How's your head feeling?"

You smiled back, a fond smile, "A little sore... but the medicine you gave me is making it manageable."

Clint nodded at that, "Yeah, having your hair ripped off by a beggar will do that." He teased.

You chuckled back, "Yeah... also... I had a crazy ass dream last night. I was a bookkeeper with a whole book store. A bookkeeper, can you guys believe that?" You ate a bite of eggs with a thoughtful gaze, "But... it was so nice."

Natasha hummed at that, her chin resting in her hand as she stared at you quizzingly, "But not as nice as being here with us, right?"

You shook your head, "No, I suppose not."

[sparkly-key]

A small kindness

Aziraphale returns to Earth after weeks in Heaven, covertly slipping messages to Crowley about the Second Coming so they can figure out a way to thwart it. He should have known better than to think he could keep secrets in Heaven.

Whumptober 2023 Day 9 - "Learning everything ain't what it seems, that's the thing about these days" | Polaroid | Mistaken Identity | "You're a liar"

The panels of lights passed over Aziraphale’s body as he ascended into Heaven, his mouth a thin line.

This wasn’t tickety-boo. Not good at all. In fact, it was looking rather disastrous.

---

“Muriel?” he called as he stepped over the bookshop threshold, the bell cheerfully tinkling above him. “Are you here?”

His favorite scrivener popped their head out from around the corner of a bookcase.

“Supreme Archangel Aziraphale! Hello!” they greeted, tossing something to the ground.

Aziraphale fought hard not to wince at the noise of books clattering to the floor. “My dear, I told you the title isn’t necessary.”

“Oh. Sorry.” A crease appeared between their brow for a second before Muriel’s smile bloomed. “It’s just confusing. You telling me not to call you that. And The Metatron telling me I have to.”

The Archangel’s smile faltered. “The Metatron was here?”

“Oh yes,” Muriel informed him. “Just last week.”

“I see,” Aziraphale murmured, his mind racing. “Muriel, do you know where Crowley is?”

“Oh, I haven’t seen him since last week.” They picked up a full cup of tea and held it out to him. “Since just before the Metatron asked me where he was. I told him he was at the duck pond this time of day usually. Cuppertea?”

“N-no, I’m sorry, I don’t have time,” he apologized, fidgeting with his bowtie. “I’ll be back shortly, my dear.”

“Oh. Would you like me to wait for you? Ms. Sandwich said young women – that’s me. I’m a young woman here, apparently! – should always have somebody waiting for them at home and since this was your home, I thought it might be good to have somebody like myself waiting for you.”

Aziraphale smiled kindly at the scrivener. “Thank you, Muriel, but there’s no need.”

His throat closed up for a second. “And you should really think of the shop as your home as well. You’re doing a good job with it.”

The nearly blinding smile directed at him buoyed his spirits significantly.

---

The elevator dinged pleasantly as the doors parted and Aziraphale left the metal box, striding briskly toward the Metatron’s office.

“What did you do,” the Supreme Archangel snapped, planting his face on either side of the impressive oat desk and leaning toward the Voice of God on Earth.

“I merely thought our plans would be more effective this way,” the Metatron explained, reclining slightly in his office chair. “You can’t focus properly on the Second Coming if your attention is being split between that and Crowley.”

He tapped a stack of papers on his desk, their handwritten content more elegant than the efficiently typewritten forms in his outbox.

Aziraphale stilled, recognizing the documents. “You’ve been reading my journal.”

“Of course I did,” the Metatron said briskly. “You didn’t expect to have secrets from Heaven, did you?”

--

Aziraphale breathed a small sigh of relief when he saw the familiar figure on the bench by the duck pond, newspaper unfolded in front of his face. He nervously straightened his vest, picking off an imaginary piece of lint.

Well, no use putting off the tongue lashing Crowley was sure to give him.

“Lovely weather we’re having, my dear,” the angel greeted as he sat next to the redhead.

The newspaper remained in place. “You’re looking for the Swedish prime minister. He’s here on Wednesdays.”

Aziraphale’s smile wavered. He should have known Crowley would be like this, bitter over his departure. He thought the coded messages he’d been sending would have soothed at least some of the sting from their last encounter but apparently not.

“No, I assure you, I’m not,” Aziraphale insisted. “I’m here for you, Crowley.”

The demon lowered the periodical and peered over at the angel from behind his glasses. “Do I know you?”

“Oh not this bit,” the blond sighed, thinking about the time with Furfur, with Saraquel. “We’ve known each other for 6,000 years. You’re my best friend.”

Crowley frowned, concentrating. For a second, Aziraphale thought he saw a glimmer of recognition, but it transformed into a grimace of pain. “Nothing coming to mind.”

It wasn’t a lie, Aziraphale realized. It was all too similar to Jim.

He needed Crowley to remember, if they were going to figure out how to thwart the Second Coming. He needed Crowley’s harebrained schemes and clever mind to see the flaws in Heaven’s plot. He reached out toward Crowley, a bit of Grace on his fingers to heal this ailment, but the demon flinched and recoiled from him.

“Get that thing away from me,” Crowley hissed, his glasses slipping slightly.

Aziraphale could see the yellow filling his eyes, pupils their typical narrow slits. In al their years, Crowley had never been afraid of him.

Crowley took advantage of his pause to jump to his feet, the newspaper falling to the ground.

“Wait! No, don’t go,” Aziraphale pleaded, drawing back. He clasped his hands in front of him and stood, aware of the way Crowley was tense and ready to flee. “I-I’m sorry. I was mistaken. No need to spoil your day.”

The angel hurried off.

---

“You should have left him out of this,” Aziraphale snapped, his hands curling. He dug his fingers into his palms, the whisper of pain nothing compared to the ache in his heart. “If you had told me, I would have stopped. I wouldn’t have –“

“But you did,” the Metatron interrupted, rising. “I wasn’t lying, Aziraphale, when I said Heaven needed someone who thinks outside the box. But Heaven needs somebody dedicated to this task. And even the thought of Crowley corrupts you.”

The Voice of God circled his desk, coming to stand toe to toe with the newly promoted Archangel. “If anything, I was being kind. You should have seen him, Aziraphale, an utter mess, moaning about losing his best friend and never being enough. You did that to him.”