#self para too ??

[saltandskeletrons]

Hamilton was one of the first pop culture medias I was really into with a cheating plot line and I was like damn. Can’t believe this guy threw away his successful career he dedicated his whole life to and incredible wife and family for one hook up. I should not have been surprised Apparently this is very common and easy for men.

[blue-madd]

Write about your paracosms!!

I just read back some stuffs I wrote about a paracosm I created based on a dream like 5-7 years ago and I am sobbing. Yes, it's written badly. Yes, I'm judging myself a little but still-

Most of it is nonsense since I forgot some of the lore (like there are a lot of characters being mentioned with absolutely 0 clue of who they are & I can't remember shit about them so it's v frustrating) but I'm so happy I still thought about writing and keeping parts of this story because it's amazing and exciting and I'm so proud of myself, I can't believe my brain came up with all of that based on one fucked up dream!?

My point is : write it down. Doesn't need to be well written or make 50 pages but one day your future self might find it back and be amazed at how creative you are. One day, you might miss these worlds so keep a trace of it to help you remember how awesome they are.

These will make good memories to look back to, I promise.

[drrutherford]

May, 2024.

It starts like this; his father offers him a cigar. And Gideon declines.

"Now you're too good for my old cigars?"

It's a poisoned dart. His nerves begin to thrum. "That's not-... It has nothing to do with that." He defends, following Andrew into his office. "I'm just thinking if I win this case it'll mean that I'll have Felix around a lot more so I'm trying to- I probably shouldn't..."

There's a puff of smoke from the lit Cohiba Siglo, the bitter coffee scent singes his nostrils even at a distance. Andrew exhales sardonically. "Ah, yes. A model father."

Gideon looks at him. Really looks, and sees, perhaps for the first time, what he's failed to see these last few years. The flash of insecurity-resentment in his father's chestnut eyes, the wiry hair – more salt than pepper these days – frown lines about his mouth, the papery creases around the corners of his eyes... He's getting old. Older, perhaps frailer, too. Maybe it shouldn't come as a shock. But for someone who's always been more myth than man, as immortal and impervious to ageing as some demigod in the Greek Pantheon — it's a realization that occurs to him with a start. Gideon lashes his own retort back behind his teeth, letting the patriarch's bitterness pass as if unnoticed.

"You know I've been seeing Amélie."

"The schoolteacher, you mean? The one we had over for the holidays?"

"Journalist." The surgeon corrects a little tersely. He can't help the suspicion that it's an intentional slight, innocently dressed as a slip. Andrew has information at his fingertips and all the paranoia in the world to use it; knows everything Gideon wants to do almost before he does it. He would have found every piece of dirt on Amélie that he could find, traced her genealogy back to Eve and the Serpent before letting her so much as draw breath under the crystal chandeliers of his front foyer. He knows she's a journalist.

"Pleasant young lady," Andrew acknowledges charitably, "awfully well-mannered." But Gideon knows that it's about as much a compliment as he might throw to the runt of a litter. The mob boss has little use for well-mannered in his world and esteems it about the same amount. "What is it you wish to tell me about her, son?"

For all his years'-long stubbornness as his father's black sheep, Gideon feels a tendril of trepidation run through him at the question. The familial phrasing, the luring invitation. He wets his lips. "We've been together for almost a year now and known each other far before that. I know I didn't-... I haven't advertised that part, exactly," – he hadn't denied it, either, but had kept external opinions at bay as long as possible by avoiding the label of 'girlfriend' to shelter her – "but we've gotten to know each other in all that time."

"How wonderful."

Gideon struggles to continue. "And-... Well, the point is, I can't keep lying to her."

"Then don't."

"I mean about us. The family."

Andrew Rutherford's hawk-like gaze meets him over the thick frame of his reading glasses. "I fail to see how that's relevant to your girlfriend. Otherwise known as a girl who may be here today and gone tomorrow. With all due respect, of course."

"She won't be. That's my point." The stubborn streak is back as son and father stare at each other over the latter's desk, though Gideon feels his pulse beginning to hammer in his throat. "She's important to me... Special. I want to pursue something serious with her, but I can't do that in good conscience if I'm lying to her all the while. She deserves to know what she's signing up for, by being with me."

"Signing up for what, exactly?" A droll tone enters his father's voice. "You've made it ever so clear you have no part in this family's business endeavours, I hardly see how—"

"It's not good enough. I'm still lying by omission. It still affects her, my association to the family alone is enough to affect her. Reflect on her, it wouldn't be fai—"

"And how is it fair to this family that you would spoon-feed a journalist her next big break by telling her whatever drivel it is you believe about the work that we do?"

"Drivel?" He echoes. It's followed by a disbelieving scoff. There are so many things he could say to that in reply, write an entire bloody essay on exactly the sort of drivel his father has been responsible for in countless neighbourhoods across two continents an ocean apart. The fires he's ignited, the lives he has torn apart, the brainwashing of their mutual loved ones to bear the brunt of that blame alongside him. It makes him sick to the gills to think of all the drivel his father's allowed or actively incited, but it isn't why he's here today. He's fought that battle a million times already... He's always lost.

"She isn't like that. You don't know her at all." Gideon struggles to keep his voice even, rather than accusatory. Remembering that it has been just as much his choice to keep Amélie away from his father as it is Andrew's to be dismissive of everyone's potential to be more than lying, thieving opportunists.

"Whose fault is that?"

A muscle tenses in his jaw. His gaze stays fixed to the cabinet behind his father's desk, patience beginning to fray. "All I'm trying to say is that she wouldn't. She wouldn't want to bring harm to the people that I care about. Hell, she worked herself into a tizzy just thinking she might insult Lara by her choice of dress last time we met, or worried she hadn't complimented Yvonne enough on raising Maddie so well. She loves Damon as much as everyone loves Damon, and Adri she—"

"— And you're willing to change all that. By running your mouth off so that you can sleep better at night. What good will it do her, Gideon? Answer me that."

It's a wonder that Andrew doesn't see it. But is it so surprising? A man whose personal relationships are decomposing at various rates all around him. "If she is going to be a part of my life, a part of this family, she has a right to know what she's signing up for."

"If you're thinking about jumping into another marriage—"

"I'm not," He cuts in hastily, an embarrassed flush spreading along the back of his neck. "Or well, I don't know. It's too early to thi-... But it isn't about that, it's about clearing the air and giving her full disclosure before things get that point. Not just blindsiding her. Why is that so difficult for you to understand?"

Andrew strolls over to the long, arched window and grabs the tieback holding the silk curtains off to one side. He releases it with a snap, nursing his tobacco all the while. The room falls into shadows. "And what about Lara?"

"What about her?"

The father turns back on his son, moving towards his desk again, keeping it between them. "You love her — some say to a fault." A smile cuts cruelly on his mouth. "Because you think she's so different than me. What's to spare her my fate if your journalist runs prattling to the first newsstand that she can find?"

If he were a better man, he would tell his father that Lara's fate is her own. That she's neither a prisoner nor a child anymore; blindly following in her father's footsteps. That if she cleaves to the mob, one day her fate will be sealed either way; by a court or by a criminal, and that in either case there will be violence.

He would tell his taunting father that even in such a case the responsibility would be neither his, nor Amélie's, nor even some stranger's — but her own.

... But he isn't a better man.

The house of cards shudders with that warning and the surgeons croaks out; "She won't! I know she won't." Resting his argument on a plea. He hates begging, hasn't begged anything from his father since he was a child; but Amélie, he knows, is worth his pride. "You gave Rodriguez a chance. I just wish you'd do the same for Amélie."

In mentioning Lara, Andrew seems to know he's hit a nerve. His posture relaxes, he takes another puff from the Cohiba Siglo. It's almost gleeful. "They aren't quite the same though, are they?... Félix Rodriguez brings us prestige, a foothold into politics. What does your French girl bring us, exactly? What makes her worth the risk?"

Gideon doesn't offer any response. Once again, it's clear how much his father has grossly underestimated a person if he believes that Yvonne's fiancé is the sort of lapdog to roll over for a treat. But he says nothing. It isn't his job anymore to warn Andrew Rutherford of the consequences that come with devaluing human beings.

"You're going to do it anyway." The older man observes, after a beat of silence passes between them. He pulls out the office chair and eases himself into it. He rests his cigar on its wooden holder and looks up at his son expectantly.

"Yes."

He can't tell if it's respect or contempt in his father's eyes. These days, they tend to look the same. He steps away from the desk, as if testing the bounds of his freedom. He rounds the chair, turns his back on Andrew Rutherford and makes it almost to the door when the older man calls out to him. "— Gideon."

He turns, guarded grey eyes finding inscrutable brown.

"Not everyone will understand us. Not everyone should try." The mob boss reaches for his decanter, removing the top and pouring some of the liquid into a glass with careful, precise movements. "If you lose her, remember that it was not my doing."

— End.

Mentioned: @amescastaignede, @lararutherford, @yvonne-rutherford, @amaroadriana, @damonrutherford

[ironlvngs]

— TASK 006

before, it was much more simple to be present for these interrogations; to answer their questions, play games to shift the blame on someone else (sorry, ex boyfriend), to paint the prettiest picture of himself... but that was before this was turned into a murder investigation, rather than locating a missing person. negativity has been sitting in link's chest since the day they announced it, and it hasn't gotten any better — day by day, it feels like it's been simmering in there, and now there's just this black sludge living inside him and turning everything upside down for him.

"— excuse me, mr. crawford? a drink?" the officer repeats themself, and link has to remind himself to act accordingly.

"uh, sorry... i'm good for now, thanks." they respond as they clear their throat, bringing themself back to the reality right in front of them.

"well, then, i suppose we can get started." the officer takes a look at their partner, giving them the lead on this. "mr. crawford, did you have any reason to suspect greer morrison was dead before this news came to light?" link's eyes land on the red blinking of the tape recorder in between them for a moment, and calculates exactly how he wanted to play this one. "well, i can't say that after months of her being gone, the morbid thought hadn't come to mind for a second. but it was just easier to choose to believe she ran off on her own."

"right. well, lincoln, i'd like to ask you a few questions about ida clarke." a lump forms in his throat. link was probably the worst person to question about ida, given their very public distaste for one another — fights and arguments and name calling that only increased when they began to live in the same place. "what was the nature of your relationship?" link had to think quick. he had to wonder if they had any information on the fact that they had slept with each other not long before she died, because if they believed that he was trying to hide that fact, link would instantly become a target. it shouldn't be an issue, if she hadn't told anyone else, either. but then again, he wasn't ever the most trusting of ida clarke. finally, he responds. "not much of a relationship, really. we, uh... we were roommates for a little while, and we weren't very close." it wasn't truthful but it wasn't a lie, either. "but still, it was not the best.. hearing that someone you used to see every day and practically lived alongside with had died like that. it was the same with penelope, even though we weren't close, either. it makes you worry, you know?" maybe playing the terrified and traumatized young student afraid for his life card would gain the cops' sympathy here, and he'd avoid getting grilled.

"right, of course. now i understand that you were hospitalized after the fire, is that correct?" link nods his head, and lifts his sleeve up a little to show them his burn scars from the fire. "fortunate enough to have made it to a hospital at all." he adds. and thank god for it, meaning that he had an automatic alibi for ida's death. link knows he's innocent, but in this world, it's clear to see that anyone can get thrown under the bus — speaking from experience, from being the one to throw others under the bus so easily. "where were you before that? before you managed to leave the building?" not alibi enough, so it seems. "gosh, honestly? my memory is all over the place with that. it's hard to remember any other part of the night." immediately, the cop responds with another question, "and what exactly were you and other students doing at the commons instead of the commencement gala?" this is where link thought that he might choke. was it a better idea to admit that he had gotten a text from g like everyone else? or was it better to lie about it? then again, if someone decides to admit it, then it seems like he an every other student who hides it is lying about something. "well, to be honest with you, officer, the gala was becoming a bit... boring for a few of us college students?" he responds with a small scoff, a playful look on his face. "a few people were talking about getting out of there, maybe meeting up at the commons.... and, well, i followed them out. you can see how at the time, i thought it would be harmless to do so."

"alright... and have you gotten any anonymous messages over the past year? any with leading information, perhaps? or threatening messages?" link wanted to remove himself from this entire chain of suspicion — just another regular student at ogden college. "thankfully, i haven't." but that meant link had to be even more careful about who he talks to about any texts he receives. "and is there any information about greer morrison that you've become aware of in the past year that you haven't shared with the police yet?" "not at all — not since i spoke with you guys about her ex boyfriend. if i do hear anything, i'd definitely make sure to immediately report it." why not add a sprinkle of the noble citizen on top of this?

"well, mr. crawford, just one last question before we let you go... have you witnessed anything suspicious on campus over the past year and a half?" and this was it, link's favorite question. how easy would it be to fuck over someone he sees as a threat in whatever answer he can make up or lead the cops down a certain path? it had worked so fucking well last time (maybe too well) and he could definitely do it again. monty? milo? sassa's stupid fucking boyfriend? that was a weapon he could yield at any moment, though, and this was not the time to use it. "personally, with my graduation approaching, i chose to keep to myself and focus on my academics. so no, i haven't witnessed anything."

"okay, and i think that concludes all the questions we have for you today. thank you for your cooperation, and please do report anything suspicious to us — whether it's text messages or otherwise." link starts promising that he will, thanks them for their wonderful, oh so amazing service to their community, and exits the interrogation room.

that went well enough. at the end of the day, there was nothing link could do better than wear a mask and twist the narrative in any way he wanted.

[val-dautremer]

And Then There Were Four

Date: June 5th

Location: Her home and St. Catherine's Hospital

"Mom, can I please just...not? Can't you do it?"

Val sighed as her daily face-off with her oldest son commenced. The reason differed from day to day but most often it was the fight over making his bed, as it was now.

"Isaac, even if I could," she paused to gesture to her enormous stomach, "you're old enough now to be doing it yourself." Nine years old enough in fact.

Christ when did he get so old? They all had. Noam was now seven and her very soon not to be youngest rounded them out at four. Her hand rested on her bump, the other on her hip. "I won't ask again. Don't make me call you-" The pain that shot through her lower half was enough to make the blonde pause and take a deep breath. "Please Isaac, just this once don't fight me on this." She barely got the sentence out before another pang of pain rolled through. Her eyes narrowed. Now?

They'd hit the forty week mark just a few days ago and while it was uncommon to go the full forty with the amount of pregnancies she'd had, it wasn't anything to worry about. Both her own knowledge and the reassurance of the doctor confirmed it. Still, she was more than ready to have this child. While pregnancy was not horrible it certainly wasn't her preferred state.

Val sank into the nearest chair and breathed through her nose as the second pain subsided.

"Mom? Maman?" He rarely called her that these days, instead opting for the English version. It melted her heart and the smile she gave her eldest was one of pure love. "Are you okay?" He moved over and kneel next to the chair but didn't touch her. He had still been a baby himself when his brothers had been born. This time would be different for him and for Noam.

Val placed a hand on his cheek. "I just need to sit down for a while, that's all my love." With an understanding she didn't realize he had, Isaac nodded and stood up. He leaned over and returned the kiss before heading to his bedroom. The sound of bed sheets and covers could be heard a few moments later.

-

5 hours later

-

It was all Val could do not to step on Aurélien as she paced the length of her bedroom, body slightly hunched over with hands on her hips. "Maman I want to play." The whine in his voice suggested a possible meltdown as it was the third time he had asked. He didn't understand that she wanted to play with him but couldn't. She was about to respond when Isaac scooped his brother up and bounced him out of the room. "I'll play with him." He shot her a worried look. "I'll help Maman." It took everything in her not to cry.

Miriam Halévy swept into the room a moment later, patting Isaac on the shoulder before placing a cold washcloth on Val's neck. There was no mistaking it now; she was in full on labor. The look she gave the older matriarch was full of appreciation and pain. Having been through this three times already didn't make it any easier.

"Your husband will be here any minute. Then to the hospital. If you had gone in too early they would have just turned you right back around." She knew all of this and yet wanted to tell the hospital staff exactly how she felt about the policy. Utter bullshit. Val still managed a weak smile at the woman who had become like a mother to her.

Ever since Noa's passing, Miriam and Avraham spent a majority of their time in London. They claimed most of the time taking care of Yael but Val knew it was also so they would be close to their remaining daughter. Through it all, they had taken on the role of grandparent to her and Yves own hoard of children. It was such a change to what they had been used to, though not unwelcome.

"Noam-" Miriam cut her off. "Avraham has him, talking about God knows what. Rambling is more like it but don't you worry about that. We have the boys." Her eyes were firm and full of love.

Val might have kissed her if another contraction hadn't rocked through her body. This one, unlike the others, made her knees go weak and she could feel herself going to the floor, Miriam's arm under her elbow to guide her there. A low moan escaped her lips. Her eyes closed in an attempt to block out the pain. She was vaguely aware of a change in pressure at her elbow and when Val opened her eyes again it was Yves eyes she was looking into, not Miriam's.

"I'm here. I love you. Let's go have this child."

-

13 hours into labor

-

"I gave birth to three boys with out an epidural before and I will do this same for this baby." The look Val leveled at the medical staff in the room brooked no argument. The nurses had gently tried to persuade her at hour ten with no success. If they thought bringing the doctor at hour thirteen would change anything then they were sorely mistaken.

Yves stood at her side, a hand on her back. They'd just returned from their umpteenth lap around the labor floor. She hated laying in bed while the contractions morphed her body and mind into something foreign to her. Better to be standing and moving anyway.

"It was just a suggestion Mrs. de Metz. I only worry because you should have been closer to the end by now. Any pregnancy past the first is normally quicker. Your other two were, as you know."

"Dautremer. My last name is Dautremer but that is beside the point right now." She waved her hand only slightly annoyed. "I don't want to snap at anyone but I will repeat myself. I will not be getting the epidural." Val paused and looked each and every person in the room in the eye, including her husband. "Next topic."

Her husband let out a sighing chuckle, the tension in the room dissipating with it. The nurses might not know who they were up against but he certainly did. The doctor nodded, no more argument in her eye. "I suggest we start with the workout ball then. Bouncing, moving, and if that doesn't work then we have a bath ready. You mentioned that worked with your middle child."

Val finally smiled at her. "Thank you."

-

19 hours into labor

-

She knew this was abnormal without them having to tell her. The sixteen hour mark was when a voice went off in her head telling her that this wasn't how it was supposed to go. The glances the nurses kept giving her were another confirmation. The last and final one came from her husband's face. Full of love but tense like he too knew how much stress this was putting on her body, on her mind. He'd gone through enough of these with her.

Her contractions were still five minutes apart and had been for a while now. There was little they could do though but wait.

A hand on her lower back had her head snapping up to look into Yves eyes. "You're so goddamn amazing, did you know that Val?" As if he didn't tell her daily. She leaned into his touch as another bout of pain radiated through her body, clamping down on his arm with both hands. The grimaced at each other simultaneously and he took a deep breath, bracing himself for what he was about to say.

"You know that you call the shots here. Whatever you want, I'll make happen. The doctor though..." He glanced at the woman in the door talking with her head nurse. "She's talking about a caesarean." He stopped when he saw the look in her eyes. Throughout everything, that was the one thing Val refused to even consider. It came with its own complications both during and after. The thought of it made her stomach churn. Yves took her face in his hands, matching his breathing to her own. "I won't let them if you don't want to. I wanted you to know though, exactly what they're considering."

It was one of the many reasons she was in love with him. He would always put her first so long as it didn't put her in danger. He trusted her to make this decision about her body.

Val thought about it for a heartbeat before shaking her head no. "I can do this." Her teeth ground together as yet another contraction began. "I can do this."

Her husband put his forehead to hers and she could feel the smile on his face.

-

21 hours into labor

-

The body that lay against her was soft, warm, and nothing short of a miracle. Her hands cradled the tiny back and head, her own supported by a mound of pillows. Yves hands were twined with her own, both of them making as much contact as they could with the pink skin of their child.

She looked away for a moment to look at her husband and found tears in his eyes that matched her own. He put his lips to her forehead. "I love you," he murmered.

When they looked back at their baby, a pair of large pale eyes were staring back at them. The sight brought on more tears and Val didn't stifle the laughing cry that came out.

"Welcome to the world Gabriel. We love you more than words can say."

Val held on tighter to her son. Another one to add to her greatest treasures.

[mortemoppetere]

[pm] I tried my best to keep my word. Cliodhna got to me, not the others. But Wynne is struggling to keep it together, and so is Nora. They will need you when we get back, and we will get back. [User is growing tired again and decides fuck it, and presses send]

[user stares at this message for a long time. he tries to feel angry -- he thinks he'd feel better if he were angry. he thinks if he could blame elias a little, even if it's not elias's fault, it would feel a little less like the world was ending. anger is familiar. anger is a cup of water in the desert, or a blanket in a snowstorm. anger has been there for him when nothing else was, has been the only constant he's ever been able to count on. he wants to be angry, but he isn't. he feels empty instead. it's so much worse.

there's a long pause between when he gets the message and when he replies to it. he doesn't think it matters. he's talking to a ghost, anyway. elias isn't making it back. neither is regan. neither are nora or wynne. he knows this. he thinks he should have known it from the beginning. he thinks it always ends the same.]

[pm] Nobody needs me. Think we both know that. Not much of a help. Never really have been.

Sorry this happened to you.

[incubusnero]

Tales from the Little Black Book + 1 / ?

A couple years ago For the most part the entire trip has been rather uneventful. While there were a few people in the Tiber Bay that caught my eye, the moment I spoke to them I knew it wasn't meant to be. There's so many men who see the sea and adventure from below deck but claim to be these wild pirates and everyone can see right through them. I'm not here to slum with someone scrubbing the galley.

I decided to skip the isles and bothered Nari into taking me to Caribella and I truly owe her a favor for doing so. Because I met him. An actual pirate, a local to Caribella with his sunkissed skin and his curls. He laughs like he doesn't have a care in the world and it's so different from anyone I've met around Eterna. I will have to tell Eridani that she has won our bet, she was right, I did actually find a pirate to sigh dreamily at. It's hard not to when he's animatedly talking about his travels, the ways of the sea, this captain of his. Anyways, so we first went down for a walk down by the docks after a few pints, he showed me a spot the locals loved and .... And then the inn hallway... Over a barrel of wine... The hammock situation was new to me though. On the beach, tied between two trees a sheet big enough to sprawl out in. Secluded enough to feel private because again, Robin knew a spot. It's one of the few times I've wondered how many other people he's taken here. Bit hypocritical. Anyways... We laid there together afterwards just talking about nothing, my fingers drawing patterns on his skin, connecting freckles. I was going to miss it. So things do not go as planned. I didn't think they would, I don't think I could spend an entire three months with one person. But he makes me want to and I might be a fool but I am not foolish enough to think I could ever replace a ship and the open water. And so... It just keeps happening, us running into each other, spending time. I don't even care for sailing but we make a day of it, the two of us. It's been maybe a month of this and it feels too easy. There's shades to him that are darker, I know laughter to disguise pain when I see it. Two more weeks were spent together, making it six weeks I spent making moon eyes at a singular man. A new record, probably, I'll have to go back and reread to be certain. He can keep his soul and his smile, I won't indulge further, I can't compete with the sea. I sail back to Eterna tomorrow. I told him maybe he'd see me again some day. I left him a cologne.

Robin Top notes - Rose petals, lemon Middles note - salt, lime Base note - musk, actual sea water Smells like the breeze coming off of the ocean

[denverneumann]

Before the dark days, it was said that bad things come in threes. Well apparently, at least in Denver's situation, so do fugitives. It was an odd band, the three of them, but none could risk long enough in the streets to go home, let alone risk going home. So Cain, Denver, and Monty stayed together, for a few weeks at least, and tried to survive.

The nightclub wasn't one Denver had been to before. BEEF was a gay club, so she wasn't the target audience. Despite presumably having been abandoned in the middle of the night, it was fairly clean, for which Denver was grateful. She didn't know much about cleaning. She also didn't know much about survival. She did, however, know about revolutions. So, in her own mind, though it was never discussed, Denver appointed herself leader, and determined that it was her job to keep her little alliance safe.

They slept in shifts, and went out individually for supply runs. They told stories and played with a deck of cards they found behind the bar. They never forgot where they were, or why they were there. Some days were easier than others.

Cain had the most questions. Denver would have thought she'd been prepared for them all with her years of scholarship, but there were too many flaws in her logic. Nothing made sense anymore. And that wasn't good enough for Cain. He went back to the Tower, to join the Vox, the new regime. Denver didn't hold it against him. She'd probably try to go herself, if her convictions were anything other than a tangled ball of twine, stuck without any direction.

Maybe their "new friend" was the voice of god. Maybe the people of Panem themselves were the gods. Maybe there were no gods. But a god-like wielding of power had created Panem, created Arenas, and a god-like show of force brought it all crashing down. Which side was the right side when both sides had iron fists they brought down on any who disagreed?

Denver didn't know, so she stayed in the bar. She listened to Monty recount his adventures. She took over Cain's watch shift. She went on supply runs. She kept notes of what she saw, so history wouldn't forget. And she waited for answers that part of her knew would never come.

[montgomery-cannon]

the capture part 1 of 2

It was a lesson that was drilled into him starting day one in the Academy: all luck runs out, so make sure your Games are as short and efficient as possible. Don't trust luck, because the Gamemakers will bend it. Don't trust a good feeling, because it will be exploited. And whatever you do - don't trust your allies, because only one of you will ultimately leave the Arena alive.

After Victory, though, Montgomery has learned that not all lessons meant for the Arena applied to life. Trust, in particular, was one that he had to relearn the definition of. It no longer had the self serving negativity attached to it from childhood. No - people sought out trust in each other. To trust someone was to love them, and to be trusted was to be loved.

After Montgomery emerged Victorious from the Arena, trust had become loyalty.

It didn't surprise him when Cain didn't come back after his round of raiding. It disappointed him, because in his heart he knew where Cain had gone. He hadn't gone to the loyalist sector, and he hadn't been killed. Monty knew where Cain had gone.

Then for a while it was just him and Denver, until she, too, vanished. It wasn't like Cain, though - she came back to him. Battered and broken, to be sure, but she came back. However, luck would always run out and Denver found her way back to the other side.

So then it was just him. Montgomery Cannon, alone in the gay club with empty bottles of alcohol and broken spotlights. Utterly and painfully alone. He could hear the rebels, every night, militaristic. Sweeping in, checking, securing. But he couldn't leave. He had waited too long for Denver to come back. Too much time hoping Cain might as well.

But instead it was the rebels who came. Monty had time to prepare, of course, but he had been existing in a drunken stupor for a bit longer than he should have. He was in a twilight of restless half-sleep when he heard the crunch of boots in the entryway. But he was prepared. The scouting parties were always groups of three, lightly armed. At this point, after so many weeks, they were getting lax, sloppy. Most of the loyalists had already fled or been rounded up, so risk was low. Or so they thought.

The sound snapped Monty to his senses - or, as much sense as he could while still hung over. He snatched up the only weapon he could find: a long, hefty glass bottle, intentionally left full to add weight. All luck ran out eventually, but Monty's held on for just long enough.

He pressed his back against a wall, bottle at the ready, prepped at a door frame. He closed his eyes and steadied his breath, listening intently. One set of footsteps. Perfect. They had gotten sloppy. They had split up. Monty may not have known where the other two were, but he knew where this one was - and that's all that mattered at the moment. One at a time, patiently. The way he had been trained.

He slowly opened his eyes to see the muzzle of a rifle slowly peeking through the doorway, chest height. The footsteps slowed, clearly wary about stepping into an unknown room. Fine. Monty could wait. The muzzle became the body of a gun, became the hands of a soldier, became the wrists, the arm, the elbow, slowly creeping in. And still Monty stayed plastered to the wall, bottle raised.

This wasn't the Arena anymore. There were no bonus points for style, no carrot at the end of the stick for a show well performed. This was real. This was life. So Monty fought the trained urges - the urge to jump, to grab the gun, to make a spectacle of things. Instead he waited. He waited. He waited.

The rebel finally showed his head. A combat helmet, visor up. That would be his mistake. The moment his face cleared the doorway, Monty swung. The bottle thudded down on his head and the rebel yelled in surprise. But it was quickly followed by a bottle to the face as Monty expertly flipped the weapon and swung again. Monty knew his training, and he knew exactly what the hollow crunch meant for the man's nose. He also knew he only had moments before the other two would converge. All luck ran out, so keep things efficient.

The man stumbled to his knees, and Monty seized the moment to kick him between the shoulder blades to the ground. "HEY!" the rebel bellowed. "HEY, IN HERE!" But Monty didn't need to respond. He threw himself down, bashing the bottle again against the man's head.

The rebel rolled, and Monty's weapon smashed against the floor, shooting shards of glass across the tiles. The small pieces caught the low, multicolored lights, throwing small rainbows around the room. It could have been just like the old times, where hot women and desperate men thronged in the disco lights. Monty could almost hear the pulsing music, feel the melting makeup on his face. There was something relaxing about it, almost, the way he felt falling on top of this man. Something old, something familiar. A wild grin spread across his face as he grabbed the man by the collar, hoisting him up and hugging him close to his chest.

"HEY!" the man bellowed, as best he could. "GREYSON! NELLIE!" Monty couldn't stop the reckless chuckle in his throat. But efficiency was the name of the game. The man's arms flailed, caught in the strap of the rifle. What should have been a weapon, a defense was now a liability - something too cumbersome to be of use, entangling his limbs.

Monty, wrapped around the man, looked up in time to see another muzzle across the room. "HEY," came the barked order. "LET HIM -"

Efficiency. The broken bottle, once a club, was now a dagger. Monty lashed up, digging the jagged points deep into the man's neck. Instantly, the rebel was gurgling, spilling glorious red over Monty's hand. The warning shot that followed told Monty everything he needed to know: these were untrained, idiotic scouts. The bullet thudded into the bulletproof chest of the man he held in front of him - if she had been aiming for Monty, she had missed terribly. If she had been trained, she wouldn't have shot at all.

"Holy shit..." Nellie muttered. "GREYSON!" A second person, armed only with a small pistol, appeared over he shoulder. "Greyson... is that..."

Greyson lifted his gun warily, taking a step in towards Monty and the dying rebel. Monty snarled like a wild cat, one hand reaching for the butt of the rebel's rifle.

"Montgomery Cannon," Greyson called, the awe in his voice evident. If this had been the old times, with music and makeup, Monty would have smiled wide, reaching out with a welcoming hand. But now he found himself in a different world, if the same place. His hand found the trigger of the rifle, if haphazardly, and he attempted to pull the trigger. A spray of bullets thudded into the floor, shattering more tile but ultimately doing nothing.

"We're bringing you in, Montgomery," Nellie called, standing back with her rifle up.

"Bringing him in?!" Greyson countered, his pistol also trained on the snarling Victor. "He killed Kilo! We're not bringing him in!" He stepped forward again, clearly unable to get a clean line of sight on Monty.

"Order are orders, Greyson. Montgomery Cannon, by the authority of Terra Caucus, we place you under arrest." The more tremble her voice took on, the wider Monty's smile grew. Greyson snarled himself, taking another step in.

"I'm willing to make it look like an accident," Greyson growled. "There's no redeeming some of these people."

"You take that shot," Nellie replied, trying to keep her own line of sight open, "and I put a bullet in your back, Greyson. Orders. Are. Orders. Do anything else, and you're no better than those people who caused all this."

"Just so you know," Monty called out, bringing himself to a crouch, his arm still wrapped around the body shield he had in his possession. "I haven't killed Kilo. Yet." His hand flashed up, pressing the shattered bottle deep into Kilo's neck. The man gasped and gurgled, his body involuntarily using its remaining energy to cry out in pain.

With the shield spent, Monty lunged forward. It should have been a perfect moment - Monty, knowing his limits, reaching Greyson in a single bound. The rebel, surprised, falling. But Monty's luck was truly running out. Whether it was the alcohol still in his system, or the shattered glass kaleidoscoping across the room, or the universe finally spinning against him, Monty was off. His foot caught in something - the strap of the rifle, perhaps, and rather than springing forward like a panther, he tripped and stumbled forward.

Greyson, still surprised, yelped - and the gun went off. Monty felt the bullet, ill-aimed as it was, slice into his calf. But the momentum was already enough, and Nellie was already screaming admonishments at Greyson. Monty thudded into the man, his shoulder connecting with hips, and slammed him against the wall. The shock loosened the pistol from his hand, and it fell tantalizingly close to Monty's foot.

Of course, there was only a moment to decide, and Monty swooped for it. His hand closed around the hilt and he fired, prematurely, unable to get the nose of the gun at a useful angle. Then came the pain. Greyson had managed to orient himself and slam the heel of his combat boot down on Monty's leg, where a bright red circle proved to be a useful target.

Monty roared, spun to point the gun at Greyson, and pulled the trigger again, but nothing happened. Out of bullets. The moment was enough for Greyson, who threw himself forward to pummel a fist into Monty's face. The gun spun out of his hand, useless in the rainbow scatter.

"GREYSON!" Nellie called out to no avail. Monty and Greyson were in it now, swapping blows. Monty brought his good leg up, catching the other in the crotch before throwing an elbow into his sternum. Greyson, for his part, flopped off of Monty, but retaliated with a quick punch to the jaw which left Monty's vision swimming. As Greyson tried to scramble to his feet, Monty hooked his hand around his ankle and pulled, sending Greyson's face slamming back to the ground.

"HELP ME, NELLIE!" he shouted, spitting blood with his words. Greyson lashed out with a kick, and Monty roared as his fingers were crushed underneath the boot. No. This couldn't be. Greyson kicked out again, and it caught Monty in the shoulder, giving the rebel enough space to scramble backwards.

"Stand down, Greyson," came the barked order. But Greyson sprung to his feet, and as Monty pulled himself into a low crouch, poised to spring again, Greyson took one calculated step forward and kicked, crashing his foot into Monty's jaw. With a yelp, Monty was thrown heavily into the wall, his vision flashing pure white in shock.

It was all Greyson needed. He launched forward again, connecting a kick to Monty's ribs. Monty's training was good enough to know exactly what that crack meant, and what the next one meant as Greyson kicked again. With a moan, Monty threw an arm up over his head just in time for Greyson's kick to shatter several bones in his wrist - but better that than his face.

Monty pulled his body to the side, rolling over to try to protect what he could. This only gave Greyson new targets, and he stomped down on Monty's fresh ribs, hips, and spine. He was just launching a kick to the back of Monty's head when Nellie finally grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him back.

"We're bringing him in," she commanded. "Take a walk, Greyson." She roughly pulled the rebel back, shoving him towards the open door. With a disgusted snarl, Greyson sulked away.

Nellie stepped forward, her rifle in a defensive position across her chest. "Montgomery Cannon, under authority of Terra Caucus, I place you under arrest."

Monty rolled back over, groaning in pain, to look up at his would be captor. His face was smeared in bright red blood, his mouth torn and pulled into a terrifying snarl. He looked at her for a moment, then spat a wad of viscera and blood at her feet. "Fuck you," he growled.

Nellie let a heavy sigh fall out of her throat. She gently kneeled beside him, pushing her rifle to a more casual position on her back. "Oh, Cannon," she said gently, taking his face in her hand and giving it a squeeze. "I'm getting a promotion for this one. It's the only reason I'm going to make sure you get back to prison alive." She took a moment to behold the great Montgomery Cannon, then spat in his face.

Monty didn't have time to recognize the insult before she slammed his head against the ground, knocking him fully out. Montgomery Cannon, finally, laid low by rebels.

[beck-hartman]

What a question to ask a couple of teens | Beck.

When: December 16, 2023.

The wind was bitter, inviting all the familiar sting and scents of the coming holiday. Christmas was days away, and Beck found himself alone--a horrible thing to be. His mind hadn't been far from the store he spent much of the latter part of senior year in and out of, and a gift on his list had finally brought a need to return.

Seventeen-Eighteen. What a year to be making life-altering decisions. But when you know...when you have no doubts? The memory lost the sparkle the time actually held, as if his mind left the cloud he hadn't seen hovering in real time. The man--no, the kid--he envisioned possessed more foolishness, more naivete, more bliss-induced ignorance.

"You know, to get from Hart to Hartman, all you need is a man." It was perhaps the lamest of his jokes, but it made her laugh every time. She'd come back with a far better quip about him taking hers instead when they got married. When. Not If. They spoke in whens back then, as though speaking of inevitabilities. He had wondered in the last eight years how many times she'd said it knowing she wasn't going to stay with him, knowing she no longer believed they could beat anything. His dreams too big and her convinced hers weren't big enough.

Hand on the handle, he took a sharp, quick inhale and pushed. The chime rang through the store with its striking familiarity. The one place he'd avoided, he found it exactly as he'd last left it this same time in 2015. It was a time capsule, filled to the brim with nostalgia and old hopes.

"Mr. Hartman." Same store owner, same warmth in his greeting. He held an understanding in his eyes, in the wisdom of the lines that crinkled around them when he smiled.

As if pushing play on an old tape, his gaze traced over the crystal clear cases, rewinding through the years further and further in time. He was seventeen, in here for the first time to look for something to bridge the path from childhood sweethearts to adulthood: a symbol of the forever they continually promised one another. He found it in an oval halo cut diamond with gold band, simple yet elegant and set in a way that reminded Beck a bit of flowers. She was always happiest when he brought her flowers, so it seemed perfect to put one eternally on her finger.

Visit after visit spanned his memory, filled with the echoes of "is it still here?" He waited day after day with the kind of patience held by children awaiting Santa's visit. It would have to be his own money, an idea to this day he didn't know why he was so determined to uphold, but that path had enough 'what if's to drown him.

Then he was eighteen, coming full circle in the memory. She's gone. That was another odd thing, he never really said 'she left me'. She was just gone. Maybe that truth was easier to bear than a choice that was made, a surrender in a fight for them. In the end, it was all loss.

He still saved the money up as planned, came back, stood here. Why he did it would never have an answer, a sort of self-flogging that was undeserved. His only crime had been to dream bigger than reality allowed and miss the signs of his relationship failing.

Twenty-six. He could see the look given, and though he hadn't come for that, the words tumbled out before he could think better of them.

"Is it still here?"

And finally, in all his moments of asking, the answer changed. "No." The tone was quiet, empathetic, knowing. "I held onto it as long as I could for you, Beck. There are others like it, but it's not--"

"--The same, I know," Beck finished for him. Too much time had passed. "I was just curious. We're not there yet anyway." Anymore died a painful, burning death in the back of his throat. Maybe they had never been there at all, maybe it was something kids together as long as they were said. Maybe he was the only one who was ever standing here, saying he'd do it in a heartbeat. "It's Christmas, so I'm here to get her something else actually..."

---

After hiding the gift in his room, he took a moment at the marina. It was a long time ago. He'd already accepted the loss a thousand times over, but like a scab, it kept breaking open to bleed again. His heart had a bruising grip around it, pressure on his chest only fresh, ocean air might possibly release.

The optimist in him said dreams were made to inspire, to find the goals in them to mold them into reality. But maybe that's not what they were. Maybe they were simply visions of hope, something to keep lights shining, fires burning. Perhaps it was reality that had to be accepted as it came, taking the steps only as they were presented to you. Oh, but can a dreamer really stop dreaming?

The odds had always been against them, and the dream wasn't dead, not entirely. Maybe it was like the ring itself, it couldn't be the same but that didn't mean the one for them wasn't out there. It was now less of an inevitability and more of a maybe someday. The love would last forever either way. If standing on the beach in the middle of the End of Summer Bash had showed them anything, it was they'd always be in love. This was their real thing.

Beck didn't ask for much, for so long it was two things: to travel and to marry Shosh. Well, he got one. Even if it would have been the thing sacrificed if he'd been asked to choose between them. Whatever dreams were, this one needed to be put away for the foreseeable future. This was time she needed, and time was something he could give her.

And that was the story. That was the reality of it. The ring was gone, to somebody with hopefully a better story to tell, and maybe one day there would be another. His weight resting through his forearms onto the pier, Beck wasn't sure how to feel about that, maybe he'd never be. And that's just what it was.

Making his way to a secluded spot, he took the joint from his pocket he'd picked up when he dropped the gift off. A flicker of flame, inviting an end of this pain.

Is it still here?

No.

--

Where'd you go?

I was in New York.

--

Six months?

Seven months, thirteen days.

--

I was in New York…multiple times. Harley was up there too, and I went to visit him.

I know. Well, I assumed. Harley and I were together a lot in New York, he actually worked at the bar with me...

--

For what it’s worth, I wanted to tell you. But Shosh didn’t want you to know and it wasn’t my relationship so I didn’t feel like it was my place, you know?

--

You should leave.

--

I’m not the same anymore, Beck.

Rising from deep within his very soul, he released a guttural scream. The sound carried away by winds and waves into the depths of the ocean until his throat ached and weight lifted. Hitting his knees first, he collapsed back onto the sand as he flicked his lighter open again bringing it to the stick now pressed between his lips until the end began to simmer. Smoke entered his lungs like a warm blanket against the cold. Numbness followed, vanishing into an empty mind. The world seemed brighter again, or maybe that was the sun above him.

How rare it is to meet your soulmate when you’re only four years old, and how cruel when it's not as simple as such luck should be.

[pierce-walker]

self-para  \  the sand runs out. men’s bathroom, rhee’s bar and grill. approximately 11:20 pm.

trigger warnings: knives, blood, murder, death.

i’m falling through the hourglass and i don’t think i’ll ever make it back so i throw stones at walls i’ll never climb, victim to the sands of time i’m falling through the hourglass, the hourglass.

Pierce would be lying if he said he hadn’t been distracted lately. His father had grown increasingly pushy in the last few months, begging and pleading for money. It was honestly pathetic, but the constant harassment was starting to wear him down. It was getting to the point where he felt he had only two options: either give him the change or cut him off. In addition to that, self-publishing his music had turned out to be a lot more complicated than he was expecting. But he was tired of keeping it to himself, tired of only showing his craft to Kahlan, to Emi, to Adee. It was beyond time for him to finally take the leap.

His phone buzzed again, and he jolted, his leg crashing into the surface before him. The glass of beer resting untouched on the table tumbled, spilling amber liquid all over him. He sighed, staring at the mess for a moment. The beer slowly rolled across the table like a wave, dripping over the side when it reached it, directly onto his jeans—just his luck.

Before cleaning it up, he tugged his phone out of his pocket. The number he’d expected flashed on-screen and he rolled his eyes, setting it on the other side of the table, away from the beer puddle. Slowly, Pierce got to his feet, moving towards the bathrooms as quickly as he could. Hopefully, no one was in there, and he could clean up before anybody noticed he was gone…or saw the mess on the table.

The bathroom was indeed deserted, and he sighed in relief as he moved toward the paper towel dispenser, grabbing a couple to begin the hopeless task of cleaning the alcohol off of his jeans. He patted off his pockets, feeling something stiff below the fabric.

Quickly, he dug out a small, folded-up piece of paper. Unfolding it, he realized it was an old draft of one of his songs. With a small laugh, he dumped it and the paper towels into the trash can. He didn’t need that draft anymore—the final was sitting on his kitchen table, waiting for him to finally deal with it tomorrow.

Grabbing a couple of extra paper towels, he moved to the sink, running the water to wash his hands. He also splashed some on the denim, hoping it would help rid the already-forming stain. As he did, he heard the door click open behind him. 

“Sorry,” he said instinctively, not looking up, “I’ll just be a sec. Those tables are super easy to jiggle, eh?” Pierce chuckled. Whoever it was didn’t deign to give him a reply.

Eyebrows knitting together momentarily, he turned off the sink faucet, dabbing the last of the water from his jeans. Perhaps the recent events in the town just had him on edge, but something about the idea of being alone with someone in an enclosed area didn’t sit quite right with him. Pierce took a deep breath, stepping to the left to throw away the towels in his hand.

He never got the chance to step back.

Shooting pain drilled through the back of his abdomen, harsh enough for him to stumble forward, catching himself on the sink. His eyes darted down, red viscosity already mixing into the beer stain on his jeans. He should've trusted his instincts more.

Mouth open in a wordless O, he looked back in horror at his assailant. The masked figure was standing across from him in silence, silence as sharp as their blade; still in their hand, blood dripping from its point. Pierce could already feel the burn in his side, his arm snaking around to press a hand over the gaping hole. The knife hadn't come out cleanly, leaving a ragged tear in his shirt—the edges were already stained dark brown with blood. 

Suddenly, urgency ripped through him. If he didn't move, he was going to die in this bathroom. Jerking into motion, Pierce clumsily whipped backward, using his momentum to stagger into the killer—because that's who they were, he was certain. They didn't seem to expect it, stumbling up against the wall. Immediately, he pushed towards the door, trying to put as much distance between himself and the other person as possible.

Foot slipping on the tile quickly slickening with his blood, he fell against the door, banging on the bottom. Somehow, it had been locked—the wood barely moved under his fist. A muffled cheer went up from outside. No one could hear him, and Pierce's heart sank at the realization.

Sharp pain tore a cry out of him as his assailant caught him messily on the leg once more. He blinked, trying to see through tears of pain. He could feel his heart thumping weakly against his chest, his breath coming in shallow gasps, and all he could think was this is it. I'm going to die here.

Pangs of regret began to numb the pain from his wounds, closing like a fist around his heart as he lay panting on the tile floor of the bathroom. Regret that he’d never be able to publish a song, and regret that he’d been selfish enough to keep them to himself. Regret that he’d never told Finley he still loved her, and regret that he’d never moved on. Regret that he’d never looked into his birth family, and regret that he’d never cut them off—too much regret for too little time.

The world was already flickering, and he screamed as another jolt of pain ran through his leg, though no noise came out. Through his dim and blurry vision, he could just barely make out the figure in front of him, pulling his leg towards them. They were trying to get him away from the door. He reached out an arm helplessly, every muscle shuddering before it dropped to the ground, the sheer strength needed to lift it already gone. 

There was nothing he could do.

[gwenxmorenoarchive]

Time: a week or so after the rave

Where: Cemetery

What: Gwen talks about her current feelings

Warnings: mentions of death, cemetery things, anxiety

With the changing of the seasons, Gwendolyn had dug through an unlabeled box full of little decorations. Most of it was tiny little candles that needed new batteries, though a few bundles of different colored fake flowers were scattered about in the box. She felt unsure if she wanted to label the box as if it sealed its fate completely. Two years after his death, she still thought as if he was going to come back. She knew it was a silly thought. She knew that this box would forever be a box for him and that the label really didn't matter. Yet, she hated the permanent feeling of never changing the box.

She spent the morning picking out different flowers, fixing any weird bunched pieces from being stuck in a weird angle. Then she moved to make sure all her candles worked. Next in her tote bag were a few little pumpkins and fall decorations. Afraid of things getting knocked over, she rarely did anything too large or bulky.

Gwen debated for a while about taking Beatrice with her. Though the small blooming of something in her chest told her the answer she needed. This time she'd want to go alone. She'd want to be able to say her feelings and what truly needed to come out in the privacy of her father's church.

The drive was short and quiet. The closer she got to her husband, the more nervous she became. Her hands gripped the steering wheel just a little bit tighter as pressure from anxiety planted itself on her chest. Maybe this was all dumb, but she couldn't help the thoughts as she worried about what he might think. Or maybe what God would think about her.

Her legs felt like jello as she got out of the car, tote bag swung up on her shoulder. Still, she pushed through her anxious feelings and made her way up into the cemetery and to her husband's grave. Decorations from the 4th of July were still in decent shape. She easily moved them out of the way before taking out a small handheld broom to brush any debris from around his gravestone. "I know I'm a little bit early for autumn decorations, but I wanted to make sure I got these out here. You remember last year; we were too busy with Beatrice I just about missed Christmas as well." Of course, she knew there would only be silence in response.

"She's doing good. She's been loving those little baby puffs that melt into your mouth. I swear that's all she wants to eat now." One by one she slowly put out the candles and decorations. She took her time, thinking about the placement. Also buying her more time to delay talking about what really mattered to her. The blooming.

"I don't know why I keep thinking you're going to come back. Everyone says it's part of the whole grief thing. It's just weird sometimes. It's like some days I completely forget about what happened and that you'll come walking through the door." Her throat tightened painfully as she blinked back the tears threatening to spill.

"I... I just want you to know that I'm okay. I'm doing better... There's... There's this guy I've been bumping into every now and then. And he seems really nice and kind..." Gwen paused as she tried to get in a couple of breaths. The tightening in her chest and throat made it more difficult to even breathe let alone talk. "I don't know what's going to happen... I.. I wanted to tell you that I don't think I've smiled this much since you left me."

Shaky hands finished the decorations and the lights were flickering on as she flipped the switch to keep them on. She didn't know what she was more scared about -- her budding feelings for Rhett Harris or what her dead husband would think about it. She pulled her knees up to her chest, hands gripped tight. Maybe that would stop the shaking. Maybe that would make the guilt go away too. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." She whispered, resting her head on her knees as she let the grief overcome her once more.

[behaein]

♡ ˙ ˖ ✧ — INTO THE DELTAVERSE. aka, haein's audition for INTO THE DELTAVERSE (rough ref.) / skills: singing, dancing (original choreography)

knowing studio delta and their reputation, haein realized that she can't possibly get away with a normal audition tape. she's aware that they're probably looking for something different. someone who catches their eyes immediately. a couple of months ago, she would have been confident that she fit into that category, but she wasn't so sure anymore.

of course, that wouldn't stop her from joining this audition, especially not after all the encouragement she received from her peers at the dance and vocal academies she's been religiously attending. some may think she's appearing too desperate with how many doors she's knocking on, but she likes to call it determination. she doesn't care how many opportunities she has to take up, but she will accomplish what she came to korea for.

eventually, she settles down on an original choreography. again, she contemplated on this because the reps at studio delta most likely have seen her dancing from next gen. it was impossible they couldn't since they were part of the judging panel. however, this was an audition tape which meant at the end of the day, she had to show off what she was best at, and that was still dancing. the original choreography is just her own little twist to show off her skills and what she can bring to the table.

she finishes one draft of the audition tape and almost submits it when she thinks that something's missing. it doesn't seem like enough, so she impulsively heads down to the han river with a video camera. it's the middle of day, which means lots of people, but she's not concerned about that right now. what she needs is an impressive video.

and so she sings the track live along with the choreography that she's made. another chance to show that she isn't a weak vocalist because as much as she's over the humiliation of her voice crack, it's still something that needs to be proven to those who watched next gen and definitely something that'll probably continue to follow her until that day.

by the time she's done with her second draft, haein feels much better. this video and everything just feels a lot more like her. hopefully, whomever watches the video agrees.

[greer-morgan]

Family Ties | Self-Para

“It's just there's so much of it. The future is real, but... the past, well it's... all made up.”

Time: February

Place: District Ten (the funeral of Prairie Quartz)

Greer flicked open Prairie's knife, which was tucked at the bottom of the pocket of her long black coat. She ran her thumb along the blade and folded it closed again, before starting the process over in a steady rhythm. She'd nicked the pad of her thumb this same way at least a dozen times by now, so often that she knew there would be a scar there when she finally let it heal over.

It was an unseasonably mild day, almost pleasant. Greer was caught somewhere between grateful that Prairie had gotten a nice day and angry at the sun just for having the audacity to shine. But despite the sun, everything was still and stark, and bare. February seemed to be dipping her toe into spring for just a moment, ready to pull it back out again without warning. The threat of cold made all of the red and white flowers pop against the scenery and the new quartz headstone, freshly placed into hard earth.

They'd all stood in small groups for the memorial— a few peacekeepers, The Morgans, Greer by herself, Prairie's father by himself to give a speech— none of them brave enough to cry in front of the others. That vulnerability was a currency too valuable for any of them to be willing to exchange with the others. But it had been a nice service, Greer wished she could think as she walked away.

"Hey! hey, Greer wait up." Greer's brother jogged up behind her.

"What?" She tossed over her shoulder, almost deciding not to stop.

"I've... I've been thinkin'. There's a lot'a talk about what's goin' on in Eleven, and people are gettin' organized in Ten too. I've been thinkin' about helpin' out."

Greer laughed sharply, which cast a shadow of hurt over Cal’s features. "What's funny about that? I wanna make somethin’ happen. I thought you of all people’d be all about it."

"Why would I give a shit?" Greer turned to face him, settling under the low, twisted branches of a bare tree. She was tempted to lean against the trunk, already exhausted by both the day and the impending conversation, but she thought better of giving up whatever physical space she could command.

"'Cause shit's gonna be different. People are talkin' about endin' the Games, G. Don't you want that?" He answered her, a child-like optimism to his voice.

"Yeah, of course I- fuck, Cal... I guess-"

"You guess what?" He cut her off.

"I guess I just don't fuckin' believe you. You're not gonna get involved. You're not gonna risk your career, the money you get from dad. You're gonna what? Start swingin' a gun around? Killin' peacekeepers? There's a fat fuckin' chance of that. You? Who's so afraid of causin' a scene? Who'd never say one bad word against dad? Yeah, you're the real face of a rebellion, Cal."

"Oh, unlike you, who only knows how to cause a scene?"

"What's that mean?"

"You know exactly what it means. You love to yell and complain about everythin'. Oh, look at me. I'm the only one who's ever had a sad fuckin' feelin'. You won the Games and you just went and cut us all off? Why? For the drama of it?"

"I did not! I did not cut you all off!" The words ripped themselves from her throat with such force it was almost sore. Her skin grew hot with the frustration that no matter how loud her voice got, she was never heard. "I cut mom and dad off. I did not cut you off! It's not like any of y'all ever thought to call me either. That shit goes two ways."

"What the fuck happened to us, G? We used to be so close, and then one day you were like a whole different person."

"Sorry, I had some other shit goin' on."

"I'm not talkin' about the Games, and you know it. It was way before that. We used to do everything together, and now you're like this cold bitch I don't even recognize."

"It’s ‘cause I was the only one who ever got in trouble for any of it."

"Oh, yup. There it is," Cal rolled his eyes. "You remember things so much worse than they really were. You make everythin’ out to be the end of the damn world."

"I do not remember them worse. You just never got in trouble for anythin'! I stood in that damn corner starin' at a fuckin' wall for hours-"

"It was not hours."

"It was hours."

"It was maybe thirty minutes."

"It was hours. And it's not just that,” she breathed. “It's all the other shit too— the manipulative shit they’re always doin’. The time they took my bedroom door off the hinges? I still don't know what fuckin' for. Or all the times mom and dad pretended I wasn't even there. You didn't have to beg them to look at you on fuckin' Hearth Day, Cal! That house was a fuckin' prison, but it never affected you, 'cause you're mom and dad's perfect boy."

"It wasn't always easy for me either. Dad didn't hit you the way he hit me. It sucked sometimes, but he made me fuckin' tough, Greer."

"Yeah, real tough. Filin' paperwork and livin' off dad's money. You think he's gonna buy you nice things when you run off to play rebel?" They both knew from the start he was never really going to do it, but this was beyond that now. This was a lifetime of resentment boiling over, and neither was willing to cut the heat.

"Me? Look at you! It's real easy to be high and mighty, cuttin' off dad's money when you're bein' funded by the president. I don't see you strugglin' to make ends meet."

"You think I wanted this? Any of this? I should've died, but instead I played their stupid little game and did exactly what they all fuckin’ wanted from me— start to finish— and I get to live with that every day. Prairie's dead, and I couldn't bring her or anyone else home, and I get to live with that too. I should've died, and mom and dad don't give a single shit as long as it fits into their narrative, and they don't give a shit about your life, or Leighton, or Teeny, or Avery-Kate either. I hate to be the one to say it, but mom and dad don't actually give a shit if you're even alive, Cal. They never have. They never will."

"That's not true," Cal protested, even though a part of him knew it was. "Dad tells us all the time how you leavin' broke his heart."

"Yeah, well..." She shook her head. "Funny how he cares now. Could'a cared any time in the last twenty-four years. But I guess that’s the kinda thing that’s easier to say than do, ‘cause you only gotta say it when it makes you look good. No fuckin' follow through. Sorta like your whole rebel idea, huh?"

All that anger had fizzled into nothing but silence between them now. Silence that lasted too long. Silence that made Greer's chest ache. There was nothing left to say.

"I'll see you at the next one of these," Greer concluded, already walking away, tossing a half-hearted wave over her shoulder at him.

"Yeah," he answered her, more under his breath than out loud. “See ya then, I guess.”

[robinastrea]

The Breakups (Part 4/4)

Date: Early April, 2017 Age: 18 Description: This series goes through how each of Robin’s past relationships ended. (See this post)

[REDACTED]  -->   LINK

[dxefillz]

LET THE RAIN COME DOWN ↳ accor stadium, sydney austrailia; july 6th 

self para; dae spreading herself too thin, and only realizing it in their final set of the tour so when it counts. (tw: blood, usage of pain killers like ibuprofen)  

each swell of exhaustion felt like her body had been sitting in a constant sway of water on a shore. each throb dissipating and swelling like unpredictable and dangerous waves. she’s been stuck in that heavy current for months- and usually, turbulent weather was comforting for dae, healing even. living in the chaotic spiral of a hurricane's eye though? was eating away at her stamina. 

-and it fucking sucked. 

dae thought so while two inked fingers faintly tapped out a rhythm on her lap. it served as a fidget but also, a search for reassurance that tonight's set would go as planned. the only differences between a regular show day, and the pressure for tonight- her migraine was still as dominant even after pain meds. this wasn’t too unusual for her, especially this concert leg; but it was also concerning that her body felt as heavy as her mind… and Ibuprofen doesn’t remedy everything. even in her makeup chair, with her eyes closed and a pair of hands running through her hair she couldn’t feel relaxed. maybe if her head wasn’t beginning to spin then, the cold sensation of hair gel would’ve been soothing. all her mind could latch onto was the beat she’d been tapping to, running through the show in preparation. 

“dae, i’m finished-...”cut through to her, and suddenly was back in the dressing room- staring at her reflection with a concentrated pain behind her eyes. 

“sick-”

insincerity left her mouth, but only because finishing meant showtime was vastly approaching; and still there was fatigue. still, there was an ache. the show goes on though right? 

dae probably can’t remember the moments leading up to crouching next to the backstage sound cart. she’d hadn’t left a yellow sticky there since around the time she’d started dating malachi seriously. he’d secretly been her antidote since then; a saving grace for her random thoughts and minor worries. this though was tough to admit to, to him… to ren, danbi…. dahye. they’d tell her to rest, and would scold her for trying to be the hero. they’d assume she’d wanna go on for their sake, and then she’d have to admit that doing this for her own selfish needs- and dae would rather live with the headache. 

dae walked away from the post it, thinking exactly what she’d etched into the note.  ‘I’m fucking exhausted from trying to be stronger than I feel.’

without being able to truly process the moment, dae’s gaze darted from mouth to mouth. one being the stage manager telling them it’s places, more being ren then danbi as they check one another’s mic packs. dae could’ve sworn dahye had said something to her but the drummer just nodded, a forced smile pretending to hear before she’d touched her ear piece and walked out on stage. 

blinding lights swallowed her expression immediately. dae found a way to push a smize to the surface though, twisting her sticks in the between her rough but nibble fingers. ‘the show must go on.’ the crowd arose in a roar directly triggering a faint bell to chime through them. it was quick, but didn’t worry her any less. the real fun started once she’d hit her first tom. 

a sore soaked fatigue trembled up from her grip to her shoulders, and settled in her back. dae expected it and still the impact drained her. the drummer kept in time, kept in rhythm just trusting that each arm would left after the other. the crashes hurt the most, but she still lifted her arms and striked them down like thunder how she’d practiced. In and out, she could hear everyone’s voices streaming through to her cochlear, but half way through the song she’d realized that the sound started to become so overwhelming for her that she was losing a bit of her awareness and presence. 

typically, this is where her body shifted into a comfortable ease of auto pilot. she could let loose, and enjoy her drum thrown beaming with their sound streaming through to her cochlear. but, her mind had became too aware. dae could feel the wood of her sticks shifting in her calloused palms, along with the specific vibrations of danbi’s and ren’s guitars. dahye’s voice added to the swell, and suddenly dae’s head was turning each musical progression into a pain wave. It pulsed through her as she tried to keep up, however each strike sent an ongoing ring to her ears and dae was sure she couldn’t hear a thing. 

there was internal panic then, it seemed controlled and professional for only a few moments. For the rest of that song she’d followed the beat of the bass vibration under her to keep time, ‘ta, ta ta..’ instantaneously her brain translated each of their foot taps into measures, and each time they’d open their mouths as a verification of where they were. her sanity latched on to them tight, hoped her muscle memory didn’t dare to fail her now. for the rest of that song, it just barely did her good. 

now, she’d just had one more. 

one more and she could breathe.

she’s told herself that as she’d sipped on her water bottle, quietly pretending to grin at her members as they bantered to introduce the last song of the set. dae offered a ‘rock on’ hand gesture, and swiftly lifted her sticks before huffing into a ‘let’s go’. her low voice cut through just moments before, ‘TRAUMA’ starts drifting into her headset. 

‘falling into the depths of the sea-..’ leaves danbi’s mouth with a clean tone, and dae starts keeping time from then. slow, and heavy on her beat dae finds herself just barely catching her first symbol.

‘too slow, dae’ 

at the attempt to keep herself together she closes her eyes and leans into the beat, her brows furrowed for her occasional hits until the first music break, then her arms tried to fly but she started to loose to the fatigue. ‘fuck..’ dae huffed, ‘alittle more, just a little.’ if anyone was watching her closely you can see the pain surfacing into her expression, but her fight with this song wasn’t over until she’d continued through the final bridge. dae could only make it unscathed until ren’s vocals crashed through her consciousness. then, her fills were too short- some too long, crashes weren’t in the right places and her mind couldn’t balance in the right place. after each fuck up, dae spiraled in her thrown and soon she was cursing herself for not being able to keep up for one more. 

‘why? am i not keeping rhythm- are they going too fast….’ dae huffed to catch her breath, her sound dimming with her arms feeling weighted to her lap. ‘or am i going too slow… fuck- my head hurts- my body is fucking tired.’ her thoughts took hold of her and her drums stopped, and her sticks fell to the floor. 

in that moment, everything went quiet and her body felt a strange wave of relief when she’d stopped moving despite tidals instruments still ringing through her. there was a wet sensation dribbling down from her nose but she couldn’t acknowledge it until she felt it stream down her lips and past her chin to kiss the drum cap. with her squinted gaze, dae realized her nose had begun exposing a secret she’d kept from many. her nose bleeds. the crimson couldn’t even frighten her, all dae could do was lean into the drum set to give her posture a break. it infuriated her more that her eyes began to water, cause the last thing dae ever wanted to do was cry. ever. she wasn’t that childish, she wasn’t a wimp. 

-but her body felt so relieved seeing a crew member sneak out to urger her off stage. her breath was shaky, and hands trembled out of character once she’d made it to the wings. someone lifted her chin, ready with a handful of tissues to catch the blood- but dae found it hard to stand up straight when her head felt so heavy. a woozy sensation pumped through her veins, and dae took that chance to grip anyone near her to stay standing. she couldn’t remember standing for too long since a familiar voice started to take charge over the rushed and panicked stage hands. she’d dipped her head for just a second to see han leaded their attention to a quiet corner, and grabbing hold her arm to help sit her down once they’d walked her over. for some disgusting reason, she felt like crying knowing he was there. it brought her back to the moments where her uncle wouldn’t question why she came home with bruises and cuts and would just sit her down with the first aid kit. seeing han spring into action comforted her more than she was able to show.

dae let her mind waver above the heads of those around her; not yet wanting to face the serious expressions they may be trying to hide. she just let her head rest on the wall so she could speculate through her disorientation if she’d heard han giving orders to bring over water and to get the medic. she’d seen him pull out his phone and pull it to his ear- and moments later she’d seen the top of malachi’s head hastily weave through the curious eyes until he’d found her. dae didn’t mean to hold his gaze but she did, nervous to see his expression too worried. that's the whole reason why she never said anything about her fatigue. she didn’t want anyone to worry. 

too late now. 

malachi with gentle hands had replaced whoever held the tissue to her nose without saying much after quickly communicating with han. the silence of them waiting as her leg bounced in agitation burned, so she reached out for his hand and he didn’t hesitate to latch onto it. “i got so tired, kai.” she could’ve broke into tears right then, but she tried to squeeze his hand to fight it. soon she’d lost the battle, and sniffles followed after. “i couldn't keep up..”  

ren, danbi and dahye joined the circle of familiar faces but only for a second, by time they’d been able to get off stage- the medic had been walking her back to a van to the nearest acute care. 

dae hadn’t made it back to the hotel until the next afternoon.