#trying to find humor in my stem life misery

[rainingmbappe]

Ok I need to assign elements to pl clubs so here we go

Man city : def nitrogen, hydrogen (there's so many puns i cant pick) and magnesium vibes

Liverpool : livermorium (🤭🤭 im so funny pls laugh), aluminum and nitrogen cause they're untouchable when cold 🥶

Man united : francium cause its never there when you want it to be. Sodium cause its so unreactive in nitrogen ajnsksnsk and argon cause they're just so unreactive in general

Arsenal : arsenic ofc, iron and phosphorus cause exposure to it for a short while can cause irritation

Chelsea : Nobelium and Rutherfordium cause it's toxic and useless, respectively

I'll stop it with the puns. We've all sulfured enough

[404fmdminjung]

creative claims — jamjam

summary: the song provides no catharsis. instead — it’s just finished. warnings: none wc: 1826 (not including lyrics)

she sits in silence, and the world outside becomes a twisted and bellowing dark hole, no. a massacre of comments aimed and set to shatter and puncture wounds into any form of self-preservation that remains. a public figure meant to garner the public distates (and she starts to believe it’s her niche of marketing —  riling up clamor for the repeat of lies she’s been spoonfed. now, she’s choking on the aftermath.

they say that if you tell yourself you stop caring, you will. yet, she’s been this broken record player, a constant iteriation of ‘i don’t cares’ and ‘fuck yous’. reality hits: the saying was a blatant lie, and she’d been a hapless fool for trying to pretend in the decadent lies laced in honey — sweet to taste, the break of everything coming at all at once. tonight, she wields together what she learns to accept that perhaps, maybe.. she’d known all along and it was merely the journey lingering that kept her clinging on for so long.

first comes the opening of her first defense mechanism —  a near mockery of a laugh. laughter that breaches humor for each time she’s fallen through the cracks of his pretty smile, carved out. each whisper underneath tattered sheets, and the question of what rests across the horizon of their future. each lie, she swallowed whole — no repercussions nor standards that lead her inside the depth of doubt. instead, she believed each whole whole heartedly, now — she just feels like a fool.

all’s fair in love and war — no strings attached, no rules outlined and set in stone. no rules, yet she ends up breaking all the in-betweens.

a spectrum of black and white, hot and cold. no lukewarm waters to tread in, and boom goes seo minjung on the deep end. yet, all she wants to say is a fuck you once more. only this time, it comes from a source plucked heart heavy, and soul layered. they’re filled with hate, and she won’t fufill the mold they’ve set forth for her. and in the end — he didn’t win, not when she’s still playing.

because what truth resolves any remnants of the wound left over, she doesn’t care. limitations set on the cusp of freedom, the free-falling touches of love with no restraints. because as soon as it starts, it ends — before she falls into the devastation of the aftermath, all she wants is the complete melt of his last touch.

I need some sugar I need something fake What is the truth? I don't care We both know, there's a limit, it'll be over soon Before I cool down, completely melt me (Babe)

she feels like a madman, crazed by the fervor of the night. laughter that doesn’t stem from anywhere but her own misery — written in stone by the pen she holds. she writes each word for word down on the page, wondering if it was even worth each cover underneath the photographers in shy glances on the stage, or the covertness of it all when his life’s now all on display for the world to eat up — it spills back over, repetition rubbing salt into her wounds.

Cover it up, spill it on top, once again

but tables turned, she flips the coin inside her hand — all’s fair in love and war. and in her case, she’s still moving the pawns in her hands, each meticulous movement crafting the next move for the rest. because when her eyes close, and the chuckle breathes out the second hand slap to each of his gestures, there’s only one thing she wants him to know: it takes two to play a game. two to roll around in a ring of fire, only for one to get burnt.

it’s mere mannerisms embedded into her skin. each twist of her lips that curl into a smile in a haphazardly agrees to each turn of how life takes her. running full-force without another thought, and if she’d been given to stop — then perhaps, the droplets of realism would seep in, drowning her whole to rethink the entirety of it all. a heartless huff, and she’s glad he never given her the chance — only set her up for the end of it all.

Between people capable of knowing these things Isn't it just manners to pretend to fall for such lies? I don't care, I'll become a fool, let's try everything Don’t give me an opportunity to think it through

because each time when the nib of her pen digs deep into the paper, and she reminiscences of her red-stained lips smeared on his skin — she thinks of the i love yous, so sticky and sweet. a taste of that thrilling and addicting, never set to rot. what she wanted to hear, he gave her. what she wanted to feel, he set up. set yourself up for failure, and it comes full circle when she’s left alone in her room gliding each line and circle on the paper in front of her.

Tell me that you love me Say the pretty things smeared on your lips Sticky sticky, I’ll keep it pickled So it won't rot, for a long time

in hindsight, it’s just another form of catharsis.

however, in the moment — it’s just drunk off the hours of heartbreak and misery finding some sort of resolve inside bitterness and resentment. she crafts a story, where she’s the lead female for the first time — no care in the world, back to the baseline of what it means to be seo minjung once more. on top, no underhanded games, just the joker in her back pocket lingering around for the next play.

-

when she sees his face on tv, it’s a wednesday.

happy hump day.

no notion of time, but she still manages to keep track of each mark on her calendar and the ticks of minutes blaring at her phone. no call to gold star today, nor any recollection of a stage fuse has to present. time off, and it becomes a harder concept to grapple with as the time goes on. so, she naps for the remainder of the day — lounging around in nothing more than the barebones of her body barely clinging onto the over-sized t-shirt and the undies that fill her frame whole.

when she finally manages to wake up, it’s already night and the nocturnal lifestyle manages to stick it to her good — her hair pulled up into a messy bun, strands already coming down to frame her face. her footsteps shuffling over towards the studio (a free day, her brother’s taking care of her dog tonight).

it’s a recipe for what brings forth the lyrics written weeks prior — the feeling of feeling on top, when now, all she feels is the effect of being down in the ground.

no time for anything, she darts straight to her home studio, her mind still blank. the silence reaps in, and it bellows louder where the echoes boast into a cacophony of sounds her mind can’t handle. as for the fix? she presses her hands on the piano — a start of a heavy base as her eyes reel over the rest of the lyrics finished nights prior.

there’s no thought process nor perfect blueprint of how a song should craft. and maybe, if she were smarter. wiser. there’d been a staged production when her hands stumble to break the silence with something, anything.

so, she reverts back to a futuristic sound.

fixes herself up with the sounds of the steady drumline, and the mimicry of the metronome in the filters of the keys, humming to herself the tune of what she writes down. because if she can’t believe it now, then she’d be damn sure to make a show pretending like she is. her fingers press down into the keys, a melodious cancor of what she doesn’t hear as coherent in the moment — instead, she relies on the effects of the pedal, dragging down each tone to a sound. no coherency in the mic absent, it’s just the voice memos on her phone recording each and every ounce of her head shaking back and forth singing into clear air — if it can be salvaged, the grains will be left to the guide.

-

when she reserves a gold star studio room, seo minjung is in an one-tracked mind to nothing in her mind sans the thoughts of the song at bay, and the details she has written in her notes.

scribbled inside the rugged leather bound journal are half-assed arrows, and subtle cues — deciphering it all, is left up to her. yet, there’s still a grin and a bow when she walks into the studio for the staff to monitor each and every bit of the sound she’s been crafting in her mind for the past few days.

whether this becomes a song to fruition to make to the final cut of the album, she doesn’t care. for what it’s worth here and now, it’s full-on pretending that every ounce of her despair was exempt from the facade she placed walking through the halls. chipper smiles stretching too vast, it becomes eerie. a bit uncanny when it all fades the second she takes into the recording booth.

“i have a clear idea for the song.” she declares, headphones still resting on her shoulders. “i want the first introduction to the song to have an almost accapella effect — no backtrack. no base — i just want my voice.”

a thumbs up, and she settles the headphones around her ears. her eyes closing shut — the lyrics already etched into her memory. the first iteration comes angry, shouting with a full-on chest voice. the playback renders it useless when she shakes her head back and forth. “no, could i do another take?”

the second becoming too much of a head voice — too high and light for the game she wants to draw inside the song.

the third makes a hit when she rings together the airiness pulled at each dip of her words, and the rise of the next. her ears pick up on the playback, her eyes still closed to accept each detail she tries to comprehend — for now, it’s the take she accepts at face value, motioning her fingers onto the next line.

where she steps into the studio at eight in the morning, she doesn’t pack up her belongings and leave till the sun’s already beckoning in the horizon. when her eyes flit onto the clock, it’s four am — her voice raging near hoarse when she bows, eyes creasing as she apologizes for the overworked hours with little pay.

but the track is finished at the end of the day, her heart free — at least for now, sneakers scuffing the newly polished floors of gold star on the way out.

and it’s just that her heart no longer feels the malice held tightly, nor does it feel any liberation from the music flinging in the background. instead, it just feels like work finished and buried six feet under — no reckon of saving any trace in the end. rather, it lies inside her harddrive and whether it sees the speakers of gold star’s saving grace, she no longer cares.

it’s done, her heart is done. the days of feeling on top, done. because in the end, all it musters is the empty feeling being booted back to square one.

[ultrahpfan5blog]

Rewatching Snyderverse Part 2 - Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice

Before this movie came out, I was unimaginably excited. I am a 90′s kid, so I grew up watching BTAS and STAS and then Justice League and Justice League Unlimited. So watching Batman and Superman interact on screen for the first time was something I was so ready for. Plus, on top of that we had Wonder Woman in the movie as well. There was no way this movie could be less than awesome. I hadn’t loved Man of Steel, but I thought it was decent enough that Snyder could build on it if he kept his worst impulses a bit more restrained. Unfortunately what happened was that he just doubled down on a lot of things that I had a problem with in MoS and introduced a host of new issues as well. When I had initially walked out of the theatrical edition, I was desperately trying to convince myself that I liked the movie. It took a couple of more rewatched to get over my denial that I really didn’t like it much at all. I watched the UE much later and while its an improvement, it doesn’t convert it into a good movie.

Firstly the good parts, Ben Affleck essentially carries the film. When he was cast, I was indifferent because I hadn’t seen enough of him to have an opinion either way. But he was really good. He’s not quite Christian Bale, but Bale had the benefit of better writing. But he really delivers as the bitter and hardened Bruce Wayne/Batman. He carries off the charismatic womenizing business man side as well as the brutal Batman side of the character with equal ease. Jeremy Irons is also an excellent Alfred. I quite enjoyed how Snyder made the Bruce/Alfred dynamic more of two colleagues working together compared to the more father/son relationship of the Nolan movies, Irons really delivers the only bits of humor in the movie. Gal Gadot as WW was a surprise bit of casting. I didn’t think much of her as an actress from the F&F movies and sometimes her dialogue delivery is still a little suspect but she was quite a badass as Diana/WW. And her appearances and scenes, especially alongside Affleck, are pretty good. The visual aspect of this scene is impeccable. There are some glorious shots accompanied perfectly by the score. The shot of Superman saving the girl from a burning building and the people treating him like a god, the Superman memorial sequence, its all very well shot and composed. The entire opening sequence is glorious and you truly get the weight of the horror that regular people would have experienced when the battle of Metropolis happened. You can never make complaints of Zack Snyder as a visual director. The action is superb. The Batman warehouse scene might be the most badass superhero fight sequence I have ever seen, rivalled only by the Spider-man 2 train sequence and TWS highway fight. The Batman and Superman titular fight is also well done as is the final fight sequence. There are interesting ideas planted in this movie. The idea of a world grappling with the existence of Superman and how he fits within our society is genuinely fascinating.

But unfortunately, Snyder does a lot more wrong in this movie than he does right. Firstly, I just felt embarrassed for Henry Cavill in this movie. Any charisma and warmth he showed in MoS is just sucked dry by the layers of misery the film just piles on. Cavill spends the entire movie just scowling and grimacing and I don’t even feel I can blame him because that’s what Snyder has him do. Its just a royal waste of an actor who looks like he is the perfect casting for the role. Amy Adams has a reasonably substantial role and Lois and she’s fine, but it feels throughout that the film is trying to find a way to keep her relevant because they have committed to the idea of her being the key. There is an entire sequence where she throws away the Kryptonite spear, then has to retrieve it, and then almost drowns in the process. That’s where the film feels like its trying way too hard to give Lois Lane something to do. Like with MoS, I just don’t buy the Cavill and Adams chemistry and therefore its all the more difficult to accept the idea that she’s the key to Superman. Jesse Eisenberg is pretty terrible as Lex Luthor. I don’t know what Snyder was thinking. Again, I kind of have difficulty laying blame on Eisenberg because he gives a very Eisenberg performance, which is what Snyder must have been going for. It just doesn’t work at all. He just comes off as an unstable person right from the beginning. There are one or two scenes where he hits the right note, but otherwise its a very cringey performances and it really affects the film negatively. There is a whole host of talented actors who are wasted like Holly Hunter, Laurence Fishburne, and Diane Lane. 

The film is just so over plotted. Its like 3 movies fighting for space in one movie and it works against each movie. There is a compelling Batman movie in here, along with a pretty dull Superman movie, along with a Justice League setup film. The theatrical edition had some terrible editing and there were subplots that just didn’t make sense. The UE is definitely a more coherent movie as it makes the africa plot make more sense and gives some of the scenes more room to breathe, but the truth is that I was bored for about 2 hours of the UE. So much of it is just dull conversation and posturing between characters. The only parts where the film comes to life is when Affleck and Irons are on screen. I have no problem with an action lite superhero movie, but then the dialogue and the situations need to be compelling and not so monotonous. The film also just does not have enough time to suitably come up with a reason why Batman and Superman would want to fight. I mean, I really liked Affleck but the justifications he comes up with to want to straight up murder Superman make no sense. He’s a bit of an idiot and gets manipulated by Lex way too easily. If you really pick apart the Lex Luthor plot, it would unravel so easily because it relied on some many things that were beyond his control. Superman’s reason to be against Batman has a bit more in the UE, but its still not enough. Then there is the completely ham handed Justice League setup. I mean, someone who has no idea of Injustice or deep DC mythology would have no clue what the Knightmare sequence was and what the Flash cameo meant. I now have more context having read what Snyder planned to do, but at the time it didn’t make any sense. We still have no clue why Bruce is having these future memory flashes/dreams. Not to mention the ridiculous JL setup videos, set with logos for all the heroes. The idea that someone at Lexcorp spent the time to come up with the superhero logos for WW, Flash, Aquaman, and Cyborg was just too funny. Its just the most lazy way to do a JL setup. Of course there is the infamous Martha scene which is a ridiculous scene no matter how you choose to explain it. I know what the point was. Doesn’t make the execution an less silly. Then on top of that we get thrown into a Doomsday/death of Superman story in the last half hour. Doomsday basically looks like a big mutated turtle. I recognize that Doomsday is not the most nuanced character, even in the comics, but surely he deserves better than this. There have been animated films and cartoons that have adapted Doomsday much better. Like with MoS, this film also ends with an three back to back action sequences with no room to breathe, though I admit that I enjoyed the action sequences here more than in MoS.

Anyways, the film ended up a big disappointment for me and a lot of my issues stem with decisions that Snyder clearly made with the characters and with the story. The UE was definitely better but not by a huge amount. The theatrical edition was a 3/10, and the UE was about a 4-4.5/10 for me. I have heard that ZSJL is the best of his DC movies. Hopefully that turns out to be the case.

[ninety6tears]

king-of-exchanges letter

Wooo kingofexchanges is happening again! 

I’m a big fan of SK but only somewhere in the middle of my consumption/obsession; with King being heavy on self-referencing and crossover-friendly treatments, I’d be happy for you to mix and match any of my requests, as long as you can see from my goodreads page that I’ve read the relevant stuff.

Basic preferences: I read everything from G-rated to explicit PWP. I love pastiche for lit fandoms but something that feels more off the beaten path of the original style can also be fun.

I love: Angst, pining, subtle UST, first times, or established relationships with some level of conflict to be resolved. Intense friendship stories. Protectiveness in close relationships as well as in those that wouldn’t obviously appear to be protective at first. A character or characters experiencing a type of attraction that isn’t the status quo for them. Relationships that had a falling-out and neither of them ever really got over it. Characterization that focuses on the nature & nurture of who people have grown to be and the unique ways they take care of or need other characters. Insecurity/hangups over worthiness. AUs of all varieties.

I can handle: underage, dubcon, noncon, torture and incest. Character death. Love triangles. Infidelity.

Do Not Want: Fix-its without sacrifice/troubles. Soulbonding/magical soulmate tropes. Disputes centered around marriage as a show of commitment ("If you were really serious you'd have proposed by now rather than just wanting to live together" and all that). A/B/O, mpreg, or any body fluid kinks. More than a mention of Alzheimer’s/dementia.

Christine ‘83 (FIC):

Arnie/Dennis

Arnie/Christine/Dennis

---NOTE - The movie is more fresh in my mind for prompting purposes but I have read the book, so feel free to run with this request for either version. I do like the dark humor Carpenter brings to adolescence without mocking the angst of being a teenager, not that King isn’t morbidly funny in his own right.

We get very little of them together before Arnie starts to go all possessed but we can tell their friendship has lasted a lot of changes over the years. That hospital visit over the holiday (which I remember was more bittersweet, less tense in the book?) feels like the last time Arnie remembered that he's supposed to be a big part of Dennis’ life. But even before all that, there’s a nice dynamic where Dennis is protective of Arnie and really thinks highly of him (and huh, maybe sees something in his looks other people don’t) when it’s not socially advantageous for him to retain that loyalty, and I’d like to get more of that. Maybe they’ve fooled around once or twice? Maybe Arnie was the one who got weird about it, afraid of the eventual rejection, or they’re both just too repressed? I like the triangle with Leigh too, if you wanted to get into the confused jealousy/conduit attraction thing, just nothing that completely dismisses any meaning of her relationship with Dennis if it’s referenced at all.

If Dennis was the one Christine got dangerously jealous of (either because something happens between them or she just knows) how would that go down differently? Or what if the car decides she wants to be shared by them, and maybe likes to watch them do things to each other (take that however you want it to mean) and either their closeness makes the two of them eventually snap out of it, or they all just become a weird evil threesome? I'm also into the idea of some other fantasy/sci-fi AU in which Christine is something or someone else entirely but is still threatening in some paranormal/inhuman way.

Crossover Tags (FIC):

Peter McVries & Ray Garraty & The Stand

Peter McVries/Ray Garraty & The Stand

---I’m interested in how these two would fit into a story with such an elemental moral war. Both are reckless but McVries more prone to hopelessness and nihilism; would he be tempted to join Flagg without outside influence? Would he just kind of wander around with no sense of purpose until Ray found him? It could also turn the existential misery of The Long Walk on its head, with them losing their families and possibly realizing too late the preciousness of life that way. You don’t have to get into much philosophy or plot either; I’m kind of into the everyday pain-in-the-ass minutiae of the post-apocalypse and people finding ways to laugh about their circumstances and reach for each other in their grief. Feel free to write it as full-on crossover with some of the canon Stand characters appearing.

Larry Underwood & Richie Tozier

---If you have some other idea of where to put these two together, go for it, but I had this idea of Richie hosting an occasional interview special for up-and-coming musicians and Larry being invited on when the single’s just out and being so nervous to meet this famous personality, and maybe they get drunk or high together before or after the interview (bonus points if Larry can hardly get in an answer cause Richie gives him the giggles). They’re kinda both assholes so they get along? They’re both assholes so they kinda hate each other? I didn’t nominate it as a shippy treatment but if you’re really sad I didn’t, hey, stuff happens when people party.

The Dark Half (FIC):

Alan Pangborn/Thad Beaumont

Alan Pangborn/Elizabeth Beaumont/Thad Beaumont

George Stark/Alan Pangborn

---I thought the surprising friendship and trust that takes hold between Thad and the officer who initially believes him to be a cold killer was one of the better aspects of this novel, and the way that connection is so soon polluted by Stark's insurmountable connection to a part of Thad’s psyche is chilling and more than a little sad. I would love to get a shippy treatment of their immediate companionship and/or the inevitable disturbance of it. If you wanted to make it a poly thing with Elizabeth, with all three of them not really pausing in the midst of all these maddening things happening to question opening their marriage to someone they find comforting, I would be interested in how that might underscore the events.

And when it comes to George/Alan...yeah, I want darkfic, potentially outlining Stark’s role in putting Alan off Thad in a more sinister way, whether it’s poisoning the well of Alan’s (sublimated? not yet acted on?) desire and affection for Thad by being sleazily flirtatious in pointing it out, or going to a darker noncon place with all the mingled disgust and misplaced attraction that might provoke. (In the context of this prompt, I’m not super into the gross-out factor of Stark being at the stage where his skin is falling off, but if you can’t somehow set it at an earlier stage it would be better to just not mention it.)

Also, I realize Alan has a family, but you can deal with that however you want; his wife can just not exist for the purposes of the story, but even infidelity wouldn’t put me off if you’re taking the character that far out of a healthy mindset.

The Long Walk (FIC):

Peter McVries/Ray Garraty

---Since we’re never in Pete’s head, it would be great to get anything detailing how his initial distance from Ray quickly erodes into the protectiveness he obviously can’t help over him, if there’s a spark of empathy there even before the first time Ray saves him, or what he’s really thinking or trying to say at some of his more cynical and cryptic moments. I wonder what it was that Parker said to him to imply he thought he and Ray were “queer for each other” and how this apparently was covered without McVries feeling the need to deny it?

If you wanted to write them both somehow surviving, I would love to see how their relationship remains in the aftermath; maybe they don’t exactly end up together because they associate each other with this traumatizing thing, and they have an essential but troubled friendship because of it (and maybe they end up fucking a couple times but don’t really talk about it).

In the realm of more absolute alternate universes...a bigoted boarding school atmosphere, an aggressive correctional camp, anything where a compulsive make-out might happen in the bunks or the showers and then be stiffly denied later on sounds like a backdrop I’d love for these boys if you want to do something bleak-but-not-as-mortally-bleak.

I prefer to think of McVries as having complicated depression that doesn’t just stem from girlfriend problems; I’d prefer you mention the incident with Priscilla as little as possible, but any focus on Pete’s scar is totally fine.

The Stand (ART):

Larry Underwood/Lucy Swann

Lucy Swann/Larry Underwood/Nadine Cross/Randall Flagg

Nadine Cross

---My attempts to prompt for art for these tags may be unhelpful but I’m really into Nadine’s scary paranormal bond with Flagg, the imagery of her hair and Flagg’s tainted handsomeness and everything haunted about her and her life, and how the love triangle with her and Larry and Lucy is really a quadrangle of temptations and baggage beyond the usual moral pressure of romantic entanglements. They’re all figuratively in bed together whether they like it or not, but I could see that presented more literally in art. I also would like anything associated with the individual permutations (Larry/Nadine, Larry/Lucy, Larry/Nadine/Randall?). Desperate/melancholy embraces, or moments of almost touching. That ghost leering over Nadine’s shoulder in her moments of getting too close to tenderness.

[nicoletteduclare]

These fireside meetings were always a bore, and Maxwell tried not to close his eyes for the brief respite that it would provide if only for the fact he did not need an earful right now. Someone giving him grief for not paying attention would require him to actually reply, and to reply, well, he'd have to cough up the whole reason for this meeting quite literally. That would be a whole new conversation and involve more questions and annoyance then Max was particularly interested in dealing with.

Besides, there was a headache blooming behind his temples, most likely thanks to the flowers in his throat. There were very few people he'd humor with listening to right now. They're all complaining about managing their own (admittedly, rather fragile for most of them) sanity more often. The surprising fact is that he is too. Unlike the lot of them, though, Maxwell is acutely aware of the source.

It would be lovely if they could just finish up already, he can make out some idea of moving camp, seeing as they can't seem to find the source, and he closes his eyes to ignore the shadow out of the corner of his eye, desperately wanting to cough.

This batch seems like it'll be painful. The dark petals are amazingly useful, or, well, they would be if he could actually use the codex more often, but having them come up randomly is quite damaging, even to his own mental resilience. Not to mention his physical state, which is far more delicate. There's been quite a lot of blood lately. Feels like his mouth always tastes of copper.

Even as a child who was far too eager to believe in magic and fae, even then, Maxwell had considered this a myth. Coughing up petals because the heart yearns for someone? Absolutely ridiculous, a complete fairy tale. Not to mention that he'd completely been too afraid to tell Charlie for at least a good few months, and he'd never coughed up petals then.

And he absolutely loved her, loved her so much... and then he'd managed to screw the whole bloody thing up and fail to protect her and ruin the both of them. If he'd just... if he'd only...

It left his stomach sour, and Maxwell valiantly tried to shake the thoughts of the past from his mind. That, honestly, is probably the biggest reason for these blasted flower petals, though there are quite a few.

Why get close to someone else again, when all he's ever brought to anyone is misery? Why fail someone again? He's ruined every single good thing in his life through a wonderful mix of no forethought and too much pride. Everything good crumbles in his hands, and who's to say, even if his affections where returned, that it wouldn't blow up in his face, that he wouldn't fail and ruin them the same way he'd ruined Charlie. What if they ended up worse off then Charlie?

What was the point of even considering that it was possible?

He'd rather let himself choke to death on flowers before letting that happen to someone that he cares about again.

There's a nudge from his side, and his eyes flutter open. "I'm really starting to wonder if you ever pay any attention to anything we talk about." Wilson was looking at him, a scowled frown on his face.

He either has to reveal the petals by coughing them up or just swallow them down, and as painful at it is, Maxwell chose the later, looking away from Wilson to speak. "I pay plenty of attention, Higgsbury." Even though his throat ached, probably scratched raw, he managed a dry, even tone, though it was a little strained.

Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose, an annoyed sigh escaping and Maxwell noticed the wilted flower crown perched quite nicely on his head. "Whatever you say. We're going to start moving camp tomorrow, maybe see if there's something new we've missed that's driving everyone insane. It's been getting pretty bad... though I doubt it even bothers you."

He just nodded along, pretending that whatever it was absolutely did not bother him, and watched Wilson sigh again and get up. A few moments in front of the fire before turning to go off to the tents, and Maxwell is glad they're all scattering, he can feel the urge to cough start to rise.

If only Wilson knew the half of it.

Though, if he even knew... Maxwell bit his tongue to keep from coughing just yet and moved to go find a private area to remove this mess from his throat. It wouldn't make much difference anyway.

- Death was becoming far too frequent, though it wasn't like any of them really noticed, or at least if they did, none of them pressed it. The most reaction he'd picked up on was Willow muttering something about being irresponsible, and he almost scoffed at her. He couldn't remember exactly what of this lovely floral disaster was the crux of all of his dying, the usual fog of revival masked it.

Since he couldn't remember, and he didn't want to exactly risk being found out, Maxwell fell into the habit of being alone for his own sake, and in some ways, everyone else's as well.

The idea of this... affliction, being found out, was mortifying. Besides the agonizing questions, this did destroy some of the facade he'd worked hard to put up; that none of them meant anything to him. And considering that, the idea that his affections would even be remotely reciprocated was downright laughable and utterly hilarious in the worst possible way.

So, Maxwell had accepted the thorny stems, sharp edged rust red and ink black petals, and the pain that came with it as his penance for even daring to let his heart consider another love after the first one had been utterly demolished by his own hubris. The headaches, the shadows out of the corners of his eyes, the world slowly becoming a gray husk shot with streaks of red? That was an added bonus. Even as he managed to keep himself from teetering at the edge of his sanity, the world was never quite as vibrant as it should have been.

The time between deaths was getting shorter, and the Maxwell couldn't help but wonder if there was a point where the time between his deaths would be only hours. That, or he'd finally succumb to the terrorbeaks.

Maybe this is what he deserved. It was about time, considering how many years it's been since Charlie pulled Wilson from the throne and threw the two of them together. Besides, the guilt surrounding this mad little game he'd thrown together certainly wasn't enough.

Just as well to have a bloody punishment to fit the crime.

The last death was only a week ago, or was it five days? One of the two, and no matter, even though he couldn't remember the circumstance surrounding the last handful of deaths, something told him this was near the end. He was on his hands and knees at the base of a pine tree.

He'd actually been trying to make himself useful for once, what a joke, honestly. There was a tiny notch in the tree from an axe, but it didn't matter. What mattered was the not-so-tiny pile of blood soaked petals underneath him, more blood dripping from his mouth as he stared at them, eyes trying to focus under the strain.

His arms were shaking to hold up his body weight, and yet, as he heard a voice, Maxwell tried to force himself to stand. A mix of pride and self-preservation, he couldn't let this be seen. Especially not by...

"Stars and atoms, Maxwell, what the hell are yo-..." The question was left unfinished as Max's strength left him, collapsing back down as he choked up more petals, an awful gagging noise before silence. Wilson was already next to him as there was a pathetic gasp for air, a warm arm trying to help him up or Heimlich, one of the two, winding underneath, but it was far too late this time.

-

The next thing Maxwell could remember was the cold marble flooring that meant camp, and that frankly, was absolutely terrifying. He hadn't had the materials, or really the strength to recreate a meat effigy since the first death by his affliction; touchstones were his main means of revival while he worked to at least manage the coughing fits somewhat.

Instead of the wood and broken stone around a touchstone, dead pig heads staring at him, Wilson was looking at him in the twilight, a small fire going, his own pack tossed nearby.

The place seemed... empty, for camp. Usually there was a lot more fuss if someone was revived, and while there was a little bit of relief towards that, it was... unnerving until he saw the lack of any of their usual structures, things were broken down to be reused. It was their old, recently abandoned camp, seeing as the fire-pit was still in good condition.

He hadn't gotten up yet, eyes just tracing so he could figure out what to do, but before he could get farther into figuring out the situation, Maxwell was joined by Wilson kneeling next to him.

"Why didn't you tell anyone, you absolute idiot!" He hissed between his teeth as he dug for something. While it was obvious he'd died, the reality of the situation didn't quite set in as he gave Wilson a confused look before pushing himself away in shock, sitting up.

Wilson must have seen him die. Logically, then, Wilson had seen the petals. Not that he could remember the man's reaction, which was probably a good thing, but it was the only conclusion to his words.

Wilson knew.

That was quite frankly terrifying; and while he was trying to process this horribly unlucky turn of events, Maxwell couldn't react before there was a godawful needle jabbed into his arm, the sleeve having been pushed up before he was fully awake.

"How long?" Wilson asked, eyes alert and narrowed as he practically glared at Maxwell, before turning back to the bag, fishing something else out with a mutter of "Frankly, if it wasn't for my mother's stories about her younger sister's death due to this, I wouldn't believe it." Maxwell used the mild distraction of rustling for something to stand up, his own pack was near enough to scoop up, ignoring the wobble in his legs.

"It's none of your business, Higgsbury." Lies are so easy, still, and but this one is quiet, Maxwell's shoulders tensed as he backed up, ignoring the gold chain in Wilson's hand.

It's dropped back into the bag as Wilson stood up, glaring at Maxwell, arms crossed. "None of my business? Really, Maxwell?" Looking away is so much easier then confronting this. Heavens, everything truly does go wrong, doesn't it. "You think that it's 'none of my business' when this is probably what's been affecting the rest of us? I saw the kind of petals you're dealing with, I'm not stupid. Not to mention that you're wasting resources then. I thought you might have just gotten into a few scrapes, but no, you were hiding this from us. You think that it isn't my business? Really?" It's certainly venomous, and while it looks like Wilson might have more to say, he isn't in the mood for this, teeth clenched to keep himself from coughing up more of the blasted petals right then, before he turned on his heel, not a word, and walked away.

It was always a lost cause, he knew that from the get-go, but this proved it far past a shadow of a doubt, and Max knew that he was going to be saddled with this for a long, long time, as he closed his eyes and headed to the woods.

-

Maxwell sorted through the pack, making sure his things had been undisturbed by any other survivor or monster that might have stumbled upon his bones from the last death. The codex was there, despite how useless it was in his condition. Every little bit of sanity counted, but on the off-chance he was surprised by a giant or something, a fighter might buy him some time to get away. He already had enough deaths to handle. Then there was his winter gear, traps and tools, some medical supplies; bandages and salves, plenty of torches and fire wood, and finally, thankfully untouched, was his stash of food. Nothing extremely wonderful, Maxwell wasn't stupid enough to risk his health more, but rabbits and mole-worms were easy enough pickings to supply him with meat, along with berries and carrots and the occasional gobbler.

He'd retrieved a few choice materials in the middle of the night, when Wilson revived him, but frankly, he'd already had most of his own supplies. Thankfully, his tent and chest were at the outskirts of camp by choice, and he was quiet enough to head off without anyone noticing. He hadn't actually taken much more then the winter gear and his copy of their maps, the essentials considering that it'd turned to winter only a week after he'd left.

He had a walking death sentence. Carrying more then the basics seemed stupid.

Still, sometimes it was a bit obnoxious, he wouldn't mind having a fur roll to wrap around himself right about now. Instead, he shivered as he slid the vest off the skeleton and retrieved his stupid warm hat. He managed both of them on before pulling out a frozen thermal stone out of the interior pocket of the vest, another shiver wracking his body.

He slid it into his pack to reheat soon, pulling out the map of the underground caves instead. He'd have to mark it off once he got a fire started, but he mentally noted where he'd been in the caves when he'd woken up. Another touchstone down.

It was obvious that he was going to run out of them soon, but he didn't want to, he couldn't, face any of the other survivors right now. Knowing Wilson's inability to keep his mouth shut (far more charming when it was about science, less so when it dealt with... well, this, and he probably had, as he said, it affected everyone,) he had to hope none of them had believed it. He wouldn't have, certainly. Even with the reality of honest to god magic, Maxwell would have scoffed at the idea of this fairy tale being real. It was a story, told to children and young adults to warn them away from being foolish with their hearts. To keep people from pinning for those they couldn't be with.

Well, he'd never been good at listening to warnings, had he? His chest ached all the time, these days, probably due to the floral infestation. He'd probably suffocate on them once again, and waste yet another touchstone.

Maxwell started to cough as he put away the map and stood up, a few petals falling out of his mouth and laying against the white snow. He couldn't help but remember the first morning this had happened as he walked away from the bones.

The night before, the pair of them had been forced into watch after stumbling back into camp late, and they took the time to patch themselves up. Hound mounds were always trouble, but cactus flowers were too useful to not gather in the summer. However, Wilson had forgotten the territory range, and ventured just a few inches too close for the hound's comfort.

A few shadow clones and a spear were perfectly fine for getting rid of the nuisance, but neither of them came out of it unscathed.

At least it hadn't been the dragonfly, but still. Wilson had pulled a hound off of his back, the last one, thankfully, but it'd torn open the flesh under his shoulder blade.

Normally, he'd have insisted he could take care of it himself, but between the exhaustion and pain, he accepted Wilson's offer of help, besides, it was hard to bandage his back. The normal banter, a few light jabs of 'how do you honestly survive out here, you're paper,' from Wilson, as well as a mutter of being glad it was superficial, hands gentle on the bare skin next to the wound as Wilson looked it over.

It'd been surprisingly... nice, but over all too soon. Wilson had shifted over so they could sit next to one another as Maxwell had looked at the damage to his clothing, already planning repairs before he looked over at his companion. Wilson looked... exhausted. The permanent bags under his eyes looked darker then normal, and he was well aware of how badly Wilson (and most of the others,) handled the night. It would be worse on an already tired mind.

Before he could really think about it, Maxwell offered to take over fully, a smart comment of "I don't need you falling into insanity on me," dying on his lips when Wilson smiled.

A tired thank you, and between the smile and the slightly wilted flower crown perched on Wilson's head to try and make the night easier had completely derailed any thought besides the soft, fluttery feeling in his chest as Wilson left. He'd tried very hard not to think about it for the rest of his watch as he repaired his shirt and suit jacket, until Wickerbottom arrived from her nightly reading nook to relieve him. He'd gone to bed halfway through the night with a frankly terrifying realization, and woken up to the start of a nightmare.

Obviously, hindsight is 20/20, unlike his own eyesight. That wasn't the catalyst of his affectionate feelings towards the scientist, but it was moment it finally, really, dawned on him. He'd tried to keep his distance from the other survivors once he was thrown into the mix, but Wilson was apparently a special case, and that was terrifying. Caring deeply about him scared Maxwell down to the very core of his being, and the realization of his feelings came with that terror.

It may have been that feeling, the fear that had buried in his stomach as he repaired his clothing, that brought these suffocating flowers along. Choking on his own fear.

But the fear was warranted. He ruined things so easily... especially Charlie, the last person he'd felt anything like this towards, he'd ruined her life and it was a thing he could never repair. Maxwell was fairly certain that even on the slim chance that these feelings were returned, he'd destroy it, without meaning to, as well. And with their last conversation, words that still sometimes came up in his thoughts, and another reason for avoiding the whole lot of them... well, at least he couldn't break something that was never going to happen in the first place.

A cold piece of comfort, and he shivered as the wind managed through the layers. Time to find a place to light a fire and warm up for the rest of the short day.

[enchantedxrose]

As the Long, Long Nights Begin: Chapter Two

AU.  After the fight with Gaston, Belle is just in time to save the Beast's life-but too late to break the spell. Can they manage to find some happiness anyway?

You can read Chapter One here or on fanfic.net.

Two days ago, the servants had seen the last petal fall from the rose, its faint, eerie glow extinguished forever. The stem had immediately crumbled into ashes on the table.

“Well. I suppose that’s that,” Cogsworth had said, his voice quivering slightly. Then he had turned to Mrs. Potts and asked, “Do you feel any different? Now that it’s permanent?”

And she hadn’t, then. She had still been too numb to process what it meant, being stuck in this form forever. She had distracted herself with the urgent matter at hand—saving the master’s life—because she couldn’t bear to contemplate all the implications.

But two days had gone by, and the master was through the danger. Now she could no longer ignore the reality looming before her.

Many times over the past decade, she had been secretly grateful that her husband had died before all this madness happened. Perhaps that was a wicked thought, but at least her dear Henri had never had to see the curse. His soul was at peace, while hers was trapped in this cold, hard, lifeless thing.

Henri had always been optimistic in the face of dire circumstances, even occasionally to the point of seeming obliviousness. He had been one of the palace gardeners when they married, and she still remembered the day when rabbits had utterly destroyed his pristine flowerbeds. Instead of cursing and groaning like the other gardeners, he had simply picked up his shovel again, sighed breezily, and said, “Afraid I won’t be home in time for supper tonight, love.” He seemed to merely shrug wryly at setbacks.

How she wished she could have some of his determination right now. After all they’d endured already, she didn’t feel strong for persevering—she felt terribly brittle, as likely to shatter as her china surface.

Chip had inherited his father’s sunny demeanor, and she was grateful for that. It had kept her sane for a good part of these ten dark years.

When it finally sank in that the curse would never break, she thought she would feel grief and sadness. Instead, she felt an unexpected surge of anger. It was a foreign, uncomfortable emotion for her. She didn’t know what to do with it. She was growing more and more afraid she would unthinkingly lash out at someone.

She was angry with the Enchantress, for her twisted sense of justice. She was angry with Cogsworth and Lumiére, for expecting her to remain the placid voice of reason, when they didn’t have as much to lose as she did. She was angry at the universe, at God, for letting such a terrible fate befall innocent bystanders. Angry at the spoiled brat of a prince who had offended a witch and doomed them all in the process.

She was even—ashamed though she was to admit it—a little angry at the innocent maiden who was just a few minutes too late to save them.

The servants had heard Belle utter those fateful words. Please don’t leave me. I love you. They were just a whisper in the storm, but they might as well have echoed throughout the castle grounds. But the rose was already crumbled into dust.

It wasn’t fair to blame poor Belle, and Mrs. Potts despised herself for even thinking such a thing for a moment. But they had been so close.

The frustration and rage welling up felt like a monster growing inside her, and she hated it. If this curse had only affected her, she could have accepted it eventually with patience and grace. But Chip. Her only child had no future, and she could do nothing about it.

When she finally acknowledged her anger to herself, she managed to untangle the root of it, the true object of it.

She wasn’t just thinking of her own little boy. In her mind’s eye, she saw another boy she loved almost as much: a motherless child with bright blue eyes, who used to sneak into the kitchen to watch her work, who would beg to lick the spoon when she made a cake, who was starved for affection and received none from his despotic father. Who flinched at loud noises and learned to hide his tears from adults, lest he be scolded and mocked for being soft. Was it any wonder that the boy had become hard and temperamental?

Sweet little Adam. I should have protected him. I should have done more.

Mrs. Potts was angry with herself, she realized.

Given that she was just made of porcelain and paint, she was not actually able to cry. But now, how she wished she could shed a few healing tears, so that her heartbreak could at least have some release.

 The master was growing stronger under Belle’s watchful care. Mrs. Potts spent much of her day boiling water for when the bandages needed to be changed and the wound cleaned, and as she sat on the bedside table, she couldn’t help but observe the couple. It was so strange, to see the gigantic, menacing Beast speak so softly and tenderly to Belle, to look at her with such innocent wonder, to touch her so carefully and reverently.

Now there’s the Adam I know, Mrs. Potts thought to herself. He was still in there all along, and she brought him back to us.

Belle, meanwhile, was unafraid to flippantly tease the master, and didn’t flinch at the strangeness of his claws when they ran through her hair. They might make a peculiar-looking pair, but their interaction was natural and easy and comfortable, almost like an old married couple. The fondness and tenderness in her gaze as she brought a glass of water to his lips—Mrs. Potts had no doubt, Belle had spoken the truth. She loved him.

It was just too late for it to change anything.

 “We were so close,” Lumiére moaned for what seemed like the umpteenth time.

The palace kitchens had become a gathering place for the servants to vent their grievances, but Cogsworth was already growing irritated with his coworkers’ never-ending chorus of woe. After all, he did they think he particularly enjoyed being a mantle clock? And yet he never let his disappointment overwhelm him enough to distract him from his duties.

After taking inventory in the pantry (something he did only out of habit, because the shelves magically replenished themselves after every meal), he busied himself with checking the silverware for tarnish. Unfortunately, this meant he couldn’t help but overhear the nearby conversations.

At least the staff had the good sense to only gossip in here, by the bubbling saucepans and glowing ovens, where their guests were unlikely to intrude uninvited. It wouldn’t do at all for Belle and Maurice to overhear these conversations.

Lumiére and his paramour, Babette, were rehashing their misery this evening, and Cogsworth had heard quite enough already.

“I shall never get my figure back now. I shall always be this ridiculous feathered thing!” Babette cried, sounding mortified.

“Ma chérie, you know that doesn’t matter. I shall love you always, no matter what you look like.”

“But what I would give to embrace you one more time, mon amour.”

Cogsworth rolled his eyes. Love seemed to be such an ephemeral, unreliable thing, and he had no patience for it at the moment. Not after the way it had failed them all.

He wanted to resent that upstart peasant girl for being a minute slow with her epiphany, but he couldn’t. Almost from the day she had arrived here, begging for her father’s freedom, Cogsworth had been powerless to resist’s Belle’s charm. Something about her manner was elegant yet unassuming, good-humored and kind—uncannily reminding him of his late mistress, and he couldn’t help but feel similar admiration for her.

Instead, he would channel his resentment toward the proper target: that blasted Enchantress who had to be oh so pedantic about the curse’s stipulations. After all, hadn’t the master learned the lesson she’d supposedly intended him to? Wasn’t that enough for her? Did they all have to keep suffering because of a technicality?

Since he couldn’t express his feelings directly to the witch’s face (and given the opportunity, his courage would likely fail him), he could take it out on Lumiére.

“If it had just been a moment sooner—”

“Oh Lumiére, enough,” Cogsworth snapped. “You’ve said it about three dozen times, but wishing won’t change anything.”

The lovers goggled at him. If he had been human, he would have flushed under their surprised looks, but instead all he could feel was the uncomfortable tightening of screws and gears.

“Forgive me if that seems harsh, but there’s no use in pining after a future we can’t have. We may as well get used to the way things are.”

Their situation was, at least, better than those first few ghastly years. Had they all forgotten? Bad enough, trying to run a household and keep his underlings from falling into hysteria, all while clumsily familiarizing himself with this new form. He supposed he was fortunate to still have arms of a sort, even if he was deprived of opposable thumbs.

But the young master—only a boy of eleven, transformed suddenly into a nightmarish creature—he had been terrified out of his mind. He tried to disguise it with anger and petulance, sulkily rejecting every attempt they made to cheer him up and remind him that it wasn’t so bad, that there was still plenty of time.

But Cogsworth had noticed the way the Beast had flinched at the sight of his own shadow. There was nothing to say that would comfort him, nothing that didn’t sound hollow and feeble.

At least now Cogsworth could manage. He had adapted to his size and the stiff, mechanical movement. And they had all grown used to the master’s frightening visage, and no longer recoiled at his approach.

Didn’t they all remember how much harder it had been, before? Didn’t they realize it could be so much worse?

Lumiére opened his mouth, no doubt for an acerbic retort, but he was unexpectedly cut off by Mrs. Potts, who had been gloomily washing up in the sink nearby.

“Cogsworth is right,” she said with a heavy sigh. Gone was the usual brisk, chipper tone; she sounded exhausted. “What’s done is done, and there’s no sense grumbling about it. We’ve all got to do the best we can with what we’ve been given.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Potts. An excellent point.” Cogsworth felt validated by her agreement. “We must all carry on as usual.”

Babette scoffed. “That is easy for you to say—what did you have to lose? You have no family, no lovers, no children like Mrs. Potts. Some of us had lives before that we would like to have back!”

Cogsworth blinked a few times, stunned. There was a brief pause, in which she seemed to realize how harsh her sudden outburst had sounded.

“I’m sorry, I…” She fled the room without another word.

“She does not mean it, mon ami,” Lumiére muttered. “She has been taking it very hard. I will talk to her.”

He hesitated, then rested a candlestick on Cogsworth’s metallic arm, as if he were clapping him on the shoulder. It wasn’t as reassuring as real human warmth might have been, but the meaning behind the gesture was clear all the same.

“It isn’t true, Cogsworth. You do have a family. You know that, don’t you?”

Perhaps it was just as well that a mantle clock couldn’t flush with emotion. It was embarrassing enough that Cogsworth could only sputter incoherently until Lumiére left the room.

The maître d’ could be exasperating at times—attention-seeking and frivolous and too spontaneous to neatly fit into Cogsworth’s strictly regimented life—but they had been through so much together. At the moment, he wanted nothing more than to shake the man’s hand and thank him for standing by his side all these years.

But the moment had passed. And neither of them had hands.

Why must it be so difficult to put one’s feelings into words?

He avoided Mrs. Potts’s gaze as she finished washing the other dishes, but he thought he heard her mutter under her breath, “It’s about time he said it.”

Suddenly desperate for a change in conversation, Cogsworth remarked, “I hear the master is awake at last. How is he?”

“Still weak. He lost a great deal of blood. But he’s on the mend.”

Cogsworth shuddered. He would never forget the mess of crimson bedsheets as Belle tried to stitch up the gaping wound from the jagged hunting knife. It would have made him retch, if he had had a stomach to upset. But Belle’s hands hadn’t even shaken. Love and desperation seemed to give her courage, and he admired her all the more for that.

“I haven’t managed to speak to him alone yet,” Mrs. Potts continued. “I don’t think he wants her to be suspicious that we’re keeping something from her. She’s a sharp girl, though, and it’s not as though the master’s ever been a very good liar.”

“So he hasn’t told her about the curse yet?”

“Can’t say I blame him. It’ll probably break the poor dear’s heart, knowing she was too late to help.”

To Cogsworth’s surprise, he could find it in him to pity Belle a little, as Mrs. Potts seemed to. He couldn’t imagine the guilt she would experience, when she understood how many hopes she had unknowingly dashed. And even though they didn’t blame her, even though they were grateful that she had at least brought some life back into this household, that would be poor comfort to her.

“I still say we ought to have explained it all to her from the start,” he huffed. “She would have wanted to help us.”

“Oh, Cogsworth. Love has to happen on its own, it can’t be forced,” she said, shaking her head.

“Well, as you say, the master has never been good at deception.” Cogsworth vividly remembered a mischievous little prince that used to steal sweets from the pantry, and even the innocence of his dimples and wide blue eyes was never enough to fool the majordomo. “He can’t honestly expect to hide the truth from her for the rest of their lives. If he didn’t wear his heart on his sleeve all the time, I would say it’s best to keep quiet about the whole thing, but—”

“If they are trying to have some kind of life together,” Mrs. Potts said slowly, “it has to start with honesty. Even if the truth is painful.”

She no longer seemed to be speaking to Cogsworth: there was a far-off look in her eyes, contemplating something very hard.

“Are you alright, Mrs. Potts?” he asked, as gently as he could. He had not heard the matronly housekeeper utter a single complaint since the spell became permanent, but she certainly hadn’t been acting like herself, either.

“I’ll be fine. I just need to have a talk with my son, that’s all. And it isn’t going to be easy.”

Cogsworth watched her head for the butler’s pantry, where the china cabinets were located. His heart sank. In all the confusion and bickering between the adults, he had completely forgotten about Chip.

 Mrs. Potts took a deep breath to steel her nerves before rounding the corner. She had asked Chip to stay in his cupboard, explaining that the master had gotten very hurt and the grown-ups needed to mend his wounds, and so he needed to keep out of the way for a little while. He had to be very claustrophobic by now.

Just as she expected, Chip was chattering a mile a minute the instant she opened the cupboard door.

“Mama, am I going to have a real birthday this year?” He bounced excitedly in his saucer. “With a cake and everything? Can I have chocolate? Please?”

“Chip, dear.” She could hardly force the words out, when she knew they would destroy the exuberance and hope that had kept her son happy all these years. But she couldn’t lie to him forever. “That’s not going to happen this year. I’m afraid it’s not going to happen at all.”

Chip visibly drooped. “But…how come? I thought you said the spell was going to break.”

“I said it might, sweetheart,” she said, unable to keep her voice entirely steady. If only she’d never said a word to him, if only she hadn’t raised his hopes.

“So I’m always going to be a teacup?” he said in a small voice.

She would have given anything at that moment to be able to scoop her son up into her arms and squeeze him tight, the way she used to whenever he had a nightmare or had scraped his knees while climbing trees. Words could only do so much to comfort a child—they needed to be held to feel safe. The best she could do was scoot closer to him and lean forward so their handles clinked together. It was a poor substitute for a mother’s embrace.

Chip sniffed, seeming to understand what she meant by the gesture. “Are you going to be okay, Mama?”

“Of course, dear heart, why would you—” Her voice caught and she couldn’t finish.

“Don’t be sad, Mama. I don’t mind being a teacup. I mean, I wish I could have a birthday cake and climb trees and grow a little taller, but it’s okay. There are nice things about being a teacup. I don’t get sick anymore. And not getting bigger means I won’t have to move away and leave you alone, ever.”

Chip’s attempts to cheer her up broke the floodgate. There were no real tears, but she still gasped for breath as if she were sobbing desperately. She had never wanted her child to see her this discomposed, but she couldn’t hold it back any longer.

“There, there, Mama, it’s alright to cry.”

She almost smiled, hearing him parrot what she had often told him. She often forgot Chip was not quite as fragile as his delicate porcelain shape would suggest. His mind was still more or less as innocent and simple as any six-year-old, but these ten years had changed him in subtle ways: he was more watchful, more insightful, more resilient.

“We can be happy again, can’t we?”

“I am, Chip,” she managed to choke. “I’m happy to be blessed with such a sweet and kindhearted little boy.”

He stayed near her until she had calmed down at last, even though his eyes were growing heavy with sleep. It was a small mercy, she thought, that even though they weren’t truly alive anymore, they could still escape to the oblivion of sleep. Perhaps in his dreams Chip could still run and play outside as a real little boy.

“Mama, could you sing me to sleep?” he asked as he settled into the cupboard for the night.

This, at least, was something she could still do for him. “Of course, dear. Of course.”

(to be continued...)

[mementosrp-blog]

( BAEK AHRI )

ALIAS › raven

FACTION › doves

( PERSONA )

BACKGROUND : Esoteric yet prominent in Irish mythology, the goddess Morrígan is a goddess associated mainly with prophecy, war, the circle of life, sovereignty and Valkyries; though certain sources also associate her with water bodies, priestesses, witches and the night. She is often portrayed as a trio of goddesses.

Ahri’s Persona, Morrígan, appears as a three-faced, four-armed lady clad holding a spear and clad in intricate gold and black lace. A pair of large wings resembling that of a raven’s stem from her back; and when folded, these wings resemble a cape. Morrígan’s three faces embody three prominent sides of Ahri’s identity which she struggles to let coexist – her wisdom as an observer and learner of life, her aggression against injustice, and the desire to remain invisible, sheltered and maybe even nonexistent (be it dead or alive) in the world. These facets are represented by a warty, silver-haired old lady with a hooked nose (The Old Lady), a raven-haired, young lady with a piercing gaze (The Raven Lady; this is usually the front-facing visage when her Persona is summoned in-battle), and a lady with her head bowed and unmoving respectively (The Hidden One). All three of these faces don raven skulls as helmets.

ABILITY/ABILITIES :

– [ The Old Lady ] An embodiment of Ahri’s wisdom and strong intuition, she assists in discerning if an enemy may overpower the team, though this ability is nowhere near as powerful as that of Personas like Himiko , or Necronomicon. She further supplements Ahri’s strengths as an observer, allowing for Ahri to hypothesise on what a human enemy’s next move might be, and help the team strategise. This facet of Morrígan also represents the goddess’s association with prophecy and priestesses.

– [ The Raven Lady ] The foremost face of Ahri’s Persona, she is the most powerful of the three and asserts Morrígan as a combat Persona. The ability to manipulate darkness comprises her magic abilities, while her physical abilities comprise attacks with the spear she wields. Her special attack is one where she shrouds her enemies in a cloud of complete darkness while inflicting damage with her spear. This facet of Morrígan also represents the goddess’s association with war and the night.

– [ The Hidden One ] Morrígan’s wings are more than just for show – they are her responsibility. On occasion, she may wrap these wings around Ahri to protect her from a possibly fatal blow, or unfurl them and let out a high-pitched scream to intimidate Shadows. Her bowed head obscured by the raven skull she wears, she represents the goddess’s association with the circle of life and Valkyries.

WEAKNESSES :

– [ The Old Lady ] A Persona is a physical manifestation of one’s soul – ergo, Ahri and Morrígan’s emotions are linked. If Ahri is experiencing an extremely intense emotion during a battle (such as fear, rage or distress), her inclination to think rationally is impeded, hence hampering the Old Lady’s abilities.

– [ The Raven Lady ] The brighter an area is, the weaker her special attack and ability to manipulate darkness.

– [ The Hidden One ] Of the three, she is the most unpredictable – it is near impossible to foresee when she will unfurl her wings or use them to protect Ahri.

( STATS )

Knowledge : [ 15 / 25 ] Guts : [ 10 / 25 ] Proficiency : [ 10 / 25 ] Kindness : [ 10 / 25 ] Charm : [ 5 / 25 ]

— BACKGROUND

#1: A STATEMENT MADE TO SEOUL METROPOLITAN POLICE

Investigator: What brings you here tonight, Ahri?

Ahri: Please don’t make it sound like this is some sort of talk show.

Investigator: Of course, my apologies. It states here that you were involved in a domestic disturbance?

Ahri: … Yes.

Investigator: Tell me what happened, Ahri.

Ahri: My dad… Scolded me again. It was over something menial, really, but he was vile as always–

Investigator: Sorry for the interruption, but what exactly was it?

Ahri: … I forgot to do the dishes, again.

Investigator: And what did he do?

Ahri: I went to the kitchen to do the dishes while he called me shit, useless, ungrateful, worst kid in the world… You know, the usual. (a short pause; her voice wavers when she speaks up) Just because he does it often doesn’t mean it hurts any less than before.

Investigator: I see… (writes furiously in his file)

Ahri: My mom is the shitty one. She’s useless. Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented; I think I’ll ever understand how she turned a blind eye to everything thus far.

Investigator: I see… What happened next?

Ahri: I snapped. It’s been almost 20 years of his condescending, name-calling bullshit. I talked back to him, I argued with him. Told him it was enough, that he was the shitty one. (she gulps) He told me to show some respect, and I asked him why I should when he has never truly afforded any respect to me. (pause) That’s when he started to hit me.

There were… A lot of things. (she winces a little) First his bare hands, then the spatula… (she begins to breathe harder, showing minute signs of panic) Then I fell down, and he began kicking me. He grabbed my hair and hit my head against the wall… Then I grabbed the bottle. He was about to do it again, so I broke the bottle and slashed his wrist.

Investigator: Go on.

Ahri: He was about to retaliate. I had to think fast… My mom keeps the mortar and pestle on the kitchen floor, by the gas canister, so I grabbed the pestle. I managed to dodge him grabbing at me, and I aimlessly hit him with the pestle… I didn’t realise I’d hit his forehead.

Investigator: Is that how he lost consciousness?

Ahri: Yes. He’s should be at a hospital by now… I didn’t want it to end like this. (she bows her head and begins to tear up)

Investigator: Listen, Ahri, I know it’s been rough… Just bear with it a little longer, we’re almost done here. (he pushes a box of tissues towards her) It says here that the call came from a Mrs. Baek Eunsuk. Is she related to you?

Ahri: (nods) My mom. She wants me out of their hair. In her eyes, her darling husband can do no wrong, even if he’s almost killing her daughter. (pause, then speaks up in a low whisper) I know she hates me.

Investigator: Did anything like this happen before?

Ahri: On a daily basis. The name-calling, I mean. As for the beatings, occasionally, but with more frequency than anyone else can consider healthy. Anything this bad? Once.

I don’t have any friends in school because of the rumors. “Ahri got her nose done” – yes, it’s true. But it wasn’t because I wanted to look like a poster girl, it was because my asshole of a dad bashed it in.

Investigator: Why didn’t you press charges before?

Ahri: Because… (looks down, tearing up) They’re my parents…

Investigator: (closes his file and looks at her) Listen… By right, everything in this room should remain as objective and factual as possible. But I’m breaking the rules because you need to know that you don’t have to suffer like this any longer.

I’m not too familiar with the details, but you can and should press charges. If everything you’ve been saying is true, and enough evidence substantiates your claim (he gestures to her bruises), you will no longer have to come into contact with either of your parents anymore.

Ahri: (silence; refuses to meet the investigator’s eyes)

Investigator: (sighs) You’re the only one who can do this, Ahri. (he takes out his name card and places it in front of her) If you change your mind, I can help you out. (he stands up, and heads for the door)

Ahri: Yes.

Investigator: Pardon me?

Ahri: Yes. (turns to meet his eyes) I want to press charges.

#2: FILLING IN THE BLANKS

To try and define Ahri at this point in her life would be an injustice to her true self. A victim of domestic abuse, Ahri feels as though who she really is and who she could be has been forcibly obscured by her misery. Breaking these chains has become an ongoing, inner struggle of hers.

Despite being both beautiful and one of the top students at her high school, her parents’ continuous abuse has led Ahri to believe that she must be ‘the scum of society’. This disparity between honest compliments from others and what has been ingrained in her as 'truthful’ has led to her displaying mild symptoms of bipolar II disorder.

At first sight, Ahri can come off as aloof, untrusting, shy and/or distracted. However, upon getting to know her, one may find that she is vivacious and compassionate with a strange sense of humor. However, if someone she is close to puts her down or turns against her (in a non-joking manner), it is relatively easy for her to feel betrayed and overwhelmed with sadness. She is also prone to random bouts of sadness, which she has learnt to control and stave off till she has space for some time alone. Despite this, she is indifferent to the actions and words of strangers, and is a fierce, resilient fighter in battle, choosing to channel the rage and grief of her abuse into fighting alongside the Doves.

#3: WHAT MORRÍGAN WOULD HAVE SAID

When will 'enough’ truly be enough?

The antithesis of arrogance can truly be a curse. “Useless, sickening, good-for-nothing” – Do you truly believe their words?

Do you truly believe that all the good in the world has forsaken you, that hope is temporary and a curse; that you are destined – made – to suffer?

Save your words. We know the answer.

I am thou, thou art I. Misery runs deep, but it is not your depth. Blood may bind, but it does not define. Allow not this anguish to persist, and forgive them no longer!

Dark, scintillating and fearsome as night, my name is Morrígan. Reach into the dimensions of thy heart unexplored; and call forth thy rage!

[ninety6tears]

King of Exchanges letter

It’s a Stephen King exchange! I’m a big fan but only somewhere in the middle of my consumption/obsession; with King being heavy on self-referencing and crossover-friendly treatments, I’d be happy for you to mix and match any of my requests, as long as you can see from my goodreads page that I’ve read the relevant stuff.

Basic preferences: Anywhere from gen to PWP is fine. I love pastiche for lit fandoms but something that feels more off the beaten path of the original style can also be fun.

I love: Angst, pining, subtle UST, first times, or established relationships with some level of conflict to be resolved. Intense friendship stories. Protectiveness in close relationships as well as in those that wouldn’t obviously appear to be protective at first. A character or characters experiencing a type of attraction that isn’t the status quo for them. Relationships that had a falling-out and neither of them ever really got over it. Characterization that focuses on the nature & nurture of who people have grown to be and the unique ways they take care of or need other characters. Insecurity/hangups over worthiness. AUs of all varieties.

I can handle: underage, dubcon, noncon, torture and incest. Character death. Love triangles. Infidelity.

Do Not Want: Canon divergent fix-it scenarios unless prompted (AUs where the original conflict never happened doesn’t fall into that; I just don’t want “X didn’t die and everything’s okay now” as a main premise rather than just an element). Soulbonding/magical soulmate tropes. Disputes centered around marriage as a show of commitment ("If you were really serious you'd have proposed by now rather than just wanting to live together" and all that). A/B/O, mpreg, or any body fluid kinks. More than a mention of Alzheimer’s/dementia.

Christine ‘83 (FIC):

Arnie Cunningham/Dennis Guilder

---NOTE - You can totally make it fic for the book if you want; I like both but the movie is more fresh in my mind for prompting purposes so I went with that; plus I do like the dark humor Carpenter brings to adolescence without mocking the angst of being a teenager, not that King isn’t morbidly funny in his own right.

We get very little of them together before Arnie starts to go all possessed but we can tell their friendship has lasted a lot of changes over the years. That hospital visit over the holiday (which I remember was more bittersweet, less tense in the book) feels like the last time Arnie remembered that he loves Dennis. But even before all that, there’s a nice dynamic where Dennis is protective of Arnie and really thinks highly of him (and huh, maybe sees something in his looks other people don’t) when it’s not socially advantageous for him to retain that loyalty, and I’d like to get more of that. Maybe they’ve fooled around once or twice? Maybe Arnie was the one who got weird about it, afraid of the eventual rejection, or they’re both just too repressed? I like the triangle with Leigh too, if you wanted to get into the confused jealousy/conduit attraction thing, just nothing that completely dismisses any meaning of her relationship with Dennis, please.

Crossover Tags (FIC):

Peter McVries & Ray Garraty & The Stand

Peter McVries/Ray Garraty & The Stand

---I’m interested in how these two would fit into a story with such an elemental moral war. Both are reckless but McVries more prone to hopelessness and nihilism; would he be tempted to join Flagg without outside influence? Would he just kind of wander around with no sense of purpose until Ray found him? It could also turn the existential misery of The Long Walk on its head, with them losing their families and possibly realizing too late the preciousness of life that way. You don’t have to get into much philosophy or plot either; I’m kind of into the everyday pain-in-the-ass minutiae of the post-apocalypse and people finding ways to laugh about their circumstances and reach for each other in their grief. Feel free to write it as full-on crossover with some of the canon Stand characters appearing.

Larry Underwood & Richie Tozier

---If you have some other idea of where to put these two together, go for it, but I had this idea of Richie hosting an occasional interview special for up-and-coming musicians and Larry being invited on when the single’s just out and being so nervous to meet this famous personality, and maybe they get drunk or high together before or after the interview (bonus points if Larry can hardly get in an answer cause Richie gives him the giggles). They’re kinda both assholes so they get along? They’re both assholes so they kinda hate each other? I didn’t nominate it as a shippy treatment but if you’re really sad I didn’t, hey, stuff happens when people party.

The Long Walk (FIC):

Peter McVries/Ray Garraty

---Since we’re never in Pete’s head, it would be great to get anything detailing how his initial distance from Ray quickly erodes into the protectiveness he obviously can’t help over him, if there’s a spark of empathy there even before the first time Ray saves him, or what he’s really thinking or trying to say at some of his more cynical and cryptic moments. I wonder what it was that Parker said to him to imply he thought he and Ray were “queer for each other” and how this apparently was covered without McVries feeling the need to deny it?

If you wanted to write them both somehow surviving, I would love to see how their relationship remains in the aftermath; maybe they don’t exactly end up together because they associate each other with this traumatizing thing, and they have an essential but troubled friendship because of it (and maybe they end up fucking a couple times but don’t really talk about it).

In the realm of more absolute alternate universes...a bigoted boarding school atmosphere, an aggressive correctional camp, anything where a compulsive make-out might happen in the bunks or the showers and then be stiffly denied later on sounds like a backdrop I’d love for these boys if you want to do something bleak-but-not-as-mortally-bleak.

I prefer to think of McVries as having complicated depression that doesn’t just stem from girlfriend problems; I’d prefer you mention the incident with Priscilla as little as possible, but any focus on Pete’s scar is totally fine.

The Stand (ART):

Larry Underwood/Lucy Swann

Lucy Swann/Larry Underwood/Nadine Cross/Randall Flagg

Nadine Cross

---My attempts to prompt for art for these tags may be unhelpful but I’m really into Nadine’s scary paranormal bond with Flagg, the imagery of her hair and Flagg’s tainted handsomeness and everything haunted about her and her life, and how the love triangle with her and Larry and Lucy is really a quadrangle of temptations and baggage beyond the usual moral pressure of romantic entanglements. I also would like anything associated with the individual permutations (Larry/Nadine, Larry/Lucy, Larry/Nadine/Randall?). Desperate/melancholy embraces, or moments of almost touching. That ghost leering over Nadine’s shoulder in her moments of getting too close to tenderness.