#i feel unhinged and melancholy and bitter!!
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i’d rather die than be open honest and vulnerable on twitter but on here where no hockey media will see it i want to say that nicklas backstrom is and will always live in my heart. i watch an ungodly amount of hockey and i like so many players, but i don't think i'll ever quite feel the same about any other player, ever.
nicke backstrom is — a consummate professional and private about his own life and family, but always happy to speak to fans when he is out and about, kind and quiet and a good reader of people. a pillar of the franchise on the ice and off, in every way you can think of. frightened of dogs but gamely always took photos holding a little one for the annual charity calendar. steady and steadfast, the best two-way centerman you could possibly imagine who's never won a selke. quietly exceptional his entire career and always, always fucking overlooked by everyone except his own city, who loves him with a fervor usually reserved for religious figures. dc loves him as if to make up for the fact that he never gets his due anywhere else. they saw him grow up and grow into himself and that's an honor, and they love him for it. they love him for this too: he plays beautiful hockey. incredible vision, soft hands. competitive nearly to a fault and unafraid to get into faces when needed. (some games he could drag the caps to a win they didn't deserve otherwise out of sheer force of will.) best pure passer in the nhl, you'd never see prettier saucer passes than you'd see from him. absolutely cold-blooded, patient and unyielding, could sit on a puck for a whole period if needed, waiting for his wingers to get where they needed to be. could sit on a puck for a minute and a half of a power play, waiting for alex ovechkin to drift into position and wind up, stick high in the air, waiting to shoot. he never panicked. he never panicked on the ice and he never panicked off of it either. when the puck was on his stick he was in control of the game and he knew it. off the ice, when fans were clamoring to blow up the core after years of early playoff exits, when the media pressure was building and building, when the wider hockey world muttered and whispered that ovechkin and backstrom just didn't have what it takes — he was unshakeable. he believed so fiercely in himself and his team. when nobody else thought they could do it, he flatly promised that this team was going to bring a cup to the city. and he was right!
he's always unshakeable. he's always calm and he's always brave and he's always unselfish. i feel like chewing through the walls. i feel so fucking bad about this because i think he was feeling optimistic this year but hip resurfacing is a hard, hard procedure to come back from. no nhler has ever done it. he chose to do the surgery for his kids more than anything, i think. i think he knew his odds, too. and i think he knew, through these first eight games of the season, that the bounce back he was hoping for wasn't going to happen, at least not right now. and then he did the thing he always does: he put his team first, and he put his family first, and he did it quietly, without fanfare. he told his management and then he gathered his team and he told them, and every caps beat reporter said that today the atmosphere was unlike anything they had ever witnessed, that it was somber and bitter and just... off. they said practice was bad, as one might expect. tj oshie talked about feeling so awful because he knew how hard nicke was working to get back to the game he loved....... and it comes back to: this sucks. it's not fair. nicke plays a game that should have meant longevity, and it feels wrong that time is catching up like this, with a vengeance.
ovi is so big with his love and his heart that it's easy to miss how hot nicke burns too. i quite literally cannot imagine a capitals team without him. i don't think any of the guys in the locker room can either. like. ovi's supposed to break the goals record without nicke passing to him? i'm going to throw up. i'm going to cry. john carlson said it feels weird today, and it's going to keep feeling weird. and... yeah! going to watch the caps tomorrow and cry through the broadcast, i'm sure. i hope they get blown out. i hope they lose 7-1. i hope they get a shutout and ovi scores a hat trick and tom gets a gordie howe. do you get it.
#i feel unhinged and melancholy and bitter!!#just something about a hockey player that you more or less grew up alongside faced with the inexorable march of time and injury adding up#i really love him like. as much as you can love some random guy who plays sports professionally lmao#sorry u guys are getting subjected to this but like n.hl team employees and beat writers follow me on twt i can't speak freely
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Medals For Scars - BTHB
I'd like to thank @whumperofworlds for asking for this! I decided to have this be a fairly short write, but if people want to see what really happens next, just leave a comment so I know lmao. That being said, let me tag the Bru Bru/ Military Whump squad!
@badthingshappenbingo 'Scar to Remember'
Tag Squad: @actress4him, @redd956, @ocean-blue-whump, @pigeonwhumps, @technom0ose, @inscrutable-shadow, @straight-to-the-pain, @thethistlegirl, @sssunshinebreeze, @crash-bump-bring-the-whump, and @brinkofdiscovery
Continued after Tell Me When It's Over
CWs: Military Whump, Angst, PTSD, Panic Attack, Abuse from Commanding Officer, War Talk, *slightly grimdark*, and Mentions of Blood/Gore
~~~
Bruno stood in the hallway, poised and standing with a sense of purpose while his shoulders remained tense. He was dressed in full service blues, his uniform crisp, his tie straight, his shoes well polished, his ribbons positioned over his heart, his wings and occupational badges shining, and the bandages under his mangled chest concealing the damage.
He knew by now how it worked. He'd stand before a panel of both officers and enlisted, explain what had happened in excruciating detail, and then be given their decision of whether or not they would submit it for either the Air Force Cross or some other medal that signifies his honorable actions.
Bruno scoffed unknowingly, the word tasting bitter in his mouth. Honor. Such an overused word, yet people didn't comprehend what the reality of being honorable entailed, the scars it left behind, nor the painful memories that would come to haunt them during the hours of the day and night. People who say they know what war is have no fucking clue what it's like.
They aren't the ones having to put down someone else's pride and joy six feet under. They aren't the ones staying up 'round the clock, knowing that if they snooze for even a moment, their teammate could wind up dead beside them. They aren't the ones having to leave a body behind and telling the parents, spouse, or child of that soldier that their loved one is gone forever.
The taste of war was something Bruno could describe so easily depending on who asked. For the joke of it, he could just say it tastes like a fuck ton of Monster Energy, shitty MREs, and whatever random ass bug crawled in your mouth at night if you left your cot net open. For someone who wanted to really know the truth, Bruno's answer never changed.
It's something you can't stomach until you've learned to harden your heart and mind to it. Your mind can't begin to comprehend the utter chaos of the battlefield. No matter how organized it may seem, it's a cesspool of rage, unhinged emotions, death, blood, and dreams of a long life ending suddenly. When you breathe it the first time, you can't help but gag and cough because it coats your throat with what feels like knives slicing you from the inside. Once you swallow your fear and your woes, then you can taste it. It stings for a second, and then it's a fusion of melancholy and metallic aftertaste. Whether it's your own blood, someone else's, or even the residue from all the gunfire and smoke, it all ebbs into a certain tang that... if you've been around it long enough, it's sweet. If not, it is the most bitter thing you've ever tasted.
His chest began to hurt and he grimaced, a hand being brought up to grip the clothing over his sternum, as though the shrapnel from the accident were back in his chest. It grew harder to breathe, the hallway beginning to tunnel. He shut his eyes and clenched his jaw, hoping the waves of duress would pass by him, but he was met with a gentle tap to his shoulder, his head snapping towards the direction and coming face to face with her.
"Hey, are you okay? You're up next," Miranda spoke in that same voice she used on that fateful day. He wouldn't be here without her, but sometimes...
Sometimes he wished he hadn't survived.
He had to respond back before she could tell he wasn't in the greatest of moods. "Yeah. I'll be fine. It's just an award committee trying to pull every detail they can out of me. It won't be fun, but it'll get done soon enough."
"You can tell them that it's too fresh in your mind, Bruno. Why don't you let me go in-"
"Lieutenant Ryker, are you trying to talk our wonderful Captain Stenberg out of getting the Medal of Honor?" General Kane appeared around the corner, his eyebrow raised, his grey eyes ever so depressing to look into. "Well?"
Miranda straightened up and adjusted her Marine dress uniform, clearing her throat and throwing Bruno a look of displeasure. "No, of course not, General Kane. I was simply insisting that Captain Stenberg take a brief moment of leave to clear his mind of the traumatic events that occurred."
Kane barely even paid a second glance to Miranda, taking a step closer to Bruno, his hand reaching out to straighten Bruno’s tie and messing at the ribbons, wings, and the occupational badges he wore. "Captain here actually passed his baseline trauma exam. Isn't that right?"
Kane wasn't wrong. Bruno did pass the test. After 13 subsequent failures, tape scrubbing, and a few... corrective actions to fix his emotions. "Correct, General Kane. Mira- Lieutenant Ryker, I will be fine. Thank you for your worry, but this won't be long. Recounting the events will be simple enough. I'm assuming the mission has been declassified due to the circumstances of the possibility for the Medal of Honor?" It's a complete joke. He doesn't deserve the damn fucking medal. He deserves to die on the battlefield like a true warrior.
Miranda sighed and raised her hands. "Got it. I'm sorry for assuming that the incident where he almost died doesn't affect him at all. Sorry for assuming that he's just a normal man who sacrificed his damn chest and everything for-"
"That's enough!" Kane roared at her, Bruno unknowingly flinching at that. "You don't get to say whatever you want about this. Weren't you the one he took the blast for? Shouldn't you apologize to him for his fucked up chest?"
Bruno stopped listening at that point, his eyes fixated on a point in the wall, the ringing in his ears getting louder. He could hear the sound of his heart beating proudly in... in his fucked up chest; beating away without a care in the world. He didn't know why he felt really hot all of a sudden, sweat forming on his brow. He couldn't tell why it was getting harder to breathe or how the walls were closing in around him.
He just wanted to duck down.
He couldn't take another blast to his already fucked up chest. He didn't like the rain on his face. It wasn't rain though.
It was blood. Dripping, dripping, dripping down his face, hot and heavy, the screams and cries of agony an undertone of the deafening ringing in his ears.
And then the slap came out of no where, rough and stinging. Bruno registered it seconds after, his hand gently reaching up so that his fingers brushed up against the most likely reddened skin. "S-Sir?"
"Get your sorry ass together, Captain, or so help me I won't help you climb the ranks to Major. Hell, this could get you promoted. Now get your act together, stand straight, control your breathing, and get the fuck in that room. Tell them whatever they want. The mission was scrubbed as a Humanitarian effort to provide food and water to the locals when shit hit the fan for you and Lieutenant Ryker."
Miranda stared in rage and shock, standing in front of Bruno, her finger in Kane's face. "You *don't* touch him like that. I thought you knew better than to fuck over the one person on the team that half respects you."
The General stood there, his demeanor already giving Bruno a bad vibe, who was barely even there as it was. Kane and Miranda stared down one another, a silent discussion going on; one that Bruno didn't know what the contents were until Kane scoffed, pointing at Bruno. "If he fucks this up, I'll have you both on details that will make the Marines look like rocket scientists when they cut the grass in front of the their barracks with safety scissors. Understood?"
Miranda would have said something, but Bruno’s squeeze on her shoulder reminded her to choose her own battles, sighing and saluting alongside Bruno. "Copy. In that case, I'll leave Bruno to go ahead and present to the panel his recollection of events."
Kane grinned so smugly and patted Bruno’s cheek. "Atta boy, you'll be a fine officer. Now go get yourself a nice medal and a promotion. Don't let me down. You can't afford to."
The hall became so quiet, Bruno and Miranda watching as Kane disappeared, a sigh of relief coming from beside him. "I hate him so much," Miranda spoke with so much venom in her words. "I just want to... agh, forget it. He doesn't deserve another moment of my time. Bruno are you going to actually be fine?" She held his cheek, her lovely green eyes shimmering like a forest.
Bruno didn't even know what to say in return, so he took her hand off his face, whispering back, "It doesn't matter if I'm fine, Miranda. That's not something that should hold any importance." He forced a grin and smirk, winking at her with a bit of his dashing demeanor he puts up whenever he's pushing others away. "Besides... it's not something I can afford. I'm the leader of this team. I hold the line. I am the one who has to keep the rest of us up."
"And what about you? Who's holding you up? Bruno, don't walk away from this!" Miranda raised her voice to a harsh whisper, trying to stop Bruno from knocking on the door.
Bruno spun on his heels, and he stood rigid, holding back the anger that was rising in him. "When are you going to learn to just give up on me? I'm a lost cause. The sooner you accept that reality, the easier it'll be when..."
"When you die? Is that it? Do you just want to die, Bruno? Should I have let you bleed out on me back there?" Miranda was starting to tear up, making Bruno pinch the bridge of his nose tightly.
"I have to go... please, before I say anything else to make this worse than it already is." Bruno turned away again, knocking at the door and waiting to be told to enter and stand before the panel.
"You may enter, Captain Stenberg," a male called out from within the room, Bruno's hand reaching to turn the handle and pull it.
Miranda's voice was filled with sorrow and pain when she bid farewell. "Before you go in there... I'm not giving up on you. Not then, not now, and not ever. Now go get your medal that you earned."
Bruno couldn't turn to her. He didn't want her to see how much shame and pain he had within him. He heard the fading foot steps go away from him, and in order to not keep the panel waiting, he opened the door and entered the judgement chamber.
#bruno stenberg#Military Whump#Angst#PTSD#Panic Attack#Abuse from Commanding Officer#War Talk#*slightly grimdark*#and Mentions of Blood/Gore#military oc#miranda ryker#alfonso kane#izzy writes#bthb card#scar to remember
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i dunno if this has already been requested or not but im on my hands and knees for No.10: The Staunton Lick with btaa!scarecrow 🙏 (love your work btw finnie you’re so talented!!)
🎀 No.10: The Staunton Lick 🎀
give me a character and i'll make a mini playlist for them
a/n: oh good LORD i had the most fun with this so thank you so much for that and for the sweet compliment ;-; 💚💚💚
1k milestone info!
🔞minors dni🔞 • kofi • tag: finnie1k
i think jonathan's music choice would be accompanied with a brief lecture on how important it is in relation to how much fear and horror it can provide. for a song to be on his "enjoy" list, it has to either be jaunty enough that he can imagine it playing as he goes about his business or just magically creepy enough to evoke a sense of absolute terror when he hums it quietly 💚
perfect day - lou reed
there's so much melancholy in this, but it's also so beautiful, so it leaves a bitter taste in your mouth that's kind of enjoyable. also, reaping what you sow, it's a good message
eagle rock - daddy cool
used perfectly in the soundtrack to wolf creek, it's an absolute joy when a song so filled with joy can become so synonymous with the dreadful feeling as we fear what's to come after it's finished playing
wonderful, wonderful - johnny mathis
used perfectly to denote the arrival of fear in a particular episode of the x-files (season 4, episode 2, "home") the smooth romance lends itself nicely to that creepy feeling that comes along with nostalgia
main titles (beetlejuice soundtrack) - danny elfman
this is the perfect "driving to work/crimes/drug deals" music. it just gives any journey an added bounce! and isn't that michael keaton just super hot when he's betelgeuse? far more than he is in any... other... roles
twilight time - the platters
there's nothing more romantic than the dark of night, the shadows, the cool air, the all-consuming black, or calming purples and morose blues? this is the kind of thing he would dance to at a wedding
in dreams - roy orbison
if you can get past the imagery of the clown at the beginning, this song is actually far more terrifying than first glance might suggest. the loneliness, the desperation, losing someone and only having them in your imagination? absolutely deranged and unhinged romance
music box (the candyman soundtrack) - philip glass
if he were ever cursed to be responsible for a child, somehow, god forbid, this would 100% be the lullaby that played for the little cretin. it would set them off right in life
just - radiohead
is this really just wishful thinking? maybe jon isn't as much of a jigsaw-esque villain as he'd like to think. sure, people choose to take drugs, and sure they choose to sell them, but is it really a choice if the alternative is dying, starving, desolate and threatened?
i put a spell on you - screamin' jay hawkins
this is the kind of song he would listen to if he was really feeling it, like this is in his house on a saturday morning, eating pastries in his pants kind of music. absolute joy with a hint of wild attitude and the threat of control. very much jonathan crane
we've only just begun - the carpenters
i think jonathan is a sucker for nostalgia, for soft, romantic songs that can be manipulated and distorted and changed to make them send chills down your spine, which is what happens with this in the movie 1408
#finnie1k#nobody talk about how my irl playlist is so heavily influenced by the xfiles#finnie writes
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Oh boy, where to begin?
Main attractions:
Middle-aged men who I can call "daddy~" and "babygirl!" at the same time. This dichotomy drives me absolutely feral. Bonus point if they are fathers who have a complicated relationship with their children.
Girls who are tragically pathetic and fucked up and unappealing, who can barely function in a socially likable or acceptable manner, but they're deeply romantic souls who use their fantastical imagination to cope with their chronic anxiety and trauma and the real horrors of the outside world. Bonus point if they have enough strength to awkwardly try to heal and connect with people. Extra bonus points if they learned to embrace their feminine vulnerability and find some semblance of inner strength through that while facing a terribly misogynistic world.
Boys who were raised in extreme violence and had their humanity beaten out of them but learn how to be soft and kind and what it means to be innocent kids and allow themselves to be treated with love and gentle care.
Abused and traumatized characters who struggle to navigate a deeply oppressed social structure and try to reclaim their autonomy and protect their sanity and dignity. Bonus points if their methods of survival are ugly and can make them appear immoral. Extra points if they believe they are defective and unlovable + their main method of survival is a spiteful, one-track-minded, almost desperate need to excel and force others to acknowledge and validate their worth.
"Joker-esque" characters who are diabolically insane and methodically violent and have the most delightfully wicked sense of humor. Bonus point if they are pretty and kinda ridiculously child-like and secretly ache to be loved and accepted.
Comically pathetic men with a misplaced sense of ego, a hilarious sense of humor, and an appetite for mischief and laughter. Who feel worthless and desperately crave to be useful to earn their family's love and acceptance. Bonus point if they do have a potential for greatness that only unlocks after surviving extreme circumstances (Example: Aegon ii).
Delicate, sensitive, mentally unstable men with self-worth issues and abandonment issues. Who crave human connection to an embarrassing but endearing degree. Who feel too much and care too much and kinda hate themselves for it. Who are forced to be weapons of war and end up excelling at it, and they accept this because they desperately need to protect their loved ones at all costs... literally. Bonus points if they snapped and had a corruption arc (Example: Anakin Skywalker).
Duty-bound characters with a deep sense of filial piety and community togetherness. Who struggle with divided loyalties and issues of identity and self-doubt. Who lose everything and then try to reconstruct their sense of self from scratch after that. Bonus points if they snapped and mostly unintentionally fucked everyone over, including themselves, before climbing out of the pit of despair. Extra bonus points if they developed an irrational hatred for their past selves and dramatically change their core beliefs (Example: Ryuuken Ishida and Theon Greyjoy).
Honorable mentions:
Stoic, cold characters who barely hide their vicious, unhinged, and wrathful side. Bonus points if they are melancholy and elegant.
Bitter and dryly sarcastic warriors who are a force of nature but held down by their own hubris. Bonus points if they're grief-stricken by unhealed trauma + chained to the past and only live for revenge.
Physically weak characters who use their cunning, determination, and resourcefulness to survive. Bonus points if they were kicking and screaming and terrified out of their minds every step of the way.
Funny, dorky, larger-than-life characters who hide an abyss of sorrow and insecurities behind a confidant and carefree facade. Bonus point if being kind doesn't come naturally to them, and they have every "right" to be unkind, but they are mentally strong enough to still try their hardest to be kind anyway.
Nasty women - and sometimes men - who are evil and pathologically fucked up to a horrifying degree and will absolutely go to insane lengths to achieve what they want. Bonus point if they can act normal and hide in plain sight but still seem "off" at times (Example: Amy Dunne and Cersei Lannister).
Genuinely kind, warm, gentle "mentors" who appear to be otherworldly wise and selflessly altruistic but still hide a wicked, childish, almost sinister side to them. Bonus point if they're not ashamed of this hidden side and know how to use it "for the greater good" or for their selfish satisfaction (Example: Albus Dumbledore).
#about me#i keep editing this post lmao#i'm still trying to figure out the types of characters i can't help but to love and naturally gravitate to
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sobbing, crying, weeping, shedding tears, wailing, bawling, sniveling, grieving, mourning, tearing up, sorrowing, blubbering, teary, shrieking, ringing, roaring, booming, bitter, melancholy, somber, depressing, miserable, vomiting, squeamish, nauseous, queasy, repulsed, manic, insane, frenzied, demented, deranged, psychotic, rabid, crazed, delirious, erratic, idiotic, maniacal, unhinged. I feel dizzy. Harry has made me reach insanity
BIG ASS FUCKING MOOOOOODKFJFHUJINBHUJNHJI
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Dropping the Ranboo mixtape
Anyway at time of starting to write this post I had two likes and two affirmative replies, which is Good Enough For Me, so here I am :D I was gonna link the YT but on second thought my YT channel is a mess so this is gonna be one of the annoying ones that doesn’t link to one you can actually listen to but
This is also a running list and currently organized roughly by increasingly hotter takes and it’s under a cut bc it’s 13 songs and I justified all of them
Everybody Likes You (Lemon Demon) - LISTEN THE ANIMATION MEMES WEREN’T LYING THAT EVERYBODY LIKES YOU CAN RANBOOCORE. The increasingly distorted, incredibly bright repetition of EVERYBODY LIKES YOU EVERYBODY LIKES YOU EVERYBODY LIKES YOU until you can hear it morphing in and out of EVERYBODY LIED TO YOU? Tell Me That’s Not Him In The Spiral Depths
Tall (Naps the Block on YT) - This is a) literally a theme for the End, b) sounds stumbling and anxious/high-strung, and c) echoes the Pigstep melody in the middle while still very much doing its own thing this is self explanatory
Dance of Thorns/Old Secret mashup (Tensei and James Roach respectively, feat. woodfur00 on YT) (yes this is Homestuck music) - It’s just the vibes. The energy. The way the elegance of the violin lines of Dance of Thorns sounds almost nervous especially against the almost noir mystery vibes of Old Secret, and the guitar lines of Dance of Thorns add like. Initiative/urgency especially when they underlay the other music it’s so good I don’t think either song alone is Ranboo vibes but this remix definitely is. Just the mix of perseverance and desperation and melancholy and mystery and Class
Touch-Tone Telephone (Lemon Demon) - This one is old news but tbh it just works. Man decides he’s the correct one in this situation and he’s losing his entire mind that no one is listening to him because he just is not
2012 (Will Wood) - This one isn’t really clever it’s just about memory loss, derealization, identity, and often self-hatred (“A miserable fuck, but a loud Tao mystical” is a lot). “Did you lose yourself?/It’s always in the last place that you check” sounds so mocking in ways internal monologues like Droice have been and “I might find myself/By retracing my steps” is literally just Ranboo dealing with the Enderwalk; “And not until lobotomy abolished my monotony/Did I applaud autonomy, and modify a lot of me!” works so much for him Dealing With Himself generally, and also “I heard the world would turn to hell/Compared to that, I’m doing well!” is a Him sentiment
Hand Me My Shovel, I’m Going In! (Will Wood) - Jokes about the three hour mining/grinding streams aside. Not only is the chorus so heavily a spiral/self-evaluation mood, but literally consider his thought processes abt the things he’s done/allegedly done and then consider “My dreams were shattered like a stained-glass window/Jesus in pieces! I believe I through a brick right through Him/But my memory could not be saved!/It just seems unlikely that it’s me who was to blame/So I bookmark my DSM, ‘cause I need to remember my place.” And now with the advent of the “experiments” the second verse’s “Take the road on higher ground, and tell me ‘don’t look down! You’ll fall and break your back’/But that just reminds me how there’s more to be found beneath the black!” is more relevant than ever
Friends With You (The Scary Jokes) - Oh my god. Oh my fucking god man. This could be on here for “I put myself to bed just halfway through the party/I love all my friends, but I hate when their eyes are on me” alone but the general almost empty saccharine vibe of the song is immensely his vibe; the humorlessly-smiling vocal fry on “don’t know” in “Why do you pretend/You don’t know who’s to blame?” is probably responsible for 80% of this read. Not to mention the first lyrics are literally “How long do I have to wait/’Til my lonely days are over?” which is really the. The waiting it out man the So When Do I Get To Be Okay of it all. Shoutouts also to “And the crumbling infrastructure no one else can see,” the self hatred of “I miss being friends with you/But what can I do/What can I do/But leave you alone?” and to “And I can tell you really love me/Can you tell I’m really sorry?” Just. The mix of hope+affection and dejected cynicism and self-hatred in the lyrics
Saline Solution (none other than Mr Wilbur Soot) - Remember what I said about waiting it out until you get to be okay? Anyway that’s crystallized in “If I could just break one more night/Maybe I could wake up and feel alright” and also this is literally a song about catastrophizing and self-evaluation just,, in general and I will not be highlighting all the lyrics about this but I will highlight the fact that he literally calls himself pragmatic and also the lyric “blurring the facts and the fiction.” Also, the sheer desperate anger-concealing-breakdown vibes of “I think I’ve made my choice” to “I think I’ve found my voice” deserves a mention, as does the culminating end of “saline solution to all your problems” with the tears+now splash water motifs of it all with Ranboo I am going to die
Funny (The Scary Jokes) - This is actually a softer take but not only does it literally start with the singer pleading with the addressee to look away, it continues with “I went up in the middle of the night and I climbed right onto the stage/And I raged/And I cried/Oh, what a funny joke am I” disregarding everything as performance, reemphasizes the opening demand with the qualifier “it’s not that I hate you, it’s just that I’m funny these days,” and then kills you with the last couple lines which. Yeah he does care and it does,,, just,,,,, a
Chemical Overreaction (Will Wood) - This is where the mood VIOLENTLY whiplashes because this is where we get unhinged. Anyway “I won’t stop to drop to draw a line in the sand/’Cause I’ll be picked apart to pieces by coyotes!” is LITERALLY the whole “I don’t do well with ‘peer pressure’” thing. “Where the sentimental value of the city around ya/Is deleted obsolete, but still completely will stun ya” is the single most L’Manberg lyric I’ve ever heard, especially from the perspective of a character whom I will repeatedly insist is narratively in the role of someone who’s shown up and seen the status quo as an outsider after it’s been established (hence the eternal New Kid vibes). Chorus very much has vibes of Ranboo Is Seized By The Urge To Do Something, and like. The entire dramatic end part. The last two lines especially (be very careful if you look up the vieo for this by the way it is NOT pretty; cws in the video for flashing, blood, suicide imagery)
A Mannequin Adrift (The Scary Jokes) - The Bitterness. This song is just fully The Bitterness at the environment he’s stuck in; the saccharine comes back as does the “peer pressure” thematic and just the Having An Awful Time; the sarcastic saccharine comes back too, which is always good I love passive aggression. Honestly the first verse is just everything like just listen to it it immediately makes sense
Poison Ivy Grows (The Scary Jokes) - This is overall a song about having bad brain and not knowing what the hell to do about it; it’s so faintly bitter and distant and melancholy and also so zoned out. Also, it’s not the only lyric that matters here but it is enough to be a full argument on its own: “I used to spend so much time/Wandering around outside/Now I’ve got too much on my mind/Now I’ve got too much on my mind”
Spring Haze (Tori Amos) - Listen. Do I know what Spring Haze is about? No. Is that gonna stop me from saying it’s about Ranboo? Also no. I just think “You say we’ll never make it there/So all we do is circle it” is so much, the fact that the bridge at the end is just “Why does it always end up like this?” repeated, and that it just feels so much like overall the song feels like a desperate attempt to figure Something out, and the chorus is just inexplicably him? It might be partially influenced by the fact that “Uh-oh, let go, off on my way” and, to a lesser extent, “Uh-oh, way to go” is not only in accordance with character vibes but also vaguely evocative of Ranboo’s speech pattern
#this also has a couple songs pending addition#this post is just That Enderman Is Deeply Troubled. Listen To Scary Jokes
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hell ya it’s that time of the week. we got 8th year fics, animagus fics, draco harnessing the magic of shooting stars, shepherd harry being unbearably tender and hot, flirtatious holiday office parties, the drarry multi-verse told in wistful dreams! eat up, fellow yearners.
Bitter Transmutation : Cruel Transformation by @dorthyanndrarry - 103k, M
The terms of Draco’s probation require him to finish his final year of schooling, he just wants to survive with what little dignity he has left, in face of students that hate him, falling behind on his school work, and all the strange fevers and weakness and changes… that only seem to be getting worse.
draco wants to be good. harry wants to be needed. it’s an 8th year veela fic but rly it’s draco learning to humanize others and himself via shitty creature-puberty and harry trying not to run away from his feelings. all the non-sexual intimacy and general tenderness in this fic is comforting as hell.
Owl Was Well by @fencer-x (an @hd-erised fic) - 66k, T
Draco Malfoy is not an owl, really he isn’t. He simply assumes the shape of one on occasion when he wants to find a bit of privacy—a goal entirely thwarted because Harry Potter doesn’t understand you can’t just grab any old bird from the Owlery and force it to send your missives and deliver your packages.
god i love a truly prickly draco and a disgustingly earnest harry bc the combination breeds emotional chaos. 8th yr animagus draco going out of his way to fuck with harry only to Catch Feelings — a trope i live and die for. they’re both very scrappy in this. lots of dancing around their big mutual gay crush as they grow to begrudgingly respect each other. i personally would love the opportunity to tell off the object of my affection right before kissing them furiously.
Wish Upon a Star (As Dreamers Do) by @icmezzo - 27k, M
There’s plant magic and celestial magic and dark magic and the normal magic that allows Harry to use a spell to clean his socks when Myrtle’s taken up in his laundry room again. Then there are wishes, and dreams, and love, and those are even more magical still.
harry helps out at hogwarts but mcgonagall’s asked him for help with a spell that has him fully stumped and of course he’s too proud to ask literal-wishmaker draco for help but he’s desperate and curious! there’s this breathtaking scene in a field where draco collects meteor dust beneath an endless night sky. we all lose our shit. harrys flustered bc it’s very magical and very hot of draco. feat. neville’s greenhouse, the rambunctious ghosts of grimmauld place including moody & cedric, stargazing with ur crush. literally what’s not to love.
Through the May Air, Over the Ocean by @tsauergrass - 44k, T
Draco Malfoy never expected to find himself in Scotland or being stuck in a cottage with Potter—but wonders never cease. A story about warmth, a story about falling back in love. A story about a flock of sheep in the distant fells of Scotland.
two lonely men in the middle of idyllic shepherd pastures learning how to navigate their grief and longing for companionship. an elegiac masterpiece of a fic. there are moments so quiet and tender it aches. you want their growing love to be easy but it’s rife with mourning and fear. it makes the ending that much sweeter and earned. (also yes this was a re-read but it’s december and i live in the pacific, world of perpetual summer and humidity, so mentally i needed to be in the vastness of wintry scotland. hell ya atmospheric fics!!)
To Tame A Kitten (is to love) by @tsauergrass - 13k, G
After the war, Harry finds solace in fostering orphaned kittens. One day, a kitten appears on his door step without explanation—and attacks him! Taking it in, he quickly finds that this kitten is nothing ordinary.
another tsauergrass rec bc im a hoe for poetic melancholy and tentative intimacy. the premise of this fic screams fluff but then you’re unexpectedly hit with harry’s longing for affection as he tries to find places to pour all that guileless love spilling out of him. the image of him smiling sadly makes me emo as hell. but rly his and draco’s loneliness are concentric circles so this is all eventually solved with hella cuddling. “I know. . .It’s tiring. But there are a lot of beautiful things, too” — destroyed me.
Sweet Indulgence by @the-sinking-ship - 10k, E
It doesn't matter that Marcy from Accounting is dancing on the tables, Shacklebolt is wearing antlers, and Elliot from Transportation is on his third round of Mariah Carey on karaoke because all the free champagne in the world won't salvage the Ministry Christmas party for Draco if Potter doesn't show up soon.
lecherous unhinged draco is sometimes the only characterization i care about skkdkd. most dramatic bitch alive whom i personally would die for. you must simply respect the flirtatious hustle. the promiscuous licking of a gingerbread man in the shape of ur crush, pouring champagne down their shirt, doing whatever it takes to make them laugh. it’s galaxy-brain courting bc harry is Charmed. we love our fics sexy and hysterical tbh.
Our Little Life by @tackytigerfic - 7k, M
Sometimes Harry dreams. Only they're not really dreams at all, and Malfoy is always in them. It's time travel, but not as we know it, and Harry just needs a good night's sleep.
when i say star-crossed lovers i mean this fic in its entirety i mean harry saying “I see how things could be for us, I see it all the time” i mean that part in gaudy night when lord peter tells harriet “Give me your hand, and we’ll fight on until we drop.” a thousand iterations of drarry coming together (which, extremely meta) and all that world-building in under 10k words? the skill.
#weekly drarrys#we are gainfully unemployed and vibin#the economy may have collapsed but those ao3 beta servers will never fail#also im still emo over through the may air like#in all ways but physical I am in the Scotland fells#mind you I had to google what a fell was the first time I read that fic but once I did?? a bitch just might start raising sheep#anyway sweet indulgence biscuit scene is top 5 fanfic draco moments for me#drarry fic rec
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Writing/Art Update 11/5/2021
Believe it or not, I finished Chapter 10a, on, like Wednesday? Look at her dance, look at her go! Anyway, I knew going in that what I planned for Chapter 10 was not going to fit into Chapter 10 and I accepted it, and it’s fine. So last week, I said I had 3 chapters to go, and I wrote a chapter and I still have 3 chapters to go and that’s just how it is. Chapter 10a came out to 10,329 words, so it’s not like I skimped out. I am fairly confident that there are really, truly only three chapters left. I guess 10a was sort of an emotional hurdle, because all of a suddenly I feel like I can see the end, even though I have very little written of those final chapters. It feels absolutely ridiculous when I say “I feel great, I’m down to the final 25k!!!” but that’s how it is. I am actually just about 2500 words into 10b, it is not out of the question that I could knock that out this week, which would be very cool.
I have never heard anyone talk about this, but I feel like I have whatever the opposite of writer’s block is. Writer’s stride. Note: This is not inspiration. I have had inspiration. When you have inspiration, scenes play out in your head unbidden, words flow from your fingertips. No, writer’s stride is when you just have the feeling in your heart that if you sit down, you can work. When I have writer’s block, I sit down and nothing happens and then I feel like a pile of shit. With writer’s stride, I might have to sit and spend 10 minutes thinking of a sentence, but I can, and every time I work I am moving execrably toward the end. Writer’s stride is not exactly fun. I can’t really do other leisure activities like draw or read peacefully, because I know that if I were writing, I would be getting closer to the end, and also that writer’s block is always lurking at the doorway like a hungry wolf. Or maybe I just have anxiety!! That is also a distinct possibility!!!!
The thing I definitely do have is 87,387 words (+12,852?!?). As I said, I think it’s gonna end up around 110k, which would put it right between Between Tides and Call Me Back in length. That seems good. I guess. My mood definitely oscillates wildly between “I can’t wait to post this so people will love me again” and “Nobody wants to read this weird trash possum fanfic about the vague melancholy of not fitting in with your family and the awkward intermediary period of friendship where you have to start depending on people in ways that are not comfortable.” 87k and no one even kisses in this story. I could have written 5 “only one bed” fanfics in the time it took me to write this and for what????
I have given up on trying to find a better title, it’s just What We Do with Our Hearts now. It’s probably about time to start making a banner anyway.
Enough of my unhinged ramblings. Here’s your except from Chapter 3:
Byakuya wasn’t sure what time he woke up. At some point, the anxiety dreams had just turned into anxieties, and he had no idea how long he had lain in bed, steeping in old, bitter memories. It was an hour before he usually rose, but there was plenty to do, and he felt that it was better to get up and be productive.
He wasn’t particularly hungry, but he was trying to convince himself that he would regret skipping breakfast when he ran into Rukia in the main hallway. She seemed significantly more chipper than usual, especially given the fact that Rukia was not a “morning person.”
Rukia habitually left for work much earlier than he did. The Thirteenth was a greater distance from the house, and furthermore, Byakuya had recently started skewing his hours slightly later. This gave Abarai the office to himself for an hour in the morning, and Byakuya an hour to himself in the evening, which tended to regulate the flow of paperwork. Abarai claimed he liked getting a headstart on the office work before he ran drills, and Byakuya enjoyed ending the day on a quiet note, so it was a very harmonious arrangement for all involved.
But it also meant that Byakuya usually didn’t see his sister before dinnertime.
“Are you feeling alright, Brother?” Rukia asked, wrinkling her nose. “You look less, um, luminous than usual.”
“I am well,” Byakuya reassured her. “I merely woke early.”
“You look tired,” Rukia pressed. “Are you worried about Grandfather’s visit?”
“Of course not,” Byakuya scoffed. “The staff has everything well in hand.”
“I didn’t mean… that…” Rukia frowned. She pressed her lips together and looked off to the side. “Look, I have an idea! Renji’s sort of acting as your winger, right?”
“My… what? Is this a futsal metaphor? I have no idea what that means. And I’ve simply asked him to be around. Grandfather enjoys discussing the affairs of the squad, you see, and Abarai enjoys spewing nonsense out of his mouth, so I felt it was an obvious pairing.”
“Mm-hmm,” Rukia replied, clearly not buying it. “How about I swing by your office after work and we can do a last minute strategy session! Then we’ll all be extra prepared, and it will ease your mind!”
“I assure you, Rukia, my mind is already at ease.”
Rukia appeared not to have heard him. “The only worse thing than dealing with Grandfather is dealing with Grandfather when you haven’t slept for two days.”
“Rukia, do not impose on Abarai’s Leisure Hours!” Byakuya tried desperately.
Rukia responded with the most scathing raised eyebrow Byakuya had ever experienced. “I’ll bring him noodles. He won’t care.” Her face brightened. “I’ll see you tonight! I’ll bring you noodles, too!”
Byakuya watched his sister run out the front door and wondered what had just happened to him. “Rukia!” he called after her. “Rukia, do not bring me noodles!”
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die for you | jjk
pairing: jungkook x reader
genre: angst, songfic
word count: 3.4k
rating: PG-13
warnings: intoxication, harassment, fighting
you're scared to be lonely
'specially in the night
i'm scared that i'll miss you
happens every time
song: die for you-the weeknd
exes!au
A/N: hi! this is a revamp of the very first fic i’ve ever written on this blog. i decided to do this because i am revamping and scrapping my original idea of a songfic overall! if you’ve been on my blog before or if you haven’t, i originally wrote songfics so that the storyline would flow along with the lyrics of the song which i realized soon thereafter that it was impossible because we all read at different speeds and it greatly hindered the creative process in general. now i decided to just solely come up with stories out of inspiration of songs. i highly recommend listening to the song while reading!
The pungent yet all too familiar liquid burns against the back of your throat as you feel it gushing deeper into your system. Absentmindedly, you slam the shotglass back onto the wooden counter, earning a disconcerted look from the bartender that had been serving you for the past hour and a half. You lick the remaining alcohol off of your lips, relishing in the way the fluid tasted against your tongue.
The alcohol buzzed in your system, leaving you in a piddling daze as you rest your cheek in the palm of your left hand. Your remaining hand fiddled with the shot glass, face contorting into a deep glower at the empty contents, hoping that the alcohol would replenish itself without you having to empty your wallet. You avert your eyes to behind the counter, eyeing the different taps they had in store along with the selection behind the glass cabinet. The bartender that had been supplying you all night came back into your periphery, noticing the familiar thick streaks of velvety red that resided beside his natural onyx locks. He was scrubbing the counter a few feet away from you, the sleeves of his white button-up rolled up to his forearms. What was his name again? Sam? John?
You obnoxiously clear your throat causing him to look up from what he was doing, “Can I get another shot?”
“I know I might be a bartender and all, but don’t you think you should slow down a bit?” he asks, brows furrowed in both bewilderment and concern. His nametag read San.
You toss your eyes back in irritation at his words, “I’ve done this before, I think I know my limits.”
He presses his lips into a thin line before sighing out in defeat, grabbing the near-empty bottle behind him as he fills up your glass back up to your satisfaction.
“See that wasn’t so hard, was it?” you indecently spit back just as he tips off the glass. He scoffs at your remark, setting the bottle back on the counter behind as he goes back to his task.
You down the glass in one swig, nose scrunching at the bitter taste on your tongue and the stinging sensation that accompanied it as it traveled down your throat once more. You return once again to your state of solitude and melancholy. This time you twist around in your seat, eyes trailing to the whatever was beyond the door of the bar. The building itself was located in a generally busy area of the city, made obvious by the frequent passerbys and occasional onlookers that would peek in through the window.
The soft glow of the lights that were emitting from neighboring buildings magnified the growing buzz of alcohol in your system as they began to appear hazy. It had an endearing and seemingly familiar twinkle them which made you visualize the irises of a boy who once had your heart. Oh, how you wished to be able to see him smile again—the way his eyes would morph into two crescent moons accentuated by the whisker-like wrinkles that would etch themselves onto his temples. His mouth would stretch into a wide D-shaped curve, his slightly larger front teeth coming into view the more you made him laugh. The warmth that would encompass your whole body when he would wrap his muscular arms around your much smaller frame—he made you feel protected, at ease, at home. The feeling of the soft, pillowy flesh of his lips against your own—pigmented by the strawberry chapstick he loved so goddamn much because he said it tasted like candy. The vision is short-lived when the deep timbre of someone’s voice pulls you out of your daze.
“You seem to be having a lot of fun by yourself,” he whispers into your ear, his breath fanning over your cheek as he stands a little, actually a lot closer than you’d like.
Disgusted at his mere presence you send a scowl his way while moving to another seat to create more distance. Not deterred in the slightest, he slides into the seat next to you—using his foot to turn your chair so you’d be facing him.
You’d be lying if you said he wasn’t attractive. A coy smirk adorned his well-made features as he intently stared back at you, wanting more after you had made obvious that you didn’t. The honey-like hue of his irises juxtaposed the darkness of the glare he was giving you. He wore a form-fitting black button-up—the first few buttons unhinged at the top on purpose to show off the silver chain that adorned his collarbones. The leather jacket he wore over it accentuating the curves of his muscles. You tear your focus away from him, turning back to the original position of your chair so you’d be facing behind the counter.
“Playing hard to get I see, well I’m always in for a good game,” he pretentiously states, the smirk widening onto his features as he inches closer to you.
“Really, you couldn’t think of anything better than that,” you say as a giggle involuntarily erupts from your throat. His smirk morphs into a grimace of disdain at your reaction. The grin on your lips slowly dissipates when you take a glance at his overcast features.
“Sorry, I’m not in the mood for company,” you deadpan, taking the shotglass in your hand as you scanned behind the counter to look for the bartender, hoping to exchange your tiny glass for a much bigger one.
His hand come in contact with your own, fingers wrapping around the glass and pulling it out of your reach, “I didn’t ask for your permission.”
Your breath hitches as you gasp in shock at his sudden action, taken aback by his intrusiveness. You slide out of the chair you were sitting in—the buzz of the alcohol abruptly fleeting your body out of pure abhorrence of the sleazy man standing in front of you.
“I refuse to deal with this type of bullshit right now and people like you.”
You hastily grab your wallet out of your purse, digging to find a reasonable tip to give the bartender who undeservingly had the displeasure of serving you for the past two hours now. Setting the money down on the counter next to San, you give him an apologetic smile to hopefully make up for the migraine-inducing irritation you’ve most likely given him. He nods in return with a small grin, taking the money and slipping it into the back pocket of his jeans while leaving the counter to start bussing empty tables.
Turning on your heel, your senses set straight on leaving the bar and going back to the comforts of your bed. As you begin to make your way out the door, a hand snakes around your wrist, yanking you back and causing you to stumble over your own feet—eliciting a string of curses to spew from your lips. Your head rams into their rather toned chest, and as you detach yourself from their body you notice the thick fabric of their leather jacket and the glint of light coming from the silver chain resting on their exposed collarbones. You quickly put the pieces together, craning your neck upward to take a glimpse at the man’s face and recognizing that it was the imbecile who was still refusing to leave you alone. Out of instinct, you bring your hands up to where your head had just made contact with his chest and pushed him with as much force as you could muster. Alarmed, he staggers backwards, nearly tripping over the barstool that he was leaning against until he slams his hand on the counter to steady himself. You unknowingly take a few steps towards the door of the bar, keeping your eyes glued to the man in front of you. An inaudible noise leaves his lips as his focus shifts back towards you. Eyes narrowing as he recalibrates his focus, the knit in his brows as prominent as ever as his irises started to morph into a darker shade of ebony. The corner of his lip slowly starts to curl upward—your hand reaching out to grasp the wood of the doorframe on its own accord.
He swiftly pushes himself from the barstool, readjusting his clothes as he momentarily tears his focus away from you. Taking advantage of the few seconds, you whip your head around and take a quick glance outside and instinctively, you book it.
The wind howls and nips at your cheeks as you bolt down the street. The fabric of your jacket ripping against the currents of the wind as you weave in and out of city folk—most of their expressions painted with shock as they halt in their tracks and scurry aside as they start to notice you sprint full force down their direction.
A loud, discernable and gravelly “HEY!” erupts from what you would was the aforesaid man of the night. The echo of his footsteps and their increasing pace could be heard in rhythm with your own.You dismiss it almost immediately, continuing to shoulder others without apology and turning corners in hopes of losing him.
The longer you run—the more the adrenaline begins to seep out of your body—being replaced by fatigue along with the reality that your body was starting to cave. Your lungs start to burn and your throat becomes painfully dry, forcing you to have to take deep gulps before you flat out couldn’t breathe at all. The muscles in your calves and shins on fire and tensing underneath you reminding you that the last experience you ever had of running had come from high school P.E. class.
You whip your head around to survey the area behind you before darting around yet another corner and continuing your pursuit.
As you adjust your focus back to the streets in front of you, you collide into the chest of yet another man. You substantially knock him over, causing him to almost fall back but he picks up his feet from under him, regaining his stance while holding onto your forearms and you, unconsciously holding onto his for dear life as well.
While muttering inaudible apologies to the man, you begin dusting off your pants before reaching up to dust the fabric of his black hoodie. His hand wraps around your wrist as you start to do so. You freeze in your tracks. The action this time around is much more gentle, almost gingerly in a way. Your eyes trail to the slender fingers that wrapped around your wrist before moving to his face before finally settling into his eyes. The hazy, twinkling specks of light all the more visible in his orbs.
“Y/N?-“
The sound of heavy, quickened footsteps pull you out of your trance. Before the man could finish his words, you yank him aside to the coincidentally located brick-walled alleyway. You couldn’t even consider it an alleyway—being just the perfect width to fit both of your bodies and deep enough to keep you both hidden from sight. On a whim, you motion him to stand in front of you so his body would encompass the opening. He had an all black hoodie and sweatpant ensemble going on, and you hoped that with the poor lighting you two would remain unnoticed.
You both remain there, silent and still. Your back pressed up against the brick wall, hands clutching onto the fabric of his hoodie while nestling your head into his chest. He simply stood there in bewilderment at the chain of events that had just occurred. He would have never imagined that your first encounter since your breakup would be like this.
He decides to break the silence first, “Y/N, is everything okay?”
“Um, well” you whisper back in response, finally detaching yourself from him, “it’s kind of a long story. I was at a bar and there was this creepy guy who just wouldn’t leave me alone,” you explain while peering over his shoulder.
“I’m sorry, but can you please stay with me,” you quietly murmur while looking up at him, “for the time being, I mean. I think he’s still looking for me.”
He gets a small whiff of your alcohol-scented breath, but your expression and tone made it clear that you were sober for the most part. “Of course, I mean, did you really think I was just gonna leave you here?” he asks you while chuckling under his breath, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
Before you could react to both his question and his actions, you detect the same gravelly voice that had caused you to land in this mess in the first place. Your eyes widen in fear— trailing to the aforementioned man standing in front of you. Jungkook notices your sudden change in expression and his eyes tread the same path—staring daggers into the man without delay as rage began to pulse through his veins.
He takes a step forward, one of his hands coming in contact with your body as he promptly motions you to move behind him.
“I’ll say this once, and I’ll say this nicely,” Jungkook begins, voice low—like subdued thunder, a tone you had never once heard come from his lips, “if you lay another hand on her, you are going to regret it. And I’ll make sure of it.” You could feel him quivering with anger beneath your fingertips and you could swear you could hear your own heart hammer against the walls of your chest.
The man smirks, not affected in the slightest at Jungkook’s words as he steps towards him. His arm writhes out of your grip as he slams his fist square into the nose of the man’s face. He stumbles back, wiping off the crimson red blood that began to trickle out of his nostrils. The smirk is quickly replaced with a smolder of rage and resentment—cocking his head to the side as he spits out more blood, still reeling from the previous hit before he lunges towards Jungkook, anger visibly spiking within him. You quickly sidestep as Jungkook’s back comes in contact with the brick wall, the wind visibly knocked out of him.
Overcome with both distress and rage, you run to the man’s back bringing your hand up to his face and clawing him in the eyes, disarming him. With your other free hand, you grab the flesh of his swollen nose, curling your fingers as much as you could—digging your fingernails and twisting the tendon. A guttural groan escapes his throat as he spirals towards you, pushing you into the pavement and kicking you in the ribs. The shrill scream you emit causes a wave of fury to stream through Jungkook’s bones—he surges towards the man, vigorously slamming into his body with full force right into the hood of a car. You hear the man’s head come in contact with the metal with a loud thump as his body crumbles to the ground. Jungkook’s body towered over his as the man desperately swung, arms flailing as the two wrestled on the cement.
Running on pure, unfiltered anger, Jungkook smashes his fist into the man’s jaw—the bone-shattering noise making you wince. The man ceases action as he lies there unconscious. Jungkook removes himself from the man, groaning in pain as he attempts to stand up. He sees you standing in front of him, streams of tears running down your cheeks—clutching the spot where the man had kicked you. Your eyes retract to his form, scurrying over to him as you carefully help him stand up. Wrapping his arm over your shoulder, you guide him as he limps towards the brick wall and leans against it. You cautiously slide out of his hold, kneeling down to the unconscious man and pressing two fingers to the crook of his neck—the detectable beats alerting you that his pulse was still intact. The sound of police sirens and red and blue flashing lights come into view as one officer gets down from his car. You briefly describe the situation starting from the altercation at the bar to the current disposition of it all—an ambulance taking him to the nearest hospital where he would later get arrested. You and Jungkook both reject their offer of taking you two to the hospital despite your pleas for Jungkook to go, considering the cuts and bruises that were littered across his face and neck. He assured them they were minor so they let you two go without further dispute.
“I’m driving you home. I don’t care what you say,” you huff out, one of his arms draped over your shoulder as you guided him into the passenger seat of his car. To your surprise, he relents and gives you a small smile while digging through his pocket for his keys.
The drive back to his apartment is fairly silent, yet comfortable nonetheless. You guide him the whole way to his apartment despite his own efforts to prove that he was okay before groaning involuntarily in pain. You finally reach his apartment, fishing for the keys in your pocket as you unlock the door, setting him on his couch. Recalling the layout of his apartment, you find a first aid kit in one of his cabinets and return to his side. You begin to lay out the contents of the kit out onto his coffee table, ripping open the package of antiseptic wipes before cleaning the cuts on his face. He grimaces, flinching at the sudden stinging sensation.
“Oh my god,” you flinch in sync with him, “sorry, I should’ve given you a warning,” you mutter apologetically.
“No, it’s okay,” he responds, giving you a reassuring smile. You bite your lip before continuing, more gently this time.
Your hands meekly drop to your sides as you let out a deep sigh, “Jungkook, I don’t even know what to say,” you murmur softly, tears brimming at the corners of your eyes, “I’m so sorry.”
He gingerly wipes a tear away with his thumb, “Don’t be. I would never let anyone hurt you Y/N, regardless of how you feel about me.”
“For a split second, I thought you killed the guy,” you say jokingly, causing a chuckle to leave both of your lips.
“I’d gladly both kill and die for you Y/N,” he states matter-of-factly, a small grin lacing his features.
You take a moment to process his words, thinking of what to reply with.
“Thinking back, it’s kinda ironic. How this all turned out,” you admit, thinking out loud.
“What do you mean?”
“Before he approached me in the bar, I actually happened to be thinking about you,” you confess, looking up at him to see his reaction.
“About me?”
“Yeah,” you huff out, diverting your gaze away from him, taking a brief moment to process the words you were about to say, “I miss you. I miss you a lot. And I miss what we had.”
Time and awareness had stopped in a collision of senses when his lips met yours. The coppery taste of his blood mixed with his strawberry chapstick is what you notice first—the taste lingering on your mouth. A wave of warmth spread throughout your body at the sudden contact—tingles running down your spine as you relished in the pure feeling of his lips being on yours again. It’s as if he leaves imprints every time his fingers come in contact with your skin, trailing your jaw before settling on your neck—fingers entangled slightly into your hair. Both of your lips moved together in accord—the all consuming, crashing tides of familiarity, longing and unspoken words that didn’t need to be voiced out loud to be known. It was all there. Mapped out. Clear as day. Vulnerable as ever.
Your lips detach, foreheads still in contact as he graces your vision with the sight of two crescent moons lacing his features. And in that moment you knew—the hazy, twinkling specks that consumed his eyes. They were undying. As undying as the stars that provided light for the dark abyss of the night sky. And as undying as the feelings you two had for one another.
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MASTERLIST
#bts#bts ff#bts smut#btswritingcafe#jungkook ff#btswriterscollective#btsboulangerie#btsbookclub#bts fanfiction#bts angst#bts fluff#bts imagines#bts fake texts#bts smau#jungkook smut#bts x reader#jungkook fluff#jungkook angst#jungkook x reader#jungkook imagines#jungkook scenarios#jungkook fake texts#jin#rm#suga#jimin#taehyung#jungkook#jungkook fanfic#bts updates
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mmmmbit of a ghostbur and fundy ramble :> i am feeling very protective of the latter for writing reasons atm; this is more me walking through my own thoughts than an invitation for an argument. i’m sure my opinion will change over time as it always does lmao
anyway.
softly, and with feeling: fundy has every right to not want to rekindle a relationship with the ghost of his father because of actions that said ghost no longer remembers, because the impact still lingers on fundy. (i never stop thinking about the signing of the book where everyone was treated with respect except fundy, who was baby-talked and cheek-squished and regarded with condescension. fundy, who decided to go undercover rather than support his father in the open—why? because he knew that in the open he would never be treated seriously? because at least this emperor does not treat him like a baby? the way he’s lashing out against tubbo’s leadership—how bitter is he that he was never a figure of competence in his own father’s mind?)
HOWEVER!
ghostbur has every right to feel upset that his apparent son (memories question mark?) prefers a new father over him even though he’s here now, and better. he’s trying his best—he said it himself; alive he was bad, but he’s dead and better and he can do all the things his living self did except with a melancholy touch instead of an unhinged one. he remembers happy moments and his death was one of those moments. he is a tragic existence and i will not fault him for trying to forge meaningful connections in the vacuum of his memories where the darkness of his past lingers. he is doing his best. he would like to be good for his son. he is better, isn’t he? doesn’t he deserve to get to fit those little fragments of happiness together into something resembling a life worth wishing for?
HOWEVER.
because the wounds still linger on fundy, because wilbur’s obligation to (and memory of?) him is diminished, because the redemption of a harmful figure does not require the forgiveness of the one hurt by them, I personally am ALL FOR fundy getting a new dad. wilbur is drifting—he is a ghost—he is looking for anchors. he can find them in philza, who regrets his failure to his son; he can find them in tubbo, who succeeds him with a gentle hand; he can find them in tommy, who is both familiar and very blunt. he has options; he has people.
... assuming they step up to it, of course. i know pogtopia is an empty ravine when ghostbur stood in it, quiet and dark.
but my point is:
it’s unfair to put the weight of obligation on fundy, who has been failed by this father over and over again and well deserves the chance to be brought under the wing of someone who doesn’t remind him of that person. fundy does not have to forgive his father’s ghost. just because those events are no longer real for ghostbur does not mean they don’t still plague fundy.
he’s a better person, yes. but fundy does not need anything from him, and ghostbur has no claim to his future.
(now, whether or not eret (or literally anyone else) is like. the right person for this whole thing. is a whole other kettle of fish. but maybe it’s a step in the right direction, for now.)
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rules: tag ppl u wanna get to know better
tagged by: @hotelghost (thank you sm <333)
1. your name and then what you wouldve named yourself - my name is maggie (short for margaret which i Hate) and hm i love the name calliope a lot and its totally not a coincedence that i would go by “cal”
2. astrological sign (sun/moon/rising if u know) - virgo sun/libra moon/scorpio rising and yes me having an earth sun and a water rising is why i have m*ntal illn*ss </3
3. when did u join tumblr and why - i joined in 2014 i think ?? and i joined bc i wanted to get deeper into the titanic fandom
4. top 5 fandoms - a) titanic b) filmblr (?) and i guess c) taylor swift except i am swiftiephobic and proud :/ and well that’s it bc i have no other personality traits than loving titanic (1997)
5. top 5 favorite films - a) titanic b) clue c) the sound of music d) baby driver except fuck u ansel elgort and e) knives out
6. go to song when u wanna Feel Something - either “a burning hill” by mitski or “the archer” by taylor swift or “fine line” by harry styles or “as the world caves in” by matt maltese or “sleep on the floor” by the lumineers
7. what’s your religion/faith if you’re religious - i was raised cath*lic and let;s just say that i have come to my senses and i do not support or endorse the Church at all except for its slutty slutty aesthetics
8. a song that makes you feel seen - “two slow dancers” - mitski
9. if you could have any career - i simply do not dream of labor </3 but i would love to be a screenwriter or director
10. do you have a type - it’s just billy zane in titanic (1997). that’s it. that’s all there is. no one else is doing it like him.
11. what does your heart/soul yearn for - to move away to a city far away from here and finally feel peace
12. if you had to describe yourself in 5 words to someone who doesn’t know you - chaotic, feral, unhinged, lonely, melancholy
13. favorite subjects in school - rn my fav subject im learning is my screenwriting/digital video production class
14. where does your soul feel most at home - at my grandmas house tucked away in the tennessee hills
15. top 5 fictional characters - a) caledon hockley b) victor vale c) ransom drysdale d) rose dewitt bukater e) agent dana scully
16. top 3 moments in a show that made u ugly cry - bold of u to assume i remember any details of any piece of media that i have ever consumed
17. the earth, the sun, the moon, or the stars - the moon........... i love her so much
18. favorite kind of weather - a clear summer day perfect for going to the beach, the kind of heat that exhausts you but also makes you feel held
19. top 3 characters that you kin with - okay the only character i rlly ~identify~ with is cal but it’s just bc we both use sarcasm to cope with our feelings and we both put the bi in bitter :P
20. fav medium of art - either film or music but i cant chooooossseeeeee
21. introvert/extrovert/ambivert - introvert
22. a fav literary quote - i dont have one rip im such a bad english major
23. some of ur fave books - “the glittering hour” by iona grey, “normal people” and “conversations with friends” by sally rooney, the raven cycle series, “vicious” by v.e. schwab, “my year of rest and relaxation” - ottessa moshfegh
24. if u could live anywhere in the world where would it be - probably nyc or
25. if u could live in any time in history when would it be - probably the 1910s but i am a woman and mentally ill so uh i would be Institutionalized for not only being sexy but hysterical <3
26. if you could play ant instrument masterfully what woukd it be - piano or electric guitar
27. if you have one, what mythological god/goddess do you feel a connection to - aphrodite or persephone
28. favorite recent selfie in your camera roll
tagging: @peakatseven @titsoutforsunmi @romanced @greek-mythologies and uh anyone else who wants to do it ? (ofc it's not required that you participate <3333)
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Subject Sixteen appears in a flash of code and lines of light, and it’s the same voice that did the recap of the events of the last three games. Desmond recognizes him immediately, but doesn’t use his name, which Sixteen sarcastically asks if they told him his name at all. Now, at this point in time, you’ve only seen Sixteen’s name once, at the very beginning of ac2, right when Lucy has Desmond boot up Ezio’s first memory, but it’s a very “blink and you’ll miss it” kind of way. I’m gonna not use it for now, since I figure Desmond learning his name is a big deal, or at least has some narrative importance.
So, Sixteen’s voice is not the same as when he showed up in ac2 or Brotherhood, which honestly threw me a bit. The new voice for him is ... in a word, manic. In ac2 and Bh, he was kinda... hm, more subdued, even though he was unhinged. This voice for him is downright sharp. Sarcastic. Bitter, even. Very, very bitter.
I’m not exactly sure if I’m on board with the differences that it brings to the character, but at the same time... I feel like it’s needed? The Sixteen of the previous two games was ... softer, if not all there. The bitter anger and frustration that comes through here creates a stronger dynamic between Sixteen and Seventeen, as two different Subjects who’ve been through very similar shit. Except Sixteen didn’t escape at all, whereas Desmond did. Before the dynamic in the one (1) scene we got with them in Brotherhood was ... downright melancholy, and it hurt. But now we’re past the hurt, it feels like, and straight into “whelp, you fucked up. Gotta set you right now.”
At the same time though, I was immediately enamored with this little shit and his entire style of speech, and giggling like an idiot.
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Album Of The Day: Satan Is Watching
When most people born after a certain period of time think of the genre that is “country”, and what it has morphed into in the context of this day and age, a lot of unpleasant images spring to mind. Pretty boy, clean cut, poser rednecks who’ve never seen a farm outside of their music videos, trying to pretend to be another “honest Joe” when they couldn’t be any further from such a thing, making trashy, twangy glam rock mixed with watered down trap music/EDM for white southerners who might have interesting views on those of different races, rolling around in million dollar sports cars while adopting the moniker of “working class”...is probably what your mind immediately begins to conjure up in that brain of yours.
I honestly can’t say that I blame you. Country, or, at least, MAINSTREAM country, has lost its way completely. Luke Bryan, Brad Paisley, Tim McGraw, and Blake Shelton polluted this once proud, grassroots, amazing genre with pandering, trite garbage aimed at making money off of dumb hicks in the bodies of frat boys whose trucks cost more than your own damn house. Gone are the days when country music was filled to the brim talent, creativity, passion, and heart. Now, this “jock country” has taken its place, having thoroughly fucked country up the ass a few too many times that it has lost its way. For good, perhaps.
Underground country’s usually no better. There’s some exceptions (we’ll get to those soon), but for the most part, it, too, has gone off the rails and destroyed itself completely. It’s often just indie folk or what have you with even more acoustic guitars, though perhaps with more twang, whiny vocals that are trying (and failing) to recreate a stereotypical southern accent, a reliance on cheap gimmicks, sarcasm, and irony to carry their trash because the excrement can’t do that itself, and a musical quality that tries SO hard to imitate the great Mr. Cash, but is little more than a cheap, pale imitation that folks who wear WAY too much flannel and wire rimmed glasses will eat up like it’s the second coming of Joy Division.
No matter how you look at it, country has been thoroughly gentrified for the most part, just like many genres that were previously for a much different variety of people. Like trap music, or blues, or hardcore punk, or black metal. All of the original meaning is gone, driven out by money hungry label executives, clueless and ignorant listeners, and musicians hellbent on half-assing their way to fame and fortune.
It’s a crying shame, it really is.
But fret not, dear reader! There is still a soft, seedy underbelly of the country genre that has taken the long dead (yet forever revered and loved) sound of “outlaw shit”, as Mr. Jennings would put it so eloquently, to its most logical extreme. One that would make Nelson, Cash, Haggard, Coe, and others that might’ve been at the top of their “underground”, “anti-mainstream” game seem rather...accessible. These aforementioned artists and their peers are still greats who, in their primes, were powerhouses that made some of the greatest works the genre would ever produce. But when compared to this particular sound...they just don’t hold up as well. The rawness, the grassroots nature, the down-to-Earth (and sometimes below the Earth) attitude, the simplicity, the honesty, the bluntness, the intimacy, the melancholy...all of it gets turned way up to eleven. It’s dark, it’s mischievous, it’s harsh, it’s gritty, it’s angry, it’s bitter, it’s darkly humorous, it’s lonesome, it’s ornery, and it’s damn sure pretty fucking mean.
Call it whatever you want. “Southern gothic”, “dark country”, “death country”, “gothic country”. It doesn’t matter what name you apply to it. All that matters is that it’s country. Real fucking country. Country meant for the guttersnipes, punks, street urchins, hobos, peasants, and forlorn drifters. This ain’t pretty boy music. This isn’t nice, Christian contemporary that you can play at your local uptight establishment. These aren’t harmless tunes your the posers can get drunk and go mudding to. This is country as it was meant to be. The eptiome of the term “outlaw shit”.
There’s a plethora of wonderful bands in this scene. Sons Of Perdition, Sixteen Horsepower, whatever project Jay Munly’s got going on this time around, The Dead South, the early days of The Devil Makes Three, The Builders And The Butchers, Wovenhand, Ghoultown, Coffinshakers, The Pine Box Boys, and, of course, everyone’s favorite descendant of the Williams family tree. The third one, that is.
But all of those fall short of that truly, truly, TRULY horrific honky-tonk, old-time, folksy, backwoods atmosphere that this duo produces. One that hails from the isolated, empty thickets that lie out in rural Wisconsin. A mentally disturbed pair of “prophets of the country doom”, as they have decided to label themselves. A fine example of those who have gone completely mad, completely sad, and doing so makes them feel very glad. They revel in their craziness, and while no album sounds the same, each one is marred by a couple of recurring themes: humanity is worthy of being sent straight to the fiery depths, these boys are depressed beyond your wildest comprehension, a rebellion against both God and Satan, and a desire to document the lifestyle of society’s forgotten ones, hated ones, and feared ones.
Let me introduce you to Those Poor Bastards.
Fitting name for a couple of enigmatic, largely unknown, extremely obscure pair of men known simply as Lonesome Wyatt (impassioned orations and guitar-based melodies) and The Minister (everything else).
The Minister is completely anonymous, with no one having even seen his face, while all that’s known about Lonesome Wyatt is that he’s from Wisconsin, (probably) lives alone, and is likely of an unsound state of mind.
Why is that all important? Well, go listen to their albums, and then you’ll find out why these little intricacies are vital to the dynamic duo’s imagery, music, and cult status.
While all of their material is quite good in my opinion, today we’re going to look at my favorite album from them, and possibly my favorite album from any country artists EVER! Everyone, please proceed to throw on “Satan Is Watching.”
What you’ll first be met with Lonesome Wyatt letting out a loud, wild, manic screech that almost doesn’t sound...human. It’s not even a word. Just an unhinged howl like Lonesome Wyatt’s been possessed by some sort of demon from the pits of Hell, having taken over the “doomsday preacher boy” to spread the wicked gospel. A hell of a start to an album of any kind, let alone a country album. It’s bold, but it lets you know right off the bat that they aren’t fucking around. This is going to be a rough ride from start to finish, and you’ll be left quaking in your seat once Those Poor Bastards has pierced your mind, heart, and soul with their fiendishly unholy sound. A truly nihilistic piece of art about how this world is foul and wretched, and deserves to burn to a cinder.
But that’s just the first song.
Things only manage to get worse from there. Everything from songs about how Lonesome Wyatt’s a degenerate who revels in just how much filth and squalor he lives in, to songs (well, more like suspiciously suicidal rants) about how life is fucked and there’s just no point in living it anymore, to various “take that!” pieces towards lovers who have wronged him in times that have long since passed, presumably. Typical topics for country artists, but contorted and warped to the point where they sound like miniature horror stories being yelled and hollered by a crazy, top-hat wearing yokel than the struggles and strife that are endured by the common man/downtrodden fellow. Hell, there’s even a Johnny Cash cover! A twisted, perverted, scummy, bone-chilling, haunting, eerie take on the previously wholesome, innocent love song The Man In Black made for June. I can’t exactly look at it the same way, what with these mysterious hooligans having thoroughly butchered it.
Instrumentation is minimalist and simple. Nothing too fancy or technical here. It’s quite self-explanatory. Despite how evil it is, the rhythms are still toe-tappingly catchy. The drums, being pounded upon by the fiery hands of The Minister, provide anything from a nice, plodding beat you can stomp your feet to, all the way to a rowdy raucous of a banger that’ll have you doing some sort of line dance with the living dead. Lonesome Wyatt beats upon his acoustic guitar like it owes him money. Not even really playing it. Just smashing the strings until weird, disgruntled, odd noises come out of it. He also seems to thoroughly shatter his ability to talk without a sore throat, pushing his voice to its very limits. The bass compliments everything very well, providing a creepy, fuzzy, dirge-like texture in the background to keep the menacing tone alive and well.
All in all, while this may not “experimental”, “avant-garde”, or even “progressive”, this is certainly an album that’ll give you the heebie-jeebies, and for a country album, it is most certainly “out there”. It takes the usual country tropes, and either turns them into something out of a David Lynch movie, or subverts/plays with them to fuck with the audience and make them contort their face with confusion...and excitement. A spooky bit of acoustic noise that’ll restore your faith in country music, and remind you that there is still a small resemblance of a spark left within the dying genre.
Please, I highly recommend you check this out.
This has been another installment of “Esoteric Warfare”, and remember...
NOISE, NOT MUSIC!
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lyrics verification ; 180 degrees
summary: written at the wellness retreat, scribbled in a piece of paper. a song meant because seo minjung is a bitter af psychotic bitch that doesn’t understand repercussions of her relationship that she ended on her hands — mentions of @fmdchaesoo and @fmdyeonggi
warnings: some of the writing is really angry/foul language.
wc: 831
her feet trudge against the wooden floors, audible clacks that slam with each step she takes — furious and bitter is an understatement. if she goes into her room and life wants to applaud her for a good deed in a past life, both hyeju and youngjoo will be far gone wandering the resorts with their time while her limbs remain entangled in her sheets with fingers that draw themselves across paper.
and so, luck has it and she’s left in a silent room with herself. her sole choice of daggers and pistols her pen and and a shit journal the retreat has ‘gifted’ her.
what she wants to write in sheer instincitivtiby becomes something along the lines of ‘fuck you, you bastard and you bitch.’ then, she might be flagged for copyright with lily allen’s fuck you playing into the matrix of her fervent zest. so comes a huff of her chest, and a pull back of her body strung in dejection across the vast bed she calls home for the night. maybe, she’s not meant to write something tonight.
but when the anger swallows her whole, and unleashes a rawer form of her — vulnerable and defeated, she crawls back to the end of her bed where the journal and pen lie lifelessly. and she becomes reincarnated in a hue of sadness, melancholy grays.
the end of the pen taps mindlessly against the blank sheet of paper, and she conjures the question of how a stark shift in personality occurs in one soul. how someone switches from being a lovelorn fool with an dead-on warm gaze that pierces past her soul to a shitbag weasel that falls to a ploy on a shit knock-off of her. and she’s a clown deluding herself in the soft gaze and cozy premonitions of his whispers.
now it’s 180 degrees.
she writes the first few words on paper — because she wants the focus to center around a shift in personality. a jeckyl and hyde persona that left her in this state. maybe, this is another love song. less nostalgic and woeful of lost-hope, but a substantial reasoning for the basis of the end. rightfully so — she’s sorry for falling victim to pretty laced lies and tantalizing personas of hopeless romanticism.
i’m sorry for what you are
even the day we broke up, you don’t know why
so, she scribbles down the justification for their breakup — it was a premonition of subliminal notions. it comes like second nature, the sense of something lodged deep in her throat, a painful end that’s bound to ensue. and this time she’s only corrected upon observing with her own body stepping forth into a scene of two lost lovers in a pool.
yet, she’s angry. furious. bubbling with ire because somewhere deep down the strings of a hopeful optimist ring loud — she wanted him to be different. aside from the rest of her frenzied escapades. because soul heavy admissions seize the light, and she loved him.
i love you
i wanted you to be different
men are all like
i hoped you were not
her hands now tremble underneath the force of her pen — perforating through the pages. “fuck you,” comes like a slip of an afterthought, trespassing past her lips in an utterance.
was she a fool to think differently? each memory of their relationship, she keeps stowed away inside a ball and chain tied to her heart. yet, she feels like a fool for clenching on rather than yield to the medicine cliches call time. april. may. june. she counts, three months — an easy leeway into forgetfulness spurts and blacked out memories. except, each of it remains vivid to her.
your expression
even the scent of your eyes that was too warm
it’s so different
our love and memories i still have it
sitting still for a second, she can almost feel his presence in the air — feel the wistful nature of a fateful night leading him to rush in her apartment. she was unguarded. vulnerable. raw, opening pieces of her fragmented heart for him to piece together. and in that moment, she coaxed herself into believing that maybe — she’d beguile herself back into his embrace once more. back into the trenches of his soft gaze and tender touches.
but she’s reminded again tonight.
stop lying.
you don’t even know why we broke up.
so she writes straight from the heart, each word she feels in a visceral notion of fatigue climbing through her spine and weaving through her ribs. it breaks her down one by one. slowly. fully. all at once, and she hinders facing the aftermath of relentless winds of constant reminders that when push comes to shove, force her out of the comfort of cheap thrills.
every promise comes like a lie — she’s stupid for maintaining traps of validity to each word he’s spoken. her stupid love. and she’s exhausted.
you and my promise
even the accustomed excuses lie
i believed that everyone was sincere
my stupid love
i’m exhausted.
when she writes down the last of her coherencies for the night, it leaves her unhinged on unresolved emotions and loose ends, never meant to be composed together. she’s a fragmented girl, delirium chiding her once again with the reminder that girls like seo minjung are only a zenith of destruction.
never to be loved, and never to be contained. she’s meant to feel pain, deracinated from the channels of permanency, floating astray in her own small world with bits of havoc.
‘fuck you both, may you have miserable endings’.
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so as no one knows or even really cares, i have a verse where peter is the dada teacher at hogwarts. in this verse, he is married to myrtle who is still a ghost, but died as an adult. the myrtle blog i was writing with deactivated so i don’t have taylor’s explanation about how it worked, but the ship had a really special place in my heart because of how absolutely in love they where, this is pretty much entirely for myself but anyone is welcome to read it if they’d like. below the cut is a compilation of drabbles or cuts from threads that i want to be able to go back to
i’m also not sure i’ll be able to write with another myrtle because of how much i loved taylor and her portrayal. myrtle developed such interesting relationships with peter and obviously still means a lot to me
one other thing to note is a copied and pasted everything and did not change any of the formatting to match my current style.
everything taylor wrote will be on a blockquote to make it easy to differentiate, though our writing styles also make it pretty obvious
also note this is long af in case anyone is interested in reading it/some of it
the first bit is actually in the typical canon verse where peter is a student and myrtle still died as a student but i wanted to include it all the same. i also want to note that their younger selves did not get along at first in the slightest. myrtle was rude and insulting and peter was easily hurt but eventually they found a rhythm and formed a sort of friendship.
the prompt was non-sexual acts of intimacy, specifically reading a book together
[ When he returns, she holds the book out to him.
The lovely book that made her smile when she
received it had made her head hurt when she
tried to read it. Fixing him with a distant gaze,
she spoke in an equally passive voice. ]
’ Turn the pages for me while I read, please. It makes my
head ache when I interact with the
living world for too long. ’
[ Without another word, she sits on the thankfully dry
ground –rather a compliment within itself, she
thinks, as she did not flood the place as she knew
he would be coming– and motions for him to join
her. ]
and the book theme leads us into this next bit
just before he was meant to leave hogwarts for the
holidays, peter made his way over to the long since
abandoned ( by students at least ) girls washroom
on the first floor. it had occurred to him during his
christmas shopping that although she wasn’t quite
considered a friend ( & she likely didn’t see him as
one either ), he felt the need, but perhaps simply
want, to pick something out for myrtle as well. she
was always so, herself, & he doubted there were any
that had gotten her a gift for christmas, let alone
many who visited her besides him.
upon entering, he called out for her. once he received no
response, he assumed she might be elsewhere in the school
on one of her rare excursions, & so decided to leave the very
neatly wrapped present on on the the counters where it might
remain dry should any flooding occur. in hindsight, he
supposed a book might not have been the best thing to have
brought to a girl that frequently flooded the room in which she
inhabited, but at the time, the idea of bringing her something
to take up at least a few hours of her time seemed nice.
it was a muggle book, which he supposed was another
unnecessary risk, but he had read it himself & thought
it was utterly brilliant. it was adventurous, slightly
absurd, but extremely entertaining & very funny from
what he got out of it. the book was the hitchhiker’s guide
to the galaxy by douglas adams, & he just hoped she
enjoyed it. she was dead after all, she could use a little
bit of cheering up. it had a note on it as well, for just
such an occasion & it read as follows in absolutely
terrible ( but for once with perfect spelling ) handwriting:
Happy Christmas, Myrtle.
I wasn’t sure what you would like, but I thought you might enjoy
this. Be sure to wait to open it though. I won’t know, or care really
if you’ve opened it before you’re meant to, but at least try to hold
off until Christmas morning.
From that little rat of a boy,
Peter
[ every once in a while, myrtle had to leave. the
frozen-over black lake was always her favorite
destination, with it’s ice caps thinning in some
places just enough to see her reflection.
she was an ugly thing, not worthy of anyone’s time.
no, she reminded herself, that wasn’t right. or
maybe it was. where she stood with peter in terms
of a relationship was an area as opaque as her
skin. she was swimming in murky waters again,
and for the first time in fifty years, she was afraid
of drowning.
myrtle thought herself a poison as she pretended
like she could feel the glassy ice under her hand.
she traced patterns into the light dusting of snow
that settled along the top, heaving a sigh as she
realized her little drawings were just hideous eyes.
she couldn’t sleep any more, but if she did, it would
have been in black and white. black, white and a
splash of garish yellow. any other colors didn’t
matter, they couldn’t shock her enough to die.
yellow had.
scratching out the doodles with her nails that would
never grow, myrtle stood and wiped away any
offending tears. it was christmas, where was her
cheer?
it was dead like her, she knew that. wandering back
to the castle, she recalled the faint memory of
firelight against the sweeping navy blue of the
ravenclaw common room. she remembered sitting
up all night, wanting to catch anyone who left her a
present. myrtle never caught anyone, for no one
ever did. her presents were given to her when she
went home for the summer.
floating back into her bathroom, she wondered why she
bothered. so young was she when she died, and so
very scared of death itself, she remained behind. it
was curious parody of life she led, one that, perhaps,
left her a bit less empty than she had been in life.
at least she had her books. the size of the hogwarts library
had doubled in size since she was alive, and every so
often she could find someone to turn the pages for her.
musing over what she would read over the break, when she
might actually be able to visit the library during the day,
she nearly missed the package sitting safely on a counter.
expecting the worst, she did not touch it for a very long
time. she had no faith in hogwarts students any more, and
rather expected some hideous prank. it was hours before
she even dared to read the note.
her mouth fell open when she did, hanging like an unhinged
basket. she wondered if she should cry before realizing she
couldn’t. she was too busy smiling.
it always hurt a bit to interact with the living world, but she
ran her hand down the side of the packaging. what it was,
she knew, but not the specifics.
leaving the gift where it was, she floated to her window. myrtle
knew she would not need to make a trip to the library at all. ]
this next one was a drabble taylor wrote another huge turning point in their relationship with their younger selves. it was a kiss meme, the prompt was ‘ghost kiss’
[ He didn’t have any idea what it was like, to be so
cold and so empty. All Myrtle could feel was
pain in one form or another. She couldn’t touch
things without a searing headache, couldn’t leave,
couldn’t let it go.
Peter had become her little rat. In him, she poured
every bit of malice and misery she had in her
unaging body. He, likewise, attempted to do the
same, but it never reached her. She could feel if
she tried, but nothing could feel her.
It was on a Wednesday when she snapped. It was
raining buckets, the lightning flashing behind
stained glass windows that appeared to be crying.
She had been for hours and only stopped so she
could speak clearly.
What he said didn’t matter, but it sparked a fire in her
she thought long extinguished. Not one of desire but
of unimaginable rage. She rushed at him, taking the
sides of his face in a death-cold grip.
Myrtle pressed her lips to his. Could he feel it? Could
he feel how sad she was? How all she had left was
bitterness and pain? God she hoped so. Someone
had to, the loneliness was killing her over again.
She pulled away, releasing him as her eyes filled up
with tears for the millionth time in that decade. ]
’ I’m sorry, Peter. ’
[ And she was gone. Safe in her hiding spot where he
—for once— could not see her cry, she hoped nothing
she said touched him either. Myrtle was sad, she was
lost, but it was a kind of melancholy that one had to
bear alone. She was not so selfish to condemn
someone else to it. ]
what started off the proper marriage. it was a meme “I will be married for 3 days to the first person in my askbox who says "Honey, I'm home"”. i sent it in, and this beautiful thread came about
’ Peter, I feel quite like this is some sick joke. You’re
not a child –physically, I can’t
say much for your mental state,
I truly don’t know—, you
wouldn’t do that, right? ’
[ She feels ridiculous either way. ]
’ Is this really binding? I think death has already parted us. ’
“myrtle, it’s much too late to change my mind. i’m afraid
i was bound to you long ago. & i don’t care if anyone else
sees it as binding. i love you. i have for a long time, & ( if
you’ll let me ) i’d like to have the honour of calling you my
wife. the only joke would be a cruel one being played on
me by the rest of the universe were you to refuse me now.”
’ You bloody idiot, you’ll make me cry and
smear my makeup! ‘
[ Despite her annoyed tone, she reaches for his
hand. It might hurt a bit if she holds on for too
long, but her need to prove he’s solid, real and
telling the truth is something she cannot
explain. After a moment, she smiles. ]
’ I’m not an idiot, I won’t let you get away. I- I
think you’ll make me
happy. ‘
the sensation of her cool skin against his own was
unexpected to say the very least, but to hell if he wasn’t
going to hold onto that fleeting moment of her touch. so
rarely was he privy to it that he had learned to cherish
to moments when she chose to interact with the living
world; he knew the effect it had on her.
“the chance to make you happy is all i’m really asking for.”
’ I haven’t been happy in so long. I imagine I
won’t be very good at it. ‘
[ She drops her hand, deciding not to tell him
it’s because she wants to kiss him at the
end of all this without a searing headache. ]
’ You will be able to stand me? I like to think I
will make you content. ‘
“i have this long, haven’t i?”
his words sounded with a concurrent ( & teasing ) smile.
after all, it wasn’t like their meeting had been a recent one.
she had been so cold to him at first & in more ways than
one, but for some reason ( only merlin knew why ) he kept
coming back. he was inexplicably drawn to her at first, &
now, he knew there wasn’t anything she could do that would
make him want to leave.
another meme!! another kiss one at that
[ She’d never kissed anyone properly before,
it was a miracle it worked out as well as it
did. It required quite a bit of concentration,
making sure that she did not simply pass
through him as she put her arms around his
neck. It was that bit of contact that gave her
enough courage to press her lips to his.
Myrtle knew she was cold —dreadfully so—
but hoped that her utter elation would be
enough for him. Pulling back, she offered a
nervous smile. ]
’ I wanted to practice before the wedding, with my luck I
won’t be able to do it right
the day of. ‘
there had been no forewarning. there was just the swift
movement of her lips to his. she was so cold, & her
touch so light he felt as if were he to make any sudden
movements she might break apart. even so, he wouldn’t
trade it for the world. he never expected to be able to
kiss her, or hold her ( at least not in the way he might
with a living woman ) but knowing she was his was
more than enough. she made him very happy, & he
could only hope she felt the same.
“i’m sure it’ll be fine.”
& her smile was met with one of his own, although his
was significantly more reassuring in nature.
here’s a couple of silly little thought meme answer (not sure why the writing is suddenly all small but whatever)
— Silly me, and silly him. I’m dead, there’s no point in
getting married. But oh does
it feel lovely to be… well,
loved. So I’ll do it, I’ll do it
because I’ve dreamed of it
and because if I must marry
anyone, it might as well be
him. He would be the one to
give me all I’ve ever wanted,
wouldn’t he?
[ She knows she loves all of him, but perhaps
loved his brain first. If nothing else, she
loved his reading list before giving the rest
of him a chance. True, he could not
remember the ways to identify a werewolf
(despite Remus being one) but he knew that
she liked every flower under the sun, and
that adventure books were her favorite to read.
That was what really mattered to her. ]
surprise kiss from peter meme
[ she’s so surprised, she nearly passes
right through him. realizing at the last
second what he’s trying to do, she
gives him a quick peck on the lips
before pulling away. ]
’ A bit of warning next time, love? ’
next is a letter myrtle “wrote” for peter followed by a sticky note she left, though completely unrelated
Peter,
Love, how do you not own a copy of Candide? Going down to my office to get mine. Very disappointed.
this is a 6 song playlist taylor made for this ship
if i didn’t care — the ink spots
easy living — billie holiday
a thousand times goodnight — abel korzeniowski
love me as though there were no tomorrow — nat king cole
blue moon — frank sinatra
moonrise — brian crain
here is a moodboard taylor made
next is another kiss meme, but one i wrote.
ϡ for a kiss that lets you know I love you.
a year had passed since they had been wed. it had
been so peculiar, but it seemed himself & his love were
the only two that didn’t seem to care that one was living
& one was dead. “til death do us part” seemed like an
overrated phrase anyhow.
“happy anniversary, myrtle.”
that was when he presented her with the gift. it was a
sunflower, still in the pot too. seemed a bit ironic to give a
living plant to a ghost, knowing that eventually the plant
would die, no? exactly. this particular sunflower held up
only the appearance of living. in truth, it was neither living,
nor dead. it was simply charmed to uphold the image of
itself at the true pinnacle of its beauty, as if to mirror her.
“a sunflower. i read somewhere that they’re supposed to be a
a symbol of admiration so it seemed fitting that i give one to
you. & it’s been charmed. to always remain as beautiful as you.”
& with that, their lips met in a fleeting kiss. but that was
all they needed. their love wasn’t conveyed through
conventional means like touch, but when they did, the
intent was clear. he believed she deserved the world.
and another kiss from peter
19. forceful kiss
he hadn’t the foggiest idea of what brought it on, but he
would certainly be ｌｙｉｎｇ if he were to say that he
didn’t find the surprise pleasant. he was used to a certain
FORCE behind her words ( it came with the territory of being
her ＨＵＳＢＡＮＤ ), but the force behind her kiss was all
too unfamiliar.
a smile threatened to surface at the spontaneity of it all,
but instead, peter settled on wrapping his arms around her
ever fleeting form, intent on relishing each moment it lasted.
here’s some little things or silly little back and forth but that’s domestic married life for you (again it’s small, don’t know why, not gonna bother )
’ Just you watch. I’ll be the next Delia Smith! ’
the bowl ( & it’s now freshly mixed contents ) were placed
on the counter next to her, as requested. & a laugh rung out
at the proclamation.
“& when you do, i swear to purchase all of your cookbooks.”
SEPARATE THING
“never a dull day with you, is there?”
’ Oh shush, we had plenty of fun yesterday
evening. Tonight I just want to
sit here and listen to the radio. ’
SEPARATE THING
“do you have a valentine yet?” he’s joking, but how could he resist asking?
’ Valentines are for women without husbands.
you are my valentine forever.
And my date to any future
Yule balls. ’
another meme prompted drabble taylor wrote.
this one: crowds used to freak me out
her first deathday party is more alive than most of the school.
how she got the pins in her hair and the diamond necklace around her neck she doesn’t care, but it’s there and it’s sweeter than any sixteen.
for once, she’s happy. it’s dizzying and beautiful and just a bit like waking up drenched in cold water.
she’s smiling like she’s trying to make up for thirty years of sobbing, and in a way, she is.
her favorited records –scratched nearly beyond repair– play out a big band song that she probably had memorized when she was a teenager now. the words don’t matter, what does is that she’s dancing.
alone at first, as everyone starts that way, but then she’s dancing with him. all of a sudden, everything gets much clearer.
her laugh is drowned out in her ears and she doesn’t seem to realize that she’s the only one carrying on like she still has a heartbeat. as if she gives a damn.
she can flush, she can’t be short of breath, but she pretends she is as she winds her arms around his neck. is she dancing with him or is he just along for her giddy twirling? she doesn’t know but the rest of the guests do.
they’re all watching the horrifying spectacle of a woman gone insane.
she’s watching him again.
when she stops, everyone’s worried she’ll start to cry again. never in all their lives –or deaths– had they seen anything so embarrassing. myrtle rolls her eyes and takes peter’s hand.
’ Something slower, maybe? Where people can keep their noses out of our business? ’
she doesn’t wait for an answer before walking away with him in tow. her hand is firmly gripping his like a lifeline, even though she’s the one pulling him onwards.
’ I didn’t ask before. ‘
myrtle says when she finds an empty classroom. the moonlight’s nice, shining through the window, sectioned off by an ebony frame.
’ And I’m not asking now. Dance with me. ’
it’s not a request, but she does give him enough space to pull away. it makes her smile again when he doesn’t.
they look like they’re about to waltz when she realizes there isn’t any music. sighing in defeat, she lets her head rest on his shoulder.
there’s no music, there’s no dancing, but there could be.
pulling back just slightly, she smiles up at him. she’s not alive, but she could be.
gotta have some sad in here so here’s a drabble prompted by † for a kiss to say good bye forever.
well she’s not about to leave him, is she? she shoots a nurse a glare. obviously the woman’s never seen a ghost and her dying husband. the thought makes her stomach twist.
dies. died. will die.
it’s all so final.
it was never like that when she died, it happened so quickly. she looks to him in quiet terror. what if he goes quickly too?
without thinking, she presses a kiss to his lips. she’s in luck, he’s still alive when she does. sitting back, she does not feel accomplished.
sighing, she takes his hand in hers and ignores the stabbing pain. she kisses the back, very gently, wishing her lips were warm.
she sits with him for hours after he stops breathing, she won’t let his hand go. her head hurts so much she thinks she might scream, but she can’t even cry.
she is dead, but cannot die. she is, was and will be, all without him.
and to end on, taylor was given the prompt “peter has died and moved one without you” (obviously as an alternate ending to the above)
[ she knew it would happen one day. he was
too free to keep locked at her side for
eternity. she would never want that for him
anyway. wherever he was, he was free.
nodding, she did let a few tears spill over
onto her cheeks. she did not bother to dry
them.
is, was, will be. and all without him, too. it
seemed she found a reason to cry again. ]
that’s all folks!
#miiserably#throwing her tag in here because why not#❘❙❚ ✘ ┊it all began with a book ▶ ❝ otp husband & wife ❞#❘❙❚ ✘ ┊ to follow footsteps ▶ ❝ p. v. 15 ❞#taylor
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