every single explanation for why mikey wasn't decrepit but was covered in blood is insane like
he's a vampire and is draining the other three of youth
it was for his own safety. if he went on stage in all his 2005 scene queen half of jersey all of warped tour glory the seismic shockwave of two dozen nostalgia bait emo bandman dissolving their marriages for a chance with that sopping wet twink would have levelled nevada
bad ending where instead of the band breaking up and mikey getting help they drag the band's shambling corpse around until mikey dies young. pulling back the curtains on how unhappy and unhealthy they all were during the era that wwwyf is trying to capitalize off. you want us to keeping going back to 2005 for the sake of your nostalgia? okay mikey's fucking dead now (makes me unbelievably upset to consider but exactly the kind of shit they'd pull)
he died in normandy
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in honour of being promoted to Deputy Stage Manager in my school's theatre department, top gun high school/sixth form au:
Dr Kazansky rules the drama department with an iron fist. always wearing black turtlenecks. never seen without his glasses, his coffee, and his terrifying glare (which earned him the moniker Dr Iceman). do not show up to rehearsals if you don't know your lines. death be upon the poor students who fuck around during tech and dress, because they will find out. he loves the crew tho.
Mr Call-Me-Mav Mitchell is the head of sports. you name it, he's played it, and he could absolutely give you pointers, also, do you want a protein bar with that? it's chocolate flavoured :) even the kids who Hate (capital H) sports love him. he is sunshine and adrenaline in human form. endless energy. no one knows why he is called maverick, but even the principal does it, so.
Mr Kerner is the principal. he is also the only person who can interrupt rehearsals and survive. dr kazansky loves him. inexplicably, maverick hates him. nough said.
Jake Seresin is the school's golden child, not even because he's Kazansky's nephew. he’s head boy. he’s on the school’s football/rugby team. he writes regular articles for the internal magazines. and this year, he’s playing Orpheus in the school’s production of Hadestown. everyone thinks it’s nepotism. it is and it’s not, jake just lost a bet to his Uncle Tom, and must now reap the consequences to said uncle’s delight.
Bradley Bradshaw has been stage crew since he was thirteen and an overworked runner, thank you very much. it’s his final show, he’s the DSM, and if fucking seresin ruins this for him, he will riot. dr kazansky should never let that happen. however, this is the same man who, last year, laughed when revealing that a screen on stage had turned off and bradley had to go on stage during the show to fix it. hm. maybe bradley should have re-thought his life choices. also: the turntable. the goddamn turntable.
other characters include: phoenix as eurydice, bob doing lighting, payback and fanboy as ASMs who flirt over the comms to everyones misery, cyclone as another drama teacher/stage manager,
maverick keeps turning up to rehearsals and trying to help because his favourite (cough only cough) godson and his favourite player are both interested in this stuff, so he should at least try, right? kazansky hates it until he doesn’t. kerner thinks it’s all fucking hilarious. bradley is embarrassed but its kinda endearing do NOT tell him i said that.
kazansky and maverick both bare witness to A Moment between their respective pseudo sons and decide the two simply must get together for their sakes and also so they never inflict that on another person ever.
bradley and jake both bare witness to A Moment between their respective pseudo fathers and decide the two simply must get together for their sakes and also so they never inflict that on another person ever.
kerner is cackling. Cackling.
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☆ you sow; & thus you shall reap what you are owed
{☆} characters tsaritsa
{☆} notes cult au, imposter au, drabble, gender neutral reader
{☆} warnings blood, violence
{☆} word count 0.8k
You are dying.
Gold melts into the dirt, bleeds into the very earth that you'd molded by your own hands – a familiarity you do not understand the source of – you know it to be true, yet you do not remember it as Teyvat does. It weeps, in turn, for the way you bleed upon it, the way your lungs strain for breath.
It is fury and sorrow and fear and hatred so raw that your mind buckles.
You will die.
"A dying godling and its judge, it's jury – it's executioners," The voice is hollow and cold, sweeps across your broken body like the first chill of winter, "Archons who saw themselves Gods, now brought to heel by their own hubris."
A cold hand upon your cheek, the brush of a thumb across your lip, the gentle caress of cold across your skin. You know her – you don't remember, you shouldn't recognize her but you do – and she knows you. The cold beckons and you follow, let her kindness settle in the hollow space of your chest. You want to speak, to cry and scream and rage, let the world burn around you in a fit of flames so hot even she cannot contain it – but she silences you, quiets the anger seeping into your blood, quiets Teyvat itself.
"Do not speak, little godling. Guide my hand," She is cold; her hands are not gentle, yet it is bliss compared to the callous, cruel hands that have shattered you. She is cruel and cold and brutal but she is love in the way she kisses the crown of your head. She is love in the way she is the bulwark between you and the world that has scorned you – she is fury in the way she brings them to their knees. "And I shall enact judgement most divine."
They will pray for forgiveness, and they shall find themselves wanting.
"It wasn't our fault!" They cry, but you cannot recognize the voice – it breaks and cracks like glass. "They were too human. How were we meant to know? We– we thought they were.."
Silence.
You watch your judge – the executioner, the blade that shall carve their sins into the very marrow of Teyvat, stand above you like death. As cold as winter and just as brutal. Your temple has been painted in the gold of your divine blood, and she shall complete the masterpiece with their own. The Archons shall become the grandest art in the world – this temple the canvas, their blood the paint and their bodies the palette. The cold that cuts sinew cradles you – it sings to you, whispers sweetly in your ear and carves bone from body in the same breath. The cold presses it's lips to your wrist and it cradles a heart within it's palm – judges them and finds them guilty.
It is her spear that rests between their ribs, her sword that dissects and her dagger that carves – the cold devours.
In the breadth of this divine sanctuary, the Archons dwindle. They become the pieces of a divine work of art, they bleed and bend and break upon her hands. She shakes the heavens and carves mortality into the bones of the divine – your word is Law, and you weave their deaths into the roots of Teyvat itself.
They shall know of their grand folly in every moment henceforth and longer still and they shall weep.
And as the curtain falls, as the world crumbles beneath fist and blade, she cradles your face between hands too cold – as gentle as a shard of ice between your ribs, as brutal as the kiss of gentle snowfall. The world buckles at the loss of six, but she alone does not allow it to break – you will have to mend the wounds of the world when you are well, but today you weep and Teyvat weeps with you.
And alone, the cold remains.
Stone has eroded, the wind has ceased, the flames have been extinguished, the storm has been silenced, the forests have gone quiet and the seas go still.
But the cold remains, bathed in gold.
It wraps you in thick furs, cradles you against the winter storm that brews beneath a veneer of composure. It brings you home – lets the world settle into a stillness and silence that inspires only dread and still she presses a kiss to your brow.
It is cold, but there has never been something so warm.
Where hands have broken you, she drapes you in furs, wipes away the thick gold that clings to your skin. She pieces you back together where you have been shattered, reshapes you where you have been bent – makes of you something new. Not a god and not a mortal but something wedged between them.
But you are yourself.
And you are where you belong.
They shall put you back together and you shall know only the worship worthy of the divine. They shall carve this world into your image, tear out and burn away the rot that festers.
All you need to do is say the word and they shall be your tools to make this world your own.
One word and those who wronged you shall burn, too.
Just one word. That's all it takes, and they shall take away your pain.
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