#backstory dump

[rogueslove]

X-Treme X-Men #1

[brightideathepunny]

Your sister introduced me to your YouTube channel and I love your puns. I used to be a brony and your MLP videos brought me down memory lane. (Even though I only saw the thumbnails lol)

You may remember me from asking your sister what it's like to be a twin, and now I want to hear your opinion on the matter. (Even if it's similar to hers) Consider it research for my upcoming novel.

Thank you for your question! Sorry it's taken me a long time to respond to your ask, I'm not nearly as active on Tumblr as my twin ^^;

I do remember @bettinalevyisdetermined responding to this question before, but not exactly what she said on her blog, so here are my own thoughts on

What it's like being a twin:

Growing up together, I knew we had something special that went beyond the typical sibling bond (we have a younger brother who we love dearly, but that love is so different). We were constant companions from baby-hood, what else can compare? Having someone to DO life with from the start feels like it made life easier for me to handle. If you saw one of us, the other one was never far behind. I always had someone close by who knew exactly what I was dealing with in life, because she was living it too. We explored, played pretend, lost baby teeth, learned to ride bikes, navigated family stuff, read the same books, watched the same movies and shows, solved the same puzzles, laughed at the same jokes. Not all the time, but definitely most of the time, whatever we did, it was together. We were separated in school from kindergarten-2nd grade, so we had different teachers and classmates and projects to do, but our parents started homeschooling us after our 2nd grade was over, so we spent even more time together and loved it.

Sharing is something that feels like we've always done instinctively, from sharing a birthday to bedroom space, toys, clothes, food, time, tastes...so much of what we had was ours rather than mine/hers. Even when people gave us individual gifts, we'd still often find ways to use them or enjoy them together. When we were old enough to dress ourselves, for awhile we would keep wearing the same things, as we would when we were little, or wear the same type of clothes but different colors, though starting somewhere around adolescence, we did find our own unique, preferred styles, eventually.

I remember my identity used to be so wrapped up in twin-ness, I had a hard time imagining any life without Bettina by my side. Around the time we were learning to drive and getting our learner's permits, that's when I got my first set of glasses, and I remember being quite upset because I would look different from my sister. Looking back on it, it's kinda silly, because we'd already been different for a long time, with our emerging personalities and slight but noticeable physical distinctions, such as a couple inches difference in height. As we grew up and sought independence from our family and cultivated our own relationships with other people (platonic and romantic), we learned that our twin-ness was still very special, but not the end-all be-all I used to believe it was.

The past couple of years we've gotten to attend the amazing Twin's Days Festival in Twinsburg, Ohio. Getting to know other people who are twins who've either lost their twin or aren't on good terms with their twin makes me appreciate the relationship I have with my twin even more. We stay in touch with each other as much as we can, but of course life gets busy sometimes, on both our ends.

Januarys always make me feel self-reflective, so this was an excellent question to mull over. Thinking about "what has being a twin meant to me" makes me feel all the things, happy that I can still reach out to my sister whenever I like, sad that we don't physically hang out as often as we used to, proud of all she and I have done in our respective lives, and excited to make more memories with her. No matter how much time passes, she and I can always pick up where we left off; even though we're long distance these days, we remain incredibly close. She's my twin sister, apart from me, and yet no less a part of me.

[fishy0bishy]

Mrs.UnNamed Lore!!!

Mrs.UnNamed is a high rank cultist and this her information

edit: A knight basically since she plans and raids rider docks for supplies and well has a good grasp on people due to hypnotic abilities

And Space Riders au by @onyxonline!

“Why is she so angry even when around gas?”

Because of her travels around raiding rider docks she’s forced to be on the outskirts of the gas instead of the epicenter. But when she is surrounded with gas she’s in heaven. And she becomes much nicer to be around and won’t even attack but in this state she doesn’t remember anything which is why she’s mad she wants the joy she was promised but can’t due to the “incompetent cultist” she leads raids with so well. She treats them like shit but she doesn’t yell at the unfortunate children of the cult but send them away so then she could scream at cultists she doesn’t know why she does it it just happens when a child is around.

   It is very much implied so yes Mrs.UnNamed was a space rider again a very honorable one who’s was well respected by mostly everyone and again was married to a nurse on ship and had Merrit with. But postpartum depression and also the threat of her crew disbanding weighed on her too much and on a very tough and tiring mission she had enough so she snapped and took off her helmet and left her crew/family behind to the red gas that could make her happy again but that led to her husband trying to find her but he also disappeared but it’s presumed he’s not alive. 

      Her powers

She is a celestial user even if it doesn’t look like it but back then her powers were a glowing gold and was a lasso. And was rumored that her lasso could pull stars and people together! But after turning to the cult she dawned a new and more destructive weapon. A Flail that she could alter the size of so if someone was tangled up in her flail she would end them. But also she has the ability to hypnotize others but mostly uses it to have others tell her the truth or ofc do her bidding 

and ofc a doodle of her happy (surprisingly) and holding a tiny plush. But from who? (Cough @truelazymaker cough)

[thewhumpcaretaker]

The Broken Veil: Chapter 7 - How to Shoot

TW: blood transfusion, needles, needle phobia, panic attack, fainting, discussions of dying

Disclaimer: I have no medical knowledge and described IVs and blood transfusions purely from Googling and memories from a patient's perspective. This may be highly inaccurate.

This is the last chapter that will be written. I had the fic planned out to the end and I might make a post about what would have followed. Thanks for coming along for the ride, everyone!

Summary: John Wick has just agreed to kill Gianna D'Antonio, repaying the marker that gave him a life with Helen. However, Helen is trying to contact John from the afterlife, to show him that it is possible to stop the cycle of violence – not by forfeiting his own life, but by creating a fundamental shift in international systems and perhaps even the balance of good and evil in this world. But he doesn’t have to do it alone. She’s coming back.

“Her present countenance had a wild vindictiveness in its white cheek, and a bloodless lip and scintillating eye; and she retained in her closed fingers a portion of the locks she had been grasping.” - Nelly Dean, speaking of Catherine Earnshaw, Wuthering Heights

The first thing Helen felt was the IV. There was almost no pain. So little, in fact, that she must have been on even more painkillers than the last time. But that swollen sensation (no matter how subtle) cut through even the painkillers, the feeling of something pouring into her veins, forcing her own blood to part and make way, the irrational fear that her body wouldn’t be able to hold it and would spontaneously burst. That fear had gotten worse with each hospital stay. She was always the brave kid when getting shots as a child, but not anymore. Well, at least she didn’t have to feel it going in this time.

The second thing she felt was John’s hand in hers.

There was someone speaking to him. “The initial loss of consciousness was likely due to anemia. To put it in simple terms, when the body fights this hard, it starts to run out of red blood cells. She’s on a basic drip now, but she needs blood. I can see that she’s had this issue before. So we can do a transfusion – “

“I want to be the donor. We’re compatible. I found out after last time.” She wanted to tell him how ridiculously sweet that was, but her jaw wouldn’t move. Maybe she wouldn’t mind the transfusion as much if the blood was his. Maybe it wouldn’t feel so sickly foreign.

“I saw that in the chart as well. So you donated in advance… and it looks like your sample was approved for use.”

“Good.”

The voice became a little softer. “But I need to be very honest about the situation. Can I talk to you outside?”

She could sense his reluctance even then, before they were bound together beyond the grave. It was in the way he lingered, then kissed her hand before slipping away.

So she was dying. Well, of course, she was already dying and knew that, and before the diagnosis, she knew she was dying eventually, as all human beings do. But somehow, it always snuck up on her. It was different for it to be happening eventually, than for it to be happening NOW.

What a good life she’d had. There were problems, sure. She grew up an orphan like John, yes, but an orphan with adoptive parents who brought her up in the suburbs with three cats and a white picket fence and at least pretended everything was perfect. It instilled in her a craving for the innocent, genuine warmth that their manicured McMansion pretended to hold. When that family fell apart too and she went no-contact, it still never affected her love for humanity or for life as a whole – if anything, it intensified the desire to reach out to others and break through their walls with a kind of overpowering acceptance. She had expressed it by meeting people, by going out into the world as a portrait photographer with a particular taste for damaged misfits and unloved vagabonds in seedy bars that contrasted so deliciously with her clean, good-girl image.

That image was truly more than skin deep. She wanted to be good, and she tried to be good, and she was good, she realized – she was able to lay on her deathbed and believe that she had lived her life in accordance with the kindness she wanted to show to others. Unlike John, she didn’t hate herself, maybe because she was so rarely capable of hating anybody…or maybe because she’d been to a lot of therapy, that could be it too…but either way, the introspection and extrospection she’d done over her 48 years of living had paid off. She fell in love with everything and everybody, even the most supposedly unworthy. And she found the perfect receptacle to match that outpouring, the most vulnerable man whose walls she had ever broken down, and dragged him out of the pit of hell to have pillow fights and share milkshakes on Valentine’s Day and watch the cartoons he’d never seen growing up because he didn’t have a childhood. She lived the dream.

But John deserved that too, and she wasn’t done giving it to him. She wanted him to feel this good about himself, she wanted him to die this fulfilled or never at all. She knew better than to assume that he would be alright. Marcus was conspiring with her to keep a foster puppy for John, and would give it to him after she was gone. That would keep him alive at least. But she wished she could be there for him herself.

And her body, her breakability, this was the thing tearing her away from him. Not his work, as they had always expected. No, just this petty, senseless vessel. Just chance, the callous irony of life, and that was somehow worse. The little knot in the flesh of her arm where she had to be physically tied to existence…that was the proof of it, the symbol of it. That hideous bump of plastic… She tried to squirm her wrist, beginning to panic. He was going to be without her. She was not ready, her affection not burned out, her work not done, and her anxiety spiked, and she slipped away into unconsciousness.

***

Fear is irrational. It doesn’t care that Helen can’t die anymore. It doesn’t care that being shot head-on several dozen times ought to be much scarier than sitting in a vaguely medical environment. It just lives in the body, even the undead body, and screams something incoherent about needles from deep in the amygdala.

They were loaded into a shopping cart under a tarp and wheeled blindly to somewhere that reeked of fishy water on the outside and of burning flesh on the inside, and when they ripped the tarp away, she panicked. It barely even looks like a hospital. It’s technically a morgue (much more cheerful). But there’s a row of hospital beds stretching down the hallway from the open glow of the incinerator, and that’s enough to send Helen over the edge. It’s a mercy when the abyss flickers blankly over that scene, blotting out her vision. But it comes and goes.

She can no longer tell whether she’s clinging to John for his sake or for her own. She hasn’t let go of him since they fell to the ground together and isn’t about to start now. John is in and out of consciousness in her arms as she sits on the edge of his bed, his head lolling against her shoulder where she pulled him on top of her, trying to crush out her shaking with the weight of his body and trying to crush out his shaking with the tightest embrace that won’t wring more blood from his abdomen. They took off his shirt and suitcoat and laid a blanket on top of them but they’re both still freezing despite being drenched in sweat.

“What the fuck do you mean we don’t have his blood type on hand? This is Wick. Get it here now. Do a raid if you have to.” The panhandler has stayed with them the entire time. Helen would guess that he’s in charge of their visit. Several equally scruffy men who act as their nurses seem to answer to him, based on the way they’re scrambling at his orders.

She hears herself speak and it sounds like someone else. “I’m his blood type.”

“Finally some good luck. We can do it directly.”

“Put out your arm.” One of the nurses is advancing towards her.

Shit. A wave of dizziness passes through her and she jerks back before she can stop herself.

“Do you need a lollipop, or do I need to tie you down?”

“Don’t mess with her, idiot. That’s his wife.”

“I’m fine, I can do it…” Her voice is so breathy and unnatural. She absolutely cannot do it.

But John moves listlessly, just enough to make his head nod sideways into the hollow of her neck. She feels him slip into awareness of a clammy, dark, blotched-over existence. He’s trying to groan in pain and wooziness but then he registers that her arms are wrapped securely around his shoulders and he relaxes back into numbness, consoled. He needs her. He’s trusting her to keep him safe. It makes her feral.

She could do anything he’s ever done for her. She could kill if she needed to.

This feels like killing.

Her arm is out. Hands on her, antiseptic. The seconds are so long as she awaits that familiar pinch.

Something strikes her and bounces off.

Again. The tip of the needle snaps.

Of course. Her skin can’t be broken.

“So it’s true…what is it? Is it some kind of high-tech skin sealant?” Someone slides a scalpel against her forearm, to no effect, but she’s mostly in the void and can’t see who.

“Hey! I said don’t mess with her!”

Helen doesn’t respond. She’s a human sized bag full of blood and none of it can get into John. Her body is immaculate, inviolable, impenetrable, forever safe…and useless to him. Her other half lies beside her, utterly broken, unconscious, white as a sheet, hair clumped to his cheeks, soaked in sweat and blood, but he still somehow has a capability that she lacks – and when he needs her most, no less. He has the very basic human ability to suffer and bleed and endure. This powerful, noble, compassionate man is in love with her, and she dragged herself all the way back from oblivion, performed a miracle, gained immortality, and walked at his side again just to be useless to him? To cling to his side while he bleeds out, trusting her to save him? No, absolutely not. That can’t be how this works.

“What if I do it? My own intention…”

“What? You gotta speak up.”

“Get another needle and show me how to shoot it. I’m going to try it myself.”

“Why would that matter? Is it magic or something?”

“Just let me try it.”

“…Okay, let’s try it.”

She can barely see the person who’s talking. It’s so hard to focus on anything he says. “This is the activation button, point it here…”

There are people dragging her out from under John to give her full range of motion. And then the little cylinder is in her hand and fear has her completely, rising up from somewhere deep and universal, somewhere in life when she believed death to be permanent and ruin to be possible. It evaporates all the blood from her head and fills her fingertips with stars. She’s either going to pass out or vomit, there’s no way, there’s no way… Hands are pinning her left arm down against the bed so it doesn’t move when she’s trying to hit it, but that will hardly do much good when her right arm is shaking just as much. Someone flicks at her to raise the vein. Something about relaxing her muscles but that’s completely out the question right now. Just do it. Just do it. She keeps rocking forward and backward.

There are two souls, in the corner of the room and nowhere. She only sees them for a moment. They’ve come up from somewhere far more settled than she’s ever been. A woman, with wild dark hair. A man with John’s piercing eyes.

His birth parents. Their gazes pleading with her.

She steels herself. I intend to save him. This is what needs to happen. Whoever and whatever may be, make way for this. Helen lets herself scream and shoots.

Stabbing pain. It feels wrong. She had no idea how much more wrong it could feel when done improperly. But it worked. It worked! There’s blood climbing up the tube. And blood bruising under her skin around the horribly botched entry point. There’s plastic inside her…

Helen faints.

***

The first thing John feels is Helen’s hand in his.

The second thing he feels is the IV. In two forearms. Her blood is mixing with his, and with it, her every sensation. …She did that for me? That must have terrified her beyond belief.

It isn’t so long since he tasted her life back at the hotel, but he realizes he already missed it. She has such a sunny way of looking at the world. To be inside her head is to feel the weight of his own self-hatred and deep-seated jadedness fall away. To feel an overpowering hunger for life.

Through half-lidded eyes, he sees their arms entwined, both covered in smears of red, all of it his. Both pierced by the tubing that joins them, an external vein bridging the gap between them. She holds him, inside and out. He’s trying to say thank you, but she knows. She knows, and it makes her so damn happy.

She’s so proud of what she just did. I’m so proud of you too. You’re so brave for me. She’s so proud of him, for surviving, for calling out to her to help him walk at the very end. I… he can’t say that just yet, can’t even think it. A twist of guilt that she felt the agony he just endured, that she has to be involved in this life at all. No, he’s not proud of himself. But she overwhelms the guilt in a wash of affection for him that makes her squirm closer against his side. Her phobic headiness is still there but its flavor is innocent, kitten-like, as she basks in the consolation of being with him. She’s floating, she’s in the clouds with her favorite person, she’s petting his hair.

He falls asleep to the beat of her pulse.

***

She’s in a chair at his side the next time he wakes up. The panhandler, who she now knows to be The Bowery King’s right hand man, is sitting by her side with a partially assembled handgun. “…And then you pull back, like this. When you hear the click, let go, and it snaps back in.”

John clears his throat. “Having fun?”

“John!” Helen looks up at him delighted. Then she turns back to her new friend. “Please give me a moment to speak to him alone.”

He frowns. “I’m not going far. It’s my job to keep you lovebirds out of trouble.” But he steps around the corner.

She gathers herself and meets John’s gaze. “I need to be very clear about something: I am never going to do that again.”

He’s surprised, but relieved. “Good. You shouldn’t have to see me at a time like that. In fact, if there’s some way we can shield you from what I’m feeling when I’m – “

“No, that’s not what I meant. I am never going to stand by and do nothing while you get shot in the gut. I want to know how to fight.”

That stops him short.

“And as for separating our souls, even temporarily, I couldn’t possibly have less interest in doing that. The more pain you’re in, the more I want to be there for you. Think about how you’d feel if you were sharing my suffering. Wouldn’t you want to maintain that connection?”

The thought touches him deeply. He’s still savoring how it felt when they were joined by the blood. “…Yes. If I can feel you as well, I want to. No matter what.”

“Well, you will in the hereafter. All in due time.” She kisses his forehead and it sends a wave of butterflies through him. “For now, I look after you. I want you to teach me how to understand a fight enough to stay out of your way when you’re attacking, how to shoot, how to throw a knife, how to fight hand-to-hand...all of it.”

“How to kill.” His expression darkens.

“How to save your life.”

“Yeah, that’s what I tell myself too when I’m doing it.”

“And whenever you’re acting of your own volition, whenever you’re free, it’s always true. Let me set you free, John. Show me what I need to know and we’ll start a revolution. We’ll set the whole world free.”

“…Alright. I’ll show you.”

[heavens-light-and-hells-ice]

Another letter to his lady.

This letter was started, scrapped, and redrafted many times over the past moons, as Rosaire Ledigne sat at his desk, watching the winter approach through the hazy window. As Starlight nears, he tries again, his pen at first direct and confident, gradually becoming uncertain and disjointed. In the end, this attempt peters out as well, the letter left unfinished -- though out upon his desk, open to his lady's discovery, till the next time he decides to try again. 

To my dear lady Gwenneth Ledigne. 

A very long while ago you asked about my family and my upbringing by my parents. Though the answer I gave at the time was honest, I admit I did not wish to get much into the topic -- for I did not think the story much relevant to our lives, now that a greater part of mine has been spent avoiding House Saincourant than having aught to do with it, and so thought it better to spare you the recounting of that unpleasant history. Yet even though that opinion of mine is not much changed, I do feel it mayhap a disservice to you to avoid the topic -- a topic that I confess I have thought more of in recent moons than I have for decades, mayhap because the subject is not so irrelevant as I once thought, our circumstances being as they are. 

I have been told -- and indeed I have even seen evidence -- that in some highborn families there is love, and not just a love of fame and power. This was not the case in mine. My father had tremendous pride in his Fortemps blood and, when he was young, nursed ambitions of valor and glory with which he would distinguish Saincourant among the subsidiary houses of the Unicorn; but he had the misfortune of being born during a time of Nidhogg’s slumber, never to skirmish with aught more fierce than dragonflies, and in his desperation for honor injured himself in a joust, limiting his future pursuits to ballrooms, councils, and at the very most, hunts. Though true glory was lost to him, he was infatuated with the appearance of it, and threw himself into pageantry and politics; he secured for himself a woman of equally good Haillenarte lines and set to breeding pawns for future honors and alliances. 

At our most numerous we were eight in total. The firstborn, my brother Aleaume, whom you know as the present Lord Saincourant, was immediately pleasing to our father, who devoted himself to grooming him for prestige and greatness. I was the third son and fourth child and so, initially, not of much concern. I was wet-nursed immediately in a far-off corner of one of our houses; though it be unkind of me, I doubt my mother held me more than once a moon, as by day she was busy with a lady’s engagements and by night was needed to produce the next. In those days it was not at all uncommon to lose young children, and I suppose my parents dealt with that concern by warehousing us till we were of the age of reason -- not without luxury, as I have no memory of ever wanting for food or warmth, but in the hands of servants. 

At times I have thought it fortunate that I was born with the temperament that I have, for while I was never without a nursemaid, she was so often changed -- reassigned to one of my siblings, mayhap, or replaced with a more convenient, less costly local girl -- no one face stands out in my memory as that of a beloved substitute mother; a more sensitive child would surely have suffered from neglect, but I cannot remember pining, only existing, quietly and quite contentedly, in mine own solitary thoughts and imagination. At other times I have wondered if the development of an uncaring temperament was such a child’s only recourse. Regardless, while I was not injured by this upbringing, it did not endear my parents to me, and when they did take an interest in me, I did not fawn over them like Aleaume did. 

During my ninth winter, I was at our country estate while my younger siblings were in the city with my mother, along with my second brother at boarding school. My father and Aleaume were off on some business, and I suppose my elder sister must have been at the estate as well. That year plague hit, and all my brothers and sisters in the city died. My mother survived, but she was not unaffected by the loss. Though she had not much use for her babes while they lived, losing five of eight at once devastated her, and she began to cling tight to my sister, as I suppose I did not warm sufficiently to her sudden embraces. Then, during my mother’s last pregnancy, my sister died, and so when Victoire was born, she became my mother’s most precious treasure, ever to be coddled and held close. 

Mine education was provided and needs met, but my father did not have much to say to me till I was in my first year at the Scholasticate and surpassing the other pupils. By that age I was too canny to be fooled, and it was obvious to me that any protestations of fatherly love were deposits made on the investment of a high-placed son in the clergy, with connections and favors expected as returns. I hated all that business -- the pretended alliances, the bartering of daughters, the exploitation of smallfolk, the politics of power and naught else -- I despised him and my hypocritical, toadying brother, and resolved then that my family would enjoy none of my success. When I graduated, I went to the Tribunal, became Ledigne, and built my career and legacy entirely on mine own. While they lived, my parents loathed me for choosing to stand not for the house but such frivolous things as justice, Halone, and the greater good of the Ishgardian state; after my brother succeeded and ruined Saincourant reputation and finances, he never stopped scheming for a way to get his hands on the fortunes I’d made during my time as an Inquisitor. Victoire is of the same cloth, spoiled and selfish -- but she does what a noblewoman must to survive after her brother marries her strategically to some well-titled boor, and for that I cannot resent her; but I have no wish to introduce her to my wife.

Not all highborn are irredeemably corrupt, I will grant; we know examples enough to know that not all of them end up so. But I admit some of mine antipathy to that class, and to the way of things in Ishgard, comes from the first-hand knowledge of how the demands of politics, money, and reputation warp natural familial affection into something entirely different and unnatural. When blood is mixed with power, it is poisoned, and curdles -- and the husband's feeling for his wife, the mother's for her children, the brother's for his siblings, turn gradually from the benign sentiments designed for us by the Twelve into amoral opportunism, strategy, barter, and greed. It makes us all pieces on the chessboard of the Pillars, and it is a game no highborn can choose not to play. 

It disgusts me. 

And I do not want her to be raised as I was. 

I am not so naive as to think that all lowborn are raised in innocent, carefree love. The pressures on those families are oft just as great, and their straits are far more likely to be dire, with pragmatic choices to be made between love and survival. But those stresses are, in my estimation, nearly all produced by that very highborn society pushing down on them, exploiting them in plays for their own advancement in the game. Nobility -- stratification -- difference -- it truly is a sickness that infects every part of our society, ruining individual happiness, familial harmony, even our ability to follow Halone's commands. As pleasant as the picture of the gentle lord defending his subjects is sometimes painted, in truth its underside -- sometimes its face -- is always ugly. 

You know how I feel about the L. & the C., and that is unchanged -- because I do not think it is the right medicine for Ishgard. But, ardently, I pray that our nation is healed, and that the Ishgard of the future -- your Ishgard, my young wife, and that of our child -- is one more equal, and so less sick, more honest, more holy than what my grandparents, my parents, and I have allowed it to be.

And I pray that you my child shall not resent being raised in our strange little family, highborn without a House, with luxuries and privileges fewer than those enjoyed by past generations, and a bloodline not all may at first accept. I pray she shall not be angry with us for the choices we have made and the traditional path we forsook. Certainly, we will make mistakes, and when grown she will look back on them with disapproval -- 

but, Halone, let her look back on this choice, to raise her as an ordinary child in an ordinary family, and understand it was made in love, and for love. 

[ask-gentleman-steampunk-onceler]

ooc post!!

so I just saw that some lers have names besides their roles right and ever since I drew Steamgent (GS but the things are flipped... oh whatever I should just call him GS 💀) I'm like: he looks like a Felix. Why? I don't know- fix it felix bro /j so yuh if u want u can call him Felix bro

and he runs a repair shop n stuff so like yus because he didn't sell his thneed and was very sad and he was too sad to throw it like in the og so bro just walked home and everyone forgot about the thneed in his universe so he started a repair and robot business and got successful from that so since he only cut down the one tree the Lorax in this universe actually doesn't mind GS and because he felt bad for the Lorax he planted the tree back so yaya ummm.. what else did I need to elaborate???

Oh right GS actually can only see from one eye because of the hair covering his eye yes it's not just a design choice but what's the reason then?? well that's for me to know and you to wonder.. or ask.. but anyway um if you have ooc questions drop them in my ask box and put ooc at the top or bottom of your ask thanks btw the hair thing if anyone cares is not ooc technically since it's LORE

- silly guy that runs this blog

also shout out to sock they're poggers ok that was cringe but anyway real!!!

[time-travel-and-madness]

ever since I finally moved out i feel like I'm having the College Experience I never got to have

i went to community college and then immediately went to work, and my parents were kinda controlling so i never got to be truly on my own

but now i am and it's like

hey let's get drunk and eat too much junk food and surely regret it tomorrow but oh well!!!!!

but also with like....bills and home maintenance

[fcther-blog]

02.    Vol always had a DISTASTE for life on 2 o’clock in the morning. He was an incredible outlier, and seldom ever struck by the euphoria-inducing, but often deadly, lightning. And took no delight that living was ongoing GAMBLE. The storms caused him great anxiety. And one particularly nasty strike as a tot spoiled his appetite for lightning of all sorts. Of any Isle. Abarat or Hereafter. Even on the rare occasion that he was struck — little Leeman would crawl into a ball and shake and shake until its effects were gone. 

    Most Idjitites die from the lightning. Vol’s FATHER died of consumption, midway through his son’s 15th year. And his MOTHER, in her grief scaled a mighty cliff. And stood with her arms outstretched for a day and a night waiting for the lightning to strike. It was never known if she meant to be struck into euphoria to escape her heartache, commit suicide, or if she had placed her fate in the skies. 

    When she returned that night, having been struck but not killed, Leeman refused to SPEAK to her. He seldom ever spoke to her again. Until he left for Gorgossium at age 17.