#le fin

[yourgirlsfriday]

I'd like to point out this was billed a a comedy by Amazon. This was not a comedy, unless you mean a comedy of errors and thinking with your dick.

[mercyisms]

although honestly my only real babs thought is SOPHIE’s remix of NYC2MIA is a corona and babs bop.

[panlight]

Save Him

Part 3 of 3.  (Part 1 and Part 2)

Elizabeth's lucidity did not last long; the next evening she had taken a turn for the worse, and it was likely that neither she nor her son would survive the night. Carlisle's heart ached for them, but he took some comfort in the idea that perhaps Elizabeth would perish first and be spared the grief of witnessing her son's death.  Stubborn, willful, insightful woman that she was, Carlisle suspected that may have been her plan.

He underestimated her.

He prepared to say his goodbyes, to offer words of comfort, but Elizabeth was in no mood to be soothed.  Her eyes shot open with a fire in them completely unrelated to her fever; the effect was startling, and Carlisle found himself frozen in place.

"Save him!"

It was not a request, it was a command. An order.  There was incredible determination and ferocity in her words despite the hoarse frailty of her voice, and Carlisle was once again moved by the awesome power of a mother's love for her child.

"I'll do everything in my power," he assured her, taking her burning hand in his frozen ones.

"You must," she hissed, clutching his hand with such strength that she seemed almost possessed of some superhuman power herself.  "You must do everything in your power.  What others cannot do, that is what you must do for my Edward.”

Carlisle stared back at her, rendered silent by her words and utterly terrified by her request: which version of him was she asking?  

Was she asking the doctor, suspecting he had some secret cure he was keeping from his other patients? Was she asking the haloed angel she had seen in the light of the gas lamp, praying he could save her son through some sort of divine intervention?  Or, most chillingly, was she asking the man with the mysterious, unnamed condition?  In that moment, Carlisle was certain the latter was the one she was speaking to, that she had guessed what that condition was.  Carlisle wanted to take her by the shoulders, tell her that she didn't really mean it, that she couldn't really wish the existence he had on her son.  

But mostly he was terrified because her words had moved him so profoundly, that he was seriously considering doing what she had asked.

Everything in your power. . . What others cannot do. . .

Elizabeth succumbed to her fever, collapsing back into her bed, all her remaining earthly energy expended in her request. She was not yet dead, but the end with nigh. Dr. Cullen turned to her son.

Carlisle did not know him as well as he knew Elizabeth, but from his few conversations with him, he had proven himself a clever boy who loved his parents.  A bright mind, a good heart--would that be enough for him to see that the path that Carlisle followed was the right one?  What would his mother think if Edward turned into the sort of monster that Carlisle himself had always refused to become?  Thoughts of Elizabeth steeled Carlisle's resolve.  If the boy was anything like his mother he would be strong enough, and would know right from wrong.

Carlisle had long been dreaming of a companion.  He tried to pretend that he had nothing specific in mind, but the truth was he often daydreamed of a partner, a wife. Yet here he was being presented with something entirely different--not a spouse, but a friend.  Perhaps a brother.  A son.  It was not what he had imagined, but God worked in mysterious ways. 

He had no idea how to care for seventeen-year-old boy, let alone one who would awaken as a newborn vampire.  He wasn't even certain of how to create another of his kind.  Aro had never divulged that information to him, and he had never asked. He had thought if he didn't know the exact mechanism behind it, he would be less tempted to create another creature like himself. But now he wished he were more certain of the specifics--how much venom did it take? Was there such thing as too much, not enough? The best he could do, he realized, was recreate the circumstances that led to his own transformation; he didn't relish the thought, but it was the only method he knew for certain would work.  

Elizabeth died not long after making her ambiguous request, the cessation of her heartbeat creating a conspicuous silence in Carlisle's mind despite the other sounds of the ward.  Even in death she did not look peaceful, as if she could only allow herself rest once she knew her son would be spared.

"I will do everything in my power," he whispered to her before he gently drew the sheet over her face.  "Put in a good word for me in Heaven, won't you?"

He brought her to the morgue himself, and then returned for Edward.

******************

Having smuggled the unconscious--but not yet dead--Edward Masen out of the hospital, he was now staring at the boy from across the room as he lay on a sofa in Carlisle's home.  He didn't know how to do this, he didn't want to do this. Good intentions and promises to dying mothers aside, what he was about to do was nothing short of monstrous.  

But he had given his word.

"I am so sorry, Edward," he said to the boy, ghosting across the room in an instant.  "There is no other way."

Carlisle closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep, steadying breath.  Then he leaned over him and for the first time in his centuries of existence truly allowed himself to be a vampire.

For one horrible, terrifying second--or fraction of a second rather, given how quickly the vampire mind worked--the monster had the upper hand.  The moment Carlisle had feared and done everything to avoid had finally arrived and the monster was gleeful.

At last at last it's so good isn't it?  So very, very good, so--

It was, and he hated that it was.  He hated how much he wanted it.  Despite his tolerance of the smell of human blood, there had been no way to prepare for the taste. He had been so careful, so very, very, very careful to avoid it.  It was easier if he didn't know what he was missing.  Now he knew, and it was so satisfying that for one awful moment everything shifted and he considered what it would be like if he gave up, if he gave in.

He saw, clear as day in his mind, what his future would be if he killed this boy.  He saw himself sporting a dark cloak and those horrible red eyes, standing beside Aro's throne in Volterra.  And there the grim daydream diverged, showing him two equally horrific scenes: in one, his face was blank, expressionless.  He was as much a ghost as Marcus, a mere shell of his former self.  In the second macabre tableaux, he smiled with an eager glint in his eye identical to Aro's.

Carlisle wasn't sure which imagined future was worse, as both signaled the complete destruction of the man he knew himself to be.  He could not allow either of them to come to pass.

But if he won, if he didn't kill the boy, he could continue to save infinite lives rather than take them.  He could continue to like who he was, if perhaps not so much the what.  If he were able to stop himself now, here, at the point of no return, he's know he had truly won.

And so, with Herculean effort won through centuries of self-restraint, he did.

He drew back, covering his mouth and watching as Elizabeth's son sucked in a deep breath and screamed. How was Carlisle ever going to tell him that his mother asked for this? How could he ever justify being lonely enough to grant her request, knowing full well that she could have no true idea of what she was really asking? It will be different for Edward, Carlisle assured himself.  The worst part was the loneliness, the unending silence, the desperate craving for someone to talk to.  He would never know that.  No, he would just suffer the thirst, the burden of immortality. . . and that was a curse enough.

"I am so sorry, Edward.  So very, very sorry," Carlisle muttered, turning the boy gently on to his side to continue recreating the wounds he had suffered so many centuries ago.  Neck, arm, shoulder, back.  Each bite was easier than the last as he became used to the taste and how much effort it would take to pull away.  His torment now came from knowing the pain Edward would endure for the next three days. "I wish there were another way.  But your mother . . . and I've been so desperate for some company . . .  I'll teach you.  I'll show you the way.  You'll never be alone like I was.  I will never abandon you."

[i-write-shakespeare-not-disney]

Side Effects pt.193

Lance chuckled at the speechless response and hugged him, resting his chin on Keith’s shoulder. “You should get inside; it’s getting cold.”

“I can’t feel it.” The response should not have reduced Lance to a blushing mess, but it did, and all he could do was hide his face in the crook of Keith’s neck as he tightened his hold on him. Keith let out a breathy chuckle, his hand running through Lance’s hair. “Let me know when you get home, okay?” Lance nodded. Keith pulled back and cupped his face gently to kiss him. “Go,” he said with a smirk.

“You make it so damn hard.” Keith winked and stepped back, keeping his hand in Lance’s until they were too far apart and their hands dropped to their sides. “You’ll tell me if he says anything bad about me, right?” Lance called after him. Keith only laughed and waved teasingly as he opened the door and ducked inside again.

With a happy sigh, Lance got into his car and started driving back. Almost as soon as he got home, he sent Hunk and Pidge a series of messages relaying the day’s events. Despite explaining the panic and awkwardness when dating and love was brought up, however much of a joke it was, Pidge and Hunk latched to it and began to plan his wedding. Pidge sent various parody vows and Hunk sent ridiculous wedding cakes. Somewhere around the debate of who got to be Lance’s best man, he fell asleep.

Though he felt oddly cold.

[i-write-shakespeare-not-disney]

Addiction V pt.23

He wondered if Lance would show Shrek 2 to someone new in the future. Wondered if he’d think of Keith if he did. It was just a movie. But sharing it with Lance made it feel like more than that, and the idea of one day losing Lance and knowing in the back of his brain that someone new would be the one watching him quote it and drum his fingers along to the music made his stomach flip. The idea of Lance discovering new movies and songs without him made Keith unable to breathe. The idea of someone else becoming his little spoon, his big spoon….

Shit, he fucked up. He’d been perfectly fine keeping his distance, and now, within the span of a week, he was clinging to the things that made them Keith-and-Lance. Shiro was right. He had no idea how to do things in mediation. It was either keep Lance at a distance or… fall ridiculously fast and hard for him.

The problem was, Keith couldn’t just go back to keeping him at a distance. Not when he was in this deep.

He laid down slowly so he could face Lance and breathed in the soft, sweet smell of his laundry detergent. Dragonfruit? He wrapped an arm around Lance and curled in closer. The knot in his throat eased when Lance tightened his hold on him. Even in his sleep, he brought Keith closer.

Keith sighed leaned into his chest to let his heartbeat lull him to sleep.

Please be different. It might take me a while to believe it, but please. Please stay.

[wildesgrey]

When they entered, they found hanging upon the wall a splendid portrait of their master as they had last seen him, in all the wonder of his exquisite youth and beauty. Lying on the floor was a dead man, in evening dress, with a knife in his heart. He was withered, wrinkled, and loathsome of visage. It was not till they had examined the rings that they recognised who it was.

— Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

[nantini]

death to the year 2017

[exploringxshadows]

Farewell, Constable Gainsborough. You've changed me.