Aftermath is well, the aftermath of everything the protagonist went through. Heart ache, abuse, mind control, psychological damage, experiments, escape… He went through all that without giving up and giving in like so many have on his trip through the military.
And he was gifted with someone to finally hold.
He had to go through it all alone. Then suddenly someone came and took his hand, after a long time of no human contact, no love, nothing, and finally gave him what he needed all along. Comfort. Someone to say “It’ll be okay. I’ll help you. I’ll be there for you.”
Now the albums is suppose to be about Human Drones and everything wrong with them, but this song may stray from that a bit.
It could be that life is tough, life will feel like it’s killing you slowly, pushing you to your limits sometimes. But, there will always be someone to smile at you, hold your hand, guide you through this journey we all have to take.
If you’re alone right now, don’t lose hope. You have to keep pushing forward, through the “fucking psychos” and “killing machines” to finally have your Aftermath ending.
What does lazerus mean by artemis mad dash to the door?? Idgi. Thank you!:)
Hey Anon! Patrick has this tradition where he’s always the last player to leave the ice after warm-ups. And he flips a puck into the crowd right before he does. Lately it seems that his adorable Russian twin of a rookie has started lingering around after everyone leaves Kaner to do his thing, and then he does his cute last-minute run for the door. Almost like he’s teasing Kaner about who really gets to be the last on the ice!
It sounds like they have their own sweet little pre-game routine by now, as if the chirping and the whole most dynamic duo in the NHL thing wasn’t enough 💙🎬🍞💙
“Ryan,” Gavin said suddenly. “Can I paint a moustache on you, Ryan?”
“What?” Ryan asked, startled out of his staring - “No!”
“Please, Ryan. Oh my God. It’d be so funny. It’ll be under the mask all day anyway!”
“What if I take my mask off?”
“It’ll shock whoever sees it so much you’ll have time to kill ‘em. Come on Ryan. Don’t be a party pooper. You said you’d wear an animal onesie around, what’s a moustache compared to that?”
He looked so gleeful that Ryan could only roll his eyes and hand over the paintbrush. Gavin let out a delighted sort of squawk and grabbed it.
“I look like Geoff,” he said.
Gavin couldn’t even reply, too busy doubled over, cackling as though this was the most hysterical thing he’d ever seen. Seeing him laughing and looking so carefree was nice, after the last few weeks, and Ryan couldn’t help but stare at him, smiling fondly.
There is only one important thing here: He’s not useless. Everything his Lady asks of him, he completes with utmost perfection. And She makes certain to tell him that.
He is everything and anything She needs. He is so close to Her heart.
The trick, Hawkmoth discovers, is to hide the akuma everywhere.
There’s akuma in their homes, in their mirrors, under their beds, until… someone swallows one.
It couldn’t have been more perfect if he had planned it, because this one comes from a broken home– broken hearted, broken spirited.
Adrien Agreste chokes on the butterfly, and it settles in his throat. Something fights Hawkmoth’s akuma, but it is too weak and too late. Adrien howls with the pain, but it doesn’t take long for him to be hollowed out and–
What gets her, on the other hand, is watching someone she loves be hurt, and be completely and utterly unable to do a thing.
She’s not the only one to have realized who lost himself this time, and she is unable to be alone. To talk to him.
She hears about his life. How lost and teetering on the edge he’s always been. For a moment, a tiny moment, she doubts.
It’s all Hawkmoth needs.
“Dear Doll?” his Lady’s voice is always soft and tinker-like. She cares for him so much. He kneels before Her, jerkily, as fast as his Strings allow. She sits before him, two steps up in this fancy house they’ve taken for themselves, and raises her hands in his direction, beckoning. “What would you like today?”
He hums, raising opaque eyes. “A romance, my Lady.”
She smiles, a distant bell-laugh from her candy-pink lips. Her wings flutter. “Come, Dear Doll. Rest your weary head on my lap, and let me spin you a Dream.”
He’s not sure why he calls Her ‘his Lady’, she is a Dreamy Butterfly. But it is always the title that slips from his mouth, like honey, like pollen, and he can see how it attracts this pretty, pretty, Butterfly. He settles at her feet, rests his head on her lap, even though his eyes never close.
Delicate, almost transparent fingers tangle in his hair, gliding through as easily as polished marble. She sings of epic romances and happy endings, of forever-afters and no evil villain or monster is left unscathed.
Just as Adrien Agreste had fought, so did Marinette Dupain-Cheng. But she fought harder. Not entirely like the boy, no.
After all, the akuma snared her instantly with that tiny, terrible doubt. But he underestimated the girl and how strong she was in every aspect of self.
She loathed when people were hurting, she looked around herself and wanted to make all hurts be healed and nothing ever go wrong ever again.
Including Hawkmoth himself.
Dreamy Butterfly is a lullaby of every happy wish anyone could ever ask for. She steps up to crying children, and makes them happy, with a song, a kiss, a treat or a caress.
Simulacrum is not quite surprised to see it works on adults, too.
They are all Sleeping Beauties, and Simulacrum sometimes allows his eyes to glide over the numerous forms blissfully dreaming in every corner of Paris.
The city sleeps forever.
“Dear Doll, my poor, poor, Doll,” She kisses his cheeks, his forehead. For some reason, he knows She doesn’t quite dare kiss his mouth, “I am so sorry I cannot make you happy like them, my Beautiful Doll…”
Simulacrum can’t sleep. He has nothing inside to bring out when he closes his eyes. His Lady spins Dreams with her voice for him, and he is so, so grateful.
She is a Dream made real, diaphanous and soft, baby colors spinning across the crystals of her dress. Her wings arch to the sides, long and curled with the colors of miraculously stained glass. She needs no mask, aside a sprinkling of shine along her cheeks. All of her is crystal, her hair, her clothes, her skin.
Simulacrum pretends he cannot see the black tears and wounds under her Dream, painstakingly put together, because all She wants is for the world to be happy. He is happy to oblige her– or, well, indifferent.
He does as his Lady commands, and if she wants him happy, he will be happy.
Note: uhm. It’s 3am and I pictured Marinette becoming the Butterfly that puts everyone to sleep so they can dream that their lives are perfect and they’ll always be happy. Er. For you, I guess. *slinks away*
Ah I hope its okay that I post this, because I think it’s really, really beautiful! I love the idea for Marinette’s akuma. And how the two think they’re still caring for the city, but in this warped, tragic way. I absolutely love it, thank you raiwalk so much for writing this!
B8 Dorian (alternatively Solas if you fancy that more, meh)
Solas: I am surprised you do not practice blood magic, Dorian. Is it not popular in Tevinter? Dorian: While we’re sharing surprises, you’ve done a lot less dancing naked in the moonlight than expected. Solas: Tevinter lore about elves remains accurate as always. Dorian: WHY, IT’S ALMOST AS THOUGH I MADE ASSUMPTIONS BASED ON A HYPERBOLIC STERIOTYPE