#(and yes; Playwright uses this against him to keep him in check. He is a monster after all!)

[blueheartedmayor]

Did you know?

Dante hates his long hair. He hates having it out. He hates how it falls forward and how he keeps brushing the shorter strands aside.

But... it's a necessity. It means that if he looks in the mirror, he sees a different person there. If he had short, neat hair, he'd only see the reflection of the man whose life was taken far too soon. He would feel nothing but grief and despair, the mourning he hasn't been able to properly do because he's not mentally ready for it yet.

Long hair, facial hair he can't fully shave off due to his injury, and a large, humiliating scar... None of these pieces are things that Dante wants, yet the less he reminds himself of Damien, the better.

[cheesyficwriter]

hey there! I cannot express my love for your work (Isolated and lost in translation were *chef's kiss). Could you please write #75 for Romione? Thank you so much, I hope you have tons of cheese:)

Hi @shybrunettepainter! Thank you so much for reading and for your kind words 💜 what a fun prompt that definitely challenged me a bit! Just to preface, I am not well-versed in Shakespearean language, but I figured neither is Ron, so I definitely channeled him here 😉 hope you enjoy!

Prompt #75 - Speaks in a terrible Shakespearean/Elizabethan style to woo/make the other laugh.

Thee Maketh Me Happy

Hermione closed and locked her trunk, just as a knock on her bedroom door sounded. Hermione grinned and practically ran to open the door, revealing a beaming Ron on the other side. He had just arrived at her parents' home, with his father, to pick her up for a visit to the Burrow. They were two weeks away from starting their sixth year at Hogwarts and Hermione would be staying with the Weasleys for the remainder of the summer. 

“Hiya, Hermione!” Her stomach flipped wildly as she took in Ron's appearance. How was it possible that he had grown even taller in the last month or so since she had seen him? Despite the fact that he towered over her, he seemed to be filling out a bit more and she could make out his increasingly muscular frame under his tight shirt. 

They stood there awkwardly in the doorway for a mo, both unsure of what to do next, until Ron finally let out a strangled chuckle and opened his arms, inviting her in for a hug. She eagerly wrapped her arms around him tight and sighed. 

"I've missed you," she heard him muffle into her hair. 

"I've missed you, too."

Ron released his grip on her, but Hermione noticed he didn't step back. "Well, are you all packed and ready to go? Wait...it's you. Of course you are," Ron teased. 

Hermione swatted at him but gestured him inside her room. "Yes, I could probably use some help with my trunk."

When she turned around, she found that Ron wasn't listening, instead his eyes were raking curiously across the shelves of books she had lined up against the wall. 

"What is Shaks-spar?" Ron inquired as he retrieved a dusty and tattered hardbound book from the shelf.

"It's pronounced Shakespeare."

"Fine, then. What is it?"

"Not what, who. William Shakespeare was an extraordinary muggle playwright and poet, who has written some of the most beautiful works of English literature out there. I mean Romeo and Juliet, Hamlet, Macbeth…"

"Who's Romeo? Who's Juliet?" Ron asked, confused. 

"They’re characters from one of his plays. A tragic love story…" 

“Hold on a second, tragic? What’re you doing reading this depressing shite?” Ron wrinkled his nose in disgust, holding out the book at arm's length. 

“It’s a work of art, Ron!” Hermione responded, exasperated. 

"Yeah, well, not interested if it's intent is to crush my soul."

Hermione rolled her eyes at his theatrics. "I didn't realize you were interested in books."

"Ha, bloody, ha," he stuck out his tongue at her playfully. Hermione couldn't help but smile before pointing to the cover,

“That book contains a list of Shakespeare's most timeless quotes, as well as provides English translation.”

"It's in another language?" 

“Shakespearean -- otherwise known as early modern English. Most of the words are still used today in standard English.”

"I bet you a galleon that I can make you laugh with this rubbish." He sent her a challenging smirk that made her weak in the knees. Yet, she firmly held her stance, not willing to give in to the blasphemous retorts spewing out of his mouth. 

"It is not rubbish, Ron! It's a work of art!" She repeated, almost stomping her foot in irritation.

"Let's see, then!" Ron cleared his throat dramatically, as he flipped to a random page. He planted his finger on a quote and began reading, "Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate." He squinted his eyes at the page he just read from. "What the bloody fuck is that supposed to mean?"  

Hermione sighed heavily. Her visit with Ron was going well so far. Sarcasm intended. "It signifies long-lasting love, that goes beyond a single season."

"Then why doesn't he just say that?"

Because it's poetry," Hermione responded curtly through gritted teeth. 

He only hummed in response and kept reading. "All that blisters is not gold."

"Glitters. All that glitters is not gold."

"What? That's not what it says!"

"Yes it does. You read it wrong." 

Ron pursed his lips as he reviewed the text. "Oh, well, bugger me. Here's another -- what's in a name? A rose by any other name would smell as sweet...Rose. That's a pretty name, I guess."

Hermione smiled. "Yes, it is." 

They locked eyes for a moment before Ron shook his head and returned to his reading. "Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown...if I had a crown, I'm not sure I would feel uneasy but that's just me…"

Hermione exhaled loudly, clearly fed up with his sarcastic comments. "It's simply saying that being royal comes with a lot of responsibilities and having those responsibilities can be daunting." 

"Off with his head!" Ron shouted with vigor. 

"You think you're so clever, don't you?" 

"Oh Hermione, I know I am. And just to prove my point further, let's see if I can make you blush, yeah?" He flipped to the section with word translations and spent a few moments deciphering, his eyebrows scrunched up adorably. 

"Okay, here's one to start with. I like thy...curly hair?" Ron kinked an eyebrow up at her expectantly. 

"Acceptable." Hermione remained neutral with her face but secretly gushed inside at how Ron has just outwardly admitted he liked her hair. 

Ron's eyes lit up. "Brilliant!" He went on to search for more. 

"Uh...thy eyes art like chocolate…do I detect a smidge of color on your face, Miss Granger?" Ron's blue eyes sparkled back at her as he studied her face. 

"What? N-no...just keep going!" 

"Thee art...the smartest...wench...in the whole land." Ron paused in between words as he checked the book. 

"Wench?"

"That's what it says right here!" He pointed to the translation of woman on the page. 

Hermione crossed her arms and raised her eyebrows, almost daring Ron to try again. 

He obviously took the bait as he offered one more, leaning in close, "Thee maketh me happy." Ron smiled brilliantly at her and Hermione thought her heart might possibly explode. 

"What are you saying, exactly?" Hermione breathily whispered, not able to contain the flush of pink that crept onto her cheeks.

"Aha!" Ron pointed a finger in her face to triumphantly show victory. He clearly had forgotten her question, so Hermione brushed him off.

"You did not win, you were just standing so ridiculously close to me…"

He looked down at the book one last time before cheekily stating, "The lady doth protests too much, methinks."

"Oh, honestly!"

 

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Man in his Castle

Warnings: noncon sex. Let’s not be fools here. You know what I write.

This is dark!Charles Blackwood and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: A co-ed discovers that money is still king.

Note: Charles is fun because he’s already horrible. I know my summary sucks but I hope you all enjoy this. It takes place in the 1960s so keep that in mind and enjoy! But let me know what you think in reblog or reply and slap a like on there <3

There were more than a dozen girls squeezed into the windowless classroom in the basement of Victory Hall. The book club had grown quite a bit since your first week on campus. The Brownies, you called yourself. An ironic play upon a lifetime of ridicule.

Every Friday night you met in some abandoned room bartered off the registrar and set to discussing your most recent read. Sheila was the leader; bolder than you as she fostered your sprout of an idea. She was cooler, calmer, and by all means, more radical. And she was a senior.

The flock of freshmen looked up to her and the few other older girls in the group. She had brought along with her, Linda and Patty; the former with her stiff turtlenecks and the latter her faded beret. These were the types your mother had warned you against. Peddling their liberalism in the name of Kennedy and Kruschev.

That week, your group had chosen Miller’s famed play, The Crucible; still relevant despite a decade past. Though the red scare had faded to orange, there was still a breath of suspicion in the air. As people marched in the streets and sat-in at diners and cafes, the old breed was growing nervous. The world was about to change, with or without them.

You sat amid the circle with your worn copy against your knee. You took turns reading the lines and pausing to discuss the intricate and yet overt allusions made by the playwright. The furor of the blacklist which still lingered in the air. A paranoia much broader than years before. No longer just the Reds, but all who spoke of equality and freedom; no longer exclusive to a single group. The same tensions which kept you in the basement with the dingy old desks.

You couldn’t help but smile at the group of girls. When you’d arrived on campus, you were certain you’d be the same loner as before. Solitary nights spent barricaded in your dorm only to lose yourself in the crowd of the lecture hall. 

But Sheila had changed that. She was in your elective Lit class, filling a void in her audit so that she could graduate on time. You had lost yourself in a discussion of Marx and the mounting tensions with the East; not that they ever really subsided. 

Then she invited you to meet Linda and Patty for a drink. Your lack of ID didn’t keep you from the chance to make friends as she knew the doorman by name. That was when you mentioned the club. It was just you and your friend, Elsie. Not really a club, more so a pair of girls with nothing better to do. But Sheila liked it and the next week, she had six new girls to add to your duo.

Now, you were a full blown corps. The three seniors and at least fifteen freshmen, a few in between to fill out the circle. 

Sheila snapped her book shut and declared the end of the night as she checked her watch. 

“We’ll finish next week,” She chimed. “Granted we don’t devolve so easily again.”

The girls giggled and began to pack up. You stood and shoved your book into your leather bag. Sheila stood with Linda at the back of the circle and Patty offered a goodbye to each girl as they left. Most did so in pairs or trios. Safety in numbers.

Your dorm wasn’t far and so you would keep a brisk pace with your keys in hand. You turned and Sheila called to you before you could reach the door. You spun back and neared her and Linda.

“Hey, you need a walking partner?” She asked. “Me and Linda are head down the The Cask. We’ll be headed past yours.”

“If you’re headed that way,” You accepted eagerly.

You helped rearrange the chairs and desk with the three seniors. Patty left on her own as Sheila locked the door. You walked on her right as Linda kept to her left and made your way out of the depths of Victory Hall. The night was cool but not bitter. You pulled your collar up as you passed between the carefully trimmed hedges.

“You sure you don’t want to come for a drink?” Linda asked. “Seeing as Patty ditched us.”

“Oh, you know she has that boy waiting for her,” Sheila countered.

“Um, no, I have an early morning,” You replied. “But thanks.”

“What about next weekend?” Sheila asked.

“Next weekend?” You wondered.

“Wanna come to a party?”

“A… a senior party?” You glanced over at her as you tucked your hands in your pockets.

“Oh, no, it’s not on campus,” She trilled. “But I think you’d like it.”

“Off-campus?” You said surprised. “Really?”

“A bit of an older crowd but…” She lowered her voice, “Of a similar mind as us.”

Your eyes widened. You blinked at her and she laughed.

“Oh calm down, they’re no interlopers, merely open-minded,” She assured you. “You have to realize that this little club, that’s a children’s game. If you’re serious, these are the people you need to rub shoulders with.”

“I don’t know. It’s pretty seedy downtown and the last time--”

“Downtown?” She scoffed. “Oh, this is different from that hole in the wall.”

“Where--”

“Uptown, actually,” She preened. “You know, we do have allies with money. They hide among the enemy until we can truly act.”

“I don’t know. That sounds--”

“You worry too much. It’s not illegal to meet people who think like you do,” She said. “Otherwise us Brownies would be akin to the mob.”

You laughed at yourself and watched your scuffed shoes on the sidewalk. “I guess you’re right. Um, what kind of party is it, exactly?”

“Wear something nice,” She picked a thread from your jacket. “Fancy dress hides a humble heart.”

You nodded and gripped the strap of your bag. “Sure, why not?” You shrugged.

“I’ll see you in Lit,” She stopped just outside your gate. “I’ll give you the details then. You should ask Elsie to come with you.”

“Alright,” You breathed. “Yeah, I’ll ask her.”

“Have a good night,” She sang and Linda echoed her. 

“You, too.” You smiled.

You turned and unlocked your gate as their heels continued down the pavement. You let yourself inside and listened until there was silence. You were happy to have friends, happier that you were so much alike, but the thought of a party had your stomach aflutter.

🏰

You found your only formal dress. Rather, your most formal dress. A long-sleeved black number that flared at the knee. You wore the simple silver chain your mother gifted you for your high school graduation and a pair of kitten heels. You hugged yourself with a red shawl and grabbed your purse.

Elsie waited just outside your dorm room. She looked as nervous as you felt. The lack of details gave both of you the jitters. You were two shy girls who found each other among the sea of students. You took comfort in knowing you weren’t the only one in over your head.

And Sheila would be there too. She could help you maneuver your way through this maze of etiquette and idealism.

You took a bus as far as you could but at the last stop, you were still three blocks away from the place. Blackwood Manor. Sheila’s loopy cursive marked it on the corner of paper. The house on the hill, she said, can’t miss it.

The gates towered over you as you approached. Tinted lanterns lit the walkway and you pressed the button over the small speaker box. A dull voice greeted you from the other side.

“Um, hello,” Elsie squeezed your arm as you bent to speak into the box. “We’re here for the party.”

“Par-ty?” The voice said.

“We’re friends of, uh, Sheila.” You replied nervously.

“Ah, yes, Miss Sheila.” The crackle died and the gate clicked. 

You looked to Elsie and a man in grey neared from the other side. He pulled open the gate and removed his cap as he waited for you to enter. A car drove up, its bright headlights washed over you, as you walked up the drive and the gates man spoke with its occupants.

At the front door, you met with a man with grey hair and the same even tone that rose from the speaker. He took your shawl and Elsie’s coat and directed you to the next room. You detached Elsie from your arm and gave her a look. She smiled tensely and smoothed the front of her dress.

The sparkle of the chandelier drew your eyes first. The light refracted from the crystals and illuminated the large room. Men in suits stood around with drinks in hand and chattered. You heard the next guests enter behind you and stepped out of their way.

You spotted Sheila in the far corner, a broad pair of shoulders left her barely visible. There were several other girls you recognized; Linda. Darla and Colleen, two other Brownies, and even a couple girls from your Lit class. Every women in the room was barely that; they were all bright-eyed co-eds amid a conclave of stiff-lipped men.

You felt a chill crawl up your spine but resisted the shiver. You were just anxious about all these strangers. It was natural to be a little nervous.

Elsie followed you across the room and smiled at Sheila over the shoulder of the man she spoke to. She waved you over and the man turned to look at you. His blue eyes flicked from you to Elsie and back again. His expression was placid as he buttoned his jacket.

“Charles, these are my friends,” She introduced you and Elsie, “And this is Charles Blackwood, our host.”

He seemed to recall himself and shook your hand and then Elsie’s. His grip was firm and his expression unbreakable. He was entirely unimpressed by you and your plain black dress.

“You have a beautiful house,” You offered. “I don’t think I’ve ever been anywhere so… grand.”

“It was my grandfather’s,” He said tersely as his eyes explored the room. “Sheila, if you’ll excuse me, I must speak with Gerald.”

“Of course,” She kissed his cheek and his lip curled before he walked away. “Sorry about him,” Sheila turned to you. “He’s a bit antsy, you know? Always is on nights like these.”

“I never…” You looked at Elsie as her eyes bounced around in wonder, “I never would think anyone who lived like this would you know, agree with us.”

“Oh, but we already know money isn’t everything,” She said. “You know, these men, they know that and they want to use their money for good. They want to make sure that students like us make it through college and go on to speak our truth to the world.”

She stopped a man passing by and took a wine glass from his tray. She offered you it and grabbed another for Elsie and herself. She batted her lashes at the waiter and returned her attention to you.

“Which is why you should loosen up and talk to some of these men,” She advised. “They are much preferable to the boys on campus and much more powerful. My second year, I had my tuition paid in full by one of Charles’ friends.”

“Wow,” Elsie gasped. “Really?”

“Consider it a grant,” Sheila explained. “Spread the wealth, right?”

“I suppose…” You uttered.

“Oh, there’s Patty,” Sheila perked up. “I knew she’d be the last one here. Pardon me a moment.”

“Alright,” You turned and watched her go as she waved over the heads to her friend. 

You brought the glass to your lips and the alcohol burned your nostrils. Your stomach turned and you lowered the flute. Elsie drank deeply as you glanced around. A man with thick silver hair and a sharp aquiline nose stared at you from across the room.

You fidgeted and slipped behind Elsie to set your glass down.

“You should take it easy,” You warned her as she gulped down the wine. 

🏰

The man with silver hair introduced himself as Harry. You weren’t fond of him as he talked of his new car and something about a cottage up north. You were confused. Sheila intimated that these people were like you; maybe not communists are heart, but left-leaning at least. They surely didn’t sound like it.

You glanced around for the umpteenth time and frowned. You didn’t see Sheila or Linda or Patty. Elsie was with a man in a striped suit, Darla and Colleen sipped from glasses as they listened to a pair of men banter, and you were stuck in the corner with this grey-haired boor.

You excused yourself, claiming to need the powder room, and walked along the wall as you searched the room. The seniors were gone. And something else caught your eye. The men drank from their stout tumblers and the women, more aptly girls, all held champagne flute. Yours was still on the table, untouched.

You neared Elsie and excused your interruption as you turned her away from her companion. You lowered your voice.

“Have you seen Sheila?” You asked.

She shook her head and wobbled. She giggled as she steadied herself with your arm. “Nope!”

“How much of that have you had?” You took her glass from her.

“This is only my…. Third,” She counted on her fingers.

“Well, I think three is enough,” You said. “Why don’t you come to the restroom with me? Splash some water on your face?”

“No, no,” She shrugged you off. “I’m talking to Gerald.” She turned back and smiled at the balding man. “He has a fellowship.”

“Elsie,” You drew her back. “Something’s… wrong.”

“What do you mean?” She hiccuped. “It’s all quite fine, isn’t it?”

“Just…” You peeked over your shoulder. “Wait here for me, okay? Don’t go anywhere else.”

She rolled her eyes and you sighed. You left her reluctantly and stopped a waiter as you neared the main archway. You asked him where the restroom was and ducked into the hallway. You passed by the foot of the staircase towards the next and paused. 

You peered around the wall and pulled back. You slipped off your heels and looked back at the room that swirled with voices. You tiptoed to the door and tried the handle. It was locked. You searched for a mechanism but there was only the intricately wrought handle. 

You went back to the stairs and listened to the buzz from the front room. You climbed a step at a time as your ears perked up at every creak and crack. You wondered what had happened to Sheila and the others. It was unlike them to leave early. And why was the door locked?

You found a window and carefully turned the latch. You shifted it up and cringed as the wood loudly rubbed together. You stuck your head out and stared down at the grass below. There was a tree not far from you, a few windows away.

“Can I help you?” The voice frightened you and you hit your head on the window as you reeled back. You turned to your host, Charles, as he leaned against the bannister.

“I was… looking for Sheila.” You lied.

“Oh, outside?” He wondered with a smirk.

“Well, no, I just needed a breath of fresh air so I thought…” Your voice trailed off as he stood straight.

“The party’s downstairs,” He said evenly. “I’m sure you just missed her.”

You stared at him. His eyes sparkled with mischief. Your heart dropped and your heels threatened to slip from your sweaty hand.

“She’s gone,” You said. His lips curved again and he chuckled. “What’s going on here?”

He inched forward as he pushed back his jacket and shoved a hand in his pocket.

“She did her job. Delivered what she promised.” He said coolly. “Can you blame her for cutting out?”

“What--” You backed up until you were against the window ledge. “I don’t understand.”

“You tried the front door, didn’t you?” 

You blinked and your shoes fell from your grasp.

“You think you can get to that tree? Even if you moved a few windows to the left?” He got closer. “Or maybe… you think you can get past me.”

Your lips parted as his features hardened. His brow twitched as he held your gaze. He didn’t look away as he knelt and grabbed your shoe. He took your foot and shoved the kitten heel on. He did the other and stood.

“Let’s go back to the party,” He growled. “It’s only just getting started.”

🏰

You stood against the wall as the room spun. Your chest was filled with doom as you looked around at the girls in their sheath dresses and chunky heels. Many shared the same glazed look as Elsie. They swayed just a little, giggled airily, and their eyelashes drooped. They were barely awake on their feet.

The man who answered the door stood beside you. He squinted at you every now and then. Charles had told him to keep an eye on you. You watched the host of the event disappear through another doorway. You thought of the invisible lock and the tree just a few windows down.

It was that crushing sense of defeat when you knew loss was imminent but unavoidable. So you watched it slowly creep forward until finally you had to submit. You shivered and shook your head at yourself. Sheila had done this. Ensnared all these girls in whatever sick game this was.

Time dragged. You watched the servers offer their tainted champagne and the girls all too ignorant to realize that something was amiss. Your eyes stung and you gripped your purse tight. Whatever was planned, it couldn’t be good.

The clinking of metal on glass silenced the room. Your eyes were drawn with every other to the other side. The men exchanged knowing looks. The girls were confused but not suspicious. They looked to Charles as he relinquished the glass and knife to a server. He grinned at his rapt audience.

“Shall we commence with our evening?” He asked; the men nodded and mumbled in agreement. The girls frowned and wavered on their feet. “Very well. Girls…”

He waved an arm to his left and the waiters, now free of their trays, dispersed to herd the girls to the other side of the room. You were led along with them and stood in the row of drunken co-eds. For a moment, you wished you had drank the wine. That you could be as oblivious as the rest.

The girl at the head of the line was ushered forward to stand beside Charles. Her red hair hung in ringlets and her cheeks were rosy with alcohol. He asked her her name and she slurred “Carrie.” He repeated it for all to hear and shouted a number. Ten thousand.

A man raised his hand and Charles called eleven thousand. Another gestured and the number went up again. Again. Again. Carrie was visibly confused as she tried to keep up. She couldn’t. She was sold for twenty-five thousand and ushered into the arms of her buyer.

Elsie was next. She could barely stand as she struggled to keep her eyes open. Eighteen thousand for the mousy-haired girl. Colleen went for about the same and Darla was in tears as she was bartered for an even twenty. 

You were near the end of the line. You marched up to the front and bit down as you stared at the bourgeois bastards. Harry was the first to bid for you. Your stomach flipped. Then another man you hadn’t even spoken to. You could see only his hand as he reached above the crowd. 

The bids bounced back and forth, Harry cursed as he wondered who was so determined to have you. You sold for forty thousand to the faceless man. You were shown out the side door by a waiter as the last girl was brought up to stand by Charles. 

You stood alone in a long dining room with a large table and more than a dozen chairs. You turned as the doors slid closed and faced the grey-haired man who had greeted you in his monotone at the door. You thought he was the help. You grimaced at him.

“You?” You sputtered.

“No,” He said blandly. “Not me.”

“Then…” You couldn’t finish as you were certain you knew the answer.

You swallowed and spun away from him. You gripped the back of a chair and placed your purse on the table. The furor from the other room reached a peak and then began to dwindle. The grey-haired man glanced at the doors.

“I must attend to the coats,” He announced. “Do not stray. He will be mad.”

You sighed as he slipped through the door. A hand kept them from closing and you watched the doorman rush away. Charles stepped through and shut the doors. He took a breath as he turned to you. He fixed his lapels as he stopped across the table from you. 

“What?” You hissed as he stared at you.

“No… thanks?” He asked.

“Thanks?” You narrowed your eyes. “For what?”

“Don’t tell me you wanted to fuck one of those old men?”

You blanched at his language and your lip curled in revulsion. He laughed.

“Don’t worry. I only need… a maid.” He smirked.

“A maid?” You wondered.

“Cooking. Cleaning.” He tapped two fingers on the table as he spoke. “They ever write about that in your books?”

Your eyes were glossy as you gulped. You were furious, frightened, and frustrated.

“You girls think you know it all,” He scoffed. “There’s a lot they don’t put in books.”

“No, there are horror stories,” You assured him. “Of repulsive monsters and their nasty ways.”

He chuckled and rounded the table. He stopped just beside you as his hand closed over your purse. He slowly lifted the strap from your shoulders and batted your hand away before you could stop him.

“Trust me,” He said as he flipped it open and looked inside. “There is no monster like me.”

🏰

You were shown to a room with a barred window. It didn’t matter as it was in the basement and so narrow that you couldn’t hope to fit through it. The door was locked but even so, there was a man without. You could see his shadow under the door and hear him cough every now and again.

You didn’t sleep much. There was a blanket on the floor beside some dusty boxes. You sat against the wall and dozed in spurts. The night replayed in your head on a loop. Then all those moments you’d spent with Sheila. How she had lied so easily. Was she even a student? 

Didn’t matter now. The sun rose slowly through the small window and the door opened shortly after. You were given a black dress, stockings, and a pair of black shoes. Nothing else. You were taken to a shower hidden in the cellar; the water was cold and you washed quickly in the closet-like restroom.

You dressed and contemplated turning your underwear inside out. They were too worn to re-use. You left them with the rest of your clothes and emerged in your uniform. The man in black who had spent his night outside your door was mute. You weren’t sure entirely if by choice.

Your first task was to clean the main room, still dirtied from the party. The grey-haired man, Albert, told you so and recited your list of chores. The kitchen would be next and then you were to sweep the upstairs corridors and check every room in case it needed dusting or new linens.

It took you hours to tidy up after the previous nights’ guests. When the glasses were cleaned, you stacked them in the cupboards and wiped the counters. Alone, you went to the back door. It was locked too. The windows on this floor only opened two inches. You cursed.

You climbed the stairs with a broom and pan and set to the endless tedium of sweeping every corner. That took another hour, if not more. You emptied the pan downstairs in the bin and returned with a duster. 

You knocked on each door before you entered. Most were pristine and required only a touch up. When you reached the end of the next hallway, your rap was answered as the door opened from the other side. 

Charles wore only an undershirt and pants as he looked you up and down. He waved you in wordlessly. You entered and set to dusting the mantle and all its ornaments. He moved around behind you and stopped in a doorway just left of the bed.

“I expect you to do more than dust in here,” He said. “Grab some fresh linen when you get the chance.”

He slipped through the door but left it open an inch. You huffed and continued on lazily. Call it spite or your fleeting mind. You tried the window. It opened but there was no way down. You closed it and turned away.

You went to find the sheets and when you had discovered the trove of pressed and folded cotton, you returned to the room. You could hear the soft ripple of water through the small doorway. You set the sheets down at the foot of the bed. You cleared the wrinkled clothing from the chair and dropped them in the hamper.

“Girl,” Charles’ deep timbre called sternly. “Girl.”

Your cheek twitched. He knew your name. You sneered and quickly wiped it away as you neared the door. You pushed it open hesitantly as you peered through.

“Towel,” He demanded.

He sat in the deep tub, his dark hair damp and his broad chest bare above the water. You tore your eyes away and grabbed the towel from its rack. As you faced him, he stood and the water dripped down his body shamelessly. You unfolded the towel and held it up so that you could not see all of him.

“Well,” He waved you closer and snatched it from you. 

He stepped out onto the bathmat and fanned the towel around his body. You looked away quickly and a soft chuckle escaped him as he secured the towel at his waist. He passed you, his wet arm touched your sleeve and he neared the mirror as he admired his freshly shaved face.

“Did you make the bed?” He asked.

You shook your head and turned to return to the bedroom.

“Wait,” He stopped you. “That’s ‘yes, sir’ or ‘no, sir’.”

“No, sir,” You said bitterly. 

“Then you better get to it,” He rebuffed.

You swept through and moved the new sheets to the chair before you stripped the mattress. He leaned in the doorway as he watched you. You could feel him as you moved around the bed and stretched the cotton over the corners. You spread out the top sheet and replaced the quilt over top. You changed the pillowcases and fluffed them. 

Done, you bundled up the old bedding in your arm. He went to the bed and dragged his fingers along the quilt. He grasped the blankets and tore them from the mattress. 

“Tuck in the edges,” He said. “Now, fix your mistake.”

“Yes,” You gritted. “Sir.”

You dropped the old sheets in the chair once more and set to redoing your work. He stood at the foot of the bed and when you slipped past him, you felt a brush across your ass. You ignored it, content to think it was natural friction, and carried on. You could feel the heat of his gaze upon you and as you faced him, it was confirmed.

“Very nice,” He commented. “You learn… quickly.”

“Quicker than the others?” You asked. “Huh? How many have you bought? What did you do to them?”

“Oh, you’re mistaken,” He said. “I’m not a buyer, I’m a seller… but well, I decided to indulge myself last night.”

Your mouth was dry. You turned and grabbed the linen again. As you backed up, you were stopped by a figure behind you. His arm stretched out around you and he held his towel out. Slowly, he released it and it flapped to the floor.

“You don’t learn that quick though,” He mused as his hand settled on your shoulder. “You think I would spend that much money on a maid.” His fingers crawled along your neck. He gripped your jaw as he pressed himself against you. You felt the prod of his arousal through your skirt. “But it was fun to watch you try.”

“Why me?” You breathed as he gripped your arms and pulled them away from the laundry. The bundle fell to the chair and drooped down onto the floor.

“Because you’re the first to figure it out,” He answered. 

“Please,” You begged weakly as he pulled your arms back and rolled his hips so that he poked you.

“Get on the chair.” He ordered.

Your breath caught in your throat. You stood staring at the yellow wallpaper with its golden lilies. You turned slightly and he caught you. 

“No, don’t turn around.” His voice sent a shiver through you.

Your lip trembled and you lifted a knee, then the other. His hands ran up your arms and around your back. He shoved you so you caught yourself against the back of the chair. You tensed as his hands fell to your hips and over your ass.

He squeezed and stepped between your ankles so that his legs were against the seat. He ran his hands down your thighs and kneaded through the skirt. He reached the hem and slowly raised it an inch at a time. When it was higher than your stockings, your hand flew back to stop him.

He grabbed your wrist and twisted until you cried out.

“If you scream, there’s no one here who will care,” He snarled. “And they certainly won’t help you.”

He pushed your hand away and tore your skirt up over your ass. He slapped you so hard you yelped. You could feel the heat of his palm across your ass even after it was gone. He bunched your skirts around your waist and hummed in approval.

“You look nice in black,” He said, “Better out of it.”

You kept your eyes forward. You couldn’t have looked at him if you wanted. This man, this stranger, was touching you like no one had before. And he meant to do more. Because he owned you.

His hand snaked around your hip and down your pelvis. He tickled the hair there and slid lower. You tried to press your thighs together but your ankles hit his legs. He tutted and leaned against you.

“I’m being nice,” He warned. “I don’t have to be.”

You grabbed his hand and shoved it away. He struck your ass again as he stood straight. He grasped the back of your neck and pushed your head down against the back of the chair. Your fingers clutched at the cushion beside your face as he held you there.

“I told you last night,” He pinched your thigh. “I can be the worst fiend you’ve ever known.”

He pushed his knees up on the chair between yours. His fingers crawled around your hip again and along your pelvis. He pushed two down along your folds. He rubbed your bud with his middle finger as he spread your lips. He flicked and teased until your hips bucked.

“Not so bad…” He purred. “Am I?”

“Stop,” You begged as his grip tightened on your neck. “Why are you doing this?”

“I can’t just let you go,” He said. “That’d be a poor investment. Even you could see that.”

He dipped his finger inside of you and you inhaled sharply. He drew it in and out and added another. Your thighs shook and your fingers bent against the cushion.

“You don’t realize how fucking lucky you got,” He pushed his palm to your clit as he rocked his hand. “Those other men; old men, they’d fuck you for two seconds before they blew. Leave you there, unsatisfied, discarded. The girls never last long.”

He curled his fingers and moved his hand faster.

“The men get bored. Naturally, they’re greedy,” His nose tickled your ear as his breath glossed over your cheek. “Or maybe the girl gets pregnant. No good. Send her away. Don’t care where, just don’t want to hear about her ever again.” 

He nuzzled your hair as your breaths grew laboured. You found it hard to resist the heat that radiated from his touch. You shook as you tried to force the ripples back down.

“So, you keep me happy, girl,” He sneered. “And you might just last.”

You squealed as you came. You were ashamed and astounded. You’d never felt so… much. Never felt anything so deeply. You quivered around his hand and he slowly drew away and wiped his wet fingers on your bunched up skirt.

He reached between your thighs and you felt his length rub against your ass. He teased you and dragged his fingers along your ass. He pressed his tip to your skin and guided it down. He squeezed your neck and you whimpered. He pushed against your entrance and paused.

“You’re not…” He began and thrust inside of you all at once. “Well, it doesn’t really matter.”

Your walls ached as he filled you. The pain was nothing compared to relief that washed over you. You hadn’t realized how much you longed for that feeling. His hand slid from your neck and he gripped your shoulder. His other went to your hip and he rocked his hips.

You grunted as he thrust. You wanted it to end but you also didn’t want him to stop. He was relentless and impatient. You expected little else from the steely man. You quaked as his pelvis slapped against your ass. The noise echoed off the corners of the room, interspersed with his low groans and you pathetic mewls.

He moved your body against his as he plunged deeper and deeper. He sped up, driven by your helpless moans as you clawed at the upholstered chair. You wanted to get away as much as you just wanted to grab onto something steady. You turned your head back and forth as your nerves flared. You shook and gasped as you came again.

“St-st-stop,” You pleaded. “Stop. It’s too--”

He slammed into you so hard you shrieked. He didn’t let up as he crushed you against the back of the chair. He snaked his hand up in front of you and groped your tit as his other arm wrapped around your neck. His thick muscle choked you as he pounded into you and the chair creaked dangerously. You trembled as the ripples washed over you and you skin tingled with the heat of the man behind you.

His thrusts turned sharp and furious. His arm tightened around your neck as he pulled his other hand back. He pushed into as far as he could, holding himself there for just a second each time. His heavy breaths were like hungry growls in your ear.

He pulled out of you suddenly and you felt his knuckles against your ass as they moved frantically. A warmth spurted along your lower back and his hand slowed. 

He sighed and unhooked his arm from around your neck. He climbed off the chair and smacked your ass again. It stung so much you were certain there was already a bruise.

“Clean yourself up.” He demanded as he sat on the bed heavily. “Then take that damn dress off.”

[mydrug-is-dragonage]

Veda Adaar, Life after Bull

Victory. Triumph. Glory. Pride. What we usually feel when we win a battle. The quiet grief of cutting down lives, regardless of how worthy they are of death, but the warm joy, knowing we saved someone or something or everyone or everything from a grand or small evil.

Victory.  We stood on the balcony, crowded together, together again for the first time in years. Thom and Sera, Divine Victoria’s watchful eyes, Cassandra and Varric’s constant disdainful flirting, Cole and Maryden’s quiet affection, Dorian and Vivienne both wine drunk trading insults, the quiet acknowledgement of a friendship that grew against both of their wills. Josephine and Cullen arguing, treating the terrace like battlements, more performative as they both know the end is closer than the beginning. Solas, our own personal god, long-gone into the eluvian. We’re all here, we’re all together. All of us, but Bull.

Triumph. The weeks have passed, a quick and effective rebuke from the Arishok, King Alistair and Empress Celene accept it quietly, no time for war with another battle floating above us in the air. Back at Skyhold, a skeleton crew, these days just Harding and me spend our time in the battle room, staring at maps; Leliana’s other protégés are always off on missions. Sera pops by every now and then to see Dagna with bees and trinkets and little things to remind me that she’s never really gone. The best day, or the worst depending on the audience, Sera and Dagna came up to my room, giggling, presented me with a crossbow for where my arm ought to be. “Widdle’s a wizard, yeah! You’ll be on rooftops sticking it to people too big for their breeches in no time!” I thanked them, and sent them away. This is love, at least for Sera. Her love is violence and showy maneuvers, dancing with both hands and feet shaking about.

Glory. Josephine writes me letters, telling me to eat, to ask Cullen to write back. After a few months, she finally pens, “I know I am no longer your formal ambassador, but as your informal friend I find it painful to admit what has been sung in the inns and halls. Bards have taken your loss and turned it into song. Unlike what Maryden had composed, these are unfortunately mocking in nature. People have taken the final act and written it as the whole narrative, my lady. A play premiered in Val Royeux putting you at the center of the conflict, as the one who allowed it to happen. If you desire, I can put an end to this. Divine Victoria recommended assassins, but I’ve temporarily dispelled her more primal desires. Likewise, Mr. Arainai also reached out, grateful for the assistance you had given him evading the Crows. I similarly told him no. Above all, regardless of what action we take, I want you to know I am sorry. You’ve lost much, suffered more than so many of us. I’m sorry, Veda. I love you.”  It wasn’t unexpected, bards sing, playwrights write. They tell the tales people want to hear. Immortalizing betrayal has always turned them into legends.

Pride. A cold morning, one with little to be done, Charter and Rector off in Nevarra, the crows neither coming or going, Lace came into my room, “Sorry to bother you, V, we’ve got a vistor.”

“Avoidable?” I ask.

“What an impossibly rude question, darling.” I looked up from my desk and saw her horns pointing from the stairway.

“Oh, Vivienne, I wasn’t expecting you,” I said. I don’t stop the smile on my face. For all our differences, we’d become like sisters. On her best days, she’d fawn over me like a mother.

“That’s Grand Enchanter now, My Lady Inquisitor.”

“I’ll leave you to it,” Lace said, excusing herself. I waited to hear the door close, then the other. Vivienne stood, graceful and stoic as ever. A few more moments of silence, then she broke into a smile. She took off her hat, placed it on the sofa, and walked towards me, arms splayed.

“Oh, my dear, how I’ve missed you!” I stood up, robes draping and hiding me.

I leaned into her hug, resting my head on hers. “Grand Enchanter, really Viv?”

“One must keep appearances, darling. Besides, imagine if Bull heard you call me…” She heard it as it left her mouth. “Oh, my sweet, I’m so sorry. While we should have anticipated his betrayal, I know the loss must weigh on you heavily.” She nestled further into my chest. I breathed out, for a moment just Veda, not the Inquisitor, not the betrayed lover, not the important person forced upon me. I was mortal, Vashoth, tall and strong and being hugged by someone who loved me enough to allow me to be small and weak. We settled onto the couch. I pulled my legs in front of me

“You know better than anyone. I remember, I was there when you lost Bastien.”

“And I was there when you lost the Iron Bull,” she sighed. “We are sisters in grief, as well as sisters in victory. We’re sisters in success, although your’s has had its struggles as of late. I assume the Divine told you of the bards?”

“Josephine.”

“The Nightingale sending a gentler songbird. Wise.”

“I assumed it would happen. Charter brought back the lyrics and playbook from what she considered the more consumable tales,” I said.

“They’re vile, darling. I offered the services of the Circle. The Divine declined. I assumed she had sent assassins.”

“No, I turned down the offers.”

“You’re losing political capital, my dear. If you want to return to the world, recruit who you need to defeat Solas, you’ll need allies. New allies, old allies. It will require quite the force and connections. You know you have the Circle, as much as we can politically sacrifice in this turbulent time,” she said.

“It isn’t the first thing on my mind, at the moment,” I said.

“And why not darling? If you choose to remain in obscurity at some point it will no longer be a choice.”

 It’s spring, it is the last night at Skyhold before we leave for the Exalted Council. Cullen and Josephine have been up bickering most the evening, finally put to rest. I settle into my room, sitting at my desk, twiddling my pen. My bag is packed, the horses are ready. The door creaks open. I don’t look up, I can smell him from here. Even after a bath he smells like home, smoky and warm. “Hey, Kadan.”

“Hey,” I say, “they finished?”

“Well, Cullen is now arguing with Cabot which gave me enough time to get the serving girls to feed Josephine. She wanted to get back to bickering, but I asked her if the itinerary had been checked. So I think they’re fine for now.”

“They’re just worried about tomorrow, the coming weeks. It’s normal,” I say,

“You’re the one who grew up with humans. They worry too much, but it makes them easy to work with. Like clay.” I smile and look back down at my papers. “Enough work, Kadan. You can’t do anything more today.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Are you going to make me?” I smirk.

“Oh, is this what we’re doing?”

“Oh you didn’t know?” I laugh. “I thought you knew it all, everything I needed, Ben-Hassrath training, remember?” He smiles and walks towards me, I slide back in my seat and he scoops me up.

In bed, his heart pumps slow and heavy in his chest. I trace his body with my hands, his arm around me. Our horns rub against each other, small grooves from the years of lying here together. “Better?” He asks.

“What do you think?”

“I know. I just want to know if you know.” I lean up and kiss him.

“Yes, better.” He smells better when he’s sweaty. Something about those early days, seeing him tear through crowds, watching his arms lift and push those heavy swords and axes. Long before, when the Chargers still existed, when he wasn’t just my man, but their man.

“What’s wrong?” He asks.

“I’m sorry, you know,” I say. For a moment, he’s silent, sitting in the grief.

“You made the right choice. You made the only choice. You led like a Qunari.”

“It shouldn’t have been my choice. I should have let you decide,” I say.

“No,” He says, clipped. “You are the Inquisitor. It was your decision, to keep the alliance or lose it. You made history. You stopped a batshit insane darkspawn from destroying the world.”

“I could have stopped him anyway,” I say.

“We don’t know that. The Tamassrans used to say, ‘When there are no right choices, the right decision is the one you make and the one you live with.’” I nestle into his chest.

“I’m happy the Qunari have kept you here.”

“Me too, Kadan.”

“I love you, Bull.” He pulls me closer into him. For a moment, I wonder if he’s crying.

 “I don’t want you to be angry, Viv,” I said.

"Oh what now darling? First you go into solitude like a hermit, what’s next?” I put my legs down and pulled my robes back. “What’s this?” She looked, at first with curiosity, then her eyes widened. “Veda, oh Veda, are you?”

My eyes well, “Yeah, Viv. I am.”

She covers her mouth, the first time I’ve seen her truly shocked. “And is it…?” With that question, the tears fall. The heavy sobs wrack my chest and Vivienne crawls towards me, arms draped around my shoulders and I cry into her chest. “Oh darling, of course you’ve been distracted.” She rubs the back of my head, stroking my neck as I calm down. “Should I ask Harding for some tea? Juice? No wine, of course.” I shake my head. “Oh dear. Who all knows?”

I swallow and trap my tears in my chest. “So far you, Leliana, Thom, and Cassandra. Lace knows, and she’s kept questions from Charter and Rector to a minimum.”

“You haven’t told Josephine?”

“How could I? What could I possibly say, ‘Oh yes, enjoy your new career in Antiva! By the way, I’m carrying the betrayer’s child! Send my love to Yves and Yvette!’”

“I don’t think keeping it secret is much wiser, my dear. People will know, especially once the child is here. Do the Qunari know?” She asked.

“As far as Leliana’s sources know, no. Bull was loyal to the end, they had no reason to think he’d do this, especially when it hadn’t happened in the years before.”

“When did this happen?”

“Right before we left for the Exalted Council,” I said.

“Oh.”

“I know,” I said. “He must have known. I can’t decide if this was kindness or cruelty.”

“What’s that line he always said, darling? ‘When it’s a hostile target, you give them what they want. When it’s someone you care about, you give them what they need.’”

The tears well again. My hands slide to swollen belly. “It isn’t what I wanted. I had never even considered it. He was Qunari enough that I knew we’d never have a family.”

She reached a hand towards my belly, “May I?” I sniffed and nodded. She placed her hands on my stomach, on top of my own hands. “If this isn’t what you wanted, then it must have been what he thought you needed.”

  “He couldn’t have known we’d win. He fought like he meant it. He struck me with his blade. He wasn’t fighting to lose.” The anger and grief mixed in my throat.

“He wasn’t, he never did, darling. But he knew you. He knew us. He knew you’d bring me and Cassandra. He knew what the Qunari could and couldn’t do. He believed in you, at the end. Just as he had at the beginning, my dear.” I took a hand from my belly and moved it to the outside of my horn, the groove still there from the years spent lying together.

“I’m not planning on bringing  my child into the public life. We’ll have a few years, at least, presuming we aren’t all destroyed by Solas,” I said.

“Shh, no reason to worry about that right now, darling. We have today’s troubles and tomorrow’s troubles.” She sat back and blinked away her own tears. “I’ve never been an aunt before. I’ll of course send over a suite of clothes and supplies from Val Royeux.”

 I wipe my eyes and smile, “Are you going to be an aunt or a Grandma’am?”

"Oh you miserable louse, how dare you?” She said, the tears finally pouring from her eyes.

[cecilspeaks]

173 - The Hundred Year Play

Quoth the raven: [bird noises] Welcome to Night Vale.

Listeners, some exciting news from the world of theatre! The 100 year play is about to reach its final scene. Yes, this is the play that has been running continuously since 1920. Written by a brilliant playwright Hannah Hershman, designed to take exactly 100 years to perform. And the tireless volunteer of the Night Vale Players Playhouse have been going through those scenes, one after another, for decade upon decade. There’s little time to rehearse, for each hour brings new scenes and each scene will only be performed once the play moves on, in order to keep up with the tight schedule needed to execute the entire script before a century elapses.

It is a monumental work of theatre, but like all work, it must some day cease. Today, specifically. I will be in attendance at that historic moment, when the final scene is performed and the curtain closes on the 100 year play.   More soon, but first the news.

We bring you the latest on the lawsuit “The estate of Franklin Chen vs. the city of Night Vale”. As you know, this case has grown so large and complicated that I’ve not had the time to discuss it in my usual community radio broadcasts. But instead, have started a true crime podcast called “Bloody Laws, Bloody Claws: The Murder of Frank Chen”, in which I strive to get to the truth of just what happened on that fateful night when five-headed dragon Hiram McDaniels met Frank Chen, and then later Frank Chen’s body was found covered in burns and claw marks. It’s a confounding mystery. The Sheriff’s Secret Police announce that it seems really complicated and they’re not even gonna try to solve that sucker. “Oh, what?” a Secret Police spokesman muttered at an earthworm he found in his garden. “You want us to fail? You wanna see us fail? That’s why you want us to investigate this case, to see us fail at it?” The family of Frank Chen say they merely want the appropriate parties, in this case the city of Night Vale, Hiram McDaniels and an omniscient conception of God, to take responsibility for their part in this tragedy. The trial is now in its 10th month, and has included spirited re-enactments of the supposed murder by helpful Players Playhouse performers in between their work on the 100 year play. 3 changes of judge and venue due to “some dragon attacks and constant interruptions from a local audio journalist, who hosts a widely respected true crime podcast”. Still, with all this, we near a verdict. Judge Chaplin has indicated she will issue her ruling soon. “Like in the next year or so?” she said. “Certainly within 5 years. Listen, I don’t owe you a verdict, just because you’re paying me to do a job, you can’t rush me to do it. The verdict will be done when. It’s. Done.” Chaplin then huffed out of the courtroom followed by journalists shouting recommendations for episodes of their podcast to listen to.

I was present, you know, on opening night of the 100 year play. Ah, how the theatre buzzed! Of course this was partly the audience, thrilled to be at the start of such an unprecedented work, but mostly – it was the insects. The Night Vale Players Playhouse had quite a pest problem at the time, and still does. It’s difficult to do pest control when there is a 100 year long play being performed on stage at every hour of every day. The curtain opened those many years ago on a simple set of a studio apartment,  a kitchen, a cot, a window overlooking a brick wall. A man sits in the corner deep in thought. A doorbell rings. “Come in, it’s open,” the man says. A woman enters, flustered. She is holding a newborn. “There’s been a murder!” she says. “The victim was alone in a room, and all the doors and windows were locked. “My god!” the man says and springs up. “Who could have done this, and how?!” the woman tells him: “It turns out to be the gardener, Mr. Spreckle. He served with the victim in the war and never could forgive him for what happened there. He threw a venomous snake through an air vent.” The man sits back down, nodding. “Aah! So the mystery is solved.” As a playwright, Hannah Hershman did not believe in stringing up mysteries a second longer than was necessary. The baby in the woman’s arm stirs. “Shush, shush little one!” the woman says. The man looks out the window where he cannot see the sky. “It might look like rain,” he says. “Who knows?” Thus began a journey of 100 years.

And now a word from our sponsors. Today’s episode is sponsored by the Night Vale Medical Board, which would like to remind you that it is important to drink enough water throughout the day. Drink more water! Your body cannot function without water. Without water, you are just dust made animate. Water forms the squelching mud of sentience. Try to have at least ten big glasses of water. Not over the entire day, right now. See if you can get all ten of them down. Explore the capacity of your stomach. See if you can make it burst. You will either feel so much better, or an organ will explode and you will day painfully. And either one is more interesting than the mundane now. You should drink even more water than that. Wander out of your door, search the Earth for liquids. Find a lake and drain the entire thing, until the bottom feeders flop helplessly on the flatlands. Laugh slushingly as you look upon the destruction you have wrought. The power that you possess now that you are well hydrated. Move on from the lake and come to the shore of an ocean. All oceans are one ocean that we have arbitrarily categorized by language. The sea knows no separation, and neither will you when you lay belly down on the sand, put your lips against the waves and guzzle the ocean. The ocean is salty. It will not be very hydrating, so you’ll need to drink a lot of it. Keep going until the tower tops of Atlantis see sky again for the first time in centuries, until the strange glowing creatures of the deep-deep are exposed, splayed out from their bodies now that they no longer have the immense pressure of the ocean depths to keep their structure intact. And once you have drunk the oceans, turn your eyes to the stars. For there is water out there too, and you must suck dry the universe. This has been a message from the Night Vale Medical Board.

20 years passed without me thinking about the 100 year play. You know how it is. One day you’re an intern at the local radio station doing all the normal errands like getting coffee and painting pentacles upon Station Management doors as part of the ritual of the slumbering ancients. Then 20 years passes and everything is different for you. Your boss is gone and now you are a host of the community radio station, and there are so many new responsibilities and worries and lucid nightmares in which you explore a broken landscape of colossal ruins. So with all of that, I just kind of forgot the 100 year play was happening. But they were toiling away in there, doing scenes around the clock, building and tearing down sets at a frantic pace, trying to keep up with the script that relentlessly went on, page after page. And sometimes one of the people working on the play would wonder: how does this all end? But before they could flip ahead and look, there would be another scene that had to be performed and they wouldn’t have a chance. So no one knew how it ended. No one except Hannah Hershman, the mysterious author of this centennial play.

Soon after becoming radio host, during the reading of a Community Calendar, I was reminded that the play was still going on, and so decided to check in. I put on my best tux, you know it’s the one with the scales and the confetti canon. And then took myself to a night at the theatre. I can’t say what happened in the plot since that first scene, but certainly much had transpired. We were now in a space colony thousands of years from now, and the set was simple, just some sleek chairs and a black backdrop dotted with white stars of paint. A woman was giving a monologue about the distance she felt between the planet she was born on, which I believe was supposed to be Earth, and the planet she now stood on. I understood from what she was saying that the trip she had taken to this planet was one way, and that she would never return to the place she was born. “We… are… all of us… moved… by time,” she whispered in a cracked, hoarse voice. “Not… one of us dies… in the world… we were born into.” Sitting in my seat in that darkened theatre, I knew two facts with certainty. The first was that this woman had been giving a monologue for several days now. She wavered on her feet, speaking the entire four hours that I was there. And I don’t know how much longer she spoke after I left, but it could have been weeks. She was pale and her voice was barely audible, but there was something transfixing about it, and the audience sat in perfect silence, leaning forward to hear her words. The other fact I understood was that this woman was the newborn from the very first scene. Not just the same character, but the same actor. 20 years later, she was still on that stage, still portraying the life to the child we had been introduced to in the opening lines. She was an extraordinary performer, presumably, having had a literal lifetime of practice. And that was the last time I saw the play, until tonight, when I will go to watch the final scene.

But first, let’s have a look at that Community Calendar. Tonight the school board is meeting to discuss the issues of school lunches. It seems that some in power argue that it isn’t enough that for some reason we charge the kids actual money for these lunches. They argue that the students should also be required to give devotion and worship to a great glowing cloud, whose benevolent power will fill their lives with purpose. Due to new privacy rules, we cannot say which member of the school board made this suggestion. The board will be taking public comment in a small flimsy wooden booth out by the highway. Just enter the damp, dark interior and whisper your comment, and it will be heard. Perhaps not by the school board, but certainly by something.

Tuesday morning, Lee Marvin will be offering free acting classes at the rec center. The class is entitled “Acting is just lying. We’ll teach you how acting is just saying things that aren’t true, with emotions you don’t feel, so that you may fool those watching with these mistruths.” Fortunately, Marvin commented: “Most people don’t want to be told the truth and prefer the quiet comfort of a lie well told.” Classes are pay what you want, starting at 10,000 dollars.

Thursday Josh Crayton will be taking the form of a waterfall in Grove Park, so that neighborhood kids may swim in him. There is not a lot of swimming opportunities in a town as dry as Night Vale, and so this is a generous move on Josh’s part. He has promised that he has been working on the form and has added a water slide and a sunbathing deck. He asks that everyone swim safely and please not leave any trash on him.

Friday, the corn field will appear in the middle of town, right where it does each September, as the air turns cooler and the sky in the west takes on a certain shade of green. The corn field emanates a power electric and awful. Please, do not go into the corn field, as we don’t know what lives in there or what it wants. The City Council would like to remind you that the corn field is perfectly safe. It is perfect and it is safe. 

Finally, Saturday never happened. Not if you know what’s good for you. Got it? This has been the Community Calendar.

Oh! Look at the time. Here I am blathering on and the play is about to end. OK, let me grab my new mini recorder that Carlos got me for my birthday. It’s only 35 pounds and the antenna is a highly reasonable 7 feet. And I’ll see you all there.

Ah. What’s the weather like for my commute?

[Shallow Eyes” by Brad Bensko. https://www.bradbenskomusic.com/]

Carlos and I are at the theatre! The audience is a buzz, with excitement yes, but also many of them are the insects that infest this theatre. The bugs became entranced by the story over the years, passing down through brief generation after brief generation, the history of all that happened before. The story of the play became something of a religion to this creepy crawly civilization. And so now the bugs are jittering on the walls, thrilled to be the generation that gets to see the end of this great tale.

The curtain rises on a scene I recognize well. It is the simple set of a studio apartment. A kitchen, a cot, a window overlooking a brick wall. A man sits in the corner deep in thought. A doorbell rings. “Come on, it’s open,” the man calls. A woman enters. She is very old, tottering unsteadily on legs that have carried for her many many years. “Please take my seat,” the man says with genuine concern. “Thank you,” she says, collapsing with relief onto the cushions and then looking out, as if for the first time, noticing the audience. I know this woman. I first saw her as a baby and later as a 20-year-old. It seems she has lived her whole life on this stage, taking part in this play. “My name,” the woman says, “is Hannah Hershman. I was born in this theatre, clutching a script in my arms that was bigger than I was. My twin, in a way. I started acting in that script of mine before I was even aware of the world. I grew up in that script, lived my entire life in the play I had written from infancy to now.” And she rises, and the man reaches out to help, but she waves him away. She speaks, her- her voice is strong, ringing out through the theatre. “The play ends with my death, because the play is my life. It is bounded by the same hours and minutes that I am.” the audience is rapt, many have tears in their eyes. Even the insects weep. “Thank you for these hundred years,” Hannah Hershman says. “This script is complete.” She walks to the window. “It might look like rain,” she says. “Who knows?” The lights dim.

Thunderous applause, cries of acclaim, and Hannah Hershman dies to the best possible sound a person can hear: concrete evidence of the good they have done in the lives of other humans.

Stay tuned next for the second ever Night Vale Players Playhouse production, now that they finally finished this one. They’re going to do “Godspell”. And from the script of a life I have not yet finished performing, Good night, Night Vale, Good night.

Today’s proverb: Many are called, but few are chosen. And fewer still pick up. Because most calls are spam these days.

[boneswriteswords]

I Like The Way You Move - Leonardo

A/N: This was something that started as a self-insert Mikey fuck but turned into a dom-ish Leo moment and I’m not sorry. (No that’s a lie, I am sorry that I never got my self-insert Mikey fuck)

Enjoy. Or not. IDC man, you control whether you read it or not. 

Its smut. 

Pairing: Leonardo x reader

Word: ~3100

You hitch your backpack so its sturdier on your shoulder as you approach the building your studio was renting space in, sending a quick text to Leo that you made it safe.

Not that you needed to. You knew he was watching you. Ever since you and him tipped into the 'we aren't together but we actually kind of are because I don't have eyes for anyone but you but neither of us have made an actual move yet because this is kind of like foreplay and its exciting' territory, you could feel his eyes on you everywhere you went. At home. At the gym. At your favorite shops. At the park. At work.

Everywhere.

And he was there as you weaved in and out of the people in the city as they rushed to get wherever they were going, watching as you slipped the key into the lock and went inside. Watching as you entered the fifth story room and waited for the other dancers to arrive.    

He was always watching.

Guarding. Protecting. Treasuring.

You have never felt more safe in your life.

Even the rowdy construction men who hooted and whistled like the pigs they are whenever you passed by the construction zones down the block from the studio didn't register as a threat to you anymore, despite being triple your size and aggressive.

Leo was bigger. Leo was stronger. Leo would never let them harm you.

You sighed dreamily, feeling the stirrings of arousal pool low in your abdomen as you thought about him.

How he'd grip you tight against him to pull you from those who would try and take you from him. How his body would shield yours as he tore the hands off anyone who'd even think to touch you without permission. How he'd carry you away and check you over thoroughly to make sure you were unharmed....

The door opened, ripping you from your daydream, and Mila walked in, smiling at you and tossing her bag near yours.  You made polite conversation until the rest of the students and Mr. Parker arrived, doing everything you can to try to ignore the wetness in your panties.

"Y/N," Mr. Parker calls once class is finished, motioning you over in the universally recognized signal for 'I need to speak to you.' You pull your baby blue sweater on - something you deliberately picked because you knew Leo would feel some type of way about seeing you in it - over your bodysuit and make your way over to him, making sure you are directly in front of the window.

"Yes?" you ask, tilting your head to side.

"I just wanted to congratulate you again on all your hard work," he smiled, green eyes squinting, "You are one of the most talented dancers I have ever taught and you deserve the role of Ella."

You beam under the praise, "Thank you sir. It means a lot."

"But," he exclaimed abruptly, "make sure you practice! You may be the perfect dancer but Ella is a powerful woman. Fierce! Confident! Sensual! She is more than just perfect landings and pirouettes! Her soul is one with her body!"

You promise, unable to keep the grin from your face. You had been cast as the lead character - Ella - in an new play created by a well-known playwright and it felt like all your hard work over the last few years was finally getting you some where as a professional dancer.

Mr. Parker rolls his eyes fondly as he ushered you out, "Bright and early tomorrow Y/N."

And you do come in bright and early. So early in fact, that it isn't even bright out and Leonardo hadn't even finished his patrol before you had left your apartment and there is no one at the studio and there wouldn't be for hours.

Which he wasn't too happy about but you couldn't be bothered to care when his message suggested your 'punishment' would not necessarily be something you wouldn't like. He kept it as vague as he possible could but the undertone of arousal and promises had you aching for the rest of the day.

Still, despite the wetness between your legs, you eventually manage to channel Ella in all her sensual glory. You can feel her energy, her passion, her elegance streamline into your very veins as you go through the routines. She envelopes you, guiding you until you are no longer alone in your body and you can feel her as deeply as you can feel yourself. There is a buzzing under your skin where she has settled and you feel warm all over.

You end the final routine with your knees splayed and head tossed back, forming an arc with your spine, gaze resting on a blank bit of ceiling as you try to regulate your breathing back to normal. There is sweat dripping down your body, sticking your bodysuit even closer to your skin.

So far gone into your head space as you were, you almost didn't realize that you were being applauded.

But when you did, you jumped, terrified. No one was supposed to be in the studio aside from you. You snap your head around, scrambling into a less vulnerable position off the hardwood floor, eyes zeroing on the intruder.

Leo's eyes are dangerously dark as he leans against the wall by the door, strong arms folded over his hard chest. His makeshift armor was gone but his weapons were placed on one of the chairs in the corner, suggesting he had been watching for a while.

"Leo!?" you question, voice no more than a whisper. He smirks, straightening up and making his way over to you until he was standing in front of you, blue eyes looking into yours.

The Ella inside of you nudges to the front of your brain, whispering 'Get closer.'

"What-what are you doing here?" you ask, leaning in to him a bit before you overthought it.

"I saw you through the window," he purred, "I wanted a closer look."

"O-oh."

He tilted his head down and for a brief moment you thought he was finally going to make the move. The move that will transform the current state of your relationship with him into the one that you both wanted.

"Keep going, lovely. I want to see it again," he murmurs, the faintest touch of his lips on yours as he does and your breath stutters, a whine bubbling and dying in your throat. You loved being called soft, feminine nicknames - it made you feel womanly and perfect and beautiful - and the timber of his voice molding around the world did wonderful things for you. His dark eyes roam over your face, licking his lips, before stepping back and taking his place by the back wall.

You turn back to the giant mirror, taking in your wanton appearance, the very visceral, physical effect he has on you obvious, and take a few deep breaths before calling Ella back to the forefront.

You start the routine over from the beginning, determined to give Leo a show. You ease into it like you would if you were alone. You were used to him watching you and the proximity of where he was didn't change how you felt about it. Besides, Ella was powerful and self-assured. She knew what she wanted and she takes it without hesitation.

With her at the helm, you felt like, maybe, you could too.

Landing on the bar after a high jump that has your thighs burning, you break the silence. "I like when you call me lovely. And sweetheart. And a good girl." You can see him in the reflection in the giant mirror, watching you shamelessly, and your body hums in pleasure.

His eyes narrow, smirk widening, "Do you now?"

"I do," you choke out, an admission, but suddenly Ella is gone and its just you now. The confidence is gone but its too late to take it back. Leo is on his feet and crowding you again, a hair's breath away and smelling way too good for it to be natural. He smells like man and strength and slowly dissolving restraint and you want to bury yourself in him.

"You like when I call you a good girl," he repeats calmly, eyeing the way your body is perched on the bar and putting his hands on your hips, "Then I guess you wouldn't mind is I called you 'my good girl' hmm? You want to be my good girl, lovely?"

A whimper rips from your lips before you can stop it and you nod desperately, no longer caring about anything aside from his hands on your body. He runs them over your legs before skirting back upwards and over your nipples through the bodysuit. Electricity fires through you at the touch, pushing back into his hands as he flits them over again.

"You like it when I touch you sweetheart?" he coos, catching you as you buckle, keeping you from collapsing onto the floor.

"Yes," you whine as he hoists you up like you weight nothing. With his mutant strength, you probably don't and the possibilities that the image of him holding you up invokes sends a thrill down your spine. He hums darkly, setting you on the ground, moving your hands to his shoulder to brace yourself so he could wiggle the bottom half of your bodysuit and leggings down.

A flash of insecurity floods over you as he tosses your clothes off to the side and grips you so your body is flush against his, fingers dancing along the edges of your soaked panties. Leo's face is set in stone, stoic aside from the darkness flashing in his eyes, and you worry that your body isn't what he wants. Maybe he doesn't like what he sees?

"I always new you were pretty, lovely," he grumbles, his fingers flexing and pulling at your body, encouraging you to press into him and grind into him. You could feel the bulge in his pants pressing into your mound and you try not to buck into it. "But this - you naked and needy and dripping - is so much prettier than I was ready for."

"I don't- I-I" you gasp as his hand trails down your back and grips your butt, spreading your cheeks wide and kneading the flesh.

"I'm a lucky turtle," he growls, voice somehow deeper and darker than before, "I see the way people look at you, princess. I see the way they move closer to you to get a better look or catch a whiff of your perfume. I see them watch you as you walk by, saying crude things about your body, your mouth. I see them want you. But they can't have you, can they?"

It takes you a minute to realize he wasn't asking a rhetorical question. "N-no Leo."

He hums approvingly, "And why is that honey?"

"B-because I'm your good girl?"

"That's right lovely. You are MY good girl. And you wouldn't look at any of them twice. Not when you have me at your beck and call. Not when you know I'll come running to you."

The impromptu confession of his devotion sent your skin buzzing and you could feel yourself calming down, the edge of desperation softening into a dull throb. This was more than sex. This was more than a game. This was a real connection bleeding into a different form of intimacy. He found you desirable but it ran deeper than lust.

A low rumbling churr vibrates under Leo's plastron once he focuses on your lace panties - dark blue and soaked even darker.  Leo's large hand cups your face and you nuzzle into the comfort of it. The turtle's fingers are strong and thick as he pulls you to him so his lips could meet yours. His tongue wastes no time in forcing its way into your mouth, leaving you breathless as desire coursed through you. It was everything you had imagined but nothing at all at the same time.

"Princess," he murmurs against your mouth, "so sweet."

The praise envelops you like an aphrodisiac. Leo's fingers trace the edge of the lace before moving down, taking two fingers and swiping across your soaked entrance over the soaked fabric. Little sparks danced across your clit at the touch and you tried to grind down into his hand, whimpering when he pulled his hand away.

"So wet baby," he groaned, kissing you again hungrily, "Want me to touch you? Stroke your pretty little clit and stretch you nice and wide for me?

You nod, almost mad in your lust, bucking into his hand, "Please Leo. Want you. Want you so much. Don't make me wait." You are rewarded with another bruising kiss.

He removes one of his hands from your body to untie his pants and drop them onto the floor. His cock is huge, bigger than anyone you'd ever seen before, and dark with blood. You always pictured him to be proportional to the rest of his body but the reality surpassed all your fantasies thus far. He was going to be so big inside you -the stretch...

"I've thought about this princess," Leo murmurs, dark blue eyes fixed on your face again as he kicks his pants away from him and moving closer again. You could feel his cock against your belly, smearing precum on your skin. "Thought about how you'd look. How you'd feel. Hot and tight and mine. How'd you taste. Have you thought about me? Have you thought about me when you touch yourself at night? When you stick your pretty little fingers in your pretty little pussy?"

Shaking, you grip onto his arms to steady yourself and nod, "Yes, Leo." His fingers edge underneath the panties and slid them off you and you launch yourself forward into his arms, burying your face into his neck and clinging to him. You spread your legs, dripping as he teases your clit with his finger before tentatively testing the give of your entrance.

A load groan erupts from his mouth when it slips right in to the first knuckle and you clench around him, trying to pull it in further.

"Oh my lovely girl," he sighs, claiming your mouth in another kiss as you whimper and buck in his grip. "So good for me. All wet and wanting. I'm going to stretch you out nice and good."

"Please," you whisper, head tilted back as he moves down your neck, biting and nibbling licking as his finger slides deeper inside of you. He drags you right to the edge of an orgasm before pulling his finger free, grinning at the long winded whine it drew from you.

"Uh uh my good girl," he shushed, "You will come on my cock or not at all. Do you understand? Do you want to keep being my good girl?"

"I want to be your good girl, Leo please," you whine, canting forward to kiss him again. You could feel yourself being lifted, large green hands guiding your legs to wrap your legs around his waist so he is the only thing holding you up. The head of his cock nudged against your entrance as he hovers you above it and you try to cant down onto it, needy and wanting.

He pulls away from your mouth, panting, "Tell me I can."

Arousal made you slow and stupid so it took longer than it should have for you to understand what he meant. When you did, you trembled and nodded, pleas falling from your lips like a mantra.

Leo smirks, adjusting you in his grip before lowering you down, pushing the bulbous head of his cock into you. You fall against him again, licking and kissing his neck and shoulders as he lowered you down slowly, his cock sliding in inch by inch until you were stuffed full.

The stretch was so good. You feel so good.

Leo swears under his breath, nothing more than a growling whisper of words as you clench around him. He can feel you expanding around him, convulsing as you adjust to his size and grinding down to gain desperately sought friction.

Lifting you up, he adjusts his stance a bit for better leverage before gripping your waist hard and slamming you back down on him, praising you as he does. He's panting, breath ghosting over your slick skin as he lifts you up and down, impaling you over and over again like a rag doll. His lovely little fuck toy.

There are actual tears in your eyes from how wonderful it feels to finally be joined with him. Months of teasing and playing and flirting culminating into this desperate, passionate act of mutual adoration. You had waited so long for him.

"Oh baby girl. I'll never make you wait again." Had you said that out loud? As much as you wanted to be embarrassed, you couldn't be - not with the way he was thrusting inside you, hitting your special spot, and kissing your face and mouth.

"Feels - feels," you moan, breath hitching as sweat drips down your face and back.

"How does it feel lovely? Tell me."

"Feels so - so good. Leo. Leo! Leoleoleo!" You cry as you cum, writhing against Leo's plastron as he fucks you through it, hand slipping down to toy with your oversensitive clit. White lights dance behind your vision and you arch into the touch at the pain.

And oh, he likes that.

"Oh," Leo growls, sparks of fire dancing behind his eyes, "I'm going to enjoy you."

You preen, limp in his arms, and his pace builds until hes slamming into you brutally. When he cums, its deep inside you, burying his load and filling you up. A grunt forces his way out of him and you squeeze as much as you can around him, fucking him through it like he did for you.

You were always big on reciprocity.

You slump together onto the floor in a tangle of sweaty and sore body parts, enjoying the high as it ebbs between you both. He gently pulls out of you and you whimper at the loss and the feel of his seed trickling out of you.

Minutes tick by in silence before you open your eyes and stare into his. He's watching you intently, trying to gauge your reactions. He wants to know how you feel, how you are taking this new change in dynamic, if its something you want long term now that the game is over. He wants to know if you are his.

You smile, keeping your expression soft as you reach out for him again.

A beat and his smile presses against yours.

~~~~

End

~~~~

[currywaifu]

𝐭𝐢𝐭𝐥𝐞: should we rest for a little longer? 𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩: minagi tsuzuru/reader 𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠: sfw 𝐰𝐜: 2.7k words

𝐚𝐧: i just want to take care of this tired boy

He was asleep again.

“And you’re being a creep again,” Your friend nudges you, and you nudge him back with a vengeance. You peel your eyes away from the sleeping brunet to frown at the boy beside you.

“I’m not being a creep. I’m just… concerned, I guess.” As soon as the words leave your lips you find yourself cringing a bit. It sounded off, almost like you pitied him. If anything, the right way to phrase it probably would have been-

“I kid, I kid,” your friend raises both of his hands, almost defensive, “it’s because you’re a fan of his, right?”

Your lips purse at the suggestion, neither offended nor angry but not very pleased either.

“I suppose,” you say, eyeing the professor that entered the room.

Fan. That sounded wrong too, despite being the truth. You have watched all of Mankai Company’s plays, ever since your little sister dragged you to one since the boy she liked was playing one of the leads.

“Ahh, so cute!” Your sister was shaking you for what might have been the nth time that night, but you weren’t so focused on Romeo as you were Mercutio.

When you saw a familiar face standing on stage beside the pink-haired boy, you were rather surprised. You couldn’t pretend you knew him, but you did see him here and there on campus. You might have even shared a class together and you just never noticed.

You didn’t peg him for an actor.

Curiouser and curiouser.

You checked the website where you booked your tickets again.

Minagi Tsuzuru, Scriptwriter

Interesting.

Somehow, even though he wasn’t in the next play, you found yourself watching more and more. You’d swear up and down that as a theatre fan, you wanted to support deserving local productions; while not exactly false, it was hard to deny your admiration for Tsuzuru’s scriptwriting.

An almost inaudible yawn breaks your reverie and your eyes settle on the familiar green of his jacket. Did the professor just not care? Well, perhaps it was for the better. He probably needed a nap, more than a nap if you were honest.

“Lend me a highlighter real quick,” your friend whispers.

When you pass him the marker, its bright turquoise hue brings you back to your original thoughts.

Were you really just worried because you were a fan of his?

The next time you see Tsuzuru is at a cafe that had ‘the best hot chocolate ever!’, or so your little sister proclaimed.

“Eh? You’re Mercutio, right?”

Specifically, at a cafe where Tsuzuru was currently working at.

Do you let your sister do the talking? You don’t wanna disturb him at work or anything. Besides, it’s not as if you’ve ever talked to him, so other than telling him your order there really wasn’t much else to say.

“… really likes your scripts!”

“Ah, really? Please keep supporting us, I’ll make sure to keep improving!”

The corners of Tsuzuru’s eyes were crinkling as the corners of his mouth slid upwards.

Eh? Why was this boy suddenly giving you an angelic smile? What happened when you spaced out? Wait, didn’t your little brat of a sister mention something about scripts?

“Ah, yes, I’ll keep watching your plays!” You smiled quickly, lightly kicking the younger girl’s feet from beneath the table. Did you say anything to her about your admiration for Tsuzuru or something, or did she suddenly get observant?

She was lucky you weren’t so petty or you would have outed her crush on Sakuya to his troupe mate then and there.

“Oh, by the way,” you begin to lower your volume to be sure, “is the hot chocolate really that good?”

A small chuckle barely escaped his lips before he shrugged, positioning his clipboard to take down your orders. “You have to try it to find out.”

“Then two hot chocolates, and a strawberry creme crepe for me.”

“Chocolate covered banana pancakes, please!”

As he took down your orders, you caught a glimpse of the dark circles under his eyes. He seemed to be fine when he was talking to the two of you, but a part-time job along with university and theatre probably took a lot out of his energy.

“Eh, isn’t this-“

“Don’t say anything.”

So when you ended up with a chocolate-drizzled banana creme crepe and your sister got strawberry topped chocolate pancakes, you let it slide. The hot chocolate was actually pretty good.

You were only supposed to borrow a reference book for one of your classes, take down some notes, and then scramble home.

So what were you doing?

You wanted to sit somewhere further down the library where it was quieter when you stumbled upon Minagi Tsuzuru, fast asleep with several papers scattered haphazardly on the desk.

The two of you weren’t close or anything, but you wanted to encourage him somehow. Sometimes sleepless nights were really necessary, you’d be a hypocrite to vouch against them, but you wanted to tell him to persevere somehow.

You set your bag down on an empty chair, bringing out a green sticky note pad and a ballpoint pen.

...

When Tsuzuru wakes up it’s from Juza lightly, well as lightly as Juza could, nudging him awake. He waits for his eyes to adjust to his surroundings, wondering how long he’s been asleep. The first thing he spots is Juza’s purple tupperware, wildly contrasting the off-whites and blacks and browns his things usually were.

The second thing he notices is a green sticky note stuck on one of his notebooks.

Even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise!

Les Miserables, a line from the finale song if he remembered right.

No name or hint from who could have given it.

He found himself humming the song on the way home.

“This presentation will be a paired work activity… and as usual, I’ll be pairing you up.” Several people groaned audibly, while two girls whispered excitedly behind you.

“I wonder if she’ll couple me up with someone?”

“Ahh, I hope I get coupled up with…”

Seriously, coupled up? Since when were you all Love Island contestants?

You knew this professor was highly acclaimed to be some kind of “yosei of love” or matchmaker or whatever, but weren’t they expecting too much out of her?

“This is a class, not a mixer,” your friend began to say, “is probably what you’re thinking right now. Am I wrong?” He looked awfully smug and you couldn’t resist rolling your eyes.

“More along the lines of ‘this isn’t a reality tv show’, but that works too.”

“Prude.”

“Should you really be insulting me? Prof is probably gonna pair us up again and I’d be stuck with you for a whole week.”

“What’s wrong with that? We became friends precisely because she thought we’d look good together. Of course, it didn’t work out, unless?” He started wiggling his eyebrows and you smacked his arm.

“Dumbass. Well, she’s probably hoping we’re some kind of slow-burn pair and keep us partners,” you predicted. Somehow his smugness increased tenfold, looking as sly as a fox.

When the professor calls your name you perk up, head-turning to her. Even seated three rows away from her you could see her eyes sparkling with mirth.

“Please pair up with Minagi Tsuzuru.”

Your eyes immediately sought for the familiar figure in front of you, until you felt a soft tap on your shoulder from behind you.

He greeted you by your surname, a small smile on settled on his face. “Looks like we’re partners. I didn’t know we had a class together.”

“Ah, yeah, it’s nice seeing you again.” You reply, discretely reaching over to your ears as if to hide them.

“Right!” The two of you looked over to your friend as he clapped his hands together, “Looks like I just got called! Take care of my babe, Tsuzuru!” You were so, so close to slamming your face on the wooden desk, instead deciding to shoo him away with the motion of your hand.

Turning back to Tsuzuru, you give him an awkward laugh. “Don’t mind him, Minagi-san. He acts dumb, but at least he’s consistent.”

He stands up, shuffling his things and for a moment you forget that he’s actually pretty tall. Transferring to the seat beside you, he shakes his head. “If you think that’s bad, wait until you see what I have to deal with.”

“7 younger brothers, and 2 honorary younger brothers that I had and have to deal with on the daily.” Despite his visible tiredness, his tone suggested that he didn’t mind having to look over them so much.

“I only have my little sister, but she’s as much of a pain as she is cute.” Your eyes lock with turquoise, and both of you simultaneously release a sound between a sigh and a laugh.

“Older sibling night hours?” You offer.

He lets out an appreciative hum, “More like older sibling noon hours, really.”

It’s been two hours since you’ve gotten up from your chair. It’s not that you don’t like Tsuzuru’s company, far from it actually, but your back was starting to hurt and you were getting real fidgety. You needed a walk.

“Minagi-san, do you mind if I get something to drink?”

“Not at all, we’ve been at this for a while.” At his signal, you stood up from your chair and fished through your bag for your wallet.

Pausing, you turn back to look at him for a couple of seconds. He was typing furiously fast, but his eyes were droopy and lidded. If you asked him if he wanted anything he’d probably say no, but that didn’t mean you weren’t gonna try giving him something. He mentioned not having a least favourite food, so coffee milk would probably do, right?

Tsuzuru’s eyes tear away from his laptop, catching you staring at him. Before he could ask if something was wrong, your body suddenly tensed before dashing off.

He sighed, letting his eyes rest for a bit while you were still out. He barely got any sleep last night, and the light emitted by the screen was starting to make his retinas burn. Despite his drowsiness, he manages to let out a small huff to mask his growing smile.

Your ears were red again.

...

Discretely hiding the milk cartons as you re-entered the library, you jokingly wondered if Mankai Company’s playwright would be asleep on a library table again.

“No way,” you murmured in disbelief, setting the cartons on the desk the two of you occupied. There was neither the click-clack of his keyboard nor swift ASMR scribbling on his notebook. Hadn’t you only been gone for 5 minutes?

You debated waking him up for a moment, maybe even teasing him for immediately falling asleep as soon as you left. Maybe you’d press the cold drink next to his cheek to shock him.

You do none of those, and let him sleep for as long as possible. He said he didn’t have any work for the evening so no harm, no foul right?

Unzipping your pencil case, you spot your trademark green sticky notes. You had thought about giving him another note again but never found the opportunity to until today. Of course, if you wrote one now he’d definitely know it was you.

It was sorta embarrassing, but you didn’t mind him knowing.

Ah, but you didn’t really want him to see it while you were in front of him?

“Let me just,” muttering to yourself, you hid the sticky note in one his jacket’s pockets. He shifted slightly, causing your heart to stop for a moment.

Don’t wake up, don’t wake up…

When his eyes don’t flutter open, you let out an audible sigh. Well, whether the brunet was asleep or not you still had work to do.

30 minutes pass when the actor finally woke up. He’s still a little dazed and thoughts still a little muddled when he sees you out like a light in front of him.

Maybe, as he’s walking back home, the humiliation and shame of falling asleep while waiting for you would hit him;

but right now he’s focused on the golden rays of the setting sun hitting your gentle, sleeping features and he’s absolutely entranced. Tiny sighs, soft breathing, a picture of peacefulness.

Seriously, Tsuzuru? Just because you like his scripts. Just because you had your similarities. Just because you had a serene sleeping face. Just because your ears turned red around him and was he allowed to hope?

Did you even see him for more than just Tsuzuru the Mankai Company Playwright? Tsuzuru the actor? Tsuzuru who’s in a class with you?

Last month, he thought of you as a sincere fan. Last week, he thought of you as his cute partner.

And what about now? His mind couldn’t supply him an answer right away, but that was okay. There was time for that tomorrow, and the days and weeks after.

His hand extends forward to pet your head when your eyes blink open and lock with his own.

“Minagi-san?”

He thaws himself out of his frozen stupor and quickly moves to take his hand back. Unexpectedly, you reach your own out to keep it in place.

What were you doing?

“Were you going to…” You trailed off, and by the way your eyes averted from his gaze he could tell you were too embarrassed to finish the question.

“Yeah,” he replied quietly, “Sorry.”

For a few beats, only silence was exchanged between the two of you; then you spoke up again.

“I don’t mind,” some more beats, “you can, you know.”

There are questions left unsaid, but instead, he lowers his palm down slowly, hovering with a bit of hesitance left.

“If it’s you,” you start, “it’s okay.”

“Okay.”

His fingers glide over the soft strands and begin caressing the top of your head.

The concept of time itself didn’t seem to exist as both of you soaked in each other’s quietude. When was the last time he felt all his worries didn’t exist? That he wasn’t constantly worrying about his family, or finances, or university, or scripts.

“Minagi-san,” you began, tone still soft as though not to ruin the atmosphere they created. “It’s important to get some rest too, okay? I worry… I don’t want your health to suffer, so please take care of yourself.”

A rush of endearment overcomes him and if you paid an ounce of attention to his fingertips brushing against your cheeks as he played with your hair, you don’t mention it. He whispers your first name and watches as his index paints a peach across your skin. Your lips part and the palpitations in his heart increase at a pace that can’t be normal.

“I can’t pretend to know, offer to carry your burdens,” you pause, placing your hands atop of his free one, “but if for a while I could relieve you of your stresses, I’d like to stay by your side.”

Oh.

He moved his hand from beneath yours and interlocked your digits together. “Then take care of yourself too.”

When you looked like you were about to protest in confusion he squeezed the palm of your hand lightly, drawing circles on them with his thumb.

“Alright, I promise,” you whispered.

A dozen or so seconds of nothing but tranquility passes when Tsuzuru breaks the silence. “Should we rest for a little longer?”

His eyes have a teasing glint to them, a look rare on the brunet, and something else you can’t describe other than it makes your heart skip a beat.

“We should be heading home now,” you said, almost regretfully, “but our project still isn’t done, so…”

An oath of next time.

It really wasn’t any of Masumi’s business, but wasn’t Tsuzuru in a particularly good mood tonight? The younger boy had no plans to be nosy, but it was getting weird. What if he was planning something with the director? He had to make sure he wouldn’t get in the way.

Quietly, he peered over Tsuzuru’s shoulder to look at the green paper the college student has been staring at for the past five minutes.

I’ve heard it said that people come into our lives for a reason, bringing something we must learn, and we are led to those who help us most to grow.

Oh, wasn’t this from one of the musicals the director liked? The dark-haired boy didn’t know how to interpret it, but if it meant he wouldn’t have to share the director as much that was fine by him.

want to order again?

[mamacesawrites]

A Roman Rose

Word Count:  1504

A/N: Just a little writing exercise. I used some randomizers as prompts. Hope you enjoy, feedback is appreciated. 

Warnings: blood mention, sexual intimacy implied, request more if needed

Ao3

“No. Not really red, but the color of a rose when it bleeds.”

— Anne Sexton, excerpt of “Song for a Red Nightgown,” The Complete Poems.

Logan walked down the dark street. He was hungry, though all the restaurants around him were closed. He checked his watch. 1 am. He smirked, looking for his next meal would be easy. The type of people who were roaming the streets at that time of night were the types that tasted best.

He had traveled everywhere. His feet had taken him farther than any human would ever walk. He had many lovers, many friends, and many enemies. He had learned so much. Immortality meant that he could forever study. As his mind aged, however, he had no need for people. He was tired of the changes the world had made. So quickly, humanity had built a great empire that he hadn’t been able to imagine. 

He thought of these things as he smelled the air. His first meal of his new life, in the city of New Orleans, had to be special. He had just moved to the city under a new name. Logan Gaines, going back to a classic. A particular favorite alias of his. He had so many names, so many different lives. He kept his nose slightly lifted. He wanted to be invigorated. The first meal of this new life should be only the finest. 

His particular tastes were unconventional to the others of his kind. Some called him a snob, or told him that all humans tasted the same. However that was not his experience. He found that he desired a particular...type. He preferred creators. Poets were very sweet to him, while playwrights were a specialty. Painters were good appetizers. Authors, oh authors, those were the juiciest of all. The greater the talent, the greater the taste. 

One other thing his kind also found baffling about him is that he never killed. He only used his ability to thrall his victims into never remembering their encounters. It also was a good way to keep leftovers around. He had no desire to try to cover up a murder, plus he still held some form of morals from his first life.

He paused at the corner of the street. He smelt a very sweet, yet somewhat familiar scent. Had one of his previous meals come to the city? Very likely, given humanity's ability to move was more convenient than ever before. He walked toward the scent. Perhaps it was a poet. From the strength of the aroma he knew it was an intellectual, great taste. Definitely worthy of a celebratory first meal. 

As he grew closer, his mouth watered. Still, he couldn’t place where he had the blood. The faces of his meals blurred, but surely someone as delicious as this would be memorable. Or perhaps, he had only tasted this blood long ago. He could never be too bothered to remember every bite for long. He did admit to himself, the curiosity helped increase the thrill of the hunt. 

He came upon a hotel that would give anyone goosebumps. It definitely looked what humans would consider ‘haunted’. Logan knew better, ghosts were only a reality in the memories of the mind. 

As he climbed the stairs and wandered the halls, he felt his fangs start to drop. Must be a very delicious drink. 

He stopped outside the door of the source. He paused before knocking. His hesitancy bothered him, but he couldn’t place a finger as to why. Where was the excitement? It had just been there a moment before. Now he felt...was that nervousness? 

His mouth still watered, and his headache reminded him of why he was there. He shook his head, hoping to dismiss the foreign feeling. Perhaps it was over-excitement at what he was about to do.

He rapped on the door quietly enough for other visitors not to be disturbed, but loud enough for the person on the other side of the door to hear. 

He heard the grunt, male, definitely. He wanted to guess more, but this familiar unfamiliar situation gave him a thrill he hadn’t felt in over a decade. Not since he last had a lover. He felt a ping of pain at the fleeting thought. Then it hit him as the scent grew closer. He nearly made the connection but it was too late, for the victim had opened the door. 

“Roman…” he breathed. The former lover on his mind must have been conjured by cruel fate to be standing there. He was wrapped in a plush red robe with golden trim. His body was definitely many years older, but he aged well. The man before him was thirty five years old. More beautiful than when Logan had last left him as he slept all those years ago.

The man tilted his head in confusion. “Do I...know you?” Logan noticed his eyes squinting. Probably due to late night exhaustion. 

“It’s me, it’s-” Logan nearly choked on the words so they came out in a squeak, “Foster.”

Roman’s eyes widened. Then he rubbed the heels of his hands over his eyes. Then he looked back to Logan. “No...no, it can’t be…”

Logan opened his arms. “Yes, it can be, and it is.”

Of all the reactions Logan expected, he was not expecting to be pulled inside the room by his collar with the door being slammed behind him. Roman took advantage of his surprise by pushing Logan against the wall, forearm to Logan’s throat. The movement of the other caused the smell of the sweet blood to waft into his nostrils. His fangs fully dropped. Roman, now very alert, was able to see the change to his mouth. 

“Oh, I see. You’ve come to finish the job? Huh? You’ve come to finish your meal,” Roman growled. “What gives you the right to show up at my door, fangs dropped and shock in your eyes? Why leave for over a decade, then return when I am no longer youthful and full of beauty?” 

“But you are beautiful,” Logan said without thinking. He had a habit of speaking without forethought around Roman. He was baffled. “You’ve aged well, my rose.”

Roman shut his eyes and loosed his grip. “How dare you call me that after all these years…” 

Logan took the moment to strike. With inhuman speed, he turned Roman in his arms so that he was against the wall. Logan couldn’t help the growl that escaped his throat. 

“These years have meant nothing to me, my rose.” Logan ran his nose along Roman’s neck. He felt the heart rate of the smaller man increase. The blood thirst grew stronger, as well as Logan’s desires. “I have been away from you for over ten years, yet the moment I come into town your blood has called me to you.”

Roman squirmed. “You-you have no right,” he protested, but his voice was wavering. Logan could tell by the tension that grew upon his thigh that Roman did not mean his protests. 

He drew a finger over the other side of Roman’s neck, finding deep pleasure in the flesh growing warmer at his touch. “May I drink from you, my rose?” 

“Yes,” his prey breathed, “Yes please.” So easy

Logan did not hesitate before indulging himself in his desires. Roman gripped his collar, moaning in pleasure. He never seemed to fear the vampire when he drank. That, or he felt some sort of sick pleasure from the pain. Perhaps he was a masochist. Most writers were. 

Logan paused when the grip on his collar started to grow lighter. With great control, he pulled away. He licked over the wound so as to stop the bleeding. He pulled away to see the desire in Roman’s eyes. Oh, how he had missed those eyes in his isolation. How he never realized before the affect this man had on whatever soul he had, Logan did not know. 

Roman leaned up on his toes to kiss Logan, his tongue moving delicately past the sharp fangs. The taste of his blood mingled on their breaths. He pushed his hands in Logan’s hair. “Foster…” he whispered against his lips. 

Logan chuckled. “I’m sorry to correct you, but I am Logan now.” He pulled away to see the curiosity in Roman’s eyes. Leaning down to nibble at his ex-lover’s ear, he whispered, “Nice to meet you in this life, my rose.” 

Roman trembled. “Logan,” Logan moaned into the man’s neck. The new name coming from those tantalizing lips made him feel a new desire he hadn’t experienced in the old life as Foster. 

“Logan, can we please continue to our other...post meal activities?” Roman begged, “I haven’t been nearly as satisfied in so long,” he whined.

“Much obliged.” Logan stated before lifting Roman up. They never broke their kiss as they made their way to the bed. 

Definitely a good first meal in my new life, Logan thought as Roman fell asleep on his chest after. He closed his eyes as the sun rose. His dreams were filled with secret desires for a longer time with his no-longer-ex lover.

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Let me know if you wanna be added to a ship’s taglist!

[purrincess-chat]

Marinette Dupain-Cheng’s Spite Playlist: Original CH12

I finished! And I left it all as one chapter, so next chapter will be out next week sometime! I plan to update this fic once a week for the next 8 weeks until it’s finished, so get your bodies ready!

Previous    First    Next

Chapter 12

“Al? You okay?”

Alya blinked, flicking her gaze over to Nino sitting beside her wearing a worried crease on his brow and swallowed down the lump in her throat.

“I…” She shifted back to the phone in her lap. “I don’t know.”

“You’re upset.” It was a statement, not a question, and Alya bit her lip as tears welled in her eyes before burying her face in his shirt with a nod.

“She picked someone else!” She wailed finally, and Nino wrapped his arms around her, leaning his head against hers. “Why didn’t she come to me?”

“Maybe she didn’t have time,” Nino suggested, rubbing her back. “The akuma was on the other side of town, so maybe she needed someone close.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” she sniffled, sitting up. “I’m probably overreacting.”

“Ladybug and Lila are bffs, so why don’t you ask Lila to talk to her for you,” Nino suggested, and Alya smiled.

“Yeah, I’ll do that,” she said as Nino brushed a tear from her cheek. “Thanks, Nino.”

“You know I’m always here for you,” he said, and Alya stretched up to touch her lips to his.

“I know.”

The next day, Alya entered the school with stiffened shoulders. Her peers were all chatting about the new hero, and she kept her head low as she headed to the locker rooms.

“Hey, best friend,” Lila greeted with a smile, leaning in to kiss Alya’s cheeks.

“Hey, can I talk to you in private for a minute?” Alya asked, and Lila seemed to sober.

“Of course,” she said with a cautious tone as she followed Alya to a secluded corner of the courtyard. “What’s up?”

“You’re friends with Ladybug, right?” Alya started.

“Yeah, we’re like this,” Lila crossed her fingers then cocked a brow. “Why?”

“Well, with the new superhero…I just wanted to get some inside deets for my blog. What’s the story? What happened to Rena Rouge? That sort of thing,” Alya said carefully.

“Oh, is that all?” Lila laughed, seeming to relax. “Well, she usually consults me before she picks a new hero because she values my input. I don’t know all of the details on Malin, but I can totally ask for you.”

“Could you?” Alya perked up.

“Totally. I can even see if she’ll give you a private interview,” Lila winked, and Alya grinned, pulling her in for a hug.

“Thanks, girl. You’re the best,” she said, and Lila smiled, hugging her tightly.

“Don’t you forget it.”

***

“Hey, you made it!” Macy took Marinette’s hands and planted kisses on her cheeks. “Is Adrien coming?”

“He said he was,” Marinette retrieved her phone from her purse to check her messages.

“You two should sit together,” she insisted, and Marinette’s eyebrows raised. “Eliott told me about your feelings, and I’m totally supportive. I’m a huge fan of his, but you two seem really close, and I’d never want to start anything over a boy. It’s not worth ruining our friendship.”

“Macy,” Marinette smiled, pulling her in for a hug. “You’re the best.”

“No, you are. You’re amazing, and if Adrien can’t see that then he has poor taste,” Macy said with a wink. “If you ever need a wingwoman, I’ve got your back. I’m a really good flirt too, and I can teach you all kinds of tricks.”

“I might take you up on that. I’m hopeless,” Marinette rubbed the back of her neck, and Macy smiled, placing her hands on her shoulders.

“Don’t worry. I’ll set up the perfect scene for you two,” Macy winked. “He won’t know what hit him.”

“Who won’t know what?” Adrien quirked a brow as he and Martin approached.

“Oh, nothing,” Macy said with a coy lilt. “Just girl stuff, you wouldn’t be interested.”

“I get it. Keep your secrets,” Adrien held up a hand with a playful grin.

“Come on, Eliott reserved us seats in the balcony,” Macy said, taking Marinette’s wrist and leading the way.

As promised, Macy sat Marinette next to Adrien and toted Martin off with her to “get a drink.” Adrien seemed oblivious to her plans but unbothered by the extra alone time with her.

“So, your dad let you come, huh?” Marinette said, and Adrien rolled his eyes.

“He’s typically more amicable toward other rich people,” he said, leaning against his fist. “I guess he figures I’ll behave.”

“Either way, I’m glad. I’m happy that I get to spend time with you,” Marinette said with a shy smile, and Adrien perked up.

“I know. I didn’t mean to be a downer. I’m really glad he’s letting me out. I’m always happy when I’m with you,” he said, and Marinette felt her heart skip three beats.

“Yeah, it’s great. Not that he doesn’t trust you, but that we can hang out, I mean. It stinks that he doesn’t trust all of your friends and keeps you at home, and I’m sure it must be hard for you, and…I’m gonna just stop talking,” she deflated and turned to face forward awkwardly, kicking herself.

“It’s fine. It is hard, but I’ve got really great friends like you who understand, so that makes it better,” he said, and she reached out hesitantly at first to place her hand over his.

“You know I’m always here for you if you want to talk about it. Any time,” she said, cheeks pink, and Adrien searched her soft expression before a smile curled on his lips.

“Thank you. You have no idea how much that means to me,” he gave her hand a squeeze as Macy and Martin returned then clasped his hands together in his lap.

Marinette and Macy exchanged looks as the lights in the theater dimmed, and Marinette bit back a smile. Macy nudged her proudly with a giggle before they tuned into the play.

Eliott played a wonderfully convincing Chat Noir in her expert opinion, and even Margot didn’t do too bad as Ladybug. Though, she did find fault with their kiss scene at the end seeing as she and Chat were so not like that, but she supposed Paris wanted what it wanted even if it couldn’t be further from the truth.

“You. Were. Awesome!” Macy tackled Eliott the moment they met up afterward.

“Thanks,” Eliott rubbed the back of his neck. “I think that was my best performance.”

“You play Chat Noir so well, Eliott. Throw on a blond wig, and I’d swear you were him,” Marinette teased.

“I’d believe it,” Adrien chuckled. “I’m impressed at the quality of your playwright’s puns.”

“They’re almost as cheesy as the real Chat Noir’s,” Marinette laughed, and Adrien shot her a glare.

“Not feline the cat puns, Marinette?” He folded his arms over his chest and cocked a brow.

“Purrhaps she just doesn’t find them funny,” Eliott added with a wink.

“Then she has a very purr sense of humor,” Adrien smirked, and Marinette rolled her eyes, shooting him a playful grin of her own.

“I just think his comedic timing needs work. They’re saving Paris; shouldn’t he take his job a little more seriously?” She placed her hands on her hips.

“Meowch. No appreciation for good comedy with this one,” Adrien shook his head.

“I may have to reconsider purrmitting you to attend my after party on my yacht,” Eliott said, shoving his hands into his pockets. “You have to make one cat pun to be admitted.”

“Do I have to?” Marinette slumped.

“We can chat about it on the way,” Macy giggled, and Adrien and Eliott praised her contribution.

“Yeah, we’ve gato go,” Martin pointed to the door, only adding fuel to their laughter, and Marinette sighed.

“Betrayed by all of my friends at once,” she shook her head. “That’s cold.”

They all paused, giving her expectant looks, and she crossed her arms over her chest with a groan.

“Please leave meowt of this,” she rolled her eyes, and they all threw their heads back with triumphant laughter, applauding her as she curtsied and blew sarcastic kisses.

“Alright, I guess you can come,” Eliott teased, draping an arm over her shoulder as they walked.

“You guys are insufferable,” Marinette sighed.

“You love us though,” Adrien said, wrapping an arm around her waist as Eliott caught sight of Lisette.

“Go invite her,” Marinette said, elbowing his side.

“What? Who? I wasn’t- you’re…” Marinette gave him a stern look.

“Hey, Lisette!” Marinette called, breaking out of their grip and approaching the small girl with buns across the lobby.

“Marinette!” Eliott hissed, cupping his head and chasing after her.

“Who’s Lisette?” Adrien asked.

“A stagehand Eliott has a crush on,” Macy answered.

“Ah,” Adrien nodded.

“Lisette,” Marinette smiled sweetly.

“Hey, you’re…”

“Marinette,” she held out a hand. “Eliott’s friend.”

“Yes, you were at dress rehearsals,” Lisette pointed to her in recognition. “What’s up?”

“Nothing. Nothing’s up,” Eliott interjected, clamping a hand over her mouth, and Marinette gave him a prompting look. “Um, just I’m having a party on my yacht if you wanna come. Margot won’t be there.”

Lisette’s cheeks flushed, and she clutched the hem of her shirt in her hands.

“Sounds fun,” she said, rocking on her heels. “Let me go home and change then I’ll come over.”

“Okay, great!” Eliott said a little too loudly. “I’ll- We’ll see you there.”

“Great.”

“Cool.” Eliott turned abruptly, toting Marinette back to the group. “Okay, I deserved that revenge.”

“She likes you,” Marinette smirked, and Eliott couldn’t hide his smile.

“Shut up.”

“Oh la la, Eliott’s got a crush,” Macy giggled, fanning herself as they made their way out to the limo.

“Shut up!”

“Leave him alone. Love’s a delicate thing,” Adrien chided.

“Thanks, Adrien.”

“But Marinette is right, she seems into you,” he added, and Eliott covered his face with his hands.

“Hey, don’t be like that. We’re happy for you,” Marinette said, placing her hand on his shoulder. “She likes you. Have some confidence.”

“Do you really think so?” He bit his lip.

“Yes, it’s so obvious,” Macy rolled her eyes. “She’s always stealing glances at you in class, and she turns pink the moment she sees you. She’s smitten.”

“Talk to her tonight. I’m sure she’ll be happy,” Marinette urged, and Eliott pressed his lips together to hide his smile.

“Okay.”

Marinette glanced around at her friends throughout the evening, talking, laughing, a small smile curled on her lips as she considered how lucky she was. After everything that happened with Lila, she was in a bad place feeling unappreciated, abandoned, and angry. Martin and Eliott liked to say that she helped them, but truthfully, it was their friendship that saved her first. They showed her that true friendship did exist, and that real friends didn’t abandon one another.

Finally, her gaze rested on Adrien, the one thing she still had left from her old school. A true friend who had stuck by her when everyone else left. She was glad that he hadn’t fallen victim to Lila as well. Losing her best friend was painful enough. She couldn’t imagine how it would have felt to watch the boy she loved turn on her too. Even if they were only friends, she’d take it in a heartbeat.

“Adrien, you and Marinette should totally check out the upper deck. You get a really good view of the Seine,” Macy suggested, pointing up with a wink.

“My yacht is the same way. Come see, Marinette,” Adrien took her wrist and led her up, Macy mouthing a “you’re welcome,” as they passed.

“I’ve always thought the Seine was prettier at night,” he said, leaning against the railing. “Something about the reflection of the lights on the water just calms me down.”

“Same,” Marinette nodded, clasping her hands together in front of her, and Adrien glanced over with a smile.

“How are you holding up with everything?” He asked, and she pursed her lips.

“I’m doing better now,” she said after a moment. “Somethings are still kind of rough, but I’m grateful for my friends. And…for you.”

“I know you’ve been through a lot lately. I’m just glad you and I are still friends,” Adrien said softly. “You’re someone I don’t ever want to lose.”

Her cheeks flushed as he tucked a loose strand of hair into place, relief washing over her, and taking a leap, she took a step toward him, curling her arms around his waist. He pulled her in tight, rubbing her hair as she buried her face in his shoulder, tears spilling over in thick streams.

“I’m really glad I still have you,” she sobbed, and Adrien leaned his head against hers.

“You’ll always have me. I’ll always be watching out for you,” he murmured. “Always. I promise.”

***

Alya drummed her fingers on her phone as she stood among a crowd of reporters waiting for Ladybug and Chat Noir outside the Louvre. She just wanted answers, and being selected to be Rena Rouge meant she had some sort of bond with Ladybug, right? Surely she’d be open to clearing everything up for her.

“Ladybug!” Several reporters cried as the heroes exited the museum, camera bulbs flashing as several microphones competed for her attention.

“What’s the story on this akuma?”

“Can you confirm that you and Chat Noir are dating?”

“Do you have any leads on tracking down Hawkmoth?”

“A student got punished for wandering off on a field trip; no, we are not dating. Stop asking! And as of right now, we have no leads, but Chat Noir and I are doing everything in our power to keep you all safe,” she said smoothly, refusing to look at Alya in the crowd.

“Ladybug,” she spoke up, and reluctantly, Ladybug shifted to face her. “Um, I was hoping to get an answer to a question many of my followers have. What happened to Rena Rouge, and will Malin be a permanent replacement, or was he a temporary stand-in?”

Everyone’s eyes fixed on Ladybug, though her gaze was held by Alya. Something flashed in her eyes, an uneasy expression Alya had been seeing on her own face lately. Those big blue eyes were filled with pain, hurt, and regret, but Alya couldn’t for the life of her think why.

“I only give Miraculouses to those that I trust,” she said simply, holding Alya’s gaze for a long moment before turning away and grabbing her yoyo. “No more questions. Bug out.”

“Wait!” Alya called, and Ladybug glanced over her shoulder. “Lila Rossi, a good friend of yours said that you always consult her before giving out Miraculouses, is this true?”

Ladybug’s eyes narrowed, and she pressed her lips into a firm line. “That girl is no friend of mine.”

With a flick of her wrist, she tossed her yoyo and shot off, leaving Alya standing with her jaw hanging open.

“I’ll be happy to take a few more questions,” Chat Noir said, stepping to the center, and all the microphones pointed at him as Alya quietly backed out of the crowd.

Her heart hammered in her chest, a painful lump blocking her throat as tears welled in her eyes. She had to wonder if knowing the truth was any better than living in ignorance. What did it all mean? Did Ladybug not trust her anymore? And why would Lila tell her they were friends if Ladybug said they weren’t?

Because she’s a liar.

The thought flashed in her mind briefly, Marinette’s familiar voice ringing in her ears, bringing a stabbing pain to her chest, but she shook her head to clear it. She didn’t know what to believe anymore, but she’d get to the bottom of it tomorrow. One thing was for sure, if Lila was lying, then Alya had a lot of apologizing to do.

***

“Hey, bestie,” Lila smiled the next day as Alya approached wearing a pensive frown. “Why the long face?”

“I talked to Ladybug yesterday,” she said, and Lila straightened. “She said you’re not her friend, and she totally blew me off.”

“Oh no, I am so sorry, Alya. This is all my fault,” Lila’s face fell into her hands. “Ladybug and I got into a huge fight about the whole Malin thing because she didn’t consult me, and we aren’t on the best terms anymore.”

“Wait, she didn’t consult you about Malin?” Alya’s eyebrows furrowed.

“No. I wanted her to get Rena Rouge, but she insisted on this new guy, and I didn’t want to argue with her at the time since Paris was in trouble and all, but when I tried to bring it up later, she totally flipped on me,” Lila shook her head.

“Wow, that doesn’t sound like her,” Alya said, lowering her gaze.

“You didn’t hear this from me, but speaking as a former close friend of hers, Ladybug has some serious control issues. If you disagree with her even a little bit, she snaps,” Lila snapped her fingers. “She’s not even really that nice away from the cameras. It’s all just a role she plays for show.”

“I had no idea,” Alya said, running a hand through her hair. “I’m sorry, girl. I never should have doubted you.”

“It’s okay. Ladybug is a very convincing liar,” Lila sighed. “I forgive you.”

“So, if Ladybug consults you for all of the Miraculous assignments, then you know who I am, right?” Alya said softly, glancing around. “You know that I’m Rena Rouge?”

“Of course!” Lila whispered. “Who do you think recommended you for the job? That’s what I was so upset about Malin. I didn’t want her to turn her back on you, but we shouldn’t talk about your identity so openly.”

“You’re right,” Alya nodded, a smile curling on her lips. “It’s nice to know I have one true friend.”

“Aww, come here,” Lila pulled her in for a hug. “Ya know, who needs Ladybug anyway? You don’t need to be a superhero to make a difference.”

Alya glanced down at her phone, pursing her lips. She pulled up the Ladyblog, thumb hovering over the delete button as Lila wrapped her arms around her shoulders. “Do it. You’ll feel better if you put it all behind you.”

Alya bit her lip, hesitating momentarily before hitting delete and erasing a year’s worth of hard work in an instant. Countless late nights, dangerous battles collecting footage, all of her hopes and dreams and theories gone at the touch of a button. Ladybug didn’t trust her anymore, and now the feeling was mutual.

***

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Ladybug sat on the edge of a roof, staring out over the city with an emotionless expression as her partner approached. Her eyes were drained, empty, lifeless as she stared ahead, and Chat sat beside her patiently.

“I knew it would happen,” she said finally, blinking and shifting her gaze to her lap. “I knew she would wonder.”

“Alya?” Ladybug nodded. “You did pick someone else to take her place without a real explanation.”

“I had my reasons,” she said, swinging her legs. “I need people that I trust by my side.”

“I wasn’t questioning your decision,” he shook his head. “You know I trust you 100% no matter what, and truthfully, this time I agree with you.”

“I guess it’s not that I don’t trust her,” Ladybug said with a sigh. “I mean, I don’t doubt that she would still work with us, but she’s just hanging out with Lila, and after everything…I can’t work with her.”

“I understand.”

“I know that sounds selfish, but I can’t put my feelings aside.”

“No one’s asking you to.”

“I know we have a duty to protect the city, but if I can accomplish that with someone else then why go through the heartache?” She cupped her face in her hands.

“Bug,” Chat reached out to place a hand on her shoulder. “You did the right thing. No one is doubting your judgment. You and I need people we can work with and count on, and if Rena Rouge isn’t it then it’s time for Malin to step in.”

She peeked through her fingers at him, and he flashed her a warm smile.

“You have a very important job to do. Don’t worry about stepping on toes. We have to do what we can to save everyone, and we can’t do that if we’re emotionally compromised,” he said. “It’s not selfish. It’s our job.”

Ladybug lowered her hands, a small smile on her lips as she linked an arm through his and rested her head on his shoulder.

“Thanks, kitty.”

“You’re welcome,” he chuckled. “I just hope you’re not thinking of replacing me.”

“No, I wouldn’t,” she giggled, tightening her grip. “I know I can always rely on you.”

“Good. Then we’re on the same page,” he leaned his head against hers, gazing out at the Seine.

Normally, being in a position with her like this would have drive him crazy, but as they sat together so intimately, he felt an overwhelming sense of calm and warmth. In that moment, she wasn’t the love of his life, she was his best friend.

“Until next time, m’lady,” he bowed theatrically as they stood to leave, and she pressed a hand to her lips with a giggle. “I’m always here for you if you need me.”

“I know, Chat,” she said, stepping forward and stretching up on her toes to kiss his cheek. “Thank you for being someone I can lean on. It means the world to me.”

Chat smiled as she jogged off, waving casually before touching his cheek. It was strange that her kiss hadn’t sent him into overdrive, but he felt oddly comfortable with it. It was an appreciative gesture from one friend to another, no romance involved, and he was content with that. He wasn’t sure when his feelings for her had changed, but when he looked at her now, he didn’t see a lover – he saw a friend.

Ladybug swooped down into the street, ducking behind an ad stand before letting her transformation drop. She wanted to get some coffee before heading home so she could stay up and work on her designs for Clara’s presentation the following week. She was really close to finalizing a few of them, and now that she’d gotten a lot off her chest about Alya, she felt a weight lifted from her shoulders that left her ready to work.

Rounding the corner, she crossed the street to a quaint little café before a waterfall of silky, red hair wiping a table in a dingy green apron caught her eye. Was that…

“Gabrielle?”

[an-otome-cally-correct]

As Written (Part II)

If you wanna read more of my stuff, then check here.

All she had as a warning was a series of high-pitched barks growing louder and louder, before an energetic ball of fur launched itself into her legs, barely giving her enough time to brace for impact and very nearly toppling her over despite its size. Once she was certain she was steady and safe from an unceremonious dive into the flowerbeds, she looked down at her attacker-

A small spaniel wearing an expectant look and sporting a happily wagging tail.

“Vic,” she huffed, putting down her watering can so she could pick up the pup. “You almost made me fall. I think you owe me an apology.” She fixed the dog a firm look, but with a few barks and a lick along her cheek, she found it impossible to keep up a frown. “A smooth talker, just like your owner, aren’t you?”

“I try to teach him everything I know.”

She looked over her shoulder and found Arthur already making his way towards them, an easy smile sitting on his lips. “I worry about his future, then,” she chuckled, letting the dog jump out of her arms and run over to the writer, and she took up her watering can again. “Going out for a walk?”

Arthur nodded as he crouched down and attached a leash to the spaniel’s collar. “That’s right.” He then flashed her a grin. “Why don’t you join me? I’m always looking for a cute girl to spend time with.”

Snorting, she shook her head and continued with watering the rest of the flowers. “Thanks, but no thanks... Doesn’t Theo usually come with you? I’m sure he’s pleasant enough company.”

“That may be true, but Theo isn’t actually what you would call a ‘cute girl’ now, would you?” At that, she couldn’t help but laugh, and she could hear his own chuckles as he righted himself and dusted off his hands. “But to answer your question- Yes, Theo’s taking King out for a walk too.”

“Oh, then will we be expecting you for dinner?”

A glint of mischief shone in his eyes. “Depends. Will I be expecting you as dinner?”

Had he said that a few days ago, she would have been scared witless. By now, however, with everything having already been explained to her and Arthur’s unending teasing rendering her immune, she was more exasperated than she was intimidated. 

A small scowl settled on her lips as she contemplated on whether or not she should put her watering can to good use and drench the man, but she ultimately decided against it. Instead, she flicked his forehead, similar to the way Sebastian would whenever she said or did something stupid.

“Hey!” The smug look on his face immediately disappeared, and his eyebrows pulled together as he considered her. “You’re spending way too much time with Sebby. He’s already rubbing off on you.”

“Maybe.” She shrugged, although she couldn’t keep the corners of her mouth from curving into a small smile, feeling a little triumphant now that she had somehow managed to wipe the grin off his face. “So? Will you be having dinner here?”

“Yes, yes, we will,” he hummed, turning around on his heel and making his way back into the mansion with his spaniel in tow. “Well, if you ever get bored of Sebby, you know where to find me. Theo’s likely already waiting for us, and we wouldn’t want unpleasant company to catch us now, do we?”

As if understanding his words, Vic barked back with enthusiasm.

“I thought so too.”

A few moments passed before Arthur’s words registered, and when they did, her eyebrows pulled together. “Unpleasant… company?” she echoed - a bit concerned, a bit confused, and a bit curious. She turned on her heel, hoping that he was still around to give an explanation, but Arthur was already gone.

Although she highly doubted that the Count would let such suspicious characters easily waltz into his home, Arthur’s words weighed on her mind, long after he had spoken them. Even as her chores led her back into the mansion, she wondered what kind of folk he could have been talking about, her concerns only settling once she chanced upon Sebastian in the kitchen. She had intended on taking a quick break, and coincidentally, the butler was there preparing a tray of coffee and snacks.

“Those looks good,” she cooed as she eyed the baked treats. “Any chance there’d be enough for me?”

Sebastian met her gaze with a flat expression. She expected to be rejected right away - she had only asked as a joke, anyway - so she was legitimately surprised when his lips curved into a near indiscernible smile. “I suppose I can spare you some to have while you’re on your break.” He then gestured to the island counter. “Take a seat.”

She did as she was told, and soon enough, she had a small plate of pastries and a cup of freshly brewed coffee in front of her. “Thanks,” she chirped before plucking one of the sweet rolls off the plate and taking a bite. She hummed in delight as she enjoyed her treat, and  while Sebastian continued with his work, she decided it was as good time as any to ask.. “Are we expecting someone today? Arthur said we’re having company.”

“That’s right.” Sebastian nodded. “It was on short notice, so I wasn’t able to inform you, but  Master Shakespeare is here to check up on the painting Master Vincent is working on.”

“Will?” Her eyebrows shot up, not expecting their guest to be the playwright. Not when she could now clearly recall what Arthur had said of their supposed visitor. “Do Will and Arthur not get along?”

The butler paused for a moment before answering. “What gave you that impression?”

She shrugged. “It’s just something Arthur had said in passing a while ago, about having unpleasant company over.”

“....I see.”

“I take it they don’t?”

“Master Arthur generally dislikes people who aren’t straightforward, so I suppose he and Master Shakespeare have had their fair share of disagreements…” Sebastian began, and it was obvious to her that he was making a point to not sound rude to either man. “...But Master Shakespeare had already left the mansion by the time I arrived, so aside from that, I’m afraid I can’t say anything more.”

“So I guess you don’t know why he left either?”

Sebastian replied with a shake of his head. “I’ve asked a few times, but no one would answer with anything concrete, and I quickly learned it wasn’t something openly talked about.”

“I wonder why...” she murmured before taking a sip of her coffee. Granted, she had only met the man once, but she hadn’t found anything about the playwright that would deem him ‘unpleasant.’ He was peculiar, but so were the rest of the men she lived with in the mansion.

“I’d like to know too,” he agreed, nodding. “Although I’d also like to know when you and Master Shakespeare had gotten so close that you’d call him by his nickname.” She blinked, the sudden segue catching her off guard. Sebastian leaned in closer and she could see him already reaching into his coat for the notebook she knew he kept on him. “Tell me, have you learned anything interesting about-”

“Sebastian, there you are.” All of a sudden, Mozart waltzed into the kitchen, only to stop a few steps past the doorway, a fine eyebrow quirked as his gaze shifted between the two of them. Sebastian quickly tucked away his notebook back into his clothes and righted himself. “Am I interrupting something?”

“No, not at all,” Sebastian assured him. “How might I assist you, Master Mozart?”

Taking his word for it, Mozart stated what he needed without further hesitation. Meanwhile, she couldn’t help but sigh in relief, having avoided another of Sebastian’s interrogations, and she continued to busy herself with her snacks. “The grand piano needs to be tuned. The Count is out on business, so I’ll leave it to you to schedule for someone to tune it. As soon as possible, if you would.”

Sebastian offered a polite bow. “Of course, right away. Anything else?”

Mozart paused for a moment, sealing a glance at the steaming pot of coffee. “...I’ll have some coffee as well.”

Not long after, Mozart left the kitchen with his own cup of coffee in hand, and Sebastian turned his attention back to her. “I’ll make the necessary arrangements for Master Mozart’s piano. You bring this up to Master Vincent’s room in the meantime.”

Before she could even argue that she was still on break, what with half a plate of sweets and barely touched coffee left, Sebastian shot her a look. Not a mean one, but one that definitely left no room for argument, and she soon found herself on her way to Vincent’s room.

“My, my, it’s coming along quite nicely, isn’t it?” Shakespeare hummed, a hand on his chin as he inspected the canvas. “I should have expected nothing less from a talented artist such as yourself.”

Vincent shook his head as he quietly chuckled, no stranger to the other man’s penchant for prattling. He’d known him for quite some time now, and although he often went off on strange tangents, Vincent very much enjoyed his company. “It’s barely halfway done, Will.”

“Then the finished piece would no doubt be even more impressive,” he replied without missing a beat as he settled himself back on the few available seats in the room, and Vincent could only smile as he continued with his work. “I must thank you again for taking on such a sudden request… Have you decided on how I might repay you? And I refuse to pay you less than what is due.”

He paused, his hand going still before the tip of his brush could touch the canvas once more. If he had to be frank, he’d rather not charge for the piece - or any painting he would come to make for that matter. Money rarely crossed his mind whenever he painted, which admittedly, had brought him some hardships before. 

Besides, that was Theo’s area of expertise. He had told Shakespeare just as much a few days ago, back when the playwright had approached him with the request, but his friend refused to accept it for free.

“...I’ll have Theo appraise it when I finish, then. He’s better at this sort of thing, after all.”

Shakespeare nodded. “That is true, although now I fear he might charge me a fortune for his beloved brother’s masterpiece.” Vincent was about to argue that Theo wouldn’t do something so unreasonable, but the mirth he found dancing in the other man’s mismatched eyes despite his even expression let him know that his friend was only speaking out of good fun, and he let the matter slide.

Not to mention, Shakespeare was likely to be correct in his assumption anyway.

“If you haven’t decided on a price yet, then please accept these for the meantime.” The playwright pulled out two slips of paper and handed them out to him.

Curious, Vincent put down his brush, and after wiping away the paint from his hands with his apron, he reached out to take a better look. “Tickets?”

Another nod. “It’s an old play of mine, and by fate’s design, I’ve been given the opportunity to direct it once more. Have you been to the theatre before, Vincent? It’s quite an experience.”

“That’s quite the understatement, coming from someone who lives and breathes it,” he pointed out, the corners of his lips curving into an appreciative smile. “Are you sure it’s alright for you to just simply give these away?”

“Of course,” Shakespeare insisted, airily waving a hand as he did so. “If you don’t plan on using them for yourself, then you can give them to somebody else - I don’t mind. But I would greatly appreciate it if you come to see the show.” A small smile then settled on his lips. “A friendly face in the crowd would be nice.”

Vincent’s expression softened as he nodded. “I’ll have to find someone to come with me though,” he chuckled, tucking the tickets into the pockets of his pants.

Shakespeare looked up in thought. “Why not your brother? He has a good eye for the arts. Why not treat him to living art?”

“I’ll have to ask if he’s free though,” he murmured. His younger brother’s work took him all over the city to meet all sorts of people, making it difficult to schedule anything on such short notice, and Vincent was left to wonder who else he could ask. Preferably someone who didn’t hold any ill will towards the playwright, but that alone already cut down his options considerably.

Around then, a series of knocks echoed from the door, followed by a familiar, sweet voice. “Vincent, it’s me. I brought refreshments.”

“Ah, one moment,” he called out, setting down the rest of his tools before answering the door. Almost immediately, he was greeted by the scent of fresh pastries and coffee, as well as a warm smile that made it impossible to not return the gesture, and Vincent realized he might have just found who to take to the theatre.

[shadow-and-quill]

.:Aftermath:.

Characters: Ritsuka Aoki (male Keeper), Saeha Moui (female Keeper)

Rating: General.

Origin Date: 15 March 2019

Being alive was a victory in itself.

--------------

Ritsuka was not used to being a man of worry. He was paranoid, scrutinizing, and had contingencies for his contingencies, yes. But he didn’t worry. It was because he was always prepared.

But not this.

Something he should have expected. Though the probability of a brazen open-street attack was so low, it had racked and stacked itself low in his mind.

And so the Keeper had paid for it.

Days after the attack and he was sick of being in bed. And was sick of the rain. He was at least propped sitting up this afternoon, pillows behind his back as he looked out the Hingan building’s windows. As soon as possible he’d washed his face, combed and braided his hair, and did everything possible to get his appearance back in place.

Just because he was bedridden didn’t mean he would look like a mess. In fact, it was /because/ of that that appearance was much more important. The miqo’te would not show defeat or submission in the face of this. Now he had to be quiet and cautious and assess who could have carried this out. And that meant biding time in the safety of the Temple.

Bai Biming was the owner. He remembered the paperwork now. As a foreign buyer the deed had come across his desk to make sure there would be no negative connotations to lending out property to the playwright. All things had checked out clean.

All this bloody rain.

A small sigh as Ritsuka closed his eyes. Everything hurt. Saeha had managed to sneak him his medication but even that along with the painkillers had hardly eased that bone-threading pain. Every joint was achy, stiff. Being stuck in bed didn’t help. He flexed his hands, fingers, ankles, toes. Everything to keep them limber, try to ease back their flexibility. But it was short-lived.

His breathing had improved with his personal treatment but nowhere near to normal maintenance. When the cat took a deep breath in, he was unable to to do so fully and its release was shaky.

All signs that his late mother had in her life.

Wonderful.

The bureaucrat was not a religious man. However he had to thank /something/ that the healer for The Pearl was smart enough to catch the link in the bloodline and had treated Saeha young enough that she didn’t present symptoms of the same bloodline disease. At least, not yet. They would know in a few more years. The window for symptoms tended to start in puberty and the respiratory issues hadn’t onset. That likely meant she would live ailment-free.

It was these victories that kept Ritsuka going. His hand moved to run through the dark hair nearby. Now that Saeha had been allowed into the clinic she had rarely ever left and even slept in his bed like those old days. The kitten was in deep slumber and curled against his side.

And still it was raining. The Shirogane skies were dark and grey. The ocean in the distant was rolling, white-capped. Fitting for his mood.

His physical prowess would be diminished. For how long, he didn’t know. The pessimist in the miqo’te said that it could be permanent. Perhaps whatever poison his attacker used unintentionally aggravated the disease to worst stages.

Or there was always the fact that it wasn’t an accident. If that was truth, he truly had quite an enemy out there. Ritsuka kept his treatments secret, locked away. There would be no sign he was ill to those around him. The only on that had known was Saeha and the kitten wasn’t dumb. She knew better not to talk about such things.

It could be simply coincidence.

Now what? As much as the young man wished to return back to the bakufu offices with his head held high and undefeated, that wasn’t a possibility. His defenses and ability to fight back was diminished and pride wasn’t worth his death. He could continue his work...

Paperwork could be sent to his residence and ferried here. That would be a way to say ‘I’m alive, now what?’ This was all under the assumption that the one looking for him to be dead was someone in the government.

Ritsuka sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Even that motion hurt. There were too many avenues and now his choices of reacting were lower than before.

Rest. Recover. And in time, gather further information.

He’d put too much effort into carving out a stable life even if he had to stay on-guard. He’d do everything he could to rebuild that security and safety net for Saeha. She deserved it. It was all he could do.

And it was all he lived to do nowadays and damn anyone that tried to take that from him.

[hellyeahrpmemes]

※ SHIT I HEARD AT COLLEGE ※

a thrilling saga of shit i’ve heard at college; these are all from my first semester of sophomore year. feel free to change names/pronouns/etc.! more ‘shit i heard/said’ starters!

“The porn industry is moving swimmingly.”

“We all need men. Go find them.”

“It’s not an opera, bitches, it’s a flight.”

“Don’t look! It makes their dick bigger!”

“I have my own place and I can light as many candles as I want.”

“I’m not a librarian, sir.”

“How’s your sack lunch, bitch?”

“Stab me in the ass and turn me into Kim Kardashian.”

“I stayed up another hour just to cry.”

“I just got a nude and I don’t know how to feel about it.”

“I’m gonna go stab my eyes out now.”

“We get it. You have a big truck and a small penis.”

“It’s an epidemic, Karter!”

“There’s no cups, so I’m using a bowl. To drink apple juice.”

“Fuck y’all, I’m eating Fruit Loops!”

“I don’t know my superhero name, but here I am with my can of Lysol and my plastic fork.”

“Your list of things to do includes making the best 2000s playlist of all time and fighting me at Cheesecake Factory.”

“This is borderline human abuse.”

“How do you feel about fluorescent lighting?”

“I’m sorry, I’m on a college budget, I’ll give you two nickels and a paper clip.”

“We couldn’t say hell, because… Catholic school problems.”

“I don’t want them to call me and be like, ‘we’re about to drill into your face!’”

“Ugh, yes, the hot TA, what club are you in?”

“My rat bastard dad? What about him?”

“I have an idea that I’m positive no other human has ever had: butter flavored ice cream.”

“I hate myself, but I’m funny, so…”

“This man loves puppies and he is not afraid to say it.”

“There’s just something about stale food that I really like.”

“I like how we’re watching our upcoming death on TV.”

“When I get wasted, I want to fight. It’s a problem.”

“My boyfriend got really drunk and started drinking nectar out of the hummingbird feeder.”

“He currently has a child.”

“That’s a good way of getting rid of a baby.”

“He can’t look at his dead parents or his alive children.”

“I can’t focus on reading, ‘cause I just wanna watch Drake and Josh.”

“My roommate loves manifestos. Especially the Communist Manifesto.”

“Have you studied his naked body or something?”

“Okay, we got our Greek tragic playwrights: there’s Sophocles… there’s Euripides… uh… Isosceles?”

“We’re so stupid we click things that say ‘click here for here’.”

“So there were just 95 loose pigs.”

“This is called shaming.”

“I can’t be the only person who says ‘meatballs and spaghetti’.”

“What could go wrong? …oh, shit, I’m on fire.”

“Don’t call Kourtney unless you wanna suck dick tonight.”

“There’s no one around. He’s talking to his dick.”

“Just ‘cause it’s Greek doesn’t mean it’s sophisticated.”

“I hate myself, but I hate her more.”

“I don’t know anything about it, but it has bread in the name, so I want to try it.”

“Just… don’t breathe this class.”

“Megan: secret crop top wearer.”

“I’m embracing my aesthetic while you’re embracing… Jon Hamm’s face.”

“What are we doing tonight besides homework? …and bread?”

“I’m witnessing a breakup right here in the Starbucks line.”

“I nominate Gushers as a snack suggestion, but, like, a lot of them. All of them.”

“I have a strong immune system.”

“I was so worked up about the bolo ties.”

“Also, I was wine drunk, so…”

“Does she hit him? I hope she hits him.”

“Only Matthew McConaughey drives Lincolns.”

“Oh, yeah, I’m totally a Republican… Pence is daddy…”

“After that… is the exact same thing… from a different angle.”

“All my life, I’ve been striving to be better than Kidz Bop.”

“Is ‘slaveitude’ a word?”

“Ted Bundy was attractive. People knew him.”

“I feel like whoever’s in charge of the Reese’s company is really high right now. Like, putting Reese’s inside of Reese’s.”

“One beer bottle on campus might be a problem, but if there’s 8, they’re props.”

“With elevators, it’s not claustrophobia. It’s that I don’t trust the government.”

“Headphones: in. World: out. Notes font: ugly.”

“You know that’s a felony, right?”

“That’s a… fourth or fifth impression kind of story.”

“That means she definitely fucked a member of Kiss.”

“I feel free, but also ugly.”

“This is my unassigned assigned seat, and if any of you take it, I will fight you.”

“I went to the Home Depot, bought a bunch of lights, put them up in the air, and said ‘this is art’.”

“Because I was a full New Yorker, I just kept walking.”

“We almost died, but our last meal would’ve been free, so…”

“What’s a funeral like in 2017? GIFs and memes.”

“I would like to thank not only God but also Tinder.”

“I sat through a 40 minute argument about how Justin Bieber started the Cold War.”

“I’m just walking down the hallway, thinking about ways to throw myself down the stairs and make it look like an accident.”

“Now, if it was Kidz Bop, I’d go see it.”

“Don’t name your kid Ethelwold.”

“Shoulders, chest, pants, shoes: a vision for America.”

“My dad’s not getting dick from anyone.”

“I’m a shady beach and y’all are my shady beaches.”

“Oh, no, don’t write that down…”

“At Chipotle, God himself picked those avocados and put them in the guacamole.”

“It should be a holiday: Ohio awareness day.”

“We should go to a nice place. A formal place. California Pizza Kitchen.”

“What do you do in geology lab? Dissect rocks?”

“What great weather for a mental breakdown.”

“He’s not computer generated; he’s actually that large.”

“I’ve done some soul searching and I think that ranch dressing is my favorite food.”

“I almost said his birthday was in 1926. It’s like, we got a little bit of an age gap.”

“Are you physically running away from the situation?”

“I will personally call Papa John to tell him that he’s the reason my life isn’t going right.”

“I can’t wait for middle-aged sex now.”

“I should’ve known, there aren’t two eclipses in a year!”

“I walked around with a bear taser for a year and a half.”

“I found out that the guy I have a restraining order against has been peeing on my car for two years.”

“He fought the devil in jeans and no shirt.”

“She threw my fucking pillow off of the balcony!”

“Tickets are for something fun. Paying the check is not fun.”

“It’s Halloween, calories don’t count on holidays.”

“Well, you know how I said we met in philosophy class? Well… Elise doesn’t take philosophy class.”

“You got it wrong. You said 56 point 2. The answer was 56 point 2.”

“Do I want that horrible sock tan line that I had for five years back? Yeah, I do.”

“I got drunk, threw up, got high, and came here.”

“It’s Titanic blue. I’m the Heart of the Ocean, bitch.”

“The only rat bastard in our lives is Russ.”

“The beats are so good, but the words are such trash.”

“I had to fight someone in the elevator yesterday.

“…I’ve awakened the Demigorgon.”

“We solved the great hiccup epidemic of 2017.”

“Watch out, Kansas, I’m coming for you.”

“Do not associate my birthday with math terms.”

“That’s some Hunger Games type shit.”

“Fuck y’all, I hope you trip and die.”

“I’m very confused and also cold: an American tale. A five part miniseries, this fall on HBO.”

“I am Mrs. Grey! Bring me the kink!”

“I really wanna make a shirt that’s all Comic Sans.”

“I was thinking about Panera’s mac and cheese in a bread bowl, and I started crying.”

“We’re gonna steal your WiFi, but it’s okay, because Panhellenic love.”

“I have confidence that you’re not gonna get pregnant within those two hours.”

“See if this card works. I mean, it should work, but, like…”

“I think my favorite part was slowly dying.”

“All they serve is chicken salad, so you really have to like chicken salad.”

“I have three papers and a test this week, I don’t have time for feelings to resurface.”

“I’m living a life. Not my best one.”

“When you write a report on a book you’ve never read.”

“Don’t tell me what to wear when you wear Crocs to the bar.”

“I have listened to literally nothing but Hallelujah and My Heart Will Go On all day today.”

“Oh my god, Elise, you fucking bitch, get your shit together, and write your paper.”

You know what I’m really devastated about? I’m all out of Fruit Roll-ups.”

“We’re gonna be teachers. We have school forever.”

“I don’t want your sympathy, I want your anger.”

“Clowns… doorknobs… the color yellow… ducks… I’m quoting Victorious…”

“Did you just say ‘hey Sophie’ to not include me? ‘Cause, guess what, bitch, I’m still here.”

“I live here, I know when we have salad!”

“I think Satan’s middle name is cumulative.”

“I will put up with my moose husband for however long I need.”

“I’ve literally been down here for an hour and a half waiting for these nonexistent cookies.”

“I’m keeping a detailed list of Elise’s hickeys.”

“I’m an adult, I say as I eat my Fruit Roll-up.”

“Oh, my practicum grade is in! Let’s see… 36.”

“SOS, I’m in bed and it’s so comfy, but I need to get up to study, what do I do?”

“Get up. Only a few more days until we can sleep all we want.”

“So you’re admitting you live in the woods.”

“I don’t know if it’s finals stress or if this is actually the cutest thing I’ve ever seen, but I’m crying.”

“It was optional, don’t make me feel bad for skipping class.”

“I’ve heard that, if enough people fail, they’ll have to curve it.”

“How do you even study for this?”

[notarelationship]

A Crime Against Pizza (co-authored with @mshoneysucklepink)

From this prompt:  "Your pizza keeps getting delivered to my house by mistake and I need to talk to you about your choice of toppings AU" by @ashesinyourhair from the @dailyau. 

Rating: PG (for innuendo) Summary: Some people are very particular about their pizza. Warnings: Pineapple on pizza, orgasmic descriptions of pepperoni, egregiously overused italics, general idiocy. Stoner Brett. ~3100 words 

AO3

First this happened. Then this happened. Super thanks to @snarkyhag for the awesome beta.

--

The only saving grace about exam time, Blaine thought, was that somehow it made pizza taste even better. He wasn’t sure if it was some psychosomatic reaction or the perfect balance of protein, carbs, and fat traveling through his bloodstream straight to his brain - but it set off his reward center like nothing else. Except maybe a good orgasm (ideally brought on by something other than his own hand, thankyouverymuch).

The only problem was his roommate. Sam HATED Blaine’s preferred toppings of pineapple and ham, (“it’s fruit on pizza, Blaine, and fruit is healthy, it totally defeats the point of pizza being junk food! It makes it, I don’t know, less junky!”) Which was why he considered himself lucky that Sam had a nighttime photo shoot. Nothing was stopping him.

He dialed his favorite pizza place, telling himself he’d eat the leftovers for breakfast in the morning before Sam could bitch about it.

--

“Ouch!”

It was the fifth time Kurt had accidentally pricked himself with a pin while working on the partial costume that was barely holding together on the dress form. This was his final project for his Advanced Costume Design class, and it was about to look like a costume for Sweeney Todd instead of Hamilton (hmmm, maybe he could pass it off as from the “Battle of Yorktown?”). His vision was swimming in spite of all the coffee he’d ingested and...oh, he hadn’t eaten. That explained things; his blood sugar must have been off-balance.

He checked the fridge--nothing. He had been so busy with final assignments and living off bagels from the library coffee shop, he hadn’t gone grocery shopping and the fridge was only full of Rachel’s vegan friendly favorites. There were the kale chips she had bought on a whim, some tofu (ergh), and some homegrown kombucha from the farmer’s market that he was certain was becoming sentient. He briefly considered sauteeing up her seitan and vegetables into a stir fry, but he still had so much work to do and just the thought of cleaning up the kitchen afterward was more than he could bear.

He opened the drawer of menus and instantly salivated. He hadn’t had pizza with real cheese on it in months. Tonight not even Rachel Berry could stop him from getting his pineapple and pepperoni fix.

--

There was a reason the guys at Vanelli’s called their new delivery boy “Stoner Brett.”

Blaine was up and at the door before the delivery guy could even finish knocking.

“Uhhh, you order a,” the delivery boy who reeked of pot drawled, squinting at the label on the side, “a large pineapple?”

“Yeah, that’s me. Here you go,” Blaine said, handing over 25 dollars and taking the pizza box. “Keep the change.”

“Dude, cool,” Stoned Delivery Dude smiled and left. Blaine closed the door and went to set the pizza on the coffee table. He grabbed a plate, knife and fork from the kitchen, a handful of napkins (it was New York pizza) along with a soda from the fridge, and sat down to his mid-study reward.

“Mmm, come to papa,” Blaine moaned, as he opened the box.

And was immediately disgusted.

There was pepperoni on his pizza.

Now, Blaine understood that pepperoni was the most popular and stereotypically classic pizza topping. He figured it was an easy mistake to make. But it didn’t stop the queasy feeling they gave him. Little red nitrites, their edges crisped and curled up like the floors of Hell, their centers filled with a light yellow puddle of grease. Spicy little grease pools that dripped everywhere, and anyone who ever had to get grease stains out of polo shirts would empathize, he was sure. And with pineapple? No, just...no. The saltiness of the ham paired so well with sweet pineapple; slightly dry balanced with juicy bursts. But pineapple juice mixed with pepperoni grease?

Blaine would have cried if he weren’t so nauseous. And hungry.

He decided, maybe he could just delicately pick the pepperonis off? He picked up one, and gently attempted to pull it off the cheese...and the grease splashed back onto his shirt.

“GODDAMNIT.” He called Vanelli’s again, to try to get a replacement pie.

--

Kurt stomach growled and he looked up from his sewing and saw the time. It had been almost an hour since he’d ordered his pizza.

“Oh my god,” he mumbled to no one, reaching for his phone. He was just about to dial to find out where his food was when Rachel came noisily into the apartment.

“Kurt! You will never guess who I ran into tonight at yoga - Jesse St. James, from high school. You remember him?”

Kurt scowled. Yes, he remembered Jesse-St.James-from-high-school. He did not approve.

“Yes, but Vanelli’s never delivered my pizza so hang on; let me call them and you can tell me all about -”

The downstairs buzzer rang before Kurt could push the numbers. The caller ID’d himself as the pizza delivery guy so Kurt buzzed him up.

“I hope that’s the Vegan Double, Kurt, I am starving,” Rachel followed him to the door, standing behind him and looking skeptically at the delivery guy. Kurt didn’t recognize him, but he definitely recognized the slightly sour scent of streetcorner weed. He made a face and paid the guy, but he didn’t have the heart to skimp on his tip, even with the tardy delivery.

Kurt set the box on the dining table, “Rachel I didn’t order the vegan one,” Kurt said, opening the box. “You weren’t here so I opted for - not this.” Kurt stared at the pizza. It was almost right. He could have sworn he’d ordered pineapple and pepperoni, but that was definitely ham on the pie. Whatever, he shrugged to himself. Pork is pork.

“Gross.” He had almost forgotten Rachel was standing there. “I don’t know how you can eat that, Kurt. Those poor pigs, and all the milk for that cheese belongs to the baby cows -”

“Calves, Rachel. They’re called calves.” Kurt rolled his eyes.

Rachel sat across the table with her most judgmental look. “They are baby cows, Kurt.”

“Whatever Rachel. I am starving and I am eating this pizza,” he said. But he knew he’d give in, he always did. And usually he didn’t even mind. He liked eating healthier, he felt better, and it was good for his occasionally fluctuating weight (although that had been less of a problem as he’d gotten older). But sometimes he just wanted a real freaking pizza. “Go make yourself something.  I’ll stop at two slices and eat the rest tomorrow after my exam. I still have to finish up the project for my costume design class and then we can watch a movie and have popcorn with that vegan butter you like, okay?”

Rachel grinned. “That sounds like a perfect night Kurt. Thank you!”

--

After the pizza mixup from the other night, Blaine was hesitant about ordering from Vanelli’s again. They had brought him a new pie, with the proper toppings, and he left the other for Sam (who, as expected, picked the pineapple off and threw it in the trash, what kind of monster…). But they had ordered once after that and it turned out fine, though the last delivery person was different (and decidedly not high as a kite), and the order had been correct (however, with Sam home there would be no pineapple). Blaine assumed they had fired the stoner from before.

Blaine sighed with relief when he came in from his last exam. He had sent his final paper in earlier that day, and with that another school year was behind him. He had a couple of weeks until his summer internship started, and for now he felt like celebrating. As far as he was concerned there was no better way to celebrate than with his favorite pizza. With the biggest puppy eyes Blaine could muster, Sam bent to his will and let him pick the toppings (“but I’m totally picking the fruit off!” he said).

“You’re the one best friend that anyone could have,” Blaine sang at Sam, as he went to take a shower, leaving Sam to answer the door.

--

Less than a week after the ham pizza incident Kurt was buried under a History of Design project and two back-to-back finals, one for his Advanced Playwrights class and the other a monologue from The Tempest for his Shakespeare class that Kurt was finding to be a miserable bitch to memorize. The further he got into the monologue the worse he got.

It took him about fifteen more difficult minutes to realize that he hadn’t actually eaten since breakfast, and that was probably why his brain wasn’t putting words together in any proper order, much less the order William Shakespeare demanded.

As good as the ham and pineapple pizza had been, he was still craving his favorite pineapple with pepperoni. Ham was fine, but a ham and pineapple pizza was just so boring. Pepperoni was spicy and chewy, and Vanelli’s had that special way of cooking the pepperoni so that they curled up around the edges and the tasty grease pooled deliciously in the center of each slice, like tiny bowls of processed pork product soup.

“God yes,” Kurt moaned as he thumbed open his phone and called the shop.

--

“Blaine, pizza’s here!” Sam shouted.

Blaine came out of his room, barefoot and wearing a fresh shirt and pair of jeans, pressing the moisture out of his curls. “Great, I’m starving! Wait,” Blaine sniffed the air, then at Sam’s clothes, and got a strange sense of deja vu. “Why does it smell like a Phish concert in here?”

“Probably because the pizza dude was totally stoned out of his gourd,” Sam laughed, as he opened the box.

Blaine didn’t even need to see the pepperonis before he knew they were there. “Damn it. I gotta call them back, get them to send a non-stoner to bring us a new pizza.”

“Um, why don’t you just give it to this Hummel person?” Sam asked.

“What Hummel person?”

“The person whose pizza this is? I looked at the receipt on the side. They only live two floors above us.”

--

Forty-five minutes later there was a knock on his apartment door, which made no sense unless Rachel had forgotten her keys, because they had a buzzer and everyone in the building was careful about not letting in someone without keys. Kurt looked through the peephole in the door. There was a guy on the other side that Kurt thought he recognized as one of the two guys who lived downstairs. The two cute guys. They’d never exchanged more than a polite nod, and neither he nor Rachel had been able to figure out whether they were a couple or not.

Oh well, cute guys don’t randomly knock on my door every day, he thought, as he opened it. It was one of the cute guys - the one who usually used too much gel in his hair (though not tonight and ooh those curls were sexy) - and he was holding a pizza box.

“Hi, can I help you?”

Cute Guy scowled. “I believe this is yours?” He lifted the edge of the box and Kurt could see his perfect pepperoni and pineapple pizza inside.

Kurt grinned. “Oh wow, thank you!” He reached out and took the box. “But how did you -”

“Know it was you? Your apartment number was on the box.”

“Oh, duh, of course! Well, thank you, um…”

Cute Guy extended his hand. “My name’s Blaine....”

“...Kurt.”

Kurt juggled the box to his left so he could shake hands with his right, and when their hands touched there was a spark. Blaine sure did have the prettiest eyes Kurt had seen in a long time. Maybe in ever. He wondered if Blaine might like to share his pizza. Or possibly his bed. “Would you like to come in?”

--

“Um, okay.”

Blaine was all ready to be super judgemental about whoever this Hummel person was, because he was perfectly allowed to judge based on choice of pizza toppings alone. But when the door opened, he wasn’t expecting the hot guy from the mailboxes. Sam was always teasing him that he was having an imaginary affair with the guy he ran into when he was getting the mail (and he wasn’t wrong). He can’t believe he never registered which apartment was his.

“Thanks for bringing up my pizza. I swear they mess this up every time.” Come on Kurt, you can be flirty. “Can I get you a drink, or do you want to share a thank you slice?”

How could someone so gorgeous have such awful taste in pizza toppings? He hoped it didn’t show on his face.

“I just have to ask one thing,” Blaine said.

Kurt turned from setting the pizza box on a table, raising an eyebrow. “Yes?”

“Why pepperoni?”

Kurt’s mouth dropped open. “Um, why not pepperoni?”

Blaine cringed internally, because this guy was so cute and wrong about pizza but still cute with such a melodic voice. But he had to know, because pepperoni was gross.

“Excuse me, what’s so gross about it?” Oh damn, he said that out loud. Well, in for a penny...

“It’s just so highly processed, and the way it curls up, and the grease pops out of it and settles into these icky, oily pools -”

“Very delicious grease, I think you mean.”

“- and you can’t pick them off without getting the grease everywhere. They are a crime against pizza! And with pineapple? How can you ruin such a perfect, juicy, succulent fruit, that just bursts with sweetness in your mouth?”

Kurt could think of something he’d like to burst in his mouth, all right. “All true. And don’t forget the occasional flash of tart the pineapple sometimes supplies,” Kurt said. “I suppose you would pair your pineapple with ham?” Kurt’s voice had gotten higher at that, and Blaine thought he might have moved a bit closer. He may even have licked his lips.

“It’s only the best balanced companion to pineapple. The ham has that little bit of smoky dryness and salty tang that pineapple pairs so nicely with.”

“But it’s just ham. It is literally the topping most commonly paired with pineapple. It’s so, so -” don’t say boring Kurt, you’re still trying to impress this guy, “predictable.”  

“Predictable, huh?” Blaine said, and oh, he could watch Kurt’s lips purse around pronouncing words that start with “P” all night (even if one of them was “pepperoni”).

“Pepperoni is spicy, hot, it makes your mouth feel alive, Blaine. It - mmpf”

Blaine’s mouth was definitely alive, and it was living all over Kurt’s.

Kurt let out a squeak, but gripped Blaine’s shoulders, pulling him closer as they both settled into the kiss.

“Oh my god!” Blaine pulled away. “That was - I don’t know what that was. I am -”

“Do not say sorry.” Kurt pulled Blaine’s face with both hands and kissed him again, angling his head so their mouths slotted together, his tongue licking into Blaine’s mouth. Kurt pulled away when he finally needed air, and Blaine took a step backward. “Wow, um. Okay.”

They stood for a moment, evaluating each other.

“Would you like to stay for pizza?” Kurt asked, waving a hand backward toward his probably cold pie.

“No,” Blaine said.

“Oh. Well okay, I guess I read this wrong…”

Blaine panicked and grabbed Kurt by the arms. “No, I’m sorry, that’s not what I meant. I mean I won’t stay for that pizza. We can order another.”

“And, um, what should we do while we wait?”

Blaine gave him a sultry gaze. “I have some ideas.”

--

Three months later…

Blaine was sitting on the sofa reading through a magazine when the buzzer from the street went off.

“Hey babe, can you get that?” Kurt shouted from their bedroom. Their bedroom.

“Sure. Are we expecting someone?” Blaine pushed the buzzer. “Hello?”

“Delivery.” came the muddled voice through the tinny speaker.

“It’s a surprise!” Kurt sang from the other room.

They had only been living together for a few days, long enough to have most of Blaine’s things moved in while Kurt moved some of his out-of-season things to Rachel’s old room. It wasn’t like they even had that much stuff, it was just the act of combining their lives that made it seem like so much more.

It had seemed sudden to their friends, when Blaine moved into Kurt’s apartment, but with Rachel cast in a series shooting in Los Angeles and Sam moving back to Kentucky to be with his parents for a while, it had seemed like the obvious choice to both Blaine and Kurt.

“A surprise, huh?”

Blaine opened the door to find...Stoner Brett.

The pizza delivery guy. (They found out his name after another two misdelivered pizzas, and three calls to Vanelli’s. Everyone there called him that. It seemed fitting.)

“Hey, Sto--uh, Brett,” Blaine said.

“Yo, dude.” Brett looked confused a moment.  “Am I in the right place?”

Blaine laughed and fished money out of the jar by the door. “Yeah. I moved.”

“Woah. Cool.” He grinned and put up a fist for Blaine to bump.

Kurt came out of the bedroom as Blaine took the pizza. Brett looked even more confused. “Wow, dude, did you move too?”

“Um, no?” Kurt said, as Blaine put the pizza on the table. Brett stood for a moment, as if he wasn’t sure he was even in the right dimension, but eventually shuffled off without a word. Kurt brushed it off. “So, I thought to welcome you, we could have a compromise pizza!”

“Compromise, huh?”

“Yes,” Kurt said, as he wound his arms around Blaine’s waist. “Pineapple all over, but ham on one side for you, and pepperoni on the other side for me,” he punctuated with a wet kiss to Blaine’s lips.

“Aw, that’s so sweet!” Blaine cooed, as he leaned over and flipped open the box lid and… “Oh, you have got to be kidding me!”

They both stared into the box: the pizza had all the pineapple on only one side; the other side had the ham and pepperoni together.

“Well, we can’t blame Stoner Brett this time,” Kurt mused. “He only delivers them, he doesn’t make them.”

“So, what do you want to do?”

“Well, you know how I feel about pork, Blaine. Why settle for just ham and pepperoni when I can have sausage here at home?” He gave Blaine’s ass a squeeze and led them back to the bedroom.

That pie went cold. From then on they started ordering their pizza from Jimmy’s Famous instead.

[ncstings]

distracting kiss as another one for benjie & georgia i mean!!! ( i guess it fits? )

he said this would be good for her. whatever the fuck that means.

“closure at the least.”

closure? who needs fucking closure when you’re perfectly fucking happy in new york, with your friends, and your hot scottish boyfriend, and your family barely even crosses your mind.

“seems there’s a lot unresolved there.” he says.

what the fuck does he know?

but there they were, in line to get their luggage checked at the air port. after weeks of heated conversation. after benjamin assured her that in the end, he’d support whatever she wanted, but he believed it was right just to be there. georgia always told him he didn’t know what kind of family she had. and they knew of unsavory families. georgia’s shared details of maggie’s siblings, and her lack of parents in adulthood. they know that vincent has no family anymore. but georgia explains this is very different than that.

it’s all fake. nothing matters. she’s not that person anymore.

“what kind of person?” he asks.

she warns him that he’s going to be disappointed. ohio is bottom of the barrel. not like florida is bottom of the barrel where you can make jokes about it and it’s like some alternate reality. no, this was a suburb of ohio. meaning when they came in, and she forgot her deodorant, they had to go to a wal-mart. a place, she explained, benjamin had had the pleasure of never going to before. when they were hungry, the only interesting choice that wasn’t a chain, was the local chinese place. delicious, sure, but options were not plentiful.

he knew she was tense the entire time. he kept rubbing her leg or taking her hand or kissing behind the ear. in the uber ride into town, he said no matter how it turned out, he’d be right there. at least she’d have him.

and thank fucking christ for that.

they joke about fucking all the time. and usually, they end up actually fucking. but when he’s try to pass flirtations, he was met with flat comments. she was too busy with having to see the family.

“wait, i’m sorry, what’s your brother’s name?” he asks when he sits on the bed at their air bnb, georgia changing into more comfortable clothes.

“tennesse.” she sighs. “my older sister’s name is montana, and my younger sister is virginia.”

“and you’re georgia.” he finishes.

“welcome to the family.” she winces a smile. “betty and mike are a real treat.” 

her shoulders feel like they’re wound up like a rubber band. it’s written all over her so benjamin changes the subject. “have you ever read tennesse williams?”

“what?” she looks up, surprised in the shift. “no.” she shakes her head.

“fantastic playwright. one of the best of the modern generation.” he nods. “i’m sure i have a play of his buried somewhere in my place, i should let you borrow one. you’d like it.” he pats the space beside him. “come lay down, you look like you’re going to burst.”

“i just might.” she chuckles, sliding next to him. not a typical position, but she finds herself bending down to lay her head in his lap. his fingers running through her hair.

“what on earth did this family do to you?” he whispers.

on the outside, it looks like your average upper middle class house. white picket, shiny cars in the driveway, two stories. five bedrooms, three baths. a finished basement. everything you’d expect in a white family’s perfect home in the perfect suburb.

they got there early. her mom said she needed help setting things up. virginia was going to get married in the backyard. apparently it was less about the money (which there would have been enough to have a perfectly respectable wedding), and more about the time frame. for some reason, they wanted to get married as quickly as they could. hence the wedding only 3 months after the engagement.

georgia bought a new dress. something benjamin points out as he sat in a chair, typing his black shoes.

“you have plenty of lovely dresses.” he mentions.

“i couldn’t wear any of those.”

“why not?” he asks.

“i just couldn’t.”

she didn’t want to admit it was on principle of impressing them. she hated admitting to herself she was still caught up in that bullshit.

the dress is soft and gentle. hugs her curves but is still playful, not showy. she liked it. a lot less scandalous then some other things she’s worn. it’s below the knee and respectable, but still her.

he tells her she looks stunning and kisses the lipstick off her. she has to reapply in the uber. tell him not to mess with it again. but she hopes he does. always.

betty opens the door and the grin is immediate. “oh darling, look at you!” she extends her arms into a wide hug, embracing her daughter tightly and dragging her inside. “so good to see you finally. i was worried when you didn’t text or call saying you came in alright.”

“i was tired.” she says in a quick response, giving her mother a half hug. when she pulls away, she clears her throat, and gestures to benjamin. “this is benjamin, my boyfriend.”

“pleasure.” he says, extending his hand. 

“yes, this is the man from across the pond, i remember!”

she told them about him last christmas. her first serious partner since the big ex. they’re always hounding her about it, and it slipped out. she’s regretted it since.

“well let’s go in. i need help making the flower arrangements. ben, i hope you wont get too bored. if you want something to do, the guys are watching the game in the other room.”

“he doesn’t care about that stuff, mom.” she sighs, putting her purse on the table when they get into the kitchen.

“i like sports.” his hands are sliding into his pockets and he looks around.

georgia shoots daggers into him, but it softens in a moment. she can’t be mad. not when she hasn’t warned him.

“oh course you do!” betty exclaims. “let me get you a beer.”

“don’t---,” she’s cut off by the sound of the opening fridge, and a bottle being opened. 

“here dear. the guys are just downstairs in the man cave.” she’s glowing, and it makes georgia sick. “i swear, we made that man cave and it’s like i never see my husband anymore.” she laughs, and georgia watches as she reaches for a wine glass.

benjamin has the beer in his hand, and he starts to head in the direction of the basement, but georgia follows. she takes the beer out of his hand as he’s going for a sip. “it’s eleven ben, don’t drink that.” she whispers, ducking into the half bath.

“i didn’t want to be rude.” he stands in the doorway, where she’s dumping the contents down the sink.

“i don’t want either of us drinking today.” she says quietly. her words aren’t controlling, they’re not tense. it’s almost like a plea, looking over her shoulder at him, her lips in a flat line.

“okay.” he nods. “no drinking. i promise.” he puts his hand over his chest. “do you want me to go downstairs?”

“georgie! you have to come see what we did to your old room!” her mother shouts.

“it’s fine.” she nods.

“are you sure?” he reaches for her hand. “i am here for you.”

“it’s going to be more trouble if you don’t.” she gives his hand a squeeze and steps out. “take this.” she hands him the bottle. “if you don’t have one they’ll just give you another.” she sighs, disappointed at her words as if it’s already happened.

and sure enough, her bedroom was converted. not that georgia’s been back to this house since the breakup, really. it’s been a long time. the smell of her juicy perfume is gone. the posters are off her wall. she’s not mad that it’s a crafting studio now. she couldn’t care less. but it feels like a passage of time. even more of a farewell to this youth she knew in this home. she is even more a stranger than she was before.

so betty asks. asks and asks and asks. half of the questions are questions she asks every year. how is work? home much do you make again? well what about a pension, do you have insurance? does ben treat you right? is the sex good? so is navy really a fall color like she read in her magazine? she asks if she’s talked to brad. she wonders out loud what he’s up to. her jaw tenses and she’s pretty sure she pricks her finger on a rose when she speaks of kimberly. then she says tennesse is having his third kid. jossiah, they’re going to name him. she wants to bang her head against the wall but she keeps putting the roses with the dahlia’s.

“he’s not young.” she finally says. “how old is he?” her words are a whisper, even though they’re the only one on this floor.

“forty, mom. he’s only ten years older than me.” she keeps her eyes on the flowers.

“well, does he have any kids? are you going to be a stepmom?”

“i don’t even like to assume we’re going to take it that far. but yes, mom, he has a kid. he’s a very sweet boy, but he lives with his mom most of the time, and he’s a teenager so it’s not like there’s much parenting going on there.” she doesn’t dare bring up the time she saw devon at a place he certainly should not have been.

he mother is silent for a moment, an absolute rarity, but then she speaks. “are you sure he’s going to give you what you want?” she whispers. 

“i think that’s for me to find out, and you not to worry about.” she nods.

“alright, alright.” she holds up her hands. “i’ll back off.”

there’s a loud noise coming from the basement, and georgia feels her stomach churn. 

“you know what?” her mother says, sipping from her second glass of wine. “you should say hello to your father.”

but georgia’s already walking away from the counter to go find out what the noise was. each step has her body trembling even more, unsure of what she’s going to find. when she finally reaches the last step, and turns the corner, all she sees is benjamin at the pool table, with her brother. her father sitting in the recliner, watching the large tv.

“hey, love.” he grins, holding the pool stick. “your brother’s not a gracious loser.”

“your man’s a cheat.” tennesse points, beer in one hand, stick in the other. he points with his beer hand. “which figures.” he shrugs, holding a stupid grin.

“figures because why, ten?” she tilts her head.

“he’s a scot!” her dad booms from the seat, errupting in laughter, which her brother follows.

“that’s not even a stereotype that makes sense dad.” she shakes her head. 

“come give your old man a kiss.” he waves his hand behind the recliner and she knows she has to. she walks around and sees him. sure enough, looks like he never gets out of that damn chair. his face sags a bit more now from when she last saw him. he’s a bit rounder in the face and the belly. she bends down to give him a kiss on the cheek. “ahhh look at my girl.” he puts a hand on her arm, but she stands after giving him his kiss. she notices how he doesn’t say baby girl or beautiful girl. he jaw tenses. “what are you wearing?” he winces, reaching over for his glasses to put them on and get a closer look. “this is a wedding, not a night on the town, georgia.” he scolds, and georgia looks up to benjamin.

“thanks dad.” she nods

“come on dad, georgie’s always been the fun one.” tennesse leans on his pool stick, grinning like he knows something. 

because he fucking does and she wants to smack him.

“are we having fun?” she says, giving a tight-lipped smile.

“yeah.” ben nods. “i’m sure tennesse disagrees but i’m having fun.”

“not for long, i’ll make a fool out of you soon enough.” tennesse wags another finger at him, getting ready to take his shot.

“great.” she nods. “guess i’ll go back upstairs.”

she does. it’s the lesser of two evils, she decides, being stuck with her mother arranging flowers. she reminds herself that maggie’s brother is a dead beat, coked out fool that she has to babysit still well into his thirties. she reminds herself vincent lost his parents. she tells herself her rage needs to be placed elsewhere. she pricks herself on another thorn and she thinks that’s good enough.

montana comes with her husband, littered with distant family she hasn’t seen in close to fifteen years. she gives them polite greetings but they’re there to set up the arrangements in the back, so they don’t linger long. montana’s kids run around, screaming throughout the house to the back yard. 

montana kisses georgia’s forehead when she comes in. graceful, soft, gentle. she speaks as if she’s still on that stage winning miss ohion. georgia still looks at her like she wears the crown.

“you look stunning.” montana croons.

georgia thinks about the time montana threw cake in her face when she was fourteen and she nods. 

but montana was the best. in comparison. at least montana had soft hands. at least montana held her hair back when she puked in the toilet from too much to drink. at least montana told the boys to get off her lawn. at least montana braided her hair after virginia cut half of it off. montana was the one with the wedding magazines.

montana was who she wanted to be.

she was better at reigning their mother in, so she takes over for helping them out. she plucks the wine glass out of her hand more often than georgia would ever have the courage to. when she looks over once when montana did it, she takes a sip herself a winks. it’s hard not to gag. feeling she’s seventeen again trapped in this too big house that closes in on her chest. 

virginia finally comes two hours before the ceremony. her hair and makeup already done, they rush her to their parent’s room to get ready. georgia doesn’t go. it’s a bit too much. knowing that force is in the house. she can’t help but walk down the steps to the basement. she can only make it to the entrance, looking at benjamin sits with the group of men. what used to be three of them now duplicated to six. she clears her throat. benjamin looks up instantly, and he’s to his feet. there’s some dumb joke that someone says and ben replies that makes everyone laugh. she’s not even listening, just walks back up the stairs and goes back to that half bath where she dumped out his beer.

he closes the door behind himself and she steps forward, grabbing the hand towel off the rack and pressing it to his chest.

“what’s wrong?” he reaches up, his hand cupping her face.

she doesn’t respond. all she does is press her face into the cloth and yell. it rattles her bones, tears her throat. it peppers her eyes with the threat of tears but she wont allow the satisfaction of walking out of this bathroom with ruined makeup.

he wraps a tight arm around her and when she runs out of breath, she lets out another one.

“what happened?” he looks with concern when she steps back, leaning against the sink.

“nothing.” she takes in a deep breath. “it’s just being here.”

it’s all the little things. the little words and the little looks. the little memories. just being here; all the things she spent her entire childhood putting up with, it suffocates her now.

“we can leave.” he puts his hands on her shoulder. “we’ll go right now, just sleep in bed until our flight in a couple days. go back, forget about this.”

“no.” she shakes her head. “i’m here now. if i leave then there will just be more talk.”

“why would that bother you if you hardly talk to them to begin with?”

“i don’t know.” she sighs. “but let’s just... finish the night.”

“okay.” he nods. “i’ll stick with you for the rest of it, okay? promise.” he bends down, kissing her temple. “you need to fix this?” he says, tracing her bottom lip with his thumb.

the first time she sees virginia, the first time since she was eighteen, was when she walked down the aisle. clearly the money was put somewhere, because georgia recognizes the dress instantly. can’t help but snort when she sees her walking with pride. wonders if daddy coughed up the 15k for the dress or if she managed a loaded hubby like she always dreamed. she’s got her arms crossed over her chest and watches as she meets her beau at the end. they exchange their vows, and she notices something funny.

leaning over to benjamin, she whispers. “does he sound funny to you?”

“i don’t know, he’s pretty quiet.” he’s got his arm on the back of her chair, a thumb rubbing the skin on her arm. 

thankfully, it’s a quick ceremony, and the reception begins quick enough. ben makes a passing comment about the size of their backyard and georgia laughs. explains that when their parents were away, tennesse would throw ragers, and typically there were three or four cars driving recklessly in the back yard.

they take their seat where they were assigned, and georgia doesn’t think to get up. even when family members come to say hello. she’s polite, introduces ben, and they move on. it’s clear she’s not entertaining the idea of a reunion tonight.

the bride and groom take their seat at the head of the table. georgia sits beside ben, with montana and her family beside her, and tennesse on the other side of the table, her parents at the end as well. 

she knew her father was gone. sure, physically he was present, but his eyes heavily indicated the beer had checked him out hours ago. betty carried the conversations on his behalf. but her rosy cheeks and increasing volume showed she’d had a good amount of wine too. 

“i took a trip to new york last fall.” tennesse switches the conversation, with grabs georgia’s attention. “you wont believe who i ran into.”

she’s already scowling at him, but her mother leans in to show she’s very curious. “who’s that?”

“bradley.” she grins. “isn’t that the funniest thing? i was doing a recruitment gig and we just so happened to be at the same event.”

“what was that, the bootlickers convention?” georgia grumbles.

“hey.” montana slaps her arm.

“he looked good though.” tennesse continues. “still the big burly guy we remember. and he was with someone.”

“oh, good for him.” betty croons.

“yes, georgia, what happened to bradley?” finally, their father speaks up, leaning around to look directly at her. “i quite liked that man. you should have fought for him.”

“dad, benjamin is sitting right here.” she growls.

“no offense, chap, but what is it you do again?” he reaches to put a hand on his shoulder.

benjamin, who’s starting to look uncomfortable, clears his throat. “i’m a professor. chemistry at columbia.” he whipes his mouth with a napkin and readjusts in his seat. “it’s really interesting actually, but teaching there---.”

he’s cut off by her father who waves him off. “that’s fine and well, but bradley you know, he was a real upstanding guy. he was a linebacker for st. johns. what did you tell me when you told me about him earlier, ten?”

“he works for espn now.” her brother says with pride, as if that’s his job. but georgia always knew her brother had a hard-on for her ex. for as proud as he was for being a major in the army, he sure wished he was a sports star.

she rolls her eyes. “can we stop please? brad didn’t appreciate me, and he didn’t support me. once he knew he was better than i was and i no longer benefited him, he left me.”

“doesn’t he date a victoria secret model now?” virginia finally chimes in, because of course she needs to add to this conversation.

“who cares!” she slams her hand onto the table.

“well i care, i just want the best for you, georgia.” her father says.

“no, you just liked the free football tickets.” 

“georgia,” her mother adds.

“oh shut up, you just liked him because he snuffed me out.” her jaw tenses. “you all liked him because he had me on a tight leesh and i could never be myself.”

“if this is yourself, i’d say you’re right.” virginia sips her wine. “nice dress by the way.”

“i’ll fucking kill you.” georgia starts to get up from her seat, but benjamin puts a hand on her lap.

“we love you, georgia.” montana’s soft voice comes in from beside her, a hand on her back. “we don’t want to upset you. let’s just enjoy tonight, okay? no more talk of bradley.”

georgia looks between montana and benjamin. of course montana had the soothing voice to get her back to her cool, and benjamin’s tender squeeze to ground him in his presence. bradley would never.

“i want you all to know that i couldn’t have asked for a better boyfriend in ben. he makes me happy and makes me a better person and i love him and that’s it.”

there’s silence for a while. people poke at their foods and eat quietly with the music playing, now in a tight spot. but it’s stopped by someone clinking a fork to their champagne glass.

georgia looks up to see the groom stand. looking a bit uneasy by the conversation that unfolded in front of him. he starts to talk about thanking everyone, and how this family has given him so much. he’s still quiet, even now only seven feet away, so she leans in closer, trying to make out his voice. was it an accent? well where to?

he talks about virginia. how beautiful she was when they first met, and how none of that has changed. he brings up how happy he is to be part of this family now, how he wished his own family in ireland could have come to, but he knows they’re here in spirit.

“you’re fucking kidding me.” she leans back in her seat, fingers pressing to her forehead. benjamin’s hand finds her knee and gives it a squeeze.

everyone gives a cheers after he’s done and he sits back down, the newlyweds sharing a tender kiss, which gets them another round of applause. 

clearing her throat, she leans forward again. “tell me again when you guys started dating?” she presses her lips together.

“it was about eight months ago.” the man smiles tenderly. “it’s quick but we’re so in love.”

georgia nods, running her tongue over her teeth. “ginny, when did i last call you?”

“that’s a silly question.” ginny shrugs casually. “how could i possibly remember.”

“this is ridiculous. when are you going to stop?”

“stop what, georgia.” virginia rolls her eyes. “seriously, you’re being so awful tonight. this is the first time you’re home in like years and you’re just going to be a mega bitch? on my wedding day?”

“because you never stop. because you always wanted to shut me out. you cut my hair in my sleep, you started horrific lies about me when we were literal children. when tennesse told his stupid baseball friends that i was “easy” and “willing” you just invited them into the fucking house. and what, so they could ruin my life?” georgia leans back in her chair, fingers raking through her hair. “and when that wasn’t enough you got into stanford so nyu would look like shit in comparison. you couldn’t handle me dating bradley because god forbid i date a guy that everyone likes. so you feed him more lies and tell him i’m a fucking gold digger. and when my life was falling apart after he left and i got a chance to actually make a career, well perfect, you just started a business so no one could give a shit about my career taking off. now you have your irish husband because i can’t have that either. great. you won. you are the better sister. i was weaker than montana and you could choke me out.”

virginia blinks, and then looks to her husband. “see, i told you she was crazy.”

“georgia, really, that’s a bit accusatory, isn’t it?” her mother adds. “just calm down. i have a xanax in my room, do you want me to get you one?”

“i can’t fucking believe this. i can’t believe i came.” she shakes her head. “can’t i just be happy? can’t i just be successful and with a person who loves and respects me? why can’t i just be good enough?”

“maybe you’re just projecting, g.” virginia says. for being younger, she always sounds so fucking condescending. “maybe we’re loving and supportive and you just think so low of yourself you think everyone else does do.”

there’s a sound that follows immediately. a loud snort. benjamin coves his mouth as he laughs. shaking his head, he leans forward at the table. 

“what’s so funny?” virginia frowns.

“sorry.” he waves his hand, wheezing again before controlling himself to speak. “this is the most confident woman i’ve ever met. there’s not an ounce of self doubt in her body. it’s one of her biggest strengths. sometimes a bit too confident. to suggest she’s not that’s---...” he cuts himself off, thinking for a moment. “georgia what’s that word for when you make someone feel something--- that manipulation tactic.” he snaps his fingers.

“gaslighting?” she furrows her eyebrows together, a bit charmed, but mostly confused.

“yes! thank you. you’re gaslighting her.” he puts an arm around her chair. “truthfully, i didn’t know what we were going to find coming here. georgia doesn’t talk about her family much, which is fine. now i know why. none of you are scary, you’re just really off the rails. like---” he whistles, looking around. “wow.”

“ben...” she whispers.

“no, it’s okay.” he nods. “i felt pretty good coming in. you were friendly enough. sure i noticed some things. little comments and mannerisms, but what family isn’t off with their flaws. but no, that’s just when the suns up and you’re around a stranger. it’s insane how you treat your family.” he leans forward in his chair, looking at every single one of them. “i can say with confidence that i will never see any of you ever again. but i hope maybe you can sit with a grown adult man--- with a phd i might add, sir,” he looks over to her father. “calling you out on your bullshit. i hope your children and grandchildren wont have to grow up in this. and while you made georgia the woman she is, and i suppose i have to thank you for that, it seems it’s in despite of your terrible treatment. so do better. for the sake of your future family, do better.”

he starts to get up from his chair, and georgia’s going to follow when virginia speaks up. “oh, so you’re both crazy, and unbelievably rude.”

“shut the fuck up you little rat-faced gremlin.” georgia hisses.

virginia’s face tenses, and she stands, grabbing her wine glass and throwing the contents at georgia. of course, it’s a considerable distance, so the cherry liquid splashes, causing droplets to his both benjamin, and montana. but her body freezes, looking down at the stupid five hundred dollar dress she bought for this dumb wedding. 

benjamin’s got a hand on her waist, holding her in place as she processes the moment. but when she doesn’t move, virginia cries and grabs her steak knife. “now leave or i’ll bleed you both dry.” it doesn’t really seem like an empty threat by the severity of her tone, but georgia knows virginia is a coward.

“classy.” she nods, grabbing her purse. “i hope you all rot.”

“georgia.” her father groans, adjusting in his seat. he pulls out his wallet, taking out a couple hundred bills. he hands it to her like it’s muscle memory.

she’s insulted, but that doesn’t stop her from snatching the money. mostly because it makes virginia’s nose crinkle in disgust. “i’m going to use this to get a nose job. oh wait, that was you.” 

benjamin drags her off before things could truly get violent, as the anger was starting to burn in her younger sister’s face. 

maybe if this were a different time, the tears would have burned hot and bitter down her face as they left, but the second benjamin pushed through the side gate of their yard, and they were out, she felt herself give out.

“georgia, i am so sorry.” benjamin looks over at her, walking down the driveway to the curb. he’s reaching for his phone to call them a car. “i’m so sorry i brought you back here.”

she stops when they get to the sidewalk, and she looks at the houses around them. the houses she grew up looking at everyday. wondering if their lives were any different. if they were any better.

“no, you were right.” she nods, looking over at him. “i needed this.”

“what?” he says, surprised by the reaction.

“i’ve spent my entire life with just this little strand connecting me to them. always wanting to impress, never living up. pretty much all days i don’t care but then it’s one phone call and i’m slipping back into this toxic cycle of being vicious to everyone only to get the viciousness back.” she clears her throat. “i was no better than them, benjamin.” she whispers. “i used to spit in montana’s food. i told girls tennesse had the clap. and i always told virginia she was going to need fake tits to get a guy.” she rubs a hand over her face. “wasn’t until i got out that i, you know, saw the world and grew the fuck up. they disgusted me and that pain of everything really set in. but i always had a part of me that was still with them. and now... i’m done.”

“georgia, you’re not as bad as them.” he shakes his head.

“no... no i’m grown past that now. not what i used to be but now it’s different. and i wont let them treat me like the runt anymore.” she steps forward, putting her hands on his shoulder. “i have the best family in the world in new york. i don’t need those clowns. i just need you.” she smiles. “my ivy league doctor.” she runs her hands over his chest.

“i’m sorry she ruined your dress.” rubbing her arm, he gives her a kiss to her temple. “it was going to be a new favorite of mine.”

“it’s fine. it was my fault for not assuming it was going to happen. she almost always throws something in my face.” she sighs.

“wow.” benjamin shakes his head, opening the car door for her when their uber pulls in. “i am frankly shocked your bar is so low.”

“once she threw an entire glass at me, so consider this an improvement.” she buckles herself in, and when he gets in, her hand finds his thigh. “thank you for coming with me. there probably would have been bloodshed if you hadn’t.”

“i would never have let you do this alone.” he takes her hand and gives her knuckles a kiss. “but now we can take that cash, get a really nice bottle of whatever you want, and lay in bed the rest of the night.”

“can we do other stuff?” she smirks.

“you... want to?” he looks between her and the driver. “after what happened back there?”

“i’m really high off the adrenaline of calling my sister a rat-face gremlin and telling my whole family to rot so i’m super up for it.” she nods with enthusiasm. “plus you defending me like that really added to the whole event.”

“i wish i’d spoken up more.”

georgia shakes her head. “it’s okay. there’s no defending you could have done that would have made a difference to them.” she leans over in the car to kiss his cheek. “you are amazing, you know that right?”

“i’m no linebacker though. whatever that means.” he snorts.

“don’t even.” she pulls back with a laugh. “you’re better than every football player in the entire nfl.”

“that’s a bold statement. i’m sure there’s one that could stack up against me.”

she shakes her head, her finger reaching to brush against his wrist. “they’re all dead to me.”

he grins, leaning over himself to take her face in his hands to give her a long kiss. the kind that sweeps you up. where he heart stops beating and she forgets to breath because she feeling everything he needs her to know. the kind of kiss that says i love every ounce of you. the kind that says fuck your family, i’m here. 

[hysterialyywrites]

The Playwrights of the Storms

Act 1: Scene 1

The ominous sound of thunder rumbled in my ears.

I sat on my comfortable leather couch, dressed in the coziest onesie I could find, wrapped in layers and layers of blankets with warm hot chocolate sitting contentedly in my hands. I got an overly enthusiastic “CLASSES ARE SUSPENDED TODAY!!!” text from Mia and decided that today was the perfect day to binge watch Markiplier's Amnesia compilations. Fifteen minutes into a video, right in the middle of a jumpscare, bolts of white flashed in the corner of my eye, followed by a resounding BOOM. I almost dropped my mug in shock at the sound, and suddenly the apartment turned pitch black, the buzzing of electricity dying out as the roaring winds outside seemed to amplify in volume. My eyes widened in fear, but I managed to calm down a few seconds after. I set my mug down on the coffee table in front of me, then I hastily began to pat myself down in search of my phone that somehow found its way into my onesie. I managed to grab it before I could sit on it. Unlocking my phone, I checked the time.

Half past ten. I decided to snooze for a few hours.

                                                              * * *

My eyes shot open to the incessant ringing of my phone, accompanied by an annoying vibration against the wooden coffee table. I didn't care to check the caller ID before answering the phone.

“Hello,” I answered, not so happily.

“Someone's grumpy today,” a silvery voice replied. Mia's voice, for some reason, reminded me of glazed doughnuts.

“Sorry, Mia, my ringtone is seriously annoying. Help me choose another one when I come over.”

“You can come over right now. Mom's making carbonara for lun―” “I'M MAKING EXTRA JUST FOR YOU.” “MOM THE RECEIVER'S RIGHT NEXT TO YOUR MOUTH STOP YELLING.”

I chuckled at the mock argument that instigated on the other end of the line.

“Let me change first. I'll be over in five.”

                                                             * * *

The bike ride to Mia's literally took me five minutes. Eight seconds after I was caught in one of Aunt Meg's bone-crushing hugs.

“I missed you so much, Riley!”

“Aunt Meg, you saw me last week.”

“Oh did I? Your Aunt Meg's getting quite old,” she joked, yet there were no evident signs of aging on her face. She was as beautiful as she was on her wedding day, remembering the photo albums she showed me once.

She ushered me inside, and Mia came out to greet me with a hug. She didn't inherit her mother's talent of breaking spines, but if you were looking for a good hug, Mia's got you covered.

The three of us sat down at the dining table, a steaming plate of carbonara waiting for me at my usual seat, the creamy aroma of the sauce wafting through the air. I was always a big fan of Aunt Meg's cooking.

“You never sleep after waking up at 6. Just a few hours ago you told me you were having a Markiplier marathon,” Mia said, twirling the pasta around her fork.

“The power got cut; I had nothing else to do.”

“Well, that storm was pretty bad,” Aunt Meg recalled. “You've been alone in that apartment ever since you moved in at the beginning of the year; weren't you scared?”

“I remember being scared out of my wits the first few weeks after moving in. I really wasn't used to living by myself, but I was capable of basic chores, so I just thought of it as a really overdue sleepover somewhere else. Eventually, I got used to it.”

My parents lost their jobs back in my old town, before we moved into this one. They were recommended by a friend to another area however, and they took the opportunity. They left me with Uncle Sykes, my dad's older brother, who is also my landlord, against their wishes. I insisted on living by myself, since it wouldn't make a difference if I went with them either way, with them being out all the time. Since we trusted Uncle Sykes, it was safer for me too, instead of just leaving me alone at home in a foreign city where we knew absolutely nobody.

“I hope to meet your parents soon, though. They look absolutely adorable in the postcards they sent you,” Aunt Meg remarked.

“And you look like your Mom,” Mia piped in.

“Thanks,” I smiled. “We had a Skype session last night. They're coming over next month.”

“Oh, really? That's fantastic! I'll need to look at that duck recipe again.”

“Yes, please do.”

Even with the carbonara in front of me, the thought of Aunt Meg's duck was enough to make me hungrier than I thought possible.

Three rigid knocks on the front door caught our attention.

“I'll get it. You girls enjoy your pasta,” Aunt Meg said, shooting a wink in my direction. She knew how much I loved her carbonara. She got up and made her way to the front door.

“Did you finish that book I lent you?” Mia asked me.

“Almost. I have like, three chapters left. You need it back?”

“Not really, but the author just released a second book. We can get it when the stores reopen tomorrow.”

“Now that you mention it, the whole ride here felt so creepy, like I was riding past a ghost town. All the shops were closed, and I've only seen around three people max on the way.”

“Right? I knew Dervon was a quiet town, but it's been especially quiet today.”

“You think the storm scared everyone from going out?”

“Nah, everyone's power supply got cut off too, even ours. Maybe they had the same idea as you, and decided to take a nap. I knew you were sleeping, by the way, with nothing else to do in that apartment. I just called you over before you end up sleeping the whole day.”

I stifled a laugh, but realized I had no sense of time. I checked my phone. It was two in the afternoon. I was asleep for three and a half hours.

“I wouldn't have cared though, but thanks anyway. I'm always up for Aunt Meg's carbonara,” I said, taking a forkful of pasta and stuffing it in my mouth. This was heaven on earth.

“What time did the storm pass, by the way?” I asked curiously.

“Hmm, a little around twelve,” Mia answered.

I heard the door shut and Aunt Meg came back with a grim look on her face. She looked nervous and panicked, maybe even scared.

No, not maybe. She was scared, and I know that look of fear on her face when I see it.

We didn't need her to tell us what happened; we already knew.

“Who is it now?” I asked tentatively.

It took a while before Aunt Meg was able to answer.

“Ms. Piper, from four blocks down.”

Mia choked on her pasta.

Ms. Piper was a 22-year-old teacher at the local elementary school. She was a beauty that only came once every blue moon. Both kids and adults alike were really fond of her.

“No way. She can't be gone just like that, I‒ we‒ we just saw her yesterday.”

Aunt Meg didn't say anything more.

We sat in silence.

“That's the third one already,” Mia noted.

“Yeah.”

I've lived in silence in my apartment ever since I came, but this must be the most unbearable one I've had my whole life.

Ms. Piper was always the cheerful one, the one who always lifted our spirits whenever we were down in the dumps. She was one of those people who made their jobs look so easy; even the most annoying little rascals she was able to get under control. In times of crisis she would always know what to do. Everyone respected her. She was really good friends with everyone; she was the backbone of this little old town, the support everyone needed.

And now, with Ms. Piper gone, I can only think of a million ways this town would crumble under its own weight, with their support being taken away from them in only a matter of hours, in the midst of a horrific storm.

Act 1: Scene 2

It wasn't until a month later when I finally knew why people stayed indoors every time a storm came along.

Case 1: Little Hailee, only 5 years old from prep school, disappeared from her own home during a storm one day after her parents were apparently “knocked out”. They reported sniffing a scent that smelled slightly of pine before they fell unconscious. When they came to, Hailee was gone, and was never found. In place of the little girl a note was found in her home, accompanied by a wilted rose. The note read: With this storm comes the rise of a new kingdom And all kingdoms need a princess We have given little Hailee her well-deserved freedom By making her crowning our business        ⁃       Miss Harley ♥ Case 2: Jared, a 13-year-old junior high student, didn't make it home one night after soccer practice. The sky was on the brink of a storm, and when it finally fell on the small little town of Dervon, Jared never made it back. A note, however, slipped through the crack under the front door. The note read: The princess needs a brave knight, you see And your brave boy Jared was the chosen one On this cold night he takes up his sword to flee To the princess whose beauty will shine for no one        ⁃       Miss Han ♥

Jared's parents threw open the door in the middle of the storm to find a wilted rose taped to their front doorstep. Case 3: Ms. Piper brought Nina, her neighbor, homemade brownies the night before her disappearance. That was the last anybody had seen of Ms. Piper. After the storm, Nina came to check on Ms. Piper, only to find a wilted rose with a note that read: The princess is still quite young, so she needs a guide Who else is better than the lady who's light on her feet? Queen Piper shall teach young Hailee the rules she should abide So that the princess will rise without age to defeat        ⁃       Miss Harley ♥

It was simple; every time a storm was coming a person was always going. Away, it seems. Mysteriously. And in their place only notes and wilted roses can be found. I think it's quite poetic, however, in a very dark way.

“If Officer Don finds out I've disclosed very confidential files to a pair of 17-year-olds, he'll never trust me again,” said Uncle Sykes.

“You don't have to worry about Officer Don finding out, Uncle Sykes,” I reassured him. “We just wanted to know what's going on, and I didn't know who else to ask.”

Uncle Sykes wasn't born to be a landlord; he was a cop. He was a highly-respected, well-trained cop. His father was the landlord, but when he passed, Uncle Sykes had to step down from his position and take his father's place. He still keeps in touch with the officers at the station, and they keep him up-to-date as well. To me, he looks more like a stay-home officer than a landlord.

Uncle Sykes eyed me warily. “I hope you girls know what you're doing,” he said, leaving the apartment.

“At least we know when the next abduction happens‒”

I looked Mia dead in the eyes.“

If the next abduction happens,” Mia corrected herself, “we know it's going to be written by Miss Han.”

“Who in the world are Miss Han and Miss Harley anyway?” I asked, frustrated and tired of not knowing.

“Relax, Riles, we'll get this. No worries!”

“Ugh, I hope so.”

“But...”

“But?”

“...how will we know who their next target is when none of their poems are giving us a clue?”

“Well, obviously they wouldn't give us a clue, Mia. They're kidnappers, and unfortunately they're not stupid.”

She gave me a look. “You know what I mean, Riles. If they were kidnappers off the street they wouldn't even try leaving notes like these. They'd never risk it. These ladies aren't just any kidnappers; they're smart and crazy, and that is never a good combination. They're just playing with us with their stupid notes.”

“You're contradicting yourself.”

“Riles!”

I laughed. “Sorry, sorry! I was just trying to lighten the mood.”

Mia gave a sad smile. I shared the same smile.

“Well, let's get to thinking; they don't have a specific criteria of targets, and their notes have no hint of a clue. We do know, however, that the notes were found after the abduction took place. That's all we know as of now. Where do we go from there?”

Silence.

Mia groaned in frustration. “I have no idea! I'm getting really irritated now.”

I laid my head on the couch and placed my arms over my eyes. I was dead tired and I was getting a headache.

“Maybe we should continue this tomorrow,” I suggested.

“Yeah,” Mia stood and gathered her stuff. “I guess so. Oh, and don't forget, we have a biology test tomorrow!” she said on her way out. The door shut before I could even reply.

“I basically don't care at this point!” I shouted the through the door.

A few minutes later, I got up from the couch and got ready for bed. As soon as my head plumped onto my pillow, I fell asleep within minutes.

Act 1: Scene 3

A few days passed and we still weren't getting anywhere.

I like to think that we were still safe as long as there were no storms, but I'm not going to push my luck. I'm still going to try to figure this out.

As I was eating breakfast, I could feel another headache coming. All I could think about were those wilted roses and those stupid notes and their stupid point and their stupid rhymes and‒

I got it.

“I got it!” I said, slamming my fists on the table.

What if the notes weren't given after the abduction?

What if they were given before?

That changes everything! If the notes were given before the abduction, that would serve as our warning, and since they don't use codenames for their victims, that would make saving the targets easier!

For the rest day, I told Uncle Sykes and Mia about my discovery, and they said they'll keep their eyes out for any notes and roses that may come by.

All that's left to do now is to wait.

                                                             * * *

“Have you noticed anything strange about my mom recently?”

I looked up at Mia. “Not really. Why?” I asked.

“Well, it's just... there are times when she's just her perky, normal self, but there are these times where she just acts so... formal and... regal around me, I guess. I don't know how to explain it, it's just so weird. And the way she smiles at me sometimes... god, I get so scared. It's like she's a completely different person and it's freaking me out.”

“Is that why you asked if you could come over today?”

“Yeah, she was being weird today. But she was fine yesterday. I don't know what's going on.”

I thought about it. “I'll walk home with you tonight, and I'll see for myself. Okay?”

She looked so scared when she just stared back at me.

“You'll be fine, Mia. She won't hurt you. That wouldn't be very... Aunt Meg of her,” I smiled.

She did her best to return it. “Thanks, Riles.”

                                                             * * *

When we got back to Mia's, Aunt Meg wasn't home. Mia breathed out a sigh of relief.

I started looking around the house.

“Riles? What are you doing?”

“Snooping, obviously.”

“Why?”

“Don't you want to know why Aunt Meg's been acting weird recently?”

“Well, I do, but... to think she'd do something... bad... I can't‒”

“Mia, it'll be fine. If anything's going on, we'll help her out, okay?”

She stared at me for the longest time. She stood so stiffly, like a soldier on alert.

“Okay?” I repeated.

“Alright, alright,” she finally said, relaxing. She then proceeded to join me in my search for... anything, basically.

I knew her house inside out. I knew every nook and cranny; I've been here more times than I can count.

What I didn't know was, there was a trap door right under their carpet in the hallway. As I was about to grab the latch, I heard Aunt Meg's voice come in through the front door.

“I'm home!” she sang. The same Aunt Meg I knew since I first met her.

“Hey, Mom,” Mia said reluctantly. “You okay?”

“Of course I am! Why would you ask that?”

“Hi, Aunt Meg!” I chirped.

“Oh hello, Riley! How are you?”

“I'm okay, Aunt Meg. I just walked Mia home,” I said cheerily. “I'm on my way home now, though.”

“Oh, alright! Be safe, okay?” advised Aunt Meg. She seems to be fine.

Mia came up to me and gave me a quick hug before I left.

“I'll come back tomorrow,” I whispered.

“Okay,” she whispered back.

She let go, and I made my way home. All I could think about the whole trip back was that trap door.

Act 1: Scene 4

“Good morning, Riley.”

Everything Mia described as formal and regal was right before my eyes. This was a completely different Aunt Meg and this was freaking me out.

She

was freaking me out. She had the aura of a queen: uptight and royal. She stood like one as well, as rigid as I've ever seen a lady try to attempt. I wanted to get out of here as soon as possible.

“Oh, um, good morning, Aunt Meg.”

“Mia's in her room. She's waiting for you,” she smiled.

God, that smile was as terrifying as Mia said.

Just as I passed Aunt Meg to climb up to Mia's room, my nose picked up on a scent. My memories were sharp enough to remember what that is, and what that means. I felt fear rising up in my chest.

We needed to leave, like, right now.

“Mia, let's go,” I called as I opened her door. She wheezed past me in three long strides and was basically sprinting down the stairs as I tried to catch up.

“Bye, Mom,” Mia said with a forced smile.

“Bye, Mia,” replied Aunt Meg.

I nodded goodbye to Aunt Meg, or whoever that was.

“You see what I mean?”

“Yeah, I see it... who was that?”

“That's the thing, Riles. I have no idea.”

“But did you notice her scent?”

“No... why?”

“She smelled slightly of pine.”

                                                             * * *

I came home from school tired and hungry, and groaned at the fact that I still had to make dinner. However, when I made my way to the kitchen, a meal was already prepared, with a note from Uncle Sykes saying, “Made your dinner tonight. Take a break.”

I should thank him the next time I see him.

I busied myself with dinner while watching TV. The rest of my night was pretty chill, and I never knew I let my guard down until I heard the rumbling of thunder outside my window.

My head snapped around so fast I thought my neck would crack, and my fears were confirmed when I heard another cackle of thunder in the distance. The winds were vigorously shaking the trees, and the distinct sound of raindrops hitting the pavement below was enough to make my heart leap to my throat.

Before I can even properly register the storm, a note slipped through the crack under my door. I jumped out of my seat from the dining area and hastily made my way to the door. I grabbed the note and threw open the front door to find a wilted rose taped to it. My blood turned cold as my eyes scanned the note:

The princess is in need of a companion Who else better than the one closest to me? Princess Mia shall accompany young Hailee at her mansion And all of the kingdom will celebrate in glee       ⁃       Miss Han ♥

I brought the note up to my nose.

Pine.

My hands balled into fists as I scrambled to the couch to find my phone. As I grabbed it from under the pillows, I glanced up at the window. I began cursing silently under my breath as I dialed Mia's number in panic.

One ring. Two rings. Three rings. Fou‒

“Hello?”

“Oh thank goodness. Mia, you have to‒”

“Did a note come by?”

“Yes, but Mia, listen to me, I need you to leave the house right now.”

“What, why?”

“You're the next target, and Miss Han‒”

“But wait, what about Mom? She's not home yet.”

“Was she acting weird today?”

“She was fine when I got home.”

“Then if she's not home, she's safe. Just get out of there now.

I'm coming to get you.”I hung up. I'll tell her about Aunt Meg and Miss Han later, when we're all in our right minds, because now, we are definitely not in our right minds.

I needed to move. A storm was brewing.

                                                            * * *

“Uncle Sykes!” I yelled as I opened his front door. He really ought to lock his place up at all times.

“Uncle Sykes!” I yelled again and again, but received no response. He must be at the station. I don't have the luxury of time to go to the station and explain the whole situation to him, so I left the note on his table and sent him a quick text.

“Mia's in trouble. Come over ASAP.”

I sprinted to my bike right after. I threw all caution to the wind as I blindly pedaled towards danger, my five-minute bike ride taking forever in this storm. I find Mia on the other side of the road directly in front of her house, freezing in the cold of the rain. I got off of my bike halfway and ran to hug her, happy she was still here, safe and not missing. Yet.

I pushed that thought aside and asked her if she was okay.

“Yeah, I am. Thanks, Riles.”

In the midst of this awful storm I could her eyes were bloodshot. She must've been crying the whole time. Well, who wouldn't be crying in this kind of situation?

A pair of headlights temporarily blinded us and my fear was evident in the shaking of my legs, partly due to the cold, mostly due to the fear. I was freezing and scared, and I had no idea what to do next. I didn't come prepared with a plan; we were done for.

“Girls! Get in the car!”

I know that gruff voice when I hear it.

“Uncle Sykes!”

“I got your text. Hurry up and get in the car!”

I turned to look at Mia. She looked so helpless and fragile; she doesn't deserve this. She needed to get out of here.

I ran to the driver's side of the car as Mia hurriedly got in in the backseat.

“Uncle Sykes! Listen!” I had to yell over the rain. “Take Mia away from this town! The city where my parents are at shouldn't be too far from here! You guys meet with them and don't ever come back!”

“Riles, what are you saying? You're coming with us, right?” Mia cried.

“I have unfinished business to do in that house!” I pointed to Mia's place.

“Riley, this is not a good idea! I'm not having this conversation! Get in the car now!” Uncle Sykes said furiously.

Suddenly the street lamps and every single house on the block turned dark. The power's been cut, and we were running out of time.

“Just go!” I yelled.

I sprinted to the house as I heard Uncle Sykes click his tongue and Mia yelling over the sound of the rain, telling me to come back. The screeching of tires on asphalt gave me a feeling of relief, even as the fear in my chest was growing ever stronger. Sorry, Mia, Uncle Sykes. But I have to check that trap door.

I sprinted to the said trap door in the eerie darkness of the house and was surprised to find it already open. I used the flashlight from my phone to help me get down the ladder, and as I landed on solid ground to what seems like a closed-off chamber, my nose caught the slight scent of pine. I was overcome with nausea, and my eyesight was getting blurrier. I collapsed to the floor and felt the world grow dim. I heard the muffled sounds of footsteps and voices, praying it wasn't Mia and Uncle Sykes who had decided to come back. A few seconds later, I was engulfed in darkness.

Act 1: Scene 5

Finale

“You really out to conceal that horrid scent of yours, Miss Han.”

I munched on a glazed doughnut as I admired Miss Han's handiwork from the sides.

“How could I possibly do that, Miss Harley? It's my signature scent!” states Miss Han. Her regality got on my nerves sometimes.

“Well, it's thanks to your signature scent that stupid Riley was able to pick up on our tracks. We might have to relocate, seeing as four people have disappeared in one night. This was not part of the plan, Miss Han.”

“Oooh, excellent rhyme you've got there.”

I gave her a look. “I'm serious, Miss Han. Why did you target Meg's daughter of all people? And sent a note to Riley of all people? This would only end in disaster for us!”

“Well, why did you let Riley take charge, Miss Harley? You've been lying in wait in the same body for so long, you know you could just take over whenever you wanted, right?”

She had a point. “I decided to let Riley have a little bit of fun, let her play hero in this little act of ours. You should've seen her. Or me, in this case. She was yelling at her dear uncle and friend, telling them to get out of town. Apparently, that didn't end very well for the three of them.”

I stood by Riley's Aunt Meg, who I lovingly called Miss Han, and admired the kingdom we have built together.

In the center was little Hailee sat on her throne, dressed in the prettiest gown Miss Han had prepared. Her posture was befitting of a princess, hands on her lap and a crown on her head.

To her right was the brave knight Jared, donned in an armor that suits a young man as himself. His right hand rested on the hilt of his sword, standing rigidly in alert as a knight should do for his princess.

To the left of young Hailee was the beautiful Queen Piper, poised with grace as her arms and legs were raised in a pirouette. I remember Riley finding out Ms. Piper did ballet, so I decided to add a little character to the lovely queen by arranging her position in a way that defined her. It was challenging to hold the pose, but I managed to do it anyway.

And the last two characters of our lovely little play, although the man was uncalled for, was lovely Princess Mia in a gown that rivaled little Hailee's, situated in front of the throne with her hand outstretched to the younger princess. Beside her lay Sykes the Slave, hunched over in ragged clothes, posed in an action of scrubbing the floor with an old rag.

And the magic in this setup is that they no longer have to worry about hunger and thirst and aging. This will be their kingdom for eternity, and we are the playwrights.

“Miss Harley,” Miss Han turned to look at me. “Perhaps we should get going soon.”

“Yes, Miss Han,” I agreed. “We have another storm to catch.”

‒ End of Act 1 ‒

Written: March 14, 2016

[emmagreen1220-blog]

New Post has been published on Literary Techniques

New Post has been published on https://literarytechniques.org/hyperbole-in-literature/

Hyperbole in Literature

Hyperbole was one of the literary devices most favored by the Elizabethan and Romantic authors; most of them dealt with exaggerated feelings and larger-than-life characters, so it’s only natural that both their similes and their metaphors were hyperbolic. Modern writers, however, would probably sound melodramatic if they used the same bloated language; so, unless they are satirical or Gothic horror writers – they usually do not. In an exciting development, however, modern magical realists tend to use even more exaggerated hyperboles than Renaissance playwrights or 19th-century novelists; but they give them an interesting spin. See of which type below.

10 Examples of Hyperbole in Literature

#1: Homer, Iliad IX.379-392 (~ 700 BC)

I loathe his presents, and for himself care not one straw. He may offer me ten or even twenty times what he has now done, nay—not though it be all that he has in the world, both now or ever shall have; he may promise me the wealth of Orchomenus or of Egyptian Thebes, which is the richest city in the whole world, for it has a hundred gates through each of which two hundred men may drive at once with their chariots and horses; he may offer me gifts as the sands of the sea or the dust of the plain in multitude, but even so he shall not move me till I have been revenged in full for the bitter wrong he has done me. I will not marry his daughter; she may be fair as Venus, and skillful as Minerva, but I will have none of her: let another take her, who may be a good match for her and who rules a larger kingdom. (tr. Samuel Butler)

In the first book of the Iliad, Agamemnon, the commander of the Greek forces at Troy, offends Achilles, his greatest warrior, by unrightfully seizing the latter’s war prize, Briseis. As a result, Achilles withdraws from the battle altogether, and the Greeks start suffering loss after loss. Desperate, Agamemnon admits his error nine books later and sends Odysseus, Ajax and Phoenix to Achilles with an apology and a bunch of presents. Achilles’ anger, however, is so overwhelming that he rejects the offer in a remarkably hyperbolic language which gradually intensifies to culminate with the claim that even if Agamemnon could offer him “gifts as the sands of the sea or the dust of the plain in multitude,” he would still be unmoved. Aristotle uses this quote in his Rhetoric (reference) not only as an example for hyperbole but also as proof in favor of his opinion that “those who are in a passion most frequently make use” of this literary device.

#2: Gospel of John 25:21 (~ 100 BC)

Jesus did many other things as well. If every one of them were written down, I suppose that even the whole world would not have room for the books that would be written.

The Bible – especially The Old Testament – is rich with hyperbolical expressions. For example, the land of Canaan is described in Exodus 3:8 as “a land flowing with milk and honey” and Solomon is said to have made “silver as common in Jerusalem as stones, and cedar as plentiful as sycamore-fig trees in the foothills” (1 Kings 10:27). The verse above, however, comes from the New Testament:  it is the last of the last canonical gospel, that of John. The idea behind it is pretty straightforward: only a small part of Jesus’ actions has been documented: no book could ever describe all of them, because, simply put, there have been so many. In the opinion of noted Bible commentator, Joseph Benson, the strangely personal “I suppose,” softens the hyperbole; “if this be one,” he adds, reminding us that even a glaring hyperbole can seem truthful to emotionally invested people.

#3: William Shakespeare, Hamlet V.1.254-256 (1603)

I loved Ophelia. Forty thousand brothers Could not with all their quantity of love Make up my sum.

After the priest declares that Ophelia’s death “was doubtful” and that she may not be granted a proper Christian burial, Ophelia’s brother Laertes jumps into her grave. A second later, Hamlet, whom Laertes suspects to be the reason for Ophelia’s suicide, does the same. To justify his decision, he utters these three verses, whose meaning goes along the lines of “if Laertes has the right to do it, then I have twice the right.” Or, to use his numerical hyperbole: forty thousand times the right, since that’s precisely how many times Hamlet claims his love for Ophelia is greater than the one of her—or, for that matter, any other—brother.

#4: Jonathan Swift, Gulliver’s Travels (1726)

Golbasto Momarem Evlame Gurdilo Shefin Mully Ully Gue, most mighty Emperor of Lilliput, delight and terror of the universe, whose dominions extend five thousand blustrugs (about twelve miles in circumference) to the extremities of the globe; monarch of all monarchs, taller than the sons of men; whose feet press down to the centre, and whose head strikes against the sun; at whose nod the princes of the earth shake their knees; pleasant as the spring, comfortable as the summer, fruitful as autumn, dreadful as winter: his most sublime majesty proposes to the man-mountain, lately arrived at our celestial dominions, the following articles, which, by a solemn oath, he shall be obliged to perform.

Monarchs have adorned themselves with hyperbolical titles ever since Ancient Mesopotamia. This is what—among other things—Jonathan Swift tries to mock in this exceptionally long introduction to the law which should allow Gulliver some freedom in Lilliput. Even though Lilliputians are merely one-twelfth the height of Gulliver, they don’t seem that unwilling to exaggerate how their “most mighty Emperor” is “taller than the sons of men” and how the dominions of his country span to “the extremities of the globe” even though barely “twelve miles in circumference.” Of course, neither they nor Swift stops there; by the end of the sentence, one gets the feeling that what the great Irish satirist is ridiculing here is the very nature of hyperbole, the notorious hallmark of deceptive flattery.

#5: Mary Shelley, Frankenstein (1818)

The murderer discovered! Good God! how can that be? who could attempt to pursue him? It is impossible; one might as well try to overtake the winds, or confine a mountain-stream with a straw.

The sentence above is uttered—there’s no way of knowing whether in shock or relief—by Victor Frankenstein, after his brother Ernest informs him that the murderer of their youngest sibling, William, has been discovered. However, Victor knows that the murderer is none other than his gruesome creature, which is why he has a hard time believing it. It would be easier—he says in the conventionally excessive language of Gothic novels—for one to run faster than the winds or keep a mountain stream in check with a straw than to catch the murderer of William. It turns out that the murderer Ernest has in mind is someone else—William’s nanny, Justine—which leads to another emphatic exclamation by Victor, speckled with two common hyperboles: “Justine Moritz! Poor, poor girl, is she the accused? But it is wrongfully; everyone knows that; no one believes it, surely, Ernest?”

#6: Herman Melville, Moby-Dick (1851)

Nantucket! Take out your map and look at it. See what a real corner of the world it occupies; how it stands there, away off shore, more lonely than the Eddystone lighthouse. Look at it—a mere hillock, and elbow of sand; all beach, without a background. There is more sand there than you would use in twenty years as a substitute for blotting paper. Some gamesome wights will tell you that they have to plant weeds there, they don’t grow naturally; that they import Canada thistles; that they have to send beyond seas for a spile to stop a leak in an oil cask; that pieces of wood in Nantucket are carried about like bits of the true cross in Rome; that people there plant toadstools before their houses, to get under the shade in summer time; that one blade of grass makes an oasis, three blades in a day’s walk a prairie; that they wear quicksand shoes, something like Laplander snow-shoes; that they are so shut up, belted about, every way inclosed, surrounded, and made an utter island of by the ocean, that to the very chairs and tables small clams will sometimes be found adhering as to the backs of sea turtles. But these extravaganzas only show that Nantucket is no Illinois.

The tall tale is a fundamental element of American folk literature. In its essence, it is a tale related as if factual, even though obviously exaggerated. In his first description of Nantucket in the fourteenth chapter of Moby-Dick, Herman Melville borrows and reworks some of these tall tales told by the natives (and their “gamesome wights”) to describe how extraordinarily barren is the island of Nantucket (in fact, Encyclopedia Britannica informs us, even its name can be translated as “sandy, sterile soil tempting no one”). Hyperboles abound: since they are living on a sun-scorched “elbow of sand,” Nantucketers have to import even thistles and consider every blade of grass the equivalent of an oasis!

#7: Mark Twain, A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court (1889)

There did not seem to be brains enough in the entire nursery, so to speak, to bait a fish-hook with; but you didn’t seem to mind that, after a little, because you soon saw that brains were not needed in a society like that, and, indeed, would have marred it, hindered it, spoiled its symmetry—perhaps rendered its existence impossible.

Want to see a literary device used to its best comedic effect? Then, leave it to the master of masters: Mr. Mark Twain. In his AH/SF-satire of the notion of romantic chivalry, A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court, an American engineer named Hank Morgan suffers a blow to the head and is somehow transported back to Medieval England. Naturally, he knows much more than everyone else there—yes, including Merlin—which is why he is able to ridicule the not-so-very-smart inhabitants of Camelot in the manner presented in the sentence above. Apparently, as far as Twain I concerned, a Medieval society such as the one idealized by the Romantics is possible only in the absence of any shred of common sense intelligence.

#8: Flannery O’Connor, “Parker’s Back” (1965)

The skin on her face was as thin and drawn as tight as the skin of an onion and her eyes were gray and sharp like the points of two icepicks.

“Parker’s Back” is one of the eleven stories which make up Everything That Rises Must Converge, Flannery O’Connor’s posthumously published short story collection. The sentence above is part of the description O’Connor gives of the wife of the title character, a skinny woman named Sarah Ruth. So as to direct the attention of the reader to this feature of Sarah, she exaggerates it, just like a caricaturist would do in a visual representation. No wonder that caricatures are sometimes called visual hyperboles.

#9: Gabriel García Márquez, One Hundred Years of Solitude (1967)

It rained for four years, eleven months, and two days.

This is the powerful opening sentence of the sixteenth chapter of Gabriel García Márquez’s celebrated masterpiece, One Hundred Years of Solitude. It is written in the style of magical realism which makes prominent use of hyperboles such as the one quoted here. The sentence sounds almost biblical in its exaggeration (Genesis 7:12: “And rain fell on the earth forty days and forty nights”), but Márquez goes a step forward—not merely in terms of the length, but also through the use of precise numbers. We tend to accept as true precise numbers more than we believe rounded ones, and this makes Márquez’s hyperbole even more powerful and fantastical.

#10: Salman Rushdie, Haroun and the Sea of Stories (1990)

There was once, in the country of Alifbay, a sad city, the saddest of cities, a city so ruinously sad that it had forgotten its name. It stood by a mournful sea full of glumfish, which were so miserable to eat that they made people belch with melancholy even though the skies were blue. In the north of the sad city stood mighty factories in which (so I’m told) sadness was actually manufactured, packaged and sent all over the world, which seemed never to get enough of it.

Salman Rushdie’s Haroun and the Sea of Stories is a children’s book—but, just like Márquez’s One Hundred Years of Solitude, it is also a work of magical realism, both authors’ trademark technique. In fact, Rushdie’s opening description of this saddest of all cities may be a hat tip to a hyperbolic account by none other than Márquez, specifically this sentence from One Hundred Years of Solitude: “the world was so recent that many things lacked names, and in order to indicate them it was necessary to point.” Be that as it may, it’s important to note that works of magical realism make use of absurd exaggerations and hyperboles quite often; the trick is that they don’t treat these hyperboles as hyperboles, but as factual claims, thus making them even more powerful and conspicuous.