#I feel like I've aged fifty years since last night

[spider-stark]

As someone who is very much team neutral im so confused what Rhaenyra thought would come of a meeting w alicent I’m so serious…

Like ok writers want to pan to the audience but be so serious like…

Alicent is not gonna be all “ok sure we’ll give up after everything! Aegon isn’t mad about his kid being murdered and Aemond isn’t still coo-coo for coco puffs and Cole isn’t on the move as we speak like yeah girlie let’s end this war!!!”

And rhaenyra is crazy for going like she should be MAD for the death of her son still! And yknow her inheritance being taken etc

Mysaria was right w that “it’d be easier to just kill her” shit bc damn right like what r we doing mysarias face when rhaenyra was saying she just wanted to talk was me this whole episode I’m so TIRED

THIS

spoilers below the cut for season 2 episode 3

I personally think the Septa Rhaenyra thing just made her look foolish. Totally understand that they're trying to show the Black's desire to avoid war -- but it's already happening.

that is quite literally evident by the battle of the burning mill. war has begun, the realm is divided, and far too much blood has already been shed (Luke and Jaehaerys especially) for it to be stopped now. I mean, what are Rhaenyra and Alicent supposed to do, y'know? Hop into the throne room and just "haha jk girly pops✌️😘" there way out of this?

no

swear that Mysaria is the only person in Westeros with a single coherent thought rn like wtf

[gmariam321]

I feel like I've probably shared this before, but it was in my Unfinished Torchwood folder so I thought I'd share it today, even if it is again. If I didn't ever post it, I wonder why; if I did, my apologies for the double post, but it's cute and it was fun to edit since it's been a year and a half since I did any real writing. Enjoy! And maybe I'll work on some more of the stuff in my unfinished folder!

Don't get mad, get even

"So, how did the rest of the night go?" Owen asked from his station, his feet on the desk as he twirled a pen in the air and smirked. "You score?"

"Do you really want to know?" Ianto asked in return, turning around on his own chair and giving Owen a skeptical look.

"Not particularly," Owen replied. "Not at all, actually. Don't know why I even asked. Only you two are so strange sometimes…" He trailed off, chewing on the end of the pen, shaking his head.

"I'm sure I'm going to regret this, but what was so strange about last night?" Ianto braced himself for some intense piss-taking from the doctor, who seemed to delight in it more and more the longer they worked together.

"You and Jack," Owen said. "If Tosh hadn't walked in on you snogging in the tourist office a few weeks ago, no one would ever know you were shagging again. It's like a classified secret or something."

"Maybe we’re simply more private," Ianto suggested. "And professional."

"You're something," Owen said, shaking his head again. "Here we are, hitting the pub after work to celebrate the end of the longest week ever, and you two are still playing at Jeeves and Wooster. You can be a bit more casual after hours, you know."

"And you want me to—what? Feed him chips when we're out in public? Hold hands and whisper in his ear?" Ianto asked. "Stick my tongue down his throat and put on a good show?"

"Oh my god, you're going to make my brain bleed," Owen complained. "I'm just saying, if you're sleeping together, you can act like it. We all know now."

"We do act like it, Owen," Ianto replied, turning back to his computer. "When we're alone and we’re—"

"Don’t say it."

"But you thought it."

"Sod off."

"You brought it up, Owen." Ianto is still not sure why, though.

"And I'm not done. You flirt and joke, but Jack does that with dead trees. You don't hold hands, don't dance or kiss or make googly eyes—"

"I'm not sure Jack knows how to make googly eyes," Ianto said, holding back a grin at the thought of Jack with some sort of vapid love-sick look on his face. "He is well over a hundred and fifty years old."

"Wow, only six times older than you," Owen drawled. "Way to bag 'em, grave robber."

"He's immortal, Owen," Ianto replied, and this time he did turn around and grin. "Age is a meaningless number to him. But experience—experience makes all the difference in the world." He let his gaze go distant as he thought about some of the experiences Jack had shared with him. “And Jack has experience.”

"I am so done with this conversation," Owen grumbled.

"What, the one you started?"

"I'm finishing it. Go file some paperwork or something."

"But I didn't answer your question," Ianto said. He had to admit, he was having too much fun with Owen to stop now. Plus, he did have some gossip, of a sort.

"I don't want to know if you scored anymore, unless you both picked up a bird and—"

"Nope, not that," Ianto interrupted quickly. "But the rest of the night was interesting. And not in a tawdry way," he added.

Owen was quiet. He threw his pen in the air a few times, spun around in his chair, blew out a breath, and turned back to Ianto. "Now it's my turn to regret asking, but how so? Something happen after I left?"

"Jack got pissed," Ianto told him, lowering his voice as he glanced back at Jack's office. "Completely shit-faced blitzed."

Owen looked confused. "What?"

"He was loud and laughing, extremely handsy, and stumbling around. I even had to help him," Ianto cleared his throat, "with his trousers. In the loo."

"I bet you did," Owens smirked. "And I bet he loved that."

"Actually, I'm not sure he remembers," Ianto replied thoughtfully. "He practically passed out on the way home. I half carried him up to my flat—it was like wrangling an octopus—and put him to bed only for him to jump up and run for the bathroom. Ten minutes later and the octopus was back. He slept straight through 'till morning."

Owen was giving him a very strange look, both amused and disgusted. "And let me guess, you made him toast and brought him some paracetamol with your best coffee in the morning?"

"Well, yes," said Ianto, feeling defensive. "He's actually done the same thing for me."

Owen shook his head and started laughing. "Ianto, you do know that Jack can't get drunk, right?"

"Of course he can," Ianto replied. "I've seen him drink many times."

"And have you ever seen him stumbling drunk?" Owen asked.

"Well, no, not since we've been….you know," Ianto answered. "Why do you think he can't get drunk?"

"Because he told me," Owen replied smugly. "After my first really bad case, we went out to some skivvy bar to put it behind us, and although I don’t remember everything from that night, I do remember Jack being perfectly fine to drive my arse home because, as he put it, 'I can't get drunk.'"

"That's ridiculous." And yet, Ianto had a bad feeling that Owen was right. He couldn't actually remember seeing Jack drunk before, or hungover, and he'd definitely seen Jack drink before. And Jack had been dramatically over the top last night, as well exceptionally quick to recover that morning.

"That's what I thought,” Owen said. “He told me then, and he'd probably tell me now, that he metabolizes alcohol too fast for it to affect him that much. He's never been a big drinker, but I've seen him put down a fair few. He might get a little loose, but that's not hard for Jack." He sniggered and continued. "My guess is it has something to do with his immortality. He literally burns up the alcohol before the rest of us have finished our first pint. Sort of like how he never gets sick either."

"He told me last weekend that his allergies were bothering him!" Ianto exclaimed. "I made us soup for dinner." He stood up, took a step toward Jack's office, then turned back, staring at Owen. "Are you serious? He really wasn't drunk last night?"

"I think you've been had, mate," Owen told him, and he actually sounded like he felt bad for Ianto.

"I can't believe he'd do that," Ianto muttered. "What the hell was the point?"

"Who knows how his warped brain works," Owen told him, then motioned him closer. "But may I suggest not getting mad, but getting even?"

Ianto glanced back at Jack's office, still tempted to storm in and give Jack a piece of his mind before cutting him off from coffee and sex for the rest of the week. It was only Thursday; Ianto could survive, but he knew it would be rough punishment for Jack. Then he glanced back at Owen.

"Any ideas?" he asked.

"Not yet, but between the two of us, we should be able to come up with something good." Owen grinned as he stood up. "Come on. A pint on me to ease your sorrows while we plot."

Ianto couldn't help but grin back with a nod. "I think we can come up with something not just good, but brilliant," he said. He grabbed his coat from nearby and headed out the cog door with Owen, a dozen different ideas already plotting through his head.

Jack might not be able to get drunk, but he wouldn't know what hit him when Ianto was done with him.

* * *

[rebelwhump]

The Fairy Tail

TV Show: Shameless

My first Shameless sickfic, featuring Ian and Trevor.

CW: emeto, drug use, sex (non-descriptive)

_

Ian arrived at work through the back service door and headed to the employee dressing room. He took off his clothes and  slipped into his tight gold shorts and loosely wrapped the matching gold tie around his neck. His blonde coworker, Adam, rounded the corner and offered him a line of coke before his shift started. Ian stared down at the small ampule in his hand filled with white powder. If he had been offered coke a month ago, he would have declined, but after being fired from his job as a paramedic and stopping his medication, he was inclined to give in. He agreed and Adam poured a line out on Ian’s hand as he bent down and snorted it. The powder burned his nostrils. 

“I’ve got some other party favors if you’re interested?” Adam admitted with a smirk on his face.

“Maybe later,” Ian replied, wiping his nose. “I’ve gotta get out on the floor.”

One sleazy old guy after another requested a lap dance from Ian, slipping fives and tens in the waistband of his metallic shorts. Most of them were between the ages of fifty and seventy years old, balding, and wearing cheap mismatched suits. There were a couple of times when security had to step in, as the men were getting too handsy. One of them even tried to stick a finger up Ian’s ass. Part of him wanted to go find Adam and ask for something else to help take the edge off and make the evening more bearable. He finished up a dance and headed over to the bar, where he poured himself two shots of vodka. Ian hadn’t eaten all day, so the alcohol went straight to his head, making his vision fuzzy. He saw Adam walk past the bar and enter the back room. Ian followed closely behind and tapped on his shoulder. 

“Hey Adam, I was wondering if I could take you up on your earlier offer?” He asked. Adam smiled and rummaged through his locker, pulling out a round white tablet.

“This’ll make you feel like you’re floating on cloud nine baby,” he said. Ian placed the tablet on his tongue and swallowed hard before heading back out onto the dance floor.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Trevor walking towards him as he was making cocktails for a couple of guests. 

“Trevor! What are you doing here?” He said, excited to see his boyfriend. 

“Lip told me I could find you here. I’ve been texting you the last couple days. Where have you been?” He asked, a combination of irritation and concern in his voice.

“I've just been working a lot,” he replied, pocketing the three dollar tip that was left for him on the bar counter. “Lots of long nights.” 

“Could we maybe go outside and talk?” He asked, pointing towards the entrance.

“I actually just took my last break, but I get off in another hour if you wanna meet up then?“ he said.

“Okay, sure. I have an errand to run, but I’ll be back in an hour,” Trevor answered, slightly disappointed. He had been worried about Ian ever since he lost his job. Even Fiona had expressed concern over her brother not taking his medication. He had lied about his errand, considering it was one in the morning, and the only places open were clubs and bars. Trevor just didn’t feel like watching as other men hit on his half naked partner. Instead, he decided to take a walk around the city, stopping off for a coffee at a twenty-four hour diner down the block. An hour has passed and he circled back around to The Fairy Tail. He waited outside, leaning up against the brick building as he smoked his vape. 

A half hour after his shift ended, Ian stumbled out of the club.

“Oh hey! You’re here!” He said exuberantly, his words slurred. 

“Uh yeah, I told you I would be,” Trevor replied, annoyed. “Ian, are you drunk?”

“I had a couple shots with the guys after work,” He answered, grabbing Trevor’s waist and leaning in to kiss him. 

“Why don’t we just go back to my place? You can sober up and then we can talk,” he said. Ian agreed and the two made their way back to Trevor’s house. 

They had the house to themselves since his two roommates were out of town. 

“I’ll get you a glass of water,” Trevor said on his way to the kitchen. Ian felt himself coming down so he slipped another pill that he had in his pocket when Tevor wasn’t looking. The two sat down on the sofa together, Ian nuzzled his head into Trevor’s shoulder as they flipped through channels on the TV. 

“What do you feel like watching?” Trevor asked.

“I would rather just watch me fuck you,” he replied, kissing his neck and trying to slide a hand inside his jeans.

“Stop,” Trevor said, swatting his hand away. 

“Fine. You can fuck me,” Ian smirked, straddling his legs and tugging at his belt buckle again. 

“What the hell has gotten into you?” He shouted as he pushed Ian off him. He lost his balance and fell backwards onto the floor, hitting his head on the coffee table. 

“Shit! Ian, I’m so sorry! Are you okay?” He asked, reaching out his hand.

“Fuck you,” Ian mumbled as he rejected Trevor’s hand and stood up, appearing unstable on his feet. 

“Are you high?” He asked, looking into Ian’s  eyes. Ian shook his head in disbelief as if he had just said something incredibly offensive. 

“I’m leaving,” he scoffed as he headed for the door. 

“Please don’t go,” Trevor pleaded. “Just stay the night, okay? I don’t want you walking home by yourself.” He was really worried about Ian’s state of mind. This wasn’t like him, or at least, not the Ian he knew. After some coercing, he managed to get him to agree to stay the night. 

Trevor offered to sleep on the couch, but Ian told him they could share the bed. The last thing he wanted was to be alone. His head was killing him, so he went to the bathroom and searched the medicine cabinet for a bottle of aspirin. He popped two tablets in his mouth and swallowed them down with water from the facet. Ian walked over to Trevor, who was sitting shirtless on the bed. 

“I’m really sorry about earlier. Is your head okay?” He asked, feeling guilty.

“Fine,” he replied as he took off his jeans and stood there in his dark blue boxers. He could see the hurt on Trevor’s face. Sitting down beside him on the bed, he rested his head on his shoulder. The two sat in silence for a few minutes before Ian turned to kiss his boyfriend's cheek. This turned into a full on make out session, with Ian on top and pinning Trevor’s arms down on the bed. Ian planted kisses on his chest, heading south towards his naval. He tore his underwear off and went down on Trevor, who let out soft moans. After orgasming, Trevor pushed Ian onto the bed and reciprocated the favor. Due to the pills and booze, it took a little longer, but eventually he got there. They both finished and laid down on the tangled sheets, breathing heavily.

“That was…unexpected,” Trevor said.

“It’s more fun that way,” Ian grinned. Trevor still had questions he wanted to ask, but figured it was best to wait until the morning once Ian had sobered up. They climbed under the covers and cuddled until they fell asleep. 

Trevor let Ian sleep in while he made them breakfast. He hadn’t been grocery shopping in three weeks, so there weren’t many options to choose from. Rummaging through his fridge, he managed to find some bacon that was about to go bad and a box of half eaten frozen waffles. 

Ian woke up feeling groggy and slightly nauseated. He sat hunched over in bed and rubbed his eyes, reaching for his wrinkled t-shirt that was on the floor. 

“I made us bacon and waffles,” Trevor said, peeking his head around the door. Ian gave a half smile and slowly stood to his feet, taking a minute to gather himself before heading into the kitchen. There were two plates of food set up on a small dining room table in the corner next to two glasses of orange juice. 

“Looks good,” Ian said with a smile, although his stomach felt different. He picked at the waffles on his plate, growing more nauseous with every bite. 

“Are you feeling okay?” Trevor asked, noticing Ian’s discomfort. 

“I’m just not very hungry,” he replied, setting down his fork. He let out a large belch and felt his food about to make a return, so he rushed to the bathroom. Trevor followed shortly after, finding Ian sitting on the tile floor, hunched over the toilet. Trevor rubbed his back as he gagged into the bowl. Once he had emptied his stomach, he got up and rinsed his mouth out at the sink. Opening the cupboard under the sink, Trevor grabbed a bottle of pepto and poured some into the measuring cap, handing it to Ian who threw back the chalky pink liquid in one gulp. 

“Thanks,” he said with a grimace, letting out an airy burp. 

“How’re you doing?” Trevor asked nervously, putting the bottle back under the sink. He wasn’t sure how to start this conversation, worried about upsetting Ian.

“I feel a lot better,” he replied, rubbing a hand over his slightly bloated belly. 

“That’s not exactly what I meant,” he said, taking a pause. “I know you’ve been going through a hard time since losing your job, and I just wanted to check in and see how you’re doing?” Ian knew this question was coming, but was hoping he could avoid it. Talking about feelings didn’t exactly come easy to the Gallaghers, and when he was with Mickey, the only acceptable emotions were lust and anger. 

“I have good days and bad I guess, but just being with you helps a lot” he said, thinking that is what Trevor wanted to hear. 

“You’re taking care of yourself though, right?” He questioned. Ian knew what he meant by this. 

“Yes, I’m taking my meds,” he said and gritted his teeth, walking back into the bedroom to finish getting dressed. Trevor wanted to give his boyfriend the benefit of the doubt, but couldn’t help but feel like he was being lied to.

“I have to get to work,” Trevor said, grabbing his phone and keys from his bedside table. “You can hang out here if you want. My roommates won’t be home until tomorrow.” 

“Nah, that’s alright. I should get home anyways,” Ian said, buckling his belt. The two shared a short kiss and left the house together, both going their separate ways. 

[blackjackkent]

Oh, geez, as if the past two cutscenes weren't enough of an emotional roller coaster ride for Hector, we get yet another very feelsy Karlach conversation come morning.

The game has this happening as a chat in camp, but I think I am picturing this as a conversation they'd have while still at the inn after the date. Perhaps lying in bed as the sun slowly starts to peek up over the horizon, both putting off the moment when they will have to get up and get dressed and go back to camp.

So, y'know, ignore the screenshots I guess. :P

"Hey," she says softly, running her fingers through his hair. He presses his face drowsily into her shoulder, shutting out the faint light starting to come through the window. "Wanna play pretend?"

He shifts just enough that one eye is uncovered to look up at her questioningly.

She's smiling, but it's a slightly distracted smile, a hint of sadness in it. "You and me... Let's imagine... I get to live fifty more years. We have a whole life ahead of us. What do we do?"

He goes very still and his heart gives a sharp twist in his chest - that all-too-familiar feeling of preemptive grief that arises whenever he thinks about losing her. His instinct, immediately, is to hide from the topic - to tell her he can't bear to think about it right now, which certainly feels true enough. For a moment he turns his head and buries his face back in her shoulder.

But then he draws a breath and steadies himself deliberately.

Last night, she finally spoke, for the first time seriously and without any safety valve of humor, of what is coming for her. She did not laugh, or make jokes about it, or deflect or pretend it didn't matter that she was going to die. And he needed to hear that, very badly, and he knows it was not an easy conversation for her to have.

And now it is his turn to answer her as she needs to be answered. She is certainly not asking this question for his benefit, but for hers; for whatever reasons might be going on in her own mind, she needs to have this conversation and carry his answer with her.

Perhaps all his training in self-control, all his life, was really just leading to the moments like this, he thinks. Moments that will no doubt come more frequently as the end draws closer - moments where he needs to be strong for her, for whatever she needs.

He shifts so his eyes are visible again and meets her gaze steadily. "It would look the same as it does now," he says slowly after long thought. "Adventure, fights - all of it together."

Does he think this is actually the truth? Hard to say. It doesn't really bear a lot of thinking about, what he actually would want from a life with her, since it brings nothing but pain. The answer he is giving is what he thinks she would want - what image would bring her happiness to hold onto.

She laughs softly, tips her head to kiss him gently between the eyes. "Now you're talking," she says lightly. "Faerun is so big, and we've barely scratched the surface." Her grin widens, but there's visible effort behind it. "I've always wanted to square up against a hill giant. With two of us, we might even stand a chance."

Her voice cracks on the last word, and she squeezes her eyes shut, a muscle working furiously in her jaw.

"Dammit," she whispers brokenly. "I wish I had a longer road ahead of me." Her fingers dust along his jaw, up into his hair. "I want to walk it with you..."

He lifts a hand, presses it to her cheek, kisses her fiercely, because he needs to do something or he will start crying as well. As it is, when he draws back, his eyes are damp and he's sure she can tell. But he doesn't cry. He holds himself steady. So many times when he has been at his lowest, she has been there for him to lean on. He will not give her less.

Try to hide a tear.

"Gods," she says softly, and her voice is more full of pain and grief than he has ever heard it. "What a disaster... Finding love like this - finding you - so perfectly late..."

Her hand cups behind his head to pull him tightly against her and she presses her face into his hair. When she speaks again, her voice is muffled. "I've always thought I was fearless. Never scared of a fight, of the future. But dying has taught me so much..." She exhales shakily and he can hear the breath catch in her throat. "There's no courage in fearlessness. There's courage in being fucking terrified but still going forward. Still being grateful. Still trying."

He smiles just a little against her chest. They've spoken of this before, in truth; she has offered it as reassurance against his own fears, of which there have been many. To hear it turned back to encourage herself, as well, somehow makes him feel the connection between them deepen even more.

He wraps his arms tightly around her, presses a line of slow kisses along her collarbone, up her neck, then draws back so he look into her face again.

She meets his eyes, breathes in and then out heavily. "We're going to save this city," she says firmly. "Together. It's going to be the last thing I do."

Again, he resists the urge to look away, to hide from the grief and the fear. If she must be put in the position of having to decide on her last wish, he thinks, she could not have chosen a better one. "I'm with you, Karlach," he murmurs, and though his voice trembles, it does not break. "Every step of the way."

She manages a slight smile, and even in spite of everything facing them, his heart flutters a little at the expression of love in her eyes. "That's why I know we're going to win."

-----

(A/N: It's cool, Larian, I didn't need my heart or anything. Once again I'm going to include a recording of this scene as well, because Samantha Beart's voice acting has really been obliterating me lately and the animation is very evocative as well.)

[badass-at-fandoming]

Recreation of my experience finding Nola Spier in Year of the Scarab Trilogy, Book 2: Lay Down With Lions,

Me: Oh my God! The legend, the dead wiki link on Beckett's page, the mysterious mage! I can finally learn all about Beckett's mage friend! I found her canon book reference! :D

Me: oh god, she's in THIS book D:

[TW for mentions of pedophilia and successful grooming]

-- Year of the Scarab Trilogy, Book 2: Lay Down With Lions, pages 99-101

Transcript:

He rapped on the door with his gloved hand, flexing the thin leather he wore as he waited. He'd tossed his old pair, the one hand ruined from allowing his ever-present talons to tear through the fingertips. He didn't expect these to last—like putting a condom over a fire hose, really—but they were sufficient for the pretense.

There was no immediate response so he knocked again. It was later; sensing the movement of the new moon, Beckett imagined it was close to one in the morning. He knew she'd be up, though; she was a night owl. Must be back in her workshop.

A few seconds later the heavy wood door swung back and a woman collapsed against it as if overcome with shock. "As I live and breathe," she said, hand to her chest. "Come on in, Beckett."

He allowed himself a smile and stepped into a cozy living room, noting that she'd added a few dozen knick-knacks since he'd last been by. "How are you, Nola?"

"Not too different," she said, swinging the door shut with a solid /thunk/. "Been keeping my head down the past few years. The millennium stirred up all sorts of shit; done my best to stay out of all of it."

"I thought you might. Prudence has always been your hallmark. In fact, I thought you might move to a more secluded locale [than Silver Lake]."

She shrugged with one shoulder, gesturing toward the back of the house with the other. "Let's go to the workshop. No, I figured I've been here fifty years, I'm settled. [If] The end of the world is gonna happen[,] I'd like to be where I'm most comfortable."

Nola Spier didn't look much over forty, but Beckett knew she was almost twice that age. This would have been unremarkable to him if she was a vampire, but she was mortal. At least, as near as he'd ever been able to determine. He'd met her sometime in the 1930s when he was searching for a drug purported to expand the user's awareness and tap into collective memory. (It didn't.) Back then she'd been one of the many orphans struggling to get by in the Depression. Her large eyes and cherubic face had brought her to the attention of one Fortis Spier, a mystic of some small ability. He'd taken her under his wing, though his designs were more prurient than humanitarian. Nola had proven herself plenty capable of holding her own against the older man's advances. Surprisingly, what could have been another dysfunctional relationship had blossomed into an equal partnership and romance. When Beckett stopped through twenty years later for some input on the local occult scene, he found Nola a handsome and confident woman who doted on the aging Fortis as much as he pampered her. It was only after her husband died that Nola revealed how powerful a mystic she was; she refrained from disclosing the full extent of her talents to spare Fortis' feelings.

Beckett was aware of the various brotherhoods of magicians scattered around the globe, but he avoided them as best he could. A superstitious and hidebound lot, they were a mass of contradictions and hypocrisy to rival vampires. He much preferred dealing with the loners, those like himself who tapped into the world around them but charted their own course.

He kept his true nature secret from most of them, though he assumed many of his contacts had a fair idea of what he was. He would have been disappointed if they didn't; he made a point to deal with those who were perceptive and discreet. He expected no less of those with whom he associated. He was sure Nola Spier knew what he was, just as he was aware she was far more powerful a wizard than she claimed. She didn't seem the least bit disturbed by him and he'd always found her good company, so they maintained a pretense that they were each no more dabblers in the occult. The passage of decades with no physical change on his part and little enough on hers was overlooked. In an isolated existence, it was rare to find someone with whom you could be relaxed and not subject to the petty social conventions of disclosure or bonding.

Nola's workshop took up almost half the bungalow. It was a long, rectangular room crammed with books, jars, clothing, various devices and sundry oddments. It looked like a movie/studio/prop department after a cyclone went through. She leaned against one of the many cluttered counters, not bothering to offer a seat since there was no place to sit that wasn't already under stacks of papers and boxes, and turned a curious look at Beckett. "So; you don't look like you came by to chat."

"Not this time," he said, pausing to look over a large bisected animal skull. "Recent discovery?"

[shanastoryteller]

Saw your post mentioning reading your favorite poems and I was wondering what they were? I've never really liked poems but I really liked that one by Emily Dickson you put in the front of that teen wolf fic so you probably have really good taste in poems, and I've been trying to find some to like.

Good Bones by Maggie Smith

Life is short, though I keep this from my children.Life is short, and I’ve shortened minein a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways,a thousand deliciously ill-advised waysI’ll keep from my children. The world is at leastfifty percent terrible, and that’s a conservativeestimate, though I keep this from my children.For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird.For every loved child, a child broken, bagged,sunk in a lake. Life is short and the worldis at least half terrible, and for every kindstranger, there is one who would break you,though I keep this from my children. I am tryingto sell them the world. Any decent realtor,walking you through a real shithole, chirps onabout good bones: This place could be beautiful,right? You could make this place beautiful.

~

Because I could not stop for Death (479)

Emily Dickinson

Because I could not stop for Death – He kindly stopped for me – The Carriage held but just Ourselves – And Immortality.

We slowly drove – He knew no hasteAnd I had put awayMy labor and my leisure too,For His Civility –

We passed the School, where Children stroveAt Recess – in the Ring – We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain – We passed the Setting Sun –

Or rather – He passed us – The Dews drew quivering and chill – For only Gossamer, my Gown – My Tippet – only Tulle –

We paused before a House that seemedA Swelling of the Ground – The Roof was scarcely visible – The Cornice – in the Ground –

Since then – ‘tis Centuries – and yetFeels shorter than the DayI first surmised the Horses’ HeadsWere toward Eternity –

~

this one is an old nursery rhyme:

One bright day in the middle of the night, Two dead boys got up to fight. They turned their backs and faced each other, Drew their swords and shot the other. One was blind and the other couldn’t see, So they chose a fool for their referee. A mute eyewitness screamed with fright.A cripple danced to see the sight. A deaf policeman heard the noise.He came and shot the two dead boys.A paralyzed donkey passing by,Kicked the copper in the eye, And knocked him through a rubber wall, Into a ditch and drowned them all.If you don’t believe this lie is true,Ask the blind man. He saw it too.

~

She swearsshe will nevergive birthto a daughter.Won’t evenplant a garden.— Adira Bennett

~

Do not go gentle into that good night

Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that good night,Old age should burn and rave at close of day;Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,Because their words had forked no lightning theyDo not go gentle into that good night.Good men, the last wave by, crying how brightTheir frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,Rage, rage against the dying of the light.Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,Do not go gentle into that good night.Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sightBlind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,Rage, rage against the dying of the light.And you, my father, there on the sad height,Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.Do not go gentle into that good night.Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

~

My mouth is a fire escape.The words coming outdon’t care that they are naked.There is something burning in here.

— Andrea Gibson

~

Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep

By Mary Elizabeth Frye

Do not stand at my grave and weepI am not there; I do not sleep.I am a thousand winds that blow,I am the diamond glints on snow,I am the sun on ripened grain,I am the gentle autumn rain.When you awaken in the morning’s hushI am the swift uplifting rushOf quiet birds in circled flight. I am the soft stars that shine at night. Do not stand at my grave and cry, I am not there; I did not die.

~

Never regret thy fall,O Icarus of the fearless flightFor the greatest tragedy of them allIs never to feel the burning light

— Oscar Wilde

~

Annabel Lee BY EDGAR ALLAN POEIt was many and many a year ago,   In a kingdom by the sea, That a maiden there lived whom you may know   By the name of Annabel Lee; And this maiden she lived with no other thought   Than to love and be loved by me. I was a child and she was a child,   In this kingdom by the sea, But we loved with a love that was more than love—   I and my Annabel Lee— With a love that the wingèd seraphs of Heaven   Coveted her and me. And this was the reason that, long ago,   In this kingdom by the sea, A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling   My beautiful Annabel Lee; So that her highborn kinsmen came   And bore her away from me, To shut her up in a sepulchre   In this kingdom by the sea. The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,   Went envying her and me— Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know,   In this kingdom by the sea) That the wind came out of the cloud by night,   Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. But our love it was stronger by far than the love   Of those who were older than we—   Of many far wiser than we— And neither the angels in Heaven above   Nor the demons down under the sea Can ever dissever my soul from the soul   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side   Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,   In her sepulchre there by the sea—   In her tomb by the sounding sea.

~

self-parodies & psalms for shit-scared twenty-somethings by gyzm

is perhaps my favorite poem and just gut punches me whenever i read it but they are a tumblr person who’s poem deserves more attention so please reblog/comment on their poem directly :)

1.

most of what i’ve learned in the first half of my twenties is to embrace statistics i’m not smart enough to verify; theones about black holes and how much of the universe is justempty space: between atoms and from one planet to another.it makes it easier, to stare at my overcrowded sink and thinkthat to get from the floor of this filthy kitchen to the neareststar would take more lifetimes than i could borrow or steal.maybe there is a single withered raspberry molding beneath every single plate i own but in the scheme of things that’s insignificant, a non-event in the life of a non-event, and so canwait until tomorrow, when this hangover is gone.

2.

please, god, don’t let me die before i turn thirty. i’ve heardthat that’s when it all comes together, and i know those’re allfish stories, probably, the lies of those who need to pretend justlike me, but hell, i choose to believe. because the thing is, god, if idie tomorrow, a few years from now, i can pretty much guarantee it’ll be in torn underpants, on a bad hair day, in a bra that doesn’t fitthe way i’d like it to; please, god, don’t let me die before i work outhow to drag myself out of bed in time to dry my hair every morning. i’vebeen promising myself for years i’d learn to get off the couch on monday nights and do laundry, god, okay, i don’t mind living in dirty jeans but i don’t want to die in them, i’m begging, i thank you, i’m sorry, amen.

3.

there should be a page at the back of every baby book thatsays “baby’s first moment of cold realization that they are an gigantic shitheaded asshole.” it’s important, as milestones go. iknow it’s not as glamorous as a first word or a graduation but i’dargue that developmentally, it means at least as much — god knows i put more thought into the bleak portrait of myself at two a.m., staring haggard out from the filmy surface of my mirror, than i did in my ham-fisted infant attempts to say my father’s name. it would benice, is all, to have a warning, to flip through pages of childhood accomplishments and see that placeholder, at the end; to know that the future was coming, inevitably, to make dipshits of us all.

4.

don’t put liquid soap in the dishwasher. don’t put your vibrator in the dishwasher. don’t forget that your mother is coming over until fifteen minutes before she shows up and put every scrap ofevidence that you are a disaster zone living underneath a veneerof overdone eye makeup and slapdash dreams of better tomorrowsin the dishwasher. don’t put your grandmother’s china, that vase you bought at the flea market, a bowl half-full of aged guacamole,in the dishwasher. on the mornings that will keep coming — when the shower does not seem like enough, when you can feel your long history of mistakes pockmarking your face and oozing out from beneath your armpits — don’t put yourself in the dishwasher.

5.

the human body replaces skin cells so quickly that two weeks from now, every part of me will be brand new, and i will still feel as though i have spent my first quarter-century on this planet touching both too much and not enough. that feels profound atthis moment but the human body replaces humiliations fastereven than skin; two weeks from now i will remember saying this,stare at the ceiling above my bed and think: no one has ever been as big of an asshole as you are. there are billions of stars in our galaxy and billions of galaxies in our universe and my ceiling is the only clean part of my apartment. i know it’s a fish story, but c’mon, god, okay — i’m just asking to believe i’ll make it to thirty better dressed; less selfish.

[p---leia]

Ancient Writer of dreams and nightmares: I am 71 (-one month), and have been writing (making up tales) since I was three. I can still remember my Pawpaw whittling a pencil for me, and Mawmaw tearing a piece of brown grocery bag for me to write on. They weren't 'poor', but writing paper wasn't to be wasted on a 'kid' just for fun. I carefully scripted my first short story.

Of course my 'letters' looked more like ancient Hanguel, so I had to read it to my "captured" audience. I really don't remember the story, but as my grandparents had a yard full of chickens and my dog, Mutt, liked to chase them (because of this we 'both' got into trouble -- because I always joined the chase) I most probably wrote about that.

My Pawpaw was a story-teller. For several years I thought there really was a baby found in the wilds of the African jungle and raised by the great apes. I thought he was the luckiest babe, EVER!

Then I found Pawpaw's books about three years after he died. I was eleven when he died, and felt that my best friend had abandoned me. But when I found those books I realized just where Tarzan actually came from and went to. I read everyone of those books and got the complete picture. THEN..

Well, Pawpaw also told stories of Daniel Boone and Davey Crocket...before I saw them on Disney. Then, of course, I went to school and learned what I already knew. Pawpaw was an excellent story-teller and never mixed up his facts, time-lines, or characters.

Growing up under his influence had a lot to do with how I developed as a story-teller. At family gatherings when I meet cousins I haven't seen in decades, they STILL remember me and the stories that I used to tell them. My children and grandchildren have grown up with me re-telling Pawpaw's old stories, and sharing many that I made up on the spot.

But I think what I read in my early years developed my writing style.

I was just turned eight when I read my first Shakespeare, MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM. He was my first favorite author. Then I was forced to read Romeo and Juliet. I was disgusted by the fact that TRAGEDY was made famous as a ROMANCE! Even at the innocent (then) age of fourteen, I was disgusted with the idea that it was considered romantic for 'anyone', let alone 'teenagers' to commit suicide over unrequited love.

My sister (now 68) and I recently discussed this play. Because she had a 'forbidden' teenage love, she said that she related to the story (even though she had never read it). GASP! It was required reading in ninth grade!

I remember our dad breaking up my sister and her boyfriend, who was really cool. He was a hard working farm boy who had saved his money to buy a motorcycle. AND his own car. But he wasn't good enough for my sister. smh

I always thought her story would make a great LifeTime movie. But I'm not touching it. She would 'skin me' for sharing with the world her broken heart. And if I added the stuff that sells today, she'd scalp me for lying. Not a win situation at all. So, I will write notes in my "Random Jottings Journal" for future decendants who might grow into writers or story-tellers.

By the way, the title "RANDOM JOTTINGS" came from a sci-fi book that I read as a kid in the fifties. I don't remember the author, although I'm pretty sure it 'might' be from a Heinlein juvenile book. But I've never found a reference to any sci-fi books using that term. SO!!! If anyone recognizes "RANDOM JOTTINGS", which was a note book that a professor/scientist/genius used to keep his 'thoughts', PLEASE share the author's name and the title of the book!!! Thank You.

In the meantime, I referenced Shakespeare. James Oliver Curwood wrote about Kazan, the Wolf Dog, and later Baree, Son of Kazan. From those two books, read when I was eleven, I searched for and found other books about Canada. Later there was Walter Farley, author of the Black Stallion, and the Island Stallion series. I think I met my FIRST friendly alien in the Island Stallion Races.

Of course, Edgar Rice Burroughs taught me much false history about the jungles of Africa, as well as the Moon and Mars. But I loved every 'read-under-the-covers-with a-flashlight' minute! I believe he was a contemporary of Zane Grey, because he wrote a few non-jungle and non-space stories, too. Which led me to Zane Grey.

Having read both of their biographies at a young age, I learned about the hardships of being a writer. I should say 'the hardships of a struggling writer'. I have never had a problem writing. Since I write for 'fun' and not 'profit', the few short stories I've had published were by local press, and a State magazine.

No, my struggles have centered around graduating high school, and completing college, stuggling to satisfy my husband, a 'Mr. Spock in the Flesh' personality, and later raising two children without benefit of parental support or child support. But we survived in the middle of laughter and many tears. And my made up stories about children lost in the woods who were rescued by a great friendly bear, or wolf. Or dog. And sometimes by a great Black Panther - a by product of one of my Pawpaw's 'local historical tales'.

I understand that publishers detest stories that begin with "It was a dark and stormy night.." But let me tell you, some of the BEST bedtime stories occur on stormy nights when the power has gone out, and it's too hot for candles or lanterns. That shadow that stands darkest in the corner and seems to be moving towards the bed is actually grandma come to check on the kids, and stands quiet so not to disturb the kids if they're already asleep. But since they are awake, and they see her 'shadow', she becomes the old crone who lives in the castle dungeon, and has slipped her chains to visit with the 'wee folk'. But there are no fairies out on such a blustery night, so the old crone comes to visit with the 'wee bairn', who fall all over themselves to get out of bed and sit around her to hear her stories of 'long ago' and other 'dark and stormy nights'. Again -- unpublished, because publishers don't like ... LOL

Of course there's always On-Line publishing. But that involves more work than actual writing.

Back to the writrs who influenced my writing:

While I enjoy a good Western, an adventurous space trek, or time travel, I also enjoy the occasional Historical Romance. Georgette Heyer was my first! I still re-read her amazing books. Of course there's Jane Austen.

There are a myriad of modern writers that I have read over the last five decades. Heinlen, Asimov, Norton, Bradley, McCaffrey, Moon, Stirling, Krentz/Castle/Quick, and Moening, just to name a few of the ones whose books I have in my personal library.

Those older authors did affect my writing style to develope as I read their stories. The later authors helped me to move into the late 20th century. But I'm not so sure that I like the 21st century so much. It's all about being politically 'correct'. If you aren't ashamed of your gender, your race, your country, your religion, your culture, your family, your history, then you are prejudiced. That's just too much guilt to have to live with.

I'm still dealing with my mom's death from ten years ago. I was her care-giver for five years. Her doctor had given her nine months. I still worry if I did enough for her in those last years.

And though my children are grown with their own families, I worry that I wasn't a good enough parent. And I worthy as a grandmother? How was I as an older sister? I was responsible as a moral guide when our parents were at work. Was I a good neighbor? A good support in our Church? And Hollywood wants me to feel guilt about something I can't change?!!

I'm an old woman who still likes being a woman and enjoys liking men. I'm not just white. I'm also mixed with a bit of Native American, and even a drop of -- OMG!!! --- Black. snicker.

That's a serious joke, because as a kid I had a recuring nightmare that I was a black man being judged by a group of people in white hoods I was hanged amidst their fiery torches. I always thought those white hoods represented the Catholic Church, because at that young age I didn't know about the Ku Klux Klan. Even though I grew up in the South, my family was not involved with that group of out-lawrey. Thank God!

Still, I'm supposed to feel shame? For something not even my family supported.

I've always believed there's a hint of Fae in my DNA. Because I love dancing in the light of the full moon, and flying with the owls who perch outside my bedroom window and call to invite me to follow the moon's shadow. If I am part Fae, I know it came from my mother's people. They were Irish mixed with Alabama Indians who believed in the Nunnehi aka Immortal, and the Yunwi Tsunsdi, aka Little People.

ALSO, while there's no DNA proof of ancestry, I've always been a 'closet Chinese'.

In the Fifties, when WW2 was still fresh, and we were involved with the 'Korean Conflict', and at odds with China, I would sneak around the radio, turn down the volume, and tune into 'that wierd channel' that sometimes played Opera, or Chinese music. Ahhh. I would close my eyes and wander through the few visuals I'd found in books, or the occasional movie. (before color tv)

A year or two ago I was totally depressed and disgusted with American TV. Hollywood has become so political, so wierd. Their programming is no longer for entertainment, but to 'educate, enlighten, or to inform'. zzzzz

Then I found KDrama!!!!! Korean TV. Japanese Tv. squeal!!! Chinese TV.

The rom/coms are sweet and 'pure'. Okay. I'm realistic. This is not a reflection of real life on any planet. But the innocence of the early 1950s programs is there. Similar to Disney's 'Summer Magic'. I'm happy with those dramas that remind me of thati nnocence. I have found a few dramas that shared more than I cared for, and I do enjoy an occasional 'romp'. But I've always preferred the Lady and Gentleman characters.

And watching these programs have reminded me of those fairy tales and legends from my childhood that had been sprinkled with the Occasional Oriental myth, legend, and children's tale.

Then I remembered my FIRST historical legend. "The White Stag" by Kate Seredy, is the tale of Atilla the Hun!

I recently found a copy of that book and am waiting for a quiet time, when the power is out and there's nothing to do. Then I will use one of the many flashlights I bought for a huge hurricane, and relax on the sofa beneath an open window and read this legend once again. I live in Florida. The odds of this happening increases as the summer progresses. I can't wait to learn if my memory of this tale of Atilla the Hun remained true, or has been distorted in the last half of a century.

Most of the tales that I write involve space adventures, the occasioanl ghost, and encounters with fairies, the evil ones, not the romantic ideal fairy. smh

I've never been very good with romance or comedy. But thanks to the recent influence of the Asian productions, I have re-formatted one of my dark adventures and turned it into a rom/com.

I love a good joke, but very seldom get the point or see the humor. And I can NEVER remember the punch line if I try to share a joke. My family have said they will write on my tombstone --

"I don't remember the punchline ... but it was funny."

But as I write humorous lines or events I find myself laughing. Or crying at sad events. And I am all 'giggly' when I write what is supposed to be innocent romance between a young and shy couple. But I have never felt that my own reactions were a true guide to how the story might come across to a 'reader'.

As it happens, I have two sisters younger than I am. My middle sister is bored easily and immediately redirects our conversation to something about 'her'. Okay. I understand. She is lonely, needy, and maybe a bit selfish? Not judging. She's the 'middle child' and that's her excuse. ROFL..

But the youngest sister is my greatest fan who declares that I am an awesome writer. "I love you, sister, dear."

So she visited me last week and patiently listened as I read the first chapter. She listened quietly, and I wondered if I had 'read her to sleep'. sigh. Boring books are often the best sleeping pill. Then I heard her laugh.

Squeals/Dancing/hooting/flying around the room in ecstasy!!

Okay! At least one person has laughed. And she's not that easily 'tickled'.

So, I will always carry on and write. But now I feel that at least I might be following a path strewn with "Black-Eyed-Susans, honeybees, butterflies, and bunnies".

I don't know if anyone will read this, or will enjoy it. I hope so. While sharing bits of my youth, my worries, and my concern about certain ones of my 'stories', I actually had ideas for developing 'new' stories.

I am always amazed when writers say they are 'blocked'. I have only to open my eyes to see a world around me that no one else can envision. I listen to a song, and I'm in a different world, time, planet. A gift from Pawpaw, and Mother's DNA.

It is my oldest granddaughter's birthday this month, and I don't know what to give her for her birthday. But when she was younger, she always asked me to tell her a story. I think that I will pull out one of my OLD/ANCIENT tales that I wrote when her dad was her age and make it into a book for her.

p---leia aka Mamma KayeLee

7/19/2020

[paisleypeter]

Homecoming Heartbreak

in which ; peter parker x reader are best friends and promised they'd go to the homecoming dance together if they didn't have other dates. however, peter forgets to tell the reader he's going with liz, and the reader gets dressed up and waits for peter to arrive. the reader goes alone but peter can't stop thinking about you.

"Mom..?" You muttered, stepping into the dining room in your dress and heels. Tears began to fill your eyes, but you quickly blinked them back. You wouldn't want to show up to the dance a wreck, especially since Peter stood you up.

She lifted her eyes from the book she was reading and furrowed her brows.

"I'm sorry, dear." She sighed, putting her hand on your shoulder.

You couldn't piece it together. You realized Peter had been quite forgetful and busy these past months, without any explanations, but this was beyond his character to do. You've been planning this for months, and you planned to tell him how you truly felt after you went out for a late night ice cream stop after the dance, a tradition you so desperately tried to keep alive.

"I'll start the car." Your mother said, offering to drive you to the dance.

You nodded, and fiddled with the boutonnière you'd bought for peter, that matched your deep red dress. Holding it carefully in your hand, you walked to the car and held your head high.

"I'm sure he didn't forget dear... Maybe something came up?" Your mother reassured, beginning to drive.

"No, he always forgets. Something always comes up. I should have known better not to even think he'd give a sh-"

"Relax dear. He's a good guy. He's your best friend. I know he'd never do anything to hurt you on purpose."

"No, Mom, that's not how it is! I've been waiting so long to tell him, we were supposed to get ice cream, like always!" You snapped, tears forming in your eyes again. Unintentionally, you dug your nails into the skin of your palm, flattening the petals of the flowers, out of rage. You couldn't help but feel everything you kept pent up at once.

You rested your freshly straightened hair against the window, shutting your eyes, slowly breathing in and out. By the time you arrived, you were fifty minutes late.

"(Y/N), wait." Your mother called, before you shut the door.

"I think you should tell him." She nodded, giving you a look of reassurance once more.

Folding your arms, you sighed and nodded as you turned to walk to the doors.

Walking through the gym, the loud music vibrating throughout your body.

Across the gym, you saw peter stand with Liz, with an royal blue tie matching her dress. Suddenly you met eyes with him. It seemed as if he already realized what he had done to you and what he had forgotten.

"(Y/N)? I didn't think you coming, weren't you supposed to go with Peter?" Ned asked, offering me a cup of soda he had in his hand.

"I don't even know at this point. We were supposed to go together if we didn't have anyone else to go with, but it's looks like he found someone and didn't want to tell me." You frantically said, as your heart began to race again.

"(Y/N), wait-"

"I'm sorry. I can't do this." You muttered, stepping away from the crowds.

You walked down the entirely dark hallway, your heels slowly clicking with every step.

"(Y/N)! Stop!" A voice desperately called from behind you. You could tell it was Peter, and you ignored the pleading. You've heard it all too many times to care. Though you couldn't admit it, Peter's voice made your heart a bit more uplifted and hopeful.

You mistakenly stopped in your tracks as you quickly brushed away the tears that you couldn't hold back anymore, swallowing the lump in your throat. Refusing to face him, you placed your face in your palms as you felt the most defeated you ever have.

"(Y/N)?" Peter said, placing his hand on your shoulder, attempting to turn you around.

"Don't touch me, Peter!" You snapped, turning around and pushing his hand off of you.

"Please, let me help you I don-"

"You've already done enough! This is you, Peter! This is what you do to people who care about you!" You nearly yelled as you looked everywhere but his eyes, brushing a piece off your hair behind your ear.

He stepped closer to you, examining every feature of your face, the way your hair fell to your shoulders, the sparkles dusted on your eyelids, and the rosiness of your cheeks that was still visible in the dimmed lighting.

You wrapped your arms around his waist, resting your head on on his shoulder. You couldn't help but sob and shake from your anxiousness. Clutching the collar of his shirt, you held him tighter to you as you continued to weep.

"You're gonna be okay. Sit, come on." He whispered, carefully lowing to the ground as you remained stuck on him. Peter placed his jacket around your shoulder's protecting your back from the cold metal lockers you learned against.

"I'm... so sorry..." Peter whispered, placing his hand on top of yours, clutching it tight.

"You forgot about me. Why do you keep forgetting about me? Why tonight, of all nights?" You sniffled, taking your hand away.

"(Y/N), it's a long story, I-"

"Peter, I don't care. You say that every time. I don't understand. It's one thing to always flake on our plans and forget about homework, but we've talked about this all year! You didn't even tell me you found someone. You know, I really do love you, but sometimes you're just so oblivious."

"(Y/N), I couldn't stop thinking about you all night. I can never stop thinking about you. Not tonight, not ever. And your dress it's-"

"Now that, is what I call bullshit. You think about me 'all the time'? Then why don't we walk home together anymore? Why don't we go out for ice cream every Friday night with Ned? Why do I only see you at lunch, only sometimes?! You couldn't even remember me tonight. I knew it would hurt, but not like this. You could have told me you found someone."

Peter looked into your eyed with a look of disbelief and sorrow. He could tell how hurt you were, by the way your voice cracked after every statement, how you still unknowingly held onto his boutonnière, and how you could hardly look him in the eyes.

"I still make sure you get home safely. Every evening. Listen, (Y/N), I know you don't think I'm always around and looking out for you, but I am. I am truly so sorry for not letting you know about Liz. It was so last minute and I was planning on calling you, but something came up. I don't have feelings for her, I thought I did on the surface, but all I can truly think about is you. I can't be near you anymore. I don't want you to get hurt."

"How can you even say that? You're not even there. I walk alone every day, avoiding every alleyway after what happened when I was alone last year. You said you'd always walk me home, you promised me! I shouldn't have even been surprised about Liz. I put a lot of faith in you tonight."

"(Y/N), why do you think those guys finally left you alone?" Peter said, tears forming in his eyes from frustration. You hadn't seen him cry in ages.

"It's because I told them to! I always watch to make sure you get home."

"I'm so lost right now."

"What's wrong with your neck?" You asked, as his collar loosened. It looked as if it was freshly bruised, and he shuddered as you touched it.

He took your hand away and looked away from you.

"Please don't hate me. I didn't know how else to tell you." He whispered, unbuttoning his dress shirt as he sniffled.

His shirt revealed a red and blue suit under his dress shirt, with a spider in the center.

"You're... you're joking, right?"

"I wish I was." He sarcastically chuckled, his melancholy overcoming him.

"I was at the bank before tonight. I brought Liz because she needed a ride over. I was coming to get you, but I was too late. I texted your mother earlier today, I was going to surprise you with peonies, because they're all you talk about. As soon as you walked in, I realized how much of a mistake I made. I tried to show up on time, but my neck was killing me I had to make sure I was going to be -”

"It's okay. Just breathe. " You whispered, wiping the tears from his face, and then from your own.

"I'm really sorry, Peter. I didn't know-"

"About what? How I felt or Spide-" He sharply inhaled from the pain, as he readjusted.

"Both." You quickly giggled, running your hands through his hair to comfort him. In response, he leaned his head on your shoulder and sighed.

"Yeah. I guess you're the oblivious one." He joked, letting out a small laugh as he held onto you closer.

[jpat82]

Chosen

Chapter 11

    You stood in the center of the library, looking around at the books that lined the shelves. Your arms crossed to fight off the emotions coursing through your head. You heard him shuffle a bit behind you, and your body went rigid as you felt soft fabric being placed over your bare arms. James sighed heavily behind you, slipping his palm into yours. You looked down at where your hands were connected, your own hand looked tiny in comparison.

    "Come, sit by the fire." He said, gently walking to the large leather chair. He sat down and the pulled you lightly into his lap and you allowed yourself to mold into him, resting your head on his shoulder.

    "I wish I didn't feel like I was at war with myself." You managed to say, trying to breath even. It was the truth, the whole truth of it. Saying it out loud was like ripping a bandage off and allowing a wound to breathe for the first time. It hurt, and it felt good at the same time, a soft silence fell between you as he wrapped his powerful arms around you.

   James nodded his head and tenderly kissed the side of your head as you stared at the fire, watching as the flames licked upward. You closed your eyes and inhaled deeply, letting his scent wash over you, welcoming it.

    "I was born to a woman who worked the streets. She was human, an amazingly strong woman despite her short comings in life." He said finally breaking the silence, slowly you sat back. His eyes trained on you as he lift his hand to brush the hair from your eyes. "She always told me growing up that she wanted better for me, that she felt like the wrongs in her life made me the way I am, like the devil cursed her to have a child that could only feed on blood."

    "Your Mom was human?" You asked furrowing your brows at him.

     "Yes, she was." He chuckled, nodding lightly. "She never knew which man was my father, and she never talked about the men she met. But she did everything she could to raise me to have as normal as a childhood as possible. She taught me as much as she could since I could never attend school, the sunlight used to hurt back then. It would my blister skin after I spent to much time outside. I would go outside in the evening, when there was still some light but after the sun had set, so I could play other kids. Even then though, I knew was I different."

    You settled yourself further into his lap, listening to him as he spoke.

    "But she tried. I grew up in a house full of women who worked the streets and each of them treated me as their own. They didn't know of course why they would find dead animals out the back door, or why they never saw me during the day. And as I child I aged much like the rest of the children on the block." He explained, trailing his fingers across your arm, his eyes scanning the fabric as he did. "It wasn't till I was seventeen years of age that my aging slowed, and coincidently that was the first time I took down a human."

    He sighed heavily, his eyes met yours, soft blues taking in your features. You kept quiet, not knowing if you said anything if he would stop telling you his past. He was making you look at him as something other then what you were told. He had a mother, a childhood, people that had cared for him.

     "It was one of the men that another woman brought to the brothel." He licked his bottom lip before continuing. "Growing up in one was hard in some aspects but as I said each of the women that lived there treated me with nothing but kindness often spending hours play games with me so when this man came in and started to hurt her something in me snapped. My ma tried to keep me out of it, tried pulling me away from this guy. He thought it was funny, that this tiny woman was pulling on me."

    "What happened?" You asked, the corner of his lip pulled back but the was no sincerity in the movement.

    "I don't remember how it happened, I just know he hit my ma, hard. And it was the first time I saw red, and I snapped." He said, his words turning ice cold as he spoke. "I slammed him into the nearest wall, the wall broke on impact, I knew cause I heard it crack. I bit down on his neck as hard as I could, and to taste human for the first time... all I had ever had up until that point was small animals my mother would bring back on her way home from the store. But that first taste, when I felt the warmth of his blood rushing into my mouth, it tasted far better then anything I had ever tasted.'

    'I was kicked out that night." He sighed after a brief pause. "My ma didn't want to but they couldn't keep me there. So I was given a small bag of money and turned out in the middle of the night."

    "But you were protecting them, why did they do that?" You asked, bewildered.

    "Cause, they saw me for what I was.. a monster. They didn't see me as the child they helped raise." He replied, his eyes completely locked into yours. "And there wasn't anything my ma could do, either set me on my way or die in the streets next to me."

     "You would of protected her though." You stated, he chuckled softly shaking his head.

    "Would I? I had just had the taste for human, and she had seen me do that. She was scared, you can't tell me you wouldn't of been. Having never known what your child was, she didn't know about vampires, doll."

    You thought about it, and truth was had this been a couple nights ago you would of done the same. Hell you would of tried to kill him, but now here you were sitting in his lap listening to him speak.

    "Tell me more." You asked, he slid his hand up your back to play your hair that hung loose on your shoulder.

     "I was on my own for well over a year, feeding on people that would stray into back alleys. Just trying to survive, I would go weeks sometimes without feeding, and the pain was intense. Then a man happened upon me, his blue eyes piercing through the fog." James continued, shifting slightly so he could face you better, allowing his left hand to drop to your knee. "His name was Stan, that's all anybody ever called him. He was an ancient, the oldest there was, he showed me the ropes and explained to me what I was. And he gave me a place to stay till I got on my feet, teaching me not just how to be a vampire but everything I would need to know in the human world. Writing, reading, math, history, everything he could. I met others like myself during that time, and for once I didn't feel so alone."

   "But?" You asked, knowing there was more.

    "It came to end one night, hunters stormed his home. They killed as many as they could, not with stakes, or daggers, not with any of the things your team foolishly left you with. But with long silver swords, decapitating everyone." You felt him shuttered beneath you, a glossy look in his eye, no doubt reliving the nightmare that played in his head. "I barely managed to make it out, lost my arm in the process."

    "I didn't know that, I heard rumors about the one with the silver arm. He was a legend the people that took me told us kids about. They said he had made a deal with the devil to have complete immortality." You spoke softly. "He was gruesome, ripping his own limb from his body as a 'downpayment'."

    "Afraid not, I already had been alive for over two hundred years by the time I lost it." He smiled. "And I've lived even longer with out it. It wasn't till I met Tony that I got a new one, and that was what, three hundred maybe a three hundred and fifty years ago. He keeps perfecting it every century."

"How old are you?" You asked him, again he smiled, as he traced patterns over your thigh.

"I was born in the year 1018." He grinned, leaning forward but stopping just before his lips met yours. His eyes that were focused on your lips raised, meeting yours. He was one thousand years old and looked no older then his thirties.

"You said I was the first in a long time that could smell your lure and that all of your.. the ancients had it." You said with questioning eyes.

    "All of us pures gave off a scent, it was unique to each of us but we could always tell who was and who wasn't. And yes, I have only met one other human who could smell it, and at the time I didn't know humans could." He replied taking a deep breath. "It was a very long time ago, it was while I was still learning from Stan. I drained her, I hadn't meant to but, I did."

"You sound like you regret it." You stated looking down at your hands.

"I have many regrets in my life, she was just one of them." He replied hooking his finger under your chin. Slowly he raised you face so that your eyes met his. "And what I did last night is one of them."

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LETTERS TO LEMON.🍋

By Jeff Slaughterhouse

TIM, TAKE YOUR TIME.

If I saw time themselves, I would strangle them. Look at how they did good people. I would strangle time until their neck is blue and the way I beg for a lemon, they beg for air and compassion from a mad man.

It has been fifty years since I've seen my lemon tree. I'm here to collect the lemons from the tree that received no water from my cans. I stand to receive the fruit from the wood that is foreign to my hands. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I've never gone mad and spoke to you like I’ve spoken to my hands. Please, its been fifty years.

I told my grandchildren about you. Yes, I’ve gone mad. A tree that is almost as old as me. My child. Just without my love. I just want a lemon.

I sit by the clock on Tuesdays and I don't smoke anymore. No one loves it like I do. I just stare at the stems, never touch, never happy. I figured it was what needed to be done. The urge to smell it is there and I conceded two days ago. As I speak, one burns inside like a candle.

I sat by the clock with so much resentment for time. That bastard who takes love. And joy. And you. It’s nearing sixty and I tried to open that clock near the oak desk with my hands. Cut myself in the process but I turned it back.

It broke. Springs flew and so did my patience. It’s been fifty years and if there isn't a lemon in my hands I swear I'll cut you down. I swear I'm not crazy. I don't ask for a God. A lemon. Or so help me God, that’s all I axe.

LETTERS TO LEMON.

I imagine if you could speak, or if you'd like to learn, I would of taught you how to speak. So you could tell me right now how you’ve been holding on. Is the ground treating you right? Are you aging? How do I know if your dying.

I haven’t seen you since 1999. You were a gift from my then lover, the one I told you flew way before his time. That’s what love is if you wanted to know. I’m a gardener, I said and the next day in my hand he placed a seed. But here we are my love, both old and withered and I regret that I didn’t do what you needed.

Maybe just existing and serving your purpose, like you do, may be better than how I live. Suffocated by love and grief is how we live. I was wondering if you felt grief. Do you even know what death is? Do you cry? Is your green leaves withering and browning, you crying and if so. Is me throwing water at you the equivalent of throwing water at a crying face. The tears are there but there indistinguishable between similar particles aren’t they?

You made lemons a thousand times in my mind. And I wandered if each time you knew or thought that it’d be the last time you do. Do you think? Do you think at all? Do you even want to wander. Is it to human to wander and not accept? Should I do as you do and be still and let what happens happen. I can't.

And when you make lemons? Are they your kids? Are they you? Do we love them and watch something we cant explain. Do I talk to them on a breezy night when its due for a rain? No answer.

Aren’t you afraid to die? To never see me again? If i'm not here to love you, then aren’t you another tree in a forest. In an amazon. What makes you special? I haven’t stopped trying to be special and fool myself into believing that I matter. I am dust. I am dust on the shoe of a man who makes the stars.

There must be a god and I must be important. Don't you want to love? Don’t you want to know what I shout at night? Do I ever frighten you when I do that. Of course not. Because you don’t hear. Nor do you feel. Nor do you want--want to speak.

GROUND TO ME, LOVER TO YOU

Please, excuse the wet spots on the page, I couldn't control myself. Usually stoic and pretending to be invincible to emotions , and the dam broke this morning. All over the page. I hope the ink isn't ruined and I hope that you can read this well.

You’re all I have left of him. The reality came to me in a dream. You saw me wander outside when I shouldn’t have. I saw you. I've never noticed. I don't want to see you die. You’re all I have left then nothing.

Two cans of water today. The red one with the stripes was hers. Settled dust was like a clock. I haven't touched her things in ages. Where is he, to you? Where do you think our souls are discarded?

I just hoped that im not a lemon tree in my next life. I wouldn’t want someone to do me as I did you. I have a feeling that you don't appreciate this near-death love. Where was my love for you before? I'm ashamed.

CANS OF DULL PAINT

You’ve got so much character. You’re a hunched-over memorabilia from my youth.

I threw brown paint on you. I couldn’t stand seeing you age. Maybe if you had lemons on you, I'd like you to know that I would take my time and paint every ageing lemon with yellow paint. I wouldn’t want you to feel what life serves to me on my own China.

That’s how deep my love goes for you but….would you do the same for me? Intake the madness and bend your branches for me? The hurricanes and the stray winds, it hurts to see them hurt you but I pretend that you dance for me. What will you do for me?

For me? For me? An old bitter branch. I haven’t been the gardener you’d want nor have I been the passing harvester….plucking your fruits and running away…..I have always been inside, waiting for someone to go mad for me and pour cans of paint, out of ignorance, on me. Someone to gently stroke their brush over the wrinkles and lines and lie to me when the pigment runs out that I am perfect.

I’ve spoken to you far too long without a response. Will I be mad out here tomorrow? What part of you hurts? Will you intake some empathy and use it on me?

The Gardener, The Florist and Revelations.

My skin is wrinkled, your branches are broken. My eyes are watery, pearly-red. You been dirt-stationed, beautiful and patient and I’ve moved too much and you've seen enough. Please, thank your maker that you bear no heart. It hurts. It hurts and time makes it so much worse.

On my way home from work, I passed a garden. I saw a flower and I plucked it for you. It reminds me of you. It’s no garden flower. It’s ugly. Faded color. Bitten petals. Just dried up waiting for the gardener. Just. Like. Me.

I saw a florist pass me by with a tender smile made wicked by the circumstances. In his dirt-stained hands, a glinting blade. Flower Massacre. Sells them the next day too. For him, he needs a cell. He's a killer to me.

Am I your florist? Am I you gardener? Am I your waterman? Can I come close and let you know I found some love to give? I can say no more. My throat is tight, goodnight.

Ode to the second before death

My heart beat is in sync with my Angel’s favorite song. Slowing by the day. Life is soon going to be a foreign taste. New lovers. My knees creak. My hands just dance slowly forever now.

Don’t listen to me when I told you some time back to thank your maker for your lack of heart. It comes back to bite. With such pretty teeth.

The cloth on the wooden table inside, is a milky white. You’ve never been inside. You’ll never be inside. So I’ll tell you what love is like. You tell me what love is to you? The dirt holding you close and never letting you go? I brought the record player outside in the pouring rain and played my favorite song. Jazz always makes me feel loved when I’m scared.

Did you love the music? Is that love to you? Did you see me slip on the pavement, bruise my elbow, stand and continue to you? Is that enough love for you?

Am I selfish for wanting no-one to love you better than I did. Promise me when I’m gone. That you will go mad for no one. That you will talk for no one. That if you feel what love is. That if you intake that love thing. I’m the first person you should tell.

What is the last thing I should feel? I hope you know I want you to be the last thing my eyes see. I want to crawl outside, in the pouring rain. Muddy clothes and all, in a hurricane. Settle near your feet. If there is anything Id wish id feel: a branch from you touching my shoulder. My old shoulder.

Touch me. Let me know you forgive me. I might—I WILL cry in the rain then I will die in the rain, in your arms.

LEMONMORTIS

There is an outfit laid out on the old bed inside for my funeral. I’ve got an old jelly jar to collect my tears. I'll be the only one crying for me.

I don’t want to die alone. I'm not sure if it is selfish to say this but will you die with me?

I've died a eight hundred times alone inside. I want to love you. I want to tell you I love you before I die.

Please, don't love anyone else. You don't owe them a thing-- don't owe me a thing. My heart'll break. My bones have already broken. I am decomposing. I am no longer a man, only a bag of love.

To hell with my heart. To hell with me. Selfish. That's what we are. That's what man is. Please, love on. Don't you ever save your love for me. Don't you ever. They look at me crazy. Why are you crying for a tree.

I want you to kiss the wind. Love the breeze, love the hurricane. Don't you dare listen to me. I hope you can read this, its raining like I knew it would and this letter is muddy. I can feel love suffocating me and I can feel.

TIME TOOK TIM.

Dramatics. Dramatics from a death fanatic. Maybe you cant give me the little lemon that I want. I never realized that I could give it to you.

The last of my strength. The last of my life. I went and got you a lemon. I put it at your root. And I want you to know that I love you. You are beautiful and bent in the wrong places. I've been unfair. I saw a man as old as me, who offered me a brand new seed because you cant bear. They're sorry for me.

I held it in my hand and gave it back. You. You are a dumb tree. Its been years and still no lemons. Excuse me, just one lemon. That we made. My hand is shaking. I've ran out of paper. I've run out of thoughts to put on paper. I've run out of time. The lord should be coming to get me in the morning. You'll be right here. Bent.

Here is my picture of my lover. The dirt to my lemon tree. I think ill lay right here in what I assume to be your arms. I think the first thing she'll ask me when she sees me is if you've beared. What did I do with the lemons. Nothing..you've never and you never will.

Love is stupid. Pointless and yet here I am. Under the branch of an aging tree begging for your love.

[for-kh]

that glowing orange dot in the sky is the moon!

it looks so tiny in the picture (and blurry cause I was driving home) but in real life it was fifty times bigger... I can't explain just how BIG it looked. It was such a vibrant yellow-orange! I kind of started feeling emotional!!

the moon makes me feel so romantic... I want to go moon gazing with you. one day we should just bring a blanket to the middle of field and just stare up at the moon and the velvety night sky together. we gotta make it happen, okay? :)

it's also the last full moon of the decade. since you were born in 1990 you fit neatly into the calendar, the world moves through decades along with you.

in all honesty, I don't really tend to get sentimental about age! really I don't! age just kinda feels like a construct... there are adults who have the mentality of kids and kids who have the mentality of an adult. plus no matter how old they get people young at heart always seem so freaking young!

even so, I kind of pause thinking about all that happened since 2010. I was in high school and had no idea who the heck I even was back then. Now, I think i know myself a bit more. I think I've become a better person, a person who can accept life's speed bumps with some level of grace. but then again, the decade isn't so significant. for me, the day by day is what matters. that each morning is a chance to be anything you want and I like to think I'm becoming a better me each day, even a tiny bit. like adding grains of sand to a jar. in the long term the days add up and I'm improving myself slowly but surely.

what about you? what do you think of your 20s? does that even really matter to you? regardless, I think your 30s are gonna be great, they're gonna be a golden triumph. I think you will learn and grow more than ever before. I think the same about my next ten years. I have a good feeling. :)