#I hope capitalism burns someday

[babybatss-blog]

A HELPING HAND

sirius black x reader, 1500 words

summary: if there’s one thing you know, it’s to always trust Professor McGonagall’s advice.

c/w: nerd-ish reader who gets in detention, friends to lovers, confession of love. Mentions of insecurities, but nothing too intense.

a/n: rest in piece to the darling dame maggie smith. I hope I did her and her wonderful character justice, I just wanted to appreciate her in the best way I knew how <3          

You’ve always been a good student. You study hard, get good grades and never get in trouble, sometimes even getting made fun of by nasty students for being a nerd. Sirius never made fun of you though, he was always so sweet when you cancelled on him to study for a particularly hard test or ignore him because your too engrossed in writing your essay.

But why does that even matter now? Your strides through the stone hallway break your thoughts, internally cursing yourself for even slightly letting your mind drift from the problem at hand. You got a detention!

Well, not exactly a detention, but it’s as close as you’ll ever get. Your grades have been dropping below your usual impossibly high standards, and now the headmistress has asked to meet with you to discuss your current predicament. Unlike your Black family counterpart, you pride yourself on academic appearances, especially when it comes to higher up authorities like Professor McGonagall.

You knock on the hard wood door three times, the wood rumbling as it opens almost immediately. Before you sits this aforementioned professor, enveloped by a thick leather armchair and adorned in expensive jewellery. Truthfully, you aspire to be like her someday. Commanding and treacherous, yet simultaneously kind and beautiful. Her emerald broach shimmers in the sunlight pouring into her tiny study, and her slick back bun has a few curled whisps falling out. You wonder how she always gets her hair to sit so nice, and how long that must take every morning.

“Good afternoon Miss McGonagall.” You nervously state, quickly walking in and sitting primly in an armchair. She simply nods, going back to whatever letter she is writing with a soft smile. “I presume you know why I called you in today?” “Of course. And I’m very sorry I’ve fallen behind on my schoolwork professor. I promise I will get that transfiguration parchment to you once my defence against the dark arts test is done, and I’ve been studying tirelessly to get my scores to a more appropriate level, I promise.”

Despite the worry evident on your voice, she merely chuckles, acting as if you made a joke. You didn’t make a joke though, so you furrow your brow in concern. Did you say something wrong?

“No my dear. I was just calling you in to ask about your handwriting.” “My-? Oh yes, apologies for the messiness on my last assignment. I was in a bit of a rush, so I think some of my m’s turned into n’s.” Once again she laughs, this time straight from her belly, her head thrown back. You can’t help but feel your face burn up in embarrassment. “Messiness? Why I never! No darling, I meant to ask how it’s so neat! You see, I’ve been attempting to do those same loops you do on capitals, but I’m afraid I can’t replicate it!”

She slides over to you the parchment she was writing on, revealing random sentences repeated in order to practice replicating your font. Truthfully they are quite shaky, but you wouldn’t admit it to her face anytime soon. “Do you mind writing a few sentences for me? Maybe even casting piertotum locomotor on them so I can’t watch it back would be helpful!” You bashfully fulfill your task, writing some simple words on the page in swirling calligraphy. As you do this, your professor casually talks to you.

“I must say though, you were never much of the type to rush projects. What had you in such a hurry?”

“Nothing really, just a trip to Hogsmeade with Sirius Black.”

“Sounds lovely.”

“Oh yes, it really was. Sirius wanted to go into town because he ordered a record from the post office that was due to arrive. It was some muggle band, I think it was called The Beatles? He said they are quite popular, and I see why. The singer is dreamy! He played it for me when we got back to school, and he gave me some of his Berty’s Botts Beans. He knows I love them you see, and he always tries to inspect them before he hands them to me so I don’t get the bad ones. Sometimes he gets it wrong, and I have to suffer anyways. But I…” You eventually realise just how much you have been rambling, as the page is suddenly filled with words you didn’t remember writing and you need to take a deep breath to rid of your light headedness. “Yes, I thought it was nice.” You finish up, not wanting to bore her with your story of a typical day out. But she honestly seems quite intrigued, looking at you with a peculiar arched eyebrow.

“You and that Black boy make a strange pair. A good one at that though.” You chuckle along with her, reminiscing on your differences that complement each other perfectly. “Many do say that. He’s a good friend to me.”

“Friend?” She mirrors, an almost offended tone on her voice. She takes the page away from you and blows on it as to help to ink dry, before placing it in a draw of her desk. “I don’t know why, but I always thought you two were together. Never mind me, I’m a silly old lass now.” Usually you are completely and utterly respectful no matter what is thrown at you, but something in her statement sets off a spark in which you immediately regret. “No! no no no no no. Sirius and I would never! I mean, have you seen how he- no, it would never work.”

Professor McGonagall looks at you in a way that can only be described as utter disbelief, and a tiny hint of disappointment before she speaks. “If you say so. But I have to say, I was just like you back in my day. So naïve…” She sighs, looking blissfully off. “You know…” She twists to face you, a smirk causing her features to almost become young once more. “When I was your age, maybe a little younger I liked a guy. Now don’t tell anyone I told you this but… He was a real dashing man. So proper and smart, but he really knew how to dance when the jukebox started!”

Suddenly you feel like Minerva McGonagall’s best friend, gossiping about your childhoods now those days are long gone. Never would you have expected to see this side of her, but you cannot complain when you see that energetic sparkle in her eye.

“And I believe he like me back. When I was tired he would carry me up to my common room, and and would tuck me in real nice and tight. But I never went any further. I was too nervous. So he started dating my friend, and five years later they got married! I hate to admit it but sometimes I wonder how things would’ve turned out. You don’t have to listen to an out of touch woman like me, but you know I have your best interest at heart.”

It takes you a good minute to properly process her words, repeating them in your head and wondering how she could be so right. No one, not even any of your closest friends have ever realised your concealed feelings, the only being hearing them is your little diary under the moonlight, which knows they will never come true. But here is your teacher, completely demolishing your tiny sense of secrecy and legitimising every worry you’ve ever had. When he kisses some random girl at a party you worry it will last between them, when you can’t find him in his usual spots you worry he’s abandoned you and when you look in the mirror you see merely a friend, someone who will never amount to him. But maybe you could. Maybe there is some universe where he feels the same, and you are lucky enough to be in that universe right now. After all, there always is a chance.   

“Go and get him.” She orders, staring into your soul with her blue eyes. You nod, tears fighting to leave your eyes as the weight of emotion takes over you. You stand up, thanking her breathlessly before running out.

Professor McGonagall knows that she did the right thing, judging by the conversation she had with Sirius about the same subject just the other day.   

[sorrowsofsilence]

Burning Out • I

Pairing: Noah Sebastian x Fem!Reader

I was lost, but now I'm found Under the lights and in the sounds So let us sing and sing it loud That we're not perfect, but we're proud of who we are.

Noah Sebastian is lost. His crime-filled lifestyle is anything but perfect; but everything changes once he meets you.

Words: 4.7K

General Fanfic Warnings: 18+, explicit language, smut, alcohol, drugs, violence, mentions murder/suicide, panic attacks/anxiety, nightmares

Authors note: Chapter One: The Apparition - (EDITED 09-03-2024) This story was a request by an anon! I hope you enjoy my interpretation of the prompt (prompt is here). I am excited to see where this goes! Let me know any thoughts, and if you’d like to be tagged leave a comment :3

THIS IS A FANFICTION USING REAL PEOPLE IN A FICTIONAL SITUATION! I AM NOT IMPLYING THESE PEOPLE WOULD DO THE THINGS IN THE STORY OR ACT THE WAY THEY DO IN THE STORY, IN REAL LIFE! IT IS SIMPLY FICTION, AND JUST FOR FUN! THINK OF THEM AS ACTORS LOL.

NOAH

The world was always in a state of grey, the life of the concrete jungle persistently sucking out the souls of its inhabitants with every passing second. Destruction. Crime. Greed. A shattering abyss of capitalism and corruption.

Yet, I don’t think I was meant to be the good guy in this lifetime.

Maybe someday, in another universe, there would be a possibility for me.

But for now, the only thing I could think about was how my heart pounded as the gun sat between my fingers, threatening the innocent ahead.

Destruction, Crime, Greed.

“Noah, let’s go,” Ruffilo desperately pulled at my wrist in an attempt to drag me away. My arm remained still, held in its position, resisting his force.

The woman’s eyes watched me in horror, tears brimming as her back hit the brick wall behind her, arms wrapping protectively around her body in defeat.

My heart raced, yet I couldn’t move.

“I won’t say anything I swear,” She pleaded, lips trembling, saliva foaming from her mouth as she was too afraid to swallow.

I don’t want to do this, but I fucked up.

“Noah,” Ruffilo said through gritted teeth, “We need to go,” he placed a hand on top of my gloved one, in another attempt to have me lower the bad decision.

I closed my eyes, squeezing them shut in contemplation as my chest heaved, the voice of rationality fighting against the voice of destruction.

You’ve never been able to kill anyone before you moron, why do you think this time will be any different?

My eyes snapped open, leathered finger dancing along the trigger as I stared at her. My teeth barred through chapped lips, a snarl of frustration crawling from my throat as the woman's eyes turned away in fear; as if watching her demise would kill her.

Seeing her in complete terror left me broken. Is this who I am?

The next thirty seconds passed as though I was walking through molasses, my thoughts battling contradictions before I audibly screamed in frustration, shoving the gun back into my pocket as Nicholas and I ran towards the van.

“Fuck!” I yelled, slamming the car door as forceful as possible. The tires squealed in place, burning out as Jolly’s foot pounded onto the gas pedal.

I ripped off my ski mask, throwing it angrily onto the floor of the vehicle.

“You should’ve just left her Noah. Now if they find us we could be charged with assault with a weapon.” The deep Swedish accent was the last thing I wanted to hear. He eyed me sternly in the rearview mirror, and I lingered on his gaze for a moment before turning my head towards the window.

“Oh Fuck off Jolly,” I sighed angrily, closing my eyes as my breathing quickened, the anxiety beginning to set in. The pounding of my heart began to vibrate along my entire chest, and my leg bounced in anticipation, waiting for the panic to subside.

I kept justifying to myself that we’re all dead anyway, so what’s the difference between a God and a loaded gun?

The van sped through the city's veins, a blur of neon and shadows. I felt Ruffilo's eyes digging into me, a mix of disappointment and concern as he watched my tapping fingers against the plastic of the car door. Another fuck up added to the list.

The silence in the vehicle was deafening, broken only by the occasional honk of a distant car or the screech of tires against wet asphalt.

"We need to lay low for a while," Jolly's voice cut through the tension. "I know a place on the outskirts we can hang out at ‘till everything cools down. It’s not pretty, but it'll do."

I nodded absent-mindedly, my thoughts still with the woman we'd left behind. Her terrified eyes haunted me, a stark reminder of the monster I was becoming. Or perhaps had always been.

As we drove further from the city center, the buildings grew more dilapidated, the streets emptier. The grey world outside mirrored the turmoil that had taken over my thoughts, reminding me of the emptiness that seemed to follow me everywhere.

+++++

Y/N

I tied the grey apron around my waist and punched in for my shift. With my hair pulled back into a low bun, I tucked away any stray strands of my bangs. Another day at work, feeling like it was all just slipping away, lost to the endless cycle of capitalism.

Overall, I enjoyed my new job working in the coffee shop. The city was busy, something I wasn’t used to, but the cafe was a comforting environment filled with tasty pastries, and an unlimited amount of caffeine to fulfill any heart's desire.

I sighed as I checked on the coffee pots, organizing them before nearly lining the glass display with more cakes and croissants. Stocking up the cups and lids, I hummed to myself, letting my mind wander into my corporate daydream distractions.

Why are you never real?

Whenever you appear

You leave me with that grace

I am trembling with fear

But I know that you will disappear

“How’s it going Y/N?” My coworker asked, smiling, pulling me out of my trance.

Annika; I have grown quite fond of her, even though I’ve only known her a week.

“Good,” I smiled, pulling a sanitized cloth out of a bucket and wiping down the counters, “yourself?”

“Oh you know, same old same old.” She said, sighing with a sad smile. I matched her as we shared a moment of familiarity, before concentrating again on wiping the surface, the cold cloth running along the faux marble. 

The seating area was bustling with activity; friends catching up, students poring over their notes, and business meetings taking place. I loved observing the vibrant energy that each person brought into the space. A smile formed on my lips as I watched the familiar elderly couple, whom I had seen every morning this week, bid farewell.

I gave a nod to Lauren and Ray as I said goodbye, then made my way to the empty tables. I began wiping them down, ignoring the sound of the door ringing as more people entered. I hummed softly to myself, lost in thought. It had only been three weeks since I left my old life behind, and this was just the start of my newfound freedom.

So let's make trouble in the dream world

Hijack heaven with another memory now

I make the most of the turning tide

It just split what's left of the burning silence

“Sleep token?”

Suddenly, a man's voice interrupted my thoughts and I snapped out of my daze. My face heated up with embarrassment as I realized that Annika must have gone to assist another customer. I quickly apologized and avoided eye contact as I tossed the cloth into the bucket and rushed back to the register.

I glanced nervously at the buttons in front of me, mentally preparing to either hit to go or to stay, as I waited for the man's response. But when my eyes met his deep brown gaze, I was instantly lost in the intensity and mystery within them. My lips parted slightly as I stared at him, feeling a rush of infatuation that warmed my cheeks. His dark chocolate eyes were framed by long, tousled brunette hair that fell just below his collarbone. His arms and neck were adorned with colourful tattoos, giving him an alluring look. And when he smiled, it was almost enough to make my knees weak; the crinkles around his eyes and the lines of his smile were captivating.

However, there was something else lurking behind those intense eyes, and my mind couldn't help but want to uncover it.

He returned my gaze, his eyes carefully taking in every detail of my face. A light blush crept along his nose, making its way across to the top of his cheekbones.

"So, is it to go or to stay?" I stuttered, breaking eye contact and quickly looking away. I could feel the heat rising to my ears and I focused all of my attention on the counter in front of me; trying to act casual but feeling a wave of shyness wash over me as I glanced up at him.

"To go, please," he replied, and his voice was like music to my ears with its slight Virginian accent.

In all my years working in retail and serving, I had never been so captivated by a customer before. There was something about this stranger that intrigued me; a mystery waiting to be discovered. "Just a black coffee, please," he said slowly, almost as if he was unsure.

I let out a shy laugh, “Did you want cream or sugar? Or we have a variety of syrups-” I watched as he smiled, before shaking his head, eyes remaining fixated.

“No, black is fine,” he replied. Something about his gaze, like the colour of October leaves, drew me in and held my attention as time seemed to stand still. As if invisible strings were connecting us, pulling me towards his magnetic presence that I couldn't seem to resist.

“Alright then,” I nodded, feeling a bit flustered as I avoided his stare, “is that all for you?”

“Yeah,” he said softly, digging through his wallet before handing me a bill.

“Can I have your name?” I asked shyly, looking back at him and trying to read his face for any clues about who he really was. Sometimes a name can reveal more than words ever could.

“Noah,“ he said, giving a slight nod and tight smile.

“Noah,” I echoed.

I pivoted on my heel and made my way over to the coffee maker, picking up a cup and filling it with the warm liquid.

Annika slinked up beside me, lightly bumping into my arm. "That's Noah," she whispered, nodding towards him, "He used to come here all the time, but he hasn't been around lately. He's always in a gloomy mood."

I glanced at her, unsure of how to respond.

"And he usually takes his coffee with cream and sugar, so it's interesting to see him trying something new." Annika turned her head slightly, observing the boy for a moment before leaning in closer to me. "Maybe it's because he's so distracted by you that he forgot his usual order."

A tinge of warmth spread across my face as I dismissed the idea with a scoff, "Yeah, right." But out of curiosity, I couldn’t help but glance over at the brunette behind the counter. Just as I suspected, he was discreetly watching us but quickly looked away when our eyes met.

"You should give him your number," Annika whispered mischievously before walking away to assist another customer.

I chuckled softly as I closed the lid and slid a sleeve onto the cup. My hand hovered over the sharpie, wondering if I should do it.

I shook my head gently, shaking away the thought before scribbling his name across the top of the plastic.

"Noah," I said, his name escaping my lips like a delicate sigh. It felt so natural as if he had been the one to breathe it into me.

His inked fingers wrapped around the cup, “You were singing the apparition earlier,” He said, and I watched him curiously, “fascinating, the line about the past.”

Every word felt like it was being taken from my body as we watched each other. Both of us seemed to hesitate, waiting for the other to say something.

The brunette spoke first, eyes gazing upon me for a moment as he turned towards the door, “I’ve never seen you before, you must be new around here.”

Though I wanted to reply, I found myself unable to move or speak. Instead, I fixated on each of his movements as he approached the door, the image of his black hoodie imprinted in my mind.

"Welcome to the neighbourhood," he said with a nod before exiting through the door, the bell chiming behind him.

I stood there, frozen, watching the door long after it had closed behind him. My heart raced, and I could feel a flush creeping up my neck. What was it about this stranger that had me so flustered?

"Earth to Y/N," Annika's voice snapped me back to reality. "You okay there? You look like you've seen a ghost."

I blinked rapidly, trying to regain my composure. "I'm fine," I mumbled, though I wasn't entirely sure that was true. "It's just... did you see him? The way he looked at me?"

Annika grinned knowingly, placing a gentle hand on my shoulder. "Oh, I saw alright. And I told you to give him your number, didn't I?"

I groaned, leaning against the counter. "I know, I know. I just... froze. God, why am I such an idiot?”

Annika smiled at me, kneading her fingers into my skin sympathetically. "Don't be so hard on yourself. Besides, he seemed pretty interested in you too. He’ll be back, he always comes here."

I sighed, straightening up and trying to shake off the lingering effects of the encounter. "Maybe. I just... I don't know what came over me. It was like time stopped for a moment there."

"That's called chemistry, sweetie," Annika winked. "And from where I was standing, there was plenty of it."

I busied myself with wiping down the counter, trying to distract myself from the memory of Noah's intense gaze.

But as the day wore on, I found my mind drifting back to those few moments. The way he mentioned the apparition as if he'd been paying attention to me long before I noticed him. As if he was the one to plant the lyrics into my mind. I couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to Noah than met the eye.

As closing time approached, I found myself glancing at the door more frequently, half-hoping he might return. But the bell remained silent, and soon enough, Annika and I were wiping down tables and stacking chairs.

"Why don't you head out early, I can finish up,” She said, wiping her hands on the apron tied to her waist.

I gave her a small smile, appreciating the gesture, “I’d love that. Especially since I have to be at the bar tonight.”

“Go,” she waved me off, and I gave her a nod, gathering my bag.

As I stepped out into the cool evening air, I couldn't shake the way his eyes had locked with mine, the subtle rasp in his voice - it all replayed in my mind like a broken record. Was I going crazy? What was wrong with me?

I shoved my hands in my pockets and started the short walk to my condo, my footsteps echoing on the quiet street. The sky was a canvas of deep pinks and oranges, the sun beginning to dip below the horizon at its 5 pm descent.

It was beautiful, but I barely noticed it, too lost in my thoughts.

Suddenly, a familiar figure caught my eye across the street. My heart skipped a beat as I recognized the black hoodie and inked fingers. Noah. He was walking in the opposite direction, his head down, seemingly lost in thought.

I hesitated, my feet rooted to the spot. Should I call out to him? Cross the street? The moment stretched out, feeling like an eternity as I debated what to do. Before I could make a decision, Noah looked up and our eyes met once again.

Time seemed to slow as we stood there, frozen on opposite sides of the street, and a car passed between us, momentarily breaking our connection. When it cleared, I saw the brunette take a hesitant step towards the crosswalk.

My heart pounded in my chest as he made his way across the street. I remained rooted to the spot, unable to move or speak as he approached.

"We meet again," Noah said softly, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Hi," I managed to squeak out, inwardly cringing at how breathless I sounded.

"I, uh, I wanted to thank you for the coffee earlier," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "It was really good. Although I forgot to ask for cream and sugar.”

I felt a flutter in my chest at his words. "Oh, I'm sorry about that," I said, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. "I usually remember to ask."

Noah shook his head, his eyes never leaving mine. "No, no. It's not your fault. I was... distracted."

The way he said it, with a hint of shyness in his voice, made my heart race even faster. We stood there for a moment, the silence stretching between us, filled with nervous energy.

"I'm Y/N, by the way," I finally said, extending my hand.

He took it, his touch sending a jolt through my body as his fingers wrapped around my own. "Noah. But you already knew that."

Well, I believe,

Somewhere in the past,

Something was between,

You and I, My dear

Noah’s gaze met mine, our eyes searching for any unspoken words. But he broke the silence with a blunt question: "Do you believe in love at first sight, or should I walk by again?"

His unexpected inquiry caught me off guard, and I couldn't help but give him a dumbfounded look, my eyebrows furrowing in shock. Slowly, a smile of disbelief spread across my lips and I tilted my head to look at him. A laugh escaped me and he joined in, his own laughter shy and reserved.

"I...I think you should walk by again," I managed to say between giggles, mustering a quick retort. "But only so I can get another glimpse of what you would look like walking towards me on a date." As soon as the words left my mouth, I cringed at how cheesy they sounded, but Noah's smile widened at our playful banter.

“So, I’ve gathered that we are both really terrible at flirting,” He said, licking his lips.

I hummed in agreement, “I think that can be a safe deduction from this one-minute conversation,” my eyes following his fingers that now ran through his long chestnut hair, eyes trailing over the flower on the back of his hand, “maybe, you’d like to see how bad a longer conversation could be?” 

I held out my phone, ready to exchange numbers and Noah's eyes lit up at my suggestion, a hint of mischief dancing in them as another smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "I'd like that," he said softly, passing me his phone as we shared each other’s informatoin. "Very much."

We stood there for a moment, both of us grinning like idiots before I remembered my shift at the bar. "Oh, shoot," I muttered, glancing at my phone. "I have to get to my other job soon."

Noah's face fell slightly, but he quickly recovered. "Right, of course. I wouldn't want to keep you."

I bit my lip, not wanting our encounter to end just yet, “But we could take a walk before I have to go?”

Noah's face brightened at my suggestion. "I'd love that," he said, falling into step beside me as we started walking down the sidewalk.

The setting sun cast long shadows across the pavement, and a gentle breeze rustled the leaves overhead. We walked in comfortable silence for a few moments, stealing glances at each other when we thought the other wasn't looking.

"So," Noah began, breaking the silence, "you work at a coffee shop and another place? Busy schedule."

I nodded, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. "Yeah, it can be hectic sometimes, but gotta do whatcha gotta do…You mentioned earlier that you've never seen me before. Are you a regular at the café?"

Noah nodded, his hands tucked into the pockets of his hoodie. "Yeah, I usually stop by every morning…a little bit of stability and sameness in my life.”

“You don’t find that sameness boring?”

Noah shook his head, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. "Not at all. There's comfort in routine, you know? But..." he paused, glancing at me with a soft smile, nudging towards me, "I'm not opposed to a little excitement now and then."

I felt my cheeks warm at his words, and I couldn't help but smile back. "Well, I'm glad to hear that."

We strolled on, our shoulders grazing occasionally. The slight touch sent shivers through my body every time.

"I was just listening to this song by Deftones you might enjoy," he said as we walked aimlessly down the street without a plan, “Considering you like sleep token.”

"Can I try to guess?" I looked up at Noah, who stood tall above me. Despite his lanky frame, I felt small next to him and my heart raced at our closeness. With each of his strides, it felt like I had to take three steps, his Dior cologne filling my senses.

Why are you never real?

The shifting states you follow me through

Unrevealed

Just let me go or take me with you

"Is it sex tape?" I asked and Noah gave me a big grin, clearly impressed.

"I have no idea how you guessed the exact song," he chuckled, looking at me curiously.

"What can I say," I shrugged, "I'm good at reading pretty boys' minds. And it's a great song, similar vibe."

He playfully raised an eyebrow at me as we reached the crosswalk. "So you think I'm pretty?"

I watched the other side of the street and smiled as I hummed, "Well, I don't think I'd spontaneously go out with just anyone….For the record, 100 percent my type,” I said, looking at him through my lashes.

Noah's cheeks flushed with colour once again. "And what exactly is your type? I'll keep an eye out for them, just for you."

I thought about it for a moment, biting my lip. "Well, they tend to be hot brunettes with long hair and brown eyes," I trailed my gaze down his body, taking in his hands before looking back up to see the snake tattoo peeking above his hoodie collar, "and they must have tattoos...in variousplaces."

A deeper shade of red coloured Noah's cheeks. "Well, I do have tattoos in various places, if you ever feel curious."

I laughed, watching him. We stared at each other for a moment longer, my heart pounding, as his eyes devoured me before the beeping of the sidewalk timer pulled my attention away from him.

“I have to admit, this is probably the strangest thing I’ve ever done,” I confessed, shaking my head in disbelief as we walked along the park path.

“What do you mean?” Noah asked, his hands tucked into his jeans pockets as he looked between me and the path ahead.

"Going on a ‘date’ with someone I know nothing about," I started, trying to keep things light. "For all I know, you could be a serial killer."

Noah chuckled. "Valid point. This wasn't exactly how I expected to spend my Tuesday evening either, but I do find a dash of danger titillating.” 

I grinned at him. "So you're not a serial killer then?"

"Not that I know of. Pretty sure that's not something I would get enjoyment from," Noah laughed, but I noticed he looked away, eyes becoming distant.

“So who are you then?” I asked as Noah and I followed each other down the park path towards the neighbourhood. The wind was picking up slightly, causing me to shiver and pull my sleeves over my hands, fingers intertwining together in my hoodie pouch. We were walking along a path by the inner city river, the leaves of the birch trees swaying as they danced along to nature’s beat.

As I strolled next to Noah I felt an odd sense of comfort, despite knowing absolutely nothing about the man beside me. I eyed him, his hair flying behind him, eyes squinting through the wind.

Noah seemed to ponder my question for a moment, his eyes scanning the water beside us. "I'm just a guy trying to figure out his place in the world, I guess," he said, “I don’t know who I am.”

As the river rushed by, his words hung in the air, washing away memories of the city and carrying them through the earth in a predetermined path.

"Sometimes I feel like a lost soul," He said softly, his eyes distant as if lost in thought.

I nodded, understanding his sentiment. "I think we all do at times."

Noah let out a low chuckle, pulling himself back to reality. "There's much more to your story though," he prodded.

I shrugged nonchalantly, trying to deflect his question. "I suppose everyone has a past."

He looked at me intently, pulling his hoodie over his head to shield himself from the wind. "What's yours? You're not from around here."

I arched an eyebrow, curious about how he had determined this information. "How did you know?" I inquired.

"Your accent," he replied with confidence. "And I haven't seen you around before. I'm pretty familiar with the area."

"Ah, makes sense." I nodded, amused by his observation. "I just moved here from Canada."

"You left the Great White North for this dump of a city?" Noah scoffed, surprised. "You could have gone anywhere in the world, and you chose LA?"

"They call it the City of Dreams," I defended with a shrug. "Plus, I needed to get as far away as possible."

Noah fell silent for a moment, deep in thought. We continued our walk in silence towards the houses.

"Running away from something?" He finally asked, barely above a whisper. Noah's eyes met mine as he tried to read me for an answer.

I let out a sigh, giving him a small smile. "Always."

"Who or what?" Noah prodded further, leaning in with interest.

"Ghosts, demons," I joked, trying to lighten the mood. "And people too."

We shared a laugh, our voices blending into a beautiful melody that I never wanted to end.

"I left everything behind - everything I've ever known," I began, but turned my head away to avoid his gaze.

I took a deep breath before admitting, "My parents were killed when I was thirteen."

Usually, people would immediately apologize and offer their condolences, but Noah remained silent, letting me continue.

"After that, I bounced around different foster homes because no one wants to take in a teenager."

Noah hummed, encouraging me to keep talking. We strolled down the sidewalk, passing houses as we neared my own. I couldn't help but stare at it as we passed by, but I quickly focused on the path ahead.

"Unfortunately, I fell in with the wrong crowd and ended up involved with some really bad people who only wanted me for what I could give them," I said with a hint of bitterness. "But I worked my ass off to get out, and now I have my own place in an entirely new part of this earth."

I smiled at the brunette, feeling grateful for his willingness to listen. He returned the smile and gave me a knowing look, almost as if he understood.

Noah's attention turned toward the houses we passed. His gaze was intense as he scanned each one carefully.

"Sorry for dumping all that on you," I said with an uncomfortable laugh. "I don't know why I just told all that to a stranger."

He shook his head, a small smile playing on his lips. "We're not strangers anymore," he said. "More like acquaintances."

I felt reassured by his words and couldn't help but ask about him. "So what about you? You seem pretty mysterious."

Noah fell into silence, his brows furrowed in thought once again. His gaze scanned the grass intently as if searching through memories. Eventually, he turned back to me with a small grin.

“I’m…just Noah,” He said; but as I stared into his eyes, devouring his soul, I saw that he was much more than that. His eyes held a depth of emotion that hinted at hidden truths and untold tales. But I didn't push. After all, we had only just met.

"Well, 'just Noah,'" I said with a playful smile, "I'm glad our paths crossed today."

He returned my smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Me too. More than you know."

chapter two

+++++

Tags: @crimson-calligraphyx @lma1986 @spicywhenspeaking @sammyjoeee @shilohrosechicken

@princessmarshmallowx @laurpartyprogram @cookiesupplier @nojoyontheburn @lacktoesandtoddlerant

@veronicaphoenix @er3nslovergirl @cncohshit @scrumptiousfestivalpost @melcchs

@flowery-mess @mentallynot-here @judging-from-afar @darkmxgician @badomensls

@hoe-for-daddywise @philomenie @xxkittenkissesxx @venturethroughtheveil @thefallennightmare

@blend-in-with-the-madness @reyadawn @deathblacksmoke @Anameunmusical @sitkowski

@anything-more-than-human @into-the-grey @amelia-acero @rumoured-whispers @artificialbreezy

[artiststarme]

Another One Bites The Dust

Well, I asked for angsty prompts and @doubleb11 delivered! I hope you guys like it and come yell at me in the comments!

~*~*~*~

When the fight with Vecna was over, the entire Upside Down started to collapse. Steve, Nancy, and Robin ran to the gate in the road where Fred had died but the shaking earth and rising flames threatened to engulf them completely. 

“Go, go, go! Nance, move! Robin, go!” Steve pushed them both through the gate but when it was finally his turn, he couldn’t make it. The gate burst into flames before his very eyes and singed the skin of his reaching palms. 

“No! Steve!” He heard Robin crying and screaming until the gate disappeared in a flurry of smoke and fire. Then he heard nothing but the crackling of everything burning around him. Steve was terrified. He was stuck in a burning world that had only ever hurt him and he could hardly breathe with all of the smoke and pollution in the air. 

He had the thought that the gate in Eddie’s trailer might still be open, the cracks in the ground hadn’t yet reached Forest Hills so he might still have a chance. He ran with all of the energy and fight he had. He had to get back to the Rightside Up. They’d won… technically. Vecna was dead and everyone else was safe. Would anyone really care if he stayed down here to rot? Everything else went to plan, he really couldn’t ask for a better solution. 

He didn’t make it to Eddie’s trailer. Halfway through Forest Hills, he dropped to his knees in shock. Lying there, prone on the ground and encompassed in blood was Eddie Munson. Steve fretted over him, touching his neck and chest to get a pulse and heartbeat but there was nothing to be found. His body was cold in the haze of heat. 

Steve tried to pick him up, move his body away from the fire surrounding them in all directions but he couldn’t move past the pain in his sides and the grief in his heart. His body toppled on top of Eddie’s and he cried. The overwhelming heat from the flames dried his tears as soon as they escaped but that didn’t stop him. He sobbed and sobbed over the unfairness of it all. What good was killing Vecna if the fight claimed Eddie in the process? 

Dying himself? Fine, expected, no big deal. But losing Eddie, the innocent newcomer that could’ve run at any point but chose to stay and help them fight a losing battle? Incomprehensibly unfair. 

So when the smoke clogged his lungs and stole all of the oxygen from his blood, Steve gave up. He died in a vengeful rage at the world that would never be complete without it’s renowned babysitter. He died on the cracking ground of the Upside Down curled around Eddie Munson, the man that he had bonded with and had the potential to be great friends with someday. 

At least he wouldn’t die alone. 

~*~*~*~

When El got back to Hawkins, it was to a barrage of questions and pleas to find Steve. The Party thought he willingly stayed behind in the Upside Down as some sort of heroic martyr. They wanted El to open a gate to go get him. 

But only El knew the truth. She’d watched from the void as Steve tearfully curled around Eddie in an effort to protect his body from the flames. She saw as the light bled from his eyes and watched in horror as the flames licked their skin. 

She could do little more than break down into traumatized sobs in front of the Party that was still pleading with her to guarantee the safe return of their favorite babysitter and older brother figure. She didn’t know how to tell them that he was never coming back. 

Eventually, she mustered up enough strength and forced herself to speak only eight words.  But those eight words were enough to break the hearts and ruin the lives of everyone around her. 

“Steve and Eddie are dead but they’re together.”

She watched Robin fall into Nancy’s arms in shock. Her Platonic with a capital P soulmate was dead. El could practically see her heart splintering into millions of pieces that would never fully recover. 

Nancy caught her but burst into tears immediately. It was her plan that Steve had tried to change, he’d tried to tell her to wait a little longer for El to come home but she didn’t listen. His painful death was due to her. She would never forgive herself for snuffing out such a bright soul. 

Dustin was inconsolable. He’d lost both of his older male friends, both of his brothers and mentors, in one fell swoop. Of all of the things that could’ve happened, he’d never imagined this. Nothing could cure the pain in his heart or the desperation in his sobs. He didn’t know if he would ever stop crying after suffering such a significant loss. Losing Eddie felt like losing a limb but losing Steve too? Dustin felt like he was dying, like he was being ripped from the inside out, almost as if Vecna himself was haunting him. 

Will, Mike, and Lucas were in shock. This whole situation felt like a bad dream that they were just waiting to wake up from. Usually in this type of situation, Steve would be there to offer support and emotional hugs. But this time, their grieving was for him and they would never quite get over that. 

Unfortunately, this was their new reality. They would sign the NDA’s that the government agents threw at them, they would accept the hush money that would never meet the cost of a life without their best friends, and they would force themselves to carry on with the heaps and bounds of trauma. The Harringtons and Wayne Munson would forever live a life of confusion and false hope as they wait for Steve and Eddie to come home. No one would ever get closure. And Steve and Eddie? They would exist only as husks of who they used to be, curled around each other in the alternate dimension that ruined their lives.

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[notmorbid]

the angel of indian lake, pt. 1.

dialogue prompts from the angel of indian lake by stephen graham jones.

you're going to secondhand kill me.

this place is dead. someone just needs to bury it.

this is your brain on drugs.

i hope you really do get out of here someday.

maybe we could skinny dip while we're here.

we always find each other again, don't we?

if only i could take you with me when i leave.

you're going to have the world wrapped around your finger.

once the clock strikes midnight, anything can happen.

home is where the heart is, isn't it?

it doesn't have to be this way.

you just like the way i was before.

things do not happen. things are made to happen.

there's more. just wait. just hold on.

i made it through, and now i'm back.

it's not like history changes, right?

you don't walk into my house and tell me what's what.

pictures can do all the work of words.

you were a kid the last time i saw you.

you don't measure moms in height. you measure them in ferocity.

the shit kind of just accumulates.

it's not my responsibility anymore.

i wanted to be the one to tell you.

you're still a weirdo. you know that, don't you?

i don't even vouch for myself.

any trust you give will be used against you.

you think i voted for you?

no body, no crime.

you never stop, do you?

talking about it all just keeps it alive. happening.

this is great, talking to you. we should do it all the time.

still a man, so still 99% an idiot.

i'll walk away from anything for ___. you know that.

can you draw any redder of an x on me?

don't. even saying it is bad luck.

a lot can burn down overnight.

if i don't say it, i can't make it real.

what does it feel like to be loved like that?

i think i just wanted someone to listen to me.

in my head, at least, i'm honest. it's when i open my mouth that things get complicated.

you shouldn't let yourself think about that kind of shit.

in your head, in your secret heart, it's easy to be tough.

i'm pissed at the world, not just you.

you shouldn't be surprised about a little graverobbing.

'evil' and 'christian' are interchangeable to indians.

i think i liked you better when you didn't think like a cop.

when does your pretty wife get back?

nobody has ever said anything that nice to me before.

that would be a pretty good song, 'if i die in a canoe'.

i've always wondered how religions get started.

just because you were locked up doesn't mean the world stopped turning.

i didn't want anyone to see you like this.

captain goes down with the ship.

i just slept the night through, didn't i?

inside every compliment is a burrowing insult.

can i tell you a secret? i actually kind of like the price is right.

you just live here. same as the rest of us.

playing by the rules is supposed to be the key to survival.

you think i'm a biker?

you shouldn't be here alone.

who even are you, really?

that's probably not jelly, is it?

you're older than your years.

in small towns, you wear a lot of hats.

it's not exactly my first rodeo.

where does a name like that come from?

when you have long hair, birds make you nervous.

my mom would kick my ass if i wasn't a gentleman.

capitalism doesn't exactly keep your hands clean.

understanding and approving are two different things.

you don't turn the other cheek much, do you?

have you been getting my mental texts?

solve the mysteries you can solve.

if you don't like it, don't look.

i don't want you to be uncomfortable.

[someone-took-lost]

here they be! the redesigns of my cast from my in the works comic, gatekey. for those who don’t know, gatekey is a story about witches who destroy monstrous creatures called sprites. and along the way, they pave the path for a new tomorrow for the upcoming generations. and while doing so, they uncover many secrets about their society in which they seek to change or learn more about.

and now, meeting our cast members… from the left to right~

grimoire of rosebone valley (she/her)

the curious human from a small city in the valley, grim is a wizard who seeks to bring the world of magic to her fellow humans who seem to despise it. she’s an ambitious little spark, who has a fiery streak that might burn you on the way out. and albeit, a little arrogant and short sighted--grim does seek to better the world around her. she‘s just eager, and has difficulty seeing the other side of the issues. so at times, she can get caught up in her own head. but she swears that one day, she’s gonna show ‘em all what’s what! and that magic is the way of the future!

the lockheart witch (she/they)

with a stink-eye that even the thickest of heads would notice, lock is the dark loner of the group. she’s quick to distrust, and very protective of what she deems hers. and her alone--which tends to be a lot of things. lock is a determined witchling who just loves fiercely, and has a strong entitlement to the idea of equality. but unfortunately, due to events out of her control, lock has had a hard time being able to measure up to and with her fellow witches. and this has stirred a bit of an inferiority complex that she struggles to keep under control most times. she is a studious little witch, and a brilliant one at that, but her goals can have a tendency to get in the way of what means the most to her.

the gatekey witch (she/her)

our lead, our shining star, our brightest flame. key is the pillar of hope and optimism of those around her. she’s an excitable witchling, who dreams of becoming the strongest of them all. and to one day stand among her peers at white tower, the capital of witch society. and she’s ready to do whatever it takes to get there! but despite her bright eyes and even brighter spirit, key does have a habit of not thinking things through. and though she does believe in everyone to do the right thing, her naïveté tends to cause her to realize things a bit too late. she’s a bit of a troublemaker, but hecate above, she is going to make her way to her dreams! with her friends at her side, and a fist full of ass kicking--key will sure as the havens above that she will take on anything that challenges her!

the harvest moon witch (he/they/she)

self proclaimed “cool guy” harvey is the laid back, easy going witch of coven 3 who seems to find more reasons to not care than to ever come up with a reason to care. in fact, he’s spent more time napping in the shade than ever in the library. harvey is the challenge to his friend, key’s ideals, and seeks to mess in every possible way with those he cares about because,,, well. it’s just fun, ya know? harvey’s spent a lot of his life not caring, and it seems he’s going to spend even more of his time that way. as he readjusts his shades, and leans against the wall. but perhaps, that competitive spirit, and affinity for cunning will bring him a reason to try someday? who knows. but for now, i think it’s rest time-

the huntsman witch (they/them)

shadow of the executioner, fang of white tower, child of the whiteout. the huntsman witch,,,really likes reading and petting dogs. oh yes, this intimidating little guy i promise is in no way any sort of threat to--honestly, anyone really. unless ordered to, hunter is a gentle spirit, who adores dogs and reading. but tends to have trouble telling anyone about it. they’re extremely shy, and prefer to not say anything, as they feel there isn’t a lot for them they feel needs to be said from them. and even then when they do feel as though they’d like to say something,,,there never seems to be anyone willing to listen. but that’s okay! they’re okay with just listening in the end, ya know? sweet little guy with a hardened, trained, and sharpened exterior.

and that’s all of my little guys for my original comic!! let me know if any of you have questions, and i shall answer to the best of my ability. <3

[lyranova]

ooo lyra what about 4, 16, 24 for the ask game?

Hiya Tam! Of course, and I hope you enjoy 🥰~! Also I apologize these are all OC content, tbh that’s all I’ve been writing these days 😆!

4 with dialogue i'm proud of

This is from “Fractured Diamond X” which is an unreleased chapter for “A Fractured Diamond”! Someday I’ll actually be able to post it 😔.

“ Now I need you to listen to me; I’m going to go downstairs and help your father, now you’ll probably hear a bunch of frightening noises but I don’t want you to panic ok? It’s just me and your father taking care of things. After we’re finished all of us are going to go on a trip, we might even go to the Capital.” Idalia tried to sound cheerful, but instead it was a mixture of cheerful and sadness. “ I need you to do something for me ok? I need you to stay in here until your father and I come and get you, do not open this door for anyone! Even if you know them, do not open it. Do you understand?” She watched her daughter slowly nod her head, she smiled softly before kissing her forehead.

“ No matter what happens, your daddy and I love you so much. You’re the best thing to ever come into our lives, and I’m so grateful to have you as my daughter. My little diamond.” Her voice cracked at the end as new unshed tears began to pool in her eyes, Idalia cleared her throat before placing another kiss on Neva’s head and gently pushing her into the small cupboard. She closed the door and the magic barrier went back up. Idalia quickly turned and ran out of the bedroom, she could hear banging and loud noises float upwards from downstairs, she hoped she wasn’t too late.

16 from a recent piece i want to brag about

The way I haven’t written much of anything in over a month let alone anything I want to brag about 😭 *shakes fist at school*! But I guess this little snippet that’ll be in “Children of the Future: Shadows of the Past” is one I really like!

Her grey eyes stared into his as the two stood there looking at one another. A glimpse of her true feelings bubbling to the surface.

She loved him, and he loved her, they loved each other…

But in completely different ways.

She loved him as one would love a romantic partner, while he loved her as one would love a good friend or sibling…they both knew this.

But never spoke of it. It was like an unwritten rule between them. They recognized each other's feelings, but didn’t acknowledge them. If they acknowledged it then that meant they would have to talk about it.

And neither one wanted to talk about it.

Maybe it was because they were afraid their teamwork and dynamic would change if they did, or maybe…they were afraid their friendship would change…

This unspoken feeling between them was fine, at least for now…

They were fine….

24 that makes me go "huh...i wrote that?!"

I know I already answered this, but I’m gonna answer it again, and I’ll give you a different answer 😁! This little bit started out as an incorrect quote, but it was just so good that I had to include it in “Children of the Future” chapter 32!

Discordia Helheim, formerly Faust, had raven black hair that was partially up in a low side ponytail, and she had the signature Faust bright blue eyes. She gave everyone a small smile.

“ Welcome to Lumi, I apologize that I’m the only one here to greet you. My husband is ill at the moment and cannot join us today.” Discordia said, Nacht smiled at his cousin.

“ I’m sure you had something to do with his ‘illness’.” Nacht said, and Discordia chuckled.

“ Just like you had something to do with Morgen’s death?” She asked with a smile of her own.

There was no denying two things; that Nacht and Discordia were indeed cousins, and that they almost despised each other.

“ Um Nacht,” Gimodelo started as he peaked over Nacht’s shoulder. “ Would you like some ice for that burn?”

“ Be quiet Gimodelo.” Nacht muttered as his eyebrow twitched again.

[blueiight]

back to wiaw…keeping them home fires burning readthru.

hilde’s graduation<333 i feel like a proud dad omg she was just 7 years old yesterday😢😢😢

Martin and Kircheis, neither of whom had any estates to speak of, remained silent, Kircheis with his placid smile, and Martin looking uncomfortably at Hilde. miss martin shaking up the table.. yang’s current situation im still reeling from how sotp ended. was not in the right frame of mind to fully process & still wont be until hes in the mix once more. hilde saying ‘HANK’ is Good with a capital G. like. u dont even know his name pop!.. hilde would be the perfect lawyer fuck this stone age empire. poor kircheis out of his body here 🤣🤣😢

good friends winkwink. yang noooo😢😢u not leeching off the mariendorfs they love u theyre literally the only good family on this side of the galaxy.

“I think we have more respectability put together than either of us have apart.” hes willing to rep reuenthal at grandpa’s funeral AND be maggie’s mutual beard.. one lazy man, roped into so much shit. its funny cuz in sotp it was maggie who was the high life baroness ‘marrying down’ but now with her 'fall' from grace itll be viewed as yang dragging her ‘back up’ into respectable society .. oh how the wheel keeps turning. or wdf this work is titled

Yang nodded solemnly. “The thing about mothers, young sir, is that everyone has one, whether she’s around or not.” stunning wisdom from our friend ‘HANK’

wiaw fred actually seems more like a haggard worn down slightly paranoid emperor than his enigmatic show counterpart. liking it. sad for yang, but dont worry my dear ‘HANK’ , at least one old man loves you (franz giving him the ring was so heartfelt). and having the emperor now dislike u should be an homage to ur waning proletarian spirit anyways

THE DREAM… ohmygod. something about how dreams neurologically work in that the mind goes into strange places but also knowing this is a fictional narrative so this means a lot. the cars running backwards. please visit my father, yang entering the door alone. wow. yeah. family. marriage. possible political problems. somethings going on here.

SIT flashbacks oh when it was all so much easier😢😢😢even if he was being a CUNT there

poppa r.. when is he ever not drunk. wait. grandpa being only 12 years older than the father.. that man said oskar’s mingling with the foreigners and the queers bc hes barely a noble (aka a ‘ bastard ‘ ) oh this family trifling & dubious AF. i love that his whole family situation is so enigmatic & haunts the narrative bc thats how it rly be in these fucked up family situations.

“He looks just like his mother, you know.” When Yang said nothing in response, Reuenthal’s father continued. “She was proud, too. I wanted her to ask me for forgiveness, but she never did, and then she killed herself rather than apologize.”

“What, exactly, were you waiting for her to apologize for?” Yang hated him.

“You know what.”

It was a testament to the brilliance of Reuenthal’s pride, that he would never apologize for existing, despite how much his father wanted him to. Yang loved him for it.

“I hope you realize someday, Herr von Reuenthal, that your wife and son never apologized to you because they had nothing to apologize for.”

“You don’t know anything,” Reuenthal’s father hissed, and Yang remembered, vividly, the same tone, the same voice, spitting at him from across the booth at Joseph’s bar, a lifetime ago. It was the same unbridled malice, when a Reuenthal was confronted with this truth, the one that they didn’t want to face because facing it would hurt too much. Only this time, it wasn’t Reuenthal-Yang’s-friend— it wasn’t Oskar— it was this living ghost.

“I know Oskar,” Yang said. “And that’s enough.”

Everything about this passage is so…my chest hurts. wiaw yang is so so sweet and loving of wiaw reuenthal in a way thats believable. its like how hes always in the mix of some bullshit in the gaidens+ canonverse wise and he doesnt wanna be there but hes there for his own interest in the topic and/or love for the person involved. and omg For Pride!!!! lotgh ep93 namedrop. it is all In the Name Of pride. but that pride is fundamentally rooted in spite which is a trainwreck we all just waiting for it to happen. this is relatable. the ova canon physical resemblance to his mother, the wiaw canon dispositional resemblance to his father in his (vilest) moments… amazing.

CH2 MITTREUEMITT on ISERLOHN together. i never mentioned it b4 but their flagships being named after 2 halves of the same city omg this is even more egregious than canonverse Brunhilde & Tristan somehow. its giving what needs to be gave

Reuenthal tapped his chin. “Stuck is an interesting word for it.”

Mittermeyer raised an eyebrow. “Dangerous talk.”

everytime someone in wiaw says 'dangerous' talk i smile like a hideous creature. wait. wait. theyre at iserlohn. and yang’s promise to braunschweig involved iserlohn. ohmygod and they dont even know💔💔

Seeing Reuenthal regularly did something indescribable and potent to his mind, made him feel like a student again, with all thoughts of home distant and unpleasantly vague, and Reuenthal right there, so physical in front of him.

u make me feel like i am young again… omg💔💔💔💔💔

Reuenthal’s hand tangled in Mittermeyer’s hair, almost pulling on it, and Mittermeyer nipped at Reuenthal’s lips in exchange, causing him to make a soft, needy noise, his other hand digging into Mittermeyer’s uniform.

Mittermeyer pulled him back towards the bedroom, and Reuenthal easily followed. They didn’t bother turning on the light, but light spilled in from the living room, plenty to see by, and Mittermeyer gave one glance at his bedside table, confirming that he had remembered to put away in the bottom drawer the photograph of Eva that usually had a place of honor there. It was as much for his sake as it was for Reuenthal’s.

. the mittreuemitt dynamic i sold my soul for at the cost of everything else (the actual rammifications. da rammys, brah.) id pay 6 billion dollars & comm all the rly lovey dovey scenes as RARE AS THEY ARE it just makes it better when we get it (& hurt more laterz.) im still at the reuenthal knight of kapche-lanka scene. but honestly mittermeyer knowing its some fuckshit impending when reuenthal’s voice is ‘light’ ohmygod i love it pillowtalking reassignments+ their ever present disdain for obes … n the association of home with heterosexual love and guilt! ohmygod..

i am amazed. im not a multi shipper like that bc i feel multi ships tend to have a preferred chara + snub others at best i prefer discrete pairings (having multiple ships but theyre discrete relationships at different stages of a character’s lives) but the writing of these relationships moves me.. like i believe they all love eachother in their own ways and thats what makes it hurt even more.

“You want to drive?” she asked.

“No,” he said. “I want to kiss you.”

mitt is the only one of the 479 mafia who learned how to spit game so thats why he has two— not even gone say it.

does wolfgang mittermeyer eat pussy, thread locked after firey debate

YANG😢😢😢that old heffa been workin him to death smh. and omg he rly cant drive.. my boy is useless below da neck frl

“If I was being mistreated at work, wouldn’t you want to know? Even if there was nothing you could do about it but worry?” she asked, cutting to the core of the problem with her hands tight on the wheel. “I love you, Wolf, and I don’t want to be lied to to spare my feelings.”

BABY GRL UON EVEN WANNA KNO THE SHIT YO MAN BEEN UP TO… ohmygod.

Dinner was a pleasant and cheerful affair, but Yang kept yawning, and the dark circles under his eyes made him look almost pitiful, so Mittermeyer’s mother had tucked him up in the guest bedroom immediately after dinner. omg hes so adorable i feel bad for him too FUCK BRAUNSCHWEIG

“Some of them.” He paused, then added, “More of them bring their mistresses.” and you get to work with yours!

The convo w his mom is scaring me .. after sotp we are getting into totally original content not to say nat hasnt been incredibly creative but ygwim here my knowledge of lotgh canon will not carry me thru these next parts like they did b4 and ik canon mitt was the immortal gale wolf but that convo gave so many death flags oh my lawd

DID EVA MISCARRY DURING THE STRESS OF THE FLEGEL SHIT OHMYGOD? My heart legit hurts 😢😢😢😢💔💔💔 WHY IS THIS SO SAD FOR ME???

“I know.” Mittermeyer looked away. “What did they think you were going to do?”

“Oh, I think they thought that you and I had something going on.”

they may have been wrong at the time but ngl i need there to be sum that go down between the two of yall. i have never begged for poly like this before in my 95 years of existence. reuyang still need they top, gurl LIKE u know his real name😢 u mess w the same girl its meant to be.

“No,” Yang said. “A friend of mine— Boris Konev— he made it up as a joke. It just sounds almost like ‘Yang Wen-li’ when you say it fast.” He shook his head. “That was a million years ago, now.”

I FUCKING KNEW IT KONEV UR SUCH A TROLL⚰️⚰️⚰️ Ugh yang hits different bc hes such an honest sort of sentiment i cant describe it hes not just kind hes truly genial& theres just this sense of weariness in wiaw so early here that he doesnt exhibit until the near end of his life in lotgh canon and it makes me so sad.

Yang shook his head. “I have no idea.” The melancholy in his voice was almost painful for Mittermeyer to listen to. He crouched down next to Yang, and handed him back the box with the engagement ring. Yang turned it over in his hands. “I have no idea what he’d think of me now.”

“You don’t think he’d be proud of you?”

Yang rubbed the back of his head. “I don’t even think he’d recognize me.”😢😢😢😢😢😢

chapter 3’s title. Oskar von Reuenthal Was Born Innocent. We gettin into it Na Chile

THAT OLD BITCH DIED WE SMOKING ON THAT PETER PACK…

The thing that made him clench his hands into white knuckled fists was the second part of the message, which said that Reuenthal had inherited everything that there was to inherit.

He didn’t want it. Not the money that was listed there in the message, not the investments that his father had made, not the house, not the land it sat on. He didn’t want any of it, and he had thought— by virtue of his father striking him from the family record almost a decade ago— that he would be free of it. He hadn’t given much thought to what would become of the property if his father failed to assign an heir (though the mental image of it crumbling into dust sometimes flashed through his head, when he remembered it,) and he had taken as much pride as he could in making his way in the world without any hope of an inheritance to fall back on.

As with every other thing his parents had given to him, it was his burden to bear, and he would bear it.

This is so powerful. and evocative. this is also the worst time for him to receive the sort of news about yang& maggie. this is perfect.

He didn’t even know if that was what he truly wanted— he knew he shouldn’t want it— but there was this sensation of pressure behind his eyes, an impulse that said the only way to free himself was to crash into something with great force, full body: a train, his face into a wall, a fist. It didn’t matter what. His body hungered for the pressure, a release valve for whatever thought he couldn’t put a name to.

like… i dont even have words i just love this. he drank instead. but he drank.

im fighting the urge to post every single paragraph of reuenthal in his father’s mansion. but im gnawing at it. just know. and in this. i remember reuenthal is the only living person who calls yang by his first name. and only in select moments. im...

“Come to my place.”

“No.”

“I’d like to see you,” Yang said.

Reuenthal took a long moment to weigh Yang’s tone. If he was offering out of pity, Reuenthal had no interest in seeing him. But if it was a genuine want on Yang’s part…

“Come here, then,” Reuenthal finally said.

“Okay,” Yang said. “I will.”

im horrified at seeing my pathology reflected here but poor yang can barely drive! and mind u its snowing ! ohmygod. OH wait we getting good fucking use of that tag i knew of it from em’s beautiful drawing but the Context makes it so much more meaty.

But Reuenthal didn’t need to keep his mother’s dresses as a reminder of anything. He had better ones. WAIT WHAT. AND WE WILL NEVER GET TO KNOW CUZ YANG IS HERE. AND.

He looked at Yang for a long moment more, the dream frozen. But then Yang stepped forward into the room, crossing the threshold, and the dream fell away, and it was just them once again, Yang coming towards him as he sat on his childhood bed. THE DREAM IS ACTUALLY SHARED AND ITS REUENTHAL’S NIGHTMARE?. WHAT IS IT WITH THESE FUCKING DOORS.

A housewarming party. im sure thisll go well/sarcasm

“Okay, then invite Evangeline too.”

“She won’t come anywhere near me unless Baroness Westpfale is also in attendance.” WHY U SO MEAN TO HER . I KNOW WHY. AND I WILL KILL U WITH ROCKS

Personally, Reuenthal didn’t feel like there was that much tension— Magdalena seemed perfectly willing to give better than she got— but Yang had been tugging at his hair watching their back and forth.

Tears ran down my face from how much i laughed at this. stop ittt ur hurting her (yang seeing two ppl he cares about go blow for blow). this is why i love wiaw cuz ppl love to force cringe ~sappho~ ~mulm~ soldiarity bullshit but maggie being brash and reuenthal being a sexist is so essential. im sure theyll get along even worse (/positively said. i love terrible things.) when he gets the tea abt maggie n yang </3. how can i speedrun to the elfriede reuenthal floor shit that i heard about

blue flowers in a gold and black beer mug. like . get it the fuck together girl.

MITTERMEYER. I SEE WHY THEY CALL YO ASS THE GALE WOLF. CUZ U MOVE FAST. this is the mittermeyer i love. i love how yang is so easy w/ reuenthal like easy kisses fade to black scenes do u want me to come by? in the snow? & i cant drive? while mittermeyer just jumps him hands on his hips while his ole lady upstairs. teeth clacking in the kiss. insane. insane. the 479 trio gets down hanny

reuenthal @ eva

“Oh, I don’t think that Hank has either the ability or the desire to dictate what I do.”

“Then you would make a poor wife,” Reuenthal said flatly. “And I would not wish you on him.”

There was a moment of awkward silence around the table, then Magdalena laughed, very loudly. “Oh, gods, Oskar, you are hilarious. I hope you come to our wedding and stand up and loudly object when they ask if anyone has a problem with us.”

THE WAY MAGGIE IS THE ONE WHO LAUNCHES THE WEDDING ANNOUNCEMENT IN SUUUUUCH A WAY. OMG.

this is the one of the only fanfic to ever exist. “Being married to Mittermeyer might be nice.” like. im cackling. this is one of the worst days in his life

OH. OH AND NOW. WE ALMOST SUCKIN DICK IN WINECELLARS NOW. WOW.

“I’ll let you know.” He would not let her know.

If Magdalena wanted the tour, he would give her the tour.

FUNNIEST thing ever. the trauma congaline is even funnier. ohmygod. pop dont ever get help💜💯DID YOU WANT ANY LEFTOVERS. THERES PLENTY OF CAKE. IM IN TEARS. hes so demented

Yang muttered. He finished his drink in what looked like one gulp, then leaned further on Reuenthal until his head settled, catlike, in Reuenthal’s lap. “I still do feel bad, though.” Yang’s eyes were closed, and Reuenthal stroked his hair. Magdalena watched, sipping her own drink, and Reuenthal silently dared her to say anything.

theyre so cute ohmygod. yang is so cute.. little kitty . im going to cut my fingers off and eat them. this is my most disorganized wiaw read (as if any of this shit was ever put together) im so gone rn. magdalena faking like shed throw the glass.

“I want to try this on,” she said, holding up Yang’s uniform, which he hadn’t noticed her carrying out of the bedroom in the dark.

ANOTHER USE OF THAT ILLUSTRIOUS TAG OMG she literally says in gaiden she would love to wear a uniform. oh my god this story is perfect

“Come on,” Magdalena said. “Call me sir. Just once.”

“Yes, sir,” Reuenthal said. It alarmed him how easy it was to indulge her.

Guys is this.

is this what.

“I don’t think this even belongs to him. I think you’re trying to trick me, for some joke.” He pulled the ring off his finger. He held it up to the light, then moved to toss it into the fire. She let out a yelp of surprise and grabbed his hand before he could let go of it, gripping tight with wide eyes and fingernails that dug into his skin. It was the first genuine reaction he thought he had ever gotten out of her, and he was smugly satisfied by it.

U wont be able to come back down 3-1 …

This simulacrum was close enough to be disturbing and fascinating, in a way that he couldn’t refuse outright.

OH WE SHOLL IS GOING THERE OHMYGOD. maggie wearing hank’s clothes in this simulacrum. her desire to take on these roles. ‘Hank’. he never got a chance to kiss ‘Hank’. theres this thing u did here w how reuenthal randomly has these moments of being in his head in the ova& getting caught up in his own illusions / head (“but im not a poet im just a vulgar warrior!” girl u was just waxing poetics about history wanting its blood n spacing out at the commander’s chair thinking about the police taking pics of ur mom’s death.) at times that. in wiaw its handled in such a tantalizing way is just. so so. wow. some ppl may find it tangential or slightly ooc but ur working magic out of scraps here n ppl dont see it. ppl dont see it. and it hurts my soul

And the morning after. i feel like something was fucked here thatll never go back the same. this and sotp is like. a complete fuckening. if thats even a word mane. omg. i done died

[carinelian]

02272024 | notes on writing

These days, it's getting harder to separate hobbies from means of living. On most days, I can tell whether I'm doing something as a means of living, something for survival, or something as simple as a human being.

On most days, I also delude myself that it's all a matter of compartmentalization. Like choosing which clothes to wear for the day. Except the world is burning, all my clothes are worn down and made for a time long past, and even if I went out butt-naked, there's no way I'm coming out of it unscathed. That's what writing feels like for me, as of late. Or living, in general.

Maybe someday I can flesh out a timely piece on late-stage capitalism, how creative work is reduced to content, the essence of separating fiction and reality, and all the ways they influence each other without being mistaken as one and the same. We're living through an ongoing health and climate crisis, multiple genocides, and rotting from the inside out thanks to decades of exploitation and systemic ills. Global fuckening to the highest, most damning scale. I wish this is fiction. The context behind that thought terrifies me.

I wish I can save the serious writing for when it really, really counts, but as it stands, tomorrow isn't promised. Never was.

That's what spurred me on, to write this little note. I think I'll be writing more. I have my WIPs, I have my vague little scenarios in my head that will probably haunt me until they get their well-deserved 100K novel, and these occasional trains of thought that derail and create their own train tracks in my mind. There's also the shitstorm that's going on in real life, real time. There's no neat shelf for me to separate the things I care about and things I don't, because it affects us all.

To write online, without capturing all the possible nuances of whatever the fuck it is you're writing about, is an invitation to be flayed alive. For this reason, I shied away from writing about things that matter to me -- much like this one -- because shutting up means no trouble. No room for mistake. After all, what's there to criticize?

But then I realized, well, it's a sad way for a writer to live (at least for me), knowing that writing has been long ingrained in my life. It's a hobby. It's a means of living (hopefully *side-eyes publishers*), and it's a means of survival, with the way it calms me down and is an outlet for my anxieties. It's a way of life, it's not all of me, but it's a HUGE part of me.

Where was I going with this? Oh yeah. Fiction and real-world issues overlap. They bleed into what I write, regardless of whether or not I permit it, and I look for fiction -- hope for fiction -- in the face of staggering, depressing, and bleak reality. Perhaps the intersection here is where fiction is supposed to inspire you to take meaningful action in real life. And real life finds its way to fiction, one way or another, in the little bits and pieces of us writers that we leave in our stories. I'm so chronically online that I could think of a thousand ways critics can gut this paragraph like a fish and come up with the worst meanings.

But then again, maybe the people who need some comfort will find it, too. Maybe people will add into it, I learn something new, and we ALL learn something new. If you're having complicated feelings about writing, questioning what the fuck is it to you, trying to deal with that maddening shelf -- well, here I am. Write whatever the fuck you want to write. Write loudly, unapologetically, meaningfully, purposefully. May your words add a little bit of hope. And if doesn't, may it free you, may it release you, may it provide some relief. Or if you're out there to disturb, then do it. Put your horrors and your fears into paper. Trap them with ink. Slap them with periods and put a name on whatever haunts you.

Write, for fuck's sake. And this is a reminder to myself, in the most literal sense.

[alienjoyful]

I normally try not to say much on other peoples posts, call that the shy part of me still having a strangle hold BUT this post resonates deeply in a way I can’t ignore.

I love to write dumb fun stuff. I have been writing dumb fun stuff since I was a child always with the tiny dream of someday writing a book and getting it published. When I was a little girl and said as much people would encourage me to try.

But I noticed that with each passing year of me getting older the encouragements got quieter and quieter. What started as:

“Oh you want to be a writer? Im sure you’ll succeed just keep giving it your best shot!”

“You’ve always been so creative I’m sure you’ll write something amazing!”

“Oh? What genres interest you? Id love to hear your ideas!”

Slowly over many years became:

“Well its hard to get published you know. And even if you do you’ll never make enough money to live on.”

“You want to write something in the fantasy genre? And for kids? Don’t you know how much competition you have? What you think you can compete with Harry Potter?”

“Im not telling you to give up I just don’t think your being very smart or realistic. You need to grow up and realize this will never pay the bills.”

“No one is going to read it, people don’t read anymore.”

Even if I told them I didn’t need it to make money id do it for the satisfaction, even if I tried to show I was being ‘realistic’ I got eye rolls and tired sighs.

When I started doing Twitch streams with my now Partner for fun to show off games we liked and do voice acting. I got a barrage of unsolicited free ‘advice’ telling me again to be ‘realistic’ to accept that it would never go anywhere. That it was a saturated market, that I wasn’t anything special or different. It didn’t matter that I just did it for fun they felt the need to shove there cynicism down my throat and call it love.

Recently, I decided to try out 2DVtubing. Why? Because it seemed fun, and I like streaming, thats it. Even without a following I’ve found streaming to be a positive experience for all these years, because sometimes new people I’ve never met who love the game I or my partner are playing show up in chat. And for that brief time we talk, we joke, they help with a level or tricky boss and all I hope is for that fleeting time that there paths crossed mine, I made them laugh or smile.

My closest friends have been positive about my streaming and my new Vtuber. In fact without the encouragement / seeing @thegalleonsnest do the 2D-tubing thing first with his lil bird guy I probably would not have done it for many more years.

But even with those Im closest to being positive, I still hear and get those nasty cynical comments on the regular. I want to say that I can ignore them, that they have 0 effect on me. But Im only human and we can only deal with so much cynical bullshit.

Maybe theres something here to be said about societal hopelessness, about how tired and beaten down we all feel from years of financial hardships and the growing chokehold of capitalism while were screamed at about our planet burning. Maybe watching so many big shot ‘influencers’ turn out to be bad people who go unpunished makes it all feel pointless. Maybe the never ending stream of bad news, deaths, war, and bombs makes us feel powerless and trapped.

Maybe life is hard and we feel the need to tell others to ‘be realistic’ as a way of trying to save them from further hardship and heartbreak down the road. Maybe…

But personally I just can’t agree with that kind of mindset. Life is hard, capitalism sucks, bad people sometimes succeed, were all tired, and yes alone we may be small and weak. But thats no reason to give up or stop or to be a cynical asshole!

Keep going! Make that podcast! Stream that game! Write that book! Make that music! Write that letter! Make that group! Join that team! Get that new job! Start that new business! Go join that club! Learn that new skill!

Do that thing others told you was pointless. Do it messy, do it imperfect, do it despite the fear, do it knowing you might fail. Do it anyway.

Just try. I know its hard I know your tired. But just try. You never know what you’ll learn or experience from just trying. I haven’t written or published a book yet but I’m still trying. And streaming despite everyone telling me it was pointless got me a whole ass husband.

So trust me when I say. Just try.

I don't think many people realize how much they've been turned into a bunch of casually cynical jerks.

Someone may come to their parents and say "I want to write a book" and their parents will say "it's really hard to get published".

Someone might confide in their sibling and say "I want to sell my art on "x" platform" and that sibling will say "do you know how many people you'd be competing with? Do you know how many shops are even on that platform?"

I know a kid who once told his best friend "I think I wanna start a dnd podcast" and the friend was like "do you know what the word "oversaturation" means?"

Personally, I don't know why any of that matters? And even if it did, perhaps your response should be "Do it! Do it and see where it goes!"

[thepreposterousprequel]

Chapter the Fifth

H: Thank you for inviting me to one of your famous interviews, M. I rarely get invitations. Oh, and my favorite word’s “libretto.” M: It’s a pleasure, H. Now, to be frank, other volunteers have told me you can be difficult to talk to, but I haven’t gotten that impression at all. H: I don’t like talking in crowds, it’s true. I have a soft voice. And I just prefer solitude. M: The best of us do. But I also understand you’ve left your quiet village behind for a life in the City. H: It was only for a summer! I had to showcase my inventions somewhere. I love my village more than anything in the world! At least, I think I do. I’m devoted to it. M: And according to your notes, your village is devoted to… let’s see, “fowl?” H: Yes! “Fowl” in the big sense of the word. There’s nowhere else in the world quite like it. Birds from all across the Mediterranean stop by. You wouldn’t believe the colors! The flocking patterns in the sky! Their migration paths cross right over our little oasis in the desert. I hope to follow the migration paths, someday, in a flying device of my own. M: That’s interesting… Maybe you could even help an endangered species. H: You mean, get it back on the right migration path or something? M: Exactly! H: As long as the crows don’t get in the way. They stay around the entire year. It gets old. M: I see. Now some critics would say the village’s devotion to birds has turned into fanaticism. How would you respond to that? H: You’re probably talking about all the rules. M: That is part of it. H: To those people, I would simply point out that all of it started to protect the birds—busses not being allowed anywhere near the village, for example. But it has gone too far, in my opinion. Just this last month, the Council of Late Middle-Aged People reached twelve rules on the books—twelve! Who knows how many they’ll have by the time I’m back in town. M: On top of all the rules, I hear that your village punishes criminals by burning them at the stake. Doesn’t that seem a bit inhumane? H: That’s just a rumor—I think. Certainly I’ve never seen it. And to be fair, M, I hear *your* village forces everyone to wear masks. Doesn’t that seem a bit inhumane? M: Um, not really. I’m still not sure where the mask rule came from, but it’s only once a day. That’s not the same as capital punishment. H: We’ll have to agree to disagree. Masks can be quite dangerous, especially if there’s a criminal around. M: Okay, I’ll give you that one. Circling back, why don’t we talk a bit about how you came from this bird-friendly village of yours and ended up in the City of all places. That must have been quite the move! H: It was, but it happened more naturally than you might think. I lived on a boat with F that summer. He heard about my inventions and insisted I stay with him. You know how F is. And that was where K recruited both of us last year. I was practicing flying on that beach when we met. What’s it called—the beach with all the brine? M: I’m from Stain’d-by-the-Sea, so I wouldn’t know. H: Anyway, I owe everything to K. M: Uh huh, well… To each their own. Now, if you’ve been following my campaign against D, you’ll know I do need answers to this one: what would you do to improve the school if you were in charge? H: Didn’t G join the race, too? M: Yes, and completely unexpectedly. *frustrated sigh* But D’s slightly favored to win, and if I don’t get specific ideas for school policies with broad student appeal—you know what? Let’s not even go there. I have a neutrality stance to maintain. H: Okay, so if I were in charge, let’s see… I would take us to the stars. M: To the… stars? H: Yes. *pause* M: In a flying device, I presume? H: Of course. After meeting K, I’ve been able to take my skills so much farther—across the whole world! You wouldn’t believe the people I’ve met, the mysteries I’ve encountered, the secrets I’ve kept… Or maybe I’d just take us to my village. We do have a big barn Ma could bunk us all in.

M: Well, if I’m ever fleeing a despotic government, I’ll consider it. H: Fair enough… We’d have room for Vaudeville’s Finest Denarians, at least. And we’d be able to escape the radar of the Council of Late Middle-Aged People. Probably. Maybe if we tell them we’re a volunteer fire department, they’ll let us be. M: Right… Now as you know, there’s one more question I ask all of my guests. H: The shipwreck one? L. I would *love* to be shipwrecked with L.

With our survey of Prufrock Preparatory School's departments complete, dear reader, you may be wondering what at this school could possibly remain for investigation.

Brace yourself. This may be the last article I'm ever allowed to write.

As you may know, dear reader, each night, the gravelly beaches of our island are greeted by the otherworldly call of the Dolorous Dolphins. “Otherworldly” may seem like an odd word to describe dolphins. There are no dolphins on other worlds, from what we know. If it turns out there are, no one can say if they would be dolorous. Yet if we do find dolphins on some other world—in the canals of Mars, perhaps—then this is just how I imagine they would sound.

Tonight, just beyond the dolphins' cove, I’m traveling deep into the island’s labyrinth. I’m traveling deep into the island’s labyrinth yet again. You see, dear reader, there’s one more organization at this school that I must finally bring to the eyes of the general public. I’ll give this organization the label it’s leader would like: a clandestine coterie. As I pass though trapdoors and hidden stairwells, my path begins to feel as familiar as the path up the island’s mountain to Professor Caliban’s perch. And already, I’m at the snake eye. At least, that’s what those who carved it into this wall would want onlookers to believe.

Like the eye of many carved snakes, this eye is simply a circle with a vertical line etched through it. At the top and bottom are horizontal lines forming parts of the snake’s face. To the left of the snake eye, two horseshoe crabs in the carving face the snake eye, one on top of the other. And to the right of the snake eye lies a pyramid. Together, deep grooves in the etchings amount to the letter B, a circle with a line through it, and a triangle.

At this point, I must use an unfortunate expression: “it’s all Greek to me.” Except, in this case, I mean the opposite of how the phrase “it’s all Greek to me” is used. Normally, when someone says, “it’s all Greek to me,” what they mean is that something is confusing and complicated to them, but it may be much simpler to someone who, say, learned to speak Greek as a baby. But now, it’s the onlooker who would likely become confused by these complicated carvings, while my knowledge of the Greek alphabet makes these three symbols quite simple for me to understand indeed.

It's all Greek to me. Using my knowledge of clandestine coteries, I unlock the door with the snake eye and enter a wide chamber. Several statues line the dark sides of the room. A statue near the center is of our organization’s ancient founder: Ana Coluthon. That’s one of our founding myths, at least. I maintain a neutral stance about what each statue was or was not wearing.

I’m not the only one in this room. Aside from the statues, several students whom I know well stand in a circle, holding torches and performing clandestine ceremonies too dark for the eyes of any reader to see.

“Thank you all for following the directions in your volunteer factual dispatches,” announces Kit Snicket after the ceremonies are through. Yes, Kit Snicket—the same Professor Snicket of the Department of Steely Resolve—is the head of a clandestine coterie right in your own school, dear reader. “Duncan, could you read off our first agenda point?”

Duncan—a top candidate for an amorphous student position, I might remind you—sits to the side, taking notes of the meeting on a typewriter, as is his assignment. "Let's see... The first topic for tonight's discussion is the entire mission of VFD as we know it. In my case," he says, looking up, "that mission is to put on shows as Vaudeville's Finest Denarians to a small group of school children."

"But remember others may feel differently, Duncan," says Bea gently.

"I understand that, Bea," says Duncan, "But I felt I should share my perspective so the others would find they're not the only ones bewildered about VFD."

"I didn't mean to vilify you, Duncan. What I meant is that the others may want a chance to share their perspectives as well."

"And I understand your point, Bea but—you know, we can talk about this later. Let's let someone else speak,"

"...which is what I've been suggesting this whole time. So, we're in agreement."

"Yes, we agree."

“To begin," suggests Lemony, pretending Bea and Duncan's weirdly polite squabble hadn't happened, "Perhaps the praeposters from the Department of Wet Laboratories could at least tell us what the subject of their research is. Our reason for meeting may, in fact, be a misunderstanding," he says, looking toward his sister.

“I'd be happy to," Cleo says. The waver in her voice says otherwise. "All I can say is that it involves a poisonous plant and the illegal use of—”

“Poison!” shouts Finnegan, not hesitating to interrupt. “I knew a sinister plot was afoot in that lab.”

“Where there’s smoke there’s fire, and where there’s a poison there’s an antidote,” Cleo replies calmly. “The world around us is growing more and more toxic by the day. Just look at the last war: all sorts of sinister chemicals used for all sorts of sinister purposes by all sorts of sinister villains. And who knows what all our waste is doing to the flora and fauna! If only our lab could secure the support of VFD for our research. Then, after years—decades even!—we may have the cure to any number of devastating diseases or weapons within our grasp.”

“I have no problem with your area of research, Cleo,” says Kit. “What I may have a problem with is your involvement with the rest of the school. Imagine if the wrong information ends up in the wrong hands."

“Where you see a problem in privacy, Kit, I see a problem in trust,” Cleo responds. “I agree this is a volatile subject, but I can think of no one more qualified to advise us than the Head of the Department of Wet Laboratories.”

“That’s my point exactly,” says Kit. “We can’t trust any of the professors here. We’re on this island as a temporary measure while we continue the mission my brothers and I have had for years. None of us knows how or why this school was started. All we know is that the island once held a VFD headquarters,” she finishes, gesturing to the statues. “But for all we know, the school’s intent may be altogether sinister.”

"I understand your point, Kit, but I still must disagree," says Cleo. "Science is not invented; it's discovered. And if not us, then who? If not now, then when? If I had to choose between Ish or any political leader learning my results first, I would choose Ish. He used to teach chemistry in the city, you know. Figuratively, Ish is science."

“Normally, I *would* trust science,” Lemony agrees with Cleo, “But in the case of the Department of Wet Laboratories, everyone knows,” he says, looking Gregor right in the eyes, “That water destroys fire.”

Gregor stares back, empty.

“Ah, yes, that’s another point on the agenda,” says Duncan, breaking a confused silence. “Each one of our departments has one of the elements of wuxing in its name. That can’t be a coincidence. (I’ve read all about it in the original classical Chinese.)”

“Yes, there is that,” says Kit impatiently, “then we’ll circle back to our main discussion.”

“The only one of the five missing is fire,” Beatrice adds to Duncan's point. “Where does that leave us, the volunteers? The Department of… Fiery Volunteerism?”

A few of us look at each other with knowing smiles. “What if we reverse it?” suggests Lemony. “For rhetorical purposes: the Volunteer Fire Department.”

In the corner, we hear a noise. Is it water dripping? A bat flapping its wings? The sound becomes louder and more frequent. Soon, it's clearly two hands clapping themselves together. We bring our torches slowly toward the sound and realize the hands belong to a statue. Were automatons invented centuries before we believed? But as the statue steps forward into the light, we find that the eyes reflecting our torchlight belong to none other than the Principal of our school.

“How long have you been watching us?” asks Kit, enraged. “Minutes? Hours? Months?”

Ish takes a deep breath in, wiping his face of the veiled facial disguise makeup he used for blending in with the statues. “As an associate of mine once said, eternal vigilance is the price we pay for liberty,” he replies, choosing his words carefully. “I’ve granted you the students so much liberty that being monitored from time to time is all I ask in return.”

“That’s not what that saying means at all!” cries Lemony. “We should be vigilant of your leadership, not the other way around. Your interpretation is an insult to the entire discipline of rhetorical analysis!”

“Well, Mr. Snicket, I’ll let you children have your fun. But as soon as any of you are interested in the Volunteer Fire Department, I’m here to support you.”

“You mean recruit them,” says Kit. “We’ve been managing as an independent association of associates with our own official protocol for months now, and we’ll continue for months in the future.”

“Months, yes,” says Ish, “But what about *millennia*, Ms. Snicket? Look around you! Look at this island. It served as a safe place for VFD before the rest of the world even discovered the concept of safety. You volunteers have your differences in opinion—differences in direction,” he says, switching his gaze between Cleo and Kit. “But what I’m dreaming of is Utopia.”

"So you have been part of VFD all along..." says Bea, distantly.

"Precisely," says Ish. "Ever since I was adopted. And this school is my grand project. Looking at all the bright young people I've found," he gestures around, "I'd say it's a success already. Now the question is: how can VFD and I help you take this little group of yours further? Who's going to volunteer as, together, we transform this island back into the Utopia it once was?"

"This feels like a trap," says Jo nervously.

"You always say that," says Ellington. "Especially when someone offers you a place to stay."

"It's true," agrees Jo.

"And what a place it is!" says Ish, "If you join me, you'll have access to this entire labyrinth! There’s so much more down here than any of you volunteers could ever dream of. The hidden libraries here make the archival libraries on the mainland weep. Inventing studios filled with lost technology lie around each corner. And I've found at least three hot yoga studios so far.”

“We’re not going to take bribes, Ish,” says Kit fiercely.

“I like your style, Ms. Snicket. But my point is that the same is also figuratively true. If you’ll let me in, students—let the broader VFD in—then I’ll take all your research abilities and inventiveness and rhetorical brilliance, and I’ll give it a place to thrive—with the publicity it deserves. You can only dream of where VFD can take you.”

“And all I ask in return is that Vaudeville’s Finest Denarians become an official arm of this school. As Principal, I’ll join your 'drama club,' oversee everything, and report back to VFD—the real one. Think about the authority, the security. There will be no more death threats,” Ish says, turning to Duncan. “No more suspicious notes with ‘Memento Mori’ written in blood left on your pillow.” Duncan gasps quietly at the imagery. “And no poisonous specimen will be too elusive for our lab to procure.” His eyes meet Cleo's. “So, students: will you join me? Yea or nay?”

Kit starts with no pause. Of course she would. “Spare us the theatrics, Ish. I believe I speak for all of us when I say, ‘absolutely not.’ We cannot put a single mystery we’ve been investigating at risk, let alone all of them. Considering the schism—”

“There is no schism!” Ish interjects, only a bit too loudly. “Ahem. There are fractures in our organization—I agree. But we’ve survived much, much more than the modern quandaries we find ourselves in now. VFD is stronger than ever. So why don’t you start us off, Bea?” asks Ish, before Kit can argue further. “You’re the first. In our alphabet, I mean. Do you vote ‘yea’ or ‘nay’?”

Bea focuses her attention on Ish. She’s close with the Snickets; I can’t imagine her supporting Ish’s ridiculous proposal. But for once, she has trouble finding words eloquent enough for her ideas. “I… It all comes down to trust. And I trust you, Ish. I do! You sure know your onions about VFD, for one. My family would be terrified to know I’m involved with your sort, and I can see why others here might disagree with me. But for you, Ish, I vote ‘yea.’”

And so it goes. As I look into the firelit faces of the students I’ve volunteered with—from Cleo to Duncan to Ellington—I see only the naïve trust they’ve given to their school principal. But then I realize how few of the frightening secrets of this clandestine coterie they must have discussed, as I have with Lemony. From B to G, everyone votes for Ish to take us under his VFD wing—everyone, that is, except Finnegan.

“I see, Mr. Widdershins,” Ish says, calling Finnegan by his last name. “Could you please explain your decision to the class?”

“Aye! It is a tough decision, but an unflagging one. I trust Kit to get us through these dark days, aye! We’ve been through worse together, and I wouldn’t be involved with VFD in the first place without her, aye! I trust she’s leading us aright, aye!”

“To be clear…” says Duncan, looking up from his notes, “Is your vote, ‘aye?' Or…”

“Nay,” says Finnegan solemnly. “My apologies, Professor Ishmael.”

“I prefer Ish,” mutters Ish.

“I must concur with Finny: nay,” says Héctor on his turn. “I’ve often found myself in Finnegan’s wake, and I haven’t regretted where it’s taken me yet.”

“What a grammatical catastrophe of a novel!” exclaims Jo in response. “That Joyce is a volatile one. Otherwise, I agree. Nay!”

“Nay,” says Kit plainly. “I’m sure my brother sees things in the same light.” He does.

And now it’s my turn. “I see the Snicket contingent has voted to keep their independence,” notes Ish with a cluck of his tongue and a shake of his head. “That brings our tally to a tie right before our final vote. Ms. Mallahan?”

I look from volunteer to volunteer, hoping for one volunteer to volunteer more—the answer to all the questions that burn like a fire in my mind. I look into Kit’s eyes. They’re pleading, searching for some bit of mercy. And that’s enough for me.

I step forward with a smile, extending my hand to Ish. “Welcome to Vaudeville’s Finest Denarians.” Kits face drops as Ish reaches out with a smile for a shake. But I hold back. “…on one condition, Ish.”

“I’m not one to take bribes, Ms. Mallahan,” he says sternly.

“I’ve got questions, Ish,” I say, looking our principal in the eye. “So many questions… How’s Wednesday?”

“You mean Wednesday Caliban?” he says with skepticism, referring to our rhetoric professor by her first name. “She’s doing her job, as always.”

“Next Wednesday,” I say in annoyance. “A few days from now. We need to have an interview.”

“That’s Purim,” Jo points out. “You wouldn’t want to miss the masked ball that night, now would you, Moxie? It'll be quite the rub.”

“We can talk that afternoon,” says Ish hastily. “And if that satisfies you, Ms. Mallahan, I’ll ask again: may I incorporate Vaudeville’s Finest Denarians as an official department of this school?”

After a tense pause, I answer. “I postpone my vote. I won’t decide one way or another until after our interview.”

“And if the vote is a tie, the motion fails,” Kit is quick to point out.

Ish ponders for a moment then responds with yet another misused aphorism as he walks backward into the darkness of the cavern where he came from. “The mind is not a fire to be kindled but a vessel to be filled; that’s what I always tell my students. Pick your interview questions wisely, Ms. Mallahan.”

“He really has something against fire,” Lemony whispers.

“So…” says Duncan, with his eyes wide and his hands on his typewriter, “Does this mean the meeting is adjourned?”

Unfortunately, now is a moment when I must again use the phrase, “it’s all Greek to me.” You see it was a Greek writer who first wrote the aphorism Ish referenced, but what he wrote, word for word, was much different: “The correct analogy for the mind is not a vessel that needs filling, but wood that needs igniting—no more.” All it takes to burn down a wooden performance is one wrong question. We’ll wait and see the answers Ish has for our combination newspaper and literary journal. We'll wait until Wednesday, but unless I'm mistaken, Ish's answers will all be Greek to me.

[sorrowsofsilence]

Burning Out • Teaser

I was lost, but now I'm found Under the lights and in the sounds So let us sing and sing it loud That we're not perfect, but we're proud of who we are

Noah Sebastian is lost. His crime-filled lifestyle is anything but perfect; but everything changes once he meets you.

Noah Sebastian x Fem!Reader

General Warnings: explicit content, smut 18+, mentions of drugs, alcohol, murder, other forms of crime, violence.

Authors note: hiiii. This story was requested by an anon a while back and I have decided to try and give it a shot (Prompt given was: Noah and the boys have a tough life and steal to make it by, and live in a motel room together. Meets reader and ends up breaking into her house unknowing.) I hope this vibes with what you wanted! <3 I have no idea how many chapters this will be, im just kinda gonna go with the flow!

Here’s the beginning of the chapter, just to see if anyone’s interested :3

NOAH

The world was always in a state of grey, the life of the concrete jungle persistently sucking out the souls of its inhabitants with every passing second. Destruction. Crime. Greed. A shattering abyss of capitalism and corruption.

Yet, I don’t think I was meant to be the good guy in this lifetime.

Maybe someday, in another universe, there would be a possibility for me.

But for now, the only thing I could think about was how my heart pounded as the gun sat between my fingers, threatening the innocent ahead.

Destruction, Crime, Greed.

“Noah, let’s go,” Ruffilo desperately pulled at my wrist in an attempt to drag me away. My arm remained still, held in its position, resisting his force.

The woman’s eyes watched me in horror, tears brimming as her back hit the brick wall behind her, arms wrapping protectively around her body in defeat.

My heart raced, yet I couldn’t move.

“I won’t say anything I swear,” She pleaded, lips trembling, saliva foaming from her mouth as she was too afraid to swallow.

I don’t want to do this, but I fucked up.

“Noah,” Ruffilo said through gritted teeth, “We need to go,” he placed a hand on top of my gloved one, in another attempt to have me lower the bad decision.

I closed my eyes, squeezing them shut in contemplation as my chest heaved, the voice of rationality fighting against the voice of destruction.

You’ve never been able to kill anyone before you moron, why do you think this time will be any different?

My eyes snapped open, leathered finger dancing along the trigger as I stared at her. My teeth barred through chapped lips, a snarl of frustration crawling from my throat as the woman's eyes turned away in fear; as if watching her demise would kill her.

Seeing her in complete terror left me broken. Is this who I am?

The next thirty seconds passed as though I was walking through molasses, my thoughts battling contradictions before I audibly screamed in frustration, shoving the gun back into my pocket as Nicholas and I ran towards the van.

“Fuck!” I yelled, slamming the car door as forceful as possible. The tires squealed in place, burning out as Jolly’s foot pounded onto the gas pedal.

I ripped off my ski mask, throwing it angrily onto the floor of the vehicle.

“You should’ve just left her Noah. Now if they find us we could be charged with assault with a weapon.” The deep Swedish accent was the last thing I wanted to hear. He eyed me sternly in the rearview mirror, and I lingered on his gaze for a moment before turning my head towards the window.

“Oh Fuck off Jolly,” I sighed angrily, closing my eyes as my breathing quickened, the anxiety beginning to set in. The pounding of my heart began to vibrate along my entire chest, and my leg bounced in anticipation, waiting for the panic to subside.

I kept justifying to myself that we’re all dead anyway, so what’s the difference between a God and a loaded gun?

The van sped through the city's veins, a blur of neon and shadows. I felt Ruffilo's eyes digging into me, a mix of disappointment and concern as he watched my tapping fingers against the plastic of the car door. Another fuck up added to the list.

The silence in the vehicle was deafening, broken only by the occasional honk of a distant car or the screech of tires against wet asphalt.

"We need to lay low for a while," Jolly's voice cut through the tension. "I know a place on the outskirts we can hang out at ‘till everything cools down. It’s not pretty, but it'll do."

I nodded absent-mindedly, my thoughts still with the woman we'd left behind. Her terrified eyes haunted me, a stark reminder of the monster I was becoming. Or perhaps had always been.

As we drove further from the city center, the buildings grew more dilapidated, the streets emptier. The grey world outside mirrored the turmoil that had taken over my thoughts, reminding me of the emptiness that seemed to follow me everywhere.

+++++

Chapter One: The Apparition

I'll leave the prompt given below.

“BUT what about a Noah fic where him and the boys grew up with a hard life, but they always stuck together. Growing up they got into a lot of trouble, and they are still struggling. So they all live in a little motel room together. Then one day Noah runs into reader, and she’s new to LA and she also grew up with a bad background but she got away from it and worked her ass off to get a nice little house in LA. So they talk for a bit and get along with each other, they swap numbers and stuff. Then one night it’s noah get money for him and the boys. So he decides to break into a house and just steal some stuff so he can sell it for money. BUT he ends up breaking into readers house by accident, and she catches him. She hurt and scared at first, but then she starts kind of sympathizing for him. He is apologizing profusely to her telling her he didn’t know it was her house, and basically they have a conversation about Noah’s life with the boys, and why he does what he does. And basically they end up falling for each other, and after a while reader realizes how lonely she is living in her house alone in LA with no friends. So she tells noah that him and the boys should move in with her, and she would help them find jobs and stuff. Eventually they agree, and then after they move in she notices how much they love music and that the two nicks both have old acoustic guitars that they occasionally play while Noah songs along. She works at a bar and then ends up getting them a gig at her work, and then after they play there a few times they start blowing up on the internet and getting popular, then eventually they get huge and go on tour. When they become famous they all convince reader to go on tour with them so they can start taking care of her like she did them when they needed it the most.”

[hera-the-shoggoth]

Tranquil Cornucopia Plan

I've been suggesting for years that the best plan for our future is to move carbon-burning industry to the moon. This would create greenhouse gasses that would accumulate into an atmosphere while allowing the export of manufactured goods back to the homeworld with minimal environmental impact. The space freed up on Earth could then be dedicated solely to residence and recreation.

Once the lunar atmosphere is established, the water locked in ice at the poles and deep underground will melt and pool onto the surface. At the same time, comet fragments and asteroids in the Jovian and Saturnine regions could be towed into lunar orbit and gradually broken up with explosives into fragments that would evaporate on atmospheric entry and rain down onto the surface without impact.

The newborn lowlands and estuaries could then be put under cultivation, most probably of rice, cereals, potatoes, and pharmaceuticals, which would generate oxygen in the atmosphere as well as transform the moon into a self-sufficient agricultural, mining, and manufacturing colony servicing the homeworld.

A magnetic field could be generated in orbit by a network of nuclear-powered electromagnets while heavy cloud-cover and the canopies of massive trees liberated from the constraints of terran gravity would do the rest.

It would, of course, greatly help if the whole world were united by a Socialist human superstate capable of pooling the resources of all nations into a common plan, but even in capitalism there are clear incentives for the captains of industry to begin this process and I hope I see it started in my lifetime. The best way forward for this cooperation would be the End of Death through the medical application of nanorobotic swarms.

These would first be used on the rich in capitalism, but would spread uncontrollably through automation of manufacture beyond the scope of price systems and through the efforts of international medical organizations to provide the entire world population with eternal life and equalize access to a superb and constant healthcare.

This would in turn make it easier for the proletariat of all countries to resist police forces and overthrow the bourgeoisie, while a technological explosion would follow with the continued work of immortal academics.

Life would become less driven by hectic timetables and personal ambition and aggression would be reduced across the board if humans had an indefinite lifespan with which to wait out misfortunes. We could all be there together ❤️

I hope to meet you in the sky someday.

[littleapocalypsekitten]

Waxing philosophical tonight:  

Do you know something that really bothers me?  It is when people think they are smart simply for favoring a harsher option.  What I mean is, the idea that cynicism is automatically smarter than optimism, that favoring the kind thing makes you somehow more childish than favoring the cruel thing.  

This came up to my mind when reading the comments on a Youtube video exploring near death experiences and evidences for consciousness being more than what we think of it as now. It wasn't even a religious / spiritual video, it was about scientific frontiers in the study of death-process and weird brain-stuff (with the study of these matters being valuable in terms of "maybe we can help people in vegetative states").  There was some spiritual speculation to it, but the vid didn't tell anyone what to believe.  Never read the comments. I did.  People commented talking about grief for loved ones and hoping to see them someday, followed by people who said “You’ll never see them again, that’s it, suck it up.” I mean, not even just conveying their own beliefs about death, but going out of their way to be rude about it to others.  (I have a heightened sensitivity to these things right now, as I am currently grieving).  People can believe what they believe.  That's not the point.  The point is, why do people have the attitude that if they happen to believe in the "harsher" thing, it makes them somehow smarter and better? (And entitled to be needlessly rude to people)?  This made me flash back to a belief of mine a long time ago:  The “Harsher = Smarter thing” was the very reason why I believed in Hell for as long as I did. This goes beyond the “oblivion” idea. No, seriously.  Yeah, I had the evangelical Christian thing going on for a while, but as I was getting out of it, stopped going to church, started divesting myself of many dogmas, I actually kept the belief in an eternal conscious torment Hell for most of Humanity for a long time, far longer than I should have.  It wasn’t that it was just scared into me / is one of those terror-beliefs that is hard for one, particularly a person with anxiety, to shake, it’s that.. when I mulled it over, for a very long time, I had this whole philosophy about the “harshness of nature” and the “harshness of life.”  I believed that “life and nature are harsh, so why not the afterlife?” I honestly believed that because life was cruel and not particularly fair and graceful that anything that came after had to be the same way.  A very depressed, ‘we’re fucked” mentality - with the hope that I had actually done the right things to avoid it.   I had no desire to see my enemies burn or anything like that, I really just thought “existence is harsh and it makes me smarter to believe in the harsher thing.”   This was why, even after hearing Biblical arguments for universal reconciliation / Christian Universalism and the like, with very solid scholarly and historical argument for the position, it was a hard sell for me for a while just because of this dumb “I’m smart for believing hard stuff” thing.  And the idea of Hell really messed me up.  I have abandoned it, but it still messes me up. And, of course, it is arguably a lot worse than the smart smugs who pat themselves on the back for believing in complete oblivion and being rude to grieving, spiritually-hopeful people about it just because they can. At least oblivion isn’t Hell.   This happens with a lot of things, too, not even belief-matters.  Think about the people who are ambivalent toward anything that will potentially create a better world, like “why fight climate change?” and “crass capitalism will always be with us?  The world is HARD! Big fish eat little fish!”  The general idea that the world is getting worse, too.  (I think we have some setbacks, but having seen a lot of progression in society in my own lifetime, I am overall optimistic for humans generally gradually getting better at things).   I really do think we have a kind of straw-nihilism / hopelessness in society / messages that “being hard makes you smart” that is... not always productive.  I feel like calling it the Rick and Morty Effect.  It existed long before that show, though.  

[torque-witch]

Exactly three years ago I was on day three of being admitted to the hospital for my entire colon bleeding from prolonged inflammation. Had to do a colonoscopy on my birthday and was doing a regimen of Tramadol every 4 hours and Morphine every 6 until they found it was Crohn’s and switched me to IV steroids. My legs essentially turned into sausage tubes from continuous IV fluids and I had to be checked for clots bc I couldn’t move a lot. Lost a 40 hour paycheck bc I wasn’t working at my last job for even 6 months at this point (no sick leave) and had to return 2 days after coming home so I could pay rent. (I had to practice walking for those 2 days so I could work)

Queue me being on oral steroids for 1 year and starting biologic therapy. Ripped off of steroids bc my at the time GI decided my case was too complicated (she was just honestly bad at her “speciality) and was handed over to a trial program through UPMC instead. Steroids were causing me to test at beginning fatty liver disease and being ripped off them too quickly caused me to be diagnosed with severe IBS on top of Crohn’s. My body essentially can’t function without steroids properly bc of prolonged use (another mishap caused by previous GI) so I was having 24/7 intestinal cramps and had to be put on a different drug to control it.

Every single doctor said I would be better. It’s only up from here!

And now I am officially 29 and can barely shower, eat, have energy at all and developed 3 co-morbidities after starting biologic therapy.

I’m only typing this because it’s 3am on my birthday and I’m having intestinal cramps and am off biologics still on like month 3 bc of insurance + waiting for after dose 2 of vaccine now. Took Valium bc it’s the only thing over the last 8 years that seems to work in emergencies. Feeling nostalgic in good and bad ways.

Yeah obviously I’m not hospitalized and that’s the point of lifetime med regimens, but I’m not better and I won’t be getting better anytime soon. Aside from not internally bleeding, I’m very certainly worse. And tired of being worse.

All things aside my life is good but I’m still well within my rights to complain. I had the best paying job in my field and was within the top 10 for best in company performance. Now I struggle to even complete orders on time that are WELL SPACED OUT and it feels awful. I have maybe 2 hours a day when I’m not nauseous or fatigued or panicked or in pain and that’s it. How did it go so far downhill in just a year?

I know that I wasn’t doing well. I know I only achieved that much because I pushed my body to its absolute limits. It was a pipe dream and a ticking time bomb since I was 22. And maybe I’m a little mad that I couldn’t overcome that and that every dream I ever had for myself was squashed. That no one appreciated the work and progress that I did make because it wasn’t “what we wanted for you” until I literally was internally bleeding and people saw how bad it really was.

But a year later I am free to be sick, at home, during a pandemic, with a loving husband and a wonderful community that supports me and has supported me through all of my seasons. And that makes me happy above all else.

[stayarmytinyzenmoa-l]

Dinner for Two [Ch. 1]

Non-Idol AU, Chef AU

TW: Language

CW: Food

Genre: Slow Burn Romance, Drama, Light Comedy

Pairing: Chef!Na Jaemin x Reader

YN Pronouns: Not Specified

(1/?) [Next]

[NCT Masterlist] | [Other Groups Masterlist] | [Dinner for Two Masterlist]

Word Count: 3.0K

Notes: HALLLOOOOOO as promised, the lovely Jaemin Slow Burn, I hope you all enjoy and remember that I love you all <3

Disclaimer: Please remember that this is an AU and a work of fiction, obviously the idols mentioned/written about in this story would never partake in these actions. The idols mentioned in this work are meant to be seen more as face claims rather than the actual idols themselves.

I. Dinner for One

In which the Chef prepares for himself a carefully planned out and multiple-coursed meal, all of which are dishes of merit. Practiced to perfection and to his taste, they are what he believes to be a masterpiece of work; however, this is to be expected from someone who thinks about nothing else aside from who he is and what he has achieved. Such results, therefore, are to be expected.

Jaemin adjusted his coat as he walked into the haute restaurant. Famed for its three Michelin stars and its authentic French cuisine, he knew that he had to have a taste before his time in Paris came to a close. Having only traveled for the week, and he would soon to partake in a culinary competition that would define his career as a whole. High expectations doesn’t even begin to describe what he was feeling. Now, just hours prior to the big day, Jaemin’s mentor had advised him to relax this evening to enter the competition with a clear mind, and never has he been wrong.

Jaemin took his time to observe the area around him. The restaurant was as elegant as he expected it to be, and it was furthermore as classy as any would believe. With rather low ceilings and a royal theme, it was no wonder that the restaurant had been held to such high regards in the past. Paris, although a shock to finally come to, was regarded as a culinary capital. He’d be more than happy to study western styles of cooking someday, and it may be today that he settles on that decision. The cuisines were in such stark difference to his learned Korean understandings that they were fascinating to an unknown degree. Was he here to relax or to study? He didn’t know the difference. He makes eye contact with the hostess, who offers him a smile.

“Bonjour, monsieur, bienvenue à L’Ambrosie, avez-vous une réservation?” the hostess smiles. She notices his ID badge. “Ah, pardon me. Hello, sir, welcome to the L’Ambroisie, did you have a prior reservation with us?”

“I do. Under Na Jaemin,” he says. She looks at the list.

“Dinner for one?”

“Yes.”

“Right this way,” she leads him to his seat. It was situated by a window overlooking the Parisian streets. He had a perfect view of the nightlife strewing about. He took his seat and the hostess placed a menu at the side of the table. “Whenever you are ready, monsieur,” she says before excusing herself from the table. He takes the menu and combs over it delicately, reading the ingredients and imagining how the dishes were compromised. He had heard only good things about this establishment, and perhaps eating well will calm his nerves for the competition soon to come.

Yes, after years of trouble, Jaemin had finally garnered enough experience to earn him a spot at one of the largest culinary competitions in the world. Years of culinary school and internships mixed with actual work were finally coming to a point, and all of it tomorrow. After he and team Korea had a narrow victory in Bocuse d'Or Asia, just barely doing better than Team Japan, the heat was on for this competition. He hadn’t been paying much attention to the global PR on the event, but he knew from Jisung that everyone was relying on Team Korea to finally put their foot into the culinary world.

Talk about pressure.

Jaemin never let it get to him, and it still didn’t. He was confident in his abilities, he knew what he had to do and how to do it. This competition will just be one of many stepping stones in his culinary career. That’s all this was. He’d always prided himself in doing well under pressure, as he was never the kind to actually break or react too dramatically to sudden changes. Maybe he’d complain a little, but in the end he’d get it done.

“What can I get you, monsieur?” The waiter arrives.

“Noix de Saint-Jacques en salmigondis de brocolis, truffe blanche,” Jaemin replies.

“Right away, is that all?”

“Yes.”

“Your meal will be out momentarily, monsieur,” the waiter takes the menu and is off. Jaemin glances out the window and sighs. Culinary arts had always been a passion of his. He was in adoration of how it was prepared, how it was presented, and how it was served. All of it was an art-form in itself that begged to be studied, it was something he had devoted his life to since he was a toddler. And now, at this moment, he’s putting his life’s work to the test. One of his main criticisms from others was his age, it was a hinderance to experience, but it was one that he strived to overcome. To accept representing the country at such a young age was questioned by many others.

He needs to prove them wrong. To prove that he can handle this and that he’s been fit for this task. It’s not like it was such an impossible feat, however. Jaemin knows his worth, he knows what he’s worked for, and he knows his achievements. This should be a simple walk in the park, a showcase if anything.

Soon, the platter arrived. It was arranged in such a delicate matter, the placement of each scallop, of each green, and of each droplet of sauce was perfectly calculated to appeal to the aesthetics of its viewer. This is what it means to indulge in fine dining. Not only is your palate satisfied, but also your eyes, your ears, your smell, and your touch. It was appealing to all five senses. It is this perfect balance that is key to a gourmet meal regardless of class or difficulty.

“Enjoy, monsieur,” the waiter excused himself and Jaemin took the first bite of the scallop. Immediately came the rush of flavors, the perfect mix of spices blended with the carefully maintained temperature of the dish. If Jaemin wasn’t so professional he would’ve easily expressed the sheer complexity of the dish through his face alone. This is what it meant to be a three Michelin chef, he realized. This was a flavor he must strive for in his career.

And he’d get it if it was the last thing he’d do.

~

“Welcome everyone to the final round of the Bocuse d’Or, only the largest culinary competition in the world, we thank you for tuning in. My name is Enzo Allaire and this lovely woman with me is Crystal Acuesta and we will be your English-Language MCs for the evening.” The MC’s voice was cheerful. Both of the MCs were highly acclaimed chefs in the culinary world, everyone knew them and many wanted to at least stand in a room with them. Their presence alone was imposing, but together it created an atmosphere heavier than one could ever imagine. The only thing that rivaled their brilliance was the panel of judges beneath them, who not only had years to decades of experience, but have been known to create and destroy careers at the mention of a simple number.

“For anyone tuning in for the first time, let’s go over the rules.” Crystal sat next to Enzo in their booth, reading off of the prompter. “Each team is comprised of two chefs, the lead and their assistant. They will both have five hours and thirty-five minutes to complete fourteen plates of both a meat and a fish dish. The panel of judges is divided by twelve, twelve for each dish respectively, and the chefs will be graded on a total point basis of forty, twenty for each dish. If there is a tie, cleanliness and overall teamwork will be taken into account. Let us now introduce our chefs.”

The roars of the theater were nearly deafening as Crystal and Enzo introduced each pair. Their own voices competed with the other MCs who spoke in their native tongues to keep up with the already fast paced introductions. With cameras pointing every which way and lights turned to their highest, one could argue that it was blinding too. Often regarded as the Culinary Olympics, the Bocuse d’Or was a dream only a few chefs could ever even comprehend. To stand on this stage is to have the undivided attention of some of the best chefs in the world alongside the aspiring ones who dreamed to be in this very stage. It was, without a doubt, terrifying. This was the moment of a life time, and he doesn’t know when he’d ever be able to stand on this stage again. He must make it count.

“And this is it, everyone, the international culinary championship taking place in Paris, France. We have many good contenders this year,” Enzo says into his mic. “But, as everyone mentioned, all eyes are on the rising underdogs from South Korea.”

“Right! Everyone’s rooting for them,” Crystal affirms. “Na Jaemin and Park Jisung. The restaurant they work for was awarded its first Michelin star, correct?”

“That’s right. The restaurant Morning Dew, they’re known for their modern and stylistic spins on traditional Korean breakfast and brunches, I’d been meaning to try it out,” Enzo comments. “But these chefs are rather interesting. They were trained under the master chef Moon Taeil himself.”

“Ah, I know him only through reputation,” Crystal hums. “But it seems that their greatest opponents are here today. I vaguely remember hearing about how they faced off in the Asia Competition a few years prior.”

“Right, you’re talking about the representatives from China. Xiao Dejun and Liu Yangyang, correct?”

“That’s right. Their coach is Qian Kun, he’s won this competition a few times, no?”

“He has. But Team South Korea has Moon Taeil as their coach, it’ll be a close fight, that’s for sure.”

The voices of the MCs were dull in Jaemin’s ears while he approached his work area. It was just him and the goal now. He had worked his entire life for this moment, with a perfected recipe clear in his mind and hands trained to perfection, he felt more than confident. He didn’t know how precisely to describe this foreign feeling. He didn’t know how to properly convey it. As he stood before his workstation, pristine and ready for use, he couldn’t quite articulate his feelings. Was he scared? No, definitely not. He felt an odd sense of invigoration; however, it was mixed with the two banes of a person’s life: Ego and Fear. But, as any home may be, he was stressed.

Having left home to study culinary arts at a young age, Jaemin took every single opportunity he received to better advance his skills in the kitchen and his efforts were made known. Part of the reason why cameras were focused on him right now was the fact that he had already made quite the name for himself in the small country. He couldn’t be any more determined to win this competition, to bring Korea into the world stage in a way that everyone can truly enjoy. Whether it be the comfort in food, the joy of presentation, or the relief that stemmed from its preparation, cooking is a universal language understood by all and needed know further introduction.

“Jaemin, are you ready?” Taeil’s voice was clear in his earpiece. The last thing he wanted to do was to fail his teacher, they worked hard for years to lead up to this moment, to finally bring the name of culinary excellence back to Korea, and the pressure just continued to build. “Just breathe, Jaemin, don’t forget why we’re here. You’ll do amazingly.” Taeil’s voice was comforting, he was trying to relax the young chef before his final battle at this summit. But how could he? His entire culinary career rode off of this one moment and, with spotlights on him, the blaring sounds of the countdown matched the slow beating of his heart. Then, as the countdown hit zero, Jaemin picked up the kitchen knife and spun it in his hand before he got to work.

“Jisung.” His voice was mechanical, it served more as something to look good on the screen, but, truth be told, the commis already knew very well what to do.

“Already on it,” Jisung was rushing to the large fridge area, grabbing all of the ingredients they required. Jaemin followed close behind, focusing on the main points of the dish while Jisung focused on the secondary parts. They had both practiced for this, having timed themselves and made the dish over and over again until it was objectively perfect. They poured countless days and nights into never ending research to craft the perfect dishes for this competition. There was no room for error, Jaemin wouldn’t let that happen.

“Ah, it looks like South Korea is working on Galbijjim for their meat dish!” Crystal commentates. “As for their fish dish, I assume from the ingredients it must be Agujjim?”

“Looks like you’re correct, Crystal,” Enzo confirms. “Seems like a rather simple dish for this competition.”

“Oh, don’t say that. Sometimes simple dishes have the best of flavors.” Crystal says before they move on to the next duo.

Jaemin and Jisung worked like clockwork, just as they practiced. Routine, routine, that’s what this was. They were going to get first if it was the last thing they would do. Jaemin squinted under the spotlight, paying attention to the angle he was chopping at, to the size of the cubes he made, everything had to be indubitably perfect. Jaemin’s hands moved by nearly muscle memory alone, the two dishes he had chosen to prepare were specialties of Morning Dew, the restaurant he was lucky enough to have trained at since he was young. He knew these recipes better than he knew himself, nearly. And with Taeil giving his feedback to both him and Jisung and offering some tips in the earpieces, they were without a doubt more confident than ever.

“Careful, Na,” Dejun’s voice was clear behind him. “Your cutting technique might lead you to chop a finger or two,” Jaemin could tell that he was being sincere, but with the heat of the competition he couldn’t help but think that he was being condescending.

“Focus on your station before you focus on mine,” Jaemin responds. Dejun just narrows his gaze and shakes his head, going back to his dish. Jaemin couldn’t let the competition get to his head, after narrowly losing to Dejun and Yangyang a few years ago, he can’t have an accident again, he had his pride to take care of. “What’s our time, Jisung?”

“We have five hours left.”

“We spent too much time on prep,” Jaemin murmurs. “How’s the agujjim going?”

“Ready to be cooked.”

“Alright, let them sit so they can get properly seasoned, let’s get to work with the beef.”

Jaemin took a deep breath while Taeil’s voice spoke to both of them, no doubt saying to relax, but Jaemin couldn’t allow himself to be distracted right now. The fish can be cooked later, the cook time isn’t as demanding as the meat dish was. The only problem was preparing fourteen of them in the allotted time and with the available stations. Each workspace was designed similarly to a restaurant’s to mimic restaurant conditions, and it was the only hinderance to preparing the dishes. This was their disadvantage, the Morning Dew restaurant was a small business with the few individuals who worked there being meticulously clean and the crowd control being manageable due to capacity limits. But this was based off of the more common Western kitchens, with fast paced cooking and various distractions, it was one of the things he and Jisung focused on preparing themselves for prior to arriving in France. Jaemin cracked his knuckles.

“Okay,” he smirks. Full confidence.

But it would always be remarkable to him how fast confidence can destroy a concept. It worked like a silent assassin, should one give into it, that would be their bane. Serving as a secret ingredient, of sorts, there’s a reason why the saying “confidence is key” is often championed in all walks of life, and it all boils down to the natural charisma of the one who seeks to utilize it. Confidence can turn a simple bowl of instant noodles into a Michelin worthy dish in the blink of an eye, confidence can hide the imperfections of a dish such that they never existed in the first place, and confidence can, ironically, serve as a grounder in high stress situations such as this very moment. Jaemin had always danced around it, if he lost everything the last thing that would remain was his confidence, it is what made him successful, and it will be what will lead him to victory.

Or at least that’s what he thought.

That was his assumption up to the very last moment, as the judges sat before him and tried the two dishes that they had so painstakingly prepared to excellence. One could argue that this was their lives’ best work, a testimony to their skill. To be fair, any person competing here would think that. Anyone who came in “just for the heck of it” was in it for the wrong reasons, they never truly strived for excellence if they decided to join a world-class competition just for the experience, no. This was akin to a final report card, the last shot at success, and the first risk of failure.

But Jaemin could so clearly remember and recall the moment he realized that his culinary career was as good as over, and it was right when the judges announced their scores.

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[carlatsukinamistolemyhamsandwich]

Someday I want to write Carla as a classic demon lord.

You grow up hearing stories about the Demon Lord. Everyone does. He is every nightmare and terror that has ever plagued your small village and a hundred more from the stories of travellers passing through. They say he has the power to flatten the great mountains that surround the capital city, that he can rip the heads off of ten men with his bare hands before even one of them could so much as speak a word to plead their defence. They say he knows nothing of mercy, just blood, suffering and death.

They tell stories of his brother too, the one-eyed demon prince who will strike down any warrior who is bold or stupid enough to challenge him—as well as the ones who are too cowardly to approach him but are unfortunate enough to meet him nonetheless.

Still, his reputation pales in comparison to that of the Demon Lord himself. The one you were raised in terror of, who you’d hoped and prayed to any god that would listen you’d never meet. 

It would appear the gods however, have abandoned you, as you’re forcibly shoved into his throne room by the minions who’d dragged you kicking and screaming from your bed. You couldn’t understand what was going on at first, you still can’t really, but as they’d forced you to march out of the valley and towards the towering obsidian citadel on the horizon, you had at least been able to glean where exactly you were being taken—not that you knew why.

You fall forwards, knees scrapping against smooth dark marble as you struggle to catch yourself, the doors slamming shut behind you. It’s obvious where you are—it would have been even if you hadn’t been keenly aware as you were led through grand hallways, right into the heart of the citadel—for there is a presence here, one that sets your nerves on edge and makes it feel as though a heavy weight were pressed upon your chest.

As you raise your head, you catch sight of a man on a throne before you, and you know deep down in your bones that this is the Demon Lord, and every story you have ever heard about him is the truth.

He’s tall—even when he’s sitting down you can tell as much—and dressed like one of the rulers of old; sleek dark robes edged with gold and a heavy cape lined in blood red satin draped over his shoulders. A pale hand decorated with ornate gold rings rests on one of the arms of his throne, long elegant fingers tipped with sharp black claw-like nails curling over the edge of the pale polished surface.

Sleek white hair falls around his large, curved black horns. And when he looks at you, his golden irises meeting yours, you feel as though you are looking into one of the circles of hell. You could swear there are phantom flames licking your skin as fumes of brimstone fill your lungs even though you could sense neither before you were so stupid as to look right at the Demon Lord. 

As soon as your gaze drops, whatever magic had entangled you fades and you are left with nothing but a faint dull ache in the patches of skin that had felt as though they were being burned alive. In an effort not to make the mistake of meeting his eyes again, you instead take the time to examine his throne. It seems strangely dull when compared to the Demon Lord in all of his finery; there is no real pattern in the shapes that make up the faintly gleaming off-white surface, but as you focus on a particular corner of it, you struggle not to gasp in horror when you realise exactly what it is you’re looking at. 

The Demon Lord’s throne is not made out of wood or carved stone. No, for the shape you have picked out is a human skull, surrounded by other bits of bone you are less able to identify. The longer you stare, the more of the horribly twisted remains you can make out, skeletons woven and blended together to form a symbol of the Demon Lord’s power. 

Forgetting yourself, you make the error of meeting his eyes again and not even the spectral flames that lick at you are enough to keep your blood from freezing over as he looks at you and finally speaks.