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ttulipwritezz · 1 year

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Rules huh? pt.2

Sirius Black x James's sister reader

warnings: James being oblivious, date, the nickname "love", not revised very well.

tysm for over a hundred likes on the last part skkdhskjd

pt1 ,pt3

Synopsis: you fell for your brother's best friend...what happens next in this situation?

"well...if it isn't Miss Potter"

"What do you want black" You had more matters to attend to than the raven-haired boy beside you, despite how badly you wanted to humor him for the moment and simultaneously piss off your brother.

"Ouch, last name basis are we?"

"You called me Potter" you half asked-half stated with an amused expression

"Miss Potter"

You laughed. A small scoff-like one but a laugh nonetheless. Truth be told it's not like his "joke" was funny at all, far from it even. It's just that Sirius had this charm, this capability to make anyone and everyone smile the moment he entered their vision.

"Isn't that worse? Also, aren't you afraid my brother's gonna give you another lecture? I assume he didn't spare you the last one, you know when he saw you blow me a kiss during dinner.?"

"Oh my, I am offended that you think that way of me, potter! And for the record, I did receive a lecture"

He said with a hand clasped over his chest in mock offense

"Besides, James is at quidditch practice right now love"

Oh, how your stomach flipped at the nickname.

Love

It almost made you consider giving in to the black charm

if it weren't for your brother's little-

"Ahem"

Sirius jumped back startled, you almost laughed out loud at that, though saving it just in time for your brother to ask for an explanation.

"Padfoot? Care to explain why you're around my sister and not at practice?"

James's tone wasn't pleased in the least.

However, it seemed as though Sirius had met with the same fate not too long ago, and he handled it with ease.

"I was just going to ask miss potter where you were, prongs, I was gonna inform you about me not being at practice.'

"And why were you not at it?"

"Uhhh....-"

"-he had potions homework and didn't want to suffer another lecture from Slughorn so I found him in the library"

Luckily potions was not a class the two fifth years shared.

"And how do you know that"

... sometimes James lacks common sense...

"I asked James...asked. Didn't I just tell you I bumped into him at the library?"

Luckily your brother's words were Always predictable to you.

"Whatever Padfoot don't be missing practice for homework next time," He said almost shuddering at the word homework.

~~~~~~

Over the next few weeks, it seemed as though things had changed with Sirius.

You didn't feel normal, your heart thumped against your chest every moment he came around, and worst of all he was forbidden.

It felt wrong to feel this way... God y/n he's your brother's best friend for Merlin's sake. But why do I keep thinking about how he called me love. Does he call anyone else that?

The weeks had been nothing but filled with wholesome exchanges, James had been kind of oblivious to this subtle change in both your demeanors, being too engrossed with Lily at the moment.

He failed to see the way Sirius smiled subconsciously when you were around, the trips to the Library might have stopped but he'd still always catch a glimpse of you in the halls, still staring at you during dinner and still staying the same old flirt.

In fact, His feelings may have been stronger than he had intended.

~~~~~

"You know black you're quite the unwelcome bug I see lingering around all the time."

You were sitting in the common room reading a book when you felt the couch beside you dip and lo and behold the raven-haired boy was back.

"You know love, I happen to..."

He takes a second to pause and look at your book title

"-love that book .. it's one of my favorites"

"Right....and I suppose you know what this book is about then?"

Defeated he didn't argue any further...

" Ok alright, I do not... But-" he started

"What do you want black?" You said remembering how upset your brother was earlier in the halls, though it gave you a bitter feeling to talk to him this way.

"Hogsmeade....me and you?"

That was kind of all he managed to get out but fortunately, you got the memo

"You're asking me out?...you do know James would be furious?"

"I simply do not care, give me a chance y/n...I promise I will make sure your brother approves of me. He's my best friend and hurting him would be the last thing I'd do. Trust me."

"Alright...see you the day after tomorrow at noon."

Curtly nodding you left without much.

But the tiny little "yess" followed by a fist in the air was enough to form a small smile on your face.

A/n: oh god this is awful and so rushed sjdkashjs, tysm for over a hundred notes in the last part!

Should there be a part three with James's reaction and the actual relationship dynamic between the two?

#just a short lil drabble #drabble #oneshot #might make part three #sirius black x reader #sirius black imagine #young sirius black x reader #marauders era fanfiction #young marauders x reader #james sister reader #marauders x reader #harry potter #fanfiction

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plasticfangtastic · 1 year

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American Royalty. Ch. 7

A Homelander X F! Reader/dadlander fanfic

A/N: if ya like to be included in the taglist plz leave a request comment, prev. chapters can be found in my pin post and the link below... i'll be updating my pin post after chapter 8 or 9 so they're not so scattered-- thanks to all readers hope y'all like it. I have officially finished writing this story so I should be posting them more regularly.

tags: mild gore, angst, slow burn, fluff, OC characther, child neglect, dadlander, romance, toxic relationship... a bit of spicy in this chapter.

Chapter Seven

Sharp.

One of the men who looked to be a scientist– and who seemed completely detached from the situation, caught your attention.

“The V. Homelander.” he said, hiding his irritation poorly.

“The kid returned them to me. I left them at the gymnasium. Dropped some. The matter is sorted.” He spat, not giving him a second look, his gaze solely focused on you.

The man swallowed heavily slowly turning towards you, as you stared blankly back at him you noticed the chubby man had been carrying your daughter's sparkly backpack.

“Your daughter. I need to speak to her.” He said hastily.

“You don’t need to” Homelander blocked his vision, standing between you two enraged that he wouldn’t leave you alone.

“Is… Is okay…” Your hands were shaking as you pushed him out the way– my daughter did something really wrong…” You turned to Nigel, your voice wavering as you tried to muster the courage to speak– I am so sorry… I… I’m sorry” You choked.

You had no choice but to take her out of Vought, you knew you could never dream of paying off whatever damages your daughter had incurred on your name, V had to cost a couple hundred-thousands to millions if you had to take a guess, and whatever strange feelings you had a second ago were buried deep with the violent onslaught of anxiety assaulting you– you knew you would be back on the streets if not in jail by the end of the week.

You clutched at your hands feeling your whole body trembling, a sudden jolt traversing across your body as Homelander wrapped an arm across your shoulders trying to contain your relentless shivering, his far away voice told you to take a deep breath, whispering to you words that your ears didn’t quite catch, patiently instructing you to tranquilize to no avail.

“Your daughter, she wrote this.”

The man mustered all his bravery to take a notepad out of her backpack and approach you with it not caring that Homelander was holding you posessively, you looked up towards the item, taking it in your hand– lots of formulas and calculations, her handwriting blocky and messy, but every page was filled with more and more things that you could frankly not decipher– it might as well been hieroglyphics.

“Sorry I don’t understand this.” You were hesitant to hand it back.

“Your daughter managed to do this!.” He went to a particular page of the pad, flicking it in your hands– this… this is a revised version of a new product we had been developing… a new version of V… Your daughter is not in trouble… quite the opposite we would like to extend an olive branch– am so sorry security handled this so poorly.”

Both you and Homelander had matching expressions, both confused as to these sudden changes.

Nigel gasped in relief as Elmo came running towards his father dragging Helena behind him. The man could have hit the child if you weren’t there, he took his son in one swift sweep, holding him tight trying not to sound upset as he kissed him, looking down to find Helena panting behind, the kid hugged his father but didn’t cry– simply turning to see if Helena was still there.

“Don’t look at me like that.” She replied before the kid rolled his eyes– those guns were loaded y’know.”

“Won’t hurt me” The kid muttered– hurt you lots tho.”

She scoffed and rolled her eyes, before finally acknowledging your existence. Peeking at the mess around her and the decapitated head on the other end of the hallway that Elmo completely ignored, she bit her cheek letting a loud ‘Tch’ spit out.

“Before you scream at me– The chump had nothing to do with it, I simply asked for his services in exchange for candy. Second…” A bubble pop above her hand dropping a half-used vial of Compound V– here” She threw at the scientist.

“Is almost empty!”

“I used it, duh” She wasn’t apologetic in the least– now you can scream at me.” she gestures to you to procceed.

You dropped on your knees pulling her into your arms in a vicious and desperate embrace, your heart beating so hard she could feel it thumping against her white sweater, you tried not looking at the empty stare of the decapitated head on the other side of the hall… it was your fault that man had died, you thought. Yet you were glad Homelander had killed him. Glad he had done one right thing for her.

“You have a lot of explaining to do.” Homelander said without actually caring, he was glad to see her unharmed, seeking for any scuff marks or bruises with his X-Ray vision.

Your daughter looked at the scientist then at her belongings.

“I fixed it… your C.V24… in theory of course. Technically you were on the right track with V25 but my formula should reduce the side effects by 76% percent not 67%… would be down to 85% if I had more time.” She strokes your back in circular motions to fake reassurance– sorry for acting like a kid… I did a stupid.”

The man clenched his jaw then looked back at the notes, the formula in theory could be the pathway to finding a solution to all their troubles, Homelander mouth dropping in disbelief.

“What do you mean you fixed it?” He asked.

“Your original formula is a death trap… a shit dilution of V– all bark no bite… your stabilizing was the issue… V is a beast with a mind of its own… even your current serum is a mess… you could even program it to dictate a power if your men used their brains for once– so I decided to do that… now Elmo can fly.”

Nigel's eyes widened.

“You… You experimented on your friend?” You asked, your voice scratchy and hoarse.

Your daughter's eyes blip blue as she gives you a discomforting smile, you didn’t know if you should hold her or take a step away.

“I was thinking of administering the new serum as a pill or like an LSD sticker.” She wriggled away from you and towards Elmo as his father took a step away from those shimmering blue eyes– show him Elmo.”

Elmo nodded obediently with a light push he wiggled upwards and floated close to the ceiling.

“I was aiming for laser or pyrokinesis but again I only had a couple weeks to come out with the formulas… had I had more time.” she grumbled.

“You gave him V25?” Homelander asked, plucking the kid by the leg down to eye level– how…?”

“Nah I gave him my new V serum… I gave it to him like two hours ago… I was working on the V.C 26 on paper but I was messing with V… altho if the mices I worked with are any indication– he might still explode in three hours give or take”

Her nonchalant tone was matched by a small kid who seemed far too exhausted with her, Elmo dropped to the ground. Homelander was mostly in awe that the kid could fly after only two hours and based on her heartbeat she wasn’t telling the truth entirely, but he kept it to himself for the moment.

“He could explode! You could’ve killed him already!” The scientist spoke on your behalf looking at the child horrified.

“Maybe you should’ve kept him in the labs instead of dragging us here… bit rich for you to care considering you experiment on people all the time without their consent…. Sage Grove, Elmira… Godolkin… should I keep going? Great timing to grow a conscience, clown.”

She took her bag off his hands, and her pad.

“Left you a sample if you'd like to test it out… hope you copied it because I ain’t giving it to you for free”

“That’s Vought property!” He tried taking the notepad from her hand, she jumped back lifting her chin for a thick invisible wall to divide the space– you little–

An invisible force maneuvers him flat against the wall, his cheeks pressed comically against the translucent sheet.

“Am I in trouble?” She looked at her father.

“Can you squeeze him flat?” He asked, looking curiously at the scene.

“Can hold back a thousand gallons… what do you think?”

“Let him go. Get the kid under observation and let’s see what this nerd wants.” He said with a jovial tone.

It was like a scene of a bad movie, you were simply forced to watch as they both bonded over their mutual awfulness– the rest of the evening became a blur, your body had moved but you weren’t piloting it, sounds measly echoes as you followed them around, occasionally catching Nigel and now presumably his husband Sven talking as he had joined the party by the time you noticed you had arrived in the labs… unsure when/how you got here.

Your body observed as Helena dragged the scientist and now a small posse of coated men to discuss her work, you left to sit alone in one of the rooms.

The lights were low, and at some stage Homelander had come in– it was painfully silent until he arrived, but you were just there, half-alive.

“What are you looking at?” Homelander said in a hushed voice as he touched you with a naked hand– can you tell me?”

“There’s a scratch on that metal panel” your voice is so quiet it scares him slightly.

His hand was so light on your shoulder, as if it was hovering instead of being there, he took a chair and pushed it to your side, you both sat together as you scrunched up his cape once he offered you the tip, your hands unconsciously picking up the fabric– the texture like thick culderog.

“We took the kid to Disneyland then the kid acted like they were at Disneyland and we got upset about it.” He said, Homelander’s hand atop of yours as you fidgeted– is okay, daddy has taken care of it, you are not in trouble, baby.” his voice was slightly mocking but it was trying to crack a bad joke– not to insult you.

He leaned against you, feeling the sharp metal edges of his eagles against your shoulders. You started to blink harshly trying to push away the fog with this discomfort, his arm on your hip as he rested his chin atop of your head– he was pulling you into a side-hug, meeting no resistance to his surprise.

“You don’t have to worry 'bout anything.” His voice is warm– am a hero, remember?”

“That kid is going to die…” you whimpered.

“Elmo Cripple is perfectly fine.”

“She didn’t care.” Your voice, starting to crack once again.

“She’s a very confident young lady.” he grimaces– a tad too confident if I say so myself… but you should hear her talking to those guys right now, is incre— I have no idea what she’s saying.”

“Welcome to my life” You nuzzled yourself against him, he was so warm, you could remember the heat– I… I don’t know what I am going to do with her?” You sobbed lightly.

“Let her pursue her dreams while supervised so we don’t have to deal with potential murder charges.”

He tried to make you laugh with his tone but all you could muster was staring back at him with a furrowed brow, your tears staining your cheeks already.

“‘Phantasma and Poltergeist’ I don’t how I feel about our kid being in a team-up… even if the competition isn’t steep– It’ll get difficult as she gets older but then again I don’t want Ryan to compete directly with her for the spotlight, its two different markets with completely different appeals.”

“I don’t want to talk about her being a superhero when we haven’t even handled this…” you said, holding back a sob, trying to clean your face against him.

“... ‘we’?” His hands gave your side a squeeze as his other took your hands more gently making sure to rub your dried knuckles– I think we can handle this, Y/N… we can keep a short leash on her… from now on– rely on me… you deserve that."

Staring back at her happily explaining her process, enjoying seeing the group of Phds feelings of inferiority coloring their faces, it was obvious that she shouldn’t even be in the 10th grade, simply staying behind for your well-being, but just how big was her IQ– how much more smarter was she?

Homelander wanted to see his bouquet of peonies set as the centerpiece she was meant to be, to let her shine as she deserved.

You pulled on his wrist wanting to be held more, it didn’t matter if it was your shitty ex-boyfriend or not, you wanted affectioness, longing for empathy and gentleness.

You already had been kissing– in public no less! He had plans of holding you hostage until you agreed to play house with him, Homelander already testing the waters by making your children play together. Maybe it was your survival mechanism ill-timing but your mind desperately demanded a distraction, your lips were still able to taste peppermint, so your mind wandered south– possibly because that golden belt buckle was perfectly in your sight.

Frankly the last time you had a date was when Helena was five, they were cute, visited Lucci a couple times before asking for your number, the dates were great and the last time you had sex was with this guy before he dumped you, you thought they’ve potential and your wrist had taken enough abuse over the years– if anything you had given up your womanhood, too tired and focused with rearing lil’ Einstein to notice your needs, sleeping with this cutie wasn’t terrible but the moment the word “Freak” was uttered in reference to your kid– you were throwing their shit out the window.

For the first time since she was born you found yourself not alone and supported, your friends had seen you like you carrier of pestilence affecting their jobs by virtue of association, your inability to find employment quickly burdened your friends and relatives, your family and yourself had not seen eye-to-eye for years, your relationship cracking deep enough to touch the abyss once you came home pregnant with no man behind you, then it was out the door after a couple weeks, even the kid didn’t appease them later down the track.

Could he really be relied on? Money was but a gesture of good will– covering for your kid for stealing maybe millions of dollars of god’s own spunk, and potentially getting your daughter acquitted for murder. Now that might be worth a blowie.

And he hurt your jaw quite graciously.

You looked up straight into his face, he had been talking for god knows how long without you noticing, and took his face.

Tasting like spearmint and iron, he was hesitant at first unsure if the timing was good but quickly relented as your tongue got more demanding, his hands now had no clue where to sit or what to touch but he let you take the lead.

You tousled and pulled on his hair, wanting to get him close to you, to feel something good from him for once.

He pushed you lightly as he heard your daughter's steps encroaching, he stood up with a light blush on his ears as he pointed at the door, you looked up wanting to say something but there she was with a big grin on her face and her chest bouncing with excitement.

“You proud of yourself?” Did you ask her or yourself, there?-- If your friend dies…”

“Elmo won’t die… not on a microdose of V. for fuck sakes this company sold diluted V for a G-Fuel collab!”

“You say that but you had never actually worked with V until now! Do you have any idea what you were doing!?”

She looked at the desk nearby, the little GP office setting in this room sort of amusing.

“No. Got a little too eager when I found the playground, it’s sort of a cruel joke for me to be able to make myself invisible, and be in the same building as all of this” She gestured to her surroundings– just because I'm smart doesn’t mean I have the emotional intelligence of an adult to match… So?”

“Do whatever you want Helena… I can’t… I can’t with you… just–

Homelander turned to you, concerned at your tone, it was harsh. Where you giving up on her? He though.

You buried your face beneath your hands, trying to calm down.

“I won’t kill anybody, I'm not interested in that.”

“So what are you interested in?” You argue smacking your back flat on the back of the seat– please enlighten me!?”

“Vought.” Homelander interjects– oh you’re clever…”

He picks her up, poking her nose, there’s an air of comfort in his gesture, as if he always had done so.

“You're a scheming little munchkin.” he squeezes her cheeks jokingly– this isn’t Game of Thrones, darling. Daddy will take care of you”

“You mean the shareholders will take care of me once they realize you can re-open Stan Edgar’s plan to get into the US military… then the police force. Thanks to me.” She gives him a peck on the cheek– but don’t forget I’m not an only child.”

Homelander was blindsided by such a gesture, between you two he was in a tight spot.

Still he was entering heaven as his heart skipped a beat or two, feeling his daughter clung to him, feeling how dangerously light she was, how cute she was, how perfect she was.

Your daughter and yourself stayed silent during that drive home, the radio louder than usual, only when you reached your home did you act, stopping her belt-buckle from coming undone.

“You asked me to play a role in your game without a script– had to improvise.”

“Don’t give me that. You did something horrific Helena! I can't even believe you!” you snapped, your daughter frowned in return as you smacked your palms on the steering wheel– just admit you wanted to do it!”

“I did. I wanted to explore those labs. I like looking at things at Vought– it's stimulating! you want me to get “dad” to love me, no? He loves Vought! I'm just his bastard competing againts the son he’s loved for longer! so I show interest in the one thing he loves other than himself to have an advantage!”

“You went too far!!” you snapped.

“I am not sleeping in a car ever again, Y/N!!” She turned to you with rage in her sight– we are not going back! So you do your thing and I do my thing.”

You let go of her belt buckle.

“You hurt people.” you whispered, pain palpable in your lips, trying to not scream, to not slap her, to stay calm as your daughter heaved angrily, as her eyes glowed intensely.

“I haven’t– Elmo Cripple is alive… so far the only one that’s been hurt is me!!”

She gritted her teeth, the air growing thin inside your old station wagon.

“What is ‘Poltergeist’ getting out of this? He’s not like you.” You didn’t want to argue with her, afraid you would forget she was a child and not a woman– What have you done to him?”

“He’s a dog… don’t worry… he understands I have a vision– I need you to get Homelander to publicly acknowledge me as his daughter.”

Helena hopped off the car slamming the door on her way out.

Your daughter and yourself didn’t speak for the rest of the day, she silently did her thing with only the sounds of the television filling the gap, until bedtime– you sat outside with a cup of hot chocolate in your hands, you glanced at the potted trees and the smooth gray walls of your homely prison, large windows framing your reflection allowing you to catch the blue and red coming down in the glass unsurprisingly.

“You want some hot chocolate?” You asked, lifting your cup.

He looked disgusted at the idea.

“She’s sleeping… I am calling in sick tomorrow… I need a day off…” you muttered as he landed before you, he pushed the metal chair scraping the grass, to take a seat by your side.

“How are you feeling? They will be trying her formula, so she will be there under Dr. Park vigilance… talk about cool after-school activities-- beats being a girl-scout!.” Homelander was clearly not that interested in you tonight– I kept an eye on Poltergeist. All his vital signs are fine.”

You seemed a little relieved.

Gawking at him, his bleached blonde locks, those sharp features and beautiful thin lips, you felt a tingle in your chest.

You wanted to forget about today, to not think of Helena’s actions.

Your smile was sad but he hadn’t noticed.

“Wanna fuck?” You put the cup down with a huff.

Homelander gave you a double take, this was the easiest way to wash away today’s events-- Helena's words creeping back at you... you had to to bind him to you... like this you could rid of these strange sensations simmering within, as you stared at his pretty blue eyes, and his belt, you threw away rationale.

“My battery ran out.”

His nervous smile was cute, you stood up… him still in the chair– turning around once again as you opened the door, inviting him to enter your domain.

Homelander was still so handsome it was infuriating to acknowledge that. Compared to your dull exhausted skin– he was still so fine. It wouldn’t be the worst you’ve done, you missed the attention, and he wanted yours so why not? You scratched your head as he simply stood frozen on the spot, shrugging your shoulders as you closed the door behind– only for his hand to keep it open, his breath ragged and the blush in his cheek matching the faint light of his eyes.

“Are… Are you sure?” he asked nervously.

“John” You tap his chest with your knuckles– take it off.”

Bells rang inside his brain, a shimmering perturbed gaze burning directly at you– a dog awaiting orders.

He followed you into the living room ditching his boots and tights on the way to that terrible couch, he watched you closely as you took a blanket and threw it on the ground alongside the cushions, licking his lip as you took your shirt off revealing your bare breasts.

He was quick to take you into his arms, kissing you intensely, your hands reaching after his neck, fingers harshly caressing his undercut, as he slid down your bottoms.

“You miss me?” His hands were so needy as he bit into your neck leaving trails of hickeys, his tongue savoring that spot where he had marked you as his own, the dents in your skin and the sunken discolored flesh left by his bite mark– it tickles…”

In the heat of the moment he had bitten you, feasting on your blood as pleasure and pain intertwined, your mind blank as he made love to you, fostering a hatred for mirrors after it all ended, feeling him kiss his signature made you anxious, not wanting to relieve the bitter memories in this moment.

“Mommy…” He whispered as he returned to kiss and lick your neck– "It's been so long, mommy.” he said breathlessly.

“Is been long for me too, my sweet boy.” He moaned into your skin, his maws needy, eager to taste you, his breathless soughs turning you light as he brought you down onto the floor, holding your head as he kissed your neck and ears– you promise to make mommy feel good just like I taught you, baby?” Your voice is sickly sweet making his eyes flare up.

“Can… Can mommy show me again?” His voice gravelly and low as he cupped your chest.

You wedged your legs from under him with a cheeky smile.

“I’ll be extra-thorough then, so pay attention, sweetie.”

He liked that tone in your voice, he liked it even more when you commanded him, how long had it been since you lead him? Too long... too long to bare another moment without it.

Unsurprisingly he had no need for a refresher.

Taglist-- @fromforeigntofamiliarity (hope you had a nice snack for this chapter :), @demodemo909 @immyowndefender

#personal #homelander #homelander fanfic #the boys fanfic #the boys oc #my fic tag #american royalty #homelander x reader #homelander x you #dadlander #sorry for spellign errors

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dilettantefeminist · 2 months

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Elrond Week Day 7: Sanctuary and Departure

Prompts: Third Age, Legacy, The Undying Lands

Before he departs for Valinor, Elrond spends a moment in the library of Imladris

If Lord Elrond spends long hours pouring over ledgers, if he recalculates the count of grain and the weight of the orchard harvest, and if he combs the most recent census for familiar names, he thinks he can withstand these last days. In a fortnight he will journey from Imladris, where every detail is touched by his vision or by his hand, and he will not return. He will board Círdan’s ship with the ring bearer and the others and he will leave Arda. He will leave his daughter, now mortal and in the early delight of a young marriage. He will leave too his sons, who will watch over her and over their Valley, keeping it safe for an age of Men.

Celibrían, the missing remainder of his soul, awaits him in Valinor. Some days it seems to him that she is in the next room, just out of reach. Other days he thinks he dreamed her. The closer their reunion draws, the greater his anticipation, until it feels dangerously close to the desperation that marked their parting. So he makes plans for those who will pass through Imladris and revises them endlessly and drives Erestor mad with his questions. Have we enough wood for the winter to come? It will be colder now. Did I see we have children in the last census? Have we any toys for them? Is one cook enough for our expected guests?

One morning Erestor tells him that the librarian of Imladris wishes to speak with him and it is only then that Elrond realizes he’s not thought of the library. The omission shocks him; he wonders that he could have overlooked something so important.

His librarian sits alone at a reading table surrounded by piles of books. lanthir is the last of the large staff that once kept the collection organized, fetched scrolls and folios for visiting scholars. He agrees at once with Elrond’s suggestion to send the healer’s collection to Minas Tirith and has also taken the liberty of pulling these, a selection of volumes that he hopes will travel to Aman. There are exactly one hundred and at first Elrond sees no theme or order to his choices, but as Ianthir describes them he finds himself nodding. There are the histories of course, twenty that cover the events of the past two ages. There is epic poetry but there is also a forge plan with the architect’s notation in Khuzdul, an illustrated field guide to the plants of Rhovanian, and a Mannish children’s fable about chickens.

lanthir does not intend to leave Imladris, or rather, he says he does not intend to leave the library. Elrond searches his face, asks him gently if he would not like to see the Blessed Realm, to explore its immense collections of knowledge. The other librarians have sailed one by one, drawn by this promise. They were each allowed to take one book from the library; Elrond wonders which ones they selected.

lanthir will not sail. He feels, he tells Elrond, more comfortable among these books than among his kin. There are so many in the cities of Aman. He seeks quiet. And there will still be visitors to their valley. They will be Men, likely as not, but does Elrond know that they have over 1532 items in Westron? Elrond does not know. He smiles despite himself and does not argue. After so many years of being left, he is finally learning how to leave. Already the weight of Ianthir’s fate sits lighter on his shoulders.

When they have finished talking Elrond walks into the open gallery and sinks into one of the high-backed chairs scattered throughout. He can see gardens through a nearby window, and he closes his eyes and allows himself to imagine the hedgerows becoming wilderness, the library walls crumbling under the work of root and vine.

Twenty yeni past he entered the library and, as he hurried through in search of a map, found the Lady Celebrían ensconced in the chair in which he now sits. Elrond cannot recall a time when he did not love her. That he tell her was impossible then, so he satisfied himself with small moments in which he could watch her unobserved. And then he walked into his library and she was before him, lit by rays of late afternoon sunlight. She raised her eyes to him over the cover of her book and he was ruined, all his carefully considered arguments for silence buried under the weight of her presence and the sliver of hope afforded by her smile.

He rises to search the nearby shelves and inhales sharply when his hand closes over the slim volume, still in its place.

“I wonder if you could recommend something for me to read, my lord?”

What possessed him, Elrond will never know, but he had selected this book of poetry. It was not one of the Elvish canon but a mannish book of poetry, one whose tone might be described as earthy. It had taken him another three months and the knowledge of her imminent departure to gain the courage to speak to Celebrían plainly, but that day in the library had been the unofficial beginning of their courtship.

When Elrond sails he does so with Ianthir’s collection and, wrapped in a cloth of Celebrían’s weaving, the little book of poetry. He will give it to her as they begin again, a reminder that even in their shared grief for those they leave behind, they are rooted in joy.

_____________________________________________________________

Author’s note: I imagine Ianthir’s collection to be a sort of gold record for Middle Earth. What book would you add to it?

@elrondweek

#elrondweek #elrondweek2024 #Day 7 #elrond #elrond peredhel #elrond x celebrian #books & libraries #this is the shortest thing I've ever posted apparently #this will shock you all but it's no easier to write shorter stuff

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bronzeagepizzeria · 9 months

Text

Rose is no scientist. She’s got no A-levels and she never went to college, but she thinks the Universe is governed by a handful of simple principles, yeah? What goes around, comes around. Every action has an equal and opposite reaction. The Universe gives and the Universe takes away. There’s a Doctor in her bedroom, in this world, and there’s her Doctor, missing.

AU: What if the Toymaker switched the Fifteenth Doctor and the Metacrisis Doctor?

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

#my fic #rose tyler #tentoorose #tentoo #tenrose #fifteenth doctor #a hundred visions and revisions

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topazadine · 1 month

Text

Five Common Anxieties of Newbie Writers, Demystified

A simple post for today to address common concerns I have seen from younger writers over the years, which includes:

"Everyone else is so much better than me; I'm behind."

"I can't share my writing or someone will steal my idea."

"I am in direct competition with other writers; their gain is my loss."

"I shouldn't read while writing because it will ruin my unique voice."

"If I don't explain everything in meticulous detail, people won't understand my vision."

As always, this is my experience and my opinion as someone who has been writing seriously for about 15 years and reading, well, since I was a tiny baby. I also have several years of experience tutoring younger writers at both the K-12 and collegiate level.

Here goes!

1. "Everyone else is so much better than me; I'm behind."

You are not behind. Even if you start writing in your 60s, you are not behind. That's because there is no such thing as being behind in writing; you are where you are, and you'll only get further if you keep going.

Of course you're not going to write like Brandon Sanderson, or Tolkien, or Stephen King, or whoever when you're 20, because you're twenty. You just got out of high school two years ago and haven't even graduated college! These writers have decades on you and are naturally going to be better because they have had more time to learn.

Comparison is the thief of joy. You will not be happy if you are always comparing to yourself to every other writer and bemoaning your lack of experience.

As I have said multiple times throughout my blog, I encourage you to try to write 1 million words before you even think about publishing anything. Do fanfic, because then you can't publish it and you know you're just practicing. You will likely look back at where you started, with your first story, and go, "oh thank god I didn't try to publish that. I wasn't anywhere near ready."

And even then, you still will not be behind, because there's no one track toward success in publishing. You are just where you need to be right now, and you'll keep going where you need to go as long as you keep writing.

2. "I can't share my writing or someone will steal my idea."

I have seen a lot of this on writing subreddits. People will ask questions, but be intentionally vague about their plot because they are worried about someone else filching their idea and making it their own. However, they will refuse to share nearly anything useful, making it impossible to answer their question with any specificity.

Now yes, theft does happen. There was a horrendous story recently where an agent stole one of their author's ideas to give to another author, who then published faster because the agent had left Author 1 in Revision Hell on purpose. I'm not saying it never happens.

But the thing is that it is not the idea that makes any story special, it is the execution.

My Eirenic Verses series centers around poetry magic. That's the whole gimmick. But poetry magic has been done before to great effect by several other authors! There's a book called The Poet Empress out on sub that I'm hoping and praying will get published because I want to read it; everything about this story sounds AMAZING.

From the blurb, this book is vastly different from my own, which is a great thing. Both of us came up with this concept and took it in unique directions, giving readers more options for engage with poetry magic in completely different ways. And I love that!

Don't worry too much about people stealing your ideas. After all, your idea has been done dozens of times before already, even if you haven't been able to find an exact copy of the plot. We are all riffing off ancient plot forms and tales.

3. "I am in direct competition with other writers; their gain is my loss."

The joy of reading books is that you can read hundreds in a year if you want to. It is not like car sales, where people buy one single car every few years.

People buy books that they don't even intend to read; how many of us have dozens of books in our TBR pile that we'll probably never get to?

Yes, it's possible to lose out on competitions or publishing slots to other writers, but that is the nature of the economy, not the fault of any other writer. Placing yourself in opposition to a well-respected writer, especially one in your same niche, does you no favors.

Other writers are your peers, not your antagonists. No matter what you are writing, no one will do it quite like you, so you shouldn't worry if someone else's story is somewhat like yours. That just means that there is overlap between your audiences, and you should support them even more so that people like both of you.

The best way to be successful is to build community. People support those that they like and who are nice to them.

4. "I shouldn't read while writing because it will ruin my unique voice."

Your 'unique voice' is a mishmash of every other writer you have ever read because that is how learning works. You have absorbed the lessons of every other book you've put before your eyes (or into your ears), picked out what you liked, and left the rest. So yes, you do have a unique voice, but it is based on other writers, and the more you read, the more you refine that voice.

My favorite authors are Emile Zola, Willa Cather, Emily Dickinson, William Carlos Williams, Robert Frost, China Mieville, Terry Prachett, and Herman Melville. As a child, my favorite books were the Redwall series and The Unicorn Chronicles. My favorite nonfiction series is The Inspired Traveller's Guides by Sarah Baxter.

You can find all of those influences in my work, but you can also find dozens of other authors I have loved throughout my life. There are books that still haunt me today whose titles I can't even remember, just the concept or a specific scene.

My writing voice has become so strong because I like so many different kinds of writing and I have synthesized them all together. I learn something from every single book I read, even if it's just what not to do.

You can't become a strong writer if you don't read. It's essential to developing your voice. The more you read, the more you develop your voice, and the more that you can resist the urge to completely change your style based on what you are currently reading.

But you can only get to the point of having a strong, coherent voice by reading. So don't shy away from it.

5. "If I don't explain everything in meticulous detail, people won't understand my vision."

Here's a brutal truth: it doesn't matter whether other people see exactly what you see in your work. What matters is that they enjoyed what they saw. No one is going to have your exact same vision unless you turn your book into a movie.

Everyone's journey through a given book is influenced by their own life experiences. For example, if you asked a French person to describe a castle, they are going to say something completely different than what a Japanese person would say. What an Indian person envisions when you say "sword" is going to differ from what an English person thinks about. And that is fine and good!

You do not need to put your reader in a chokehold and make sure that they are seeing exactly what you see. This can be a huge turnoff to readers, especially if you do not present things in the proper order, because now they are constantly having to revise their setting with the new details you are providing.

Here, for example, is a description from my first book, 9 Years Yearning:

Every few steps, he ran across another example of a High Poet's work: ostentatious stone structures with smooth stucco sides, dramatic depictions of wild animals and fantastical beasts jutting from their surface. Others were more sculpture than home, tiny pebbles that slotted together to make a swirling mass of windows and doors. Goldnin, being one of the more well-heeled cities, had many wealthy merchants more than willing to spill quillim for a poetry-infused property.

Everyone who reads this is going to see different "wild animals" and "fantastical beasts." They are going to imagine the pebbles as different colors; maybe one person thinks they're all different shades that make gradations, while another wants them all to be tiny chips of quartz that sparkle in the sun.

I am fine with this. A story is a scaffold to allow readers to adorn with their own imagination, creating a personalized experience. I have given the reader some specific elements but left the rest vague so that they can envison what they want, and I'm okay with it not being exactly what I intended.

Once you have put a story out into the world, you're done interpreting it for the reader. It is now theirs to enjoy. They can do whatever they want with it, just like you can go buy something from the store and spraypaint it neon orange if you want to.

Your job is not to grab the reader by the face and tell them what you want them to see; it is to provide enough detail that they can see what they want to see. Giving up ownership like this allows you to make a story that isn't oversaturated with detail but still enables readers to have fun with it.

I hope this helped to ease some of your fears about writing. The most important part is to have fun, relax, and continue to learn all the time!

If you enjoyed this, maybe you will consider purchasing my book, 9 Years Yearning! This gay coming-of-age romance follows two boys in a military academy as they learn the arts of love and war. It includes poetry magic, strong sibling bonds, and all the awkwardness that young romance entails.

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strykingback · 7 months

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Jaune Arc- The Most Horrendous Knight Ever. (Twin Revisions)

Silence My Minions!! Now as you know yesterday night I did a why Jaune is a horrible knight post and the what not. But today I deleted it cause some stans really just wanna say that he is "isnt a knight." but knight inspired. Aight. Aight! I might as well hop onto the rewriting post and use everything to my knowledge. Cause holy hell almighty this was giving me a headache.

and having me in my bed like:

"I know this motherfucker did not just cherry-pick my whole post"

So yes, I deleted and a few of my replies and decided to get some help for this one. By the way huge thank you @burgers-and-diatribe for giving me a helping hand on this one. Y'all go check'em out and giv'em a high five. Cause they were a huge help for this revision.

So without further ado. Lets get into it.

Now before hand we're just going to get into it a huge part of RWBY's characters whether it be extra, protagonist, or antagonistic characters are inspired by either Fairytale, Historical, or Mythological figures. This can also include the Romanticization of Fairytales as well.

Now Jaune Arc is based off the historically legendary female knight of the Hundred Years War. Joan of Arc. Who was well known for having been granted a vision by the Archangel, Michael to save France from British Domination. This would later on culminate into her arrival at Orleans and participating in major battles and even after her death it would pave the way for the French to claim victory in the Hundred Years War several decades later.

Jaune would immediately trip over and fall flat on his face cause he can't even hold a candle up to Joan of Arc. Because it would better fit the historical allusion if he:

His Semblance was based around seeing into the future Which despite Transitioning Into A Woman In Later Volumes or Being Born as A Woman and being called Jeanne. Having erratic visions of Fire, being related to Cinder and a possible future of her death or a battle that could lead to her death.

Possibly her death inspiring others or paving the way for a major victory.

At the same time, they dont allude to their historical counterparts unlike how Jaune does so. Instead they go for the Paladin route due to it being such a huge Dungeons and Dragons concept as he achieves Aura Amplification which is none other than the Lay On Hands ability minus the healing factor of its ability.

I know Jaune is a Fantasy Knight but at the same time in Volume Nine he is called the RUSTED KNIGHT. in which at that point he either is or inspired by the romanticized concepts of the Code of Chivalry.

Before I hop into this lets just get this out of the way

Real Life Knights =/= Fantasy Knights

This is because Real Life Knights are by far not the romanticized concepts that we read or watch in media. As Real Knights were just overall horrendous, cruel, and even lazy. This is because most knights that we know in real life were in fact noblemen born into knighthood beginning their training no less than the age of fifteen. Then made into a squire and then into a knight.

Now knights in our world pillaged, murder, or even did many more horrible things in order for their status to be seen during the Middle Ages. As there have been many many accounts of knights doing horrendous atrocities as well.

As one account during the Age of Chivalry (The 11th to the 12th Century) as a historian recounts Sir John Arundel and his band of knights taking refuge in a convent violating the Nuns and stealing from them and throwing them overboard once they were all but used up. Not to mention real knights would usually face off against other knights. Sometimes in duels to resolve petty conflicts, entertainment or in festivals as well.

As the book Chivalry in Medieval England by Nigel Saul states; "Knights only fought for three things. Land, Gold, and War Booty."

Now as for Fantasy Knights this is not applicable to their Real Life counterparts as they are no means perfect as well. But its once again those romanticized concepts of what we see knights as. Noble, Kind, Understanding and Powerful altogether.

Now do they follow the concepts of Code of Chivalry? Ehhhh. Maybe depending on the character(s) in media.

As some Fantasy Knights are either, Sellswords, Free Knights/Paladins, Servants to a Lord, King or Queen, or Baron. Hell or even just bandits.

Now there are only two accounts of the Code of Chivalry

Song of Roland’s Code of Chivalry:

Fear God and His Church Serve the liege lord in valor and faith Protect the weak and defenseless Live by honor and for glory Respect the honor of women

King Arthurs version of the Code of Chivalry:

Honor Honesty Loyalty Valor

Now in my last post I did say Jaune should have been following those concepts of chivalry and how he falls flat in some areas of it. Until I was corrected saying that I shouldnt be applying those especially with how "vague" it is for something that is from a romanticized fairytale. It was then when I realized that if Jaune were to be a true knight he would have swear fealty for a Lord or King to follow those Codes of Chivalric Faith.

Now can I not apply those things to Jaune. No.

But Can I make him to the point where he was inspired by the Codes of Chivalry. Since Rooster Teeth made Jaune as a fictional character following a real life concept (Aka the Romanticized Concepts of the Codes of Chivalry), such as Knighthood.

Also the fact that monarchs did exist in Ancient Remnant in Volume 6 which further cements the fact the knights existed and with Ozma/Ozpin being a knight during that time.

Its almost as if saying Robyn Hill isnt based off of the Romanticization of Robin Hood because this, this, and that. Or because it does not in exist in Remnant. Once again RWBY's characters are based off of Fairytales, Historical, or Mythological figures we know of IRL. and yes even Romanticized Fairytales can count as well.

Yes I know some people will come at me and call me a Jaune Hater just because me and many many others rag on him. But at the same time... I rooted for him to become better. And due to idiotic writing decisions from Miles Luna and making him into a Ron Stoppable, shoe horning him into important scenes and the like. It only made me hate him more. The

I Like Him For the Character He Could Have Become.

Instead he is a failure to live up to his historical allusion and even fails at being a knight/ paladin archetype.

TL;DR: Another revision on how I explain why Jaune fails at being a Joan of Arc Allusion and a Knight Allusion

#RWDE #//Okay Fucking hell this may be the last time I'll talk about Jaune #//Hell I wont even do anymore Jaune shit after this #//Cause I really wanna talk about Sun Wukong #//Or even Curious Cat

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itsdannycragg · 2 years

Text

working on Neokosmos for 8 years now, the project has become a constant anchor in my life. it's mind boggling we're almost done writing the first draft of the second book. We started writing it in 2020, three years ago in March.

we'll be starting on the third book as soon as we wrap on two. The fact that THIS YEAR, within weeks, we will be working on the third and final book in the trilogy. this is fucking crazy.

if youre curious, we're going to self publish online. the piecemeal way we've been sharing neokosmos as we write it isn't particularly appealing to traditional publishers. nor is the fact that we're going to draft out the whole trilogy before publishing the first book as a way to make sure the whole series is consistent narratively and in quality. not to mention our books will be full of literally hundreds of color illustrations. Ya can't put that into print without the physical copy costing 100 dollars or cutting out the art all together.

our decision to not seek traditional publishing has really freed us from the deadlines, standards, and conventions associated with it. Too many times we have seen extremely promising books be edited to pieces to fit within a certain word count, or revised to the point of being unrecognizable from the authors vision in the name of being marketable to a wider audience.

Shelby and Brian (who do almost the entirety of the prose writing) have been so iron-willed about not making compromises like that. I really respect them for it. We are writing our queer polyamorous neurodivergent hearts out and we will not bend to the agenda of a publisher.

that said of course, we don't look down on traditional publishing or think that self publishing is superior. it's just not right for Neokosmos and never has been. (We're also not against critique, feedback, or notes from beta readers! We value it tremendously.)

i hope when we're done writing, editing, illustrating, and polishing Neokosmos that the people we were writing it for will find it.

Anyway, if you're interested in anything I said, you should join the Neokosmos Discord! You can read our novels in progress for free!

#rambling about #neokosmos

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poems-from-around-the-world · 1 year

Text

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock - T.S. Eliot - USA

S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse A persona che mai tornasse al mondo, Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse. Ma percioche giammai di questo fondo Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero, Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.

Let us go then, you and I,

When the evening is spread out against the sky

Like a patient etherized upon a table;

Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,

The muttering retreats

Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels

And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:

Streets that follow like a tedious argument

Of insidious intent

To lead you to an overwhelming question ...

Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”

Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go

Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,

The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,

Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,

Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,

Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,

Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,

And seeing that it was a soft October night,

Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time

For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,

Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;

There will be time, there will be time

To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;

There will be time to murder and create,

And time for all the works and days of hands

That lift and drop a question on your plate;

Time for you and time for me,

And time yet for a hundred indecisions,

And for a hundred visions and revisions,

Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go

Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time

To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”

Time to turn back and descend the stair,

With a bald spot in the middle of my hair —

(They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”)

My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,

My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin —

(They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”)

Do I dare

Disturb the universe?

In a minute there is time

For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:

Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,

I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;

I know the voices dying with a dying fall

Beneath the music from a farther room.

So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—

The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,

And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,

When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,

Then how should I begin

To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?

And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—

Arms that are braceleted and white and bare

(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)

Is it perfume from a dress

That makes me so digress?

Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.

And should I then presume?

And how should I begin?

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets

And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes

Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? ...

I should have been a pair of ragged claws

Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!

Smoothed by long fingers,

Asleep ... tired ... or it malingers,

Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.

Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,

Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?

But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,

Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,

I am no prophet — and here’s no great matter;

I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,

And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,

And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,

After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,

Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,

Would it have been worth while,

To have bitten off the matter with a smile,

To have squeezed the universe into a ball

To roll it towards some overwhelming question,

To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,

Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—

If one, settling a pillow by her head

Should say: “That is not what I meant at all;

That is not it, at all.”

And would it have been worth it, after all,

Would it have been worth while,

After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,

After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—

And this, and so much more?—

It is impossible to say just what I mean!

But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:

Would it have been worth while

If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,

And turning toward the window, should say:

“That is not it at all,

That is not what I meant, at all.”

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;

Am an attendant lord, one that will do

To swell a progress, start a scene or two,

Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,

Deferential, glad to be of use,

Politic, cautious, and meticulous;

Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;

At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—

Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old ... I grow old ...

I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?

I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.

I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves

Combing the white hair of the waves blown back

When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea

By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown

Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

#the love song of j. alfred prufrock #T.S. Eliot #USA #poem #poetry #poems from around the world

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p-isforpoetry · 11 months

Text

youtube

"The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" by T.S. Eliot ‖ Tom Hiddleston (12/11) [without music]

This is a re-upload of Tom reading poetry for Ximalaya FM from 2019 without the background music.

You can also listen to the same poem from Sir Anthony Hopkins, Xander Berkeley, Jeremy Irons and Sir Alec Guinness.

• ────────────────────────────────── • "If I but thought that my response were made to one perhaps returning to the world, this tongue of flame would cease to flicker. But since, up from these depths, no one has yet returned alive, if what I hear is true, I answer without fear of being shamed."

"The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" by T. S. Eliot

Let us go then, you and I, When the evening is spread out against the sky Like a patient etherized upon a table; Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets, The muttering retreats Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells: Streets that follow like a tedious argument Of insidious intent To lead you to an overwhelming question … Oh, do not ask, “What is it?” Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes, The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes, Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening, Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains, Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys, Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap, And seeing that it was a soft October night, Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time For the yellow smoke that slides along the street, Rubbing its back upon the window-panes; There will be time, there will be time To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet; There will be time to murder and create, And time for all the works and days of hands That lift and drop a question on your plate; Time for you and time for me, And time yet for a hundred indecisions, And for a hundred visions and revisions, Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?” Time to turn back and descend the stair, With a bald spot in the middle of my hair — (They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”) My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin, My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin — (They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”) Do I dare Disturb the universe? In a minute there is time For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all: Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, I have measured out my life with coffee spoons; I know the voices dying with a dying fall Beneath the music from a farther room. So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all— The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase, And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin, When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall, Then how should I begin To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways? And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all— Arms that are braceleted and white and bare (But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!) Is it perfume from a dress That makes me so digress? Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl. And should I then presume? And how should I begin?

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? …

I should have been a pair of ragged claws Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully! Smoothed by long fingers, Asleep … tired … or it malingers, Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me. Should I, after tea and cakes and ices, Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis? But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed, Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter, I am no prophet — and here’s no great matter; I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker, And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker, And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all, After the cups, the marmalade, the tea, Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me, Would it have been worth while, To have bitten off the matter with a smile, To have squeezed the universe into a ball To roll it towards some overwhelming question, To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead, Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”— If one, settling a pillow by her head Should say: “That is not what I meant at all; That is not it, at all.”

And would it have been worth it, after all, Would it have been worth while, After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets, After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor— And this, and so much more?— It is impossible to say just what I mean! But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen: Would it have been worth while If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl, And turning toward the window, should say: “That is not it at all, That is not what I meant, at all.”

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be; Am an attendant lord, one that will do To swell a progress, start a scene or two, Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool, Deferential, glad to be of use, Politic, cautious, and meticulous; Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse; At times, indeed, almost ridiculous— Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old … I grow old … I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach? I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach. I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves Combing the white hair of the waves blown back When the wind blows the water white and black. We have lingered in the chambers of the sea By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

Source: Ximalaya FM

#Tom Hiddleston #“The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock”#T.S. Eliot #poem #poetry #p-isforpoetry #audio #Ximalaya FM 2019 #Youtube

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alesyira · 10 months

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this scene (super early draft, wrote it last night and today, subject to revisions!!) probably happens a bit before that last one i'd posted titled 'still alive' with some tweaks to how they flow together, linked into a scene I've started where the bakugous end up coming by to cause even more sad feels. these two snips plus the brief still-under-construction BK cryfest should be most of what i have planned for a follow-up chapter at the end of glitch. it establishes a few tiny (probably unimportant don't worry about it at all) details that come back around in accidental vigilante.

The TV is off when Izuku blinks back to reality some undeterminable time later. He licks at his lips. His mouth is terribly dry.

“Mom?”

The sound that trips out of his throat sounds little better than a miserable croak.

The house is dead silent.

The lights are still on.

His fingers twitch, aching from the harsh grip he’s had on the TV remote.

It’s stuck to his palm.

His thumb is still settled over the power button.

Ah.

The remote clatters against the table as he stands.

Her shoes are still missing, so she must still be-

out.

His vision fuzzes as he stares into the mid-distance.

His thoughts wander. Fleeting and brief, they bounce through a hundred thoughts without bothering to settle upon a single thing.

He stands there for a few minutes before he realizes he needs to do something with himself.

When he runs out of things to dust, tidy, and wash, he starts hanging the laundry to dry.

His thoughts are mostly empty and at relative mindless peace by the time his mom gets home.

She pauses by the door, forgetting to remove her shoes as she stares at him from across the room.

He feels frozen in place by the evidence that’s wrecked her normally cheerful expression with a red nose and puffy, bloodshot eyes.

Maybe he should have left while he had the chance.

She crosses the room in a few quick strides and throws her arms around him.

“Oh, baby,” she murmurs, though it’s terribly muffled by the way she’s shoved her face against his chest. He breathes out a long sigh and tentatively hugs her.

He’s not sure how he should feel.

Sad, probably?

Angry-- likely.

Lost … definitely.

“Katsuki, he’s-” she starts to explain, but he squeezes his arms around her sharply, cutting her words into a squeak.

“Don’t. I know.” He doesn’t know, not for certain, but he can damned well make an educated guess. “We have some leftovers still. Let’s eat those before it gets any later.”

He doesn’t think he should feel like the adult right now, but maybe of the two of them, he’s the one that’s a little more numb to accepting of the horrible fact that heroes can die.

Hero students can die.

Students can die.

He could have died.

She sniffles and nods against his chest.

She clings a little as he leads her back into the kitchen. They heat and plate up something simple, then she settles back into the couch with a wobbly exhale that sounds like she’s on the verge of tears again.

He quietly watches her until she resolutely stuffs a bite into her mouth to chew. (He hates to think how she’d react if it had been him, instead.)

Not really interested in eating right now, he sets his plate on the short table between them and opens his laptop for a fresh distraction.

He checks his email.

That seems safe enough. Probably.

He cringes at a note from one of his teachers about an assignment he’d left incomplete. The message is brief and to the point, with inference that quitting midway through some of the projects they’ve been assigned could lead to dangerous situations.

But neglecting to finish poking around for new clues on a cold case? Yeah, the criminal(s) were thought to be a serial killer, but they hadn’t been active in several years.

This incomplete assignment seems pretty small and insignificant in light of all the people that died just days prior. As much as he wants to distract himself with the interesting (and sad) details of the cold case he’d been looking into, this more immediate problem seems more deserving of his attention. Like the building he’d been standing next to which had exploded so soon after he’d fled, or the weird thing that barely missed taking off his face as he stared into an unnamed hero’s horrified eyes. And the authorities that now want to ‘talk’ to him?

His mom flicks on the television. They’re still running the segment asking for any information on the unidentified individual shown in the security camera.

His mom nearly drops her plate as she whirls to stare at him with wide eyes.

“Izuku.”

…The incomplete assignment continues to be neglected.

side note, i'm toying around with possible Izuku disguises so if you've ever cringed at Izuku wearing non-gender-conforming outfits you might want to go find something else to read because author writes whatever the hell she wants to but ily anyways

#midoriya izuku #izuku midoriya #bnha #mha #bnha fanfiction #mha fanfiction #two steps to the left au

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