#can someone teach me how to scan poetry

[cupidswurld]

roman empire is for males this . woman version of roman empires that . what about the secret, more complex third thing, huh?

[theretirementstory]

Greetings from Bar-sur-Aube where we currently have 4c and sun. Typically, I am going to be cooking soups and some apple puddings.

Can you believe that I have never noticed this house, until yesterday, a change of parking places meant I was able to admire it. Isn’t it wonderful that, after five years, this town can still surprise me.

There is a strike in France (oh yes!) not sure if it is tanker drivers but cities/towns and villages have run out of petrol and diesel.

My goodness it has been another busy week, I went to a concert in the church in a nearby village, Anie invited me and I drove her and her friend Monique. When I got there I saw Jeannette and Eric, she would have liked me to sit with them but realised I was with friends. Typical church the wooden pews were not made for large posteriors and I was glad when I could stand up! Later in the week it was a concert by the young people from the conservatoire. A little girl aged seven was very good on the piano as was an older girl. The violinists, which included some very young girls, were also very competent, not like me who never progressed due to the Elastoplast being removed from the neck of the violin, this was to teach me placing my fingers for the notes, once the gooey bit wore off I was terrible. I think the only thing I remember playing was Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star, I wasn’t much better on the piano either 😂. There. We’re clarinetists, trumpet, trombone, and flute, it was wonderful to see the enthusiasm and talent.

After the rain that fell last week, I was beginning to think that not only autumn but winter had arrived, however we have had some wonderfully sunny days even if there has been a mist every morning. I managed to get into the garden and cleared out the cherry tomato plant, tidied up the strawberries, the planter I made earlier in the year and cleared out some of the bolting lettuce and keeping my fingers crossed that the beetroot will start to grow a bit bigger.

I was invited to the home of new American friends who live in town. I took a little cream rose and a box of macaroons to have with our tea. Three hours just flew by, we talked, laughed and talked some more.

Someone, I have no idea who, called at my home one afternoon as I was dozing in the chair. They left me a book (English) so I now have something else to read.

After the closure of the cinema, I wondered if I would ever see Sara, one of the co-operatives, again. She used to take one of the French classes that Jony and I attended and she had always been very friendly to me. Well yesterday I saw her talking to Françoise (the regular cinema attendee who munched on chocolate bars) I spoke to them both then asked Sara if I could speak to her in English, apologising to Françoise for the change of language. I had expressed how sad I was at the closure and as I was preparing to leave, I hugged Sara and wished her well with whatever she did next.

The CT scan is now out of the way there is only the ECG next week and then we can see what if anything has shown up.

“The Paralegal” has missed the poetry , so here it is back by popular demand, I hope you like this:

Excerpt from “Leaves” by Elsie N Brady

“How silently they tumble down

And come to rest upon the ground

To lay a carpet, rich and rare,

Beneath the trees without a care,

Content to sleep, their work well done,

Colours gleaming in the sun.

My gorgeous grandson has started with the cold that “The Daddy” just managed to get over, “The Mummy” is starting with it too. I am not the only one with hospital appointments, my gorgeous granddaughter is going to hospital this coming Friday.

There was another market in town yesterday, by the time I got there, after lunch, there were not many stalls left. I did, however, stumble upon the stall that has sewing and knitted items. I can’t resist lavender bags so I bought some more, plus there were felt Xmas tree decorations and I purchased a couple of those too. I wandered down to the bar, met Yves on the way and we had a little chat, he was saying about the arthritis in his fingers, he always has a smile though and walks a lot to help his circulation. The bar are now offering cocktails, I asked Christophe if he had honed the moves for mixing cocktails and we had a little laugh as he showed his moves. Then it was home to cut the grass, turn the compost and then have a nice relax.

Hopefully I will be back with my knitting workshop ladies next week.

When I was in the UK I bought some small lavender bags, some I saw were £4.99 each (they were tiny), these two cost me 3€, the lady just handed me this bag, which has a fish shaped bag, (fish are the great Tunisian good luck symbol) and you must admit the other does have a little “tartan” effect so represents north of my birthplace.

Bon week-end.

[penguintransporter]

Daisies (a short “anyone you want it to be with” story) Part II

part I | masterlist

__

According to one of the many dictionaries around the world wide web, the word regret can be described as ‘a feeling of sadness about something sad or wrong, or about a mistake that one has made, and a wish that it could have been different and better’.

No human being is spared of the particular feeling of regret at some point in life, and as such, it exists to teach us new views and ways of doing things differently. After all, we, people are born to make mistakes, to repent and to carry the consequences of things we did or things we do, and in the end, we are made to learn from our experiences. 

Still, humans wouldn’t be humans if there weren’t exceptions, and he knows he is one of them.

As he sits up and reaches out for his watch that had been resting on the bedside table, he adds another thing to, what it felt like, a never-ending list of the things he is going to regret sooner or later. Like hypnotized, he finds himself staring at time as it slowly ticks away – each second feeling heavier than the one before, and it takes him a good, full minute before he blinks and looks down at her.

She has a questioning look on her face, but she doesn’t say anything as she pulls the cream-coloured sheet over her chest, which in return, exposes her smooth leg that he eagerly touched, just a handful minutes ago, but now, it makes him sick just to think about his own behaviour. He feels like an awful person for using her as a distraction; for giving in into yet another act of intimacy that meant very little once the moment of bliss and satisfaction left his body.

But, fight fire with fire, they say.

He gives her a small smile – just a lift of one of the corners of his mouth before he looks away and smoothly gets up to put his clothes back. 

Both his heart and his head were a mess. 

The mess he created with his own behaviour and poorly made decisions.

What are you doing?

He wasn’t supposed to be there, in this minimally furnished bedroom, sitting half-naked at the edge of this enormous bed.

He was supposed to be on the other side of the city, at the airport, just like everyone else who cared about her, and as he slips his t-shirt on, he cannot help but wonder if she even had the tiniest clue about why he couldn’t bring himself to be there? If she expected his absence?

A coward at his finest.

Truth to be told, and he can only be honest with himself when he thinks, he wanted to be there.

He wanted to be there to give her a hug, to wrap his arms around her and breathe in the faint traces of her perfume that seemed to be stuck in every item of clothing she owned – daisies-patterned or not. He wanted to be there for her, like he should, to whisper in her ear to take care of herself and to call him often; to visit whenever.

More than anything, he wanted to admit to her how much he cares, and even if his own idiocy caused her pain in the past, he wanted to be a selfish bastard one last time and ask for another chance for a future together. 

He wanted to tell her how much he wants her, every bit of her; how much he needs her.

How much he regrets that he let her slip away.

If only he had the guts to be there and to be honest with her for once. Maybe she would have changed her mind and stayed? Maybe she would have, just like in the movies, turned around just before boarding her flight? Maybe she would have ran into his arms and he was sure that he would have held her, never letting go.

If only.

He knows that he is being foolish.

To think that some empty words would change her mind and make her stay was the most ridiculous thing to do, because, how can he even begin to ponder that he deserves another chance? That he has any right to be selfish? 

Deep down he knows that he doesn’t, because, when she held her heart on her sleeve for him to take it, he ignored it, pushing it aside; toppling it over with force and shattering it.

Because all the others were more interesting, more exciting, more everything.

He trampled over the field of daisies, leaving a trail of broken stems behind.

How can he even think that some words would make them heal; make them flower again.

“You can stay, you know,” she speaks as she props herself on her elbow.

He shrugs a little, getting up. “I have some plans for later.”

No, he doesn’t.

She doesn’t say anything, but he knows that she’s watching him because he feels her eyes following his every move, but he finds it difficult to look back. Ashamed, disgusted and annoyed with himself – that’s how he feels because he knows how wrong it is to keep this farce of a relationship going; to keep hurting her, to use her as a distraction. Many men and women would have been more than happy to have someone as stunning as she is as their partner, and at one point in his life, he was one of them, but now, nothing about the relationship felt right.

Empty, shallow conversation that didn’t matter, curt answers, with silence filled moments, and occasional sex was all that was left out of them ever since he realised he was in love with someone else. Ever since he began to imagine some other lips kissing him, some other body in his arms, some other fingers crawling at his back; some other breaths and moans against his cheek – his relationship with the girl who watches him curiously as he dresses himself in a dimly lit room he once was familiar with, deteriorated.

Daisies.

When he finally leaves her apartment, clutching his phone in his hand, he isn’t surprised to see several missed calls and few unread text messages – all of which came from the same person – his teammate, and one of the people who tried to take off the blindfold he carried over his eyes.

As his eyes scan over the screen, each line of the text slaps him harder than the previous one.

You should have been here.

You owe her that much.

Are you really not going to show up?

And then, the last slap that knocks him out – figuratively – is the photograph.

Five people that he cared about so dearly, all huddled together as they grinned at the camera, but his eyes stay locked at one face in particular, and that’s when the regret for not being there overwhelms him even more than before.

Is this how it will end? 

Will their story end before it had the chance to begin?

Seeing their faces in that single picture; seeing her bright smile, and those eyes shadowed with sadness – he wishes that he was there as well, next to her, having his arms around his friends, pulling a face or telling a bad pun that would make them laugh before the flash goes off.

The watch on his hand ticks away slowly as he sits in his car, slamming the doors harder than he wanted to. Even if he starts to drive now, breaking every speed limit and ignoring every red light on his way, he wouldn’t be able to get there on time. 

He wouldn’t be able to get there on time to hug her, to say every word that was on his mind; to make her stay.

Like writing a poetry book, he adds another verse of regret, lined up perfectly – one after another as he backs his car onto the road, taking the opposite direction to the one that would take him to the airport.

He was late.

🌼

part III

Hope you liked the second part, there will be third part as well, if not tonight then mid-week. I had a really rough and busy patch at work last week so I wasn’t able to update. Make sure to check out my masterlist (pinned post), and to tell me what you think about this one. As before, I kinda want to tag people here because I think they are all amazing writers and mutuals.

@rosie7703, @emwritesfootball, @avenirdelight, @alexajanecollins, @afootballimagines, @footballerimaginess, @footballxwrites, @just-imagines, @donkeykai​

If I forgot someone, please message me and I will add you :)

[lazaefair]

Has anyone done the Disney Princess AU yet

Part 1 - written by me, @poemsingreenink, and @iwritesometimes

poemsingreenink: Like, if anyone has big, soft innocent eyes it's Marwan who I swear to god looks near happy tears in most intense scenes. I at one point during Aladdin in theaters thought "You know Jafar's maybe just not had a great life. He's really having a day here." BECAUSE OF HIS BIG SOFT EYES.

lazaefair: LUCA MARINELLI HIMSELF SAID IT

sarah: HOWWWWW DID HE EVEN GET CAST AS JAFAR LIKE THOSE ARE DISNEY PRINCESS EYES

lazaefair: I...I need somone to draw Joe in a Disney Princess dress

sarah: but WHICH PRINCESS i feel like belle's off the shoulder gold ballgown has promise

lazaefair: Ariel’s pink gown would really drive the point home, though Although you’re right, Belle is a literate, dreamy brunette who loves poetry, so she’s closer as an archetype

sarah: i'll be honest: i was mostly thinking of getting his shoulders nude

lazaefair: Nicky is Ariel. Big blue eyes, otherworldly, utterly uncivilized.

sarah: YES

So imagine: Prince Yusuf, who had a giant statue of himself gifted to him on his birthday, and who hates it because his best friend (and immortal general of the army) Andromache is NEVER GOING TO LET HIM LIVE IT DOWN.

Also imagine: feral merman siren Nicolò who bites off fishheads and communicates through weird clicking noises, when he’s not singing men to their deaths. He’s not one of those useless pretty koi mermaids, no. He’s a motherfucking creature of the deep. Lamp eyes that are used to distract fish prey. Claws and pale fins and an intense stare and fangs.

Now imagine: Prince Yusuf going overboard in the storm that hits his royal yacht. Struggling, swept away, half-drowned and losing hope fast when an unearthly song fills the air, low and sweet and compelling. He’s swimming towards the singing before he realizes it, delirious, until something closes around his ankle and drags him under. The thing under the water kills him quickly.

And then kills him again, when it doesn’t take. After the third killing, Nicolò’s on his way to being well and truly mystified (“Okay, don't panic. They all die eventually, maybe...maybe I’ll just need to do it again?”) and gives up after the fourth and fifth killing. He drags his (attempted) prey to a little sheltered island he knows about, kills it one last time just to make sure, and then watches, resigned, as the flesh heals up and the lungs push water out until it’s coughing its way back to undeniable life.

“You rescued me,” is the first thing Yusuf says to him. “Your song – it is the song of my heart. My soul.”

Nicolò...has no idea what to do with this, coughs awkwardly in reply, and leaves before he can think too hard about the warmth in his chest answering to the warmth in the human’s expressive, grateful eyes.

(He doesn’t tell Yusuf the truth about their bloody first meeting until years later. It’s too goddamn embarrassing, to be perfectly honest.)

Of course he comes back within a day, almost shamefully quickly. Unable to help being fascinated by this gorgeous, well-spoken, kind and generous human who cannot die. He starts bringing things to Yusuf: at first just fish, then interesting-shaped fragments of rock and coral, and then bits of treasure he’s collected over the years, just to hear what new poetic turn of phrase Yusuf will spout on the spot when he’s given something.

“...this is my family crest on this treasure chest, Nicolò. How strange.”

“It is the chest you said your great-great-grandfather lost,” Nicolò says, the words coming out dry and halting from long years of disuse. Watching Yusuf’s hands as he traces the elaborate lines engraved on the lid, now blurred with rust and coral. 

“That’s amazing. Truly. I am at a loss for words,” Yusuf says, smiling.

“No, you aren’t,” Nicolò says, and keeps watching so he can see the moment when the smile turns into a laugh.

Another day, he brings to Yusuf what Booker had told him was called a ‘dinglehopper’ and was what humans used to keep their hair in order, as they did not have the ocean to spread it out like beautiful seaweed in the waves. Yusuf takes it, mouth twitching in a way that makes Nicolò doubt the accuracy of Booker’s explanation. Yet Yusuf does not correct him, but in fact solemnly thanks him before offering the dinglehopper back and asking him to help untangle his riot of curls.

And so it goes. Days pass. Fascination becomes infatuation, turns to desire and then into love, until neither can imagine living without the other, and yet—

Eventually, Nicolò has to give Yusuf up. The prince is too noble and good to just abandon his people indefinitely. And because Nicolò loves him, he goes out and once more lures a ship in with his song, but not to dash it to pieces on jagged rocks this time. He leads them to the island. Watches from a distance as the astonished shouting begins, then back-pounding hugs and joyous celebration as Yusuf boards the ship and sails away. Watches Yusuf turn back more than once to scan the beach, clearly looking for Nicolò, but Nicolò does not follow. Instead, he watches until the ship is lost to his sight and he cannot feel the ship’s current or smell, and then he dives deep and goes to visit Merrick.

Meanwhile, Yusuf arrives back at the capital, where his other best friend, Quỳnh (immortal admiral of the navy) feels terribly guilty about the prince going overboard on his birthday. Which is why she uncharacteristically doesn’t give him shit when he comes back babbling nonsense about mermaids. Or when he spends the next few weeks moping around, writing mermaid poetry and drawing mermaid pictures.

To be fair to him, the particular mermaid he sketches over and over does look pretty striking. Otherworldly and all that. Good cheekbones. Nice pearly scales. “Fucking...giant anglerfish eyes,” Quỳnh mutters while she and Andy look over the latest pile of sketches Yusuf’s left abandoned on a library table. “Our prince has been fucking bewitched by a fucking fish.”

“Mm,” Andy agrees. 

So when Nicolò arrives at the palace one fine summer’s day – naked, his fangs smoothed away to look perfectly human, a giant emerald in one hand and a silver fork in the other – and walking, on legs, it causes a bit of an uproar.

“You still smell like the sea,” Yusuf says hoarsely into Nicolò’s neck, the two of them wrapped around each other as closely as two bodies can be.

“Oh, fuck,” Andy says, lowering her axe. Quỳnh looks more closely at the dirty naked wild man their prince is embracing as if his life depends on it. Angular face. Skin encrusted with salt. Absolutely enormous piercing blue eyes. Naked, did we mention naked.

“Oh, fuck,” Quỳnh says.

“You get them separated,” Andy says. “I’ll go...get them a bath.”

The price Nicolò paid for his new human shape:

His siren song.

His immortality.

What he gets in return:

Yusuf teaching him what a dinglehopper is actually called, and what humans actually use it for.

Yusuf teaching him how to read and write his native tongue, and a few other tongues besides.

Yusuf reading poetry to him or sketching next to him on long lazy afternoons in the gardens.

The immense pleasure of intimidating the fuck out of any remaining would-be suitors for Yusuf’s hand in marriage who are still hanging around the palace for some reason.

“I am Nicolò di Genova,” Nicolò replies to the marquis’s indignant demands – predator’s smile still frightening even without endless rows of needle-sharp teeth. “You have seven days to leave this place forever. Get your affairs in order.”

Friendship with Andy and Quỳnh.

“Holy shit. Did he just—”

“—stab the marquis with a fork, at dinner, in front of the entire court? Yep.”

“...”

“...”

“New best friend.”

“Obviously.”

Yusuf writing poetry about him and to him. Nicolò likes them all. He wouldn't know a good human poem from a bad human poem, but nothing Yusuf touches could be bad, so ergo it's good.

Sightseeing throughout the kingdom with Yusuf’s strong, gentle fingers twined around his.

Yusuf breathing blissful curses into Nicolò’s ear, exactly like he used to do on their island, as they move together on his enormous bed.

Yusuf. Yusuf. Yusuf.

(Booker is also there. He insisted on being turned human, too, and coming along to make sure Nicolò doesn’t totally fuck this up, but he’s really mainly there for the entertainment. And the booze. Andy asks him at one point about losing his immortality. He shrugs. “Look, if we die, we die,” he says, then offers Andy another pour of fine French brandy. The two of them get along famously.)

It’s all going great until one night on the beach, while they’re walking along hand-in-hand under the stars and idly discussing human and merfolk constellations. Someone approaches them, dressed splendidly and moving with arrogant grace. He is also angular, also fair-haired, also possessed of unsettling eyes. And he has Nicolò’s siren song, gently humming from the shell that adorns his neck.

“Merrick,” Nicolò hisses as Yusuf’s eyes grow glazed and blank, and he tightens his hand on Yusuf’s, afraid for the first time. “Our deal—”

“He can’t bear the idea of living forever without you, can he? And so he hasn’t proposed,” Merrick says, smiling cruelly. “You’ve missed your chance. He’s mine.” And he extends his hand out to Yusuf—

Who stirs, suddenly, and turns to Nicolò. “Limpid, or shimmering?” 

“What?”

“Shimmering,” Yusuf decides, peering into Nicolò’s eyes. “Yes. Limpid would be too pretentious, I think.”

And that’s pretty much that – we don’t actually get the plot with Merrick the Sea Witch because Yusuf only has eyes for one weird-looking white guy. Also, his one artistic failing is that he's tone deaf.

They do eventually kill Merrick because true love wins out and we are all about those happy endings, Grimm’s can suck it, etcetera, so Nicolò gets his immortality and his siren song back. He’s also back to being a merman, but Yusuf does not care. “I could paint your beautiful tail for the rest of my life, my love, and still fail to capture the luminous iridescence of you,” he murmurs, stroking said tail with tender fingers. The last person to touch Nicolò’s tail got his hand bitten off. Here and now, Nicolò runs his claws through Yusuf’s hair, clicking deep and happy in his throat.

(“This is weird, right?” Quỳnh asks from where she and Andy are busy scraping evil kraken guts off their armor, a prudent distance down the beach from the lovers. “I’m not the only one who thinks it’s weird?”

Andy says nothing, just offers Quỳnh the rest of her bottle of vodka. This is why Quỳnh loves her so.)

(The wedding is a nightmare, at least according to the palace chef charged with cooking the wedding feast. “What is this, this, abomination? What in heaven’s name have you brought into my kitchen!”

“Tubeworm,” Booker says. “Considered a fine delicacy among our people. Don’t worry about it.”)

[jenner-benjamin]

Everything that I’ve wanted to say but haven’t had the confidence to until now

‘Everything that I’ve wanted to say but haven’t had the confidence to until now’ publication.

The ethos of this module has been to discover creative ways in which I can connect with my audience. Since the cancellation of this year’s end of degree show I have been conflicted at the prospect of a digital showcase and have been researching ways in which my work can be received in the physical sense. In a world where we scroll past artwork and give thoughtless ‘likes’ and ‘thumbs ups’, I wanted the reception of my work to be more considered and thoughtful and make my audience slow down for just a moment.

For months I had thought about making a publication at the end of the year that would consolidate my third year work in the form of a newspaper. My interest in the newspaper as an object was peaked by Guy Bigland’s workshop where he explained that the newspaper was a dying medium. I think this resonated because of the research I have carried out with handwriting falling under this same seemingly antiquated umbrella. On reflection, I felt that the newspaper carried with it connotations of either formality and seriousness or gossip and celebrity culture. These associations are difficult for audiences to disassociate with, despite what the actual subject matter of the publication may be, and so I decided to rethink my ideas of how to present this collection of works. I think because this publication is taking the place of an exhibition I had ideas of it needing to be grand and formal, when in essence this would detract from what the work is actually about.

I had samples from The Newspaper Club sent to me in the post which gave further insight in to how my publication might look. One such sample was of a zine, which I began to think might be more appropriate for what it was I was trying to say. The paper quality is of the same standard as a newspaper, so the audience reception would be similar to how they might approach this traditional form of relaying information. However the size is smaller, and as a result is much more intimate. 

The works found in the publication are a personal account of the pandemic. This includes the relentless lockdowns and periods of isolation, the loneliness that ensued as a result of these, the dire predicament of working in the hospitality industry throughout the whole ordeal and my feelings towards this, and finally the rare moments of quiet in between the anxiety, and how my creative practice has been a constant crux right from the beginning of the pandemic.

I feel that experiencing this work in a tangible way is paramount to reading the emotive content it offers. Contemporary society is oversaturated with digital media across a great many platforms and I did not want my story to get lost in a split second of someone’s screen time. Social media and virtual showcases will be used to share the work but these will only communicate so far. The publication will undoubtedly exist on multiple platforms, but I would like it to predominantly be experienced in the physical. 

‘Everything that I’ve wanted to say but haven’t had the confidence to until now’ is how I described this collection of drawings, prints, poetry and performances in a presentation that I gave earlier in the year. I noted it down as I really felt that it rung true to where I currently stood, not only as an artist but within myself as well. 

‘Everything that I’ve wanted to say but haven’t had the confidence to until now’ publication front cover - monoprint on paper.

The format of the zine itself communicates various aspects of my practice. It is divided in to two sections, Side A and Side B, a reference to cassette tapes. Dividing the publication in to chapters alludes to the sense of narrative that is present in all aspects of work. Side A addresses the negative moments of the pandemic and Side B has a much lighter tone. At the beginning of each section is a playlist, a reference to the layout of my sketchbooks. At the beginning of each sketchbook I begin a playlist that is personal to that book. When I reflect on past sketchbooks I know how I was feeling and what I was thinking by looking through the playlist. Side A is comprised of songs that I listened to when I was feeling down, and Side B was during the times I felt more optimistic and motivated. I have also made a QR code for each playlist so that the reader can further interact with the zine and listen to what I was listening to when when making the works that they are flicking through. QR codes are also very topical at the moment as they have become a part of our every day life, from checking in to locations with the NHS Test and Trace app to reading and ordering from a menu at a pub or restaurant. The inclusion of the QR code adds another dimension to the publication that combines traditional ideas with contemporary purposes. 

‘Side A’ playlist - monoprint on paper.

The zine contains a narrative of asemic works that respond to the current global crisis, some of these responses address the days where I struggled within myself and became outward reflections of inner feelings, and some respond to the hierarchical dynamic that became apparent in the hospitality industry. A few of the asemic works have been paired with poems that I have written in the last year. I chose to appropriate these as monoprints, a nod to the work I made before I rejoined the course (and have continued to explore throughout),  a further reminder of how far I have come and how much work has progressed. 

Side B offers works from my performative explorations, where I began to utilise my practice to cope with and overcome my lockdown struggles. The first of which is from the ‘Exhale’ performances and the second from the ‘Letter of Resignation’ performances. I wanted to include screenshots from the videos so there was a feeling of animation and movement as the reader journeys though the pages, but did not want the appearance of these to distract from the aesthetic of the publication. Therefore I printed these on the offset lithography press. The finished prints almost look like mid-20th Century American high school year book portraits - adding to the traditional tone I was hoping to achieve. 

Screenshot from the ‘Exhale’ drawing performance - offset lithography on paper.

I understood that in order for the publication to be assessed and meet the criteria for the newly adopted blended learning approach to teaching that I would have to decide upon a method of digitising the zine somehow. I thought that scanning in each individual page or submitting it as a .pdf document would completely undermine what I was intending to achieve, and so I collaborated with filmmakers, Tom Crane and Lianna Denwood who documented the zine in their own creative voice. I gave Tom and Lianna a copy of the zine and allowed them to produce a short narrative that highlights the quiet tone of the book. They included fragments of songs from the playlists that give prominence to how the audience might engage with the QR code playlists, in effect the soundtrack is both narrational and instructional.    

I am incredibly proud of this piece of work. It is my largest edition to date, sitting at 150 copies. I intend to circulate these amongst my audience as invitations to a moment of reflection and poignant human think time, away from internet instantaneity. I am unsure as to the reception that the publication will meet, but it would be my hope there are moments in the pages that encourage the reader to consider and muse on.

[buoyantsaturn]

Bring On The Monsters (8/8)

chapter title: The Prophecy Comes True

word count: 4,520

read on ao3

The Doors of Orpheus let them out into the middle of Central Park, and from there, Will did his best to lead the di Angelos to the Empire State Building. In his defense, he’d only ever been in the city once, and Argus had driven him and the rest of camp there in a camp van. 

When they got to the door, Bianca set a hand on Will’s shoulder to stop him from walking inside. She held the Lotus card out to him.

“You should go back to camp,” Bianca said. “We don’t know how Zeus is going to react, and we don’t need him getting angry at you and your dad when he’s only mad at ours right now. Trust me, Will, it’ll be safer for you this way.” 

Will took the card, looking dejected, though he nodded in acceptance. He kept his gaze on the ground as he said, “You’ll wanna go to the 600th floor. Ask the doorman for the key. He’s gonna be a real jerk, but don’t let that stop you. And…” He lifted his eyes and met Nico’s. “Find me when you get back to camp, okay? I’ll be...in the infirmary, probably, but maybe the pavilion, depending on what time it is, and if it’s after dark then I’ll be in my cabin, but--” 

Nico jumped forward and pulled Will into a hug. “Be careful.” 

Will hugged him back. “You too.” 

Will pulled away and glanced at Bianca, holding his arms out awkwardly. She punched him in the arm. “If you manage to get yourself killed between here and camp after the week we just had, I’ll find you in the Underworld and kill you again myself.”

Will nodded. “Noted.” He pushed forward for a hug that lasted no more than a second, and then he ran toward the street to hail a cab. 

With one hand, Bianca tightly gripped the strap of her backpack, and reached down to grasp Nico’s hand in the other. “C’mon, Nico, let’s pay our uncle a visit.”

Will had been right about the doorman giving them a hard time, but after Bianca threatened him with her knife, he handed over the keys and pointed them toward the elevator. After what seemed like half an hour, the doors finally opened, not into a building, but out onto a stone path that wove between lush green hills. 

Every building on Olympus was white. White and bright with little bits of silver decorating everything that reflected the sun straight into Nico’s eyes. He wished he was back in the Underworld, and he’d barely even stepped foot in Olympus at that point. 

They followed the path to the palace, which was almost an exact replica of the one in the Underworld, only - of course - white and silver instead of black and gold. Nico hated it already. At least they had a good idea of where the throne room would be once they got inside. 

Zeus was much more unnerving than their father, having chosen to appear as a larger being while Hades had opted for a regular human height. Zeus towered over them and glared with so much force that Nico thought would kill them in an instant if he had his bolt. And Hera’s presence at his side was nowhere near as comforting as Persephone’s had been. 

“Hello, um,” Bianca started awkwardly, and then fell to her knees and bowed her head. She tugged Nico down beside her. “Uncle Zeus. We came to deliver your Master Bolt.” 

“Admitting guilt?” Zeus asked with a raised brow. 

“No, sir,” Bianca answered swiftly, and started removing her backpack. “We were set up. Ares gave us this bag during our quest, and it must have been...enchanted, somehow, so that the Bolt appeared after a certain amount of time.”

Zeus watched them for a second before replying, “Are you telling me that my own son stole my symbol of power? You do realize that it’s impossible for another god to do so.” 

“No, sir,” Bianca said again. “He was working with someone else.” 

“Who?”

Bianca hesitated, so Nico answered, “We don’t know.”

“Our dad had a guess,” Bianca told him, “but he wouldn’t tell us what it was. He said it was impossible, and that he couldn’t believe it was true.” 

“And something about things stirring,” Nico said, though he wasn’t sure why he chose to bring that up specifically. 

Something about it must have struck Zeus, though, because his eyes widened and he leaned back on his throne. He whispered something to his wife, whose expression turned to one of shock and fear, which definitely wasn’t making Nico feel any better. 

“Give me the Bolt,” Zeus said, holding out a hand. Bianca took the cylinder out of her bag and approached the throne, setting the Bolt in Zeus’s hand. “I shall let you both live, for now. Return to camp, mention nothing of this stirring to anyone.”

Was that supposed to be their dismissal? 

Bianca seemed to think so, because she returned to Nico’s side, barely stopping to grab her back with one hand and Nico’s arm with the other as she left the throne room. “Not even a thank you,” she muttered as soon as they were out of the palace. 

They marched back in the direction of the elevator, though this time Nico caught himself watching the scenery as they went. There were nymphs and minor gods wandering about, and someone that looked an awful lot like… “Will?” Nico said before tripping over his next step. 

“What?” Bianca asked. “Did you say you saw Will? He followed us up here after I told him not to?” She sounded angry, and was scanning the horizon in the same direction Nico was looking. 

The Will look-alike appeared to notice them, and said goodbye to whoever he had been talking to. He jogged toward the demigods with a sunshiney grin, and it didn’t take Nico long to realize that this definitely wasn’t Will. For one, his hair wasn’t quite as golden, and he lacked Will’s freckles. And he was a good foot and a half taller than Will. 

“Hey, di Angelos, right?” the man - probably a god, Nico’s brain supplied - greeted. “My son’s been praying non-stop for the last hour that I stop Dad from smiting you two, though I don’t know how he expected me to do that. But anyway, you made it out alive! That’s great!”

“Your...son?” Nico asked, feeling his face heating up at the attention the god was showing to him. That, and the fact that his chiton showed much more skin than it was probably supposed to. 

“Will!” he said, his face somehow lighting up even more at the name. “I’m Apollo, you know, god of the sun? And poetry, and healing, and blah blah, all that. Hey, thanks for keeping my baby safe out there on his first quest. Well, he’s not my baby, but you know what I mean. My youngest. Well, my youngest at camp. Anyway, he’s going to be really happy to see that you both made it back to camp safely. And trust me, I’m also the god of prophecy. I know.” 

“I don’t suppose you know how we’re getting back to camp,” Bianca said. “I gave Will the rest of our money, because I didn’t know for sure that we would be leaving. So now we’re sort of stuck here.” 

Apollo thought about it for a second, tapping his chin with one index finger. Then, he reached behind himself and brought out a single gold coin. “This should be enough for a cab.” 

“Cabs take mortal money,” Nico pointed out. “Not drachmas.” 

Apollo grinned. “So don’t take a mortal cab!”

Nico was not a fan of the Gray Sisters. He almost puked in the back of their cab more than once in the ten minute drive - which was supposed to be closer to an hour. Nico and Bianca stumbled over Half Blood Hill, still struggling to regain their bearings. Once he could finally see camp, Nico’s eyes started scanning for Will. 

He ran at full speed toward the infirmary. 

Nico burst through the door, his eyes wild and searching. There were blond sons of Apollo inside, all looking at him with startled expressions, but none of them were Will. Finally, Lee grinned and said, “Hey, Nico, he’s--” 

“Nico?” Will’s voice came from across the infirmary, and he practically flew out of the storage room. In a second, Nico was nearly knocked off his feet with the force of Will’s hug. “You’re okay! I was so worried, I kept praying, and you’re okay!” 

“I’m okay,” Nico said with a giddy laugh, closing his arms around Will and tucking his face into his friend’s shoulder. 

Suddenly, Will pulled back, just a few inches. “Wait, and Bianca?” 

Nico nodded. “She’s okay.” 

Will hugged him again. 

After a few moments, Lee approached them and ruffled Will’s curls. “Alright, Will, let the boy breathe.” Will released Nico reluctantly and took a step back, but he took Nico’s hand instead. Lee turned to Nico and set a hand on his shoulder. “Glad to see you again, Nico! Any injuries I should know about before we go talk to Chiron?”

Nico squeezed Will’s hand, then shook his head. 

“Alright, then let’s go get Bianca, and we’ll have Chiron call a head counselor meeting,” Lee said, then turned to Will and winked. “You’re in charge until I get back.” 

The counselor meeting was just as uncomfortable as the first, if not more. It was clear that the other counselors still weren’t very fond of the di Angelos, but they were interested to hear about the quest - especially when Nico slipped up and mentioned the stirring again. There was a short debate over who Ares might have been working with, though Chiron had seemed thoroughly uneased, and ended the meeting early, insisting that Nico and Bianca needed rest. They were shuffled into their room in the Big House and left alone.

It made Nico feel trapped. 

When they got to their room, though, Nico spotted gifts on each of their beds - wrapped, but in a way that showed exactly what was underneath. He figured it was probably difficult to wrap a sword without making it look like a sword. 

There was a note left beside the sword that Nico couldn’t decipher, so he handed it off to Bianca to read for him. 

Dear Nico,

I understand that your visit has left you unarmed, so I had your sword fished out of the Styx. The river has wiped away the curse placed upon it, and has transformed the blade from Celestial Bronze to Stygian Iron. This new blade is equally effective against monsters, though it has other properties that I would be happy to teach you of in person. The offer to visit again still stands, and I can ensure that you will receive the best training Elysium has to offer.

I hope to see you again soon.

Your Father

Bianca received a similar note, alongside a new knife and a bow. The blade of her knife, the heads of her new set of arrows, and the blade of Nico’s sword were all made from the same black material. Almost like obsidian, though it didn’t reflect light, and it was freezing cold to the touch. 

Nico couldn’t wait to try it out. 

He and Bianca had sword practice in the arena with the Hephaestus cabin about a week later. Just about everyone from cabin nine wanted to get a closer look at Nico’s sword, though he didn’t want to let anyone touch it until he learned about those other properties that Hades had mentioned. He wasn’t going to be responsible for… For sucking out somebody’s soul, or something. 

When Beckendorf asked, though, Nico found he couldn’t outright deny him. He had made the sword, after all, even if it had been changed since then. Beside, Beckendorf was actually Nico’s friend, unlike most of the Hephaestus cabin. Sure, everyone had started warming up to Nico and Bianca by then, but Beckendorf had been there from the beginning. Sort of. 

He was no Will, is what Nico was trying to say. 

So, when Beckendorf asked to try out Nico’s sword, Nico had refused. And when Beckendorf came back with, “How about later, during free time? We can go out into the woods, so no one has to know.” And Nico figured, as long as nobody could see that he was playing favorites, then it was probably okay. 

Which was how Nico found himself sneaking off with his sword just after dinner, making his way into the woods in the direction of Zeus’s fist. Beckendorf was already in the woods waiting for him, a few cans of Coke on the ground next to the rock he was sitting on. He smiled when he saw Nico. 

“Hey, man, I was starting to think you’d ditched me,” Beckendorf joked. He reached down for one of the cans. “You want a Coke?” 

“Bianca says I shouldn’t have sugar,” Nico told him. 

Beckendorf tossed him the can. “She doesn’t have to know.” He cracked open his own can, and nodded to the scabbard at Nico’s hip. “So, you gonna let me see that thing, or what?” 

Nico pulled the sword out of its sheath and stepped closer to Beckendorf to hand it over. The son of Hephaestus stood, then nodded toward the rock he’d been sitting on for Nico to use as he started to move away. 

“It’s really well-made,” Beckendorf said, testing the weight in his hand and eyeing the blade to make sure the lines were all straight.

“You made it,” Nico reminded him, and Beckendorf shot him a confused look. “It’s the same sword I left camp with. My dad, uh-- Apparently, if you dip a sword in the Styx, it comes out like...that.” 

Beckendorf took a few practice swings into open air, then came back to Nico. He handed the sword back, and reached around Nico for his own scabbard, on the ground behind the rock. “Why would he dip it in the Styx?” he asked, moving away again. “Did he say?” 

Nico hesitated. The sword had been cursed, but Nico didn’t know when that could’ve happened, since it never left his side after he left camp. Which meant it must have been cursed before he left… Surely not all curses were bad, if it had been cursed at camp. “He said it was...cursed.” 

Beckendorf nodded, like he wasn’t surprised, then gripped the hilt of his own sword. “Well, not all curses are bad, you know. I just made a new sword for myself, complete with a few curses of its own. Wanna see?” He didn’t even give Nico a chance to nod before he pulled it from the sheath. 

The sword was easily a foot longer than Nico’s, and it reflected the sun almost blindingly compared to Nico’s. The blade was split down the middle, one half Celestial Bronze, and the other half something closer to silver.

“It’s really difficult to forge these two metals together,” Beckendorf was saying. “It took quite a few curses just to keep this thing from busting apart with a single hit, but it’s definitely worth it.”

“What is it?” Nico asked.

Beckendorf grinned. “I call it Backbiter. Half Celestial Bronze, half steel.”

Nico flinched. “Steel? But we’re not supposed to--” 

“And whose rule is that?” Beckendorf cut in. “Chiron’s? Do you really think he knows what’s best for us?”

Nico ducked his head and shrugged, flicking at the pop top on the can without opening it. 

Beckendorf kneeled down in front of Nico, setting a hand on his shoulder. “Nico, the gods make all sorts of rules for us to pretend that they care, when really, they’re just trying to keep us in line. They don’t realize that, together, we’re way more powerful than them. You’re going to be the most powerful demigod in the world someday, kid, and the gods are just going to keep piling on more rules to keep you from taking them down. Why should you have to reign it in when they never do?” 

Nico frowned, and said the first words that came to mind. “My dad cares about me.” 

Beckendorf gave him a sympathetic smile. “He doesn’t.” 

“He does,” Nico shouted, shoving Beckendorf’s hand away. “He told me himself, and he wants me to come back to the Underworld!” 

“So he can trap you there,” Beckendorf said, rising to his feet to tower over the younger demigod. “He knows how powerful you could become.” He held out a hand to Nico, though his other hand tightened around the hilt of his sword. “Look, Nico. I’m leaving camp, and I want you to come with me. I can help you train. We can find every other demigod before they make it to camp, and we can build up an army against the gods.” 

“Why would I want to fight against the gods?” Nico asked, eyes flickering between Beckendorf’s face and his sword. “The gods help. It’s the monsters that we have to fight!” 

Beckendorf raised his sword to Nico’s chin. “I thought you trusted me, Nico. I came to you because I thought we were friends! Are you really going to make me kill you? What do you think will happen to Bianca? Will she join me when I tell her that your dad sent another hellhound to take you out? Or will I have to kill her, too?” 

Nico’s sword was in his hand without him realizing that he’d even picked it up. “Don’t touch my sister!” he screamed, and lunged blindly. Beckendorf parried his strike easily, and Backbiter sliced through Nico’s skin, just beneath his ribs. Beckendorf yanked the sword back, tugging Nico forward with it and knocking him off balance. Nico dropped to his knees.

“It didn’t have to come to this, Nico,” Beckendorf said as Nico clutched at the wound in his stomach. “Hopefully Bianca won’t choose to fight.” 

Then he was gone.

Nico didn’t hear him walk away (probably due to the pounding of blood in his ears) and he couldn’t see any sign of Beckendorf around him (though there were black stops in the corners of his eyes that were moving inward). The only thing that Nico found around him was his sword. With one hand still holding pressure on his stomach, Nico reached for his sword, then used it somewhat like a crutch as he pulled himself toward the nearest shadow. He would never make it back into central camp on his own two feet, and he still didn’t know how the whole teleportation thing worked, but he had to try. 

Hades had said something about shadows, so that’s where Nico went. And instead of crawling onto solid ground, he slipped through the earth, reappearing in the shadow of the Apollo cabin. 

And he passed out.

Nico’s stomach hurt. Not like he’d eaten something he shouldn’t have, but like he’d pulled a muscle. Or a lot of muscles. Or like someone else had tried to pull his muscles out of his body.

He opened his eyes. He was in the infirmary, and there was a familiar head of blond hair resting on the cot at Nico’s side. Will’s hand was gripping Nico’s hand tightly in his own, despite how heavily he was sleeping. 

“Charlie…” Nico whispered, suddenly remembering what had happened. He tugged on Will’s hand, but the other boy didn’t move. “Will-- Bianca!” 

The curtain around his bed shifted, and one of Will’s brother’s poked his head in. Michael, Nico thought after a second. He was one of the only children of Apollo that didn’t have their father’s golden hair. He didn’t smile much, either, and those two facts had always caused Nico to have a hard time believing that he and Will could be related, let alone brothers. 

Michael crossed to Nico, setting a hand on his shoulder with a stern, “Don’t move. Will put a lot of work into keeping you alive, and he won’t be happy if you mess that up.” He glanced down at his younger brother with the beginnings of a fond smile. “He healed you all by himself. And knocked himself right out.” 

“Where’s Bianca?” Nico demanded. “Beckendorf, he--”

“She’s okay,” Michael cut in. “She wouldn’t leave your side when you suddenly appeared out of nowhere, and Chiron just took her to grab some lunch. They’ll be right back.” 

“And Beckendorf?” Nico asked.

Michael frowned. “What about him? I haven’t seen him since dinner last night.” 

“He stabbed me,” Nico said, feeling his body starting to shake at the memory. “He said he was going to kill me, and that he was gonna kill Bia next. He’s-- He’s running away to build an army!” 

Michael’s eyes widened. “Woah, dude, uh. Maybe you should wait for Chiron to come back before you start talking about stuff like that.” 

“Betrayed by a friend,” Nico mumbled to himself. “The prophecy...it wasn’t over yet.” 

Nico and Bianca were kept under close surveillance for the rest of the summer, and Beckendorf never showed his face again. Nico wasn’t sure how many people had heard the truth, but it seemed like there was something of a divide at camp. There were the people who were on Nico’s side - the Apollo cabin, a bunch of Will’s friends, and a few who had befriended Bianca at some point or another - and the people who were in some way loyal to Beckendorf. Nico wondered how many of those people were going to disappear, and end up as part of Beckendorf’s “army.” 

By the end of the summer, Nico felt more welcomed at camp than he ever had before. He had friends, more than just Will, and he didn’t feel like so much of an outsider. He was happy, and he was excited to stay at camp, until one day in August when Will sat him down by the lake and announced that he was going home to Texas for the school year. 

“I’ve been at camp year-round for the last two years,” Will told him. “I miss my mama, and my grandparents. We all agreed that I would be safer here, but after going on that quest… I think I’ll be able to keep myself safe out in the real world, too.” 

Nico felt ice in the scar on his stomach. “But… Charlie.” 

Will’s expression dropped. “I know. But Nico, you have to know that I would never go with him after what he did to you.” 

“But he could hurt you.”

Will shook his head. “I won’t let him get close enough. I’m fast, I can outrun him no problem. Besides, once you figure out your teleporting thing, you can come check up on me.” Will bumped Nico with his shoulder. “I know you’ll keep me safe.” 

“I don’t...know how it works,” Nico told him.

“You’ll figure it out! While I’m with my mama, you can go visit your dad, and he can teach you all sorts of stuff,” Will said. “And when you come back to camp, you can sneak onto the computer in the Big House and email me about all the cool stuff you’ve done!” 

Nico pouted down at the grass. “I don’t know what that means.” 

“I’ll show you,” Will promised.

“And…” Nico hesitated. “Beckendorf, he said… He said that my dad doesn’t really want me to visit. He said that Hades is just going to lock me up so I can never get powerful enough to fight back against him.” 

Will’s expression darkened at the mention of Beckendorf, and he sighed in frustration. “Well, he wasn’t there, and I was. I saw how much your dad wants you to visit him, and how much he wanted to help you learn stuff. I wish my dad would tell me stuff like that, but I’ve never even met him.” 

“I have,” Nico said.

“What?” Will asked. “When?” 

“On Olympus. He said you were praying that Zeus wouldn’t kill us,” Nico told him. “He thanked us for keeping you safe on the quest, and he gave us money to get back to camp. He… You look a lot like him. He called you his baby.” 

Will’s nose scrunched up. “That’s...embarrassing. He really said that?”

Nico nodded. “You know, if you go away for school, then you might not be the youngest when you come back.” 

Will’s eyes widened. “What? Did he tell you that? Do I have more siblings?” 

“He said you were his youngest at camp,” Nico replied. “He… He didn’t say anything, but he implied it.” 

“Woah,” Will said, glancing out toward the lake. Then, he shoved at Nico’s arm. “You’re just saying that because you don’t want me to leave! You think I’ll stick around just for the chance that I get a new sibling.”

“Well...won’t you?” 

Will laughed. “And then what am I supposed to do all winter when you’re in the Underworld with your dad?”

“Who says I’m gonna do that?” 

“You’d be stupid not to.” 

Nico shoved him. “Maybe you’re stupid for going to school.” 

“I’m definitely gonna be if I don’t.” He grinned at Nico, poking him in the stomach near the place where he’d been stabbed. “Now that I know I’m such an awesome healer, I’ve decided that I’m gonna be a doctor someday, so I have to go to school.”

Nico grabbed Will’s hand to stop the poking. “Promise me you’ll be careful? And Iris Message me if Beckendorf shows up. I don’t care if I don’t know how the shadow travel stuff works yet. I’ll figure it out, and I’ll come get you.” 

Will squeezed his hand. “Maybe you can come visit for Christmas. Don’t let me leave camp without giving you my email address, okay? And my home address. And my mama’s phone number!” 

The end of summer came a week later. Some of the campers wouldn’t be leaving for a few more days, but Will was set to leave right after breakfast. He’d given Nico about six different ways to contact him during the school year, and he’d sneaked Nico into the Apollo cabin to help him pack the day before. 

At breakfast, Chiron enlisted the dryads to hand out clay beads to every one of the campers. The beads were small, but Nico could make out the design of a white angel on the black surface. The di Angelos, Chiron had announced, the angels. 

Nico and Bianca helped each other with their necklaces, and after breakfast, Nico gave Will one last hug before he was shuffled off toward the van that would take him and a few other campers to the airport. 

Nico sat on the top of Half Blood Hill in the shade of Percy’s willow tree and watched the van drive away. Then he stayed a little while longer, until finally pulling himself to his feet and heading back to the Big House to pack a bag. 

He was going to see his dad.

thanks for reading!!

buy me a coffee | send me other canon scenes to rewrite

[meichenxi]

For the ask game! 9, 12, and 22?

Yay more askies :D this is going to be likewise long! 

9) What does a week in your language learning routine look like?

- I’m not particularly disciplined in the way that I study, though I do tend to study most days. I’m very good at making plans but less at following them consistently, so this is a more realistic depiction of what I do! 

- Because I’m currently studying with HSK Online and they have two classes a week which cover about 3 chapters, I have a lot of vocabulary and grammar that I need to cover in the app before attending those classes, so most of my studies at the moment are focused on getting that done. So: 

Vocabulary and grammar:

(I do this all most days, depending on what exactly I need to do for the next lesson, but I try to do Quizlet every day)

1) I go through the vocabulary and grammar lessons, and write down the vocab and any example sentences.

2) When I input this into Quizlet, I use Baidu Translate to look at example sentences to get a better feel for how the word is used. I also write a couple of sentences / say a couple of sentences with each word. Baidu Translate is a fantastic tool, much better for Chinese than Google Translate, and it has an example sentences section where you can get the pinyin if you hover over the characters. 

3) After I feel I vaguely know the words for that day, I will go back and actively study them on Quizlet. For any words I forget I’ll write more sentences, or look at more examples. If there are any grammar points, I look them up on Chinese grammar wiki. 

Input and reading

(I don’t do these at any specific time, but luckily I quite enjoy this section so am very happy to Consume Media)

1) Try to read something every day. It doesn’t matter exactly what this is - often it’s Bilibili comments! I also like to skim through my graded reader and try to practice scan-reading.

2) I do dedicated HSK-style reading practice a few times a week as well. Again, I use the HSK Online app for this. It’s terrifying but necessary. This one I do have to motivate myself to do. 

3) I watch a lot of Chinese shows. Some with English subs, some with Chinese subs. My favourites include The Untamed (obviously), Nirvana in Fire (will always need the subs for this rip), Tian Guan Ci Fu (a donghua on Bilibili) and Street Dance of China. I probably watch a good 5-10 hours of TV a week. 

4) I learn other things through Chinese. So I watch lectures or courses on Bilibili or do workout videos. I especially like watching videos teaching beginners Cantonese and Japanese, two languages I am interested in learning, as well as Literary Chinese.

5) I listen to podcasts in Chinese when I’m walking around. My favourites include 聊聊东西, 听故事学中文 and 面包吐司. They are all in Chinese, but all specifically designed for foreigners, though the first and last are not learning podcasts, just podcasts of fairly accessible content where people chat about things like smoking, health, dating and so on. The second one is a podcast where stories are read in Chinese, and then explained sentence-by-sentence in Chinese, so it’s more ‘learning’. 

12 - What tips would you give to people that want to study the language/s you’re studying?

1) It’s an uphill slog, but you’re at the hardest place right now. So if you feel discouraged, if you feel overwhelmed, nobody else got it after one month either! It will take time, but is there anything worthwhile that doesn’t?  

2) Invest in good pronunciation training right from the beginning. If you can’t take classes, watch videos (YoYo Chinese, Outlier Chinese, Mandarin Blueprint etc have good tone series). Practice tone pairs. Tone pairs are your saviours. Practice repeating what the speaker actually says, not what you think they say. Learn a little bit about phonetics. 

3) Listen to Chinese right from the get go, as much as you can. Listening is many people’s weakest area, especially if they are learning it in a non-Chinese speaking environment. Play podcasts all the time. Differentiate between ‘learning’ podcasts (which will mostly be in English at the beginning), and podcasts that just train your ear to the sounds of Chinese. Have Chinese podcasts on all the time, regardless of whether you understand them or not. 

4) Invest in a structured course. I don’t necessarily mean classes with a teacher, though if you can I would recommend italki (feel free to contact me to see which teachers I’d recommend). But consider something like Chinese Zero to Hero, where they have videos explaining HSK1 through to HSK6. It’s about 100 dollars, but even if you have to save up for a few months to get that, I’d recommend it. Why? Because Chinese is overwhelming and there’s so much to learn. Having someone to tell you what you need to learn next is an absolute god-send. Plus, they know more than you what beginners need to tackle. They also have beginner-appropriate audio, which is absolutely crucial to learning to speak. I really would recommend this course. 

5) Learn properly about how characters work from the get go. Learn about phonetic and semantic components. Learn what types of characters there are, learn the most common components, and learn to hand-write them too. 

6) Record yourself speaking as much as you can. Play it back. How does it sound? Record it again. 

7) Practice reading from the moment you have around 150 characters. There are excellent physical graded readers as well as apps like The Chairman’s Bao and Du Chinese. THIS IS SO IMPORTANT, PLEASE DON’T LEAVE IT OUT. It takes time for you to get used to reading in a second language, especially one with unfamiliar characters. 

8) Decide whether you’re going for traditional or simplified, and stick with it. Do not learn both unless you have a very good reason. If you think you might go to Hong Kong or Taiwan, have family there, want to read literary Chinese, or even understand ‘deeper’ how certain characters have developed, you can learn traditional, but if you’re less than 100% sure, go with simplified. It’s easier for beginners, and if you have a good level of simplified Chinese, traditional isn’t that hard to pick up later down the line - some common characters are completely different, but many are different in very predictable ways. If you are not absolutely sure you are going to need traditional, I’d recommend simplified. 

9) Really, really consider your motivation. Why are you learning? Do you just think it would be cool? It is cool, but that’s not enough of a reason to embark on any language, much less one with extra difficulties like Chinese. In an ideal situation, you’d be intrinsically motivated all the time: but that’s not always going to happen. Do you have Chinese family you’d like to communicate with better? Do you want to travel to a Chinese speaking country? Do you want to read Chinese poetry? Do you just really love Xiao Zhan?? If you’re doing it ‘for your career’, please bear in mind that you won’t get any points for learning half a language. If you’re not willing to engage with the culture and the people, you’re just not going to be successful long term. 

10) Find things you like watching / listening to / reading in Chinese as soon as you can. Bored? Unmotivated? Stick a favourite episode of your favourite drama on. It still technically counts as immersion, and when your language skills are better, you’ll be able to use that as your textbook!! Try and find something that will make you want to read or listen in Chinese, and then it won’t feel like a chore. It’ll also become a motivation, because inevitably the more you explore the Chinese language internet, the more you’ll find things you can’t interact with in translation and need your language skills for. 

22 - How has learning about the culture of the country impacted your language learning?

Hmm, this is a really interesting question!! I'll have to answer in a few ways.

1) I'm interested in a lot of things about Chinese culture, which fuelled my interest for learning Chinese, and also let me learn in a more fun way. I’m a huge tea nerd, I enjoy listening to Chinese traditional music though I know very little about it, and I enjoy calligraphy. I think that some hanfu is just objectively the most gorgeous clothing on the planet and I enjoy Chinese water-and-mountain style landscape art. I also love the karst landscapes of some parts of southern China (OH MY GOD LIMESTONE MY FAVOURITE ROCK) and I’ve had a faded picture of Zhangjiajie on my wall since I was about nine. This is very different from my experience with German: I love the German language, and I have a lot of great friends from German-speaking countries, but I’m not intrinsically interested in the culture the same way I am Chinese-speaking countries. Because there’s so much I want to learn, it gives me a) huge motivation for continuing studying, b) makes it a more holistic, rounded experience, and c) provides me with wonderful study materials. At the intermediate level, I can avoid textbooks if I really want to and just learn about tea. Isn't that just the dream. Also, realistically, if I want to be able to read poetry in literary Chinese, my modern Chinese has to be a lot better. So I’m very motivated because of this. 

2) My interest in martial arts! I originally started learning Chinese because I had gotten interested in Chinese culture via wuxia and martial arts. My dad is a huge martial arts nerd. By that I don’t mean someone who sits on his sofa all day with a nunchuck collection and Bruce Lee pictures, I mean he gets up at 6 every day and trains for about 2-3 hours. He can run a 5:30 minute mile aged 56. I have so much respect for this man, seriously. He used to practice karate, taekwondo and Muay Thai, but after he got sick he started with taiji. He’s practiced taiji and qigong now every day for about twenty years. So I was brought up on a diet of Hong Kong and mainland Chinese martial arts cinema - my dad would regularly show me clips of films because I couldn’t watch the whole ones until I was older, and get into trouble when my mum came back! We spent hours learning forms together and doing push-hands in the kitchen. Even now when we go home our form of affection is trying to kick each other without being kicked back lmao. I discovered the Jin Yong books in English about 15 and was just entranced by the names of the movements, by the action, the galloping across the plains, the sweeping scenery. I have inherited this interest, and am also a huge martial arts nerd and so a large motivation for me learning Chinese is that a) I love the genre of wuxia and want to know more about it, and b) I’d like to spend a few years training at an academy in Wudang and want to be able to understand as much as possible and for that, I obviously need the language to a high level!!! I started jiu jitsu when I was 8, started a southern style of Kung Fu when I was fifteen, studied for a few months in China in an academy, and it’s been my dream to go back since.

3) Different cultural attitudes, the outside park culture, and how people talk to each other. I’m from the UK, alright - we don’t do things in public and we certainly don’t approach strangers!! So when I was in China this was one of the weirdest things to get used to, next to just the sheer amount of people (I grew up in a village of 2000). But though it was tiring at times, I liked it so much. It was so refreshing to have people ask me questions because they were curious, and start talking to me. One of the reasons that I think my accidental immersion-only approach to learning Chinese the first time I was in China worked was because I just couldn’t stay away from the parks. People practicing taiji, playing badminton, chilling with kids, doing calisthenics: isn’t that just so so cool??? And naturally if I was in the parks, people would chat to me. This patience and friendliness (because my Chinese truly was awful) combined with many people’s lack of ability / confidence in English meant that I was able to improve in a way which would have been impossible in, say, Germany or Finland. Can you imagine?? Once an old guy came up to me, peered over my shoulder at my (English) book, then announced loudly, ‘I can’t read it.’ I was like - can you read English?? He shook his head, and then pointed to a small boy: ‘This is my grandson. He’s learning English.’ That kind of interaction repeated daily, as well as being in a second-tier city where I had to speak Chinese, did so much for my language skills. It also made me very motivated to improve. Also, training and exercise is just a great way to meet people: no matter your language skills, if you are dedicated people are going to respect that, and if you’re both there every day, you’re going to get chatting eventually. 

Phew, that got long again (what a surprise). But thank you very much for your questions!! :D 

[rokutouxei]

the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart

ikemen vampire: temptation through the dark theo van gogh / mc | T | [ ao3 link in bio ]

The challenge seemed pretty simple: to try to befriend the university bookshop’s most sour employee, Theo van Gogh. As a literature major with a boatload of book recommendations on her back, it ought to be a simple task indeed. But as she uncovers what lies between Theo’s pages, the more she finds it harder to become closer to him without having to put the feeling directly into words. What can she learn from Theo about what it means to stay—and how can she teach Theo about what it means to let go? | written for ikevamp big bang 2020!

[ masterpost for all chapters ]

CHAPTER 10 OF 22

There are so many roots to the tree of anger that sometimes the branches shatter before they bear. - "Who Said it was Simple", Audre Lorde

--

Theo has never been to the physics building.

He’s been around the vicinities of the College of Science complex in the past, to endorse his organizations’ events or taking one of the basic science classes required to all the students in the university (he took chemistry), but aside from that, he hasn’t had much reason to be here in the past.

Until today.

He’s just gotten out of his class when he receives her message.

[ 2:20 | lit girl ] can we meet outside the physics bldg quad instead?

[ 2:22 ] sure

Theo had found a kind of rhythm with their little book exchange. It would take a lot of pressing and insisting to get him to admit to it, but in reality, Theo’s long gotten used to and even enjoys their little exchange of books and small discussions about it. Arthur had argued much earlier on that if Theo didn’t enjoy it he would insist to do it online, in a boring forum format with word count limits and sent through email, and that it is only because he enjoys her company so much that he is fine with it.

“Why here?” is the first thing he asks when he arrives and she is there waiting, but with a finger to her lips and a conspiratorial grin, she ushers him into the building, headed toward the elevator.

As she scans her ID through the gates, she says, “I have a thing to show you.”

When she clicks on the “rooftop” button, he’s surprised but doesn’t make a fuss.

If they get caught, at least they’ll both get caught.

Man, what kind of bad influence is this girl in his life?

The moment she unlocks the rooftop door with her keys and the sight below rolls into view, Theo understands why exactly she wanted to be up here.

They’re drawn, instantly, toward the edge, taking in the view over the barrier to see the town below. She had been babbling about a “new view” and “getting permission” when she visited last time at the bookshop, and it truly delivered. Seeing the lines of houses as little dots of light—Theo can understand why she’s so drawn to this place. It’s just right for someone who is always craving to go away: to see the place you come from seem so small, for the world to seem so big.

Theo leans against the concrete fence, wind tousling his hair. “Why do you have keys to the roof?”

“Astro club privileges,” she answers, twirling the keychain on a finger. “…Well, more like friendship privileges, really.”

“It’s beautiful,” Theo offers.

“I go up here often,” she admits, leaning her elbows over the concrete and resting her chin over her palms. She seems jittery, like her hands can’t sit still. She chews her lower lip in between each word. “This place is great for being alone.”

Theo crosses his arms over his chest. “Then why did you bring me here?”

“I…” a short breath, like weighing something, “I don’t mind being alone with you.”

She looks back at him with an expression he would describe as “hopeful”; he nods and closes his eyes for a moment, catches the barest upturn of a smile on her lips before he surrenders his eyes to the darkness.

“I don’t mind being alone with you either,” Theo says with his eyes closed, as if it would make it easier to say.

She chuckles. “That’s great to hear.”

For a few moments, the two of them rest in each other’s silences. It’s one of the few things they’ve learned to do with each other since starting the book club; to understand that not all things have to be said, to be comfortable in each other’s presence despite wordlessness. It feels like the breath between a book’s one chapter to the next. Like getting ready for what’s about to be said next.

“The Mary Oliver poetry book you lent me had parts highlighted,” Theo says after a tranquil moment. “It was interesting to find out what cheesy lines resonated with you,” he says, teasing in his tone.

She snorts, a little dishonest sound, looking down at the town below. “Really now? What did you find?”

Theo could pull out her book, could open it to the familiar marker flag he puts to mark the places he would like to talk about during the discussions, and read out the lines. But instead, he turns his head up to the autumn night sky, opening his eyes to look at the stars, and recites—

“I wanted / the past to go away, I wanted / to leave it, like another country; … I wanted to know, / whoever I was, I was / alive / for a little while.”

She turns to him with surprise in her eyes, and he turns to her carefully.

“Dogfish,” she says, recognizing the poem. It takes her everything to react with that at all.

They look at each other for a full, quiet moment, trying to look for answers in each other’s gaze, attempting to tear out the things that are hiding. Theo knows that she isn’t as good at him at hiding things she doesn’t want to be seen. She turns away before he can truly slice her open and look at the filleted halves of her heart.

Theo feels a pang at being spurned.

“It’s a good part, isn’t it?”

He is quiet for a moment. There are so many things he can ask at this point, but none of them feel real enough to be grasped, all heavy in his mind with the itch of curiosity. He doesn’t need to know if she doesn’t want to share, and he knows she would if it was so easy to do.

If she wanted him to know, too.

Instead, she buys time for just a little while. Turns to go to a nearby bench and table, bypassing the seat for the tabletop. Theo follows her, but does not come too close. Instead, he watches, as she folds her knees up and winds her arms around them, looking at the flicker of their small university town below.

Finally, she says: “Would you even care if I told you?”

“Of course,” jumps out of Theo’s mouth in a heartbeat.

She takes a moment as if to compose her thoughts before she begins to speak. “Remember when you asked me about why I was so eager to go away?” When he nods, she continues. “I just, I’ve always wanted to go someplace else,” she says. “I know you moved in here, but I... I grew up in this place. Not exactly in this city, no, but the one right over, and it's all I've known. Much of my memories of it are so foggy and blurred because it’s all mixed up. I've never been out there. And somehow I worry that I'll just... end up dying here, too. I don't want to die out here.”

"You're not going to die any time soon."

"Then why does it feel like it?" she snipes back, then sighs. "I'm sorry. That wasn't..."

Theo shakes his head. "It's okay."

"It's not. I just... I get too invested when it comes to opportunities to go away because I keep thinking it would allow me to, you know.” She makes a vague hand gesture that doesn’t make much sense and sighs, again. “I’ve looked forward to entering this university for the longest time because I thought it would be enough a going-away to… satisfy whatever this is inside of me itching to come out.”

He closes his eyes once more, tilting his head up to the autumn sky. Opens them to watch his breath turn into small wisps of cold fog.

“I thought being away from my family… away from who I was, who they thought I was… I thought that would be enough. But it hasn’t been. I’m here, and… I don’t want it anymore. And I know three years—three years isn’t much to want to leave this place, but I’m done.”

Why? The question hangs in the air. Theo doesn’t give it a voice.

She groans, the defeated sound of it making Theo turn his gaze back to her. “I want to be someone else, and I don’t think I can become that someone while I’m still here. In the only place I’ve ever known.” She wrings her hand together and gets up on her feet, jumping off the table to lean on the concrete barrier, hand curling around it like it was the only thing keeping her together. “I feel like I’ll never… find a place that’ll keep me settled. How much farther do I have to go before it feels like home? Like safety? Is it out there, or is something wrong with me? I want to want to live a life that I’ll be proud of but I don’t know how to get there. All I have are anchors tying me down.”

Theo doesn’t know what to answer.

He wants to say I’m plenty proud of you already but it doesn’t feel like the right thing to say.

“I don’t want to be tied down. I don’t want—a boyfriend, nostalgia, a reason to say—I want to go, but at the same time—” She looks out at the town below and sighs. “I don’t know where I’m going. I know I love what I do, and I know I enjoy what I’m studying, but—this place is just making me claustrophobic now. I want to see what’s out there, and I feel like it’s the only thing that’ll allow me to enjoy the company of home,” she explains, and turning to him, she asks, “do you know how that feels, Theo?”

And the first instinct is to lie to give her the answer she wants to hear, but then the truth jumps out of him anyway.

And truth be told, he does not, but his heart aches in a way he doesn’t understand and he can only imagine what it is like to be in her shoes. He shrugs, and she laughs.

Her voice is softer now. “Is it silly? I’m sorry.”

“It’s not silly,” he says. “I was just thinking about how similar you were to Vincent.”

Fully aware of his little obsession with his older brother, she scrunches her nose in disapproval. “To Vincent?”

Refusing to meet her gaze, Theo looks down at the town below as well. “Broer is really talented. You know this. The College of Arts knows this. That’s why no matter how long he takes to finish his thesis, they won’t let him go. Because they know what he’s capable of—if he gets his mind into it.”

“Okay…?”

“You’re the same.”

“Pffffft,” she snorts, shaking her head. “No way, what? He’s a legend. I’m just a stuck-up Junior trying to get delayed by going on an exchange program.”

“…who is also working her ass off with extra credit and other requirements because you want to prove you’re better than what this place has made you to be, aren’t you?” Theo asks. For once, she is silent. She goes quiet when she knows she has lost the banter. “You want to leave and be something else but the being scares you, so you focus on the leaving. Broer is the same. The being scares him. So he focuses on the making, not knowing that everything he makes builds him as well.” Theo closes his eyes. “The leaving makes you.”

She narrows her eyes and sighs. “I—I don’t know where this is going, Theo.”

“What I’m saying is maybe—maybe,” Theo says, “Maybe you don’t really need to go away, just convince yourself that it’s not better out there, after all.”

Something… shatters.

She looks at him with such an offended expression on her face, he would have said sorry if his throat wasn’t already in knots. It wasn’t what he’d intended to do. He hadn’t meant to reverse what she believed in. He hadn’t meant to deny her his faith.

Just wanted to show her what it looked like from the other side, with his feet planted to the ground.

He isn’t forcing her to say.

He isn’t.

But it feels like it.

And for a moment he thinks she would get mad, shout back her most sarcastic maybe you’re right or the most disbelieving that makes sense, tucking away all the honesty her heart can provide, but instead she brandishes her words like a knife and says:

“You don’t know me that way, Theo. You don’t get to say that.”

And Theo doesn’t know if it’s a lie or the full truth.

She gets up on her feet and dusts off her pants. She’s about to head towards the door when she turns back to him, eyes already glassy.

“You know why I brought you up here?” she says, each syllable a sharp corner. “I wanted to tell you first that I got in. First round for the scholarship.”

“Why would you tell me first?”

“I don’t know!” she admits, frustration leaking in her voice. “I felt like I could tell you. No—I wanted to tell you. I felt like you’d get it. That I could trust you with this but apparently I can’t!” She picks up her bag, and without even turning to face Theo one more time marches away from him.

Theo calls out to her, half-hearted words about book exchange, staying out until the sun goes down, but it gets lost in the wind.

She brings him here to this one place she likes to be alone and then he does that to her.

But he can’t reach out when he’s pushing her away, and “I’ll see you soon, Theo,” is all she says as she makes her way to the door, and out of the rooftop.

Away from him.

[cynicalrainbows]

Poetry & Prose

In which Cathy suffers with Guilt and Jane discovers poetry.

The poems mentioned in this fic are (in order of mention Her Kind by Anne Sexton, an extract from Milk and Honey by Rupi Kaur, On A Train by Wendy Cope, The Dormouse and The Doctor by A A Milne and The Past by Ella Wheeler Wilcox.) Wendy Cope is absolutely recommended if you’re not a fan of poetry in general- her poems are very simple, and all the more effective for that simplicity. The dormouse poem I recommend if you wish to have your heart torn into shreds- yes, it’s technically a children’s poem but even thinking about the absolutely tragic plight of the sad dormouse still makes me tear up to this day. Literally no other piece of poetry has ever affected me so deeply so I’ve just projected that onto Cathy.

In regards to the brief mention of Thomas and Elizabeth….I do sometimes think the case gets examined in a slightly….I don’t want to say unfair way but a way that applies modern understandings of things and modern expectations to a time that was wildly different. Specifically, during a time when it was entirely legal to beat your wife and divorce for women was not an option, what else would you do in a similar situation, other than sending the victim away?

Anyhow, I hope you all enjoy this fic!

*

‘I have gone out, a poss- poss-’

‘Possessed.’

‘Possessed witch, h- haunting the black air, braver at night, dreaming evil, I have done my hitch-’

She pauses.

‘What does it mean?’

‘Hm?

‘What does done my hitch mean?’

She thinks of horses- All hitched up; I’ll just hitch up the cart, words she’d only overheard in her first life since the tending of horses with none of her concern back then, and words she’d heard not at all in her second, since no one seemed to ride much nowadays. And getting hitched, hitched up- Anne had told her that it meant ‘marriage’ nowadays. 

Neither meaning seems to fit here though.

Cathy takes the book and scans the line herself, her brow creasing, which makes her feel vindicated. Cathy is never, ever patronising on purpose, and she can tell that she takes especial care never to reply to a question as if the answer is obvious (even when it is) but even so, it pleases her when Cathy has to actually consider her answer before she gives it.

‘Mmmm… A spell, I think. Or a period of time.’

She sounds disinterested, lacklustre, even though this is usually the sort of question Cathy enjoys: usually, they’d debate it back and forth until they’d come up with an answer between them.

Now though, Cathy answers like she just wants to get on.

‘I have done my hitch over the plain houses, light by light-’

She’s reading slowly to make sure she doesn’t stumble but it’s alright- it’s one of the reasons that she enjoys reading poetry, because it’s one of the rare, precious times when reading quickly doesn’t matter. In fact speed (as Cathy has told her over and over) is actually a bad thing, especially if you’re reading a poem that’s unfamiliar.

‘It just means that you have to read it again because you’ve missed the meaning. Much better to read slowly so you can absorb it.’

And they do absorb it- it’s become their thing. Cathy’s the only queen with an unending appetite for poetry; she’s the only queen who reads slowly as a matter of course (she likes to focus on that rather than on the fact that she’s the only queen who needs to practise reading aloud) and so in this, they’re well matched.

Reading the poetry slowly doesn’t make her feel humiliated in the way that reading prose slowly does, and being able to argue over the meaning of whatever they’re reading- over the word choice and the subject and the feel of it- after she’s finished is her reward. It stops her feeling like a child because although Cathy is undoubtedly the better reader, they’re equals when it comes to interpretation, and that’s another reason she enjoys it.

Not that she’d taken Cathy seriously when she’d first suggested it.

(‘Practise makes all the difference, you know.’

She was sitting in the windowseat of the bedroom she shared with Catalina, back in the first house, hot-eyed and burning with embarrassment and steadfastly trying to ignore Cathy’s presence next to her.

‘It needn’t even be for long.’

She’d had to fight to keep her voice even.

‘There’s no point. I’m no good at it, I’m no good at any of it.’

‘True.’ Cathy’s bluntness sometimes makes her laugh- then it had made her want to cry. ‘But you don’t have to be. You can get better at it, but only if you actually work at it.’

‘I am working at it.’

‘I know- and it’s good you’re going to classes, I’m glad Anna suggested them but….you need to practise at home too.’

‘I do.’

‘With someone else it’ll be more effective. I can help with the hard bits.’

‘Cathy. I know you mean well. But I don’t want you to feel like you need to- to teach me like I’m a child.’

Cathy had shrugged. ‘That’s ok, I understand. Would it help if we didn’t think of it as teaching though? Because honestly I don’t want to think of it as teaching either. Too much pressure and I’d worry I wasn’t doing it right and-’

‘What would you call it then?’

‘How about….two friends who just happen to get together sometimes to read together?’

Jane had shaken her head. ‘You wouldn’t enjoy the sort of books I’m reading.’

‘I wasn’t thinking of books.’ Cathy held up the slim volume in her hand. ‘I was thinking of this. Poetry is MEANT to be read aloud but it’s too weird just doing it on my own.’

‘I’m not really into poetry.’

‘Why not?’

The idea had stumped her a bit, she’d never had to defend herself like this before. ‘I’m just not. I can’t understand it.’

‘No one’s meant to understand it, not the first time anyway. That’s part of the fun of it.’

‘And I read too slowly anyway, you’d be just as bored.’

‘Poetry is meant to be read slowly.’

‘Mmm. Yes. Sure.’

‘No, really! Listen-’

Cathy flipped the book open. ‘I’m looking for something short….ok, this’ll do-’ She’d sat up a little straighter and began to read quickly, flatly, as if she was reading from the newspaper, an account of something: ‘You tell me to lie down, cause my opinions make me less beautiful-’

The first line interested her but she had been distracted too because even she could tell that there’s something wrong about how Cathy was doing it- she’d felt rushed.

‘Do it again.’

‘Why?’

‘You were too quick-’

‘No.’

‘Oh.’ She’d felt deflated- had Cathy just been trying to prove her point because now she’d felt tricked and cheated- but then Cathy had put the book into her own hands, open on the page.

‘You read it.’

She’d tried to push it away.

‘I don’t want to.’

‘Don’t you want to hear it again?’

‘Yes-’ And she did. Something about it had struck her in a deep inside place: My opinions make me less beautiful. A memory teased her until she grabbed at it: Henry’s cold, closed up face when she’d screwed up her courage and begged for mercy for Robert Aske and the Pilgrimage of Grace. She’d been less beautiful to him that day, she was sure.

‘So read it. I’ll help if you get stuck on a word. And there’s only us here, no one else is listening.’

Still, she hesitated.

‘It’ll sound better when you read it, I promise you. Just give it a try. Please.���

It’s the please that did it, because she’s never able to say no to people when they use it. Even when she should. (Henry had said please when he’d asked for her hand- the first and last time he’d ever used it with her. She should have said no.)

‘Ok.’

‘You tell me to quiet down-’

It turned out actually to not be too hard to read, she’d only hesitated briefly over ‘tongue’. And oddly enough, she’d found that Cathy was right. It did sound better, somehow- perhaps because she was reading so slowly that she had time to take in each word, like bricks being added to a wall, one by one, each making the whole a little more complete.

‘-difficult to forget but not easy for the mind to follow.’

She’d closed the book on the last word and seen Cathy beaming at her. ‘You see? You see?’

Reluctantly, she’d nodded- but she hadn’t been able help a smile twitching the corners of her own lips too. ‘I see.’)

She hadn’t taken Cathy seriously when Cathy had told her that maybe she could like poetry, because she’d believed she couldn’t- she associated with confusion, with trouble. (They had said that Anne had had poems dedicated to her at Court, so many that it had caused a stir and then more than a stir. She hadn’t been able to trust poetry after she’d heard that.)

The poems Cathy has her read aren’t like that though- they have easy, simple words and some of them aren’t about anything much but they manage to make her feel things in a way that she’d never imagined printed words would be able to do.

There’s one that Cathy shows her, about riding in a train, that makes her want to cry for the soft simplicity of it, of  how it reminds her of the peaceful feeling of watching the scenery as Kitty sleeping against her shoulder when they have to travel for an interview. It surprises her- she didn’t think that poetry could be that easy.

But now Cathy doesn’t look as if she finds it easy. She just looks tired.

‘-my ribs crack where your wheels wind-’ She reads on. It occurs to her that on a normal day, she’d be more focused on the words, about how they remind her of how she’d writhed and strained so hard giving birth that it had felt as if her own ribs were splintering in her chest- but now she’s more preoccupied with Cathy’s wan, drawn face.

‘A woman like that is not ashamed to die. I have been her kind.’

It’s only as she finishes that she realises Cathy’s eyes are glistening with tears- and although it’s not as if she’s never seen Cathy cry over a poem before, this doesn’t feel like last time.

(She’d thought Cathy had been joking.

‘How can this be the saddest poem in the world?’

Cathy had blinked at her, brushing at her eyes. ‘Because it IS. Doesn’t it make YOU feeling like crying?’

‘Not...really.’ She had wondered if there was some hidden meaning to it that had affected Cathy so, but she wasn’t sure how there COULD be. ‘It’s a children’s poem.’

‘That doesn’t mean it isn’t TRAGIC!’ Cathy looked genuinely sad. ‘Jane, the dormouse has to live FOREVER in the wrong sort of flowerbed, just because the doctor wouldn’t listen to what he actually wanted!’

Jane had shrugged. ‘Yes but- Cathy, love, it’s a children’s poem. It’s not meant to make you get this upset.’

‘Ugh, you sound just like Catalina.’ Cathy had picked up her copy of When We Were Very Young and left the room in a huff.)

This isn’t the same though- because rather than trying to explain herself, Cathy just looks wearily resigned.

‘Are you alright love?’

‘Fine.’ Cathy blinks a couple of times but the tears spill over, rather than disappearing like she’d obviously hoped they would.

‘No you’re not.’ 

Cathy sniffs and doesn’t respond; Jane edges closer and wraps an arm around her shoulders, hoping that she won’t pull away.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘It’s nothing, it’s silly.’

‘More silly than crying because a dormouse had to sleep in a bed of daffodils?’

Despite the tears still sliding down her cheeks, Cathy gives a short laugh. ‘They were chrysanthemums, actually. And yes.’

‘Well then’ She tightens her hold and Cathy rests her head against her shoulder. ‘Now you really do need to tell me love, because I’m fascinated.’

‘That's the thing. It really is nothing. I just feel really-’ Cathy searches for the word.’ You know like the opposite of rose tinted glasses?’

‘Yes.’

‘Like that. Just- tired and flat and pointless. And I don’t know why. The poem was just the last straw- it reminded me of, of how much I ruined by dying when I did….how many things could have been fixed if I hadn’t-’ Cathy’s face crumples and Jane feels it like an ache. ‘I’m sorry, I said it was stupid.’

‘Cathy love, no, no, no. Oh you poor thing-’ Cathy leans into her, sniffing and Jane rocks her gently back and forth. ‘It isn’t stupid in the slightest but that doesn’t mean it’s true-’ She isn’t quite sure where she should start. ‘You can’t blame yourself for dying, that isn’t fair.’

‘But if I hadn’t-’

‘But you couldn’t help it- and goodness, even if you had-’ Jane pulls back enough to cup Cathy’s damp cheek. ‘If you had been able to control it...I hate to say it, but there’s so, so many other things that could have gone wrong, even if you had been alive to see them.’

Cathy shakes her head. ‘I left Mary all alone- you know, some historians think she could even have died of neglect because they can’t be sure she ended up somewhere safe? And Jane- she had to go back to that awful house, those terrible people, because she couldn’t be part of my household without a proper chaperone, she might not have died if I’d been there to oversee things….I never had a chance to explain to Elizabeth, I always meant for her to know that I only sent her away to keep her safe and I meant to be explain one day when we were together but I never saw her again, there wasn’t TIME….and Edward and Mary might have reconciled, perhaps they wouldn’t have been so opposed, I made them all a family when I was alive and then when I was gone, it just fell apart….’ Cathy breaks off, sobbing too hard to speak and Jane shakes her head.

‘Oh Cathy. Oh love. It’s alright, let it out.’  She waits until the tears have slowed a bit before passing over a handful of tissues.

‘Thanks.’

‘You’re welcome. Now. Can I say what I think?’

Cathy nods, dabbing her swollen eyes.

‘Cathy. You are a wonderful, intelligent, kind, caring young woman and we are all love you and count ourselves very, very lucky to know you and have you with us, ok?’

Another tentative nod.

‘But love, you are not God. You’re not magic. You cannot possibly think that you would be able to have solved all of those problems, all of those issues, if you’d been alive. Honestly, even if you had a hundred years to try, I don’t think you’d have managed.’

Cathy looks wrong-footed. ‘But all of it- when I was alive, things were alright, they weren’t-’

‘Were they? Were they really alright? Or was it just that the problems didn’t exist yet?’

‘Well-’

‘Love, you did a wonderful job bringing the family together. But that’s so much easier when the children are- well, children. Do you see how much harder it would have been when they were adults? Edward was….seven, when you met him?’

‘Six.’ Cathy blows her nose.

‘See? He was a child. And Mary was a young woman but- well, with her father alive, even with a definite King in place….well, it would have been madness for her to double down with her beliefs the way she did. It was different when you were gone.’

‘Yes. When I was gone-’

‘No.’ She shakes her head decisively. ‘When you were gone, I said. Not because you were gone.’

Cathy contemplates for a moment and Jane pulls her closer, so that Cathy can lean against her comfortably. ‘Think love, for a minute. Did everything go to plan when you were alive? Did everything go just how you tried to make it turn out?’

Reluctantly Cathy shakes her head. ‘No. Hardly ever.’

‘So.’ Jane presses a kiss to the top of her head. ‘What makes you think it would have been any different if you’d lived longer?’ She pauses. ‘You need to let go of the blame. You need to stop torturing yourself with thinking how things could have been different- trust me, it’ll be easier when you do.’

She can see by Cathy’s expression that she understands what she means.

‘You make it sound so easy.’

‘Oh it won’t be. It isn’t. It’s always hard.’ She can say it lightly but honestly, it’s something that she doesn’t even think she’ll stop struggling with. ‘But you’ve taken the first couple of steps today….so that’s a start at least.’

‘I suppose.’ She’d be more bothered by the non-committal response if it wasn’t for the fact that she can tell by Cathy’s expression that she is actually thinking about it- only passingly now, perhaps, but later, when her tears have dried, tomorrow or the day after, she will think on it again, think about it seriously and examine the idea, and turn it over and over in her mind until she’s made peace with it.

She knows how Cathy does things after all, which is why she doesn’t push it too hard. She might not be able to read well but she knows about people.

Nestled up against her, Cathy looks even wearier and more wrung out than before but it doesn’t worry her so much as it did when she first noticed it. She smooths Cathy’s hair away from her damp face and smiles when she hums in response.

They sit in silence for a minute or two, and Jane imagines dust settling around them after a storm, normalcy returning slowly. She isn’t planning on going back to the poetry- she imaginges Cathy has probably had enough of it for one day, and then she remembers something and jerks up, dislodging Cathy from her arms and making her squeak in surprise.

‘Jane?’

‘Sorry, sorry- I just- I remembered something, something I meant to show you and I thought...it might help. You, I mean.’

Cathy looks slightly skeptical, and then she shrugs. ‘Ok. What is it?’

‘I’ll fetch it. Get comfortable while I look though because it might take a minute.’

She waits until Cathy has re-arranged the pillows and lain down properly on the the bedspread, half smiling despite herself.

‘I’m curious now-’

‘I knew you would be. Just- Oh!’ She unearths the book from under her bed, where she remembers putting it for ‘safe-keeping’ and climbs back onto the bed with it. 

And begins to read.

‘I fling the past behind me, like a robe, worn threadbare at the seams, and out of date…’

Cathy curls back up into her side again and she smiles. ‘I have outgrown it. Where- where-’

‘Wherefore.’ Cathy’s voice is quiet; she goes on.

‘Wherefore should I weep and dwell upon its beauty-’

As she reads, she feels the tension leaving the girl next to her as she sinks into the cadence of the words.

‘-starred with gems made out of ch-ch-’

‘Chrystalled-’ Cathy’s voice is nearly a whisper now, but she can still hear it.

‘Chrystalled tears. My new robe shall be richer than the old.’ She finishes, flushed with the glow of hearing how much more confident her voice is than when they’d begun these sessions, all those months ago.

‘That’s you, Cathy. And all of us.’ She leans closer to the curly hair- Cathy’s face is buried in Jane’s cardigan but she knows she is still listening. ‘All of us, stronger than we were. You can put the past down, you don’t have to carry it with you, if it’s hurting.’

Cathy gives a tremulous nod, her face still buried and Jane kisses the top of her head..

She isn’t concerned, they can talk about it more later.

For now, she’s happy to wait until then.

[freddiesaysalright]

Soft in Love Part 2

A Gwilym Lee x Student!Reader Fic

Summary: Y/N is an acting student in her last semester of college. When a professor unexpectedly can’t make it for the senior capstone class, a very famous (and handsome) substitute is called in. When they connect, they face a few challenges.

Word Count: 2.7k

Tag List:  @psychosupernatural​, @someone-get-a-medic​, @bensrhapsody​, @deakyclicks​, @crazylittlethingcalledobsession​, @minigranger​, @crazyweirdocalledfriday​, @benders-diamond-earring​, @im-an-adult-ish​, @anincurablefangirl​, @kiainspace​, @lookuptotheskiesandsee​ If you’d like to be added, let me know!

A/N: Hope you all enjoy this next part! Sorry it’s taken a little longer than usual, I’ve been pretty busy at work.

Warning(s): None! Well, more pining, but hey, y’all asked for this.

Part 1

Part 2 here we go!!!

That night, you went to Sloan’s for pizza and a movie. Since you lived on campus as part of your scholarship, you tended to hang out at Sloan and Andrew’s apartment once classes were over and homework was done. You had a room to yourself, but it wasn’t spacious, so the three of you normally were at their shabby, typical New York apartment with little space and even less furniture.

“So, what should we watch?” you wondered as you plopped down on the couch.

“How about Bohemian Rhapsody?” Sloan suggested, wiggling her eyebrows at you. “Y’know, so you can really see Gwilym in action?”

Andrew groaned. “Come on, Sloan, we’ve teased her enough.”

“What?” she shot back. “They were really connecting.”

“Connecting?” you questioned. “We barely said two words to each other.”

You had neglected to tell them about running into your substitute in the library. You were keeping that moment to yourself. It felt like something private, even though it was perfectly innocent. You wanted to keep it in your heart. For now, at least.

“All that eye contact,” Sloan continued. “It was like Edward and Bella in there.”

“If it was like Edward and Bella, he’s more likely to murder me than anything,” you retorted. 

“Edward doesn’t kill Bella!” she argued.

“He turns her into a vampire!” Andrew pointed out. “That’s the same thing!”

“No it isn’t!” 

“Yes it is!”

“Okay, Jacob!”

“Guys!” you interjected. “If we talk anymore about Twilight, I’m going to kill myself. Let’s just pick a movie.”

“I still vote for Bohemian Rhapsody,” Sloan said. “Y/N should see at least one thing our new professor is in.”

“I think we should watch a classic,” Andrew replied. “I haven’t watched Casablanca in a while.”

“One vote for Bohemian Rhapsody, one vote for Casablanca,” she said, then looked at you. “Would you like to cast a vote, or add a contender?”

You thought for a moment, but you already knew what you were going to pick. You just wanted to give Andrew the illusion of having a chance. You tapped your chin with your forefinger.

“I’m gonna go with…” you paused. “Bohemian Rhapsody.”

“Oh, come on!” Andrew mock complained. Then he smiled. “Alright, I’m gonna order the pizza.”

“We’ll start the movie,” Sloan assured him.

As she picked up the remote, you considered telling her about the library. You weren’t sure why Sloan should be allowed this information and not Andrew, but you’d noticed he had sort of drifted from you while you were dating Daniel. Now that you and Daniel were broken up, Andrew was friendlier than before even. It made you a little confused. And the distance really hurt you.

But you looked at Sloan and thought about what she had said so far. You didn’t think she would tease you about the library, but she also would likely turn it into something it wasn’t. She had a tendency to gas you up for things that were hardly ever a big deal in reality. So you decided not to tell her. The moment would remain just yours. And Gwilym’s, of course.

The movie began, with the pizza arriving about half an hour in. You wouldn’t call yourself a huge Queen fan, but you liked their hits. You admired the movie’s aesthetic, but you especially admired Gwilym’s performance. He looked so cool with the curly hair and the seventies clothes. It was rather unlike the man you’d met earlier that day. Not that Gwilym didn’t look cool, he just wasn’t as glam. At least, not on that level.

When the movie finished after the Live Aid scene, you had gotten a little emotional. You wiped your burning eyes and sniffled.

“So, what’d you think?” Sloan asked, switching the television off.

“It was good,” you choked out.

“Oh my God, Y/N, you’re such a sap,” Andrew joked.

“Shut up!” you returned. “I just have feelings. There’s nothing wrong with that!”

He laughed. “Nah, I guess you’re right.”

You stretched out on the couch, nudging his thigh playfully with your toe as you giggled and yawned. He smiled back at you.

“I’m beat,” you sighed. “I think I’ll head back to my dorm.”

“You know you’re always welcome to stay here,” Andrew said.

“I know,” you replied. “But I don’t like to intrude. Plus, your couch is lumpy.”

“You could take my bed,” he offered.

Something about the way he didn’t look at you when he said it rubbed you the wrong way. If Andrew had feelings for you, you wished he would either say it or get over it, but not say things like that to leave you wondering. You knew it could never be that way between you, so you hoped for the latter.

“I’d rather be in my own bed,” you said, keeping your tone light.

You got off the couch and stretched again. As you put your backpack on, you thanked them for the pizza and then bid them goodnight. 

Sloan closed the door behind you and looked at her roommate.

“Could you be any more obvious?” she said. She continued by doing her best Andrew impression. “Stay here, sleep in my bed, suck my dick.”

“Oh, fuck off,” he returned, disappearing in to his room. 

You headed back to campus, which was only a few blocks away, your mind racing. Everything from your chance library meeting with Gwilym to whatever the hell had gotten into Andrew was swirling around in your mind.

As you passed the coffee shop closest to campus - frequented by mostly students and faculty, you spotted Gwilym though the window. You watched him as he pored over the book you had recommended, sipping his drink with something of a refined air about him. The temptation to go in and say hello was overwhelming. You were just so drawn to him for some reason. But you decided against it, remembering the way Sloan had compared you both to the cringiest couple perhaps ever written. Showing up suddenly at the coffee shop after one earlier chance meeting seemed very stalker or Edward Cullen-ish. Even if it was genuinely a coincidence. With a sigh, you moved along.

Gwilym lifted his eyes from the page he was reading and looked around. He felt as if there was someone he knew nearby, but as his eyes scanned the room, he saw only strangers. Movement by the window made him look out, but he missed who or whatever it was that created the motion. He blinked in that direction, his mind drawing up - for some reason - an image of you standing there. 

Something resembling disappointment crossed over his heart, but he pushed it down. He didn’t need to be wishing to see you anywhere outside of class. His phone ringing brought a welcome distraction.

“Hello?” he said, picking it up.

“Gwilym, hi!” chirped the voice of Dr. Bennett. “I just wanted to check on you and see how the first day went.”

“You’ve just given birth, and you’re worried about me?” he returned. “Emily, that’s ridiculous.”

“Don’t scold me, Gwil,” she answered lightly. “How’d the class go?”

“If you must know, it went just fine,” he told her. “I’ve been introduced to everyone. You have a very talented class there.”

“Excited as I am to have my son, I am a bit bummed I won’t get to teach them,” she agreed. “But, I’ve left them in very capable hands. I’m glad it’s going smoothly.”

“It really is,” he said.

“What do you think of Y/N?” she asked.

His chest tightened.

“She seems like a lovely girl,” he said stiffly.

“She’s a real star,” she went on. 

“I haven’t heard her sing yet, but from the way you and Dr. Curtis talk, I feel I should have a handkerchief on me or something.”

She laughed. “She’ll impress you I’m sure. Be careful there.”

He paused, wanting to know more about what she meant. It was an odd thing to say about a student. Was she joking? Was she giving him some warning about who you were? Were you not what you seemed? He wanted answers, but decided to ignore it entirely. That was the best way to deal with something like this, in his opinion.

“How are you and the baby?” Gwilym asked, desperate to change the subject.

“Perfect, so far,” she said. “Just ready to get home.”

“I’m sure.”

“Hey, Gwil,” she said.

“Yeah?”

“Please keep me updated on everything,” she requested. “I’ll come and see the show at the end of the semester, but I want to know how everything comes together.”

“Will do,” he promised.

“Thanks,” she said warmly.

“You get some rest now,” he said.

“Will do,” she replied, and he heard the smile in her voice.

They said goodbye and hung up. Gwilym’s mind still reeled with her warning. Be careful there. Be careful of what, exactly? Perhaps it was better if he never knew.

On Thursday, you showed up to class early, as usual. The auditorium was empty except for Gwilym. Your heart rate quickened as you approached him. 

“Morning,” you said brightly.

He turned his head and smiled at you. “Hello, Y/N. You’re early.”

“I’m always early,” you said with a shrug. “How’s the book?”

“I’m only three chapters in, but it is interesting,” he replied. “Fond as I am of Shakespeare’s plays, it’s his poetry that really gets me.”

“Oh, really?” you wondered.

He nodded. “Yes. Poetry and songs I think are the most intimate forms of writing. The authors put their feelings out and wrap them up in beautiful language. And somehow, that makes others feel it. As if it were their own. If that makes any sense.”

You pondered his words a moment. You thought of every time you’d sung in your car at the top of your lungs, the words of a song just punching you right in the heart. 

“It makes sense,” you said. “I didn’t realize you were so into that stuff.”

“There’s a lot about me that may surprise you, Y/N,” he said.

You met his gaze, searching for the meaning behind that. He cut his eyes away before you did, clearing his throat.

“Would you like to get started?” he asked. “We can begin with your solo, ‘The Boy Next Door’.”

“Sounds good,” you agreed. “Want me to sing acapella or play piano?”

“You sing, I’ll accompany you,” he returned.

“You play piano?” you questioned. “You certainly are full of surprises.”

The teasing tone felt a bit unfamiliar to you. Were you flirting with him? If you were, was it wrong?

“I play piano, but not very well,” he replied humbly. “I can play a simple tune like this.”

You smiled as you both took the stage, you stopping in the center and he taking a seat on the piano bench. You waited for his cue, and then when he began, you opened your mouth and began to sing.

“The moment I saw him smile

I knew he was just my style

My only regret is we’ve never met

Though I dream of him all the while

But he doesn’t know I exist

No matter how I may persist

So it’s clear to see, there’s no hope for me

Though I live at fifty-one-thirty-”

Gwilym missed a note on the piano and stopped, bringing you to a halt as well. You shot him a questioning look.

“Sorry,” he said. “I’m not good enough to turn the pages on time.”

“Oh, is that all?” you teased. “Here, I’ll stand next to the piano and turn the pages for you.”

“I’m very much obliged,” he returned.

You walked over and stood to the side, looking expectantly at him.

“From ‘so it’s clear,’” he told you.

“So it’s clear to see, there’s no hope for me

Though I live at fifty-one-thirty-five Kensington Avenue-”

You turned the page.

“And he lives at fifty-one-thirty three.

How can I ignore the boy next door

I love him more than I can say

Doesn’t try to please me

Doesn’t even tease me

And he never sees me glance his way…”

You stole a glance at Gwilym as you held  this note. His face was screwed up in concentration as his eyes followed the music. His hands, which were large and smooth, moved gracefully. His long fingers pressed the keys with ease. He looked very handsome.

“And though I’m heart sore, the boy next door

Affection for me won’t display

I just adore him

So I can’t ignore him

The boy next door…”

You held the note and came off of it slowly and softly. Gwilym did the same with his final note. As the song closed, you looked at each other. A moment of softness passed between your gazes. Gwilym was beginning to understand his friend’s warning. You were so...charming.

“That was very good,” he said.

“Thank you,” you said sweetly.

“I’m impressed you knew all the words,” he remarked.

“I’ve been a fan of the movie since I was little,” you told him. “I literally wanted to be Judy Garland.”

“Well, you don’t have very far to go,” he said. “Although, I believe Y/N Y/L/N is perfect just as she is. You don’t have to be Judy Garland.”

Heat came to your cheeks.

“Thank you,” you said again, looking at the floor.

You paused, searching for something to say in return, some compliment to pay him.

“The piano playing was -”

“Please, Y/N, let’s not go there,” he said, a smile pulling at his lips. “My piano playing is absolute shit.”

He held his breath as the words left his mouth, fearful you might take offense to the language or feel he was getting too comfortable. When you clapped your hand over your mouth to stifle the most adorable giggle he’d ever heard, he was relieved.

“It wasn’t shit!” you protested. “Really, it wasn’t!”

“I appreciate you trying to bolster me, but the most redeeming part was playing through your page turn, which was executed flawlessly.”

You laughed some more.

“Well, I am known around here for my page turning skills,” you joked.

“I have a feeling you’ll be known for many things, Y/N,” he said. “Including turning pages for barely capable pianists.” 

Your smile lingered on your lips as your classmates began entering the theater. Sloan eyed you questioningly as he saw how close you were standing to Gwilym. When had you drifted that way? You hadn’t felt yourself move.

Tucking your hair behind your ear, you stepped away, back toward center stage. Gwilym got to his feet and followed you, turning to address the other students.

“Welcome back, everyone,” he said.

He took roll quickly before getting into rehearsal. He and Lily were working on their early scene in the wagon. You watched him ease her into comfort with him. She was six, just like her character, Tootie, and though not shy, did need to warm up to people. Sloan’s sister took a seat in the audience, and you saw her soften as she looked on as well.

“Isn’t that sweet?” you said to Sloan as she approached you.

She looked over at Gwilym going back and forth with her niece.

“Precious,” she said flatly. “You and Gwilym seemed pretty cozy.”

You rolled your eyes, but knew you still looked flushed. 

“Oh, please,” you said. “We were just practicing.”

“Y/N, look at me,” she said with uncharacteristic seriousness.

You did.

“I know we’re joking about how hot he is and all that, but it’s not smart to think any further than that,” she said. “He’s a professor - at least right now - and both of you could get into trouble.”

Defensiveness surged through you.

“You’re talking about it like we’ve been sleeping together or something,” you said, harsher than you meant to. “You’re the one who’s been making the jokes. Nothing’s happened, so spare me the lecture.”

“Y/N, I’m just trying to be a friend,” she said.

“Look, it’s perfectly normal to connect with a teacher,” you returned. “It’s nothing more than that.”

She looked you over, skepticism coming over her sharp features.

“If you say so, Y/N,” she said with a sigh. “But, for the record, I’ve never seen you look at anyone the way you were looking at him when we walked in. Ever.”

She walked away, leaving you stricken where you stood.

[vantablade]

I don’t know who this will be helpful for, but in the interest of amplifying some black voices re: the content I consume, and anybody who might be interested in that sort of thing. Specifically I’m very interested in astrology, spirituality, tarot, as well as commentary, and I did some research into some black commentary YouTube channels if that’s your thing. Also I’m a sucker for Twitter so there’s some of my favourite Twitter personalities to spice up your feed not only with some educational content but also just... good content. 

There’s also a dash of other subjects like writers (three Tumblr writeblrs/writers, a Black-owned publishing house to keep an eye on with some new independent releases, and my current favourite author whose trilogy made me fall in love with fantasy all over again). 

Obviously it is severely reflective of my character that I did have to research certain creators because of my lack of exposure, and that does come from a white perspective in that I’ve never felt the pressure to engage with Black content the way I should haveーbut the only way to move forward from that is to actively seek them out, make adaptions, and introduce new content creators into my life. And hopefully, to my white mutuals (since I’m in no place to preach to anyone else), introduce some stuff to you guys too.

Because Black lives do not only matter when we’re mourning the lives lost, but Black lives matter when they are actively creating content we can support, across all platforms and genres. Whether it’s Black film, Black writing, Black art, Black YouTubers, etceteraー and while we should absolutely introduce more critical reading into our lives in order to develop a much more intelligent, nuanced perspective on the subject of race, we shouldn’t only view Black people as politics suppliers, but people who create content all across the board, especially when we consider that Black culture and Black creators are often the biggest influence on social media and modern culture. This is just a small, very niche list of what I have foundー and I would love recommendations! Your favourite designers, your favourite artists to follow, your favourite gaming channels (especially those who focus on thorough lets plays!), your favourite Black creator in any sort of environment. Under a read more just because this post is already long. 

Black Spiritualists/Astrologers/Tarot Readers who I really love:

Shonnetta’s Divine Tarot ~ A YouTube channel which does really long, in depth tarot readings for the signs and pick a cards if that’s your thing, she’s super bubbly and energetic and has great energy

 Itsbabyj1 ~ She does really fun but also well-researched videos, she’s super playful and knowledgeable about the subject. She has some really fun, laid back videos like how to tell if your crush likes you based on your sign, which if anything is just fun to indulge

Similarly, astrokit does really fun but also educational videos! Some based on crushes, or pet peeves, etc, but likeー she can even help you figure out your own chart bit by bit like her latest video on Moon in the houses. She’s sooo cute and has such an airy energy, I’ve spent many an hour relistening to her crush or pet peeve etc videos in the background because she has a really nice voice

If you want to learn some more advanced techniques, this interview with Darren King is really educational! He hasn’t made a lot of content yet but he’s a great speaker and his vid is so good, and you can even book a reading with him through the website

Sunshine Tarot ~ all of her readings are super accurate imo, she has such a homely vibe, she’s so charismatic that her videos feel like she’s really there with you. 

Gaialect ~ does occasional Tarot readings for the signs, she’s super kind and direct, originally quite a presence on Twitter and I feel like she really has a great camera presence and a good friendliness.

AstroDeeStars ~ again, just super good charisma & really informative videos. Not super active but you can watch her old content and be informed on the subjects!

ijaadee ~ A very advanced yet really personable astrologer who specialises in offering horary charts, and works with really detailed methodsーshe’s really interesting if you’re into that sort of thing!

Jalen Astrology ~ a black, nonbinary (and potentially gay) astrologer whose personality is stunning, and they’ve done some great threads iirc!

RetroJ ~ similar to ijaadee in subject matter and advanced subjects, but he does have some great introductory threads that you can look through. Also does a wide array of consultations if you vibe with that!

BlackWomenCry ~ A sex astrologer! They do really fun yet in depth analyses of signs and qualities, especially regarding sex and unpacking trauma. Worth a follow for sure

Misc (ASMR, Book Youtube, Publishing Houses/Writeblrs, Influencers):

LatreceASMR ~ A black woman ASMRtist for if you’re trying to relax, her stuff is super chill & she has a really comforting voice! I really like her earlier low fi stuff

Sung Mook ~ another ASMRtist! I love her character work and her roleplays so much, she has the gentlest voice you will ever here. Big sleepy I really recommend

Mina Reads ~ A booktuber! I’m still getting into the booktube scene so I’d also love recs if you’re into it as well, they’re really funny! (I believe their pronouns might be she/her but I can’t remember completely so I’d rather stay on the safe side). Also, they often review or read books focused on and/or written by Black people, which can be a great introduction to fiction by Black authors!

Yah Yah Scholfield ~ Horror writing, fantastic short stories, also publishing a lesbian horror novel this year 

Sandra T. ~ Yah Yah’s publisher/editor and a writer herself, that’s her main blog but she also posts her work here and she runs her own publishing company which currently has a poetry book, a compilation of short surrealist short stories, and Yah Yah’s novel): Oni House Press

Lydia ~ Another black writer! She posts excerpts of her writing work and I’m a huge fan of her stuff. Her writing is so... emotive, rich and inspiring.

My favourite book trilogy that I reference often is N. K. Jemisin’s The Broken Earth trilogy which is an incredible fantasy series, and I really recommend it as an introduction to fantasy, right now I’m also starting her other series. TBE is notable not only for its incredible world-building and character work (I cried... several times lol) but also for its subtle, natural integration of LGBT peopleーand I mean LGBT people, not just a token gay character but also trans characters, with even minor reference to nonbinary people. She has some other series that I can’t advocate for yet, because I haven’t read them, but of course when one series is so good, of course I have faith in her other work. 

Warsan Shire’s poetry is also groundbreakingー you’ve probably already seen it everywhere, whether in snippets or in huge excerpts, and she even contributed the poetry to Beyonce’s Lemonade. I read Teaching My Mother How to Give Birth which is a super short but very rich poetry book, which is also a great entry into it. 

Rashida Renee ~ you’ve probably used one of her scans in a moodboard, or seen someone use it. A Black trans woman with a huge knowledge on fashion and fashion culture, and highly influentialー I love having her on the TL. Also was a huge Tumblr presence, I’m not sure if that’s still a thing, but I believe she was scorpioenergies and she was fuckrashida.

Silver Summer ~ also known on Tumblr as trapcard I believe (also used to be blastortoise, a huge “comedy” Tumblr acc), another Black trans woman who is just ... naturally funny, very quick-witted and livens up the TL. Also a fan of KPOP if you’re into that thing.

jaboukie ~ you’ve definitely seen his tweets screenshotted. Funny as hell but not afraid to use his account to amplify things, lost his blue tick (rip) for the cause of mocking fools. 

D4Darious ~ a film YouTuber! but not just film, the act of making film, for any aspiring filmmakers out there.

The commentary channels I found through research but have not fully immersed myself in their content yetー Kat Blaque, For Harriet, Angie Speaks, T1J, D’Angelo Wallace, Joulzey. This is obviously not a comprehensive list whatsoever so I’m always taking more recommendations <3

[piccolina-mina]

The Taste of Ink

Fandom: Roswell, New Mexico

Characters: Alex Manes, Max Evans

Pairing: Manevans

A/N: *long sighs* You know, it’s not cool how you found a tiny hole and now poke the squishy part just to get what you want because you know you’ll usually get it. Anyway, to mischief makers @faithtrustaliendust, @suzteel, and @queenrikki on this Manevans Monday. 

Because our multishipping arses have had a soft spot for an emo punk vet and a soft nerdy cowboy since they exchanged one look in high school. #ManevansRights If they don’t give us Manevans scenes next season, we riot! 

Warning: so much sh!tty poetry. Teen poet Max is not good, but Teen Emo Alex is weak for him anyway. 

 Anyway, enjoy, or not. 

—-

He slammed his locker shut, music blaring in his ears and drowning out the chaotic energy of the halls of Roswell High.

I’ll be your number one with a bullet A loaded God complex, cock it and pull it

If he could make it through his last class, he could hit the music room and retrieve his guitar, maybe work out a melody that had been scratching in the recesses of his mind, dying to get out.

He sighed at the Letterman jackets closing in, a sense of dread over which pea-brained jock would start shit today.

He wasn’t in the mood.

They swerved him, which was fine until one rammed into Max Evans knocking his books down and throwing that stupid baseball cap he always wore to the floor.

Admittedly, Austin Farrell stomping the hell out of the thing was him doing Max a favor, but the rest was just uncalled for.

Max was an odd one. On the surface, he was tall and fit enough to be a jock, and if he had anything that resembled coordination, he would have made a hell of a basketball player.

But he had P.E with him last year and quickly realized Max and sports didn’t mix.

He was tall, a bit dopey, and walked around hunched over and hiding behind books and baseball caps.

He always wondered why Max carried himself like he was afraid to take up space. Like he was too big, and the world was too small. Deep down, he knew what it felt like to want to hide –blend into the background and be left alone. So could he really judge him?

The jocks watched Max scramble to retrieve his things, one of them snatching up an opened notebook and scanning its contents.

“A shared glance, ephemeral, unlike the all-consuming inferno within for you. Relentless, like the curve of your smile – Oh shit, Shakespeare here is writing love letters!” Farrell crowed.

More mocking ensued, and by then, Max’s cheeks flushed crimson. A tuft of hair fell in his eyes as the notebook landed on the heap with the rest of his belongings.

He knelt down and helped Max gather his books, and nodded in acknowledgment of Max’s bashful smile.

But then he felt someone shove him from behind. He rose to his feet, turned and narrowed his eyes at Farrell. He could tell the brute was attempting to taunt him, but he refused to take his earbuds out to hear it.

He signaled at his ears, flashed a “f*ck you” smile, and waited for Farrell and his crew of nimrods to get out the way.

Some days, he discovered not giving them anything to work with bored them. Fortunately, it was one of those days.

He still had the opened notebook in his hands and couldn’t help scanning over the rest, his interest semi-piqued.

“Hey, could you…” Max’s embarrassment was transparent as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other and reached for the worn, leather-bound notebook.

He flashed him a sympathetic smile. The last bell sounded, and they stood outside their final class: study hall.

The prospect of spending the next 45 minutes in a room with Kyle and his friends wasn’t appealing, but something else definitely was.

He pulled his earphones out of his ear, cocked his head to the side studying the awkward boy in front of him, and made a decision.

“You wanna get outta here?” He asked.

Max was startled, or maybe he was too focused staring moony-eyed through the window.

“You– Me? You’re talking to me?” He stammered, pressing a large hand to his chest in askance. “Blow off study hall?”

Alex shook his head and snorted softly to himself. He jerked his head in the direction of the class.

“Or you could spend the next hour imagining that’s you slobbering on Liz’s neck and not Kyle. I’m out either way.”

“I wasn’t–” Max protested. “I was going to work on chemistry.”

“I bet you were,” he deadpanned.

“Actually, yeah,” Max tightened the single strap over his shoulder and stepped closer to him. “I’m quite flexible.”

He raised a brow – watched Max’s reaction when his own statement landed and his face flushed again.

“I meant, um, with my schedule,” Max stammered. “I, yeah, just,” he scratched at the back of his neck and ducked his head down awkward and shy as ever.

He was starting to wonder if that cap Max wore had some mystical abilities that made the guy less of a puppy. At the very least it rendered him capable of basic forms of communication and a latent ability for prose.

Max released a puff of air and flashed a smile that Alex found endearing. “Um, just, after you…”

He felt Max’s presence behind him as they walked down the hall. For someone so tall he was light on his feet. He wasn’t taller than him by much, but with close proximity came a comfort he hadn’t felt in some time.

Not since Cutter, who ironically, had a gift for words too. He had a gift for a few things.

Their makeshift band fell apart around the time Cutter moved away, and he hadn’t been able to get the gang to agree on much of anything ever since.

He didn’t have too many sanctuaries at Roswell High, but the music room was one of them. He slipped in with ease, wrapped his hands around his guitar and relished the feel of it in his hands.

It was like an extension of him. He hopped onto a desk and begin strumming away, trying to chase the melody that had been taunting him for hours.

Max wandered around the room gently gliding his hands across instruments and staring around.

“You play?” He studied Max as he played.

“Nah,” Max snorted. He held his hands up as if they were answer enough. “My br-best friend tried to teach me, but I have big, clumsy hands. No technique.”

“Somehow I doubt with hands like those you lack technique,” he tossed out.

Admittedly, he got a kick out of making Max blush. He made it so easy. Max turned away, fiddled with the cap in his hands, and sighed knowing it was ruined.

“It’s for the best,” he teased staring pointedly at the cap. “If it’s any consolation, you look better without it.”

Another shade. He really was having too much fun.

“Hey, it’s part of my style just like you and your …” Max waved at Alex before deciding on. “Septum ring.”

“You’d look good with one, too. I can get you a deal,” he leaned on the desk next to Max.

Max scoffed. “I can’t pull it off like you. I would look ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously hot,” Alex quipped with a shrug. “Who knows? Maybe it would get Liz’s attention.”

Max sunk further onto the desk. Falling back into that habit of making himself small with shitty posture.

“It’s that obvious, huh?”

“Evans, they can see it from the moon, man.”

“I didn’t realize I was that obvious. I’m usually better at hiding,” he dug his fingers into the leatherbound notebook and sighed.

“You’re a poet,” he said bluntly, cutting to the chase.

“I’m really not,” Max contested. “I like writing, but I’m not a writer.”

“Max, that’s the definition of a writer.”

“I’m not, like, good. I just…” his voice trailed off as if he didn’t know what else to say.

“Is everything you write about her?” He went back to strumming the same couple of notes.

Max shrugged.

“You mind?” He asked. His hand enclosed around Max’s as hoping Max would relinquish the book.

Max was hesitant. He felt him squirm beside him likely terrified of sharing such a vulnerable part of himself.

He tried to give his best reassuring look, squeezed Max’s hand in comfort. “I promise,” he whispered softly. “I won’t laugh.”

Max swallowed, his prominent Adam’s apple he still hadn’t grown into bobbing. He gave a brief nod.

He pried the book from Max’s grip and flashed a sincere smile. Max closed his eyes falling back until he was sprawled across a couple of desks as if he was trying to disappear into the furniture.

He pegged him for a sensitive type, but the melodrama caught him off guard.

He thumbed through the book, worn pages filled with scratchy notes and fanciful words.

Spilled ink and a bared soul, nearly as intimate as a diary. He hummed to himself, words painting pictures in his mind and pictures becoming sounds in his head.

A specific line caught him, and he twirled it around in his head. His hands were clutching the guitar again, his fingers gripping the guitar pick firm as his sounds playing in his head came through his fingers.

He sang quietly, hauntingly a tale of lost love, the ache of being peered through in a busy hallway and not gazed at. A soft brushing of fingers, accidental in lab, and a half-smile. He sang of deep, profound loneliness, and an aching for something unattainable.

He sang Max’s words, his own half-grin forming when Max opened his eyes, stared at him with a dropped jaw their eyes locked in the familiar way that they do when something inexplicable clicks into place.

The last chord died out in the room, and silence replaced it. Max stared, awed.

“That was good.”

“That was you,” he replied. “Like I said, you’re a poet. Even better, you’re a songwriter. I could use one of those.”

“You want me to write songs with you?”

“Only if you’re up for it,” he shrugged noncommittally.

“I suppose it’s better than pining,” Max muttered.

“It’s still pining, just with kickass music behind it,” he smirked.

The final bell of the day sounded, and Alex hopped off the desk and gathered his things.

“But, we don’t listen to the same things,” Max slung his backpack over his shoulder and gripped his notebook like a lifeline. “At least, I’m assuming we don’t.”

“You got something to say about my look, Evans?”

“What? No, I, think you look nice…”

He really had to stop amusing himself by getting Max flustered.

“Music is universal, Max. If you keep writing, I’ll keep playing.” He shoved his earbuds in his ears. “I think we could make some killer music together.

— 

 If you’d have told him Max Evans would become one of his closest friends, he would have snorted in disbelief.

They were different, at least, he assumed they were, but in reality, they were more alike than the surface implied.

He had grown used to the notes Max slipped in his locker. Sometimes it was a full poem, and others it was only a line or two.

Sometimes Max would slide them across his desk – scribbled notes on frayed pages, Max’s script delicate and neat.

He kept them in a box in the shed – piled them up, scraps and whole pages of prose.

He’d pass Max in the hall, and Max would give him that dopey grin that made him smile. He tried not to, he did, but somehow, Evans always pulled a small one out of him anyway.

Max was non-judgmental. He didn’t understand some things, but it didn’t stop him from trying to, with rapt and genuine interest and attention.

He would cautiously wander to the bleachers sometimes, visibly wary of Alex’s friends, not sure how he would be received among the mishmash of metalheads and burnouts, a few stoners, and drama geeks, and a goth or two.

His musical taste was questionable, devoid of any real identity that set him apart from anyone like he was going along to get along.

He often wondered why Max was so determined to disappear into the background.

He was funny, kind, and personable. He was easily someone who others would gravitate to if they ever got the chance to know him, but Max Evans didn’t make himself known. Not really.

He showed people what he wanted them to see, a small peek into who he was, just enough to appear non-threatening but not enough to lure people in.

Yet, that’s precisely what made Max so alluring to him. He knew a chameleon when he saw one – a kindred, someone adaptable when they had to be.

Max seemed genuinely surprised by how easy he was welcomed into their mix, and it was nothing for him to hang out with the group sometimes if only to show his sister he did, in fact, have friends.

Study halls they would spend in the music room jamming out.

He introduced him to My Chemical Romance and was pleasantly surprised that Max dabbled with Green Day and Fallout Boy.

They shared a mutual appreciation for Johnny Cash, which is something he wouldn’t cop to in public. But they wore out his cover of Nine Inch Nail’s "Hurt” like it was an anthem.

Max was expressive. Far more than him, but still subdued enough to not be overwhelming.

They’d sit side by side, an earbud between them, Max’s eyes closed when a particular song struck a chord with him.

For Max, the music was about the words. Lyrics spoke to him more than anything else. He learned to predict which songs would speak to Max most.

He taught Max a thing or two with the guitar.

Max had a natural ability for percussion, which surprised him, and the way his eyes lit up when he pulled off a minute drum solo actually made him laugh.

He wasn’t used to that kind of enthusiasm. But Max’s quiet darkness spoke to him more.

He spent enough time around him to pick up on how Max would slip away into the dark caverns of his mind, introspective and deep.

His eyes would get stormy then like he was fighting battles that would never reach the light of day.

If he was honest with himself, he liked that Max best. There was a story there itching to be told, but he better than anyone understood untold stories and secrets, so he’d never pry. Maybe that’s why Max came back to him time and again too.

He saw more of Max than most, but he didn’t push. He’s pretty certain Max saw him too. They held entire conversations with a single loaded look.

Some weekends they’d go for a drive, hit the desert, and fuck around with music until dusk.

Max’s lip would curl up in that half-smile as he drove, peeking over on occasion as if wondering if Alex was actually enjoying his company.

Max was proud of himself for blaring “Jesus of Suburbia,” which had become one of his latest obsessions, and he admittedly was impressed that he did, in fact, know the entire song from start to finish.

They’d hang until dusk and went their separate ways after grabbing a bite at the Crashdown.

On those days, he figured Max needed to lay eyes on his muse.

One weekend they drove a town over, he hit the stage during amateur night at some underground coffee shop, and for five minutes their joint efforts came to life on stage.

He’s not much of a singer, but the feeling was right. It was worth it just to see Max’s face light up as he beamed with pride and breathed about making something so beautiful.

Some days Max was absent. He’d get caught up in something with his sister or Guerin, but if he worked on something, he would slip that leatherbound notebook in Alex’s hands like he was entrusting him with his life.

Maybe in some way he was.

They didn’t talk, but then, they never needed to … there was something about their silence that was comfortable.

But sometimes his curiosity got the best of him.

They sat on the hood of Max’s jeep, stretched out, takeout between them after he hitched a ride with Max to the record store to meet up with his friends – their friends. He supposed they were Max’s too now.

He couldn’t help stealing a few glances Max’s way. The guy was a bit of a pushover, and Roni spent two hours making him her latest project.

She stole that godforsaken baseball cap and left him with wind tousled dark hair that kept slipping into his eyes because he hadn’t cut it in a while.

He faults himself for that. He told him it looked good longer, and shockingly, Max took it to heart.

Smudged black eyeliner made Max look a bit edgier. The silver choker around his neck did too, but fortunately, Roni reined it in.

To him, Max still looked like a puppy, with sad Bassett hound eyes, but that’s how he liked him.

Galaxies behind every gaze and a black hole heart.

It was something Max alluded to in the latest scrap of paper he left inside his locker.

Months later, and he already could tell he had an influence on him. His prose lost some of the flowery edges and shifted into something darker, caustic but no less beautiful.

“You ever think of telling her?” He took a long pull of his soda and squinted into the distance.

He felt Max’s gaze on him.“What?”

“You ever think about actually sharing the things you write with the person it’s about?”

Max ducked his head down, that familiar demure action that Alex had grown fond of.

“Who says I haven’t?” He answered after a while.

He scoffed. He knew Liz well enough to know if she had known for a second about half the things Max wrote about her, he’d have heard about it.

Even if she let Max down gently, she would have had quite the reaction.

“I’m pretty observant, Evans,” he shook his head. “I would’ve noticed.”

“You sure about that,” Max muttered under his breath.

At least, it’s what it sounded like he said. He knew Max had a snarky streak, but it was rarely directed at him.

Max wouldn’t look at him, but he bore an unreadable expression. He slurped the last of his drink more out of habit than need, but then reached for Alex’s too.

He handed it over with a frown, Max’s large hand wrapping around his briefly before he sucked down the rest of Alex’s drink, too.

“Are you embarrassed?” He asked after a while.

The silence between then had stretched on for a bit, however, it wasn’t their comfortable kind. It was something else, something tenser, and he could only guess bringing up Liz was a sore spot.

He knew what it was like to have feelings for someone without them being reciprocated.

He hopped off the truck and reached into the passenger seat. He rummaged through his bag until he pulled out the box he kept all of Max’s poetry– his lyrics.

He climbed back on the truck, holding the box in his hand grateful he brought it along for the day.

He didn’t miss the small smile on Max’s face at the box in his hand, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Putting yourself out there sucks,” he shrugged. “I know better than anyone.”

Max didn’t say anything. Between the two of them, he was used to Max being the one to fill the silence, or at least respond when he talked to him. If he didn’t know any better, he would swear Max was channeling him.

“I’m not the best at … feelings,” he struggled even uttering the word.

“But you are. Have you read your work? All these bits and pieces – I know Liz, and if she just knew… if she read these … ”

He went through the most recent scraps on the top and felt Max tense up beside him.

“There are galaxies behind your eyes, infinite and wise all the things you hide.

"The darker you are the more I see what if we were meant to be something more…

"Short desert nights and long silence just you and me next to you is where I’m free

My name a low melody on your lips I wonder if you should know. How I dream of taking the risk. A shot at true bliss in kissing you hello,” his mind raced as he dug through more.

“You helped me see me the way that you do if only you saw how I do the same for you”

“I"ll follow you through the dark because you’re the light”

“Over the edge, but I’ve never been afraid of falling only that you won’t be there, you’ll disappear when I do”

“Jagged smiles that don’t come easily, each one burned in my memory, my pulse races staccato, breath caught you saved one for me, just maybe … ” he felt like he was punched in the gut.

He sneaked a glance at Max, a strong profile, hunched forward. The only giveaway that his nerves got the better of him was how he wrung his large hands, ink-stained and trembling.

“These aren’t about Liz,” his voice caught in his throat, and her name came out like a whisper.

                                         "Who says I haven’t?”

                                                “You sure about that?“

Full smiles in the hallway. The way Max’s eyes crinkled in the corner when he laughed, how they deepened when he made Alex laugh too.

The way Max stood by his side, solid, warm, close all-consuming making him feel small but also safe.

Brushed knuckles while playing guitar. Late-night phone calls, and long desert drives. Study notes and tutoring, long days at the record store.

Grabbing a bite to eat and rotating who paid, stolen fries and shared drinks. Notes, every other day.

He looked down at the treasure chest of spilled ink."Shit.”

He played back snippets of the past few months, saw them through a different lens.

Max stopped staring at Liz months ago, but he never stopped looking at –“Shit. These aren’t about Liz.”

“They’re not about Liz,” Max agreed his voice low and husky.

“They’re about –”

“You,” Max supplied. “You’re not that observant, Manes,” Max joked softly. “You’ll see a dozen different angles however obscure but miss what’s directly in front of you.” Max chuckled low and deep.

He sat in stunned silence, and Max, the bastard, let him. He gave him the time to process, not that his proximity helped, warm, solid, pressed against him from shoulder to pinkies a ghost of an interlock as the hood of Max’s truck suddenly felt too small.

He never had anyone write about him before, write for him, and he didn’t realize that confession slipped from his lips another on top of the others until Max responded just as quietly.

“You should,” Max whispered. Max looked down at his hands as if sparing himself the heat of Alex’s gaze.

“You deserve songs written about you, Alex. You’re,” he exhaled resigned. “You’re amazing, and any guy who doesn’t see it doesn’t deserve you.”

Max turned the full force of his gaze on Alex, heated and open, vulnerability laid bare for Alex to see.

How could he have not seen it before?

“You wrote me poetry,” he breathed. He opened and shut his mouth feeling like a guppy.

Max shrugged, a sad half-smile. “You sang me songs,” he countered.

Max peeked down at him beneath lashes, bashful and sweet.

“They made you happy, ” Max whispered into the night air, trusting the wind would carry his words for him. 

“They made you happy, and that made me happy. I liked surprising you, the way the curve of your lip turns up,” Max whispered, eyes slipping to Alex’s mouth for a brief moment. “And your eyes,” he reached his hand out as if to touch Alex’s face but caught himself.

His breath hitched in anticipation that quickly became a disappointment. He felt the loss of a touch that never reached him.

“It’s OK, though” Max murmured softly in that voice that haunted his dreams at night.

“Max,” he pushed past the lump in his throat and cursed this tall, dopey, adorable boy for drinking the last of his soda.

“I don’t expect anything, Alex,” Max breathed out, nervous energy tinging his voice. “Nothing has to change.”

Determined brown eyes fell upon him and he knew just how much Max meant that.

“It’s OK,” Max continued, and he couldn’t tell if the desperation in Max’s voice was an attempt to convince himself or him.

“Max–”

“I promise, Alex,” Max’s voice was desperate but sincere. “Everything this is, I – it’s more than enough, I swear. I –I’m really good at pining.”

He let out a startled laugh.

“You’re laughing at me,” a flash of hurt crossed Max’s eyes but he schooled his expression.

“No,” he breathed. “Yes, I mean,” he exhaled long and slow reaching out to grab Max’s hand in reassurance.

His mouth worked, open and closed as he struggled with what he wanted to say, how much of himself was he willing to give in that moment?

“I–” he squinted out in the distance, pinks fading into the blue. He shivered and wished he could only blame it on the cool evening air.

“I–,” he tangled his hand with Max’s, slightly callused, warm, comforting. He looked up, smiled a little at Max’s expression as he stared at their entwined fingers. “Why would I settle for enough, when you’re telling me I can have more?”

He watched Max’s head slowly lift, his expression openly hopeful. No half-measure. He felt it and felt it fully, openly. It’s what Max always gave to him.

He wasn’t used to letting others see him like that, but Max understood that, didn’t seem to hold it against him. He found ways to slip through the cracks.

He swallowed as Max’s thumb rubbed circles into his skin driving him crazy without even realizing it. Quintessential Max.

“I’m really good at pining too,” he muttered. He thought the confession would cost him something, but it left him lighter, freer.

It gave him something instead, that spark in Max’s eye, darkened pupils, goofy grin becoming something far more alluring, sexier. His breath caught.

“I really want to kiss you,” Max murmured, his face closing in, eyes slipping to Alex’s lips before meeting his eyes. It wasn’t until they were a couple of centimeters apart before he breathed. “But only if you want me t–”

He surged forward, capturing Max’s lips with his. He was urgent, needy, but Max’s hand cupped the back of his neck, pulling him closer, slowing them down.

Long, lazy, languid kisses dizzying in their delivery. Max’s tongue warm and wet was on the verge of driving him insane.

“Fuck,” he gasped. He clutched Max’s hair, moaned as Max trailed kisses down his jawline and neck, suckled at sensitive spots he didn’t know existed.

Max pulled away, the pads of his thumbs feather-light against Alex’s cheeks.

“Sorry,” Max stammered. “Am I not doing this right?”

For a moment he was gobsmacked, the only thing more shocking than the soft-spoken, awkward poet being such an incredible kisser was him thinking for a second that the sweet torture he inflicted on Alex was anything other than just fucking right.

Max flashed a crooked smile – a glint of mischief in his eye confirmed Max was screwing with him.

“You’re such a shit,” he smirked.

He rested his forehead against Max’s sighed when Max pulled them back until he was hovering over Max.

“You gonna write about this?” He ran his nose along the side of Max’s jawline, nipped along the bone before pulling back.

Their hands entwined rested on Max’s chest, a tangle of black fingernails, silver rings, and ink-stained skin.

The intensity of the adoration in Max’s eyes scared the shit out of him. But it was a fear he could get used to.

Max’s hand slipped to the back of his neck, fingers carding through his hair pulling him forward, chasing his lips.

“I’m gonna dream about this,” Max whispered against his lips.

“Me fucking too,” he panted breathlessly as they made out beneath the stars.

                                             –Fin–

[the-quiet-winds]

Light Everything Inside of You

or Catherine Parr is a fantastic teacher, even when someone is ashamed to admit they need help.

Since the first days of rehearsal, Catherine Parr had very quickly noticed that Jane Seymour was far from well read.

It’s not necessarily a bad thing, but it is something that she observed. The way Jane stumbled over dialogue every once in a while, the way her hand shakes when she’s asked to note something in her script.

It’s subtle, but it’s there. 

Parr doesn’t say anything about it, not for a long time. So long, in fact, that an entire European tour happens before she brings it up, having actually forgot about it during the travel time.

But when they land back in England, after so many months abroad, Parr once again sees Jane’s hand shaking nervously as they all sit together, with history professors from several prominent universities around England about their stories. Told the right way.

The professors, in addition to spoken accounts, had requested short, written anecdotes. Parr and Katherine are the first to finish, then Boleyn, then Aragon and Cleves, leaving only Jane. 

Parr watches Jane carefully - her hand trembles, her letters shaky and half-complete, and there’s a noticeable crease in her forehead, and suddenly all Catherine can see is that same expression from the rehearsal room all those months ago. 

That night, when she hears Jane quietly wandering around downstairs in the dead of the morning hours, she asks about it.

“Hey,” she says lamely, entering the kitchen.

“Hey, Cathy,” Jane answers. “What are you doing up?”

“I could ask you the same thing.”

Jane shrugs, continuing cleaning all of the mugs that had been left in the sink. “I don’t sleep, remember?”

Parr chuckles. “I guess we have that one in common, sister.”

There’s a lull of silence, then Jane speaks again. “Did you need something, love?”

“I just…” Parr fiddles with her sweater. “I noticed something… and I don’t know what to do about it.”

Jane sets down the mug she was cleaning and looks to Parr, confusion evident across her face. “What’s up?”

“Today, during the meeting,” Parr notices Jane’s tiny flinch at the reminder, “I saw... I saw you struggling, Jane, and I was just wondering what was up.”

Jane’s complexion goes redder than the ceramic in the sink. “Just a hard story to tell,” she lies. “Nothing more.”

“You can’t lie to me,” Parr says evenly. “There’s more, Jane.” She softens her tone. “And you can tell me about it, if you want to.”

Jane stares at Parr for a long time, scanning every feature for any sign of dishonesty or malice if she were to tell what was really troubling her. Finally, she sighs, setting down the towel in her hands and leaning against the countertop.

“I…” she pauses, running a hand through her slightly tangled hair. “I was never the most literate woman,” she says quietly yet honestly, looking at the tile of the counter and avoiding Parr’s eyes at all cost. “I barely learned how to read and write. I guess… it’s still pretty hard sometimes.”

Parr is quiet for a long time, and Jane immediately fears that she spoke too much. Parr, intelligent and prose-weaving Parr, would see her for the stupid and uneducated woman she was.

“Jane,” Parr finally says, voice soft, “why didn’t you talk to me about it earlier?”

Jane gives a half-strangled, bitter laugh. “Because I’m supposed to come out and tell the first woman to ever publish a book in England that I have the reading ability of an teenager, if that?”

“You should have told your sister that something was troubling you,” Parr says, keeping her voice low and gentle. “And I would have helped. I will still help,” she amends hastily.

“You will?” Jane asks, incredulous.

“Of course I will,” Parr says. “We can start now.”

And that’s how, if you really cared to know, Catherine Parr and Jane Seymour find themselves holed up in Parr’s study whenever they can’t sleep, which is more frequently than both involved care to admit, reading short stories and other texts under the honey-drenched glow of Parr’s desk lamp. They conduct these secret meetings in secret, in the dead of the night, working in near silence as to not wake any of the other queens.

They start slow, very slow, with just some of Parr’s own works. Jane reads aloud, very quietly, liliting prose and warm poetry until words start to make more sense and sentences start to fall effortlessly.

Then comes the hard part - writing.

But Parr is a wonderful English tutor, Jane comes to find, and they once again start easy. She copies, word for word, short passages from books, nonfiction and fantasy and science fiction all beginning to blend together as she writes them all in one marble composition book Parr found in a desk drawer. 

Parr soon begins to challenge her, pushing her harder in both the reading and writing. She’s forced to read Shakespearean monologues aloud and copy passages from the likes of Hugo and Dickens.

And after long days of performances and looking after Katherine and the others, it’s more than enough to make Jane begin to tear up as she tries to read Macbeth. She stumbles over word after word, feeling Parr’s critical eye on her, Argyle curled in her lap watching her fail too.

Just as Parr is about to take pity on the woman and let her stop, there’s a knock on the door. “Mum?”

It’s Katherine. The fact she’s knocking on Parr’s study door seeking Jane can only mean one thing - she had a night terror. Jane immediately swipes her sleeve over her cheeks several times to hide her tears and opens the door. There’s Katherine, looking concerned but overall just fine.

“Kat? What are you doing up?”

Katherine shrugs. “I heard your voice.” She narrows her eyes as she sees the faint smudges of mascara around Jane’s eyelids. “Are you alright, mum?”

Jane gives a hoarse laugh. “Just fine, love, head back to bed.”

Shaking her head, Katherine all but forces her way into the room. She gasps as she sees the copious amount of books and half-filled pages of writing littering the room. “What have you two been doing?”

Jane very nearly bursts into tears again, not wanting to admit what they had been working on, but she wouldn’t lie to Katherine. “Cathy was teaching me…” she swallows the lump in her throat, “teaching me how to read and write better. I didn’t learn much in the past life.”

Katherine is silent for many moments, and it breaks Jane’s heart. She was probably ashamed to have a stupid, uneducated mother-

“I want to help.”

Jane blinks. “What?”

“I want to help,” Katherine repeats fiercely. “Parr taught me some stuff too, and I want to help you learn, mum.”

Unable to form words, Jane sits back on the bed. Argyle leaps from Parr’s lap, crossing over and rubbing his head against her arm to call for attention. She looks at Katherine as she begins to scratch Argyle behind his ears. “That means a lot to me, love.” 

Katherine beams, then grabs one of the books off the bed and starts reading it with Jane, and it almost amazes Parr how much Jane’s spirits lift. She listens carefully as they read together, noticing the specific wordings that trip Jane up and making notes of them. It is as if Jane’s confidence had increased tenfold, which she is very glad to see.

Over the course of the following week, Katherine would join their tutoring sessions, listening to Jane read and watching her write until she would fall asleep in Jane’s arms. Jane would tuck her into Parr’s bed, always fetching her bear from the other room if Katherine didn’t bring it, and make sure she kept her voice soft so the girl would sleep. 

“I think we should call it a night, Jane,” Parr interrupts one night, startling Jane from the lyrics she is composing. “We have two shows today.” She notices Jane’s dejected look at her notebook. “And whatever you’re working on, I’m sure it can wait until you have a few hour’s rest.”

“Pot calling the kettle black there, sister,” Jane chuckles. She looks to Katherine, curled up in the bed and looking so young and peaceful. She brushes a few stray hairs away from the girl’s face and trails her fingertip in a line down her cheek. “I’m writing her a song. A lullaby, more like.” Suddenly Jane snaps out of her reverie and looks at Parr. “I couldn’t have done it without your help, Cathy,” she says, nearly timidly. 

Parr gives a warm smile. “You’ve made amazing progress, Jane,” she says honestly. “And I’m so happy you came forward to talk to me about this.”

Jane gives Katherine a gentle kiss on her forehead, careful not to wake her, then crosses the room to wrap Parr the latter in the biggest hug she had ever received. “Thank you,” is all she can mumble into Parr’s shoulder, voice laden with tears. “I love you, Cathy.”

Parr holds her just as tight, kissing her cheek gently. “You’re welcome, Jane.” She pauses for just a moment. “I love you too, ma sœur.” 

She feels Jane chuckle against her, so she continues. “Next, I’ll teach you French.”

“I’m holding you to that,” Jane mumbles, and Parr can nearly hear the excited smile in her words.

———————————————————————————————————–

tag list: @percabeth15 @kats-seymour @qualquercoisa945 @jane-fucking-seymour @a-slightly-cracked-egg @justqueentingz @annabanana2401 @wolfies-chew-toy @broad-way-13@tvandmusicals @lailaliquorice @aimieallenatkinson @sweet-child-why03 @gaylinda-of-the-upper-uplands @funky-lesbians@thinkaboutitmaybe @hansholbeingoesaroundzeworld @anaamess@beeskneeshuh @prick-up-ur-ears @theartoflazy @justqueentwo @brother-orion @paleshadowofadragon @lafemmestars @beautifulashes17 @jarneiarichardnxel @idkimbadwithusernamesandstuff @sixcago @mixer1323 @boleynssixthfinger @aimieallen @elphiesdance @boleynthebunny @krystalhuntress @lupin-loves-chocolate @bellacardoza16 @bluify

[leviathan]

You could do parswoops where they are both pining and then swoops finds out that Kent is gay, but he doesnt make a move. then he gets jealous at a gay club while Kent is dancing, So they end up dancing together and making out

i love this ship a whole lot, y’all

(my hockey ocs/omgcp rosters for reference) / (shameless hockey blog self-promo)

—

Kent is beautiful when he plays.

Who is Jeff kidding—Kent is beautiful always—but watching him play is like watching poetry in motion, like watching a hawk in flight. Graceful, flawless, sleek; like he isn’t meant to exist anywhere else.

“You see something you like, Troy?”

Jeff almost jumps out of his skin. “Christ, Mercer; you want me to have a heart attack before we go against the Flames?”

Mercy hums and gives Jeff a significant look that makes him more than a bit nervous before leaning next to him against the glass and watching Kent practice trick shot after trick shot. Spence stands tall, all things considered, and Jeff is once again reminded of how lucky they are to have both Kent and Spencer on their team.

“Nah. You’re a way better winger than Hallsy. Don’t tell him I told you that, though.”

“Well there’s a reason he’s not on the first line,” Jeff sniffs and Mercy snorts out a laugh.

“Come on, you dork; let’s gear up before Parser drills a hole in Spence.”

Jeff watches as Kent shoots once more—a bullet that snipes top shelf, right past Spence’s glove hand, and makes Jeff’s stomach flip pleasantly—before following Mercy back towards the locker room.

///

Really Kent shouldn’t find Swoops cooking for him such a turn on.

Kent’s entire apartment smells like a Mexican restaurant, which is, arguably, the best thing his apartment has ever smelled like. He’d been shooed away from helping (“your hands alone are worth like two million a piece, Parser”) so he’s perched at the breakfast bar, chin in hand as he watches Swoops work.

Kent literally moans around his first bite of enchilada, which doesn’t even phase Swoops.

“Tell me again why you went into hockey and not chef school?” Kent says. “Because, like, no joke; this is the best thing I have ever put in my mouth.”

Swoops rolls his eyes, but Kent can see the grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Shut up and eat your enchilada.”

///

The thing is, Jeff really should have seen this coming. It’s not like Kent had been keeping it a secret—apparently fucking Mercy knew, that bastard—but actually hearing Kent say it hits him like a ton of bricks.

“Fairbanks’ Flowers, down on Second? Yeah, my ex got his mom mother’s day flowers from there once so it’s probably decent.”

Jeff feels his stomach drop.

Kent is watching him with a calm look but a defiant set to his jaw and the only thing Jeff can do is smile. He nudges Kent’s shoulder with his own and Jeff watches some of the tension drain from Kent’s frame.

“I’ll definitely check it out, then.”

///

It’s not like Kent keeps it a secret, the whole being gay thing. It’s just…it’s hockey, so it’s not exactly something he advertises. Mercy knows because they were road roommates their rookie year and he’d caught Kent making out with a guy on more than one occasion, but he’s the only one on the Aces who knows knows. Kent’s sure there are a few that suspect it, but he’s more than happy to let sleeping dogs lie.

So when he lets it slip to Swoops it’s half accident and half…well.

It’s not the first time Kent has had a crush on a teammate and in terms of teammate romances he’s batting a solid zero, but it’s not like crushes are logical because goddamn he’s have given anything to have a crush on a person who might actually like him back.

Swoops, though, he takes it in stride and Kent…well, Kent doesn’t know what to do with that. He doesn’t know what he’d expected, really. Swoops is a genuinely good guy and Kent thinks he remembers him saying something about his niece being gay, but it would have been so much easier if Swoops just turned out to be low key homophobic instead of so readily accepting.

But Swoops moves on like nothing ever happened, and for some reason, Kent’s stomach feels a little bit heavier.

///

“C’mon, it’ll be a good time. Everyone has to go to a gay club at least once in their life. I can show you how to dance,” Kent wheedles. “And besides, it’s, like, a Las Vegas law, basically.”

Jeff rolls his eyes but he feels his resolve crumbling. “Fine,” he says with what he hopes is a long-suffering sigh. “But you’re buying.”

“Hell yeah.”

///

The club is, well, a club.

Kent had managed to rope Mercy along too and Jeff imagines this isn’t the first gay club escapade he’s been dragged along on.

They all do a few brightly colored shots and Kent immediately makes his way to the dance floor, while Jeff hangs with Mercy at the bar.

Even that doesn’t last, and after Mercy finishes his beer, he follows Kent’s footsteps onto the dance floor.

“Hey. Can I buy you a drink?”

Jeff startles then blinks owlishly at the man who has approached him. He’s taller than him but shorter than Mercy (most people are shorter than Mercy), with tousled auburn hair and dark eyes that glint in the flashing neon light.

“I, uh—“ Jeff’s cheeks heat up. “I’m good, actually. Thanks though.”

The man shrugs but his smile doesn’t dim. “I’m Adrien. I’ll be over there if you change your mind,” he says, motioning with his chin to a spot at the far side of the bar before sliding away.

Jeff drains the rest of his vodka soda. Where the hell had Mercy and Kent gone anyway?

He scans the crowd, and— Oh.

Kent is…well, he’s dancing in the loosest sense of the word, grinding against someone Jeff can tell even from this distance is just as pretty as Kent is.

Jeff doesn’t know what comes over him, but one second he’s sitting at the bar and the next he’s pushing through the sweltering throng of bodies towards Kent.

Kent spots him and his eyes brighten. He says something to the man he’s dancing with and breaks away.

“Weren’t you gonna teach me how to dance?” Jeff shouts over the din.

Kent laughs and it’s a beautiful thing, even if Jeff can’t hear it.

“Show me what you’ve got.”

Jeff does, bouncing rhythmically along to the music.

Kent’s hands reach up to run down his shoulders. “Loosen up, old man. Try to look like you’re having a good time.”

Before Kent’s hands can drop, Jeff’s hands to go Kent’s waist to tug him closer.

Kent’s mouth goes slack and his grip on Jeff’s shoulders tightens instead of pulling away. The look in his pale eyes goes from light to something darker.

Jeff’s heart is in his throat as he dances to Kent’s rhythm. He’s acutely aware of every minuscule action, so when his thumbs slip under Kent’s shirt to brush his hipbones and Kent’s mouth parts slightly, Jeff acts on impulse, leaning down and catching Kent’s mouth with his.

It’s like something snaps and Kent’s fingers tangle in Jeff’s hair, tugging him down further.

It’s all teeth for a heartbeat; then Kent tilts his head and Jeff’s entire world shifts.

Jeff’s hands curl more firmly around Kent’s waist as Kent licks into his mouth and Jeff, well, all Jeff can do is kiss back with everything he has.

If watching Kent skate is something beautiful, being the sole focus of that fierce attention is something divine.

[dimancheetoile]

i’ll battle your battles until we win them together

written for @shikasaku-week

Day 3: and we dreamed in purples so i took this prompt to mean something like hope, and dreams of a better future, which is what i tried to incorporate in this story. i'm sorry it's out so long after shikasaku week ended, but i fought it every step of the way and now it's here and i'm very proud of it. so there you go! there is mentions of someone killing themselves after years of depression and self-harm. nothing is described, there are no details, it's only a character recollecting what happened in their head. so stay safe!

Read on AO3

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

The rush hour is over. Shikamaru takes off his apron, folding it neatly before storing it behind the counter. He makes himself a large coffee and waves at his brother, wiping off a table further into the room. Chōji answers with a bright smile and a mouthed “thank you”. Sighing quietly, Shikamaru cracks his neck, stretching his whole body slowly. He grabs his coffee and goes to the other side of the room where a large curtain cuts the room in half.

Going through, he gets to his side of the shop, that he left in Ino' competent hands while he helped Chōji during the morning rush like he does on the days Mirai has off. They work as both a barista in Chōji's bakery and as a cashier and sorter in Shikamaru's bookshop. Ino has her own assistant, technically her apprentice, Hinata. Their system works well, and InoShikaChō's Lair is one of the most successful businesses in town.

Their shop is right in front of Konoha's third largest college, UK3, the Arts and Human Sciences University, and its 70,000 students make for an amazing clientele. On top of that, a block away from them, is the second largest, UK2, the Sciences and Computer Studies University. They are far from going out of bushiness.

The library/bookshop side has both books for sale and a large half of the room where books are available for free for the students coming in to study. There are single tables, group tables, computers and even two small rooms to study privately. Wi-Fi is unlimited if you buy anything from either Ino's or Chōji's sides, you can bring your books in Chōji's bakery and stuff to eat in Shikamaru's library, and they have a customer card for students coming in often. All in all, it works, and this year, they're making profit for the first time in the six years since they've opened.

They have their recurring customers, their favourites, and with how often they get students, they're starting to recognize all the faces coming in. usually, the oldest they get are in their early twenties and they easily spot whenever they get someone older. That's what being next to two universities mean. They almost never get people over twenty-five. Which is why they would have spotted the newcomer immediately simply because she looks about their age, closer to her mid-thirties than undergraduate.

But they didn't need to notice her age. It's not possible to miss when someone comes in using a cane to help with the metal prosthetic right leg, and the green cardigan wrapped around a right side stopping at the shoulder joint, the entire right arm missing.

Shikamaru has to kick himself mentally to stop staring. The new customer is deathly pale, cheeks gaunt and dark circles under eyes that are cast downward in the universal sign for shame. Her sunflower dress clings to a toned waist, making obvious the muscles in her torso, her broad shoulders and muscled arm. Her left leg is stable on the ground, her calf chiseled as well.

Her bowed head almost makes Shikamaru miss the large burns on her right cheek, coming up to her milky, unfocused eye and ending on her temple. Swallowing the surge of almost pervert curiosity, he fixes a welcoming smile on his face and waits to see if the woman will browse the bookshop shelves, the library bookcases or go to the computers. Mirai is sorting new arrivals, having come in as Shikamaru finished with Chōji, and they're filling the slowly growing poetry section. They're watching what the woman will do, but she's standing unmoving in the middle of the room, looking lost and increasingly distraught.

On instinct, Shikamaru grabs his still full cup and hurries to the woman's side. She doesn't look at him, which only serves to make him worry more. Gently, he puts a hand on her shoulder, talking in a low voice.

“Hello, ma'am. Can I help you with anything? Would you like some coffee?”

She looks at him with wild eyes, startles but not jumping at his touch. She nods silently and take a small sip of his coffee before cleaning her throat.

“Hi, I'm sorry about this.”

“No, don't worry, it's alright. What are you looking for?”

“I was wondering—” again, she has to clear her throat, her voice still rough. “I was hoping you could show me books on meditation. Do you have anything like that?”

Glad to have something to do besides standing there like a worried chick, he nods and points toward the self-care section.

“I'll show you what we have. Would you like to come with me or sit down at a table on the bakery side, and I'll bring you what I can find?”

She nods again. “Yeah, I'll— I'll do that.”

Slowly, she walks up to the curtain where a sign leads to Chōji's side and Shikamaru wills himself to get moving and bring her what she came her for. Not on his watch will someone who so obviously needs some help and kindness not find it in their Lair.

He browses through their shelves, picking up meditation books like she asks, and on a whim, adds a book on social anxiety and one about therapy. Maybe she won't need it (though she does look like she could use them) but she doesn't seem like someone who would take offence at being offered the options.

Grabbing a notebook and a pen from the stack he keeps behind his deck for the students, he goes through the curtain and quickly scans the room to find her sitting down in a corner, watching the room with hunched shoulders. There is a steaming cup in front of her and a piece of carrot cake, but still more than enough room for the small stack of books he's bringing her.

Shikamaru plasters a confident smile on his face to make up for his beating heart and approaches her. He has never stressed like that at the idea of interacting with a customer but he could so easily fuck this up that he can feel the sweat gathering at the back of his neck. As patronizing as he knows it sounds, Shikamaru can almost touch how much courage it took her to come into their shop, and he'll be damned if it's not rewarded in the best way he's capable.

And after that, he's taking a nap. There is only so much anxiety he can take in one sitting, and between the woman and him, he might as well be saturated with tension.

“Hey,” he says softly, hoping not to scare her. She barely jumps, which he privately counts as a win. “I've got the books I mentioned, I found a bit of everything. I also brought a pen and some paper, in case you'd like to take notes.”

She listens to him with rapt attention, only serving to increase his unease, knowing something is wrong and not being able to fix it.

“We're open all day long and we close at 9,” he continues. “If you need anything, you ask Mirai, they're the one with the black hair and green sweater sorting books. And I'm also available for any question or recommendation, alright?” He feels stupid, talking to her like a child, but he's completely out of his depth. “All the books I've brought you are in our inventory, so if you want to keep any of them, you can either get a card for the shop and borrow them for two weeks, or you can buy them. Go to the desk when you want to leave and we'll handle it together, okay?”

She nods, her short hair bobbing along with the movement. She's beautiful, he can't help but think, noticing her freckles and the nice curve of her jaw, the hard muscles underneath her skin.

He admires her more than anything, Shikamaru ponders, because it's obvious what happened to her ; and yet she put on a yellow dress with sunflowers growing from the bottom hem and circling her waist, the least discreet clothing she could have picked, and her hair is dyed a pale pink, almost pastel, and as lovely as the colour is, it only brings more attention to the angry burns on her cheek and the melted corner of her mouth, her closed nostril where the skin was destroyed, and the white, unseeing eye.

She chose all of that, she went out without being ashamed of her wounds and scars and missing limbs and cane, her broad shoulders standing straight. It's only as soon as someone talks to her, tries to interact, that she curls back into a shell of jumpiness and anxiety Shikamaru only knows too well. He's read a number of books on the subject, after his old Literature teacher and family friend, Asuma, killed himself.

Before teaching in the university Shikamaru attended, Asuma was a Lieutenant who had a ten-year long career before going back to his first love and starting his teaching again. Shikamaru saw him often, being both a neighbour and a dear friend to his father. The Yūhi family was invited often in the Nara home, with Kurenai being a foster child and Asuma having been disowned by his own family, making them and their baby Mirai a welcome sight at their table.

Then Shikamaru had graduated, worked a couple of months for a newspaper to earn some money that he put with Ino's and Chōji's saving. They opened the Lair together and everything was good for a while. But the changes in Asuma were unmistakable, until he was finally diagnosed with PTSD, paranoia and social anxiety. It all quickly escalated until Asuma could add depression on top, and at that point he had a breakdown. He suddenly needed to seek adrenaline, action. In secret, he joined a group, maybe a gang, that he was introduced to by another veteran, Hidan.

He put himself in more and more dangerous situations, and Shikamaru, not knowing what to do and panicking, turned to the books that never let him down to read all he could on the condition of his teacher and friend, pouring hours upon hours into his research. But Asuma kept going, until Kurenai confronted him with an ultimatum that put a brutal stop to his nightly outings.

They all thought things were better. He told them so. That he was okay. That he didn't crave the danger anymore. But in reality, not only was he hurting himself, but he was desperate at the idea of not doing things anymore, and just as terrified of losing his wife and child. The dilemma was ultimately too much and four years ago, Asuma took his own life.

The shock for all had been cataclysmic, no one understanding why he had done it, how it could have gone so bad without anyone realizing. So Shikamaru read, and read some more, hoping to find an answer to his grief and his guilt. He didn't. He just learned to grow with it, and gained an impressive theoretic baggage in psychology of war veterans. They hired Mirai, after they expressed not knowing what to do with their life and going crazy in their silent home, and here they are now. All of them working together in the shop they've dreamed off, slowly moving on with their life. And with a bonus probable war veteran looking to start meditating.

Why not.

In the next hour, Shikamaru does his best to ignore the woman's presence, with varying degrees of success. She's going through the books he's brought her at an impressing speed, taking rigorous notes and mouthing words he can't hear from afar. As she notices more and more that no one is paying attention to her, she seems to relax, sneaking looks here and there, until she crosses Shikamaru's eyes and ducks her head as quick as she's able.

From time to time, she orders a new cup of coffee, or a slice of Victoria cake, at one point even a pot of ginger tea with a full plate of scones and clotted cream. On her first re-order, she painstakingly stood up, dragging herself to the counter with the most tragic look on her face under Chōji's horrified stare. After that painful experience for all, Shikamaru's brother is keeping tabs on her, noticing when she raises a timid hand and going to ask what he can bring her. She's not even hiding how relieved that makes her feel and Shikamaru takes pride in the idea that maybe it's their place that's making her feel comfortable enough to accept the help.

After a while, he gets caught in the cycle of new customers, purchasing or borrowing books, recommending his most cherished ones when people are just coming in to spend a nice time inside. Ino brings him a cup of herbal tea she's making herself, to get his opinion on her new blend, and he brings a full page of orders for Chōji to sign some time later. He doesn't see the clock ticking and even ends up forgetting about the woman, steadily making her way through the stack of books.

Shikamaru eventually looks up and suddenly it's already time for his lunch break. It's the one time all three of them gets to spend together during the work day and they try as hard as they can not to miss it. They leave Mirai and Hinata in charge of the store and go to their table, in the corner of Chōji's bakery side. The table has a permanent “Booked” sign on it if one of them wants some time away from their respective counter or, in Shikamaru's case, a space to enjoy food or drinks that won't put his books at risk.

Chōji has already laid out their meal when Ino and Shikamaru sit down, in a relaxed conversation about the renewed interest for gardening the twenty-something seem to have taken. Shikamaru's brother lets them have their fun, splitting the food between the three of them and handing them cutlery. As he finishes pouring some ginger beer in each of their glasses, steps get closer to their table with a weird lingering sound to it. Startled out of their routine, given that their customers all know to leave the shop owners and the forty-five minutes they take to eat unbothered, all three of them look up.

Shikamaru curses himself, mortified at having forgotten their unusual visitor and he can see, from the corner of his eye, Chōji's stiffening shoulders. His brother hates making people's lives difficult and he probably had enjoyed helping the woman when she asked for his attention.

She's standing, a bit unsteady on her prosthetic because of the amount of things she's carrying. She has all of Shikamaru's books balanced on her remaining forearm, a paper bag displaying the Lair's logo hanging from her wrist. With all this, Shikamaru notices right away that she isn't using her cane, making both her ability to stand and his ability to feel even more guilty, impressive.

Scrambling up, he immediately offers to take the books for her while Ino quietly sneaks behind them to grab the cane she left at her table and giving it back in a matter of seconds.

“Oh, thank you,” the woman says quietly, blushing faintly.

“It's really nothing,” Ino smiles, sitting back down and looking away to give the woman the sense that she isn't being stared at.

“I apologize,” Chōji says, looking truly distraught. “I should have made sure you'd be alright.”

“No, please, it's okay,” she replies right away. “You have a lovely cashier who made sure I'd be alright as soon as you left to get lunch. They brought me the menu and I purchased some food to go. I'm alright, really.” The dust of pink on her cheeks is unmistakable and Shikamaru hates it, hates that she feels embarrassed by something as mundane as getting food for lunch.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” he asks, biting the inside of his cheek to stop himself from apologizing as well. He's sure it would do no good. “I can ring those books for you if you'd like, or write you a come-back card if you'd rather borrow them.”

She looks down to her mismatched feet, increasing Shikamaru's unease at her own discomfort. “Yes, I— can you, could you...”

Shikamaru rushes to nod, feeling like he understands what she's saying despite everything. She nods as well in response, both looking at each other with matching strange expressions until Chōji pokes his brother in the thigh, seemingly waking him up. He jerks his head towards the curtain in an inviting manner and finds an eerie sense of happiness in realizing he doesn't have to slow down his usual slouch to match the slow pace of the woman. There is something he finds comforting in seeing himself walk side by side with her without having to pretend.

They reach the counter on his side, blessedly empty with Mirai mostly standing in for Chōji during lunchtime. Shikamaru sets down the woman's books between the two of them, taking out a card for her to fill in her information.

She does so with an absent-minded expression, looking up at him briefly before focusing on the card again, her voice rising up barely in the noisy shop.

“I don't know if you realize what you did for me today,” she half-whispers. Her voice is more assured than he's heard it all morning, though nothing close to confident. “No one time did you treat me differently, or like I was helpless. You gave me attention without treating me like a child, helped me only when it was clear I couldn't do it myself.”

She looks up, sliding the card across until it touches his hand. In a daze, he lays trembling fingers on the paper, staring at her, a counter and a world separating (or joining) them. Her own fingers are still on the card, a dice of space between her and his hand.

“I haven't gone out of my house in fourteen months.”

Shikamaru holds his breath, his eyes burning shapes of understanding into hers. The Earth-Fire war ended fourteen months ago by the recall of Earther troops from Fire Country territory. No one had won the eleven-year long conflict, the end of it only signed by the lack of resources to continue it on both side, soldiers dying too fast to be replaced by the shrinking number of volunteers enlisting in either armies. Once the specialists had predicted a shortage of wood coming if the war didn't stop, both sides agreed to a cease-fire. Fourteen months later, the peace still isn't technically signed.

“I've been terrified of the smell of cooked meat. There are food trucks in almost every corner of Konoha, except here.” She sounds so relieved that Shikamaru's eyes water without his control. “You don't even serve meat,” she says, her voice cracking on the last word.

In a rush, Shikamaru sees flashes of their meetings in Choji's kitchen, trying out dishes and deciding on what he'd offer for the morning breakfasts and for lunch and what would be taken to go. He remembers himself, so young and terrified of all that could go wrong with their shop, with little money to spare on anything unnessecary. Suggesting that maybe, in the first few years, they stick to a vegetarian menu, to cut on expanses.

Then, as years went by, realizing how appreciated their pant-based dishes were, in a city known for its beef. Hearing from people who aren't vegetarians, telling them after ordering an omelette that they had a good time and they didn't think there was something a little less restrictive than veganism.

He sees all that in flashes superposing with the woman's pale face, pain obvious in the lines of her skin.

“Can I give you a hug?” His rushed words come crashing down in the sudden silence between them, terrifying in their heaviness.

He stops breathing, his heart beating wildly against his ribcage. He feels fear, profound and new, years of nonchalance and laziness breaking in the face of true pain, on a face he could be seeing every morning in the mirror, with their matching age lines beginning to appear, the same number of years etched into their Identity Book a startling similarity disproved by the century-old look in her tired, mismatched eyes. They're the same age and nothing could make them more different and yet—

Her voice breaks as she says Yes.

He stumbles from behind the counter, shaking from nerves and fear, a sort of breathlessness he hasn't felt once in his life. He doesn't know what's happening. He doesn't feel his arms opening, in a daze, until she falls against him and he realizes she's a thumb taller than him and finally, her head is in the curve of his neck, her harsh breathing pooling against his throat.

She's shaking. He can see it, feel it, when he closes her eyes and pulls her tighter against him.

“It'll be okay,” he whispers against her hair, feeling the absence of her right arm and compensating for it instinctively. “It's gonna be okay.” He's humming, he doesn't know what, but it makes her try to bury herself deeper into the hug, like she's trying to disappear.

He doesn't know what's happening.

He doesn't think he'd want it to happen any other way.

A few, long minutes later, he shows her to the door, still feeling unsteady inside, still unsure of what happened, of why he did that, him, so far from being social, tactile.

She turns around to look at him, standing in the street of a city hostile to her, looking up at a place that was her safe haven for a few hours. She finds his eyes and doesn't look away. He feels that something should be said, that they can't go like this, move on with their lives without... something.

“Thank you,” she says quietly, never looking away even when people have to walk around her on the pavement.

“You're welcome,” he says in the same voice. Then, as if stolen from his throat, “Will you come again?”

A small smile on her face, easing the exhaustion and the pain for a second. “I'd love to, Shikamaru.”

He returns her smile, thrilled for a reason he doesn't understand that she looked at the sign inside the Lair and figured out which one of the three he is.

She looks away, severing something that tugs painfully in his chest. His heart is beating fast.

“Can I have your name?”

She smiles wider, when she turns back to him. “Fleet Admiral Haruno Sakura. It was so nice to meet you.”

He watches her leave, speechless, all the facts he knows about her bombarding his brain. Commander Haruno, who liberated the Kiri province in Water Country with her fleet of fifteen ships, loosing every single one of them in the process. Commander Haruno, declared MIA at the end of the Earth-Fire War, after her ship, the Seventh Titan, left the province liberated from Earthern troupes and made its way back to Fire Country without her.

He didn't recognize her, because every photo he's seen has her in her uniform, red hair pulled back into a tight bun, standing in front of the Fire flag. Pastel pink hair and milky, blind eye seem to be new additions, as well as her title, the highest in the Fire Navy.

Fleet Admiral Haruno, found again, and hiding away in their shop. Hiding from a world that took everything from her and then some, after she protected it with everything she had.

Shikamaru looks back to the street where she disappeared.

She can come back any time she likes. It's their turn to protect her from the shitty world. It's his turn.

[v-thinks-on]

Generations - Part 3

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There was no reason to delay. Kirk didn’t even have a career to sacrifice. He would rather not steal a starship, but having recently returned from the dead, he didn’t have many options.

“Computer, put me through to Admiral Brackett-” Kirk began.

The beep of his communicator cut him off.

“Wait on that,” Kirk ordered and tapped on his communicator.

It was Picard. “Jim, we’ve received a transmission from Ambassador Spock.”

Kirk’s heart leaped. “I’m on my way.” He turned off the communicator, cancelled the call to the admiral and nearly ran down to Picard’s quarters.

“What did Spock say?” Kirk demanded as the doors slid open to let him inside.

Picard was at his desk, working on the computer terminal. He turned it off when Kirk entered and answered with a smile, “He’s on his way. We’ll meet him between here and the Neutral Zone.”

It took Kirk a few moments to truly register what Picard had said. Spock was on his way. There was no need to go to Romulus. He would see Spock soon, in a matter of days. He remembered seeing Spock off like it was just a month ago, but it had been eighty years since Spock had last seen him, since their minds had touched - a whole lifetime. Kirk couldn’t imagine how much had changed in his absence.

A jittery rush of nerves and excitement spread through his veins. He couldn’t hold back a grin.

“Good,” Kirk said, “great.”

“I imagine he’ll be pleased to see you.”

“I hope so,” Kirk said, though he couldn’t really bring himself to doubt it. “Is there anything I can do around here in the meantime?” With nothing left to plan, he could easily go crazy just waiting around.

Picard shook his head. “The Farragut is over staffed as is. I’ve just been doing my best to stay out of the way.”

Kirk couldn’t help but sympathize with the captain stuck on another’s ship. “I don’t envy your position.”

“It gives me some time to catch up on my reading.” Picard gestured toward the book on his desk.

“You collect antique books too?”

“I find it makes for a richer experience.”

Kirk nodded in agreement. He glanced at the novel and exclaimed in surprise, “The Tale of Two Cities?”

“Are you familiar with it?”

Kirk grinned. “It’s a favorite of mine.”

“I didn’t realize you were interested in history.”

“I am, but that one was a gift.”

“I was curious about its portrayal of the French revolution, but it’s clearly written from an English perspective.” Picard frowned at the thought.

“You’re actually French?”

“Yes, I was raised on an old-fashioned vineyard near the border with Switzerland.”

“With your accent, it’s easy to forget,” Kirk said with a wry smile. “I have a similar interest in American history.”

“I know less French history than maybe I should,” Picard admitted. “Usually I prefer archeology; studying lost alien civilizations.”

“Sounds exciting. You’re in the right place to do it, though I was usually preoccupied with the civilizations we found.”

“That’s often the case,” Picard said with a touch of disappointment, “But occasionally I have the chance to uncover something no one has seen in millennia.”

“There’s so much out here, we can barely even brush the surface,” Kirk marveled, leaning back in his chair.

“I’m certain the admiral’s offer stands.”

Kirk waved it off. “I’m retired.” After a moment’s thought he asked, “She said something happened to the fleet?”

Picard nodded. “The Borg. They’re part organic and part machine. They assimilate sentient species into their empire - for lack of a better word. They’re adaptable and relentless, just one of their ships destroyed most of the fleet. They would be centuries away, but a powerful alien we’ve encountered a few times decided to introduce us to them as a sort of practical joke.”

“And there’s no reasoning with them?”

“No, at least not until they see us as a real threat.”

Kirk glanced away, his mind already racing far ahead of him, trying to figure out how to beat such an opponent.

“I’m sorry, I’ve brought you into a dangerous time,” Picard said, jolting Kirk back to reality. “Thankfully, we think most of their fleet is still years away, so we should have some time to improve our defenses before we have to face them again.”

“Every age has its challenges.”

Picard nodded. “I wouldn’t have wanted to get in a fight with the Klingons.”

“We didn’t fight them face to face much. It was mostly just competing over allies and resources, but they did play dirty.”

“The Klingons? They can be ruthless, but they have their honor - for the most part. The Romulans on the other hand…”

“Maybe things have changed in eighty years. We only encountered the Romulans a few times, but they seemed to be honorable in their way.”

“I’ve just read about your times, but it seemed like the galaxy was a very different place.”

“I have a lot of catching up to do,” Kirk said with a smile.

“If you want any lighter reading, you’re welcome to borrow a book,” Picard offered. “My quarters were mostly undamaged in the crash.”

“What do you have?”

Picard led him over to a small cabinet in the corner, full of books. Some were a little charred around the edges and others had been banged up pretty badly, but they all looked readable. Kirk bent over to peruse the titles. There was Shakespere, some Klingon poetry, a few books in French, and other classics from all over the galaxy, even some Vulcan philosophy.

Kirk was considering the Vulcan philosophy when something else caught his eye - “The Campaigns of Alexander, it’s been years since I last read that!”

“You’re welcome to it.”

“Thank you.” Kirk carefully drew the old book out of the cabinet and flipped through the pages, scanning for familiar names and places - in all honesty, he was mostly looking for Alexander’s loyal companion, Hephaestion.

Picard hesitated. “If you get tired of reading, I’ve been meaning to go fencing when I have the time, you could join me,” he suggested a little awkwardly.

“I’ve never fenced before, but I could give it a try.”

“I can teach you the basics.”

“Sure. Just tell me when and I’ll meet you in the gym - this ship does have one?”

“Yes.”

“It has about everything else.” More seriously, Kirk said, “Thank you.”

“Not at all.”

Kirk took the book and returned to his quarters, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to focus on reading - maybe later in the evening it could distract him from tossing and turning in bed. Instead, he left The Campaigns of Alexander on the table and made his way up to the ship’s bar. It was still bustling, but he recognized a few familiar faces in the crowd. Guinan waved to him from the bar and he spotted Riker and Worf at a table, not far from where they had been sitting when he ran into them the day before.

Kirk greeted Guinan with a nod and headed over to the table staked out by the senior officers.

“Captain Kirk,” Riker exclaimed, “I see you’re as bored as the rest of us.”

Kirk shrugged. “I’m helping by staying out of the way.”

“Those are the captain’s orders,” Worf grumbled.

Riker stood and insisted, “Have a seat.”

After much rearranging and polite apologies, Kirk ended up in a chair that had been hastily vacated by a timid ensign, who would not reclaim it despite all his protests, and promptly fled to the far corner of the room.

“Rank has its privileges,” Riker said wryly.

Kirk just shook his head. 

“So, Ambassador Spock is on his way,” Riker remarked once Kirk was settled.

Kirk grinned. “News travels fast.”

“I heard you married him to keep him from being assigned to another ship when he was your first officer,” Riker said, though he was careful to neither endorse nor deny the assertion.

“No, it was for the joint shore leaves once Spock had a ship of his own,” Kirk countered.

Worf glanced between them, as though he couldn’t decide if it was worse if they were lying or telling the truth. “I thought Vulcans were supposed to be logical,” he said at last.

“But when a man is in love…” Riker trailed off.

Worf looked dubious.

“I’m surprised you decided to get married at all, or do the history books have you pegged all wrong?” Riker asked.

“Vulcans have a different idea of marriage than humans,” Kirk said, though he couldn’t say much more.

“I see,” Riker said with a grin. “And it sounds like he was one hell of a first officer too.”

“I couldn’t ask for any better. Does Mr. Data have much command experience?”

“Putting together a command team already?”

“No” - Kirk waved off the suggestion - “I was just wondering what the crew makes of him.”

“He took a little getting used to,” Riker admitted. “But I don’t think there’s anyone who’s gotten to know him that doesn’t like him.”

Worf nodded in agreement.

“What about you?” Kirk asked. “Do you have your eyes set on a first officer?”

Riker shook his head. “I’ll probably get a command one day, but I’m happy here for now.”

“Really? I was probably promoted too young, but I’m surprised you’re not ready to get out of here.”

“So am I, But I’m happier as first officer on the Enterprise than I’ve been anywhere else, and I think that’s more important than a promotion.”

“Who am I to argue with that? I accepted a promotion to admiral and where did it get me?”

“Was it really that bad?”

“For someone else, maybe not, but I don’t belong on Earth commanding a console. There’s nowhere better than the bridge of the Enterprise.”

“I’d toast to that.” Riker raised his glass and tipped it back.

“Hear!” Worf exclaimed and followed suit.

“She was a good ship. I hope the Enterprise-E will live up to the name, but I don’t know if it’ll ever be quite the same.”

“It isn’t,” Kirk said. “You were in command when she was destroyed?”

Riker nodded.

“I sacrificed the first Enterprise for a lot less. It was still worth it, but the Enterprise-A never felt like home in the same way.”

Riker finished the dregs of his drink. “Speaking of, I should probably get back to approving those transfers for when we do get the Enterprise-E. It was good talking to you, Worf, Captain.” With that, he stood and took his leave.

Another officer promptly stole the vacated chair to take it to another table, and Kirk found himself alone with the Klingon. They seemed to size each other up, neither quite ready to make the first move.

To Kirk’s surprise, Worf spoke up, “At Starfleet Academy, I read about your battles with the Klingons.”

Kirk nodded. He would have been lying to say he regretted them.

“You were a true warrior,” Worf concluded.

“I admit, I was sometimes lacking in diplomacy, but our mission was peaceful exploration,” Kirk attempted.

“But you fought well,” Worf protested.

It sounded like it was intended as a compliment, but Kirk wasn’t quite ready to take it. Instead, he asked as casually as he could, “Are you the only Klingon in Starfleet?”

“Yes,” Worf said.

“Why? The Klingons must still have their own fleet.”

“After my family was killed in the Khitomer massacre, I was raised by humans,” Worf explained, but with the way he said it, he might as well have been talking about someone else’s family.

Still, Kirk’s eyes widened in surprise. “Oh, I didn’t realize. That can’t have been easy.”

“I faced some challenges,” Worf acknowledged stoically.

“You almost sound more like a Vulcan than a Klingon,” Kirk suggested with a smile.

“Vulcans are pacifists” - Worf said the word “pacifist” with some disdain.

“That’s usually the logical course of action,” Kirk argued, “But there’s no one I’d rather have on my side in a fight.”

Worf gave him a look of disbelief.

Wryly, Kirk asked, “You’re set on being a Klingon?”

“That is what I am,” Worf insisted.

“You’re right,” Kirk said. It had been unfair of him to suggest otherwise. “How is it, serving on a ship full of humans?”

“They are not warriors, but they are good colleagues” - Worf hesitated - “And friends.”

“Good. I don’t know what I would have done if I’d been assigned a Klingon officer,” Kirk admitted. “I can only hope I would have followed your Captain Picard’s example.”

“Many Klingons still have a difficult time accepting the Federation as our allies. Most humans would not fare well on a Klingon ship - they do not understand the glory of war.”

“Some do, but they usually end up as the villains.”

“Yes, I do not understand why humans place so much value in reluctance.”

“Maybe we’re just indecisive,” Kirk suggested with a wry smile.

“That is not how I would describe my human colleagues.”

Kirk tried again - “Isn’t it better to go to war for a good cause than a bad one?”

“Perhaps,” Worf acknowledged, “But humans seem to place no value in the glory of battle.”

“No, I suppose we don’t. We’re not so fond of death and destruction.”

“You fear it,” Worf charged.

“With good reason.”

“Why fear the inevitable? At least a warrior can die well.”

“Is anything really inevitable?”

“All things die.”

“I don’t know, I’ve managed to cheat death well enough myself.”

“Your case is a unique one,” Worf admitted, “But eventually you will die.”

“Maybe, but I don’t believe in no-win scenarios. Even if everything supposedly dies, there’s no reason to surrender and let it happen.”

“You would consider charging into battle, prepared to die, a surrender?” Worf demanded.

“Isn’t it better to live to fight another day?”

“Not if all your days are spent fleeing in fear of death.”

“Maybe you’re right, but if there’s a way…” Kirk trailed off, his eyes gazed out the windows that made up the far wall.

For a moment Worf drank in silence. Abruptly, he remarked, “I don’t understand how you humans can spend days on end doing nothing but waiting.”

Kirk looked back at the Klingon with a smile. “We don’t like it any more than you do. We just try to distract ourselves.”

Worf seemed to consider the suggestion. “Maybe I will go see if the Farragut’s holodeck has a suitable calisthenics program. You are welcome to join me.”

Kirk was curious, but shook his head. “Maybe another time.”

“Very well.” Worf finished his drink and took his leave.

Kirk was in his quarters reading when Counselor Troi dropped by. She joined him at the desk, no doubt ready with another barrage of questions.

“Good afternoon, Counselor,” he said, putting the book aside. “What can I help you with?”

To his surprise, she asked, “What are you reading?”

He smiled. “The Campaigns of Alexander. I borrowed it from your Captain Picard.”

“Alexander the Great?” she clarified.

He nodded.

“May I ask why that book in particular?”

“It’s a classic.”

Troi could tell there was another reason, but she didn’t press him on it. Instead she said, “The captain told me that Ambassador Spock is on his way.”

Kirk grinned. “Yes, I know.”

“How do you feel about seeing him after so long?” Troi attempted.

“It’ll be good to see him again,” Kirk said with half a shrug, as though there wasn’t anything else to be said, but the counselor could sense a deeper turmoil of nerves and uncertainty.

She decided it was time to take another approach. Starting on more solid ground, she asked, “When did you last see your husband?”

Kirk glanced away in recollection. “It was a little over a month before the launch of the Enterprise-B - Spock could tell you exactly how long. He was on Earth for just a few days between meetings with the Klingons. He wasn’t an ambassador yet, but he was well on his way.” Troi could feel some bitterness amidst his pride.

“Did you have many chances to talk to him while he was away?” she asked.

Kirk gave her a wry smile. “A few.” Troi could tell that it was intended as a joke, but she didn’t know why.

“You spoke with him frequently?” she clarified.

“You could say that,” Kirk said with that same private bemusement.

“Is there anything you wish you could have told him before you fell into the Nexus?”

He shook his head. “If I knew I wasn’t going to be in there forever, it would have been nice to let him know, but there weren’t any secrets between us.”

Kirk was carefully keeping something out of the conversation, Troi could feel it, but she didn’t know what. Unless… She hesitated. “When I first met you, in sickbay, I sensed that you were attempting to contact someone telepathically. I am aware that Vulcans have significant telepathic abilities, did you and Ambassador Spock have a telepathic connection?”

Kirk grinned and she could feel that she was correct. “Vulcans are a very private people, Counselor.”

“I see…” she said. Delicately, she continued, “I take it you and Ambassador Spock have not been in contact since you left the Nexus?”

He shook his head. “Not a word.”

“I’m sorry. To go from constant communication to nothing must be very unsettling.”

Kirk grimaced. “We were ‘out of contact’ for a few years after Spock’s death. It was a lot worse then, but it is still unsettling.”

“How do you think your husband is feeling right now, on his way to see you?”

“He is a Vulcan,” Kirk said with a wry smile.

She just gave him a look.

Again, Kirk glanced away, out the window, in thought. “I don’t know,” Kirk admitted at last. “I know I miss him, but it’s been so long… Eighty years… It’s longer than I’ve been alive. I can’t imagine… Maybe he’s just coming here to prevent me from going to Romulus.”

“Do you actually believe that?”

“No. But it might be easier for him if I hadn’t come back.”

“Why?”

“I’ve given him a lot to worry about.”

“You seem to worry a lot about him,” she pointed out.

“While I was in the Nexus, at least I was safe. I can’t say as much about him.”

“If your connection really was severed” - Kirk winced at the thought - “He may not have known you were safe,” Troi remarked.

“I don’t know…” Kirk trailed off. He hoped the bond hadn’t been broken. Even if it hadn’t, it was probably silent on Spock’s end, but he was a proper telepath, maybe he could sense something that Kirk couldn’t.

“How do you think he feels?” Troi prompted again.

“I hope he hasn’t been too worried. Jean Luc said Spock still feels guilty for the time I spent on Rura Penthe, but I don’t even think an illogical human could spend eighty years worrying.” He gazed out the window, lost in thought. “I wonder how much he’s changed…”

“En garde!” Picard called out.

Kirk raised his sword for another attack - it was surprisingly heavy between his fingers. The stiff uniform was stifling, the helmet like a cage over his head. He peered at Picard through the mesh - not that he could see his opponent’s face - his sword bouncing in his hand.

Kirk let Picard come to him - they had barely bothered with footwork. Their swords met. He could tell Picard was going easy on him, maneuvering his blade this way and that in small neat motions that Kirk was sure left him wide open for an attack that Picard was kind enough not to take. Kirk circled Picard’s blade with his own in an attempt to replicate them, but it didn’t get him anywhere.

Finally, he threw caution to the wind and took a wild stab.

The alarm went off - the tip of Picard’s blade had caught on Kirk’s glove, winning him the match.

Picard raised his blade in a salute and Kirk only belatedly remembered to follow suit before pulling off his helmet. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath of fresh air.

“Good bout,” Picard said.

Kirk opened his eyes and accepted Picard’s gloved hand with a wry smile.

“It’s a lot harder than it looks,” Kirk remarked as he tried to shrug off the thick jacket.

“It just takes practice,” Picard said, though he looked a little smug. “Not up for another?”

Kirk shook his head. “I think I’ll stick to wrestling.”

Kirk accepted a towel from Picard, grabbed a glass of water from the replicator and let himself fall onto the bench by the wall to catch his breath. Picard soon joined him.

They sat in silence, catching their breath. Abruptly, Picard asked, “You’re married - I don’t suppose you ever had children?”

A grimace flitted across Kirk’s face. “I had a son, but I barely knew him.” More lightly, he asked, “Do you have kids?”

“No,” Picard said. “The closest thing I had to a son was my nephew, René, but he and my brother were killed in a fire recently.”

“I’m sorry. David died a few years ago - give or take a few decades - but I never really mourned him.”

“I never liked children,” Picard continued, “But René was the exception. Now, I wonder if I made a mistake not settling down and having children of my own.”

“I don’t know. I didn’t settle down either. David wasn’t really mine. I was his father, but his mother and I weren’t together; she didn’t want him taking after me and running off across the galaxy, so I stayed away. I didn’t think twice.”

“Do you regret it?” Picard asked.

“Of course I regret not being there when I should have, but I wasn’t ready then and I don’t know if I’ve ever been ready. Spock certainly didn't want kids," he added a little less seriously - though he didn’t know what Spock wanted now.

"I didn’t think I did either, but now I’m not so sure.” Picard hesitated. “That’s what the Nexus showed me - a whole family in a stately old home. I thought that was what my brother wanted, that I’d moved beyond it somehow, but maybe we were more similar after all.”

“Maybe,” Kirk said, “But it would be hard to captain the Enterprise from the family homestead.”

“True. Perhaps the Nexus merely shows us a path not taken rather than our hearts’ desires.”

“I would rather be on a bridge than that old cabin any day,” Kirk said with a smile.

“Why did you retire?”

Kirk’s smile quickly faded. “I gave up too much. Spock died because of me. He came back, but I couldn’t risk it happening again.”

“Surely it was dangerous before,” Picard attempted.

“We always made it out alive somehow.”

Picard hesitated. “I didn’t die, but I was assimilated by the Borg to be their representative to humanity. I lost my identity - part of myself. I considered leaving Starfleet, that it wasn’t worth the risk, but with more than a little help I learned to live with it.”

“You’re a braver man than I am, Captain.”

“I don’t know. Perhaps I just have less to lose.”