#cardinals city connect

[themlb]

"From the Lou" ft. Nelly: Cardinals City Connect | St. Louis Cardinals

rawchili.com

[starbirdsonthearch]

"Omg the cardinals city connect jerseys are so boring, worst ones in the league smh"

SHUT THE FUCK UP, WE GOT LARS NOOTBAAR WITH A BOOMBOX

[conniesmlb]

[borgialucrezia]

"She must have been truly remarkable and exceedingly beautiful. […] However, Giulia is not like Vannozza, a humble lover. She does not dwell in the shadows like her predecessor. She hails from a different background, a different upbringing. She is connected to the noblest and most influential families in the city. Therefore, she aspires to play a significant role in papal Rome. And she succeeds. She is the most admired and respected woman; she proudly displays her love, showcasing it publicly during ceremonies, receptions, and even at church. And she will flaunt it even more prominently within the very walls of the apostolic palace when Cardinal Rodrigo Borgia ascends to the papal throne. At that time, she will achieve great triumphs at the court of Alexander VI and will gleefully laugh when the satirical verses of the common people and irreverent ambassadors dub her 'the bride of Christ.'" — Gustavo Sacerdote, Cesare Borgia: His Life, His Family (1950)

[belokhvostikova]

𝐘𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐆𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐁𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤 𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐋𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭

𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 | What was supposed to be a summer vacation to your boyfriend's hometown, turned into God's greatest test of morality against you. In other words, you basically fuck your boyfriend's best friend, Eddie Munson.

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | Swearing, mention of alcohol, drug use, jealousy, possessiveness, small violence, a threat of murder (little yandere, but not really-ish, I don't know, to be honest), slightly dark (I think, right? Maybe?) cheating, and explicit sexual content: fondling, spitting, dom/sub dynamic, name calling, degradation/praise kink, finger sucking, nipple play, face slapping, pussy slapping, masturbation (male), fingering, handjob, cum eating, squirting, and unprotected vaginal sex.

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞 | I... don't know what this is. Just take, goddamn it, there, take me for all I'm worth! Do I condone cheating? No. But did this idea make me really horny? Yes. And he's a little mean, so be warned.

𝐌𝐢𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐬, 𝐃𝐨 𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐈𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭.

Sometimes… you wished he’d never spoken those words. 

When two weeks into his summer vacation in Hawkins, Indiana was enough time spent away from the debilitating semesters of university to have his newfound room—proffered by the closest of a distant family member, because two months with the folks would just be too much—smelling of the fresh cologne of clean air and washed linen; the smell that warmed you with the loving memories of ten months of sweet kisses and heavenly whispers. 

When his navy blue comforter wrinkled under the weight of tussling bodies, because in those mere two weeks—his half in Hawkins, yours in Indianapolis—both hearts ached for the touch of one another, and he refused to deprive himself from the physical contact of his love, you. Crushing kisses, trailing hands, and connecting bodies to commemorate the rising sun, because a town miles away from the bustling city of beeping traffic and screaming pedestrians left room for the morning songs of the Northern Cardinal.

When the exhaustion of a two hour journey through cornfields and even smaller towns guided you to the place where he relished you in the memories of his boyhood; swing sets on the playground, the arcade after homework, Tuesday performances at the Hideout. Such memories came to life for you when the aluminum stock sign welcomed you into Hawkins. Sore from stiffness, your limbs crashed into the embrace of your lover, where your first night in the cursed town consisted of fucking the Friday night darkness away, until bodies glowed under the welcoming sun of the Saturday morning, where dewy grass freshened the air in contrast to the concrete slabs of cracked busy sidewalks you grew up on. 

But then… he spoke those words. 

When a stroking thumb against the hairs of your brow elicited the tired whine from your mouth, as you nuzzled your face into his naked chest to shield you from the burning sunshine pouring from the basement window. Your eyes woke to his dozy lips, chapped with pinched corners to show off the crookedness of his teeth that brought such beautiful character to his soul. Puffs of morning breath warmed your somnolent face with his morning greeting.

“I know I’ve told you this like a million times,” he croaked, “but I really am so happy that you’re here. With me.” His heavy hand landed on the apple of cheek to encourage your growing smile. “Can’t wait to show you around, can’t wait for you to meet my friends- the guys.”

Now, a new cologne of ashy darkwood and burning spices tarnished the content bubble of ten months of sweet kisses and heavenly whispers with groping handfuls and filthy intimacy. An anxious pit of guilty dread now eats you alive when the musk of his igniting cigarettes invades your being, but how can you think of such worrisome, when it’s the same scent that has your face torching with flames of desire and heart fluttering with anticipation for a new love- a different kind of love?

Other times… you are happy that he spoke those words. 

Because it led you to Eddie Munson.

-

Her diamond scintillated, shoved in your face by her persistent eagerness to show off the glowing ring that beamed under strobe lights of greens and reds that twirled from the tiny disco ball. Eric Marcher, who couldn’t give you anything more than a nod of acknowledgement when introduced—despite his intimate hand clasp and hug combo with your boyfriend, had been detailed to you as the man needed when small town goers were itching for party favors. Now, in the cul-de-sac of Mirkwood, a lively get-together of strangers, like Cheryl “soon-to-be-Levison” Daniels, bombarded you with the overwhelming hospitality of detailing their personal life to the woman who snagged Braun Peterson. 

A large smile matched that of her ring, beaming with a boastfulness of pride for fulfilling that suburban wife “dream” role, but you couldn’t blame her. A fat rock rested upon her finger to symbolize her everlasting love with her partner? Hell, you’d shove it in other people’s faces, as well. “It belonged to Nana Leslie before Oliver got it with her blessing. See, my daddy was never able to give it to my momma, because well, Nana never liked her,” you met her seven minutes ago, “but, anyways, it’s been in the family for two generations, and now it’s mine!” 

“Oh, wow.” You liked her and her family drama. Your hands maneuvered to twist her finger, watching how beautifully the jewelry captured the light. 

“I mean, it was kinda rash, ya’know, with the war and whatnot.” Her Midwestern accent sang. “Oliver wanted to tie the knot before his deployment, but I was not about to do it in City Hall. Though, he did promise me a big wedding when he comes back from Iraq.” She longingly sighed, as you nodded along. “Ya’know, something that doesn’t involve a smelly courthouse. “What about you?”

You chuckled. “What about me?”

“Have you and Braun discussed when you’d be getting married?” 

You nearly choked on your drink despite not even having one. “Oh.” Quite the response to offer. “We’re, um, not exactly there yet. I mean, we haven’t even been dating for a year.” You awkwardly laughed.

“Well, you don’t wanna wait too long!” Cheryl huffed out an airy laugh. “It’s like, when ya’know you know, ya’know?” Her attempt to philosophize the concept of love left your head nodding along to move the conversation, but Cheryl “soon-to-be-Levison” Daniels surely had to knack to keep talking. “And don’t you know?”

Do you know? “Um-”

“Would you quit harassing my girlfriend?” A familiar hand squeezed your shoulder, before the presence of Braun Peterson came from behind the couch, where he bent down to smile at you. 

“I am not harassing your girlfriend.” Cheryl scoffed. “And come on, I’ve been your best friend since we were babies! I know you! And I know you always talked about getting married!” She sternly punctuated. “I mean, it’s literally what made you cuter than the rest of the boys on the playground.”

Braun derided. “Okay, first of all, we were never best friends, I just had to endure being in the same grade as you.” You both chuckled, as Cheryl dramatically gasped. “And secondly, in case it wasn’t obvious, I’m not a seven-year-old that’s desperate to propose to any girl who was willing to push me on the swingset.”

“Oh!” You piqued his interest. “I happen to be a great companion on the swingset, I’d love to join you.” You sweetly beamed, an endearing feature that had him devastatingly blushing with love.

“Yeah?” He whispered in your face, where you met his question with a nod, reeling him in for a kiss. 

“Ugh, see!” Cheryl’s voice had you separating with a hot face. “Marriage material! At least a proposal by the first year mark.” Her brows teased, forcing him to laugh in disbelief. 

But Braun Peterson smiled, nonetheless, and your throat had constricted. While the idea of marrying your first serious boyfriend wasn’t the most unsettling notion, the reality of it coming faster than anticipated from the opinions of those closest to him, who unfortunately were raised in the small town mindset of a white picket fence before the age of twenty-five, had your tummy swirling with queasiness. Freshly out of university, the last thing you needed was a ring waying you down by a man whose loud chewing you were still trying to adjust to. A proposal in two months was not in schedule. 

Because dinner was on Saturday. Meeting the parents was next Wednesday. Niece’s birthday party in two weeks. At least three years of dating before moving in. The fourth year, an engagement. The fifth, a wedding. Children? Somewhere long after. 

Strict? Maybe. But perfect in your mind of precision? Absolutely.

“Um, could you get me something to drink?” You interrupted the possibility of any more talks of the future. “I just have to, uh, run to the bathroom real quick.”

His hand rubbed down your back so perfectly, calming the nerves that festered in your stomach. “Absolutely.” He assured you, as always. “I’ll find us something to eat, too, baby.”

So perfect, so perfect.

Your legs had guided you away from the living room before you could muster a brief goodbye. Maneuvering around shifting bodies, you found yourself counting the steps of the staircase, feeling the utter disappointment when the last steps came out in odd numbers, but the bathroom was two doors down, and the last thing you needed was to obtain tunnel vision from the minor details that didn’t fit your standards of life.

A knock to the wooden door with a silent response lifted the weight off your shoulders, permitting you to open the door and finally receive some peace. But the breath that nested in your throat lost its chance to be of relief, when a presence carried over from behind you, shoving you into the bathroom, with a  determined slam to the door. 

A rough hand muffled any of your attempts to yell out, but your stiffened body had luckily learned to vaguely relax when the man behind you turned you against the bathroom counter, and you came face-to-face with someone who familiarly made your body shudder under his stare. 

His hands moved to grip the porcelain of the sink on either sides of you. “Eddie…” You gulped, as your chest heaved. “God, y-you scared, um, I- is s-something wrong?”

“You’re making quite the impression out there, aren’t ya?” His lip barely curled into a smile, as he stared down at you. “Everyone just fucking loves you, don’t they?”

You refused to meet his eye, trying to move from the caging of his arms, but his persistence left you trapped. “Um,” you sighed, “y-yeah, all your friends are nice-”

“Oh, no, sweetheart, they aren’t my friends.” He spoke so dauntingly. “They’re your boyfriend’s friends, remember? Your boyfriend?”

“Yeah,” you cleared your throat, “um, I should go, Eddie. I need to leave.”

“No, you fucking don’t.” He deeply chuckled, finding amusement in the panicked look of your face. “You just got here.”

“Look, Eddie, I don’t know what you’re trying to do-”

“Me?” He scoffed. “I’m not tryna do anything, you’re the one that fucking started it.” His forehead forcefully pressed against yours, shoving your head back so you’d finally look him in the eye. “Remember?” He tauntingly cooed at you, getting in your face. “Remember you being a slut, and startin’ it? Because I sure fucking do.” He spat. “So don’t ask me what the fuck I’m doing, when you started it.”

Your breath heavied, as his nose ran against yours, and you squeezed your eyes shut to wield the strength to compose your anger, a hatred solely targeted to yourself. You were certain Eddie was feeding off of the visceral pounding of your heartbeat, getting off on the sheer panic of your being. 

And you hated yourself for loving it. 

“N-Not here.” You thickly swallowed. “Please.” Such a desperate plea, and it had him laughing in your face. 

“‘Not here?’” He mocked. “I think I can have you wherever I want, no? It’s sure as hell not like you’re gonna stop me, pretty girl.” A soft kiss planted on your cheek had your eyes opening. “God, you really are so pretty, y’know that, baby? Do you know just how pretty you are?”

“Eddie…” His eyes bored into yours, piercing your desire with a burning itch that had you intoxicated on his strong scent. You watched a smirk etch onto his face, as he watched you follow the outline of his plump lips. Do it. Do it. Do it. You were screaming at yourself to just give in. Thighs clenching, heart racing, mouth salivating for the man that enticed you like no other. Your breath shuddered, as your shaky fingers delicately placed themselves against his shaven face. 

Just a taste. Just a little.

You reached onto your tippy toes to feel the soft skin of his lips gently brush against yours. You were dictating this. He was letting you dictate this. Because when it all crashed, you started it, you’d be to blame. All it took was the shy kiss fueled by your hesitancy for Eddie Munson to consume what he wanted, and his tongue shoved past your teeth to ravage your taste. He had you gasping against his lips, nothing touching you but his mouth, but it felt like he was pinning you against your will. 

Eddie’s knuckles blurred white from the tightening grip you had him enduring, because frustration coursed through his body, as he fought the restraints keeping him from just giving in and fucking you against the bathroom sink. A guttural growl lurched from his chest, “What are you doin’?” He smashed his lips against you. “I didn’t ask you to kiss me.” He sneered.

His comment forced a lump to be caught in your throat, urging you to push away from his chasing lips. “N-No…” Another breathless kiss smeared against you. “Stop, Eddie, we can’t-”

“Shut your fucking mouth.” He interrupted with his tongue injected into your mouth. “Remember you wanted this.”

You were awful. “No!” You whined, unwilling to face the reality of your cruelness. 

“Oh, but, yes, baby.” He humiliated you with his mocking tone. “Yes, remember?” He whispered into your make out. “It was you, you fucking looked at me.” Eddie scorned. “How fucking stupid are you to think I wouldn’t do somethin’ about you lookin’ at me, huh? You remember lookin’ at me?” His kisses were becoming more aggressive. “You fucking looked at me, sweetheart!” You felt the air in your lungs burn from his resistance to letting you breathe. “What the fuck do you expect me to do when you were fucking lookin’ at me like that, huh?!” 

And you had been looking at him…

-

Three days ago, the Hideout had been an unfamiliar experience to you on the night of May 30th. It became evident as such when Mary Jane platform pumps rather distastefully met the abhorrent crunch of breaking asphalt from the gravel parking lot, where beat up cars and pick-up trucks haphazardly parked themselves with no formation, clearly lacking the etiquette for what was promised to you as a “nice” establishment. A wave of regret had drowned you in despair as you walked out of your car, immediately being met with the obscene noises coming from a drunken man nearly hacking a lung out, only to shoot his spit and mucus onto the dead bushes that once decorated the place wonderfully in the 60s. You begrudgingly passed the neglected entrance; its doors open for the sleazy, middle-aged men of Hawkins, Indiana to make themselves right at home, as they littered themselves amongst the breadth of the property, sparsely filling up tables and stools with cold beers to accompany them. A gasp of disgust had petered out of your lips, when each step you took sticky film residing on the weathered wood of the floor clung to the outsoles of your beloved heels, coating them with decades of syrupy beer that had found solace within the bar from the happy accidents that tailored the feng shui of the Hideout.

You were appalled. 

It was beyond the definitions of obvious that you had overly dressed yourself for the occasion. It was at this moment, you were mentally curing Braun Peterson for providing the wrong impression, completely overselling the bar he once played in, and disregarding the lack of formality that came with the building and its loyal customers. 

“Babe, it’s got a decked out bar, you can order whatever you like, trust me, my boy Johnny will whip it up, and it’s got plenty of tables for you to sit your pretty self down and enjoy the show. Not to mention, the nicest stage where you can watch me perform. It’s gonna be great, I promise!”

With a rush of worriment devouring you, you insecurely hugged your bare arms over yourself in an attempt to shield yourself from the preying eyes of unabashed stares coming from bulky men, old enough to be your father, who proclaimed themselves as regulars and patently peering to you as new meat.

Endeavoring the will to appear not so lost and clueless, you walked with your head held high, a fabricated facade of confidence, and you took refuge onto the high top table that accommodated two uncomfortable stools that shared the same layer of dust as the plastic faux wood of the table.

Yeah, you were definitely going to have it out with Braun Peterson. 

Your body felt rigid, guarding yourself from potentially coming in contact with anything biohazardous, while also feeling so small from the persistent scary stares that you felt so strongly were examining your body as if you had no autonomy. And maybe you were being a bit pretentious at this moment, but given the overflow of staggering malaise that was consuming your being and clearly placing you into an uncomfortable environment, there was an absolute negative chance of actually enjoying the night, especially after you were going to dish one out to Braun. 

Speaking of which, you caught sight of the slick-back, blond hair that was pursuing your way from a slim hallway that catered to the southend of the building, which presumably led backstage. “Hey, you made it!” Incompetent to your unease, Braun had merely stepped up and shoved you into a tight hug, a kiss swiftly placed onto your lips with a smacking mwah.

While he spoke so highly, clearly excited for his performance, you couldn’t fathom reciprocating his energy, immediately stating your concerns with a whine into his embrace. “What is literally wrong with you?”

Judging by your tone, anyone could have discerned the genuine disturbance from being in such situation, but ever the comedian, Braun merely chuckled. “That could be an hour long discussion, babe.” Your eyes flashed with disbelief at his choice to dismiss your evident worries. 

You sighed, resisting the urge to not scream in public to cater to his comfort. “No, Braun, I’m serious. Why didn’t you tell me what kind of bar this was?” You pleaded, hoping he’d acknowledge your troubles rather than brushing them off. That was one thing you had quickly discovered from the months of making it official with Braun Peterson; he had quite the sense of humor, which wasn’t at all particularly harmful, but this “sense of humor” had a funny way of not knowing when to draw the line. The line always seemingly crossing your boundaries. But god forbid you spoke out. Last time you did, his roommate Josh asked you to quit being uptight on Braun’s behalf. “I look like I’m dining at a Michelin Star restaurant, not grabbing drinks at some middle-of-nowhere bar. Why didn’t you specify?”

You really didn’t want to cause such a confrontation on his first night back performing at the place in which he claimed was “the start of everything” for him but, my god, you were seething with irritation. 

“Shit,” he huffed, understanding your worries once he took a glimpse of the perverted looks the attendees were more than glad to show off. “Look, babe, I seriously didn’t mean for this to happen-”

“You said this place was nice, Braun.”

“I know, I- I just knew you wouldn’t be into these kinda bars, but I really wanted you to come see me tonight.” He sighed. “I swear, baby,” he secured your shoulders into his hand, “I just wanted you to be here with me, b-but I screwed up. I shouldn’t have lied to you.”

You heaved in defeat, seeing the genuine remorse in his eyes. He hadn’t been far off with his assumption; twenty-three years of a city setting in the upper east side, where renovated brownstones of contemporary decor were more of your liking rather than the casualness of a lonesome bar. 

Your lips jutted with a mumbled “it’s okay” to pass the tension. But Braun’s hands had worked their way to the fullness of your cheeks, where his thumbs delicately swept under your eyes. “Thank you for doing this.” He poured his eyes into yours. “I know it’s not your scene, but I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this, baby.” Braun leaned in to press his lips to yours, and that loving comfort was enough to ease your body into relaxation against his hold. His hands released for the brief seconds it took to take off his leather jacket and hang it over your shoulders. “Keep this on, and if anyone bothers you or-or does something, please just tell me.” He implored. “I’ll be right on stage, only a couple feet away, I’ll see you, okay?”

Huffing a sigh, you simply nodded, choosing to come to a consensus of trying to enjoy the night. It had been close to reaching a year that you agreed to be Braun’s girlfriend, and from then, he’d been dying to show you everything about himself. Following the end of the school year from university, Braun had made plans to spend the summer back in his hometown of Hawkins, Indiana, where he had adamantly informed you about the band, the one in which he partook throughout his high school career, Corroded Coffin. And there was no denying it, the bubbling feelings of a blossoming relationship, one where your boyfriend had an actual desire to share the intimate parts of his life with, like seeing where he grew up, made you burst with excitement. 

Because even with his flaws, Braun Peterson had a gentle touch that filled your heart with a promising future of blissful contentment. 

“I won’t leave you out here,” his hand found its way to your thigh, “afterwards, I’ll have drinks brought backstage, where me, you, and the guys can just relax in peace. Away from these creeps.” He gripped with loving reassurance. “And- and, I promise you some of the most incredible food, okay?”

You snickered through your nose with a bit of suspicion. “From here?”

Braun laughed at your wariness. “From Benny’s Burger, got the best diner food for your pretty belly.” You arched your brow, pushing it until he gave in. “Okay, okay, Enzo’s. Seconds, thirds, all on me, baby, whatever you want.”

“Deal.” He sealed your agreement with a playful handshake. 

He smiled at you, bringing a comforting hand to your neck. “Thank you, again, pretty.” His thumb caressed. “Just wanna share this experience with you. Wanna let you know how cool I was back in high school.” He teased, as you giggled. “Here, gimme kiss.”

Braun pulled you in for a sweet kiss, letting your worries wash away with his reassurement, because he always had you. “You’re gonna do great, I’m sure of it.” You smiled against him. 

“Only ‘cause I have you here cheering me on.” Braun finished you off with one more kiss. “Remember, I’m only a couple feet away, I’ll come grab you once we’re done.” 

With that, Braun Peterson left you to your own accord, securing the warm leather of his jacket around you, as you watched him disappear into the back. Disagreements and solutions. Compromises and sacrifices. This is what it meant for the man who cherished your time, and publicly showed it like no other. Everything was okay. Until the minutes passed of tugging on your lip with anticipation, and the staged lights dimmed.

Everything was okay.

But the center spotlight had rained against a figure, and you hadn’t even internalized the fact that a stranger physically made your body react with a gasp, as you merely took in the sight of him. 

Him, who caressed his warlock, fingers teasing the strings, and lips kissing the mic with heavy pants of excitement. “Nice to see some familiar faces!” He grinned, scanning the all too familiar bar that let his amateur band of misfits play every Tuesday night; the regular bar goers seemingly flooding him with memories of his youth years. But then, his eyes landed on you. Front and center. “Even better to see some… new faces.” His lips curled into a menacing smirk, drinking up your stunning face.

Your heartbeat pummeled out of your chest, heat chewing at your cheeks, as his daunting figure had you shying away with a flush state, like you were a school girl receiving her first valentine, forcing you to wrap Braun’s jacket tighter around you.

Shit, Braun!

Quickly, your eyes diverted to the man you should have been gawking at, tuning his guitar before peering up with a smile that held all the good in the world, one he solely dedicated to you on a daily basis. You mustered a shy smile back, attempting to swallow the guilt. And this is where it should have ended. It’d be quite ignorant to dismiss the reality that attractive people come and go everyday during relationships, so this is all it was. You saw something pretty, you admired it, you left it. That’s what you promised. That’s what you committed. So you blinked yourself straight, and gave small claps of encouragement to your boyfriend. 

But the eerie feedback from the mic had your head snapping to the front man, and as expected, his gaze hadn’t left your body once; a smirk devouring his face when your eyes caught his. That night, an alluring spark ignited within Eddie Munson, and he was determined to indulge in it. 

“We’re gonna perform a couple songs for old times’ sake, bring some life back into you old fucks.” He jabbed comments eliciting some laughter from the crowd that watched these antsy boys torment their ears years before. “So just like back then, as always, I’m Eddie and we’re fucking Corroded Coffin!”

The thrash to his guitar introduced the blaring cords of a song, reminiscent to one Braun typically played for the background noise of when your naked bodies dreamily slapped together. The frontman’s stage performance flooded your senses as you became mesmerized by the fluid movement of his fingers abusing the delicate strings, and his husky voice yelling the lyrics to the abrasive song. He was encapsulating the beauty of metal with such ease and grace, playing his heart out for a dingy bar filled with good-for-nothing men. It felt so utterly undeserving. He was meant for a real stage. 

Eddie.

That’s what it was. That’s all it fucking was. It had to be. You weren’t a bad person. You couldn’t be. The familiar tunes matching that of how Braun Peterson would rut his hips into yours was the sole reason for the tantalizing heat that was creeping within your body, not because of the man with the long hair who punctured his hungry glare against you, as he belted the grotesque lyrics of whatever song it was that you never cared to officially learn the title to. But how could you have ever found the will to learn, when Braun would consume your thoughts with the drilling of his cock to the beat of the song? Why couldn’t that be enough? Why had your hips subconsciously rolled to find some needed friction against your seat to the thought of Eddie burying his face between the warmth of your body? 

Why did it feel like he was burning you alive?

The disgusting reality of your endeavor to get off on a dirty stool to another man had hit you like a ton of bricks, rightfully slapping you in the face with utter shame for who you were, and you didn’t dare to spare Eddie another glance; eyes fluttering around embarrassingly to look at anything other than Eddie. 

Braun. Braun. Braun. 

He was right there. He always had been. 

The night dragged on for an unbearable hour, filled with the ongoing cycle of desiring something that wasn’t yours and the self-loathing hatred to follow. The burn of Eddie gaze had your body crippling with anxiety, and you engaged yourself to only peer at the man who’d brought you pure happiness for the last ten months of your life. But he was there; torturing you with his eyes that felt laser-cutting from a mile away, despite how adamant you forced yourself to refuse his attention.

You hadn’t even verbalized a word to him yet. And it was devastatingly pathetic how submissive he had you. 

The last cord of the night strung out with the fellow patrons commemorating their boys for the nice trip down memory lane. You adjusted yourself to gently cheer along, feeling awful when Braun’s brightful smile had never once dropped because of your presence in the crowd. Just focus on him. It was all you had to do. As the men walked off with their equipment, Braun’s sweaty figure jumped from the stage, heading straight for you.

You immediately jumped from your seat, forgoing the complaints of him being sweaty to hold him in your arms with such fervency. “You did so great!” His hands held your back, delicate kisses pressing into the crook of your neck. 

“Yeah?” He searched for your validation, only ever caring for your words, as he mumbled into your neck, inhaling your sweet smell that comforted the adrenaline high he was experiencing. “You, uh, you liked the first song I picked out?” His brows teased.

“Of course!” You cupped his face to bring him into a smearing kiss that he gladly reciprocated. You pulled away, staring into his soft eyes that held all innocence, and you cursed yourself for ever thinking of another man when such beauty was held in the palm of your hand. Your thumbs gently swept on the underside of his eyes, as he smiled down at you. “You were amazing, Braun.” You sincerely spoke. Overcompensating? Completely. But you needed him to be okay, and his happiness was worth it. “You always are so amazing, Braun.”

He brought you in for another embrace, and sealed it with a loving kiss that had you melting in his arms. “You’re pretty fucking amazing, too, Y/N.” He spoke. “C’mon, baby, let's go on back.”

“W-wait!” You steadied yourself within your position, holding his hand tightly. “Um, w-we can just stay out here, I’m sorry for getting mad earlier.” 

His head dropped, lips jutting at you before he landed a quick kiss to your forehead. “Don’t apologize where you don’t need to apologize, baby.” He urged. “Don’t gotta make yourself uncomfortable for me- in fact, I won’t allow it. Not after dragging you here in the first place.”

“No, really it’s fine-”

“It’s not, baby, I don’t want you out here.” Braun persisted. “Plus, I’ve been talkin’ the guys’ ears off about you, I’m sure they’d love to put your pretty face to your name. Promise they’re not as scary as you think.”

What a fucking lie. 

A journey to the back hallway led you to the chipped door, where Braun relinquished a double courtesy knock before entering the room, where a waft of sweat and cologne welcomed you to the small dressing room that held the members of Corroded Coffin. Shifting behind your boyfriend, your eyes landed around the burgundy painted walls, littered with posters of the previous self-made artist who first established themselves at the Hideout. Where they were now? More than likely not Hollywood, given the cheesy names teenagers thought were cool at the time. 

“Hey, uh, guys, gained a new fan today, Y/N, this is Gareth, Jeff, and…” A polite smile to both identified men waving back to greet you was easy enough. “Where’s Ed?” Thank god.

Braun directed you to the couch, leather and torn, with its yellow foam of cushion peering from the tears after years of being broken in by body weight. “Talkin’ to Nicky out back by the stage.” Gareth had answered, as a hand towel harshly rubbed against his head to ease the dripping sweat from his frizzy curls. 

“Nicky’s the bar owner.” Braun intimately informed you, graciously bringing you into the loop. 

“You enjoy the show?” Jeff, with a genuine attempt at conversation, had gestured for you to engage in. Perhaps it was the blatant stiffness of your body from the wariness of sitting on the couch that surely soaked copious amounts of bodily fluids than you’d like to imagine, that got him to ask for your honest opinion. Or, the other obvious, that you clearly dress far from the usual scene that was typical for a Corroded Coffin performance at the Hideout. 

Trying to atone your ignorance to the metal scene, and whatever the hell tension that was between you and the frontman, your head awkwardly nodded in response. “Yeah, um, yeah, I did.” Braun’s reassuring hand landed on your knee. “I’m still getting used to our difference in music taste,” luckily that was receptive to a couple chuckles, “but it was great seeing him, a-and you guys out there, as well.”

Heavy footsteps from the stage announced themselves as they entered the dressing room, and your body hardened at the mere sight of his shining chest, coated in his perspiration, drenching the line of hairs of his abdomen to seep into the low hanging waistline of his pants. Your eyes snapped to the wooden floors, as Braun jumped to give a brief greeting to his friend who ultimately settled against the water dispenser right in front of you. 

“Ah, now that you’re all here, babe, this is Eddie; Ed, this is girlfriend, Y/N.” Already accustomed to your presence, Gareth and Jeff felt no need to weigh in another hello, which resulted in an unfortunate silence, after Eddie, himself, decided staring at you was the only formal approach. 

But it wasn’t until his intentionally loud, “huh,” that pierced the silent, did your stomach drop with fear. “This is your girlfriend?” Your eyes stung at the inevitable occurrence of your boyfriend’s friend outing you in front of everyone as the girl who just couldn’t keep her eyes to herself. 

Braun’s brows cinched at his question, huffing in confusion. “Why’re you sayin’ it like that?”

Eddie had quickly dismissed him with a nonchalant shake to his head. “I dunno, what’ve pictured you with a girl like Mindy, ‘s all.” What an asshole. 

You knew it’d be hypocritical to suddenly interrogate your boyfriend on whoever it was Eddie was referring to, especially when it showed Eddie’s intentions were not the purest of them all with the mention of a certain ex. “The fuck, dude, no, that was nearly two years ago.” Braun quickly shut down, evidently not amused with whatever game his buddy was trying to pull. 

“Relax.” He chuckled, plucking a small toothpick from the table of plattered junk food into his mouth. “Only teasin’, man, y’know me. Plus, it’s good, shows good progress on your part; movin’ from small town pretty to big city pretty.” Eddie pointed a ringed finger at you. 

Braun merely rolled his eyes at the arrogant attitude he’d learned to adjust to throughout his years in high school, but when he turned to you, and saw the tight-lipped smile you gave, he leaned in to comfort you. “Don’t give him a second thought.” He whispered against your hair. “Eddie’s just… out there.”

Patting your thigh, Braun walked to join his friend at the water dispenser, leaving you to heave the tightening breaths of your chest from the sudden suffocation you felt from guilt and anxiety. “C’mon, man, lay off the comments, alright?” Braun quietly spoke to Eddie. “I don’t need you chasin’ her away when I actually love her.”

“‘Love?’” Eddie playfully whistled. “Hm, you must actually care for this girl, huh?” 

Braun confirmed with his lovesick smile that made Eddie want to hurl. Soon, Braun was leaning in close to bump his friend in the chest. “So what d'ya think?”

Eddie’s daunting eyes looked past Braun’s shoulder, connecting with your fretful ones, and a sickeningly smile creased his face. He tsked, watching your ostentatious manner refusing to touch the furniture he and his buddies called home. “Seems a little… anal-retentive.” He smirked at Braun. “But, hey, she’s cute, and y’know what, if you like, I like her.” If only Braun Peterson knew of the extent of the underlying meaning his closest friend was alluding to. “You good to her? Treat her well?” Eddie questioned. 

“Of course.” Your boyfriend was quick to answer. 

“That’s good, that’s good.” Eddie casually nodded along, chewing on the wooden stick between his teeth. “Aye, because y’know pretty girls like her will be quick to look for another man to satisfy her. Gotta treat ‘em well, so they keep their fucking legs closed.” The toothpick snapped at the sudden clenching of his teeth, before Eddie sighed a heavy breath to calm himself. “But I think you gotta good girl on your hands, Brauny, nothin’ to worry about.” Eddie dragged out, before calling to you. “Hey, that seat comfortable for you sweetheart? Need a stool or somethin’?”

A wave of nausea slapped you, as you watched his sinister smile. 

Eddie Munson totally saw trying to get off at the sight of him. 

-

His minacious laugh puffed in your face, as he loved watching your eyes crumble in self-reproach from your actions. “Yeah, you fuckin’ remember, baby?” He cooed, as your head dropped with guilt as to what you had just done. But his abrasive hand was quick to forcefully grab your face, cheeks squishing under his tight grip. “Don’t feel bad, princess, it’s okay to share a little.” Eddie smiled, as your eyes frantically looked into his. “Quit the fucking innocent act.” He advised you. “You and I both know how much of a slut you are.”

“I-I,” your thoughts had been racing with the screams of wanting him off of you, but your body was falling limp in his arms, ready to let him take what you so desperately wanted him to take. The words died on your tongue, when suddenly harshing pounding came from the door.

“Yo, anyone in there?!” A drunken voice called out. 

“I’ll be out a second!” You managed to rip through your shaky voice, while Eddie breathily chuckled, his hand refusing to let go of your face. 

Hearing the partygoer’s footsteps decline in the distance, your heart eased for the slightest moment, and suddenly your nervous system was wailing for you to leave while you could. But before you knew it, unexpectedly, the softest kiss was placed upon your scrunched lips from the man who nearly devoured your mouth so aggressively two seconds ago; you had no choice but to be receptive. “So sweet.” He gently moved his lips against you, it had your tummy erupting with the sensations of a new touch. “So fucking perfect, y’know that? Just how perfect you are?”

Every time he briefly left your lips, you whined for more attention, quickly bringing your lips back to him with a sigh of his name, “Eddie.” 

“Mm,” he moaned against your mouth. “I can see why Brauny never shuts the fuck up about you.” The mention of his name had you stiffening. “Tell me, baby, do you suck his cock as good as you kiss him?”

Stunned and repulsed by the jerk you let kiss you, you shoved Eddie’s chest back, finally getting him off of you, and before you mind could process, your hand connected to his cheek with a stinging slap. Your burning hand had trembled, as it slowly clasped it over your mouth in disbelief. Eddie slowly turned to you with a sly grin, but before he could make any movements, your feet finally found the courage to sweep you out of the bathroom with a harsh slam to the door. 

On autopilot, you quickly descended down the stairs into the lively living room that did little to ease the bloodcurdling thud of your beating heart that felt as if it was going to rip out of you. It wasn’t until a hand latched itself to the bicep of your arm, reeling you back against a body. 

“Hey, hey, you okay, hon?” Braun’s voice echoed into your ear.

“U-Um-”

“Baby, look, if this is about what Cheryl said, please don’t pay any mind to it.” He stroked your arm with concern. “She- everybody here just has a traditional way of thinking, but it’s not what I think. I promise, I’m not looking to shove a proposal down your throat when you’re not ready.” Braun had a fascinating way of calming your worries that drastically differed from the rush Eddie had just forced you through. “Hell, I’m not even ready.” He chuckled, which was able to elicit a small smile from you, at least. “I wanna take my time with you, cherish my moments with you, baby.” 

God, you were an awful human being. 

Peering behind his shoulder, you watched Eddie saunter his way down the stairs with a lingering stare that quickly found yours. “C-Can we go?” You hastily rushed out. “I’m just a little overwhelmed m-meeting all these new people.”

“Okay, yeah, yeah.” He’s quick to drop off the beers to the living room side tables that were supposed to be your drinks. “C’mon, baby, let’s just take a breather.” 

If you knew the guilt Braun Peterson felt for the sole reason of throwing you into a crowd of overwhelming people when you’d literally just kissed his closest friend, you would have pathetically begged on your knees for his forgiveness in front of everyone, and detailed the million ways he was so incredible. But this would stay quiet; suppurating within you, because the peace on his face was more important than wrecking his life. As he guided you to the front door, you looked back to meet the eyes of the man who sparked a match inside you, his arm hanging around a blonde, when you wanted to be the one held under it. Eddie Munson winked at you, cruelly changing the course of your life. 

-

For the days to come, Braun saw an immense amount of affection coming from your part. But who was he to complain, when someone as pretty and sweet as you willingly showed the world how much you loved him? Welcoming the morning sun with your tongue prodded at the slit of his tip, before ferociously waking him with the ride of his life, as your ass pummeled against his thighs, only for the cherry on top to come when breakfast was served like you suddenly became a housewife to your boyfriend. But you’d do whatever if it meant getting the image of his best friend out of your head, despite it leading to the best orgasm you’ve ever had when you pictured it was his cock you were riding, only to realize your lip had been sputtering with blood, because you refused your mouth the need to call out his name, Eddie! 

But Friday night came, and it seemed your thoughts satiated under the cuddle of your boyfriend, who agreed to a movie night that entailed buying an obscene amount of candy from the Family Video store, where Labyrinth was purchased alongside the sweets. Wrapped under his embrace, a thick woven blanket swallowed you against the rugged couch of the basement, where you felt yourself sinking deeper and deeper. 

For once, peace had come, tranquilizing the tumultuous feelings that consumed you alive. That was until the basement door impetuously flung open before echoing with a slam, that had yours and Braun’s head snapping to the stairs that creaked under the incoming weight. “Mason?” He called out for his cousin.

But it wasn’t the familiar face of his family member who lent you both the basement of his house, and your stomach twisted with fear. “Nope.” He popped the enunciation, as his hair bounced with every step until he reached the bottom step. “But he let me in.”

Braun sat up with a curious look, too occupied with the arrival of his friend to notice the rash way you curled into his side. “Hey, you alright? What’s up?” His eyes followed, as Eddie dramatically plopped himself on the singular recliner next to the couch. 

“Ah, nothing.” He made himself at home, clearly lacking the regard of his intrusion to your night. “Just hangin’ around, thought I’d stop by.” His eyes glued to the television screen. 

“Not that we don’t appreciate you, man,” Braun began, “but, uh, this is kinda just a movie night… for us.”

Eddie watched the oddity of the movie for a split second, before his head twisted to the both of you, eyeing the closeness with a piqued brow. “Which one of you freaks picked this movie? Was it you, sweetheart?” He smiled, as he watched you shift uncomfortably. 

“Alright, c’mon, Ed, seriously.” Braun interjected. 

“I’m kidding.” Eddie scoffed. “C’mon, Brauny, it’s been months since I’ve seen you, the least you two could do is spare the couple minutes of whatever touching is going on under that blanket, and let me relax here for a minute.” He argued, sinking into his chair. You watched Braun sigh, for whatever reason suddenly becoming a lap dog to the friend he long admired throughout high school, merely bringing you closer as means to make up for it. 

“By the way, driving all the way here seems to be the last resort to relaxing.” Braun poked. 

“Aw, c’mon did you actually think I was thinkin’ of you, Brauny?” He wooed, his eyes briefly connecting with you, as Braun rolled his. “Was seein’ Cynthia down the street.” Eddie answered. 

“Dude, Ed, doesn’t she have a kid?” Braun grimaced, recalling the moments in which his cousin’s neighbor—three doors down with a minivan and white shutters—threw him an occasional hello with a stroller evident on her walk around the neighborhood. 

“So fuckin’ what?” He laughed, causing your stomach to churn with disgust. “That kid made her have massive tits, it’s not like I’m looking to be the stepfather.” Eddie smiled looking back at you, your eyes refusing to meet his. “Just a simple exchange of goods for services.” He proudly announced. “Speakin’ of which, I happen to give Cynthia my last couple’a joints, you got any to smoke here?”  

“No.” Braun sighed, scruffing his hair with his hand. “Haven’t gotten the chance to speak to Rick to get some, miss it, though.” 

“Then go get some.” 

Fuck, you knew what he was doing. 

“Me? This is my place you barged into, you go.” Braun retaliated to his friend’s taunting. 

“Can’t,” Eddie tsked, “kinda fucked around with the blonde Rick had his eye on a couple nights ago at Eric’s.” He laughed. “But in my defense, she never clarified, and was fairly easy, so, I mean…”

“Can you ever learn to just keep it in your pants?” Braun jabbed, forcing his friend to chuckle at the joke. 

“Priorities, Brauny, Priorities.” Eddie winked, before reaching into his back pocket, retrieving the loose dollar bills from his tattered wallet to slap against the center coffee table. “Look, it’s on me, we can wait for you here, right, sweetheart?” 

No, no, no. Your knees clutched to your chest, as you tried to steady the breaths that were already becoming uneasy from his presence alone. Braun peered down at you. “You can come if you want. Just gotta wait in the car, don’t want you meetin’ someone like him.” 

Your eyes flickered to the man who was sickeningly grinning, somehow having the power to pull a pulsating sensation from your pussy that had you swallowing thickly. “I-It’s okay.” It wasn’t. “I can just wait here.” You spoke so meekly, as though you’d been the victim in this situation, when Braun’s pure smile beamed down at you. 

“Thirty minutes top, baby.” A quick kiss landed against you, before he stood from the couch. “Don’t let him burn the house down, please.” Braun joked, slamming his hand against the table to pocket the money Eddie provided. 

“Gotta good girl’s influence hanging over me,” Eddie smiled, “nothing to worry about, Brauny.”

Your boyfriend chuckled, running a soft hand against the top of your head to wish you goodbye. “Love you, baby, be right back.” 

“I love you.” You shared the sentiment, watching him jog upstairs, where the basement door closed behind him with a deafening silence that shot through you. You watched the door for far longer than needed, a pressuring sting coming from your nail digging into your cuticle to get rid of the apprehension that festered in your belly. 

Eddie laughed. “What a fucking liar.” Your head snapped, ready to scream at him that your words held truth; the deep admiration for the man who did nothing wro- “That I am.” Eddie added, pulling out a zippo lighter from his pocket followed by a joint. He lavished in the twitching of your eyes, flashing from anger to anxiousness under the action of him shedding his jacket to light what was brought to his lips. 

A puff of cloud escaped his mouth before he spoke. “Take a hit, baby, you’re so goddamn tense I can practically feel the stick up your ass.” He stood from his place to sit next to you, immediately rolling his eyes as he found you shifting away from him, until your back hit the far end of arm rest, feet digging into the cushion as your knees stayed glued to your chest. “Relax, alright-”

“Eddie, we can’t-”

“I’m only tryin’ to get you to relax, shut up for two seconds and take a fucking hit.” He scolded, and your eyes widened under his intimidation. His body scooted until your painted toes were trapped beneath the heavy weight of his denim-clad thick thighs, allowing him to bring the joint to your face. “Don’t wanna have to get mean, just put it in your mouth.” You wondered where the anger from your assault to his face was lingering, surely the hit had to have pissed him off to some degree. His fingertips pressed against your lips, as your mouth enveloped the end of the joint, welcoming the burn to your throat. “Look so cute with that shit in your mouth, so good, princess.” 

You pushed his hand away when it became too much, trying to control your coughing from the large intake. “T-Too much.”

“Mhm, I know, baby.” He whispered, watching your lips pout, as his hand caressed your leg. Bringing the joint to his lips and hearing it sizzle, Eddie moaned against it. “Fuck, I can taste your mouth on it.”

You pushed your knee away to get his hand to fall back into his lap, where his fingers only moved to hover over the bulge of his pants, as he took more hits. Soon, his sole hand was undoing the buckle of his belt, and your brows arched against his movement, yet your mouth stayed quiet from any protest. 

Your lips parted in awe watching his cock spring against his belly, pants coming to hang around his thighs. His finger came to gently tease the head, before his hand wrapped to smear the precum that oozed from the tip. So casually, Eddie Munson began fucking his hand so casually, as if you weren’t sitting next to him. He acted as though he was in the comfort of his own bedroom, and you wondered whether the bit of anger that mixed in with the arousal that pressed against your belly was from the fact that he could get off without even sparing a glance at you. 

He smoked and jerked his cock, letting you bask in the glory of his heavy member, where his hand tugged the loose skin of his big balls to smack against his hairy thighs. As casual as he was, Eddie was itching to turn his head and watch your legs clench with need, something his peripheral could only get a glance at, but Eddie Munson wasn’t giving in. He felt your toes curl under his thigh, your body speaking for itself to be touched. 

“Fuck, that’s so good.” He twisted his palm against the slick head of his cock, before he squeezed down to his base for more tugs that had him wondering if your pussy felt anywhere near as good as his hand. You watched his fingers pull up his shirt, until his teeth bit down to hold the fabric up, and his toned toros was cramping from the sensation he was bringing himself. “Mmm!” He moaned, wetting his shirt with his mouth, as his hand became relentless against the thumping veins of his cock. 

No longer a thought of need, his fingers abandoned the lit joint to the ashtray that stayed stationed on the table with a few cigarettes, and his free fingers traveled to toy with his nipples, pulling the pebbled nubs to spark up his impending orgasm. “Ugh, mm!” His hips were gyrating upward, chasing the fleshlight that was his hand, as his speed increased, and your hands grasped onto the old couch for the needed restraint to not throw yourself onto him. 

With an aggressive jerk to his cock, and a stinging pinch to his nipple, the angry red head of his dick sputtered out his creamy cum, dribbling against his belly before the pool collected against his unruly pubic hair. 

His shirt slowly slipped from his teeth, as Eddie caught his breath with heavy grunts. “Fuck me, shit.” Taking his fingers, he dragged it around the breadth of his belly to gather the seeping cum, where he finally turned to you with dark eyes, and used his cum tainted fingers to motion you closer. 

You body mindlessly complied until those same fingers were pressing into your mouth, letting his salty spent invade your taste buds, before your throat began getting fucked. “Wanna fucking slap me and walk away, huh?” His free hand wrapped behind your neck to keep you gagging at his mercy. “Wanna get mad at me for you being a filthy slut? ‘N drivin’ me fuckin’ crazy?” You whined, holding his wrist in an attempt to ease the thrashing of his fingers down your throat. “God, so fucking pretty.” 

His fingers ripped from your tongue, but before your lungs could get a breath of fresh air, his mouth was on you, replacing his fingers with his tongue, as he kissed you with such ferocity, it nearly felt like a punishment. Teeth clashing and biting, you mewled in protest. “Eddie!” You gasped pushing away, but his hands kept your face close. 

“What, you don’t want me to?” He mocked, before laughing. “Y’know I don’t give a fuck.” Pushing you back against the couch, Eddie climbed over you where his mouth continued his assault against your lips, and your hands wavered into his sweaty curls. 

In the briefest moment your lips disconnected, “W-We need to-” You moaned, feeling his plump lip suction against yours. “Stop, Eddie, we should- ugh!” Eddie pulled away and watched your body crave more, but your eyes stung with its glassy coating of tears that were threatening to spill. “Braun…”

“Aw, he’s gonna come back soon, ‘n you don’t wanna get caught.” He whispered, as his forehead fell against yours. 

“He’s your friend.” Your voice cracked with guilt. 

Eddie huffed. “You better listen clearly.” His hand wrapped around your jaw to force your eyes to his. “Brauny’s a big boy. Yeah, he may be my friend, but Brauny’s got this pretty, little thing that I need to play with, so being frank with you, baby, I don’t care.” His nose flared with anger, as his words stung. “And I’m gonna need you to cut this bullshit sorry act, because it’s really pissin’ me off, and I don’t wanna have to get angry with you.” He hissed. “Okay, baby?” 

You stared into his dark eyes, mouth gulping to reply. “Okay.” And once again, your lips grazed his, letting him groan into your mouth. 

“Mm, you really are so pretty, angel, such a good girl listenin’ to me.” He murmured. “Looking like this, how could your boyfriend ever expect me to keep my hands off of you?” He kissed. “You gonna let me touch you- touch that needy fuckin’ clit. I’ve never touched one before, you gonna let me touch yours?” He tormented with the brushing of his fingers against your pajama shorts. 

You pouted your lips at him, brows cinching at his words. “I feel like you’re lying to me.”

And Eddie Munson snuck that signature laugh in your laugh that you didn’t appreciate, but your pussy surely did. “What does it matter if I’m lyin’ to you, you’re gonna let me touch you, anyway.” His fingers curled around the scrunchy waistband, before pulling them from your legs to expose your sopping cunt to the cold air of the basement. “Fuck, look at that.”

You didn’t know what came over you, but with a hand over his where he parted your legs, you chin tucked in to delicately ask him a question. “Did you really have sex with those girls?”

Eddie smiled, tongue lapping at his lip as he looked at you. “Does it hurt your feelings if I did?” You shrugged, not really sure why you asked, though clearly agitated by the knowing answer. “Do I gotta tell you pretty things, so you don’t get hurt?”

His hand combed through your patch of pubes, tickling your abdomen in a way that had your body seeking for more. “Please, Eddie.” 

“Mm, what is it, baby?” His nails raked down the side of your pussy lips, deliberately avoiding your slit to tease the nerves of your mound. “Need your little pussy touched? It’s so fucking gorgeous.” You nodded, scratching his forearm down to his wrist to urge his movements further. “Gimme another kiss first, princess.”

You pulled him in, letting your kiss spark up the butterflies that loved to erupt in your tummy whenever you saw him. Not so harshly as before, your kiss passionately swallowed you both, with the sweet connection of saliva that strung between your moving lips. But you had an appetite for more, grossly moving the kiss into a heated direction that had him moaning on your teeth. Denying yourself from him was punishment enough, the care no longer festered, you were getting what you deserved. 

“Uh, calm yourself, baby.” He spoke between kisses with a teasing chuckle. “Look at you so desperate, shh, calm down. Be slow with me for a second, sweetheart.” You obeyed, slowing your movements into a languid interaction, before your lips latched onto his tongue, pulling it out from his mouth to suck on, as if it was his cock, because you never got the chance to fully taste his musk. 

Eddie mewled, cock twitching against your thigh, as your action had him melting with a burning desire. Finally, the squelching noise of your dripping arousal echoed into the room, as his fingers dove into the folds of your pussy. “Is that your fucking clit, baby? Listen to how wet your pussy is for me.”

“Mm, Eddie.” You sucked in a breath, as your fat bud was being toyed with.

“Moaning for me, princess, you’re moaning.” He whispered into your ear. “‘Cause you're mine right now, I’m making you moan, not him, hm. Not your little Brauny. You only moan for me, at least for right now, because you have a boyfriend.” You absentmindedly nodded along to whatever words he was feeding you, too caught up with your pussy being played with to care. “We’ll see about that.” He laughed, before nipping at your earlobe. 

“Wanna touch you, too, baby.” You whined, reaching for his hung cock, letting your hands twirl around the heated length that was circulating with enough blood to fuck you for multiple rounds. 

Eddie hissed. “Sss, what are you doin’? Grabbin’ my fucking cock?” He smiled, as you stroked him, allowing him to plunge his fingers into your tightening cunt, as both your movements fell in sync with one another. “Grab it, yes, baby, fuckin’ grab that cock!”

“Fuck, that feels so good, Eddie!” His fingers pulled out to rub your clit, before suddenly your pelvis jolted with the burning sensation of his hand coming down to your pussy. “Eddie!”

“Lemme slap that clit, lemme slap that fucking clit, baby.” Your wetness splashed against your inner thighs with each spanking of his hand. “God, you don’t know what you do to me, sweetheart. Such a pretty girl, I’m fucking losin’ my control over you. Got you strokin’ my cock, while my fingers fuck your pussy, and I love it, baby, I love it so fucking much.” He babbled, teeth biting down to keep the worse words in. Your brows furrowed, as his fingers blasted within you, hooking inside to scratch that throbbing g-spot that had you wailing with want. “Smile for me, baby, smile ‘cause I’m making my baby feel so good.”

And you did, letting your head crash back with your mouth hanging open with an inebriated smile tugging at your lips, as you played with each other. His lips crashed down for another smearing kiss that had your tongues desperately pirouetting around each other. 

Your thighs began shaking under his control, pistoling his fingers in a way that was bringing you closer to your release. While looking down at your thrusting hips, he simultaneously pulled away from your kiss, leaving you to whine for his return. “No! More!”

He looked back up into those pathetic round eyes and scrunched brows with your bitten lips that nearly had him collapsing with another orgasm, as your hands pulled at the head of his cock and squeezed his balls. “Don’t you fuckin’ look at me like that.” He warned, not ready to release his load if it wasn’t going to be inside of you, but you couldn’t take your eyes off of his sweaty face, beads of perspiration invading his hairline, as his face flushed with a blushing rose that surely made him feel embarrassed with how vulnerable he looked. “Don’t fuckin’- don’t you- ugh- no, no, no, no!”

His large hand slapped your cheek, forcing your face away, leaving you gasping in disbelief. “I’ll fuckin’ slap you.” He spat, watching you merely turn your head back with a sparking revelation in your eyes that made you look even more beautiful. “I’ll slap your stupid fucking face-” Another stinging crash to you cheek that had you crying in pain, but you kept looking for more. “You like that shit?”

You hurriedly nodded, letting your tears pool from the growing pain that tightened your pussy around his fingers. “Yes, more!”

A harsh smack landed on your cheek once more, agitating your poor skin. “Mhm, like that, me fucking slapping that stupid, little fucking face.” His hand felt the wetness of your tears drenching your cheeks with every slap. “Bruisin’ that pretty fucking face, fuck! C’mere, c’mere!” 

His tongue lavished against your burning skin, bringing tingles to your body when his spit-covered tongue ran against your hot cheek to lick up your salty tears. “Get your fuckin’ hands off my cock, I’m shovin’ it inside your desperate cunt.” Eddie declared, slapping his tip to your pussy, to let your wetness pour on his dick. 

A harsh stab to your pussy lunged his thick cock into your pulsating walls, urging a screaming moan from your lungs. “Fuck! You’re so fucking tight!” His hands clamped around the front of your thighs to fold you in half. 

“Ugh, fuck! Slow, p-please, baby, slow!” You wailed. 

“Yeah?” He cooed, driving his thrust down to one punctuated one every second. “You want this cock slowly, can’t fucking handle this tight, little pussy getting fucked hard?”

Your trembling hands cupped his face, letting you bring him down for a consuming kiss. “J-Just wanna feel all of you.” 

“You are, baby, you are.” Eddie pierced himself into your g-spot. “Feel it deep inside, baby, feel my fucking cock all the way inside! Just for you! You- you fucking dirty, filthy whore!” The muscles of his ass tightly clenched to pound you thoroughly with each stroke. “Gonna let me do it faster? Huh? Fuck you into this fucking couch until your some braindead slut? Look at you taking my cock!” His hips began slapping faster. “Gonna be fucking good for me?”

“Uh-huh! Always, fuck!”

“You will?” He taunted. “You fucking will? You’ll take this cock whenever I want you to? Whenever I want this pussy of mine? In front of your boyfriend? Tie him to a fuckin’ chair, and force him to watch me fuck his pretty girlfriend’s little cunt!”

“Yes! Yes! Fuck me better than him!” Your hips moved to meet his slapping thighs, as you clenched around his cock to milk him with the cum you wanted in your cunt. “Want him to watch me take your fat cock!”

An animalistic growl forced its way out of chest, as the image of his best friend crying over the despair of betrayal elicited him to rut his hips into you fervently. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!” His head dropped against your chest, reveling in the commotion of your bouncing tits that were urging to be freed. His hands pulled at your shirt, exposing your boobs that were quickly squished together under his hands, as his tongue lapped around your nipple. 

“Ugh, yes, you’re gonna make me cum!” You heaved, finding your hand had landed on his thigh at a weak attempt to slow his crashing movements into your pussy. 

“Beautiful fucking tits!” He nibbled on your pointy nipples, forcing those whines that drove him crazy to come out. “So fuckin’ delicious! And just for me!”

“Just for you! Only you!” 

“Yeah?” He pouted at you. “Fuck, fucking lick my hand, lick my fucking hand, you bitch.” His palm landed on your mouth, where you dumbly stuck your tongue out to taste the sweatiness of his hand, before that same hand came crashing down on your cheek for the umpteenth time. “Stick that filthy fuckin’ tongue out when I slap you in the fuckin’ face!”

You obliged, letting the wet muscle hang out as another slap landed on your face, forcing your head to the side. But turning your face back with the expectation of one more slap fell short, when instead, a glob of warm spit hit your tongue, one after another. 

“Fuckin’ clean that asshole from you fucking holes!” More spit. “‘Cause you’re mine! Not his! With my spit in your mouth and my cum in your pussy, you’ll be fuckin mine, right?!”

Your eyes rolled to the back of your head, as the rope in your belly was hanging on by a mere thread ready to snap. “Yes! Yes! Just yours!” You cried out. “Cleanse me! Cleanse me with your cum and make me yours!”

Eddie’s hand pressed down against your pelvis harshly, prompting a gushing stream of your hot squirt to wet yourself and his thighs, as you screamed from the highs of orgasmic ecstasy. “Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck! I’m cumming! I’m- FUCK!”

Nothing but heavy breaths could be heard in the basement that reeked of sex and bodily fluids. Your hands fell limp around his neck, whereas he sagged the entirety of his dead weight against your chest. His teeth grinded from the continuation of your pussy clenching around him, as your body tried to settle at the unfamiliar size that inculcated itself brutality into your cunt. 

It was quiet. It was peace. 

Until the ringing in your ears subsided, and slowly began picking up on the maniacal laugh that was coming from the man who slowly picked up his head from your chest to greet your un-whitening vision with a sinister smile, and suddenly you felt the pit in your stomach sink. 

“Oh, sweetheart, you’ve just made a big fuckin’ mistake.” He chuckled, harshly pressing his forehead into yours, causing the seat cushion to dent beneath you. “Y’know why?” He tantalized, watching your eyes grow big with fear. “Because if your little boyfriend touches you after you just said you were mine,” he placed a delicate kiss to your lips that you couldn’t muster to reciprocate, too scared to do so, “I’m gonna fucking kill him.” He laughed. 

-

A minute and eight seconds. 

Braun Peterson had leaned the weight of his body against the counter, letting the low hum of the buzzing microwave lull his mind to ease, as the fingers of his hand shoved against his eye to wake from the tiredness of the morning day. It hadn’t been until the slap of a heavy hand against his bare shoulder jolted his eyes open to see his cousin slugging his socked feet against the linoleum tiles, before scratching the floor with the chair legs to have a seat at the kitchen table.

Mason had yawned, stretching his jaw from the bitter soreness of having to deal with a restless night of grinding his teeth. “Where’s the missus?” His nails scratched over his stubble. “Sleepin’ in?” Given your gratitude for a place to stay, Mason had spent the few days of your presence waking up to a full breakfast of all the fixins, differing greatly to the two-minute microwave food the young welder had to succumb to for his poor skills behind the stove. 

The morning had changed with the sight of Braun in front of the buzzing appliance. “Out, actually.”

“Already?”

“Yeah, couple days ago,” Braun cleared his dry throat, “she met Cheryl- you remember Cheryl?” Not exactly someone from Mason's graduating class, but given Hawkins’ small breadth of streets, a distant young face of hormonal acne and blue eyeshadow was all that could be pulled from his string of memories, as Cheryl Daniels still sported that purity ring that had long gone been switched out for an engagement ring to her military fiance, whom she could relish his fat benefits with. So, Mason simply nodded to get the story along. “Anyway, yeah, Y/N met her, and, well, you know how women are; one giddy introduction, next thing y’know they’re doing 9:00 a.m pilates and leavin’ me behind to eat some shit food for breakfast.”

Mason peered at the counter to see the empty box of his frozen food. “You asshole, ‘s that my last Hot Pocket?” His mundane voice spoke, too tired to hold any real malice behind it. 

“I’ll head to the store and buy you a whole new pack, relax.” 

Braun Peterson steadily watched the last couple of seconds tick down. “If anything, man, I deserve that one after you and Y/N kept me up last night.” Mason breathily chuckled. 

“Ah, sorry,” Braun stretched his arms, “Y’know Eddie came over, we watched a movie, didn’t realize it was so loud- which if you want any advice, don’t watch Labyrinth high, unless you wanna have a total freak out.”

“Not talking about that.” Mason shook his head with a laugh. “But, aye, next time you bring Munson around and make my basement reek of weed, the least you could do is save me some.”

But Braun’s eyebrows had stayed scrunched with concern to ever consider his cousin’s future word of advice. “The hell are you talking about then?” He curiously poked. 

“You and Y/N.” Mason emphasized with a sly smirk to tease. “I mean, you guys are usually pretty considerate, but I guess the weed really got to y’all or somthing, man, you two were fucking loud last night- and I mean that literally.” He laughed. “Would’ve taken her as a quiet girl.”

Braun Peterson blinked. You had went straight to bed last night after the movie. In fact, you heavily implored him to do the same, after swifty prompting Eddie out of the door when the credit scenes rolled. “Y/N and I- we didn’t… no, we didn’t-”

The microwave beeped.

[were-wolverine]

the eldritch Guardians of gotham notice batman when he first emerges- they see how he protects their city, so they gift him the abilities of a bat: wings, night vision, enhanced senses, fangs

bruce wayne becomes a shut-in after his parents die. then he travels the world only to come back the same old shut-in. he works from home, and doesn’t leave the manor. every window is covered. only lucius fox and alfred pennyworth ever enter or leave the house

one night the bat follows sirens to a circus tent, and he watches as a young boy is escorted out, crying for his parents. the next day alfred pennyworth shows up at gotham’s social services and requests to become a foster parent. a month later (money might speed the process along) dick grayson is out of juvie and the orphanage and into the safety of wayne manor

bruce tries to hide his wings when the boy arrives, but dick is fascinated by them and thinks they’re “awesome”. bruce explains how he got them, and that he is batman.

later, when batman gains a partner- robin- the Guardians of gotham bless the boy with gifts similar to his mentor: robin wings, enhanced senses, and nails that sharpen into talons

dick grayson becomes a shut-in like bruce, and is home-schooled by alfred. he doesn’t mind, he didn’t have friends his age in the circus either, and alfred and bruce are good company. bruce does let him get pets, though, a three-legged puppy he names Haley and a bloodhound named Ace

when he grows out of robin and away from gotham, the Guardians give him different wings (steller’s jay) to show they support his independence. he lives at titans tower for a while before moving to blüdhaven with his best friend donna troy. dick remains a shut-in, but takes online college courses and goes out often as a new hero- nightwing. he goes out in the mask during the day, something he never did in gotham, and spends most of his time as nightwing- not that he minds. (troia is only his nighttime vigilante partner since donna has an actual day job)

the cycle repeats with jason. however, when jason claws his way out of his grave, the Guardians guide him back to the manor where bruce finds him. when it seems like jason may never recover from his comatose state, the Guardians show bruce a lazarus pit beneath gotham, and despite his hesitation they assure him no harm will come to jason if they have a say in it

jason is revived without the nasty side effects (thanks, eldritch beings) and dick moves back to gotham. jason also leaves robin behind for a different name- red hood- and is gifted new wings (cardinal). in this au the bats & birds are more morally grey and will kill people, but only the worst of the worst/repeat offenders. jason still becomes a crime lord but he only kills when necessary and has no pit madness.

dick and jason notice their young neighbor tim drake is often home alone/without his parents and convince bruce to let him in on their secret and have him stay over at the manor. bruce eventually agrees and they later adopt tim. tim never becomes robin but he does know about their vigilante identities (og way- recognized dick as robin and connected the dots).

tim will help out on comms and basically this au’s Oracle. babs does not become a vigilante in this, instead she becomes a lawyer, but she is still paralyzed by the joker as a civilian (pre-jason’s death, bc bruce kills the joker after that)

steph works with the bats as Spoiler, and is eventually let it on their identities. she and tim bond over being the only ‘normal’ ones

when cass comes along, she is gifted the same powers as bruce, including bat wings. she goes by Black Bat and mostly communicates using sign language

bruce is never lost in time and damian eventually arrives in gotham. damian is given robin and the gifts that accompany it

since duke already has powers, the Guardians don’t give him any, but they protect him as their own

JUST. CRYPTID BATFAMILY <3

[knightforflowers]

I have a lot of headcanons for Ethersea obv but one I’ve been thinking about for a long time (especially recently) is how prestige affects the bodies of the magic casters who utilise it. I looove stories where magic has interesting and substantial consequences for being used and Ethersea definitely scratches that itch in terms of the overuse of magic causing the literal apocalypse and what have you, and since prestige is a byproduct of Ethersea water which notably warps and changes things submerged into it I think it definitely has some side affects too.

I think prestige affects the body in a number of ways but most notably is how it affects the user’s eyes, due to how they glow whenever magic is being channeled. The first, most common, and least detrimental side affect is the user’s eyes becoming reflective to light like cats (or more thematically; certain deep sea creatures) (I drew a little thing illustrating this idea with Devo which you can find here :3). This is mostly a cosmetic change and is generally harmless, it typically manifests after two or three years of using prestige.

Long term use of prestige however, say ten-twenty or so years depending on the circumstances/level of usage, eventually leads to slow degradation of the users eyes entirely, causing a lot of magic users to get glasses or contacts in their later years, or even earlier depending on when they started utilising prestige and how much they use it. Of course this is something that is most commonly seen in the Parish/those connected to the Parish more than anyone else in Founder’s Wake, due to it being the main figurehead of magic use in the city. (My personal designs for Seldom and Guidance wear glasses because of this (ik Guidance has them canonically but still the thought is still there LOL) and my post-canon Devo has them too, my Orlean doesn’t but I think it’s bc he has contacts instead).

In more serious cases however, whether that be through continued long term use or incredibly frequent use of prestige, the user can eventually go entirely blind, which I think is something that happened occasionally in Hominine before the storm; a lot of long standing and incredibly high ranking cardinals/bishops/ect of the Benevolent Parish were likely blind because of this. Prestige caused blindness doesn’t stop people from being able to cast magic anymore of course, but it does make it significantly harder to channel. I think this blindness was never seen as something bad by the faith, and was probably viewed by most in the cloister as a great honour come at a great price— to be able to give one’s sight completely to Benevolence, and allow him to be their sole guiding light in the darkness. Something something blind devotion to your faith, ya know.

I also think this is the case bc lately I’ve been brainstorming abt more NPC designs that I hope to draw soon and I think Benevolence is also blind, which is where a lot of the Church’s symbology and feelings surrounding that stage in prestige use come from. I also like it in terms of a parallel to Koda, who is depicted mainly with eyes/being all seeing (through the use of the Biggest Baby and his influence over the Chaperones) so I think Benevolence being associated with blindness is a fun contrast.

Anyway thank u for indulging me and my headcanon if you got this far LOL I love weird magic shit that ties into worldbuilding 👍

[hussyknee]

Red, White & Royal Blue: Collector's Edition Henry PoV bonus chapter by Casey Mcquiston.

(transcribed from the page pictures posted)

This is the coda to the end of the book, so don't read it if you haven't read the book first. Sadly, the Collector's Edition doesn't seem to be available on Kindle so. Arrrr matey.

Download link for file at the end.

....

HENRY

“I am not asking you to believe in it, or even to like it,” Henry says stonily. It’s been a long morning already. He is beginning to perspire. “I am simply asking you to show a modicum of respect.”

“To–to your quiche?”

“Yes. To my quiche.”

Bea puts down her tape gun and wipes her eyes. “Pez!”

“Yes?”

“Henry says he’s going to make us a quiche!”

Pez’s squawk of a laugh bounces down the stairs. “Pull the other one!”

“I make them all the time for Alex,” Henry insists. “They are perfectly edible.”

“So, when you promised us breakfast if we got up early to help you.” Bea says, “you meant that you were going to make us breakfast?”

“Yes!” Henry says hotly. “Stop laughing!”

“I’m sorry!” Bea says. “It’s only that...well, Henry, the last time you cooked breakfast for me, you were twelve and you put a sausage in the microwave until it exploded.”

“That was your idea! And it’s been ages since then! I’ve studied, all right? I’m quite good now. Those pictures I send the group chat aren’t just for show.”

“Oh, aren’t they?” Bea says rudely, as if his incredibly generous offer to cook her a shallot-and-thyme quiche with mushrooms from the farmer’s market means nothing at all. As if he’s lived in this house for five entire years without learning to use its kitchen.

Perhaps if their lives weren’t so chaotic, if Henry weren’t flying out of New York every time Bea had a spare moment to fly in, he could have proven this to her earlier. But Pez, who lives mostly in the city now and visits so frequently he’s earned his own Secret Service code name (Cardinal, since Henry is Bishop), should know better.

“Percy Okonjo,” Henry says as Pez joins them, “you were here last weekend when I made mince pie. You loved it.”

“Did I?” Pez wonders aloud, with an annoyingly Bea-like lilt.

“Look at this apron!” Henry gestures to himself and the navy blue apron he’s wearing. Alex gave it to him for his birthday last year. “Would a man who can’t make a quiche have an apron like this? It’s monogrammed.”

“You’re royalty, babes,” Pez points out. “Everything you own is monogrammed.”

From the pocket of his serious-home-cook apron, his phone buzzes. Reinforcements. The FaceTime connects, and Alex says, “Good morning, love of my li–”

“Alex,” Henry interrupts, “tell them about my quiches.”

Alex pushes up his sunglasses and frowns into the camera. He looks so lovely with his faded T-shirt and jean jacket and shaggy hair. Pure American heartthrob, might as well have a cowboy hat on. Henry never does tire of it.

“Sorry?”

“Bea and Pez don’t believe I can make a quiche.”

“What? Have they seen your apron?”

“That’s what I said!”

“Henry’s quiches are great!” Alex says loudly, to the kitchen at large. “I almost never find shells in them!”

That sets Bea and Pez off again. On the screen, Alex’s face crinkles into laughter.

“Thank you very much, Alex, you’ve been a tremendous help,” Henry groans. “How are things? Florist this morning, wasn’t it?”

“Just finishing up.” Alex says with a grin. “Final approvals done. Everything looks great.”

With only one week until moving day and two until the wedding, it made sense to divide and conquer. Henry agreed to stay in New York and finish packing up the brownstone with help from Bea and Pez, while Alex, June, and Nora are ticking off the last of their checklists in Texas.

“Of all the surprises that wedding planning has brought us,” Henry says, “your ability to micromanage floral arrangements has certainly been...one of them.”

“You know I love to curate a vibe,” Alex says.

“That you do,” Henry agrees. “Where are the girls?”

“Getting donuts,” Pez answers before Alex can. He holds up his phone, open to a photo of June blowing a kiss while Nora fellates an éclair.

“Donuts!” Bea says. “Now there’s an idea!”

They spend the rest of the day drowning in cardboard boxes and bin liners, packing everything but the furniture and the downstairs television. Pez reminds him once an hour that they could pay someone to do this, but Bea is stubborn, and Henry is reluctant to let anyone else wade into all the intimate trappings of his and Alex’s life. It was bad enough explaining the contents of the trick drawer in their dresser to Pez, much less some mover he’s never met.

When it’s done, Bea puts A Knight’s Tale on in the living room and promptly falls asleep on Pez’s lap. Pez passes out too, but Henry stays awake, because Heath Ledger deserves an audience. And because he knows if he doesn't wake Bea and move her to the guest bedroom, he'll have to hear about her back spasms in the morning.

David hops up beside him on the loveseat, and Henry strokes the top of his snout until his little body relaxes into Henry's side.

"Nervous old boy," Henry hums. It still does seem like the ultimate irony that the dog he adopted for emotional support has anxiety. David has grown more and more worried all week, as more and more of his home disappeared into boxes. "We won't leave you, I promise."

The brownstone has been a good house for them. Sturdy brick walls, neighbors that actually let them be. Henry has loved it more than he ever loved Kensington, or at least as much as he loved Kensington when his parents both lived there too. Some mornings, when he comes downstairs to find Alex with the coffeepot and the kettle already on, he feels the way he did when his family all slept under one roof. This roof is quite a bit smaller than that one, but the feeling isn't.

So, perhaps David hasn't got entirely the wrong idea. It is hard to let the place go. For the past month, Alex has kept asking Henry why he's staring, and the truth is that he's been committing to memory exactly how Alex looks in every room. How the bannister fits in his hand, the place on the foyer wall where he always braces himself to pull on his shoes.

Everything that's happened in the past five years has happened, at least in part, inside this house.

…

It's seven months after Alex's mother's second inauguration, and Henry is wishing he had never even heard the word "credenza." Then he wouldn't have to decide where to put one. Alex is arriving in half an hour to help him move it, but Henry still doesn't know where. Across from the fireplace, perhaps? But what if he wants to put a sofa there? Does he want a regular sofa, or a sectional? Should it go upstairs, in his study? Or should he leave room for bookcases?

He longs to be back on a beach, sipping something from a pineapple.

It’s been a long, glorious summer since Alex packed up his White House bedroom, called Henry, and asked, "Do you want to get the fuck off the continent?" They did Dubai first, then Lagos. Rio, for old time's sake. Buenos Aires, paper lanterns in moonlight and Alex flirting with the bartender for free drinks. June through August became a lovely blur: Alex asleep against his shoulder on the plane, Alex throwing his Portuguese phrase book out the window of a speeding car, sand in unmentionable places, Alex Alex Alex. Endless runways and half-arsed disguises, swimsuits that got smaller and smaller until they simply didn't wear them anymore. Falling in love, the sequel, with fresh suntans and all the time in the world.

And now here they are in Park Slope, where Alex is renting the second floor of a brownstone two blocks from Henry's.

It's practical, they agreed, to live in the same neighborhood before they live at the same address. They've scarcely gotten a chance to date the normal way yet– if it can be called "normal" when their combined security teams are headquartered in an empty apartment down the street. Still, Henry wants this to last.

They've sprinted headlong into everything so far, but now he wants move slowly, in delicious increments. He wants to savor nights, minutes, firsts, to covet them and then let them dissolve on his tongue, like the sugar cubes he snuck off his gran's filigreed tea trays when he was small. He wants a life.

He wants someone to tell him where to put this damned credenza.

It's a vintage Broyhill Brasilia piece, walnut with clever brass drawer pulls. June helped him pick it out when she was in town with meeting her editor, but she never gave him any advice on where it should go. He hasn't ever been allowed to decide where furniture should go before.

So, it’s...there, in the center of the empty living room, the first piece in the entire house.

“Maybe you could start with a rug or two,” says Alex from the foyer.

Henry turns to find him with his keys in one hand and a paper bag in the other, smiling in a beam of mid-morning light, and, ah. Yes. There it is. That sweet, sharp gasp of nerves. The half second when he forgets how to use his mouth. If he knows nothing else, at least one certainty remains, which is that seeing Alex Claremont-Diaz in the flesh will always do this to him.

Alex in a photo is handsome, but Alex in life is a symphony. He’s refracted light with a cherry cola chaser. He’s got a Fibonacci jawline and a troublemaker smile and thick forearms built for posing in doorways with his sleeves rolled and thumbing corks out of champagne bottles. The first time Henry ever told Pez about him, he said, “God, but he’s lethal.” It’s only worse once you get to know him.

“Weird place for a credenza,” Alex comments. He kisses Henry’s cheek, then passes him a warm bundle wrapped in parchment paper. “Hope you like sausage-egg-and-cheese.”

“I don’t know where to put it.”

“Sandwich goes in your mouth, typically.”

“The credenza.”

“Ohhh, right,” Alex says, pretending to have just caught on. He winks. Henry sighs theatrically but accepts a second kiss, on the lips this time. “Why don’t you just put it right here?”

He points to his left, where a blank wall stretches from the front door to the foot of the stairs. It does, upon closer inspection, appear to be the exact right size.

“Oh,” Henry says.

This is where they overlap. Where he ends and Alex begins. Great gooey puddle of feelings, meet course of action; endless burning energy, meet point of focus. Agonies, meet your most obvious, most natural, most inevitable conclusions. It’s frightening sometimes for a person like Henry, who has spent his entire life pedaling his agonies about like baguettes in a posh little bicycle basket. What is he to do with them now?

Yes," Henry concedes, "I suppose I could," and Alex laughs.

...

It's the summer of 2022. Henry has opened his third shelter, and Alex has just finished bulldozing his first year at NYU Law.

A few boxes of books still wait at Alex's place, but otherwise, he lives in Henry's brownstone now. Their brownstone. A UT pennant beside a Chelsea scarf on the living room wall. A fridge full of Topo Chico and Bulmers. Two pairs of shoes by the front door, brown Barker derbies and Reebok trainers. Nobody could mistake it for anyone else's.

It's their first Chore Sunday (Alex's idea), and Henry has put the last of the laundry in the dryer. He's in the kitchen doorway, watching Alex unload the dishwasher.

Alex once told Henry the type of man he's typically attracted to: tall, broad-shouldered, pretty eyes, a little haunted. Bit of attitude and a smile that makes you curious. For Henry, it's never been so simple. He liked boys in his classes because they bothered with the assigned readings and fancied one of Philip's awful Eton friends because he could sail and smelled of cinnamon. The only thing all his Oxford boys had in common was that they didn't know how to speak to him. He's never had a type, and he's always been sure Alex was singular, anyway. Alex is unlike anyone he's ever met before or since.

But here, now, watching Alex bend to remove a salad bowl from the bottom rack, he is confronted with the hard truth. All those boys did, actually, share one trait.

"Are you gonna help me with this," Alex says without even an investigatory glance over his shoulder, "or are you just gonna keep staring at my ass?"

...

It’s Christmas 2022, their first since Alex officially moved in, and Henry is going to make a yule log if it kills him.

Perhaps he’s been too ambitious. He’s rather new to all. Growing up, he was rarely permitted in the kitchens, and he concentrated his uni diet on fast food and takeaway. He can make toast and boil an egg, and he’s got a deft hand with the coffee percolator and a gin swizzle from time to time. He knows about food– the finest foods, actually, he’s yet to meet an Englishman who can select a better brie– but he never learned to cook, until recently.

Recently, as in when Alex became too fanatically involved in his second-year coursework to remember to feed himself.

It began with force-feeding Alex a bacon butty twice a week. Henry’s arms suffered little constellations of grease burns, but bacon was easy. And those faded, so they didn’t deter him for long. Curiosity piqued, he taught himself the basics of pasta, how one can simmer almost anything with garlic and onion and butter and it will taste good over noodles. It bolstered his confidence enough to truly commit, and now, between hours at the shelters and video calls with his mum, he watches tutorial after tutorial on how to brown butter and roast chicken. Only half of what he makes turns out the color it’s meant to, but he loves it.

He loves walking to the market on the corner and hunting down specific ingredients from the family recipes June sends him. In fact, it’s become such a regular pastime that the paparazzi have cottoned on, which is why his mother finally forced his security team to hire an actual body double. Now some bloke named Angus with his height and build and nearly the same face goes on diversionary strolls while Henry peruses jarred chilies.

With all his independent studying, he was certain he could manage a dessert. He wanted to do something impressive, since they’ve convinced their families to let them host Christmas dinner. Only, his sponge has gone all wrong, and if he’s learned anything from Bake Off, he knows it’s not meant to have cracked in five places when he tried to roll it up. Paul Hollywood would have him pilloried.

“Think you might’ve left it in too long?” Oscar asks from across the kitchen island. He’s wearing his white elephant prize, a sweatshirt airbrushed with the slogan YOU CAN’T SPELL CONSTITUTION WITHOUT TITS. Inexplicably, Henry’s own mother brought that one. “Lookin’ kinda dry there.”

“I appreciate that you are trying to be helpful,” Henry enunciates, “but if you say one more word I may start crying, and then we’ll both lose some respect for me.”

Later, when Pez has persuaded him to “call it, mate, put it out of its misery,” he carries his disgraced platter of ganache and cake and marzipan out into the living room and lets everyone go at it with spoons. The house feels full to bursting, and not just because of the Christmas crackers. There are all three of Alex’s parents, Henry’s mum, June and Nora, Bea and Pez, Shaan and Zahra on speakerphone, occasionally an awkward Philip and Martha via FaceTime, and, because he had nowhere else to go for the holiday, Angus.

(“I don’t like him,” Alex muttered when Henry suggested inviting his own body double to Christmas dinner.

“Why not?”

“Because he looks exactly like you, but I find him deeply unattractive, and that freaks me out.”)

Ellen tells everyone the story of the year Alex got his first real bike for Christmas and knocked out his two front teeth by Boxing Day, which prompts Catherine to recite eight-year-old Henry’s letter to Father Christmas, in which he requested a leather-bound journal and a holiday to East Wittering so he could gaze at the sea. Bea pushes Henry behind the upright piano, and he takes requests for an hour. It only ends when Pez rewrites half the lyrics to “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen” to be about his own lactose intolerance. No one wants to follow “tidings of Lactaid and soy.”

After the third round of mulled wine, when Alex’s parents have called their drivers and his mum has retired to the guest room, June and Nora find themselves under the mistletoe. Everyone whoops and whistles until Nora finally pulls June in by her Christmas-light necklace and kisses her to a round of applause. June's cheeks turn red, but she looks pleased as anything.

"I can't believe it took this long for y'all to finally kiss." Alex says, to which Pez bursts into laughter. "What?"

"Alex," he says fondly. He drains his glass and pecks Alex on the forehead. "You gorgeous, stupid little turnip."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Pez just shakes his head and strolls off to the kitchen.

"Wait," Alex says.

He frowns, like he does when he's trying to recall something incredibly minute and specific from his torts textbook. Then, suddenly, a light goes on, and his own mug is clunking on the lamp table, and he's running off after Pez.

"Pez, what's that supposed to mean?"

...

It's late morning the summer before Alex's last year of law school, 2023, and Alex is the first word out of Henry's mouth.

Truthfully, that's how he begins most mornings. On a Monday morning five time zones away, "Alex" pitched low to the screen of his phone. On a Friday when Alex's early lecture is cancelled, "Alex" in F major, muffled in the pillow as his body moves and the day stretches out before them. Half three the night before an exam, a hoarse "Alex," followed by, "turn the bloody light off and come to bed."

This morning, it's because David is barking at the door. A rainstorm is brewing, and if jet lag didn't have Henry dead under the bedclothes, the gray gloom would. Alex was the one who surfaced from sleep half an hour ago and blearily ordered three entire pancake breakfasts from some 24-hour diner a few neighborhoods over. He should have to get up and answer the door.

“Alex.” Henry mumbles, turning over.

Alex has got the quilt tugged up so high he’s only a shock of wild curls on white linens.

“Nnnghh,” Alex groans from the depths.

“Breakfast is here,” Henry says. The doorbell helpfully rings again. David howls.

Alex’s face appears, pouting. There’s a crease from the pillow down one of his cheekbones, a comet’s tail in a constellation of freckles. “Can you get it?”

Henry rolls his eyes but smiles. Inevitable.

He drags himself out of bed and pulls on the joggers and hoodie from last night’s flight. It’s not until he feels the breeze on his ankles as he descends the stairs that he realizes they’re Alex’s, not his.

On their doorstep, a pink-haired delivery girl is looking bored under her bicycle helmet.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Henry says. He fishes a crumpled bill out of Alex’s pocket. “For your trouble.”

The girl pulls a face.

“Got any real money?” she asks. Her accent reminds him a bit of Alex’s mum.

He blinks down at her hand, which is holding a twenty-pound note. “Ah. Sorry again. Er.” He snatches his wallet out of the bowl on the credenza and gives her all the American dollars he has.

“She’s gone, Davey,” Henry says afterward to David, who’s now fretfully circling the living room. “You’ve protected us from another fearsome home invader. Well done.”

He lets David out into the back garden to do his business, then carries the food upstairs. Shockingly, Alex is awake and propped up against the headboard.

“I’m getting too old for red-eye flights,” Alex says, rubbing his eyes.

“Love, you’re twenty-five,” Henry reminds him. He deposits the bag on the nightstand, and Alex wastes no time tearing through the plastic and tucking in to his breakfast. “And I’m older than you.”

“Yes, you are. But like... I get why we have to go to Philip’s kids’ christenings. The cousins, though?” He sets to work smothering his pancakes in syrup. “I mean, at least my cousins would stack their baptisms. One and done, baby.”

Henry opens his mouth, prepared to answer with one of a thousand things. That the tabloids will have even more of a field day than usual if he stops doing his chores, that there will always be a church dedication or a swan upping or an appointment for a top hat fitting, that he’ll always be obligated to have one foot in London and one day they’ll have to choose where to settle down. It’s far from the first time they’ve had this conversation.

But then Alex shovels a massive bite of pancakes into his mouth and says, “Anyway, I love you. Do you wanna have June and Nora over tomorrow? We can play Mario Party again. I wanna see them get in a fistfight. Oh, and my dad’s in town next week, and he said to tell you he’s bringing that book you asked about–”

And that’s when Henry knows: He doesn’t ever want to go back.

...

It’s the end of spring 2024, and Henry is not eavesdropping, per se. He excused himself to answer a call from Shaan, which really could not be avoided. Shaan has taken to his new life as a househusband with predictable aplomb, and most of his calls these days involve Henry getting to talk to a baby who is clearly destined to become prime minister. He simply can’t send that to voicemail.

It’s the first time they’ve had room in the schedule for his mother to visit since Alex accepted his law job, which Henry understands very little about but has been assured is the most strategic next step for Alex’s career long game. When Henry left the room, Alex was still trying to explain it to Catherine. It all sounds terribly prestigious.

He is just returning to the sitting room with a fresh pot of tea when he hears his name from around the corner.

“–and the next morning Henry and Arthur vanished,” his mother is saying, “and when Uncle Algie called, I told him that Henry couldn’t go on the annual pheasant hunt because he was violently ill, but actually Arthur had taken him to Rome for two weeks on the set of that go on ridiculous car heist film he was working on, the one with, oh, what’s his name–“

“Jason Statham,” Alex says promptly, through wheezing laughter.

“That’s the one!”

“Loved that movie,” Alex says. “I can’t believe Henry got to be on set.”

“It was all Arthur’s idea, but he was right to do it. Uncle Algie is a dreadful bore, and Henry despises his son. Guilford. Did you meet Guilford at the wedding?”

“Henry made sure I avoided it.”

“Yes, that’s for the best,” Catherine says daintily. “He has matured into an absolute dickhead.”

Henry wishes he was in the room to see the way Alex sputters out, “Oh my God.” Alex always forgets that Catherine went to uni and married a commoner from Sheffield.

And then Alex sighs and says, “When Henry and I get married–”

Henry manages to recover the teapot before he drops it.

It’s not a surprise to hear Alex mention marriage. They’ve been sorting it out for years: political logistics and Alex’s child-of-divorce anxiety and a thousand questions about a royal wedding neither of them actually wants to have. He’s already bought an engagement ring, even, and judging by how tetchy Alex gets whenever Henry tries to put his underwear away for him, he’s not the only one.

But it is the first time he’s heard Alex mention it to his mother. He dropped it so casually, so matter-of-factly, as if he’s been talking to her about marrying Henry for years. Henry supposes it’s possible he has been. Is this why Alex had tea with her in London last month and told Henry he wasn’t invited? Have they been conspiring?

They’re discussing hypothetical guest lists now, which cousins secretly hate one another and who wore an inappropriately large fascinator to whose birthday tea, but Henry isn’t listening anymore. He’s thinking of a cafe table in Rome, his dad waving over a second round of gelato.

In his memory, he’s nine years old, and his father is saying, Whoever you marry, Henry, make sure they think your mum is a laugh, because she is. She really is.

He clears his throat and finally rounds the corner. “Tea, anyone?”

...

It’s 2024, and nobody knows they’re engaged.

Granted, they’ve only been engaged for about three hours, but Henry is curious to see how long they can go. It feels nice to keep a secret that doesn’t have to be a secret. It’s more that they’re keeping it like a pet, or something especially beautiful from the garden that they’ve coaxed into a jar.

A record is spinning on the turntable, one of Alex’s, maybe the Joni Mitchell he borrowed from Bea. They’ve shoved their phones under the couch cushions and ordered a pizza the size of the moon, and now they’re sitting in the center of the living room floor, demolishing it. They kiss, then eat more pizza, then get distracted kissing again. Henry licks a streak of pepperoni grease from Alex’s forearm, which is a fantasy he didn’t know he had until he’s living it. They tangle up on the rug, and Henry decides he’ll take Alex sailing next weekend, or even out to the edge of the river, just to see him against a horizon.

Four-nearly-five years in, the main thing he’s learned is that Alex is a world without end. All Henry wants is to go on with him forever. To keep finding new favorite parts, to keep turning things over and studying their soft bellies and finding the best bits.

So, he will.

...

It snows on New Year’s Eve 2024. Alex looks out the window and shrugs off his coat.

The Young America Gala may be no longer, but Nora, June, and Pez aren’t to be stopped from throwing a New Year’s party, especially now that Pez has gotten his own part-time flat in the city. They’re the three fates of New York City’s holiday social circuit: birth (June, managing invitations), life (Pez, topless), and death (Nora, also topless).

“What if,” Alex says, turning to Henry on the foot of the stairs, “we don’t go to the party?”

“Nora will murder me,” Henry says. “She told me she’s not afraid to do that now that I’ve given up my title.”

“Murder is still a crime even if you’re not officially a prince.”

“Yes, but she said, quote,” he puts on his best American accent, “They can’t put me in the Tower anymore. Who’s gonna arrest me now? Mr. Bean?”

“Why don’t we just send Angus? It’s dark. Maybe she won’t notice.”

“Where’s your double, then?”

“We live in New York, I’m sure I can find a male model somewhere.”

“As always, sounding the very bass string of humility.”

“Is that fucking Shakespeare?”

“Henry IV.”

“I’m gonna give you a wedgie, you fucking nerd.”

In the end, it doesn’t take much to convince Henry to stay in. Lately, it never does. Alex texts June a flimsy excuse, and they toe off their shoes and relax out of their button-downs.

Henry does have to admit he’s exhausted, in the way that one only can be on the last day of the year, when every other day of the year piles way up behind it. It’s been a big one: Alex’s first law job, the endless press about Henry’s decision to surrender his title, the engagement, Bea’s wedding, the incident with the croquet mallets and the Dutch ambassador at Bea's wedding.

Sometimes Alex jokes that they squeezed it all into one calendar year because no headline can stick if there's another next week, but it's only half a joke. They've been bone-tired for months.

"I'm surprised you're the one who wants to stay home," Henry says. "I remember a young lothario who lived to ruin people's lives on New Year's Eve."

"Ruin?" Alex says. "That's not how I remember it."

"It certainly felt that way at the time."

They drift to the kitchen, past all the traces of the year. The dried flowers, the new scuffs on the floorboards. The box of bound manuscripts of Henry's first finished poetry-ish short-fiction-ish essay-ish collection. The holiday cards from senators and diplomats and old Texas friends, topped off with Alex's favorite of Rafael Luna and his astonishingly fit partner in matching Christmas jumpers. Henry would think Raf had been forced into it if it hadn't come with a case of beer and a note of thanks for letting him stay over the last time he visited Alex and had one too many tequila shots at drag bingo.

Alex withdraws a bottle of Clicquot from the refrigerator and says, "We're not washed, are we?"

“We're aging," Henry points out.

"That's right," Alex says, eyes immediately sparking at the opportunity. Henry preemptively sighs. "You're almost thirty."

"Almost twenty-eight is not almost thirty."

"It basically is. You're old. You'll be thirty a whole year before me. You'll be popping antacids and I'll be in the club, popping my p-"

"You're not even in the club now."

"I could be, I'm just choosing not to, because I don't want to deal with the snow. That's not aging, it's growth."

He slides Henry a glass of champagne and adds, "It's probably time for us to start talking about what's on your Do Before Thirty list, huh?"

Henry takes the glass and chooses going with Alex's bit over pointing out that he's entering his late twenties, not dying.

“I’ve done quite well on that front so far, actually,” he says. “Wrote a book. Started a nonprofit. Engaged to the love of my life.”

“Involved in an international sex scandal.”

“Shook the hands of all five Spice Girls.”

“Best dressed at the Met Gala.”

“Cried in the Water Lilies room at the MOMA.”

“Grew your hair out, then cut it all off.“

“Taught myself to make beef Wellington.”

“That one’s, uh, still in progress,” Alex hedges. Henry gives him an affronted look. “But, yeah! Definitely. And you got really good at scones.”

“That I did.”

“Right,” Alex agrees. “So what’s left? Streaking? Dropping acid? Having sex on our kitchen island?”

Henry takes a moment with that one.

“Having sex on our kitchen island?”

When the clock strikes the new year, the house is quiet. The timer on the light over the front stoop clicks off. The champagne bottle rests between two glasses on the edge of the sink, spent and sticky around the rim, a single soggy strawberry at the bottom of each flute. Miles out from their apartment, fireworks fight the snow over the East River, but in their kitchen in Park Slope, the only sounds are the two of them.

Henry, almost twenty-eight, presses his warm body to the cool marble and gets his midnight kiss.

...

“Do you know what today is?” Alex asks on a lukewarm September.

It’s 2025. He’s in the doorway of Henry’s study, where Henry has been all evening, answering emails.

“Hm? No.”

When Alex doesn’t immediately fill the silence, Henry looks up from his laptop screen.

“What is it?”

“Five years since the story broke,” Alex says.

It takes a moment for him to realize what story Alex means; there have been so many of them. But of course, he means that gigantic, terrible one. The one that changed their lives forever.

“Oh,” Henry says. He closes his laptop, leaning back in his chair and away from it. “Well. Hated that.”

“Yeah,” Alex agrees. “Zero out of ten. Would not do again.”

His tone is light and casual, but when he folds his arms across his chest, Henry can see his glasses in the front pocket of his flannel. It’s been months and months since the last time Alex didn’t feel confident enough to wear them.

For his part, Henry can remember much of that day, but not all of it. He remembers stirring sugar into his morning tea when Shaan walked in wearing an expression Henry had never seen before. He remembers Pez arriving like the cavalry in Gucci slippers, hustling Henry away from his handlers with the same graceful disdain he used to direct at Eton classmates who stared at them too much. He remembers Bea finding them in the music parlor and refusing to hear Henry’s apology, and he remembers Alex’s call and Alex’s arrival.

The funny part, though, is he can’t remember anything between Bea and Alex. He knows that Philip was involved, and there were stories on every news channel, and he spoke to his mother at some point. But the space in his memory where those hours belong is simply blank. His psychiatrist says it’s post-traumatic stress disorder, and Henry is inclined to agree, considering the two of them spent the entire following year recalibrating Henry’s anxiety and depression medication around the event.

Those hours will always be gone. There are things he will never get back.

Most of the time, though, when he thinks of that day, the second worst thing that's ever happened to him, he thinks of Alex's hand in his under a Buckingham Palace table. He remembers, clear as a bell, Alex's voice telling him they would survive it together. It happened to Alex too. It wasn't what they would have chosen, but it was what they received, and they've done their absolute bloody best with it.

He rises from his desk, crosses to the doorway, and gathers Alex up against his chest. Their size difference isn't that pronounced—Henry is taller but lean, Alex shorter but sturdy—but in moments like this, he's thankful for the way Alex's cheek perfectly aligns with the crook of his neck. He's grateful for how effortless it is to slip a kiss to Alex's temple.

Neither of them says anything else. It's all been said a thousand times, in speeches and through official statements and in the dark when it's only the two of them. It's enough to stand here in the center of the house, in the quiet, and let it hold their weight.

...

At the end of 2025, Henry has a bad day.

There's nothing specific that causes it. The days just happen like this sometimes, even with all the therapy and medication and supportive partnership and fulfilling creative projects in the world. There are other people, he supposes, who don't spend their lives waiting for the next bad day. He's had every bloody luxury but that one.

Alex comes home from work to find him curled up on the armchair in the study, staring out the window at the light-polluted night sky over the row of brownstones across the street.

“What are you doing?" Alex asks him.

"Looking for Orion," Henry deadpans.

Alex kneels on the rug in his tailored suit pants and rolled-up sleeves and rests his cheek on Henry's knee, the way he often does when Henry's in a mood. Henry's fingers slide into his curls. They've grown a bit longer in the past few months. Lately. Alex looks quite like he did when they met, except for the glasses and the stubble dusting his jaw.

“I’m tired of big law, “ Alex confesses. It would appear he’s in a mood too. “I know it’s only been a year and a half, but...I kind of hate it.”

Henry contemplates that, along with the dark circles around Alex’s eyes.

“You don’t have to do it, you know.” Henry tells him.

Alex looks at him like he did in that hotel room in Paris the first time they woke up together, like the only thing he knows for sure about what he’s being offered is that he wants it completely. It’s an intimidating look to receive, but it’s only ever improved Henry’s life in the end.

He kisses Henry’s knuckle, just below his ring.

“I have some ideas.”

...

In February 2026, a flu sweeps through Park Slope. Neither Alex nor Henry can agree on who gave it to whom first– Henry knows it was Alex, since he’s been up late consulting with his mum about a voting rights bill in Texas, and his immune system always suffers when he gets upset about Texas—but regardless, they’re trapped in the brownstone together for a week. At least Alex doesn’t have to work through his illness the way he usually does, since he resigned from his job last month.

Somewhere around day five, Henry realizes it’s the longest consecutive amount of time they’ve both been home in years. They always seem to be leaving or returning: rushing off to appearances, climbing out of security caravans in half-undone suits, meeting Cash at the curb at three in the morning with bags over their shoulders. It’s nice, in a way, to get reacquainted with this home they’ve built together.

While Alex naps, Henry paces the entire floorplan.

The first floor, with its long living room and the original beams and mantelpiece, which Henry had restored before he moved in, because he always has been precious about the history of things. Then the kitchen and the deep blue cabinets and the wide back window over the knotty pine dining table handed down from Alex's dad. Upstairs, on the second floor, the guest bedroom with all of his mum's preferred hand creams in the attached washroom and the sitting room with the shelf of swan figurines Pez started collecting years ago in a dramatic fit of June-related yearning. One more flight up to the top floor, with his study and Alex's office and the hall with their photo from Shaan and Zahra's wedding and, at the far end, their bedroom.

The bedroom is his favorite part of the house, and not only for the obvious reasons, no matter how much Alex tries to imply otherwise with suggestive eyebrows. He loves the high ceiling and the chipped plaster medallion of roses at the center. They picked out the bed together, and every morning that he wakes up in it, he gets to turn over and see Alex's loose pens and glasses wipes scattered atop the dresser and know that this, his life, is still real. Perhaps he likes the room best because it feels separated from every other part of the house, lifted up and bundled in, which is the first time he's ever been safe in a tower.

Most importantly, of all three levels of bay windows jutting from the redbrick front of the brownstone, only the one in the bedroom has a seat. They've filled it with velvet pillows and mossy green cushions, and once or twice a year, on one of their vanishingly rare slow days, Alex will climb in and fall asleep.

That's where he finds Alex when he eases into the room with a mug of soup in each hand. He recognizes the quilt wrapped around him: they slept under it in Alex's childhood twin bed the night Ellen won her second term, and then Alex crammed it into his suitcase and brought it back to Washington.

He stirs as Henry sets the mugs down on the dresser.

“Thanks,” he says in a hoarse voice.

Henry nudges in beside him, gingerly removing Alex's glasses from beneath his elbow before they get crushed.

"You know," Henry says, "I chose this house for the bay windows."

Alex blinks at him, fully awake now. "Really?"

"I thought you might like them. You always talked about the one you grew up with. Hoped they might make the place feel like home."

Alex smiles. "They do."

Henry looks at him in his quilt, sleep-mussed and flushed from fever and overdue for a shave, and he remembers that night in the yellow house in Austin. Before Alex led them back to his old bedroom, he peeled up the cushion in the living room window seat and showed Henry pages of elementary school scribbles still hidden there. And he told Henry that he thought once of hiding a picture there too, if only he'd had the nerve to tear it out of his sister's magazine.

Love, Henry has found, has a way of growing backward. You fall in love with a person in the present, and then every person you've ever been gets to fall in love with every past version of them. A sleep-deprived Georgetown freshman falls in love with an Oxford sophomore who's testing out undoing the top button of his shirts sometimes. A ruddy-cheeked teenager with his nose in a book loves a backtalking lacrosse captain. A boy comes home from school with perfect marks and sees a picture in a magazine, and the boy from the picture pauses on a palace staircase.

The crux of it is, he loves every version of Alex to ever sleep under that quilt. Everything else is mostly set dressing

"I'm having a thought," Henry says.

"Congratulations," Alex deadpans automatically. Then, "Tell me."

"This life we have here," Henry says. "This house. It's good, yeah?"

"Yeah, of course it is."

"But we could have a good life somewhere else too."

Alex frowns. "Like where?"

"Somewhere... farther from everything, maybe? Somewhere we could slow down, and things could be quieter, and you could do the work you want to do. I think I could use some time away from it all, honestly. Maybe I wouldn't even have to have a body double anymore."

Alex considers that for a long moment. They both know where Henry means, even if he doesn't say it. Besides New York and DC, and London on its best days, there's really only one place Alex would seriously consider living. They've joked about it before, but Henry's always thought it might be nice to spend a few years somewhere completely different than he's used to. A place where he could see the stars.

At long last, Alex sniffs and says, "You're gonna fire Angus? He was just starting to grow on me.”

...

“If you don't wake Bea up, you're gonna have to hear about her back spasms in the morning,” says a voice that is most certainly not Heath Ledger's.

Henry startles awake to find Alex leaning over his shoulder from behind the loveseat, curls everywhere. The room is dark, and the end credits are rolling.

"You're not home until tomorrow," Henry mumbles.

"Moved up my flight," Alex says. He's so close to Henry's face, he's gone a bit cross-eyed. His lips bounce off the tip of Henry's nose. "I missed you."

It's only been a few days, but the truth is Henry missed him too. He supposes he should be used to empty beds and time differences by now, especially when they began that way, but he suspects he'll never stop waiting at the door. You know what will be the best part of getting married?" Henry asks Alex.

"The line dancing."

"The way I won't have to miss you nearly as often."

Alex softens, then maneuvers himself over the armrest until he's draped across Henry's lap. David climbs on top of him and curls up on Alex's left buttock.

Letting go of the house has been hard, but this particular decision was easy, once they finally said it out loud. A gradual, careful withdrawal from public life, at least for a few years. They’ve given so much of themselves to the world and had the privilege of feeling a legacy take shape beneath them, but they need rest too.

It was June who convinced them, actually. Even now, there are certain things only June can say to Alex. Early in the spring, when she was finally transitioning out of her speechwriting job for Raf, she called Alex from Colorado and told him she was moving to New York to be closer to Nora and Pez, and she wanted to sublet the brownstone. When Alex pointed out that he was still living in it, she said, "We both know you've been looking at farmhouses in Austin for six months, it's time to shit or get off the pot."

(Henry loves his particular collection of Americans. They truly do say what's on their minds.)

The new house is beautiful. Henry's only seen it in person once, but the previous owner was a reclusive tech executive with shockingly good taste, so Architectural Digest featured it last year. He's had the article open in a tab on his phone for two months, and he scrolls through all those perfectly lit photos twice a day, getting high on possibilities. Lazy mornings in the wide sunroom, midnight dives in the lake. It's easy to imagine Alex mellowing into a brisket-smoking, tamale-rolling Texas dad out there, and it's just as easy to imagine them basking under cedar trees until their mid-thirties and then deciding they're ready for another round. The wonderful thing is, they can take their time either way.

It isn't a full release from their obligations, but it is the next step after formally relinquishing his title. More boundaries, more of their own rules about what they will and won't do. No royal wedding, but a private ceremony at the lake house and a honeymoon unpacking boxes. A job for Alex at a smaller firm where he can finally get his hands in the earth. A quieter life.

"You're right," Alex says. "You know what else is gonna be awesome about married-people life? We can have actual, real-life date nights. Just imagine it: free refills and bottomless chips and salsa."

"Oh, I've got another one," Henry says. “You can finally show me how to navigate an H-E-B."

“Baby, don’t talk dirty to me in front of company.”

“Please,” says a groggy voice from the couch.

“Hi, Bea.”

“Time’s it?”

“One in the morning.”

“Ugh.”

Grumbling and tugging a blanket around herself, Bea wakes Pez and the two of them head off to wash up before bed. The odds of Pez returning to the couch for the night or availing himself of their bed so that Alex has to sleep on the couch are just about even, based on six years of Pez falling asleep at their house. It’s a comfort to know that when they leave the brownstone and June moves in, Pez will still be making himself at home in it.

Downstairs, surrounded by boxes, Alex crawls out of Henry’s lap and slides a large shopping bag out from behind the loveseat. “I brought you something.” Alex says.

Inside the bag is a box made of the sort of heavy cardboard that augurs something expensive. He imagines Alex hurling his patched-up rough-ridden leather duffle into the overhead compartment of the airplane and then sliding this bag under the seat so carefully that there’s not even a crease in the paper.

He takes the lid off the box and unwraps layers of tissue paper to reveal a hat. A cowboy hat. It’s made of gorgeous, thick felt, with a cattleman crown and a satin lining. A nearly identical one has hung in Alex’s office since he moved in, though Alex’s is midnight black and this one is a warm, pale sand. Where Alex’s hatband has a small gold buckle, this one has a silver pin in the shape of an English rose.

“It’s a Stetson,” Alex says. When Henry looks up at him, his cheeks have darkened faintly. “I know it’s not really your thing, but you ride horses, and it’s kind of a big deal where I’m from to get your first Stetson, so I wanted to be the one to give it to you since you’re about to be an honorary Texan. You don’t have to wear it if you don’t want–“

“I love it,” Henry interrupts.

Alex pauses, then breaks out in a grin. “You do? I was afraid you’d think it was a joke.”

“It’s the least ridiculous hat I’ve ever been given,” Henry tells him. “It didn’t even come with a matching tailcoat.”

“Nah, but maybe we can get you some Wranglers,” Alex says.

“Some chaps, perhaps.”

“I just told you not to talk dirty to me.”

Henry laughs and kisses him over the open box, thinking of the next year of their lives. Sunday morning fry-ups, swimming holes, a wedding cake that doesn’t wind up on the floor. Tomorrow he needs to ask if Alex checked on the bakery while he was in Austin, and if they have any more packing tape, and whether Amy’s daughter has gotten her flower girl dress yet.

Tonight, though, Alex is home a day early, and the house is making all its soft, familiar night-time sounds around them. No one sees in through the windows. No one comes in through the gate.

“Henry,” says Alex.

“Alex,” says Henry.

“You and me,” Alex says.

“You and me,” Henry agrees.

End.

Download as EPUB

Download as PDF

(Let me know if you have any problems with the links or files.)

[enigma2meagain]

RWBY Relic Pieces in Volume 1, Symbolism of the Pieces, and How It Ties To the Broader Narrative.

Did a quick searchup on the symbolism of chess pieces, and taking what I saw into consideration (note that this is very abridged, and possibly not entirely correct):

CRDL and the Black Bishop

Bishops are representative of religion, as well as spirituality, morality, and wisdom, and a direct reference to Cardin's mythological reference, the Cardinal of Winchester. In regards to the broader narrative that RWBY sets up, he can be considered V1's partial representation of the institution of Huntsmen, more specifically the deeply flawed and darker side standing opposite to the better/neutral aspects of Huntsmen that RWBY/JNPR represent, due to being a racist bully who stands against Grimm, yet also willfully persecutes and harms the people he's supposed to fight for, such as minority groups like Faunus and (given Jaune at this point is basically a civilian in huntsmen's clothing and training wheels) the people depending on the circumstances. Also acts as a form of foreshadowing to the other deeply flawed or outright bad huntsmen we'd come to see later in the series, as well as highlighting the lack of wisdom and morality that can blight the institutions that Huntsmen are supposed to be, represent and protect.

The Black pieces in chess always move second, which highlights how the Huntsmen are a highly reactive organization, and how this severely limits their ability to truly tackle the bigger problems regarding threats like the Grimm, Salem, society's deep internal problems, and in the bigger picture, Ozpin's divine mission.

JNPR and the White Rook

Rooks are representative of the land, being symbolic of the fortress that guards a city or land and its royalty, and how they essentially "guard" the other pieces, as well as representing stability. The majority of JNPR come from civilians compared to the likes of RWBY, with this becoming completely the case after Pyrrha's death and Oscar's inclusion, and they're shown consistently throughout the series as having the strongest connections to civilians on a personal level. They also frequently as the bedrock and stabilizing influence, through Jaune, Nora and Ren's friendships and roles as supporting characters. Being white pieces also highlights how as time goes on, they would develop an increasingly proactive role through the questioning of the narrative told to them by the metaphorical "royals" (in this case, Ozpin's secret circle) and the latter's failure to actually protect them.

This is especially notable in regards to Jaune, Nora, and from a story perspective Ren, given how the former consistently questions Ozpin and his inner circle's shadier actions throughout most of V4 - V8, and Nora and Ren were failed miserably and made orphans due to the lack of huntsmen and the society around them failing to protect them, while putting them into a situation where their only recourse is to become part of the system that failed them.

RWBY and the White Knight

Knight pieces are representative of the medieval military, fitting given the status of Huntsmen, as well as being considered adventurous, valorous, and unpredictable due to their unique fighting style allowing them a level of unpredictability that other pieces don't have, fitting of how RWBY are the main proactive force to pushing Ozpin and the true nature of the secret war against Salem out into uncharted territory, forcing them to actually change and grow.

Knights are also often historically drawn from nobility, much like how every major character in RWBY has some kind of tie to Remnant's most illustrious groups or some kind of major player (Ruby and Yang being part of major Huntsmen lineages, Weiss being a rich heiress to the most powerful corporation in the world, and Blake being effectively the Princess of the Faunus, as well as having ties to the most prominent civil rights activists and movements in all iterations of the White Fang).

Much like JNPR, they are far more proactive compared to the royals they serve, actively pushing the latter outside their comfort zone in a two-pronged attack alongside JNPR, but the series also strives to highlight and deconstruct the messier aspects of their relationship as huntsmen (and thus a form of warrior caste/mercenary, with the following tension in that relationship with the people they are trying to protect) and how the unpredictable nature of their changes results in as much positive and messier forms of change, for better or worse.

This got way longer than I thought it would.

[beesmygod]

chatting about the big lore post

i think he was forged in the crucible, actually. but incidentally. or maybe even intentionally by marika. marika has some kind of connection to the eternal city where they were trying to "forge a lord".....maybe he was literally baked by her to transfer her soul into ranni style.

i assumed this at first too and it's still pretty plausible but here's my logic against it: it seems like the process of altering the elden ring is like metalworking and requires a forge, hammer, and (most critically) fire. yet, the greater will is so scared of fire that it makes marika send her kids to boot camp forever when they think about it too much. "destined death" is a thing reserved for the demi-gods and THAT'S what marika removed. specifically death for her family (maybe because of morgott and mohg being omens? they would have been left behind by the rest of the family more than they already were)

when the finger readers talk about the burning of the erdtree being the first cardinal sin they (and the item description for "fire's deadly sin") say "That is not the domain of mere men." the gods played with fire and were punished for it.

[year2000electronics]

do you have any tips or suggestions for someone wanting to make their own oc story? your ocs and their stories are so insanely cool but i have no idea where i’d even begin to make one!

also happy y2kvr-versary ! late i know but it was still the ask blog that caused me to follow you and i’ve just stuck around for your other content after. :)

HMMMM lemme just spill a bunch of my thoughts all at once, this is just some stuff i personally like doing with my own oc stories! by no means is this a comprehensive list and i am not a professional!

1. accept the fact that you’re probably going to need minor/side characters. of course that isn’t always the case, there are story types that only focus on a handful of characters, but let’s use the reckoning as an example: even though i love all the characters there dearly, it’s about sinclair and his donning and subsequent subverting of the “mythological hero” mantle by taking on the vices’ challenge. montez and duncan, the other two archangels, are there to serve as a secondary antagonist in holy orders and bring some more life to the story’s world respectively, and That’s Okay. recognizing that not all your characters are gonna be the most specialest boys is a great place to start with structuring an oc story imo!

2. KEEP AT IT. the reckoning as it exists now didn’t truly come together until 2020, which is when the ask blog was made. cardine (the city the vices reside in) is such a key, important concept that drives the story along and the reckoning wouldn’t be nearly as good without it, and that only got introduced in one of the final drafts pre-ask blog!! reworks, practice with laying out the events, thinking and re-thinking of stuff and spending years with it is really good. it’s healthy. i mean a lot of great films and tv get ‘saved’ at the last minute from being terrible by one terrible concept being scrapped so revising and not being afraid to change things is your best friend

3. learn some rules. i’m of the firm belief that storytelling should be an all-access hobby for everyone, so you don’t have to read all of save the cat and then write out a full script or anything, but like. turn on a movie you like, or read a book you love. think about what they’re doing to convey primary themes to you. pick out the themes, actually, that’s good too. being able to pick up on themes that aren’t just being stated to you as if it’s dialogue from sonic heroes is a great teacher on how to subtly weave those themes into your story

4. don’t be afraid to break those rules! a lot of that stuff is great to pick up but at the same time they’re YOUR characters, and if you find yourself getting bored by playing too “by the book”, nobody said you can’t change how things work. for example, a lot of my oc stories have “villain protagonists” because i just really connect with the way ‘villains’ present themselves in media. if you find yourself fixating on a side character and brushing your main character aside? screw it! you can just make the story about them! what if a 7/11 clerk went on an adventure instead of the main guy!!

5. INSPIRATION IS YOUR FRIEND. WEAR IT ON YOUR SLEEVE. i don’t mean you have to publicly disclose every single thing you were inspired by, but the amazing digital circus is REALLY big right now, and gooseworx has told people IHNMAIMS and the raggedy ann movie were big inspos and she clearly loves those things because they uplift the work higher! (plus it gave people a new appreciation for those things) and, imo, understanding what inspires you and celebrating it is a lot better of a mindset than going into something out of sheer spite (like you’ll see a lot of people online making very inflammatory “i alone could fix a piece of media that had to go through an entire writer’s room as well as corporate mandates, gosh why doesn’t everyone just Make Things Good?” type posts on social media, and i find myself straying more and more away from that). best example i can think of are all those very ill-fated “original alien stories” that su criticals made back in the day that were even more confusing than the gems and everyone had to pretend that “of course it makes more sense for the aliens to be flowers, gosh, why didn’t rebecca sugar think of this? we’re so smart”. my point is hate and shame can fizzle out quickly but creativity is forever

6. and of course, always make sure you’re actually having a good experience with the process. fun, catharsis, importance, etc. if it sucks, you can literally hit the bricks. i say that with experience because before my original superhero story existed (iris of the storm), there was another (problem students). it was dormant as a story for a really long time because i had accidentally made a superhero story without any of the superhero tropes i loved, but i couldn’t just… delete it all! OH WAIT. YES I COULD. i started it all over and got rid of ocs that i was glad i made but don’t need anymore, and i’ve never been happier cos iris of the storm is actually fun for me.

BUT YEAH THATS IT. thumbs up

[path-of-grass-and-leaves]

Creating a Backyard Land Spirit Profile

Working with land spirits can help connect you with your local ecosystem, and for some practitioners is a crucial aspect of bioregional magic. Some folks, like myself, consider themselves to be initiated by one or more land spirits.

When I use the term land spirits, I am referring to a few different things. First are the collective spirits of various plants, animals, and insects present in a specific bioregion. An example of collective, in this context, means that if I'm petitioning help from the spirit of violets, I am working with the spirit of all violets present in that area rather than a singe flower that grows in my yard.

The next is the land guardian, which in my practice is a more powerful spirit with claim over a specific territory, like a forest, river, or neighborhood.

Sometimes these two concepts are separate and sometimes they're interchangeable. It all depends on personal practice, culture, local folklore, etc.

One thing that has been extremely beneficial to my practice has been creating a backyard land spirit profile. This method has been useful for spirit work and "green" magic, but more importantly, it's helped me immerse myself in my local ecosystem and I get to meet a lot of cool animals and plants.

Here is an over-simplfied example of my backyard land profile:

Ecosystem: Central Interior and Appalachian: Mixed woodlands, close to possible floodplains

Soil Type: Clay in garden bed, Loamy near/beneath shrubs, Sandy in sunny areas of the lawn

Flora:

Cultivated- Paradise Apple, Highbush Blueberry, Rose of Sharon, Dog Rose, Black-Eyed Susan, Sundial Lupine

Native - Bloodroot, Wild Strawberry, Common Violet, Wrinkle-Leaf Goldenrod, Blue Wood-Aster, Horseweed, Fireweed, Deer-Tongue Witchgrass, Common Milkweed

Invasive - Round-Leaved Bittersweet, Yellow Toadflax, Creeping Bellflower, Common Mugwort

Naturalized - Dandelion, Broad-Leaf Plantain, Deadly Nightshade

Notes - Various mosses, unidentified mushrooms growing on lawn and lichens found on some trees/shrubs.

Fauna:

Mammals - Raccoon, Opossum, Striped Skunk, Grey Squirrel, Chipmunk, Feral Cats, Deer mouse, House Mouse

Birds - Cardinals, Chickadees, Catbirds, American Robin, Downy Woodpecker, Turkey Vulture, Crow

Reptiles and Amphibians - N/A

Fish - N/A

Invertebrates - Dotted Wolf Spider, Leopard Slug, Tiger Bee Fly, Monarch Caterpillars, Peach Root Weevile, Narrow-Winged Mantis, Fireflies

Ecoregion and Soil Type

The first thing I did was determine what type of ecosystem my yard used to be. In an urban/suburban area this was a bit challenging.

I started by identifying a few wild plants and finding out where they usually grow. Most of them seemed to prefer shady woodlands and rich soil. There were also a couple of pioneer species present in the sunnier and more disturbed areas of the yard.

Next, I took a look at surrounding wild areas. We are close to a mountain and a large river. There are woodlands near and within the city made up of mostly hardwood and conifer trees. I knew from memory that certain areas close to my home are likely floodlands.

After that, I found a bioregion map of my country which showed that my state fell under the category of Central Interior and Appalachian. I searched this region on landscope.org and was able to determine my specific ecoregion (not shared here for privacy reasons).

From there I started making educated guesses. I determined that my backyard was likely a mixed hardwood and conifer woodland sitting very close to what might have been a floodplain.

For my soil type, I took samples from different areas of my yard and used an online guide to determine what kind of soil I had. Most of it was sandy or loamy, but my flower beds seemed to have some clay.

Using all this information, I had a general idea of what kind of plants and wildlife would be present without human intervention. It also helped with deciding which native plants to start growing.

Plants

Throughout the year, I went out to the yard with a wildlife field guide and a couple identification apps and identified every plant and insect I found. I grouped the plants into four categories: native, invasive, naturalized, and cultivated. This isn't shown in the example, but I also grouped them by season and the time of year they appear.

Naturalized refers to plants that have integrated themselves into the environment without inflicting damage to the local ecosystem.

You'll notice that under the cultivated section I included a few native plants. This is because those plants were introduced by me and would not be present without my intervention and I wanted to make that distinction.

The importance of native and naturalized plants is obvious, but what about cultivated and invasive? Keeping a profile of invasive plants helped me keep a record of which noxious weeds I need to remove. From an ecological perspective, their removal is crucial to the survival of my native plants and garden crops. From a spiritual perspective, this can be an offering or act of service to the local land spirits. Some of these plants, like Common Mugwort, are both valuable for workings and fine to harvest in large quantities since they are invasive.

Cultivated plants are also important. Many of these plants, like my Blueberries, Apples, and Rose of Sharon, were here before me. The importance of plants introduced by humans is greater than you'd think. First, they are usually crops and flowering plants and provide food for both humans and the local wildlife. Secondly, I live in an urban area, and my land spirits are likely very closely associated with people.

I researched all of my plants and took note of growth patterns, toxicity, medicinal uses, ediblity, native region/habitat, ecological significance/impact, etc. Then I moved onto folklore and symbolism and started working with the spirits of a few plants, performing divination, leaving offerings, harvesting them and including them in rituals and spellwork. I did this in groups to avoid feeling overwhelmed.

Please note that you should always properly identify plants and be aware of potential toxicity before harvesting, especially if you plan on burning or consuming said plant. Also steer clear of protected or threatened plants and keep harvest to a minimum even for abundant native species.

Wildlife

My next project was writing down every species of animal and insect that I had encountered in my yard. I grouped them into several categories: mammals, birds, reptiles, amphibians, fish, and invertebrates. In real life my invertebrates section is separated into several subcategories (orb weavers, beetles, etc.).

Next, I used basically the same system I did for plants, researching their native range, preferred habitat, behavior, diet, ecological importance. Then I started looking into folklore.

Finally, I started integrating them into my practice and working with their collective spirits. This involved using animal symbolism in rituals, leaving offerings, and performing a lot of divination.

Remember to never interact with or directly feed wildlife. If I'm making offerings outdoors it is usually fresh water, scattered birdseed, and acts of service like creating habitats and growing plants that a specific species enjoys. If scattering birdseed, do so in the morning to keep too many animals, like raccoons, from entering your yard at night.

Side note: Keep a record of what appears in your yard each year! For example one year we had several chipmunks and one year I saw none. One year we had no fireflies and the next our backyard was covered in them.

Tying It All Together

Once I had my backyard profile completed, I started working with the collective spirits of select species. I have an offering schedule, perform communication, and petition these spirits regularly in spellwork. I use certain plants that I harvest for offerings and use for tinctures, infusions, cooking, and crafts. I use symbols of local animals in crafts and spellwork.

After working with the "smaller" spirits, you can start seeking out specific land guardians by using a combination of divination and research of local history and folklore.

On a mundane level, I am now able to cultivate an appropriate ecosystem for the local wildlife and start projects to support it. Examples of this are pollinator gardens, stick and brush piles for fireflies and small animals, growing seed-rich and fruiting plants for birds and mammals, winter shelters and TNR plans for feral cats, and more.

I also like to take notes on plants and wildlife that I encounter in my general area that don't usually make it into my backyard. For example there have been coyotes, foxes, bobcats, and black bears spotted in my neighborhood.

I want to stress that I live in a semi-urban and relatively populated neighborhood and I have a small yard. The brief example of of my land profile doesn't cover even a fraction of the wildlife I have encountered in my backyard. There is so much life in urban and suburban areas in need of our support.

[sgiandubh]

Trick or treat?

Time to re-read this wonderful post by @wildfernflower:

I mean, yeah:

Linked In, people, FFS! Supposedly active in 'music' , whatever that might mean.

1 connection. 3 followers.

For comparison, please refer to my completely dormant Linked In account. I literally did nothing with it, just politely clicked on all the invitation links that popped in my Gmail. Because no one wants to look like Yeti when asked at the next reception something along the lines of ' oh, did you receive my Linked In link?'

I don't need Linked In to keep tabs on things and I never got used to it, that's all.

I also filled in some details, because it asked me to. I still have more connections and followers than Tracula, mind you:

I do not use Linked In. But... does Tracula have an email? The answer is probably yes, yet how the hell is the 1 connection and 3 followers profile supposed to make sense in the synoptics of a successful, millionaire real estate investor and multiple businesses owner?

He doesn't work for a Soviet nuclear facility located in one of those closed cities you couldn't find on any map (Chelyabinsk-65, anyone?), mind you.

He is not included in a federal witness protection program.

He did not defect from North Korea and currently de-briefed by Seoul.

He is not an in pectore appointed Cardinal of the Roman Catholic Church.

He is not a Yakuza warlord or a росси́йская ма́фия /Russian mafia Avtoritet, whose CV would be read by the cognoscenti on this tattoos, not on Linked In.

Nope. He's not even a Calabrese capofamiglia (pun totally intended, btw).

Well, then... could he simply be a .... ghost?

'Tis the season.

[have-a-hiddles]

Within Your Heart, A Story To Be Told

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five

Pairing: Cardinal Copia/F!Reader

Words: 4.5K/16.4K

Warnings: Vague reference to suicide, but no such act occurs. Intense bullying both verbal and physical. Reader is a Sister of Sin and is written to be quite plump. Lots of swearing, both in English and Italian.

🔞 MDNI 🔞

A/N: I’m keeping Primo, Secondo, and Terzo alive. Because I fucking can. However, Sister Imperator is still the only one aware of Copia’s familial connection. Copia knows Imperator is his birth mother, but not that Nihil is his father.

Everything takes place circa 2018-2019 between Terzo getting dragged off-stage (30 September 2017) and Copia being anointed as Papa IV (March 2020).

Tucked away in a short hallway that only led to a janitor’s closet, hiding among discarded crates of merchandise, you struggled to breathe without sobbing. It was not the first time you’d had to utilize this barely frequented hiding spot. You’d been with the Ministry for nearly five years; yet you still remained unable to find your place. It seemed to be a lifelong fault of yours; never fitting in.

Your earliest memory was of being picked last for recess sports in elementary school; of stern-faced priests telling you to stop crying, stop being so sensitive. Boys will be boys and boys like to pick on their classmates. Maybe if you didn’t present such an irresistible target, they’d leave you alone. Always turning a blind eye to your skinned knees and bruised arms.

Middle school was no better. In fact, it was worse. Now, the girls got in on the bullying too. They mocked your chosen hobbies; reading, drawing, singing. The one time you got a solo in the school choir for a special Mass for some important visiting Cardinal, they made farting and oinking noises behind you, whispering and laughing just low enough that the Sister didn’t hear them. You’d faltered in your singing, trying desperately not to cry, your cheeks flaming red. You had worked so hard on this part! It was your favorite hymn! Sister had yelled at you and berated you for not practicing enough on your own. In the end, she took the solo away from you and gave it to another girl who wasn’t as good a singer as you were but was vastly more popular.

And high school? High school was pure torture. Everything that sucked about middle school, but now with hormones and heartache mixed in for a toxic cocktail. Other students now sought to humiliate you by dangling a mirage of hope. Some bold joker would sidle up to you to say something along the lines of: “Hey, my friend over there thinks you’re super cute. You should ask him out.” And naturally, naively you did, hoping against hope that said boy was telling the truth.

Said boy never was.

University life hadn’t treated you much better, although the overt bullying ceased. You tried to keep a low profile. Went to social events even though you were an anxious wreck the whole time; house parties that your exasperated roommates might drag you on, street festivals for arts and crafts by local artisans, concerts in crowded and often smoky clubs.

It was at one such concert that you first saw the band Ghost and had something of an epiphany. If the so-called “good” people were so horrible to you; then maybe the so-called “evil” people would treat you nicely. Twelve years of Catholic school with its mean nuns and creepy priests had soiled much of your interest in faith. You hadn’t been to Mass since graduating from Saint Hubert’s. Not even for Christmas or Easter. When you’d flat out refused to attend a Catholic university, your family had all but disowned you. And sadly, that changed very little for you. They’d never been much interested in you.

Then Ghost had returned to your city, now as their own headliner instead of an opening act. You’d ponied up the money for general admission tickets to the Haze Over North America tour even though the idea of being jostled around by a bunch of sweaty strangers made you feel nauseous. You’d queued up before anyone else even got there. You’d even caught sight of the band and roadies arriving, although you wisely did NOT rush over to them even though you really wanted to. You very briefly caught sight of Papa (still Secondo at that time!) in his full robes heading from a black SUV into the side of the venue.

You’d been all but clinging to the stage, watching them and, more importantly, listening. Secondo liked playing to the pit, often making eye contact with various individuals. He had a reputation of being something of a man whore and you could see where that idea had come from. Despite his papal robes and miter (or maybe because of it?), he exuded a dark and very tempting sexuality. Still, he didn’t see you, his mismatched gaze always seemed to go to someone just to your left or right.

Then came the encore, Monstrance Clock. The quieter instrumentals reminded you of that long ago choir that you had loved so much. You had closed your eyes to take it all in, your heart feeling as though it was expanding to press against your ribs, a shuddery sensation going through you. You were a virgin, yes. But you knew what an orgasm was; and although not quite the same, this feeling was very similar. Distantly, you remembered that many paintings and sculptures depicting a spiritual awakening often called them an “ecstasy”.

Hypnotizing horns of ram Paralyzing pentagram And the eerie sound of the monstrance clock Singing

Come together Together as one Come together For Lucifer's son

You then felt as though you were falling, but you weren’t scared at all. The sensation of a dark and heated cloak being draped gently over your shoulders, wrapping you in warmth and safety, made you feel completely protected and loved. It was a feeling you had searched for all of your life and never expected to find at a metal concert! When you finally opened your eyes, Papa was kneeling on the stage right in front of you with his eyes boring into yours. And despite his very stern and somewhat scary expression, you weren’t afraid. He’d narrowed his eyes briefly then nodded at you, claiming one of your hands and brushing his lips over your knuckles. When he rose to his feet, he looked to one of his ghouls and jerked his head in your direction.

When you’d stayed put long after everyone had left the pit, that same ghoul had darted out to you, explaining that Papa wanted to see you. To say you’d been surprised was an understatement. Backstage, Secondo had already removed his skull paint, although the absence did not lessen his presence. Under the watchful gaze of the Nameless Ghouls, he explained the Ghost Project and the Ministry. As Papa, he had a few subtle quirks that sometimes helped him find those who would be excellent additions to the faith.

And apparently Satan had singled you out. During Monstrance Clock, when you’d been so overwhelmed by the music; that had been something of a test. A test to see how you reacted to His Light, His Presence. A test you passed with flying colors by not panicking or blaming the feeling on some physical malady caused by the festival environment, by accepting the warmth of the Father of Outcasts.

Did you want to join their faith? You would be sheltered and cared for. You would be protected. You would have a job for which you would be paid. You would take classes to further your knowledge. And, oddly enough, your Catholic upbringing would prove to be an advantage. You already understood the ritual and hierarchy and language. You knew enough Latin to easily understand what the prayers meant. You understood nebulous concepts like transubstantiation and substance–attribute theory.

You’d agreed with almost no hesitation.

Everything after that was a blur. You’d packed up your few belongings and quickly been instated as a postulate in the New York ministry. You’d had very high hopes after being lauded for your intelligence and organization skills. You were set up as an assistant in the library, which also gave you plenty of time to study up even more on this new path you found yourself on. As such, for the first few months, you mostly kept to yourself, your hyper-fixation on learning temporarily replacing the bleeding need for companions. When you did try to make friends, swallowing down your fear as best you could, things did not go as planned. Attempts at jokes only got you blank looks. Trying to join in on conversations or activities only seemed to make others around you uncomfortable.

After two years, it was decided that you didn’t fit in at the New York ministry. And while they weren’t kicking you out, they thought you might do better in a different location. One year in Los Angeles later, it was decided you didn’t fit in there either. So, you’d been moved again, this time to the main Ministry in Sweden.

Two years into your life here and you were still longing for that feeling of belonging that you’d experienced for a scant few moments at the festival while Secondo had sung. Secondo had “retired” and it was Terzo’s turn under the miter. He was wildly successful; more personable with audiences than Primo or Secondo, more confident and charismatic. You’d never spoken to him directly. The handful of times you’d made eye contact (during Black Mass or on-site rehearsals) he had smiled and winked at you. But you knew full-well that he did that to everyone. It was a band-aid over a slit wrist, but it was better than nothing.

Abruptly, that had all changed too and now there was no Papa, but a Cardinal was “filling in” while he was also schooled in being the new Papa. You’d only seen him a few times, his red cassock drawing attention amongst all of the black and white of the habits you and your Siblings of Sin wore. He always seemed to be off in his own world, muttering to himself in Italian, probably going over prayers or sermons. Most people thought he was a tad weird. You, however, found him a bit fascinating.

Most of the other Siblings fawned over Terzo, which you could hardly blame them for. He was incredibly popular. Cardinal Copia, though? Something about him struck you with warmth whenever you did catch sight of him or overheard him at rehearsals with the band. You found him very handsome in an off-beat kind of way. Whenever he led Mass, you were more attentive than you ever were for any of the previous Papas. Something about him just called to you.

Whatever that something was, it was obviously one-sided. The Cardinal had never so much as glanced in your direction.

You were still working as a librarian, but no longer an assistant. You were the scribe of the ancient texts; carefully going through delicate parchment of dense Latin and digitizing them so they would never be lost. Being one of the younger members in the Ministry scholary, your grasp of technology was far and away better than that of the other librarians.

You didn’t know what you’d done to draw attention to yourself; but less than a month into your time in Sweden, you were re-living junior high school. A trio of your fellow Siblings; Kaser, Lynx, and Cantata, had decided that you were a fun target to torment; with plenty of ammo at their disposal. You were still awkward and anxious. You’d developed something of a nervous stutter and struggled more than ever to put your thoughts into words. Worse, your body had decided that freshman fifteen was meant to be a challenge; as you had gained thirty pounds, so you were much chubbier than most of the others; wide hips, a sizable ass, a rounded belly, and tits that refused to be contained by most bras. Like the long-ago middle school boys, they liked to painfully snap your bra strap. Or they would trip you in the hallways. Shove you into walls. Tug off your veil when they knew Sister Imperator was near so that she would scold you for having it off.

Their favorite thing, however, was to harass you about the fact that you’d been a postulate for five fucking years! Most postulates became novices within a year and then a full Sibling at three. Were you too stupid to pass the exams? Were you such a loser that even Satan didn’t want you? Were you afraid that Papa would turn you down?

That last one was closer to home than they knew. Part of a postulate’s “graduation” into a novice was to have sex with Papa; sometimes in private, sometimes on the altar in front of everyone. You simply couldn’t stand the idea of any of the Papas taking one look at you and deciding that he was not going to put his cock in someone as pathetic as you. It had never happened before to your knowledge (and you’d looked it up!) so there was no reason to fear such a thing. But fears are nothing if not irrational.

All of which led to your current predicament, sitting on a crate of Ghost merchandise near a janitor’s closet, hiding from your triad of bullies behind a double-stack of the same crates. If the closet hadn’t been locked, you’d have been in it. You sputtered and coughed, choking on your own tears. Were you always going to be so painfully lonely? You prayed as hard now as you ever had as a Catholic… and, like God, Satan was now frustratingly silent. Perhaps it was just time to accept that you didn’t fit in anywhere and never would. Maybe you’d ask to transfer to another Ministry just to escape your abusers; but you’d stay with the church since at least your work was satisfying.

Footsteps approached, prompting you to cover your mouth to silence yourself, not wanting another round of abuse if it was Kaser, Lynx, or Cantata. You curled yourself into the tightest ball you could, cursing your extra weight for making that very difficult.

“Eh, hello?” a soft voice, lightly accented in Italian. Oh, fuck… had they lied to Sister that you’d done something wrong to get you in trouble? They’d done it before; blaming you for something they’d done. Fucking hells bells, what had they done that would prompt one of the elder Italians (of which, there were many) be addressing you?

“I’m sorry!” you burst out, covering your face with your hands. “I was just, um… j-j-j-just… ah, taking a… m-m-moment-.“ Curse that idiotic stutter!

“No! N-n-n-no, sorella. It’s… ah… okay. I only… I mean I just was passing and I h-h-heard you.”

The foreign sound of someone else stuttering made you look through your fingers. At first, all you saw was red. A long, red cassock and black gloves.

The Cardinal.

You were so shocked by the revelation that the man who would soon be Papa was apparently a bit anxious and awkward too, that you didn’t say anything for a moment. You merely stared at him, your cheeks still stained with tears, but at least you were now breathing somewhat normally.

“You’ve been c-crying,” he pointed out as if it wasn’t obvious.

“It’s… it’s nothing, Your Eminence,” you shook your head, finally remembering your manners and lowering your gaze, wiping hurriedly at your cheeks. “You needn’t worry about it. You must have many more important things to do!”

A long silence followed, both of you seeming to size the other up with caution. Strange, he was so confident and eloquent when he performed Mass or gave sermons. And now he seemed genuinely lost as to how to talk to someone one on one.

“C-congratulations, by the way!” you finally blurt out. “If… if that’s the proper thing to say. I’m sure you’ll make a wonderful Papa. I’ve overheard some of the rehearsals and you sound amazing.”

That was at least true. The Cardinal had a beautiful singing voice and a powerful stage presence.

“Oh! Eh, grazie… thank you. It’s a great honor,” he smiled slightly, his black upper lip curling up at the corners in a way you found immediately endearing. “Not to be, eh, too forward, b-b-b-but… what has so upset you?”

“It’s… it’s nothing. It’s stupid. I just… I feel like… I don’t really…” you paused, closed your eyes, and took a deep breath. “I’ve never really fit in anywhere…and even though I’m trying so hard… I don’t seem to fit in here either. Square peg, round hole.” Woah, that was the most pulled-together thing you’d said in months!

You silently prepared yourself to be told to try harder, not be so sensitive, don’t be so weird, or some other variation of unhelpful advice that authority figures always tossed at your feet.

“Sì, it’s very difficult. I understand.”

You snapped your eyes open to meet his uneven gaze head-on.

He continued, “Some people just seem to effortlessly be adored and others… others must work tirelessly to be accepted by even a few.” He sounded contemplative, even a touch sad. “It… it can be overwhelming, I know.”

“Are you saying that… you’ve had t-trouble fitting in? But you’re terrific on stage and at Mass! In fact, every time I’ve heard you talk, you’re always so sure of yourself!” you exclaimed.

He gave an ironic smile. “It helps, sorella, to have a sc-script. At the microphone, I already know what I’m going to say or s-s-sing. I don’t have to anticipate the questions or comments of others because I’m the only one expected to t-talk, sì?”

“Oh,” you said with a note of surprise. You’d never really thought of it that way. “I’ve not really ever spoken to an audience. Or sung. Not by myself anyway.”

“You sing, sorella?” he perked up, the motion making something warm slide over your heart.

“Yeah, yes. I mean… I used to. I sang in choir all through school and I was in the Mass choir in Los Angeles. I’d like to join the choir here, but they aren’t accepting new singers right now,” you shrugged, biting your bottom lip.

“The choir at the L.A. ministry?” his eyebrows rose. “You must be talented then, sorella. The choirmaster there is very exacting.”

You smiled, despite knowing that your cheeks were flaming red. That had been one bright point of the last few years. The confirmation that you did still have a good singing voice had meant a great deal to you. “He is. The rehearsals were grueling sometimes, but I loved it just the same. Music is just so… powerful. I can’t think of a better word. Even ‘powerful’ feels inadequate. It’s what brought me to the Ministry in the first place. I saw Papa Secondo during the Haze tour and, I don’t know… something just clicked in place.”

“Papa Secondo, eh? Small wonder, he was quite the commanding presence when he was Papa. Still is, actually. But, wait…” he paused, looking up and muttering in Italian. “Papa Secondo hasn’t been Papa since, what 2013? That was five years ago. You’ve been a postulate for that long?”

Motherfucking Christ on a popsicle stick, why did you have to mention Secondo?

“Um… yeah. It’s just… never felt like… the timing was right. And… if I’m honest, I’m scared,” you swallowed tightly.

“Scared?” he repeated with a cock of his head. “What is there to be scared of?”

“If I may speak plainly… it’s the whole… um… sex thing..?” Your words came out more like a question than an answer.

“You’re scared of… sex?” he said, seeming to only want to confirm that he had heard you correctly.

“Not exactly. I’m not afraid of the act. B-b-but I’m afraid of… it’s-s-s-s-stupid of me, I know… but I can’t help but be sc-sc-scared of being… rejected…” you managed to strangle out, eyes glued to your hands folded in your lap. “No one’s ever wanted me before. Why would this b-b-b-be any different?”

“Sorella, it’s not stupid. Fears like that are very… d-difficult to shake. However, being as currently said deed would fall to m-me, I can promise you that I will not be rejecting such a lovely soul.” His voice had gone a little lower and he drew closer to you, kneeling down so you were at an even level, although you didn’t look up at him.

A black leather glove obscured your view, curled fingers tucking up your chin, coaxing you gently into looking up at him. “Sorella, I promise it. I would be more than honored to help you complete your… eh… training, if that is the word.”

You chanced looking up and meeting his gaze. Even at a distance, it was obvious that the Papas and Cardinal all had one ghostly white eye. But this close, you could see that his other eye was a rather pretty shade of green. You’d always liked green eyes.

Apparently, your momentary contemplation of his eyes made him a little nervous, because he looked down, cheeks slightly flushed. “I-if-if you like, of course… I’m not… I mean… eh, Sathanas, no pressure? Is that the, eh, the phrase? If you don’t want to have me as your initiator, it’s eh… it’s o-o-o-okay. One of the other Papas would be happy to serve in my place. I know most people seem to like T-T-Terzo the best. And if I know him, he would never turn down an initiate,” he rambled slightly.

Under any other circumstances, you would have assumed that he was agreeing to make you feel better and then trying to pass you off to one of the former Papas to get out of the chore. But something about the Cardinal’s anxious patter convinced you that he was only trying to give you options, not avoid the task.

Completely on impulse, you clutched at his nervous hands, holding them still. This also served the purpose of stilling your own hands. “You don’t need to advertise the others to me. It will be you, Cardinal.”

He looked up from your joined hands with a half-smile. “It will, eh? Does that mean you’ve decided to go through with becoming a novice, sorella?”

Your breath stopped. You had just implied that hadn’t you? Shit. Shitshitshitshit! “I guess it does, Your Eminence.”

“Bene, sorella. I look forward to it,” he smiled, though his gaze returned to your hands. A small shift and he was able to press your hands into his, palm to palm, with your fingers entwined. The motion reminded you of something…

-Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much,  Which mannerly devotion shows in this; For saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch,  And palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss.

The Cardinal chuckled softly under his breath, a rather deep sound that gave you delightful goosebumps. “Shakespeare, sì? Hmm, let me think…”

Fuck! Had you said that out loud? You must have! Random Shakespeare was not going to get you anywhere and of course you’d choose a passage rife with Catholic imagery.

- Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?

Holy shit on a shingle, he was reciting Romeo’s part now? Oh Satan. Lucifer. Lilith. Hecate. Kelly Clarkson! What was the next bit?

-Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer.

-O then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do. They pray: grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.

-Saints do not move, though grant for prayers’ sake.

-Then move not while my prayer’s effect I take.

You’d both been leaning closer to each other and now were barely a breath away. You licked your lips nervously. That small gesture apparently spurned him on. He completed the connection, kissing you so sweetly that you thought you might actually pass out. You’d been kissed before; but those previous kisses felt nothing like this! Your lips felt as though they were burning, the familiar heat of arousal curling low in your belly.

-Thus from my lips, by thine, my sin is purged.

How could he even remember the next line after that! It took you a decent minute and a half to recover your thoughts and remember the next line.

-Then have my lips the sin that they have took?

He smiled, nearly grinned, teeth very white against his black upper lip.

-Sin from my lips? O trespass sweetly urged! Give me my sin again.

You were ready this time, meeting his kiss with one of your own, tenderly mapping the sensation of his lips and the searing path of want as it spread in your veins. Fuck, you already had a little crush on Copia; this would inevitably push it into full-blown infatuation.

-You kiss by th’ book.

You practically moaned that last line as you both paused, foreheads pressed together, hands still palm to palm. He was panting ever so slightly, as were you.

“You understand what I mean about having a script, sì?” he whispered softly. “Neither of us stumbled or hesitated even once. Not what you were thinking when you began reciting, I know. But, for myself at least… I would not yet have had the nerve to kiss you. But with the Bard’s words to encourage… it felt very natural to kiss you.”

You felt your cheeks grow hot, although for once it was not from humiliation or shame, but from pleased embarrassment. The way he was looking at you! No man… hell, no person or ghoul or whatever… had ever looked at you the way Copia was looking at you. There was a hunger in his eyes that made your stomach do flips. But under that desire lurked a sweet, longing kind of affection.

A beeping noise interrupted your thoughts. “Cazzo!” he hissed and pushed back the sleeve of his cassock to reveal an old digital watch. “Perdonami per favore; I seem to be running late for rehearsal. Had I the choice, I would not be leaving you so… eh… abruptly,” he apologized with sincere regret.

“It’s OK,” you replied somewhat dreamily, still feeling a bit floaty from his kisses.

“I will look for your… ehm… initiation papers and authorize them. Then you n-n-nneed only set the date,” he assured you as he rose to his full height. “I must go, sorella.”

“Oh! Yes! Right. Don’t let me keep you. Rehearsal’s important,” you nodded hastily, not wanting to come across as needy even though you wanted to bury yourself in his chest and cling to him like a koala.

“It is, si,” he allowed, before looking down on you with a fond expression. “But you are important too, no?”

He turned to leave and was almost around the corner before he stopped and turned back to you. “Eh, mi scuzi, but… I didn’t get your name, sorella.”

“Huh? Oh! It’s Y/N, F/N L/N,” you replied perhaps a bit louder than you should have.

“Y/N… lovely,” he echoed with a small smile. “Arrivederci, Y/N.”

What? Just? Happened?

FOR THE LOVE OF (deity of your choice) PLEASE LIKE AND REBLOG! COMMENT! VISIT ON AO3 AND LEAVE KUDOS AND COMMENTS!

I NEED FEEDBACK!

[ghoulelegy]

In the Breeze of the Autumn Leaves - Chapter 2 - Daffodils

Read here or on AO3 Taglist: @jimothybarnes @em0bussy @creatura-theanarchist @everybodyshusband Summary:

As you navigate the eerie atmosphere of the city at dusk, the weight of the cardinal's unique umbrella symbolizes the unsettling events lingering in your mind. Accompanied by your loyal labrador, Juno, you feels a deep connection to the familiar yet surreal environment. Upon reaching the quaint yet enigmatic gates of the satanic ministry, you are met by Sister Imperator, who leads you further into the shadows of the ministry...

Word count: 6446

You stepped closer to the bathroom mirror, studying your reflection with a sense of curiosity. You noticed subtle changes in your features, particularly your eyes. They seemed to ripple like a pond disturbed by a pebble, a residual effect of the mysterious meeting from the day before. The bags under your eyes have become a constant, unwelcome companion, reminding you of your sleepless nights. You splash cold water on your face, feeling the droplets cascade down your skin. As you wipe your face with a towel, you can't help but feel as though the mirror has transformed into a portal to yesterday's events.

Your eyes drifted to the cardinal's umbrella, leaning casually against the bathroom wall. There was something unsettling about it, like it had silently witnessed all the strange events unfolding around you. The umbrella’s design caught your attention—unique, with an odd symbol you couldn’t quite place. A feeling nagged at you, a sense that something important was about to happen, and somehow, the umbrella was tied to it.

As you turn away from the mirror, you take a deep breath and try to push your thoughts aside. You know that you have to face the night ahead, where the thoughts seem to be at their loudest, regardless of how unsettling it may be. You take a moment to gather your thoughts before stepping out of the bathroom and into the world beyond.

The sirens' mournful wails echoed through the dawn as you set foot outside your home. The events of the day, especially the encounter with the satanic cardinal, lingered in your thoughts like an unsettling melody.

Juno, ever attuned to your emotions, looked up at you with those expressive labrador eyes, tail wagging gently. You attached the leash to her collar, adorned with her name, and together, you ventured into the quiet streets that were now bathed in the soft hues of the setting sun.

The city seemed to be ready to call it a day, yet an air of unease lingered. As you trudged, you couldn't shake off the unsettling feeling left by the encounter with the satanic cardinal, just the day before. The cryptic conversation, the enigmatic symbols, and the mysterious ambience of the minister replayed in your mind like scenes from a surreal movie.

The sun cast long shadows across the pavement, creating a stark contrast to the thoughts swirling in your mind. Juno, sensing your contemplative mood, walked close by, occasionally nudging your hand for comfort she embodied the essence of a soul companion. She wasn't just a pet; she was a confidante, a silent witness to the ebb and flow of your life. From the playful days of her puppyhood to the current moment, there was a connection that transcended the ordinary. From the day you brought her home, she was there for you. Not only that, but she eased you in your darkest moments of despair, a quiet, but heartening light that you carried around everywhere you go.

The clouds had cleared up, revealing a canvas of red in the sky as the sun cast its warm glow on the world below. The vivid hues painted across the heavens brought to mind the age-old saying: "Red sky at night, sailor's delight." The atmosphere shifted from the earlier sombre tones, and a sense of serenity settled in.

Juno, always attuned to the shifts in atmosphere, revelled in the beauty of the moment. The red sky, the city below, and the connection you shared with your soulful companion created a tableau that felt almost cinematic. In the simplicity of the evening, the world around you became a canvas painted with the brushstrokes of nature's artistry.

You gripped the cardinal’s umbrella tightly in your right hand, while Juno’s leash was wrapped firmly in the other, your mind a storm of thoughts both immediate and distant. The weight of the umbrella seemed heavier than it should have been, its ornate handle cool against your palm. The strange, swirling symbol etched into the crimson fabric caught the dim light, seeming almost alive as it glistened faintly in the dark. It was as if the object itself carried a presence—an unsettling reminder of the mysterious and unnerving encounters that had unfolded throughout the day.

Each step you took felt measured, deliberate, as your thoughts drifted back to the events that had led you to this moment. The umbrella had become more than just an accessory—it felt like a key, or perhaps a warning, connected to something far beyond your understanding. The air around you felt charged, like it was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. Juno, sensing the tension, walked obediently by your side, her presence a small comfort amidst the uncertainty. The mysteries of the day clung to you, refusing to be shaken off, and the weight of the umbrella only seemed to deepen their hold.

As you walked through the city streets, the chilly breeze of impending winter nipped at the edges of your consciousness. It was the first winter you will venture through on your own, and the solitude brought with it a quiet kind of introspection. The cityscape, now touched with the hues of the setting sun, seemed both familiar and foreign.

The city lights flickering to life mirrored the conflicting emotions within you, the vibrant hues competing with the fading images of home. In this urban labyrinth, the crimson sky became a symbolic backdrop for your internal struggle, a canvas where the hues of the past and present blended in a bittersweet palette.

Juno, sensing the unrest in your steps, pressed closer, a comforting presence in the midst of your silent conflict. The city's sounds became a distant murmur as the internal tug-of-war unfolded within your soul. The enchanting scenes and distant memories collided, creating a narrative that transcended the external beauty surrounding you.

As the red sky faded into the deepening twilight, you found solace in the companionship of your golden labrador and the umbrella's peculiar symbolism. The winter that lay ahead held uncertainties, but amidst the complexities, the simple act of holding onto the umbrella provided a sense of continuity.

As you strolled through the city, the verses of Wordsworth's "Daffodils" echoed in your mind, creating a soothing contrast to the urban surroundings. The poem's imagery of nature's beauty and the blissful solitude of the daffodils resonated with the complexities of your day. The bustling city, like the "host, of golden daffodils," held its own kind of beauty amidst the chaos. It was a realisation that even in the midst of mysterious encounters, nature's simplicity and beauty remained a constant source of inspiration.

It wasn’t long before you found yourself standing in front of the satanic ministry’s location, though the sight was far from what you had imagined. Instead of a dark, foreboding structure, it appeared almost quaint. A modest metal gate greeted you, its surface weathered by time, yet standing firm. At its centre, the bold letter "G" was emblazoned, gleaming slightly under the dim light, as though it carried more significance than it let on.

The gate felt less like a barrier and more like an invitation—you took it as a challenge daring you to step through and uncover whatever secrets lay beyond. This simple threshold now marked the boundary between what had been a day steeped in strange occurrences and the unknown mysteries waiting for you ahead. Yet, as you stood there, gripping the cardinal’s umbrella, you couldn’t shake the feeling that this unassuming place held far more power than its modest exterior suggested.

As you approached, the contrast between the foreboding imagery associated with the term "satanic" and the simplicity of the gate intrigued you. The metalwork, though adorned with the enigmatic symbol, had an almost timeless elegance, leaving you to wonder about the stories concealed beyond its confines.

Juno, still by your side, tilted her head curiously as if sensing the aura of the place. The red sky above cast a warm glow, creating an ambiance that defied the ominous reputation often associated with the term "satanic." The air held a certain stillness, and the urban sounds seemed to fade away as you stood before the gate.

You took a breath, the metal gate creaking slightly as you pushed it open. The path beyond, hidden from casual observers, promised revelations and perhaps more questions. The quaintness of the scene added an unexpected layer to the day's unfolding narrative, and with each step, you stepped into a realm where the ordinary and the mysterious converged.

You nervously stepped towards the door, as you rang the doorbell. It buzzed loudly. You straightened yourself, as you tried to make yourself presentable. The anticipation hung thick in the air as you nervously waited for a response.

The door squeaked open, revealing an older lady with greying hair pulled into a neat bun. She stood there, a stoic presence in the dimly lit foyer, wearing attire that echoed a sense of authority within the mysterious walls of the satanic ministry.

"Greetings," she said in a calm, measured tone. Her eyes, though staring at your face, held a depth of knowledge and experience that hinted at a long journey through the corridors of time.

"I am Sister Imperator. My apologies, Papa Terzo is not here at the moment."

Juno, the ever-observant Labrador, responded to the new presence with a curious tilt of the head. Eying Sister Imperator with a mix of inquisitiveness and caution, Juno remained alert but seemed to sense that the atmosphere was not one of immediate threat.

"Oh... um, I'm actually here for Cardinal Copia," you explained, the unfamiliar title "Papa Terzo" adding another layer to the mystery. The satanic cardinal's umbrella in your hand seemed to hum with significance as you mentioned Copia's name.

Sister Imperator's gaze remained steady, and she nodded in acknowledgment. "Cardinal Copia is indeed present. Follow me," she gestured, leading the way deeper into the labyrinthine corridors of the satanic ministry.

Juno, with a final sniff of the air, fell into step behind you as you followed Sister Imperator. The air seemed to thicken with anticipation, and you couldn't shake the feeling that each step brought you closer to unveiling the secrets hidden within the heart of this enigmatic place.

As you continued to walk deeper into the satanic ministry's labyrinth, a nervous tension settled into the deepest pits of your stomach. The air felt heavy with anticipation, and the enigmatic surroundings seemed to close in on you. Yet, despite the unease, Juno eagerly carried forward.

You shrugged, a bemused expression on your face. It was a role reversal. Juno, your usually cautious and sensitive companion, appeared strangely eager in this unfamiliar territory. Her tail wagged with an enthusiasm that contradicted the usual demeanor you'd expect from a dog in an unknown place.

You exchanged glances with Juno, a silent communication passing between you. It was as if she sensed something in the air—something beyond your comprehension. Her eagerness became a source of reassurance, a reminder that even in the midst of uncertainty, there was an element of trust in the connection you shared.

As Sister Imperator led the way through the dimly lit corridors, the echoes of your footsteps mingled with the enigmatic aura of the satanic ministry. The satanic cardinal's umbrella in your hand, Juno by your side, and the anticipation of meeting Cardinal Copia created a surreal tapestry of emotions.

The nervous tension persisted, but you found solace in Juno's unexpected courage. With each step, you couldn't help but marvel at the intricate dance of mystery and companionship that defined this peculiar journey into the heart of the satanic ministry.

Sister Imperator guided you through winding corridors adorned with peculiar symbols and flickering candlelight. The air grew thicker with the scent of incense, adding an otherworldly quality to the journey. Juno, despite the unfamiliar surroundings, maintained her steady pace, her inquisitive gaze occasionally sweeping the surroundings.

The distant echo of chanting voices reached your ears as you walked deeper into the heart of the satanic ministry. The rhythmic cadence created an eerie harmony with the soft shuffle of footsteps and the occasional creaking of the aged floorboards.

Sister Imperator led you to a set of ornate double doors adorned with intricate carvings. With a subtle nod, she gestured for you to enter. As the doors swung open, you were met with a scene that transcended the boundaries of the ordinary.

A grand hall stretched before you, lit by a multitude of candles that cast a warm, golden glow on the assembled clergy. The atmosphere buzzed with an energy that was both solemn and electrifying. At the far end of the hall, elevated on a platform, stood Cardinal Copia.

"Hello again," Cardinal Copia's voice echoed through the hall, resonating with a captivating charisma. "I trust your journey has been... enlightening."

You hesitated for a moment, glancing at Juno, who stood faithfully by your side. Sister Imperator discreetly retreated, leaving you alone to face the satanic ministry.

"I, um, didn't expect my day to take this turn," you admitted, the satanic cardinal's umbrella in your hand serving as a tangible reminder of the surreal events that had led you here. “You left your umbrella in the library, Cardinal”

Copia chuckled, as he eyed you with his heterochromatic eyes, staring deep somewhere in your soul. You’d think it would’ve made you uncomfortable, but rather it healed your spirit somewhat.

“Apprezzo che tu sia venuta fin qui per il vecchio sciocco che sono” Copia continued as he chuckled once more, not before adding “And please, no need to be so formal. Copia will do just fine.”

You couldn't help but be drawn into Cardinal Copia's charismatic presence. His laughter echoed through the grand hall, and his heterochromatic eyes seemed to hold a depth of understanding that went beyond mere words. Despite the surreal circumstances that had led you here, there was an undeniable sense of comfort in his demeanor.

"Thank you, uh, Copia," you replied, the formality giving way to a more casual tone. The weight of the satanic cardinal's umbrella in your hand felt less burdensome in the presence of the enigmatic leader.

“You’re welcome. Heh…um…yeah.” Copia awkwardly stood there, his voice creaking, as his gloved hand reached out for the umbrella in yours. You notice his gloves, and with it, the rest of his attire, as he stood there in front of you, clad in what seemed to be a contrast with the clothing you saw him wear just the day before. This time he was in a hoodie, still cardinally red, but a lot more casual, with black trousers and shoes. The absence of his biretta also did not go unnoticed.

“Well…then, would you like a cup of tea?”

Copia's sudden offer of tea caught you off guard, considering the surreal circumstances you found yourself in. The contrast between his formal appearance from the day before and his current casual attire added to the intrigue of the situation.

"Tea would be nice," you replied, with a smile, as he led you away to a small, dimly lit chamber adjacent to the grand hall. The scent of ancient books and the subtle aroma of incense permeated the air. The stained glass of the ceiling depicted scenes both mysterious and divine, casting colourful patterns across the chamber. Copia gestured for you to take a seat at a table adorned with intricate carvings, while he gracefully settled into the chair opposite you.

“Hope you don’t mind that Juno is with me!” you spoke, gracefully accepting the seat.

Copia's eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled, a genuine warmth in his expression. "Not at all. Animals have an uncanny ability to perceive the currents of the unseen. Their presence is always welcome here," he said, gesturing towards Juno with a nod of approval.

Juno, seemingly attuned to the affirmation, wagged her tail in response. The atmosphere in the chamber, once tinged with a sense of mystery, now held a more relaxed undertone. The flickering candlelight danced across the room, casting shadows that seemed to embrace the tales and secrets concealed within the ancient walls. Copia gracefully poured two cups of tea, one for you, the other one for himself.

“And you, little one? Would you like some water? Unfortunately my treats are only for mio ratti hehehe!” Copia knelt down and delicately took off his gloves, as he scritched the sweet little labrador on the head. She smiled in response, looking towards Copia with adorable beady eyes that seemed to cure any tinge of emotional discomfort that you could imagine. It didn’t take long for her to lick his hand.

Copia quickly poured you a cup of tea, as he stirred in some milk and offered you some sugar. You sip your tea, as you take in the rich aroma that filled the air. The warmth of the drink spread through you, a comforting embrace in the midst of the unknown.

“Can I ask you a question?” You shoot out, as you clink the teaspoon out of the cup.

“You’re already asking one” the cardinal chuckled, his eyebrows scrunched in amusement.

You chuckled along with him, appreciating the subtle humour in his response. "Fair enough," you replied, a small grin forming on your face. "Let me rephrase that. May I ask you another question?"

Copia, leaning back in his chair, nodded graciously. "Of course. Ask away."

“You have rats?” curiosity colours your face. You notice a sparkle in Copia’s eye as he looks at you, he shuffles his feet ecstatically when he clears his throat.

“Si, si, Peaches and Moon. Piccoli carini.” Copia says with a smile, his eyes twinkling.

"Peaches and Moon," you echoed with a soft smile, savouring the musicality of the names.

Copia leaned back, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "They're quite…well you can say naughty. Always finding new corners to explore in this vast ministry. They have a way of bringing light to the shadows, you know? Sister Imperator always tells me to contain them in their cage but…just don’t have the heart to”.

You nodded in agreement, envisioning the playful rodents darting around the mysterious corridors. “Juno was so chaotic when she was a pup, she’d always steal my socks and shoes.”

As you and Copia continued your conversation, the warmth of the tea spreading through you, the mention of his rats seemed to have ignited a spark in the cardinal’s eyes. He leaned forward eagerly, his voice soft but animated.

"Peaches and Moon, you see," Copia began, unable to suppress the grin that pulled at the corners of his lips, "are not your ordinary rats. They're incredibly smart—intelligent, even. People tend to underestimate rats, but they have this way of connecting with you, almost as if they understand more than you think."

You smiled, intrigued by the unexpected turn of the conversation. "Really? How so?"

Copia’s eyes lit up with excitement as he continued, clearly delighted to share more about his beloved pets. "Oh, si! For instance, Peaches, she's the more adventurous one. Always getting into trouble, finding the tiniest holes to sneak through. She’s even figured out how to open certain types of latches! I’ve had to rat-proof some of the rooms in the ministry, which, let me tell you, is no small feat. I found her once, sitting in the middle of the chapel, surrounded by candles like she was leading her own little ritual!"

You couldn’t help but laugh, the image of a small rat orchestrating its own miniature ceremony in the grand halls of the ministry was too good to resist.

"And Moon," Copia continued, now fully engrossed in his storytelling, "she's more calm, but just as curious. She's fond of hiding little trinkets she finds, like tiny pieces of fabric or buttons. I think she has a whole stash somewhere that I haven’t found yet. Every now and then, I’ll find something missing, only to stumble upon it weeks later, tucked away in the most peculiar of places."

You chuckled again, picturing the mischievous rodents darting through the shadowed corners of the satanic ministry. "Sounds like they keep you on your toes."

"Always!" Copia agreed, nodding enthusiastically. "But I don’t mind. They’re good company, you know? When I’m working late or composing music, they’ll sit with me. Peaches likes to climb on my shoulder and nibble at my ear while I write. It’s... comforting, in a strange way. They understand more than people give them credit for."

The fondness in his voice was unmistakable. There was a softness to Copia when he spoke about his rats that was in stark contrast to the dark, mysterious aura that seemed to surround him at all other times.

"People think it’s strange, I suppose," he added, his tone growing slightly more reflective, "a cardinal with pet rats. But I find solace in their company. There’s something... pure about them, a simplicity that cuts through all the complexities of life."

You nodded in understanding, sensing how deeply connected he was to his little companions. "I think it's wonderful. Animals have a way of making us feel grounded, don’t they?"

Copia smiled warmly, his heterochromatic eyes softening as he glanced at Juno, who had by now curled up contentedly at your feet. "Yes, they do. They remind us of what’s important, of the small moments that matter. Whether it’s a stolen sock, a chewed-up piece of paper, or just sitting together in silence."

As Copia poured himself another cup of tea, he glanced at you with a playful glint in his eye. "You know," he added with a wink, "if you ever visit again, I’m sure Peaches and Moon would be delighted to meet Juno. Though, I must warn you—Peaches is quite the thief. She might steal more than just your socks!"

You laughed again, imagining the chaos that would ensue if Juno and the rats ever met. "I'll keep that in mind," you said, feeling the weight of the day lighten as the conversation turned to one of shared appreciation for the little joys of life, both human and animal alike. “So, how’s your research going? On plague doctors…was it?” you asked, curiosity colouring your words.

Copia leaned forward, a gleam of excitement in his eyes as he delved into the topic. "Ah, the project on plague doctors. Well, you see, we're not just any ordinary researchers. We're a band, and currently, I'm assisting my brother, Terzo, in crafting the theme for our next album. It's going to be medieval-themed."

Your curiosity deepened, the intrigue evident in your eyes. "A medieval-themed album? That sounds fascinating. What inspired the choice of plague doctors as a focus?"

Copia's smile widened, and he gestured animatedly. "The medieval era is rich with mystery, symbolism, and a certain allure. Plague doctors, with their enigmatic masks and haunting presence, seemed like the perfect embodiment of that atmosphere. Each song will be a tale from that time, a journey through the layers of medieval history."

“Actually, one of my professors mentioned the Beowulf the other day, it captures the essence of that era," you interjected, the connection between medieval tales evident in your mind. "The symbolism and the tales from that time are indeed captivating. It's fascinating how you're channelling that essence into your music."

Copia's eyes lit up at the mention of Beowulf, his passion for the medieval era evident. "Beowulf, a classic tale. The raw heroism and mythical elements—it's a treasure trove of inspiration. We're aiming to capture that same spirit in our album, to transport listeners to a time where every shadow held a secret and every step was a dance with destiny.”

As he spoke, you could almost feel the energy of the medieval tales weaving through the chamber, merging with the flickering candlelight and the shadows that clung to the ancient walls. The satanic ministry, once a place of intrigue, now resonated with the creative ambition of bringing history to life through music.

"The medieval era," Copia continued, "offers a canvas rich with symbolism and untold stories. Plague doctors, with their haunting masks, become characters in a larger narrative. Each note, each lyric, is a brushstroke on this canvas, creating a tapestry that invites our audience to step into a bygone world."

Copia leaned in closer, eyes gleaming with excitement, ready to dive into what was clearly his passion project. His voice grew more animated as he gestured with his hands, painting the picture with a certain flair.

"Ah, you see, the plague doctors aren't just some dark historical footnote, no— they represent something *much* deeper. The symbolism of the mask alone, with that beaked, almost birdlike shape, it's fascinating! The medieval doctors believed the mask protected them from 'miasma'—bad air, the disease itself. But it's more than that—it's an icon of fear and hope, a perfect contradiction. These figures were seen as protectors, yet their very presence signified the horror of death creeping closer. It’s like they were both saviors and omens of doom at the same time! That duality is exactly what we want to capture in the music. It mirrors life and death, salvation and damnation, all interwoven in one haunting image."

He paused to take a breath, but the momentum of his enthusiasm carried him forward before you could interject.

"And the era itself! The medieval period is so rich with contradictions! On the one hand, you have these deeply religious, almost puritanical values, and on the other, you have these extravagant, almost grotesque celebrations of death. The *Danse Macabre*, for instance—oh!—it’s a recurring theme in our work. The way the Black Death transformed society, it's such a visceral, visual period of history. People lived in the shadow of death, but they also celebrated life in the strangest ways, embracing both the macabre and the divine. I want to reflect that clash—medieval faith and fear meeting modern existentialism through the music."

He leaned back slightly, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the table as though playing an invisible piano. You could almost see the ideas forming in his mind, as if he were composing melodies in the moment.

"But it’s not just about death,” he continued. “It’s about transformation, metamorphosis. The mask of the plague doctor isn’t just a shield, it’s almost a cocoon—a chrysalis of sorts. People believed it gave them power over the unseen forces of illness. And the plague doctor, when he dons the mask, he’s not a mere human anymore—he becomes something otherworldly, a harbinger walking between life and death. I want that to *sound* like something—like you can *feel* that transformation happening through the music. You know?"

He took a sip of tea, eyes flashing with inspiration. “And let’s not forget about the instruments. We’re incorporating medieval ones too—lutes, hurdy-gurdies, maybe even a shawm! Oh, the texture of those ancient sounds mixed with modern electric guitars and synths? *Incredible.* Imagine a soaring solo, but beneath it, the droning of a hurdy-gurdy gives it this dark, primal weight. It’s going to sound like you’re walking into a cathedral in the 1300s, only to find the devil playing the organ."

You could barely keep up with the flood of ideas, but his passion was infectious. You found yourself leaning in as well, enthralled by the vision he was weaving.

"Beowulf!" he exclaimed suddenly, circling back to your earlier mention. "Oh, it’s perfect! The hero’s journey, the idea of confronting the monstrous, both within and without. That’s exactly what we’re doing! In our music, the plague doctor becomes like Beowulf—he’s battling not just disease, but the existential dread that comes with it. It's the fear of the unknown, the inevitability of death. Every song is like its own mini-epic, a battle between hope and despair. And the masks! Did you know some medieval knights had armour with grotesque visors shaped like faces, or animals, or demons? There’s this whole idea of becoming something else, of disguising yourself to face the horrors of the world."

You nodded, captivated by the depth of his knowledge and the sheer enthusiasm he had for the project. It wasn’t just about making music—it was about building a world, a sonic narrative that brought the past into the present with haunting beauty and visceral emotion.

"And the lyrics, ah, the lyrics!" Copia continued. "We’re writing them like medieval allegories, full of symbolism. Every line is meant to evoke something hidden beneath the surface—layers upon layers of meaning. Think of it like Dante’s Inferno—on the surface, it’s just a journey, but every step is loaded with religious, political, and philosophical subtext. One song might seem like it’s about a plague doctor, but really, it’s a commentary on the fragility of the human spirit, or how fear can corrupt even the purest intentions. And the chorus—oh, I’m thinking of using Latin! There's something about ancient languages that adds this gravitas, you know? It’s like tapping into the past, giving it a voice again.”

His eyes sparkled as he leaned in one last time, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "And the best part? Peaches and Moon—they’ve inspired an entire song! Can you imagine? Two little rats, scurrying through the ruins of a plague-ridden city, embodying resilience in the face of overwhelming odds. It’s whimsical, sure, but there's a profound metaphor there—survival, companionship, the little sparks of life that keep going even when everything around them falls apart."

Copia sat back, a satisfied smile on his face, clearly proud of the intricate web of ideas he had just shared. You could see now why the band’s music was more than just sound—it was an entire universe of stories and symbols, all woven together with meticulous care.

"And that’s the thing about rats, you know?" he said, almost as an afterthought. "They endure. They survive. They always find a way through the darkness. Just like we do."

"I can imagine the depth and richness that medieval tales bring to your music," you remarked, the warmth of the tea complementing the evolving conversation. "It's like painting with sound, crafting a tapestry that resonates with the echoes of history."

Copia nodded, appreciating your understanding of the artistic process. "Exactly. It's about weaving a narrative that transcends time, allowing our listeners to experience the essence of an era long past. Music has this unique ability to transport people, to make them feel the emotions and stories embedded in the melodies."

As the conversation flowed seamlessly, you couldn't help but feel a growing connection with the satanic cardinal. The mysterious encounter with the umbrella had led to this unexpected meeting, and the unfolding dialogue bridged the gap between the enigma of the satanic ministry and the creative spirit that fueled its endeavours.

The sunset surrendered to the night, the sky darkening into bruised purples and deep blues. Outside, the wind picked up, shaking the bare branches, their creaking like the whispers of long-forgotten spirits. Inside the chamber, warmth radiated from the flickering firelight, casting shadows that danced on the intricately carved walls. The air smelled faintly of incense and old wood, the quiet broken only by the soft ticking of the clock and Juno's steady breathing.

You glanced at your watch—it was almost eight o’clock. Juno, exhausted, lay curled on your lap, her small head resting against your leg. Her breath was soft and rhythmic, her body rising and falling in gentle waves. The year had worn her down as much as it had worn on you, and her tired eyes spoke volumes.

“I should get going,” you said, your voice low, almost hesitant to break the peace of the room. “Little one needs her sleep.”

Your eyes met Cardinal Copia’s across the room. His pale, alabaster eyes glinted in the candlelight. He was sitting still, hands folded in his lap, his crimson robes blending into the dim light of the room. He looked at you with that familiar, strange intensity—a quiet attentiveness that always made you feel like you were being seen more deeply than you intended.

“Ah, certo… la piccola deve riposare,” Copia said, his voice gentle, his Italian flowing like warm honey. "Family is important."

He rose from his chair with a slow, deliberate grace, his movements careful and precise. There was something unsettlingly perfect in the way he carried himself, as though every step, every gesture was carefully measured.

Juno stirred slightly in your lap as you stood, blinking up at you with sleepy, half-lidded eyes. You stroked her fur, feeling the bond between you as something almost tangible, grounding you in the moment. Copia moved closer, walking with you to the entrance of the chamber. The candlelight flickered over the carved walls, casting strange, shifting shadows that made the designs seem almost alive.

“Grazie per la compagnia,” he said softly, his words lingering in the quiet. “It means a lot to share moments like this.” His voice carried a sincerity that should have been comforting, but beneath it, there was something else—something that made the hairs on the back of your neck rise.

You stepped out into the cool night, the air crisp and carrying the scent of ancient books and incense. The heavy wooden door creaked shut behind you, and the iron gate clicked softly as you latched it. For a moment, you stood still, the quiet of the night settling around you.

"Un momento," Copia called, his voice stopping you just as your hand touched the cold iron bars of the gate. You turned to see him standing in the doorway, framed by the dim light from inside. In his hand, he held something small and dark—a card. He stepped toward you, offering it with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Take this,” he said, switching back to English, his voice still smooth and warm. “My number—just in case you need anything. La mia porta è sempre aperta.”

You hesitated for a second, but took the card. It felt heavier than it should have, its weight oddly significant. There was something in the way he handed it to you, in the way his pale eyes held yours, that made you uneasy. His smile remained kind, but it lingered a second too long.

“Thank you,” you murmured, slipping the card into your pocket. The weight of it stayed with you as you turned to go. The night felt different now, charged with an undercurrent of something strange and inexplicable, like the world had shifted just slightly, but enough to make you notice.

Walking through the quiet streets, Juno trotted beside you, her presence comforting as the moonlight painted the city in silver. But you couldn’t shake the feeling of the card in your pocket—how it seemed heavier than it should, like it was more than just a number. The memory of Copia’s eyes lingered, their intensity unsettling.

Back at your apartment, the soft glow of the streetlights bathed the path in gentle light. You unlocked the door and stepped inside, the familiar warmth of home wrapping around you. Juno wagged her tail sleepily, heading straight for her food bowl, her quiet, content clinks grounding you in the mundane.

You pulled the card from your pocket and set it on the table. For something so small, it seemed to carry an unusual weight in your hand. You stared at it for a moment, that strange feeling from earlier creeping back. Something about Copia’s gesture—his offer—felt both kind and ominous.

You shook off the unease, focusing on getting Juno settled. After tucking her into her bed, you finally sank onto your own, feeling the exhaustion of the day pulling at your limbs. Grabbing your phone, you unlocked it and smiled at the wallpaper—a picture of Juno, her tongue hanging out in a goofy smile. It brought you back to the moment, grounding you.

Without thinking too much, you opened Copia’s contact and typed a quick message.

“Thank you for the tea! 😊”

You hit send before you could second-guess yourself. But the second the message went through, doubt crept in. Was it too informal? Too late at night? You considered sending another message, something more proper, when your phone buzzed.

“Prego 😊 I’m glad you enjoyed it! – C”

You couldn’t help but smile. His reply was quick, friendly. And that “C” at the end—charming, somehow. You let yourself relax, feeling the tension of the day begin to slip away. Maybe it wasn’t so strange after all.

But as you lay back and the darkness of your room settled around you, something lingered—just beneath the surface. A faint unease, like the soft hum of something you couldn’t quite place.

Later, after you had turned off the lights, you caught your reflection in the bathroom mirror. At first, it was just you, the faint glow of the hall light casting soft shadows on your face. But as you blinked, something shifted. Your teeth—elongating, sharp. Your face—thinning, dark shadows pulling beneath your eyes. It was you, but not.

Your heart should’ve raced, but instead, you chuckled at the absurdity of it. It looked like a cheap horror effect, something out of a low-budget film. Still, the image unsettled you. What was it? And why didn’t it scare you?

Shaking your head, you stepped into the shower, letting the warm water wash away the lingering strangeness. When you returned to the mirror, everything was back to normal—just your tired reflection staring back. Maybe it had been the exhaustion playing tricks on you.

Back in bed, you checked your phone once more. No new messages. Juno was curled up at the foot of the bed, snoring softly, and for a moment, you envied her peaceful sleep.

As you drifted off, a dream began to take shape. At first, it was simple—a bright morning, fields of daffodils swaying in the breeze. Juno ran beside you, carefree. But slowly, the dream shifted. The daffodils withered, the sky turned crimson, and the cityscape darkened.

You found yourself standing before that metal gate again, its intricate carvings twisting and writhing, whispering secrets you couldn’t understand. The weight of the card in your pocket grew, pulling you deeper into the dream. A figure appeared—Copia, or something that resembled him, guiding you through darkened corridors.

“Bentornato,” his voice purred, his smile no longer comforting. The words were heavier, ominous. As the shadows deepened, he whispered again, the words clinging to the thick air around you.

“La mia porta è sempre aperta.”

[my-deer-history]

Francis Kinloch in the Müller-Bonstetten letters: Part 3

My translations here, German and French originals below the cut. Thanks to @acrossthewavesoftime for help on a particularly sticky passage!

28 Aug 1776

What can I do about it that my pen always flatters you? Now that Kinloch is also leaving me, you are everything to me. I understand your heart, I understand you in your absentmindedness.

Difficile est saturam non scribere. nam quis iniquae

tam patiens urbis, tam ferreus, ut teneat se.*

My letters will henceforth be different. My Kinloch departs from me, and B. is the only mortal whom I can embrace, at least once a week. [...] And he is Kinloch, whose hometown is, at this moment, being challenged by Clinton, who in this hour may have lost his entire fortune to the bombs or the sword, who knows that his gentle mother and his sister are exposed to the barbaric rage of the German troops, and who continues to calmly study the law, to prepare himself for great things, and even finds the time to love me, and to greet you.

*From Juvenal’s Satires:

It is hard not to write Satire. For who is so tolerant of the unjust City, so steeled, that he can restrain himself

18 Sept 1776

I wrote a long letter to you and did not send it, because I know that you always share my displeasures with me. I would rather harden myself against them; excepting vice and ignorance, there is no misfortune in the world for the wise; otherwise, what would be the purpose of philosophy! It has been a long time since you wrote to me; remember that I cannot be without you. Kinloch is leaving, when? I do not know, but certainly before the 10th October,* for three days to Iverdun; I am not going with him.

When K wants to leave me what little the war has spared him, and wants to renounce everything for me, and is angry that fate has not made him rich for my sake, then your friend feels the power of divine friendship over his heart, looks for it in vain among the others, sees only you and him.

*John Laurens writes to Kinloch on 30 September and mentions that Kinloch expected to leave for Italy earlier than planned, on account of the health of his travelling companion – and possibly a young lady he was courting – called Miss Stephens.

30 Oct 1776

Kinloch makes me happier than all 13 Cantons*. I have 3 letters from him, I will bring them for you.

*The 13 Cantons made up the Swiss Confederation until 1798, and were the subject of Müller’s extensive historical studies.

23 Dec 1776

At about seven o’clock I write my letters; weekly to you and to Kinloch; rarely to others on business; occasionally to Geneva because of the unrest; occasionally to a young person who loves me very much and whom I am training to serve in place of my eyes. [...] My happiest moments are those in which I find a new connection or a new direction, and those where I rise from my work, and walk around my room alone, my thoughts fixed on you and K. or on my future happiness. 

31 Dec 1776

Kinloch writes, all his letters are full of imagination and sentiment; he has seen Cardinal Bernis, the Duke of Ostergotland, the Duke of Gloucester. The American army is scattered, Washington appears to be looking for a good peace for himself and his people; if the war should continue, K has determined to sacrifice all the happiness that awaited him, even the health that he only enjoys in Europe, to his mother. I can never praise the nobility of his elevated soul enough to you.

17 Feb 1777

Do you not think that I would do well to tell Kinloch not to look for anything for me, until I write otherwise to him again? [...] That which makes me unable to expect I shall ever be independent from the pen is my unlimited yearning for fame; all that I write, I want to make worthy of all times and all peoples: that makes the work long. But I am not anxious; I trust in you and Kinloch and myself. I want to send you letters about Italy from Kinloch along with my chapter!

1 April 1777

I embrace you, my brother and my friend. As soon as I am freed from the shackles of this death, I will live for you alone and for K. Farewell, farewell.

12 April 1777

And another thing: Yes, the Greeks had kings; these kings were planters, like Abraham, like our old nobility and the american Englishmen. If Kinloch’s 2000 acres in Florida and his Kensington, Kinlochfurt and Winyau* were laid together, Homer would have called him King Francis Kinloch.

[...]

Kinloch from Paris: “In this moment I receive yours and stretch the hand of fraternal love to you across the extent of country, that separates us my dearest M. The love of you is an essential part of my very being, and I could not sooner quit the one as the other. If there is a Being, whose eye pierces into the inmost recesses of our soul, he alone can know how much I love you, and how much, how ardently I desire from the very bottom of my heart, that it may ever be in my power to remove every obstacle that stands between you and the most supreme degree of happiness. The only service we can render one another at present, is to keep our friendship unsullied by any thing unworthy of it, to act as if we, each of us, had the eyes of him we love best upon us. The day will come when I shall be able to lay my hands upon your works, and to say with a smile of exultation: This man is my bosom friend. Trust me, K. will not be altogether idle on his side. I seldom, you know, give way to the effusions of my love, but when I do, the tears start into my eyes, and I am obliged to lay down my pen.” And you: “Everything brings you closer and closer to my heart.” Can I be unhappy, and will the warmth of your friendship not enrich my spirit? not ignite it? When I received Kinloch's letter I could not work all morning. Tell me, my dear friend: do you not love him too?

*Jucharte is a Swiss term for an area of land of 36 ares, though here being used synonymously with acres. These names presumably refer to Kinloch family owned land at Kensington and Weehaw, though it’s not clear what or where Kinlochsfurt (Kinloch’s Ford) is, as well as the 2000 acres that Kinloch Sr acquired in East Florida.

28 Aug 1776

Was kann ich dafür, daß meine Feder immer für Euch anseht? Nun mich auch Kinloch verläßt, so sind Sie mir Alles. Ich verstehe Ihr Herz, ich verehre Euch in Euren Etourderien.

Difficile est saturam non scribere. nam quis iniquae

tam patiens urbis, tam ferreus, ut teneat se.

Meine Briefe werden künftig noch anders seyn. Mein Kinloch scheidet von mir, und B. ist der einige Sterbliche, den ich wenigstens Einmal wöchentlich umarmen kann. [...] Und der ist Kinloch, dessen Vaterstadt Clinton nun ausgefordert, der in dieser Stunde vielleicht sein ganzes Vermögen durch Bomben und Schwert verloren hat, der seine zärtliche Mutter und seine Schwester der barbarischen Wuth teutscher Soldaten ausgesetzt weiß, und ruhig seine Gesetze studiert, sich zu großen Dingen stärkt, und sogar Zeit findet, mich zu lieben und Sie zu grüßen.

18 Sept 1776

Ich habe Ihnen einen langen Brief geschrieben, und nicht gesandt, weil ich weiß, daß, Sie meinen Unmuth immer mit mir theilen. Ich will mich lieber dagegen stärken; außer Lastern und Unwissenheit ist in der Welt kein Unglück für den Weisen; wozu hälfe die Philosophie! - Es ist lang, seit Sie mir geschrieben; erinnern Sie sich, daß ich ohne Sie nicht seyn kann. — Kinloch geht, wann? weiß ich nicht, aber gewiß vor dem 10. Det., auf drei Tage nach Iverdun; ich komme nicht mit ihm. Wenn K, von dem Wenigen, so der Krieg ihm übrig gelassen, für mich entübrigen, und für mich sich selbst abbrechen will, und über das Schicksal zürnt, welches ihn nicht für mich reich gemacht hat, alsdann fühlt Euer Freund die Macht der göttlichen Freundschaft über sein Herz, sucht sie vergeblich unter den andern, sieht nur Euch und ihn.

30 Oct 1776

Kinloch allein macht mich glücklicher, als alle 13 Orte. Ich habe 3 Briefe von ihm, die bringe ich Euch.

23 Dec 1776

Ungefähr um sieben Uhr schreibe ich meine Briefe; wöchentlich an Sie und an Kinloch; selten an andere um Geschäfte; bisweilen nach Genf wegen der Unruhen; bisweilen an einen jungen Menschen, der mich sehr liebt und welchen ich bilde, mir einst statt meiner Augen zu dienen. [...] Meine glücklichsten Augenblicke sind die, in welchen ich eine neue Verbindung oder eine neue Wendung entdecke, und die, wenn ich von meiner Arbeit aufstehe, und einsam durch mein Zimmer spaziere, die Gedanken auf Sie und K. oder auf meine künftige Glückseligkeit geheftet.

31 Dec 1776

Kinloch schreibt, alle seine Briefe sind voll Einbildung und Empfindung; Er sieht den Cardinal Bernis, den Herzog von Ostgothland, den Herzog von Glocester. Die amerikanische Armee ist zerstreut, Washington scheint für sich und die Seinigen einen guten Frieden zu suchen; wenn der Krieg fortdauren sollte, so ist K. entschlossen, alles Glück, so ihn erwartete, sogar die Gesundheit, deren er nur in Europa genießt, seiner Mutter aufzuopfern. Ich kann Ihnen nie genug den Edelmuth seiner hohen Seele rühmen. 

17 Feb 1777

Denken Sie nicht, ich thue wohl, dem Kinloch zu sagen, daß er, bis ich ihm anderst schreibe, nichts für mich suche? [...] Was macht, daß ich meine Unabhängigkeit nicht von der Feder erwarten kann, ist meine unbegränzte Ruhmbegierde; alles was ich schreibe, möchte ich aller Zeiten und aller Völker würdig machen: das macht die Arbeit lang. Ich bin aber nicht unruhig; ich verlasse mich auf Euch und Kinloch und mich. - Ich will Euch mit meinen Kapiteln Briefe über Italien von Kinloch senden!

1 April 1777

Ich umarme dich, mein Bruder und mein Freund. Sobald ich der Fesseln dieses Todes befreit bin, lebe ich für Dich allein und für K. Adieu, Adieu.

12 April 1777

Noch eins: Ja die Griechen hatten Könige; diese Könige waren die Planters, wie Abraham, wie unser alter Adel und die amerikanischen Engländer. Wenn Kinlochs 2000 Jucharten in Florida und sein Kensington, Kinlochsfurt und Winyau* beisammen lagen, so hätt' ihn Homer den König Francis Kinloch genannt.

[...]

Kinloch aus Paris: “In this moment I receive yours and stretch the hand of fraternal love to you across the extent of country, that separates us my dearest M. The love of you is an essential part of my very being, and I could not sooner quit the one as the other. If there is a Being, whose eye pierces into the inmost recesses of our soul, he alone can know how much I love you, and how much, how ardently I desire from the very bottom of my heart, that it may ever be in my power to remove every obstacle that stands between you and the most supreme degree of happiness. The only service we can render one another at present, is to keep our friendship unsullied by any thing unworthy of it, to act as if we, each of us, had the eyes of him we love best upon us. The day will come when I shall be able to lay my hands upon your works, and to say with a smile of exultation: This man is my bosom friend. Trust me, K. will not be altogether idle on his side. I seldom, you know, give way to the effusions of my love, but when I do, the tears start into my eyes, and I am obliged to lay down my pen.” Und du: “Alles nähert dich meinem Herzen mehr und mehr." Kann ich unglücklich seyn, und wird die Wärme Eurer Freundschaft meinen Geist nicht befruchten? nicht entzünden? Als ich Kinlochs Brief bekommen, konnte ich den ganzen Morgen nicht mehr arbeiten. Sage mir, mein Herzensfreund: liebest Du ihn nicht auch?