#for a second I hoped it was one of my old poetry books.

[dearsnow]

THE LAST TIME

- ten out of the countless times you have seen neil perry, and nine where you saw him alive. (neil perry x gn! implied to be shy reader, fluff to angst, canon-typical main character death, major spoilers for dps but i assume you’ve watched it before, i included my own poetry so i hope y’all like it, sad face emoji i teared up while writing this).

word count: 9,006

a/n - thank you so so much to my beta readers @sorencd and @chuudidit for reading this massive piece, i appreciate you endlessly <3 this was definitely a labor of love, one that i took a considerable amount of time to write and edit. i adore dead poets society and poetry in general (i have written 130+ poems and never plan on stopping) so i definitely needed to put my thoughts into words lol 😭 anyways, i hope you enjoy, because i definitely enjoyed writing this for you.

When Neil Perry first saw you, and god, did he see you, he knew nothing would ever be the same again.

You were simply sitting there under the old tree just outside the borders of Welton with a book under your nose and the soft rays of a flashlight filtering through your hair. You had one knee up, holding the book in a gentle balancing act as he stared. Charlie gave him a nudge, eyebrows raised and a tease on the tip of his tongue, but Neil couldn’t even move. He was completely and utterly dumbstruck. The moon was hanging above your head, full and bright, drowning you in a poetic haze. You flipped a page and he could feel his heart beating in his chest. He thought he had never seen anything so beautiful before, and he had no idea why.

After a long minute, he peeled his gaze away from the figure under the tree and followed the other dead poets to their second ever meeting. From the corner of his eye, he swore he saw you glance up at him when he passed, but no one else seemed to notice.

When Neil and the poets were walking back to Welton, you weren’t there- something Neil noticed instantly. Of course, being who he was, Todd noticed that Neil noticed, and Charlie noticed that Todd noticed, and before he knew it, Neil and his fixation were the new tortured topics of the evening. 

“Oh, love at first sight! The most beautiful kind.” Charlie teased, clasping his hands and spinning around. “How romantic.”

Neil shook his head, trying desperately to clear his suspicions. “It’s not like that. I swear, it’s not even a crush. I just thought it was weird.”

Cameron chimed in with a slightly hushed tone. At least he was aware of the fact that they were quickly approaching the earshot of every single person in Welton Academy. “I wonder where they came from. I mean, it couldn’t have been comfortable or safe to be out here at night. Especially alone.”

“Same. What do you think they were reading?” Neil responded, quick to try and put the teasing behind him. Despite his efforts, the teasing carried long into the night and the days following it. It seemed like nothing and no one would ever let him forget he ever saw you.

He would find out later that you were reading a poetry book.

He saw you for the second time on a trip to the main town. He recognized you instantly, from what little knowledge of you he had gained. You had the same hair, the same stature, the same book tucked under your arm as you peered into the musty old bookstore in the back corner. Just Todd was with him this time, and he definitely knew what was up.

Todd glanced at him, a warm expression on his face. Once again, Neil was entranced.

In the new glorious daylight, he noticed things he never could’ve before. The undertones of your hair, your skin, the way you seemed to glow even when you dipped into the shadows. He saw the pure beauty of you in a manner he had never seen anyone else in before. He took a step forward, pulled towards you somehow as his heart beat a mile a minute. The bookstore loomed over you, cracked and imperfect, yet casting the evening in a scene plucked out of a storybook. You turned, seeming to have seen him in the window’s reflection, and he flinched. He almost had a heart attack as his brain registered the color of your eyes and exactly how your mouth pulled up into a smile. Quickly turning away, he grabbed Todd’s sleeve and hightailed it out of there. Todd followed, as he always did. Neil was enamored, and Todd could tell.

“Do you think they saw me?” Neil gasped, pulling Todd into the square’s corner. He was panting lightly, red-cheeked, with a lopsided grin on his face. Todd had never seen him nervous, much less shy. In fact, he was the opposite- friendly, inclusive, and not the type to run away from a challenge. Something must have been different about you.

Todd raised his eyebrows. “Probably, Neil, they looked back.” He, too, saw your eyes, though he was mostly focused on the anxiety coursing through his veins rather than committing them to memory.

Neil’s gasping breaths were definitely louder than they needed to be. “Oh god, they definitely saw me. They probably think I’m a creep. Jesus, it’s definitely over.”

“What’s over?” Todd put a hand on his shoulder worriedly. “There was nothing there to begin with. They’re just a person, you’ll be fine.”

“Way to kill my dreams, Todd. Look, can you promise me that you won’t tell this to anyone else?” Neil asked, suddenly very serious. He glanced around like someone would waltz into the trash-filled and truthfully disgusting corner. The bathrooms were just around the bend, and he could smell it.

Intrigued, Todd nodded.

“I need you to say it. Promise me.” Neil whispered. His coat crinkled as he moved closer to Todd, the material dipping around his sweater. The fall air was the perfect background for whatever Neil was trying to get up to.

“I promise.”

Neil grinned boyishly and glanced around the corner again. “This is stupid, but I think I’m in love.” From the look in his eyes, Todd could definitely tell. His friend was suddenly more animated than he had been in a very long while, and he knew that he would do anything to keep him that way. His caution, however, took over.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself. What if you never see them again?”

“And what if I do?” Neil breathed. “What if I see them tomorrow, or the next day, or a week from now? What if I see them every day of my life because I just went out and said something?”

Todd shook his head. “Just be careful, alright? There’s a very good chance that nothing will come of it.” Neil clasped Todd’s jacket, quirking his eyebrows.

“No.”

“What do you mean, ‘no’?”

“Just no.”

The first time you saw Neil Perry, you didn’t even know you saw him. You were sitting under a tree, reading an Emily Dickinson book you bought in the town’s bookstore. It was a way to relax to you. A way to forget all of your troubles and just enjoy the wonders of the world. You don’t know why you picked that tree, or why you stayed so long you had to use the flashlight you so hastily packed, but life has its ways of pulling you towards something you didn’t know existed.

The scenery was absolutely beautiful, even at night. You wrapped your thick coat tightly around your shoulders. The fall leaves beneath you gave a crackle and the moon hung high above your head, slightly illuminating your page. Welton Academy loomed just outside of your line of sight. It was beautiful, too, but something about the cold stone walls made you shiver.

As time slipped away, you began to hear a hushed cacophony of boys around your age coming out of the school to the side of you. They had their hoods up, laughing and giggling like they were in some sort of secret club. You looked up, and one of them stopped dead in his tracks. You could see his breaths clouding in the night as the others urged him forward. Your eyes drifted back down to your book, as if you were embarrassed. The moment broke, and he was on his way.

You weren’t there for his return back to Welton.

The second time you saw him, you noticed him a lot more clearly. You were window shopping just outside of the bookstore. Even though the building was dusty and marred, it smelled like home. It smelled like stories and adventures and comfort. You were a frequent visitor to this place, and one of the owner’s best customers. 

He often set up his new imports in the big, yellow-tinted window in front of you. As you gazed in, you noticed a face appear in the space next to you. You turned around partially, meeting his dark brown eyes. Your heart skipped a beat as you stared at him.

It was an electric moment. His lips were slightly parted, and the gray clouds above him were engorged with unshed tears. You gaped at him, dumbfounded, as milliseconds ticked away like hours.

Before you knew it, he had sped away with his friend in tow. Huh, you hadn’t even noticed he had a friend. All you could think about was the fact that he looked familiar, and the fact that he was the most handsome boy you had ever had the pleasure of locking eyes with.

His stature reminded you of the boy by the tree, the boy from Welton Academy. There was just something about him that screamed “you saw him once in a dream”.

Somehow, you thought one simple thought: you were in love with someone you did not know.

When Neil saw you for the third time, and the third time you saw him, he worked up the courage to talk to you.

Mr. Keating was instructing the boys outside yet again. They were in the courtyard, taking inspiration from the world around them. From leaves, patches of mud, anything that struck their fancy. 

You were taking a walk by campus. Once again, you didn’t know why; you just were. The boys were not a quiet group, and you could hear their shouts very clearly. You strained your ears, hoping to hear one voice in particular. Of course, you didn’t know what his voice sounded like, but you were listening anyway. If you were right, and he was a boy from Welton, maybe you might be able to catch a word or two.

That’s when Neil spotted the person walking loops around the front of campus. Maybe, for the first time, you could be his inspiration.

He looked over his shoulder, quickly trying to assess whether he could slip away unnoticed or not. No one seemed to be looking at him. He left his group behind and jogged up next to you.

You saw him coming. Even from a distance, you knew it was him. Your heart began to pound in your ears, loud and fast and just a little bit lovesick. You were right.

“Hey!” He exclaimed. You took a small step back. Your nerves were on their highest setting and your mind was reeling. What did he think of you, you wondered. More importantly, who was he?

As he approached, you put on your best nervous smile. “Hi.”

“My name’s Neil.” He said, reaching out a hand for you to shake. You complied quickly, saying your own name in turn. His palms were slightly damp, but you couldn’t blame him. Yours were probably worse.

The moment your hand held his, fitting perfectly under his fingers, he knew you were made for him. “I saw you in town the other day. Do you like books?” 

Your voice was hesitant, unsure, and Neil wished he could reach out and smooth the wrinkles in the sound like an old coat. “Yeah.”

“What were you reading?” Neil asked. He tried to stamp down his own nerves, but something about you made his breaths flutter in and out like butterfly wings. It was a feeling he was completely and entirely new to.

You shifted the bag on your shoulder to your hands, reaching in to pull out the book. “Oh, Poems by Emily Dickinson. It’s not the traditional type of book, but I love poetry.” Your cheeks began to warm. You knew nothing about this boy. What if he thought poetry was stupid, just a lesson in his English class and nothing else? How could anyone know how much those words meant to you?

Neil beamed, big and wide and lovesick. You truly were perfect for him, he thought. Poetry. You certainly were poetic, with those gorgeous eyes and an equally beautiful mind. “I love poetry too.” He breathed.

Your tense smile turned genuine. “You do? That’s awesome.” A quiet flutter started to pick up in your heart.

“Yeah. You know what?” He grinned, “my friends and I have a sort of poetry club. The dead poets society- we do readings, original works, whatever the members are feeling at the moment.” He sucked in a silent breath, pausing just enough to let his reeling mind decide on what he wanted to say. “It’s at night in the old Indian cave.” You nodded along to his words, growing increasingly intrigued the further he carried on. This dead poets society began to excite you. It was all you ever wanted in life: a community of like-minded people sharing the verses that made your heart tick. “If you want, I mean, you should go to our next meeting. It’s tonight.” Neil offered. He could tell his words were cycling through your mind, finally catching up to his proposal.

You wanted to join the dead poets society so badly it made your heart ache. A little inkling, though, in the back of your head, sparked a pit in your stomach. “Would your friends be okay with me being there? I… I don’t exactly know them.”

Neil was head over heels. You were so wonderfully lively, in the way that a breeze touching his eyelashes with the tips of its fingers would be. You were exactly how he expected, and exactly who he needed.

He waved away your concern with the flip of a hand and a laugh. “Don’t worry about it. The others bring guests too, and gosh, I’m sure they’re going to love you! Especially Todd. I’m sure you two would get along real well.” 

“Then I’ll definitely be there.” You replied. The sparkle in your eye shot Neil at full force. You were excited, smiling, happy. He made you happy. He mentally patted himself on the back.

“Great!” Leaves rustled from behind Neil, and you could see a group of boys approaching in the near distance. “Shoot. I gotta go, but make sure to show up. I’ll be waiting for you.” He whispered, leaning in closer to you before turning around to walk towards the group. You felt cold air where he had once been, and you wished for a moment that he would come back. His friends, however, were hooting and hollering, and you thought you could hear a kissy noise or two. You shook your head, a shaky warmth creeping its way up your neck, before turning to walk away.

You were going to go to a secret meeting in a secret cave at a hauntingly secret hour, and you had never been quite so excited in your entire life.

The fourth time you saw each other was the dead poets society meeting. You were brimming with nerves beforehand, shaking fingers gathering your materials as you tried to prepare for waltzing into a place with people entirely unknown to you. The bag you were holding contained a couple of your favorite poetry books, your own poems scratched in the empty spaces on certain pages that really inspired you. You weren’t entirely sure if you wanted to read a poem out loud, especially your own work, but earlier in the evening, you resolved to “go with the flow” and do what the others were doing. You hoped you wouldn’t have to regret that decision later.

After putting everything together and making sure to turn off your light and close your door, you slipped out of your house into the black night.

The scenery on your walk was entirely too beautiful. You never noticed just how much the bark on trees formed swirling patterns, or how the stars seemed to twinkle on their own. The ground under your feet was littered with fallen leaves in fiery shades and clumps of moist dirt. You began to smile just a little bit, thinking of a poem you had written when autumn had first started. That is surely what you would say if the dead poets wanted you to speak.

Nothing felt greater than breathing in the crisp, cold air and swinging your arms as you stepped along the path less traveled on. 

When you finally reached the cave, heart significantly lighter, the sound of laughter floated up to your ears. It was bountiful and boyish and beautiful. You peered around the edge of the cave entrance, and Neil’s eye immediately caught on you.

“Come in, come in! We’re just about to begin.” He called. You stepped fully into the light and glanced around at your company.

They were giggling and shoving, gaping at you and Neil with a sort of uncertain certainty. Some were standing, some sitting, a couple moving around, and all of them male. You took a seat next to Neil, between him and the boy you saw with him in town. He gave you a meaningful nod and looked to Neil, who was opening an old, thick book. He was frightened to so much as speak in front of you, as silly as it might have seemed.

“Attention, dead poets. Today is another wonderful night.” He announced, voice deep and commanding and humorously theatrical. “I went to the woods because I wanted to live deliberately… I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life! To put to rout all that was not life… And not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived…” His voice trailed off, and someone from the back of the cave echoed his last word. He closed the book with a snap, and the boys began to murmur excitedly.

Neil took a seat and turned to you, a glimmer of something sweet in his eye. When he looked at you, all he saw was magnificence. “Who wants to start?”

A boy jumped up. In his fist was a crumpled piece of paper, which he made a show of unfolding. “For those of you who don’t know,” He said, with a pointed glance at you, “my name is Nuwanda, and today, I actually made a poem.”

A couple boys yelled in support, and Neil gave you a nudge. “Charlie Dalton.” He whispered, making sure to not alert the others. You thanked him with a shy nod. Then, as “Nuwanda” was starting to begin his woefully homemade poem, Neil put his arm around your shoulders. 

His touch sent jitters through your entire body, lighting you up like a firework. It just felt so right, so natural, so breathtaking. It felt exactly like shaking his hand and feeling his eyes and seeing his breath hang in the air- like it was destined, written in the stars, utterly perfect. You leaned into his touch, feeling his warm breath fanning over the back of your neck and shoulder. “To live, to learn, to die,

my boys, 

to see, to love, to burn. 

To touch, to know, to harm, 

my dear,

to eat, to reap, to sow.” 

Charlie recited. For someone who seemingly took poetry lightly, he wasn’t particularly bad. He put more passion into his words than most other boys you knew. In fact, you’re sure he would be a great writer if he put more than an ounce of effort into it.

He took a bow as the room erupted into applause, Neil’s arm still wrapped around you. He could feel it too, the electricity. He wanted nothing more than to bottle that feeling and keep it forever.

Charlie sat, staring at you and Neil with a smirk on the corners of his lips. “Hey, why don’t we let our guest take a crack at it?”

The cave filled with a rumble of excitement from all of the poets. Neil’s brows were furrowed, but he gave an urge of support anyway. “If you want to, of course.”

You wanted to. Energy thrummed throughout your company, filling you with a sense of confidence you rarely had anywhere else. For once, you truly wanted to speak up. The air was crackling with a sense of anxious anticipation, and you could smell the love each boy held for each other. They knew, somehow, that the moment meant a lot to Neil, and they were willing to put aside any inhibitions to help him enjoy the night.

“I’ll go.” You uttered. Neil’s face lit up as his previous worries slunk away into the night.

You pulled out a book from your usual bag and opened it to the page you knew so well you could recite the poem it held without looking. And, of course, your own poem was scribbled in the margins. 

Everyone was attempting to peer over your shoulder, to take a glimpse of what made you a poet. Having attention on you was an odd feeling, like ants crawling along the back of your spine. You took a deep breath. “When you die,

the beetles will still sing.

The trout will still jump,

and the earth will still rumble.

When you die, the moon will still turn

and the stars will still burn.

When you die,

The lakes will still ripple

and the trees will still creak

and I will lower you into the ground

and I will cry so hard the world stops moving.”

As the last words left your lips, a profound silence enveloped the group. Then, all at once, it exploded.

“We’ve got a real poet in here!” Came Charlie’s teasing (yet not entirely unkind) voice. “Truly Keating material. What sparked your creative melancholy?”

You felt yourself glowing as you sat. If you were being honest, you never could have imagined that anyone would genuinely enjoy your work. That notion was entirely unfounded and untrue, considering they were a group of poets, but it persisted nonetheless. “I don’t know, really. Just the notion of losing a loved one, I suppose.”

When Neil saw you, in that moment, when he heard your voice, he couldn’t breathe. He knew so little about you, yet you pumped his pulse up to be as fast as a racehorse. He wanted, no, he needed to learn everything that made you you. He needed to know what you looked like when waking up in the morning, or how your fingers felt threading through his hair, or your deepest, most desperate passions. He needed to be so close to you he could feel your heartbeat through the fabric of your shirt. He was intrigued. 

When he first discovered acting, he felt the same exact way- a burning desire to learn, to know, to discover. If you let him, he would recite his lines all the way into your heart.

The meeting continued as the sky grew ever darker, complete with poems and rhymes and words spoken in deliberately lyrical tones. You fell into every verse and every story as easily as you would if they were written in a book. You began to learn every name in the room, and they quickly caught on to yours. It was a community, a group of people that began to feel like home. 

Of course, by the time they decided to end things, the stars were full and bright. The sun would surely peek its head out of the fog in a couple hours. You were smiling harder and more genuinely than you ever had before, with Neil by your side, and Todd on your other. As they all stood up to leave with boisterous whispers, Neil turned to you.

“Will you come tomorrow? And the next, and every day after that?” His question was so excited, so innocent, like he didn’t know that you would kill for the chance to be near him and everything he held dear.

You smiled. “Of course. I’ll be a dead poet for life.”

Your eighth encounter with Neil was not a lucky twist of fate. He got permission to leave school for some something or other that you never bothered to find out. Now, it was just you two and the big town square looming in front of you.

In truth, it wasn’t that big, but when you’re standing at the beginning of a new day with the boy that holds your heart, everything feels intense.

He took hold of the sleeve of your sweater, as he so often did, and you descended upon the shops.

“Come on, you’ve absolutely got to try the milkshakes at Tom’s Ice Cream Parlor! They’re just the best. Hurry, hurry!” He tugged you along, a bright smile on his face. God, how you loved him.

You had grown closer in the past five dead poets society meetings. Often, he would stay with you in the cave long after the meetings had ended. You would talk about whatever crossed your mind in the moment, and he would spin stories out of thin air. He didn’t ever seem to talk about real life things, though. His work at school, sure, but anything outside of that was uncharted territory. When you asked him about his family, he just clammed up.

You laughed as he weaved through the clumps of people with you in tow. “Slow down, Neil! You’re gonna get us killed.”

The sound of your voice, especially your laugh, was something Neil had come to relish. He would keep you talking all day if it meant he could hear that giddy ring in his ears every time he craved your presence. “You’ve just got to go faster. The line is horrific at this time of day.” 

“This place had better be good.”

“It is, believe me. It’ll be the best you’ve ever had.”

When you arrived, bodies hot and just a little uncomfortably sweaty, the sight of the ice cream parlor was a welcome one. He led you through the doors and ran his fingers through his tousled hair. You wished you could do it for him. The line was, unsurprisingly, quite long. You made idle chat, but his words fell on deaf ears as you stared at him.

“…he was real impressed when Charlie played his sax. Mr. Nolan, though, he definitely wasn’t-“ And, before you could think about it, before the screaming in your head could tell you no, you reached up and smoothed the cowlick that always seemed to mess up his part. When you pulled your hand away, he was beaming.

“Thanks.” He said, simply. You smiled back at him.

“No problem. So, what happened to Charlie afterwards?” You questioned. Neil gave you a look, one you had come to realize meant “I’ll tell you later”.

As you stood three people away from the front counter, Neil fumbled around in his pockets. “Shoot, I could’ve sworn I brought more money than this…” He muttered. He pulled out a dime and three pennies, all slightly covered in the fuzz from his jacket pocket. “I’m sorry. I don’t know, I must’ve spaced out- I’m usually so good about things like this.”

You took his arm with one hand and slipped the other in your pocket, rooting around for any spare change you had. “Don’t worry about it. I’m sure I have more than enough.”

You did not, in fact, have more than enough. You had a single quarter and a spare button. Pooled together, you could get exactly one milkshake and have his three pennies left over. Neil looked at you regretfully.

“You take it. I’ll get one another time.” He said, putting on a smile. “I’ve had too many sweet things today anyways.”

You would not accept this as an answer. Not here, not now. He deserved all the good things life had to offer, and you would be damned if he didn’t get them- starting with this milkshake. “It’s alright, you have it.”

Neil looked at you with furrowed eyebrows. “You should have it, really.” He would be damned if you didn’t get what he dragged you out here to experience. If he could see your face, smiling and sticky-lipped, after taking a sip from something he contributed to, he would be the happiest man on earth. 

The back-and-forth was getting nowhere and you both knew it. “Why don’t we just share it then? Ask for two straws?” You sighed. “It’s the best solution.”

He paused. It wasn’t ideal, and it wasn’t the life he wanted to give you (if this was any indicator), but it would work. Everything would work as long as you were there. “Okay. Yeah, let’s do that.”

There was another quick conversation about which flavor to choose, but you settled on one that you both liked equal amounts. You discovered that he had far different tastes than you milkshake-wise. If you were any less filtered, you would’ve told him his opinions were downright wrong.

You sat with him, smiling so hard you thought your face would break as he finally told you what happened to Charlie. Apparently, Nolan had reprimanded him as he so often had to do, but Charlie couldn’t stop smiling during the lecture. Eventually, Nolan just stopped mid-sentence and ushered the boy out the door. Apparently nothing and no one could ever crush Charlie’s spirit, not even the hardships of wooden rulers.

You leaned in to take a sip absentmindedly. As you reached your straw, you felt the tip of Neil’s nose brush against yours, and you realized you were so close to him you were almost kissing. You pulled back quickly, a hotness enveloping your cheeks.

“Sorry.” You uttered, trying not to look him in the eye. You were so mortified you almost killed yourself on the spot.

Neil, however, was overjoyed. He felt your breath on his chin and it was all he could think about. You, close to him, like you would’ve touched him if you hadn’t pulled away. He relished the feeling.

He shrugged, trying in vain to make it seem like he was just simply all right with it. “It wasn’t a problem,” He said, before noticing that the milkshake was running dangerously low. “Hey, why don’t you take the last sip?”

You cocked your head slightly. “Why?”

“Because I never want to be the one to end it.” He grinned. You shook your head, the corners of your lips rising up as he let out a little laugh. You adored his laugh.

“If you say so.”

That conversation stuck with you a long time after it happened.

It took four more dead poets meetings for Neil to ask you to go somewhere with him again. By the twelfth experience, though, you knew him like the back of your hand.

He loved acting. Loved it. He loved it so desperately that he was willing to face the wrath of his father to pursue the play he was casted in. Oh, and you learned about his father through whispers, mostly from Charlie. Neil, he told you, would never say a word about him. Tyrannical, inhospitable, red-hot like fire and ice-cold like ice. You knew of his mother, too, and her quiet indifference. Neil held a special place in his heart for Todd, the new boy at Welton. He loved puppies and poetry and soft scarves. Not the scratchy ones, as those irritated his neck. He wanted to be an actor in the future, but his father wanted him to be a doctor. He loved so many things, and yet could not have them; however, he definitely hated when people felt sorry for him.

So, you weren’t sorry. You felt his desires like a burning in your gut, stripped away piece by piece, but you were not sorry. You loved him.

You needed him to be fulfilled in every way possible, and you were not sorry. He was going through so many conflicting things, and you were not sorry. You were hopeful.

Life would turn around, you told him. He would see. In ten years, he would be on Broadway, waving at you and Todd and Charlie from the stage. He would be great, and you knew it.

“I’ve never skated like this before. Are you sure it’s safe?” You asked, standing at the edge of Welton’s lake. It was late in fall, with powdery snow dusting the edges of the ground, but the lake may have been in the process of freezing still. Neil took your gloved hands.

“Trust me, it’s good.”

He often asked you to trust him, and you always did. There was just something in his deep, dark eyes that whispered exactly how strong he was.

You took a tentative step onto the ice, nose already feeling the cold burn of pre-winter air. The ground under your feet was slick, but it held. Neil walked backwards, gently guiding you, and you followed.

You found a sort of rhythm in the movements, pushing off with your feet and letting them slide forward on the ice. Neil’s face was tinged with red as you skated on flat shoes, never letting go of your hands. You laughed, truly and honestly. The world spun around you in a blur, white and brown and beautiful. The air snuck through the gaps on your clothes, but you did not care. In that second, it was just you and Neil and the most beautiful day you had ever known.

His eyes softened when he looked at you. Even through the lack of words, he knew exactly what you were thinking. That crinkle by your eyes, the curve of your lips, your laugh. You were content, happy even, because he brought you here. When you reached the middle of the lake, leaning against him, trusting him, he felt a fluttering in his stomach. 

Throughout his days with you, he had come to discover the person behind the book, behind the shy smile. He could firmly say that he knew you, and he loved you even more for it.

He knew your favorite book, which jokes made you laugh so hard tears formed in your eyes, your favorite ice cream flavor. It wasn’t his, but it was completely and entirely you. There was nothing he adored more in the world than you.

You stared at him with a smile gracing your lips as you came to a stop. He reached his hand up to your face and brushed a small snowflake away from the corner of your mouth gently. His hands were soft.

He leaned in closer, so close you could feel the heat radiating from his face. It was now or never, he thought. Carpe diem.

Neil pressed his lips to yours, and all of your feelings exploded from your connected flesh like dynamite.

He was warm, so warm. You kissed him fervently with your arms wrapped around his shoulders like you were dancing. He had finally done it, put to action the kind thoughts he had expressed, and you were glowing. There were stars in your tightly shut eyes, and you reveled in how they spun.

Neil’s mind was racing as you didn’t pull away. He didn’t know what he expected, but you pulling him closer was not his first thought. He most definitely didn’t mind.

When you finally broke the kiss, you were both panting feverishly and looking starved for more. Your combined breaths hung in front of your faces.

“We should do that again.” He whispered. You huffed a laugh, feeling every bit as blushy as he looked.

“Only if you’re okay with never stopping.”

It was a week and a half before Neil’s big play, and the twenty-fourth (maybe twenty-fifth, you had lost count) time you saw him. It was also your tenth official date.

“Date” may have been a loose term, as it was more practicing lines than talking, but the atmosphere was quiet and calm at the café you sat in. There were grainy pictures of favorite customers on the wall and the chairs were just the right amount of wobbly. It felt like a place where you could relax without abandon. Neil’s hand was on top of yours and he was staring deep into your eyes as he spoke line after line, trying to steel his nerves and push past the stress of his approaching deadline.

“If we shadows have offended, think but this, and all is mended, that you have but slumber’d here while these visions did appear. And this weak and idle theme, no more yielding but a dream, gentles, do not reprehend: if you pardon, we will mend: and, as I am an honest Puck, if we have unearned luck…” He hesitated for a moment, eyes unfocused. You squeezed his hand in support and he gave you a small smile. Clearing his throat, he continued. “…now to ‘scape the serpent’s tongue, we will make amends ere long; else the Puck a liar call; so, good night unto you all. Give me your hands, if we be friends, and Robin shall restore amends.” 

You gave a quiet cheer and clasped your hands together. “I think that was your best runthrough yet! I’m so proud of you.”

His eyes lit up as he gazed at you bashfully. “You think?”

“Absolutely. You’re good, you’re really good. You could probably perform tomorrow if you wanted to.” He smiled and ran his fingers over his fleece sleeves as you spoke. If you were in the audience, he was sure he would be able to do anything. “In fact, you could perform any time you wanted to. You’re just that amazing.”

You were so impressed by the sheer amount of talent and emotion he had that you just couldn’t help but smother him in compliments. Every single one was true.

Neil tucked a piece of hair behind his ear, blushing like a madman. Every time you said something kind about him, his heart leapt for joy. “What about you? What have you been working on?” He posed. He had heard your poetry before, of course, but you always seemed to be creating something new.

You pulled out a book from the bag sitting next to you and flipped around. There was one specific poem you wanted him to hear. One you had written about him.

When you found it, you turned the book sideways so you both could see and pointed at it. “This one.” Neil tilted his head, opening his mouth to read it aloud. “I think, 

if I was blind,

I would still know your face.

The curve of your nose would call to me

and your eyelids would flutter under my touch.

There is no one else, no one at all

who could make the pads of my fingers

see the entire world.”

He gazed up at you with a starstruck expression. “Is this about anyone in particular?” Neil leaned forward and dipped his head down to rest on his propped-up hand. He had a grin on his face. He absolutely knew who it was about.

“I wrote that one for Meeks. He’s just so cute, don’t you think?” You teased. Neil’s mouth dropped open as his expression turned to comical shock. 

“I’m wounded, my love! How dare you.” He shouted, throwing his arms up. You started laughing as he continued his theatrical expressions, much to the dismay of the café workers.

“Be careful, we might get thrown out!”

“I’ll throw you out myself if you don’t stop laughing at my demise.” He furrowed his eyebrows and scrunched his nose as you giggled from your seat. “I’m so lucky to have you.” He murmured, suddenly as soft as a spring rain. You ran your fingers over his hand underneath the table, finding every groove like it was your own.

“And I’m lucky to have you. I love you, you know.” 

Neil smiled gently. “I love you too. So much.”

You sat in that café for a few hours more, until the workers had to politely remind you of their closing hours. You laughed and talked and felt the sheer joy of being with the boy you had begun to consider your soulmate. He was a star, shining his light and illuminating you with his rays. Too often, however, the brightest lights fade within the snap of a finger.

“I hope that when I die,” Neil wrote, right before your thirty-first meeting,

“God will send me back to Earth.

He will say,

‘Live again. Run again,

hope again,

plunge your body into ice-cold water again. 

Hate again, 

and cry again,

run your fingers through the grass again.

Kiss them again, 

press your palms to their faces again,

and lose them again.

Let yourself feel again,

and never forget

that life is what matters, 

not death.’

And I will say,

‘I promise

to do everything I have ever told myself I could not do

again and again and again.’”

He closed his journal with a thump and tucked it into his drawer calmly. That was something he would rather not share with anyone, not even you. 

The day was cold and drizzly, but he stood up with a kind of manic smile. He walked out of the doors of Welton and into your awaiting arms.

You both sat down on a park bench under the cover of a tree. Your seats were slightly wet and very cold, but it didn’t matter all that much. You were just glad to be there with him, with Neil. He was the love of your life, and any time with him was well-spent.

“What are you thinking about?” You asked softly. He was the same as he always was, you thought. But his eyes were welling up with tears and you just felt the need to ask, like some unearthly force was telling you that you needed to.

He leaned back, putting his arm around the back of the bench with a sigh. “I’m trapped.” He was smiling, but there was such an utter lack of humor behind it that it made you shiver. You shifted closer to him, leaning your head on his shoulder as a silent sign of comfort. By this point, knew everything there was to know about Neil Perry- even the parts he tried to keep hidden.

“How so?”

“I don’t even know, I just… I want to be an actor. That is what I want to do for the rest of my life. But I can’t, and I’m trapped, and no one can help me, no matter how much they try.” His voice was sullen, but he was still smiling. Curse him for trying to make you feel better even then.

You placed a kiss on the back of his hand and threaded your fingers through his. Your heart ached for him. You knew there was nothing you could do about it, though, and that’s what made it even harder. Holding his hand, telling him it’ll all work out, everything ultimately did nothing for his situation, and you cursed the being that forced him into this position. If you could scream into the night, into the big, black sky to execrate the universe, you would. You did, in the future. You regretted not doing it sooner.

“I’m sorry.” You started, squeezing his hand. “ Just keep going, alright? I promise you, in the future, none of this will matter at all. You just have to stick with it. The world will find a way of figuring it out.”

His face formed a more genuine smile as he laid his head on top of yours. “Yeah. I guess it will.”

The last time Neil Perry saw you was the night he had been anticipating, dreaming about, and dreading: the night of his play. He was prepared. He knew every line and cue by heart, and yet he was still nervous. He was so nervous he could hardly think. 

He stood behind the curtains listening to the chatter of the audience. The rest of the cast members and some of the technicians were scrambling to put everything in place, but he just stared at the dark walls of fabric separating him from his new life. That was it. He was going to put on the best performance of his goddamn life.

The lights dimmed, and he stepped away to take his place.

When it was finally time for him to make his entrance, Neil did it with flourish. “How now, spirit! whither wander you?” He spoke. Cheers came from the audience, whoops and hollers from the dead poets. He could hardly keep himself from smiling.

Then, he saw you. You were grinning wide and large from your seat, giving him that quiet encouragement he had always loved. You whispered his name, and Neil could hear it in his heart.

He was having fun. So much fun. With every line he spoke, with every movement he made, Neil was sinking deeper and deeper into the play and his love for acting. He didn’t remember the last time he had ever felt that alive. 

But with every sinking, there comes a point where one drowns.

His father was there. When had he come? Neil hadn’t seen him before. God. He was burning a hole in the back of his head with his piercing gaze, and it took everything in Neil not to turn and run. That was it, he thought. He was done. But gods be good, he was going to finish his play. He would not let his father ruin this for him.

By the time he was speaking his last lines, the ones he had practiced with you, he barely remembered his father was part of the audience. The curtains closed, and the audience exploded into cheers. He could hear your voice, he swore he could- he was the happiest man on Earth. He had put on the performance of his lifetime, and he couldn’t be more proud. Until, of course, he was dragged out the door by his father.

He was back home before he had even registered his father’s anger. All he could feel was emptiness as the gnawing hole in his stomach expanded to encompass his entire being.

“We're trying very hard to understand why it is that you insist on defying us. Whatever the reason, we're not gonna let you ruin your life. Tomorrow I'm withdrawing you from Welton and enrolling you in Braden Military School. You're going to Harvard and you're gonna be a doctor.” His father stated, eyes sharp. Neil let out a noise of protest.

“But that's ten more years. Father, that's a lifetime! I won’t be able to see any of them again, not one person I knew before. You can’t do this to me, you just can’t.” Tears formed in Neil’s eyes, and as he looked at his mother, she was feeling the same way. And yet she said nothing. He could feel himself becoming increasingly more desperate. 

His father scoffed. “Oh, stop it. Don't be so dramatic. You make it sound like a prison term. You don't understand, Neil. You have opportunities that I never even dreamt of and I am not going to let you waste them.”

Neil rose to his feet, suddenly angry. He needed to fight for this, for himself. He couldn’t just let one man take away everything he had ever loved. If he couldn’t see you, his friends, if he couldn’t act, there was no purpose in his life. “I've got to tell you what I feel.”

Neil’s mother reached for him. “We’ve been so worried about-“ 

“What? What? Tell me what you feel. What is it? Is it more of this, this acting business? Because you can forget that. What?” And just like that, it was gone. Neil sat back down, staring blankly at his lap. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t do anything because he was just a stupid boy who wouldn’t listen. His father scoffed once again before leaving the room.

His mother, ever the soft one, paused.

“I was good. I was really good.” He whispered. She sighed, urging him to his feet. 

“Go on, get some sleep.”

Neil nodded, still in a trance, before trudging to his room. That was it. He was done. He would never see you again, no matter what, and it hurt him so badly he didn’t know what else to do. He ran his fingers over his things lightly before removing his shirt. That was it. He grasped his crown of twigs and placed it on his head, staring out through his open window. The cool air kissed his body sweetly, like your lips on a rainy day. He took a deep breath.

It was time for his last act, his curtain call, his final carpe diem. There was no warning, and yet there did not need to be one. That night, that cold, bitter night, he knew what he needed to do. 

The last time you saw Neil Perry, he didn’t see you. He couldn’t see you. It was December 18th, and you had been asked to read a poem at his funeral. 

God, the word “funeral” hit you like a train. Neil was dead. His sweet demeanor, his gentle words, his soft hair, they were all going to be covered in dirt within the next few hours. You couldn’t stand it. The world needed so much more of him, but terribly, horribly, the world did not deserve it. No one deserved him.

It was odd, you thought, how the sound of one gunshot could replay over and over again in your mind without you ever having heard it at all. The boom, the thud, the scream. It was all so clear in your mind.

As the priest spoke, you felt an emptiness pool in your guts. He was really gone. Your Neil, your poor Neil. You sat between Charlie and Todd, all three of your faces streaked with tears. You could feel more welling up in your eyes, and you let them free without a care. Neil was dead, and nothing else in the world mattered.

In a way, you couldn’t believe it. He was just here, warm and happy and yours. When you got that phone call, you almost joined him. Nothing was worth it anymore, nothing at all. The eulogies, the sobs, they faded into the background as you stared down at the ground.

Before you knew what was happening, you were standing at a podium with a piece of paper clutched between your shaking fingers. Neil’s mom looked up at you in silent support.

You took a breath, so much like the breaths you always took before reading a poem and yet so different. Neil could not hear this one.

“When you died,

the beetles still sang.

The trout still jumped,

and the earth still rumbled.

When you died, the moon still turned

and the stars still burned.

When you died,” Your voice cracked. Looking out into the audience, at people you didn’t know and people you knew so well you could identify them by a strand of their hair, it was too much. Hot tears slipped their way down your face as the pit in your stomach grew ever-wider. 

“The lakes still rippled 

and the trees still creaked

and I lowered you into the ground

and I cried so hard the world stopped moving.” 

There was a murmur throughout the audience, choked sobs and utters of agreement. “For Neil, who lived as he died and died as he lived.” You rasped.

You were quickly ushered away from the podium and back into your seat.

Neil was one in a million. There was no one else in the history of ever that could make you feel so amazing. Like you were a real person, like you mattered. He made everyone feel that way, but something in him burned for you in a way that you believed was unique. And, of course, you burned for him the same. 

The rest of the service went by in a blur. Everyone around you began to get up, and you knew it was time. As you sat there, still as a rock, when everyone went to say their final farewells, you were extinguished. 

You felt a gentle tap on your shoulder. When you looked up from your tear-soaked lap, Todd was there, and he clasped your hand. “Let’s go.” He whispered. “Let’s say goodbye.”

You pulled a page from the book by your feet and shoved it into your pocket. It was for him, it always was and it always had been.

“In some other universe, I found you again.

Maybe in this one we held hands, gently and honestly,

or leaned against each other’s shoulders on the train,

or sobbed against each other’s shirts when we crashed and burned,

because anything with you

means flying too close to the sun.” It read. 

As you stood in front of his casket, you could hardly bear to focus on his pale face.

He was cold, so cold. The embalmer had done well with his head, but there was so much that just looked off. He didn’t look like your Neil. He looked empty. You gripped his hand and brushed a lock of hair away from his eyes. It was winter, and he was colder and paler than the snow.

You held him far longer than what was deemed socially acceptable before tucking the page into his lapel and swiftly walking away.

You weren’t there for his burial, and you knew you couldn’t be. It was just too much. If you had seen his casket close, if you had watched them shovel dirt on top of the wooden box, you would’ve dropped to your knees and screamed. Much like you’re doing now.

You sat on that same old park bench, knees clutched up to your soaked chest, sobbing harder than you ever had before. Your Neil was gone and you could never see him again, not ever.

When you saw Neil Perry for the last time, and god, did you see him, you knew nothing would ever be the same again.

[deluxewhump]

Pride of Princes

A standalone story in the Blackmuir Reign verse ~150 years before Therrin Blackmuir takes the throne. This story is complete, around 12k words. This is part one.

CW: fantasy setting with a monarchy, fantasy politics, fantasy religious tensions, pressure to convert, torture, beatings, burning, threat of execution, imprisonment, defiant whumpee, forced/arranged marriage, polygamy, sex, court drama 

Characters and terms:

King Thyran Blackmuir (tie-run) 55- Therrin’s great great grandpa. Has ruled 30 yrs at this time and recently suffered an illness (stroke)

Prince Aedric Blackmuir (A-drick, strong A sound) 32 - the eldest prince and heir. Has one brother Cedric and two peaceweaver brides, Esther and Miline. Has one child with Esther, 6yo Esti. 

Roan Barrowfen (Row-n, rhymes with shown) 28- noble-born second son of Randall Barrowfen, of the easterly reaches. Given (unwillingly) as a peaceweaver to Aedric 

Tercet The new official religion being implemented by the Blackmuir crown. (Also a term in poetry, but here it's the name of a religion lol) The Tercet has three sections of religious importance that focus on commerce, agriculture, and the sanctity of law (the monarchy). 

Peace-weaver (Old English: freothwebbe)- Anglo-Saxon tradition of marrying women to an enemy tribe in hopes of mingling bloodlines and encouraging future peace between the groups. Peaceweavers here are specifically matched to smooth over a current conflict in the region, and not the same designation as matches to strengthen alliances or procure wealth. I prefer it as one word, not hyphenated.

Other notes: 

Title from The Wanderer.

Polygamy is encouraged for royalty at this time in the Blackmuir rule, if they are peaceweaver matches. Peaceweavers can be any level of nobility, but the first bride's children are typically the only ones recognized as viable heirs, unless they do not bear one or the heirs do not survive, and then it goes down the line to the second spouse. As you can imagine this causes lots of problems, but not in this story. 

This is loosely inspired by the history/legend of Saint Juliana by Cynewulf, as told in the Exeter book. 

_

1.

Prince Aedric was fast asleep when he was roused by Juliana, a timid handmaiden of his first bride, Esther. She never entered Aedric’s chambers, certainly not without invitation, or her mistress’s presence. 

“Prince Aedrick,” she said, giving a hurried bow. Her head was uncovered, her hair in two mussed braids as if for sleep. 

Aedric cast his eyes about the room for signs that something was amiss. He heard nothing from the open door of his chamber, or from the eastern window that caused any alarm. The fire was still burning in the hearth. He could not have been asleep for more than a few hours. 

“Juliana,” he said sharply. “Esther? Esti?”

“Are both well, sire. I don’t come on her behalf.”

“Then why? What is it?”

The girl pursed her lips and looked behind her, as if someone might be standing in the doorway in pursuit. “I wish to tell you something, but I fear it is not my place.”

Aedric sat up further in bed, his head still thick with sleep. “It must be important, to wake me in the middle of the night. Have out with it.”

“I only mean to serve you and my lady’s interests.”

“…Yes, Juliana. I know. I’ll… make sure there are no repercussions.”

She nodded solemnly. That had been her concern. “I was not told to come to you.”

“I understand. What is it?”

“The lord from the far reaches. He arrived this afternoon.”

Aedric frowned. He’d been recently betrothed. It was to be his third peaceweaver match, and the first to be male. The match was the youngest son of a Barrowfen from the easterly reaches, that wild and unforgiving marshland he’d visited as a boy and never had any desire to visit again. The reaches were an insular and stubborn region of his father’s vast kingdom that had caused some difficulty of late, but Lord Barrowfen was prompt with the annual taxes, and receptive to the new religious order.

But if his new betrothed had arrived in the afternoon, why had he not been called to meet him? Why had he not been sent to him directly, as Esther and Miline had been? He asked Juliana as much.

“The king. He is speaking to him now, in the Oath Hall. He is displeased.”

“Why?”

Juliana shifted her weight, nervously twisting at a small silver ring on her right hand. “He is refusing the Tercet, my lord. It’s caused some trouble.”

Aedric shook his head. “Why has he come all this way,  just to protest when he got here?”

“I-I don’t know, sire. I don’t think he wanted to come.”

Aedric raised his brows. 

“I know nothing more than this. I only wanted you to be aware. They’re very displeased with him, my prince.”

“Go,” he said, throwing off his covers. “I need to dress.”

She hesitated, wringing her fingers bloodless.

“Your name will not be mentioned,” he assured her. “Go.”

_

Aedric wondered if he’d ever been in the Oath Hall at such an hour. Every brazier was lit, casting jumping shadows on the high stone walls. His father sat elevated on his dais, attended by two knights, his favorite Tercet cleric in robes of snowy white, and several members of his court. 

Aedric’s eyes swept over them in turn. All had turned to watch him enter, and soon their eyes turned to their king to gauge his reaction to the prince’s intrusion. 

“It’s late, Aedric,” came Thyran Blackmuir’s weakened voice from his throne. A sudden illness had struck him before spring’s last snowmelt, and he had not been the same since. 

“Indeed it is, Your Grace,” Aedric answered. “What matter could not wait until after we had all slept and breakfasted?”

At the base of the dais stood a young man in modest clothing, unmoving, with his gaze fixed on the stones beneath his feet. Aedric gave him a wide berth as he approached, looking to see if this was the peaceweaver he’d been sent a portrait of in the initial negotiations. It appeared to be. He was of a similar height as Aedric, and though he could only see his bowed profile, it seemed to be the Barrowfen from the picture — Roan, was his name, or else it was someone strikingly similar. The portrait had looked promising.

He was of a similar age as Aedric as well, highborn, and unrelentingly beautiful, with dark hair and green-brown eyes, high easterly cheekbones, and a particular, intriguing smile that Aedric hoped was not just the flattery of the artist, but a look the subject had worn while sitting for the sketch.

“Hello,” he said, standing to the nobleman’s right, a safe six feet of distance between them. 

Roan Barrowfen gave him the barest glance, looking up without lifting his head. Their eyes met for only a moment and he returned them to the floor, his jaw set in something between determination and fear. Aedric was mildly stung by the sheer disregard of the exchange, a disregard he was unaccustomed to. 

“Is this my new peaceweaver, then?” Aedric asked, addressing his father. “Is this Roan Barrowfen?”

“It is,” the king answered wearily, his left eye now permanently drooping like a melting clay doll. 

“Why was I not sent for?” he asked, in front of the men of court, the cleric, and the knights. “Surely there must be some reason I was not sent to greet him upon his arrival?”

“Sit,” bade his father. 

“I prefer to stand, Your Grace.”

Aedric was nothing if not a loyal firstborn son, but he was not as docile as he might be. He tried to remain respectful to his father, the king, especially in front of members of court, but he would not be seen as a mincing puppet, either. And the king could be stubborn.

Of late, that concern had flagged. His father was not the man he was the year before, or the thirty years of his rule before that. He sometimes lost his train of thought, or his words entirely, and spent much of his days in bed. 

“Your betrothed has insisted on an act of….of  treason since his… arrival,” managed the King. 

Cleric Alfonsus looked down from the dais at Roan Barrowfen with a disdainful sort of pity. 

“What treason is that?”

The King motioned at his cleric, inviting him to speak and save him the trouble.  

“Lord Barrowfen maintains the false gods of the easterly reaches,” explained the cleric in a smooth voice, still powerful enough to project. Aedric admitted his unnervingly blue eyes and unrelenting gaze gave him an air of authority. His arms were folded together in the white fabric of his robes of office, hiding his hands, which Aedric thought was another apt metaphor. “He has denounced the Tercet, and by extension, the authority of the King.”

Aedric could have laughed. The Tercet was a fledgling religion, breeding in several pockets of the north for only two generations before gaining fast favor these last ten years. When he was a boy, no one had even spoken of the Tercet, the three-deity trident of land, commerce, and law. It was about as relevant as whoever this easterly man’s far-flung gods might be. And now it was treason to refuse them?

 “I’m sure this is a thing being done on principle,” he said amiably, opening his hands toward his father and the cleric. Even the knights were looking at him. “A well-intentioned principle, at that. Your Grace, is not the point of a peaceweaver to make peace? Peace is not something that can be expected upon arrival, or overnight.”

“The terms were clear,” answered the cleric, speaking over Aedric’s last word. “Randall Barrowfen sent a letter with his son. He knew this might happen, and in it he outlines his sincerest regrets, along with fealty to the Tercet and the king. His son’s life, if not as a peaceweaver, can be of some use as a forfeit.”

Aedric made a sour face. “Forfeit? To be an example, you mean? That is the perfect opposite of the goal we have in making this arrangement.”

The cleric continued. “Rejection of the Tercet directly undermines-”

“Your Grace,” Aedric cut him off, addressing his father. “This is mad. Put a swift end to it.”

With some difficulty, the King adjusted in his straight backed throne, a simple and elegant design of carved wood meant as an homage to humility and efficiency. “Your Esther and…Miline are worthy brides, Aedric. They are peaceweavers, and they are Muirish now. They serve a purpose. This…” he waved a hand irritably, “open dissent is not something I can ignore. I will not have a hostile…. traitor at my table. Bearing…. our name.”

“Hostile traitor,” Aedric echoed in disbelief. He wondered, not for the first time since his illness, if those were his father’s words, or repeated words of Cleric Afonsus.  “Has he spoken of any plans to murder any of us in our sleep?”

“No,” said the nobleman in question. Aedric turned to him, surprised he’d spoken. “But I will not abandon my gods for you. Or for the king.”

A murmur of offense broke out among the men in attendance. 

“I am a theurgist for the gods of our land,” he continued, looking up at Aedric with his head still slightly bowed. His eyes looked greener in the light of the braziers, and he had a high color on his cheeks that Aedric couldn’t discern between a sign of good health or the start of a fever. “I will serve my gods, and my gods alone.”

“A theurgist. You conjure your gods?”

“On behalf of others,” he answered. “As much as it is in my ability to do so. And if they answer.”

“And where are they at this moment?” he asked quietly, directed only to the foreigner. He meant it in a friendly, exasperated sort of jest, but Roan Barrowfen dropped his eyes like it had been a taunt.

Aedric set his jaw and looked back to the dais. “Give me the night, Your Grace. Let me speak to him privately, as I expected to do upon his arrival.”

“When you arrived,” said the king, “I had just sentenced him to the holding cells. He will….await there. Await his…ah,” he struggled for the word. “His trial.”

A pit of dismay formed in Aedric’s stomach. They had only exchanged one letter, but it had been promising. Roan Barrowfen was clearly well versed in his letters, and well spoken. He’d seemed modestly eager for the arrangement. Had he not realized he would have to, at least publicly, lay down his gods and his theurgic practices to do so? Another thought— had he even written the letter? Had he come of his own free will at all?

Aedric wished he could speak his true mind to his father, but there were lines he knew better than to cross in the Oath Hall.

“He will have a chance to recant, Aedric,” said the King, as if he were placating Aedric when he was a petulant child, over some small matter. “He will have many chances.”

He thought the wording of that promise to be ominous. Many chances? Did they intend to harm him in hopes of eliciting it, like a confession from a criminal? A highborn? Betrothed to the prince? Roan Barrowfen seemed to take the same meaning from the words. His chest rose and fell with noticeably faster breaths, but he did not move a single muscle. Aedric felt a sharp pang of protective sympathy towards this stranger he’d so been looking forward to meeting. 

“I ask you to reconsider this,” he appealed again. “It’s highly reactionary, Your Grace, for naught but some words.”

The king only motioned weakly to the knights, who came forward and took the prisoner under each arm, leading him away. He stumbled, but caught his footing and went willingly. Aedric stood rooted to the spot as the King rose from the throne. Others followed, and Oath Hall began to empty. 

Cleric Alfonsus stepped down from the dais carefully so as not to trip over his robes. He fixed Aedric with his deliberate gaze. “Naught but some words,” he repeated as he passed him. It felt like an admonition. 

The following morning, Prince Aedric learned that the trial was set for a full month away. Roan Barrowfen’s noble status required three representatives from his home to travel to the Muirkeep to sit on the jury. Aedric knew this would influence the outcome, but he was not confident it would be in the way he’d like. Lord Barrowfen himself had condemned his son with that letter, to appease the king. Whoever came from the reaches was likely prepared to do the same.

The final decision would be the king’s, but that would undoubtedly be influenced by the clerics, as it was a religious matter. That was a fact that had been concerning him of late— more and more seemed to fall to the discretion of the Tercet leaders, namely Cleric Alfonsus. 

After speaking with his father to no avail, he did the other thing in his power. He went down to the cells. 

Next

[regencyofhell-if]

So...I fucked up, but in I think a good way?

Let me explain.

Regency of Hell somehow got turned into a novel instead of an IF, so I've been making attempts to pace back, but rather than redo everything I've already done, I'm thinking of keeping the project a novel instead.

I am fully aware that this is going to disappoint a great deal of you, but I'm in talks with a publication company thanks to one of my friends who is a local legend in the poetry scene recommending my work to them. If I complete the final draft of the book by spring, I will finally have accomplished my lifelong dream of being a published author.

Obviously, I can't name the company I'm working with here, but I will give more information as things fall into place and everything is set into concrete. What I can tell you so far is this:

There will be three books total. That is not changing.

Book one currently stands at 278 pages, and that is before editing. Everything is still in that horrifying stage between rough draft and second draft where I just keep picking it apart like a worn old scab.

I'm still open to recreating this IF as a sort of "choose your own adventure" type of story, but for now, it's all going in a different direction.

Twine is still evil.

It took me a long while to admit to myself that writing interective fiction is not something I can personally do. I tip my proverbial hat to the amazing IF writers out there who can do it, but my pea-brain can't help but make an absolute mess of things when multiple choices are involved. So rather than see the project die, I'm going to just go in another direction and take a shot at accomplishing something I've wanted since I was a kid imagining my name on a book jacket in the library.

I almost didn't want to post this update because I knew it was going to upset a lot of you, but at the same time, I couldn't just leave the page in limbo. So I'm sorry if this isn't the news you wanted or expected. However, I'm still hoping to have your support when I get the publishing deal. It would mean the absolute world to me.

I'm going to end this note here and just say thank you to everyone who has supported RoH thus far. This isn't a closing chapter, it's just a new beginning with plenty more to come.

I love you all and hope you have an amazing holiday season.

Nik

[piss-stained-jorts]

RIGHT

-claps hands-

some of you are new to this despair. it ain't fun. as someone who is no stranger to hopelessness, despair, fatalism, misanthropy, and an undying bitterness, I'll give it a go trying to offer some semblance of help. my soul has been a strange kind of melancholy for over 15 years. I experience a few seconds of true happiness once every few months. and yet, here I stand. I think it'd be better if the whole world burned, but I ain't holding a match. point is, it's entirely possible to keep going, even in this state.

even in saying this, I have my doubts it'll do anything positive at all. I'm doing it anyway. I do it with the same defeatism I experience when I go to vote in a deep South red state. a single drop of blue dye in a sea of red blood. I know, objectively, that nothing will come of my actions. I do it anyway. for selfish reasons, I do it anyway.

I'm not here to help you out of it. I'm gonna offer some advice on living on inside it. I don't know how to get out of it yet, either. I'm working on that. again, maybe it helps, maybe it does nothing. here we go.

I recommend booking a therapy appointment. this is my biggest, most helpful advice TBH. I didn't go for a long time. didn't think i could afford it. turns out, there's secret little things in the world to help you afford it. me, I went to healthcare.gov, found some cheap ass insurance, and now I'm in therapy for severe mental health issues. I'm getting a second therapist, too. there's some deeeeep rooted shit in me. there's very likely deep rooted shit in you, too, and it's a great time to find someone who can help dig it out. ain't a cure all, and you'll have to see it as a conversation instead of someone coming and fixing you. they aren't a knight in shining armor with all the answers, but two heads are better than one.

I also recommend poetry. not just reading it, but writing it. the angrier and sadder the better. every raw, honest feeling. do not judge whatever comes out. don't worry about structure. don't worry about making it readable. make vent art, too.

I recommend familiar, comforting foods. things that remind you of those pockets in time when you were warm and safe. old foods, old games, old imaginary friends. yes, the imaginary friend thing extends to grown ups. a positive voice that is only ever kind and loving to you, no matter what. it's your own voice echoed back, after all.

I recommend caring about people. it helps to keep you in this world if you have someone else in it you love so, so fucking much.

I recommend bitching. bitch about your feelings and the world and the state of things with someone who also wants to bitch.

I recommend sad, angry, bitter, hopeless songs, under the caveat that it won't make you want to kill yourself. if listening to sad music makes you wanna die more, do not do this. me, I find songs about dying and being miserable comforting because I feel seen and understood in a way I feel I have been failed. maybe that's not how your brain works, though. just be safe and don't die.

under no circumstances kill yourself. you don't want to die. your brain is coping and trying to take back a sense of control when you feel powerless, and that's the solution it can think of because it's straightforward. do not do this.

if a sense of hope does come, don't push it away. if it leaves quickly, breathe and enjoy the few seconds you have with it. don't berate yourself if you don't feel the way you "should." there is no should or should not with emotions or the lack of them.

I recommend finding something to do, or something to put off. me, I keep saying I'll write a book, make a game, do all sorts of things. maybe I will, maybe I won't. it's something to do or say I'll do in the future. a sense of purpose. even if I never do it, it's still there.

learn to see the worth in both the retching pain and the numbness. when I am overcome with despair and anguish, I find the worth in that I'm still able to care that much, that I have a consistent muse for my work, and that crying is cathartic. when I'm numb, I find worth in the cool, calm gray color that mutes my existence, and the lack of pain makes the boredom a welcome respite. it still blows, and I'd trade it for joy and hope any day of the week, but the joy machine doesn't work anymore. working on that one.

listen. listen. I don't know what the fuck the future holds. pithy statements of hope don't help me, so I won't give them to you. be there for your friends, be there for yourself, give space to your feelings. I know. I know these new feelings are scary. you've never felt them like this before. you're new to this, I know you are. I promise you, you can keep living. I promise you, it's possible to find little joys, even here in the nightmare. I know the feeling of drowning in the ocean with hardly a sail to keep you is scary. I know from lived experience that it's possible for it to become bearable. I still believe, though I'm not there yet, that it's possible to leave this dark forest. I am bitter and resentful and I feel cheated and I don't think feeling any of this makes anyone a bad person.

it hurts so much, I know. I know it hurts. I know words can't make it all better. this world we live in is not what it should be. you are so cherished.

[peipurr]

sometimes I love to think of how the Generalfeldmarschalls are just .... human. beneath their military personality and after all the atrocities they may have done. and no, this isn't me justifying the n4zi's horrendous crimes, but sometimes I just think that people who wrote books abt them need to see that side of them too, like okay their military was great but c'mon, let's not forget about their interesting personality!

and some of the facts I often think are:

that my precious baby Model was a member of literary society during his youth excelled in Greek, Latin, and History (and some also say in Poetry — I wonder if he ever wrote a poem).

Von Leeb loved to collect stamps!!! and very fond of his family's chronicles.

There is a story in the Keitel Family that Wilhelm almost went to tears when he gave up his hope to become a farmer in order to stay in the military to support his family.

Von Reichenau was fond of German literature and classical music. He brought to the battlefield in the Polish campaign a small volume of a selection of German poetry.

Von Rundstedt loved detective thriller books but was shy to show it. He regularly read the novel in an open drawer which could be quickly closed whenever anyone came in to see him.

Rommel and Schörner's rivalry. David Irving wrote: "One of Schoerner’s frequent pranks was to plant silver cutlery from the mess in the pockets of guests at formal banquets and watch their embarrassment when the spoons and forks fell out. Rommel, when it happened to him, was not amused. Their rivalry persisted to the end. It was generally friendly, and once, after Schoerner had made a name for ruthlessness bordering on brutality in the Crimea ... Rommel solicitously took him aside and candidly urged him to try a different method."

Von Bock seemed to be very fond of boys —not in the negative way. In Sudetenland, he once "took his twelve-year-old son, dressed in a sailor suit, along in his car "to impress on his son the beauty and exhilaration that lie in soldiering."". In 1940, he sent a postcard to the same son, Dinnies von der Osten. Also, one of Fedi's last wishes to von Manstein was that he should take care of the 16 year old Dinnies after his death, which Erli did until his capitulation. Not that it matters, but Dinnies was not his biological son. It was his second wife's son from her previous marriage. I think it shows how much Fedi cared for the boy. Then, his diary entry on 8/9/39: " ... I was able to present the first Iron Cross of this war to a Private First Class of the 94th Regiment who acted bravely at Graudenz. The young man beamed; too beautiful these lads!". He's just ... adores his troops (and youngest stepson) so much :')

Wolfram von Richthofen always found studying language to be painful. His foreign language grades were either a borderline pass or an “unsatisfactory.” And "he was a somewhat indulgent father. When he returned home during the war years, Jutta would relate some minor misbehavior of the boys and ask that Wolfram, as their father, discipline them. Wolfram’s reply was usually something on the lines of “boys will be boys” and “they’re good kids—let’s give them a break.”". Then, Wolfram once described the Luftwaffe as “the army’s whore”.

Von Manstein's writing is something else. Even if he did lie about the breakout order in Stalingrad, I still enjoyed his memoirs, to be honest. His words are beautiful, the way he tells a story and the allusions — I got the impression that he was a highly educated person by reading Lost Victories.

Also, von Küchler and Busch's rivalry (which was bitter, unlike the Rommel-Schörner's one), which unfortunately I couldn't remember which book explained that and couldn't find it yet :(

Sources:

Hitler's Generals - Edited by Correlli Barnett

Generalfeldmarschall Wilhelm Ritter von Leeb: Tagebuchaufzeichnungen und Lagebeurteilungen aus zwei Weltkriegen

The Memoirs of Field-Marshal Wilhelm Keitel: Chief of the German High Command, 1938-1945 - Edited by Walter Görlitz

Same as 1

Lost Victories by Erich von Manstein

The Trail of The Fox by David Irving

Generalfeldmarschall Fedor von Bock: The War Diary, 1939-1945 || Manstein: Hitler's Greatest General by Melvin Mungo || World War: The Three Vons (Time Magazine, August 18th, 1941

Wolfram von Richthofen Master of The German Air War by James Corum || Stopped at Stalingrad: the Luftwaffe and Hitler's Defeat in The East, 1942-1943 by Prof. Joel Hayward

[cheese-ducks]

TWRP ORIGINS

Chapter 13: New Perspectives

Previous chapter

Main Masterlist

August 7th, 2007

It's been forever since I've used this thing. I honestly thought I threw it out. Mom bought me this notebook assuming I'd use it for songs and feelings or shit like that. Instead I found my old angsty poetry and a bunch of dick drawings. Why did I expect nothing less? Anyway, Sung is probably the reason I’m writing this down. He seems like the type of nerd to journal. Speaking of Sung, I actually took his advice and started working on No Pants Dance again. It’s actually sounding pretty rad if I do say so myself. I’m still kind of embarrassed about showing it off, though. Mom came in earlier today while I was working on it, and I totally freaked out. Luckily, (I think??) she noticed the random traffic cone Sung had brought home from the Atomic Hawk. He said he needed to "study it further". I just hope the construction guys he took it from didn't notice. He better help me think of an explanation for why I have it. I think Mom is genuinely starting to worry about me, even more than usual.

Ship's log 08-87007

The findings from Mission Atomicawk were a total success. I don’t care if that is not the name of the food place, the human said it was close enough. From my observations humans have stricter social habits than I initially realized. Honoring Stone's request, I did as his brother would do. I stayed silent, and did not speak unless spoken to, or if it wouldn’t listen laughter from the group. It’s strange to me, how those were. The only times the human feels qualified to speak. It continued like that throughout the night. According to Stone that is a common occurrence on earth. Fascinating. I need to conduct additional research and what better subjects than my own bandmates? I will report my findings as ASAP as possible. The human taught me that.

August 11th, 2007

Sung and I are freaking the fuck out at the moment. I mean, changing emotionally is one thing, but we did something NUTS today. Even he was confused. At what he called "musical combat training", it was going pretty well. I was having fun playing, the guys thought I was funny, Stan even complimented me directly, instead of referring to the group and tacking me on at the end. Everything was fine until I went to tuck my hair behind my ear. It was more pointy than usual. I booked it to Andy’s bathroom and sure enough, they were Sung's ears, alright. I had no clue what to do, but luckily Sung reminded me about the disguise from the other night. Thank God I forgot to take it out of my backpack. I put them on and no one noticed until dad picked us up. The second I got in the van he asked about it. I told him I was trying something new, and he didn’t believe that for a second. I should feel more freaked out about this, but honestly, the fact that Sung is nervous about this, too, is kind of comforting.

Ship's log 08-81200727

Holy shit, I have a ton of findings to report! First, I inquired about my colleagues pasts which led to interesting results. Lord Phobos informed me he felt a similar way to the human. The key difference being that while his choices were made for him, the human chooses not to make a choice. Both circumstances seem to have left them with profound levels of anxiety and loneliness. Commander Meouch me was slightly harder to crack. He wouldn’t tell me anything directly, but I did overhear a conversation between him and Lord Phobos. Apparently, his rose exterior is a defense mechanism developed over his time with those brutish smugglers. To take his words, when the smugglers hit him around, he hit them right back, even harder. Havve's story was quite similar. Deemed unworthy of artificial life, he was tossed aside at the first imperfection. It was strange hearing these stories. My empathetic inclination acted in a way I’d never felt before. I was genuinely sad for them, independent of influence, coming from deep within my being. It was unexpected. Just like the accident at the human's musical combat training. I needed to know why. For the first time in my life I wondered what exactly I was. I didn’t find anything definitive, but I didn’t find a damn close match in a study on agent galactic beings. I found this description of a being made of star dust and soundwaves, that was traditionally solitary, and could perceive the emotional energies of lifeforms around them. The most damming piece of evidence came from the last sidings of these beings; 13 billion years ago. I read the rest of the study, completely engrossed, finding similarities between myself and the descriptions. Suddenly I found the explanation for the unique incident:

"I theorize that due to their impermanent, genetic makeup, if the species were to take a host for an extended period of time, eventually the two beings would fuse into one. Each retaining half their genetic makeup, but still remaining whole. They would live as a fully new, being, not remembering their separation." - Prof. Rakken Heliat.

I must tell the human at once. As much as I’d love to test the theory, I fear it may be permanent. I couldn’t do that to either of us. I have a mission, a noble purpose. He has a life, a loving family. I couldn’t selfishly take that from either of us. I’ll discuss it nonetheless.

August 19th, 2007

Holy shit, I think they’re onto me!! Mom and dad have noticed for sure!!! Last night while Sung(who has been weirdly quiet recently) and I were trying to sneak out, we heard them talking about me. They heard on the news that if your kid is super distant and weird they're probably on drugs. They don't genuinely believe that shit, RIGHT?? To be fair I am writing this in my room with my disguise on. I somehow woke up with Sung's eyes and ears so I’ve been in here all day. Sung won’t answer me. I KNOW YOU'RE THERE ASSHOL

.........................................................................................

"Hey, pal."

Jack jolted at the sudden sight of his dad, standing in the doorway with the dad look that Jack knew anywhere.

"Whatcha up to, bud?"

"J-just writing." He adjusted the sunglasses in case his dad could see the cosmic horror that lie beneath, but it only made him more suspicious.

"Ok, kid. Cut the bull. What's going on with you?"

"Uh, I..." His mind begged for Sung's help, but he still didn't answer. "Come on, man!" He muttered.

"Alright, take off the sunglasses"

"What? I can't!"

"Take em off or I'll take em, your choice, kid." Curt ordered.

"I really can't. You just have to trust me on this one, dad." The panic in his voice was barely hidden. Either he let his parents think he was on drugs or he let his parents think he'd gone insane. Both were terrible options to be fair.

"Please, dad. Trust me."

Curt paused for a moment before backing away from the door.

"Ally!"

"No! Please don't tell mom!"

Ally dashed up the stairs to see her husband and son pulling the bedroom door open and shut, specifically Jack nearly pulling the doorknob off.

"Jack! What is going on?" She scolded.

Jack paused to come up with a plan. He couldn’t lie to his Mom. He couldn’t lie to either of his parents. What was the alternative? Reveal his recent disfigurement and scared of the hell out of them. What would they say? How would they react? The fear he felt while telling Stone was tripled in this moment, he felt paralyzed.

Curt ripped the hat and sunglasses from Jack's head, expecting to find large pupils or red eyes. Both parents screamed upon seeing their son's face. Fortunately, Jack wasn't there to see it.

"The initial state of bewilderment will pass I assure you."

The parents stood in shock, unsure what to make of this situation. Sung sighed as he took a step forward, but the adults recoiled in response.

"Greetings. I did not anticipate we'd meet this way. I sincerely apologize for any terror and apprehension I have caused."

"What the hell have you done to my son?" Ally demanded.

"I was just getting to that. I-"

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU KNOW, STANLEY?" Curt shouted into his cellphone.

[scotianostra]

November 10th 1781 saw the birth of Thomas Blacklock.

Thomas Blacklock was born of "humble parentage", meaning basically they were ordinary folk, he fell foul to smallpox as an infant meaning from just 6 months old he was rendered blind.

Unable to afford any sort of special schooling for young Thomas, his parents read to him in his childhood, progressing to a more mature reading subject as he grew older, this was well before braille gave the blind the opportunities they have nowadays. Milton, Spenser, Prior, Pope, and Addison were among the authors read to him, he also learned some latin along the way and studied for the church, remarkably he was appointed Minister of Kirkcudbright! The parishioners however objected to this though, due to him being blind and he was unable to take u the position.

During the 1750s he was sponsored by the philosopher David Hume He then retired to Edinburgh, where he became a tutor. The poet Allan Ramsay was one of his favourites and it encouraged Blacklock to write some poetry himself, some of which he managed to get published, but most of his writing has long been lost over time. I did however find some passages which were published, one of them shows his anguish at his plight....

"Nor end my sorrows here: The sacred fane

Of knowledge, scarce accessible to me,

With heart-consuming anguish I behold:

Knowledge for which my soul insatiate burns

With ardent thirst. Nor can these useless hands,

Untutor’d in each life-sustaining art,

Nourish this wretched being, and supply

Frail nature’s wants, that short cessation know."

As well as having many friends amongst the Edinburgh Literati, Blacklock had read to him, Poems, Chiefly in the Scottish Dialect, which we know nowadays as the Kilmarnock Edition, Rabbie Burn's first collection of poems. He wrote to Burns with his admiration and praise of the book, Burns on reading the praise commented......." belonged to a set of critics for whose applause I had not dared to hope. His opinion that I would meet with encouragement in Edinburgh for a second edition, fired me so much, that away I posted for that city, without a single acquaintance, or a single letter of introduction." The two became good friends during Burns' time in Edinburgh and a further letter from the Ploughman Poet is said to have persuaded Burns from sailing to the West Indies, his passage was booked and he was set to leave, Blacklock's intervention indirectly saved his life since the ship sank on the voyage.

I've had to try and whittle this post down and will post a link to much more of Thomas Blacklock's life, he might be little known to many of you out there but he lives on in Edinburgh where he lived for many years on West Nicholson Street, the building now houses some licensed premises, most of you will know the Pear Tree, with it's famous beer garden, but the bar next door is named after Thomas Blacklock, as "The Blind Poet"

A quote I found when putting this together seems to sum the man up....."he never lost a friend, nor made a foe"

He passed away in Edinburgh on 7 July 1791 aged 69.

The third pic is a hand written Epistle to the Rev Thomas Blacklock by Rabbie Burns.

[scienter]

WE GOT LIFT AND RENARIN POVS!

CHAPTER 29

“I don’t stare at him,” Lift said, watching the Azish Windrunner give orders to subordinates. So confident, yet so studious. Not a brute, like so many of the Alethi. He had thoughts. He was smart. Not so tall as to be intimidating, but tall enough to be striking. “Pardon,” Wyndle said, “but you’re staring right now.” “Do you think,” Lift said, “he likes poetry?”

Poetry? Lift has a crush on Sigzil. Fantastic. 😂

Nobody had seen him since the attack on the tower though. Probably off sleeping somewhere. He was smart, that one. Always seemed to know when someone was gonna make him do something, so he got out of there quick.

For real though – where the hell is Zahel?

“He’s married, you know.” “Yeah,” she said, leaning farther to the side. “His husband’s hot too. Seems unfair. You’re hot, you can fly, and you have a hot husband? Windrunners, Wyndle, I’m tellin’ ya. Something’s up with them. You know, I ain’t never seen one o’ them run into a wall? Not even a small wall.”

Lift has a crush on Drehy too? lmao It was only a matter of time before Lift started thirsting over the Windrunners.

Gav nodded, knees drawn up against his chest, staring at the ground. “My mother gave me to Voidbringers,” he said softly, “to be tormented and killed.”

JFC. This poor kid is so traumatized.  No wonder he worries Navani and Dalinar don’t want him.  Good thing Lift made an effort to befriend him.

“I’m gonna learn,” Gav said, a small angerspren pooling beneath him, like bubbling blood. “How to use a Shardblade. How to fight. Then I’m gonna find everyone who hurt my father, and I’m going to kill them. I’m gonna make their eyes burn out and then, when they’re dead, I’ll chop them to pieces.”

😬 WTF. That's a little intense for a 5-year-old.

If Moash & Gav survive this book then there’s a good chance for a Gav gets revenge sub-plot in the second half of Stormlight.

“Gram,” Gav said on the way, “what’s ‘shit’ mean?” Lift winced. Maybe… maybe teaching the crown prince to cuss hadn’t been her smartest move. Secretly deep down, she was a bit of a druff, wasn’t she.

😂 Is this the first scene Brandon has ever used the word ‘shit’ in a Cosmere book?

I loved this scene so much. From Lift thirsting over Windrunners to befriending Gav to letting Wyndle into her secret handshake. TI adore Lift.

Wyndle nodded, satisfied. He glanced at her. Then he frowned. “You’re… going to follow them, aren’t you?” “Storming right I am,” Lift said, hopping down. “I mean, I need more snacks, so I was planning to get up anyway…”

I hope Lift sneaks into the Spiritual realm with Dalinar. I loved their scenes in Oathbringer and I’ve been hoping to see them paired up again.

CHAPTER 30

WE GOT A RENARIN POV! FINALLY!

Of course she’d send a report. She still hoped, as Dalinar did, that Renarin would change his mind and agree to be king of Urithiru should his father fall. Barring that, they wanted him to be Jasnah’s heir until Gav was of age. Though Jasnah would ensure an elected official took her place, they thought Alethkar should have a monarch, even if they didn’t have absolute power.

Although we knew Dalinar originally wanted one of his sons to inherit Uritihru, I think it’s significant that Brandon chose to show us Dalinar’s conversation with Kaladin and not Renarin. He didn’t throw that in there without reason, right?  Is this focus on succession simply world-building or is it significant to the plot?

 “The way you look at Rlain,” Drehy said in response to Renarin’s apparent confusion. “Oh, that,” Renarin said, relaxing. It was an embarrassing topic, but at least now he knew what the topic was. “Is it… um… obvious?”

Oh, the Rlainarin shippers have waited so long for this day. It's good to see this ship finally take off.

“What do you want, Renarin?” Drehy asked. “Not what your aunt, or your father, or anyone else wants. What do you want?” “Maybe what I want,” he said, “is for my aunt, and my father, and everyone else to be happy.”

Oh, Renarin, your happiness is important too. 🥺

It’s great that Drehy is making an effort to help Renarin. I enjoy character interactions like this more than action or worldbuilding tbh.

“Those aren’t books full of facts or learning,” Renarin admitted. “They’re adventure stories, the kind written for young women. I had a whole collection, much to Father’s embarrassment.” “Renarin,” Rlain said, “I have seen how your father treats you. He’s not embarrassed of you.” “He was when I was young,” Renarin said. “But he was wrong back then, wasn’t he?”

Interesting. So in Alethkar men don’t have novels read to them? Only women enjoy fiction? Huh.

I’m fascinated with the reversal in Dalinar’s relationships with his sons within the story. Before the current story, Dalinar and Renarin had a strained relationship because Renarin was sickly and too “feminine” for Alethi culture. Dalinar no longer cares about traditional gender roles, and he is supportive of Renarin’s interests regardless of whether they conform to Alethi gender or class expectations. In contrast, Dalinar and Aldolin had a solid relationship in the past when Dalinar was the Blackthorn. But now Adolin resents his father and there’s tension between them because Dalinar killed Evi. Dalianr has yet to figure out how to connect with both of his sons at the same time.

Okay, so to summarize Renarin’s visions:

Renarin on a throne wearing singer clothing

There's a storm

Dalinar & a glowing figure stand on a clifftop as a city collapses into a pit

12 figures peacefully standing in Shinovar, including a Horneater, a Makabaki, Natans, and a blue woman with a blue skirt and white hair.

A femalen face with swirling black & red patterns

Renarian's future involves the singers (or at least Rlain).

Dalinar standing with the glowing figure (Taravangian?) is probably the aftermath of the contest of champions.

Pretty sure the blue woman is Syl. So . . . Syl in Shinovar with 11 other figures = Syl + Kaladin + Szeth + the Heralds? Don't know who the Horneater is though . . .

I think the angry femalan face with swirling black & red patterns is Ba-Ado-Mishram because she's pretty pissed about being locked up.

I really liked these chapters. The Lift and Renarian POVs were overdue and a welcome change. Hope we get Dalinar, Kaladin, and Szeth next week. Or Adolin. We haven't had an Adolin POV in a while.

[wh0refornikolailantsov]

Prompt: “He doesn't love me. He's not that stupid.”

Song: Rosyln - Bon Iver

For Tolya x Reader please!! could be with Tamar and he overhears etc. or something else x

By Stars - Tolya Yul Bataar

Yes.

Is this sad or angsty, I honestly cant even tell anymore it is my default.

Content Warnings: No Beta/Proof Reading, Feelings???

"This is a celebration," Jesper reminds you, handing you a drink.

You take it, nod at him and hope his attention will return to Wylan, but Tamar is watching you like a hawk. She has been trying to decipher exactly what you're thinking since the burning of The Darkling's body.

She'd rather hoped some of that infectious hope and joy her brother was expressing would have reached you by now. But you were still quiet.

She has her best guess as to why. Tamar, no stranger to romance, to the eyes that linger longer than they should. To the way a heart beats that much faster when they move near. To the way a tone can change when speaking a name. Tolya may be the one to read the high romances of poetry but Tamar is the one to know them, to recognise them.

And you have been holding your breath, keeping your self close, arms tight across your chest, focusing on keeping your heartbeat as calm as you can, trying not to give yourself away.

Tolya smiles at you from his seat and there it is, that leap in your chest and Tamar's guess has all the evidence she needs.

"Okay," Jesper smiles, another drink in, "go on then, read us something you gentle giant."

Tolya laughs and looks up from his book. "From this?" he asks.

"From a confession if you like," Jesper says, leaning back and into Wylan who is watching him with those bright adoring eyes of his. Had you ever had doubt in love, the time spent with the crows would have swayed any doubt. Nina's dedication to freeing her love. The selfless and understanding quiet of the love Kaz and Inej clearly share. And the love that is bright and shining between Jesper and Wylan, so bright even through all of his obliviousness Tolya noticed.

"I still recall the wondrous moment: When you appeared before my sight As though a brief and fleeting omen, Pure phantom in enchanting light," Tolya reads aloud. Wylan turns his eyes from Jesper to smile at Tolya.

"You know I find that quite wonderful," Wylan states.

"Don't encourage him," Tamar groans. "He will start recalling from memory."

"If you insist sister," Tolya's tone is jovial and light and Tamar tries to brush his words away with a hand and a glare, but it does not discourage him. "In ecstasy the heart is beating, Old joys for it anew revive; Inspired and Saints-filled, it is greeting The fire, and tears, and love alive."

"Excuse me," you say getting up. Tolya's eyes follow you as you leave, but it's Tamar who walks out the door behind you.

"You are upset," Tamar says, joining you by the wall outside.

"I am not," you attempt to lie.

"Well I could've told you that isn't true without the ability to listen to your heartbeat," Tamar says. She bumps your shoulder gently, a reassuring gesture, a familiar one. "Talk to me."

"There's not much to talk about," you say.

"Because you're stubborn and want to keep your feelings to yourself or because he is my brother?" she asks out right. You whip your head to the side to look at her and she shrugs it off, giving a knowing look up to the sky. "I am not too wrapped up in the pretty women to ignore those around me."

"Nadia is very pretty," you say, trying you deflect.

"I am surprised you noticed, I thought you only had eyes for my brother."

"I don't have eyes for your brother."

"Oh, and the second lie so far," Tamar says, "come on, you don't have to lie to me, or to you, if it runs that deep."

"I... what is the point?" You ask.

"You have feelings and they're clearly affecting you, that's the point," Tamar says.

"That's my own fault," you say.

"Walk me through it," Tamar insists. You want to tell her to leave it be, but Tamar is persistent. And also brutally honest, so maybe hearing the need to move past and move on from her mouth instead of just the voice in your head will finally do the trick.

"We made it," you say quietly.

"We did," she smiles.

"We... all made it," you reiterate.

"By the Saints."

"And he was so happy and so proud and he had," you inhale deeply, "and he shares that joy so willingly."

"He is always himself," Tamar agrees, her eyes are watching your smaller movements, listening to the shuddering of your breath. She wants to help, to calm you down, to push off your nerves, but you asked long ago for no interference and she respects that. You want to feel what you feel, even now, even when you don't.

"So when he said he was so glad that I was okay, and he wrapped his arms around me, I forgot how to breathe, and for one- blindingly stupid moment I thought... I don't know what I thought, and it doesn't matter because it wasn't real."

"I wouldn't assume to know my brothers feelings so easily," Tamar says, "he might surprise you."

"Tamar, I fell in love with your brother a long time ago, he does nothing but surprise me," you say. Tamar tilts her head impressed at the honesty, impressed more at the bluntness.

"You cannot know his mind without talking to him," Tamar says.

“He doesn't love me. He's not that stupid.”

"To love you isn't stupid," she says, "besides if he did not love you, that would not be about you. I am somewhat convinced my brother is not built that way."

"Between his books and his faith what more could he need?" you ask.

"You're asking the wrong person," Tamar points out.

"I am not asking," you reply, "not really."

He held on just a moment longer than you thought he would, smiling down at you and that was it took for your hopes to jump high above your expectations, and come crashing down into you when he finally let you go. You do not know what you thought would happen, that you would win, all make it out alive and finally the timing would be right, things would be different, you would know it because you would feel it in the way he looks at you. But all you feel is this regret at letting yourself think it would change, letting yourself be disappointed in something that you knew would never happen. Your love for Tolya did not need to be requited but in the moments you hoped it would be, you had broken your own heart.

"For someone who reads so much of romance, with such a true admiration for the poetics of love, my brother is not always aware enough to recognise it, I have watched the same two lovestruck fools dance around each other for the same time that he has, and he has seen nothing where I have seen all that was unsaid but equally wanted," Tamar gestures. "He would not presume to know your feelings for him, because he sees love as something on a page, between the words and the mind. I think he has never considered it as something he might do, but that isn't to say he can't."

"I do not think you give him enough credit, you should have seen him with Jesper and Wylan," you state.

"A blind man could see what was happening between Jesper and Wylan," Tamar offers. "I think you should talk to him."

"I do not wish to waste my time Tamar, and it would be better that he know not at all, keep him in this blissful ignorance instead of him feeling some obligation to be delicate around me," you say.

"My brother would not treat you differently out of pity, his feelings are only ever genuine, and his actions intentional," Tamar defends.

"I do not want him to see me differently, and I do not want to hurt myself further, please let me wallow in peace," you say. Tamar sighs.

"You won't come back inside?" she asks.

"To listen to him read poems about love, show the beauty of romance, and wish for something else?" you ask. "No I shall wait for this feeling to pass, as it will pass, and I can be normal for him again."

Tamar just shakes her head, and says nothing else as she leaves.

You stare up and the sky is so dark and the stars so bright that that ring of light is soaking into the darkness, giving the stars a bigger brighter saturation, and you just want to breathe the cold air in and deep better. But you now just feel alone.

You feel the movement behind you before you hear the approach. "Tamar I have nothing more to say about it," you say.

"Not Tamar," comes Tolya's voice and startles you. You turn to look at him and he is so much closer than you realised, you want to chastise yourself for not noticing, for letting your guard so completely down.

But you were always like that with Tolya.

"I did not mean to upset you," Tolya says.

"How much did you hear?" you ask, leaning back on the balls of your feet, the guilt of all you may have put on him pulling at you. He goes to speak but his eyes give him away. "So everything." You sigh. "it's not your fault Tolya. My feelings are my responsibility."

"And so are mine," he says, coming to stand beside you as Tamar had before him. "You know, for all my love of poetry, I cannot claim to have felt what these poets have in their ways."

"Tolya, you don't have to explain," you say quickly, "I did not mean to put this on you-,"

"You are putting nothing on me," he states.

"I am not asking you to love me," you say, looking at your hands, begging them to stay steady.

"I know you're not, but I am not telling you I don't," he says. You look at him now, and his eyes are soft and golden, and his expression kind and light. He looks like the things poetry talks about, by the light of the starred night. "I care about you, and I don't know if it's in the way you want me to, but I don't know if I have ever felt that way, or if I will ever feel that way, but I need you to know that in my way, in all the ways I know how I do love you." You give him a weak smile and he feels your heartbeat steady for the first time all day. "Maybe I am just that stupid."

"You heard that?" You ask, relaxing enough to allow your shoulders to lean against him.

"I can pretend I didn't if you like," he offers. You laugh, and it's gentle, like the moment.

"I loved you: love may not have died

completely in my soul,

but don’t let it disturb you,

I don’t wish you any pain," you recite, your breath standing cold in the air, but the feeling ever warmer than before.

"I loved you without hope or voice," Tolya continues.

with diffidence, jealousy,

as tenderly, truly, as Saints grant

you may be loved again."

[elliebelliegirl]

"All Jews who are at all conscious of their identity as Jews are steeped in history,” wrote Isaiah Berlin. “They have longer memories, they are aware of a longer continuity as a community than any other which has survived.”

He was right. Judaism is a religion of memory. The verb zachor appears no fewer than 169 times in the Hebrew Bible. “Remember that you were strangers in Egypt”; “Remember the days of old”; “Remember the seventh day to keep it holy”; Memory, for Jews, is a religious obligation.

This is particularly so at this time of the year. We call it the “three weeks” leading up to the saddest day in the Jewish calendar, the Ninth of Av, anniversary of the destruction of the two Temples, the first by Nebuchadnezzar king of Babylon in 586 BCE, the second by Titus in 70 CE.

Jews never forgot those tragedies. To this day, at every wedding we break a glass in their memory. During the Three Weeks, we have no celebrations. On the Ninth of Av itself, we spend the day fasting and sitting on the floor or low stools like mourners, reading the Book of Lamentations. It is a day of profound collective grief.

Two and a half thousand years is a long time to remember. Often I’m asked — usually in connection with the Holocaust — is it really right to remember? Should there not be a moratorium on grief? Are not most of the ethnic conflicts in the world fuelled by memories of perceived injustices long ago? Would not the world be more peaceable if once in a while we forgot? Yes and no. It depends on how we remember. My late predecessor, Lord Jakobovits, used to point out that three times in the Book of Genesis God is spoken of as remembering. “God remembered Noah” and brought him out of the Ark onto dry land. “God remembered Abraham” and saved his nephew Lot from the destruction of the cities of the plain. “God remembered Rachel” and gave her a child. When God remembers, He does so for the future and for life.

In fact, though the two are often confused, memory is different from history. History is someone else’s story. It’s about events that occurred long ago to someone else. Memory is my story. It’s about where I come from and of what narrative I am a part. History answers the question, “What happened?” Memory answers the question, “Who, then, am I?” It is about identity and the connection between the generations. In the case of collective memory, all depends on how we tell the story.

We don’t remember for the sake of revenge. “Do not hate the Egyptians,” said Moses, “for you were strangers in their land.” To be free, you have to let go of hate. Remember the past, says Moses, but do not be held captive by it. Turn it into a blessing, not a curse; a source of hope, not humiliation.

To this day, the Holocaust survivors I know spend their time sharing their memories with young people, not for the sake of revenge, but its opposite: to teach tolerance and the value of life. Mindful of the lessons of Genesis, we too try to remember for the future and for life.

In today’s fast-moving culture, we undervalue acts of remembering. Computer memories have grown, while ours have become foreshortened. Our children no longer memorise chunks of poetry. Their knowledge of history is often all too vague. Our sense of space has expanded. Our sense of time has shrunk.

That cannot be right. One of the greatest gifts we can give to our children is the knowledge of where we have come from, the things for which we fought, and why. None of the things we value — freedom, human dignity, justice — was achieved without a struggle. None can be sustained without conscious vigilance. A society without memory is like a journey without a map. It’s all too easy to get lost. I, for one, cherish the richness of knowing that my life is a chapter in a book begun by my ancestors long ago, to which I will add my contribution before handing it on to my children. Life has meaning when it is part of a story, and the larger the story, the more our imaginative horizons grow. Besides, things remembered do not die. That’s as close as we get to immortality on earth.

-Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks

[arcanespillo]

it says that ur into poetry in ur bio and thats so cool!!! i like poetry as well and am taking it as an elective at uni but i am actually not too good with poets so was wondering if you had any favourite poets? if not thats totally fine. maybe poetry recs? thanks ☆

poems

i'm not the river / nox by anne carson is tricky to find but there's a fragment here / PORTRAIT OF THE ALCOHOLIC WITH WITHDRAWAL / A BOY STEPS INTO THE WATER / SOME BOYS AREN’T BORN THEY BUBBLE / Thirstiness is Not Equal Division / EVERYTHING THAT MOVES IS ALIVE AND A THREAT–A REMINDER / A Man Said to the Universe / The Worm King’s Lullaby / Cortège / the triumph of achilles by louise gluck / the reticent volcano keeps by emily dickinson / the mirror by louise gluck / i go down the shore / the arrowhead / Brother / My Brother at 3 A.M / I would I might forget that I am I / the second elegy / stripped car / The Saints Come Marching In by Anne Sexton, How to Be a Dog by Andrew Kane, Angel of Hope and Calendars by Anne Sexton / I Remember / WHAT THE BIRD WITH THE HUMAN HEAD KNEW / THE TRUTH THE DEAD KNOW / In The Deep Museum / Lament / The Starry Night / A Curse Against Elegies / jesus suckles / start here / march is march / a bad day by mary oliver / Portrait of the Illness as Nightmare / lord knows / Town of Finding Out About the Love of God / fragments from Avalon Revisited (1963) by Margaret Atwood / from crush by richard siken 'the torn up road', from war of the foxes 'landscape with fruit rot and millipede', 'birds over the trampled field', 'the museum', 'self portrait against red wallpaper'/ from louise gluck's the wild iris 'clear morning' 'spring snow' 'scilla' 'the hawthorn tree' 'april' 'the jacob's ladder' 'matins' 'song' 'vespers' 'harvest' 'retreating light' 'lullaby' 'the gold lily' / from her vita nova 'the open grave' 'roman study' 'timor mortis' 'castile' 'mutable earth' 'inferno' / from faithful and virtuous night 'aboriginal landscape' 'utopia' 'the melancholy assistant' 'a foreshortened journey' 'the horse and the rider' / from meadowlands 'parable of the king' 'moonless night' 'departure' 'rainy morning' 'telemachus' guilt' 'meadowlands I' 'telemachus' kindness' 'parable of the dove' 'purple bathing suit' / from firstborn 'the cripple in the subway' 'seconds' 'letter from provence' 'firstborn' / from the house on marshland 'the pond' 'gratitude' 'abishag' 'the fire' / from descending figure 'the garden (2)' 'origins (4)' 'thanksgiving', from the triumph of achilles 'exile' 'seated figure' 'liberation' 'adult grief' 'horse'/ apostle town / the town of the sound of a twig breaking / strawberry moon by matthew dickman / the wolf god / this poem by mark bibbins (another year on the day/ of class photos/ i scratched at my face/ with a sharpened popsicle stick/ no blood just a few pink lines/ that didn't read/ what else./ i wanted a cast on my leg/i wanted braces and glasses/and my tonsils out/i wanted scars/i don't know when or whether i figured out the difference between wanting to be damaged and wanting to be healed) / ancient text by louise gluck

books

short talks by anne carson, waiting for god by simone weil, blue horses by mary oliver, dog songs poems by mary oliver, men in the off hours by anne carson, trances of the blast by mary ruefle, autobiography of red, red doc and norma jeane baker of troy by anne carson, richard siken and ocean vuong's books are famous honestly but try to read their stuff if you haven't checked them out yet (i don't like ocean vuong but i did like some bits of his first book) and also i suggest reading 'the journal of albion moonlight' if you find yourself particularly liking red doc, i hope you were not expecting old poetry because that really isn't really in my ropes

this is what i have noted on my journal :p if you can't find some stuff dm me but you can search for most poetry books on archive.org and it's free and legal

+ poems by Margaret Atwood ! i forgot, like this one

[ecargmura]

My New Boss Is Goofy Episode 10 Review - Autumnal Short Stories

This episode is a bit different from the rest in that it’s more of a compilation of short stories compared to one whole episode. Fortunately, these little stories revolve around the theme of autumn. Basically, this episode is summarized as Momose and Shirosaki doing cute things in autumn, ft. Hakutou, Aoyama and Kinjou.

The first story is about Shirosaki and Momose meeting up during work and then an acorn hits Shirosaki’s shoulder. He thought Momose was calling him, but since the latter didn’t want to embarrass him, he told a white lie by saying he likes acorns. The segment ends with Shirosaki giving acorns to Momose and Kinjou giving Shirosaki a squirrel kigurumi. This is a cute way to start the episode.

The second story is just a cute halloween-themed episode where Shirosaki and Momose stumble upon a halloween festival while out for work. Shirosaki gets scared as usual. There’s an instance where Shirosaki tried going left, but went right and smooshed his cheek against Momose’s. After kids were telling them how to differentiate left and right, they bought them candy as thanks. Cute. It’s okay, Shirosaki; I get my left and rights mixed up at times too.

The third story is about Momose and Shirosaki out on a drive for work-related purposes. Momose was amazed by Shirosaki’s driving skills, but he’s still a goof as he tried getting out without removing the seatbelt. Afterwards, on their way back, they saw a vending machine that only took small bills. So, as Shirosaki went to the convenience store to ask for change, Momose reflects on the difference between Shirosaki and Kurono, his old boss. When Shirosaki comes back, he has a bag of beverages and snacks; unfortunately, Shirosaki forgot he was supposed to ask for change and paid everything with credit card. I get you Shirosaki; that happened to me too! At least, Momose likes driving with his boss now. The little flashback with Shirosaki making a mistake at his driving test was hilarious; I just hoped he got his license on his first try—I got mine on my first try and I still wonder how I did so to this day. There’s also a small segment where Aoyama and Kinjou are in a car together. Aoyama even has a Kumatte-chan GPS!

The fourth story is about Momose and Shirosaki working from home due to a mass infection at Minette. Hakutou’s wondering why they’re at home today. Shirosaki makes a big goof by trying to drink something with his mask on. Since they’re at home, Momose reassures he can take off his mask, which he does. Drinking something with the mask on was something I did once. I think the biggest highlight of this segment was the fact that Aoyama was telling the others that he isn’t wearing any pants underneath. Aoyama, TMI!

The fifth segment is about the two going on a day trip. They decided to buy a book to keep themselves occupied on the train. As a book lover myself, it’s nice see what sort of books they chose. Momose chose a poetry book that contains healing poems; I feel like it’s perfect for someone who needs some mental healing. Shirosaki chose a mystery book with a cat on the cover; I bet he picked it precisely because there’s a cat on the cover. It turns out that Shirosaki already figured out the culprit…because he bought and read the book before. It’s okay, Shirosaki! Having multiple copies of a book is normal for bookworms.

The sixth segment is about taking Hakutou to the vet. Is it just me or has Hakutou gotten bigger? He looks a bit bigger than he did in previous episodes, especially the part where Shirosaki picked him up. Also, the cat noises Hakutou makes are so cute! Props to Hiro Shimono for having such a cute voice! The part about the stethoscope was cute. Also, the taxi driver from Episode 6 has returned!

The seventh segment has the quartet go to an autumn festival. They reflect over what they did in festivals in their youth. Shirosaki had danced but went off course due to his goofiness. Aoyama tried goldfish scooping but they all swam away from him. Kinjou tried flirting with a girl; it turns out he was just being playful towards his mom. Momose had always been kind; when he got the yoyo, he gave it to his mom. The story moved Shirosaki. I think the most hilarious thing is that the habits of their childhood was still implemented onto their adult selves as they repeated the same things they did before, with Aoyama failing at goldfish scooping again, but is given a yoyo from Momose and then Shirosaki getting lost, so Kinjou gets him back by playfully hitting on him. All of their childhood selves were adorable.

The eighth segment has the main duo go to another company to earn a deal. Momose is nervous because he had gone to that company in the past but failed to get a contract; Kurono blamed him for that. Shirosaki sensed his nervousness, and then told him how he managed to overcome nervousness. In the past, he and Aoyama went to another company to negotiate a deal, but his nervousness got to him that Shirosaki accidentally spoke in an arrogant tone. Fortunately, Aoyama was able to do damage control by saying that Shirosaki speaks like a haughty queen when nervous. Despite his mistakes, they managed to get a deal. The story warms Momose’s heart and they actually got a deal! The part where they high-fived was so silly. Momose was trying to call a taxi but Momose mistook it for a celebrating and did a high-five. Haha, never change, Shirosaki.

The final segment is their day off where they legit go on a date. They go to various spots like a restaurant, then the park where they proceed to explore and even go on swan boats! They were talking about how couples who ride swan boats break up, but if they ride the boat with the eyebrows, they’d be together forever; guess who rides the boat with the eyebrows? I think the funniest part about this segment is at the post-credit scene where Shirosaki was like “Wait, we didn’t need to ride the boat with the eyebrows because we’re not a couple.” MM-HMM! SURE!

While this episode was different in terms of formatting, the vibes were still there. We’re now in the double digits when it comes to episode counts. There are only 12 episodes, meaning there are two more episodes left. I’m sad. What was your favorite segment of this episode? I liked the final segment where they went on a date!

[decepti-thots]

Do you have any tips for getting back into reading?

I do, anon!

So for context, as I said previously, I went from reading 50+ books a year to 5-6 a year max for about half a decade. Most of this related to a longterm downswing in my overall health and my executive dysfunction specifically. I would pick books up and never finish them; my attention span was dead in the water, as was my motivation to even try half the time. It took a couple years of active effort to get back to a 3 book a month average. So here's a few subjective tips I personally found helped. They may not be useful for everyone, but this is what personally helped me!

Some of the techniques I used:

Follow your interest and enthusiasm, and don't be afraid to hop around books. I was stuck in a rut for ages where I'd start a book, lose steam, and vaguely want to read another one instead... but I insisted to myself 'no, I need to FINISH this one, I can read that one when I'm finished!' Obviously, I just never finished the books period, rather than methodically finishing everything one at a time, as I'd hoped I would. I read less, not more. The most important thing period is getting momentum back up; better 4 'still not finished'-s on the way to the book you unexpectedly finish in one sitting than nothing finished, and just a vague sense of guilt. If a new book calls to you and your current one feels interminable, seize that urge and start the second book so you can keep your motivation going. At least you're reading something then; the alternative was usually just not reading either book, for me.

Try some shorter books. I read a lot of novellas to get myself going again last year especially, and it was fantastic. Again, it helps get the momentum going, to be continually working up to longer stuff. (Plus novellas are just a great medium in their own right! Length =/= depth. SFF especially is having a real Novella Moment rn!) Hell, read short story collections, read poetry chapbooks, read plays- if you can only read 75 pages before losing steam, find a 75 page book worth reading. There's tons of them.

Try and carve out reasonably consistent times to read. For me, I started saying that after work most evenings if I was still awake really late, that was now book time, not Twitter/etc time. I read on my lunch a lot at work, and on Sunday afternoons. You don't need to be rigid, that can just be restrictive, but make it a routine you can easily make time for on a predictable basis without hoping you'll spontaneously 'feel like it'.

Read shit you love. This sounds obvious but like. You can't easily branch out of your comfort zone into more challenging-to-you stuff til you have the momentum going, IME. Start off reading the shit you know you like, heady intellectual ambitions be damned. Yeah yeah, reading outside your usual lane is often rewarding, but it'll wait a year til you get back in the swing of it. Read 50 romance novels in a row if that does that for you. The other books will wait. Likewise: reread shit you know inside out. Your to-read list will be here once you got a few of those old familiar faves in.

Those are the big things I guess. A lot of it was locating what really resulted in bottlenecks for me and tailoring what and how I read to them, instead of trying to force past them. Finding the books that fit what I could manage helped me reach a point now where I can read more broadly again. It's like building endurance, you can't start at 110%, I found.

[through-fire-and-flame]

[ it's always interesting going back and looking at my old writing - you can tell what's influencing me and what kind of details i've found valuable over the years by looking at drabbles from five years ago, or two years ago, or this morning

pre-COVID most of my fiction writing was an on-its-nose impression of Pratchett (with half the guile and wit, mind you). i leapt after the blend of affection for people and dry humor i found so endearing in his books, and so drabbles from that period tend to favor complex turns of phrase in search of a quip or joke. certainly i'm proud of a lot of that old writing, but by and large i think my "voice" has subsumed some of that dry humor and affection into something else.

post-COVID, with more time to myself, writing became rarer but more distinct, i think - less budget Pratchett and more sideways Wallace while trying to hold onto the things about Pratchett i loved so much - more present, stream-of-consciousness writing. i found myself writing more frequently in present tense (or, when no one was looking, second person present tense, which i adore and a lot of people loathe.)

there was less craft in it, and more of the kind of bleeding, hopefully honest writing that emerged from having a dayjob where i spill a lot of ink before i ever get to do the fun words.

these days, as i settle back into writing poetry consistently and find myself less drained by my day job creatively, i really find myself landing between those two styles (influenced in no small part by the absolutely incredible writers i find here on tumblr. if you think i might be talking about you with that previous sentence, i absolutely am. if you think i'm not, shut up yes i am.)

there's the energy for craft - for chasing the jokes and the considered dialogue and the wit that, i hope, silhouettes how much i love people for all their...humanity, i suppose; there's the love of evocative and emotive language and finding efficient phrases for complex sensations.

there's also, i hope, the honesty inherent in a lot of poetry, and the sincere communication of the fascination i have with laurentius and any other character i write long-term.

i dunno, man. i've sparked back up with so many incredible writing partners over the last week and some change. i feel better about my fiction than i have in years.

it's really nice to enjoy writing for myself again. ]

[choicesficwriterscreations]

CFWC Writer of the Month: the-pale-goddess

Each month CFWC highlights one of our talented fanfic writers, and this month’s writer of the month is @the-pale-goddess! We hope you will enjoy learning more about her and her work below! The writer is selected at random. More info can be found on the navigation page.

Quick Links:

Tumblr Blog: the-pale-goddess Blog Masterlist

1- When did you start playing Choices? What was the first book you played? 

I downloaded Choices in an extremely terrifying moment of my life in late 2019. I was seeing the ads everywhere and thought that this game might serve as a fairly decent distraction. Well, I wasn’t wrong skfjksjfk 

I’m not sure which one was actually the first, but it was either the default TRR or Save The Date promoted at that time. 

2- When and why did you join Choices fandom?

My obsession with Open Heart and Ethan Ramsey tied nicely with the release of the second book in 2020. The lockdown allowed me to explore this fictional world further, so I started looking for more content. I found the legendary Denise, aka @justanotherrookie, while lurking on IG. That’s when my long-forgotten Tumblr account came to my mind, and I logged in with the intention of scrolling through the tags to satisfy my EJR thirst.

3- How did you pick your blog name? 

Oh, dear…It’s very silly! My skin is extremely pale and I have always been obsessed with music; hence the combo. 

Fun fact: this account is quite old (though still not as old as my tumbroke card; I had like three other accounts before this one), and I was slightly embarrassed to enter a new fandom with my dusty aesthetic blog signed by some ominous name, but decided to go with the flow. Then the-pale-goddess has become my brand, and it was too late for any changes–anyone who has changed their URL knows how problematic blogging is afterward.

4- Pull up the first post in your archive, and tell us about it!  

My first fandom post was inspired by the frustrating ending of the softball chapter AND the first hiatus announcement…It didn’t age well. As we all know, Ethan & MC didn’t ‘talk about it.’ What’s more, we had to survive a long OH drought before PB decided to resume the second book. 

Three years later, the very same shitpost is still the most popular Choices post on my silly little blog lol

5- How long have you been writing fanfiction?

3 years, fanfiction is my pandemic baby! Though I’ve been writing since I was a kid, it was mostly poetry and never in English. But as time passed, I got more occupied with my teenage life and eventually lost motivation to write. That old passion resurfaced several years later, at the beginning of the pandemic. Apart from the obvious need for distraction from the COVID situation, I was frustrated that my English skills were getting rusty, so I decided to dive in. 

6- What is your favorite Choices book, and what is your favorite Choices book to write about?

No surprise here: Open Heart (the first book) and Open Heart 😂 I never tried writing about any other Choices book. 

7- Share the first fanfic you wrote with us. Do you still like it, or would you change it if you were writing it today?

Miami Heat aka my smutty Miami AU. The concept is brilliant, but the execution…Yikes! I often think of rewriting the entire thing because the writing is amateur at best and my inner perfectionist cringes whenever I think of this mini-series.  

8- What is your favorite fic that you’ve written?

It all depends on my mood, so here’s a list of my favorites!

9- Do you have a fic that you didn’t expect to be well received, but it was? What about one you expected to be but found could use a little more love?

Cabin Fever - apparently this 69 plotless smut is iconic for some reason? I don’t really get the hype. It has an insane amount of kudos on ao3, my other fics can’t compare lol 

Burnt - Book 1 mutual pining E&T classic and one of my absolute favorites (we’re talking top 3); it could definitely use a little more love!

10- If you could write only angst, fluff, or smut for the rest of your writing life, which would it be and why? 

I’ll shock you all and say that I wish I could write fluff for the rest of my life kjgkdgjkdf But since I suck at it, I’d love to be stuck with angst and a dash of smut. 

It’s probably a sad thing to admit, but I feel the most comfortable while writing angst. The realism of pain and the emotions that follow are simply very familiar, and it’s easy for me to conjure up a creative image to match the idea. Besides, there’s so much to explore in the angsty realm: all the flavor, nuance, layers, and symbolism. The possibilities are endless!

Smut doesn’t need an explanation, does it? I live on the thirst street 🤡

11- Do you ever recognize yourself in any of your MCs or in your writing?

I do. That’s probably why Open Heart got me sucked right in–OH MC felt very real and relatable, I couldn’t help but see bits of myself in her. Though we share many traits and experiences, Tiffany definitely isn’t an extension of me. I poured my heart and soul into this woman, but she has become her own person and I try to avoid self-projecting into her character unless there’s a clear purpose. 

12- What element of writing do you struggle with most?

Recently, I have been struggling with writing in general lol The internet is ruthless!

My biggest issue is that self-loathing perfectionist who doesn’t let me enjoy the process, nothing seems to be good enough for her, and that attitude dims my motivation and hinders creativity.

On a more technical note, I absolutely suck at describing basic movement. I could churn out a long essay on a character’s internal struggle explaining the most complex emotions or a 4K elaborate smut, but when it comes to finding the right words to portray the simplest action, like walking down the stairs or setting the scene for an early morning conversation at the hospital, I feel lost kdhdkhdkdb 

13- Do you have any neglected work you really want to finish?

Pretty much all of my WIPs are neglected 🤡 But here are the most important projects I’m hoping to finish at some point in the not-too-distant future: 

Home With You AU

Past, Present, Future

My Way Home Is Through You

14- If someone you know in real life (who isn’t involved in fandoms) asked to read your work, would you let them? If yes, what would you recommend they read first? 

Since fanfic is based on an existing work of fiction, and the core plotlines and characters should be well-known to the readers, I guess it could be a tedious and confusing read for someone who isn’t involved in the fandom. But then I have received comments from people unfamiliar with OH who have stumbled upon my fics and gave them a chance, so maybe I’m wrong lol 

I like to think that I would be okay with sharing my works with someone I know and trust in real life, but let’s be honest: my crippling anxiety would stop me ksjfkjssd However, if I were to pick a fic rec, I’d choose Heaven Upside Down AU because it doesn’t need an extensive OH knowledge. Plus, I’m very proud of this series.

15 - Are there any writers (published authors and/or fanfic writers) who influenced your writing? 

While I try to keep my writing style unique and simply mine, there are three lovely ladies who had a huge impact on my writing journey:

@writinghereandthere (aka an actual genius and my writing role model) was the direct source of inspiration behind my fanfic revelation. I fell in love with Ethan and Mariana, Ana’s beautiful prose, her wit, unparalleled talent, and fantastic characterization. Her writing changed the trajectory of my life. Though she left the fandom long ago, her masterlist is a must-read for everyone, trust me! (Ana, if you’re reading this: I miss you more than words can convey. Sorry for the spam I leave in your inbox every now and then skgjksgjk Hope to hear about your original work soon ❤️)

@starrystarrytrouble & @terrm9 - these two literary geniuses have inspired me to follow my own writing path and develop a distinctive style. Their masterpieces offer poetic, raw emotions, encouraging me to allow myself more creative freedom. I’m in constant awe of their unmatched talent and come back to their works whenever I want to feel things ❤️

16- Which one of your stories would you most like to see as a movie/series? 

Can I have all of them, please? 

I would pay all my money to watch a TV series based on my canon OH plotline…I’m not kidding, I even made a bunch of Netflix edits because I need it in my life. On the other hand, my precious AUs would look amazing on the big screen! The most scrumptious one still hasn’t left my head though, so you have to trust me–the cinematic potential is truly there kdgjkdgjk 17- Do you write original fiction? 

I have a few ideas, but they’re so complex I’m stuck on the outlining phase. Mayhaps one day?

18 -  What other hobbies do you have?

I’m a certified music freak and a cinephile. I practice destroying male egos on a daily basis. I love photography, niche sports, playing with my dog, lifting people’s moods, random unhinged facts, and ignoring reality, and I have just entered my skincare expert era. 

19 - What’s your favorite emoji? 

🥰 + ✨ + 💀 

These three emojis perfectly encapsulate who I am as a person, I think: full of love and magic, but also dead inside ksjgksjgks 

20: BONUS - tell us anything you’d like (if you want to)

I’d like to thank our lovely admins for giving me this exciting opportunity to ramble about my tiny corner on this hellsite and showcase my word vomit. My heart is full of gratitude! I may not be as active as I used to be, and real life doesn’t allow me to change that, but our fandom will always have a special place in my heart, and I feel very lucky to be a part of this community. Thank you for still putting up with me and supporting my fictional world ❤️❤️❤️

[jooniperbonsai]

Thanks For The Sub | ksj (Teaser)

Pairing: Camboy!Seokjin x Gamer!Reader (afab)

Rating: 18+

Teaser length: 2378

Chapter One length: 11-14k

Release date: Fri. January 19, 2024.

Genre: Smut, fluff, angst, camboy au, gamer au, comedy, crack, slow burn (?), coworkers/boss/friends to lovers, an exploration of adults in their late 20s/early 30s

Summary: After a clip of you sucking at video games goes viral, you've become somewhat famous, with thousands of subscribers now tuning in each week to see you play. Overnight, you've gone from a sexually frustrated grad student who reads smut in her room to a gamer girl (or rather, a not-gamer girl). This would have been the perfect job, except it was never the job you wanted. Desperate for money to pay for grad school, you bounce between your new gig and working at a local restaurant to pay the bills, where your hot coworker-now-boss Seokjin plays many of the lead roles in your sexual fantasies.

Seokjin, two years post losing his fiancé and job within the same day, is tired of the rut he's dug himself into and wants to start over. Now 30 years old, he's stuck managing his family's restaurant where he harbors an insanely inappropriate crush on you on top of carrying one hell of a secret: Seokjin is also known as Jin, a successful gay-for-pay camboy on the streaming site Worldwide Handsome.

When the stress of the upcoming semester and the pressure to stream becomes more than you can handle, you seek out some much-needed stress relief online, only to discover a man who looks a little too much like your boss is staring right back at you.

Warnings for Chapter One: Swearing, cheating (not between main characters), big age gap between lesser characters that can be uncomfy, sex work, gay sex work when the worker is actually not gay (but everyone is chill about it), feelings of shame and guilt, feelings of failure/depression, the existential crisis of your late-20s/30s that we all seem to go through, off-handed references to kpop culture including fanfics because I'm a clown and need to call us out sometimes, silly literary tropes, references to pregnancy, boss-employee power dynamics, allusions to queer BTS members or relationships, cameos of au Seventeen Members (Wonwoo and y/n are besties). NSFW sex stuff: big dick Seokjin (of course), f/m masturbation, dirty talk, sex toys, kink exploration, uh a lot cum (sorry), I mention the omegaverse as a joke, a sparkly pink dildo, seokjin has a massive collection of toys and he intends to use them, seokjin and reader are constantly horny, reader is kind of inexperienced, implied exhibitionism, implied voyeurism, implied public sex.

a/n: hello! i haven't written fanfic in years! I've been wanting to get back into it for a long time but I also work full time and am working on a poetry manuscript so this never manifested! This fic is inspired by a combination of fics from the lovely writing community on here, with a lot of inspiration coming from "tip 143 (for ∞ seconds of love)" by minilouvre on ao3. I feel like the camboy/person trope is so fun to explore and I wanted to try my own take on it with our Seokjin, who doesn't seem to get as many fics written about him but absolutely deserves it. I also wanted to create space for a fic that explores the weird transition of late 20s-30s that both BTS and I (and maybe many of you) have experienced in the last few years. I hope you enjoy!

xo - h

The alarm on your phone chimes, pulling you from the book in your lap. You’d been reading all afternoon, the sun now taking its final bow before plunging the world into darkness. Soon you’ll have to turn the lights on, then it will be time for work. On your only day off. 

You groan, stretching your neck as you allow yourself to come back to reality. 

To some, it would be hard to call your job “work”. Many people dream of being professional game streamers. Who wouldn’t want to be paid to sit online, play games, and talk to people? 

You don’t. That’s the problem. 

Your ascent into gaming stardom was a fluke. About 9 months ago, you were in between semesters for your grad program and looking for ways to unwind. Your oldest friend, Wonwoo, was a pretty successful streamer who often hosted game nights to play with his viewers and friends. 

You frequently watched his streams, letting his soft voice be the perfect background noise as you studied and formulated the next lesson plan or behavioral assessment. You’d known Wonwoo for what felt like forever at this point, being his first subscriber, first moderator, and first kiss (not in that order). But your middle school kiss outside of the convenience store never led to anything more than that, as desperately as you’d wanted it to. 

Once he moved across the country, you let your crush die with the distance. The years turned faster and your twenties were spinning by with the revolving door of lovers you’d watch him pine over, cry over, and in one case, almost marry. Streaming then became one of your main forms of connection, and your role as his moderator tied some part of you to him out of loyalty. To imagine him as anything other than a friend now feels ridiculous. 

But that loyalty you have is also to a fault. When Wonwoo’s usual streaming friends bailed one night during a tournament, you subbed in…for a game you didn’t even know how to play. 

And to make matters worse, this was a game that required talking to each other on-stream, which meant you not only sucked major ass at this game, but Wonwoo’s 700 viewers that day were also subjected to your constant frustrated squeaks, swears, and embarrassed maws as you tried to key-smash your way to victory but ended up throwing the entire team’s game with your incompetence. 

Wonwoo wasn’t mad, though many others were. He knew what he was getting into when he agreed, and his streams operated with very few rules: no hate, no spam, and we are in this to have fun. And he did have fun. By the time the first round was over, he and most of the chat were losing it over your commentary. 

As he wiped tears from eyes and took in a breath, he read his comments. “‘Damn, I never heard a chick threaten someone with a plunger like that before’. Yeah, I’ll give it to you, Y/N, you got really creative with your insults in that. Hey, PartyShitty thanks for the sub! ‘I can’t BREATHE’, yeah I’m still trying to get it together. W00000000000000000ziiiiii–damn that’s a lot of zeros in that username–thanks for the 5000 points! ‘Is she hot’ uh, I mean, I don’t— 

“Oh shit, LetsGetIt15, thank you for gifting twenty subs! ‘Please, Y/N, start your own channel. I’ll be the first subscriber.’ Actually, no, I’ll be. But really, that's not a bad idea.”

Wonwoo navigated the rest of his stream with ease that night, but after it was over, he called you to try to convince you to start your own channel. 

“It could help with school at least! Or you could get that special edition of that one book you like with the dragons or the blue alien porn stars or whatever it is.”

“They’re neither of those things, they’re actually–”

“Whatever they are! The book that has people fucking nonstop and some plot. You know, the special edition cover that you keep talking about in your close friend story that you won’t buy?” Wonwoo said. “The point is, if you start streaming you could finally buy it and then stop talking about it and I won’t need to see sections about how hot you think their alien or fairytale or demon whatever cocks are.” 

You couldn’t help but laugh at his exasperation. “That won’t stop with me getting that book, just so you know. And if it bothers you so much, I can take you out of the close friend story. I didn’t even know you looked at my stories that much.” You didn’t know he still used Instagram at all actually. He very rarely posted. He mostly lived on his Discord channel talking about games with his subscribers or other friends.

Regardless, it was nice to know that he was trying to be aware of your interests, even if it was incredibly embarrassing. Although the copious amount of smut you read wasn’t something you always wanted to broadcast to the public, you’d still made some friends from online book communities over the last few years and enjoyed keeping them in the loop of your reading list.

Also, Wonwoo had a point. Streaming could help paying some of your school expenses…or get you more books. You told him you’d think about it, and while you weren’t completely in love with the idea of streaming, it did provide you with some steady income until you landed your job at the restaurant.  

After that conversation, you haven’t discussed smut or cocks since, and you’re honestly relieved, not because Wonwoo is hard to talk to about things, but because you are. Which is why streaming always feels a little uncomfortable and your position ironic, because you can barely have conversations successfully unless you really know the person to ramble about your interests to, or you can occasionally eke by with small talk. 

But streaming requires the spotlight being on you in some way at all times. It’s your face that is fixed to the corner of the screen, monitoring your every reaction. It’s your voice that echoes into the mic and responds to your chat. Sure, you have mods and some streamers don’t interact with their chat at all, but you don’t want to be like that. You’ve been on the other side before, and know that most people are just lonely and looking for connection. . 

From the moment you decided to do this, you were aware that because you were now a “gamer girl” you would be subjected to the three extremes of the comment section: chronic oversharers who tell strangers all their personal baggage perhaps in the hope that you will assume some role of therapist to them, people coming to insult your gaming (which is the point so that can’t impact you) or physical appearance, or sexually explicit comments. 

Over the months, you’ve seen many things flitting by on the screen, deleted in haste by your trusty mod squad, but it doesn’t stop the fact that you still see them. 

Those things you can handle. They are impersonal and a direct copy-paste of the same thing.

But when people compliment you? That makes you want to bury yourself under your covers and never come out. Because the compliments are always personal and touching a part of you that is authentic.

The people in your chat want to know you. They want to know what kind of music you like, your favorite foods and books. They ask if you have a boyfriend or girlfriend or partner, compliment your hair or the shirt you’re wearing or your gaming setup. It feels intimate. Almost like you could find these people and touch them and let them know you. 

But they can’t. Because the only thing that drew them to you, the part where you’re this funny, positive gamer chick who sucks at video games but is down for whatever, isn’t real. 

Spring Day Streams Y/N is a persona. You don’t stream because you’re her. You stream because you have to be her in order to survive.  

And now she’s taking up more time. Last month’s streams landed you Streamer of the Month, which thanks to the exposure, brought dozens of new subscribers and thousands of points, and that helped take care of some of your expenses for the new semester. Some. You’re still behind on your credit card bill. 

Also, more people means more expectations for streaming. So you’ve kicked up your streaming schedule from twice weekly to three times a week, with you occasionally hopping onto Wonwoo’s channel even if you aren’t streaming to mod. 

When you aren’t glued to your computer, you’re usually at the restaurant, in a cramped kitchen where you do the prep work, often alongside him, your sexy coworker-but-now-boss, Seokjin. 

The man you are quietly obsessed with. You can’t think about Kim Seokjin without thinking about all the positions you want him to fuck you in. 

Which is also why you’ve been devouring books lately. When you’re home, you throw all your energy into the escapism they provide, especially ones where you can get yourself off to whatever fantasy Seokjin effortlessly slips into. 

For every hot mob boss, corrupt CEO, longterm best friend, dragon-rider, fairy, demon, alien, ghost, or hockey playing love interest you can find, Seokjin is sure to fill the role. A hot merman looking for someone to help him grow legs and something else? Seokjin. A Grinch who inherits his family’s Christmas tree farm and discovers how much he loves to ho ho ho? Seokjin. A god who tears apart the underworld to find his lost lover, and then during the reunion fucks her on the throne of Satan while she wears the crown? All Seokjin. 

Unfortunately, his transition from co worker to boss has made your fantasies all the more dirty. 

It’s been incredibly difficult for you to handle the fact that any flirtation you two previously shared in the months before he was your boss can no longer continue. But it’s also incredibly hot.

Fantasies of him eating you out on the counter have been replaced with the fantasy of him shoving you in the back office and fucking you on the desk while wearing one of those perfect-fitting dress shirts he often parades around in. 

And when he rolls up the sleeves to help in the kitchen? Fuck, it’s humiliating how wet you get.

The entire thing is pathetic really. He’s just standing there half the time, lecturing everyone on proper kitchen hygiene and ensuring one of the cooks doesn’t use expired seasonings for his eomma’s secret sauce. 

And you’re standing next to him clenching your thighs together because when you’re this close, you can just make out the freshness of his cologne and feel the heat of his body close to yours. 

When someone fucks up, he has a tendency to take over, chopping with unmatched precision and self assurance, trying to keep his voice even and usually failing as everything builds in intensity until he’s accidentally speaking at a million miles an hour and lecturing until his face turns red. 

If someone were to pass by the shop, they’d probably mistake his shouting for anger, but you’ve come to understand Seokjin is just passionate about things. Usually when he comes down from his tangent, he’s embarrassed and apologizes, and not long after the entire staff is laughing along with him as he cracks a joke at himself for his inability to tone it down.

Which to you makes him even hotter. Seokjin is able to see his faults and work with them, not against them. He holds himself accountable. He’s nothing like the haughty men you’ve gone on brief dinners with after downloading dating apps for the hundredth time while you’re drunk. He’s actually funny, knowing the right way to use humor and tell jokes, never at someone else’s expense, and definitely without being disgustingly crude. 

All those clowns you suffered through drinks with always made comments and digs at other women or referenced their cock like they were setting up some goofy scene from porn and you would find it hilarious and endearing. 

Seokjin isn’t like that at all. He probably refers to his dick as a penis and would blush to high heavens if he knew how horny you are for him. He’s unwound you, and he has no clue. Maybe if it hadn’t been literal years since you’ve last had sex you could tone it down. 

With working all the time and going to school, it’s already been hard to even go on singular dates here and there. And since the prospects were frankly awful, sex is just something that has had to go onto the back burner for a bit, but you seemed to scorch the fucking pan by forgetting to turn the heat off and now you are burning and hungry. 

With a final sigh, you put the book down, annoyed that you didn’t have time to finish it today or at least get to a good part where you could insert yourself into the role of the palace servant and Seokjin as the Prince. Based on the reviews, there’s sure to be a hot sex scene coming up involving using a sword in a particular way that has piqued your curiosity. 

In a moment of depravity earlier, you’d snaked one hand down the front of your panties to rub a few damp fingers around your clit to take the edge off. 

You check the time on your phone, already aware that you don’t have time to cum before streaming. You already hit the snooze button twice. The spicy stuff will have to wait. 

Defeated, you stand up, turning on the lights in your apartment as the sun finally fades away and the dark creeps in. You eat a bowl of cereal while doing your makeup, what little of it you want to put on. Finally, you fire up your PC, trying to ignore the irritation you’re already experiencing from being so high strung and unsatisfied.

The second this stream is over, you’re going to make sure you cum until you pass out. Until then, it’s time for work.

©2024 by jooniperbonsai