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reidmarieprentiss · 1 month ago

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Lost in Translation: Part Four

Summary: You and Spencer talk again, and again, and again...

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Category: fluff

Warnings/Includes: insecurities, discussions of past issues, mildly suggestive content, they kiss y'all!!!

Word count: 6k

a/n: i think next part will have smut........

main masterlist prologue part one part two part three

Spencer let out a deep sigh, leaning back into the couch as his frustration bubbled over. “I tried, Derek. I really tried. It was going so well, but then I had to open my big mouth and ask her to try again.”

Derek gave him a look full of pity, his brow furrowed as he shook his head slightly. “Reid…”

“I know, man. I messed up—again,” Spencer interrupted, running a hand through his hair with more aggression than necessary. “But it just felt so… right, being with her again. I thought she felt it too.”

“Listen, kid,” Derek said, clapping a firm hand on Spencer’s shoulder and giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Maybe she did feel it, but that doesn’t mean she’s ready to jump into anything right this second. How many times do I have to tell you to have patience? I feel like a damn broken record over here.” Derek chuckled, shaking his head.

Spencer let out a light laugh in return, his shoulders relaxing slightly under Derek’s grip. “You’re right. You’re always right, aren’t you?”

Derek’s eyes lit up with mock surprise as he straightened up, placing his hand over his chest. “What? Dr. Reid saying I’m right? Can I get that in writing?” He reached into his pocket dramatically and pulled out his phone, holding it up. “Actually, here—just say that one more time for me. I’ll record it for posterity.”

Spencer grinned despite himself, rolling his eyes and pushing Derek’s phone away with a playful shove. “Don’t push your luck.”

Derek smirked, dropping the phone back into his pocket. “Hey, I’m just saying—it’s not every day you admit I’m right. Gotta savor it.”

Spencer shook his head, a small smile still lingering on his face as the tension in his chest began to ease. For a moment, he felt like he could breathe again, even if the ache in his heart for you still lingered.

“What are you two hooligans getting up to over here?” JJ asked with a grin as she walked into the bullpen, a steaming cup of coffee in hand.

“Spencer just said I’m ‘always right,’” Derek announced proudly, puffing out his chest like he’d just won an award.

JJ froze mid-sip, her eyes wide with exaggerated disbelief. “No way!” she exclaimed, her tone dripping with mock shock as she quickly set her coffee down and made a beeline for Spencer.

Before Spencer could react, JJ placed a dramatic hand on his forehead, tilting her head as if checking for a fever. “Are you feeling okay, genius? Should I call the medics?”

“Stop it!” Spencer laughed, batting her hand away while glaring at Derek, who was practically doubled over with laughter. “Ha ha, very funny.”

JJ stepped back, grinning mischievously. “I mean, I just needed to make sure. You admitting someone else is right—let alone Derek—is like a once-in-a-lifetime event.”

“Exactly!” Derek chimed in, still chuckling as he crossed his arms smugly. “It’s like the universe is finally aligning.”

Spencer sighed dramatically, pinching the bridge of his nose as he muttered, “I’m never going to live this down, am I?”

“Not a chance,” JJ teased, nudging him playfully. “But seriously, what brought on this historic moment? Did Derek hypnotize you or something?”

Spencer shook his head, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips. “He just… gave me some advice. And, for once, it wasn’t completely terrible.”

“For once?” Derek scoffed, his tone mock-offended as he placed a hand over his heart. “Boy, I’m out here changing your life, and this is the thanks I get?”

JJ laughed, leaning against the desk. “Careful, Spencer. If Derek keeps this up, he might start charging you for all this wisdom.”

Spencer rolled his eyes, but the corners of his mouth twitched upward. “Noted. I’ll be sure to consult my budget for his ‘life coaching’ fees.”

JJ and Derek shared a laugh, their banter lightening the mood as Spencer allowed himself to feel a little less burdened, if only for a moment.

—

After leaving the coffee shop, your mind was a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. You couldn’t stop replaying the moment Spencer had asked if you could try again. His eyes, so full of hope and longing, lingered in your thoughts like an unresolved melody. Part of you wanted to say yes, to leap into his arms and believe that maybe, just maybe, things could be different this time. But the rational part of you—the one that had been hurt and left behind before—refused to let you dive in headfirst without caution.

You found yourself texting Austin as you paced your living room, your thoughts too jumbled to keep to yourself.

Hey, you free to chat?

It wasn’t long before your phone buzzed with their reply.

Always. Call me in 5.

True to their word, Austin answered the call, their cheerful tone a comforting balm to your frazzled nerves. “Alright, spill. What’s got you all worked up?”

You sighed, sinking into your couch as you tucked your legs beneath you. “It’s Spencer. We had coffee last weekend, and it was... great, actually. We laughed, we talked. But then, of course, he asked if we could ‘try again.’” The words spilled out in a rush, your voice tinged with exasperation and something you didn’t want to name—hope.

“Oh boy,” Austin said knowingly. “What did you say?”

“I told him no. Or, well, I said I didn’t know, but basically no. I just—it’s too soon. We’ve barely started being friends again, and I don’t even know if I trust him like that yet.”

“Fair,” Austin said, their tone thoughtful. “But... how did it feel? Him asking, I mean.”

You hesitated, biting your lip as you searched for the right words. “It felt... complicated. Part of me wanted to say yes, but the other part of me—ugh, I don’t know. It’s just too much, too fast. I need time to figure out what I even want.”

“Sounds like you’re in self-protection mode,” Austin observed. “Which, honestly, is fair given the history. But let me ask you this—do you want to give him another chance? Not now, necessarily, but eventually?”

The question hung in the air, heavy with implications. “I don’t know,” you admitted softly. “I think... I think I might. But only if he can prove he’s really changed. I can’t go through that kind of heartbreak again.”

“Totally valid,” Austin said, their voice full of understanding. “You don’t owe him anything right now. Take your time, figure out what you need to heal and what you want moving forward. And if he’s serious about making things right, he’ll wait.”

You nodded, even though they couldn’t see you, their words settling into the cracks of your fractured confidence. “Thanks, Austin.”

“Of course, babe,” they replied warmly. “Now, let’s distract you for a bit. Have you seen that absolutely heinous lamp I found at the thrift store? Hold on, I’ll send you a picture…”

The conversation shifted to lighter topics, and for a while, you let yourself laugh and breathe. But as the call ended and you were left alone with your thoughts, you couldn’t help but wonder what the future held—for you, for Spencer, and for the feelings you weren’t quite sure you were ready to face yet.

If you’re serious about me, about us, prove it.

—

If you’re serious about me, about us, prove it.

Spencer spent the next 24 hours meticulously planning. He wanted everything to be perfect—not just to impress you, but to show you how serious he was about making things right. His mind raced as he pieced together every detail, ensuring the date would reflect the effort and thought you deserved. By the time he hit "send" on his message with the time and location, his heart was pounding, but he felt a flicker of hope.

When the text pinged on your phone, your stomach dropped.

7 PM. Meet me at the library on Street. I'll see you there.

You stared at the screen, anxiety coursing through you. Was this a mistake? Could you really trust him again? The nerves were relentless, but you knew if you didn’t at least try, you’d always wonder what might have been.

So, after pacing your apartment for far too long and going through several outfit changes, you pulled yourself together, took a deep breath, and headed out the door.

—

When you arrived at the library, the sun was just beginning to set, casting long shadows across the cobblestone pathway leading to the entrance. The building stood tall and majestic, its arched windows glowing warmly from the lights within. You hesitated on the steps, your heart pounding. This was more than just a date; this was a test of trust, a chance to see if Spencer truly meant what he said.

You spotted him immediately as you stepped inside, standing by a row of bookshelves with his back to you. He was dressed in his signature blazer and sweater combo, his hair slightly messy as though he’d run his hands through it one too many times. A soft smile tugged at your lips despite yourself—he hadn’t changed much, yet there was something different in his posture, a quiet determination that hadn’t been there before.

“Hi,” you greeted softly, your voice cutting through the hushed ambiance of the library.

Spencer turned, and for a brief moment, his expression was unreadable, as if he couldn’t quite believe you were there. Then his face broke into a warm smile, his relief evident.

“You came,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper but filled with gratitude.

“I almost didn’t,” you admitted, stepping closer. “But… curiosity got the better of me.”

He chuckled nervously, gesturing toward a small table tucked away in a cozy corner. “I thought we could sit and talk here. It’s quiet, and, well… it seemed like the right place.”

You followed him to the table, noticing the small details he’d prepared: two cups of tea steaming gently, a plate of cookies, and a single red rose in a narrow vase. It was simple, but it was undeniably Spencer—thoughtful, understated, and sincere.

As you sat down, Spencer cleared his throat, his hands fidgeting slightly as he worked to steady himself. His gaze flickered to yours, vulnerable but hopeful. “I know there’s no more textbooks or lesson plans…” he began softly, his voice carrying a nostalgic warmth, “…but I was hoping we could try to rekindle where we started.”

Your breath caught, his words hitting you harder than you’d anticipated. He wasn’t just referencing the past; he was inviting you to rediscover the foundation of what once brought you together. The shared laughter over obscure facts, the countless nights studying side by side, the unspoken connection you’d both felt but never fully acknowledged back then.

You were so touched that for a moment, you couldn’t find the words to respond. Your throat tightened as you blinked back the sudden sting of emotion. He had this way of saying exactly what you needed to hear without even realizing it.

“You mean… back to when I was too scared to borrow a pen from you because I thought you’d think I was incompetent?” you teased lightly, hoping to diffuse the weight of the moment just enough to steady yourself.

Spencer smiled shyly, his lips curving in that familiar way that always softened your heart. “Well, if we’re being honest, I was just as scared of you. I thought you’d figure out how socially inept I was and decide I wasn’t worth the effort.”

You shook your head, a soft laugh escaping as you leaned forward slightly. “Spencer, you were the first person who made me feel like I wasn’t alone. Like I had someone who understood me. I never would’ve walked away from that, then or now.”

His gaze held yours, a flicker of something deep and unspoken passing between you. “I feel the same way,” he said, his voice quieter now. “That’s why I couldn’t let go—not then, and not now.”

You felt your heart stir, the walls you’d carefully built beginning to crack under the weight of his words. Still, you reminded yourself to tread carefully.

“I think,” you said softly, your voice steady but tentative, “that we can try. We can take small steps, see where it takes us. But Spencer, if we’re going to do this, I need to know that it’s different this time.”

“It will be,” he promised, his tone resolute yet gentle. “I’ll do whatever it takes to prove that to you.”

For the first time in what felt like forever, you felt a spark of cautious optimism. Maybe this was the beginning of something new—something built on the ashes of what once was, but stronger this time.

Spencer chuckled as he stirred his tea. “Do you remember that time we stayed up all night trying to understand quantum entanglement for fun? And by ‘we,’ I mean you made me explain it while you pretended to care.”

You laughed, rolling your eyes. “Oh, please. I was deeply invested—right up until the part where you used an equation to explain how two particles could communicate faster than the speed of light. Then I was just trying not to fall asleep.”

Spencer smirked, leaning back slightly. “Well, it only took you, what, three cups of coffee to start comparing quantum physics to a long-distance relationship?”

You covered your face with your hands, groaning dramatically. “Don’t remind me! I’m pretty sure I tried to convince you that the particles were ‘soulmates,’ and you looked at me like I had three heads.”

“I didn’t look at you like that,” Spencer protested, though his grin gave him away. “Okay, maybe a little. But to be fair, your analogy wasn’t that bad. Misguided, but not bad.”

“You mean, not scientifically sound,” you teased, nudging his arm lightly.

“Exactly,” he said, his voice warm. “But it was endearing.”

The word "endearing" hung in the air for a moment, softening the space between you both.

As the conversation continued to flow, Spencer found himself more relaxed, his shoulders no longer as tense as they were when you first arrived. He tilted his head, watching you laugh at one of his stories. “You know, I always admired how easily you could talk to people. Even back then, you just… lit up a room.”

You felt your cheeks heat up, his compliment catching you off guard. “Spencer Reid, was that a flirtatious compliment? Because it kind of sounds like one.”

He blinked, momentarily caught. “Uh… well, I suppose it could be interpreted that way. Was it… bad?”

You grinned, leaning in slightly. “No, it wasn’t bad. I just didn’t know you had it in you.”

“Oh, I definitely have it in me,” he said, surprising you with his quick response. His eyes sparkled with a confidence you weren’t quite used to seeing in him.

Your smile widened. “Alright, Dr. Reid, prove it.”

Spencer’s lips twitched as he leaned forward ever so slightly. “Well, for starters, I already remembered your tea preference. And I’m fairly certain I remember the exact way you used to look at me when you were trying to figure out how to ask me something without sounding like you didn’t know the answer.”

Your breath hitched, his unexpected boldness leaving you momentarily speechless. “Oh?” you managed, tilting your head playfully. “And how exactly did I look at you?”

His voice softened, but his gaze didn’t waver. “Like I was the only person in the room who could give you what you needed.”

That stopped you cold, your teasing grin slipping into something more vulnerable. You couldn’t help but let the warmth of his words wash over you, though you quickly rallied, determined not to let him win so easily.

“Well,” you said, your voice dropping just a fraction, “what if I told you I’m still looking at you like that?”

Spencer’s breath caught, and for a moment, he was entirely still, his confidence melting into stunned awe. “I’d say…” He cleared his throat, clearly working to keep his composure. “I’d say you just took my breath away.”

You bit your lip, a playful smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “Good. That’s only fair, considering you’ve been doing that to me since I got here.”

Spencer let out a breathless laugh, his cheeks flushing a deep pink. “Uh, well–hmm.”

“Cat got your tongue, doctor?” you teased with a grin, leaning back in your chair as you sipped your coffee.

That seemed to snap him out of his flustered daze, his brows furrowing in that familiar, overthinking way you remembered so well. “You know,” he started, tilting his head slightly, “I’ve always hated that phrase. It doesn’t make any logical sense. Cats don’t take people’s tongues. There’s no historical precedent for it, no documented cases where someone lost the ability to speak due to a feline intervention.”

You couldn’t help it—you burst out laughing, nearly spilling your coffee in the process. “Oh my god, Spencer! It’s just a figure of speech!”

“I know,” he continued, undeterred, clearly warming up to his own tangent. “But it’s such an absurd one. Where did it even come from? Why a cat? Why not something more plausible, like—like a dog grabbing someone’s shoe or a bird stealing someone’s sandwich?”

“A bird stealing a sandwich isn’t the same as losing your words!” you argued, still laughing. “You’re overthinking it!”

“I’m not overthinking it,” Spencer replied earnestly, though the hint of a smile betrayed his enjoyment of your reaction. “I just think if we’re going to use metaphors, they should at least have some basis in reality. Cats are more likely to steal food or hide in cardboard boxes than… well, than abscond with someone’s ability to speak.”

By this point, your laughter was uncontrollable. “Spencer! You’re ridiculous!”

He smiled fully then, his confidence peeking through again as he leaned forward slightly. “Ridiculous? Or charming?” he asked, his tone teasing but his gaze warm and intent.

You shook your head, still catching your breath. “Okay, fine. Charming. But seriously, only you could turn a harmless phrase into a dissertation-worthy debate.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said, his grin widening.

“It was,” you admitted softly, and for a moment, the air between you shifted, the playful banter giving way to something more tender. Spencer’s eyes softened, his gaze lingering on you in a way that made your heart skip.

“Good,” he said quietly, his voice low but sure. “Because I don’t want to be anything less than that to you.”

Your laughter faded as the weight of his words sank in, leaving you momentarily speechless. And, ironically, you thought to yourself, maybe the cat really did have your tongue this time.

The dim glow of the library's remaining lights cast long shadows on the floor as you and Spencer slowly made your way to the exit. Neither of you wanted the night to end, but the steady flick of lights turning off above you left no choice. You carried the remnants of your evening—books, notes, and tea cups—in a comfortable silence, the atmosphere thick with unspoken thoughts.

When you reached the door, you turned to him, your voice soft but sincere. “Thank you, Spencer.”

He stopped in his tracks, his honey-brown eyes locking onto yours. “Thank you for coming,” he replied, his voice low and warm, almost reverent.

You hadn’t realized how close he’d gotten until his hand gently rose, brushing a loose strand of hair away from your forehead. The tenderness of the gesture sent your heart into overdrive. Spencer was standing so close now, his gaze shifting from your eyes to your lips with a longing so palpable it made your breath hitch.

For a moment, it felt like time froze. You couldn’t look away from him, the vulnerability in his expression unraveling something deep inside you. It was the way he looked at you—like you hung the stars and the moon—that left you utterly speechless. And as he began to lean in, his intent clear, your heart pounded in your chest.

But instinct kicked in, and at the last second, you turned your cheek.

His lips landed softly on your cheek instead of your lips, and the subtle sound of the unintended kiss echoed louder in his head than it had any right to. His stomach twisted, shrinking into a knot of regret and self-recrimination.

Oh no, he thought. I moved too fast again.

Spencer froze, his hand lingering awkwardly in the space between you as he pulled back. His face flushed a deep crimson as he searched your expression for any sign of reassurance, an explanation, anything that might ease the growing panic. “I—I’m sorry,” he stammered, his voice breaking slightly. “I shouldn’t have—”

“Spencer, it’s okay,” you interrupted softly, stepping back to create a little space. “It’s not that I didn’t want to—” You paused, trying to gather your words carefully, feeling your own wave of guilt for how you’d reacted. “I just… I’m not ready yet.”

His shoulders sagged slightly in relief, though his disappointment was still evident. “No, you’re right,” he said quickly, running a hand through his hair. “I shouldn’t have— I wasn’t trying to push you. I’m sorry, really.”

You gave him a small, understanding smile, placing a hand lightly on his arm. “Spencer, tonight was wonderful. And I’m not saying never. I just need time.”

He nodded, trying to mask the sting with a faint smile of his own. “Of course. I understand. I’m just glad you came.”

“I’m glad I came too,” you said softly, squeezing his arm before letting your hand drop. “Okay?”

“Okay,” he agreed, his voice barely above a whisper. But in his heart, he was already replaying the moment over and over, wondering if he’d ever have the chance to try again—this time without messing it up.

—

You and Spencer had shared a few more dates over the following weeks. He’d been nothing but patient, and you finally allowed him the smallest kiss one evening, a tentative brush of lips that sent your heart racing.

But despite that, you couldn’t shake the fear gnawing at the edges of your mind. Taking things further felt like crossing a bridge you weren’t sure would hold. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to. God, you wanted him—more than anything. But the shadow of your past loomed too large, and the fear of being hurt again kept you from diving in completely.

Spencer noticed your hesitations, however. He hadn’t pushed, respecting your pace as he always had, but he couldn’t help the creeping doubt that began to settle in his mind. Finally, after yet another evening where your touches lingered but never went further, he decided he needed to ask.

“Y/N…” he began cautiously, his voice soft but weighted with something you couldn’t quite place.

You looked up from where you were kneading pizza dough at your counter, flour dusting your fingers. “Yeah?” you asked, a touch of curiosity in your tone as you met his gaze.

He set the bowl of cheese down on the counter, stepping closer until he was leaning beside you. His eyes searched yours, filled with a vulnerability you hadn’t seen in a long time. “Are you…” He hesitated, swallowing hard before continuing, “Are you not attracted to me anymore?”

The question made you freeze, your hands stilling mid-motion. “What?” you said, your voice tinged with disbelief as you turned to face him fully. “Why would you ask that?”

Spencer hesitated, his hands fidgeting with the edge of the counter as he searched for the right words. His eyes darted away for a moment before meeting yours again, their vulnerability cutting through the playful ease that had been building between you. “I just… I don’t want to assume, but things have been, uh… slower than I expected.” He paused, then added softly, “And I don’t want to push you if you’re not feeling the same way I am.”

You blinked at him, shocked by his admission. “Spencer, of course I’m attracted to you,” you said, your voice laced with both surprise and urgency. “Why would you even think otherwise?”

His shoulders relaxed slightly, but his brows remained furrowed. “I don’t know,” he admitted with a nervous laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “I guess I overanalyze everything. You’re just—well, you’re so hard to read sometimes, and I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

You sighed, guilt creeping in as you set the dough aside and wiped your hands on a towel. Turning to face him fully, you leaned against the counter. “It’s not about you,” you confessed, your voice soft but firm. “It’s me. I’m scared, Spencer.”

“Scared?” he echoed, stepping closer, his worry etched across his features. “Of what?”

You hesitated, the words sticking in your throat. But when you looked into his eyes, so full of understanding and patience, you felt your resolve strengthen. “I’m scared of what happens if we try again and it doesn’t work,” you admitted, your voice trembling slightly. “I’ve already been through the heartbreak once. I don’t know if I could survive it a second time.”

Spencer’s expression softened, and he reached out, his hand resting gently on yours. “Y/N,” he began, his voice steady and calm. “I can’t promise that things will be perfect. I know I’ve made mistakes—big ones—and I can’t erase those. But I’ve learned from them. And I know one thing for sure: I never stopped caring about you. I never stopped wanting to be better for you.”

You swallowed hard, your heart thudding in your chest as his words settled over you like a warm blanket. “I want to believe that,” you said quietly. “I really do.”

“Then let me show you,” Spencer said earnestly, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles. “I’m not going anywhere this time. I’ll wait as long as you need. But please don’t think for a second that I don’t want you, because I do. More than anything.”

Your lips parted, trembling as you took in the sincerity in his eyes. His vulnerability was so raw, so honest, it almost undid you. But there was something you’d held onto for too long, something you needed him to know. It sat heavy on your chest, and if you didn’t say it now, you knew you never would.

“But Spencer, there’s more—” you began, your voice shaky yet resolute.

“Y/N, it’s okay,” he interrupted gently, his hand still resting over yours. “You don’t have to explain yourself.”

“No, Spencer, I need to tell you—” you pressed, your voice firming as you tried again.

“Don’t worry, I underst—” he started again, his soothing tone cutting you off before you could finish.

“I was a virgin!” The words burst out of you like a dam breaking, your voice slightly louder than intended.

Spencer’s face fell, his eyes widening in shock. “What?” he whispered, his tone disbelieving.

“You took my virginity that day,” you confessed, your gaze dropping to the floor as your cheeks burned with a mixture of shame and relief at finally letting the truth out. “I never told you because I didn’t think it mattered, but it did. It mattered a lot to me.”

The silence between you was deafening. Spencer’s mind raced as he tried to process what you’d just said. His eyes softened as he realized the gravity of your words, the weight of what that moment had meant to you.

“Y/N,” he finally said, his voice breaking slightly as he took a small step closer to you. “I had no idea. You… you should have told me.”

“I wanted to,” you said, meeting his gaze at last, tears brimming in your eyes. “But I didn’t know how. And then you left, and it just felt… too late. Like it didn’t matter anymore.”

Spencer’s hand twitched, like he wanted to reach for you but wasn’t sure if he should. “It mattered,” he said, his voice thick with regret. “It matters so much, Y/N. I—I don’t even know what to say. I hurt you so deeply, and I didn’t even know the full extent of it.”

You nodded, a tear slipping down your cheek. “It’s not just about the virginity, Spencer. It’s about trust. You were the first person I gave all of myself to, and when you left… I felt like I had made the biggest mistake of my life.”

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, his voice cracking as he finally closed the space between you. His hands hovered uncertainly at your sides before settling gently on your arms. “I can’t take back what I did, but I swear, Y/N, if you let me, I will spend the rest of my life making it up to you.”

You let out a shaky breath, your emotions swirling in a chaotic storm. “Spencer, I don’t need you to fix the past. I just… I need to know that if we move forward, you won’t run again. That you won’t leave me again.”

“I won’t,” he said firmly, his gaze locking with yours, his hands gripping your arms just a little tighter. “I swear to you, Y/N, I will never leave you again. Not ever.”

For the first time in a long time, you allowed yourself to believe him. And it terrified you. But as he looked at you, his eyes filled with nothing but honesty and love, a small part of you felt like maybe, just maybe, you could trust him again.

“You can start proving yourself now,” you whispered, your voice soft but laced with a challenge that sent a shiver down Spencer’s spine.

His pulse spiked instantly, a heady mixture of arousal and excitement coursing through him. His hands, still lightly resting on your arms, tightened their grip just slightly as he leaned in closer. “Oh yeah?” he murmured, his voice low and rough, barely concealing the thrill your words sent through him.

“Mhm,” you nodded, the smallest of smiles tugging at your lips as you tilted your head, your noses brushing together in the faintest, most intimate touch. The warmth of his breath mingled with yours, and you couldn’t deny the way your body reacted to his proximity—the magnetic pull, the undeniable yearning.

Spencer’s eyes darted between yours and your lips, his restraint hanging by a thread. “And how exactly do I prove myself?” he asked, his voice a hushed whisper, his forehead leaning against yours.

You let out a breathy laugh, your hands sliding up his chest slowly, feeling the steady thrum of his heart beneath your fingertips. “I think you’ll figure it out,” you teased, your lips brushing his just enough to make him lose his breath.

He groaned softly, his hands sliding down your arms to your waist, pulling you just a fraction closer. “You’re not playing fair,” he whispered, his lips hovering over yours, the anticipation thick enough to steal the air between you.

“Neither are you,” you murmured, your voice trembling slightly, your words edged with a mix of playfulness and vulnerability.

That was all the permission Spencer needed. He closed the final inch of space, capturing your lips in a kiss that was equal parts tender and desperate, a culmination of years of longing and regret. His hands gripped your waist with newfound confidence as he poured every unspoken apology, every ounce of devotion, into the kiss.

Your arms wound around his neck as you melted into him, your body pressing against his as if trying to close the gap that had existed between you for far too long. The kiss deepened, becoming slower, more deliberate, as though the two of you were savoring every second, every sensation.

When you finally pulled back, your breaths mingling, Spencer rested his forehead against yours again, his eyes half-lidded and filled with a warmth that made your knees weak. “Was that a good start?” he asked softly, his lips quirking into a small, hopeful smile.

You laughed lightly, your fingers still playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. “It’s a start,” you replied, your own smile tugging at your lips. “But don’t think you’re off the hook just yet.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it,” Spencer whispered, his voice filled with a promise that made your heart flutter.

After that electrifying kiss, things between you and Spencer shifted. The tension that had been lingering, unspoken and unresolved, now had an outlet. But with it came a new layer of complexity—one that neither of you could ignore.

The next day, as you stood in your kitchen sipping on a cup of tea, your phone buzzed with a text from Spencer.

Good morning. I know it’s early, but I couldn’t wait to say how much I enjoyed last night. I hope you’re feeling as good about everything as I am.

You smiled at the screen, your cheeks warming at his earnestness. It was such a Spencer thing to send—so sincere, so thoughtful. But as your fingers hovered over the keys to respond, the familiar knot of fear twisted in your stomach again. You wanted this, wanted him, but the "what ifs" were still a constant hum in the back of your mind.

Good morning. I did too. Thank you for last night—it was perfect.

Perfect feels like a stretch… I spilled water all over the table, remember?

Perfectly imperfect, then.

For the rest of the day, you found yourself smiling every time your phone buzzed with another message from him. The two of you fell into an easy rhythm of exchanging texts, each one brimming with a mix of humor, sweetness, and just the faintest hint of something deeper.

But even with the growing ease, there was still an unspoken question hanging between you. One that Spencer finally decided to ask during your next date.

The following weekend, he invited you over to his apartment for dinner. “I want to cook for you,” he had said, and despite your initial protests about him going to so much trouble, you couldn’t help but be touched by the gesture.

When you arrived, his apartment was warm and inviting, the smell of something delicious wafting through the air. Spencer greeted you at the door with a shy smile, dressed casually in a soft sweater and jeans that somehow made him even more endearing.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” he said, stepping aside to let you in.

“You cooked?” you teased, raising an eyebrow as you took in the neatly set table and the kitchen that looked remarkably tidy for someone who had been preparing a meal.

“I did,” he replied, his smile growing as he led you toward the dining area. “And, for the record, I didn’t burn anything.”

Dinner was lovely—Spencer had gone all out, serving a perfectly cooked pasta dish that had you questioning if he’d secretly taken cooking classes in his spare time. The two of you chatted and laughed, slipping effortlessly into the kind of banter that had once defined your relationship.

But as the evening wound down, Spencer’s demeanor grew more serious. He cleared his throat, his fingers nervously fidgeting with the edge of his napkin.

“Y/N,” he began, his voice soft but steady. “I need to ask… Are we moving forward? Or are we standing still?”

You froze slightly, your fork pausing halfway to your mouth. His question wasn’t unexpected, but it still caught you off guard. You set your fork down and looked at him, taking a moment to collect your thoughts.

“I…” You hesitated, your eyes searching his, feeling the weight of his question. “I think we’re moving…”

“Forward, I hope,” Spencer interjected with an awkward laugh, trying to lighten the tension in the room.

You couldn’t help but quip back, “Technically, anyone is moving forward in time.”

“Y/N,” Spencer said, laughing fully this time, the sound warm and familiar. “You sound like me now. But… I’m being serious.”

You sobered slightly at his words, your playful smile softening into something more tender. “I know you are,” you said quietly. “And I’m trying to be, too. I think we are moving forward, Spencer. Slowly, but… yes, forward.”

Spencer’s eyes brightened with a mixture of relief and hope, and he nodded, his grip on your hand tightening just slightly. “That’s all I could ever ask for,” he said earnestly. “I’ll take slow. I’ll take whatever you’re ready to give, as long as we’re moving together.”

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 7 months ago

Text

1968 [Chapter 9: Dionysus, God Of Ecstasy]

Series Summary: Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemond’s chronically delinquent brother Aegon.

Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.

Word Count: 5.9k

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged! 🥰

💜 All of my writing can be found HERE! 💜

The October surprise is a great American tradition. As the phases of the moon revolve towards Election Day, the candidates and their factions seek to ruin each other. Lies are told, truths are exposed, Tyche smiles and Achlys brews misery, poison, the fog of death that grows over men like ivy. The stars align. The wolves snap their jaws.

In 1844, an abolitionist newspaper falsely accused James K. Polk of branding his slaves like cattle. In 1880, a letter supposedly authored by James Garfield—in actuality, forged by a New York journalist—welcomed Chinese immigrants in an era when they were being lynched by xenophobic mobs in Los Angeles and San Francisco. In 1920, a rumor emerged that Warren Harding had Black ancestry, an allegation his campaign fervently denied to keep the support of the Southern states. In 1940, FDR’s press secretary assaulted a police officer outside of Madison Square Garden. In 1964, one of LBJ’s top aids was arrested for having gay sex at the Washington D.C. YMCA.

Now, in 1968, Senator Aemond Targaryen of New Jersey is realizing that he will not be the beneficiary of the October surprise he’s dreamed of: his wife’s redemptive pregnancy, a blossoming first family. There is a civil rights protest that turns into a riot in Milwaukee; this helps Nixon, the candidate of law and order. For every fire lit and window shattered, he sees a bump in the polls from businessowners and suburbanites who fear anarchy. Breaking news of the My Lai massacre—committed back in March but only now brought to light—airs on NBC, horrifying the American public and bolstering support for Aemond, the man who has vowed to begin ending the war as soon as he’s sworn into office. The two contestants are deadlocked. Election Day could be a photo finish.

Nixon is in Texas. Wallace is in Arkansas. In Florida, Aemond visits the Kennedy Space Center and pledges to fulfill JFK’s promise to put a man on the moon by 1970. He makes a speech at the Mary McLeod Bethune Home commending her work as an educator, philanthropist, and humanitarian. He greets soldiers at the Naval Air Station in Pensacola. He feeds chickens to the alligators at the Saint Augustine Alligator Farm Zoological Park.

But it is not the senator the crowds cheer loudest for. It is his wife, his future first lady, here in her home state where she staunched her husband’s hemorrhaging blood and appeared before his well-wishers still marked with crimson handprints. In Tarpon Springs, she and Aemond attend mass at the Saint Nicholas Greek Orthodox Cathedral and pray at an altar made of white marble from Athens. Then they stand on the docks as flashbulbs strobe all around them, watching sponge divers reappear from the depths, breaking through the bubbling sapphire water like Heracles ascending to Mount Olympus.

~~~~~~~~~~

You kick off your high heels, tear the pins and clips out of your hair, and flop down onto the king-sized bed in your suite at the Breakers Hotel. It’s the same place Aemond was almost assassinated five months ago. He has returned in triumph, in defiance. He cannot be killed. It is God’s will.

You are alone for these precious fleeting moments. Aemond is in Otto’s suite discussing the itinerary for tomorrow: confirmations, cancellations, reshufflings. You pick up the pink phone from the nightstand on Aemond’s side of the bed and dial the number for the main house at Asteria. It’s 9 p.m. here as well as there. Through the window you can see inky darkness and the kaleidoscopic glow of the lights of Palm Beach. The Zenith radio out in the kitchenette is playing Satisfaction by the Rolling Stones. No intercession from Eudoxia is necessary this time; Aegon answers on the second ring.

“Yeah?” he says, slow and lazy like he’s been smoking something other than Lucky Strikes.

“Hey.” And then after a pause, twirling the phone cord around your fingers as you stare up at the ceiling: “It’s me.”

“Oh, I know. Should I take off my pants, or…?” He’s only half-joking.

You smile. “That was stupid. Someone could have bugged the phone.”

“You think Nixon’s guys are wiretapping us? Give me a break. They’re goddamn buffoons. They’re too busy telling cops to beat hippies to death.” You hear him taking a drag off his joint, envision him sprawled across his futon and enshrouded in smoke. “Everything okay down there in the swamp?”

You shrug, even though Aegon can’t see you. “It’s fine.”

“Just fine?”

“My parents were there when we stopped in Tarpon Springs. They kept telling everyone how proud they are of me, and I just felt so…dishonest.”

“Of course they’re proud. If Aemond wins, the war ends and more civil rights bills get passed and this hell we’ve all been living in since 1963 goes away.”

“I miss you,” you confess.

“You’ll be back soon to enjoy me in all my professional loser glory.” He’s right: Aemond’s entourage will spend Halloween at Asteria. You’ll take the children trick-or-treating around Long Beach Island—with journalists in tow, of course—and then host a party with plentiful champagne and Greek hors d’oeuvres, one last reprieve before the momentous slog towards Election Day on November 5th, a reward for the campaign staffers and reporters who have served Aemond so well. “What are you going to dress up as?”

“Someone happy,” you say, and Aegon chuckles, low and sardonic. “Actually, nothing. Aemond and Otto have decided that it would be undignified for the future president and first lady to be photographed in costumes, so I will be wearing something festive yet not at all fun.”

“Aemond has always been somewhat confused by the concept of fun.”

“What are you going to be for Halloween?”

You can hear the grin in his voice as he exhales smoke. “A cowboy.”

“A cowboy,” you repeat, giggling. “You aren’t serious.”

“Extremely serious. I protect the cows, I comfort the cows, I breed the cows…”

“You are mentally ill. You belong in an asylum.”

“I ride the cows…”

“Cowboys do not ride cows.”

“Maybe this one does.”

“I thought you liked being ridden.”

Aegon groans with what sounds like genuine discomfort. “Don’t tease me. You know I’m celibate at the moment.”

“Miraculous. Astonishing. The Greek Orthodox Church should canonize you. What have you been doing with all of your newfound free time?”

“Taking the kids out sailing, hiding from Doxie, trying not to step on the Alopekis…and playing Battleship with Cosmo. He has a very loose understanding of the rules.”

“He does. I remember.”

“He keeps asking when you’ll be back.”

“Really?” you ask hopefully.

“Yeah, it’s cute. And he calls you Io because he heard me do it.”

“Not an appropriate myth for children, I think.”

“Cosmo’s what, seven years old?”

“Five.”

“Close enough. I think I knew about death and torment and Zeus being a slut by then.”

“And you have no resulting defects whatsoever.” You roll over onto your belly and slide open the drawer of the nightstand. Instead of the card Aegon gave you at Mount Sinai—you’ve forgotten that you’re on Aemond’s side of the bed—you find something bizarre, unexpected, just barely able to fit. “Oh my God, there’s a…there’s a Ouija board in the nightstand!”

Aegon laughs incredulously. “There’s a what?!”

“A Ouija board!” You sit upright and shimmy it out, holding the phone to your ear with one shoulder. The small wooden planchette slides off the board and clatters against the bottom of the drawer. “Why the hell would Aemond have this…?”

“He’s trying to summon the ghost of JFK to stab Nixon.”

“Oh wow, it’s heavy.” You skim your fingertips over the black numbers and letters etched into the wooden board. There’s something ominous about the Good Bye written across the bottom. You can’t beckon the dead into the land of the living without reminding them that they aren’t welcome to stay.

“Aemond is such a freak. Is it a Parker Brothers one, like for kids…?”

“No, I think it’s custom made. It feels substantial, expensive. Hold on, there’s something engraved on the back.” You flip over the Ouija board so you can see what your hands have already felt. The inscription reads in onyx cursive letters: No ghosts can harm you. The stars were never better than the day you were born. With love through all the ages, Alys.

“What’s it say?” Aegon asks from his basement at Asteria.

You’re staring down at the Ouija board, mystified. “Who’s Alys?”

Instead of an answer, Aegon gives you a deep sigh. “Oh. Yeah, she would give him something like that. Fucking creepy witch bullshit.”

“Aegon, who’s Alys?” She’s his mistress. She has to be. It fills your skull like flashbulbs, like lightning: Aemond climbing on top of another woman, conquering her, owning her, binding her up in his mythology like a spider building a web. And what you feel when the shock begins to dissolve isn’t envy or pain or betrayal but—strangely, paradoxically—hope. “She’s his girl, right?”

“Please don’t be mad at me for not telling you,” Aegon says. “There wasn’t a good time. When I hated you I didn’t care if he was fucking around, and then after what happened in New York I didn’t want to hurt you, I didn’t know how you’d take it. It’s not your fault, there’s nothing wrong with you. She was here first. He’d have kept Alys around if he married Aphrodite herself.”

“I’m not mad.” You’re distracted, that’s what you are; you’re plotting. “Where is she?”

“She lives in Washington state. I’m not sure exactly where, I think Aemond moves her a lot. He doesn’t want anyone to see him around and start noticing a pattern. Neighbors, shopkeepers, cops, whoever.”

“Washington.” Just like when Ari died. Just like when Aemond didn’t come back. “Who knows about her?”

“Just the family. Fosco and Mimi found out because when they married in, the fights were still happening. Otto and Viserys demanding he give Alys up, Aemond refusing. It’s the only thing he ever did wrong, the only line he drew. He said he needed her. She could never be his first lady, but she could be something else.”

“His mistress.”

“Yeah,” Aegon says reluctantly. “Are you…are you okay?”

“I’m okay. What’s wrong with Alys?”

“What?”

“Why couldn’t Aemond marry her?”

“I mean, she’s the type of psycho who gives people Ouija boards, first of all,” Aegon says. “And she’s…she’s not educated. Her family’s trash. She’s older than Aemond. Hell, she’s older than me. She would be an unmitigated disaster on the campaign trail. She unnerves people. But Aemond, he…”

“He loves her,” you whisper, reading the engraving on the back of the board again. “And she loves him.”

“I guess. Whatever love means to them.”

A thought occurs to you, the first one to bring you pain like a needle piercing flesh. “Does she have children?”

Again, Aegon sounds reticent to disclose this. “A boy. Aemond’s the father.”

“How old?”

“I don’t know, I think he’s around ten now.”

And that’s Aemond’s true heir. Not Ari, not any others he would have with me. That place in his heart is taken. He couldn’t mourn the loss of our son because he already has one with the woman he loves.

Out in the living room of the suite, you hear the front door open. There are footsteps, Aemond’s polished black leather shoes.

Aegon is asking: “Are you sure you’re okay? Hello? Babe? Hello? Are you still there?”

“I’m fine. I gotta go.”

“Wait, no, not yet—!”

“Bye.” You hang up the phone and wait for Aemond to discover you. You’re still clutching the Ouija board. You’re perched on the edge of the bed like something ready to pounce, to kill.

Aemond opens the bedroom door, navy blue suit, blonde hair short and slicked back, his eyepatch covering his empty left socket. He’s begun wearing his eyepatch in public more often—not for every appearance, but for some of them—and whoever finally convinced him to concede this battle wasn’t you. His right eye goes to you and then to the Ouija board in your hands. He doesn’t speak or move to take the board, only studies you warily.

“I know about her,” you tell him.

Still, Aemond says nothing.

“Alys,” you press. “She’s your mistress. You’re in love with her.”

“I did not intend to hurt you.” His words are flat, steely.

“I’m not hurt, Aemond.”

“You shouldn’t have ever known about this. I apologize for not being more discrete. It was a lapse in judgment.” But what he regrets most, you think, is that his secret is less contained, more imperiled.

“What we have is a political arrangement,” you say. The desperation quivers in your voice. “You don’t love me, you never have, and now we can be open about it. You need me to win the White House, but that’s all. Your true companion is elsewhere. I want the same thing.”

He steps closer, eye narrowing, iris glinting coldly, puzzled like he couldn’t have understood you correctly. “What?”

“I want to be permitted to have my own happiness outside of this imitation of a marriage.”

“No,” Aemond says instantly.

Your stomach sinks, dark iron disappointment. “But…but…why?”

“Because I don’t trust you to not get caught. Because I need to be sure that I am the father of the children you’ll give birth to. And because as my wife you are mine, and mine alone.”

Tears brim in your eyes; embers burn in your throat. “You’re asking for my life. My whole life, all of it, everything I’ll ever experience, everything I’ll ever feel. I get one chance on this planet and you’re stealing it away from me.”

“Yes,” Aemond agrees simply.

“So where’s my consolation?” you demand. “You get Alys, so where’s mine?”

“What do you want?”

You don’t reply, but you glare at your husband with eternal rage like Hera’s, with fatal vitriol like Medusa’s.

“You think I don’t know about that little card you keep in your nightstand?” Aemond is furious, betrayed. “You used to hate him.”

“I was wrong.”

“Because he was at Mount Sinai and I wasn’t? Three days undid everything we’ve ever been to each other? Our oaths, our ambitions?!”

“No,” you say, tears slipping down the contours of your cheeks. “Because he’s real. He doesn’t try to manipulate people into loving him, he doesn’t pretend to be someone he’s not, when he’s cruel it’s because he means it and when he’s kind that’s genuine too. And he wants to know me, who I really am. Not the woman I have to act like to get you elected. Not who you’re trying to turn me into—”

Aemond has crossed the room, grabbed the front of your teal Chanel dress, and yanked you to your feet. The Ouija board jolts out of your hands and lands on the carpet unharmed. Your long hair is in disarray, your eyes wide and fearful. You try to push Aemond away, but he ignores you. You can’t sway him. You’ve never been able to. “Aegon has nothing to his name except what this family gives him,” Aemond snarls, hushed, hateful. His venom is not for his brother but for you. You have upended the natural order of things. You have dared to deny Zeus what he has been divinely granted dominion over. “You would jeopardize his wellbeing, his access to his children? You would ruin yourself? You would doom this nation? If you cost me the election, every drop of blood spilled is on your hands, every body bag flown home from Vietnam, every martyr killed by injustice here. What you ask for is worse than being a traitor and a whore. It is sacrilege.”

“Let go of me—”

“And there’s one more thing.” Aemond pulls you closer so he knows you’re paying attention. You’re sobbing now, trembling, choking on his cologne, shrinking away from his furnace-heat wrath. “Aegon isn’t capable of love. Not the kind you’re imagining. He gets infatuated, and he uses people, and then he moves on. You think he never charmed Mimi, never made her feel cherished by him? And look how she ended up. I’m trying to carve your name into legend beside mine. Aegon will take you to your grave.”

Your husband shoves you away, storms out of the bedroom, slams the door so hard the walls quake.

~~~~~~~~~~

Parading down streets like the victors of a fallen city, jack-o-lanterns keeping watch with their laceration grins of firelight. Hecate is the goddess of witchcraft, Hades rules the Underworld, Selene is the half-moon peeking through clouds in an overcast sky. The stars elude you.

The children—ghosts, pirates, princesses, witches—dash from doorstep to doorstep like soldiers in Vietnam search tunnels. They smile and pose in their outfits when the journalists prompt them, beaming and waving, showing off their Dots, Tootsie Pops, Sugar Daddies, Smarties, Razzles, and candy cigarettes before depositing them in the plastic orange pumpkins that swing from their wrists. Only Cosmo, dressed as Teddy Roosevelt with lensless glasses and a stuffed lion thrown over one shoulder, stays with the adults. He is the last one to each house, approaching the doorway reticently like it might swallow him up, inspiring fond chuckles and encouragement from the reporters. He clutches your hand and hides behind you when towering monsters lumber by: King Kong, Frankenstein, vampires with fake blood spilling from their mouths.

Aemond wears a black suit with orange accents: tie, pocket square, socks. You glimmer in a black dress dotted with white stars, clicking down the sidewalk in boots that run to your knees, silver eyeshadow, heavy liner. You almost look your own age. There are large star-shaped barrettes in your pinned-up hair, bent glinting metal. As the reporters snap photos of you and Cosmo walking together, they shout: “You’ll be such a great mother one day, Mrs. Targaryen!”

Fosco is Ettore Boiardi—better known as Chef Boyardee—an Italian immigrant who came through Ellis Island in 1914 with a dream of opening a spaghetti business. Helaena, Alicent, and Ludwika are, respectively, Alice, Wendy, and Cinderella; Ludwika clops along resentfully in her puffy sleeves and too-small clear stilettos. Criston is Peter Pan. Aegon wears a white button-up shirt, cow print vest, ripped jeans, brown leather boots, a cowboy hat that’s too big for him, and a green bandana knotted around his throat. He stays close to you and Cosmo because he can, here where the journalists expect to see him being a devoted father and active participant in the family business of mending a tattered America. Teenagers are fleeing their families to join hippie communes and draftees in Vietnam are getting their limbs blown off and junkies are shooting up on the streets of New York and Chicago and Los Angeles, but here we see a happy family, a perfect family, a holy trinity that thanks the devotees who offer them tribute. Otto, who neglected to don a disguise, glares at you murderously. You have failed to give Aemond a living child. You have dared to want things for yourself.

Back at Asteria in the main house, the children empty their plastic pumpkins on the living room floor and sort through their saccharine treasures, making trades and bargains: “I’ll do your math homework if you give me those Swedish Fish,” “I’ll let you ride my bike for a week if I can have your Mallo Cup.” While the other adults ply themselves with champagne and chain smoke away the stress of the campaign trail, Aegon gets his Caribbean blue Gibson guitar and sits on the couch playing I’m A Believer by The Monkees. The kids clap and sing along between intense confectionary negotiations. Cosmo wants to share his candy cigarettes with you; you pretend to smoke together as sugar melts on your tongue.

Now the children have been sent to bed—mollified with the promise of homemade apple pies tomorrow, another occasion to be documented by swarms of clamoring journalists—and the house becomes a haze of smoke and indistinct conversation and music from the record player. Platters of appetizers have appeared on the dining room table: pita, tzatziki, hummus, melitzanosalata, olives, horiatiki, mini spanakopitas, baklava. Women are chattering about the painstaking labor they put into costumes and men are scheming to deliver death blows to Nixon, setbacks in Vietnam, Klan meetings in Mississippi. Aemond is knocking back Old Fashioneds with Otto and Sargent Shriver. Fosco is dancing in the living room with drunk journalists. Eudoxia is muttering in Greek as she aggressively paws crumbs off of couches and tabletops. Thick red candles flicker until wax melts into a pool of blood at the base.

Through the veil of cigarette smoke and the rumbling bass of Season Of The Witch, Aegon finds you when no one is looking, and you know it’s him without having to turn around. His hand is the only one that doesn’t feel heavy when it skims around your waist. He whispers, soft grinning lips to your ear, rum and dire temptation like Orpheus looking back at Eurydice: “Let’s do some witchcraft.”

You know where Aemond keeps the Ouija board. You take it out of the top drawer of his nightstand in your bedroom with blue walls and portraits of myths in captive frames. Then you descend with Aegon into the basement, down like Persephone when summer ends, down like women crumbling under Zeus’s weight. You remember to lock the door behind you. You’re not high—you can’t smoke grass in a house full of guests who could smell it and take it upon themselves to investigate—but you feel like you are, that lightness that makes everything more bearable, the surreal tilt to the universe, awake but dreaming, truth cloaked in mirages.

Aegon has stolen three red candles from upstairs. He hands one to you, keeps a second for himself, and places the third on his end table beside a myriad of dirty cups. You glimpse at his ashtray and a folded corner of the receipt that’s still tucked beneath it, and you think: I have my card, Aegon has his receipt, Aemond has his Ouija board. I wonder what Alys likes to keep close when she sleeps. Then Aegon clicks off the lamp so the only light is from the flickering candles.

He tosses away his cowboy boots, hat, vest and is down on the green shag carpet with you, his hair messy, his white shirt half-unbuttoned. He’s taking sips of Captain Morgan straight from the glass bottle. He’s lighting a Lucky Strike with the wick of his candle and then giving it to you to puff on as he places the planchette on the board. “Wait, how do we start?”

You exhale smoke, setting your candle down on the carpet and then tugging off your own boots with some difficulty. “We have to say hello.”

“Okay.” Aegon places his fingertips on one side of the heart-shaped planchette and you rest yours lightly on the other. He begins doubtfully: “Hello…?”

“Is there anyone who would like to send us a message from the other side this evening?”

“You’ve done this before,” Aegon accuses.

“I have. In college.”

“With a guy?”

You chuckle, taking a drag as the cigarette smolders between your fingers. “No, with my friends. It’s not really a date activity.”

“I think it’s very romantic. Candles, darkness, danger, who’s gonna protect you when the ghosts start throwing things around…”

“You’d fight a ghost for me?”

“Depends on the ghost. FDR? You got it. I can take a guy in a wheelchair. Teddy? No ma’am. You’re on your own.”

“Which ghost should we summon?”

Aegon ponders this for a moment. “John F. Kennedy, are you in this basement with us right now?”

“That is wrong, that is so wrong.”

“Then why are you smiling?” Aegon says. “JFK, how do you feel about Johnson fucking up your legacy?”

“That is not the kind of question you’re supposed to ask. We’re not on 60 Minutes.”

“JFK, do you haunt the White House?” Aegon drags the planchette to the Yes on the board. “Oh no, I’m scared.”

“You are a cheater, this is a fraudulent Ouija board session.” You put your cigarette out in the ashtray and then take a swig from Aegon’s rum bottle. “JFK, are we gonna make it to the moon before 1970?”

Aegon pulls the planchette to the No. “Damn, Io, bad news. Guess the Russians win the Space Race and then eradicate capitalism across the globe. No more beach houses. No more Mr. Mistys.”

“Give me the planchette, you’re abusing your power.”

“No,” Aegon says, snickering as you try to wrestle it away from him. In his other hand he’s clutching his candle; scarlet beads of wax like blooddrops pepper your skin as you struggle, tiny infernos that burn exquisitely. Red like paint splatter appears on Aegon’s shirt. You grab the green bandana around his throat, but instead of holding him back you’re drawing him closer. The Ouija board and all the world’s ghosts are momentarily forgotten.

“You’re dripping wax on me—”

“Good, I want to get it all over you, then I want to peel it off and rip out your leg hair.”

You’re laughing hysterically as you pretend to try to shove him away. “I’m freshly shaved, you idiot.”

“Everywhere?” Aegon asks, intrigued.

You smirk playfully. “Almost.”

“Okay, let’s get you cleaned up.” Aegon sets his candle down on the carpet and strips away tacky dots of red wax: one from your forearm down by your wrist, another from your neck just below one of your silver hoop earrings, wax from your ankles and your calves and right above your knees. His fingertips are calloused from his guitar, from the ropes of his sailboat. They scratch roughly over you, chipping away who you’re supposed to be.

Then Aegon stops. You follow his gaze down. There is a smudge of wax on the inside of your thigh, extending beneath the hem of your dress, glittering black and white fabric that hides what is forbidden to him. Aegon’s eyes are on you, that troubled opaque blue, drunk and desperate and wild and afraid. With your fingers still hooked beneath his bandana, you say to him like a dare: “Now you’re going to stop?”

His palm skates up the smoothness of your thigh, and as he unpeels that last stain of red wax his other hand cradles your jaw and his lips touch yours, gently at first and then with the ravenousness of someone who’s been dying of thirst for centuries, starving since birth. You’re opening your legs wider for him, and his fingers do not stop at your thigh but climb higher until they are whisking your black lace panties away, exploring your folds and your wetness as his tongue darts between your lips, tasting something he’s been craving forever but only now stumbled into after four decades of darkness, trapped in you like Narcissus at his pool.

You are unknotting his green bandana and letting it fall to the shag carpet. You are unbuttoning the rest of his shirt so you can feel his chest, soft and warm and yielding, safe, real. The candlelight is flickering, the thumping bass of a song you can’t decipher pulsing through the floor above. Now beneath your dress Aegon’s fingers are pressing a place that makes your breath catch in your throat, makes you dizzy with need for him. He looks at you and you nod, and he reads in your face what you wanted to say months ago in this same basement: Don’t stop. Come closer.

Aegon lifts your dress over your head, nips at your throat as he unclasps your bra, and you are suddenly aware of how the cool firelit air is touching every part of you, how you are bare for him in a way you’ve never been before. You catch Aegon’s face in your hand before he can see the scar that runs down the length of your belly and say, your voice quiet and fragile: “Don’t look at me.”

Pain flashes in his eyes, furrows across his brow. “Stop,” he murmurs, kissing your forehead as you cling to him. Then he begins moving lower and you fall back onto the carpet, no blood on Aegon’s hands this time, only your sweat and lust for him, only crystalline evidence of a betrayal you’ve long ago already committed in your mind.

You’re combing your fingers through his hair and gasping as Aegon’s lips ghost down your scar, not something ruinous or shameful but a part of you, the beginning of your story together, the origin of your mythology. Then his mouth is on you—yearning, aching wetness—and you thought you knew what this felt like but it’s more powerful now, more urgent, and Aegon is glancing up to watch your face, to study you, to change what he’s doing as he follows your clues. And then there is a pang you think is too sharp to be pleasure, too close to helplessness, something that leaves you panting and shaking.

You jolt upright. “Wait…”

Aegon props himself up on his elbows. His full lips glisten with you. “What? What’d I do wrong?”

“No, it’s not you, it’s just…it’s like…” You can’t describe it. “It’s too…um…too intense or something. It’s like I couldn’t breathe.”

Aegon stares at you, his eyebrows low. After a long pause he says: “Babe, you’ve come before, right?”

I’ve what? “Yeah, of course, obviously. I mean…I think so?”

He’s stunned. He’s in disbelief. Then a grin splits across his face. “Lie back down.”

You’re nervous, but you trust him. If this costs you your life, you’ll pay it. He pushes your thighs farther apart and his tongue stays in one spot—where you touched yourself in the bathtub in Seattle, where you wanted him when he slipped his fingers into you for the first time—and suddenly the uneasy feeling is something raging and irresistible like a riptide in the Atlantic, something better than anything you knew existed, and you keep thinking it’s happened but it hasn’t yet, as you cover your face with your hands to smother your moans, as your hips roll and Aegon’s arms curl under your thighs to keep you in place so he can make you finish. It’s a release that is otherworldly, celestial, terrifying, divine. It’s something that rips the curtain between mortals and paradise.

It’s always like this for men? That’s what Aemond has been getting from me, that’s what I’ve been denied?

As you lie gasping on the carpet Aegon returns, smiling, kissing you, running his fingers through locks of hair that have escaped from your pins. “Not bad, right little Io?” he purrs, smelling like rum and minerals, earth and poison. Now he’s taking off his jeans, but before he can position himself between your legs you have pushed him onto his back and straddled him, pinning his wrists to the floor, watching the amazement ripple across his flushed face, the desire, the need. You tease Aegon, leaning in to nibble at his ear and bite gingerly at his throat, never harming him, never claiming him, grinding your hips against his and listening as his breathing turns quick and rough. Then you slip him inside you, this man you once hated, this man who was a stranger and then a curse and now a spell.

Aegon wants to be closer to you. He sits up as you ride him, hands on your face, in your hair, kissing you, inhaling you, shuddering, trying not to cry out as footsteps and laughter and thunderous basslines bleed through the ceiling. You know he’s been high on so many things—things that corrupt, things that kill—and you hope you can compare, this brief clean magic.

He can’t last; he finishes with a moan like he’s in agony, and as the motion of your hips slows, you take his jaw in your grasp and gaze down at him. “Good boy,” you say with a grin. Aegon laughs, exhausted, drenched in sweat, his hair sticking to his forehead. He embraces you so tightly you can feel the pounding of his heart, racing muscle beneath bones and skin.

He’s murmuring through your disheveled hair: “I gotta see you again, when can I see you again?”

You don’t know what to say. You don’t have an answer. You unravel yourself from Aegon and dress yourself in the red candlelight: panties, bra, dress, boots, all things that Aemond chose for you, all things he bought with his family’s money, all things he owns. Aegon has nothing to his name and neither do you. You are—like Fosco once said—pieces of the same machine.

“Where are you going?” Aegon asks, like he’s afraid of the answer.

“I have to go back upstairs to the party before someone realizes I’m missing.”

“Are you serious?”

“I am.” You kneel on the carpet to kiss him one last time, your palm on his cheek, his fingers clutching at your dress as he begs you not to leave. “I have to, I have to,” you whisper, and then you do.

You grab the Ouija board and planchette off the green shag carpet, hug them to your chest, and hurry up the steps. The first floor of the Asteria house is a maze of cigarette smoke and clinking glasses, guests who are dancing and cackling and drunk. From the record player strums Johnny Cash’s Ring Of Fire. You slip unnoticed to the staircase.

In the blue-walled bedroom you share with Aemond, you carefully place the Ouija board and planchette in the top drawer of his nightstand exactly as you found them. Then you go to your vanity to try to fix your hair. As you’re rearranging clips and pinning loose strands back into place, the door opens. Aemond is there, feeling beloved and invincible, looking for you. He crosses the room and closes his long fingers around your wrist. He wants you: under him, making children for him, possessed by him.

“Come to bed,” Aemond says.

“Not right now. I’m busy.”

“You aren’t busy anymore.”

“I told you no.”

He wrenches you from your chair. Instead of surrendering, you strike out, hitting him in the chest. You don’t harm him, you’re not strong enough, but genuine shock leaps into his scarred face.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” you hiss. You can’t let Aemond undress you; he will find the evidence of your treason, he will see it, feel it, taste it. But that’s not the only reason you stop him. “Every goddamn night I give you what you want, and exactly how you want it. Tonight I’m saying no. You want to take me? You’ll have to do it properly. I’m not going to give you the illusion of consent. You remember what Zeus did to all those women, right? Go ahead. Act like the god you think you are. But I’m going to fight you. And if those people downstairs hear me screaming, you can explain to them why.”

Aemond stares at you in the silvery light of the half-moon. You glare boldly back. At last he leaves and descends the staircase into an underworld of churning smoke, returning to the party to sip his Old Fashioneds and decide what to do with you.

#aegon ii targaryen #aegon targaryen #aegon targaryen ii #aegon ii #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon x reader #aegon ii x you #aegon ii fanfic #aegon ii x reader #aegon targaryen x you #aegon ii x y/n

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mapofthemazeinthemirror · 7 months ago

Text

𝐁𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐬

Noble reader x Prince beomgyu

author's note: This isn't very fleshed out because it's not something that I had planned on writing — there’s a lot of telling not showing — and I have other things that I want to work on that this idea interrupted! I also kept a lot of details vague to allow readers to imagine your own interests. I hope this doesn't read like it was rushed (it took me about a month) and that I caught all the errors. This is inspired by Violet aka @blackhairedjjun and her fic Flowers of Every Colour. Her persona of Prince Yeonjun and vivid scenes live in my mind and I recommend you read it if you haven't yet!

word count: 6k

The prince often feels overwhelmed. Sometimes it seems as if everyone in the castle is looking for him at all times. Officials come to find him during his lessons, upsetting his tutors. His tutors come searching for him when council runs late and cuts into lesson time. No matter where he is or what duty he’s busy with, he receives notes from staff or delegates. He feels as though he’s in a constant game of tug-of-war, with his attention being the thing that’s fought over.

After a long lesson that had been rescheduled to a late evening hour to allow time for an urgent discussion with his advisors in the afternoon, Beomgyu could feel a headache coming on. As he departed from the study where tutoring was held, he felt heavy with exhaustion, a pressure pain behind his eyelids. He was so on edge that his head whipped toward every creak of the old floors, every distant sound of a door opening or closing, anxious that it was somebody seeking him out for yet another task that only he could see to or decision only he could approve. He just needed a minute – one minute at least – to himself. Every waking hour was spent in the presence of others, so much filling his days that his mind played it all back as he lay in bed at night trying to chase some much needed rest. Since becoming his parents’ consort, it felt as though he hardly had time to hear his own thoughts.

There was one place he knew nobody would look for him. Wearily he carried himself across the long open hall, past the top of the grand marble staircase he usually took to his rooms. He felt a little paranoid with the way he kept glancing around and over his shoulder as if he might be attacked at any moment by a “there you are, your highness.” If his father saw him now, he’d be scolded for looking like a thief in his own castle.

On reaching his destination, he breathed a sigh of relief. The library was quite large, with wall to wall mahogany shelves, beautifully covered atlases and historical volumes as far as the eye could see. Unlike the rest of the castle with its overbearing chandeliers, the library was lit with the soft glow of sconces. Finding a desk tucked away in a corner, Beomgyu sank into a chair. This was an area of the castle he hadn’t visited more than a handful of times, and never of his own will. He hadn’t been keen on reading growing up as his older female cousins had, always requiring a book to occupy them during the duration of their stay when they visited. The young prince had always preferred to spend his time outside whenever he could, and he'd found the silence of the library was stifling. It was bliss to him now. He only wished the buzzing of noise in his head would stop if he soaked in the silence long enough.

The place was empty, nobody to protest his posture as he leant his elbows on the hardwood desk and pressed his face into his hands. Closing his eyes, he willed his mind to quiet. He focused on his breathing. In, out. In, out. In…

It was no use. His head was still swimming with facts from his lesson. With things he had to remember for tomorrow’s conference and the names of politicians he’d met yesterday, their faces all blurred together in his mind. With his advisors calling for him, the head of house calling for him, everything needing his deliberation–

He dropped his head onto his arm on the desk. Even the silence couldn’t help him, it seemed. Was this to be his life? A mind full of endless chatter?

Beomgyu’s tired eyes wandered over the spines of the books he could see on the far wall. Their rich colours, greens and reds, whites and browns, many with delicate gold foiling of titles he couldn’t make out. His eyes traced up the aged ladder leaning against the shelves, the one he was always given a telling off by his chaperone for playing on whenever he was dragged up here. The corner of his mouth turned up at the thought of those simpler days. His cousins had married and had children, far too busy to visit except for special occasions – usually only those of a ceremonial nature. The last time he’d seen them, the children hadn’t remembered him at all, it had been so long.

Sighing unconsciously, his gaze drifted to the decorated ceiling, not even making the effort of lifting his head from his arm. The elegant painting that adorned the library ceiling had been done with a skilled hand. Beomgyu couldn’t even begin to imagine how many hours something so beautiful and detailed would have taken. It was a dazzling scene of the night sky, with clouds and stars that seemed to swirl around each other in a silent dance. He could see every fine stroke that had gone into creating the layering hues that made up the deep night sky, that brought texture to the clouds and made them look as though a gentle breeze could move them, and stars that seemed so meticulously placed. He’d never looked so attentively at the art before, but he found a new appreciation for the work as he discovered his thoughts had grown quiet. Maybe this was why people spent so much money on paintings, he pondered, before his eyes drooped to a close.

The prince had almost completely dozed off when a soft gasp pulled him from the edge of sleep. Eyes blinking open, he realized that he’d gotten far too comfortable. He felt slightly groggy as he lifted his head from his arm, which had gone dead with the weight, and wondered at how long he’d been sitting there. Thumbing at his lip, he found a wet spot had begun to grow at the corner.

“I’m sorry,” came a voice, the source of the gasp that had brought him back. Would he have spent the entire night here if he’d not been woken? His dazed eyes looked up and found you, shrouded in dim light. He caught sight of recognition dawning on your face before you dipped into a respectful bow.

“I’m so sorry, your highness, I didn’t mean to disturb you,” you said hurriedly, as if the words couldn’t get out fast enough. Did you think he was going to scold you for being here at the same time he was? “I was just leaving…”

Fighting off the lingering drowsiness, Beomgyu waved a hand, feeling sheepish at being caught in this position. “Please, there’s no need.”

You seemed to relax a little at that; the way your shoulders lowered as if you'd been tensed didn’t go unnoticed by the prince’s eyes. He had become skilled in recognizing stress, whether it was because he grew up in a somewhat high-stakes environment or he was sensitive to it now as a stressed adult himself, he was unsure. The book you were cradling in one arm caught his attention now that you weren’t clutching it so tight. Beomgyu didn’t recognize you, and he knew everyone who worked in the castle. It bewildered him a bit that you knew him but he didn’t know you, despite that being the case with almost every person he met. Suddenly he felt a touch embarrassed. Not only had you caught him in an unmannerly state, but he didn’t know your name, and he couldn't think of a single thing to say.

“I really was leaving,” you caught him out again by speaking first. Your eyes met for a long silent moment, and Beomgyu thought the silence had never been less stifling. Then you seemed to remember yourself, eyes dropping to the book in your arms. “I just need to put this back.”

Beomgyu stared at the back cover of that book as if it could help him, too occupied with scrambling inside his head for something to say to notice the way you nervously brushed the hair away from your face and stole shy glances at him.

“What is it?” he blurted. Internally he cursed himself for the way it sounded. He’d only wanted to say something before you walked away. There was an overwhelming feeling he couldn’t name. A longing for you to stay. A feeling of stupidity for not being his usual collected self.

As someone with an official title, meeting new people was always planned, always with a purpose, an end goal. He knew each time what was expected and required of him; how to act, questions to ask and answers to give. This was the first time he could remember meeting someone by accident, and it didn’t seem to Beomgyu that he was very good at it. Taking a breath, he attempted to reign in his panic and try again. “What are you reading?”

You had to look down and check. Turning it over in your hands, you revealed the cover to him with a shy smile. With just one glimpse at the title, Beomgyu knew it would be of no use to him in trying to make conversation. It was a topic he knew nothing about.

“Oh,” he said aloud. He hadn’t meant to. Hoping you hadn’t heard the disappointment in his voice, he rushed to cover himself. “Is it… good?”

Your small laugh surprised him. The sound of it lessened the knots in his stomach, even as he wondered if he had made a fool of himself.

“It’s useful,” you answered, looking him in the eye again. He tried to concentrate as you spoke, to hold on to the words and not get too distracted by your smile or your eyes. “I’m doing research for a scholarship and only the royal library has the books I need. That’s why I’m here,”

“The scholarship?” Beomgyu’s eyes had gone wide. “The scholarship that only one person is picked for every five years?”

Your eyes lowered as you began to blush. “Yes, that one.”

“Wow,” Beomgyu subconsciously sank into his chair in awe. “Your family must be very proud.”

You laughed once more, unaware of how the prince’s eyes lit up each time you did. “Well, I haven't got it yet.”

His mouth caught your contagious smile. “But to even be considered is a great accomplishment.”

Your eyes were the ones to light up this time. Clutching the book close to your chest again, you leaned forward, your fingers curling over the back of the empty chair in front of you. “This is the most impressive library I’ve ever seen.”

Beomgyu sat up taller in his chair. “It is, isn’t it?” He couldn’t help the proud grin that took over his face as he looked around.

“When I come here I lose track of time,” you went on. You were unmistakably animated with enthusiasm, and he was completely taken with you. “The first day I came here, I lost a whole two hours just reading all the spines. Even the ones that aren’t required reading.” Lowering your voice as if to share a secret, you confided, “If I lived here I’d probably never leave the library!”

Beomgyu suddenly felt guilty. He’d never thought about the knowledge that could only be found in this library, and that very few were permitted to the books that contained it.

“If only I had the time to read for pleasure here,” you went on.

“Well, why don't you take some home to read?"

"I'm not permitted to take books out of the library," you said sadly, your attention on the book in your hand as your finger traced the spine.

Beomgyu thought back to the summers he'd shared with his cousins; days he'd spent running around the courtyard in the sunshine while they lazed under a tree with their noses between book pages. "I am," he supplied. His voice came out surprisingly excited. "I could read them for you."

You looked around at him as he stood up from his chair. "Read them for me?"

The prince felt as though his smile was plastered on now. He couldn't hide it if he tried. "I could read them and tell you about them."

He felt your eyes go warm, glowing on him like the sun as you brought out your own smile. "I'm sure you have more important things to do, your highness."

Beomgyu shrugged.

***

That was the reason that Beomgyu started his days by going to the library. He read while he ate his breakfast, which luckily didn't have a set time to be finished by, as it took him a little longer to eat this way. He found himself getting so engrossed in the book that he would forget to eat at the same time, averaging a mouthful to every three paragraphs, his meal cold by the time he finished it.

Then he would read in his room at night. He found that it was an effective way to turn off the noise in his head left over from the day, helping him to sleep better. Many times he would nod off in his chair before waking up and getting into bed. He would take notes sometimes, to better remember the things he wanted to tell you about.

He looked forward to the closing of the day. Once his schedule was complete and it was almost time for dinner, he would slip up to the library in hopes of catching you and relaying all the things he'd read about so far. Excitedly and enthusiastically he'd tell you interesting facts and historical stories from his current book. He had much more energy at the end of the day than he'd had before now that he was sleeping better.

The library had become a sort of safe haven to him now. His tutors complimented his new interest in his learning during lessons, retaining and remembering with a sudden ease, and many of the staff had noted that he had become a lot less tense. The serving staff who saw him with his face behind a book each morning were amused, often surprised as he rattled off facts to them as they laid out and cleared away his breakfast. None of them knew the reason.

On his rare day of rest, he came to find you straight after lunch. He'd confirmed you'd be in the castle today the last time he'd seen you, and he'd been so excited last night that it had taken more than just one hour of reading to send him off to sleep. The day was sunny, and with some persuading Beomgyu convinced you to take a small break from your studies to sit in the garden. You were a little anxious about being caught taking advantage of your privilege to be at the palace by being seen with the prince, but he assured you that he would take care of it.

Deep in the garden, the two of you wandered up the stone path that divided the lawns, chatting casually. The gardens were magnificent. You'd only seen them from a window in the castle, but the further you walked the more beauty there was to see that couldn't be viewed from a distance. The path led to a beautiful paved area with a grand gazebo. Beomgyu ushered you to sit on the ornate bench, forgoing the custom that he should be the one to sit first and taking a seat once you had. Your heart was pounding despite the relief you felt that you'd not run into any trouble on your way out of the castle, and you were sure you felt it leap each time Beomgyu laughed.

He had produced a book when you looked back from admiring the scenery, from somewhere you could not determine. Your face lit up as you took in the familiar cover; it was the one book in the royal library that you'd longed to read most. Beomgyu beamed at your excited reaction as he held it out for your taking. You had to fight the urge to glance around and make sure that nobody was seeing as you took it from his hands.

You read it aloud, with Beomgyu listening intently to every word. In the back of your mind, you wondered how you ended up in this position. When you'd started coming to the castle to study, you had never imagined you'd catch sight of the prince let alone talk to him, and yet you had been in his presence more than anyone else inside the palace. Now, as you read, you took every opportunity to look from the page up at him, finding his eyes on you, his undivided and eager attention completely yours. You were quite comfortable being at his side by now, but sometimes when he looked at you, you could feel the prickling of heat beneath the surface of your cheeks.

You hadn’t thought he would follow through on his offer, but each time you saw him enter the library it made your whole day complete. Truth be told, it had begun to take your mind off studying a little. One moment you’d be reading about a lost dynasty, and the next you’d realise you had stopped taking in any information and your mind had turned to Beomgyu. It also happened that you would dawdle while reshelving the books you’d been studying, delaying your leaving in case the prince showed up, which he always did.

Time seemed to fall away around you as you read. Minutes were marked by each turn of a page and seconds by the now steady beat of your heart, until you were so enthralled by the text that you could have almost forgotten the scene you were truly in.

Beomgyu chuckled lightly and you paused your reading. Your eyes readjusted to the glow of sunlight on the backdrop of bright white flowers beyond the gazebo as you took in his smiling face once more.“You’re really enjoying this one.” His eyes flicked down to the page where you were marking the place you’d stopped with your finger. “You haven’t looked up for the last five pages.”

“I’m sorry,” you couldn’t help but laugh too. You felt almost giddishly content in this moment; in a breathtaking garden with a good book and someone you felt was becoming dear to you.

“No, it’s wonderful,” he assured you. “Is it as good as you imagined?”

“No,” you answered in one breath. “It’s better.” Beomgyu beamed, and it made you feel so warm you might’ve been sitting directly in the sun and not under the shade. But just then, a sudden cloud passed through your mind. “I’ll be sitting the scholarship exam soon.”

Looking out over the garden, you couldn’t help but feel sad as you thought of how much more you would miss your visits to the palace now that you had fond memories and someone you could call a friend here.

“Are you nervous?”

You shook your head softly. It wasn’t the answer to his question. He hadn’t caught your meaning. “My studies will be finished then.”

The prince’s eyes brightened even more. “Then you can read whatever you like, whenever you like.”

“Yes,” you agreed distractedly. In your mind you were going over the future possibilities. If you were awarded the scholarship, you’d be going off to attend university. If it was not granted to you but to someone else, your life would go back to the way it had always been.

Beomgyu seemed to catch the somber look in your eye as you looked to the distance. His expression faltered. “Oh.” He shifted on the bench beside you. “Oh, you mean…”

“I won’t be coming to the castle any more,” you affirmed.

His eyes lost their sparkle only for a moment as he thought through this information. Then he seemed to perk up again. “Well, I can invite you to visit. To visit the library. I’m sure there’s still so much to learn here.”

Your heart swelled with the idea that he wanted to see you more, even if you knew that it wasn’t a probable conclusion. It wasn’t that you didn’t trust the prince’s word, only that you knew that he was a busy man with tight schedules, that you were the eldest child of a noble family with a future to be decided and forged ahead. You returned his smile and tried to ignore the thought that you wished he’d come to the library months ago, that you’d met sooner so you could have had more time together.

“Would you like me to keep reading?” you asked as you reminded yourself that he was a prince and that was all he would ever be to you. It was a fortunate happenstance to have met him at all, you reminded yourself as he nodded eagerly and propped his chin into his hand to listen contentedly as you began to read again.

It didn’t stop you from clinging to every moment and trying to engrave every detail into your memory.

***

During the last few days you visited the castle library, you tried your best to think about Beomgyu as little as possible and focus solely on study. It was a hard task. Passing the grand portrait of the royal family in the hallway without looking was like trying not to glance around when feeling the presence of someone you know. It felt as if the library was haunted now. Almost each corner held a memory of the prince finding you and bumbling eagerly through a tale, helping you carry books back to their shelves, or asking you to come and sit in the garden.

You had seriously considered leaving early, removing yourself from the castle before the hour he usually made his way to the library. But you weren’t sure which would hurt more — knowingly missing out on seeing him in the last few chances you had, or having more encounters in which to grow more attached. The thought of both made something inside of you ache.

Just when you’d convinced yourself you had made up your mind to leave, you passed a window and spotted a carriage pull up at the entrance gates below. The door swung before the footman could rush to open it and there he was. You didn’t know he hadn’t been here in the castle. The heart that had sat heavy in your chest felt leagues lighter just at this distant glimpse of him. As you tried to gauge whether you were relieved you hadn’t gotten away without seeing the prince, you saw him rush inside. He disappeared from view of the window and you looked up into the purple hued sky of the fast oncoming dusk. Maybe you were safe after all. He was clearly on his way to tend to a matter of importance. Feeling assured you could slip away unnoticed, you slid the last volume back onto its shelf and made for the door.

The sound of hurried footsteps on marble gave you pause. Unconsciously you backed away a few steps frin the open double doors, ready to wait out the staff who must have been ascending the staircase on some urgent errand. But the huff of exertion you heard was familiar. Heart pulsing suddenly and in a mind of suspense and disbelief, you waited with bated breath.

When Beomgyu stepped through the doors, you felt an overwhelming gratitude that you hadn’t succeeded in your departure. Even after a mere day without seeing each other, seeing those warm eyes and the smile that broke across his face when he found you felt akin to finding a well of water after a month without rain.

“I’m so glad I found you here,” he said in his usual way, and it sparked your smile just as it always did. You were so occupied with trying to memorize this feeling, to make sure you remembered this moment, that you didn’t reply. Beomgyu was preoccupied himself and didn’t seem to notice. “I got you something.” His grin turned a tiny bit shy.

You blinked in surprise as the words sank in. “You got–? Your Highness–”

Beomgyu chuckled. “Come on, none of that.” Your eyes didn’t leave his as he reached for the hand at your side. His other retrieved something tucked under his arm. Gently he turned your hand upwards, and you hardly had time to process anything before an object was placed into it.

You looked down to see the very book you had been reading in the garden, only it wasn’t the same copy. This seemed to be a newer edition, with a beautiful blue velvet cover. It felt quite luxurious as you turned it over in your hands. A gasp emitted from you as the glint of the gold page edges caught the light. It was the most special and thoughtful gift you’d ever received, and, you thought, far more precious than any of the books that surrounded you in the royal library. You found yourself so touched that you wanted to cry, but you fought back the tears as you looked up at your friend.

The prince looked twice as happy as you felt. His eyes sparkled despite the soft lighting, and his cheeks had taken on a slightly bashful pink. “So you can finish it,” he told you softly. “And read it over and over again, any time you want.”

You were still speechless, and you could feel the hot prickle of tears threatening to build. Before you knew it, you had thrown your arms around his neck, his arms closing around your back. Never did you imagine anything like this. You were stretched up on your toes, and you were sure he was leaning down to hug you, but you were too wrapped up in the moment to think about any of it. It felt like you were holding on to each other a long time before you finally parted. The urge to kiss his cheek filled you as you brushed away from him, but you thought better of it. The last thing you wanted was for him to feel as though you were jumping to conclusions that were presumptuous.

“I don’t have anything to give you,” you fretted. The weight of the book in your hands made you feel unexpectedly empty-handed.

Beomgyu chuckled. “It’s a ‘good luck’ present. Except I know you won’t need luck.”

“Thank you, Beomgyu.” His smile somehow grew at your use of his name. You knew you had his smile etched into your memory already.

“You’ll have to tell me how it ends,” he said as the two of you made your way slowly down the stairs. It was the first time he’d walked you out, and you were too intent on borrowing more time with him to worry much about being seen together when you reached the grand hall.

“No, I won’t,” you retorted with a laugh, looking up at him as you both dragged out each next step as subtly as possible. “You have your own copy here,”

Beomgyu pondered this for a moment, lips pursing, before formulating his reply. His eyes were determined as they met yours again. “Well, we’ll have to discuss our opinions on the ending.”

Neither of you took notice of the way the heads turned and followed the two of you as you crossed the hall. It was mostly palace staff at this time of evening. With the book clutched to your chest, they could only gather that this was the spark that had ignited Prince Beomgyu’s sudden penchant for reading. Many silent smiles were exchanged across the room as you passed.

“You will come if I invite you, won’t you?” Bromgyu asked on the front steps. His face was earnest, maybe the most you’d ever seen. “When you have time out from school?”

“Of course,” you replied, meaning it with all the hope in your heart. “But I haven’t gotten the scholarship yet.” You felt cause to keep reminding him.

“As well as I know how often you could come to visit if you didn’t get it, I know you will. I have no doubt.”

You looked up to see the genuine look in his eyes, sincerity doing little to conceal the sadness. “We’ll see each other again.” The words felt like truth as you spoke them. “And in the meantime, we can write.” Beomgyu nodded eagerly.

Disappointment tugged at you when you spotted your family’s carriage roll up through the gates. With a small bow and one last smile, you stepped into the vehicle, still clutching Beomgyu’s gift. You kept your eyes on him as the horses walked on, watched him wave until he was out of sight. There was a renewed heaviness about you as you sat back and settled in for the journey home. Even the first stars beginning to emerge from the darkening sky couldn’t comfort you as you gazed out of the window solemnly.

***

Prince Beomgyu tried his best, rather unsuccessfully, to stifle yet another yawn. He’d stayed up too late reading, and now he was sitting in the grand hall trying to go over his upcoming speech with bleary eyes. He hadn’t intended to go to bed quite so late, but each time he’d told himself he’d close the book at the end of the chapter, he hadn’t been able to. The closer he’d gotten to the end of the story, the more gripped by it he’d become and the faster his eyes seemed capable of taking in the words. He’d read until he’d finished the book, then sat in stunned silence. He couldn’t help but wonder if you’d finished the book yourself, and he’d had the strong urge to start a letter. Instead, his good sense had taken him to bed, where he’d remembered the speech he should have spent the night memorising. The book had been a satisfying distraction. Without it he likely would have tossed and turned the whole night in anticipation of giving his speech.

Beomgyu was still new to public speaking and was not fond of it. As the hour grew closer, he found himself stumbling over his words as he practised. He could feel his heart rate increase, seemingly with each tick of the loud ornate clock across from him and every sound that carried into the hall from the room full of people he was to address.

Getting to his feet, he began to move about the room in an effort to soothe himself. His thoughts attempted to reassure him. He knew what was expected of him. He knew, for the most part, what he was to say. But then the image of hundreds of pairs of eyes all fixed on him crept into his mind, sending a chill down his back. As he passed the clock, he felt it was taunting him — it seemed the minutes were passing faster than they should. He could almost feel the second hand’s torturous chanting inside his chest from this proximity. With a shaky sigh he turned to cross the room away from it again, fiddling with the golden buttons on his jacket cuff which he had already fastened and unfastened more times than he could count in his nervous state.

Through the open doors across the hall he could hear the familiar sound of a carriage arriving out front. Beomgyu allowed himself to imagine it had come to rescue him. He had the urge to go and greet it, just to give him a brief distraction, but the clock stared him down, boasting a mere five minutes remaining until he must speak in front of the crowd. Reaching for the small paper in his pocket, he made to sit once more and make himself concentrate on revising the words, until a voice called his title. He jumped back to his feet in panic, fearing they had come to usher him in early, but as he turned to the door beside him that led to the luncheon, he found no one. Instantly some of the tension in his raised shoulders fell away.

“Beomgyu!”

His heart skipped over one beat as he spun toward the entrance and saw a figure in a half mannerly run. Disbelief flickered in his mind at the sight of you, the first in weeks, but his body suddenly felt lighter than it had all day. You were rushing toward him, an unmistakable grin on your face, footsteps muffled by the thick ancient rug that carpeted the tiled floors.

Beomgyu stepped away from his seat with only seconds to spare, his face still one of bewilderment as you threw your arms around him, almost knocking the prince off his feet. His heart was thudding rapidly in his chest, but now it had nothing to do with nerves. His arms went around you instinctively as you met chest to chest, and in his excitement he brought you up onto your toes with his hug. Your laugh in his ear was like a familiar tune from a yesterday he’d longed to return to.

You pulled back to see his face, speaking first as you saw a question forming in his mind. “I got it! The scholarship – I got it!” you exclaimed.

The sun seemed to dawn on Beomgyu’s face, along with something that looked proud. “Of course you did! What did I tell you?”

His arms had relaxed around you to let you draw back, and now you glanced down at the placement of your hands on his shoulders, looking a touch shy in your realisation. His smile grew at this.

“You worked so hard.” He spoke more softly than a moment ago. His heart didn’t seem to settle as the two of you untangled from each other. He had half a thought to check on the time before another thought replaced it. “I finished the book last night.”

Your smile turned fond. He’d missed you more than he’d thought he had, which was hard to imagine. “I finished it the night you gave it to me,” you admitted with a small laugh. “Did you like how the story ends?”

Beomgyu reached a hand out toward yours in a small movement, his skin tingling at the feel of your warm fingers as you allowed your own to close around his. It was the second time he’d touched your hand, and this time he could hold it longer. “Yes,” he replied as he felt his smile widen. Your eyes met his again with a new shine. “I liked the ending very much.”

The clock chimed across the hall, announcing the hour and reminding him of his impending task. The door opened and his advisor appeared. If he was surprised to find the prince with company, he didn’t show it. The man simply smiled and nodded his head respectfully. “They’re ready for you, Your Highness.” Then he disappeared back inside.

Beomgyu took a deep breath. He found that he wasn’t as anxious as he had been before. There was still a lingering nervousness, but it had been softened by another feeling. Even the wall of sound that was just beyond the door seemed to have dulled at the back of his mind. He looked at you and you nodded towards the open door.

“My parents are inside. I used them as my excuse to come here.” He caught your clever smile, then felt your hand on his shoulder, and before he knew it you’d raised up onto your toes and your lips brushed his cheek. It was the kiss you’d held back before. “Good luck. But I know you won’t need it,” you said, slipping away through the door before he could react to the tingle on his face.

The prince’s mind was pleasantly blank as he faced the door and the duty ahead of him. It seemed his nerves had been replaced by a buzzing sensation that felt rather like courage, matching the tingling trace of your kiss on his face. Equipped with a smile, he stepped into the room feeling like he was about to give his best speech yet.

#beomgyu fics #beomgyu x reader #prince txt au #txt scenarios #txt imagines #txt x reader #beomgyu imagines #kpop imagines #kpop scenarios #prince beomgyu

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mactiir · 6 months ago

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sword misconceptions pt 1: longsword

Post series: shortsword | rapier | buckler | dagger | spear

so as I'm getting back into fantasy lit as a historical fencer, there are a lot of things I am noticing cropping up in swordfights that are inaccurate or flat out wrong. So i wanted to write a post for my fellow writers putting down a few things I've learned in 2.5 years of swinging the actual weapons around!

Disclaimer: i am not an expert. Additionally, many of the historical terms for weapons were not standardized (there was no "one" longsword/rapier/shortsword etc when we're talking about a weapon that existed for hundreds of years across an entire continent) so what I'm discussing under the cut is specific to the late medieval/early Renaissance European two-handed weapon with a simple hilt/crossguard and with a blade length around 3 feet -- what D&D calls the longsword, or in older editions the bastard sword (although if we want to get picky about it, bastard swords should have shorter handles than longswords -- but I wrote this post as a writing reference so names are beside the point. you can call the swords whatever you want in your story, anyway).

Misconception 1: longswords are heavy.

Older editions of D&D had these weapons at 6 pounds, which is about 2x too heavy. 5e has them at 3 pounds, which is exactly right. Your average longsword is between 2 and 4 pounds, and a well-made one will be balanced such that you barely feel it. Pound for pound, they are heavier than almost all one handed weapons (except some rapiers but we'll talk about that later), but between their balance and the fact you wield them in both hands, their weight is likely not going to be a prohibiting factor for most characters. Everyone who can pick up a wooden baseball bat can pick a longsword up and swing it. A weak or out of shape character will struggle for wielding it for lengths of time, though.

Misconception 2: longswords are slow.

You're 1) thinking of a zweihander and 2)zweihanders aren't slow, either, but we'll get to that later. Longswords, wielded properly in both hands, are lightning fast, with a skilled fencer that's opened their opponent's defense often able to land 2-4 hits before a director even registers the first hit and calls "halt". And there are two components to speed: actual velocity, and distance. Longswords are -- well, long. Even if you can't swing it as fast as a little knife, the fact that it's three feet long means you're closing to target much faster compared with a shorter weapon, because you don't have to do as much footwork to get into, or out of, striking range.

Misconception 3: you can wield a longsword in one or both hands.

I mean, you could. But a one-handed wield robs a longsword of a lot of its dexterity, grace, precision, and yes -- power. You want two hands on this thing. Your dominant hand goes closer to the crossguard and it's what generates your power and edge alignment. Your offhand on or near the pommel is where your dexterity and fine steering is. Switching or removing either of these hands feels weird and you are also way more likely to get disarmed just by trying to parry with one hand.

Misconception 4: swordfights are about dodging.

You have two realistic options when someone is swinging a longsword at you: parry or step out of range. You do not duck. You do not jump. You do not sway, roll, or do backbends. All of these things will 1) rob you of necessary structure to riposte, 2) leave you wide open for a renewed attack or remise, and 3) leave your most important tool for not getting hit -- your SWORD -- too far off target to help you. Yes, all of these things look super cool and may fit depending on your style and setting. But if you're going for realism, YOU PARRY.

Misconception 5: you can be fast or strong but not both.

Ok, this is more a pet peeve about martial arts in general but: you cannot be fast without a certain base amount of muscle. You CANNOT. Small people with no muscle are slow. They have to take huge, looping cuts to compensate for their lack of muscle and leave huge openings while they do it. Small people who do well at the sport are often very quick because they have to train the heck out of footwork to outwork bigger opponents, but that only comes with TRAINING. It's not a "small people are automatically dex builds" thing. And while big muscly guys are often slower, they also 1) have less distance to move to close to target, which makes them "faster" even if they are moving a tad slower and 2) they're also often fast as balls, so you can judge virtually nothing about an opponent based on their body type except for their reach. A good, big longsword fencer will often have really fast handwork because most don't do well in longsword fencing without speed.

Let me know if there are any lingering questions I missed! I may think of more later, but I hope this was helpful for now :)

#writing reference #writing #swordfighting #swords #historical fencing #fantasy writing #writing fiction #creative writing #longsword #hema #historical european martial arts #Martial arts reference #Sword reference

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ziseviolet · 2 years ago

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Please can you explain the difference of meaning between hanfu and huafu ? Sorry if you already got the question

Hi, thanks for the question, and sorry for taking ages to reply! (hanfu photo via)

The term “hanfu” (traditional Chinese: 漢服, simplified Chinese: 汉服) literally means “Han clothing”, and refers to the traditional clothing of the Han Chinese people. “Han” (漢/汉) here refers to the Han Chinese ethnic group (not the Han dynasty), and “fu” (服) means “clothing”. As I explained in this post, the modern meaning of “hanfu” is defined by the hanfu revival movement and community. As such, there is a lot of gatekeeping by the community around what is or isn’t hanfu (based on historical circumstances, cultural influences, tailoring & construction, etc). This isn’t a bad thing - in fact, I think gatekeeping to a certain extent is helpful and necessary when it comes to reviving and defining historical/traditional clothing. However, this also led to the need for a similarly short, catchy term that would include all Chinese clothing that didn’t fit the modern definition of hanfu -- enter huafu.

The term “huafu” (traditional Chinese: 華服, simplified Chinese: 华服) as it is used today has a broader definition than hanfu. “Hua” (華/华) refers to the Chinese people (中华民族/zhonghua minzu), and again “fu” (服) means “clothing”. It is an umbrella term for all clothing that is related to Chinese history and/or culture. Thus all hanfu is huafu, but not all huafu is hanfu. Below are examples of Chinese clothing that are generally not considered hanfu by the hanfu community for various reasons, but are considered huafu:

1. Most fashions that originated during the Qing dynasty (1644–1911), especially late Qing, including the Qing aoqun & aoku for women, and the Qing changshan and magua for men. I wrote about whether Qing dynasty clothing can be considered hanfu here. Tangzhuang, which is an updated form of the Qing magua popularized in 2001, can also fit into this category. Below - garments in the style of Han women’s clothing during the Qing dynasty (清汉女装) from 秦綿衣莊 (1, 2).

2. Fashions that originated during the Republican era/minguo (1912-1949), including the minguo aoqun & aoku and qipao/cheongsam for women, and the minguo changshan for men (the male equivalent of the women’s qipao). I wrote about why qipao isn’t considered hanfu here. Below - minguo aoqun (left) & qipao (right) from 嬉姷.

Below - Xiangsheng (crosstalk) performers Zhang Yunlei (left) & Guo Qilin (right) in minguo-style men’s changshan (x). Changshan is also known as changpao and dagua.

3. Qungua/裙褂 and xiuhefu/秀禾服, two types of Chinese wedding garments for brides that are commonly worn today. Qungua originated in the 18th century during the Qing dynasty, and xiuhefu is a modern recreation of Qing wedding dress popularized in 2001 (x). Below - left: qungua (x), right: xiuhefu (x).

4. Modified hanfu (改良汉服/gailiang hanfu) and hanyuansu/汉元素 (hanfu-inspired fashion), which do not fit in the orthodox view of hanfu. Hanfu mixed with sartorial elements of other cultures also fit into this category (e.g. hanfu lolita). From the very start of the hanfu movement, there’s been debate between hanfu “traditionalists” and “reformists”, with most members being somewhere in the middle, and this discussion continues today. Below - hanyuansu outfits from 川黛 (left) and 远山乔 (right).

5. Performance costumes, such as Chinese opera costumes (戏服/xifu) and Chinese dance costumes. These costumes may or may not be considered hanfu depending on the specific style. Dance costumes, in particular, may have non-traditional alterations to make the garment easier to dance in. Dunhuang-style feitian (apsara) costumes, which I wrote about here, can also fit into this category. Below - left: Chinese opera costume (x), right: Chinese dance costume (x).

6. Period drama costumes and fantasy costumes in popular media (live-action & animation, games, etc.), commonly referred to as guzhuang/古装 (lit. “ancient costumes”). Chinese period drama costumes are of course based on hanfu, and may be considered hanfu if they are historically accurate enough. However, as I wrote about here, a lot of the time there are stylistic inaccuracies (some accidental, some intentional) that have become popularized and standardized over time (though this does seem to be improving in recent years). This is especially prevalent in the wuxia and xianxia genres. Similarly, animated shows & games often have characters dressed in “fantasy hanfu” that are essentially hanfu with stylistic modifications. Below - left: Princess Taiping in historical cdrama 大明宫词/Palace of Desire (x), right: Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji in wuxia/xianxia cdrama 陈情令/The Untamed (x).

7. Any clothing in general that purposefully utilizes Chinese style elements (embroidery, fabrics, patterns, motifs, etc). Chinese fashion brand Heaven Gaia is a well-known example of this. Below - Chinese-inspired designs by Heaven Gaia (x).

8. Technically, the clothing of China’s ethnic minorities also fit under the broad definition of huafu, but it’s rarely ever used in this way.

From personal observation, the term “huafu” is mainly used in the following situations:

1. Some large-scale events to promote Chinese clothing, such as the annual “华服日/Huafu Day”, will use “huafu” in their name for inclusivity.

2. For the same reason as above, Chinese clothing including hanfu will often be referred to as “huafu” on network television programs (ex: variety shows).

3. A few Chinese clothing shops on Taobao use “huafu” in their shop name. Two examples:

明镜华服/Mingjing Huafu - sells hanfu & hanyuansu.

花神妙华服/Huashenmiao Huafu - sells Qing dynasty-style clothing.

With the exception of the above, “huafu” is still very rarely used, especially compared to “hanfu”. It has such a broad definition that it’s just not needed in situations for which a more precise term already exists. However, I do think it’s useful as a short catch-all term for Chinese clothing that isn’t limited to the currently accepted definition of hanfu.

If anyone wants to add on or correct something, please feel free to do so! ^^

Hope this helps!

#happy 2023!#hanfu #huafu #terminology #language #hanfu movement #history #reference #ask #reply #>1000 #chinese fashion #chinese culture #china

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maniacwatchestheworld · 1 month ago

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The Aesthetics and Environmental Storytelling of the Society of the Blind Eye

This is the third post to try and make sure that we're all on the same page as to where I get my ideas and thoughts about the Society of the Blind Eye! So in the last part I discussed the Blind Eye's symbol and how it can be used to indicate that they oppose Bill Cipher. If you thought that I was pulling that idea out of my ass in the previous post, then guess what! I have further evidence of it! And that evidence is the hideout of the Society of the Blind Eye itself! Because if you pay attention, it seems that the Society's hideout was built on top of the bones of a temple dedicated to Bill Cipher!

Now it's not too outrageous to think that there was probably a cult dedicated to Bill Cipher in Gravity Falls at some point, right? It's never mentioned in Journal 3 nor the Book of Bill, but Gravity Falls is very much a place of interest to Bill Cipher, and his influence there stretches back thousands upon thousands of years. And the hideout where the Society now resides... It honestly doesn't seem like something they would have constructed themselves. In fact, it seems to have originally been a temple to Bill Cipher that the Society has since retrofitted to fit their own purposes.

The connections between Bill Cipher and the Society's hideout are evident from the very outset with trying to get into the hideout in the first place.

Now obviously eyes are a symbol and motif that Bill Cipher and the Blind Eye both share. This room doesn't necessarily hint at a connection to the hideout and Bill Cipher inherently, right? To that I say, look at image above the door and secondly, to get into the Blind Eye's lair...

Well then, that's just a Bill Cipher right there! A triangle with an eye in the middle of it? You could even make the argument that the etchings indicating the X could be a stylized depiction of Bill's eyelashes! No hat or bow tie, sure, but that's still very much a Bill within the context of this series!

Now once you start making your way into the Blind Eye's lair, it's very clear that this place is old. Very old. Much much older than the building above it.

This place is entirely made of stone with no insulation. It's lit and probably heated by fire. This place is starting to crumble and fall apart, the cracks in the walls being held together by metal brackets.

By contrast the building above it...

It's a modern building with the electricity being wired through the walls and a modern lighting and heating system that's not dissimilar to what you'd normally expect out of any other building in Gravity Falls! Sure, it looks like there might be some cracks and dents in the plaster on the walls, but it's nothing too worrying or indicative of these structures falling apart! The building's been around for a while. And given the pneumatic tubes that Fiddleford likely had to have installed both within the Blind Eye's lair and the museum above it himself, that means that this building had to have been around for ~30 years at minimum. But that's nothing compared to how old the structure beneath it seems to be. It really does seem that the hideout had to have been built first and then the museum was later built on top of it. And the Society has just not been around long enough for them to have been the ones to have built the hideout!

Besides. It's a bit of an odd fit, right? A cult built around the idea of forgetting their own pasts placed underneath a location dedicated to remembering and maintaining objects from the past...? Or maybe it's just some delicious irony. I mean, the memories that they had erased are kept down there too after all. But if this building was originally run by a Bill Cipher cult...? Oh yeah! That absolutely makes sense! Of COURSE Bill would want his temple hidden underneath a museum! He basically IS human history after all, right!? He's had a hand in so many historical people's lives, events, and is part of their cultures! A temple dedicated to him underneath a museum that would basically be a shrine full of artifacts dedicated to him? He'd LOVE that! I mean, Ford had to get his various pieces of Bill Cipher memorabilia for his shrine/home from SOMEWHERE, right!? Additionally...

What right and under what circumstances would the Society be allowed to have these ancient Egyptian artifacts!??? Why would the Society even WANT something like these!? The Society has nothing to do with Egypt and their artifacts, so why are these here!??? But if this place was originally dedicated to Bill Cipher... Well then... That ENTIRELY makes sense!! OF COURSE there would be ancient Egyptian artifacts in a temple to Bill Cipher! He was the inspiration for the pyramids!

I also want you to take note of that light and how you can see the electrical wiring that powers it coming out of it and running along the wall. That's a clear indication that this building was built before electricity would or could have been installed into this lair and that the electricity was installed later. Another indication that the hideout is likely much MUCH older than the building on top of it!

And as one more pretty definitive piece of evidence that this lair had originally been built by a Bill Cipher cult... THESE PILLARS!!!

Now do those symbols look familiar from somewhere...? Well, some of them pretty heavily feature triangles and have a very Bill-adjacent aesthetic to them... But then there's also THIS!

Here you can see that those symbols on the pillars ARE Bill Cipher symbols! It's very likely that those symbols have always been there, long long before the Society took up residence within these temple walls! From this, I think that it's pretty clear to say that this hideout existed LONG before the Society of the Blind Eye existed, and that a group of people who dedicated themselves to Bill Cipher inhabited it long before the Society became the modern, current day inhabitants of it.

... But as the modern day inhabitants of this space, it doesn't seem that the Blind Eye cares much for preserving the historical sanctity of this place.

The Society seems to have taken what was there since long before them and vandalized it to suit their own iconograpy and purposes. Just like their very symbol. The evidence that I've shown thus far could be used to suggest that Bill Cipher had influence on the Society of the Blind Eye and perhaps used the Society to enact his own desires in the physical world, but I don't personally buy that idea because A) It would be EXCEEDINGLY dangerous for Bill to do so and B) The lack of care and in fact blatant defacing of this temple's features suggests the opposite to me! Hell, they don't even keep the place clean!!

Other than the main chamber: Canisters. EVERYWHERE! Entirely unorganized as far as we can tell. Hoarded in piles on the floors, not even on the tables that seem to have just been placed in here willy-nilly! Put into crates without a care. It's a mess! And that's not even mentioning the pneumatic tubes!

The pneumatic tubes were certainly not built at the same time as this structure and must have been installed later, likely by Fiddleford himself! They curve around everything, bracketed into place along walls and columns alike! And when they do go through the pillars...

Where the tubes go through the walls and columns, the stone is cracked, holes probably having been driven into them without a care or thought about how that would effect the building's structural integrity. The sheer number of pneumatic tubes and the haphazard way they seem to have been placed everywhere is likely even more of a reflection to how much Fiddleford had damaged himself and his own mind as he desperately sought to forget. And in that state, Fiddleford probably didn't even think nor care to think about what he was doing and how it would effect this base of theirs. And besides. What would it matter? This was a temple to Bill Cipher before them. And certainly no one would remember being in such a cult after the Society was done with the town.

And so that's all I really have to say about that. The Society's aesthetic is cool! You could call it something akin to Steampunk, but I think that the better keyword here is retrofitted. Or perhaps its darker counterpart- defaced. After all, retrofitting is something that Fiddleford does all the time and is all about!

Using bottle caps to make memory guns, mattress springs and jugs to make sea monsters. And I imagine that the Society was built much the same way... But in a darker sense. Taking the remnants of a temple to Bill Cipher, destroying its previous aesthetic and purpose and making it suit his own to create a cult of his own that would wipe away people's memories from them until he himself would deface his own memories so thoroughly that he could only become a mere shadow of who he used to be. Very tragic for Fiddleford himself. But a very interesting implied history and aesthetic for the rest of us!

#society of the blind eye #gravity falls #fiddleford mcgucket #the book of bill #journal 3 #fiddleford hadron mcgucket #the society of the blind eye #sotbe

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whencyclopedia · 5 months ago

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Romani

Romani is an umbrella term used to describe a diverse ethnolinguistic group of people with a historical presence in Europe and West Asia. The historically common term 'Gypsy' is based on the myth that they came from Egypt. In reality, the ancestors of the Romani migrated out of India in the 1st millennium CE.

During the European colonization of the New World, the first Romani arrived in the Americas as a result of slavery or deportation by European colonial powers. Romani immigrants began to voluntarily settle in North and South America in the 19th century. In the present, Romani communities are found throughout the world. Romani people share language and certain cultural similarities but encompass a wide range of social, cultural, and ethnic diversity.

Names & Identity

For most of history, there was no universal name for the Romani in their own language; different groups of Romani speakers and their descendants used different names for themselves and each other. The closest thing to an endonym in the Romani language is the word Rom/Romni, meaning a man or woman. In the present day, 'Romani' and 'Roma' are the most widely accepted umbrella terms for groups who speak or historically spoke Romani and have a common origin in the Indian subcontinent.

However, the Romani label is a modern invention intended to make it easier to discuss the overlapping history and experience of these groups and was not used this way prior to the 20th century. For most of history, there was no unified Romani identity or nation. The label is applied by historians to more conveniently refer to a number of communities which shared language and some cultural habits, but it should not be taken to mean that these groups were unified or homogenous. Contrary to the stereotype of Romani keeping themselves separate from society at large, European Romani were intimately connected to their neighbours and possessed a flexible cultural identity.

Different groups of Romani speakers have historically used their own endonyms. 'Roma' is widely used among Romani originating in Central and Eastern Europe. The Finnish Kaale and the Calé of the Iberian peninsula use names derived from kalo (meaning "black" in Romani). Other notable peoples include the Sinti of northwestern Europe, the Manouche of France and Belgium, and the Romanichal found in English-speaking countries. Many Romani clans and subgroups have been known by their historical professions, such as the Kalderash (lit. "coppersmiths").

Several names have been given to the Romani by outsiders, often based on misconceptions about them. The English word 'Gypsy' comes from the myth that the Romani originated in Egypt. Over time, it came to be used broadly for many nomadic or semi-nomadic groups in Eurasia. In the modern day, the term 'Gypsy' is often considered offensive, although it is used by some Romani. Gypsy is often used academically as an umbrella term to include both Romani and other nomadic peoples historically labeled 'Gypsies.'

Numerous European languages use words derived from the Greek word Atsingani or Athingani to describe Romani, such as the French Tzigane or Portuguese Cigano. The original Greek likely derives from Athinganoi, the name of a heretical Christian sect in the Byzantine Empire, and may have been applied to the Romani due to their foreign religious practices or association with fortune-telling.

The history of the Romani is intertwined with that of other minority groups, particularly nomadic peoples of Europe and the Middle East. The Lom of Armenia and the Dom found throughout North Africa and the Middle East share commonalities with Romani and likely share an Indian origin. The Romani, Domari, and Lomavren languages are thought to have originated from the same group of Central Indian languages. The term Gypsy has historically also been applied to other European nomadic peoples such as Irish Travellers and the Yenish of Western Europe, who have different origins than the Romani.

#History #Americas #ArienneKing #Armenia #WHE #[#]

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otter-pup · 6 months ago

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historical scenario:

as the prince, your parents have spared no expense getting you the finest tutors to prepare you to ascend to the throne (though your father remains in good health, long may he reign). you’re excellent with languages, accomplished with swordplay, know how to navigate the treacherous waters of court life with relative ease. a comprehensive education, with just one gap that you feel might be a massive oversight:

magic. alchemy. uncovering the hidden, intricate workings of Creation.

the king and queen don’t believe that sorcery is a pursuit worthy of your time (“That’s what the court astrologer is for,” your mother says, waving in my direction). after discussions turning into arguments, they outright forbid you to begin lessons with me.

so, of course, you come to my quarters at an odd hour of night, demanding, pleading with me to teach you in secret.

i wonder if your parents had other reasons to keep you from studying privately with me.

i shouldn’t. i really shouldn’t. it’s my neck on the line if they find out.

but alchemy is a complex, volatile frontier, and i could certainly use an assistant… i usher you in.

it is dull, arduous work, with a good deal of sweeping, grand theory, and only occasionally any tangible reward. but i part the veil for you. the divine mechanism of the stars, the basic elements of world, the Great Work. piece by piece, your understanding of reality shifts and expands, and… it is wonderful. breathtaking.

one evening, an experiment comes to its culmination— success. the two of us look in awe as the substances combine, swirl, and ignite— a striking, unearthly glow in the candlelit laboratory. as it dies down, we are both ranting excitedly, talking over each other as i ensure the concoction is safely stoppered and you document everything in the shorthand i taught you. we cheer, we grab each other and dance, and finally we are still for a moment, breathing heavily, holding each other, and i look down into your wide, shining eyes.

“It worked,” is all i say.

we combine. we swirl. we ignite. on the work table, against my bookcases. i help you see stars.

soon, it’s not just your understanding of reality that’s expanding.

- 🦑

i'm endlessly curious, much to my parents' dismay when all the tutoring they can offer me isn't enough to sate it. i want to know More -- more dangerous, tedious things that are meant to be told to me, not found by me.

so of course i come to you. i need to know, curiosity burning insatiable in my core, and you're the only one who can teach me. and, against my parents' wishes, with all the risk that entails, you do.

teaching me properly is very hands-on, to say the least - your hands overlapping mine as you show me the proper way to stir each individual concoction for the proper result, the proper way to hold the vials when pouring to keep it from spilling. soon enough, each touch is lighting more of a fire than it's sating, though i refuse to voice it and risk my unofficial, unauthorized apprenticeship.

and then we succeed. something we'd been working towards for months finally comes to fruition. and as soon as it's done, we're touching again with no real need, dancing around the workshop, and from there? the second fire you lit in me is finally sated - if it ever can be sated.

i can't be sure why i get so big so fast, if it's a side effect of my constant interaction with the arcane or if i'm simply that fertile naturally. regardless, my parents cannot simply get rid of the sire of the next royal children, saving you from their wrath.

i'm glad for it, because even as i'm still growing, i know this is far from the last litter i'll carry, and i want you to give me each one, to teach me more about seeing stars and about expansion each time.

#puppytalk #nsft #🦑#tmpreg #ftm pregnancy #ftmpreg #trans pregnancy #ftm nsft #t4t nsft #mlm nsft #gay nsft #trans nsft #ftm breeding #t4t breeding

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dwellordream · 1 year ago

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about to sound like a turbo asshole but that’s okay. tens of thousands of aspiring writers on tumblr who freely admit they only read fanfic, fanfic adapted into original books, and webcomics/cartoons.

there is nothing wrong with engaging in fandom and reading tons of fanfic. I don’t actually have a moral or artistic issue with writers turning their fanfics into original works and trying to publish it. tale as old as time.

but the #1 thing that will improve your writing, more than any list of tumblr tips or youtube writing seminars or discord discussions, is reading a wide range of books.

read ‘popcorn lit’. read coming of age tales. read kids fantasy. read adult fantasy. read murder mysteries. read erotica. read nonfiction memoirs. read books of poetry. read historical fiction. read books by dead people and young people and translated works. read realistic dramas. read sci fi. read horror. read short story anthologies.

but you MUST read more than just fanfiction if you want to improve. and if you are an adult you SHOULD try to branch out and read beyond YA literature. even if’s uncomfortable and hard at first. hell, read books to disagree with them! read authors you object to! articulate why you disagree! critique! that’s part of maturing as a reader and writer.

#writing #word to the wise #literature

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pennyellee · 1 year ago

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preview of chapter VI

LACRIMOSA | MYG MAFIA YANDERE AU

pairings: mafia leader!yoongi x f!reader genre: mafia!au, yandere au, historical au

summary: Their interlocking gaze served as a butterfly effect on his heart, stirring it to the core. She, in turn, only dreams to find a way to escape. But perchance, over time she might forcefully learn to love the man who has taken so much from her.

Thus unfolds a twisted tale of love and loss, of hope and despair, of life and death. The music reverberated through the dimly-lit streets. Tears of sorrow, weeping symphony - reflects the hurt, the scars that linger deep within and the wounds that never healed. Lacrimosa.

chapter warnings: minors dni 18+ | mafia au, dark!yoongi, mafia!yoongi, yandere, manipulation, possessive/obsessive behaviour, angst, mentions of God, mentions of alcohol, manhandling, mentions of murder, gun use, abduction, attempted non-con, gaslighting, vomiting, anxiety, choking, decapitation, strong language, smut, loss of virginity

beta read by @chaoticpuff17

word count: 844

disclaimer: this story is purely fictional, it does not depict real-life events or involve any actual members of BTS. This story will contain depictions of violence, blood shed, death, mentions of abuse, smoking, alcohol drinking, illegal activities, old social norms and traditions, which we do not condone.

m.list CHAPTER I CHAPTER II CHAPTER III CHAPTER IV CHAPTER V CHAPTER VI

“Do we?-” She interrupted, praying for a change of his mind, though fully aware of the inevitability. He needed to ensure no loopholes in their marriage for others to exploit or for her to negotiate over. She knows this is mandatory.

“Yes, we do,” he acknowledged after some thought. Knowing what she had been through that day, he recognised the potential impact, but he also saw it as a way to fully claim her. It was a selfish desire, perhaps, but one he had long awaited.

Yoongi longed to feel her skin to skin. It was indeed selfish, he knew that much. Some would say it is careless of him to demand such an intimate act to happen after all she has been through. But he wanted to show her that this is a part of their marriage she can truly enjoy. Yoongi wanted to give a final full stop to their relationship by solidifying the union rightfully, as the tradition goes.

The flickering flames of the fireplace danced in the dimly lit room, casting a warm glow upon Y/N and Yoongi. Consummating the marriage was a private but necessary measure.

His selfishness had not gone unnoticed by the syndicate elders, who questioned his insistence on not just any hotel room but the house where generations of memories had been created. He deliberately wanted to spend the night in the house he grew up in, where his father started a family, and his grandfather, and his grandfather and so on down the history line.

Yoongi, having lost his parents at a young age, yearned to start his own family. He wanted to witness the growth of his children, their marriages, and their own families.

Y/N knew this day would come, sooner or later, and as a young woman, she had learnt to protect herself from unplanned consequences. She understood his desire for a child, though he never explicitly discussed it with her. But she was far from being ready to surrender to the life fate had planned for her, not just yet.

Heaven had given her a sign, a slight hope when she found a particular herb in the garden before the first snow fell. Y/N had kept it discreet, asking the maid to dry the flowers and serve them as tea in the morning. Tonight, she was calm, knowing it could not happen, even if he wished otherwise.

Yoongi observed her hesitance, her eyes reflecting a mixture of fear and resilience. The room, with its walls that held generations of memories, seemed to echo with the weight of tradition and expectation. But as he reached out to touch her cheek gently, his eyes softened.

The sharp sound of a loud whistle from the tea kettle startled them both, tearing them out of the cocoon of their thoughts. The iron kettle hung gracefully over the open flame, steam rising in wisps as if trying to escape the weight of the night. Yoongi carefully prepared the tea, his movements deliberate and unhurried. The aroma of freshly brewed leaves filled the air. The porcelain teapot, an heirloom passed down through generations, sat patiently on the wooden small table that was next to them. As he poured the tea into delicate cups, he eyed her small physique yet again, searching for any signs.

She accepted the cup he offered her, the warmth seeping through the delicate porcelain. Her mind briefly paused when she recognised the familiar scent. She chuckled and Yoongi raised his eyebrows in surprise, awaiting her words. Y/N took a few careful sips from the cup, accepting what it offered.

“Are you afraid, Kkangpae?” She asked, taking another sip. Yoongi put his cup on the wooden table and looked directly in her eyes.

“Me? No,” he pointed at himself, hiding a smile.

“So why did you choose to make tea from Valerian root?” Her studies that surely included herbalism had escaped Yoongi’s mind.

“I knew this night would be difficult for you, and I — I wanted to ensure it went as smoothly as possible,” he confessed.

“Considerate,” she muttered, more to herself than to him. Yoongi’s gaze faltered, and he looked away momentarily.

“I want you to enjoy it—”

“Then make me enjoy it,” she interrupted him yet again, gulping down the contents of her cup, setting it down with a gentle clink next to his almost full one.

“I intend to,” he said. The complexities of tradition, the weight of the syndicate expectations, seemed to press down on them like the heavy beams of the hanok. Yet, he was thrilled at the prospect of laying her down and making love to her, while she tried to make peace with the path ahead.

A mixture of emotions played across Y/N’s face, the tension in the air made her anxious. The tea flowed in her system, calming her. The steps were set, and she cannot back down now.

His hands cradled her face, a gesture that held both tenderness and an unspoken understanding. But Y/N knows he will never understand. And thus, the night unfolded.

01.12.23 23:00/11 PM CEST - 01.12.23 17:00/5 PM EDT

Don't be a silent reader, comment, re-blog, heart, asks are more than welcome ♥

keep in mind - I'm not expert on chinese, korean and japanese culture, but I tried to research everything realistic I wanted to add to the story. Nonetheless, take it as a fiction.

let's be friends chummers ♥

lots of love, 𝖕𝖊𝖓𝖓𝖞𝖊𝖑𝖑𝖊

tag list: @beautifulcloudfestival - @chaoticpuff17 - @honsoolgloss - @jingerbreadoutofstock - @moscow778 - @januara26 - @dinosolecito - @yoongislatinagff - @xyahrinx - @hi12345567 - @nochuel - @deltamoon666 - @bbkissme99 - @darkuni63 - @nansasa - @sazsazsaz - @missmin - @strxwbloody - @royallyjjk - @jaiuneamesolitaiire - @shadowyjellyfishfest - @bbgniecyy - @elayne321 - @seojunandsoju - @bun-27 - @whipwhoops - @wobblewobble822 - @whofan88 - @haneyyyyyy - @lostgirlinthewoodss - @secfir - @btspurplesky - @elleflying07 - @pamzn - @megseungmin - @selenophileforlife

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canmom · 5 months ago

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dànachd canmom aig worldcon - pàirt 1: diardaoin

I'm at the World Science Fiction Convention! Better known as Worldcon.

Unlike previous adventures, this one didn't take me to any picturesque French towns. In fact it's like 15 minutes bike ride from my house! I managed to move to Glasgow right before Worldcon dropped in my lap.

Due to Events, the last few weeks before the con ha been some of the most hectic of my goddamn life, but I've been able to secure some time off. Things actually started on Wednesday night, when my friend and I wandered into the hotel at the convention centre on our way home and ended up fast friends with a group of people including a few big authors and editors in the scene, which was kind of wild. That's the con experience though! But things kicked off for real today on Thursday.

Due to a combo of minor medical emergency and then staying up late to finish off work after I finally got home, I got very little sleep that night, and sadly did not arrive at the con in time to catch Dune: The Musical. So most of the day ended up panels, though with an opera and a ceilidh at the end to spice things up, not to mention meeting like 90% of my old friends from uni, which is kinda sick. (Hello to the ones who follow me on here :p)

Here are some artstation-ass cars they had in the uh... the hall where all the little societies have stands.

Nearly every timeslot had multiple things I might want to attend, so I kind of played it by ear... and ended up weebing it up a little bit, attending two panels on anime and a presentation by the Japanese Scifi Writers Association.

The anime panels (on the subjects of food and music in anime respectively) were sadly quite disappointing. The panellists seem to have been chosen kind of arbitrarily - my friend dakkar knows his shit but there were a lot of banal 'what's your favourite x' type questions and a couple of panelists who either just wanted to bang on about basic shōnen shit as if it's all anime is, or were constantly mispronouncing Japanese words in a kinda painful way ("ai-sekai" being the worst). I was really hoping the food in anime panel might go into, for example, the historical context for why anime has such lavish depictions of food, or the technicalities of how food is portrayed. The discussion ended up going on to subjects like cooking recipes from anime and manga but honestly didn't really have a lot to say about it!

The way the panels seem to have been organised is, so far as I can infer... someone would pitch a description, and then the organisers would assign some people to be on that panel from a big pool? Which... idk, doesn't seem like it necessarily leads to selecting people with a lot to say on that subject!

I think I would have been wiser, in retrospect, to have gone to talks about sff lit, since in the end it's just not an anime con - something I'll bear in mind tomorrow. On that front, I did go to the presentation on Japanese scifi, which included the presentation of the Seiun ('nebula') awards to a couple of people whose works in translation were popular in Japan. In a bizarre quirk of programming, this one was run right next door to a panel on Chinese scifi, which is a real move lol.

Sadly this panel was marred by some pretty severe tech issues. Two of the panelists couldn't come to the UK due to visa bullshit, but the video call wasn't working, so Takayuki Tatsumi had to deliver a talk without being able to see his slides, and the slides were slightly in a different order than his talk. Still, I collected a nice list of JP SF authors whose works are available in translation, so looking forward to getting into that. Worse, there were other tech issues, like audio bleeding from another panel; a couple of the panelists struggled with English and the moderator ended up interpreting, which really isn't his job. Compared to the anime talks at Annecy, which had some very talented and fast interpreters, it was a bit of a disaster.

Due to all these issues, I didn't really get to figure out much of what Mari Kotani had to say about the links between shōjo manga and science fiction, a topic which sounds really interesting. Perhaps I can find her books.

The Seiun awards were given to John Scalzi, who showed up and got his prize for The Kaiju Preservation Society and was very polite about it...

...and Alastair Reynolds, who didn't show up to receive his giant fan.

I haven't read any of Scalzi's books, tbh they probably aren't my thing, but he seems like a really sweet guy from my encounters with him and his daughter yesterday and today. And I respect that he insisted on sharing credit with his JP translator.

The other panel I went to was a talk on magnets. This one was properly prepared - I learned a little about the geopolitics of rare earth production, and some of the cool new uses of magnets, though sadly at a fairly surface level. The presenter - who turned out to be a former aerospace industry guy who worked on the fucking Eurofighter Typhoon, now at some society that uhh promotes magnetism or something - mentioned that this is a talk he often gives at schools, and it did kinda feel like being back at uni. There wasn't a lot of good picks for this slot, but maybe the rocketry anecdotes panel would have been better. It was fun to play with the neodynium magnets and similar demos after the talk at least! I probably should have realised that having a physics degree meant I wouldn't learn very much from this talk.

I do hear there were some real good panels in other rooms, so I kind of have only myself to blame here. Tomorrow I'll try and learn from it!

Much better than all the panels was the debut performance of the new opera Morrow's Island, about a scientist conducting Cold War experiments to create psychic links with animals. I knew I was in for something great when one of the first lines was a scientist declaring 'There is no contradiction between dialectical materialism and extra-sensory perception' and it did indeed deliver.

I don't listen to a lot of opera, so I don't have a lot of context to analyse it musically, but it sounded great, full of cool polyphony and interesting melodic lines and the texture of repeating phrases, supported by the flowing motions of a group of contemporary dancers. The ending left me a little cold, but honestly it hit so many of the right notes for shit I'm a real nerd about - Soviet stuff, occult stuff, etc. - that I couldn't not love it. My favourite sequence saw the psychics make contact with the overwhelming complexity of ecosystems, summed up by the repeating phrase "there's so much life, there's so much death". The repeating phrases and gradual transitions called to mind Philip Glass to my admittedly very uncultured ear. Absolutely cool shit, definitely my favourite thing I saw today. I think they're putting a recording online.

The ceilidh, run by Science Ceilidh, was pretty intensely crowded at first so I ducked out. Later in the evening it got a bit more manageable so I returned to dance a bit more, and got to witness an astonishingly nerdy and complicated dance based on the life cycle of Dune sandworms. Surprisingly it went pretty smoothly - credit to the caller for making that work somehow.

I also wandered around the stalls a bit. I got some cool booklets about spaceflight, met a guy from the SCA, saw a 3D scanner scanning a vase, and didn't buy any books because I need to come back with a bag lol.

The best part about Worldcon is just meeting people from all over really. The con ribbons tradition is a great trick for encouraging nerds to talk to each other (though i need to get more...), and people have been very approachable for a crowd whose autism quotient must be near saturation lol. I met people from Finland, Australia, South Korea... mostly anglophone or european countries but still it's good shit. I'm starting to recognise more and more people in the crowd as the con goes on.

It really is so goddamn nerdy, like you look at this crowd and you're like damn, but in the best way, honestly. I am definitely no exception. Hopefully I make some better calls on panels tomorrow loll.

If you're in town, give me a shout, would love to meet more internetfriends!

#adventures of canmom #worldcon #glasgow worldcon

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