#i drew this while listening to someone breaking down shakespeare

[randomshenaniganery]

Class went out of hand...

Don’t discuss your theories in front of your underclassmen or at least don’t get caught. Tristan is no longer allowed to sub without supervision.

Rook is just gathering information don’t mind him

[2jaeh]

Bibliophile | Xiaojun x Reader

Genre: fluff, smut

Word count: 2,3k

Warnings: mature themes

Author: SIN

Two literature master students decide to make their steamy romance troupe debates a reality.

——————————————————————————

Your heels clicked against the marble floors as you ran over to the university library, hoping the evening rain wouldn’t worsen when you crossed the open courtyard.

Most of the students were either heading back to their dorm rooms or messing around in the common areas, while the only thing that rang in your head was to not be late for your part-time job at the restricted section of the library.

At first you had no damn clue why they needed someone to work there, especially since some of the books were even restricted to lecturers. But thanks to your century old university and their obsession with keeping their sacred books in pristine condition, all they needed was a literature masters student to help out from time to time.

You entered the library and greeted the woman at the front desk before she buzzed you in through to the door that led upstairs to the restricted area.

You quickly jogged up the stares and swung open the door only to be greeted by the only other person working around here, Xiao Dejun.

“You’re late again” his lips curled into a smile as he pushed up his gold framed glasses and inspected a dust covered book.

“Yeah the rain was just-“

“Crazy ?” Dejun peered up and pursed his lips, knowing that every excuse you had always ended in the same word.

“Yeah crazy” you half chuckled and removed your burgundy coat, making your way over to sign in the shift card.

All you knew about Dejun was that he finished his masters and was offered a lecture position at the university but decided to take up this job instead. He was very reserved and once told you that he craved the utter peacefulness of the restricted area, where he was usually either on his own or with you.

“I’m halfway on my thesis now” you said casually as you started fixing the binding of a physics book from the 70s.

“Oh?” Dejun raised his eyebrow and pulled out a chair next to you to tend to his own book repair, “I’m sure you’re glad it’s almost over right?”

You squinted your eyes and sighed, burying your head in your hands as that familiar migraine began to set in. “I’m....stuck” you groaned and peered up at Dejun, “I decided to dissect the romance genre of literature and honestly most of it is hot garbage.”

Dejun let out a laugh and you admired how his dark eyebrows knitted together, making his face look quite animated.

“What books have you studied if you don’t mind me asking ?” Dejun asked, his curious eyes met with yours as he shifted closer in his chair.

“Everything from Shakespeare to Nicolas Sparks, I just hate them all” you pouted and slumped back in your chair, moving the half bound book aside,

“Don’t get me wrong, I chose romance because I love it you know ? I just don’t think that those ‘classics’ do it any justice.”

Dejun nodded at your words and shrugged, “I agree with you, not a fan of that forbidden romance and rich girl poor man stuff either.”

“Right ?” Your eyes lit up and Dejun grinned at your passionate attitude. He’d always found you cute. Every so often he had the chance to work with you on a shift we’re always his best days. He’d listen to you rant about your professors, the music you hated on the radio, or the fact that someone stole your favourite parking spot.

“So....” Dejun folded his arms, “how would you change it ?”

“Change it?” You quirked a brow.

“What’s your perfect romance troupe ?” Dejun smiled softly and his soft brown eyes drew you in and made you feel warm, safe.

“Well for starters I think intimacy should come first and then the characters learn how to love each other as they develop their relationship” you explained, getting up from your chair and began pacing the small room,

“I don’t mind the cliche of they grab the same book or vinyl, I just prefer that instead of 7 chapters of them thinking about that moment they just take the leap right there.”

Dejun pondered on your words for a bit and also got to his feet, leaning against the table as he watched you pace back and forth.

“Would it work for people who somewhat knew each other before hand though ? A friend ? A colleague ?” Dejun quizzed and you nodded quickly,

“Yeah if there’s no prior feelings or hookups then why not ?”

“I guess we can’t test it then since we like each other huh ?” Dejun smirked returning to his seat innocently as you stopped abruptly and quickly tried to process what he had just said.

“I....we...don’t like each other ?” You stammered while ignoring the fact that your heart was racing against your chest.

Dejun chuckled as he carefully inspected one of the pages of his book, “the funny part is that you’re practically experiencing your ideal romance troupe and contradicting yourself by not owning up to the fact that we do in fact...like each other.”

Your mind was racing on every evening that you’ve spent with Dejun up until today. First day it’s true you both did a double take on each other and you found him extremely attractive. Day seven the two of you reached for the only hard cover copy left of Pride and Prejudice and spent the whole night critiquing the book until you lost track of time. Day seventeen you were packing books on the top shelf and as you descended down the steel steps you lost your balance and fell right into his arms.

You were literally living a goddamn romance troupe without even knowing it.

“By your words y/n, we need to skip a few steps now shouldn’t we ?” Dejuns eyes were still on his book, but he knew damn well that your eyes were on him.

“You’re right Dejun” you finally said and folded your arms across your chest.

Dejun turned his head to face you and narrowed his eyes, “I’m supposed to be the one making the move ? What happened to a change of scenery ? Uh women empowerment?”

You grabbed his hand and headed to the back of the room where the roof slightly slanted and the window panels were covered with water droplets as the night sky drew in. You neatened your blue plaid skirt and leaned against the old wood of a work station desk. Dejun cocked his head as you bit down on your lip, not knowing how to proceed to the next step.

“Why here ?” Dejun raised an eyebrow, removing his glasses and tucked them in the top pocket of his white buttoned down.

“I don’t know the setting is....pretty, also when we first met you were sitting at this desk reading the last book a literature master student would be reading” you stifled a laughter.

“Hey Harry Potter is my childhood” Dejun groaned, cutely rolling his eyes, something he did quite often and you would pester him to the point of seeing that reaction.

“Dejun,” you placed your hand on his cheek and his attention was focused on you, those soft brown eyes bore into yours as he took a step closer.

You felt the butterflies in your stomach as he softly wrapped his hand around the small of your back and placed the other on the back of your head. You finally leaned in and he did the same meeting your lips, for the first time and sighed. The kiss was soft, the two you just melted in the instant connection, basking in the feeling before continuing to deepen the kiss.

You wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him closer until your bodies were pressed against each other, fitting each other’s silhouettes perfectly. Dejun slipped his hands down to your thighs and picked you up and placed you on the desk, not breaking the kiss as he slipped in between your legs.

“I’m afraid I’m going to want more than this” you sighed into the kiss, unable to remove your hands from his toned body as you felt the closeness of him between your legs making you feel aroused.

“Come back to my place” Dejun whispered as he began attacking your neck with kisses and played with the hem of your skirt.

You can’t remember if you said yes or just nodded but you were now in Dejuns car on his way to his place. You enjoyed the passionate kiss he shared with you at the stop street and the occasional squeeze of your thigh when he would make turn into a new road.

The rain had begun pelting down and thankfully you were already pulling into his apartment lot before it became really hazy. Dejun turned to his backseat and realized he had left his umbrella back at the library and sighed,

“Running hand in hand in the pouring rain troupe ?” He held out his hand and you chuckled, “always been on my bucket list anyway.”

The two of you ran for about half a minute in the pouring rain but it was enough to completely drench you from your head down to your shoes. Dejun quickly punched in the code of his door and pulled you inside, already covering you in kisses as his blonde hair stuck to his forehead.

It was one item of clothing after another as the trail of clothes led down to his bedroom, where he had you in just your lacy nude coloured two piece set while he was slowly ridding himself of his pants.

You fell into his bed as you watched him slowly pull his leather belt from its hoops and his black slacks finally fell to the ground,

“You are the most beautiful person I’ve ever met you know that ?” Dejun groaned as his eyes scanned over your body and he hovered over you.

“I could say the same about you Xiao Dejun” you mused and pulled him in for another hot passionate kiss. His warm body settled on yours and you wrapped your legs around his waist, wanting him closer even though it wasn’t even possible at this point.

Dejun unclipped your bra and moved his lips down to your breasts, squeezing one in his hand while licking and nipping at the other. You arched your back wanting more but also not wanting to rush him.

“Really want this to last much longer but I’m at my wits end right now” you moaned and Dejun chuckled as he peppered kisses all the way back up to your mouth.

“We have tonight, tomorrow, the next day and the day after that” he smirked against your lips before tugging on your bottom lip with his teeth.

Distracted by the stinging sensation from your lip you shivered at Dejuns icy fingers that was now hooked in the waistband of your panties, slowly pulling them down.

He watched as you squirmed beneath him. Watched how your eyes closed and how you sucked in your bottom lip, awaiting his next move.

You mewled when you felt the cool air hit your arousal and Dejun rubbed slow circles on your clit before pushing two fingers inside you, making you moan his name for the first time that night.

His fingers moved slowly but roughly while his lips softly pecked your hips, abdomen and the very top of your mound.

He was so gentle with you but his movements were still dominating, the mixture was absolutely intoxicating. You pulled him up missing the taste of his lips and before pressing his mouth on yours he caressed your cheek,

“Let me know if it’s too much okay?” He whispered against your lips and you nodded not knowing what you were in for.

Dejun locked your arms above your head and used his free hand to remove his boxers before entering you, already finding a rhythm to his thrusts. You threw your head back and moaned his name yet again as he slammed in and out of you, his grunts and your whimpers filling the bedroom.

His hand stayed locked on your wrists as he used his other hand to knead your breast, giving you multiple sensations at once. You almost hated the fact that you were close to your peak and it hadn’t been more than five minutes of him inside you.

“God I really don’t wanna cum right now” you whined as he still pounded mercilessly inside you.

“Good thing I’m not gonna let you” Dejun murmured and just as you thought your orgasm had reached, he pulled out of you and rolled onto his back,

“Get on top.”

You listened to his instructions but before sitting back on his member you gave him a few pumps, finally able to see him squirm under your touch this time round. Dejun gave you a small smack on your butt, and you finally abided to his request and sat on top of him, the new position already bringing you back to where you started.

Dejun sat up to meet your thrusts as you rode him, and you found your hand tangled in his messy locks as the two of you practically screwed the hell out of each other. The kiss this time was filled with lust, filled with lip biting and exchanging of saliva as you felt your orgasm fast approaching and noticed Dejun’s pace was slowing down too,

“cum for me baby” Dejun mused as he used the last of energy to give you a few hard thrusts until you finally came undone and he followed quickly after.

It took about two minutes of trying to catch your breath before you finally rolled on the bed next to him and wiped the beads of sweat from your forehead.

“Yeah this...this was definitely missing in some of those novels” you turned to Dejun who had a smile spread across his face.

He pulled the covers over your bodies and pressed his lips to your forehead and cheek,

“Should we write our own novel then ?”

“Yeah, yeah we should” you smiled, closing your eyes feeling at peace as his warmness enveloped you.

[macbetha]

below the cut, you'll find an interest check chapter for quatervois, a nancy drew pc fic. it's francy and also my idea of my absolute dream game. please let me know what you think and enjoy!

+++

After Ned breaks up with her and she loses her father, Nancy struggles to find her old vigor for detective work. While on vacation in London with Bess and George, Nancy accepts the urgent invitation to return Blackmoor Manor. Her English getaway quickly turns into an investigation once Nancy realizes the true reason Nigel Mookergee asked her back to the moors. Finding Deirdre Shannon at the manor under the same pretense only sets Nancy’s nerves further on edge. It isn’t until the Hardy Boys show up in Blackmoor that Nancy gets a glimpse of who she once was. With a manor full of suspects and a glass heart cracked open, Nancy is determined to find the truth.

Dear Ned,

How are you? It’s been a while. I’ve always started off my letters telling you about my latest case, but I’m not on one right now. I’m sure that’s hard to believe. Bess and George have whisked me away to London. I’m sure you would love it here. This is the first time I’ve seen Bess and George since I sold the house in River Heights. I stayed with Kyler and Matt in Ireland for a while. I needed a change of scenery. Their daughter just turned two. I’m somewhat jealous I’m happy for them. Anyways, I miss you I hope you’re doing well. I’m sure New York is lovely at Christmas time. I hope Stephanie is I wish Stephanie well How is Stephanie? I hope Stephanie is doing all right. I appreciated the card Stephanie sent when dad passed away. Warm regards, Merry Christmas, Love Nancy

She stares down at the letter as if the red ink were her own blood. It feels just as wounding, seeing her emotions made physical in the words on the paper. Only when a tear splatters on the page does she break free from her trance to the past. Nancy is the only person in her hotel suite, yet she works to rid the evidence like one of her own suspects. She pulls her feet up in the desk chair and crosses her ankles, holding the arch of her right foot – it recently became the victim of her latest culprit. Nancy’s foot got caught under the getaway car’s tire, and she is lucky to even be able to walk after the event. Months later, it’s stiff as hell with the most intense cramps she’s ever endured. Heart racing to forget the night it happened, she focuses on the snowfall out the window – counting little sparkles of snowflakes, though the world blurs when she squints. The doctor thought her failing sight as well as the daily headaches were on account of being hit in the head so many times.

She busies herself with choosing a postcard to send Hannah and Nancy selects one with a cat dressed up as a royal guard. The cuteness puts a smile on her face, however small – she hopes it’ll do the same for Hannah, but there is no telling. Nancy had the gut-feeling Hannah was lying about recognizing her the last time Nancy visited the nursing home. Torment swirls like wind to fallen leaves. She doesn’t have Hannah or Togo to come home to. Togo passed just before Nancy’s thirty-second birthday, and Carson fell ill soon after that. Nancy looks to her hotel bed where Mr. Woogle Woggle sits tucked between two pillows. It seems he is the only one that hasn’t left her. A knock on her hotel door reminds her that is simply not true. Nancy rights herself, fixing her posture to the stance of someone passionate, and she opens the door. Bess and George greet her with blazing smiles; Nancy gives silent thanks for their presence in her life. She would still be in Scotland with Kyler and Matt, had Bess and George not insisted to take her on a vacation. Nancy imagines that their insistence was due to them wanting to keep Nancy from spending Christmas alone on the road again like last year. “Nancy,” Bess stresses. “You’re never going to guess who we ran into in the lobby!” Horror strikes dull and loud in her ears. Surely, it’s not Ned. Please, don’t let it be Ned. George says, “Give you a hint: they were involved in one of your cases.” Nancy’s despair leaves her throat tight. She glances down the hallway, preparing to yank Bess and George into her room and dial her Cathedral contact to get them set up in witness protection.

“That didn’t narrow it down at all, George,” Bess says with a roll of her eyes. “Nancy’s been on hundreds of cases.” Nancy’s strain creeps into her one word: “Who?” Bess and George beam. “Maya Nguyn!” ++

Nancy follows Bess and George to the elevator in a hurried stupor. No thoughts can she conjure as she steps free from the elevator walls which seem to close in on her; Nancy marches into the lobby and notices a woman in the crowd of tourists. She stands with her back to Nancy, her hair drawn up in a bun, and her chin is lifted high with no time for games. Maya turns around and her bright red mouth stretches into a smile. “Nancy!” “Maya,” Nancy huffs in disbelief. She tenses in Maya’s sudden embrace before all but falling into it. This is something good I did; Nancy cherishes with shut eyes. This is someone I helped. When Maya pulls back, Nancy says, “What are you doing all the way out here? You said in your last letter, you were still in Washington.” “My house is technically there,” Maya nods. “But I get to work on the road more these days.” Her brows crease over a sympathetic smile. “Bess and George tell me you’re kind of in the same boat.” Nancy shrugs, struggling to hold Maya’s concerned gaze. “It’s just easier,” Nancy lies. Maya seems to see right through it, but she doesn’t speak on it. Nancy will have to thank her later. George says, “Maya offered us free tickets to a play she’s reviewing tonight and get this – it’s at the Globe Theater!” “Remind me what’s so special about a globe theater,” Bess sighs, checking her nails. “Not ‘a’, Bess, the.” George shakes her head. “The Globe Theater – well, technically it’s a reconstruction of the first one, but it’s where Shakespeare wrote his plays.” “It’s the opening night of a new play,” Maya explains. “And Nancy, you’ll never guess who the star is.” Nancy cannot take anymore guessing games. “Brady Armstrong.” Maya blinks. “Well – yes, actually.” Nancy frowns. “Wait, really?” “Yes,” Maya laughs. “I’ll be conducting an interview with him after the show if you want to go backstage and chew him out for all the stunts he pulled back in the day.” A spark of vigor heightens Nancy’s senses. That doesn’t sound bad at all. Still – “Are you sure we won’t be a distraction or –” “Nancy.” Maya’s hand falls on her shoulder. “You saved my life. You’re the furthest thing from a distraction.” Gratitude floods her before Nancy nods. “All right, then.” +++ The walk to the Globe would be depressive what with the sky being the color of a soaked napkin, but the Christmas decorations lift everyone’s spirits. Nancy limps by a shop playing Christmas oldies through the open door and she is borne back to her father listening to records over cocoa on Christmas morning. She tries to push the memory from her mind, then she thinks of building snowmen with Ned and having snowball fights that turned into the sweetest kisses she’s ever received. The music won’t stop. There are three Christmas trees in the display window and their flashing lights strike pain behind Nancy’s eyes. She pants through a sensory overload before someone squeezes her hand. Maya smiles in understanding as Bess and George walk obliviously in front of them. “It’s hard,” Maya says. “This life on the road. You pick up a few habits.” Nancy squeezes her hand in thanks before tucking her own in her peacoat’s pocket. “I want to enjoy this,” she admits quietly. “But I think the holidays are always hard.” Maya nods. “It won’t be this way forever, Nancy,” she promises. “I’ve got my fingers crossed for you.” Cross your fingers, there’s a story behind this door! Nancy swallows around the lump of panic in her throat. She plasters on a smile. +++ The theater is packed with noise and touching and all-around boisterous patrons. They find their seats in the crowd and Nancy doesn’t watch where she’s going – she must keep her eyes on the open ceiling to remember how to breathe. She sits down at the end of the group and Maya passes out programs. Quatervois, the title reads. Bess says, “What does that mean?” “It means you’re at a crossroads,” Maya says. “A turning point.” “Sounds a little dramatic,” George grumbles. Nancy traces the swooping lines of the title with

her thumb, repeating the process until the lights go down. The masked chorus emerges from the shadows and gives a synopsis: Down from Olympus a great hero emerges, Mighty in his strength and courage! A choice he must make Shall he ignore fate? Will he choose love, Or follow his destiny there-of? When Brady saunters on stage in an impossibly short silk chiton, it’s an out-of-body experience for Nancy. He still hasn’t grown his ponytail back, so Simone could very well be in the audience right now. Nancy rubs her aching temple at the thought. Brady begins his journey as the character Diogenes, a demigod that was supposedly – according to the play’s plot – written out of ancient Greek mythos. Diogenes must defeat those who want to leave him forgotten in history, lest he admit that he can’t win this fight and live his life like everyone else. Nancy assumes the play’s ending too soon. She imagines this will be a droll experience written only to paint Brady as a glorious hero that can conquer anything – but she is quickly surprised. Brady is stabbed in the final act and addresses the audience in a wail: And so my story ends a breath too early, No time to even be weary! The moon shall pass over my corpse, And the sun will beat down on my ashes with no remorse. Today, I have failed my quartervois Alone, forgotten, and lost. When the curtain falls, Nancy’s mouth is parted in disbelief as a tear burns down her cheek. They don’t receive a proper goodbye with Maya since the rest of the crowd is bustling toward the exit. She does have time to say that Brady is producing a new television series and will be scouting some locations further into Essex; Maya will be following the film crew there for test shoots. She embraces each girl individually and holds Nancy for a beat longer, whispering, “You’ll call if you need to talk?” “Of course,” Nancy says by impulse. “Same to you.” +++ Nancy is proud of herself for going out, but when she closes the door to her hotel suite, her back thunks against the wall and she must take deep breaths for several minutes. She decides to treat herself to a bubble bath even though it’s nearly midnight. She rolls her hair up into a bun and looks at it in the mirror, how haphazard and messy hers is in comparison to Maya. Nancy isn’t jealous – but she can’t help but notice when people are thriving. She wants to figure out how to do it herself and hasn’t found the cure yet. The bath is claw-footed and deep. Nancy sinks into the steaming water before goosebumps rise on her arms, and her freckled skin blushes in the heat. The water does wonders for her foot. She eases her head back on the lip of the tub and nears a light doze when her cell phone rings. It rests atop a stack of towels by the tub. Nancy wipes her damp hand off before looking to the screen. Frank Hardy. Nancy answers and taps the speaker button to relax back in the tub. “Hey.” “Hi, Nance,” Frank says, his voice a familiar balm after such a stressful time. “What’s going on?” “Things aren’t too different from last week’s call,” Nancy smiles. “But I’m on vacation with Bess and George.” “Oh wow! That’s awesome. I hope it’s been fun.” Nancy’s glazed eyes blink. “Yeah,” she rasps. “It’s nice.” She clears her throat, searching for her old enthusiasm. “But what about you? How’s Joe?” “Same as usual, a pain in my ass.” Nancy chuckles before a distinctive lift raises Frank’s voice. “We’re actually getting ready to get on a plane for a case – but I wanted to make sure everything’s good with you.” Nancy’s hand closes in a fist on her raised knee. “Gosh, it’s been so long since I’ve been on a case.” “Not really. You just took a few months off to stay with Kyler, right?” “Yeah, but that’s the longest I’ve ever gone without a case since I started.” “I’d give you ours if I could,” Frank says. “Really not looking forward to such a long plane ride. Oh, they’re calling for our gate – but do you want me call you when I land?” Gratefulness is a warm glow in her heart. “No, that’s okay – but

thank you. Be safe on your trip and tell Joe I said hi.” “Can do.” Frank pauses. “I – tell Bess and George I said hi.” “Can do,” Nancy repeats. She chews her lip. “See you soon?” She feels foolish for saying something when Frank is headed to a case. While the weekly phone calls have kept Nancy sane, it would be even better to see the Hardy Boys. “I’ll make it happen,” Frank promises. “See you, Nance.” After they hang up, Nancy struggles to get out of the tub with her swollen foot. She gets into a pair of sweats and wraps up some ice in a washcloth, then holds it against her foot. Nancy mulls over her conversation with Frank, wondering how much of her poor mood could be due to not solving a mystery. With a deep yawn, she tosses the soaked washcloth in the wastebasket, not able to walk to the bathroom to put it in the sink. She cuddles up to her teddy bear and flicks the lamp off when her phone rocks to life on the nightstand. Bewildered, Nancy turns the lamp back on to look at the screen. The number is unknown; she sees her hand tremble around the phone. She lets the call go to voicemail before the phone vibrates to life once again. Bracing herself, Nancy answers. “Hello?” “Yes, hello – I’m trying to reach a one Nancy Drew?” The voice is British and eerily familiar, like Nancy heard it in a dream. “This is she.” “Splendid! Oh, you wouldn’t believe the trouble I’ve gone to in order to find your number.” “Sorry? Who is this?” “Why, Nigel Mookergee. We met at –” “Blackmoor,” Nancy whispers. “Nigel, hi. What’s going on?” “I’m afraid the manner of my call is not a jovial one,” he says. “How should I explain this? Well, I suppose from the start. You see –” He sighs. “Don’t tell anyone I’m speaking of this, but the Penvellyns have fallen into a bit of… financial trouble.” Nancy says, “’Financial trouble’?” “It’s certainly not my business to spread, but yes. It’s not that they are a poor family by any means, but one diplomat’s salary is not enough to keep up a castle.” Nancy sits up, grabbing a pen and notepad from her bedside table. She jots as Nigel continues. “The Penvellyns began to host historical tours at the manor – much to Mrs. Drake’s dismay, I might add. Jane wishes to expand the business to the paranormal side of things, and I don’t quite agree with the idea myself, but she insists it’s just what the manor needs.” Nancy finishes scrawling and says, “So, you’re working for the Penvellyns now?” “Yes. I’m afraid there’s been some situations – inconsequential events, if you will – that need a glance over.” Nancy arches a brow. “You mean an investigation.” “Ah, such a serious word. I simply want to make sure we are fully prepared to expand the business.” Nancy’s eyes narrow. “Right. When would you need me there?” “As soon as possible -” Nigel catches himself. “I mean, at your earliest convenience.” Nancy glances over her notes, running her hand over the page filled by red ink. She closes her eyes against the sight and says, “I’ll be there tomorrow.”

thank you so much for reading! please let me know what you think and stay safe. and please consider following me here and on twitter! xoxo

[honey-dewey]

Rodeo Romeo and Agent Juliet

Pairing: Jack ‘Whiskey’ Daniels/Kingsman Reader

Word Count: 2,118

Warnings: None

Permanent Taglist: @phoenixhalliwell

Jack was never a fan of classic literature, but when Agent Juliet comes in from Kingsman for the annual Statesman Holiday Gala and immediately calls him the ‘Rodeo Romeo,’ he may be a little bit, okay a lot, in love with the totally off limits woman. What he doesn’t know is that darling Agent Juliet is just as deep in it for her beautiful Rodeo Romeo. Expect many references to Shakespeare, and I promise no one dies at the end.

Author’s Notes: Based off a wonderful post by @pedrocentric that cursed me into writing 2,000 words in a day. I love you for the stab of inspiration I was given. 

The Statesman annual holiday gala was, in Jack’s words, a fancy pain in the ass. It was an excuse to get dressed up and horribly drunk, and while he knew his night would end in some beautiful woman’s bed, he didn’t want to go through the actual gala to get there. 

“This is bullshit,” he decided firmly, adjusting his hat and mask. Every year, the gala had a theme, usually pretty vague so people could get creative. This year, the theme was masquerade. Jack, at Ginger’s request, was wearing his usual tuxedo that he wore to every gala, his hat, and a gorgeous black mask with intricate silver details. It was a pain in the ass, but he had to admit, the mask made him look really good. 

“I know,” Ginger reassured, tying her own delicate golden mask. “But as two of the more involved agents, we have to attend.” 

Jack sighed. “Anyone new attending this year, or will it be a familiar crowd?” 

Ginger reached over his chest and readjusted his bow tie. “Kingsman is coming. Eggsy, Harry, and I think they’re bringing a new agent. Agent Juliet? They’re rebranding to have classic literature names instead of Arthurian legend names. Something about inclusivity, I think.” 

“Yeah well,” Jack mumbled. “I was never a fan of classic literature.” 

They left the room together, ready for the music and the lights of the party. It was a bit more toned down from last year, with quieter music and gentle lights. Plenty of Statesman agents filtered around, along with some of their business partners. Jack did what he always did at these parties. Started his night off with a glass of whiskey and went right into flirting with some pretty thing in a tight rose colored dress. 

“Heads up,” Ginger said behind him, sliding up to the bar as Jack’s rosey target walked away. “Kingsman’s here.” 

Jack turned, seeing the familiar two Kingsman agents he’d tried to kill. In his defense, he hadn’t been right in the head, and they’d both forgiven him. Apparently holding grudges wasn’t the Kingsman way. 

“Whiskey,” Eggsy greeted as he walked up to the bar. “Fancy seeing you here.” 

“I could say the same about you,” Jack said smoothly. “Who’s the lady?” 

Standing by Eggsy’s side, chatting happily with another woman, was the prettiest lady Jack had ever seen. Delicate features barely hidden behind a midnight blue and silver mask, Jack traced down perfectly shaped lips lined in dusty pink and a beautiful silver necklace that laid across her collarbones perfectly. Her dress was a soft looking midnight blue, all flowing fabrics and cinching at her natural waist with a silver belt. The heart shaped neckline and semi-sheer sleeves lay across her skin in a way that made her look, in a single word, like a goddess. 

“This is Agent Juliet,” Eggsy introduced, nudging Juliet forward. “Jules, this is Agent Whiskey.” 

Juliet scanned Jack from top to bottom, her brows knitting a bit as she thought. 

“Oh!” She finally exclaimed. “Is this the one who couldn’t flirt for shit?” 

Immediately, Jack almost choked on his drink while Eggsy laughed out loud. “Yeah!” He said. “Something like that.” 

Juliet smiled. “From the looks of it, I’d say he’d a regular rodeo Romeo.” 

Just like that, Jack was deeply in love with her. The way the corner of her mouth quirked as she gave him the nickname, the way her hands clasped in front of her, the look she gave him. It was enough to ruin the newly christened Rodeo Romeo. 

“Jules?” An unfamiliar man came up, sliding a hand around Juliet’s waist. “Who’s this?” 

Juliet sighed, a deep and unsatisfied sigh as she shifted the man’s hand off her hip. “Darling, this is Agent Whiskey. Agent, this is my boyfriend, Agent Paris.” 

And with one word, she had broken his heart. Jack drew a breath in, an action that went entirely unnoticed by everyone but Ginger. She put a comforting hand on his arm. “It’s wonderful to meet you Agent Paris. Jack and I are going to see if we can’t find Champ, I’m sure you’ll want to meet him.” 

Jack nodded halfheartedly as she pulled him off. Suddenly, he wasn’t very happy about meeting the new agents. 

———

You sighed, watching Agent Whiskey get dragged away. He seemed so nice, and his brilliant brown eyes were so deep, you could’ve easily gotten lost in them all night. Instead, your boyfriend had to walk up, ruining the moment. 

“Babe,” he said, kissing your neck, much to your disgust. “Want to dance?” 

“No thanks,” you said sourly, hoping he understood your tone as you walked away, heading towards the bathrooms. 

Sliding down the wall, you sighed, adjusting your shoes so they weren’t so tight, and finally abandoning them altogether. 

“Knock knock,” a familiar voice said, knocking on the bathroom door. “Can I come in?” 

Unlocking the door and allowing Eggsy to slide in, you smiled, seeing him holding two drinks. Accepting one and immediately swallowing down the soda sweetened liquid, you collapsed back against the wall. “Fuck me Eggsy, I hate him.” 

“So break up with him,” Eggsy said plainly, joining you on the floor. “You’re an adult. Tell him he sucks complete ass and run right into the strong and manly arms of your cowboy Romeo.” 

You punched his arm playfully. “Firstly,” you said. “It’s rodeo Romeo. And secondly, I am not in love with Agent Whiskey.” 

Eggsy raised an eyebrow at you. “Yes. You are.” 

“Am not.” 

“Are to.” 

You burst into laughter. “We sound like children,” you realized. “What was in that drink?” 

“A bit of whiskey, some coke, a few ice cubes,” Eggsy recited. “Now go get your man.” 

Rolling your eyes, you stood and smiled. “Maybe I will.” 

You headed off to the balcony, intent on clearing your head. It was barren, the cold weather deterring most from braving the outside. You sighed, leaning against the railing and looking out at Statesman’s garden. It was beautifully kept, with fields of trees you assumed grew fruit in the warmer months. 

A rustling broke you out of your thoughts. Looking down, you saw Jack wandering the gardens, his mask still on. He looked up, seeing you and smiling. “Ain’t this like, a big part of your story?” He asked. 

You nodded. “Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?” You said, leaning over so you could see Jack better. “She’s wondering why he has his name, because that is the only thing preventing their relationship.” 

“Yeah I was never into Shakespeare.” 

You gasped. “Really? Romeo and Juliet is an undeniable classic! Hold on, I’m coming down, and when I do, you are in for one hell of a literature lesson.” 

Hurrying down the stairs and into the gardens, you met Jack under the balcony. “I cannot believe you’ve never read Romeo and Juliet,” you grumbled to yourself. 

“I never said that,” Jack said. “I’ve read it.” 

You smiled, following his aimlessly wandering feet. “It was Shakespear’s greatest comedy, a work of absolute genius.” 

“Back up,” Jack interrupted. “Comedy?” 

“Yeah, comedy,” you said. “Shakespeare was incredibly, well, I don’t want to say he was anti-love, but he wrote Romeo and Juliet to poke fun at couples who said they were soulmates. After all, Romeo and Juliet spanned about three days time from start to finish.” 

You continued to go into detail about the intricacies of Shakespeare, wasting away a good portion of the night. Jack was an excellent listener, occasionally asking a question that sent you on a tangent, but always quiet and respectful while you talked. 

Finally, when the clock tolled twelve, you two headed back to the gala. 

“It was nice getting to know you,” you said softly, not wanting to enter the building again. “Agent Paris is kind of a jerk about me talking to other men.” 

“Oh my god, is there any redeeming thing about him?” Jack asked. 

“Not that I can tell.” 

Jack took your hands. “So break up with him. Find a man who’ll treat you right.” 

You stared deep into his eyes, into the depth and complexities he kept hidden behind a deceptively simple brown color. “A man like you?” 

Jack didn’t respond. Instead, he cupped your cheek and kissed you, molding his face to yours and satisfying that craving that had building in you since Paris. 

“Jules?” 

Jack broke away, sliding out of sight so quickly you had to wonder if you’d only imagined him. Eggsy came up to you, confused and a bit concerned. “Jules? Are you okay?” 

You nodded slowly. “Yeah. Never better.” 

That night, you tossed and turned, unable to sleep. The ghost of Jack’s lips kept waking you, until you were forced to pull a robe on and open your balcony so you could get some fresh air and hopefully clear your head. 

Settling on the stone and leaning your forehead against the railing, you stared out into the Statesman stables. “Romeo, Romeo,” you said, mostly to yourself as a comfort. “Wherefore art thou Romeo? Deny thy father and refuse thy name. Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love, and I'll no longer be a Capulet.” You had memorized large portions of the story in order to keep yourself calm during Kingsman training, and even now, the familiar passage eased your troubles.

At least, until someone responded. 

“I take thee at thy word. Call me but love, and I'll be new baptized. Henceforth I never will be Romeo.” 

You stood, looking out at the stables. Standing there, lit by the light of his phone, was Jack.  

“Are you reading that off your phone?” You asked, a laugh bubbling in your throat. 

“You’re getting the lines wrong!” Jack called back, coming closer so you could hear him properly. 

Laughing, you leaned against the railing and stared at Jack. “You kissed me earlier.” 

“You’re still getting the lines wrong.” 

“Jack!” You said happily, unable to not laugh. “I’m serious!” 

Jack’s grin was obvious even from your distance. “I did kiss you earlier. Are you mad about it?” 

“No.” 

“So shall we make love like your namesake?” He asked. “Run away and get married after having known each other, what, a few hours?” 

You shook your head. “No. Because then we’d both have to die.” 

Stepping closer, Jack shrugged. “Yeah, that would throw a wrench in my plans to woo and marry you.” 

You yawned, and Jack smiled. “Does the lady need her beauty sleep?” 

You gave him a very ladylike middle finger. “Goodnight Romeo.” 

“Goodnight my fair Juliet.” 

The next morning, you went out for a walk with Eggsy and Paris, walking by the stables and admiring the horses. 

“Juliet!” 

You turned, seeing Jack atop a beautiful black horse. He rode with ease, as if he’d been doing it all his life. “Fancy seein’ you here,” he said. “Y’all sticking around?” 

Eggsy shrugged. “Jules wanted to stay for a bit. Airplanes make her wonky, so we’re leaving later tonight.” 

Jack’s face visibly fell. “Aw damn. I liked having a beauty like you walkin’ around.”!

“Leave off,” Paris said, wrapping you in his arms. “She’s taken.”

“Might wanna reconsider that one,” Jack said with a wink. “What’d’ya say Juliet? Wanna take a ride with your Rodeo Romeo? Saddle’s got room for two.” 

You didn’t even hesitate. Squirming out of Paris’s grip, you eagerly jumped the fence and joined Jack. “Just as long as we don’t die at the end.” 

Jack helped you up in the saddle, kissing you long and hard. “Well, like I said, I’m not one for the original story anyway.” 

He rode off with you, leaving Paris and Eggsy behind. Holding you tight as he jumped a fence, he continued out, beyond the orchards and the buildings, until you two had reached a small, run down church. 

After helping you off the horse, Jack pulled you inside, where there was light and warmth. 

“You’re really not helping our horribly cliche love story,” you said.

Jack raised an eyebrow, pulling you down onto a couch and wrapping you in his arms. “Am I? It’s been such a long time since I read Romeo and Juliet.” 

You laughed. “Clearly. Although this is very close to the part where they both die.” 

“And we definitely aren’t doing that, right?” 

You nodded. “Definitely not.” 

Jack looked around. “One day,” he said decisively. “I’m going to marry you. Right here, in this church. I promise.” 

Smiling, you pressed a kiss to his nose. “Sure you will Romeo.” 

Three years later, he asked you to marry him. 

You, as if it were any question at all, said yes. 

After all, how could you say no to your Romeo?

[thekisforkeats]

Killing Care and Grief of Heart (Let all the Broken Pieces Shine, Chapter One)

Info: The Magnus Archives, D&D AU. JonMartin in this chapter, more ships to be added. Rated T. Post-Canon. Jon is amab nb and uses they/them, Martin is a trans guy.

CWs: Character death, stabbing, grief, webs, manipulation, apocalypses, alternate realities 

Summary: MAG 200 from Martin’s viewpoint, setting up what is to come after. The idea of Martin being Orpheus and Jon being Eurydice comes from the poem “Eurydice’s Retort” by Aiden. The poem quoted is the last stanza of Margaret Atwood’s "Orpheus 1" from Selected Poems II: 1976-1986, published 1987. The chapter title is a line from William Shakespeare's Orpheus.

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

It’s easier than Martin had thought it would be, killing Jon.

He’s thought about it before, of course, and well before he walked through his own Domain and spoke to the other version of himself. Thoughts of Jon’s death have been a constant companion for the weeks (months? years?) they’ve been walking through the Apocalypse, and for more than a year even before that.

Keeping Jon alive was the whole reason he kept working for Peter Lukas, after all.

The first time he thought about the idea that he might wind up responsible for Jon’s death was some time after they went through Oliver Banks’ Domain, the one with all the roots. Jon had been waxing philosophical that night(?), while they were resting in one of the between-places. They’d gotten to talk about the classics, about story and narrative, about how the dream-logic of everything they were dealing with could be understood through the lens of myth and metaphor.

That was when Martin had brought up Orpheus and Eurydice, pointed out that Jon had played Orpheus in diving into the Lonely to bring Martin out. He had quoted Margaret Atwood’s poem, the one from Eurydice’s point of view. Jon, of course, had never read the poem (and honestly, how is he so in love with someone who could barely stand to read anything once, let alone twice), had questioned Martin as to why he liked it so much. (Martin’s answer: melancholy. It’s about Eurydice not really wanting to come back to the world of the living, after all.)

“But you didn’t want to stay there, not really,” Jon had said, looking perplexed.

“Well… no… I mean, I sort of did while I was in there, but once you got me back out…” Martin had sighed. “It fits, that’s all I mean, and it was the first time you’d really used your powers the way you’ve been doing here. You killed Peter Lukas, you drew me out of his Domain, you’ve been doing it ever since. You’re Orpheus.”

Jon had looked at him for a long moment, with those piercing eyes that always took Martin’s breath away, and then said, “That’s ridiculous. I could never make the mountains bow themselves when I did sing.” (Of course he knew Shakespeare, and Martin did love Shakespeare but in this case he really did prefer Atwood), and then Jon was smiling at him and saying, “You’re Orpheus, love.”

“Now who’s being ridiculous?” Martin had countered. “You’re the one who went in there to rescue me. You’re the one who led me out. Forget the Lonely, I’d have been lost in the tunnels forever without you.”

“Ah, but,” and Jon had put up a finger, “I’m the one who actually died.” He’d grinned, as if he were winning something. “I died, and you could not stand the thought, and so you dove into the underworld of whatever plot Peter and Jonah had concocted, and you sang your sweet words at them, and charmed them, and pulled me out of the hell they were trying to trap me in.”

“But… you’re the one who led me out of the Lonely,” Martin had repeated, baffled.

“Yes,” Jon had said softly, “and the problem with Orpheus and Eurydice was always that Orpheus could not trust that she would return to him. He went into the underworld to begin with because he didn’t trust that the gods would reunite them when he died. When he was leading her out he could not trust that it hadn’t been a trick, that he hadn’t lost her, and so he turned around to be sure. His doubts brought everything crashing down around them.” His gaze had been gentle, soft, maybe a little chiding. “If Eurydice had been leading the way, and Orpheus could have seen her the whole time, they would have made it out together.”

The thing neither of them had said aloud was that in the end, whatever Martin had done to pull Jon out of the “underworld” of Jonah’s plans hadn’t worked. The entire world had fallen in around them instead.

Jon had kept the thing alive since then, occasionally calling Martin ‘his Orpheus,’ usually when Martin was making up some ridiculous doggerel to amuse them both. And Martin didn’t mind, and was honestly somewhat flattered, but it started something gnawing at him. Two things, really: first, that Orpheus was the hero of the tale, and Martin did not want to be the hero, did not want to be the one upon whom all responsibility sat. Making choices for himself was all good and well; he didn’t like the feeling of maybe having to make choices for all of humanity.

The second was the nagging, aching remembrance that in every version of the myth Orpheus ultimately loses Eurydice. Death will not be overcome for long, no matter how charming one’s music. The idea that Jon would die to end this Martin had considered more than once. He hated the thought, and would rather die himself than see his lover sacrificed once more.

The idea that Martin himself would have to kill Jon to save the world? It fit perfectly. He knew it fit the moment he first thought of it, and it felt as if his heart were breaking in slow motion ever since.

Orpheus could not return to the world of light and joy with his Eurydice, after all. It just didn’t work that way, no matter how they twisted and turned to try to avoid the truth.

When they’d made a plan Jon had not wholly acquiesced to, Martin had felt that throbbing ache in his chest again. When he’d gone to talk to Jon, and hugged him, and Jon had talked about how everything was his fault… he knew. He just knew, and he did not like the decision he could feel settling in his chest. Jon was going to do something stupid, and Martin was going to have to be the one to fix it.

He could not trust Jon. That was the long and the short of it, he’d thought, as he’d stood there holding the smaller man in his arms, listening to his sniffles. And because he could not trust Jon, he’d stopped when he should have been following the other man, and turned to the others, and told them to go and blow up the gas main now. He’d turned away, and when he’d looked back, Jon was out of his sight and too far gone for Martin to catch up in time to stop him from killing Jonah Magnus and taking his place in the Panopticon.

Ironically enough, this time what doomed Orpheus was looking away from his lover, instead of looking at him.

So now Jon is in the Panopticon, because he could not be anything but self-sacrificing, and because Martin could not trust him long enough to just go after him, could not trust that he would have been able to talk Jon out of killing Jonah once they’d got up there. He’s in the tower, hooked in as the Pupil of the Eye, and Georgie’s lit the gas main already, and the whole thing is blowing up while Jon screams in pain.

For just a moment, Martin has a fleeting memory of Basira telling him that she’d convinced the police not to just burn the Institute to the ground, and oh, if she hadn’t done that…

Well, no use for that now.

For everything Martin’s said, every moment he’s refused, aloud, to admit that he could kill Jon if he had to, he’s known for some time now that he can if he must. He’s thought about it over and over, turning over everything, thinking about how to kill the Archivist. The answer is simple and obvious. Jon already gave it to him, before they’d left the Institute, and it’s narratively appropriate in that dream-logic mythic way the Fears work. So he knows what he has to do.

Martin pulls Jon out of the Panopticon, and they say they love each other, and they kiss. And then Martin pulls Jon’s head back and stabs him swiftly, once in each eye. Jon only gasps once, the first time, and maybe he’s already dead by the time Martin stabs the other, but he won’t take the chance of leaving the job half-done. It’s clear that it was the right choice--stabbing someone in the eye shouldn’t kill them so quickly, but the Eye was all that was keeping Jon alive, and so he’s dead now, gone.

And so, Martin thinks, Orpheus loses his Eurydice. Atwood’s poem echoes in his mind:

Though I knew how this failure would hurt you, I had to fold like a gray moth and let go. You could not believe I was more than your echo.

Martin sobs, then, just once, and he’d keep sobbing but there’s a rising static, the sort he’s used to hearing while listening to the tapes. And then he sees that actual tape has come into the Panopticon writhing up from between cracks and over stone to wrap itself around Jon, around his legs and arms, trying to drag him away.

Martin cannot speak, he’s too wracked with grief, but he’s damned if he’ll let the Web take Jon from him, not now. Wherever Jon is going, he’s going too. That was the deal. So as the web of magnetic recording tape grabs Jon and pulls him through the air like he’s some sort of insect to be wrapped up and devoured, Martin holds him tighter, refusing to let go.

The tapes are somehow strong enough to pull them both out of the Panopticon, through the air, across the landscape. There are other things being pulled toward wherever they’re going, a thousand or a million, too many to count. Martin can see the web of magnetic tape criss-crossing the landscape, touching all the places they’ve been, the Domains they’ve traveled through, the avatars they’ve encountered. He can see with eyes that should have belonged to the Web had Peter Lukas not gotten hold of him and claimed him for the Lonely. He can see the extent of it all, the scope of the plan, the thing the Web had wanted all along--the Fears, bound up by the Archivist’s Knowing, connected by the tapes at a thousand little points, dragged screaming out of this reality toward the hole at Hilltop Road.

For a moment it strikes Martin as a thing of beauty. Wretched, horrid beauty, but beauty nonetheless. A plan at least three decades in the making, finally come to perfect fruition. Reality re-made in order to allow the Fears to manifest strongly enough for the Web to bind them and pull them out and… ascend.

They fall toward the hole, and then into the hole, and then suddenly Jon spasms in Martin’s arms. Martin clutches him more tightly so as not to lose him, so he’s right there when Jon’s mouth opens and sound begins pouring out. Words, but more than words, and none in his own voice. It’s as though he’s become the tape recorder, playing a statement. People talking--Basira and Georgie and Melanie. The world is safe, it seems. The plan worked. And maybe it’s better than Jon’s dead, because surely whatever the people who remembered ‘the Archivist’ would have done to him would have been far more painful and horrific than Martin stabbing him in the eyes.

The Admiral’s okay. Martin wishes Jon were alive, so he could know that much at least.

The voices echo in the darkness they’re falling through. Basira’s voice: “What do you want me to do with this?” She must mean the recorder she found in the ruins.

Georgie replies, “Leave it. We’re done with tapes.”

“Want me to smash it?” That’s Melanie, because of course it is.

Basira says, “I think… we can probably just turn it off.”

Martin can almost hear the shrug in Melanie’s voice. “Okay.”

There are footsteps, two pairs, presumably Melanie and Georgie walking away.

Basira addressed the tape recorder. “If anyone’s listening… goodbye. I’m sorry, and… good luck.”

There’s a final flick, and then Jon actually speaks, despite being dead, the words resonating in the darkness:

“STATEMENTS END.”

Martin almost sobs, clutching Jon, eyes squeezed tight. He’s not sure he ever liked Basira much, and he really barely knew Georgie and Melanie--and really it’s been so hard, for so long, to be sure he liked anyone much, aside from Jon--but he takes the good wishes for what they are, clasps them into his heart. Wherever the Web is taking them, it has to be better than what they’re leaving behind.

Wherever it is, Martin is sure there won’t be any more recorders, any more statements. They, too, are done with tapes.

Next Chapter

[buginabog]

Seeing Things

Pairing: romantic LAMP

Summary: au where each of them can see one type of thing that correlates to peoples personalities.

Logan saw words everywhere he looked. On everyone. Most only had a paragraph or two, some, the truly dull ones, only had a sentence or two, but no one had more than three paragraphs.

Virgil saw colors on people. Some were colored red, they were often loud and brash, Virgil avoided them. There were two types of yellows. The bright sunny yellow that indicated a person who loved unconditionally. Then the sickly yellows, those who lied because they didn't know what else to do.

Roman saw voices. He didnt know how. They weren't colors, or words, they were voices. There were the people with the clear voices, who say what they want when they want it. Who made their opinions clear. Their voices reminded him of clear glass. Roman didn't have that voice. Then people who talked a little old-fashioned and slow. Those people's voices looked like ink on parchment. They had good voices for poetry.

Patton saw empathy. Some people were overflowing with it. These people varied. They could be closed off or open. He once asked one of the former why they were so closed. "Everyone feels too much. And what they feel, I feel the same. And it hurts." Then there were those whose empathy wasn't very much. Some of them embraced it. Considered themselves robots or emotionless. But some where the brightest lights in the universe. Who wanted to help and love and DID.

When Logan first met virgil, he didnt see the words running up and down his arms. The hoodie covered it. As far as he knew, Virgil didnt HAVE any words. And it made him treat him with disdain and disgust at first. Until that first summer when his hoodie was around his waist, and he saw the words. Paragraphs of them. Poetry and myths and stories and songs and fables. It was beautiful.

When Patton first met virgil, his empathy was overflowing. And he smiled at virgil and wished to hug him. But he could tell Virgil wanted to be left alone. So he loved him from afar. Always keeping a close eye. And when he opened up he smiled and celebrated inside.

When Roman first met virgil, he didnt know what his voice sounded like. Virgil was a techie for a show roman was in, and he never heard his voice for months. But when he did, oh. His voice was like storm clouds and rain and forests. Washing away filth, but grey and distant, but easy to reach. It was, beautiful. Glass voices or poet voices could not begin to compare.

And when virgil first met Logan he saw a cool, crisp blue. A logical mind. And he knew that Logan didn't like him, but didn't know why, and just accepted it as reality. And the blue never went away. Because Logan was blue. And he reminded Virgil of water and sky and safety. Of rationality and rain, which complimented his storminess perfectly.

When Patton first met Logan he saw that his empathy was bruised and battered. That he felt too much and so did everyone else. So Patton tried to teach Logan how to feel. Because Logan had forgotten. And slowly, little by little, he remembered

When Roman first met Logan his voice reminded him of ice and glass and mirrors. Things that could cut if they were broken. Cold things, hard things. But Roman could see himself in this icy reflective surface. And true to his voice, Logan said what he meant. He was blunt and rude, but he tried. He tried not to let himself break and scratch the others in the process.

When Logan first met Roman, all he saw were sonnets and serenades and poetry and plays. There were no soft words. Everything was grand and bold and, strangely, beautiful. Nothing about him was subtle. He used all the words in common conversation. Reading the words on his body was like reading Shakespeare.

When Patton met Roman he saw that Roman didn't have much empathy. But he saw that he wanted to. He saw that Roman wanted to help but couldn't because he didn't understand and it ate him alive. So Patton took that weight, and smiled as he looked in romans eyes, and he said, "I'll help you" and he did.

When virgil met roman, he saw a bright brilliant red. It was the red of autumn, of fire, of roses. Of love. Normally virgil tried to avoid reds. And at first he did with roman. But the thing about fire is that's where people gather. The thing about fire is that people are drawn to the warmth. And Roman had the same effect. Everyone wanted to be privy to just a little bit of that brilliance.

When Logan first met Patton, there were words on his face, on his uncovered arms. Patton was, quite literally to Logan, an open book. The words were encouraging quotes, notes from parents, everything good and gentle you could think of. But once when they went swimming, Logan saw the...not so nice words on the places where his shirt and pants were supposed to cover. And he vowed that Patton didnt have to hurt like that in secret.

When virgil first met Patton, he was the light blue. The color of the sky and tears and peace. Pattons colors were beautiful and bright but subtle and gentle. It reminded him of the color of his father's pajamas as he assured him there were no monsters in the closet. It reminded him of peace and safety. It reminded him of love. And that was a word to describe him. Love.

When Roman first met Patton, his voice reminded him of snow and clouds and fog. Things that were pure and white, but that covered other things up. And Roman knew that people reflected their voices. So he looked at Patton, who smiled and laughed and helped. But he knew he, like his voice, covered things up. So he smiled at him and told him he loved him. And for once, it wasn't a lie.

And they all began to see things with their hearts instead of their eyes. But it was just as real and large. And they saw it whenever they looked at each other, whenever they smiled at each other, whenever they looked into each others eyes. Whenever they said those three words. "I love you."

Patton remembered that Logan loved Crofters, and bought it whenever they ran low. And that's how Logan knew Patton loved him.

And Logan would learn about things twht interested Patton, and they would talk about it for hours and hours. And that's how Patton knew Logan loved him.

And Roman remembered that Virgil hated loud noises, and lowered his volume when needed. And that's how virgil knew roman loved him.

And Virgil would sit and listen to Roman rant about his ideas and fandoms, and he would talk to him, and help him work out kinks in the plans. And would watch the latest video/episode. And that's how Roman knew virgil loved him.

And virgil knew that Logan needed to feel listened to, so he would sit and listen for hours. And that's how Logan knew virgil loved him.

And Logan knew that sometimes Virgil got anxious, most times, in fact. So he would go and talk to him, and rationalize his worries, and put him at ease. And that's how virgil knew Logan loved him.

And Patton knew that Roman drew when he was stressed. So he brought pencils and erasers, and they would sit and draw before roman would tell what bothered him. And that's how Roman knew Patton loved him.

And Roman knew Patton stress baked, so he would go into the kitchen and help (and taste test) and after a while he would ask what was wrong. And that's how Patton knew roman loved him.

And Virgil knew that sometimes Patton just needed to cry without someone offering advice or ways to feel better. Just to cry for w while. So virgil would do that, and when Patton was all cried out, he would go grab four cookies, two for him and two for Patton. And that's how Patton knew virgil loved him.

And Patton knew that sometimes virgil just needed a hug. So he would put on a disney movie and cuddle him on the couch. And that's how virgil knew Patton loved him.

And Logan knew that Roman wanted to know honestly if his work was good enough. So Logan would point out the pros and cons and help him fix it. And that's how Roman knew logan loved him.

And Roman knew that Logan would overwork himself, so he would trap him in the bed so he could get some sleep. And that's how Logan knew roman loved him

And that's why none of them needed a special sight to see their love for one another. Because they showed it in ways that were just as good and real.

[sumigakure]

Got That Fire Burning

To: @miss-fandoms-shakespeare

From: @sanjuno

Title: Got That Fire Burning

Rating: General

Wordcount: 1450

Prompt: Genman, Raido, Desk Chunin and Kakashi have a Dirty Dancing party during the late shift.

Warning/Notes: None.

Summary: Izumo gets bored easily. As ever, the greatest enemy of all ninja is paperwork. Izumo is dedicated to his war against boredom.

NRT: Got This Fire Burning

Sumigakure Winter Wishes 2017

=/=

Konohagakure no Sato was a ninja village, and shinobi did most of their work under the cover of night. So the Village Hidden in the Leaves never really slept. There was always someone coming in to receive new orders, always someone returning from a mission that needed to make their report.

Still, there was an ebb and flow to any gathering of humanity. For all their training and the nature of their profession the ninja were still human, still creatures predisposed by nature to prefer a diurnal schedule. So the traffic in the Administration Tower slowed to a bare trickle during the deepest parts of the night.

No genin clamoring for the reams of D and C ranks. No chunin team leaders coming in for patrol routes or bandit activity reports. No Jounin dropping in to snap up the choicest missions.

Just the desk chunin, and the random tokubetsu Jounin stuck with the unenviable task of rating the most recent slew of assassination requests. Genma glared at the ‘to-do’ pile of scrolls at his left elbow, still stacked high on the desk despite him having been at it for almost six hours.

“This is bullshit.” Grumbling, Genma glanced sideways at his partner. At least Raido had stuck around to keep him company, even if the man was all but asleep in his borrowed desk chair. Although speaking of people in need of sleep…  “Hey, Iruka! What the hell are you still doing here? Don’t you ever sleep?”

“Sleep is for the weak.” The Academy Instructor intoned with dead eyes, clinging to a coffee mug twice the size of his fists with grim determination.

“Welcome to paperwork hell.” Kotetsu droned with a weak gesture at the surrounding stacks of scrolls. “There is no escape, only ink. We file like men.”

Raido snorted, a half-assed chuckled escaping as he slumped deeper into his chair. Genma was supremely unimpressed with them all. This shit was why he had made sure to get a field specialty.

SOMEBODY CALL 9-1-1!

Izumo cackled unrepentantly as Raido nearly flipped two separate desks with his flailing scramble upright. Iruka shrieked in mortally offended outrage as his paperwork tower threatened to tumble down, and Genma spat his senbon across the room in sheer startled reflex.

“Hey!” Izumo frowned, radio held above his head to rescue it from Genma’s attack as it crooned SHAWTY GOT THAT SUPER THANG to a simple four-count beat. “Rude! I’m just helping us stay awake!”

“You’re an asshole!” Genma groaned, relaxing his shoulders by force despite the adrenaline jitters still making his heart beat far too rapidly for comfort. “None of us appreciate the heart attack!”

“Boo.” Izumo grinned as he put the radio back down on his desk. “So cranky. See, this is why I’m trying to help!”

“You’re bored and want to dance.” Kotetsu hip-checked Izumo out of the way as he walked by with a pile of completed files. “Don’t lie. We know you better.”

“Well it’s not like any of us can leave until the morning shift gets here.” Izumo pointed out with an engaging smile. “But a bit of exercise will wake us all up and help us keep focused! Also a non-destructive method of burning off extra energy!”

“So what you’re saying.” Iruka was suppressing his amusement admirably, hiding his smirk behind his gigantic coffee mug. “Is that you’ve gotten bored and want to dance.”

“Sage’s sake.” Genma rolled his eyes and leaned his hip against his desk, idly contemplating pulling out a new senbon. “This is what happens when you ignore your partner for too long, Kotetsu. His brains get all scattered.”

“You’re one to talk.” Kotetsu glared over his shoulder as he shoved the last file into place in the cabinets that held the morning assignments. “Mr. I’ve been married for two years but still won’t admit it.”

“Hey, let’s not get nasty.” Iruka cut in, glaring them all down with the crazy eyes of a man running on nothing but stubborn grit and medically unwise amounts of caffeine. “It’s late and we’re all tired.”

“It’s late and we need to wake up!” Izumo announced cheerfully as the first song came to a close.

A dryly-amused voice drawled ME NOT WORKING HARD? The opening continued and Izumo gave Kotetsu a comically smouldering look as he chimed in on the next line. “TONIGHT, I WILL LOVE-LOVE YOU TONIGHT.”

“Do we really have to got through this every time we work the late shift?” Kotetsu laughed good-naturedly as Izumo bounced on his toes while the beat picked up, nodding happily in answer.

“Fuck it.” Iruka stood up, chugging the rest of his coffee before thumping his mug down. Aoba whined comically as he was dragged out of his hiding spot by Iruka’s iron grip. Yugao grinned wickedly and shoved Hayate ahead of her while the rest of the desk ninja started making their way around the desks. “It’s not like it’s the first time. Might as well give in now before he starts trying to sing.”

Genma waggled his eyebrows at Raido with a salacious grin. “GRAB SOMEBODY SEXY TELL THEM HEY.”

“Hey.” Raido shook his head but they joined the small crowd of sleep-deprived shinobi currently turning the mission assignments room into a dance club.

CAN’T PROMISE TOMORROW, BUT I PROMISE TONIGHT.

Credit had to be given where it was due; Izumo knew how to wake up a room. No one was falling asleep anymore, and the atmosphere of cheerful competition over who could shake their booty better had cleared away most of the stress tension. Of course, being shinobi meant that things escalated fairly quickly.

“How the fuck does your spine move like that?” Genma tracked Izumo’s hips with a jealous glare as Raido snickered against the back of his neck. Asshole. It was a legitimate question!

“Practice!” The smug little dance addict was cheerfully reveling in his dirty dancing superiority. Just to rub it in, Izumo rolled his body and added extra wiggle just to see Genma glower.

“… Maa.” The laconic voice from the doorway made the desk ninja freeze in place. The music continued on unabated even as Hatake Kakashi cast a bland glance over the scene. “Have we started a new cardio regime?”

The stillness was thick with embarrassment, made worse when the intro for another upbeat, fast-paced song started playing. Why was there never a record scratch when you needed one? The universe was cruel and uncaring.

“I’d like to see you try to keep up!” Izumo cleared his throat to lose the squeak and pointed a finger at the masked jounin’s nose that shook on a little bit. “Bet you can’t do any better!”

TURN UP THE MUSIC LET’S GET OUT ON THE FLOOR!

Kakashi’s eyebrow crept up, breaking through the usual bored façade. Oh shit, Genma realized. No, Izumo, you fucker. Why did you challenge him?

I LIKE TO MOVE IT C’MON GIVE ME SOME MORE!

As the opening verse continued, Kakashi nodded thoughtfully. His ever-present book was tucked away, and the copy-nin sauntered the rest of the way into the room.

The desk ninja drew back instinctively as Kakashi swayed to a stop, silver head cocked to one side as he listened to the music.

‘CAUSE IT FEELS LIKE AN OVERDOSE! Feels like an overdose…

Kakashi’s arms went up, perfectly in time with the rhythm. A ripple flowed down the full length of his leanly muscled body.

EVACUATE THE DANCE FLOOR!

Jounin vest and bulky over-shirt hit the ground as the drums crashed. Kakashi had hooked them with an ankle and kicked up.

“Holy shit!” Kotetsu stumbled back, Kakashi’s discarded clothes hitting him in the chest with a heavy smack.

Genma was staring, because holy shit it was like a magic trick. One second Kakashi had been fully clothed, next blink Kakashi was down to his skintight sleeveless undershirt and armguards. Without going through any of the steps in between.

“… Damn.” Raido sounded impressed. As he should be. Stripping skills like that were to be admired. “You should see if Hatake’s willing to teach us that one.”

I’M INFECTED BY THE SOUND!

Izumo was grinning like a fiend, eyes bright as he stepped into Kakashi’s space. It was unusual for the chunin to have someone challenge him for the title of Dirty Dancing Champion. Kakashi tossed his head back, one visible eye hooded as he rolled bare shoulders.

STOP. THE BEAT IS KILLING ME!

The beat dropped, and much to the delight of the desk shinobi, so did the Copy-ninja. The crowd cheered as Izumo matched him, and they took it down low, low, low.

DJ baby, to the under ground.

If you enjoyed this piece, why not take a look at other pieces written by the same author on AO3.

[theatredirectors]

Jess Shoemaker

Hometown? 

Sioux City, Iowa- which sits in a tristate region between Iowa, South Dakota,​ and Nebraska. Basically, ​I am thoroughly Midwestern.

Where are you now? 

I’m currently in Austin, Texas - pursuing my MFA at UT​. Before that, I was moving from city to city, building a resume. Chicago, Los Angeles, Baltimore, New York, Arkansas, Minnesota...​I'm so happy to have bookshelves and my own bed again. ​

What's your current project? 

Right now I’m directing Loverboy by Drew Paryzer - a really beautiful two-hander about the love between ​mother and son, and how you maneuver through and express intense emotions. It’s being produced as part of University of Texas New Theatre (UTNT).  

After that, ​Venus in Fur for the Great River Shakespeare Festival where I also run the apprentice actor program with Bryan Hunt(and man am I jazzed to get my feminist hands on THAT script, THIS year!)

Why and how did you get into theatre? 

I got into theatre because I was a lonely kid, trying to make friends. Literally - I went to my first audition because a friend of mine mentioned that she would be trying-out, and I thought we'd get to spend more time together if I auditioned too​. I stayed in theatre because the people were... the people were deeply empathetic, accepting, openly enthusiastic.​

​And acting (writing and directing​ eventually) ​allowed me the ability to release and express all of the built up emotion, creative energy, ​and observation flooding through my adolescent world. Theatre​ became an outlet for something​that ​I wasn’t even aware needed an outlet. It was a safe haven, that turned into a calling.

What is your directing dream project?

​I always have trouble answering that question, because my core turn-on when it comes to theatre is still the ensemble that I'm getting to create with. My dream directing project includes a room full of people that know how to listen, that practice silliness but take their work very seriously, I seek out people that say "yes!" I prefer to work on language pieces, and I'm a sucker for scripts that make me laugh and cry. I want to feel fully human while I'm creating. For me, the experience comes first.

What kind of theatre excites you? 

I ​tend to ​like theatre that is pretty sparse - that is relying on theatricality to create a fuller world. I like theater that is ​emotionally and linguistically heightened.

​I figure that, with such easy access to movies, what is the point of seeing something that is super realistic? I'd rather watch someone's hands dance under lights, seeking out the underlying truth of what we perceive as "real."

I love watching sparks flying between actors - through words.

What do you want to change about theatre today?

If I were to change anything about theatre, it would be at the most basic level: in training. I wish our acting schools started with non-realism, pushed artists to express the massive things first, and only when they knew the limits of their voices and their bodies and their guts would we teach them restraint, how to pare down their largest selves for realism. I just cannot understand the logic of starting small.

What is your opinion on getting a directing MFA?

​I am one semester into my MFA​ - but I'm already so glad that I followed my instincts, and committed to graduate school. Because I started as an actor, I needed this time to shift my focus and my practice. I needed experience that wasn't tied to my "career." Artistically, I also needed a break from the hustle to rediscover my artistic self through the lens of directing. My sense is that - regardless of whether I had pursued these lessons in real-world practice or under the umbrella of graduate school - I'd probably end up in a similar place after three years, but I think I will feel more sane and grounded coming at this growth through graduate school. That's just who I am though - I like being insulated, taking my time, being shoved into taking risks, evaluating and reflecting and refining. I like the peace that comes with stepping away from the chaos of day jobs and self-producing and all the noise that comes with the business of theatre. It's a luxury, for sure. And I'm super grateful to be indulging.

Who are your theatrical heroes?

​I spent an entire decade doing nothing but Shakespeare - which has left me feeling wildly naive about contemporary theatre. I feel like I'm playing a massive game of catch-up frankly. So, Shakespeare. Ivo Van Hove and Phyllida Lloyd have absolutely captured my attention. Paula Vogel, Lynn Nottage, Sarah Ruhl, and Charles Mee all grabbed me early. Steppenwolf's model for supporting and fostering the work of emerging artist really impacted me. Melinda Vaughn and Shelly Gaza are doing some amazing work with the Statera Foundation that feels more relevant than ever. Declan Donne​ll​an, The Actor and the Target - I've been obsessed since my senior year of undergrad. It feels both practically useful to actors and spiritually relevant to human beings.

Mostly my theatrical heroes are the people that I've worked with and learned from. That category is very personal for me.

Any advice for directors just starting out?

​Don't wait for permission. Everyone is making it up, so you might as well say "yes!" and figure things out along the way. You're smart, you have google, no one is going to die if you do it "wrong."

Plugs!

Check out my work on my website. 

[peregrintook]

10, 18, 21, 22, 28, 41, 44, 65, 98, 99, 107, 114, 118, 119, 131, 148, 150, 157, 194, 201, 212, 215, 216 ( I'm sorry if they're a lot but I like them very much)

OHMYGOD greddie this is your revenge isn’t it

Okay here we go

10: The word that I use all the time to describe something great?

My bf and me use the word “beste”. It’s german and means “best”, but we use it without any articles or anything. We just look at something or indicate what we mean and then say “Beste.” Which is a bit weird, I guess, but it happened once and now we can’t stop. We use it for things, but also food, or actions. XD

In english I think I tend to overuse the word “awesome” sometimes.

18: Movie I watch when I'm feeling down? 

When I feel REALLY down, I usually watch LotR. I pretty much know it by heart by now so it’s really calming for me to watch, plus I just adore this world and its characters.

Very often I also turn toward the HP movies (to everybody’s great surprise, I’m sure), or Pacific Rim, or Pride and Prejudice... I have a ton of comfort movies.

21: What am I most afraid of?

Deep, philosophical answer: meaninglessness. I want to matter. I want to make an impact, I want to be remembered, I want to be needed, I want to BE. The idea of a meaningless life followed by an equally meaningless death scares the hell out of me.

Less deep and philosophical answer: dentists and spiders?

Putting this under a cut because it’s getting super long!

22: A good quality of mine?

I’m a good listener and I’m honest. So if you ever need honest opinions/advice on/for a situation your in.. i’m ur girl.

28: Something I miss?

Something or someone? SomeTHING I miss is my old home. I miss the house, the garden, I miss sitting on the roof, I miss walking out the door and being right in the middle of nowhere. I miss that so, so, SO much.

41: Do I have any strange phobias?

Dentists? That’s not strange, is it? My strange one is balloons. I can’t stand them. I go out of my way to avoid them. Helium filled balloons are fine, mostly, and hotairballoons are fine too. But the normal, like, kid-party balloons? I hate them, stay away from me.

44: Last book I read?

I’m currently reading “Norse Mythology” by Neil Gaiman and I’m enjoying it a LOT! Before that I read Shakespeare’s “Richard II” and absolutely loved it.

65: What fictional universe would I like to be a part of?

Hmm. I want to say Middle-earth, but I think, given the choice, I’d rather be a witch in the HP universe? But then again, ROHAN. Or maybe a captain in the aerial corpse of the Temeraire universe? I DON’T KNOW. ALL OF THEM. ;--;

98: 3 things I love?

- the feeling when i’m becoming obsessed with something new 

- when summer is over and it’s finally cold enough to wear a sweater

- meeting someone new and realizing you’re extremely similar and share so many thoughts and interests

99: 3 things I hate?

- Passive aggression, especially when it’s hidden behind fake concern. That’s extremely specific I know, but it’s something that drove me up the wall a few days ago. 

- Lies. Cliche, but, honestly? Don’t fucking lie. What’s the point. Oh, that also includes, cheating, betrayal, etc, any kind of dishonesty.

- People who treat their animals badly. Ignorance isn’t an excuse. Read up on proper animal care before you get a pet. Seriously, it’s not that hard, you have the entire internet at your disposal!

107: Guilty pleasure?

I don’t think I have guilty pleasures anymore. I used to be ashamed of liking a bunch of things, but I’ve realized that it’s my business and my business only what I like and dislike. I guess a while ago I would have said Bollywood? But it’s not a guilty pleasure, it’s just a pleasure! Bollywood movies are awesome!

114: A place I have not been but wish to visit?

Norway. I want to go hiking or camping there, or both. It looks so beautiful on images I’ve seen, and I’m so interested in its history and mythology.

118: Do I like space?

I LOVE SPACE. Kid-me was obsessed with space. I had and still have a bunch of books on various space related topics.

119: Do I like the deep ocean? 

HELL YES. Not as many books on that front, not in my possession anyway, but I’d love to read more about it. It’s so amazing to me that we’re still exploring and finding out new things about all the stuff that’s going on down there. It’s mysterious, and I live for mystery. (Same with space, obviously)

131: Am I a good liar?

Hahah. I’m the WORST liar. I hate lying, so I always avoid it. I blush and laugh. I can hold eyecontact but it’s still obvious. I’m just. The worst liar. And frankly I’m happy with that!

148: Which fictional character do I wish was real?

Temeraire. My beloved imperial social justice warrior dragon Temeraire. I love him so so so much. SO much.

150: What is the best decision I have made in life so far?

Let’s face it, I have not made any good decisions so far. Jk, idk, maybe breaking up with my ex boyfriend, and moving in with my current one? Because that old relationship was SO not a happy one, but this one is so awesome. I have all the freedom I could ask for, but at the same time all the emotional support and love I could ask for as well.

Another good decision I’m really glad I made was reaching out to my brother a few years ago because I hated that we almost never talked to each other outside of family meetings/family issues. That has changed since then!

157: What makes me nostalgic?

Looking at pictures of the place where I used to live. I miss the castle, and I miss the park, and I miss the old christmas market.

194: If I could choose my last words, what would they be?

I’m not sure I want to think about that. I don’t think I could choose my last words right now, since I don’t know what I’ll be and what I’ll know when I die. If I was dying right now, my last words would probably be “No, this can’t be it, there’s still so much I want to do!”

201: A nightmare that has stayed with me?

I had a terrifying nightmare when I was a kid.

I was running down the hall in our old house, knocking open the door to my dad’s office and running inside at full speed, not noticing that there was a trap on the floor. I ran right into it. It was a magical trap, and it didn’t hurt me, but it pulled me down to the floor so I was lying down with my arms outstretched like I’d been crucified, and I couldn’t move. My parents and brother and I think my grandma were all there, just looking down at me with really sad eyes. Then they picked up my teacup and drew a black X on it, which, in that dream, meant that the person who the cup belonged to, had died. But I wasn’t dead, I was just lying on the floor, right there! I remember pleading with them to just help me up, help me get out of that trap, but they didn’t move.

It was scary as all hell.

212: Was I named after anyone?

I was! My mum named me after her favorite aunt, Christine, who, sadly, died before I ever had a chance to meet her.

215: What is the weirdest talent I have? 

I don’t think I have weird talents. I’m not sure I have talents at all. I just put a lot of work and energy into the things I’m good at now?

216: Favourite fictional character?

Greddie. Why. Why would you do this to me. You KNOW I can not decide.

I’ll name my favorite faves, is that alright?

Eowyn, Boromir, Harry Potter, the Weasley Twins, The Fool/Beloved, Temeraire, Loki, Sam Winchester.

That’s FAR from everyone, but I tried. It’s a bunch of the ones who are extremely important to me!

[andinewton]

Second Chances - Avengers Redemption Series - Part One Chapter 64

Characters:  Loki, Maia Tomson (OFC), Sigyn, pretty much everyone from the MCU appears at some point, including some special appearances by members of the X-Men!

Pairings: Loki x Maia Tomson, Loki x Sigyn,

Warnings:  Smut, so much smut, violence, swearing; listen, it’s NSFW and 18+, just bear that in mind!

Word Count: 179105

Summary: Loki has been handed over to The Avengers to pay penance for his past crimes, underpowered and underwhelmed by his post he is assigned a new ‘guide to Midgard’ by his superiors and is more than a little surprised when a petite freckled, redhead is waiting in the conference room, not at all like the previous handlers he has been assigned, who quit after a very short time with the snarky god. Maia Tomson is a trained literature teacher and counsellor, maybe not someone you would have picked out to be a guide to the God of Mischief but her mentor, Charles Xavier, knows she likes a challenge, and when The Avengers ask him to recommend someone she is top of his list. Surprised by the assignment, Maia takes it on, promising to do her best, but was not counting on a mutual attraction with her charge.

Join Loki on a journey to discover that his heart is not as frozen as he believes it to be, an adventure spanning almost a millennia of love gained and lost and rediscovered in the most unlikely of places…

Master List

A/N:  I’m feeling super nice!!  We’re getting to the finale, and it’s the weekend!  So I’m going to post a few extra chapters over the next two days, instead of twice a day!  Yay!  Let me know what you think!

Chapter 64

Summary:  Loki is an idiot.

The moment Loki walked into their apartment he knew something was wrong. Something was watching, listening, no doubt making notes to use against them. He could sense the power in the air despite the many spells he had put up. He hadn’t even considered the thing could be spying on them somehow, using whatever means it had to do so. She got up from the couch as he came through the door and she came to him with a smile on her face. She was serious yet pleased to see him, she always was, and as she greeted him, going on tiptoes for a kiss he held her on her feet with his hands on her elbows. This was not good, this was a blatant display of the fact he had feelings for her, and it put her at risk. He had to get her safe. ‘Is something wrong?’ She asked as he walked away from her.

‘Nothing wrong.’ He said harshly as he went to the kitchen, placing the papers from Tony on the cabinet. ‘Any luck with the science bros?’ She asked as her smile slipped slightly. ‘That’s what Darcy calls them.’ ‘They are still working on various lines of enquiry.’ ‘Nothing’s instant.’ She shrugged. ‘I was hoping we could stay home tonight. There’s something we need to talk about.’ She suggested. ‘I doubt it is of great importance, or you would tell me now.’ She frowned at his response. ‘Actually it is, but it’s not the kind of thing we can rush. You have to trust me on this.’ She said firmly. He drew in a deep breath through his nose and schooled his face to one of disdain, his eyes cold and uncaring, a mask he had hoped never to wear again. ‘And why would I do that?’ He turned to face her. Sigyn actually jumped, Loki seemed to have changed in the blink of an eye, cruel and cold. ‘Because, that’s what we do, that’s what we’ve always done.’ ‘And you believed it would be that way again?’ He said in surprise. ‘You poor, deluded girl.’ Sigyn paused before she answered, unsure if she had missed something, said something wrong, but she was sure she hadn’t. Whatever was going on was with him. ‘What are you talking about?’ ‘I am talking about the fact you are, as of this moment, of no more use to me.’ He stalked towards her. ‘It was fun, while it lasted, but this is much bigger than a slightly magical Midgardian can be of any use for. You may take your leave.’ ‘I may…what?’ She said more out of surprise than anything else. She was starting to think she misheard him. ‘You are dismissed. Return to that second rate school for misfits like yourself, go back to your dull little life, being excited by Shakespeare and books. Pretend we never met, as shall I.’ ‘Are you…are you kidding?’ She said as anger leapt inside her, hoping she was right but suddenly thinking she might not be. ‘After all of this, after all we have been through, both now and in the past, you just want me to walk?’ ‘Walk, run, I care not. Just, leave.’ He watched as her eyes grew confused, then angry, the fire in her that he loved coming to the surface. He could see her grind her teeth, swallow what was no doubt hurt and fury. His ruse was working, but it broke his heart. ‘You are honestly willing to just throw this away? Everything we’ve been through, when I was Sigyn before…’ ‘But you’re not Sigyn!’ He yelled in her face and she flinched in fear. ‘You have been a very pretty distraction, our past enabling me to use you perhaps better than I had imagined, but how could I ever replace a goddess with a Midgardian?’ He snarled. ‘You think I would waste a favour with Idunn for you? You believed everything I said to you? About us marrying? Having children? I would not lower myself to more than an affair, and you are barely worthy of that.’ Sigyn’s heart ached, a cold pit starting in her stomach, and she took a step back from him as she fought against her own body as it tried to make her cry. ‘You know, I should have expected this. Once a liar, always a liar. You can’t help it. I wonder if you’ve ever meant a single word you said to anyone. You must have made Frigga so proud!’ She spun on her heel and slammed the door behind her. Loki let out a shuddering breath and closed his eyes. This was for the best, this was to protect her. Whoever or whatever was watching them could never know just how much she meant to him, could never know he would sacrifice himself a million times and more for her, as he just had. She would get over this, eventually, she would find someone to love her, maybe even as much as he did, and she would live a nice life without him, but with him she was at risk, and it was one he wasn’t willing to take. The first sob left Sigyn’s throat as she stalked down the corridor, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes as she brought up the details for a taxi service on her Stark Phone and booked a car for as soon as possible back to Westchester. She would ask Tony to send her things on. There was nothing she needed immediately that she didn’t have as close to a replacement for at X-Manor. She waited by the main doors, watching for the cab, relieved when no one passed by or found her. She just wanted to be left alone. The last thing she did, as the cab arrived, was to send Tony a brief message. She left the Stark Phone on the side, taking one last look at the photo of she and Loki from their date, before walking out the door. She got halfway down the path when it happened. The air to her right shimmered and she had a moment to realise she could feel magic before a portal opened, showing a forest on the other side. She knew enough to not trust it, and set off towards the cab at a run, but it was too little, too late. Something grabbed her, hauling her off the ground, she took in a breath, prepared to scream, but she didn’t get even a peep out before she was first surrounded, then engulfed by, darkness. Tony picked up his message ten minutes later. He read it twice while he tried to figure out what it meant. ~ Tony, I’ve gone back to X-Manor. Will be in touch. Maia. Nothing else, no further details. And she signed it Maia? That was…odd. ‘FRIDAY, locate Maia.’ He asked as he walked across the lab, lifting the goggles he had on off his face. ‘Ms Tomson is no longer within the compound, Boss.’ ‘What about Loki?’ ‘He’s in their apartment.’ ‘Okay, locate Maia’s phone.’ ‘It’s in the foyer.’ ‘In the foyer?’ He started for the door. ‘Bring up all the security footage for the foyer and entrance. Send them to me as soon as it’s compiled.’ ‘Sure thing, Boss.’ Tony ran to the foyer and found the phone on a side table, not a sign of Maia, or Sigyn, or whatever she was going by, anywhere. His next stop was their apartment. He banged on the door and after a moment Loki opened it. He looked fine, turned out well, hair neatly brushed, just as he had when he left the lab. ‘Can I help you, Anthony?’ He asked simply. “What did you do?’ He pushed past him and waved Sigyn’s phone at him. ‘What did you say?’ ‘You’ve seen her?’ Loki asked worriedly. After what he said she should have left. ‘No. She messaged me to say she’s gone back to Xavier’s and she’ll be in touch. That’s it, phone left in the lobby.’ Loki sighed in relief. She was gone, and whatever it was that had been watching them seemed to have left too. ‘I sent her home.’ Loki said quietly. ‘Why?’   ‘Because it is unsafe for her here.’ Loki walked back into the room, closing the door. ‘When I arrived back something was watching us. With everything else we have discovered I could not allow whatever it was to realise she could be used as a pawn.’ ‘Oh God, you said something stupid.’ Tony pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘I said what I had to to get her to leave.’ ‘You lied to her.’ ‘I lied more than I have ever felt the need to.’ ‘Just what did you say?’ Tony said angrily. Loki swallowed hard enough for Tony to see. ‘I told her she meant nothing to me.’ ‘You’re a dick!’ ‘I did what I had to.’ ‘You don’t seem so cut up about it.’ Tony shoved his shoulders. He knew there was no way he could beat Loki, if it came to a fight, but he had no right to hurt Sigyn like that, not when it wasn’t true. ‘You think I don’t care?’ Loki said angrily. ‘I died today when she walked out the door. Every word I said cut me like a knife, but she is safe. What I feel matters not.’ ‘What about how she feels? You’ve probably broken the poor kid’s heart!’ ‘And my heart breaks too, but it is for…’ ‘The best? That’s bullshit!’ Tony shoved him again. ‘You’re an emotionless, uncaring…’ ‘Do not dare to tell me I do not care!’ Loki yelled and his illusion broke. His cheeks were tear streaked, his eyes red and his hair unkempt as though he had been running his hands into it. ‘I care about her more than my own life, which was why I had to make her go. I would not risk her, I could not. She had to go and would not have if I only asked.’ ‘Boss?’ FRIDAY interrupted. ‘What?’ ‘You’re going to want to see this.’ Tony raised Sigyn’s Stark Phone and flicked it with his wrist, bringing up first her background picture of the two of them, which made Loki’s heart hurt all the more to see her smiling so warmly at the camera as he kissed her cheek, then changed to show two security camera footages, one from inside the foyer, of Sigyn using the phone before putting it on the table, then a camera from outside showing a cab arriving. The camera view from inside then changed to an outside view of the doors and showed Sigyn wipe at her cheeks as she set off down the path. She walked out of view of the camera footage and the taxi driver was checking his phone, his head down, then glanced up, and around, as though he had missed something. FRIDAY sped up the feed, showing the driver wait another ten minutes before driving away. ‘FRIDAY, where’s the feed from the path to the driveway?’ ‘Interrupted.’ The feed changed to show static, almost twenty full minutes of it. ‘Where is she?’ Loki whispered. ‘Good question.’ Tony whipped the footage from the outside doors back again, hoping to find anything, playing it over and over. ‘There.’ Loki pointed to the bottom left corner. ‘In the glass beside the door, something lights up the area.’ Tony zoomed in on the reflection and replayed it slowly, the angle showing the edge of the path where it met the grass, and it lit up, just as Loki said. Something dark moved over it and out of shot, then back again, and the light flickered off. ‘A portal.’ Loki said, understanding. ‘Something took her.’ Tony looked at him, eyes burning furiously. ‘This is your fault, you ass. If you’d kept her here she’d have been safe. You put her in this danger.’ ‘I am well aware.’ Loki growled angrily. ‘But whoever has taken her will wish they hadn’t.’

Yup.  This idiot, right here.

Chapter 65

[melchixr]

Forswear it, sight! For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night

Anon said: “hernst au with this prompt maybe? ‘I’m the stage manager and you’re the cocky lead who won’t SHUT UP backstage PEOPLE CAN HEAR YOU'”

 I luv this SO  M U CH partly bc i AM Hanschen in this fic from time 2 time. I hope you enjoy me theatre geekin out for a while.

Words: 1335

(also: song in this fic. what a classical B O P)

“Ex-fuckin-cuse me, Romeo!” Ernst hissed the second they had left the wings. He stalked after the tall blond boy wearing a velvety blue jacket that clung to his body. He had been laughing and talking the second he had stepped off stage. And Ernst was on his tail, completely fuming, until they had come to the dressing room. “Those curtains aren’t made of stone, asshat. The whole crowd can hear you!”

“What?!” The turned to look at Ernst, in his blacks with a tech sheet crumpled in his fist. The boy playing Benvolio, a tall, slim boy with a perfect pillow of brunette hair, turned around. His cheeks were pale and his eyes were desperate, as if he had been telling his fellow actor this for quite some time.

The blond boy chuckled, and Ernst was sure that if he thought, he would remember the name of the actor. But right now, as he stripped off his intricate, laced up jacket and kicked off his shoes, Ernst was full of rage. “The second you got off fucking stage, you started screaming like a fucking banshee. “

The boy looked up, big cloudy blue eyes meeting Ernst’s. He looked almost shocked at the fact that someone had spoken to him in this way. Like no one had before. “What do you mean?”

“I mean shut up!” Ernst sighed, exasperated already. There was always one person every show to fuck the whole show up for him. During Little Shop of Horrors it was the asshat who played Audrey II who didn’t know how to sit still. And last year during The Servant of Two Masters it was Beatrice and Florindo who despised each other the whole time and couldn’t go ten minutes without bickering like a couple of ten year olds. And now, it was this dumbass Romeo who was tugging off his white shirt and putting on a fitting, black shirt with laces all up the sleeves and up the collar.

“Oh wow…..” The boy scoffed in disbelief. “You’re kidding right?”

Ernst shook his head, pausing to hear Moritz in the tech booth hiss into his ear over the headset. “Hey, Ernie. This scene is about to end. Is everything ready in the wings for the party scene?”

Ernst sighed, looking around to see that while he was wasting his time scolding Romeo, the rest of the cast had their shit together and were hustling to grab their props, put finishing touches on their costumes, pull on their masks and servants took had plates full of goblets of grape juice. “Listen here, Romeo,” he hissed in a quiet panic. “Just get your shit together and get on stage, stat.”

“There’s the big choreographed thing before we even enter. I thought you’d know that. Wanna help me out a bit?”

He held out a chic white jacket with prominent collar and a flared bottom and sleeves. He looked like the most extra and flashy extra in a “Modern take” on Shakespeare. Ernst took it from the actor’s hand bitterly and held it out just like he was taught with quick changes. Romeo took his sweet ass time slipping his arms in and shrugging it on. From the stage, Gustav Holst’s The Planets: Jupiter began to play, signalling the cast would now be rushing in intricate circles around stage with complex dance moves. And Romeo, who was set to enter in about one minute, was bending down and pulling on his white boots.

“ERNST!” Moritz hissed into his mic. “Are Romeo, Benvolio, and Mercutio set?”

“They might be, but Romeo’s still back here taking his time.”

“Who are you talking to?” The only other boy in the room asked blankly.

Ernst clung to his clipboard, trying to stop every fiber of his being from smashing it over his pretty boy head. “Get on FUCKING STAGE!”

“Do I get a kiss for luck?”

“GO!”

The blond laughed before sprinting out of the room and towards the stage, where he was supposed to enter about ten seconds ago.

“Ernie, where the FUCK is Romeo? Ben and Merc are out here but…Oh….he just entered from upstage center. Just out of the curtain,” Moritz sighed. “He’s so fucking extra.”

As Ernst began his wander back to his stool on stage right, he sighed into the mic. “But he’s pretty good, isn’t he?”

“Best I’ve ever seen,” Moritz whispered back. From the wings, Ernst watched Wendla, who was standing on the back platform ad the song drew to an end and the blond boy stared at her with such realistic awe.

“What’s his name?”

There was a pause on the other end as the lights went down to a purple and blue glow, no doubt with the beauty and careful exactness of Moritz’s lighting design. “Hanschen,” Moritz uttered in a tight whisper. “Hanschen Rilow. He’s a junior. Did you work musical theatre last year?”

“Nah, just drama,” Ernst said as lines for the scene began to be taken in loud,dramatic, projection. “Why?”

“He was Lucas in Addams Family last year. He never entered at the right time or said the right lines but fuck….the kid can sing.”

Ernst nodded, not quite realizing that Moritz couldn’t see him. He just watched as Hanschen and the actor of Benvolio arguing and talking back and forth about Cupid and dreamers and it was all lost on Ernst. But it was far prettier than anything Ernst could do.

For the first time in this whole run, Ernst sat down and watched the rest of act one and two with intentness. Not peering at his clipboard or pestering Moritz every two seconds. And for the first time, he noticed Hanschen flashing him a smile as he made his entrances and exits as he pleased.

“We will now have a ten minute intermission, “ Ernst announced over the house intercom as act two drew to a close, the stage lights gone to black on Wendla and Hanschen, frozen in a kiss with the white wedding veil over them. As the crowd applauded, Ernst yanked the curtain closed and the couple finally broke apart.

Hanschen was laughing like a maniac, the two moving to go offstage with Ernst hushing him in the process. “It’s intermission!” He laughed, “Pull the stick outta your ass.”

As Wendla moved on to the dressing room, Hanschen stayed behind to speak to Ernst, who had now taken off his headset and let it hang around his neck.  “Can I help you, Hanschen?”

“You know my name?”

Ernst’s cheeks turned a faint pink, making him grateful that it was so dark where they were. “Oh….I uh….asked Moritz for it.”

“Why?” He mused, lazily unlacing his shirt which made Ernst wonder why the department decided all the string was a good idea. Ernst took the break from being Stage Manager to admire the actor for a moment. From his perfectly blond hair falling in a sloppy but well placed way, to the dimples that dented his cheek as he smiled a perfect beaming smile to Ernst. If he wasn’t sitting, he was sure the sight would make his knees go out.

“Because you’re a good actor, idiot,” Ernst muttered, cheeks so pink that Hanschen must’ve noticed by now his affect on the boy. This must’ve just infused his already massive ego. “And you also don’t know how to shut up. So if you do that again tomorrow night, I’ll call you by name.”

Hanschen leaned against the wall beside them, looking around to assure the semi-privacy. “That’s no fair. You know my name then and I don’t know yours?”

“It’s Ernst,” He found himself almost giggling out before seeking to find his head once more. “And you need to go change into your act two costume. You have eight more minutes.”

Hanschen chuckled a deep, fluid laugh before turning on his heel. “Do I get a kiss for luck this time?”

“Not in your dreams. Places in five.”

“I’ll take that as a hard maybe.”

[changingbirdpoems]

poems about Julian going forward in time

aimed for what i hoped i wanted

     but fell short and your shadows and your shellshocked morals drew me a picture of new Wanting             impossible to escape.

-

first kiss

I don’t feel weird

I don’t know how I feel about it

          All I know is I can still feel your tongue on my tongue

you taste so sweet

I want last night back

-

          it’s difficult to say what is mine

your breath your words your heartbeat

your thoughts your smile in the moment?

          I take what I don’t know and make it mean so much.

          you have not been mine

and contrary to popular opinion

I understand and accept that

          you will not be mine

and contrary to popular opinion

I know and expect that.

          but

                in the moment?

I swear you were mine and I was yours

and our breath our words our heartbeats

our thoughts our smiles were for each other

so fucking fly far away

because you’ve not going to leave here

-

after that night I’m more unsure

close the window I just want to feel your breath          soft            softly              softer

there is too much fear of you caring a little                                 of you never having been but not as much as with him and Different          because you have a touch and a smile

Oh so different

-

I hold myself back from intimacy when it’s possible

Wistful is an understatement when I think of how much more that could have been, But I didn’t know, I was too unsure I lost myself but not to the moment. This is what you have left me with.

-

unexpected

After something that should change me I find myself cynical          Where is my afterglow?

Well,       it’s here only when I’m not.

-

mating rituals isolate species

There is so much we could make of this as the leaves are dripping with a ruined night my mouth has begun to taste like his the flavor in the transparent black is a discovery of bright.

There is so much we could take from there his hands are rougher than your words I didn’t know what to touch but his hair was mussed like my mind—we are not free, we are not birds.

There is so much we could remember car doors are wings but we are rooted in the moment clipped wings, in a sense, or frosted by December and unable to fly, but we can be wistful and we can lament.

-

I am here in America and I am in my room

pens a notebook a bed a door four walls

(not you)

I am missing something

it is very apparent as I feel alone and as if

it has been whole country since you touched me

I am here in our state and I am in my bed

sheets a comforter a frame a me two pillows

(not you)

something is missing

it is very apparent as I do not feel this empty

when you are here and you touch me

I am here in my town and I am in my mind

personalities confusion images words and imagination

I am thinking something

it is very apparent as I exist and your name is constant

and memories swirl like your breath when I touched you

I am here in my home and I am in my heart

arteries a muscle a strength and a life

there is so much here that changes

(like you)

-

oh god

           the end

                       is in sight

 where are my safety goggles

-

welcome back

A month passed much more quickly than expected How to measure? inches of rain, dying conversations, wasted time but not in minutes, this isn’t a fucking season of love and time is relative anyway.

-

mutually noncommital and more

no promises at all, but I am already looking forward. it feels like a memory, I have imagined it so many times. There’s an empty parking spot and it’s waiting for you. Silent, I am tremblingly careful to make no noise, and then your presence. parks at night, secret, dark, our habitat.

it is unclear now what is real and what is hope

-

I could make you fall

The harder I try to push you down, the safer I feel, the more I am enclosed by your arms: a feeling I long for of late. My laugh is strange in your mouth, but you are perfect on me.

-

let’s get lost

there is a taste to this spiderwebs, pinecones, trees, and wire fences?          spiderwebs are reflections of what is always being created and how you cannot control something fragile.          pinecones are just artsy observations, it’s all a laugh like the leaves against the sky that look like pools of water.          trees are the only walls here in this forest of five roads collapsed in a yellow wood, and sorry I could not travel all.          wire fences are filled with the curls of ivy and your fingers as you support this connection, so close that I rise with your breath.

-

texting is silly

it is funny how waiting for the vibration makes me insecure

-

see (the quiet in everything before summer is over and you are again too young for this empty quality of freedom we dance to and call escapism) you (who are here only to water your plants and kiss girls and wax philosophical and other such chores) later (a promise one learns to not trust).

-

early on

me, with my papers and you, with your high laugh and magnetic mischief

Desire rises and falls

behind classic novels and tiring worksheets, I emerge

-

our bodies know

For a few days, you are near, and for a few hours, you are close against plastic and barely hidden. My breath is so much more nervous, shaking with every freedom. Resounding against my palms, your heartbeat’s slower and instinct’s faster. This is me holding back. Daylight and deadlines hinder the progression of this that we want, but I realize that our bodies know it’s still summer.

-

third wheel

when kissing becomes a necessity

(almost a commodity)

there's little that can be stolen.

on a night when everything's contagious

and distance is in short supply,

words can become a solo effort.

if you aren't careful

you'll begin to care

and then when it's stopped being easy

your incompetencies will come out of hiding

and comparisons are inescapable

-

sick of hearing about, sick of seeing the face of who I hunted once this is nauseating while everyone else flutters around                     longing has passed but sadly I admit it will return as it did before, inexplicable

-

an apron dusted with flour, the dough is condensed and sticky air, chemistry really, molded by your hands. a flick of a tail and the whole building of ice has shattered, there is no time to melt. And if you ask me how I’m feeling, don’t tell me you’re too blind to see. Never gonna climb these stairs of appreciation when there is nothing at the top. I should have said something other than “happy,” although it did elicit a smile. The box of cracked wood is eroded by hands, the oils and pressures of years of being opened wearing down its engravings. There is a sound outside my window, like bells in the dead of summer. Shakespeare said it best when he said “Now, away!” Sometimes what looks like a spider is a hole on the wall that has been there for years. A mark in my house I should know, but still makes me look twice. Are you that spidery mark? Please do not come back in the snow and tell me that it is nice to see me. Grass survives everywhere, it is the most versatile and durable organism. an accented voice makes me think this, on my television with Never Before Seen footage that everyone has seen now. A slow day for the newsroom when my heart is spilling open. I thought about you on the way home today and how I am a fast learner. I thought about you and I thought about the work I had to do, and I thought about how I learned you faster than I did this equation. Learned you in a way that doesn’t matter. there’s a reason pretension is made up of “pre” and “tension.” Tension always follows when people are pretentious. sometimes the pretty ones do not win, and sometimes it is unclear who anyone is. Goodbye, my lover, goodbye my friend, James Blunt sounds like a horse all shaky and ridiculous like your breath Rolling to lie by your side, mask me, last chances. I have given you what you wanted from me. is that it.

-

Crawl in with me. I remember when that locker with pellet-like streams of light fit only me, and you kept me contained with musical instruments.

-

Upon Belatedly Reading Your Valediction

“Meaningless and used” is shatteringly accurate; those words a prophecy read too late. On the couple of cold days that you are here, instead of dialing your number I’ll remember how you think I’m too young to love but old enough to get you off. My silence will be the close. But it won’t and you’ll pull the door open every time because I’m weak and the way you want me is a drug. Sometimes there is nothing but the truth of how much I want you. A night spent sleepless and quiet thoughts of rhymes that bruise and separate you from caring. That’s it. I hope I leave you feeling meaningless and used.

-

A Sprout In Your Wake

What I hate the most is that you stole from my willing hands, And what clamors the loudest is that I do not regret,

after thought, the highs and lows of your enabled theft, because there are no treasures I have lost— they have simply been replaced;

As you ran, a seed fell out of your pocket, a creeping vine that I watered, enriched with my exhales and lost days within, enfolded.

With the progression of time the leaves will mold to my shape, stealing my breath in a way that is reminiscent of a past someone, with eyes quick to break and arms that swallow up.

-

some haiku in an absence

at least now I am aware that there is nothing that could feel like you in body and thoughts you will be the only one to have held me first and my hands will keep you imprinted in their grooves like my empty mouth calls out noiselessly as though there were ever a person who listened.

-

analyzing

unsure if I have been used or not define used; a simple concept but when attempting to pinpoint spins the grid, beep beep beep this alarm falls dangerously into the background of everyday sounds         not perpetual, occasional pulling back into place, I once knew how this would go and prepared myself for both of our restlessness, approaching dauntingly like the law, which we aren’t exactly abiding by, although it’s a faded line that separates us       -  this is not something planned upon, it just breaks out claws reaching hungrily, maybe gentle if I stepped into this I have not been used, I suppose but still my mind switches to body heat

-

my first semblance of a poem in a while

i find myself to be the strangest colors raw brilliant curving under my fingernails, fending off contracts, handshakes, and other ways to bind one person to another. even the oldest books were written for eyes and hands, but my throat, will it see what lies just beneath veils of colorless, irredeemable noise? noise, which is only really air expressed it is in love with somebody it wants to change; that is where aches arise.

-

Half of what I say is meaningless But I say it just to reach you, Julian

I see the sidewalks lined with him, and I

place my foot as though a monster's in each crack, leaping like a child; I am a child, and so is his name Julian the child I envisioned as a child There are ferris wheels passing, and in each one Julian sits in the topmost car He is smoking and wearing that expression that disturbs me—the one that is almost loving and kind, the one I hate for him to make, the one he wears when he thinks he is being romantic.

Julian, Julian, oceanchild, calls me So I sing a song of love, Julian

And I jump back to how he is done, how he hopes he has left this place, how he has had the same Chemical Brothers album in his car for months and months Julian, in cadence with a Beatles song I sing a song of love to Julian, Julian does not blink because he thinks he's been around so long. He does not have the answers, he is still a child working things out. Oh, he is a man Julian, seashell eyes, windy smile, calls me So I sing a song of love, Julian

 Asymmetrical eyes and the smallest spot on his shoulder where he can't feel my touch, or anyone's there was once a day where he said he just discovered he was not going to die, and I had so many questions but instead I only gave him a drawing I had made for his eighteenth birthday. Julian, windy smile, he calls me, and so I sing a song of love that he hears but is done giving energy. Julian, Julian, morning moon, touch me So I sing a song of love, Julian

 His name hurts to hear and see When I cannot sing my heart I can only speak my mind, Julian

 I have gone on standing, his thoughts vibrating into nothingness, as each time I decide that he can't break what isn't his half of what I say is meaningless and used, like what lies in his wake, as he hoped I remember how whenever we were out at night he had to pee in the woods, and how I always laughed, Julian! but I was speechless when he stopped kissing and hung suspended over me, asking How do you feel? Julian happy? When he came back from Europe and caught me unawares, in a store, with his little message, I smiled a loaded smile loaded with the friend I kissed when he was gone getting high, telling his friends the things that we did, and how he was my first, isn't that rich that's good, I wouldn't want you to not be happy. Julian, sleeping sand, silent cloud, touch me So I sing a song of love, Julian

 he met me at the door and held me gently in my living room, with his arm in a blue sling and the construction worker in my kitchen How he made me want to touch until my hands fell apart I think I do not really hate that expression, it's just that it strikes me as a little insincere, and I wonder if it is the one he made for the girl he loved He did not go past my boundaries, I did, and I did not ask permission so I sing a song of love to Julian, who never called me but to say he was on his way or that he needed a place to park. He used to think of me, that's the thing calls me So I sing a song of love for Julian, Julian, Julian

 and those eyes on me and those conversations turning night into morning He had his own taste—I was wrong to think everybody tastes the same. It is something I used to taste on command, but now it's gone Half-meaningless, I write this just to reach you, Julian still my cravingly remembering mouth must be satisfied with not his own, but his name

Julian

-

My mouth does not miss you. I am sorry, but My lips twist in remembrance and they know who you are, and when I am cold sometimes a flicker of something alights them, and your wandering, unsure smile is still there in my mind, but no, My mouth does not miss you.

-

Inherent

It would be a lie to say I no longer think of your skin-

subtly sticky on humid nights

Your chin rough, a few day’s growth sweetly jarring in contrast with soft shoulders

and soft mouth.

It is a memory- I decidedly make you a memory

of skin that was never close enough.

I will never touch you again- I cared, against you, with more than my hands.

-

I don’t want you here. Not in this garden. These plants weren’t grown for you, rather grown away from you– like sunflowers grow away from the dark. I don’t want to hear your voice, despite how the plants love the carbon dioxide of your exhale. It is a fading exhale.

3:23 in the afternoon and I am caught unawares, watering can in hand, warding off what could be called your thorns.

You are a human being, not a plant, and I no longer want to be touched. Save your poison. I am not on your side.

-

June 21

It is only a moment into the moment

but still I have this tremor, this

knowledge of the night unfolding

although all I am going to do is sleep and wake

and sleep and wake again

as though you weren’t pulsating through me

as though I didn’t shake in every moment this is the process to all things

you wouldn’t know you never close your eyes you never really open them, either.

It’s okay. We all find our way alone.

-

June 25

kept alert, I speak to you and you speak to me and I write this poem lineless because I don’t feel like putting any effort into shaping you

-

June 26

As if people were machines that could be oiled

Who do you think you are? We all waste What does it say about human nature that the beautiful ones are the loneliest? It says that we need more

than empty validation, a point you seem to never have gotten I can only hope that my hands don’t fall apart

-

July 1

Maybe I don’t want to operate within your metaphor. Not the page that you were afraid of, but a different page than yours.

Yes, that sounds right.

You were all there too. “Adorable.”

A string of thoughts, like the world

then set aside.

-

July 2

our heads can float forward as though underwater, when really they have just been resting on a car seat, music the only tide pulling us apart the sudden memories that you can’t shake the feeling of, and that keep you up past tiredness finding the right melody to sing the right song for the moment finding the Right in general

-

July 5

it was really my thoughts that were messy right then

so strange-

give me some air

-

July 6

defragment me the key is hidden in my properties give me blue space I don’t care how long it takes; I can run all night if I need to

but I am tired of being spread so thin because you can’t remember to press a button

-

July 8

raised skin blurred sky lights and human instruments we lie as far back as the chairs will go and try to become fluid fighting with headrests, you take my hand but there's this inconquerable ingrained wariness and a floating lack of trust above the music lighting matches with empty fire you blow mechanical cigarette vapor into my mouth the earth is expanding beneath us, you say, so slowly- the only way ancient gravity makes sense

your explanations are truthful, yet still disingenuous

-

July 16

this is really getting

frustrating

I don’t need you, I just need to know the reason for the radio silence.

-

July 24

even if we light all of the torches, i want you to keep your clothes on.

if this is made to decay, it’s all right;

i will compost with you

Someday, maybe, you will treat me fine

but for now, I feel comfortable having nothing.

-

July 27

if indeed there is a god whose attention determines activity then I am in his peripheral clinging to the flurries of life, dreaming of book jacket biographies dreadlocks and cages of birds. you have these theories, which I enjoy, and pocketed eyes that once (but no longer) rested on my skin, but now there’s a net below the trapeze. I am what I love and not what loves me, nicholas cage whispers unabashedly. there’s a sequence to each sparrow.

-

August 8

stereotypes aside, you really are very gentle.

-

August 9/10

You’re scary.

I find it all the more calming, this unsurety of yours in the face of my serenity. You want to know my thought process? I am doing what feels right, and I am releasing from need.

-

August 11

I must confess I’m glad I returned to this. The softness of stomach on stomach. I’m glad I don’t need to touch you, but I can.

-

August 15

nighttime rebellion, the boston tea party of sensation, leaves dropped one after another by indians into the unsuspecting harbor, laughing around the foreign substance as water tends to do                                your fingers unstoppable and determined to claim. a post-coital cigarette perches out the window, matching the moon with its fire as I nestle into your body with fingertips like graveyards, inhaling

I will let you treat me like this because I like to be pulled around by my hair and held gently, if uncaringly, vagabond hands pressed close. broken breath at my touch                                           as I set sail for new zealand, your skin in storage and your moans tossed overboard.

-

Your Name is the Only Word That I Can Say

Your skin should have been named Laika, making love to the Arcade Fire like this, tucked away in a neighborhood, silently screaming your touch through my veins, the gentlest brush of tongue, painting the songs all over my body.

-

Addressed

I’m buying your music -             building off your ruins. You burned down what never existed, I construct without materials.

Loveless and striding forward

-

Past

Why is it YOU who makes me want to quilt words? It’s like my fingertips were lying in motionless wait to be let down by you again. Not that you let me down; I wasn’t trying to change you. It was you It was you, just how you were. It was your disregard, it was the way everything was thoughts. There were fewer questions than I imagined, and a quieter ache. And when you lit And when you lit, I was tumbled over down the mountainside. The log sliced my leg but I went on. You don’t have time for Hallelujah but you have a lovely peace. We had this connection

We had this connection that wasn’t what you needed. Just like every one before. Just like every one before. But this one

But this one touched your back. I will never be sorry for how important you were to me. You released something. And even then I knew there wouldn’t be wildflowers.

-

words without thinking

quiet this is a place where promise is rain and nothing is ready for what it craves it begs for quiet for nothing for what I want from you as if the song I smiled to never settled my soul as if that rainy ride wasn’t a promise of peace as if there is ever a promise. you are candy apples and succulent flowers, ephemeral and sticky and not pure but dirty with meaning to me dirty with what I see in your asymmetrical eyes. you are rain spattering on a wooden deck, you are wooden popsicle sticks I bite on purpose you are wooden you are metal you are earth you are nothing that is good for me. helicopter pollen and my throat hurts but I sit outside in the yellow dust because I can reject the earth but it can’t reject me.

sleepy orange peel eyes cat fur lilacs the stench of a flower the ache of the grass. chocolate with lemon and ginger and black pepper you are the ache in my arms and legs, you are not you, you are everyone I ever wanted; I don’t want you I want to be wanted in return for all the desire I stockpiled and stored away but fills a room that could be open windows and air and sunlight.

if you could listen to music like I do you would collapse with the sorrow of it all–if you could love like I do you would be a blade of grass or a beetle crawling on its belly through the rain. you wouldn’t know anything, you would be denim and canvas and quiet.

inside me is a pear, too ripe and breaking apart with fluid too sweet to swallow too much syrup for what you can want for what you can be a plum apricot any fruit a burst of sweet in the back of the mouth and if berries the seeds in your teeth that want to be in your throat and planted inside you. rain-swollen leaves heavy above and dripping like my eyes are frozen like they need to melt like your hand can break the branches like your fingernails are tree bark.

why is it when I think of your hand on me I think of swollen raspberries in thickets of thorns and sticky sweetness that I could break through and run through with blood marks across my skin why do I think of blood oranges in my palm and want to clench and let the juice run through my fingers into the grass why are you the heavy haze in my heart when I don’t admire or trust you why do your eyes and crooked smile break my back and fill my spine with need and hunger why are you such dark honey that never washes off why are you a strawberry that stains why have I always wanted you

now that my mind is less fire I can see the quiet in you and the kindness that is peach honeysuckle music volume car seats essential oils and cotton. I can be the soft glory of my longing without it being you, without you pulsing through my veins–now you are a soft glow warming my mind towards sublime glory of feel, apart from you. you are a wicker bookshelf, a music box, a paper crane, a poem on a wall, not a punishing ache. you are, that’s all and nothing more– you are you are you are 

[ethicallysourcedhumanmeat]

Lost Boys: Day One: Part One

Noelle Lee had practically been Jumin Han's Step-Sibling, even dated his best friend for a while, now they/she worked in advertising at C&R and did theater in her/their spare time.  Noelle finds their-self in a strangers apartment wondering what her brother's charity group is up to and what the hell any of this has to do with her.

This is a retelling of mystic messenger with a custom NB MC who uses she/they pronouns, it combines things from almost all the routes and will also cover the Secret Ends you can see me ramble about Noelle and the RFA ubder the tag Noelle Vs the RFA or simply check out drawings of Noelle and the RFA members on my art blog under the same tag 

  [Next][Masterpost][AO3]

There was nothing else to do.  On a normal Thursday she’d already be home in jogging pants a dog on her feet and a sketchbook in front of her but the cute flutist had asked her to go for coffee at rehearsal last night and she couldn’t think of a reason to say no.  So she grabs the bag from the back of her car and decides to walk to the rehearsal space.  There’s an audition for a Shakespeare showcase in a few days and she could use an extra day.  Maybe she’d finally settle on someone to read with her.

“Is it the 18th already?” She laughs answering her phone.

“Where are you?” Jumin asks ignoring her. 

“I had a date, it was terrible, I should have stayed home and drew your girlfriend.”

“I am not dating my cat, No.”

“Sorry you wife,” she laughs.

“Noelle,” Jumin starts to scold her but her laugh is infectious and he gives up. “I thought you didn’t do that anymore.”

“Do what?  Go on bad dates?  I wish.”

“Dating, I thought you’d said you were done with that.”

“Jumin you can’t hold me accountable for things I said when I was seventeen,” she laughs. 

“Why make a declaration like that arbitrarily?”

“It wasn’t arbitrary eight years ago.”  She walks in silence for a moment.  She knows he has little else to say at this point, he had just seen her at work earlier in the week to discuss another one of his cat businesses.  Poor Miss. Kang looked ready to break him in half the entire time.  She braces herself for his final enquiry.

“Have you spoken with Jihyun?”

“You really are never going to drop that are you?”

He doesn’t answer and she can practically hear his brow furrow, she can imagine him sitting foreword and crossing his arms across his chest.

“Do you pester Jihyun about calling me or do you save your nagging for family?”

“Could you be an adult for one minute Noelle.”

“Could you stop pretending you’re my big brother for like 3 minutes, Jumin.”

“Noelle.”

“Fine I’m petty, he didn’t call me, not once, not ever, why should I call him now?”

“That’s stupid.”

“I know.”

“I think you could help him, No.”

“That’s cool, I’m at work, I have to go.”

“I hate it when you call that place work.” He growls.  “You barely get paid there.”

“Mr. Han is displeased with me, I’m definitely at work,” she laughs and stumbles up the stairs.  “Shit!”

Someone catches her.  Hands on her elbows pull her back from where she’d tumbled forward and she finds herself resting against someone very tall, taller than her at least and that was saying something.  Smiling red eyes look down at her and she forgets how to move for a moment.

“Noelle, what happened?” Jumin is asking her, something almost like concern in his voice. “Are you alright?”

“I’m ok,” she says, a little nervously righting herself and nodding awkwardly at the tall man who’d caught her.  “Just tripped over my feet, it’s alright though, a giant caught me.”

“Why are you walking,” Jumin asks, but the tall man is laughing and she feels like she should know his name.  She doesn’t hear anything else Jumin says to her, the man’s smiling at her he touches her elbow and tilts his head like a puppy.

She blushes and realizes he’s trying not to interrupt her conversation. “I’m sorry, thank you,” she almost giggles like a teenager.

“You’re alright?” He asks.  “I was worried I’d startled you—”

“When you saved my life? Oh no,” she shakes her head.  Jumin is still talking at her and she can’t focus, she can’t believe she can’t remember this man’s name.  “I tripped over my own feet, can’t walk and talk you know?”

He laughs.  “I’ll see you in there then.”

He’s just going through the door when it comes to her “Zen!” she almost shouts.

“What about him?” Jumin asks irritated in her ear.

Zen turns around and waves to her before disappearing through the door.

“That’s who caught me,” she says.

Jumin groans.  “God, don’t tell me you work with him.”

“Are you jealous,” she laughs.

“Ugh.”

“I’ve been a chorus member in one or two of his shows, keeps my resume from stagnating but no, we don’t work together.  He freelances through the same company as me.”

“Please tell me you’re not in love with him too,” Jumin groans.

She stops outside the door. “What?  That’s stupid, I don’t even know him.”

“Good.” Jumin says.  “I have nothing else to contribute to this.  You should do whatever you have to do and go home, didn’t you take overtime home tonight?”

“You mean the designs for the catfood line that you haven’t even pitched to Pops yet.”

“Please stop calling my father Pops.”

“Bye Jumin.”

It’s loud inside, the band appears to be playing something, and there sounds like seven different singers singing totally different songs.  Thursdays were so chaotic, so many of the musicians rehearsing for some one-off Friday night gig.

Fucking Musicians, she thinks slipping off her coat.  She hangs it up and tucks her shoes on the shelf above it. She stops in the doorway to the big open studio and leans on the frame while she pulls her slippers on.  Two hands shoot up in the back of the room, she waves back and smiles.

“Look who’s here,” Mila smiles at her as she approaches.  “Nervous?”

“Not even a little,” she smiles. 

“Didn’t you have plans tonight?” Ki-jung asks.

“Yeah, please remind me never to say yes to a flutist ever again.”

“That bad?” Mila snickers.

“You can’t imagine how many times he compared playing the flute to cunnalingus.”

“What?” Ki-jung blushes.  “Who does that?”

“People who play the flute apparently,” Mila laughs.

“Yeah well I might have suggested it was kind of phallic for that and left.”

The three of them cackle.  “So who are you going to read for next week?” Ki-jung asks when they’ve regained control.

“I was thinking Ophelia, I’m not 100% on it.”

“Do you even rehearse for Hamlet anymore?” Mila laughs.  “Oh I don’t know who’ll I read for, I know everyone’s lines, give me and Act and a line Mr. Director, I’m sure I’ll recite it perfectly.”  Mila mimic’s Noelle’s slight accent, lowering her voice a few octaves.

“You should go out for the new musical everyone is talking about too,” Ki-jung suggests.

“Nope,” Noelle turns mid-grab for Mila and shakes her head.

“No doesn’t like to sing in front of people,” Mila laughs.

“You sing in front of us all the time,” he frowns.

“You’re not people,” Noelle chuckles, “you’re actors.”

“Why don’t you though?”

She looks away from her friends.  “Reminds me of my Dad,” she shrugs.

“And you miss him?”” Ki-jung smiles up at her.

Noelle curls her lip and snarls. “Not even a little. He used to make me sing for people he was trying to talk into marrying me. Ugh.”

“Rich people problems,” Mila snorts.

“Don’t remind me,” Noelle frowns.  “Too bad I wasn’t old enough to appreciate it.”

Mila laughs.  “At least when you’re famous you’ll be able to balance a stock portfolio and still relate to the average Joe.”

Noelle starts to stretch.  She laughs with her friends, they run lines, joke about her date, and she convinces Ki-Jung to practice fencing with her.  They’re breathing heavy when the smell of food hits them, half the people in the space have cleared out or hit the seats to eat.  She follows her friends to the old piano off stage, practically a prop at this point, it’s barely in tune. 

Mila plunks out a few bars from that new musical everyone had been talking about.  Noelle didn’t like to admit she’d been listening to the soundtrack, anytime she mentioned enjoying musicals someone would get onto her about how if she practiced she could do them too.  Mila elbows her in the ribs and she joins in.

Oh well, she thinks, everyone here is sick of trying.  No one is paying attention to them anyway.  Most of the performers have headphones in while they eat, running lines and melodies to themselves around sandwiches and lemon water. 

Min-ju slides up to where they sit and eggs her on, she snaps her fingers and hums.  Noelle blushes but she obliges her friends, the four of them now singing together, if she doesn’t get a part in this showcase she was going to have to go out for another chorus part just to keep her resume up to date, might as well indulge.

The four of them laugh as the song ends, and Min-ju drapes herself across Noelle’s lap.  “Hey,” she inclines her head stage left and raises her eyebrows as her ponytail swings.  “What’s with the local celebrity making googly eyes at you?”

“What?” Noelle frowns and follows her head tilt.  Zen is standing off stage watching them over his shoulder, or watching her.  “That’s weird.”